Category: English

Declan Martin, to save his terminally ill darling, made a deal with a mysterious system. The terms of the deal were brutal: he had to kill me, Nina Thorne, ninety-nine times, by various means, so his beloved could extend her life. The first time, it was in our marital home. He strangled me with his own hands. The twelfth time, we were hiking, and he deliberately orchestrated an accident, pushing me off a mountain. I fell to my death. He hired people to abduct me, then burned me alive. That was the thirty-sixth time. And the ninety-ninth time, I chose to end my own life. This time, I never woke up again. His darling finally recovered, but he didn’t go to see her. He knelt beside my cold corpse like a madman, hoarsely begging me to come back. I really wanted to ask him, isn’t your beloved perfectly fine now? Why are you unhappy instead? 1 Declan Martin’ ninety-eighth kill was to slit my wrists and then hold me down in a bathtub, drowning me alive. When I woke up this time, my face was blank. I gripped the edge of the tub, slowly pulling myself to my feet. Blood still swirled down the drain in the mirror. My skin was terrifyingly pale, only my eyes still holding a flicker of life. Declan had said the system indicated Clara’s heart needed a strong surge of life force. So, as he held the razor blade to my veins, his expression was devoid of emotion, intent only on quickly dispatching me, this nuisance. His gaze didn’t even linger on my face. I pulled the bathtub plug and watched the blood drain away. Then I picked up the showerhead, rinsing my body, as if cleaning a crime scene I wasn’t involved in. My life was merely a line item on Clara’s life-extension ledger, to be crossed out and rewritten at any time, until the damned ninety-nine deaths were complete. The system was as thoughtful as ever; upon rebirth, my wrist bore no trace of the wound. But the memories of my deaths became increasingly vivid in my mind. I walked out of the bathroom, put on clean clothes. Outside, dawn was breaking. A new day had begun, and so had my death countdown. The ninety-ninth time, what method would it be? A car crash? A fall from a building? Or something more novel? I was a little curious, a little numb. After all, repeating something ninety-eight times, no matter how painful, became a habit. My phone vibrated on the bedside table. It was a message from Declan. [Clara wants to go for a walk today. Get ready to accompany her to West Ridge Park.] His tone was like instructing a servant. When my sacrifice wasn’t needed, he didn’t treat me like a wife either. I replied with a single word: [Okay.] Then I tossed the phone back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. My heart was riddled with a dense ache. I suddenly yearned to know, when the ninety-ninth time arrived, would I truly be free? 2 Three years ago, Clara had a car accident. When I rushed to the hospital, Declan was kneeling outside the operating room. His eyes were bloodshot, and he was grabbing the doctor’s white coat, roaring, “Save her! Whatever the cost, save her!” The doctor merely shook his head helplessly. Declan’s back slumped, and he crumpled into a defeated heap. Only then did I realize that he valued his beloved more than me, more even than his own life. But before I could even leave, a cold, mechanical voice simultaneously sounded in both our minds. [Detecting strong life prayer.] [Life Transaction System activated.] [Contract target: Clara Thorne.] [Contract condition: In exchange for the designated subject Nina Thorne’s ninety-nine deaths, the life signs of Clara Thorne will be restored and maintained.] I was utterly stunned. What system? What transaction? Declan abruptly looked up, as if clutching a final lifeline. He confirmed almost impatiently, “You mean, as long as Nina dies ninety-nine times, Clara can live?” The system responded coldly: [Yes.] “I agree!” He roared the words, without a hint of hesitation, not even glancing at me, as if afraid the system would back out a second later. In that moment, colder than the operating room lights, was my heart. I didn’t even have time to protest before the system’s voice sounded again: [Contract generated. Phase one: Restore Clara Thorne’s critical life signs. Requires Nina Thorne’s first life sacrifice.] [Execution method: Suffocation.] [Executor: Declan Martin.] I was frozen, backing away involuntarily. “Declan, listen to me, the system is nonsense, don’t believe its lies, don’t…” But Declan was beyond my pleas. His eyes were bloodshot, stained with an almost insane stubbornness. “Nina…” He walked towards me step by step, cornering me against the wall. “I’m sorry.” He reached out and choked me. Suffocation instantly overwhelmed me. I struggled desperately, looking at his face so close to mine. Tears streamed from his eyes, and he choked out, “I can’t lose Clara… I truly can’t…” My mouth was open, but no sound came out. My vision began to blur, and the air was sucked from my lungs. I stared fixedly at him. I wanted to ask, why me? Declan seemed to understand my gaze; he avoided my eyes. “The system chose you. This is your fate.” He didn’t dare look into my eyes, only increasing the force of his hands. That was my first death, accompanied by his tears and that fleeting ‘I’m sorry.’ When I woke up, I found myself in my bed at home. Declan was sitting on the edge of the bed, gazing at me gently, as if the person who had strangled me last night was just a hallucination. At the time, I still harbored a foolish hope, believing it was just a nightmare. Until a few days later, news came that Clara was out of danger. And the system’s voice sounded again, reminding Declan that Clara’s body still needed subsequent life force maintenance, requiring a second sacrifice. This time, it was in our basement. He tied me to a chair and turned on the gas valve. His hands still trembled slightly, but his gaze was already much calmer. And later. The third time, he drove me to the beach, then crashed me into the sea. The fourth time, he poisoned my dinner. The fifth time, he pushed me from the top floor of the company, making it look like a suicide. … The twentieth time… The fiftieth time… His actions became more practiced, his eyes growing colder. From an initial apology, to later silence, and now to outright impatience. Each sacrifice’s reason was connected to Clara’s condition. “Clara’s heart is rejecting, needs life force to suppress it.” “Clara has a lung infection, needs life force to purify it.” “Clara needs stronger life force to fully stabilize…” And I was the sacrifice providing that life force. Ninety-nine times, like a curse, etched into my soul. I couldn’t break free, couldn’t escape. I could only hope to quickly complete these ninety-nine tasks, and finally be free… 3 On the tenth day after the ninety-eighth death, according to the usual pattern, Clara’s body was due for another small setback. Declan should also have received the system’s mission notification. The ninety-ninth time was almost upon me. I even started preparing in advance. I checked the gas pipes in the basement to ensure they were clear, loosened the screws on the balcony railing, and sharpened a dagger. This was so that if he found it inconvenient to act, I wouldn’t have to struggle fiercely and suffer more before I died. After doing all this, I looked at the withered flowers on the balcony, and for some reason, tears blurred my eyes. This was once the garden he and I had built together. But now it was somber and lifeless. I simply pulled out all the roses by their roots, threw them all away, along with all my personal belongings, discarding everything. Anyway, there was only one more time, and I would be free. Better to leave cleanly, without a trace. He returned, smelling of alcohol. Seeing the unusually empty and neat house, he was momentarily taken aback. “That dress… I remember you were as happy as a child when you received that gift.” I gazed at the brief moment of tenderness in his eyes, feeling a strange sense of unreality. The light blue dress I was wearing was indeed the first gift he had given me. Back then, he wasn’t yet the monster who would cruelly murder me for his beloved. “Really? I don’t remember.” “Nina, are you still sulking?” “Can’t you be a little more sensible? Clara only gets one life, and you’ve died ninety-eight times and you’re fine, aren’t you? One more time won’t matter.” “Just one more time. Once Clara fully recovers, I’ll compensate you properly. Then, whatever you want to do, I’ll be there with you.” Ha, how ridiculous. “Declan Martin, how can you kill someone ninety-eight times and still remain so unfazed, without a flicker of guilt?” I calmly threw the ring he gave me when we got married out the window. Watching the sparkling diamond disappear from sight, Declan suddenly felt a strange unease. Ninety-eight times, and Nina had never thrown away their wedding ring, but today she was so uncharacteristically defiant. He suddenly felt an emptiness in his heart, as if something important was being stripped from his life. He didn’t seem as decisive as he had been in the previous ninety-eight times he killed me. “Nina, maybe there’s another way to save Clara…” “It’s already the last time. You’re saying this now? It’s too late.” My unusual calmness unsettled him. He suddenly took a step forward, grabbing my wrist, staring intently into my eyes. “The last time. Do it.” He didn’t make a move, just impatiently tore off his tie and threw it on the floor. His grip on my hand was painfully tight. “Are you really so willing to die?” His voice held a hidden mix of reluctance and frenzy. I suddenly laughed. What was he so reluctant about? Three years ago, the first time he choked me, I begged, I questioned. I asked him why me, what our relationship meant, pleaded with him to let me go. But his eyes only saw Clara. Later, I tried to escape, to get away from them, away from this damned system! Yet no matter where I fled, even overseas, Declan would find me, bringing me back to this cage-like home. He wouldn’t allow me to leave without his permission, as I was tied to Clara’s health and the Martin family’s decade of kindness to me. So I compromised. At first, I still held onto hope, even if it wasn’t love, even if it was for that tiny bit of childhood sweetheart affection, hoping he might show me some pity. But now, with over ninety deaths accumulated, those questions, tears, and affection had long since vanished. 4 Seeing Nina in such a stubborn, broken state, Declan’s heart suddenly felt like it was crushed by a massive stone, muffled, unable to breathe. Just as he was about to say something more, the door suddenly opened. It was Clara. She wore a pristine white dress, her face flushed with health, looking perfectly recovered. Seeing the argument between Declan and me, she walked over in her high heels, gently removing Declan’s hand from my wrist, and softly whined, “Declan, don’t be so rough. Girls need to be cherished.” Then, with a radiant smile, she looked at me: “Nina, please don’t be angry with Declan, don’t blame him. Blame me instead.” “It’s all because of my poor health that Declan showed me more care. But don’t worry, he and I are just old school friends. I would never disrupt your relationship.” “And thank you for always taking care of Declan. He always tells me how wonderful you are. You two must stay strong together.” Seeing the irrepressible triumph in her eyes, I only felt cynical. Her words on my phone, “the unloved one is the home-wrecker,” were still fresh in my memory. What was she trying to act out for me? Declan, however, was blind. With his darling by his side, his gaze instantly softened. He gently brushed a stray strand of hair from Clara’s forehead, his tone a tenderness I had never heard: “Silly girl, why aren’t you resting at the sanatorium? What are you doing coming to find me in this cold wind?” Clara clutched her chest, her voice faint: “Declan, I… I feel a little tight in my chest. I couldn’t bear it anymore, so I asked the driver to bring me to you.” “I… I was just afraid I wouldn’t see you one last time.” This act, performed ninety-nine times, still didn’t tire Declan. But I was already scarred and exhausted, and I refused to play along any longer. I picked up the dagger I had prepared, placed it against my neck closest to the carotid artery, and gave him one last look. “Declan Martin, from this moment on, we are even.” Under Declan’s horrified gaze, I plunged the blade. The instant the knife sliced through my skin, blood spurted. Declan immediately flung Clara aside, rushing towards me, utterly desperate. I even saw a flicker of panic in his eyes. “No!” The system’s mechanical voice sounded again: [Contract complete.] [Target Clara Thorne’s life signs permanently stabilized.] Declan, congratulations. Your Clara is finally fully recovered. And I, at last, am free.

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I suddenly found myself in a world ten years in the future, adrift and disoriented on the streets. Instinctively, I headed for the villa belonging to Garrison Bale, my childhood friend. The door opened, revealing a cold-faced child who stood there and told me, “Go away. Don’t even think about pretending to be my mother.” I froze, still trying to grasp what was happening, when I noticed scrolling comments—the kind you see on online videos—floating in my vision. One comment read: “This ‘Player’ is too dumb. The kid’s already been successfully ‘captured’ by someone else, and she just shows up?” Another mentioned: “The other Player perfectly replicated the deceased wife, Natalie Reed, even down to all her memories. She’s probably sipping coffee in the villa right now.” And a warning: “The male lead, Garrison Bale, is on a plane heading back. This Player should run; the last person who tried to impersonate his wife? The grass on her grave is already two feet high.” I stared at these comments, slowly piecing things together until I finally understood a few things. First, Garrison and Natalie had married and had a child. Second, Natalie had died at the age of thirty. Third, there were these so-called “Players” attempting to “capture” Garrison. But they all had it wrong. I wasn’t some Player. I was twenty-one-year-old Natalie Reed. 1 Of all these revelations, the hardest to accept was this: Why did I die so young, at thirty? Even if I somehow went back to my own time, I would only have nine years left to live. Definitely not good news. So I bent down, earnestly addressing the child in front of me: “Um, how did your mother die?” When he didn’t respond, I pressed on: “Accident? Illness? Or… murder?” His brow twitched a few times, his face growing even fouler. Then, with a CRACK, the door slammed shut. I paused, a dawning confusion washing over me. Maybe that was a bit too blunt. A sharp pain suddenly shot through the sole of my foot. I slowly walked to the villa’s front steps and sat down, examining my foot. There was a cut, bleeding slightly, from a piece of gravel. Having walked three miles barefoot, it was probably unavoidable. I must have been sleeping in my dorm room when I transitioned. I woke up to find myself on a park bench, dressed in my pajamas, with no money, no phone, not even shoes. Fortunately, the park was close to the Bale’ villa. And for many years in the past, I had lived in the Bale’ villa and visited this park. That’s why I came directly to knock on the door. I just hadn’t expected… this scenario. The comments continued to scroll: [I can’t with this Player, she’s so funny.] [Son: Constantly provoking.] [She showed up in pajamas, looking so disheveled. Sister, put some effort into your job.] [Out of all the Players, the son only opened the door for the one who perfectly replicated his mother, the one currently inside.] [Pajama Lady, give up. You can’t even get through the Bale’ door. When the male lead returns, your life will be at stake.] Actually, I didn’t desperately want to go inside. I just wanted to see Garrison. I wanted to know what had happened to us over these ten years. But the next second, the door behind me opened again. The child still had a cold expression. “You, come in.” 2 I was puzzled. The comments were also puzzled. [What does this mean? Why did he let Pajama Lady in?] [Maybe he saw her and was reminded of his mother when she was younger? But there have been other Players like that before!] [Ahhh! She just walked in without wiping her feet! Doesn’t the son have mysophobia?] I glanced at my dirty feet. Quietly, I retreated to the rug in the foyer. The child, however, said nothing. He simply took out a pair of grey slippers from the shoe cabinet. As he handed them to me, he noticed the bloodstain by my foot and visibly winched. “So dirty.” “…” What have I given birth to? This kid’s temper was awful. Not like me, not like Garrison. I slipped on the slippers and walked into the living room. Immediately, I came face to face with a very familiar countenance. My own face. But it looked much more mature, bearing the marks of time. She tilted her head, a soft smile playing on her lips. “Are you… a Player? Please leave. Now that I’m back, there’s no need for your futile efforts.” I didn’t reply, simply studying her. Studying this “me” from ten years in the future. The child also remained silent, finding a first-aid kit and handing it to me. He pointed at my foot. “Clean that up.” My heart softened a little. I took the first-aid kit and thanked him. “Thank you. What’s your name?” His eyes dimmed, as if with disappointment. “Adam.” After that, he returned to the sofa, busying himself with his phone, not looking at me again. The Player also seemed to relax, settling comfortably beside Adam, smiling at me. “Next time, maybe do your homework before you come.” She peeled an orange and handed it to Adam, who naturally took it and put it in his mouth. Mother and son, harmonious. 3 I took the first-aid kit to the bathroom to clean my wound. The comments were laughing hard. [LOL, Pajama Lady doesn’t even know the kid’s name. What kind of people does the system find?] [The kid must be speechless. Never seen such a useless Player.] [Pajama Lady, be smart and leave. You can’t compare to even a single strand of hair on Replica Sister. When she arrived, the kid almost cried.] [Just waiting for the male lead. He’ll be here in half an hour. He’ll definitely choose Replica Sister too when he sees both Players.] [I bet on Replica Sister.] [You bet, I bet too. I bet Replica Sister ten coconut lattes.] [Agree!] [Also agree with the above.] … I couldn’t blame them. Even I wasn’t very confident. After all, Adam was practically a stranger to me. His personality, his preferences—I knew nothing. I hadn’t even imagined I would end up with Garrison. And certainly not that we’d have a child. He and I were just too different. 4 To be perfectly clear, Garrison and I were childhood friends. Or perhaps, “young master and bodyguard” would be more accurate. I was naturally strong, developing faster than my peers. When I was six, Garrison visited our orphanage during a kindergarten charity event. He was almost kidnapped, stuffed into a sack, but I saved his life. Garrison’s parents subsequently adopted me. But not into the Bale family directly. I was adopted under the name of the Bale’ housekeeper. It saved face and didn’t waste too many resources. So I moved into the Bale’ staff quarters. On my first night there, Garrison and I officially met. His face was pale and sickly, his features delicate, making him look almost androgynous. Seemingly harmless, his mouth, however, was sharp. “Oh my goodness! I wished for a gentle, cute sister! Why are you here?” I actually wanted to punch him. But being dependent on them, I could only feign obedience, smiling sweetly. “No, I’m not your sister.” I was just his bodyguard. Garrison was a premature baby, born with an underdeveloped heart valve. To live a normal, healthy life, he would need a valve replacement as an adult. Until then, he remained very frail and needed protection. And I was the best candidate. Later, Garrison and I grew up together. Wherever he went, I followed. I was also trained in various martial arts, winning numerous championships along the way. In Garrison’s senior year of high school, he must have been in an early relationship. As rivals, he got into a conflict with another wealthy young man. When I arrived, Garrison had just fallen to the ground. The wealthy young man frantically waved his hands. “He threw the first punch! Really! Everyone saw it! I dodged, he missed, and just fell over!” “…” Though it sounded absurd, for Garrison, it was perfectly normal. I carried Garrison on my back and turned to leave. Behind me, the other boy was still muttering, “I just casually asked if they’d gone all the way. Was it really necessary? She was already…” I walked further away, not quite catching the rest of his words. On the way to the infirmary, Garrison lay on my shoulder, uncharacteristically silent. Finally, he managed to blurt out: “I’m sorry, Natalie. Am I a lot of trouble?” It was the first time he’d smiled so weakly. “You’ve always protected me. I feel like I’ve never done anything for you.” My footsteps faltered slightly. I wanted to say that’s not true. Garrison had also done a lot for Natalie. He would pretend to have no appetite, bringing his nutritious meals back to the room and feeding them all to me. He would insist, in my early teenage years, that I should have the right to lock my own room. He would cancel pre-arranged dates when I had my period, deliberately staying in so I wouldn’t have to endure the pain of going out. I wanted to say, you really did so much. So much that I’ve developed feelings I shouldn’t have for you. But the words that came out were different. “Yeah, you did. If it weren’t for you, I’d still be in the orphanage, and I wouldn’t have gotten into such a good school. Besides, aren’t you having surgery soon? You won’t need me after that.” Garrison fell silent again. This time, the silence stretched on for a very long time. It wasn’t until the school nurse finished examining him and confirmed nothing serious was wrong that he suddenly spoke. “Natalie, which university are you planning to go to?” A baffling question. Through the white privacy curtain, I couldn’t see Garrison’s expression, couldn’t guess his reason for asking. I ended up lying. I casually mentioned a university up north, but in the end, I went south. 5 Later, during my university years, Garrison came to find me once. But we parted on bad terms. After that, I heard he went abroad. We lost all contact. And now, there was Adam. And I was dead. What had truly happened in those ten years? What were these “male lead,” “system,” and “Players” all about? Could they be connected to my death? … I splashed water on my face; a cool rush instantly permeated my skin, waking me up. No matter what, I had to see Garrison first. If even he didn’t recognize me, then I’d make other plans. With that thought, I exited the bathroom, only to find the living room filled with fierce-looking security guards. They clearly intended to escort me out. The Player remained seated on the sofa, maintaining the demeanor of a hostess. “Now that everything is handled, please leave.” I didn’t agree. “Garrison will be here soon. I need to see him.” She sighed, as if regretting the next step. “Then don’t blame us for getting rough.” At her words, the security guards prepared to rush me. “Wait!” It was Adam. He stood up, looking at me, his small face serious. “Wait until Dad gets back to decide.” It had to be his own son. I felt a surge of emotion, about to speak, but the Player cut me off. She knelt, meeting Adam’s gaze, her expression pained. “Have you forgotten how Mom died?” Adam froze, a conflicted, hesitant expression appearing on his face for the first time. “I’m sorry…” He didn’t finish. But I was curious. “How did I… how did you die?” Regardless of whether I’d get an answer, any delay was a win. As I asked, I saw a fleeting look of disdain in the Player’s eyes. But quickly, she resumed her facade, patiently coaxing Adam. “See? She doesn’t even know how Mom died. How could she be real? Adam, you’ve always been a smart boy. You can tell the difference this time, right?” Adam looked at me deeply, the hope in his eyes completely extinguished. A moment later, he murmured, “You should go.” An inexplicable dull ache settled in my heart. 6 The security guards immediately surrounded me. The comments were also mocking me. [She doesn’t even know the cause of death. Pajama Lady, stop daydreaming.] [Replica Sister is so smart. She knows the cause of death is a hurdle the son can’t get over, so she used it to stop him.] [Speaking of the ex-wife’s death, it was truly tragic. Otherwise, why would the male lead have become so dark?] [I don’t understand why the son is hesitating. Shouldn’t he just kick Pajama Lady out? She’s been full of holes for a while.] [Actually, being dragged out by security is the good outcome. If the male lead arrives, it won’t be so simple.] I really wanted to know my cause of death. Yet, among all those comments, not one clearly explained it; they were all betting on how quickly I’d be thrown out. Too bad, I was about to disappoint them. I braced myself for the security guards’ attack. Just as I was about to punch one of them in the jaw, a deep, cold male voice suddenly cut through the air from the doorway. “What’s going on?” The chaos in the room immediately ceased. The security guards all turned to look back, allowing me to see the man as well. He was dressed in black, dusty from travel, his face a healthy pale, his features much sharper now. His gaze swept over everyone in the room. When he saw the Player who looked exactly like me, he paused slightly. But finally, his eyes locked firmly on me. A myriad of emotions swirled in his gaze. Shock, doubt, disbelief, regret, grief… And the wild joy of finding something lost and recovered. After a brief staredown, Garrison suddenly strode over and grabbed my wrist, his voice hoarse with a trembling intensity. “Natalie? Is that you?”

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1 “Sis, can I come over tonight?” Caleb’s strong arms wrapped around my waist, pinning me. He buried his head in the crook of my neck, deliberately lowering his voice to a playful whine. I chuckled, patting his back: “Next time.” Caleb lifted his head, his wounded gaze expressing his displeasure. “When’s next time? Tomorrow or next year?” I was about to answer when my peripheral vision caught sight of a black car stopped at the intersection, waiting for the green light. I nudged Caleb’s shoulder: “Be a good boy, let go. My husband’s here to pick me up.” … “You owe me a big one next time, Sis.” Caleb huffed lightly, reluctantly releasing me. “Mm, get going.” With that, I subtly widened the distance between us. Under my urging gaze, Caleb left, glancing back every few steps. No sooner had he gone than Adrian pulled up. Adrian seemed to have witnessed my interaction with Caleb. His face was somber as he asked, “Who was that? Fiona, are you two close?” My expression remained unchanged: “Just a colleague.” “Really?” Adrian remained suspicious but didn’t press further. It seemed he hadn’t seen Caleb and me embracing. I inexplicably breathed a sigh of relief. “Fiona, guess what I brought for you?” A sweet aroma wafted towards me. I looked down to see Adrian holding a bag of my favorite roasted chestnuts. He peeled one open and popped it into my mouth: “Good?” I nodded, savoring the sweet, soft chestnut melting in my mouth. A warm cup of milk tea was suddenly placed in my hand, dispelling the chill from my body. Adrian led me to the car, thoughtfully opening the door for me. He never allowed anyone to eat in his car; I was the sole exception. Adrian drove, not forgetting to spare me some attention. “Fiona, tomorrow is our tenth anniversary. Is there anywhere you’d like to go?” I leaned against the car window. Hearing his words, I was momentarily lost in thought. So, we’d been together for ten years. Adrian was incredibly good to me. He woke up at 5:30 every morning, just to make me breakfast. No matter how busy he was, he would pick me up from and drop me off at work. He sent me flowers every week, each bouquet meticulously chosen by him. He never missed any anniversary. Yet, this seemingly perfect husband had already cheated. In our seventh year of marriage. Adrian, the cheater, showed no signs of abnormality. He continued to care for me meticulously, treating me well. If I hadn’t seen that message three years ago. Every winter, my hands and feet would be ice cold, no matter how many layers I wore, I couldn’t get warm. Adrian bought over a dozen hot water bottles and placed them on the bed. Since the hot water bottles couldn’t stay warm all night, Adrian set alarms. As soon as an alarm went off, he would crawl out of our warm bed to refill them with hot water. Two years ago, Adrian was busy day and night striving for a professorship, yet still worried about me in the evenings. I couldn’t bear it. I quietly turned off his alarm and tiptoed out of the room. I intended to boil and change the water myself, but an accident occurred. The kettle suddenly burst, and Adrian, startled awake from his sleep, saw the messy scene. He trembled as he rushed me, scalded, to the hospital. I was diagnosed with second-degree burns. Thirty-year-old Adrian lay by my hospital bed, crying without a shred of self-consciousness. “Fiona, does it hurt? Why didn’t you call me to change the water? I’d rather it was me who got burned.” I chuckled, wiping away his tears, my voice hoarse: “It doesn’t hurt.” He refused to go to school, taking a full month off. He stayed by my side all day, changing my clothes, applying medicine. Even when I had to use the restroom, he would carefully carry me, afraid of hurting me. He knew I valued my appearance, so to prevent scars, he started researching beauty broths. Seeing the dark circles under his eyes, I felt nothing but heartache. It seemed I only ever caused him trouble. I forcibly pulled him onto the bed, and under his surprised gaze, I lifted my hand to cover his eyes: “Get some sleep.” He was exhausted and soon drifted off to sleep. His phone, carelessly left on the nightstand, suddenly lit up. I initially didn’t want to bother, but the screen lit up several times in a row. All of Adrian’s passwords were related to me. I just didn’t expect Adrian’s phone to have two separate spaces. As soon as I unlocked the phone, a message popped up. Chloe: [I learned a new trick. Coming over tonight?] My head buzzed, my body tensed like stone. What did this mean? I swiped up, and photos of a girl in skimpy lingerie filled my vision. The girl was Adrian’s student. Her chat history with Adrian was explicit. So, even Adrian, a man so traditional and rule-bound, could flirt. I saw a different Adrian. Dominant, assertive, fiercely possessive. But not towards me. My mind was a blank. Cold sweat streamed down my back, soaking my clothes. What should I do? I was a coward. I dared not wake Adrian and demand an explanation. I was afraid of losing him. I prayed and waited for Adrian to cut ties with the girl on his own. This wait lasted two years. By the third year, I couldn’t wait anymore. “Fiona, Fiona, what are you thinking about?” The car had stopped at some point. Adrian wiggled a finger in front of my eyes. I snapped back, answering his question: “I’m just tired. Let’s just celebrate our anniversary at home.” Adrian never contradicted me, never disappointed me. Even celebrating at home, Adrian’s anniversary preparations were perfect. Gifts, flowers, candlelight dinner—nothing was missed. Adrian placed the sliced steak onto my plate. He sought praise: “Fiona, have my cooking skills improved? Shouldn’t I get a reward?” He gently tapped his cheek with his index finger. The candlelight flickered, dancing on his jade-like face, just as when we first met. The first time Adrian cooked for me, he couldn’t tell the difference between chives and green onions. But that day, his braised fish was truly delicious. I remembered it for a very, very long time, and still haven’t forgotten. If I could, I wanted to eat his cooking for the rest of my life. Adrian saw I wasn’t moving, so he proactively moved closer to me, pressing a kiss on my cheek. Our noses touched; I could even feel his breath. “Fiona, am I not attractive to you anymore? You’re always spaced out lately.” Hearing his jocular words, Caleb’s face inexplicably popped into my mind. Caleb was very similar to him, yet different. Caleb was just as thoughtful, just as gentle with me. But Caleb would get jealous, would act playful. I had never felt these emotions from Adrian. A sudden, jarring ringtone broke my thoughts. 2 Adrian glanced at the caller ID and hastily hung up. His actions were quick, but I saw his reluctance and hesitation. The only person who could make Adrian show a different expression was Chloe. “If it’s an important call, just take it.” Adrian shook his head: “Today is our anniversary. Nothing is more important than being with you.” Since he himself refused, I said nothing further. But the phone’s ringtone, like a death knell, repeatedly interrupted Adrian’s and my conversation. I grew a little annoyed: “Just answer it.” Adrian gave me an apologetic look, then hurried to the balcony and picked up the call. I didn’t know what Chloe said to him, but his eyes changed instantly, seeming sharp yet also intrigued. A quarter of an hour later, Adrian returned. He stood before me, full of remorse: “Fiona, something came up at school. I have to go.” I toyed with the phone in my pocket, asking, “Will you be back tonight?” Adrian looked troubled: “I don’t know when I’ll be able to finish. If I don’t come back tonight, you should go to sleep first.” With that, he gently kissed my forehead. “Okay.” Having received my answer, he left in a hurry. I didn’t actually care if he came back or not; I just wanted to confirm. Because Caleb had texted me. He said he wanted to take me on a date. When I got home, Adrian hadn’t returned yet. He came back from outside after I had taken a shower. He must have drunk a lot, his eyes hazy. Seeing me, his lips immediately curved upwards, and he flung himself at me, his voice tender: “Fiona, I miss you so much.” If he didn’t reek of cloying perfume, his words would be more convincing. Adrian clearly realized this too, immediately springing up from me, hastily explaining. “Fiona, don’t misunderstand, the smell on me…” He stared fixedly at my neck, pointing at a red mark there, and asked through gritted teeth, “What’s this?!” I instinctively raised my hand to touch it; it was probably just a lipstick stain I accidentally brushed on. But my expression was calm, as if this was just a trivial matter: “It’s a hickey. Don’t you recognize it?” It was the first time I had ever seen Adrian wear a “the sky is falling” expression. It was both novel and amusing. I brushed over the spot: “Is it that strange? Adrian, haven’t you done these things to Chloe too?” Adrian felt as if his neck was tightly squeezed by a pair of large hands. He forced a sentence through gritted teeth: “You… you knew?” “Mm.” Adrian visibly panicked: “When?” His trembling pupils told me he was afraid. I revealed the truth: “Three years ago, when you and she first got entangled, I knew.” Adrian suddenly remembered something. Three years ago, when Chloe texted him, why did he read it but not reply? He thought he had simply forgotten to reply, but it turned out I had seen it. I asked: “I showed no abnormalities, so you thought I hadn’t found out, right?” No one knew how heartbroken I was then. My heart felt as if it had been ripped from my body, a living hell. Yet I had to hide my emotions, so Adrian wouldn’t discover them. Three years had almost worn away all my love and hatred. I didn’t want to continue like this. “Adrian, let’s get a divorce.” Adrian could no longer maintain his usual gentle demeanor; he practically roared, “I don’t agree!” I couldn’t help but frown: “Then can you break it off with Chloe?” Adrian hesitated. I gave him a knowing look: “See? You can’t let her go, Adrian. Your heart isn’t with me anymore.” “I just…” Adrian tried to explain, but I cut him off. “Adrian, do you know? Chloe actually came to see me.” That conversation with Chloe was what made me truly decide to let go of Adrian.

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Three years ago, I packed my bags, divorced, severed all ties with that family, and fled the country. This year, on this solemn day of remembrance, I quietly returned home. The cemetery was stiflingly silent. I walked to an inconspicuous little headstone and laid a small bouquet of white daisies on the grass. This was my child’s grave. Today marked three years since he left, and I had flown across oceans specifically to see him. As I turned to leave, I unexpectedly ran into three people. It was my brother, Tristan, whom I hadn’t spoken to in three years, and my ex-husband, Garrison, who had hated me for just as long. Between them, they shielded my stepsister, Ramona. They clearly hadn’t expected to encounter me here; they all froze. I twisted my lips into a self-mocking smile, intending to walk past them. But my brother stepped forward, blocking my path, and loudly demanded how I dared show my face here to visit Mom’s grave. They all believed I had returned to pay my respects to our deceased mother. In truth, I hadn’t come back for any kind of reunion, and certainly not for her. Ignoring his taunts, I continued on my way. 1 Tristan’s broad frame squarely blocked the path down the hill. He glared at me, his disgust unconcealed. “Cat got your tongue, Giselle?” Tristan’s voice sharpened, echoing on the desolate mountain road. Ramona tugged at Tristan’s sleeve, shaking her head gently. “Tristan, don’t push her.” Always the saint, always playing the part of understanding and considerate. Garrison stood to the side, his dark, seemingly bottomless eyes fixed on my face. Three years apart, he was still forbiddingly stern, but his gaze, when it met mine, was as cold as if I were a complete stranger. “Go to Mom’s grave and kneel to apologize,” Tristan insisted, unyielding. “Ramona’s leg is ruined because of you. Mom, in the afterlife, would never forgive you.” I stopped, meeting Tristan’s eyes directly. “I didn’t push her.” I had repeated that truth countless times, but no one had ever believed me. Tristan let out a cold laugh. “The stairwell camera was broken. It was just you and Ramona there. She fell, bleeding profusely, her leg shattered, and you didn’t even call for an ambulance before running off. What else could that be but a guilty conscience?” I turned my head to look at Ramona. She flinched, retreating timidly behind Garrison, dragging her slightly limping leg. Garrison instinctively shielded her, his brow furrowed deeply. “Giselle, drop that haughty act,” Garrison finally spoke, his voice cutting like an ice blade through the air. I didn’t retort. I just felt tired, so tired even breathing was a struggle. That day, I had bled so much, a stream running down my thigh to my ankle. The agonizing cramps in my abdomen shredded my sanity; all I could think about was saving my child. I couldn’t spare a thought for Ramona, who had fallen down the stairs. I had no time to defend myself. “Move aside, I’m going down the mountain,” I said, pulling my trench coat tighter. Rain began to fall, fine streaks chilling my face. Tristan was about to erupt again, but Garrison stopped him. “The paperwork isn’t finished,” Garrison stated, fixing his gaze on me. “The transfer documents for the downtown apartment. You’ve dragged your feet for three years.” That had been our marital home. I’d signed the divorce papers without a second thought, but the property transfer had remained undone. Not because I was reluctant to let it go, but because back then, I simply had no energy left for material possessions. “I’ll meet you at the law firm tomorrow,” I said, bypassing them and continuing down the path. The rain intensified. Without an umbrella, I could only quicken my pace. My wrist was suddenly seized by a strong grip. Garrison, holding a black umbrella, caught up to me in long strides. “My car’s at the bottom of the hill. Get in,” he commanded, his tone unyielding. I tried to pull my hand away. “No thanks, I’ve called a ride.” His grip tightened, knuckles white. “You won’t find a ride here. Do you want to die on this mountain road?” Tristan and Ramona had also approached; he held another umbrella over Ramona’s head. The three of them looked like a proper family. I stopped struggling, letting Garrison pull me towards his black Maybach. The car door shut, sealing off the cold rain outside. The air inside the car was suffocating. I sat in the back. Garrison took the driver’s seat. Ramona, naturally, opened the front passenger door and settled in. 2 The car started, smoothly easing onto the winding mountain road. No one spoke, the atmosphere thick with awkward tension. Ramona turned on the car stereo, casually selecting a soothing piano piece. Garrison used to only listen to financial news when he drove. Now, he’d even changed his habits for her. “Sister, are you leaving again after this trip?” Ramona asked, looking at me through the rearview mirror. “I’ll leave once the paperwork is done,” I replied, staring at the blurry rain outside the window, my voice flat. Ramona seemed to let out a quiet sigh of relief. “Garrison and I are having our engagement party next month,” she murmured. I turned my head, my gaze falling on Garrison’s profile. He drove with a poker face, offering no denial. “Congratulations,” I said, two words devoid of warmth. Garrison slammed on the brakes! Tires screeched on the wet road. Ramona gasped, clutching her chest. “What is it, Garrison?” Garrison pressed the accelerator again, his voice tight. “A stray cat ran out.” A nauseating wave of sickness rolled in my stomach. The long flight, coupled with the recent cold rain, was taking its toll on my already fragile body. I closed my eyes, fighting down the urge to vomit. Images of my mother’s final moments involuntarily flashed in my mind. Mom had been sick for a long time. In her last few months, it was Tristan and Ramona who attended to her bedside in the hospital. I hadn’t even seen her one last time, because the day her critical condition notice was issued, I was on an operating table in another hospital. A massive hemorrhage during my abortion, and I was barely clinging to life myself. Everyone assumed Mom would leave her inheritance to Tristan, who had cared for her day and night. But Mom understood everything, and she loved me most. Before she passed, she hired a lawyer and left all her life’s savings to me. The lawyer handed me a voice recorder. Inside were her last words for me. “Giselle, take this money and stay far away from them. Mom knows you couldn’t be there; Mom doesn’t blame you. Mom just hopes you can live for yourself from now on.” After Tristan learned of the will, he smashed everything he could in the hospital corridor, believing Mom had been utterly biased. He told everyone I was a cold-blooded monster, who hadn’t even bothered to visit my dying mother, yet selfishly took all the assets and fled. From then on, he brought Ramona back to the family estate, treating her as his only real sister, as compensation. And I became the undeniable villain of the family. “Sister, are you carsick?” Ramona’s voice pulled me back to reality. I opened my eyes, the cramps in my stomach intensifying. “No,” I forced out, enduring the pain. The car finally stopped in front of the family estate. I pushed open the door and stepped out, a cold draft swirling down my collar, making me shiver. Tristan’s car had also arrived. He parked and walked towards me. “Grab your things and get out. Don’t dirty the house,” Tristan’s eyes were still like daggers. I said nothing, walking directly into the old house. The furnishings were exactly as they had been three years ago. I followed my memory up to the study on the second floor. Garrison followed behind me, his footsteps heavy. The study door creaked open, and the stale smell of old paper and ink washed over me. Garrison walked to the safe, inputting the code. It was Ramona’s birthday. The safe opened. He took out a thick stack of documents and held them out to me. “Sign these, and that apartment will have nothing to do with you anymore.” I took the pen. Without looking at the contents, I flipped directly to the last page. 3 The pen tip scratched softly across the paper. “You’re not even going to look at it?” Garrison suddenly spoke, a hint of irritation in his tone. I finished signing and pushed the documents back to him. “There’s nothing to see. I’m leaving with nothing.” Garrison stared at the signature on the papers, his brow furrowed. “Three years. What are you playing at, being so high and mighty now?” I didn’t reply, turning instead to search for my passport, which I had left behind. I pulled open a drawer; inside lay a wooden jewelry box. I opened the box, and my passport rested quietly at the very bottom. Next to the passport, nestled beneath it, was a delicate sterling silver longevity lock. Three years ago, I had personally sought out a priest at the cathedral to bless it for my baby. I had planned to put it on him myself once he was born. I quickly snapped the lid shut and shoved the box into my bag. My movements were clumsy, knocking over the pen holder on the desk. The pen holder clattered to the floor, making a sharp sound. Garrison walked over, bending to pick up the pen holder. His gaze lingered on my bag for a moment. “What did you take?” he asked. “My personal belongings,” I said, zipping my bag shut. Garrison took a step closer, his tall frame exuding an intense pressure. “Giselle, what exactly are you hiding?” I looked up, meeting his eyes directly. “Mr. Garrison, we’re divorced. I’m not obligated to report my private matters to you.” Garrison’s face darkened. “You left so decisively back then, without a single explanation.” “Explanation for what?” I retorted. “To explain that I didn’t push Ramona, or to explain that I don’t need your charity?” “Why are you always so prickly?” Garrison gritted his teeth. “Ramona was crippled because of you back then. If you had just swallowed your pride and apologized, I could have saved you.” I found it utterly laughable. “Why should I apologize for something I didn’t do?” The study door opened, and Ramona walked in, carrying two steaming cups of tea. “Garrison, Sister, have some tea to warm up.” She walked between us, skillfully diffusing the tense atmosphere. Garrison stepped back half a pace and took a teacup. I didn’t take one. “I’m not thirsty. The paperwork is done; I’m leaving.” I picked up my bag, walked past Ramona, and headed for the door. “Sister,” Ramona called out to me. I stopped. “This study, Tristan said he’s turning it into my music room,” Ramona said, looking at me with a subtle hint of triumph. I glanced around the room where I had spent ten years. “Suit yourselves.” I left the study, walking down the hallway towards the stairwell. Tristan stood at the landing, smoking. In the hazy smoke, his expression was shadowed and unreadable. “In such a hurry to leave? Afraid to face Ramona?” Tristan stubbed out his cigarette. I stopped in front of him. “Tristan, do you truly believe that Ramona’s leg was my fault?” Tristan scoffed. “Who else could it be but you?” I looked at him, speaking flatly, “Tristan, we are blood relatives, brother and sister.” “Then where were you when Mom passed away?” When I touched a raw nerve, Tristan didn’t back down. I opened my mouth, but decided against wasting more words on him. Outside, the rain intensified, strong winds whipping raindrops against the glass. I walked to the foyer, preparing to change my shoes and leave, but the butler stopped me. “Miss Giselle, the roads outside are closed due to the storm. It seems you won’t be able to leave tonight.” I looked at the pitch-black night and the raging storm outside, my spirits sinking to rock bottom. Garrison carefully helped Ramona down the stairs. “Since you can’t leave, stay the night,” Garrison stated. Tristan frowned but didn’t object. At dinner, the atmosphere in the dining room was suffocating. The long dining table was laden with rich dishes, most of them Ramona’s favorite seafood. I quietly picked at the greens on my plate. Ramona picked up a piece of fish, but it slipped from her grasp just as she brought it to her mouth, falling onto the table. She bit her lip in annoyance. Garrison naturally picked up the serving tongs, selected another piece of fish, carefully removed the bones, and placed it in her bowl. Tristan, meanwhile, served her a bowl of hot soup. “Be careful, it’s hot.” They doted on Ramona, showering her with care. I ate my plain rice, a detached observer. 4 My stomach hurt too much, so I only ate a few bites before returning to my room. The bedroom was spotlessly clean, clearly maintained regularly. I sat on the edge of the bed, the cramps in my stomach growing more frequent. I found the painkillers in my bag and dry-swallowed two tablets. The pain eased slightly, but I still couldn’t sleep. The wind and rain outside hadn’t stopped. I leaned against the headboard, checking the time on my phone. My flight was at three tomorrow afternoon. Before that, I needed to visit the downtown hospital. After my abortion, the records of my frozen eggs and embryos were still there. I wanted to leave completely, erase every trace of myself from this place. I didn’t want any more ties to them. At 2 AM, I changed, then quietly opened my door. The hallway was pitch black, with only a faint glow from the sconce at the far end. The wind and rain had subsided a little. I used a rideshare app to call a car, paying triple the fare to finally get a driver. I opened my umbrella and walked out into the rainy night. The hospital corridor reeked of harsh disinfectant. In the dead of night, only the on-call doctor was in the archives office. I handed over my identification and application form. The doctor skimmed through my file, his brows gradually furrowing. “Ms. Giselle, correct?” he asked, pushing up his glasses. I nodded. “Once this destruction agreement is signed, the three frozen embryos you stored will be disposed of as medical waste,” the doctor stated matter-of-factly. “I confirm,” I said, picking up the pen from the table. The doctor sighed, pushing the agreement towards me. “Actually, you’re still young. Although that hemorrhage three years ago damaged your system, it’s not entirely hopeless.” My hand froze, the pen tip bleeding a dark blot on the paper. “No need. Just dispose of them.” I took a deep breath, quickly signing my name on the agreement. The doctor took the agreement, stamping it with a bright red “VOID” mark. “All set. You may go.” I picked up my identification and turned to leave. Just as I stepped out of the outpatient building, I saw that familiar Maybach. Garrison, without an umbrella, rushed towards me in long strides. Rainwater dripped from his jawline, his face ashen. He grabbed my shoulder, his voice hoarse, barely recognizable. “What did you just sign in there?” I tried to shake off his hand. “None of your business.” Garrison’s chest heaved violently, as if breathing had become difficult. “That hemorrhage… what does that mean?” Garrison stared into my eyes, his voice trembling uncontrollably. His fingers tightened, his eyes gradually reddening. “Giselle, three years ago… were you pregnant?”

When my daughter wanted to attend the upcoming Comic-Con, I took her to a high-end specialty boutique to commission a fully custom, bespoke cosplay suit. My niece, whom I had been financially supporting for years, completely lost her mind when she found out. “You only give me a thousand bucks a month for living expenses! What gives you the right to drop ten grand on a costume for her?!” “I know I am just your niece, but you do not have to be so blatantly biased!” Her jealousy reached such a boiling point that she actually barged into my daughter’s college dorm, took a pair of shears to the ten-thousand-dollar bespoke outfit, and sent me a video of the shredded fabric to gloat. “Aunt Marcia, from now on, whatever my cousin gets, I get too. Otherwise, nobody gets to be happy!” “I will forgive your blatant favoritism this time, but you owe me two hundred thousand dollars to compensate for my emotional distress.” I did not even blink. I just dialed 911. “If you cannot reimburse the exact cost of that suit, you can pay me back with jail time!” 1 Inside a premium pop-culture boutique downtown, Harper was complaining at the top of her lungs. “Aunt Marcia, I know Jennifer is super into this geeky stuff, but there is absolutely no need to buy a cosplay suit this expensive!” “It is literally just an outfit she will wear once and throw in the closet. It is a total waste of money! And look at that custom wig. It looks completely unwearable for daily life. Why is it so ridiculously overpriced?” “My sorority is hosting a formal mixer next week. I begged you to buy me a designer evening gown and you refused, but now you are dropping thousands on a costume for Jennifer? You are so incredibly biased!” “Am I really worth that much less to you than she is?” Was she actually out of her mind? I had to bite my tongue to stop myself from cursing her out right there in the store. You are not my kid. The fact that I wire you a thousand dollars every single month just so you can live comfortably on campus is a blessing. How dare you act so entitled? Harper was my older brother’s youngest daughter. Her grades were decent, and she had gotten into the same university as Jennifer. However, my brother was incredibly old-fashioned and sexist. He refused to pay for a girl to go to college, expecting her to drop out and start working. Out of pity, I stepped in and promised to cover her tuition and living expenses for all four years. A few weeks ago, Jennifer mentioned a massive Comic-Con happening at the city expo center. She really wanted to go all out as her favorite character, so I brought her to this specialty boutique. We commissioned a tailored suit, custom props, and a styled wig. The total came to just over ten thousand dollars. Today was fitting day. Harper had found out I was heading to the shopping district and shamelessly tagged along, whining that she needed a new wardrobe. The moment she heard the final price tag of the cosplay suit, her fragile ego shattered, and she launched into her bitter tirade. I stared her down, my voice icy. “How I spend my money on my own daughter is absolutely none of your business.” Harper finally realized she had crossed a line. She quickly plastered a fake, overly sweet smile on her face. “Aunt Marcia, I didn’t mean it like that. I just know how hard you work for your money! It should be spent on things that actually matter, not on disposable trash that isn’t worth the price tag!” Trash? That was actually hilarious. As long as my daughter loved it, it was the best thing in the world to me. Twenty years ago, after giving birth to Jennifer, I was trapped in a nightmare. My ex-husband, Derek, was a violent monster. I begged my own family for help, but not a single one of them lifted a finger. Derek was a chronic cheater, addicted to gambling and cheap thrills. He racked up massive debts, and whenever he came home drunk, I was his punching bag. I tried to file for divorce, but the legal battle dragged on for years. My mental health completely deteriorated. I hit rock bottom. One night, I stood on the edge of a rooftop, holding my five-year-old daughter, ready to end it all. It was Jennifer’s tiny hands cupping my bruised face that stopped me. “Mommy, please don’t die. Please don’t…” she sobbed quietly. I fell to my knees, clutching her to my chest, crying until my vision blurred. Right then and there, I swore I would build a real life for us. I packed whatever fit in a duffel bag and fled to a different city. We lived in a damp, freezing basement apartment, but we were finally free from Derek. After two years of separation, the divorce was finally finalized. The very first thing I did after getting the papers was legally change Jennifer’s last name to mine. To keep us fed, I worked a grueling office job during the day, waited tables at night, and took in piecework to do at home while Jennifer slept. She was always right by my side, a quiet, sweet child who tried to help me however she could. Whenever I felt like I was going to collapse from exhaustion, I would look at her sleeping face and find the strength to keep going. We eventually upgraded from that basement to a decent apartment, and finally, to a beautiful, fully renovated house I bought with my own money. Nobody but the two of us knew how much blood and sweat went into getting here. Now that I was finally successful, I was going to spoil my daughter and support her passions unconditionally. 2 Seeing me pull out my premium credit card, Harper frantically grabbed my arm. “Wait, Aunt Marcia, let us make a deal! One of my roommates is a huge geek too. She has a bunch of costumes she only wore once. I will make her sell one to you for half price. Then you can use the leftover cash to buy me my formal gown!” “You really need to listen to me. Buying this is a financial mistake. It is barely any fabric and it costs a fortune! A designer dress for me makes so much more sense. It is for a very important networking event!” She actually reached over, trying to snatch my card out of my hand. I violently yanked my hand back, glaring at her with a deadly warning. “First of all, this is my money, and I will burn it if I want to. Secondly, you do not have the right to belittle my daughter’s interests. And thirdly, paying for your college is a favor, not an obligation. If you overstep again, I will cut you off completely.” Seeing genuine fury in my eyes, Harper finally snapped her mouth shut. Her face darkened with resentment. She spat out a venomous “You are going to regret this,” before turning on her heel and storming out of the boutique. Truth be told, I had no love for my brother. When I was fighting for my life during my divorce, he turned a blind eye. Everything I had, I built with my own two hands. The only reason I funded Harper was because she got into the same school as Jennifer, and I genuinely pitied her. She was so young. If she dropped out to flip burgers, my brother would absolutely force her into an arranged marriage just to collect a payout. I didn’t want her trapped in the same hell I barely escaped. I wanted her to graduate, get a solid career, and live a free, independent life. Since her freshman year, I had been giving her a thousand dollars every month. I took her out to nice dinners and bought her clothes. I had easily spent over thirty thousand dollars on her just in the last couple of years. Yet, Harper was a bottomless pit of complaints. She constantly whined that her allowance was not enough. Every holiday, she expected massive cash transfers. But a quick glance at her social media told a completely different story. Her feed was flooded with pictures of designer bags, limited-edition sneakers, and luxury skincare hauls. She was constantly flying out to VIP music festivals and buying ridiculous amounts of celebrity merchandise. Her latest post was a picture of her in an expensive dress at a concert with the caption: “Youth has no price tag! Dreams are priceless! Wearing this to see my favorite boyband is worth every penny!” She was living a much more extravagant lifestyle than my own daughter. When Jennifer had first heard the price of the custom suit, she felt guilty and suggested buying a cheap knockoff online. I was the one who insisted on getting the premium version. She rarely asked for anything. What was wrong with spending my hard-earned cash on her happiness? I did not expect gratitude for every dollar I spent, but Harper was taking me for an absolute fool. People who didn’t know better looked at her Instagram and assumed she was a trust fund baby. She was over eighteen now. She could easily get a part-time job or apply for campus grants. It was time to pull the plug on her free ride. I texted my brother, Marcus, asking him to meet me for lunch. I planned to make it clear that I would cover tuition, but the allowance was finished. The moment I stepped into the diner we agreed on, Marcus lunged at me. His face was twisted in rage as he swung his hand, delivering a blistering slap across my face. “Marcia, you have always been an ungrateful brat, but I thought you’d grown a brain by your age!” “Harper told me everything! You dropped ten grand on some stupid cartoon outfit for Jennifer, but you won’t even spend a fraction of that to get Harper a dress for her formal?” “What kind of aunt are you?! You know she has a massive networking event coming up! Are you trying to make my daughter the laughingstock of her entire university?” 3 The stinging heat on my cheek ignited pure, unadulterated rage in my chest. I had funded his daughter’s life out of the goodness of my heart, and her response was to run home, cry to her daddy, and have him physically assault me. No good deed goes unpunished. The old saying was dead right. Without a second thought, I grabbed a heavy glass beer bottle off the nearest table and smashed it squarely against his forehead. “Are you completely insane?! I pour my money and energy into your family, and you have the audacity to lay your hands on me!” Marcus stumbled back, clutching his bleeding forehead, screaming like a slaughtered pig. “You psycho! That is assault! I am calling the cops!” “You are an old man throwing a public tantrum. Have some shame!” I let out a chilling laugh. “This diner has security cameras. You hit me first. What I just did is called self-defense.” “And let me make this crystal clear. As of right now, I am not giving Harper another single cent. Oh, and that security job I pulled strings to get you? Don’t bother showing up tomorrow. You are fired.” “From this day forward, you and your toxic family are dead to me.” “You cannot cancel my job!” Panic instantly wiped away his anger. He kept one hand pressed to his bleeding head while reaching out to grab my coat with the other. “Marcia, you cannot be this heartless! If you cut Harper off, how is she supposed to eat? Are you really going to watch your own blood starve?” I sidestepped his grasp and planted a hard kick squarely onto his bad knee. “Not my problem. Rot in hell.” Leaving him groaning on the floor, I marched out of the diner, got into my car, and sped off. When I got home, Jennifer had her new cosplay suit on. She was spinning around, happily showing off the intricate details. She mentioned she wanted to book a professional makeup artist and asked if I would come with her to the convention. My eyes softened with overwhelming love. “Absolutely. I have my camera fully charged. I am going to take a million pictures of you.” I didn’t need her to cure cancer or become a billionaire. I just wanted her to be safe and happy. But the very next afternoon, Jennifer called me in tears, saying she was canceling her Comic-Con trip. Panic spiked in my chest. I asked her what was wrong. She refused to tell me the truth. She just mumbled that she didn’t want to go anymore and apologized for making me waste so much money. At that exact moment, my phone buzzed with a notification. Harper had sent me a video. A cold sense of dread washed over me. I hit play. The video showed Harper standing in Jennifer’s dorm room, holding a pair of heavy-duty fabric shears. With a smug, triumphant smirk, she violently snipped the ten-thousand-dollar bespoke suit into completely unrecognizable ribbons. I literally stopped breathing. Jennifer had been so excited yesterday. She just wanted to bring the suit to her dorm to show her roommates, and Harper had ambushed her. I didn’t waste a second. I drove straight to the university and pulled Jennifer out of her dorm. She collapsed into my arms, finally sobbing as she explained the nightmare she had endured. The night before, right after I left the diner, Harper had bombarded Jennifer with horrific text messages. “Jennifer, you are a selfish bitch! How can you sleep at night wearing a ten-thousand-dollar outfit while getting my dad fired from his minimum-wage security job?” “My dad has a bad leg. Trevor is unemployed. My entire family relies on my dad’s paycheck. Because of you, my allowance is gone and my dad is jobless!” “Your mom works hard for her money, and all you do is leech off her! If you want to dress up like a freak, get a job and buy it yourself. You are pathetic!” 4 Traumatized by the verbal abuse, Jennifer promised she would try to return the suit the next day. That was how Harper found out the costume was on campus. She immediately kicked open Jennifer’s dorm door with scissors in hand, destroyed the suit in front of the entire floor, and strutted away like she had won a prize. Jennifer had kept her mouth shut because she didn’t want to stress me out. Hearing this, a murderous fury consumed me. I grabbed Jennifer by the hand and marched straight to Harper’s dorm to confront her. To my absolute shock, Harper did not look scared at all. She actually looked incredibly proud of herself. “Oh, please. You give me a measly thousand dollars a month. Why should she get a ten-thousand-dollar outfit? That is ten months of my living expenses!” “Aunt Marcia, you should be thanking me. Jennifer is way too young to be wearing stuff that expensive. I am preventing her from developing toxic spending habits! I did you a favor!” “Besides, why are you being so unfair? She is your daughter, but I am your niece! You know my family is broke. Buying her something that expensive is basically a direct attack on my mental health!” “Whatever you spend on her, you legally owe me the exact same amount! Otherwise, I will develop severe self-esteem issues.” “I did the math. You have only supported me for two years. To make up for the eighteen years you ignored me, you owe me two hundred thousand dollars. Cut the check, and we are even.” I stared at her, completely stunned by the sheer magnitude of her delusion. How could a human being be this shamelessly evil? “Are you clinically insane?” I tapped my temple, staring at her in disbelief. “You need to be institutionalized. A functional member of society does not speak like this.” Harper rolled her eyes, scoffing loudly. “Save the drama. Transfer the money for my designer gown right now, and I will forgive you.” I pulled out my phone and immediately dialed 911. “Yes, police? I need to report the malicious destruction of private property.” Even as the officers arrived, Harper still believed she was entirely in the right. She acted like I was being dramatic. “We are literal family, and you are calling the cops?! After I defended you to my dad? You are a heartless bitch!” She had a death wish. I let out a dark chuckle. “Harper, I am done talking to you. If you do not reimburse the exact ten thousand dollars you destroyed, I am pressing felony charges. Enjoy prison.” I showed the officers the digital receipt, handed over the video Harper had proudly sent me, and had Jennifer’s roommates give their witness statements. Because the financial value of the destroyed property was so high, the police handcuffed Harper and dragged her out of the dorm. In the precinct holding cell, Harper finally started screaming in panic. “I didn’t do anything wrong! Why am I locked up?! You are all working together to frame me!” The desk sergeant looked at her with pure exhaustion. “Miss, we have a literal video confession and multiple eyewitnesses. You destroyed property valued at ten thousand dollars, which pushes this into felony territory. If you do not compensate the victim and she pursues charges, you are looking at one to three years in a state facility.” Harper completely froze. The reality finally hit her, and she frantically begged for her phone to call her dad. Marcus rushed into the precinct looking like a madman. He immediately tried playing the victim for the officers, crying about his bad knee, his unemployed son, and how poor his family was. He swore Harper was an angel who would never do something so malicious. Then, he spun around and unleashed his rage on me. “Marcia, you vindictive bitch! Cutting off her money was bad enough, but framing her for a felony?! You make me sick!” “Your brain must be rotting out of your skull!” I rolled my eyes, my voice dripping with biting sarcasm. “You should really be thanking your genius daughter. She filmed the crime and texted it to me herself. If she weren’t so incredibly stupid, getting her locked up would have taken way more effort!”

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The chill of early spring still clung to the air on the day of the memorial, the familiar scent of blooming daffodils filling my senses. I watched as my sister, Scarlett, snatched the metallic-looking power fruit from the table without a moment’s hesitation. Her movements were swift, almost rehearsed. In that instant, a cold dread seized me – she’d come back, too, carrying the ghosts of our past life. In that first life, she’d chosen the immunity fruit, only to be dragged away by the labs as a test subject due to her unique physiology. I, wielding the very metal power she now coveted, became a war heroine, a legend forged in the wasteland. Yet, in the end, I met my demise beneath her scalpel. Her enraged screams still echoed in my ears: Why do you get to bask in glory while I suffer? The memory was as sharp as the blade itself. This time, I calmly picked up the remaining fruit, the vibrant red one offering immunity to viruses, and swallowed it whole. She didn’t know. She couldn’t know that every use of the metal manipulation power gnawed at one’s life force – a secret I’d unearthed through an entire apocalypse’s worth of pain and sacrifice. If she craved heroism that desperately, then I would grant her wish. Let’s see if, this time, she could bear the true cost of her ambition. 1 The chill of early spring still clung to the air when I found myself back in the familiar living room. My sister, Scarlett, was rummaging through the wardrobe, a familiar scene that still sent a shiver down my spine. My hand instinctively went to my throat, a phantom ache lingering from the surgical blade that had ended my last life. As Scarlett pulled out a small, tarnished metal box from the depths of the closet, her face alight with barely contained excitement, my world tilted. “Rain, look what I found!” she chirped, trying for casual, but her knuckles were white from clutching the box. I slowly rose, feigning a polite curiosity. “What is it?” Seeing my clueless expression, Scarlett let out a relieved breath. She giggled, “I have no idea. Probably Mom’s old jewelry box?” She carefully pried open the lid. Inside lay two fruits, glowing with an otherworldly luminescence – one a vibrant, blood-red, the other a sleek, metallic silver. “What are these…?” I murmured, my gaze fixed on the fruit, pretending to see them for the first time. “Mom left them,” Scarlett’s breath hitched, her eyes glued to the silver one. “There’s a note too… take a look…” I took the yellowed slip of paper. It was Mom’s familiar handwriting, detailing the coming apocalypse in a month and the powers of these two fruits. Scarlett leaned in beside me, her entire body tensed. “This silver one grants control over metal, and the red one… immunity to viruses,” I read slowly, deliberately, my peripheral vision catching Scarlett’s fingers inching toward the silver fruit. Just as her fingertip was about to make contact, I looked up. “Scarlett, which one do you want?” She froze, then forced a smile. “I… I think controlling metal sounds pretty cool. I’d like that one…” A cold smirk played on my lips as I watched her try to maintain composure. In my previous life, she’d snatched the immunity fruit with the exact same greedy look. “Then it’s settled,” I said softly, laying down the note and reaching for the red fruit. “I’ll take this one.” Scarlett’s eyes lit up instantly. She practically snatched the silver fruit and shoved it into her mouth. As the pulp burst, a flash of triumphant joy crossed her face. “How’s the taste?” I asked, savoring a bite of the red fruit – sweet, with a subtle bitterness. “Amazing!” Scarlett wiped her mouth, already eagerly spreading her palm. A coin from the coffee table shot into her hand, her cheeks flushed with exhilaration. “It actually works!” I watched her display calmly, my mind already calculating the timeline. Thirty days until the apocalypse, plenty of time to prepare. “Scarlett.” I discarded the fruit core, asking casually, “If there really is a zombie virus, what’s your plan?” She paused, her gaze flickering. “To… to protect everyone, of course. With this power, I can definitely help a lot.” I nodded, saying nothing more. She had no idea about the cost of using the power. Each use drained the user’s life force. In my last life, when I became a war heroine, my life force was already nearly depleted. Even if she hadn’t killed me, I wouldn’t have lasted much longer. Since she was so keen on being a hero, it was only right for me, her sister, to grant her wish. 2 The following days unfolded with an unsettling calm. Scarlett practiced her metal manipulation daily, oblivious to the fine sheen of sweat on her forehead. She brushed it off as a beginner’s struggle, completely unaware of the gradual drain on her vitality. Meanwhile, as she honed her powers, I secretly hoarded supplies and contacted trusted friends. My five years of survival experience in the previous apocalypse made me intimately familiar with this city. I knew exactly where the safest havens lay. Following the memories from my past life, I rented a defunct factory on the city outskirts. It had its own water source and generators, making it the most secure refuge during the initial chaos. I’d initially thought that, given her past lessons, Scarlett would also suggest moving. But she merely scoffed, “If I go to the suburbs, how will I be a savior?” In the previous timeline, Scarlett was captured by the lab precisely because she was too high-profile. At the very beginning of the apocalypse, she’d flaunted her abilities within our neighborhood, attracting the attention of malicious individuals, which led to her capture. Reborn, if she hadn’t shed that habit, she was destined to repeat history. Seeing her insistence on staying, I tried to persuade her to stock up on more supplies. I urged her to lie low during the initial chaos and only emerge as a hero after order had completely collapsed. But she remained dismissive, even mocking me for being cowardly. “What’s the point of having superpowers if you hide them?” she’d argued. I was utterly speechless. Perhaps… this was a case of good advice falling on deaf ears. So, I stopped trying to dissuade her and quietly moved all my hoarded supplies to the warehouse. I reached out to a few friends I trusted implicitly, asking them to help me build a secure safe house. Only those who had truly lived through the apocalypse understood that the most terrifying threat was never the zombies, but human nature itself. Even my own sister had brutally murdered me out of jealousy in the last life; others were certainly no different. The people I chose were all individuals who had risked their lives to save me in the previous apocalypse. Though their individual abilities might be limited, their loyalty and reliability were unquestionable. The night before the apocalypse struck, I received photos from them. Seeing the mountains of supplies and the rows of weapons procured through special channels, a genuine smile touched my lips. I left a note and, under the cover of darkness, departed my home, heading towards the safe house… I had done my duty as a sister, offering all the warnings I could. Since Scarlett wouldn’t listen, all I could do was silently wish her good luck. 3 The safe house was even more perfect than I’d imagined. The heavy metal door was a solid eight inches thick, steel plates were embedded in the walls, and every window had been replaced with bulletproof glass. The basement had been converted into a comprehensive living space, stocked with enough food and medicine for ten people for five years. “Rain, are you sure the end of the world is really coming?” Uncle Leo, who had helped me build the safe house, handed me a hot mug of tea, his eyes still holding a hint of doubt. I took the mug. “Yes. Tomorrow morning at 7:15, Eastside Hospital will report the first zombie case. By 8 o’clock, the citywide alarm will sound…” Uncle Leo’s hand trembled, tea sloshing onto the table. He had been my father’s wartime comrade and, in my previous life, the only one who had risked his life to find medicine for me when I was gravely wounded. “Don’t worry, Uncle Leo. We’ll make it through this,” I said, setting down the mug. He hesitated, then asked, “What about Scarlett? She… why isn’t she here?” I spread my hands, then turned on the hidden camera I’d installed at home. Scarlett was in the living room, excitedly practicing her powers, various metal objects dancing around her. Pointing to my sister on the monitor, I explained, “She said she wants to be a hero, and heroes don’t hide in the shadows.” Uncle Leo sighed, saying nothing more. He’d probably figured out Scarlett’s stubborn nature and knew that trying to persuade her would be futile. He shook his head and walked away. Just then, an excited voice crackled through the monitor. “Yes, I really have superpowers! Tomorrow… tomorrow I’ll prove it to you!” I realized Scarlett was on the phone with someone. I sighed, turning off the monitor, a knot tightening in my chest. It seemed, even given a second chance, she had chosen the same path… 4 The next morning, I stood on the safe house’s observation deck, scanning the city through binoculars. At 7:15, Eastside Hospital’s alarm blared exactly as predicted, the wail of ambulances slicing through the dawn’s silence. “It’s begun,” I murmured, my fingers unconsciously tightening on the binoculars. The streets below erupted into chaos, screams drifting from the distance. Countless zombies surged from the hospital’s direction, sweeping through the city like a tide. I adjusted the lens to my old neighborhood and saw Scarlett already standing in the main plaza, surrounded by panicked residents. With a sweep of her hands, the iron gate of the community entrance tore upwards, twisting and deforming in the air, ultimately forming a metal barricade. Gasps of amazement rose from the residents; some even pulled out their phones to record. A wry smile touched my lips. She still loved the spotlight. “Rain, check the news!” Uncle Leo called from downstairs. I pulled out my phone and found Scarlett’s video already going viral online, emblazoned with headlines like “Superhuman Appears! Apocalypse Savior!” The comment section was ablaze, some cheering for a savior, others questioning if it was just special effects. Just then, my phone rang. It was Scarlett, a video call. I hesitated but answered. “Rain! Did you see the news?” Scarlett’s face, vibrant with excitement, filled the screen, the chaotic neighborhood blurring in the background. “I’m a hero now! Where are you? Come find me, I can protect you!” I shook my head, a sense of weariness washing over me. “You should worry about protecting yourself first.” A mocking sneer twisted her lips. “Rain, are you jealous? Jealous that I have powers and you don’t?” Her voice dripped with triumph. “Don’t worry, once I’ve got things sorted here, I’ll come for you.” I watched the crowd gathering around her. “No need,” I sighed. “Just be happy.” I hung up. Uncle Leo walked over, his face etched with a complex expression, hesitating before he spoke. “Rain, are you really not going to try to talk some sense into Scarlett? Being so flashy, she’s going to get herself into trouble!” I picked up a nearby weapon, my face devoid of emotion. “It’s her choice, Uncle Leo. Instead of worrying about her, we should focus on fortifying our defenses.” Outside the window, the shadow of the apocalypse had already engulfed the city. But I knew this was just the beginning. The truth about my healing powers would inevitably come out. To face the wolves eager to exploit it, only early preparation would ensure our survival. 5 By the third day of the apocalypse, the city had descended into utter chaos. We monitored various channels via radio. Temporary shelters were established in the city, only to be quickly overrun by zombies. One district, plagued by an overwhelming number of the undead, issued orders for carpet bombing. Even more bizarrely, a lab claimed to have developed a vaccine, recruiting survivors for trials. This very lab, recruiting survivors for trials, was the same organization that had captured Scarlett in my previous life. As for why they hadn’t made a move on her yet, I suspected it was due to public opinion. After all, Scarlett was a rising online sensation; a sudden move against her would spark outrage. Moreover, order hadn’t completely collapsed yet; they still had to consider the authorities. I sat in the safe house’s control room, watching Scarlett’s latest video on the screen. She had formed a small team of survivors and was actively “rescuing” trapped citizens. Her metal manipulation skills were clearly more refined in the video, but her complexion was noticeably paler. “She’s used her powers too many times,” I murmured. Even though Scarlett in the video was trying to project strength, the fine lines around her eyes and her chapped lips betrayed the rapid drain on her life force. Uncle Leo handed me a hot coffee. “When are you going to tell her the truth?” I had already confided in him about the side effects of the powers and my past life experiences. I took the coffee, shaking my head. “She wouldn’t believe me. She’d just think I was jealous.” “But…” Uncle Leo began, then trailed off. “Uncle Leo, I know what you’re going to say,” I said, setting down my coffee cup. “But this is the path she chose. Our priority now is to ensure the safe house’s defenses are impenetrable.” Uncle Leo watched the monitor, Scarlett basking in the adulation of the crowd, and sighed. “Oh, that girl… when will she ever grow up?”

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My sister was kidnapped, and the kidnappers demanded fifty million in ransom for her release. The whole family was busy gathering the ransom, but I kept attending auctions, buying expensive jewelry. Infuriated, the kidnappers demanded that I go alone to rescue her. Not only did I not go, but I also held a press conference, announcing that I was expelling my sister from the Schmidtke family. My sister was killed, and her mutilated body was dumped at our doorstep. Everyone accused me of being selfish, prioritizing the company’s inheritance over my sister’s life, and pressured me to atone with my own death. Instead of feeling any remorse, I deliberately overturned her ashes. I wanted to see when the person who had been hiding behind the scenes all along would finally jump out. 1 “Mary, it is a disaster! Isabella was kidnapped while traveling abroad! The kidnappers just sent a message demanding fifty million dollars in ransom within three days. If we do not pay, they will kill her. You have to save your sister!” My father barged into the boardroom, completely ignoring my assistant’s frantic attempts to hold him back. He stood in front of the entire executive board and all the regional managers, trying to physically drag me out of my chair. Compared to his absolute panic, I sat there with glacial calm. “She went on vacation with her boyfriend,” I replied, my voice completely devoid of emotion. “Isn’t she just hiding to test how much we love her? She pulls these pathetic stunts all the time. If you aren’t sick of it yet, I certainly am.” My utter indifference choked the words right out of his throat. It took him several seconds to recover. “It is real this time! Isabella was actually taken! The kidnappers sent a video straight to my phone. Look at it if you don’t believe me!” He shoved his phone across the mahogany table, trying to force the screen into my line of sight. “They said we have three days to get fifty million in cash, or she is dead. Mary, you have to save her!” A dark, mocking chuckle escaped my lips. “The last time she was heartbroken, she faked her own disappearance. I had to wire her a million dollars just to get her to come home. I guess she got a taste for the theatrics. Now she wants fifty million?” “If you want to play the hero, go find the money yourself. I am not her parent, and I am certainly not obligated to entertain her delusional games. Besides, I do not have that kind of liquid cash laying around.” Seeing that I was entirely prepared to wash my hands of the situation, his panic mutated into rage. “Where am I supposed to get that kind of money?! This is fifty million dollars! Are you really going to sit there and let those monsters murder her?” “You are her older sister! It is your duty to provide for her! And if you do not have the cash, sell your shares in the company! Schmidtke Enterprise is a massive empire. Liquidating a fraction of your equity would easily cover the ransom!” I stared at him like he had lost his mind. “Are you seriously suggesting I sell off my shares in this corporation to humor her psychotic little game?” “Do you even realize what you are asking? I hold exactly fifty-one percent of this company. If I sell a single share of my foundational equity, I lose majority control! You want me to risk the entire Schmidtke legacy to pay a ransom? Is your brain rotting out of your skull?” In my previous life, the moment he mentioned Isabella was kidnapped, I lost my mind with worry. I immediately suspended the board meeting and rushed home to help him liquidate assets. After we scrambled to gather the funds, we hurried to the drop-off location. Even though we arrived exactly on time, the kidnapper claimed we took too long and made him lose his patience. With a sick laugh, he tossed a hunting knife at my feet, ordering me to stab myself. If I refused, he would slit Isabella’s throat. Seeing my sister crying hysterically with blood dripping down her neck, I did not even hesitate. I picked up the blade and aimed it at my own abdomen. My father had lunged forward, supposedly to stop me. But his hands “accidentally” slammed into my wrists, driving the blade directly into my heart. I died instantly on the dirty concrete floor. When I opened my eyes again, I was sitting right back in this boardroom. “Mary, do you have no soul?! She is the sister you grew up with! She is in mortal danger, and you are sitting there like a block of ice!” Seeing that I remained entirely unmoved, he began screaming insults. “If she has actually been kidnapped, the first thing you need to do is call the FBI. Let the authorities handle it. Do not come in here throwing a tantrum.” The phantom agony of that blade piercing my heart still burned in my memory. I impatiently waved my hand, signaling the security guards to drag him out. Once he was forcibly removed, I offered a brief apology to the stunned executives. Suppressing the chaotic storm of emotions inside me, I forced myself to sit through the rest of the meeting. 2 The second the meeting concluded, I locked myself in my private office to analyze everything that had happened in my previous life. After running through the events with no clear answers, I called my assistant, Rachel, into the room. Pretending I was talking about a “friend,” I recounted the exact details of my past life’s murder. Her face contorted in thought, her eyes darting back and forth before she finally spoke. “Boss, has it ever occurred to you that this sister might not actually be blood-related? What if this entire situation was a trap designed specifically to eliminate you?” Spending too much time reading crime thrillers online had given Rachel a dangerously sharp intuition. “Think about it. Why would a family’s first reaction to a kidnapping be demanding ransom money instead of calling the police? And that final struggle with the knife… isn’t it a little too convenient that his ‘accidental’ push resulted in a fatal strike to the heart?” Her words hit me like a bolt of lightning. The fog completely cleared. After a long silence, I looked up at her. “Drop everything regarding the upcoming IPO. I have a very specific investigation I need you to run.” Rachel left with her orders. I stayed in the office, continuing my work as if nothing had happened. After hours, I drove straight to my private luxury condo instead of returning to the family estate. In this life, I completely completely washed my hands of the mess. My father was left running around like a headless chicken, desperately liquidating his own assets to scrape together the ransom. Meanwhile, I quietly shadowed his movements. Every antique or property he sold off, I anonymously purchased back. I even started attending high-society charity galas, throwing obscene amounts of money at rare diamonds, vintage paintings, and poverty relief funds. One evening, as I walked out of an exclusive auction house admiring a newly acquired emerald bracelet, a disheveled figure lunged out of the shadows, startled me. Taking a closer look, I realized it was my father. He looked like a homeless beggar, his clothes wrinkled and his face covered in a thick layer of stubble from days of exhausting desperation. “Mary, are you truly going to let your sister die at the hands of those butchers?” “It is only fifty million! That is pocket change for you! Is money really more important than human life?” “Did you forget the promise you made at your mother’s grave? You swore you would protect your sister for the rest of your life!” If I only had suspicions before, seeing his desperate, manipulative face confirmed it. There was a traitor in my inner circle. “I already told you. I do not have that kind of liquid cash, and even if I did, I would never spend it to save her. Instead of ambushing me in the street, you should be figuring out how to pawn the rest of your watches.” “Let me make this perfectly clear. I would rather burn my fortune or donate it all to charity than give a single dime to a disaster like Isabella. Give it up.” A crowd of elite socialites was beginning to form. I had zero interest in being their evening entertainment. I signaled my driver to push him aside, stepped into my Bentley, and drove away. Somehow, the events of that night reached the kidnappers. Infuriated by my statement that I would rather give my money to charity than save Isabella, they began relentlessly bombarding my private phone with calls and texts. They demanded I bring the ransom to the drop-off location completely alone, or Isabella was dead. Reading the text, I could not help but laugh out loud. This was fifty million actual dollars, not Monopoly money. Fifty million dollars in cash weighs hundreds of pounds. It would look like a literal wall of paper. Did they expect me to carry a mountain of bills by myself like some kind of superhero? I ignored the threat, powered down my phone, and opened the classified dossier Rachel had just sent me. 3 The day before the ransom deadline, my father, entirely unable to reach me, decided to go live on social media. He intended to publicly crucify me into paying. On the screen, he covered his face, sobbing hysterically. “I do not know what kind of monster she has become. Her own sister is facing death, and she feels absolutely nothing.” “She knows our entire family is going bankrupt trying to save Isabella. Yet she is out attending luxury auctions, buying useless diamonds and paintings, and throwing millions at charities. She has an absolute fortune, but she refuses to save her own flesh and blood.” “What sin did I commit in my past life to raise a daughter so cold-blooded she would let her own family die?” My father had always been a minor celebrity in the business world. Backed by paid internet trolls and manipulated algorithms, his livestream skyrocketed to the number one trending spot nationwide. The internet was entirely consumed by the scandal. “Heiress Isabella Schmidtke Kidnapped! Ransom Hits Fifty Million!” “Older Sister Refuses to Pay Ransom While Buying Diamonds. The Decay of Human Morality!” “Mary Schmidtke is a Cold-Blooded Sociopath.” “Schmidtke CEO Publicly Disowned by Grieving Father.” The outrage was absolute. Fueled by my father’s manipulative tears, millions of netizens began boycotting Schmidtke Enterprise products. Refusing to let my mother’s company suffer, I logged into my verified corporate account and requested a live split-screen with his broadcast. “Father,” I started, my tone perfectly composed. “I have been working back-to-back night shifts preparing for the company’s IPO, barely sleeping two hours a day. Imagine my surprise waking up to find you publicly dragging my name through the mud. What exactly do you gain by destroying the family business?” “Isabella throws these little vanishing acts whenever she doesn’t get her way. Every single time, I have to wire her millions before she miraculously reappears. Just the other day, you kicked down the boardroom doors, demanding I sell my controlling shares to pay a fifty-million-dollar ransom. How am I supposed to know if she is genuinely in danger, or if this is just another extortion scheme the two of you cooked up to drain my accounts?” “This company is the legacy of my grandparents. It is the lifeblood of my late mother. I would rather die than sell my shares. I am sure Isabella, despite her rebellious nature, would agree with me and defend our family’s empire with her life.” I did not offer any further explanations. I did not shed fake tears or play the victim. I simply disconnected from the livestream and immediately posted an official announcement on the corporate page. In exactly two hours, I would be holding a live press conference. The venue was completely completely packed. Journalists from every major news outlet swarmed the room, shoving microphones into my face, demanding to know if Isabella was really kidnapped and if I was truly leaving her to die. I tapped the microphone, instantly silencing the chaotic room. Then, I dropped a bombshell that sent shockwaves through the entire country. “Acting as the absolute head of the Schmidtke family, I am officially announcing the immediate expulsion of Isabella from our lineage.” “My former sister, Isabella, has orchestrated over a dozen fake kidnappings and disappearances prior to this incident. Every single one ended with me wiring her massive sums of money just to make her stop.” “Those extortions ranged from hundreds of thousands to millions. This time, they escalated to demanding I sell the foundational equity of Schmidtke Enterprise to fund a fifty-million-dollar ransom.” “I do not know if her current predicament is real or just another theatrical performance. But I am exhausted. I have heard the boy cry wolf too many times, and I refuse to participate in these toxic, manipulative games any longer.” “Therefore, effective immediately, Isabella is stripped of the Schmidtke name. She is no longer an heiress, and she is permanently forbidden from using our family name to fund her lavish lifestyle or con investors. Moving forward, her survival is her own responsibility. Schmidtke Enterprise will no longer be her shield. Her life, or her death, has absolutely nothing to do with us.” The room erupted into total pandemonium. Camera flashes strobed like lightning. Reporters screamed questions, desperate for more details. I turned my back on them with sharp precision, leaving the chaos to Rachel and the public relations team.

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My world shattered in the instant she turned and walked toward him. This proposal was meant to be the crown jewel of our company’s fourth-quarter PR strategy, the culmination of my ten-year relationship with Veronica Shay. But here I was, moments before the show, watching her from the shadows of a backstage fire exit. She was in her wedding gown, locked in a passionate kiss with a younger man. “An explanation?” I laughed, a cold, jagged sound. “You want to explain why you’re cheating on me minutes before you’re supposed to propose?” “This is being broadcast live to millions. The entire world is waiting.” I tossed the velvet ring box at her feet. “After the final song, you can either walk on that stage and propose, or you can watch your career burn to the ground.” Her fists clenched. She snatched the box from the floor, forcing the word through her teeth. “Fine.” The stage lights hit her, the crowd falling silent as she held up the ring. But she looked past me, her eyes locking onto the pale-faced man in the VIP section. “Jackson,” she said, her voice ringing through the arena, “thank you for making me a star. But tonight, I’m going to follow my moon.” The stadium erupted. And just like that, I became the punchline to my own proposal. 1 “Mr. Kang,” Kevin, my assistant, said, his voice hoarse. He handed me his tablet. “You… you should see this.” The screen was a firestorm of headlines about the concert. This proposal was supposed to be our masterpiece, a triumph for both our business and our love. I had poured a nine-figure sum into it, coordinating with dozens of major brands. All Veronica had to do was propose to me in front of her adoring fans, and the commercial value of our “power couple” brand would have been limitless. Everything was perfectly in place. But now, a photo of Veronica kissing that kid, Will, on stage was plastered everywhere, under the glaring headline: POP SUPERSTAR CHOOSES LOVE OVER CORPORATE GREED. My stunned, retreating back had been screenshotted and turned into a thousand different humiliating memes. Our company’s market cap had plummeted by half a billion dollars overnight. I scrolled through it all with a calm, detached focus, article by article, post by post, until I landed on Veronica’s official statement. She thanked everyone—her fans, her team, the lighting guy—but when it came to me and my company, she referred to us only as “a difficult professional chapter in my past.” She declared that she would, at any cost, “seek her artistic freedom.” Freedom. I stared at the word and a humorless laugh escaped my lips. “Get PR on the line. Tell them no response, no comment, nothing. Then get legal. I want them to prep the nuclear option in her contract. The breach of contract penalty clauses.” Kevin stared at me, bewildered. “Sir… shouldn’t we release a statement first? To do some damage control? The narrative online is turning against us.” “Damage control?” I walked over to him and pointed at the photo of Veronica’s soulful, earnest face. “You can’t control the damage from a liar, Kevin. You can only burn them to the ground.” I rubbed the bridge of my nose and collapsed onto the sofa, the last five years flashing before my eyes. Five years ago, she was just a girl with a beat-up acoustic guitar, singing an unheard-of indie folk song in a dive bar. There were maybe five people in the audience, but I heard something in her voice, a spark of raw talent. I decided to take a chance. I signed her and started a boutique agency with her as my only client. We had nothing. To save money, we slept on the floor of our tiny thirty-square-meter office, eating cheap instant ramen and talking about our impossible dreams. “Jackson,” she’d said one night, “the second I make it big, I’m going to marry you.” I had laughed. “The second you make it big, you’re going to pay back the startup loan.” She called me a killjoy, but her eyes were full of stars. To fund her debut album, I sold the only thing I had left from my parents: our family home. To get her a slot at a major music festival, I drank with a sleazy investor until I was puking blood into a toilet at 3 AM. She rushed to the hospital, her eyes red-rimmed. She clutched my hand and whispered, “Jackson, I swear, I will never let you suffer like this for me again.” Looking at her then, I felt like it was all worth it. I thought we were a team, that we had only each other. I poured every resource, every drop of my soul, into paving her path to stardom. I taught her how to work the cameras, how to handle the press, how to sculpt herself into the perfect idol for her fans. She was a fast learner. She was a massive success. So she got more and more famous. We moved into a sleek high-rise in the city center. The boutique agency became Starstream Media. But somewhere along the way, we changed. She started complaining about my “control.” She said her schedule was too packed, that she had no time to create, that she missed the “purity” of her early days. That’s when Will, her “pure” college friend, showed up. He became the symbol of everything she claimed to have lost. I tried to talk to her about it, about a month before the concert. “Veronica, we are business partners, and we are in a relationship. I can’t have anything jeopardize the foundation of either,” I said, getting straight to the point. She just stared at her phone, her reply dismissive. “You’re overthinking it. Will is just a friend. Someone I can talk to about music.” “I’m the one who produces your music,” I reminded her. Her head snapped up, her eyes flashing with a resentment I’d never seen before. “It’s not the same! What you do is business! It’s a product! Don’t you get it? That’s all you understand!” she spat. “When I’m with Will, I feel like a real person, not just a commodity you’re selling!” That was the first time I realized she wasn’t the same girl who had slept on the floor with me anymore. She was just the successful product I had created. And now, my product had a mind of its own and wanted to escape its creator. I chose to let it go. I told myself it was just the pressure of fame getting to her. I thought that once the concert was over, once our relationship was solidified by this grand, public proposal, everything would go back to normal. I was wrong. I was wrong to treat her like a pawn on my chessboard, forgetting that the most unpredictable piece in any game is the one that chooses to betray you. 2 The office door was thrown open without a knock. Veronica strode in, dressed head-to-toe in black, sunglasses and a hat obscuring her face. Will trailed behind her like a lost puppy. “Mr. Kang,” Kevin said, jumping to his feet and instinctively moving to stand between us. “Get out,” I said, my eyes fixed on Veronica, my voice devoid of any emotion. Kevin shot me a worried glance before retreating and closing the door behind him. The office was silent, save for the hum of the air conditioning. “What do you want?” I asked. Veronica took off her sunglasses. Her eyes were bloodshot, but her expression was eerily calm. “I’m here to discuss the termination of my contract.” She led Will to the sofa opposite my desk and tossed a file onto the polished wood. “I hope we can do this amicably. It’s better for the company, and for you, if we just go our separate ways.” “Amicably?” I felt a laugh, sharp and bitter, rise in my throat. “You call last night’s meticulously planned public humiliation an ‘amicable split’?” My voice rose, the control I was clinging to starting to fray. “You didn’t just ruin a proposal, Veronica. You detonated a nine-figure marketing campaign, the cornerstone of our entire fourth-quarter strategy. You know that better than anyone!” She scoffed, leaning back into the plush leather, her face a mask of defiance. “Business, business, that’s all you ever think about! I’m sick of it! I am not your goddamn cash cow!” Will decided to play the hero. “Mr. Kang, don’t blame Veronica… it’s all my fault. We’re in love…” “Shut up,” I said, my gaze cutting to him like a shard of ice. “No one is talking to you.” The color drained from Will’s face. He fell silent. That was what finally broke her. Veronica shot to her feet, her eyes blazing with hatred. “That’s enough, Jackson! You and your arrogant, condescending act! Who do you think you are? My savior?” She was practically shaking with rage. “Let me tell you something. Every single day with you felt like I was suffocating! You sold your house, you drank yourself sick—that wasn’t for me! That was for your own ambition! For your investment! I was just the most successful stock in your portfolio!” Every word was a calculated strike, aimed at my most vulnerable points. “So the last five years of our lives, that was just an investment, too?” I asked, my voice dangerously quiet as I met her furious glare. “Me sleeping on the floor next to you, was that an investment? Me waiting all night in the ER, was that an investment?!” She faltered for a second, her eyes darting away. I smiled, a tight, painful stretch of my lips, as tears burned the back of my eyes. “Veronica, just answer one question,” I said, taking a deep breath. “What were the last five years?” She was silent for a long moment. Then, a look of chilling resolve settled on her face. “They were… me paying you back.” She paused, a mocking smirk playing on her lips. “Oh, and one more thing.” She wrapped an arm around Will’s shoulders, her other hand resting gently on her flat stomach. “I’m pregnant. I have to do what’s right for him. And for our child.” Pregnant. Of course. The last thread of my sanity snapped. So that’s what this was all about. I wasn’t building a future for us. I was funding their love story and paying for their baby. 3 That afternoon, I sat in my office, watching the live feed of Veronica’s press conference on the large screen. She looked thinner, her face pale and fragile, her eyes red and swollen. Will sat beside her, his head bowed, the very picture of innocent, tormented love. “First, I want to apologize to everyone who cares about me,” Veronica began, her voice raspy, as if she’d been crying for hours. She wove a tragic tale of her pure love for music, of being swept up in the relentless tide of commercialism, of her profound artistic suffering. She painted Will as a beacon of light who had illuminated her dark, corporate world. She never mentioned a single thing I had done for her. I was simply “the former record label,” the “shackles of capital.” I, the man she had been with for five years, the man she was supposed to marry, had been erased. “I admit, Mr. Kang is a brilliant businessman,” she said, her voice turning from sorrowful to accusatory. “He brought me to where I am today, and for that, I am grateful.” “But,” she continued, her voice trembling with manufactured outrage, “he controlled my work, my social life, even my thoughts! Who I could see, what I could say, what I could wear—everything had to be approved by him! I was just his creation, a puppet with no soul!” Will, on cue, looked up at the cameras, tears streaming down his face. “It’s not Mr. Kang’s fault… it’s all my fault. I never should have come into her life… Veronica, I’m so sorry…” The room erupted in a blinding sea of camera flashes. The live chat comments exploded with fury. [OMG MY POOR GIRL! WE WILL PROTECT YOU!] [I’m crying, she was living in a prison this whole time!] [Jackson Kang is a monster! Get him out of the industry!] [#FreeVeronica! Let her make real music!] Finally, Veronica announced she was launching her own independent label, severing all ties with my company. “I’m going to make the music I want to make, on my own terms. It might be difficult, but I have Will. And our baby.” She looked at him, a tear rolling down her cheek. “And that’s enough.” The press conference ended. The internet detonated. I was public enemy number one. The company’s phone lines were jammed. A few of the smaller artists I had personally mentored were already sending feelers through their agents, hinting at wanting to terminate their contracts, afraid of being associated with the “evil corporate tyrant.” The rats were jumping ship. I looked at the hypocritical, tear-stained face on the screen and felt nothing but a cold, crystallizing hatred. I wiped a tear I hadn’t realized had fallen and buzzed my assistant. “Get legal, and get every department head. Conference room one. Five minutes.” Kevin looked at me, his eyes filled with concern. “Mr. Kang…” I forced a smile, my voice calm and steady. “Conference room one. Five minutes.” “I’m going to utterly destroy her.”

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1 My boyfriend of eight years and his first love were getting their kicks in our walk-in closet. “Keep it down,” Jane Lincoln whispered, her voice tight. “What if she hears us?” Jake Sandberg dismissed her concern. “Jane, don’t get distracted.” Jane started to cry, and Jake quickly kissed her. “Don’t worry, Jane, I took her hearing aids.” “She can’t hear us, it’s okay, don’t cry.” But Jake didn’t know I had just returned from the hospital. I had used all my savings to get a cochlear implant surgery. … I had just returned from the hospital after my cochlear implant’s external processor was activated and adjusted. Opening the front door, I heard strange noises. Stumbling footsteps mixed with gasps, followed by the sound of a closet door closing. My boyfriend of eight years and another woman’s voices intertwined. “Keep it down, what if she hears us?” Jake was unconcerned: “Jane, don’t get distracted.” Jane started to cry, and Jake quickly kissed her. “Don’t worry, Jane, I took her hearing aids.” “She can’t hear us, it’s okay, don’t cry.” So, the missing hearing aids had been taken by Jake, all to make me a part of their twisted game. I accidentally knocked over a glass vase near the entrance. When the sharp sound of shattering echoed, the commotion from the closet finally stopped. I stiffly knelt to pick up the pieces. “Ouch.” A shard sliced my finger. Tears welled in my eyes from the pain. After a long moment, a tall figure stopped in front of me. “Why didn’t you say you were back?” Jake’s voice was hoarse, his eyes still clouded with lingering desire. “Such a grown woman, crying over a tiny cut from a shard.” He looked at me with disdain. My lips trembled, so many words wanting to spill out, but in the end, I just said: “Jake, I can’t find my hearing aids.” Hearing this, the man opposite me pretended to search for a moment. When he emerged from the bedroom, he held up two hearing aids. “Dummy, you need to keep track of your own hearing aids. What if I hadn’t found them for you?” I snatched the hearing aids from his hand, pretending to put them on. When he wasn’t looking, I slipped both into my pocket. My heart hammered furiously, my breathing erratic. I walked past him, seemingly casually, heading towards the bedroom’s walk-in closet, feigning confusion. “In the bedroom? Why didn’t I see them earlier?” Jake had left in a hurry, leaving the closet door slightly ajar. Through that crack, I could even see Jane’s panicked, tear-filled eyes. Pain, like a cornered beast, savagely tore at my heart. I was practically suffocating. I instinctively reached out, my fingers trembling as they brushed the closet door. Through the narrow gap, Jane held clothes to cover her body, one hand clamped over her mouth as if terrified she might scream. My mind was a blur. I completely disregarded our upcoming wedding, focused only on tearing down the humiliating charade before me. Just as I reached to open the closet door, an uncontrollable wave of nausea surged through my throat. I pushed away Jake, who had rushed over anxiously, and hurried to the bathroom, retching dryly into the sink in front of the mirror. “What’s wrong? Did you eat something bad? Do you need to go to the hospital?” Jake leaned in, feigning concern. It had been a while since my last period. When I had my cochlear implant surgery today, I coincidentally had an ultrasound scan. The results showed I was seven weeks pregnant. I had been excited the whole way home, wanting to tell Jake the good news in person. The child we had hoped for for five years was finally coming. I looked at the man in front of me, whose concern seemed genuine, and couldn’t help but deceive myself. Perhaps, if I just pretended not to know. As soon as he knew I was pregnant. We could start over, couldn’t we? I was about to speak. The sound of something falling echoed, from the direction of the bedroom. Jake’s hand, resting on my arm, stiffened. “You go wait for me in the underground garage.” “I’ll tidy up and come down, then I’ll take you to the hospital to get checked.” I nodded. Before leaving, I used another less-used phone to call my main one. I set the spare phone to silent and placed it face down before turning to leave. In the empty underground garage, I sat quietly in the passenger seat, my phone beside me, still on the call. “Jay, I know you still resent me for leaving you to go abroad back then, but I truly had no choice.” “I know you’re about to marry Ruth.” “But what about me? Jay, I’m having your baby. Can you really bear to let our child be born without a father?” The woman’s crying and the man’s incredulous voice came through the phone. “Jane, is what you’re saying true?” What a coincidence. “Jay, I know your responsibility to Ruth, but are you really going to abandon all these years of love between us?” Only responsibility? “How could I abandon you!” Jake blurted out. My heart sank completely. The day Jake and I first met was also the first time I saw Jane Lincoln. I was six years old. My grandparents took me to buy my first pair of hearing aids. The staff stubbornly refused to sell them to us. Because we didn’t have enough money. Countless crumpled fifty-cent, one-dollar, five-dollar, ten-dollar, twenty-dollar bills piled up like a small mountain – it was their life savings. But it still wasn’t enough. My grandparents were so desperate they knelt, begging them to sell to us first, promising they could write an IOU. I knew it was because I was about to start elementary school, and they didn’t want my education to suffer because I couldn’t hear. They didn’t want other children to look down on me. Amidst the stalemate, a childish voice broke the silent air. “Daddy, sell them to them.” 2 Jake, who had come with his father, Mr. Sandberg, pleaded with him. Standing beside him, Jane Lincoln, in a beautiful princess dress with elaborate braids, looked at us with pity. Her gaze held no malice, yet it felt like a needle pricking me. I instinctively clutched my old, faded, stiff clothes. And so, we received a pair of burning hot hearing aids. And a thin IOU, heavier than a mountain. That’s how Jake, Jane, and I met. Children’s preferences are brutally straightforward. So I knew early on that Jake liked Jane. I watched him chase away the little boys who tried to befriend her, awkwardly giving her cheap but pretty hair clips. I watched him participate in make-believe games he usually found boring, just so he could play Mommy and Daddy with Jane. In their endless games where they were the main characters, I was always either a bystander or the villain. Once, Jake pushed me down according to the script. Perhaps he didn’t control his strength well, and I fell hard to the ground. Rough sand scraped my palms and knees; fresh blood seeped from the wounds, and I cried from the pain. Jake, who was originally walking towards Jane, suddenly turned around, carrying me on his back, and sprinted towards the infirmary. The slender boy’s body erupted with infinite potential. Leaning on his shoulder, I was so stunned I even forgot to cry. For a moment, I thought I was the heroine of a high school drama. “Hmph, Jane’s into cop movies lately. She keeps saying she only likes heroes.” “Now I guess I’m a hero too, right?” “Hey, Ruth, considering I saved you, you owe me big time. Make sure you praise me to Jane when you get back.” Those unspoken, fervent girlish feelings were doused with a bucket of cold water, the chill plunging straight to my heart. I stiffened and said, “Okay.” Later, in our junior year of high school, Jake’s father went bankrupt and committed suicide. Jane unilaterally broke up with Jake and moved abroad. I stayed with the penniless Jake, helping him start a business and rebuild his fortune. He confessed his feelings to me, then proposed. I thought I had finally emerged from Jane’s shadow. I was naive. I waited in the underground garage for a very, very long time, so long that Jake messaged me to say he had an emergency and couldn’t accompany me to the hospital. Because Jane was upset. He was taking her to set off fireworks in the suburbs. I silently went upstairs, washed up. When I instinctively sat on the bed, those filthy memories instantly flooded my mind. So dirty, so dirty. I ran to the bathroom and vomited until I was dizzy. As I collapsed to the floor, I saw a silver men’s ring lying by the drain. Four years ago, I used my meager savings to buy Jake a silver ring as a birthday gift. It was during the hardest time of his startup, when the dual pressure of mental stress and financial struggles was almost crushing him. The six-foot-tall man, upon seeing the small silver ring I gave him, actually got tears in his eyes. He held me very, very tightly, so tightly I could barely breathe. But I only thought to comfort him. He solemnly promised me: “Ruth, I will definitely make sure we live a good life.” Later, he treasured that silver ring as if his life depended on it, never bearing to take it off. He said seeing the ring was like seeing me; he wanted to see me every minute of every day. But now, that silver ring lay quietly in a corner of the bathroom, left to dust and grime that dulled its shine. I picked up the ring. I slept in the guest room for a night. As I drifted in and out of sleep, a figure climbed onto the bed. “Ruth, why weren’t you waiting for me in the living room today? And why did you sleep in the guest room?” In the past, no matter how late Jake came home, I would always wait for him on the sofa in the living room. Sometimes I would wait all night. After so many years, it had become our unspoken habit. “I don’t know why, but the bedroom smells really bad.” The smell of infidelity. 3 He was so close, I easily caught his scent. The rose perfume, unmistakable even through the faint scent of gunpowder. Roses were Jane Lincoln’s favorite. Disgusting. Perhaps out of guilt, he didn’t speak for a moment, then wandered into the kitchen. The kitchen was empty, the stove barren. “Ruth, why isn’t there any porridge today?” Jake’s work schedule was demanding; he often forgot to eat, leading to stomach problems over time. I researched many remedies, finally settling on several recipes for stomach-nourishing porridge, along with various other stomach-friendly meals. For years, I had tirelessly tried new ways to care for his health. I didn’t speak, just turned over and continued to sleep. Not having to get up early felt quite nice. Jake finally realized something was off with me and leaned in, coaxing. “Come on, Ruth, you’re not still mad about yesterday, are you? It was all work-related.” “You know, I do it all for our future.” “Are you still feeling unwell? Should I take you to the hospital now?” “No, I’m much better.” “Then how about I book our favorite restaurant for dinner tonight? Candlelight dinner?” “Sure.” It was a good opportunity for us to talk, to discuss the baby. Just as I finished washing up and opened my phone, I saw a message from Jane, asking to meet that afternoon. As if afraid I wouldn’t go, she even sent me a photo of her and Jake kissing under a sky full of fireworks. I went as promised. Jake, oblivious, drove me to the intersection. As we parted ways, I casually asked him: “Have you lost anything recently?” He looked around blankly, then shook his head. My heart turned to ice, inch by inch. I got out of the car, casually tossing a silver ring into a trash can. I pushed open the door of the cafe and saw Jane, in a white dress, waving to me from her seat. She was as beautiful as ever. I immediately noticed the diamond ring on her hand. When choosing wedding rings, I really liked the promise behind it: “One life, one love.” But Jake thought it was tacky and dragged me to the shop next door to pick out a different diamond ring. It wasn’t the ring that was tacky; it was me who wasn’t worthy. “Ruth, long time no see.” “Honestly, it was quite a shame you gave up on going abroad as an exchange student back then.” In high school, a well-known alumnus offered to sponsor my overseas study, on the condition that I work for his company after graduating college. It was a very rare opportunity; if I accepted, a brilliant future was within reach. But I still refused. At that time, Jake was at a low point: his father had gone bankrupt and committed suicide, and Jane had moved abroad, unilaterally breaking up with him. I felt I couldn’t leave him then. Memories slowly faded. A waiter brought two drinks. “Tequila Sunrise. It’s a very refreshing alcoholic drink. Try it.” Jane pushed a bright orange drink towards me. She was clearly smiling, but her fingers trembled slightly as she pushed the glass. “Jane, you’re very perceptive, and very smart.” I didn’t take the drink. She took a deep breath, her face instantly paling, but she still forced a smile. “Ruth, do you know?” “I thought I’d have to explain for ages to Jay about going abroad, but I didn’t expect him to just throw himself into my arms, unable to control himself, the moment we reunited.” My fingers suddenly tightened, and the wound I unintentionally touched throbbed even more fiercely. “Do you know the first thing he said to me?” “He said, ‘Jane, I hate you.’” “‘But you’re not allowed to leave me again.’” Jane recalled the anecdote and burst into laughter. I blinked furiously, a strained, ugly curve on my lips. It was quite funny. I started laughing too. But Jane, opposite me, suddenly stopped laughing and looked at me haughtily. “Ruth, you’re crying.” “You damn bitch, you’re here! You stole my money and ran back to the country, and now I’ve finally found you!” A sudden change. A burly man with a scarred face, appearing from nowhere, lunged and slapped Jane.

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The acrid smell of smoke was the first thing that hit me, jolting me back to a nightmare I’d already lived. I was home. And the house was on fire. This time, I noticed something I’d missed before. The front door had been locked from the outside. He had locked me in. He had taken the entire fire crew with him, up into the mountains, to search for her. His long-lost love, his old flame. The fire crept closer, its heat a living thing, forcing me onto the balcony. I knew what came next. Last time, in this exact moment, I had called him, begging for help. He had rejected the call to save her instead. I was pregnant. The fire had swallowed me whole. He had cried afterward, choked with regret. But on the day we were supposed to be married, he stood at the altar with her. Then, on their wedding day, he jumped from a bridge. His suicide note said that if he could do it all over again, he would choose me. A lie. Right now, in this second life, my call went straight to voicemail. I could only watch as the flames devoured our home, our future, everything. … The fire was a ravenous beast, consuming everything in its path. I clawed at the front door, my hand blistering against the searing hot metal, only to confirm my terror: it was bolted shut from the outside. My phone’s signal was weak, my call to 911 dropping in and out. In a desperate, muscle-memory reflex, I dialed my fiancé, Mark. A firefighter. The man who had sworn he would always choose me. The call connected. “I’m busy,” he said, and hung up. Thick, black smoke coiled around me, a suffocating blanket. A sharp, cramping pain shot through my abdomen. The wooden furniture, things he’d built for me with his own hands, groaned and cracked as the fire ate them alive. I stumbled back, forced onto the small balcony, the fire nipping at my heels. Finally, my 911 call connected. The voice on the other end was sickeningly familiar. It was Mark’s cousin, Zoe. “Our house… it’s on fire,” I choked out. “Please, hurry…” As I spoke, the living room curtains went up in a sheet of flame, a wall of fire lunging toward me. I froze, paralyzed by terror. Zoe’s voice dripped with disdain. “Look, Abby, it’s not that I don’t want to help you. But Mark took all the experienced guys to the state park to look for Evelyn. The only ones left at the station are a few rookies in training. They can’t be deployed.” She let out a dismissive scoff. “Besides, Mark told me the fire started in the apartment next door. He said he locked your door specifically for your safety. He said even if the fire spread, you’d have plenty of time to get out another way.” Her voice turned sharp. “You can drop the act. I’m not falling for your little stunts to get his attention. I want my best friend Evelyn to be my cousin’s wife, not you.” The moment she said Mark had locked the door, the world went silent. I didn’t hear the rest of her insults. The fire devoured the trellis he had built for my roses, and just like that, the house that was supposed to hold our six years of love became unrecognizable. I looked down. Blood was spreading from between my legs, a dark crimson river mingling with the soot and ash. I couldn’t believe I was back here, in this exact moment. In my last life, the fire from the neighbor’s kid playing with matches had engulfed the entire floor in minutes. My first instinct had been to call Mark. He had promised me he was on his way. He told me not to worry. The next thing I knew, he was leading his best crew up a mountain trail, searching for his precious Evelyn, who had been “missing” for days. The fire consumed me and my unborn child. When he finally found me, all that was left was a charred, incomplete skeleton. He had knelt in the ashes, a hollowed-out wreck, refusing to eat or drink for three days. He clutched the urn with my and our baby’s remains as if he couldn’t go on living. His old flame, Evelyn, cried and apologized, but he just stared through her. My spirit had ached for him, seeing his pain. And then, he married her. On the exact date we had set for our wedding. His parents, even my own, were thrilled. They thought he was finally moving on. But on their wedding day, he killed himself. His last words, spoken to everyone, were a vow that if he had a second chance, he would choose me without hesitation. And here we were. A second chance. And he had chosen to lock me in and run to her. A crowd was gathering on the street below. They saw me, trapped on the balcony, with nowhere left to go. I gripped the railing, the metal so hot it seared my palms, and watched the flames melt the plastic coating at the edges. The outdoor air conditioning unit I was standing on wobbled precariously. My hands and feet were swollen and blistering. The neighbors who had escaped were scrambling, dragging out mattresses and tarps. “My God, there’s a pregnant woman up there all alone!” “She’s covered in blood! Hurry, everyone, we have to get her down!” A sea of unfamiliar faces worked frantically below, their brows beaded with sweat, trying to build me a chance at survival. Some of them had burns of their own, but they didn’t stop. A bitter, acidic feeling rose in my throat. These strangers were risking their lives for me, while the man I had loved for years had done nothing but lock the door and hang up the phone. A single tear traced a path through the grime on my arm. In that instant, the fire surged, a wave of heat washing over me, engulfing my hand. “Call the district fire department! Someone’s going to die!” a man shouted from below. “We did! They just brushed us off, said they don’t have anyone available! What kind of fire department is that?” More people were calling, while others organized the makeshift rescue. A little boy yelled up at me, his voice piercing the chaos. “Jump, lady! My daddy said we’ll all catch you!” The pain was so immense it was becoming abstract, my mind drifting into a hazy fog. The sheer volume of calls must have finally gotten through to Zoe. She had trusted her brother, the rising star of the department, the one who gave lectures on rescue techniques. He had assured her he’d done a thorough risk assessment of the old apartment buildings in the area. She had believed him. But the calls kept coming. She couldn’t ignore them any longer. She put in an emergency request for a crew from the neighboring district. But in our small county, the two districts were separated by a wide river. Even with the bridge, it would take them forever to get here. The fire wrapped around my hand, my fingers no longer my own. The balcony beneath my feet was slick with my own blood. The railing snapped. I had nothing left to hold onto. I fell backward into the inferno. Before I was reborn, I witnessed Mark’s all-consuming grief. I had interpreted his suicide as a final, tragic act of love for me. I had drowned myself in the fantasy of our perfect connection, our shared dreams. When he failed to save me in that life, my heart broke, but it fluttered again when I saw his ghost clutching my ashes before he jumped. I never once doubted his love. He had loved me so loudly, so fiercely, and I had believed him so completely. But Evelyn’s existence proved that his love had always had a prior claim. One text from her saying “I miss you” was all it took for him to abandon his pregnant fiancée and drive hundreds of miles to spend her birthday with her. I had cried, I had begged, I had even used our baby to try and make him stay. All I got was, “Can you stop being so dramatic? Evelyn has severe depression. If something happens to her, can you live with that?” So he used that excuse, night after night, leaving me alone while he went to comfort her. After I died, he must have realized that depressed people can take medication, see therapists; they don’t always need him. But he wanted to be needed. Evelyn, insisting on the purity of their “platonic” friendship, had him give her my number. She made sure to document every moment they spent together. A selfie of them at dinner. A picture of the cake and flowers he bought her—on my birthday. A photo of them locked in a tight embrace. The constant torture from my own fiancé’s affair wore me down. I started fights over nothing. Nightmares plagued me. I’d wake up in a cold sweat, reaching for him, only to find the other side of the bed empty nine times out of ten. When I called his phone, Evelyn would answer. “Mark’s fast asleep,” she’d whisper. “Want to see?” Then she’d turn on the camera, showing him sleeping soundly, his arm wrapped around her. His explanation? He was just worried she’d have a relapse if he left. It was too risky. He never explained why they were sleeping in the same bed. He shattered my heart again and again, then offered just enough hope to piece it back together. My mental state deteriorated until I was a wreck. When I was finally diagnosed with severe depression, he just laughed. “Nice try,” he’d said with a sneer. “Don’t pretend you’re like Evelyn. You think faking depression is going to stop me from seeing her? Couldn’t you come up with a better excuse?” After my death, he found my diagnosis papers and the unopened bottles of antidepressants I’d refused to take for the baby’s safety. He had collapsed. But in this new life, knowing all of that, he still ran to her. Oh, how I wished I could tell all those people from my past life who called him a tragic, romantic hero. They were so, so wrong. His devotion was a cheap imitation. My last tear fell as the flames rushed to meet me. Below, the crowd of strangers surged forward as one. I was lucky. They caught me. But the impact sent a cataclysmic, tearing pain through my abdomen. An older woman with knowing eyes screamed. “Oh, God! The baby… the baby’s gone!” As her words fell, my child left my body in a rush of blood and ruin. For a moment, the world went utterly silent. Then I heard Zoe’s voice, raw with panic. She pushed through the crowd with a first-aid kit, her eyes red and swollen. “Abby… I’m so sorry… I really thought… Mark said he did the inspections, that everything was safe… I…” She fumbled through a basic check, her face growing paler by the second, especially when she saw the perfectly formed, lifeless infant on the ground. Her hands shook uncontrollably. The crowd’s shock turned to fury, directed at the uniform she wore. “Where the hell were you people? This is on you! Look at that baby! If you had come even a minute sooner, they both would have been okay!” Sobs broke out among the onlookers. Zoe kept whispering, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” while frantically trying to call Mark. The first call… unanswered. The second… rejected. On the third, he picked up, his voice a furious bark. “What?!”

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