Category: English

When our daughter passed away, Ian Blackwood promised her that he would never have another child. So, for all these years, no matter how openly he flaunted his mistresses, not a single one dared to provoke me with talk of children. Until our daughter Lily’s third death anniversary. I received a pregnancy test result at her graveside. The name on the form was Jenny Hayes, the innocent bridesmaid Ian had practically stolen from someone else’s wedding reception. He glanced at the paper, delivered to me like a cruel gift. There was no gentle interruption to his reverie. He merely chuckled, an unsettling amusement in his eyes. “The little rascal is playful. Don’t mind her. You go ahead with your remembrance; I’ll be back in a moment.” That day, I waited from morning until night. What I saw instead was a photo Jenny posted on social media: Ian kissing her belly, with the caption, “Our family of three.” They expected me to rage and make a scene, to even beg him, as I had in the past. But I simply exhaled a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. I quietly took the divorce papers, signed three years prior, and submitted them for registration, keeping it a secret from everyone. No one knew that Lily, on her deathbed, had also made a wish to me. The day her father broke his promise would be the day she agreed to let me divorce him. 1. It was eleven thirty-one in the evening. A biting wind swept through the cemetery. My hands, trembling from the cold, clutched my phone as I called Ian again. The custom ringtone – a recording of him and Jenny’s intimate whispers – played for a full minute and twenty-six seconds. Finally, a robotic voice announced that the call was unanswered. I had calculated the time: it took twenty-five minutes from Jenny’s place to the cemetery. That left three minutes, just enough for him to light an incense stick for Lily and say a few words. But he didn’t answer. I knew his phone would likely be unreachable tonight. Six months ago, when I was ill and called him for help, he told me that when he didn’t want to take my calls, he’d let the ringtone play until I couldn’t bear their voices anymore and would be sensible enough to stop bothering him. I gave a self-deprecating smile. Just before I put my phone away, he sent a rare, unsolicited message. Don’t call. She’s been threatening to get an abortion, and I can’t calm her down. I’ve given her Lily’s necklace for now. I’ll order a new one tomorrow. A day earlier or later, Lily won’t mind. I gripped the phone, yet strangely, I couldn’t muster any anger. Last time, when Jenny threw Lily’s photo in the trash, I slapped her. That night, Ian’s men “accidentally” injured my arm, putting me in the hospital for two weeks. I had known for a long time that Lily no longer held the same place in his heart. But Lily was young, innocent. She always appeared in my dreams, begging me to give her father another chance. I sighed, and then Jenny’s message arrived. Sister, I’m so sorry, I’m pregnant. He said the cemetery was too unlucky, bad for me and the baby, so he made an excuse to miss it. Oh, and do you know when this baby was conceived? It was during the time you went to the temple every year to pray for Lily. I told him you’d be upset, but you know he always likes to force things. The more I resisted, the more intensely he wanted it. Afraid I wouldn’t believe her, she sent a screen recording of hundreds of flirtatious videos on her phone. The last date was January 21st – the same day, three years ago, Lily was diagnosed with her illness. I distinctly remembered Ian abandoning millions in business deals to rush back, crying hysterically outside the operating room, kneeling and begging the doctors to save our daughter. Afterwards, every year on that day, he would clear his schedule to go with me to the temple to pray for Lily. Until Jenny appeared, and I was the only one who went. It turns out that wound in his heart had healed long ago. I didn’t reply. Almost stubbornly, I stood there until the date on my phone changed to the next day. I didn’t feel the sadness I expected. I simply touched the serene smile on Lily’s tombstone. “Lily, it’s time. Dad isn’t coming this year. From now on, you and Mom will go our own way.” 2. That night, I dreamt of Lily crying, throwing herself into my arms, saying she didn’t like Daddy and didn’t want him anymore. I woke up, choking on my own sobs. In the dead of night, the space beside me remained empty. Only Lily’s favorite teddy bear, the one she cherished in life, still carried her scent. When Lily passed, Ian was inseparable from me. Whenever I’d wake from a nightmare, he’d be the first to notice, then he’d hold me, soothing me with soft words or weeping alongside me. Back then, I thought we would reconcile. I never imagined his philandering would remain unchanged, even after Lily and I had left. I couldn’t fall back asleep. After typing out the divorce papers, word by word, he returned. I handed him the signed agreement, still warm from the printer. He paused for two seconds, then scoffed. “So, just because I didn’t visit our daughter? It’s been years; are you still using these tactics? Isn’t it tiresome?” He paused again, seemingly realizing something. “Besides, Jenny’s pregnancy makes it difficult for her to move around. Or do you think this child threatens your position, so you’re playing hard to get to test me?” “Don’t worry. Once the baby is born, as long as you treat it as your own, no one will challenge your status as Mrs. Blackwood.” “While I’m in a good mood, take the hint. Don’t, like before, cry and tear up the agreement, saying you can’t live without me, if I actually sign.” I felt no anger at his mockery, nor did I bother to explain that my past actions were forced, a desperate charade. I just looked at him calmly. “Do you remember what you promised Lily?” His face stiffened, and beneath his serious demeanor was an undeniable hint of guilt. “I will always love her, but the Blackwood family cannot be without an heir. She will understand me.” As he finished speaking, his phone rang. He smiled happily as he answered Jenny’s call. “How could such a small baby be making a fuss?” “Alright, alright, I know you miss me. I just came back to grab some fresh clothes; I’ll be right there.” His voice was tender. For a fleeting moment, I was transported back to when we were most in love. When he learned I was pregnant, he was just as gentle. He would lie on my belly every day and talk to the baby. When the baby’s movements made me uncomfortable, he would sternly tell her not to bother Mommy. He hung up, then glanced at me. “Enjoy your life as a rich wife. Don’t cause trouble for Jenny, and your future will be one of comfort and security.” Watching him rush away to someone else, aside from a pang of bitterness reserved for Lily, I felt very little emotion left. I had the cemetery exhume Lily’s grave. I took out her urn. Then, I carried the divorce papers to the Blackwood family estate and handed them to Ian’s father. “Back then, besides Lily not wanting me to divorce him, you also said I was the only one who could curb his inherent arrogance.” “But now I can’t do it, and he no longer has Lily in his heart either.” Ian’s father, stroking the agreement, looked at me regretfully. “You know he just loves playing games and excitement. Wait a couple more years; he’ll settle down eventually. You two have so many years of history.” We had been entangled for ten years, from campus to marriage. He once defied his elders in the ancestral hall, staining a marriage contract with his own blood, just to marry me, an unsuitable match, vowing to marry no one else in this life. Just when I had finally softened his family’s hearts with my sincerity, he had lost his feelings for me. I smiled and shook my head. “No more waiting. I need to start a new life too.” He sighed, then retrieved the real divorce agreement, swapped out three years ago, from his safe and handed it to me. “The process has been re-approved. Pick up your divorce certificate in three days.” 3. After completing the registration, I returned home. The house had acquired some unfamiliar items. Jenny sat on the sofa. Ian stood beside her, directing the moving company as they cleared things out of Lily’s bedroom. He paused when he saw me. “Jenny’s pregnancy is unstable; she needs care. I’ve brought her home. You and the new nanny look after her. After all, you’ll be relying on this child in the future.” “Lily’s room is empty anyway, so I’ve put some odds and ends in there for storage. The master bedroom, where you sleep, is for Jenny and me. You can clean up the guest room and move in there.” Jenny stood up, stroking her belly, looking shyly at me. “I’m so sorry, big sister. Arthur just cares so much about me and the baby. Don’t worry, I won’t cause you any trouble.” “Once I’ve had the baby, I’ll definitely restore Lily’s room to its original state.” This wasn’t the first time Jenny had tried to provoke me using Lily. Last time, she sent a voice note of them flirting. Jenny said she wanted to give him a child as cute and well-behaved as Lily. So, Ian took her to the children’s room, jokingly saying Lily was kind and would surely grant their wish if she heard it. In front of Lily’s portrait, Jenny emotionally begged Lily to be reincarnated into her womb and become part of their happy family. By the time I arrived, the entire bedroom was filled with a disgusting odor, and Lily’s favorite bedsheets were soiled. I used the most vicious words to curse them, to curse her. And Ian, from beginning to end, acted like a cold psychopath, holding Jenny in his arms, covering her ears, watching my hysteria. The next day, I was sent to a mental hospital for a week under the pretext of being mentally unstable. Thinking of this, I no longer felt that same anger; only a sense of the ridiculous. I calmly glanced at Ian, who looked at me with the guarded expression of an enemy. “Whatever you want, arrange it however you like. I have no objections.” With that, I turned and went back to the master bedroom, pulling out my suitcase to pack. He watched me toss items into the suitcase, one by one, until half the closet was empty. Ian was somewhat surprised by my obedience and meekness. He tentatively spoke. “Father’s birthday banquet is on Friday. I plan to announce this news publicly as a gift. If you have time, whisper a few words to him so he won’t be angry when he hears it then.” I didn’t speak, merely nodding perfunctorily. Friday was the day I would receive my divorce certificate. Seeing that I still had no reaction, his brows furrowed deeper. “Did you change your tune today? Or do you realize nothing can threaten me, so you’re trying a gentle, devoted wife approach?” “Since you’re so sensible, make some soup for Jenny. She liked the last one. It’ll also be a test to see if you can take good care of her.” During a previous attempt at reconciliation, I had humbled myself to make him soup and deliver meals. But he had fed it, mouth to mouth, to Jenny right in front of me. Since then, I had been so disgusted that I never cooked again. I remained silent for a moment, then pulled out paper and pen, writing down the ingredients, steps, and cooking time, and handed it to him. “I need to clear the room for you first. Have the nanny make it. I’ll cook again when I have time.” He looked at the note, a playful smile playing on his lips. He attributed my newfound obedience to my realization that I had lost all my leverage and would no longer cause trouble for him. At the dining table, the nanny served Jenny the soup. But after her first sip, she clutched her stomach, crying out in pain. A few fresh drops of blood stained the floor. Ian’s face registered an unprecedented panic. He glared at the nanny. “What happened?!” The nanny’s gaze subtly flickered towards me. Before I could explain, Jenny looked at me with red eyes. “Sister, I know you don’t like me, but you’re a mother too. Why would you hurt my baby?!”

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The day the true heiress returned, my parents tossed my luggage out of the mansion. “Isla is our real daughter. The moment I saw her, I knew – blood runs thicker than water!” Isla flashed me a triumphant smile. “Sister, what’s mine, you should return.” I looked at the golden aura above her head – the [100% Guaranteed Elite Family Recognition] halo – and neither cried nor made a scene. Instead, I sent samples of her hair to seven other notoriously ruthless elite families in the city. Half a month later, Isla called me, sobbing. “Please, take these fathers away. I can’t take it anymore!” I calmly hung up the phone. “This is just the beginning.” “Tonight, all eight family dinners clash. Good luck.” … My name is Iris Fitzgerald, and for twenty years, I was the daughter of the Fitzgerald family. Today, that identity expired. The mansion’s ornate iron gates slowly closed before me, like a guillotine drawing a line in the sand. My suitcase lay roughly discarded by the roadside, its contents spilling out, clothes soiled with mud. My perpetually bewildered mother was cradling her biological daughter, Isla, sobbing uncontrollably. “My Isla, you’ve suffered so much out there all these years.” My supposed father, Mr. Fitzgerald, eyed me with the cold, assessing gaze of someone appraising merchandise. “Iris, we’ve raised you for twenty years. We’ve been more than generous. From today, you have no further connection to this family.” Isla lifted her head from her mother’s embrace, her face still streaked with tears, but her eyes held undisguised scorn for me. “Sister, don’t blame Mom and Dad. They just love me too much.” I calmly observed the halo above her head. That golden glow was dazzling, almost blinding. I said nothing, merely bending to quietly gather my scattered belongings. Isla seemed to think this wasn’t enough. She stepped closer, looking down at me. “By the way, Sister, you’re used to living in a mansion, but renting outside isn’t cheap. Do you need me to advance you some wages? You could always work as a maid for us. At least you’d have a place.” I finally met her gaze. “No need.” My eyes swept past her, to the second-floor balcony of the mansion. There, a pile of her freshly discarded clothes lay, next to the vanity where she had just brushed her hair. Perfect. That’s where I’d find what I needed. I turned and walked away, dragging my suitcase, without a single glance back. They thought I was utterly defeated. They had no idea the game had only just begun. That evening, I used my savings to rent a small apartment downtown. After settling in, I contacted a maid who still worked at the Fitzgerald mansion, someone I had helped in the past. Half an hour later, a same-day delivery package was on my table. Inside was a comb, with a few strands of long hair tangled in it. I took out the eight pre-prepared sealed bags and eight envelopes. The eight most influential elite families in the city. Each a hundred times more prominent than the Fitzgeralds. Coincidentally, each of these eight families had some long-standing mystery concerning their bloodline. Either a daughter lost years ago, or a patriarch with an almost insane obsession with pure lineage. They would stop at nothing, spare no expense. I put on gloves and carefully divided the hair into the sealed bags. Then, I wrote an anonymous letter to each family. The content was largely similar: “Your lost bloodline. I’ve found her.” “Here is the evidence. Do with it what you will.” No sender, no superfluous explanations. After all that, I leaned back in my chair, watching the city lights twinkling outside my window. Isla, you have that recognition aura, don’t you? I’ll give you all the recognition you can handle. The days that followed were unusually peaceful. I found a part-time job at an art gallery, working nine to five. Isla probably assumed I was traumatized into silence, sending me messages every other day. They were always about her latest designer bag, or some lavish party the Fitzgerald couple had taken her to. [Sister, Dad bought me a pink Porsche. Look, isn’t it pretty? [image]] [Mom says my skin is amazing, so she’s taking me to Switzerland for the most exclusive treatment. Ugh, sometimes being too pampered is a hassle.] I ignored them all. She was like a boxer punching air, talking to herself, perfectly content. Until half a month later, the first big fish bit. Mr. Davies, chairman of Davies Group, a real estate mogul, publicly announced a search for his lost daughter. Twenty-two years ago, he’d lost a child. Now, thanks to a mysterious DNA sample, he’d found her! At the press conference, Mr. Davies wept tears of joy, a bewildered young woman standing beside him. It was Isla. In the photos, she wore an expensive but ill-fitting gown, her smile stiff. I turned off the news just as my phone rang. It was Mr. Fitzgerald. His voice was thick with barely suppressed rage. “Iris! Was this your doing? How can Isla be Mr. Davies’s daughter?” I feigned surprise. “Mr. Fitzgerald, what are you talking about? Isn’t Isla your biological daughter? What happened? Does this bloodline come with a ‘buy one, get one free’ deal?” “You!” He was too furious to speak. “Mr. Fitzgerald, instead of worrying about this, you should probably figure out how to explain it to Mr. Davies. After all, your ‘true heiress’ seems to be his as well. I hear Mr. Davies is notoriously ruthless with those who deceive him. You wouldn’t want to sacrifice yourself for a two-for-one daughter, would you?” I hung up and blocked his number. I could imagine the Fitzgerald household was in utter chaos. They thought they had welcomed a unique bloodline, only to find they had a bargain-bin version. Isla’s social media paused for two days. On the third day, she reappeared. This time, it was a photo with Mr. Davies, captioned: “Turns out, I have two loving fathers.” Below, my mother was the first to like it, commenting: “Both of you are Mom’s good daughters.” I nearly laughed out loud at the forced harmony. Isla had probably convinced herself, and the Fitzgerald family. What’s wrong with an extra dad, if it means extra pampering? Unfortunately, she didn’t understand. When a miracle happens repeatedly, it ceases to be a miracle. It becomes a joke. Sure enough, less than three days later, a second missing persons announcement rocked the city. Mr. Allen, founder of Allen Tech, an internet giant with a multi-billion dollar valuation, announced he had found his long-lost daughter. The token of his successful search was another unheralded DNA sample. And the girl he excitedly embraced was, once again, Isla. The city exploded. [What kind of lucky charm is this Isla? Even lottery tickets don’t hit this often!] [I suggest an investigation. This might be a new type of scam.] [^ The DNA results are all confirmed. All three families match. This is a scientific anomaly.] Isla’s phone was practically vibrating itself to death. When she called me, her voice was tinged with tears. “Iris, what is going on? Why does Mr. Allen also say I’m his daughter?” I slowly sipped my tea. “Congratulations, Isla. Your fatherly love quota has doubled again.” “Don’t be so sarcastic! Is this your doing?” she shrieked. “Me?” I chuckled. “I’m just a fake heiress kicked out of my home. How could I have such power? You should ask yourself why you’re so… generous?” Silence on her end, punctuated by heavy breathing. I knew she was starting to question her own infallible aura. The Fitzgerald and Davies families had already fallen out. Mr. Davies believed Mr. Fitzgerald was a con artist, deliberately using his daughter to climb the social ladder. Mr. Fitzgerald believed Mr. Davies was a thief, trying to steal his precious daughter. The two families began sabotaging each other’s businesses. And at the center of it all, Isla was experiencing a chilling dichotomy. The Davies family demanded she study from five in the morning until midnight. If she didn’t get a perfect score in any subject, she was confined for three days. Mr. Davies even set up a dedicated punishment room for her. The Allen family enrolled her in an entertainment company but forbade her from smiling at any male. Her phone and computer were monitored, her social media accounts rigorously scrutinized. One time, she simply greeted an elderly security guard, and all her luxury items were confiscated. She was even sent to a “female etiquette electroshock school” for a three-day intensive training. The Fitzgerald family, in the most awkward position, wanted to intervene but dared not offend the other two families. They could only call daily, feigning concern, and emphasizing that they were her “first” father. Isla’s schedule was packed to the brim. She no longer had time to flaunt on social media. Her messages to me changed from boasting to complaining. [Today, I just looked at my riding instructor for too long during equestrian class and Mr. Davies made me stand still for two hours.] [Dad Allen assigned me eight bodyguards. Two female bodyguards stand outside the restroom door when I use it! They even record the time and duration of each visit and report it. Is he a pervert?] [My mom wants me to come home for dinner, but I have to attend a family dinner at the Davies’ tonight. What do I do? Mr. Sullivan also said if I’m a minute late, he’ll leak scandals about me to the media and ruin me.] I looked at her pleas, my mood pleasant. This is just a few fathers. You can’t handle it? Don’t worry, there are five more waiting in line. Plus a bonus. When the fourth and fifth elite families successively announced they had recognized Isla as their daughter, the entire society was speechless. News headlines shifted from the astonished “Elite Family Miracle” to the mocking “Revolving Elite Families, Enduring Isla.” Isla became the biggest running joke in the city. A walking daddy collector. She was utterly broken. That afternoon, I was organizing paintings in the gallery when Isla burst in, her face devoid of makeup. She grabbed my hand, her eyes bloodshot and raw. “Iris, I was wrong. I was so, so wrong!” She was trembling all over, her Chanel suit wrinkled, her hair dishehevelled. “Please, make them stop! I don’t want so many fathers anymore! I just want the Fitzgeralds. My mom and dad are enough!” Other colleagues in the gallery cast curious glances our way. I gently pulled my hand free, calmly looking at her. “You shouldn’t be telling me this. You should tell them. Tell them you’re not their daughter.” “I did!” she wailed. “But they don’t believe me! They all did DNA tests, and the results all show I’m their biological daughter! They think everyone else is lying, trying to deceive me!” That certainly fit the character of those obsessive patriarchs. “Iris, I know it was you! You sent my hair to them, didn’t you?” She had finally figured it out. I neither admitted nor denied it. “What do you want from me? Will you only be satisfied when I’m dead?” she asked, looking at me with desperation. I picked up the water glass on the table and took a sip. “I don’t want anything.” “I just think that if it’s a windfall from heaven, it’s better to have a few more to ensure a balanced diet of nutrition.” “You!” She trembled with rage. Just then, her phone rang furiously. She glanced at the caller ID, her face instantly turning ashen. Her hand shook, and the phone dropped to the floor. The screen displayed “Mr. Sullivan”—the media mogul, the sixth father to recognize her. He was known for his fiery temper and extreme possessiveness. The phone rang incessantly, like a death knell. Isla stared at the phone on the floor as if it were a bomb. She dared not answer. I bent down, picked up the phone, and pressed to hang up. Then, I saw her packed schedule of reminders.

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My wife’s male assistant deliberately ruined a painting I’d spent two years creating. Infuriated, I punished him by making him my manservant for three days, tasked with cleaning my art studio. At first, Eleanor Brooks said nothing, acting as if nothing had happened. But three months later, Eleanor’s company filed for bankruptcy, and she was imprisoned. To repay millions in debt, I worked three jobs a day, toiling relentlessly. For three long years, I lived on the run from creditors, once cornered in an alley and humiliated. For a mere hundred dollars, I even tested haunted houses overnight. Then, while clearing tables, I overheard Eleanor, who should have been in prison, throwing a lavish birthday party for her male assistant. A friend asked, “Eleanor, you bought Aiden a million-dollar watch, and your ‘good’ husband is testing haunted houses for a hundred bucks. Can you really be so heartless?” Eleanor scoffed, exhaling a plume of smoke. “He deserved it, for forcing Aiden to be a manservant back then. These three years are his punishment.” “Once these three years are over, I’ll pretend to make a comeback. He’ll still be my good husband.” My body swayed in the cold wind, like a stunned puppet. So, these three years of living hell, this was all a punishment orchestrated by you. If that’s the case, then I will return it to you, twofold. 1 I felt as if I’d plunged into an ice-cold abyss, and from within, I heard the conversation between Eleanor and her friend, Grace Sloane. “Eleanor, he’s still your husband, after all. Before you got married, he was a spoiled young man, living a life of luxury. Aren’t you being a bit too cruel to him?” “The last time I saw Arthur Blackwood, he looked so haggard, so thin. He must be at his breaking point.” Eleanor spoke calmly. “It was agreed for three full years. Not a day less.” “Anyway, it’s only another month until three years are up. He’s lasted this long; a couple more days won’t make a difference.” Grace hesitated, clearly wanting to say more. “But he came to me recently, just asking to borrow a few hundred dollars.” “The once privileged Mr. Blackwood, I’d never seen him so desperate.” Eleanor snorted. “You didn’t lend it to him, did you?” “Of course not! You said anyone who lent him money would be considered to have cut ties with you. How would I dare?” Through a cloud of smoke, Eleanor smiled coldly. “Good to know you’re sensible.” “Arthur Blackwood’s temperament, so demanding and arrogant. Aiden accidentally stained his painting, and Arthur heartlessly punished him by making him a manservant for three days. That kind of overbearing attitude needed to be fixed. See, this three-year punishment has clearly worked, hasn’t it?” Eleanor’s tone was filled with pride and satisfaction, as if her punishment had reformed me, making me a new man. Grace sighed, swallowing the rest of her unspoken words. She had actually concealed a few things. That day, I had knelt. I had even unbuttoned my shirt. “Just five hundred dollars, please.” “Eleanor got sick in prison and needs medical expenses. I’m still short five hundred dollars.” They exchanged glances, then burst into laughter. “Is this still the former Mr. Blackwood?” “You were so proud back then, wouldn’t wear shoes under a thousand. Now you’re selling yourself for five hundred dollars.” I could only listen in humiliation, my face devoid of any expression. What expression could I even have? All my pride, my self-respect, had been trampled into worthlessness by reality. “If you’re willing to add more money,” I choked out. “Whatever pose you want me to strike, I will.” Their laughter grew even louder. Finally, the woman who had been silent all this time, sitting on the sofa, sighed and spoke. “You should leave.” “Even if you bowed a hundred times today, we wouldn’t help you.” Because Eleanor had already given strict instructions. A punishment was a punishment. For three full years, they were not to show any pity or offer me any convenience. Only then could they truly get revenge for Aiden, her assistant. How did I manage to scrape together those five hundred dollars later? I went to the hospital and sold my blood. I took the five hundred dollars to the prison, but was told Eleanor had been released on medical parole. That money, after much effort, was entrusted to Eleanor’s friend. I was so anxious at the time, I almost knelt. “Please, you must get this money to Eleanor. She mustn’t have any more trouble.” But at that very moment, Eleanor was with her assistant, Aiden, checking in at Disneyland. She treated the five hundred dollars like a receipt, tossing it to a staff member. “Dirty money from an unknown source, how unlucky.” Just like my sincerity, it was trampled upon so carelessly. 2. Now, Eleanor herself had arranged for antique porcelain vases, worth a fortune, to decorate Aiden’s birthday party. Every detail was meticulously planned. But I had no desire to watch any further. Several times, I almost lost control and charged in. I wanted to appear before Eleanor, slap her hard across the face. I wanted to demand why she had deceived me for three years, all because I made Aiden a manservant for three days. I wanted to show Eleanor all the wounds I had suffered, all the scars on my body, over these three years. But in the end, I did nothing. I watched Eleanor, who was supposed to be released from prison in three days, dressed in an expensive designer gown, like a powerful female CEO. She had thrown a grand and respectable birthday party specifically for her male assistant, inviting friends from their circle to celebrate and wishing Aiden a spoiled birthday. Then, I turned around expressionlessly and returned to my cramped, underground rental. It was dark and damp, and I had lived there for three years. The bathroom was right outside the door, the walls covered in years of accumulated mold, constantly emanating a foul smell. I remembered when I first moved in, I was nauseous to the point of vomiting every day. For the first twenty-five years of my life, I lived in luxury, the privileged eldest son of the esteemed Blackwood family, never knowing hardship. I was an internationally renowned painter, accumulating numerous international awards. At the height of my success, I was even pursued and proposed to by Eleanor Brooks, the eldest daughter of the Brooks family. After marriage, I effortlessly lived the life of a “winner.” Until Eleanor hired a timid and gentle male assistant named Aiden. He was the son of my family’s housekeeper, yet he constantly tried to compete with me. His clothes weren’t as luxurious as mine, so he would retort that I was a frivolous pretty boy. His abilities weren’t as strong as mine, so he would gossip behind my back that I only succeeded because of my birth or because of women. He even deliberately sought to become Eleanor’s assistant, and never stopped badmouthing me to her, saying how I bullied his housekeeper mother at home, ruined his clothes, and even made him kneel as a manservant. I believed that the truth would speak for itself and never paid these things any mind. But then came that day. I had finally completed a painting I had worked on for two full years. Just as I was about to frame it, I stepped out for a moment, only to return and find it splattered with ink. Aiden stood nearby, holding the ink bottle, a smug look on his face. “Didn’t you spend two whole years on that painting? Let’s see how you’ll impress Eleanor without it.” I was furious that time. I threw a punch that landed squarely on his face. “Didn’t you always spread rumors that I made you a manservant? Well, for these three days, you can properly be my manservant and clean my art studio.” Just then, the door was pushed open, and a figure burst in. Eleanor frowned, shielding Aiden behind her. “Arthur Blackwood, can’t you control your privileged temper?” “Aiden tries so hard. He may not have a good background, but why do you always target him?” My chest heaved with anger. “Eleanor, get this straight, he was the one who…” Before I could finish, Aiden, playing the victim, hid behind Eleanor, looking terribly wronged. “Eleanor, it’s all my fault. I wanted to help Mr. Blackwood clean his studio, but I accidentally stained his painting. He said he’d sell me to a club as a gigolo, and called my mom a cheap tramp who raised a little tramp.” He spoke tearfully and pitifully. Eleanor didn’t even ask me or investigate; she just believed him outright. She looked at me coldly. “Arthur Blackwood, what’s happened to you? I’m so disappointed.” I was even more enraged. Even with Eleanor trying to persuade me, I insisted that Aiden serve as a manservant for three days. On the last day, Eleanor acted as if nothing had happened, merely sighing lightly. “Arthur, when will you ever get rid of that temper? It’s just a painting.” “Alright, you’ve vented your anger now, let’s just put this behind us.” I was naive enough to believe that it was truly over. But days later, news broke of Eleanor’s company’s bankruptcy. Eleanor herself was soon imprisoned, leaving a huge mess for me to deal with. Initially, I didn’t think it was a big deal. Even if the Brooks family went bankrupt, I still had my parents. I called them immediately, but their numbers were all disconnected. I completely panicked. I rushed home to find them, only to be told by the butler that they had hurried back upon hearing about the Brooks family’s troubles, but were caught in a landslide on the way and both perished. Overnight, my world collapsed. With no parents or wife to rely on, I had no choice but to sell our property and move into a damp basement. To escape gambling debts, I barely slept. They even found my basement, a group of people barging in with sticks and beating me. Two of my ribs were broken, and my wrist was shattered, rendering me unable to hold a paintbrush again. It took me three years to accept my fate, giving up everything just to survive. But now, I’m told that it was all a lie. Eleanor, with her punishment, had stripped me down to the bone, transforming me completely. Just then, my phone rang. It was from Eleanor. “Arthur, I’m getting out of prison in three days. Don’t forget to pick me up.” 3. I unconsciously clutched my phone, a dull ache throbbing in my heart. Even now, Eleanor was still acting. She was clearly at the birthday party already, celebrating Aiden’s birthday, with such a huge, beautifully decorated cake. Yet she was still treating me like an idiot. I stared at the line of text, tears blurring my vision until I could read it clearly again. I typed back: “Okay, I’ll pick you up in three days.” Three days later, I didn’t expose Eleanor’s lie. I went to the prison gates to pick her up. From a distance, I saw Eleanor wearing shabby clothes, pretending to be destitute after bankruptcy, and even using makeup to create a fake scar on her face. Seeing me, she limped, excitedly rushing towards me. “Arthur!” She embraced me, tears welling up in her eyes. “In prison, I truly atoned. They said my behavior was excellent, so they released me early.” “Arthur, you’ve really had a tough time these past few days.” She appeared so genuinely affectionate, as if she had truly suffered in prison for three years. But I subtly pushed her away. “It’s good that you’re out.” Eleanor paused, seemingly noticing my unusual demeanor, but then she suddenly grabbed my wrist. “Arthur, what happened to your wrist?” Her anxious expression seemed genuine. But I found it amusing. Eleanor, what are you playing at? It was clearly your people, pretending to be creditors, who came and beat me to this state. Now you’re acting innocent? I just felt apathetic, perhaps also afraid of directly confronting the truth. “Nothing, I just fell accidentally.” I pulled my hand away. “The doctor said it will heal with time.” Eleanor finally breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s good.” She took my hand, gently intertwining her fingers with mine. “The injury is on your right wrist. If it gets serious and affects your painting, you’ll be crying again.” Her voice was deliberately doting, but to me, it was incredibly piercing. I was born with immense artistic talent. I had won countless international awards, and everyone said I had a very bright future. But to get money for medicine, to get Eleanor out of prison early, I was willing to let them break my wrist. Now I couldn’t even hold a paintbrush. But now, she was telling me it was all just a punishment game she orchestrated. How ridiculous. I remained silent the entire way, Eleanor seemed very nervous, chattering on about many things. Clearly, these were lines she had prepared from online research, trying to convince me she had really spent three years in prison. But I listened absently, only asking a faint question after she finished. “Eleanor.” “Did I do something wrong?” Eleanor froze instantly, her eyes red as she looked at me. “What is it, Arthur? Why do you ask?” I suddenly remembered the last time, when I was finally allowed a visit. I was so happy, taking the allowance I had saved for a long time to buy meat and vegetables, and preparing them for Eleanor. No wonder she wrinkled her nose and refused to eat it. She must have thought the meat was cheap. And yes, I thought she had spent three years in prison, enduring hardship. But in reality, she was taking her male assistant on a round-the-world trip, enjoying delicacies and imported foods. How could she truly suffer with me? Even that prison visit was a meticulously staged play for which she paid a hundred and twenty dollars. I just felt that for these three years, I had been utterly foolish, manipulated like a toy. Seeing me cry, Eleanor immediately panicked and came forward to wipe my tears. “Arthur, why are you crying? Did someone bully you?” I looked into her eyes. “If someone bullied me, what would you do?” “Would you still, as you swore before, protect me no matter what, even if it meant sacrificing your life?” Eleanor nervously wiped my tears with a tissue. She nodded without thinking, her resolve firm. “Whatever it takes, Arthur, just tell me, and I’ll do it.” I looked into her sincere eyes. “Really?” “I want you to kill Aiden.” Eleanor suddenly looked up, staring at me in shock. “What did you say?” A flicker of panic crossed her eyes. “Did you misunderstand something?” She was so afraid I would discover something amiss. Even her body began to tense. “My company went bankrupt three years ago. Aiden resigned and went abroad; I haven’t had any contact with him.” “Did he come to bully you while I was in prison? If so, I’ll definitely get revenge for you!” I took her hand, scoffing. “I’m kidding.” “Killing is against the law.” “You just got out of prison; how could I bear to put you back in?” “I was just teasing you.” I turned away, lowering my gaze to pick up something. Eleanor didn’t see my true emotions. She thought I was truly just joking and breathed a sigh of relief. “Arthur, I’m sorry.” “You’ve suffered a lot these past three years.” I didn’t turn back, but in my heart, I thought silently. It’s alright. Your karma is yet to come.

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I was always a bit slow, my mind only grasping half of what people said. When my grandmother cursed, “I’d rather raise a pig than you,” the next day, I brought her a big, fat pig. That night, the pig gored her. My father called me a “debt collector’s nightmare.” I promptly dug out his hidden loan shark ledgers and went door-to-door, helping him collect debts. The debts remained uncollected, but my father ended up attracting the attention of the police and was promptly hauled off to jail. My mother, furious, smashed a bowl and pointed a shaking finger at me. “You ungrateful wretch, why don’t you just take my life too!” I nodded earnestly, then served her rat poison. That was the end of her. When I opened my eyes again, I had transmigrated into a dark romance novel, a plaything controlled by dangerous men. The male lead summoned me to his office and tossed a hotel room key card onto the desk. “Spend tonight with some important clients for me. This deal must close.” I obediently took the card, and that night, I got him roaring drunk, then sent him off to the room himself to entertain the clients… 1 When the two dark-suited bodyguards escorted me to Adrian Danny’s private estate, he was already dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit. I stood in the opulent great hall, still wearing my usual vacant, slightly bewildered expression. I spoke softly, “Adrian, was last night successful? I was very obedient. I made sure to deliver your sincerity, just as you instructed.” “Shut up!” Adrian hurled a crystal ashtray at my feet. It shattered, fragments scattering across the polished floor. He strode toward me in a few quick steps, grabbing my jaw in a grip so tight I thought my bones would splinter. “Skye Reynolds, are you playing games with me?” His gaze was as venomous as a viper’s. “Who gave you the audacity?” I winced in pain, my eyes wide with innocent confusion. “Adrian, I wasn’t playing games. You told me to make sure the clients were satisfied. They thought I wasn’t enough, that you needed to be there yourself to show sincerity.” I saw the thunderous look on his face and belatedly realized I’d made another mistake. Mistakes called for apologies. I immediately lowered my head. “I’m sorry, Adrian. I was wrong. I didn’t realize you couldn’t personally entertain them. Even though the clients were very satisfied, I won’t do it again!” Adrian looked like he was about to burst a blood vessel. He stepped forward and clamped his hand around my throat. “Shut up! If you mention that again, I swear I’ll kill you!” I quietly closed my mouth. His grip tightened, stealing my breath. Suddenly, he flung me away, gasping for air. He walked to the window, his back to me, his voice dark and low. “Fine. Very good, Skye Reynolds. Since you’re so obedient, I suppose I should reward you, shouldn’t I?” He roughly dragged me toward the basement, deep within the mansion. The original Skye’s memories flashed through my mind. Many terrible things were hidden down there. He slammed the door shut and retrieved a leather whip, studded with barbed hooks, from the wall. “Today, I’m going to teach you what obedience truly means.” He raised the whip, bringing it down viciously toward my shoulder. He expected me to collapse, to grovel on the floor and beg for mercy, as Skye always did. But the moment the whip descended, a surge of pure terror made me instinctively lunge sideways. My movement snagged a heavy decorative stand, ripping its power cord from the wall. The stand swayed precariously, and a massive brass statue on its top toppled, plummeting directly toward Adrian. A sickening thud and Adrian’s piercing scream erupted simultaneously. The brass statue, with unerring precision, landed squarely on his already battered body from last night’s… client entertainment. He instantly curled into a fetal position, his face ashen, writhing on the floor in agony. The bodyguards, hearing the commotion, burst in, eyes wide with shock. They hastily carried Adrian out, calling for his private doctor. Hours later, a pale, furious Adrian lay on his bed, his eyes so dark they could curdle milk. When he saw me, a rare, chilling smile touched his lips. “I’ve found you a new place. You always loved acting, didn’t you? Sterling Productions’ rising star, Harry Hayes, is looking for a new personal assistant. He’s quite good at training people, especially at discovering raw talent like yours.” He reached out and patted my shoulder. “I remember you always used to pester him. Now, I’ve given you my blessing.” Harry Hayes… Fragments of the original Skye’s memories flickered in my mind. He was a celebrity, all charming smiles and dazzling charisma to the public. In private, he was a monster who reveled in tormenting and humiliating women. In the original story, Skye had a past with him. At first, she thought it was a rekindling of childhood friendship, but over time, his true nature emerged. Skye was driven to the brink of insanity, leaving her with profound psychological scars. Adrian walked to his desk and picked up a note with an address, tossing it at me as if I were a beggar. “Tonight, eight o’clock, go to this address and find Mr. Hayes. Tell him I, Adrian Danny, sent you as a gift. Tell him to… take good care of you.” He emphasized the word “care” with a sinister weight. I bent down and picked up the note, blinking up at him. “Thank you, Adrian. You’re so kind to me.” I carefully folded the note and tucked it into my pocket. “Don’t worry, I’ll learn from Mr. Hayes and serve him well. I won’t let you down!” Adrian watched my innocent display, his eyes cold and lifeless. He waved his hand, dismissing me like a fly. “Go on, then, my dear fiancée. Your Harry was just mentioning you not long ago.” 2 At the mansion gates, I rang the bell. The door opened. Harry Hayes stood there, a perfectly calibrated warm smile on his face, his eyes full of an almost drowning tenderness. “Skye, you’re here,” he said, his voice intimately natural. “Come in, it’s cold out.” He stepped aside, a picture of solicitousness. I looked up. “Harry, Adrian sent me to help.” His smile was gentle. “Yes, I truly need a trustworthy assistant these days. Adrian has given me a wonderful gift.” He led me into the living room. “It’s been too long since we’ve had a proper chat, Skye. Do you remember when we were children? You always followed me around like a shadow. From now on, I’ll take care of you, alright?” I cradled the glass of water he’d given me, nodding obediently. “Yes, I’ll do whatever you say.” A flicker of satisfaction crossed Harry’s eyes. “Such a good girl.” He smiled contentedly, sitting down beside me, close enough for me to smell his clean, crisp scent. He was about to say something more when the electronic lock on the apartment door chimed. Someone was entering. A man in a flashy pink shirt sauntered in, humming a tune. It was Danny Thorne, the notorious playboy from the Thorne family. In the original story, he and Harry were two peas in a pod, close friends who shared a love for debauchery. He and Adrian, however, utterly despised each other. “Harry, I heard Adrian sent his precious fiancée here for you to ‘train’?” Danny’s eyes, full of amused curiosity, landed on me the moment he walked in. He assessed me like a new toy, a mischievous smirk playing on his lips. “Well done, brother. Quick moves.” Harry didn’t seem surprised by Danny’s appearance. He merely smiled, a hint of boastfulness in his voice. “You’re well-informed. Skye is a bit shy, don’t scare her.” Danny plopped onto the sofa, crossing his legs, his gaze shifting between me and Harry, his tone light and suggestive. “Adrian’s cast-off idiot? Could be interesting, couldn’t it?” Harry frowned. “Danny, tone it down. Skye isn’t like those other women.” Danny scoffed. “What’s the difference? They’re all women. Besides, between us brothers, what’s mine is yours, right?” He winked suggestively. “Good things are better shared, wouldn’t you agree?” Harry didn’t contradict him, silently assenting. He turned to me, his voice soothing. “Don’t be scared, Skye. Danny is just joking. He just wants to… be friends.” He took my hand, and Danny, grinning, crowded in, sandwiching me between them. “Come on, Skye. Let me show you the surprise I prepared.” I was led into the bedroom. Harry picked up a black lace nightgown, barely more than a few scraps of fabric. “Skye, put this on and let me see.” I looked at the garment in his hand and shook my head vigorously, my face a mask of earnestness. “Oh no, Harry. I can’t.” “Why not? Aren’t you always a good girl who listens to me?” “Because there are other people here.” Harry chuckled, his smile suggestive. “It’s fine. A good girl should be open and honest.” “Open and honest…” I murmured, as if convinced by the phrase. I took the nightgown and blinked. Then, I pulled out my phone and tapped open a live-stream app. Open and honest. That surely meant everyone should see, right? 3 In the bedroom, the live-stream camera was pointed directly at the nightgown. I held my phone, watching the furious scroll of comments on the screen, my face alight with pure, unadulterated joy. “Harry, Danny,” I said, my voice clear and tinged with excitement, “look! So many people! They all want to see the surprise Harry prepared for me. Does this count as being open and honest?” The moment the live-stream appeared, Harry and Danny froze. Their faces were blank, clearly overwhelmed by what I’d done. Harry could clearly see the words “scumbag,” “call the police,” and other furious comments flashing across the screen, along with the terrifying surge in viewer numbers. “Turn it off! Turn it off now!” Harry was the first to react, his voice a hoarse roar as he lunged for my phone. Danny, his face chalk-white, instinctively tried to shield his face, cursing incoherently, “Skye Reynolds, are you insane?” Their menacing expressions and shouts startled me. My hand trembled, and the phone clattered to the floor. [What happened? Black screen?] [Sounds like a fight?] [I hear Harry yelling!] “I didn’t mean to, Harry, please don’t be angry…” My voice was choked with sobs as I bent down to pick up the phone. But Harry stomped on it viciously. The screen shattered instantly. His chest heaved, his eyes bloodshot, glaring at me as if he wanted to devour me whole. The live stream was cut, but the damage was done. Almost the second the screen went black, Harry and Danny’s phones began to vibrate like death rattles. The names flashing on their screens were their agents, company executives, and even close brand partners. Harry answered his call. His agent’s panicked roar blasted through the receiver, audible even without speakerphone. “Harry, what in God’s name are you doing? What was that live stream? Do you have any idea you’re finished? Get back here and fix this now!” Danny’s situation was equally dire. His father probably wished he could stuff him back into his mother’s womb. The bedroom fell into a deathly silence. After a long moment, Harry abruptly lifted his head, his gaze fixed on me. “Harry knows you didn’t mean to, Skye.” I sniffled, looking up at him timidly. He continued, his voice laced with practiced persuasion. “But Skye, because of that live stream, a lot of people outside have misunderstood Harry and Danny. They think we hurt you, and they want to send us to jail. So Skye, now you’re the only one who can help us.” Danny chimed in, equally eager. “Yes, Skye, you have to be a good girl and listen, or we’ll abandon you.” I nodded vigorously. “I’ll be a good girl!” A flash of triumph flickered in Harry’s eyes. He began to instruct me, word for word. “It’s simple. Tomorrow, we’ll hold a press conference. Then, you’ll step forward and tell everyone, all the cameras…” He paused for emphasis. “You’ll say that everything tonight – coming to my house, and the live stream – was all your idea. That you wanted attention, that you deliberately planned it. Harry and Danny were just tricked by you, and we’re innocent. Remember?” I nodded hard. So, under the blinding flash of cameras and the barrage of microphones, I repeated his instructions, word for word. But when Harry and Danny heard my confession, their faces twisted in horror. “Damn it, what are you saying?!”

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After the eighth failed attempt at IVF, my husband and I decided to adopt. The final step in the adoption process was a home visit. The caseworker looked at my husband, Liam, and me, a hint of doubt in her eyes. “You two seem like an excellent match, but your file shows that Mr. Walker adopted a daughter three years ago? Where is the child now?” I froze. “That’s impossible. This is our first application.” Liam, however, offered an awkward laugh. “Oh, that was a proxy adoption for my boss. His circumstances made it difficult for him to have her under his name, so she was temporarily registered under mine.” 1 The caseworker’s pen hovered over the paper, her brow furrowed. “A proxy adoption? Mr. Walker, that’s not in accordance with regulations.” Liam’s smile began to falter. He squeezed my hand, his palm damp with sweat. “It was a unique situation. My boss is in a very sensitive position, you understand. We’ve already initiated the transfer of custody, and the child’s registration will be moved very soon.” His voice sounded earnest and sincere, as if he were genuinely going above and beyond for his superior. I sat beside him, squirming with discomfort. In five years of marriage, this was the first I’d heard of Liam having a daughter under his name. A three-year-old daughter, a “proxy” daughter. This was a plot twist even TV dramas wouldn’t dare to attempt. The caseworker was clearly taken aback by his explanation. She looked from Liam to me, her probing gaze making me want to sink into the floor. “Ms. Rosenthal, were you aware of this?” What could I say? If I said no, our home would be a mockery, and our adoption application would be immediately rejected. If I said yes, I’d be an accomplice, a complete fool. My face felt flushed, and I could only manage a stiff nod. “I was.” The two words felt like knives, cutting into my throat. Liam gave me a grateful look, a look that made my stomach churn. The caseworker jotted down a few notes, asking no further questions, but the atmosphere had turned icy. She performed her duties methodically, inspecting the room we had prepared for a child – pink walls, a charming crib, piles of imported toys. I had decorated it all myself, filled with hopeful anticipation for our future child. Now, it looked like a cruel joke. After seeing the caseworker out, I could no longer maintain my composure. “Liam Walker, you’d better give me an explanation.” He closed the door, his smile vanishing instantly, replaced by a look of utter exhaustion. “Willow, please don’t be angry. I was going to tell you about this.” “Tell me when? When our adopted child arrived, would you then inform me they had a sister?” My voice trembled uncontrollably. “No, no!” he quickly denied. “That child… it’s a very complicated situation.” “No matter how complicated, she’s legally your daughter! And you kept this from me for three whole years!” I gestured towards the nursery. “How many IVF cycles did we go through for a child of our own? How much pain did I endure? Have you forgotten all that? We struggled so hard to reach this point of adoption, and you test me with something like this?” Liam was speechless. He walked towards me, trying to embrace me, but I pushed him away. “Don’t touch me!” His eyes reddened, his voice pleading. “Willow, believe me, my boss and I have a purely professional relationship. Helping him out with this was a huge boost for my career.” “So for your career, you can just casually adopt a child? What do you take our marriage for? What do you take me for?” “I just wanted to give us a better life!” His voice rose, then quickly softened. “This will all be sorted out very soon, I promise. Please don’t overthink it, okay?” He always downplayed everything. But my mind was a chaotic mess. Would a man really “proxy adopt” a daughter for his boss? My head was spinning; I couldn’t make sense of it. That night, we slept in separate rooms. It was the first time in our five years of marriage. Lying on the cold guest room bed, my eyes wide open, I couldn’t sleep a wink. 2. The next morning, Liam acted as if nothing had happened, making me breakfast. He pushed a glass of milk towards me, cautiously observing my expression. “Willow, I know you’re still upset. But we need to provide a reasonable explanation to the adoption agency.” I had no appetite; my chest felt heavy. “What do you plan to say? Continue with the story about proxy adoption for your boss?” “It’s the best explanation we have right now.” He nodded. “I’ve already consulted a lawyer. As long as my boss provides a statement confirming the child is his, and we process some additional paperwork, the custody can be transferred.” He spoke with such conviction, as if everything was under control. But the cloud of suspicion in my heart only grew heavier. “Who is your boss? Why can’t he raise his own child? Where’s the child’s mother?” I fired off a volley of questions. Liam’s eyes flickered away. “My boss’s family situation is… complicated. His wife isn’t well and has been recuperating abroad. This child… was the result of a moment of weakness.” “A love child?” I blurted out. Liam’s face paled, and he nodded with difficulty. “Something like that. That’s why his wife can’t know, and why the child couldn’t be registered under his name.” The explanation sounded perfectly plausible. A wealthy man’s love child, entrusted to a trusted subordinate to avoid disrupting his family and business – it made logical sense. Yet, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. “Willow, I know this has caused you distress.” Liam took my hand, his posture humble. “But look at how much we’ve suffered to have a child. Now that we’re so close to the finish line, we can’t let my mistake ruin everything, can we?” He touched upon our shared heartache. Five years of marriage, and no children. From initial hope to desperate medical treatments, to repeated IVF failures – my body and spirit had endured immense pain. Finally, we had to give up and chose adoption. This was our unspoken grief. Liam knew children were my biggest weakness. “As soon as the home visit approval comes through, I’ll immediately deal with that child’s situation. I promise it won’t affect us,” he vowed. I looked at his bloodshot eyes, and my resolve wavered. Perhaps I was truly overthinking things? Perhaps he was just momentarily foolish, doing something stupid for the sake of his career? “I want to meet the child,” I finally said. Liam froze. “And her ‘mother’,” I added. He was silent for a long time, so long I thought he would refuse. “Alright,” he finally said. “I’ll arrange it.” His quick agreement made me even more uneasy. He seemed convinced that once I met them, all my doubts would vanish. Was this confidence, or was it arrogance? 3. The meeting was arranged at an upscale family restaurant. When I arrived, Liam was already there. Beside him sat a young woman and a little girl. The woman appeared to be in her mid-twenties, with delicate features, dressed in a white sundress, exuding a gentle demeanor. The little girl, about three years old, had two pigtails and sat quietly in her chair, holding a small cake. Seeing me, Liam immediately stood up, looking a bit flustered as he introduced them. “Willow, this is Holly. And this is her daughter, Rosie.” Holly also stood, offering me a somewhat shy smile. “Mrs. Walker, it’s lovely to meet you. I’m so sorry to have caused you so much trouble.” Her posture was humble, full of gratitude and apology. I didn’t speak, my gaze fixed on the little girl named Rosie. The child looked up at me, her eyes dark and bright like two grapes. Whether it was my imagination or not, I couldn’t help but notice a striking resemblance in her features to Liam’s. Especially her nose – it was almost an exact match. My heart plummeted. “Mrs. Walker, please sit down,” Holly warmly invited. I sat beside Liam, who immediately pulled out my chair attentively and poured me a glass of water. “Rosie, say hello to Auntie Willow,” Holly prompted her daughter. The little girl looked at me timidly, then softly murmured, “Hello, Auntie.” Her voice was sweet and gentle. If not for the circumstances, I probably would have adored her. “Rosie is a very good girl,” I managed a stiff smile. Three lines of blank space.

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I only learned the truth after I died. My prestigious parents never wanted me back. My husband’s love was a lie. But they were bound to a system: win my affection, or die. The moment the fake heiress pushed me down the stairs, the sting of my husband’s cold indifference and her triumphant smirk was a special kind of hell. They threw a party to celebrate my death. Then I opened my eyes again. It was the day they came to take me “home.” 1 Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair stood at the door to greet me, their precious daughter Isabelle between them. The second she saw me, Mrs. Sinclair’s face lit up with a brilliant smile. “Rose, welcome home!” Last time, I was so lost in the joy of finding my family that I never saw the lie coiled behind her smile. Isabelle rushed forward and grabbed my hand. “This is wonderful! I’ve always wanted a sister, and now my dream has come true!” My new parents beamed at her, their eyes overflowing with an adoration they couldn’t hide. They had no idea that I could now hear the voice of the system in their heads. [Warning, Host: The target has appeared!] [Mission: Raise the target’s Affection Score to 100 to complete the task. Upon completion, you will receive your reward and be unbound from the system.] [If the target’s Affection Score drops into the negative, an electrocution punishment will be administered every hour.] [If the target’s Affection Score reaches -100, the mission is a failure. Annihilation will be immediate.] In my last life, they used this system to climb the social ladder, stepping over my corpse to become titans of the city’s elite. This time, I wouldn’t make it so easy for them. I ripped my hand out of Isabelle’s grasp and snarled, “Who the hell are you to call yourself my sister?” “If your mother hadn’t stolen me from my crib and swapped us, I would never have been separated from my parents. You’re a thief who stole my life, so how dare you stand here with that smile on your face!” Isabelle’s eyes instantly welled with tears. She stared at me, speechless and pathetic. Mrs. Sinclair couldn’t bear to see her darling suffer. She pulled Isabelle into a protective hug and shot me a reproachful look. “Rose, is that any way to speak to your sister? Isabelle was just a baby back then. She’s innocent in all of this.” I met her gaze with cold calm. [Target’s Affection Score: -10. Current Score: -10. Initiating electrocution punishment.] I saw her body give a slight, sharp jolt. She immediately let go of Isabelle and forced a placating smile. “Rose, dear, that’s not what I meant. I just hope you can give Isabelle a chance. After all, we’ve raised her for eighteen years.” Mr. Sinclair stepped in to play peacemaker. “Alright, alright, let’s not just stand here in the doorway. Rose, it’s your first day home. How about I give you a tour of the house?” He reached for my arm, but I didn’t budge. “I want to change my name. I hate being called Rose.” The family that raised me already had three daughters. My adoptive father was already disappointed, and the fact that I wasn’t his biological child made me the extra, the disposable one. Rose. It felt like a weed. Mr. Sinclair’s face was a mask of indulgence. “Of course, darling, anything you want. What would you like your name to be?” I looked at Isabelle, my voice dripping with malice. “I want to be called Isabelle.” The color drained from her face. She tugged on her mother’s sleeve, her voice a desperate whine. “Mommy, I’m Isabelle! She can’t just take my name!” I laughed, a cold, sharp sound. “Your name?” “Don’t tell me that after living in this house for so long, you’ve actually started to believe you belong here. Your real father is a man named Jack Wright. You’re the one who should be called Rose.” Mrs. Sinclair looked at Isabelle, her expression pained. The memory of the electric shock was still fresh, and she didn’t dare refuse me again. “Isabelle, sweetie, she has a point. That name was meant for her. Why don’t you just… let her have it?” Isabelle’s eyes went wide with disbelief. “Mom!” Her mother had always given her everything she ever wanted, would have plucked the stars from the sky for her if she’d asked. She started to protest again, but Mr. Sinclair cut her off with a sharp tone. “Isabelle, that’s enough! I’ll take both of you to get your names legally changed this afternoon.” [Target’s Affection Score: +10. Current Score: 0.] [Target’s Affection Score: +10. Current Score: 10.] Mr. Sinclair wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, his voice carefully gentle. “Isabelle, can we go inside now?” See? It wasn’t so hard to make them bend to my will. 2 In the end, the former Isabelle wasn’t named Rose. Mr. Sinclair gave her a new name, Anabelle. And on my very first night in the Sinclair mansion, I was treated to quite a show. Spencer Lockwood, Anabelle’s childhood sweetheart, made his entrance. And from his mind, I heard the same familiar, robotic chime I’d heard from her parents. In my past life, Spencer had approached me with practiced ease, showering me with subtle affection and quickly maxing out my favorability. His reward was becoming the undisputed heir to the city’s largest conglomerate. At my funeral, I’d watched him kiss Anabelle in the walk-in closet, his voice thick with devotion. “Anabelle, you’ve always been the only one I love.” This time, just like before, he approached me with a charming smile. “You must be Isabelle’s sister. It’s a pleasure. I’m Spencer.” I ignored his outstretched hand and remained seated on the sofa. “You might want to get your facts straight, Mr. Lockwood. I’m Isabelle now. The person you’re referring to is named Anabelle.” Spencer blinked, a flash of irritation crossing his eyes before he could hide it. “Spencer, you’re here!” Anabelle’s voice was a burst of delight. She practically flew to his side, linking her arm through his possessively. He tweaked her nose playfully. “I heard your sister had arrived. I came to say hello. And maybe snag a free dinner.” At the mention of me, Anabelle’s mood soured. “Oh, so you didn’t come to see me. It’s always about my sister, isn’t it? Fine, maybe I should just leave!” Spencer quickly pulled her back, producing a necklace from his pocket with a flourish. “This is the latest piece from Mignot’s. I bought it the second it was released. Now, tell me, who was I thinking of?” A blush crept up Anabelle’s cheeks. She cooed for him to put it on her, then shot me a look of pure provocation. [Target’s Affection Score: -20. Current Score: -20. Initiating lightning strike punishment.] Spencer’s hand froze. He stared at me in disbelief. “Isabelle…” Before he could finish, his body shuddered, his face contorting in agony. In my last life, starved for affection, I was putty in his hands. A few trinkets were all it took for him to conquer me. But this time, I was no longer a desperate fool chasing after love. I watched him, my expression unreadable. “Spencer, I want that necklace, too.” Anabelle shrieked instinctively. “No way!” she cried, turning to him. “Spencer, you wouldn’t, would you?” He nodded grimly. “This is a gift for you. I would never…” [Target’s Affection Score: -20. Current Score: -40. Initiating punishment of a thousand needles.] Wracked with a pain so intense he could barely stand, Spencer lunged forward and ripped the necklace from Anabelle’s throat. “I’m sorry, Anabelle, but your sister can have this one! I’ll get you a better one tomorrow, I promise!” He’d been so rough that his nails scratched her neck, leaving a thin line of blood. Anabelle clutched her throat, her voice a wail of betrayal. “Why? Why is everyone doing this to me?” Spencer tried to comfort her, but she shoved him away. He clenched and unclenched his fists, finally forcing a smile in my direction. “Isabelle, the necklace is yours. Does that… make you a little happier?” [Target’s Affection Score: +1. Current Score: -39. Score remains negative. Host is advised to improve it immediately.] A muscle in Spencer’s jaw twitched. His smile became even more strained. I dangled the necklace from my index finger. “Thanks.” 3 After dinner, I headed upstairs. Mrs. Sinclair eagerly led me down the hall. “Isabelle, this is the room we prepared for you. We hope you like it!” Here we go again. The same old script. The room they’d “prepared” was a former maid’s room, a glorified closet that barely saw the light of day. They’d given it a hasty paint job, and the chemical smell of it still hung heavy in the air. Last time, I’d been so grateful, so desperate to be a part of their family, that I accepted it without a word. I thought living in that cramped, dark room would earn me their love. All it earned me was a lonely death. This time, I refused. “Who would want to live in a shoebox like this? I think Anabelle’s room is much nicer. I’ll take that one.” Before Anabelle could even start her tantrum, Mr. Sinclair agreed. “Done.” [Target’s Affection Score: +10. Current Score: 10. Please continue your efforts.] He let out a sigh of relief and quickly ushered his wife and other daughter away, terrified that lingering any longer would cause my score to drop again. The night was deep, but I wasn’t asleep. I tiptoed to my parents’ bedroom. Anabelle was sleeping with them tonight. To my surprise, Spencer was there too. Anabelle was sobbing. “The second she gets here, everything becomes hers! You don’t love me at all! My name, my necklace, even my room… she’s taken everything! You promised I was your only treasure, so why are you treating me like this?” Mrs. Sinclair, her eyes filled with pain, pulled her daughter into an embrace and explained everything about the system. Anabelle didn’t believe it. “That’s ridiculous. Things like that don’t exist.” “It’s true,” her father and Spencer said in unison. Anabelle froze, her red-rimmed eyes wide with shock. “So… you still love me? You’re only being nice to her to raise your scores and get the rewards?” Spencer nodded. “Of course! Do you really think we could ever like someone as crude and unrefined as her? Anabelle, you’re the one we cherish.” Mr. Sinclair added, “She’s just some wild girl raised in the middle of nowhere. She can’t hold a candle to you. A few sweet words and cheap gifts, and she’ll be eating out of our hands.” Mrs. Sinclair patted Anabelle’s back reassuringly. “You’re our precious daughter. If it weren’t for the system, we’d never let you suffer like this. Just wait. Once the mission is complete, you can do whatever you want to her.” Anabelle’s tears finally stopped, a smile breaking through. Watching them, I felt nothing. In my last life, a few of Anabelle’s hand-me-down dresses and bits of jewelry were enough to make me weep with gratitude. I fell headfirst into their trap, willingly handing over my affection point by point. Only now, looking back, did I realize that not a single one of them, not the Sinclairs, not Spencer, had ever respected me. They never even saw me as human. [Target’s Affection Score: +10 for each host. Please continue your efforts.] The system’s voice chimed for all three of them simultaneously. They looked around, confused. “What was that? We didn’t do anything.” Anabelle let out a condescending laugh. “She’s probably lying in my bed right now, feeling so grateful to Mom and Dad. Maybe she’s even clutching that necklace Spencer gave her, smiling to herself and thinking he’s actually falling for her.” Spencer scoffed. “As if. I would never fall for a woman like that.” They didn’t understand. The higher you climb, the harder you fall. After gifting them a few points, I returned to my spacious, beautiful new room and slept soundly. Once the truth was out in the open among them, they dropped all pretenses. A river of gifts flowed into my room as they focused solely on raising my score. Mr. Sinclair found any excuse to wire money to my account. Soon, all three of their scores hit 90. But for the past few weeks, Mr. Sinclair had been growing anxious. His score was stuck at 90. No matter what he bought me, it wouldn’t budge. Mrs. Sinclair and Spencer were facing the same problem. After a hushed conference, they decided to throw a massive birthday party for me. It just so happened to be Anabelle’s birthday, too. At the party, Mr. Sinclair publicly announced my true identity as his long-lost daughter and presented me with a lavish gift, his eyes shining with fatherly pride. In my previous life, the Sinclairs never once acknowledged me. Anabelle told everyone I was her personal maid. The other wealthy daughters treated me like a pack mule, loading me up with their shopping bags and sometimes even hitting me when they were in a bad mood. I endured it all for the sake of a family that never wanted me, trying so desperately to be the good, obedient child they craved. The moment their mission was complete, they cast me aside. I died without ever receiving a single drop of genuine love from them. This time, I lifted my glass of champagne, walked over to Anabelle, and poured its entire contents over her perfectly coiffed head. Anabelle shrieked. “Ah— what are you doing?!” Her exquisite makeup streamed down her face, leaving her a pathetic, dripping mess. I calmly handed my empty glass to a waiter. “Dad just announced that I’m the true Sinclair heiress. You’re an imposter who’s been living my life for years. Don’t you think you deserve a little punishment for that?” All eyes swiveled to Mr. Sinclair. He was famous for doting on Anabelle, for never even raising his voice to her. Now that I had publicly humiliated her, how would he react? A vein throbbed in his temple. He looked ready to explode. Just as he was about to erupt, the system’s voice cut through the air.

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My father won five million dollars in the lottery. My friend and I were planning to open a shop, just three thousand dollars short. I asked my family for a loan, but they flatly refused. “How old are you? Solve your own problems.” “Our money doesn’t grow on trees. Why should we let you waste it all?” Left with no choice, I took out a high-interest online loan. Just after the money arrived in my account, my cousin posted a picture of a brand-new Electric Falcon 7 on social media. “Thanks to Uncle for the support, I finally got the car I’ve been dreaming of.” It was then I realized that because my uncle casually mentioned his son wanted a car, my father had immediately transferred two hundred thousand dollars to him. Hearing that he hadn’t even bothered with an IOU, I felt utterly disheartened. Ten days later, my mother called, immediately launching into a furious tirade. “Ethan, it’s your father’s birthday today. Why aren’t you coming back to celebrate?” “Not even a phone call. What kind of son are you?” “Raising a dog would be better than raising you!” I calmly replied: “If that’s the case, then just pretend you never raised me.” 1 No sooner had I spoken than my mother exploded. “Are you even human? You’re making me furious! After twenty years of hard work, I raised such an ungrateful brat!” “We gave birth to you, raised you, fed you, clothed you, sent you to college. Now your wings are strong?” “How dare you say such things to us?” Her voice was sharp, every word laced with poison. “I get it. It’s just because we didn’t lend you money to open your shop last time, isn’t it?” “What a joke! With your pathetic self, you think you can start a business?” “With that little bit of skill, you’ll lose everything after three days of enthusiasm!” “Three thousand dollars thrown into water would at least make a splash. Given to you? You probably wouldn’t even have a whisper left!” She grew more agitated with each insult, her words becoming increasingly hurtful. “The money is ours. How we use it is none of your business!” “You good-for-nothing, can’t earn money so you eye your family’s wealth. Have you no shame?” “I’m telling you, even if this money is thrown away, burned, or donated, it’s better than you throwing it down the drain!” “You’re not cut out for business. Just get a regular job and earn your few thousand dollars.” “Your ambition is sky-high, but your fate is thin as paper. That’s exactly what a waste like you is!” I gripped the phone, my fingertips icy, silent. On the other end, I heard her ragged breathing, as if she was about to faint from anger, interspersed with sounds of her slapping her chest and others trying to console her. After a while, someone else took the phone. “Ethan, it’s your Aunt Lillian.” “Don’t be angry with your mother. She only means well.” “You, son, how could you not come back for your father’s birthday, such an important occasion?” “What’s so difficult that a family can’t get past it?” “Your parents worked hard to raise you. What will relatives and friends think if they knew you were acting like this?” “You can’t be so selfish…” She stood on her moral high ground, rattling off those righteous words like a mantra. I listened quietly until she angrily asked, “Why exactly won’t you come back? You must have a reason, right?” I took a deep breath. “The reason is simple.” “My father casually gave you two hundred thousand dollars to buy a car, without even needing an IOU.” “But when I needed just three thousand for my startup, he wouldn’t lend me a single cent.” “Is that reason enough?” The line went silent for a moment. A few seconds later, Aunt Lillian’s voice became hesitant. “Well, this… this was your father’s decision. We couldn’t really say anything…” “Besides, that money was a loan to your cousin. He’ll pay it back eventually…” “Pay it back?” I interrupted her. “Without an IOU, how will he pay it back? Aunt Lillian, honestly, do you even believe what you’re saying?” She choked, unable to utter a coherent sentence. At that moment, my mother snatched the phone back, her rage burning even fiercer due to my defiance. “Yes! We gave it to him! So what?” “Our money, we can give it to whoever we want!” “We’re happy to buy your cousin a car! What right do you have to question me? Who do you think you are?” “I’m telling you, Ethan, with your attitude, you’ll never get a single cent from us again!” “Opening a shop? If you lose money, go sell your blood, sell your kidney!” “Just don’t come to us!” “We raised you for so long, and you haven’t shown much promise, but you’ve learned to tally up debts with your family?” “Your cousin at least knows gratitude. He often comes back to visit us during holidays.” “And you? Haven’t shown your face in half a year, and the one time you call, it’s for money!” “Do we owe you something?” “If I had known you were this kind of person, I should have aborted you when I was pregnant!” 2 I listened, and a sudden urge to laugh welled up. When her shouting finally paused, I spoke softly: “You’re right.” “It’s your money. Give it to whoever you want.” “I truly have no right to question it.” I paused, feeling my throat tighten, but I pressed on. “Since that’s the case, from now on, pretend you never had me.” “I’ll disappear quietly. I won’t ask you for another cent, and I won’t bother you again.” A few seconds later, my mother’s furious scream came through the phone. I didn’t listen further and hung up. The world was finally quiet. I stared at my phone screen. The three thousand dollars from the online loan had been deposited. The interest was high, and the repayment schedule was suffocating. Originally, this should have been a warm start, backed by my parents’ support. Now, it was just a debt. I opened my cousin’s social media. The post showing off his Electric Falcon 7 was still there. In the photo, he sat in the brand-new driver’s seat, hands on the steering wheel, a radiant smile on his face. Below it was a string of likes and congratulations, my parents’ accounts prominently featured. They had even commented things like, “Family doesn’t need formalities,” and “Our nephew is so accomplished.” How ironic. From childhood, my parents were always exceptionally strict with me. No noise while eating, perfect posture, always in the top ten academically. As for pocket money? Non-existent. They’d say, “What does a child need money for? Just focus on your studies.” But whenever my cousin, Leo, came to visit, my father would always smile and pull a few bills from his wallet, tucking them into Leo’s hand. “Here, Leo, buy something nice.” Then he’d turn to me and say, “You’re the older brother, you should defer to your younger cousin.” I was eight then, Leo was six. In sixth grade, I saved up three months’ worth of discarded items to sell, just enough to get twenty dollars to buy a set of encyclopedias. My mother found out, confiscated the money, and lectured me. “What’s the use of reading these frivolous books? You should be doing more math problems with that time.” The next day, I saw Leo playing wildly with a new remote-control car in the living room. That car cost exactly twenty dollars. In middle school, the school organized a field trip to the Ocean Park, costing one hundred and fifty dollars. I cautiously asked my parents. My father didn’t even look up. “What’s so great about that place? It’s a waste of money. Stay home and study on the weekend.” I locked myself in my room until I heard laughter from the living room. My uncle’s family had arrived, and my father excitedly announced that he would take Leo to the Ocean Park next week. “Don’t worry about the expensive tickets, your Uncle will take you. We’ll play all we want!” Later, I cried under my blanket. That was the first time I wondered if I was truly their biological child. But the next day, my mother earnestly told me, “We are strict with you because we have high expectations for you.” “Your cousin’s family isn’t well off. We should help them when we can.” “You’re the older brother, you need to be sensible.” Her words were so sincere, her eyes so earnest, that my doubts felt like a sin. Throughout my three years of high school, my monthly allowance was fifty dollars. At school, that money was barely enough for the cheapest cafeteria meals, and I often went hungry. I dared not participate in any activities that required money. Even sending a greeting card for a classmate’s birthday was something I hesitated over for a long time. Once, my father visited me at school and happened to see me eating plain rice with free seaweed soup in the cafeteria. He frowned. “Why are you eating so poorly? This is when you’re growing. You need balanced nutrition.” I thought he pitied me, that he would give me more money. Instead, he turned around and said, “But it’s good to be tough. It builds character.” A few days later, I heard Leo had enrolled in piano lessons, tuition costing four hundred and eighty dollars. My father sponsored two-thirds of it. I went to college out of state, thinking I could finally breathe. But my living expenses were still tight, eighty dollars a month. After paying for phone and internet, there was barely enough left for food. My roommates would gather for meals, go to the movies, shop, all happily. I could only find excuses to stay in the library. Once, I couldn’t refuse, bit the bullet and went, then ate instant noodles for half a month afterward. During winter break of my sophomore year, I was going to the bathroom at night and overheard a conversation from my parents’ bedroom. “Honey, is Ethan’s allowance too little? Prices have gone up.” My father frowned. “Too little? What’s too little? Boys need to be raised tough.” “By the way, Leo said yesterday he wanted a new phone. I took three hundred from your account.” My mother chuckled softly. “That’s fine. The boy is so sweet. He even said he’d take care of us when he earns money.” I stood outside the door, my hands and feet freezing. 3 After graduating from college, I struggled to find a job. I called home, cautiously asking if they could help me look for any opportunities. My father was blunt: “We don’t have those connections. You need to make your own way.” “Also, we won’t spend another cent on you. You’re twenty-two; it’s time to be independent.” That month, I lived in a partitioned room in a slum, eating two steamed buns a day. I submitted hundreds of resumes, received only three interview invitations, all of which failed. At my lowest point, I had only seven dollars and thirty cents left in my bank account. Just as I was at my wit’s end, my cousin’s social media updated. He had landed a job at a local state-owned enterprise, with excellent benefits. In the photo, he wore a brand-new suit, with an impressive office building in the background. My parents were the first to comment below: “Our nephew is amazing!” “Keep up the good work. Auntie is proud of you!” I later learned that my father had pulled several strings to get him that position. He had an old classmate who was a manager there. My father treated him to three dinners, gave him two good cartons of cigarettes and a large cash gift, just to get my cousin in. I asked my mother why. She replied casually, “Your cousin doesn’t have as good an education as you. If we don’t help him, who will?” “You’re a graduate from a top university. Do you still need someone to worry about you?” Every single incident, taken individually, could be given a righteous excuse by them. To toughen me up, to help relatives, to make me independent, to be fair… These justifications, strung together, formed the fabric of my life for over twenty years. Putting down my phone, I started packing. This tiny apartment, less than ten square meters, was my only refuge after graduation. A bed, a simple wardrobe, a secondhand desk—that was all my worldly possessions. As I cleaned out the desk drawer, I found an old tin box. Opening it, I found a few odds and ends: an elementary school award certificate for good citizenship, a middle school math competition certificate, a photocopy of my university acceptance letter, and a few crumpled family photos. The newest family photo was taken two springs ago. I stood at the very edge, my expression stiff. My cousin stood between my parents, smiling brightly. My father’s hand rested on my cousin’s shoulder, and my mother had her arm around him. Anyone who didn’t know us would think they were the biological father and son. I stared at the photo for a long time, then tore it in half, then into shreds, and threw it into the trash. The next day, I went to work as usual. During my lunch break, I received a call from an unknown number. “Ethan, it’s me, your Uncle James.” I paused. “Can I help you?” “What did you mean by that yesterday? What do you mean, ‘pretend you never had me’?” “Do you know how furious your mother is right now? Her blood pressure is through the roof!” I coldly replied, “Then you should take her to the hospital, not call me.” “You!” Uncle James choked. “How did you become like this? Do you know how hard your parents worked to raise you?” “Is it just because we didn’t lend you money? Does it have to escalate to this?” “It’s not just about the money, but it doesn’t matter anymore.” “Is there anything else? I need to rest.” “Wait!” Uncle James quickly said, “There’s something I need to clarify. About your cousin’s car… that money, your father offered to give it. We didn’t ask for it!” “And we will definitely pay it back, we’re just a bit tight on cash right now…” “Uncle James,” I interrupted him. “Whether you pay it back or not is between you and my father. It has nothing to do with me.” “I’m still taking my nap. Hanging up.” “Ethan! Ethan!” I hung up the phone and blocked the number. During a break at work that afternoon, I secretly searched for commercial rental information, contacting several real estate agents. After work, I looked at two places, neither ideal. Either the rent was too high, or the location wasn’t good. That night, I returned to my apartment and made a bowl of instant noodles. As I was eating, there was a knock at the door. I opened it to find my parents, along with a few relatives. Uncle James, Aunt Lillian, and a distant aunt. They squeezed into the narrow apartment, all looking grim. “Ethan, you’ve really grown up, haven’t you?!” My mother spoke first, her voice sharp and piercing. “Saying such outrageous things on the phone, and even cutting ties with us? Who taught you that?!” “Exactly, it’s utterly disgraceful.” Aunt Lillian folded her arms, her eyes sweeping around the room, her lips pursed. “Your parents worked so hard to come here, and you’re making your elders stand?”

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By the new intern’s second week, I kept a dark blazer at my desk out of habit. It was necessary. Whenever I wore a dress, she’d conveniently pass by and “compliment” me loud enough for the whole office: “So brave, Summer! Wearing a princess dress with skin that dark.” Nathaniel—my boyfriend and my boss—just watched, sometimes chuckling with the guys. If I stumbled with files, she’d clap and say I was faking it. If I drank strawberry milk, she’d clutch plain milk and ask if I was trying to act like a kid. I endured it, over and over. Until yesterday’s presentation. She glared at a typo on my slide and remarked, dripping with meaning: “Some people dress to get attention, but can’t even do their work right.” Every eye turned to me and Nathaniel. All the anger I’d held in finally snapped. I threw my half-full water glass in her face. Before I could process it, Nathaniel stood and threw his coffee at me, in front of everyone. That night, I resigned. 1 When Nathaniel threw the coffee, I didn’t flinch. The scalding liquid streamed down, soaking into my blouse. He’d thrown it with such force that the cup made a dull thud against my cheek before clattering to the floor. A fiery, stinging pain shot through my nerves as my skin instantly turned a blotchy red. I looked up at him, stunned. His hand was still frozen in the air, as if he, too, was shocked for a moment. But that flicker of surprise was immediately replaced by a deeper, more profound annoyance. “Summer, did you have to make a scene? Right here, right now?” The blue glow of the projector highlighted the sharp, tense line of his jaw, making him look like a stranger. Whispers broke out around the conference table. Some people ducked their heads, pretending to be absorbed in their documents. Amber Jones, the intern, slowly closed her laptop, a small, triumphant smile playing on her lips. “Easy there, Mr. Shaw. Don’t be so harsh. Look, you’ve scared the poor girl speechless.” Her words were like gasoline on a fire. Nathaniel snatched a folder and slammed it onto the table. The loud bang made everyone jump. He glared at me, his face a cold mask. “This is a professional office, not your living room. Anyone who can’t separate their personal drama from their work has no place on this team. This is your only warning. One more time, and you’re out.” The room was deathly silent. I touched my dripping face and felt a hysterical laugh bubble up inside me. Twelve years. I had known Nathaniel since we were kids. I had been in love with him for twelve years. He always said I was immature, too emotional. But this was the first time he had ever publicly humiliated me. My eyes burned. The suppressed snickers in the room felt like a tidal wave, washing over me as colleagues whispered to each other. Amber leaned against Nathaniel’s side, her red lips curved into a victorious smile. I couldn’t take it anymore. I turned and walked out of the conference room. I didn’t know where I was going, but I knew I couldn’t stay there, facing them. Outside, the sunlight was blinding. The glass doors of the office building reflected my pathetic image: makeup streaked and ruined by the brown liquid. I went to a convenience store and bought a pack of wet wipes and a face mask. The young cashier girl looked at my sorry state and quietly slipped two extra strawberry candies into my bag. Clutching the candy wrappers, I stood by a trash can, and was suddenly thrown back to my first day of kindergarten. Nathaniel had done the same thing then, pressing a strawberry candy into my palm and promising he’d always be there for me. 2 Nathaniel and I went way back—back to sharing a playpen and wearing matching onesies. Our families were next-door neighbors, and our moms had joked about arranging our marriage while they were still pregnant. When I started middle school, a group of girls decided to make my life hell. They’d hide my homework, splash ink on my skirts, and “accidentally” hit me with the ball during gym class. The worst of them was the class president, Liz. She once threw a meticulously crafted art project of mine into the trash, then smirked and said, “It was so ugly, the teacher wouldn’t have looked at it anyway.” I went to our homeroom teacher, my eyes red with tears. She just patted my head. “Liz is the class president, Summer. She’s just trying to motivate you to do better.” That night at dinner, I silently pushed rice around my bowl, trying not to cry. My dad noticed something was wrong, and was about to slam his chopsticks down and march to the school. Just then, Nathaniel’s dad stopped by to ask my dad to go fishing. He heard the story and turned, yelling into his living room: “Nathaniel! Starting tomorrow, you walk your sister to and from school!” The next day after school, Nathaniel kicked open the back door of our classroom. He grabbed Liz by the collar, dragged her to the front of the class, and said in a low, dangerous voice, “You’re the one who’s been bullying my sister?” At fourteen, he was already taller than most of the teachers, with a glare that could make a high school thug run for the hills. Liz was shaking like a leaf. Her little gang of followers shrank in their seats, silent. Before he left, Nathaniel tapped the chalkboard with an eraser, sending a cloud of chalk dust into the afternoon sun. “Let’s get this straight. Summer Lane is with me. You got a problem with her, you got a problem with me. Got it?” After that, no one ever bothered me again. And I, in turn, stuck to Nathaniel like glue. When he played basketball, I held his jacket on the sidelines. When he went to the internet cafe with his friends, I sat on a stool beside him, doing my homework. Nathaniel would always scowl at me. “Summer, can you please stop following me everywhere? My friends are making fun of me because of you.” But I didn’t care. Day after day, year after year, his gruff dismissals softened into resigned sighs. At the university freshman orientation party, I performed a dance in a white dress. When I came off stage, I saw him clutching my jacket, his eyes darting away, a suspicious blush creeping up his neck. “Seen enough?” I teased, poking his chest. He was so flustered he dropped his phone, fumbling three times before he could pick it up. “Who—who was looking at you? I was watching the host…” Later, at a family New Year’s dinner, our parents started teasing us. “So, when are we making this childhood engagement official?” Nathaniel didn’t say anything. He just quietly peeled a shrimp and dropped it into my bowl. I ducked my head to hide my smile. The idiot’s ears were so red they looked like they were about to bleed. 3 Life was moving along predictably until Amber Jones showed up. Amber was the new intern, and on her first day, she made the rounds with a tray of Starbucks, handing out coffees to everyone. “Please take good care of me, everyone!” As she passed my desk, the ends of her chestnut curls brushed against my keyboard, and the cloying scent of her perfume made me sneeze. She stopped, her eyes widening in mock surprise as she took in my pink computer, pink thermos, and pink mousepad. “Oh. My. God,” she gasped, taking a dramatic step back and covering her mouth. A peal of laughter erupted from her. “It’s the 21st century. Are there really girls who are still obsessed with pink?” The entire office looked up. My ears burned. The stares of my colleagues felt like needles on my back. Amber wasn’t done. “Wow, you even have a pink mouse! And is that a Lolita-style dress you’re wearing?!” A buzzing filled my ears. I’ve always loved cute, pink things and frilly dresses. It was a preference that had always drawn comments—some boys in elementary school had called me a poser, some girls thought I was being extra. But most people were kind, telling me the style suited me. This was the first time I had been so maliciously mocked in public. The shame was suffocating, as if I’d been stripped naked in front of everyone. I froze, my cheeks on fire, my fingers twisting the hem of my dress. “Oh, sweetie, I’m just kidding! You’re not actually mad, are you?” Amber leaned in conspiratorially. “Honestly, the pink Lolita thing is cute on you. It makes you look so… young.” “That’s enough,” a sharp voice cut in. I turned to see Nathaniel, his brow furrowed, his gaze like daggers aimed at Amber. “You’re a new intern. Is this really how you want to spend your first day? This isn’t a comedy club. One more stunt like this and you’re out.” But Amber’s eyes just lit up. She tilted her head, sizing him up, and bit her lip with a playful smile. “I’m so sorry. I was just trying to be friendly with my new colleague. I promise it won’t happen again.” HR eventually intervened and, in a stroke of cosmic irony, assigned Amber to the desk diagonally across from Nathaniel. From then on, she paraded around the office every day in flawless “no-makeup” makeup and four-inch heels. Sometimes, she would “accidentally” spill coffee on Nathaniel’s reports, then apologize with a pout. Other times, she would lean over his desk to ask for help, “unintentionally” flashing her lace bra and cooing, “Nate, can you help me check these numbers?” And I never wore one of my Lolita-style dresses to the office again. Two months later, I realized with a jolt that Nathaniel and Amber had actually become friends. That morning, he brought me breakfast as usual. But instead of my favorite strawberry yogurt drink, it was a carton of plain milk. “Milk makes me break out, remember?” I asked, holding the carton. Nathaniel was busy adjusting Amber’s monitor. “Don’t be so dramatic,” he said without turning around. “You’re twenty-five, not five. Stop drinking that sugary kids’ stuff.” Amber turned around, twirling the carton of milk she was drinking between her fingers. “Sorry, sweetie! I was the one who wanted milk. But honestly, what kind of adult still drinks that syrupy-sweet stuff?” She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You’re not trying to act younger than you are, are you?” Smack. I slapped the milk carton down on her keyboard. White liquid splattered across her brand-new designer blouse. “Do you just love telling other people what they should like?” The office fell silent. Amber’s eyes instantly welled with tears. “I… I just thought milk was healthier. Summer, please don’t be mad. It’s my fault.” “Summer!” Nathaniel grabbed my wrist. “It’s not like you’re lactose intolerant. What’s the big deal? And Amber’s not wrong. You need to grow up and act your age.” I looked at the impatience in his eyes and suddenly lost the will to argue. 4 Amber’s attacks became a slow-drip poison in my professional life. At lunch, if I used a sanitary wipe to clean my utensils, she’d tap her bowl with her chopsticks and announce, “Attention everyone! Her Royal Highness is about to dine!” Her clique would perform exaggerated bows, and someone even started filming. When the department rearranged the seating chart, I was carrying a heavy box and stumbled. Amber started laughing and clapping. “Look, everyone! The Disney princess can’t carry her box! Where’s Prince Charming to come to the rescue?” She’d playfully shove a male colleague toward me. “Go on, it’s an honor to help a princess in distress!” At first, Nathaniel would frown and say, “This is an office, not a playground.” Amber would just sway his arm and pout. “Oh, you’re no fun! It’s just a joke. Summer doesn’t mind, right?” But lately, Nathaniel had started just watching in silence. Amber would lean in close to him, whispering just loud enough for me to hear, “Don’t you think she’s just so… fake? That whole innocent act doesn’t really fit in with the rest of us. I’m just trying to help her fit in, you know? For the team.” I saw Nathaniel’s eyelashes flutter. After a moment, he gave a quiet, “Hmm.” In that moment, I understood. In his eyes, my love for frilly dresses was just an affectation. My preferences were childish. So when I saw Amber toying with Nathaniel’s tie clip later that day, shooting me a triumphant smirk, for the first time, I didn’t feel a pang of jealousy. On the first day back after the New Year, I had just settled at my desk when Amber’s cheerful taunt cut through the morning quiet. “Summer, if I had your confidence, I could do anything! Look at you, wearing a dress like that even when you’re so dark-skinned. If I were you, I’d never dare. Is this look supposed to be Snow White, or more like… African tribal princess?” Nathaniel was sipping his coffee. I saw his shoulders shake with a suppressed laugh, the latte in his mug rippling. Amber, encouraged, pressed on. “And honey, at your age, isn’t it a little late to be playing dress-up…?” The water in my glass flew before my reason could catch up. Her carefully tattooed eyebrows began to melt. The glue on her eyelash extensions turned milky white. Her foundation streaked, carving pale yellow rivers down her cheeks. She looked like a cheap oil painting caught in a downpour. “Summer!” Nathaniel seized my wrist, his grip like iron. “Where are your manners? Apologize to Amber. Now.” His nails dug into my skin. The pain made my vision swim. I stared at his cold, furious face and laughed. “Why should I apologize? For what?” “For throwing water on her!” he snarled, his voice low and menacing. My eyes burned. “Didn’t you hear her? She’s been mocking me for months! If anyone should apologize, it’s her.” “You could have told her to stop. You could have argued back. You don’t get to resort to violence,” he said, his tone infuriatingly self-righteous. “This is a workplace. No one is going to coddle you. Apologize.” I let out a cold laugh. “No. I did nothing wrong, and she doesn’t deserve an apology.” Nathaniel looked at me with an expression of profound disappointment. “How did you become like this? Summer, I’m so disappointed in you.” “Funny. The feeling is mutual.” He opened his mouth to say more, but I cut him off. “Are you done? I said I’m not apologizing. What are you going to do, call the cops?” A bitter, angry smile twisted his lips. He grabbed the cup of coffee from his desk and, without a moment’s hesitation, threw it straight at my face. I froze. For a second, he seemed to freeze too. I took a deep breath, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Nathaniel, we’re done.”

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1 The day my family went bankrupt, I dragged my father back from the rooftop. Turning around, I accepted Lucien’s proposal, but for the dowry, I demanded two million dollars. He was silent for three seconds, then chuckled, “Deal.” Yet, barely half a year into our marriage, he brought his young mistress home. Before I could even react, he tossed our prenuptial agreement in my face. “Don’t get confused about your place. Didn’t you already sell yourself to me back then? That price, it should be enough to buy your subservience for a lifetime, shouldn’t it?” I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my flesh, but I was powerless to retort. It wasn’t until I had a threatened miscarriage, and the medical bill was short by exactly fourteen dollars, that I truly broke. Over the phone, his voice was dismissive: “Didn’t I already pay you what I owed before we got married? What, did you get addicted to being a gold-digger?” He then turned around and spent fourteen million dollars on a necklace for his new lover, a gift for her first night with him. Facing the nurse’s urgent prompt, I forced a smile through my tears. “Forget the medicine. Please schedule me for an abortion.” A marriage bought for two million dollars, it was time for it to end. … No sooner had the words left my lips than a bank transfer notification popped up on my phone. Not a cent more, not a cent less—exactly fourteen dollars. The transfer note contained just a few simple words: “Buy your medicine. Don’t disgrace the Reed name.” I tugged at my lips, a bitter, lifeless smile. Fourteen dollars was enough to cover that specific medical bill, but not enough for the abortion procedure. I knew Lucien wouldn’t give me any more money. I had no choice but to swallow my pride and reach out to old friends, hoping to borrow three hundred and seventeen dollars. With that, combined with the money I had and Lucien’s fourteen dollars, it would just cover the cost of a standard abortion. But when the messages were sent, replies quickly came in. “Oh, is the great Ms. Evans short on cash? Did two million dollars run out that fast?” “Tsk, tsk, if you hadn’t haggled like that back then and broken Lucien’s heart, you wouldn’t be shamelessly begging for a few hundred dollars now!” A torrent of mocking messages flooded my screen. But they no longer stung my heart as they once did. In a way, I had become numb, accustomed to it. Accustomed to Lucien treating our marriage as a transaction, and me as an item he’d purchased for two million. Accustomed to his friends’ sneers and sarcastic remarks, finding new ways to call me a gold-digger. Accustomed to the embarrassment of an empty wallet, repeatedly trampling my dignity to beg Lucien for charity. In truth, at first, I thought I had hands and feet, I could surely cover my normal expenses. I might even save two million to repay the money I’d borrowed from Lucien under the guise of a dowry. But Lucien had cut off every path for me to earn money. “I’ve already paid two million to buy out the rest of your life. From now on, your time, your freedom, are mine.” He used the tactic of forcing me to beg him for money to vent his resentment towards me. He hated me for treating our love as a bargaining chip for money, believing I had deceived him for three years, only to reveal my true colors for cash. I had explained many times, but he never had the patience to listen. “What’s the point of so many excuses?” he’d say. “You asked for the money. We’ve become this way, and you only have yourself to blame.” My phone suddenly chimed. Someone had transferred me three hundred and seventy-one dollars, saying it was a “reward” for how satisfying it was to insult me. I wiped the coldness from my face, smiled at the nurse, and said, “I can pay now. Please arrange the procedure for me as soon as possible.” But I didn’t have enough money for a pain pump. I could only lie wide awake on the cold operating table, feeling cold sweat slowly soak my hair and back. I could even clearly feel the instruments entering my body, scraping repeatedly inside. As the tearing pain hit, I thought of Lucien again. He once held me in his arms, gently stroking my head. “After we get married, we can have a child. Boy or girl, I’ll love you both with my life.” But when I actually became pregnant, he said: “Alright, how much money are you going to demand for the child this time?” No more, Lucien. I want nothing more. Money, love, and you—I want none of it. After an unbearable amount of time, the surgery finally ended. As the instruments withdrew, the surrounding sounds gradually returned. The nurse unfastened the restraints on my legs and helped me to an observation bed for half an hour. I stared blankly at the dark sky outside the window, tears falling one by one. Suddenly, a solitary firework shot up, bursting into bloom in the sky. Then, a city-wide display of brilliant fireworks followed. I watched the night sky, bright as day, in a daze. I overheard the envious whispers of a few young nurses: “Did you hear? CEO Reed specially arranged this for his sweetheart! His girlfriend is so lucky!” “Oh, what girlfriend? CEO Reed has a wife! But I heard she’s a gold-digger. She’s doing worse than his household staff now!” On the way home, I dragged my aching lower body, each step a struggle. An empty taxi pulled up in front of me, rolling down its window to ask where I was going. I waved my hand with difficulty. “No need.” I couldn’t afford the fare. So, step by step, I walked towards the house, ten miles away. Along the way, many people were reminiscing and marveling at tonight’s grand firework display. “It was so beautiful! If someone could set off fireworks like that for me, my life would be complete, boohoohoo!” “What are you dreaming about? Do you think everyone is CEO Reed’s girlfriend? Look at that woman, her face is so pale, and no one cares for her either!” I instinctively looked up at the two young girls whispering. They instantly blushed, quickly saying they didn’t mean anything, and asked if I needed help. I shook my head with a smile. What I wanted to say was, I once had fireworks like that too. Once, I had someone who cared. That was the day Lucien proposed to me. He knelt before me, holding a ring in one hand, his eyes red. “Clara, you’re the most special girl I’ve ever met. I’m willing to spend my life cherishing and loving you.” “Will you marry me?” Behind him, fireworks more dazzling than today’s erupted. But at that moment, I had just pulled my despairing father back from the rooftop. Creditors were still besieging my house, threatening my mother and seven-year-old sister if I didn’t pay them back immediately. I had no choice. So I could only say to him, “Lucien, can you… lend me two million dollars?” His expression instantly turned cold, the deep affection in his eyes slowly receding. He slowly stood up, a sarcastic smile playing on his lips. “Everyone says you’re with me to climb the social ladder. At first, I didn’t believe it.” “Clara Evans, you’re truly patient. You waited until I proposed to you, until it was public knowledge, to show your true colors.” He scoffed, raising his hand to stop the fireworks. He pulled a check from his pocket and threw it at my face. “Fine, you’re quite cheap, too.” From that day on, our relationship soured. No matter how much I explained, I couldn’t shed the label of “gold-digger.” With Lucien’s tacit approval, I became the most pathetic joke in the entire city’s elite circles. Even his housekeeper earned thirty thousand dollars a month, while I had to beg him for even three dollars. I kept enduring, hoping that one day his anger would subside, and he would listen to my explanation. Until the first time he brought another woman home, I completely lost it. But he merely looked at me indifferently, asking what right I had to be angry with him. He said he had already paid to buy our marriage, and even if he brought a hundred women home, it was my own doing. In that moment, my heart was shredded, yet I couldn’t utter a single word in my own defense. Against the bitter wind of early winter, I walked for six hours, finally arriving home at one AM. Pushing open the front door, the house was filled with comfortable warmth. Just as I was about to use my last bit of strength to walk to the bedroom, I heard a girl’s sweet voice from the sofa. “Sister’s back! Where’s my candy apple?” I looked at the delicate girl in Lucien’s arms, startled, and instinctively asked, “What candy apple?” “Stop playing dumb! Didn’t I message you to buy a candy apple for Maya when you came back?” Lucien sneered, sizing me up. “I spent so much money, and you can’t even fulfill such a small request?” My phone had already died. I bit my lip, forcing out a reply. “Buy your own.” Perhaps my cold attitude angered Lucien. He sprang up from the sofa, looking at me testily. “What, you want money again? Didn’t I just give you fourteen dollars? That’s enough for a candy apple, isn’t it?” “Go buy it right now! If you can’t get one, don’t come back!” I looked at him, incredulous. In the past six months, this wasn’t the first time Lucien had spoken to me in such a tone. I thought I was already numb. But a dull ache spread through my chest, even more devastating than the cramping in my abdomen. Outside, it was only a few degrees, and even through the window, I could hear the howling wind. It was past one AM. Where was I supposed to buy a candy apple? Seeing me frozen in place, Lucien scoffed. “What, still not moving? You want more money?” Lucien mockingly pulled a red bill from his wallet and threw it on the floor without looking. “Is this enough?” He paused, sizing me up as if searching for something. “You asked me for money tonight, saying you needed medicine. Where’s the medicine?” “Clara Evans, you’re truly unscrupulous for money now. Are you lying even about fourteen dollars?” Medicine? The baby was gone, what use was medicine? Before I could speak, Lucien waved over a bodyguard, who roughly pushed me out the door. Through the door, his voice sounded even colder. “If you can’t buy a candy apple, you can stay outside all night.” Then, I heard a light, coquettish female voice, followed by intimate, suggestive sounds. I instinctively wanted to get away from that sound, but I didn’t even have the strength to walk. I could only lean against the door and slowly squat down, sitting on the steps outside. The biting cold wind seeped in through my collar, thoroughly chilling my already lifeless heart. In a daze, I heard the door open behind me. The next second, Lucien’s anxious curse: “Clara Evans, are you crazy?! Can’t you find somewhere warm?!” “What’s the point of playing the victim?!” Then, I seemed to fall into a warm embrace. I thought it must be a hallucination. Lucien hated me so much now, he wouldn’t worry about me. I don’t know how long I slept, but when I opened my eyes, I saw Lucien’s ashen face. “Finally stopped pretending? It’s just a candy apple. Do you have to put on a show for me?” “What, do you want the world to know you were pregnant and almost froze to death at the Reed’s doorstep, so you can demand more money?” I opened my mouth, wanting to retort. But my throat was dry and painfully scratchy. Lucien looked away, no longer at me, and shouted out the door, “Where’s the family doctor? Why isn’t he here yet?!” “Don’t let her die in my house!” Tears silently streamed from the corners of my eyes. Lucien, what exactly do you want? You’re the one who hated me so much you wished me dead, and now you’re the one who’s afraid I’ll die. I closed my eyes, my voice hoarse and unpleasant: “Lucien, let’s get a divorce.” He spun around, as if he’d heard a joke. “Divorce? Fine. You give me back two million, and I’ll agree to a divorce.” He seemed to remember something suddenly, paused, then scoffed. “I know what it is. You think you can extort more money now that you’re pregnant with my child, don’t you?” “Tell me, how much do you want this time? Two million? Or five million?” I couldn’t hold back the injustice any longer, blurting out, “Our baby is already gone—” However, before I could finish, Maya’s exaggerated retching suddenly came from outside the door. Just then, the family doctor rushed in. After a series of examinations, the doctor hesitated before speaking: “Mr. Reed, Ms. Maya Sterling appears to be pregnant.” Boom! Something seemed to collapse completely at that moment.

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“Babe, did the bonus hit your account yet?” Ryan’s text message arrived five seconds before the notification from my bank. $120,000. After taxes, it was a clean $87,300. Before I could even screenshot it for him, another message buzzed through. “Perfect timing. I’ve got a sure-fire investment lined up, 18% annual return. Can you wire over $80,000?” I stared at the screen, a sudden chill creeping over me. In five years of marriage, this was the third time he’d asked me for a large sum of money. The first time, for a “startup.” $20,000. The second, to “pay off a debt.” $15,000. And now, this. I didn’t reply. Instead, I opened my banking app and transferred the entire $87,300 into a savings account he knew nothing about. Then, I texted him back. “The company’s tightening its belt this year. They’ve delayed the bonuses.” Three minutes later, Ryan called. I declined it. Two hours after that, I walked into our apartment. His side of the closet was empty. The small cash box we kept in the nightstand was gone. Even the heirloom gold bracelet my mother had given me was missing. I stood in the center of our bedroom and, to my own surprise, I laughed. Five years. It took five years for the fox to finally show its tail. 1 I didn’t call the police. And I didn’t call Ryan. I just stood there, in the middle of our ransacked bedroom, and methodically took a picture of every drawer pulled open, every item disturbed. All his clothes from the closet were gone. But my cashmere coat, the one he’d told me was “too expensive, don’t buy it,” was crumpled on the floor with two muddy footprints ground into the fabric. The nightstand had been pried open. It used to hold two things of value: my emergency cash fund of $12,000, and my mother’s savings bonds, worth another $8,000. She’d given them to me before she passed. All gone. I knelt, my hand sweeping under the bed, and my fingers brushed against a crumpled piece of paper. A receipt. From three days ago. Airline tickets. Two of them. To Miami. I stared at the two names printed in stark black ink: Ryan Peterson, and Zoe Reed. Zoe Reed. I’d seen that name before. It was on his phone once, a notification that flashed on the screen. Can’t wait, Ry. He told me she was just a new intern at his firm who’d added the wrong person. I believed him. Looking back now, I must have been blind. My phone rang, shattering the silence. It was Sarah. “Anna, where are you? It’s your birthday! The girls are all waiting for you at the bar!” I glanced at the calendar on my phone. January 18th. My 32nd birthday. “I…” I started, but the words caught in my throat. I didn’t know what to say. Sarah’s tone shifted instantly. “What’s wrong? What happened? Don’t move, I’m on my way.” Thirty minutes later, Sarah stood in my doorway, her face turning to stone as she took in the chaos of the apartment. “He ran?” she asked, her voice low and dangerous. “Yeah.” “How much did he take?” “The $20,000 from the nightstand, my mom’s gold bracelet, and…” I hesitated. “Whatever was left in his own checking account, maybe five or six thousand.” Sarah stomped her foot in fury. “I told you that man was a snake! I told you not to marry him, but you wouldn’t listen! And now look!” I stayed silent. Then a sudden thought struck her. “Wait, what about your bonus? The $87,000?” I pulled out my phone, opened the banking app, and showed her the balance. $87,300. “It’s safe,” I said. Sarah let out a huge sigh of relief. “Oh, thank God for that.” I sank onto the sofa, my mind a tangled mess. “What was his endgame? For just twenty grand?” Sarah sat beside me, a bitter scoff escaping her lips. “You really think it was just about the twenty grand? Anna, think about how much you’ve spent on him over the last five years.” I froze. When I actually did the math, the numbers were staggering. The down payment on our apartment: $80,000 from my savings. The renovations: another $40,000, all me. His two “business ventures” and “debts”: a combined $35,000. And that didn’t even include the five years of groceries, bills, and vacations. “He’s drained you for hundreds of thousands, at least,” Sarah said, her voice softening as she watched my face. “Anna, you’re just too trusting.” I didn’t argue. She was right. My dad died when I was young, and my mom raised me on her own. Before she passed, she told me the thing she worried about most was me. She said I was too soft, my heart too easily swayed. When Ryan was trying to win me over, he was the perfect gentleman. He’d wait outside my office every day, bring me an umbrella when it rained, and cook soup for me when I was sick. My mom met him once and said, “He seems like such a steady, honest guy. You won’t get hurt with him.” Honest? I glanced at the plane ticket receipt on the floor. The irony was a physical ache in my chest. My phone rang again. It was him. Ryan. I answered, and his voice was as warm and gentle as always. “Hey, babe. Are you off work yet?” “Yeah.” “Okay, well, you’ll have to grab dinner on your own tonight. The office sent me on a last-minute business trip. It’s urgent, I’ll probably be gone for a week.” A business trip? For a week? I looked at his empty half of the closet and felt a hysterical laugh bubbling up inside me. “Okay. You take care of your work.” “You get some rest. Love you.” “You too.” I hung up. Sarah, who had heard the whole conversation, was staring at me, utterly aghast. “He still has the nerve to call you? And lie about a business trip?!” “He doesn’t know I came home early.” My voice was eerily calm as I placed the phone on the coffee table. My mind had never felt clearer. “He thinks I’m out with you guys celebrating my birthday, that I’ll be home late.” “So he timed this…” Sarah’s face grew darker. “He must think the bonus already hit your account, and by the time you found out he was gone, the money would be gone too.” I nodded slowly. If I hadn’t felt that sudden flicker of suspicion and moved the $87,300. If my office hadn’t let everyone leave two hours early today. If I hadn’t canceled my own birthday drinks. I would have come home to an apartment stripped bare, without a single dollar left to my name. I stood up and walked to the window, looking down at the glittering city lights below. On my 32nd birthday, my husband had taken my life savings and run off to Miami with another woman. And I didn’t even have the energy to cry. There was only one thought, growing sharper and colder in my mind: Ryan, you think this is over? This is just the beginning. 2 I didn’t sleep. Sarah stayed with me all night. She helped me document everything that was missing, confirming the final tally. $20,000 in cash and bonds. My mother’s bracelet, which had been appraised at over $6,000. And about $3,000 in cash I kept in a drawer. Nearly $30,000 in total. “That bastard,” Sarah seethed, grinding her teeth. I sat on the sofa, scrolling through Ryan’s Instagram feed from the last two years. It was a highlight reel of our perfect marriage. A picture of a steak dinner: Best meal ever, cooked by my amazing wife! A smiling selfie of us: Happy four-year anniversary to the love of my life. Forever and always. A candid shot of me working on my laptop: My wife works so hard. Can’t wait to spoil her with her bonus! The pictures featured me, our home, the watch I bought him for his birthday, the $800 down jacket I’d splurged on for him. The comments were a chorus of admiration. “Ryan, you’re one lucky guy!” “Anna is the definition of a perfect wife!” “Couple goals right here!” Looking at it now made me want to vomit. Sarah leaned over my shoulder. “He’s a hell of an actor,” she said with a sneer. I kept scrolling down, then stopped abruptly. A post from three months ago. The caption read: Company retreat. The views are incredible. The photo was of him in the mountains, the location vague. But I recognized the blue button-down shirt I’d bought him last year. I zoomed in on the picture, my eyes scanning every detail. And there, in the bottom corner, was a hand. A woman’s hand, with perfectly manicured red nails, holding out a drink to him. I hadn’t noticed it at the time. Now, I knew. That hand had to belong to Zoe. “Do you know this Zoe Reed?” Sarah asked. “Never met her.” I shook my head, my mind racing. Ryan didn’t have a real job. He always told me he was an “independent investor,” but he never seemed to make any actual money. He’d contribute a few hundred dollars to our joint account each month, claiming it was his “income.” The rest of our lifestyle was funded entirely by me. So how did he meet this Zoe? He never let me touch his phone, but I knew his passcode—our wedding anniversary. He hadn’t changed it. He probably thought I’d never bother to check. I opened his texts and started scrolling back, all the way to the beginning of his conversation with Zoe. The first message was from eight months ago. “Hey, Ryan. It’s Zoe. Mark from the club gave me your number, said you could help me with some investments.” Investments? Ryan, giving financial advice? I kept reading, and with every message, the sick feeling in my stomach grew stronger. Two months later, the tone of their chats shifted. “Ry, I miss you so much.” “I know, baby. Just wait till I get through this.” “Is your wife good to you?” “She’s fine. Just too busy with work all the time. Doesn’t really have time for me.” “Poor you. I’ll take care of you from now on.” By the time I reached that message, my hands were shaking. Beside me, Sarah’s face had gone pale with rage. “Those two absolute pieces of trash!” I ignored her, my eyes glued to the screen as I scrolled further. A month ago, the conversation turned to money. “Zoe, how are the preparations going over there?” “Apartment is all set. Rent is cheap in Miami, only $2,000 a month for a year.” “Perfect. Once I get things sorted on my end, we can finally be together.” “What about her money?” “It’s coming. Her bonus lands at the end of the month. I’ll think of a way to get it from her then.” “You’re amazing, Ry.” “After five years, I know exactly how she thinks. All I have to do is ask, and she’ll give it to me.” I stared at those last few lines for a long, long time. Five years. From the very beginning, I was nothing more than his personal ATM. Suddenly, Sarah jabbed a finger at the screen. “Look at this one!” I followed her finger to a message from yesterday. “Babe, did the bonus hit your account yet?” That was the text he’d sent to me. Immediately after, he’d sent one to Zoe. “Should be any time now. Once it lands, I’ll tell her about the investment.” “What if she says no?” “No way. I’ve been playing this part for five years. What’s she going to do?” “But what if she gets suspicious?” “Her? She’s a fool. She believes anything I tell her.” A fool. He called me a fool. A strange, sharp laugh escaped my lips. Sarah jumped. “Anna? Don’t scare me. What are you laughing at?” I closed the phone and stood up. “I’m laughing at myself.” “What?” “Ryan was right.” I walked to the window and watched the sky slowly lighten from charcoal gray to a bruised purple. “I was a fool.” “But not anymore.” 3 The next morning, I took a personal day from work. Sarah insisted on staying with me, but I waved her off. “I don’t need a babysitter. I have things to do.” “What kind of things?” “I’m going to find out exactly what Ryan has been doing for the last five years.” Sarah hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Okay. Call me if you need anything.” After she left, I walked out of the apartment with a purpose. First stop: the bank. I bought our apartment before we were married, but we’d been paying the mortgage together since. Or so I thought. I requested a full statement of the mortgage payments. Over the past five years, I had paid $87,000 toward the principal. Ryan had paid… $3,000. And that was only in the first two years. For the last three, he hadn’t contributed a single cent. The bank teller looked at my face, her expression sympathetic. “Ma’am, is there anything else I can help you with?” “I need to see the transaction history for my husband’s accounts.” “I’m sorry, but for that, we’ll need authorization from the account holder himself.” “He’s missing,” I said flatly. The teller froze. I took a deep breath and slid my ID and our marriage certificate across the counter. “I suspect he’s been involved in fraudulent activity. I need your cooperation to investigate.” Her professional demeanor changed instantly. She consulted her supervisor, who then consulted the branch manager. Finally, the manager came over. “Ms. Peterson, based on the circumstances, we can provide you with a partial statement of his primary checking account.” “Thank you.” Half an hour later, I walked out of the bank with a thick stack of papers. Ryan had one main account, the one I transferred money into every month for his “expenses” and “investments.” Over the past five years, nearly $150,000 had been deposited into that account. All of it from me. And the withdrawals? Seventy percent was transferred to an account under the name “Zoe Reed.” Twenty percent was withdrawn as cash. Only a meager ten percent was used for actual daily expenses. I stared at Zoe’s name, a cold certainty settling in my gut. Second stop: the IRS service center. Ryan claimed to be an “investor,” but he had no registered company. I filed a request for our joint tax transcripts, and what I found was interesting. He hadn’t had any official W-2 or 1099 income reported for the last three years. He had no job. So where did the few hundred dollars he gave me each month come from? It must have been my own money, cycled back to me to keep up the illusion. My last stop was the county records office. I ran a property search under Ryan’s name. Nothing. But then, on a hunch, I ran one for Zoe Reed. Bingo. A one-bedroom condo, purchased two years ago, right here in the city. The down payment was $18,000. The mortgage was for $400,000. And the name listed as the primary payer on the mortgage application: Ryan Peterson. I stood on the steps of the records office, clutching the printout, the paper trembling in my hand. Two years ago. That was when Ryan had asked me for $20,000 for his “startup.” He used my money to buy his mistress a home. I took a deep, shuddering breath and pulled out my phone. I sent a text to Sarah. Find me the best divorce lawyer you know. Her reply was instant. What happened? What did you find? He used my money to buy his mistress a condo. I’m on it. 4 The lawyer’s name was Mark Davies. He was a college friend of Sarah’s and specialized in messy divorces and asset recovery. After reviewing the documents I’d brought, his brow furrowed. “Anna, your situation is… complex,” he said, his tone serious. “How so?” “First, the marital infidelity is clear. You have the text messages as proof, so that’s straightforward. Second, he illegally transferred marital assets to a third party. The amount is substantial, and you have grounds to demand it all back.” He paused, leaning forward. “The problem is, your husband has disappeared, and he’s likely drained his accounts. The money is probably gone.” “So what are my options?” “We file a police report for fraud and theft. Then we sue him.” “Is it enough for jail time?” “Based on the amount, absolutely. Fraud over thirty thousand dollars is a felony. He could face three to ten years.” I was silent for a moment, processing that. “Are there other ways?” Mark studied me, seeming to understand what I was really asking. “If you want to get the money back, the most effective way is to find him, or to find his assets.” “Assets?” “Property, vehicles, large bank accounts…” “I know about the condo,” I said, my voice hard. “It’s in her name, but he’s the one paying the mortgage.” Mark’s eyes lit up. “If you can prove the down payment and the mortgage payments came from your marital funds, we can argue that the condo is a marital asset.” “How do I prove that?” “Bank statements, transfer records, and…” He looked at me expectantly. “Any communication about the purchase.” I thought for a second, then opened my phone and scrolled through the screenshots of Ryan and Zoe’s texts. I found the one I was looking for. “Babe, I transferred the down payment. We finally have a place of our own.” “Oh, Ry, you’re the best!” “Anything for you. As soon as I get the rest of the money sorted out, it’s all yours.” I handed the phone to Mark. He read the exchange, a slow nod of approval on his face. “This text is crucial. It’s solid evidence.” “So what’s the next step?” “First, we file a police report. Second, we file a motion to freeze her assets, specifically that condo. Third, we file for divorce, demanding full return of assets and punitive damages for emotional distress.” I stood up, my mind set. “Okay. I’m going to the police station right now.” As I reached the door, Mark called out, “Anna.” “Yes?” “Prepare yourself,” he said, his voice dropping slightly. “I’ve seen a lot of cases like this. The husband runs off with the money, and even after a long fight, the wife only gets a fraction of it back.” “I know,” I said, turning to face him. My voice was steady, without a trace of a waver. “But I’m not doing this just to get the money back.” “Then what are you doing it for?” “To make him pay.”

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