Category: English

At the annual charity gala, right during the awards ceremony, the host suddenly walked onto the stage leading ten children by the hand. “We have a very special award recipient tonight,” the host announced, her voice carrying clearly through the hushed hall. “A young man who tragically passed away in an accident. But before he closed his eyes, he chose to donate every single one of his organs. It is because of his final gift that these beautiful children are standing beside me tonight.” In the very front row, Viola, the eldest daughter of the Harrington family, scoffed behind her flawlessly applied makeup. “I wonder who was stupid enough to throw away their life just to buy some cheap posthumous fame.” Beside her, our mother, Emily, looked on with a face full of delicate, theatrical pity. “To be torn apart like that… how can his soul ever find rest? His parents must have been absolutely heartless to allow it.” Our father, Chris, patted her hand gently in consolation. He turned to his executive assistant and muttered in a low, ruthless voice, “Find out which family this kid belonged to. Cancel any contracts we have with them immediately. We don’t do business with people who put on these kinds of vulgar public displays.” But the host’s voice rang out again, cutting through the murmurs. “Now, please join me in welcoming the parents of this incredibly generous young man to the stage.” “Mr. Chris Harrington, and his wife, Emily.” … The entire ballroom fell into a suffocating silence. Every eye in the room turned, wide and disbelieving, toward the front row. The host, still wearing her bright, rehearsed smile, urged them forward. “Mr. and Mrs. Harrington, please come up to receive the award. Your boundless love and sacrifice deserve this honor.” As her words settled, the crowd broke into a flurry of hurried whispers. “The Harringtons? I had no idea they possessed that kind of grace.” “Doesn’t Emily practically live at her church? She’s always talking about keeping the body whole for the afterlife. How did she ever bring herself to let her own son’s body be harvested?” The words drifted over, sharp as needles, piercing Emily’s ears. The soft, patronizing pity on her face fractured, piece by piece. Her skin went an ashen grey, and she swayed as if she might faint on the spot. Clutching Chris’s arm with white-knuckled desperation, her voice trembled. “What… what are they talking about?” “My children are alive and well. Why are they cursing my boys?” Viola’s expression hardened. Her eyes swept over the stage like ice, her voice cutting through the ambient noise. “What kind of sick joke is this? No one in the Harrington family has passed away!” Chris stood, his imposing frame radiating a cold, dangerous authority. “I suggest you think very carefully before you speak another word on that stage.” The host took a step back, visibly shaken by the sheer weight of their hostility. With trembling hands, she pulled up the digital records on her tablet, checking the files three, four times. Beads of cold sweat broke out along her hairline. Finally, her voice wavered, barely audible. “Mr. Harrington… Mrs. Harrington… according to the official medical and state records, the donor is indeed… your son.” “Shut your mouth!” Emily shrieked, her eyes instantly brimming with hot, angry tears. “Austin is in Europe! He’s on his graduation trip. He literally sent me photos of his hotel just a few days ago. How dare you—” Viola placed a firm, grounding hand on her mother’s shoulder. “Mom, breathe. Don’t panic.” She turned her fierce, dark gaze back to the host. “I am giving you one last chance to tell the truth.” But Emily, her voice cracking with hysteria, interrupted her. “Viola, call your brother. Call him right now. What if… what if something actually happened?” Viola quickly pulled out her phone and dialed a FaceTime call. Ring. Ring. Ring. One. Two. Three. The hollow tones echoed in the tense space. No one picked up. Beside them, the air seemed to grow heavier, pressing down on their chests. Emily stared at the screen, her lips trembling so violently she couldn’t form words. Even Chris couldn’t remain still; he leaned forward, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. Then, the screen suddenly flashed. A return call. Viola swiped to answer almost before it could ring. “Austin!” The screen lit up, revealing a young man squinting into the camera, his hair a messy, sleep-muddled crown. He rubbed his eyes, clearly just awakened from a deep sleep, and mumbled grumpily, “Viola? Why are you calling me in the middle of the night? Did you seriously forget the time difference?” Emily snatched the phone from Viola’s hand, her voice frantic. “Austin! Sweetheart, are you okay? Are you safe?” “Mom?” Austin blinked, startled, then let out a soft, charming laugh. “I’m having the time of my life here. What could possibly be wrong? I told you guys to stop worrying. I’m a grown man!” Emily’s tears finally spilled over, a chaotic mixture of relief and residual terror. She laughed through her tears, clutching the phone like a lifeline. Chris let out a long, heavy breath, sinking back into the leather of his chair. Viola took the phone back, murmured a few affectionate reminders to her brother, and hung up. Then she turned her gaze back to the stage, her expression completely devoid of warmth. “Are you satisfied now? My brother is perfectly fine.” “The Harringtons will expect a formal, public apology for this disgusting display.” The atmosphere in the ballroom was thick with impending legal threats. Just as the host stood frozen, helpless, one of the older boys on stage—a child of about ten—timidly raised his small hand. “It wasn’t that brother,” he said, his voice small but clear in the quiet room. Every face in the audience turned toward him. The boy bit his lower lip, looking directly at the front row. “My dad showed me a picture of the brother who saved me. His name was Ian.” A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. “Ian? Why does that name sound familiar?” “Wait, isn’t that the boy the Harringtons took in a year ago? The adopted one?” “I heard a rumor… they said Ian and Austin were switched at birth. Ian was the real biological son.” “Are you kidding? If he was their actual blood, why on earth would they treat him like an adopted foster kid?” I drifted quietly right behind them, a formless shadow in the bright, expensive lights of the ballroom. A bitter, phantom smile touched my lips. They weren’t wrong. I was the biological son. Eighteen years ago, Austin’s biological parents had deliberately switched our hospital bassinets, desperate to ensure their own flesh and blood would grow up wrapped in the soft, gilded luxury of the Harrington name. And so, Austin became the golden prince, pampered, adored, and shielded from the harsh realities of the world. While I was sent to live an eighteen-year nightmare. My foster parents were chronic gamblers. Every time they lost at the tables, they came home smelling of cheap whiskey and took their rage out on me. Leather belts, lit cigarettes—whatever was within arm’s reach. My back became a landscape of silver scars, new lacerations constantly blooming over old, tough leather. They didn’t care if I breathed or starved. I learned to survive by digging through the trash cans behind high-end diners, eating the cold scraps of lives I could only dream of. As I grew older, my foster mother’s eyes began to linger on me with a heavy, predatory sickness. It culminated in a suffocating night when she cornered me in my cramped bedroom. Terrified, I grabbed a pair of rusted scissors to defend myself, scratching her arm. They used that scratch to brand me a monster. They claimed I had tried to assault her. They beat me until my ribs splintered, until I was barely drawing breath. It was only because a neighbor heard the sickening thuds and called the police that I survived at all. The subsequent investigation and DNA test finally dragged my true identity into the light. I was returned to the Harringtons. I foolishly believed my long winter was finally over. But the day I arrived, Austin fell to his knees, weeping, declaring that since the rightful heir had returned, he would pack his bags and vanish. My biological parents and Viola rushed to pull him into their arms, whispering sweet reassurances. Then, they looked at me. Their eyes were cold, filled with a subtle, simmering resentment. They said Austin was an innocent victim too. He was just a baby when the switch happened; he shouldn’t have to pay for his parents’ sins. To “protect” Austin from the trauma of being returned to his biological parents, the Harringtons quietly declined to press criminal charges against the abusive couple. Instead, they handed them a massive, multi-million-dollar settlement to legally sever their parental rights forever. And Austin remained in the Harrington mansion, his status untouched. During all those boardroom discussions and quiet family huddles, not a single person asked me how I had survived those eighteen years. I will never forget the cold indifference in my mother’s eyes when she sat me down. “We have raised Austin as our own son for eighteen years,” she had said, her voice smooth and unbothered. “Announcing your true identity to the public would be too damaging to him. It would ruin his life. So, we’ve decided to introduce you to our social circle as an orphan we’ve graciously adopted.” Now, hearing my name spoken aloud in this crowded room, the Harringtons looked utterly blank. Then, a wave of disgust washed over their features. “How could it possibly be him?” Viola sneered, her voice dripping with venom. “He’s the kind of selfish parasite who would abandon his own mother to save himself. He’d never have the guts to die.” I was already dead. But my hollow, weightless soul still felt a sharp, phantom pang in my chest. My mother remained silent for a long moment, her eyes rimming with red before she finally spoke, her voice hard as granite. “I do not have a son named Ian. My only son is Austin.” The crowd erupted into hushed, scandalous whispers. Seeing the confusion and judgment in the room, Viola stood up, a cold, mocking smile on her lips, ready to lay bare my “crimes” to protect their family name. “I see some of you are confused,” Viola said, her voice carrying beautifully across the silent room. “Let me tell you who Ian Harrington really was. A year ago, on Austin’s birthday, Ian threw a childish tantrum. He demanded that our mother cancel all her engagements to take him skiing in Aspen.” “My mother, always wanting to keep the peace, agreed. They went up the mountain. And then, an avalanche hit.” She paused, her eyes darkening with a poisonous hatred. “My mother’s leg was crushed under the snow. She couldn’t move. And Ian?” She let out a harsh, dry laugh. “He didn’t even look back. He ran away, leaving his own mother to freeze to death in the dark.” “If Austin hadn’t rushed up the mountain with a private rescue team he put together himself, my mother wouldn’t be standing here today.” Viola’s voice grew colder, sharper. “In our home, he constantly targeted and harassed Austin, and we tolerated it out of pity. But when a person is so rancid that they would abandon their own mother to save their own skin, and then vanish without a trace to escape the shame—that person is no brother of mine.” The host, swallowing hard, broke the stunned silence. “So… you haven’t seen or heard from Ian since that day?” The Harringtons hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then, Viola scoffed. “He obviously knew he could never show his face in civilized society again. He’s hiding in some miserable corner of the world, running from his guilt.” She added, with raw disgust, “That’s who he is. A coward who runs.” My mother and father didn’t say a word, but the cold finality in their expressions showed they agreed with every word. But the host didn’t back down. “But… have you ever considered that perhaps he wasn’t hiding? What if he died on that mountain?” The silence in the ballroom became absolute, heavy as a tomb. “What if he didn’t run away to save himself?” the host continued, her voice soft but steady. “What if he knew your mother was completely immobilized, and that staying with her meant they would both freeze before help arrived?” “What if he went out into that freezing blizzard, entirely alone, specifically to find help? And what if he met with an accident on the way?” “Miss Harrington, did you or your family ever actually launch an investigation after the incident?” “Shut up! How dare you!” Viola slammed her hand onto the table, her face contorted with rage. Beside her, my mother turned a terrifying shade of white, her chest heaving as she struggled for air, looking as if she might slip into cardiac arrest. Chris quickly wrapped his arm around her, his face dark with fury as he shot a warning, lethal glare at the host. Floating above them, I could only manage a sad, hollow laugh. Even a complete stranger could look at the pieces of that day and put them together. Yet my own flesh and blood refused to see. They preferred to believe I was the monster. They had completely forgotten that the day of the avalanche wasn’t just Austin’s birthday. It was mine, too. It was the only time in my life I had ever gathered the courage to ask them for something, just a single day of their presence. I wanted to feel, just once, what it was like to have a family. When the white wall of snow crashed down on us, burying my mother, I didn’t run. I dug. I clawed at the packed, freezing ice with my bare hands until my fingers lost all feeling, until my fingernails ripped away and my blood stained the white snow. I dragged her out. But she was already unconscious, fading fast. I was eighteen, starving, and weak. I couldn’t carry her down the mountain alone. So I took off my heavy winter coat, my insulated gloves, and wrapped them tightly around her frozen body. Left in nothing but a thin, threadbare sweater, I plunged into the howling wind and blinding snow. I walked for hours. I fell more times than I could count, dragging my frozen limbs through the drifts until, finally, on the verge of total collapse, I stumbled onto a highway and flagged down a state rescue vehicle. I gave them her exact coordinates. They put me in the back of a heated rescue cabin and told me to wait. I sat there, shivering, my heart filled with the quiet hope that I had finally saved my mother. But less than ten minutes later, a massive semi-truck lost control on the black ice. It plowed directly into the parked rescue vehicle. By the time the ambulance got me to the hospital, my brain was dead. In my final moments of life, before they turned off the machines, I used the last of my agency to sign the organ donor forms. I couldn’t keep my life, but I wanted someone else to have the chance to see the spring I would never get to experience. In the ballroom, the guests were exchanging uneasy, suspicious looks. If the host’s theory was true, the Harringtons had committed an unspeakable, tragic cruelty against their own son. Just as Chris and Emily’s certainty began to flicker with a terrifying doubt, Viola let out a sharp, mocking laugh. She stood up, her posture rigid and arrogant, looking down at the stage. “I don’t know what competitor or enemy paid you to pull this pathetic stunt tonight.” “But let me make one thing clear: I have absolute proof that Ian is alive.” Chris and Emily looked up at her, their eyes wide with shock. Viola took a deep breath, turning to her parents, her voice dropping to a softer, reassuring tone. “Mom, Dad… I’m sorry. I kept something from you because I didn’t want to hurt you anymore.” “Shortly after Ian vanished, I received a letter from him.” “In that letter, he admitted he didn’t regret running away to save his own skin. But he knew the family would never forgive him, so he had no intention of ever returning.” Viola’s voice became cold and flat. “He said that since he was still technically a Harrington heir, he wanted a twenty-million-dollar buyout. He promised that once the money was wired to his account, he would sign the official papers to sever all ties and never cross our paths again.” She lowered her eyes. “I wired the money, and I kept the letter a secret. I just wanted to spare you both the pain of knowing how rotten he truly was.” Emily’s eyes instantly filled with tears of betrayal and rage. Chris’s face contorted with a quiet, dangerous fury. He clenched his fists, his voice shaking as the words forced their way through his teeth. “Unbridled, parasitic trash. We should have left him in the gutter where we found him!” Hearing Viola’s explanation, the whispers in the ballroom shifted back. The pity evaporated, replaced by disgust. “What a sociopathic leech!” “The Harringtons pulled him out of poverty, and he extorts them for twenty million?” “Some people are just born rotten.” The hateful words rained down on my memory like hot ash. But before the slander could settle, the little boy on stage spoke up again, his voice trembling with a fierce, stubborn courage. “You’re lying! Stop saying bad things about Ian!” With tears streaming down his face, he pointed directly to his own bright, clear eyes. “My dad told me! My corneas came from Ian. I can see this room, I can see the lights, because of him!” Then, the other children on stage began to step forward, their voices overlapping in a chorus of defensive pride. “He gave me my kidney!” “I have his liver.” “Ian’s heart is beating inside me right now,” a younger boy said, placing his small palm firmly over his chest. His voice was small, but it carried the weight of absolute truth. “The doctor told me that this heart used to belong to a very, very kind boy who wanted me to live. He wasn’t a monster. He couldn’t be!” I watched them from above, my weightless spirit bathed in a strange, sudden warmth. Because of me, these children were running, laughing, and breathing. They were looking at a world they might have never seen. A soft, glowing peace bloomed in my empty chest. The guests in the ballroom were completely torn now. The children’s desperate testimonies had shattered the narrative. The truth had become a tangled, terrifying labyrinth. Emily gripped her husband’s sleeve, her lips bloodless and shaking. Viola felt a sudden, icy panic clawing at her throat. A suffocating weight pressed down on her chest, a premonition she desperately tried to shake off. She forced herself to maintain her composure, her face hardening into a confident, dismissive smirk. “Fine,” Viola challenged, her voice echoing through the silent hall. “If you are all so certain that Ian is dead… where is his body?” She looked around the room, absolute triumph in her eyes. “He only donated his organs. A body doesn’t just vanish into thin air. Where is it?” The children on stage looked at one another, their faces falling into confusion. They didn’t have an answer. Viola’s smirk widened. “I thought so. There is no body. You’ve all been paid to lie to us!” The silence in the room stretched, tight as a piano wire. At that exact moment, a sharp ping echoed from the host’s phone. She looked down at the screen, and her eyes went wide, her pupils shrinking in absolute horror. Slowly, she raised her head, her hand trembling so violently she nearly dropped the device. “Wait,” the host whispered, her voice cracking. “I… I know where Ian’s body is.”

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Even after eight years of marriage to William, I was still a ghost in his family home, forbidden from sitting at the dining table. It was all because of a promise he had made to his deceased fiancée, Victoria. He had sworn that the seat of the matriarch of the family would eternally belong to her. During his father’s sixtieth birthday gala at the country club, a hurried waiter bumped into me. I stumbled, losing my balance, and landed right in the empty chair that had been meticulously reserved for Victoria. William’s face instantly darkened. He marched over, grabbed my arm with bruising force, and yanked me out of the seat. “How can you be so calculating?” he hissed, his voice low but sharp enough for the surrounding guests to hear. “Deliberately sitting in Victoria’s chair in front of everyone—are you really that desperate to replace her?” “Why are you trying to compete with a dead woman?” his mother added, her eyes cold with disdain. “Check your jealousy, Isabel. It’s pathetic.” His father joined in, calling me shameless and telling me to get out of the venue immediately. I stood there, blinking back tears, trying to ignore the sharp, throbbing pain in my sprained ankle. I opened my mouth to explain, but my eight-year-old son, Toby, cut me off, his little face twisted in embarrassment. “You’re so embarrassing, Mom,” Toby spat, looking at me with pure disgust. “If Victoria were here, she would never stoop to your level. I wish she were my real mother.” That night, William locked me in the windowless basement study. Through the heavy wooden door, I could hear him introducing Victoria’s memory to the guests as his one true wife. Later, I heard Toby telling a family friend that I was nothing more than his nanny. Something inside me went cold. The final ember of my warmth died out. When William finally opened the door the next morning, he looked down at me, his expression a mixture of irritation and cold charity. “You went too far last night,” he said. “Go to Victoria’s grave. Stay there and reflect on what you did.” He thrust a bouquet into my arms. It was yellow chrysanthemums—Victoria’s favorite, but the one flower that triggered my severe pollen allergy. The last time I was near them, I had gone into anaphylactic shock. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I simply looked at him, my voice flat and empty. “William, let’s get a divorce.” 1 William froze. Then, a mocking laugh escaped his lips. “All this because I made you spend one night in the study? You really are made of glass, aren’t you?” He stepped closer, his shadow looming over me. “Victoria and I were betrothed since childhood. She is the only daughter-in-law my parents will ever recognize. Even if you carved your name onto that chair, you couldn’t change that. I’m telling you this for your own good, Isabel. You need to know your place.” I had heard variations of this speech a thousand times over the last eight years. In the past, because of my love for him and my devotion to Toby, I had swallowed every insult. I told myself that the dead deserved respect, and so I let myself be pushed into the shadows. But my silence had only invited more cruelty. This time, I was done retreating. I threw the bouquet of chrysanthemums onto the floor. The yellow petals scattered across the cold hardwood. I looked up and met his eyes. “If she was so irreplaceable, why did you marry me? Why did you have a child with me? Why didn’t you just remain celibate for the rest of your life to honor her?” I asked, my voice rising. “The truth is, your grand, tragic love is a sham. It’s completely worthless.” The air in the room seemed to solidify. William’s face turned an ugly, dangerous shade of red. “Isabel, you are being utterly irrational.” He took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. “I know how much you’ve done for this family over the years. I see it. If you just go to Victoria’s grave, kneel, and apologize, I will finally arrange a proper wedding. We can make our marriage public.” There it was again. That patronizing, charitable tone. When we first spoke of marriage, I knew Victoria was an insurmountable mountain in his parents’ minds. They refused to accept any other woman. So, William and I agreed to a private commitment ceremony, keeping our union a secret until his parents came around. For eight years, I woke up before dawn to prepare three meals a day. I cleaned, I ironed, I managed the household like an unpaid servant, all to prove that I was worthy. But every time I brought up a legal marriage or a public wedding, William had an excuse ready. “I’m too busy with the firm right now. Let’s talk about it later.” “My parents still grieve for Victoria. You’ve only been here a few years—you can’t expect them to change overnight. Just wait.” “Why are you so materialistic? Are you that desperate to show everyone you married into wealth?” So I waited. I waited until the hope in my chest dried up and turned to dust. And now, when I no longer cared, he was offering it to me like a treat thrown to a dog. “I don’t want a wedding,” I said, my throat tight, the first waves of the allergy beginning to make my eyes itch. “Just give me the divorce. I’ll have the paperwork ready.” Without waiting for his response, I brushed past him and walked out. But as I hurried down the hallway, the itching in my eyes grew unbearable. Red, angry hives began to bloom across my arms, itching fiercely. The pollen from the chrysanthemums had already done its work. I rushed into the living room and grabbed the medical kit from the shelf, desperately searching for my antihistamines. Just as I managed to pop the blister pack, a violent force shoved me from behind. I crashed onto the floor, my temple striking the sharp edge of the coffee table. A blinding pain shot through my skull. I looked up, clutching my bleeding forehead, and saw Toby standing over me. His small face was twisted in disgust. “Are you blind?” Toby yelled, pointing at the table. “You put that stupid medical kit right on top of Victoria’s handkerchief!” “You’re so clumsy and malicious. How did someone like you give birth to me? It’s humiliating.” Dizzy and shivering, I looked down. Beneath the plastic box was a small yellow silk handkerchief. It was Victoria’s. William had given it to Toby as a keepsake, and Toby treated it like holy relic, forbidding anyone—especially me—from touching it. My eyes were swelling shut, and my vision was tunneling. I could barely see the pills in my hand, let alone a tiny handkerchief on a cluttered table. But Toby didn’t care about my pain. He carefully picked up the handkerchief, blew the nonexistent dust off it, and then snatched the packet of allergy pills from my trembling fingers. “Victoria is gone, and you still try to ruin everything she left behind,” the boy said coldly. “You need to learn a lesson.” With a vicious flick of his wrist, he threw my medication out the open window, deep into the thick, thorny hydrangea bushes below. “No…” I gasped, curling into a ball on the floor, my fingers desperately clawing at my burning, itching skin. Toby didn’t even look back as he strolled out of the room. 2 Watching his small, retreating back, a tear slipped down my cheek, hot against my swollen skin. Toby hadn’t always hated me. When he was two, he was a deeply insecure child. He cried whenever anyone else tried to hold him. Once, when William tried to pick him up, Toby had scratched his father’s face until it bled. Back then, I was his entire world. He wouldn’t let anyone hurt me. On our fifth anniversary, William stood me up to go to an auction to buy a rare collection of sketches Victoria had loved. Toby had gone on a hunger strike for an entire week, demanding his father apologize to me. But William’s parents blamed me for “corrupting” the boy. They forcibly took Toby away to their estate and barred me from seeing him. I knelt outside their iron gates for three days and three nights in the rain. Finally, they relented, allowing me to visit Toby once a month, for no more than ten minutes at a time. Over those isolated years, Toby’s love for me faded, replaced by a carefully manufactured devotion to a woman he had never met. The anaphylactic reaction was peaking. My throat felt as though it were closing, and my consciousness began to slip away. Through the haze, a muffled, frantic voice echoed in my ears. “Isabel!” Before darkness took me, I saw a flash of sheer terror on William’s face. When I opened my eyes, the stark white ceiling of a hospital room came into focus. The room was empty, but the door was slightly ajar. From the hallway, familiar voices drifted in, their words sharp and clear. “If she wants a divorce, let her leave,” my mother-in-law said, her voice dripping with contempt. “It’s not like your marriage certificate is real anyway. She can’t touch a single penny of our estate.” My heart stopped. “She’s just throwing a tantrum to force your hand for a wedding,” she continued. “Delusional girl. A charity case from the slums thinks she deserves to carry our family name?” William’s father chimed in, patting his son on the shoulder. “I’ve seen her type a thousand times. She’s social climber. We tested her for eight years, and she still couldn’t control her greed. You should have thrown her out long ago.” William was silent for a long moment. “I know,” he said quietly. “You don’t need to worry about this. I’ll handle her.” It felt as though a bolt of lightning had struck my chest. The blood in my veins turned to ice. For eight years, I had worked myself to the bone for this family. I had believed that even if his parents despised me, William’s love for me was real. But it was all a lie. Our marriage wasn’t even legal. He had exploited my body, my heart, and my labor for nearly a decade, and I had absolutely nothing to show for it. Rage, pure and hot, surged through me. I pulled the IV line from my hand, swung my legs out of bed, and threw the door open. “How could you do this to me?” I demanded, my voice trembling with a mixture of fury and betrayal. The three of them jumped, their faces turning pale and awkward. William’s eyes flickered with a brief flash of guilt before hardening into his usual mask of irritation. “Why are you out of bed? Were you eavesdropping? Is that how you behave now?” I let out a harsh, bitter laugh. “Are you angry because I finally know the truth?” “Ten years, William. We knew each other for ten years. We lived together for eight. I never even asked you for a ring. How could you play with my life like this? What did I ever do to deserve this?” William frowned, his voice dropping into a cold, defensive tone. “You brought this on yourself. When we were supposed to get married, you made a scene. My parents were worried that if we registered the marriage immediately, you would become arrogant and tarnish our family’s reputation. It was a precaution.” His words dragged me back to my twenty-first birthday. William had promised me a beautiful birthday dinner. But when I arrived at the venue, the party had been transformed into a somber memorial service for Victoria. The balloons I had spent hours picking out were popped. The banner wishing me a happy birthday was shredded in the corner. My cake had been tossed into the trash. His parents had screamed at me: “You haven’t even married into this family and you’re already trying to assert dominance? Today is Victoria’s death anniversary! How dare you celebrate your birthday on this day?” “Kneel and apologize to Victoria, or you will never enter our doors!” I had never felt so humiliated. I broke up with William on the spot. But he pursued me relentlessly for six months, begging for forgiveness, promising he would protect me. Foolishly, I believed him. I agreed to a private ceremony, thinking he was standing by my side against his parents. Now I realized the chase hadn’t been about love. It had been about control. It was a punishment. “If you had just apologized to Victoria back then, none of this would have happened,” William said, looking down his nose at me. “You publicly embarrassed my parents. This was your consequence.” “But now that you know, we can put it behind us. Once you’re discharged, we will go and register the marriage properly.” Slap. My hand struck his cheek before he could finish the sentence. The sound echoed down the sterile hallway. “You disgust me,” I whispered. “I will never sign a single piece of paper with you. We are finished.” William’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening. “Are you serious? If you walk away, you will never get custody of Toby.” I looked him dead in the eye, my voice devoid of emotion. “A child who doesn’t love me? You can keep him.” Without another word, I turned and walked toward the exit. I took a cab back to the house to pack. Behind me, the sound of hurried footsteps followed. William had chased me all the way from the hospital. Ignoring him, I unlocked the front door and stepped inside. But as I reached the living room, I froze. A young woman was sitting gracefully on the sofa, sipping tea. When she saw me, she offered a sweet, practiced smile. “Hello,” she said softly. “I’m Victoria. William’s fiancée.” 3 William pushed past me, his eyes wide, his entire body trembling as he stared at the woman on the couch. “Victoria… is it really you?” Victoria’s eyes welled with tears. Before she could speak, Toby ran out from the kitchen, throwing his arms around her waist. “Yes, Dad! Victoria isn’t dead! She’s back!” Toby looked at me, his eyes flashing with triumph. “She’s even prettier than her pictures. No wonder you don’t love Mom. I wouldn’t either if I had Victoria.” My hands clenched into fists, the nails biting into my palms. My heart felt as though it were being slowly torn to pieces. Victoria looked up at me, her gaze lingering on my faded clothes. “And this is…?” William cleared his throat, his eyes darting away from mine. “Just… someone who helped take care of the house. To keep things running.” He paused, casting a quick glance at me to gauge my reaction. When I remained silent, he let out a subtle sigh of relief. Victoria let out a soft gasp of feigned realization. “Oh, I see. I honestly thought she was the housekeeper.” The words felt like physical blows. Victoria’s skin was flawless, her long dark hair falling like silk over her shoulders. She looked like a painting. I, on the other hand, was three years younger than her, but years of sleepless nights, endless chores, and emotional neglect had left my skin dull and my eyes hollow. Standing next to her, I looked like a servant. No wonder his family always said I couldn’t compare to a single hair on her head. Victoria looked at me with a flicker of smug satisfaction before turning back to William, her expression melting into delicate sorrow. “I’m so sorry, William. I didn’t mean to disrupt your life,” she whispered, a tear slipping down her cheek. “I just wanted to see you. After the traffickers took me all those years ago, I managed to escape, but the trauma caused me to lose my memory. I lived in a remote mountain village, completely lost. As soon as my memories returned, I ran to find you… I didn’t know you had moved on.” William’s face filled with a deep, consuming tenderness. He reached out, gently wiping her tears away. “It doesn’t matter,” he murmured. “As long as you’re back, the place of the mistress of this house is yours. It always has been.” Victoria blinked in surprise. “But… what about her?” William hesitated, but before he could speak, I stepped forward. “We aren’t married,” I said, my voice steady. “He is single. You don’t need to worry about me.” William looked at me, stunned by my coldness. I ignored him, walked upstairs, and began packing my suitcase. Thirty minutes later, I dragged my bag down the stairs, only to find Victoria standing at the landing, blocking my path. The sweet, victimized look was gone, replaced by a cold, mocking sneer. “You’re smarter than I thought, knowing when you’ve lost,” she whispered. “But I still don’t like the fact that you lived in my house for eight years, sleeping in my bed. That belonged to me. I think you owe me some interest.” Before I could react, she reached over to the hallway table, grabbed a heavy crystal vase, and threw it onto the hardwood floor. It shattered into a hundred jagged pieces. Then, she fell to her knees, clutching her head, screaming in terror. “No! Please, don’t hurt me! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” she wailed, shrinking into the corner. “Please don’t hit me! I’m scared!” Within seconds, a hand grabbed my shoulder and shoved me violently against the wall. William rushed past me, throwing his arms around Victoria. “Victoria! I’m here, I’m here. You’re safe.” Victoria sobbed hysterically, burying her face in his chest. “William, she… she hates me. She thinks I’m stealing you away. She knew about my trauma, she knew the sound of breaking glass triggers my memories of the traffickers… she threw the vase on purpose to torture me!” I straightened up, rubbing my bruised shoulder. “I didn’t touch it. Check the security cameras if you don’t believe me.” Crack. Before I could finish, William’s hand struck my face, sending me sprawling onto the floor. He lunged forward, his hands wrapping around my neck, his eyes wild with rage. “You monstrous woman! Victoria barely survived that hell, and you dare to torment her? Do you think I won’t kill you?” Toby ran over, kicking my leg with all his might. “Bad woman! You don’t deserve to be my mother! Go away and die!” Looking at the two of them—the father and the son I had loved with every fiber of my being—I felt the last shred of my pain dissolve into numbness. In eight years, they had never once defended me like this. I used to tell myself they were just emotionally detached, that it was their nature. But they weren’t cold. They were capable of fierce, protective love. They just didn’t love me. From the corner of the room, Victoria watched me, a tiny, triumphant smile playing on her lips. I took a deep, steady breath, looking directly into William’s furious eyes. “Go ahead then. Kill me,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “But if you do, you’ll never find out who Victoria really is.”

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On my daughter’s very first day of preschool, I received three friend requests on social media. All of them were from the same person. As soon as I accepted the request, she sent me a short video of my daughter, Abby, sitting quietly in the classroom during circle time. Immediately after, another message popped up. “Abby’s mom, is your daughter a Down syndrome kid?” Pressing down the sudden knot of discomfort in my chest, I typed back a calm, measured reply: “My daughter is perfectly healthy. She does not have Down syndrome.” I thought a clear explanation would put an end to it, but my phone kept buzzing with incoming notifications. Deciding I didn’t have the energy for this, I flipped the switch to silent. A second later, the screen lit up with an incoming call from an unknown number. “Abby’s mom, look, I get it,” a woman’s voice said the moment I answered. She sounded rushed, condescending, and entirely devoid of empathy. “Denial is a stage. But we have to face reality here, don’t we? Your daughter just sits there like a statue. She doesn’t talk. If she’s not a Downie, what else could she be?” “Excuse me—” “Preschool is a social environment,” she interrupted, her voice rising. “A kid in her condition needs to be transferred immediately. Otherwise, my son has to sit next to her every day, and honestly, I’m worried she’s going to hold him back. I don’t want him getting dumber just by association.” … Any trace of sleepiness I had left vanished, replaced by a cold, burning disbelief. I had seen people on the internet diagnose strangers’ children with all kinds of conditions based on a single photo, but I never expected that kind of reckless cruelty to knock on my own door. But because this woman was the parent of one of Abby’s classmates, and our paths were bound to cross again, I swallowed my anger and forced myself to speak politely. “Chelsea, let me make this incredibly clear to you. My daughter is healthy. She does not have Down syndrome.” “I don’t care whether you want to admit it or not!” Chelsea snapped, her impatience boiling over. “The proof is right there in the video. You can lie to yourself, but you can’t lie to the rest of us.” “She doesn’t—” “You can’t just hide your kid’s illness just so she can get into an elite academy. You’re putting every other child in that classroom at risk. It’s incredibly selfish!” “Children with Down syndrome have distinct physical features,” I said, trying to inject some actual medical facts into her hysteria. “My Abby—” “I don’t have time for a science lesson!” Chelsea sneered. “Here is your ultimatum: you have three days to pull your daughter out of this school. If she’s still there by Friday, I’m going straight to the director. I’ll make sure every single parent in the district knows your kid is defective. By then, you won’t have a choice but to leave.” The last thread of my patience snapped. “Listen to me,” I said, my voice dropping an octave. “My daughter’s enrollment is fully compliant with every standard of this school. She is not transferring. And if you refer to my daughter that way again, I will not be this nice about it.” I hung up and immediately blocked her number. I lay back down in bed, but my heart was hammering against my ribs, making sleep impossible. This academy—the most prestigious, exclusive preschool in the city—was actually founded and owned by my husband, Dan. People with immense wealth and influence spent years on the waiting list just to get their children through the front gates. With a single phone call to Dan, I could have Chelsea’s son expelled before lunch. She wouldn’t even be given the chance to argue. But as I stared at the ceiling, the anger slowly began to cool into a familiar, quiet ache. The sins of the parents shouldn’t be visited upon the children. Her son was innocent in this. I decided to hold my breath, letting the matter rest for the moment, hoping she would simply drop it. The next morning, I gently smoothed back Abby’s hair, looking into her bright, trusting eyes. “Abby, sweetie, if anyone at school says mean things to you, or if anyone makes you feel scared or sad, I want you to call Mommy right away. Okay? No matter what time it is.” Abby nodded, her lips curving into a sweet, gap-toothed smile. “I know, Mommy! I promise!” After watching her walk through the double glass doors of the school, I stood by the gates for a long time, unable to shake the heavy, cold stone settling in my gut. I pulled out my phone and sent a quick text to her primary teacher, asking her to keep an extra eye on Abby today. An hour passed. Then two. Three. No reply. I tried to soothe my rising anxiety. She’s a new teacher, I told myself. She has thirty children to manage. She doesn’t have time to look at her phone. But when lunchtime arrived, the class group chat began to light up. The teacher was posting photos and short videos of the children eating lunch, laughing, and showing off their bento boxes. I scrolled through the media stream. One photo. Ten photos. Twenty. I went through them again, slower this time. Abby wasn’t in a single one of them. My stomach plummeted. I opened the group chat and typed out a message: “Mrs. Jenkins, how is Abby doing today? I didn’t see her in any of the lunch photos.” Not even thirty seconds later, Mrs. Jenkins replied directly in the group chat for all the parents to see. “Abby’s mom, there are thirty-two children in this class. I cannot spend my entire day taking photos of your daughter. Please stop being so high-maintenance.” Before I could even process the humiliation of the public rebuke, she fired off another message. “Once you drop your child off, you need to let go. If parents are going to text us constantly, we won’t have time to actually teach.” The irritation in her digital tone was unmistakable. Within minutes, the other parents in the chat began to pile on. “Exactly. Teachers are busy enough as it is. They aren’t private nannies.” “Maybe you should ask yourself why all the other kids are sitting nicely at the table while your daughter isn’t in the photos. She’s probably running around refusing to listen.” The mockery felt like physical blows. My fingers shook so hard I could barely hold the screen. Ignoring the chat, I dialed Mrs. Jenkins’ number directly. It rang twice before she cut the call. I opened our private chat to send her a message, but when I pressed send, a red exclamation mark appeared next to my text. She had blocked me. Chelsea’s vicious words from the night before echoed in my mind, sending a wave of pure, instinctual panic through my veins. I didn’t think. I grabbed my car keys, ran out the door, and drove toward the school. The fifteen-minute drive felt like a slow-motion descent into a nightmare. My mind was flooded with images of Abby—small, quiet, and utterly defenseless. When I finally burst through the front doors of the school, the first person I saw was Mrs. Jenkins. The moment she saw me, her eyes rolled back so hard I thought they might stick. “Oh, Abby’s mom. Thank God you’re here.” “Where is my daughter?” I demanded, my voice tight. “Your daughter has been a complete nightmare today,” Mrs. Jenkins said, crossing her arms. “She refuses to follow instructions, she runs off, and she completely disregards classroom rules. Just now, while the other children were napping, she snuck out of the room. We’ve been looking everywhere for her.” She let out a dramatic sigh. “Since you’re here, you might as well take her home. This academy simply isn’t equipped to handle difficult children.” I didn’t believe a single word coming out of her mouth. Abby was a gentle, deeply observant child. She never ran off. She never disobeyed. “If I do not see my daughter in the next three minutes,” I said, my voice deadly quiet, “you will find out exactly what the consequences are.” A couple of other teachers from the neighboring classrooms wandered over, hearing the tension. They looked at me with open disdain. “Oh, you’re the helicopter mom who threw a tantrum in the group chat over a photo, aren’t you?” one of them sneered. “Like mother, like daughter,” the other chimed in. “No wonder the girl is so undisciplined. It’s clearly genetic.” “We really don’t think this school is the right fit for your family,” the first one continued. “Find your kid and take her home. You’re disrupting the educational environment for the normal children.” The sheer, distorted arrogance of these women made my blood boil. “Blocking a parent, ignoring safety inquiries, and publicly humiliating a child—is this the standard of professionalism you pride yourselves on?” I spat. “You do not have the authority to expel my daughter. And if anything has happened to her, I will dismantle your careers piece by piece.” I didn’t waste another second. I pushed past them, running down the hallway toward the classrooms. I threw open doors, my voice growing hoarse as I called out her name, but every room was empty, quiet during naptime. And then, I heard it. A tiny, muffled sob coming from the girls’ restroom at the very end of the hall. Abby. My chest tightened so hard I couldn’t breathe. I broke into a sprint, threw open the heavy restroom door, and the sight before me made the blood in my veins turn to ice. Abby was curled into a tight ball in the corner of the tiled floor, her small frame shaking violently. Chelsea was standing over her, hands planted firmly on her hips. Beside her, several young children—including Chelsea’s son, Mason—were taking turns shoving Abby’s shoulders. “Freak! Retard!” the children chanted, encouraged by Chelsea’s presence. “Don’t touch her! You’ll catch the dumbness! It’s contagious!” “Special needs kids belong in a hospital, not our school!” When Chelsea saw me stand in the doorway, she didn’t flinch. Instead, she lifted her chin, her face twisting into a triumphant, ugly smirk. “Abby’s mom. Excellent timing. I wanted you to see firsthand just how unwelcome your daughter is here.” A primal rage took over. I rushed forward and shoved Chelsea back with all my strength. “How dare you?” I screamed, my voice shaking with fury. “How dare you spread lies about my child and teach these kids to abuse her? I will destroy you for this!” Chelsea let out a sharp, mocking laugh, entirely unfazed. “Today is a lesson she needs to learn,” she said coldly. “If you try to occupy spaces where you don’t belong, this is what happens.” She looked down at her son. “Mason, sweetie, why don’t you show her what happens to liars? Help her understand.” Before I could reach her, Mason lunged forward and threw his weight onto Abby, pinning her to the dirty floor. Abby gasped, her tiny face flushing a deep, painful red under his weight. Yet, when she looked up and saw me, her first instinct wasn’t to cry for herself. “Mommy… I’m sorry,” she whimpered, her voice cracking. “I made you worry.” My heart shattered into a thousand jagged pieces. I lunged to pull Mason off her, but Mrs. Jenkins and two other teachers who had followed me into the restroom grabbed my arms from behind, pinning me back with terrifying force. Chelsea reached down, grabbed Abby by the collar of her shirt, and hauled her up to her feet. “Look at me,” Chelsea ordered, her voice drop-cold. “Say it. Say, ‘I am a Downie. I don’t belong here.’” “Say it, and maybe we’ll let you stay. If you don’t, I’ll have the director kick you out today.” “Let her go!” I screamed, thrashing against the teachers holding me. Their grip was like iron, their faces completely blank, indifferent to the suffering of a four-year-old. Chelsea smiled at my desperation. She reached out and pinched Abby’s cheek, hard, twisting the skin. “Say it! Say it or I’ll tear your little mouth apart!” Abby’s eyes overflowed with tears, but she shook her head, her voice small but fierce. “My mommy says… my mommy says I’m smart. I’m not a freak… I’m not…” Slap. The sound of Chelsea’s palm hitting Abby’s delicate cheek echoed off the bathroom tiles. My vision went red. The pain in my chest was so physical, so violent, it felt like my ribs were snapping. “You touched my daughter!” I shrieked. “I will kill you! I swear to God I will kill you!” Mrs. Jenkins gave me a violent shove backward. My heels slipped on the wet tile, and I crashed heavily onto the floor, my knees taking the brunt of the impact. A sharp, blinding pain shot up my legs, but I couldn’t care about myself. I could only see Abby, sobbing on the floor. Chelsea waved the other children over. “Go on, kids. Help me teach this stubborn little liar a lesson. She’s sick, and she’s going to make you all sick if she stays.” Encouraged by their parents and teachers, the children swarmed Abby, pushing her down every time she tried to stand. She fell, scraped her elbows, climbed back up, and fell again. Through it all, she didn’t scream. She only whispered, over and over: “I’m healthy… I’m not sick…” Chelsea’s patience evaporated. Her face contorted into something demonic. “You really need to be broken, don’t you?” She lunged forward, grabbing Abby by her pigtails, pulling her head back sharply. Abby let out a piercing, agonized shriek. “It hurts! Mommy, help me! It hurts!” I dragged myself forward on my knees, begging. “Stop! Please, stop! Do whatever you want to me, just don’t hurt my baby! Please!” Chelsea ignored me. She used her fingers to pry Abby’s jaw open. “Say it! Say you’re a retard!” Mrs. Jenkins stood by the door, watching the torture with a faint, satisfied smile. “People like you—trash with no money and no status—don’t belong in a place like this anyway,” she said, her voice dripping with disgust. I looked up at her, unable to comprehend the sheer depravity of an educator standing by during a child’s assault. “This… this is why you’re doing this? Because of a tuition slot?” Mrs. Jenkins chuckled. “Your daughter is taking up a seat that belongs to someone who actually matters. She brought this on herself.” Chelsea squeezed Abby’s jaw harder, the child’s face twitching with pain. “Say it! Say you’re defective!” My mind started to slip into darkness. I was suffocating. This was the baby I had cradled, the child I had never once raised a hand against, being systematically brutalized in a school her father owned. “Stop it! This is child abuse! It’s a felony!” I screamed, pulling out my phone. “I’ve already called the police!” Chelsea threw her head back and laughed. “The police? Go ahead and call them. Let’s see who dares to touch me.” Mrs. Jenkins joined in on the laughter. “Do you think the police will help you? Chelsea’s cousin is a Palmer. And the Chief of Police in this city is Rod Palmer!” The name hit me like a physical blow. Because my maiden name was Palmer. And my father… was Chief Rod Palmer. Chelsea looked at my stunned silence and took it for terror. “Terrified now, aren’t you? Let me tell you a little secret—the Chief of Police is my father!” My brain went entirely blank. My father had only one daughter. Me. How could he have another? Before I could process the sickening implication, the distant, wailing scream of police sirens pierced through the quiet afternoon air, growing louder and louder until they stopped right outside. A moment later, the heavy restroom door was pushed open, and a tall, imposing figure in a decorated police uniform stepped inside. My father. Rod Palmer. When his eyes fell on me, he froze. The shock lasted only a fraction of a second before his face hardened into a cold, unfamiliar mask. Chelsea let go of Abby’s hair and practically flew across the room, wrapping her arms tightly around my father’s arm. “Dad! You’re finally here! This crazy woman and her freak kid are bullying Mason! You have to protect us!” My father looked at me, his voice flat, devoid of any warmth. “Stop making a scene, Natalie. Take your child and go home. Stop embarrassing me in public.” My blood ran cold. I couldn’t believe my ears. This was the man who had held me when I was sick, the man who had promised to protect me. He hadn’t even glanced at Abby, who was bleeding from her lip, covered in dirt and bruises. “This school isn’t the right fit for Abby anyway,” my father continued, his tone clinical and commanding. “Transfer her tomorrow. And don’t come back here.” I stumbled backward, a horrifying truth beginning to assemble itself in my mind. Years ago, when my parents divorced, he had insisted my mother had cheated on him, claiming she was a liar who didn’t deserve custody. He had made me hate her. But it had all been a lie. He was the one who had cheated. He had built an entire second family in the shadows. Chelsea was his secret child. Chelsea saw the color drain from my face. She leaned in close, whispering in my ear so only I could hear: “In this world, the one who isn’t loved is the real intruder. Your mother was the whore. Now get the hell out of our lives.” I looked at Abby, who was trembling so hard her teeth were chattering. For my daughter, I could swallow any amount of pride. I could crawl through glass. I bit my lip until I tasted copper, forcing back the tears. “Fine,” I whispered, looking at my father. “I’ll take Abby and we will leave. We will never show our faces to you again. Just let us go.” I thought surrender would buy our safety. But Chelsea’s grin only widened. “You think you can just walk away? It doesn’t work that way, sweetie. Not after the fuss you made.” “Today, your daughter is going to admit she is defective.” I glared at her, my eyes wild. “Don’t push me, Chelsea.” “Oh, please. You’re only defending her because she has a pretty face,” Chelsea said, snapping her fingers toward the hallway. “Bring them in!” Two men dressed in white lab coats, carrying professional medical cases, stepped into the restroom. “These are my private cosmetic surgeons,” Chelsea purred, her eyes dancing with malice. “Since you won’t admit she’s a Downie, we’ll just have to make her look like one.” The surgeons began to open their cases, pulling out surgical instruments. Abby screamed, reaching her dirt-stained hands toward me. “Mommy! Mommy, I’m scared! Don’t let them cut me!” I went completely feral. I threw myself forward, but my father’s personal security detail stepped in, pinning me back down onto the cold tiles. Despair, thick and suffocating, swallowed me whole. I looked up at my father, screaming until my throat bled. “She is your granddaughter! Your own flesh and blood! How can you stand there and let them mutilate her?!” My father turned his head away, staring at the wall, silent. Just as the cold steel of the scalpel hovered inches away from Abby’s terrified face, the heavy restroom door was violently kicked off its hinges, crashing onto the floor with a deafening bang. Two powerful figures stood in the doorway, framed by the bright light of the corridor. “Who dares touch my family!” I looked up, and the tears finally broke.

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When Wright—my childhood sweetheart and secret partner of five years—suddenly announced his wedding to my best friend, I didn’t cry. I didn’t make a scene. I simply signed my military discharge papers, changed my name, and headed down South. I settled in a coastal town and opened a quiet little flower shop. One afternoon, the bell above my door chimed, and an old buddy from my army days walked in. He froze, staring at me in absolute shock. “Charlie? You’re alive? Why the hell didn’t you look for Wright? Do you have any idea what you did to him? He literally ran away from his own wedding looking for you. He’s still single.” I only smiled faintly, letting the simple gold band on my left ring finger catch the light. “But I’m already married.” The moment the words left my mouth, the air in the shop turned freezing. My old friend began gesturing frantically with his eyes, desperately hinting at something behind me. I turned around slowly. Wright was standing near the display of hydrangeas, staring at me with a face twisted in silent fury. But looking at him, I felt nothing but a dull, hollow confusion. For five years, Wright and I had kept our relationship entirely secret. Throughout all that time, he had consistently refused to come home with me to meet my parents. It wasn’t until my mother’s fiftieth birthday that I finally went home alone. But when I walked into her living room, my eyes fell on a thick, cream-colored invitation sitting on the coffee table. Groom: Wright Collins. Bride: Chelsea Davis. My mind went completely blank. Just as my trembling fingers found my phone to call him, his voice drifted in from the front door. “Martha, do me a favor and don’t tell Charlie about the wedding just yet. She’s been attached to my hip since we were kids. If she finds out I’m getting married, she’ll make a massive scene…” He froze mid-sentence when he saw me standing in the living room. The easy smile on his face vanished. My mother, completely oblivious to the sudden drop in temperature, walked out of the kitchen with a warm smile. “Charlie, you’re back! Look, Wright is getting married to Chelsea. By the way, sweetie, when are you finally going to bring that boyfriend of yours home for us to meet?” A bitter, cold laugh bubbled up in my chest. I stared straight at Wright. “He’s dead.” “He died yesterday.” … My mother gasped, dropping her dish towel. “What? So suddenly? But when you got home yesterday, you said his unit was called out on a last-minute deployment, and that’s why he couldn’t make it. He even sent that beautiful birthday gift!” A sharp, familiar ache bloomed in my chest. My mother had known I had a boyfriend for years, but she didn’t know his name. Every holiday, every birthday, she prayed I would bring him home so we could finally make things official. But Wright always refused. He always insisted it wasn’t the right time. To spare my mother the worry and the embarrassment, I bought the gifts myself every year. I spent my own savings, wrote the cards in a generic masculine hand, and pretended they were from the loving boyfriend who was “just too busy with special ops.” Wright never knew about any of this. And he had never cared enough to ask. Now, standing in my mother’s living room, Wright merely raised an eyebrow. While my mother hurried back to the kitchen, shaking her head in grief, he stepped closer to me, his voice dropping to a low whisper. “Chelsea’s dad was severely injured in a training exercise. They’re drowning in medical debt. I wanted to just give her the money, but you know how stubborn she is. She has too much pride to take a handout. This wedding… it’s just a legal formality. It’s the only way I can give her the money as a dowry without crushing her self-respect.” “Don’t speak like that,” he added, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. “If Martha ever finds out about what we were… she’d be devastated.” “She won’t find out,” I said quietly. She would never know. Not about the late nights, the stolen kisses behind the barracks, or the five years I had spent building a future in my head with a man who was now standing in her house, planning to marry someone else. A complicated emotion flickered in Wright’s eyes. “Suit yourself. But Chelsea and I are getting married next week. She wants everything to be perfect, and since you’re her best friend, I know you’ll help her out. Right?” He looked at me with that same easy, charming smile he always used. As if we hadn’t spent the last five years tangled in each other’s arms. As if he hadn’t held me close in the dark after lights-out, whispering breathless promises of forever into my collarbone. “Charlie! Wright!” Chelsea’s bright voice echoed from the porch. She walked in, looking radiant and completely untroubled, and immediately slipped her arm through mine. “My mom cooked a massive dinner with all our favorite dishes. She sent me over to make sure you guys come over to eat with us!” Our families had lived next door to each other for decades. We grew up sharing barbecues, Thanksgiving dinners, and scraped knees. To me, Chelsea wasn’t just a friend; she was the sister I never had. Looking at her now, her eyes seemed as bright and innocent as ever. But if I looked close enough, I could see the faint, guarded tremor of guilt lurking beneath the surface. “You knew I loved him,” I whispered, leaning in just enough so my mother wouldn’t hear. My voice was a fragile, trembling thread. “You knew he was the boy I cried over, the boyfriend I couldn’t talk about openly. Chelsea, how could you do this to me?” The night before we shipped out for basic training, she had stayed over at my house. She’d found my journal tucked under my mattress and read my secret, messy confessions about Wright. She had rolled around on my bed, laughing hysterically, before teasing me. “If you love him so much, why don’t you just tell him, you coward? If you’re too scared, I’ll do it for you! When you guys finally get married, I expect to be at the head table!” But now, there was no laughter. Her beautiful eyes held no remorse, only a calculated softness. She bit her lower lip and whispered back, “Charlie, I love him. And he chose me. When you guys were together, I truly wished the best for you. But things changed. I’m the one marrying him now. You’re my sister-in-arms and my best friend. I know you’ll find it in your heart to be happy for us.” The sheer absurdity of her words washed over me, closely followed by a wave of crushing, suffocating betrayal. It felt like the ground had been pulled out from under my feet, leaving me free-falling into a cold, dark void. My eyes burned, and my limbs felt heavy, drained of all strength. Sensing the sudden tension, my mother stepped in, gently placing a hand on my shoulder. “You know what, Chelsea? Charlie is actually feeling a bit under the weather from her trip. We won’t keep you two. Let’s save the big family dinner for my actual birthday next week.” Wright gave me a long, unreadable look. Without another word, he took Chelsea’s hand and led her out the door. Once the door clicked shut, my mother turned to me, her eyes brimming with maternal worry, still believing my fake boyfriend had tragically died. “Oh, sweetheart,” she murmured, wrapping her arms around me. “You’re so young, and you have so much life ahead of you. If he couldn’t stay to marry you, then it was his loss. I promise you, the right man is out there.” Looking at her kind, anxious face, I managed to force a tight, painful smile. “I know, Mom. I’m okay. I’m just really tired from the drive. I think I’m going to lie down.” I dragged my suitcase into my old bedroom and shut the door. On the wall opposite my bed hung a framed piece of hand-drawn calligraphy. It was a quote Wright had penned for me: Meet Me at the Summit. During my first year in the special ops training program, the grueling physical demand had nearly broken me. I had cried myself to sleep, ready to pack my bags and quit a thousand times. Wright, who hated writing more than anything, had stayed up all night drafting a comprehensive, step-by-step training manual tailored just for me. “If you read this and still fail your physicals, don’t bother coming back to me, Charlie,” he’d told me, his voice gruff but his eyes warm. “I have a reputation as an instructor to uphold.” Along with the manual, he’d given me that framed quote. A promise of a shared future at the top of our careers. And I had done it. I had pushed through the sweat and blood, eventually earning a transfer to his elite special tactical unit. But remembering his words today, the memory soured. I walked over, took the frame off the wall, pulled out the parchment, and ripped it down the middle. I tossed it into the trash can without a second thought. Next was the framed photo on my desk. It was a picture of the three of us taken on a weekend leave right after basic training. I was standing in the middle, laughing, while Wright and Chelsea leaned in close. I still remembered that day vividly. Chelsea had deliberately nudged me closer to Wright, whispering in my ear, “This is your chance to stand next to your man, Charlie. Don’t waste it. There are too many gorgeous girls in uniform; if you don’t mark your territory, someone else will steal him.” My expression hardened. I swept the frame off the desk and dropped it into the wastebasket. If they could so easily throw away our years of friendship and love, why should I cling to the wreckage? I spent the next hour purging my room. I gathered everything connected to them: Chelsea’s old military magazines, the birthday gifts Wright had given me over the years, and a stack of unsent love letters I had written to him since I was eighteen. After dinner, I carried the heavy black trash bags down to the dumpsters behind our building. “That looks heavy. Why didn’t you call me to help?” A familiar, low voice drifted from the shadows. I turned. Wright was leaning against a lamppost in a casual gray hoodie, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, looking effortlessly handsome. I used to hate taking out the trash. Whenever my mother asked me to do it, I would text Wright, and he would always jog over to do it for me. During our five years together, it had become an unspoken routine. “Still giving me the silent treatment?” He smiled slightly, stepping closer to take my hand. I took a deliberate step back, keeping my hands inside my coat pockets. Wright froze, a flicker of confusion crossing his face before his brows knit together. I didn’t look away. “Everyone in this neighborhood knows you’re getting married next week, Wright. It’s not appropriate for us to be seen together like this. Let’s not contact each other anymore.” He let out a soft, dismissive scoff. “Charlie, come on. I told you, marrying Chelsea is just a favor. We’ll get a quiet divorce in a year or two. The neighbors don’t know the truth, but you do. Why are you acting like this is real?” Just yesterday, before we boarded the train back to our hometown, I had asked him three times if we should finally tell our parents the truth about us. He had looked down at me with his usual lazy grin. “Are you really that desperate to marry me, Charlie? I didn’t know you were such a hopeless romantic.” I had swatted his chest in mock anger, and he’d wrapped his arms around me, pulling me against his chest and kissing the top of my head. “Okay, okay, I’m teasing. Soon. I promise, when the time is right, we’ll tell them.” For five years, I had lived on those crumbs. I had spent every single day dreaming of the moment he would hold my hand in public, wanting the whole world to know that I was his and he was mine. I wasn’t raising my voice now because I didn’t care. I was quiet because I refused to beg. I refused to let my mother and me become the laughingstock of our close-knit military community. “Wright! There you are!” Chelsea appeared at the entrance of the courtyard, holding a small purse. Her mother was standing nearby. “My mom’s stomach is acting up again and she needs me to pick up her prescription, but I don’t know which pharmacy has it on file. Can you come with me?” She smiled warmly, addressing Wright’s mother with a natural, familial affection that made my stomach churn. She sounded like she had been calling her “Mom” for years. Wright pressed his lips into a thin line, shooting me a lingering look before turning to follow her out of the courtyard. Watching their retreating figures, my mother sighed softly. “You know, Charlie, for years I secretly hoped you and Wright would end up together. I’m glad I never pushed it. It would have been so awkward now that he’s marrying Chelsea.” I kept my mouth shut, staring at the gravel. “You should take a page out of Chelsea’s book when you look for a husband,” my mother continued, adjusting her cardigan. “No matter how busy Wright is at the base, he always finds a way to take leave whenever Chelsea’s family needs him. But look at your late boyfriend… I swear, every time I invited him for a holiday dinner, he always had some ‘urgent deployment.’ I don’t even know what you saw in him…” My mother’s voice faded into a dull static. The world around me went completely cold and quiet. Every holiday, every long weekend, I had begged Wright to come home with me. And every single time, he had looked at me with those earnest eyes and said, “Charlie, baby, I just got promoted to Major. Things are crazy at the unit right now. Once things settle down, I promise I’ll go back with you.” He told me there were drills, unexpected briefings, red-flag exercises. And I, like a fool, had believed him without question. But the truth was much simpler. Every time he told me he was too busy, he was actually taking leave to be with Chelsea. “Mom,” I said, my voice barely a whisper through the tightness in my throat. “Do they… do they come back here often?” “Oh, all the time,” she replied. “Just last month, on your birthday actually, Chelsea’s mom slipped on the porch stairs. Wright rushed straight down here. He coordinated with the best orthopedic surgeons at the military hospital and stayed at their house for days to help take care of her.” My chest felt like it was caving in. Last month. On my birthday. We had been sitting in my apartment near the base, about to blow out the candles on my cake, when his phone rang. He had hung up, tossed a hastily wrapped jewelry box onto the counter, and grabbed his keys. “An emergency popped up at the base, Charlie. I have to go supervise. I’ll be gone for a few days. Don’t be mad, okay? I’ll make it up to you when I get back.” Before he walked out, I had blocked the door, tears welling in my eyes. I had asked him, “Is your job really more important than me? Just this once?” He had sighed, looking at me with a cold, disappointing stare. “Charlie, we’re both soldiers. Don’t ask such childish questions.” I had felt so guilty. I had spent the rest of my birthday feeling like an unsupportive, selfish partner. I thought his only choices were duty and me. I never realized there was always a third option. Chelsea. My mother noticed the hollow look on my face and sighed deeply, pulling me close. “Charlie, listen to me,” she said gently. “A man who lies to you, who avoids responsibility and runs away when things get tough… he isn’t worth a single tear. When you look for a partner next time, keep your eyes wide open. Don’t let yourself get fooled again.” I swallowed the lump in my throat and whispered, “I won’t, Mom.” Over the next few days, Wright and Chelsea were consumed by wedding preparations—picking out floral arrangements, organizing invitations, and finalizing the reception venue. I kept myself busy helping my mother plan her birthday dinner, trying my best to ignore their existence. But they wouldn’t let me. “Charlie, we always promised we’d be each other’s maid of honor,” Chelsea said, cornering me in our shared driveway one afternoon, her voice soft and pleading. “Now that it’s finally happening, please say you’ll stand up there with me.” Before I could even open my mouth to refuse, Wright stepped up behind her. “Your dress has already been tailored,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “The boutique is delivering it this afternoon. My mom saw it and said it looks perfect on you.” I didn’t care about the dress. My eyes were locked onto their left hands. They were already wearing matching bands. Simple, brushed white-gold bands. But I knew exactly what was engraved on the inside—their initials, intertwined in a specific, custom script. It was a design I had sketched when I was twenty. I had shown it to Chelsea late one night in our dorm room, telling her, “One day, when I marry the love of my life, we’re going to wear these. I want to design them myself.” And now, they were wearing them. “I’ll take your silence as a yes! Thank you, Charlie,” Chelsea said, taking my cold hands in hers. She flashed a warm smile, but her eyes were cold, calculating. “Our parents will be there, and so many officers and commanders from the base. Everyone just wants a beautiful, peaceful ceremony. I know you want that too, Charlie.” The underlying threat was clear. She knew my mother’s pride. She knew I would never cause a scene that would turn my family into a subject of military gossip. I gently pulled my hands back, forcing a polite, empty smile. “Of course. I hope you get exactly what you deserve.” Wright wasn’t paying attention to our exchange. His eyes were wandering around my mother’s living room. He stopped when he noticed the coffee table—the framed photo of us had been replaced by a portrait of my mother and me. As they turned to leave, Wright lingered for a second, catching my arm. “Chelsea’s right, Charlie. Don’t take it to heart. When you and I finally have our wedding, she’ll be your maid of honor. Just think of this as a dress rehearsal for our future.” I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing out loud. What made him think I would ever wait for him? What made him think I would want another woman’s hand-me-down? The days blurred together, and soon, the wedding morning arrived. Throughout the ceremony, both Wright and Chelsea kept casting nervous glances my way, clearly terrified I would ruin their perfect day. But they had nothing to worry about. I kept a polite, seamless smile pinned to my face, smoothly handling any minor hiccups behind the scenes. By the time the reception started, they finally let their guards down. But just as the DJ announced their grand entrance and they walked hand-in-hand toward the stage, a furious roar shattered the applause. “Wright! You absolute piece of trash!” A tall, muscular figure in dress whites marched into the center of the ballroom. It was Declan Burke, Wright’s rival from the academy and a fellow captain in our division. His face was flushed with pure rage. “You stood in my face and told me Charlie was your girlfriend, warning me to stay away from her!” Declan yelled, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. “And now you’re marrying someone else while forcing her to stand there as your maid of honor? Are you trying to humiliate her?”

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The brakes on my car failed the night before our wedding. With no other options, I had to borrow Garrett’s car to get to the office. The moment I sat inside and started the ignition, the GPS flared to life, its automated voice filling the quiet cabin. “Recalculating default route to The Waverly. After picking up the Little Princess, proceed to Oak Ridge Amusement Park.” The Waverly. That was the apartment complex where Maisie lived. And “Little Princess” was Garrett’s private contact name for her. The blue light of the dashboard cast a cold glow over my hands. After a moment of hesitation, my thumb hovered over the screen, and I tapped on his navigation history. A long list of routes popped up, almost all of them starting from The Waverly. To the shopping mall, to the train station, to the airport, to the amusement park… And there was one route, repeated almost daily. 8:00 AM, from The Waverly to Maisie’s office. 6:00 PM, from her office back to The Waverly. Twice a day, five days a week, for five solid years. For five years, Garrett had been her personal chauffeur, guiding her through the city’s traffic morning and night. Yet just last week, when I pulled three consecutive all-nighters at my office, my blood sugar had crashed so hard my head swam. I had called him, practically begging him to pick me up. He had refused without a second thought. “It’s completely out of my way, Naomi. Besides, doesn’t your company cover Uber rides for late shifts? Just call a car, it makes more financial sense.” Until this moment, the truth hadn’t fully registered. To Garrett, no matter how far out of the way Maisie lived, she was always “on the way.” But for me, even though my office was barely two miles from his, I was a universe away. I quietly turned off the navigation. I slipped the engagement ring off my finger and set it gently in the cup holder. If our paths were never truly aligned, there was no point in pretending we were walking the same road. 1 The muggy summer breeze drifted through the open window, carrying the thick scent of the car freshener. Rose. Maisie’s favorite scent. And the one I loathed the most. It made my stomach twist, a wave of sudden nausea hitting me so hard I had to step out of the car. In the end, I didn’t drive Garrett’s car. I left it parked, caught a cab, and went to work. Once there, I walked straight into my director’s office. “Dave,” I said, leaning against his doorframe. “That transfer to the European division we talked about. I’ll take it.” Dave looked up from his paperwork, pushing his glasses up his nose with a bemused smile. “Are you kidding, Naomi? You’re getting married in two weeks. You’re going to accept a three-year expat assignment now? Does Garrett even know?” I stared down at my bare ring finger, where a faint, pale band of skin remained. “The wedding is off.” “And Garrett won’t care.” Dave’s smile faded. He studied me for a long, quiet moment before nodding slowly. “If your mind is made up, you leave in three days.” We both knew what went unsaid. Garrett’s firm and ours were deeply intertwined; we shared more vendor pipelines than I could count. With his position, he could easily find out where I went with a single question to our mutual partners. But Garrett always insisted on “professional boundaries.” He never asked about my work. Two years ago, during a joint site visit, a heavy light fixture had broken loose from the ceiling and crushed my lower leg. Garrett had stood at the edge of the crowd, his face a mask of detached calm, watching the paramedics load me onto a gurney. When I later asked him, hurt and furious, why he had been so cold, he simply shrugged. “In situations like that, it’s best to let HR handle the worker’s comp. What was I supposed to do? Rushing over would only expose our relationship and give people room to gossip.” Yet, the year Maisie graduated, those strict professional boundaries suddenly vanished. He bypassed the entire recruitment process to bring her on as his personal assistant. At ten in the morning, I began handing over my files. The last project required a sign-off from Garrett’s team. I had expected Garrett to show up. But when the conference room door opened, a junior analyst I barely recognized walked in. My colleague blinked in surprise. “Where’s Garrett? This is the most critical launch of the quarter. I thought he’d want to oversee it personally.” The analyst offered a strained, polite smile as he laid out the contracts. “He took some personal time.” Knowing my relationship with Garrett, my colleague teased, “The workaholic actually took a day off? I heard he’s getting married soon—is he busy with wedding details?” The analyst shook his head. “No. Maisie wanted to go to Disney World. Garrett flew out with her to Orlando yesterday.” The silence in the room became heavy and suffocating. My colleague’s teasing expression froze, replaced by a look of profound, agonizing pity. I didn’t want to look at them. I kept my eyes glued to the contract, turning the pages. The paper was thin, yet it felt like a razor, cutting deep and clean. So Garrett did know how to take a day off. He did have free time. But last year, for my birthday, I had wanted to go to Disney. I spent weeks planning, marking the best spots to watch the fireworks, mapping out every detail. Garrett had barely glanced at my itinerary before scoffing. “How old are you, Naomi? Why are you still obsessed with a theme park for kids? It’s childish.” His way of celebrating my birthday was Venmoing me five hundred dollars. It was his default setting. Anniversaries, birthdays, Valentine’s Day, Christmas—always a flat five hundred dollars. I had once felt conflicted about it, even posting anonymously on a forum to ask if this was normal. The comments were overwhelmingly reassuring: He’s just an old-school guy. Practical. No drama. Some even joked about wishing they had a boyfriend who paid them to exist. At the time, I forced myself to laugh. Now, it wasn’t funny at all. Because Garrett wasn’t an “old-school” guy. Five hundred dollars was hush money to keep me quiet. For Maisie, there were pink diamond necklaces, hand-crafted itineraries to chase the Northern Lights, and late-night food deliveries flown across states if she craved them. He understood romance perfectly. It just didn’t apply to me. 2 By the time the last file was transferred, it was 7:00 PM. I went home and began packing. Mid-way through, I realized how little of this house belonged to me—or even to Garrett. Most of it belonged to Maisie. A pair of plush pink slippers by the entryway. A pink electric toothbrush on the bathroom vanity. Beside it, her signature rose-scented skincare and perfume. The guest bedroom was made up with pastel pink linens, her spare clothes hanging in the closet. There was even an entire room reserved exclusively for her. I had brought it up before. Every single time, Garrett’s face would darken with irritation. “Maisie is my assistant. She manages my schedule and my life. Having her stay over occasionally just makes the workflow easier. Don’t be petty, Naomi.” But she wasn’t managing his life. He was managing hers. I had never seen an executive follow his assistant around, cleaning up her messes and anticipating her every whim. The lock on the front door beeped. Garrett walked in, holding a glossy Disney store bag. Seeing my half-packed suitcase, he frowned. “What are you doing packing this late?” I kept my voice even as I folded a sweater. “Just cleaning out things I don’t need.” He gave a distracted “Oh” and didn’t press further. Unless it involved Maisie, he rarely bothered to pay attention. After a moment, he held out the bag. “You were complaining about wanting to go to Disney. I had a quick business trip in Orlando, so I picked this up for you.” I didn’t reach for it. I just looked at him. “A business trip? Or a vacation with Maisie?” A flicker of guilt crossed his eyes, quickly replaced by defensive anger. “Take it or leave it. You’re always searching for shadows where there are none. You know how demanding my schedule is right now. How could I possibly take a vacation during a major launch?” Yes. I knew. That was what made it hurt so much. Garrett was a legendary workaholic. For work, he had postponed our engagement photos three times. He had left me to choose the venue, coordinate the caterers, and taste the menu alone. On the day our parents were supposed to meet, he called at the last minute to say a board meeting had run over. Yet, during the most critical week of his career, he had managed to find a free day to take Maisie to Disney. Before I could speak, he brushed past me and went into the bathroom. Soon, the sound of running water filled the apartment. I sat on the bedroom floor for a long time. Finally, I opened my phone, switched to a burner account, and checked Garrett’s Instagram. There it was. A post visible to everyone but me. The kid had a great day today. The photo showed him and Maisie wearing matching Mickey ears, making silly faces at the camera. I had never seen Garrett look so unburdened, so boyishly happy. A comment below read: Didn’t know the boss had such a soft side! Maisie had replied: He’s only like this around the people who really know him. I quietly liked the post, shut my phone, and finished packing. As I zipped the suitcase, Garrett walked out of the bathroom, drying his hair. He was still radiating silent resentment. Without a word, he marched into the study and slammed the door shut. Over our five years together, Garrett had initiated countless silent treatments over Maisie. And every single time, I had been the one to beg for his forgiveness. But tonight, I felt absolutely nothing. Before going to bed, I hesitated, then opened the Disney bag. When I saw the toy inside, a dry laugh escaped my throat. 3 It was a cheap, poorly made plush toy. The stitching was frayed, the eyes were misaligned, and the fabric felt like cardboard. It didn’t look like any official Disney character; it looked like a knockoff purchased for five dollars from a street vendor outside the park gates. I stared at it, realizing what had happened. He had spent the day with Maisie, watched the fireworks, taken the photos, and only at the very end remembered he had a fiancée waiting at home. So he had grabbed the nearest piece of junk to appease me. I tossed it into the trash can, turned off the light, and went to sleep. The next morning, I took a personal day. I went to the wedding venue, the bridal boutique, and the hotel. I cancelled the bookings, paid the cancellation fees, and settled the balances. The staff looked at me with cautious sympathy, but I felt as detached as if I were cancelling a routine business meeting. As I stepped out of the hotel lobby, Garrett’s name flashed on my screen. “Where are you? We had a project check-in this morning.” I watched the traffic rush down the street. “I took the day off.” His voice sharpened. “You weren’t home when I left. Why are you off? This is a critical week for the account, Naomi. Get over to my office right now.” I didn’t want to deal with him, but with only three days left before my flight, I wanted to avoid any dramatic scenes that might jeopardize my departure. Thirty minutes later, I walked into his office. When the meeting wrapped, I stood up to leave with my colleagues, but Garrett called out, “Naomi, stay behind.” The others offered knowing looks and slipped out, closing the door. I had only been in this office twice before. The first time was early in our relationship. I had made him lunch from scratch, wanting to surprise him. Garrett had barely looked at the container before scolding me. “This is a place of business. Don’t come here unannounced.” I had never come back. But now, looking around his sleek, minimalist office, I saw touches of pink everywhere. A pink throw pillow on the leather couch. A half-finished soda and an open bag of chips on the credenza. A stack of brightly colored romance novels tucked beneath a multi-million-dollar acquisition file. Maisie’s presence was everywhere. Garrett didn’t seem to notice the irony. He stared at my hand, his brow furrowing. “Where is your engagement ring? Why aren’t you wearing it?” I didn’t answer. Instead, my eyes fell on his hand. On his middle finger sat a cheap, neon-colored plastic ring. I smiled faintly. “You aren’t wearing yours either.” Before he could respond, Maisie walked in without knocking, carrying a folder. Hearing my remark, she blushed playfully and gave a cute shrug. “Oh, Naomi! We went to a carnival last night and I won those in a ring-toss. It felt like a waste to throw them away, so I gave one to Garrett. You aren’t mad, are you?” Was I mad? I asked myself that. I had already made up my mind to leave. I had always known she was the one he truly cared about. But in that moment, I still felt a cold, sharp prick of anger. Garrett was notoriously fastidious. His suits had to be perfectly tailored, his coffee brewed to an exact temperature, his tie clips aligned to the millimeter. For the wedding, he had insisted on a custom, hand-tailored tuxedo. The fittings had taken months, and when the tailor finally lost patience, I had stood outside his studio in the freezing rain for three hours just to convince him to finish the job. I wanted Garrett to have everything perfect. Yet here he was, wearing a cheap plastic carnival ring that was already peeling at the edges, looking entirely content. I looked away from his hand and met Maisie’s eyes. “I’m not mad. Garrett should wear whatever he likes.” I turned and walked out. As the elevator doors began to slide shut, a hand blocked them. Garrett stepped inside, his expression tight with frustration. “She was just trying to be sweet,” he said defensively. “I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.” I nodded, a polite smile fixed on my face. “I understand.” My composure seemed to unnerve him. He stared at me, then cleared his throat. “Weren’t you wanting to try that new French bistro downtown? Let’s go tomorrow night. Just the two of us.” That bistro had opened two years ago. The desire to go had long since died, but since I was leaving the day after tomorrow, it felt like the right time to say goodbye. “Okay,” I said. The next evening, we sat at a corner table. But before I could even open my menu, Garrett’s phone buzzed. He stood up without a word and walked out to the lobby. Five minutes later, he returned. Behind him, her eyes red and tear-stained, was Maisie. 4 Garrett pulled out a chair for her, explaining casually, “She’s had a rough day. I figured some good food would cheer her up.” My hand froze on the leather-bound menu. It was a romantic, intimate restaurant. Every table was strictly set for two. Garrett, ignoring the obvious, gestured to a passing waiter. “Can we get another chair here?” The waiter looked at the three of us, his expression strained. “I’m sorry, sir. Our seating is strictly configured for couples. We don’t have extra chairs.” Garrett frowned, his gaze shifting between Maisie and me. The decision took him less than a second. “Tell you what,” he said to me. “Maisie’s really not in a good place. Let me take her to a table nearby. Eat slowly, and once I get her settled and sent home in a cab, I’ll come back and finish dinner with you.” Without waiting for my reply, he took Maisie by the elbow and led her to an empty table across the room. I sat alone in the crowded restaurant. Every time a server walked past, they offered me a look of deep, agonizing pity. The food arrived, tasting like ash. I finished quickly, paid my half of the bill, and stood up to leave. Garrett saw me and rushed over. “Why did you eat so fast?” Maisie followed him, her voice small and trembling. “Naomi, are you mad at me? I’m so sorry for ruining your night… I didn’t mean to. If you’re upset, I’ll leave right now.” Garrett grabbed her wrist to stop her. “Don’t go. I’m the one who told you to stay.” He glared at me, his patience entirely depleted. “Naomi, I am incredibly busy, yet I still made time to take you out. What more do you want from me?” “Besides, we’re getting married in two weeks. You know how much I hate drama.” A cold smile touched my lips. I opened my mouth to tell him the wedding was off, but before the words could form, the restaurant’s fire alarms shrieked to life. Within seconds, panic erupted. The waitstaff shouted for everyone to head to the exits, but the crowd immediately bottlenecked into a frantic, shoving mass. Someone jostled me hard, sending me crashing to the floor. My palms scraped against the hardwood, burning with pain. “Garrett!” I screamed, looking up through the chaos. But he didn’t turn back. Instead, I watched his retreating back as he shielded Maisie with his body, steering her swiftly through the crowd toward the exit. He kept her tucked securely against him, ensuring she wasn’t even touched by the panic. I was left on the floor, trampled by boots and heels as the crowd surged over me. Ten minutes later, the alarm was declared a false trigger. Garrett came back inside, but I was already gone. My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from Garrett: Where did you go? Maisie is really shaken up. I’m going to take her home. Go back to the apartment and get some rest. This time, I didn’t reply. At 3:00 AM, I boarded a cab to the airport. At 5:20 AM, the first flight to Europe began boarding. Before the plane took off, I sent him one last text. It’s over. The wedding is cancelled. I blocked his number and deleted him from every platform. As the plane climbed into the morning sky, the lights of Boston faded into the mist below. Five years of foolishness, left behind in the clouds. Ten hours later, the plane touched down in Germany. I dragged my suitcase through the arrivals terminal, the cool European air striking my face with a sharp, unfamiliar chill. Standing in the middle of the crowd, a sudden wave of emotion hit me, warming my eyes. When I finally turned on my phone, a deluge of notifications flooded the screen. I ignored them all, except for a message from Dave. He had sent a video file, followed by a voice memo: “Naomi, you’ve really put me in a tight spot this time. This video is currently going viral across the entire company.”

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On the eve of our wedding, a video of my fiancée in bed with her best male friend found its way to my phone. When I confronted her, she didn’t even flinch. “We just slept in the same bed, Gilbert. We didn’t actually do anything. Can you not be so disgusting?” Her best friend wore his indignation like a shield. “Come on, Gilbert. If Mona and I wanted to be together, do you really think you’d even be in the picture?” Seeing her friend’s wounded pride, Mona didn’t hesitate to throw down an ultimatum. “If you’re going to keep accusing us like this, then maybe we shouldn’t get married at all.” I looked at her, and suddenly, the urge to argue vanished. If that was how she felt, then fine. The wedding was off. …… “Go easy… that hurts…” The video cut off abruptly right there, but my heart had already skipped a violent beat. I watched it three times. The tiny, distinct mole right between her eyebrows was impossible to mistake. It was her. Mona, my fiancée. And the man in the frame was someone I knew all too well. Brody, her self-proclaimed “brother” and best friend. “What are you doing? Go pay the tab. This is our rehearsal dinner after-party—you aren’t seriously going to make everyone else pay, are you?” Mona’s voice drifted over my shoulder, cutting through the noise of the lounge. I locked my phone, turning slowly to face her. Meeting her slightly annoyed gaze, a part of me still struggled to accept the reality of her betrayal. We had been together for five years. Five years of building a life, or so I thought. But as I stared at her, the pieces of the past half-decade began to click into place, forming a picture I had spent years refusing to see. We had fought about Brody more times than I could count. Every single time, Mona would offer the same tired defense: “We grew up together, Gilbert. He’s like a brother to me. Trust me, I don’t see him that way, and he doesn’t see me that way. It’s purely platonic. We’re just bros.” Purely platonic. Did platonic friends wreck bedsheets together? “Do you want to explain what this is?” I turned my phone around and slid it across the marble bar toward her. I expected panic, or at least a flicker of guilt. Instead, she barely glanced at the screen before rolling her eyes. “Oh, please. We were just playing a game. What’s the big deal?” “A game?” I let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Is that what we’re calling it now?” Mona bristled at my tone, her eyes turning icy. “Gilbert, seriously, what is wrong with you? Did you hire someone to follow me? Where did you even get this? Brody and I are completely innocent. We fell asleep in the same bed—that is it. And of course, your mind immediately goes to the gutter.” She stepped closer, her voice rising in defensive anger. “You are so suffocating. Is it honestly that impossible for you to believe that men and women can just be friends?” Before I could utter a word, Brody walked out of the VIP booth. His eyes darted to the screen of my phone, and almost instantly, his face fell into an expression of wounded innocence. “Hey, Mona, don’t get upset with him,” Brody said, his voice dripping with gentle reason. “He probably just doesn’t trust me.” He turned his gaze to me, looking remarkably earnest. “Gilbert, man, I swear to you, Mona and I have nothing going on.” It was the same script they had run a hundred times before. In the past, whenever they played these roles—the misunderstood free spirit and the patient, peace-making friend—I would cave. I would apologize for my jealousy, feeling like the villain in their indie movie. But tonight, the spell was broken. Sensing my silence, Mona finally lost her patience. “Gilbert, I swear, I don’t even know who you are anymore. If you’re going to keep letting your insecurity poison us, then maybe we shouldn’t get married tomorrow. The wedding is off.” Brody looked more panicked than I was. “Mona, come on, don’t say that. Gilbert’s just acting out because he loves you so much. He didn’t mean it…” “Stop it, Brody,” Mona snapped, grabbing her coat. “Stop defending him. He just has a sick, dirty mind.” She turned on her heel and stormed out of the lounge. Brody glanced between me and the exit, letting out a heavy, theatrical sigh before jogging after her. But as he rounded the corner near the exit, he paused. He looked back at me, and the mask of worried innocence slipped away, replaced by a smug, mocking smirk. In that split second, everything became crystal clear. He was baiting me. He wanted me to see it. And I had been playing the fool for five long years. Once their shadows disappeared down the hall, I walked back toward our private lounge to grab my coat and keys, planning to leave quietly. But as I approached the heavy mahogany door, the muffled sound of laughter drifted through the crack. “Do you think Gilbert actually believes them?” a male voice asked, snickering. “Oh, he’s absolutely clueless,” one of Mona’s bridesmaids chimed in. “I mean, who else would let their fiancée hang all over another guy like that? It’s pathetic.” “And all that ‘we’re just besties’ crap… please. Did you see that video from last weekend? If my fiancé did that, I’d throw his ring in the trash.” Their words cut through the muffled bass of the lounge music, settling like lead in my chest. They all knew. Every single one of her friends knew exactly what was going on. Whenever I had expressed even a hint of discomfort at past parties, these same people would pat my shoulder, offering reassuring smiles. “Aw, Gilbert, you’re overthinking it. We’ve all been tight since college.” “Yeah, man, they’re practically siblings. Don’t ruin a good night.” It had all been a joke to them. I was the punchline. I let out a quiet, bitter laugh to myself, then pushed the door open. The laughter in the room died instantly. The silence was deafening. “Oh, hey, Gilbert,” someone said, trying to smooth over the awkwardness. “Where did Mona and Brody go?” “No idea,” I said, my voice deadpan. I grabbed my coat off the leather sofa. As I headed for the door, one of Mona’s friends stepped into my path. “Wait, Gilbert, you’re leaving? Mona invited us all out for her bachelorette send-off tonight. You’re still covering the tab, right?” I looked at him, letting a slow, empty smile spread across my face. “You should probably call Mona for that. After all, I was just a guest tonight.” The guy caught the coldness in my eyes. His smile faltered, and he awkwardly stepped aside, letting me pass without another word. Walking out of the venue, the cool night air hit my face, and for the first time in five years, I felt like I could breathe. I pulled out my phone and sent a quick text to my parents: Cancel the preparations. There won’t be a wedding tomorrow. Within seconds, my phone lit up with a barrage of texts from my mother. What do you mean? Gilbert, what happened? Then came the call. I let it ring twice before picking up. Before they could ask, I laid it all out. The video. Brody. Mona’s defense of him. The years of lies. My father’s voice boomed through the speaker, tight with fury. “Are you kidding me? After everything our family has done for the Wards?” “I knew it,” my mother breathed, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and vindication. “I never liked that girl, Gilbert. If you hadn’t been so utterly blind, I would have never let this marriage happen in the first place.” They spent the next ten minutes venting about the Ward family, letting loose years of bottled-up frustration. Listening to them, I realized how much they had swallowed their pride just to support my happiness. I felt a pang of guilt, but also a profound sense of relief. When they finally quieted down, I took a deep breath. “So, tomorrow’s ceremony… we call it off, right?” “Absolutely not,” my father said. I blinked, stunned. “What? Why would we still go through with it?” A heavy silence fell over the line, followed by my father’s calm, calculated tone. “Gilbert, how much money have you spent on Mona over the last five years?” I froze. I had never actually sat down to do the math. But Mona’s monthly allowance alone was fifty thousand dollars. On top of that, there were credit card bills, luxury vacations, designer bags, and jewelry she “just had to have.” All in all, it easily amounted to several million dollars. A multi-million-dollar betrayal. Our family wasn’t hurting for money, but that didn’t mean I was willing to let her walk away with my inheritance in her pocket. “Can we even get it back?” I asked, my chest tightening. “We can,” my father replied, his business instincts kicking in. “But we have to play this smart. If we handle this correctly, we won’t just get your money back—we’ll make the Wards pay for every single thing they’ve done to you.” “Okay,” I said. “Tell me what to do.” When it came to high-stakes leverage, my parents were seasoned professionals. They quickly outlined a plan. Mona and I had already signed our legal marriage papers at the courthouse a month ago to simplify the paperwork; tomorrow was supposed to be the public celebration. If I simply walked away now, the legal fallout would be messy and expensive. I needed to let her hand me the perfect leverage. My plan was to wait until after the ceremony to quietly discuss an amicable divorce. If she agreed to cooperate and return a reasonable portion of the assets, I was willing to let her off easy without dragging her through the mud. But Mona, in her infinite selfishness, didn’t even give me the chance to be generous. On the morning of the wedding, she stood me up. When I arrived at the Ward estate with my groomsmen, I was met not by a blushing bride, but by her deeply uncomfortable parents and a handful of whispering relatives. “Where’s the bride?” my best man whispered, glancing at the maid of honor. The maid of honor offered a tight, forced smile. “She’s… she’s still getting ready. Hair and makeup took longer than expected.” She shot a desperate, pleading look at Mona’s parents. I knew immediately that something was wrong. Stepping away from the crowd, I pulled out my phone and checked Brody’s public social media profile. Sure enough, he had been posting updates since they left the club the night before. Every single post was a direct jab at me, wrapped in the guise of friendship. One post from 3:00 AM read: Thank you for always choosing me when things get tough. The photo was a shot of a rumpled hotel bed, with Mona’s distinct designer purse sitting on the nightstand. The implication was sickeningly clear. But the final post, uploaded just ten minutes prior, was a photo of them at the beach, watching the sunrise. Brody’s caption read: Even on your wedding day, you’re by my side. That’s how I know what we have is real. They were wrapped in a blanket, holding each other tightly against the ocean breeze. If I still loved her, that image would have torn me apart. But standing there in my tuxedo, surrounded by her lying family, all I felt was a cold, hollow pity. I had already been hurt enough. The tank was empty. There was nothing left to break. I let out a soft, mocking laugh. Mona’s parents hurried over to me, their faces pale. “Gilbert, sweetheart…” her mother started, reaching out a trembling hand. “Don’t,” I said, stepping back. “Don’t call me that. I don’t think we’ll be family after today.” Their faces fell, panic flaring in their eyes. They tried to steer me toward a private study, desperate to keep the peace and hide the scandal from their guests. But I wasn’t going to help them protect their reputation. “Excuse me, everyone,” I called out, my voice ringing clear through the crowded foyer. “I’m afraid there won’t be a celebration today.” I walked over to the large media screen in the living room, connected my phone via AirPlay, and cast Brody’s social media page directly onto the display. The photos of Mona and Brody embracing at the beach filled the screen. The room erupted into gasps and furious whispers. Right on cue, my phone buzzed. It was a message from the private investigator my father had hired the night before. He had delivered. It wasn’t just last night. The files showed that Mona and Brody had been sleeping together for months. The folder was filled with dated timestamps, hotel check-ins, and photos of them entering and leaving his apartment in the dead of night. Looking at the sheer volume of evidence, a tremor of residual anger ran through my body. But I took a deep breath and channeled that heat into resolve. I forwarded the entire file to my family’s attorney, instructing him to file for divorce immediately. Five minutes later, my attorney replied: Understood, Gilbert. With this level of documented infidelity and marital misconduct, we have more than enough leverage to ensure she leaves with absolutely nothing. Do it, I texted back. When I saw his thumbs-up emoji, a genuine smile touched my lips. For the first time in years, the crushing weight on my shoulders lifted. I was finally free of her games. “Gilbert, what the hell is this? Are you trying to humiliate me?” Mona’s voice cut through the murmuring crowd as she marched through the front door. But she wasn’t wearing her wedding dress. She was dressed in a casual oversized knit sweater and leggings. And standing right beside her was Brody, wearing a matching casual outfit. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think they were the ones who had just returned from a cozy honeymoon. I let out a cold laugh. “Do you honestly think a wedding is still happening today, Mona?” I had originally planned to play along just long enough to secure my assets, but seeing her stand before me with her lover, completely devoid of shame, I realized I didn’t need to play nice. She had never respected me. Not for a single second. And now, I was going to strip away everything she took for granted. Instead of showing any remorse, Mona crossed her arms and glared at me. “Oh, I get it. Now that we’ve signed the papers and you think you ‘have’ me, you think you can treat me like garbage? Is that it?” “Do you honestly think I won’t just walk away from you, Gilbert?” There it was again. The same empty threats she had used to keep me in line for years. She knew how desperately I loved her, so she had weaponized my affection, taking more and more while giving nothing in return. She hadn’t just spent my money on herself; she had used my accounts to fund Brody’s lavish lifestyle and finance their little circle of wealthy enablers. I used to let it slide because I thought that was the price of keeping her happy. But the tab was closed. I looked at her and smiled, a chill settling over my expression. Mona mistook my smile for capitulation. She tossed her hair back and looked at my groomsmen with an arrogant smirk. “Well? Are you guys here to escort me to the venue or what?” The guys remained silent, keeping their anger in check as they looked to me for a cue. I didn’t say a word. I wanted to see exactly how far her delusion would go. Mona scanned the room, then took a step toward me, holding out her hand palm-up. “Fifty thousand dollars,” she said casually. “And I’ll go put on the dress.” “Another fifty thousand to get into the limo, and fifty thousand more to actually walk down the aisle.” She was shaking me down at our own wedding. She was asking for nearly a quarter-million dollars just to show up to her own ceremony. “Well?” she asked, her patience wearing thin when I didn’t immediately reach for my checkbook. Within a minute, her expression soured. “Come on, Gilbert. It’s not like you don’t have the cash.” “Oh, I have the money,” I replied, my voice remarkably calm. “I’m just wondering why on earth I would give it to you.” Mona blinked, completely thrown off by my defiance. It took her a moment to find her footing. “Why? Because we’re married, Gilbert. My security is your responsibility.” “Oh, so you do remember we’re married,” I said, tilting my head toward the large TV screen behind her. Mona and Brody finally turned to look at the screen, realization slowly dawning on them as the slideshow of their intimate photos continued to loop. Brody’s face twisted in righteous indignation. “Gilbert, are you out of your mind? Turn that off! Do you have any idea how much this could ruin our reputations?” He turned to Mona, his eyes welling up with tears that looked practiced. “Mona… I don’t think I can do this anymore. I can’t be in your life if it causes this much trouble.” “Goodbye, Mona.” He turned to walk out, but Mona panicked. She lunged forward, throwing her arms around his waist to pull him back. “No! Brody, don’t leave me!” “If you go, what am I supposed to do?” “You are the most important person in my life, Brody. Please don’t do this…” Her desperate confession clearly fed Brody’s ego, but he kept up his tragic act, shaking his head and looking down at her. “Mona, you’re a married woman now. If we keep staying this close, your husband…” He trailed off, cutting his eyes toward me with a look of manufactured fear. Mona whipped her head around to glare at me, her eyes filled with absolute venom. “Gilbert, did you threaten him? Is that what this is?” “How many times do I have to tell you to leave Brody alone? Are you deaf?” Before I could even process her words, she stepped forward and slapped me across the face. The blow stung, ringing in my ears. She had put her entire weight into it. She stood there, chest heaving, expecting me to shrink back, to apologize, to beg for her forgiveness just like I always did. But as the stinging in my cheek faded, so did the very last trace of warmth I had ever held for her. I slowly turned my head back, looking her dead in the eye, and rolled my eyes. “Mona, do you honestly think that just because I loved you, I was blind?” Mona let out a mocking, incredulous laugh. “Aren’t you? How many times have I told you how things work, and when have you ever actually listened?” She turned her gaze back to Brody, her expression softening into a look of pure devotion. “I have told you a thousand times that Brody is my best friend. But you just have to drag everyone through the mud, don’t you?” She looked back at me, her face hardening into familiar contempt. My groomsmen had finally had enough. Before Mona and I got engaged, my closest friends had tried to warn me. “There’s something incredibly fake about her, Gilbert,” they’d said. “She’s a user.” But I had been blinded by infatuation, determined to make things work with her. Because my friends weren’t the type to gossip behind people’s backs, once they saw how committed I was, they stopped bringing it up. They even supported me through the rough patches when I was losing sleep over her relationship with Brody. Real friends protect you; users just drain you. “Seriously, Gilbert, are you kidding me?” my best man, Luke, stepped forward. “Why are you still standing here listening to this garbage? A guy with your credentials could have anyone he wanted.” “Exactly,” another friend chimed in. “Mona, you are completely out of line. This is disgusting.” They stood shoulder-to-shoulder with me, their voices steady and firm. Mona’s relatives immediately bristled, trying to defend her. “Excuse me? Marriage is between two people. You can’t just lay all the blame on Mona!” “Exactly! Gilbert is hardly innocent here. He’s always been incredibly insecure.” “A girl shouldn’t have to cut off her childhood best friend just because she got married!” They parroted the exact excuses Mona had been feeding them for years. The room dissolved into a tense standoff between our two camps. All the while, Mona’s parents kept their eyes locked on my face. I knew exactly what they were doing—they were calculating. If I showed signs of giving in, they would step in to play peacemakers. If I stayed quiet, they would let their daughter continue to walk all over me. That was how they had always handled our conflicts. Mona pulled Brody close, her heart seemingly breaking for his distress. “Fine,” she said, nodding slowly. “So you really don’t want this wedding. Good. Message received.” I ignored her, pulled out my phone, and called the police, putting them on speaker so the entire room could hear me request an dispatch unit to the address for grand larceny. When I hung up, Mona finally tried to de-escalate, changing her strategy to play the victim. “Gilbert, I’ve given up so much for you over the years,” she said, her eyes glistening with tears. “I’ve changed so much of who I am just to make you comfortable. I thought you’d at least appreciate that, but I guess I was wrong.” I let out a dry laugh. “Changed? What exactly did you change, Mona?” “Before I met you, Brody and I hung out every single day,” she said, as if presenting a crown of thorns she had worn for me. “Because of your constant jealousy, I cut it down to once a week. Do you have any idea how hard that was for me? That was a massive compromise.” “And by ‘hanging out once a week,’ you mean checking into five-star hotels and sharing a bed?” I asked, laying the truth bare before everyone. Her face paled. “What are you talking about?” “Am I lying?” I asked, pulling up the investigator’s logs on the screen. When she didn’t answer, I began reading the dates aloud. “May 1st, dinner at Monsieur Benjamin. May 2nd, lunch at the Ritz. May 3rd…” “Stop it!” Mona screamed. I looked at her, my expression completely blank. “So, that was your ‘once a week’ schedule?” I tapped the screen, playing the surveillance footage from the boutique hotel downtown dated May 8th. “Is this the compromise you were talking about?” A deep part of me was incredibly grateful that I had already stopped caring. Watching those videos again still stung my pride, but it no longer broke my heart. Mona’s face went from pale to a deep, burning crimson. “Enough, Gilbert!” Brody shouted, stepping in front of Mona. “We only went to those hotels because we had business to discuss. You’re just using this as an excuse to back out of the wedding. How can you be so incredibly petty?” He rallied his friends, and soon the room was filled with voices condemning me for “ruining what should have been the happiest day of Mona’s life.” I stood there in silence, listening to the noise, thinking about how I had let things get to this point. In a way, this was a monster of my own making. My endless patience and constant forgiveness had convinced them that I would tolerate anything. Finally, Mona’s parents decided to end their silence. Her father cleared his throat and stepped forward, adjusting his tie. “Gilbert, look, the guests are already arriving at the venue. Why don’t you just wire Mona the money she asked for so we can get this ceremony started? We can sort out these little misunderstandings later.” They wanted me to pay them. The sheer audacity of it broke something inside me. I started to laugh. It started as a chuckle, but soon turned into full, roaring laughter until tears gathered in the corners of my eyes. “Forget it, Dad,” Mona snapped, crossing her arms. “I’m not marrying him anyway. Since he clearly—” “Fine,” I interrupted, cutting her off. “Let’s not get married.” It was the very first time in five years I had ever agreed to her threats of breaking up. In the past, whenever she threw that ultimatum in my face, I would panic, apologize, and do whatever it took to keep her. Later on, I had learned to just stay silent, which she took as a quiet surrender. She had spent our entire relationship holding the threat of leaving over my head because she knew how desperately I wanted to build a family with her. But I was done being handled. “What did you say?” Mona whispered, her jaw dropping. “Say that again.” I wiped a tear of laughter from my eye. The joke was finally over. “I said, you have your wish. The wedding is off.” “You… you…” Mona stammered, her hands shaking with rage. Her parents panicked, trying to salvage the situation. “Gilbert, please, think about what you’re saying! This isn’t something you can just call off on a whim!” “Maybe I should just leave,” Brody murmured, his eyes red as he took a step backward. “I don’t want to be the reason your wedding gets ruined.” This time, nobody stopped him. Mona’s eyes were locked onto mine. “Gilbert, did you plan this? Did you set this whole thing up just to humiliate me?” “Mona, don’t be mad at him,” Brody said, still lingering by the door. “He’s probably just acting out because he’s insecure. Don’t let him get to you.” His voice was smooth, but his eyes were gleaming with triumph. “Stop making excuses for him, Brody,” Mona hissed, glare burning into me. “Men like him don’t deserve real love anyway.” “Excuse me, did someone call the police?” The heavy oak front door opened, and several police officers walked in, accompanied by my attorney. I turned to them, a calm smile on my face. “Yes, officers. I called. I’d like to report a theft of personal property totaling over half a million dollars.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “476186”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

It was my son’s birthday. While I was waiting for him and my husband to come home, I stumbled into a live chatroom on an online forum. The topic of the thread was: Can a son ever truly empathize with his mother? Beneath the post, the comment section was a sea of a single word: No. I didn’t agree. My son was my sweet boy, my ultimate ally. In every disagreement between his father and me, he was always the one who stood fiercely by my side. Just as I was about to type out a reply, one comment caught my eye. “I’m a guy, and let me tell you frankly: No, we can’t.” “To my mom, I’m her perfect little gentleman, her shoulder to cry on. Truth is, I only play along because I can’t stand her endless nagging and her dowdy, unkempt appearance.” “I’ve known about my dad’s mistress for years. I helped him hide it. Honestly, I get him. You have one woman at home to handle the domestic grind, and a gorgeous, young one outside to offer excitement and status.” The user had attached a photo. An elaborate, multi-course gourmet dinner laid out on a polished marble table, with a designer gift box resting right beside a vintage wine glass. It was the exact image I had texted my son only ten minutes ago. … My fingers shook as I pinched-to-zoom, desperately searching for some tiny discrepancy. But no matter how much I tried to lie to myself, the photo was an identical match. The angle, the lighting, even the tiny sliver of my cream-colored cardigan showing in the bottom corner of the frame—everything was exactly the same. Just then, my phone buzzed with a text from my son. “Hey, best mom in the world! Dad just picked me up. Traffic is absolute hell on the highway, so we’re going to be a little late.” “Dad and I got you a little surprise too. Get ready to be spoiled! Love you!” Reading his warm, affectionate words, a sudden wave of guilt and nausea washed over me. Toby never forgot a holiday. He always bought me gifts. Whether it was too hot or too cold, he’d send me playful texts reminding me to take care of myself. And whenever Glenn and I argued, Toby would jump in to defend me without a second thought, once even nearly coming to blows with his father. How could I doubt my own son over a random post on the internet? If he knew I was questioning his loyalty, it would break his heart. Besides, kids share photos with friends all the time. It was entirely possible that some internet troll had saved Toby’s photo from a public story to stir up drama. The internet was full of clout-chasers like that. Down in the comment section, people were already tearing the anonymous poster apart. “Your mother is cursed to have a son like you. She gave up her career, her life, and her youth to raise you, only to end up with a parasite.” “True or fake, this just proves that sons always view the world through their father’s eyes. They want the domestic servant at home and the pretty young thing in public. Best of both worlds, right?” My mind was a chaotic blur. I wanted to close the app, but the anonymous user had replied again. “If you were in my shoes, you’d do the exact same thing. I’m the one inheriting my dad’s estate anyway. Besides, the woman outside isn’t some stranger—she’s practically family.” “And honestly, I treat my mom great. I buy her gifts, I run interference for my dad. Today is my birthday, and I even got her a present!” I stared at the words, a cold dread pooling in my chest. The comment section was furious. Someone had managed to dig up the user’s main profile picture and posted it in the thread. I stared at the tiny thumbnail. My thumb hovered over the screen, paralyzed. The truth was suspended right there, heavy enough to crush me if it fell. Click. The front door opened. They were home. Toby walked in with a bright smile, immediately coming over to massage my shoulders. “Smells incredible, Mom! You went all out. You’re the best.” Glenn rolled his eyes playfully, calling him a suck-up, before sliding a beautifully wrapped box across the table toward me. “Our boy’s birthday, but it’s the mother’s day of labor. Thank you for everything, honey.” This was the picture-perfect life I had built. This was the warm, loving family I cherished. For a split second, I felt a terrifying urge to delete the app, to pretend I had never seen anything. But my finger finally tapped the screen, enlarging the profile picture. It was Toby’s private social media account. My brain went entirely numb. My heart plummeted into a dark, bottomless void. Tears spilled over my cheeks before I could stop them. Seeing me cry, both of them panicked, rushing to my side with frantic questions. But the moment their eyes fell on my phone screen, the room fell dead silent. Looking at their pale, frozen faces, there was nothing left to ask. I grabbed the edge of the dining table and flipped it. The porcelain shattered against the hardwood floor. A beautifully prepared feast turned into a heap of garbage. I stood in the middle of the wreckage, my voice raw and hysterical. “Who is she?!” Glenn looked at me, a trace of a condescending smile touching his lips. “Lena, it’s our son’s birthday. Don’t make a scene over nothing.” “I had an affair, yes. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you anymore. She’s not a threat to your position.” “I’ve had a long, exhausting day at work. I didn’t come home to be interrogated. Can you please just be a little understanding for once?” The last thread of my sanity snapped. Understanding? He wanted me to be understanding? The year we graduated, I turned down a high-paying corporate offer to help him build his startup from scratch. I drank myself into a stomach ulcer at business dinners just to land his first major contract. Later, to secure his absolute control over the company, I willingly signed over my shares to him. I was targeted by his business rivals and lost our first child in a horrific car accident. And when he told me he wanted a warm, welcoming home—a family to return to at the end of the day—I abandoned my own blooming career, risked my life, and gave birth to Toby. Glenn had knelt before me back then, weeping, swearing: “Lena, I’ll spend the rest of my life making this up to you. I will never let you suffer again.” And now, he was telling me to stop making a scene. I slapped him across the face, hard enough to make my hand sting. “Who is she?” I was unraveling, wildly suspecting every woman who had ever crossed our path. “The nanny? The college student we sponsored? Or that new secretary you brought home?” Toby let out a heavy sigh. He stepped forward, grabbing my shoulders with a firm, unyielding grip, and forced me down into a chair. “Mom, seriously? Look at yourself.” “You look hysterical. No wonder Dad looks elsewhere. A man of Dad’s status having someone on the side is completely normal.” “Dad and I have been incredibly good to you all these years. We let you have your way in everything. What more do you want? Why can’t you just close your eyes and enjoy your comfortable life? She handles his public image, you handle the kitchen. It saves you the headache.” “Don’t make Dad angry, Mom. After all, you’re the one living off his money.” I went entirely still, staring at the child I had carried for nine months. Getting pregnant with him had been an ordeal. The morning sickness started in week three and didn’t stop until the day I delivered. I lost ten pounds during the pregnancy. My joints ached, my pelvis felt like it was breaking apart, and I swelled up like a balloon. During labor, I hemorrhaged so badly I nearly died. I gave up my dreams to watch him grow. From his first steps to his first day of high school, I was always there. Because he once said he loved my cooking, a woman who once couldn’t tell salt from sugar learned to prepare gourmet feasts. Every sacrifice felt worth it whenever he smiled at me. I had congratulated myself a thousand times for raising such a sweet, empathetic boy. But looking at him now, he felt like an absolute stranger. The words from the chatroom echoed in my ears. My voice shook. “You knew. You’ve known this entire time?” He answered without a hint of remorse. “Yeah. I’ve known from the beginning.” A dizzying pain flared in my temples. I slipped from the chair, collapsing onto my knees among the broken porcelain, laughing and crying all at once. The doorbell rang. Through the haze, I heard a sharp gasp, and then a pair of hands gently pulled me up. When I saw my sister Megan’s face, filled with deep concern, I clung to her like a drowning survivor and sobbed. She was my only remaining blood relative, the person I trusted most in the world. I had never kept secrets from her. Seeing me in this state, Megan didn’t ask any questions. Her slender, fragile frame stood protectively in front of me as she began yelling at Glenn and Toby. But my gaze froze on her wrist. The platinum bracelet she was wearing was the exact limited-edition piece sitting inside the gift box Glenn and Toby had brought home for me. Glenn’s frequent absences… Toby’s familiarity with her… the comment that she was “practically family”… Every puzzle piece rushed together in my mind, forming a picture so grotesque it made my blood run cold. Noticing my sudden stillness, Glenn and Toby quickly stepped forward, pulling Megan behind them, their eyes locking onto me with sudden defensiveness. The realization hit me like a physical blow. It was her. “It’s you… it was you this whole time.” I had suspected every woman in the city, but never her. Our parents died early. I had worked myself to the bone to pay for her college tuition. During the hardest years of my startup, I sent her a monthly allowance while I lived in a damp basement eating instant ramen. When she graduated, I fought the board to bring her into the company and mentored her personally. She wasn’t just my sister. I had raised her like my own daughter. Looking at the three of them standing together, I choked on my own breath, tasting copper. No wonder she always dodged the subject whenever I asked about her love life. No wonder she rejected every single blind date I tried to arrange for her. She had been sharing a bed with my husband all along. The three people I loved most in the world had banded together to treat me like a fool. Megan suddenly fell to her knees before me. “Lena, I know I’m terrible, but I truly love Glenn.” “Please don’t blame him or Toby. It’s all my fault. If you want to hate someone, hate me!” “Lena, I never wanted to take your place, and I don’t care about a marriage certificate. I just want to be by Glenn’s side.” I looked down at her, raised my hand, and struck her across the face. She was my sister. My baby sister. How could she do this to me? I closed my eyes, forcing the agonizing words out of my throat. “When did it start?” She hesitated, shifting her gaze. “When you were pregnant with Toby.” A loud ringing filled my ears. I stumbled backward. My heart twisted in a pain so sharp I couldn’t stand straight. When I went into labor, I had spent hours trying to call Glenn. Because I couldn’t reach him, my arrival at the hospital was delayed, leading to the severe hemorrhage. He had knelt by my hospital bed afterward, slapping himself, swearing he had been tied up with an important client. They had been together while I was fighting for my life. Before I could strike Megan again, Glenn lunged forward and grabbed my wrist in a vice-like grip. “Lena, that is enough!” “You’re the one who brought Megan into our lives. You should have known what would happen. I’m a man, Lena. Your pregnancy was hard on you, but it was just as hard on me! It was a drunken mistake—I mistook her for you. I’m the one who owes her.” “She has always respected you. She never wanted to compete with you. Every holiday, she’s the one who forced me to come back home to you. You have no right to treat her like this!” He bent down, lifting Megan into his arms. As he brushed past me, he leaned in and whispered coldly: “Megan is pregnant. Five months.” I froze, my eyes dropping to Megan’s slightly rounded stomach. When I hemorrhaged during Toby’s birth, the doctors told me I could never have another child. Glenn had held our baby by my bedside and sworn that Toby would be his only heir, and that I would be the only mother of his children. Now, he was having another child. With my sister. Beside them, Toby’s eyes lit up with excitement. He began ushering them toward the door, turning back to lecture me with a patronizing sigh. “Mom, in the old days, sisters sharing a husband was considered a beautiful thing. Why can’t you just accept it? It’s keeping everything in the family.” “With Aunt Megan’s personality, she’d let you remain the matriarch while she stays in the background. The two of you can share him—one runs the house, the other runs the company. No outside drama. Isn’t that perfect?” “Mom, if you just agree, we can go right back to how things were. I’ll still be your sweet son, Dad will still be the perfect husband, and Aunt Megan will protect you. You’ll still be the envied Mrs. Hall.” “Besides, you’re not like Aunt Megan. She’s a vice president with a career. You’re just a housewife living on Dad’s handouts. You’ve been out of the workforce for so long. If you actually divorce him, you’ll regret it.” I looked at this boy, the son I had poured my life into. I smiled, a cold, empty smile, and slapped him across the face. “Get out.” He clutched his cheek, staring at me in sheer disbelief. “You slapped me?” From the day he was born, no matter how badly he behaved, I had never laid a finger on him. Thinking of how he had helped his father deceive me for years, and listening to his sickening justification, I slapped him again. “I wish I had never given birth to you.” Toby’s face contorted with rage. “With an attitude like that, no wonder Dad prefers Aunt Megan!” The heavy front door slammed shut, shaking the walls. I collapsed onto the floor, unable to hold myself up any longer. I thought I would cry, but my mind was remarkably, chillingly clear. I pulled out my phone and dialed my lawyer. “I want to file for divorce. I want Glenn Hall to leave with absolutely nothing.” The legal team moved fast. So fast, in fact, that by the next afternoon, my family came looking for me. The first to show up at my apartment was Megan. She fell to her knees before me, sobbing hysterically. “Lena, please, I beg you, drop the lawsuit. It’s all my fault, entirely my fault.” “I was the one who seduced Glenn. I made them keep it from you. If you want to hate someone, hate me, but please stop this. You can’t beat Glenn in court. I’m terrified you’re going to end up destroyed!” “Lena, I’ll break up with him right now. I’ll get rid of the baby and go far away. Just go back to Glenn and Toby, please.” The despair in her eyes looked entirely real, which only made it more sickening. How could someone play the victim so flawlessly while stabbing me in the back? I took two steps back, bracing myself against the dining table to keep from falling. Megan immediately reached out to steady me, but the moment her hand touched my skin, she panicked. “Lena, you’re burning up!” “Where is your medicine? Let me take you to the hospital. We need to go right now!” I pushed her hand away. Looking at the sister I had raised, I finally asked the question that had been rotting in my chest. “Why?” Why do this to me? Why betray me? Why make my entire life a punchline? Megan lowered her head, and for a moment, she looked like the little girl I used to protect. Her tears dripped onto the back of my hand. “I love Glenn. I really do.” “He was the only one who treated me like a grown woman. He took care of me when I was sick, and he protected me like a guardian angel whenever things went wrong. No woman could help falling for a man like him.” “Lena, I never wanted to take anything from you. I just wanted to be near him, to give him everything I had. If it makes you happy, I’ll go abort the baby right now.” I pulled my hand back, my expression flat. “Cut the act, Megan.” “If you cared about me at all, you would have never touched him. You wouldn’t have lied to me for years, watching me play the happy housewife while you three laughed behind my back.” “You say you’ll abort the baby if I want? Fine. Go do it. Right now.” She froze. The sweet, innocent facade crumbled instantly, replaced by a cold, calculating malice. “You really are impossible to fool, aren’t you, Lena?” She stood up, brushing the dust off her knees, her eyes flashing with venom. “Yes! I did it on purpose! I climbed into Glenn’s bed on purpose, I won over Toby on purpose, and I made sure they kept treating you well just to keep you oblivious. I got pregnant on purpose. Even the bracelet—I bought the exact same one for you on purpose.” “Why should you have everything? We have the same parents, but you were always the perfect, successful older sister, while I had to live in your shadow. Everyone who looked at me only saw your sister. I wanted to take everything that was yours.” I let out a soft laugh, tears slipping from the corners of my eyes. A great favor breeds great resentment. I had finally learned that lesson the hard way. Hearing footsteps approaching the door, Megan smiled at me with pure malice. “Lena, let’s see who they actually care about.” With a sharp scream, Megan threw herself backward, tumbling down the stairs. She landed heavily at the bottom, clutching her stomach in silent agony as blood began to seep through her skirt. Glenn and Toby burst through the door. Seeing Megan lying in a pool of blood, their faces twisted in horror. Glenn scooped her into his arms, turning a look of murderous hatred toward me. “Lena, if anything happens to Megan or the baby, I will personally destroy you.” Even though my heart was already dead, the sheer hatred in their eyes still stung. My fever-ravaged body finally gave out, and I stumbled, falling down the remaining steps to land at their feet. I reached out, weakly grabbing the hem of Glenn’s pants. “Please… take me to the hospital too.” Seeing my flushed face and rapid breathing, both of them hesitated for a fraction of a second. My chest burned with a suffocating heat. “I didn’t push her. The house has security cameras.” The moment I mentioned Megan, Glenn’s brief hesitation vanished into cold disgust. He kicked my hand away. “Get away from me.” Toby hesitated for a second, looking back at me, but ultimately turned and followed his father out the door. Watching their retreating figures, I closed my eyes. Was I really going to die here, alone on the floor? Suddenly, the front door burst open again. Toby! A desperate spark of hope flared in my chest. He was my son, after all. Surely, fifteen years of motherhood couldn’t be erased so easily. Then I heard his voice. “Dad, she has the same blood type as Aunt Megan. We should bring her just in case Megan needs a transfusion.” The last spark of warmth in my soul died. I struggled weakly as Toby hauled me up, pinning my arms behind my back. “Mom, you brought this on yourself. You owe this to Aunt Megan.” He dragged me out of the house, treating me like nothing more than a spare parts container. I stopped fighting. Every ounce of love I had for him was gone.

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On my wedding day, my husband killed himself. Before he cut his own throat, he left two letters on the vanity of our bridal suite. The first accused me of murder—specifically, of orchestrating the car crash that had wiped out the Cross family years ago. The second was a love letter, a confession of his undying devotion to Mallory Cross. In it, he claimed that I had been so desperate to marry him that I staged the accident to get Mallory out of the picture. Though Mallory had survived, she was left with severe psychological trauma and was currently receiving treatment at a private facility in Europe. Galen wrote that he couldn’t live with the weight of this ugly truth anymore. His suicide was an act of penance. As amends, he left his entire estate to charity, hoping the law would finally find me and make me pay. The scandal tore through the media like wildfire. Yet, I didn’t panic. Because a ten-years-older version of Galen had just crossed the boundaries of time to tell me the truth. 1. When I walked into the bedroom, Galen was already gone. He was still dressed in his tailored, pristine wedding tuxedo, but the dark crimson from his carotid artery had sprayed across the cream-colored ceiling, dripping slowly onto the white rug. Within minutes, the soft, romantic acoustic melody playing in the courtyard was drowned out by the shrill wail of police sirens. The police cordoned off the estate. Every guest was detained for questioning. But as the prime suspect, I was locked alone in the library. The heavy oak windows were bolted shut. Any object sharp enough to cause harm had been cleared from the room. I was left in the stifling silence of that massive room, left to drown in the sheer absurdity of the day. Then, the heavy door clicked open. Framed in the doorway was the very face I had been mourning. “Galen?” I took a step forward, my hands trembling, my chest tight. “But… you’re dead. I saw you.” My mind was spinning. The man I loved had accused me of killing a family, killed himself to escape me, and now… here he was. I pinched the soft skin of my thigh, hard enough to bruise, to make sure I wasn’t trapped in some sleep-deprived nightmare. But the urgency on his face was entirely real. He scanned the room, his eyes turning bloodshot. “I’m too late,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Iris, I don’t have much time. You have to listen to me. Every single word.” He closed the distance between us, grabbing my shoulders. “I am from ten years in the future. Today… this whole wedding, this suicide—it’s a trap. A carefully orchestrated scam.” “I didn’t die. I’ve been having an affair with Mallory for years, but I was too much of a coward to break our engagement.” “So we faked my death. The plan was for me to slip out of the country and start a new life with her in Europe. The charity donation? It was just a legal loophole to transfer our marital assets out of your reach so we could live comfortably abroad.” I stood frozen, the breath knocked out of me. Years ago, my father had died in a tragic accident while saving Galen’s life. After that, the Barrett family took me in. Galen’s father, Uncle Hector, knew about our feelings and happily arranged our engagement. To ensure I would always be secure, he wrote a clause into his will: Galen would only inherit the family fortune if he married me. This entire performance—the blood, the letters, the grief—was nothing but a grand exit strategy to bypass his father’s will. I stumbled back, my boots heavy on the hardwood floor. The man in front of me had Galen’s face, his tall frame, the faint scent of sandalwood and rain that I had loved for a decade. But the words coming out of his mouth were monstrous. “That’s impossible,” I stammered, shaking my head. “Galen loves me. He would never do this to me.” Galen’s eyes welled with tears. He grabbed my hands, his grip tight and desperate. “I am so sorry, Iris. I regretted it. I spent a decade drowning in remorse, and I built this machine to stop it. You have no idea what happens to you over the next ten years.” 2. Galen checked the glowing watch on his wrist and pulled me down onto the leather sofa. He took a ragged breath, steeling himself. “In the first year after I left, you were ruthlessly doxed. The internet tore you apart. You lost your job at the firm, and under the immense stress, you miscarried.” My heart stopped. A baby. My hand instinctively drifted to my lower stomach. My father’s final wish before he died was to see me married, happy, and holding a child of my own. But my health had always been fragile, and the doctors told me the chances of conceiving were slim. The Barrett relatives had whispered behind my back, but Galen had always shielded me. He had stood by me through every painful injection, every fertility clinic visit, holding my hand and whispering promises when the tests came back negative. I thought we would never have a child. To find out I was pregnant now, amidst this horror, felt like a cruel joke from a sadistic god. “And my job?” I managed to ask, my voice barely a whisper. “How did they find out?” Galen lowered his gaze, unable to meet my eyes. “I didn’t think the firestorm would grow so big,” he muttered. “But Mallory and I… we knew you. We knew how smart you were, and I was terrified you’d find a crack in our story and track us down. So I hired online PR firms to keep you distracted. It was only supposed to keep you busy for a few weeks. But it spiraled out of control. You lost your career… and my mother disowned you.” “Your mother?” My eyes widened. But then the pieces clicked. Mallory had a degree in mass communications and investigative journalism; she knew exactly how to manufacture a villain. If she wanted to destroy someone, she didn’t just ruin their reputation—she erased their humanity. My mother, a proud, highly respected academic, could never bear the shame of having a daughter branded as a cold-blooded killer. A sharp pain bloomed in my chest. I could almost see her face—pale, cold, turning away from me in disgust as she signed the papers to cut me out of her life. “Galen, how could you?” I shoved him away, the tears finally spilling over. “Have you forgotten? When my father died, you knelt by his headstone and swore to God that you would protect my mother and me. If you wanted to hurt me, fine! But why did you have to drag her into your hell?” Galen reached for me, his expression frantic. “I didn’t mean for it to go that far! I swear, Iris, I didn’t.” “Once the news took off, I tried to check on you. But Mallory got pregnant with our first child. We were high-risk, and I had to focus on her. By the time things settled, I received the news that your mother had locked herself in her apartment and lit a charcoal grill. She died of carbon monoxide poisoning. And you… in your grief, you lost the baby. The complications were so severe they had to perform an emergency hysterectomy.” His voice was soft, but every word felt like a serrated blade sawing through my ribs. I closed my eyes, forcing down the violent, black tide of rage rising in my throat. “And then?” “You had nothing left,” he whispered. “No family, no career, no money—because I took it all with me. In your desperation, you took a job at a high-end lounge downtown, hosting wealthy clients. But because of the murder accusations, the other girls targeted you. You were treated like dirt.” 3. I fought for breath, trying to keep myself from unraveling in front of him. “When you saw what I had become, did you ever think to come forward? All it would have taken was one phone call. If you showed your face, the murder charge would have vanished. Did you do anything?” Galen hesitated, his fingers twitching. “I wanted to. I swear I did.” “But?” “But Mallory was running for a seat on the board of a major international human rights foundation. Her public image had to be spotless. If the truth came out about me, she would have been ruined.” “So… you let me rot.” I stared at him, the tears drying on my cheeks. “Did you forget that working for an international foundation was my dream? That was the career I went to school for.” Galen looked away. “I know. But I didn’t have a choice.” I cut off his excuses with a cold laugh. “Galen, I know myself. No matter how low I fell, I wouldn’t have stayed in the mud forever. What else did you do to make you build a time machine just to beg for my forgiveness?” If I had simply ended up a broken hostess, the Galen I knew would have felt a momentary pang of guilt and moved on. There had to be something more. Galen remained silent for a long moment, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. “You didn’t give up,” he admitted. “You studied during the day and worked the night shifts. You got accepted into a prestigious graduate program in London. And because the police never found any physical evidence linking you to the Cross accident, they finally dropped the investigation. You were on the verge of starting over.” “But?” Galen’s lip trembled. “The campus you got into… it was only twenty minutes from our estate in Hampstead. I was terrified you’d run into us, that you’d see me. So I forged a whistleblower letter. I used my connections on the board of trustees to pressure the university. They revoked your admission and blacklisted you from every major academic institution in Europe.” “You took the last piece of hope I had left.” Looking at him, I felt a deep, chilling hollow open in my chest. The girl I would have been… staying up under the dim yellow light of a cramped apartment, memorizing foreign policy terms, pushing through the shame and the physical exhaustion just to prove she was still worth something. And with a single stroke of his pen, Galen had wiped her out. “You are a monster, Galen,” I whispered, shaking my head. “A literal monster.” Galen reached out, trying to steady my shoulders, his own eyes brimming with tears. “Iris, please, hear me out. I realized I was wrong. The guilt was eating me alive, so I came back to find you. I left an envelope of cash at your apartment so you’d at least be financially secure. But Mallory found out. She thought I was still in love with you, and in a fit of rage, she tipped off the police. The old wedding ring I had left behind in the safe—the one they found near the ‘suicide’ scene—was suddenly tied to a forensic match. They convicted you. You were sentenced to three years in a state penitentiary. While you were inside, some of the inmates… they broke your leg.” He didn’t need to finish the story. I could piece together the rest. A disfigured, crippled ex-con, unable to find even a decent cleaning job, let alone host at a lounge. Left to rot in a damp, cheap rental on the edge of the city. I closed my eyes, grieving for the woman I would have been. “I regretted it, Iris. I truly did,” Galen pleaded, his voice breaking into a sob. “My life with Mallory wasn’t a fairy tale. She is demanding, ruthless, and entirely self-serving. To her, I was just a step on the ladder. Our marriage was constant warfare. She didn’t have your warmth. She didn’t support my dreams. She didn’t wake up to make me coffee, and she didn’t even remember that I’m deathly allergic to peanut butter.” “I missed you so much. I wanted to fix it. But by the time I finally swallowed my pride and went to look for you… you were already dead. You died alone in a basement apartment. Your body was so badly decomposed that the neighbors only noticed because of the smell.” “That image… it haunted me. I divorced Mallory, poured every dime of my inheritance into quantum research, just for a chance to see you again. To hear your voice.” I looked at the faint lines around his eyes, the deep fatigue etched into his face. “So,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “You want me to forgive you? You want us to play house and pretend you didn’t systematically destroy my life?” “Why on earth do you think I would ever give you another chance?” 4. Galen broke down, weeping openly, his face buried in his hands. “I know I don’t deserve it. I know I have no right to ask. But every single day after you died, I lived in a living hell of my own making. I just want to stop this from happening. We can have the life we were supposed to have.” Growing up, everyone said Galen and I were written in the stars. Until Mallory Cross moved in next door. She was loud, vibrant, and possessed an old-money confidence that drew Galen in. I watched him shift from cold indifference to quiet hesitation whenever her name was mentioned. I had my doubts back then. But I chose to trust him. I chose to trust the boy who had knelt at my father’s grave and promised to love me forever. That trust had cost me everything in another lifetime. “Galen,” I asked, my voice flat. “When did it start? Before or after we got engaged?” Galen took a ragged breath. “Before. She was my first love, Iris. She always held this idealized space in my mind. When she first came back to the States, I wanted to break things off with you, but then her family had that accident, and she vanished before I could say anything. When she returned years later, we ran into each other… and it just happened.” He looked up, desperate. “But I was wrong. The nostalgia blinded me. She isn’t the angel I thought she was. You… you were the one I should have cherished.” He choked on his words, his chest heaving. “I saw the autopsy report from your future self, Iris. Your body… it was covered in old, poorly healed fractures. Your fingers were misshapen. You had blunt force trauma to the back of your skull. I can’t bear the thought of what you went through.” He reached out to grab my hand again. “I’ll go to the police. I’ll tell them I faked my death. Just… please, give me a chance to make it right.” This was the first time in our lives I had ever seen Galen look so small, so utterly broken. It was the first time he had ever begged me for anything. He expected me to soften. He expected the good, gentle Iris to wrap her arms around him and offer absolution. But he didn’t know me at all. I reached out, gently wiping a tear from his cheek, and leaned in close. “Thank you for the story, Galen. It was very illuminating.” I leaned closer, my voice a quiet, freezing whisper. “But there’s one thing you got wrong.” “The car crash that killed the Cross family? I actually did it.”

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At seven years old, I shoved my childhood sweetheart out of the path of a speeding car. The impact shattered my skull, and when I finally woke up, the bright, quick-witted girl I used to be was gone. I was simple. But Wesley didn’t abandon me. He stayed. He laughed at my nonsensical jokes, played make-believe with me, and the moment we turned twenty-two, he made me his wife. But after the wedding, everything changed. Wesley claimed he had developed a severe case of sensory aversion—a hyper-sensitivity to order and germs. If I touched a dish on the table, he deemed it contaminated. He would throw the entire meal into the trash and go to bed hungry rather than eat it. If I drank from a cup, it went straight into the garbage. Even in sleep, if my arm accidentally brushed against his, he would bolt upright in the dead of night, rush to the bathroom, and scrub his skin with a coarse sponge until it was raw and angry red. I didn’t understand the medical jargon of his condition, but I hated seeing him in pain. So, I quietly ordered a bulk box of latex gloves. I wore them to bed. I wore them to cook. When I handed him a glass of water, I kept my bare hands tucked away, letting only the cold, blue rubber touch the glass. Then came the afternoon my mother asked me to bring him lunch at his office. Mallory, his new assistant, intercepted me in the lobby. She took the warm thermos from my hands, and with her other hand, she casually offered Wesley her half-finished iced latte. Without a moment’s hesitation, Wesley took it. He wrapped his lips around the straw she had just used and took several deep, contented sips. I stood frozen, my mind struggling to process the scene. Was his condition gone? Had he been cured? Mallory looked over her shoulder at me, a slow, knowing smirk pulling at her lips. Then, my phone buzzed in my pocket. Only a simpleton like you would believe a grown man has a “sensory aversion” disorder. He isn’t sick, Daisy. He’s just physically repulsed by your broken brain. For once, my slow mind grasped the weight of the word repulsed. My chest ached so deeply that I bit my lip until it bled, tasting copper. And then, a memory flickered. Elliot. Elliot was the neighborhood pest when we were kids—the boy who always teased me, who had spent his entire life picking fights with Wesley. Two days ago, he had sent me a text out of the blue. He had called Wesley a fraud, a parasite. He told me his research lab in Boston had made a breakthrough in neuro-reconstruction—a procedure that could fix my damaged brain. He asked me if I wanted to leave with him. At the time, I had assumed he was just being cruel, trying to mess with me like he always did. But now, looking at Wesley’s lips on Mallory’s straw, I stared at my phone and typed a single word: Yes. 1 Wesley looked up and saw me standing there, his eyes dropping to the thermos in Mallory’s hands. He stepped forward, snatched it away, and shoved it back into my chest. “I told you, I don’t eat food cooked by outsiders,” he said, his voice flat. “Take it back.” Outsiders. The word stung. Instinctively, my eyes drifted past his shoulder. Mallory had made herself comfortable on Wesley’s private leather sofa, tearing open a bag of potato chips. “It’s lunchtime,” she said with a shrug, popping a chip into her mouth. “I’m starving.” Salty crumbs spilled onto her lap, tumbling down into the deep crevices of the expensive leather. Wesley followed my gaze, but instead of the cold rage he usually reserved for messes, he simply let out a fond, helpless sigh. “Those are dry. Do you want me to grab you something to drink?” I stared at the crumbs on the sofa. My mind dragged me back to last winter, when Wesley had driven me to the clinic for my routine neurological checkup. After the blood draw, my blood sugar had plummeted. My hands were shaking so violently I could barely hold myself upright. I had taken a half-eaten bagel from my bag, desperate to stop the trembling. The moment I took a bite, Wesley slammed on the brakes. His face was entirely expressionless as he opened the passenger door. “Get out of my car. I don’t tolerate crumbs. You’re ruining the leather.” It was pouring rain that day. I had begged him, crying, promising I would be so careful, that I wouldn’t let a single speck fall. But he had pushed me out anyway, locking the doors and driving away. I couldn’t remember the way home. My geography was a jumbled mess of colors and wrong turns. By the time my mother found me shivering under a bus stop hours later, I was on the verge of passing out from hypoglycemia and burning up with a high fever. When my furious mother confronted him, I had held her back, weeping. Wesley is sick, Mom. He didn’t mean to. His illness makes him do it. But now, watching him smile at Mallory’s mess, I couldn’t make the pieces fit. I stubbornly held the thermos higher, my hands trembling. “I spent three months learning how to make this from Mom. Your stomach has been acting up, Wesley. It’s healthy. And I wore my gloves the whole time—it’s perfectly clean. No crumbs.” He didn’t reach for it. His face hardened. “How can you even compare yourself to her?” he muttered, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “You’re nothing but a burden—” He cut himself off, but the damage was done. With a sharp, impatient thrust of his hand, he shoved the thermos away. “Just go home, Daisy. Stop making a scene.” The thermos slipped from my grip, crashing onto the marble floor. The lid popped off, and the boiling hot broth splashed directly over the back of my hand. Blisters bloomed instantly across my skin, pale and agonizing. The pain was so sharp my eyes filled with tears. Around us, the office staff began to whisper, their eyes burning into me. I knelt down, my hand throbbing, and picked up the dented metal canister. A few of the blisters had already popped, leaving a raw, sticky mess against my skin. Wesley stared down at my hand, his lips parting slightly. “I’ll… I’ll take you to the ER,” he muttered, his voice suddenly sounding hollow. 2 I took a step back, cradling my burnt hand to my chest. “No,” I whispered. “I can go by myself.” He froze, a look of genuine shock crossing his face. I suppose he was used to the old Daisy—the girl who would chase after any scrap of kindness he threw her way, keeping herself happy for days on a single smile. But today, I didn’t want his kindness. I was slow, and I knew I would probably forget which bus to take, but I didn’t want to call my mother either. I didn’t want anyone to see me like this. Gathering what little courage I had, I tapped the shoulder of a kind-looking woman on the street. “Excuse me,” I said, my voice shaking. “Could you tell me how to get to Cherry Creek?” The woman gave me a sympathetic look and patiently wrote down the directions. I took three wrong buses, getting lost twice in the sprawling transit system. By the time I finally reached my mother’s front door, I collapsed into her arms, sobbing. “Mom,” I wept, “how do I get a divorce?” My mother’s face drained of color. She gripped my shoulders. “Daisy, sweetie, look at me. Did Wesley hurt you? What did he do?” I thought about it carefully, trying to find the words to explain the ache in my chest. “Mom… he lets other people eat chips on his sofa. But he threw me out in the rain for eating a bagel.” My mother’s eyes brimmed with tears. She brushed a stray curl from my forehead. “My sweet girl,” she whispered. “Do you know what divorce means?” “Yes,” I said softly. “It means we don’t live together anymore. And… it means I don’t have to wear the gloves.” I pulled the blue latex gloves from my pockets and placed them on the kitchen table. “Mom, I don’t want to wear them anymore.” My mother turned her face away, her shoulders shaking as she tried to hide her tears. By the time I returned to the apartment I shared with Wesley, my phone screen lit up. If you’re coming to Boston, Elliot’s message read, how are you going to get that bastard to let you go? I checked my call history. There wasn’t a single missed call or text from Wesley. With clumsy fingers, I typed my reply: My mom said she will help me with the divorce. In a month, I’ll be free to come to Boston for the surgery. I told my mother I wanted to pack my things myself. A few sweaters, a favorite blanket… I folded them slowly, placing them one by one into a duffel bag. I was only halfway through when the front door clicked open. Mallory was supporting Wesley, who was heavily intoxicated, his face flushed a deep, sluggish red. The moment Mallory saw me, she called out sharply, “Go make him some hangover broth. You’re simple, but surely you can manage a basic soup.” She paused, lowering her voice. “And don’t tell him I told you to do it. He’ll throw it up if he knows. If it weren’t for you embarrassing him at the office today, he wouldn’t have drunk himself into this state!” She walked past me toward the hallway bathroom to grab a damp towel. She moved with an easy, practiced familiarity, as if this were her home, not mine. I found myself following her to the doorway. “How do you know where our bathroom is?” I asked quietly. She turned, a smug, pitying smile playing on her lips. “Oh, Daisy. Where do you think Wesley brings me when you’re away at your therapy sessions three days a week?” I stood frozen in the hallway. Three days a week, I spent my afternoons at the rehabilitation center. Wesley had never accompanied me. He always said he was drowning in meetings. I watched her return to the living room and gently wipe Wesley’s face. Wesley reached up, his fingers wrapping around her wrist. He pressed her hand against his cheek, nuzzling into her palm with the soft, vulnerable sigh of a cat greeting its owner. They always called me simple. But I wasn’t blind. I had watched enough movies to know what a loving husband looked like. It looked like this. It had never looked like us. I remembered a night last winter when Wesley had come down with a sudden, raging fever. He was shivering, drenched in cold sweat. I had tried to place a cool washcloth on his forehead to help him. But the moment he opened his eyes and saw my face, his expression twisted. With a burst of frantic, feverish strength, he shoved me away. “Don’t touch me!” he had screamed. I had stumbled backward, my head cracking violently against the sharp edge of the coffee table. The gash was deep; it took twelve stitches to close. Yet here he was, perfectly calm, letting Mallory touch him, a soft smile gracing his lips. A dull, heavy ache settled deep in my chest. I walked back to the bedroom and continued packing. Reaching into the back of the closet, my fingers brushed against two small, hand-painted ceramic figurines. When I first became simple after the accident, the nightmares were relentless. I would scream in my sleep, dreaming of massive black tires rolling over my chest. To soothe me, Wesley had taken a pottery class. He had molded two little figures—one of him, one of me—and painted them himself. He had told me that as long as I kept them close, he would always protect me. I had kept them on my nightstand for fifteen years. I stared at the little clay faces, my heart torn. Just then, Wesley groaned and sat up on the sofa. I walked out, hesitating, and held the figurines out to him. “Do you want these?” I asked. 3 In my rush, I had forgotten to put on my gloves. Wesley’s eyes flared with instinctual disgust. With a sharp flick of his wrist, he slapped my hand away. “I told you, don’t bring things you’ve touched near me!” The figurines flew from my hand, clattering loudly against the hardwood floor. Miraculously, they didn’t shatter. I scrambled down, desperately gathering them back into my arms, clutching them to my chest. Mallory watched my frantic movements, a cruel amusement dancing in her eyes. “Oh, those are actually so retro and cute,” she purred, turning to Wesley. “I love them.” Wesley’s expression softened instantly as he looked at her. “They’re just cheap junk,” he said carelessly. “If you want them, take them.” I squeezed the little ceramic figures tighter, their cold edges digging into my palms. They weren’t cheap junk. They were my childhood. Mallory crouched down to my level, her eyes searching mine. “Do you mind, Daisy?” I looked at the painted smiles on the little clay faces. Together forever, he had promised. But forever was over. “Sure,” I whispered. “You can have them.” Later, when Mallory went downstairs to call a cab, I walked into the kitchen to pour a glass of water. Wesley was sitting alone on the sofa. “Why are you acting so strange today?” he asked suddenly, his voice tight. I paused, holding the glass. “Wesley, what would happen if we got a divorce?” He bolted upright, his face instantly darkening with fury. “Are you doing this on purpose?” he spat, stepping toward me. “Is this a threat? Are you trying to make sure the entire town brands me as an ungrateful monster?” He stopped just inches from me, his jaw clenched, before flinching back as if my very presence made him sick. “Do you think I wanted this life?” he hissed, his voice trembling with a lifetime of buried resentment. “Who in their right mind wants to be shackled to a simpleton forever?” He froze, the words hanging heavily in the quiet room. I froze, too. Simpleton. Since the day I woke up in that hospital bed at seven years old, I had heard that word whispered behind my back a thousand times. But hearing it from Wesley’s lips felt sharper than the boiling broth that had blistered my hand. When we were children, the kids at school would circle me, clapping their hands and chanting, Daisy is a dummy! Daisy is a dummy! Wesley would throw himself into the fray, fighting them until his knuckles were bloody and his face was bruised, screaming at them that I wasn’t stupid. Now, he turned away, his voice cracking as he retreated toward the bedroom. “I wanted you to have a normal life, Daisy. But you’re just… broken.” I didn’t want to be broken. My mother always told me that before the crash, I was the brightest girl in school, my bedroom walls lined with spelling bee ribbons and science fair medals. But after my seventh birthday, all of that was erased. The next day, I went to visit Wesley’s parents. They had always treated me like their own daughter, kissing my forehead and calling me their sweet girl. Years ago, when I had accidentally caught my arm on a hot stove, his mother had even offered her own skin for my graft. Knowing I was leaving made my chest ache for them. “Dad,” I said softly, hugging his father. “Please don’t forget to take your heart medicine. Set an alarm on your phone.” “And Mom,” I turned to his mother, “is your back still hurting? Don’t lift the heavy laundry baskets anymore.” “Make sure to water the hydrangeas in the garden, or they’ll wither.” They smiled warmly, patting my hands and praising me for being so thoughtful. But that evening, after I returned to the apartment, I heard Wesley’s phone ringing through the thin walls. His parents were on speakerphone. “Are you mistreating Daisy?” his father’s voice boomed, thick with anger. “And what is this nonsense about that girl from your office?” “There is a charity gala tomorrow night,” his mother commanded. “You will bring Daisy. You will stand by her side and show everyone that she is your wife.” When the call ended, Wesley slammed his door open. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with a terrible, desperate rage. He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging so deeply into my flesh that his nails bit into my skin. “Daisy! Is this all you know how to do? Running to my parents to force my hand?” I gasped from the pain. “I didn’t tell them anything. I promise.” He let go of me, shaking, and locked himself in his study. Soon, the sound of breaking glass echoed through the door. He was drinking again. Over the two years of our marriage, he had drank more and more. I knew from the public health pamphlets that alcohol was poison. I stood in the dark hallway for a long time, listening to the muffled sounds of his despair. Finally, I took out my phone and messaged Elliot. Can we do the surgery sooner? My mom says the divorce papers are almost ready. I want to leave. That night, I slept in the guest room. In the middle of the night, a sudden, suffocating pressure seized my throat. I gasped, waking to find Wesley hovering over me in the dark. The man who had refused to touch me for two years was finally touching me—his hands wrapped tightly around my neck. His voice was a broken, ragged whisper. “I never asked you to save me.” 4 “Why do I have to spend my entire life paying for a debt I didn’t ask for? Why do I have to be ruined because of you?” Was saving his life a mistake? Was loving him a crime? I remembered when we were children, how he would hold my hand tightly on the playground and declare to anyone who would listen: “Daisy is going to be my bride. When we grow up, I’m marrying her.” He had been so happy then. I tried to claw at his hands, to breathe. But then, a hot tear fell from his cheek onto my forehead. Wesley was crying. “Do you have any idea how much I hate you?” he sobbed. His tears felt scalding, like acid against my skin. Being married to me was slowly killing him. My hands fell away from his wrists. I stopped fighting. The grip around my throat tightened, the room spinning into darkness as the air left my lungs. Just as the blackness was about to swallow me whole, he suddenly let go, stumbling backward out of the room. I lay there in the quiet dark, staring at the ceiling, my fingers gently tracing the bruises forming on my neck. On the night of the gala, Wesley still made me go. But he walked so fast, his long strides leaving me far behind in the crowded foyer. The ballroom was grand, filled with people in glittering gowns and sharp suits, holding sparkling champagne flutes. But their eyes on me were cold and sharp. “Why did he bring the simpleton?” “His parents probably threatened to cut him off if he didn’t.” “Poor Wesley. Tied to a mute anchor for the rest of his life.” A group of younger guests began to snicker, deliberately stepping in my path, pulling at the hem of my dress to make me stumble. In an instant, I was seven years old again. I remembered the kids who used to mimic my uneven walk, mocking my slurred words, locking me in the school bathroom for an entire afternoon while I cried in the dark. I had developed a crippling terror of crowds. But back then, Wesley had held back a grade just to stay in my class and protect me. He would hold my hand through the hallways, whispering: “Don’t look at them, Daisy. I’m right here.” Now, my knees shook, and my chest felt tight. I looked toward Wesley, silently begging him to save me. But he didn’t even look my way. He was guiding Mallory through the crowd, introducing her proudly to the senior partners and executives. “This is my personal assistant, Mallory,” he said, his voice warm and respectable. “She’s brilliant. Keep an eye on her.” I retreated to a dark corner of the ballroom, trembling like a ghost. Suddenly, a deafening crack echoed from the ceiling. The massive crystal chandelier groaned, its iron supports snapping as it began to plunge toward the center of the ballroom. Screams erupted. People scrambled in wild panic. Wesley stood frozen directly beneath it, paralyzed by shock. Without thinking, my legs moved. I ran toward him, desperate to push him out of the way, just like I had done when we were seven. Let this be my final gift to him. A final thank you for the boy he used to be. I lunged forward, shoving his chest with all my might. “Wesley, run!” But even in that split second of mortal danger, his physical repulsion won. “Get off me!” he snarled, shoving me back with a look of pure disgust. He reached past me, grabbing Mallory’s hand to pull her to safety. And then, the chandelier crashed. The weight of the heavy metal and glass slammed into my left leg, pinning me to the floor. A sharp, blinding pain tore through me, and the world began to pool with blood. Before the darkness took me, I caught a glimpse of Wesley’s face. He was pale as death. When I woke up, the scent of antiseptic filled my nose. My left leg was wrapped in thick layers of white gauze, throbbing with a dull, white-hot agony. My mother sat by my bedside, her face red and swollen from crying. “You’re safe, sweetie. Mom is here.” “I was so wrong,” she sobbed, pressing her forehead against my hand. “We should have never let them force him into this marriage…” So it was true. He had been forced. The door clicked open, and Wesley walked in. One side of his face was heavily bruised and swollen—my mother had clearly confronted him. But there was no remorse in his eyes. Only a wild, unhinged resentment. “You did this on purpose, didn’t you, Daisy?” he screamed, kicking a metal tray beside the bed. “You just want me to owe you forever! First you saved me as a kid, making me feel like a criminal if I didn’t marry you. Now I finally find someone I love, and my parents fire me because of you! Are you happy now?” “I never asked for your stupid sacrifices! Why didn’t you just die in that car crash fifteen years ago?” I clutched the hospital blanket tightly. I wanted to tell him I was sorry. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. Wesley stared at me, his chest heaving, before turning on his heel and walking out. He never came back. The doctors told my mother my leg had suffered a complex compound fracture. She cried until she had no tears left. “She did everything for him,” she wept. “How could he be so cruel?” He wasn’t there for my surgeries. He wasn’t there when the doctor told me I might walk with a permanent limp. I only found out where he was when Mallory sent me a text message. So what if they fired me? You’re stuck in a hospital bed, and Wesley is here in Vermont with me, taking care of me. 5 So, Mallory was upset, and they had gone to Vermont to clear their heads. My mother handed me a thick envelope. Inside was a set of divorce papers. Slowly, carefully, I signed my name at the bottom of the page, tracing each letter with precision. Elliot called me as soon as he heard about the accident. “Do we need to push back the surgery?” he asked, his voice uncharacteristically tense. I looked down at my cast. No, I typed back. Keep the date. It didn’t matter. My leg and my brain were two different things. If the surgery failed, at least the pain would finally end. On the day of my discharge, my mother held me close in the back of the car. “Are you absolutely sure about this surgery, Daisy? No matter what, you will always be my perfect little girl.” I wanted to cry, but I forced myself to smile. “But Mom, I want to be smart again.” Her tears spilled onto my shoulder. “But the risks… what if something goes wrong?” “I’m not afraid.” I was terrified. But I had to try. I insisted on going alone. Elliot had made it clear that the procedure carried a high mortality rate. If I didn’t make it, I wanted my mother to be spared the immediate sight of it. She held me so tightly I could barely breathe, her quiet sobs filling the car. The next day, I asked her to drop me off at the apartment one last time. I wanted to say a proper goodbye. Propping myself up on my crutches, I spent the afternoon in the kitchen. I made a simple dinner: chicken pot pie, roasted green beans, and a warm tomato soup. Simple, comforting dishes. People always said I was a useless burden, but I wanted to do one last thing for him before I left. My hands were blistered and burned from my clumsy handling of the hot pans, but I pushed through the pain. This was all I knew how to do. But Wesley had never once eaten a meal I cooked. When Wesley finally walked through the door, he stared at the spread on the table, his brow furrowing. “What is all this?” I held up my gloved hands, trying to smile. “I wanted to make you dinner. Just one bite?” He checked his watch impatiently. “Mallory is meeting a client alone. It’s not safe. I need to go.” I reached out, catching the hem of his coat. “Please don’t go. I have something to tell you.” I wanted to say I’m sorry, Thank you, and Goodbye. His expression twisted into disgust, and he violently ripped his coat from my grip. “What is wrong with you? Mallory is waiting!” “She already lost her job because of you. What more do you want?” The heavy oak door slammed shut. I stood alone in the quiet kitchen, staring at the steaming food. Slowly, I picked up the plates and scraped every single dish into the trash. I pulled off the blue latex gloves, placed them neatly in the center of the empty table, and walked out. Elliot was waiting for me outside. My parents met us at the airport. My mother held back her tears as she hugged me one last time. “Go, my darling. I’ll make sure he signs those papers if I have to drag him to court myself.” “Okay,” I whispered. The flight to Boston took several hours. As the wheels touched down on the tarmac, I realized I would never see Wesley again. The realization didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would. But the moment I turned my phone back on, a flood of desperate messages from Wesley began to pour in, lighting up the screen like a dying star.

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The golden boy failed his college placement exams again, and I got dragged right back into the loop. As a mere background extra in this universe, this was my third time sitting through senior year. And yet, he still couldn’t score high enough to get into the same elite university as the female lead. The moment I blinked open my eyes back in the homeroom, I marched straight over to his desk and smacked him across the face. “It’s C! The answer to number fourteen is C! How do you miss a correct option that’s staring you right in the face?” 01 The entire classroom went dead silent. You could have heard a pin drop. I shoved the practice sheet in front of his face, practically vibrating with rage. “We’ve done this exact same paper. Even Pavlov’s dog would have learned to salivate by the fourth run. Why are you still bubbling in B? You look like a B. You’re a walking, talking, capital B!” The brave kids kept staring; the smart ones looked away. After all, everyone at our high school knew my reputation: Naomi West—quick-tempered, sharp-tongued, and more than willing to take a guy down if he pushed me. But no one expected the resident bad boy, Wyatt, to react the way he did. Normally, he’d scowl and kick a desk. Instead, his eyes welled up. “Wait… you too?” He reached out, grabbing my hand like a lifeline. “It’s too hard. High school is too hard. I can’t do this anymore!” 02 From the first moment I saw Wyatt, I knew he was special. Mostly because I have zero tolerance for stupidity, and he was a very special breed of stupid. He still got the same math formulas wrong after the teacher explained them three times. He couldn’t memorize a simple stanza of poetry to save his life. He even managed to leave his English listening comprehension sheet completely blank. He was lazy. He was useless. And yet, half the girls in school had an absolute crisis over him. The school’s anonymous confession page was basically a daily shrine to his name, and they’d even voted him Homecoming King. I’m a sapiosexual. I have zero interest in anyone with an IQ lower than mine, so for three years, I never spoke a single word to him. When graduation finally came the first time, I got a perfect score on my exams. I was the state’s top scholar. But before my acceptance letter to Yale could even get warm in my hands, I blinked and woke up back in this classroom. It took me a while to figure out what was happening. Eventually, I realized I was trapped in a young adult romance novel. The male lead was Wyatt—the wealthy, failing rebel. The female lead was Becca Collins—the pristine, straight-A transfer student. According to the original plot, Wyatt was supposed to fall in love with her at first sight after she transferred, pursue her relentlessly, and after enough dramatic angst, they would end up together. But because high school romances face strict censorship regulations nowadays, the author had hastily changed the setting to a college campus right before publishing. That meant they couldn’t meet until university. The adjustment made sense on paper. The only problem? Wyatt was an academic disaster. He couldn’t get into college, which meant he could never meet her. 03 Behind the school, in the courtyard garden. Wyatt sat on a stone bench, crying so hard he was practically hyperventilating. “We just finished. And now we’re back. Four times. Four goddamn times.” He looked on the verge of a total breakdown. “I’m a trust-fund kid! I was supposed to barely graduate, take over my dad’s packaging plant, and sit in my custom gaming chair all day. My dad even put the chair in my new office, and I haven’t even gotten to sit in the damn thing yet!” I stared at him, exhausted. “Did you even try to find a solution?” Like hiring a tutor, perhaps. Mentioning this only made Wyatt angrier. “Of course I tried! I memorized last year’s exam answers, but the state changed the entire test curriculum the next year! I tried to get my dad to send me to a boarding school in Switzerland, but the moment I stepped onto the plane, I woke up right back in homeroom. Nobody stays seventeen forever, Naomi. I’ve been seventeen for three years. Is that fair?!” I suspected the universe was forcing the plot because he was the protagonist. Before I could ask anything else, a flashlight beam cut through the darkness. “Who’s out there?” It was the campus security guard. The administration had been cracking down on public displays of affection lately, threatening to suspend anyone caught. Before I could even process the light, Wyatt bolted like a rabbit. “I’m the dumb one, I’m out!” He kicked up gravel, leaving nothing but a blur in the night. Seriously. How did this guy get cast as a male lead? That evening, right after my study session, I received a friend request on social media. Avatar: A golden retriever. Username: An Old Dog. Message: It’s Wyatt accept me now. He was loud even in text. The moment I accepted, his messages started flooding in. Hey, genius. What are you doing? Honestly, if I weren’t desperate to escape this endless loop of senior year, I wouldn’t have bothered. Reading. An Old Dog: (Surprised cat meme) An Old Dog: You’ve been the state’s top student three times and you’re still reading? I didn’t want to reply to something so obvious. He kept typing: Did the guard catch you tonight? No. Good thing I run fast. Otherwise, we’d have been caught together and everyone would think we’re dating. He seemed incredibly proud of himself. I didn’t bother reminding him that even if the dean caught us together, they would assume Wyatt was extorting my lunch money. No one would ever suspect us of dating. I was the school’s star pupil, heavily protected by the faculty. Apparently tired of typing, he initiated a video call. I hesitated for a second before tapping the green button. Instantly, his ridiculously handsome face filled my screen. I spared him a flat look before returning my eyes to my AP calculus sheet. “What do you want, Wyatt?” “I’ve been analyzing the situation, and I have a major breakthrough.” I raised an eyebrow, letting him continue. “Is there a chance this loop is actually your fault?” He sounded entirely convinced of his own theory. “In these kinds of books, the female lead is always the brilliant valedictorian. But you keep taking that spot. Maybe her character arc is broken because you keep winning. What if you bomb the next exam on purpose?” “Absolutely not.” I would rather rot in this loop than let anyone else take my spot. “Why don’t you try failing your way into community college with her?” I countered dryly. “You can date there. Why does it have to be an Ivy League?” “That actually makes sense!” He started contemplating the idea seriously. I rolled my eyes and hung up on him. I had to admit, when I first realized I was just a nameless extra in someone else’s story, I went through a bit of a dark phase. I couldn’t accept that someone like me—the hardest worker, the smartest girl—was just background noise. Eventually, I made peace with it by looking at Wyatt. He wasn’t worthy of me anyway. But my number-one spot? No one was taking that from me. 04 I had my suspicions about who the real female lead was. Wyatt was too busy failing to notice the class rankings, but I monitored them obsessively. I always tracked the margin between myself and second place. During the first loop, I beat the runner-up by thirty points. The second loop, the gap closed to twenty. The third loop was terrifying; the margin shrank to a mere thirteen points. That was when I memorized her name: Becca Collins, from Oakridge High. Could she really be the one? 05 On Monday, the results of our first mock exam were posted. Unsurprisingly, I was first. Our homeroom teacher’s voice practically trembled with excitement as she stood at the podium. “This was a statewide assessment, and our Naomi West didn’t just place first in our school—she placed first in the entire state, ten points ahead of second place!” The classroom erupted into scattered applause, but I couldn’t bring myself to smile. Ten points. The gap was shrinking again. The female lead was a fast learner; I had to give her credit. After the results came our seat reassignment. Students got to choose their desks and partners based on their rank. As I prepared to take my usual spot in the center of the front row, my phone buzzed. It was Wyatt, standing at the very back of the line. When it’s your turn, choose me as your partner. Why would I do that? Seeing my lack of response, he typed furiously. We are the only two self-aware characters in this paper world. Are you really going to ignore your only ally? Shouldn’t we work together to figure out how to break the curse and get out of here? I had briefly considered tutoring him to get him into college just to end the loop, but the thought evaporated quickly. I hated wasting time on losing battles. Helping Wyatt would only slow down my own studies. And if I lost my top ranking because I was busy hand-holding him, it would be a disaster. His next message popped up immediately. I have a premium university library card. You can borrow whatever you want, and use their online databases. My dad’s empty office at the plant? You can use it as your private study lounge. All year. No distractions. That actually got my attention. My mother had remarried after her divorce and had a three-year-old son. He was at the age where he was constantly screaming and throwing toys. I could only study in peace after he went to sleep, and weekends were a nightmare. My stepfather was a long-haul truck driver, and our finances were tight. Beyond basic school supplies, I rarely asked my parents for extra test prep materials. I typed back: Deal. The second I sent it, I heard a loud whistle from the back of the room. The teacher snapped instantly. “Wyatt! Do you find placing dead last amusing? Come up here to the front so everyone can see you.” Wyatt, completely shameless, strolled to the front of the room and stood right next to me. His friends started snickering from the back. “First and last make a perfect pair, Mrs. Gilbert. Why don’t you just let them sit together?” Mrs. Gilbert’s face flushed with anger, but before she could yell, Wyatt grinned. “Honestly, I’m down.” I gave it a brief thought and nodded. “I don’t mind.” The entire room stared at us in shock. 06 Within days, two major rumors took over the senior class. First, the school rebel had been slapped by the star student. Second, they were now desk partners. The school’s online forum went wild. Who even is Naomi West? Why is she getting close to Wyatt? I didn’t even know she existed before this. That slap was definitely a cry for attention. She knew she was plain, so she used a cheap trick to get him to sit with her. I looked up Naomi’s record. She’s actually insane. She was the top student in the district in middle school, and she’s literally never lost her first-place rank. It’s weird. I never really noticed her before, but honestly, Wyatt might be the one punching above his weight here. I stared at the phone screen Wyatt kept shoving in front of my face, completely unfazed. Of course they hadn’t noticed me before; this world wasn’t written for me. The main characters drew everyone’s attention simply by existing. The only reason people were looking at me now was because I was standing next to Wyatt. Wyatt grinned, scrolling through the thread. “I leaked your academic record to the board. Who do these people think they are, saying a state scholar isn’t good enough for me? Idiots.” As he spoke, a new comment appeared on the thread. I refreshed the page. It was a brand-new account. Just an NPC trying to act like a main character. Do you honestly think cheap effort can beat natural talent? A side character will never compare to the real female lead. 07 “Who is this? They’re trash-talking on my turf,” Wyatt muttered, cracking his knuckles. “I’m a moderator on this forum. I’m banning them right now.” He paused, staring at the screen. “Wait. They said ‘NPC’ and ‘female lead’… Could it be…?” I had already told him my theory about Becca Collins. We looked at each other, the same realization dawning on us.

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