Category: English

The internal auditors were doing a routine sweep when the lead investigator looked up from his clipboard, his eyes narrowing as he pinned me with a cold stare. “Naomi, we need to ask as a matter of protocol: have you ever received any personal favors, financial or otherwise, from your CEO?” I opened my mouth to give the standard, honest “No,” but the words were cut off by a sharp, mocking laugh from the desk next to mine. Tyler, a senior accountant who had been a thorn in my side since I started, leaned back in his chair with a smirk that set my teeth on edge. “Define ‘favors,’” Tyler drawled, loud enough for the entire open-plan office to hear. “Does it count if they regularly share a bed? Or if he leaves a stack of cash on the nightstand when they’re finished?” The air in the room didn’t just cool; it turned to ice. The auditors went from bored to predatory in a heartbeat. The lead investigator stood up, his expression hardening. “Ma’am, I’m going to need to see your ID and your full personnel file immediately.” My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. “I… I was hired through the standard HR process!” I stammered, frantically digging through my desk for my badge. “I don’t know what he’s talking about!” “Oh, sure,” Tyler chimed in, his voice dripping with faux-sympathy. “Standard ‘sleeping-your-way-to-the-top’ process. Honestly, I’m surprised you haven’t charged the company for the luxury bags you’ve been stashing away. Tell me, Naomi, do those go under ‘office supplies’ or ‘consulting fees’?” He looked at the auditors, playing the role of the concerned whistleblower. “Is that legal, guys? Embezzling for Chanel?” The auditors moved in, effectively boxing me in at my cubicle. “Ma’am, please step away from the computer. We are initiating an immediate suspension of duties pending a full investigation into corporate fraud and misconduct.” I felt a wave of dizziness wash over me. I wasn’t just losing my job; Tyler’s malicious mouth was about to sink the entire operation. We had a fifty-million-dollar contract set for delivery tonight. If I was pulled out now, the logistics would fail, the contract would be voided, and the factory would be shuttered by morning. … “That’s not true!” My voice came out thin and trembling. “He’s lying! Everything he’s saying is a total fabrication!” I slammed my ID card and my original offer letter onto the desk. “I am a senior accountant. I have a professional relationship with the CEO, nothing more!” The lead auditor didn’t even look at the documents. He leaned over my desk, his shadow looming over me. “Do you understand the gravity of these allegations? This man just accused you of a quid pro quo relationship involving company funds. Your ID doesn’t disprove that.” He jerked his chin toward the hallway. “Maybe we should continue this conversation in a more private setting. Somewhere more… secure.” Sweat beaded on my forehead. Tyler was still there, leaning against a filing cabinet with his arms crossed, watching my world crumble like it was a Saturday morning cartoon. The anger hit me then, hot and sudden. I lunged forward, grabbing him by the collar of his cheap polyester shirt. “Tyler, what the hell is wrong with you?” I hissed. “Why would you say that? I have never—not once—been involved with Arthur like that!” Tyler shoved me off with an air of boredom. “Hey, don’t blame the messenger for the message. If you didn’t want people to know about your little side-hustle, you shouldn’t have been so obvious about it.” He turned to the auditor with a wink. “You should check her bank statements. I’m sure they’re… illuminating.” He was pouring gasoline on the fire. The auditors were looking at me now with a mix of suspicion and pure disgust. “Do you have any idea what happens if I’m taken out of here?” I whispered, my voice breaking. “The factory will stop. The workers will lose their shifts. The losses will be—” “Not my problem,” Tyler interrupted, his eyes crinkling with a cruel mirth. “If the company loses money, it’s because they hired a liability like you. I’m just a citizen doing his duty, right, officer?” He clapped the auditor on the shoulder. “Ms. Rossi,” the auditor said, his tone final. “Come with us. If this is a misunderstanding, we’ll clear it up. If not, the authorities will be involved.” Tyler started humming a jaunty tune. “Better move it, Naomi. Cooperation is part of the job description, isn’t it?” I forced myself to breathe. I looked Tyler dead in the eye. “You are slandering me. I am giving you one chance, right now, to tell these men you made it up. Admit you were joking, or I am calling the police and filing a lawsuit for defamation so fast your head will spin.” I pulled out my phone, my thumb hovering over the emergency dial. Tyler’s smirk faltered. He saw the cold, hard intent in my eyes and his bravado slipped just an inch. He grabbed my wrist, blocking the screen. “Whoa, Naomi, take it easy! Don’t be so dramatic.” “Admit it,” I growled. “Tell them you’re a liar.” Tyler huffed, looking at the auditors with a forced eye-roll. “Fine, jeez. You guys can’t take a joke? Seriously, what happened to a little office banter? You guys must be real fun at parties.” The lead auditor’s face darkened. “So, you’re saying your previous statements were false?” Tyler scratched the back of his neck, looking annoyed. “I was just messing around, okay? Lighten up.” “I am asking you one last time,” the auditor said, his voice dropping an octave. “Is Naomi Rossi the CEO’s mistress?” Behind him, another staffer was frantically taking notes. “Answer the question.” I held my breath, praying that Tyler’s cowardice would finally lead him to the truth. He shook his head slowly. “No,” he muttered. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. But it was short-lived. “She’s not his mistress,” Tyler said, a slow, toxic grin spreading across his face. “Because she’s his future baby mama. She’s pregnant with his kid.” The silence that followed was deafening. The auditor’s eyes snapped back to me, filled with a new, deeper level of revulsion. The adrenaline hit me like a physical blow. Before I could think, I was in Tyler’s face, my hand raised to slap the smug look off his face. But he caught my wrist, his grip tightening. “What’s the matter, Naomi?” he whispered, his eyes gleaming. “Can’t handle the truth? You told me not to lie, so I’m giving them the whole story!” “You’re insane!” I screamed, tears of pure frustration stinging my eyes. “He’s lying! I’m calling the police! I’m calling them right now!” I tried to break his grip to get to my phone, but Tyler shoved me back, shouting to the auditors, “Don’t let her! She’s not calling the cops, she’s calling Arthur! She’s calling for her knight in shining armor to come hide the evidence!” I shook my head, desperate. “Don’t believe him! Please!” But the damage was done. “Where there’s smoke, Naomi…” the auditor muttered. “Exactly!” Tyler shouted. “Of all the people in this office, why would I pick her? It’s because it’s true! Everyone knows it!” “Take the ledgers,” the auditor commanded his team. “And Ms. Rossi, you’re coming with us. Now.” I stared at Tyler, my heart breaking for the dozens of people on the factory floor whose livelihoods were currently being gambled away by a petty man’s ego. “Tyler, I never did anything to you. Why are you doing this?” “You didn’t do anything?” He stepped closer, his voice a low hiss. “A week ago, I brought you my expense reports. Five thousand dollars for my ‘business trip’ to Miami. You rejected every single one. You told me my hotel and my dinners didn’t count as company business.” “Because they weren’t!” I snapped. “You went on vacation on the company’s dime!” “And ever since then, you’ve been acting like you own the place,” he sneered. “I’ve seen the way you walk, Naomi. I’ve seen the designer shoes you try to hide under your desk. I know how girls like you get ahead.” He leaned in closer. “And don’t bother with the police. Didn’t you know? My cousin is Arthur’s wife. One call from me, and you’re not just fired—you’re blacklisted. I’ll make sure you never work in this town again.” I swallowed hard. “This is all because of an expense report?” I looked at him, truly seeing him for the first time. The comments he’d made over the last week—the remarks about the “curve of my legs” or the “way I used my mouth”—they weren’t just jokes. They were a targeted campaign. I knew I should go with the auditors. I knew the truth would come out eventually. But “eventually” meant the factory would close today. It meant eighty million dollars in breach-of-contract penalties. It meant families going hungry. I did the only thing I could think of. I doubled over and slammed my own fist into my stomach. “Look!” I screamed, jumping up and down frantically in front of the auditors. “Look at me! I’m not pregnant! If I were, I’d be in the hospital right now! I’m doing this because there is no baby! There is no affair!” It was a bizarre, desperate display, but it worked. The auditors froze, staring at me in shock. “Okay, okay,” the lead auditor said, his voice softening with pity. “Sit down. We… we believe you.” “Oh, you guys are pathetic,” Tyler’s voice sliced through the room. “You’re really going to fall for that? Naomi, you really think you can hide it? Fine. You don’t believe me? Maybe you’ll believe the CEO’s wife.” I looked at him, confused. “Tyler, stop it.” “Beatrice!” Tyler yelled toward the lobby. “She’s right here!” I didn’t even have time to turn around before I felt a searing pain in my scalp. Someone had grabbed my hair from behind and yanked, hard. “You little tramp!” a woman’s voice shrieked in my ear. “You think you can use your position to sleep with my husband? I’ll kill you!” Before I could see her face, a palm collided with my cheek. The world spun, and I hit the floor hard. “You have the wrong person!” I cried out, shielding my face. “I didn’t do anything!” “That’s her, Beatrice!” Tyler’s voice was triumphant. “Naomi Rossi. The accountant. I see her sneaking out of Arthur’s office half-dressed all the time. And she’s carrying his bastard!” That was the trigger. Beatrice—a woman I had only seen in company newsletters—flung herself on top of me with the strength of a woman possessed. “Pregnant, are you?” she screamed, her face contorted. “Let’s see how that ‘accident’ handles this!” She sat on my stomach, using her full weight to bounce and crush me against the hard office floor. I felt the air leave my lungs, a sharp, stabbing pain radiating through my abdomen. I curled into a ball, trying to protect myself, but she was relentless. The auditors tried to pull her off, but she swung at them, screaming about her marriage and her rights. The pain was blinding now. Through the red haze, I reached out and grabbed a handful of her hair, yanking her head down until it slammed into the floor. The room went silent. For half a second, the only sound was the heavy breathing of twenty terrified employees. Then, Beatrice started to wail. The auditors finally managed to drag us apart. I slumped against a desk, my face deathly pale, clutching my stomach. “Call the police,” I rasped. “Please… just call them.” One of the auditors reached for his phone, but Tyler was there in an instant, blocking him. “You’re going to help a homewrecker? My cousin is the legal wife! This girl destroyed a family! She deserved what she got! In the old days, we’d have dragged her through the streets!” “My stomach…” I gasped, the pain reaching a fever pitch. “Please… an ambulance…” The auditor didn’t hesitate this time. He dialed 911. As I lay there, I felt a sudden, warm rush of fluid. I looked down. My white slacks were rapidly staining crimson. My mind went blank. It’s just my period, I tried to tell myself. The stress, the physical trauma… it’s just my cycle starting early. But Beatrice saw the blood and pointed a trembling finger. “See! She was pregnant! The little slut is losing the bastard right now!” “I told you!” Tyler shouted, his face lit up with a sick excitement. “I told you I wasn’t lying!” Suddenly, my phone buzzed in my hand. A text from the floor manager: Naomi, the factory is dark. The lines have stopped. The world tilted. “Why?” I whispered. “I’m still here… why did they stop?” I scrolled through the company-wide alerts. By order of Beatrice Whitlock, all production is ceased. Investigation into CEO’s personal conduct ongoing. “She found out he was cheating and shut it down,” someone whispered nearby. “She said the factory was a ‘gift’ he gave his mistress to manage, so she’s taking it back.” “Naomi, what do we do?” the floor manager’s voice came through a frantic phone call. “We have twenty-five tons of product due by 6 PM. If we don’t ship, the penalty is eighty million dollars!” I tried to speak, but the tears finally came, hot and thick. The pain in my gut was so sharp I couldn’t form a sentence. The paramedics burst into the room. As they lifted me onto the gurney, Tyler and Beatrice blocked the elevator. “No!” Beatrice screamed. “She doesn’t get to leave! Not until she signs a confession!” “Ma’am, step aside,” the lead paramedic said firmly. “This woman is hemorrhaging.” “I don’t care!” Beatrice yelled. “That’s my husband’s blood she’s spilling! I have a right to decide what happens to it!” Tyler was busy filming the whole thing on his phone, shouting to the gathered crowd, “Look at her! Look at the homewrecker! This is Naomi Rossi, the girl who stole a marriage!” Finally, the police arrived and cleared a path. As they wheeled me into the ambulance, I could still hear Beatrice screaming about “justice” and “tramps.” Suddenly, a loud, sharp crack echoed through the parking lot. A familiar, booming voice cut through the chaos. “You stupid woman! Who gave you the right to shut down my factory?” It was Arthur. He had arrived. “Do you have any idea how much money I just lost?” Slap. Another crack. “I’ve had enough of your psychotic episodes! I married a monster!” “Arthur! She’s your mistress! Tyler told me—” “Tyler is a pathetic liar who can’t even file an expense report!” Arthur roared. “Naomi Rossi is my best accountant! She’s the only reason this company hasn’t folded!” Arthur’s voice lowered, sounding almost terrified. “Do you have any idea who Naomi Rossi actually is?”

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I traded my life as the secret heiress to the Whitmore empire—the crown jewel of Manhattan’s elite—to marry Christopher Whitmore. I thought love was enough. I thought he was my sanctuary. But the day before our wedding, a car accident shattered my world. When I drifted back to consciousness, the world was gone. Everything was black. I was blind. Struggling to move, I heard Christopher’s voice from the shadows of the hospital room. He was talking to his assistant, his tone as cold as a winter morning. “Don’t worry, sir,” the assistant whispered. “The driver and the surgeons have been taken care of. They won’t breathe a word. But… Madeline lived for her painting. Now that her corneas have been harvested for Miss Miller… what if she can’t handle the truth when she wakes up?” “She’s resilient,” Christopher replied, his voice devoid of the warmth I had cherished for years. “Not like Becca. Becca is fragile. She wouldn’t survive another day in the dark. Besides, Madeline has me now. I’ll provide for her for the rest of her life. I love her, but I cannot lose Becca.” There was a pause, a heavy silence that made my skin crawl. Then, his voice dropped an octave, raspy and merciless. “And tell the doctor to perform the hysterectomy while she’s under. If Becca sees Madeline carrying my child, it will break her.” The assistant hesitated, his voice trembling. “But sir… isn’t that too much? Madeline has been with you since she was eighteen. She gave up everything—” “Just do it. Don’t ask questions.” A wave of glacial horror washed over me. I lay there, paralyzed, my body shaking with a primal, silent terror. The man I had loved unconditionally, the man I had sacrificed my identity for, had been in love with the girl I’d spent years sponsoring—a charity case I’d plucked from the gutter. He wasn’t just choosing her. He was systematically dismantling me to make her whole. If you want to destroy me, Christopher, I thought, my heart turning into a shard of ice, you’d better make sure I never get back up. … Footsteps echoed in the sterile room. I forced my breathing to remain shallow, feigning unconsciousness. “Mr. Whitmore,” the surgeon’s voice was strained. “Madeline just underwent the cornea retrieval. She’s incredibly weak. If we proceed with the hysterectomy now, there’s a high risk of complications. She might not survive the—” “I’m paying you for results, not suggestions,” Christopher interrupted. “This is a directive. But understand this: if anything happens to Madeline on that table, you’re finished.” “Yes, sir,” the doctor stammered. I felt the heat of Christopher’s fingers against my cheek. His touch, once my only comfort, now felt like the crawl of a spider. His voice was a honeyed lie. “Maddy, it’ll all be over soon. I’ll be here when you wake up. I’ll protect you forever. I love you, baby.” My body betrayed me with a slight shiver. I felt a coldness on my face—he had stood up. Sensing I was coming to, his tone flipped back to a frigid command. “Where is the anesthesiologist? Get the surgery started. I want this finished before she fully regains consciousness.” I forced my eyes open. Nothing. Only the terrifying, suffocating void. The tears came then, hot and involuntary. I reached out into the empty air, my hands trembling. “I… I can’t see. Why can’t I see?” “Maddy, don’t panic. I’m here. I’m right here.” Christopher pulled me into a tight embrace. His large, warm hand stroked my hair, his voice dripping with performative heartbreak. “There was an accident… the doctors say the blindness is temporary. Just a trauma response. I’m going to take care of you, Maddy…” I felt him nod to someone behind me. “Sweetheart, you’re still so weak. You need to stay calm. Let the nurse give you a sedative—just some nutrients to help you recover.” If I hadn’t heard him earlier, I would have believed him. I would have thanked him. Now I knew the “nutrients” were the anesthesia that would allow him to rob me of my womanhood. I gripped his arm, my voice cracking with desperation. “No… Chris, please. No needles. I want to go home. Take me home, please…” Before I could finish, the bite of a cold needle pierced my skin. As the darkness deepened and my consciousness began to slip, I heard his voice, as gentle as a lullaby and as sharp as a scalpel. “Be a good girl, Maddy. Just sleep. When you wake up, everything will be fine. I’m right here.” A single tear tracked down my temple and vanished into my hair. My body was going numb, but the ache in my chest was screaming. I closed my eyes, and for a fleeting second, I saw the eighteen-year-old Christopher. I saw him crying by my bed after he’d taken a knife meant for me during a mugging in a rainy Chicago alley. I heard his teenage voice, raw and fierce: “I swear, Maddy, I will never let anyone hurt you again.” What a joke. The person who wanted me dead was the boy who had once saved my life. When I woke up again, I hadn’t just lost my sight and my lover. I had lost the future. I would never hold a child of my own. The room was silent, save for the rhythmic hiss of my own labored breathing. Then, the muffled sound of an argument drifted in from the hallway. “Madeline was involved in a horrific crash! I have to see her,” a woman’s voice cried out—high, sweet, and manipulative. “She’s been so good to me. Without her, I’d still be in that shelter. I owe her my life. Don’t stop me…” It was Becca Miller. Christopher, a man who tolerated no insolence from anyone, answered her with a tenderness that made my stomach turn. “Becca, listen to me. Your transplant was a success, but you’re still healing. The doctors said you can’t be walking around yet. Madeline is being looked after. You don’t need to worry about her.” I clutched the bedsheets until my knuckles ached. When had Becca gone blind? Why hadn’t I known? Suddenly, a sharp pain flared in the back of my hand. A nurse was shoving an IV needle into my vein with zero grace. “Stop moving!” she hissed, her voice dripping with irritation. She pressed down harder than necessary, a silent warning. “Just my luck. The other girls get to wait on the new Mrs. Whitmore in the VIP wing, and I’m stuck with the blind girl.” She muttered under her breath, loud enough for me to hear. “If Miss Miller likes me, maybe she’ll put in a word with Mr. Whitmore. Then I won’t have to look at pathetic losers like you anymore…” CRAASH! The sound of a glass vial shattering on the floor cut through her vitriol. “Who the hell do you think—” the nurse started, then choked. “Mr… Mr. Whitmore. I didn’t see you there…” “Get out,” Christopher’s voice was a low, terrifying growl. “Never show your face in this hospital again.” The familiar warmth of his presence surrounded me. I felt him sit on the edge of the bed, his body trembling slightly. He sounded shattered. “I’m so sorry, Maddy. I’m so sorry I wasn’t here. I should have protected you from her…” I forced a brittle smile onto my face. Compared to what he had actually done—harvesting my eyes and hollowing out my body—a rude nurse was nothing. But he acted as though he was devastated by it. He held me so tightly I could barely breathe. “I don’t want to stay here,” I whispered. “I want to go home.” His warm breath tickled my neck. “As soon as the doctors clear you, I’m taking you home.” He didn’t realize that the “home” I was thinking of wasn’t the glass-walled penthouse we shared in Chicago. It was the Whitmore estate in New York. Years ago, during a violent internal power struggle within my family, my father had hidden me in Chicago to keep me safe. I was cornered in an alley when Christopher intervened, taking a blade for me. In that moment, I fell in love with a hero. We went to college together. We were the “it” couple, the kind people whispered about. Then Becca appeared. I saw her eating plain bread in the library, a brilliant student with nothing to her name. I felt for her. I funded her tuition, her rent, her life. We became “best friends.” I never knew when they started sharing a bed. I never knew when he stopped loving me and started loving the girl I’d “saved.” Christopher tucked a stray hair behind my ear, his voice softer than I’d ever heard it. “Maddy, the wedding is still on for tomorrow. I want to bring you home officially. I want you to be my wife.” The wedding of my dreams had become a waking nightmare. “No,” I said softly, shaking my head. Christopher paused, clearly not expecting resistance. He took a deep breath, his voice patient. “I know you’re scared. But everything is arranged. No one will dare say a word about your condition. Becca will be your maid of honor—she’ll guide you through the ceremony.” He leaned in closer. “And our officiant? It’s Everett Whitmore himself. I promised you the most magnificent wedding in the country, and I’m delivering.” At the mention of my oldest brother’s name, my fingers dug into Christopher’s sleeve. My family didn’t know I was in the city, let alone that I was the one Christopher was marrying. I had cut ties after a massive blow-up over an arranged marriage years ago. I hadn’t spoken to Everett in forever. A lump formed in my throat. I couldn’t imagine the look on Everett’s face when he saw me like this—broken, blind, and discarded. Suddenly, a weight settled on my arm, accompanied by a frantic, high-pitched voice. “Madeline! Oh my god, I’ve been so worried! I’ll be your eyes now, I promise. I’ll take care of you forever…” Christopher cut her off, a hint of guilt flickering in his tone. “Don’t say that, Becca. The blindness is temporary.” Becca caught the hint immediately. She leaned her head on my shoulder, her voice saccharine sweet. “Of course! I’m so silly. You’ll probably be fine by tomorrow morning. You’ll be the most beautiful bride. I’m so happy for you, Madeline.” It was this—this mask of wide-eyed innocence—that had blinded me to her venom for years. Later, the assistant brought the wedding dress. Christopher left, leaving me alone with Becca. “Madeline,” she whispered, her voice no longer sweet. “I heard you designed this dress yourself? It’s stunning. Too bad the measurements are a bit… loose on me.” The sound of fabric ripping was deafening in the quiet room. I knew she was shredding my masterpiece. “You’re blind, Madeline. A dress this beautiful is wasted on a corpse. You look much better in those hospital rags.” Suddenly, a searing, agonizing pain erupted in my eye sockets. It felt like liquid fire was being poured directly into my brain. I tried to scream, but the air wouldn’t come. I reached up to claw at the bandages, my hands shaking. Becca’s hand clamped onto my wrist like a vice. Her voice was a hiss of pure malice. “You think the accident blinded you? You’re so naive. I mentioned I liked your eyes, and Christopher didn’t even hesitate. He took them for me. But honestly? I don’t even want them. They feel dirty. I’d rather throw them to the dogs.” She leaned in, her breath hot against my ear. “Just leave, Madeline. If you stay, do you think he’d hesitate to kill you if I asked?” The chemical she’d splashed on my bandages continued to burn, but the pain in my soul was worse. Hearing the sound of heavy dress shoes approaching, Becca’s demeanor shifted instantly. She roughly wiped the liquid from my face and shoved my hand upward, making it look like I was striking out. Slap! My palm stung as it hit her cheek. A second later, a massive force shoved me back. My head hit the wall with a sickening thud, and my ears began to ring. “Madeline! Have you lost your mind? Why are you attacking Becca? She’s fragile!” I couldn’t see his face, but Christopher’s voice was vibrating with a rage I’d never heard. This was the first time in years he had ever raised his voice at me. “Apologize to her!” he roared. “Now! Or the wedding is off!” He knew how much I’d wanted this. For years, my only dream was to walk down the aisle and become his wife. I played my part. I bowed my head, looking like a chastened child, even as the stinging in my eyes pulsed. “I’m sorry, Becca,” I whispered, my voice trembling with actual physical pain. Christopher’s cold voice came from the doorway. “Eight o’clock tomorrow. The car will be here.” He had no idea. Tomorrow wasn’t a wedding. It was an escape. The next morning, the assistant arrived. As Becca had predicted, I was forced into the car still wearing my hospital gown. When we arrived at the venue, I felt Becca’s silk dress brush against my ankles. She draped a heavy lace veil over my head. She let out a cruel little laugh. “Happy wedding day, Madeline. You think the veil makes you a bride? It’s just to hide those hideous eyes so you don’t embarrass him.” Before she could say more, Christopher’s voice cut through. “Where is the dress? Madeline, are you doing this to spite me? You’re showing up to our wedding like this?” The assistant hurried me toward the dressing room. I started to peel off the hospital gown, my hands fumbling in the dark. Suddenly, a man’s voice—breathless and predatory—erupted from behind me. “A blind one, huh? But damn, she’s a looker. Stay quiet, sweetheart. Let Daddy show you a good time.” Hands grabbed me, tearing at my remaining clothes. I fought with everything I had, but I was too weak. I leaned forward and bit down on his arm as hard as I could. “You little bitch!” The man snarled, throwing me to the floor. His heavy breathing was right over me. My shirt was ripped open just as the dressing room door flew open. A woman’s sharp, staged scream filled the air. “Madeline! Oh my god! How could you do this on your wedding day? To Christopher?” The man over me stopped, huffing. “She threw herself at me,” he said loudly. “I didn’t realize she was the bride. I don’t want a blind woman anyway.” The room flooded with voices—condemnation, disgust, mockery. “I can’t believe the Whitmore bride is a blind slut!” “Cheating on him in the dressing room? What a tramp.” I huddled on the floor, clutching the rags of my clothes to my chest, my body shaking violently. Then, the room went dead silent. Heavy, deliberate footsteps approached. “Madeline. You betrayed me.” A hand clamped around my throat, squeezing hard. I could feel the heat radiating from Christopher’s body, the sheer force of his fury. “I… didn’t…” I gasped, the world spinning. He slammed me back against the floor, then grabbed my jaw, his fingers digging into the bone. “You know I hate betrayal more than anything. You must be truly insane to do this with a man like that. Fine. There will be no wedding today.” He stood up, his voice echoing with finality. “Take her away. Get her to the psychiatric ward at St. Jude’s.” As guards grabbed my arms, my heart plummeted. If I was locked in a psych ward, I’d never reach my family. I’d be buried alive. I fought back, tearing myself away and running blindly into the corridor. “Get her!” Christopher yelled.

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I was the finest falconer the high plains had ever seen. Out there, the wind howled like a hungry wolf, and I rode through it, my crimson silks snapping against the sky like a wildfire. It was that raw, untamed spirit that made Camilla Beaumont—Manhattan’s golden princess—fall for me with a desperation that bordered on insanity. To win my hand, she leveled half a mountainside just to capture a pure white Gyrfalcon as a betrothal gift. She knelt before me in the dust for three days and three nights, defying her billionaire father to write my name into the Beaumont family registry. I fell for it. I believed in the heart she offered, backed by all that terrifying power. I tucked away my hunting knife, folded my wings, and walked willingly into her gilded cage. We hadn’t been married a year before he showed up: Sebastian Montgomery. He was “old money,” refined, a scholar from a lineage that matched hers perfectly. He came to our penthouse one afternoon, smelling of sandalwood and arrogance, his voice a soft, cultured purr. “A Beaumont husband shouldn’t just know how to whistle at birds, Kaelen,” he said, smoothing his perfectly tailored suit. “Camilla asked me to teach you how to behave in high society.” He looked at me with a thin, condescending smile. “Since you’re essentially a trophy, you’ll learn the protocols of the house. From now on, you’ll greet me on your knees when I arrive. If your posture is lacking, I’ve been authorized to use a switch to correct you.” I didn’t argue. I simply nodded. Then, I lunged forward, grabbing a fistful of his meticulously styled hair, and let out a sharp, piercing whistle. My falcon plummeted from her perch, a streak of white lightning. She struck with surgical precision, her talons tearing into his eyes. “Teaching me the rules, are you?” I laughed as the blood sprayed, bright and hot against the marble floor. “Let me teach you the only rule we have on the plains. You insult the master of a hawk, you pay in blood.” 1 The screams hadn’t even stopped before the butler was on the phone with Camilla. Thirty minutes later, she slammed through the front door. Her voice cut through the foyer before I even saw her face. “Kaelen! He’s a Montgomery! How could you be so reckless?” “So what?” I stood my ground, the falcon back on my leather-clad shoulder. “He insulted me. He earned his scars.” Camilla’s striking eyes narrowed, her jaw tight as she stared me down. I didn’t flinch. The Gyrfalcon shifted, her golden eyes locked onto Camilla, waiting for my signal to strike again. In the background, Sebastian’s wails were pathetic. “He’s a savage! An animal! Camilla, look what he did to me! My family will ruin you for this!” Camilla knelt to inspect his wound. When she saw the jagged, deep tear near his right eye, the temperature in the room plummeted to sub-zero. “You went too far, Kaelen.” She stood up, her gaze sweeping coldly over the white predator on my shoulder. “He is the heir to a dynasty. He’s never even had a bruise, and you’ve marked him for life. You owe the Montgomerys a debt. Either I give them one of your eyes…” She took a step closer, her voice dropping to a lethal whisper. “…or I give them the life of that beast.” My fingers trembled slightly as I stroked the falcon’s thick, soft feathers. A pure white Gyrfalcon. The King of Birds. This was the creature she had nearly died for, the one she presented to me while bleeding from her own climb up a frozen cliff. She had knelt in the dirt and sworn she would be like this bird—loyal to me and me alone, until the end of time. It had been five years. Now, she wanted its life. The betrayal felt like an ice pick through the heart, cold and sharp, but the pain was quickly drowned by a rising tide of fury. I looked her in the eyes—eyes that were now a scorched, angry red. “I don’t like multiple-choice questions, Camilla. And I’m not picking either of those.” Her face turned to stone. She stepped toward me, closing the distance. “This is New York, Kaelen. You don’t get to make the rules here.” The moment she moved, I reached for the decorative recurve bow hanging on the wall display behind me. In one fluid motion, I notched an arrow and drew the string taut, the broadhead pointed directly at her heart. “You know my aim,” I said, my voice steady. “One more step, and this goes through your shoulder.” The security detail huddled outside the lounge surged inward, a dozen black muzzles of handguns aiming at my chest. In the suffocating tension, Camilla suddenly raised her hand, signaling them to stand down. A flicker of something—an obsessed, sickly fascination—danced in her eyes. “That’s it,” she whispered. “That wild, untamable streak. It’s why I can’t let you go.” Then, her tone turned glacial. “But the plains are a long way away. Put the bow down, apologize, and maybe we can find a way out of this.” My heart gave a dull, numb thud. Five years ago, on the windswept grasslands of the North, she had chased the horizon on horseback just to catch me. She had grabbed my hand—the hand that held the hawk—and pleaded. “Come to the city with me,” she had whispered. “I swear on my life, Kaelen, you will always be a hawk soaring in the sky. I will never make you a bird in a cage.” The words were still echoing in my mind, yet here she was, demanding I learn to be “tame.” It was pathetic. “What? Now Miss Beaumont wants to talk about rules?” I let out a jagged laugh. “Five years, and you’ve already forgotten how you begged like a dog to marry me?” Before Camilla could react, Sebastian shrieked from the sofa, “What are you talking about? Camilla is a princess! She would never beg for a savage like you! You probably drugged her—you’re just a parasite who won’t let go!” Camilla didn’t say a word. She stared at me for a long, heavy minute, then turned on her heel and led her people out. “Kaelen,” she said over her shoulder, “this isn’t over.” The Montgomerys’ retaliation came faster than I expected. 2 That night, a harrowing, guttural shriek echoed from the terrace garden. My heart dropped into my stomach. I ran out, barefoot, my lungs burning. The moonlight was a sickly pale. My falcon lay in a pool of dark, spreading red. Her white feathers were matted and stained crimson, a jagged hole in her chest still pulsing with the last of her life’s blood. She was twitching, her golden eyes finding mine, slowly losing their spark until they went dull. Camilla stood nearby, her back to me, her silhouette cold and unyielding. “You killed her?” I whispered. She turned around, her face a mask of indifference. “Sebastian’s eye couldn’t be saved. His family wanted one of yours. This was the only way to settle the score.” I began to shake, a violent, soul-deep tremor. I turned to go back inside to get my knife, but she caught my wrist in a grip of iron. “It was just an animal, Kaelen. Stop being so dramatic.” “An animal?” My eyes were burning, my voice cracking. “Is that all she was? What did you call her when you brought her to me, covered in your own blood? What did you say she represented?” Her throat bobbed. For a split second, her eyes flickered with guilt. But then, Sebastian stepped out from the shadows. His right eye was bandaged, but his white shirt was pristine. He kicked the falcon’s cooling body with the tip of his Italian leather shoe. “I’ve never had hawk meat,” he sneered. “Maybe it’ll make a decent stew.” The blood rushed to my head, a deafening roar. “Sebastian,” I said, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous vibration. “I took one eye. I can easily take the second.” Before the sentence was finished, I whipped the hunting knife from the sheath at the small of my back. A flash of steel. I didn’t go for his eye—I went for the hand Camilla was using to hold me back. I sliced clean through her pinky finger. Camilla let out a muffled grunt of pain and released me. The severed finger hit the floor, wet and limp. I didn’t stop. The tip of my blade lunged for Sebastian’s remaining eye. “No!” He froze, his scream breaking into a high-pitched sob. Camilla reacted with the speed of a viper. Ignoring the agony in her hand, she kicked my wrist with her heel, sending the knife flying across the marble. “Security! Lock him down!” The guards swarmed me, pinning my arms behind my back with brutal force. I was dragged down to the basement, into the cold, dark confines of the wine cellar. In the darkness, I sat on the floor, cradling the ghost of my bird. My love had burned to ash, leaving nothing but a furnace of hatred. Camilla. You swore on your life you wouldn’t cage me. You broke the vow. Now, you pay with your life. The next day, I was “released,” though it was house arrest in all but name. Every sharp object in the penthouse had been removed. Even the decorative bows were gone. Four guards followed my every shadow, and more patrolled the perimeter outside. Sebastian couldn’t help himself. He came to gloat. He wore an expensive silk eye patch, his remaining eye gleaming with triumph. “Thought you should know the good news. Camilla and I are getting married.” He chuckled, a dry, irritating sound. “I should actually thank that bird. If it hadn’t blinded me, this merger between our families wouldn’t have been fast-tracked.” I looked up, stunned. “We aren’t even divorced. How could the Montgomerys allow a Beaumont husband to take a ‘consort’?” Sebastian laughed, covering his mouth daintily. “Oh, you poor, deluded fool. Did you really think that piece of paper you signed five years ago was real?” “The whole city knows Camilla gave you a fake certificate. You were a phase, Kaelen. A wild little toy she picked up on vacation. You don’t actually think a woman of her stature would legally marry a nomad, do you?” My mind went blank. The “marriage.” The “defiance” against her family. The nights she spent “kneeling” in the ancestral hall to earn their approval… it was all a scripted play. A meticulously designed lie. She never intended to give me a name. She lured me into this cage, clipped my wings, and watched with amusement as I tried to maintain my dignity and my love. Camilla Beaumont. You’re already dead. You just don’t know it yet. 3 Camilla returned late that night, smelling of expensive gin and the cold city air. The living room was cast in shadows, lit only by a single amber wall sconce. I hadn’t moved from the sofa for hours. She sat across from me, studying me in the gloom. Half her face was lost to the dark. “Kaelen,” she finally said, her voice carrying a trace of hesitation. “You know, don’t you?” I didn’t answer. I kept my eyes fixed on a point in the distance. Suddenly, she leaned forward and tossed my hunting knife and my bow onto the coffee table. “I didn’t mean to keep it from you… at least not at first. Eventually, I just didn’t know how to explain.” She reached out, her voice softening into that manipulative purr. “I know you’re hurting. Here. Do whatever you want to me.” She grabbed my hand, forcing my fingers around the hilt of the knife. Then, she pressed the blade firmly against her chest, right over her heart. I could feel the frantic, rhythmic thrum of her heartbeat through the silk of her blouse. “You think I won’t?” I asked. She let out a soft, melodic laugh. And then, she pushed. She forced my hand forward, driving the blade into her own chest. Warm blood splashed across my face instantly. Camilla kept smiling, even as her breath hitched. “Kaelen… I lied to you. But I do love you. I told you once… if my life could make you happy, I’d give it. I meant that.” The metallic tang of blood filled the room, dragging me back to that rain-slicked cliff in Montana. The smell was the same. She had been soaked to the bone then, her designer gear shredded by rocks and talons, holding that struggling white falcon out to me like a holy relic. “I did it, Kaelen!” she had shouted over the thunder, her eyes bright with a terrifying fever. “Am I a real mountain woman now? Am I yours?” The memory was a dull blade sawing through my soul. We had ridden across the plains until the wind felt like it belonged to us. We had huddled under overhangs during storms, kissing until the world vanished. My tribe had said the strongest eagle on the plains had been tamed by a city woman. But it was because I had loved her so truly that this betrayal felt so grotesque. My grip tightened on the hilt. Rage, hot as molten lead, flooded my veins. Kill her. End it now. I pushed the blade deeper. Camilla gasped, breaking into a cold sweat, but her eyes remained locked on mine with a sickening, pathological devotion. No. Death was too easy for her. I wrenched the knife out, a fresh spray of red hitting the floor. I stumbled back and bolted from the room. Camilla was rushed to the hospital for emergency surgery. The next afternoon, Sebastian showed up again. He stood in the doorway, afraid to come closer, his voice shrill with cowardice. “You lunatic! You tried to murder her! If anything happens to Camilla, the Beaumonts and the Montgomerys will have you hunted down like the animal you are!” I stared out the window, deaf to his threats. Finding me unresponsive, he eventually grew bored and led his men to the rooftop conservatory. That conservatory was Camilla’s masterpiece—a simulated prairie landscape she had built for me, planted with thousands of wild cosmos flowers shipped from my homeland. She used to say, “I took the hawk from the plains, so I brought the plains to him.” She tended those flowers herself. Only she and I had the key. But now, I watched as Sebastian took a key from his pocket and opened the glass doors. I watched as he ordered the men to rip the flowers out by the roots. I watched as the symbols of my “beautiful cage” were trampled into the dirt. I felt nothing. Not a spark. Not a tear. When the heart dies, even grief becomes a luxury you can no longer afford. 4 The days became a stagnant pool. I was a ghost in the penthouse, shadowed by guards. Meanwhile, the news of the “Wedding of the Century” between Camilla and Sebastian saturated every screen in the city. The headlines were relentless: the multi-million dollar dowry, the custom Vera Wang gown, the private island rented for the pre-wedding gala. Every detail was exactly what Camilla had once whispered to me in the dark, describing her dream wedding. The only thing that had changed was the groom. Sebastian, emboldened by my silence, began sending me taunting texts. [Camilla bought me ten limited-edition watches today. Which one should I wear for the ceremony?] [Look at our menu. One course costs more than your entire village makes in a year.] [Camilla says you’re crude. A gutter rat compared to me. Did you really think a nomad could marry into a dynasty?] I never replied. Instead, I took screenshots of every single message. I packaged them with the photos of Camilla’s “private” moments in the basement and sent them to every high-society gossip rag and investigative journalist in the city. The headline I suggested was simple: “MONTGOMERY HEIR EXPOSED: THE PREMEDITATED SABOTAGE OF THE BEAUMONT PRINCESS’S MARRIAGE.” I knew how deep the waters ran in this city. I knew the Beaumonts could squash a scandal before it even broke. And indeed, within hours, the articles vanished. The social media threads were scrubbed. But the seeds were sown. Beaumont stock began to dip. The whispers began. A call came into the penthouse from Sebastian’s father. Even through the closed door, I could hear his muffled, vibrating roar of fury. He was warning Camilla to keep her “pet” on a shorter leash. The guards took my phone immediately after. I was officially cut off from the world. The penthouse was silent, save for Mrs. Gable, the housekeeper who had always been kind to me. “Sir,” she whispered, leaning in as she set down my tea. “She didn’t even give you a real wedding. Now she’s throwing this circus for him. It’s a knife to the heart.” She glanced at the guards. “If I were you, I’d run. Go back to the mountains. Somewhere she can’t find you. Let her taste the regret of what she threw away.” “Mrs. Gable,” I said with a faint, sharp smile. “Don’t believe everything you read in romance novels.” I stood and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window. In the distance, the silhouette of the Beaumont Grand Hotel loomed through the smog—the site of the wedding. “I’m not a bird waiting for a woman to regret her choices.” A hawk circled high above the skyscrapers. My eyes sharpened, locking onto the horizon. “I am a hunter. And a hunter doesn’t wait for an apology. He waits for the kill.” … The day of the wedding arrived. The ballroom was a sea of silk and diamonds, the air thick with the scent of a thousand lilies. But the “Golden Hour” passed, and the groom was nowhere to be found. Camilla’s patience was fraying. Her eyes were dark with a burgeoning rage. Just as she was about to snap at her coordinator, the massive oak doors swung open. Every head turned. It wasn’t the groom. It was a courier in a simple uniform, carrying a large, white gift box. “A gift for Miss Camilla Beaumont,” he announced. Camilla waved him off. “I don’t have time for this!” The courier held his ground. “The sender said it was vital you open it yourself. He said you would regret it for the rest of your life if you didn’t.” Camilla froze. Just as I had planned, she stepped forward and tore the lid off the box. As she saw what was inside, the color drained from her face, leaving her as pale as the lilies surrounding her.

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The fake heiress recorded a video, weeping to the camera about my supposed abuse. My parents and my fiancé stood right behind her, nodding in solemn agreement, testifying to my cruelty. Overnight, the internet became a tidal wave of vitriol, drowning my name in curses and death threats. If that wasn’t enough, my father cornered me in the hallway, his face flushed with righteous indignation, demanding I issue a public apology to my “sister.” What he didn’t know was that his real daughter was already dead. The thing breathing inside her body right now? Just a wandering, damned soul. With all of them watching, I shoved her down the sweeping marble staircase. “An apology? Sure,” I said, leaning over the banister. “But only if she actually breaks her leg.” …… I am a damned thing. A revenant. A ghost who learned the hard way that if you don’t bare your teeth, the world will swallow you whole. And somehow, I have woken up inside the body of Caroline Stanford. Caroline’s luck was truly tragic. She was the biological daughter of the Stanford dynasty, stolen away and lost for years. When she finally clawed her way back home, she found no warmth, no tears of joy. Just a cold house and parents who couldn’t look her in the eye. Instead, all their love had been siphoned off by the imposter—the cheap, surrogate sister who had occupied Caroline’s rightful place. This girl survived entirely on weaponized pity, playing the eternal victim, bewitching everyone around her. It culminated on Caroline’s eighteenth birthday. The entire family—including Caroline’s own fiancé—abandoned her to attend the fake sister’s prestigious conservatory piano showcase. Left alone in a sprawling, empty mansion, suffocating under the weight of her own insignificance, Caroline drew a blade across her wrists and bled out in the porcelain tub. The moment her heart stopped, my unfortunate soul slipped right in. Sifting through the shattered fragments of Caroline’s memories, I found myself thoroughly fascinated by this sister of hers, Belinda. I hadn’t realized the living could be so exquisitely, ruthlessly selfish, caring for absolutely nothing but their own survival. It was almost touching. It meant my kind had heirs in the mortal world. I pulled myself up from the cold, blood-stained water of the bathtub. I wrapped a haphazard towel around the jagged cuts on my wrists, threw on a hoodie, and called an Uber to the Stanford estate in Greenwich. The Stanfords possessed generational, obscene wealth. Yet, they had forced Caroline to take up menial part-time jobs, dressing up their neglect under the guise of “building her independence.” I immediately pulled out her phone and quit the diner job. Was it a joke? Why on earth would a trust-fund kid clock in for minimum wage? I wasn’t out of my mind. When I pushed open the heavy mahogany doors of the estate, the shock on the housekeeper’s face was palpable. I strolled past her, unimpeded, straight into the grand living room. There, nestled on the velvet sofa, was Belinda, her arms wrapped tightly around my fiancé, Carlton. Seeing me, Belinda didn’t pull away. She pressed herself even closer against his chest. The polite smiles on Richard and Margaret Stanford’s faces vanished the second they saw me. “Caroline? What are you doing here?” Richard demanded. I didn’t answer him. My eyes were locked dead onto Belinda. Sensing my gaze, her lower lip quivered. She instantly slipped into her pathetic, wounded-fawn routine. “Sister, you have everything now. I just wanted Mom, Dad, and Carlton to come see my performance. You’re not mad at me, are you?” “Why would she be mad? Hasn’t she taken enough of your things and your place in this family already?” Carlton let out a cold, derisive scoff, the disgust in his voice thick and unfiltered. Ah. I had miscalculated. It wasn’t just Belinda who was rotted through. This entire house was a cesspool. Not a single decent human being among them. I slowly raised my arm, letting the blood-soaked towel around my wrist dangle in the light. “Sister. You have Mom. You have Dad. You have my fiancé. All I wanted was to breathe, to stay alive. You wouldn’t force me to die, would you?” Belinda’s expression froze. A flicker of genuine panic crossed her eyes, but she was a professional. In a blink, the tears spilled over her lashes, fat and perfectly timed. Richard couldn’t stand to see his precious girl cry. He lunged forward, his hand cracking sharply across my cheek. “What kind of sick thing is that to say?!” he roared. “Are you trying to make Belinda feel guilty to death?!” I let the momentum of the slap carry me. I collapsed onto the Persian rug. Before I even had to fake a sob, Belinda’s trembling voice filled the room. “It’s fine, Dad. Let it go. I know my sister hates me. It’s okay. I’ll… I’ll just pack my things and move out.” She sobbed, her voice cracking beautifully. Yet, I noticed, she didn’t make a single move to stand up from the couch. Lying there on the floor, looking up at her, I felt a strange sense of awe. She was practically glowing in my eyes. I had an epiphany. The absolute zenith of selfishness is the ability to convince the world that you are a saint. “Listen to your sister!” Richard practically shoved his finger into my eye. “Look at the grace she has! Do you think everyone in the world is as vile and self-centered as you?!” I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to conjure a single tear, but as a ghost, I simply didn’t have the hardware for it. Crying was impossible. Giving up, I pushed myself off the rug, dusted off my cheap jeans, and plopped down onto a plush armchair, casually crossing one leg over the other. “Yeah, yeah, you’re right,” I said, waving a hand dismissively. “She has the heart of an angel. She’s obedient and sweet. I’m selfish and greedy. Therefore, I’m moving back in.” Richard’s mouth dropped open. He stared at me like I had sprouted horns. When Caroline had originally moved out, it had technically been her own suggestion. But she had only fled because she was suffocating under the toxic atmosphere and Belinda’s daily, insidious gaslighting. I, however, was built differently. As long as I was comfortable, I couldn’t care less how much they hated me. “Enough!” Carlton’s shout echoed off the vaulted ceiling, so loud it nearly rattled my soul loose from Caroline’s body. He stood up, shielding Belinda behind his broad shoulders, glaring at me like I was vermin. “Caroline, I am not going to let you bully Belinda anymore. What gives you the right to stay in this house?!” I stared at him. The sheer, unadulterated audacity. Even when I was alive, I had never heard a man speak with such shameless entitlement. I was beginning to realize that the only reason I had become a formidable ghost back in my day was simply a lack of modern competition. “It’s okay, Carlton,” Belinda whimpered, clutching his shirt. “She is Mom and Dad’s biological daughter, after all. I…” She offered a brave, wobbly smile that was uglier than a frown. It was a masterclass. I almost wanted to applaud. So, I did. The sharp, rhythmic clapping of my hands cut through the tension. Everyone froze, looking at me with absolute bewilderment. “Beautifully said,” I grinned. “So forgiving. You see, Dad? Since my sweet sister says it’s fine, I’ll be staying. After all, like she said, I am your actual blood.” Without waiting for Richard’s brain to reboot, I turned on my heel and headed for the stairs, following the layout from Caroline’s memories. Carlton’s curses faded behind me as I hummed a light tune, my steps bouncing. But when I pushed open the door to Caroline’s old room, I stopped dead in my tracks. My nose wrinkled in disgust. This cramped, sunless, depressing little box? Did they really expect someone of my elegant, refined stature to sleep in a closet? Without a second thought, I slammed the door shut and began pacing the hallway, inspecting the other rooms. I stopped in front of a heavy, ornate double door. It smelled like expensive perfume and privilege. I reached for the handle, but a roar echoed up the staircase. “Stop right there! Don’t you dare touch that door!” It was Richard. He was storming up the stairs, Margaret right on his heels, her face twisted in rage. “Caroline! That is your sister’s room!” Margaret shrieked. I raised an eyebrow. Oh, really? Beginner’s luck. I had picked the best suite in the house on the first try. “Is it?” I murmured, casually turning the knob and pushing the doors open. The contrast was staggering. The space was massive, bathed in natural light, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the manicured gardens. It was a sanctuary of custom silk drapery and plush velvet. Behind her parents, Belinda began to weep, playing her part flawlessly. “Sister, I know you resent me. But… but Mom and Dad designed this room specifically for me. I’ll give you anything else, I swear. Please, sister, give me my room back.” It was a touching monologue, but I could read the panic in her eyes. She was terrified of losing her territory. Predictably, Richard and Margaret ate it up. They swarmed her, cooing and hugging her as if she’d just been diagnosed with a terminal illness. I leaned against the doorframe, crossing my arms. “Are you done? Because the answer is no.” Belinda choked on her sob, completely blindsided. She clearly hadn’t anticipated a flat, emotionless rejection. Moral kidnapping was her specialty; she wasn’t used to a victim without morals. Taking advantage of her shock, I stepped inside and moved to shut the door, but Richard lunged forward, grabbing my wrist in a vice grip. His fingers dug perfectly, entirely by chance, into my freshly sliced veins. He didn’t notice, or simply didn’t care. His face was red with fury. “Caroline Stanford! This belongs to Belinda! Can’t you, for once in your miserable life, be the bigger person and let your sister have something?!” Fortunately, a ghost feels no physical pain. I slowly wrenched my arm out of his grasp. The hastily wrapped cuts tore open again, fresh blood seeping through the white terrycloth, dripping onto the hardwood floor. Richard glanced at the blood, his eyes cold. Not a flicker of remorse. “Sorry, no can do,” I chirped, giving him a dead-eyed smile. “And if you keep harassing me, be careful. I might just leak a few secrets to the press.” Before he could unleash whatever curse was building in his throat, I slammed the heavy door in his face and locked it. The Stanfords had never publicly acknowledged Caroline as their biological daughter. Back then, they had gagged her with excuses about “protecting the company’s stock” and “maintaining family stability.” But what did the Stanford dynasty’s PR mean to me? If they pushed me, I was more than happy to drag us all straight to hell. I threw myself onto Belinda’s massive, cloud-like bed and pulled out the phone. Over the years, the real Caroline had been so beaten down, so painfully insecure, that she didn’t have a single close friend. When I opened Instagram, her feed was a wasteland. But the trending pages? They were plastered with glowing reviews of Belinda’s piano recital, interspersed with nauseatingly perfect paparazzi shots of Belinda and Carlton—the “childhood sweethearts.” Timing is everything. A notification popped up: Belinda had just posted. I clicked on it. It was a highly filtered, carefully angled selfie, her eyes looking tragically glassy. Caption: My big sister finally came home today. I gave her my bedroom. Even though Mom and Dad built this room just for me, it doesn’t matter. As long as she’s happy, I’m happy. As expected, the comments were a bloodbath of hatred aimed at Caroline. To the public, Caroline was just an ungrateful, adopted charity case. How could she ever compare to the delicate, talented biological heiress? I smirked. I went into the settings, changed the handle to my real, full name, and cracked my knuckles. Time to go unhinged. I replied to her post: “Gave it to me? Or did I have to pry it from your cold, manipulative hands?” Then another: “Wow, guys. Are there actually people out there who sob to their parents in the hallway and then immediately run to Instagram to play Mother Teresa?” My comments were instantly flooded by Belinda’s rabid fan base. With her “piano prodigy” label and her old-money aesthetic, she had the online pull of an A-list celebrity. “You are disgusting! A stray dog taking the real daughter’s room!” one user wrote. Is that what they thought? In a stellar mood, I replied to that comment. “I think you make a great point. She really is just a stray.” Because of the sheer controversy, my reply was algorithmically boosted to the top of the comment section. Within three minutes, Belinda deleted the entire post. Free from having to look at her curated, teary face, I bounced off the mattress and opened the walk-in closet. It was packed with Belinda’s clothes. An endless sea of pastel pinks, ruffled tulle, and infantile innocence. Absolutely nothing in my aesthetic. I had finally possessed a rich girl. I wasn’t going to sit around in rags. It was time to swipe some plastic. I swung the bedroom door open, entirely intending to go shopping, only to find Belinda marching down the hall toward me. We were alone. The mask was completely gone. Her face was contorted in sheer, unadulterated rage. She closed the distance and grabbed me by the collar of my cheap hoodie. “Caroline, what the fuck are you doing online?! Didn’t you learn your lesson the last time?!” God, I wished her little internet fans could see her now. The high-class, untouchable goddess, snarling like a rabid dog. I raised a single brow, keeping my face infuriatingly serene. “What’s wrong? I was just telling the truth.” Belinda ground her teeth so hard I legitimately worried her veneers would crack. She shoved me backward, lifting her chin with that familiar, sickening arrogance. “Listen to me, you pathetic bitch. Don’t think for a second that just because you have their blood, you’ve won. I forced you out of this house once. I can easily throw you out again.” And then, without breaking eye contact, Belinda reached over to the console table, grabbed a heavy porcelain vase, and smashed it directly against her own forehead. She let out a blood-curdling scream as the porcelain shattered. Dark red blood immediately began pouring down her face. Footsteps thundered up the stairs. Margaret appeared at the end of the hall, her face draining of color. “Belinda! Oh my god, what happened?!” She dropped to her knees, pulling Belinda’s bleeding head into her lap, frantically inspecting the wound. But when Margaret looked up at me, her panic crystallized into pure hatred. “Mom, I’m fine,” Belinda whimpered, her voice frail and shaking. “Don’t be mad at my sister. She… she just wants to be a part of this family so badly…” I had to hand it to her; Belinda was ruthless. The gash on her forehead was deep. Just looking at it gave me a phantom headache. Margaret carefully helped Belinda to her feet, unleashing a torrent of venom in my direction. “How did I give birth to something as vile as you?! Hasn’t Belinda been kind enough to you?! Why must you destroy everything she touches?!” “You never should have come back! You should have just died in the gutter where you belonged!” This was Caroline’s biological mother. She finished screaming at me and turned, supporting Belinda’s weight, ready to rush her to the hospital. But why would I let myself get cursed out for free? “Did I say you could leave?” I asked, my voice dangerously soft. Margaret whipped her head around. “What more could you possibly want?! Caroline, I swear to God—” She never finished the sentence. Because I had already picked up the matching vase from the other side of the console table and smashed it across the other side of Belinda’s head. This time, the scream was real. She was genuinely terrified. I looked down at the blood streaming symmetrically down both sides of her face and finally gave them a bright, sunny smile. “You see?” I said. “Now it’s a matching set. Much prettier.”

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The rescue scene at the edge of the cliff was a circus of sirens and blinding floodlights. A reporter shoved a microphone toward me the second I was pulled up, her eyes gleaming with the hunger for a viral headline. “Mrs. Steven, your husband just chose to save Miss Vance first, claiming that as a police captain’s daughter, you’re ‘built tougher.’ How do you feel about that?” I clutched the scratchy wool of the rescue blanket around my shoulders, trying to hide the blood soaking through my leggings. My gaze drifted to Hudson, who was across the perimeter, cradling his childhood sweetheart in his arms as if she were made of spun glass. I forced a jagged smile for the camera. “He’s right. I guess I’m tough enough to survive a cliffside fall with a baby in my womb.” The reporter gasped, the air whistling through her teeth. She froze for a beat before her voice trembled. “So… Mr. Steven knew you were pregnant?” 1 Hudson finally tore his eyes away from Melody and looked at me. I was shivering, huddled under the emergency blanket, a stark contrast to the girl he was protecting. He walked over, his brow furrowed in a sharp line of irritation. “Jade, I know you’re upset, but this isn’t the time for a tantrum,” he hissed, his voice low and dangerous. “The cameras are everywhere. Don’t drag Melody into a scandal.” The reporter was still hovering, waiting for a comment. Hudson turned to the lens, instantly regaining that effortless, commanding composure that made him the darling of the business world. “My wife is just shaken up and talking nonsense. Please, don’t take it seriously.” He looked back at his security detail, his voice turning to ice. “Take my wife to the hospital. Make sure she doesn’t say anything else to the press.” Without another word, he turned back, scooped Melody into his arms, and headed for the lead ambulance. Melody clung to his neck, her voice thin and wavering. “Hudson… is Jade mad? Maybe you should go with her. I’ll be fine, really…” Hudson leaned down, his voice softening into a murmur I hadn’t heard in months. “Shh, don’t think like that. She’s fine. She used to pop her own shoulder back into place when we were kids—this is nothing to her. But your heart condition… we need to get you to the ER now.” The ambulance doors slammed shut, cutting off the world. I sat there on the frozen dirt, clutching my lower abdomen as a dull, rhythmic throb began to pulse through my gut. My world was turning cold, inch by agonizing inch. A paramedic looked at me with a pained, awkward expression. “Mrs. Steven, the ambulances are at capacity. We’re waiting on another unit, or…” I swallowed hard, fighting the black spots dancing in my vision. “It’s fine. I’ll find my own way.” At the hospital, I navigated the fluorescent-lit hallways alone. I stood in line, filled out the forms, and waited. When the ultrasound tech finally handed me the results, the words felt like lead on the paper: Threatened miscarriage. Immediate bed rest recommended. My heart twisted into a knot. As I rounded the corner toward the pharmacy, I saw them. Hudson was half-kneeling in front of Melody in a private waiting area, holding a cup of lukewarm water with focused intensity. “Slowly,” he whispered. “It’s still hot.” Melody looked at him, her eyes wide and watery. “You’re so good to me, Hudson. If Jade saw this, she’d just misunderstand again, wouldn’t she?” Hudson offered a faint, tired smile. “She’s not that petty. Besides, we grew up together. She knows how things are. She should understand.” I stood there, a wave of nausea rolling over me that had nothing to do with the pregnancy. I looked down at the ultrasound printout in my hand. Without thinking, I crumpled it into a ball. I turned to leave, but my hip caught a metal trash can, sending it clattering across the linoleum. Both of them looked up. The moment Hudson saw it was me, the tenderness vanished from his face. He stood up and walked toward me. Seeing that I was standing upright and looking “fine,” his expression relaxed into a mask of professional annoyance. “Since you’re okay, I’ll have PR draft a statement.” He reached out to brush a stray hair from my face, but I flinched away. He didn’t look angry, just sighed with the weary patience of a man dealing with a difficult child. “The online narrative is already turning ugly, Jade. People are saying I abandoned my pregnant wife for another woman. I need you to go on record. Tell them the pregnancy thing was just something you said in the heat of the moment to get attention.” He adjusted his cufflink. “You’re the wife of the CEO. Be the bigger person here. It helps her, and it protects the company’s image.” I looked at this man—the man I had loved for five years—and he felt like a stranger speaking a dead language. “Hudson,” I said, my voice sounding like it was coming from underwater. “What if I told you the baby isn’t going to make it?” Hudson’s jaw tightened. “Jade, enough. Melody has a heart condition; she can’t handle this kind of stress. Do you want her to live with that guilt forever? You were a damn war correspondent—you’ve stared down mortars without blinking. Now you’re acting like a spoiled brat because of a pregnancy scare?” A spoiled brat. Because I was strong, I deserved to be abandoned. Because she was fragile, I had to bleed in silence. I looked at him and felt a laugh bubbling up—a sharp, jagged thing. “Understood. If you’re so worried about Miss Vance’s conscience, maybe you should just give her my title. It would be cleaner.” Hudson’s face darkened. “Don’t be ridiculous. She’s like a sister to me. I thought you were better than this, Jade. I didn’t think you’d stoop to being this manipulative.” Manipulative. I took a shaky breath and, without a word, tossed the crumpled ultrasound report into the trash can beside us. “Right. I’m the difficult one. Go back to her, Hudson. Don’t waste your precious time here.” I turned and walked toward the elevator. “Jade!” he called out, his voice vibrating with suppressed rage. “You want to go cool off? Fine. But remember this: if you walk out that door, don’t expect to come crawling back until you’ve learned to drop the attitude and lose the thorns!” As the elevator doors slid shut, I saw Melody slip her hand into his. He looked down at her, his expression melting back into that soft, protective glow. I leaned against the cold metal wall, and the tears finally came. He was right about one thing. I did need to reflect. I needed to reflect on how I could have been so blind to love a man who would watch me drown just to keep someone else’s feet dry. 2 The doctor’s warning echoed in my head: Stay in bed, or you lose the baby. I dragged my exhausted body back to our penthouse, only to stop dead at the foyer. There was a pair of designer stilettos by the door. I’d been wearing nothing but flats lately because of the swelling. Those weren’t mine. My heart hammered against my ribs. I pushed the door open. In the living room, the TV was humming. Melody was curled up on our sofa, wearing one of Hudson’s oversized white dress shirts, her pale legs tucked under her as she ate fruit from a bowl. Hudson was sitting right beside her, a laptop balanced on his knees. At the sound of the door, Melody turned, a sweet, practiced smile on her lips. “Jade! You’re back. Hudson was so worried about me after everything today, he insisted I stay the night. You don’t mind, do you?” Hudson set his laptop aside and stood up, reaching for my bag. “How was the doctor? Everything okay?” I stood frozen. My eyes weren’t on him. They were locked onto the silver whistle hanging around Melody’s neck. It was an old, tarnished police whistle. My father’s whistle. Before he died in the line of duty, he had placed that whistle in Hudson’s hand. He told Hudson it was a symbol—that Hudson was taking over the watch. That he was responsible for my safety now. Hudson had sworn back then: As long as I have this, I will protect her with my life. I lunged forward, grabbing the cold metal. “Why are you touching this?” I choked out. Melody let out a startled cry, and the tears were instant. “I—I’ve been having nightmares since the cliff. Hudson said this was a lucky charm… that it was meant to keep people safe. I just wanted to feel safe for one night…” Hudson immediately stepped between us, shoving me back and pulling Melody behind him. He checked the biometric monitor on her wrist, and seeing no alert, he turned on me with a face full of loathing. “Jade! What the hell is wrong with you? It’s an old trinket. If it gives her peace of mind, let her have it for a few days. You’re a cop’s daughter, for god’s sake. You’re the strongest woman I know. Do you really need a piece of silver to feel secure?” It wasn’t about security. It was the only piece of my father I had left. The light inside me, the last flickering ember of my love for him, went out. “Hudson,” I said, my voice dead. “Do you even remember what that whistle represents?” Hudson groaned, his impatience flared. “I know your dad gave it to me. But a dead object isn’t more important than a living person. Melody needs it right now. Can’t you just be the bigger person for once?” I looked at the whistle clutched in Melody’s hand. Suddenly, both the object and the man felt tainted. Filthy. I turned and walked into the study. I sat at the desk, opened a new document, and typed out a divorce settlement. I hit print. Hudson, if this baby doesn’t survive, we are done. I went into the bedroom, tucked the papers into the hidden lining of my suitcase, and started throwing clothes inside. Hudson walked in a moment later, his bravado wavering when he saw the suitcase. “It’s the middle of the night. Where are you going?” “This house feels dirty,” I said, not looking at him as I zipped the bag. “I’m going to the hospital to save my child.” Hudson froze, then his face turned a deep, ugly red. “Save the child? You can do that here. You’re just using this pregnancy to hold me hostage, aren’t you?” “Because I chose her over you at the cliff? It was an emergency, Jade! She has a condition!” I slammed the suitcase shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot. “Hudson, do you remember what you told my father at his funeral?” “You said you’d spend the rest of your life being my shield.” “Now, you’ve given my shield to someone else. It’s poetic, really.” I brushed past him, dragging my suitcase through the living room without a single glance at Melody. Hudson chased me to the door, grabbing my wrist. “Jade! If you walk out this door over a stupid piece of jewelry, don’t you dare think about coming back! I mean it!” I looked back at him, my eyes as calm as a graveyard. “That’s the plan.” I wrenched my arm free, opened the door, and stepped out into the black, rain-slicked night. Behind me, I heard Hudson’s muffled roar of frustration and the sound of something expensive shattering against a wall. I touched my stomach and whispered, “Don’t be scared, little one. It’s just us now.” 3 I spent three days in a hospital bed. Hudson didn’t call once. Instead, my mother-in-law called. Her tone was, as always, brittle and condescending. “Jade, you are expected at the charity gala tonight.” “The press is having a field day with Hudson’s ‘choice’ at the cliff. The Steven Group’s stock is dipping. As Hudson’s wife, you will show up, you will smile, and you will put these rumors to bed.” I stared out the window at the gray Seattle sky. “I’m in the hospital, Beatrice. I’m at risk of a miscarriage.” “Miscarriage?” she scoffed. “Please. You’re a cop’s daughter; you’re not that fragile. Don’t use a phantom pregnancy to play for sympathy. If you aren’t at that gala, don’t bother ever showing your face at a family function again.” The line went dead. That afternoon, an assistant delivered a garment bag. It was a loose-fitting black silk gown and a pair of designer flats. The note from Hudson read: I told them you weren’t feeling well. Wear this. It’s comfortable. Touching the soft fabric, a pathetic, tiny part of me wondered… Does he care? A little? I put on the dress. I did my makeup to hide the ghostly pallor of my skin. The gala was a sea of glittering diamonds and forced laughter. Hudson was there, looking dashing in a custom tuxedo, with Melody on his arm. Melody was also in black, but her dress was a shimmering, tight-fitting mermaid gown encrusted with crystals. She looked like a star. I, in my loose silk and flats, looked like a bloated shadow beside them. The whispers started the moment I walked in. “Is that the wife? Why is she dressed like that?” “Well, she’s a cop’s daughter. I guess she doesn’t understand high fashion.” “Look at how Hudson looks at Miss Vance. He just peeled a shrimp for her. The marriage is clearly a sham.” Hudson gave me a cursory glance. “You made it. If you’re tired, go sit in the corner. Don’t make a scene.” Then he turned to Melody, his voice dropping into that tender register. “Mel, are you hungry? I’ll go get you some of those crab cakes you like.” I stood alone in the center of the room, my fingers digging into my palms. The climax of the night was the silent auction. The showpiece was a ruby necklace called “The Eternal Heart.” Starting bid: five million. Melody’s eyes lit up when she saw it. Hudson smiled, that indulgent, protective smile, and raised his paddle. “Ten million.” The room erupted in murmurs. “Twelve million,” someone countered. Hudson didn’t blink. “Fifteen million.” People began to whisper, “It must be an anniversary gift for his wife. How romantic.” I sat in my corner, hearing the compliments, feeling like I was made of ice. Our anniversary. He actually remembered. “Twenty million!” Hudson shouted. The room went silent. Hudson stood up, took the velvet box from the presenter, and turned. But he didn’t turn toward me. He turned toward Melody. “Stop crying,” he whispered. He lifted the breathtaking rubies and, in front of everyone, fastened them around Melody’s neck. “Rubies are supposed to be good for the heart,” he said loud enough for the front rows to hear. “They suit you much better than a tattered silver whistle.” Melody beamed, touching the gems with trembling fingers. “Oh, Hudson… it’s beautiful. So much better than that old thing. Thank you!” Every eye in the room pivoted to me. Pity. Scorn. Schaudenfreude. The stares felt like slaps across my face, stinging and hot. And then, a white-hot spike of pain lanced through my abdomen. I felt a sudden, warm rush of fluid down my legs. My face went translucent. Cold sweat broke out across my brow. I reached for my bag to find my medication, but my hand shook so violently I knocked over a glass of red wine. Hudson looked over, his eyes snapping with irritation. My phone buzzed. A text from him: I just spent twenty million to get that whistle back for you. Are you satisfied? I know you’re still throwing a fit, but stop acting like someone died. Put a smile on your face and stop embarrassing the family. I looked at the screen until the words blurred into a gray smear. I didn’t have the strength to reply. I braced myself against the table and stood up, inching toward the restroom. Hudson… is this your anniversary gift to me? 4 The restroom mirror showed a woman who looked like a corpse. I gripped the sink, gasping for air. The black silk of my dress was soaked, blood trailing down my legs and onto the white marble floor. “Oh my god! Are you okay? Someone help! She’s bleeding!” A passing waitress screamed. “Ambulance…” I managed to choke out. “Call an ambulance…” Darkness rushed in to meet me, and I collapsed. When I woke, I was on a gurney. The lights above were blinding. A doctor, his gown stained with red, leaned over me. “We have massive hemorrhaging! We need to get her into surgery now! Where is the family? I need a signature!” Family? I wanted to laugh, but I couldn’t move my lips. “I… I’ll sign…” “No! We need a next of kin! This is critical—you might not make it off the table!” the doctor roared. A nurse handed me my phone. “Call your husband! Now!” With trembling fingers, I dialed the number I knew by heart. Ring… ring… ring… Each tone was a serrated blade. On the third call, he picked up. “Jade? What kind of stunt are you pulling now? Why did you leave the gala? Do you have any idea how that looks to my mother? To the board?” “Melody was just asking for you. She wants to give the whistle back. Where the hell are you?” His voice was a barrage of accusations. “Hudson,” I whispered, my voice a thread of silk. “I’m at the hospital… the baby…” CRACK! A massive thunderclap shook the hospital windows as a storm broke over the city. Hudson’s voice immediately shifted—soft, protective. “It’s okay, Mel. I’ve got you.” Then, over the line, I heard him begin to hum. It was Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. On every stormy night for five years, he had held me and hummed that song until I fell asleep. He called it “our song for the dark.” Now, he was singing it to her. “Jade, I have to go. Melody has always been terrified of thunder. I’ll call you later.” Click. I let the phone slip from my fingers. I looked at the blood on my hands and felt my soul turn to ash. “Doctor,” I said, my voice suddenly steady. “Give me the pen.” I gripped his hand. “I’m signing for myself. Save me. Forget the baby… it’s already gone.” The pen scratched across the paper. Jade Steven. Two words. Shaky, but final. A goodbye to the woman I used to be. Under the cold surgical lights, the instruments moved inside me, scraping away the last remnants of our life together. I refused the general anesthesia. I wanted to feel the pain. I wanted to remember the exact moment I killed my own heart. And the moment Hudson killed the woman who loved him. As the pain peaked and my consciousness frayed, I remembered the day we found out I was pregnant. Hudson had rubbed my belly and laughed like a boy. “Jade, I’m going to spend the rest of my life making sure you’re the happiest woman on earth.” Hudson, you’re a liar. When they wheeled me out of surgery, I heard frantic footsteps at the end of the hall. Hudson was there, drenched from the rain, hair disheveled, clutching that silver whistle in his hand. He saw me and stopped dead. “Jade…” his voice cracked. “What happened?” His eyes fell on the blood-stained consent form on the clipboard at the foot of my bed. His pupils dilated. “Miscarriage? …The baby?” He lunged forward, but the nurse shoved him back with a glare. “The patient just had an emergency D&C. She’s extremely weak. Keep your voice down.” Hudson staggered back as if he’d been punched. “D&C? No… that can’t be…” The pain was a dull roar now. I lay there, drenched in sweat. Looking at his shattered expression, I felt… nothing. Not even hate. “Jade,” he whispered, his eyes red. “This isn’t funny. If you’re doing this to punish me for the cliff… you win. Okay? You win. Just tell me the baby is okay.” He pressed the silver whistle into my hand, his voice a pathetic plea. “Look! I got it back! I took it back from her! Please, don’t scare me like this. Tell me he’s okay.” The silver was cold against my palm. It would never be warm again. I forced my eyes open and looked at him. I gave him a small, tired smile. “The baby is dead, Hudson.” “And I want a divorce.”

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The golden child threw herself out the window, screaming that I pushed her. What she didn’t know was that I had just been tethered to the Loop System. A digital parasite in my brain that allowed me to select any single action she made and force her to repeat it. One hundred times. By the time the golden child had crawled back up to the second floor like a reanimated corpse, hurling herself out the window for the hundredth consecutive time, our biased parents and our darling brother had completely lost their minds. 1. “Helen, you are so dead. Mom and Dad are never going to forgive you for this.” Beverly flashed me a wicked, gleeful smile. Then, without missing a beat, she tipped backward and plummeted out the second-story window. She landed squarely in the thick hydrangea bushes lining the estate’s foundation. The landscaper, who had been watering the beds, let out a bloodcurdling scream. My parents and my brother, Brooks, practically tore the patio doors off their hinges as they sprinted from the sunroom into the yard. The moment they saw Beverly lying there, the air was sucked right out of the world. Panic, raw and suffocating, took over. My mother immediately broke into a wailing sob. My father was frantically punching 911 into his phone. Brooks dropped to his knees in the dirt beside Beverly, his voice cracking in absolute devastation. “Beverly… oh my god, how did this happen?! Who? Who did this to you?!” Trembling, Beverly raised a pale arm, strategically scratched by the thorny branches, stark and beautifully tragic against the pristine white tulle of her dress. She pointed a shaking finger up at the second-floor window. Up at me. “Brooks…” she whimpered, her voice a masterclass in fragile innocence. “I don’t know what I did wrong… My sister, she… it hurts so much…” Instantly, three pairs of eyes snapped upward, glaring at me. Whatever thin, polite veneer we had maintained since I moved in was gone. There was no biological affection here, no familial bond. The pure, unadulterated hatred radiating from them was reserved solely for me—the sudden intruder, the biological anomaly who had dared to harm their carefully cultivated, deeply cherished daughter and sister. Perhaps in my past life, the naked cruelty in their stares would have pierced right through my chest. But right now? My blood was singing. System, I thought, the command cold and precise in my mind. That exact jumping motion. Lock it in. Repeat one hundred times. 2. In my last life, Beverly’s little stunt worked flawlessly. She walked away with a few cosmetic scrapes, but it was enough to ignite a blinding fury in the Prescott family. They rushed upstairs, dragged me to the floor, and kicked and beat me until my ribs splintered and my organs ruptured. While they were speeding in the back of an ambulance to get Beverly a designer band-aid, I bled to death on the hardwood floor alone. After I died, my soul floated untethered, and the sky above me filled with lines of glowing, scrolling text: [The real daughter is so pathetic!! The Prescott family are absolute trash, they all deserve to die!!!] [If the author wanted to write a villainous fake-sister trope, fine, but don’t do the innocent girl dirty like this! Using a helpless side character’s brutal death just to establish the fake sister’s ‘mean girl’ status is crossing a massive line. This isn’t satisfying at all!] [This family is just a bunch of soulless NPCs like in every other switched-at-birth trope! If the plot doesn’t change and they don’t get what’s coming to them, I’m reporting this entire book!] [Resurrect the real daughter!! Let her get revenge!!] Revenge revenge revenge revenge revenge revenge revenge revenge… The glitching, manic text entirely consumed my vision. That was the moment I realized I wasn’t a real person. I was cannon fodder. The tragic, biological daughter in a melodramatic web novel where Beverly was the twisted, untouchable female lead. [The readers are review-bombing this to hell. It’s getting too unhinged. You know what? Take this Loop System. I’m dropping this manuscript. You handle the rest! I’m out!] A voice—presumably the author’s—echoed in the void before vanishing completely. And then, I woke up. Reborn, mere seconds before Beverly’s theatrical leap, with the [Loop System] humming quietly in my temporal lobe. Looking at her smug, artificially playful face, the phantom aches of a hundred kicks from my past life rushed through my veins, hot and demanding. In my last life, I was slaughtered by the plot. In this life, I was going to let this family experience the sheer, unrelenting terror of a protagonist with a cheat code. “Helen Prescott!! Are you out of your damn mind?! You pushed Beverly?! Get down here right now!!” Just like before, Brooks thundered up the stairs. He didn’t care that I was a hundred-pound girl who had grown up malnourished in foster care. He raised his fist, ready to strike— “Ahhh!!!!! Beverly!!! Beverly, where are you going?!” This time, however, my mother’s hysterical shriek from the yard stopped his fist in mid-air. He instinctively looked down out the window. Down in the flowerbed, Beverly had suddenly snapped upright, stiff as a wooden plank. Her head hung low, chin touching her chest, and her legs began to move in a rapid, inhuman blur, sprinting toward the house with the jerky, terrifying cadence of a malfunctioning animatronic. She scurried up the stairs so fast she practically blurred, slamming her shoulder into Brooks and knocking him entirely out of the doorway. She marched straight to the window in front of me and hoisted herself onto the sill, perching there. Her eyes were completely glazed over, dead and vacant, but her mouth moved perfectly to deliver her opening line: “Helen, you are so dead. Mom and Dad are never going to forgive you for this.” Then, she tipped backward. CRACK. She hit the bushes again. “Ahhhhhhhhhh!!!” Downstairs, my mother and the landscaper shrieked in unison. My father stood frozen, his jaw slack. His phone slipped from his fingers and shattered on the patio stones. “Beverly!!!” Brooks screamed, a sound tearing his throat raw, and he bolted down the stairs. He didn’t even make it to the front door. Beverly was already coming back up. BANG! She plowed into him again, knocking the breath from his lungs, and scrambled onto the windowsill. “Helen, you are so dead. Mom and Dad are never going to forgive you for this.” Over she went. “Grab her!! Stop her!!” my parents finally snapped out of their stupor, bellowing at the top of their lungs. Brooks lunged. “Beverly!!” BANG!! Smashed aside again. And over she went. “Beverly!” THUD. “Beverly!!” THUD. “Watch her face—oh my god, her face!!!!” THUD. By the tenth repetition, Beverly’s speed had exponentially increased, defying all laws of physics. She was moving five times faster than a normal human. When she hit Brooks this time, she launched him into the air. He crashed hard onto the first-floor landing, his designer glasses splintering across the hardwood. That was the beauty of the Loop. The speed compounded, and with speed came terrifying, unnatural momentum. My parents threw themselves at her, tackling her around the waist in a desperate double-team to pin her down. Instead, her momentum simply dragged them across fifteen feet of manicured lawn. The abrasive patio stones sheared a layer of skin right off their arms, chests, and backs. They howled in agony. “Are you insane?! You’re running over your own parents?!” “Stop! Stop right now! Do you hear me?!!” They screamed the words, but the truth was, none of them dared to touch her again. They scrambled backward, pressing themselves into the corner of the patio, leaving a wide, terrified berth between the doorway and the stairs. All they could do was watch, eyes bulging with pure horror, as Beverly sprinted up the stairs again, and again, and again. Every single loop was punctuated by my mother’s agonizing wails. And this was only loop twenty-five. 3. By the time Beverly executed her fifty-fifth jump, the sun had set. She had entered the peak of her glitching state. She was moving so fast she left afterimages in the twilight. My mother had entirely run out of tears. The grief had been hollowed out, replaced by a suffocating, primal terror. And how could it not? When Beverly planned her little stunt, she had calculated the trajectory perfectly to ensure only superficial cuts. A little pain for a lot of sympathy. But no human body is meant to endure a second-story drop fifty times in a row. No body is meant to have the same scratches ripped open half a hundred times. The Beverly that was currently looping was a shredded, bloody mess. Her dress was in tatters, painted in dark crimson strokes, her limbs operating solely on the mechanical willpower of the System. When she scurried out from the pitch-black doorway of the ground floor, she looked like a charred, skittering spider. Up close, it was straight out of a horror movie. Who wouldn’t be trembling? “Mom! Dad! Do something!!! If she keeps jumping like this, she’s going to break into pieces!” Only Brooks was still trying to save her. Ignorance was bliss. Without his glasses, he couldn’t actually see the gruesome, twitching entity that was currently crawling across the floorboards. My mother’s vocal cords had ruptured; she was slumped against my father’s shoulder, completely unresponsive. My father had collapsed into a lotus position on the grass, muttering feverish prayers. He was a ruthless venture capitalist, but right now, he was bargaining with whatever god was listening. At loop ninety, the sky began to bleed a pale morning gray. Brooks was kneeling on the floor beside the long, dark-red smear Beverly had dragged across the carpet, rocking back and forth like a mental patient. My parents were huddled together, drenched in cold sweat, utterly mute. At loop one hundred, the ambulance—which had been stalled by the System’s interference—finally wailed up the driveway. The paramedics had to literally dig Beverly’s pulverized, barely-breathing body out of the crater she had formed in the earth. “Where is the family?! We need a guardian to ride with us!!” the EMT yelled over the flashing lights. Brooks crawled toward the door. “Me! Me!!! I’m coming with her!!!” Only then did I take my time walking down from the second floor. I arranged my features into a mask of identical, traumatized shock, rushing over to help my parents up. “Mom! Dad! Get up… Beverly’s condition, it was so… unnatural! Are you really going to let Brooks go to the hospital alone with her?!” The spell broke. An adopted daughter was just a daughter, but their son? Their heir? He was their lifeline. The two old hypocrites scrambled to their feet, their legs shaking violently. “We… we have to go. We have to follow them.” Yes, go, I thought. The best acts of the play were yet to come. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. 4. Beverly was the protagonist of the original plot, and it showed. She actually survived. Plot armor is a hell of a drug; she was remarkably hard to kill. Even so, she was a symphony of fractured bones and severe contusions. She wouldn’t be walking for at least three to five months. “It hurts!!!! What happened?!!! Why can’t I move?!” “My face… my face is burning!!! Make it stop!!!” “Mom!! Dad!! Brooks!! Why aren’t you helping me?!!!” Beverly had never experienced true pain in her life. With absolutely no memory of her glitching marathon, she woke up screaming, thrashing against her restraints, sobbing hysterically. The family of three desperately wanted to rush to her bedside to comfort her, but they physically couldn’t. The psychological trauma of the “blood-soaked spider” was too fresh. Especially for Brooks. When he had climbed into the back of the ambulance, he had leaned in close, desperately crying her name. In response, Beverly had turned a mangled, blood-drenched face toward him, her eyes rolled back so far only the bloodshot whites showed. He had nearly gone into cardiac arrest on the spot. So, it was just me. I was the only one who withstood the pressure. I stepped up to the hospital bed and gently patted the thick gauze wrapped around Beverly’s shoulder. “Beverly, it’s okay. You have to be strong. If you can’t handle this, how are you going to survive the rest of it?” I suddenly understood the psychology behind killers returning to the scene of the crime. Looking at Beverly right now, she felt like my own personal masterpiece. The uglier she looked, the more an undeniable fondness bloomed in my chest. She couldn’t even maintain her delicate, innocent facade anymore. She bared her teeth and shrieked at me: “Helen?! Why the hell are you in here?!! It was you, wasn’t it?!! You did this to me!!!” “Mom! Dad!!! It was Helen!! She pushed me!! Punish her!! Do it now!!!” I offered a serene, almost saintly smile, my voice perfectly level. “Beverly, I understand why you’re blaming me… It’s my fault as your sister. I should have caught you. Mom and Dad tried so hard to stop you from jumping, but…” I caught the fleeting look of retroactive terror on my parents’ faces. Their hands subconsciously drifted to their own bandaged, scraped skin. The physical pain only amplified their deep-seated, biological fear of the girl in the bed. Beverly, of course, missed all of this subtext. All she heard was that her parents hadn’t caught her. Panicked over the prospect of being permanently disfigured, she lost her mind entirely, spitting out words without thinking: “Why didn’t you stop me?! If you had just stopped me, I wouldn’t look like this!!” It was the exact sentence I was waiting for. System. Let her say it a hundred times. 5. “We tried to stop you! But we couldn’t!!” My father’s face was twisted in distress as he tried to defend himself. “You were too strong!” My mother nodded frantically. “Yes, yes! You dragged me right across the ground…” She pulled back her designer sleeve to show Beverly the massive, angry road rash on her forearm. “Look. My skin was torn right off.” Under normal circumstances, Beverly would have instantly dissolved into tears, apologizing profusely and delicately blowing on her mother’s wound to soothe her. But right now, her eyes remained bulged, and she barked out the exact same accusation, her tone frantic and venomous: “Why didn’t you stop me?! If you had just stopped me, I wouldn’t look like this!!” My parents froze. They stared at her, deeply unsettled. “Beverly…?” my mother whispered, her voice trembling. Beverly kept going. “Why didn’t you stop me?! If you had just stopped me, I wouldn’t look like this!!” My father’s guilt instantly calcified into anger. “How dare you speak to us like that?! I just told you, we couldn’t hold you down! If you’re going to put this on us, I’m going to lose my patience very quickly!” … “Why didn’t you stop me?! If you had just stopped me, I wouldn’t look like this!!” “Excuse me? What is wrong with you? Are you deaf?!” … “Why didn’t you stop me?! If you had just stopped me, I wouldn’t look like this!!” “Say that one more time!” … “Why didn’t you stop me?! If you had just stopped me, I wouldn’t look like this!!” “Shut up!!!!” My father absolutely lost it. He was panting heavily, jabbing a finger toward the bed. “Do you have zero respect left?!!! Keep acting like this, and you can sit in this room by yourself! We’re done visiting you!!” His eyes were bloodshot with rage. But Beverly was completely deaf to the world. She just kept repeating the sentence. Over and over. The volume rising, the pitch turning into a grating, shrill siren. My mother clutched her chest, unable to take the sensory overload, and burst into tears again. “Beverly, how can you blame me?! Don’t you think I wanted to save you?! We couldn’t do anything, why can’t you understand that!” Only Brooks was still running defense. “Mom, Dad, she’s just in agony. The trauma is too much for a young girl. She’s just delirious from the pain, please, the most important thing is her recovery. Don’t be angry with her!” I immediately chimed in to help. “Yes, exactly… And… why does she keep repeating the exact same phrase? Do you think… when she hit her head…” I delicately tapped my temple with one finger. “Helen! What the hell is that supposed to mean?! Are you calling her brain-damaged?!” Brooks spat, instantly reverting to his default setting. “Stop trying to tear this family apart! We don’t even know why she jumped in the first place. You bully her every single day, maybe you drove her to it!” Brooks truly was a flawless NPC. No matter what happened to Beverly, his programming automatically pinned the blame on me. I didn’t even dignify him with a look. I just turned my gaze to my parents. “Mom, Dad, let’s just call the doctor in. It couldn’t hurt for them to check on her head.” The suggestion landed perfectly. My parents exchanged a long, heavy look, their eyes darting back to the bed, evaluating Beverly with a new, deeply cynical calculation. After all, a wealthy heiress with a few broken bones could be hidden away to heal. But an heiress whose brain was broken? That was a massive liability.

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I married Sebastian White in my sister Isabelle’s place seven years ago. The day Isabelle returned to the country, she smiled at me and said, “Give me back my position as Mrs. White.” My parents knelt and begged me to step aside. I thought the most painful thing was being discarded like trash by my own parents. Then Sebastian coldly said to me, “She’s your sister. What’s wrong with making a sacrifice for her?” It turned out that after seven years of marriage, the woman in his heart had always been my sister. So I chose to let him go. But when the divorce papers were signed, Sebastian knelt on broken glass, his eyes red, begging, “Do you really not love me anymore?” Claire’s POV “Claire, I’ve had my fun abroad. Thank you for taking care of Sebastian these seven years. Now that I’m back, you can give me back my position as Mrs. White.” This was the first thing Isabelle said to me after disappearing for seven years. I stood in the foyer, still holding the supplements I’d just bought for my mother, Margaret. “Had your fun and now you want to come home?” I asked with a cold laugh, my gaze sweeping over my parents standing nearby. My father, Victor, kept his head down, smoking, playing deaf and dumb. My mother, Margaret, had red-rimmed eyes but didn’t dare look at me. Isabelle stood up, walked over to me, and reached out to take my hand. I dodged to the side. She didn’t get angry. She withdrew her hand, smoothed her skirt, and smiled with innocent cruelty. “Yes, abroad wasn’t all that great after all.” “Connor is my biological son, and Sebastian loves me. Claire, you’ve occupied the position of Mrs. White long enough. It’s time to let our family of three reunite.” I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. “Isabelle, are you still asleep?” “Sebastian and I are legally married. You think one sentence from you can make me step aside? You think this is a game?” “Claire!” Victor, who had been silent, suddenly slammed the table. The cups rattled loudly. His face was full of displeasure. “Is that how you talk to your sister? You can’t be too greedy! If Isabelle hadn’t left back then, would this wealth have been yours?” My mother Margaret burst into tears and rushed over to grab my hand. “Claire, just do it for the family. Your sister suffered abroad. Now it’s time to give her man back.” Seven years ago, Isabelle got pregnant by some random man and fled the country overnight with the family’s cash. The White family was furious, and the family business faced a broken capital chain. They knelt before me, begging me to marry in her place. Victor held a shard of porcelain to his throat to force me. Margaret knelt on the ground crying. Back then, they said, “Claire, you’re this family’s savior.” Now that their beloved eldest daughter Isabelle was back, I had become an unimportant villain. I shook off Margaret’s hand. “Mom, don’t go too far.” “These seven years, I’ve been in the White family, helping the family secure how many projects, filling how many holes. Don’t you know that in your hearts?” “Now you want me to step aside? Fine.” I looked around at these bloodsuckers. “Have Sebastian come talk to me himself. Besides the law and him personally, no one can make me leave.” With that, I turned and walked away. Behind me came Isabelle’s aggrieved crying and Victor’s furious cursing. “Bitch! Ungrateful bitch!” Walking out of the villa, I realized my whole body was trembling. I took a deep breath of cold air to suppress the nausea rising in my chest. I wasn’t afraid of the family making trouble. Their current wealth and glory all came from me. Cut off the supply and they’d naturally quiet down. What I really couldn’t predict was Sebastian White. What if he also thought that now the original had returned, I, the substitute, should exit? When I drove back to the White family estate, the villa’s lights were blazing. I’d just pushed open the front door when a small figure rushed out from the living room and dove into my arms. “Mom! Why are you only coming back now?” The seven-year-old boy had already grown quite tall, but in front of me he was still like a clingy kitten. He hugged my waist, his tone full of grievance. “I finished all my math problems and wanted you to check them, but I’ve been waiting until now.” Looking at this face that vaguely resembled Isabelle in some features, my heart ached, yet instantly softened. To run away with her lover, Isabelle gave birth and abandoned the baby at the hospital without even nursing him once. I was the one who brought his wrinkled little body home, fed him his first bottle, watched him learn to walk, stayed up with him through his first fever, attended his first parent-teacher conference. These seven years, all his joys and sorrows were connected to me. Now Isabelle wanted to erase all of this with one sentence about being his biological mother? Dream on. I crouched down and smoothed his messy hair, speaking gently. “Sorry, I had something that delayed me. Go to sleep now, and tomorrow morning I will make you something delicious.” “Really?” Connor’s eyes lit up. He leaned over and planted a loud kiss on my cheek. “Mom’s the best! Then I’ll go to sleep first. Good night, Mom!” Watching the child’s happy figure run upstairs, I took a deep breath. This was my son. Regardless of blood relation, no one could take away the child I raised.

Claire’s POV I adjusted my expression and pushed open the master bedroom door. Only a floor lamp was lit in the room, the lighting dim. Sebastian was sitting on the sofa, holding a report in his hand. Hearing the door open, he unhurriedly turned a page. This excessive quietness made my scalp tingle instead. “You’re back?” He finally spoke, his voice low and unreadable. I changed out of my coat, trying to keep my voice steady. “Yes, I went back to the family.” The sound of turning pages stopped abruptly. Sebastian closed the file and casually tossed it onto the side table. He looked up, his deep eyes landing on me. In that instant, I had the illusion of being trapped. “Come here.” He leaned back in his chair and extended his hand toward me. I stiffly walked over and stood before him. Sebastian grabbed my wrist and pulled. I lost my balance and fell onto the armrest of the sofa, forced into close proximity with him. “Your hands are so cold?” My heartbeat skipped. “It’s a bit cold outside.” I lied, turning my head away, not daring to look into his eyes. Sebastian let out a soft laugh, though the amusement didn’t reach his eyes. He forced me to turn my head and face him. “Claire, you’re very distracted today.” His fingers slid down my cheek and pinched gently. “Did something happen?” I bit my lip lightly and swallowed back the words that had reached my mouth. I wasn’t sure if he knew Isabelle had returned, much less how to bring up this matter. “No.” I met his gaze, forcing a smile. “Maybe I’m just tired.” Sebastian stared at me for a long time, then released his hand. “If you’re tired, rest early.” In the morning when I left for work, just as I drove out of the residential complex’s underground parking garage, a figure suddenly rushed out. I braked in shock, looking up to see Isabelle’s twisted face pressed against the windshield. She pounded on the hood violently, looking exactly like a madwoman. “Claire! Get out here!” “You shameless woman! Stealing your sister’s husband, stealing your sister’s son. Give them back to me!” It was rush hour, and people were coming and going at the complex entrance. Passing pedestrians and security guards all stopped, pointing and whispering. Isabelle’s hair was disheveled, making her look pitiful. “I’m the child’s mother! She stole my husband, stole my child!” Public opinion exploded instantly. “Oh my God, is this the wife coming to collect a debt?” “So the current Mrs. White was a mistress who seized the position?” I sat in the car, coldly watching her performance. I locked the doors and lowered the window just a crack. “Make any more trouble and I’ll call the police.” My voice wasn’t loud, but in the noisy environment it was exceptionally clear. Isabelle’s movements paused. She pressed against the window, revealing a strange smile. Through the glass, she mouthed the words to me. “The son is mine by birth. You can’t steal blood ties.” Those words were like a needle, precisely stabbing into the most painful place in my heart. My fingers gripped the steering wheel tightly. Security finally reacted and rushed forward to pull her away. “Move!” I hit the gas, and the car shot forward, its body brushing past Isabelle’s skirt hem. In the rearview mirror, Isabelle was still smiling, triumphant. When I got to the company, I sat in my office holding cold coffee, my heartbeat still not settled. Images from childhood flashed through my mind. Isabelle was the family jewel, I was the pedestal. When she got in trouble, I took the blame. When she didn’t want to do her homework, I did it for her. Seven years ago, she got pregnant out of wedlock and eloped. The family collapsed. To preserve their wealth and glory, my parents pushed me out to fill the hole. I knelt on the ground begging them, saying I’d just graduated, I had my own life. Father slapped me awake. “Isabelle is gone, you have to take her place! The family didn’t raise you all these years to be a freeloader!” Mother just cried. “Claire, the family can’t fall. Just think of it as saving your mother.” I thought about dying. It was Sebastian who added terms to the prenuptial agreement. He would help the family pay off debts, give me the dignity and power of Mrs. White, on the condition that I must be a perfect wife and treat Connor as my own. This was a transaction where I traded my dignity and seven years of youth. Now Isabelle wanted to come back and pick the fruit? Dream on. Since they forced me to sacrifice to create this situation, don’t think I’ll give it up easily now. I don’t owe the family anything. The family owes me. Just as I was thinking, the office door was pushed open. Besides Sebastian, no one dared enter my office without knocking. I quickly adjusted my expression. “Sebastian? What brings you here?” Sebastian wore a dark gray custom suit, carrying the cold air from outside. He didn’t answer, walking straight behind me. A pair of large hands encircled my waist. My body stiffened for a moment, then I forced myself to relax. This was his territory, and I was his possession. “Passing by, came to check on you.” His chin rested in the hollow of my neck, warm breath spraying at my ear. “That recent acquisition case was well done.” “As it should be.” “Connor keeps asking to see you.” He suddenly mentioned the child. My heart tightened. Did he know Isabelle had gone to see the child? Or was he hinting at something? “I’ll go home to spend time with him tonight.” I turned around and straightened his tie, my movements practiced and natural. Sebastian looked down at me, his eyes deep. “As long as you’re obedient.” He patted my face, his tone meaningful. “No one can take your place as Mrs. White.” With that, he released me and turned to leave. It wasn’t until the door closed that I felt a cold sweat on my back. He knew everything, as expected. As long as I behaved and didn’t let Isabelle make things blow up, I would still be Mrs. White. I looked at the city beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, my gaze gradually turning cold. Relying on a man was indeed not as good as relying on myself.

Claire’s POV The winds in the social circle had changed. People began spreading rumors about the real and fake heiresses. Some hinted that I was a substitute who stole my sister’s man, saying now that she was back, I, the impostor, should leave. Isabelle was clever. She befriended some wealthy heirs and heiresses, crying to them about her tragic experience, fabricating herself as someone who sacrificed for love. The annual White Corporation charity gala was about to be held. I went to a top beauty salon for treatments, preparing for the gala. I’d just laid down when a sarcastic voice came from the next bed. “I heard Sebastian White’s legitimate wife is back? Some bitch occupied the position for seven years. It’s time to give it back, right?” The speaker was Mrs. Walsh, whose family made their fortune in coal mining. She’d always wanted to break into the core social circle and disliked me. So recently she’d been getting close to Isabelle. Several other society ladies stopped their treatments, waiting to watch the show. I didn’t even lift an eyelid, keeping my eyes closed while enjoying the technician’s massage. “Use more pressure.” I instructed coolly. Seeing me ignore her, Mrs. Walsh’s voice rose eight octaves in anger. “Stop pretending! Everyone knows you just picked up the leftovers! Once the real wife takes her position, let’s see how arrogant you’ll be then!” The noise was too loud, affecting my mood. I opened my eyes and sat up. Without even glancing at Mrs. Walsh, I beckoned the manager over. “Miss Hart, how may I help you?” The manager rushed over at a trot, bowing ninety degrees. “Don’t let these kinds of riffraff into the VIP area anymore.” I adjusted my robe. “Too noisy. Lowers the class of the place.” The manager’s face changed instantly, immediately turning to Mrs. Walsh. “Mrs. Walsh, I’m sorry, but please move to the regular area, or…” “You dare kick me out?” Mrs. Walsh’s face instantly darkened. “I have a membership card!” “Your card level isn’t sufficient.” The manager’s tone was firm. “Please don’t disturb Miss Hart’s rest.” Under the security guards’ watchful eyes, Mrs. Walsh was driven out cursing like she’d swallowed a fly. The surroundings instantly quieted. Those ladies who’d been waiting to watch me make a fool of myself immediately put on fawning smiles without shame. “Miss Hart is so formidable.” “Exactly, how dare someone like Mrs. Walsh try to cause trouble.” I lay back down. In this circle, you don’t rely on talk. You rely on real financial power and influence. Gossip couldn’t hurt me in the slightest. As long as I still sat in the position of Mrs. White, they had to butter me up. Back in the car, I opened my tablet. The private investigator had sent an encrypted folder. All photos. Isabelle’s seven years abroad were hardly spent suffering. In the photos, she wore heavy makeup, mixing in various underground casinos and nightclubs, with different men by her side. There were also several abortion medical records. The time span was large, with the most recent one from just six months ago. Looking at this evidence, I found it utterly ironic. This was her so-called sacrifice for true love? This was what my parents called suffering hardship? She’d turned her life into mud, and now she wanted to come back and play the victim. Isabelle, if you insist on coming to the gala to seek death, then I’ll grant your wish. When I got home, I heard the sound of a paper shredder as soon as I entered. Connor was sitting on the carpet, feeding a photo into the machine. “Connor, what are you doing?” Connor looked up, his face full of disgust. “Mom, after school today a weird lady stopped me and insisted on giving me a gift. She even said she was my mom.” My heart sank. “What gift?” “A bottle of perfume. It smelled terrible.”

Claire’s POV Connor pointed to the empty box on the table. “And this photo.” I picked up the box. Inside was a photo of Isabelle holding infant Connor, with four twisted words written on the back. “Mommy loves you.” “That lady was so scary. I didn’t want it.” Connor buried himself in my arms, his small hands gripping my clothes tightly. “Mom, I don’t know her. I only have you as my mom.” I held my son tightly, my eyes stinging. Isabelle wanted to play the family card, not knowing that seven years of companionship had long surpassed blood ties. The child wasn’t stupid. He knew in his heart who treated him well. “It’s okay. Stay away from that lady from now on.” I watched the shredder swallow that photo, clenching my fists. Isabelle, you shouldn’t have, you absolutely shouldn’t have reached your hand toward the child. When Sebastian came home, he glanced at the shredded paper in the trash can, seeming to guess what had happened. But he said nothing, just took an invitation from his briefcase and handed it to me. “You’re the hostess for tomorrow night’s gala.” He looked at me steadily. “Don’t disappoint me.” I took the invitation, my fingertips tracing over the words “Mrs. White.” “Don’t worry.” I smiled at him. The charity gala venue. A giant backdrop board was being hoisted up by workers, printed with some real estate company’s huge logo. “Who authorized this to be hung?” I asked. The project director rushed over, sweating profusely. “This was just forcibly requested by the sponsor’s representative. They said Mr. Lee specially approved it…” I didn’t even lift an eyelid, pointing at the board. “Take it down.” “But…” “No buts.” A middle-aged man emerged from behind the scaffolding, an oily smile on his face. “This is a promotional spot specially approved by Mr. Lee. If you take it down, I’m afraid next year’s sponsorship funding won’t be easy to negotiate.” The man deliberately emphasized the words “sponsorship funding,” his eyes showing some contempt for me. One minute later. The man’s phone rang. He answered, and his face instantly turned deathly pale. “What? Bought out? Refund?” I put away my phone. “Now this advertising spot belongs to me.” I stepped forward, my high heels clicking crisply on the marble floor. “Take your garbage and get out of my venue.” The man opened his mouth, looked at the security gathering behind me, and finally slunk away. After dealing with the sponsor, I walked toward the back corridor. The security chief was already waiting with a team of men in black. I handed him a photo. The photo showed Isabelle, an old photo from seven years ago, her expression frivolous. “Burn this face into your memory.” “No matter who brings her in, if this person appears in the banquet hall, your entire security team is fired.” The chief took the photo, breaking into a cold sweat. “Yes, Miss Hart.” VIP lounge. During rehearsal breaks, I sat on the sofa massaging my aching ankles. Several society ladies who’d just received entry tickets were gathered together touching up their makeup. A woman from a wealthy mining family approached with champagne. “Miss Hart, I heard your sister returned to the country? She used to be our trendsetter. Why isn’t she here?” Her voice was loud, and the surroundings instantly quieted. Everyone pricked up their ears. I was looking at the event schedule. Hearing this, I only glanced up briefly without responding. The air froze for three seconds. She realized she might have stepped on a landmine and awkwardly tried to cover. “Oh, I mean, you have much more of the Mrs. White presence now…” I closed the folder and smiled at my assistant beside me. “Re-evaluate Mr. Smith’s membership eligibility for next year.” Mrs. Smith’s face turned deathly pale. Those around who’d wanted to watch the excitement immediately scattered, afraid of being implicated. The main hall doors were pushed open. Sebastian entered with his executive team. He wore an impeccably tailored custom suit, like a star surrounded by admirers. I immediately shoved my feet back into my high heels, enduring the severe pain as I stood up. Sebastian walked straight to the main stage, looking up to check the lighting. From beginning to end, he didn’t look at me once. “Well done.”

Isabelle’s POV Late at night, the TV was playing preview news of the gala, with glamorous images of Claire on screen. A vase smashed into the screen, glass shattering everywhere. I rushed into the kitchen and grabbed a fruit knife. “I don’t want to live anymore!” I pressed the knife against my carotid artery. “If you can’t get me in, I’ll die right here at home! When the police come, I’ll say you forced your biological daughter to death to make way for that substitute!” Mom collapsed on the floor in fright, crying and trying to grab the knife. “Isabelle, don’t do anything foolish! I’ll find a way, I’ll definitely find a way!” The knife in my hand broke the skin slightly, blood beading up. Dad looked at my crazed state, his face iron-gray. After weighing the pros and cons, he gritted his teeth and went to rummage through a drawer. “Put the knife down! I still have a supplier’s debt contract. This is the only opening left.” Only then was I satisfied. This was a desperate gambler’s bet. I had no way back. Mr. Walsh, the supplier, sounded reluctant on the phone. “Mr. Hart, there’s definitely no way through the main entrance. You can only go through the cargo passage.” I looked at my well-maintained fingers, instinctively wanting to scream in refusal. That was a path for lower-class people. But turning to see Claire’s superior attitude on TV, jealousy conquered my pretentiousness. As long as I could get in. Even if I had to crawl through the sewers, I would smash that stage. “I’ll go.” I said through gritted teeth, the words squeezing out from between my teeth. Mom took out a newly purchased haute couture gown from the current season. “Isabelle, wear this. You’ll definitely outshine everyone.” I pushed the new clothes away. I rummaged through boxes and drawers, dragging out a slightly yellowed dress from the very bottom. “This was the first gift Sebastian gave me seven years ago.” I obsessively caressed the hem of the dress. “He wasn’t that rich back then, but this represents that I was his first love.” Mom frowned. “But this one is a bit old…” “What do you know!” I shouted, forcibly squeezing my body into the dress that was already too small. “That substitute can wear expensive clothes but she’s still a fake. As long as I appear in this, Sebastian will remember how much he loved me.” I looked at myself in the mirror and smiled. The next evening, a cargo truck stopped at the back door of the Hart family villa. I wore an oversized work coat, hiding that white gown underneath. I wore a mask and baseball cap, climbing into the cargo hold that reeked of lily fragrance and earth. Dad handed me an envelope. “This contains what you need. You can only succeed. Whether the Hart family can turn things around depends on tonight.” The cargo truck drove on the highway, jolting badly. I huddled between flower buckets, enduring the fishy smell of earth. I took out my phone and clicked on the gala’s red carpet live stream. On screen, flashbulbs fell like a waterfall. Claire walked the red carpet on Sebastian’s arm. The sapphire necklace around her neck sparkled brilliantly under the lights. That was a White family heirloom-level unique piece. I stared fixedly at the screen, my nails digging into my palms. I was hiding in a cargo hold like a rat. While that sister who once served me stood on a cloud receiving worship. All of this should have been mine! The necklace was mine, the position was mine, the glory was mine too! Since I couldn’t have it, then I’d destroy it in front of the whole world.

Claire’s POV I appeared in the banquet hall on Sebastian’s arm. Reporters’ cameras focused on us. Someone boldly asked a question. “Mr. White, recent rumors say Isabelle has returned to the country. Will this affect the relationship between the White and Hart families?” Sebastian’s hand at my waist suddenly tightened. He faced the cameras with a smile. “The relationship between the White and Hart families depends entirely on my wife. Without her, there would be no current cooperation.” I cooperatively turned my head to gaze lovingly at Sebastian. “This is my duty as Mrs. White.” We completed a perfect display of affection before the cameras. Directly blocking rumors about divorce. Flashbulbs went crazy. At an angle no one could see, Sebastian’s fingers lightly caressed my waist. That was some kind of reward signal. Connor tugged at my dress hem, muttering quietly. “Mom, I’m hungry.” I looked down at my son, my heart softening. “Be good, go to the back lounge.” I called over the nanny and crouched down to straighten Connor’s bow tie. “When it’s over, I will take you for late-night snacks. We’ll get your favorite strawberry cake.” Connor’s eyes brightened. He obediently followed the nanny. Watching my son’s small figure disappear through the side door, I was about to stand when I caught something unusual in my peripheral vision. The side door was originally assigned two security personnel. Now, it was empty. White family security never made such basic mistakes. Unless someone deliberately drew them away. “What’s wrong?” Sebastian noticed my stiffness and looked at me. “Nothing.” I suppressed the unease in my heart, though my fingers unconsciously gripped my clutch tighter. On stage, the host was passionately introducing. “Next, please welcome Mr. Sebastian White and Mrs. White to the stage for remarks!” Spotlights instantly hit us. Thunderous applause. Sebastian gallantly extended his hand. I took a deep breath and placed my hand in his palm. Just as we stepped onto the stairs. Sudden chaos erupted. A white figure rapidly broke through the security line. Isabelle wore an old-fashioned white gown, the hem yellowed, looking shabby and pathetic. She stumbled and fell heavily at the edge of the stage. Thump. Through the microphone, this dull sound was amplified countless times. Hundreds of eyes, dozens of cameras, instantly moved from us to focus on this intruder. Isabelle lay on the ground, shoulders trembling, looking as fragile as wet paper. She slowly lifted her head, that face pale as a ghost, but tears hung perfectly on her lashes. She looked at Sebastian, her gaze mournful. “Sebastian…” Her voice carried through the microphone across the entire venue, trembling but crystal clear. “Have you forgotten our anniversary?” My hand instantly tightened, nails digging into my palm. Sebastian stood beside me, motionless. Media surged crazily toward the stage edge. Flashbulbs merged into one blinding mass. Isabelle knelt on the ground, ignoring my existence, staring straight at the cameras. “I’m Connor’s biological mother.” She cried with tears streaming down her face, but her voice carried a vicious edge. “These seven years, someone stole my life.” The crowd below exploded. Those who’d just smiled warmly at me were now whispering, their eyes full of excitement at the drama. “No wonder Mr. White used to be so promiscuous. Turns out the one at home is a thief.” “The son’s real mother came back. The stepmother really should step aside.” “Now there’s a good show. She stole someone’s things for so many years. It’s time to pay the debt.” Isabelle crawled two steps forward, reaching out to grab Sebastian’s pant leg, her fingers deathly pale. “Sebastian, look at me. I’m your Isabelle.” Flashbulbs flashed wildly, casting Sebastian’s cold face in a harsh white glare. I turned to look at him. He was frowning, his gaze passing over Isabelle to look at the PR director in the distance. In that instant, something inside me froze. How could I forget? To him, the White family’s reputation always mattered more than my dignity. I took out my phone. Before I could do anything, the crowd erupted again. “Let us through! Everyone move!”

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I was chatting enthusiastically with my classmate from Germany when Mom suddenly chimed in: “What are you talking about?” I froze. Mom was indeed a housewife. But in her youth, she had spent five years in Germany. Her German was even more fluent than mine. Yet she couldn’t recognize that I had just called her name. Was she really my mother? No one knew that Mom had lived in Germany—no one except me. When I decided to study abroad in Germany, I started learning German in advance. There was one word I kept mispronouncing no matter how many times I tried. While trimming vegetables, Mom corrected my pronunciation with perfect, fluent German. I asked her how she knew German. She said she’d spent a few years in Germany and even had a name there—”Elara.” I wanted to ask more, but she seemed reluctant to discuss it. I didn’t think much of it at the time and gradually forgot about it. Until today, when my German classmate called. Halfway through our conversation, I went to get some water. Passing through the living room, I suddenly felt playful and called out “Elara.” She didn’t react at all. I called again, a bit louder this time. She looked up at me: “What are you saying? Finished chatting with your friend?” I stood frozen. Her German was so good—how could she not understand my conversation with my classmate? And even if her German had gotten rusty over time, how could she forget her own name? I stared at her for a few seconds. She lowered her head to peel an apple, her knife technique skilled, the peel coming off in one long, continuous strip. That was her habit. Nothing wrong there. On her middle finger was a faint scar, left there when I was six years old. The finger matched too, but something felt off. I just couldn’t put my finger on what. She noticed my gaze and looked up: “Hurry and eat. I made your favorite chocolate nut cake.” I sat at the dining table, my heart pounding. “Mom, did you put peanuts in it? I’m allergic to peanuts.” She glanced up at me, her tone calm: “Didn’t your allergy clear up? Peanuts add texture to nut cake.” I exhaled in relief. If she weren’t my mom, hearing me mention a peanut allergy would have made her say something like “Oh shoot, I forgot you can’t eat peanuts.” But she remembered that my allergy had cleared up two years ago. I silently laughed at myself for being paranoid. Dad emerged from his room, and his eyes lit up when he saw the chocolate nut cake. “Chocolate nut cake again! Millia’s favorite.” He cut me a large slice. I smiled and took a bite. The cake was delicious, but my smile froze on my face. Something was wrong! Completely wrong! She wasn’t my mother!

Dad noticed me spacing out and asked: “What’s wrong? Your mom’s cake not good?” I forced a smile and swallowed the cake: “It’s good. Tastes just like always.” It really was delicious—rich chocolate, plenty of crushed nuts, no problems there. But the almond slices hadn’t been removed. Mom liked almond slices, but because I didn’t, she never included them when making nut cake. She’d done this for over twenty years without a single mistake. But today, I tasted the bitter almond slices. Mom sat across from me, nagging Dad about smoking less and reminding me not to stay up late in Germany, just like always. She even gossiped about the neighbor Mary’s daughter. I smiled and responded, but inside I was growing cold. She showed no signs of being different. Even certain small habits and her tone of voice were identical to Mom’s. But I clearly sensed she wasn’t Mom at all. I stole a glance at Dad. He kept his head down, eating, occasionally looking up to respond. If Mom had been replaced, he should be the first to notice. Yet he sat there peacefully, completely oblivious. After dinner, I made an excuse to return to my room. I opened my phone and pulled up Mom’s social media account. Her last post was three days ago—the day I returned home. She’d posted a photo of an airplane with a caption: “My little bird is finally coming home.” Very ordinary, very normal, in Mom’s usual tone. But the photo was wrong. It was too casual—the plane was crooked in the frame, the horizon tilted. I zoomed in. The composition was completely haphazard. It looked like someone had randomly raised their phone and pressed the shutter. But Mom wasn’t like that. She was meticulous about everything, with high standards for all tasks. Even photographing a tree required her to adjust the angle for ages, ensuring every line in the frame was perfectly straight. This photo wasn’t taken by her. It looked more like something deliberately taken to show me, to prove she was my mother. My heart went cold. I kept scrolling. On April 1st, Mom had posted a photo. It was of roses in the garden. The edges of the petals were outlined in golden sunlight, the background perfectly blurred, the horizon perfectly level. This one was right. I enlarged the photo, searching for differences bit by bit. Suddenly I noticed something in the shadow of the rose stems in the lower left corner—a note, pressed under the flowerpot. I zoomed in further. The note had a line of small text, in German. Jeder Mensch ist geheimnisvoll. Every person is mysterious. Was this sentence a clue Mom deliberately left, or just coincidence? I sent the sentence to my German classmate, who quickly replied. Jeder Mensch ist geheimnisvoll. Du hast gar keine Ahnung, wie gut oder schlecht er ist, bis du ihn wirklich kennst und die Wahrheit siehst. Every person is mysterious. You have no idea how good or bad they are until you truly know them and see the truth. Why would Mom leave this sentence? I suddenly remembered something from two years ago when Mom and I watched a TV show at home. In the show, the female lead wanted a divorce, but the male lead coveted her family’s wealth. He not only killed her but pushed her parents off a cliff. When Mom saw that scene, she said this exact sentence. And coincidentally, Dad really was a poor boy who married a rich girl. Could it be that Mom had a conflict with Dad and wanted a divorce, which was why she wrote this? If Mom wanted a divorce, what would she do first? I sat bolt upright. If I were Mom and wanted to leave a dangerous person, I’d transfer my assets first. Then find a safe place. Germany? I immediately called the airline’s customer service. “Hello, can you check if Chloe booked a flight to Germany in April?” “Yes, Ms. Chloe booked a one-way ticket to Berlin on the evening of April 2nd.” My heart raced faster: “Did she board the flight?” “This ticket shows as unused.” I hung up. The rose photo was posted April 1st. The ticket was for April 2nd. But Mom never boarded. Perhaps she never even left the house!

I didn’t dare think further. This mom in the house was definitely fake. So where was my real mother? Had they hidden her, or had she already been killed? Mom was so smart. She couldn’t have left nothing behind. I closed my eyes, desperately trying to remember. Growing up, Mom and I had shared many things no one else knew about. Some moments only she and I knew. If she really wanted to leave a clue, she would put it somewhere only I could find. My eyes shot open. As a child, I had a tin box where I kept my collection of stickers and marbles. Once, Mom joked that if she ever needed to leave me a secret, she’d put it in that box. Because Dad would never bother going through my junk. I quietly went up to the attic and pulled the tin box from the back of the storage shelf. Inside were the marbles I’d played with as a child, along with an additional note. It contained only a string of numbers—an unfamiliar phone number. I dialed the number. “Hello, I’m Millia. Do you know Chloe?” Silence on the other end for a second. “I’m Attorney Lehman. Ms. Chloe previously commissioned me to draft a will. She planned to leave all her assets to you.” “However… she didn’t show up on the appointed day.” “When was the appointment?” “April 2nd in the afternoon. Ms. Chloe said she needed to go to the hospital in the morning, so she could only schedule the afternoon.” Hospital. My head buzzed. “Was she sick?” “Ms. Chloe didn’t specify the reason. She only mentioned needing to get a checkup.” “Which hospital?” “I’m sorry, that’s Ms. Chloe’s private matter. I don’t know.” He hung up. I gripped my phone, blood rushing backward through my body. I opened my phone and quickly searched for “hospital.” There were three hospitals near our house: First Hospital, Howard Hospital, and the Maternal and Child Health Center. I called all three hospitals. But only one responded—that Ms. Chloe had not visited the hospital on April 2nd. I sat on the floor, my mind racing. April 1st: photographed roses, sent a distress signal. Then scheduled an appointment with a lawyer to draft a will. April 2nd morning: planned to go to the hospital for a checkup but didn’t go—or perhaps Mom never intended to go to the hospital and it was just an excuse. April 2nd afternoon: planned to go to the law office for asset certification, but didn’t go. April 2nd evening: planned to fly to Germany to find me, also didn’t go. But the ticket was booked, meaning Mom definitely intended to go. So something must have happened between the afternoon of April 1st and the morning of April 2nd! What happened in those less than twenty-four hours? As I pondered this, I caught sight of a figure at the attic entrance. I whipped my head around. Dad stood there, leaning against the doorframe, watching me quietly. His eyes were calm, as if he’d been watching me for a long time. “Who were you calling?” He smiled faintly at me, like a leopard that had locked onto its prey. My back was already drenched in cold sweat.

I clenched the note tightly in my palm. Suppressing my panic, I kept my voice as steady as possible: “Nothing. Just chatting with a classmate. Need to write a paper.” Dad nodded without saying more, his thumb gently rubbing the corner of his shirt. That was something he only did when nervous. I decided to test him. “Dad, don’t you think Mom’s been a bit different lately?” A flicker of panic flashed through his eyes. “Not at all. Your mom’s been looking forward to you coming home. Maybe she just missed you too much.” I smiled: “Maybe I’m overthinking it. I missed you guys too.” Then I faked a yawn and rubbed my eyes: “I’m so tired. I’m going to bed.” I walked past him calmly, my steps measured. Down from the attic, through the hallway, into my room. The moment I closed the door, my whole body trembled. I immediately pulled out my phone: “Hello, I need to report something to the police.” “My mother is missing. I suspect she’s been kidnapped or killed, and the perpetrator is in the house right now.” I gave them my address. The police said they’d dispatch officers immediately. I breathed a slight sigh of relief. Just then, I heard rustling outside the door. I pressed my ear against the door. “She’s too smart, just like her mother. She must have discovered something.” “Hide the medicine first. Don’t let her see it.” “Give this to her. Only when she’s completely silenced will we be safe.” My heart went cold. They were going to drug me. In that instant, countless thoughts raced through my mind. They must know I’m suspicious, so they want to silence me permanently. As I considered how to escape, the door was suddenly knocked. “Millia, I’ve warmed up some milk for you. Come out.” The doorknob moved but didn’t turn. “Millia, why did you lock the door? Open up!”

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I only glanced once at the special pinned contact in Ethan’s phone. Then I learned one thing: not to care. He worked a thirty-hour night shift without replying to messages. I stopped waiting. He forgot my birthday. I didn’t mention it. My ankle was badly sprained. I gritted my teeth and wrapped it myself, then went onstage in heels the next day. Loving someone is hard, but letting go is simple. Joanna’s POV Today was Swan Lake’s quarterly performance. In the third act, during the Black Swan’s 32 fouetté turns, I heard a crack from my ankle on the 29th landing. Backstage, a crowd swarmed around me. “Joanna! Should we stop the show?” My forehead was covered in cold sweat. I waved them off. “It’s the last act.” Eight minutes of solo dance. I don’t remember how I finished it. I only remember the applause was loud during curtain call, the spotlight was warm, and beneath my skirt, my ankle had swollen until it shone. I smiled and took three curtain calls. No one saw that when I stepped into the wings, my entire body was trembling from pain. 1 AM. Sacred Heart Hospital emergency room. I sat alone in the observation room on a plastic chair, an ice pack pressed against my ankle bone. The nurse on duty frowned after reviewing the X-rays. “Ligament strain. Good thing the bone’s not damaged. Why didn’t you come earlier? Delaying makes the recovery period even longer.” “Just finished a performance.” While recording my information, the nurse asked casually, “You’re Ethan’s girlfriend, right? He posted a photo of you two on social media, that five year anniversary one.” My eyelashes flickered. He did post something on our fifth anniversary. The caption read: “Survived 3 trauma emergency courses.” I’d waited five hours at the restaurant we’d reserved, only to receive one message. “Something came up. We’ll make it up another day.” That “another day” still hasn’t come. “He’s on shift tonight. Want me to call him for you?” the nurse offered kindly. “No need,” I said. “Don’t disturb his work.” The moment I finished speaking, footsteps echoed from the end of the emergency corridor. Ethan came down from upstairs. He paused when he passed the observation room. He turned and walked in, his gaze falling on my swollen ankle, his brow furrowing. “You’re injured? Why didn’t you tell me?” He crouched down to examine it. I pulled my foot back slightly, the movement gentle, as if afraid of making noise. “It’s just a minor injury.” Ethan’s hand froze in midair. He looked at me with surprise. In the past, if I got even a blister from dance practice, I’d photograph it and send it to him, acting spoiled. “The wound hurts so much, I miss you.” Before every performance, I’d curl up nervously in his arms, asking repeatedly, “You’ll come watch, won’t you?” Now my foot was this swollen, yet there wasn’t a trace of grievance on my face. I wouldn’t even let him touch it. Before he could ask, the sound of high heels echoed from the end of the corridor. “Ethan!” The voice was light and soft, carrying a smile. Grace wore a sharply tailored dress under her white coat, carrying two cups of coffee. She walked over and naturally positioned herself beside Ethan. “Your favorite mocha, less sugar.” She handed him the cup, her gaze turning to me, pausing for a beat. “This is… your friend?” Ethan took the coffee, his voice unconsciously softening by half a degree. “My girlfriend, Joanna. She hurt her foot.” “Oh my god, is it serious?” Grace immediately crouched down to look at my ankle. “Hi, I’m Grace. You really can’t dance on this injury anymore-you need to let it heal properly.” Her tone was sincere. The flash of condescension in her expression was equally sincere. “Thanks,” I said. “The nurse already treated it.” When Grace stood up, her shoulder brushed against Ethan’s arm, seemingly by accident. “Ethan, we’re paired for tonight’s shift. I’m still not familiar with a lot of procedures-help me out more.” “Sure.” Ethan seemed oblivious to her intimacy. He looked at me. “Let me take you-” “No need.” I braced myself against the armrest and stood up, taking the crutch. “You two are busy. I called a car.” Ethan frowned. “In your condition, how can you-” But I’d already left. The crutch tapped against the floor. One tap, then another. The rhythm was steady. Behind me came Grace’s voice, clear even across the entire corridor. “Ethan, did Miss Joanna misunderstand something? Should I go explain to her?” “She’s not like that.” There was a hint of helplessness in Ethan’s voice. I didn’t look back. Five years. I’d never made a fuss, never demanded answers. I thought I was being understanding and accommodating, but in his eyes, I was simply “not like that.” Actually, on my way to the hospital, I’d thought about messaging him. But when I opened my phone, I saw the message I’d sent three days ago. “It’s opening night today. Will you come?” He hadn’t replied. I knew that he hadn’t forgotten. He just didn’t want to respond. In his life’s hierarchy, I ranked behind surgery, behind his shifts, behind that less-sugar, less-milk mocha. And especially behind Grace. Always had been. Back home, I opened my laptop. The email from the French Arts Dance Company sat quietly in my inbox. I’d read it many times. “We cordially invite you to serve as principal dancer with our company, three-year term. We look forward to your reply.” My fingers hovered above the keyboard. I thought of Grace handing him coffee in the ER and how naturally he’d accepted it. I thought of how his tone unconsciously softened when he spoke to her. I thought of my ankle swollen until it shone, and how he hadn’t even asked once if it hurt. Five years. I’d waited through countless “another days,” countless “something came ups.” I didn’t want to wait anymore. I typed my reply: “Thank you for the invitation. I accept. I’ll complete domestic handover within seven days and report on time. ”

Joanna’s POV I took two painkillers. They didn’t help much. My ankle throbbed with a dull ache, like something was drumming beneath my skin. I didn’t sleep all night. Ethan didn’t come home all night. At seven in the morning, I hobbled into the kitchen on my crutch. The moment the cooking smoke rose, I suddenly thought of my mom. I could never see her either. She was an ER nurse at the hospital. Her schedule was always packed solid. Even on her rare days off, she’d often get called back. From childhood, I was used to eating alone, sleeping alone, hanging the key around my neck and going to school alone. But every time Mom came home, she’d busy herself in the kitchen for hours, preparing meals for the next few days. She’d pack them into containers one by one, stacking them in the fridge with sticky notes on the lids. “Eat this on Tuesday,” “Remember to heat this one for two minutes.” Later, she had an accident during an emergency rescue. She contracted an acute infectious disease. From diagnosis to death, only eleven days. When the operating room lights went out, nineteen-year-old me stood in the corridor, my mind completely blank. I don’t remember my reaction. I only remember my knees hitting the tile floor-it hurt so much. I cried until I couldn’t breathe, like all the strength had been drained from my body. People came and went in the corridor, but not one of them was my family. Suddenly, someone crouched down in front of me. A warm bottle of coffee appeared before my eyes, still carrying the warmth of being held in someone’s palm. I looked up and saw a young face with gentle eyes. “Don’t cry anymore.” His voice was soft. “Your mother was a great nurse. She saved many lives. Even though she’s gone, we’ll all remember her.” Through a veil of tears, I saw his name tag: Ethan. I never drank that bottle of coffee, but I held it in my palm until it went completely cold. From that day on, I remembered that name and those gentle eyes. The second time I saw him was two years later. I was dancing Giselle as the lead for the first time. During curtain call, the lights were too bright to see the audience clearly, but as I exited, I casually glanced at the seats and spotted a familiar figure in the corner. He sat there quietly, wearing a dark blue shirt. His applause wasn’t enthusiastic, but it was sincere. After the performance, I didn’t change clothes. Clutching a bouquet of pink roses, I ran from backstage and caught him on the theater steps. “Ethan, can I pursue you?” He looked at me, clearly startled. Then he smiled. Warm, but with a weariness I couldn’t read at the time. “I just broke up recently. Someone very important to me went abroad. Right now… I haven’t moved on yet.” I knew he was rejecting me. But the warmth of that coffee bottle still lingered in my heart. Those ten minutes of companionship still lived in my memory. I desperately wanted that kind of gentle love, unique, a favoritism that belonged only to me. All my life, with an absent father and a deceased mother, I’d never been watched so attentively by anyone. He appeared in my most helpless moment. Even if it was just a bottle of coffee, just one word of comfort. To me, it was already light. “That’s okay,” I heard myself say. “I can help you move on slowly.” I thought if I was patient enough, sincere enough, he’d eventually turn around and see me. During these five years together, Ethan really was good to me. He’d remember my performance dates, occasionally pick me up after work, remind me to take medicine when I caught a cold. But this kindness always felt like it was separated by a layer of gauze. Gentle, yes. Just not burning. He smiled at me, but also at nurses, also at coffee shop cashiers. I couldn’t tell whether I was special to him or just one among many. I convinced myself it was enough. Being loved by a gentle person was enough. On my birthday, I thought our relationship should move to the next stage. I’d reserved his favorite restaurant, prepared a ring, even secretly practiced a solo dance to perform just for him. That evening, as I was doing one final rehearsal in front of the mirror, my phone rang. Ethan’s voice was urgent. “Grace is back. She’s injured. I need to go to the hospital first. Wait for me at the restaurant.” He hung up. The ring in my pocket, I waited at the restaurant for five hours. He never came. Never called either. From that day on, everything changed. During the time after Grace returned, whenever she called, Ethan would immediately rush over, no matter what he was doing. He started coming home late frequently, becoming absent-minded frequently. When he mentioned Grace, there was something in his eyes I’d never seen before. I told myself that once Grace was better, maybe everything would return to normal. Until that late night. I got up to get something from the study and accidentally knocked over an old photo album from the corner of the bookshelf. The album fell to the floor and scattered open. Every page was Grace. Some were candid shots, some were photos together. The backgrounds ranged from campus to hospital, from summer to winter. And on the back of each photo was Ethan’s handwriting. “Day 47.” “Missing you.” “A patient today had the same birthday as you.” I crouched on the floor, flipping through them one by one. My fingers didn’t tremble. The date on the last photo was the week before our fifth anniversary, late at night. On the back, it read: “If you hadn’t left back then, I definitely wouldn’t have let go.” I closed the album and returned it to the corner of the bookshelf, arranging it exactly as it had been before I took it down.

Joanna’s POV I went to the rehearsal hall with my injury. My ankle wrapped in thick bandages, I didn’t go onstage. I just spent the day supervising the group dance formations from the side. Someone asked if I wanted to take leave. I said no need. Sitting was still work. At eight in the evening, I returned home. The entryway light was off. Only my shoes sat by the shoe cabinet. No messages from him on my phone. Another day and night without him coming home. My phone rang while I was pouring water. “Hello, your online visa review has been approved. Now you just need to mail the paper materials. We can issue the visa within three business days.” “Okay, I’ll organize everything tonight and mail it first thing tomorrow.” “Wishing you all the best.” After hanging up, I walked into the bedroom. I opened the nightstand drawer. Passport, ID documents, bank statements, employment verification. I placed the documents into a folder one by one. Halfway through packing, I suddenly stopped and glanced around the room. Ethan had mild OCD. He didn’t like the house cluttered with too many things. When I first moved in, I’d bought a floor lamp. He said it didn’t match, so I returned it. Later I wanted to grow flowers on the balcony. He said they’d attract bugs, so I didn’t. Over five years, I’d learned to minimize my presence in this home. Only now, while packing, did I realize I owned so little it wouldn’t even fill a suitcase. A few seasonal clothes, one pair of backup dance shoes, a jewelry box, my passport, and some contract copies. That was it. Five years, condensed into half a suitcase. The bedroom door suddenly pushed open. Ethan walked in. He paused when he saw the documents spread across the bed. “What are you working on?” “Organizing visa materials,” I replied without looking up. “I was thinking we could travel abroad for Christmas. Preparing in advance.” “Christmas?” Ethan glanced at me. “It’s only July-” Before he finished, his phone rang. Grace’s name lit up the screen. “Ethan, the ER transferred a patient. I can’t handle it alone. Can you come help?” The voice on the other end wasn’t loud, but in the quiet room, it was crystal clear. Ethan hung up and looked at me. His lips moved. He looked guilty, yet couldn’t let it go. “Go ahead,” I said, folding a document and tucking it into the bag. “Work is important.” Ethan stood there, frowning. Something probably felt off to him. If this were the old me, I definitely would have frowned and said, “She’s also a doctor. She even worked abroad. Can’t she handle something this small?” “There are so many doctors at the hospital. Why does she always call you?” But this time I said nothing. I didn’t even lift my eyes from the documents. “I probably won’t be back tonight,” he said. “Breakfast together tomorrow?” “Okay.” Ethan left, reassured. The sound of the door closing was soft. The car engine started about two minutes later. I listened to the engine fade away, then packed the remaining materials into the folder and sealed it.

Joanna’s POV The next morning when I woke up, the pillow beside me was cold. I picked up my phone. A message hung on the screen, sent at 3 AM. “Emergency situation last night. Can’t make it back for morning. Sorry.” I stared for two seconds, then locked the screen. The apology was real. Not making it back was also real. The things ranking ahead of me were always so numerous that “sorry” had become a standard phrase. After rehearsal that evening, I carried my bag home. While changing shoes in the entryway, I heard voices in the living room. I walked in to see Grace sitting on the sofa wearing loose loungewear, a suitcase by her feet. Ethan stood nearby. When he saw me, his expression visibly tightened. “Grace… just got back and isn’t adjusting well. Living alone, she keeps having insomnia,” he kept revising his wording. “She lost touch with her friends while abroad. The person she’s most familiar with now is me. I was thinking of letting her stay in the guest room for a few days until she adjusts, then-” “Sure.” I set down my bag. Ethan’s whole body tensed. His lips parted slightly, looking like he was frantically searching his mind for excuses. But I’d agreed too quickly. So quickly that the expression on his face froze instantly, like a gulp of cold air choking in his throat, unable to produce a single word. Grace stood up from the sofa, her voice soft. “Ethan, can I invite a few friends over for dinner? A welcome-back party. I’d feel more at ease if you arranged it.” Before Ethan could answer, I already had. “Sure. I’ll prepare everything.” Grace smiled. A flash of triumph passed through her gaze. That evening, the friends Grace invited arrived one after another. They were all Ethan’s old friends, some former colleagues. The living room quickly grew lively, everyone surrounding Grace. Talking about her experiences, saying she’d gotten thinner, saying she was just as beautiful as before. I stayed in the kitchen cutting fruit, pouring drinks, changing plates. I went in and out of the living room many times. No one asked if I wanted to sit down and chat with them. After several rounds of drinks, someone drunk threw an arm around Ethan’s shoulder. “I’m saying, Ethan, if you and Grace hadn’t broken up back then, your kid would be in kindergarten by now, wouldn’t they?” The living room instantly went quiet. Ethan’s expression changed. He looked sharply at me. I was just coming out of the kitchen carrying a plate of cut watermelon. I set the plate on the coffee table and smiled. “Yeah, pretty unfortunate.” My tone was casual, like commenting on a movie. But no one dared to continue the conversation. The drunk person awkwardly took a drink. The atmosphere took a while to recover. Ethan stared at my profile for a long time. I was smiling. But that smile contained nothing. No jealousy, no grievance, not even concern. Like an outsider entertaining guests. After the dinner party ended, I was washing dishes in the kitchen. Grace leaned against the doorframe. “Joanna, do you know Ethan and I almost got married?” The faucet rushed loudly. My hands didn’t stop. “We’d already bought the ring,” Grace’s voice was loud. “I was the one who initiated the breakup. I was going abroad. He begged me to stay. I didn’t agree.” I turned off the faucet and set down the last plate. I turned around, drying my hands while looking at Grace. “So?” Grace met my gaze, her smile confident, even carrying a trace of pity. “So I’m back now.” She took a step forward. “My place in this home is mine. You, the substitute, should take your curtain call.” The kitchen was quiet for a few seconds. I folded the dish towel neatly and hung it back on the hook. “You’re right,” I said. “I really should take my curtain call.” Grace’s smile froze. “Joanna, you’d better understand your position. You’re nothing but an orphan without family, you-”

Joanna’s POV I interrupted her. “Grace, we’re all adults. If you can’t bear to lose Ethan, you can pursue him, but there’s no need to put me down.” Grace looked angry. I didn’t look at her again. I walked out. In the living room, Ethan had just returned from seeing off friends. He ran right into me. He glanced at the kitchen, then at my face. “They drank too much just now. What they said… don’t take it to heart.” I looked at him, silent for a few seconds. “Ethan, I saw the photo album on your bookshelf.” The air in the living room seemed to freeze. “Every single photo is of Grace. Every one has something you wrote on the back.” My voice was steady. “‘Day 47, missing you.’ ‘If you come back, I definitely won’t let go again.’” Ethan looked flustered. He tried to grab my wrist, but I dodged. “Joanna, let me explain. That was just-” “No need to explain.” I cut him off. Ethan stubbornly grabbed my hand. “Joanna,” his voice was tight, “let’s talk.” “Ethan!” Grace came out of the kitchen holding up her hand, her voice urgent. “I just accidentally cut my finger. It’s bleeding a lot. Quick, look at it for me. Will the injury affect my ability to do surgery later?” Blood was seeping between her fingers. Ethan immediately released my wrist and strode toward Grace. I stood there, looking down at my released wrist. Red marks still remained, but they’d fade quickly. Just like all my traces of him. I glanced at the two of them, then turned and went upstairs. The injury on my ankle still hadn’t healed. The bandage was wrapped tightly. Going up the stairs, I had to grip the railing hard. With Ethan comforting Grace as background noise, when I reached the fourth step, the bandage accidentally caught on a metal strip. I didn’t have time to react. My foot slipped, and I fell heavily backward. That already-swollen foot twisted violently. Sharp pain shot through me. I bit my lip. I didn’t make a sound. Ethan’s voice came from the living room. “What happened?” He walked two steps in this direction, then was called back. “Ethan, I’m still bleeding. Help me first.” The footsteps stopped. I bit my lip, slowly standing up while supporting myself against the wall. My left foot couldn’t bear any weight at all. The ankle had swollen so much it was about to burst through the bandage. I pulled out my phone and dialed emergency services. “Hello, my ankle is injured. I need an ambulance.” Ethan finally came over, his expression terrible. “I’ll take you.” “No need.” As soon as I finished speaking, a siren sounded outside. The paramedics came in and helped me onto the stretcher. From beginning to end, I didn’t let him touch me once. Forty minutes later, I finished treatment and hobbled out of the clinic on crutches. Ethan stood waiting for me in the corridor. “Joanna.” He blocked my path. “What’s wrong with you tonight? Why are you being so cold? If you’re angry, just say so. I can change, can’t I?” I stopped and looked at him. The corridor light was very white. Anxiety and confusion showed in his eyes. “Ethan,” I said, “haven’t you always hated it when I lose my temper?” Ethan froze. “Every time I came to you about Grace, you said I was too sensitive. You said I should be more mature, stop being unreasonable.” He opened his mouth but couldn’t speak. “Now I’m mature.” I looked at him, my voice very soft. “I’m not losing my temper anymore. I can solve my own problems without troubling you.” I paused. “Isn’t this what you always wanted?”

Joanna’s POV Ethan looked panicked. My eyes held genuine confusion. Ethan didn’t dare meet my gaze. I hobbled toward the exit on my crutch. The cold morning light fell on my back. I still kept my spine straight. He seemed very uncomfortable. “Joanna.” He caught up and bent down to pick me up. I didn’t struggle, but I didn’t lean against him either. I just let myself be carried quietly, like a piece of luggage. In the car, he fastened my seatbelt. When his fingers touched me, I pulled away. Ethan gripped the steering wheel in silence for a long time, then spoke. “Joanna, let’s get married.” His tone became firm. “Let’s get married.” The car was instantly very quiet. I turned my head to look at him. “Didn’t you always say marriage was too early?” I said softly. “You said you really liked our current situation.” Ethan’s voice was hoarse. “We’ve been together five years. We’ll get married sooner or later. Why not… right now.” I looked at the barely concealed tension in his eyes and suddenly found it amusing. This expression had appeared on my face constantly over five years. I’d tested him countless times. He always had reasons to refuse: too busy, evaluation period, let’s wait a bit longer. Now that I didn’t care anymore, he was suddenly anxious. That desperate look was almost like he was trying to forcibly lock me up with a marriage certificate. I didn’t answer. We rode in silence all the way home. I went upstairs. Ethan sat motionless on the sofa. My ankle throbbed with dull pain. I lay on the bed and closed my eyes. Before long, the sound of the door closing and an engine starting came from downstairs. He went to find Grace. An expected development. Not worth losing sleep over. The next day, I called the dance company to request leave. I’d already submitted my resignation anyway. Only three days left before I left. After sleeping, I went downstairs. Grace was sitting there eating pasta Ethan had cooked. “Morning.” Grace smiled at me, her manner like the master of this house. Ethan came out of the kitchen, his tone ingratiating. “Nice weather today. Why don’t the three of us go out for some fresh air?” I thought about it. “Okay.” In the park. Grace held Ethan’s arm, chatting about their experiences abroad, laughing and patting his shoulder. I walked behind on my crutch, looking at the roadside flowers, looking at the clouds in the sky. No one turned around to tell me to catch up. I didn’t need them to. When we reached the lake, Grace sat on a bench. I stood at the lakeshore, watching fallen leaves on the water’s surface. Grace walked over, her voice very soft. “Joanna, if there was danger, who do you think Ethan would save first?” Before I could respond, the sharp sound of an out-of-control bicycle came from behind. The bike headed straight toward the two people by the lake. Grace screamed. With my foot injury, I had no time to dodge at all. The bike grazed past me. I lost my balance and fell backward. In that second of falling, I saw Ethan rush over. His arms caught Grace securely. Grace curled up in his embrace. Then I fell into the icy lake water. Through the rippling water, I saw two people embracing tightly on the shore. Grace was buried in Ethan’s arms. He held her shoulders tightly. I kept my eyes open underwater. The cast became heavy with water. My ankle throbbed with a dull ache. I thought to myself, I won’t have any more expectations of Ethan.

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