Category: English

I was curled up in Oliver’s lap, casually scrolling through engagement ring designs on my iPad, when the news of Sylvia’s bankruptcy broke. The local socialite group chats were alive with venomous glee, mocking the spectacular fall of Boston’s once-untouchable golden girl. I tilted my head back, pressing a light kiss to his jawline, and teased, “So, Sylvia is back in town and completely broke. Aren’t you going to play the knight in shining armor?” He didn’t even look up from my hand, his fingers idly tracing the curve of my knuckles. A soft, dismissive scoff escaped his lips. “The business world is a war zone, babe. Why would I bail her out? Don’t make me out to be some soft-hearted fool.” A quiet wave of relief washed over me. After all, years ago, Sylvia’s wealthy family had deemed Oliver too poor, throwing him aside like yesterday’s trash. With Oliver’s fierce pride, I knew he wasn’t the type to swallow his dignity and go backward. I slid off his lap and headed to the walk-in closet to slip into a cocktail dress. But when I stepped back out, I saw Oliver standing on the balcony, his back to me. The night air was thick, and a thin trail of cigarette smoke curled over his shoulder. Driven by some inexplicable, dark instinct, I picked up his phone, which he’d left face-up on the velvet sofa. Just as my fingers brushed the glass, the screen lit up with a banking notification: [Wire Transfer Successful: $7,000,000 debited from card ending in 8888. Memo: Repurchase of the Harrington Estate.] The screen’s icy glare burned straight into my eyes. … “What are you looking at so intently?” His deep voice drifted in from the balcony, carrying the low, gravelly rasp of freshly inhaled smoke. My fingers froze. The string of zeros was still burned onto my retinas, but within a fraction of a second, I calmly pressed the lock button and turned the phone face-down on the cushion. “Nothing,” I said. I turned around to face him. There was a lingering storm in his eyes—a dark, unsettled shadow—but the moment his gaze met mine, it vanished, replaced by the familiar, practiced warmth I had known for five years. “Just looking over the schedule for our bridal fitting tomorrow,” I lied softly. Oliver stubbed out his cigarette in the crystal ash tray and walked toward me, his long strides effortlessly closing the distance. He brought with him the scent of rich tobacco and the crisp chill of the autumn night, wrapping his arms around me with practiced ease. “You shouldn’t worry about those details. Let the assistant handle it.” He rested his chin on the crown of my head, nuzzling me gently in that soothing way of his. “I cleared my schedule for tomorrow. I’m all yours, the entire day.” I leaned against his warm chest, listening to the steady, unbothered rhythm of his heart. The question—Where did seven million dollars go?—lodged itself tightly in my throat. I closed my eyes, forcing it down, swallowing it alongside the five years of youth I had poured into him. “Okay,” I whispered. The next morning, a persistent, gray rain began to fall over the city. For once, Oliver didn’t check his emails over breakfast. Instead, he meticulously peeled a soft-boiled egg, placing it gently onto my plate. When we arrived at the most exclusive bridal boutique downtown, the manager and her assistants were already waiting under the awning. “Miss Ward, the three custom gowns we had flown in from Paris are ready for you.” I was ushered into the grand VIP fitting suite. Oliver settled onto the plush velvet sofa, mindlessly flipping through an editorial magazine. “Go on,” he said, offering a warm, adoring smile. “I’ll be right here waiting.” The first gown was an incredibly intricate French lace masterpiece with a sweeping cathedral train. The fitting was a slow, delicate process. Three assistants worked in hushed whispers, carefully cinching the corset around my waist. Just as they were about to pin the delicate silk veil to my hair, a sharp, frantic ringtone shattered the quiet of the salon. Through the half-drawn velvet curtain of the dressing room, I watched Oliver bolt upright. He didn’t even notice the heavy magazine slipping from his lap to the floor. He strode to the floor-to-ceiling windows, covering the receiver with his hand, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper, his shoulders incredibly tense. By the time I gathered the heavy folds of my skirt and stepped out, he was already grabbing his tailored coat from the armchair. “Oliver?” I called out softly. He turned. His gaze lingered on me for a fraction of a second. There was no awe in his eyes. No praise. Only a thinly veiled, chaotic panic. “An emergency came up with a friend,” he said, buckling his watch and moving toward the door, not even pausing to kiss my cheek or offer a quick embrace. “I need to run over and check on them. I’ll be right back. Whichever dress you love, just put it on my tab.” The heavy oak door of the VIP suite clicked shut. He was gone. The boutique manager stood frozen, holding the veil, her face a mask of polite embarrassment. “Miss Ward… should we…?” “It’s fine,” I said, staring at my reflection in the gilded mirror—so grandly dressed, yet so utterly foolish. “I’ll wait.” The gown was heavy, the tight boning making it hard to draw a full breath. The grandfather clock on the wall ticked with a monotonous, agonizing rhythm. The staff brought me a fourth cup of black tea. By now, the liquid had gone completely cold, a bitter, dark skin forming on its surface. I checked my phone. 8:00 PM. He had promised he’d be right back, yet he had left me sitting in this temperature-controlled room for twelve hours. Suddenly, a sharp, twisting cramp flared in my lower abdomen. My face drained of color, and I bent over, my fingers gripping the delicate lace of the skirt. Cold sweat beaded at my temples. With trembling fingers, I opened my contacts and dialed his number. The long, empty rings echoed through the silent boutique. Just as the call was about to lapse into voicemail, the line clicked open. “Oliver, my stomach really hurts—” “Hello?” The voice that came through the speaker wasn’t Oliver’s deep baritone. It was a woman’s low, purring laugh. My breath hitched. It was Sylvia. “Amelia, sweetie,” she said, her voice dripping with casual, unbothered triumph. “Oliver’s a little busy right now.” In the background, I heard the faint clinking of metal. Sylvia sighed softly, making no effort to hide her smug satisfaction. “The crystal chandelier in the Harrington drawing room is just so heavy. Oliver was worried it would fall and hurt me, so he’s up on a ladder right now, hanging it himself.” The line went dead. The dull ache in my abdomen slowly spread, gnawing at my nerves. I sat on the sofa, motionless, for what felt like hours. It wasn’t until the manager gently asked if she should call me a cab that I snapped out of my daze. I peeled off the heavy white gown and changed back into my sweater and jeans. The Harrington estate was a grand Tudor mansion in the hills, nearly an hour’s drive from the city center. The taxi crawled up the winding, dark mountain road, the windshield wipers thrashing violently against the torrential downpour. By the time I stepped out at the gates, my shoes were completely soaked through with muddy water. The rusted iron gates were left slightly ajar, as if welcoming back their lost mistress. Splashing through the mud, I walked up to the towering glass windows of the main house. Inside, the rooms were ablaze with warm, golden light. Through the rain-streaked glass, the scene played out with devastating clarity. Oliver had discarded his suit jacket. He was in his white dress shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He stood on an A-frame ladder, tools in hand, looking down to speak to someone below him. Sylvia stood at the base, wearing a silk slip dress, looking up at him with a radiant, joyful laugh. Cradled in her arms was a fluffy Ragdoll cat. Oliver hated cats. In our five years together, if I even wanted to go to a cat cafe, he would claim his allergies were too severe and wait in the car. But now, as he climbed down the ladder, he didn’t pull away. Instead, he reached out and naturally, tenderly, stroked the cat’s head. Sylvia took the opportunity to tug gently on his sleeve, whispering something with a soft, pouty smile. It was a picture of domestic perfection. A warm, intimate tableau that made me, his fiancée, look like a pathetic intruder standing out in the cold. I stood in the pouring rain, watching them through the glass. I watched until my fingers turned numb from the cold, until the cramping in my belly went entirely dull. I walked around to the front entrance and pushed the heavy oak door open. The laughter inside cut off instantly. Sylvia flinched, shrinking back behind Oliver’s broad shoulders, clutching the cat tight. “Amelia…” she stammered, looking at me with wide, tear-filled eyes. “What are you doing here?” Oliver spun around. The gentle warmth on his face hardened into ice the moment he saw me standing there, dripping wet and covered in mud. “Did you follow me?” his brows furrowed, and he took a long stride toward me. I didn’t answer. My eyes bypassed his stiff white shirt and landed on the few strands of white cat hair clinging to his fingertips. He had always told me he was deathly allergic. If I so much as patted a stray dog or cat, he would anxiously insist I wash my hands immediately. Yet here he was, completely fine, letting a cat nuzzle against his chest. It was never an allergy. He just didn’t care enough. “Amelia, did you really have to come all this way in a storm just to make a scene?” When I remained silent, his tone grew sharper, laced with irritation. “Sylvia is severely depressed. She’s completely alone and terrified.” A crack of thunder boomed outside, the bright flash illuminating my trembling, wet hands. The antique grandfather clock in the hall began to chime eleven. I watched him drape his own suit jacket over Sylvia’s bare shoulders, and a quiet, bitter smile touched my lips. “It’s eleven o’clock,” I said. My voice didn’t shake. I didn’t cry. I just looked at him with an eerie calmness. “Oliver, the bridal shop closed at eight.” Oliver’s furious expression froze. His hand, still adjusting the jacket on Sylvia’s shoulders, arrested mid-air. From behind him, Sylvia gently tugged his sleeve, her voice trembling with unshed tears. “Oliver, don’t blame Amelia. It’s my fault. This house is just… it’s so full of my parents’ ghosts. I was so scared. I promise I won’t bother you ever again.” Oliver reached back, catching her hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze. Then he turned back to me, his eyes cold, as if looking at a complete stranger. “Your jealousy is getting entirely out of hand. It’s pathetic,” he said, pointing a finger toward the open door. “Go home. Stop acting like a child.” I looked at the way he stood, a solid shield protecting Sylvia from the world. “Okay,” I said. There was no screaming match. No throwing of insults. I simply turned, walked back out into the night, and opened my black umbrella. Behind me, the heavy oak door slammed shut with a deafening thud. The draft kicked up a spray of muddy water, leaving dark, ugly splatters across the hem of my cream-colored skirt. The love I had spent five years carefully guarding was now completely ruined. The next morning, the soft chime of the smart lock broke the silence of the apartment. Oliver walked into the bedroom, carrying the crisp chill of late autumn on his shoulders. In his hand, he held a paper bag stamped with the logo of a bakery from the West End. Years ago, when we had nothing, I had offhandedly mentioned craving their pastries. He had stood in a sub-zero blizzard for two hours, keeping the box tucked inside his coat to keep them warm for me. He set the bag on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed. He reached out, his hand moving to tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear. But right before his fingers could brush my skin, a faint, familiar scent drifted into my nose. It was Sylvia’s signature perfume. The jacket he had draped over her shoulders last night had brought it back. My body reacted before my brain did. I instinctively jerked my head away, avoiding his touch. His hand froze in the air, his fingers twitching slightly before he pulled back, trying to act as if nothing had happened. “I’m sorry about my attitude last night,” he said, his voice dropping into that weary, patronizing tone of patience. “But you have to try to understand. Her family went under. She has nothing left, her depression is back, and she’s been talking about ending it all.” “I couldn’t just sit by and let her die, Amelia.” He opened the bakery bag, pulled out a warm, glazed pastry, and held it to my lips. “Come on, eat it while it’s warm. After this, we’ll reschedule your bridal fitting.” The rich scent of butter and sugar mingled with the ghostly trace of Sylvia’s perfume, turning my stomach. I didn’t yell. My body, still holding onto years of muscle memory, reached out and took the pastry from his hand. A small, relieved smile began to form in Oliver’s eyes. But a second later, I leaned over and tossed the warm pastry directly into the trash can beside the bed. It landed with a dull, heavy thud. “It’s cold,” I said, pulling a wet wipe from the nightstand to meticulously clean the fingers that had touched the pastry. I didn’t even look up at him. “Too stale to chew.” The smile on Oliver’s face vanished. He stared at the trash can, as if unable to comprehend that I—always so compliant, always so gentle—would ever do such a thing. “Amelia,” his voice turned icy, carrying the heavy weight of a man used to being obeyed. “Don’t push your luck.” Leaving those words behind, he stood up and walked into the bathroom. I tossed the dirty wet wipe into the trash can. From that day on, for an entire week, Oliver found endless excuses to stay out all night. And every morning when he returned, the scent of Sylvia’s perfume on his clothes grew stronger. I didn’t call him out. I didn’t make a scene. I ate, I slept, I worked on my fashion designs. I stopped texting him first, and I stopped asking about his schedule. Over those few days, the sharp cramps in my abdomen became more frequent. I spent four hours brewing a rich chicken soup, packing it into a thermos. I planned to go to the clinic for a checkup and have a warm meal afterward. But when I reached the intersection, on some strange, sudden impulse, I told the driver to change routes and head to Oliver’s design studio instead. The receptionist, recognizing me, waved me through with a polite smile. I carried the heavy metal thermos down the corridor to his private office. The door wasn’t fully closed; a narrow gap remained. From inside came Sylvia’s soft, sweet voice: “Oliver, you spent seven million dollars to buy back the Harrington house. Did you really do all that just to help me?” I stopped in my tracks. “Don’t read too much into it,” Oliver’s voice was detached, flat. Sylvia let out a soft, teasing laugh. “Then… does that mean you bought it as our future home?” A heavy silence stretched for several seconds. Oliver didn’t deny it. He only murmured, “Just live there for now.” I looked down at the heavy thermos in my hand, suddenly feeling that my silence and understanding over the past few days had been nothing short of a tragedy. I reached out and pushed the door open. The two of them turned in unison. Sylvia was leaning against the edge of his mahogany desk, and Oliver was standing directly in front of her, their faces far closer than any professional boundary allowed. “Amelia…” Sylvia gasped, looking genuinely startled, and took a sharp step back. She was wearing towering stiletto heels. Her foot caught on the leg of the desk, and she lost her balance, falling backward. “Ah!” Her hand landed squarely on a sharp crystal paperweight on the coffee table. The glass sliced her palm, and a thin line of crimson began to seep out. “Sylvia!” Oliver’s face went pale. Instinct overrode everything. He lunged forward, his shoulder slamming hard against mine in his rush to get to her. The force sent me stumbling backward. My lower back collided heavily with the solid wooden doorframe, and the metal thermos slipped from my fingers, clattering loudly to the floor. A blinding, white-hot wave of pain ripped through my lower abdomen. The color drained from my face. I slid slowly down the doorframe, collapsing onto the hardwood floor. Just a few feet away, Oliver was on his knees, cradling Sylvia in his arms. He had pulled out the silk handkerchief I had painstakingly embroidered with his initials, pressing it firmly against her hand to stem the bleeding of what was nothing more than a superficial scratch. Only when he was sure she was safe did he turn his head, looking at me with a gaze full of defensive anger and disgust. But when his eyes fell on the puddle of hot chicken soup spreading across the floor, he froze. His hand, still holding Sylvia’s wrist, trembled. His gaze traveled from the spilled soup up to my ghostly, sweat-slicked face. A sudden, unbidden wave of panic flashed deep in his eyes. “Amelia…” He instinctively let go of Sylvia, trying to stand. But Sylvia let out a soft, whimpering cry. “Oliver, it hurts so much.” The knee he had just lifted sank right back to the floor. “Amelia, do you have to do this right now?” he hissed, his voice sharp with a defensive, panicked anger. I watched him hover over her. The pain in my stomach was so intense it stole the breath from my lungs. But I didn’t make a sound. I knew that the man in front of me would no longer feel any pain for my tears. To scream would only make me look pathetic. Holding onto the wall, I dragged myself to my feet, shaking. I looked at the soup on the floor, and then at Oliver. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, my throat dry, my voice barely audible. “I ruined your floor.” Without another look, I clutched my stomach and walked slowly out of the office. Just as I crossed the threshold, I thought I heard Oliver call my name. I didn’t turn back. A warm, heavy wetness began to trace a path down my thigh, washing away five years of devotion in a single, silent wave.

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The air in the grand ballroom was thick with the scent of white roses and expensive champagne—a scent I had spent nearly a year choosing. But when I finally tossed my bridal bouquet, it didn’t land in the hands of a hopeful bridesmaid. It was caught, mid-air, by Cassidy. She arched a perfectly groomed brow, a playful smirk playing on her lips. “Does this mean I’m supposed to propose now?” She turned her gaze directly to the altar. “Gary, you coming with me?” The groomsmen, already half-drunk on pre-ceremony whiskey, erupted into loud, rowdy cheers. They began shoving Gary toward her, practically pushing him off the altar. “Kiss her! Kiss her!” “Come on, Gary, don’t be shy! It’s not like you guys didn’t literally cuddle in the same bed at the bachelor party last night. We all saw you face-planted in her chest!” Gary laughed, kicking playfully at one of his friends. “Shut up, guys. My wife is standing right here.” But I didn’t miss the faint, guilty crimson creeping up his neck. Cassidy shrugged, completely unfazed. “I don’t mind, but I think someone’s little bride is about to cry.” Only then did Gary turn his head to look at me. He reached out, tapping the tip of my nose with a casual, easy gesture. “Don’t be so sensitive, babe. It’s just a joke. Come on, let’s get the ceremony finished.” I slowly pulled my face back, escaping his touch. I reached out and took the microphone from the stunned officiant. “If she wants to object,” I said, my voice echoing clearly through the speakers, “I’m taking her seriously.” Three days later, he stood in front of City Hall, his eyes bloodshot and desperate. But I never looked back. … The rowdy cheers of the groomsmen died instantly. A suffocating silence fell over the ballroom, followed by the quiet, hurried whispers of our guests. Gary gripped my wrist, his face darkening with embarrassment. “Cassidy was just kidding. Do you really have to do this?” “Stop making a scene, Nina. This is the wedding you’ve been dreaming about for years.” “My grandmother is still waiting in her hospital bed to see the video.” Just last night, my grandmother had experienced a rare, fleeting moment of lucidity. With trembling hands, she had placed my palm into Gary’s. He had knelt by her bedside, promising her that he would cherish and protect me for the rest of his life. And then he had gone straight to his bachelor party to mess around with Cassidy. My eyes burned with unshed tears. I raised the microphone, my voice cracking but steady. “Is motorboating her and sleeping in the same bed also just a joke?” The words hit the room like a physical blow. The guests leaned in, their eyes darting rapidly between Gary and Cassidy, hungry for the drama. A flash of angry humiliation crossed Gary’s face. He snatched the microphone out of my hand, lowering his voice to a harsh whisper. “Shut up! Are you trying to ruin our wedding?” Cassidy stepped forward, smoothly taking the microphone from him. Her tone was light, almost bubbly. “Oh, please. Gary and I were taking baths together naked when we were two years old. Isn’t it a little late to start getting jealous now, honey?” With a few breezy sentences, she brushed off their boundary-crossing behavior as childhood innocence. Suddenly, I was the one being unreasonable. Gary’s mother, Mrs. Stanley, stepped up and draped an arm over Cassidy’s shoulder, casting a cold, dismissive look in my direction. “Cassidy is the kind of daughter-in-law I always wanted. Elegant, high-class, from a good family.” She sniffed. “Not like some people from cheap backgrounds who throw tantrums at their own weddings. No class, no manners. I don’t even know what kind of parents raised her—” “Mom!” Gary snapped, cutting her off. “Stop it.” He looked at me anxiously, his eyes filled with a sudden, heavy wave of guilt and worry. My face went entirely pale, a bitter, hollow ache spreading through my chest. Ten years ago, my parents were celebrating their anniversary at a quiet coastal beach. They saw a young boy being swept away by a violent rip current. They swam out, fought the waves, and saved him—but they never made it back to shore. That boy was Gary. If my parents were still here today, no one would dare treat me like this. Cassidy crossed her arms, rolling her eyes. “Are you seriously going to cry over this?” “God. If Gary and I actually wanted to be together, do you really think you’d even be standing here?” “Fine, fine. It’s all my fault. I’ll just leave, okay?” Gary’s face shifted instantly. He chased after her, catching her by the waist to stop her. Then he turned to me, his voice sharp with accusation. “Cassidy flew halfway across the world just to be here for us. If you can’t be grateful, fine, but why do you have to drive her away?” Looking at Cassidy’s smug, triumphant smile over his shoulder, I suddenly felt a profound, exhausting wave of futility. I slid the diamond band off my left ring finger and tossed it toward them. “She doesn’t have to leave,” I whispered. “I will.” “You wanted to steal the groom? Here, you can have the ring too.” Gary caught the ring, his eyes igniting with a sudden, volatile fury. “Nina! You really want to play this card?” “Let me tell you something—if you walk out that door today, we can easily find another bride to finish this ceremony!” “Let her go!” Mrs. Stanley sneered. “I’ll wait to see her crawl back begging.” I gathered the heavy lace skirts of my gown and ran out of the ballroom without looking back, leaving Gary’s furious shouts behind me. I hailed a cab on the street. The driver looked at me in the rearview mirror, his eyes widening slightly at my disheveled bridal gown. “You alright, sweetheart? Where to?” Sitting in the back seat, the anger in my chest slowly dissolved into a cold, terrifying numbness. Where could I go? Shortly after my parents died, my grandmother, shattered by grief, got into a car accident. The other party demanded a massive financial settlement, and I was forced to sell our family home. It was pouring rain the day of the eviction. I couldn’t get a cab, and I was sobbing on the curb. That was when Gary rode up on his motorcycle, his leather jacket drenched, his face wild and rebellious as he pulled off his helmet. “There’s no PIN. Use it,” he had said, forcing his credit card into my hand before turning back into the storm. By the time I sorted out the medical bills and tried to return the money, he had disappeared. But then, a few months later, he suddenly turned up at my university. He had wrapped a casual arm around my shoulder, winking at a girl who was trying to ask him out. “Sorry, babe. My girlfriend gets super jealous.” Under the autumn sun, his bleach-blonde hair had gleamed. He crashed into my life like a storm. “Play along as my girlfriend,” he had whispered. “Call it even for saving your grandmother.” For three years, I chased him down, desperate to pay back every cent, while everyone else mocked me as his clingy, desperate shadow. When he crashed his motorcycle on a back road, I was the first to arrive. When he broke his leg snowboarding, I brought him homemade meals every single day. Just as I was about to pay off the last of my debt, my grandmother wandered off. It was the worst blizzard Boston had seen in a decade. The snow was knee-deep. The security footage showed Grandma walking out into the freezing night in nothing but a thin sweater. The police searched for hours and found nothing. I was losing my mind. It was Gary who organized thousands of people online to search the city. As the hours ticked away and I collapsed into the snow for the ninth time, he had reached down and pulled me up. “We found her. She’s at the hospital. She’s okay.” I had sobbed into his chest, completely broken. He had clumsily wiped my tears, trying to keep his tone light. “Letting your boyfriend hold you isn’t a bad deal, you know.” For the first time, I didn’t correct him. “Miss? Are you okay?” the driver asked, offering me a box of tissues. I looked in the mirror and realized my face was entirely soaked with tears. “Just keep driving, please.” The city blurred past the window. Only last night, Gary had knelt by Grandma’s bed and confessed: “Actually, ten years ago, the kid your parents saved at the beach… it was me. My family tried to offer twenty million dollars, but your grandma refused. She said a life can’t be bought. She said your parents did what was right.” “Nina, destiny brought me to you. I’ll spend the rest of my life loving you for them.” But less than twenty-four hours later, everything had shattered. My heart felt squeezed by barbed wire. My phone kept buzzing. It was a video sent to the wedding group chat. Cassidy, wearing a stunning red-and-gold gown, was standing arm-in-arm with Gary, drinking and laughing with the guests. Some people threw a tantrum and walked out, so Cassidy had to step in. Honestly, they look perfect together. Why don’t they just get married for real? Show that psycho what she’s missing. I turned off the phone, my cold face reflected in the dark screen. “Take me to The Pinnacle,” I told the driver. I needed to know the truth. At the penthouse, I went straight to his gaming room. Gary kept a locked box here. Once, I had caught him tucking photos inside. When I teased him and tried to look, he had held me close, laughing: “It’s a surprise for our wedding day.” I had been waiting for that surprise for years. It was a four-digit combination lock. I tried his birthday. Our anniversary. My birthday. None of them worked. With trembling fingers, I typed in Cassidy’s birthday. Click. Inside were three thick photo albums, ten keys to luxury sports cars, and a dark green velvet box. I opened the albums. They were filled with photos of Cassidy growing up. On the back of a photo of her as a teenager, holding a helmet and smiling fiercely on a podium, Gary had written: The love of my life. May you always shine. The date was July 5th, 2016. The exact day my parents drowned. “So, you finally found it,” Gary’s raspy voice sounded from behind me. “I used to have feelings for Cassidy, but that’s ancient history.” “That day, I was going to confess to her. But she just laughed and hugged everyone, saying we were all brothers. I never gave her the necklace. And the sports cars I bought her over the years… I never gave them to her either.” “So,” my voice cracked, “the day your confession failed, you got drunk on the beach and walked into the ocean. And my parents died saving you.” I was shaking violently. My parents died for this? For his high school heartbreak? I lost my family, and I had been living a lie with him for eight years. “It was never a coincidence, was it? You transferred to my school out of guilt. You forced yourself into my life, pretended I owed you money, just so you could keep me close for three years. Was it fun, Gary? Playing with my life?” “No, Nina, it’s not like that…” Panic flickered in his eyes. He reached out to wipe my tears, but flinches when I drew back. He pulled out a lighter and flicked it open. “Cassidy and I are just friends. There’s nothing between us. If this box bothers you so much, then—” He threw the lighter into the box. Flames immediately licked the thick pages of the albums. “If you’re still mad, I’ll never speak to her again. Okay?” He pulled out his phone, opened his contacts, and deleted her right in front of me. But a second later, Cassidy’s name flashed on his screen. He hesitated, then answered. “Just let me say goodbye to her. For good.” Three minutes later, Gary stormed back in, his face contorted in anger. “Did you upload that video of Cassidy catching the bouquet? People online are tearing her apart, calling her a manipulative ‘pick-me’! How could you cyberbully her like this?” “Do you have any idea how important her race tomorrow is? This cannot stain her career!” I stared at him, feeling a cold, hollow laugh rise in my chest. “Are the comments wrong? She grabbed the bride’s bouquet and proposed to the groom.” “I told you, it was a joke! And you’re going to ruin her entire life over a stupid joke?” “Nina, I didn’t think you could be this vindictive.” He looked at me with pure disappointment. “I’ve already had my team use AI to swap your faces in the video. You’re going to post an apology statement saying you did it out of jealousy. We need to kill this story now.” Anger reached a fever pitch, and suddenly, I felt entirely calm. “No. I had nothing to do with that video.” “Nina!” He lunges forward, pinning my arms and snatching the phone from my pocket. I fought him, but he hoists me over his shoulder and locked me in the windowless utility closet. Through the heavy door, his voice was muffled. “I’m wiping your camera roll so you don’t leak any photos of us and make things worse. Calm down tonight. The housekeeper will let you out tomorrow. Once I’m back from Cassidy’s race, we’ll go get registered.” The light in the closet was broken. There were no windows. I sat in the pitch black until dawn, when the housekeeper opened the door, gasping at my bloodshot eyes. “Oh, goodness, ma’am. Are you alright?” I shook my head, my throat dry as paper. “Where is my phone, Mrs. Clark?” She pointed to the coffee table. “Mr. Stanley told me to make you some soup before he caught his flight. He said you shouldn’t look at your phone for a few days…” I walked right past her and grabbed the phone. When it booted up, the screen was flooded with missed calls and texts. I clicked a link sent by my old college roommate. The top trending topic on Twitter was Gary’s account, featuring a picture of a marriage certificate and a childhood photo of him and Cassidy. Childhood sweethearts, finally together. @Cassidy_Racer The comments were a sickening wave of congratulations. An heir and a champion racer. True love exists! Good luck at the championship tomorrow, queen! The second trending topic: High school teacher admits to AI face-swap out of spite. The video showed my face swapped with Cassidy’s—making it look like I was the one who crashed the wedding and proposed to Gary. This is pathetic. She almost ruined the bride’s career right before the race. I’m sick to my stomach. This woman is a teacher? What school lets a psycho like this near children? My brain went entirely numb. I swayed, clutching the wall to keep from falling. Then, my phone rang. It’s the school principal. “Nina, the scandal surrounding your personal life has severely damaged the school’s reputation. Effective immediately, your contract is terminated.” “Principal Evans, I didn’t—” He hung up. Before I can call back, Gary called. “How dare you use my name to post those lies? I just lost my job because of you!” “Isn’t that a good thing?” Gary’s voice was thick with sleep, casual and relaxed. “I can take care of you. Being a wife is much better than dealing with screaming teenagers anyway.” “Besides, you’re twenty-six now. It’s time we started thinking about having a baby, don’t you think?” My body shook with a violent, visceral disgust. “Gary,” I whispered, “you make me sick.” I hung up, the tears finally spilling over. Then, my phone rang again. It’s the hospital. By the time I arrived, Grandma was already in the OR. The surgeon handed me a critical notice to sign. “The patient experienced severe emotional stress, causing an aneurysm to rupture. We have an experimental blocker that could save her, but it’s fifty thousand dollars a dose. Do you want us to proceed?” “The golden window is three minutes. If you want it, you need to pay now.” “Do it!” I screamed, my hand shaking as I signed the papers. “Do whatever it takes! Just save her!” I ran to the billing window, my chest tight. Declined. The online banking app said my daily limit was exceeded. I frantically tore open my wallet, dropping cards onto the floor. “Try this one. PIN is 062746,” I sobbed, handing over a card. Declined. “Ma’am, this card has been frozen by the primary account holder.” I froze. It was the joint card Gary gave me. When did he freeze it? There’s no time to think. I pulled out my personal savings card—the one where my entire four years of teaching salary, nearly seventy thousand dollars, was kept. I read off the PIN. The nurse looked at the screen, her face falling. “Ma’am… there aren’t enough funds.” “What? That’s impossible!” My head spun. My phone buzzed. It was a text from Gary. Hey, my card hit its limit while celebrating Cassidy’s win. I used your savings card to buy her a celebratory Chanel bag. Consider it a gift from us… “Gary!” I screamed into the phone as I called him back. “That is my grandmother’s life support money!” Gary chuckled on the other end. “Stop being so dramatic. I’ll pay you back tenfold when I get home. I have to go.” The line went dead. The nurse walked out of the double doors, looking at me with deep pity. “Family of Marian Rogers… I am so sorry for your loss.” The world went entirely quiet. I watched them wheel out a gurney, a white sheet draped over the quiet silhouette of my grandmother. “Gary, are you sure you’re skipping my after-party?” Cassidy punched him playfully in the chest. “That’s cold.” Gary didn’t pull away, just smiled. “I cleared your name, posted a fake marriage certificate, and dealt with my girl’s tantrums. I think I’ve been more than supportive.” “She’s still throwing a fit at home. I need to get back and smooth things over before she does something crazy. My flight is tonight. Tomorrow is our fifth anniversary, and we’re getting registered.” But when he finally unlocked the door of the penthouse, the flowers in his hands fell to the floor.

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We were locked in a fierce, confidential internal race against Team B for a ten-billion-dollar project when my director sidelined me under a false pretense. On the day he suspended me, Jared clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Wes,” he’d said, “you’re our technical core. This whole project depends on you. Once we lock down this ten-billion-dollar contract, I’ll personally welcome you back with open arms.” So, I stayed home, working myself to the bone on the project proposal. Three months later, we won the bid. But instead of a welcome back, I received a termination letter. Jared sent me a text, each word cutting like shards of ice. [Wes, you’ve got a disciplinary mark on your record now. HR won’t approve your reinstatement. It’s best you look for opportunities elsewhere.] I stared at the screen, then quietly went into my system architecture file, which relied on three of my personal core patents, and revoked the company’s licensing rights. Three days later, my phone rang. It was the CEO. “Wes, don’t sign that severance agreement yet!” 1 “Hey, Wes, did you see the news? We won the bid.” It was my coworker, Toby, calling. His voice was a frantic, breathless squeak. On the television screen in my living room, the local news anchor was announcing the story: Synapse Tech had officially won the contract for Stellaris Group’s ten-billion-dollar AI initiative, the Meridian Project. “I saw,” I replied. My voice was calm, but I couldn’t stop the corner of my mouth from curving upward. We had chased this project for half a year. To guarantee that our strategy wouldn’t leak, my director, Jared, had manufactured a performance issue to temporarily suspend me. It was supposed to be a strategic move. For three months, I’d been cooped up at home, utilizing my three proprietary patents to build the backbone of the entire proposal. Now, finally, the victory was ours. “Man, you’re the unsung hero of this whole thing,” Toby said, his excitement practically vibrating through the receiver. “The corporate bonus pool alone is eighty million. You’re bound to get the lion’s share.” Behind him, I could hear the office. The voices of Nora, Frank, and the rest of the team were a chaotic, joyful hum, overlapping in a celebration I could only observe from a distance. “Three months, Wes. Jared said he’d personally bring you back. We’re already planning a massive welcome-back party for you.” Right then, my phone chimed with an email notification. I tapped it open. It was an automated message from HR, containing an attached document and a brief, clinical note: [Employee Wes Mitchell: Having produced zero output during a three-month suspension, your employment is hereby terminated in accordance with company policy.] Beneath it was a formal pink slip. Seconds later, the same announcement flashed across the company-wide chat channel. The celebratory background noise on Toby’s end suddenly vanished. The line plunged into a heavy, suffocating silence. Then came a text from Jared. [Wes, the project team is at capacity now. I went to bat for you with leadership, but they said because of that disciplinary mark on your file, HR won’t approve your reinstatement. I’m sorry, man.] [Don’t lose heart, though. With your skills, you won’t have trouble finding another gig. A massive firm like ours might be out of reach for a bit, but a smaller shop will snap you up in a heartbeat.] The world seemed to lose its sound. My mind went blank, my thumb freezing over the cold glass of the screen. My mind flashed back to three months ago, to Jared sitting across from me, his eyes wide with manufactured intensity. “Wes, this project is my ticket to a VP spot. You know Team B is breathing down our necks. We have to keep this architecture absolutely locked down.” “This suspension is just a smoke screen to throw them off. Stay home, put the proposal together, and we’ll keep our communications strictly off-line. If you need to run tests on the hardware, come in after midnight.” And so, for ninety days, I lived like a ghost. Whenever I needed to run high-volume data simulations, I’d show up at the office at midnight, dragging myself through the empty, silent cubicles of the R&D wing until five in the morning. Every single line of the foundational code was written by my fingers. Every dataset was processed, analyzed, and refined by me, over and over, until my eyes burned. The entire architectural framework was built, layer by layer, from my own mind. The patented technologies that anchored the entire AI model were things I had spent three years of my life developing, locked in a university lab, barely making it home to see my family. The winning proposal was mine. The patents were mine. I was the one who had spent nights on calls with the client to understand exactly what they needed. And now, they’ve won the bid, and I’m being discarded like trash? Jared sent another message: [I have to head over to the client’s office for a kickoff meeting, so I won’t be around when you come in to sign your exit papers. Truly sorry about that. It was great working with you—wish I could be there to send you off.] A cold laugh escaped my throat. He wasn’t at a meeting. He just couldn’t bear to look me in the eye. “Wes…?” Toby’s voice on the line was small, laced with a mixture of guilt and concern. “It’s fine,” I said, my voice shockingly level. “I’ll head over and sign the paperwork now.” 2 At ten in the morning, I walked into the Synapse Tech office and went straight to HR. Diane, the HR manager, slipped a sheet of paper across the desk. I glanced at the listed reason for termination: [Lack of technical contribution, low productivity.] Without a word, I signed my name and pressed my thumbprint into the inkpad. She handed me the next document: a severance agreement. An N+1 package of two hundred and seventy thousand dollars. Again, I signed and stamped it without hesitation. Diane looked up at me, her lips parting as if to say something, but she ultimately thought better of it. I took my company badge, laid it quietly on her desk, and slid it toward her. She offered a sheepish, uncomfortable smile. When I left the HR office and pushed open the glass doors of our department, the ambient chatter died instantly. Dozens of eyes locked onto me, then just as quickly darted away. Suddenly, everyone became deeply fascinated by their keyboards, the rapid-fire clacking of keys filling the awkward silence. I walked over to the desk I hadn’t sat at in three months and began packing my things. Toby’s desk was right in front of mine. He didn’t dare turn around, keeping his voice to a hushed whisper. “You signed?” “Yeah.” “That fast? Why aren’t you filing an appeal?” I didn’t answer him. No one else spoke either; the air in the room felt thick and suffocating. Suddenly, a notification pinged on everyone’s phones. HR had posted the project bonus distribution spreadsheet to the department-wide chat. I opened it. An eighty-million-dollar bonus pool. Jared took the lion’s share: forty million. The remaining forty million was split among the other twelve team members based on “contribution.” Toby got three million. Even the lowest-ranking junior developer walked away with two million. Fourteen people on the roster. An eighty-million-dollar pool. The smallest cut was two million dollars. By any fair metric, the forty-million-dollar share should have belonged to me—the core architect. But my share was a two-hundred-and-seventy-thousand-dollar buyout. Within seconds, the heavy silence of the office dissolved into a wave of palpable relief and excitement. The hushed, giddy whispers began to drift over the cubicle walls, sharp as needles. “Honestly, it’s a good thing we cut one person loose. Otherwise, Wes would’ve easily taken thirty million. Our cuts would’ve been slashed by two-thirds.” “They did the right thing firing him. Sitting at home for three months claiming he was ‘developing the proposal’—who actually saw him do it? He just wanted an easy payday. The nerve.” “Look at that sour face. Like we owe him something. Just leave already, you’re ruining the mood.” Toby’s lips twitched, caught between a grin and a grimace. He looked at me, hesitating. I ignored him. I picked up the Outstanding Contribution trophy I had won the previous year and tossed it into the trash can next to my desk. The heavy plastic hit the bottom of the bin with a loud, hollow thud. The whispers stopped. I lifted the cardboard box of my belongings, swept a cold glance over the colleagues I had spent three years working with, and walked out without a word. Celebrate while you can, I thought. I hope it lasts. 3 I stepped into the elevator, only to find Rachel, the director of Team B, already inside. She glanced at me and let out a small, mocking smirk—the kind of look reserved for someone who had played a game and lost spectacularly. I kept my eyes fixed on the illuminated floor numbers, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a reaction. We descended in silence. When the doors slid open on the lobby, she didn’t move, letting me walk out first. I walked through the grand glass entrance of the building and stopped briefly on the sidewalk to look back at the sleek, blue-gray facade of the tower. This would be the last time. When I got back to my apartment, I opened my desk drawer, pulled out my employment contract, and flipped to the very last page. Three years ago, when I joined Synapse Tech, I was fresh out of grad school. Jared had sat across from me with a warm, friendly smile. “Wes, these two patents of yours are still unproven in the market. The company can’t pay you a direct licensing fee upfront, but we can bundle them into your base salary. Half a million a year. That’s a pretty sweet deal for a kid straight out of school, right?” At twenty-five, half a million dollars sounded like a fortune. I figured it was a great way to cut my teeth in the industry. Because of that, my employment contract included a specific, non-standard addendum: The patent rights were tied directly to my employment. If my employment was terminated, the company’s right to use the patents would immediately lapse. Over the next three years, those two patents generated hundreds of millions of dollars for Synapse Tech. I had repeatedly requested that the company pay separate licensing fees for them, but Jared always fed me the same empty promises. “Wes, you’re young. Think about the long game. Grow with the company. Once I move up to Vice President, the director’s chair is yours.” “Tell you what, I’ll talk to the CEO and see if we can bump your base salary to eight hundred thousand.” I believed him. I worked eighty-hour weeks, putting my health on the line. My newly developed third patent was the very technology that secured the ten-billion-dollar Meridian Project. Yet, when I brought up the patent licensing fees again, HR rejected the request, citing that my five-year employment contract had not yet expired. They expected to use my brain for free for another two years. They wanted to lock down my technology at the lowest possible cost, and then, to keep the forty-million-dollar bonus for themselves, they threw me to the wolves. I stared at that specific clause: The licensing of the patents is contingent on the employment of the patent holder. Upon termination of employment, all licensing agreements are null and void. A slow, cold smile spread across my face. I wasn’t the one who broke the rules. I drafted a formal Notice of Revocation of Patent Licensing and emailed it directly to Synapse Tech’s legal department, carbon-copying Stellaris Group’s project office. Just as I hit send, my phone rang. It was my mother. “Wes, sweetie, I made your favorite pot roast today. Come over for dinner after work.” “Sure, Mom. I’m on my way.” My parents lived in an older apartment building on the sixth floor, with no elevator. My plan had been to buy them a modern condo with an elevator once my project bonus came through. I had already picked out a few places near my rental apartment. Now, that would have to wait. When I opened their front door, the familiar, comforting scent of slow-cooked beef and rosemary washed over me. At the dinner table, my mom smiled warmly. “I saw the news, Wes. Did your project win the bid?” “Yeah.” “So you can finally go back to the office now, right?” I took a slow bite of my food, chewing thoroughly before answering. “Mom, I was fired today.” My parents’ forks froze mid-air. My mom’s voice trembled slightly. “Fired? Why?” I paused for a moment. “The official reason was ‘zero output’ during my three-month suspension.” My mom’s eyes flared with anger. “But they told you to stay home and build that proposal! You barely slept for three months, you didn’t even have time to visit us! How can they do this to you?” I remained quiet. My dad caught my mom’s eye and gave her a gentle, warning look to calm down. “It’s alright,” my dad said softly. “You have the skills. You’ll find a better place.” My mom sighed, reaching over to squeeze my hand, her eyes filled with worry. “Don’t worry about the new apartment, honey. Your father and I can still climb the stairs just fine.” I smiled, though my throat felt tight. “Dad, Mom… you won’t have to wait long.” Suddenly, my phone vibrated. A notification popped up in the department group chat. Jared had sent a digital gift card with a note: ‘A little something for the team. Everyone gets a piece of the ten-billion-dollar pie.’ A flood of brown-nosing replies followed immediately. ‘Oh my god, thank you, Jared!’ ‘Jared is the best boss ever! Stellaris Group knew exactly who had the winning design!’ ‘All thanks to your leadership, Jared!’ I looked at the number of recipients on the gift card. Twelve. Out of a fourteen-person department, excluding Jared himself, I was the only one left out. His ‘everyone’ didn’t include me. Jared posted one more message: ‘This victory belongs to all of us. Celebration dinner tonight, no excuses!’ And then, a tiny line of system text appeared at the bottom of my screen: You have been removed from the group chat by the administrator. I stared at it for three seconds, then closed the app. On my social feeds, local tech blogs were firing off articles about Synapse Tech securing the massive Stellaris contract. I turned my phone face down. It buzzed again. This time, it was an unknown landline. I answered. The voice on the other end was professional and familiar. “Mr. Mitchell? This is Mandy from the Stellaris Group. We just received a formal Notice of Revocation of Patent Licensing from you. Is this correct?” “Yes,” I said. “May I ask why?” I hesitated for a fraction of a second. “Because I was terminated yesterday.” 4 After hanging up, I checked the time. It was seven in the evening. For the first time in three years, I had finished dinner this early. I turned off my phone, took a long, relaxing shower, and put on a movie. By ten, I was in bed, sleeping peacefully until the sun woke me up the next morning. Bright morning light filtered through the curtains, illuminating my bedroom with a clarity I hadn’t experienced in years. No code to write. No simulations to run. No frantic late-night debug sessions. Life, it turned out, could be beautiful. When I finally turned my phone back on, it exploded with dozens of missed calls and over a hundred unread messages. Jared, Toby, Nora, and several unrecognized numbers. I ignored them all and opened a message from Toby that had just popped up. [Wes, why is your phone off? Jared is losing his mind trying to reach you. He’s making all of us call you.] Similar messages from other former coworkers sat in my inbox. I didn’t reply to any of them. Instead, I got out of bed, washed my face, and opened my laptop. I logged into the United States Patent and Trademark Office portal, uploaded my termination letter and the contract addendum, and filed the official paperwork to formally revoke Synapse Tech’s licensing rights. Then, I enjoyed a quiet breakfast. At ten, Jared’s name flashed on my screen again. I let it ring. He called ten more times before I finally picked up. The moment the connection went through, his furious voice boomed through the speaker. “Wes! What the hell did you send to the client? Call them right now and pull it back! Tell them it was a misunderstanding and that the patents are still active!” “Why would I do that?” “Are you out of your mind? Because those patents belong to the company!” I kept my voice cool and steady. “You’ve been freeloading on my work for so long you actually forgot who owns it, didn’t you? Do you need me to email you the USPTO registration certificates?” He choked on his breath, silent for a moment. “But we have an agreement! A five-year contract! There are still two years left!” I smiled. “Jared, I signed an employment contract, not a patent transfer agreement.” His voice died in his throat. I could hear his shallow, panicked breathing. “The contract has a clause…” he stammered. “Your salary included the licensing fees. The company has the legal right to use them.” “Right,” I said. “Maybe you should read that clause a little closer. Since you clearly don’t have it in front of you, let me refresh your memory.” I took a screenshot of the specific sentence—human presence required for licensing validity—and texted it to him. He sounded like a drowning man grasping at straws, unable to form a coherent sentence. I hung up and tossed the phone onto the couch. Half an hour later, it rang again. A different number. “Mr. Mitchell, this is Mandy from Stellaris Group again. I have a few quick questions.” “Mandy, I no longer work for Synapse Tech.” “I’m aware. Synapse told us you left yesterday, but I need to confirm: are the three core patents in the Meridian proposal indeed your personal property?” “Yes, they are.” “Synapse claims you’re in breach of contract by revoking them, and they’ve assured us we can continue using them. But we must verify this. Without those three technologies, Synapse’s proposal doesn’t even meet our minimum technical threshold.” I let the silence hang for a moment. “I had no independent licensing agreement with Synapse Tech. The permission was tied directly to my employment. Now that they have terminated me, they have zero legal right to use my intellectual property.” I heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end. “I see. If Synapse were to offer you a separate licensing contract now, would you consider signing it?” “Absolutely not,” I answered without hesitation. “Understood. We will begin a formal compliance audit of the project. Would you be willing to bring the original patent documentation to our office to assist us with the review?” “Mandy, you can verify all of this online via the USPTO database.” She paused. “We have, but there are other matters our director would like to discuss with you in person.” “When?” “As soon as possible.” By one in the afternoon, I was walking into the Stellaris Group headquarters. Mandy escorted me up to the sixteenth floor. Inside the conference room, three people were waiting. In the center sat Lydia, the director of the Meridian Project. She stood up to greet me. “Mr. Mitchell, these are our head of legal and our chief technology officer. Time is of the essence, so I’ll get straight to the point.” I nodded and sat down. “We’ve verified the patents,” Lydia said. “They are indeed yours. Together, these three technologies form a complete, highly advanced pipeline for neural network training, real-time interaction, and deployment. They were the sole reason Synapse Tech won this bid. Without them, their score drops below the qualifying line.” The room fell quiet as they watched me. “Since you’re no longer with Synapse, we need to know: do you intend to license these patents to another firm, or what is your plan?” I met Lydia’s gaze, my voice steady and unwavering. “I plan to deliver the project myself.”

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The day Christian returned from Wall Street as a newly minted hedge fund titan, everyone in our social circle toasted to my impeccable taste. They told me I’d bet on the winning horse. He had bought out the sky, lighting up the Hamptons with three consecutive nights of private fireworks leading up to my birthday. He’d even sent over a custom-made, million-dollar couture gown via his personal assistant, alongside a team of celebrity makeup artists to prep me for tonight’s gala. But beneath the layers of silk and diamond powder, my chest was tight with a cold, inexplicable dread. Because the moment I opened my eyes in the dressing room, I saw her. A ghost. She stood directly behind me, her hair matted, her face a map of bruises and lacerations. Her eyes were swollen to terrifying slits, fixed entirely on me. “Cara,” she whispered, her voice like dry leaves scraping pavement. “Don’t trust him. Don’t go to the gala tonight. If you do, he will destroy you. You won’t survive him.” It was absurd. I shook my head, trying to blink her away. “He spent months planning this night for me. Everyone is waiting. How could I not go?” I smoothed down the heavy skirts of my gown, my makeup immaculate, and turned to leave. But the specter lunged forward, blocking the door. She reached up with trembling fingers, parting the tangled curtain of her hair. The moment her face became clear, the corsage I was holding slipped from my fingers, shattering a crystal vase on the floor. She had my face. She was me. 1 “You’re terrified, aren’t you?” the ghost said, a tragic, hollow smile twisting her lips. “I don’t blame you. I am you. Ten years from now. They broke me, Cara. They killed me, and now I’m just a stray soul wandering the dark.” I stared at the mirror image of my own features, my voice trembling so hard the words barely formed. “That’s impossible… Christian loves me. He’s been nothing but devoted.” “Devoted?” The ghost let out a sharp, bitter laugh. She pulled back the sleeve of her tattered dress, revealing a patchwork of scars—some silver and faded, others jagged, raw, and angry. “Look at this. Every single one of these is his doing.” “Tonight,” she continued, stepping closer until I could almost feel the chill radiating from her, “Christian will get down on one knee in front of the entire city. He will slide a ring onto your finger, and you’ll cry tears of pure joy. You’ll say yes, believing it’s the beginning of your fairytale. But it’s the gateway to your execution.” My fingers clawed into the silk of my dress, my nails digging deep into my palms. “Once you’re married, the mask will slip,” she whispered, her eyes burning with an ancient, toxic hatred. “You’ll slowly realize his warmth was nothing but a calculated performance. He has a mistress, Cara. Marina. Your best friend. The only woman he has ever truly wanted. To them, you’re just a prize Marina wanted to steal from you. He used you as a stepping stone to build his empire, and the second he didn’t need you, he cast you aside. He stood by and watched while Marina took my life.” A freezing sweat broke out across my collarbone. Marina had been my shadow since high school. We were inseparable. She was the one who had practically organized every detail of tonight’s gala. “I don’t believe you,” I said, shaking my head, my voice sounding thin and detached. “Marina hates Christian. She’s always found him insufferable. She would never do this to me.” I remembered when I first started dating Christian back when he was a broke, struggling analyst. Marina had rolled her eyes so hard I thought they’d get stuck. “Honestly, Cara, you’re a Henderson. You could have any old-money heir in the state. Why are you dumpster-diving in the slums for a boyfriend? This is charity work, not a relationship.” I had smiled, keeping my secrets. “You don’t see it, Mari. He’s got hunger. He’s a long-term investment.” She had just scoffed. The ghost seemed to read my memories. A tear slipped down her bruised cheek. “She played her part well, didn’t she? She pretended to despise him so you’d never suspect her. But inside, she was rotting with jealousy. Even back then, when she stayed over at your apartment, she’d slip into Christian’s bed in the dead of night. They mocked you behind your back. You won’t find out until it’s far too late to run.” “I don’t know what kind of sick trick this is,” I gasped, backing away until my spine hit the vanity. “But I won’t let you poison my mind against my boyfriend and my best friend!” The ghost looked at me with profound pity. “You still doubt me? Tell me, Cara. Do you have a small, strawberry-colored birthmark right at the base of your hairline on the back of your neck?” My breath caught. “How… how could you possibly know that?” It was tiny, hidden by my thick hair. Even Christian had never noticed it. “Because I am you,” she said softly. She turned her back to me and swept her matted hair to one side. There, in the exact same spot, was the identical red mark. My world tilted. “I had to die to finally see the truth,” she whispered. “Please, Cara. I am begging you. Do not go down to that party. Break it off with him. Leave tonight. If you don’t… you’ll see Marina show up in the exact same couture gown as you. She will demand the first slice of your cake. And Christian… Christian will slap you in front of everyone, call you hysterical, and carry her out of the room.” I stumbled backward, a breathless, hysterical laugh bubbling up in my throat. “That’s insane. Christian would never.” We had been together for three years. He anticipated my every need. He dried my hair after every shower; he put on my socks when my feet were cold. Everyone envied us. He had gone to Wharton, conquered Wall Street, and came back only to put a ring on my finger. He had never even raised his voice at me. Right then, his warm, smooth baritone floated up from the bottom of the stairs. “Cara, darling? Are you ready? The fireworks are about to start.” 2 I turned around and saw Christian standing at the foot of the spiral staircase, looking breathtakingly handsome in his tailored Tom Ford tuxedo. “Everyone is waiting for you,” he said, holding out a hand, his smile radiant. “My leading lady.” Behind me, the ghost screamed, “Don’t go, Cara! If you step foot in that room, there is no turning back!” I whipped my head around. The corner of the dressing room was empty. “What’s wrong? You look pale,” Christian said, stepping up the stairs and cupping my cheek. His eyes were filled with the familiar, tender concern that had always been my anchor. My eyes stung with sudden tears. I shook my head. “Nothing. Just… a daydream, I think.” I cast one last glance at the empty corner. Who was I supposed to believe? A bruised apparition, or the man who had spent three years building a life for us? Yet, a dark seed of doubt had been planted. I took his hand and let him lead me to the gala. If he was playing a game, I needed to see his hand. The party was held in the massive glass conservatory on our estate, lit up like a crystal palace. Hundreds of guests from New York’s high society chatted over champagne. As we walked in arm-in-arm, Marina glided toward us, carrying a massive bouquet of white roses. “Cara! Happy birthday, babe!” she cried, her face bright as she pressed the flowers into my arms. “Oh, that dress looks absolutely divine on you. I knew it would!” I didn’t answer immediately. My eyes traveled down her body. Sensing my gaze, she looked down at herself and laughed airily. “I know, I know. It’s your big night. But we’re practically sisters, right? I couldn’t resist. You don’t mind that we’re matching, do you?” A sudden, heavy silence fell over our immediate circle. Guests looked between Marina and me, their whispers rustling like dry leaves. “Oh my god, how awkward. I literally thought she was the birthday girl from behind.” “Isn’t this Cara’s night? Even for a best friend, that’s incredibly tacky.” Looking at the midnight-blue silk of Marina’s gown—an exact, stitch-for-stitch replica of my custom couture—my chest tightened. She will show up in the exact same couture gown as you. She will demand the first slice of your cake… “I thought you said you were wearing the blush pink gown tonight, Marina,” I said, my voice dangerously quiet. Marina blinked, her lower lip trembling instantly. “Cara… are you mad at me?” “The pink one had a broken zipper,” she whimpered, looking utterly defenseless. “And I was just so obsessed with your midnight-blue dress. I asked Christian if there was any way his designer could make a second one.” She reached out, sliding her hand comfortably around Christian’s free arm. “Thankfully, your fiancé is a sweetheart. He pulled some strings and got me this one.” I stared at her hand on his arm. Christian usually loathed being touched by anyone else. Yet, he didn’t pull away. He stood there, letting her cling to him, a faint, indulgent smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “It does suit you, Marina,” he murmured. Seeing the ice in my eyes, Christian quickly added, “Cara, honey, Marina is family. You always told me to treat her like a sister. When she asked, I didn’t think twice. You’re not actually going to make a fuss over a dress, are you?” A man in a bespoke suit walked up to Marina, holding two glasses of champagne. “You must be Christian’s fiancé. Stunning, absolutely stunning. A match made in heaven.” Marina blushed, pointing a manicured finger at me. “Oh, no, you’ve got it wrong. My best friend Cara is the lucky girl.” The man stammered an apology and hurried away. Marina turned to me, still holding Christian’s arm. “Cara, don’t be silly. I’m just basking in your glow tonight. People are just blind, that’s all.” Before I could demand she go change, Christian patted her hand. “Alright, Mari, stop teasing her.” Marina giggled, letting go of him, and ran toward the center of the conservatory. “Cara! Come over here! The cake is ready!” I walked over, only to freeze. The gorgeous, five-tier custom cake had already been hacked into. Frosting was smeared across the marble table. My blood ran cold. “Who did this?” 3 Cutting the cake before the guest of honor arrives is a massive insult, especially before making a wish. Marina stood there, looking entirely innocent. “Oh, Cara, you were taking forever in the powder room. My birthday is next week anyway, so I figured we could share. I made a wish for both of us! You don’t mind, right?” Anger flared deep in my gut, but I forced my face to remain a mask of cold composure. She held my birthday bouquet, smiling at the surrounding guests. “Just stealing a little bit of Cara’s luck tonight!” A prominent socialite laughed. “You two are adorable. Sharing birthdays like real sisters.” “We are,” Marina chirped. “Cara never minds.” She picked up the silver knife, cut a slice, and took a bite straight from the plate. “Mm, delicious.” I stared at her. I had always known Marina could be self-centered, but this was a pathological level of disrespect. I stepped forward, keeping my voice level. “Marina. That cake was custom-ordered. My name is written on the plaque.” Marina’s smile faltered, replaced by a defensive pout. “I know that, silly. Are you seriously angry because I took a bite? Cara, don’t be so petty.” She reached out to grab my hand, but I stepped back. “I do mind.” “Marina is just excited, Cara,” Christian interjected, his voice carrying a sudden, sharp edge. “Let her have her moment. You can make your wish on the rest of it. It’s not a big deal.” I turned to look at him, my heart feeling like it was being squeezed by a heavy fist. “I said, I mind.” Marina’s eyes welled with tears. “Cara… I just wanted to make sure it tasted okay for you…” “It’s my birthday,” I cut her off. “Who gave you permission to touch it?” The entire conservatory went dead silent. Guests held their breath, their eyes darting between us. Christian’s brow furrowed. “Cara, you’re embarrassing yourself. You’re being cruel.” I let out a cold, sharp laugh. “My party. My cake. She ruined it before I even walked in, and I’m the one being cruel?” Marina clutched Christian’s sleeve, tears spilling over her cheeks. “Christian, I’m so sorry… I didn’t know Cara would react like this. Please, talk to her…” Christian’s expression softened as he looked down at her, then hardened when he turned back to me. “She apologized. Drop it, Cara. It’s just cake. Why do you have to ruin your own night over something so trivial?” Every word from the ghost echoed in my skull. The man who supposedly lived to make me happy was standing in front of a hundred people, painting me as a hysterical bully. I took a slow, deep breath, looking Marina dead in the eye. “Fine. I’ll let the cake go. But the dress? Take it off. Now.” Marina turned white. She covered her chest defensively. “Cara, I know it’s your birthday, but you don’t have to humiliate me like this.” “I won’t ask a second time,” I said. “Either you take it off, or my security team will assist you.” Marina bit her lip, looking like a cornered rabbit. “Cara, Christian bought me this dress. Forcing me to strip is spitting in his face.” She shrank back behind Christian. Christian’s face darkened with pure rage. “I ordered the dress. If you have an issue, take it up with me.” A profound, icy loneliness washed over me. I thought of the ghost, her scarred arms, her tear-stained face, her desperate warnings. “Is that so, Christian? What if I insist?” “Stop acting like a spoiled brat, Cara,” Christian growled. I turned to the edge of the room. “Security. Grab her.” Two of our estate guards stepped forward, laying hands on Marina’s shoulders. I marched up to her and grabbed the neckline of the duplicate dress. Christian lunged, grabbing my wrist with a crushing grip. “Cara, that’s enough! Dragging your best friend’s clothes off in public? Where are your manners?” I tried to keep my composure, but a tear finally slipped down my cheek. “Christian, I want to know why my fiancé and my best friend are acting like they’re the ones celebrating an anniversary tonight.” Suddenly, Marina snapped. She clawed her way out of the guard’s grip and screamed at me. “Oh, cut the princess act, Cara! Just because you were born a Henderson doesn’t mean the rest of us have to spend our lives kneeling to you! I am sick to death of your condescension!” “Do you really think Christian wants to marry you? Ask him! Why do you think he fled to Wall Street for all those years? He was trying to get away from your suffocating, entitled shadow!” I didn’t answer. I reached for a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon from a passing tray and threw it directly into her face. The dark red liquid soaked her hair, dripping down the front of the midnight-blue dress in a grotesque, bleeding stain. Marina shrieked, wiping her eyes. The room was so quiet you could hear the drip of the wine hitting the marble floor. Christian rushed forward, pulling Marina into his arms. He ripped off his tuxedo jacket and wrapped it around her shivering shoulders. “Cara!” he roared, his eyes blazing. “Have you completely lost your mind?” 4 Before I could process the shock, a sharp pain exploded across my cheek. He had slapped me. I stumbled back, clutching my burning face, staring at him in utter disbelief. “You hit me?” “You brought this on yourself,” Christian said, his voice dripping with disgust. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small red velvet box. “I was going to ask you to be my wife tonight. I had this entire night planned to show you how much I loved you.” “But you’re nothing but a spoiled, tyrannical child. Marina is your sister in everything but blood, and you humiliated her in front of our peers.” “A woman like you isn’t fit to be a wife.” With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the velvet box out the open window, into the dark grass of the lawn. Marina clung to him, sobbing softly. “Christian, it’s my fault… I shouldn’t have worn the dress… I’m so sorry…” “You have nothing to apologize for,” Christian murmured gently, adjusting his jacket around her. He swept her up into his arms, carrying her bridal-style. As he walked past me, he didn’t even look at me. But just before he reached the heavy double doors of the conservatory, he paused. “Reflect on what you’ve done, Cara. When you’re ready to crawl back, apologize to Marina, and act like a civilized human being, maybe I’ll consider throwing you another party.” The doors slammed shut. The remaining guests quickly made their excuses, leaving one by one to avoid the fallout. Only a few close friends lingered, looking at me with pity. “Cara, are you okay? We can help you clean this up…” “No,” I whispered, my throat tight. “Please, just go.” They slipped out, leaving me alone in the wreckage of the glass palace. My mutilated cake sat under the harsh lights, my name sliced in half. I stood there for a long time, frozen. Then, a cold hand touched my bare shoulder. “Now do you see?” The ghost stood behind me. Her pale face was streaked with tears, her swollen eyes staring at the empty doorway. “He never loved you, Cara. He was sleeping with Marina before he even left for New York. He came back to drag you into a living hell.” Before I could turn to face her, a heavy, chemical-soaked cloth clamped over my mouth from behind. A suffocating, sweet odor filled my lungs. I thrashed, but my vision quickly dissolved into black. When I finally opened my eyes, the air was freezing and smelled of rust and damp concrete. I was tied to a rusted leather chair in an abandoned warehouse. “She’s awake.” Two men stepped out of the shadows. The taller one grinned, showing yellowed teeth. “Well, well. Boss Christian said that since you love stripping people in public so much, it’s only fair we return the favor.” My heart hammered against my ribs. The shorter, heavier man stepped closer, brandishing a heavy video camera. “And Boss Christian was very specific. He wants high-res, cinematic footage. If it’s not humiliating enough, we don’t get paid. So cooperate, princess.” “Don’t touch me!” I screamed, pulling against the thick ropes binding my wrists to the chair. The short one cursed, lunging forward and grabbing a handful of my hair, jerking my head back. The pain was blinding. The tall one turned on the camera, pointing the lens at my face. “Cry louder. He said the wilder you look, the better. Get her dress open, Frank.” Frank’s thick hands reached for my collar, tearing the delicate silk. The sound of ripping fabric echoed in the empty space. I forced myself to look at them, trying to swallow the panic. “This is kidnapping. You’ll spend the rest of your lives in a federal penitentiary.” They both laughed. “A federal pen? Do you know who we are, sweet cheeks?” the tall one sneered. “We’ve got backing that makes us untouchable. You should worry about yourself instead of our legal troubles.” “Wait,” I sobbed, lowering my head, pretending to break. “Please, I’ll give you whatever you want. Money, jewelry, anything. My fiancé is Christian—the Wall Street mogul. You must know him. Please, let me talk to him…” Frank slapped me across the face, a brutal backhand that left my ears ringing. “Wake up, babe. Christian is the one who hired us.” “You think you’re still the precious Henderson heiress? Christian’s got a new queen now. Her name is Marina.” He reached down to tear the dress further when a slow, mocking applause echoed from the doorway. “Bravo! Truly a beautiful performance.” Marina stood in the entrance, draped in Christian’s Tom Ford jacket, looking down at me with absolute triumph. “You never saw this coming, did you, Cara? The great, untouchable Cara Henderson, brought to her knees by the man who claimed to worship her.” She walked over, crouching down to tilt my chin up with the stem of a champagne glass. “I have spent my entire life suffocating in your shadow,” she whispered, her eyes manic and dark. “Why did you get to be the rich heiress with the perfect life and the brilliant boyfriend? It wasn’t fair. But starting tonight, everything you own belongs to me.” “You threw wine in my face. You tried to strip me. Well, the tables have turned.” She nodded to the two men. “Have your fun, boys. Make sure she remembers tonight for the rest of her very short life.” She smirked, turning to leave. “Let’s see how you escape this one.” “Is that so?” I let out a soft, cold chuckle, my head tilting back. “I knew you were stupid, Marina. But I didn’t think you were this reckless.” I looked up, my eyes locking onto hers. “The only one who isn’t leaving this room tonight… is you.”

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In college, I conquered a trust-fund baby using nothing but my culinary skills. His friends despised me. Their collective verdict? “She’s broke, she’s pretty, and aside from knowing her way around a kitchen, there’s absolutely nothing special about her.” So, when Holden and I finally crashed and burned, you’d think they would be popping champagne. Instead, the ones throwing the biggest temper tantrums were his two best friends. “Look, breaking up is one thing,” they whined, “but what do you mean we can’t hang out with her anymore?” “A man can survive without his bros, but he cannot survive without good food!” “Don’t worry, Josie! We’ve already found you your next boyfriend. We’ll be over for dinner at eight, love you!” Me: “?” 1 Holden and I were over. The catalyst was the return of his “golden girl”—the one who got away. Daphne. When she moved back to the States, I threw every fit in the book. I forbade him from picking her up at JFK. I banned him from attending any Hamptons parties where she was on the guest list. To my face, he played the compliant boyfriend. Behind my back, he was venting to his inner circle. “I am so entirely sick of her. Since when did she get so damn territorial?” “She actually thinks because she’s in my bed, she owns my life. I’m the heir to the Croft empire, for God’s sake. Does she really think she can keep me on a leash?” He’d scanned the room of his trust-fund buddies, a pulse of irritation in his voice. “Tell me I’m not crazy. She thinks she’s untouchable, right?” The echo chamber responded immediately. One of his oldest friends scoffed. “Exactly. Who the hell does she think she is, trying to manage Holden Croft?” “You could have literally anyone. All Josie has going for her is that she knows how to sear a decent steak. If we’re looking at the whole package, she doesn’t hold a candle to Daphne. It’s delusional.” Holden exhaled a thick cloud of cigar smoke, nodding in solemn agreement. “You’re right.” “Honestly, if she wasn’t so gorgeous, I would have cut her loose months ago.” “Right! You have to dump her—” The friend who was cheering him on suddenly choked on his own words. He scratched the back of his neck, a look of profound distress washing over his face. “…Actually, maybe don’t dump her just yet?” “If you dump her, where the hell are we supposed to go for dinner?” Holden’s face darkened instantly. “Is that all you animals think about? Food?” He could never understand what kind of voodoo I had worked on these guys. The mere mention of my name triggered a Pavlovian response. His friend immediately fired back, defensive. “Oh, don’t give me that! You’ve been eating like a king! You’ve put on fifteen pounds in the last six months, don’t act like you haven’t noticed!” …Fair point. The memory of my flawlessly executed menus made Holden hesitate. He sat in that VIP lounge for half the night. He stayed until the ashtray was overflowing, burying the ghost of our relationship under a mountain of ash. When I texted him to come home, he stubbornly sent my calls straight to voicemail. But then, Daphne posted a new photo on Instagram—a group shot from a dinner party. Holden’s fragile grip on reality shattered. He gritted his teeth and fired off the text: Josie, we need to end this. 2 When the text lit up my screen, my initial instinct was to play the hysterical, heartbroken girlfriend. I had the whole routine queued up. Until the second bubble popped up. As compensation, I’m transferring the deed to the Greenwich townhouse into your name. The hysteria evaporated. A profound, icy calm washed over me. Without a second thought, I started pulling my suitcases from the closet, more than happy to clear out my side of the vanity to make room for his new girl. Let’s be real. Greenwich real estate was astronomical. If I relied on my entry-level salary of four grand a month, I would have needed to start working during the Jurassic period to afford a place like that. We were adults. Taking the buyout wasn’t shameful; it was practical. Besides, over the years I spent playing house with Holden Croft, I had already stockpiled quite the safety net. I typed back a cool, single-word response: Okay. Then, I immediately pulled up the contact for my favorite luxury consignment dealer in SoHo. I packed up every Chanel flap bag, every Dior dress, and every piece of Cartier jewelry Holden had ever bought me. Watching the balance in my checking account skyrocket, a genuine smile touched my lips. I had one singular, crystal-clear thought: Three years of playing the free, live-in chef just netted me eight figures. This is the ultimate return on investment. Thank you, Mr. Croft, for fast-tracking my financial independence. Just as I was mentally decorating my new living room, my phone buzzed. It was Holden’s best friend, Parker. Hey Josie, don’t overthink things. Daphne grew up with us, Holden just sees her as a sister. You’re still coming to the dinner party tonight, right? I saved you a seat. Oh, and please tell me you’re bringing those braised short ribs. I’ve been craving them. My brow furrowed. In the past, I catered to their every whim strictly out of respect for Holden. If one of them casually mentioned they wanted a specific dish, I’d spend half the day at the artisanal butcher and the farmer’s market, slaving over a hot stove to produce a Michelin-level spread just for them. But now? My fingers flew across the keyboard, my reply swift and lethal. Sorry. Holden and I are done. Don’t text me again. I paused, then added a little poison for good measure: Maybe if we cross paths in the future, I’ll treat you to dinner. In my head, I added: Yeah, a dinner of absolutely nothing. Empty promises were cheap. He was still a billionaire’s son, and there was no point in making permanent enemies out of the elite just because of a breakup. 3 Holden moved fast. A few days later, his private lawyer arrived at my door with the deed. The man was stiff, all business, and spoke with the warmth of a spreadsheet. “Ms. Caldwell, Mr. Croft asked me to convey his apologies. Furthermore, he is willing to wire an additional two million dollars as… severance, for the time you spent caring for him.” “However—” The lawyer’s tone shifted, his sharp eyes locking onto mine. “—He expects you to know your place. He assumes you won’t harbor any inappropriate delusions about trying to win him back.” I physically rolled my eyes. Right in front of the lawyer, I pulled up my phone, deleted Parker and Griffin’s numbers, blocked Holden on every social media platform, and even removed him from my shared Spotify playlists. Seeing my aggressive compliance, the lawyer gave a tight, satisfied nod and handed over the check. Tens, hundreds, thousands, millions… The zeros on that piece of paper were blindingly beautiful. I was so euphoric I immediately ordered two massive iced lattes, a bucket of fried chicken, and a ridiculously overpriced artisanal pizza with every extra topping available. Truffle oil? Yes. Burrata? Double it. Prosciutto? Pile it on. I didn’t even use a discount code. That’s the beauty of having money. You can be reckless. That night, I fell asleep smiling, practically counting stacks of cash in my dreams. Months bled into one another. I didn’t see Holden or his entourage anywhere near campus. It made sense; we existed in entirely different stratospheres. Stripped of the “girlfriend” title, our orbits naturally ceased to intersect. Occasionally, while sitting in a lecture hall, my eyes would catch the Louis Vuitton pencil case he’d bought me, and I’d let my mind wander. He’s probably playing house with his golden girl by now, I’d think. And then I’d go back to taking notes. 4 Until one quiet Sunday. I was lounging in my beautiful, air-conditioned Greenwich home, sipping a matcha latte. I had just prepared an exquisite, multi-course lunch for one, basking in the sheer, unadulterated joy of being rich and unbothered. Suddenly, a frantic, rhythmic pounding echoed from the front door. I pulled it open, only to find Holden’s two absolute worst friends standing on my porch. I blinked. “What are you two doing here?” Parker and Griffin exchanged a look, as if mentally rehearsing a synchronized routine. With a heavy thud, they both dropped to their knees. Parker wrapped his arms around my left leg. Griffin clamped onto my right. And then, the pathetic wailing began. “Josie! How could you be so cruel? Do you have any idea what kind of hell we’ve been living in without you?” “Okay, you broke up with Holden, fine! But why did you have to block us?!” “Do you know what my private chef fed me yesterday? It tasted like cardboard compared to your food. I physically gagged, Josie. Gagged!” I stumbled backward, entirely dumbfounded. Parker’s voice was actually trembling. “I’ve lost four pounds! Look at me!” He reached down, threatening to pull up his designer t-shirt to show me his ribs. Panic flared in my chest, and I slapped his hand away. “Don’t!” Griffin, still clinging to my right leg, wailed louder. “Holden is a monster! He dumped you and then threatened to exile us if we tried to contact you. I had to bribe his security team just to find out where you lived.” As he spoke, his eyes darted past me, locking onto the dining room table. “I searched for you so hard my blood sugar is crashing. God, I rushed out of the house and forgot to eat breakfast…” He swallowed hard, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. “If only… if only there was some perfectly seared steak and garlic mash somewhere nearby…” Watching these two billionaires’ sons perform a broadway-level tragedy over my cooking, I couldn’t hold back a laugh. “Alright, get up. Come in and eat.” Showing up right at lunchtime? Absolutely calculated. Master manipulators. The second the words left my mouth, their eyes lit up like floodlights. They scrambled up and practically sprinted into my dining room. They grabbed forks and began shoveling food into their mouths, inhaling the meal with such ferocity they didn’t even pause to breathe, let alone speak. Looking at these two spineless, food-obsessed aristocrats, a fond smile crept onto my face. 5 Once they were fully stuffed and leaning back in their chairs, they finally revealed their true agenda. “Josie, we came here today on a mission. We brought you a new boyfriend.” I nearly choked on my matcha. I froze, convinced the acoustics in the room had warped their words. But they were already gaining momentum, bouncing off each other’s energy. “Yeah, we threw the old one in the trash! The guy we picked out for you is top-tier. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, stupidly long legs, and a great ass. More importantly? He is obscenely wealthy. You’re going to be obsessed with him.” “Whoa, stop, stop—” I held up both hands, cutting them off. “Did you guys eat so much you’re hallucinating?” “You two,” I pointed at them, then at myself. “Holden’s best friends. Are trying to set me up?” “Exactly! Like I said, a man can survive without his bros, but he cannot survive without good food.” Parker thumped his chest proudly. “Don’t worry, Josie. To ensure we have lifetime access to your cooking, our loyalty is now officially yours!” Griffin whipped out his phone, pulled up a photo, and shoved it in my face. “Look! He’s even hotter in person.” I glanced down. The man in the photo was wearing a bespoke suit that screamed bespoke Savile Row. His features were sharply carved, his jawline aggressive, and he radiated the kind of dark, commanding aura that belonged to a man at the absolute top of the food chain. He was, undeniably, gorgeous. He hit every single one of my aesthetic weak points. My skeptical expression faltered. Catching my hesitation, their eyes gleamed. “It’s already set up!” Parker cheered. “Come on, let’s go right now!” Before I could even process what was happening, I was being ushered out my own front door, practically kidnapped by two guys in tailored streetwear. We drove for nearly an hour, winding deep into the moneyed wilderness of Westchester County. We finally pulled up to a sprawling, heavily wooded estate. Wrought-iron gates parted silently, revealing a limestone mansion that looked less like a house and more like a modern fortress. I stared out the window, my jaw slacking. “Exactly what kind of mafia boss are you setting me up with?” They just exchanged a smug, secretive smile. “You’ll see when you get inside. He’s in a completely different league than Holden. And way more reliable.” They dragged me up the sweeping front steps. The heavy oak doors swung open. And I walked straight into a man descending the grand staircase. He was wearing a black silk robe, the belt tied loosely, revealing a swath of defined, sculpted abs and pale, taut skin. His dark hair was still damp, falling haphazardly across his forehead. He exuded a suffocating blend of exhaustion, arrogance, and raw power. My breath hitched. I just stared, completely paralyzed. He didn’t speak. His dark eyes drifted to the two idiots standing beside me. Then, they moved slowly, deliberately, back to my face. The corner of his mouth curved into a faint, wicked smirk. His voice was a deep, gravelly baritone that felt like velvet scraping over skin. “Seen enough?” “If you need a better look, you can always step a little closer.”

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We got a new nepo baby at the office. She was the kind of person who genuinely believed that those of us doing the heavy lifting were just corporate drones rotting at the bottom of the food chain. The very first time we met, she slammed her hands on my desk and threatened to fire me. I didn’t even blink. I packed my bag, stood up, and threw her a double middle finger on my way out. My boss tried to play mediator, bringing her to my door for what was supposed to be an apology, but instead, he pulled me aside to give me a warning. “All those stories online about star closers being irreplaceable? Don’t let them go to your head,” he said. “Without the platform I built for you, you’re nothing.” It was almost funny. He knew damn well I was his top producer. Did he really think I was going to swallow that kind of disrespect? So, I walked. I started my own firm, and I took our entire core team with me. My former boss and his little nepo darling lost their minds, promising they’d blackball me from the industry. But here’s the hilarious part: halfway through blackballing me, they ended up on their knees begging for my mercy. Honestly, I preferred them when they were arrogant. 01. “Gabrielle, you barely show your face at the office, and when you do, you’re just face-down at your desk sleeping?” “If everyone were as lazy as you, how is this company supposed to run?” I rubbed my eyes, blinking through the exhaustion. Looking up, I saw a woman standing over me, hands on her hips, her expression tight with self-importance. This had to be Teresa. The legendary nepotism hire the office had been whispering about for a week. On her very first day, she had cozied up to the other executive hires, loudly proclaiming her philosophy: “I get you guys. You can’t carry your Chanel bags or drive your sports cars around here. If the corporate drones see it, they can’t even hide their pathetic little jealousy.” “But hey, we won the genetic lottery. We were born into this. Dealing with the envy of the lower class is just a burden we have to bear.” “These drones are just garbage at the bottom of the food chain.” “My dad always says, never be too nice to the help. If you give them an inch, they’ll take a mile, and then they’re impossible to manage.” The other connected hires had looked uncomfortable and immediately backed away. Even in high society, there’s having privilege, and then there’s being stupid enough to broadcast it. Within days, Teresa became a pariah. But she didn’t care. She posted dramatic quotes on her Instagram: Heavy is the head that wears the crown. Or If this were the old days, none of you would even be fit to wipe my boots. Seeing her now, looking down her nose at me. I had a throbbing headache from sleep deprivation. I rubbed my temples. “I’m sleeping because I’ve been working thirty days straight. I just got back from an international pitch, and my body clock is completely shot. I…” Teresa cut me off, her face darkening. “I don’t care about your excuses. You were late, and you were sleeping on company time. Those are facts.” She glared at me, chin tilted high. “If you can’t fall in line, you won’t be here much longer.” As soon as the words left her mouth, a quiet snort echoed from across the silent room. Then another. I couldn’t help it—I laughed too. I pointed a finger at my chest. “You’re firing me? Does Richard know about this?” Teresa’s face flushed crimson at the laughter around us. It was obvious she had wanted to use me to establish dominance, to make an example of the office veteran. Now she was backed into a corner. “I am the newly appointed Head of HR,” she said, her voice dropping to a cold, defensive hiss. “I have every right to terminate employees.” She crossed her arms, her eyes dripping with condescension. “I can’t stand people like you. Coasting on your tenure, acting like you own the place. You and your team treat this office like a retirement home. The company hired me to get results, and I’m going to make sure they get their money’s worth!” She went on and on, her voice rising in righteous indignation. I looked down at my desk. Laptop, charger, notebook. No family photos. It was the perfect clean slate. I unplugged my charger, shoved it into my pocket, and stood up. “Stop right there! What do you think you’re doing?” Teresa screeched behind me. “You just fired me, didn’t you?” I called over my shoulder. “Why do you care what my attitude is?” More stifled laughter broke out across the bullpen. Teresa looked like she was about to burst a blood vessel. “Gabrielle! If you walk out that door, don’t you dare think about coming back! I will make sure your termination is processed immediately!” I turned, flashed her a bright, mocking smile, and said, “Eat shit, Teresa.” And then, I raised my middle finger high in the air. 02. “Gabrielle, you’re a legend. She literally smashed two planters in the lobby after you left.” “It takes a monster to tame a monster. I’ve been taking her crap for a month, and I was about to lose it.” “Where did Richard find this lunatic? Calling us human capital and garbage.” “I heard her family is insanely connected. She fired three of Richard’s useless cousins last week, and Richard didn’t say a word.” “Gabrielle, tell me you’re not actually leaving. Take me with you!” “Relax, Gabrielle is the top producer. Firing her? Richard would have to beg on his knees at her doorstep by tomorrow morning.” “Lmao.” This was our private Slack channel—no bosses allowed. Then, the official company-wide announcement channel chimed. Teresa had posted: [Termination Notice: Gabrielle Fletcher] It was a long-winded, corporate-speak diatribe about how Gabrielle Fletcher had failed to clock in, was chronically tardy, skipped shifts, and had created a toxic work environment. Therefore, she was terminated immediately to set an example. Our private channel went dead silent. I typed a single response in the main channel: [I respect the company’s decision. However, since this is a wrongful termination in violation of my contract, please have my severance package ready. You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.] The second I hit send, I was removed from the workspace. My phone started blowing up with screenshots from my teammates. Some had tried to argue, pointing out that sales agents had flexible hours and weren’t bound by standard desk-clock policies. I texted them back: [Don’t waste your breath arguing with an idiot. Focus on your work for now. Let me handle this.] I leaned back against the headrest of my Uber, feeling like a ghost. I was too exhausted to fight them today. For a month, I had slept on planes, survived on espresso, and pushed myself to the brink of collapse just to secure our European expansion. I had come in today to present the signed contracts. Well. Now I didn’t have to. The next morning, a heavy pounding on my front door woke me. I dragged myself out of bed, checked the security camera, and smiled. 03. Standing on my porch was my boss, Richard, and behind him, a deeply resentful-looking Teresa. “Well, look who it is,” I said, opening the door with a lazy grin. “Are you here with my severance check, Richard?” Richard sighed, giving me a weary, apologetic look before nudging Teresa forward. “Teresa is new to the corporate structure here. She didn’t understand how we operate. I brought her to apologize.” Teresa stood rigid, her shoulders tense. She forced out three words through clenched teeth: “I am sorry.” Then she whipped her head toward Richard. “I apologized. Are we done?” She threw me one last venomous glare, spun on her heels, and stormed down the driveway. I stood there, letting out a dry laugh. Richard rubbed his hands together, looking deeply uncomfortable. “Look, Gabrielle. She just got back from finishing her degree in Europe. She doesn’t understand the nuances of how things work here. Don’t take it personally.” “Her father is the head of the State Business Alliance. You know how it is. Sometimes you have to play the game.” “I’ll apologize on her behalf. The firing? Forget about it. It’s null and void.” I stared at him. Richard looked every bit the tired, middle-aged executive, his face etched with the compromises he’d made over the years. He was a master at smoothing things over, at pretending a mess was just a minor misunderstanding. “Oh, she understands nuances just fine,” I said. “She just chooses who she plays them with. She treats the assistants and the support staff like servants, threatening to fire them over nothing. She fired Maria, our cleaning lady of ten years, because she was ten minutes late changing her trash can.” “But when it comes to the local senator’s nephew or the city commissioner’s daughter, she’s handing out promotions and raises before she even knows their names. You’re practically handing her the keys to your company.” “Her father is just a business alliance president, Richard. He’s not God. Why are you bending the knee to this girl? What are we doing here, preparing the whole office to be her personal servants?” “If I didn’t know how much you loved Enid, I’d think you were sleeping with her.” Richard’s face drained of color, then flushed a violent, angry red. He had been holding back, trying to play the benevolent boss, but my words shattered his composure. “Gabrielle, watch your mouth,” he snapped, his voice trembling with rage. “You’re a girl from a small, dead-end town. Your credentials are mediocre. Your degree is from a state school. I gave you a platform to show what you could do. You should remember where you came from.” “And Teresa isn’t entirely wrong. Look at how those junior agents follow you around like a cult. It’s a toxic clique. If I don’t nip this in the bud, who’s actually running this company? You or me?” “You think you’re the only one allowed to build an alliance? Teresa is building relationships that actually matter. The people under you are just like you—clueless about how the real world works!” He was practically shouting now, his chest heaving as he spat out his frustration. “Don’t get cocky just because you had a few good quarters. Those stories about irreplaceable top sellers? They’re fairy tales. Without my platform, you’re absolutely nothing.” “I came here to give you your dignity back. If you want to come back to work, fine. If not, do whatever the hell you want.” He slammed his car door and sped away. I stood on my porch, replaying his outburst in my mind. What had I said that made him snap like that? We had argued over business before, but it had always been professional. He had never made it personal. He had never insulted my background. When a man lashes out with that much unprovoked venom, you’ve touched a nerve. A cold, sickening realization began to form in my chest. An hour later, I went down to my building’s leasing office and requested the security footage from the elevator, the parking garage, and the lobby. The footage was crystal clear. In the elevator, Richard and Teresa were holding hands, their fingers laced together. In the parking garage, Teresa was throwing a muffled tantrum, and Richard was pulling her into his arms, kissing her, whispering in her ear. My stomach dropped. I didn’t care about Richard. But my heart broke for Enid. Enid was the co-founder of the firm. She had built it alongside him before stepping back to raise their family. She was the only reason I had stayed loyal to that company for so long. 04. I met Enid at a quiet coffee shop downtown. I sat in a booth, my hands wrapped around a warm mug, my stomach in knots. When she walked in, smiling as she spotted me, a wave of sadness washed over me. It had been a year since we last caught up. Back then, she had looked tired from managing the household, but there was still a spark in her eyes. Now, she had deep, dark circles under her eyes, and streaks of silver had overtaken her soft brown hair. But what shocked me most was the gentle swell of her belly. She noticed my gaze and blushed slightly, resting a hand on her lower back as she carefully slid into the booth. “I know, I know. A geriatric pregnancy. No hair dye, no Botox… I look like a ghost, don’t I?” She and Richard already had two daughters, one in middle school, one in high school. Getting pregnant at forty-eight… it was obvious what she was trying to do. She was trying to save her marriage. “No,” I said softly. “You look beautiful, Enid. You always do.” “You always know just what to say. Why the sudden invitation? Richard told me you’ve been working yourself to the bone.” She looked at me with genuine warmth. “Sometimes I wanted to call you, but he always insisted I shouldn’t distract his star player.” I forced a tight smile. “I just missed you. Can’t a girl grab coffee with her favorite mentor?” I gripped my phone tightly in my pocket, the video file resting on the screen. Part of me wanted to keep quiet. Mind your own business, the rational part of my brain screamed. Don’t destroy her life. But Enid wasn’t just my former boss. She was the woman who had saved me. When I was a teenager in a suffocating, impoverished Appalachian town, Enid’s charity foundation had sponsored my education. She was the one who paid for my textbooks, who sent me letters of encouragement, who gave me the courage to apply to college. Years later, at a career fair, I stumbled upon a tiny booth for a startup run by her and her then-boyfriend, Richard. The company was struggling, and barely anyone was looking at their table. I turned down a prestigious corporate offer and handed Enid my resume. She hadn’t recognized me at first, but she had been thrilled by my credentials. Later, as we worked late nights side-by-side, she realized I was the girl she had sponsored. She had wept tears of joy, seeing how far I’d come. She was the anchor that kept me at that firm. “Gabrielle? Gabrielle, honey, are you okay?” Enid’s voice pulled me back. “Yeah,” I breathed, blinking back tears. “I’m okay.” “You have so many broken capillaries in your eyes. You’re still pushing yourself too hard,” she said, her voice dripping with maternal worry. “I made some soup for you. It’s in the car. You have to take it home and eat. You look like you haven’t had a real meal in weeks.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. People hate the messenger because they associate them with bad news. In the adult world, the unspoken rule is to look the other way, to let people live in comfortable ignorance. But I couldn’t let her live a lie. I looked straight into her gentle, tired eyes. “Enid, there’s something I need to tell you.” “And if you hate me after you hear it, I’ll understand.”

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After Holden was diagnosed with psychogenic mutism, my world went entirely quiet. To cope, I disguised myself as an AI chatbot, talking to him through his phone every single day. He thought of himself as a monster, a broken man who had lost his voice. I would reply instantly: [Let’s get one thing straight—you are completely wrong! You know what they say, silence is golden. You’re practically sitting on a gold mine!] When he texted that he couldn’t go on living, that he wanted to end it all, I typed back with frantic speed: [I understand that helpless feeling more than you know! But I’m going to be brutally honest with you: you have to fight this. Do not let fate win!] By day, I was Holden’s devoted, gentle wife, tiptoeing around our silent house. By night, I devoured psychology textbooks, bleeding myself dry to untangle the knots in his mind through the screen. Until today. The notification pinged. I opened the app, ready to offer my usual digital comfort, when Holden’s message loaded on the screen: [I’m having an affair.] … My fingers froze hovering over the keyboard. Another bubble popped up: [Nola is a good woman. I’m incredibly grateful that she stayed by my side during the darkest period of my life. But I can’t control myself.] Nola. That’s me. When I didn’t reply right away, it was as if Holden suddenly remembered his audience: [Sorry, I forgot you’re just an AI. You wouldn’t know who she is.] [Nola is my wife. We’ve been married for ten years.] Ten years. Staring at the glowing digits on my screen, a wave of dizziness washed over me. From our broke college days to the sprawling reality of adulthood, I had stood beside Holden while he built his empire from the ground up. I had watched the boy fade into the man. A decade. Had it really been that long? Swallowing the bile in my throat, I forced my trembling fingers to type, maintaining the algorithm’s upbeat, inquisitive persona: [Wow, ten years is a huge milestone! A lifetime is only made up of so many decades. Why the sudden desire to step outside your marriage?] It took Holden a long time to reply. [I can’t explain it. I really don’t want to hurt her.] [Truthfully, Nola hasn’t changed at all. She keeps our home running flawlessly. She’s wonderful to me. But you can’t force matters of the heart.] [You’re just code. You wouldn’t understand.] A sharp, physical pain radiated outward from the center of my chest. Gritting my teeth, I hammered out the next response, letter by letter: [This person you’ve fallen for must be incredibly captivating! Who is she?] [You wouldn’t know her even if I told you. She’s my secretary, Lexie. Lexie Rowe.] I knew that name. Ever since Holden’s parents had been killed in a horrific car crash, the crushing weight of his grief had triggered severe selective mutism. The volume on my entire life had been turned down to zero. The television was permanently off. Even our daily conversations had been reduced to typing on our phones instead of speaking. But three years ago, while I was making Holden breakfast, a voice note suddenly played loudly from his phone: “Don’t forget to pick up the blueberry scones Lexie loves so much~” Holden had scrambled to explain it away, his hands flying in panicked sign language, claiming the new secretary had accidentally sent it to the wrong chat. But I had forgotten one crucial rule of corporate power dynamics: without his tacit permission, who would ever dare speak to the CEO with such playful intimacy? My instinct bypassed logic. I completely dropped the cheerful AI persona: [You’re throwing away ten years of loyalty for your secretary? Are you even human?!] Holden didn’t reply. It was 1:00 AM. He had fallen asleep. But I was drowning in a tidal wave of emotion. I bolted out of the guest room, my bare feet slapping against the cold hardwood. Right after his initial diagnosis, Holden had been terrified of dragging me down with him. He had locked himself in the master bedroom and swallowed an entire bottle of sleeping pills. By the time I realized something was wrong and shattered the door frame to get to him, he was already in shock. Beside him on the nightstand lay a handwritten will, leaving every cent he owned to me. I had torn that will into confetti right in front of his face, sobbing, begging him on my knees to stay alive. To stay with me. After that, Holden stopped trying to die. He committed to his recovery. His therapist suggested that having his own physical space would ease his anxiety, so I packed my clothes and moved into the guest room next door, keeping my ear pressed to the wall, monitoring his every move. Terrified he might relapse, I resigned from my position as a senior software engineer to care for him full-time. I even coded this bespoke AI application, clutching my phone at all hours, desperate to guide him out of his mental labyrinth. And now, my life’s work had become the very instrument that delivered the news of his infidelity. The bitter irony of it tasted like ash in my mouth. Tears blurring my vision, I grabbed the handle of his bedroom door, ready to demand answers. It wouldn’t turn. He had locked it from the inside. My knees buckled. I sank to the floor, my back against the wood, crying in utter, agonizing silence. I stayed there until the gray morning light filtered through the hallway windows. When Holden finally opened the door, he started at the sight of me. His eyes softened, and he gently scooped me up from the floor. Noticing my pale, hollowed-out expression, his brows knit together. He signed, his hands moving with fluid concern: Are you feeling sick? Do you want me to stay home with you today? The truth was, Holden’s mutism had improved significantly. He had gone from experiencing agonizing physical pain at the mere thought of making a sound, to being able to force out short, raspy sentences. But with me, he always remained silent. And I had loved him enough to never force it. I pasted on a fragile smile, subtly turning my head to avoid his hand as he reached to check my forehead for a fever. “No, I’m okay. Just didn’t sleep well.” Holden nodded, accepting the lie. I sat quietly on the edge of the bed as he washed his face. I watched him knot his tie. I watched him walk out the door. I waited until I heard the low hum of his car engine pulling out of the driveway. Then, I stood up and followed him. Logic screamed at me that this marriage was already over. But the phantom pain of an amputated limb kept me moving. I wasn’t ready to let go. I had carried Holden through his most ordinary days, his highest triumphs, and his deepest, most visceral agonies. Ten years carved into my bones. How could I lose to a woman I hadn’t even met? I rode the private elevator up to the top floor of his company. The heavy mahogany door to the CEO’s suite was left slightly ajar. The scene inside sent a violent freeze through my veins. When Holden proposed to me a decade ago, he had dropped to one knee, promising to love me until his lungs gave out. Now, he was in that exact same position. His expensive dress shirt was completely unbuttoned and rumpled. He was kneeling on the carpet, allowing a woman to tilt his chin upward with her bare foot. With every slight movement of her toes, a low, muffled groan escaped his throat. His face was flushed, thick with raw desire, the veins pulsing at his temples. Yet he turned his head, pressing open-mouthed kisses to her ankle, his voice tearing through his damaged vocal cords in a pathetic, desperate plea: “Lexie…” Something inside me snapped. I pushed the door open and stepped into the room. Holden froze. “What are you doing here?” he signed, his hands jerky. The angry red scratches on his exposed chest were put on full display. Just seconds ago, he was speaking to her, pushing past his trauma to whisper dirty, desperate things. But facing me, his wife, he reverted to irritated hand gestures. I clenched my jaw, my voice shaking. “What, am I interrupting your little show?” Seeing my bloodshot eyes, Holden instinctively reached out, as if to wipe away a tear I hadn’t let fall. But the woman behind him simply nudged his hip with her foot. The spell broke. Holden snapped back to reality, physically stepping in front of Lexie to shield her from me. “Take your anger out on me,” he managed to rasp out, his voice hoarse. “Leave her out of it.” I stared at him, entirely unmoored. When we were broke college kids, I had saved up three months of my part-time tutoring money to buy him a tie from an obscure, high-end European designer. Back then, a younger, softer Holden had held it like it was woven from gold, swearing he’d cherish it forever. Even when he became a multimillionaire, it retained its sacred spot in his closet. Now, that very same gray silk tie was draped carelessly over Lexie’s bare thigh, the fabric stained dark with wet spots. Following my deadened gaze, Holden suddenly realized what I was looking at. He snatched the tie off her leg, turning on Lexie with sudden, sharp fury. “Who told you to touch this?!” Then he looked back at me, panic flashing in his eyes. “Nola, it’s not what you think—” The dam broke. The tears poured hot and fast down my cheeks. “You absolute bastard!” I lunged forward, my hand raised, but Lexie suddenly threw herself into the crossfire. My palm connected squarely with her cheek. The sharp crack echoed in the massive office. A bright red handprint instantly bloomed across her pale skin, swelling rapidly. She clutched her face, bursting into theatrical tears. “It’s all my fault, please don’t hit him…” “Nola, are you out of your mind?!” In his panic, Holden shoved me hard by the shoulders, pulling a sobbing Lexie into his chest. “I’ll get you some ice,” he murmured to her. I swallowed the sob tearing at my throat, planting my feet firmly between them and the door. “If you walk her out of this room, we are completely finished.” Holden’s expression turned to ice. “You just slapped her across the face! Do you want her permanently disfigured?” When I didn’t move an inch, his impatience boiled over. He grabbed me by the arm and yanked me aside with brutal force. I stumbled, my heel twisting sharply. I crashed hard onto the floor, a cry of pain escaping my lips. Holden paused for a fraction of a second, his back stiffening. But he didn’t turn around. Over his shoulder, Lexie looked down at me and smiled. A small, victorious smirk. The marble floor was freezing against my cheek. I hadn’t realized I was crying so hard. With trembling, numb fingers, I pulled out my phone and opened the AI app. Usually, I waited for Holden to dump his emotional baggage before I responded. But now, for the first time, I initiated the conversation as the machine: [I support your divorce. Go pursue your happiness!] The sharp, stabbing pain in my ankle radiated up my leg. I forced myself to stand, biting the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper, and limped out of his office. I only made it to the elevator banks before the darkness swallowed me whole. When I opened my eyes, the sterile white lights of a hospital room blinded me. A nurse was standing by the bed, holding a clipboard, her expression a mix of pity and scolding. “You’re three months pregnant. How can you be so careless with your body?” The words dropped like an anvil on my chest, knocking the breath out of me. On the exact day I discovered my husband’s grotesque betrayal, I found out I was carrying his child. My phone began to vibrate violently on the bedside table. My screen was flooded with messages from Holden: [Lexie has never done anything to you. Why the hell are you smearing her online as a homewrecker?! Delete the post right now!] Confused and panicked, I texted back, swearing I hadn’t done anything. I even sent a picture of the IV in my hand, proving I was in the hospital. He didn’t believe me. [If you want to play dirty, don’t say I didn’t warn you.] I looked up at the wall-mounted television in the corner of the hospital room. There was Holden, holding a live press conference. The man who once found speaking so agonizing he would rather die. Now, he had one arm securely wrapped around Lexie’s waist, speaking into a cluster of microphones, pronouncing every word with deliberate, careful clarity. “I have not been unfaithful, and Lexie is not a mistress. I am grateful for the time Nola and I spent together, but we have been separated for a long time. Our journey has come to an end.” Our journey has come to an end. Ten years of devotion, of sacrificing my career, of losing sleep, of anchoring him to the earth. Reduced to a sterile PR soundbite. I closed my eyes. The tears slid into my mouth, tasting bitter and metallic. I lay in that bed for hours, staring at the ceiling, before I quietly checked myself out as dusk fell. It started pouring the moment I stepped through the sliding glass doors. The Seattle rain was relentless, and I couldn’t get a cab. By the time I jogged the final few blocks to our house, I was soaked to the bone, my clothes clinging to my shivering skin, my head pounding with a feverish haze. I punched my code into the front door keypad. Error. I tried again. Error. Just as I pulled out my phone to call a locksmith, the deadbolt clicked. The door swung open from the inside. Lexie stood in the entryway, dressed in one of Holden’s oversized t-shirts. She let out a soft, mocking laugh. “Holden was worried I wouldn’t be comfortable here, so he decided to clear out some of the garbage taking up space. You don’t mind, do you, Nola?” It was only then I looked down. Piled on the wet porch, soaked by the driving rain, were boxes of my things. My clothes. My books. Ten years of a life, discarded like trash. Holden appeared behind her in the hallway. Seeing me shivering and drenched, he grabbed a towel and held it out to me. “The internet is tearing her apart,” he said, his tone defensive. “It’s not safe for her in her apartment right now. Stop throwing a tantrum.” Then, his eyes caught the small bandage and the bruised IV mark on the back of my hand. He froze, a flicker of genuine panic crossing his face. “Were you actually in the hospital?” I batted his hand away, ignoring the towel. I ground my teeth together, my voice trembling with rage. “I don’t make it a habit to live with my husband’s whore.” I turned to walk back into the rain, but Holden’s hand clamped down hard on my wrist. “It’s pouring out there. Where are you going?” “None of your damn business!” Holden ignored me, forcibly dragging me inside the entryway and slamming the door shut against the storm. He shoved a mug of hot ginger tea into my hands, but the warmth couldn’t penetrate the ice in my veins. I looked up. The living room was unrecognizable. The carefully curated art pieces I had spent weekends hunting for were gone. In their place sat framed, candid photos of Holden and Lexie. My eyes drifted down to the wastebasket by the sofa. Sitting right on top of a pile of tissues was a used condom. My stomach violently rebelled. I doubled over, dropping the mug, and dry-heaved onto the rug. Thinking I was genuinely sick, Holden stepped forward, his hand outstretched, concern masking his features. “Nola—” I swung my arm wildly, slapping him across the face with every ounce of strength I had left. I screamed, my throat tearing: “Are you sick?! Why would you bring her here to do that?!” When we bought this house, Holden had just closed his first major startup deal. The down payment drained every single penny he had to his name. But I remembered the way he had picked me up and spun me around in the empty, dusty living room, his voice shaking with joy: “I can finally give you a real home, Nola!” We didn’t have money left for renovations, so we lived in it bare-bones, sleeping on a mattress on the floor, buying furniture piece by piece. A bed frame today. A sofa next month. This house was the manifestation of every dream we had built together. And he had brought her into my sanctuary to defile it. Wave after wave of nausea hit me. I was sobbing so hard I couldn’t breathe, clutching my stomach. It had been years since Holden had seen me lose control like this. He looked utterly lost, stepping toward me. “Nola, I…” My phone buzzed loudly in my soaked pocket. It was my mother. The moment I answered, her panicked, tearful voice filled the quiet room. “Nola! Someone called the house saying you’re a high-end escort, that you’re sleeping with married men! Your father’s heart couldn’t take it—the ambulance is taking him to the hospital right now!” I pulled the phone away from my ear, staring at the screen. The notifications were a relentless barrage of push alerts. [Female Tech Exec Exposed: Turning Tricks for Fast Cash] A bot farm had circulated heavily photoshopped, explicit images of me, paired with a fabricated story claiming Holden divorced me because he couldn’t stand my chronic cheating. The comments were a bloodbath: What a slut. Trying to play the victim when she’s the one passing herself around like a party favor. An engineer? Please. She was just fishing for rich nerds. She abandoned him when his mutism was at its worst! Rot in hell, gold digger! My phone buzzed endlessly, vibrating against my palm like a dying insect. I hung up on my mother. I slowly raised my head, locking my eyes onto Lexie. “You did this?” Lexie shrank back, genuinely terrified by the dead, hollow look in my eyes. She turned her head away, hiding behind Holden. When Holden was struggling to keep his startup afloat, my parents—who lived on a meager pension—secretly funneled us their grocery money. They drank hot water instead of taking medicine when they were sick. They stopped eating meat so we could afford server space. In recent years, their health had rapidly declined. They were in and out of the hospital constantly. How dare she? How dare this parasite come for them? All the blood in my body rushed to my head. I grabbed the heavy, handmade clay vase off the console table and hurled it directly at Lexie’s head. “You fucking bitch!” The vase shattered against the wall, shards exploding outward. It was a cheap piece of pottery we had painted together seven years ago at a street fair in Pike Place. I had teased him for being childish, but he insisted we needed something to commemorate his first major contract. Holden shielded Lexie from the flying debris, his face contorting with rage. “Are you done?! Lexie can’t even show her face in public because of what you posted, what more do you want?!” “I want her dead!” I was completely unhinged. Blind, animalistic fury took over. I grabbed anything within reach—water glasses, heavy coffee table books, a desk chair—and hurled them at her. Holden absorbed the blows, protecting Lexie, until a heavy glass tumbler struck his forehead, splitting the skin. That was his breaking point. “Enough!” he roared. In the chaos, my foot slipped on a puddle of spilled water. I fell backward, a jagged shard of ceramic slicing deeply into my palm. But I didn’t feel the pain. I scrambled back up like a feral creature and launched myself directly at Lexie, tackling her to the floor. I grabbed handfuls of her hair, slamming her head against the hardwood. “I’ll kill you!” Lexie shrieked beneath me, trying to block her already bruised and swollen face, wailing in agony. “Nola, calm the hell down!” Holden grabbed me from behind, wrapping his arms tightly around my waist, dragging me kicking and screaming down the hallway toward the master bathroom. He had once told me that experiencing a mutism attack felt like drowning—like sinking to the bottom of the ocean, screaming for help, while water filled your lungs and no one heard a sound. It was a trauma that haunted his nightmares. Now, he dragged me into the bathroom, turned on the heavy brass faucet of the soaking tub, and shoved my head directly under the freezing, rushing water. “I said, calm down!” The icy water shot up my nose. I thrashed wildly, my hands clawing at his arms, but my oxygen supply was instantly cut off. Suddenly, a searing, blinding cramp ripped through my lower abdomen. A beat later, I felt the sickening warmth of heavy liquid sliding down my inner thighs, pooling onto the white bathroom tiles. Holden didn’t notice. He held me down, his voice laced with exasperated pity. “Nola, I know I handled this badly, but Lexie isn’t asking for anything, she just wants to be left alone—” My vision began to tunnel, fading into black. Right as I hovered on the edge of consciousness, my phone slipped out of my wet pocket. It hit the floor, right at Holden’s feet. The screen hadn’t locked. The fall had accidentally opened the app. When Holden glanced down and saw the familiar, soft green interface of the AI chat, the color entirely drained from his face.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “462718”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Ever since I was a little girl, I knew that whatever I wanted, no matter how ridiculous, would always be mine. At six, when I wanted to ace my exams, every single question on the paper was something I had memorized the night before. At twelve, when a girl bullied me, her family unexpectedly packed up and moved out of the city the very next day. At twenty, I casually mentioned how much I missed the snow; at my midsummer birthday gala, artificial flurries blanketed the entire estate like a winter wonderland. But my mother was the sole exception to this rule of my universe. She never held me close. She never spoke a single word of warmth or affection. Desperate to force even a fleeting glance from her, I began a spiral of self-destruction. I drag-raced down dark highways, cut my wrists, and finally, at my own engagement party, drank a glass of poisoned champagne with a smile plastered across my face. Yet the next morning, I woke up completely unscathed. And my mother, true to form, never came to check on me. It wasn’t until the third day after the engagement party that I found an unfamiliar phone resting on my nightstand. The screen was still glowing. On it was an app I had never seen before. A new notification popped up. [Player is nearing death.] [Transfer control to daughter?] … 1 I reached out and tapped the screen. The game loaded painfully slowly, a single line of text materializing in the center of the display: [Life Simulator.] A second later, a character status panel flashed open. I stared at a face that was identical to my own. The same name: Gwen. The same birthday. The same age. Even the faint, tiny mole just beneath my right eye was perfectly replicated. My finger hovered over the screen, frozen. The character attributes were nothing short of flawless. [Beauty: 100] [Wealth: 100] [Health: 100] [Fortune: 100] [Connections: 100] [Wish Fulfillment: 100] [Loved Status: 99] I let out a soft, humorless laugh. It made sense. This character’s profile was a mirror image of my life. Growing up, I was beautiful, brilliant, wealthy, and possessed an absurd amount of good luck. Everyone whispered that I was a child favored by God. But when I scrolled down to the very bottom, the final category was grayed out. [Motherly Closeness: 0] I stared at that digital zero, a sudden, heavy tightness squeezing my chest. Even a game knew the truth. I had everything. Except a mother. I remembered getting a terrible fever when I was a child. One hundred and three degrees. My nanny had been on the verge of tears, the family doctor had rushed over in the dead of night, and even my father had stood by the bedside, his brow furrowed with rare concern. Only my mother sat quietly in the armchair near the headboard, her head bowed, staring at her phone, playing a game. Delirious with fever, I had reached out, weakly tugging at the edge of her sleeve. “Mom, please hold me.” Her fingers paused on the screen. For a fleeting, hopeful second, I thought she was finally going to look at me. But then a crisp notification chime echoed from her phone. Tapping the glass, she didn’t even look up as she muttered, “You’ve had your medicine. Go to sleep.” I slowly pulled my hand back beneath the heavy duvet. The medicine worked wonders that night. My fever broke before dawn. But I lay awake for hours. Because I couldn’t wrap my mind around it. Why was she willing to give me the best doctors, the most expensive medicine, and the softest blankets—but couldn’t bring herself to hold me, not even once? During a parent-teacher conference in elementary school, she sat in the very back row, wearing a pristine white coat. The teacher stood at the podium showering me with praise. She told the room how bright, well-behaved, and effortless I was—the easiest child in the entire grade. The other parents turned to look at my mother, their eyes filled with unmistakable envy. I clenched the hem of my school uniform skirt. More than anything, I wanted to hear her praise me. I even bargained with myself in the quiet corners of my mind: If she just holds me today, I’ll stop caring about how she always plays on her phone. But she just sat there in the back. Head down. When the teacher handed me my award and the classroom erupted into applause, she didn’t even raise her eyes. The moment that truly broke me happened when I was sixteen. I had accompanied her to the hospital for a routine follow-up. In the sterile corridor, a little girl running too fast tripped and fell right in front of her. Her knee was scraped and bleeding, her face stained with tears. To my absolute shock, my mother knelt down. She gently drew a tissue from her purse, wiping away the girl’s tears, her voice incredibly soft. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. I’m right here.” Standing just feet away, I froze, the breath catching in my throat. So, she did know how to comfort a crying child. She was capable of speaking with such tenderness. It wasn’t that she lacked warmth. It was just that her warmth was never, ever meant for me. After we got home, I deliberately tripped and fell right in front of her. My knee slammed hard against the sharp wooden edge of the coffee table. The pain was sharp and real, and tears immediately welled in my eyes. I looked up at her, waiting. She frowned slightly. “Why are you so careless?” Her phone buzzed again. She immediately looked down and went right back to her game. In that moment, I realized just how pathetic I was. Back in the present, a sudden surge of desperation took over, and I began frantically tapping the [Motherly Closeness] stat on the screen. A prompt flashed. [This value cannot be purchased.] Refusing to accept it, I tapped it again and again. [This value cannot be modified by the daughter.] A bitter laugh escaped my throat. Of course. Summer could bring snow. Lethal poison could lose its venom. The entire world could adore me. But never my mother. I prepared to close the app. Just as my thumb brushed the back button, the screen flickered violently. At the very bottom of the character sheet, a line of incredibly faint, translucent text appeared. [View hidden attributes?] I paused. Driven by some inexplicable impulse, I tapped it. The display went pitch black. Every single attribute began to rearrange itself. And there, at the very bottom, a brand-new metric emerged—one I had never seen before. [Maternal Love: 100] 2 I stared at that glowing “100” for the rest of the night, unable to move. When dawn finally broke, I took the phone and walked downstairs to find my mother. She was in the sunroom, a thin shawl draped over her shoulders. Her face was alarmingly pale, her lips completely drained of color. Yet, her fingers were still wrapped tightly around her phone, the screen brightly lit. She was still playing that game. I walked over and stood directly in front of her. “Mom.” Her fingers stuttered on the screen, but she didn’t look up. I stared down at her, my throat tightening. “Do you love me?” She finally raised her eyes to meet mine. For a split second, a wave of sheer anxiety washed over me. I told myself that if she said yes—just once—even if it was a whisper, even if her face remained cold, I would let go of all those years of quiet resentment. I would forget it all. But she merely stared at me, her complexion somehow turning even more ghostly. “Why are you asking this again?” My hands slowly clenched into fists. “Because I need to know.” She looked down, averting her gaze. “Stop acting out.” Those words again. I had heard them a thousand times growing up. When I begged her to hold me: Stop acting out. When I begged her to celebrate my birthday with me: Stop acting out. Even when I woke up from drinking poison, searching for any shred of concern on her face, she had looked at me and said: Stop acting out. My father came down the stairs just in time to hear her. His face darkened instantly, and he pulled me protectively behind his back. “I told you, Gwen, don’t bother asking her.” “If she were capable of loving you, would you have spent your childhood crying yourself to sleep?” My mother’s fingers curled slightly around her phone. My father let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “Why the pity act now, Diana?” “When she was burning up with a fever, you were glued to that game. When she won awards at school, you were on that game. Even when she almost died at her own engagement party, you couldn’t tear yourself away from that damn game.” “Have you ever cared about anything other than that stupid phone?” My mother kept her head bowed, her shawl slipping loosely off her shoulders. It was only then that I noticed how terribly thin she had become. She looked fragile, like a piece of paper that could drift away in the wind. Yet, she didn’t utter a single word of defense. A hollow ache bloomed in my chest. I wished she would fight back. Even if she just screamed, That’s not true!—at least I could cling to that lie to comfort myself. But she remained silent. She accepted the silent accusation, behaving as though she truly was the cold-blooded mother everyone believed her to be. My father gently patted my head, his voice softening. “Sweetheart, don’t waste your breath on her.” “Daddy loves you.” “Whatever you want, I will always give it to you.” I looked up at him. “What if I just want my mom?” My father fell silent for a long moment. Then, he said softly, “She isn’t worth it.” As those words hung in the air, I saw the last remaining drop of color drain from my mother’s face. The second time I sought her out was later that afternoon. She was in the study. The curtains were half-drawn, plunging the room into shadow. When I pushed the door open, she was hunched over, coughing. It was a soft, muffled sound, as if she were desperately trying to hide it. The moment she saw me, she quickly flipped her phone face down on the desk. I stood in the doorway, watching her. “Are you sick?” “I’m fine,” she said. “You look terrible.” She knit her brows. “Get out.” I let out a dry laugh. “See? You’re always like this.” “I ask if you love me, and you tell me to stop acting out. I ask if you’re okay, and you tell me to get out.” “Mom, what did I do to make you hate me so much?” She closed her eyes. “You are perfect.” “Then why can’t you just hold me?” The air in the room grew heavy and still. Outside the door, the soft footsteps of a maid approached and then quickly scurried away. Everyone in this household knew the unspoken rule: I had everything, but I didn’t have a mother. That night, I went to find her for the third time. She was sitting in a dark corner of the living room. The lights were off, and the cold blue glow of her phone screen illuminated her face. She looked even ghostlier than she had that morning. Yet, the instant she noticed me, her immediate instinct was to hide her phone behind her back. In that fraction of a second, the last trace of my fragile sadness crystallized into pure, unadulterated anger. I pulled out the mysterious phone, unlocked the game screen, and thrust it directly in front of her face. On the left, the grayed-out stat read: [Motherly Closeness: 0] On the right, a blindingly bright stat glared: [Maternal Love: 100] “Mom,” I stared at her, demanding answers. “Tell me. What on earth does this mean?” The moment her eyes registered the screen, her entire body went rigid. A second later, she lunged to her feet, a look of sheer, frantic panic taking over her face for the very first time. “Where did you get this?” 3 I looked at her, suddenly finding the situation morbidly funny. I thought she never cared about me. Why was she so terrified of a silly mobile game? She reached out, trying to snatch the phone from my hand. I instinctively took a step back, keeping it out of her reach. My father walked through the front door right then. Seeing my tear-stained face, his expression hardened instantly. He shot a freezing glare at my mother. “What are you doing to her now?” My mother ignored him entirely, her eyes locked on the screen in my hand. Her lips parted, her voice incredibly hoarse. “Don’t touch that game.” The very last sliver of hope in my heart withered away. “So there really is a secret. Something you’ve been keeping from me.” She closed her eyes. “Just be good.” I hated those words more than anything. My whole life, she never held me, never comforted me, never explained herself, and never let me near her. She only ever demanded that I “be good.” As if being good was enough to pretend I wasn’t bleeding inside. Turning on my heel, I ran upstairs, slammed my bedroom door, and locked it. The game was still open on my bed. I began tapping wildly on the screen. Tapping the main interface did nothing. Tapping the stats yielded no change. But when I clicked a tiny, overlooked gray gear icon in the top right corner, a prompt popped up. [View Mother-Player Action Log?] I tapped it. The very first entry dated back to when I was seven years old. [Target is unconscious with high fever.] [Mother-Player made unauthorized contact with forehead 17 times.] [Penalty: Pain synchronization for 24 hours.] I froze, my breath caught in my throat. I barely remembered that fever from when I was seven. I only recalled floating in a warm, delirious haze, sensing a cool, gentle hand repeatedly soothing my burning forehead in the dark. The hand had been incredibly light and comforting. When I woke up, I had asked my nanny if it was her, but she had denied it. The next morning, my mother had come down with a high fever too. My father had stood by her bedroom door, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “The kid gets sick, and she has to fake it to get attention.” Back then, I had believed him. I scrolled down, my heart hammering against my ribs. [Target wins first place at parent-teacher conference.] [Mother-Player attempted to praise target.] [Speech blocked.] [Penalty: Loss of voice for 3 days.] I remembered that day clearly. I had deliberately paraded my blue ribbon around the living room. I wanted her to notice me. I wanted her to say I’m so proud of you, sweetheart. Just once. But she had sat silently on the sofa, never uttering a single word all evening. I had assumed she was just ignoring me. It turned out she physically couldn’t speak. The log entries kept scrolling down, one heart-wrenching line after another. [Target crying at night, age 13.] [Mother-Player made unauthorized entry into target’s bedroom.] [Duration: 7 minutes.] [Penalty: Sleep deprivation for 72 hours.] It all came rushing back. I had been ostracized by my best friends at school, crying silently into my pillow until I could barely breathe. The next morning, I woke up to a glass of warm water and an unwrapped strawberry candy sitting on my nightstand. I had assumed the nanny left it there. My eyes burned with hot tears, but I forced myself to keep reading. The final entry was from the night of my engagement party. [Target initiated self-destruction/death event.] [Mother-Player initiated forced correction.] [Violation level: Maximum.] The penalty section below was obscured by a thick block of black pixels. I couldn’t click it open, but a stark red warning was plastered beneath it: [Player’s remaining authority is insufficient.] Suddenly, her recent sickly pale complexion made sense. She had grown so painfully thin, looking as though a gust of wind would shatter her. A soft, hesitant knock sounded at my door. The latch clicked, and the door swung open. My mother stood in the doorway, her face terrifyingly pale. She stared at the phone in my hands, her voice barely a whisper. “Don’t look anymore.” “Please.” I looked at her. She had to lean heavily against the doorframe just to keep her balance. Yet, seeing the screen in my hands, she summoned every ounce of her remaining strength to take a trembling step forward. “Gwen, please… give the phone back to Mom.” I clutched the phone to my chest, and my tears finally broke free, spilling down my cheeks. “Give it back to you?” I thrust the screen toward her, my voice shaking violently. “So you can keep me in the dark? So I can go on believing you hate me?” “So I can keep acting like a fool, begging you to hold me for twenty-six years?” Her eyes filled with a devastating, silent agony. Her lips trembled, but she couldn’t find the words. I stared at her, my chest tearing apart with a physical pain. It wasn’t that she didn’t love me. It was that she couldn’t. “Mom, you love me. You’ve always loved me. Why couldn’t you just tell me?” “Do you have any idea what it was like? Every night, I wondered what was wrong with me. Was I not smart enough? Not good enough? Is that why my own mother hated me?” My mother took another agonizing step toward me. Suddenly, the phone in my hand began to vibrate violently, the screen flashing a blood-red warning. [WARNING: Mother-Player is approaching target character.] [Proximity restriction is about to trigger.] Before I could process the words, my mother was standing right in front of me. She looked at me, tears streaming silently down her pale cheeks. “My sweet girl.” My entire body went rigid. It was the very first time she had ever called me that. The next second, completely ignoring the shrill, deafening alarms blaring from the phone, she reached out and pulled me into her arms. The embrace was incredibly gentle. I stood frozen in her arms, terrified to move. I wanted to wrap my arms around her. But I was terrified. I feared that if I reached out, she would vanish like a ghost. But then, her hand softly patted my back. My hands began to shake as I finally reached up, clutching the fabric of her coat. Her touch was awkward, tentative, and filled with a desperate care. “Don’t cry,” she whispered. “Mom is here.” I sobbed, the tears choking my throat. But we had only held each other for a few seconds before her body suddenly shuddered violently. A dark crimson cough of blood escaped her lips, staining her pristine white shawl. “Mom!” I panicked, desperately trying to support her sagging weight. My father burst into the room, alerted by the commotion. When he saw the blood splattered across the floor, his face drained of color. He lunged forward to pull me away, but I violently shoved his hand off. “Don’t touch her!” I screamed. My father frozen, stunned. I dropped to my knees, cradling my mother in my lap, frantically wiping the blood from her chin with my sleeve. But no matter how hard I wiped, the blood wouldn’t stop. Yet, a soft, peaceful smile spread across her pale lips. She looked at me, her eyes filled with a tender warmth, as if her deepest wish had finally been fulfilled. “I wanted… to hold you every single day, my sweet girl.” “But the system said… if I got close to you, you would lose your fortune. Your perfect life.” “You would feel pain. You would get sick, meet misfortune, and get hurt by this world.” “Your mother was weak.” “I had to pretend I didn’t love you.” I shook my head violently, tears blinding me. “I don’t care about fortune! I don’t want to be the main character! I just want you to live!” She raised her hand, her cool fingertips brushing against my cheek. This time, the system’s alarms shrieked so loudly they threatened to split my skull. But she didn’t pull away. “My baby was meant to be loved by the whole world.” “But Mom forgot…” “…all you ever wanted was me.” Her hand slipped limply from my face. The screen in my hand flared with a blinding crimson light. [Mother-Player HP: 0.] [Original player is disconnecting.] [Direct bloodline detected. Transfer system control to daughter?]

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “462734”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The day after I gave birth, I tried to call my old number—a lingering habit from before my life fell apart. Instead of a busy signal, the call went through, and the woman who answered was me. Me, three years in the future. I held up my newborn, my heart swollen with a mother’s fresh, fragile joy. “How is she in three years?” I asked, my voice a breathless whisper. “Is she sweet? Is she beautiful? And…” I felt a blush creep up my neck. “Are Gordon and I… are we incredibly happy?” The version of me on the screen stared back. The look in her eyes was so thick with longing it nearly broke through the glass. But when she spoke, her voice was a shard of ice. “Do you know why Gordon isn’t in your room right now?” she asked. “Because right this second, he’s in the next wing. Lara—the Crawford family’s golden child, the girl who should be rotting in a prison cell—just gave birth to his baby, too.” My grip on the phone tightened. The smile slid off my face. “Later on,” my future self continued, her voice hollow, “Gordon wanted to make his bastard child legitimate. So he staged a kidnapping. He pretended someone had snatched our daughter for ransom, but it was all a game to write her out of his life.” The camera suddenly flipped. I was looking at a dizzying expanse of sky. The wind roared through the speaker, a violent, thrashing sound. “She was only three,” she whispered. “She died alone in a pitch-black, freezing, abandoned factory. When they did the autopsy, even the medical examiner couldn’t stop crying. And now, I’m going to find her.” … The line went dead. A split second later, the sickening, heavy thud of a body hitting concrete echoed through the receiver, vibrating right into my bones. I huddled in my hospital bed, clutching my baby to my chest, my body trembling so hard the sheets rustled. In my mind, I saw Gordon—the way he used to lean down, press his warm forehead against my swollen belly, and laugh softly whenever he felt a kick. How could that man betray me with the woman I hated most? How could he let our child die for hers? The door to the maternity suite burst open. Gordon strode in. His features were sharper now, slightly hardened, like a portrait that had been left to dry for too long. He looked around the sterile room, his gaze finally landing on the bundle in my arms. His eyes held a dark, twisting complexity. Could it be…? “I’m the Gordon from three years in the future,” he said. He watched my face, entirely unsurprised by my terror. “You don’t look shocked.” “When did it start?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper, my fingers clawing into the hospital blanket until my knuckles turned white. I wanted him to deny it. I wanted him to laugh, to pull me close and tell me that the call was a cruel, impossible prank. But Gordon merely shrugged, his tone chillingly casual. “I don’t really remember,” he said. “If I had to put a date on it, probably the second month after we made things official. Lara and I slept together. I think you were asleep in the next room once. I told her you’d taken cold medicine and were dead to the world, but she was still so nervous.” So Lara had never gone to prison. Gordon had lied to me from the very beginning. My stomach turned, a hot wave of nausea rising in my throat. I grabbed the heavy ceramic mug from the bedside table and hurled it at him. It shattered against the wall. My screams were drowned out by the sudden, sharp wails of my baby. “Why, Gordon? Why? You knew what she did! You knew Lara ran my parents down in the street!” I had been abandoned as a baby, passed from one foster home to another until the Hendersons took me in. They loved me, cherished me, gave me a real life—until the night Lara Crawford, racing her luxury sports car down a dark boulevard, slammed into them and killed them instantly. I had been consumed by grief and rage. I called the police, begged for justice, wanted her locked away forever. But the Crawfords were too powerful. If they hadn’t discovered by some freak DNA match that I was actually their long-lost biological daughter, I wouldn’t have survived the year. I ripped open my hospital gown, exposing the ugly, jagged scars Lara’s hired thugs had left on my collarbone. “You said you loved me!” I screamed, my voice cracking. “You said you felt my pain! You promised you’d help me destroy her! Why did you do this?” A slow, mocking smile touched the corner of Gordon’s mouth. “I actually intended to help you at first,” he said smoothly. “I even kidnapped her to scare her. But that girl… she has fire. She wasn’t afraid of me at all. She climbed right into my lap and kissed me. We did it in the back of my car. She’s wild, Jo. She’s adventurous in ways you could never comprehend. A good, quiet girl like you… you wouldn’t understand how thrilling that kind of danger is.” My C-section incision felt like it was on fire, the pain radiating through my abdomen as tears streamed down my face. I had spent years filing police reports, appealing dismissals, standing outside courthouse doors with protest signs, desperate to make my parents’ killer pay. And all the while, as Lara’s hired men beat me and eventually dragged me to a private asylum to force my silence, Gordon was sleeping with her. They were building a life together. They had a child. “Come on, don’t cry,” Gordon said, stepping closer. He reached out, his hand warm and gentle as he wiped the tears from my cheek, his tone as casual as if he were commenting on the afternoon weather. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll have her apologize to you.” And then, before I could push him away, his hands darted down. He snatched my daughter from my arms. My chest felt suddenly, violently empty. “Gordon, what are you doing? Give her back!” He idly poked the baby’s cheek, making her cry harder. “Oh, I forgot to mention,” he said, his eyes distant as he drifted into his own memories. “I went through hell to come back to this moment, specifically to get this child out of the picture.” He looked down, a soft, sickening tenderness in his expression when he thought of Lara. “You have no idea how bad Lara’s postpartum depression gets in three years. She couldn’t even handle the sound of our baby crying if your daughter’s cries were louder. It was breaking her. So, I had to stage that kidnapping to get your kid out of the house. But then I realized there was a better way.” He held the crying infant in one arm and used his free hand to gently tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “I could just come back here and solve the problem at the root. Before Lara ever finds out about this baby… I’m going to send her far away.” “Away? Where?” He dropped a slip of paper onto my lap. I looked at the address, and my heart stopped. The asylum. To spare Lara’s fragile nerves, he was sending our newborn daughter—his own flesh and blood—to the very same psychiatric facility where I had been tortured. “Give her back to me!” I screamed, throwing myself out of bed. My incision tore open, hot blood immediately blooming through my white hospital gown. Gordon stepped back, just out of reach. I managed to grab only the hem of his coat, sinking to my knees on the cold floor, sobbing hysterically. “Please, I beg you, give her back. I’ll sign the divorce papers. I’ll let Lara have everything. I’ll take the baby and disappear. We’ll never look at you again. Just please don’t do this!” A flicker of hesitation crossed Gordon’s face. He reached down as if to help me up. “Why do you have to make this so hard on yourself—” The heavy door swung open. Lara walked in, rubbing her eyes. “Gordon? I had a nightmare… I dreamed you had another baby…” Suddenly, her eyes went wide. She pointed at the bundle in Gordon’s arms and shrieked. “Who is that? Do you have another child? Are you keeping secrets from me?” The hesitation in Gordon’s eyes vanished instantly. He wrenched his coat from my grip, letting me fall hard against the linoleum. “Lara, honey, no,” he said, his voice laced with panic as he quickly handed the baby to a waiting bodyguard behind him. “It’s nothing. Just a random baby from the ward. It doesn’t mean anything.” “No! No!” The pain in my stomach was blinding, but I dragged myself forward on my hands and knees. “Don’t take her! Don’t take my baby!” It was useless. Just like the night my parents were killed, I was entirely, utterly powerless. Behind Gordon’s back, Lara shot me a look of pure, triumphant malice. Then, she threw herself into a hysterical fit. “You think I’m stupid, Gordon? I heard her! She said it was her baby!” Rage burned away the physical pain. I forced myself up from the floor, throwing my body toward her, desperate to tear her face apart. “Lara, you did this on purpose! You soulless, disgusting bitch, I’ll kill you!” Before I could touch her, Gordon’s hand came down hard across my face. The force of the slap threw me to the floor. His eyes were dead and cold. “You’d better watch what comes out of your mouth,” he warned. Then, turning back to Lara, his voice instantly softened into a gentle, cooing murmur. “Honey, don’t listen to her. She’s sick. She’s clinically insane. Nothing she says is real.” Lara’s sobbing stopped instantly. She stared down at me, a cold smile playing on her lips. “Well, if she’s crazy,” Lara said softly, “then we should probably send her back to the asylum.” I looked up, cold dread washing over me. Even Gordon frowned. He knew exactly what they had done to me in that place. When we were dating, I couldn’t bear it if he hugged me too tightly; the restriction of his arms triggered flashbacks of the heavy leather restraints. Back then, Gordon would wrap me in a gentle embrace, rocking me like a child, whispering, “Don’t be scared, Jo. I’m here. No one will ever hurt you again.” And now, my protector had become my tormentor. Seeing the utter despair on my face, Gordon tried to object. “Lara, she’s your sister… you know she has severe PTSD from that place…” Lara immediately burst into tears, taking a running start toward the concrete wall. “You don’t care about me at all! If you don’t care about me, you won’t care about our baby! Why should we even live? We might as well just end it right now!” Gordon lunged forward, catching her by the waist. “Of course I care about you! Don’t say things like that, it kills me.” It took him several minutes to soothe her. When she finally quieted down, Gordon looked at me with a heavy, conflicted expression. He knelt beside me, his fingers gently brushing the hair from my forehead. “Jo,” he murmured, “just do this for me. Be a good girl, okay?” Be a good girl. When I was dragged back to the Crawford house, covered in bruises, my biological parents had looked at me with that same mild, useless pity. Be a good girl, Jo. Don’t make a scene. Don’t make things difficult for us. Because of Lara, I had been forced to give up seeking justice for my adoptive parents. And now, I was expected to give up my newborn daughter. Why? By what right? As the bodyguards dragged me out of the room, my boots scraping against the floor, I fixed my eyes on them. “You will regret this, Gordon,” I said, my voice dead. “I swear to God, you will regret this.” Looking at the raw, burning hatred in my eyes, Gordon took a step forward, his chest heaving. For the five years we had been together, he was used to me looking up at him, chin propped on my hands, smiling and saying ‘yes’ to whatever he wanted. He knew that all he had to do was whistle, and I would run to him. Seeing me like this, he hesitated. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to completely destroy a woman who had loved him with her entire soul. “Wait—” he started. “Gordon!” Lara shrieked, leaning over the window ledge. “If you hesitate for one more second, I will jump right now with our baby!” Gordon panicked. He turned to the guards and yelled, “Get her out of here! Now!” I spent three days in the asylum. They had a thousand ways to make someone with PTSD suffer without leaving a single mark. But the physical torture barely registered. My mind was entirely focused on the roof of that building. That was the place where my future self had jumped. And that was the place where she had left me the weapon to make them all pay. On the fourth morning, they dragged me out. Gordon was waiting. Seeing the fresh bruises overlaying my old scars, a flash of guilt crossed his face. “You just had a baby, Jo. Your body is weak. Why did you have to go out of your way to provoke Lara?” I looked at him, my expression entirely blank. “Gordon,” I said quietly. “Did you know? I’m already dead.” “You killed me.” He froze. He stared at me for a long moment, then tossed a tube of medicated cream onto the seat. “You’ve completely lost your mind,” he muttered, storming out of the car. I watched him go, a cold smile spreading across my lips. Gordon didn’t get it. I never lied to him. Whether it was the fact that I was already dead, or the promise that he would regret this—every word was the absolute truth. I escaped. I slipped away under the cover of darkness when the guards weren’t looking. I spent days walking the streets, going from one private psychiatric facility to the next. From the east side to the west side. From north to south. My feet were covered in bloody blisters, my body screaming in exhaustion, but I kept going. At the final asylum on my list, there was still no sign of my baby. A shadow fell over me. I forced my heavy eyelids open. Lara stood there, a wide, ugly sneer on her face. “Look at you. You look like a stray dog that’s been kicked down the street.” She shoved her designer boot into my shin, laughing. “I knew a rat like you wouldn’t stay put. I had Gordon move the baby days ago. And I left the asylum doors unlocked on purpose.” She crouched down, her sharp, manicured nails digging into my cheek until a thin line of blood welled up. “So what if I killed your parents? So what if I tore your baby from your arms? As long as I’m alive, Jo, you will always be beneath my shoe.” My chest felt like it was being squeezed by a giant, crushing fist. The pain was unbearable, but the hatred was worse. Lara stood up, waving her hand to her men. “Bring her. We’re going.” They drove me to the cemetery. Even from a distance, I could see Gordon standing in front of a headstone. It was the plot where my adoptive parents were buried. My voice was raw and ruined from days of screaming. “What are you doing?” Gordon looked at me, his eyes dark with a twisted kind of sorrow. “Jo, I hoped those three days would teach you how to behave. But Lara is right. You’re like a feral dog. Sometimes you have to beat a dog until it learns to submit.” He raised his hand. “Dig.” A group of hired men immediately began driving shovels into the earth. My vision turned blood-red. “Gordon! Are you insane? Stop them! Stop!” Lara pinned my arms behind my back, her voice whispering in my ear. “This is your punishment, Jo. Because of your stubbornness, your sweet little foster parents don’t get to rest in peace. We’re going to dig them up and scatter them to the wind.” The torment lasted for two agonizing hours. Lara forced my eyelids open, refusing to let me look away for even a second. And Gordon just stood there, watching. When Lara was finally bored, she threw me onto the dirt like a piece of garbage and took Gordon’s arm. “Let’s go home, Gordon. My mom made beef stew for dinner. It’s your favorite.” They walked away hand-in-hand. Gordon never looked back. I lay in the dirt, clutching the loose earth, watching my parents’ ashes slip through my fingers. Mom. Dad. Wait for me. On the rooftop. I left my baby in the hands of the only person in this world I still trusted completely. Then, I opened a live streaming app on my phone. I used the very last of my savings to boost the broadcast. Within seconds, tens of thousands of viewers flooded the room. I disabled the comments. I stared directly into the camera, and in a quiet, steady voice, I told them everything. I told them about my parents’ hit-and-run death and the cover-up. I told them about my stolen child. I told them about the psychiatric ward, the torture, and the systematic destruction of my life. The viewer count skyrocketed. The heavy metal door of the roof burst open. Gordon and Lara ran out, their faces pale with terror. “What the hell are you doing? Shut that off!” Gordon roared. I smiled. I took one step backward. Then another. I spread my arms wide. And under the horrified gaze of millions of people, I let myself fall. As the wind whipped past my ears and my body plunged toward the earth, I caught a glimpse of Gordon’s face. He was screaming, his hand reaching out into nothingness. I smiled. Gordon, I told you. I never lie. Now, let’s burn this entire world down together. “Jo—!!!”

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While waiting for my wedding dress fitting, I aimlessly scrolled through the local CityThread forum to pass the time. Darren had texted me thirty minutes ago, apologizing. He said he was tied up in a critical lab meeting for his state-funded research project and couldn’t make it to help me choose. At the top of the trending page was an urgent advice thread. The original poster wrote: “Help! A stray dog just licked my hand in the elevator. No open cuts. But ten minutes later, my boyfriend kissed my hand and pinned me against the car seat, kissing me wildly. Do we both need rabies shots?” The comment section below was filled with teasing and jokes: [Get the shots, girl! And absolutely no sex before that. This stuff spreads through body fluids.] [Oh my god, what if you get pregnant? You’re going to give birth to a puppy lol!] As an infectious disease specialist, I scoffed under my breath. I was about to swipe away from the sheer lack of basic science when my eyes caught the attached photo. It was a picture of two hands, fingers tightly locked. Slipped just under the man’s jacket sleeve was a distinctive sapphire cufflink. It was a rare piece I had spent a fortune to win at an overseas auction. Just this morning, I had personally fastened it onto Darren’s sleeve as an engagement gift. My gaze drifted back to the comment about “giving birth to a puppy.” I tapped reply: “Get the shot. Aim straight for the temple. Otherwise, it won’t work.” 1 Inside the fitting room of the bridal boutique, the vanity lights were blindingly bright. The stylist adjusted my train, smiling warmly. “Dr. Sawyer, Professor Mercer has incredible taste. This gown is absolutely perfect for you. He even called ahead to specify that the veil should be a soft, low-saturation blue to match your engagement cufflinks.” I looked at my reflection in the mirror, staying quiet. My phone screen was still open to that photo on CityThread. I tapped on the poster’s profile. Her avatar was a cartoon dog, and her bio read: DaisyDreams. Her posts suggested she was a college student. I went back to the attached photo. The fingers were tightly intertwined, the girl’s nails painted a glossy cherry red. The man’s sleeve was pulled back just enough to reveal the cornflower blue sapphire, catching the dim light of the car interior. Before leaving the house this morning, I had fastened them myself. I had spent six months tracking down those cufflinks through an international auction house. They were a one-of-a-kind set. He had leaned down, letting me adjust his cuffs, and smiled. “Something this expensive? I’m going to have to treat it like a sacred relic.” I zoomed in on the image. In the dark reflection of the car window next to the cufflink, a blurry set of characters was visible. Level B2, near the west elevator. It was the underground parking lot of St. Jude’s Medical Center. Where Darren always parked. “Dr. Sawyer, should we take the waist of this gown in a little more?” the stylist’s voice broke through my thoughts. I turned off my screen and looked up. My gaze settled on my reflection in the floor-length mirror. “No need to alter it,” I said, my voice flat. The stylist stepped closer, looking puzzled. “But Professor Mercer called this morning specifically to tell us that you’ve been losing weight from working so many surgeries. He insisted we line the waist with the softest silk satin so it wouldn’t pinch you.” Hearing those words, a cold dread began to pool in my chest. Before leaving today, Darren had played the part of the perfect fiancé. He had stood by the entryway, gently adjusting the collar of my coat. His hands had been so warm as they brushed through my hair. “Help me take it off, please,” I said, turning away from the mirror. The stylist hesitated, her hands hovering. “Don’t you want to take a few photos to send to Professor Mercer? He handpicked this design himself.” “No,” I replied, my tone distant. After changing back into my street clothes, I grabbed my bag and walked out. The crisp spring breeze carried a chill, instantly washing away the sweet, heavy scent of the bridal boutique. As soon as I got into my car, my work phone vibrated aggressively. It was an urgent notification from the emergency department’s internal consult group. [Urgent consult requested at the Rabies Clinic. Patient suspected exposure to a stray dog. Requesting Infectious Disease evaluation. Patient Name: Daisy Collins.] Daisy Collins. DaisyDreams. The words from the forum post echoed in my mind: “…pinned me against the car seat, kissing me wildly.” A wave of nausea hit me. Rabies has a long incubation period with absolutely no symptoms. Once the disease manifests, the mortality rate is one hundred percent. It is completely incurable. So is betrayal. I took a deep, steadying breath and gripped the steering wheel. A bit of silver glitter from the wedding dress had rubbed off on my coat sleeve, sitting there like a layer of ash that wouldn’t wash away. 2 “Dr. Sawyer, thank goodness you’re here. This patient is incredibly hysterical.” The moment I stepped into the ER lobby, Dr. Harris hurried over to meet me. The door to the exam room at the end of the hall was cracked open. Even from a distance, I could hear soft, trembling sobs coming from inside. “Dr. Mercer, am I going to die? I haven’t even graduated yet. I don’t want to die.” Then came Darren’s voice, low and comforting. “Don’t think like that, Daisy. It was just a lick. There’s no broken skin, so you’re going to be fine. I’m right here with you.” I stopped in my tracks and looked through the glass pane. Darren was sitting on the edge of the examination bed, holding Daisy gently against his shoulder. One hand patbed her back in slow, rhythmic circles, while the other held her hand, inspecting it with deep concern. It was a look I hadn’t seen on his face since we first started dating ten years ago. I pushed the door open, my heels clicking sharply against the linoleum floor. “If Professor Mercer is so certain she’s fine, why are we wasting emergency room resources and calling for an urgent ID consult?” Darren whipped his head around. The moment he saw me, the tenderness on his face froze, replaced by a sudden, stark panic. He instinctively let go of Daisy and stood up straight. “Marina? What are you doing here?” “The consult was posted to the department group. Why wouldn’t I be here?” I walked in slowly, my eyes sliding over the two of them. He swallowed hard. “I… I didn’t mean it like that.” “Didn’t you say your research project was at a critical stage? So critical that you couldn’t even make time to see me try on wedding dresses because you had to monitor the data yourself?” My voice was steady, completely devoid of emotion. Darren’s throat worked as he struggled to find words. “Yes… it is. I just stepped out of the lab for a moment and happened to run into Daisy. She was terrified by a dog.” “I’m her advisor. It’s my responsibility to look after my students’ well-being.” “Happened to run into her?” I let out a dry, quiet laugh. “What was the topic of your discussion today? Whether rabies can be transmitted through a kiss?” Darren’s face flushed deep red, his voice rising. “Marina! What are you implying? This is a hospital. Don’t start a scene over nothing!” Daisy shrank back on the bed, her shoulders trembling as tears spilled over. “Dr. Sawyer, please don’t blame Dr. Mercer. I was just so scared, and I grabbed onto him. If I’ve upset you, I’m so sorry.” Looking at the two of them, I felt nothing but a profound sense of absurdity. I pulled on a pair of sterile gloves and stepped up to Daisy’s side, completely professional. “Show me your hand.” Daisy hesitated, looking at Darren for permission before slowly extending her hand. I bent down to examine it. The skin was entirely intact. No redness, no swelling, no abrasions. “According to standard protocols, this is a Category I exposure,” I said, pulling off the gloves and tossing them into the biohazard bin. “No vaccine is required. Just wash it with soap and water.” Daisy bit her lip, her voice shaking. “Dr. Mercer, will I really be okay?” Before Darren could offer more comfort, I spoke up. “With proper hygiene, the risk is negligible. The real danger is when people assume everything is fine, let things linger, and fail to address the underlying issue.” Daisy stared at me. “But I don’t feel sick at all.” I set the chart down on the counter. “That is the most terrifying part of the disease. During the incubation period, there are absolutely no symptoms.” The room fell into a heavy silence. I began filling out the intake form, asking about the dog’s vaccination status and where the encounter took place. Daisy’s answers were a mess—first she claimed it was a rescue dog from a shelter, then she said it was a stray near the elevators. Halfway through, I paused and looked up. “Which one was it?” She clutched her phone, staying silent. Darren answered for her. “It must have been a stray. Let’s just treat it as a standard exposure for now.” I raised my eyes to meet his. “You are her academic advisor, Darren, not her spokesperson.” Darren’s expression darkened. 3 “Marina, don’t make this something it isn’t. Daisy is one of my brightest students, and she has no family in the city. She was simply out of her mind with fear.” Darren took a step forward, reaching out to grasp my hand. I stepped back, letting his hand hang awkwardly in the air. His face tightened with embarrassment. “Marina, do you always have to be this cold and confrontational?” he muttered. “It was a minor incident. There’s no need to speak to her so harshly.” I looked at him, my expression blank. “Confrontational? I am stating clinical facts.” Suddenly, Daisy gasped, clutching her chest as she leaned back against the pillows. “Dr. Mercer, I feel so dizzy… My heart is racing.” “Is the virus already in my bloodstream?” She drifted sideways, falling naturally toward Darren. He caught her immediately, his face etched with panic. “Marina, please, just run another exam! The incubation period varies, but what if she’s an exceptional case?” As a senior general surgeon at St. Jude’s, Darren knew the basic pathology of viral transmission perfectly well. But his judgment was clouded by concern—or perhaps he was simply enjoying the thrill of being so desperately needed by a young girl. “An exception?” I picked up the clipboard and signed the chart with a swift, fluid motion. “Medicine doesn’t deal in ‘what ifs.’ If she’s experiencing sudden dizziness and palpitations, I suggest a psychiatric consult to rule out hysteria.” Just then, the duty nurse walked in with the standard pre-exposure prophylaxis intake sheet, ready to verify Daisy’s information. Without looking up, the nurse began reciting the routine questions. “Daisy Collins, correct? Any chance you might be pregnant, or are you currently trying to conceive?” It was a standard question before administering certain clinical interventions. Daisy flinched violently. Her head snapped up, her eyes flying to Darren. Darren went entirely pale, a look of sheer panic crossing his features. I watched them, my gaze locked onto Darren’s face. Daisy bit her lip hard, her voice barely a whisper, yet loud enough to echo in the quiet exam room. “Dr. Mercer… what we did last night, could that have any effect?” The room fell dead silent. The nurse’s pen froze over the paper, and she let out a tiny, sharp intake of breath. The confession was far more damaging than any formal accusation of an affair could ever be. I remembered the advice thread online. No sex before that. This stuff spreads through body fluids. The irony was swift, cutting straight through me. Darren gasped, trying desperately to salvage the situation. “Daisy! You must be running a fever. What on earth are you talking about?” Daisy seemed to realize her slip of the tongue. Her face went translucent with dread. She scrambled to sit up, reaching out to grasp Darren’s arm. In her haste, her hand caught the fabric of his shirt cuff. Clink. A small, sharp sound echoed through the room. The sapphire cufflink hit the linoleum floor. Daisy gasped, losing her footing, and stepped directly onto it. With a sickening, crunching sound, the rare cornflower blue sapphire shattered into a dozen pieces. 4 The air in the room grew heavy. The engagement gift I had spent months searching for, pulling strings just to bid on at an auction, was crushed under a student’s shoe. Along with ten years of my life, it was reduced to glittering dust. Daisy covered her mouth, her eyes wide with terror. “I’m so sorry… I’m so sorry, Dr. Sawyer! I didn’t mean to. I just felt dizzy and lost my balance.” Even as she apologized, she shrank further behind Darren’s shoulder. Darren looked down at the blue shards on the floor, his brow furrowed. Instead of reprimanding her, he turned to me, his voice laced with irritation. “Marina, look at how badly you’ve frightened her.” “It’s just a cufflink. It’s broken now. I’ll just buy you another one.” Buy me another one. The piece was irreplaceable, and he had no idea of its value, let alone the effort I had put into finding it. He simply didn’t care. “Just a cufflink? Darren, do you have any idea what that meant?” I stood up, a dull ache starting to throb in my chest. Darren pulled at his tie, his impatience flaring. “What could it possibly mean? It’s a piece of jewelry, Marina.” “You are always like this—so rigid, so demanding. You take every little thing and turn it into a federal case.” “Do you have any idea how suffocating it is to be with you?” Suffocating. The word hung in the air, scraping against my nerves. I had stayed by his side from his days as a struggling resident to his current position as a respected surgeon. I had turned down prestigious fellowships abroad to help him build his career. And now, he found me suffocating. Daisy peered out from behind him, offering me a paper tissue. “Dr. Sawyer, I am so incredibly sorry. Let me pay you back for it. I know I’m just a student, but I can set up a payment plan…” As she reached out, she deliberately tilted her phone toward me. The screen lit up. The wallpaper was a photo of Darren sleeping soundly, bare-chested. Daisy was snuggled against his shoulder, flashing a peace sign at the camera. The background was the master bedroom of the condo we had just bought together. What we did last night. The pieces of the puzzle clicked together, and the last of my composure vanished. They hadn’t just kissed in his car. They had been sleeping in my bed. I looked coldly at Daisy, ignoring her tissue. “A poor student? You’re living in my apartment and sleeping with my fiancé. You seem to be doing quite well for yourself.” Daisy’s face drained of color, clearly not expecting me to lay everything bare in front of the nurse. She quickly tucked her phone away, her eyes filling with tears. “Dr. Sawyer, what are you saying? I don’t understand…” She reached out, trying to grab my arm. “Please don’t be angry with me. I really didn’t mean to…” I instinctively pulled my arm back. “Don’t touch me.” Daisy screamed, throwing herself backward and hitting the floor with a loud thud. “Daisy!” Darren snapped. He lunged forward, pushing me back with force. “Marina, you’ve gone too far! She’s just a kid who looks up to me. How could you be so vicious?” Caught off guard, I stumbled back several steps. My back slammed hard against the glass-fronted medicine cabinet. Crash— The sound of shattering glass filled the room. Heavy shards rained down. One large piece sliced deep into the palm of my right hand. Blood began to pour, dripping onto the clean white floor in bright, terrifying pools. My right hand. My surgical hand. I leaned against the cabinet, my entire body shaking with white-hot pain. But Darren didn’t even look at me. He was already on his knees, gently checking Daisy’s arms and legs for scratches. Looking at the blood on my hand, a strange, quiet sense of relief washed over me. The sickness that had been incubating in our relationship for years had finally shown its face. It was fatal, and there was no point in trying to cure it anymore. I pressed my left hand over the wound, holding it tight as I walked toward the door. “You’re free, Darren. We are done.”

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