Category: English

Four years of long-distance. I finally bought a ring and booked a flight to Chicago to propose to Matthew. Before the plane touched down, he sent me a text. “Emergency surgery tonight. Might be off the grid for a bit.” I didn’t tell him I had landed. I wanted to surprise him at Chicago Memorial, to show up at his locker with the ring. But a sudden, crippling bout of acute gastroenteritis hit me the moment I stepped into the terminal, and my best friend, Rachel, had to rush me straight into the emergency room instead. While hooked up to an IV, separated from the rest of the ward only by a thin, sterile curtain, I heard Matthew’s voice. “Don’t worry, Darcy. Slight fluctuations in prenatal stats are completely normal.” My heart faltered. I tentatively parted the curtain just a fraction, my knuckles white against the plastic rings. There was Matthew. He was holding a girl with a small, visible baby bump close to his side, studying her ultrasound results with absolute devotion. The nurse smiled warmly. “Dr. Ross is such a wonderful husband. He always comes down to check the charts himself every time his wife has an OB-GYN checkup.” Matthew smiled back, gently adjusting a knit cardigan around the girl’s shoulders. “She’s been having terrible morning sickness. I worry.” I sank back onto my cot, trembling uncontrollably. The velvet box containing the ring I had saved for months to buy him was sitting right there in my purse. As tears began to slip silently down my cheeks, a sudden memory hit me. Over the last four years, whenever Matthew FaceTime’d me, he would always complain about the new intern who had gotten into the residency program through family connections. “Darcy messed up another patient history today.” “She actually cried during a night shift.” “I cannot stand needy girls like her.” The girl he was currently cradling in his arms… Her name was Darcy. … I sat on the hospital bed, the tape over the IV on the back of my hand peeling and wrinkled from my sweat. Rachel came back carrying a paper cup of warm water. Seeing my bloodshot eyes, she instantly grew tense. “How are you feeling? Is the stomach still cramping?” I shook my head, another wave of nausea rolling through me. Behind the thin curtain, Matthew’s voice drifted over again. “We’ll do a follow-up ultrasound. Don’t scare yourself, okay?” Darcy asked him softly, “Matt, don’t you have a surgery tonight?” Matthew let out a soft, reassuring chuckle. “I handed it off to Evans. You’re more important.” My fingers tightened on the rough hospital sheets, my knuckles turning white. My phone buzzed on the pillow. A text from Matthew. It was a photo of the operating room doors. “Just heading into surgery. Talk to you when I’m out.” In the photo, the fluorescent lights were harsh and white, the “Surgery in Progress” sign glowing red. He had probably forgotten that once, when I flew to Chicago to surprise him, I had stood outside those exact double doors for an entire night. I had a fever of 103 that day. I was so weak I couldn’t even get my hotel key card to scan, and the receptionist had to help me to a lobby sofa. I had called Matthew, hoping he could come get me. He said the ER was slammed, his voice dripping with exhaustion. “Emma, I literally cannot leave right now.” “Be a good girl, okay? Just go back to the room and get some rest.” Not wanting him to worry, I had forced myself to sound strong. “It’s fine. I can take care of myself.” It rained in Chicago that night. I spent the hours until dawn hunched over the toilet in the hotel bathroom, vomiting. When he finally came to see me the next morning, he brought nothing but a lukewarm cup of convenience-store coffee. “Yesterday was insane.” I took the coffee, my heart aching with sympathy for the dark circles under his eyes. Looking back now, it was blindingly obvious who he had been busy with. Outside the curtain, a nurse hurried over with a clipboard. “Family of Darcy Ross? We need a signature on the consent form for the repeat scan.” Matthew answered immediately. “I’ll sign it.” The scratch of the pen on paper was sharp and clear. “Family of Darcy Ross.” Those words cut deeper than the physical pain of my stomach spasms. Rachel followed my gaze toward the edge of the curtain, her expression shifting from confusion to cold realization. “That… that doctor. Is that Matthew?” I couldn’t speak. Matthew was already guiding Darcy away. She walked slowly, so he kept his hand flat against her lower back, supporting her weight. When they reached the sliding doors of the ER exit, he stepped forward to catch the door with his shoulder so she wouldn’t have to rush. Watching their retreating figures, a profound sense of absurdity washed over me. The velvet box in my purse felt like a hot coal against my palm. I had planned to wait for his shift to end, then take him to the waterfront where we had our very first date. I had even rehearsed my opening line. “Matthew, four years of long-distance is enough. Let’s get married.” But now, I wouldn’t even get the chance to say it. The ER doctor prescribed some medication and told me to stay for observation for two hours. Rachel sat with me at the quiet end of the corridor. Several times she opened her mouth to speak, but forced herself to look away. I stared down at my phone. The photo of the operating doors was still sitting in our chat. I scrolled up. All the way back to last December. There had been a massive blizzard at the research base in Cape Cod. I had been pulling double shifts for a simulation trial, running on zero sleep and a burning fever. I had texted Matthew: “Can we talk for just a little bit? I really need to hear your voice.” He replied two hours later: “Just got off a brutal shift. Too tired to even move.” “Emma, please don’t distract me right now.” Those words had etched themselves into my mind. Since then, every time I missed him, I would check the clock first. I’d calculate his shift changes, his rounds, the ER schedule at Chicago Memorial. I bottled up my longing, terrified of being a burden or pulling his focus from his exhausting work. Down the hall, two nurses wheeled a mobile IV stand past. One of them was smiling. “Dr. Ross is so incredibly attentive to Darcy. The nurses in OB-GYN practically think of him as a regular.” The other lowered her voice. “Right? I heard she had awful morning sickness last month, and Dr. Ross spent his entire lunch break sitting with her up there.” “But doesn’t he always complain about how needy she is?” “Oh, please. He talks a big game, but his actions speak louder. He treats her like she’s made of glass.” My thumb hovered over the screen. Last December, when Matthew FaceTime’d me, his camera would only show half his face, with the sterile hospital corridor as a backdrop. He had told me Darcy was a nightmare—always crying, messing up charts, and that nobody in the department wanted to supervise her. “Her dad is tight with the Chief of Surgery,” he had sighed. “I can’t exactly ignore her.” And I, naive as I was, had comforted him. “It’s normal to make mistakes starting out. She’s probably just overwhelmed. Don’t be too hard on her.” He had smiled, a soft, weary look on his face. “What would I do without you? You’re always so understanding.” I had cherished that compliment for months. I thought it meant he valued my maturity, that he saw how hard I was trying to support his career from afar. Now I realized that being “understanding” simply made it easier for him to lie. After my observation time was up, Rachel helped me walk over to the billing counter. As we passed the self-service printing kiosk in the maternity ward, a sheet of paper was stuck in the dispenser, the machine emitting a repetitive, high-pitched beep. Rachel reached out to call a nurse, but I stopped dead in my tracks when I caught the name on the screen. “Darcy Ross.” “Gestational Age: 21 weeks.” “Accompanying Family: Matthew Ross.” Below that were several dates of past prenatal visits. “November 3rd.” “December 20th.” “January 16th.” Every single one of those dates was burned into my memory. November 3rd was my birthday. Matthew had texted me that an emergency surgery had come up, sending me a Venmo transfer with a generic “Happy Birthday” message. December 20th was the night of my high fever in the Cape Cod blizzard. January 16th was when I had finally accrued enough leave to visit him, but he told me his residency director had called an unscheduled seminar, urging me not to make the trip. The paper was thin, yet it felt heavy enough to crush me. Rachel saw the color drain from my face and reached out to pull the paper away. “Emma, don’t look at it.” I let go, and the sheet fluttered back against the machine. A nurse came rushing over. “Is this Darcy’s report? She just left it behind.” I took a step back. “I think so.” The nurse didn’t notice my expression, muttering under her breath as she took it, “Honestly, Dr. Ross is usually so meticulous. How did he let her forget this?” She hurried away. I stood there, the dull ache in my stomach slowly fading, replaced by a suffocating tightness in my chest. Four years of long-distance, and I had never once demanded that Matthew spend a single birthday with me. I always told myself that lives were on the line, that being a doctor meant sacrifices. Yet he had all the time in the world to accompany someone else to her prenatal exams. He had all the time in the world to sign her forms on my birthday. By the time we left the hospital, night had fallen. Rachel asked if I wanted to go straight back to the hotel to rest. I told her I wanted to go to the alley behind Chicago Memorial. She didn’t ask why. She just walked with me to that quiet, narrow street. This was where Matthew and I had our very first date in Chicago. Four years ago, when he first started his residency, I had caught a grueling overnight flight from Boston to see him. He had taken me to a small, hole-in-the-wall noodle bar in the alley. I remembered him sitting on a squeaky metal stool, carefully picking the scallions out of my bowl. “Once my residency stabilizes, I’m going to bring you out here to Chicago with me.” I had nodded, believing him. And then I waited. For four years. The noodle bar was still there. The elderly owner saw me and asked how many in our party. Before I could answer, a familiar voice drifted from behind me. “One order of wonton soup, no scallions, please.” I turned around. Darcy was standing a few feet away, a grey knit scarf draped around her neck. I recognized that scarf. Last winter, during the freezing coastal winds at the Cape Cod research base, I had sat under my desk lamp every single night, knitting it stitch by stitch. My fingers had been rubbed raw by the coarse wool, making it painful to slip on my heavy research gloves the next morning. When Matthew received it, he had sent a single text: “The color is a bit too plain, isn’t it?” I thought he hated it. He had never worn it once on our video calls. Now, that very scarf was wrapped around Darcy’s neck, its fringed edges brushing against her swollen stomach. Staring at it, the dam of bitterness and sorrow I had kept bottled up for years finally broke. Tears began to stream silently down my face. Darcy took her takeout container, turning around to find me standing there. She froze, her eyes scanning my hospital wristband before rising to meet my face. “You’re…” I didn’t say a word. But she put the pieces together quickly. “You’re Matt’s girlfriend from Boston, aren’t you?” “The girlfriend from Boston.” A bitter laugh caught in my throat. To her, I was just a distant footnote in Matthew’s real life. Darcy bit her lip, a flicker of panic crossing her eyes, though she tried to maintain a polite smile. “Please don’t get the wrong idea. Matt is just taking care of me.” I looked at the scarf around her neck. “Does he usually take care of you using things other people made for him?” Darcy’s smile faltered. Rachel stepped forward, interposing herself. “You stepped into someone else’s relationship and got pregnant. Don’t play the innocent victim now.” Darcy clutched the takeout bag tighter, her voice dropping. “What’s going on between Matt and me is complicated. It’s not as cheap as you think.” Hearing that, I actually wanted to laugh. Matthew had used almost the exact same words. It was during my junior year when Darcy first showed up on our FaceTime screen. She had called out to him from off-camera, complaining that her patient intake notes had been rejected again. Matthew had frowned, turning his phone face-down on the desk. When he picked it back up, he explained, “Just an intern with connections. She’s a nightmare.” “If I don’t help her, she’ll sit in the breakroom crying all night.” Watching his exhausted face through the screen, my heart had ached for him. After that, I stopped calling him in the evenings. I didn’t want him to have to deal with me after being drained by Darcy all day. But every inch of space I conceded only became the room they used to grow closer. As I turned to walk away, Darcy called out to my back. “If you really love him, don’t back him into a corner right now.” My steps faltered. She gently touched her stomach, her voice trembling. “A child needs a father.” I didn’t look back. For the past four years, I had constantly told myself the same things. “A surgeon can’t be distracted.” “I can’t let my needs drag Matthew down.” “We can’t let a little distance ruin us.” But if her child couldn’t live without a father… Did that mean my four years of devotion deserved to end without an answer? Back in the hotel room, I placed the velvet box on the desk. I opened it, the ring catching the sterile light of the hotel room. I had spent weeks searching for it in Boston. The jeweler had asked me who it was for. “My boyfriend,” I had said. She smiled and wished me luck with the proposal. At the time, I truly believed that if I took the initiative to take this final step, our four years of waiting would finally mean something. Matthew always said a doctor’s career was complicated, that we couldn’t rush into marriage. “Let’s wait until I’m an attending,” he’d say. “Let’s wait until your research project wraps up.” “We haven’t even figured out a place in Chicago yet. We can take our time.” And I believed him, time after time. Because I thought he was waiting for the perfect moment, just like I was. A notification popped up on my phone. It was from Matthew. “Just got off. Exhausted.” “Why are you so quiet tonight?” I stared at the two lines of text for a long time, unable to type a reply. In the past, I would have immediately asked if he’d eaten, reminded him to cut back on the espresso, and carefully filtered out any of my own struggles in the lab, leaving only lighthearted, easy updates. I never wanted him to feel like loving me across three thousand miles was a chore. But today, when I woke up in agony on an ER cot, he was only yards away. He hadn’t seen me. He hadn’t looked. He was holding another pregnant woman, worrying about her morning sickness. Rachel sat by the window, pouring me a glass of warm water. “Emma, you still haven’t replied to that confirmation email for the deep-sea project, have you?” I looked up. She was watching me closely. “You told me you didn’t want to sign up for another three years of long-distance.” Yes. After passing the rigorous closed-selection process for the deep-sea manned submersible project, I had hesitated to click “accept.” The project board had given me a final deadline. Once I joined, the first three years would require intensive, isolated training with highly restricted contact with the outside world. I had wanted to see Matthew one last time before making my choice. If he was ready to commit, I was prepared to step away from the program. If he wasn’t, I wanted to hear his honest thoughts on our future. But now, the choice was simple. I opened my laptop and pulled up the email. The confirmation link sat at the top of my inbox. “Please confirm your acceptance of the deep-sea training program within 24 hours.” Below it was the standard disclaimer: “During active training phases, personal communication with the outside world will be suspended, barring extreme emergencies.” I looked at the screen, remembering the hours I spent on the flight to Chicago. I had pulled the ring box out of my bag over and over, drafts of my proposal saved in my notes app. The first draft was too formal. The second was too casual. The third draft was only one sentence: “Matthew, let’s stop loving each other across oceans.” Now I saw that I was the only one navigating the distance. His life in Chicago was never lonely. Darcy kept him company on night shifts, waited for him to get off work, and carried his child. Meanwhile, I had been reduced to a voice on a screen, a digital pet he could check in on when he was bored, or ignore when he was too busy. My phone began to ring. It was Matthew. I let it ring out. A moment later, a text arrived. “Emma, don’t start. I really did just get out of surgery.” I closed the velvet box and slid it into the deepest corner of my bag. Then, I clicked the confirmation link in the email. A prompt popped up: “Confirming will finalize your enrollment in the deep-sea training roster. Do you wish to proceed?” While the phone buzzed against the desk, I clicked “Yes.” A new message flashed on the screen: “Enrollment successful. Please report to the San Diego transit hub within three days.” The next morning, Rachel accompanied me back to Chicago Memorial to retrieve my ER discharge summary and billing records. The lobby was packed, automated queue announcements echoing off the high ceilings. I stood at the self-service kiosk, my stomach still tender. Rachel went to stand in the billing line, leaving me alone for a moment. “Emma?” I turned around. Matthew was standing by the information desk, still wearing his scrubs under a white lab coat. He looked exhausted, dark shadows under his eyes. His gaze fell first on the small bandage on the back of my hand where the IV had been, then shifted to the discharge papers in my hand. “You were in the ER?” He had sent so many messages the night before, demanding to know why I wasn’t answering, asking why I was throwing a tantrum. Yet when I was actually lying on that ER gurney, he had been standing right outside my curtain. I looked at him, my voice flat. “Did you just finish your surgery?” Matthew hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding. “Yeah. It was a complicated case. Took longer than expected.” He paused, a trace of annoyance creeping into his tone. “Why didn’t you tell me you were in Chicago? You were sick and you didn’t even call me. Do you have any idea how worried I was?” “Worried.” The word felt entirely hollow coming from him. Rachel walked up with the receipt, catching his last sentence. She let out a sharp, cold laugh. Matthew frowned at her. “What’s funny?” “Nothing,” Rachel said, her voice freezing. “Just thinking about how incredibly busy you must be, Dr. Ross.” Matthew’s expression darkened. I stopped Rachel before she could say more. “Rachel, could you wait for me by the entrance?” She gave me a worried look, but I shook my head gently. Once she walked away, Matthew reached out to touch my forehead. I stepped back, avoiding his hand. His hand hung in the air, his brow furrowing. “Emma, what is going on with you?” I looked down at the folder in my hands, which contained my prescription slips and the printed copy of the ultrasound report I had kept. “Matthew, let’s end this. We’re done.” He froze. A few seconds later, a forced, defensive laugh escaped him. “You flew all the way to Chicago, landed yourself in the ER, just to play this game?” I didn’t answer. “Are you seriously mad because I couldn’t pick you up? I told you, I had a surgery.” “You used to be so understanding about my hours. Why are you being so unreasonable today?” I looked him in the eyes. “How did the surgery go?” His tone faltered slightly. “It went fine.” “How is the patient?” “Stable. Under observation.” He must have realized how cold and precise my questions were, because the color slowly began to drain from his face. “Emma, what are you trying to say?” I pulled out my phone and pulled up the photo of the operating room doors he had texted me. “Did you take this photo tonight?” He stared at the screen, silent. I smiled faintly. “I’ve seen this exact photo before, Matthew. You sent it to me last New Year’s Eve.” “You told me there was a massive trauma case and you couldn’t make it to my place. I was so worried about you working on an empty stomach that I ordered delivery to the hospital for you.” “The delivery driver called me because they wouldn’t let him into the surgical wing, and he said the front desk took it because you weren’t even on shift.” “Back then, I just assumed you were too busy saving lives to pick up your food. But now I see you probably weren’t even in the building.” Matthew snatched the phone from my hand, his voice rising in sudden anger. “Are you tracking me now? Are you investigating me?” I met his gaze calmly. “I was in the ER yesterday. I was sitting right behind the curtain.” “While you were signing the consent form for Darcy’s follow-up scan.” “The nurse called you ‘Darcy’s family’.”

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For the three years I spent in Kent’s shadow, keeping our relationship a secret, everyone in his loud, glittering social circle took it for granted that Cecilia was his official girlfriend. She was the one allowed to stand in the light. She was the one who could publicly scold him for drag racing at midnight, or humiliate me when she caught us out on a date, warning me not to “corrupt” him. I felt so small, so deeply wronged. A thousand times, I wanted us to just go public. But Kent would always hold me back, soothing me with stories of his family’s brutal boardroom inheritance wars. He claimed Cecilia was nothing but a shield, a decoy to keep the target off my back. “The more convincing she looks,” he’d whisper, kissing my temple, “the safer you are.” I believed him. I swallowed my pride, over and over again, locking my resentment in a quiet corner of my chest. Until the day I was rushing back to my hometown in the Hudson Valley for the sweet cherry harvest. I reached Grand Central before realizing I’d left my ID on the vanity. Kent wasn’t picking up his phone, so I had no choice but to head back to his Manhattan penthouse. When I unlocked the door, the first thing I saw was lingerie scattered across the dark hardwood floor. Behind the half-open bedroom door, Kent and Cecilia were tangled in his sheets. Cecilia’s breathless voice drifted out, complaining, “Why aren’t you bored of her yet? Lydia has no family pedigree, she’s plain, she doesn’t even have any real talent. What do you even see in her?” Kent paused, then pressed his face into her shoulder with a low laugh. “Who else but Lydia would be stupid enough to drag herself back and forth across the state, looking like a total mess, just to bring me fresh, worthless cherries from her family’s farm?” In that split second, something fractured deep inside me. It felt like swallowing glass. The cherries weren’t the worthless ones. I was. Every time I had swallowed my hurt, every time I had accepted his hollow excuses—it was all because I was cheap in his eyes. It was time to go home. … Right there, in the middle of the discarded lace on the floor, lay my ID card. I walked into the bedroom without a sound. Cecilia screamed, pulling the duvet over her head. As I knelt on the cold floor to retrieve my card, a strange, toxic wave of satisfaction washed over me. “Look at that,” I thought. “I can make you look pathetic, too.” But I hadn’t won. Kent immediately shielded her, blocking her from my view with his broad shoulders. He glared at me, opening his mouth to lecture me, but the words died in his throat when I spoke. “Kent,” I whispered, my voice steadier than I expected. “Is this part of the decoy strategy, too?” I grew up in orchard country, where the air is sharp and people don’t play polite, polished mind games. I didn’t know how to be subtle. I leaned down, snatched a pair of lace underwear from the floor, and threw them right at his fiercely protective face. For the brief second his face was obscured, I felt an unexpected, liberating rush of relief. Kent ripped the lace away, veins pulsing in his neck. He swallowed his fury, trying to smooth things over with that familiar, patronizing tone. “Lydia, calm down. Sometimes I have to play the part to make it convincing. Otherwise, my family will see right through us.” “Play the part?” A bitter laugh escaped me. “Tell me one truth, Kent. Just one.” I looked him dead in the eye. “Was I the part you were playing all along? And is Cecilia the real story?” I already knew the answer. But some pathetic, wounded part of me still craved the finality of hearing him say it. I knew he would spin a web of beautiful, poisonous lies to keep me on his hook. Yet I stood there, inviting the poison anyway. Kent hesitated. His jaw worked, but before he could speak, Cecilia yanked his arm from behind. She ran a hand through her perfect curls, looking thoroughly bored. “Oh, come on, Kent. I’m tired of the drama. Stop pretending with her.” She cast a lazy, dismissive glance at me and scoffed. “Seriously, it’s embarrassing. Fighting over a man with a country bumpkin? It’s beneath me.” Kent tapped her waist, a silent plea for her to stop, but Cecilia just rolled her eyes, laid back down, and unlocked her phone. I stood there like the punchline of a joke, unable to move forward or back. Suddenly, Cecilia’s phone chimed with a loud bank alert. “Kent QuickPay transfer received: One hundred thousand dollars.” She smiled, tidied her hair, blew Kent a kiss, and grabbed her designer bag. As she brushed past me, a cloud of cloying, expensive perfume hit my nose. She tapped my shoulder playfully. “Relax, sweetie. We were just teasing you. Don’t take it to heart. He’s all yours. I’m going shopping.” A joke. No apology. He spent a hundred thousand dollars just to keep her smiling. And what about me? I slowly held out my open palm to him, demanding the same. Kent, seeing a crack in my cold exterior, let out a relieved laugh. He grabbed my hand and led me out to his car. But we didn’t go to Fifth Avenue. We stopped at a gritty, open-air farmer’s market on the edge of the city. He pulled up beside an elderly woman selling cheap cherries from the back of a pickup truck. Kent turned to me, completely earnest. “Do these make you feel any better?” My face contorted. A harsh, disbelieving laugh slipped out. “This is my compensation?” Kent chuckled, clearing his throat behind his hand. His voice took on a sharp, mocking edge. “Well, isn’t this what you usually bring me? Lydia, did you think you could play a cheap hand to win the jackpot? Were you expecting me to take you to Cartier to make up for this? That’s cute.” My family’s farm produces the finest Rainier cherries in the region. Every harvest, I would wake up at dawn, climb the tallest ladders to pluck the sweetest, most perfect fruit from the highest branches, and carry them back to the city like fragile treasure. Just so Kent could have the first, freshest bite. All that devotion—which I thought was beautiful—was nothing but trash to him. Yes, right now I was being petty. I wanted his money to balance the scales of my broken heart. But before today, I had never asked him for a single thing. He could throw a hundred thousand at Cecilia without blinking. For me, my worth was measured by a plastic bag of bruised cherries from a street vendor. “Eight dollars a pound, sweetie,” the old woman said, sensing our hesitation. “They’re very cheap.” I blinked back the tears stinging my eyes, knelt down, and picked out two pounds of the small, mediocre fruit. “Great,” I told Kent, looking up. “These will do. Pay her.” He looked stunned, clumsily pulling out his phone to scan her code. I doubted Kent had ever paid for anything so cheap in his life. On the ride back, I sat in the passenger seat and peeled one open. I popped it into my mouth, only to find the flesh soft and rotting. The tears almost spilled into the cheap plastic bag. “Cheap things really are garbage,” I murmured. Kent noticed. He let out a frustrated sigh, ran his fingers through his hair, and muttered, “Forget it.” He yanked the steering wheel, pivoting the car toward Manhattan’s most exclusive luxury shopping district. “Get out,” he said, shifting into park. He leaned over, his chest pressing close to mine, to unbuckle my seatbelt. The familiar scent of his expensive cologne filled the tight space. I clutched the crinkled plastic bag in my lap, feeling a knot of confusion and hurt. “Why are we here?” I asked. If he wanted to buy me off, what was the point of the humiliation at the market? Was it a test? But he was the one who cheated. What right did he have to test me? Kent sighed, reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “Don’t you want to feel better? You said you wanted—” I cut him off, shaking my head. “The cherries are enough. I only wanted the cherries.” “I only wanted your heart.” But I couldn’t say it. Before he could argue, a sharp knock rattled the window. The back doors were flung open, and the quiet tension in the cabin was shattered by a chorus of giggles. Cecilia’s friends, draped in designer shopping bags, piled into the back seat with sighs of relief. Cecilia stood outside the passenger door, her arms crossed, waiting. Only then did the brutal realization of Kent’s “Get out” hit me. He hadn’t brought me here to shop. He had brought me here to pick them up. I sat there, my face burning with a sudden, agonizing heat, staring at the cheap plastic bag of rotting cherries in my lap. Before I could even open the door to flee, the insults drifted from the back. “Oh, look who’s still clinging to Kent. The little country girl from upstate.” “Why is she still in the passenger seat? Doesn’t she know when she’s not wanted? Get out!” Someone whispered to Cecilia, “You’re too soft on him. If you don’t put this home-wrecker in her place, she’s going to keep acting like she owns him.” Cecilia laughed softly, looking at me with sweet pity. “Oh, please. I don’t micromanage my men. If he steps out of line, he pays the bill. Don’t tease her, she looks like she’s about to cry.” My entire body went numb. My pride, my dignity—everything I had desperately tried to preserve—was ground into the dirt. This secret relationship, this “shield” he claimed was for my protection, had turned me into a joke. A cheap mistress. I threw the door open and ran. No matter how fast I sprinted through the concrete labyrinth of the parking garage, their laughter echoed behind me, bouncing off the walls like a recurring nightmare. When I finally stopped, my chest heaved, a physical ache blooming in my heart. The tears came then, hot and choking, followed by a wave of pure, physical nausea. How had I let my life get this desperate? The plastic bag slipped from my hand, spilling the cheap, bruised cherries across the dirty concrete. My phone buzzed in my pocket. My heart leaped, but it wasn’t Kent. Of course it wasn’t. Nobody cares about the runaway mistress, least of all him. I answered, my throat tight. “Hello?” “Lydia, sweetheart!” My mother’s warm, cheerful voice flooded the line. “The first harvest from the crown trees is ready. Your dad already packed the biggest, sweetest cherries for you. When are you coming up to take them back to your little city boyfriend?” She laughed softly. “Every year you’re so impatient, terrified he’ll miss the best batch. We’re all packed and waiting for your word!” The tears poured down my cheeks. How could I explain to her that he didn’t care about my cherries? That he wasn’t my “boyfriend”? That it was all a lie? He had promised we’d get married, promised Cecilia was just a game, promised he loved me. All of it, lies. I couldn’t even tell her we were breaking up, because we were never officially together. “Mom,” I sobbed, breaking down completely. “I want to come home. I want to come home right now. Please, I don’t want to be here anymore.” Her voice turned frantic and soft with maternal instinct. “Okay, baby. We’re coming to get you. We’re bringing you home.” I took a cab back to his apartment to pack. The place belonged to Kent, so there was no lease to worry about. I didn’t even need to leave a note. The penthouse was empty when I arrived, but a row of orange and black designer bags sat lined up in the hallway. Chanel, Prada, Hermès. I didn’t look at them. None of it was mine. Yet I couldn’t stop thinking about the cheap cherries from the market. A cold shudder ran through my chest. “Stop,” I told myself. “Just go home.” As I dragged my small suitcase toward the front door, it swung open. Kent stood there. His eyes locked onto my luggage, his pupils shrinking. “Lydia, where are you going?” He ran a hand through his hair, his voice sharp with defensive anger. “Are you seriously running away just because I didn’t buy you designer bags?” He paused, realizing how ugly that sounded, and softened his tone. “Look, I know you’re not superficial. You’re upset about what Cecilia’s friends said, right? I’ll explain it to them. I’ll make it public. They won’t say another word to you.” I stared at his perfect, handsome face, and for the first time, I felt a deep, pulsing hatred. I hated him because I had loved him so much. “Kent, you don’t have to worry,” I said quietly. He blinked, looking relieved. He stepped toward me, wrapping his arms around me in a tight, desperate embrace, burying his face in the crook of my neck. “Lydia, you scared the hell out of me,” he whispered, exhaling a long, shuddering breath. “I thought you were actually leaving.” I stood perfectly still. “Are you actually capable of being afraid?” “Yes.” “Well, don’t be. I’ve done the math, and honestly, you didn’t lose anything in this deal. I lived in your apartment, but I also cooked, cleaned, and took care of you. Let’s call that even.” Kent squeezed me tighter, a note of panic in his voice. “Lydia, why are you talking like this?” “And even though I never understood why you were so terrified I’d steal your money—when you have more than you could ever spend—I never accepted a single dime from you. You offered, but I never took it. And since you paid for those cheap cherries today, our ledgers are perfectly balanced.” I shoved him away and slapped him, hard, across the face. “That’s for tricking me into a secret relationship and turning me into a side-piece,” I said, my voice ice-cold. Before he could recover, I slapped him again. “And that’s for the betrayal, and the public humiliation.” Kent had been pampered his entire life; nobody had ever raised a hand to him. The shock turned his face red with fury. He grabbed my arm, dragged me into the living room, and threw me onto the floor. A sharp, blinding pain shot up my spine as my tailbone hit the hardwood. He grabbed the designer bags from the hallway and started throwing them at me—handbags, jewelry boxes, silk scarves, a diamond watch—pelting me with luxury. When that wasn’t enough, he ran to his safe and came back with stacks of cash, car keys, and property deeds, scattering them over my head. “Is this enough?” he roared, towering over me. “Isn’t this what all the crying is about? You want what she has? Fine! Take it!” I looked up, tears streaming down my face, but I kept my chin high. If these things were given with love, they would be gifts. But thrown at me like this, they were just currency to buy my dignity. Kent paced the room, his hands over his face, breathing heavily. He knelt down, opened my suitcase, and started stuffing the cash and jewelry inside. “Just take them and go, if that’s what you want,” he said, his voice dropping. But I saw the arrogance in his eyes. He knew me. He knew I wouldn’t touch a single dollar of it. He thought by putting them in my bag, he was giving me a reason to stay. He sighed, reaching out to brush a tear from my cheek. “Don’t do this, Lydia. You know I really care about you.” Right then, his phone rang. It was Cecilia, demanding he get to the department store to pay for her new haul since he’d taken the last batch to “placate” me. Kent zipped up my suitcase, gave me one last look, and walked out the door. I swallowed the pain, unzipped the bag, and meticulously threw every single piece of Cecilia’s luxury items onto the floor. I stood up, took my handle, and walked out. I didn’t look back.

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On the day of our wedding, my fiancé and my younger sister were killed in a horrific car accident. The shock of it left my mother paralyzed and bedridden. In the aftermath, everyone in our social circle whispered that I was a curse. A black widow. A harbinger of ruin who brought death to anyone foolish enough to love her. I didn’t have the luxury of grieving. During the day, I hauled drywall and loaded debris at dusty commercial construction sites. At night, I drove for DoorDash until my eyes burned, desperately trying to pay for my mother’s around-the-clock medical bills. Until the afternoon I took a temp gig at the grand opening of a high-end medical spa downtown. My job was to wear a suffocating, heavy plush bear costume and wave at pedestrians. During a break, two spa employees gossiped near my resting spot. “Our new boss is seriously an angel,” one whispered, adjusting her lanyard. “And her husband is completely obsessed with her. They’re the sweetest couple—they even spend their weekends volunteering at the local animal shelter.” I kept my head down inside the oversized mascot mask, silent. My only real worry was whether I’d finish my shift in time to catch the cheap daily special at the diner down the street from the construction site. I pulled the heavy head back over my shoulders, adjusting the mesh eyeholes. Just as I stood up, a familiar voice cut through the hum of the air conditioner. “Sophie, sweetie, you’re pregnant. Don’t overexert yourself. Let Connor handle the store opening.” I froze. My breath caught in my throat. I forced my eyes toward the mesh screen of the costume, and my world violently fractured. Standing right in front of me were my sister, Sophie, and my fiancé, Connor. The two people who had supposedly died five years ago. My mother stood right beside them, laughing. She was dressed in an elegant silk blouse, showing no signs of the debilitating illness that had drained my bank account for half a decade. And Emma, my absolute best friend, was right there with them, playfully draping her arm over Sophie’s shoulder. “Once the baby is born, I’m officially claiming godmother status!” Emma laughed. Inside the sweltering plush suit, I began to shake. My heart didn’t just break; it shattered into tiny, jagged pieces. They weren’t dead. They had married each other. Everyone knew. And everyone had lied to me. … The air inside the mascot suit was thick and suffocating, but my blood ran ice-cold. I stared at the people who had defined my life, entirely paralyzed. After the accident, I had spiraled into a depression so severe that I tried to end my life twice. It was Emma who had sat by my hospital bed, holding my hand, telling me over and over that I still had her. Now, she was holding Sophie’s hand with the exact same tenderness. “Don’t worry about the shop, Sophie,” Emma said, her voice dripping with affection. “Connor’s got you covered. He’d buy you the moon if you asked.” My mother, whom I had painstakingly lifted out of bed and cleaned just this morning, stood tall and radiant. Her cheeks were flushed with a healthy color I hadn’t seen in years. “If Connor ever steps out of line, you tell me,” my mother teased, patting Sophie’s hand. “I’ll straighten him out.” Connor wrapped his arm around Sophie’s waist, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Don’t worry, Mom. Sophie is my wife. Caring for her is my favorite thing to do.” The grand opening had drawn a large crowd. Looking closely through the mesh, I recognized almost every face. They were my friends, Connor’s old college buddies, people we had known for years. Over the last five years, some of these very people had come to my cramped apartment for the holidays. They had brought cheap takeout and offered me sympathy, telling me how brave I was for working myself to the bone. Not one of them had ever uttered a word of the truth. Tears mixed with sweat, stinging my eyes. When the police had told me they were gone, my mother had collapsed. I inherited a mountain of medical debt and took every grueling, backbreaking job I could find to keep her alive. Whenever the weight became too heavy to bear, I would drive to the cemetery, sit by their headstones, and cry until my chest ached. I had dreamed of this reunion a thousand times. I had cried myself to sleep wishing they would walk through my door. But the dream was a nightmare. Connor guided Sophie toward the entrance with an agonizing level of care, his eyes filled with a soft devotion that felt like a knife twisting in my chest. When Connor and I were planning our wedding, I had been six months pregnant. The grief of his “death” had triggered a premature labor. I lost the baby, suffered severe hemorrhaging, and underwent an emergency hysterectomy. I was left entirely hollow, incapable of ever carrying a child again. In my darkest moments, I clung to the last words Connor had written in a card to me: “No matter what happens, Hannah, you have to keep going. Do it for me.” That sentence had been my lifeline. It was the only thing that kept me from jumping off a bridge on the bad nights. Now I realized it wasn’t a lifeline at all. It was a punchline. Emma noticed me standing rigid in the corner and gave my plush shoulder a rough shove. “Hey, mascot. What’s the deal? Stop slacking.” I stumbled, nearly losing my balance in the heavy suit. Sophie looked over, her expression softening with that familiar, delicate pity. “It’s boiling outside, Emma. Let her come inside and rest in the back office. It’s the least we can do.” Emma sighed, shaking her head. “You are way too nice, Sophie. That’s exactly how Hannah used to walk all over you.” Hearing my name spoken aloud in that tone felt like a physical blow. A sudden, tense silence fell over the group. The smiles vanished, replaced by tight, uncomfortable expressions. Connor was the one who broke the quiet. “Sophie, you must be tired. Let’s head back to the apartment.” Emma grabbed my arm, guiding me along behind them under the guise of showing me to the back room, but we ended up walking toward the residential elevator. Connor’s car was parked in the garage—a brand-new Porsche. I recognized the emblem instantly. During my first month driving for DoorDash, I had accidentally scraped a car just like it. The owner had shoved my face against the window, screaming that my pathetic, miserable life wasn’t worth the cost of the bumper. Their home was a sprawling penthouse at the top of the building. Perfect leather sofas, custom crystal chandeliers, and abstract paintings I couldn’t begin to understand lined the walls. Sophie gestured for me to sit on the bench near the entryway while the housekeeper brought out a tray of iced water. “Please, take the headpiece off. You must be roasting.” Emma opened the massive stainless-steel refrigerator, grabbing a sparkling water with practiced ease. “She’s getting paid to sweat, Sophie. Trust me, if you let her sit here all day, she won’t complain.” My mother sank into a state-of-the-art massage chair in the living room, sighing as it hummed to life. “Ah, my back has been killing me. Living in that cramped apartment was starting to ruin my joints.” Slowly, I reached up and pulled the heavy mascot head off. I looked at the shocked faces in the room, my voice quiet, flat, and entirely hollow. “Long time no see.” The silence that followed was deafening. Sophie’s glass slipped from her hand, shattering on the hardwood floor. Connor instantly dropped to his knees, checking her ankles for any stray shards of glass. My mother stood up from the massage chair, her face transitioning from horror to a fleeting, awkward guilt. “Hannah… sweetie, let me explain. It’s not what you think…” I looked at her. I thought of the last five years. I thought of the countless nights I had stayed awake to turn her over in bed so she wouldn’t get sores. I thought of the patience I had maintained through her calculated, bitter tantrums. I had never once complained. I had worked in a hundred-degree heat on concrete slabs just to buy her heart medication. A dry, bitter laugh escaped my throat. “Mom, you really missed your calling. You should have gone to Hollywood.” My mother froze, her mouth slightly open. Sophie’s face drained of color. She reached a trembling hand toward me. “Hannah…” I slapped her hand away. Connor’s expression softened into something resembling pity. He let out a long, heavy sigh. “Hannah, I’m sorry. I really am. But I fell in love with Sophie five years ago.” “I wanted to build a life with her,” he continued, his voice low. “But she was terrified of hurting you. She kept pushing me away. I couldn’t stand seeing her suffer, and I didn’t want to force her into a corner, so I came up with the accident. It was the only way to let her go.” He paused, his voice dropping an octave. “I didn’t think you’d take it so hard.” “Take it so hard?” I had lost my child. I had lost my ability to ever be a mother. I had spent five years in a living purgatory, buried under their debts, while they lived in luxury. And he thought I had just “taken it hard.” Emma stepped forward, her voice sharp and defensive. “Hannah, Sophie is your sister. She’s always been the fragile one. You’ve always been healthy, strong, taking whatever you wanted. Connor’s allowed to love whoever he wants. You can’t force someone to love you.” Emma’s words felt like a physical hand ripping open my chest. Sophie and I were twins. But because she had been born with a weak heart, I had spent my entire life trying to make up for my own health. I had spent my childhood giving her my favorite toys, my clothes, my time. When she had been hospitalized for a month five years ago, I was working sixty hours a week. I had asked Connor to check on her for me. I had trusted him completely. I remembered the day Sophie had a sudden nosebleed, and how Connor had panicked. I had thought he was just being a supportive future brother-in-law. I had even told him, “Sophie is so delicate. We’ll probably have to take care of her for the rest of our lives.” They had been silent when I said that. Now I knew why. My hands shook as I raised them. But before I could do anything, Sophie threw herself in front of Connor, taking the slap meant for him. “Sophie!” Connor yelled, catching her in his arms. Sophie cradled her reddened cheek, tears streaming down her face. “Hannah, please. I’ve loved Connor since the moment I met him. These last five years… I felt like a thief. He only married me because he felt sorry for me…” She held her pregnant belly, sobbing beautifully. She looked like the victim. I looked like the monster. Connor held her tight, his voice cracking with emotion. “Don’t say that, Sophie. If I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t have married you.” He looked up at me, his eyes cold and distant. “Hannah, she’s your sister. Don’t do this. I know I ruined your life, and I’ll pay you back. I’ll give you whatever you want. But I am not leaving her.” My mother stepped between us, shoving me toward the door. “Why are you acting like a psycho? They’re alive, Hannah! Shouldn’t you be happy your family is alive?” Emma chimed in from the kitchen. “Exactly, Hannah. Let it go. Sophie apologized, and Connor is going to compensate you. Stop making a scene.” My back hit the heavy wooden entryway table, a sharp pain radiating up my spine. They had lied to me, stolen my youth, and broken my body. Yet somehow, I was the villain in their story. I didn’t say another word. I turned and walked out. As I reached the stairwell, a hand gripped my forearm. Connor stared at my hand, his eyes lingering on the thick, rough calluses from the construction site. He looked shaken. He thrust a heavy paper bag into my hands. “Sophie didn’t finish these prenatal vitamins and organic supplements,” he said, his voice quiet. “Take them. You look… sick.” The luxury branding on the bag was a cruel joke. I pushed him away with every ounce of strength I had left. But my foot missed the edge of the concrete step. I tumbled backward, slipping into the empty space of the stairwell. Connor gasped, lunging forward to grab my jacket. Before his fingers could meet fabric, my mother’s frantic voice echoed from the apartment door. “Connor! Come quick! Sophie’s having cramps!” Connor hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then, he let go. He turned and ran back inside. I fell down the half-flight of concrete stairs, my body crashing against the metal railing before I settled onto the landing, bruised and bleeding. I didn’t go to the hospital. I couldn’t afford it. I dragged my battered body back to my dingy, drafty apartment. I sat on the edge of the mattress and swallowed my daily dose of Lexapro, staring at the walls. The apartment was still decorated exactly the way Connor and I had planned five years ago. The yellowed “Save the Date” card was still pinned to the fridge. The small terracotta pots we had painted together sat on the windowsill, holding dead, dry soil. I opened my phone. Emma’s latest Instagram post stared back at me: “No more secrets! These past five years have been a wild ride, but true love always wins. So incredibly happy for my favorites!” The photo showed Connor and Sophie, their fingers intertwined, smiling under the bright lights of their new spa. The dam broke. I pulled the blanket over my head and sobbed until my throat was raw, my chest collapsing under the weight of five years of stolen life. The next morning, Connor knocked on my door. He looked around the apartment, his eyes softening with a flicker of genuine regret. “You kept everything the same.” “I know these past few years have been hell for you,” he said, stepping closer. “I want to make it up to you. I’ll buy you a house. I’ll set up a trust fund. But you have to let this go. You have to treat Sophie like your sister again.” I stared at him, my voice barely a whisper. “You played me like a fool. Do you have any idea what my life was like?” I had worked through heatstrokes, dizzy spells, and panic attacks. I had been cornered by a landlord who told me I could pay my rent “another way” if I was short on cash. That night, I had run to Connor’s empty grave, crying until I hyperventilated, believing his spirit was the only thing keeping me safe. Connor took a step forward, trying to take my hand. “I can’t divorce Sophie. But Hannah… if you ever need anything, if you’re ever lonely… you can always call me. Just don’t be greedy.” I looked at him, realizing the man I had loved was entirely gone—or perhaps he had never existed at all. I remembered the month Sophie had been hospitalized. A young resident doctor had asked for Sophie’s number, and I had happily agreed to set them up. But Connor had lost his temper, shouting at me for meddling. “You can’t just decide her life for her, Hannah!” he had snapped. Then he had avoided me for a month, claiming he was buried in work. “Sleeping with my sister behind my back must have been incredibly thrilling,” I said, my voice dripping with venom. “Did you feel even a flicker of shame?” Sophie burst through the door then, throwing herself at my feet, her face wet with tears. “Hannah, please! It was my fault!” she sobbed. “Five years ago… the night of your accident… Connor was at the hospital. The doctors said your baby… they could have saved him. But Connor… he told them to let him go. He didn’t want you to have a permanent tie to him. He was afraid it would make me sad. I know it was wrong… I know we’re monsters. But please, when my baby is born, you can have him. I’ll give him to you to make up for it!” The room began to spin. The baby I had mourned for five years—the child I thought had died of natural complications—had been systematically abandoned by his own father to protect my sister’s feelings. A high-pitched ringing filled my ears. The pain in my chest was so sharp I couldn’t breathe. I raised my hand and struck Sophie across the face with every ounce of physical agony built up inside me. “Sophie!” Connor roared. He shoved me back. My body crashed into the dining table, sending a ceramic teapot shattering to the floor. The scalding water soaked through my clothes, burning my skin, but I didn’t feel it. Connor scooped Sophie into his arms, glaring at me with absolute hatred. “Are you insane?” He noticed the red, blistered skin on my arm from the water, and his expression flickered with a brief moment of hesitation. But he hardened his gaze, turning away. “You don’t touch her. I’m the one who made the choices. If you want to hate someone, hate me.” He carried her out, leaving me alone on the kitchen floor. My mother came by the next day, her expression tired and pleading. “You and Sophie used to be inseparable,” she said, sitting on the edge of my bed. “I know I wasn’t always there for you girls. But do you remember the earthquake when you were eight? When the building collapsed, and you were both trapped under that heavy beam?” She leaned in, her voice shaking. “The rescue team said they could only pull one of you out first. Sophie was the one who screamed through the dust, “Save my sister first.” Hannah, she is your flesh and blood.” I stared at the ceiling, silent. We had been sisters once. We had shared secrets and clothes and dreams. How did we end up here? Two days later, my mother sent me a text inviting me to a family dinner. I didn’t reply. But Emma showed up at my apartment, physically dragging me out of bed and forcing me into her car. “You’re going,” she said flatly. “We’re fixing this family today.” When we arrived at the private room of the restaurant, I realized it wasn’t a family dinner. It was a joint birthday party for Sophie and me. As soon as I walked in, Sophie tried to wrap her arms around me, but I remained stiff, my eyes dead. A mutual acquaintance who didn’t know the history looked at us, confused. “Wait, I thought Connor was dating Hannah back in the day. How did he end up married to Sophie?” The room went dead silent. Another guest laughed nervously. “Oh, you have it wrong. Connor’s only ever had eyes for Sophie. Hannah was just… obsessed. She’s lucky she’s even allowed in the room without trying to ruin their marriage.” I looked at Sophie. Her face was a mask of gentle, fragile innocence. “My sister isn’t a homewrecker,” Sophie said softly, though her eyes held a cruel, quiet triumph. The humiliation boiled over. I grabbed her arm, my grip tightening. “Why didn’t you just tell me? If you wanted him, why did you have to destroy my entire life to get him?” I didn’t pull her hard, but Sophie screamed, her body tilting backward as she fell dramatically into the dessert table. My mother slammed her hands into my shoulders, shoving me backward. “Get away from her!” My head struck the sharp corner of the drywall column behind me. A sickening crack echoed through the room. Warm, thick blood began to trickle down the back of my neck, soaking into my collar. Connor rushed to Sophie’s side, holding her close. When he looked up at me, his eyes were devoid of any humanity. “Let’s make one thing clear to everyone here,” Connor announced, his voice carrying across the silent room. “Sophie and I are legally married. Hannah has been unstable for years, stalking us and trying to claw her way back into my life.” The words felt like a physical execution. Emma glared at me, her expression disgusted. “Sophie is my best friend, Hannah. I won’t let you hurt her or her baby.” I didn’t try to explain. I didn’t have the strength to fight the tide. I turned toward the exit, my vision blurring. Sophie, suddenly filled with sisterly concern, ran after me, reaching for my bloody shoulder. “Hannah, wait! You’re bleeding—” A sharp, metallic snap echoed from the ceiling. Above us, the massive, poorly secured iron chandelier groaned. “Sophie, watch out!” Connor screamed, launching his body forward to cover her. My mother and Emma shrieked, ducking for cover. In my dazed state, I only had time to raise my arms over my face. A deafening crash shattered the room. Connor scrambled up, frantically checking Sophie’s face and hands. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?” Then, a sudden realization seemed to strike him. His body went rigid. Slowly, he turned his head back toward the debris. The color drained from his face entirely, leaving him a sickly, hollow white. “No—!!”

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After the “walk-in” who had supposedly hijacked my best friend’s body for three years finally vanished, everyone told me I needed to move on and forgive her. My parents held Valerie close, their faces tight with pity as they looked at me. “The one who stole your place in this family and lived in luxury was that… that entity,” my mother said, her voice trembling with emotion. “Valerie was a victim, too. You need to be the bigger person, Lydia.” My brother, Nick, shielded her with his body. “The one who ruined your applications and switched your Harvard choice to a local community college was that imposter spirit. You can’t take your anger out on someone innocent!” Even Henry, my fiancé—the one who had promised to stand up for me—had changed his tune. “I’ll pay for you to do a prep year, Lydia. Let’s just let the past go.” Under their watchful, warning glares, I swallowed my bitter tears and resigned myself to my fate. Until the following summer. Right before the test scores were released, I was scrolling through an online forum and came across a thread. “What is the riskiest thing you’ve ever done that you now look back on with absolute gratitude?” The top-voted answer was pinned at the very top, drowning in a sea of angry, disbelieving comments. [My absolute favorite life hack? Playing the innocent lamb. I managed to steal my best friend’s spot as a billionaire’s heiress for a few years. Her entire family actually helped me lie to her, claiming my body had been “possessed” by some malicious walk-in spirit~] [I spent three years tormenting her behind closed doors, and nobody raised a finger. Even when I hijacked her college portal and changed her Harvard acceptance to a sketchy community college, her parents didn’t have the heart to blame me. Instead, they shipped me off to Europe to get a fancy degree to “recover” from the possession.] [If I had to do it all over again, I wouldn’t change a single thing.] I stared at the poster’s familiar avatar and the European IP address. The blood in my veins turned to ice. Last year, my parents had supposedly forced Valerie to study abroad in London, claiming her presence was “disruptive” to my exam prep. And the avatar on that forum was identical to the one Valerie used in our family group chat. … My trembling thumb tapped into the user’s profile. I scrolled from the very first post to the last, stopping only when I reached her bio: “I often think about how incredibly lucky I am. To have family and friends who love me so fiercely and unconditionally—it gives me the strength to face all of life’s injustices.” I stared at it, numb. “Injustices?” What did she have to complain about? While she was living her best life in a luxury flat in London, gifted to her by my parents alongside a brand-new Porsche, I was sent to live in a cramped, moldy boarding-school dorm, studying sixteen hours a day. When she boasted about learning how to cook a basic pasta dish, Nick rewarded her with a wire transfer of fifty thousand dollars. Meanwhile, my parents put me on a strict “budget”—claiming they didn’t want me to get spoiled—leaving me with just eighty dollars a month to survive on, forcing me to live off stale bread and instant ramen. When she scraped her knee skateboarding, Henry, my childhood sweetheart, flew across the Atlantic just to nurse her for a weekend. But when I fainted from severe malnutrition and lay on the cold classroom floor for hours, I woke up alone and simply dragged myself back to my desk to keep studying. “Why the tears? Did the prep tests go badly again?” A crisp, familiar voice broke through my thoughts. I turned my head and met Henry’s amused, smiling eyes. He reached out, intending to ruffle my hair the way he always did. But I flinched away. Seeing his hand freeze in midair and his smile falter, I quickly muttered, “I’m just tired.” He let out a soft chuckle. “You don’t have to push yourself so hard, Lydia. Even if you don’t get the perfect score, it’s fine. Your parents already said they can just send you abroad too.” I clenched my fists in my sleeves. I wanted to scream that I had always been top of my class. My SAT scores last year were high enough for Harvard, and after a grueling year of studying myself to the bone, this year’s scores would only be higher. But Henry didn’t care about my academic success. He smoothly changed the subject, as he always did. When we got back to the estate, my parents and Nick were actually home—a rarity. Nick gave me a playful shove toward the stairs. “Go pack your bags, kiddo. We have a flight at two. The whole family is taking you on a graduation trip.” I froze. For a split second, sheer joy washed away my lingering resentment. Then, I saw the destination printed on the boarding passes. “Hawaii.” “Don’t worry about the results. Just relax and have fun,” my mother said, wrapping a warm, affectionate arm around mine. I went stiff. A deep, biting chill crept through my veins, making me shiver in the heat of July. Valerie was the one who loved the ocean. Her latest post was literally tagged in Honolulu. I, on the other hand, had nearly drowned three years ago saving a panicked Henry when he first tried to learn how to swim. Ever since, I had carried a paralyzing, visceral phobia of deep water. I looked up, scanning the faces of the four people around me. They were all smiling. None of them remembered. My brother’s smile soured at my silence. “What’s with the long face? If it weren’t to make you happy, do you think any of us would bother flying all this way just to look at some stupid ocean? Don’t be so ungrateful.” Meeting his impatient, condescending gaze, the urge to explain myself withered away. The things I wanted from them were like dry sand in my fist; the tighter I squeezed, the faster they slipped through my fingers. If that was how it was… then I didn’t want this family anymore. And I didn’t want Henry, either. As soon as we stepped out of the Honolulu airport, I saw Valerie waiting for us. She stood in the crowd, her skin beautifully bronzed, looking radiant and carefree. She threw herself into my parents’ arms, and Nick and Henry immediately rushed to crowd around her. “Have you been skipping meals? Look how thin you’ve gotten!” “We told you to wait at the resort, Val. Why did you drag yourself all the way out here to pick us up? You must be exhausted.” “I missed you guys too much!” she beamed. “I couldn’t wait another second. I wanted to see you the moment you landed!” The bustling airport noise swirled around us, but their voices cut through the din, ringing painfully in my ears. Suddenly, Valerie’s gaze shifted to me. “Lydia, this is your first time traveling far from home, right? Let me be your tour guide. I’ll make sure you have the best time!” Her smile remained bright, radiating a sweet, approachable warmth. My mother laughed softly. “Lydia always has such fragile health. Every time we planned a family vacation in the past, she’d conveniently get sick and ruin the whole schedule.” Valerie giggled and looped her arm through my mother’s. “It’s all because of that horrible imposter spirit. She made poor Lydia feel so neglected that she had to pretend to be sick just to get some attention. It’s a good thing that entity vanished, or I’d have taught her a lesson myself to avenge Lydia!” She said it with such righteous indignation, completely glossing over the fact that before every single trip we planned, she was the one slipping peanut powder into my food. After I was rushed to the ER, she would whisper poison in their ears, claiming I was just starved for drama. And then, she’d lead my furious parents, brother, and fiancé away to enjoy their trip without me. I didn’t say a word. The cheerful atmosphere froze instantly. Nick nudged my shoulder roughly. “Cat got your tongue? She’s talking to you.” My parents frowned, their irritation clear. Henry took Valerie’s hand, offering a teasing, dismissive shake of his head. “She hit her head right before the exams. She’s a bit slow on the uptake these days. Don’t let her ruin your mood.” Valerie gasped dramatically. “Oh my gosh, I hope it didn’t affect her Harvard scores! If she misses out for another year, I’ll feel like the bad guy all over again!” “How is any of that your fault?” Nick scoffed. “If she fails, she just doesn’t have the brains for it.” “Exactly,” my mother added. “Let’s not talk about such depressing things. Let’s get to the resort.” The color drained from my face, and my knuckles turned white against the handle of my suitcase. Days before the exams, I had temporarily moved back home from the dorms, only to be chased and knocked down by a neighbor’s loose mastiff. I cracked my skull against the concrete. Dizzy and bleeding, I called my parents and brother dozens of times. None of them picked up. With my battery at one percent, I managed to text Henry. His reply had been cold: “Are you stupid? Why didn’t you call 911? I’m not a doctor. Even if I came over, I’d just tell you to do the same.” I had sat on the floor, holding a bloody towel to my head. “I don’t have the money for an ambulance fee,” I had typed, but the phone died before I could send it. If I had any savings at all, I would have booked a hotel near the testing center myself, instead of having to decline my classmates’ offer to split a room because I couldn’t afford a share. And I certainly wouldn’t have stayed in that hollow, cavernous mansion where I was always an afterthought. Looking at their completely indifferent faces now, a horrifying realization washed over me. They knew. They had always known I got hurt. They just didn’t care enough to ask. I silently followed them to the front desk. The receptionist apologized profusely. “I’m so sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Whittaker, but there is an issue with the HVAC system in one of the luxury suites you booked. Since it’s peak season, we don’t have any vacant suites left to swap. We can refund that portion and offer a discount on your overall stay, if that works?” Valerie turned to me with a look of mock concern. “Lydia, Hawaii is so packed this time of year. Do you want to go find another hotel yourself, or can you just rough it out in the room without AC?” I looked her dead in the eye. “I don’t know my way around this island, Val. Is this how you play host?” Instantly, their defensive glares locked onto me. My parents shielded Valerie. “It’s not Valerie’s fault the hotel’s system is broken. Why are you taking it out on her?” Nick sneered. “Your dorm back home doesn’t have AC either, and you survived the ninety-degree summer. Stop acting so spoiled.” Henry waved it off. “We’ve all had a long flight, Lydia. Let’s just sleep on it tonight, and we’ll figure out another room for you tomorrow, okay?” I knew arguing was pointless. I felt the last of my pride collapse inward, my shoulders slumping. Taking my silence as submission, they grabbed the keycards and headed upstairs. They had booked the sprawling penthouse suites. I was handed the key to a windowless, suffocatingly hot standard room near the service elevator. I woke up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat and covered in itchy bug bites. My phone buzzed with a notification from the family group chat. Valerie had sent a message with a winking emoji: [If Lydia finds out you guys are throwing her Ivy League send-off party on my birthday, she’s going to be so mad at me, isn’t she?] The message was deleted almost instantly. But I had already seen it. It was only when I stumbled across Valerie’s social media page that I realized they had two family group chats. One with me. One without me. In the chat that included me, the last message had been sent six months ago. I used to think my family was just quiet, that they didn’t use social media much. But looking at the timestamp in the upper corner—3:00 AM—I saw they were still chatting merrily in the other group. They weren’t quiet. They just had nothing to say to me. Early the next morning, Valerie pulled up to the resort entrance in a sleek, cherry-red convertible. I recognized it instantly. It was the custom sports car she had received for her eighteenth birthday. Her eighteenth birthday had been celebrated with a massive gala at a private estate in the French countryside. Guests had flown in from all over the world. There had been a towering, castle-shaped cake, and a giant backdrop crafted out of actual hundred-dollar bills. My own eighteenth birthday had passed without a single mention. I hadn’t even remembered it myself until the power went out in our dorms one night, and my roommate happened to mention the date while I was doing practice tests under a flashlight. It had been just another grueling day. I had debated buying an extra roll at the cafeteria but decided against it to save money for the next day’s lunch. Eventually, I had drowned the hunger in math problems and slept right through to the morning. “What are you staring at? Get in,” Nick said, shoving me from behind. I stumbled, my knee slamming hard against the metal car door. Valerie let out a melodic, ringing laugh. “Lydia, don’t get too excited. Do you even know how to open the door to a sports car?” She sat in the driver’s seat, oversized designer sunglasses covering half her face. She looked effortlessly cool, but her words were like needles, piercing straight through me. It was just like the past three years since I had been brought back to the Whittaker house. Whenever my parents, Nick, or Henry bought her something expensive, she would always bat her eyelashes and ask, “Oh, did you get one for Lydia too?” When they admitted they hadn’t, she would put on a grand show of trying to give it to me, patronizingly asking if I even knew how to use it or what the brand was. And every single time, my parents would stop her, laughing and saying that giving luxury goods to me was a complete waste of money. Nick would mock me, saying that putting designer clothes on a girl like me only made them look like cheap knockoffs. Only Henry would pull me away, taking me for walks and buying me pastries. For the longest time, I foolishly thought he was trying to save me from the embarrassment. It wasn’t until much later that I realized he only did it to keep me from getting jealous and trying to take Valerie’s things. This time was no different. Before I could even respond to Valerie’s jab, my parents grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the resort’s shuttle bus. Nick blocked the exit, ensuring I couldn’t slip away, while Henry slid into the passenger seat of Valerie’s car. The engine roared, and the red convertible sped off down the highway. I watched as it shrank into a tiny red speck against the horizon, completely vanishing from sight. Valerie’s itinerary for the day consisted of snorkeling, surfing, and a dolphin-watching charter. When we arrived at the beach, I wanted to tell them I wouldn’t be participating. But I soon realized my anxiety was entirely unnecessary. Not a single person asked where I was going or what I wanted to do. When they finally finished, my parents changed back into their dry clothes and glared at me. “Why must you always be such a wet blanket? Do we have to beg you just to get you to participate?” Nick ran a hand through his wet hair, scoffing, “If you didn’t want to come, why didn’t you just refuse when we invited you?” Henry was busy drying Valerie’s hair with a towel, not even sparing me a glance. The diving instructor looked at me with confusion. “Wait, is she with your group? The waiver and booking only had four spots reserved. We can’t just add someone last minute without prior notice.” I froze, my gaze instantly shifting to Valerie. Her eyes pooled with tears in an instant. “I’m so sorry, Lydia. I remembered you were terrified of the water, so I didn’t book a spot for you. I mean… you wouldn’t have enjoyed it anyway, right?” She remembered I was terrified of water, yet she had planned an entire day centered around the ocean. And yet, no one stood up for me. My parents praised her for being so thoughtful and remembering everyone’s preferences. Nick said we could just go to a music festival and watch some fireworks tomorrow to make up for it. Henry told me not to be so petty and ruin everyone’s vacation. I opened my mouth, but not a single sound came out. Valerie wiped her tears, stepping forward to take my limp hand. “Don’t be mad, Lydia. Mom and Dad are already planning your graduation party. They’re even going to combine it with the eighteenth birthday gala you missed. I had to beg them for weeks to agree to it, so please, can you just smile a little?” I shook with a silent, burning rage, only to meet my parents’ cold, warning stares. That night, I swiped my keycard and went back into my sweltering, airless room. Nobody mentioned finding me a better hotel. My phone buzzed with another notification. Valerie had posted a grid of photos on Instagram, carefully omitting her face. Her caption read: [Hehehe, I’ve got a graduation gift that our real heiress will never forget. First person to guess what it is wins a prize!] I gripped my phone, a dark, heavy dread settling deep in my chest. In the middle of the night, Valerie fell violently ill with food poisoning and was rushed to the ER. The next day’s plans were canceled. After spending a week in the hospital, Valerie suggested moving up the date of my party. “Lydia looks so miserable here in Hawaii anyway. Let’s not make her suffer. We can just have the party early and send her back home.” My parents nodded in eager agreement. I said nothing, moving like a lifeless puppet through their arrangements. On the day she was discharged, my parents were busy finalizing the event details with the planners. Nick was waiting in line at the pharmacy, and Henry was sorting out the discharge paperwork. Valerie and I were left alone in the quiet hospital room. She sat in bed with her laptop, suddenly waving me over with a sweet, venomous smile. “Lydia, look! The SAT and placement scores are out. You scored in the top 0.01% of the state! Tell you what—I’ll give you five hundred thousand dollars if you just go quietly to that community college I enrolled you in last year, okay?” A deafening roar erupted in my head, like a physical blow. Before I could even think, I lunged forward, slapping the laptop from her hands. It clattered to the floor as I threw my weight onto her, wrapping my hands tightly around her throat. “What did I ever do to you?” I screamed, my voice cracking. “Why do you hate me so much?!” But a second later, a powerful force yanked me backward, slamming me hard onto the cold tile floor. “Slap!” A stinging, heavy blow struck my face. Blood pooled in my nose, and my ears rang as Valerie’s shrill, sobbing voice filled the room. “Lydia! I know you hate me, but I was just trying to celebrate your high scores! I was going to give you a half-million-dollar gift! Why would you try to kill me?!” My parents shoved me out of the hospital room. “Get out!” my father roared. “We don’t have a daughter this vicious and ungrateful!” Nick’s eyes burned with pure hatred. “If I had known you were this psychotic, I would have left you in that trailer park! Get lost, Lydia. I never want to see your face again.” Henry looked at me, a profound, chilling disappointment in his eyes, before turning his back on me without a word. I slowly pushed myself up from the floor, wiping the blood from my lip, and looked up. Valerie was tucked safely behind them, staring at me with a smirk of pure triumph. Nobody cared how a penniless teenager would survive stranded in a foreign country. But it didn’t matter. I had finally died to them. I turned and walked away, my steps firm and unwavering. This time, I didn’t try to go back to Boston or fight for a spot at Harvard. Instead, I accepted a full scholarship at a university in Savannah, Georgia—thousands of miles away from the Whittakers. From that moment on, we were strangers.

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On the day of our graduation road trip, my boyfriend and his childhood best friend left me behind at a highway rest stop. It took them half an hour of driving before they even realized my seat was empty. When Theo finally called, there was no panic in his voice—only irritation. “June, why aren’t you in the car?” “Come on, stop messing around. We’re chasing the sunset and we can’t turn back now.” “Just call an Uber and catch up with us.” Through the receiver, Summer’s voice drifted in, crisp and clear. “She’s not a kid, Theo. You can’t baby her forever.” In the past, I would have apologized with stinging eyes. Then I would have dragged my suitcase behind me, doing whatever it took to catch up. But this time, looking up at the bruised, gray-blue sky hanging over the asphalt, the urge to run after them simply vanished. I went into my phone and cancelled all our lodging reservations for the rest of the trip. Then, I booked a ticket to a quiet coastal town—a place I had always wanted to visit, but one they had dismissed as “boring.” From now on. The mountains, the oceans, the vastness of the world. I was done following in anyone else’s shadow. … This graduation trip was supposed to be just for Theo and me. During our four years in college, I had followed him everywhere. To snowy peaks, deep canyons, barren deserts, and endless highways. Always his choices. Always his obsessions. Right before graduation, I had made a small request. “Theo, let’s go to the coast. Just a quiet little seaside town. We can sleep in, eat fresh seafood, feel the salt air, and actually take our time.” He had agreed so easily then. “Sure, babe. We’ll do your trip for graduation.” I had floated on that promise for weeks. I mapped out three different itineraries. I picked a cozy B&B right off the historic waterfront with a small balcony where we could watch the harbor lights spark to life at night. I even bought a white sundress in secret, picturing us taking our graduation photos against the backdrop of the sea. But a week before we were set to leave, Summer dropped a route map of the Montana backcountry into our group chat. “Graduation is about living out loud,” she wrote. “Who wants to sit on a beach? Summer in the Rockies is a once-in-a-lifetime vibe.” Theo’s reply came almost instantly: “This looks incredible.” I stared at my phone, my thumb hovering over the glass. Finally, I typed: “But didn’t we agree on the coast?” Summer was quick to shoot back: “June, are you seriously trying to retire at twenty-two? Don’t live your life like a grandma already.” A chorus of laughing emojis from the rest of the group chat followed. Someone mentioned how cinematic the mountains would look. Someone else chimed in that the beach was too cliché. And then came the comment that stung the most: “With Theo’s camera eye and Summer’s style, it’d be a tragedy not to shoot a road-trip vlog there.” Theo didn’t defend me. Instead, he sent me a private message: “Don’t be a buzzkill. Summer has a point. I’ll take you to the beach another time.” “Another time.” He always had an endless supply of “another times.” But every “another time” promised to me eventually became someone else’s “right now.” I stared at his text, a familiar ache blooming in my chest. But I swallowed it and typed back a single word: “Okay.” So, I cancelled the coastal reservations. I spent the next week mapping routes through Montana, booking a rental SUV, securing cabin rentals, checking altitudes, tracking weather reports, budgeting expenses, and buying travel insurance. Summer dropped a text in the group chat: “June’s planning skills are honestly lifesavers.” Followed by a clapping emoji. Looking at those words, I didn’t know whether to feel proud or pathetic. On the morning of the trip, Theo pulled up to my apartment. Summer was already sitting in the passenger seat. She wore oversized sunglasses, her long legs casually propped near the dashboard, a cup of iced coffee cradled in her hand. When she saw me rolling my heavy suitcase out, she offered a dismissive nod. “Hey, June. Mind taking the back? My motion sickness is acting up, and I really need the front seat.” I got motion sickness too. Theo knew this. He knew how bad it got for me. But before I could speak, he had already walked around and opened the back door for me. “Just hang in there, okay? Summer was editing until three last night. She’s exhausted. Besides, the back has plenty of room. You can take a nap.” Watching his effortless, practiced consideration for her, a memory from freshman year flashed through my mind. The first time we had taken a road trip together, my stomach had been in knots from the winding roads. He had insisted I take the front, squeezing himself into the back to hand me water bottles and tissues. Back then, he had smiled and said, “So what if my girl is a little delicate? It’s my job to spoil her.” Now, he shoved my suitcase into the trunk, climbed back in, and turned to Summer. “Seatbelt on. Let’s hit the road.” I stood by the car door for a brief second, letting out a quiet, empty laugh. I guess being the favored one comes with an expiration date. The entire drive was filled with their animated chatter. They talked about camera angles, drone flight paths, and which stretches of the highway would capture the perfect sunset golden hour. They debated titles for the vlog they were co-creating, throwing out ideas like “Before the Real World: Escaping into the Wild”. I sat in the back, my iPad resting heavy on my lap. On the screen was the master spreadsheet I had built. Departure times, arrival estimates, gas stops, dining options, dead zones without cell service, and which cabins needed a courtesy call to ensure the hot water heaters were turned on. A few times, I tried to chime in. “Hey, the owner of tonight’s cabin messaged. He said the mountain road is incredibly narrow. We should really get there before dark.” No one heard me over the music and their laughter. During our lunch stop at a highway plaza, I texted Theo a restaurant recommendation I had researched beforehand. “Let’s avoid this diner,” I said, pointing to the greasy-spoon joint they were heading toward. “The reviews say the sanitation is awful. There’s a decent cafe just next door.” Summer glanced at the diner’s neon sign. “But I want this one,” she said. “Bad reviews just mean it’s authentic. Those polished, touristy spots are always overpriced garbage.” Theo laughed, his eyes crinkling. “Alright. Your call.” I frowned. “But Theo, your stomach. You know grease triggers your acid reflux.” “June,” he said, his tone sharp with irritation. “Can you not be so uptight? We’re on vacation. It’s just a quick lunch. It’s not a big deal.” They ended up ordering a spread of heavy, greasy, spicy food. Theo ate with gusto. But thirty minutes back on the road, his face drained of color, and he was clutching his stomach in pain. I reached into my bag, pulled out his prescription medication, and handed it to him along with a bottle of water. Summer leaned back, resting her chin in her hand, watching us with an amused smirk. “Honestly, June. You act exactly like his mother.” Theo froze mid-swallow. Then, he let out a dry chuckle. “Yeah. She’s always had a habit of micromanaging me.” My hand remained suspended in the air, holding the water bottle. It was genuine care. But in their mouths, it was twisted into a pathetic joke. We kept driving as afternoon bled into evening. The weather soured, and a thick, heavy fog began rolling down the mountain slopes. “Don’t go too fast,” I warned Theo from the backseat. “There are sharp switchbacks coming up.” Summer didn’t even look up from adjusting her camera settings. “June, if you’re that terrified, just close your eyes and sleep. Don’t backseat drive. You’ll mess with his focus.” Theo offered a light, dismissive chuckle. “Hear that? Eyes closed, babe.” I gripped the seatbelt tight and didn’t say another word. As the fog thickened, my motion sickness flared up with a vengeance. My stomach churned violently, and cold sweat broke out across my forehead. I rummaged through my backpack for my Dramamine, only to realize that when I was organizing our things that morning, I had put the medicine box in the glove compartment up front. “Theo, can we pull over at the next exit?” I called out. “I really need to grab some medicine and get some fresh air.” He gave a distracted murmur of agreement. The indie-rock music blasted through the car speakers. Summer was eagerly leaning over, showing him a shot on her camera screen. “Look at this one, Theo. The lighting is so cinematic. If we cut the vlog around this aesthetic, it’s going to go viral.” Theo glanced sideways, his eyes leaving the road for a second. “Incredible shot, Director Summer.” They shared an intimate laugh. I leaned my head against the cold glass of the window, eyes squeezed shut as my stomach flipped. In the dark of my closed eyelids, a flood of memories rushed in, unbidden and sharp. I thought of our sophomore year art exhibition. I had spent three sleepless days running back and forth to print shops to help Theo set up his gallery space, losing my voice entirely from the exhaustion and cold air. At the opening, Summer stood proudly in front of the main showcase wall, talking effortlessly with the professors about “their” creative vision. A professor had praised how beautifully in sync they were. Theo had beamed, looking at her. “Yeah. We just click.” I stood in the corner, my arms wrapped around a stack of empty cardboard boxes. He didn’t look back at me once. I thought of junior year summer, when Theo wanted to shoot a landscape series in the remote, high-altitude badlands. Terrified of him getting altitude sickness, I spent weeks researching safety tips, buying specialty gear, and coordinating equipment rentals. But on the morning of departure, he casually told me the car was too packed and asked me to stay behind. I had stood on the curb outside my dorm, bags in hand, staring at the empty street for an hour. Later that night, I saw Summer’s Instagram post: “The best partnerships are always forged on the road.” In the photo, she was lounging in the passenger seat. Theo had one hand lazily resting on the steering wheel, the golden-hour sun painting his profile. He looked breathtakingly handsome. And completely out of reach. And then there was the photography club dinner. Someone had asked Theo, “Where’s your girlfriend tonight?” Theo had shrugged, taking a sip of his beer. “She’s not really into this scene. She’d probably just feel out of place.” He said it so casually, as if it were a simple fact. I had been standing right outside the door of the private room, holding a container of warm soup I’d bought to help settle his stomach after drinking. I didn’t go in that night. I texted him saying something had come up at the library. He never asked what it was. None of these incidents, on their own, felt like a killing blow. But compiled together, they sat in my chest like layers of heavy, waterlogged cotton. It didn’t bleed. It just made it impossible to breathe. The SUV finally rolled into a bustling highway rest stop. I pushed the door open and stepped out, my legs trembling slightly as they hit the concrete. Theo rolled down his window. “Make it quick, June. We still need to beat the sunset.” I nodded, swallowing the bile in my throat. “Just grabbing some medicine. I’ll be right back.” The plaza was packed with travelers. The convenience store and pharmacy counter were tucked deep inside the main building. I waited in a slow-moving line, paid for my pills, and filled a paper cup with hot water from the dispenser. By the time I walked back out, the sky had bruised into a darker shade of twilight. Cradling the pills and the steaming cup, I navigated through the rows of parked cars. The spot where our white SUV had been parked was empty. I froze, thinking I must have gotten the section wrong. I walked up and down the aisles, row after row. Nothing. The white SUV was gone. I stood frozen in the middle of the asphalt, my fingers turning numb around the paper cup. That was when my phone vibrated in my pocket. Theo’s voice filled my ear: “June? Where are you?” My throat felt tight, as if clamped by a vise. “I’m at the rest stop. I told you I was getting medicine.” He let out an irritated sigh. “Why aren’t you in the car?” “I didn’t get back in,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Did neither of you notice?” Summer’s voice floated over, loud enough to hear. “I totally thought she was crashed out in the back seat. Theo, we’re already twenty miles down the interstate. If we turn back now, we’ll miss the golden hour entirely.” Theo lowered his voice, speaking directly into the receiver. “June, don’t do this. We’re on the highway, and U-turns out here are a nightmare. See if you can call an Uber or hitch a ride with someone heading east. Just catch up with us at the next exit.” I stood there, surrounded by headlights and families rushing past me, entirely alone in a place I didn’t know. An eighteen-wheeler roared past nearby, kick-starting a gust of wind that stung my eyes. “Theo,” I said. “Are you really not coming back to get me?” There was a pause on the other end. When he spoke again, his annoyance was palpable. “Why do you always have to make things so dramatic? It was an honest mistake. We didn’t do it on purpose. You’re an adult, June. Can’t you just figure out a way to get here?” Summer let out another soft laugh in the background. “She’s just spoiled, Theo. It’s always like this. The universe has to stop spinning for her over the tiniest inconvenience.” A small, quiet laugh slipped past my lips. So being abandoned on the side of the highway was just a “tiny inconvenience.” So their perfect mountain sunset was worth more than my safety, more than me standing alone in the dark. I looked down at the cup in my hand. The hot water was seeping through the thin paper, burning my palms red. But inside, I was absolutely frozen. “Okay,” I said. Theo let out a breath, sounding relieved. “Good. Send me your location pin once you’re in the cab. Don’t wander off. And hey—don’t start crying. It’s supposed to be a fun trip. Don’t ruin the mood.” I didn’t answer. I just hung up. The mountain wind swept over me, and my tears fell without warning. I wasn’t sobbing; they just spilled silently, one by one, sinking into the hot water in my cup, disappearing without a sound. I remembered my mom asking me before we left: “Are you sure you want to go all that way with them, sweetie? Every time you go on trips with Theo and his friends, you come back looking utterly exhausted.” I had defended him, of course. “It’s our graduation trip, Mom. It’s the last time we’ll get to do this.” I didn’t realize how literal “the last time” would be. I pulled up my phone, opened an airline app, and booked a one-way ticket to Port Haven—the sleepy coastal town in North Carolina. The place with the historic waterfront. The ocean I had wanted to see. The warm seafood chowder I had been craving. And the boutique travel and lifestyle studio where I had secretly submitted my resume weeks ago. They had invited me for a second-round interview last week, but I had left them on read. Because Theo had told me, “I don’t like the idea of you being so far away by yourself. Move to Boston with me. I can get a friend to set you up with some marketing or operations gig.” I hadn’t refused back then. Not because I wanted that job, but because I had spent four years tailoring my life to fit the margins of his. But standing under the harsh fluorescent lights of the rest stop, I realized I was done shrinking. I opened all the reservation apps on my phone. The mountain cabins, the glamping sites, the rental car, the professional photographer packages for their “aesthetic road trip”—I cancelled every single one of them. I had made the bookings. My credit card had paid the deposits. I owed them nothing, least of all a perfect vacation that didn’t include me. I unpinned Theo’s name from my contacts and blocked Summer. Finally, I texted my mom: “Mom, I’m not going to Montana. I’m heading to the coast.” Her reply came almost instantly: “Go. And this time, stop taking care of everyone else. Just take care of yourself.” Reading her words, the tears flowed freely again. Night had fully claimed the sky. I dragged my suitcase toward the shuttle bus bound for the nearest airport. Behind me, the headlights on the interstate stretched out like a glowing, infinite ribbon of light. It looked exactly like the path I had spent years trying so desperately to catch up to. But tonight, I stopped running.

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At my high school graduation party, just as I was standing up to give a toast of gratitude to my father, he suddenly walked up to the stage and snatched the microphone from my hands. “Actually,” he said, his voice echoing through the speakers, “I’m not your father.” The entire banquet hall fell dead silent. I thought he was playing some sort of sick, awkward joke. I reached out to take the microphone back, but he shoved me away so hard I nearly lost my footing. “The night you were born, I switched you with my brother’s baby in the hospital nursery,” he announced, staring out at the shocked faces of our friends and family. “And all those times you got sick during your exams? That was me feeding you spoiled food on purpose. I’m also the one who hacked into your student portal and changed your college applications to community college.” He let out a harsh, breathless laugh. “I couldn’t stand to see Raymond succeed in life, so I made damn sure his flesh and blood paid the price!” A cold, sharp pain bloomed in my chest. Suddenly, the pieces of my childhood fell into place with terrifying clarity. I remembered the night I accidentally took a bite of my cousin’s favorite dessert, and my father beat me until I was black and blue, locking me in the dark attic for three days and three nights without food. I remembered when my test scores came back higher than my cousin’s, and my father publicly accused me of cheating, forcing me to kneel in the school courtyard and apologize to the entire student body. I had spent eighteen years believing he was just a harsh disciplinarian, a demanding father who wanted me to be perfect. I never could have imagined that I was merely a stolen pawn, and that every ounce of misery he inflicted on me was a deliberate, calculated act of vengeance. He waved a manila folder in the air, his face twisted in a triumphant grin. “It doesn’t matter anyway. Your life is already ruined, thanks to me. Now, I’m taking this DNA test to go claim my real son, Austin.” I stared at the folder in his hand, momentarily frozen. I had found that exact paternity test in his study a few days ago. The bold, black print at the bottom of the page had been unmistakable: there was a 0% probability of paternity between my father and Austin. 1 My throat felt tight, as if gripped by an invisible hand. I reached out, my fingers brushing the edge of the folder, trying to stop him. “Don’t,” I choked out. He violently slapped my hand away. Turning back to the remaining guests, he raised his voice even louder, determined to squeeze every drop of drama from the moment. “Look at him! He’s a parasite. He couldn’t stand seeing his cousin do well, so he used every underhanded trick in the book to drag Austin down.” He sneered, looking down at me. “He only got those high academic scores by cheating. Changing his college application was just my way of forcing him down to his actual, pathetic level!” I stared at his moving lips, a wave of nausea washing over me. On the day the college admission results were released, my acceptance to my dream university had vanished, replaced by an enrollment confirmation at a low-tier community college. I had nearly fainted from the shock. Our relatives and my high school teachers had urged me to call the police, suspecting identity theft. But my father had stood in front of me, his eyes gleaming with a strange, satisfied malice. “Call the police? You probably just screwed up your own application and now you’re lying to cover it up,” he had said. “This is your real level. You’re a loser, Dylan. You spent years grinding, and you still couldn’t beat Austin.” At the time, I thought his words were just the harsh, disappointed outbursts of a father who expected too much. Now, I realized he was simply celebrating his victory. By the time I pulled myself out of the memory, my father had already stormed off the stage. “Now that you all know what kind of trash he is, why are you still sitting here? Get out! All of you, leave!” he roared at the guests. Within minutes, the banquet hall was empty, save for the two of us. I stared at him, my fists clenched so hard my fingernails bit into my palms. “You threw this party… you spent all this money, just to humiliate me in public?” He rolled his eyes, the disgust in his gaze no longer hidden behind a mask of fatherly concern. “I’m not your real dad. Did you honestly think I’d ever do anything nice for you?” Before I could reply, he grabbed my arm with an iron grip and dragged me toward the exit. “Now, it’s time to send you back to where you belong.” I was dragged down the street, stumbling and scraping my knees on the pavement, until he threw me onto the porch of my Uncle Raymond’s house. The door opened, and before Raymond could even speak, my father shoved the paternity test into his face. “Ray, the nurse switched our babies at birth,” my father panted, his chest heaving. “The proof is right here. I’m returning this useless trash to you. Now, give me back my son. Give me Austin!” He shoved me forward, hard. Raymond barely glanced at the folder. He raised an eyebrow, a cold, indifferent smile playing on his lips. “Austin has been my son for eighteen years. He’s the only son I recognize.” He cast a brief, pitying glance at me before looking back at my father. “Even if this kid is biologically mine, I don’t want him. Keep him.” With that, the heavy oak door slammed shut in our faces. My father froze. A second later, he lost his mind. He threw himself against the door, pounding on the wood with his fists. “You can’t keep my son! Open the damn door! Austin is mine!” There was no sound from inside. I stood behind him on the porch, staring at his frantic, desperate back. All these years, he had showered Austin with secret affection and gifts because he truly believed Austin was his biological child. If he knew the truth, would any of this have happened? I took a deep breath, my fingers trembling as I reached out and gently tugged the hem of his jacket. “Dad,” I whispered. “You have it wrong. I saw the report. Austin… Austin isn’t your son either.” 2 “Shut up!” My father spun around, his face contorted in rage. Before I could flinch, his hand flew across my face, a sharp slap ringing out in the quiet neighborhood. “If you weren’t so pathetic, if you weren’t constantly outshone by Austin, do you think your uncle would reject his own flesh and blood?” he hissed, his eyes burning with venom. “You ruined this! You make everyone hate you!” I touched my burning cheek, tears finally spilling over. Was I really the useless one? He was the one who had spent eighteen years systematically breaking me down. When I was a little boy, the neighborhood kids loved playing with me because of my bright, outgoing personality. My father had dragged me inside, locked me in a chair, and beat me until my back was covered in purple bruises. “You look like a little freak, begging for attention,” he had growled, taking a pair of clippers and shaving my head to the scalp. After that, the other kids stayed away from me, frightened by my gaunt, shadowed appearance. With no friends, I poured all my energy into school. But when he found my textbooks, he ripped them to shreds and dragged me to the principal’s office to withdraw me from school entirely. If the principal hadn’t threatened to involve child protective services and fought to keep me enrolled, I would have never even finished middle school. I slowly withdrew my hand, letting it fall to my side. He would never believe a word I said. But a tiny, quiet doubt began to bloom in my mind. Was I really not his son? Driven by a desperate need for answers, I waited until he was asleep that night, snip a few strands of his hair from his pillow, and took them to a private lab for an expedited DNA test. When the results came back the next day, my hands shook so violently I could barely hold the paper. “The probability of paternity is 99.9%.” The words stared back at me, stark and unyielding. The blood in my veins was undeniably, genetically his. I sat in the hospital corridor, my vision blurring with tears. If I was his biological son, what was the point of all those years of abuse? What had I done to deserve such hatred from my own father? I clutched the report and stumbled back to the house. Down the street, a grand party was underway. It was Austin’s official college send-off celebration, hosted by my father. I saw my father walking toward the entrance. He looked happier than I had ever seen him, dressed in a sharp, tailored suit with his hair neatly styled. I ran up to him, holding out the envelope. “Dad, I went to the lab…” The warmth instantly drained from his face. “What are you doing here?” he whispered fiercely, grabbing my shoulder and pushing me into the shadow of a pillar. “I’m warning you, Dylan. Today is Austin’s day. If you ruin this for him with your pathetic jealousy, I will make you regret it.” He didn’t even look at the envelope in my hand. He shoved past me, knocking my shoulder, and walked straight toward Austin, who was standing on the outdoor stage. As he reached Austin, the hostility vanished from his face, replaced by a soft, proud smile. “Austin, getting into a decent state college is a wonderful achievement,” my father said loudly into the microphone, his voice dripping with affection. “It’s certainly much better than going to a trashy community college. Here, this is my gift to you.” He handed Austin a small, leather-bound document. When I saw what it was, a wave of shock went through me. It was the deed to a townhouse near the university campus. I felt entirely hollow. All my life, my father had insisted on extreme frugality. My clothes were always hand-me-downs with visible patches, and our dinner table was never allowed to have anything more than basic cabbage and potatoes. I was so thin my collarbones jutted out like knives, but he never bought me medicine when I was sick, telling me to just sleep it off. All those pennies he had pinched from my mouth were saved to buy Austin a home. Austin’s eyes went wide with mock surprise. He took the deed and flashed my father a brilliant, charming smile. “Thank you, Uncle Rick.” I sat in the shadows at the edge of the party, my head bowed, clutching the truth tightly in my fist. Late that night, after the guests had departed, I tried to leave quickly. But behind me, my father stumbled out of the venue, completely drunk, unable to even walk straight. Despite everything, I couldn’t just leave him there. I turned back and let him lean his heavy, alcohol-soaked frame against my shoulder, guiding him home. All the way back, he muttered under his breath. “Austin… my beautiful boy… Daddy’s going to bring you home soon.” When we finally reached our front door, the cool night air seemed to sober him up slightly. He looked down, realized it was me holding him up, and violently shoved me off the porch. “I told you, you’re not my son! How dare you follow me back here?” he screamed, his slurred voice echoing in the quiet street. “Tomorrow, I’m throwing all your trash out. This room belongs to Austin now. Get the hell out of my sight!” 3 The heavy wooden door slammed shut, and I heard the lock click into place. I stood frozen on the gravel driveway as the sky opened up, pouring cold, heavy rain over the neighborhood. Within seconds, my clothes were soaked through, clinging to my shivering frame. I huddled under a small awning down the street, trying to block out the chill. A pair of clean, expensive sneakers appeared in my field of vision. “You really are pathetic, Dylan. He still doesn’t believe you, does he?” Austin stood before me, holding a large umbrella, looking down at me with an amused smirk. I flinched, my eyes widening. “You… you knew?” Austin shrugged, completely unbothered. “For years. He’s been throwing money and affection at me because he thought I was his kid. Why would I stop him?” The sheer, casual cruelty of his words made me shake with rage. I forced myself up, grabbing his wet jacket. “You watched him destroy my life? You knew the truth and you just let him abuse me?” “You deserved it,” Austin said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You always thought you were better than me just because of your grades.” With a sudden, violent motion, he shoved me away. I was exhausted, shivering, and caught entirely off guard. My foot slipped on the wet pavement, and I tumbled backward over the low metal railing of the overpass behind me. There was a terrifying moment of weightlessness, followed by a sickening, bone-crushing impact. When I finally opened my eyes, the world was a blur of red and gray. Through the steady hum of rain, I could hear a police officer speaking on a radio nearby. “Is this Dylan’s father? Your son has fallen from the overpass. He’s in critical condition…” Through the officer’s receiver, a voice cut through the static—cold, impatient, and utterly dismissive. “I’m not his father. Stop calling this number.” The last bit of warmth drained from my body, and I let the darkness take me. When I woke up, I was in a sterile hospital room. Through the glass partition of the door, I could see a detective taking a statement from Austin, who was weeping softly, shaking his head in feigned terror. All my life, Austin had bullied me, and my father had always forced me to swallow my anger. ““Don’t you dare fight back,”” he would say, beating me if I even raised my voice. I had spent eighteen years being a ghost in my own life. But looking at Austin’s fake tears through the glass, something broke inside me. I didn’t want to stay quiet anymore. I dragged my broken body upward, grasping the bedrail with trembling fingers, and pointed toward the door. “It was him… he pushed me!” The detective turned toward the room. But before he could step inside, a heavy hand clamped down on my wrist, forcing my hand back down to the sheets. “Dylan, thank God you’re awake. You terrified me.” My father had appeared out of nowhere. Without giving me a chance to speak, he turned to the detective with a polite, apologetic smile. “Officer, I’m his father. I’ve already spoken with him. He’s confused—he slipped on the wet steps and fell. It was an accident. We won’t be filing any complaints.” He shot me a look so cold it felt like a physical blow. “Shut up,” his eyes said. The blood in my veins turned to ice. When I was lying in a pool of blood, dying in the rain, he had disowned me. But now that his precious Austin was facing a police investigation, he suddenly remembered he was my father—just so he could cover up the crime. The detective looked between us, sighed, and closed his notebook. I tried to push my father away, but his weight was crushing, pinning my fractured ribs to the mattress. I opened my mouth to scream for the detective, but my father’s hand clamped tightly over my mouth, stifling my cries until the detective’s footsteps faded down the hall. Only when the corridor went silent did he pull his hand away, wiping it on his pants with a look of pure disgust. Outside the door, Raymond arrived, wrapping a protective arm around Austin’s shoulders. I grabbed my father’s sleeve, my voice cracking with desperation as I pointed at the family through the glass. “He is not your son! They’ve been lying to you this entire time! They know everything!” 4 I stared into his eyes, hoping to find some shred of reason. But the brief flicker of confusion in his gaze was instantly replaced by a deep, burning hatred. He raised his arm and brought his hand down across my face. My ears rang violently, and the taste of copper filled my mouth. He didn’t stop until my lip split open, staining the white hospital pillows with red, before throwing me back onto the mattress. “First you try to ruin his party, and now you’re trying to frame him for murder?” his voice shook with rage. “I told you, Austin is my son. I know it in my bones. You’re just a bitter, jealous parasite who wants to drag him down. If you dare touch him, I will personally ruin you.” He spun around and slammed his hand onto the nurse’s call button. A nurse rushed in, pushing a cart. My father pointed a shaking finger at me. “He’s fine. We’re leaving. Discharge him now.” The nurse stopped, looking at him in disbelief. “Sir, his leg is fractured in two places, and we suspect internal bleeding. He needs immediate surgery, or he could lose the leg—or worse.” “Then let him die!” my father roared, his voice bouncing off the sterile walls. The entire room went quiet. A sharp, physical ache bloomed in my chest, so intense I could barely breathe. “He’s better off dead anyway,” my father muttered, glaring at me. “At least then he won’t be around to ruin Austin’s life.” I sank back into the pillows and closed my eyes. The desperate fight to prove our biological connection suddenly felt like a massive, pathetic joke. Blood didn’t matter. You couldn’t force someone to love you. I opened my eyes, gripping the side of the bed, and forced myself up. “Fine. I’ll leave.” Every movement felt like white-hot knives sliding through my bones, but I forced myself to stand, limping toward the door under the horrified stares of the medical staff. “You think you can just walk away?” my father hisses, catching up to me in the hallway and grabbing my collar. “You haven’t apologized to Austin yet!” He jerked me backward, and my fractured leg gave out. I collapsed onto the polished floor, sliding to a stop right in front of Raymond and Austin. “Since we’re all here, let’s settle this once and for all,” my father said, ignoring my groans as he reached into his breast pocket. He tore open the envelope, pulling out the folded sheets of paper, and held them high in the air for everyone to see. “Look at this, Austin! I’m your real father!” he cried, his voice crackling with emotion. Then, he sneered down at me. “And this broken piece of trash on the floor belongs to you, Ray. Look at the paper if you don’t believe me!” He thrust the document into Raymond’s hands. Raymond didn’t even look at the charts. He simply pointed to the bottom line with a dry, mocking chuckle. “Can’t you read, Rick? The report says there is a zero percent match between you and Austin.” My father froze, the color draining from his face. As he stumbled backward in confusion, his foot caught my discarded backpack, spilling my personal belongings across the floor. Among the mess, the official DNA test I had taken—the one bearing both our names and a 99.9% match—rolled out of its envelope, settling face-up on the cold linoleum floor.

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Three days before we were supposed to walk down the aisle, the Harveys threw me a bride evaluation dinner. Out of a perfect score of one hundred, I was awarded an eighty-nine. My fiancé, Will, sighed in front of the room of high-society guests. “Gigi, the family rules are the rules. Anything under a ninety, and the wedding has to be postponed for a year.” Right beside him, Isla, my supposed best friend, blinked back tears and pleaded on my behalf. “Gigi has tried so hard. Can’t we give her just one more chance?” In my past life, I had actually believed they were both on my side. I had spent a humiliating year waiting—waiting for the Harvey Manor redevelopment to bring in its first wave of cash, waiting for Will to rewrite our prenuptial agreement, and waiting for Isla to slip into the custom wedding dress I never got to wear. But when I opened my eyes again, I was back on the night of the evaluation dinner. I stared up at the glowing screen showing that eighty-nine percent, and I reached for the microphone. “I accept the delay,” I said. “But before we put everything on hold, I’d like to see who gave me a single point.” … The moment the score flashed onto the massive LED screen, a heavy silence fell over the Harvey manor’s dining room. Eighty-nine. Just one point shy. Right beneath the bold numbers, a line of elegant, small print glowed: “Any score below ninety triggers an automatic one-year postponement of the nuptials.” Along with the delay, my accession to the spousal trust, my cut of the Harvey Manor redevelopment yields, and my residency rights to the family’s primary estate were all suspended. This rule had been drafted by the Harveys themselves just last year, coded directly into the trust’s entrance requirements. I gripped my champagne flute, watching condensation slowly trail down the glass and drip onto my fingers. In my previous life, this was the exact moment I had shattered my glass against the mahogany table, screaming at the Harveys, asking them what right they had to put me on display and grade me like a piece of prize cattle. After that outburst, I had spent a miserable year making amends. I waited for their massive estate project to recoup its capital. I waited for Will to gently coax me into signing a drastically modified prenup. And eventually, I watched Isla walk down the aisle in my custom wedding gown. “Gigi.” Will’s smooth, practiced voice anchored me back to the cold reality of the present. His mother, Victoria Harvey, set her teacup down on its saucer with a delicate, ringing click. “Giselle, the Harvey traditions have stood for three generations. We do not make exceptions.” Isla sat at the table reserved for the bride’s guests. Officially, she shouldn’t have been on the evaluation panel. But Victoria had insisted, claiming that as my closest friend, Isla understood my character better than anyone. Isla stood up, her eyes already swimming with tears. “Mrs. Harvey, Gigi is truly wonderful.” She looked at me, her voice trembling with synthetic sympathy. “She’s just… headstrong. Sometimes she doesn’t quite know how to accommodate her elders’ feelings.” I tapped my fingernail against the rim of my glass, refusing to offer her a lifeline. A single sentence of “pleading,” and she had seamlessly branded me as both hot-tempered and disrespectful. Will reached over, placing a heavy, restraining hand on my shoulder. “It’s only a year, Gigi.” His palm pressed down, a silent warning to keep quiet. I set my glass down. The crystal bottom tapped against the porcelain plate with a quiet, sharp ring. Will’s eyes immediately snapped to me. He was likely preparing to pull me out of the room, to soothe me with sweet, empty promises behind closed doors. But instead of crying or screaming, I simply reached for the wireless microphone sitting on the table. I turned to him, offering a calm, placid smile. “Family rules are rules.” “Below a ninety, we delay for a year. I accept.” Isla lowered her head, dabbing at her eyes with a silk handkerchief. But I didn’t miss the faint, triumphant curve of her lips. Will finally let out a visible sigh of relief. I nodded slowly. “However, since this is a Harvey tradition, it ought to be transparent and fair.” Victoria’s gaze sharpened. “What are you implying, Giselle?” I pointed toward the screen. “I accept the eighty-nine. But I want to see where every single point was deducted.” At the far end of the long dining table, the butler in charge of the digital voting system hesitated. Will frowned, his voice dropping. “Gigi, the evaluations are anonymous. There’s no need to dissect it like this.” “I didn’t ask to see the names,” I replied smoothly. “Just the itemized breakdown. I need to know where I fell short so I can improve for next year.” Victoria spoke up from the head of the table. “Show her.” The butler tapped his tablet. The screen shifted. The system first displayed the baseline average. Ninety-three. But there was a small footnote: “Anomalous low scores are excluded from the baseline average and instead trigger risk-control deductions.” Minus four points. Underneath the deduction breakdown, two glaringly anomalous low scores lit up in red. One point. Three points. My fingers tightened around the microphone. So, it wasn’t that the entire Harvey family thought I was unfit. It was that someone had deliberately cast two ridiculously low scores, triggering the automatic four-point risk-control deduction. Will’s face went pale. He spoke up even faster than I could. “Is there a glitch in the system?” Isla’s hand trembled, letting her handkerchief slip to her lap. As she bent to retrieve it, her knuckles knocked sharply against the edge of the table. I didn’t look at her. I kept the microphone pressed to my lips and addressed Victoria. “Mrs. Harvey, would it be possible to lock and archive the anonymous scorecard details tonight? At tomorrow’s formal explanation luncheon, I’d love to hear the constructive feedback from these two specific evaluators.” Victoria remained silent for a long moment, studying my calm demeanor. Finally, she nodded. “Very well.” I switched off the microphone and laid it down. Will reached out to take my hand, but I smoothly bypassed his grasp, bending to pick up my clutch. As I turned to leave, I caught Isla looking up at me. Her eyes were still red, but the fragile confidence in her gaze was beginning to fracture. When I reached the heavy oak doors of the manor, Will caught up to me. The night air was biting. He draped his tailored cashmere coat over my shoulders. “Gigi, don’t take tonight to heart.” I looked down at the gleaming platinum cufflink on his sleeve. Just last month, he had insisted I help him pick them out, whispering that the future Mrs. Harvey’s taste was his ultimate calling card. Now, that future was deferred by a single point. “I’m not taking it to heart,” I said, sliding the coat off and handing it back to him. Will didn’t take it. His brow furrowed. “Then why did you insist on seeing the itemized breakdown?” “To see where I can improve,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “For next year.” After a beat, his voice softened into that familiar, coaxing tone. “A year goes by quickly, Gigi. Once the Harvey Manor redevelopment funds are cleared, we can have an even grander wedding. I’ll give you that lakeside lawn ceremony we talked about.” In my past life, that lakeside lawn ceremony did happen. But I wasn’t the bride. “Will,” I interrupted. “Aren’t you curious about those two low scores?” “It was probably just some conservative uncle holding you to impossible standards.” “A score of one is an impossible standard?” He grabbed my wrist, his grip tightening just enough to pinch. “There were too many eyes on us tonight, Gigi. Don’t make a scene and make everyone look bad.” I stared at his hand. He wasn’t afraid of my heartbreak; he was terrified of my disobedience. My phone buzzed in my clutch. It was a text from Isla. “Gigi, are you okay? Will was in such a tough spot tonight, please don’t blame him.” A second message popped up immediately after. “I talked to Mrs. Harvey. Tomorrow’s luncheon will be small and private. Don’t feel too pressured.” I stared at the screen and let out a soft, humorless laugh. She was far more invested in this “explanation luncheon” than I was. Will caught sight of Isla’s name on my screen and slowly let go of my wrist. “Isla has such a good heart. She was doing everything she could to defend you back there.” I locked my phone. “Then I should make sure to thank her properly tomorrow.” Will’s face stiffened for a fraction of a second. I opened the car door and stepped inside. The driver asked for my destination. I gave him an address: the side gate of the Harvey Estate. Half an hour later, I was sitting in a blacked-out SUV parked just outside the perimeter. Across from me sat the technical project manager for the voting software, Mr. Bradley. Before leaving the dinner, I had taken a quick photo of the equipment cases. The technician-in-charge label listed his name and direct number. He had just finished packing up the voting terminals, his laptop bag resting at his feet. In my previous life, I had overheard him telling the butler: “De-anonymizing the scorecards requires either the host’s authorization or a formal dispute audit requested by the candidate.” This time, I slid my ID and the official invitation across the console. “I want to file a formal dispute audit.” Mr. Bradley reviewed the documents and looked up. “Ms. Albright, I can initiate the audit. But under privacy protocols, I can’t hand over the decrypted names to you privately.” “I don’t need them privately,” I replied. “I want you to initiate the live de-anonymization on-screen tomorrow during the luncheon, triggered by my formal request.” “What if someone tries to stop it?” He turned his tablet toward me, pointing to a clause in fine print at the bottom of the terms of service: “If the evaluation results are directly tied to wedding deferral, candidate substitution, or trust accession, the subject of the evaluation holds the legal right to a public audit.” My finger hovered over two words: “candidate substitution”. “Candidate substitution?” I asked. “It’s a module the Harveys specifically requested when we built the system,” Mr. Bradley explained. “If the score falls below ninety, the wedding is postponed, and during the deferral period, the groom can initiate vetting for alternative spouse candidates.” So they had mapped out the entire trajectory from the start. This wasn’t a sudden, unfortunate turn of events. They had built a revolving door into the system to replace me. I pulled out my phone and drafted an email to Victoria. “Mrs. Harvey, for tomorrow’s explanation luncheon, I would like to invite the technical directors of the evaluation software to ensure system integrity.” A few minutes later, her reply came back as a single word: “Approved.” She wanted me to publicly bow my head to my “inadequacies.” Perfect. “Mr. Bradley,” I said, looking at the dispute audit clause. “Is there anything you need me to prepare?” “Just ensure we have access to the main projector.” “I’ll handle the connection,” I said. “Tomorrow, we unlock everything.” The next morning, my phone woke me with a barrage of notifications. The group chat originally named “Giselle & Will Wedding Coordination” had been renamed: “Harvey Deferral Explanation Luncheon.” The group administrator had also changed. It was no longer me. It was Isla. She had posted a long, detailed announcement: “Thank you, everyone. Gigi is understandably overwhelmed right now, so I will be handling the guest relations, venue coordination, and gown storage for the time being.” Below her message, a neat row of “Received” and “Acknowledged” popped up from the staff. The wedding planner chimed in: “Miss Denis, should we proceed with the bridal gown showcase scheduled for this afternoon?” Isla replied instantly: “Yes, let’s keep it. Mrs. Harvey says we mustn’t disrupt the established schedule. We will discuss Gigi’s family’s side of things after the tea service.” I stared at the words “schedule must not be disrupted” and sat up in bed. In my past life, this was exactly how I had been erased—incrementally, quietly. The wedding was delayed, Isla stepped in to “soothe” the guests, and eventually, she was the one wearing my bespoke gown in the family portraits. Another text arrived, this one from Will: “Isla is just trying to be thorough and take the load off your shoulders. Don’t overthink it.” I typed back: “I won’t.” It took him a few minutes to reply: “You don’t need to attend the afternoon tea service. My mother thinks it might be too awkward for you.” “The Tea Service.” I let the words roll over my tongue. Once a bride fell below ninety, the Harvey system allowed them to vet alternative candidates. Naturally, the tea service was arranged immediately. I got dressed and drove straight to the luxury bridal boutique. When the store manager saw me, her expression froze. “Ms. Albright… what brings you in today?” I glanced over at the display area. One of the glass cases was empty. It was the case that had held my custom reception gown—a heavy silk mermaid dress with delicate, hand-embroidered gardenias trailing down the train. Will had insisted on the design because of the gardenias. “A dress made exclusively for my Gigi,” he had whispered. I pointed at the empty display. “Where is my gown?” The manager looked down at her digital log, her face flushing. “Miss Denis picked it up this morning. She mentioned there was a private Harvey tea service this afternoon and that Mrs. Harvey requested the gown for a lifestyle showcase.” I smiled faintly. “Did she try it on?” The manager avoided my gaze. “Just… for a fitting adjustment.” “Fitting adjustment.” How convenient. The evaluation seat went to her. The planning group went to her. And now, her signature was on the gown release form. I didn’t make a scene with the manager. I simply asked her to print the physical release receipt. It slid out of the printer, bearing Isla’s elegant cursive signature. Under “Reason for Release”, it read: “Harvey Afternoon Tea Gown Presentation.” I folded the slip neatly and tucked it into my bag. Outside the boutique, my hired car was waiting. I gave the driver the address of the private country club adjacent to the Harvey Estate. On the second floor of the clubhouse, the door to the VIP lounge was slightly ajar. Victoria’s commanding voice drifted through the gap. “Stand up straighter, dear. A Harvey woman must never carry herself with such a provincial posture.” I stopped in my tracks. Through the crack, I saw Isla standing in front of a trifold mirror, wearing my silk gardenia gown. The embroidered petals clung perfectly to her calves. Will stood beside her, holding a vintage diamond brooch. He didn’t object to any of this. Instead, he leaned in and pinned the brooch over her collarbone. That brooch had belonged to my late mother. Before the dinner last night, Isla had complained that her outfit was too plain and asked to borrow it to “add some weight.” After the dinner, she claimed she had left it in Will’s car and promised to return it today. Now, it pinned her collar, a gleaming mockery of my mother’s memory. Isla caught my reflection in the mirror, her face instantly draining of color. Will turned around, his hand still lingering near her chest. The air in the room turned to ice. I didn’t step inside. I merely pulled out my phone, snapped a photo of the gown release slip, and then focused the camera on the scene in the room. “Click.” Will’s brow furrowed instantly. “Giselle, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” I lowered my phone. “Nothing. Just gathering materials for tomorrow’s explanation luncheon. I’m sure everyone will want to know why a candidate tea service features my wedding gown.” The explanation luncheon was held in the private chapel-style ballroom of the Harvey Estate. The extended family, board members, and the wedding planning team were all seated. Will stood at the podium, microphone in hand. There were dark circles under his eyes, but his voice remained measured and smooth. “Thank you all for coming today as we clarify the postponement of my wedding with Giselle. Giselle is a remarkable woman, but marriage is not a decision to be rushed by passion alone. She is still young, and there are areas where she needs to mature.” I sat in the front row, watching him. In my past life, he had delivered this exact speech. He framed the humiliation as “protection” and disguised the cruelty as “room for growth.” Victoria took the microphone from him. “The Harveys do not treat marriage lightly. This scorecard is a tool for reflection, not a punishment. If Giselle can show real progress over the next year, the wedding will proceed as planned.” Isla sat off to the side. She wasn’t wearing my gown today—just a cream-colored bouclé skirt suit—but my mother’s diamond brooch was pinned firmly to her lapel. She stood up and offered a soft, apologetic bow toward my Uncle Charles. “Uncle Charles, please don’t be upset with Gigi. She didn’t mean to be difficult; she was just incredibly invested in this wedding. I hope no one blames her.” “Don’t blame her.” With a few soft words, she managed to play the peacemaker while firmly pinning the blame on me. I reached into my bag and felt the crisp edges of the gown release receipt. Victoria looked down at me from the stage. “If you feel any grievance, Giselle, you are welcome to speak openly today.” She sounded magnanimous, but she spat the word “grievance” like a dirty secret. I stood up. Mr. Bradley sat in the very back row, his laptop bag resting on his knees. I walked up the steps to the stage and took the microphone from Will’s hand. “Keep this dignified,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. I ignored him, turning to face Victoria. “Mrs. Harvey, because my score was an eighty-nine, the wedding is postponed for a year, correct?” Victoria frowned. “Correct.” “And during this year, the family is permitted to evaluate alternative candidates?” Her expression hardened. “That is an internal family protocol.” I nodded, walking over to the projector stand and placing the gown receipt flat on the glass. The projector flickered, and the image of the receipt filled the massive screen behind us. The line detailing the reason for release was magnified for everyone to see: “Harvey Afternoon Tea Gown Presentation.” Isla’s face turned white. I turned my gaze directly to her lapel. “Isla.” “Why were you wearing my custom wedding gown at a candidate tea service yesterday?” “And why is my late mother’s brooch pinned to your chest?” Isla immediately clutched her hand over the brooch. “Gigi, you’re misunderstanding. Mrs. Harvey just asked me to help test the schedule flow. It didn’t mean anything.” Will stepped in. “My mother arranged that. It has nothing to do with Isla.” “Fine,” I said. “Let’s put the dress aside for a moment.” I turned to the back of the room. “Mr. Bradley, if you please.” Mr. Bradley walked down the center aisle, carrying his laptop. Victoria stood up, her voice rising. “Giselle, what is the meaning of this?” “A formal dispute audit,” I said, placing my ID and invitation onto the podium. “Since the evaluation score has been used to trigger a wedding postponement and activate the candidate search, I am legally entitled to a public audit of the scorecards.” Mr. Bradley plugged his laptop into the main feed. The anonymous score details flashed back onto the screen. Baseline average: Ninety-three. Risk-control deduction: Four points. The red lines showing the two anomalous scores glared back at us: One point. Three points. Will walked over to my side, his voice a low, threatening hiss. “Giselle, that’s enough.” I looked at the screen, refusing to budge. “It’s not enough.” Mr. Bradley entered the system override code. A prompt popped up on the screen: “Decrypt and reveal evaluator identities?” Will lunged forward to shut the laptop, but Mr. Bradley blocked his hand. “Mr. Harvey, once an audit is initiated, the system protocol cannot be overridden.” I tapped the screen, confirming the request. The display flickered. The first low-score record decrypted, revealing the name beside it: “Evaluator: Will Harvey. Score: 1.”

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The grand opening of my new lounge, “The Foundry”, was supposed to be a celebration. Instead, the State Narcotics Task Force swept the place like a SWAT team. Dozens of patrons were forced to lock their hands behind their heads and drop to their knees. Before I could even ask for a warrant, Rachel—my wife of five years and the newly minted Captain of the unit—slammed me face-first onto the polished hardwood floor. “Connor Duke,” she cold-eyed me, pressing her knee into my spine. “Caught red-handed distributing class-A synthetics. Make it easy on yourself, Connor. Who’s your supplier?” My business partner and closest friend, Galen, struggled against the deputy holding him down, shouting over the din of screaming customers. “You can’t just bust in here and manufacture a crime out of thin air! Where’s your probable cause? Where’s the proof?” The rest of the staff chimed in, yelling at the officers to show a warrant or prepare for a massive civil rights lawsuit. Rachel was completely deaf to them. “Proof?” She gestured toward her young protégé, Justin, who stood nearby with a smug expression. “My deputy saw the transaction with his own eyes. His word is all the proof I need.” She tightened her grip on my wrists. “Keep talking, and I’ll make sure they throw the book at you once we dig up the rest of your stash.” An hour later, the lounge had been utterly ransacked. Floorboards were pried up, ceiling tiles shattered, and leather booths slashed open. They found absolutely nothing. Rachel’s face turned a sharp, dangerous shade of pale. Just then, Justin walked over from the kitchen area, holding a small prescription bottle of unlabeled pills. “Found this near the pantry, Cap,” Justin said, his voice dripping with false innocence. “It’ll do for now. A dive like this is never clean anyway; we just need a pretext to haul them into the precinct and squeeze them. I’m only one major collar away from my permanent detective shield. We can’t walk away empty-handed.” At the mention of Justin’s career, the brief flicker of hesitation in Rachel’s eyes vanished. “We have probable cause,” she commanded her team. “Bag the evidence. Arrest everyone on the premises. Call the local news station—tell them we’ve got a major syndicate bust. I want this to be the division’s showcase case of the year.” Watching my own wife secure my wrists with heavy plastic zip-ties, treating me like a career criminal, the last remaining embers of my warmth for her finally turned to ash. I slowly lifted my head, scanning the ruined room, before looking her dead in the eye. “You want to play the frame-up game?” I thought. “Fine. Let’s see how you handle a double-cross.” … Justin shoved me hard from behind, sending me stumbling toward the transport van. “Keep your head down,” he sneered, his voice thick with unearned triumph. “It’s too late to start singing now. Rachel is making an example out of you. You’re looking at five to ten in a state penitentiary.” I let out a dry, humorless laugh and tried to shrug his hand off my shoulder. But Rachel intervened immediately, grabbing my arm with a crushing grip. “You’re already facing drug charges, Connor, and now you’re resisting arrest? Do you want to rot in a cell?” Her eyes filled with deep, burning disgust. “Look at you. You’re behaving like a pathetic, violent thug.” I looked down at her fingers, gripping me so hard her knuckles turned a stark, bloodless white. On her left hand, the diamond ring I’d spent three months’ salary on caught the harsh fluorescent glare of the police cruisers, throwing a sharp, painful glint directly into my eyes. “Let go,” I said, my voice dropping to a freezing whisper. “I haven’t been charged, let alone convicted. I am not your collar, Rachel.” “Watch your tone,” she snapped, entirely unfazed. “This isn’t a domestic dispute. This is law enforcement. I don’t make arrests without cause.” I smiled, though there was no joy in it. “Cause? Or are you just using my neck as a stepping stone for your golden boy’s career?” The accusation hit its mark. Rachel’s face drained of color, and she quickly stepped closer, lowering her voice so her team couldn’t hear. “It’s just a procedure, Connor. Do you really have to humiliate me in front of my officers? Justin is my deputy. It’s my job to look out for his future.” “His future is a career,” I whispered back. “And mine is just collateral damage? I put five million dollars of my own life savings into this lounge. Is he going to reimburse me when my business is destroyed?” Rachel looked down, unable to meet my eyes, but she didn’t let go. Before she could answer, Justin called out from the back of the lounge. He was hauling a heavy, steel cryogenic lockbox out of our commercial walk-in freezer. “I knew it,” Justin yelled, holding it up like a trophy. “This place is filthy. Rachel, look at this. This is the real haul.” The remaining officers murmured in excitement. “That belongs to a private client,” I said, my voice raising slightly to carry across the room. “I’m holding it in escrow. I strongly advise you to leave it alone.” Justin threw me a condescending smirk. “Sure, the classic ‘holding it for a friend’ defense. We hear that every day. You can explain that to the magistrate. If you’re as clean as you claim, cooperating with a routine seizure shouldn’t be an issue, right?” I stared at him. “And the financial liability when you compromise a client’s private property? Are you paying for that, Justin?” Justin held up his hands, completely dismissive. “Hey, don’t look at me. I’m just a guy doing his civic duty.” I ignored him and turned my gaze back to Rachel. “You don’t want any part of what is inside that box, Rachel. If you ever trusted me—even for a second—step away from this case right now.” Rachel’s eyes wavered, a sudden flash of doubt crossing her face, but she quickly masked it. “Connor, we were married for five years. Of course I want you to be innocent,” she said, her voice hardening. “But the law has to be blind. I can’t show favoritism. Justin is right. Cooperate with the investigation. If this is truly a mistake, I’ll personally issue a formal clarification to the press.” The finality in her voice felt like a physical blow. I closed my eyes, letting the cold air of the street settle into my bones. “If that’s how it is,” I said quietly, “then I want a divorce.” Rachel flinched, her hand dropping from my shoulder as if she’d been burned. She stared at me in utter disbelief. “Connor, are you insane? You’re divorcing me because I’m doing my job?” “Five years, Rachel,” I said, stepping away from her. “And you still don’t trust me. There is nothing left to save.” Justin took a step forward, putting himself between Rachel and me. “Keep your family drama out of this. Threatening Rachel with a divorce to get out of a felony charge? Be a man.” Rachel looked up at Justin, her eyes softening with gratitude. For a fleeting second, the look that passed between them was so thick with unspoken intimacy that it made my stomach churn. I didn’t want to argue anymore. “I’ll have my lawyer deliver the papers to your precinct,” I said. “One last piece of advice, Rachel. Let me go. Right now. Otherwise, you are going to drag yourself into a hole you can’t climb out of.” But she was completely gone to me now, her loyalty entirely transferred to the young man standing beside her. “Let me give you some advice, Connor,” Rachel said coldly. “Own up to what you did. Denial only makes the fall harder.” To ensure Justin’s “heroics” were fully documented, she had already arranged for the local press to assemble outside. Under the blinding camera flashes, Rachel stood before the microphones, the picture of an unyielding, righteous public servant. “Rest assured, our community is safer tonight,” she declared to the cameras. “We have successfully seized a highly dangerous, illicit substance before it could flood our streets. Deputy Justin was the lead investigator on this operation, and I will be personally recommending him for a departmental commendation.” She painted Justin as a hero and reduced me to a corrupt, backstabbing criminal. The reporters swarmed me as the deputies pushed me toward the transport van. Microphones were shoved directly into my face. “Mr. Duke, as the husband of the division’s rising star, do you feel any guilt for sabotaging your wife’s career?” “Is it true you demanded a divorce to protect her reputation, or are you trying to leverage her into dropping the charges?” I held up my hands to block the lenses, but the reporters pressed harder. Sensing the optics, Rachel spoke over the noise, her voice carrying clearly over the crowd. “Justice knows no favorites. Even if it means the end of my marriage, I will see this investigation through to the absolute end.” She held her chin high, looking down at me with a smirk that said, “Your life is in my hands now. Bow down, or I’ll break you.” I let out a cold laugh. I reached out, grabbed the nearest reporter’s microphone, and spoke directly into it. “Fascinating. I feel exactly the same way. Divorce or not, I will never bow to corruption.” Rachel’s expression turned black as she turned on her heel and walked away. In the basement holding room of the precinct, the atmosphere was suffocating. Justin had me strapped into a heavy metal chair. He slammed his hand onto the table, leaning in close. “Let’s try this again. What’s the combination to the cryogenic lockbox?” I stayed silent. Without warning, Justin pressed a heavy-duty tactical stun gun against my ribs. A white-hot current tore through my chest, racking my body with violent spasms. I fell sideways, the heavy chair clattering against the concrete, dry-heaving as my muscles locked up. Rachel walked in a moment later, looking down at me with a look of practiced pity. She helped upright the chair, placing a hand on my trembling shoulder. “Connor, please,” she whispered, her voice laced with false concern. “This case has already reached the district attorney’s desk. If you don’t cooperate now, even I won’t be able to protect you.” I spit a mouthful of blood onto the floor and looked at her beautiful, deceitful face. “If you wanted to protect me, Rachel, you wouldn’t have let him touch me. You want to play the iron captain? Go ahead. Force that box open. But when you do, you’re the one who is going to burn.” Her eyes flared with rage. She raised her hand and struck me across the face, a sharp, ringing slap that cut my lip. “You never know when to quit,” she hissed. “Get the best locksmith in the state. I don’t care what it costs, we are opening that damn box.” Justin stepped up behind her. “Rachel, what do we do with him in the meantime?” Rachel looked at my bruised face, a flicker of frustration crossing her features. “The stun baton didn’t break him. What else do you expect me to do?” “You’re forgetting we have the clinical inventory,” Justin whispered, leaning in. “The restricted neuro-agent.” Beside them, a younger deputy, Tyler, went pale. “Captain, that’s a restricted chemical compound. Bypassing protocol to use a chemical coercion agent without a federal warrant… if internal affairs finds out, we’re done.” Justin whipped around, his voice sharp. “Who’s going to tell them? Rachel is running this division. Her word is the protocol. Besides, the Assistant Director’s chair is sitting empty. If we crack a case of this scale, Rachel gets the promotion by next quarter.” The bait was dangling. Rachel’s ambition, fueled by years of striving to prove herself, won out over her training. “Get the syringe,” she ordered, her voice cold. “Let’s see if his resolve can withstand a chemical probe.” The cold steel of the needle slid into my forearm. Within seconds, my brain felt like it was being split open with a rusted axe. My vision fractured into jagged shards of light, and my body began to shake uncontrollably. “Tell me what’s in the box, Connor,” Rachel’s voice drifted in, echoing as if from a great distance. “Just give me the combination, and I’ll give you the counter-agent.” I gritted my teeth, fighting the chemical haze tearing through my nervous system. I stared at her through blurry eyes. “It’s the thing… that’s going to end your career, Rachel,” I choked out, my voice raspy. “You are going to regret this… for the rest of your miserable life.” Rachel’s face twisted in fury. She reached for another syringe, but before she could press it to my skin, the heavy steel door of the holding room was thrown open. My lawyer, Franklin, stood in the doorway, flanked by two high-ranking state officials. His expression was carved from granite. “My client is being released on bail,” Franklin announced, tossing a stack of certified documents onto the metal table. “The paperwork is signed, sealed, and filed. Release him immediately.” Justin’s face flushed with anger. He snatched the papers, scanning them wildly. “We haven’t finished the interrogation! I don’t care about bail, we’re not letting a drug trafficker walk!” He turned to Rachel, his voice dropping to a panicked whisper. “Rachel, we just used unauthorized physical force and a restricted chemical agent on him. If he gets to a medical examiner, we’re finished.” Rachel stared at the documents, her brow furrowed. She knew the lawyer’s arrival meant the situation had spiraled entirely out of her control. She shook her head at Justin and signaled the guard. “The paperwork is in order. Let him go.” “Rachel!” Justin protested. “I said, let him go,” she snapped. As the guards unbuckled the leather straps from my wrists, I stood up, my legs still trembling slightly from the drug. As I brushed past Rachel, she leaned in, her voice low and threatening. “Watch your step, Connor. You’re still under active investigation. One wrong word to the press or internal affairs, and I will find a thousand ways to make you beg for mercy.” Two hours later, Galen ran into my private office at the lounge, his shirt soaked with sweat, his face pale. “Connor, we have a massive problem,” he gasped, leaning against my desk. “The other owners on the strip have formed a coalition. They’re claiming our ‘drug raid’ has ruined the reputation of the neighborhood and killed their weekend traffic. They’re demanding three million dollars in liquidated damages, and they’ve hired private security to enforce it. They’re threatening to tear this place down if we don’t pay by tonight.” The lounge wasn’t just a business; it was a sanctuary I had built for my team. I had poured my entire life savings into it, and Galen and the others had invested their retirement funds as well. I couldn’t let them lose everything. “How did they get leverage so quickly?” I asked, forcing my voice to remain calm despite the dull ache in my ribs. Galen spat on the floor. “Someone leaked our lease agreement to them. There’s a boilerplate clause in there—if the tenant is implicated in felony criminal activity that brings disrepute to the commercial district, the neighboring tenants can sue for ten times the monthly rent or force an immediate eviction. They’re fabricating the loss-of-business numbers, Connor. This has Rachel’s fingerprints all over it. That cold-hearted bitch is trying to destroy us to clear the path for her boy toy.” My personal bank accounts were joint-managed, and Rachel had already frozen them. She was systematically choking off my resources, trying to force me to sign a confession just to survive. Right on cue, my phone buzzed with a text message. “Justin was severely reprimanded by the Chief because of your lawyer’s stunt,” Rachel’s text read. “He’s been in my office in tears all afternoon. For the sake of his future, I will see this investigation through to the end. If you don’t want to go bankrupt and lose your precious lounge, come back to the precinct and sign the confession.” Galen’s phone was ringing off the hook in the background. We were being pushed to the edge of a cliff. “I’ll sell my father’s old cabin upstate,” I told him. “It’s on prime lakefront land. It should fetch more than enough to cover the demands.” Galen stared at me, shocked. “The cabin? Connor, that’s the only thing your dad left you.” Our family had once owned a beautiful collection of historical heirlooms, but after I married Rachel, she had systematically pressured me to give them away as high-end gifts to curry favor with senior officials in her department. Later, when she was shot in the line of duty, I had quietly sold my father’s locked collection of rare, vintage coins to pay for private medical specialists to ensure she made a full recovery. I had never asked her for a single thank you. I never expected that my quiet devotion would be met with such a venomous betrayal. “It’s just wood and stone, Galen,” I said, my voice steady. “If she wants a war, I’ll give her one.” Galen worked quickly and managed to find a buyer willing to pay cash for the property by afternoon. But just as I felt a moment of relief, Franklin called my line. “Connor, bad news,” the lawyer said, his tone grim. “Rachel just filed for divorce and petitioned the court for an emergency asset freeze. Any sale of your property, including the upstate cabin, is officially flagged as an illegal dissipation of marital assets. If you close that sale, she’ll have you arrested for grand larceny.” Galen threw his hands up, swearing loudly. “She’s a monster! She’s trying to put you in the ground!” Before I could reply, the heavy glass doors of the lounge were shattered. A group of local collection enforcers, carrying iron pipes and heavy wooden bats, marched into the ruined lobby. “Where’s our money, Duke?” the lead enforcer barked, tapping a pipe against his palm. “If you don’t have the cash, we’re clearing out the liquor inventory and the sound systems.” Galen stepped forward, blocking them. “This is armed robbery! I’m calling the police!” The leader laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “The police? Go ahead, call them. We’ve got friends in high places, pal. You’re a suspected drug dealer. Nobody’s coming to save you.” He swung his pipe, shattering a nearby glass display case. “Get to work. Strip it bare.” A chaotic brawl broke out. I lunged forward to protect Galen, but an iron bar struck me squarely in the lower back, sending me crashing into the shattered glass on the floor. Galen screamed, rushing to help me, but another enforcer brought a wooden bat down onto his knee. These men were professional muscle. Every strike was precise, aimed at areas that would cause maximum internal damage without leaving obvious external bruising. Within ten minutes, the lounge was stripped clean. Before they left, the lead enforcer looked down at me, spitting on my face. “That’s what happens when you cross people you shouldn’t.” I lay in the wreckage, my hands bleeding from the glass shards, listening to Galen sob quietly nearby from the pain in his knee. Then, a familiar, mocking laugh echoed through the ruined doorway. “Well, well. Look at you, Connor. Two hours out of my holding cell and you’re already in the dirt.” Justin strolled in, stepped over a pile of broken wood, and looked down at me with a sickening grin. “Honestly, you would have been safer staying in my custody.” I clenched my fists, ignoring the agonizing pain in my ribs. I gathered every ounce of strength I had, lunged upward, and drove my fist straight into his smug face. To my surprise, Justin didn’t even attempt to dodge. He took the blow, stumbling backward, a bloody smirk spreading across his lips. A second later, Rachel’s furious voice cut through the air. “Connor! Touch him again and I’ll make sure you never see the light of day!” She stormed into the room, flanked by four officers. They tackled me to the ground, pinning my face against the broken glass. The shards sliced into my cheek, but Rachel didn’t even glance at the blood pooling on the floor. She rushed over to Justin, cradling his face in her hands. “Are you okay? Do we need to get you to the hospital?” Justin shook his head, looking down at me with absolute triumph. “I’m fine, Rachel. Did we get the assault on camera? We’ll need it for the press conference.” Rachel nodded, her eyes flashing with venom as she looked at me. “Don’t worry. He’s going to pay tenfold for this. I’m holding a live press conference in an hour, and he is going to sign his confession on camera.” She didn’t say another word to me. She simply signaled her men to drag me to the transport van. To prime the public, Rachel had her team leak the edited video of me “assaulting” Justin to the media while we were en route. By the time we arrived at the civic center, a hostile crowd had gathered, pelting the transport van with garbage and eggs. The security guards made no effort to protect me as I was dragged out. Rachel stood on the steps, watching the crowd jeer at me. “Let them,” she muttered to the guards. “A man like him deserves to feel the weight of his choices.” By the time I stood before the bank of television cameras, I looked like a broken street thug, covered in dirt, blood, and filth. Under the bright television lights, Rachel stood at the podium like a merciless judge, reading from her notes. “Following a thorough investigation, Connor Duke has been found guilty of manufacturing and distributing class-A narcotics, possessing unauthorized military-grade technology, and physically assaulting an officer of the law. Connor, the evidence is absolute. Sign the confession now. Don’t make this harder on yourself.” “Shut up!” I interrupted, my voice carrying clearly over the whispering press pool. I looked up, staring directly into the camera lenses. “Rachel, your time is up,” I said, a slow smile breaking through the blood on my face. “You’ve been dying to know what’s inside that cryogenic lockbox so you could secure your promotion. Let me help you.” I spoke clearly, reciting a twelve-digit numeric combination. I locked eyes with my wife. “I told you, Rachel. Open that box, and you’re the one who dies today. I’m going to watch you drag yourself to the bottom of the pit in front of the entire world.” A technician near the evidence table hesitantly entered the code. With a soft, metallic “click”, the heavy lock on the cryogenic case popped open. The crowd of reporters leaned forward, gasping as the lid rose. At that exact moment, the cold, unmistakable barrel of a service pistol was pressed firmly into the small of Rachel’s back. “Don’t move, Captain,” a voice whispered from behind her. “State Police Internal Affairs. You’re under arrest.”

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My girlfriend, Alyssa, promised that once I gave her a hundred gifts, she’d finally post me on her Instagram. Make us official. I pulled three consecutive all-nighters, pushing through bone-deep exhaustion to finish the last one right before my birthday. But that night, the person she went public with on her feed was my best friend, Tyler. “Promised Ty I’d post him once he finished his gift~” her caption read. The accompanying photo was a silly stick-figure doodle Tyler had drawn on a napkin. Meanwhile, the large oil painting of the two of us—the one I’d spent sleepless, tearful nights painting—lay forgotten, tossed carelessly into the damp corner of her mudroom. Our mutual friends commented almost immediately: “Bold move. Aren’t you worried Sam will see this and throw a fit?” “So sweet though! When do we get to eat wedding cake?” Alyssa replied within seconds: “Blocked him hours ago, nothing to worry about. If he makes a scene, I’ll just make a post custom-set to ‘Only Him’ to shut him up.” “And as for the wedding, the sooner the better, but we’ll have to see what the groom thinks.” She tagged Tyler again. I stared at the glowing screen. I realized then that when you are the one who is truly loved, even a napkin scribble gets showcased to the world. Swallowing the bitter lump of disappointment, I spent an hour typing out a long, raw text, pouring my heart into the blue bubbles. It took Alyssa until the next afternoon to reply. “Morning babe, just woke up. Read your texts.” “Love you too.” This time, I didn’t write back. Just woke up? Exactly an hour earlier, Tyler had posted a photo of the two of them together on his stories. “Shopping, dinner, and her.” A hollow laugh escaped my throat. A woman who couldn’t keep her boundaries straight wasn’t a woman worth keeping. … At 11:59 PM, the familiar sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway. Alyssa opened the door, carrying a shopping bag containing the exact clothes Tyler had been wearing in his photo today. She stopped when she saw me sitting on the sofa in the dark. “What are you doing home?” she asked, her voice tight with surprise. “I thought you said you had to work late tonight.” I rubbed the promise ring on my finger. The text where I’d mentioned working late was five days old. I had only forced myself to take those extra shifts to free up time for the painting. My throat felt dry. “Today is the fifteenth, Alyssa.” She hesitated, casually glancing down at her watch. “Oh. Really? I must have gotten the days mixed up.” The second hand on the wall clock ticked in the heavy silence. She walked over, leaning down to kiss me. “It’s late, babe. Let’s go to sleep.” I flinched, pulling my face away. Alyssa froze, a flash of disbelief crossing her face. My eyelids trembled. I had always loved her with a physical intensity; usually, her proximity drew me in like gravity. But tonight, the pull was gone. “I know you’re mad,” she said, straightening up, her expression souring. “So I forgot your birthday. We celebrate it every year anyway, it’s not that big of a deal.” “Besides, you’re twenty-seven. A birthday just means you’re a year older. There’s no point.” When I remained silent, she sighed, a patronizing concession. “If you’re going to pout about it, I’ll make it up to you with a gift next time. Okay?” “No point?” I repeated her words, looking up to meet her eyes. But last month was Tyler’s birthday. She had cancelled her meetings, cleared her schedule, and thrown him a massive party. She Venmo’d him three separate times, spending thousands of dollars. When I had gently tried to express my discomfort back then, she told me, “Birthdays only come once a year, Sam. They’re precious.” Why did the rules change when it came to me? I let out a cold laugh. “That’s not what you told Tyler last month.” Alyssa stiffened, stepping closer, casting a shadow over me. Her voice took on an impatient edge. “I told you, I forgot. Do you really have to overanalyze everything and hold a grudge? Besides, Tyler is your best friend. He’s family, not some stranger.” Family. But she had forgotten so much more than just a birthday. From our anniversary dinner to the weekend we were supposed to travel to visit my dad’s grave—she forgot every single thing. I leaned back against the cushions. “Right. He’s family. You’ve gone public with him on social media, so how could he be a stranger?” My gaze drifted to the shopping bag in her hand. “Actually, I think I’m the stranger here.” She pulled the bag behind her back. “His clothes are delicate and need to be hand-washed. A guy doesn’t know how to do that, so I was just helping out… And about the Instagram post, my finger slipped and I tagged the wrong account. Do I really have to explain every little thing to you? Sam, aren’t you tired of being so paranoid? It was just a silly post anyway.” I stayed quiet. She had never once washed my clothes. “No girl wants to play the maid,” she had told me once. A slipped finger? Who would believe that? Alyssa turned toward the guest room, then paused, looking back at me with deep disappointment. “You’ve really changed. You’re starting to feel like a stranger to me.” When the door clicked shut, I sat in the quiet. I felt the exact same way about her. The next morning, she was already gone when I woke up. I went to the kitchen. The fridge was covered in sticky notes I had left her. I used to wake up early to make her breakfast before my overtime shifts, leaving it warm for her. She had never touched them. The food in the fridge had gone moldy. Without hesitation, I swept it all into the trash. After breakfast, I opened the guest room door. The hundred gifts I had lovingly gathered over the years were crammed into a damp cardboard box in the darkest corner. But Tyler’s stick-figure drawing was framed beautifully on her nightstand. My hands shook as I carried the damp box to the backyard fireplace. I tossed the gifts in, one by one. Alyssa suddenly burst back into the house, apparently having forgotten something. Seeing the smoke rising from the backyard, her eyes widened in panic. She rushed out. “What are you burning?! Is that the drawing Tyler made for—” She stopped, her shoulders sagging in relief when she realized what was actually in the flames. I didn’t say a word. I just watched her. She rubbed the bridge of her nose, avoiding my gaze. “Oh, it’s just that old junk. You realized how useless they were, right? Honestly, they were just taking up space anyway. I’m glad you’re finally thinking straight.” She reached out to ruffle my hair, the way she used to. “I just came back to grab a file. Make sure you clean up the ashes.” I tossed the final oil painting into the fire. The smoke smelled of old cardboard, burnt acrylics, and the cheap lavender sachets I’d bought for her closet years ago. It felt like watching a slow autopsy of my twenties. “What did you think I was burning?” I asked quietly. She didn’t answer. She grabbed her file from the guest room, slid Tyler’s framed drawing into her briefcase, and walked out. I leaned against the doorframe, a bitter smile tugging at my lips. “No one cares about that garbage but you.” “Shut up,” she snapped, her face darkening. As she turned to leave, her briefcase caught on the edge of the nightstand drawer, pulling it completely open. A thick, beautifully bound scrapbook fell out, hitting the floor with a heavy thud. Panic flashed across her face. She scrambled to grab it, but I beat her to it. When I opened it, the blood in my veins ran cold. It was a meticulously printed collection of her chat logs with Tyler. Every single screenshot was laminated and bound. My hands trembled violently. My eyes stung. “You said this was childish,” I whispered. “You said you hated stuff like this.” The book felt like lead. Just months ago, I had suggested making a scrapbook of our messages to keep for our future. Alyssa had scoffed, calling it immature and pointless. So I let it go. And yet, here it was. She had custom-made one for Tyler, keeping it right under our roof. Alyssa snatched it from my hands, her chest heaving. “Who gave you permission to touch my things? Do you have any concept of boundaries?” She frantically brushed the dust off the cover, slipping it back into her folder. “What about my boundaries, Alyssa?” my voice cracked. “My gifts are thrown in a damp box while you keep your secret love letters right here. You’ve checked out of this relationship, and I’m not even allowed to look?” “Stop talking nonsense!” she yelled, her brow furrowed. “Tyler and I are completely platonic. Don’t ruin his reputation just because you have a dirty mind. Go take a cold shower and clear your head.” She walked toward the door. Anger surged, hot and sharp. I grabbed her wrist. “Platonic? He literally texted me a picture of the two of you in bed! He calls you ‘sweetheart.’ How can you stand there and lie?” With a violent shrug, she threw my hand off. I lost my footing, slipping on the hardwood floor. My head slammed hard against the sharp wooden edge of the bedframe. A blinding, white-hot pain shot through my skull, blurring my vision. “You…” Alyssa paused. She half-reached out a hand to help me up, but quickly pulled it back, her expression twisting into disgust. “Don’t go into my room again,” she said coldly, turning her back on me. I blacked out from the pain. When I finally came to, the room was dark. Alyssa was sitting in the armchair nearby, tapping lazily on her phone. “Finally awake? It’s your own fault for being so clumsy.” I tried to speak, but my throat was too dry. She locked her phone and glanced at me, clearly bored. “I have to get back to work.” The front door slammed, sending a tremor through my chest. After a long while, I dressed and went out to the living room. Alyssa was standing on the balcony, on the phone with Tyler. Her voice had a soft, gentle patience I hadn’t heard in years. “Have you eaten yet?” she was saying. “Do you want me to bring you some cake? Sweet treats always cheer you up.” Tyler’s giggling voice drifted through the receiver. “No, it’s fine. I don’t want your boyfriend getting mad again.” Alyssa laughed. “It’s not a big deal. We just won’t tell him. He’s too oblivious to notice anyway.” My heart felt like it was being scraped by a rusted nail. In the beginning, she had loved me like that. If I mentioned wanting cake, she would buy five different flavors. If I tagged her in a post about flowers, she would drive across town to find the exact bouquet. But people change. I took a deep breath. “Alyssa.” She didn’t even turn around. I stepped onto the balcony, forcing her to look at me. “Alyssa, we’re over. Let’s break up.” She briefly pulled the phone away, giving me a dismissive look. “Sure, babe. Whatever you say. I’m busy right now, go watch TV or something, okay?” A profound, heavy exhaustion settled into my bones. I had envisioned our breakup as a massive, screaming match. I never expected it to end with such hollow indifference. I closed my eyes as hot tears slid down my cheeks. I went back to the bedroom, staring at my unpacked clothes, not knowing where to start. My phone buzzed. A friend had sent me a screenshot. Tyler had posted an unflattering photo of me on his Instagram. It was a picture taken in our bedroom—a photo only Alyssa could have taken. Tyler captioned it: “Does anyone actually find this look attractive?” The comments were filled with laughing emojis and insults. And there, right at the top, was Alyssa’s comment: “Not as good-looking as you.” Tyler replied: “Good boy. Next time send me an even uglier one so I can make a meme out of it.” “Deal,” Alyssa wrote. My ears rang. My friend texted: Who does this guy think he is? This is sick. Let me know if you want me to go handle this. My phone slipped from my hand, clattering onto the floor. I marched out of the room. Alyssa was still smiling at her screen on the couch. I snatched the phone from her hand and unlocked it, opening her photo library. There was an album labeled “Ugly.” It was filled with bad photos of me, some maliciously edited. But the very top album, pinned and favorited, was “Tyler.” Dozens of professionally edited, perfect portraits of him. My hands went numb with rage. I checked her texts. She had been sending those ugly photos of me to Tyler to use as reaction stickers. “Tyler is just better looking than you,” Alyssa said, scowling as she tried to grab her phone back. I swallowed the metallic taste of blood in my mouth. “So that gives you the right to humiliate me?” I had spent hours carefully editing her photos before saving them, wanting to preserve only her most beautiful angles. Because when you love someone, don’t you want the world to see them at their best? Tyler’s mocking voice suddenly blared from the speakerphone. “Oh, come on, Sam. Don’t be a baby. Even your own girlfriend knows I’m the prettier one.” A dark, bitter laugh escaped me. “Sure, Tyler. You look just like your father did when he was sleeping with other men’s wives. Gorgeous.” Tyler gasped. “How could you say that to me? Alyssa, he’s…” Alyssa’s face went white. “How dare you say something so malicious? He’s your best friend!” “He stopped being my friend a long time ago,” I said softly. “Since when?” she demanded. “Since the winter my dad was dying, and Tyler said he looked like a bloated pig.” The memory hit me like a physical blow. Last winter, my father was in the final stages of renal failure, his body severely swollen. I had to run to the office to hand off some contracts and asked Tyler to sit with him for a few hours. But when I returned, I heard Tyler laughing on the phone through the door. “Tell him to eat less. He looks like a bloated pig. It’s honestly repulsive.” My father had treated Tyler like his own son. When Tyler’s father was run out of town for destroying families, it was my dad who took pity on him, encouraging me to help him. And that was how he repaid us. Alyssa flinched slightly, remembering the incident. But she still defended him. “He didn’t mean it like that. It was a slip of the tongue. Are you seriously going to hold a grudge over that forever? And bringing up his father’s past is just cruel. Tyler is innocent.” I smiled, but my heart was bleeding. “Innocent?” Before Alyssa could speak, the front door swung open. Tyler walked in, carrying a basket of wellness supplements. His eyes were already red and watery. “Sam, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to say those things about your dad. I was young and stupid. I don’t want to lose you. Please forgive me.” He pushed the basket toward me. “I brought some of the things your dad used to like. Let’s go visit his grave together? I want to apologize to him properly.” The sheer hypocrisy made my stomach turn. I shoved him away. “Get the hell out. Don’t act like you care. You mocked my dying father, and now you’re trying to take my woman. Have you no shame?” Tyler whimpered, grabbing the hem of Alyssa’s jacket. “I… I didn’t mean it. Alyssa, tell him. I just wanted to apologize. And no matter how much I love you, I would never try to steal you from Sam…” Alyssa wrapped an arm around him, then turned to me, her hand clamping down hard on my wrist. “Enough! He came here to apologize. When are you going to let this go?” My eyes burned. “Never! My dad is gone, Alyssa! How am I supposed to let that go?” “That wasn’t Tyler’s fault! Your dad was going to die from that disease anyway!” The words hung in the air, freezing the breath in my lungs. Seeing the look on my face, her voice softened slightly. “Look, your dad is dead. It was just bad luck. Why ruin a lifelong friendship over a dead man?” I looked past her. Tyler was hiding behind her shoulder, a smug smirk plastered on his face. And there, catching the light around his neck, was a silver chain. My father’s urn necklace. His last remaining keepsake. My chest seized. I lunged forward, grabbing Alyssa’s arm. “That chain… You told me it was lost. Why is he wearing it?” Alyssa avoided my eyes, shifting to block him. “Tyler said he liked it, so I gave it to him. Your dad is gone, Sam. Tyler is just wearing it to keep the bad energy away for you. You should be thanking him.” I grit my teeth, reaching past her to rip it off Tyler’s neck. “Ah! Stay away from me!” Tyler screamed, shrinking back. Alyssa reacted instantly, shoving me away with all her strength. I lost my balance, falling backward. My shoulder slammed into the sharp metal coat rack in the hallway, the iron hook tearing deep into my collarbone. I clutched my chest as blood began to soak through my shirt. As my vision faded, the last thing I saw was Alyssa finally lunging toward me in panic.

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Lately, I’ve been gaining weight for absolutely no reason. Even on days when I eat nothing but a single hard-boiled egg, the scale somehow climbs another two pounds. My sister, Josie, is the exact opposite. She binges on takeout and junk food all day long, yet her body remains effortlessly runway-ready. Frustrated and utterly confused, I posted about it on an online forum, hoping for some advice. Instead, a stranger in the comments revealed a terrifying truth. “Your sister has bound you to a Gluttony Pact. No matter what she eats, she will never gain an ounce. She is anchored to you, destined to stay exactly half your weight.” I froze, staring down at the digital scale. One hundred and eighty pounds. The numbers glared back at me. The user messaged me again. “Did she give you some kind of personal keepsake? A piece of jewelry you wear close to your skin? Listen to me: take it off and fasten it to an animal. You will see what happens.” I did exactly that. Taking advantage of my job at the local zoo, I slipped the silver necklace my sister had given me onto the neck of an elephant in my care. Within three days, Josie completely lost her mind… … “Oh my god! Oh my god! What am I supposed to do?” It had been barely three days since I fastened her necklace to the elephant. Now, my sister’s hysterical screams were echoing through the drywall from the bedroom next door. My parents, hearing her breakdown, rushed to her room to soothe her. But when she couldn’t give them a straight answer, their panic curdled into anger. Together, they stormed down the hall and kicked my door open. The heavy bang of the wood hitting the wall shook the room. Before I could even blink, my mom ripped the blanket off my body, dragging me upright by my arm. It was a stark reminder of exactly where I stood in this family. “Iris! How can you sleep right now?” my mom shrieked. Her fingers dug painfully into my shoulder. Because I weighed a solid hundred and eighty pounds, she couldn’t easily budge me, which only made her angrier. She began to pinch my arms. “Did you do something to your sister? She’s in there crying her eyes out! Are you deaf? Didn’t you hear her?” My dad joined in, grabbing my discarded comforter and tossing it out into the hallway. My bedroom was a converted pantry—barely wide enough for me to turn around in, let alone fit my frame. It was a miracle my bed even squeezed in here. Yet, they had no qualms about crowding in, reducing my tiny sanctuary to utter chaos. But they didn’t care about my space. Their only concern was Josie’s endless, shrill sobbing. “Listen to her!” my mom demanded, shaking me. “She’s heartbroken, and you’re just lying here like a lump of clay! Why aren’t you comforting your sister?” “And what exactly am I supposed to say?” I asked, my voice flat. I looked at them with cold, tired eyes. I’d spent twenty-three years watching their favoritism play out; the armor I’d built was thick. “Just go in there and say something nice! Tell her how beautiful she is! You can’t just pretend she doesn’t exist!” Yes, that was always their playbook. I was the older sister—the bigger, plain, unpromising one. I had no grand ambitions; I was perfectly content working a quiet job at the zoo. But Josie was different. Josie was beautiful, slender, and fiercely determined to be a high-fashion model. A few weeks ago, she had registered for a major regional modeling showcase. By all standard agency metrics, her body fat and weight shouldn’t have qualified her. Yet, through some miracle I couldn’t comprehend at the time, she passed the physical screening with flying colors. The second-round callback was only a month away. To build up her confidence, my parents had spent years tearing me down, offering my self-esteem as a sacrifice to feed her ego. They shoved me down the hallway and into Josie’s room. She was stepping on and off her digital scale, weeping as she watched the numbers blink. “How is this happening? I gained half a pound! Half a pound!” Just half a pound. And it was enough to make her tear her hair out. Meanwhile, I had packed on fifty pounds in a matter of weeks, and my parents hadn’t batted an eye. Terrified that my organs were failing, I had begged my mom to take me to the clinic. She’d laughed it off, telling me I was overreacting. “Big girls are sturdier anyway,” she’d said, waving her hand to dismiss me. My dad had agreed. He said it didn’t matter if I got fat—this family only needed one star, and my extra weight would actually help Josie feel better about her own body. They treated me like a stray dog, tossing me scraps of attention only when it served their golden child. I’d ended up taking the bus to the clinic alone. The bloodwork, the thyroid panels—everything came back perfectly normal. Desperate, I turned to Reddit, posting a detailed breakdown of my sudden, inexplicable weight gain. That was when a user messaged me about the “Gluttony Pact”. Before all this started, I was a healthy hundred and ten pounds. But because Josie’s height required her to maintain a certain frame, keeping her at exactly half my weight meant she could eat whatever she wanted. She had spent the last month gorging on deep-dish pizzas, greasy burgers, and milkshakes—things she’d never dared touch before—all while staying skeletal. Meanwhile, the physical toll of those calories was mapping itself onto my ribs, my thighs, my face. Now I knew the truth. Every bite she swallowed was metabolized by my body. And the anchor keeping this curse locked in place was the necklace she’d given me on my twenty-first birthday. It was a delicate jade pendant—the only semi-valuable thing I had ever received from anyone in this house. The front was carved with my zodiac sign, and the back was inscribed with my exact birthdate and time. It was beautiful, small, and seemingly innocent. I remembered how my parents had smiled that night, their voices unusually warm as we blew out the candles on a cheap grocery-store cake. Josie had clasped it around my neck herself. “Happy twenty-first, Iris,” she had whispered, hugging me. “Twenty-one means new beginnings. I love you.” They had all clapped for me. For two years, I kept that necklace on, believing it was a token of real, albeit late-coming, family love. How foolish I’d been. Even after the internet stranger warned me, I hesitated to take it off. I cried for two nights, mourning the illusion of their affection. But as my joints began to ache from the sudden weight, the survival instinct kicked in. I unclasped the silver chain, my heart heavy with a grief far worse than physical pain. At the zoo, I worked with the African elephants. I chose Shirley, a massive female with a voracious appetite, and hid the pendant deep inside the leather strap we used for her enrichment monitors. Within seventy-two hours, Josie gained half a pound. “This can’t be happening!” Josie screamed, pacing her room. “I’m supposed to be the star of the showcase! I’m the youngest girl they scouted. I can’t ruin this now!” As she dissolved into another fit of hysterics, my mother’s eyes darted to me. A sudden, sharp realization crossed her face. She lunged forward, grabbing my hair with one hand while her other hand clawed violently at my collar. “Where is your necklace? The jade piece your sister bought you?” And there it was. She knew. She had always known what that necklace was doing to me, and she had let it happen anyway. Her fingers dragged against my chest until she felt a cheap red cord. She pulled it out, letting out a breath of relief. “It’s right here, Mom,” I said, forcing my voice to remain steady. “I wear it every day. Why?” I had ordered a five-dollar replica from Temu days ago. My mom stared at the cheap green glass, failing to spot the difference. She scowled, dropping her hand. “Nothing,” she muttered, smoothing her shirt. “It was expensive. Josie saved up for months to buy you that jade. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t being ungrateful.” “I’d never lose it, Mom. Don’t worry.” My mom’s eyes narrowed, her mind already pivoting. “Starting today, Iris, you’re on a strict diet. Look at you—you’re a balloon. We’re doing this because we care about your health. No more solid meals.” I nodded, playing the submissive daughter. “Thank you, Mom. With your help, I’m sure the weight will just fly off.” And so, the starvation regimen began. She locked the pantry and prepared all my meals herself—mostly raw celery, boiled cabbage, and watery vegetable juice. In a week, I lost eight pounds. But there were no celebrations in our house. Because as I shrank, Josie swelled. “Oh my god! I’m up eight pounds! Eight pounds!” Josie shrieked, her voice cracking as she ran wild through the living room. “Dad! Mom! Do something! The showcase is the day after tomorrow!” Everything was riding on this showcase. My parents had liquidated their savings to buy her a custom designer gown shipped overnight from Paris. They had even taken out a second mortgage on our small house to pay for her full-body laser treatments and skin-brightening therapies, ensuring every inch of her would glow under the runway lights. But Josie was gaining weight rapidly, and in the worst way possible. It wasn’t an even distribution. The fat settled entirely around her midsection, bloating her once-narrow waist into a thick, swollen tire of flesh. She screamed, punching her own stomach, before grabbing a pair of sewing shears from the counter. “Get it off me! Why is it all sitting here? It’s ruining my life! I’ll just cut it off… if I cut it off, it’ll be gone…” She had a manic, glassy look in her eyes. Thank God my dad was fast enough to tackle her, wrenching the heavy metal shears from her grip. “Josie! Are you out of your mind?” he gasped, pulling her into his arms, his face pale with terror. She sobbed against his shoulder, her ego shattered. “Dad, look at me! It’s disgusting. I look like a monster! I can’t even zip up the Paris dress. My career is over before it even started. How can I walk a runway like this?” My dad didn’t answer her. Instead, his gaze slowly shifted over her shoulder, locking onto me. His eyes were cold, hollow, and utterly devoid of fatherly warmth. He guided Josie back into her bedroom, telling her to lie down, and then grabbed my wrist, pulling me into the master bedroom. It was an interrogation. They cornered me against the wardrobe, their faces dark and menacing. “What’s wrong?” I asked, keeping my voice soft, playing the role of the innocent, dim-witted daughter they thought I was. My mother sneered, looking at me as if I were a piece of rotting garbage on the kitchen floor. “Iris, what did you do?” she hissed. “Tell us the truth, and maybe your father won’t lose his temper.” “I don’t know what you mean, Mom. What happened?” Without warning, her hand cracked across my cheek. The force of the slap sent a sharp sting through my jaw. “Don’t play dumb with me!” she screamed. “I’ve seen the way you look at us—you hate us! You’ve always hated us! Why are you acting like a saint now?” So she did know. She knew how much their cruelty hurt me, and she simply hadn’t cared. “Tell us the truth, Iris!” “Mom, I am telling the truth,” I whispered, rubbing my burning cheek. “Or is there a specific lie you want me to tell you?” My mom lost all control. She grabbed a fistful of my hair, her mouth opening to spit out the secrets of their ritual, completely oblivious to the phone recording from my pocket. But my dad, always the calculating one, stepped in and yanked her back. He saw through the act. He knew I was fishing for a confession. “That’s enough, Miriam,” he said smoothly, placing a calming hand on my mother’s shoulder. He turned back to me, his expression softening into a false, oily smile. “Don’t mind your mother, Iris. She’s just stressed. Josie is our only hope, and with the showcase tomorrow, emotions are running high.” He cleared his throat. “Oh, by the way… let me see your jade necklace. The priest who blessed it said it needs to be recharged every three months to keep its protective energy.” They both stared at my throat, waiting. The air in the room was thick with unspoken threats. To keep the peace and buy myself time, I reached behind my neck, unclasped the cheap Temu replica, and placed it in his outstretched palm. My dad took his keys and left the house immediately. He didn’t return that night. Josie cried herself to sleep, praying for a miracle—hoping that when she woke up, the roll of fat around her waist would be gone. As for me, I received an emergency call from the zoo. Shirley, the elephant carrying the real jade pendant, had gone into labor early. She gave birth to a beautiful, healthy female calf. Because she was exhausted and weak from the delivery, the veterinary team brought in two truckloads of high-protein feed and sweet potatoes to help her recover her strength. Shirley, absolutely famished, dug in. In a single feeding, she happily devoured over a hundred and fifty pounds of food. The next morning, Josie exploded. I mean that quite literally, though not in the way of fireworks. The fat around her waist hadn’t vanished. It had multiplied. The single roll of flesh had mutated into three thick, heavy folds. Because the weight had piled on so rapidly overnight, her skin couldn’t stretch fast enough. The epidermis had literally split open, leaving angry, weeping red tears across her torso. The skin that remained was dry, grey, and deeply creased—coarse and leathery, bearing a terrifying resemblance to elephant hide. And it wasn’t just her waist. Her ankles had completely vanished, swallowed by thick, columnar legs that looked like tree trunks, struggling to support her top-heavy frame. But the most horrifying part was the smell. A heavy, musky, primal stench of animal sweat and damp straw radiated from her. You could smell her from down the hall. My mom gagged the moment she entered the room, which only pushed Josie deeper into madness. “Mom! Mom, don’t look at me like that!” Josie shrieked, clawing at her own face. “I’m a model! I’m going to be on billboards! How did this happen? What went wrong? I can’t live like this! I’d rather die! Mom, please, you have to help me. Transfer it back to Iris! Make her take it! She’s supposed to carry this for me!” She lunged at me, her newly thickened fingers wrapping around my throat. She threw her heavy weight over me, pinning me to the floor as she shook me violently. “Why aren’t you the fat one?!” she screamed, her eyes bloodshot and wild. “You’re already plain, Iris! You’re already a nobody! Why can’t you just let me have this? If I make it, the whole family wins! You’d get to live in my shadow and enjoy my money! Why do you have to be so selfish? All you had to do was suffer a little for me!” The grip on my windpipe tightened. I could see the genuine, murderous intent in her eyes. Her heavy, elephantine limbs pinned me down. I couldn’t breathe. Spots danced in my vision, and my lungs burned as I thrashed beneath her. My mom finally rushed over, but she didn’t pull Josie off out of concern for me. She did it to protect Josie from exerting herself. She pulled her into a tight embrace, stroking her greasy hair, whispering words that carved a fresh hollow into my chest. “Oh, my sweet Josie, my beautiful girl, it’s okay. Mommy’s here. No matter what happens, we love you so much. You’re our star. Don’t ruin your hands on a creature like her. It’s not worth hurting your future. Just breathe, sweetie. Mommy will fix this.” My mother’s tears fell softly onto Josie’s shoulder. Every teardrop felt like a hot drop of lead searing into my soul. I lay on the floor, gasping for air, feeling an overwhelming, crushing exhaustion. I was so tired of fighting for scraps of love that did not exist. The front door slammed open. My dad walked in, his clothes disheveled and his eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night. He locked the deadbolt behind him with a heavy click. He walked toward me, his boots heavy on the linoleum, his eyes sharp as broken glass. With a sudden, violent swing, he hurled the Temu replica at my head. It struck my temple with a sharp crack before clattering to the floor. “This is plastic!” he roared, his voice shaking the small apartment. “The temple priest laughed in my face! Where is the real jade, Iris? Where did you put it? How can you be so vicious? Your sister gave you that beautiful gift out of the goodness of her heart, and you use it to poison her? Look at what you’ve done to her!” I let out a wet, hollow laugh. The physical pain of the blow was nothing compared to the dark amusement bubbling in my chest. “I’m vicious?” I spat, wiping a trickle of blood from my forehead. “Who let her bind me to a curse? You’ve treated me like her shadow, her trash bin, my entire life. I starved myself, I got sick, and you laughed. I tried so hard to make you love me, but I was never even human to you. Well, I’m done begging. If you want the real necklace, you’re going to have to crawl. Otherwise, watch your golden child turn into a monster.” My dad’s face purpled with rage. He raised his heavy hand to strike me again, but before he could, Josie let out a blood-curdling shriek. “It hurts! Dad, it hurts so much! Don’t hit her—just make it stop! I feel like my chest is going to split open!” The fury vanished from my dad’s face, replaced by pure panic. Without a second thought, he dropped to his knees right in front of me. “Iris, please,” he begged, his voice cracking. “I’m begging you. Just tell us where it is.” Behind him, my mother slowly sank to her knees as well…

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