Category: English

The day I found out I was pregnant was the same day I was diagnosed with terminal stomach cancer. Terrified of shattering my family with the news, I kept the pregnancy a secret. I wanted to use my remaining time to record eighteen years of birthday messages for the child I would never get to watch grow up. But I never expected that through a strange glitch in the recording software, I would end up face-to-face with myself from seven years in the future. “The birthday videos I recorded… she watched them every year, right?” I had asked my future self. “My best friend, Melanie, promised she’d be her godmother. It’s been seven years—did Melanie ever get married? Did anyone stand by her side as maid of honor, the way I wanted to?” The future version of me let out a hollow, bitter laugh at the mention of Melanie’s name. “Melanie didn’t raise your daughter, Cara. Two months after you supposedly died, she married your husband, Jared.” “She deleted every single one of those videos. She told your little girl, ‘Your mother abandoned you.’” “Your daughter is six now. She has no idea you ever existed. She calls Melanie ‘Mommy.’” “Jared tells everyone she’s gentler than you ever were. More understanding. He says Melanie is the woman he should have married in the first place.” “Melanie even kept a journal. In it, she wrote a note thanking you for having terminal cancer, for politely stepping aside so she could take your place.” “Cara… your stomach cancer is a lie. Melanie forged the pathology reports. You aren’t sick at all…” … “Drink this while it’s hot, sweetie. I asked the clinic director to add some extra herbs to help soothe your nerves.” When Melanie pushed open my bedroom door, the tablet’s screen flickered and died, the battery completely drained. The voice of my future self vanished into the sudden silence. I sat frozen against the headboard, my fingers gripping the edge of the duvet so hard my knuckles turned white. The blood drained from my face, leaving me entirely numb. “Why are you so pale? Is your stomach hurting again?” Melanie set the thermos down on the nightstand, leaning over with an expression of frantic worry as she pressed her palm against my forehead. Her hand was warm, but a violent shudder went straight down my spine. Jared and I had been married for three years, and I’d always believed our love was bulletproof. Melanie had been my best friend since high school. We shared everything. She was the one who stood by my side as I picked out my wedding ring. I couldn’t breathe. Just seconds ago, my future self had looked me in the eye and laid bare the ugliest truth: the two people I trusted most in this world had been sleeping together behind my back. And my terminal diagnosis? A brilliant, malicious fiction designed by Melanie herself. “Cara, you’re scaring me. Let me go get Jared.” Melanie’s eyes welled with tears instantly, and she spun toward the door to call him. “I’m fine,” I said, catching her by the wrist. The sheer force of my grip startled even me. Melanie stiffened, a flicker of genuine shock washing over her eyes before she quickly masked it. Swallowing down the bile rising in my throat, I forced a fragile, trembling smile. “Just a sudden wave of nausea. I’m okay now.” Melanie let out a long breath, clasping my hand in hers as her tears spilled over. “You have to fight this, Cara. Miracles happen every day. You can’t give up.” As she spoke, she unscrewed the thermos lid with practiced ease, pouring a thick, dark brown broth into a ceramic bowl. A bitter, medicinal stench mixed with a faint, metallic coppery smell bloomed in the air, instantly suffocating the bedroom. Instinctively, my hand drifted down to my stomach. A tiny heartbeat was beginning to form there. Just eight weeks along. If the woman on that screen was right, then this wellness broth wasn’t a cure. It was a slow-acting poison. “Melanie,” I whispered, staring directly into her tear-filled eyes. “If… if I don’t make it. Promise me you’ll take care of Jared. Okay?” Melanie’s hand jolted. A few drops of the dark brown liquid splashed onto my pristine white sheets. “What are you talking about!” she cried out, her voice cracking with dramatic pain. “I won’t let you die! If you dare abandon me, Cara, I will never forgive you!” If I hadn’t known the truth, I would have wept with gratitude. Her performance was a masterclass. She even timed her tears perfectly, letting one heavy drop fall right onto the back of my hand. “Hey, sweetheart, what’s going on?” The door opened, and Jared stepped in, still wearing his overcoat. He rushed to my side, his eyes filled with a desperate, crushing tenderness as he pulled me into his chest. “Are you hurting? Should we go to the ER?” Leaning against his shoulder, listening to the steady, rhythmic thump of his heart, I felt like I was being buried alive in ice. I tilted my head slightly and caught it—the briefest, most clandestine look exchanged between Jared and Melanie. It was reassuring, intimate, and silent. Melanie gave a nearly imperceptible nod, then looked down to dab her eyes. “Jared, please talk some sense into her,” Melanie murmured. “She’s talking about dying again.” Jared tightened his embrace, his voice thick with a sickeningly sweet devotion. “Don’t talk like that, baby. I don’t care how much it costs. I’ll spend every penny we have to save you.” I watched them play their parts. This beautiful, spacious master bedroom had become a theater, and I was the tragic fool they expected to applaud before my final curtain call. “Okay,” I said softly, gently pushing Jared back. I reached out for the bowl in Melanie’s hand. “I’ll drink it.” But just as the rim touched my lips, I let my wrist go limp. The bowl tilted, spilling the dark broth all over the duvet—while a small portion drained perfectly into the plastic Ziploc bag I’d taped inside my long sleeve. “Oh my god! Be careful!” Melanie gasped, grabbing a box of tissues to dab at the mess. Jared sprang up, heading straight to the closet for clean pajamas. “I’m sorry,” I murmured, looking down at my hands. “I just… I don’t have any strength.” Melanie sighed, glancing at the clock on the wall. “It’s getting late. I should head home and let you rest. I’ll come back tomorrow.” Resting my head back against the pillows, I stared out at the pitch-black sky. “Jared, walk her down. It’s too late for her to walk to her car alone.” Jared grabbed his keys from the dresser, kissing my forehead. “Lie down, sweetie. I’ll be right back.” I nodded sweetly. But the second the front door clicked shut, every ounce of warmth vanished from my face. I threw back the covers, peeled the plastic bag from my sleeve, and hid it safely in my vanity drawer. Then, grabbing my heavy wool coat, I slipped out into the cold night after them. In the shadow of the entryway, under the dim yellow light of the courtyard, Melanie was looking up at Jared. She tilted her chin up, and he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her into a deep, desperate kiss. They clung to each other like star-crossed lovers. I stood behind the glass door of the lobby, my nails digging so deep into my palms that they nearly broke the skin. They kissed for what felt like an eternity. When they finally broke apart, Melanie rested her cheek against his chest, taking his hand and placing it gently over her flat stomach. Jared froze. Then, he gathered her in his arms, lifting her slightly off the ground. Through the chilly night air, his trembling, ecstatic voice carried straight to me: “Are you serious? I’m going to be a dad?” Melanie nodded, her face lit with a radiant smile. “The doctor said it’s almost eight weeks.” A violent ringing filled my ears, deafening and cold. Eight weeks. My baby was eight weeks, too. Jared had held me once, whispering that he never wanted kids because he couldn’t bear to see me suffer through childbirth. It was all a lie. He didn’t hate the idea of a family; he just didn’t want one with me. “I can’t keep lying to Cara,” Jared said, taking a deep breath, his tone suddenly resolute. “I’m telling her tomorrow. We’re getting a divorce.” But Melanie grabbed his lapels, panic flashing across her face. “Are you out of your mind? She has terminal stomach cancer, Jared! The shock of a divorce will kill her!” Jared ran a hand through his hair, his frustration palpable. “Then what do you want me to do? Your belly is going to start showing soon. I won’t let my child be born a bastard.” Melanie shook her head, tears spilling over as if she were the victim here. “Just wait. Wait until she… until she’s gone. We’ve already ruined her life, Jared. Let’s at least give her some peace in her final months. Let it be our penance.” Jared fell silent. He reached out, gently wiping her tears away with his thumb, and sighed with deep adoration. “You’re too good for this world, Melanie.” I stood frozen in the pitch-dark lobby. Blood was pooling in the creases of my palms, but I couldn’t feel the physical pain. I had been betrayed, mocked, and poisoned. And yet, in their twisted narrative, I was the obstacle making the “saintly mistress” suffer. “Stop driving back and forth with that soup every day then,” Jared said, his hand resting on her stomach with a tenderness I’d never seen from him. “You’re pregnant. I can’t have you exhausting yourself. I’ll make up excuses to come over to your place instead.” Melanie leaned into him, humming softly in agreement. I couldn’t listen to another word. I turned around, crept back up the stairs, and slid under the cold sheets of our bed. Don’t worry, future Cara, I thought, staring at the ceiling. Since you gave me this second chance, I won’t let history repeat itself. I’m going to live. And I’m going to watch them burn. The next morning, I went to a different hospital across town. “Ms. Morton, your stomach lining is perfectly healthy. There isn’t a single trace of any tumor or malignancy.” I stared at the medical report in my hands, my vision blurring with hot, angry tears. “But… my previous report said…” I handed over the “diagnostic report” Melanie had given me. The doctor scanned the paper, his brows furrowing into a tight line. “This stamp is forged. It’s a very clever imitation, but our hospital’s official seal has a microscopic watermark in the bottom right corner. This one doesn’t have it.” I took a deep, steadying breath, slipped the forged report back into my bag, and walked out of the clinic. The crisp autumn air hit my face, but for the first time in months, my mind was crystal clear. As soon as I got into my car, my phone rang. It was Diana, a college friend who worked in toxicology at the state lab. “Cara, the results for the soup sample you sent over came back.” Her voice was heavy. “There’s definitely something in it. Aside from some mild sedatives, there’s a chemical compound designed to induce severe gastric spasms and chronic vomiting. If taken long-term, it alters specific blood markers, perfectly mimicking the symptoms and pathology of terminal gastric cancer.” My grip on the steering wheel tightened until my knuckles turned white. “I understand. Thank you, Diana. Keep that lab report safe for me.” I hung up, slumped over the steering wheel, and let the tears fall. I wept for the three years of devotion I had wasted on a monster, and for the lifetime of sisterhood I had foolishly believed in. But I gave myself exactly ten minutes. When the timer went off, I wiped my face, retouched my makeup in the rearview mirror, and drove home. The moment I stepped through the front door, Jared rushed out of the living room, barefoot and frantic. The relief on his face was almost convincing. “Cara! Where the hell have you been!” He threw his arms around me, pulling me so close it bruised my ribs. I could feel his body trembling, his voice cracking with emotion. “Do you have any idea how terrified I was? Why weren’t you answering your phone?” “I called Melanie, and she said she hadn’t heard from you either. I was out of my mind, Cara… I thought you did something crazy…” He cupped my face, his eyes red and brimming with tears. His panic was a masterpiece of acting. “Please, baby. Promise me you won’t do this to me again.” I watched him perform. Looking at the face I used to adore, I felt absolutely nothing. Just a vast, cold emptiness. If I hadn’t stood in the shadows last night, I would have fallen for this routine for the rest of my short life. I took a slow breath and patted his back with a dry chuckle. “Come on. Since when do you cry like this?” I slipped out of his embrace and sat down on the sofa, keeping my voice soft and detached. “Jared, when I’m gone, you’re going to have to learn how to take care of yourself.” Jared’s face paled. He rushed over and knelt on the hardwood floor in front of me. “Don’t say that! You’re going to beat this, Cara. We’re going to grow old together.” I looked into his eyes and smiled. “Jared, while I’m still strong enough to walk around… I want to throw a living funeral.” Jared blinked, completely thrown off. “A what?” “A living funeral,” I said, enunciating every word clearly. “I don’t want to be lying in a casket, unable to see who came to say goodbye. I want to look everyone in the eye and say it myself while I still can.” A flicker of unease crossed Jared’s eyes before he masked it, squeezing my hands. “Okay. If that’s what you want, sweetheart, we’ll do it.” I smiled warmly, squeezing back. “Thank you. I want Melanie to help with the venue and decorations. Is that okay?” He lowered his gaze, hiding the brief panic in his eyes. “Of course. She’s your best friend. She’d love to do that for you.” When Melanie arrived at our place, she grabbed my hands, her eyes instantly overflowing. “A living funeral? Cara, please don’t think like that! You’re going to get through this!” I leaned back against the cushions, looking frail. “Melanie, it’s my final wish. I’m running out of time. No one knows my taste better than you. I won’t trust anyone else with this.” Melanie choked back a sob and nodded, though her eyes darted briefly to Jared standing near the kitchen counter. From that day on, Melanie became a permanent fixture in our house. Under the guise of planning my final farewell, she and Jared spent every waking hour together. On the first day, we went to a high-end florist. I pointed to a picture of imported white bellflowers, mentioning how much I loved their symbolism of unchanging love. Jared frowned. “Bellflowers are too plain. And they wilt too fast.” But a second later, he pointed to a massive display of expensive, deep pink Freud roses. “Wrap those up,” he told the florist. “Ninety-nine of them.” I thought they were for me, but he spun around and handed the bouquet to Melanie. “Melanie’s been working so hard for us. These roses are hypoallergenic. Great for pregnant… I mean, great for sleep. Girls love flowers in their rooms.” Melanie blushed, accepting them with a playful roll of her eyes. On the second day, we were finalizing the menu for the reception. Sick and exhausted from the “poison” in my system, I murmured that I’d love some of that special wild mushroom risotto from the bistro downtown. Jared glanced at his phone, sighing. “Cara, downtown is an hour away with traffic. I have a major meeting this afternoon. Can I just DoorDash you something?” I didn’t say anything, just nodded. But half an hour later, I walked past the kitchen and saw a pot of organic bone broth and bird’s nest simmering on the stove. Jared was carefully adjusting the flame, whispering to Melanie in the hallway, “You’ve been looking pale lately, Melanie. I made this premium wellness soup for you. You have to finish every drop.” On the third day, we drove up to a cemetery in the foothills. The wind was freezing at that elevation. Jared immediately ushered Melanie into the heated VIP lounge. “You have a delicate constitution, Mel. Stay in here and have some hot tea.” Then he turned to me, his tone dry and businesslike. “Cara, you need to choose your own plot. Let’s head up the ridge.” I stood in my thin wool coat, shivering in the biting wind for an hour, while he lazily pointed at various headstones, impatient to get back inside. The day of the funeral, the hall was packed. The decorations felt less like a funeral and more like an intimate celebration of life. Amidst the sea of white chrysanthemums, Jared stood by my side in a tailored black suit, his expression a picture-perfect mask of grief. Melanie stood right behind us in the family section, her eyes puffy and red, looking as though she might collapse at any moment. As the guests arrived, many broke into tears upon seeing my pale, thin frame. “Thank you all for coming today,” I spoke into the microphone, taking Jared’s hand as I walked up to the small stage. The spotlights caught us, and I felt his palm slick with nervous sweat. “This is my farewell. Before I go, I want to take a moment to thank the two most important people in my life.” I looked toward Melanie and gestured with a warm smile. “Melanie, please, come up here.” Under the watchful eyes of our friends and family, I held my husband’s hand on my right, and my best friend’s on my left. “First, I want to thank my husband. The day I got my diagnosis, he drove all over the city just to find the roasted chestnuts I was craving.” Soft sniffling rippled through the crowd. Jared squeezed my hand, looking down at me with absolute, fabricated devotion. “Second, I want to thank Melanie. When she found out I was sick, she stayed up late every night researching treatments, booking specialists, and comforting me.” Melanie covered her mouth, a perfect tear sliding down her cheek. “Third, I thank Jared again. No matter how sick or gaunt I became, he never turned away. He made sure I had warm broth every single night.” “And finally, I thank Melanie. She promised me that if I leave this world, she will live well on my behalf, and take care of the man I love.” With every word, the room grew more emotional. Several of our closest friends were openly sobbing. I saw the subtle tension drain from Jared’s and Melanie’s shoulders. They thought this was the perfect handoff. They thought they had successfully fooled me to my grave. Then, I paused. The warm smile melted from my face, piece by piece. “But today, on this very special occasion, I have one final gift for the most important people in my life.” I turned around, facing Jared. I leaned in, standing on my tiptoes to whisper in his ear, in a voice meant only for him: “Jared, let’s talk about our divorce.” Jared’s body went completely rigid, his features freezing in place. Before he could react, I added in a soft, mocking purr: “You sign over everything, and I keep Melanie’s pregnancy a secret.” Jared’s pupils dilated with sheer terror. I took a step back, pulling my hands free from both of them. I raised the microphone, looking out at the crowd, my voice suddenly clear and cutting through the silence. “And now, everyone, please look at the screen behind me…”

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My girlfriend was a severe germophobe. Because of this, throughout our three years together, I never touched cologne, threw away all my scented skincare, and stripped the bed to wash the sheets every single day. Yet, whenever Joyce looked at me, her eyes remained as cold and clinical as if she were inspecting a stain. Then came the storm. The power went out, the elevator stalled, and we were trapped in a metal box for two suffocating hours. My asthma flared. I collapsed onto the floor, my chest heaving as I trembled, desperately clawing at the hem of her trousers. “Joyce… please… my inhaler…” She looked down at me, her face twisting into a mask of pure disgust as she kicked my hand away. She turned her back on me, taking off her designer trench coat and draping it gently over the shoulders of the intern standing beside her—a young man drenched in expensive, suffocating cologne. “It’s okay,” she whispered to him, her voice softer than I’d ever heard it. “Lean on me. I’ve got you.” She pulled him flush against her chest, her palm resting flat against his back, murmuring sweet, steady promises into his hair. And my inhaler was right there, sitting in the designer handbag resting against her ankle. That was the moment I realized she didn’t have a phobia of germs. She was just disgusted by me. … When the firefighters finally pried the elevator doors open, I could barely draw enough breath to speak. My throat felt like it was lined with glass. A paramedic squeezed into the cramped space, immediately pressing an oxygen mask over my face. The building manager, clutching her walkie-talkie, looked around frantically. “Who’s the emergency contact? Who’s his family?” Joyce didn’t look up. As they lifted me onto the gurney, I tilted my head to the side. I saw her arms wrapped tightly around Cody. He was burying his face in the crook of her neck, his hands clutching her silk blouse, wrinkling the expensive fabric. “Ms. Adler,” Cody whimpered, his voice trembling. “Is this because of me? Did I make Mr. Ross have an attack?” Joyce stroked his hair, her voice a soothing hum. “No, Cody. It’s not your fault. He’s always had trouble regulating his emotions.” The cold steel of the gurney rail bit into my palm. The paramedic called out, “Where’s his medication? Does the patient have an inhaler?” With what little strength I had left, I pointed a trembling finger toward the handbag resting in the corner of the elevator. Joyce glanced at it, then at the paramedic. “He keeps too much clutter in there. I’m not comfortable digging through it.” The paramedic stared at her for a second, then stopped asking. By the time my best friend, Dan, arrived, I was already hooked up to an IV in the emergency room. The doctor held out a clipboard at the reception window, gesturing for Joyce to sign. She stood a few feet back, her hands crossed over her chest. “I’m not his family.” The nurse looked down at the charts, then back up at her, frowning. “But the emergency contact on his phone says ‘Girlfriend.’” Joyce’s lips thinned into a hard, straight line. “We’re just friends.” Dan, who had just rushed through the automatic doors, stopped dead in his tracks. He pointed a finger directly at her face. “Just friends? Joyce, he’s lived with you for three years. He walked away from his own life for you, and you dismiss him with ‘just friends’?” Joyce pinched the bridge of her nose, her expression tight with annoyance. “This is a hospital, Dan. Don’t start a scene. Cody is traumatized from the elevator. I need to take him home.” As she turned to leave, Cody was still wiping tears from his eyes. He clutched his stomach, complaining that the smell of hospital bleach was making him nauseous. Joyce wrapped an arm around his waist, guiding him out without looking back once. I lay in the sterile light of the ER, the needle cold in the back of my hand, and slowly curled my body into a tight, quiet ball. I didn’t wake up until the following morning. Dan was asleep, slumped over the edge of the mattress, his eyes red and swollen. I reached for my phone on the bedside table. There was a single text from Joyce, sent at midnight: Cody cried all night. I stared at the screen, my throat dry and tight. Dan stirred, saw what I was looking at, and snatched the phone out of my hands. “Don’t look at that garbage. You’re going to give yourself a stroke.” I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. For three years, I had purged my life of every scent. I used to love high-end hand creams and botanical body oils; my clothes always carried a faint, warm trace of cedarwood. But the moment Joyce smelled it, she would press her hands to her temples, claiming it triggered her sensory issues. She told me she had a clinical aversion to scents and bodily clutter, so I stopped. I washed my hands until they were raw before I ever dared to touch her. Yet, in that elevator, Cody was wearing a cologne so strong it made my lungs seize—and she had held him like he was the only thing keeping her anchored to the earth. Dan unlocked his phone and slid it across the sheets. “Someone leaked this on the company Slack.” It was a photo. Joyce was standing by the passenger side of her car outside the hospital, and Cody was sitting inside, wrapped in her tailored wool coat. On his wrist, he was wearing her antique sandalwood bead bracelet. I had touched those beads once, a year ago. Joyce’s face had turned instantly dark, and she had coldly told me never to touch her personal items again. I pushed the phone back to Dan. It wasn’t that she had a phobia of touch. It was just that she didn’t want me touching her. On the day I was discharged, Dan offered to take me back to his place. I shook my head. “I have to go back to the apartment. My things are still there.” He looked at me, searched my face for a moment, and chose not to push. I knew what he was thinking—he was terrified I was making up excuses to crawl back to her. But when I unlocked the door to the apartment, the first thing I saw was Cody. He was standing by the dining table, holding a mug of steaming ginger tea. He was wearing my slippers. When he saw me, he flinched, taking a small, performative step backward. “Mr. Ross… you’re back.” Joyce walked out of the study, a folder in her hand. She took one look at me standing in the entryway and frowned. “You just got out of the hospital. Go take a shower immediately. Don’t bring public transport bacteria into the living room.” I stood perfectly still on the doormat. Cody took a step forward, his voice dripping with soft, apologetic sweetness. “Please don’t be upset, Mr. Ross. I caught a fever after getting soaked in the rain yesterday. Ms. Adler was just worried about me being alone in my apartment, so she let me crash here for the night.” I stared down at his feet. At my slippers. The ones I had spent hours picking out to match the hardwood floors. Cody followed my gaze, his eyes widening in faux panic as he lifted his foot. “Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t realize these were yours. There was only one pair of men’s shoes in the closet…” Joyce stepped between us, shielding him from my sight. “It’s just a pair of slippers, Elliott. Cody is sick.” I looked past her shoulder, straight into her cold, beautiful eyes. “In the elevator… my inhaler was right at your feet. Why didn’t you give it to me?” She looked away, her jaw tightening. “It was chaotic. It was Cody’s first time dealing with something like that. He was hyperventilating, Elliott. I couldn’t just leave him to panic.” My chest felt hollow, the phantom ache of the asthma attack returning. “And me? I couldn’t breathe. I begged you, Joyce.” There was a brief, heavy silence. Joyce adjusted her collar. “You’ve had asthma for years. You know how to manage your attacks. You know how to self-soothe. He doesn’t.” “And your phobia?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. “He was wearing enough cologne to scent a hotel lobby. How did you manage to hold him so close?” Cody began to dab at his eyes with his sleeve. “Mr. Ross, please don’t yell. It’s my fault. I grew up in an orphanage—enclosed spaces are my absolute worst trigger. Ms. Adler was only trying to keep me grounded. Please don’t fight because of me.” He shrunk back, practically hiding behind her shoulder. Joyce’s eyes hardened as she looked at me. “Elliott, must you always paint everything in the ugliest, most dramatic light?” I looked at her—really looked at her—and felt nothing but a vast, empty exhaustion. “Joyce, let’s end this. We’re done.” The apartment went completely quiet. Cody’s hand tightened around his mug, spilling a few drops of ginger tea onto the marble tabletop. Joyce set her folder down with a sharp click. “Are you serious?” She took two slow, deliberate steps toward me. “Your design studio’s payroll next month is entirely dependent on Adler Corp’s final milestone payment. You want to call it quits now? You want to drag your entire staff down with you just to throw a tantrum?” I didn’t answer. Seeing my silence, her tone softened slightly, turning into that familiar, condescending maternal warmth she used to control me. “Go cool off. Cody is just an intern. I look after him because he has no safety net. You’re being paranoid.” Cody kept his head low. “I really envy you, Mr. Ross. You have your own studio, and you’ve had Ms. Adler by your side for three years. I have nothing.” I walked past them, ignoring them both, and went into the bedroom to pack. But when I opened the closet, my hands froze in midair. My custom-blended cedarwood lotions, my imported essential oils, my ceramic diffuser—the few things I had kept tucked away in the back—had all been swept into a heavy black trash bag. Cody appeared at the bedroom door, leaning against the frame. “I thought those scents were what made Ms. Adler so uncomfortable, so I did a little deep cleaning for her. I hope you don’t mind.” I turned to him, my voice dropping to a dangerous register. “Who gave you permission to touch my things?” He shrank back, his lower lip trembling. Joyce stepped into the room, her voice sharp. “Elliott! What is wrong with you? Why are you taking your anger out on him? He was only trying to help me.” The next morning, I had to carry my design portfolio to Adler Corp for our quarterly review. Cody was already sitting in the conference room, right next to Joyce. He was lazily flipping through the sample fabric sheets of my new collection. “Mr. Ross,” Cody said, looking up with a look of pure, innocent concern. “Don’t you think this design feels a bit… cheap? It doesn’t really carry the premium weight that Adler Corp’s brand demands, does it?” The room went quiet. Every executive at the table turned to look at me. I opened my laptop, pulling up the technical specs to explain the weave density, the linen-silk blend, and the cost-efficiency. Before I could finish, Joyce walked in. She didn’t even look at my presentation. She simply closed my physical portfolio folder with a dull thud. “Redo it.” I gripped the edge of my seat. “Joyce, this is the third revision. The production timeline—” Cody suddenly let out a soft, wet cough, covering his mouth. “I’m so sorry… Mr. Ross, do you still have hospital disinfectant on your clothes? The smell is really hitting my throat.” Joyce immediately gestured to her assistant. “Open the windows.” Then she turned her cold eyes to me. “Go sit at the other end of the table.” A few junior designers nearby ducked their heads, whispering and snickering behind their hands. I stood up, pulled out the chair at the absolute far end of the long mahogany table, and sat down. During the break, Cody stood up to pour some coffee. As he walked past the display rack holding my main prototype gown, his wrist gave a sudden, awkward jerk. The dark, hot liquid splashed entirely across the delicate ivory bodice. “Oh my god! I’m so sorry! My hand slipped, the mug was so hot…” I rushed over, grabbing the fabric, but the dark stain had already soaked deep into the open-weave silk linen. The gown was completely ruined. Joyce immediately grabbed Cody’s wrist, inspecting his skin. Then she looked up at me, her voice commanding. “Apologize.” I froze. “What?” “His hand is red, Elliott. Apologize to him.” I looked at the ruined gown—the work of three months—and then at her. My lips remained pressed together. I didn’t move. Joyce pushed her chair back, her face devoid of any warmth. “Adler Corp is suspending all contracts with your studio, effective immediately.” “The remaining projects will be handled internally by our brand department. Cody will assist with the transition.” When I got back to my studio, the group chat was already blowing up. My designers were panicked about the frozen milestone payments. I muted my phone, pulled out my ledger, and began calculating how much of my personal savings I would need to drain to pay out their severance. That night, Joyce came back to the apartment. She tossed her car keys onto the entryway table. “Give the original sketch files of your Alabaster line to Cody.” I paused, looking up from my desk. “What did you just say?” “He’s entering the National Emerging Designer Showcase next month, and he needs a cohesive portfolio,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact. “Your Alabaster sketches are fully developed. Let him use them. It’s just a loan.” My pen slipped from my fingers. The Alabaster line wasn’t just a design. The delicate, interlocking ivy vine pattern in the sketches was adapted from a vintage wool suit my father had left me before he died. When he passed, the suit was too worn to wear, so I had carefully unstitched the lining, preserved the pattern, and poured it into my sketches. It was my studio’s masterpiece, and my father’s only legacy. “No,” I said, my voice steady. “He’s not touching it.” Joyce closed my ledger for me. “Elliott, Cody is just starting out. He needs this break. You already have an established studio. And besides, once we’re married, half of Adler’s resources will be yours anyway. What does it hurt to help him?” “Help him?” I stood up, my chair scraping loudly against the floor. “You want me to hand over my father’s legacy and my original work so he can take the credit?” Her phone buzzed. It was a voice note from Cody. When she pressed play, his sniffling voice filled the quiet room: “Ms. Adler, please don’t pressure Mr. Ross. I don’t want to make things hard for him. I just wanted to prove that I could stand on my own two feet without relying on your charity…” Joyce locked her phone, her eyes darkening. “He’s already willing to back out, and you’re still being this petty?” “If you love him so much, buy him his own designs,” I said, my chest heaving. “Don’t use my life to build his career.” She stared at me for a long time, shaking her head. “You used to be so generous, Elliott. You’ve become so ugly.” I didn’t argue. I went to the bathroom to wash my face. But when I came back out, the drawer to my desk was half-open. The leather binder containing my original sketches was gone. I ran down the stairs, bursting into the underground parking garage just as Joyce’s sedan was pulling out of her space. I threw myself in front of her hood. The car screeched to a halt. The driver’s side window rolled down an inch. I shoved my hand into the gap, gripping the glass. “Give it back, Joyce. Give it back right now.” She kept her eyes fixed on the windshield. “He’ll return it as soon as the showcase is over. Don’t make a scene, Elliott. Have some dignity.” The window rolled up, forcing me to rip my hand away as she drove off. I called a cab and drove straight to the convention center. When I snuck past security into the backstage area of the showcase, I found Cody surrounded by reporters. He was cradling my leather binder to his chest, talking animatedly about his “deep, personal connection to heritage textiles.” The crowd was nodding, charmed by his youthful vulnerability. I pushed through the reporters. “Cody. Give me the binder.” The chatter stopped. Cody’s face fell instantly into that familiar, tearful pout. “Mr. Ross… I know you don’t like me, but this is a professional event. Can we please not do this here?” I reached out to grab the edge of the binder. He held onto it, twisting his body away. “Please, don’t take it! I didn’t steal anything!” Two security guards began moving toward us. “There is a piece of my father’s suit in that binder,” I said, my voice shaking with rage. “Give it back to me. Now.” Cody looked at me, a brief, sharp flash of malice crossing his eyes. Then, he let go. The binder slipped from his hands, falling straight into a deep plastic drum of dark indigo dye used for the live-dyeing demonstration next to the booth. The clasp popped open on impact. The vintage silk lining—my father’s fabric—slipped out, sinking instantly into the dark, murky liquid. I dropped to my knees, plunging my bare arms into the cold, chemical dye, desperately feeling around the bottom of the drum. My skin stained a deep, bruised blue. Cody leaned down, his voice dropping to a whisper that only I could hear. “I know it was your dad’s. But old trash needs to make way for the new, Elliott.” I spun around, my fingers dripping dark blue ink. That was when Joyce walked into the room. I was kneeling on the floor, frantically wiping the ruined, indigo-soaked silk against my shirt, trying to clean it, but only making the stain worse. Cody was already weeping. “Ms. Adler, I swear I didn’t mean to. Mr. Ross ran in and grabbed the binder so hard… my wrist hit the table, and it just fell in…” He held out his wrist, showing her a faint pink mark. Joyce looked at my stained hands, then at Cody’s face. She stepped forward, grabbing my shoulder. “Apologize, Elliott.” “He threw it in on purpose,” I whispered, holding the ruined fabric against my chest. “Elliott, enough!” she snapped, her voice cold and public. “This is a national showcase. Stop embarrassing yourself.” I stared up at her. “Check the security cameras. Right there. They’re pointing directly at this booth.” Cody immediately panicked. “No, please, don’t. There are so many VIPs here today. If this gets out, it will ruin the reputation of the whole showcase. I’ll just withdraw.” Joyce put an arm around Cody’s shoulders. “You’re too soft, Cody.” She turned to the event coordinator standing nearby. “Delete the footage from the last ten minutes. We don’t want any internet rumors affecting the brand.” The coordinator hesitated. “Ms. Adler, that’s against our security protocol—” “I’ll take full responsibility.” I watched the coordinator nod. My nails bit so deep into my palms that they drew blood, mixing with the blue dye on my skin. The security guards took me by the arms, dragging me out of the venue. The head of security warned me that if I kept causing trouble, they would blacklist my studio from every major trade show in the country. Half an hour later, I received an official email: Adler Corp had officially revoked my studio’s credit from all past collaborative designs. I stood outside the glass doors of the convention center, watching the giant LED screen on the facade. Cody was on stage, holding the trophy for “Most Promising New Designer.” Joyce was sitting in the front row, clapping gracefully. I pressed the wet, stained piece of my father’s suit against my chest, turned around, and walked into the rain. That night, a text came from Joyce: The fabric is already ruined. Stop obsessing over it. I’ll buy you a brand-new studio space to make up for it. I set my phone face down on the kitchen island. She truly believed that everything in this world had a price tag, and that money could buy my silence. I spent the next three hours at my desk. I printed out the breakup agreement, followed by the formal termination of all business relations between my studio and Adler Corp. By the next afternoon, I had drained my personal savings account to pay out maximum severance packages to all my designers. I dissolved the studio, shook hands with my team, and sent them home. For the first time in my life, I had absolutely nothing left to lose. I took the ruined, indigo-dyed piece of silk and placed it directly on top of the signed breakup papers on the kitchen counter. Dan was waiting for me downstairs in his car. As I threw my single suitcase into the trunk, he looked at me. “Are you really leaving the city, Elliott?” I nodded. “If I stay here any longer, I won’t recognize myself.” On the way to the airport, my phone buzzed continuously. Joyce had called me seventeen times. I turned off the screen. Just before boarding my flight, I sent her one last message: Joyce, we’re done.

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When the new intern, Dylan, texted me at midnight for the ninety-ninth time to ask if a 12-point font was larger than a 10-point font, I didn’t lose my temper. Just like the previous ninety-eight times, I calmly typed back: Yes, Dylan. 12 is bigger. Not only did I keep my patience, but I also signed off on his transition from intern to full-time, handing him the only “Outstanding” rating on our team’s annual review. It was a lesson learned the hard way. In my previous life—before the universe reset the board—I had let my exhaustion show. I’d snapped at him, telling him not to make such rookie mistakes again. That single, impatient remark had planted a seed of absolute malice in his chest. It all built up to the day of our corporate retreat, celebrating what was supposed to be a nine-figure deal. But before we loaded onto the bus, the client sent a text that made my blood run cold: Final confirmation letter hits your inbox tomorrow at 3:00 PM. You have exactly one hour to sign and return it. Miss the window, and I’m signing with your competitor. 1 At 2:55 PM the next day, my eyes were glued to the bottom-right corner of my laptop screen. Meredith’s voice, sharp and unyielding, echoed in my head: “Lauren, the final letter goes out at three. I’m giving you exactly sixty minutes. I need the signed, scanned copy back by four, or the deal is dead.” Meredith was known in the industry as the “Time Tyrant.” The rumors weren’t exaggerated; she once tore up a multi-million-dollar contract on the spot because a partner arrived two minutes late to a Zoom call. She didn’t do second chances. For this nine-figure account, our entire agency had bled for six months. Twenty-seven pitch revisions. Five rounds of rigorous data audits. I had personally flown to Chicago three times just to corner her in hotel lobbies for a five-minute pitch. We were at the goal line. There was zero room for error. Before we left for the Catskills retreat, I’d made sure to log the situation with my department manager, Cecilia. But she was too busy laughing at some joke Dylan was telling, waving me off with an irritated flick of her wrist. “Got it, Lauren. Just handle it,” she’d muttered. Left with no choice, I prepared for the worst on my own. Seeing me tucked away in the corner of the lodge’s lounge, Dylan strolled over, a glass of juice in hand. “Hey, Lauren. Everyone’s out by the lake, and you’re in here grinding. You’re making the rest of us look bad.” I didn’t have the bandwidth for him. “Crucial deadline,” I muttered without looking up. But he wouldn’t let it go. He raised his voice, pitching it so the rest of the lobby could hear. “Come on, what work could possibly be more important than the team retreat? Cecilia literally said this weekend is about unwinding. You’re being such a try-hard right now!” Cecilia strolled over, her brow furrowed. Without asking for context, she immediately threw her weight around. “Lauren, shut the laptop. I said this is a retreat. Stop acting like the martyr Director of Marketing. You’re bringing everyone down.” I swallowed the bitter taste in my mouth, forcing my voice to remain even. “Cecilia, Meredith is emailing the final confirmation letter at three. I have to be ready to sign it.” “Meredith?” Cecilia sneered, a smug, self-satisfied look crossing her face. “The deal is practically in the bag. It’s a formality. Why are you acting like the sky is falling? Stop being dramatic, Lauren. The company doesn’t stop spinning just because you take an hour off.” My hands began to tremble with sheer frustration. “You don’t understand how strict she is! One minute late and she pulls the plug!” “Come on, Lauren,” Dylan chimed in, flashing a bright, easygoing smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “If Cecilia says it’s fine, it’s fine. Don’t be a party pooper. Come join us.” He reached out, his hand sweeping toward my laptop lid. I slapped his hand away. “Don’t touch my things!” The rejection seemed to trigger something dark beneath his sunny facade. The warmth drained from Dylan’s face in an instant. Before I could process the shift, he lunged forward, grabbed my laptop with both hands, and slammed it onto the hardwood floor with terrifying, violent force. A sickening crack echoed through the high-ceilinged room. The screen shattered into a spiderweb of black dead zones. The aluminum chassis twisted out of shape, the hinge snapping to reveal the delicate, frayed wiring beneath. My laptop—my entire life’s work for the past six months—was dead. My ears started to ring. I scrambled toward the wreckage, but two of my colleagues grabbed my arms, pinning me back. “Lauren, calm down! Just breathe!” Meanwhile, Dylan had already retreated behind Cecilia, his face a mask of calculated panic. “I didn’t mean to… Lauren, oh my god, I’m so sorry. My hand slipped, I swear…” He looked so fragile, so utterly distraught, that to anyone else, I looked like the aggressor. 2 I wrenched myself free from their grip, my vision blurring with hot, angry tears as I screamed at Cecilia. “That was the only way I could access the server! The Apex account is worth over a hundred million dollars, and the email comes in at three! How am I supposed to review the contract now?!” Cecilia just scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Stop catastrophizing. I told you, the deal is done. It’s a rubber-stamp process. Stop throwing a temper tantrum and ruining everyone’s weekend.” Dylan peeked out from behind her shoulder, his voice dripping with false contrition. “Yeah, Lauren. I said I was sorry. It was an accident. Don’t let it ruin the retreat. That’s what really matters, right?” I didn’t have time to fight them. My mind raced, clawing for a lifeline. The backup. I had saved a compressed project file on my phone just in case. It would be a nightmare to review and sign on a tiny screen, but it was a chance. I reached into my pocket. But Dylan was fast. It was as if he had anticipated my move. Before my fingers could even grip the phone, he snatched it right out of my hand. In one fluid, devastating motion, he flung it across the room. It arced through the air and met the stone fireplace hearth. The glass shattered with a sharp, final pop. Absolute panic clawed at my chest. My laptop was destroyed; my phone was useless. Every bridge to the outside world had been systematically burned. I couldn’t access the email, I couldn’t review the files, and I couldn’t even call Meredith to beg for more time. The grandfather clock in the corner chimed softly. The hands crawled forward. 2:58 PM. Two minutes left. I spun around, looking at the colleagues I had mentored, the people I shared drinks with every Friday. “Please,” I begged, my voice cracking. “Someone lend me a phone. Just one call. I’m begging you.” But they avoided my gaze, shifting their weight uncomfortably. One guy looked down at his hiking boots as if they were the most interesting things in the world. Another stared out the window. A few slipped quietly behind Cecilia’s shadow. “Come on, Lauren, Cecilia’s right here. Don’t make a scene…” someone muttered. “Uh, my phone’s dead.” “Yeah, mine too. I left it in my room to disconnect.” Their excuses were hollow, cowardly. Not a single person would throw me a lifeline. Then, the heavy brass pendulum of the grandfather clock struck the hour. Three deep, echoing chimes. Three o’clock. My heart dropped into a cold, dark abyss. It was over. Six months of sleepless nights, a nine-figure contract, the survival of our team—all evaporating in the mountain air. No. I refused to let it end like this. A sudden surge of adrenaline broke through the despair. Wrenching myself away from the hands trying to hold me back, I bolted toward the front desk. “A computer! Do you have a computer? Let me borrow it, please!” I gasped, grabbing the young clerk’s arm. He blinked in terror, shrinking back. “I… I’m sorry, ma’am. We only have the reservation system computer, and it’s locked in the manager’s office.” “Where’s the manager?” “He’s off-site today. I don’t have the key.” The last ember of hope died. 3 I couldn’t accept it. My brain was screaming: Get out. Get to town. Find a car. I spun on my heel and sprinted toward the double doors of the lodge. We were deep in the wilderness, but if I could just flag down a passing car on the main road, I might still have a chance. But I didn’t even make it to the porch. Two pairs of heavy hands clamped onto my arms, jerking me backward. Cecilia’s loyalists. “Let me go!” I thrashed, but their grip was like iron. Cecilia sauntered over, looking down her nose at me. “You’ve completely lost your mind, Lauren. No one is leaving this resort today. You are going to participate in this team-building event if it kills you.” Dylan slipped his arm through hers, playing the peacemaker. “Cecilia, don’t be too hard on her. Lauren’s just stressed. Maybe… we should just let her cool off by the door?” But even as the words left his mouth, he caught the eyes of the two men holding me and gave them a subtle, vicious nod. They tightened their grip until my shoulders ached. I was pinned against the doorframe, a public spectacle for the entire office. I struggled, screamed, and eventually, swallowed every ounce of pride I had left. I begged. Tears of frustration and sweat stung my eyes. I offered to apologize, to swallow whatever resentment they had, if they would just let me reach a phone. But their faces remained cold, resolute in keeping me trapped. The steady tick-tick-tick of the lodge clock sounded like a countdown. My vision blurred, focusing only on those black hands. 3:40 PM. Twenty minutes left before the offer vanished into thin air. Twenty minutes. The realization burned like acid in my throat. Out of the depth of absolute despair, a raw, primal survival instinct took over. “Get the hell off me!” I roared. I threw my entire weight to the left, ramming my shoulder into the chest of the guy holding my left arm. He gasped, his grip slipping. Before the other could react, I grabbed his wrist and twisted it with everything I had. He cried out, releasing me. Now. I lunged forward, straight at Cecilia. She hadn’t expected me to break free; the smug smirk was still plastered on her face when she saw the fury in my eyes. She tried to step back, but she was too slow. I reached out and ripped her iPhone straight from her manicured hand. “Lauren! Have you lost your mind?!” Cecilia’s shriek pierced the lobby. The entire room erupted into chaos. “Get her!” “Get the phone back!” Dylan shouted, leading a small stampede of colleagues heading straight for me. I clutched the phone to my chest. This was my last stand. Dodging grasping hands and flailing arms, my fingers flew over the screen, dialing Meredith’s number by memory. Someone caught a handful of my hair, ripping my head back in a flash of blinding pain. I ignored it, pressing “Call” with a shaking thumb. Ring… Ring… “Give me my phone!” Cecilia was on top of me. With a burst of desperate strength, I shoved her back and curled into a tight ball on the floor, using my knees and elbows to shield the screen. And then, the line picked up.

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When I walked into my own wedding reception wearing a custom silk gown, the first thing I noticed was the professional octagon MMA cage sitting dead center on the ballroom stage. My fiancé, Garrett, was standing beside it, holding the hand of his “female bestie,” Sabrina. He grinned, walking over to slip a pair of heavily padded leather gloves into my hands. “Flora, babe, it’s a little tradition from my family’s side of the state,” he said, his voice smooth and reassuring. “The bride is supposed to do a quick, playful spar with someone from the bridal party to bring good luck to the marriage. I asked Sabrina to step in so you wouldn’t have to deal with any of the guys. Just play along for the crowd.” I looked at Sabrina. She was standing there in her maid-of-honor dress, looking as fragile and sickly as she always did. I didn’t think twice before stepping through the cage door. But the moment the referee signaled the start, Sabrina’s weak demeanor vanished. She pivoted on her heel and unleashed a professional, devastating spinning heel kick. The blow caught me squarely on the temple, fracturing my skull and knocking me into a severe, hemorrhaging concussion before I even hit the canvas. When I finally woke up in the ICU, my body was a useless weight beneath the sterile sheets. Garrett was standing at the foot of my bed, holding Sabrina’s hand. “The guests flew in from all over, Flora, and the registry was incredibly expensive,” he said, his face twisted into a mask of performative sorrow. “We couldn’t just cancel the wedding. Sabrina offered to stand in for you so we didn’t lose the venue or the gifts. You’re so kind and understanding—you don’t mind, right?” Under the crushing weight of utter humiliation and severe, postpartum-like clinical depression, I eventually rolled my wheelchair to the edge of our high-rise balcony and threw myself off. But instead of the pavement, I woke up in my old bed. One month before the wedding. I didn’t waste a second. I got dressed, drove across town, and knocked on the heavy metal door of the state’s elite combat training center. “Coach,” I said, looking the head trainer in the eye. “Can you teach me how to shatter someone’s skull in thirty days?” 1 The coach looked me up and down. His gaze lingered on my slender arms and pale wrists for three painful seconds before he let out a dry, dismissive chuckle. “Shatter someone’s skull? Sweetheart, with a frame like yours, a stiff breeze could snap you in half.” I didn’t argue. I reached into my bag, pulled out a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills, and slammed them onto the metal desk. Five thousand dollars. Every cent of the emergency cash I’d spent two years scraping together. The coach barely glanced at it before pushing it back toward me. “I don’t need the pocket change, kid.” Without a word, I reached over and pulled up my left sleeve, exposing the dark, mottled yellow-and-purple bruises Garrett had left on my arm after a drunken rage the weekend before. The coach’s eyes hardened. He stared at the marks for a long moment, then reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a standard liability waiver, sliding it across the table. “Sign this,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “The gym is not responsible for any injuries sustained during training. This includes, but is not limited to, fractures, concussions, and internal bleeding.” I grabbed the pen and signed my name without hesitating. The coach took the paper, filed it away, and the casual, dismissive look on his face vanished completely. “Alright. Starting today, I’m going to train you with the same intensity I use for professional fighters preparing for a title bout. I don’t know if you’ll be able to shatter anyone’s head in a month, but by the end of this, you’ll definitely want to shatter your own.” That first day, the sparring partners threw me to the mat forty-seven times. Every single time my back slammed into the vinyl padding, the air leaving my lungs in a ragged gasp, the memories of my past life flashed behind my eyelids. I saw Sabrina’s heel coming toward my face. I felt the sterile, cold hospital air, the tubes running down my throat, the weight of a body that would never walk again. I saw Garrett standing there, looking so incredibly burdened by my tragedy while holding the hand of the woman who had crippled me. “Sabrina offered to stand in for you… you don’t mind, right?” Did I mind? He had legally married Sabrina three days after I was paralyzed. They used my savings. They lived in the brownstone my parents had bought for me. Everyone in our social circle praised Garrett for his deep loyalty, calling Sabrina a saint for helping him navigate the tragedy of his “brain-damaged ex-fiancée.” Not a single soul asked how the girl who had been kicked into a wheelchair was supposed to keep living. The memory burned like acid in my throat. I pushed myself up from the mat, ignoring the screaming pain in my shoulders, and raised my gloved hands toward the sparring partner. “Again,” I rasped. The partner looked over at the coach. The coach nodded slowly. “Take her down.” That night, I lay on the thin, hard mattress in the gym’s dorm room, my skin covered in ice packs. My phone vibrated on the nightstand. A text from Garrett: “Babe, just got out of a late meeting and finally grabbing dinner. I’ve been keeping the planners in line so everything is perfect. Just focus on being the most beautiful bride in the world.” I stared at the words “late meeting” for a moment, then opened Instagram. Sabrina had posted a story three minutes ago. It was a mirror selfie of her trying on a white lace wedding dress. In the background, draped carelessly over the arm of a velvet sofa, was the navy silk Hermès tie I had bought Garrett for his birthday last month. Her caption was short: “The favorite always gets the privilege of the first fitting.” My fingers tightened around the phone. I opened our text thread and sent Garrett a voice note, keeping my tone sweet, light, and perfectly trusting. “You’re working so hard, sweetie. I don’t know what I’d do without you handling the venue stuff. I trust you completely.” Then, I typed out a follow-up: “By the way, babe, I just saw a bespoke designer gown online. Apparently, there are only three of them in the country, but the deposit is twenty grand. What do you think?” A long, agonizing two minutes passed before the typing bubbles appeared. “Isn’t that a bit excessive? The off-the-rack ones look amazing on you anyway.” I replied instantly: “But we’re only doing this once, Garrett. And you promised me we’d have the most talked-about wedding in the city. I want everyone to see how much you cherish me.” Another silence. Finally, a single word: “Fine.” I let out a cold, quiet laugh, locked the phone, and turned to face the wall. Garrett, my love. In my past life, you wanted my money, my home, and my very survival. This time around, I’m going to drain you until you have nothing left to give. 2 During the day, I was the perfect, glowing bride-to-be. I gossiped with my coworkers about floral arrangements, tasted samples of vanilla-bean cake, and smiled until my cheeks ached. But the moment the clock struck five, I shed the corporate clothes and threw myself into the ring. I strapped on the headgear, laced up the gloves, and let the rage take over. The same mouth that whispered sweet nothings over the phone to Garrett spent three hours a night screaming through heavy bag drills. Coach Briggs focused entirely on my defense against high kicks. “You said this opponent has a background in dirty combat?” he asked one night, throwing a towel over my shoulders. “Underground street fights,” I replied, taking a long drink of water. “She spent years as a paid sparring partner in unlicensed gyms.” Briggs frowned, rubbing his jaw. “Street fighters don’t follow regulations. They don’t care about points; they care about damage. They go straight for the soft tissue—the temples, the throat, the knees.” He pulled up a video on his tablet, showing a grainy clip of an unsanctioned match. “Watch her hips,” he pointed to the screen. “Before she launches a spinning kick, there’s a tiny, almost imperceptible twitch in her left hip. It’s a micro-adjustment to find her balance. It happens in less than a third of a second.” I leaned in closer, memorizing the movement. “Your window is right there,” Briggs continued. “The second you see that hip drop, you don’t back away. If you back up, you put yourself directly in the path of her maximum force. You have to slip inside the arc, close the distance, and strike from the blind spot.” I nodded. And for the next three hours, I practiced the slip-and-strike over and over until my muscles memorized the rhythm. By the end of the week, I was sparring with a six-foot-two amateur lightweight. When I managed to slip his guard and land a liver shot that brought him to his knees, Briggs let out a rare, genuine grin from the sidelines. Later that evening, my best friend, Naomi, came to pick me up from the gym. When she saw the dark, ugly bruises mapping my shoulders and ribs, her eyes welled with tears. “Flora, what are you doing to yourself? This is insane. You’re getting married in three days!” I pulled off my hand wraps, the coarse fabric scraping against my calloused skin. “Take a look at this first.” I handed her my phone, showing her the files my private investigator had delivered that afternoon. They were bank statements and credit logs under Garrett’s name. A high-interest personal loan for eighty-three thousand dollars. And a pending charge of sixty-two thousand at Cartier. The shipping address? Sabrina Kelly’s apartment. Naomi’s jaw dropped. “That absolute bastard… he took out a predatory loan to buy her Cartier? What did he get you for your birthday, Flora? A ten-dollar grocery store bouquet! Call it off. Cancel the wedding right now!” I shook my head slowly, taking the phone back. “If I cancel, he just walks away with a few bad debts and a bracelet. No, Naomi. I’m going to make sure he crawls out of that venue on his hands and knees.” Naomi stared at me, her expression shifting from horror to a quiet, fierce understanding. “I don’t know what your plan is,” she whispered, “but whatever you need, I’m in.” On the night before the wedding, the investigator sent over one final audio file, recorded via a small tracker planted in Garrett’s car. I pressed play, and Sabrina’s voice filled the quiet locker room. “Garrett, babe, once she’s out of the picture after the wedding, that brownstone is completely paid off, right? We can just transfer the title to your name and move in. It’s perfect.” Garrett’s low chuckle followed. “Don’t rush it, sweetie. Once we get her off the deed and drain her trust account, this whole circus will have been worth every penny.” Sabrina giggled, a sound that made my skin crawl. “You’re terrible, you know that?” “But you love it.” “Obsessed.” The recording clicked off. I sat alone in the dim locker room, listening to the file three more times. My hands were perfectly steady as I uploaded copies of the audio to three separate secure cloud drives. Then, I wired the investigator his final payment with a short note: Perfect work. Worth every cent. 3 Two days before the ceremony, Garrett’s mother paid me an unexpected visit. She marched into my apartment carrying a plastic bag of bruised, discounted apples, sat herself down on my custom sofa, and crossed her legs with an air of absolute authority. “Flora, dear, we need to talk about a small matter,” she began, her tone dripping with artificial sweetness. “That brownstone you’re living in—your parents bought that outright before you met Garrett, correct? Well, now that you’re marrying my son, you’re going to be a family. It’s incredibly tacky for a family home to only have one person’s name on the deed.” I set my teacup down, remaining completely silent. “Sabrina was actually telling me the other day,” she continued, dismissive of my silence, “that a truly modern, loving wife doesn’t keep secrets from her husband. A little generosity now will bring you so many blessings down the road.” Sabrina said. An outsider was dictating the terms of my life, and my future mother-in-law saw absolutely nothing wrong with it. I forced myself to draw a slow, deep breath, letting a sweet, compliant smile spread across my face. “You’re absolutely right, Mom. Do you have the deed transfer paperwork? I can take it to the title company first thing tomorrow.” The older woman beamed, reaching into her designer knockoff purse to pull out a pre-drafted quitclaim deed. She had been carrying it around, just waiting for this exact moment. I took the papers and escorted her to the door. The moment the lock clicked shut, the smile fell from my face. I didn’t take the paperwork to a title company to add Garrett’s name. I took it to a private lender. The brownstone was valued at 1.2 million dollars. Within four hours, I had secured a cash-out home equity line of credit for eight hundred thousand dollars. The funds cleared by mid-afternoon, and I immediately wired the entire balance into Naomi’s offshore savings account. In my past life, Garrett had successfully transferred the deed after my accident and sold the property, leaving me with nothing. This time, he wouldn’t get so much as a single brick. When I returned home that evening, Garrett was surprisingly present in the kitchen. He handed me a steaming mug of dark, herbal tea. “You’ve been looking so tired lately, babe,” he said, his eyes filled with a terrifyingly familiar warmth. “I brewed you some chamomile and valerian root. Drink up, get a good night’s sleep, and you’ll be the most stunning bride tomorrow.” I took the mug. Beneath the heavy scent of honey, there was a bitter, chemical undertone. In my past life, this was the exact tea that had put me into a dead sleep for twelve hours, giving him and Sabrina all the time they needed to coordinate the setup of the MMA cage at the venue. I lifted the mug to my lips, pretending to take a long sip. The moment he turned his back to rinse a spoon, I spat the liquid into a dry paper towel, folding it quickly and stuffing it into my pocket. “Thank you, sweetie. It’s perfect,” I murmured. Garrett’s eyes flared with a brief, victorious light. “Get some rest, then. Big day tomorrow.” He grabbed his coat and walked down the hall to the guest room, locking the door behind him. I pressed my ear to the wall, listening. “Sabrina? Yeah, she drank it. Out like a light,” he whispered into the receiver. “Everything is set for tomorrow.” I heard Sabrina’s faint voice filter through the drywall. “Garrett, when she gets in the ring, do you think I should aim for her left temple or her right?” Garrett chuckled. “Whatever makes you happy, babe. It’s not like she’ll be using either side of her brain after tomorrow anyway.” I walked back to my bedroom, locked the door, and opened my laptop. I spent the next two hours organizing every piece of evidence I had gathered over the past month into a beautifully formatted presentation. I titled the file: Portrait of a Groom. I set a digital timer on the media server, linking it directly to the ballroom’s main projection system. When I finally closed the laptop and lay down, I didn’t feel fear. I felt like a blade that had finally been polished to a lethal edge. 4 The morning of the wedding was crisp and cold. At six o’clock, Naomi arrived to help me dress. When she unzipped the twenty-thousand-dollar custom silk gown and held it up against my bare shoulders, her breath hitched. “Flora… your arms.” The gown was a strapless sweetheart cut, exposing my entire collarbone and upper arms. Under the bright vanity lights, the faint yellowing bruises from my final sparring sessions were visible. “Don’t worry about it,” I said, my voice steady. “Just layer the concealer. Thick.” Naomi bit her lip but didn’t ask any more questions. It took three heavy layers of professional-grade body makeup to completely hide the marks of my training. Once the veil was pinned, I stood and looked at my reflection. The woman in the mirror was wrapped in layers of delicate white silk, but she looked nothing like the fragile, broken girl who had been wheeled out of a hospital ward a lifetime ago. The Flora who had died on that pavement was gone. The woman standing here now had crawled back from the grave. At exactly eight o’clock, the limousine arrived. Garrett was waiting by the door, looking exceptionally handsome in his tailored tuxedo. His shave was immaculate, his cologne expensive. When he saw me, a genuine spark of admiration lit up his eyes. I smiled, taking his arm as he led me into the car. Sabrina was already sitting in the front passenger seat, dressed in her maid-of-honor gown. She looked pale, her hair pulled back in a loose, delicate low bun. She turned around, offering me a faint, watery smile. “You look beautiful, Flora.” She let out a small, delicate cough. I reached forward and squeezed her hand. “Thank you, Sabrina. I know you haven’t been feeling well lately, so it means the world to have you stand by me today.” “Of course,” she whispered. “I wouldn’t miss your special day for anything.” I saw Garrett catch her eye in the rearview mirror. It was a fraction of a second—a shared look of absolute, breathless anticipation. They couldn’t wait. The limousine pulled up to the Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel. The entrance was flanked by towering floral arches and a plush red carpet. Garrett got out first, offering me his hand with the grace of a perfect gentleman. “We’re here, beautiful,” he whispered. I lifted my skirts and stepped out, securing my grip on his arm. As we pushed through the heavy double doors of the ballroom, the crowd of three hundred guests erupted into applause. I scanned the room. The tables, the centerpieces, the lighting—everything was exactly as I had planned. Except for the main stage. Where the towering champagne fountain was supposed to stand, there was a raised, professional-grade octagon cage. The chain-link walls glistened under the spotlights, the floor lined with thick, blue wrestling mats. Hanging from the corner posts were two fresh pairs of leather sparring gloves. I stopped, feigning confusion. “Garrett… what is that?” Garrett patted my hand, his voice smooth and reassuring. “Don’t worry, babe. Like I said, it’s a tradition from my family’s old neighborhood. Just a playful little spar to bring some excitement and good fortune to the marriage.” He stepped aside, and Sabrina stepped forward, holding a pair of gloves. “Flora,” she said softly, her voice carrying through the room’s microphone system. “Garrett really wanted us to do this. Don’t worry, I’m still feeling a bit weak from my cold. Just a light touch for the cameras.” In the crowd, Garrett’s family and friends began to cheer. “Go on, Flora! Show her what you’ve got!” “Don’t be a party pooper! It’s tradition!” The pressure mounted, a wall of smiling, demanding faces. Nobody saw anything wrong with it. Just like last time. I let the silence stretch for ten seconds, staring directly into Garrett’s eyes. “Alright,” I said, my voice echoing over the speakers. Garrett let out a breath, a smug smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “But on one condition,” I added. I waved Naomi over. She stepped forward, holding a legal document. “Since this is a contact sport, and we’re wearing expensive gowns, I want to make sure everything is official. We sign a standard mutual liability waiver. If anyone gets hurt up there, we agree not to pursue legal action or damages.” I took the pen and signed my name with a flourish, then handed it to Sabrina. Garrett’s mother laughed from the front row. “Oh, look how serious she’s taking it! How cute!” To them, this waiver was just a joke. To Sabrina, it was a guarantee that she could cripple me without facing a single day in court. She grabbed the pen and eagerly scribbled her signature. I handed the paper back to Naomi, who tucked it safely into her bag. Then, in front of three hundred stunned guests, I unzipped my twenty-thousand-dollar designer gown, stepped out of it, and let it fall to the floor. Beneath the silk, I was wearing a black compression top and athletic shorts. I walked toward the cage, lacing up my gloves.

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I’ve had a special ability since childhood—I can hear shadows speak. My father and stepmother didn’t believe me. They thought I was deliberately lying to get their attention. My stepsister, Lily, mocked me as a freak and rallied the girls at school to ostracize me. After graduating from college, Lily hooked up with a mafia boss. But on the eve of their wedding, the mafia boss was shot and fell into a coma. When he woke up, his memories were stuck at age ten. Lily immediately called off the engagement: “Make me marry an idiot? Absolutely not! I’d rather die than marry him!” Facing the mafia boss’s armed family downstairs, my father fell into despair. Just then, I heard the mafia boss’s shadow speak: “That bitch Lily! The doctor said my amnesia is only temporary. With proper care, I’ll recover in three months.” “I already bought her an island and a villa, planning to give them to her as gifts. Guess she doesn’t need them now! Once I recover, I’m going to kill her!” When I heard about the island and villa, my eyes lit up. I took the initiative and said to my father: “Dad, I’m willing to marry him in her place!”

Lily, who normally bullied me relentlessly, rushed over and hugged me when she heard I’d take her place: “Luna, you’re really willing?” I nodded. She hugged me tighter: “That’s more like it! I’ve always been so good to you, always looked after you at school. Now you’re marrying him in my place—it’s only right.” “Besides, it’s not like any man wants you anyway. Even though Jason has become an idiot, he’s handsome and has a great body. You’re not losing anything by marrying him.” She glanced at Jason standing by the door and licked her lips: “Honestly, I’m a little reluctant to let him go!” I pushed her away without retorting. Getting away from this family and earning an island and a villa—I really wasn’t losing anything. But Jason’s shadow was already trembling with rage. “Lily, you always pretended to be pure and gentle, always said your sister Luna bullied you—turns out it was all lies! You’re the vicious one!” “If I weren’t just a shadow, I’d strangle you right now!” I shrugged and went downstairs to invite Mrs. Grant to tea, then said to her: “I’m the Grant family’s eldest daughter. If you don’t mind, I’m willing to marry Jason in my sister’s place.” Mrs. Grant’s face had been filled with worry. After Jason was shot, they announced to the outside world that he would recover quickly. If he got dumped at this critical moment, other mafia factions would think Jason was down and the Grant family was finished. They’d move to absorb their territory. I had clearly become the Grant family’s lifeline. Mrs. Grant grabbed my hand excitedly: “You’re really willing? But Jason hasn’t recovered his memory yet, so we can’t hold a wedding ceremony.” “As long as you take good care of him and fulfill your duties as a wife, when he wakes up, I’ll definitely give you a generous gift.” I nodded obediently: “I’m very good at taking care of people. I’ve been tutoring since I was sixteen to earn my tuition.” Jason’s shadow said in surprise: “Her family isn’t poor though? Why would she need to earn her own tuition?” I pretended not to hear the shadow’s words and worked hard to sell myself. “I can also teach music. I’m very patient…” My stepmother eagerly chimed in: “That’s right, Luna was born to serve people. She can also do laundry and cook.” “Having her take care of Jason is perfect. I agree to this marriage. You should take her back right away.” My stepmother threw me out the door like discarding trash, unable to wait another moment. And my father, as always, let my stepmother bully me without intervention. Jason’s mother smiled, then stood up and said to me: “Come with us. Don’t bother bringing luggage. I’ll have the servants prepare new things for you.” At that moment, Jason actually came over on his own, took my hand and said: “You’re my wife? I want you to build LEGOs with me!” The moment I walked out the door, Lily’s shrill mocking voice came from behind: “A freak and an idiot—a perfect match.” Jason’s shadow cursed: “That bitch Lily! When I wake up, I’m giving Luna ten million immediately, just to piss Lily off!”

After returning to the Grant house, Mrs. Grant wiped away tears sadly: “Jason was shot in the head. It’s a miracle he’s even alive. But the doctor said as long as he’s well cared for and given enough affection, he can recover his memory in three months. But if he suffers another shock, he might stay like this forever.” “I was going to tell Lily this, but she was so heartless she refused before I could even finish.” “Luna, during this time, you must take good care of Jason. Nothing can go wrong!” What Mrs. Grant meant was that I needed to stay by his side to help awaken his memories. At the same time, Jason’s current condition couldn’t be seen by outsiders. She was busy fending off attacks from competitors. So she needed someone trustworthy to stay with Jason twenty-four hours a day. Jason’s shadow sighed: “I thought Lily would stand by me through thick and thin, but she completely broke my heart.” “I wonder if this Luna will be the same as Lily…” I smiled slightly. Then I brought Jason, who only had memories up to age ten, to the study. “Didn’t you want me to build LEGOs with you?” “Yes!” Jason, who was six-foot-three with an eight-pack, actually showed an innocent smile. I tapped his chest, then said: “I can keep you company, but on one condition! After we finish the LEGOs, you have to let me read to you.” This was also what Jason’s mother had instructed—read him company financial reports, political and economic books. It would help him recover his memory faster. Then I heard the shadow’s praise: “Seems like she’s more reliable than Lily. But I need to keep observing.” I started competing with Jason to build LEGOs. Unsurprisingly, I won. Then I took out finance books and history books and started reading to him. The shadow sighed again: “That Lily has reading disabilities. I didn’t expect Luna to be so smart—she even understands finance books and can analyze international situations. I wonder what other surprises she has that I don’t know about.” I smiled secretly. It seemed I’d already won his initial trust. The next day, even Jason’s mother looked at me with new eyes. I had just finished shaving Jason’s beard, making him look much more refreshed. A newly released movie was playing on TV, and I’d explain things to him from time to time. Jason liked pineapple smoothies, so I made them for him. Jason’s mother said: “Since his memory got stuck at age ten, he’s never been this well-behaved.” On the second night, after I finished reading to Jason, he insisted I stay. “My bed is huge. Just sleep next to me.” Looking at his sexy chest muscles under his pajamas, my face turned red. If I didn’t know he hadn’t recovered his memory yet, I might have actually fallen for him. Before turning off the lights, I secretly glanced at his shadow. The shadow was in a good mood: “This Luna really is pretty good. Once my body fully recovers, I’ll definitely give her a grand wedding and make her my real wife.” My face turned even redder. I hugged my blanket and lay down beside him, quickly hearing his even breathing. That night, I slept very well.

Later, while I was taking care of Jason, his shadow kept talking to itself: “How does Luna know I love Italian opera? Looks like she did her homework. Not bad.” “The company’s stock price went up. Looks like the crisis is over.” “She’s just like my mom. When I was little, my mom also made me eat carrots.” “Ah, this carrot cake smells so good! Too bad I’m just a shadow!” Under my care, in less than a month, Jason recovered some of his memories. But his memories were confused. Sometimes he was like a ten-year-old child, sometimes he suddenly became twenty years old and acted like he didn’t know me at all. One afternoon, I had just washed my hair and was blow-drying it when he suddenly had the expression of an adult and asked me: “Who are you? Why are you in my bathroom?” I was startled. I wanted to explain to him, but then I remembered the doctor had warned that he couldn’t be shocked at all during these three months. So I answered: “I’m a new maid your mother hired.” “How come I don’t know about this?” Jason grabbed my wrist and moved closer. I heard his shadow say anxiously: “This idiot, that’s your wife! You’re hurting your wife! Let go of her right now!” I explained to Jason: “My family kicked me out, and Mrs. Grant kindly took me in. Please don’t fire me. I have nowhere else to go…” Jason’s expression softened. After warning me, he let go of my hand and said: “This is my private bathroom. Don’t come here anymore!” After hearing his words, the shadow got even angrier: “If you can’t speak properly, just shut up! She’s your wife. You two will be showering together in the future!” Hearing the shadow’s complaint, images of us showering together quickly flashed through my mind, making my face burn. I said to Jason: “I’m sorry, Mr. Grant. I’m new here and don’t know the rules. I promise I won’t come to your private bathroom again.” After saying that, I hurried away with my head down. Later, during a hospital checkup, the doctor said excitedly: “Mr. Grant is recovering faster than expected! His memory is gradually returning. As for the memory confusion, it should stabilize in about a week!” Jason’s mother gripped my hand excitedly: “Thank you, Luna! After he recovers next week, I’m going to throw a party to show all our competitors that Jason is in top form.” News of Jason’s recovery somehow reached Lily’s ears. One afternoon, Lily suddenly came to see me. She glanced at Jason sitting on the lawn making butterfly specimens, then roughly dragged me to a corner. “I heard Jason is going to recover his memory? He still looks like a ten-year-old idiot to me.” I sneered: “Why do you care so much about my husband?” Lily slapped me across the face: “Your husband?” Lily pointed at my nose and warned me: “If Jason really does recover, you better get lost. I’m the woman Jason truly loves anyway!”

The shadow in the distance saw me getting bullied and roared: “Bitch! How dare you hit my wife! Luna, fight back!” “Once my body and memory fully recover, I’m definitely not marrying you! The only wife I recognize is Luna!” After saying this, he paused: “But speaking of which… after I recover, will I be able to keep my recent memories? What if I forget everything?” “Oh no, what if my body really forgets and thinks Lily was the one who took care of me? What do I do?” “I’m just a shadow! How can I tell myself?” Rubbing my cheek, I felt equally anxious. If Jason really married Lily after this, not only would my island and villa be gone, but Lily would take crazy revenge on me! The shadow quickly said: “I almost forgot about my mom. She already knows Lily is a bitch. And she knows Luna is already my wife.” “No matter whether I remember Luna in the future or not, my mom definitely won’t let me marry Lily.” But unexpectedly, Lily thought of this too. She immediately went to find Mrs. Grant. “You know how much Jason loves me. I didn’t want to break off the engagement before—my parents forced me to! Today I secretly came to see you because I want to tell you that I’ve always loved Jason.” “Please give me another chance. Let me stay by Jason’s side and take care of him!” After speaking, Lily actually knelt down crying. And Mrs. Grant actually seemed to waver. She consulted with me awkwardly: “Luna, you’ve worked hard during this time. But Jason really did love Lily before, and Lily has always been a kind girl. Maybe she really was forced by your parents to break off the engagement.” “How about you just let them be together? Don’t worry, I’ll give you a generous bonus and a villa.” Seeing me nod obediently, the shadow exploded: “Luna, can you have some backbone? Why are you handing over your achievements to someone else?” I sighed. If Jason liked Lily, what was the point of fighting for him? I might as well take the money and quickly leave this place to live a peaceful life. The shadow lamented in frustration: “Forget it, I can’t count on anyone. I’ll just have to work hard to retain these memories myself!” After Lily won over Mrs. Grant, to be safe, she released news to the media early: “My wedding with Mr. Jason Grant will be held next month.” Everyone outside thought it was Lily’s devoted companionship that created Jason’s miraculous recovery. It was time to go to the hospital for rehabilitation treatment again. The doctor said: “This should be the last treatment! If this treatment goes smoothly, Mr. Grant will fully recover!” And the shadow started getting anxious: “Luna, I hope after this treatment, my damn brain can remember everything between us!” I clasped my hands together. I hoped for the same. But none of this was under my control. Lily stood beside me and mocked: “Soon, I’ll become Jason’s real wife.” After a long wait, when Jason walked out of the treatment room, although his appearance hadn’t changed, his eyes were completely different. They were sharp and fierce, with a cold edge. I thought, this is it. He definitely doesn’t remember me. Lily eagerly rushed over: “Jason, you’ve finally recovered! I’m Lily, the one you love most! Do you know how sad and scared I’ve been these three months?” For some reason, I felt a sourness in my heart, even jealousy. Dejected, I was about to leave. The next second, Jason suddenly spoke: “These three months, you were really that sad?”

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My mom was a liar. She said my dad hit her. But every time she pulled up her sleeves, her skin was clear, without a single mark. She’d cry and say, “He hit me again last night.” My dad would just stand by, sighing, “She’s having another episode.” Arthur, my dad, was a high school principal, gentle and refined. Everyone praised him as a good husband and father. And my mom? The neighbors said she was sick, Grandma Rose said it was postpartum depression, and doctors diagnosed paranoid delusion. I believed them too. Until that late night, when I came home early and caught my dad raising his fist. My mom saw me through the crack in the door. In that instant, her eyes lit up. It was then I understood she wasn’t waiting for me to save her. She was waiting for me to see it for myself. For as long as I could remember, Eleanor, my mom, told me Arthur, my dad, hit her. But she never had any proof. Every time she’d pull up her sleeves to show me, her skin was perfectly clear, not even a red mark. Every time she’d cry, “He hit me again last night,” my dad would stand next to her, sighing, a helpless look on his face: “She’s having another episode.” My dad was a high school principal, gentle and refined. All the teachers and students admired him. He attended my parent-teacher conferences, cooked for me, and when I had a fever, he’d stay by my bedside all night. He was the best dad in the world; I’d always thought that since I was little. And my mom? She’d suddenly throw things, suddenly scream, suddenly hug me and cry, saying, “If Mom dies, you have to live well.” The neighbors said she had a mental illness. Grandma Rose said it was postpartum depression; she’d been like this since I was born – suspicious, paranoid, and now it was worse. I took her to see a psychologist three times. Each diagnosis was the same: moderate depression with paranoid delusion. Even with the diagnosis, it wasn’t like I’d never had doubts. Once, when I was little, I saw some red marks on my mom’s arm and asked her how she got them. Before she could answer, my dad spoke up: “Your mom had a nightmare last night and pinched herself.” My mom opened her mouth, but didn’t contradict him. I thought it was strange at the time, but I didn’t think much of it. Later, I just got used to it. Used to her crying, used to her making a fuss, used to her suddenly putting down her forks at the dinner table and saying, “He hit me again.” Then my dad would sigh and put some food on my plate: “Eat. Don’t mind her.” I started to get annoyed with her. When I was in middle school, she once ran into my room in the middle of the night, shook me awake, and said, “Maya, your dad just pinched my thigh. Go check, there must be a mark.” I was so sleepy I just rolled over: “Eleanor, can you please stop? I have school tomorrow.” She stood by my bed, motionless for a long time. I thought she’d left. As I was drifting off to sleep, I heard her whisper, “I’m not making a fuss, I really am not.” I ignored her. It was even more annoying in high school. Every time she came back from the hospital, she’d pull me aside and ramble on about, “Your dad hit me again.” I’d slam the door: “Can you stop pretending? Will you only be happy if you drive Arthur away?” She stopped talking. At the time, I thought she just didn’t want me to have a good life. I’d worked so hard to get into a good high school. My dad cooked me delicious food every day and stayed up late studying with me. And her? All she did was fuss and cry. Once, she even chased me to the school gate and, in front of my classmates, pulled me aside and said, “Your dad hit me last night.” I yanked my hand away, my voice loud: “Are you insane?” All my classmates were staring at me. My mom stood at the school gate, stunned for a long time, then turned and walked away. Her back was hunched, and she walked very slowly. I was embarrassed then. Now that I think about it, she was wearing long sleeves and long pants that day, in over ninety-degree weather.

During the winter break of my sophomore year, I went home for the holidays. The Christmas Eve dinner was lively; all the relatives were there. My dad cooked a full table of dishes himself. Relatives praised him for being capable, asking my mom where she found such a good man. My dad stood up, glass in hand, smiling. “Thank you all for taking care of our family these years. Especially, I want to thank Eleanor for putting up with my bad temper. Sometimes I speak too quickly, raise my voice a little, and she thinks I’m going to hit her.” He paused, a wry smile on his face: “She’s been through a lot because of me.” All the relatives laughed. I laughed too. Uncle Mike chimed in: “Arthur, you call that a bad temper? You’re so gentle with us.” Aunt Sarah agreed: “Exactly, Eleanor is just too sensitive.” My dad shook his head, looking remorseful: “It’s not her fault; she’s sick, you know. I just need to be more understanding.” Everyone was praising him for being generous and responsible. My mom sat in the corner, holding a pork rib with her fork, her hand trembling. The rib fell back onto the plate. She picked it up again, and it fell again. Suddenly, I felt annoyed. Everyone at the table was happy, and she was the only one with a long face. “Eleanor, can’t you just be happy? It’s the holidays.” My voice wasn’t quiet when I said that, and several relatives looked over. She looked up at me. Her lips trembled a few times, but she didn’t speak. Her eyes held an expression I couldn’t place, as if she wanted to say something, but swallowed it back. I didn’t think much of it and continued eating. That night, I was scrolling on my phone in my room when I heard a muffled thud from next door. “Thud!” like something hit the wall. I didn’t move. A little while later, another sound, softer this time. I put down my phone and pushed the door open. My mom’s room door was ajar, with light spilling out. I pushed the door open. My dad stood by the bed, rubbing my mom’s shoulder. My mom was lying face down on the pillow, her face buried, so I couldn’t see her expression. “What’s wrong?” I asked. My dad turned to look at me, his expression very natural: “Eleanor has a stiff neck. I’m just rubbing it for her.” My mom turned her face away from the pillow and glanced at me. I still remember that look. It wasn’t sadness, it wasn’t pain, it was despair. She opened her mouth, her lips moved, then closed again. I stood in the doorway for a few seconds; she didn’t speak. “Well, get some sleep.” I closed the door. As I reached the stairwell, I paused. For some reason, something felt off. But I thought about it and decided I was overthinking. My dad rubbing my mom’s shoulder – wasn’t that perfectly normal? The next morning, I got up for a drink and saw my mom in the kitchen. She was holding a bowl with her left hand, in a very awkward position. I glanced at it and saw a few red marks on the back of her left hand, a bit swollen. “What happened to your hand?” She looked down at it, her voice calm: “Arthur hit it with a book last night.” I paused for half a second, then laughed. “A book can cause red marks like that? Eleanor, at least make your lies more believable.” Just then, my dad came out of his study and heard us. He walked over, looked at my mom’s hand, and gave a wry smile. “Your mom ran into the door frame yesterday. I heard a noise from my room and ran out, only to see her squatting on the floor, rubbing her hand. She doesn’t remember things, sleeps it off and forgets, then thinks I hit her.” He said it so naturally, and my mom didn’t contradict him. She carried the bowl of porridge and slowly walked to the balcony, sitting on a small stool, her back to me. I looked at her back, and that little doubt in my heart was suppressed again. My dad patted my shoulder: “Don’t take it to heart. Eleanor’s illness is just like that.” I nodded. From that day on, I never doubted her again.

The summer of my junior year, I didn’t go home. I stayed at school to prepare for graduate school exams. The library in July was like a sauna. I spent every day in there, doing practice problems from eight in the morning until ten at night. My phone was on silent; I didn’t want to answer anyone’s calls. That afternoon, I was working on an English practice test when my phone vibrated. It was my mom. I hesitated, but picked up. “Maya, can you come home and see me? I can’t take it anymore.” Her voice was very soft, as if she was afraid of being overheard. It was also choked with tears, her voice hoarse, as if she’d been crying for a long time. At the time, I was stuck on a reading comprehension passage, getting three out of five questions wrong, and I was incredibly frustrated. “Can you stop using this tactic? I’m studying for grad school. If I don’t get in, will you be responsible?” Silence on the other end. After about ten seconds, she said one word. “Okay.” Then she hung up. I didn’t think anything of it. I flipped my phone face down on the table and continued working on the problems. That summer, my mom almost died. She slashed her wrists in the bathroom. Hot water flooded the floor, and blood flowed into the hallway. A neighbor smelled blood, knocked on the door with no answer, and called the police. When my dad called me, his tone was calm. “Maya, your mom is acting up again. You should come home.” I bought the next train ticket, and it was already past midnight when I arrived. My mom lay in the hospital bed, her left wrist wrapped in thick gauze, her face as white as paper. When she saw me, her eyes lit up. She said, “Maya, I didn’t want to die.” I stood by the bed; I didn’t sit. “I wanted to record it.” “Record what?” “Him hitting me. I wanted to record it when he hit me and upload it to my phone. That way, you’d believe me.” I was trembling with anger. “You slashed your wrists to prove Arthur hit you? Are you out of your mind?” My voice was loud; a nurse poked her head into the hallway to look. My mom didn’t argue. She closed her eyes, and tears streamed down her temples into her hair. Looking at her, my heart was a mix of anger and sorrow. My mom opened her eyes again and looked at me. “Maya, I’m really not sick. Will you believe me just this once? Just once.” I opened my mouth, wanting to say something, but nothing came out. I turned and walked out of the hospital room. In the hallway, my dad sat on a long bench, hands propped on his knees, head bowed. When he saw me come out, he stood up, his eyes red. “Maya, I’m sorry.” His voice was trembling. “I didn’t take good care of Eleanor. I made you worry. If you hate me, I accept it.” He pulled me into a hug, his shoulders shaking, crying like a child. I’d never seen Arthur cry before. My nose stung, and I hugged him back, patting his back. “Arthur, it’s not your fault.” I said it firmly. “It’s Eleanor’s illness.” My dad hugged me tighter. Holding him, I thought, after I finish grad school, I must take Eleanor to a better hospital. In New York, in Los Angeles, no matter the cost. Cure her illness. Then everyone would have peace.

That winter, I got in. The day my graduate school acceptance letter arrived at school, I called Arthur. He was so happy his voice changed, saying he’d cook a huge dinner to celebrate when I came home. I had planned to wait until the holidays to go back, but I just couldn’t wait. I wanted to surprise him. And surprise my mom too. Even though I didn’t have much to say to her, when I held the acceptance letter, I still wanted her to see it. No matter what, she was my mom. She gave birth to me, raised me. Even if she was sick, even if she annoyed me, something like getting into grad school, she’d probably want to see that, right? I didn’t tell them, and bought a ticket for a week earlier. The train was delayed for two hours, and it was already past nine at night when I arrived. Winter days get dark early. The wind at the station entrance whistled into my collar. I hunched my shoulders, hailed a taxi, and told the driver the address. My mind was racing, thinking about what I’d say when I opened the door. “I got in” was too ordinary. “Eleanor, look, this is my acceptance letter”—that sentence ran through my mind, then I swallowed it back. Forget it, I’d just say it when the time came. The car stopped at the community gate, and I dragged my suitcase inside. Some of the hallway lights were broken, flickering on and off. Climbing to the fourth floor, I rummaged in my bag for my key and inserted it into the lock. The lights inside the house were off. I thought they were all asleep. I quietly turned the key, changed my shoes, and took two steps inside. Then I heard a sound. It came from the master bedroom. It was muffled, like something hitting flesh. One hit, a few seconds’ pause, then another. Someone was talking too. It was my dad’s voice. “Are you trying to call Maya again? Are you trying to bring our daughter back again?” “Do you want to destroy this family so badly?” I didn’t turn on the lights. The hallway was dark. I fumbled my way to the master bedroom door. The door wasn’t fully closed, leaving a crack. I looked inside. My mom was kneeling on the floor. Kneeling. Her whole body was slumped, her knees against the floor, her upper body leaning against the bed, as if she couldn’t stand up. My dad stood in front of her, one hand gripping her chin, lifting her face. His other hand was clenched into a fist, suspended in mid-air. “I’ve supported you for over twenty years. Is this how you repay me?” The words “My dad hit me” exploded in my head. But I still didn’t move. When my mom’s face turned, I didn’t see any obvious injuries. There was a small cut at the corner of her mouth, tiny, like she’d accidentally bumped it. A very faint red mark on her left cheek, as if something had brushed against it. Her left hand was curled, unable to straighten, and there was bruising under her fingernails, dark purple. When my dad’s fist came down, she didn’t flinch. She didn’t even close her eyes. She just looked at him, her eyes as calm as someone not being hit. Then she saw me. Through the crack in the door, she saw me. In that instant, her eyes lit up. It was then I understood she wasn’t waiting for me to save her. She was waiting for me to see it for myself.

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The ashes of my little brother Evan were dug up and devoured by the Teddy that Garrett—the scholarship student my mom had been sponsoring for five years—brought to our house. My dad clutched the empty urn, sobbing so hard his whole body shook. He nearly passed out. Through his tears, he gripped my hand and asked me: “Aria, would you be willing to go somewhere far away with Dad?” My mom rolled her eyes while holding Garrett, then laughed coldly. “What nonsense are you spouting now? You’ve been sitting at home for ten years with no job and no money. Without me, how would you survive?” She patted Garrett’s back, her tone dismissive. “Don’t worry, Garrett. Don’t feel guilty. It’s just a box of ashes. Worst case, I’ll buy him a new urn.” Garrett leaned against my mom and pouted. “Exactly. You’re being so petty, sir. The dog doesn’t know any better. Is it really that big a deal?” That evening, Garrett ordered my dad around like a servant. “Go wash my dog’s paws. They got dirty from stepping in those ashes today.” My dad said nothing. He fed the dog that had eaten the ashes some medicine. That night, my mom went crazy and broke down my dad’s bedroom door, pointing at his nose and cursing. “Did you poison it? How can your heart be so vicious? Evan is dead and gone, but that dog was Garrett’s everything!” “It’s just a box of ashes! Are you going to hold a grudge forever? Are you even a man?!” My dad didn’t respond. He just turned and closed the door. I pressed my ear to the door and heard him speaking into his phone: “Within three days, destroy Victoria Lane’s company. Leave her and that ungrateful scholarship student with nothing.” I suddenly remembered that ten years ago, when my mom was just a low-level employee making three thousand a month, my dad was already a top expert in the industry. He’d been in retirement for ten years—not because he was incapable, but because he wanted to give us a family. Now that the family was gone, he was going to take back everything that belonged to him and make everyone who killed his son pay in blood. **1** That evening, Mom came to the room with some medicine. Dad was lying on his side with his back to her. I knew Dad wasn’t asleep, but he squeezed my hand, signaling me to stay quiet. Mom put the medicine on the nightstand, her voice low. “Dominic, I’m sorry…” Dad never turned over. I peeked at him with one eye—he wasn’t crying. In the past, when Mom did this, Dad would stay silent for a long time. Mom sighed, sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, then got up and left. But I knew Dad would never forgive her now. Earlier, that man on the phone had asked Dad if he was really sure, and Dad had only said: “You should have the patent transfer contract ready.” Mom didn’t know Dad was leaving. I didn’t understand why Mom liked Garrett. Garrett was a scholarship student Dad had sponsored. Dad had brought him out of the mountains. Dad told me: “Garrett is very pitiful. If Dad didn’t help him, he would have been sold.” I didn’t understand what “sold” meant, but I knew Dad must have really cared about him. At first, Mom really hated Garrett and fought with Dad many times about it. She said Garrett had a strange smell. Dad always protected Garrett, saying gently: “Victoria, it wasn’t easy for Garrett to make it out of the mountain region. We should help when we can.” Until one day Dad and I came home early from a trip. The house reeked of a sour, fishy smell, with clothes scattered everywhere. Dad’s footsteps stopped. He stood in the entryway, frozen in place like he’d been nailed to the floor. His hand was ice cold, but when he pushed open the bedroom door and saw Garrett and Mom in bed together, he suddenly laughed. The laugh was soft and brief, like something shattering on the ground. At first Mom said she’d had too much to drink. Later she said: “You’re just a house husband who never goes to work. I’m the only one supporting the company, and I’m exhausted too. But Garrett can help me. Do you understand?” In the past, when Dad heard this, he would go silent for a long time. But today, Dad just looked at Mom calmly and said: “Then you two better make sure you keep the company running.” Suddenly there was a sound of beads falling in the walk-in closet, followed by Garrett’s startled cry. Mom’s head snapped up and she rushed over. Dad stood up, a determination in his eyes I’d never seen before. He patted me. “Aria, wait here for Dad.” Then he got out of bed, turned on the light, and walked toward the closet. I followed him. Dad needed Aria with him. Aria couldn’t leave Dad alone. Garrett was clutching Mom’s sleeve, looking aggrieved. “I thought this sandalwood bracelet was beautiful, but it broke as soon as I put it on… I’m so scared, Victoria, I’m scared…” Mom kicked the remaining beads on the floor away. “What a piece of junk! Get away from me!” One bead rolled to my feet. I picked it up. It was Grandpa’s keepsake to Dad. Dad had pawned it years ago to start Mom’s company, and later Mom had redeemed it for him. Back then, Mom had put it on Dad’s wrist herself, her eyes full of smiles. “Dominic, forever and always. My feelings will never change.” Dad picked up one bead and put it in his pocket. I saw him turn on his phone’s video recording. **2** Dad held up the bead in his hand, his voice heavy. “Victoria, do you really not recognize what this is anymore?” Mom glanced impatiently at the beads on the floor, then her expression suddenly froze. Dad said slowly, word by word: “This was my father’s keepsake.” Mom let go of Garrett, a flicker of hesitation crossing her face. But Garrett suddenly extended his hand, pointing to a barely visible red mark on his wrist. “Victoria, this bracelet hurt my hand… It hurts so much.” Mom looked down at him, and the hesitation in her eyes instantly vanished. She helped Garrett up and walked toward the door, shouting outside. “Butler! Call 911!” As she passed Dad, she coldly dropped a line. “It’s just a keepsake. When people die, their light goes out. Why are you fixating on a dead object?” I walked over and held Dad’s hand. His hand was trembling slightly. But I saw he was smiling. He wiped away the moisture at the corner of his eyes, as if unloading a very heavy burden. Then he sent the recorded video to that man. “In three days, release this video.” That night, Dad coaxed me to sleep. I kept clutching his sleeve, afraid he’d disappear while I was asleep. Near dawn, Mom suddenly pushed the door open. She pulled me from the bed and started to drag me away. Dad took a big stride and blocked her path in front of me. “What are you doing?!” Mom frowned, her tone impatient. “Don’t you know? Garrett was hurt by that broken bracelet of yours and had to be hospitalized. His pet dog was also killed by you, and now there’s no one to keep him company. He’s making a scene at the hospital.” “I’m sending Aria to keep him entertained.” Dad shielded me behind him. “I told you, that dog’s death has nothing to do with me. And besides—” He stared at Mom intently. “Even if I did kill it, what right do you have to blame me? It ate my child’s ashes. Those were the ashes of your own biological child, his last trace in this world.” Mom’s eyes flickered, but she quickly resumed her impatient expression. Her tone softened as she walked to Dad’s side. “Dominic, I know I was wrong…” But the instant Dad was distracted, she suddenly grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the door. “Why are you bringing up old grievances? Garrett said the urn spilled by itself, and the dog just ate what it saw on the floor.” “Are you really going to hold a grudge against a dog? Be good, give me Aria. Garrett can’t be left alone!” Dad gripped my other hand tightly. “No! I won’t allow it!” Mom pulled harder, and I felt like a rope being yanked from both ends. My arm hurt so much I couldn’t help crying out. “Dad, it hurts… Mom’s hurting me…” Dad saw my face turn pale with pain, and his eyes reddened. Mom took advantage of his loosened grip in that instant, pulled me over, and dragged me toward the door. I bit down hard on Mom’s arm. “You’re a bad person! Let me go! I want Dad!” Mom cried out in pain and let go of me. I turned and ran back to Dad. Dad crouched down and held me tightly in his arms. Mom took another step forward. Dad blocked me behind him and didn’t back down. I grabbed Dad’s sleeve and said softly. “Dad, it’s okay. Aria will come back. Aria wants to leave with Dad.” **3** Mom shoved me into the car and spent the whole ride complaining about Dad and me. “I’m just asking you to visit Garrett at the hospital, it’s not like I’m killing you. What’s with your dad putting on that act…” I didn’t respond, turning to look out the window instead. All the decorations in the car had changed. The elegant sandalwood ornament Dad had chosen was gone, replaced by strong rose-scented diffusers. The sun visor even had several photos of Garrett clipped to it. Mom drove aggressively. At a turn, something slid down from the back seat. In the streetlight, I could see clearly—it was a men’s dress shirt. Mom glanced at it and frowned at me. “Don’t go through things that aren’t yours.” At the hospital, Garrett was lying in bed with a healthy flush, playing on his phone, surrounded by a circle of doctors. One doctor said carefully to Mom: “Ms. Lane, we’ve checked three times. There’s really nothing wrong with Mr. Garrett…” Mom’s face was cold. “Then why does Garrett still have a headache?” Garrett looked up from his phone screen at just the right moment, looking at Mom. “Victoria… my head… it hurts so much.” The doctor wiped his sweat and could only say: “It might be psychological.” I looked at Mom and asked: “Didn’t you tell Dad that people aren’t that fragile? Why are you so worried just because Garrett has a headache?” Mom’s face flushed with embarrassment, and she scolded me harshly. “How can your dad compare to Garrett? After all, Garrett was upset by your father. He’s so upset he has psychological trauma!” “You stay here and atone for your father’s sins.” Garrett waved at me, forcing a smile. “Aria, come here. Come to me.” I had just walked to the bedside when he suddenly coughed up a mouthful of blood and collapsed on the bed, motionless. Mom slapped me across the face. My ear rang with a buzzing sound as she screamed. “What did you do to Garrett?!” My head was buzzing and spinning. She grabbed my shoulders and shook me violently. “Speak! What did you do to Garrett?!” But from the corner of my eye, I could clearly see Garrett lying in bed opening his eyes and making a face at me. I said: “I didn’t do anything. He’s faking it.” “Nonsense!” Mom slapped me again and said harshly. “You’re so vicious at such a young age! Garrett has already been hurt this badly by you, and you still dare to slander him!” “Someone! Drag this brat out and beat her until she admits her fault!” Garrett’s lips curved into a triumphant smile, but Mom seemed completely blind to it. The bodyguard hesitated and didn’t move. Mom yelled at him. “Didn’t you hear me say to beat her? If something happens, it’s on me. I’m her biological mother—what are you afraid of!” The bodyguard could only step forward. He sighed. “Poor child…” Fists and kicks rained down on me. I curled into a ball, feeling nauseous. After Mom’s two slaps, my ears felt like they were stuffed with cotton. All sounds were muffled, and there was a drumming sound in my head. I felt something warm flowing out of my ear. I reached up to wipe it, and my palm was covered in bright red blood. A familiar figure rushed down the corridor. It was Dad. He was wearing a sharp suit, looking like a completely different person as he ran toward me with long strides. “Aria!” He pushed the bodyguard aside and pulled me up from the floor. Behind him were a dozen men in black suits who quickly restrained the bodyguard. “Dad…” I grabbed his sleeve. “I feel awful…”

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My dad was insecure, always testing Mom’s love. He’d hypnotize her ninety-nine times, and each time, Mom would fall for him again in a crowd. It didn’t matter if he was a rebellious bad boy, a powerful CEO, or a penniless nobody. But when Mom coughed up blood, Dad just sneered: “Why are you faking weakness? You owe all this to Tiffany. You deserve every bit of this punishment.” He was with the imposter, Tiffany, in our marital bed, having their way with each other. Then, he threw Mom’s earnings as a funeral makeup artist to beggars. But that was her cancer treatment money. Mom learned not to argue or fuss. Dad smiled and kissed Mom. “Congratulations on learning your lesson. You’ve passed my test.” “I’ll give you the most romantic wedding in the world.” Tiffany heard him and went insane with jealousy. She stole the wedding dress to impersonate Mom as the bride, then threw Mom into the red-light district. When Dad found Mom again, I suddenly heard a mechanical voice in Mom’s mind: “System, affection value reset to zero. Villain redemption mission failed. Requesting fake death. Countdown: two days.” Dad didn’t know his hundredth hypnosis had failed, and Mom was truly leaving for good.

When Mom was found in the red-light district, her body was covered in bruises and cuts. Her limbs were broken from violent resistance. She looked like a broken rag doll that couldn’t be mended. She lay in the hospital bed, eyes shut tight, her breath barely there. Tiffany sat beside her, sobbing. “I just wanted to play a trick on Evelyn. I didn’t realize she loved men so much. She wouldn’t leave the red-light district even after she got there.” “More than five hundred men became her repeat customers.” My dad, Liam, seeing Mom’s horrific state, was initially filled with rage. But the moment his eyes met Tiffany’s, all that was left was tenderness and sweetness. “It’s not your fault.” He wrapped an arm around Tiffany, gently stroking her hair. “If anyone’s to blame, it’s Evelyn. She’s a slut, shameless, clinging to men and refusing to let go.” Dad’s eyes were bloodshot. He deliberately used the cruelest words to provoke Mom. But Mom remained unusually silent and still. She didn’t even whine and complain about her wounds hurting like she used to. My eight-year-old brother, Jake, ran in, pinching his nose. He disgustedly punched Mom. “She stinks! Dad, let’s ignore this bad woman. She’s always picking on my Mom Tiffany.” Mom’s body twitched violently in pain, and blood seeped through her bandages. She opened her eyes, looking at the child she had risked her life to bring into the world. Her eyes were hollow and lifeless. Tiffany stroked Jake’s head and smiled, giving him a lollipop. Dad stared at Mom for a long time, as if he finally couldn’t take it anymore. “Who are you putting on a show for, faking death here? Do you think I’ll feel sorry for you?” “I haven’t even called you dirty yet, and you’re already trying to play games with me.” He leaned closer to Mom’s hospital bed, forcing her to look only at him. “I’m telling you, without you, I have plenty of other women.” “Who wouldn’t want to get into my bed, Liam? I only indulged you, which is why I let you hurt Tiffany again and again.” Mom’s eyes suddenly turned terrifying when she heard Tiffany’s name. “If you like her so much, then spend your life with her.” “After all, you already had a wedding.” Dad suddenly smiled. He leaned down and kissed Mom’s lips. “Are you jealous?” “Don’t worry, my wife will always be you.” “The wedding was just an accident.” Tiffany’s eyes turned red with jealousy. She clutched her stomach, looking panicked, and grabbed Dad’s arm. “Liam, my stomach hurts so much. Quick, check if something’s wrong with our baby!” Dad stiffened. He immediately swept Tiffany into his arms and rushed out towards the emergency room. Jake violently kicked Mom’s bed frame several times. “It’s all your fault! Why don’t you just die?” Mom curled up in pain. Jake’s small chest heaved with anger. After yelling at Mom, he ran off to follow Dad, anxiously calling out “Mom Tiffany.” The door slammed shut, and shadows instantly enveloped the hospital room. I crawled out from under the cabinet and rushed to the bedside. “Mom…” I bit my lower lip, trembling as I cried. Mom weakly tried to raise her hand to touch me, but it fell back onto the blanket halfway up. She managed a forced smile. “Chloe, don’t cry. Mom’s fine.” But her body was crisscrossed with swollen, oozing wounds. Blood soaked the white bedsheet beneath her, dripping onto the tiled floor. I frantically covered the bleeding areas, but the trickling blood stained my hands red. “Doctor! Doctor, please come save my mom!” I screamed and cried, stumbling out. As I exited the room, I bumped right into Dad, who was carefully helping Tiffany onto a wheelchair, holding some medicine. I threw myself at Dad’s feet, crying and kneeling. “Dad, please, save Mom. She’s dying.”

A slap sent me crashing into the wall. My head hit hard, and blood streamed from my hair. “You brat! How dare you curse your mother just to get attention here!” Dad’s gaze swept over my small, dirty body, his voice filled with disgust. “Tiffany’s carrying your little brother. As the older sister, you need to be sensible and not upset him.” “You’re nine years old already, running around like a maniac. What kind of behavior is that?” I lay on the ground, my heart pounding with anxiety. The pain in my head made my vision blur. I spoke in desperation: “Mom bled all over the bed. The doctor said she has cancer, and only a few days left to live.” The words had barely left my mouth when a huge force kicked me in the chest, sending me flying through the air. My body hit the ground and rolled several times. The wheelchair rolled over my foot. My ankle instantly swelled up, and it hurt like hell with every movement. Dad’s face was ashen. He looked down at me. “You’re so young, yet you’re already lying, even daring to use a doctor to trick me.” “I think you need a lesson!” Tiffany covered her mouth, chuckling. “Chloe, you’re not even good at lying. Your mom just had a check-up yesterday, and she’s perfectly healthy.” I used all my strength to stagger to my feet. I suddenly spat a mouthful of bloody saliva onto Tiffany. “Pfft! Bitch! You seduced my dad and hurt my mom.” “If you dare to give birth to that little bastard, I swear I’ll kill him.” At that, Dad and Tiffany’s faces changed instantly. Just then, Richard and Carol, my maternal grandparents, arrived. They grabbed my collar and gave me several sharp slaps. “You little beast! Just like your mother, you don’t know what’s good for you.” “Did she teach you to swear like that?” I clenched my teeth, my eyes filled with hatred, and didn’t answer. Carol shook her head, her face full of disgust. “Three years ago, we should have locked you and her up for re-education too.” Tiffany giggled. “Evelyn had a good time in jail; she forgot you, her mother, as soon as she got out.” “It’s a shame I only got a two-year sentence back then. I wish I could’ve kept her in jail longer.” She pouted, feigning regret. Thinking of Evelyn’s miserable state when she was released from prison a year ago, Tiffany wished she could send her back, to take the fall until she died. Only then would her anger be appeased. My heart skipped a beat. So, Mom’s disappearance three years ago was because they had sent her to jail. When she came home, she was raving, crying constantly, not even recognizing me, her own daughter. Dad said Mom had gone for treatment, and I actually believed him. Thinking about this, my eyes turned red, not from crying, but from hatred. Carol put her arm around Tiffany, smiling with doting affection. “Oh, you! Isn’t having someone take the fall for you enough?” Richard stood behind, hands clasped behind his back, and slowly spoke. “Like mother, like daughter. Chloe has been corrupted by Evelyn. We should send her to Tiffany to raise and straighten out her character.” “I think Jake has been raised very well by Tiffany.” Richard approvingly stroked Jake’s head, praising him for being smart and sensible. My blood almost ran cold. I quickly ran into Mom’s room in a panic, hugging her and crying. “Mom, save me! I don’t want to be given to Tiffany as a daughter.” Mom coughed and looked up. Seeing Richard and Carol enter, and Tiffany protected behind them, the light in her eyes instantly died. She spoke coldly, “Chloe is my child. I won’t let anyone take her from me.” Carol swore. “Chloe will learn bad things from you, right from the root.” “We’re doing this for your own good!” Mom clung to me, refusing to let go. “No! I can give her everything else, but not my Chloe!” “I only have two days left. I want to spend them with her…”

Carol struggled to pull us apart, but she couldn’t. She ripped the protective amulet from Mom’s neck, growing exasperated. “You’re so undutiful. I wasted my life giving birth to you!” “Even if you cling to the child, what good will it do? In outsiders’ eyes, Tiffany is Liam’s legitimate wife.” “If you don’t want Chloe to be called a bastard, let go!” Mom looked at the amulet, which her grandmother had obtained for her when she was recognized by her family at age ten. Now, it lay tattered and mud-stained, trampled underfoot. She finally couldn’t hold back, and tears poured like a flood. Dad frowned, walked over, and one by one, pried my hands off Mom’s. “Tiffany is educated and gentle. She’ll take good care of Chloe for you.” There was a flicker of reluctance in his eyes, which instantly turned cold. Rather than being laughed at for having a crazy, absurd, and unpresentable partner, he’d rather give all the children to the elegant and sophisticated Tiffany, acknowledging her as his wife. “Evelyn will understand me.” Dad secretly convinced himself. Mom collapsed onto the bed, suddenly coughing up a large mouthful of blood. Her face was as white as paper. I heard the system voice again: “Fake death accelerating. Eighteen hours remaining.” Dad, Richard, and Carol were startled by Mom’s blood. They gathered around her in shock, urgently calling for a doctor. Only Tiffany wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Evelyn’s getting better at acting. If she doesn’t want the child, she should just say so. Does she really need to use a blood pack?” Dad suddenly understood. He remembered the medical report from a few days ago. It said Evelyn was perfectly healthy. He almost fell for my mom’s trick again. He angrily stood up and roughly shoved Mom onto the bed, ignoring her wrenching coughs. He only thought her acting was too good, and she was always putting on an act. Dad’s face was grim as he warned me and Mom. “This is me telling you, not asking. Unless you haven’t learned your lesson yet!” I was forcibly separated from Mom. I fell to the ground, my skinny wrist twisted unnaturally. But I bit my lip and didn’t let out a whimper of pain. Mom cried out, “If you want to hurt someone, hurt me! Don’t torment my Chloe!” Dad froze for a moment. He reached out, wanting to touch Mom’s face. To wipe away her tears, but Mom avoided his hand. Tiffany clutched her slightly swollen belly and cried out: “It’s all my fault for making Evelyn angry. I’ll leave right now!” She covered her face, sobbing uncontrollably, and rushed out. “Tiffany!” Richard and Carol, leaning on their canes, shuffled after her. Dad’s expression changed dramatically. He picked me up, ignoring my frantic kicks, and dragged me away. The hospital room was instantly empty except for Mom. Just like hundreds of times before. That night, Dad’s migraine flared up again. He’d had this condition since childhood. When it struck, he felt like he wanted to tear open his skull and destroy the world. But ever since he met Mom, she would massage him and give him pain-relieving pills from her ‘system’. Dad had long forgotten the agony of a migraine attack. The long-absent symptoms made his head throb violently, causing him to smash everything in the mansion. Finally, he brought Mom from the hospital and issued a command. “Massage me. If you do it well, I’ll let you see your daughter.” He looked arrogant, as if asking for help was a concession. Mom gave a miserable smile. Her hands and feet were broken; she had no strength to massage him. “I have no more affection points. I can’t exchange them for your pills.”

Dad’s heart pounded for some reason, but he only thought Mom was lying to him. Instead, he roared in a rage, “You can’t use both hands? The medicine’s gone too?” “Excuses! You’re just trying to get back at me.” “Alfred, break her hands. I’ll make her lies come true!” Mom groaned as her hands were broken again. Those were the hands the doctors had spent twelve hours operating on just days before to reattach. Dad was still not appeased. He angrily grabbed Mom’s neck. “I thought you’d learned your lesson, passed my test, and that’s why I saved you. I never expected you to still be so stubborn!” I rushed out from the corner, crashing into Dad like a cannonball. “Don’t you dare bully my mom!” He loosened his grip, staring at me with a dark, slowly spreading smile. But I wasn’t afraid at all, blocking him in front of Mom. Mom coughed constantly from the side. Gasping for breath, she pulled a divorce agreement from her clothes. “I already signed it. You sign it too.” Dad’s eyes were bloodshot. He asked in disbelief, “You want to divorce me?” Mom closed her eyes sadly. “Yes. Your hypnosis isn’t foolproof.” “I never imagined I’d fall for you again and again, only to be played for a fool every single time.” Dad panicked. “Those were just tests. You have to understand that I love you.” But Mom’s head tilted, and she fainted. She was already very weak, and Dad’s outburst had drained all her remaining strength. Dad broke into a cold sweat. He carefully settled Mom. He sat on the couch, eyes wide open, until morning, not knowing how to make amends. In the morning, Mom was awakened by a commotion. She opened her eyes and saw a banner hanging in the center of the mansion that read, “The Shame Feast.” Tiffany led a group of angry people towards them. “Evelyn, you worked as a funeral makeup artist because you liked to molest corpses, didn’t you?” “You must confess your sins to these bereaved families today.” Mom’s eyes widened in shock. She cried out in indignation, “I didn’t!” But Tiffany ordered her bodyguards to force Mom, who couldn’t resist, into a kneeling posture of confession. Countless rotten eggs and garbage were thrown at Mom. Along with unspeakable insults. Mom’s lips trembled. She recognized the people who were shouting the loudest insults. They were the very ones who couldn’t afford funeral beauty fees, whom she had waived the charges for, and who had cried, thanking her for her kindness. Her colleagues always said Mom was foolish, but Mom would sigh: “They’ve lost loved ones and are poor. I can help a little, just by eating a few less meals myself.” She never expected that her momentary act of kindness would lead to this blatant humiliation. “Hit her! Kill this bitch who violated my dead brother!” “I wondered why she was so kind back then. Turns out she’s a necrophiliac pervert.” Mom stumbled forward, spitting out a mouthful of black blood. My eyes were bloodshot. I rushed over and desperately punched them. “Get away! My mom isn’t like that!” Seeing me, they became even more agitated, cursing under their breath. “This is the daughter of a pervert, born to a homewrecker! She deserves to die too!” Countless fists, like steel needles, violently pounded my body. I felt like my internal organs were being crushed, and blood slowly seeped from the corners of my mouth. Tiffany’s smile was deceptively gentle, but her words were laced with venom: “Hit her hard! Keep hitting until Evelyn confesses!” One punch, two punches, three punches… my consciousness began to blur. Mom, like a madwoman, dragged her body towards me. “Don’t hit her! Don’t hit my Chloe!” Her voice was so shrill it changed pitch: “I confess! It was me! Chloe isn’t a homewrecker’s child, it has nothing to do with her!” Tiffany threw a marriage certificate, bearing a steel seal, in front of Mom. Tiffany and Dad’s names were clearly printed on it. Her smile was twisted and wide. “You’re the homewrecker! Chloe having a mother like you is her shame!” “She deserves to be beaten!” Mom’s eyes went from bewildered to utter despair. She could no longer hold back her tears. I vaguely heard Mom’s cries and struggled to crawl towards her. “Mom, don’t cry! Chloe will get revenge for you!” But the next second, a powerful pair of hands lifted me high. “Read this confession, or I’ll throw her down from here!” I was suspended in mid-air outside the third-floor railing. Mom’s pupils constricted. She collapsed, hitting her head against the ground repeatedly. “I’ll read it! Please don’t throw her…” Blood trickled down her forehead. Dad coldly turned on a video recorder and pointed it at Mom. Mom, surrounded by the angry crowd, dragged her powerless hands and feet to read the confession. “I am guilty… I will forever remain in the Vance family to atone for my sins… Confessed by: Evelyn Vance.” Dad finally smiled, his smile distorted. He stepped forward and embraced Mom. “This way, you can never leave me.” Before he could finish, black blood suddenly gushed from Mom’s eyes, nose, and mouth. Even Dad became a horrifying figure, covered in blood. I heard the cold system voice again: “Countdown ended. Fake death successful.” “Mom!” I scrambled and crawled towards her. She was still warm to the touch, but she had no breath left. Dad felt dizzy. He fell heavily into the pool of blood.

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I was in the middle of presenting at the National Science Institute when my phone suddenly rang. It was my mom. On the other end of the line, she was sobbing uncontrollably. “Grace, your brother… his engagement just got called off…” I rushed over to their house immediately. When I arrived, I found Ethan cornered in the middle of the living room, his face deathly pale. A girl in designer clothes was pointing at his nose, her eyes full of contempt. “You? I’m the heir to Thornton Industries. My dad just invested a hundred million dollars in your research institute! What makes you think you’re good enough for me?” Even her mother chimed in: “Ethan, dear, our Isabella deserves better. You should stop dreaming. It’s better for everyone.” I was about to step forward when those words stopped me cold—”Thornton Industries.” Thornton Industries? When did my marriage-of-convenience husband get a daughter? I thought we only had that rebellious son of ours. I immediately dialed Marcus’s number, my voice dripping with false sweetness: “Honey, when did you go behind my back and father an illegitimate daughter? And now she has the audacity to break off my brother’s engagement?” **1** “What are you talking about?” On the other end of the line, my husband in name only, Marcus Thornton, sounded emotionless. “Grace, do I have a daughter or not? You should know.” Hearing his matter-of-fact tone, half my anger subsided, but my suspicion only deepened. Marcus and I had a typical marriage of convenience. Our prenuptial agreement was crystal clear—we wouldn’t interfere in each other’s private lives, only playing the loving couple when necessary. Our only connection was that son of ours who’d been sent abroad to study and was going through his rebellious phase. Over the years, we’d maintained a respectful distance. It had been harmonious enough. Given his shrewdness, he wouldn’t be foolish about something like this. “It better be that way.” I hung up and turned my attention to the living room. The girl calling herself a Thornton heiress was named Isabella. She wore exquisite makeup and luxury brands head to toe, but the malicious sharpness in her eyes couldn’t be hidden. My brother Ethan stood across from her in his faded casual clothes, fists clenched, lips pressed tight, saying nothing. He was a typical research scientist—not good with words, even worse at arguments. Right now, he looked like a cornered animal, with nothing but silent defiance. “What, another one?” Isabella’s gaze landed on me, her eyes scanning me up and down with contempt. “Called mommy, now you called your sister? Is your family playing whack-a-mole, coming at us one by one?” The woman dripping in jewels beside her—her mother, Helena—immediately chimed in. “Isabella, don’t waste your time on these people. It’s beneath you.” She turned to me, putting on airs like the lady of the house, her tone condescending. “Miss, I know your family’s situation. An ordinary working-class family that managed to raise a promising researcher like Ethan—it’s not easy.” “But you need to know your place. What kind of family are the Thorntons? Our Isabella was born with a silver spoon. Your family can’t reach that high.” She finished with a theatrical sigh. “This hundred-million-dollar investment is the Thornton family supporting national research for Isabella’s sake. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you, or we’ll pull our funding anytime we want.” Watching their mother-daughter performance, I almost laughed out of sheer anger. Using my money to threaten my brother? This world had truly reached peak absurdity. My mom was too angry to speak, just holding Ethan’s hand with tears streaming down her face. I walked over and positioned myself in front of my mom and brother. “Mrs. Thornton, is it?” I looked at Helena calmly. “Marcus Thornton is pretty well-known. How come I’ve never heard him mention you or Miss Isabella before?” The moment the words left my mouth, both Helena and Isabella’s expressions changed. They clearly hadn’t expected me to so calmly and directly question their identities. In their script, someone like me—a “poor relative”—should have been grateful and slunk away at the mention of the Thornton name and the hundred-million-dollar investment. Helena froze for a moment, then flew into a rage. “Who the hell do you think you are? Our family business is none of your concern!” **2** Isabella shrieked even louder. “My dad is Marcus Thornton, CEO of Thornton Industries! I’m his only daughter! Everyone in the city knows that!” “You’re some nobody from god-knows-where, and you dare question my identity? I think you’re just after money! You’re delusional!” She crossed her arms, chin raised high. “I see right through you people. You’re trying to scam us! Well, dream on!” “This engagement is over! I’m the heir to Thornton Industries, the future of the company.” “A nobody like Ethan isn’t even worthy of carrying my bags!” Seeing Ethan still staring at her in shock, the malice in her eyes practically overflowed. She suddenly lunged forward and grabbed his hand, roughly trying to yank off the ring on his finger. It was the engagement ring I’d personally designed—simple in style, but with their initials engraved inside the band. It was made from a special memory metal that changed color with body temperature. It was the only blessing this inadequate sister had given her brother. “Give it back!” Ethan finally snapped out of it and shouted at her for the first time, reaching to get it back. “Give it back? As if you deserve it!” Isabella laughed mockingly and dodged his hand. She held the ring between her fingers like it was something filthy and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling fish tank in the living room. “You like it so much? Then go down there and join it!” She flicked her wrist. The ring traced a weak arc through the air and plopped into the tank full of rare koi. “Isabella!” My brother’s eyes instantly turned red. Like an enraged lion, he rushed toward her. “Ethan!” My mom cried out and grabbed him tight. I stared at that tiny glimmer at the bottom of the tank, my fury finally reaching its breaking point. “Enough.” My voice was cold but quiet, yet it instantly silenced the chaotic room. Everyone turned to look at me. I walked up to the still-gloating Isabella, my gaze icy. “Apologize.” “What?” Isabella thought she’d misheard. “You want me to apologize? Are you insane?” Helena immediately positioned herself in front of her daughter. “You dare demand my daughter apologize? You’re the crazy one! Security! Security! Throw these troublemakers out!” A butler-like figure immediately stepped forward, gesturing firmly toward us. “Members of the Monroe family, and this young lady, please leave immediately, or we’ll call the police.” Looking at this room full of ugly faces, the last shred of trust I had in Marcus was crumbling inch by inch. If he really had nothing to do with these people, where would they get the nerve to act so arrogant in his house? **3** “Call the police?” I smiled. “Perfect. I’d love to see whether the police arrest us or you frauds squatting in someone else’s home.” My calmness made Helena and Isabella uneasy again. “What… what do you mean?” Helena’s voice was full of false bravado. “Nothing much.” I surveyed the lavishly decorated living room, my gaze pausing on several inconspicuous corners. “Mrs. Thornton, don’t you know that Mr. Thornton is a germaphobe? These tulips airlifted from Holland need their water changed every morning at nine sharp, and only with Alpine spring water.” “And that reproduction of ‘Travelers Among Mountains’ in his study—it’s his prized possession from an auction. It requires climate-controlled equipment right next to it, temperature no higher than 72 degrees Fahrenheit, humidity no more than 55%.” With each sentence, Helena’s face grew paler. These were Marcus’s almost pathological personal habits. Only someone extremely close to him would know them. Outsiders wouldn’t have a clue. “How do you know all this?” Helena’s voice trembled. Isabella also sensed something was wrong, her arrogance fading, replaced by alarm. I didn’t answer her. Instead, I looked at the butler who was about to throw us out. “And you. You’re new here, aren’t you?” I laughed coldly. “Can’t even recognize the master of the house. When did the Thornton household standards drop this low?” The butler felt a chill run down his spine and stepped back, not daring to approach. The living room fell into an eerie silence. Isabella finally couldn’t take it anymore. She pulled out her phone, fingers flying across the screen like she was grabbing a lifeline. When the call connected, she immediately started wailing. “Dad! Come quick! Someone’s causing trouble at our house! They’re bullying Mom and me! If you don’t come, we’re going to get thrown out!” She sobbed out her complaints. After hanging up, she seemed to regain her confidence, hands on her hips, chin raised high. “Just wait! My dad will be here any minute! Then we’ll see how cocky you are!” I said nothing, just quietly watched her performance. Inside, I was sneering. Marcus, let’s see how you handle this. About five minutes later. The study door opened. Marcus walked out. He wore a well-tailored loungewear set, his sharp eyes visible behind gold-rimmed glasses. Seeing him emerge from the study rather than entering from the front door, I understood. He’d been here all along. He’d been in the study the entire time, listening to everything happening outside, hearing his “wife and daughter” humiliate my family, and he’d done nothing. The moment he appeared, Helena and Isabella rushed to him like they’d found their anchor. “Honey, you’re finally out! Look at them, they’re bullying us!” “Dad! It’s this woman! She’s talking nonsense and cursing us!” Marcus’s gaze moved past them and landed on me. That look—calm, indifferent, even somewhat appraising. Our eyes met. The air seemed to freeze. After a long moment, he finally spoke slowly, his voice betraying no emotion. “Dr. Monroe, what brings you here?” Those words—”Dr. Monroe”—instantly drew a chasm between us. My mom froze. Ethan froze too. They’d both met Marcus before. They knew he was my legal husband. But now, he was addressing me with the tone one would use for a subordinate or stranger. I looked at him, and the last shred of hope in my heart completely died. He hadn’t been deceived. He was the mastermind behind all of this. “Marcus Thornton.” I enunciated his name slowly. “Are you blind? Who am I? Can’t you see?” “How dare you!” Before he could speak, Helena jumped in. “You dare address my husband by his full name? Who do you think you are!” Marcus raised his hand, stopping her. “Dr. Monroe, please watch your language. Thornton Industries has deep cooperation with your research institute. I respect you as an excellent scientist, but that doesn’t mean you can come to my home and disrespect my family.” He emphasized the words “my family” particularly hard. As if deliberately reminding me who the outsider was. Watching him position himself protectively in front of Helena, I found it utterly ironic. We’d been married for over a decade, and now he was so eager to distance himself from me for some woman who came out of nowhere.

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My boss offered me 500,000 dollars just for my breast milk. I thought he wanted it to feed a baby. But then I saw him lying there, weak and almost lifeless. After drinking my milk, he suddenly regained his strength. That’s when I realized he was using it as medicine. Later, he offered me five million dollars to nurse him directly. For the money, I said yes. And then, he asked me if 50 million would be enough for me to… * My boss called me into his office that day. I was freaking out, terrified that he was going to lay me off. If I lost this job, I wouldn’t have a dime coming in. Back when I was pregnant with my daughter, Lily, my previous company basically forced me out. After prenatal checkups and hospital bills drained what little savings I had, I had no choice but to ask my husband for money. Every single time, he gave me this attitude. He’d constantly nag me, saying, “You don’t need to buy this,” or “That’s a waste of money.” And he always ended with, “Look, I’m broke too.” Thank God I had plenty of milk and could breastfeed. Still, diapers aren’t free, and neither are clothes. My daughter’s clothes were already too small, and with winter here, she needed warm clothes. Honestly, if I hadn’t lucked out and found this job, she wouldn’t even have diapers or warm clothes. Relax. My boss said gently as he sat across from me. This is personal. I relaxed a little. And then my boss smiled faintly at me. My boss was good-looking, came from a very wealthy family, and clearly never had to worry about money. God, I wish I could be him. I hated myself for being so naive back then, marrying my husband and having a child at that age. Now my life is miserable, and my child has to suffer with me. Are you currently breastfeeding? I’d like to buy some of your breast milk, if that’s okay. Don’t worry, I’ll pay you. I naturally assumed he had a baby at home, or maybe a friend whose wife wasn’t producing enough milk. In my mom groups, there were always mothers who didn’t have enough milk and asked if anyone had extra. But usually, it’s free. If you have extra, you just pass it on. So I said, ‘Sir, if you need it, you don’t have to pay me. My baby can’t finish it anyway, and the extra just goes to waste.’ He quickly said, ‘Absolutely not. I don’t like owing favors. And I need it supplied on time every day. If you don’t accept payment, I won’t feel comfortable making specific demands.’ Ah, so he did have conditions. Fair enough. If I didn’t take his money, it would be awkward for him to demand anything. So I nodded. ‘Alright, but you don’t have to pay much.’ If I kept him happy, he probably wouldn’t fire me. Then, he asked for my bank account and directly transferred 500,000 dollars to me.

I stared at him, completely shocked. ‘This… this is way too much!’ He stopped me before I could say more. ‘Just take it. I have many specific requirements. Plus, you’ve done your medical checks, so I feel safe about your health. I also have some pretty intrusive requests, so you deserve this. Staring at that 500,000-dollar balance, my eyes stung with tears. Minutes earlier, I had only about 80 bucks left in my bank account. I didn’t even buy lunch at work anymore. To save money, I would go to the company pantry and eat the free crackers and bread there. I was really that poor. So even if my husband and mother-in-law treated me like dirt, I didn’t even dare to get a divorce. If I did, they might fight me for custody. Even if I got custody, who would take care of her? I’d still have to rely on my mother-in-law for help. On top of that, leaving my husband meant renting my own place. I really regretted being so young and naive, rushing into marriage and motherhood. Every step felt impossible. But with these 500,000 dollars from my boss, a huge part of my problem would be solved. He told me his conditions. First, you need to pump the milk in my office every day. You can’t do it anywhere else, because I need to make sure the milk is clean and safe. That sounded reasonable. I’ve heard that he came from a wealthy family, and rich people were always afraid someone might try to harm them. Second, to make sure the milk is nutritious, you’ll eat three meals a day prepared by my personal chef. Wow. The wealthy really live in a different world. But this was good for my daughter too, and I was actually getting the better end of the deal. I wouldn’t have to eat dinner at home, so I wouldn’t have to face my husband or my mother-in-law. It’s perfect. Third, I don’t want you to have sex during this period. Me:??? Okay, that is definitely crossing a line. But hey, the man just gave me half a million dollars. Besides, I don’t want to touch my husband ever again anyway. So I nodded readily. Then I went into his private lounge to pump. It was kinda humiliating to be honest. Stepping into his private space doing such personal things. But ever since I became a mother, my pride had taken a back seat. For the money, and for the future of my daughter and myself, I gritted my teeth and sped through the process. I walked out holding two bottles of milk. Mortified, I asked, “Sir, I’m done. Should I put these in the fridge for you?” Without even looking up, he said, I’ll handle them later.

My boss had me eat dinner in his office. The food was healthy, filling, and actually delicious. After pumping milk once more, I clocked out and went home. I had to hide my bank card first. I was afraid my husband would find out. I wanted to divorce him. But not yet. The timing was not right. I needed to get through probation first and make sure I had a steady income. That money from my boss was my safety net. And I needed to wait until my daughter was old enough for daycare. But honestly, the thought of daycare still made me nervous. And I had no one else to help me watch her. So for the time being, I was trapped. When I got home, my mother-in-law just dumped the baby on me and headed out to a bar. My husband was just sitting there, glued to a game on his phone. He did not make much money either, yet I had been pathetic enough to hope he’d help out with babysitting. But every time I asked him to do anything, he always found an excuse to wiggle out of it. Before the pregnancy, he had been the perfect, devoted husband. He had done everything—the cooking, the cleaning, the laundry. He had promised to treat me like a queen. But as soon as I was pregnant, the mask slipped. He stopped doing housework, stopped giving me money, and kept saying we needed to save money. If I’d seen his true colors back then, I wouldn’t have looked at him twice. I was in the room, breastfeeding the baby. Looking around that cramped, messy rental apartment, I felt so lonely and hopeless. I couldn’t stand the thought of my daughter living like that. At night, Lily slept between us. My husband started pawing at my pants. He used to be so affectionate, making me feel cherished. But at that time I felt like I was just a hole to him. A tool for his release. There was no foreplay, no nothing. I told him no. He snapped, “It’s been long enough since the baby was born. You’re fine to have sex now.” We struggled, and I landed a sharp slap across his face. He slapped me right back. In the dark, we just stared at each other in silence. He started ripping at my clothes again. I grabbed my phone and smashed it right against his head. He flicked the light on and screamed at me, “Cyrus! What the hell is wrong with you?!’ His eyes were wild. I froze, paralyzed by his rage. The baby woke up and started wailing. I pulled her close, trying to quiet her down. That just made him angrier. He gave me a hard shove, and before I could react, I hit the floor with the baby in my arms. Luckily, I hit the ground first and held her up so she wouldn’t get hurt. My mother-in-law burst into the room. Without a word, she rushed over and slapped me. “You worthless bitch! How dare you talk back to my son? Who the hell do you think you are? I could not fight back at all. The baby was terrified and crying even harder. My husband just stood there, coldly watching his mother beat me. After she was done, she snarled at me, “You better serve my son right, or I’ll make your life a living hell. Who do you think you are? A useless second-hand bitch. Just suck it up, shut your mouth, and serve my son! Then she turned to my husband and said: ‘A woman only learns to behave when you rough her up. You treated her way too well, and it made her forget who’s in charge here.’ He said: ‘I get it, mom. Take the baby out.’ She reached for the baby. I knew exactly what he was planning to do. It wasn’t the first time he had forced himself on me. He had even told me: ‘Are you a nun or something? We’re married. I can do whatever I want to you, and the cops won’t do a damn thing!’

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