Category: English

I earned fifteen thousand dollars a month. For eight years, like clockwork, I wired ten thousand of it to my parents on the first of every month. They always told me they were tucking it away, a safety net for my future, a “wedding fund” so I’d never have to rely on a man. I believed them. I believed them until the headlights blinded me, until the sound of crunching metal became the last thing I heard before the world went black. Now, I was lying in the trauma bay, drifting in and out of a haze of pain, waiting for the surgery that would save my life. My mother was there, but she wasn’t holding my hand. She was death-gripping the sleeve of the trembling driver who had hit me, her voice a shrill, hysterical peak that cut through the hospital’s sterile hum. “We don’t have that kind of money! We’re just simple people! You have to pay the hospital right now!” The ER doctor was frantic, shoving a clipboard toward her. “Ma’am, we need a deposit for the Gallagher suite and the immediate surgical intervention. We can settle the insurance later, but she needs to go up now.” My mother acted as if she hadn’t heard him. She turned toward my gurney, her face a mask of performative agony. “Norma! Honey, just hold on! Mommy’s going to go find the insurance company right now! Just be strong!” I tried to scream, to tell her to just use the debit card in her purse—the one linked to the account I’d filled for nearly a decade—but my throat was full of copper-tasting silk. I could only watch her back as she bolted for the exit. That “wedding fund,” my eight-year sacrifice, felt like a cruel punchline to a joke I wasn’t in on. 1. The lead surgeon approached for the third time, waving the billing statement like a flag of war. “Family of Norma Henderson! The patient is conscious enough to say she can pay for it herself! Just unlock her phone so we can authorize the digital payment! If we wait any longer, there won’t be a patient left to save!” I fought with every ounce of my soul to lift my hand, but my fingers only managed to twitch, clawing uselessly at the rough hospital sheets. My mother turned back to the doctor, her wailing jumping another octave. “Doctor, look at me! I’m just an old woman! I don’t know how to do those fancy phone apps! I don’t know passwords!” Jade, my best friend, came skidding around the corner, her face pale from the panicked phone call she’d received. My mother’s eyes lit up the moment she saw her. “Jade! Oh, thank God! You’re Norma’s best friend—you must know her passcode! Tell the doctor! Quickly!” Jade took one look at me—covered in blood, hooked to a dozen monitors—and her eyes brimmed with tears. She didn’t waste a second. She stepped right into the doctor’s space. “How much? How much for the deposit?” “Fifty thousand to clear the immediate surgical hold.” “Fine!” Jade snatched a credit card from her bag, not even blinking. She followed the nurse toward the billing window at a sprint. As they began to wheel my gurney toward the operating theater, we passed the corner of the hallway. My mother reached out and snagged Jade’s arm as she ran back toward us. “Jade, honey, thank you. Truly. But… that fifty thousand… how is Norma ever going to pay you back?” Jade froze, looking at my mother as if she’d sprouted a second head. “Are you serious right now? We are trying to keep her alive!” “I’m just being realistic,” my mother sniffled, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “If Norma… if she ends up disabled, she’ll lose her job. That’s a lot of money for you to just lose, Jade. You should be prepared for that.” Jade backed away, her expression shifting from shock to pure disgust. “What are you talking about? Norma has sent you ten thousand dollars every month for eight years. You should have nearly a million dollars in that account! Use that to save her!” My mother’s face turned to stone for a split second before she dissolved back into theatrical sobs. “I don’t have that kind of money! Do you have any idea how expensive it is to keep a family afloat? Her brother, Zack—his wedding, the down payment on his house in the Heights… it’s gone, Jade! All of it!” The double doors of the OR began to hiss shut. The last image I had was of my mother, clutching Jade’s arm, desperately explaining why the family’s “struggles” were more important than the blood leaking out of me. Every cent of my eight-year “safety net” had been used to lay the bricks and mortar of my brother’s life. 2. “Hey, Sis. So, the Mini Cooper is a total loss, right? What’s the insurance payout looking like? Since the other guy was at fault, you’re looking at a massive settlement, aren’t you?” The first thing I heard as I drifted out of the anesthetic fog wasn’t a “How are you?” or “I love you.” It was Zack’s voice, calculating and hungry. My brother, Zack, sat by my bed wearing limited-edition sneakers and a brand-new smartwatch. I stared at him, my throat feeling like it had been scrubbed with sandpaper. I couldn’t form a single word. A ruptured spleen, three ribs reinforced with titanium plates, and forty-eight hours in the ICU. I had only been moved to a regular room an hour ago. Right before Zack arrived, the surgeon had pulled my parents into the hall. My recovery would require at least another two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in specialized care and physical therapy. The settlement from the driver would take at least six months to clear the legal hurdles. The woman in the bed next to mine had gone to the restroom and overheard my parents in the stairwell. When she came back, she leaned over and told me exactly what she’d heard while she helped me take a sip of water. “Two hundred and fifty thousand? That’s a bottomless pit, Bill,” my mother had hissed to my father. “If we dump our savings into this, how is Zack going to make his mortgage next month? His wife is pregnant, for heaven’s sake!” My father had remained silent for a long time before grunting in agreement. And now, here was my brother, talking to a woman who had nearly died forty-eight hours ago about an insurance check. Seeing my silence, Zack shoved a poorly peeled apple wedge toward my face. “Mom said you probably have some personal savings left, right? You should probably use that for the hospital bills for now. Let the lawyers take their time with the settlement. No rush.” I finally found my voice. It was a ghost of a sound. “The money… I sent Mom… every month. Eight years.” Zack blinked, then let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Sis, that was Mom and Dad’s money. You gave it to them. It’s theirs. It wasn’t a loan. You aren’t seriously thinking about asking for it back, are you?” I stared him down. “Mom said… it was my wedding fund. For my future.” “Wedding fund?” Zack laughed harder now. “Norma, you’re thirty-two. Who’s going to marry an old workaholic like you? Besides, that money put the down payment on my house and covered the custom cabinets Madison wanted. It’s tied up in equity now.” He said it with such casual entitlement, as if it were a law of nature. “It’s just how things work, Norma. Every family does this. The son needs a house, the family chips in. You’re the big earner. Helping the family is literally your job.” My mother sat at the foot of the bed, her head down, silently peeling an orange. She didn’t look up once. I felt a surge of heat in my chest that had nothing to do with my injuries. My heart rate monitor began to beep a frantic rhythm. “Give it back,” I whispered, each word a jagged stone. “Nine hundred and sixty thousand. I don’t even need it all. Give me three hundred thousand. Just enough to survive this.” Thwack. My mother slammed the orange onto the floor. A second later, her wailing filled the ward. “What did I do in a past life to deserve such a heartless daughter? I raised a monster!” She pointed a trembling finger at me, tears streaming down her face on command. “Your money? You think that’s your money? Who paid for your food growing up? Who paid for your college? Do you have any idea how much we spent on you? And now, just because your brother is finally starting a family, finally continuing the Henderson name, you come back to us like a debt collector?” Zack immediately moved to her side, playing the role of the devoted son, throwing a look of pure righteous indignation my way. “Norma, how can you talk to her like that? If you cared so much about the money, you shouldn’t have given it to them! You’re making it sound like we robbed you!” I watched them—the mother-son duo, one heartbroken, one furious. I was the one broken in the bed, missing a spleen and half my blood, and yet, I was the villain for counting my pennies. 3. Jade walked in with a bowl of soup just as the scene reached its peak. She slammed the bowl onto the nightstand with a loud clack. “Mrs. Henderson, Zack—Norma just had major surgery. The doctor was very clear about her needing rest and zero stress.” Jade stood like a shield between them and my bed. My mother’s crying hitched. She wiped her eyes and turned to Jade. “Jade, tell her! You tell her! She’s demanding three hundred thousand dollars from us while we’re already struggling! She’s trying to kill us!” Zack chimed in, “Exactly. Family is supposed to be a team, but Norma’s just being selfish.” Jade ignored them. She picked up the spoon, blew on the soup, and held it to my lips. “Eat. You have another round of tests this afternoon.” I swallowed the warm broth. It took the sting out of my throat, but nothing could touch the coldness in my chest. Seeing that Jade wasn’t going to engage, my parents exchanged a look and sulked back to their chairs. After the soup was gone, Jade turned to my mother. “The doctor wants to see you both in his office. Something about the long-term care plan and the upcoming costs.” The moment my mother heard the word “costs,” she bolted upright. She grabbed Zack’s arm and headed for the door, muttering, “Yes, of course, we’re coming, we’re coming.” The room finally went quiet. “Don’t listen to them,” Jade said, tucking the blanket around my feet. “Just focus on healing. I’ll take you to your scans.” That afternoon, Jade pushed my wheelchair through the maze of the hospital. When we returned to the room, it was empty. On the nightstand sat a crumpled piece of paper. Jade picked it up and read it aloud: “Norma, Madison’s having some sharp pains. We think the baby might be coming early, so we had to head back. We’ll figure out the money situation later. Just rest for now. Love, Dad.” My hands tightened on the armrests of the wheelchair until my knuckles turned white. Jade balled up the note and threw it into the trash can. “Absolute cowards,” she hissed. For the next two days, neither my parents nor Zack showed their faces. Calls went straight to voicemail. The hospital billing office was calling again; my next surgery required a specific set of imported hardware and specialized meds that cost a fortune. They needed another hundred thousand upfront. Jade didn’t hesitate. She reached for her purse again. I caught her wrist. “No,” I said, my voice firmer than it had been since the accident. “I’ll do it. Jade… my wallet and my IDs. They must be with my mother. Can you call her? Ask her where she put them. I have an emergency fund in my personal savings. You know the password.” Jade nodded and dialed my mother. She put it on speaker. It rang five times before she picked up. “Mrs. Henderson, it’s Jade. Norma needs her wallet and her bank cards for the next payment. Where did you put them?” There was a pause. Then, my mother’s voice came through, sounding annoyed and breathless. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, I must have grabbed them in the rush. They’re back at the house. We’ll bring them by when we have a spare second! It’s a madhouse here, I have to go!” “I’ll drive over and get them!” Jade said, grabbing her keys. “Don’t bother,” I whispered to her. “They won’t open the door.” “Then what are we supposed to do? You need that surgery!” Jade was pacing the small room. “I can use the banking app on my phone,” I realized. “I keep about eighty thousand in a liquid savings account just for emergencies. You can transfer it from there to the hospital.” Jade grabbed my phone and navigated to the app. She entered the passcode I gave her, but as the screen loaded, she stopped. “Norma…” her voice was trembling. “What is it?” “The money… it’s gone.” Jade turned the screen toward me. Balance: $125.30. I scrolled down the transaction history. A wire transfer had been initiated three days ago—the day my parents and Zack left the hospital. Amount: $80,000. Recipient: The Serenity Birth & Wellness Retreat. “It’s a luxury postpartum center,” Jade said, her voice dripping with venom as she Googled the name. “The ‘Royal Suite’ package. Exactly eighty thousand dollars for a one-month stay.” They had taken my life-saving money to pay for a luxury “baby-moon” for my sister-in-law. And I was lying here, waiting to find out if I’d ever walk again. 4. Jade was shaking with rage. She didn’t say a word as she dialed her own mother. “Mom, can you come to the hospital and sit with Norma? I have something I need to take care of.” Thirty minutes later, Mrs. Thorne walked in with a thermos. She didn’t ask questions; she just gently wiped the tears from my face and poured me a cup of chicken soup. “Drink this, Norma. Get your strength up. Jade’s going to handle it.” The tears finally broke. I sobbed until my chest hurt, the sound raw and ugly in the quiet room. Mrs. Thorne didn’t try to stop me. She just rubbed my back and whispered, “Let it out, honey. Let it all out.” Jade didn’t come back until dusk. Her face was a mask of cold fury, her collar slightly disheveled. She had gone to the retreat. And there they were—my mother, my father, and Zack—all huddled around Madison in a suite that looked more like a five-star hotel than a medical facility. Jade told me she had stormed in and demanded they transfer the money back. My mother had laughed in her face. “Who do you think you are? This is family business. Norma’s money is Henderson money, and if we want to spend it on our first grandchild’s health, that’s our right!” My father hadn’t even looked up from the baby. Zack had called security to have Jade escorted out. Jade showed me the photos she took. Madison lying on a mountain of silk pillows, Zack peeling an organic apple, my parents beaming at the infant in the designer bassinet. Through the screen, I could see their happiness. A warm, golden glow of a family finally “complete.” And that happiness was built on my bones. I picked up my phone. My thumb hovered over the screen for a long time before I dialed three digits. “911. What is your emergency?” “I’d like to report a theft,” I said, my voice cold and clear. Less than twenty minutes after I hung up, my phone screamed to life. It was my mother. “Norma! Are you insane? Did you seriously call the police on us?”

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I found out my husband had been sleeping around. The real kicker? My own sister was the one who played matchmaker. When I confronted her, the air in her luxury apartment thick with the scent of expensive sandalwood, she didn’t even flinch. Instead, she swirled her champagne and turned the blame entirely on me. “What is the big deal, Jo?” she scoffed, rolling her eyes. “A successful man is going to have options. If you couldn’t keep his attention in the bedroom, that’s on you.” “Are you insane?” I stared at her, my blood running cold. “A woman should be unconditionally accommodating,” she lectured, inspecting her perfectly manicured nails. “Having a girl on the side is nothing. You’re just too narrow-minded. You suffocated him.” A bitter, incredulous laugh clawed its way out of my throat. “You are so desperately thirsty for male validation, Brittany. No wonder you’re perfectly content bowing and scraping, living as some rich man’s dirty little secret.” That struck a nerve. Her face flushed a violent red, and she immediately launched into a tirade, bragging about her “benefactor”—how insanely wealthy he was, how handsome, how he bought her the very penthouse we were standing in. And as the argument escalated, the ugly truth finally spilled out. For two entire years, she had been covering for my husband’s affair. Providing alibis. Helping him hide the credit card statements. Fine. If she was willing to destroy her own flesh and blood just to uphold her twisted worship of men, then the gloves were off. Three days later, I tracked down her billionaire at an exclusive members-only lounge downtown. And I deliberately, effortlessly, climbed into his bed. … That night, I left absolutely nothing on the table. I poured every ounce of my grief, rage, and strategy into pleasing Pierce Kensington—wait, no, let’s call him Pierce Sterling. No, let’s go with Pierce Vance. Wait, I’ll just use Pierce. Pierce Davenport. Yes. I gave Pierce Davenport an unforgettable night. When morning broke, the light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse, he looked at me with a heavy, satiated kind of hunger. “I still don’t know your name,” his voice was rough with sleep. “What do you want? Anything. Name it.” I didn’t even give him the dignity of a glance as I slipped my dress over my shoulders. “You performed adequately last night. If I have free time, I might call you.” I had done my homework. A man like Pierce Davenport, surrounded by women desperate for his money and approval, was intoxicatingly drawn to exactly this: a woman who was a beautiful, impenetrable iceberg. He practically forced his private number into my phone, his dark eyes tracking my every movement until the elevator doors slid shut. Well, Brittany, I thought, stepping out into the crisp morning air. Your billionaire wasn’t that hard to catch after all. After a long, scalding shower to scrub away the scent of expensive cologne and exertion, I returned to my house, my muscles aching. The moment I unlocked the front door, chaos greeted me. My soon-to-be ex-husband, Mark, was tearing through my living room, ripping drawers from their tracks. “That cold bitch thinks she can leave me with nothing in the divorce?” he was snarling. “I’m getting what’s mine.” And there was my sister, Brittany, practically glowing with excitement as she helped him. “Jocelyn hid some of her grandmother’s jewelry in this cabinet,” Brittany chirped, handing him a screwdriver. “Here, pry the hinge off. Oh, and grab those vintage wine bottles in the back. That painting in the hall, too—it’s worth at least ten grand.” Mark stuffed a velvet box into his duffel bag, looking at my sister with pathetic devotion. “You are a lifesaver, Brit. Seriously, you’re the most reasonable, beautiful woman I know.” Brittany thrived on this. She practically vibrated whenever a man tossed her a scrap of praise. She feigned a modest blush. “Jocelyn just never knew how to appreciate a real man. No matter how much you take today, Mark, it won’t make up for the emotional damage she’s caused you!” The sheer, staggering weight of her internalized misogyny shattered whatever restraint I had left. A blinding, white-hot rage enveloped me. “Are you two out of your goddamn minds?” I stepped into the foyer, my voice trembling with fury. “This is breaking and entering! It’s felony robbery!” I yanked my phone out of my purse to dial 911. Brittany lunged forward, roughly batting my hand down. “Stop being so hysterical! He’s just taking the compensation he deserves!” She turned to Mark, flashing him a sickeningly sweet smile. “Don’t worry about her. Keep packing. Even if you strip this place to the studs, I’ve got your back.” Mark had briefly frozen like a deer in headlights when I walked in, but seeing Brittany championing his cause emboldened him. He went right back to ransacking my dining room. A suffocating lump formed in my throat. My hands were shaking so hard I could barely hold my phone. “Brittany,” I choked out, “first you help him cheat on me, and now you’re helping him rob me? Do you even remember that I am your sister?” She planted her hands on her hips, utterly self-righteous. “I didn’t do anything wrong! You’re the one in the wrong! Do you have any idea how hard it is to be a man in today’s world?” She actually sounded like she believed it. “I felt sorry for Mark, having to come home to a miserable, nagging housewife every day. So I introduced him to someone young and fun to take the edge off. You should be taking notes from me, Jo.” Mark eagerly chimed in, “If you had even half of your sister’s warmth, Jocelyn, I wouldn’t have needed to look elsewhere. You’re just a cold fish. You should really learn from Brittany.” Brittany practically preened under the compliment. The two of them stood side-by-side, forming a physical wall to block me from my own living room, daring me to call the police. I ground my teeth together, the metallic taste of adrenaline in my mouth. “You have so much empathy for my cheating husband, Brittany? Maybe you should save some of that energy for yourself. Before you know it, your rich benefactor is going to toss you out with the trash, and you won’t even see it coming.” As if the universe itself was waiting for its cue, my phone vibrated in my palm. A new text. Pierce: It’s Pierce Davenport. Are you free tonight? I froze for a split second, a dark thrill shooting through my veins. I didn’t expect him to crack this fast. It was a stroke of absolute luck that Pierce never cared enough to ask about Brittany’s personal life; he had no idea she even had a sister. I wasn’t about to lose momentum. I typed back rapidly: Jocelyn: I told you, I despise men who try too hard. Don’t text me unless it’s important. Pierce was a young king of the real estate world. He had everything handed to him. Naturally, he was addicted to a challenge. My icy dismissal was the polar opposite of the desperate, cloying women he usually dealt with. It ignited a primal urge to conquer. My screen lit up with three consecutive typing bubbles. Meanwhile, Brittany was still running her mouth, utterly oblivious. “You’re just jealous because I have a man who actually provides for me! At least I’m a kept woman for a gorgeous billionaire. That’s a million times better than being a discarded, used-up ex-wife! Instead of being a bitch, you should be on your knees begging Mark not to finalize the divorce. No one else is ever going to want you.” Drunk on her own cruelty, she turned to Mark. “Call a moving truck. Take the solid wood furniture, too. That way, you won’t have to furnish your new apartment.” Mark, wearing a smug, punchable smirk, sneered at me. “Get on your knees and apologize to me right now, Jocelyn, and maybe I’ll leave you the sofa.” I didn’t even bother looking at him. I was too busy playing a high-stakes game of chess with Pierce Davenport. I hit the emergency button on my phone and silently connected to the police dispatcher, letting the phone hang by my side. Then, I looked at my sister, my eyes dead and calm. “Brittany, a shiny little pet like you—bought and paid for—is the easiest thing in the world to replace. Don’t be surprised when your billionaire swaps you out for a newer model.” That struck the exact, terrifying core of her insecurities. Despite her constant bragging, Brittany lived in perpetual terror of losing her arrangement with Pierce. She lunged at me, raising her hand to slap me, practically screeching. “Shut your mouth! Pierce has incredibly high standards! I have a perfect body, and I look exactly like the girl who got away—the one he’s always been in love with! My place is completely secure!” Ah. She looked like the ghost of his first love. But I looked more like her than she did. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been able to drag a man like Pierce into bed with just a few aloof words and a sultry look. My phone buzzed again. Pierce had sent an address for a luxury hotel and a suite number. I looked up from the screen to see Brittany adjusting her designer cardigan, looking incredibly smug. “I’ve survived by his side for two years. That proves he’s serious about me. He’s not going to just throw me away! Honestly, he’ll probably propose soon.” A slow, dangerous smile curled the corners of my lips. I stepped back. There was no point in arguing with her anymore. Words were cheap. Ripping the one man she worshipped away from her—that would be the only poetry she understood. The more confident she was right now, the sweeter the fall would be. I couldn’t wait to see her face when I finally took her place. When the police arrived with lights flashing, Mark’s bravado evaporated. I handed the officers the security footage and left them to process the scene, already dialing my divorce attorney to file additional criminal charges. Brittany, refusing to lose face, trailed right behind me to the precinct. “Oh, you have a lawyer? Please. Anyone can hire some cheap hack. I’ll have Pierce call his elite legal team for Mark right now.” She pulled out her phone, desperate to flex her connections. But Pierce was currently busy sending me dangerously filthy text messages. Brittany dialed him. Once. Twice. Three times. Every single call went straight to voicemail. I let out a soft, genuine laugh. “Wow. Seems like your billionaire doesn’t really want to talk to you, Brit.” She raised her hand to strike me again, but a stern look from the arresting officer made her shrink back. She gritted her teeth. “Don’t get cocky, Jocelyn. The pocket change Pierce gives me for a shopping spree is more than enough to afford Mark a top-tier defense attorney.” Even the desk sergeant couldn’t help but mutter, “What is wrong with you, lady? Why are you funding your cheating brother-in-law over your own sister?” I offered the cop a tired, resigned smile. I was used to it. Brittany had always been wired this way—a deeply ingrained, pathological need to side with men. When the boy next door bullied me when we were kids, she didn’t defend me. She blamed me. “Boys will be boys, Jo. It’s your fault for acting so aggressive. No man likes a difficult girl.” When our father was caught with a 22-year-old secretary, she didn’t comfort our devastated mother. She defended our father. “Mom let herself go. She’s old and frumpy. Obviously, a man is going to have physical needs. It’s totally natural.” My mother, broken and disgusted, took me and left. She let our father keep Brittany. We lived entirely separate lives after that. But when I got married, Brittany showed up uninvited, dropping a five-thousand-dollar check into the gift box just to show off. “This is just the loose change my benefactor gave me this week,” she whispered to me in her designer gown. “See? I’ve always known how to cater to a man’s ego, and now I’m treated like a queen. I get whatever I want.” Because being a sugar baby wasn’t exactly something you could brag about at the country club, she started orbiting my life again just to have an audience for her vanity. Over the last two years, she had talked so incessantly about Pierce Davenport that I inadvertently memorized all his habits, his preferences, his trigger points. Which was exactly why seducing him at the lounge, and maintaining this cat-and-mouse game, had been so effortlessly easy. My manufactured persona—the cold, mysterious, untouchable woman—demanded every ounce of his attention. For the next two weeks, Pierce didn’t text Brittany once. Instead, he spent every evening pulling me into his dark, intoxicating world of excess. Brittany was visibly unraveling. Once, in the dead of night while I was lying in Pierce’s sheets, she called his private line. He glanced at the caller ID, an expression of profound irritation crossing his face, and sent it straight to voicemail without missing a beat. With nothing else to do, Brittany poured all her frantic energy into helping my ex-husband fight me in court. Meanwhile, I was quietly, methodically, moving the chess pieces into place. After a particularly intense, breathless afternoon in his penthouse, Pierce reached into his jacket and tossed a heavy, black titanium credit card onto the marble nightstand. “If you’re open to it, I want an exclusive arrangement,” he said, his voice low and serious. “Whatever you want, whatever you need, I can provide it.” Pierce operated under the assumption that every woman had a price tag. I was going to be the anomaly that haunted him. I picked up the black card, walked over to the corner of the room, and dropped it casually into the trash can. “I just finalized a messy divorce,” I lied smoothly, securing my bra. “I needed a distraction. A physical outlet. Sleeping with you was just a convenient way to burn off some adrenaline.” I grabbed my coat. “Don’t flatter yourself, Pierce. I told you, I hate men who crowd me.” I turned for the door, fully intending to walk out. He moved faster than I expected, catching my wrist. His grip was firm, his eyes dark and searching. “I still don’t even know your last name. You are the most infuriating, fascinating woman I’ve ever met. What do you actually want?” Every other woman he knew wanted his bank account or a diamond ring. He could read their motives from a mile away, which made them painfully boring to him. But I wasn’t there for his money. I was there to destroy Brittany. My utter lack of interest in his wealth translated into a terrifying kind of power. I looked completely, genuinely unbothered by his status. “I told you. I wanted an outlet.” I pulled my wrist out of his grasp, giving him a slow, mocking once-over. “You look like the kind of guy who keeps a whole stable of shiny little pets. If I ever settle down again, it’s going to be strictly one-on-one. A man like you isn’t even on my radar for anything long-term.” A slow, wicked smile spread across Pierce’s face. “A kept woman isn’t a wife. I can clear the board whenever I want.” He stepped closer, invading my space. “If you’re interested, I’d clear the entire deck just for you.” God, I wished Brittany could have been a fly on the wall in that exact moment. But I wasn’t done yet. The timing wasn’t perfect. I swallowed the spike of triumphant adrenaline and gave him a bored, noncommittal shrug. “I’ll think about it.” I didn’t even stay the night. I walked out of the penthouse, leaving him staring after me, wanting me more than he had ever wanted anyone. But the universe has a funny way of complicating things. The second I walked out of the opulent hotel lobby, a hand violently grabbed my shoulder. “I knew it!” Brittany hissed, her eyes wild as she yanked me around. “You’re whoring around in expensive hotels! You’ve probably been sleeping around this whole time!” She raised her voice, practically screaming on the sidewalk. “Jocelyn, you’re a dirty, cheating hypocrite! How dare you try to leave Mark with nothing when you’re acting like trash yourself?” Pedestrians began to slow down, staring at the spectacle. Heat rushed to my cheeks. The sheer embarrassment was suffocating. In a moment of desperation, I snapped. “Brittany, did your billionaire finally dump you? Is that why you have so much free time to stalk me?” The words hit her like a physical blow. She flinched, her face contorting. “You’re just projecting because you couldn’t keep a man to save your life!” she spat, her voice shrill. “You think I’m a failure like you?” “Really?” I tilted my head, my voice dropping to a dangerous calm. “Because the last time I checked, he was sending your calls straight to voicemail. And since you’ve been playing lawyer with my ex-husband every single day, I’m guessing Pierce hasn’t asked to see you at all.” “He is a CEO of a massive conglomerate! He’s busy!” she shrieked. “You think he’s some unemployed loser like the guys you pick up?” I laughed on the inside. Oh, he’s busy alright. Busy obsessing over me. To cover her spiraling panic, Brittany pointed a shaking finger an inch from my face. “He hasn’t stopped seeing me! I’m with him every night! The lawyer Mark is using? Pierce secured him for me!” She was panting now, desperate to convince herself. “Even if you died tomorrow, Pierce would never leave me! I’m the only woman he sees!” I just stood there, letting the cool breeze wash over me, watching her self-destruct. The higher she built this house of cards, the more devastating the collapse would be. Before storming off, she delivered her final threat. “I took pictures of you walking out of this hotel. Just wait, Jocelyn. I’m going to ruin you.” That very night, she weaponized those photos. She sent them to every aunt, uncle, and family friend in our hometown group chats, spinning a vicious narrative. “Jocelyn caught a horrible STD from sleeping around, and that’s why Mark had to leave her,” the texts read. “Now she’s trying to steal his house, and when he went to get his clothes, she had him arrested! She’s an absolute monster.” The gossip spread like wildfire. Distant relatives began calling my mother, berating her, shaming her for raising such a “disgusting” daughter. The stress of the vicious rumors finally cracked my mother’s heart. She collapsed in her kitchen. If I hadn’t gone over to drop off groceries, she would have died. I sat by her bed in the ICU, listening to the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor. She looked so small, her skin grey against the hospital sheets. She gripped my hand, tears leaking from her eyes. “If I had known she would turn out like this…” my mother whispered, her voice breaking. “I should never have let her father take her.” I squeezed her hand, lowering my gaze to hide the absolute, chilling darkness that had settled in my eyes. Enjoy your last few days of delusion, Brittany. For the next four days, I stayed in the hospital. I completely ghosted Pierce Davenport. Every text he sent went unanswered. And true to form, the more I ignored him, the more frantic his need to conquer me became. The day my mother was discharged coincided with my scheduled mediation meeting with Mark and his lawyers. Brittany sent me a gloating text at 7:00 AM: I’m bringing the elite legal team Pierce paid for. Get ready to be humiliated. Oh, I was more than ready. An hour before the meeting, standing outside the sleek glass doors of the law firm, I finally sent Pierce a text. Jocelyn: I need a favor. He replied in less than ten seconds. Pierce: The sun must be rising in the west. You actually texted me. Jocelyn: My ex-husband is harassing me. I’m in a bad situation. Can you come help me? This sudden, shocking display of vulnerability was exactly the kind of bait a man like Pierce couldn’t resist. He didn’t ask questions. He just asked for the address. I stood on the curb, waiting. Less than twenty minutes later, a midnight-black Rolls-Royce glided to a stop in front of me. The moment Pierce stepped out of the car, looking sharp in a tailored suit, I dropped the ice-queen act. I rushed forward, letting out a soft, trembling breath, and practically collapsed into his chest. “Thank you so much for coming,” I whispered, my voice thick with unshed tears. “If you weren’t here, I don’t know what I would do…” The whiplash of this contrast—the untouchable woman suddenly soft and seeking his protection—hit him like a drug. His protective instincts flared instantly. He wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me flush against him, lowering his head to murmur something in my ear. Suddenly, a piercing, hysterical screech shattered the moment. “Jocelyn! What the hell are you doing?!”

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The doctor told me I had three broken ribs and a ruptured spleen. I spent seven hazy days in the ICU, drifting in and out of consciousness. When I finally woke up, the room was a sterile vacuum. No flowers, no fruit baskets—not even a shadow of a person. The nurse mentioned it offhandedly while changing my IV. “Your mother came by to sign the surgical consent. She said she had a case she couldn’t walk away from.” I felt a ghost of a smirk pull at my cracked lips. I didn’t say a word. She was a powerhouse litigator, a shark in a designer suit. She’d spent my entire childhood choosing billable hours over her only daughter. I was used to it. It wasn’t until the ninth day that my father arrived from the neighboring county. His fingers were gaunt and trembling as he gripped my hand. His Adam’s apple bobbed for a long time before he managed to force the words out. “Casey, there’s something… about the case your mother took.” He took a jagged breath, his voice thin. “It’s the Prescott family.” Courtney Prescott. The girl who had looked me in the eye before kicking me down three flights of stairs. I stared up at the clear fluid dripping through the IV line. I felt the blood in my veins turn to ice. 01 My father’s hand wouldn’t stop shaking. He gripped me so hard his knuckles turned white, tighter than I was holding onto consciousness. “Dad,” I whispered. “Which Courtney Prescott? Tell me there’s another one.” I was still hunting for a loophole. One last scrap of hope. “It’s her, Casey.” He kept his head down, his voice muffled, like the words were being crushed out of his chest. “The daughter of the developer, Arthur Prescott. The girl from your school. Her father approached your mother’s firm. Your mother… she personally requested the file.” The room went silent for an eternity. The heart monitor was the only thing speaking, a steady beep-beep-beep that sounded like a countdown. I stared at the fluorescent light on the ceiling, so white it burned. One thought looped through my mind, over and over: She knows. She knows who did this to me. “Dad? Does she know I’m in the hospital?” “She knows.” “Does she know Courtney did it?” “She knows.” “And she took the case anyway?” My father didn’t answer. But silence is its own kind of confession. I closed my eyes. Suddenly, those three broken ribs flared in unison. It wasn’t the physical wound. It was something deeper, a jagged break in the center of my being. My father reached into a plastic bag and pulled out a thermal container. He unscrewed the lid. Homemade chicken soup. Steam billowed out. He was a clumsy man, a man of rough edges and ink-stained fingers. The carrots were chopped into uneven chunks, the broth wasn’t strained properly, and a few stray bits of fat floated on the surface. But it was hot. “Casey, honey. Try to drink some.” I took the cup. I swallowed a mouthful. It was too salty. I didn’t tell him. I just kept drinking. “Dad, how did you get here? How long was the bus ride?” “Not long. Two hours.” He lied. I could see the mud caked on his boots and the damp hem of his jeans. It was pouring outside, and he hadn’t even brought an umbrella. “Why are you only getting here now?” His eyes turned bloodshot in an instant. “Your mother told me not to come. She said she was handling it. She told me to stay out of the way.” He choked on a sob. “I called her for seven days straight. She didn’t pick up once. It wasn’t until your homeroom teacher, Mr. Henderson, tracked me down on social media that I found out you were in the ICU.” Seven days. I was fighting for my life for seven days. My mother stayed for eight minutes to sign a paper and left. My father called for seven days, and she ghosted him. “Dad, don’t cry.” I set the soup on the nightstand. “I want to see the damage.” He hesitated, then pulled back the thin hospital blanket. My left side was a topographical map of gauze and surgical tape. A long, angry incision ran across my abdomen, stitched together and crusting into a dark crimson scab. My right arm was a mosaic of deep purple bruises—boot prints. When I hit the stairs, my head had slammed against the edge of the concrete step. The nurse told me that two centimeters to the left, and I would have been brain dead. “What’s the bill up to?” I asked. He looked away. “Don’t worry about that.” “How much, Dad?” “Nineteen thousand so far. The follow-up surgeries and rehab… they’re estimating another fifteen.” “Who’s paying?” “Your mother. She wired twenty thousand to the hospital’s billing department.” I let out a hollow laugh. Twenty thousand dollars. My mother made more than that on a single retainer. “She paid the bill, so she thinks she’s square. That’s her logic, isn’t it?” He stayed silent. But I knew the answer. In my mother’s world, money was the universal solvent. It dissolved guilt, it dissolved responsibility, it dissolved truth. But money couldn’t knit my ribs back together. Money couldn’t catch me before I hit the floor. Footsteps echoed in the hallway. A nurse pushed the door open, followed by a doctor in a white coat. “Is the family of Casey Sullivan here? We need a signature for tomorrow’s scans.” My father stood up, but before he could speak, the sharp, rhythmic click-clack of high heels rang out from the corridor. Steady. Urgent. Perfectly timed. I knew that sound. It was the soundtrack of my childhood. My mother had arrived. 02 Margot Sullivan swept into the room, a boutique paper bag from a high-end private pharmacy dangling from her wrist. She was wearing charcoal power trousers and a cream cashmere coat. Her hair was pinned back in a flawless chignon, her signature pearl earrings catching the sterile light. When she saw my father, her face hardened for a fraction of a second. “What are you doing here, David?” “My daughter is in the hospital,” he spat, his fists clenching at his sides. “I have every right to be here.” “I told you I was handling it. You’re just complicating things.” “Handling it? By acting as the Prescotts’ attack dog?” The air in the room turned brittle. My mother’s gaze shifted to me. It wasn’t the look of a worried parent. It was the look of an adjuster assessing a claim. “Casey. How are you feeling?” She walked to the bed and set the bag on the nightstand. Inside were expensive, imported supplements. “The doctor says your vitals are stabilizing. You should be out of here in a week.” “Mom,” I said, my voice flat. “Did you really take the Prescott case?” She paused for a heartbeat, then continued arranging the bottles. “I’m the lead on the account, yes.” “How could you?” She sat on the edge of the bed, her tone shifting into her ‘client conference’ voice—calm, logical, unyielding. “Casey, listen to me. Legally speaking, a scuffle between teenagers rarely meets the threshold for criminal assault. The Prescotts are looking for a mediation. They’re prepared to cover all your medical expenses, plus a five-figure settlement.” “A settlement?” I stared at her. “Mom, she kicked me down three flights of stairs. I have a ruptured spleen. I almost died.” “I am aware,” she said, a hint of professional impatience creeping in. “Which is why I’ve negotiated such a favorable deal. Any other lawyer, and the Prescotts wouldn’t even be offering half of this.” My father couldn’t take it anymore. “Margot, listen to yourself! Your daughter was nearly killed, and you’re sitting here talking about a payout?” “David, please, try to be a rational adult for once,” she snapped, her voice low but lethal. “How much do you make a month? Can you afford her physical therapy? Her psych evaluations? A private tutor while she recovers? I am securing her future, while you’re just making noise.” My father withered. He couldn’t afford it. Since the divorce, he’d run a struggling secondhand bookstore. His monthly revenue wouldn’t cover the cost of my mother’s shoes. Seeing him silenced, she turned back to me. “Casey, I am your mother, but I am also an attorney. I know how to fix this. I’ve gotten the Prescott family up to fifty thousand dollars on top of the medical costs. All you have to do is sign a release.” A release. She wanted me to forgive Courtney Prescott. “Mom… Courtney has been hurting me for months.” My voice was trembling now. “She pulled my hair in the hall. She slapped me in front of everyone last semester. I told you. I sent you messages.” My mother frowned. “When? I never received anything like that.” “March 17th. April 2nd. May 14th. I sent three texts. You never replied.” She was quiet for a few seconds. “The firm was closing a major IPO during that window. My inbox was flooded. I must have missed them.” Missed them. Three cries for help, buried under corporate memos. “Casey, let’s not get bogged down in the past,” she said, pulling a folder from her leather tote. She laid it on my lap. “This is the settlement agreement. Look it over. The Prescotts have been very generous.” I looked down at the document. Crisp white paper, perfect formatting, legal jargon. At the bottom, a bolded line caught my eye: The Plaintiff agrees to waive all current and future legal claims against the Defendant. The “Plaintiff” was me. The “Defendant” was Courtney Prescott. I stared at that line until the words blurred. Then I looked at my mother. “Did you draft this?” “I did,” she said, smoothing her hair. “It’s a standard template. I customized it myself.” She had hand-crafted the shield for the girl who broke her daughter’s body. I closed the folder and pushed it back toward her. “I’m not signing it.” My mother’s composure finally cracked. “Casey, don’t be ungrateful. You think anyone just hands out fifty thousand dollars? You take this to court, and you’ll lose. Who’s going to pay for the litigation? Your father?” She stood up, grabbing her bag. Her heels clicked sharply against the floor. “I’ll give you three days to think about it. If the Prescotts withdraw the offer, you get nothing.” The door slammed behind her. My father stood by the window, his back to me, his shoulders shaking. “Casey… trust me.” His voice was a gravelly wreck. “I don’t have the money. But I won’t let you be treated like this.” “I trust you, Dad.” The moment I said those words, the tears finally came. Not because of the pain, but because I had finally accepted the truth. My mother had chosen her client. She hadn’t chosen me. 03 Courtney Prescott had transferred in at the start of the year. Her father was the king of local real estate—net worth in the hundreds of millions. No one knew why she’d moved schools, but she made an impression on day one: she parked her white Porsche right in front of the main entrance. Our homeroom teacher, Mr. Henderson, asked her to move it. She didn’t even look at him. “Take it up with my dad,” she’d said. From that day on, she was untouchable. She targeted me after a mid-term essay. The prompt was “The Person I Admire Most.” I wrote about my father—about how he’d kept the bookstore going after the divorce, how his hands were always covered in ink, and how he’d mail me hand-copied study notes even when he was broke. The teacher read it aloud as an example of “soulful writing.” After class, Courtney poured a latte over my notebook. “What is this trash?” she sneered. “Your dad is a loser who sells dusty garbage. Why would anyone admire that?” The kids around her laughed. I didn’t say a word. I just wiped the pages clean and put them in my bag. That was the beginning. In March, she had her friends throw my backpack into the boys’ bathroom. While I was on my knees retrieving it from the floor, she stood in the doorway filming me. “Look at Casey Sullivan, lurking in the boys’ room. Looking for a date, Casey?” The video went viral in the school group chat. I went to Mr. Henderson. He just sighed. “Casey, I’ll be honest with you. Courtney’s father just donated a new science wing. The principal told me personally… we need to handle her with ‘discretion.’” That night, I sent the first text to my mother. Mom, a girl at school is bullying me. She threw my bag in the boys’ room today. Read. No reply. April 2nd. Courtney dumped a tray of cafeteria food over my head. Gravy dripped down my hair and soaked into my sweater. The whole lunchroom watched. No one moved. I texted my mother again. Mom, she did it again. It’s getting worse. Can you please talk to the school? I waited all night. At 2:00 AM, she sent four words: Handle it yourself, Casey. May 14th. She cornered me in the gym locker room, grabbed my hair, and told me to get on my knees and apologize. Her reason? My test scores were higher than hers, and it made her look “stupid.” I refused. She kicked me twice in the ribs. I stayed huddled on the floor for thirty minutes before I could stand up. I sent the third text. Mom, Courtney Prescott is hurting me. I’m scared to go to school. That time, it wasn’t even marked as ‘Read.’ Then came that Friday. After school, the hallways were mostly empty. Courtney and two of her shadows blocked my way on the third-floor landing. “I heard you went back to Henderson, Casey. You just don’t learn, do you?” I had gone back. Mr. Henderson had been trying to arrange a transfer for me to a different elective to get me away from her. Somehow, the news had leaked. Courtney grabbed my collar and shoved me toward the edge of the stairs. “You think you can just run away? You didn’t ask for my permission.” She was smiling, like she was telling a joke. Then she pulled her foot back and slammed it into my chest. My back hit the railing. My center of gravity vanished. Three floors. As I fell, I heard the sound of my own bones snapping. Then, the world went black. I woke up in the ICU. Seven days of silence. Three ignored pleas for help. One mother. Eight minutes. One settlement. Fifty thousand dollars. I lay in the hospital bed, took screenshots of those three ignored messages, and sent them to my father. He stared at his phone for a long time. “Casey,” he said softly. “Your classmate. Hannah? The one who sits next to you?” “Yeah?” “She found me today. She says she has a video.” 04 Hannah was quiet. She kept her head down, got B-minors, and tried to be invisible. When Courtney bullied me, Hannah never stood up for me. I didn’t blame her. Everyone was afraid. But I didn’t know she had been recording. My father handed me his phone. On the screen was a video, three minutes and twenty seconds long. The camera was shaky, filmed from behind a pillar on the third floor. It captured the hallway and the stairs perfectly. You could see Courtney clutching my shirt, her mouth moving, though the words were muffled. Then she let go, stepped back, and raised her right foot. The kick. My body hitting the rail and flipping over. The video cut off right there. The last frame was Hannah’s finger obscuring the lens as she likely dropped the phone in horror. “She was too scared to come forward,” my father said. “She was terrified of what the Prescotts would do to her family. But when she heard you were in the ICU… she couldn’t live with it.” Three minutes and twenty seconds. It was all there. Courtney’s face. The intent. The smirk she wore right before she ended my life as I knew it. “Dad, did you save this?” “I saved it. It’s on my phone, a thumb drive, and uploaded to the cloud.” I looked at him. He didn’t sound like a bookstore owner. He sounded sharp. “You used to be a reporter, didn’t you?” He flinched, then gave a bitter smile. “Did your mother tell you that?” “No. I saw your old press badge in the back of the store once.” “Yeah. Eight years at the State Ledger. Social justice beat, investigative pieces. After the divorce… I lost the fire for it. I just wanted something quiet.” When he said he ‘lost the fire,’ his eyes flickered. I didn’t push him. “Dad, with this video, can we charge her?” “We can. But the video isn’t enough.” He pulled a chair close to the bed. His tone had shifted. He wasn’t comforting a daughter anymore; he was a journalist connecting dots. “Casey, tell me the truth. Did Courtney only target you?” I thought about it. “No. Last year she beat up a guy in the junior class. He transferred a week later. And there was a girl named Sarah who got slapped in the bathroom. But no one reported it. Her dad is too powerful.” My father nodded, pulling out a small, battered notebook. He had already filled three pages. “Your mother saw your texts, Casey. The first one was read. The second one she replied to. The third stayed unread. She wasn’t ignorant. She was complicit.” He wrote as he spoke, his handwriting jagged but precise. In that moment, I saw him differently. This man, who made five grand a month, who lived in a cramped apartment, who couldn’t afford an umbrella. He was sitting across from me like a general preparing for war. “Casey, listen to me.” He closed the notebook. “There’s a deli across from your school. The owner, Mr. Miller. I went to see him.” “When?” “The third day you were in here.” “But you weren’t even here yet.” “I couldn’t get through to you or your mother. I was frantic. I started calling every business near the school campus.”

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At the gala meant to welcome the “real” heiress back into society, Cassidy Montgomery did the unthinkable. In front of every old-money titan and gossip-hungry socialite in Manhattan, she dropped to her knees, sobbing and begging our parents to save her deadbeat boyfriend. “Jax owes the underground bookies five million,” she wailed, her voice cracking through the silence of the ballroom. “If he doesn’t pay by midnight, they’re going to break his legs. They’ll kill him!” She looked up at our parents, her mascara running in ugly black tracks down her face. “The Montgomerys have more money than God. Why can’t you just pay it? Why won’t you help him?” The air in the room turned brittle. My parents stood frozen, their faces turning a ghastly shade of grey. This was supposed to be their triumph—the return of their biological daughter after twenty years of separation. Instead, she was dragging our name through the gutter before the first course was even served. I stepped forward, trying to salvage the wreckage. “Cassidy, get up. This is a family matter. We’ll discuss it in private.” She didn’t just refuse; she lunged. She shoved me so hard I stumbled back against a champagne tower, the glass rattling ominously. “Why do you get to use their money, Jessica? You’re the fraud! You’re the one who lived my life while I was rotting in the sticks. If you won’t give me the five million to save Jax, I’m not moving. I’ll stay right here until I die.” I looked down at her—at the sheer, agonizing stupidity of a woman blinded by a toxic “love” that was clearly eating her alive. I reached into my clutch, pulled out a pre-prepared severance agreement, and dropped it at her feet. “Sign this. Relinquish your claim to the Montgomery estate and cut ties with this family forever. Do that, and I’ll wire the five million to your boyfriend’s bookie right now.” … Cassidy picked up the document, her hands shaking like a leaf in a storm. Then, she snarled. She threw the papers directly at my face, her eyes bloodshot and filled with a primal, jagged hatred. “Jessica Montgomery, you’re the one who should’ve been kicked to the curb the moment I walked through that door,” she spat. “My parents haven’t said a word. What right do you—the replacement—have to tell me to leave?” The room went cold. I could hear the whispers starting like a hissing radiator. People knew. They knew that in this city, I was the one who held the leash. I reached out, my fingers clenching her chin with just enough pressure to make her wince. I looked down at her from a height she would never truly reach. “What right? Today, I’m going to show you exactly what right I have.” I glanced toward the back of the room. “Arthur, clear the floor.” With a single nod to our head of security, the doors were thrown open. Within minutes, every guest—including the city’s most powerful power-players—filed out through the back exits in a stunned, disciplined silence. No one dared to laugh. No one dared to linger. Cassidy had no idea. She didn’t know that for the last five years, I was the one who had bled for this family. I was the one who navigated the shark-infested waters of the shipping industry to save our company from bankruptcy while our father’s heart was failing. I was the one who took the hits, intercepted the lawsuits, and maintained the “Montgomery dignity” while she was playing house with a gambler. Without the “fake” daughter, the Montgomerys would have been a cautionary tale years ago. She didn’t have the luxury of judging me. “I’m asking you one last time,” I said, my voice flat. “Sign it, or don’t.” She looked at our parents, her eyes pleading for a miracle. My father looked away, and my mother fixed her gaze on the floor. Their silence was my mandate. Cassidy broke. She collapsed into a fit of hysterical sobbing. “Dad, Mom… the people who raised me were monsters. Jax was the only one who ever looked at me like I mattered. Without him, I’m nothing. I can’t lose him.” She crawled toward my father, clutching at his tuxedo trousers. “Dad, please. Just this once. Just help him this one time!” Then, in a blur of desperate motion, she scrambled toward the buffet table and grabbed a steak knife, pressing the serrated edge against her own throat. “If you don’t help him, I’ll end it right here!” I didn’t flinch. I walked straight up to her, grabbed her wrist, and turned the point of the blade into her skin just enough to draw a pinprick of red. “You want to die? Let me help you.” I applied a fraction more pressure. She gasped, the bravado evaporating as the reality of cold steel hit her. “Ah… stop!” She slumped to the floor, the knife clattering away. I knelt beside her, whispering so only she could hear. “Listen to me, little sister. You play by my rules, and you stay a Montgomery. You get the trust fund, the connections, the life you were born for. But there is a price: you dump the gambler. You marry the youngest Moretti son. That is your job. That is what a real Montgomery does.” After a long, agonizing silence, she nodded weakly. “Fine.” For a few days after the gala, Cassidy went quiet. she retreated into her wing of the estate, refusing to speak, eating her meals in solitary confinement. “Keep an eye on her,” I told the housekeeper. “Every move she makes, I want a report.” I was in the middle of a high-stakes negotiation with a West Coast logistics firm when my phone buzzed. It was the head of security. “Miss Montgomery, Cassidy just left the house.” “Follow her. Tell me where she goes.” Ten minutes later, the update came in. “She’s at a high-end pawn shop in the Diamond District. She brought your vintage Birkin and the sapphire necklace.” The idiot. She was hockng my heritage to fund her loser’s addiction. “Let her go for now,” I said, my jaw tightening. A few days later, I pulled Cassidy out of her room. “Get in the car. I’m taking you somewhere.” We drove to an illegal gambling den tucked behind a dry cleaner in Queens. Inside, the “love of her life” was draped over a blackjack table, a cocktail in one hand and a scantily clad dealer on his lap, laughing as he blew through thousands. “See that?” I pointed. “That’s the jewelry you stole. He’s literally throwing your ‘sacrifice’ into the trash.” Cassidy’s eyes turned a violent shade of red. “You brought me here just to mock me, didn’t you? I love him, Jessica. I don’t care what he does. At least he’s human. You’re just a cold-blooded killer. You don’t even know what love is. You’re pathetic.” I actually laughed. It was a sharp, bitter sound. “Maybe I don’t know love, but I know the penal code. That jewelry was worth ten million. The bags? Five. That’s grand larceny, Cassidy. I could have you in a jumpsuit by dinner.” She crumpled into a heap on the sidewalk. For the sake of our parents’ reputations, I didn’t call the police. I just gave the order: “Cut off her accounts. Move her into the smallest guest room. She stays there until she learns how to be a daughter.” I thought that would be enough. I thought the shock would clear the fog. I was wrong. A week later, security caught her sneaking out to meet him again. I dropped everything and drove to the fleabag motel where they were hiding. I kicked the door in. They were in bed, a mess of tangled sheets and cheap booze. But that wasn’t what made my blood boil. Cassidy’s face was a map of bruises—yellow and purple welts across her cheek and brow. I didn’t even think. I grabbed her by her hair, pulled her off the bed, and slapped her hard enough to make her head ring. “You stupid, God-awful brat!” I screamed. “You’re engaged to a Moretti! If the press gets a whiff of this—if the Morettis find out you’re slumming it with this parasite—they’ll pull out of the shipping merger. The overseas routes we’ve spent a decade building will evaporate in a day.” The Morettis controlled the three major Atlantic shipping lanes. They were the key to our survival. Ten years, countless millions, and more than a few ‘disappeared’ rivals had paved the way for this alliance. Three years ago, I had saved the Moretti matriarch’s grandson from a kidnapping attempt. That was the only reason they even considered us. If they knew Cassidy was cheating on their son with a street-level gambler, they wouldn’t just cancel the deal. They’d bury us. But Cassidy just looked at me with a swollen eye and a defiant smirk. “So what? Your business is a drop in the bucket compared to my heart. I said I’d marry the guy, isn’t that enough?” “He beat you, Cassidy!” I pointed at her face. “That’s how he loves you? With his fists? Next time, he won’t just bruise you. He’ll break you into pieces.” I turned to the man on the bed—Jax—who hadn’t said a word the entire time. He was a coward, through and through. I looked at my security team. “Take him to the pier. Let him see if he can swim with the fishes.” “No!” Cassidy shrieked. “Jessica, you can’t! That’s murder! I’ll go to the cops!” “The cops?” I leaned in close. “I played poker with the Police Commissioner last night and ‘lost’ half a million to his favorite charity. Go ahead. Tell them whatever you want. The door is right there.” She collapsed, the fight leaving her. “Fine… just let him go. I won’t see him again. I promise.” When we got back, she didn’t say a word to our parents. But at dinner, she made a sudden announcement. “Dad, Mom… I want to start interning at the firm. I want to be like Jessica. I want to help the family.” My parents looked at me, waiting for my approval. “Fine,” I said. “Start tomorrow. You’re my junior assistant.” She started to protest, but a sharp look from my father silenced her. At the office, I threw a mountain of files on her desk. “Learn them. Ask if you’re confused.” Later that afternoon, during a senior management meeting, the door swung open. Cassidy walked in, looking more polished than I’d ever seen her. “Hope I’m not late, sister. I thought I should start learning how the big decisions are made.” Technically, she didn’t have the clearance. But for the sake of peace at home, I let her stay. She was suddenly attentive, asking questions, hovering. I answered everything, thinking maybe—just maybe—she was finally growing up. The day we were set to sign the final contract with the Morettis, she insisted on coming along. “I want to see my fiancé. And I want to be there for our big win.” We were in the Moretti boardroom. Victor Moretti, the CEO, had the pen poised over the signature line when his phone rang. He listened for ten seconds, and his face turned the color of a thunderstorm. He hung up and stood, pulling a sleek black pistol from his desk drawer and leveling it at my forehead. “Jessica. Are you here to spit in my face?” I didn’t move. I raised my hands slowly. “Victor, we’ve worked together for years. If there’s a problem, tell me.” “A problem?” He threw his phone onto the table. “You sign a merger with me, while your people are currently hijacking my shipments at the Jersey docks. Look for yourself.” The video was clear. Men in Montgomery uniforms were raiding a Moretti vessel. “Victor, this is a mistake. Let me make a call.” I dialed my logistics manager. “What the hell is going on at Dock 3?” “Boss? You gave the order! You said to seize the Moretti cargo so we wouldn’t have to pay the transit fees!” “I never—” I turned. Cassidy was standing by the window, a smug, dark smile playing on her lips. “And then there’s the matter of my son’s honor,” Victor growled. He threw a stack of photos onto the table. They were high-resolution shots of Cassidy and Jax in the motel room. Graphic. Humiliating. Click. Victor cocked the hammer. “My gun hasn’t tasted blood in a long time. Today, one of you stays here permanently.” I closed my eyes for a heartbeat. Then I looked at Victor. “I’ll stay. Let her go.” Cassidy’s smile faltered. She looked at me, stunned. “You’re… letting me go?” “Get out!” I barked. She didn’t wait. She scrambled out of the room, her heels clicking frantically down the hall. A minute later, a shot echoed through the penthouse. I walked into the Montgomery estate hours later, my white silk blouse stained with red. Cassidy was already tucked into bed, probably dreaming of her “victory.” I didn’t knock. I burst into her room, grabbed her by her hair, and slammed her head against the mahogany headboard. “You stole my corporate seal,” I hissed. “You sent those men to the docks to sabotage the Moretti deal, didn’t you?” “Get off me! You’re crazy!” she screamed. “Tell me the truth, or you won’t live to see the sunrise.” I slammed her again. Her nose started to bleed, the red dripping onto her silk pillowcase. “Yes! It was me!” she shrieked. “So what? You lost a business deal. Big deal! I lost my life! I lost Jax!” She laughed, a jagged, broken sound. “I wanted to destroy you. I wanted to burn the Montgomery name to the ground. Your status, your precious company—it’s all a lie anyway. I sent the photos to Victor myself. How does it feel, Jessica? To lose everything?” “Housekeeper!” I yelled. “Lock her in the basement guest room. No phones, no visitors, no exits.” I didn’t tell my parents the truth. I told them I’d been in a minor car accident. But while I was in the hospital getting my shoulder stitched up, they came rushing into my room, frantic. “Jessica, it’s Cassidy! She’s gone!” “I told the staff to keep her locked down,” I gritted out, the pain in my shoulder searing. “Idiots.” My father’s phone chimed. It was a video. Cassidy was tied to a chair, her face battered, her clothes torn. “Dad, Mom… please! They kidnapped me! They want fifty million or they’ll kill me! Please, just pay them!” My mother collapsed into a chair, sobbing. “Jessica, you have to save her. I know she’s been difficult, but she’s our blood. Please.” My father looked like he was about to drop to his knees. I caught him before he could. “Dad, stop. I’ll get her back.” I called the CFO and authorized the fifty-million-dollar wire. Then, I put a call out to every contact I had in the city’s underworld. Find her. Ten million for the location of the kidnappers. Three days later, I got a hit. An abandoned construction site in the industrial outskirts of the city. When I arrived, the only sound was the wind whistling through empty steel beams. Then, a gunshot cracked near my ear. “You really aren’t as smart as you think you are, Jessica.” Cassidy was standing on a catwalk, looking perfectly fine. Beside her stood Jax, holding a rifle. “I knew they’d send you to ‘save’ me,” she mocked. “So I set a trap. You’ve been the queen of this family long enough. Today, the fraud dies.” Before I could move, a dozen armed men in black tactical gear emerged from the shadows, surrounding me. “You stupid, treacherous girl,” I said, staring at her. “You’re tearing your own family apart for a man who would sell your organs for a winning parlay.” Jax walked up to me and kicked me square in the ribs, sending me to the dirt. He climbed on top of me, raining blows down on my face until I tasted copper. “Shut up, bitch! You ruined my life. Today, I take what’s mine.” I spat a mouthful of blood into his face and grinned. “You? You’re a one-handed gambler who can’t even pay his own rent. You think you’re a king?” He roared and kicked me again. My ribs groaned under the impact. “What’s the matter, Jax?” I wheezed. “Swing harder. You hit like a debutante.” He grabbed a pistol from one of the mercenaries and pressed it to my temple. “I’ll kill you right now!” I looked him dead in the eye. “Do it. Pull the trigger. And tomorrow, my people will find your mother in her little rent-controlled apartment and make sure she never wakes up. Go on. Shoot.” His hand began to shake. “He might not have the guts, but I do.” I looked up. Tristan Blackwood, the CEO of Blackwood Holdings—our primary rival—stepped out of the shadows. “Jessica. Long time no see.” “So, you’re the puppet master,” I muttered. “You used this idiot to steal my seal, sabotage the Morettis, and lure me here.” Tristan chuckled. “You were always the smart one, Jessica. Too bad the ‘real’ daughter is such a convenient tool. But let’s be honest—you aren’t even a Montgomery. Why die for them?” He dropped a stack of papers in front of me. “Transfer the Montgomery shipping assets to Blackwood, and I’ll let you walk.” “Is that so? Well, we’ll see who’s walking out of here today.” I looked at Cassidy. “You see him, Cassidy? You’re dancing with a wolf. You want my life, but he wants your legacy. You’re just a pawn he’s going to discard the second I’m dead.” “Shut up!” Cassidy shrieked, snatching the gun from Jax and aiming it at my head. “I’d rather the company go to a stranger than stay with a liar like you!” “Don’t hesitate, babe,” Jax urged. “Kill her and we’re rich!” Cassidy pulled the trigger. But before her bullet could find me, a sniper round whistled through the air, shattering the gun in her hand. Suddenly, the perimeter exploded. Hundreds of my men, backed by heavy tactical vehicles, stormed the site.

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We were hunched over a single bowl of cheap takeout noodles in our cramped studio apartment when I started venting. Between slurps, I told him about the billionaire drama I’d overheard while doing a closet clean-out that morning. “Can you even believe it? This tech mogul—some new-money prick—lives in a penthouse but acts like he’s ‘slumming it’ for the experience. Word is, he’s leading a double life. He’s got a devoted girl at home while he’s out here spoiling a twenty-something socialite on the side.” I stabbed at the bottom of the plastic container with my chopsticks. “The rich are truly another species. To them, loyalty is just a commodity, like a stock they can trade when they get bored.” His hand, which had been reaching for the last piece of braised egg, jerked violently. The egg tumbled onto the linoleum floor with a dull thud. I gasped, mourning the loss of our only protein, completely missing the way the blood had drained from his face, leaving him ghost-white. The next day, I was back at it, scouting for a client. Her walk-in closet was a mountain of limited-edition labels and unworn silk. “Your husband certainly adores you,” I remarked, pulling on my white gloves to inspect a vintage Birkin. The mistress of the house—a girl who couldn’t have been more than twenty-two—was curled on a velvet chaise, swirling a glass of expensive Pinot. “He says I’m his little lucky charm. Every time we… well, every time he stays the night, he leaves a ‘thank you’ gift.” She suddenly kicked off a heel. “These got a water spot on the suede. I don’t want them. He’ll just buy me the new season’s collection anyway.” My eyes lit up. The resale value on those shoes could net me an extra fifty bucks—enough for a real steak dinner tonight. I knelt to help her slide the other one off, but as I reached for her ankle, a voice drifted down from the top of the stairs—a voice so familiar it made my scalp crawl. “Is my girl throwing away my gifts again?” I froze. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I looked up, slowly. There stood Sebastian. The man who was supposed to be out delivering Uber Eats until 3:00 AM to pay our rent was standing on a gilded staircase, wearing a bespoke three-piece suit, framed by a seven-figure crystal chandelier. 01 In the split second our eyes met, a thousand accusations rushed to my throat. But they were instantly extinguished by the girl’s playful pout. “Hmph. Don’t let the suit fool you,” she joked, looking at me. “He acts like a gentleman, but he’s a total beast behind closed doors.” Sebastian shifted his gaze away from me without a flicker of recognition. He stepped down and pulled the silk robe tighter around her shoulders, covering a cluster of faint, bruised-red marks on her collarbone. “Madison, honey,” he said, his voice a low, smooth purr. “Cover up. We have company.” It wasn’t hard to imagine. The way he would have pressed his face into the crook of her neck, leaving those marks with the same devotion he used to show me. Then, I noticed their pajamas. They were matching sets—Italian silk, five thousand dollars a pop. A few days ago, I’d shown him a picture of those exact pajamas on my phone. “Can you believe people spend a year’s rent on something to sleep in?” I’d laughed. “I hate the rich.” He had kissed the corner of my mouth then. “Joanna, one day we’ll have that. I’m going to make sure you’re the wealthiest woman in the city.” I’d taken it as a sweet, empty promise. I didn’t realize he’d already bought them—just for someone else. In that silk, he looked regal, untouchable. He looked like a stranger. Madison giggled, playfully hitting his chest. “You’re so possessive! Last week he fired a junior analyst just for looking at me too long. He thinks he’s in some Hallmark movie. It’s a bit much, honestly.” She had the glowing, effortless skin of someone who had never known a day of stress. That was the source of her confidence. I stood there, paralyzed, before forcing my voice to work. It sounded like sandpaper. “Do you… do you two run the company together?” Madison blew a bubble with her gum. “Oh, it’s all Seb’s. He started it a few years back. He landed this massive Series A funding right after I joined as an intern. He calls me his ‘Lucky Rabbit’s Foot.’ He went all out to get me.” The words felt like a bucket of ice water over my head. Three years ago, Sebastian told me he’d used all our savings to start a business. Later, he told me it had failed spectacularly. He’d “grieved” for months, and I had worked three jobs to keep us afloat while he “found himself.” He hadn’t failed. He had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. He just didn’t want me in the winner’s circle. The seat he promised me was already taken. Madison looked at me with faux-concern. “Hey, are you okay? You look a little pale. If you’re struggling for work, I can get you a spot in the mailroom.” She patted her chest. “Besides Seb, I’m basically the boss around here.” Sebastian let out a soft, condescending chuckle, pinching her nose. “Stop being a brat, Maddie. We don’t just hire anyone off the street. The firm only takes Ivy League grads now.” I felt a hollow ache in my chest. We had both graduated from a mid-tier state school. We had spent years being looked down upon by recruiters. Now that he was at the top, he was pulling up the ladder behind him, sneering at people exactly like the woman who had helped him get there. I forced myself to look away from their flirting. I surveyed the room. This villa… I couldn’t even have imagined this level of luxury in my dreams. The apartment we’d shared for eight years was smaller than the bathroom I was standing in. We had spent nearly a decade cramped on a sagging queen mattress, watching the ceiling leak every time it rained. We were “poor but happy.” Or so I thought. Why? Why was he willing to share the struggle, but not the prize? Ten minutes later, I hauled the heavy bags of designer cast-offs toward the door. The plastic handles dug into my palms like dull knives. It hurt, but it was nothing compared to the slow-motion shattering of my soul. Sebastian had his arm around Madison, his thumb tapping a rhythm on his phone. It was an old signal of ours. Wait for me. I’ll call you later. I pretended not to see. I gave them a polite, professional bow and walked out into the sun. 02 It’s a two-hour commute from the hills to my neighborhood. Usually, I’d take the bus to save the five dollars. Today, I called an Uber. The money I’d been painstakingly saving for a wedding—a wedding that was never going to happen—suddenly felt like Monopoly money. Worthless. I stared out the window as memories clawed at my brain. In college, I was the one who noticed Sebastian—the gorgeous, brooding guy in the back of the lecture hall—was living on nothing but five-dollar meal vouchers. I’d secretly applied for grants on his behalf, found him tutoring gigs, and took care of him in a dozen ways that wouldn’t bruise his ego. When he found out, he’d broken down in tears and promised me the world. Then, his mother got the diagnosis. Stage IV. We pulled our first fifty thousand dollars—every cent we’d ever earned—out of the bank. On the way to the hospital, we were cornered in a dark alley by three guys with pipes. I remember my voice being strangely calm. “Let him go. I have the money.” I’d whispered in Sebastian’s ear: “This is for your mom’s surgery. Go. Now. I know these guys from the neighborhood. I can talk them down.” Sebastian still doesn’t know. That was the biggest lie of my life. I didn’t know them. And I didn’t “talk them down.” I tried to lie to myself, too. I tried to pretend that night never happened. When the Uber dropped me off, my hands were shaking so hard I could barely turn the key. I barely made it to the bathroom before I started retching. I threw up my lunch, my dinner, and ten years of wasted trust. I scrubbed my hands until the skin was raw. But the shame… the memory of those men… you can’t wash that off. I looked in the mirror. My skin was dull, tired. Fine lines were starting to map out the stress around my eyes. How could I compete with a girl like Madison? I started laughing. A jagged, ugly sound that turned into heaving sobs. He had promised me everything and gave me nothing. I had promised him nothing and gave him everything I was. Hours later, Sebastian came home. He didn’t even bother with the “delivery guy” act anymore. He walked in wearing that charcoal-gray suit, looking like he owned the building. His first words weren’t an apology. They were a demand. “Why are you still doing these side gigs, Jo? It’s embarrassing.” If it hadn’t been for today, I would have died believing his lies. I looked him dead in the eye. “The delivery job was a lie, Sebastian. But my three jobs? Those were real.” He grabbed my wrist, his grip tight and commanding. “Joanna, have I ever let you go hungry? Why are you playing the martyr now?” I studied his face. “I wanted to save enough so you wouldn’t feel pressured. So we could finally get married. Was that my mistake?” My voice was a ghost of a whisper. “But I guess that’s off the table now.” His grip faltered. He looked around our bedroom—the tiny bed where we’d spent nights counting on our fingers who we’d invite to our wedding, how we’d decorate. Those dreams had been my oxygen. Now, the air was gone. “Ten years,” I said. “What am I to you, Sebastian? Really?” He rubbed his temples, looking more annoyed than guilty. “Look, I had a business dinner. I got drunk. One thing led to another with Madison, and… I have to take care of her. She’s just a kid, Jo. She’s soft. She needs me.” He looked at me with a cold, piercing judgment. “And you… let’s be honest. Before we got together, who knows how many men you’d been with? You’re tough. You’ve always been able to handle yourself.” The words felt like a venomous snake biting into my heart. I thought about our “first time.” The way he’d paused, sensing something was wrong, and I—not wanting to open the wound of the alleyway—had just whispered, “Do you mind? If you mind, we can stop…” He had shaken his head then, his palm warm against my cheek. “Silly girl. I only want to protect you. I wish I’d met you sooner, so you never had to hurt.” He actually thought I’d just been “experienced.” He mistook my trauma for a lack of purity, and used it as an excuse to betray me. I didn’t argue. I just started throwing his clothes out the door. “Jo, don’t do this…” he began, reaching for me. SMACK. The door burst open. Madison was standing there. She must have followed him. She looked around the ten-square-foot room with pure disgust before her hand connected with my face. She looked at her reddened palm. Her hands were soft, pampered. Mine were calloused from the work that had funded Sebastian’s first prototype. I bit my lip, refusing to cry. I looked at Sebastian. He watched my face swell with a chilling indifference. The boy who used to cry at the thought of me being hurt was dead. “I knew something was up at the house,” Madison spat. “I said those things to make you back off, but you’re just a persistent little parasite, aren’t you?” She sneered. “You live in this dump, and I live in a ten-million-dollar estate. Do you really need a map to figure out who he loves more?” Sebastian’s brow furrowed. He caught Madison’s hand before she could swing again. “Enough,” he said, his voice deep. “Let’s go home.” He picked her up in a bridal carry. She whimpered and clung to his neck, playing the role of the victim perfectly. “He’s such a bad boy,” she cooed as they left. “I can’t believe you even have the stomach for a woman like that…” 03 The roar of a black Bentley echoed through the alley as it sped away from the slums. I lay on the floor for a long time, until the chill of the linoleum seeped into my bones. My phone buzzed on the table. Madison had sent me a link to her Instagram. She was a “lifestyle influencer” with a million followers. In her videos, Sebastian was the perfect man. Patiently doing TikTok challenges, looking at her with a steady, adoring gaze. Every time he told me he was on a “business trip,” he was actually taking her to see blue whales in Antarctica, or kissing her under the Eiffel Tower. And I was here. Wearing a mascot suit to hand out flyers in 90-degree heat. Sorting packages in a freezing warehouse. Checking my bank balance every night like a fool, counting down to a wedding that was a ghost. I wondered… when he pressed her into those expensive Egyptian cotton sheets, did he ever think of the shared spicy soup we ate in this dump? Did he remember the winters we couldn’t afford heat, when he’d hold me tight just to keep us both from shivering? Madison’s latest post was from their company gala. Sebastian had his arm around her, speaking into a microphone. “For the next sixty seconds, for every person who calls her ‘The Boss,’ I’m giving out a hundred-dollar bonus. No cap.” The room erupted in cheers. Madison was radiant. A single tear hit my screen. Ten years, Sebastian. This is all it was worth? The bitterness tasted like bile. I wiped my eyes until they were raw, then I looked up the company address. 19 Ocean View Drive. I grabbed an old, yellowed envelope from under the floorboards and headed out. The CBD was a different world. I felt the old, familiar sting of inadequacy as I stepped into the glass-and-steel lobby. “I’m here to see Sebastian,” I told the receptionist. She didn’t even look up from her nails. “Do you have an appointment?” I shook my head. She pointed toward the exit with a polished finger. “Mr. Wayne doesn’t see ‘random women.’ He’s very devoted to his fiancée. You’re wasting your time.” He’d given Madison all the loyalty he’d stolen from me. I didn’t leave. I waited for a group of couriers to walk in and slipped in behind them. I saw the sprawling offices. Hundreds of elite employees. In this building, they made more in an hour than I made in a week. Their futures were so bright it hurt to look at them. I stopped in front of a heavy mahogany door. The gold plaque read: CHIEF EXECUTIVE OFFICER. Through the crack in the door, I heard his voice. Sebastian was sitting in his leather chair, Madison perched on his lap. He was rubbing her calf with a slow, possessive stroke. “Maddie, what do I have to do to make you forgive me for that scene earlier?” 04 She tugged on his tie, giggling. “Let’s have a baby. I want a little ‘us’ to tie you down forever.” He laughed, a low, melodic sound, and leaned in for a deep kiss. “Whatever you want, honey.” He stood up, unbuttoning his shirt as he carried her toward the private rest area behind the office. My vision blurred. I remembered the twenty-year-old Sebastian swearing he’d never love anyone but me. Congratulations, Sebastian. You got everything you wanted. And it only cost you your soul. I walked back to the front desk and left the yellowed envelope there. Then, I sent him a text. I’m leaving, Sebastian. Goodbye. A second later, my phone rang. “Jo, don’t be dramatic,” he said, sounding bored. “Now that you know about me and Madison, you can stop working those pathetic jobs. I bought a penthouse downtown. It’s yours. I’ll make sure you’re taken care of.” “No,” I said. He paused. His voice softened, turning manipulative. “I’m a sentimental guy, Jo. We’ve been together a long time. As long as you stay in your place, I’ll keep you for as long as you want.” I shook my head, though he couldn’t see me. How could I ever eat a meal he provided, knowing his lips had just been on hers? I’m not interested in leftovers. I hung up, took out my SIM card, and snapped it in half. New number. New city. New life. Aside from my name, Sebastian, you don’t know a thing about me. Sebastian was walking out of his office when his secretary stopped him. “Sir, a woman left this for you.” He opened the envelope. Inside was a faded, yellowed police report from ten years ago.

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I was the charity case the Montgomery family took in. At twenty-two, I married Calvin Montgomery because I was pregnant with his child. Calvin was a notorious germaphobe. He demanded separate serving utensils at dinner. He refused to kiss me on the lips. He wouldn’t even touch a water glass I had used, treating my very existence as something inherently contaminated. But at a dinner party last week, I watched him intercept a cocktail meant for his first love—the woman who had always haunted our marriage. To spare her from drinking too much, he pressed his lips to the exact spot on the rim where her lipstick had left a perfect, rosy smudge, and swallowed it down. That was the exact moment I knew our marriage was over. 01 I was the one who had to physically support Calvin’s weight as we walked through the front door. He had taken so many drinks for Brianna that his usually sharp, calculating eyes were hazy and unfocused. Right before we left the venue, Brianna had looked at me, her face a perfect portrait of manufactured guilt. “I am so sorry, Hermosa. It’s entirely my fault Calvin drank so much.” She reached out, her manicured fingers smoothing the lapel of Calvin’s jacket, her palm lingering on his chest. “I had a little too much at a gala once and almost kissed the wrong man. Ever since then, Calvin just absolutely refuses to let me get tipsy.” She offered a saccharine smile, instructing me to make sure I brewed him some warm honey water before bed. I think, if I were any other woman, I would have slapped her right across her flawlessly contoured face. But I didn’t. I just quietly took Calvin’s arm, shifted his weight onto my shoulders, and said absolutely nothing. It wasn’t that I possessed an endless well of patience; it was simply that I knew my place. I had no right to be angry. When we finally got to the kitchen, I poured Calvin a glass of plain, lukewarm water. Even through the heavy fog of the alcohol, his eyes narrowed as I handed it to him. “Whose glass is this?” he slurred, his fingers hesitating. “Yours,” I said. My voice was entirely flat. Only then did his shoulders drop. He brought the glass to his lips and drank. Calvin’s obsessive need for sterility was something I had known from the very beginning. Early in our marriage, he had been struck by a sudden, agonizing bout of stomach cramps. In my panic to get him his medication, I had filled my own water glass and handed it to him. When Calvin realized it was mine, he threw it. The glass shattered against the hardwood floor. “Didn’t I tell you I don’t use other people’s things?” he had snapped. It was the first time I had ever seen him truly furious. I had stood there, frozen against the kitchen island, too terrified to breathe. Seeing me shrink away, his tone had softened, just a fraction. “It’s not you. I just have an aversion to sharing things. Just be careful next time.” But tonight, in that velvet-lined VIP booth, sharing Brianna’s glass had been the most natural thing in the world. He didn’t have an aversion to sharing things. He just only wanted to share them with Brianna. The realization hit me like a physical blow to the chest. My throat tightened, a sharp burning sensation settling behind my eyes. It wasn’t that I didn’t know about Brianna. I did. But she had been living in London for years. Calvin never brought her up, and he treated everyone with the same polite, icy detachment he gave me. For a long time, I convinced myself that this was enough. That we could build a life in that cold, quiet space. But tonight, I saw what Calvin looked like when he actually loved someone. All the tiny indignities, the quiet rejections I had forced myself to swallow over the years, suddenly rushed back in. A tidal wave of grief threatening to pull me under. I suddenly felt deeply, overwhelmingly exhausted. Maybe I didn’t have to carry this anymore. Maybe walking away was the only way either of us would ever survive. 02 After maneuvering Calvin into his bedroom, I retreated to my own to wash the evening off my skin. We slept in separate rooms. It was an unspoken rule. Calvin only came to my bed every other Friday. He called it “fulfilling our marital obligations,” treating my body like a recurring meeting on his calendar. But whenever he drank, the rigid, untouchable Calvin melted away. He would become inexplicably clingy, sneaking into my room, wrapping his large frame around me, and refusing to let go until morning. Just like tonight. I had just slipped beneath the duvet when the door clicked open. Before I could process the shadow moving across the rug, heavy arms banded around my waist. He pulled my back flush against his chest, burying his face in my neck. He let out a long, satisfied exhale, and within seconds, his breathing leveled out. He was asleep. In the past, even if the sharp scent of scotch turned my stomach, I would have talked myself into staying. Just go to sleep, I’d tell myself. The Montgomerys gave you a life. You owe them this much. But tonight, the debt felt paid. I didn’t want to endure it anymore. I wrestled myself out of his iron grip. If he wanted this bed so badly, he could have it. The Montgomery estate had no shortage of guest rooms. The moment I stepped out into the dimly lit hallway, I stopped. Hudson was standing by my door, his small brow furrowed in concern as he peered past me into the room, looking for his father. I forced a soft smile, kneeling down to be at eye level with my son. I reached out to smooth his messy hair. “Hudson, why are you still awake, sweetie? You have school tomorrow. You need to get to bed.” Hudson swatted my hand away. He glared at me with a pair of icy blue eyes that were a terrifying replica of Calvin’s. “Hermosa, you don’t get to tell me what to do.” Hermosa. Not Mom. Ever since the kids at his elite prep school had cruelly pointed out that his parents didn’t love each other, and he realized my pregnancy was the only reason I was allowed into the Montgomery family, Hudson had blamed me. He conveniently forgot the countless nights I had sat awake with him when he had the flu. He forgot how he used to curl into my lap, burying his face in my chest, whispering that I was his favorite person in the whole world. Now, his greatest wish was that someone, anyone else, was his mother. Watching his small silhouette retreat down the grand hallway, I let out a shaky breath, stood up, and walked into the guest room across the hall. I locked the door, sat on the edge of the mattress, and dialed the number of my former boss, Camille. “Camille,” I said, my voice finally steady. “I’ve made up my mind. I’ll go with you to Paris.” 03 There was a brief pause on the line before Camille let out a shriek of genuine delight. “Are you serious? Hermosa, that’s incredible! Okay, get your visa paperwork expedited this week. Once I wrap up the transition here, we are on a plane.” I had majored in fashion design and worked as an assistant designer at Camille’s label before I got pregnant. After marrying Calvin, I had stepped back, doing occasional freelance sketches for her just to keep my sanity. Camille was currently orchestrating a massive career move, taking her core team to helm a major luxury house in Paris. She had been begging me to come with her for months. I had hesitated. Growing up in the foster system, the concept of a “family” was something I revered. It was a holy grail. I couldn’t bear the thought of abandoning my son. But looking at it now, Hudson didn’t want me. And I was finally starting to understand that a home isn’t defined by the people who happen to live in it. Sometimes, you have to become your own home. After hanging up, I opened my laptop. I scrolled deep into my hidden files, finally locating a PDF. It was the divorce agreement Calvin’s mother had drafted for me four years ago. 04 The next morning, I walked out of the guest room just as Calvin emerged from mine. He looked tired, running a hand through his hair, his eyes silently demanding to know why he had woken up alone in my bed. I didn’t miss a beat. “You stumbled in last night and wouldn’t let go. I didn’t have the energy to fight a drunk man, so I let you have the room.” A rare flash of embarrassment crossed Calvin’s face. He cleared his throat, looking away. “My apologies. It won’t happen again.” I simply nodded, already walking past him. I headed downstairs to help the chef with breakfast. Behind me, Calvin froze. In the past, when I brought up his drunken affection, I’d look away, my cheeks flushed with a quiet, hopeful warmth. Today, my face was entirely blank. I just looked bored. That shift kept Calvin rooted to the top of the stairs, staring at my back for a long time. At the breakfast table, I announced that I had errands to run. I wouldn’t be driving Hudson to school, and I wouldn’t be dropping off Calvin’s lunch at the corporate office. They were on their own. “Where are you going?” They asked it in perfect unison. Father and son, both staring at me as if I had just announced I was moving to Mars. I blinked, genuinely surprised they even cared to ask. “I’m going to the main estate,” I said. “I haven’t seen Evelyn in a while.” The tension in Calvin’s jaw visibly relaxed. The corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Wait until I get off work. I’ll go with you.” I shook my head, taking a sip of my coffee. “No need. I can drive myself.” Calvin’s eyes narrowed into slits. He studied my face for a long, silent moment before standing up. He didn’t push it. But right before he walked out the door, he paused. “I trust I won’t be hearing any unpleasant rumors coming from my mother after your visit.” I stared at him for a second, and then I couldn’t help it—I laughed. A short, dry sound. He wanted to come with me to make sure I didn’t tattle on him. He really thought too highly of himself. The tabloids were already having a field day with him and Brianna; Evelyn didn’t need me to tell her anything. Hudson lingered by the staircase for a long time, watching me. Maybe it was just my imagination, but beneath the resentment in his eyes, there was a flicker of hurt. A quiet betrayal. Eventually, he let out a dramatic huff and followed the driver out the door. I shook my head, clearing the thought. I was projecting. Hudson couldn’t stand me. Why would he care if I wasn’t the one driving him to school? An hour later, I was sitting in the sunroom of the main estate. Evelyn walked in, elegantly dressed as always. I looked at her and said the words out loud for the first time. “I want a divorce.” 05 Evelyn Montgomery was the one who had pulled me out of the group home. Years ago, Calvin’s father had died in a horrific accident. The family was drowning in grief, and Evelyn, desperate and grasping at anything that felt like hope, had sponsored my education. She gave me an allowance, paid my college tuition, and treated me with a distant but genuine kindness. I worshipped the ground she walked on. Then came that awful charity gala. Calvin’s drink had been spiked by an overly ambitious social climber. I had simply been in the wrong hallway at the wrong time. He was delirious, burning up, and the next morning, my life was over. Everyone in their circle assumed I was the one who drugged him. They called me a parasite. A gold-digger who bit the hand that fed her. Calvin knew the truth. He knew it wasn’t me. But he never said a single word in my defense. When I found out I was pregnant, Evelyn came to my tiny apartment. She sat on my thrifted sofa and begged me to keep the baby. Calvin and Brianna had gone through a brutal breakup a year prior, and Calvin was spiraling. He refused to marry. He refused to move on. Evelyn saw the child as an anchor for a drowning man. She promised me that if I just had the baby, I could divorce him whenever I wanted. Looking at the woman who had saved me from poverty, watching the tears spill down her cheeks, I said yes. When Hudson was born, I fell in love with him. I couldn’t leave. I rationalized it, telling myself that a loveless marriage in a mansion was better than the freezing nights I had spent in the foster system. I had vastly overestimated my ability to survive without love. Sitting in the sunroom now, Evelyn didn’t yell. She didn’t shame me or beg me to stay. She simply picked up her phone, called the family lawyers, and had them bring out the paperwork. She sat beside me, explaining every clause, ensuring I was protected. She acted more like a mother than a mother-in-law. I hadn’t realized that signing those papers would make me an extraordinarily wealthy woman. When I finally stood up to leave, Evelyn reached out and gently squeezed my hand. “Hermosa,” she said softly. “Thank you.” My throat locked up. Tears threatened to spill. Evelyn had always been good to me. She had kept her distance when we married, giving us space, never interfering. She was a better woman than Calvin deserved. 06 I was barely through my front door when my phone rang. It was Calvin’s executive assistant. He sounded stressed, explaining that because I hadn’t brought lunch, Calvin was refusing to eat. He was terrified Calvin’s ulcer would flare up before his afternoon meetings, and begged me to make something quick and bring it down. My immediate instinct was to say no. But then I thought of Evelyn, and the grace she had just shown me. I sighed. “Fine. I’ll be there in an hour.” When I reached the executive floor, the corridor was quiet. As I approached Calvin’s office, the door was slightly ajar. I could hear him talking to his oldest friend, a guy who ran a tech firm downtown. “So, the rumors are true? You and Brianna are playing house again?” his friend asked, a smirk audible in his voice. I heard the scratch of a fountain pen stop. “Don’t believe everything you read. And if you keep talking out of line, I’ll have your father drag you out of my office.” His friend laughed. “Come on, man. It’s me. If it was fake, your PR team would have killed the story by now. Look, if you’re still hung up on Brianna, just divorce Hermosa. Marry the girl you actually want. Put everybody out of their misery.” “No.” Calvin’s rejection was instantaneous and sharp. There was a long stretch of silence before Calvin continued, his voice lowering. “Brianna has ambitions. She has a career she loves. I can’t tie her down to this life. It would ruin her.” “And Hermosa?” “Hermosa…” Calvin hesitated. “She keeps the house running. She takes good care of me and Hudson.” His friend snorted. “So you’re keeping her around as a highly paid nanny?” Calvin didn’t answer. Standing in the hallway, the polished wooden box containing his carefully prepared lunch suddenly felt incredibly heavy. So that was it. He wouldn’t divorce me because I was convenient. I folded his laundry, managed his diet, and raised his son. Meanwhile, Brianna was a goddess meant for a pedestal. He loved her too much to burden her with the reality of being his wife. And me? What the hell was I to him? I realized then that if you spend your life settling for scraps, people will eventually assume that scraps are all you deserve. I didn’t walk into the office. I turned around, took the elevator down to the lobby, and handed the expensive lunch box to the stunned janitor cleaning the glass doors. That night, Calvin and I barely spoke. But when I went to close my bedroom door, he was standing in the frame, blocking my way. “What is it?” I asked, exhaustion seeping into my bones. Calvin’s jaw ticked. “It’s Friday.” 07 I had completely forgotten. It was our scheduled night. Calvin cultivated an image of a cold, ascetic businessman, but behind closed doors, he was entirely different. He was demanding, possessive, and unrelenting. He claimed he wouldn’t kiss me, but in the dark, when the control slipped, he would fist his hands in my hair, drag my mouth to his, and swallow my breath. He would demand I say his name, over and over, until my voice gave out. But I was leaving him. The thought of letting him touch me made my skin crawl. “Not tonight. I have my period.” I tried to shut the door, but his hand shot out, wrapping around my wrist like a vice. “Your cycle doesn’t start for another week,” he said, his eyes dark and calculating. I hadn’t expected him to keep track. I yanked my arm, trying to break his grip, my temper finally flaring. “It’s early. Is that a crime?” I didn’t care if he believed me or not. I ripped my hand free, stepped inside, and slammed the door in his face, locking it with a sharp click. I heard him stand in the hallway for a long, heavy minute before his footsteps finally retreated. Sometime in the middle of the night, the mattress dipped. Before I could fully wake up, large, burning-hot hands pulled me backward. He buried his face in my hair, his voice a low, stubborn murmur against my ear. “Just because you have your period doesn’t mean we can’t share a bed.” I pushed at his arms, trying to wedge some space between us, but it was like fighting a statue. Eventually, the sheer exhaustion of the day pulled me under, and I let him hold me. When I woke up, the bed was empty. Arthur had already taken Hudson to school. I grabbed my purse and headed downtown to finalize my French visa. On the drive back, a pang of guilt hit me. Should I sit Calvin and Hudson down? Tell them about the divorce properly? They were my family, no matter how broken we were. But the moment I walked through the front door, that guilt evaporated. Calvin, Brianna, and Hudson were sitting in the living room. It was a picture-perfect domestic scene. The moment Hudson saw me, he scrambled off the sofa and threw his arms around Brianna’s neck. “Dad and Brianna came to pick me up from school today! It was the best day ever,” Hudson announced loudly, his eyes darting toward me to ensure I caught every word. “I wish Brianna could pick me up every single day.” 08 Brianna let out a musical laugh, stroking Hudson’s hair with practiced affection. “If you want, sweetie, I can try to make time to come get you.” Calvin remained seated. He met my gaze, offering only a brief, dismissive explanation. “Brianna said she missed Hudson. I brought her over.” I felt remarkably hollow. I didn’t even look at my son. I walked straight up to Calvin. “Do you have a minute? I need to speak with you privately.” Calvin sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as if I were a toddler throwing a tantrum. “Hermosa, really? Are we doing this now?” “Doing what?” “I know you’re threatened by Brianna, but she is a guest in our home, and I expect you to treat her with respect. Whatever you’re upset about, we can discuss it tonight. Brianna mentioned she was craving those sweet and sour ribs you make. Go tell the chef, or better yet, make them yourself.” Brianna immediately pressed a hand to her chest, her eyes wide with mock horror. “Calvin, don’t be awful! Hermosa isn’t the help. We can’t ask her to cook for me. I wouldn’t even know how to turn on an oven.” “It’s fine,” Calvin waved her off dismissively. “She’s not like you. She’s used to doing this kind of stuff.” “Oh. Well, if you don’t mind, Hermosa, that would be wonderful,” Brianna smiled at me. The look in her eyes was a lethal mix of triumph and pity. I took a slow, deep breath. He had given my meticulously prepared lunch to Brianna. Of course he had. Suddenly, I had absolutely nothing left to say to this man. It was embarrassing how long I had tried to make him see me. “I have a headache. If you’re hungry, figure it out yourselves.” I turned and headed for the stairs. Just then, the doorbell rang. It was Calvin’s assistant, looking pale and deeply uncomfortable. He carried a sleek leather folder. He walked into the living room, glancing nervously at me, then at Brianna, before finally handing the folder to Calvin. “Sir, there’s… another document that needs your signature.” “What is it?” Calvin asked, annoyed by the interruption. “It’s… well. It was couriered over by your mother’s office this afternoon. It’s a divorce settlement.” The room went dead silent. Calvin and Hudson both snapped their heads toward me. Even Brianna looked genuinely shocked, her perfectly glossed lips parting in surprise. Calvin flipped open the folder. As his eyes scanned the thick, legal paragraphs, the expensive pen in his hand snapped. Ink bled over his knuckles. He looked up, his voice dangerously quiet, vibrating with barely contained rage. “You want a divorce?”

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The cabin door was seconds from hissing shut when the purser’s white-gloved hand clamped onto my suitcase like a vice, dragging me back toward the jet bridge. “Flight’s overbooked. You’re getting a two-hundred-dollar voucher. Get off, now!” His grip was so tight I thought he’d leave indentations in the leather. Behind him, a woman in a vintage Chanel suit was being ushered toward First Class with the kind of reverent bowing usually reserved for royalty. “I paid full price for this seat,” I said, wrenching my handle away. My heels clicked a sharp, defiant rhythm against the metal floor. “She’s thirty minutes late. Why does she get priority?” The man leaned in, his gold cufflink grazing my cheek as he sneered into my ear. “That is Madeline Sampson, heiress to the Sampson Biotech empire. She’s flying to recruit a world-class specialist to save her life. A nobody like you is a rounding error. If she dies because you took up space, you couldn’t pay the bill in ten lifetimes.” As four security guards grabbed my shoulders, I saw Madeline slide her oversized sunglasses down. On her wrist was a limited-edition emerald prayer strand—the one my mother had left me. Three months ago, her father had practically crawled to my clinic door, offering that very heirloom in exchange for his daughter’s life. As the engines began to roar, I pulled out my phone and blocked the contact labeled ‘Sampson Family.’ If they thought money could buy them a shortcut to the front of the line, they could enjoy the view from the ICU. In this world, some things can’t be fixed with a black card and a sense of entitlement. 1 I dragged my suitcase toward the customer service counter, my blood simmering just below the surface. “I want a refund,” I said, slapping my ID onto the marble. The agent glanced at the screen, gave me a once-over that lingered on my off-brand coat, and rolled her eyes. “Sorry, honey. This is a ‘voluntary’ denial of boarding due to a disturbance. We can only refund the taxes and fees. That’s about sixty bucks. No luck on the fare.” I let out a sharp, jagged laugh. “Voluntary?” “Your airline overbooked. You forcibly removed a paying passenger. How is that on me?” She tapped her keyboard with manicured nails, her face a mask of practiced indifference. “The report says you were disruptive and endangered the safety of the cabin.” “You’re lucky you’re getting the sixty bucks,” she added, her voice dropping to a condescending purr. “Don’t be ungrateful.” Just then, the sound of polished Oxfords echoed through the terminal. The purser from the gate marched over, his phone held up like a weapon, recording me. “Look at this,” he said to the camera, his voice dripping with theatrical disdain. “Another grifter trying to shake down the airline. She’s desperate for a payout.” He crossed his arms, leaning against the counter. “Two hundred wasn’t enough for you? Maybe if I post this, some ‘GoFundMe’ suckers will throw you a few cents out of pity.” I stared at his smug face, forcing my breathing to stay even. “You are going to regret every word that comes out of your mouth today.” He laughed so hard I thought he might choke. “Regret it? From a girl who can’t even afford a business class upgrade? Miss Sampson booked the entire First Class cabin. Her bodyguards are sitting in Premium. Who the hell are you supposed to be?” He spun around, shouting to the crowded terminal. “Hey, everyone! Check out the scammer! She blocked a life-saving flight for a terminal patient because she wanted to extort us for more money! This is what’s wrong with the world!” A few travelers stopped to stare, whispering. “She looks decent, too. What a shame.” “Just take the voucher and go, lady. Stop holding up the line.” “Total trash.” I ignored the gallery. I looked at the agent. “Fine. Give me the refund. But you will write it in black and white on the receipt: Denied boarding due to overbooking.” I wasn’t about to let the Sampsons think I’d intentionally breached our contract. I wouldn’t carry that cross for them. The purser’s face darkened. He slammed his hand on the counter. “In your dreams! You refused our solution. Security! Why are you just standing there? Throw this lunatic out!” The guards grabbed my arms again, more roughly this time. “Let go!” I struggled, but they dragged me toward the sliding glass doors of the exit. As we passed the purser, I looked him dead in the eye. “Remember my face. Remember what you said. Because very soon, you’ll be the one begging.” He didn’t blink. Instead, he kicked my suitcase. The latch, already stressed, snapped open. Clothes, journals, and several vials of amber liquid spilled across the concrete. He stepped forward and ground his heel into the glass vials, crushing them into a fine powder. My heart stopped. That was the stabilizing serum I’d spent months synthesizing for Madeline Sampson. It was the only batch in existence. Without it, she wouldn’t survive the post-op recovery phase. “Oops,” the purser mocked. “My bad.” Cell phone cameras captured my shock, the laughter of the crowd ringing in my ears like a funeral dirge. I was shoved out onto the sidewalk, my broken suitcase tossed onto my lap like trash. “Get lost, loser. If you come back, we’re calling the cops for trespassing.” My phone vibrated violently in my pocket. I answered. “Where the hell are you?” a voice barked. It was the Sampson family’s estate manager, his tone thick with aristocratic arrogance. “The flight took off. I checked the manifest. Your name isn’t on it.” “We spent a fortune to secure your time. We even wired the deposit. And you choose now to play prima donna?” “You think you’re special? You’re a hired hand. If your surgical record wasn’t flawless, you wouldn’t be allowed to breathe the same air as Miss Madeline.” I tried to explain the airline’s “overbooking,” but he cut me off. “Listen to me carefully. Our mistress doesn’t have time for your excuses. If you aren’t in the surgical theater at Mercy General by sunset, the Sampson family will ensure you never practice medicine in this country again. You took our money. Now do your job, or we’ll ruin you.” The line went dead. 2 I felt a cold, sharp clarity settle over me. I dialed back. The manager picked up, sounding even more annoyed. “What now? Figure out how to charter a private jet on your own dime?” “Don’t bother with the jet,” I said, my voice as flat as a heartline. “If you want to know why I missed that flight, ask the purser on Miss Sampson’s plane.” “What is that supposed to mean?” “It means you’re looking for a savior in the wrong place.” I hung up. I opened my banking app, found the three-million-dollar “good faith” deposit the Sampsons had sent, and hit Refund. In the memo line, I typed four words: Find someone else. Good luck. Three million might be life-changing money for most, but it wasn’t enough to buy back my dignity. I blocked every number associated with the family. I looked down at the crushed powder on the pavement—the medicine that was supposed to keep Madeline Sampson’s heart beating. I felt a grim smile touch my lips. Madeline, you’re on your own. I hailed a cab and went straight back to my private practice. I hadn’t even sat down before my desk phone started screaming. It was the Chief of Medicine at the hospital where I held my surgical privileges. “Dr. West! What in God’s name are you doing?” he roared. “The Sampsons just called. They said you started a riot at the airport and tried to physically assault Miss Madeline! They said a purser had to intervene to protect her!” The purser’s lies were traveling fast. To cover up a routine overbooking error, he’d painted me as a violent lunatic. And the Sampsons, in their infinite arrogance, had swallowed it whole without checking a single fact. “Mrs. Sampson Senior is demanding you get on a plane to San Francisco right now to apologize on your knees and start the surgery! If you don’t go, consider your license revoked!” I didn’t argue. I pulled a piece of stationery from my drawer and wrote a single sentence. Then I walked upstairs to his office. Thud. I slapped my resignation on his desk. “You don’t have to fire me. I quit.” The Chief stared at the paper, his mouth agape. “You’re insane. You think quitting protects you from them?” I leaned over his desk, looming over him. “I’m tired, Bill. I think I’ll take a long vacation. If the Sampsons want to try and ‘blacklist’ me, tell them to join the line. I’m done.” I turned and walked out. “Get back here! West!” I didn’t look back. I knew the clock. Madeline’s condition relied entirely on the serum I’d developed. Without it, the flight at thirty thousand feet would put too much pressure on her vascular system. The symptoms should be starting right about… now. 3 I went home, shut the blinds, and slept for the first time in weeks. The next morning, I woke up to a hundred missed calls. One local number kept buzzing. I finally picked up. “Dr. West! Please, you have to come to the airport! Miss Madeline started hemorrhaging mid-flight! She’s in a coma!” It was the purser. I could hear the sheer terror in his voice. “The airline has authorized a private transport for you! Business class, whatever you want! Just get to the terminal!” I leaned back against my headboard. “A private transport? I thought I was ‘trash’ who only deserved to be kicked out?” “Please!” he screamed. “The Sampsons are threatening to sue the airline into the ground. If I lose my job because of you, I’ll kill you! Just get over here!” I hung up and blocked him. Less than thirty minutes later, someone began hammering on my front door. Bang. Bang. Bang. Then, the sharp, acrid scent of paint fumes wafted through the cracks. “West! You hack! Get out here!” I threw the door open. A bucket of red paint had been splashed across my porch, dripping like fresh blood. The purser was there, backed by three airport security guards in full uniform. My neighbors were already peeking out of their windows, whispering and pointing. “Look at him,” the purser shouted to the street. “This is the ‘doctor’ who took a dying girl’s money and then sabotaged her treatment out of spite! He’s a murderer in a white coat!” He was desperate. The Sampsons had clearly pinned the blame on the airline, and he was trying to use me as a human shield to save his career. “You think you can hide? You’re going to that hospital if I have to drag your corpse there!” I was reaching for my phone to call the police when a black Escalade screeched to a halt at the curb. Two men in suits stepped out, shoving the neighbors aside. The Sampson estate manager walked up the path, stepping over the red paint. The purser scurried toward him. “Sir! I found him! He won’t escape this time!” The manager didn’t even look at him. He walked straight up to me and held out a check. He flicked it with his finger. “Six million. Double the original fee. Get in the car, and we forget this ever happened.” I didn’t look at the check. “Not interested.” “Don’t be a fool,” the manager hissed, his voice dropping to a deadly, low vibration. “You think you can win against us? If you won’t walk to that OR, we will carry you. And if you won’t use a scalpel, we have ways of making you reconsider.” He leaned in closer. “I know your father is at the Evergreen Memory Care center. It would be a shame if his funding… vanished. Or if the facility decided he was too ‘difficult’ to keep.” My heart hammered against my ribs. They had targeted my father. “Touch him,” I whispered, “and I promise you, Madeline never wakes up.” “She’s already dying,” the manager sneered. “What have we got to lose? Pack your bags, Doctor. Now. Or your father is on the street by noon.” The security guards moved in, pinning my arms. The purser grinned from the sidelines. “See? Told you. Nobody says no to the Sampsons.” I looked at their smug, ugly faces, and suddenly, I started to laugh. The manager’s brow furrowed. “What’s so funny?” “You’re all so incredibly stupid,” I said, my laughter dying into a cold stare. I looked at the purser. “You think I’m refusing out of spite?” “Even if I go there now, she’s a dead woman walking.” The manager grabbed my collar. “What did you say?”

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The highway drug interdiction point was a gauntlet of flashing blue and red lights against the obsidian sky. A state trooper, hand resting on his holster while his K-9 strained at the leash, tapped rhythmically on my driver’s side window. “Pop the trunk, please.” My hand was already reaching for the release lever when Blake, sitting in the passenger seat, suddenly lunged forward. He grabbed the trooper’s arm with a desperate, white-knuckled grip. “Officer… please… there’s a body in the back! A girl… she’s been butchered!” The dog exploded into a frenzy of barking. Within a heartbeat, a dozen tactical rifles were leveled at my head, the red dots of laser sights dancing across my forehead like blood-spotted flies. Cold sweat drenched my spine instantly. I threw my hands up, palms flat against the roof of the car. “I’m a lead SFX artist for a film crew!” I screamed, my voice cracking. “Those are silicone props for a horror shoot tomorrow! I have the permit paperwork in the glove box!” “Out of the vehicle! Hands behind your head! Now!” the trooper roared. He didn’t wait for my explanation. He wrenched the trunk open. Inside, scattered across a black heavy-duty tarp, were limbs—pale, blood-streaked, and sickeningly realistic. Before I could breathe, Blake collapsed against the side of the car, burying his face in his hands and sobbing hysterically. “Jade… why? That college intern… what did he ever do to you? How could you put his head inside a mold like that?” My scalp went numb. A primal chill crawled up my throat. I looked toward the glove box—the permit and the production logs I’d placed there personally were gone. And the silicone props that should have been light and scentless? They were suddenly heavy, emitting the thick, sweet, unmistakable stench of rotting meat. … “On your knees! Hands behind your head!” My knees slammed into the asphalt, the impact jarring my teeth. Two officers tackled me, pinning my face into the grit of the road. The lead investigator, a man with a face like carved granite, shone a high-intensity flashlight into the trunk. He ripped open one of the bags. The smell hit me then—a metallic, organic rot that made my stomach flip. “It’s a mistake! It’s all a mistake!” I shrieked into the pavement. “I’m Jade Miller! I’m the head of prosthetics for The Crimson Trace! Those are molds! Pigment, silicone, and theatrical stench-agents! They aren’t human!” The investigator didn’t even look at me. He snapped on a pair of latex gloves and used a tactical knife to slit the heavy plastic bag further. He froze. He turned slowly, his eyes boring into mine with a look of pure, unadulterated disgust. “Cuff her. Tight. Get her to the interrogation room. Call the coroner and the homicide unit. Now!” The steel ratcheted shut around my wrists, biting into the bone. I was hauled up, my legs feeling like overcooked noodles. Nearby, Blake was being draped in a shock blanket by a female officer. He was a mess of snot and tears, shaking like a leaf. I stared at him. I had packed those props two hours ago. I’d seen the permits. Blake had only been away from the car for ten minutes at the rest stop while I grabbed coffee. Aside from that, the car had been locked. “Blake! What did you do?!” I screamed, my vision blurring with red rage. “Where are my props? What is in that bag?!” Blake let out a strangled cry and recoiled behind the officer. “Jade… stop it… you’re doing it again. That look you had when you killed him… I saw it. I saw you through the workshop door!” “You’re a liar!” I thrashed against the officers holding me. “Officer, he’s lying! Check my phone! I made the delivery calls!” The lead investigator grabbed me by the collar, forcing me to look at him. “Shut it. Not another word.” He turned to Blake, his voice softening. “You’re safe now, sir. Did you actually witness the murder?” Blake nodded, clutching the officer’s sleeve. “The intern… Casper. Jade has been obsessed with him. Yesterday, after we wrapped, she lured him into the prop storage. I went back to grab my keys and saw her through the gap in the door…” He doubled over, dry-heaving. “She had the saw. There was blood everywhere. Casper’s eyes… they were still open. She was stuffing pieces of him into the molds, saying it was the only way to get the ‘texture’ right for the close-ups.” “I didn’t!” I screamed, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. “That was red wax! Casper went back to the city—check the group chat! My phone is in the car, just look at the logs!” The investigator let out a dry, mirthless laugh. “We’ll check everything. But here’s the thing, lady—no matter how good your ‘silicone’ is, the coroner knows a real human head when he sees one.” A real human head. The words echoed in my skull, hollow and terrifying. There was a body in my car. A real one. In that moment, Blake lowered his head, peeking at me from behind the officer’s shoulder. Just for a flicker of a second, his face transformed. The terror vanished, replaced by a sharp, jagged smirk of pure triumph. The temporary interrogation room at the checkpoint was a concrete box that smelled of stale cigarettes and damp earth. I was bolted into a metal chair, the cuffs already rubbing my wrists raw, blood beginning to seep onto the floor. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the ice flooding my veins. The door creaked open. Detective Burke, a heavy-set man with eyes that had seen too much, walked in. In his hand was my old, cracked smartphone. “Jade Miller,” Burke said, sitting down heavily. “The medical examiner gave us a preliminary. Male, early twenties. Time of death within the last twenty-four hours. Cause of death was a severed carotid. The entry wound is jagged—consistent with a power saw or a serrated blade.” He slammed a crime scene report onto the table. “We didn’t find any permits. But we did find a miniature power saw coated in blood hidden in the spare tire well of your SUV. That’s part of your ‘kit,’ isn’t it?” Sweat soaked through my shirt. “Detective, it was planted! I swear to God, it was planted!” I rattled the cuffs until the chair shook. “That saw has been in the repair bin at the studio for three days! It wasn’t in my car!” “And Casper? You think he’s just missing? Blake is a wreck. He told us everything. We’re checking the rest stop footage now.” Burke lit a cigarette, the smoke curling around his head like a halo. “Actually, don’t bother. The rest stop had a localized power surge last night. The cameras were down. Your husband was never out of sight of the witnesses at the diner. As for Casper, we contacted the production. The AD confirmed Casper ‘took a leave of absence.’” Burke leaned in, his face inches from mine. “The reason he left? He filed a formal complaint. He said you were sexually harassing him, Jade.” I felt like I’d been struck by lightning. “That… that’s impossible…” my voice was a ghost of itself. “I barely spoke to the boy. Everyone on set knows I’m a workaholic. I barely have time for my own husband, let alone an intern!” The door opened again. Blake walked in, flanked by a deputy. He looked devastated, tears streaming down his face. “Jade,” he whispered, standing over me. “Just confess. Maybe they’ll give you life instead of the needle. Please, just tell them the truth.” He reached into his pocket and handed a device to Burke. “Detective, this is our home tablet. It’s synced to her cloud. Look at what she’s been sending him.” Burke took the tablet and turned it toward me. It was a thread on a messaging app. My profile picture. My handle. Jade: Casper, come to the workshop tonight. I need your face for a life-cast. No one else will be there. Casper: It’s late, Ms. Miller. The director said we were wrapped. I’m tired. Jade: Don’t be a brat. You want that recommendation for the studio in LA? Then get your ass down here. If you don’t… you know I can make sure you never work in this industry again. Casper: Please don’t do this… I’m not coming. Jade: You little bitch. You think you can run? If I don’t see you in ten minutes, I’ll hunt you down myself. The timestamp was 9:00 PM last night. The exact time Blake claimed I killed him. I stared at the screen, my blood turning to slush. It looked exactly like my account. But I hadn’t sent those. I hadn’t even thought them. “This is a setup! Detective! This is spoofed! Someone hacked me!” I roared, lunging across the table. “Blake is the only one who knows my passwords! He’s the one! He did this!” Blake stumbled back, sobbing into his hands. “Jade! How can you say that? Your phone was in your pocket all night! Why did you insist I come on this trip today? You wanted to get me out into the mountains to kill me too, didn’t you?” I gritted my teeth, staring at the man I had slept beside for five years. “Let me make a call!” I demanded, my eyes bloodshot. “Call the producer, Sarah Jenkins! She knows about the props! And check my IP logs! You’ll see the messages didn’t come from my device!” Burke let out a cold snort. “Sarah Jenkins? We called her. The studio is sending a representative to identify the remains. Jade, this is a slam dunk. Once the DNA confirms it’s Casper, we don’t even need your confession. You’re going to the Row.” The four hours I spent waiting for the DNA results were the longest of my life. The door opened again. Burke’s face was grimmer than before. Behind him were Blake and a woman in a designer blazer. I recognized her instantly. Taryn Vane, the assistant director. Taryn didn’t wait. She pointed a finger at me, her voice trembling with manufactured rage. “You monster! Casper was a good kid! How could you?” She turned to Burke, handing him a folder. “Detective, this is an official statement from the studio. We fired Jade yesterday. This murder was a personal vendetta. The studio has no record of any ‘silicone prop’ order for today.” I laughed, a sharp, hysterical sound. “Taryn! You liar! You told me yourself yesterday that the investors were coming to the set and I needed to make the ‘victim’ look as real as possible!” Taryn spat on the floor. “Bullshit! We’re a low-budget indie, Jade. We don’t have fifty grand for high-end silicone body doubles. You used the movie as a cover for your sick fantasies!” I froze. No record? The invoices, the purchase orders, the emails—everything I’d spent weeks on. All gone with one sentence from Taryn. Blake stepped up next to Taryn, resting a hand on her shoulder. “Detective, I’m so sorry. Jade… she’s been in a dark place. Gambling debts. Off-shore accounts. I told her to see a shrink, but she wouldn’t listen…” Gambling? Mental illness? The pieces finally clicked. Taryn had been at our house constantly the last month, “discussing the script.” Every time I came home late from the lab, Blake said they were just working. “You two…” I hissed, my voice trembling. “You killed him. You killed Casper and you’re pinning it on me.” Taryn’s face contorted. She lunged at me, hand raised. “You bitch! I’ll kill you myself!” Burke caught her arm. “Easy! This is a police station!” He turned to me and dropped the final report on the table. “Save it, Jade. The DNA is back. It’s Casper Whitlock. And we found your skin cells under his fingernails. Your fingerprints are all over the handle of that saw.” Skin under his nails? My prints on the saw? My head spun. I had never even touched Casper. Blake looked at me, his eyes gleaming with a sickening light. He pretended to pull Taryn into a comforting hug, but over her shoulder, he flashed me the middle finger. His lips moved silently: Rot in hell. Just as Burke reached for the arrest warrant, a commotion erupted in the hallway. The door burst open, and a young officer, pale as a ghost and drenched in sweat, ran in. “Chief! We have a problem! A massive, national-level problem!” Burke roared, “I’m in the middle of an interrogation! Get out!” The officer didn’t move. He leaned in and whispered into Burke’s ear. I watched Burke’s face turn from flush-red to a sickly, ashen gray. He looked at the report, then at me, then at the door. Taryn rolled her eyes. “Detective, just have her sign the papers so we can put this trash away.” “Shut up!” Burke barked, spittle hitting Taryn’s face. She flinched. Blake went still. Burke grabbed his radio, his hands shaking so violently he almost dropped it. “All units! Lockdown! Live ammo! Seal the building! No one leaves this perimeter, do you hear me? No one!” He turned to the room, his voice barely a whisper. “We just verified Casper Whitlock’s real identity.”

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The third year after I took Helena Montgomery back, she cheated again. It was the same man as before. When I ran into them at a bistro downtown, she tried to tell me he was just a client. Then, a second later, she instinctively pulled this “client” behind her, shielding him with a look of sharp, defensive suspicion. I knew that look. She was afraid I’d lose my mind again. She was afraid I’d hurt the person she held closest to her heart. But I didn’t scream. I simply stepped forward, smoothed a stray lock of her hair that had fallen out of place, and spoke in a voice that was eerily calm. “I understand,” I said. “Don’t drink too much. And remember to use protection.” I paused, realizing the advice was probably redundant. I corrected myself with a small, hollow smile. “Actually, don’t worry about it. It doesn’t matter.” I thought I was being incredibly accommodating. Gracious, even. But for some reason, Helena’s face went pale, then darkened with a sudden, inexplicable rage. 1 The restaurant was quiet—the kind of place where conversations are hushed, and the only sounds are the occasional clink of silver against porcelain. The atmosphere was meticulously curated. Nothing but deep red roses at every table. Everyone there was a lover. Or perhaps they were like Helena—putting on a performance of devotion while their secrets sat right across from them. I ignored the storm brewing in her eyes. I gave a polite nod to the man cowering behind her and turned to leave. My friend, who had witnessed the whole thing, caught up to me outside. “How are you not angry, Adrian?” he hissed. Angry? I searched myself for the feeling. It wasn’t there. I had been angry once, years ago. I had raved and wept and burned bridges, and it had cost me everything. I had paid a price so heavy I couldn’t afford to pay it twice. I forced a smile. “There’s nothing to be angry about. She’s just seeing a client.” My friend stared at me, his eyes full of a pity that made my skin crawl. I couldn’t tell him that this was the first lesson Helena had ever taught me: Learn to look at her life and see nothing at all. By the time my dinner meeting ended, Helena’s black SUV was idling at the curb. I looked at the Uber app on my phone—the wait time was twenty minutes—so I didn’t hesitate. I opened the back door and climbed in. Naturally, the passenger seat was occupied. He turned around, offering a smile that was half-shy, half-smug. “Sorry about this, Mr. Sterling. I get terrible motion sickness.” It was Parker Vance. He looked younger than I remembered. “Helena felt sorry for me and insisted I sit up front. It’s nothing more than that. I hope you don’t misunderstand.” Helena slid into the driver’s seat, her voice clipped as she threw a glance into the rearview mirror. “It’s just a seat, Adrian. If it bothers you that much, I’ll make Parker swap with you.” I leaned back against the leather, my tone soft and accommodating. “It’s fine. I understand. I actually have some motion-sickness patches in my bag, Parker. Would you like one? It might make the ride easier on you.” Parker didn’t say a word. Helena went silent, too. The car became a vacuum of sound. Outside, a cold San Francisco rain began to fall, blurring the city lights into streaks of neon. My friend texted me, asking if I’d made it into a car or if he should come pick me up. I kept my head down, typing a reply, failing to notice how hard Helena’s knuckles were turning as she gripped the steering wheel. Finally, just before the downpour turned into a deluge, she lurched the car forward. “Drop Adrian off first,” Parker suggested, his voice light. “His place is closer.” “Fine,” Helena said, her voice overlapping with my “No need.” I blinked, realizing Helena’s patience had reached its limit. I quickly tried to smooth things over. “Actually, it’s getting late and the rain is getting worse. Driving back and forth is such a hassle. Why don’t you both just stay at my place? I’ll text the housekeeper to get the guest suite ready—” Before I could finish, Helena slammed on the brakes. The tires shrieked against the wet asphalt. My forehead caught the back of the passenger seat. Hard. Before the pain could even register, Helena’s voice cut through the air like a blade. “Get out. Now.” I realized then that I had misread the situation again. I had been too accommodating. I shut my mouth, pulled my folding umbrella from my bag, and stepped out into the storm. The umbrella was useless against the wind. Within seconds, I was drenched. Helena sped off, her tires kicking up a massive spray of dirty rainwater that soaked my legs. By the time I wiped my eyes, I couldn’t even see her taillights. I had to swallow my pride and text my friend to come get me. When he arrived, he looked at my shivering, soaked form with pure frustration. “You let her do this to you! You deserve this for being a doormat!” I pulled my lips into a thin, jagged smile. “Thanks for the ride. I know you’re trying to help, but I can’t leave her.” It wasn’t that my heart wouldn’t let me leave. It was the reality of my life that held me in place. 2 I was just stepping out of the shower when Helena returned. She was sitting on the sofa, a cigarette dangling from her fingers. The living room was thick with smoke; she’d clearly been there a while. I froze, a towel halfway to my hair. The scene felt like a haunting echo of three years ago—the night before our first divorce. She had smoked one after another back then, her eyes cold and resolute, before handing me the papers in a cloud of grey haze. I walked over, stiffly, and gently took the cigarette from her lips. “Stop. It’s bad for you.” Helena looked up, her eyes swimming with a complexity I couldn’t decipher. I forced myself to smile. “You don’t have to worry. I didn’t misunderstand anything about you and Parker. You said he’s a client, so he’s a client.” I continued, my voice a practiced melody of understanding. “You already had plans with him. It made sense for him to sit in the front. I was the interloper. I won’t cause a scene, Helena. I won’t bother him.” I was being the perfect husband. The kind of man who didn’t ask questions. Yet, Helena’s expression only grew more grim. Her jaw was set so tight it looked like it might shatter. A spike of panic hit me. I spoke faster, desperate to appease her. “If you want to bring him over, I don’t mind. Truly. If he finds me annoying, I can move out for a few days—” “Enough!” Helena lunged up, grabbing my wrist with a strength that made me wince. Her eyes were bloodshot. “If you’re so goddamn understanding,” she hissed, “then why don’t you just give up the title? Why don’t you stop being my husband entirely?” I gritted my teeth against the pain in my wrist, staring into her eyes. “If I do… will you stop paying for my mother’s medication?” Helena’s eyes widened. I didn’t wait for her to answer. I pressed on, the words tumbling out with a desperate honesty. “If I give up my place in this house, will you keep funding her treatment? Helena, I’ll leave right now. I’ll sign whatever you want, as long as you keep her in that program. Please?” Helena recoiled as if I’d slapped her. She let go of my hand so abruptly she nearly lost her balance. She stared at me, searching my face for a lie, for a joke, for anything other than the cold, hard truth. I wasn’t lying. I would hand Parker Vance my wedding ring on a silver platter if it meant my mother lived another month. Helena let out a sharp, hysterical laugh. “And you say you didn’t misunderstand?” She stepped closer again, taking my hand back, her thumb rubbing the red marks her grip had left on my skin. “Parker is a client, Adrian. I’m not lying.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr. “Don’t get jealous, baby. It’s exhausting. You know I don’t have the patience to coddle you.” I looked down at her hand on mine. I wanted to tell her I wasn’t jealous. I wanted to tell her that jealousy requires love, and I wasn’t sure what I felt for her anymore. But it was a pointless argument. I just nodded. “I know.” 3 After that night, Helena became a ghost of the woman she used to be. Suddenly, she was always home. She left late and returned early. Every morning, she made me walk her to the foyer, and before she stepped out, she would turn back to kiss my forehead. Every evening, she brought me flowers. Sometimes it was pansies, sometimes irises… never the same thing twice. She would kiss the corner of my mouth and whisper, “I missed you today.” But the woman who “missed me” spent her afternoons photographed at the mall with Parker Vance or spotted at a luxury spa in Napa with him. She was playing a part, and so was I. We were both experts at pretending. Then came her mother’s birthday gala. Helena told me she wanted me there by her side. I agreed. When she pulled up to the house to get me that evening, the passenger seat was already taken. Parker smiled at me through the window, his expression devoid of any real apology. “Sorry, Mrs. Montgomery… I just have such a weak stomach.” Was this another test? I smiled back, nodding politely. “It’s no problem. Motion sickness is miserable. I get it.” I reached for the back door handle, but before I could open it, Helena stepped out of the car. She walked around to the passenger side and looked at Parker. “Get out,” she said. Parker’s smile faltered. “Helena, I thought—” “Don’t make me drag you out,” she said, her voice like ice. The tension was thick enough to choke on. I started to say something to diffuse the situation, but Helena didn’t give me the chance. She practically hauled Parker out of the seat. “Either sit in the back or call a cab,” she snapped. She didn’t even look at his face. She held the door open for me, ushering me into the front seat. It was awkward, but I knew better than to defy her in this mood. I sat down and buckled my seatbelt. Parker didn’t call a cab; he sulked in the back. As we drove, Helena handed me a velvet box. “A gift for my mother. Give it to her when we get there.” I murmured a thank you. Before I could say more, Parker leaned forward from the backseat. “It’s an emerald necklace. I helped Helena pick it out. It’s stunning, isn’t it?” I traced the edge of the box and smiled softly. “Yes. It really is.” See? The woman who said she missed me spent her time with him. Her body was always somewhere else. How could I ever believe a word she said? 4 The dinner was small—just family and a few close associates. Helena’s mother, Evelyn, adored Parker. She thought he was charming and vivacious. I knew that during our first divorce, Evelyn had tried everything to set Helena up with him permanently. Helena had refused then. Perhaps she preferred the thrill of the “forbidden.” Tonight was no different. Evelyn ignored me entirely, reaching past me to take Parker’s hands. “I’ve been waiting for you! You naughty boy, you never come to see me. Without you, I don’t have a single soul in this house to talk to.” She pulled Parker to the seat beside her. I was a ghost. I placed the gift on the table. “This is from Helena. Parker helped her choose it.” Evelyn actually looked at me then, surprised. She opened the box, let Parker fasten the emeralds around her neck, and sighed. “You always had the best taste, Parker. Not like some people. Some people have no taste and even less common sense. They’re just… in the way.” A few years ago, that would have stung. I would have walked out. Now, I just stood there, a hollow man with no reaction. Helena frowned. Something felt wrong to her. Ever since that night at the bistro, I had been… too calm. Indifferent. For the first time in years, Helena got drunk at her family home. She couldn’t stop thinking about me standing there in the corner, head bowed, silent. Unfazed by the insults. Unfazed by Parker. Did I really not care? The thought drove her to drink more. Since we couldn’t drive back, we stayed the night at the estate. Parker was given the room right next to ours. It was Evelyn’s doing. A blatant move. So, when Helena pinned me against the bed late that night, her breath smelling of expensive wine, I pushed her away. I straightened her collar and gave her a small, polite smile. “Wait one second.” I walked out of the room and knocked on Parker’s door. Under Parker’s shocked gaze, I led him into our bedroom and closed the door behind him. Then, I took the car keys and drove away from the Montgomery estate. Ten minutes later, my phone buzzed. It was Helena, her voice a low, dangerous hiss. “What the hell are you doing?” I watched the headlights cut through the darkness of the highway. “The last time you were drunk and holding me,” I said quietly, “you called out Parker’s name all night. I assumed tonight would be the same.” Helena screamed into the phone. “I didn’t say his name tonight!” “I know,” I replied, my voice steady. “But in case you did halfway through… I was just looking out for you.” The line went dead. She didn’t call back. 5 The punishment was swift. Helena vanished. Not physically, but she blocked me from her world. She stopped coming home, stopped answering my calls, and began appearing everywhere with Parker. The tabloids were full of them. Helena Montgomery and Parker Vance at the Charity Gala—The Golden Couple. Then: Helena purchases a multi-million dollar sapphire, placing it on Parker’s finger under the spotlight. It looked like a proposal. Then: Fireworks and a kiss at the harbor. The headlines were relentless. It felt like Helena had bought every trending topic on social media just to rub it in my face. But then, in the middle of the marketing blitz, a different kind of story broke. SHOCKING: The Secret Marriage! The Other Man Exposed! A thread went viral, detailing how Helena and I were actually married. It claimed she had divorced me three years ago for Parker, only for us to reconcile, and now she was cheating on me with him again. The internet turned on Parker instantly. He was labeled a homewrecker, a social climber, a “professional third party.” Someone doxxed him. His degree was fake. His certifications were lies. People sent death threats to his apartment. Helena called me immediately. She was surprisingly patient. “Adrian, honey, the things you’re seeing… it’s just business. It’s for the brand. Don’t take it seriously.” Then, the hook. “Be a good boy and delete the posts. Don’t make this difficult for me.” I wasn’t surprised she was blaming me for the leak. She’d done it before. Years ago, when Parker lost a high-profile competition and the internet turned on him, Helena told me I had to take the fall. When I said I couldn’t stop the internet, she had used AI to deepfake compromising photos of me—scandalous, career-ending images—to bury Parker’s bad press under my own. She called him a “client,” but every time he was in trouble, she threw me to the wolves to shield him. “I didn’t post it, Helena,” I said calmly. “I don’t have the password to take it down. Parker is a public figure. Maybe you should check if he’s offended someone else.” Helena didn’t speak. Instead, I heard Parker sobbing in the background. “But… but… Adrian is the only one who hates me! He’s the only one who would want to ruin me!” Hate? I didn’t hate him. I didn’t feel enough for him to hate him. “Parker,” I said into the phone, “you’ve misunderstood. I don’t hate you. I don’t even think about you.” The sobbing got louder. I sighed, looking at my phone. “Helena, just have your PR team deepfake some more photos of me. If I do something ‘worse’ in the public eye, they’ll stop yelling at him. Do what you have to do. I don’t care.” There was a loud crack on the other end, like something breaking. I waited for her next order. But Helena just hung up. I checked my phone an hour later. All the threads about Parker were gone. But there were no new scandals about me either. Even the old news from three years ago had vanished from the search results. It turned out that burying a scandal only required money and power. You didn’t actually have to destroy one person to save another. I smiled a cold, empty smile. I tucked my phone into my bag and walked into my mother’s hospital room. 6 I thought that was the end of it. But then, the real black-market footage of me leaked.

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Every three months, Vicky’s memory would reset. She would loop back to the day she hated me most. She would break my hand, shattering my fingers over and over again to avenge her adopted son. Then, beneath a canopy of fireflies, she would get down on one knee, ask me to marry her, and the clock would reset. I played my part in our tragedy on repeat, endlessly waiting for the day her memory would finally stick. Until I accidentally overheard her talking with her friends. “Vic, how much longer are you going to keep up this act?” a woman’s voice drifted through the heavy mahogany door of the VIP lounge. “What memory reset?” Vicky scoffed, the ice in her voice unmistakable. “Only an idiot like Channing would buy that. Every time, he drops to his knees, begging us to play along, still holding onto this delusional fantasy that we’re actually going to get married.” “You’re due for another ‘amnesia’ episode in three days, right? What is this, round nine?” “Round nine.” Vicky’s low, sophisticated drawl was terrifyingly clear. “Years ago, that cheap street food he brought home gave Tim food poisoning and ruined his eighteenth birthday party. This is his penance.” Through the crack in the door, I saw her reach out, her manicured fingers gently ruffling Tim’s hair. “Nobody messes with my boy.” Hearing that gentle, maternal tone layered over such staggering cruelty, I felt a physical tearing in my chest. All this time. My blind, bleeding devotion had been nothing but a punchline in her elaborate game of revenge. I wiped the wetness from my face, steadying my breathing, and summoned The System in the quiet darkness of my mind. The previous negotiation is void, I thought, my internal voice deadened. In three days, this progression task will fail. Please wipe every memory I have of Vicky. … [Host, are you entirely certain?] The System’s metaphysical voice echoed, thrumming against my temples. Before I could answer, the conversation in the lounge picked up again. “I heard if Channing’s hand gets broken one more time, the nerve damage will be permanent. He’ll never hold a paintbrush again,” someone murmured, their tone edged with hesitation. “Vic… don’t you think he’s been punished enough?” Vicky paused. The ruby liquid in her wine glass stopped swirling. Her lips pressed into a hard, unforgiving line. Beside her, Tim looked down, tracing the face of his custom Patek Philippe watch. “I love the watch you got me for my eighteenth, Mom,” he said softly, his voice carrying that fragile, wounded cadence he had perfected. “A coming-of-age party is just a formality anyway. It doesn’t matter that I didn’t get one…” Every word was designed to sound selfless; every word was soaked in calculated regret. Vicky’s face darkened instantly. She kicked the woman who had spoken right in the shin, her voice cracking like a whip. “Did I ask for your opinion?” She took Tim’s delicate hand in both of hers, cradling it like porcelain. “Even if Channing’s hand is crippled for good, it wouldn’t make up for ruining Tim’s milestone. A guy who slings hash in a food truck thinking he can be some great artist? He’s a stray mutt staring at the moon. Pure delusion.” Her soft, mocking scoff drove a thousand jagged splinters directly into my heart. I remembered the time I lost the national gallery competition. I had been ready to throw my canvases in the dumpster, ready to give up on my dream. It was Vicky who had held me. She had looked into my eyes and called me her wild thistle. She said I was resilient, that no matter how hard the concrete, I would always break through and bloom. But it was all a lie. A beautiful, saccharine lie spun to keep the stray mutt on his leash. A chorus of sycophantic laughter erupted inside the room. “You have to admit though, Channing’s got some talent,” someone chimed in. “If Vic hadn’t paid off the judges before the competition, he actually would have taken first place.” A high-pitched ringing consumed my ears. My fingers began to tremble violently. I had poured my soul into that gallery submission. I had bled onto that canvas, fueled by the most desperate, burning hope. And with a single phone call, Vicky had crushed it to dust. Are the dreams of the poor really that cheap to them? Are we just dirt for them to wipe their designer shoes on? I clenched my fists so hard my nails bit into my palms. My heart felt as though it were being squeezed by a massive, unseen fist. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t pull air into my lungs. The System asked again. [Host, are you certain you wish to erase your memories?] [Previously, you traded ten years of your own lifespan just to extend the mission timer. Are you truly abandoning it now?] A bitter, acidic taste flooded my mouth. A month ago, The System had warned me my time was running out. The penalty for failing the mission was total memory erasure regarding Vicky. I hadn’t wanted to forget her. I hadn’t wanted to lose the ghost of the woman I loved. So, I traded a decade of my life, begging The System on my knees. I begged for days until it finally conceded. And for what? The love I was killing myself to protect was a funhouse mirror. A grotesque prank. It was hilariously pathetic. I closed my eyes, letting the last scalding tears slip down my cheeks into the dark. I’m certain. Just then, the phone in my pocket vibrated frantically. “Channing! It’s your dad. Something’s gone wrong!” 2 End-stage renal disease. The words on the medical chart burned my retinas. I choked back a sob, looking through the glass at my father’s pale, sunken face. For the last few years, I had been so entirely consumed by Vicky—by her moods, her “amnesia,” her needs—that I had completely missed the shadow of death creeping over my father. Guilt and regret hit me like a tidal wave, pulling me under. The tears I thought I had exhausted fell in heavy, relentless drops, crinkling the sterile white paper of his diagnosis. By the time I reached the billing department, my eyes were swollen shut. And when I checked the balance on my banking app—a number I could count on one hand—the floor seemed to drop out from beneath me. The billing clerk sighed, tapping her acrylic nails against the counter, her gaze heavy with judgment. “Is there any way…” I started, gripping my phone, my voice raw with humiliation. “Can I just…” “Channing.” I turned. Vicky was stepping out of the elevator. She strode toward me, breathless, her tailored silk trench coat flowing behind her. “I heard about your dad…” Seeing my red, ruined eyes, she didn’t hesitate. She pulled my freezing, trembling body into her arms. “It’s going to be okay. I’m here.” The warm embrace. The anchoring words. It was always like this. She always appeared like a guardian angel at my most broken, desperate moments. When my food truck was rear-ended, when I couldn’t make rent—she possessed this terrifying, psychic ability to drop from the sky exactly when I needed saving. Growing up without a mother, I had possessed a hollow, aching desperation for a woman’s unconditional warmth. That was why, even after she had my hand broken, the moment she bent down and apologized, I caved. Even when she was cold, when she was cruel, she would inevitably return to nurse me back to health without a single complaint. I chose to forgive her. I chose to fall in love with her. A woman twelve years my senior. The intoxicating comfort of an older, sophisticated woman was like straight bourbon—one sip and I was completely derailed. Drunk enough to lose my entire sense of direction. “Mom!” Tim’s voice sliced through the corridor. Vicky instinctively shoved me away. The physical rejection was a bucket of ice water. I snapped entirely awake. A bitter, self-deprecating smile touched my lips. I had almost let myself sink back into her counterfeit sanctuary. Pathetic. Tim walked up, his eyes darting to the glowing screen of my phone, catching my bank balance. He gasped, his hand flying to his mouth. “Oh my god, Channing, is that all you have left? Is the monthly allowance Mom gives you not enough?” His voice wasn’t a shout, but it carried perfectly down the quiet hospital hall. Heads turned. Nurses and passing patients stopped to stare. In an instant, I was reduced to the wealthy older woman’s kept boy. A sugar baby. The whispers started immediately. Vicky frowned, her brow furrowing slightly, but she made absolutely no effort to correct him. Instead, she leaned in and whispered to me. “He doesn’t mean it like that, Channing… I’ll talk to him at home. You know how sensitive he is. I can’t scold him in public.” Right. To protect his fragile ego, I had to wear the badge of a male escort. But of course. How could a stray mutt ever compare to the precious son she raised? I looked at Vicky. For the first time, there was absolutely no warmth in my eyes. “Give me fifty thousand dollars.” Vicky froze. In all our years together, I had never asked her for a single cent. But if I was going to be publicly branded as her kept man, I might as well get paid for it. More importantly, I needed that money to keep my father breathing. Her eyes darkened, a flash of aristocratic annoyance crossing her features. “Excuse me? What did you just say?” “All those designer clothes and watches you tried to give me over the years, I never took them. Combined, they’re worth a hell of a lot more than fifty grand.” Vicky ground her teeth, her anger simmering just beneath her polished surface. “That is entirely different.” She was right. It was different. When a master tosses a bone to a dog, it’s charity. When the dog demands it, it’s a transgression. Tim stepped forward, gently touching Vicky’s arm. Instantly, the tension drained from her body. She softened, a lioness pacified by her cub. Tim turned to me and smiled. The contempt in his eyes was blindingly bright. “Channing, Mom rushed out of the house. She didn’t bring her black card. But I have five thousand in cash on me. Take it. It’s a start.” He pulled a thick stack of bills from his designer messenger bag and grabbed my hand. But the moment the money hit my palm, he dug his perfectly manicured nails violently into the bruised flesh of my knuckles. I flinched in pain, instinctively jerking my hand back. Tim let out a theatrical, piercing shriek and threw himself backward, crashing hard onto the linoleum floor. The cash rained down around him like green confetti. Tears welled in his eyes as he looked up at me, the picture of victimhood. “Channing… why did you push me? I just wanted to help you. I wasn’t trying to humiliate you.” 3 Vicky’s gaze instantly turned to absolute frost. “Channing. Is this how you behave when you’re begging for money?” I opened my mouth to defend myself, but she threw her hand up, cutting me off. “Don’t even try. I know exactly what you’re going to say. You’re going to say he fell on his own.” I snapped my mouth shut, letting out a dry, hollow laugh. This wasn’t the first time Tim had framed me. And it wasn’t the first time Vicky had chosen to believe him over me. I had been so hopelessly stupid. So blinded by my belief in her love that I couldn’t see the twisted, deeply inappropriate intimacy brewing between the two of them. My face entirely numb, I knelt on the floor and began picking up the life-saving cash, bill by agonizing bill. Suddenly, Vicky’s designer boot stepped squarely onto the back of my hand, pinning it to the floor. She stared down at me, a god looking at an insect. “Apologize to him.” The soft rubber sole of her shoe ground the last remaining fragments of my dignity into the linoleum. I surrendered to the nightmare. “I’m sorry.” But Vicky wasn’t satisfied. “If you’re going to apologize, do it properly.” I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper. I pulled myself up, only to drop both of my knees heavily onto the hard hospital floor. I said it again. “I’m sorry.” I tilted my head up, my eyes dead as I looked at her. “Is that enough?” Her chest heaved. She let out a heavy, dramatic sigh. Feigning exhaustion, she crouched down and began helping me gather the money. “I know the news about your dad is devastating,” she murmured, playing the benevolent savior once more. “But that is no excuse to take your anger out on Tim. Don’t let it happen again.” “It won’t,” I whispered back. Because there is no ‘again.’ Vicky used the cash to pay the immediate deposit and shoved the rest into my jacket pocket. “Take me to see him.” My dad hated Vicky. Despite her immense wealth, my father saw right through her. To him, she was a toxic, controlling woman playing games with his son. He had never once offered her a warm smile. But today, he broke his own rule. He held Vicky’s hand, speaking to her in a weak, raspy voice for a long time. I knew exactly what he was doing. He was entrusting me to her. He was terrified that when he died, I would be left utterly alone in the world. An endless, corrosive sorrow ate at my chest. My throat felt packed with sand. I didn’t have the courage to tell a dying man that the woman holding his hand was a wolf wearing human skin. I didn’t blow up at Vicky. I couldn’t afford to. I needed her money, and I needed her elite connections to secure a kidney donor. That very night, she pulled strings and found a viable match. If the kidney arrived by the next afternoon, my father would live. The next day, I waited. Every nerve in my body thrummed with frantic hope. I waited through the bright morning. I waited through the afternoon. I waited until the sky outside the window bled into a bruised, dusky orange. Vicky never showed up. The organ never arrived. The dying light cast long shadows over my father’s sleeping face, making him look like an illusion that could evaporate at any second. The primal, suffocating terror of losing my only family gripped me by the throat. With violently shaking hands, I dialed her number for the hundredth time. Finally, the call connected. But it wasn’t Vicky. It was one of her friends. Vicky, the woman holding the literal key to my father’s life, had vanished for the entire day because Tim had come down with a “sudden, severe migraine.” She was at her estate, nursing him. While the clock ran out on my father’s kidney. I lost my mind. I sprinted out of the hospital, hailed a cab, and tore through the city toward her sprawling estate. I burst through the front doors, ignoring the sight of the two of them curled up intimately on the master bed. I lunged for the medical cooler abandoned in the corner of the room, grabbing the handle and bolting for the door. I had thirty minutes. Thirty minutes to get this organ to the surgeon before the tissue died. I barely made it out the front door when two of Vicky’s private security guards grabbed me, hauling me forcefully up the sweeping staircase and out onto the estate’s third-story terrace. Tim was standing on the wrong side of the wrought-iron balcony railing, sobbing hysterically. Vicky’s face was a mask of thunder. She grabbed me by the collar of my shirt, violently yanking me toward the ledge. “Look what you did! You barged in, and… and he was terrified you were going to get the wrong idea! Now he’s suicidal!” she screamed. “Tell him you didn’t misunderstand! Fix this!” A manic, hysterical laugh ripped from my throat. “Misunderstand what? That you two play mother and son in public but act like degenerate lovers behind closed doors?” Smack. A vicious backhand whipped across my face, the force of it snapping my head to the side. “What the hell is wrong with you?” Vicky hissed, her voice trembling with absolute rage, her eyes manic. “If he doesn’t step back over that railing right now, you can forget about taking that cooler anywhere. And I’ll personally ensure no surgeon in this state touches your father.” I stared at her, utterly paralyzed. The sheer, immovable cruelty in her eyes was terrifying. She had already let the organ sit for hours just to soothe a headache. I knew, with sickening certainty, that she would let my father die just to prove a point. My dad was waiting. He was dying. I broke. I screamed it out. “I misunderstood! You two are completely innocent! You’re a beautiful, loving family!” A flash of absolute triumph sparked in Tim’s tear-filled eyes. He didn’t step down immediately. He dragged it out, whining and clinging to the railing, wasting another excruciating five minutes before finally letting Vicky pull him to safety. I swallowed the bile and the towering, apocalyptic hatred in my throat, grabbed the cooler, and raced back to the hospital. I ran into the surgical ward, my lungs burning, only to be met by the transplant coordinator. He looked at the time logs and shook his head. The organ was no longer viable. We had missed the window. By exactly the five minutes Tim had spent crying on the balcony. I collapsed against the sterile wall, screaming until my vocal cords tore. I stayed there until a courier arrived, handing me an impeccably wrapped, expensive gift box. 4 My phone buzzed. It was Vicky. “Channing. Tim’s parents were my closest friends. I have to protect him,” her voice was smooth, completely detached from the devastation she had just caused. “The kidney didn’t work out. We’ll just find another one.” I said nothing. I just breathed into the receiver. She sighed, pivoting the conversation seamlessly. “You got the suit, right? Put it on tomorrow night. Meet me at our usual spot. I have something incredibly important to ask you.” And then it clicked. Tomorrow was the three-month mark. The day of her ninth “memory reset.” The day of her ninth proposal. She had killed my father’s chance at survival, and she still wanted to play her sick little game of pretend. But I was done, Vicky. I wasn’t playing anymore. I didn’t want your money. And I sure as hell didn’t want you. The next day, I didn’t show up. The custom-tailored tuxedo went straight into the hospital dumpster. I was at the front desk, arranging to take my father home for hospice care, when Vicky’s friends ambushed me. They physically grabbed my arms, ignoring my protests, and dragged me out to a waiting town car. “Vic has been waiting for hours! What is wrong with you?” one of them hissed. “She’s proposed so many times, maybe this is the time her memory actually stays! You can’t give up now!” When we arrived, the meadow was exactly as it had been eight times before. A sea of glowing, floating fireflies. The first eight times I saw this, I had wept with pure joy. I had believed, with every fiber of my being, that I was Vicky’s ultimate choice. Now I knew I was just her favorite punching bag. The glowing lights in the dark weren’t romantic anymore. They made me physically nauseous. I stood there, totally hollowed out, as Vicky, wearing the exact same white silk gown, recited the exact same vows she had memorized. She opened the velvet box. I raised my hand and slapped it away. The million-dollar diamond went flying into the tall grass. Vicky froze, her perfectly rehearsed expression shattering. “Channing… you… you don’t want to marry me?” I looked at her, my eyes dead. “Drop the act, Vicky—” Before I could finish, one of her friends came sprinting up the hill, staring at her phone in sheer panic. She looked at the screen, then shot a terrified glance at me. Vicky, sensing the script was being ruined, kicked the friend in the leg. “Can’t you see I’m in the middle of something? Whatever it is, handle it and get out!” A cold, reptilian dread coiled in my gut. I lunged forward and snatched the phone from the friend’s hand. My heart stopped beating. The screen was playing a local news livestream. The camera was zoomed in on the roof of the hospital. My father was standing on the ledge. I turned and ran. I scrambled down the embankment, tearing through the brush to the highway, and threw myself in front of a passing cab. In the backseat, my hands shook so violently I dropped my phone twice. I tried calling the home-care nurse who was supposed to be with him, but it went straight to voicemail. Frantic, I started typing furiously in the livestream’s chat. Dad, please get down… Dad, it’s Channing… A second later, I realized how stupid I was. He didn’t have a phone. He couldn’t read the chat. I started tagging the streamer. Please. Tell him I’m coming. Tell him Channing is coming! The streamer, a kid looking for clout, read my comment out loud and let out a cruel laugh. “Oh, you’re the son? Hey everyone, this is the kid! The guy on the ledge is jumping because of his son! Turns out his boy is a high-end gigolo for some rich lady. No wonder the old man is ashamed to be alive!” The blood in my veins turned to ice. My phone vibrated. It was the nurse. “Channing! Oh god, Channing, get here now! Half an hour ago, some kid named Tim showed up. He told your dad that you were selling your body to pay the hospital bills. Your dad… he thinks he ruined your life. He thinks he’s setting you free…” I gripped the phone until the glass cracked beneath my thumb. The hatred inside me was so immense it threatened to rip my chest open. I sprinted the last three blocks to the hospital, shoving past the police barricades. I looked up just in time to hear a stranger in the crowd yell. “Just jump already! Raising a whore for a son, you’re a failure anyway!” And then. Crack. The sound was deafening. Right in front of me, my father hit the pavement. A grotesque halo of crimson bloomed outward. “NO—!” I threw myself onto the concrete, pulling his shattered body into my arms. My tears fell like rain, mixing with the hot, thick blood pooling beneath him. I looked up at the sea of cell phones recording us. I opened my mouth to scream, to beg for a doctor, but my vocal cords snapped. Only a harsh, jagged wheeze came out. Please. Someone. Please save my dad. [Host. The progression timer has expired. Your mission is officially a failure.] The System’s voice chimed, cold and absolute. [Commencing memory wipe protocol regarding the subject: Vicky…] Vicky had fully intended to follow Channing to the hospital, but her phone rang. It was Tim. His head hurt again. She hesitated for a fraction of a second, watching the taillights of Channing’s cab fade into the night. Then, she turned her car around and drove back to the estate. Tim was inconsolable. He clung to her, whining until she finally gave in and laid down beside him, letting him fall asleep against her chest. She slept until noon the next day. When she finally woke up, she checked her phone. The group chat with her friends was active. “Is Vic doing the whole ‘memory reset’ thing again today?” Vicky frowned, her thumb hovering over the screen for a long time. It wasn’t until Tim shifted beside her, murmuring in his sleep, that she finally typed a single letter. “Y.” She got out of bed, went through her morning skincare routine, and exactly like the eight times prior, she made the call to her security detail. The order was simple: find Channing and break his hand. But this time, a strange, suffocating anxiety gripped her ribs. She couldn’t sit still. Two hours later, her head of security called back. “Ms. Vic… Channing is gone.”

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