Category: English

The night before we were set to sign our marriage license at City Hall, my friends threw us a party. They insisted on playing a “Life’s Mystery Box” game. The women each put a mystery gift into identical boxes, to be randomly drawn by the men. They all insisted this was the fairest way to play. But when I opened my box, there was nothing inside but a thin slip of paper: “Thanks for playing.” The entire room went quiet for a fraction of a second, and then someone snickered. My fiancée, Lara, reached over and casually straightened my collar. “Still no luck, I see.” My childhood friend, Nina, leaned in and murmured under her breath, “Smile, Alan. Don’t let everyone think you’re a sore loser.” In that very same round, Enoch drew the “grand prize”—the hidden luxury tier. Inside his box was a limited-edition automatic watch Lara had spent weeks sourcing, a voucher for a luxury private island resort for two that I had begged her to take me on for three years, and a handwritten card from Nina: “We’ll always protect you from now on.” I forced a smile, slipping the cold slip of paper back into the empty box. It was just a game, after all. A matter of luck. Except, when I went to the restroom later, I overheard the host in the VIP lounge going over the list with them. “Lara, we got the boxes right, correct?” the host asked. “The grand prize for Enoch, the consolation prize for Alan.” Lara gave a quiet, uncaring “Mhm.” Nina laughed softly. “Perfect. Don’t worry, Alan knows how to play along. He’ll find a way to laugh it off.” Standing outside the door, my mind flashed back to the night of my eighteenth birthday. I had stood in the pouring rain, waiting for the midnight fireworks to celebrate my transition into adulthood. Lara and Nina had only one umbrella. They held it over Enoch’s head, looking back at me only to say, “Alan, your house is close. Just run for it, you’ll be fine.” I had walked home drenched that night. I even made excuses for them to my father, convincing myself that it was just my bad luck. But tonight, the truth finally clicked. The umbrella was never meant for me in the first place. So, this time, I tore the card to pieces. I logged onto the online portal and canceled our City Hall appointment. This rigged game of luck they loved so much? I was done playing. … When I walked back into the private room, Enoch was surrounded by people taking photos of him. The luxury automatic watch caught the overhead lights, gleaming on his wrist like a piece of the moon they had plucked down just for him. Someone teased, “Lara, this is insane. If I didn’t know better, I’d think Enoch was the one you’re marrying tomorrow.” Enoch’s eyes immediately welled with tears. “Don’t say that… Alan will be upset.” The moment he spoke, every eye in the room shifted to me. Lara watched me walk in, her brow twitching slightly. “Why are you just standing by the door? Anyone would think we’re mistreating you.” I looked at her, finding it almost funny. I was the one who had been humiliated, yet even my silence was being treated like a childish tantrum. So, I didn’t move. Lara’s expression hardened. Nina was the first to stand up and walk over to me. She had gentle eyes, the kind of face that always seemed to carry a soft, reassuring smile. Before I turned eighteen, I truly believed Nina was the one person in this world who would never let me hurt. But now, she looked up at me, keeping her voice in a low, tight whisper: “Alan, please. Don’t embarrass Lara in front of everyone.” I looked down at her. “Did I say anything?” Nina hesitated. Enoch, clutching the leather strap of the watch, let a tear slip down his cheek. “Alan, here, take the watch. I shouldn’t have kept it anyway.” The moment his fingers touched the clasp, Lara intervened. “Keep it on,” she commanded, her tone brooking no argument. She turned her sharp gaze to me. “A draw is a draw.” I let out a soft, dry laugh. The room went dead silent. Lara’s eyes turned icy. Nina frowned. “Alan, it’s just a game. Do you really have to make this so ugly?” She stepped in front of Enoch, shielding him. Her voice remained soft, but it carried the cold, heavy weight of a threat. “You know Enoch has always been fragile. He’s finally having a good night. Can’t you just let him have this?” “Let him have this.” Always that phrase. I couldn’t help but look at Enoch. He stood tucked beside Lara, tears still glistening on his lashes, but the glance he shot me was so brief, so faint, it was almost a smirk. A second later, Lara stood up and walked over to me. She wore her signature cedarwood perfume. I was the one who had picked it out for her years ago. I told her it suited her—crisp, clean, sophisticated. She had complained it was too subtle back then. But when Enoch mentioned he liked it, she wore it every single day for three years. She reached up, intending to adjust my collar like she always did. I turned my head and stepped back, avoiding her touch. Someone in the room caught their breath. Lara’s eyes darkened completely. “Tomorrow morning is the final suit fitting. I’ll meet you there.” I met her gaze. “You actually remember?” She looked at me as if I had just said something entirely ridiculous. “When have I ever broken a promise to you?” Right then, Enoch let out a soft, fragile cough. Lara’s head snapped toward him instantly. “What’s wrong?” Enoch shook his head. “Nothing… just my wrist is a little itchy. Maybe the strap is a bit too tight.” Lara immediately grabbed her coat from the sofa and draped it over his shoulders. Nina looked at my pale face and let out a long, weary sigh. “Alan, don’t overthink this. Lara is marrying you tomorrow. Enoch is just our little brother.” I stared at her. “Does a ‘little brother’ accept a luxury couple’s watch hand-picked by my fiancée?” The warmth drained from Nina’s face. “Do you have to be so spiteful?” Lara looked back at me, her voice cutting through the room. “Alan. Enough.” Suddenly, the fight left me. I didn’t want to say another word. In their world, even after being humiliated, I was expected to laugh, smile, and blame my own bad luck. When the party finally broke up, Lara took Enoch to the hospital because his wrist had broken out in a mild rash. Nina stayed behind to drive me home. As we reached the door, she took off her coat and handed it to me. “It’s cold out. Don’t catch a chill.” I stared down at the coat. She always did this—just when I was on the verge of letting go completely, she would throw me a crumb of perfect, calculated warmth. And then, in the very next breath, she would push me right back into my place. Sure enough, as she adjusted the collar of the coat around me, she said, “Alan, don’t take tonight to heart. You know how Lara is. Cold on the outside, but she cares. She’s going to the fitting with you tomorrow, and the day after, you two will be legally married. You’ve already won. Don’t keep fighting Enoch over petty things.” I looked into her eyes. “What exactly did I win?” Nina froze. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Because deep down, even she couldn’t answer that question. The next morning, I went to the bridal boutique alone. The stylist pulled my tuxedo from the garment bag, her eyes lighting up. “Mr. Alan, this is absolutely stunning on you. Is Ms. Lara arriving soon?” I hesitated. “She’ll be here.” It was the very last time I would ever make an excuse for her. But ten o’clock came and went. She wasn’t there. At ten-thirty, her assistant sent a text: “Mr. Alan, Ms. Lara has an urgent matter to attend to. She might not make it today.” I called Lara. Surprisingly, she picked up. But in the background, I could hear Enoch’s whimpering, trembling voice. “Lara, I’m at the boutique,” I said quietly, holding the phone tight. “Are you coming?” “It’s not me, it’s Enoch,” she said, her tone harried. “He had a severe allergic reaction to the watch strap last night. His wrist is completely swollen.” I looked down at the tuxedo I was wearing. The waist was tailored so tightly it felt like a band of iron squeezing the air from my lungs. “Today is our final fitting,” I said. Silence fell over the line. Then, Lara let out a soft, exasperated sigh. “Alan, don’t compare yourself to him. You’re the one signing the papers tomorrow. You’re the one who will stand beside me at the altar. Enoch is sick. I’m just staying with him for a little while. Do you really have so little security in our relationship?” A lump formed in my throat, thick and dry. Just then, the boutique clerk walked over carrying a box. “Mr. Alan, Ms. Lara just had this delivered for you.” Inside the box was a pair of black leather dress shoes. The soles were incredibly soft, and there were pre-applied gel cushions at the heels to prevent chafing. A small card was tucked inside. “Your heels blister easily. Don’t wear anything too stiff.” I stared at the handwriting, and a sharp, sudden ache bloomed in my chest. So she did remember. When I was eighteen, the first time I wore formal dress shoes, my heels had been rubbed raw and bloody. On the phone, her voice softened slightly. “Did you get the shoes?” “Yeah,” I whispered. “Be good,” she said, almost coaxingly. “I’ll come home and have dinner with you tonight.” Before I could answer, Enoch’s voice drifted through the receiver: “Lara… is my wrist going to scar?” Lara immediately turned away from the phone. “No, of course not. Let me see.” The call went dead. I looked down at the shoes. They were a perfect fit. But the person who sent them never came. At three in the afternoon, Nina showed up. By then, I had tried on every piece of the suit. Nina pushed the door open, her eyes lingering on me for a long moment. “You look handsome,” she murmured. She walked closer, then glanced down at my feet. Her brows knitted together immediately. “Are your heels bleeding again?” She knelt down on the plush carpet, pulling a tin of Band-Aids from her purse. “Don’t move.” She applied the bandages with practiced, gentle fingers, just like she used to. When she finished, she looked up at me. “Does it hurt?” I didn’t answer. Nina stood up, offering me a hand to help me up. “Let’s get in the car. It’s freezing outside.” The rain was still falling. As we walked out, she tilted the umbrella entirely over my head, letting her own shoulder get completely drenched. I followed her to the car. But just as I reached for the passenger door, I saw a brand-new box of sneakers sitting on the front seat. It was a crisp white shoe box, the laces already carefully threaded and tied. I froze. Nina stiffened for a second, but quickly reached out to block my view of the passenger seat, her voice airy and casual. “Hop in the back, okay?” I stared at the shoe box. “The shoes can’t sit in the back?” Nina’s hand remained on the door. “Alan, don’t start. Enoch has been waiting for these sneakers all afternoon.” “So I sit in the back, and the sneakers get the front seat?” She let out a heavy sigh. “Alan, you’re different. You’re stronger than him.” A sudden, burning sting hit the back of my eyes. But I reached out and pushed her hand away from the car door. “Nina, I don’t want to be strong today.” The gentle warmth on her face evaporated. “Don’t make this difficult for me.” I gave a bitter laugh. “You always ask me to be the mature one. Why do you never ask him to grow up?” Nina was silent for a couple of seconds. Then, she said softly, “Because he would actually break down, Alan.” I nodded slowly. “And I won’t.” I clutched my garment bag tightly to my chest and walked straight into the downpour. The rain was heavy. Within a few steps, my heels were screaming in pain. I didn’t look back, and Nina didn’t chase after me. Maybe it didn’t matter anymore. Twenty minutes later, Enoch posted on his social media. The photo showed the sneakers sitting pristine on the edge of his hospital bed. His caption read: “Someone ran through the storm just to bring me these. She said she couldn’t rest until she knew I was okay.” I stood on the curb of the wet street, holding the garment bag, my heels completely numb. The boutique assistant came running out, handing me a small paper bag. “Mr. Alan! You forgot your tie.” I took it from her. In that exact moment, the desire to get married vanished entirely. But the next morning, I still went to City Hall. Perhaps deep down, I still wanted to see if she would actually show up. At nine-fifteen, I saw Lara’s black sedan pull up across the street. The door opened, and my chest loosened. I even subconsciously reached down to adjust my cuffs. I thought to myself, if she just walks over and says, “Alan, I’m here,” maybe I could swallow all the pain and humiliation from the night before one last time. But then her phone rang. Lara answered. I don’t know what Enoch said on the other end, but the color drained from her face. Without a second thought, she turned back around and got back into the car. The sound of the car door shutting was quiet, but it hit me like a physical blow to the chest. Ten minutes later, Enoch posted again. “I told her I didn’t want to be alone, and she actually turned the car around for me.” The attached photo showed Lara’s hand holding his while he was hooked up to an IV. At nine-forty, Nina finally arrived at City Hall. She got out of her car, her face pale with exhaustion, clearly having had no sleep. “Don’t wait,” she said, walking up to me. “Lara isn’t coming today.” I stared at her. “I saw her.” Nina flinched. Her mouth opened, but all she could muster was, “Enoch’s allergy flared up again last night. He was in a highly fragile state.” I asked, “What about me? Am I not allowed to be fragile?” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Alan, please. Stop asking things like that.” She stepped closer, her voice shifting into a placating tone. “You get the wedding. You get the legal title. You’ll be part of the family soon. What does Enoch have? He only has us.” I quietly tucked my ID away and turned to leave. Nina grabbed my arm. “Where are you going?” “To the wedding planner.” She let out a long breath of relief. “To finalize the schedule?” “Yeah.” Her expression softened. “Good. That’s more like you. Don’t ruin everything. If you make a scene, you’re only going to embarrass yourself.” At the wedding planner’s office, the coordinator looked incredibly uncomfortable. She hesitantly turned her iPad toward me, showing me the mockup for the welcome display at the entrance. On the screen was a large photo of Lara in the center, with me on her left and Enoch on her right. It was a photo from Enoch’s birthday party last year. He was wearing a white suit, holding Lara’s arm, looking far more like the groom than I ever did. I was shoved to the edge of the frame, still holding the knife we used to cut his cake. The welcome text had been changed too. “Thank you for celebrating our ten years together.” But why “our ten years”? Why did our decade-long story have to include Enoch? I kept scrolling through the itinerary. Everything had been altered. There was even a section added to the wedding vows where we were supposed to publicly thank Enoch for his presence in our lives. I looked up at the planner. “Who authorized this?” The planner swallowed hard. “Ms. Lara did.” Seeing my expression sour, Nina quickly chimed in. “It’s just the lobby display, Alan, not the main stage. Enoch has never had a real family. He just wanted to feel included.” I looked directly at her. “It’s my wedding. Why does he need to feel included in my wedding?” Nina’s voice went cold. “Alan, don’t be so petty.” Just then, Lara’s call came through. I answered, and she immediately asked, “Have you seen the updated itinerary?” “Yes.” “Enoch cried all night because he felt like an outsider. I had them add a few photos to make him feel welcome.” “Do you honestly think that’s appropriate?” I asked. “What’s wrong with it?” she snapped, her patience clearly wearing thin. “He’s the best man, and he’s our mutual friend. You’re marrying me tomorrow, Alan, not a digital screen.” I kept scrolling down. When I reached the page detailing the wedding accessories, my fingers froze. The note at the bottom read: “The silver cufflinks are to be worn by Mr. Enoch for the pre-wedding promotional video shoot.” Those silver cufflinks belonged to my late father. Before he passed away, he told me he wanted me to wear them on the day I got married. “Why is Enoch wearing my father’s cufflinks?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. Lara went quiet for a beat. “He’s just borrowing them for the shoot…” “Those were my dad’s,” I interrupted. “I know.” I let out a breathless, hollow laugh. “You know, and you still let him have them?” Through the speaker, I heard Enoch’s soft, trembling sob. “Lara… forget it. I won’t wear them. I don’t want Alan to think I’m bringing bad luck to his day…” Lara’s tone softened instantly. “Don’t say that.” When she spoke to me again, the ice was back. “Alan, he’s just trying to help us shoot a nice preview video. Do you have to be so incredibly harsh?” “Get them back,” I said. Lara didn’t answer. Beside me, Nina spoke up. “Alan, if your dad were still here, he wouldn’t hold a grudge against a kid like Enoch.” I whipped my head around to look at her. The conference room went completely silent. Nina flinched slightly under my gaze, but she pressed on. “Am I wrong? Your dad would have wanted you to take the high road. If he saw you throwing a tantrum over a pair of cufflinks, he wouldn’t be proud.” “Slap.” My hand collided with her cheek. Lara’s sharp voice cut through the phone. “Alan! Did you just hit her?!” Nina held her burning face, her eyes wide with utter shock. “Alan… I don’t even recognize you anymore!” I didn’t say a word. I picked up my bag and walked out of the room. Behind me, Lara’s voice boomed from the speaker: “If you walk out that door, don’t bother waiting up for me tonight!” I paused for a fraction of a second. “Fine.” At eleven o’clock that night, Lara still wasn’t home. I sat in the living room of our new house, reading the wedding contract from cover to cover. My name only appeared twice. This didn’t feel like a celebration of my union with Lara. It felt like an elaborate stage play where I was merely an extra. At 1:00 AM, the front lock clicked. Lara walked in, bringing the sterile, distinct smell of a hospital with her. Seeing me sitting on the couch, she frowned. “Why are you still up?” “Where are my father’s cufflinks?” Her hand stopped on the buckle of her watch. “Enoch needs them for the shoot tomorrow morning. They’re staying with him tonight.” I stood up. “Get them back. Right now.” Lara’s expression turned cold. The last of her patience evaporated. “Alan, I am marrying you tomorrow. What more do you want?” “I want what’s mine.” Lara let out a sharp, mocking laugh. It was quiet, but it cut deep. “He’s just borrowing them, and you’re acting like this? You are incredibly greedy, Alan.” I stared at her, utterly hollowed out. To her, wanting my father’s only legacy back was greed. Just then, Nina called Lara’s phone. Her voice was frantic: “Lara, we have a problem. Enoch says the cufflinks are gone.” My entire body went rigid. Thirty minutes later, we arrived at the hotel suite they were using as a dressing room. Enoch sat in front of the vanity mirror, Lara’s coat draped over his shoulders, his eyes swollen and bloodshot from crying. The vanity table was a chaotic mess of makeup and clothes. But my father’s silver cufflinks were nowhere to be seen. I looked at the stylist. “Where are the security tapes?” She kept her head down. “The cameras in this hallway were down for maintenance this afternoon.” How convenient. I turned to Enoch. “Give them back to me.” Enoch’s tears immediately began to flow. “Alan, I swear I didn’t take them. I don’t know where they went.” “Then I’m calling the police.” Enoch’s face went white. Suddenly, he lunged toward the concrete pillar in the room. “It’s all my fault! I shouldn’t have touched your things! I’ll just die, okay? Let me just die!” Lara caught him just in time, pulling him back. Nina rushed over to hold him too. The two of them stood flanking him, shielding him from my gaze. Lara looked back at me, her eyes like daggers. “Apologize.” I thought my ears were playing tricks on me. “What did you say?” “Apologize to him,” she said, each word dripping with venom. “He is already on the verge of a breakdown, and you’re still pushing him?” I stared at her. “Lara, he lost my father’s only inheritance.” “He said it was an accident.” “And you just believe him?” “Do you have any proof that it wasn’t?” I had no words left. Beside them, Nina spoke in a low, pleading tone. “Alan, just apologize. You’ve already got everything. Why do you have to humiliate him?” Looking at them, a wave of profound exhaustion washed over me. Enoch was clearly the one who had won everything, yet everyone treated him like the victim. I slowly nodded. I didn’t want to fight anymore. “Fine.” The room fell into an uneasy quiet. Lara knit her brows, clearly surprised by how quickly I had given in. Nina looked stunned too. I turned to Enoch. He was still cowering behind Lara, his eyes wet with crocodile tears. “I’m sorry,” I said. Nina’s lips parted. “Alan…” I didn’t look at either of them. I slipped my engagement ring off my finger and set it gently on the edge of the vanity. “Go ahead with the wedding tomorrow,” I said quietly. “Don’t let me ruin your night.” I turned and walked out. Lara made a move to follow me, but Enoch suddenly clutched his wrist, his voice trembling. “Lara… it hurts so much…” Lara instinctively spun back to him, and Nina immediately knelt down to check on him. In that split second, I pushed the heavy doors open and left. By the time they looked back, the door had already swung shut. And I didn’t look back. That night, I went back to the house and canceled every single wedding vendor one by one. The coordinator answered my call at 3:00 AM, her voice trembling with panic. “Does Ms. Lara know about this?” “She doesn’t need to.” Before the sun rose, I walked out of the house with a single suitcase. At ten o’clock the next morning, the day the wedding was supposed to happen, Lara walked into a high-end jewelry boutique. She picked out a men’s wedding band. She stared down at the simple platinum ring, her voice quiet. “He’s loved this style since he was eighteen.” Beside her, Nina held a long-handled black umbrella. My name was engraved on the silver handle. She gave a soft laugh. “And this should make up for the rest. He’s remembered that rainy night when we were eighteen for so long.” Lara shot her a sideways glance. “You knew about that?” The smile faded slightly from Nina’s face. “I knew.” She paused, then added, “He apologized so quickly last night.” Lara scoffed. “He was just tired. He made a scene all night, and he needed a way to save face.” Nina nodded. “True.” She smiled gently. “Alan has always had a soft heart. Once you give him the ring and I give him the umbrella, he won’t be able to stay mad.” When they arrived at the hotel venue, the coordinator was directing the staff to tear down the welcome board. Lara froze in her tracks. “What are you doing? Why are you taking that down?” The coordinator looked up, shocked to see her. “Ms. Lara… didn’t you know? The wedding has been canceled.”

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We were on the first leg of our road trip—the one Lynn and I had spent months planning. I was thirsty, so I pulled into a highway service plaza to grab some water. When I walked back out to the parking lot, her car was gone. I called her ten times. Every single one went straight to voicemail, or she clicked decline. An hour later, the call finally connected. But it wasn’t Lynn’s voice on the other end. It was Chad’s. “Hey, man, sorry about that,” Chad said, sounding entirely too casual. “Lynn turned back to pick me up. We just got back onto I-80. We’ll be at your rest stop in an hour, max.” After I hung up, I opened Instagram. Before we left, I had used Lynn’s phone to post a picture of our packed trunk. The comments were already flooded with “goals” and “so jealous.” But the most liked comment was from Chad, posted right before we hit the road. He’d left an angry emoji: “Going on a trip without me? I’m mad!” Lynn had replied: “Come downstairs. I’m coming back to get you.” A bitter laugh caught in my throat. Lynn was the kind of person who found it too much effort to grab me an extra bottle of water when she went to the store. She was too lazy to pull over and pick me up after work, even when my office was directly on her commute. Because of that chronic apathy, I had spent a year and a half begging, pleading, and compromising just to get her to agree to this pre-marital road trip. She’d even made the itinerary herself. Her sudden initiative had made me so excited I hadn’t slept for nights. But standing there on the hot asphalt of the rest stop, the truth settled in. The change I had fought so desperately for, the bare minimum I had practically begged on my knees to receive, was something Chad could extract from her with a single comment. .. By the time Lynn’s SUV finally pulled into the lot, the crowd around the vending machines had cycled through three times. Chad hopped out of the passenger seat, holding a tray of coffee, a bright, easy smile plastered on his face. “Henry, my lord! I know we kept you waiting, so I brought peace offerings!” He pulled a cup from the tray, popped a straw through the lid, and practically shoved it into my mouth. Without thinking, I took a sip. The moment the heavy taste of dairy hit my tongue, I spun around and spat it onto the gravel. My throat instantly tightened. A violent, hacking cough seized my chest. I leaned against the concrete pillar of the rest stop, coughing so hard tears pricked my eyes. Chad gasped, spinning around to look at Lynn. “Lynn, what the hell? I told you to get coffee, why did you get something with milk? Henry is severely allergic!” Lynn didn’t even flinch. “I didn’t know what to get. I just ordered two cappuccinos.” “Are you dense? I told you to get what Henry likes. Did you think a coffee shop only sells cappuccinos just because you saw me order one once?” I wiped the moisture from the corners of my eyes and silently took the bottle of plain water Lynn handed me. Just like a hundred times before, she sighed and murmured, “If it’s Henry, a bottle of water is fine. He’s not like you, Chad. You always make me remember all these complicated orders. It’s annoying.” “But no matter how annoying it was, you still remembered it, didn’t you?” The thought tasted more bitter than the coffee. I loved coffee too. I had asked her to grab me one through her Starbucks app countless times. But she was always too lazy. Too lazy to open the app, too lazy to customize the order. She would promise to do it, and then five minutes later tell me she forgot. Back then, she’d be staring at her phone screen, mid-match in some mobile game, without even looking up. “Water is better for you anyway. Who actually memorizes those complicated coffee orders?” I had ordered a simple iced black coffee in front of her more times than I could count. Yet, that didn’t stick. What stuck was a single, casual observation she’d made two years ago, when she picked us up after a client dinner and saw Chad drinking a cappuccino. Lynn and Chad walked ahead toward the car, laughing about something. I lagged a step behind, rummaging through my backpack for my antihistamines. By the time I looked up, Chad was already settled in the front passenger seat. Our eyes met through the windshield. Chad tapped his temple, looking apologetic. “Look at my brain. Henry, come sit up front. I’ll hop in the back.” “No need,” I said. “No need,” Lynn said at the same time. Lynn glanced at Chad, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. It wasn’t the first time Chad had “accidentally” claimed the front seat. Every single time before, I had made a big deal out of it, politely but firmly asking him to swap. But today? It felt entirely pointless. I looked at Lynn, then pulled open the back door and slid in. Chad spun around in his seat, his eyes wide with forced excitement. “Are we telepathic or what? Lake Tahoe is literally my dream destination. Henry, I had no idea you even wanted to go there, especially since you don’t even ski.” Lynn caught my eye in the rearview mirror. She turned the steering wheel, her voice casual. “We were going to go to the beach, but he was worried about hurricane season. So I changed the destination to Tahoe. Henry said he wanted to learn.” Chad nodded eagerly, reaching into the glove compartment and pulling out a travel pillow I’d never seen before. “Honestly, the beach would’ve been amazing too. I love the ocean.” “Alright, can we have some quiet?” Lynn interrupted, turning on the radio. The song that started playing was Lynn’s morning alarm. My chest tightened. I remembered the morning after she had finally agreed to this road trip. I had been so excited that I woke up early. After turning off her alarm so she could sleep in, I had—on some dark, insecure impulse—opened her phone. Chad had sent her a barrage of texts the night before, complaining about his boss. I scrolled up idly, only to freeze. “Chad: I need a vacation so bad. I want to go to the beach, seriously.” “Chad: Boss Killian, if you guys go to the coast, take me with you~” Lynn had replied: “Sure.” I had stared at those messages for ten minutes, my eyes burning, before locking the phone and putting it back. When Lynn woke up and wrapped her arms around me from behind, I had tried to sound casual as I said, “Hey, let’s not do the beach for our trip. You said yourself there might be storms this time of year.” At the time, I told myself I didn’t mind Chad tagging along. We had all known each other for over a decade. But why did the destination she chose have to be his favorite? Lynn hadn’t hesitated. She kissed my cheek and said, “Sure, let’s do a ski trip instead. I’ll teach you how.” Sitting in the backseat now, a quiet, humorless laugh escaped my lips. Lynn glanced back. “What’s funny?” I shook my head. “Nothing.” I was just laughing at how incredibly naive I had been eighteen months ago. Believing Lynn was changing for me. Believing she cared, even though I didn’t care about skiing and hated the cold. I unlocked my phone, opened my transit app, and booked a one-way train ticket to a completely different city. This time, I was going somewhere I actually wanted to go. We checked into a cozy cabin at the base of the mountains. We were supposed to hit the slopes tomorrow, but I had already checked out of that plan. I only brought my duffel bag inside, leaving my snowboard and gear in the trunk of her SUV. Lynn parked the car and noticed my hands were relatively light. For once, she was observant. “Where’s your ski gear?” “Forgot it,” I lied smoothly. Normally, I would have scrambled back to the car to retrieve it. This time, I just walked inside. I swiped my keycard and went into our room. Lynn came in a few minutes later. Seeing me on my knees, packing my duffel, she walked over. “Are you mad?” I kept my back to her. “No.” She wrapped her arms around me from behind. Lynn’s hugs were always warm and soft. The kind of warmth that made you feel like she could absorb all your rough edges. When we were kids, I only saw her as the girl next door, a year younger than me. But then, in college, she chased away a girl who’d been flirting with me, hugged me tight, and whispered that she was jealous. My heart had hammered so hard back then. Now, it beat at a perfectly dull, flat rhythm. Lynn chuckled softly against my neck. “You’re jealous, aren’t you? Because I brought Chad along?” She kissed my cheek. “I only invited him because he’s your best friend. Otherwise, I wouldn’t even look at him.” She cupped my jaw, forcing me to look at her, and gave me a few light kisses. “Chad said you were sensitive, but I didn’t believe him. Guess he was right.” Her soft laugh felt like a needle pricking an already swollen bruise. Before I could say anything, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out, read a text, and let out a helpless sigh. “Chad says his room is freezing. I’m going to take him some of those hand warmers.” She bent down, unzipped my duffel bag, grabbed a pack of the hand warmers I’d bought for “her”, and walked out to the adjoining room. I stared at my rummaged bag, a cold draft sweeping over me. I remembered a night when I was in the shower and realized I’d forgotten my towel. It was sitting right on the vanity, inches from Lynn’s hand. But she was too lazy to stand up and pass it to me. Now, Chad’s room was ten steps down the hall. She didn’t hesitate for a second. Lynn didn’t return for two hours. When she finally walked back in, she looked like she wanted to explain herself, but I had already turned my back to her, pretending to be fast asleep. When I opened my eyes the next morning, Lynn was already dressed. She was standing near the door, carefully adjusting the collar of Chad’s ski jacket. He must have slipped into our room while I was asleep. “Keep the zipper up,” she murmured, her fingers lingering on his lapel. “Otherwise, you’ll catch a cold.” Chad caught me looking and blew a playful whistle. I sat up, watching the effortless intimacy between them. “You guys go ahead today,” I said, my voice flat. “I’m staying behind.” I had already planned on not going up the mountain, but watching them now, I realized my presence would just be an awkward third wheel. “Henry, you’re awake!” Chad blinked, then patted Lynn’s shoulder. “Lynn, Henry’s talking to you. Say something.” Lynn smirked. “He’s not like you, Chad. He doesn’t need to be coddled the second he wakes up.” She turned to me. “I wanted to let you sleep in, but I forgot to set an alarm to wake you. Go wash up quickly so we can head out.” She gathered her gloves. “Chad, let’s head down first. We’ll wait for Henry in the lobby.” I got out of bed and walked over to the window. Down in the snowy courtyard, Chad was walking a few paces ahead, turning back every few seconds to say something that made Lynn laugh. Lynn was animated, talking back easily—not quiet and monosyllabic like she usually was with me. They always had so much to talk about. I wasn’t into gaming, and I hated extreme sports. Lynn, despite her general laziness, loved cave diving, snowboarding, and skydiving. I couldn’t share those thrills with her. But for the ten years we’d been together, I didn’t think it mattered. People didn’t need to be identical to love each other. Yet, watching her radiant smile in the snow, I knew she was happy. A hundred times happier than she ever was spending a boring weekend with me, eating a dinner I’d spent all day sweatily preparing. My phone buzzed. It was a text from Lynn asking when I was coming down. I opened the chat. I wanted to type “Let’s break up.” But my fingers felt heavy, frozen. Instead, I tapped the microphone icon and sent a voice note. “You guys go ahead. I’m not coming.” Then, I recorded a second one. “Lynn, we aren’t right for each other. Let’s break up.” Her text response came almost instantly. “Lynn: K.” Followed by a voice note of her own. “Okay, then hurry up and catch up. We’ll wait for you at the lift.” She was being lazy again. She had probably used the speech-to-text feature for my first message, only read the half that said “I’m not coming,” and completely ignored the second notification. She probably thought my second message was just some trivial follow-up. It had always been like this. I locked my phone and sat in the quiet room. The bedside phone rang. I picked it up. “Yes, I booked a car to the train station. I’m ready.” The temperature drop had triggered a low-grade fever, and my head was beginning to throb. By the time I got down to the lobby, my thoughts were thick and sluggish. When I finally pulled myself together, I noticed my phone was lit up with several missed calls. Before I could check who it was, the phone rang again. I answered. “Henry! Why aren’t you up here?!” Lynn’s voice blasted through the receiver, but at the same exact moment, her real voice echoed across the lobby. I looked up. Lynn was marching toward me, her face dark with anger. When she saw my duffel bag sitting beside me, she snapped. “What kind of stunt are you pulling now?!” “Why didn’t you come up? Do you have any idea how worried Chad was when he couldn’t reach you? He went looking for you, took a bad spill down the slope, and now we can’t find him!” I rubbed my temples, trying to clear the fog in my brain, and looked down at my missed calls. “He never called me—” Lynn slapped the phone out of my hand. It skittered across the tiled floor and out into the snow through the open lobby doors. Her eyes were cold as ice. “Henry, you’re throwing a tantrum just because I brought Chad along. And now you’ve gotten him hurt, and you’re standing here playing innocent?” “I never realized you could be this cruel. He’s your best friend, and you’re willing to let him freeze out there?” My head throbbed violently. I massaged my temples, walked out into the cold air, and picked up my phone from the snow. “If that’s what you want to believe, then fine.” I grabbed the handle of my duffel bag and turned to leave. She grabbed my wrist, hard. “You think you can just walk away after this? You’re coming up the mountain with me to find him.” The fever made my limbs feel like lead. I hadn’t even put on my heavy winter coat, but she dragged me out into the biting wind anyway. Search and rescue was already deploying, but a sudden squall had rolled in, dropping visibility to almost zero. Lynn dragged me upward, her breathing heavy in the quiet of the storm. She frowned, glancing back at me. “How many hand warmers do you have on you? Why is your hand so hot?” My lips were pale, trembling. “None.” She let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “Still playing the victim.” We walked another hundred yards. The wind howled, whipping snow into our faces. Suddenly, through the roar of the blizzard, we heard a faint, crying voice. Before I could even process the sound, Lynn violently threw my hand off hers. “Chad! I’m here!” The snow on the edge of the trail was deep and unstable. Lynn’s sudden shove sent me off balance. I stumbled backward, slipping over the ridge, and tumbled ten yards down the steep incline until my back slammed violently against a jagged boulder. Through the blinding whiteout, I looked up. Chad was throwing himself into Lynn’s arms. Their figures merged into a dark silhouette against the white. The wind was deafening, but I heard Chad cry out, “Where’s Henry? Is he okay?!” Lynn held him tighter, her head buried in his shoulder. She didn’t look down the slope toward me once. “Don’t worry about him. You’re the one who matters right now.” When I woke up, I was lying in a small clinic at the base of the mountain. Chad was sitting by my bedside, his eyes red and swollen, gripping my hand tightly. “You’re finally awake! You scared me to death!” “It’s all my fault. There was no cell service up there, so my calls didn’t go through, and then I slipped. I don’t know what Lynn was thinking, dragging you up there in a storm!” I stared at the ceiling, waiting in silence until Chad ran out of things to say. “Henry? Why aren’t you saying anything? Is your throat hurting?” “Of course he has nothing to say. Stop making excuses for him, Chad. He started this.” Lynn walked in, expressionless, carrying a paper container. “I bought you some hot clam chowder. Henry, if you had a fever, you should have just said so instead of coming up the mountain. Why didn’t you tell us?” “You’re an adult. Can you start acting like one?” I stared at the soup, feeling a profound, bone-deep exhaustion. I stirred the chowder with the plastic spoon, but the sight of the heavy cream made my stomach turn. Lynn let out an impatient sigh, snatched the container from my hand, scooped up a spoonful, and shoved it toward my mouth. I jerked my head away. “I don’t eat chowder. I hate mushrooms.” “What are you talking about? You always—” Chad jumped in, reaching to take the cup. “Hey, guys, don’t fight—ah!” The container tipped, spilling the hot soup all over my lap and the hospital bed. Panic flashed in Lynn’s eyes. “Chad! Are you okay?” Chad, his eyes welled with tears, pulled off his soiled jacket and wiped his hands with a tissue. “I’m fine… It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have come on this trip with you guys…” “If I just leave, you two won’t fight anymore.” He bowed his head slightly toward me. And that was when I saw it. On the side of his neck, partially hidden by his collar—a fresh, purple hickey. Our eyes met. In that split second, I understood everything. The fever raging in my body seemed to ignite into pure, blinding anger. I raised my hand and slapped Chad hard across the face. “Henry!!” Before I could even lower my hand, Lynn’s palm struck my cheek with a deafening crack. I held my burning face, a high-pitched ring filling my ears. Lynn chased Chad out the door, but she stopped at the threshold to look back at me. “Have you lost your mind? He’s your best friend!” I let out a soft, broken laugh, my palm wet with tears. My phone buzzed in my pocket. A notification showed my train was leaving in three hours. I knew then. It was time to leave.

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I woke up on the day I was adopted. Again. Through the chain-link fence of the children’s home, I watched Emma pulling at our future adoptive mother’s sleeve. She was pointing frantically toward the swing set, where Cody was sitting, swinging his legs and singing a mindless tune. “Mom! Look at him! Can we adopt him instead? Please?” In my first life, the Craigs took me home. Emma hated how quiet I was. She hated that I didn’t know how to charm people, that I could never be as effortless or lovable as the boy on the swing. I spent my life trying to earn her love. I copied her school notes, took care of our parents when they fell ill, and dropped out of college to work double shifts at a diner to support the family when the Craigs went bankrupt. She thawed toward me, but only slightly. And yet, every time Cody and I competed for anything – a scholarship, a spot on the varsity team, an exchange program – Emma always asked me to step aside. And every single time, I did. The final time was on that flight to Chicago. When smoke filled the cabin and fire began licking at the seats, she looked at me through the panic. Her last words, whispered over the roar of the engines, were: “If there’s a next life… I wish Cody had been my brother.” I heard her. And then, the blackness took me. When I opened my eyes, I was back. Right here. Adoption day. Only this time, before Emma could even open her mouth, I smiled. “Mr. and Mrs. Craig, I think Cody would be a much better fit for you.” Without waiting for their reaction, I turned and walked toward the Grays – the couple who, in my last life, had taken Cody home. “I’d like to go with you,” I said. 1. Mr. Gray blinked, surprised. Then he slowly got down on one knee, bringing himself down to my eye level. His hand was rough, mapped with thick, hard-earned calluses. He reached out, palm up, offering it to me like a quiet promise. “Hey there, buddy. What’s your name?” “…Jesse.” “Jesse,” he repeated. He said it softly, as if he were holding a bird that might fly away. “We’ve been looking for a son. You don’t have to worry about being loud or entertaining. Our house is quiet. You don’t need to put on a show for anyone.” Behind him, Mrs. Gray’s eyes grew glassy, though she didn’t speak. Instead, she reached into her coat pocket, pulled out a neat, folded handkerchief, and pressed it into my hand. “Wipe your palms, sweetie,” she murmured. “Why are your hands so cold?” I looked down. My knuckles were white. I had been clenching my fists so hard that my fingernails had carved a row of pale, crescent-shaped dents into my skin. A sudden, sharp ache bloomed in the back of my throat. In my twenty-two years with the Craigs, no one had ever noticed if my hands were cold. From the direction of the swing set, Cody’s bright, easy laughter drifted over. Emma shot me a complicated, searching look, but she didn’t say anything to stop me. She pulled Mrs. Craig toward the swings, her voice ringing out: “Mom! Come on! Look how high he can go!” Mrs. Craig cast one last glance back at me. There was a flicker of fleeting regret in her eyes, but it vanished as quickly as it came. She turned her back and walked toward the swings. Mr. Gray was still kneeling there, his hand patiently extended. Rough, warm, and steady. I placed my hand in his. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll go home with you.” As we walked through the heavy wooden gates of the home, the midday sun was so bright it made my eyes water. Mrs. Gray walked on my left, Mr. Gray on my right, with me safely tucked in the middle, each of my hands held firmly in theirs. I looked back once. Emma was pulling Cody off the swing, laughing so hard her eyes squeezed shut. That was the last time in my life I ever chose to look back at them. 2. The Grays lived in an old, quiet neighborhood on the east side of town. The house was small – a modest two-bedroom bungalow with a faded fabric sofa in the living room. My adoptive mother spent several minutes rummaging through the hallway closet before pulling out a brand-new pair of slippers, the tags still attached. “Bought these a while back,” she said, kneeling to snip the plastic tag. Her ears flushed a faint, embarrassed pink. “I just… I didn’t know when we’d finally bring a boy home. They’ve been sitting in there for two years.” My adoptive father poked his head out from the kitchen, a spatula in hand. “Jesse! You like fried catfish?” “Yes, sir.” “You got it!” He vanished back into the steam, the metal pan clattering happily. I stood in the middle of the living room in my new slippers, the soles so thick and plush it felt like walking on clouds. That first night, I slept in the smaller bedroom. The sheets had just been washed, smelling faintly of sunshine and lavender fabric softener. On the nightstand, a small lamp cast a warm, buttery glow over the room. My adoptive mother stood in the doorway for a long moment, opening her mouth to speak, then closing it. Finally, she settled on a soft, “I’ll leave the door cracked. If you need anything, just call.” After her footsteps faded, I buried my face in the pillow. It was plump and warm, holding onto that dry, comforting scent. For the first time across two lifetimes, I fell asleep in a strange bed without curling myself into a tight, defensive ball. Meanwhile, the Craig house was buzzing. My adoptive father repaired electronics at a local swap meet. It was a busy spot, attracting all kinds of people, which meant gossip traveled fast. On the third evening, he set his heavy metal toolbox on the floor, took off his coat, and whispered to my mother: “Guess what? The Craigs threw a massive party. Seven or eight tables at the Heights Country Club. A whole banquet to welcome their new boy.” My mother, who was scooping mashed potatoes onto a plate, paused. “A banquet?” “Yeah. Clam bakes, prime rib, the whole nine yards.” He hung his apron behind the door, glancing at me as he softened his voice. “Apparently, the daughter insisted on it. Said she wanted her brother to have the proper welcome he deserved.” He hesitated. “Do you think we should have…” My mother stayed quiet, watching my face for any reaction. She didn’t answer him. Instead, she placed the plate in front of me and added a generous helping of green beans. “Eat up, Jesse.” “Thanks, Mom,” I said. In my previous life, on my third day with the Craigs, Emma had locked herself in her room and refused to come out. Mrs. Craig had made a table full of food, but Emma wouldn’t even budge. I had stood outside her door for half an hour with a plate of dinner, only for her to slide a note under the crack. “Leave me alone.” There had been no banquet. No country club. No “proper welcome.” She hadn’t even called me her brother for years. I didn’t care what Emma was trying to prove by throwing Cody that party. That was her business now. It had nothing to do with me. Still, fragments of the banquet found their way to me. My mother ran into the Craigs’ housekeeper at the grocery store, and the woman couldn’t help but gossip. She talked about how Emma wore a brand-new dress, how her hair was done up beautifully, and how she spent the whole evening holding Cody’s hand, introducing him to every aunt, uncle, and cousin. She talked about how sweet Cody was, charming everyone with a “Yes, sir” and “Thank you, ma’am,” making the whole table laugh. She even described how Emma had tapped her glass with a spoon, stood up, and made a speech: “Thank you all for coming. This is my brother. If anyone messes with him, they mess with me.” Everyone had applauded. Hearing this, my mother sighed quietly, keeping her head down as she sorted through the green beans. Only after the housekeeper walked away did my mother look at me, her eyes filled with gentle worry. “Jesse… do you ever regret it? Choosing us that day?” “Never,” I said, looking her straight in the eyes. “I’m more grateful to you than I can say. Truly.” I meant it. In my last life, I waited twenty-two years for Emma to call me her brother, to treat me like real family. But by the time the plane was on fire and she said she wished Cody had been her brother instead, I had run out of patience. I was done waiting. 3. A few days later, my mother came back from the market with a bag of fresh apples. She said the Craigs’ housekeeper had practically shoved them into her hands, refusing to take no for an answer. “She said Emma told her to give them to us. She said… it was to say thank you.” My mother placed the apples on the table, watching me closely. I picked one up, rubbed it against my shirt, and took a bite. It was crisp, sweet, and bursting with juice. “Then tell her she’s welcome,” I said. My mother lingered for a second, then quietly turned and went into the kitchen. I tossed the apple core into the trash and walked out to the porch to check on the potted jasmine. The leaves looked perkier than they had a few days ago. A tiny, pale-green shoot was starting to poke out from one of the branches, delicate and full of life. I didn’t care to figure out what Emma’s “thank you” actually meant. Maybe she was thanking me for giving up Cody, or for leaving so cleanly without making a scene. Or maybe she was thanking me for not exposing her on adoption day. She chose Cody, and now she could enjoy her victory with a clear conscience. So be it. She got the brother she wanted. And as for what she owed me, I had no intention of collecting. On our first day of middle school, I bumped into Cody in the hallway. He was wearing a pristine new backpack. When he saw me, he froze for a second, then flashed a bright smile. “Jesse! You go here too?” “Yeah.” “I’m in homeroom 301. What about you?” “307.” “Oh, cool!” he said, his voice dripping with easy charm. “We’re classmates now.” I didn’t offer anything else. I just nodded and walked past him. And so, Cody and I went to the same school. He was in class 3, I was in class 7. Every day after the final bell, I would see Emma waiting by the gates to pick him up. Sometimes, across the crowded courtyard, I could feel her eyes on me. But I never looked back. A month later, the results of our first midterm exams were posted. I ranked seventh in the entire grade. Cody ranked ninety-third. The honor roll sheet was taped to the cafeteria doors, right where everyone had to pass by. That afternoon, after school let out, Emma was waiting in the hallway between our classrooms, her hands shoved deep into her parka pockets. As I walked out, she stepped forward and called my name. Her voice sounded different – flat, hesitant, like she had rehearsed a speech but lost her nerve halfway through. “Jesse…” I stopped and looked at her. She rubbed her hands together before stuffing them back into her pockets. Her eyes flicked away from mine, darting down the hall toward the cafeteria doors before returning to my face. “My parents… they mentioned you at dinner the other night. They saw your grades.” I kept silent. “They said… they remembered how mature you were back at the home.” “Okay.” She paused. A dry yellow leaf from the oak tree outside drifted through the open window and landed on her shoulder. She didn’t brush it off. “They said you’re doing really well.” “Thanks,” I said. “Thank them for me, too.” Then I walked past her. That night, my mother asked me how the exams went. “Seventh in the grade,” I said. She gasped, dropping her spatula right into the sink, and rushed over to wrap her arms around me. A streak of grease from her apron wiped onto my sleeve, but I didn’t care. My father came running in from the living room. “What happened? What’s going on?” “Your son!” my mother cried. “He got seventh! In the whole grade!” My father blinked, a massive grin spreading across his face. “Well, then. Don’t we need to celebrate?” “Absolutely! What do you want to eat, Jesse?” “Fried catfish,” I said. “Catfish again? We just had that two nights ago!” “Crispy fried catfish.” My mother rolled her eyes, but she was already heading back to the stove, muttering under her breath as she heated up the oil. My father sat back down on the sofa to work on his radio, humming a terribly out-of-tune song as he turned his screwdriver. Sitting at the dining table, watching my mother hustle in the kitchen and listening to my father’s terrible humming, I realized something. That yellow leaf on Emma’s shoulder was already gone. I didn’t need to remember it. 4. In the spring of our eighth-grade year, Emma approached me for the second time. I was waiting at the bus stop after school. She was leaning against a bus shelter advertisement about ten feet away, watching me. I pretended not to see her. She walked over and stood beside me, leaving a deliberate, awkward gap between us. “Jesse.” “Yeah.” “You’re in eighth grade now, right?” “Yeah.” “How did your midterms go?” “They were fine.” She ran out of things to say. So did I. The bus pulled up. I swiped my pass and climbed aboard, finding a seat near the back window. As the bus pulled away, I glanced back. She was still standing under the shelter, a solitary gray silhouette dissolving into the evening twilight. That night, as I was finishing my homework, my phone buzzed on the desk. It was a text from Emma: “Cody did terrible on his midterms. My dad screamed at him. Can you let him copy your study guides?” I stared at the screen for a long time. Then another text came through: “Just this once. He’ll give them right back as soon as he’s done copying.” And a third: “Just do it as a favor. Please.” I set the phone face down. I finished my math, then my English, then my physics. By the time I was done, it was past eleven. I picked up the phone and typed: “Fine.” Then I shut it off. The next day at lunch, Cody came looking for me. He stood outside my classroom, holding a cup of boba tea. “Jesse! Thank you so much! I finished copying your notes. Here you go!” He handed the binder back to me. A crooked, poorly drawn heart sticky-note was pasted on the cover. I opened it to check. On the margin of the first page, there was a tiny scribble in his handwriting: “Your sister told you to let me have it, and you did. You’re a good guy.” I folded the corner of that page down. Cody walked away with a light, cheerful bounce in his step. I stood in the hallway, watching his retreating back. In my last life, he had said almost the exact same thing to me. Every time I backed out of a scholarship, a competition, or an exchange program, he would say, “Jesse, you’re such a good guy.” Back then, I took it as a compliment. Now, I understood what it really meant. It meant: “You gave me what was yours, so you’re a good guy. And I’ll keep taking.” A month later, the school announced the Winter Showcase. Each grade was to nominate host candidates, and the school would vote on one boy and one girl to host the entire event. Class 3 nominated Cody. He was outgoing, charismatic, and completely at ease in front of a crowd – he was the obvious choice for his homeroom teacher. My teacher, on the other hand, hesitated for a long time before calling my name. I had just made the top five in our midterms. My teacher said, “Top students usually have a steady presence on stage.” I didn’t decline. I just nodded. On the day the nominee list was posted, Cody walked past my classroom and peeked inside. I was writing at my desk, but I felt his gaze and looked up. He flashed me a quick, sweet smile and walked on. When school let out, Emma was waiting for me. She straightened up when she saw me walk through the doors. “Jesse.” “Yeah.” “About the Winter Showcase hosting,” she said. “Can you bow out?”

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Our school play was next week. I leaned against the edge of the bed, whispering to Mom: “The teacher said everyone needs to wear white patent leather shoes on stage.” “Mom, can I get a pair too?” Mom looked down at her phone, but she still smiled at me. “Of course, sweetie. Mom will take you tomorrow.” The next day, we went to the department store. I fell in love with a pair of white Mary Janes with little bows on the straps. The saleslady said they were over two hundred dollars. Mom held the shoebox, her smile fading into a sudden, heavy silence. I quickly put the shoes back on the shelf and smiled at her, trying to make my voice sound bright. “Actually, Mom, my sneakers are fine.” “I’m standing in the very back row anyway. No one will even see my feet.” I knew why. To help Dad pay off his debts, Mom hadn’t bought herself anything new in years, not even a pair of shoes. I had even started collecting soda cans from the park to recycle for extra cents. Mom looked at me, her eyes immediately welling up with tears. Just then, a woman standing nearby spoke up. “How can a little girl go on stage without proper shoes?” She walked over, took the box from the shelf, and handed it straight to the cashier. “Here, sweetie. It’s a gift from me.” My eyes lit up, but I quickly sneaked a glance at Mom. Mom was standing frozen, all the color draining from her face. At the register, the woman smiled and slid a card across the counter. “Don’t worry about it. My husband makes money just so I can spend it.” “He won’t mind a little thing like this.” I stood on my tiptoes and saw the dark, matte finish of the black card. My heart sank. Only last night, I had seen that exact same card in Dad’s wallet. … Mom stood in front of the counter, unable to move. The woman’s smile grew warmer, glowing with an easy, untroubled happiness. “Once the baby in my belly is born, I’m going to dress her up like a princess too. I never want her to feel left out.” Mom’s breath seemed to catch in her throat. I froze too, my eyes dropping instinctively to the woman’s round stomach. When Mom finally spoke, her voice was raspy, barely a whisper. “You’re… pregnant?” The woman nodded, her eyes shining with unmistakable joy. “Just found out.” “I was just out doing some window shopping today. I can’t wait to tell my husband tonight. It’s going to be a surprise.” Right then, a voice called out from behind us. “What’s taking so long?” I turned around. A man was walking toward us, holding two iced drinks. I went entirely numb. It was Dad. But not the Dad I knew. The Dad who came home to us always wore worn-out, threadbare clothes. The man standing here looked like a movie star, polished and radiant. I stood there, my throat locking up. I didn’t even dare to call out to him. The woman ran over to him, wrapping her arm tightly around his. “Honey, you’re just in time! I just did a good deed.” She pointed at me, beaming. “I bought a pair of recital shoes for this sweet little girl. She’s so polite, she wouldn’t even ask for them.” Dad looked over in the direction she was pointing. The moment his eyes met mine and Mom’s, his smile vanished completely. Mom immediately grabbed my hand, turning us around to leave. But as we walked, her hand was shaking so hard. When we got home, Mom placed those white Mary Janes on the table. She just stared at them for hours. Over the last few years, Mom had sold her earrings, her necklaces, everything, just to help Dad pay off his debts. The front door didn’t open until very late. Dad walked in. He was still wearing his tailored suit, looking utterly out of place in our cramped, peeling apartment. He placed a large shopping bag on the table, calling my name as if nothing had happened. “Maisie, look. Dad bought you some presents.” I slowly stood up from the edge of the bed and looked inside the bag. They were toys and dresses I had wanted for a long time. But Dad had always said we couldn’t afford them. Mom let out a bitter, mocking laugh, her eyes locked on him. “Are you done lying to us?” Dad frowned, looking exhausted, as if he simply didn’t have the energy for a fight. “The kid is right here. Don’t start.” Mom laughed again, but tears were streaming down her face. “Oh, so now you care about the kid?” “She couldn’t even have a pair of shoes for her school play because I couldn’t afford them. Meanwhile, you have an entire other life out there. Another family.” Dad’s expression darkened. “Watch your mouth.” The apartment fell dead silent. I stood in the corner, barely daring to breathe. Mom’s voice was quiet, but it hurt worse than hearing her scream. “How could you do this to us? To your own daughter?” Dad glanced at me, his posture stiffening with a momentary flicker of guilt. But then, his phone buzzed. He looked down, checked the screen, and immediately turned toward the door. As the door clicked shut behind him, Mom stood with her back to me for a very long time. I crept over and gently tugged at the hem of her shirt. “Mom… was it because of the shoes? I shouldn’t have asked for them.” She spun around and pulled me into her arms, holding me so tight I could feel her chest heaving. “No.” “Maisie, you did nothing wrong.” She squeezed me, her voice trembling. “It’s Mom’s fault. I’m so sorry.” Listening to her, my own tears started to fall. I didn’t really understand why I was crying, only that Mom was completely broken, and it made my chest ache. The next day, Mom walked me to school in total silence. Standing in the line with my classmates, I looked down at my new white shoes. Instead of happy, I just felt a heavy, sour lump in my throat. Just as rehearsals were wrapping up, the teacher suddenly called me into the front office. As I stood by the door, I could hear the administration staff whispering outside. “That’s her, right?” “The girl from the photos.” “So her mother is a homewrecker after all.” My eyes stung with hot tears. I yelled back at them: “My mom is not a bad person!” Just as Mom rushed into the office and heard my shout, the water bottle she was holding slipped from her hand, crashing onto the tile floor. That was when I learned what had happened. The woman from the mall had somehow found her way into the school’s parent Facebook group. She had posted the photos she took at the mall, along with a long, tearful message. She claimed she had only bought a pair of shoes out of the kindness of her heart for a poor little girl, only for my mother to start hounding her husband. She wrote that she was pregnant, that the stress was dangerous for her baby, and begged the other parents for support. She wrote it so beautifully, painting herself as the innocent, charitable victim. A few parents had initially questioned if there was some misunderstanding, but she knew exactly how to play them. With a few soft, manipulative replies, she dragged Mom’s name through the mud. She didn’t use outright insults, but every word implied that Mom was a cheap, scheming woman, and that I was a child being raised by trash. Slowly, the comments in the group turned vicious. “Like mother, like daughter. I don’t want my kid around someone like that!” “Disgusting. People like her deserve what’s coming to them.” Sitting in that office, I heard the murmurs from the hallway growing louder. These were grown-ups, yet the words coming out of their mouths were meaner than anything I’d ever heard on the playground. The teacher called Mom, and then she called Dad. I heard her speaking urgently into the receiver: “The child is very distressed, and the parents outside are causing a scene. We need you to get here as soon as possible.” Deep down, I kept hoping Dad would walk through that door. If he came, he could tell everyone that he was my dad. He could tell them Mom wasn’t a bad person, and then all of this would go away. So I waited. But the first one to arrive was Mom. When she burst through the door, her hair was a mess, sweat beading on her forehead. The second she saw me, she fell to her knees and wrapped me in a tight hug. All the fear and hurt I’d been holding back poured out. I sobbed against her shoulder. “Mom, I didn’t hit anyone.” “They’re saying bad things about you.” “They said I’m…” I couldn’t finish the sentence. Mom kept stroking my back, her hands frantic. “It’s okay, Maisie. Don’t be scared. Mom is here.” The teacher explained the situation, looking incredibly uncomfortable. She said the parents outside were too riled up, and suggested it might be best if I dropped out of the school play until things blew over. Mom’s arms tightened around me instantly. “Why?” “What did my daughter do wrong?” The teacher sighed. “Your daughter did nothing wrong. But the parents are crowding the hallway. If this escalates, it will only hurt her more.” Indeed, there was a crowd outside the office glass. I heard someone shout, “Make her come out and explain herself!” Another voice added, “People like that shouldn’t even be allowed to send their kids to this school.” Mom was shaking with pure rage. She pulled out her phone and dialed Dad’s number. She called again and again, until he finally picked up. Mom’s voice cracked. “You need to get to the school right now.” I didn’t know what he said on the other end, but the tiny flicker of hope in Mom’s eyes died out. “Maisie is being cornered and harassed at school. Just come. Just this once.” “If you don’t show up, they are going to brand her as a bastard child!” By the end, she was sobbing. But Dad still refused. Standing so close to her, I could hear his muffled voice through the speaker: “Handle it yourself. Stop calling me for every little thing.” Then, the line went dead. Mom stood there, clutching the phone, completely frozen. In that moment, I finally understood. Dad was never coming. Seeing that he wasn’t showing up, the crowd outside grew bolder, their words sharper. Someone pushed the office door open, pointing at my stage costume, telling us not to ruin the school’s property. Terrified, I hid behind Mom. She shielded me with her body, but the hateful words still pierced through, sharp as needles. “Who even knows if she has a father?” “Probably some random guy’s kid she’s trying to pin on someone else.” “Look at the mother. She looks like a home-wrecking siren. The apple doesn’t fall far.” My ears buzzed, and my vision blurred with endless tears. I wanted to scream at them that I had a dad. He just hadn’t arrived yet. But even I didn’t believe it anymore. Suddenly, someone grabbed my student file off the desk and opened it. The office dissolved into chaos. Everyone was crowding around, whispering, laughing, treating our lives like a cheap soap opera. I couldn’t take it anymore. I screamed through my tears, “I have a dad!” Someone sneered. “Then where is he? Call him here.” In that split second, only one thought consumed my mind. “I have to find Dad.” “If I find him, he has to acknowledge me. He can’t pretend I don’t exist.” I shoved past the adults in front of me and bolted out the door. Mom screamed my name from behind, but I couldn’t stop. I ran as fast as my small legs could carry me, tears blinding my way. The school gates were just ahead. “Dad, please. Please just appear.” But in the next second, a deafening screech of brakes tore through the air. I spun around instinctively. A car was barreling toward me, moving so, so fast. Before I could even register the danger, I was airborne. For a brief moment, I felt as light as a piece of paper drifting in the wind. Then, the impact. The pavement was so hard. The pain was suffocating, crushing the air right out of my lungs. I heard people screaming. And then I heard Mom’s voice, a sound so broken it shattered the sky. “Maisie!” She threw herself over me, her hands trembling violently as she touched my face. I wanted to tell her how much it hurt. But when I opened my mouth, all I tasted was iron and blood. Mom’s face grew blurry, fading into the gray light. The last thing I saw was her collapsing beside me, weeping so hard she couldn’t even stand. By the time they lifted me into the ambulance, I had no strength left. The interior of the rig was blindingly bright. People were pressing down on my chest, shouting numbers, telling me to stay awake. But I was just so tired. Mom held my hand the entire time, gripping it so tightly, as if she believed that if she let go, I would slip away forever. She kept begging the paramedics. “Please save her.” “Please, I beg you, save my daughter.” I had never heard Mom sound like that. Even in our darkest times, she would always hold me and whisper, “It’s okay, baby. Mom will figure something out.” But this time, she had no solutions left. When we reached the hospital, they wheeled me into the trauma bay. The double doors swung shut, locking Mom outside. What happened next, I only learned later from the whispers of the living. Mom stood outside the operating room, and a nurse soon approached her with the intake and consent forms. They needed to run scans, prep for a blood transfusion, and start emergency surgery immediately. They needed a deposit. When Mom looked at the figure on the paper, her face went utterly pale. She dumped every single coin and crumpled bill from her purse, checked her banking app, and opened every loan app on her phone, one by one. But no matter how she scrambled, she was nowhere near enough. She messaged Dad: “Maisie was hit by a car. She’s in the hospital. Come now.” His call came through seconds later. Mom gripped the phone like a dying woman clutching a lifeline, her voice cracking. “Maisie’s hurt. The doctors are trying to save her. I need thirty thousand dollars right now for the surgery. Please, just thirty thousand.” But Dad didn’t believe her. He thought it was another ploy. He accused her of using our daughter to scam him for money. Mom wept into the receiver. “I’m not lying! She’s truly dying! Just come to the hospital and see for yourself, I beg you!” Still, he refused to believe her. He went so far as to say that if she really wanted the money, she needed to go and apologize to Natalie first. Because Natalie had been so distressed by the school drama that her stomach was cramping, and she wouldn’t stop crying. The line went quiet for a long time. But finally, Mom whispered, “Okay.” When she arrived at the private clinic, Natalie was lounging on a sofa, dabbing at her eyes, complaining that the day’s fright had nearly cost her the baby. Dad stood beside her, stroking her hair, whispering sweet things as if the child in her womb was the only one that mattered in the world. Mom stood there and said, “My daughter is in the operating room.” Her voice didn’t even sound like hers anymore. It was hollow, dry. But Dad only looked at her coldly. “Apologize first.” Natalie sniffled, her voice dripping with fake tears. “It’s all her fault. She caused a scene at the mall and at the school. She just won’t let go of another woman’s husband!” Mom didn’t defend herself. She just kept staring at Dad, waiting for some microscopic shred of humanity to show in his eyes. But there was nothing. “Apologize,” he repeated. “Then you get the money.” Mom stood there, looking like a ghost. She whispered one last time, “My daughter is dying.” Dad’s face remained cast in stone. “Apologize, and I’ll wire the funds.” So, Mom knelt. For me. She sank to her knees before that woman, lowering her head, and said she was sorry. But Natalie wasn’t satisfied. “Louder. Admit that you’re the shameless one here.” Mom’s forehead was bruised, her hair tangled, but she forced the words out, syllable by syllable. “I did nothing wrong. He is the one who sinned.” Dad stood by, watching the entire spectacle without making a single move to stop it. Then Natalie sneered, “Bow down. Show some real remorse.” Mom’s shoulders trembled as if she were about to collapse. But she lowered her upper body, pressing her forehead directly to the cold floor. Once. Twice. Three times. She did it with so much force that her forehead began to bleed. Only then did Dad toss a plastic card onto the floor in front of her. “This is the last time,” he said. Mom grabbed the card and ran. She ran back to the hospital, believing that if she could just run fast enough, I would still be waiting for her. But when she reached the billing counter, the clerk swiped the card several times, only to look up with a pitying sigh. “I’m sorry, ma’am. This card has been frozen.” Mom froze. She stood at the window, the useless card clutched in her hand, the blood on her forehead drying into a dark crust. Her face was completely devoid of life. And right then, the red light above the operating room went out. The doors swung open. A doctor wheeled out a small gurney, covered entirely by a white sheet. Mom looked as though she had been nailed to the floor. Her breath stopped. The card slipped from her fingers, clattering softly against the tile. But she didn’t look down at it. She just stared at the gurney, her eyes wide, as if she believed that if she didn’t blink, the doctor’s words wouldn’t be real. The doctor walked up to her, his voice heavy with quiet regret. “I am so sorry. We did everything we could.” Mom didn’t move. She didn’t seem to comprehend what those words meant. Floating above her head, I reached down, wanting to wrap my arms around her, to tell her not to be scared, that I was right here. But my hands passed straight through her shoulders. I couldn’t touch a thing. The nurse gently pulled back the sheet, revealing my face. Only then did Mom seem to wake up. She stumbled forward, her knees giving out. I lay there so still, my face pale, my lips white, looking like I was just taking a nap. Mom’s trembling fingers finally touched my hair. The next second, she collapsed to her knees. She didn’t cry. I had never seen Mom this quiet. She gently stroked my cheek, her lips quivering, her voice so soft it felt like glass ready to shatter. “Maisie.” “Mom is here.” “I brought the money, sweetie. Open your eyes and look at me, okay?” Hearing her, a phantom sob caught in my throat. I wanted so badly to leap into her arms like I used to, to tell her I was right there. But I couldn’t go back. Mom pulled my cold body into her arms, resting her forehead against my hand, whispering the same words over and over. “I’m sorry.” “Mom was useless.” “I couldn’t protect you.” I hovered above her, shaking my head. “No.” “That’s not true, Mom.” “You tried so hard.” She hadn’t bought herself a single new thing in years just so I could eat. She always told me she didn’t care about dressing up, but I knew she used to love pretty things. Whenever she made custard, she always gave me the softest, smoothest part in the middle. In the winter, even when her own hands were red and raw from the cold, she would always make sure my sleeves were pulled down tight to keep me warm. She had protected me so well. It was Dad who lied to her. It was those cruel people who hurt her. But she still took all the blame upon herself. Watching her, my heart felt like it was being torn to shreds. After a long time, the phone in Mom’s pocket began to ring. She didn’t answer it. The ringing went on and on. Only when the nurse gently nudged her did she seem to register the sound, slowly pulling the phone out. It was Dad. He probably thought she was calling to beg for more money. The moment the call connected, his voice was laced with deep irritation. “Have you seriously not had enough of this drama?” Mom held me close, saying nothing. Her eyes were empty, staring into nothingness. The doctor, unable to watch any longer, took the phone from her hand. “Sir, this is the municipal hospital. The emergency resuscitation has failed. The child has passed away. Please come to the hospital immediately to handle the arrangements.”

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My husband is the biggest pop star in the country. And I am his private nutritionist, his personal assistant, and his twenty-four-hour emotional anchor. For six years, our marriage has been a well-kept secret. I haven’t held a traditional job a single day since we wed, yet my life is more exhausting than any corporate grind. Dylan has a stomach so delicate it might as well be made of tissue paper. His list of dietary restrictions is longer than I am tall; I have to inspect every single ingredient eight times before it ever touches a pan. If a single negative comment appears under his new music videos, I am the one who stays up all night drafting comforting, thousand-word reassurances to patch up his fragile ego. He also suffers from severe separation anxiety. If I go downstairs to grab a delivery and take longer than ten minutes, my phone explodes with frantic calls—sometimes nine times in a single minute. And whenever I mention visiting my parents back in Boston, he suddenly develops phantom chest pains. This was my life. Until his first love, Kelly, returned to the country. The moment her plane touched down, she posted on Instagram: “Funny how the universe always brings you back to where you started.” I was so thrilled I almost sent her a flower arrangement. But just as I was about to slip my passport and ID into my bag and plan my exit, my phone rang. “Em, Kelly wants to meet up tonight. You’re coming with me.” My hand trembled slightly. “Are you serious, Dylan? I’m literally preparing to vacate the house for you two, and you still want me to play the supportive background crew one last time?” 1 Dylan’s voice came through the receiver, carrying that familiar, entitled laziness that used to make my heart flutter but now just made me tired. I was holding a micro-scale, carefully measuring out his vitamin powder for tomorrow. Hearing his demand, my hand didn’t even wobble. The white powder fell into the small packet, landing precisely at the 0.1-gram mark. “Sure. Send me the time and place.” My voice was flat, as indifferent as if I were asking him whether he wanted roasted broccoli or asparagus with his dinner. There was a sudden, heavy silence on the other end. By the rules of the last six years, Dylan expected a jealous interrogation. He expected a tearful, hurt silence. After all, I was his emotional caretaker. Playing along with his moods and displaying a fierce, possessive love was my unwritten, full-time job. But tonight, he was out of luck. On the bedroom floor, my suitcase sat open. My passport and birth certificate were already tucked quietly into the inner zipper pocket. I wasn’t jealous. Honestly, I wanted to send a grand floral display to whatever restaurant they were meeting at, wishing them a lifetime of marital bliss. It took a full ten seconds before Dylan spoke again, his tone uncharacteristically stiff. “Seven o’clock. The rooftop restaurant overlooking the skyline in West Hollywood. Drive me.” “Got it.” I hung up, sealed the packets, and sorted them into the daily organizer. Thirty neat little compartments. Enough to last him a month. Once that was finished, I went to his walk-in closet to select his clothes for the evening. As a chart-topping artist, Dylan’s wardrobe was larger than most boutique stores. But I could navigate it with my eyes closed, easily avoiding any synthetic fabrics that might irritate his sensitive skin. I pulled out a bespoke black wool suit paired with a soft, anti-static organic cotton undershirt. It was his signature look for important nights. At six o’clock sharp, I pulled the car into the VIP parking garage beneath his agency’s building. Dylan opened the passenger door and slid in, bringing with him a faint scent of lavender disinfectant. He was a notorious germaphobe; everywhere he went had to be sanitized beforehand. I glanced at him, and my chest tightened slightly. He wasn’t wearing the bespoke suit I had prepared. Instead, he wore a slightly faded, oversized cream cable-knit sweater. I knew that sweater. It was the one Kelly had bought him with her very first paycheck back when they were struggling college students. For six years, it had been kept at the very bottom of his cedar chest. He had never let me touch it, let alone wash it. Tonight, he had unearthed it. He was wearing it to go see the woman who gave it to him. I turned my eyes back to the road, shifted into drive, and pressed the accelerator. “Nothing to say?” Dylan leaned back against the leather seat, his fingers absentmindedly tapping the armrest—a telltale nervous tic he only displayed when he was anxious or highly expectant. “About what?” I asked, keeping my eyes on the red light ahead. “For starters, why I’m wearing this.” He tilted his head, watching my profile with a sharp, probing intensity. I offered a small, polite smile, giving him exactly what he wanted. “Why are you wearing it?” Suddenly, he looked annoyed, like a child who had set a trap only to step in it himself. He snapped his head toward the window. “Just felt like it. The suit you picked was too stiff. My stomach is acting up anyway.” The classic move. Whenever he felt guilty or wanted to avoid a real conversation, he weaponized his health. In the past, I would have immediately pulled over, fished a bottle of warm water and his medication from my bag, and blamed myself for not being attentive enough. But tonight, I just gave a quiet murmur of assent. “Then try to eat something bland tonight.” Dylan clearly hadn’t expected such a cold response. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The car fell into a suffocating, heavy silence. It wasn’t until we neared the restaurant that he spoke again, a touch of irritation creeping into his voice. “Emily, did you forget my mints today?” Without taking my eyes off the road, my right hand reached into the console, pulled out a small silver tin, and slid it toward him. “Sugar-free. Peppermint.” He took the tin. His fingers brushed against the back of my hand, and he flinched as if he’d been burned, pulling away quickly. The metal tin rattled loudly in his grip. “She called me because she wanted to clear up some misunderstandings about why she left for Europe back then,” Dylan said, his voice muffled as he popped a mint into his mouth. “Mm. It’s good to get closure.” I turned the wheel, steering the car into the restaurant’s valet lane. “Aren’t you worried we’ll end up getting back together?” Dylan’s voice suddenly spiked, sharp with an almost irrational defensiveness. I brought the car to a smooth stop and turned off the ignition. Then, I turned my head to look at him directly. “Dylan, if you want to get back together, that’s your choice. My only job tonight is to make sure you don’t eat something that puts you in the ER, because you have a studio session tomorrow morning.” I pushed my door open and stepped out into the cool evening air. I didn’t look back, and I didn’t stay to watch the shock on his face. For the first time in six years, I didn’t walk around to open his door like an obedient shadow. Because I knew his golden girl was already waiting for him upstairs. 2 The restaurant sat on the top floor, wrapped in floor-to-ceiling glass that offered a sweeping view of the sprawling city lights. When I pushed open the door to the private dining room, I saw Kelly sitting by the window. Unlike the grainy paparazzi photos from the airport, she was even more striking in person—delicate, pale, and carrying an air of fragile elegance. She wore a champagne-colored silk slip dress, her dark hair pinned up loosely. As we walked in, she stood up. Her eyes bypassed me entirely, landing squarely on Dylan. “Dylan. You came.” Her voice was soft, laced with a faint, trembling emotion. Then her gaze drifted down, catching on the faded cable-knit sweater he wore. A flash of pure triumph and satisfaction gleamed in her eyes. “You… you kept it.” Dylan didn’t say a word. I watched his throat tighten as he swallowed. He walked stiffly to the table and pulled out a chair, but he didn’t sit immediately. I stepped forward, pulled a pack of medical-grade sanitizing wipes from my purse, and began to thoroughly clean his utensils, the edge of the table, and the armrests of his chair. It was a routine we had performed a thousand times. In the quiet room, the only sound was the damp friction of the wipe against the wood. Kelly watched me, a faint, amused smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “And you must be Emily?” She deliberately avoided calling me his wife. Of course she did. In the six years we had been married, no one outside of Dylan’s core management team knew about our relationship. To the rest of the world, I was just a highly paid personal assistant and nutritionist. I tossed the used wipe into the small bin and gave her a polite nod. “Nice to meet you, Kelly. Emily is fine.” Dylan finally sat down in the chair I had prepared. He gestured to the empty seat beside him, indicating I should sit, but Kelly had already slid the digital menu toward him. “Dylan, I ordered a few of the things we used to get back in college. See if there’s anything else you want to add.” “Things they used to eat.” I stood beside him, my eyes scanning the screen. Spicy jalapeño-infused tacos. Raw oysters on the half-shell with hot sauce. And a heavy, garlic-laden ribeye. My temples began to throb. Dylan’s stomach was practically raw from years of chronic ulcers. Forget heavy spices and raw seafood; even a slightly fibrous vegetable could keep him awake in agony all night. If he ate this, I’d be calling an ambulance before midnight. I reached out to tap the screen to remove the items, but Dylan’s hand shot out, catching my wrist. His palm was cold and slick with a fine sweat. “Leave it. It’s fine.” I looked at him, incredulous. “Dylan, are you insane? You know you can’t digest any of this.” My voice was sharper than intended, echoing slightly in the quiet room. Dylan frowned, pulling his hand away from mine. “A little bit won’t kill me, Emily.” Kelly let out a soft, melodic laugh. “Oh, Emily, don’t be so uptight. Dylan used to eat everything back in the day. Men get so suffocated when they’re kept on such a short leash, you know?” Her words were like a soft needle, aimed directly at my nerves. Right. I was the one keeping him on a leash. Not the woman who sat up with him through the night, rubbing his back while he vomited bile, dry-heaving in pain. That was me. I looked at Dylan. He didn’t defend me. Instead, he picked up his glass of ice water and took a long sip. “Emily, don’t make a scene.” That single sentence cleanly severed the very last thread of my patience. Fine. Eat it. Die of a perforated ulcer for all I care. I pushed the tablet back to the center of the table, pulled out the chair next to him, and sat down without another word. The food arrived quickly. The smell of chili oil and heavy garlic filled the air. Kelly used her fork to place a piece of the spicy chicken onto Dylan’s plate. “Try this, Dylan. It tastes exactly like that little diner we used to sneak into after late-night rehearsals.” Dylan stared at the heavily spiced meat, his throat dry. I could see his knuckles turning white where he gripped his fork under the table. He picked up his fork, lifted the chicken, and brought it to his lips. But just before it touched his mouth, he abruptly dropped the fork, clutching his stomach. “Excuse me. I need to use the restroom.” His face was ghostly pale as he scraped his chair back and hurried out of the private room. The door clicked shut, leaving only Kelly and me. Kelly casually slurped an oyster, her previous display of tender concern completely vanishing. “So, Emily,” she said, dabbing her lips with a linen napkin. “I hear you’ve been taking care of Dylan for six years now.” “I get paid to do a job,” I replied, taking a sip of lukewarm water. Kelly gave a dismissive laugh. “At least you have some self-awareness. I was worried you’d actually started to fancy yourself as something more than a glorified maid.” I raised my eyes to meet hers. “If you have something to say, Kelly, just say it.” She leaned back, crossing her arms. “I saw his medical file. His stomach isn’t nearly as bad as you make it out to be. You’ve been exaggerating his illness to keep him dependent on you, haven’t you? Some sick form of control.” I froze. Control? I had spent six years researching gut health, boiling bone broths, and counting nutritional macros down to the milligram. I had carved vegetables into intricate shapes just to coax him into eating a single bite when his appetite failed. And now, it was a sick lie I had spun to control him? “Who told you I was exaggerating?” I asked, my voice dangerously quiet. Kelly smirked, her eyes gleaming with the triumph of a victor. “Who do you think? Dylan told me himself. He said he’s been suffocated for years. He said you’re like a shadow he can’t shake off, breathing down his neck every time he wants a glass of water. Emily, let him go. You stole six years of his life. It’s time to give him back.” I sat in silence, watching her. Somewhere deep inside my chest, something vital cracked wide open. A cold, bitter wind rushed in, making me shiver. But I didn’t cry. I just realized that there was absolutely no reason for me to finish this dinner. 3 I stood up, grabbing my coat from the back of the chair. “Since you understand him so well, Kelly, I’ll leave the rest of the evening to you.” Without waiting for her reply, I turned and walked out of the room. The air in the hallway was cool and quiet. I walked toward the restrooms, not to find Dylan, but to splash some cold water on my face and clear my head. As I passed the lounge area outside the men’s room, I heard his voice and stopped. Dylan was leaning against the tiled wall, one hand pressed hard against his abdomen, the other holding his phone to his ear. He looked terribly pale, beads of cold sweat clinging to his forehead. “Yeah… I know, Frank. I didn’t eat it,” he muttered, his breath hitching slightly. “Don’t send a car. It’s fine.” He was talking to his manager, Frank. Because besides me, Frank was the only one who knew how severe his condition actually was. My legs twitched. Instinctively, I wanted to step forward and support him. Six years of habit don’t disappear in an instant. But before I could take a step, his next words anchored me to the spot. “Frank, just don’t bother Emily about it. She’s been in a terrible mood lately, and Kelly finally just got back. I don’t want Emily ruining the night.” I slowly drew my foot back. I stepped backward into the shadows. So, I was the one who ruined things. He was willing to endure agonizing pain just to keep Kelly happy, and I wasn’t even allowed to know because my very presence would spoil their reunion. I turned and walked straight toward the elevators. When I stepped out of the building, the night air hit me, cold and damp, but it was nothing compared to the chill in my bones. I pulled out my phone and sent Dylan a text: “I’m not feeling well, so I’m taking a cab home. Call your driver when you’re done.” I immediately muted my phone and shoved it deep into my pocket. By the time I unlocked the door to our downtown penthouse, it was past nine. The apartment was dead silent. In the entryway sat the limited-edition sneakers I had spent months sourcing for him. On the living room coffee table lay the sheet music he had been working on yesterday. Every corner of this home was saturated with Dylan. I walked over to the coffee table and picked up the pages. The top sheet was a handwritten draft for his upcoming album’s lead single. It was titled “Back to Santiagot”. Yesterday, he had playfully hidden it from me, claiming it was a surprise. Now I knew who the surprise was actually for. The very first line read: “You crossed half the world to put my missing pieces back together.” I had grown up in New England. I had never even left the country. I laid the sheet music back down exactly as I found it. Then I walked into the bedroom and pulled my suitcase out from under the bed. I didn’t have much. For six years, my entire life had revolved around Dylan. Ninety percent of the closet belonged to him. The vanity was lined with the designer colognes he endorsed. I only packed a few changes of clothes, my laptop, and my documents. Finally, I sat down at the desk and opened a black leather-bound journal. It was my “Care and Feeding of Dylan” guide, compiled over six years. It detailed his allergies, the exact temperature he preferred his tea, the acoustic tracks that helped him sleep, and the precise circular motions needed to soothe his stomach when his ulcers flared. I picked up a pen and wrote one final note on the last page: “Don’t let him drink ice water on an empty stomach. Don’t let him wear synthetic blends. And if he pretends to be sick, just let him.” I closed the journal and placed it on top of our cohabitation and secret marriage agreement—the papers we signed but never legally registered with the city to protect his rising career. I had convinced myself it was for his own good, willingly becoming a ghost in his life. I gripped the handle of my suitcase and took one last look at the place I had called home. I felt absolutely nothing. As I reached the front door to put on my shoes, the electronic lock chimed. The door swung open, and Dylan stood there. He was leaning heavily against the frame, his face as white as paper, his damp hair clinging to his forehead. He froze when he saw me holding the suitcase. “Emily…” his voice was incredibly hoarse, barely a whisper. “What are you doing with a suitcase at this hour?” He didn’t ask why I had left the restaurant early. He didn’t explain what happened with Kelly. He just stared at my bag, his brow furrowing deeply. “I’m leaving, Dylan,” I said quietly. “Leaving?” He repeated the word as if it were a foreign language. “Where? To your parents’?” Instinctively, his hand flew to his chest—his old, reliable trick. “Emily, my chest hurts. Stop playing games, okay?” I looked at his slightly hunched posture. Just yesterday, I would have panicked, frantically searching for his medication. Now, it just felt pathetic. “You can stop acting, Dylan. I’ve seen your latest scan. Your heart is perfectly healthy. When I say I’m leaving, I mean I’m resigning. I’m done being your nutritionist, your assistant, and your therapist. I’m done.” 4 Dylan’s hand froze against his chest. He looked up at me, a sudden, sharp panic flashing through his dark eyes. “Resigning? Emily, what the hell are you talking about?” He straightened his posture, his pale face flushing with a familiar, demanding irritation. “Just because I didn’t stop Kelly from ordering those things tonight? Or because of the sweater? I told you, she just got back. I didn’t want to make a scene. Do you really have to be this petty?” I looked at him, finding it almost funny. “Petty?” “Dylan, let’s be clear. I’m not being petty. I’m just done caring.” I gripped my suitcase tighter and tried to step past him. But he quickly took a step over, blocking the doorway. His tall frame completely cut off the light from the hallway. “I’m not letting you leave,” he said, his jaw tightening with a stubborn, desperate edge. “You signed a non-disclosure agreement, Emily. You think you can just walk out?” “My lawyer will contact yours. I’ll pay whatever termination fee is required.” I looked up, meeting his gaze without flinching. “Now, move.” Dylan stared at me, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He seemed to be searching my face for any sign that I was bluffing, trying to find the familiar girl who always gave in. But he found nothing. He let out a cold, bitter laugh and stepped aside. “Fine. Go.” “But mark my words, Emily. If you walk out that door tonight, I won’t let you back in. Even if you beg me on your knees, we are done.” He thought that threat would anchor me to the spot, just like it always had. But he was wrong. I rolled my suitcase past him and stepped out into the hallway without a single backward glance. As the heavy door clicked shut behind me, the sound of glass shattering echoed from inside the apartment, followed by his muffled, hysterical scream: “Go then! Both of you, just go!” I walked into the elevator and pressed the button for the lobby. Looking at my reflection in the polished metal doors, my eyes weren’t red, and my face was calm. For the first time in six years, I felt like I could finally breathe. I spent the night at a standard highway motel. I turned off my phone and slept through the night without a single frantic call waking me up. When I finally turned my phone back on the next afternoon, it was flooded with missed calls and messages from Frank, Dylan’s manager. I ignored them all and opened Instagram. The top trending topic was practically burning up the feed. “#DylanNewSingle #BackToSantiagot” I clicked the link. It was a short audio teaser. A gentle acoustic guitar intro, followed by Dylan’s deep, soulful voice singing: “You crossed half the world to put my missing pieces back together.” The comments were going wild. “Oh my god, this is totally about his first love! It has to be!” “Kelly just got back and he drops this? It’s basically a public confession!” “True love always finds a way. I’m crying!” I scrolled through the comments, my thumb moving rhythmically across the screen. There was no sharp pain in my chest, only the quiet relief of a lingering question finally answered. I closed the app and booked a one-way ticket to Astoria, Oregon. It was a quiet, damp coastal town where nobody knew who Dylan was. Right before I boarded my flight, a text from Kelly popped up on my screen. “Emily, I assume you’ll be attending Dylan’s release party tonight as part of his staff? I had a dress prepared for you. Don’t be late.” Attached was a digital invitation to the VIP gala. I stared at the screen and laughed out loud. She couldn’t wait to mark her territory and put me in my place. If I didn’t show up, she’d assume I ran away in defeat. And if I wanted a clean break, I needed to make sure it was absolute. I typed back a single word: “Sure.” At eight that evening, I arrived at the glittering venue wearing my usual jeans and a simple white button-down shirt. Kelly had indeed left a dress for me at the front desk. It was a cheap, poorly fitted imitation of the high-end champagne silk gown she was wearing. She wanted everyone to see the difference between the original and the knockoff. But I had no intention of playing her game. My casual attire immediately drew whispers as I walked into the ballroom. Amidst the sea of tuxedos and designer gowns, I stood out like a sore thumb. Kelly was at the center of the room, holding a glass of champagne and surrounded by a circle of admirers. When she saw me, a flash of irritation crossed her face, quickly replaced by a polished, patronizing smile as she walked over. “Emily, why didn’t you wear the dress I sent? Was it a bit too tight for you?” Her voice was just loud enough to carry to the surrounding guests. Before I could answer, the double doors of the ballroom swung open. The crowd parted instantly. Dylan walked in, flanked by security. He wore a perfectly tailored black suit, his face pale but his expression incredibly cold. The moment he entered, his eyes swept the room like a radar. Then, bypassing everyone else, his gaze locked onto me. Kelly’s eyes lit up. She lifted the train of her dress and glided toward him like a proud swan. “Dylan, you’re finally here—” Dylan didn’t even look at her. He didn’t even slow down. He walked straight past her, his steps hurried, almost frantic, heading directly toward where I stood. The room grew quiet. Everyone’s eyes darted between Dylan, Kelly, and me. I stood ground, watching him approach.

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I was a Humbert girl. Gary, my boyfriend of ten years, had always known exactly what that meant. In our family, there was an ancient, unyielding rule: if a daughter wasn’t married by her thirtieth birthday, she was officially struck from the family registry, stripped of her inheritance, and barred from ever returning to the family estate. There were less than two weeks left until I turned thirty. Buckling under the relentless pressure from my parents, I finally sat Gary down to talk. Just a moment before, he had looked me in the eye and promised we would put the wedding on the schedule within the next few days. But the very next second, he stepped out onto the porch, and I accidentally overheard his phone call with his childhood best friend, Serena. “I’m just playing along,” Gary said, his voice dripping with easy amusement. “You just got divorced last week, Serena. If I went and got married right now, what kind of best friend would I be? I’d be a total prick.” There was a pause as he listened to her reply. “Her? Oh, she’s easy to handle. Once the dust settles and I can’t keep delaying it, I’ll just give her a little attention, throw her a bone, and she’ll fall right back into line.” He laughed softly, a sound that made my blood run cold. “Don’t worry about it. Her family has that archaic rule—no husband by thirty, and she’s exiled. She has nowhere else to go but to me anyway.” The autumn wind swept across the porch, biting through my sweater. I shivered, the chill settling deep into my bones. I didn’t make a sound. I just stood there in the shadows, letting the hot tears spill silently down my face. So this was what ten years of love amounted to. I pulled out my phone, opened my messages, and typed a text to my mother. “Mom, that guy you wanted to set me up with. I’ll marry him.” … I walked back into the living room and sat quietly on the sofa. The clock on the wall ticked away. One hour. Two hours. By the fourth hour, the low murmur of his voice on the porch finally ceased. When Gary walked back inside and saw me, his brow furrowed slightly. “You’re still up? It’s freezing out here.” It had taken me four hours to numb myself, to build a fragile dam over my emotions. Yet, at his casual question, the dam collapsed. I forced myself to look away, terrified he would see the raw redness in my eyes. “Gary,” I said, my voice thick, fighting to keep the tremor out of it. “If I married someone else, would you be sad?” Gary didn’t answer. After a long moment, he set his phone down, looking at me with mild confusion. “What? Sorry, did you say something?” He was still typing a message to Serena. Before I could repeat myself, he grabbed his jacket from the rack. “I have to step out for a bit. Go to bed, don’t wait up.” He left in a rush, completely missing the hollow disappointment in my eyes. Even though I knew I shouldn’t, after he left, I found myself grabbing my keys. I drove through the dark streets, following him to a dimly lit cocktail lounge downtown. I found a quiet, shadowed corner near the back and sat down. Almost immediately, a burst of laughter drifted over from a VIP booth nearby. “The second Gary heard Serena lost the dare and had to kiss some random guy, he practically flew over here. Still as possessive as ever, I swear.” “Right? I still remember Serena’s wedding last year. Gary got so wasted trying to outdrink the groom that he ended up throwing up all over the guy’s suit.” Sitting in the dark, the pieces of a puzzle I had spent a year trying to solve finally clicked into place. Last year, Gary had abandoned me in front of my entire family. It was the first time in ten years he had agreed to come home with me for Thanksgiving. My father had been ecstatic. He hosted a massive, neighborhood-wide pig roast, inviting everyone in our small town to celebrate. But once everyone sat down, Gary vanished. I called him a dozen times. Every single call went straight to voicemail. By the time I was on the verge of tears, he finally sent a dry text: “Something came up. Had to leave.” I had to dry my tears, plaster on a smile, and host the dinner alone, weaving lie after lie to cover for him when my parents pressed for answers. That night, I booked the first flight back to the city. When I walked into our apartment, I found him passed out on the sofa, his collar stained with vomit. The next morning, he offered no explanation. He acted as though nothing had happened. When I finally demanded to know why he had left me like that, he shrugged. “There doesn’t need to be a grand reason for everything, Bella. I wanted to leave, so I left.” We didn’t speak for three days. In the end, I was the one who broke the silence, begging for his forgiveness. The loud cheering from the booth snapped me back to the present. In the center of the crowd, the two of them were kissing. Serena’s eyes were closed, her cheeks flushed, while Gary held her with a gentle, fierce intensity, as if she were the most precious thing in the world. The crowd erupted in cheers. I raised my phone and silently took a photo. In the ten years I had been with Gary, his friends had never respected me. Just like tonight, not a single person in that circle thought to stop this absurd farce out of respect for his girlfriend. I remembered the first time I attended one of their gatherings—a casual backyard barbecue. Serena had spent the entire evening leaning against Gary, laughing brightly. Whenever she took a bite of something she didn’t like, she casually tossed the leftovers onto Gary’s plate, and he naturally ate them without a second thought. When I later admitted how uncomfortable it made me, Serena overheard. She rolled her eyes, her tone dripping with condescension. “Bella, you are so backward. What century are you living in, the Victorian era?” “Gary and I grew up together. We’re practically siblings. If there was ever going to be anything between us, it would’ve happened a decade ago. You wouldn’t even be in the picture.” The other friends had immediately chimed in. “Seriously, you’re making a mountain out of a molehill. Serena has always been one of the guys. Don’t go pinning your insecurities on her.” “Exactly. We all spoil her. If you can’t handle how we hang out, maybe you shouldn’t come to these dinners.” “What a buzzkill. Getting jealous over nothing.” Gary had sat there in silence, letting his friends tear me down. After that night, he quietly removed me from their group chat, and I was never invited to another gathering. I kept taking photos until my phone screen flashed a low-battery warning. Across the room, the two of them finally parted. Serena buried her face in Gary’s chest, whispering something in his ear. Gary let out a fond, indulgent laugh, gesturing for the rest of the group to head out. My phone screen warned me it had thirty seconds before shutting down. I opened my chat with Gary. My last message from yesterday—asking what kind of wedding favors he preferred—sat unanswered at the bottom of the screen. I scrolled up. The thread was a monument of me talking to myself, punctuated by his rare, one-word replies when he was in a decent mood. I took a deep breath, typed “We’re done”, and hit send. The screen went black a second later. I didn’t look for a charger, nor did I make any move to leave. I just sat there in the dim light, ordering another drink. People always said alcohol could numb the pain, but all it did was bring Gary’s ghost back to haunt me. I remembered how he refused to celebrate my birthdays, claiming he “hated milestones and forced sentimentality.” Yet, for Serena’s birthday, he had rented out an entire historic theater downtown just to orchestrate a surprise performance for her. I remembered how he hated the cold and refused to ever build a snowman with me during our winter trips. Yet, he readily flew to Antarctica to go ice-climbing with Serena. I remembered how he scoffed at the wool scarf I spent months knitting for him, calling it tacky, while he kept a cheap, broken keychain Serena had put together on his car keys every single day. Serena posted all of his grand gestures on her Instagram. She never blocked me. She was never afraid of me making a scene, because she knew Gary would never take my side. As the memories flashed through my mind, the sheer absurdity of the last ten years finally hit me. I finished off a few more glasses, the alcohol hitting me hard. When I stumbled out of the lounge, I wanted to call an Uber, but my phone was dead. Just then, a low rumble of thunder rolled overhead, and a torrential downpour began to flood the streets. I let out a bitter, wet laugh. What a perfect end to a miserable day. My head was spinning violently. Through the blurry curtain of rain, I saw a figure walking toward me. Assuming he was the valet, I reached into my bag, pulled out my car keys and a wad of cash, and shoved them into his hands. “Take me to Oakridge Townhomes,” I muttered. I climbed into the passenger seat, closed my eyes, and let the darkness take me, entirely missing the look of quiet resignation that crossed the man’s face. When I woke up, the morning sun was streaming through the bedroom window. My head throbbed with a vicious hangover. I sat up and noticed my car keys and the cash sitting neatly on the nightstand. The hazy memories of the previous night slowly pieced themselves together. The stranger had driven me home, carried me in, left the keys and the cash on the table, and quietly slipped away. I rubbed my temples, trying to place his face. He had looked incredibly familiar, but my alcohol-soaked brain couldn’t grasp the memory. I plugged in my phone and turned it on. There were no new notifications from Gary. I opened Instagram. Serena had posted a new photo a few hours ago. “Just mentioned in passing that I wanted to go for a swim, and he went ahead and booked the entire rooftop pool.” The photo showed Serena in a flowing white bikini, laughing radiantly. In the background, Gary was looking at her with a soft, affectionate smile. Gary hadn’t replied to my breakup text. But he had liked her post. Then, a string of voice messages from my mother came through. “Bella! Your father went to the church first thing this morning to speak with the pastor. The fifteenth is a perfect date! Time is tight, sweetheart, so book your flight home immediately. There are so many wedding details to sort out.” “I can’t tell you how relieved I am, Bella. Your father and I were sick with worry. If you turned thirty without a husband, the family council would have cut you off. We couldn’t bear the thought of you being out there all alone. You’re our only girl.” My mother’s voice cracked with emotion. The warmth of unconditional love washed over me, melting away the lingering gray clouds of the night before. It was finally time to leave this ten-year shadow behind. I booked a one-way flight for that evening and began packing my life into suitcases. Near the bottom of the closet, I pulled out a dusty garment bag. Inside was a light blue, halter-neck mermaid dress. The sweet, naive memories of our first date had long faded, leaving behind only a cold, sharp humiliation. Halfway through our date that night, Serena had crashed it, claiming she wanted to “vet” her best friend’s new girl. She had looked me up and down, her nose wrinkling in disgust. “Bella, this is so over-the-top. The dress makes you look like you’re trying way too hard. It’s honestly kind of tacky.” Embarrassment had burned hot in my chest. I had looked to Gary, silently begging him to defend me. But he had only looked down at his drink, silent and indifferent. I had spent the rest of the night clutching my hem, keeping my head bowed. As soon as we got home, I hid the dress away, never wearing it again. I shook out the creases of the dress. Slipping it on, I was surprised to find it still fit perfectly. I walked over to the full-length mirror. The mirror reflected soft, elegant curves, the silk hugging my waist in a way that wasn’t tacky at all. I wasn’t the plain, awkward girl Gary’s friends made me out to be. I was beautiful. A quiet sense of closure washed over me. The sound of the front door opening broke the silence. Gary was home. He tossed his keys onto the entryway table with a tired sigh. When he walked into the bedroom and saw the open suitcases on the floor, his brow knitted in irritation. Then, I stepped out of the closet. His eyes locked onto me, and for a fraction of a second, he went entirely still. “When did you buy that dress?” he asked, his voice low. “Do you think it’s tacky?” I countered quietly. I didn’t wait for his answer. The dress that had defined years of my insecurity was entirely foreign to him. He didn’t even remember it. Gary’s expression quickly smoothed over into a cool, dismissive smirk. He didn’t say another word, turning to loosen his tie as he strolled toward the sofa. It was his usual play—giving me the silent treatment, waiting for my insecurities to flare up until I crawled over to beg for his approval. But this time, I merely glanced at him, walked back into the room, and continued packing. An hour passed. The silence in the apartment stretched, and the indifferent expression on Gary’s face began to sour. In ten years, I had never ignored him for this long. I zipped my final suitcase, rolled it to the front door, and reached for the handle. Before I could open it, Gary’s hand clamped down on my arm, pulling me back. “I was gone for one night, Bella. Are we seriously doing this? You’re throwing a tantrum and moving out?” “Didn’t you read my text?” I asked, looking at his hand on my wrist. “We’re done. I don’t make a habit of living with my exes. Let go. I’m going home.” Confusion and disbelief flashed across Gary’s face. He pulled out his phone, opened his messages, and scrolled past the endless pinned chats—with Serena’s name sitting comfortably at the very top—before finding my name under his muted contacts list. He stared at the words “We’re done”. “Why?” he asked, looking up, genuinely baffled. I unlocked my phone, opened my gallery, and handed it to him. The screen was filled with the clear, sharp photos of him and Serena kissing at the lounge. Gary’s body went rigid. “You followed me?” I let out a soft, humorless laugh. “Is that really your first question? No explanation?” “It was a stupid party game, Bella,” he said, rubbing his temples, his tone laced with exasperation. “I couldn’t just let Serena stand there and be humiliated in front of everyone. You’re turning thirty in a few days. Why are you still throwing tantrums like a child? Grow up.” A cold weight pressed down on my chest. So he did remember my birthday. “Gary, if I don’t get married this month, my family will disown me. Did you ever, for one single second, think about what that would do to me?” He let out a dry, mocking laugh. “So that’s what this whole dramatic show is about.” He stepped closer, cutting me off. “I already told you I’d get the wedding sorted out. What are you clawing for? You’re so desperate to get married that it’s honestly pathetic, Bella. If it weren’t for me, who else would even take you?” I stared at him, a laugh bubbling up from the sheer absurdity of it all. He was still lying to me. He had no idea I had heard his porch conversation. He didn’t want a wedding; he wanted a placeholder. I didn’t have the energy to argue anymore. I yanked my arm out of his grip, grabbed my suitcase, and stepped out the door. “Think carefully, Bella!” Gary’s voice sliced through the hallway, cold and sharp. “If you step into that elevator, don’t expect me to ever ask you to marry me again. You know I don’t chase people. I’ve given you enough slack. Don’t push your luck.” He didn’t understand. I didn’t want to marry him anymore. Seeing the elevator doors slide shut without a single backward glance from me, Gary slammed the apartment door shut and marched back into the bedroom. Fine. Let her leave. He wasn’t going to play into her hand this time. When she came crawling back in a few days, he would make sure she learned her lesson. But that night, Gary was chased by nightmares. He dreamt of Bella in a sweeping white wedding gown, walking down a long, sunlit aisle toward another man. No matter how loudly he called her name, she never turned around. Gary woke up drenched in a cold sweat. The apartment was utterly silent, bathed in the pale, cold glow of the moon. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, an unfamiliar, suffocating dread clawing at his chest. He tried to shake it off. In the past, whenever they argued, she never lasted more than three days before sending a tentative, apologetic text. But as the days turned into a week, the silence from her end remained absolute. To drown out the unease, Gary practically lived at the lounge. But his mind was elsewhere. He threw a game of poker, prompting groans from the table. “Come on, Gary, you practically handed that hand to Serena. If you’re going to throw the game that obviously, we’re not playing anymore.” Serena’s cheeks flushed pink. “Oh, stop it, guys. We’ll just take a penalty drink together.” She poured a glass, leaning her body heavily against his. “How about we do something different tonight, Gary? Let me feed you.” The crowd cheered, egging them on. Gary sat frozen as Serena leaned in, her lips pressing against his to pass the drink. For a split second, a image flashed in his mind: if Bella saw this, she would have puffed her cheeks out, her eyes wide with a quiet, jealous pout that he always secretly found adorable. When he had first accepted Bella’s confession ten years ago, he had only planned on a casual fling. But over the years, she had been incredibly docile. She rarely cried, she never demanded much, and even when she got hurt, she would quietly heal herself and show up the next morning with a warm breakfast and a bright smile. Thinking of this, Gary’s heart softened. Fine, he would forgive her. She must be going out of her mind with anxiety after a week of silence anyway. This would teach her not to test his patience again. Amused, he opened his phone and went to his muted contacts. His smile froze. The chat was completely empty. There wasn’t a single missed call, not a single message. A sudden wave of panic crashed over him. He stood up so abruptly that Serena, who was still draped over his shoulder, lost her balance and slipped off the leather sofa, landing hard on the floor. Gary didn’t even look down at her tearful, shocked face. He grabbed his keys and flew out of the bar, driving like a madman back to the apartment complex. When he pulled into the driveway and saw the warm lights glowing in their apartment window, the suffocating dread in his chest finally eased. He practically ran up the stairs, bursting through the front door. “So you finally decided to come home,” he said, trying to inject a note of stern authority into his voice to hide how much his hands were shaking. But as he stepped into the living room, his entire body went rigid.

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I ran into my ex-husband at the school gates, seven years after our divorce. We were each holding our own child’s hand, passing each other like strangers in the crowd. But as I turned to walk away, his hand shot out, catching my wrist. His voice was thick with a quiet, bitter ache. “That girl… she looks just like you did when you were little.” I froze for a fraction of a second. So, he still remembered. We had been childhood sweethearts, then young newlyweds. We had witnessed every version of each other, our lives thoroughly woven through the entire tapestry of our youth. Once, I loved him more than life itself. I had genuinely believed we would be the ones to make it to the final page of our story. But now, I simply pulled my hand back, my touch turning cold and clinical. “I’m sorry, sir. You have the wrong person.” I had no desire to exhume the past. A piece of paper that has been crumpled that tightly can never be smoothed out again. I didn’t want to try. … “I know you don’t want to recognize me,” Greg said. Seven years. He hadn’t aged a day. Standing there in his tailored trench coat, he was still strikingly handsome, his sharp jawline unchanged. But now, this tall, imposing man had tears welling in his eyes. His throat bobbed as he choked back a sob. “But Birdie… I’ve missed you. I really have.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Did you ever think of me? In all these years?” “Birdie.” I hadn’t heard that name in a lifetime. Only my parents and Greg had ever called me that. I finally forced myself to look directly into his eyes, a faint, humorless smile touching my lips. “I did, actually.” His eyes flared with a sudden, desperate hope. Only for me to extinguish it in the very next breath. “Every time I remembered that I used to share a bed with a man who slept with a fifty-year-old woman, it made me physically sick to my stomach.” I tilted my head, my voice dripping with cold irony. “How is married life, anyway? Is it still as passionate as it was when you were sneaking around behind my back?” Greg froze, the blood draining from his face. I stepped around him, leaving him with a quiet, dismissive, “Excuse me.” Some chapters are meant to be closed. But some memories remain as jagged scars across the heart. Touch them even slightly, and the pain is enough to tear you apart. Like fifteen years ago. Greg had taken a lead pipe to the leg to protect me from a gang of street thugs. He broke his femur and missed the early admissions deadline for his dream Ivy League school. I remembered him lying on the gurney, his face white as a sheet, yet still trying to smile up at me. “It’s fine,” he had whispered. “It’s better this way. Now, wherever you go, I’ll just have to follow.” Or like seven years ago. I found a positive pregnancy test sitting at the very top of our bathroom trash can. There were only two women living in that house. Me, five months pregnant. And Marina, our forty-three-year-old live-in housekeeper. When I playfully teased Marina about having a secret romance in her second act of life, I never, in my wildest nightmares, could have imagined the truth. That this plain, sun-weathered, quiet woman was carrying my beloved husband’s child. Back then, I had genuinely considered Marina a confidante. I remember sitting on the kitchen counter, rubbing my swollen belly, anxiously pouring my heart out to her. “Do you think Greg will get bored of me? Now that he’s been promoted to VP, there are so many young, beautiful girls at his firm. What if one of them catches his eye?” Marina would always look down, her demeanor meek and reassuring. “Of course not, ma’am. Who could possibly compare to you? Personal history and a decade of marriage—no one can touch that.” Reassured, I would loop my arm through hers affectionately. “I’m so glad I hired you when you were looking for work. You really are my anchor, Marina.” When I first met Marina, she was desperate. She was from a small rural town, had no higher education, and had just survived a brutal divorce. She was dragging around a young daughter who needed constant supervision, which made her practically unemployable to most families in our suburban neighborhood. I was the one who felt sorry for her. I saw a woman drowning in a harsh world, and I opened my home to her. “Seriously, though,” I nudged her shoulder. “When did you find a guy? Why didn’t you tell me?” Marina went rigid under my touch. My smile only widened, thinking she was just shy. “I saw the test in the trash! Come on, Marina, we don’t keep secrets here!” Suddenly, there was a heavy thud from the entryway. I spun around. Greg was standing by the door. His leather briefcase had slipped from his hand, spilling papers onto the hardwood floor. I ran over to greet him happily, completely blind to the identical, paralyzing panic written across both of their faces. Over dinner that night, I suggested that Marina should invite her partner over so we could meet him. “He got you pregnant and he hasn’t even offered to marry you? That is incredibly irresponsible!” Greg’s hand froze mid-air, holding a piece of asparagus he was plating for me. Marina’s gentle smile didn’t waver. She remained perfectly placid, the picture of quiet grace. “Everyone has their own struggles, ma’am,” she said softly. “Not everyone is lucky enough to have your family background or a husband like yours. It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t marry me. As long as I know he loves me, that’s enough.” Before I could reply, Greg abruptly pushed his chair back. He stood up without saying a word and headed straight for the front door. “Something came up at the office,” he muttered. He left in such a rush that he forgot his briefcase. Later that evening, when I went to put his bag away, I found a velvet box tucked inside. It held a delicate diamond tennis bracelet. Curiously, I tried it on, but it was far too small for my wrist. Yet, when I saw it sitting on the kitchen counter the next day, I noticed Marina wearing a cheap imitation that looked identical—and when she helped me tidy up, I realized the real one would have fit her delicate wrists perfectly. A sickening realization flashed through my mind, but I instantly shoved it down. I refused to let myself believe it. After that day, the atmosphere in our home shifted into something unrecognizable. Greg began forbidding Marina from doing any heavy lifting. He raised her salary once, then twice. Soon, he went so far as to bring Marina’s oldest daughter, Kelsey, to live with us, personally driving her to and from middle school every single day. When I confronted him about why he was suddenly so invested in this girl, his answer was smooth: “I’m just practicing being a good father. It’s prep work for when our own baby arrives.” But the cold knot of dread in my stomach only grew larger by the day. At the same time, Marina’s work became increasingly sloppy. The hardwood floors were left sticky, grease clung to the dinner plates, our premium organic groceries vanished in days, and the weekly budget skyrocketed. When she ruined my designer cashmere coat for the third time in a row, my frayed nerves finally snapped. “If you can’t handle the work, tell me!” I yelled. “Go home and rest, and let me hire someone who can actually do the job!” Marina dropped her head, the picture of a wounded victim. Greg immediately stepped between us, his brow furrowed in anger. “Is a sweater really worth all this drama, Caroline? She’s pregnant.” “I’m pregnant too!” The months of unspoken tension and hormonal vulnerability caught up to me, and I burst into sobbing tears. Greg’s expression softened, and he stepped forward to comfort me. But before he could touch me, Marina let out a sharp moan. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the floor, clutching her lower abdomen. Greg’s eyes went wild with panic. Ignoring me completely, he scooped Marina into his arms and ran out the front door toward his car. I stood frozen in the middle of our empty living room, tears streaming down my face. That was when Kelsey, Marina’s teenage daughter, walked over with a smug, mocking grin. “You know, Mrs. Fitch, if you keep making my mom upset, I’ll just have Dad kick you out of this house.” The moment Greg returned home that night, I swept the dinner plates off the table in a rage. I looked him dead in the eye. “I am firing Marina. Tonight. No negotiations.” For once, Greg couldn’t talk his way out of it. On the day they packed up their things, Kelsey cried hysterically, screaming for “Dad” at the top of her lungs. Marina slapped her across the face, weeping as she scolded her: “Stop making Mrs. Fitch angry!” I watched their melodramatic performance with a cold, detached expression. I had run completely dry of sympathy. But then, Kelsey screamed something that turned my entire world to ice. “But the baby in Mommy’s tummy is Dad’s baby too! Why do we have to leave? Why don’t you throw that evil woman out instead?!” The girl glared at me with pure, unadulterated venom, as if I were the intruder who had stolen what was rightfully theirs. When the echo of her voice died down, the entire foyer fell into a suffocating silence. Slowly, stiffly, I turned my head to look at Greg. He had his eyes glued to the floor. He didn’t say a single word. “How? How is this possible?” The executioner’s blade had finally fallen. The woman who destroyed my life was neither young nor beautiful. She was plain, uneducated, and ordinary. Yet it was her. The very person I had tried to rescue from destitution. The sheer shock and fury of that moment threw me into premature labor. As the paramedics rolled me into the back of the ambulance, I squeezed Greg’s hand with all the strength I had left, my hot tears soaking the white sheets. “Why?” I sobbed, my voice cracking. “Why did you do this to me?” Why her? A woman nearly a decade older than him. Why betray me when I was at my most vulnerable? Why spend the last year playing me for a fool, letting me treat the woman sleeping with my husband like a sister? Where did they do it when I wasn’t looking? In my own bed? The nausea was suffocating. Inside me, my baby kicked violently, reacting to the sheer terror coursing through my veins. Greg stayed outside the emergency room all night. None of our friends understood what had happened. They only noticed that the golden couple of our social circle never held hands in public again. Through a mediator, I gave Greg an ultimatum: either Marina terminates the pregnancy and exits our lives forever, or we get a divorce. He refused to choose. I withered away in that hospital bed, my mind fracturing a little more with each passing day. By the end of the month, I was nothing but skin and bone. Greg looked equally haunted, his eyes sunken and hollow, yet he still wouldn’t force Marina to have the abortion. Then, Marina managed to slip past the nurses and into my room. She threw herself onto the cold linoleum floor, begging me to spare her child’s life. Even Greg’s parents arrived, bowing their heads to me in a sickening display of humility. “They’re both Greg’s blood, Birdie,” his mother pleaded, her eyes wet. “Have some mercy. Please, just show a little kindness.” Everyone was telling me to be the bigger person. To be kind. They spoke as if I were a monster using an unborn child to vent my petty malice. Tears blurred my vision as I turned to Greg, speaking to him for the first time in weeks. “Am I the one who did something wrong?” So I was the villain here? Had a single person in this room considered me for even a second? Greg’s eyes filled with a heavy, conflicted sorrow, as if he were finally about to make a decision. But before he could speak, Kelsey lunged forward. Like a wild animal, she threw her entire body weight directly into my pregnant stomach. “Just die already!” she screamed. It happened too fast. No one could stop her. By the time Greg realized what was happening and pulled her away, I was already slipping into the dark, drowning in a pool of my own blood. The baby didn’t survive. When I finally woke up, I stopped speaking. My soul had been hollowed out, leaving behind nothing but a quiet, fragile shell of a woman. Marina later staged a dramatic scene on the hospital roof, threatening to jump with her unborn baby to “atone” for her daughter’s sins. Naturally, Greg coaxed her down, cradling her in his arms. “Marina is still pregnant; she can’t handle this kind of stress,” he told me later, his voice cracking with exhaustion and pleading. “Kelsey is just a child. She acted on impulse. Can we please just let it go for now?” I stared at him, expressionless, and slapped him across the face. Greg grabbed my hand, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Birdie, please… this is the only child I have left now.” “And if I insist on pressing charges?” I whispered. A cold, hard resolve settled into Greg’s eyes. “The security cameras in that hallway were down that day,” he said, his voice flat. “The hospital staff were all outside the room. No one heard or saw a thing. If you try to pursue this, there is no evidence.” No witnesses, no footage. Airtight. He had planned it out perfectly just to protect his mistress and her vicious daughter. I looked at him, and suddenly, I started to laugh. But the laughter quickly dissolved into tears, hot and choking. I stared at Greg through the blur of my grief, realizing I had spent my entire life loving a man who was entirely a stranger to me. My best friend begged me to take a settlement and divorce him immediately. “No,” I told her, my voice raw and hollow. “If I divorce him now, I’m just clearing the path for them. Why should my baby never get to open his eyes, while her child gets to inherit the Fitch family legacy?” I became obsessive, driven by a bitter, desperate need to make them suffer. The agony of losing my son. The humiliation of losing my husband to a woman I had never even considered a rival. The devastating betrayal by the man I had loved since childhood. Every night, these thoughts clawed at my chest. I waged a quiet, frantic war against them. I hired people to spray-paint red warnings on Marina’s door. Greg simply bought her a new townhouse in a gated community. I posted their sordid affair online. The videos were scrubbed from the internet within hours. I went to Kelsey’s school to confront her. Greg immediately transferred her to the most prestigious private academy in the city, complete with a private car service to shuttle her back and forth. Finally, in a fit of hysterical despair, I held a paring knife to my own throat, screaming at Greg to give my baby justice. He only sighed, a soft, weary sound. When he looked at me, his eyes held nothing but a cold, patronizing calm. “The baby is gone, Birdie. Let him rest in peace. If you keep acting out like this, I’m going to have to make your parents pay the price for your childish behavior.” He was threatening my parents’ livelihood. I took a step back, my hands trembling. The knife slipped from my fingers, slicing across my foot as it hit the floor. Blood pooled on the rug. I didn’t even have the energy to scream. Greg scooped me up and carried me to the sofa, kneeling to tend to the wound in absolute silence. His arms felt just as warm as they always had. But I felt entirely cold. The illusion of safety was gone forever. The moment he finished bandaging my foot, he checked his watch and rushed out the door. I knew exactly where he was going. Every day, Kelsey sent photos and videos to my phone. Greg cooking dinner for Marina. Greg washing Marina’s feet. Greg taking massage classes because Marina’s legs were swelling from the pregnancy. Along with the videos came Kelsey’s venomous texts: “You can cling to Dad all you want, you pathetic cow.” “Once my mom has this baby, you’re finished.” “I’m going to strip you naked and throw you into the street.” I remember standing at our bedroom window, looking down at the street. Greg was walking up the driveway. One hand was holding Kelsey’s, and his other arm was wrapped around a heavily pregnant Marina. A picture-perfect family of four. Meanwhile, in my nightstand drawer sat a small wooden urn containing my son’s ashes. He had been fully formed, but the impact had left him broken. With my last ounce of strength in the delivery room, I had begged the doctor to let me see him. He was just a tiny, fragile, bloodied form. When they cremated him, there was so little ash left. So miserably little. No one would ever remember him. Except his mother. My heart was systematically shredded, then dropped into boiling oil. Whether to fry it or boil it further was entirely up to the whims of Marina and her daughter. How did my life become this? In the beginning, I had simply wanted to perform a small act of kindness. In the end, everyone demanded that I continue to be kind to the people who destroyed me. I lost my mind. In my moments of delirium, I would drift back to when we were eighteen. Greg tutoring me for finals, ruffling my hair, laughing as he told me it was okay to make mistakes because he would always be there to help me. But he didn’t help me. After I destroyed our living room in a manic episode, Greg had me committed to a private psychiatric facility. Two years later, he filed for divorce on the grounds of irreconcilable differences after our prolonged separation. Outside the courthouse, he silently handed me a debit card. I didn’t say a single word. I simply turned and walked away. And just like that, the grand fairy tale of my youth ended in a cheap, unceremonious whisper. Seven years. It is said that every cell in the human body is replaced over seven years. And now, standing outside my daughter’s school, Greg was holding my hand again. His fingers were cool, his voice trembling on the edge of control. “Birdie… if I told you I regret everything… would you ever give me another chance?”

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The night the digital test flashed a steady, undeniable “pregnant”, my six-year-old son, Oliver, pointed at the glowing screen of his iPad. An adorable toddler influencer was dancing on the screen. “That’s my sister,” he said, his voice eerily flat. I let out a breathless, nervous laugh, assuming it was a joke, and gave his forehead a playful flick. “She lives all the way in Seattle, sweetie. You’ve never even met her.” “She has a million followers,” I added, trying to bring him back to reality. “Don’t make things up.” “If you want a sibling that badly, how about Mommy makes you one?” I stared at him, my heart hammering against my ribs, desperate to catch any flicker of excitement on his small face. But his expression remained utterly blank as he scrolled back through the girl’s old posts. “I bought her that little designer backpack in this photo,” Oliver said, his voice devoid of any childish warmth. “Dad told me she’s my only sister. He said I have to take good care of her.” My chest tightened. The smile died on my lips. “Mommy,” Oliver said, turning to look at me. His dark eyes were like two hollow, bottomless pits. “Dad and I are tired of pretending.” He reached out, his small, cold hand resting against my stomach. “I promised Dad I’d protect Lola. So, you can’t have another annoying pest. You’ll listen to me, right?” … It was the first time Oliver had ever looked at me that way. A cold dread crept up my spine. I forced a laugh, pretending to be angry. “Go do your homework right now! Keep talking nonsense, and I’ll have your father deal with you the second he gets home!” Oliver gave me a long, empty look before quietly heading toward his bedroom. “Do what you want,” he muttered over his shoulder. “But Dad is going to side with me anyway.” The door clicked shut, dividing our apartment into two entirely different worlds. I sat frozen on the sofa, my hands and feet trembling uncontrollably. His expression hadn’t been that of a child playing a prank. Could Elliot really have another family hidden away? I pulled out my phone and searched for the influencer. The mother’s name was Cathy. She was thirty, with soft, elegant features. Her daughter, Lola, was only four months younger than Oliver. I had followed their account for a year, but the father had never once appeared in any of their videos. Now, looking closer at Lola’s eyes, the resemblance to Elliot was undeniable. My knuckles turned white as I scrolled through their history, my thumb trembling. Back in June, Cathy had posted in her fan group, frantic because Lola’s father had accidentally given the girl milk, triggering her severe dairy allergy. Since Oliver also had a milk allergy, I had reached out, sending her a long, detailed list of precautions based on my own experience. Afterward, she had sent me a private message. “It’s all his fault for being so careless. He barely gets to visit, and when he does, he just wants to spoil her with treats. Thank you so much for today.” Attached was a photo of Lola sleeping. Next to her on the pillow rested a man’s hand. On his ring finger was the exact platinum band I had spent two months custom-designing for Elliot. It was one of a kind. At the time, I had been so busy setting up Elliot’s new home office that I hadn’t paid any attention to the photo. Now, the blood in my veins felt like ice. A single, heavy tear slipped down my cheek. But how could he have had the time to go to Seattle? At exactly eight-ten, the front door opened. Elliot walked in, immediately dropping his briefcase when he saw me. He cupped my face, his eyes filled with genuine worry and tenderness. “Aria, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?” Looking at him, my tears only fell faster. I couldn’t squeeze a single word past the lump in my throat. Elliot’s face darkened. He marched over, kicked Oliver’s door open, and pulled him out by the shoulder. “Did you make your mother cry again?” Watching them, I felt a phantom pain in my chest. If this had happened yesterday, I would have found the sight comforting. Now, it felt like a knife twisting in my heart. The shopping bag Elliot had set on the counter contained a set of luxury room diffusers. I never used them, but they were scattered all over Cathy’s apartment in her videos. I had researched the brand once; it was a local Boston boutique that didn’t ship to Seattle. “Aria, did you pack the bags for Oliver and me?” Elliot asked as he guided Oliver into the kitchen to help with dinner. I blinked, trying to clear my vision. “I packed them this morning.” On the twentieth of every month, Elliot traveled to our family’s old estate in Maine to tend to his late mother’s grave. He always told me that my chronic back injury made the long drive too difficult for me. I had always found his thoughtfulness incredibly sweet. As Oliver got older, Elliot started taking him along. I had never questioned it. With trembling fingers, I logged into his airline account on my phone. Boston to Seattle. In our eight years of marriage, there were two hundred and thirty-six flight confirmations. Not a single one to Maine. It was all a lie. My phone buzzed with a notification. Cathy had just uploaded a new video. “Lola’s dad is coming home tomorrow, so I’m picking up some of his favorite things at the grocery store.” As she walked down the aisle, her camera casually swept past the family planning section, and she slipped two boxes of condoms into her cart. The comment section was buzzing with excitement, but I felt as though I had been dropped into an arctic sea. I knew Cathy had recorded that video specifically for me. Elliot came back to the table, chatting warmly as he scooped food onto my plate. “Make sure you don’t stay up too late while we’re gone. Oliver and I will be back as soon as we finish tending to the estate…” I squeezed the prenatal report hidden beneath the table, my vision blurring. “Are you really going to Maine, Elliot? Or are you flying to Seattle?” Elliot froze. He slowly, methodically set his fork down. “Who told you?” Oliver glanced at his father’s tense face before speaking up. “I did.” “Slap.” Elliot’s hand struck Oliver’s cheek. “Since you love making your mother sad, you can skip dinner. Go to your room and think about what you did.” Elliot’s expression returned to normal as he turned back to me, placing another piece of chicken in my bowl. “Aria, how about I stay home tomorrow? We can go see that movie you’ve been talking about.” Tears streamed down my face. I swept my bowl off the table, sending it shattering across the hardwood floor. “Are you not disgusted with yourself? Lola is only four months younger than Oliver!” Elliot frowned, his voice dropping an octave as he corrected me. “Her last name is Hastings.” The words felt like a physical blow. “You’ve always been too stubborn, Aria,” he said, let out a soft sigh. “You really should learn to be more like Cathy.” I felt like I was suffocating. “When did it start? When I was pregnant with Oliver? Or before that?” Elliot leaned back against his chair, his eyes drifting as if lost in a fond memory. “On our first anniversary. I was in Seattle for a business trip. You were hysterical, begging me to come home, and on my way to the airport, I ran into Cathy being harassed on the street.” I went entirely rigid, staring at him. On our first anniversary, my mother had been in a catastrophic car accident. Outside the ICU, the driver’s relatives were threatening me, while inside, my mother was on life support. I had sobbed into the phone, begging him to come back. By midnight, he had called to say a storm had delayed his flight out of Seattle. I had told him it was okay. I had even reminded him that I’d packed an umbrella in his suitcase. Elliot sighed, reaching out to wipe away my tears, but I flinched away from his touch. “Aria, it hurts me to see you cry,” he murmured. “I want to bring Cathy and Lola to Boston. Lola is getting older, and she needs her father. But I promise you, you will always be the only Mrs. Hastings. They won’t ever threaten your position.” Looking at his earnest, self-righteous face, I bent over and retched onto the floor. The next day, two of the brightest bedrooms in our suburban home were cleared out and decorated, complete with the boutique diffusers. Elliot and Oliver left for the airport early to pick them up. Once they left, I drove to the clinic alone. On the way, I opened Cathy’s livestream. On the screen, Lola was riding on Elliot’s shoulders, laughing. Oliver was hugging Cathy’s waist, looking incredibly close to her. “Who says I don’t look like my mom?” Oliver chirped to the camera. “She “is” my real mom!” Cathy beamed with pure happiness. “That’s right. We’re officially moving to Boston. Our family of four is finally going to be together forever!” The chat was flooded with thousands of congratulations. I typed a single comment: “This is disgusting.” Within a minute, a mob of viewers attacked me, and my account was permanently suspended. Before the procedure, the doctor looked at me with concern. “Is there no family member here with you? Your history is complicated; there’s a high risk of hemorrhaging.” Fear finally gripped me. I called Elliot, my hands shaking. The first two calls went unanswered. On the third, he picked up. “Aria, from now on, I’ll spend Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays with you, and Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays with Cathy. Today is Thursday. You need to learn to be more independent. Try to handle things on your own today.” Through the receiver, I could hear Oliver’s sweet voice calling out to his “sister.” I didn’t say a word. I hung up, wiped my face, and looked at the doctor. “I can sign the consent form myself.” When it came time to pay, I unlinked Elliot’s card from my digital wallet. A second later, a notification popped up. He had transferred fifty thousand dollars to my account. “You’re not being very good, Aria. Take this. I don’t want you running out of money.” I didn’t reply. He thought he had built a gilded cage for a songbird, but I had been quietly saving my earnings from my freelance illustration work for years. I didn’t need his money to survive. I drove to a quiet library downtown, drafted a divorce agreement, and booked a one-way ticket to Burlington, Vermont. The flight was in three days. When I got home, the house was dark. Elliot hadn’t brought Cathy and Lola back to our place yet. Late that night, a pair of freezing hands woke me. Elliot, with light snow still dusting his shoulders, pulled me into his arms and murmured against my ear. “Aria, link the card back. I know this is hard for you to accept. I came back tonight just to be with you.” “I won’t let them near you, but you need to be reasonable and stop leaving nasty comments on Cathy’s pages. It upsets her. I’m only going to let you throw a tantrum this one time.” “Didn’t you want to build a snowman? It’s snowing outside. Let’s go out, okay?” His lips pressed against my neck, his hand resting gently over my stomach—where our second child had been just hours before. But his coat carried the heavy, unmistakable scent of another woman’s perfume. I closed my eyes and nodded slowly. As he was wrapping a scarf around my neck, his phone rang. He answered, and within seconds, his face grew pale. He grabbed his heavy coat. “Lola has a fever.” I looked at him, my voice barely a whisper. “We’re not going to build a snowman?” Elliot’s brow furrowed, his voice rising sharply. “Are you serious right now? She’s a little girl! Why are you trying to compete with a child?” In two years of dating and eight years of marriage, it was the first time he had ever raised his voice at me. We both froze. Oliver ran out of his room, demanding to go along. I instinctively reached out to stop him. “No, Oliver. It’s freezing outside, and you just recovered from a cold.” But he turned and bit my hand, his eyes filled with a shocking amount of malice. “I want to see Lola! She’s more important than you!” I stood there for a long time, staring at the small teeth marks on my skin. Only when the cold draft from the open door made me shiver did I walk over to my laptop. With a numb heart, I deleted the clause in the divorce papers that granted me custody of Oliver. I sat on the edge of the bed, unable to sleep. I opened my phone to see Cathy had posted an update. “This is what happens when you lie…” The photo showed two empty boxes of condoms. A minute ago, she had replied to a comment: “Lola’s dad said we don’t need them anymore. He wants us to have another baby. Should I say yes?” I tagged her and replied: “Yes, go ahead.” On the nightstand rested the neatly wrapped gift box containing my positive pregnancy test. Elliot had never even noticed it. I picked it up, tore the report into tiny pieces, and dropped them into the trash bin one by one. Just like our marriage. There was a knock at the door. It was Elliot’s assistant. He handed me a beautifully packaged strawberry cake, offering a sheepish, apologetic smile. “Mrs. Hastings, Mr. Hastings asked me to come over and help you build a snowman. He said he’s deeply sorry, and he’ll make it up to you tomorrow.” I looked down at the receipt attached to the bag. “Two cakes?” “Ah, yes. The other is a mango cake for Ms. Cathy. I already dropped it off.” Elliot truly was a brilliant businessman; he never missed a detail. I remembered when we were still living in a cramped, damp studio apartment, barely scraping by. He hadn’t had the money to buy me a proper birthday cake, so he had bought a loaf of bread and some whipped cream, assembling a sad, lopsided treat. He had cried, holding my hands. “Aria, I don’t have much right now, but what I give you will always be yours alone. Once I make it, I’ll give you the absolute best life.” Now, we had the money. But nothing was mine alone anymore. I smiled gently at the assistant. “I don’t really like cake anymore. You can throw it away. Thanks for coming by.” When I woke up the next morning, my newly registered social media account had been banned again. Elliot was making his boundary clear: Cathy was untouchable. Even a simple comment was forbidden. A dull ache settled in my chest. I pulled out my suitcases and began to pack. When Elliot had first bought this house, he had been as excited as a teenager. “Aria, we finally have space! Now you can display all those little keepsakes you love collecting.” I had been so happy. Our old apartment had been so damp that my cherished mementos were always rotting or breaking. I sifted through the boxes now. Love letters Elliot had written in college, photo albums from our road trips, dried flowers from our anniversaries… They were just relics of a dead past. They had no place in my future. I dragged the trash can over and tossed them in, one by one. My text messages to him had gone unanswered since morning. I had sent: “Are you coming home? I want to talk.” He had ignored it. It was our first silent war in ten years. All because of Cathy. I looked at the signed divorce papers and then at my plane ticket. Elliot was waiting for me to break, to beg for his attention. But I was out of time. Late that night, my phone finally rang. It was him. “Oliver is sick,” Elliot said, his voice strained. “Can you come over? Lola is running a fever too, and I can’t handle both of them by myself.” I bolted out of bed. Despite how cruel Oliver had been to me, he was still the child I had raised for six years. I couldn’t stop worrying about him if I tried. When I arrived at Cathy’s apartment, she opened the door, looking every bit the lady of the house. “Aria, you should have texted us. I would have had Elliot pick you up. Look at you, you didn’t even put on shoes.” My eyes were bloodshot, panic clawing at my throat. “Where is Oliver? I’m taking him to the hospital!” Elliot stepped out of the bedroom, his face dark as he glared at me. “Keep your voice down! Lola just fell asleep!” Oliver stood behind him, his face flushed a deep, feverish red. I rushed forward and pulled him into my arms, my voice cracking with emotion. “I told you not to let him out in the cold! He just recovered from a fever! Why didn’t you give him his medicine?” Elliot’s face hardened at my lecture. Cathy stepped in, trying to play the peacemaker. “It’s my fault. Elliot was playing with Lola all day and was exhausted. Oliver didn’t say anything about feeling sick either.” Months of suppressed rage finally boiled over. I pointed a finger directly at her face. “Who gave you permission to speak? You’re a homewrecker. What right do you have to talk about my son? I’ve been entirely too polite to you—” Cathy’s eyes welled with tears. “Slap.” A sharp sting bloomed across my cheek. Elliot stood over me, his eyes burning with anger. “Aria, you’ve gone too far.” Oliver wrenched himself out of my grip and threw himself in front of Cathy, shielding her. “Don’t bully her! It was my fault!” The husband I had loved for ten years. The son I had nearly died to bring into this world. To both of them, I was now the monster. The fight drained out of me. A hollow laugh escaped my lips, dissolving into tears. “Oliver,” I whispered, my voice sounding incredibly distant. “Are you coming with me? I’ll take you to the doctor.” Perhaps the finality in my voice startled him, because he hesitated. But then, he shook his head firmly. “I don’t need you. Aunt Cathy is enough for me.” I gave him one last look, turned, and walked away. I slammed the heavy door behind me, stepping out into the biting winter wind. Neither of them followed. I bought a pair of cheap shoes and a coat at a twenty-four-hour convenience store, then hailed a cab to the airport. As the first morning light began to break over the horizon, my flight took off. I wiped my tears, pulled out my phone, and sent Elliot one last text before switching it to airplane mode. “Let’s get a divorce.”

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My sister was the undisputed bimbo of our family. Gorgeous, fragile, and utterly brainless—or so everyone chose to believe. Every time I brought a boyfriend home, she had a habit of “forgetting” we had company and changing her clothes with her bedroom door wide open. That was how my first two relationships ended. The first guy couldn’t keep his eyes off her, turning bright red as he lingered in the hallway. I dumped him on the spot. The second one pretended he hadn’t seen a thing, but by midnight, he was DMing my sister on Instagram, asking if she was cold in that skimpy silk camisole and offering to buy her a jacket. When I broke down in tears and confronted my mother, she slammed her hand on the kitchen table. “Chloe is just naive!” she snapped. “If she were doing it on purpose, do you think she’d forget to shut the door every single time? She doesn’t have a malicious bone in her body.” My father chimed in, dismissive as always. “With your sister’s IQ, Bridget, what is there to even argue about? Stop being so sensitive.” So, for three years, I stopped dating entirely. Until I met Derrick. He was the most grounded, no-nonsense man I had ever known. His eyes were sharp, clear, and entirely free of the typical male pretension. When I finally brought him home for Christmas dinner, I pulled Chloe aside before we even crossed the threshold, practically begging her. “Keep your clothes on, keep your door locked. Please.” Chloe nodded sweetly, her large, doe-like eyes blinking with an innocent, harmless warmth. Yet, the moment dinner ended and Derrick stepped out of the kitchen, there it was. Her bedroom door was left half-ajar. She stood with her back to the hallway, slowly changing into a silk slip, letting one delicate lace strap slide slowly down her shoulder. As I watched the reflection of her face through the crack in the door, I caught the unmistakable, triumphant smirk playing on her lips. In that split second, the truth crystallized: her weaponized incompetence was a performance staged entirely for my benefit. Fortunately for me, my boyfriend had a zero-tolerance policy for stupid games. 1 “Oh! I am so, so sorry. I completely forgot we had company tonight.” Chloe spun around, her hands clutching the slipping silk strap to her chest. She looked up at Derrick, her eyes wide and watery, her shoulders trembling slightly like a frightened rabbit. It was a routine she had perfected over the years. Play the innocent, act vulnerable, and disguise blatant boundary-crossing as mere scatterbrained charm. With either of my exes, this would have triggered a stammered apology, a lingering gaze, or an awkward attempt to look away. “Does your family keep an exhibitionist as a pet?” Derrick asked, his stride never faltering. He didn’t spare her a single glance. Instead, he reached out, grabbed her door handle, and slammed the door shut. “Bang.” The heavy thud vibrated through the narrow hallway, shaking a faint dusting of plaster from the crown molding. The air in the corridor froze. From behind the closed door came a sharp, startled gasp, followed by the soft, theatrical whimpering of my sister. “What on earth is going on out here?” My mother, Helen, rushed out of the master bedroom, still clutching a half-folded sweater, her apron strings fluttering. My father, Robert, poked his head out from the balcony. Derrick reached for a wet wipe from the dispenser on the entryway console, slowly and methodically cleaning his fingers. “Nothing,” he said, his voice dropping to a freezing temperature as he tossed the wipe into the trash can. “Just doing your daughter a favor and blocking the draft. Stripping with the door wide open in the dead of winter—I was worried the lack of blood flow to her head would cause hypothermia.” Just then, Chloe pulled the door open, wrapped in an oversized plush robe. Her eyes were red, brimming with tears that threatened to spill over her perfectly made-up cheeks. “Derrick… did you have to slam the door so hard?” she murmured, her voice laced with a delicate, trembling sweetness. “You scared me half to death. I just have a terrible memory. I forgot we had a guest. Please don’t be angry with me.” As she spoke, she shrunk back slightly behind me, shrinking into herself like a wounded bird. Helen immediately rushed forward, wrapping her arms around her. “Oh, sweetheart, it’s okay. You know how forgetful you are,” Helen cooed before snapping her head toward me. “And Bridget, honestly! You know how scatterbrained your sister is. If you’re bringing a man home, the least you could do is check her room first to make sure she’s decent.” The first wave of moral blackmail, delivered with practiced precision. I looked at my mother’s face, so utterly convinced of her own righteousness. It was always my fault. Chloe was the fragile, innocent one who was allowed to make mistakes. And I, as the sensible younger sister, was expected to anticipate her blunders, clean up her messes, and bear the consequences. “Mom, I told her to lock her door three separate times before we walked in,” I said, my voice entirely flat. Chloe’s tears finally spilled over. “Bridget, I’m so sorry. I really didn’t do it on purpose. I was just thinking about something else, and I got distracted…” She looked up at Derrick, her gaze wet and pleading. “Derrick, please don’t blame Bridget. It’s all my fault. I’m just so stupid.” It was textbook manipulation. Admit fault first, display extreme vulnerability, and then protectively plead on my behalf to make herself look saintly while highlighting my coldness. Both of my previous relationships had withered under this exact sequence. I turned my head to look at Derrick. I wanted to see if those clear, discerning eyes of his could see through this stale, toxic theater. Derrick looked down at her. His face remained entirely expressionless, as though he were watching a particularly dull, low-budget comedy. “Well, you’ve got one thing right. You are incredibly stupid,” Derrick said. His voice wasn’t loud, but every word cut through the room like a scalpel. Chloe froze. Helen stared at him, her mouth slightly open. Neither of them had ever encountered someone who took the “cute, dumb girl” routine and used it to step directly on her face. “Knowing there is an adult male guest in the house and still failing to close a door while undressing isn’t being ‘scatterbrained,’” Derrick continued, keeping his hands in his coat pockets as he looked down at her. “It’s a failure of basic life skills. And looking at your robe, the stitching is coming undone. Since your budget seems to be as low as your IQ, I highly suggest you learn to lock your door, lest people mistake your carelessness for a cheap solicitation.” The silence in the hallway became absolute. Chloe’s carefully applied “no-makeup” makeup look turned ashen. She stood paralyzed, her tears drying instantly on her cheeks. “How dare you speak to my daughter like that!” Robert boomed, storming over from the balcony and pointing an angry finger at Derrick’s chest. “This is my house! My daughter can wear whatever she wants in her own home. You’re a guest here—who gave you the right to look at her and then insult her?” “Let’s clear a few things up,” Derrick replied, meting out Robert’s gaze without flinching. “First, I didn’t look. Flat chests don’t appeal to my taste. Second, she left the door wide open, and the hallway is shared space. If you think raising a daughter to strip in full view of common areas is a sign of good parenting, I’ll reserve judgment on your family values.” He turned back to me, his tone instantly softening. “Bridget, where’s your coat?” I picked up my heavy wool coat from the sofa, and Derrick gently draped it over my shoulders, smoothing down my collar. “Let’s go. The air in here is making me nauseous.” I looked at my parents’ livid faces, and then at Chloe, who looked as if she were about to collapse. Instead of the panic I expected to feel, a strange, intoxicating sense of relief washed over me. “Okay,” I said. I zipped up my coat and followed him toward the door. Behind us, Helen was shaking with rage. “Bridget! If you walk out that door with him tonight, don’t you dare call me your mother ever again!” I stopped at the threshold. I didn’t turn around. “Fine by me.” Derrick pulled the heavy front door open, letting a gust of crisp, freezing winter air sweep into the stifling apartment. “Bridget, Mom is just speaking out of anger, you know how she is!” Chloe cried out from the hallway, her voice finally losing its soft, breathy cadence, replaced by an edge of sheer desperation. Derrick let out a low, dry chuckle as we stepped into the corridor. “Did you hear that?” he murmured, looking down at me. “Even the dumb ones bite when you take away their stage.” 2 “You have a remarkably mean streak,” I said as I buckled my seatbelt. Derrick started the engine, his long fingers resting casually on the leather-wrapped steering wheel. “Mean? I call it being a realist. If she were truly as brainless as she claims, she wouldn’t have understood my insults well enough to get angry. She would have smiled and thanked me for the feedback.” He turned the wheel, navigating the car out of my parents’ neighborhood. “That little routine of hers? The interns at my firm have better manipulation tactics on day one.” I looked out the window as the streetlights blurred past. The heavy stone that had rested on my chest for over twenty years felt as though it had finally been cracked open, letting in a breath of fresh air. Since childhood, Chloe had been the sun around which our entire household revolved. When she ruined my school projects, Helen would say, “Your sister is just clumsy, Bridget. Can’t you just do it over?” When she took the dresses I bought with my own money, Robert would say, “She loves fashion, and she looks so beautiful in them. Just let her have them.” Even when it came to my personal life, all Chloe had to do was put on her wide-eyed, fragile act and shed a few tears in front of my boyfriends, and suddenly, they would view her as a delicate flower and me as a bitter, jealous shrew. No one had ever stripped away her armor the way Derrick just did. My phone began to buzz incessantly in my purse. I pulled it out. It was a barrage of voice texts from my mother. The red notification dots looked like fresh drops of blood on the screen. I tapped the first one, letting the audio play. “Bridget! You think you’re so clever, don’t you? Bringing some classless, disrespectful man into our home to humiliate your sister! Chloe has never had a harsh word said to her in her entire life, and now she’s sobbed herself to sleep because of him!” I listened, my face entirely blank. I tapped the second one. “You tell that Derrick character to come back here and apologize to your sister right now, or you are no longer welcome in this family! We clothed you and fed you, and this is how you repay us? Ganging up with an outsider to bully your own flesh and blood?” Derrick heard every word clearly over the car’s quiet cabin. He let out a dark, mocking laugh. “Does your mother get her scripts from bad nineties daytime television?” I locked my phone and tossed it back into my purse. “I’m used to it.” “Being used to it doesn’t make it acceptable.” Derrick brought the car to a halt at a red light and turned to look at me, his eyes dark and fiercely protective. “Are you planning on taking this forever?” I stared back into his deep, clear eyes. “No,” I said. “Not anymore. I want everything she’s ever taken from me back. With interest.” A slow, brilliant smile spread across Derrick’s face. “Let me know when you’re ready to make your move. There is nothing I enjoy more than watching a fraud fall apart.” The following afternoon, I was in the middle of a marketing strategy meeting when Zoe, our receptionist, sent me a quick message on Slack. “Bridget, your sister is downstairs at the front desk. She says she needs to see you.” I frowned. Chloe rarely, if ever, came to my office. She detested the fast-paced, high-stress atmosphere of my tech firm; she always said it lacked the “curated aesthetic” of her social media life. I excused myself from the conference room and walked out to the lobby. Chloe was standing near the glass doors, looking impeccably styled in a cropped bouclé jacket, holding a sleek insulated food container. The moment she saw me, her face lit up with a soft, fragile smile. “Bridget, are you busy?” Her voice was as gentle as ever, showing no trace of the humiliation from the night before. “What are you doing here, Chloe?” I didn’t reach for the container she was holding out. Undeterred by my coldness, she set the container gently on the reception counter. “Mom was so upset last night she couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about it, and I realized it was my carelessness that caused the whole misunderstanding. I’m sure Derrick just got the wrong impression of me.” She lowered her head slightly, exposing the delicate line of her neck. “I made some fresh chicken soup. I thought you could give it to him at his office. As a peace offering.” A few colleagues walking past paused, glancing over at us. To any outsider, she looked like the picture of a devoted, loving older sister trying to mend a family rift caused by an ungrateful younger sibling. Looking at her performance, a wave of profound disgust rose in my throat. “No, thank you,” I said. “He doesn’t eat things from untrustworthy sources.” Chloe’s eyes welled with tears right on cue. “Bridget… are you still angry with me? I know Derrick is incredibly successful, and I know you’re worried I’ll try to take him from you. But I swear, I would never do that.” Her voice was just loud enough to carry across the lobby, reaching the ears of the receptionist and a few lingering coworkers. It was a pre-emptive strike. By framing my anger as “jealousy over her stealing my boyfriend,” she ensured that whatever I said next would look like bitter insecurity. In the past, I would have dragged her out of the lobby to avoid a scene, swallowing my pride just to make her stop. But not today. I calmly pulled my phone out of my pocket, opened the voice recorder app, and placed the device face-up on the marble counter between us. “Go on,” I said, looking her dead in the eye. “Tell me more about how you plan on stealing him. I’m listening.” 3 The sweet, fragile expression on Chloe’s face shattered instantly. She clearly hadn’t expected me to strip away her deniability so ruthlessly, let alone display the recording screen right in front of her. “Bridget… what are you doing?” Her voice trembled, her eyes darting nervously toward the glowing screen of my phone. “Since you love performing for an audience so much, I figured we should get a high-quality recording of the show,” I said, leaning back against the reception desk and crossing my arms. “You just said I’m terrified you’ll steal him. So, tell me—how exactly do you plan on doing that? With your cheap, unraveled house robes, or with this soup?” A couple of my coworkers nearby let out muffled snickers. People in tech didn’t lack the intuition to spot a toxic family dynamic when it was laid bare. Chloe’s face flushed a deep, angry crimson as she realized she was the one being ridiculed. “Bridget, you are being ridiculous!” she snapped, dropping her sweet tone entirely as her tears vanished. “I came here to do something nice for you, and you’re trying to intimidate me with a recording?” She lunged to grab my phone. I swiped it off the counter before her manicured nails could touch it. “Why’d you stop crying?” I asked, my voice cold. “Where did the fragile, innocent act go? Done performing?” Chloe ground her teeth, her chest heaving with suppressed fury. But with so many eyes on her, she couldn’t let herself fully scream. Instead, she stepped closer, leaning in until her breath brushed my ear, her voice dropping to a vicious whisper that only the two of us could hear. “You think you’re so smart, Bridget? You think that man is going to protect you forever? Growing up, if I wanted something, Mom and Dad gave it to me. Every single time.” She sneered, her eyes gleaming with malice. “Your last two boyfriends? I barely had to snap my fingers before they were crawling after me like dogs. You think Derrick is any different? Men are all the same. Just wait. I’ll have him begging to crawl at my feet.” She assumed I had stopped the recording. She assumed that whispering meant she was safe. What she didn’t know was that my phone was a top-tier model with highly sensitive directional microphones. And she certainly didn’t realize that while the screen had gone dark to save battery, the recording app was still running in the background. I looked at her face, slightly distorted by raw envy and a pathological need to win. For the first time, I felt nothing but pity for her. “I’ll be waiting,” I said softly, taking a step back to re-establish my personal space. Chloe let out a harsh, bitter laugh, grabbed her food container off the counter, and turned on her designer heels, stomping out of the lobby. I picked up my phone, stopped the recording, and saved the three-minute-and-twelve-second file. My first trump card was secured. When Derrick picked me up after work that evening, he took one look at my face and handed me a hot latte. “You look exhausted. Did your sister show up to play her little games again?” I took a sip of the warm coffee, letting the tension settle in my chest. “She came to the office to deliver ‘apology soup’ and issue a formal declaration of war.” I pulled out my phone and played the audio file. Chloe’s sharp, venomous whisper filled the quiet cabin of the car: “I’ll have him begging to crawl at my feet.” Derrick listened, his handsome face twisting into a look of profound distaste. “Does she have any sense of hygiene? That sounds like a quick way to contract a fungal infection. Pass.” A laugh burst from my throat, the tension that had gathered in my shoulders all day dissolving instantly. “You’re not angry?” I asked. “Why would I be angry? Being targeted by an idiot only proves I have decent market value.” Derrick shifted the car into drive. “But a parasite like that will keep buzzing around you forever unless you crush it completely.” He tapped his fingers rhythmically against the steering wheel. “When do you want to pull the net?” “New Year’s Eve,” I said, looking out at the glittering city lights. “Our entire extended family will be at my parents’ house for dinner. Chloe’s entire identity is built on being the perfect, sweet golden child in front of the relatives. I want to strip her of that identity in front of everyone she cares about.” Derrick glanced at me, his eyes shining with unvarnished admiration. “Brilliant,” he murmured. “Do you need any technical support? I could easily arrange for that audio to play on your parents’ smart TV during dinner.” “No,” I shook my head. “This recording is just the beginning. I need more than just her words. I need irrefutable proof that she isn’t just targeting me, but that she’s a pathological liar.” Over the next two weeks, Chloe was uncharacteristically quiet. She didn’t post any passive-aggressive updates on Instagram, she didn’t send any toxic messages, and she stayed entirely out of my way. My mother called me twice, her tone cold and commanding, informing me that I was required to attend the family New Year’s Eve dinner—but that Derrick was absolutely forbidden from coming. “That man has no manners, and I will not have him ruining our holiday!” she barked. I agreed to come alone. Because I knew this silence was just the eye of the storm. A woman like Chloe would never let a slight go unavenged. She was planning something big. The afternoon before New Year’s Eve, Helen ordered me to come over early to help prepare the house. It was her usual power play—treating me like hired help to re-establish her authority. I had just finished washing my hands in the kitchen when a sharp, shattering crash echoed from the living room, followed by Chloe’s theatrical gasp. “Oh my gosh! No! How did this happen?” 4 I wiped my hands on a dish towel and walked into the living room. Scattered across the hardwood floor were dozens of delicate green and white ceramic shards. It was my gift for Derrick’s grandmother—an authentic Qing Dynasty celadon tea bowl with a delicate crackle glaze. I had spent half of my monthly salary and pulled several favors with an antique dealer friend to secure it. Now, it was nothing but a pile of worthless dust. Chloe stood beside the coffee table, holding the empty silk-lined box, her face a mask of horror and distress. “Bridget, I am so, so sorry! I didn’t know this was something valuable… I was just trying to help clear off the coffee table, and it just slipped out of my hands…” She pressed a hand over her mouth, tears instantly pooling in her eyes. Hearing the commotion, Helen rushed out of the kitchen. She took one look at the shattered porcelain, then at Chloe’s weeping form, and immediately pieced together her own version of reality. She didn’t say a single word of reprimand to Chloe. Instead, she spun on me, her brow furrowing with anger. “Why would you leave something so expensive lying around where anyone could knock it over? You know how clumsy your sister is! Now look what you’ve done. Who are you going to blame for this?” The same old script. The same twisted logic. I didn’t argue. I simply stood there, silently staring at the broken shards on the floor. It was the exact style of celadon Derrick’s grandmother collected. I had planned to present it to her on New Year’s Day. “Bridget, how much was it? Let me pay you back,” Chloe said, stepping forward to gently grasp my sleeve. “Please don’t be mad at me. I’ll use my savings to buy you another one.” “Pay me back? With what?” I pulled my arm away, my voice icy. “It was an antique. Even if you had the money, you couldn’t find another one like it.” “It’s just a damn cup!” Robert barked, stepping out of his study, unable to tolerate me putting pressure on his favorite daughter. “Bridget, drop the attitude! Your sister apologized. What more do you want from her? Dragging down the holiday spirit over a piece of clay—do you have to be so petty?” “Petty.” That was the word they had thrown at me my entire life. Because I was the sensible one, the smart one, the one who could handle things. Therefore, I was expected to have infinite patience for Chloe’s destructive carelessness. “I’m not being petty,” I said quietly. I knelt down and began picking up the sharp ceramic pieces one by one, dropping them into a plastic bag. “But this belonged to Derrick. Since you all think it’s so unimportant, you can explain the loss to him yourselves.” At the mention of Derrick’s name, a fleeting glint of satisfaction flashed in Chloe’s eyes. She thought she had won. Without the gift, she assumed I would be too embarrassed to visit Derrick’s family, and that Derrick would grow cold toward me for my apparent lack of respect. That was her play. But she had miscalculated one crucial detail. I tied the trash bag with a tight double knot. “Mom, what time are Aunt Beatrice and Uncle Thomas arriving tomorrow?” Helen blinked, caught off guard by my sudden shift in tone. “They’ll be here by noon. Why? Are you planning on ruining dinner with your sour face?” I offered her a polite, cold smile. “Not at all. In fact, I’m going to make sure tomorrow is a holiday none of us will ever forget.” New Year’s Eve, 11:00 AM. The house was filled with the chatter of our extended family. Uncle Thomas, Aunt Beatrice, and a handful of cousins had arrived, filling the living room with holiday cheer and gossip. Chloe, dressed in a stunning red knit dress and flawless makeup, flitted from guest to guest like a social butterfly. “Aunt Beatrice, you look absolutely radiant. Is that coat new? It suits you beautifully.” “Uncle Thomas, I bought these sugar-free roasted pecans specifically for you.” The relatives were practically glowing under her attention. “Chloe is just such a darling girl. Whoever ends up marrying her will be the luckiest man in the world,” Aunt Beatrice said with a warm smile. “Exactly,” Uncle Thomas agreed, before turning his gaze to where I sat quietly in the corner, sipping my tea. “Unlike Bridget over there. Always so serious, even as a little girl. Bridget, why isn’t your wealthy boyfriend here today? I thought you were bringing him.” The spotlight had finally found me. Chloe’s eyes lit up. She quickly dropped her smile, replacing it with a look of deep, practiced concern. “Aunt Beatrice, please don’t bring him up,” Chloe sighed, sitting down on the sofa next to her. “The man… he has a very difficult temper. When he came over last time, he was incredibly rude to us. He even yelled at me. Bridget has changed so much since she started dating him; she won’t even listen to Mom and Dad anymore.” The room fell into a stunned silence. “Is that true?” Uncle Thomas looked at my father, who offered a grim, silent nod of confirmation. “Bridget, I have to speak frankly,” Uncle Thomas said, adopting his most paternal, lecturing tone. “A man’s character is everything. If he doesn’t respect your family, and if he treats your sweet sister like that, you need to break it off immediately.” “He’s right,” Aunt Beatrice added. “Chloe is the gentlest soul. If a man can treat her with such hostility, he probably has control issues. Don’t let his money blind you, Bridget.” Within minutes, the living room had transformed into an intervention, with me as the target. Helen sat on the armchair, a small, satisfied smirk playing on her lips. She clearly enjoyed watching the family pressure me into submission. I set my teacup down on the saucer with a soft click. “Mom. Dad.” I looked at them both. “You’ve always insisted that Chloe is just a harmless, scatterbrained girl who doesn’t know any better.” I pulled the sleek black voice recorder from my coat pocket and held it up for everyone to see. “Since everyone here is so convinced of her innocence, why don’t we listen to what she sounds like when she thinks no one is listening?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “549336”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Ryan has always had a highly selective filter. He only responds when I share good news. The moment a text of mine carries even a trace of sadness, vulnerability, or frustration, he simply tunes it out. “We all have our own emotional boundaries, Rachel,” he would tell me, his voice smooth, clinical, and completely detached. “You need to learn to process your negative emotions on your own.” Even when my mother’s treatments became increasingly grueling, and the sheer weight of my grief threatened to crush me from the inside out, I received nothing but silence from him. No check-ins. No comforting words. Gradually, I stopped telling him things. I came to understand a harsh truth: my pain was my own to swallow. But then, I saw his texts with his new secretary, Cecilia. She told him everything. From something as trivial as wearing mismatched shoes to work, to getting scammed out of thousands of dollars on her apartment deposit. They were exactly the kinds of tedious, venting complaints Ryan used to despise. Yet, he caught every single one of her tears. He comforted her, piece by piece. “Am I complaining too much?” Cecilia had texted him, adding a crying emoji. “I don’t want to bring you down with my drama.” Ryan’s reply was gentler than anything he’d sent me in years: Everyone has bad days, Cecilia. I’m your boss. It’s my job to help you carry the load. Don’t worry about it. A bitter ache bloomed in my chest. Today, I got promoted. It was supposed to be a happy day. A milestone. I stared at my phone, thought about texting him, and realized there was absolutely no point in sharing. … How long has Ryan been like this? Even I’ve lost track. I think it started around the time the “emotional labor” discourse took over the internet. When he first suggested we should take accountability for our own emotional states, I actually agreed. After all, nobody wants to be trapped in a relationship that feels like an endless swamp of negativity. I thought establishing healthy boundaries would make us stronger, more equal partners. But I never anticipated the cold reality of how he would apply it. It became a weapon. Suddenly, I wasn’t allowed to have a single bad day. The moments of genuine suffering, the quiet breakdowns—I couldn’t share even a fraction of them with him. My life became a solitary war, fought in the dark. And yet, when he was the one struggling, I was always there. I placed myself in his shoes. I listened. I comforted him because I couldn’t bear the thought of him facing his demons alone. Whether it was the crushing anxiety of his job search or the petty dramas within his family, I helped him carry every burden. Helping him made me feel needed. It made me feel like we were a team. I truly believed love was a two-way street. But I was wrong. The last time my mother was rushed to the hospital, the doctor told me it was a severe neurological issue. He gently advised me to prepare for the worst. My hands shook so violently I could barely hold my phone. In a panic, my instinct was to reach out to Ryan. I texted him, desperate for a lifeline. He skimmed right past the message. When I called, it went straight to voicemail. He was waiting for me to “deal with it” on my own. Even when he tried to explain himself later, his voice was defensive. “I didn’t realize it was that serious, Rachel. And we agreed we wouldn’t dump our emotional baggage on each other, so I didn’t read it closely.” I just nodded, too exhausted to argue. Since then, no matter how many times Mom was hospitalized, no matter how suffocating the pressure became as I sat alone in those sterile corridors, I never reached out to him again. I had so much I wanted to say. I wanted, more than anything, to lay my head on someone’s shoulder. But every time I opened our chat thread, typing felt like a chore. The muscle memory of his cold indifference choked out my words before they could even form. I would silently lock my phone, pull my knees to my chest, and press my back hard against the hospital wall. At least the concrete wall felt solid. At least it didn’t pretend to care. Once, we had promised to be each other’s rock. We had agreed that managing our emotions would make us better partners. Instead, it had carved an ocean between us. And today, the truth finally clicked: he had simply found someone else to carry. He was spending all his emotional reserve on Cecilia, leaving nothing but scraps for me. The tragic irony was that he still expected me to absorb his bad days. I couldn’t make sense of it anymore. What is the point of a partner who only wants to celebrate your triumphs but refuses to stand beside you in the trenches? Do I really need someone like that? I went for a long, aimless walk. When I finally returned to our apartment, I was surprised to find Ryan already home. It was a rare evening off for him. “Where have you been?” he asked casually, not looking up from his laptop. “Visiting my mother,” I replied, my voice flat. He didn’t pry further. He was smart enough to avoid that landmine. He knew exactly why my mother kept pushing us to get married. It wasn’t out of nagging traditionalism; she was terrified of losing her mind before she could see me walk down the aisle. Mom had Alzheimer’s. She was desperate to hold onto the beautiful moments before her memory dissolved completely. But every time the topic of marriage came up, Ryan dodged it. It always ended in cold, heavy silence. After months of this, the frustration finally boiled over. I couldn’t understand it. “Do you even want to marry me, Ryan?” I had cried once, the tears spilling over. “If you do, why can’t we do it while my mother still knows who I am? Once she forgets me, I’ll be entirely alone. What am I supposed to do then?” Whenever I broke down like that, the raw pain was too much to suppress. And Ryan’s response? He would grab his keys and walk out the door. I’m not going to sit here and absorb your hysteria, he’d say. Calm yourself down first, and then we can talk. That night, the darkness in our bedroom felt thick, amplifying every stray thought. I tossed and turned, unable to find comfort. We had been together for ten years, five of them since we graduated college. Whether it was marriage, buying a home, or career paths, Ryan never initiated plans with me. He never built a vision for us. It was always me. Me asking, me pleading, me trying to drag him into a shared future. He simply hadn’t factored me in. I was twenty-seven now. How much longer could I afford to run in place like this? The fire inside me was burning down to ash. I exhaled a ragged breath in the dark. To make this marriage happen, I had tried to handle everything myself. In our family’s hometown, there was an old tradition of writing out the wedding vows by hand. It was a calligraphed marriage covenant, written stroke by stroke by the groom to show he was ready for the weight of a lifetime. My mother was incredibly old-fashioned about it. She believed that a physical, hand-written promise was the only thing that would hold its shape when her mind began to fracture. “If a man won’t even take the time to write out his vows properly, how can he carry the weight of a marriage?” she used to say. “A covenant is about responsibility.” But Ryan kept putting it off, month after month. It was so different from a decade ago. Back then, when he was trying to win my heart, he had written me dozens of love letters. He had even taken calligraphy classes just to make his writing look perfect for me. I remembered him smiling foolishly, handing me a page. I just wanted to make you smile, Rachel. A young man’s love is so pure, so uncomplicated. I wondered if the twenty-two-year-old Ryan, sitting at his desk practicing his penmanship just to make me smile, could have ever envisioned the cold, quiet ghosts we would eventually become. I had never pictured myself marrying anyone else. So, I spent six months practicing calligraphy myself. I was never good with my hands, and my first attempts were clumsy, but I kept practicing until my cursive was elegant and steady. It was pathetic, really. I was practically writing my own wedding covenant, trying to marry myself. I thought if I took ninety-nine steps, Ryan would only have to take one. He would see that everything was already prepared. But I never got that single step from him. Instead, I watched him fall for someone else. Ryan shifted beside me, letting out a soft, sleeping chuckle. And then, his lips parted. “Cecilia…” He muttered her name, a fond, protective smile playing on his face in the shadows. “What am I going to do with you? You’re so clumsy…” Once, Ryan had used those exact words to describe her to me. But back then, his voice had been dripping with annoyance. I swear, the hiring standards these days are in the gutter. She’s completely useless. Now, she was sweet-talking her way into his dreams. I wondered what they did in his subconscious. Were they laughing? Was he holding her? The thought sent a sharp, icy needle through my chest. Tears escaped my eyes, hot and silent, soaking into my pillow. The next morning, I left the apartment early. My mother’s memory was deteriorating rapidly, but she still remembered the exact way to season the chicken soup she made whenever I was worn down. She had insisted on making some to nourish me. Thinking of her gave me a fragile burst of strength. I took a half-day off from work to have lunch with her. But I waited. And waited. The clock ticked past noon, and she still wasn’t home. Panic fluttered in my throat. At this stage, Mom shouldn’t be getting lost. She always carried a small card with my phone number in her pocket. I stood up, sat down, and paced the small living room, my heart hammering against my ribs. Just as I was about to rush out the door to search for her, our neighbor, Mrs. Kerwin, came bursting in. She was out of breath, grabbing my arm and pulling me outside. “Rachel! Thank God you’re home. Your mother—something happened. She got into a terrible argument with a young couple down at the market. She collapsed, and they’ve rushed her to the ER!” What? My mind went completely blank. I ran. I ran faster than I ever had in my life, pushing through the hospital doors with my lungs screaming for air. By the time I arrived, Mom was already in the emergency room. But the shock that awaited me in the waiting room was a different kind of pain: the “young couple” standing there was Ryan and Cecilia. What on earth had they done? My grief and panic morphed into a blinding rage. I marched up to them, my voice shaking. “What did you do to her?” Ryan instinctively stepped in front of Cecilia, shielding her behind his back. “It was… it was an accident, Rachel,” he stammered, his eyes darting away. “Cecilia and I were just walking through the market, and we ran into your mom. There was just a… a misunderstanding.” I stared at him, my gaze burning into his skin. A flicker of guilt crossed his face. “Rachel, I swear I didn’t want this to happen. There’s nothing going on between Cecilia and me. Your mom got the wrong idea and demanded we explain ourselves. She grabbed Cecilia’s arm… Cecilia actually got scratched in the scuffle.” The strength drained from my legs, and I collapsed onto the cold tile floor. My entire body went numb. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to find out the truth, or that I didn’t want to tear both of them apart. It was simply that my mother’s life was hanging in the balance, and there was no room in my brain for anything else. I gasped for air, suffocating under the weight of the hospital’s sterile scent. I hated hospitals. I had spent so much of the past year trying to keep my mother away from them, trying to fill her remaining days with warmth and light. Huge, heavy tears splashed onto my hands. And Ryan? He just stood there. He was a man of his word, after all. He had promised not to get involved in my negative emotions, and he was keeping that promise perfectly. His eyes were entirely fixed on Cecilia, who was trembling and whimpering behind him. The silence of the hallway settled over me like a shroud. Without another word, Ryan led Cecilia away. She whispered that she “needed some air,” and he complied without a second thought. I stared at the red “In Progress” light above the operating room door. I was desperate for news, yet utterly terrified of what the doctors might say. Please be okay, I whispered to the empty hallway. Please let her be okay. Finally, the red light went out. The surgeon stepped into the hallway, pulling off his mask. “She’s out of immediate danger,” he said, offering a tired but reassuring smile. “But her system took a major shock. At her age, and with her condition, we’ll have to wait and see how she recovers.” I let out a shuddering breath. She’s going to be okay. She has to be. I sat by her bedside, holding her frail hand, afraid that if I let go, she would slip away. When her eyelids finally fluttered open, I leaned in. “Mom? Can you hear me?” She looked at me. But there was no recognition in her eyes. Only a deep, hollow confusion. “Who… who are you?” she whispered. My heart stopped. My throat closed up, and the room began to spin. Since her diagnosis, I had played out this exact moment in my head a thousand times. I thought I was prepared for the inevitable. But when the blow actually landed, it was physical. A wave of intense nausea hit me so hard I began to gag. I couldn’t let her see me break. I stumbled out of the room, ran down the empty corridor, and slapped myself hard across the face. Why did you let her go alone? Why did you ask for chicken soup? Why didn’t you go home earlier? Why weren’t you there to protect her? The questions plagued my mind, each one a sharp blade. If only I had done one thing differently. Just one. I wanted to turn back the clock. I knew this day would come, but please, God, not like this. Not so soon. “Ugh…” I bolted into the restroom, leaning over the sink, dry-heaving violently. Nothing came up but stomach acid and despair. After a long time, I wiped my mouth and looked in the mirror. I looked like a ghost. I had to pull myself together. My mother and I had fought so hard against this disease. She kept a daily journal; our small apartment was covered in sticky notes, and our walls were lined with photos. Every morning, she would study them, desperately trying to memorize our faces, fighting the monster that was slowly devouring her brain. And she was waiting for my wedding. She had been so excited to see me happy. I took a deep breath, trying to calm the trembling in my chest, and walked back out. But as I approached her room, I saw Cecilia standing by the door. She stepped close to me, her voice dropping to a cruel whisper. “You know, I only told your mother the truth. I told her you were a fraud, that Ryan dumped you, and that he’s with me now. I had no idea she’d go into cardiac arrest over it. Did she actually believe you guys were happily married?” My fingernails bit so deeply into my palms they drew blood. Cecilia smiled, her eyes dripping with malice. “She’s a bit fragile, isn’t she?” Slap! My hand moved before my brain could stop it. Ryan and I hadn’t even broken up. My mother wasn’t just sick; she was furious because she wanted to protect me. She was devastated by the blatant disrespect this girl had hurled at her daughter. Cecilia gasped, her cheek turning bright red. She raised her hand to strike back, but I caught her wrist mid-air and slapped her again, harder this time. But I wasn’t finished. I hit her again. And again. If she wanted Ryan, she could have taken him. She could have come after me. But she should have never, ever touched my mother. Thinking about my mother’s empty gaze, I lost all control. Cecilia shrieked, cowering against the wall. “Rachel, stop! Are you crazy?” I raised my hand for another blow, but suddenly, my wrist was gripped in an iron vice. It was Ryan. “Rachel, what the hell are you doing? This is a hospital!” He looked shocked. In our ten years together, I had always been the poised, gentle one. He had never seen me like this. I struggled against his grip, trying to shove him away. “Let go of me! She did this on purpose, Ryan! She targeted my mother! My mom treated you like her own son for a decade—are you seriously going to deny her justice?” Instead of listening, Ryan squeezed my wrist even tighter, the bones in my hand grinding together painfully. “Stop making a scene, Rachel. It’s a misunderstanding. You’re overreacting.” He pushed me back, pinning me against the corridor wall. I looked at him. My wrist was bruising under his fingers, throbbing with pain. But the ache in my chest was far worse. At that exact moment, the last ember of my ten-year love for him died. I looked him dead in the eye, my lips pale and trembling. “I regret the day I ever said yes to you, Ryan. We’re over.” Ryan froze, his grip loosening slightly in shock. I leaned forward and bit down hard on his forearm. He yelled in pain and let go. Before he could even process the words that had just come out of my mouth, I shook out my sore wrist and took a step toward Cecilia.

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