Category: English

1 The humming static of the System in my head sounded like a hard drive crashing. I held the rose out to Sebastian Caldwell. “For you.” Sebastian—the boy who usually had every girl in the hallway swooning—seemed to have forgotten he was even hiding a flower of his own. I suppose when you’ve spent your whole life as the hunter, getting “hunted” back feels like a glitch in the matrix. After a long beat, he scratched the back of his neck, his cocky facade finally cracking. “Thanks,” he muttered. He pulled his own rose from behind his back and handed it to me, his hooded, dark eyes shimmering with that familiar, flirtatious charm. “A fair trade.” I shook my head. I took his rose, and with a swift flick of my wrist, I tapped the two flowers together. Suddenly, they were bound by a silk ribbon I’d seemingly pulled from thin air. I placed both of them back into his hand. “Now you have two. Both for you.” Sebastian blinked, completely thrown. He hadn’t planned for a second act. “Why?” he asked, his voice a little breathless. The System finally rebooted, screaming: [Host! You have to be demure! Playing hard to get is the only way to hook a guy like Sebastian!] Demure? Understood. That meant I shouldn’t be clingy or force a connection. I took a step back, creating space. “Because I like you,” I said simply. The System: […] To be thorough, I added, “And I like giving beautiful things to people I like.” If emotions had a physical form, I’m pretty sure steam would have been pouring out of Sebastian’s ears right then. He gripped the roses so hard the stems probably bruised, turned on his heel without another word, and bolted down the hall. I watched the tips of his ears glow red as he disappeared into the crowd. Did I do that right? I asked the System. The System stayed silent for a beat before whispering: [That was… a pro move. 10/10.] 2 In my previous life, I died on stage. A teammate’s mistake during a high-stakes escape act cost me everything. When I woke up in this world, I was told I had a mission to “subdue” the second male lead. Honestly? I didn’t care much about the mission. I was just happy to be alive and able to perform again. The next few days of “pursuing” Sebastian were actually quite fun. The System told me that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach and constant attention. I decided to follow the advice—in my own way. “Morning, Sebastian. I brought you breakfast.” I sat in the desk in front of him before first period, placing a single hard-boiled egg on his desk. Sebastian looked at the egg, then at me. He seemed to be remembering our rose encounter because he looked guarded. He let out a cold, sharp laugh. “You’re bringing me breakfast, and it’s just… an egg?” “What else do you like?” I asked. “I don’t know,” he snapped. “A bagel?” I waved my hand over the egg. Suddenly, a toasted, buttered bagel appeared in its place. Sebastian’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “I—I meant a coffee!” Another flick of the wrist. The bagel was gone; a steaming cup of dark roast sat there instead. “Holy shit… I meant… I meant pancakes!” This time, I didn’t move. Seeing that I had finally “run out” of magic, he leaned back in his chair, a triumphant smirk returning. “Ran out of tricks, didn’t you, Magician?” I nodded solemnly. “If you really want pancakes, Sebastian, I can go down to the cafeteria and buy them for you right now.” Silence fell over him again. He slowly sat up straight, clearing his throat. “Just… give the bagel back.” With a wave, the bagel reappeared. “This is fine. Don’t go buying anything else. You’re annoying,” he grumbled, though he immediately started eating. I watched the flush creep up his neck and smiled to myself. [Host, didn’t you actually have the pancakes ready?] the System asked. The secret to magic isn’t just the trick, I replied. It’s about making someone happy and surprised, not just giving them whatever they demand. 3 A few weeks into my “pursuit,” the midterms arrived. When the rankings were posted on the bulletin board, Sebastian wasn’t his usual smug self. He didn’t say much, but he refused the coffee I brought him that morning. I looked at the top of the list: 1. Adrian Miller 2. 3. Sebastian Caldwell 4. [The Hero and the Rival are always at each other’s throats,] the System explained. [They fight for the top spot in grades, and in the original story, they both fight for the female lead’s heart. Sebastian is her childhood friend, but he can never beat Adrian, the “Destined One.”] I nodded. The System had mentioned that the female lead, Sophie Bennett, would be transferring here soon. In the original plot, Sebastian gets so distracted chasing Sophie that his grades slip, he never beats Adrian again, and he eventually moves abroad, bitter and broken-hearted, only to die young and alone. I came to two conclusions. One: Confidence is key. I needed to rebuild Sebastian’s ego. Two: Happiness is essential. I needed to make him smile. I found him skipping class, sitting on a bench under a sprawling oak tree at the edge of campus. When he saw me approaching, he immediately closed his eyes. “Can you just leave me alone for five minutes?” 4 I didn’t say a word. I just sat down quietly on the other end of the bench and pulled a small, black plastic jar from my pocket. “Sebastian,” I said softly. “Let me show you a trick.” He opened one eye, looking ready to snap at me—until he saw me shake the jar. A single large die inside suddenly shattered into a dozen tiny dice with a rhythmic clack. He sat up, his curiosity getting the better of his brooding. “How?” “There’s a magnet in the lid that holds the shell of the big die, and the little ones are hidden inside,” I explained. I reset the trick and handed it to him. “You try.” Sebastian gave it a firm shake. But instead of a dozen tiny dice, a single wrapped strawberry candy fell into his palm. His hand shook slightly. He wouldn’t look at me. “Doing all this useless stuff for what…” But when he unwrapped the candy, he froze. Tucked inside the wrapper was a tiny slip of paper. It read: You’re always #1 in my book. I designed the trick. The System helped me with the note. [Host, do you think he’s going to cry?] the System asked. [I think I’m going to cry.] Ignoring the System’s weird electronic sobbing, I quietly ate the breakfast Sebastian had rejected. Sebastian eventually composed himself. He kept his head down for a long time, crushing the candy wrapper and the note into his fist. Then he stood up, his movements stiff as he started walking back toward the main building. “Sebastian?” I followed him. “Where are you going?” “You’re so annoying,” he said, his voice unsteady. “I’m going back to class. To study. Obviously.” He walked a little faster, putting some distance between us. “And stop chasing me. I’m not… I’m not into high school romances. I don’t date.” I stopped in my tracks. Has he never had a girlfriend? [Correct, Host. Sebastian Caldwell follows the ‘Peacock Rule’: Flirt with everyone, commit to no one. Honestly? He’s a bit of a fraud.] I nodded. Recently, I noticed he hadn’t been talking to any other girls at all. 5 “Hi everyone, I’m Sophie Bennett. I’m looking forward to getting to know all of you.” At the front of the classroom, the original female lead was introducing herself. I glanced at Sebastian. He wasn’t looking at his notebook anymore. He was gripping his pen, staring at Sophie. Sophie, meanwhile, was looking at the front row—at Adrian Miller. And Adrian? Adrian was looking… at me. What? [Host, Host! Eyes on the prize! Look away!] the System panicked. “Who were you looking at?” Sebastian’s voice came from beside me, low. I quickly looked down. “Checking for teachers in the hall.” I picked up a deck of cards and did a flashy one-handed shuffle. “Didn’t want to get caught with these.” The trick worked; his attention shifted to my hands. “Teach me that after class,” he muttered. “Okay.” After Sophie joined the class, things got noisy. Since she sat diagonally from Sebastian, I could hear their constant bickering. “Sebastian, can you show me how to do this last problem?” “Are you stupid? It’s easy. Go away.” I looked down at my own worksheet. It was a barren wasteland. I hadn’t answered a single question. [Looks like Sebastian doesn’t like ‘stupid’ girls,] the System noted. A second later, my worksheet was snatched off my desk. Sebastian stared at the blank page. “Why haven’t you started?” “I don’t know how,” I admitted. I was bracing for a “stupid” comment, but instead, Sebastian pulled his chair closer. “Which one?” I pointed at a random question. Sebastian began explaining the first question on the English Lit quiz—a basic multiple-choice question—with the intensity of a surgeon. My palms started to sweat. The System sighed. [I take back what I said earlier. The Peacock has a double standard.] 6 Sebastian looked after Sophie, and occasionally, Sophie would bring him breakfast. With Sophie’s muffins on his desk, Sebastian started turning down my breakfast. “Just eat it yourself,” he’d mutter. “You’re getting too thin anyway…” [What a waste,] the System lamented. [You spent all night practicing that new coin trick.] I took a bite of my own bagel. “It’s fine.” “Hey, Sebastian told me you do magic!” After class, Sophie sat in the seat in front of mine. I blinked, then nodded. “Can you show me one? He tried to do one for me the other day—he said you taught him.” Before I could even process that, Sebastian was there, grabbing Sophie by the shoulder and pulling her up. “Why are you bothering her? Go back to your seat.” “Ugh, let go! I just want to see a trick!” Sebastian frowned and looked at me. I shook my head. “It’s okay.” I stood up and pulled a rubber band from my wrist. I asked Sophie to hold out her index finger. I looped the band around her finger, then mine, pressing our fingertips together. With my other hand, I gave a sharp tug. The rubber band passed right through our fingers and ended up dangling from my thumb. Sophie’s eyes went wide. Before she could gasp, I flicked the rubber band into the air. When it landed back in my hand, it was a lollipop. I handed it to her and gave her a small smile. Sophie’s face turned bright red. “Th—thank you…” she stammered. “That was incredible.” 7 When school ended, Sebastian’s hand slammed onto my desk. “Why did you do that for Sophie?” he demanded. He leaned in closer. “Aren’t you… jealous? Of her and me?” The System coached me: [Host, be magnanimous!] “You like her,” I told him. “If she’s happy, you’re happy. And if you’re happy, then I’m happy to help.” Sebastian looked like he had been struck by lightning. He stood frozen, then looked down, covering his face. “Are you actually an idiot?” He looked moved—deeply, strangely moved. “It’s not like I ‘like’ her like that,” he explained, his voice soft. “We grew up together. I’m just supposed to look out for her.” He looked away. “Is there… anything you want?” “What?” “A gift,” he muttered. “I can’t just let you be all ‘noble’ and ‘suffering’ for nothing.” The System was screaming: [This is it! The ROMANTIC UPGRADE!] I thought about it seriously. I looked into Sebastian’s eyes. “Can I hold your hand? Just for a second?” Sebastian stiffened. He turned his head away, and for a moment, I thought I had overstepped. But then, his hand slowly slid across the desk toward mine. I smiled and reached out, but I didn’t grab his hand. I just gently hooked my index finger around his. Sebastian’s breathing hitched. Even with his head turned, I could see the feverish red on his cheeks. “Don’t get the wrong idea,” he whispered. “I told you, I don’t date in high school.” He looked at me, almost waiting for me to argue. I nodded solemnly. “I understand. I promise I won’t try to be your girlfriend.” Sebastian suddenly looked like a deflated balloon. I asked the System why. [I don’t know, maybe he’s hungry?] the System guessed. 8 It was the class president’s birthday, and the whole group ended up at a karaoke lounge. Sebastian, Sophie, Adrian, and I were all there. Sebastian had declined the “Truth or Dare” game, calling it “childish.” Adrian Miller, surprisingly, agreed to play. I drew the card. Adrian was the interrogator. In the corner of the dim room, I felt Sebastian’s gaze snap toward us. “Truth,” I said. Adrian leaned forward. “Is there someone you like?” The room went deathly quiet. In the shadows, I saw Sebastian shift in his seat. I thought about it. If I said yes, the next person would inevitably ask who. That would put Sebastian in an awkward spot. He’d told me he didn’t want a relationship. “No,” I said. Sebastian stood up abruptly. The chair screeched against the floor. He was already turning, his jaw set as he stormed out of the private room.

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1 The moment I discovered I was the biological son of the Montgomerys—the actual heir to a real estate empire—I didn’t hesitate. I went straight to their doorstep to reclaim my life. There was no dramatic denial, no soap-opera DNA battle. After the test results came back, my parents immediately announced my return to the world. Even Sebastian, the “fake” son who had been living my life for sixteen years, didn’t try to sabotage me. Instead, he did everything he could to help me “adjust” to the high-society life he had perfected. But I wasn’t satisfied. I was a jagged piece of glass in their polished world, and I made sure everyone felt the edge. The breaking point came after I slapped one of the housekeepers. My mother—my biological mother—finally snapped. “What is it, Gabriel? What do you actually want?” I pointed a trembling finger at the housekeeper. “She compares me to him. Every single day. She says I’m clumsy, that I’m ‘rough around the edges,’ that I’m the stray dog they let into the mansion.” Then, I turned my gaze to Sebastian, who stood there looking like a Prince of the Upper East Side. “He is only who he is because he stole my life. Why do I have to live under the same roof as my own shadow? Why am I the ‘before’ photo to his ‘after’?” My voice cracked, turning into a scream. “Make him leave. Now. Or I’ll keep making this house a living hell.” My parents exchanged a look of weary desperation. “Gabriel, honey, let’s be reasonable,” my father started, his voice calm and patronizing. “The mix-up at the hospital… that wasn’t Sebastian’s fault.” I knew that. Deep down, I knew he hadn’t chosen to be swapped at birth. But was it my fault? “I’m not interested in being ‘good sons’ together,” I spat. “It’s him or me. Choose.” “Gabe, please…” My mother reached out, her hand trembling, trying to soothe me the way she did when she wanted to sweep things under the rug. I slapped her hand away with a violence that shocked even me. I glared at her, my eyes burning. “Don’t touch me!” I hissed. “Gabriel!” my father bellowed, his face reddening. “That is your mother. You will not be disrespectful.” I started clawing at my own hair, the hysteria rising in my throat like bile. “She’s not my mother! Neither of you are my parents! You’re Sebastian’s parents. What am I? An intruder? An inconvenience? Do you wish I’d just stayed in the trailer park and died?” My eyes landed on the catalyst of this particular tantrum: a bowl of strawberries on the marble island. They weren’t quite fresh; the edges were darkening, turning soft. I grabbed the bowl and hurled it across the room. The ceramic shattered, and I began stomping on the fruit, grinding the red pulp into the expensive rug until the juice looked like blood. “In this house, he’s the prince and I’m the beggar,” I screamed. “He wants berries, the staff gets him the organic ones hand-picked that morning. I want some, and I get the week-old scraps that are starting to rot! When are you going to treat me like I’m actually yours? Why does even the help look down on me?” I heard the whispers. I always heard them. I’d tried to ignore it, tried to play the part of the grateful son because I didn’t want them to hate me. But my silence had only bought me their mockery. “A pig in a silk suit is still a pig,” I’d heard the head maid mutter yesterday. “These berries cost twenty dollars a pint. Even if they’re a little soft, they’re better than anything he’s ever seen.” I realized then that the “luxury” I was enjoying was just Sebastian’s leftovers. He didn’t want them, so they were “good enough” for the biological son. I kept screaming, kept sobbing. My parents tried to pacify me. “We’ll fire her, Gabriel. Right now. If you want strawberries, we’ll fly them in from wherever you want. The best. The freshest.” Sebastian stood there, his jaw tight, his expression unreadable. “I didn’t know,” he said softly. “I… I’m sorry.” He took a step toward me, reaching out a hand. I didn’t think; I just shoved him with everything I had. “You’re a thief! Stop acting like you’re the saint here! You’ve been wearing my skin for sixteen years!” Sebastian fell back, his head catching the sharp corner of the mahogany dining table. He slumped to the floor, and blood—bright, terrifyingly red blood—began to pour down his forehead. I froze. My mother let out a strangled cry and collapsed to her knees beside him. My father’s face twisted with a look of pure, agonizing heartbreak for the boy on the floor. Seeing that look—seeing how much they loved him and how much they feared for him while I stood there like a monster—made the hatred in me boil over. Without a word, I ran for the balcony. I scrambled over the railing, my legs dangling over the edge of the third-story drop. 2 They caught me. My parents lunged forward, grabbing my arms, pulling me back from the ledge. I fought them. I didn’t care about the height; I only cared about the pain in my chest. “Let me go! Either I die, or he leaves! Make a choice!” I was possessed. I had to get rid of Sebastian. He was the parasite that had consumed my existence. He was the thief who had stolen the very air I was supposed to breathe. My mother was sobbing hysterically, but even then, she wouldn’t say the words. She wouldn’t tell him to pack his bags. It was Sebastian who ended it. He stood up, clutching a blood-soaked towel to his head, his face pale and streaked with red. He walked slowly to the balcony and looked at me. Then, he did something I didn’t expect. He knelt. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’ll go. I’m leaving tonight.” He looked pathetic. The golden boy, broken and bleeding on the floor. But I knew him. He wasn’t faking. He had wanted to leave since the day I arrived, but our parents had begged him to stay. This time, my father didn’t stop him. He just let out a long, heavy sigh of defeat. My mother, however, threw her arms around Sebastian, and they wept together. It was a scene of tragic parting, and I was the villain who had caused it. Sebastian disappeared that night. The relief I felt was a cold, sharp high. I didn’t care about the way the servants looked at me—the mixture of fear and disgust. I walked to the kitchen, opened the sub-zero fridge, took out every container of strawberries, and dumped them into the trash. “I hate strawberries,” I told the kitchen staff, my voice level and icy. “From now on, I don’t want to see a single berry in this house. In fact, I don’t want to see a single trace of Sebastian. If his name is mentioned, you’re fired. If his old gym socks are found in a drawer, you’re fired.” The staff didn’t argue. Within forty-eight hours, the mansion was purged. Every trophy, every photo, every book that belonged to Sebastian was gone. For a few weeks, I felt like I could finally breathe. But then I noticed my parents. They were like ghosts. They walked through the halls in silence, their eyes hollow. They weren’t happy. And that sparked a new, frantic anxiety in me. I tried to fix it. I tried to be Sebastian. I didn’t think it was wrong to copy him. If I had grown up in this house, his habits would have been mine anyway. I pushed myself to the brink. I stayed up until 3:00 AM learning the nuances of the tea ceremonies my father enjoyed. I took flower-arranging classes because my mother loved the floral displays in the foyer. I doubled my course load to catch up to the private school curriculum. I slept less than six hours a night, trying to bridge the sixteen-year gap in a matter of months. I thought I was succeeding. I thought I was finally becoming the son they wanted. The illusion shattered when I found a real estate contract in my father’s study. Since my return, I’d made plenty of enemies. The children of the Manhattan elite didn’t hide their disdain for me. They saw me as a gutter rat in a tuxedo. One of Sebastian’s old rivals, a boy named Miller, took particular pleasure in baiting me. “I hated Sebastian for being so perfect,” Miller told me one day at school, a cruel smirk on his face. “But compared to you? You’re just a low-class embarrassment. You lower the property value of the whole school.” I was livid. I bragged to him that I’d won, that I’d kicked Sebastian out. “The fake is gone,” I sneered. “A cuckoo bird can’t stay in the nest forever.” Miller laughed. It was a cold, mocking sound. “You idiot. You think you kicked him out? You did him a favor.” He leaned in, his voice a poisonous whisper. “Your parents bought him a penthouse in Chelsea. Five million dollars, cash. And all those nights they tell you they’re ‘staying late for business’? They’re there. With him. Having the cozy little family dinner you’re not invited to.” “You’re lying,” I breathed. “Check the books, Gabe. You’re not the heir. You’re just the mistake they have to keep in the attic. Sebastian is the one they chose. He got the house, he got the freedom, and he still has your parents. What do you have? A room in a museum and two people who can’t stand to look at you?” 3 I didn’t want to believe him, but my gut knew. When I found the deed in my father’s desk—Sebastian Montgomery, 142 West 22nd St—my mind fractured. I didn’t think. I didn’t plan. I just drove. I caught them red-handed. When Sebastian opened the door to the penthouse, I shoved past him. I burst into the dining room like a lightning strike. My parents were there. My mother, the elegant Mrs. Montgomery, was wearing an apron. She was holding a steaming casserole dish, her face flushed from the kitchen’s heat. My father was sitting at the table, a glass of wine in one hand, the evening news on the TV. It was the most domestic, warm scene I had ever witnessed. A scene that never happened at the mansion. Their faces went white when they saw me. “Am I interrupting the family reunion?” I asked, my teeth grinding so hard I thought they would shatter. “A five-million-dollar penthouse. How generous of you. I thought you said he was going back to where he belonged?” My father coughed, trying to regain his composure, his face hardening into that ‘stern CEO’ mask. “Gabriel, we didn’t have a choice. You grew up in that environment. You know what kind of people the Harts are. Sending Sebastian there… it would have been like throwing him into hell.” “Hell?” I let out a jagged laugh. “It’s where he belongs. It’s where his blood comes from. Why is that my problem?” I stepped closer, my voice trembling with a decade and a half of repressed trauma. “I know you hate me. I’m not ‘refined.’ I’m not ‘graceful.’ I’m selfish and loud and I have every flaw of a poor kid who suddenly found a golden ticket. But did I ever have a chance to be like him?” I thought of the Harts—Sebastian’s biological parents. The people who raised me. They were the laziest, most bitter couple in the county. They didn’t work; they just bled the government and their children dry. “I was four years old when I started scavenging scrap metal with my ‘big sister’ just so we could buy generic macaroni,” I shouted. “When I was older, I worked twelve-hour shifts in a packing plant until my fingers bled. I had to fight for every cent. I had to be mean just to survive.” I gestured to my body. “I’m sixteen years old, and I’m barely five feet tall. Do you know why? The school nurse told me it’s stunted growth from chronic malnutrition. I’m never going to grow another inch. My body is hollow because I spent my childhood starving while he was taking horse-riding lessons!” I looked at my mother, whose eyes were welling with tears. “You’re worried about him falling into ‘hell’? I lived in that hell for sixteen years! Why didn’t you save me? Why aren’t you heart-broken for the boy I used to be?” Even if Sebastian went back, he would be fine. My parents would have sent him money. He was an adult soon; he could have gone to college and never looked back. He was already “built.” I was the one who was broken. Sebastian stood in the corner, whispering “I’m sorry” over and over again. My mother finally broke. “What more do you want from us, Gabriel?” she cried, her voice sharp with exhaustion. “Yes, you suffered. It’s a tragedy. But whose fault is it? Did I want my baby to be swapped? Did I want to raise someone else’s child?” She covered her face with her hands. “I raised that boy for sixteen years. If you had a dog for sixteen years, could you just kick it out onto the street to starve? My feelings matter too! You act like your pain is the only thing in the world, but I lost my son, and I gained a stranger who hates me!” She took a ragged breath and looked at me with a terrifying coldness. “Maybe it was fate. Maybe you were supposed to be born into that life. Sebastian was meant for this. You… you were meant for…” She stopped herself, her lip trembling. “I was meant to be trash?” I finished for her. “I’m just born ‘low-class,’ is that it? No matter whose womb I came out of?”

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1 When I was Eighteen, I fainted from a high fever right after washing my hair. Since that day, no matter how busy Reid Miller was, he always made time to blow-dry my hair. It was our ritual, a quiet constant in a decade of shared life. That was why, on the eve of our engagement gala, when I saw the twelve detailed memos in his phone about Tessa Marlowe, I still gave him one last chance to explain. He remembered everything for her: her stomach aches, her follow-up doctor appointments, her certification exams. He even had a recurring alert for when she needed to change her contact lenses. The last memo he’d written about me was from three years ago. Reid remained silent for a long time after I confronted him. Finally, he straightened his tie, his voice devoid of guilt. “Tessa is a regret, Sloane. But you… you’re the one I can actually build a life with.” He looked at me with those cool, grey eyes. “I promised the elders this engagement. I intend to take responsibility for you.” In that moment, the truth hit me with the force of a physical blow. Care isn’t the same as love. Responsibility isn’t the same as being chosen. That night, after my shower, I pulled away when he reached for the hairdryer. He unplugged it, stepping toward me to wrap both me and the towel in a heavy embrace from behind. “What are you hiding for?” he murmured, his breath warm against my neck. “You used to love this.” I pushed him back, my voice trembling but certain. “If you don’t actually want to marry me, Reid, stop making me believe you do.” The next morning, I cancelled the engagement. I couldn’t get a refund on the private dining hall I’d booked, so I turned it into a matchmaking lunch. My date, Gabriel Ashford, drove me home afterward. Seeing that I’d been caught in the drizzle, he naturally reached out to dry my damp hair with a soft cloth he kept in his car. Reid was standing in the shadows of my building’s hallway. He stared at Gabriel’s hand for a long time, his jaw tight, before he suddenly lunged forward and jerked me behind his back. “Are you really at the point where you’re replacing me for this, too?” “Sir, my fiancée’s hair is none of your concern,” Reid spat, his grip on my wrist painfully tight. Gabriel looked down at my reddening skin with a calm, predatory stillness. “Fiancée?” He offered a thin, sharp smile and turned to me. “Ms. Lane, when we were at lunch this morning, I believe you mentioned you were single.” Reid’s gaze snapped to mine, burning with a mix of shock and fury. “A matchmaking date?” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Sloane, are you so desperate to throw a tantrum that you’re hiring strangers to play a part?” I didn’t look at him. I simply nodded to Gabriel. “Thank you for the ride, Gabriel. I’ll treat you to dinner next time to make up for this.” “I’ll hold you to that,” Gabriel replied with effortless grace. “And about that project we discussed—call me anytime.” He gave a polite nod, ignored Reid entirely, and walked down the stairs. “Get inside,” Reid commanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous low. I stayed exactly where I was. “I’ve already notified both our families, Reid. The engagement is off. We’re done.” “Done?” In two strides, he was in front of me. Before I could protest, he hoisted me over his shoulder. “Put me down!” I hammered my fists against his broad back, but it was like hitting a brick wall. He hauled me into the apartment, marched straight into the bathroom, and slammed the door, locking it behind us. He ripped the hairdryer from its hook, his eyes dark and shimmering with an unstable energy. “Where did he touch you? Your hair? Your face?” He clicked the dryer to its highest setting. The roar of the motor filled the small space as he forced the scorching air against my scalp. “Reid, you’re insane!” I reached out to swat the dryer away, and the scalding metal nozzle grazed the back of my hand, leaving a bright red streak. He froze, immediately killing the power. He grabbed my hand, his expression softening into a fractured kind of worry. “Why did you jump? I was just trying to dry it for you. Why do you have to fight me on everything lately?” He took a jagged breath. “Tessa posted on social media about not being able to find a place to stay near her new job. I simply let her use the empty condo under my name. That’s it.” “You canceled our engagement and went out with another man over a spare key?” “Just a house?” I looked up, meeting his eyes. “And the hospital follow-up yesterday? You were there with her, weren’t you?” A flash of caught-out surprise crossed his face, followed by an irritable tug at his collar. “She has no one here, Sloane. She’s fragile. Is it a crime to look after an old classmate?” “Right. She has no one,” I whispered, a bitter laugh escaping me. “Which is why you have to track her medication, her contact lens schedule, and her therapy appointments next month.” He went silent. The steam in the bathroom had dissipated, leaving only a biting chill. He reached out to touch my head, but I flinched away. His hand hung in the air, trembling slightly. “Sloane, don’t be unreasonable. I told you, you’re the one I’m spending my life with. What I feel for her is just… guilt. Regret that we didn’t say goodbye properly back then. How many times do I have to explain that?” A “proper goodbye.” For the sake of that one lingering regret, he was willing to trample over ten years of my devotion and then have the audacity to blame me for not being “understanding.” “You don’t have to explain anything ever again.” I pushed past him, walked to the foyer, and grabbed my bag. “The apartment is yours. I’m moving out.” Reid didn’t chase me. He just leaned against the bathroom doorframe, watching me with a cold, detached mask. “Sloane, it’s a torrential downpour out there. If you walk out that door right now, don’t expect me to come begging for you to come back tomorrow.” He was too used to my ten years of compliance. He thought he’d built a cage I’d never dare to leave. I opened the front door. The wind and rain lashed at my face. I looked back at him one last time. “Don’t worry, Reid. I won’t be waiting for you to beg.” 2 I spent a restless night in a hotel, the unfamiliar silence keeping me awake. The next morning, I went straight to the office. I’d barely sat down when my manager called me into the conference room, mentioning a VIP client for a major project. I opened the door and saw Gabriel Ashford. He was in a charcoal-grey suit today, looking every bit the ruthless power player, a far cry from the casual man who’d dried my hair the day before. “Sloane, this is Mr. Ashford, CEO of Aegis Group,” my manager introduced us with a grin. Gabriel stood and extended a hand. “Ms. Lane. A pleasure. I hope you didn’t catch a cold in the rain yesterday?” My manager blinked. “You two know each other?” “I had the distinct honor of dining with her yesterday,” Gabriel said smoothly. I forced myself to focus. Throughout the meeting, Gabriel was sharp, pointing out flaws in my proposal that I’d missed, but offering elegant, brilliant solutions for each. When we finished, my manager pointedly left me to see our guest out. In the hallway, Gabriel slowed his pace. “What happened to your hand?” His eyes were fixed on the burn mark. “Nothing. Just an accident.” “Buy some ointment,” he said, his voice quiet. “Don’t let it scar.” As we reached the lobby, we ran into a commotion. Several delivery men were hauling in massive crates of roses—long-stemmed, premium reds, arranged until they filled an entire corner of the reception area. “Ms. Sloane Lane? These are from Mr. Reid Miller. Nine hundred and ninety-nine roses. Please sign here.” The delivery man held out a gold-trimmed card. My colleagues were already whispering. “Looks like Miller is marking his territory again.” “Those roses cost more than my monthly mortgage.” I looked at the card. It had two words scrawled in Reid’s messy, arrogant script: Good night. “Send them back,” I said coldly. The delivery man stammered. “Ma’am? We can’t… they’ve already been delivered.” “Then leave them here. Anyone who wants one can take them.” I turned to walk away, but a black Porsche screeched to a halt at the curb. Reid climbed out, looking disheveled but fierce. When he saw me standing next to Gabriel, his expression turned murderous. “You don’t like the flowers?” He strode toward me, reaching for my waist. I stepped back, practically bumping into Gabriel. Gabriel didn’t hesitate; he shifted, putting his arm out to create a barrier between me and Reid. “Mr. Miller,” Gabriel said, his voice like silk over steel. “Ms. Lane is on the clock. Please don’t disrupt her work.” Reid laughed, a harsh, jagged sound. “And who the hell are you? Didn’t I warn you to stay away from my woman?” “Your memory is failing you,” Gabriel replied, unruffled. “Ms. Lane made it quite clear yesterday that there is no ‘us’ anymore.” “No ‘us’?” Reid grabbed my right hand, his eyes searching for the engagement ring he’d placed there three months ago. All that remained was a faint, pale mark where the band used to be. His breathing hitched. “Where’s the ring?” “In the trash.” “Sloane!” he hissed, his eyes rimmed with red. “Enough of this. My parents are hosting a gala tonight. Don’t force me to make a scene in front of everyone.” “The only person making a scene is you.” I tried to pry his fingers off me. Just then, his phone buzzed in his pocket. It was a specific ringtone—the sound of waves crashing. I knew it well. It was the special alert he’d set only for Tessa. Reid’s grip loosened instinctively. He checked the screen, his forehead creasing with worry. “Be at the gala on time,” he said, already turning back toward his car. “I’ll have a driver pick you up.” As he sped away, I found myself laughing—a small, hollow sound. Gabriel handed me a sanitizing wipe. “Wipe your hand. He left marks.” He paused, looking at me with an intensity that made my heart skip. “Sloane, do you want to partner with me and really show him what he’s lost?” 3 The gala hosted by the Miller family was intended to be the official announcement of our wedding date. I didn’t wait for a driver. I took an Uber and arrived exactly on time. The moment I stepped inside, I saw Tessa. She was wearing a cream-colored silk gown that was a size too big, the neckline slipping slightly. Reid was at her side, whispering to a server. A moment later, the server handed Tessa a glass of warm honey-lemon water. “Reid, really, I’m fine,” Tessa murmured. “It was just a little dizzy spell.” “Drink it,” Reid said, his tone brokering no argument. He naturally took her clutch from her hand so she could hold the glass. It was a gesture I had seen for ten years. Every time I had my period or felt under the weather, he would carry my things. Now, the transition of that privilege was seamless. “Sloane, you’re here. Why are you standing over there?” He’d spotted me. He beckoned me over as if the last three days of war hadn’t happened. I walked over. Tessa immediately shrank back, hiding slightly behind Reid’s shoulder. “Sloane… I’m so sorry. Reid was coming to get you, and I… I just didn’t feel well and begged him to let me tag along. Please don’t be angry.” I looked at her feet. She was wearing a pair of six-thousand-dollar crystal-encrusted heels. You don’t dress like you’re heading to a royal wedding just to “tag along” for a ride. “I’m not angry,” I said calmly. “If someone wants to sit in the passenger seat of your life, Reid, they’re welcome to it.” Reid’s jaw tightened. “Why the attitude? If Tessa hadn’t come, you probably would have stayed home sulking.” He pulled a velvet box from his pocket and shoved it into my hand. “I had my assistant pick out a new one this afternoon. The other one is gone, fine. Wear this. We’re seeing my parents in ten minutes.” I opened the box. It was a pink diamond, massive and gaudy. It wasn’t my style at all. The truth was, Reid didn’t know what I liked. For ten years, I’d convinced myself that loving someone meant loving what they gave you, so I never complained. It wasn’t until I saw the niche books, the specific art prints, and the artisanal ointments he bought for Tessa that I realized he could be thoughtful. He just didn’t want to expend the effort on me. “This is too expensive,” I said, placing the box on a nearby champagne table. “Save it for someone who appreciates it.” “Sloane!” He snapped, grabbing my shoulder and leaning in close. “Do you have any idea how important tonight is? You’ve been acting out for three days because of a man you met once. You’re losing your mind!” “Let go.” “Reid, don’t, people are looking,” Tessa intervened, her pale fingers fluttering onto Reid’s sleeve. Her eyes filled with tears. “It’s my fault. I’m such a burden… I’ll just leave…” She turned to run, but her heel “slipped.” She tumbled directly into Reid’s arms. He instinctively let go of me to catch her, holding her steady against his chest. The murmurs from the crowd rose like a tide. “Wasn’t he supposed to be engaged to the Lane girl?” “Isn’t that his college sweetheart? I heard she moved back from London.” The whispers stung, but they didn’t break me. Reid scooped Tessa up, ignoring me entirely. “Call the family doctor!” he shouted to a steward. As he brushed past me, Tessa, tucked against his heart, tilted her head just enough to give me a small, victorious smile. I didn’t move. I just watched his back. My phone buzzed. A text from Gabriel: Ready for the show? I typed back: Start the music. 4 In the center of the ballroom, Reid’s father, Richard Miller, was clinking glasses with the board members. I didn’t approach him yet. I watched as Tessa, having “recovered” and changed into a fresh wrap, walked back into the hall. She went straight to a large Samoyed dog lounging near the buffet—Snowball, the dog Reid had owned for five years. Tessa knelt, patted his head, then took his leash and led him through the crowd toward me. “Sloane,” she said, stopping in front of me. “Snowball is being such a good boy today.” She pointed to the dog’s neck. I looked, and my heart stopped. Tied around Snowball’s neck was a vintage emerald pendant on a gold chain. It was my grandmother’s last heirloom, the only thing I had left of her. I’d kept it in the back of a drawer in Reid’s apartment. “Oh, don’t be mad,” Tessa said, feigning innocence as she covered her mouth with her hand. “Reid said the setting was so old-fashioned it was just gathering dust. He said Snowball needed a new ‘charm’ for the party, so we put it on him.” She looked up, her eyes wide. “The stone is a bit dull anyway, so it actually looks quite cute on a dog. You don’t mind, do you?” The whispers turned into sharp stabs. “Isn’t that her family’s heirloom?” “He gave his fiancée’s inheritance to a dog?” “Sloane is being humiliated in her own house.” Richard Miller stood nearby, his face purple with embarrassment, but he said nothing. I looked at Tessa’s smug face. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I simply walked forward, knelt down, and unclipped the necklace from the dog’s collar. I pulled a silk handkerchief from my clutch and meticulously wiped the emerald clean before tucking it into my inner pocket. “You’re right, Tessa,” I said, standing up and smoothing my skirt. “When things are left in the wrong place, they tend to pick up a lot of filth.” I ignored her stunned expression and walked straight to Richard Miller. “Richard,” I said with a slight bow. “Sloane. Where is that idiot son of mine? It’s late.” “He’s in the back, tending to a Ms. Marlowe,” I said, my voice steady. “But I didn’t come to find him. I came to say goodbye.” I reached into my bag and pulled out the formal dissolution of the engagement, already signed. I placed it on the table next to the champagne tower. “Thank you for everything, Richard.” Just then, Reid burst back into the room. He saw the papers and lunged forward, tearing them into shreds. “I didn’t sign these! You aren’t going anywhere, Sloane. Not until I say so!” He grabbed my wrist, trying to pull me toward him. “In front of my father? You’re going to make a scene now? Do you even know who you are without me?” “She’s the woman the Ashford family is proud to welcome, and the sole partner of Aegis Group’s new venture. Who exactly do you think she is, Mr. Miller?” A cool, commanding voice echoed from the entrance. Gabriel Ashford, dressed in a bespoke black tuxedo, walked in, flanked by assistants and security. Behind him walked the patriarch of the Ashford empire himself—old Elias Ashford. Richard Miller’s glass hit the floor. “Aegis Group? The ones who just bought the downtown waterfront district?” Gabriel reached me and naturally tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear. The intimacy of the gesture made Reid look like he was about to lose his mind. “Don’t touch her!” Reid swung a fist at Gabriel. Two of Gabriel’s security guards stepped in instantly, catching Reid’s arm and pinning him back. Elias Ashford walked up to Richard, his expression frostier than the champagne. “Richard, you’ve got quite the temper in this house. Is this how you treat a woman my family has officially endorsed? As a backup for your son’s whims?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “548323”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 Ever since I was little, I held a single, unshakeable belief: you only get thrown away if your market value drops too low. A foster kid bought for fifty dollars in cash? She can be beaten whenever the mood strikes. A prize-winning livestock pig bought for five thousand? You hire a vet the second it starts coughing. The math was simple. As long as a person stayed expensive enough, nobody would ever dare discard them. So I spent my entire life frantically increasing my net worth. At eight, I learned how to pick mechanical locks. At ten, I earned my commercial culinary certification. At twelve, I trained under an estate appraiser, evaluating antique porcelain and rare art. By fifteen, I was working for a local loan shark, tracking down default debtors and collecting unpaid balances. With every new skill I mastered, I drew another zero on the paper price tag hanging from my collarbone. By the time my biological parents finally tracked me down, my tag was listed at eight point eight-eight million dollars. When my birth mother wrapped her arms around me and sobbed, calling me her “priceless treasure,” I panicked, stepping back three full paces. Priceless? To me, “priceless” didn’t mean invaluable. It meant unsellable. It meant zero liquid value. After moving into the Mercer family’s estate, I worked myself to the bone. I collected professional licenses, pulled all-nighters analyzing corporate ledgers, and saved three failing subsidiaries from bankruptcy—terrified that if I stopped generating profit, the Mercers would realize I was a bad investment. Then came the accident at the charity gala. A heavy crystal chandelier snapped from the ballroom ceiling, and my older brother, Harrison, lunged across the floor, shielding me with his own body. While sitting beside his hospital bed late that night, I pulled out a fresh tag and quietly modified my price. When Harrison opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was the tag pinned to my jacket. “Why does this say one dollar?” his voice was raspy, strained. I kept my gaze fixed on my lap. “High-value items get buyers hurt,” I explained softly. “If I’m cheap, it won’t break your heart when you throw me away next time.” Harrison sat up abruptly, ripping the stitches across his torso. Fresh blood blossomed through his white hospital gown. I immediately reached out, pressing a clean towel firmly against his wound. “Don’t move. Surgical re-stitching is billed by the inch.” “Pearl Mercer!” Harrison roared, his eyes bloodshot, his hands trembling with rage. A nurse pushed the door open, eyeing the heart monitor in alarm. “Patient needs rest! Family members, stop stressing him out!” I nodded instantly. “Understood. I’m not family. I’m his temporary caregiver, hired at a rate of one dollar.” The nurse swallowed a sudden laugh. Harrison’s heart rate spiked straight to one hundred and thirty. I glanced at the monitor and gave him a calm, earnest warning. “Harrison, if you stay angry for another minute, she’s going to call a cardiology consult. Cross-departmental referrals are outside our coverage network.” My birth mother, Vivian Mercer, walked into the room just in time to see Harrison closing his eyes in sheer defeat. When her eyes landed on the one-dollar tag resting on my chest, tears spilled down her face. “Pearl… baby… we didn’t bring you home so you could work or make money for us.” I blinked, genuinely confused. If I don’t work, and I don’t make money… why keep me at all? My birth father, Arthur Mercer, stepped into the room right behind her. Without a word of explanation, he took my appraisal certificates, my corporate bank cards, and my heavy aluminum tool kit. “For the next three days,” Arthur declared in his low, unyielding voice, “you are banned from studying for certifications, banned from entering the corporate office, and banned from fixing problems for anyone. All you are allowed to do is be our daughter.” I absorbed his words, calculating the subtext. A three-day probation period. They wanted three days to determine whether I had any value as a person once my practical usefulness was stripped away. When Harrison was discharged, our family driver, Hank, stood by the sleek black sedan holding two insulated thermoses of bone broth. As he loaded our luggage, I leaned over the hood, listening intently to the engine’s rhythmic hum. “Serpentine belt’s loose,” I said casually. “And your front brake pads are down to two millimeters.” Hank stared at me in shock. “Miss Pearl… you know how to work on cars?” “A little,” I replied, holding up two fingers modestly. “My ninth foster father ran an illegal chop shop in Detroit. When he got too drunk to function, I fixed the cars. And when the mechanics got into fights, I fixed the men.” Harrison grabbed the back of my collar and unceremoniously stuffed me into the rear seat. “Be quiet.” I popped my head back out the window anyway. “Hank, get the brakes done today. Your daughter-in-law is due with your first grandbaby next month. You can’t be skidding on wet asphalt when you drive her to the delivery room.” Hank’s eyes welled with tears as he quickly looked away. When we arrived at the Mercer estate, Sienna, the adopted daughter the family had raised in my absence, walked into my room carrying a glass of warm milk. “Pearl,” she murmured, her voice dripping with delicate sympathy, “you just got back, and Harrison already took a bullet—well, a chandelier—for you. Dad must be terrified of what having you around is going to cost us.” “The chandelier fell because the ceiling bracket corroded,” I corrected her coldly. “He chose to jump.” Her eyes filled with instant tears. “How can you be so heartless? He got hurt saving you!” Ten minutes later, Harrison slammed my bedroom door open, his jaw tight. “Did you just bully Sienna?” I was sitting at my desk, busy filling out a custom liquidation tag. I didn’t bother looking up. “Her tear ducts are hyperactive. I suggest an evaluation with an ophthalmologist.” Harrison’s eyes locked onto the card beneath my pen. Item: Pearl Mercer. Price: $1.00 (Clearance). Condition: Previously used. Sold as-is. No returns, no warranties. Additional Features: Can cook commercial meals, collect delinquent debt, brings own tools. Bargain deal. Non-refundable. Harrison lunged forward, snatched the card, and tore it into confetti. “If I see you write another one of these, I’ll burn that damn tag off your chest myself.” I didn’t argue. When a product repeatedly angers its buyer, liquidation is usually right around the corner. At midnight, I tiptoed downstairs to find a roll of packing tape. Passing the private study, I caught the low rumble of Arthur’s voice on a speakerphone with the family attorney. “Yes, exactly three days from now,” Arthur was saying clearly. “Liquidate everything currently listed under her name. Wipe the slate clean. I don’t want a single liability left behind.” I froze outside the heavy mahogany door. The roll of tape slipped from my fingers, bouncing softly against the carpet. It wasn’t a probation period. In three days, they were staging a full inventory liquidation. The next morning, I woke up at five and drafted an itemized return inventory. 137 pieces of designer jewelry. 6 residential real estate deeds. 12% equity share in Mercer Logistics. I even scrubbed the plush memory-foam slippers Vivian had bought me, packed them neatly inside a box, and carried them down to the front hall. Walter, the family’s elderly butler, stared at the stack of boxes for a long moment. “Miss Pearl… surely you don’t need to return the slippers?” I shook my head firmly. “Worn seven times. Applying a forty percent depreciation rate for light wear, plus a twenty percent deduction because I stepped on a piece of discarded bubblegum on Tuesday.” I tapped a few calculations into my phone. “Remaining asset value: nine dollars and eighty-six cents.” Walter wiped his nose with a handkerchief. “You keep track of these numbers so precisely?” “You have to remember the cost of expensive things,” I said, re-tying the ribbon on the box. “Years ago, a man gave me a hot dog for free. The next night, he forced me to stick my hand into a woman’s purse to steal her wallet. Walter, free things are always the most expensive.” Walter turned his back on me, his shoulders shaking as he wiped his eyes. I assumed he was disappointed by my asset valuation, so I mentally added two dollars to the total. By ten in the morning, the corporate CFO rushed into the house without knocking, his face pale. “Arthur! The 11th-century Northern Song white-glazed porcelain statue we pledged to the syndicate as collateral for the eighty-million-dollar credit line—it’s a fake! The bank’s auditors are doing a vault re-inspection at three o’clock!” When that porcelain artifact entered the Mercer vault two months ago, I was the one who personally conducted the white-glove appraisal. If it was a fake now, it meant it had been swapped. I snatched the high-res appraisal photos from his hands, scanning them for three seconds. “The seal wax on the timber base is synthetic chemical paraffin. Check the security logs for lock changes in Vault 4.” The CFO’s eyes widened. “You can tell that just from a photo?” I pointed to the corner of the porcelain pedestal. “There’s a microscopic grease smudge and half a potato chip crumb wedged in the lower seam. Museum-grade artifacts are stored in a climate-controlled, dust-free vacuum. A certified curator wouldn’t eat lay’s chips while handling a priceless artifact. Either the piece is an amateur replica, or your security team is hiring rodents that know how to open snack bags.” The CFO spun around and sprinted out the door to call the vault team. Harrison stepped up beside me and calmly pulled my iPad out of my hands. “You’re supposed to be recovering.” “Harrison, that’s eighty million dollars.” “Eighty million, eight hundred million—none of it is worth more than your life.” My heart gave an unfamiliar, erratic flutter. Statements like that defied basic economic logic. Either his head injury had scrambled his cognitive reasoning, or eighty million dollars was pocket change to the Mercer family. Sienna suddenly reached over and swiped my handwritten inventory ledger off the side table. “Pearl, why are you secretly cataloging internal corporate assets? Who were you planning on selling this information to?” Before I could answer, her fingers loosened. The leather-bound ledger dropped straight into the roaring marble fireplace. I didn’t think. I lunged forward, thrusting my right hand directly into the embers to snatch it out. The smell of singed leather filled the air, and instant, fiery blisters bloomed across my palm. Harrison grabbed my wrist, pulling me back so hard I nearly stumbled. His eyes were wild, shot through with red veins. “What bloody evidence in that book was worth burning your skin off for?!” “Eighty million dollars,” I answered instantly, fighting the surge of pain. “Eighty million buys a lot of hands.” Harrison froze, his entire body going rigid. An emergency physician arrived twenty minutes later to dress the burn. The moment the sterile gauze brushed against the blistered skin, I instinctively flinched away. “Does it hurt?” the doctor asked gently. “No,” I whispered, pulling my arm back further. “I’m afraid of the bill.” The doctor went completely silent. He looked up at Harrison with deep concern. “Mr. Mercer, I strongly advise scheduling a psychological evaluation for your sister.” I instantly went on high alert. “Psychiatric consultations are billed by the hour. I intend to heal this trauma independently.” Harrison knelt beside my chair, gently taking my uninjured hand in his. His voice was raw, scraped hollow. “I’ll cover the bill, Pearl. Every cent.” My internal alarm bells chimed louder. Unconditional cost absorption indicates a product experiencing severe operational failure. Using my left hand, I flipped open the charred ledger. A singed carbon receipt slipped out from between the scorched pages. The payee line read: Frank Doyle. The moment I saw that name, a raspy, tobacco-stained voice from twenty years ago echoed in my ears: “The kid’s too scrawny. Fifty bucks, not a penny more.” Frank Doyle was the trafficker who had shoved fifty dollars into my foster father’s hand before throwing me into the back of a rusty van. But the official seal stamped at the bottom of the old receipt didn’t belong to a black-market broker. It belonged to Mercer Logistics & Warehousing Corp. Harrison stared at the paper, his brows pulled tight. “Do you know this man?” “No,” I lied. It was the first lie I had ever told him. That night, after the house went dark, I used a tension wrench to pick the heavy brass lock on the storage cabinet in the basement. My old, battered tool kit wasn’t inside. In its place sat a brand-new, matte-black titanium mechanic set. Every single tool—from the torque wrenches to the precision picks—was custom-engraved with my name: Pearl Mercer. Tucked underneath the top tray was a handwritten note from Harrison: Property of Pearl Mercer. Anyone who confiscates this will answer to me. I stared at the gleaming metal for a long time. Then, I lifted the heavy case and slipped out the side door. By one in the morning, I tracked Frank Doyle’s burner phone signal to an abandoned port warehouse on the outskirts of the city. The moment I sent a ping to his number, an automated text flashed back: If you want to know who paid to throw you away twenty years ago, come alone. I immediately dropped my real-time GPS location to Harrison’s phone. A red exclamation point flashed on my screen: Message Delivery Failed. Recipient has enabled Do Not Disturb. I didn’t wait. I took the keys to Hank’s old beat-up utility van from the garage peg and drove out toward the industrial district. The Mercers had bought me a luxury European SUV, but if I wrecked an eighty-thousand-dollar vehicle on a solo retrieval mission, the repair costs would ruin my asset balance. Halfway there, the dashboard GPS chirped: Speed camera ahead. I gently eased my foot off the gas, slowing the van down to thirty miles an hour. I wasn’t afraid of losing points on my driver’s license. I was afraid that if I didn’t make it back alive tonight, an unpaid traffic violation would ding the Mercer family’s corporate credit rating. The abandoned warehouse smelled of damp concrete and motor oil. Frank Doyle sat in a tarnished velvet armchair in the center of the floor, twirling a heavy brass lighter between his fingers. “The fifty-dollar kid,” he chuckled, his yellow teeth flashing in the dim light. “I hear you’re listed at eight point eight million now?” I shook my head. “Recently markdown. One dollar. Though you still can’t afford me.” His smile vanished. He tossed a yellowed paper ledger onto the wooden table between us. The man who had orchestrated the swap of the Song Dynasty porcelain statue wasn’t a bank insider. It was Harlan Hayes—the biological uncle of Sienna. I quietly tapped the record button on my phone inside my jacket pocket. “Does Sienna know?” Frank laughed again, a dry, rattling sound. “Sienna knows more than you think, kid. You weren’t lost twenty years ago. Somebody paid Mercer corporate funds to make sure you vanished off the face of the earth.” My fingers went ice cold. “Who?” THUD. The heavy iron warehouse doors slammed shut behind me, locking with a deafening metallic clatter. A dozen men stepped out from behind the stacked shipping crates. Frank held out his hand. “Hand over the ledger evidence, and maybe I’ll tell you who bought your ticket out of Boston.” I scanned the room with a practiced eye. Twelve men. Three folding knives. Two steel pipes. And one guy standing near the back holding a wooden mop handle. I couldn’t help asking, “Hey, man. Are you here to jump me or mop the floors?” The guy holding the mop blinked in confusion. Before anyone else could react, I grabbed a heavy ceramic dish off the table and smashed it straight across Frank Doyle’s face. “Twenty years later, and your strategy is still just throwing bodies at a problem?” I ducked under a swinging pipe. “Your industry has zero innovation.” I took down five of them in forty seconds, using basic leverage and pressure points I’d learned in Detroit. As I passed the broom guy, I shoved him into the utility closet and snapped the outer padlock shut. He pounded frantically from the inside. “Let me out!” “Relax,” I called back through the metal door. “I don’t hit support staff.” The words had barely left my mouth when a heavy wooden beam cracked against the back of my skull. My vision flared white, then folded into absolute pitch black. When I woke up, I was locked inside an underground steel vault. The electronic keypad was dead—power cut from the outside. The manual lock wheel on the heavy steel door had been spot-welded shut. My phone screen glowed faintly in the dark: Battery 19%. I dialed Harrison’s number. It rang once. Twice. On the third ring, it picked up—but the voice on the other end belonged to Sienna. “Pearl? Harrison just fell asleep. He was so exhausted after looking after you…” “I’m locked inside an industrial subterranean vault at the West Port complex,” I said, keeping my voice steady despite the blood trickling down my neck. “The ventilation is off. I have three hours of oxygen left.” There was a long silence on the line. When Sienna spoke again, her tone was thick with performative tears. “Pearl… you already got Harrison hurt once this week. Why do you keep inventing these dramatic missing-person games just to force him to prove he cares about you?” “Sienna. This isn’t a game.” “You know how to pick locks,” she whispered coldly. “If you really wanted to come out, you’d be out.” The call ended. I stared at the black screen. One dollar really was too expensive, I thought to myself. A product that constantly inflicts damage on its owner should come with a negative price tag. I tore a strip of fabric from my denim sleeve and bound the bleeding gash on the back of my head. Then, opening my phone’s memo app, I edited my listing one last time. Item: Pearl Mercer. Price: -$100.00. Includes cash rebate upon pickup. From the other side of the heavy vault door, Frank Doyle’s voice echoed muffled through the steel plating. “Don’t get comfortable, kid. Your new buyer is already en route.” The air inside the vault was growing heavy, hot, and thin. I opened my cloud drive and uploaded the audio recordings, the asset-tracking logs, and the exact coordinates of the authentic Song Dynasty porcelain statue. Then, I turned on the front-facing camera and hit record. “Dad,” I said quietly, leaning my head against the cold steel wall. “The evidence files are uploaded. Your eighty-million-dollar credit line is secure.” “Mom… the luxury slippers and all the jewelry are packed in the six boxes in my room. I only wore the slippers seven times. They’re still good.” “Harrison… my new tool kit got damaged during the warehouse fight. You can deduct the repair costs from my remaining asset value.” I reached up, unpinned the one-dollar paper tag from my collar, and held it up to the camera lens. “I hereby voluntarily surrender all legal claims to the Mercer estate and trust funds. You won’t have to absorb any liquidation losses on my account.” I paused, a sudden thought hitting me. “Oh… there’s a jar of pickled radishes I made in the back of the fridge. Remember to turn them over tomorrow morning. Otherwise, the top layer stays too salty and the bottom stays bland.” When a person runs out of oxygen, they should always leave instructions for the things that matter. The upload bar reached 99%… and stalled. Across town, in the Mercer estate, Harrison bolted upright in bed, a cold sweat drenching his shirt. He sprinted down the hallway and threw open Pearl’s bedroom door. The room was pristine, eerie, and silent. Line up against the far wall were six neatly taped cardboard boxes. Inside were all the designer clothes, the diamond necklaces, the black-card credit lines, and every single gift the Mercers had given her since her return. Taped to the top box was a printed inventory list. The very last line read: Item: Biological Daughter Status. Usage Period: 3 Months. Result: Caused severe physical trauma to buyer (Harrison Mercer). Recommendation: Unconditional return to origin. Harrison’s hands began to shake violently. He pulled out his phone, turned off the Do Not Disturb filter, and watched three delayed text messages pop onto his screen. [Harrison, I’m heading to the port to secure the stolen artifact.] [Arrived at warehouse.] [If I’m not back in three hours, pull the corporate records on Frank Doyle.] Beneath the texts was a Venmo notification. Pearl Mercer has sent you $52.00. Memo: Reimbursing the two bananas I ate in your hospital room. Market value: $6.00. Emotional distress compensation: $46.00. Harrison stared at the green text on his screen, his vision blurring with tears. He snatched the liquidation list and stormed into Arthur’s private study. “Dad! What the hell did you mean when you told the lawyers you were going to ‘liquidate everything under her name’ in three days?!” Arthur looked up from his desk, completely bewildered. “I was setting up her primary family trust! I’m transferring twenty percent of the holding equity directly into her name—I had to clear out the temporary holding shell to avoid a tax liability!” The entire room went dead silent. They had been trying to give her everything. And Pearl had spent three days preparing to be discarded. The police tactical unit located the port warehouse thirty minutes later. When Harrison slammed his shoulder through the subterranean door of the vault, the small steel room was entirely empty. The only things left on the concrete floor were a shattered cell phone and a blood-stained paper price tag reading $1.00. A forensics technician knelt down, examining the floor with a blacklight. His face dropped. “There’s a hidden hydraulic freight elevator built into the rear wall. She was moved before we even breached the perimeter.” Harrison dropped to his knees, picking up the bloody tag. Written on the back in shaky, faint red brushstrokes was a single line of text: If damaged upon arrival, buyer claims zero liability. Harrison squeezed the paper so tightly his knuckles turned white. At that exact moment, the shattered phone on the floor buzzed. The stalled video upload finally hit 100%, broadcasting the final frames of Pearl’s recording to Harrison’s screen. In the video, Pearl was slumped against the wall, her breathing shallow. Frank Doyle’s voice echoed from the background: “Pearl Mercer… the buyer just bumped the bid to ten million dollars. Looks like you’re expensive again.” The hidden freight door in the video slowly slid open. A hand encased in a black leather glove reached into the frame, violently grabbing Pearl by her hair. Flashed clearly under the industrial light was a thick gold signet ring on the assailant’s wrist—engraved with the official Mercer family crest.

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We were filming a high-stakes reality special—the kind where celebrities are forced into “vulnerable” moments for the sake of ratings. The host, a man with a smile as polished as his veneers, leaned forward. “Imagine this is the end. If you could only leave one letter before you died, what would you write?” My hand trembled slightly as I gripped the pen. I stared at the blank stationery, the studio lights hot against my neck, and wrote down three wishes. When it was my turn to share, I stood up, my voice a brittle thread. “First… I wish for everyone to forget me.” Before the words had even settled, a sharp, cold sneer sliced through the silence. “Still as narcissistic as ever, Elena?” Hudson St. Claire sat across from me, his face a mask of frosted glass. He didn’t even look up from his own paper as he twisted the knife. “You really think you’re that important? Trust me, the world isn’t going to stop spinning because you’re gone. No one is going to spend their lives mourning a ghost.” I offered him a small, weary smile. I didn’t fight back. I didn’t have the energy anymore. He didn’t know. He couldn’t possibly know. That letter wasn’t a hypothetical exercise. It was my actual will. 1 We were halfway through the filming schedule, and the crew had already grown used to Hudson’s relentless hostility toward me. Every time he went for my throat, the host would jump in with a practiced, nervous laugh to smooth things over. “Hudson has such a… sharp wit, doesn’t he?” the host stammered, sweating under the LEDs. He turned to me, his eyes pleading for a transition. “Elena, darling, why don’t you finish the rest of your list for us?” I kept my expression neutral, my “red carpet” mask firmly in place. “The second wish is to find a new home for Barnaby. And the last… is to donate my entire estate to the foster care foundations I’ve worked with over the years.” Seeing the confusion on the other guests’ faces, I added, “Barnaby is my cat. A little tuxedo stray I picked up years ago.” The others nodded, their expressions softening into that shallow celebrity sympathy. But Barnaby wasn’t just my cat. He was our cat. I remembered the night we found him. It was a torrential downpour in Manhattan, the kind of rain that feels like the sky is collapsing. The kitten had followed me for three blocks, meowing at my heels. I’d scooped him up, my heart breaking for the shivering thing. Hudson had hated it at first. He wasn’t an “animal person.” He’d complain every time he had to change the litter, holding his nose and grumbling about the mess. But he was the one who spent hours researching the best organic kibble. He was the one who filled our penthouse with enough cat trees and automated toys to start a sanctuary. Then came the blowout. The end of us. And when I left, Hudson made sure I took Barnaby with me. Predictably, Hudson couldn’t let my answer sit. “How touching,” he spat, his voice dripping with venom. “So detailed, Elena. You better actually be dying, otherwise, this whole ‘saintly’ routine is just pathetic.” The air in the studio turned to ice. The other guests had given vague, poetic answers about “love” and “legacy.” My specific, practical list made me look like I was seeking attention—or like I was morbidly obsessed. The host stood there, frozen, unsure of how to salvage the segment. Then, Liam Crawford, my co-star from my last series, spoke up. He reached over and placed a steadying hand on my arm. “Hudson, maybe try keeping it professional? We’re on camera.” Liam unscrewed a bottle of water and handed it to me. I took it, my fingers brushing his. Liam and I had just finished a massive romantic drama that was currently tearing up the streaming charts. The fans were obsessed with our “chemistry,” and the studio had encouraged us to lean into the “showmance” for PR. Facing Hudson’s unexplained rage, I welcomed Liam’s protection. Hudson’s eyes locked onto my hand gripping the water bottle. His jaw tightened so hard I thought I heard a crack. Just when I expected him to unleash another insult, he looked down, his voice dropping to a strange, hollow tone. “I’m thirsty.” I blinked, confused by the sudden shift. I held out the water Liam had just given me. Hudson took it. He didn’t drink. He just twirled the bottle between his fingers, staring at it with a dark, indecipherable intensity. Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, he tossed the full bottle into the trash can beside his chair. He looked Liam dead in the eye, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. “Sorry. I don’t drink that brand.” It was a display of pure, unadulterated arrogance. But Hudson was the scion of the St. Claire empire; he was untouchable. Nobody dared to call him out. The host wiped his brow, his voice trembling. “Well! Hudson, would you like to share what you wrote in your letter?” Hudson smiled. For a moment, he looked like the man I had once loved—charming, effortless, breathtaking. “Sure.” The camera panned to his stationery. The audience gasped. Across the big screen, Hudson’s elegant, aggressive handwriting was impossible to miss. He had written: Before I die, I’m taking Elena Rossi down with me. He read it aloud, his voice lingering on my name like a threat. The other guests looked at me with pity. I just sat there, my face a blank slate. I couldn’t blame him for hating me. The way I ended things… it was messy. It was cruel. It was designed to make him walk away. 2 Hudson’s love had always been a beautiful, suffocating thing. He was possessive, intense, and he wanted all of me. But as an actress, my life didn’t belong to me. My last project with Liam had featured a heavily publicized, intimate scene. When Hudson found out, he was livid. He demanded we go public with our relationship. He wanted to mark his territory, to tell the world I was his so that the rumors about me and Liam would die. “Not now, Hudson,” I had told him. “The show is at its peak. My contract has a ‘single’ clause for PR. Just wait until the finale airs.” His eyes had gone bloodshot with hurt. He didn’t scream. He just looked at me as if I were a stranger. Then he walked out. I got tied up with reshoots and press junkets. By the time I tried to call him a few days later, I was blocked on everything. He went off the grid. The next time I heard from him was via a notification. He had posted a photo of us on Instagram—an old, private one from a trip to the Hamptons. The caption was simple: @ElenaRossi is mine. The internet exploded. The servers nearly crashed. But I didn’t see the fallout until much later. Because on the day he posted that, I collapsed on set. I woke up in a sterile white room twenty-four hours later. The doctor didn’t offer a platitude. He just looked at me with that devastating professional pity and said, “Ms. Rossi, I’m so sorry. It’s Stage IV. It’s aggressive.” I didn’t cry. I just felt… hollow. Like the air had been sucked out of my lungs. My phone started screaming. It was my manager, frantic. He hadn’t dared call Hudson, so he rained fire on me. Why had Hudson posted that? We had to deny it. We had a brand to protect. Liam’s fans were revolting. I sat on the edge of the hospital bed for thirty minutes, listening to him talk about “marketability” and “narrative control.” I just kept saying “I’m sorry” and “I understand” until he finally hung up. I stared at the sunset through the hospital window. I should have called Hudson. I should have explained that the Liam rumors were fake, that I loved him, that I was ready to tell the world I was his. But what was the point now? Stage IV. Six months? A year? I couldn’t do that to him. I couldn’t make him watch me wither away. I couldn’t tie his vibrant, brilliant life to a sinking ship. With trembling fingers, I found his post and typed out a reply. Nice joke, Hudson. But you’re reaching. @HudsonStClaire. The backlash was instantaneous. My fans swarmed his comments. Stop trying to clout-chase off her success! This is borderline harassment. Elena would never be with someone so desperate. St. Claire is a creep. Cancel him. He became a national laughingstock overnight. There were rumors his family was so embarrassed they were cutting him off. And through it all, Hudson stayed silent. He didn’t leak our texts. He didn’t show the world the videos of us laughing in bed. He took the hit. He let the world believe he was a delusional stalker. A few days later, he sent me a single voice note. His voice, usually so confident, was cracked and small. “Elena… just tell me. Do you love me? Or was it all a script?” I felt a sharp, stabbing pain in my chest that had nothing to do with the tumors. I swallowed the bile in my throat and typed back: I don’t love you. I never did. He never replied. Hudson St. Claire was many things, but he wasn’t a beggar. We were over. 3 Back in the studio, the host pushed through the awkwardness to the next segment: “Truth or Dare.” In this industry, everyone has secrets they’d kill to keep. Most people play it safe, but Seraphina Brooks was looking for blood. She’d hated me since I beat her out for the lead in The Emerald Gate. She lived to “accidentally” like hate-tweets about me. I lost the first round. Seraphina’s eyes gleamed. “Elena, darling. Truth or Dare?” “Truth,” I said, my voice steady. She leaned in, a shark sensing chum. “The question everyone wants to know. Did you and Hudson ever actually date? Or was he really just a ‘joke’ like you said?” The host went pale. The entire crew stopped moving. This was the forbidden topic—the one Hudson’s lawyers usually scrubbed from interviews. I felt Hudson’s gaze burning into the side of my face. He was waiting. I looked down at my hands, my nails digging into my palms. “We never dated,” I lied, the words tasting like ash. “There was never anything between us.” A collective gasp echoed through the room. Hudson let out a low, terrifying laugh. “See?” he said, his voice cold as a razor. “She said it herself. Why would I ever be with someone like Elena Rossi?” Under the table, I saw his hand tighten around his wine glass. The stem snapped. Shards of glass sliced into his palm, blood blooming red against the tablecloth. He didn’t even flinch. He just sat there, bleeding in silence. The producers called for an early wrap on the day’s filming. Most of the guests rushed to Hudson’s side, fawning over his injury. I felt a wave of dizziness and nausea. I slipped away to my dressing room, swallowed my medication, and collapsed into a dreamless sleep. I was woken up at 4:00 PM by a production assistant. We had to film a “communal dinner” segment where we cooked for each other. When I walked into the kitchen, Hudson was already there, leaning against the counter. His hand was bandaged. He looked at me with pure vitriol. “I hear Elena is quite the chef,” he mocked. “Why don’t you show us your skills? Or is that just another lie for your bio?” He was obsessed with me. Even now, he couldn’t stop. I looked at his bandaged hand and felt a pang of relief—at least he could still move his fingers. The other guests followed his lead. “Oh, Elena, you’ve got this!” Seraphina chirped. “We’re all so hungry!” “I’m a disaster in the kitchen, so I’ll stay out of your way.” Within minutes, they had all vanished to the patio to drink cocktails, leaving me alone to prep a dinner for twelve. I was exhausted. My bones felt like lead. I started chopping vegetables, my vision blurring. I put a pan on the stove, but I lost focus. Suddenly, a flame flared up. A hand reached over my shoulder and slammed a lid onto the pan, extinguishing the fire. It was Liam. “I can’t cook worth a damn,” he said softly, “but I can wash and chop. Tell me what to do, Elena. You look like you’re about to faint.” 4 “Thank you,” I whispered, my eyes stinging. With Liam’s help, the meal came together. But as I was carrying the platters out to the terrace, I caught Hudson watching us from the shadows. I don’t know how long he’d been standing there, but his expression was unreadable, his eyes dark with a simmering hurt. I was too tired to care. I walked past him without a word. At the table, Hudson started again. He took one bite of the risotto and immediately spat it back into his napkin. “God, Elena,” he sneered. “Is your ‘great cooking’ just more PR? This is inedible.” I looked at him, and for the first time, I felt the weight of it all—the cancer, the secrets, the pretending. Why was he doing this? He used to beg me to cook for him on our nights off. He used to eat every grain of rice on the plate and tell me I was wasted on acting. I looked him straight in the eyes and smiled. It was a bright, terrifyingly calm smile. “It’s okay, Hudson,” I said softly. “Don’t worry. This is probably the last time you’ll ever have to eat anything I’ve made.” The insult he was about to hurl died on his lips. His smirk froze. Something shifted in his eyes—a flicker of genuine, raw fear. The rest of the dinner was silent. Hudson ate every bite of his portion after that, his left hand trembling under the table where he thought no one could see. Halfway through the meal, my stomach cramped violently. I dropped my fork and ran for the bathroom. I barely made it to the sink before I was dry-heaving. When I looked down, the white porcelain was splattered with bright, terrifying red. I frantically turned on the faucet, washing the blood away before anyone could see. When I walked back out, I bumped into Hudson in the hallway. He looked at my pale face, his brow furrowed. “Are you okay? You look like a ghost.” I felt a sudden, wicked urge to mess with him. “I’m pregnant,” I whispered. His eyes went wide. He actually stumbled back, his voice failing him. “Is… is it mine?” I let out a soft laugh. “I’m kidding, Hudson. Relax.” “Elena!” he yelled, but I was already walking away. I locked myself in my room and collapsed. It took twenty minutes before I could find the strength to crawl into bed and take my pain killers. As the pills began to numb the ache in my chest, my phone buzzed. It was a text from my mom. Elena, why did you wire me so much money this morning? Is everything okay? My throat tightened. Everything’s fine, Mom, I typed. I’m just going to be filming on location for a long time, and I won’t be able to check in much. Just wanted you to have some extra cushion. Take care of yourself. Okay, honey. I’ll put it in a high-yield account for you. Oh! I sent you a box of those homemade caramels you love. You know your blood sugar gets low when you’re stressed. Keep them in your pocket. I replied with a heart emoji. My mom had sacrificed everything to get us away from my abusive father when I was a teenager. She finally had a peaceful, happy life with her new husband and my younger half-sister. I couldn’t bring this darkness into her world. I wanted to live. God, I wanted to live. I wanted more movies, more mornings with Barnaby, more time. But the world doesn’t care what we want. The next morning, the crew took us up to a mountain ridge to watch the “Golden Hour” sunrise. I had been looking forward to this—one last beautiful thing before I went back to the hospital. But the hike was brutal. Every step felt like a battle against my own fading life. I fell to the back of the group, my breath coming in ragged gasps. Liam noticed. He doubled back and stood in front of me. “Get on my back,” he ordered. “Liam, I’m fine—” “You’re white as a sheet, Elena. Don’t be stubborn.” He hoisted me up before I could protest. “Why are you so light? Have you been eating at all?” “Prep for a new role,” I lied, resting my head on his shoulder.

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1 The night before freshman orientation at Pacific Coast University, my e-girlfriend of a year, Sienna, auctioned me off in a dorm icebreaker game. Before I could even process what was happening, my phone buzzed violently as I was dragged into a GroupMe chat with over a hundred incoming freshmen. The pinned announcement lit up my screen: [Congrats to Brooke on winning one 200-pound boyfriend in the Mystery Box auction! All sales final!] A second later, a photo from my junior year of high school hit the feed. In the picture, I was squeezed into a faded navy school hoodie that looked like it was about to burst at the seams. My cheeks were so swollen with baby fat that my eyes were pinched into two narrow slits. The chat instantly went wild. “LMAO Brooke hit the jackpot.” “A deal’s a deal! Brooke better finish the couple’s obstacle course with him tomorrow night!” “Isn’t the final task a princess carry? That’s brutal—no wait, that’s hilarious.” Within minutes, a digital betting pool was set up on the campus app. People were taking bets on whether I’d even have the guts to show up at the freshman mixer tomorrow evening. Sienna dropped a thousand dollars on NO. “I dated him online for a year,” she typed into the main thread. “He was too terrified to even turn on his camera. I made fun of his voice once and he almost cried. He’s not a real man.” Garrett, the resident golden-boy recruit whose chest took up half his profile picture, tagged my handle directly: “Do yourself a favor, bro. Stay home.” “Sienna putting you in the auction was her way of letting you down easy.” Sienna immediately responded with a blushing emoji. I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at their matching profile pictures—two halves of a heart—and felt a cold, quiet laugh bubble up in my chest. So that was it. Throwing me into a mystery auction was just her way of pulling off a painless, public soft-launch with another guy. What neither of them knew was that I was no longer two hundred pounds. Over the past twelve months, I had dropped down to a lean, muscular hundred and forty pounds. In fact, since getting down to eight percent body fat, talent scouts at my local gym had stopped me three separate times. I opened the betting app, typed in my name, and quietly dropped a thousand dollars on YES. Tomorrow night was going to be an education for everyone involved. *** After my thousand-dollar wager posted, the GroupMe went dead silent for a solid two seconds. Garrett was the first to break it, dropping a single question mark. “You’re actually coming?” A second later, Sienna’s name flashed across my screen in a private text. [Cancel the bet.] [Do not show up tomorrow.] I typed back a simple question: Why? Her voice memo popped up almost instantly, her tone sharp and exasperated. “Do I really have to spell it out for you, Nate? There are over a hundred people in this chat. They’re our future classmates. If you waddle in looking the way you do, how am I supposed to hold my head up on campus? You might not care about being a laughingstock, but I do.” I looked down at the digital scale resting on the hardwood floor between my feet. 140.6 lbs. To reach this number, I had ripped my old life apart at the seams. For three hundred and sixty-five days, I cut out every drop of sugar, killed late-night cravings with ice water, and dragged myself out of bed at five-thirty every morning to hit the pavement. At my lowest point, the inflammation in my knee cartilage was so bad I had to slide down the stairs on my rear just to make breakfast. Whenever I asked Sienna to FaceTime over the past year, she always claimed the Wi-Fi in her dorm was too spotty, keeping her camera off and keeping our calls strictly audio. My phone chimed again. Another photo had been posted to the main GroupMe. It was an old shot from my high school athletic physical. I was stripped to the waist, standing under the harsh fluorescent lights of a nurse’s office. A roll of soft belly spilled over the waistband of my shorts, and deep, reddish stretch marks spanned across my lower back. The message came from a guy named Zach Miller, Garrett’s roommate. “Exclusive HD drop,” Zach wrote. “Nate’s physique right here. Can’t say he looks like an athlete, but he definitely looks like an uncooked ball of bread dough.” The chat flooded with laughing-crying emojis. My fingers tightened around the edges of my phone until my knuckles turned white. I had sent that photo to Sienna—and only Sienna. It was late one night when she told me that true intimacy required absolute vulnerability. “So what if you’re big?” she’d whispered into her microphone back then. “I love you for who you are, Nate. Always.” And then she’d turned around and handed it straight to Garrett. Zach, apparently deciding the insult hadn’t landed hard enough, updated the GroupMe avatar to my shirtless physical photo. “Keep an eye out tomorrow, everyone,” Zach added. “When you see this shape walking into the venue, give our campus queen a round of applause for acquiring a human beanbag.” A girl in the chat finally spoke up. Her handle read Sadie. “Using someone’s private, shirtless photo as a group icon is crossing a line, don’t you think?” Garrett shot back instantly: “He’s a guy, Sadie. What’s he going to do, cry? Nate, you’re not actually offended by a little banter, are you?” Before I could type a response, Sienna jumped in. “He doesn’t mind. Nate’s got a really thick skin.” Reading those words, a bitter taste filled my mouth. My restraint, my refusal to throw tantrums, had simply become the permission structure she used to let other people humiliate me. I typed three words into the main thread: “I do mind.” The GroupMe went silent again. Sienna’s texts flooded my lock screen in a rapid frenzy. [What is wrong with you?!] [Are you seriously trying to embarrass me in front of everyone?] [Garrett and Zach are just messing around. You’re making things so awkward!] I replied: Did you give him that photo? The typing bubble bounced three dots at the bottom of the screen for nearly a minute before she finally sent a reply. [Does it even matter? That’s what you look like anyway. It’s not like it’s photoshopped.] I stared at the screen, feeling the last lingering tether of affection inside me snap clean in half. There was nothing left to say to her. Seeing my silence, her tone shifted, softening into a fake, patronizing sweetness. [Nate, look, I’m just trying to protect you. If you show up tomorrow, people are going to laugh right to your face. Just cut your losses. Consider that thousand dollars the price of a life lesson.] I backed out of her contact screen without replying. A second later, a notification popped up. It was a direct message from Sadie—the girl who had called out the avatar photo. [Hey. Don’t go tomorrow night,] she wrote. [It’s a trap. They didn’t just plan a princess carry.] [What else?] I asked. She sent over a short, secretly recorded video clip. In the video, Zach was adjusting a heavy-duty nylon dog leash and harness. Attached to the collar was a laminated sign in bold black ink: TRANSFERRED PROPERTY. NO REFUNDS. Garrett sat on a leather couch nearby, taking a sip from a red Solo cup and smirking at the camera. “When Nate walks through that door, we clip this on him. Brooke walks him around the lounge twice. That’s the real initiation task.” Sienna was sitting right beside Garrett in the frame. When she heard his plan, her only response was a faint laugh and a bored instruction: “Just don’t pull it too tight.” Sadie’s text followed the video clip instantly. [I can talk to the group admins and force them to refund your bet. Just stay home.] I saved the video to my local drive and replied: [Thanks, but keep the money in the pool. I’ll be there.] Then, I saved the physical photo Zach had posted, went back into the GroupMe thread, and posted one final message: “Don’t delete that avatar photo. You’re going to need it tomorrow.” Garrett replied within seconds. “Why? Want me to print it on a poster for you? Don’t worry, bro. I’ll make sure it’s full size.” *** The next morning, I woke up at five and unlocked my phone. The top trending post on the unofficial PCU Freshman Forum had already accumulated hundreds of upvotes: [BEWARE: 200lb Stalker Freshman Harassing Campus Beauty for a Year—Threatening Violence After Getting Dumped!] The post featured my old high school photo, accompanied by a series of carefully cropped, fake text exchanges. According to the anonymous poster, I had used emotional guilt to trap Sienna in an online relationship, threatening self-harm whenever she tried to break things off. Now that she had “moved on,” I was allegedly planning to crash the freshman party to assault her. The comment section was an absolute cesspool. “Fat, ugly, AND a psycho? Pick a struggle, dude.” “Poor Sienna. Imagine having a parasite attached to you for a whole year.” “He’s actually coming to the mixer tonight? Girls, keep your pepper spray ready.” When a commenter asked if there was any actual proof, Zach replied under his main account: [Roommate here. Can confirm 100%. He’s out of his mind.] Garrett had officially liked the comment from his verified handle. I dialed Sienna’s number. She picked up on the second ring. “Did you see the forum post?” I asked, keeping my voice flat. “Yes,” she said, sounding tired. “Was it you?” “No.” “Then why haven’t you cleared my name?” Sienna let out a sharp, irritated breath through her nose. “Clear your name how, Nate? By telling the whole campus that I actually spent a year dating a guy who looks like a parade balloon? Do you have any idea how embarrassing that would be for my social life?” A hollow laugh escaped my throat. “So you’d rather let me be branded as a stalker and a creep?” “Your name isn’t even on the post!” she snapped. “There are four thousand guys in the freshman class. Why do you have to take everything so personally? If you just stay in your dorm tonight, people will move on to new drama in two days.” I closed my eyes for a fraction of a second, letting the final illusion fade away. “Delete the post,” I said quietly. “Clear it up now, and I’ll pretend you had nothing to do with it.” Sienna let out a bitter laugh. “Are you threatening me? Who do you think you are, Nate? I dragged you around for a year out of pity. I was more than generous to you. If you dare show up tonight, I will play the voice memos you sent me in front of the entire room. Let’s see how tough you sound when everyone hears you sobbing like a baby.” I remembered that voice memo. It was recorded the night my grandfather passed away in hospice care. I was sitting in a cold hospital hallway, choking back tears, asking if she could just stay on the phone with me for five minutes. She had told me she was there for me, that I could trust her with my pain. Now, that moment of grief was just ammunition. “Fine,” I said. “See you tonight.” I hung up before she could respond. Sadie’s name popped up on my screen a second later. [You’re still going?] I turned toward the full-length mirror leaning against my bedroom wall. The black athletic tank top I wore clung tightly to a wide, tapered back and defined shoulders. My collarbones were sharp; my jawline was hard enough to cut glass. Over the past year, I had evolved from a kid who threw up after running a quarter-mile into an athlete capable of clearing twelve-mile trail runs without breaking a sweat. My body had changed. It was time my standards did, too. [They put a lot of effort into setting the stage,] I replied to Sadie. [It’d be rude not to show.] *** By four in the afternoon, the betting pool reached a fever pitch. Driven by the viral forum post, the total pot on whether I’d show up had ballooned to over a hundred and twenty thousand dollars. Garrett tossed another five thousand dollars into the NO column. “If this guy actually steps foot inside the venue tonight,” he posted on his story, “I’ll eat my laptop screen live on stream.” Zach chimed in: “Keep it simple, Garrett. If he shows, just make him wash our gym socks for the first semester.” Sienna dropped a single message into the main thread: “Don’t make the bets too high, guys.” Garrett replied: “Feeling sorry for him?” “Hardly,” Sienna wrote back. “I just don’t think he can afford to lose. His family isn’t exactly wealthy. A thousand dollars is a lot of money to someone like him.” Staring at those words, my mind drifted back to last fall. Sienna had casually mentioned wanting a three-thousand-dollar Sony camera setup for her birthday. I lived on instant ramen and tap water for two straight months, working double shifts at a local warehouse to buy it for her. When she opened the package, she cried over FaceTime, swearing she didn’t care about material things—that all she needed was me. A few weeks later, she claimed she’d dropped the camera on concrete and shattered the lens beyond repair. Yet, in a photo Garrett posted just last week, that exact same camera setup was slung proudly around his neck. The chat devolved further into crude fat jokes. Someone photoshopped my high school headshot onto a farm animal; Garrett screenshotted the high-stakes betting pool and posted it to the main freshman story with a caption: 6:00 PM TONIGHT: LIVE STREAMING THE SIMP REALITY CHECK. Sadie finally fired off a message directly into the chat: “Is this really what you guys think is funny? Leaking private medical photos, launching smear campaigns, setting up dog leashes? It’s pathetic.” Zach shot back immediately: “Sadie, don’t tell me you’re falling for the dough-boy? Then again, with your personality, maybe he’s the best you can do.” I typed a brief message: “Drop it, Sadie. It’s fine.” The thread exploded instantly with tags. “Look who’s alive!” “Hiding behind a girl to fight your battles now, Nate?” Garrett sent an audio file directly into the group: “Know your place, man. Sienna already made it clear—your little online fantasy never meant anything. If you try to crash this party, I’ll personally have security throw you out on the pavement.” “Why would I be crashing?” I replied. “It’s an open orientation mixer.” “Because nobody wants you there,” Garrett snapped back. A moment later, he launched an official GroupMe poll: [Should Nate Hayes be allowed into the mixer?] Yes: 3 No: 107 Sienna and Brooke had both voted No. Garrett posted a screenshot of the results. “See that? Over a hundred people agree. Save yourself what’s left of your dignity.” I didn’t bother responding. I walked over to my closet, pulled out a plain, fitted white crewneck t-shirt and a pair of dark denim jeans. No designer logos, no fancy styling. I didn’t need a three-piece suit or a fresh blowout to face these people. My phone buzzed again. Sadie had sent a video from inside the private lounge area at the hotel downtown. A massive printed banner was hung directly over the double doors of the VIP suite: [NATES AND DOGS PROHIBITED] Beside the door stood a heavy-duty industrial scale. Next to it was a hand-painted cardboard sign: [IF OVER 200 LBS, PLEASE USE THE FREIGHT ELEVATOR] Inside the room, Zach was holding a microphone, giving the camera a tour. “To accommodate Nate’s special proportions,” Zach announced, pointing to a corner of the room, “we’ve constructed a custom seating arrangement!” The camera panned to two heavy plastic chairs taped together with duct tape and covered in a plastic sheet. On a low table in front of them sat a two-foot-wide plastic dog bowl filled to the brim with cold fried chicken, greasy burgers, and cheap supermarket cake. Garrett leaned into the frame, grinning. “If he makes it inside, he sits right here and eats the whole bowl before he’s allowed to leave.” Someone off-camera asked, “What if he starts crying?” Sienna’s voice cut through the noise from the background. “He’s really annoying when he cries. Don’t comfort him, just ignore him and he’ll stop.” Sadie ended the recording there. [They’re out of their minds, Nate. Please, just don’t come.] I pulled my shirt over my head, grabbed my wallet, and headed downstairs. The Uber I’d called was waiting at the curb. Five-twenty. The party’s livestream officially began. I sat in the back seat of the rideshare, stuck in gridlocked downtown traffic, watching the stream buffer on my screen. Zach was standing by the VIP entrance, holding his phone high. “Forty minutes until the deadline! Still no sign of our mystery guest!” They had taken my old physical photo, blown it up to life-size, and mounted it on a cardboard standee near the bar. Partygoers were lining up with Sharpies, drawing pig snouts, sweat drops, and slurs across my face. Garrett stepped up to the board, grabbed a red marker, and wrote four words right across my chest: NOT GOOD ENOUGH FOR HER. He turned around, pulled Sienna into his side by her waist, and gave a cocky wink to the camera. “Any objections, chat?” The stream chat erupted into a wall of fire emojis. Sienna didn’t pull away. She leaned into his chest, her cheeks flushed, playing along with the crowd as people started chanting, “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” Garrett leaned down to press his lips to hers. She patted his chest with a soft laugh, pushing him back just enough to look cute. “Stop it, you guys.” Zach immediately flipped the camera back to my cardboard standee. “Nate, you watching this? The girl you chased for a year is in Garrett’s arms. If you were a real man, you’d step up.” My phone chimed with tagged notifications from the main GroupMe. “Where are you at, big guy?” “Still crying in your room?” I looked out the front windshield. The hotel was visible roughly three miles down the avenue, but the tail lights ahead were a sea of solid red. The driver sighed, looking at his GPS. “Sorry, man. There’s a three-car pileup near the intersection. We’re not moving for at least twenty minutes.” I immediately dropped a twenty-dollar bill onto the center console, shoved the door open, and stepped out into the humid evening air. I jogged to the nearest corner, tapped my phone against a city bike dock, unlocked a grey commuter bicycle, and kicked off into the street. Five-forty. Inside the VIP suite, the celebration had already begun. Zach projected the betting pool onto a massive presentation screen on the wall. “Some people love to act tough until it’s time to show up,” Zach boomed into his microphone. “He put down a thousand bucks just to save face, and now he’s too scared to even walk through the front door.” Garrett held up a glass of whiskey, his expression dripping with disdain. “It’s classic. Guys who are poor and out of shape always build these massive egos online. But put them in the real world? They crumble.” Someone turned to Sienna. “How did you endure talking to him for a whole year?” Sienna took a slow sip of her drink. “I treated it like charity work. He was easy to manage. I’d send him a single ‘goodnight’ text, and he’d send me money for my morning coffee for a month.” A wave of laughter echoed through the suite. Five-fifty-five. I slammed the commuter bike into the rack outside the hotel entrance, pushed through the glass revolving doors, and strode into the marble lobby. Two security guards posted near the elevators glanced at me as I walked past. They didn’t move an inch to stop me. They were looking for a two-hundred-pound guy in a baggy hoodie. They didn’t even look twice at a six-foot-tall athlete in a fitted shirt. The elevator climbed slowly, stopping at nearly every floor. Watching the digital floor numbers tick up, I felt a strange, cold calm settle over me. In the GroupMe chat, the final three-minute countdown began. Sadie stood near the entrance of the VIP suite, her arms crossed, staring intently out into the hallway. Zach walked over and tossed the heavy nylon dog leash onto the floor right in front of her shoes. “Stop holding your breath, Sadie. Your two-hundred-pound hero isn’t coming. Why don’t you put the collar on instead and take a lap for him?” Garrett let out a dry laugh from the couch. “Imagine backing a guy who doesn’t even have the balls to show his face. What does he actually offer? He’s fat because he can’t control his appetite, he got dumped because he couldn’t keep his girl, and now he’s dodging the mixer because he’s a coward.” Sienna didn’t say a word to defend me. She checked her watch with a faint, bored expression. “I told you. He’s spineless.” Sadie’s eyes flushed red with anger. “He spent a year being good to you! How can you just sit there and let them tear him apart like this?” Sienna raised an eyebrow. “Am I lying? He was never someone I could present to the world. I stayed with him as long as I did because I was being nice. Now I’m done. What’s the problem?” Garrett wrapped his arm securely around her shoulder. “You heard her. Sienna never cared about him.” The countdown on the big screen reached its final ten seconds. Over a hundred thousand people were watching the stream online. Zach raised his voice to a roar. “Let’s bring in the big winner! Congrats to Garrett and Sienna! And a huge round of applause for Nate Hayes—Pacific Coast University’s undisputed biggest coward!” The crowd began to chant along with the screen. “TEN!” I walked up the carpeted hallway and stopped outside the VIP suite. Through the heavy wooden doors, I could hear their voices echoing. “NINE!” I reached out and ripped down the [NATES AND DOGS PROHIBITED] banner hanging across the frame, crumpling it in one hand. “EIGHT!” The security guard posted by the door stepped forward, eyeing me up and down. “Private event, man. You got an invite?” I pulled out my phone, unlocked the GroupMe screen, and showed it to him. “I’m the guest of honor.” The guard blinked, completely thrown off. “SEVEN!” Inside, Garrett pulled Sienna closer to his hip. “SIX!” Sadie turned her head away from the door, her shoulders slumped. Zach reached out to pull her away from the entrance. “Give it up, Sadie.” “FIVE!” I grabbed the silver handle of the double doors. “FOUR!” Garrett raised his glass high toward the camera. “THREE!” Sienna murmured softly, “I told you he wouldn’t show.” “TWO!” I shoved the heavy doors open, letting them slam back against the wall with a loud, resounding crack. The final count of “ONE!” died instantly in everyone’s throats. Every single head in the room turned toward the doorway.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “548309”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I’ve spent three years as the secret wife of Gideon Montgomery, the CEO of Montgomery Holdings. The first year, I was drowning in the workplace. My manager, a petty man named Rick, went out of his way to make my life a living hell. I couldn’t stomach the humiliation anymore and wanted to go public with our marriage. Gideon didn’t even look up from his laptop. “Don’t be dramatic over a little office politics,” he said. The second year, Victoria—Gideon’s “one that got away”—returned from London and was fast-tracked into a senior VP role. The entire company was obsessed with them, shipping them as the ultimate power couple. Fuming, I tried to mark my territory. Gideon’s rejection was cold. “Keep your jealousy in check, Sienna. You need to learn to separate the professional from the personal.” The third year, after losing a major project bid to Victoria, I watched her “accidentally” sweep my months of hard work into the trash can with a flick of her wrist. I couldn’t help it. I broke down. Gideon didn’t offer a tissue. He stood over me, looking down at my tears with clinical detachment. “If your work wasn’t inferior, you wouldn’t have lost,” he said. “Learn to take the L and move on.” Maybe it was guilt, or maybe it was a calculated move to keep me quiet, but Gideon finally decided it was time to take our marriage public. I refused without a second thought. He frowned, genuinely confused. “Isn’t this what you’ve been begging for? What more do you want?” I pressed my hands together, almost in prayer, begging him. “Please, don’t. I have some dignity left. Every single person in this building has walked all over me at some point. If they find out the CEO’s wife was this much of a pushover, I’ll be the laughingstock of the company Slack channels for the rest of my life.” More than going public, I just wanted a divorce. I wanted to bury this embarrassing marriage and let it rot. 1 “She had a miscarriage.” That was the rumor flying around the office. After losing the project to Victoria, I’d had a screaming match with Gideon in the conference room. Mid-argument, the world went black, and I collapsed. To make matters worse, my period had decided to arrive unannounced and aggressive. My white trousers were stained crimson. When Gideon carried me out of the office, his face was a mask of terror. I heard a male colleague whisper, “Look at all that blood. Do you think it’s a miscarriage? My sister almost lost hers last week, and it looked just like that.” Gideon, usually as unshakeable as a mountain, turned deathly pale. He tightened his grip on me, his knuckles white. He drove like a madman, blowing through red lights until we reached the hospital. It wasn’t a miscarriage. It was just low blood sugar and exhaustion. As Gideon stared at the lab results, the tremors in his hands finally subsided. He knelt by my hospital bed and spoke the only soft words I’d heard from him in months. “Sienna… don’t be angry anymore. I was wrong.” The anger I’d been suppressing flared up again. “Gideon, you don’t have to apologize just because I’m in a hospital bed. You were wrong long before I fainted.” “You didn’t even listen to my full presentation,” I continued, my voice trembling. “You walked in, stayed for five minutes, and gave the win to Victoria. Do you honestly think that was fair?” “And are you blind? She intentionally swept my proposal into the trash.” Gideon’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t argue. He just said, “If it means that much to you, I’ll authorize a separate budget for a different project for you.” I remembered what he’d said in the conference room: What’s your proof? Just your ‘feelings’? You lost because you weren’t good enough. Don’t use our relationship to act out. Now, he was “softening,” but the core of it hadn’t changed. He still thought I was just being difficult. I felt a dull ache in my chest. I’d already been diagnosed with two stress-related breast nodules during the check-up. I didn’t want a third. I forced myself to be calm. “Gideon, go back to work. Don’t let me keep you.” “I’ll have someone come stay with me while I finish the tests.” Gideon stood up, his expression darkening. “Suit yourself.” 2 Being at a high-end private clinic meant things moved quickly. After the tests, Jenna sat with me in the room, waiting for the final discharge papers. The suite was spacious and bright, more like a hotel than a hospital. Jenna sighed, looking around. “I have to admit, Mr. Montgomery is actually a decent guy for setting you up in a place like this. Maybe I should faint from low blood sugar too if it gets me a company-sponsored spa day.” I adjusted my contact lenses, feeling a bit guilty. I was only here because I was the CEO’s wife, a secret I couldn’t share. “He’s probably just worried I’ll sue the company for wrongful death,” I joked. Jenna looked at my stomach and joined in. “There goes your imaginary settlement, kid. You could’ve made your mom a billionaire.” “But seriously, Sienna,” she leaned in, “Were you scared when the miscarriage rumors started? The whole office is talking.” I thought about it for a second. “Scared? Honestly, a miscarriage isn’t the scary part. Actually being pregnant with his child—that’s the nightmare.” “Thank God it was just low blood sugar.” A loud thud came from the en-suite bathroom, like something had been dropped. Jenna started to go check the door, but it opened first. Gideon stepped out, looking absolutely livid. He was holding a bowl of freshly washed grapes. Jenna froze, her hand halfway to the door. She clearly started mentally replaying everything we’d just said. I tried to give everyone an out. “Thank you for the fruit basket, Mr. Montgomery. The company really does treat its employees like family.” “But I’m fine now. If you’re busy, please don’t feel obligated to stay.” I thought I’d played it perfectly. Professional, distant, polite. But Gideon’s jaw tightened. He repeated the word “family” under his breath, his eyes boring into mine, waiting for me to say something else. “I mean it, Mr. Montgomery,” I added. “I’m not trying to overstep. It’s just that the benefits here are great. I feel right at home.” If I wasn’t mistaken, his lips thinned into a hard, straight line. After a long silence, he looked at Jenna. “Thank you for looking after Sienna. Your absence today will be recorded as a paid work day.” Jenna nodded like a frantic bobblehead. “It was no trouble, sir! We’re a team. No, we’re family!” Gideon didn’t correct her this time. He just turned and walked out. 3 Jenna left shortly after the results came back. I decided to stay the night at the clinic just to avoid the hassle of going home. I didn’t expect Gideon to return, but he showed up later that evening with a container of shrimp wonton soup—my favorite. I was still mad at him, but I wasn’t about to take it out on the food. I opened the steaming container and put on a mindless sitcom to fill the silence. Gideon sat in the chair next to the bed, working on his laptop as if nothing had happened. It hit me then that we hadn’t actually shared a meal like this in ages. Out of 365 days a year, he spent 200 at the office—where we had to act like strangers—and another 130 on business trips. My only time with him was usually at mandatory family dinners. Last month, Victoria had been on a month-long trip with him. As I chewed, I realized she’d had four more days of his time this year than I had. The wonton suddenly felt like a lump of lead in my throat. I couldn’t eat another bite. Gideon noticed. He quietly took the container, capped it, and tossed it in the trash. “Sienna,” he said, his voice level. “You’ve always wanted to go public, haven’t you?” “After what happened today, it’s probably better if we just tell everyone. It’ll stop the gossip.” “What gossip?” I asked, genuinely tired. “That I had low blood sugar and my period? It’s fine. We don’t need to.” The blue light from his laptop screen cast a cold, sharp glow over his features. “Why not? That’s all you’ve ever wanted.” Why not? I thought about the manager who called me an idiot last week. I thought about my expense reports that were constantly being “misplaced.” I thought about how I had to beg other departments for basic cooperation because I was at the bottom of the food chain. The realization hit me with total clarity. Going public now wouldn’t save me; it would destroy what was left of my pride. I pressed my hands together again, pleading. “Really, Gideon. Don’t. I can’t afford that kind of humiliation. Everyone in that office has stepped on me at some point. If they find out I’m the ‘Lady of the House’ after being treated like a doormat for three years, I’ll never be able to show my face again. They’ll laugh at me forever.” “I’m begging you. Let’s just get a divorce instead.” 4 To be honest, during the first two years, I was desperate for him to acknowledge me. This year, the thought hadn’t even crossed my mind. The first time I wanted to go public was because of my first manager, Rick. He thought I was “pretty,” so he kept trying to “accidentally” touch my hand during meetings. I wore my YSL stilettos and stepped on his toes every single time he tried it. He couldn’t scream without admitting what he was doing, so he took it out on my career instead. He called me a “clueless bimbo.” He whispered that I must have slept my way into the job. I remember laughing to myself. I did sleep my way here. With the man who signs your paychecks. I used to fantasize about the look on his face when he found out. One night, I went home and used eye drops to fake tears, planning to tell Gideon everything. Gideon was working. He didn’t even look up. “Sienna, what did I tell you when you started?” “The office isn’t a playground. If you expect me to solve every little problem for you, you should just stay home.” It stung. So, I did what any frustrated wife would do—I called his mother. After she hung up on me, she called Gideon. I pressed my ear to his study door, waiting for him to get scolded. But I was the one who lost. Gideon’s voice was calm, tinged with exhaustion. “Mom, you were the one who insisted she work here. If she can’t handle it, that’s on her. I don’t have the energy for these games.” “She wants to be like Victoria? Then she needs to put in the work. Instead, she spends ten times more effort on her outfits than her projects. At least Victoria never bothered me with trivial things like this.” I didn’t need the eye drops anymore. The tears were real. He wasn’t wrong, though. I only took the job because of Victoria. Even before we married, I knew about her. She was the ex-girlfriend he actually respected. She was independent, brilliant, and fierce. They were equals who challenged each other. Gideon’s mother hated her, which led to constant friction until Victoria finally quit, took her team to a rival firm, and left Gideon behind. That was my opening. Gideon was always cold, always busy. He liked high-achievers. I thought if I worked hard and became someone he could respect, he’d eventually love me. But after a few months, all I’d done was prove his initial assessment right: Sienna, you won’t last. 5 I cried half the night and was late for work the next day. Rick was waiting for me, ready to tear me apart in front of the whole department. I had my resignation letter in my bag, ready to slap it onto his desk. But before I could, Emily, the Department Head, issued a formal reprimand against Rick for conduct violations. Later that day, I bought Emily a coffee to thank her. She took a sip, glanced at the corner of the resignation envelope sticking out of my bag, and typed away at her keyboard. “Don’t run away now,” she said calmly. “It’s much more satisfying to leave after you’ve actually accomplished something. To walk out the front door with your head held high.” “By the way,” she added, “that’s a great dress.” Because I looked good, I decided I couldn’t afford to leave looking like a loser. The next day, Rick was fired. I felt a surge of renewed energy, shoved my resignation letter into the back of my drawer, and got back to work. 6 The second time I wanted to go public was when Victoria “crashed” back into the company. The veteran employees knew their history. Rumors of a rekindled flame spread like wildfire. Jenna pulled me into a private group chat. “I can’t believe he’s letting her back in after she stabbed him in the back like that.” “Love is blind, I guess. They’re the ultimate power couple.” There was a photo someone had snuck of them. Gideon was listening to Victoria’s presentation, and his usual icy expression had thawed into a faint smile. It was a look of pure admiration. I was fuming by the time I got home. “How could you hire her back?” I demanded in bed. “She’s your ex!” Gideon leaned in to kiss my cheek, his tone dismissive. “The project she brought is genuinely interesting. Business is business, Sienna. I’m not going to turn down a profit over a personal history.” “Besides, how else am I going to buy you those designer bags?” I pulled away. “Do you think I’m not as good as her?” The mood was ruined. Gideon sat up, put on his robe, and sighed. “No. You’re much prettier than Victoria. Now, if you’re not interested, I have work to do.” 7 To be fair, Gideon and Victoria were professional. They worked, they traveled, they argued. Victoria was probably the only person who could slam Gideon’s office door and get away with it. The company gossip was loud, but Gideon never gave me a “smoking gun.” I tried to ignore it until Jenna sent me a link to a company forum post. Apparently, Gideon had punched a client during a dinner meeting because the guy was being handsy with Victoria. Jenna remarked, “Mr. Montgomery is such a stand-up guy, protecting his female staff like that.” I was chewing my lunch, my heart sinking. “Yeah… stand-up guy.” Of course, sexual harassment is wrong. He did the right thing. But the resentment from my own experiences with Rick came flooding back, making me physically nauseous. Shortly after, Emily went on maternity leave. She’d been pushing herself too hard and had fainted twice at the office. She wanted to finish the new AI design project before leaving, but her body wouldn’t let her. Since I’d worked my way up to a senior role, the project landed on my desk. This was my chance to go head-to-head with Victoria. For Emily, and for my own sanity, I refused to lose. I worked 80-hour weeks. I skipped meals. I had countless late-night Zoom calls with Emily from her hospital bed to perfect the proposal. Gideon saw it all. One night, he touched my shoulder and sighed. “Sienna, you don’t have to try to be Victoria. You don’t have to push yourself this hard.” I wanted to scream at him, but I was too exhausted to speak. I fell asleep where I sat. I used to believe that Gideon, with his “business is business” mantra, was at least fair. I was wrong. The final vote for the project sat with Gideon. He arrived halfway through the presentations and cast his deciding vote for Victoria. The room erupted in applause. Victoria beamed. “Dinner’s on me tonight, everyone!” As she walked past me, her hip “accidentally” brushed my proposal off the desk and into the trash can. “Oh, sorry,” she said, her voice devoid of any actual apology. “Didn’t see it there.” The hatred I felt for Gideon in that moment was visceral. After everyone left, I broke down in the conference room. Gideon came back in. I started screaming at him through my sobs. I was hyperventilating, losing my grip on reality. His only response was a frustrated scowl. “You’re really starting to act like Victoria now. The drama is unnecessary.” I slapped him across the face and fainted. 8 Gideon stared at me, his glasses off, his eyes searching mine. “Sienna, are you threatening me with a divorce? I told you, I’ll give you another project. Is this really just about that one bid? Or is this about your obsession with crushing Victoria?” “The office isn’t a battlefield for your personal vendettas.” I looked at him, one last test of his heart. “And if it is? If I say I want that project and her gone?” He packed his laptop, a cold sneer on his face. “Then you’re being delusional. Throwing a tantrum won’t get you what you want.” I felt a new ache in my chest. I realized then that I would never be able to hold my head up in this company. The prejudice against me was baked into the walls. I took a few days of medical leave. Gideon didn’t even text to check on me. We were officially in a cold war. 9 During my time off, Emily’s baby was born—a beautiful little girl. I bought a set of gold Tiffany bracelets and a necklace for the baby. Naturally, I put it on Gideon’s black card. “I’m quitting, Emily,” I said as I rocked the baby. “But it feels so pathetic. Leaving right after a loss.” Emily sipped her coffee, looking as regal and sharp as ever. “Don’t see yourself as a victim, Sienna. Losing one bid doesn’t define you. Sometimes the judge just has bad taste.” “If you believe in your ideas, go build them. Prove it with results.” She winced at the bitterness of her coffee. “Honestly, I think Gideon has lost his mind, giving a generative design project to Victoria. She has no eye for aesthetics.” That was the encouragement I needed. I hit ‘send’ on my resignation email. Since I wasn’t a C-suite executive, the HR notification wouldn’t go to Gideon immediately. “Emily, once you’re off maternity leave… do you want to start something of our own? I have the capital.” Emily smiled at me. “I thought you’d never ask.” 10 I had two weeks of notice to serve. When Gideon realized I wasn’t coming home to the villa anymore, he stopped staying at the office. One morning, as I went to call my usual Uber, he signaled for his driver to pull up. He’d already had my regular car sent back to the garage. We sat in the back of the Maybach in stifling silence. Gideon was scrolling through his iPad, his brow furrowing deeper with every slide. Eventually, he clicked it shut. “Sienna, are you really planning on never speaking to me again?” He was right. That was exactly the plan. The sunlight hit his hand, making the diamond on his ring finger flash painfully. I remembered a time I’d accidentally worn my wedding ring to the office after a family brunch. Gideon had texted me: [Stop trying to drop hints. Take it off.] I’d been so angry I threw the ring into the back of my desk drawer. Now, he was the one wearing his. “I found a better project for you,” he said, reaching out to take my hand. “Stop being angry, Sienna.” I pulled my hand away. “Did you pick Victoria because she was better, or because you wanted to put me in my place?” Gideon exhaled sharply. “Can we stop going in circles? The decision is made. Do you really expect me to look like a fool and strip the project from her now?” “I understand,” I said quietly. “The divorce isn’t a joke, Gideon. Asset division will be complicated. Get a good lawyer; I won’t be easy on you.” As we approached the corner near the office, I told the driver to stop. The driver glanced at Gideon. Gideon’s face was stone. “Didn’t you hear her? Stop the car.” As I stepped out, I looked at his ring. “Mr. Montgomery, stop trying to drop hints. We’re just colleagues. And soon, we won’t even be that.” I walked across the crosswalk, the morning breeze feeling like the first breath of fresh air in three years. 11 The rumors about Gideon and Victoria were reaching a fever pitch. The office was split. My team thought Victoria’s team were a bunch of “insider-trading” sycophants. Her team thought we were “sore losers” with no class. On my last day, the tension finally snapped. It started in the breakroom. Someone from my team was whispering about Victoria’s “special relationship” with the boss. Victoria and her entourage walked right in. “With your team’s lack of vision, it’s a miracle you’ve lasted this long,” someone from Victoria’s side snapped. “Stop acting like you care about ‘fairness’ just because you’re not the ones with the connection.” “Are you saying you wouldn’t want the CEO’s favor if you could get it? Sour grapes, darling. And these grapes taste pretty sweet to us.” Then someone directed a comment at me. “Some people think they can just be ‘pretty’ and throw a fit in the conference room when they lose. Victoria won because she has grace. You’re just a mess, Sienna.” I stood there, holding my coffee, realized that “pretty” was the only thing people saw. Then, one of my younger assistants piped up. “I saw Mr. Montgomery wearing a wedding ring. He might already be married. Careful you don’t end up being the ‘other woman’ without knowing it.” Victoria’s face went pale. She looked at me, her eyes darting with sudden realization. Jenna and I managed to pull our team away before a physical fight broke out. “This place is a glorified kindergarten,” I muttered to Jenna. “Always has been,” she replied. The corporate world is just a giant stage built by amateurs. No matter the degrees or the titles, people will always gossip. It’s the only way they survive the grind. I finished my coffee. “Goodbye, Jenna. I’m moving to a different kindergarten.” 12 I started packing my things. It felt like a retreat. Like I was a soldier deserting the field. I placed my ID badge on the desk and turned to leave. Victoria blocked my way. She “accidentally” bumped into me, sending my box of personal belongings crashing to the floor. She leaned down, a smug smile on her face. “Going back to be a housewife? That’s probably for the best. The professional world isn’t for everyone.” The malice in her voice was unmistakable. She knew. She knew I was Gideon’s wife. She must have loved watching me lose. So what if she’s the wife? She’s still inferior to me. I realized I’d lost so much face over the years without even knowing it. Luckily, I was wearing my YSL stilettos today. I stood up and stepped on her foot—hard. “Oh, sorry,” I said, my voice dripping with fake concern. “My foot slipped. I didn’t mean to.” She gasped, her face contorting in pain. She raised her hand to slap me, but someone caught her wrist mid-air. Gideon stood there, his expression dark. He shoved her hand down and knelt to help me pick up my things. In the middle of the chaos, a colleague picked up a stray ring from the floor. “Um, excuse me… whose is this?” It was my wedding ring. The diamonds caught the light—a perfect match to the one on Gideon’s finger. “I have no idea,” I said, looking the girl straight in the eye. “Maybe it fell out of Mr. Montgomery’s pocket.” Gideon stood up, took the ring, and dropped it into my box. The room went silent. I gave a dry laugh. “How generous, Mr. Montgomery. Giving away wedding rings to departing staff? How very… supportive.”

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1 I went to the Holloway estate to pick up the wedding invitations for my boyfriend’s older brother. But when the heavy, cream-colored cardstock was pressed into my hand, the gold-embossed script didn’t read “Brooks Holloway and Seraphina Moore.” It read “Brooks Holloway and Sienna Hayes.” I stared at my own name, tracing the letters until they blurred. I pulled out my phone and messaged Bennett. The “typing…” bubble appeared, vanished, and appeared again. Minutes ticked by. Nothing. That was so typical of Bennett. In our three years together, his greatest talent was his selective mutism. Whenever a question became too uncomfortable, he simply retreated into a fortress of silence. Do you love me? Silence. Why were you with Seraphina on New Year’s Eve when you told me you were working late? Silence. He knew that if he waited long enough, my patience would fray, my resolve would crumble, and I would be the one to apologize for “overreacting.” An hour later, the vibration of a text rattled my palm. [Sienna, don’t be petty. It’s just a legal formality to get through the ceremony.] [Once you divorce my brother, we’ll go back to how things were. I’ll make it up to you, okay?] The pieces clicked together with a sickening metallic snap. Seraphina—his precious childhood “best friend”—had gotten cold feet at the last minute. Bennett couldn’t stand to see her distressed, yet he was too terrified to let the Holloway family lose face in front of the city’s elite. So, he had offered me up as the sacrificial lamb. I felt a hysterical laugh bubbling up in my chest. I typed back: [Have you thought for one second about the gossip? About what this does to my life?] Silence. [Did you ever actually love me?] Total silence. If silence was his answer, I was done asking the questions. On the day of the wedding, I walked into that courtroom, smiled, and signed the marriage license with a steady hand. Then, I vanished. Three months later, Bennett cornered me in a hospital hallway, his eyes bloodshot and frantic. “Why the hell did you actually stay married to my brother?” I protected my slightly rounded stomach with one hand and flashed him a sharp, knowing smile. Then, I did exactly what he had taught me. I pulled out my phone and showed him the message I’d prepared. [Don’t be petty.] [It’s just a marriage and a baby. It’s a process.] [Once this is over, we’ll go back to how things were. I’ll still date you then, okay?] When I first arrived at the Holloway mansion three months ago, I found Seraphina locked in her room. Bennett was pacing the hallway like a caged animal, his face a mask of anxiety. “Sera, honey, please,” he called through the wood. “I’m here. If you don’t want to go through with it, no one will force you. I won’t let them.” He heard my footsteps and turned. His eyes darted to my face, then down to the invitation in my hand, before flicking away as if I were a stranger he’d accidentally bumped into on the subway. “Sienna,” he said, his voice flat. “What are you doing here?” I held the invitation up between us like a shield. “I’m here to ask why my name is printed on this.” Bennett’s brow furrowed for a fraction of a second before he grabbed my wrist, pulling me toward the stairs. “Let’s talk downstairs. Sera hasn’t slept in days. Don’t start a scene and trigger her.” His voice was still that gentle, deceptive honey, but his grip was iron. I wrenched my arm away. “She’s triggered? So I’m the one who has to be humiliated?” “It’s different for you.” Bennett went silent for a few beats, then reached out to tuck a stray hair behind my ear. It was a practiced, hollow gesture of affection. “You know Sera’s parents died when we were kids. She’s been a ward of this family forever. We owe her that extra care, Sienna. It’s just three months. Once the dust settles, I’ll take you to the lawyer for the divorce myself. I promise.” There it was. The “sister” excuse. Seraphina was the fragile porcelain doll he’d grown up with, which meant I was the sturdy plastic one that could be dropped, kicked, and traded away. He would throw me a crumb of tenderness whenever I was on the verge of leaving, just enough to keep me starving for more. And if I pushed for a real answer? The silence would return. We walked into the living room, where a few of Bennett’s friends—the usual inner circle of trust-fund legacies—were lounging. They clearly knew the plan. One of them, Nate, let out a sharp whistle. “Hey, Sienna. Why the long face? Most girls would kill to even step foot in this house. You got lucky Bennett picked you up, and now you get to be Mrs. Holloway for ninety days. You should be thanking your stars.” “Think of it as a trial run,” another laughed. “You’ll have some experience when you eventually marry Bennett. Save him the trouble of training you.” The room erupted in smug chuckles. Bennett’s lips curled into a faint, self-satisfied smirk. “Shut up, guys.” Nate nudged him. “What? Scared your little girlfriend is gonna run off?” Bennett looked at me, his gaze brimming with an unbearable arrogance. “Not a chance. Sienna’s been with me for three years. She’s loyal to a fault. She isn’t going anywhere.” “Of course,” Nate added. “She loves you so much she’d probably jump off a bridge if you told her it would help Sera. Marrying Brooks for a few months? She’ll swallow that pill just like every other one.” In the middle of their laughter, Bennett didn’t defend me. Instead, he reached into a drawer and pulled out a stack of documents. He took my hand, stroking my knuckles as if soothing a temperamental pet. “Ignore them. I’ve got the paperwork ready. You just need to show up and sign tomorrow. What do you want as a ‘thank you’ when this is over? That new designer bag you were looking at?” I looked into his eyes—the eyes I used to think were my North Star. The insults were ringing in the air, and his only solution was a bribe. “Sienna?” Nate called out, his voice mocking. “Why so quiet? Don’t tell me you’re actually going to throw a tantrum after Bennett’s been so generous.” Bennett watched me, waiting for my inevitable submission. I remembered every time I’d folded. The anniversary he skipped to pick up a “drunk” Seraphina. The week he froze me out because I dared to complain. The time I was in the ER with a high fever, and he left because Seraphina had a nightmare and “needed a familiar face.” My best friend Cassie called me a doormat. I told her it was “unconditional love.” But looking at the contempt in that room, the “love” finally died. It wasn’t a slow fade; it was a sudden, violent extinction. I pulled my hand back and closed the invitation. “Fine,” I said, my voice cold and level. “I’ll do it. I’ll marry him. But Bennett? Don’t you dare regret this.” Before he could respond, a heavy thud echoed from the bedroom upstairs, followed by the sound of shattering glass. Bennett’s face went white. He didn’t even look at me as he sprinted for the stairs. “Sera!” He burst into the room. Seraphina was slumped by the bed, shards of a water glass scattered around her bare feet. Her eyes were red, her lip trembling. “I’m okay, Bennett,” she whispered. “I just… I heard you guys arguing about me. I’m such a burden, aren’t I?” Bennett didn’t listen. He dropped to his knees, clutching her ankles. “Don’t move. You’ll cut yourself. God, Sera, stay still.” Seraphina pulled back slightly, her eyes flickering toward the door. “Bennett, Sienna is right there. She’s going to be upset.” “Who cares about that right now?” Bennett snapped. He realized what he’d said and glanced back at me standing in the doorway. He swallowed, his jaw tightening. “Sienna’s fine. She understands.” He grabbed a towel and began wiping the dust from the soles of Seraphina’s feet before sliding her slippers on with the kind of reverence a priest shows an altar. He never once offered me an apology for the “who cares.” The guys were leaning against the doorframe, sighing. “Sera’s got the best luck. Bennett’s always looked after her like she’s the only girl in the world. No one’s ever gonna top that.” Seraphina let a single tear fall. “No, don’t say that. Brooks doesn’t care who he marries. He just wants our father to stop hounding him about an heir. As long as the wedding happens, he’s satisfied.” She looked up at Bennett, her gaze lingering. “The family has done so much for me. I should have been the one to help Brooks. But the thought of being married to someone else… of having to keep my distance from the person I truly love… it was too much.” The room went silent. The subtext was so loud it was deafening. Nate broke the silence with a grin. “The person you truly love? He wouldn’t happen to be in this room, would he, Sera?” Seraphina looked down, blushing. Bennett’s mouth quirked into a smile he couldn’t suppress. I stood there like a ghost in my own life. After a moment, Seraphina reached out and took my hand. “Sienna, don’t be mad. Bennett and I grew up together. It’s a different kind of bond. You love him, right? So don’t make this hard for him.” Bennett placed a hand on her shoulder. “I told you, she’s already agreed. Sienna’s all talk, but she has a good heart.” “See?” Nate chimed in. “One look from Bennett and she’s tamed. Sera, don’t feel guilty. She’s not suffering. She’s getting a front-row seat to the Holloway lifestyle. She should be grateful.” Seraphina finally smiled. No one looked at me. I was a tool, a piece of equipment used to fix a leak in their perfect, gilded pipes. Bennett stood up, his tone final. “It’s settled. Sera, get some rest. Sienna will take your place tomorrow.” He walked me to the door later. There was no guilt in his eyes, only a patronizing encouragement. “When this is over, I’ll seriously start thinking about our future. Show me you can handle being a Holloway wife, Sienna. Be the woman I know you can be.” He leaned down and kissed my forehead. “I’ll pick you up at eight sharp tomorrow. I’ll be the one to walk you down the aisle and hand you over. To make sure everything goes perfectly.” “Fine,” I said, looking him straight in the eye. “I hope you keep that promise.” The next morning, Bennett was two hours late. When he finally strolled into the bridal suite, he was yawning. “Sera was a wreck last night. She cried until dawn. I had to stay with her until she finally drifted off.” He stopped when he saw me in the gown. For a second, a flicker of genuine shock—maybe even attraction—crossed his face. “You look… good.” He smiled, then quickly checked himself. “It was tailored for Sera, though. It would have looked better on her.” Old Sienna would have flinched. New Sienna just kept adjusting her veil. Bennett seemed annoyed by my lack of reaction. “You still sulking?” “No.” “Sienna!” He stepped behind me, gripping my shoulders. But before he could start his “soft” manipulation, Seraphina’s voice floated from the hall. “Bennett? Are you in there?” She walked in wearing a simple white sundress. Bennett immediately let go of me to meet her. “It’s freezing out, why are you dressed so lightly? Your hands are ice.” He draped his jacket over her shoulders and called for tea. Seraphina looked at me. “You look beautiful, Sienna. I guess it doesn’t matter who the groom is—a white dress makes anyone look like a bride.” Bennett didn’t catch the sting in her words. Or he didn’t care. I watched him fuss over her and remembered when he used to do that for me. He once drove across the city in a rainstorm just to bring me an umbrella. My texts used to be pinned to the top of his screen. He’d show up at midnight with my favorite takeout just because I mentioned I was hungry. Everything changed when Seraphina finished grad school and moved back. Suddenly, I was the one left waiting in movie theaters. I was the one signing my own surgery consent forms. The official papers were brought in. I didn’t hesitate. I signed “Sienna Hayes” with a flourish. During the family reception, the Holloway parents looked surprised to see me. They glanced at Brooks, who was standing beside me. He shifted slightly, shielding me from their direct gaze. “She’s the one,” was all he said. Bennett’s friends were whispering loudly in the back. “Sienna’s really moving up in the world today. Bennett, you better watch out. A woman who’s been a ‘Mrs.’ once might not want to go back to being just a girlfriend!” Bennett laughed, looking smug. He took my hand and placed it into Brooks’s palm. “Take care of her for three months, brother.” Brooks gripped my hand firmly. His voice was deep and steady. “Marriage isn’t a loan, Bennett.” Bennett missed the weight of the statement. He winked and slid a hotel key card into Brooks’s pocket. “Right. Play the part well. Don’t let Mom and Dad suspect a thing tonight.” He turned to me, whispering, “I’ll be the first person waiting for you in three months. And then, we’ll have a wedding that’s actually ours.” Seraphina’s eyes narrowed as she watched his hand on my arm. She suddenly gasped, clutching her chest. “Bennett, I feel faint.” He was at her side in an instant. “Did you skip breakfast?” “I just need some air.” She leaned into him, giving me a tiny, apologetic smirk over her shoulder. “Stay put,” Bennett called back to me. “I’ll call you when I’m done with her.” I watched them walk away. I reached up, unclasped the “promise necklace” Bennett had given me for our first anniversary, and dropped it into the trash can. Brooks was behind me. He opened the door to the waiting car. “The guests are waiting, Sienna.” I took his hand. Perfect, Bennett. This time, you’ll never find me. That night, Bennett sent two texts. [Sera’s still not feeling well. I’m staying at her place tonight.] [Don’t be mad. I’ll take you to lunch tomorrow.] I didn’t reply. He didn’t follow up, assuming I was just “throwing a fit.” The next afternoon, Bennett showed up at my apartment with a bouquet of lilies. But when he tried his key in the lock, it wouldn’t turn. My landlord stuck her head out of the unit next door. “You looking for Ms. Hayes? She moved out yesterday. Lease is terminated.” Bennett’s smile died. He pushed the door open to find a hollow, echoing shell of an apartment. He dialed my number. I had snapped the SIM card in half the moment I left the wedding. “The number you have dialed is no longer in service.” His friends showed up shortly after. Nate shrugged, patting Bennett on the back. “Classic move. She’s trying to scare you. You made her marry your brother—she’s gotta play hard to get to regain some leverage. Give her three days, she’ll be crawling back.” Bennett nodded, forcing himself to breathe. Every time we fought, I was always the one to bridge the gap. He left a message on my social media: [Three days, Sienna. Enough is enough. Come home.] A week passed. Nothing. A month passed. Bennett was starting to crack. He went to Brooks’s office. The assistant said the CEO was out of town on personal business, return date unknown. “Even my brother is playing along with her little game?” Bennett hissed. “Totally,” Nate agreed. “Sienna loves you too much to stay away. When the ninety days are up, show up with a ring. She’ll be crying with joy.” Bennett clung to that. He spent the next two months designing a custom engagement ring. He booked a five-star restaurant and bought two first-class tickets to Iceland to see the Northern Lights. On the day the “three months” were up, he waited at the courthouse starting at 8:00 AM. He waited until the building closed at 5:00 PM. No Sienna. No Brooks. Panic finally set in. He called everyone we knew. No one had heard from me. Then, Nate called him, sounding breathless. “Bennett, you sure Sienna hasn’t reached out?” “What is it, Nate?” “I’m at the hospital. St. Jude’s. I just saw her best friend, Cassie, coming out of the OB-GYN wing. She was holding a prenatal file… and the name on the tab was Sienna Holloway.” The world tilted on its axis. “You’re lying. We broke up three months ago. Even if she was pregnant…” He stopped. Three months ago. The wedding night. Nate let out a gasp over the phone. “Bennett, it’s real. Your brother’s car is in the lot. I just saw Cassie hand the lab results… to Brooks.”

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1 At the welcome-home dinner for Sloane’s childhood friend, someone suggested a game of “Confession Box.” Sloane lost. Her penalty was to admit to one thing she’d done that made her feel guilty. She glanced at me, then began to speak—not in English, but in fluid, rhythmic French. “Truth is, six months ago, I didn’t fly to London to see my best friend. I went to Paris to take care of Harrison because he was going through a rough patch and drinking himself into a hole.” I froze. The warmth in my eyes died instantly. Seeing that I didn’t react, she continued in French, her tone airy and dismissive. “I was supposed to fly back the next day, but Harrison told me he couldn’t stand to see me go. I’m a sucker for him. I stayed a whole week.” A sharp, cold tremor ran through my chest. So, the “girls’ trip” she’d raved about for a week was a lie. She’d been in a Parisian hotel with Harrison Pierce. Harrison sat beside her, a smug grin playing on his lips as he replied in the same tongue. “Aren’t you afraid Grant will find out if you say it out loud?” Sloane rolled her eyes, her expression thick with indifference. “Please. He’s a local townie. He barely passed high school English; he doesn’t know a word of French.” My “best friend,” Ben, chimed in, offering his own brand of betrayal in French. “Yeah, he’s from the sticks. He didn’t go to a prep school like us. I’ve been teaching myself for a few years, so I caught that. Don’t worry, Sloane—even if he suspects something, I’ll cover for you guys.” I stared at Ben, the shock vibrating in my marrow. I couldn’t believe he was part of this. Around the table, the others smothered their laughter, watching me as if I were a circus animal performing for their amusement. They all thought I was deaf to their insults. What they didn’t know was that I had spent three years in Lyon. I didn’t just understand French; I held a permanent residency permit. But I didn’t snap. I didn’t break down. Instead, I calmly pulled out my phone and sent a single text. Dad, I’m ready. I’ll go through with the merger. I’m coming home to take over the company. The atmosphere in the private dining room turned icy. All eyes were on me. Some looked at me with pity. Others with mockery. Sloane, noticing my grim expression, let out a dry laugh. “Alright, everyone, I’ll stop being mysterious. There’s no big secret.” She turned to me, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “Grant gets in his head so easily. Let’s not tease him; he can’t handle it.” Harrison let out a performative ‘Oh.’ “So Grant’s the jealous type? Well, I guess I’ll keep Sloane’s little ‘secret’ to myself then!” Ben was quick to back him up. “It wouldn’t matter anyway. Sloane and Harrison grew up together. They’ve known each other longer than they’ve known how to read. I’m sure Grant is man enough to accept that kind of bond.” The rest of the table watched me with strange, hungry eyes. They were emboldened by the language barrier, whispering little secrets in French as if I weren’t even there. Even my best friend was reveling in the deception. Sloane started chirping again in French, “Harrison is so much more attentive than Grant. My back was killing me that week in Paris, and he massaged it every single night.” The table erupted in suggestive hoots and whistles. A surge of white-hot rage boiled in my gut. I couldn’t take another second of it. My hand, which had been resting on my wine glass, tightened until my knuckles turned white. Slam! I smashed the glass onto the mahogany table. The silence that followed was deafening. The laughter died in their throats. Before I could even speak, Sloane’s sharp voice cut through the air. “What the hell is wrong with you, Grant? What kind of tantrum is this?” I stared her down, my voice low and dangerous. “What are you guys talking about? Is there something going on between you and Harrison that I should know about?” Sloane knitted her brows, her face a mask of practiced irritation. “You know exactly what he is to me. Are you really going to start this again? Are you really that insecure?” Ben jumped in, his voice patronizing. “Man, don’t be so small-minded. They’re practically family. Whatever they do is innocent by default.” I was shaking, my teeth gritted so hard my jaw ached. “Insecure? If I’m just imagining things, then why don’t you translate exactly what you all were just saying?” The table went silent. The air grew thick and stagnant. Harrison tried to de-escalate with a greasy smile. “Hey, hey, it’s fine. We were just reminiscing about old times. If those memories bother you that much, Grant, just think of me as Sloane’s ‘sister.’ We’re that close.” I looked at his punchable face and glared. “Sister? That’s funny. I didn’t realize sisters carried XY chromosomes.” Harrison hadn’t expected me to bite back. His face went pale. To defend her ‘sister,’ Sloane stood up abruptly and swung. The slap echoed through the room. “Enough!” she screamed. “Harrison hasn’t said a single thing wrong! My relationship with him is what it is. You have no right to interrogate him!” My cheek burned, and I could taste the metallic tang of blood in my mouth. Sloane didn’t even flinch. She didn’t look at me with an ounce of regret. She grabbed her purse, pulled Harrison up by his arm, and headed for the door. “You’re such a buzzkill. You ruined his welcome dinner for nothing. Come on, everyone, we’re going to a lounge. Let’s leave him to his temper tantrum.” The group filtered out of the room. As Ben passed me, he gave me a ‘sympathetic’ pat on the shoulder. “Sloane and Harrison are a package deal, man. You’re just hurting yourself being this petty.” When the door clicked shut, the silence of the massive room swallowed me whole. My hand was still gripping the shards of the broken glass. I didn’t even realize my palm was bleeding until the red stained the white tablecloth. I didn’t go home. I went to a dive bar on the edge of town. I ordered the strongest bourbon they had and downed it in one go. As the alcohol burned its way down, the memories started to flood back. When Sloane and I first started dating, Harrison was still studying abroad. She had been upfront about him being her “most important person.” They grew up in the same wealthy suburb, went to the same private schools, and studied French together in college. Then Harrison’s family made a fortune in tech, moved to a gated community, and sent him off to Europe. Back then, their contact seemed harmless. Checking in, wishing each other well. Nothing over the line. Even Ben had been a loyal friend to me back then. I never imagined that Harrison’s return would reveal such a grotesque betrayal. A week in Paris. I didn’t want to think about what they did. I couldn’t think about it. And Ben… the man I called my brother… he had been their lookout. The pain in my chest was suffocating, a dull, throbbing ache that eventually turned into a cold numbness. I was halfway through my third glass when my phone buzzed. It was a text from Ben. It was a photo of Harrison slumped in Sloane’s lap at the lounge, her fingers running through his hair. Then came the follow-up: Harrison’s trashed. Come pick us up and drive us home. I flipped the phone face down on the bar and laughed a dry, hollow laugh. Even now, they saw me as nothing more than an unpaid Uber driver. I called a car and went home. When I walked through the door, I found all three of them in the living room. Harrison was passed out on the sofa, mumbling nonsense. Sloane was beside him, tenderly wiping his forehead with a cool cloth. I had never seen her look at me with that kind of softness. Not once. She looked up, her face instantly hardening. “Why didn’t you come get us? I texted you an hour ago.” I walked in, a sarcastic smirk on my face. “You wanted me to drive drunk? Is that the plan?” Sloane sniffed the air, her nose wrinkling in disgust. “You went out drinking? Who gave you permission to do that?” I ignored her and headed for the bedroom. “Wait,” she called out. “Help Ben get Harrison into the bedroom.” “The bedroom?” I stopped. Sloane spoke as if it were the most logical thing in the world. “Yes. He’s too drunk to go back to his place. He’s staying here tonight.” I frowned. “If he’s staying, he can sleep on the sofa.” Sloane’s face contorted with anger. “Harrison is a Pierce. He’s used to luxury. He can’t sleep on a cheap couch.” Ben chimed in from the corner. “Yeah, Grant. Not everyone is as ‘hardy’ and ‘rugged’ as you are. Don’t be a dick.” Their tag-team insults made my blood run cold. I didn’t have the energy left to fight. I helped Ben haul Harrison’s limp body into our bedroom and dumped him onto the mattress. My head was spinning from the bourbon. I just wanted to crash. But before I could even sit down on the edge of the bed, Sloane shoved me toward the door. “Out. I’m staying here to keep an eye on him. Go sleep on the sofa.” I stared at her, genuinely shocked. “You’re sleeping in our bed with him? Are you insane? Do you have any idea how this looks?” Sloane’s eyes flared with impatience. “So what? Harrison and I have been through everything together. He’s the most important person in my life. It’s just sleep. Grow up.” She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a hiss. “Besides, his family is elite. If I let him get sick or leave him unattended, do you have any idea what that could do to my social standing? Now, get out.” I opened my mouth to argue, but the words died in my throat. There was nothing left to say. Sloane didn’t wait. She grabbed my arm and shoved me into the hallway. Slam. The door shut, locking me out of my own life. I stood there for a long time, my fists clenched at my sides. Ben walked toward the front door to leave, pausing to give me a mocking grin. “Don’t just stand there, buddy. You’ll wake them up.” I stood in the dark hallway for thirty minutes. It wasn’t until I heard the muffled sound of giggling and playful splashing from the master bath that I finally moved. I walked into the kitchen, picked up my phone, and dialed a number I hadn’t called in years. “Dad,” I said, my voice steady. “Set up the meeting with the Montgomerys tomorrow. I’m ready for the merger.”

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1 I can hear the countdown of a heartbeat whenever someone lies to me. One tick represents a white lie—the kind told to spare feelings. Ten ticks represent a secret so dark it could tear a life apart. In the three years I’d been with Bennett, I had never heard a single tick. Everyone in our circle said we were the perfect match: he was the disciplined, stoic architect, and I was the adventurous, reliable partner who could handle anything. We were the “power couple” who didn’t need the drama of high-maintenance romance. Until Daisy moved into our guest room. Daisy was my best friend—or so I thought—the kind of girl who acted like she couldn’t even unscrew a bottle cap without help. The day she moved in, she “accidentally” sliced her finger while helping with dinner. As Bennett leaned over to bandage her hand, his head bowed in concentration, I heard it. Ten distinct, rhythmic ticks. A staccato alarm against the silence of the kitchen. I pushed the sound away. I told myself he was just annoyed by the inconvenience. I told myself my gift was malfunctioning. Then came today. Daisy announced she was moving out to meet some guy she’d been talking to online—a “soulmate” she’d never actually met. Bennett, the man who prided himself on his Vulcan-like restraint, suddenly lost it. He flipped the mahogany dining table, the crash echoing through the apartment like a gunshot. In that moment, the ticking in my ears didn’t just start; it surged into a deafening siren. I followed him as he stormed out into the hallway. I found them in the stairwell. He had her pinned against the concrete wall, his eyes bloodshot, his hands trembling with a rage I’d never seen directed at me. “Are you really that desperate?” he hissed. “You’re going to throw yourself at some random loser just to spite me?” Daisy was sobbing, her eyes rimmed with red. “What choice do I have, Bennett? Sloane is my best friend. She’s been so good to me. I can’t just steal her life.” Bennett didn’t hesitate. He leaned down and crushed his mouth against hers. “Sloane is fine,” he whispered against her lips, his voice dripping with a casual cruelty that withered my heart. “She’s one of the guys. She’s tough. She’ll move on and be just as ‘cool’ as she always is. But you? You’re too fragile for this world. You wouldn’t survive a day without me.” I stood behind the heavy fire door, staring at my phone. Half an hour ago, he had sent me a text: Sloane, you’re the only woman I’ll ever love. The sharp ticking started again. One, two, three… ten. I let the sound wash over me for exactly two seconds. Then, I calmly typed a reply to the international headhunter who had been courting me for months. I accept the position in Singapore. I can fly out as soon as the tickets are booked. The sooner, the better. “Are you still awake? I didn’t mean to scare you earlier.” Bennett walked into the living room, his voice returning to that smooth, comforting timber. I was sitting on the sofa, my phone screen dark. The recruiter had already replied: Confirmed. “You ran out after her to talk her out of that online date, right?” I looked up at him. Bennett poured a glass of warm water and handed it to me. “Yeah. She’s impulsive. I didn’t want her making a mistake she’d regret.” Tick. Tick. Tick… Ten times. The sound scraped against my eardrums. “Bennett, do you have feelings for her?” His hand tightened around the glass for a fraction of a second before he set it on the coffee table. He walked over and ruffled my hair, a gesture that used to feel affectionate but now felt patronizing. “Don’t start with the ‘jealous girlfriend’ act, Sloane. That’s not who you are.” The countdown didn’t sound. He wasn’t lying. He truly believed I wasn’t allowed to be a “typical” girl. He believed I didn’t have the right to be sensitive or hurt. My independence had become the very weapon he used to silence me. Before I could respond, his phone buzzed. A voice memo from Daisy. In the quiet of the room, her voice was unmistakable. “Bennett… I won’t bother you anymore. Sloane is my sister. I can’t do this to her.” The recording ended. Bennett’s finger hovered over the screen. He kept his head down, obscuring his expression, but I could hear his internal rhythm spiraling. His heart was a frantic, erratic metronome of guilt and longing. “She’s just being dramatic,” he said, tossing the phone onto the cushions. “She’ll get over it in a few days.” I stood up without looking at him and walked toward the dining area. The table still lay on its side, splinters of wood scattered across the hardwood floor. Three years ago, when we first moved into this place, we were broke and idealistic. We bought flat-pack furniture we had to assemble ourselves. I remember staring at the instruction manual, unable to tell a screw from a bolt. Bennett had laughed, wrapped his arms around me from behind, and guided my hands as we turned the hex key together. He had pressed his chin into my shoulder back then, his voice low and warm. “Sloane, you’re the kind of woman a man builds a life with. No drama, no nonsense. Even if we hit a rough patch, I know we can just stand the table back up together.” The table was down now. I bent over, attempting to lift it on my own. Bennett walked over, but he didn’t help. He stepped past me and reached under the wreckage to pick up a small, sparkly object. It was Daisy’s hair clip. It had shattered when the table hit it. He held it in his palm, gently brushing away the dust, his brow furrowed in genuine concern. I watched him, and suddenly, the weight of the mahogany felt like nothing compared to the exhaustion in my soul. I let go. The table slammed back onto the floor with a hollow thud. Bennett finally looked at me. “Careful. You’re going to hurt yourself.” His tone was one of mild reprimand, as if I were a clumsy child. I didn’t say a word. Just then, his phone lit up again. A new message. Daisy: I cried all night. Please don’t be mad at me. “She’s been a mess since yesterday. Try not to trigger her.” The next morning, Bennett was standing in the foyer, car keys in hand. He spoke with a sense of entitlement that made my skin crawl. I was holding a mug of black coffee, staring at my laptop. An onboarding confirmation from Singapore sat in my inbox. Ms. Mercer, please arrive at our HQ within three days to finalize your relocation. I dimmed the screen and looked at him. “When have I ever ‘triggered’ her, Bennett?” He sighed, reaching for my mug as if to soften me up. “You’re her best friend, Sloane. Go talk to her. She won’t listen to me right now. She only listens to you.” I pulled the mug away and took a sip. “Why don’t you go?” His eyes flickered, shifting toward the door. “If I go, it’ll just make things more complicated.” Tick. Tick. Tick… Ten times. He knew he was the source of her tears, yet he wanted me—the woman he was betraying—to clean up the mess. I set the mug down and walked to the guest room. The door was ajar. I pushed it open. Daisy was sitting on the edge of the bed, clutching a pillow, tears streaming down her face. When she saw me, she flinched, biting her lip. “Sloane… I’m so sorry. I already booked my train ticket to go see him. I can’t do this to you. You’ve been too good to me.” Just one. She felt a sliver of guilt, but it was purely performative. She needed me to validate her “goodness,” to tell her she wasn’t a villain. She wanted me to comfort her. I watched her act for a moment, offered no lines in return, and closed the door. Back in the living room, Bennett was checking his watch. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the climbing gym for your lead-climbing recertification?” I stared at him. This was our tenth-anniversary route—the one we’d planned to finish together this weekend. He had booked the session weeks ago. Bennett paused, finally meeting my eyes. “I can’t make it today. Daisy is in a bad place. I need to take her to that mindfulness workshop in the city.” “You set this date, Bennett,” I said, my voice flat. His jaw tightened. “Sloane, you’ve always hated girls who are ‘high maintenance.’ She’s clearly having a breakdown. Can you just stop being so difficult for one second?” He looked at me as if I were a stranger—a nuisance. I looked back at him and, for the first time in three years, I smiled. “You’re right. I’ll stop.” He looked relieved. He finished putting on his shoes and grabbed my wrist wraps from the sofa, stuffing them into my gym bag. “I’ll pick you up at four. We’ll go to that new sushi place tonight, just the three of us.” He still remembered my habits. He still instinctively managed my schedule. This stability, this partnership inertia, used to be my sanctuary. Now, it was a dull blade sawing at my nerves. As soon as the door clicked shut, the apartment fell into a heavy silence. I sat at my desk and began filling out the emergency contact forms for my new job. When I got to the ‘Emergency Contact’ line, the system auto-filled Bennett’s name and number. I stared at his name for a long time. Two years ago, I was tackling my first 5.12 wall. My legs were shaking, and the guys below were mocking me, telling me to just take the fall. Only Bennett stood at the base, staring up with total focus. “I’ve got you, Sloane. If you fall, I’m catching you.” When I finally slipped, he took the brunt of the weight, his shoulder slamming into the wall as the rope went taut. He’d just rubbed his arm and laughed. “You aren’t fearless, Sloane. You’re just brave enough to do it anyway.” Back then, he understood my strength was an effort. Now, he used it as an excuse to neglect me. I moved the cursor, deleted his name, and typed in the number for the headhunter’s assistant in Singapore. “You’re the best at keeping things together. Just help her have a graceful exit tonight.” At 7:00 PM, the back room of the tavern was dim and loud. Bennett leaned in to whisper that sentence in my ear. Our entire friend group had gathered for a “farewell” drink for Daisy. I hadn’t wanted to come, but Bennett insisted. Don’t let them think anything is wrong, he’d said. The atmosphere was festive. Everyone was teasing Daisy. “Daisy, you little damsel, how are you going to survive in a new city on your own?” our friend Gabe joked. Daisy looked down, her eyes welled up again. Another friend chimed in, “Don’t worry, she’s got Bennett on speed dial. But hey, Sloane, you’re okay with that, right?” “Please,” Gabe snorted, glancing at me. “If Sloane got jealous, the sun would start rising in the west. Sloane is the most chill person on the planet. Right, Sloane?” The table erupted in laughter. I turned to Bennett. He didn’t correct them. He just offered a thin smile and reached for my glass. “She’s got an early morning tomorrow. I’ll drink her round for her.” To the outside world, it looked like devotion. To me, it was a confirmation: he had decided I didn’t need protection. He had decided my grace was an obligation. After a few rounds, Gabe suggested Truth or Dare. The bottle spun, eventually landing on Bennett. “Okay, Bennett,” Gabe said, leaning in. “Out of everyone in this room, who do you think needs you the most?” The room went quiet. “Duh, it’s obviously Sloane!” someone shouted. “Tell her how much you need her, man!” Bennett toyed with his lighter, his gaze avoiding mine. His eyes drifted across the table to where Daisy sat huddled in the corner. He waited a beat too long. “Sloane doesn’t need anyone to take care of her,” he said. His voice was crystal clear. The ticking didn’t sound. This wasn’t a lie. He truly believed it. He thought I was indestructible, so he felt no guilt in leaving me out in the cold. I took a sip of my ice water. It felt like lead in my stomach. Suddenly, Daisy stood up, covering her face with her hands. “I’m so sorry… I know you all hate me. I’ll leave tomorrow. I won’t be a burden anymore!” She ran out, and the mood in the room plummeted. Bennett stood up instantly, his face a mask of suppressed fury. He didn’t look at Daisy’s retreating back; he looked at me. “Sloane, did you really have to push her to this?” The eyes of our friends turned on me—shock, judgment, curiosity. He had just put me on the stand and declared me the villain for the crime of being “too strong.” “What did I do to push her, Bennett?” I asked quietly. He didn’t answer. He grabbed his coat and draped it over my shoulders. “We’re going home.” He still remembered I hated the cold air on my neck. He was still “thoughtful.” But the emotional frost was already deep in my marrow. I didn’t take off the coat. I just walked out. In the restroom, I heard Daisy’s muffled voice from a stall. “I’m staying. He won’t let me go. He just yelled at Sloane in front of everyone for me.” I looked at my pale reflection in the mirror. She was right. He wouldn’t let her go. So, I would. “I was harsh last night, but don’t take it out on her. She’s fragile.” 2:00 AM. The apartment was lit only by a single floor lamp. Bennett was sitting on the sofa, rubbing his temples. He expected me to be like I always was—to sleep it off and wake up ready to be his “cool” partner again. He didn’t know my flight was now scheduled for 5:00 AM. “I’m not taking it out on her,” I said calmly. I went into the study to grab my passport and the last of my files. On the desk sat a wooden architectural model box. I stopped. Inside was a miniature masterpiece called The Snowline. It was a tiny, modern cabin with a glass dome and a micro-fireplace. Two years ago, when I followed him to a site visit in the Rockies, it was twenty below zero. He had wrapped his scarf around me and said, “One day, I’ll build you a house where the wind can’t reach you. A place where you don’t have to be ‘tough’ anymore.” He’d turned that promise into a model. But as I looked closer at the base, I saw a new brass plate. It was engraved with small, elegant letters: For Daisy. Don’t be afraid of the dark. My heart felt like it was being crushed by a vice. This was his “responsibility.” He had taken the future we built and gift-wrapped it for someone else. Bennett appeared in the doorway. He saw me looking at the model. Panic flashed in his eyes, replaced quickly by a defensive calm. “That… Daisy mentioned she was afraid of the dark in the new place. I had this lying around. It’s just a memento.” He stepped toward me, reaching for my hand. “Next week, we’ll look at the new condo listings. You wanted the floor-to-ceiling windows, right?” I stepped back. “Bennett, do you honestly think I can handle anything?” He paused, his gaze complex. “You’ve always been stronger than her, Sloane.” No ticking. “That’s what I love about you,” he continued, his voice thick with what he thought was sincerity. “You don’t need to be coddled. You don’t use your emotions to hold me hostage. With you, I feel… solid.” I nodded. I packed my passport and my laptop into my rucksack. I grabbed my old climbing jacket—the one I’d worn for three years—and headed for the door. Bennett followed, his brow furrowed. “Where are you going at this hour? Don’t do this, Sloane.” “I’m going to the office. I have a lot to finish.” I put on my shoes without looking back. As the door clicked shut, I took out my phone and typed one last message into our pinned chat. Bennett, I’m done being ‘one of the guys.’ I hit send, blocked his number, and left the group chat. Then, I turned off my phone and climbed into the waiting Uber. As the streetlights of Chicago blurred past, I felt a strange, terrifying peace. Before boarding, I turned my phone on one last time. A notification popped up from my blocked messages: 37 missed calls.

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