Category: English

When my mother was struck by the car, Jack was the first to arrive at the scene. She dragged her cracked carbon-fiber prosthetic across the cold asphalt, her voice trembling as she whispered a desperate plea. “Please, don’t tell Grace. I’m fine, really…” Jack gave her a dismissive nod, turned his back, and helped the driver who had hit her into his passenger seat. He drove nearly half a mile down the suburban road before he finally remembered his mother-in-law. When he backed the SUV up to where she sat on the curb, his window rolled down only halfway. “There’s no room left in the car,” he said, his tone flat. “I’m taking Helen to the hospital first. I’ll come back for you when I’m done.” Helen was his childhood sweetheart’s mother. My mother’s face froze, her forced smile tightening. “Of course. I know you’re busy, Jack. Don’t worry about me.” She waited. She sat on that gravel shoulder from dawn until the sky turned a bruised, ink-black purple. Jack never came back. By the time the police finally reached me and I rushed to the scene, I found my mother huddled outside a small, run-down hardware shop. She was clutching her broken prosthetic, begging the elderly owner to help her glue it back together. “I can’t be a burden to my daughter,” she sobbed softly, her hands shaking. “Can you please just help me fix it?” She was covered in scrapes and bruises. When she had dragged herself toward the shop, she had left a thin, smear of dark blood on the pavement. When she finally saw me, she forced a weak, reassuring smile. “Don’t be mad at Jack, sweetheart.” “It’s just a plastic leg. It doesn’t even hurt. Please don’t fight with your husband. It’s not worth it.” My chest tightened, a sharp, suffocating pain spreading through my ribs. Right then, my phone buzzed. It was Jack. Under my mother’s anxious, pleading gaze, I pressed answer. Before I could even open my mouth to demand answers, his voice came through the line, cold and transactional. “Helen has a hairline fracture. Bella has to work late and can’t take care of her. Get over to the hospital and help out.” Listening to his casual, demanding tone, a strange, sudden stillness settled over me. In that quiet moment, I realized something with absolute clarity: this marriage was over. … “I’m fine, Grace. Go on. Don’t let me keep you from your life,” my mother whispered. She held the broken prosthetic tight against her chest like a shield. “We can just get this patched up. It won’t cost much.” “Mom,” I said, wrapping my arms around her as I fought back the tears stinging my eyes. “I have money. We’re going to the emergency room.” She shook her head, her weathered face lined with deep anxiety. “Jack works so hard for that money. You shouldn’t argue with him over hospital bills.” “Who is that?” Jack’s voice cut through the phone speaker, his brow practically audible in his irritation. “The billing department is pressing me for the copay. Just get down here and watch Helen. I’m hanging up.” “Go, Grace. Don’t make him angry,” my mother urged, gently pushing my shoulder. “I’ll just wait here at the shop.” I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper. There was no universe in which a daughter should abandon her injured mother to nurse the woman who had run her down. Before I could speak, my mother’s calloused hand—rough from decades of hard labor—pressed against mine. “Please, Grace. Don’t let me be the reason your marriage falls apart.” She leaned down, trying to gather the jars of homemade apple butter that had spilled from her bicycle basket onto the gravel. “Jack loves apple butter,” she mumbled, her eyes glassy. “I made it myself. I wrapped the jars so carefully so they wouldn’t break…” Just then, a speeding sedan roared past, its heavy tires crushing the jars. The sweet, spiced preserve splattered across the dark asphalt, mixed with dirt and shattered glass. My mother froze. She stared at the mess, her shoulders sinking. “How did they break? I… I can go back to the house and make more. Jack really likes it…” “Mom!” I couldn’t take it anymore. I pulled her into my arms, burying my face in her shoulder. “We’re not making any more. We’re done.” A sleek black SUV pulled up to the curb, and Jack stepped out, followed closely by Bella. Through the tinted glass of the rear window, I saw a giant, plush white rabbit doll belted securely into the backseat. It took up the entire row. Bella loved rabbits. So that was why there was “no room” for my mother. But the front passenger seat was completely empty. Why hadn’t he let her sit there? Then I remembered. The year Jack bought the car, I had reached for the front passenger door. He had caught my wrist, his expression tightening. “Bella and I have a rule. The front seat is hers. If she sees you sitting there, she’ll feel replaced.” I had stared at him, bewildered. “But I’m your wife.” “And because you’re my wife, you should be understanding,” Jack had replied, lighting a cigarette. “Bella comes from a broken home. She’s sensitive. You’re the mature one here, Grace. Can’t you just let her have this?” So I let her have it. I never sat in that seat again. But this was an emergency. Was my mother’s life not even worth a stupid passenger seat rule? I helped my mother up, begging the shop owner to let her sit on a plastic stool for a moment. “Grace,” my mother pleaded, grabbing my wrist. “Don’t fight. It’s not worth it.” I patted her hand gently. “I know, Mom. I’ve got this.” She let out a small breath, though her eyes remained wide with worry. “Thank you so much for coming down to help with the police report,” Bella said, wrapping her arm through Jack’s, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “Do you think my mom will go to jail?” “Of course not,” Jack said, his voice dripping with professional confidence. “I’m a defense attorney, Bella. Based on what you told me, the other party was riding against traffic. It’s entirely their fault.” As the words left his mouth, his eyes drifted toward us, and he froze. For the first time, he seemed to actually see his mother-in-law—the woman who had worked herself to the bone to pay for his law school tuition. “Grace? What are you doing here?” Jack walked over, his brow furrowed. “Where is your mother?” The anger in my chest boiled over, but before I could speak, he snapped. “If she doesn’t know how to ride a motorized bicycle, she shouldn’t be on the road. Because of her recklessness, Helen is in a hospital bed.” I looked down at the twisted metal of my mother’s old cruiser bike. It was the same bike she had ridden before dawn every single morning, delivering homemade baked goods to local diners to put Jack through school. Through freezing rain and scorching summer heat, she had never missed a day. Even with a high fever, she would force herself out of bed. Whenever I begged her to rest, she would smile and say, “I don’t mind the cold, sweetie. As long as you and Jack get your degrees, I have no regrets.” “Jack, do you have a single shred of conscience left?” I screamed, my voice cracking. “Helen was driving on the wrong side of the road! She hit my mother! How dare you accuse her!” Jack scoffed. “Your mother barely reads traffic signs. Helen has a clean driving record. How could she possibly be the one driving illegally?” “Grace,” Bella sobbed, stepping forward. “I know you’ve never liked me, but you can’t just lie like this. Filing a false police report is a felony.” Jack nodded in agreement. “Even if she is my mother-in-law, I cannot compromise my professional ethics. I have to follow the law.” I clenched my fists. “I want the traffic camera footage.” My mother had lived her whole life with quiet dignity. I would not let them drag her name through the mud. Bella smirked. “Grace, you only want the footage because you know this stretch of road doesn’t have cameras. You’re trying to frame my mother.” Jack stepped between Bella and me, shielding her. “I know you’re defensive of your mother, but facts are facts. As an attorney, it is my duty to protect vulnerable victims like Helen.” “A vulnerable victim who drives a forty-thousand-dollar luxury SUV?” I demanded, laughing bitterly. “That SUV was a gift from Bella’s hard work. What does her car have to do with her being a victim?” Jack reached out, grabbing my wrist. “You’re hysterical right now. We’ll talk about this at home.” “No, we won’t,” I said, coldness washing over me as I yanked my arm back. “Jack, if you don’t want to treat my mother with respect, then we—” “Grace!” My mother cried out, slipping off the stool and tumbling onto the gravel. “Don’t argue. Please.” “It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.” Without her prosthetic, she couldn’t stand. She dragged herself across the dirt toward me, her eyes wild with panic. “I shouldn’t have come to town. I’m the one who caused all this trouble.” She began hitting her own thigh in frustration. “An old, useless cripple like me should have stayed in the countryside. Why did I have to come here?” “Mom, stop. It’s not your fault,” I whispered, my throat tight, feeling as though I were choking on broken glass. I knelt down and hoisted her onto my back, just like I used to when her leg first failed her. “We’re going to the hospital. I’m not fighting anymore.” “It’s just a few scratches,” she whispered against my neck. “Let’s not waste money.” “We can just endure it. It’ll pass.” Five years ago, when a heavy truck crushed her leg on a construction site, she had said the exact same thing. “It doesn’t hurt, Grace. Keep the insurance money for your wedding. I can endure it.” She had spent her whole life enduring. “Mom,” I whispered, tears finally spilling over. “I’m grown up now. We don’t have to endure this anymore.” There were no cabs in this part of town. I kicked off my high heels, carrying my mother down the shoulder of the dark road. Jack marched after me, his face dark with embarrassment. “Stop throwing a tantrum, Grace. Do you have any idea how bad this looks? What will people think of me if they see you walking like this?” He unlocked the rear door of his SUV. “Get in.” My mother squeezed my neck, whispering, “Go on, Grace. He’s throwing you a lifeline. Don’t be stubborn.” “I can walk. You go with Jack. I’ll just find a pharmacy and buy some pain patches.” I bit my lip. If I kept walking like this, we wouldn’t reach the hospital until midnight. I swallowed my pride, looking at Jack. “Jack, please. For the sake of everything my mother did to support you when you had nothing, please just drive her to the emergency room. I’m begging you.” “I’m not a monster, Grace,” Jack muttered, checking his watch. “Just get her in the back.” I carefully placed my mother onto the leather seat. She sat there stiffly, clutching the hem of her faded cardigan. “I’m sorry… I’m getting dirt on your clean car.” “How could you be dirty, Mom?” I said, my voice shaking. “When someone left Jack on our doorstep in a cardboard box when he was a baby, you didn’t think he was too dirty to hold.” “That was a lifetime ago! Why do you always have to bring up the past?” Jack snapped, his pride wounded. “Have I not paid you back? Who do you think bought her that prosthetic leg?” My mother had taken a grueling job at a brick factory just to pay for Jack’s freshman year of college. That was where her accident happened. The meager settlement money she received was what paid for the rest of his law degree and got him his first internship. I walked around to the passenger side, reaching for the door handle. Before my fingers could touch it, Bella slipped past me, sliding into the front seat. “Sorry, Grace. You know the rules.” Jack started the engine, not even looking at me. “The hospital is only twelve miles away. You can walk. It’ll give you time to clear your head.” “Yeah,” I said, looking through the window at my mother. “I’ll walk. Mom, Jack is your son-in-law. He’ll make sure you’re taken care of.” Before I could finish, Jack hit the gas, and the SUV sped away into the dark. My mother pressed her face against the rear window, crying out my name until the red taillights vanished into the night. I wiped my face, walked back to the hardware store, and picked up her broken prosthetic. She was so careful with her belongings; she would grieve if it were lost. The shop owner, a kind man in his late fifties, looked at me with pity. “Was that your husband?” “He… he…” The old man stammered, his face flushing with anger, unable to find the words. Finally, he let out a long sigh. “Look, I was taking a video of the sunset on my phone earlier. I caught the whole accident on camera. Your mother didn’t do anything wrong.” By the time I walked into the hospital lobby, it was past ten o’clock. I found my mother sitting on the concrete steps outside the emergency room entrance, her empty pant leg fluttering in the cold night breeze. I had no idea how long she had been sitting out there in the damp air. I wrapped my coat around her shoulders and handed her the prosthetic. “Where is Jack? Did he just leave you on the steps?” My mother nervously rubbed her fingers together. “He’s a busy man, Grace. I told him I could manage.” She reached deep into her inner pocket and pulled out a small, worn handkerchief, unfolding it to reveal her life savings. “I have money. You don’t need to worry, and you don’t need to ask Jack for anything.” She pulled out three crumpled hundred-dollar bills and pressed them into my palm. “Take this. Go buy yourself a warm meal, and go home to your husband.” But how could a house be a home if there was no room in it for my mother? My eyes burned with unshed tears. My mother looked at the broken plastic leg in my arms. “The handyman can fix it. It’ll be fine. When you get old, you learn not to be a nuisance to your children.” Just yards away, the automatic sliding doors opened. Jack was gently guiding Helen out, his voice warm and attentive. “Don’t worry about the car being totaled, Helen. I have some savings. I’ll make sure Bella gets you a brand-new crossover next week.” “Children earn money to take care of their parents, after all.” I stared at the crumpled bills in my hand, remembering the thirty thousand dollars Jack had withdrawn from our joint account five days ago, claiming he was making a “low-risk investment.” It hadn’t been an investment at all. He was using our marital assets to buy a luxury vehicle for another woman’s mother. Bella walked beside them, her face bright. “Jack, I don’t know what I would have done without you. Finding the right doctors, getting her a private room… you’re a lifesaver.” Jack smiled down at her. “Don’t say that. We grew up together. Your mother is my mother.” “Then what about my mother?” I asked, stepping into their path. “When you were abandoned on a doorstep, dying of a congenital heart defect, my mother spent every penny she had to save your life!” Jack stopped in his tracks, his eyes widening slightly as he noticed my blistered, dusty feet. He frowned. “You’re let-down and emotional right now, Grace. I’m not going to argue with you here.” He stepped forward, grabbing my arm. “You don’t have to worry about your mother going to jail anymore. I’ve personally convinced Helen to sign a liability waiver. All you have to do now is stay in Helen’s room and nurse her until she’s discharged. Consider it an apology on your mother’s behalf.” “We don’t need her waiver!” I spat, my voice rising. “You spent thirty thousand dollars on her car. How much of our money did you spend on her hospital suite?” Tears finally spilled over my cheeks. “My mother has been gluing a cheap prosthetic leg together for five years because she didn’t want to spend five thousand dollars on a replacement. Where is your conscience, Jack? Did you leave it in the gutter?” My mother reached out to stop me, but when she saw the look in my eyes, her hand fell away. Jack’s face hardened. “You’re acting crazy again. I’m not going to humiliate myself by engaging with this.” “If you’re so independent, stop using my credit cards.” I froze. The year we both graduated from law school, Jack had held my hands and said, “Let me take care of you. Step back from the firm track, let me build the practice, and I’ll build us a life.” I had turned down a prestigious clerkship so he could take the associate slot. Over the years, “let me take care of you” had slowly turned into “I support you.” Jack sighed, his tone dripping with patronizing exhaustion. “I don’t even know why you’re angry. Your mother caused an accident. I settled the matter quietly. Isn’t that what a good husband does?” “You asked me to bring her to the hospital. I did. Her injuries are minor. I told her to check herself in, but she insisted on sitting out here in the cold to make me look bad. What else do you want from me?” In his mind, my mother was too uneducated to understand traffic lights, yet perfectly capable of navigating a complex hospital registration system alone. “Jack,” I whispered, looking down at my shoes. “I’m sorry. Can I please have the bank card? My mother needs to be admitted.” He let out a dry, mocking laugh, pulled a silver card from his wallet, and dropped it onto the dirty, wet concrete, stepping on it with his polished leather shoe. “You’re asking the wrong person. You should be asking Bella and Helen.” My mother pulled on my sleeve. “Grace, don’t… I’m fine.” How could she be fine? “Mom,” I whispered. “You’ve endured enough.” I turned to Bella, my voice hollow. “I’m sorry. Please forgive us.” Bella smirked, tossing her hair. “Your apology doesn’t sound very sincere, Grace. Actually, I think I’ve changed my mind. I think we should press charges for hit-and-run.” I clenched my fists. She only felt this confident because she thought I had no proof, and she had a hotshot defense attorney in her corner. Just as I was about to tell her about the shop owner’s video, Jack reached down, picked up the card, and slid it back into his pocket. “Next time, watch your tone,” he said coldly. “Once Bella decides to forgive you, you can come ask me for the money.” He guided Helen toward the elevator. “Excuse us. We have an appointment for her MRI. Don’t block the hallway.” As Bella walked past, she intentionally shoved her shoulder into mine. Losing my balance on my blistered feet, I fell sideways onto the hard tile. The broken prosthetic fell from my arms, clattering to the floor. Bella didn’t pause. She brought her high heel down right onto the carbon-fiber socket, cracking it completely down the middle. In the elevator, Jack’s expression flinched. But before he could say a word, the steel doors slid shut, cutting them off from view. A ragged, desperate sob tore from my throat. This was the marriage I had sacrificed my career for. This was the man I had loved. It was rotten to the core. My mother scrambled off the steps, her eyes wild with panic as she saw me break down. “Grace, sweetie, I’m okay. Really, I’m okay. Please don’t cry.” But her leg was gone. She could only drag herself toward me across the sterile hospital floor. Our despair drew a crowd of staring onlookers. “Grace?” A deep, cultured voice sounded above me. I looked up through my tears and saw Lucas, my former constitutional law professor. Using his professional connections at the hospital, he bypassed the bureaucracy and had my mother admitted into a private room within twenty minutes. An hour later, Jack walked into the room, his face dark with disapproval. “Why aren’t you down in Helen’s room helping her? What are you doing up here?” I didn’t look at him. I quietly reviewed my mother’s medical charts, noting down her scheduled tests in my phone. He walked over, lowering his voice to a harsh whisper. “If you don’t show some remorse, how is Bella supposed to forgive you?” “I don’t want my mother going to jail over this.” “So?” I raised my head, my eyes dead. “Is that why you’ve spent the evening playing savior to Bella and her mother?” Jack’s expression remained perfectly smooth. “I am an officer of the court. I am objective.” “Don’t let your petty jealousy ruin Bella’s reputation.” I started to laugh. It was a terrible, empty sound, and tears slipped down my face as I laughed. You can never wake someone who is pretending to be asleep. But it was fine. I didn’t need his love anymore. Jack’s phone rang. It was Bella. “Jack, my mom is in so much pain. I’m so scared…” “I’m coming,” he said, his voice softening instantly. He left the room without a single backward glance. Later, as I wheeled my mother down to the radiology department, we passed the billing desk. Jack was standing there, his wallet out. “I’m here to settle the bill for Mary Vance.” The nurse behind the counter frowned at him. “Sir, can you please stop wasting our time? Her account has already been paid in full. There is a massive credit on her file.” “Paid?” Jack’s brow furrowed. “Who paid for Grace’s mother?” “Jack!” Bella called out from down the hall, waving her hand. “The doctor is ready for us!” He didn’t have time to process it. He turned and ran toward her. As he passed me in the crowded hallway, his eyes stayed glued to his phone. He never even noticed me standing there. When we reached the CT room, the technician looked at my mother’s paperwork and sighed. “I’m sorry, dear. Your mother’s slot was just taken by an emergency referral.” I felt a cold dread pool in my stomach. “But we had this scheduled. My mother has potential internal bleeding.” The nurse looked at my mother’s frail form and whispered, “I know, but an attorney from the hospital’s legal board pulled strings. He bumped his client’s mother to the front of the line. It was the last slot of the day.” I felt a tug on my sleeve. My mother looked up at me, her eyes filled with quiet shame. “Grace… did I cause trouble again?” Before I could answer, the door to the CT room opened. Jack was gently guiding Helen out. “I told you it wasn’t a big deal,” Helen was saying, her voice perfectly strong. “You shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble.” Bella giggled, leaning against Jack’s shoulder. “That’s just because Jack cares about you.” A fuse blew in my mind. I slipped the gold band off my left ring finger and threw it hard against Jack’s chest. “I want a divorce.” Jack’s face hardened, his jaw tightening. “That’s impossible.” “Oh, sweetie,” Bella purred, a cruel, mocking smile spreading across her face. “Does she really not know? Jack, you didn’t tell her?” She turned to me, her voice dripping with venomous glee. “The year you guys ‘got married,’ I had a little panic attack because I didn’t want to lose him. So Jack promised me he’d never actually file the marriage license at the courthouse. He forged the clerk’s stamp on your copy just to keep you quiet.” “You can’t divorce someone you were never legally married to, Grace.” A strange, beautiful lightness bloomed in my chest. No marriage. No legal ties. No lingering obligations. I looked Jack dead in the eye, pulled out my phone, and dialed the local police precinct. “Hello. I’d like to report a hit-and-run.”

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On graduation photo day, my girlfriend, Cherry, took over two hundred pictures of Chase, the campus golden boy. She was the president of the photography club. She knew exactly how to find the light, how to capture the perfect angle that made a person look like a movie star. Chase stood beneath the shade of the campus sycamores, flashing his easy, effortless smile. “Am I being too much of a pain?” he asked, though he already knew the answer. Cherry kept her eyes glued to her camera, scrolling through the viewfinder with a softness in her voice I hadn’t heard in months. “Never. You’re impossible to take a bad photo of anyway. Honestly, it’s a pleasure.” But when it was my turn, Cherry barely even looked at me. She just raised the camera and clicked the shutter twice. “Done,” she said, letting the camera drop against her chest. I froze. “That’s it?” She frowned, her irritation immediate. “Jude, you’ve never been photogenic. Let’s not hold up the line.” I glanced down at the two photos she had taken on her digital display. In one, my eyes were half-closed, caught mid-blink. In the other, a harsh shadow from the branches sliced directly across my face, cutting me in two. “Could you just try a few more?” I asked quietly. Instead of answering, she pulled out her phone and posted a thread on the campus student board: “Offering $20 for a student photographer to take a couple of quick, casual graduation photos of my boyfriend.” Half an hour later, a direct message popped up on my phone from an account with a default profile picture. I sent her my location, then hesitated before typing out a quick, self-deprecating warning: “Just so you know, I’m really not photogenic.” She replied almost instantly: “That usually just means the person behind the camera doesn’t know how to guide you.” When we finished shooting and she sent over the raw files, I could only stare. My chest tightened. It was the first time in my life I had ever looked at a photo of myself and thought, “Oh. I can actually look good.” I looked bright, natural, completely alive. But what felt even more surreal was the realization that this twenty-dollar photographer was miles ahead of the president of the university’s photography club. … The photographer sent over a few more raw files. No Photoshop, no filters, no artificial editing. Just me, captured from different angles. In those shots, I was standing under the natural light, my eyes reflecting a warmth and confidence that felt entirely foreign to me. “Your features are actually great,” she texted. “You’ve just been trained to freeze up every time a lens is pointed at you.” Whenever Cherry used to take my picture, her voice would always carry this sharp, exasperated edge. “Can you please just smile normally?” After three or four quick snaps, she’d let the camera drop with a heavy sigh. “Forget it.” Then she’d shake her head and mutter, “I don’t get how you can be so incredibly awkward in front of a camera.” She said it so often that it became my truth. Over time, I learned to shrink. Every time a lens was raised in my direction, my first instinct was to look down, to hide, to apologize in advance for ruining the shot. My phone buzzed, breaking the memory. My roommate had forwarded a screenshot of Chase’s Instagram feed. It was a beautifully curated grid of nine photos—all taken by Cherry. Chase was standing under the sycamores, bathed in a soft, golden-hour glow that perfectly highlighted his jawline. “Perks of having the photography club president as your personal shooter. Blessed.” The comments below were already piling up: “This looks like a cover shoot for the university prospectus.” “Literal main character energy, Chase.” Chase had replied with a humble-brag emoji: “Honestly, Cherry is just amazing at directing. Whenever I got stiff, she kept cracking jokes to make me laugh.” I zoomed in on his photos until the pixels blurred, a dull ache blooming behind my eyes. So Cherry did know how to guide someone. She knew exactly how to make a person feel comfortable and seen. She just had never cared enough to do it for me. Just then, a notification from the university’s official app popped up on my screen: “Seeking the New Face of Campus: Graduation Season Student Ambassador Search.” “Submit a portrait and a one-minute campus introduction video. The selected student will star in next year’s official recruitment campaign.” I swiped it away automatically. That kind of spotlight was never meant for someone like me. Cherry had drilled it into my head too many times: I was the guy who belonged in the shadows, not the billboard. But a moment later, a text from my $20 photographer came through: “Did you see the ambassador call?” I stared at the screen. “Yeah, I saw it.” “You should apply.” My fingers hovered over the keyboard. “I don’t think I’m the type.” Her reply was instant: “Trust me. You’re exactly the type.” A few seconds later, another message popped up: “An ambassador shouldn’t just be a pretty face on a poster.” “They need to be someone who makes people feel like they belong here.” I stared at those words, the silence of my room suddenly feeling very loud. Then, she sent over an attachment—a structured nine-day shooting schedule. “Days 1–3: Camera comfort exercises.” “Days 4–6: B-roll and campus scenes.” “Days 7–9: Editing and voiceover.” A sudden, quiet rebellion flared up inside me. I had actually loved photography once. But over the four years I’d spent with Cherry, her passive-aggressive critiques had slowly eroded that love, turning the camera into a weapon that made me feel small. I wanted to take that power back. The next afternoon, I went into the photography club room to gather some things. Cherry caught sight of the printed application form peaking out of my bag. She frowned. “Jude? Are you actually submitting for this?” I nodded. “Yeah.” She let out a soft, incredulous laugh, as if I’d just suggested I was running for president. “The student ambassador campaign? Jude, don’t let a silly disagreement over graduation photos make you do something impulsive.” Chase, who was lounging on the desk beside her, gave me a patronizing smile. “Hey, Jude, there’s no shame in working behind the scenes. Being the face of the school comes with a ton of pressure. If the final edit doesn’t turn out perfect, people online can be brutal.” Normally, comments like that would have made me retreat into my shell, apologizing for even trying. But this time, I just quietly zipped my bag. “Whether it looks good is for the selection committee to decide,” I said. “You don’t need to disqualify me in advance.” Cherry’s expression hardened. “Why are you being so stubborn lately?” My phone buzzed in my hand. “4:00 PM. West entrance of the library,” the text from the photographer read. “We’ll do the first set. Don’t overthink your clothes or hair. Just show up as you are.” I stared down at the screen, letting out a quiet breath. Then I looked up, meeting Cherry’s eyes. “I found a photographer.” Cherry’s face flushed with a mix of surprise and sheer offense. “Fine,” she spat, her voice icy. “But without me, you won’t get a single shot worth looking at.” I didn’t bother replying. I just walked out and made my way to the library’s west entrance exactly at four. For years, my role in Cherry’s photography had been that of a glorified assistant. When she shot Chase, I was the one carrying her heavy lens bags, holding up the reflectors, handing them water, and guarding her equipment. I’d even step in to adjust Chase’s collar when it looked messy. Afterward, she’d make me transfer and catalog the raw files. But when it came to me, she wouldn’t even bother adjusting the white balance on her camera. Today, for the first time, I wasn’t the guy standing in the shadows. But my photographer didn’t immediately start shooting. She just gestured for me to stand near the stone steps. “Let your shoulders drop,” she said, her voice calm and steady. “Ignore the lens. Treat it like it’s just a piece of the scenery. Look at the wind in the trees, the bricks, whatever catches your eye.” I looked up, my neck stiff with tension. She observed me for a second, then lowered her camera slightly. “Jude. The lens isn’t Cherry. It’s not here to judge you.” A sudden, sharp sting hit the back of my throat, and my eyes flared hot. I had to look up toward the sky, blinking rapidly to keep from breaking down right there. She didn’t rush me. She just stood there, waiting patiently in the quiet space she’d created for me to find my footing. We shot for about half an hour. She didn’t talk much, but her directions were incredibly clear and gentle. “Relax your hands. Don’t grip your jeans.” “Now look over at the maple on the left.” “Turn back toward me.” “Perfect. Keep that exact gaze.” For the first time in my life, I realized that being photographed didn’t have to feel like an interrogation. It could feel like breathing. The next morning, Cherry pinged me in the photography club group chat: “Jude, I need you to hold the reflector this afternoon. Chase is shooting his promo material for the ambassador submission.” In the past, I would have dropped everything to say yes. This time, I typed back: “I can’t. I have my own shoot this afternoon.” The group chat fell completely silent. Within a minute, a direct message from Cherry flashed on my screen: “Are you seriously prioritizing some random twenty-dollar amateur over this? Chase’s submission is a major project for the club. Stop being childish and focus on what actually matters.” I stared at the words “what actually matters”. A bitter, hollow laugh escaped my lips. What mattered to her was Chase’s portfolio. My graduation memories, my aspirations, the tiny scrap of courage I had gathered to put myself out there—none of that had ever mattered. That afternoon, I went over to the science building to shoot some B-roll. Walking past the athletic field, I saw Cherry and Chase. Chase was standing in the center of the green grass, perfectly lit by the afternoon sun. Cherry was kneeling on the turf, adjusting her angles with obsessive care. “Take your time, Chase. Wait for the breeze before you turn your head.” “If you can’t force a smile, just look at me.” “Beautiful. Let’s do one more just like that.” Chase laughed, running a hand through his hair. “Am I being a total diva?” Cherry’s voice was incredibly tender. “Not at all. You’re a natural, Chase.” I stood by the edge of the running track, my fingers slowly curling into tight fists. She did know. She knew exactly how to coax warmth out of a person, how to soothe their insecurities. She just had never wanted to waste that grace on me. The photographer noticed my expression but didn’t pry. Instead, she stepped in front of me, gently holding up her camera. “We’re doing motion today,” she said. “Just walk naturally, look toward the lens, and tell me one reason why you love this university.” I looked down, feeling the old familiar knot form in my chest. “I don’t really know what to say.” “Then don’t think about the camera,” she replied softly. “Just talk to me.” I let the silence hang between us for a long time before I finally spoke. “Because the people here always seem to be running forward,” I said, looking at her rather than the black glass of the lens. “It makes me feel like… as long as you don’t stop, even the most ordinary person can slowly find their own strength.” She didn’t interrupt. When we finished, she held out the camera screen so I could watch the playback. The guy on the small display wasn’t polished like Chase, and he didn’t possess that practiced, effortless charm. But he was real. There was a quiet sincerity in his eyes that I had never seen before. That evening, some of the applicants began sharing snippets of their progress in the official submission group chat. My photographer had selected a still of me standing by the library’s side door. Almost immediately after she uploaded it, a message popped up: “Wait, is that Jude?” “Wow, this has so much depth. It looks like a movie still.” A quiet warmth bloomed in my chest. But before I could even process it, Cherry’s name appeared in the chat. “It’s just a mood shot,” she wrote. “Anyone can look decent if you hide their face in shadows and rely entirely on composition. The ambassador campaign is about real screen presence, not stylized portraits.” Chase chimed in right after her: “Totally. Video is a completely different beast than stills. Motion captures every awkward angle and forced expression.” I looked at their messages. My chest tightened slightly, but the overwhelming panic that used to consume me didn’t come. I didn’t feel the desperate urge to explain myself or apologize. I simply typed: “I’ll keep practicing.” Later that night, a text arrived from my photographer with the plan for the next day. “Tomorrow we hit the senior wall. Don’t worry about being perfect. Just be you.” On the day of the deadline, I submitted the final cut. It was only a sixty-second video, but I must have watched it fifty times before hitting upload. It opened with the stone steps of the library’s west entrance. I was walking down, holding a stack of books, and then I turned to look at the camera. The middle segment drifted through the quiet corners of the campus—the track, the brick facades of the labs, the colorful, messy senior wall. And the final frame was me, standing by the university gates, saying: “I hope when you come here, you’ll slowly find yourself, too.” My fingers were still trembling when the confirmation screen appeared. A text popped up from my photographer: “Beautifully done. Now, go get some sleep.” But sleep was impossible. For my entire life, I had hidden in the background, a shadow behind other people’s bright lights. This was the first time I had ever dared to let myself be seen. Three days later, the preliminary shortlist was announced. The admissions office published the top entries on the university’s official page. “1st Place: Jude” “2nd Place: Chase” I stared at my phone, the names blurring together. My roommate grabbed my shoulders, shaking me wild with excitement. “Jude! You’re number one! Holy crap, you actually beat Chase!” Before the reality of it could even sink in, the photography club group chat erupted. “Jude is first?” “Chase got second?” “How did Cherry’s submission lose?” Cherry remained silent for an hour. Finally, someone tagged her directly: “Pres, thoughts?” She only replied with one cold line: “The committee will likely review the authenticity of the submissions before making anything final.” My heart plummeted. She hadn’t congratulated me. She hadn’t asked how the shoots went, or who had helped me. Her immediate instinct was that my success had to be a lie. A moment later, Chase sent me a direct message: “Jude, seriously impressive stuff. But your photographer must be a professional, right? No offense, but getting that kind of production value for twenty bucks seems… a little too good to be true for a student.” Within minutes, a screenshot of his message was leaked into the main club chat, and the whispers turned into a wildfire. “Yeah, that quality is insane for twenty bucks.” “Did he hire an outside PR team to package him?” “Is it heavily photoshopped?” “The rules say it has to be organic student work.” “Does his photographer have connections in the admissions office?” It didn’t stop there. By evening, a thread went viral on the student forum: “Controversy over the new Student Ambassador results. Did certain applicants use professional agencies?” “Is it realistic for a twenty-dollar student hire to deliver agency-level cinematography?” The comments below grew progressively crueler. “Isn’t that Jude guy famous for being completely unphotogenic?” “Suddenly he looks like an indie film lead? Please.” “Some people will do anything for fifteen minutes of fame.” I stared at the glowing screen, my hands turning cold. Then came Cherry’s text, cutting deeper than the strangers’ comments. “Who is this photographer, Jude? Did she bring in an outside crew? The ambassador campaign is representing our university’s integrity. Don’t use a school platform just to satisfy your ego.” I stared at the message, a heavy, suffocating weight pressing down on my chest. It took me a long time to type a response: “You really think I cheated?” She replied instantly: “You know better than anyone how you look in front of a camera, Jude.” The words felt like a physical blow, a needle driving straight into my chest. It didn’t matter how well I was captured. She would never believe that the boy in those frames was really me. To her, my beauty could only ever be an illusion. The next afternoon, my phone rang. It was an administrator from the admissions department. “Jude? We need you to come down to the communications office. An official complaint has been filed regarding your submission. There are allegations of professional agency involvement, heavy digital manipulation, and potential conflicts of interest. We need to verify the integrity of your raw footage.” I stood in the doorway of my dorm room, my mind going completely blank. My phone vibrated. A text from my photographer: “Take a deep breath. Don’t let them scare you. You didn’t magically become handsome overnight, Jude. You were just finally shot by someone who actually looked at you.” I stared at the words, and the feeling slowly began to return to my numb fingers. But a second later, Cherry texted again: “I’m coming with you. I can speak to your historical camera presence.” I gripped my phone and began the long walk to the administration building. My pocket buzzed relentlessly as the forum thread continued to gather traction. “Wait, is he actually being summoned?” “Oh shit, so there really is a scandal?” “We can’t have a fake represent our brand.” “Are we sure there isn’t something going on between him and the photographer?” I paused on the pavement, my breath catching. These accusations were filthier than any comment about my face. They weren’t just criticizing my photos anymore; they were dragging my character through the mud. Inside the communications office, the head of admissions, the faculty advisor for student affairs, and two PR staff members were waiting. On the table lay printed copies of the forum threads alongside screenshots of my video. The head of admissions looked up, his expression grave. “Jude, we’ve received a formal, signed complaint from a fellow student alleging that your submission was produced by an outside commercial agency. There are also concerns raised about potential inappropriate arrangements between you and the photographer. This campaign represents our university’s core values and academic integrity. We have to take these allegations seriously.” The word “integrity” felt like a physical weight crushing my throat. I unlocked my phone and slid it across the desk. “I didn’t hire an agency. And there’s no editing trickery. The photographer was hired through a listing Cherry posted on the student board. I paid her twenty dollars.” The administrator reviewed the screenshots of the chat logs and the transaction receipt. He frowned, but the tension in the room didn’t fully dissipate. “Even so, Jude, the discrepancy between your past campus appearances and this video is striking. We need to understand how such a radical shift occurred.” Right then, there was a knock at the door, and Cherry walked in. The administrator looked up. “Cherry, as the president of the photography club, you’ve worked with Jude before. Can you speak to his usual screen presence?” I looked at her. In that fleeting second, a pathetic, foolish spark of hope flared in my chest. She knew she had posted that ad. She knew those awful graduation photos were the result of her own carelessness. Surely, she would set the record straight. Cherry hesitated, looking at me then back at the committee. “Jude has good features,” she began. I felt a tiny fraction of the tension leave my shoulders. “But,” she continued, “his camera anxiety has always been severe. I’m not saying he actively cheated, but… the technical sophistication of this submission is simply not something a twenty-dollar student hire could pull off.” The office fell into a dead silence. She hadn’t outright called me a liar. But with those soft, calculated words, she had effectively validated every single rumor. I stared at her, the hurt hardening into something sharp and cold. “Cherry,” I said, my voice steady despite the tremble in my chest. “You wrote the post. You’re the one who told me I was unphotogenic and threw me to whoever would take twenty bucks. And now that someone actually took the time to do it right, you call it a lie.” I leaned in slightly. “You aren’t doubting the photographer. You just can’t accept that when someone else held the camera, I actually looked good. You can’t accept that I succeeded without you.” Cherry’s face turned completely pale. A shadow fell over the frosted glass of the door, and Chase stepped into the room. “Excuse me, Dr. Fletcher? May I say something?” He looked at me with a performative expression of concern. “I don’t want to attack Jude. But everyone in the department knows how intensely he used to dislike being on camera. I just worry… what if someone took advantage of his desire to prove himself, and used him as a puppet for their own agency showcase?” He left the sentence hanging, but the implication was clear. I stood there, a cold sweat breaking out across my back. The admissions head sighed, rubbing his temples. “Jude, until we can verify the source files, we will have to place a temporary hold on your first-place ranking. We need you to submit the raw footage, any behind-the-scenes material, and the full contact information of your photographer.” I walked out of the office, the heavy door clicking shut behind me. A few students had gathered in the hallway, whispering as I passed. “A temporary hold? That basically means he’s guilty.” “Honestly, it’s just a school promo. Why go to such lengths?” When I reached the stairwell, my phone rang. It was my mother. “Jude, why did I just get a call from your student affairs advisor? It’s just a campus photo campaign. Don’t do anything reckless that might mess up your graduation.” “Mom,” I whispered, my voice thick. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t cheat.” There was a pause on the line, and then I heard my father’s voice in the background, sharp and impatient: “If he didn’t do anything wrong, why is the dean’s office investigating him?” I hung up, a cold, hollow ache settling deep into my bones. Cherry hurried down the stairs after me, catching my sleeve. “Jude, listen to me. The smartest thing you can do right now is shift the blame to the photographer. Just tell them you had no idea she was using an outside team. If you play the victim, the school won’t go hard on you.” I looked down at her hand on my arm, then up at her face. A dry, humorless laugh escaped me. “Oh, now you’re worried about me?” I asked. “But Cherry… you’re the one who hired her for twenty bucks.” Her hand slipped off my sleeve as she froze. My phone vibrated in my palm. “I’m downstairs at the administration building,” the message from the photographer said. “Don’t worry, Jude. I’m going to set this straight.”

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I was lounging by the pool on a rare vacation, basking in the warm Florida sun, when I scrolled past a post on a local social media forum that made my blood run cold. It was a blatant brag post. [A bank safety deposit box is the absolute best urn money can buy. Bar none.] Out of some morbid curiosity, I tapped on it. The poster was boasting about how she had rented a high-security bank vault specifically to store her mother’s cremated ashes. The comment section was a war zone of outrage, with users calling her disrespectful, cheap, and deeply unsettling. But the poster remained utterly smug and defensive. [Why waste ten grand on a cemetery plot when you can lease a secure vault?] [It’s climate-controlled, perfectly dehumidified, and all the bank’s cash and other people’s gold get to serve as her eternal tribute!] Disgusted, I was about to leave a comment condemning her when my eyes caught the background of the photo she had uploaded. There, engraved on the brushed steel of the deposit box, was a number: 777. My heart skipped a beat. Box 777. The exact box I paid five thousand dollars a year to lease. The box where I kept my family’s gold bullion and estate jewelry. I checked the poster’s IP address. It was registered in my home city. An uneasy tightness gripped my chest. I clicked onto her profile and scrolled through her older posts. My breath caught. It was Chelsea Ward. She was the lead personal banker at my local branch, the very person who had processed my lease and handled my private wealth account. The vault I rented to protect my life savings was being used as a makeshift mausoleum for her mother’s ashes. Just then, my phone chimed. A text notification from Chelsea slid down the screen. “Hi Mr. Reynolds, hope you’re enjoying your vacation! Just a gentle reminder that your annual vault lease is up for renewal next week. We’ll need to process the payment soon.” I stared at the screen, a dark, bitter laugh escaping my throat. She really thought I was a fool. I typed back a brief reply. “I’ll handle the renewal in person when I get back to the branch.” I didn’t wait. I booked the first flight home, cut my vacation short, and packed my bags. … During the long flight back, Chelsea’s messages kept pouring in, each one draped in a thin veil of professional courtesy. “Are you still tied up, Sean? No worries at all. If it’s easier, you can just wire the five thousand directly to my personal account, and I’ll handle the internal ledger transfer for you, just like last year.” She was trying to keep me away from the branch. Looking back at the comments on her original post, I had noticed several users pointing out standard bank rates. A premium safety deposit box at a private wealth branch like ours only cost three thousand dollars a year. I had been leasing that box for four years. Chelsea had been pocketing a two-thousand-dollar premium from me every single year. Her texts grew increasingly urgent. “Sean, if we don’t secure the payment by Friday, the system automatically flags the box as delinquent. The bank might release it to the waitlist. I’d hate for your gold and heirlooms to lose their guaranteed protection.” I locked my phone, refusing to reply. My mind raced. If my safety deposit box was currently holding her mother’s ashes, where was my gold? Where were the emerald necklaces and the vintage watches my grandfather had passed down to me? A cold sweat broke out on the back of my neck. I dialed the branch manager, Diane Albright. “Mr. Reynolds, you’re letting your imagination get the better of you,” Diane said, her voice smooth and dismissive over the line. “Our security protocols are ironclad. What you’re suggesting is literally impossible. Rest assured, your assets are entirely safe.” Her words offered no comfort. As soon as we hung up, I reopened Chelsea’s post. In the comments, people were accusing her of fabricating the whole thing for clout. [Nobody would actually put an urn in a safety deposit box. You’re lying for attention.] [Even if you wanted to, the bank’s dual-key system would never allow you to access it without the client present.] I refreshed the page. Chelsea had replied just a minute prior. [I’m not lying. I’ll show you.] My thumb hovered over the screen, refreshing constantly, terrified I would miss whatever she posted next. Five minutes later, a new post appeared. It was a video. Before even playing it, I tapped the download button. The moment the download completed, the post vanished—she had deleted it. I opened the video in my camera roll, my hands trembling. In the clip, Chelsea panned the camera around the bank’s secure vault room to prove she was actually there. Then, she inserted her master key alongside a client key, swinging open the door of Box 777. Inside, there was no gold. There were no velvet jewelry boxes. There was only a single, heavy ceramic urn wrapped in yellow ceremonial paper. My chest tightened with a mixture of blinding rage and sheer panic. My assets were gone. When my Uber finally pulled up to the grand, marble-faced entrance of the bank, I didn’t hesitate. I dialed 911 right there on the sidewalk. “I need to report a major theft,” I told the dispatcher, my voice shaking but clear. “I have over three million dollars in gold and jewelry missing from my safety deposit box at Beacon Trust.” I hung up, pushed through the heavy glass doors, and walked into the lobby. The sterile, sixty-eight-degree air conditioning hit my face, but it did nothing to cool the fire burning in my chest. “Mr. Reynolds?” I looked up. Chelsea was standing near the teller counter. Her face paled for a fraction of a second before she forced her customer-service smile back into place. “You’re back early,” she said, her voice tight as she hurried over. “Are you here to take care of the renewal? Honestly, you shouldn’t have troubled yourself with the drive. You could have just wired me the funds.” I stared at her, watching the nervous flutter of her eyelashes. “I want to see my lease contract,” I said coldly. Her smile faltered, but she recovered quickly. “Oh, I’m afraid the physical vault records are locked in the administrative office. It takes a formal request to pull them. But I assure you, everything is completely standard.” “I know the contract is standard,” I replied. “It’s the amount you’ve been charging me that isn’t.” I glanced at my watch. The police would be here in less than twenty minutes. I bypassed her and walked straight toward the manager’s office. “Mr. Reynolds, Diane is in back-to-back meetings today,” Chelsea said, rushing to block my path. “She really doesn’t have time for unscheduled visits.” I turned to a nearby teller who was watching us with a confused expression. “Get Diane out here,” I said, my voice echoing slightly in the quiet lobby. “Tell her if she doesn’t show her face in thirty seconds, I am liquidating my seven-million-dollar portfolio with this bank and moving it across the street.” The teller’s eyes went wide. She immediately picked up her desk phone. Before I arrived, I had called Diane twice, and both times her assistant had claimed she was out of the office. But the moment seven million dollars was on the line, the heavy mahogany door of her office swung open. “Sean!” Diane called out, her face a mask of warm, frantic hospitality. “Please, let’s not do anything hasty. Let’s go into my office and talk. Did Chelsea do something to upset you? I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding.” With a sharp look from Diane, Chelsea immediately bowed her head. “I’m incredibly sorry, Mr. Reynolds. If my tone was unprofessional, please forgive me.” Her apology was entirely hollow. I ignored her and looked directly at Diane. “I want to see the audit trail for my safety deposit box. The standard lease for a premium box is three thousand dollars. Why has Chelsea been charging me five thousand for the last four years?” Whispers broke out among the other tellers. Chelsea’s face flushed a deep, ugly red. “Mr. Reynolds, safety deposit boxes are tiered by security level. I upgraded you to our absolute highest-clearance vault. It has a specialized digital monitoring system. That’s why it’s five thousand.” Diane quickly nodded, seizing the lifeline. “Yes, that’s correct, Sean. The premium tier offers unparalleled security for high-value assets.” They were still trying to play me. If there was a higher tier, the other tellers wouldn’t have looked so utterly shocked by the numbers I had just mentioned. “Unparalleled security?” I asked, leaning in. They both nodded in unison. “Fine,” I said, raising my voice so it carried across the entire lobby. “Then let’s go downstairs and open it. I want to see exactly how secure my gold is.” Chelsea froze. The blood drained from her face, leaving her looking physically ill. She must have realized I had seen the post. All the way to the bank, she had been online, replying to comments, sharing tips on how to pull off using a vault as an urn. [It’s easy if you have a complicit teller,] she had written in one comment. [Most wealthy clients rent these boxes and don’t check them for years. They just sit empty. Why let good space go to waste?] She had assumed I was one of those clients. She had kept close tabs on me, texting me weekly under the guise of “relationship management,” just to ensure I wasn’t planning a surprise visit to the vault. “Mr. Reynolds, I would love to open it for you,” Chelsea stammered, her hands visibly shaking now. “But… I don’t have the master key ring on me today. I accidentally left it at home. If we could schedule a viewing for tomorrow morning, I promise I’ll have everything ready.” Diane immediately chimed in, putting on a show of managerial outrage. “Chelsea! You’ve been here for years. How could you make such a careless mistake? If you can’t keep track of your security keys, I will have to write you up!” “I’m so sorry, Diane,” Chelsea whispered, looking down. “It won’t happen again.” It was a practiced routine. I remembered my very first visit to this branch years ago. I had overheard Chelsea arguing with another client, offering the exact same excuse about a forgotten key while Diane smoothed things over. I had thought nothing of it then. Now, the horrifying reality was staring me in the face. She had been doing this for a long time. “Don’t worry about the key,” I said, pulling a small brass key from my pocket. “I brought my copy.” The room fell dead silent. Chelsea stared at the key in my hand, her eyes wide with panic. “Mr. Reynolds… you told me last year that you lost your spare key.” I didn’t answer her. I turned and walked toward the heavy security door leading to the vault room. Chelsea threw herself in front of the door, physically blocking my path. “Sean, please. Let’s not do this today. Just… do this for me. Come back tomorrow. Please.” I looked at her with pure disgust. “Do this for you? Are we friends, Chelsea?” Her face burned with embarrassment as she rubbed her hands together anxiously. “I… I thought we had a rapport. But regardless, bank policy states a client cannot enter the vault room without a designated banker accompanying them.” I turned to Diane. “You’re a banker. You come with me.” Diane frowned, clearly reluctant to get her hands dirty with what she still hoped was a minor customer service dispute. Before she could speak, a teller near the window murmured, “Why is there a police cruiser pulling up outside?” The tension in the lobby snapped like a dry twig. Within seconds, two uniformed officers pushed through the glass doors. The lead officer scanned the room. “We received a call about a high-value grand larceny. Who is the complainant?” I stepped forward. “I am. I pay five thousand a year for Box 777, and this employee turned it into a personal tomb for her mother’s ashes.” A collective gasp echoed through the lobby. “Ashes?” one of the tellers whispered, horrified. “Oh my God, she brought a dead body in here?” Chelsea’s voice trembled as she screamed, “That’s a lie! I would never do that! He’s crazy!” “Let’s go see,” I said, gesturing to the officers. With the police backing me, Diane had no choice but to open the vault door. We walked into the cold, metallic room. I stepped up to Box 777, inserted my key alongside Diane’s master key, and pulled the drawer open. It was completely empty. No urn. No gold. Just clean, empty metal. Chelsea let out a sharp, breathless laugh, her panic instantly morphing into smug triumph. “See? I told you! Officer, this man is fabricating stories. He’s wasting your time and harassing me.” The officers turned to me, their expressions hardening. “Sir, do you have any proof of these claims?” “I do,” I said. I pulled out my phone and played the downloaded video. “This is Chelsea Ward’s personal social media account. She uploaded this ten minutes before I arrived.” The officers watched the video, their eyes moving from the screen to Chelsea’s pale face. “That’s not my account!” Chelsea protested wildly. “He’s using a deepfake! He’s obsessed with me!” I tapped her profile to show her face, but when the page loaded, the screen was blank. She had completely wiped her profile of all personal photos during my flight, leaving only the anonymous bragging posts. Chelsea smirked, leaning back against the vault wall. “Sean, you’re delusional. You saw a random post online and assumed it was me? You need serious psychological help.” The officers looked back at me, their suspicion shifting. “I didn’t make this up,” I insisted, keeping my voice steady. “The police tech department can easily trace the IP address of that account. It will lead straight to her phone.” At the mention of a digital forensics trace, Chelsea’s smirk withered. Diane immediately stepped between us, trying to salvage the bank’s reputation. “Officers, it seems this is all just a terrible misunderstanding. Mr. Reynolds is understandably stressed about his missing assets. We appreciate your prompt response, but we can handle the rest of this internally.” The officers nodded, preparing to leave. The other employees in the room were looking at me with pity and annoyance, clearly believing I was a paranoid rich man who had lost his mind. But as the police turned toward the exit, I stepped in front of them. “You can’t leave,” I said. “If this is my box, and it’s empty… where is my three million dollars in gold?” A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the vault. Everyone looked at Chelsea. Her face was entirely bloodless, her lips parted but silent. Diane’s eyes widened as the realization finally hit her. If the gold wasn’t in the box, and the box was empty, the bank was facing a catastrophic liability. “This box is empty,” I said softly, looking at the bare metal chamber of Box 777, “because this isn’t actually my box.” Chelsea exploded. “Sean, you’re insane! This is Box 777! Your key literally just opened it!” I didn’t argue. I walked over to the adjacent box, labeled Box 776. I slid my key into the lock. Chelsea lunged at me, screaming, “Stop! You can’t touch other clients’ property!” An officer grabbed her arm, holding her back as I turned the key. The lock clicked. I pulled the drawer open. Resting inside, wrapped in a cheap yellow ceremonial cloth, was a heavy ceramic urn.

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The year of my most foolish, innocent love, I was sitting on the wooden bleachers by the basketball court, holding a cold drink for the boy I secretly adored. Travis sunk a clean three-pointer, then turned and blew a cocky whistle in my direction. My face burned hot. I was just about to stand up and hand him the bottle when a raspy, jarringly familiar voice crackled through my cheap wired earbuds. “Don’t go! I am you, ten years in the future. Tomorrow, Travis is going to get arrested for a gang assault and sent to juvenile hall!” “Open your SAT vocab book right now. If you don’t memorize two hundred words today, I will make you wish you’d never been born.” “After school tomorrow, go to the corner store with the sports book in the back. Bet on Germany beating Brazil, seven to one. It is your only ticket out of this dump.” I gasped, nearly dropping my phone. The voice, the sharp, cynical tone—it was legacy-grade me. The next second, Travis was jogging over, sweating and grinning, reaching for the bottle in my hand. I scrambled to unscrew the cap, lifted it to my lips, and took a massive gulp. “This is mine,” I blurted, wiping my mouth. “I have to study. I’m going for top of the class. See ya.” 01 The smug grin on Travis’s face froze. He swung his leg back and kicked the metal base of the hoop with a resounding “clang”. “Have you lost your damn mind, Maeve? Top of the class? Since when do you care about that?” His roar made me flinch, my neck burning with residual heat, but my feet obeyed the voice in my ears. I turned on my heel and walked toward the school gates. Travis caught up in three long strides, snatching my school lunch card right out of my hand. “Fine, go be a genius. I’m taking this. Courtney said she was hot today, so I’m going to the organic market to buy her a carton of those fancy rainier cherries to cool her down.” He caught the hurt, bewildered look on my face and let out a soft sneer from his nose. “Don’t look at me like some tragic housewife. I’m not trying to be mean, but with your grades, dreaming about being number one is just pathetic.” I stood there frozen, watching him walk away toward the convenience store with my last twenty dollars of lunch money for the month. Everything that had just happened felt too surreal. My head was spinning. Travis and I had been neighbors for over ten years. We grew up on the same block, sharing the same bruises and the same empty stomachs. When I was eight, he threw rocks at the stray dogs chasing me down the alley. When I was ten, he pulled me behind the stairs to hide from my dad’s drunken rages. Travis was the only person in the world I thought I could trust. But high school changed him. As hormones kicked in, I found myself secretly reading those cheap romance paperbacks from the dollar store, daydreaming. Naturally, I started doing what the girls in the books did—bringing Travis drinks, letting him take my lunch money, hoping he’d be the hero who saved me, who told me he’d protect me forever. Now, he was stealing my lunch money to buy imported fruit for a rich girl who had transferred here less than a month ago. I bit my lip, but the voice in my ear cut through the silence again. This time, it sounded cold, heavy with an exhausting, bone-deep weariness. “Do you hear him? That’s the boy you’ve spent your youth protecting.” “If you stay on this path, you won’t even make it to the final exams. You’ll get jumped by Travis’s rivals, drop out, and end up working twelve-hour shifts at a packaging plant just to pay off debts. You’ll ruin your life for him, and the second he gets out of prison, he’ll leave you to become Courtney’s personal bodyguard.” “Tomorrow afternoon, Courtney is going to pick a fight with some townies from the vocational school. She’ll run to Travis to play her knight in shining armor. To show off for her, Travis is going to take an iron pipe and shatter a boy’s spine.” “You won’t be able to bear seeing him get hurt. You’ll jump in to block a blow, take seven stitches to the back of your head, and miss your exams. His rivals will hound you day and night. You’ll drop out, leave town, and rot.” I shuddered, a phantom chill creeping up the back of my neck. The future me paused, her voice cracking slightly. “If you choose him again this time… we will never escape.” A cold sweat broke out across my back. I clenched my jaw. Ever since I could remember, my only dream was to get out of this decaying neighborhood. I didn’t hesitate anymore. I broke into a run, darting through the narrow alleys smelling of sour garbage, back to the cramped, moldy rental apartment we called home. I pushed open the flimsy wooden door. The air inside was a suffocating mix of mildew and cheap, stale beer. My deadbeat father hadn’t been home in two weeks, probably off on another bender or hiding from bookies. My mother had packed her bags and run away with a trucker when I was six, unable to bear the endless cycle of debt collectors pounding on the door. Through the thin walls, I could hear the neighbors shouting over a card game. The bare bulb overhead flickered, buzzing like an angry insect. “You wanted him to be your family,” the future me said, her voice gentler now, but still unyielding. “But Travis only ever saw you as a loyal dog.” “Put away your useless teenage heartbreak. Go to the bed. Pull out the metal tin under the floorboards.” I got down on my hands and knees, sliding my arm under the bed to pull out a rusted Danish butter cookie tin. Inside was a crumpled stack of bills. Five hundred and thirty-one dollars. My entire savings for the next two months. “Take it. Tomorrow, you bet every single cent on Germany, seven to one.” “Now, open your AP prep book. Unit Two. Start memorizing.” The future me knew exactly what needed to be done. If that was the case, all I had to do was listen. I cracked open the textbook, grabbed a pen, and began writing on a scrap piece of paper. 02 The next morning, I stepped out of the alley with dark circles bruised under my eyes. Two hundred words. It had taken me until three in the morning to commit them all to memory. As I reached the corner of the street, a middle-aged woman in a faded, greasy floral housecoat stepped out to block my path. It was Travis’s mother, Mrs. Shaw. She was cracking sunflower seeds, spitting the shells onto the cracked asphalt, eyeing me up and down. “Maeve, sweetheart, grab Travis a breakfast burrito from the deli on your way to school. He’s growing, he needs his energy.” She stuck out her hand, expecting me to drop cash into it as I always did. For years, she had done this. Every morning, she found some excuse to make me spend my meager allowance on her son. She’d always tell me how my useless father didn’t care about me, how lucky I was to have Travis looking out for me, and how once I “joined their family,” I’d finally know what comfort felt like. My money was Travis’s money, in her eyes. I took a step back, dodging a flying seed shell. “I can’t, Mrs. Shaw. Travis took my lunch card yesterday. I don’t have a single cent on me.” Her expression soured instantly, her eyes narrowing into hostile slits. “No money? Go borrow some then! If you can’t even handle a simple task like this, how are you going to take care of my boy later? If it weren’t for my Travis keeping those street thugs off your back, you’d have been eaten alive by now!” I didn’t argue. I just walked past her toward the bus stop. Her entire family had come to view bleeding me dry as their god-given right. When I walked into the homeroom, I immediately noticed my desk had been messed with. My books were scattered everywhere. The AP Bio notebook I had spent all night organizing was currently folded in half, jammed under the leg of Travis’s desk to keep it from wobbling. Travis slung his backpack over his chair and saw me staring at the floor. He gave his desk a careless kick. “What? Courtney said the desk was rocking, so I just grabbed some scrap paper of yours to steady it.” On the cover of my notebook was a dark ink stain from where I’d fallen asleep working the night before. I tried to swallow the sharp sting in my chest. I knelt down, pulled the notebook out from under the desk leg with a violent yank, and threw it directly into the trash can. Travis’s face darkened instantly. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a heavy switchblade, and slammed it onto my desk with a loud “clack”. “What the hell is wrong with you today, Maeve? Who do you think you’re throwing attitude at?” “Keep this in your bag. The Dean is doing random locker sweeps for contraband at noon. You’re a good student; they won’t search you.” Looking at the cold silver gleam of the blade, my palms broke out in a cold sweat. The future me was entirely correct. This knife was the catalyst for the fight this afternoon. He didn’t give a damn if I got suspended or expelled for carrying it. I took a deep breath, picked up the knife, and shoved it right back into his jacket pocket. “No. Keep it yourself.” Travis froze. He clearly hadn’t expected me—always the quiet, obedient shadow—to actually refuse him. The whispers in the classroom died down as our classmates turned to look. Travis’s face flushed a violent red. He grabbed me by the collar of my hoodie, pulling me close as he hissed through his teeth. “Who the fuck do you think you are to tell me no? You’re a piece of trash with a junkie father. If I wasn’t the one keeping you safe, nobody in this town would even look at you!” He let go of me, kicked over the trash can containing my ruined notebook, and stormed out of the classroom. I smoothed down the crumpled collar of my hoodie, sat down, and opened my test prep. My pen scraped across the paper in sharp, deliberate strokes. I felt a quiet ache in my chest—not of longing, but the sickening realization that ten years of devotion had been given to a monster. 03 I spent the morning hours completely locked in, drowning out the world with schoolwork. When the lunch bell rang, I slipped away from the crowds and ran out of the school gates. Three blocks down was a dingy, smoke-filled convenience store that ran an underground sports book out of a back room. Inside, several middle-aged men in dirt-stained work shirts were shouting at a flickering TV screen. As a teenage girl in a school hoodie, I stuck out like a sore thumb. I nervously gripped the strap of my backpack, my palm slick against the damp roll of five hundred dollars in my pocket. The voice in my ear was calm, commanding. “Don’t hesitate. Walk to the counter. Put the money down.” I squeezed through the crowd of men and placed the cash on the scratched glass countertop. “I want to place a bet on the World Cup,” I said, my voice shaking slightly. “Germany versus Brazil. Exact score: seven to one.” The bookie, a balding man with a lit cigarette dangling from his lip, looked up from his ledger and burst into a loud laugh. “You kidding me, kid?” “This is the semifinals. Brazil is the host country. Seven to one? You think this is a varsity team playing middle schoolers?” The men around the counter joined in, guffawing loudly. “High school girls are hilarious. Throwing away her lunch money on a dream.” “Go buy yourself some Starbucks, sweetie. You throw five hundred bucks on those odds, you’ll never see it again.” My neck burned under their mocking stares. But the words “This is your only ticket out of this dump” echoed in my head. I raised my chin and looked the bookie dead in the eye. “Five hundred dollars. On the exact score. Print the ticket.” Seeing I wouldn’t budge, the man shrugged and tapped the keys on his terminal. “Suit yourself. It’s your funeral. Don’t come back crying to me when you lose.” The machine spat out a small, thermal-printed slip of paper. I took it with trembling fingers, folded it neatly, and slid it into the zippered inner pocket of my hoodie, right against my chest. Back at school that afternoon, I paused at the corner of the second-floor hallway. In the shadow of the stairwell, two people were standing close. Courtney was wearing a short tennis skirt, her hair styled in perfect beach waves, holding an iced Starbucks drink. Travis was leaning against the lockers, all his usual anger gone, replaced by a desperate, eager-to-please grin. Courtney poked him in the chest with a manicured nail, her voice dripping with sweet poison. “That townie with the bleached hair from the vocational school was staring at me yesterday. It was so gross. Travis, I thought you said you ran things around here.” Travis immediately puffed out his chest, his eyes flashing. “That idiot is nothing. Don’t worry. During study hall, I’ll corner him behind the bleachers. I’ll break his legs.” Courtney giggled, covering her mouth. “You promise? Because if you chicken out, don’t bother talking to me again.” I watched them from the shadows, a wave of nausea rolling through my stomach. The vocational kid hadn’t even done anything to her. Courtney was just bored. She wanted to see two dogs tear each other apart for her amusement. And Travis was more than happy to be her loyal hound. I drew back into the hallway, turning toward my classroom without a second glance. If Travis wanted to jump headfirst into hell, I wasn’t going to pull him back. 04 The last period of the day was study hall. Suddenly, a barrage of shouting and screaming erupted from the back of the campus. Near the fence line of the back fields, a crowd had gathered. I could hear the dull, heavy clangs of metal hitting metal. Students in my classroom rushed to the windows, pressing their faces against the glass. “Holy shit! Travis is fighting the vocational guys!” “Is he crazy? It’s five against one! He’s got an iron pipe!” I sat at my desk, my pen pausing for a fraction of a second. The voice in my ear came right on cue. “To impress Courtney, he’s going to shatter the leader’s spine.” “The police will be here in exactly three minutes. Courtney’s family driver is already waiting at the back gate to whisk her away.” I looked out the window. Sure enough, amidst the chaos, Courtney was clutching her skirt, jogging toward the back gate in her designer sneakers without looking back once. A sleek black Mercedes was waiting. She slipped into the back seat, and the car sped away. In the distance, the wail of police sirens grew louder. The crowd on the field scattered instantly, boys running in every direction. Travis stood frozen, holding a blood-slicked iron pipe, looking around in a daze. He turned, realizing Courtney was already gone. When the police cruisers slammed to a halt at the edge of the field, panic finally registered on his face. He looked up at the school building and locked eyes with me standing by the second-floor window. His eyes lit up with desperate hope. He bolted toward the building, dragging the heavy pipe behind him, leaving a harsh scraping sound on the concrete. “Maeve! Come down here!” “Hide this for me! Hurry!” He wanted to hand me the weapon—the heavy iron pipe coated in someone else’s blood and bone. The voice in my ear screamed with terrifying authority. “Step back! Do not touch a single thing he has!” Heavy, frantic footsteps echoed up the stairwell. Travis kicked open the back door of the classroom, his hands dripping red. He thrust the pipe toward me. “Take it! Put it in your bag, now!” He was hyperventilating, his veins bulging, his eyes wide with animal terror. I looked at the weapon inches from my face and took two deliberate steps backward. Travis stared at me, his face twisting into a hideous snarl. “Why the fuck are you moving? Give me your jacket to wipe the blood! Hurry up!” He lunged forward to grab my clothes. I dodied him, my voice flat and cold. “You did this. You deal with the consequences. I’m not helping you.” The heavy thud of tactical boots echoed on the linoleum outside. Two officers burst through the door, tackling Travis to the floor before he could react. They pinned his face to the dusty tiles. The iron pipe clattered to the floor, rolling to a stop right by my sneakers. The lead officer picked it up, sealing it inside a clear plastic evidence bag. Travis thrashed under the officers’ weight, forcing his head up to glare at me. A venomous light flickered in his eyes. “Officer! It was her! She made me do it!” He screamed at the top of his lungs, spit flying from his lips. “Maeve told me to beat him up! That switchblade in my pocket is hers too! She forced me!” The classroom fell into a dead, suffocating silence.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “514680”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Three years after I faked my death, Helena and our daughter finally tracked me down. To escape them, I had held a knife to my own throat, desperate to force them away. But then my seven-year-old daughter, Zoe, wrapped her small hands around my mother’s ventilator plug, her eyes cold. Helena stood right behind her, her voice trembling but lethal. “Your choice, Elliot. Let your mother suffocate right here, or come back to Seattle and be my husband again.” Shaking with rage, I dropped the knife. I signed the remarriage papers. Returning to that sprawling estate, I became the perfect, docile trophy husband. When her adoptive brother, Austin, felt anxious and needed Helena’s undivided attention, I packed a bag and checked into a cheap motel without a word. I didn’t even call her when my stomach ulcer perforated, leaving me to undergo emergency surgery alone. When Zoe complained about my cooking and said she only wanted what “Uncle Austin” made, I drove to his apartment myself and invited him to move in with us. Even tonight, on my birthday, Austin put on his usual performance. Sniffling into his wineglass, he said, “I’m so jealous of you, Elliot. You have such a perfect wife and a beautiful daughter. I’ve never even received a real birthday present.” Without a second thought, I slipped the golden bracelet off my wrist and pressed it into his hand. The blood-red stones looked strikingly bright against his pale skin. Helena’s eyes flared crimson. She grabbed my arm, her jaw tight, whispering through clenched teeth, “Elliot, that’s the bracelet I went on a grueling pilgrimage to Tibet to get for you. I walked that mountain on my knees! It was our promise!” … The dining room fell into a suffocating silence. Austin immediately made a show of trying to slide the bracelet off. “I’m so sorry, Helena,” he stammered. “I didn’t know it was your promise token. I’ll give it right back to Elliot.” Zoe’s face hardened. She pointed a tiny, accusatory finger at me. “Dad knew exactly how important it was! He did it on purpose to make Uncle Austin feel bad. You’re a bully!” Helena stared at me, her eyes heavy with exhaustion. “Elliot, when does this end? I brought you back because I wanted to build a real life with you again.” The sheer absurdity of it tasted like ash in my mouth. In the past, if I hesitated for a second to give Austin what he wanted, I was punished. Now that I was perfectly obedient, she was still angry. I turned and picked up the platinum designer ring Helena had just gifted me for my birthday. I held it out to Austin. “Is the bracelet not enough? Here. Take this, too.” Helena’s face went white, then a furious purple. With a violent sweep of her arm, she sent my birthday cake flying. It crashed onto the hardwood floor, frosting splattering my pants, porcelain shards scattering everywhere. “Elliot! Do you have to be so incredibly petty? Do you have to twist every single thing into a knife?” “I’m not,” I said quietly. Helena closed her eyes, taking a long, shaky breath to master her temper. “I know you’re still punishing me for letting Austin take the ambulance first that night. But he was hemorrhaging, Elliot. He was literally dying. These past few years, I’ve done nothing but search for a compatible heart donor for you so we’d never have to live through that nightmare again. Please, sweetheart. Stop hurting me. Just let us be a family.” I gave her a small, empty nod. Zoe jumped up from her chair, her tiny chest heaving. “Mom is literally apologizing to you, and you’re still acting like an iceberg! No wonder nobody in this house likes you except Grandma!” The words hit me like a physical blow, needle-sharp and precise. I let out a cold, humorless laugh. “Good. Because except for my mother, I don’t care about a single person in this room.” Helena froze. Her gaze turned to solid ice. “Fine. If that’s how it is… if you don’t care about anyone or anything, then you don’t need this life. Starting tonight, Austin and I are taking the master bedroom. You can sleep in the basement maid’s quarters.” I didn’t argue. I simply turned and walked up the stairs. Behind me, Zoe clapped her hands, squealing with delight. “Yay! Now I get to sleep with Mom and Uncle Austin every night!” In our room, I began to pack. I opened the walk-in closet, staring at the cashmere coats, silk pajamas, and limited-edition sneakers—the luxuries I could never afford when we were young and poor, which Helena had bought to make up for the lost years. The custom diffuser on the vanity was a scent she had blended herself. Even the heavy drapes had been changed to the deep forest green I loved. For the two years since she dragged me back, she had tried to play the role of the devoted girl who loved only me. But the man I used to be was dead. I could no longer be swayed by expensive guilt-offerings. I only packed the worn, cheap clothes I had been wearing when her security team dragged me back here. Just as I zipped the suitcase, Helena walked in. She grabbed my wrist with a firm, bruising grip and slid the golden bracelet back onto my arm. “Keep it,” she commanded, her voice leaving no room for argument. “And don’t you ever dare give away my gifts again.” I blinked in mild surprise. She had actually taken it back from Austin. Helena’s eyes fell to my meager suitcase. Her brow furrowed deeply. “That’s all you’re taking?” “The rest isn’t mine,” I said, my voice flat. “No point in carrying dead weight.” The cold indifference in my voice pushed her over the edge. A dark, ugly rage flared in her eyes. “If you despise it all so much, then it has no place in this house. Housekeeping!” she barked out the door. “Take everything I bought for him and burn it in the incinerator out back. From now on, if he wants so much as a clean towel, he has to ask Austin’s permission.” My expression didn’t flicker. I picked up my suitcase and walked out. As I reached the top of the stairs, a pair of small, violent hands slammed into my lower back. I lost my footing, tumbling down the hardwood steps. I crashed onto the landing, my knees scraped raw and burning. Zoe stood at the top of the landing, glaring down at me with pure venom. “You’re not good! You’re just a big liar, trying to ruin things for Mom and Uncle Austin! If you ever pick on Uncle Austin again, I’ll never call you Dad again!” Her eyes caught the corner of the crimson embroidered pouch sticking out of my coat pocket. Before I could move, she lunged down and ripped it from my hand. “Give that back!” I gasped, dragging my bruised body up. It was a sacred protection amulet. I had spent three days kneeling on the cold stone floor of a remote monastery, praying for my mother’s failing health to get it. Zoe smirked, dangling it just out of my reach. “Every time you’re mean to Uncle Austin, I’m going to destroy one of your things. That’ll teach you!” With a swift, cruel twist of her small hands, she tore the velvet pouch open, ripping the handwritten prayer parchment inside to pieces. As the fragments drifted down onto my bruised knees like ash, the last shred of my restraint finally snapped. I whipped my hand across her cheek. The slap echoed through the hallway. “The single greatest regret of my life,” I whispered, my voice deadly quiet, “is that I let them cut out my healthy heart to put it inside of you. If you love Austin so much, go ahead. Call him Dad. He’s exactly what you deserve.” Zoe stumbled back, clutching her reddening cheek, her eyes wide with shock. I didn’t give her another look. Limping through the pain, I dragged my suitcase into the tiny, windowless room off the kitchen. I was dabbing rubbing alcohol onto my bleeding knees when the door was kicked open. Helena stormed in, furious. “Elliot, how dare you lay a hand on a child—” She froze. Her voice died in her throat as her eyes swept over my bruised shoulders, the angry red welts, and my bloodied knees. “How… how did you get these?” She knelt down, her fingers suddenly trembling as she took the gauze from my hand, gently dabbing at the cuts. For a fleeting second, I saw a shadow of the woman who used to love me. A dull ache bloomed in my throat. “Elliot,” she murmured, her voice soft with a dangerous tenderness. She leaned in, her eyes shining as she reached up to kiss me. Instinct took over. I jerked my head back, turning my face away. Helena stiffened. Her fingers clamped onto my jaw, forcing my face back toward hers. She kissed me with a desperate, punishing intensity, biting my lip until the taste of copper filled my mouth. I went entirely rigid, letting her do as she pleased while my mind splintered into a thousand jagged memories. But when her warm palm slid beneath my shirt, a wave of intense nausea hit me. I shoved her away with everything I had, leaning over the edge of the cot, dry-heaving violently. “Elliot!” Helena’s face twisted in humiliation. “Am I really that repulsive to you?” I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, keeping my eyes fixed on the floor. “I’m not well. If you’re lonely, Austin is just upstairs.” A look of raw agony crossed her face, her voice cracking. “You’re still pushing me away? Elliot, I have told you a thousand times—I didn’t touch another soul while you were gone. I take care of Austin because your father begged me to on his deathbed. That’s it!” I looked at her, my expression perfectly serene. “I believe you. You two are completely innocent.” The absolute lack of care in my voice was worse than anger. The veins in her temples throbbed. With a guttural scream, she kicked the metal trash can across the room and slammed the door behind her. Not ten minutes later, my phone vibrated. A FaceTime request from Helena. I stared at the screen for a moment before tapping accept. Austin’s heavy, ragged breathing filled the small room. On the screen, Helena was holding Austin by the waist, pressing him against our large, framed wedding portrait on the wall, kissing him wildly. Austin’s palm was smeared directly over my face in the photograph, leaving a damp smudge on the glass. He looked right into the camera, a smirk playing on his wet lips. “Helena, gentler… Elliot is watching.” Helena turned the lens toward the unmade bed, her voice dripping with a bitter, retaliatory frost. “Since you refuse to believe me, Elliot, let’s make your little fantasy a reality. Watch us. Watch how happy we are together. And don’t you dare hang up until we’re done.” For the rest of the night, she dragged him to every corner of that room, leaving a sickening trail of exhibitionism. The screen flashed with sweat and skin, accompanied by sounds that made my stomach turn. I felt nothing but a profound, exhausting disgust. It wasn’t until the first pale gray light of dawn filtered through my basement window that she finally ended the call, unsatisfied by my lack of reaction. My artificial heart, weak and poorly maintained, began to flutter and seize. A tight, squeezing pain bloomed in my chest. Shaking, I dragged myself out of bed to search for my medication. I had just managed to shake a couple of pills into my palm when Zoe burst into the room. She lunged forward, knocking the bottle from my hand. The pills scattered across the dusty floor. “Who said you could take medicine?” she shrieked. “Mom said you can’t touch anything without Uncle Austin’s permission!” She glared at me with an ugly, learned malice. The pain in my chest was tightening like a vise. I couldn’t breathe, let alone argue. I dropped to my knees, desperately reaching for the small white pills. But before my fingers could reach them, Zoe’s sneakers came down hard, grinding the tablets into powder and dirt. “Thief! Freak! Get out of my house!” she screamed, her voice shrill. A high-pitched ringing filled my ears. The fragile mechanical pump in my chest strained against the sudden spikes of adrenaline. My legs gave out, and I collapsed onto the floor. As darkness threatened to pull me under, the floodgates of memory burst open. Zoe had been a sickly child. When she was diagnosed with terminal heart failure, her name was placed at the bottom of the transplant list, with months she didn’t have. Desperate, I secretly ran the compatibility tests. I matched. Without a single regret, I gave her my healthy heart, replacing mine with a cheap, temperamental mechanical pump. I spent three weeks hovering on the edge of death in the ICU. But on the day Zoe was finally discharged, she didn’t come to my room. She ran straight into Austin’s arms in the hallway. I dragged my IV pole to the door and heard her sweet, childish voice: “Uncle Austin, when are you going to be my real dad? My old dad is so annoying. He nags Mom when she smokes, and he yells at me for watching TV. You’re way better. You buy me burgers and take me to the park. Mom and I like being with you best.” I stood in the doorway, every word carving itself into my mind. The raw, fresh surgical incision across my chest burned like liquid fire. I stepped forward, choking back my tears. “Zoe… I nearly died on that table so you could live. Is this how you talk about me?” Austin had immediately pulled her behind his back. “Elliot, she’s just a child. She doesn’t know what she’s saying. There’s no need to yell at her and make a scene.” With Austin protecting her, Zoe’s courage swelled. She peered out from behind him and spat at me. “I hate you! You’re always so cold and miserable! Why didn’t you just die during the surgery anyway? Mom is going to have Uncle Austin’s baby soon, and I’ll have a little brother. We don’t even need you!” The words struck me like a physical blow. The room spun. The air in my lungs turned to ash, and the world went completely black as I fell. When I opened my eyes again, Helena was sitting by my bedside. She watched me in silence for a long time before she spoke, her voice flat and detached. “Since you already heard, I won’t lie to you. Austin and I slept together. It was the night of your father’s funeral. I told you I passed out from drinking and missed your calls, but the truth is… Austin was clinging to me, and I couldn’t get away.” A high-pitched hum filled my head. I remembered that day. Austin had fainted in tears at the funeral parlor. I had been worried about him, so I begged Helena to take him home first. But before the service even ended, my father’s greedy relatives descended on us like vultures, trying to seize our family home. My mother and I were beaten and bloodied trying to hold the door against them. I had called Helena fifty times. She never picked up. While my mother and I were bleeding on the floor, clinging to the only things we owned, Helena was wrapped in Austin’s arms, lost in his bed. The betrayal tore through my chest. Humiliation and blinding fury surged in my blood. I lunged at her, striking her across the face again and again. She didn’t flinch. She just sat there, eyes downcast, letting me release my agony on her. But the moment I grabbed my coat to go find Austin, Helena seized my wrist, her guilt instantly warping into defensive rage. “Elliot, stop! You grew up loved by your parents, protected by me. You’ve always had everything! But Austin has had nothing his whole life. He was an orphan, completely dependent on others. Can’t you just let him have this one thing?” The absolute, bone-deep partiality in her eyes drained the last drop of hope from my soul. “Let’s get a divorce, Helena,” I whispered. “No!” She threw her arms around me, her anger vanishing, replaced by desperate pleading. “No, please, Elliot! I’m sorry, I was out of my mind. Austin is just a little brother to me. He was just terrified that after your dad died, we’d throw him out. He slipped something into my drink… I swear it was only that one time! It will never happen again. Think of Zoe, Elliot. She just got her heart. Do you really want to tear her family apart now?” I hesitated. Despite her cruelty, Zoe was still my child. “One last chance,” I said, my voice hollow. “But Austin leaves this house. You abort the pregnancy. You cut him out of our lives completely.” Helena hesitated for a fraction of a second, then nodded fiercely. “Okay. I promise.” She deleted his contact info right in front of me. She started coming home straight after work, attentive and gentle. Even Zoe became sweet and obedient again. For a brief moment, I allowed myself to believe we were healing. Until Zoe’s eighth birthday. I left the office early, intending to surprise her with tickets to the theme park. But as I reached the playroom door, I heard their voices. “Mommy, when can we see Uncle Austin? I miss him so much.” Helena’s voice was a soft, conspiratorial whisper. “Shh, sweetie. When your dad gets home, we’ll slip a little sleeping pill into his tea. Once he’s out, we’ll go see Austin.” I stood in the hall, the blood freezing in my veins. That night, I drank the glass of milk Helena offered me. I feigned sleep, listening to them creep out of the house. I followed them through the dark streets to a luxury high-rise downtown. Through the cracked door of the penthouse, I saw Austin lounging on a velvet sofa. Helena was sitting beside him, feeding him grapes and gently massaging his legs. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t be here with you lately, sweetheart,” she murmured. Zoe snuggled up to him, pouting. “It’s all because of Dad. He’s so petty, he won’t let Mom bring you home.” I threw the door open, my hands shaking so hard I could barely stand. “Helena… has a single word out of your mouth ever been true?” Helena instantly jumped up, shielding Austin behind her. “Elliot, that’s enough! Austin has never tried to take anything from you. He’s hiding out here in secret, with no name, no recognition, and you’re still trying to ruin his life? Can’t you stop being so incredibly selfish?” Austin smirked from the couch. “Come on, Elliot. You’re getting old and boring. Helena was sick of you years ago. Instead of letting some stranger have her, why not keep it in the family?” The last of my sanity broke. I grabbed a heavy crystal vase from the entryway and hurled it at his face. A chaotic, screaming fight erupted. In the violent scuffle near the glass railing of the balcony, Austin and I went over the edge together, plunging into the dark. We survived the fall, but barely. When the ambulance arrived, the paramedics frantically triaged our broken bodies on the wet pavement. “They’re both critical,” one of them called out to Helena. “We only have one trauma bay prepped. Who do we take first?” Helena didn’t even glance at my blood-soaked face. “Save Austin,” she said instantly. I lay there on the freezing asphalt, watching the red tail lights of the ambulance fade into the night. The last dying ember of my love for her went cold. With a trembling hand, I pulled out my phone and dialed a number I had kept hidden for years. “If I survive this night,” I whispered into the receiver, “help me disappear. Make them think I’m dead.” “Elliot! Elliot!” Helena’s frantic voice dragged me back from the edge of consciousness. She lifted my head, forcing a nitro pill under my tongue. As the medicine slowly dissolved, the crushing weight in my chest began to lift. I opened my eyes to see Zoe standing nearby, her chin tucked stubbornly, showing no remorse. Helena spun around and slapped Zoe across the face. “You stupid girl! Who told you to throw away your father’s medication?” Zoe burst into loud, theatrical wails. Austin immediately pulled her into his arms, glaring at Helena. “Helena, don’t scream at the poor girl. She’s just a child. She doesn’t understand these adult games.” With a sigh, Austin pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “I didn’t want to bring this up, but Elliot is really taking this act too far.” He handed it to Helena. “Look at this medical report. He had a successful heart transplant years ago. He’s not fragile at all. It’s all a show.” Helena scanned the forged document, her expression turning from panic to a frigid, accusing coldness. “You’ve been fully recovered this whole time? You’ve just been playing the fragile martyr to make me feel guilty?” I didn’t have the breath or the will to defend myself. I just stared at her with vacant eyes. Helena crumpled the paper and threw it in my face. “I actually wanted to make things right today. I wanted to celebrate your birthday. But since you’d rather play these sick mind games, fine. We’re leaving.” She grabbed Austin’s arm, ushered Zoe out, and slammed the basement door, locking it from the outside. I felt nothing. I didn’t want to celebrate with them anyway. An hour later, Zoe posted a photo on her Instagram. It was the three of them—Helena, Austin, and Zoe standing in the center, smiling brightly. The caption read: “The perfect family.” I double-tapped and liked the photo. Then, my phone began to vibrate violently. It was the hospital. “Mr. Pierce, your mother has gone into cardiac arrest. You need to get here immediately.” My chest seized with terror. I scrambled to the door and rattled the brass knob. Locked. I frantically dialed Helena’s number. Once. Twice. Three times. It went straight to voicemail. In absolute desperation, I ran to the small basement window, kicked the glass pane open, and hauled myself through. I dropped onto the concrete driveway. A sickening crack echoed as my right ankle buckled. Screaming through the white-hot agony, I dragged myself to the curb and flagged down a taxi. But I was already too late. The ICU room was silent when I arrived, save for the flatline hum of the monitor. The doctor looked at me with weary sympathy. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Pierce. She suffered a severe emotional shock. Her heart simply couldn’t take it.” I collapsed onto the linoleum floor, the world dissolving into a cold gray fog. Later, as I was gathering her few personal items, my hand brushed against something beneath her pillow. A small digital voice recorder. I pressed play, and Austin’s smooth, venomous voice filled the quiet room. “You know, Martha, I almost feel bad for you. Let me tell you a little family secret. I was never some random orphan my dad adopted. I’m his biological son. His favorite.” “You and my mother fought for his attention your entire lives. And in the end, you spent decades raising me, her son. Isn’t that hilarious?” “Oh, and that family estate you and Elliot bled to protect? Dad signed the deed over to me the day I turned eighteen. Thanks for keeping it clean for me.” “In this life, you couldn’t beat my mother, and your pathetic excuse of a son can’t beat me. His wife, his daughter, his inheritance… they’re all mine now. You two really are my lucky charms.” My mother had been semi-conscious, recovering from her stroke. She could hear every single word. He had literally tortured her to death. A blinding, murderous rage consumed me. I bolted from the hospital, ignoring the agony in my ankle, and drove straight to the theme park. Through the crowds, I spotted them on the manicured lawn, laughing and sharing ice cream. I reached into my pocket, gripping the pocketknife I kept in my car, and lunged at Austin, wanting nothing more than to drag him to hell with me. But before I could reach him, Helena caught my wrist, twisting it back. “Elliot! What is wrong with you? Have you completely lost your mind?” A crowd immediately gathered, muttering and pointing. Zoe jumped in front of Austin, screaming at the top of her lungs, “My dad is crazy! He’s off his meds and trying to hurt Uncle Austin! Get away from us, you psycho! Go away!” She grabbed a jagged stone from the garden bed and hurled it at my face. The onlookers, seeing a child defend herself, began to join in, throwing trash and shouting insults. “He’s acting!” someone yelled. “Get him out of here before he hurts someone!” The hatred and disgust of the crowd washed over me like a suffocating tide. I looked past the stones, past the shouting faces, and locked eyes with Helena, who was holding Austin close. I let out a jagged, hollow laugh. “Helena,” I whispered, my voice carrying over the din. “If there is a next life… I pray I never lay eyes on you.” With a swift, desperate motion, I plunged the blade deep into my chest, right where the artificial heart pulsed its final, agonizing beat.

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At the school’s End-of-Year Family Carnival, my husband, Ethan, finally gave in to our son’s begging. It was the first time he had ever come with me to pick up our son from school. The teacher walked out, holding our son’s hand. She gave Ethan a strange look and muttered casually, “Lily’s dad, when you used to pick up your daughter, you’d always show up thirty minutes early.” “How come you’re so careless when it comes to your son? A father shouldn’t play favorites.” The umbrella in Ethan’s hand slipped, clattering to the wet ground. Muddy water splashed all over my legs. I held my trembling son, who was wrapped in a faded school hoodie, and stared at the man in front of me. He felt like a total stranger. We only had one son. Where on earth did a daughter come from? Ethan shuddered violently, his voice shaking. “What rubbish are you talking about! I don’t have a daughter!” The teacher got frustrated and pointed toward the preschool classroom next door. “How could I mistake you? Just this morning, you brought a huge box of premium organic Rainier cherries for Lily to share with the other kids!” Ethan’s face went dead white. He grabbed my shoulder and tried to push me toward the car. “The teacher got the wrong guy. Babe, let’s go. Now.” I reached up, gently straightened his wet collar, and said softly, “What’s the rush?” Turning around, I smiled at the bewildered teacher. “Could you show me the way, please?” “I’d love to see what an amazing, world-class father my husband is to someone else’s child.”

The teacher walked ahead. Her heels clicked sharply against the polished concrete floor. Ethan stood frozen in place. I held Leo tightly in my arms, keeping my eyes locked on Ethan. The cuffs of Leo’s school hoodie were completely frayed, exposing his thin, pale little wrist. He buried his face in my neck. His body was shivering slightly from the rain. “Ethan, let’s go,” I called out. Ethan wiped the rain from his face. His skin looked sickly pale. “Claire, there’s really no need. The teacher must have gotten the wrong person. Preschool teachers these days are so unreliable.” He reached out to grab my arm. I stepped aside, dodging his hand. “Let’s just go look. Who knows? Maybe one of your clients has a kid named Lily too.” The teacher looked back at us, her brow furrowed in confusion. “Lily’s dad, it’s right ahead. Lily should still be having her snack.” Ethan’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. He didn’t say another word and followed silently behind me. The hallway was long, the walls covered in colorful children’s drawings. The teacher stopped outside a classroom door and pointed inside. “There she is. That’s Lily.” I followed her finger. The classroom was warm and brightly lit. A group of children in beautiful, expensive clothes sat around a circular table. Right in the middle sat a little girl. She was wearing a pink tutu dress and a sparkling crystal headband. She was holding a massive, deep-purple cherry, stuffing it into her mouth. The cherries were huge. They looked incredibly expensive. Leo shifted in my arms. He whispered in my ear, “Mommy, I want some too.” I gently patted his back. “Ethan, you told me you bought that box of cherries for a client.” Ethan stood by the back door of the classroom, not daring to step inside. He kept his head down, his voice barely a whisper. “I did give them to a client… Maybe their kid goes to school here. It’s probably just a coincidence. Same name.” Right then, the little girl named Lily looked up. She spotted Ethan standing at the door. Her eyes lit up. She tossed the cherry aside and jumped down from her chair. She ran toward us as fast as her little legs could carry her. “Daddy!” Her voice was high and loud, echoing through the hallway. Ethan stiffened completely. The young teacher inside the classroom looked over and smiled. “Lily, your dad is here to pick you up!” Lily threw her arms around Ethan’s leg, clinging to him. “Daddy, why are you so late today? Chloe said you were going to take me out for pizza!” Ethan instinctively pushed the little girl away, his panicked eyes darting to me. “No… Claire, let me explain.” He tried to shake his leg free from Lily’s grip. His movement was too rough. Lily lost her balance and landed hard on her butt. “Waaah!” The little girl burst into tears. Ethan bent down to help her, but froze halfway and pulled his hands back. A hurried set of footsteps echoed from the end of the hallway. A woman in a chic cream-colored trench coat rushed over. She scooped Lily up into her arms, frantically dusting off the girl’s dress. “What happened? How did you fall, sweetie?” The woman looked up, revealing a face with flawless, heavy makeup. It was Chloe. Ethan’s so-called “distant cousin.” She had moved to our city three years ago, claiming she needed help finding a job. When Chloe saw Ethan, her eyes instantly welled with tears. “Ethan, how could you let her fall and cry like this?” Before she could finish her sentence, she finally noticed me standing there. The expression on Chloe’s face froze. Holding the child, she took a half-step back. “Claire… you’re here too.” Leo coughed twice in my arms. I adjusted my grip on him, looking at the three of them. The man in a tailored suit, the woman in a designer trench coat, the child in a fancy tutu. Meanwhile, my son and I were soaking wet, looking completely miserable. Ethan opened his mouth to speak. I turned around and walked away. “We’re discussing this at home.”

The car heater was blasting. Ethan sat in the driver’s seat, his hands gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. The windshield wipers moved with a rhythmic, irritating screech. Leo sat in his car seat in the back, wrapped in my damp jacket. He was still shivering. Ethan glanced in the rearview mirror and frowned. “Can you tell him to stop putting his feet on the seat? This is genuine leather. It’s expensive to maintain.” I pulled out some tissues and wiped the water from Leo’s hair. “Leo has a fever.” I touched my son’s forehead. It was burning hot. Ethan sighed, clearly annoyed. “It’s just a little rain. Kids aren’t that fragile. Once we get home, give him some warm water and let him sweat it out.” “Lily is a kid too. Why did you buy her such an expensive dress?” I asked quietly. Ethan slammed on the brakes. The sudden jerk threw me forward, my forehead slamming into the passenger seatback. Behind us, a chorus of angry car horns erupted. Ethan stepped on the gas again, his words pouring out in a defensive rush. “I told you, Chloe was stupid. She got pregnant by some guy who ran off. I only helped her out because I felt bad for a single mother!” “The kid grows up without a father, so she insists on calling me ‘Daddy.’ What am I supposed to do? Argue with a toddler?” “And the cherries?” “I bought them for a client! The client rejected them, so I just handed them to Chloe.” “You know how tight our budget is with the mortgage. Spending money on luxury fruit like that is just too extravagant for us.” I stared out the window at the passing streetlights. The faded hoodie on Leo was washed out, the sleeves a couple of inches too short. Last month, I told Ethan that Leo was growing and needed new clothes. Ethan had said: “Kids grow fast. Buying new clothes is a waste of money.” “My cousin has a son who just outgrew his old clothes. We can just take those hand-me-downs.” So, Leo kept wearing these oversized, worn-out rags. Meanwhile, Lily got to wear custom-made tutu dresses and crystal headbands. We drove into the underground garage. Ethan parked the car and unbuckled his seatbelt first. “Look, stop acting like this. Chloe has a hard life. We need to be more generous.” “I’ll cook dinner tonight to make it up to you, okay?” He reached into the back to pick up Leo. Leo shrank back, avoiding his touch. Ethan’s hand hung awkwardly in the air before he pulled it back, miffed. “This kid… he’s never close to his own father.” Once we got home, Ethan went straight into the kitchen. I measured Leo’s temperature in the living room. 101.3°F. We were completely out of kids’ fever medicine. I walked into the study to see if there was an extra first-aid kit. The desk in the study was cluttered with a messy pile of receipts and documents. Ethan usually forbade me from entering the study, claiming it contained “confidential company files.” But today, the door was slightly ajar. Through the crack, I could see the messy desk. With Leo in my mind, I pushed the door open. I rummaged through the drawers. No medicine. But my fingers brushed against a hard plastic card. I pulled it out. It was a Disney VIP Annual Pass. The photo on the card showed Chloe, Lily, and Ethan, all smiling brightly. Their heads were pressed together, with the Disney castle and fireworks in the background. Underneath the card lay a store receipt. The date was last Saturday. It was Leo’s birthday. Ethan had told me he had to work overtime and couldn’t make it home. Leo had waited up until midnight, eventually falling asleep at the dinner table. The receipt showed a long list of items: Princess Dress: $500. Crystal Shoes: $300. Luxury Seafood Buffet: $200. Total: $1,000. My hand holding the receipt shook violently. That night, Ethan hadn’t returned until after 1:00 AM. He had brought back a tiny, cheap cupcake from a gas station. It was barely the size of my palm, and the frosting had completely melted. He had hugged me and said: “Babe, the company is struggling lately. They cut our bonuses.” “We need to save. When we have more money, we’ll throw our boy a proper party.” And I had believed him. I had deposited all the money I made from my freelance design work into his account, not even buying myself a single new shirt. The study door flew open. Ethan stood there, wearing an apron, a spatula in his hand. When he saw what I was holding, his face twisted in rage. “Who gave you permission to go through my things?” He lunged forward, ripping the annual pass and the receipt out of my hands. His movement was so violent that the spatula almost scraped my face.

Ethan crumpled the receipt into a ball and shoved it into his pocket along with the card. “This was for networking! A client’s daughter wanted to go to Disney. What’s wrong with me tagging along? It’s for work!” I stared at him. “Ethan, did you really need to ‘network’ on Leo’s birthday? You know exactly what you did!” “So what? If I don’t work, where does the money for this house come from? Who pays the mortgage?” He yelled back defensively, his voice booming. “You think I want to work overtime? I’m doing all of this for you and our son!” From the living room, Leo began to cough violently. I ignored Ethan, pushed past him, and ran out of the study. Leo’s face was flushed red with fever. He was curled up on the couch, gasping for air. “Mommy… it hurts…” He clutched the edge of my shirt, his knuckles turning white. I scooped him up. “Let’s go. We’re going to the hospital.” Ethan followed us out. “The hospital? At this hour? Do you know how expensive emergency room copays are?” “We have ginger in the kitchen. I’ll make him some tea to sweat it out.” “Hospitals are just scams anyway. They charge hundreds of dollars for a minor cold.” As I slipped Leo’s shoes on, I pressed my cheek against his burning forehead. “He has a high fever. We are going.” Ethan blocked the front door. “Claire, stop wasting money! A fever won’t kill him.” “When I was a kid, I had a 104-degree fever. My mom just wrapped me in blankets, and I woke up fine the next morning.” “Get out of my way.” My voice was ice-cold as I glared at him. Ethan flinched at my expression. He reluctantly stepped aside, muttering under his breath: “Fine, go. Waste your money. You’re spoiling him. Can’t even handle a tiny cold.” He didn’t put on his shoes, nor did he grab the car keys. Obviously, he had no intention of coming with us. I hadn’t expected him to anyway. Carrying my fifty-pound son, I ran down the stairs and tried to hail a cab. It was pouring, and there were no Ubers nearby. I stood by the curb for twenty minutes, getting completely soaked. Leo kept crying out for his dad in his feverish delirium. My tears mixed with the rain, tasting salty on my lips. At the hospital, we went through emergency registration and blood tests. The doctor diagnosed him with acute pneumonia. He needed an IV drip immediately. I ran up and down the hospital corridors alone, paying fees and collecting medicine. When the nurse inserted the IV needle, Leo cried out, begging for his dad. The nurse looked at me, standing there alone, and asked, “Where is his father?” I shook my head. “He’s dead.” By the time the IV finished, it was 3:00 AM. Leo’s fever had finally gone down, and he fell asleep on the observation bed. As I sat beside him, my phone buzzed. It was a bank notification. [Your account ending in 4012 completed a transaction of $800.00 at 03:15 AM at Ivy Private Pediatric Clinic.] That card was under my name, but Ethan had it linked to his Apple Pay. That was the money I had been saving for Leo’s college fund. I immediately called Ethan. It rang for a long time before he finally answered. Ethan’s voice was hushed, and the background was dead quiet, like he was in a private hallway. “Hello? What do you want in the middle of the night?” “Where are you?” “In bed, sleeping.” “Then explain to me why $800 was just charged to my card.” Silence stretched on the other end for a few seconds. “Oh, that… I bought health insurance for Leo online.” “You know how expensive pediatric visits are. Better safe than sorry.” “You bought insurance from a luxury private pediatric clinic at three in the morning?” Ethan snapped. “Ugh, you are so annoying! Chloe’s kid got sick and she’s at this clinic. She didn’t have enough cash, so she borrowed it from me!” “She’ll pay me back tomorrow. Why do you have to be so incredibly petty?” *Click.* He hung up. I watched the screen of my phone fade to black. *Borrow?* Chloe didn’t even have a job. How was she going to pay it back? For the last three years, any money “borrowed” by her had never been seen again. Using my burner account, I opened Ethan’s Instagram. Just five minutes ago, he had posted a story set to “Close Friends” only. The photo showed a tiny hand with an IV drip, set against the backdrop of a luxurious private hospital room. The caption read: *[My heart breaks for my baby girl. Daddy will always protect you.]* In the comment section, Chloe had replied: *[Thank you, Daddy. We love you.]* Ethan replied: *[Always.]* I tapped the picture and zoomed in. On the bedside table sat a limited-edition Lego set—the exact one I couldn’t afford to buy for Leo. Meanwhile, my actual son was lying in a noisy, crowded public emergency room, covered in a thin, yellowed hospital blanket. My fingers gripped my phone so tightly they went numb. I turned to look at the sleeping Leo. He was so well-behaved, barely even crying out loud when he was sick. All because Ethan had once told him that “crying boys are annoying.” I stood up, walked over to the nurse’s station, and borrowed a pair of scissors. I snipped a piece of the medical tape. Then, I dialed our home landline. No one answered. He was at the private hospital, playing daddy to his mistress’s child. Perfect. I sat back down, opened my banking app, and transferred every single cent left in that account to my best friend, Sarah. There was only $2,000 left. Over the past three years, Ethan had drained all my savings using every excuse imaginable. He said he was investing, managing our wealth, and planning for our future. It turned out his “future” never included me or Leo.

The next morning, Leo’s fever had mostly subsided. The doctor prescribed some antibiotics and discharged us. When we got back, Ethan still wasn’t home. The kitchen was cold and empty. I made some oatmeal for Leo and helped him eat. He was such a good boy. Right after taking his medicine, he quietly went to his room to do his homework. I walked into our bedroom and opened the closet. Ethan’s side was lined with pristine, expensive designer clothes. He always said that as a manager, his appearance was his brand, so he couldn’t look cheap. On my side, there were only a few stretched-out t-shirts and old jeans. I pulled out a massive suitcase. And I began to pack. First went Leo’s clothes, books, and toys. Then my documents, my laptop, and my drawing tablet. My movements were swift, without a shred of hesitation. When I got to the nightstand, I pulled open the drawer. Deep inside was a small, locked box. This was Ethan’s prized possession. He kept the key on his keychain at all times. But last night, in his rush to leave for the private hospital, he had changed pants and left his keys on the shoe rack by the entryway. I walked over, grabbed the key, and unlocked the box. Inside was a stack of papers. Right on top was a DNA paternity test. Petitioner: Ethan Vance. Test Subject: Lily Lin. Result: 99.9% probability of paternity. Ethan Vance is the biological father of Lily Lin. The date on the report was from three years ago. Right around the time Chloe first came to “seek help.” It had been a scam from the very beginning. Underneath the report was a property deed. A brand-new condo downtown. The sole owner listed was Chloe Lin. Paid in full. The payment record was from two years ago. That was exactly when I had received a $20,000 design bonus. Ethan had come to me crying, claiming his mother was critically ill and needed immediate surgery. Without a second thought, I had handed him the money. I had even taken out a high-interest personal loan to cover the rest of the medical costs. To this day, I was still paying off the interest on that loan, working late nights to sketch designs. It turned out that the “dying mother” I had starved myself to save was actually a luxury condo for his mistress. A wave of intense nausea hit me. I rushed to the bathroom and dry-heaved over the toilet, but nothing came up. Looking in the mirror, my face was pale and haggard, with fine lines creeping around my eyes. This was the reward for seven years of loving that man. I took clear photos of every single document, put them back exactly as they were, and locked the box. I placed the keys back on the shoe rack. Suddenly, the front door clicked open. Ethan was back. He carried a bag of takeout, a look of exhaustion on his face, but with an undeniable air of smug satisfaction. He had probably felt like a real hero playing family at Chloe’s bedside last night. “Babe, how is Leo? I bought some fresh bagels. They’re still warm.” He kicked off his shoes, walked in, and tossed the bag onto the table. When he saw the suitcase in the living room, he froze. “Are you going on a business trip?” I stepped out of the bedroom, holding my phone. “Yeah. The agency has an emergency project,” I said, keeping my voice completely flat. Ethan let out a sigh of relief and stepped closer to hug me. “For how many days? Can you skip it? There’s so much to do around the house, and you know I’m terrible with kids.” I stepped back, dodging his arms. “I have to go. Someone has to pay the mortgage.” Ethan rolled his eyes. “Fine, whatever. Just make it quick. Oh, by the way, about that money…” “I transferred all of it to my best friend, Sarah,” I said. Ethan’s eyes widened. “What? Why the hell would you do that? I need that money right now!” “Chloe’s kid is getting discharged, and they’re short on cash. Transfer it back immediately!” “Sarah is sick. She’s in the hospital and needed a loan,” I lied smoothly. Ethan lost his mind. “Her parents can pay for her! Our money is for emergencies! How can you be so incredibly selfish?” “Chloe is a single mother. It’s hard enough for her. What if they stop her kid’s medication?” He lunged forward to grab my phone. “Give me the phone. I’ll transfer it back myself!” I took a step back, clutching my phone tightly. Hearing the shouting, Leo peeked his head out from his room. “Daddy…” Ethan didn’t even look at him. His face was twisted in pure rage. “Go back to your room! Stay out of grown-up business!” Leo flinched and slammed the door shut. I stared at Ethan’s ugly face. To pay for his bastard daughter’s private clinic bill, he was willing to rob his own son of emergency funds. “The transfer went through. I can’t get it back,” I said coldly. Ethan kicked the couch in frustration. “Claire, you are absolutely out of your mind! Fine! You want to play dirty? Don’t expect me to help you with anything ever again!” He snatched his car keys off the counter and stormed out, slamming the door behind him. *Bang.* The apartment fell into a dead silence. I walked over to Leo’s room and pushed the door open. Leo was clutching his backpack, tears welling in his eyes. “Mommy, are we leaving?” He had seen the suitcase. I knelt down and wiped his tears away. “Yes, sweetie. We’re leaving.” “Is Daddy coming with us?” “No.” “So… do I never have to wear old hand-me-downs again?” My throat tightened. I nodded fiercely. “Never. From now on, you only get brand-new clothes.” I grabbed our suitcase, took Leo’s hand, and walked out of the apartment we had lived in for five years.

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On the day my dad walked out on us for another woman, my mom bought a pig. The pig was named Joy. I was also named Joy. Whenever she was angry, she would grab a wooden switch, go to the pen, and whip the pig. “Joy, why aren’t you dead yet?” I would squat nearby, listening to the thud of the wood hitting flesh, unable to tell which Joy she was screaming at. When she was tired of beating it, she would scoop out the exact same amount of food for the pig and me. “Good girl, Joy. As long as you eat more and get fat, Mommy will be happy.” To make her happy, I ate uncontrollably until I hit 250 pounds. But then, my mom only looked at me with disgust. “Look at you. What company would ever hire you looking like this? Are you planning to just be a couch potato and leach off me forever?” Later, my mukbang live streams blew up, and I started making ten grand a month. But my mom called just to curse at me. “You don’t care about your reputation, but I care about mine! You’re as fat as a pig, and you’re showing your face to the whole world? Aren’t you embarrassed?” I hid my terminal stomach cancer diagnosis under my pillow. Mom, I’m using my life to buy your approval. Will that finally be enough?

Maria, the office cleaning lady, asked me with concern, “Sweetie, you’re throwing up so much blood. You should go to the hospital.” I waved my hand, using the sink to push myself up. Outside, the voices from the cubicles dropped slightly. “Is she serious? Killing herself just for some internet money.” “Well, she makes more in one stream than we do in half a month.” “Still, it’s terrifying. I heard her throwing up just now. It sounded like a pig being slaughtered.” “She must have been a pig in her past life. She eats literally anything.” Just then, my phone rang. To my surprise, it was my mom. “I’m at the bus station. Where do you live?” I froze. It had been three years. This was the first time she had ever come to see me. “Mom, stay there. I’m coming to get you right now.” At the station exit, my mom was standing there. “Mom, let’s go. I’ll take you home.” I picked up her heavy luggage and walked her back to my place. She stood in the middle of my living room, looking around. Her eyes locked onto the empty takeout containers I hadn’t had time to throw away. “Is this what you eat every day?” “Sometimes I’m just too busy to cook…” “You make so much money, yet you live in a dump like this?” I choked up a bit. “Mom, this apartment is fifteen hundred a month. It’s actually pretty nice…” “Nice? My foot,” she interrupted. “On the bus ride here, I googled you. I saw your live stream.” She didn’t look at me. She just stared out the window. “All those people watching you stuff your face with tons of food. You look ridiculous.” “The folks back home saw it too. If you’re not embarrassed, I am.” I stood by the kitchen door, still holding the fresh groceries I had bought for her. “Mom, I do this to make a living…” “A living?” She whipped her head around. “What happens when you eat yourself to death?” “If you collapse, who’s going to take care of me when I’m old? You’re my only daughter. Who else can I rely on?” “Richard’s eldest son just got into a prep school, and he has another baby now. Both of them are more successful than you’ll ever be!” She sat on the couch and wiped her face. “Fine. I’m hungry. Go make dinner.” Fried fish, garlic shrimp, and chicken soup—I cooked a whole table of food. But she didn’t even look at me. She picked up her fork and started eating. Watching her eat, I let out a soft laugh. She paused, her fork hovering in the air. “What are you laughing at?” “Nothing,” I said. “Eat up, Mom. It won’t taste good once it gets cold.” She gave me a suspicious look. I leaned back in my chair. My hand slipped into my pocket, touching the crumpled diagnosis sheet that said I had late-stage stomach cancer. In the end, I couldn’t bring myself to say it.

I was about to stand up to clear the dishes, but she stopped me. “Sit down.” She carried the bowls to the kitchen. “I’m staying here from now on to look after you.” I sat there, stunned. “These past years haven’t been easy for me. That bastard Richard just packed up and left, leaving the two of us.” “I raised you all by myself. You saw how much I suffered.” I sat at the dining table, silent. “When you were in college and had to pay those fees, I scraped every penny together for you.” “Back then, I was washing dishes at a diner for eight dollars an hour. I didn’t spend a single cent on myself. I gave it all to you.” In all these years, this was the first time I had ever heard her say this. “Mom…” She rinsed the bowls, put them on the rack, wiped her hands, and walked out. “So, stop doing those stupid eating streams.” I froze. “Mom, this makes good money. I need to support you.” “Support me?” She glared at me. “Is money all you care about now? Do you even care about me as your mother?” “That’s not what I—” “Then did you ever consider my dignity?” Her voice escalated. “Do you know what the neighbors back home are saying?” “They say you’re on the internet acting like a glutton, stuffing food down your throat like a pig. It’s humiliating.” “If this gets to Richard’s new wife, who knows how she’ll mock us.” I looked at her. “Dignity, dignity. That’s all you ever care about.” “Does dignity put food on the table? I have to make money while I still can. When my body gives out, I won’t be able to make a dime!” “What do you mean by that?” She glared at me. I shut my mouth. “What do you mean your body is giving out?” She walked over, standing right in front of me. “Are you hiding something from me?” “No.” I turned my face away. “I’m just saying, this job doesn’t last forever. I have to make as much as I can now.” She didn’t say anything. She sat back down on the couch. “Fine. Do whatever you want,” she said, her eyes dull. “But all the money you make has to go to me. I’ll keep it safe for you, so you don’t blow it.” When I was little, my mom’s eyes used to smile. Now, they never did. After a long silence, she whispered, “If you hadn’t been born a girl, your father would have never cheated with that woman.” “Mom, I was only seven when Dad cheated.” She went rigid. “Do you know what the saddest day of my life was? It wasn’t the day he left. It was the day he came back to visit me.” “He came back once a year to bring me snacks and buy me clothes.” “Whenever he came, you were happy. When he left, you cried. And after you cried, you would grab a switch and beat the pig.” My throat tightened. “Sometimes, when you beat the pig, I would squat right next to you and listen.” “Every time the pig squealed, I would flinch.” “You screamed, ‘Joy, why aren’t you dead yet?’ and I would wonder… should I be dead too?” Her lips trembled, but no sound came out. “Later, I realized you weren’t screaming at the pig. You were screaming at me. You were screaming at him,” I said. “But you couldn’t keep him, so you kept me. You took all your anger out on me.” She fell completely silent. That night, lying in bed, my phone buzzed. I scrolled down and saw a direct message. “Hey Joy, I’m a big fan of yours. Please take care of your health during your streams. Don’t eat too much. It breaks my heart to watch sometimes.”

At eight o’clock the next night, I started my stream on time. The moment the camera turned on, the chat began to flood. I smiled at the camera and picked up a piece of fried chicken. “Good evening, everyone! Thank you so much for the gifts. Today, your favorite curvy mukbanger, Joy, is eating fried chicken and spicy noodles!” The chat scrolled rapidly. “Joy looks a bit pale today…” “Eat up, eat up!” “Don’t eat too spicy, it’s bad for your stomach!” I tore off a piece of a chicken drumstick and took a bite. My stomach churned violently. I forced it down. As I was eating, the screen suddenly exploded with flashy animations. The chat went wild. “Ten thousand dollars! Oh my god!” “Thank you to the big boss!” I was stunned. I put down the chicken leg and stared at the screen. The user ID of the sender was “Richard.” A direct message popped up on my phone. “Joy, it’s Dad. Please stop the stream. Don’t eat anymore. I’m begging you.” I stared at the words. The screen exploded again—he had sent another ten thousand dollars. “Your mom took all the money I sent you in the past. I know that now. From now on, I’ll transfer it directly to you.” “Get off the stream, please. I’m begging you. Brenda is throwing a huge fit at home because of this.” My nose stung. I quickly lowered my head and chewed on the chicken. Then, another account sent fifteen thousand dollars. A DM followed. “Joy, it’s Brenda.” “Listen to me, sweetie, stop the stream. The relatives are all pointing fingers at me, saying I’m a horrible stepmother to you.” “Your dad and I made some good money in business these past two years. If you need money, just ask me.” The chat was still flying by. “Joy finally got some sugar daddies! You made it, girl! *crying emoji*” “Why is Joy crying?” I touched my face. It was wet. Just as I was about to speak, the door to the streaming room was kicked open. I turned around and saw my mom standing at the entrance. She was panting, her face bright red. Two staff members from my agency were behind her, trying to stop her but too afraid to grab her. “Mom, you…” She lunged forward and slapped me across the face. “When did you get back in touch with that cheating bastard?” “Huh? I raised you all these years, and you crawl back to him the second he throws some petty cash at you?” I held my burning cheek and looked at her. “Mom, I didn’t contact him…” Another slap. “Is that homewrecker Brenda there too? Did you call her ‘Mom’ yet?” I tried to speak, but she slapped me again. The live stream chat went completely chaotic. My mom grabbed me by my collar, dragging me in front of the camera, and screamed, “Look at this! This is the wonderful daughter I raised!” “Her dad cheated and abandoned us years ago. Now he comes back, throws a few dollars at her, and she’s wagging her tail like a dog to call him Daddy!” “And the homewrecker is here too! A happy little family reunion! What about me? What am I to her?” “She would rather give all her money to their new family than stay and take care of her own mother!” The chat was going insane. “Is this scripted or real?” “Wait, the big donor is her cheating dad?” “Stop hitting her!” The agency staff finally ran in to pull her away. My mom broke free, pointing at the camera and screaming, “Richard, you absolute piece of trash!” “Why are you acting like a saint now?” “And you, Brenda! You actually have the nerve to show up? You stole another woman’s husband. You’ll burn in hell!” Suddenly, the screen went black. The tech team had cut the stream. I stood there, my face burning, my ears ringing. My mom stood there panting, adjusting her clothes, and gave me a venomous look. I knew that look. That was the exact look she gave the pig when she beat it. The door pushed open, and Sarah, the operations director, walked in. She looked at my mom, then at me. Her expression was incredibly grim. “Joy, come to my office.”

I followed Sarah into her office. She closed the door and pointed to a chair. “Sit.” “I’ve heard some things about your family.” She poured a glass of water and set it in front of me. “It must be hard.” I didn’t say anything. “But business is business. What happened today is terrible for the company’s image.” “Joy,” her voice softened, “take a week off.” “Go home and sort out your family issues.” “The company employs a lot of people. We can’t let one person’s personal life ruin the entire business. You understand, right?” I raised my head to speak, but she waved her hand. “I know it’s not your fault.” She paused. “The cleaning lady told me she saw you throwing up blood in the restroom. More than once. I know about your health.” She pulled a card out of her drawer and slid it across the desk. “This is for the medical center our company partners with. Go get checked out.” “Health comes first. You can always make money later.” I looked at the card, my eyes welling up with tears. “Thank you…” Suddenly, the door burst open. My mom was standing there. “Director, I am so sorry, so sorry. I was just too emotional.” She bowed slightly, rubbing her hands together nervously. “I have a bad temper, and when I get anxious, I lose control. I’m so sorry for causing trouble.” Sarah didn’t say a word. My mom rushed over and grabbed my arm. “Joy, quick, get down on your knees and apologize to the director.” I didn’t move. She yanked me, but I remained still. The fake smile on her face stiffened. “This child, she is so stubborn.” She smiled apologetically at Sarah. “Director, please don’t mind her. She’s never known how to behave. I’ll teach her a lesson when we get home.” I used the desk to pull myself up. My stomach suddenly cramped violently. The pain was so intense that my vision blurred. I gripped the edge of the desk, my palms dripping with cold sweat. “Mom…” “What are you whining for?” She glared at me. “Apologize right now!” “Do you want to lose your job? If you lose this job, how are you going to support me?” Sarah ignored my mom, rushed over to me, and held my shoulders. “Joy? Joy, are you okay?” My mom sneered, “Director, don’t worry about her. She’s just acting. She always pulls this ‘I don’t feel well’ card.” “She’s been like this since she was a kid. Whenever I asked her to do chores, she’d suddenly have a headache or a stomachache…” “Actually, Director, if we put this family drama online, it would generate a ton of traffic, wouldn’t it?” I stared at her. Her mouth was moving, but I couldn’t hear the words. Everything in front of me began to fade into a dark haze. I reached out, desperately grabbing my mom’s wrist. She looked down at me. “Mom… I just want to ask you one thing…” “What now?” “Are you proud of me?” “Can you… just once… tell me I did good?” She looked at me, blinking. “Of course I am!” I stared at her, thinking I had finally gotten what I wanted. The next second, she shook off my hand and muttered, “Look, our pig back home is named Joy. We fatten it up to sell it for cash. You eat to make money. In my eyes, you’re both the same. You’re both my pride and joy.” I let out a hollow laugh. She frowned. “What are you laughing at?” The taste of copper rushed up my throat. Before I could even lower my head, I opened my mouth and sprayed a fountain of blood right onto her face. My mom froze. The dark red blood dripped down her chin. Her face turned deathly pale.

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One year into my marriage, I was cornered, stripped of my clothes, and pinned against a wall. The woman turned on her phone to start a livestream, then slapped me hard across the face. “You filthy homewrecker! How dare you seduce my husband!” She had the strength of an ox. I couldn’t fight back. All I could do was cover my chest and scream in denial: “You have the wrong person! I’m married! I don’t even know your husband!” The woman sneered and threw a marriage certificate at my face. It was a certified copy of a marriage license, complete with a photo of her and my husband, Liam! “Liam and I got married three years ago. Maya, you are the mistress here. Get it?” My mind went completely blank. Overnight, my life was ruined. I lost my promotion at the TV network, and I was blacklisted from the entire industry. Depressed and broken, I walked out onto the balcony of our penthouse. Just as I was about to jump, I heard voices outside the door. A woman laughed. “Liam, you are truly ruthless.” “We’ve only known each other for three months, yet you let me use a fake marriage license to destroy her just to make me happy.” Liam’s voice was filled with adoration. “As long as you’re happy, babe. You can play with her however you want.” I stared at the closed door, my heart shattering into pieces. The living hell I had been through was nothing more than a game he played to make his new girl laugh.

The wind on the balcony was howling, but their voices cut through it, hitting my ears with brutal clarity. I closed my eyes tightly, remembering the nightmare of the past month. After being labeled a “homewrecker,” I had posted screenshots of my chat history to prove I had been deceived. But every explanation only brought viler abuse. My colleagues avoided me like the plague. Strangers spat on the street when I walked by. “Look at her dressing like that. She’s definitely a homewrecker.” “I bet she slept her way to getting all those designer bags.” I tried my best to block out the rumors and focus on my work. But during a live broadcast, even the guest on my show asked me on air why I chose to destroy someone’s family. I finally broke down, crying and screaming, “I’m not! I didn’t even know he was married!” Nobody believed me. The clip of my breakdown was edited, went viral on TikTok, and triggered a new wave of cyberbullying. I lost my job completely and was blacklisted. Fear and nightmares haunted me every night. I swallowed more and more sleeping pills, and my hair fell out in clumps. It wasn’t until Liam returned from overseas with Vivian that I finally confronted him. He just looked at me with annoyance. “You only asked me if I had a girlfriend when I was studying abroad. You never asked if I had a wife. How did I lie to you?” The last string in my brain snapped. Death seemed like the only way out. But now, finding out the truth, I stood frozen. Since all of this was fake… What was the point of all the agony I had suffered over the past month? Anger, mixed with overwhelming grief, rushed to my head. I threw the door open. Liam’s laugh froze on his face. My words cut through the room like a blade: “Why would you do this to me?!” Frowning, he signaled Vivian to leave. Then he sat on the sofa and lit a cigarette. I was severely allergic to cigarette smoke and started coughing immediately. In the past, he would never smoke in front of me. But this time, he was completely indifferent to my discomfort. Liam said coldly, “Since you heard everything, I’ll be straight with you.” “Maya, I know you love me, but I’m bored.” “I’m bored of your unchanging hairstyle, bored of always having to baby you, and most of all… bored of your single position in bed.” “I need excitement. Vivian can give me what you can’t.” I took a few deep breaths to suppress my nausea and said, “Liam, how can you do this to me? Have you forgotten my mother, Helen?” At the mention of my mother, his expression stiffened. “It’s been so many years. You always use Helen’s death to guilt-trip me.” “I know she saved my life. Wasn’t marrying you enough to pay that debt?” Liam and I were neighbors growing up. Years ago, when the Sterling estate caught fire, his parents weren’t home, and even their nanny abandoned him. Only my mother rushed into the flames to save him. But in the end, she died from severe smoke inhalation. My mother’s death had always been a taboo topic between us. Bringing it up now, combined with the humiliation of the past weeks, broke me. I raised my hand and slapped him across the face. “My mother died for nothing! She saved an ungrateful monster!” The slap left both of us stunned. Then, Liam actually let out a low chuckle. “This is the first time I’ve seen you this angry.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “This expression on your face is actually quite hot.” “It’s literally turning me on.” “Since Vivian isn’t here, why don’t we try the bathroom?” His words made my mind go completely blank. I looked at him in utter disbelief. He felt like a complete stranger. Was this really the man I had loved since childhood? I grabbed the nearest vase and threw it at him, screaming at him to get the hell out. After he left, I collapsed onto the floor, gasping for air. I wanted to go to the bedroom to sleep off the exhaustion. But the moment I opened the door, I froze. Our wedding photo had been ripped off the wall and thrown onto the floor. My face was defaced with black marker, with “Homewrecker” written next to it in bold letters. Worse, there were two distinct, dusty boot prints right on the photo. I took a step back, and my foot stepped on something slick. I looked down. It was a used condom. I gagged, but nothing came out. The pain consumed me. I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t shed a single tear. Suddenly, my phone buzzed. Liam had posted a new Snapchat story: *Finally returning to my real family. Excited to spend the rest of my life with my beautiful wife.* The attached photo showed him and Vivian standing side by side, watching the sunset. In an instant, my brain exploded. The tears finally broke through. Humiliation and fury rolled down my cheeks. A fierce desire for revenge ignited deep within my heart.

Over the next few days, I spent every waking hour gathering evidence of his infidelity, determined to ruin him. But the more I uncovered, the colder my heart became. Three months ago, on my birthday, I sat alone in the dark waiting for him until dawn. He spent the entire night setting off fireworks with Vivian. Two months ago, I went to the hospital and found out I was pregnant. I tried to call him to share the joy, but he was unreachable. He was busy taking care of Vivian because she had menstrual cramps. One month ago, when my reputation was ruined and I miscarried in the hospital due to stress, he was in Iceland with Vivian, watching the Northern Lights. I let out a bitter laugh. I rushed to the bathroom and threw up again. I threw up until there was nothing left but bile, and only then did the numb pain in my chest ease a little. The next day, I sent all the evidence to a prominent media contact, waiting for them to break the story. When I got home, I forced myself to sit down and draft the divorce papers. As I wrote, my eyes welled with tears. We were childhood sweethearts. We had crushes on each other for years. When we graduated high school, we promised that once he finished his degree abroad and came back, we would be together. In the beginning, no matter how late I worked, he would always pick me up. When I was sick, he would cancel multi-million-dollar meetings just to cook soup and take care of me in the hospital for six hours. On the day I got promoted, he spent over a million dollars at an auction to buy a diamond ring and propose to me. I didn’t want people to say I was using him to climb the social ladder, so we kept our marriage a secret. But I never expected that this secrecy would become the perfect cover for his affair. Tears blurred my vision. Before I could understand when exactly he had changed, I fell asleep from pure exhaustion. When I woke up, the trending topics on Twitter were exploding. But the moment I opened my phone, I almost fainted. The evidence of his affair had been twisted. It was released as my “confession” of being a homewrecker! They had used AI to clone my voice for a fake audio apology and even generated my handwriting! The internet went into a frenzy again. My photos were maliciously photoshopped with “Homewrecker” labels and circulated everywhere. Not only that, but all my social media accounts were banned, and my phone number was leaked. Harassment calls and disgusting text messages flooded in. Some called me a whore and told me to die. Others asked how much I charged for a night to be their side chick. I laughed out loud, a sound full of misery. In that instant, I realized this was Liam’s retaliation. Whenever I faced negative comments at work in the past, he was always the first to shut them down, protecting me from any hurt. But now, for the sake of Vivian, he had personally dragged me into this hell. The door opened, and Liam walked in. My rage burned away all remaining sanity. I grabbed a glass cup and hurled it at him. “Liam! I am not the mistress! She is! I want a divorce!” He dodged the glass, stepped forward, and grabbed my throat, pinning me against the wall. Even as my eyes bloodshot and physiological tears spilled over from the pain, his grip didn’t loosen. Only when I was on the verge of suffocating did he finally let go. “Are you calm now? Do that again, and I’ll make sure it hurts more.” “Maya, a little jealousy is fine, but if you keep making scenes, I’ll get annoyed. Stop using these cheap tricks to get my attention.” “You love me to death, and I need a wife who knows her place. We both get what we want, don’t we?” He glanced at the divorce papers on the laptop and sneered. “You want a divorce? Do you even have the guts? Now that you have no job, who else can you rely on besides me?” “Be good. Once I’m done having fun, I’ll clear your name.” I coughed violently, but he ignored me. “Vivian cried until her eyes were red. She wants me to throw a massive wedding to make it up to her. And she wants you to personally apologize to her at the wedding before she forgives me.” Before leaving, he turned back. “Whether you show up is up to you. But if Vivian is unhappy, I don’t mind giving you another little punishment.” After he left, my vision was still swimming in darkness. I started laughing hysterically. And then, I cried. That night, Liam paid to push a new topic to the top of the trending list: *The Reformed Playboy! The Sterling Group Heir Spends $100 Million on a Century Wedding to Make His Wife Happy!* The comments section was flooded, and people even started shipping them. [Real couples are the best! It must have been that other woman who seduced him! A famous TV host acting as a homewrecker, how disgusting!] [Does Maya have a shortage of men? She’s so desperate! I hate homewreckers! Go die already!] [Her mother died early, so she was raised without any manners. No wonder she has no morals.] After reading these, I leaned over the trash can, feeling like I was going to throw up my entire stomach. In my fading consciousness… I remembered him kneeling on one knee, his ears bright red, carefully sliding the ring onto my finger and swearing to love me forever. When I raised my head again… Except for the nausea and the burning sensation in my stomach, the sadness suddenly vanished. Everything about Liam seemed completely meaningless to me now. My phone vibrated, and a text message lit up the screen: *I saw what you sent me. When can we meet and talk?*

The trending topics stayed active for several days. The number one topic was Liam and Vivian’s wedding of the century. The second was my fake confession. A small group of netizens attacked Liam, accusing him of cheating. He responded directly with a video on Instagram. “Yes, I admit I made a mistake, but please do not attack Vivian.” “She is innocent, kind, and fragile. She can’t handle this. I will take all the responsibility.” “I only hope that when we get married, everyone can give her their most sincere blessings.” As soon as the video was released, the doubts vanished, and people started praising him for being “responsible.” Then, they turned around and launched an even more vicious attack on me, calling me a shameless husband-stealer. I locked my phone, finding the whole thing incredibly ironic. That night, Liam came back. He sat across from me and cleared his throat. “The date for my wedding with Vivian is set. It’s the day after tomorrow. Remember to show up.” The day after tomorrow… Was the anniversary of my mother’s death. I stood up abruptly, my chair scraping harshly against the floor. “I don’t have time. I’m going to visit my mother’s grave.” “And when are you going to sign the divorce papers?” He completely ignored the divorce and sneered, “Your mother has been dead for years. What is there to visit? Vivian’s parents are coming too. You can just pay respects to her mother.” I thought I was completely numb, but my heart still took a sharp hit. Seeing my reluctance, he pulled out my mother’s necklace. “This is Helen’s necklace, right? If you don’t go and you make Vivian unhappy, this necklace might…” I clenched my teeth so hard they ached. Just as my anger was about to boil over, a vibration from my phone pulled me back. I pinched myself hard, forcing myself to calm down. After glancing at the message, I said flatly: “Liam, do you really want me to congratulate Vivian in front of all those reporters?” He laughed. “Of course.” Before leaving, he looked back at me. “It seems dead people’s things are still useful.” “And about the day after tomorrow, you know what to say and what not to say.” On the day of the wedding, Liam indeed invited a crowd of reporters. In the dressing room, Vivian was standing in front of me in a custom haute couture wedding gown. Her corsage read “Bride.” Liam’s read “Groom.” And mine, which Liam tried to pin on my chest, read “The Homewrecker.” Vivian shed a few tears, and Liam immediately tried to force the corsage onto me. I blocked his hand, but he didn’t care. The sharp pin scratched my hand, drawing blood, but he successfully pinned it to my dress anyway. I clenched my fists. “Are you sure you want to do this to me?” He frowned. “Vivian just asked you to wear a flower. What’s the big deal?” Seeing me wearing it, Vivian said triumphantly: “Later, you will read every single word of the apology slides I prepared.” “Then, you will get down on your knees, beg for my forgiveness, and say ‘I am a homewrecker, I shouldn’t have ruined your family, please forgive me.’” “You have to stay on your knees until I tell you to get up. Do you understand?” I didn’t say a word, just stared at her. Seeing Vivian get annoyed, Liam grabbed my jaw tightly. “Don’t be ungrateful.” I slapped his hand away and glared at him. Before I could speak, the door opened. Reporters with cameras and guests flooded in. They surrounded Vivian and Liam, praising her dress and saying they were a match made in heaven. But when they saw the “Homewrecker” corsage on my chest, their expressions turned into pure disgust. “I really don’t understand how some women can be so cheap, always trying to steal other women’s husbands.” “Exactly. Showing up on such a happy day… Vivian is too kind. If it were me, I would have slapped her already.” Their stares felt like knives cutting into my skin. I ripped the corsage off. “I am not the mistress! Vivian is!” Nobody believed me. Their looks grew even more contemptuous. “I’ve never seen someone so shameless. Acting like she’s innocent when she’s a home wrecker. Where does she get the nerve?” Liam stood aside, not saying a single word to defend me. He only asked Vivian if she was tired or hungry. Seeing this, the onlookers grew even more envious of Vivian and aggressive toward me. Just as I was about to defend myself, Liam grabbed my arm tightly where no one could see, pinching me hard to shut me up. Cold sweat poured down my forehead from the pain, but he ignored it. Vivian played the victim perfectly. “Please don’t talk about Maya like that. She just loved Liam too much. He is so amazing, I can understand her.” “Maya is here to apologize today. I hope everyone can forgive her later.” Shortly after, the ceremony began. They went up to the stage under the cheers of the crowd, exchanging emotional vows. Finally, after they exchanged rings, I was called up to the stage. But the moment the giant screen behind us lit up, Liam’s face turned deathly pale

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My parents always taught me that a girl had to be independent. They were getting old, and it was time for me to shoulder the family’s burdens. I remember pointing at my brother, Austin, and saying naively, “But we have Austin. He should learn to be independent too.” Not long after that, Austin had a terrible fall. He became completely bedridden. I worked part-time jobs while taking care of my paralyzed brother, yet our family still survived on discarded vegetables and wore second-hand clothes rescued from the trash. To make more money, I signed up for sketchy, under-the-table medical drug trials. But because of that, I developed severe skin cancer. My body began to rot. Without hesitation, I left every single dollar of that blood money to Austin. I didn’t even keep enough cash to buy a bottle of sleeping pills for myself. In the end, I pulled a plastic trash bag over my head and ended my own life. Yet, after my death, I saw Austin playing in a high-stakes championship basketball game. When it ended, my parents rushed to hug him and gifted him the most expensive mansion in the city. It turned out they had staged this entire tragedy of poverty. I was the only actor who took the script seriously. But now that I’m actually dead, why do they look so full of regret?

I was preparing for my second drug trial. The nurse, about to insert the needle, froze when she saw the massive rotting sores on my arm. She gasped, her hand shaking so hard that the syringe dropped to the floor. They rushed me in for a full medical examination. Before I could even ask about the rotting skin, they dragged me out and threw me onto the street. The nurse threw my cash and the medical report right at my face. “You have skin cancer and you still dared to come for drug trials? How desperate for money are you? You signed the waiver, so even if you died on our table, it’s on you. Take the money and get the hell out. Don’t you dare try to sue us!” Those words hit me like a lightning bolt. I froze on the pavement. Ever since the trials started, my skin had been incredibly itchy and flaky. Every time Sarah struggled to sweep up the dry skin from my bedsheets, I felt so incredibly guilty. I never imagined it was the prelude to my death. Dejected, I picked up the report and stared at the bold letters, desperately wishing my eyes were playing tricks on me. Just then, my phone buzzed. Sarah’s gentle voice echoed in my ear. “Chloe, we’re working extra hours for some cash today and won’t make it back for lunch. Remember to cook for Austin.” I swallowed my tears and choked out a quiet, “Okay.” My feet felt like lead as I walked back home. Seeing Austin lying on the bed, I immediately shoved the medical report under my wooden cot. But looking at him, my eyes welled up with tears. Austin looked at me and whispered, “I’m sorry, Chloe. I’m holding you back. Honestly, it’s fine if I skip lunch.” I walked over and sat by his bed for a long time before I could find my voice. “Austin, what will you do if I’m not here one day?” Austin gently patted my head, his eyes full of affection. “What are you talking about? I’d die for you before I let anything happen to you. You’re going to be fine. We just have to stay strong. Things will get better soon.” But I wasn’t going to get better. I stood up, wiped my tears, and did something I never did—I bought some fresh eggs to boil for Austin. As soon as the food was on the table, David and Sarah dragged their exhausted bodies through the door. They pulled a bunch of bruised, discarded lettuce leaves from their tattered canvas bags. David took a big gulp of cold tap water, looking excited. “Sarah was so fast today. She grabbed these from the supermarket dumpster before anyone else. They’re fresher than usual!” I looked at them, but my mind was completely blank. Sarah pulled a gourmet cupcake from her bag and placed it in my hand. “It’s your birthday today. We can’t afford a cake, but you should still have something sweet.” I held the heavy, beautifully frosted cupcake, but I couldn’t bring myself to smile. The words from the medical report kept spinning in my head. The sweet aroma of the frosting snapped me back to reality. I placed the cupcake in front of Austin. “Give it to Austin. I don’t really like sweets.” Austin pushed my hand back. “It’s your birthday, Chloe. You eat it. I’ll just take a tiny taste of the frosting to celebrate.” Saying that, he dipped his finger in the frosting and licked it. A gourmet cupcake like this cost as much as our grocery budget for a week. No matter what, I couldn’t swallow it. David and Sarah sat down at the table, gnawing on stale, yellowed bread. They refused to touch the boiled eggs I made. Looking at their mismatched, oversized clothes rescued from thrift store dumpsters, my heart ached with agonizing pain. The terror of knowing I was going to die was slowly washed away by sheer pity for my family. I wanted to beg my parents for comfort, but I chose to keep my mouth shut about the cancer. If my death meant one less mouth to feed, and if it could make their lives easier, then I was willing to die.

I just didn’t understand. We all worked so hard, so why were we always so poor? To save money when we were kids, David and Sarah moved us to a run-down trailer park on the edge of town. Almost every kid here came from extreme poverty. Their families put all their hopes on them. So, the kids here were incredibly tough and studied hard. Sarah never complained about the harsh life. Instead, she grabbed my hand excitedly. “In an environment like this, Chloe, you will definitely grow up to be strong and successful.” I turned to look at Austin, my innocent eyes wide. “I hope Austin will be as independent and strong as me.” But not long after, Austin fell and became paralyzed. I was consumed by guilt. I used to sit by Austin’s bed and slap myself hard across the face. I believed my stupid mouth had cursed him to be bedridden forever. To make up for it, I started working part-time while going to high school. But a student could only get the most brutal, lowest-paying gigs. In the scorching ninety-degree summer heat, I stood on the asphalt handing out flyers. When I was dying of thirst, I couldn’t even bear to spend a dollar on a bottle of water. I would pick up half-empty bottles discarded by strangers, saving the plastic bottles to sell later. To fight the homeless people for those plastic bottles, I was cornered in an alley. They stuffed trash into my mouth, kicking and punching me to warn me off. With a mouth full of blood and bruises all over my body, there were times I wanted to buy cheap painkillers. But I forced myself to save every single cent for Austin’s treatment. To numb the pain, I resorted to rubbing soot from trash fires into my cuts. When David and Sarah found out, they gave me a huge thumbs-up. “Our daughter has incredible resilience. You already have the mindset of a successful leader.” But they had no idea how excruciating it was to rub trash ash into open wounds. I didn’t dare make a sound. Even asking Sarah for a simple hug felt like a selfish luxury. Because every minute I wasted meant less money earned. I looked at the sweet cupcake on the table, a dark resolution forming in my mind. Just then, Sarah walked in, sat on the edge of my cot, and gently stroked my hair. She looked apologetic. “Someone recommended a great specialist. We’ve saved up a bit of money recently, and we want to take Austin out of town to see him. Maybe… just maybe, he can stand up again.” It was such a normal farewell, but it felt like a knife twisting in my chest. They had traveled to see doctors with Austin before, but this time, it would be my final goodbye. I pushed my grief aside, scrambled up, and pulled all the cash from my bag, forcing it into Sarah’s hands. Seeing Sarah’s shocked expression, I lied with red eyes. “It was just Valentine’s Day. A lot of rich couples got into fights and threw away expensive gifts. I got lucky, found some, and sold them.” Sarah hugged me, her face full of pride. “Take care of yourself at home. We’ll be back soon.” I leaned against the window frame, watching their figures slowly disappear down the dusty road. Only then did I realize that in my desperation to save Austin, I hadn’t left a single dollar for myself. Tears streamed down my face. Through the blur, I saw the plastic bag that had wrapped the cupcake on the table. I took a tiny bite of the remaining cupcake. The sweetness exploded in my mouth. To have Sarah’s final gesture of love was enough for me. I pulled the plastic bag over my head and slowly pulled it tight around my neck. The sweet smell of vanilla made me feel like I was drifting into a dream. My hands hesitated. But I quickly forced myself to focus. This family couldn’t afford another sick person. Without me as a burden, they could focus entirely on curing Austin. I clenched my teeth and pulled the plastic tight. Soon, the dim light in the room was swallowed by an endless, silent darkness.

When I woke up again, I felt weightless. When I saw a stiff, pale version of myself lying on the cot, I finally realized I was dead. I floated closer. My face was a sickly blue. Already malnourished, I looked even uglier in death. But my only thought was: *How is Austin doing?* As that thought consumed me, I suddenly vanished and reappeared at a basketball court. Before I could process why my ghost was teleporting, I saw David and Sarah sitting in the VIP stands, beaming with joy. They were wearing expensive, designer clothes. Even if our family had saved for a lifetime, we couldn’t have afforded a single sleeve of those outfits. I floated in front of them, but they looked like total strangers. Sarah’s bright red lipstick was striking, and her perfectly styled blonde waves made her look exactly like a wealthy socialite. Confused, I followed their gaze down to the court. There, I saw my paralyzed brother, Austin, running and dribbling the ball with incredible agility. I recognized the jersey he was wearing. It was a limited-edition designer brand that money could barely buy. My mind spun. Suddenly, the buzzer sounded. David and Sarah rushed onto the court, throwing their arms around Austin with pure adoration. “Austin! We didn’t spend all those years taking you around the world for nothing!” But Austin was paralyzed… how did he travel the world? Even in my confusion, seeing him healthy made me ecstatic. “Austin! You’re okay? How did you get better?” But no matter how loud I screamed, they didn’t react. Austin hugged Sarah. “Mom, I was going crazy pretending to be paralyzed for so long. Thank God I could use those ‘doctor visits’ as an excuse to travel and actually stretch my legs.” David and Sarah cupped his face, overflowing with affection. “You’ve worked so hard, son. Today, we have a gift for you.” David pulled out a deed. It was for a luxury mansion in the city’s most exclusive gated community. I remembered that place. I had stood outside its gates once, staring in awe. Back then, Sarah had told me, “We won’t be poor forever, Chloe. If you work hard, you’ll live in a house like this one day.” But it turned out they didn’t need to work hard. They already owned it. Austin seemed to remember something and looked at them. “By the way, Chloe was crying when she got home yesterday. Did something happen to her?” Sarah instantly looked tense and grabbed his arm. “You didn’t blow your cover, did you? Our plan is almost complete. We can’t let it ruin now.” Austin shook his head. “Don’t worry. I’ve played the part this long, I won’t disappoint you. But I still feel like Chloe is hiding something.” Sarah nodded, telling him not to overthink it. She said they would check on me when they got back. Full of questions, I followed them back to the mansion. The villa was blindingly bright, filled with maids rushing around. Someone even held out slippers for them, and the dining table was piled high with expensive delicacies. It turned out today was Austin’s engagement party. They had invited high society’s finest. Sarah stood next to David, whispering, “Chloe has been acting strange lately. She used to be so full of positive energy. And she handed me so much cash before we left… You don’t think she got it illegally, do you?” David wrapped an arm around her, speaking patiently. “No way. We raised her to be independent, and her morals are solid.” “Besides, Austin’s career is stable now, and Chloe is graduating in a few days. On Austin’s wedding day, we’ll tell her the truth. She’s inheriting a multi-million dollar company right out of college. She’ll probably think she’s dreaming.” Standing beside them, my tears fell silently onto the marble floor. *David, Sarah… I won’t be smiling. And I’m never waking up.*

The engagement party was a massive success, and they set the wedding date for a week later. After waving goodbye to the guests, David and Sarah pulled out their phones, looking slightly anxious. “We’ll be busy planning the wedding this week, so we can’t go back to the old place. We should call Chloe and let her know.” Sarah dialed my number eagerly, but it just kept ringing. I floated next to her, wanting to tell her I was right there. But my hand passed right through her shoulder. I could never hug her again. I recalled smelling expensive perfume on them back in the trailer park. They had always lied, saying they just ran into some rich ladies. I recalled the photos Sarah sent me—they were far too high-quality to have been taken on her cheap, cracked phone. And Austin… his legs had remained muscular and toned despite supposedly being paralyzed for years. It was all just a sick game of “poverty,” and I was the only actor who didn’t know it was a script. My grief suffocated me. But looking at their happy faces, a part of me felt relieved. If they were living well, I didn’t have to worry anymore. After a long time, I floated upstairs. At the end of the hallway was a bedroom. I walked in. The layout was incredibly familiar. It was decorated exactly like the dream room I had sketched in my notebook years ago. On the nightstand was a framed photo of the four of us. My school trophies and certificates from childhood were neatly arranged on the desk. Just then, a cat wandered into the room. Even the cat was the exact breed I had drawn. They remembered every single dream I had. They had built it all for me. This room was a beautiful fairytale, but I could only watch. I could never touch it. Loud footsteps echoed in the hallway. I turned around. Several personal stylists in sharp suits walked in, holding a row of gorgeous designer gowns. David, Sarah, and Austin stood before the outfits. “Our suits are ready. Now, let’s choose Chloe’s dress. This will be our big surprise for her.” Looking at the price tags, each dress cost more than I used to earn in a year of grueling labor. Now, a whole rack of them was mine. Austin picked up a stunning blue gown with a long train. “This blue one is perfect for Chloe. She’s so fair, she’ll look like royalty in this.” David shook his head. He pulled out a white tulle gown. “No, Chloe should wear this one. When she was little, she would stare at the dolls in the boutique window for hours. She’ll love the tulle.” Austin stared at the rack for a moment, then grabbed a pastel pink gown. “You guys still don’t get Chloe. Pink is her absolute favorite. She’s wanted pink things since she was a toddler.” “But light colors get dirty too easily. To save money, she always forced herself to choose dark, ugly clothes. Her classmates used to call her a cheap, dirty peasant because of it.” David and Sarah looked pained, exchanging a sad look before agreeing with Austin. In the blink of an eye, it was Austin’s wedding day. They had been too busy to check on me all week. On the morning of the wedding, Sarah happily sent the family chauffeur to fetch me. She whispered to the driver, “When you get there, don’t tell her who sent you. We want to give her the surprise of her life.” The driver nodded and sped off to the trailer park to pick up the “secret heiress.” But after hours of waiting, I never arrived. Instead, the chauffeur burst through the mansion doors, his face pale with horror. “Ma’am… Sir… something terrible has happened. The trailer is surrounded by police. Chloe… Chloe is dead.”

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All because Ethan Cross was obsessed with absolute fairness. For the five years of our marriage, every single decision in our household had to be decided by the roll of a die. Until my best friend, Chloe, texted me. She said Ethan was out on the streets, mobilizing a massive search party to find his first love’s lost dog. “That’s impossible!” I replied instinctively. “I just won the roll against him.” “He promised he would personally escort our son’s donor heart from the docks to the hospital. He should be arriving any minute.” But a phone call from our contact at the harbor slapped me right in the face. “Dr. Miller, I still haven’t seen Mr. Cross! We can’t delay young Leo’s surgery!” “There are too many dangerous eyes on this donor heart. It’s only safe if Mr. Cross escorts it himself.” Ethan’s phone went straight to voicemail. Left with no choice, I tracked his GPS location and drove out to find him. When I arrived, I saw him holding a sobbing Scarlett Vance tightly in his arms, while directing a fleet of luxury SUVs to fan out across the streets. “If you don’t find Buster—mine and Scarlett’s baby—you all know the consequences!” Suddenly, a wave of exhaustion washed over me. This man, whose very life I had saved with my own medical skills, wasn’t worth it anymore. I was done.

As the search fleet sped away, Ethan turned to get into the driver’s seat. I rushed forward and grabbed his arm. “Ethan!” He spun around, startled. “Vivian? Why aren’t you at the hospital?” “I should be asking you that!” I grit my teeth, fighting back tears. “You promised me you would go to the docks to get Leo’s heart!” Leo was our four-year-old son. He inherited a congenital heart defect and had been on the transplant waiting list for a year. If his condition hadn’t suddenly taken a turn for the worse last month, we wouldn’t have had to spend millions coordinating a private international organ transfer. Ethan avoided my gaze, looking slightly guilty. “Vivian…” “You know how many competitors are waiting for this heart to fail! Why are you wasting crucial time helping this woman find a dog?” Hearing my words, the girl clutching his coat stopped crying. She shrank back into Ethan’s chest, trembling like a victim. “Watch your mouth, Vivian! Scarlett is a dear friend of mine!” Ethan’s voice turned cold. “Buster isn’t just a dog. He is our baby!” “If anything happens to him, Scarlett will break down!” Our baby? I carried Leo for ten months, nurtured him through four agonizing years of sickness, and he didn’t even rank above a dog in Ethan’s eyes? “No! I don’t care what you say today, you are going to the docks and bringing that heart to the hospital!” I blocked his car door with my body. “Once I’m in the operating room saving Leo, you can go find whatever dog you want—” “Stop being hysterical!” Ethan grabbed my collar and shoved me aside. I stumbled, nearly crashing onto the hard pavement. “Ethan!” I screamed, my voice cracking. “What happened to your absolute fairness? I won the roll this morning!” The winner calls the shots. That was Ethan’s golden rule. When we got married, he wanted me to resign from the hospital to be his private on-call doctor. I lost the roll, so I resigned. The day I went into labor, he got a call saying Scarlett was injured. He wanted to leave. We rolled, and I lost again. When my mother was rushed to the ER with a severe concussion, Scarlett’s car happened to break down on the highway. I rolled, and I still lost. But today, for the first time in three years, I finally won. He had agreed to cancel his plans of fixing Scarlett’s clogged toilet and promised to fetch Leo’s life-saving heart. Yet, he was breaking his word. “Play fair!” I blocked him again. “Are you going to break your own sacred rule?” Ethan paused. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his signature golden die, and handed it to me. “You win, you call the shots. Same as always.” He was so calm, so detached. My hands shook as I took the heavy gold metal. *I have to win,* I prayed in my heart. *Please.* The die rolled across his palms. The seconds felt like hours, sweat slicking my hands. But when it stopped, the single red dot facing upward made my vision go black. Before I could process it, Ethan snatched the die back. “No, that doesn’t count!” I fell to my knees on the gravel, grabbing his coat. “The asphalt is uneven! Let’s roll again, please…” “Vivian, you play, you accept the loss.” He took a step forward. I clung to his leg desperately. “I’m begging you, Ethan. Please!” “In the eight years I’ve known you, I have never begged you for anything. If Leo doesn’t get this surgery today, he will die!” Ethan paused. He didn’t look back, but he pulled out his phone. “Carter, take a car and fetch the boy’s transplant box from the docks.” Then he looked down at me. “Are you satisfied now?” “No!” My eyes were bloodshot. “The docks are dangerous. Only you, Ethan Cross, have the authority to get that heart out safely!” “Even if Carter drives your car, everyone knows you’re here looking for a damn dog! Do you think our enemies are stupid?” “Ethan, is that dog really more important than your own son’s life?” “Yes!” Ethan snapped. “Buster only responds to my scent and Scarlett’s!” He pointed a finger at my forehead. “Vivian, the more time you waste throwing this tantrum, the less of a chance your son has to survive!” With that, he brushed me off and slammed the car door shut. The words “your son” froze me to the core. I chose this man. I gave birth to this child. And I rolled the die myself. Who else could I blame for my rotten luck? The SUV roared to life, leaving me in a cloud of dust. As the dust settled, something caught the streetlights. I leaned down and picked up the golden die he had dropped in his haste. I shook it instinctively, and my heart sank into an abyss.

Carter drove like a maniac, clutching the steering wheel as the cooler box sat secured in the passenger seat. I checked my watch. We could still make it! At sixty miles an hour, we were only thirty minutes away from the hospital. The freezing wind whipped through the cracked window. I shoved my hands into my pockets and felt the cold weight of the golden die. Ethan had carried it for twenty years. Its edges were worn smooth. He always spoke of fairness, and I had almost convinced myself that his obsession was just a harmless quirk of his dangerous lifestyle. But just now, when I shook it in the quiet car, I felt a tiny, faint click from inside. “Carter,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “You’ve been with Ethan for ten years, right?” “Yes, Mrs. Cross.” “Do you know how to rig a die?” Carter answered honestly, suspecting nothing. “It’s simple, ma’am. You just drill a tiny hole and insert a sliding lead pin inside.” “Whichever number you want to roll, you just tap the pin to the opposite side. Gravity does the rest.” I froze. My fingers trembled as I lightly tapped the die against my palm. I felt the subtle shift of weight. I rolled it onto the dashboard. It stopped perfectly on the number 3—the exact number I wanted. The blood in my veins turned to ice. There was never any fairness. The outcome had always been in Ethan’s hands. What he rolled simply depended on what he valued. He didn’t value my career. He didn’t care about my safety during childbirth. He didn’t care if my mother lived or died. To him, I never had any privilege. “Mrs. Cross, the road ahead is blocked.” The sudden screech of brakes pulled me back to reality. I leaned out the window. There was a barricade ahead. Along with the traffic cops, I immediately recognized Ethan’s men. One of them was handing a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills to a driver, who smiled and turned his car around. “What’s going on?” I asked. “Ma’am,” the guard said, recognizing me. “Mr. Cross had the police department shut down this street. No vehicles are allowed through.” Ethan had connections with the local precinct. Shutting down a minor street in this district was easy for him. But this was the fastest route to the hospital. “Move!” My voice shook violently. “My son’s heart is in this car! If anything goes wrong, your life won’t be enough to pay for it!” “I’m sorry, Mrs. Cross. Mr. Cross’s orders are absolute. The road stays closed until Buster is found.” Buster. That damn dog again. With shaking hands, I dialed Ethan’s number. He picked up, his tone utterly dismissive. “Just take a detour, Vivian,” he sighed impatiently. “I need to find Buster before it gets dark.” “A detour will add an hour and a half! The donor heart will decay!” But on the other end, he was already distracted, murmuring sweet words to soothe a crying Scarlett. “You have a heart condition too! You know how painful a heart attack is!” I screamed into the receiver. “Ethan, do you not care if Leo dies?” “If he can’t even handle a little pain, he doesn’t deserve to be a Cross!” The man’s harsh roar left me stunned. Right. I had forgotten. He had always been like this—a ruthless, arrogant tyrant. Yet, his very life was something I had dragged back from the gates of hell. I was the one who found him collapsed and suffocating in a casino bathroom years ago. I was the one who risked my medical license, performing an emergency bypass in a locked-down clinic at three in the morning. I was the one who bore the insults of my own family, running through dangerous neighborhoods to source his black-market cardiac meds, even offending local syndicates for him. On the night he proposed, he had pulled out his golden die for the first time. He gave me a playful wink. “If you roll a higher number, I’ll give you a week to think about it. If you lose, you put on this ring and become Mrs. Cross right now.” Until today, I actually believed that night was a beautiful twist of fate. It turned out that for five years, I was just a clown being played in the palm of his hand. “Let’s roll a virtual die on Snapchat,” I said, closing my eyes. “If I win, you open the road. If you win, I’ll turn around.” “No way,” he said coldly. “I only trust real dice.” Suddenly, a sharp scream came through the receiver. “Scarlett!” Ethan’s voice panicked—a tone I rarely heard. “Why did you climb up that dirt slope? Did you hurt your ankle?” I hadn’t heard him speak with such tenderness in years. The call went dead. The dial tone beeped in my ear, cold and mocking. “Take the detour, Carter,” I whispered. *** I didn’t get home until midnight. I walked into the quiet house, turned on the lights, changed my shoes, and began picking up Leo’s scattered toys from the living room floor. The front door clicked open. The moment Ethan saw me, the exhaustion on his face morphed into pure rage. “Why the hell weren’t you answering my calls or texts?” I blinked, pulling out my phone. I had over a hundred missed calls from him. “You found Buster, I assume. That’s good,” I said, my voice completely hoarse. “Make sure to buy him some expensive treats. I’m going to take a shower.” My legs were shaking so badly I had to lean against the wall to stand. “Vivian, I’m talking to you!” Ethan marched over and grabbed my shoulder. “How is Leo? Was the surgery a success?” My throat tightened, a metallic taste of blood rising in my mouth. It physically hurt to breathe as I forced the words out. “He’s dead.” Ethan’s pupils contracted. His grip on my shoulder tightened. “What… what did you say?” “Our Leo is dead,” I said slowly, looking him dead in the eyes. “The donor heart decayed because it took too long. He went into cardiac arrest, and he didn’t make it.” Ethan’s mouth opened, but no sound came out except a strained, choked gasp. I summoned every ounce of my remaining strength and pushed his hand off me. “I want a divorce.”

Ethan stumbled back a step, nearly losing his footing under the double blow. “Our son just died, and you want a divorce?” Looking at the devastation in his eyes, I found it hilarious. “You were the one who had to find a dog. You were the one who ordered the roadblock. And now you’re blaming me?” “I didn’t know it would be this serious!” his eyes welled with tears. “Right. You didn’t know,” I said, my voice dead and flat. “After all, every time Leo had an episode, you managed to win the roll and leave to be with Scarlett.” Ethan choked on his words. “Vivian, you’re grieving. You can blame me all you want,” he said, reaching out to pull me into his arms. “But there’s no need to talk about divorce. We’ve been together for five years.” “We’ve been married for five years, and we dated for seven before that,” I laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. “In all those years, did you ever once break your ‘rules’ for me?” “I wanted to go back to the hospital, but you forced me to be your private doctor.” “I was in labor, and you left to bandage Scarlett’s sprained ankle.” “My mother got a concussion, and you were busy changing Scarlett’s flat tire.” “Ethan, as your wife, I never received an ounce of your care.” My voice felt incredibly heavy. “Living under your version of ‘fairness’ has exhausted me.” Ethan stared at me for a long time. The guilt in his eyes slowly hardened into cold arrogance. “Are you sure about this?” I nodded. I didn’t even have the energy to say “yes” anymore. “Then we do this the old-fashioned way.” His voice was freezing. “If you win the roll, I’ll sign.” He held out the golden die. The same die I had quietly slipped back into his coat pocket earlier. “To keep it fair, you roll first.” Under his confident gaze, I rolled. For the first time in our marriage, it landed on a perfect 6. “How is that possible?” His eyes went wide. “How did you roll a six?” “Why not? What did you expect me to roll, Mr. Cross? A one?” I casually manipulated the hidden pin inside the metal, rolling it again. It stopped precisely on the single red dot. Ethan stared at me, dumbfounded. “Just tell me what number you want. I can make it land on whatever you desire.” I slammed the die onto the marble coffee table, picked up a heavy metal trophy, and smashed it to pieces. A tiny metal pin rolled out and stopped near his shoe. I picked it up and held it in front of his face. “Five years, Ethan. You used this cheap trick to toy with my life for five years.” He opened his mouth to defend himself, but I raised a hand to cut him off. “Save your breath. You play, you accept the loss. I’ll have the divorce papers sent to your office once I sign them.” “Fine. Great.” Ethan laughed bitterly, his pride wounded. “Then pack your bags and get the hell out of my house. You want a divorce? You leave with absolutely nothing.” I never planned on taking a single dime of his dirty money anyway. But as I dragged my suitcase toward the door, he called out to me. “I just called the hospital,” he said coldly. “Leo’s body belongs to me. You have no right to touch him.” “What did you say?” “He carries the Cross name. And you’re just an unemployed housewife,” Ethan sneered. “You don’t even have the money to buy him a proper casket. What makes you think you’re qualified to handle his funeral?” I marched back and slapped him across the face. “Are you even human? You’re using our son’s body to force me back?” “So what if I am?” Ethan wiped a smear of blood from his lip. “If you take back the divorce, I’ll let you attend his funeral.” “Go to hell!” My chest heaved. “You are the monster who killed Leo. You don’t deserve to touch him!” “Fine,” Ethan shrugged. “Let’s make a bet. Winner calls the shots.” “Three days from now, on the VIP cruise ship in the harbor. I’ll be waiting.” He stepped closer, whispering in my ear, “But the buy-in is five hundred thousand dollars. Can an unemployed doctor like you even afford the seat?” That night, I dialed the international line for St. Mary’s Hospital in Germany. “Five hundred thousand dollars for a three-year contract, plus my exclusive patent for the cardiac formula. You get me and the formula. It’s a win-win.”

Three days later, I walked into the VIP lounge of the luxury cruise ship, carrying a briefcase. Ethan was lounging on the center leather sofa, surrounded by a thick cloud of cigar smoke. When I dumped the five hundred thousand dollars in cash onto the green felt table, the surrounding crowd erupted into laughter. “Mr. Cross, your ex-wife is hilarious. Does she not know we don’t play for petty cash here?” *Smack!* A loud slap echoed through the room. The man who had spoken was sent stumbling, a bright red handprint burning on his cheek. Ethan sat back down, casually rubbing his palm. “Remind me, what did you just call her?” “She’s… she’s your wife, sir…” the man stammered, clutching his face in terror. Scarlett Vance walked in, wearing a low-cut red silk dress and towering stiletto heels. “Just take the cash,” she purred, brushing her hand against Ethan’s jaw. She blew a puff of cigarette smoke into his face. “Consider it a little gift from Vivian to buy Buster some treats. Right, Ethan?” Ethan smiled, silently giving his consent. I turned away from them, checking the leather cup and the dice. “Everything looks fine. Let’s begin.” First round. Liar’s Dice. Ethan called three 3s. I raised it to four. He leaned forward, staring at me intensity. “When Leo passed away… did it hurt?” The cup in my hand wobbled slightly. “You should know,” I said, looking up. “You have the same condition.” “Did it hurt as bad as my attacks?” he pressed on, his voice dropping. “Like someone reaching into your chest and crushing your heart into pieces?” I closed my eyes, my palms slick with sweat. “Five 3s,” I called. “Show them,” Ethan said instantly, revealing his dice. I lost the first round. “You’re distracted,” Ethan leaned back on the sofa. “Focus on the next round.” The second round began. I played defensively. But Ethan kept raising the stakes, pushing from three 4s all the way to six 4s. “The morgue called me, asking when to cremate him,” he said casually. “I told them to wait until I finish this game.” “Seven 4s,” I said, keeping my voice dead steady. He revealed his dice. He didn’t expect me to actually have them. I won the second round. “One to one,” the dealer announced. By the final round, Ethan’s hand was shaking slightly as he shook the cup. “I actually went to see him after he died,” Ethan murmured softly. “He looked so much like you. Especially with his eyes closed.” The cold sea breeze swept through the open deck doors, making my spine shudder. “Three 6s,” I called. “Four,” he followed. “If I hadn’t closed that street that day, what would we be doing right now?” Ethan choked slightly. “Would you still be my wife? Would the three of us still be a happy family?” “Five 6s,” I raised my voice. “Six.” Suddenly, the sound of rolling wheels echoed from the corridor outside. Through the glass partition, I saw a small, brown wooden coffin being rolled by. It was only four feet long, covered in a white sheet. My hand slipped. The cup tipped over. Reveal. I had two 6s. He had three. But I had called six. “I win,” Ethan said, lifting his cup with a complicated look. “Vivian, you still can’t beat me.” “Make your choice,” he stared at me. “Tear up the divorce papers, and we’ll bury Leo together.” “Or get off my ship. You won’t be allowed near his funeral.” Right then, the heavy double doors of the VIP room were kicked open by heavily armed SWAT officers. “Nobody move! Hands in the air! We have a warrant for illegal high-stakes gambling!” “What a joke!” Ethan slammed his hand on the table. “My ship is in international waters. And this is a private game with no money exchanged. You have no jurisdiction here!” “International waters?” the captain took off his mask, smirking. “Mr. Cross, I suggest you take a look outside.” Ethan rushed to the deck. The glowing neon skyline of the harbor was right in front of him. “Actually, I had five hundred and twenty thousand dollars,” I whispered, walking up behind him. “The extra twenty thousand was more than enough to convince your captain to turn the ship back.” “And one more thing.” I patted his shoulder. “The five hundred thousand dollars Scarlett took from me? That counts as a monetary transaction. It’s officially a crime.”

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