Category: English

After graduation, Will told us he’d only managed to snag two VIP pit tickets to the music festival. I was already typing a message to Daisy, ready to apologize for not being able to go with her, when his screenshot of the ticket confirmation popped up in our group chat. “Daisy and I are going in,” his text read. “Iris, you can watch the big screen from the general admission lawn, right?” Daisy immediately sent a crying emoji. “Iris, I’m so sorry! I’ve been dying to see this lineup forever. Do you mind letting me have this one?” I wanted to tell her that I had let her have things more times than I could count. But in the end, I deleted my draft—I really wanted to go too— and left the screen blank. Standing out on the dusty grass of the general admission lawn, squinting through the crowd, I watched Will pull Daisy close, shielding her from the rowdy push of the pit. During the headliner’s signature love ballad, the camera swept over the front row, broadcasting them onto the massive stadium screens. Daisy and Will looked at each other and laughed. The entire crowd erupted into cheers. “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” echoed all around me. Will didn’t pull away. It was only after Daisy posted the photo on Instagram that Will finally sent me a text. “Don’t overthink it. We were just playing along with the crowd.” As the finale fireworks burst in brilliant colors overhead, painting the sky in fleeting shades of gold and violet, I silently tapped the screen and left our three-person group chat. 1 The gray notification You have left the conversation flashed on my screen, and then my phone fell dead silent. Around me, the massive crowd from the festival began to surge toward the exits, guided by the drone of security guards shouting through megaphones. I slipped my phone into my pocket, letting the human tide carry me toward the subway station. I had just reached the turnstiles when a hand tapped my shoulder. “Iris, why did you leave the group?” Will’s voice cut through the noise behind me. He was holding two unopened bottles of water, his dark curls damp with sweat, framing his face with that effortless charm he’d always had. Daisy hovered right behind him, wearing Will’s black windbreaker. I had practically begged Will to bring that jacket before we left the house, knowing the New England evening air would turn brisk. Now, it was wrapped tightly around Daisy’s shoulders. The oversized sleeves hung past her fingertips, making her look delicate, almost bird-like. Daisy peeked out from behind him, clutching a canvas tote bag hand-signed by the lead singer. It was the exclusive merchandise reserved only for the first fifty VIP ticket holders who made it to the barrier. I had explicitly asked Will weeks ago to help me get one. Seeing me look at it, Daisy avoided my eyes, her hand instinctively pulling the bag behind her back. “Iris, please don’t be mad,” she murmured, her voice carrying that soft, trembling vulnerability that always made her sound like the victim. “I got so excited down there that I spilled my drink all over my shirt. Will only lent me his jacket so I wouldn’t freeze.” She paused, then slowly brought the tote bag forward, draping it over her chest. “And this… I had so much loose stuff, and Will happened to grab it, so he told me to use it to hold my keys.” Will casually offered me one of the water bottles. “We texted you in the group but you didn’t reply,” he said, his tone carrying that easy, familiar reassurance he used whenever he wanted to smooth things over. “I figured you’d left early. They only gave out one tote bag. Daisy’s never been to a festival like this and didn’t bring a bag. If you really want one, I’ll find one on eBay tomorrow and buy it for you.” I didn’t reach for the water. Droplets of condensation rolled down the plastic, dripping onto the dry concrete, leaving dark, fleeting stains. “Don’t bother,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “I don’t want a secondhand copy.” Will’s hand froze. His brow furrowed, and his expression hardened as he pulled the bottle back. “Iris, we all came out to have a good time. Can you not be such a buzzkill? It’s literally just a bag.” “Exactly,” I replied, my voice flat. “It’s just a bag signed by my favorite artist. Keep it. Give it to her.” I turned on my heel and walked toward the rideshare pickup zone. Will called out my name. “Iris!” I didn’t stop. Within a few yards, I heard Daisy’s soft sniffling. “Will, is Iris mad at me? Maybe I should give the bag back to her. Really, it’s fine…” Will’s footsteps slowed to a halt. “Don’t worry about her,” his voice drifted over the evening breeze, filled with that comfortable certainty he always had when it came to me. “You know how she is. She gets moody, but she cools down fast. She’ll be fine by tomorrow.” I pulled my headphones out of my pocket, jammed them into my ears, and cranked the volume to the maximum, letting the raw, gravelly voice of the indie band drown out the rest of the world. It was past midnight when I got home. The house was dark, and I slipped my shoes off by the pale glow of the streetlights shining through the window. My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was a direct message from Will. “Did you get home safe?” “Daisy lives all the way across town and it’s too late for her to take the train alone. I’m driving her home first.” “I made a new group chat. Accept the invite.” “Don’t take tonight to heart. Let’s grab that sushi place downtown tomorrow, okay? We’ll put this behind us.” I stared at the green bubbles popping up on my screen. Without responding, I flipped the phone face down on the nightstand and went to the bathroom to wash my face. In the mirror, my eyes were rimmed with red. Will and I had been in each other’s lives for twelve years. From kindergarten playdates to high school lockers, we were a permanent fixture in each other’s worlds. He had grown comfortable with my understanding nature; he relied on my capacity to be the bigger person. But ever since Daisy moved into the house next door to his sophomore year, Will had slowly started asking me to yield. Move seats so Daisy could sit next to him. Let her borrow my AP Lit notes. Give up my spot on the debate team trip because she was anxious about traveling alone. And now, it was music festival tickets, his jacket, the signed merchandise. He assumed I would always be waiting in the exact same spot, ready to wipe the slate clean the moment he tossed a sweet gesture my way. But Will forgot one crucial thing: even the most patient person gets tired. I patted my face dry and walked back to my bedroom. From the bottom drawer, I pulled out a thick, heavy college planning binder. I had spent a month building it, filling the pages with color-coded tabs, essay outlines, and admission requirements. Every single tab pointed to universities in New York City. That was the city Will and I had promised we’d conquer together. I opened the first section, staring at the bold red circle around Columbia University’s Pre-Med program. Will’s grades were slightly better than mine; he wanted to major in Computer Science at Columbia, and he had made me promise to apply to the same school so we wouldn’t be separated. I picked up the eraser on my desk. Slowly, deliberately, I rubbed away the red pencil circle. The paper began to fray under the friction, leaving behind nothing but a faint, smudged gray shadow. My phone lit up again. Will: “Why aren’t you replying? Are you seriously still mad?” Will: “Meet me at the school library tomorrow morning. We need to submit our final enrollment decisions.” I stared at the text, left it unanswered, and clicked the power button. 2 The next morning, the school hallways were buzzing with restless energy. Now that final grades and AP scores were officially out, everyone was debating where they would spend the next four years. I sat in my usual seat by the window, flipping through a guide to university programs. The heavy classroom door swung open, and Will walked in, guiding Daisy by her elbow. Daisy’s eyes were bloodshot, her eyelids swollen from what looked like a long night of crying. Will walked straight over to my desk, reaching naturally for the meticulously annotated college binder sitting on the corner. “Iris, do you mind if Daisy borrows your binder for a second?” I kept my hand flat on the cover, not budging. “Isn’t she committed to the local arts institute?” I asked, looking up at Will. Will let out a heavy sigh and pulled out the chair in front of mine, turning it around to face me. “Her financial aid fell through, and her portfolio scores weren’t high enough for the New York school. She can’t go to Columbia’s partner program anymore.” Behind him, Daisy let out a soft, miserable sob. “Iris, I’m so sorry. I’m just so stupid. Now I’m ruining everything for Will, too.” Will turned to her, pulling a pack of tissues from his pocket and gently pressing them into her hand, rubbing her shoulder. “Don’t cry, Daisy. We’ll figure something out.” Then he turned back to me, his tone conversational, but carrying the weight of a decision already made. “Iris, Daisy is going to apply to Boston State. I don’t feel right letting her stay here all by herself.” He paused, looking at me. “I’m going to change my enrollment decision. I’m staying in Boston to be with her.” The old classroom ceiling fan hummed a steady, rhythmic creak overhead. I looked into Will’s eyes. They were filled with the noble, protective instinct of a savior—but there wasn’t a single shred of guilt toward me, the person he had built a twelve-year dream with. “You’ve already decided?” I asked. “Yeah,” Will nodded. “Actually, I was thinking you should change your choice too. We could all stay in Boston. Your mom always wanted you to stay close to home anyway.” He paused, offering a soft smile. “That way, the three of us can still be together.” It was almost funny. In Will’s mind, his own dreams weren’t the only things that could be casually discarded for someone else—mine were expected to bend to his new plans, too. Slowly, I lifted my hand off the binder. Will immediately picked it up, handing my weeks of meticulous research over to Daisy. “Look through these sections,” he told her. “Iris mapped out all the local programs in detail. Her notes are incredibly thorough.” Daisy’s tears vanished, replaced by a grateful smile as she clutched the binder to her chest. “Thank you so much, Iris. I promise I’ll study it carefully.” I stared at the empty space on my desk. “Will,” I said quietly. “Yeah?” He looked back. “You don’t have to give the binder back when you’re done,” I said, sliding my red pen into my pencil case and zipping it shut. “She can keep it.” Will blinked, clearly caught off guard by how easily I had surrendered it. A faint crease appeared between his brows. “Iris, are you mad at me?” “No,” I said, my voice steady. “Since you guys are staying local, that research doesn’t do me any good anyway.” Just then, our homeroom teacher walked in, tapping a marker against the whiteboard. “Alright, everyone, the official state enrollment portal closes tomorrow at midnight. Make sure your final choices are locked in.” Will was called to the counselor’s office to help organize some final transcripts. With Will gone, Daisy slid into his vacant chair right in front of me. She opened my binder, her fingers tracing the dense, neat lines of my handwriting, before she slowly turned around to look at me. “Iris, do you really not blame Will and me?” Her voice was barely a whisper, meant only for my ears. “He gave up Columbia for me. I know that must be incredibly hard for you to swallow.” I turned a page in my college catalog, keeping my eyes on the print. “He has his own feet. He can walk wherever he wants.” Daisy bit her lip, clearly frustrated by my lack of reaction. “To be honest, Will told me last night that he finds your pragmatism a bit… suffocating sometimes. Like you don’t really need him.” She smoothed her hand over the plastic cover of my binder. “He said I actually need him around. He feels like he has a purpose when he’s helping me.” My finger froze against the edge of the paper. The sharp corner cut into my skin, leaving a stinging, bloodless line. I looked up, locking eyes with Daisy’s carefully constructed expression of innocence. “You’re right,” I said, shutting the book with a quiet thud. “You two are perfect for each other.” I stood up, grabbing my water bottle. “Where are you going, Iris?” Daisy called after me. “To get water.” I walked down to the end of the quiet hallway and set my bottle under the dispenser. As the hot water trickled in, steam rose, fogging my view of the hallway. I watched the condensation form on the metal surface, taking a slow, deep breath. Will, you think I’m too pragmatic. But the truth is, I just refused to let you see me break. If you think she needs you more, then I’ll gladly step out of the way. 3 For our senior class send-off dinner, the class president had reserved a private room at a popular restaurant downtown. By the time I arrived, the room was buzzing with laughter and clinking glasses. Everyone in our class had long assumed Will and I were a packaged deal, so they had left two empty seats right next to each other at the main table. I stepped away to the restroom to wash my hands. But when I pushed the heavy wooden door of the private dining room back open, Daisy was already sitting in my seat. She was leaning close to Will, their heads bent over his phone screen. His arm was casually draped over the back of her chair. The room fell into an awkward, sudden silence when I walked back in. The class president stood up quickly, trying to diffuse the tension. “Hey, Iris! Come sit over here. We saved this spot for you.” He pointed to a chair next to his own, on the far end of the long table, as far away from Will as possible. Before I could even speak, Daisy scrambled to her feet, looking panicked. “Iris, I’m so sorry,” she said, pressing a hand to her collarbone, her face pinched in distress. “I was feeling so nauseous from the car ride here, and Will said this seat was closer to the window breeze.” She made a show of grabbing her purse. “Since you’re back, let me move over there.” Will caught her by the wrist, gently but firmly pulling her back down into the chair. “You’re sick, Daisy. Just sit still.” He looked up at me, his face open and completely untroubled. “Iris, sit over by Ben. It’s just dinner, it doesn’t matter where we sit.” I looked down at his hand resting on Daisy’s wrist. Then I looked at the seat that had belonged to me for as long as I could remember. “Sure,” I said. I walked over and took the empty seat at the far end of the table. Mid-way through dinner, the drinks started flowing, and the mood picked up. Someone suggested a game of Truth or Dare. An empty wine bottle was spun on the lazy Susan, whirring past faces until the neck pointed straight at Daisy. “Dare! Dare!” the table chanted. The class president drew a card from the deck, reading the prompt aloud: “Call the person in this room you care about the most, and tell them ‘I’m waiting for you.’” A collective, knowing murmur rippled through the room. Every eye bounced back and forth between Daisy and Will, though a few of my closer friends shot me quiet, worried glances. Daisy’s face flushed pink. Biting her lip, she pulled out her phone and dialed a number. Three seconds later, Will’s phone lit up on the dark wood table. The ringtone buzzed loudly against the silence of the room. The crowd went wild. “Answer it! Answer it, Will!” Will looked at the name flashing on his screen, but he didn’t pick up immediately. Instead, he looked across the long table, searching for me through the crowd. There was a flicker of hesitation in his eyes, a silent, testing question. I sat quietly in my corner, raising my water glass to my lips, taking a slow sip. I didn’t return his gaze. Not even a glance. Will looked away from me. He reached down, picked up the phone, and swiped to answer. “I’m waiting for you,” Daisy whispered into her phone, her voice soft and sweet. “Yeah,” Will replied quietly into the receiver. The room erupted into cheers. I set my glass down and quietly stood up. “Iris, where are you going?” Ben asked from next to me. “It’s getting a little stuffy in here. I’m going to get some air.” I slipped out of the private room, pulled out my phone, and Venmoed Ben my portion of the dinner bill. Stepping out of the heavy double doors of the restaurant, the warm summer air hit my face. I started walking down the sidewalk, the hum of the city surrounding me. I hadn’t gone far when the familiar scuff of sneakers echoed behind me. “Iris.” Will ran up, stepping into my path. “Are you mad?” He searched my face. “It was just a game. Everyone was chanting. If I hadn’t answered, it would have made things incredibly awkward for Daisy.” “I’m not mad,” I said, looking at the warm glow of the streetlamp above us. “Then why did you leave early?” “I’m full. I just want to go home.” Will stared at my quiet, unbothered expression, frustration creeping into his features. “Iris, can you please stop doing this? This act where you pretend you don’t care about anything?” His tone grew sharp, irritated. “I’d prefer it if you actually yelled at me or got angry. Anything is better than this cold shoulder.” I looked at him. “Will,” I said softly. “If I had thrown a scene in there… would you have stood up for Daisy, or would you have stood up for me?” Will froze. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words died in his throat. Right then, Daisy’s frail voice drifted from the restaurant entrance. “Will…” She was leaning against the doorframe, her face pale. “My stomach… I think I’m going to be sick.” Will’s body pivoted instinctively toward her. He took a few steps toward the door, then stopped, looking back at me with a pained, torn expression. “Iris, maybe you should take an Uber home first. Text me when you get back, okay? Daisy had a little bit of wine and she’s already nauseous. I need to make sure she gets home safe.” I nodded. “Sure. Take her home.” I turned around and kept walking. This time, Will didn’t follow me. Behind me, I could hear his low, comforting murmur as he helped her up the street. The streetlights cast my shadow long and thin against the pavement. I pulled out my phone and logged into the state enrollment portal. There were exactly four hours left before the system locked. 4 Back in my room, I opened my laptop and pulled up the university enrollment portal. The page was still open to my drafts from yesterday. My first choice was currently set to the top program at our local university in Boston. That was the choice Will had insisted I make this afternoon, right after he had updated his own profile. My phone began to buzz incessantly on the desk. A flurry of messages from Will flooded the screen. Will: “Just got Daisy home safe.” Will: “I’m sorry about tonight. I shouldn’t have picked up that call. I know it made things weird for you.” Will: “But you know I only look at her like a younger sister. Please don’t overthink it.” Will: “The portal closes tomorrow. Let’s go visit the campus together sometime this week.” Will: “I heard they have gorgeous cherry blossoms in the spring. I’ll take photos of you.” I stared at the stream of sweet, conciliatory words, feeling nothing but a profound exhaustion. He always did this. He would hand his devotion to someone else, then turn back to offer me cheap, leftover comfort, expecting it to heal the wounds he’d caused. Out of habit, I opened Instagram. The top post on my feed was a new photo from Daisy. Daisy: “To the next four years. Let’s do this.” The picture showed her acceptance letter to Boston State. Resting right beside it was a small, worn silver compass charm on a black cord. Will had bought that charm at a vintage market during our junior year. He had bought two of them, telling me they would keep us pointed toward the same future—toward Columbia. He wore his on his key ring every day. Now, that key ring was sitting on top of Daisy’s college acceptance letter. I pulled open my desk drawer and dug out my own compass charm. The silver was tarnished, the metal cold. Without a second thought, I tossed it into the wastebasket by my desk. My eyes returned to the laptop screen. I grabbed the mouse, clicked on the drop-down menu for my first-choice school, and let the cursor hover over the options. It scrolled past Massachusetts, past New York, past the entire northeast. Finally, it rested on Atlanta, Georgia. Emory University. Pre-Med. One thousand miles away. It was the furthest top-tier school I could find. I systematically changed all my backup options to universities down south as well. Once everything was filled out, I hit the Submit and Lock button at the bottom of the screen. A warning prompt popped up: Once locked, your enrollment decisions cannot be changed. Do you wish to proceed? I stared at the bold red text. My finger didn’t hesitate. I clicked Confirm. The page refreshed, displaying a confirmed, locked status. It was done. The decision was final. My phone vibrated again. Will: “Are you free tomorrow afternoon? Let’s go to our usual spot downtown.” Will: “We should celebrate officially finishing our applications.” Looking at the screen, I let out a quiet laugh. Will, you always think there’s time to make things up to me. But some things are lost the moment they’re neglected. I clicked on Will’s contact profile. I turned off the “Favorite” status, disabled his custom ringtone, and toggled the notifications to silent. Then, I held down the power button until the screen faded to black. The room fell into a deep, peaceful quiet. The cool moonlight filtered through the window, washing over my empty desk. I closed my eyes and whispered into the dark: “Goodbye, Will.”

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At six months pregnant, I suddenly heard my unborn baby screaming for help inside my womb. “Mommy, help me! Please, you have to get me out early. Call the doctor, do the C-section now!” “I have a congenital respiratory illness. If I stay in here any longer, I’m going to suffocate!” Hearing those desperate, agonizing pleas, I had gritted my teeth and demanded an emergency premature C-section. It ended in a double tragedy. Both of us died on the operating table. Right before my consciousness faded into blackness, I heard the doctor’s baffled, sorrowful whisper: “The baby was perfectly healthy. There was absolutely nothing wrong with his lungs.” But now, I had been reborn. And once again, the frantic cries for help echoed in my mind. Except this time, a second voice emerged—tiny, soft, and sweet. “Mommy, don’t believe that voice. They’re trying to force you into premature labor. They want to harvest my cord blood for his secret child. His mistress’s baby has a severe blood disease, and if he doesn’t get my cord blood this month, he’s going to die. That’s why your garbage husband is so desperate to get you onto that operating table.” … “If you don’t do this C-section right now, neither you nor the baby will make it out alive!” Sitting in my wheelchair, a cold shiver ran down my spine. In my previous life, the voice crying in my ear had always belonged to a baby boy. Why was there suddenly a little girl’s voice now? Where was it coming from? Before I could wrap my head around it, my husband, Connor Derrick, grabbed my wrists tightly. His face was a mask of sheer panic. “The doctor said the baby is already struggling to breathe. The OR is fully prepped. We have to go, Samantha! Now!” “His illegitimate child is fading,” the sweet little voice whispered in my mind again. “They’re running out of time, and they need my cord blood. Mommy, don’t you dare agree to this.” I frowned, my chest tightening. Within seconds, our live-in baby nurse, Chloe Pratt, stepped forward, her voice trembling with manufactured urgency. “Mrs. Rutherford, we can’t wait! Any longer and the baby will die!” “Look how panicked she is,” the little girl’s voice scoffed. “Her own child is dying. She’s losing her mind. If you die on that table, they’re going to swap us. They’ll forge a DNA test to convince Grandpa and Grandma that the bastard is your only surviving bloodline. Your family will pour all their resources into raising him, lifting a kid who belongs in a trailer park straight into high society. The sick baby is at Mercy Hill Private Clinic right now. If you don’t believe me, Mommy, go check.” Connor indeed came from nothing. If my family hadn’t patronized his talent and funded his career, he’d still be drowning in debt in some run-down rural town. As for Chloe, Connor was the one who had handpicked her, claiming she was the most qualified, elite maternity nurse who could ease my transition into motherhood. “Simon,” I said, turning my gaze to my personal assistant, Simon Fletcher. “Check Mercy Hill Private Clinic. Find out if there is a pediatric patient there with a severe blood disorder currently awaiting a cord blood transplant.” At those words, the color drained instantly from both Connor and Chloe’s faces. Connor’s grip on my wrist tightened, his voice dropping to a rushed, defensive whisper. “Samantha, why on earth are you asking about that now? We can run whatever background checks you want after the baby is safe. We need to go!” “What are you all standing around for? Get the wheelchair to the car!” Chloe snapped, lifting her chin to command the estate’s bodyguards. The guards took a step toward me. During my pregnancy, Connor had constantly told me how much he worried about my stress levels, insisting I hand over the household management to Chloe. Over the past six months, she had practically run the estate. It seemed she had truly started to believe she was the mistress of the house. “I dare any of you to lay a finger on me,” I said, my voice dropping to a low, freezing temperature as I stared the guards down. “Have you forgotten who actually signs your paychecks every month?” “Why are you bringing up money right now?” Connor scowled, his tone laced with sharp reprimand. “Chloe just took over the estate management. If you publicly humiliate her like this, how is anyone supposed to respect her authority? Stop throwing a tantrum, Samantha. Be reasonable and get to the hospital.” “Oh, I’ll go to the hospital,” I said. A flash of relief washed over Chloe’s face, but it withered instantly at my next words. “But first, I want a comprehensive ultrasound. I want to know, once and for all, whether I am carrying a boy or a girl.” The heavy silence in the room was broken only by the sound of a porcelain teacup slipping from Chloe’s fingers and shattering against the hardwood floor. Connor rushed to my side, his brows furrowed in utter bewilderment. “We talked about this, Sam. We agreed that boy or girl, we would love them just the same. Just get the C-section. You’ll know the gender the second the baby is out. If we delay this any longer, something terrible is going to happen.” In my mind, the frantic boy’s voice wailed again. “Mommy, I’m suffocating. I really can’t breathe. Please do the C-section. I want to meet you. I don’t want to die.” But the soft, sweet girl’s voice countered immediately: “Mommy, if you let them cut me out right now, we either both die on that table, or I’ll be born so premature that I won’t survive, and your uterus will be so badly damaged you’ll never be able to conceive again. Then, your garbage husband will blame you. He’ll say you waited too long, burying you under so much guilt that you’ll agree to adopt. He’ll bring his illegitimate son into our home under the guise of adoption, and you’ll be forced to watch him and the nanny play happy family while you spiral into postpartum depression and jump off a building. This is my third time trying to save us. You can finally hear me. Please, do not let them cut me out.” As the words echoed in my head, a deluge of memories from my past two lives crashed into my mind. In my first life, I had listened to the boy’s voice, rushed into an early C-section, and we both died. The illegitimate child was brought in to replace my lost baby. In my second life, I had still heard the voice but delayed the surgery out of sheer terror for two weeks. The baby was stillborn. Afterward, Connor had subjected me to a relentless campaign of psychological abuse. “If you had just listened and done the surgery earlier, my baby would be alive! You are a murderer!” he had screamed at me day after day. Freshly traumatized by the loss of my child, his accusations broke me. I shrank into myself, drowning in agonizing guilt. Eventually, I agreed to adopt a baby boy and put my entire family trust fund into his name. But as the boy grew, no matter how much love I poured into him, he remained cold and distant to me, while clinging desperately to Chloe. When I tried to fire her, Connor’s mother had cornered me with moral blackmail: “The boy is used to Chloe! You already killed your own child, do you want to destroy this one too? You selfish monster!” Connor had mocked my suffering. “You agreed to the adoption, Samantha. Now the boy wants nothing to do with you because you spend all day crying and acting like a lunatic. Who would want a mother like you?” Unable to bear the suffocating darkness, I had finally jumped from the roof of our estate. The memories felt so real, the phantom wind of the fall still whistling in my ears. “He already bribed the doctors at Mercy Hill Clinic,” the little girl’s voice warned, trembling slightly. “The surgeon will make sure you suffer a massive hemorrhage on the table. Mommy, the only reason you survived the surgery in your second life was because you delayed it for two weeks. You were strong enough to survive the blood loss, but I had already passed away in your womb.” “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Are you in pain?” Connor urged, his hand gripping the back of my wheelchair, trying to push me toward the waiting car. “We really don’t have time for this. We need to leave!” Before he could move me, Simon ran back into the courtyard, slightly out of breath. “Ma’am, I just confirmed it. There is a child currently admitted at Mercy Hill Clinic under critical care, desperately requiring a cord blood match.” My heart skipped a beat. “Take me to see that child. And draw a blood sample from Chloe for a DNA comparison.” “Have you completely lost your mind?” Connor bellowed, his face twisting with rage. “Are you seriously playing games when there is a living child’s life at stake in your womb? Do you even deserve to be a mother?” “She’s right, Mr. Derrick. You can afford to wait, but the baby in your belly cannot!” Chloe added, tears welling in her eyes as she tried to pull my wheelchair away from Connor. I rested my hand over my stomach, my jaw set. “Mommy, I can’t breathe. I think I’m dying,” the boy’s voice whimpered. “Please listen to them. Get me out.” I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and made my decision. “Before any surgery, I am getting an ultrasound to verify the baby’s gender.” Chloe froze, her eyes widening in sheer panic. “Mrs. Rutherford, nothing is more important than the baby’s life! If this child dies because of your stubbornness, can you live with that guilt?” “You are a hired servant. Since when do you have the right to question my decisions?” I looked up at her, my eyes cold and dead. “And as for my child—if she dies, it is my burden to bear. Not yours.” Connor stepped forward, grabbing my wrist again, his tone dripping with patronizing condescension. “Chloe is going to help you raise this child, Samantha. You should be grateful to her. Didn’t I tell you we should treat her like family? Raising a child is exhausting, and she’s taking the brunt of the hard work so you can rest. Show some gratitude.” “She’s taking the brunt of the work?” I let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Am I not paying her an exorbitant salary? If she’s getting paid, this is a transactional employment. Don’t try to guilt-trip me with your twisted morals.” Connor looked stunned, clearly caught off guard by my sudden, sharp defiance. His face darkened, his patience evaporating. “Samantha, what is wrong with you today?” I ignored him, gripping the armrests of my wheelchair, and looked directly at our private security guards. “We are not going to Mercy Hill Clinic. Drive me to Rutherford Memorial Hospital. I want a gender scan immediately.” Connor chased after the car as we boarded. “We live in the twenty-first century, Samantha! Why are you so obsessed with the baby’s gender? Don’t you know prenatal sex determination is highly regulated? The baby is on the verge of death, and you’re obsessed with whether it’s a boy or a girl?” Chloe quickly climbed into the passenger seat, shoving her phone in front of my face. The voice of a doctor from Mercy Hill was on the line, sounding incredibly frantic, insisting that a scan was a waste of time and that I needed to be wheeled into surgery immediately. “You can’t do the scan! See? Even the specialist says so!” Chloe cried, her forehead slick with cold sweat. She turned to the driver. “Hurry, take us to Mercy Hill!” The commotion in the hospital lobby when we arrived drew a crowd of onlookers. People began whispering, casting judging looks my way. “She’s already six months along. Is she seriously going to abort the baby if it’s a girl?” “Her husband looks so devoted. He probably cooks for her and takes care of her every single day, and she’s here acting like a spoiled brat.” As they wheeled me toward the elevator, the murmurs in the corridor made my head throb. “Mommy, Daddy loves you so much. You should listen to him. Give birth to me, and let’s take care of him and his family together,” the boy’s voice urged, sounding sweet and compliant. “Aunt Chloe is so kind to us. Why won’t you listen to her? Let’s just go to the operating room.” “Mommy, don’t do the scan at Rutherford Memorial. The doctors there are corrupt; they’ve been bribed. They will lie to you. Listen to Daddy.” I blocked out the voices entirely. Once inside Rutherford Memorial Hospital, the obstetrician on duty performed a routine fetal heart rate check and handed me the chart. “The detailed ultrasound report will take some time to process. Please wait in the lounge.” Connor grabbed my hand, his voice laced with desperate pleading. “Samantha, you can wait, but the baby can’t! You can’t honestly tell me you’d abort our child just because she might be a girl?” “I never said I wanted to abort my baby,” I replied, my voice flat. “I simply want to know.” The doctor looked at my stomach, a flicker of disapproval in her eyes. “You’re six months pregnant. Why does the gender matter so much now? If it turns out to be a girl, surely you aren’t planning on an illegal late-term termination? The law strictly prohibits that.” I didn’t bother defending myself against the silent accusations of the medical staff. I walked out to the waiting room, sitting in silence. Connor was practically vibrating with anxiety, pacing back and forth, sweat dripping down his temples. But no matter what he said, I refused to move until the official report was in my hands. Suddenly, Chloe burst through the double doors of the waiting room, clutching a printed medical chart. “Mrs. Rutherford, we have to transfer you to Mercy Hill for an emergency C-section immediately!” she screamed, thrusting the paper in my face. “I just had the lab print your latest fetal monitor strip. Look at this! The baby’s heart rate has plummeted to ninety beats per minute! Every second we waste is a second closer to brain damage or death!” Connor bolted upright. “What are we waiting for? Call the ambulance! Get the surgical team ready!” I stared at the bold red stamp on the paper: “CRITICAL DISTRESS. RECOMMEND IMMEDIATE TERMINATION OF PREGNANCY.” Out of nowhere, my mother-in-law, Mrs. Derrick, rushed into the waiting room, sobbing hysterically and begging me to save her grandchild. My breathing grew shallow. My mind spun in a vortex of doubt. Then, the little girl’s voice spoke again, clear and steady. “Mommy, they’re lying. That chart is a forgery. Chloe’s baby will die if he doesn’t get my cord blood within the hour. She is desperate to get you onto that operating table.” I clenched my fists so hard my nails bit into my palms. Around us, the patients and nurses in the lobby began to murmur loudly. “Her baby’s heart rate is dropping that low, and she’s still sitting there waiting for a gender report? How heartless can a mother be?” “Is a boy or a girl really more important than a human life? If that baby dies, she’ll regret this for the rest of her life!” “I’ve never seen a pregnant woman so utterly cruel.” Seeing that I still wouldn’t budge, Mrs. Derrick suddenly dropped to her knees in front of me, sobbing loudly in front of the entire waiting room. “Samantha, I beg you! Please, save the baby!” the elderly woman wailed, clutching at my knees. “The baby is six months old! That is a living soul!” “If I’ve ever done anything to upset you, you can beat me, you can curse me, but please don’t take it out on an innocent child! As the baby’s grandmother, I cannot watch my own flesh and blood die! I beg you!” The crowd’s whispers turned into open condemnation. “Mom, please get up. That’s not what I meant…” I muttered, my stomach turning. “Then what do you mean?” Connor demanded, his eyes bloodshot as he stared at me. “My mother is nearly seventy years old, Samantha! She is kneeling and begging you in public!” “All she wants is for you and our baby to be safe. Do you really have to push her to the brink of death before you’re satisfied?” Looking at my sobbing mother-in-law on the floor, a cold dread washed over me. The judgmental stares of the crowd felt suffocating, almost physical. “Fine,” Connor said, his voice dropping to a low, urgent murmur. “If you must wait for the gender results, let’s at least transfer to Mercy Hill now. The moment the report is delivered, we can go straight into the OR. That way, we won’t waste a single second.” Under the overwhelming pressure of the crowd, I finally nodded. But the moment we arrived at Mercy Hill Private Clinic, they didn’t wait for any reports. I was immediately hoisted onto a gurney and wheeled straight into an operating room. The doctor on duty, a cold-faced man, immediately drew a clear fluid into a large syringe. The little girl’s voice returned, but this time, she was crying. “Mommy, that’s not an anesthetic! That is a lethal dose of potassium chloride! One injection, and my heart will stop instantly. They don’t want me to live—they only want my cord blood!” An icy spike of adrenaline shot through my veins. I kicked out wildly, breaking free from the nurses’ grip, and snatched the syringe straight out of the doctor’s hand. “What is this?” I demanded, my voice trembling with rage. “Why has the label on this vial been deliberately scraped off?” Chloe gasped, taking a step back. Connor quickly stepped in, his voice taking on a soothing, manipulative cadence. “Samantha, please, stop this. Hospital medications are strictly regulated. Are you really going to halt a life-saving surgery over a torn label?” He leaned over me, his hands pressing down on my shoulders to force me back onto the gurney. “Don’t worry, sweetie. I’ve already signed the spousal consent form to accompany you into the OR. I’ll be right by your side the entire time.” I summoned every ounce of strength I had left and shoved him away, glaring at the medical staff surrounding me. “I am the sole trustee and beneficiary of the Rutherford Medical Trust,” I announced, my voice ringing out with absolute authority. “Under the law, any medical procedure performed on my body requires my explicit, written consent. If any of you touch me without my signature, I will have you arrested for assault and attempted murder!” Connor’s face turned a violent shade of purple. “Samantha! We have been married for years, and you’re using your family’s money and status to threaten me? I am the biological father of that child! I have the legal right to authorize an emergency procedure to save my baby’s life!” “Just close your eyes and trust me, Sam!” He signaled the nurses, and they lunged forward to pin me down. I fought back with everything I had, but I was vastly outnumbered. Just as they were about to force the needle into my arm, a loud bang echoed from the heavy double doors of the surgical suite. “Stop!” Simon Fletcher ran into the room, holding a sealed manila envelope, gasping for air. “Mrs. Rutherford, I have the official lab results from Rutherford Memorial!” He marched past the stunned security guards and handed the paper directly to me. “The ultrasound and genetic screening are complete. You are carrying a healthy baby girl.”

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For our third attempt at a wedding, Garrett once again pulled the vintage Rolls-Royce up to the curb of my best friend’s brownstone. When I questioned him, his brow furrowed with familiar impatience. “Does it really have to be a federal case every single time? Are you the bride, Hannah, or is Serena the maid of honor? What difference does it make who I pick up first?” “You’re sitting in the back anyway. It’s the exact same ride. Just be good and stop making a mountain out of a molehill.” I froze, my gaze landing on the slender silhouette sitting comfortably in the passenger seat. Serena. My best friend, and Garrett’s ex-girlfriend. On her ring finger, the diamond caught the morning light. It was the same ring Garrett had “mistakenly” given her during our first wedding attempt. “I must have mixed up your sizes. Let Serena wear it for today to spread the good energy, okay? Be good, Hannah, I’ll buy you a new one later.” Even the designer silk gown she wore was the one Garrett had “mistakenly” delivered to her house for our second wedding attempt. “Since it’s already tailored to her, let Serena just wear it as her maid-of-honor dress. Be good, Hannah, I’ll take you back to the bridal shop next week to pick out an even better one.” I had spent six months preparing that dress, taking dozens of half-days off work to perfect every seam and lace detail. Remembering my tears and the quiet breakdowns from those first two failed weddings, Garrett rubbed the bridge of his nose, braced for another one of my quiet storms. But this time, I only felt a strange, hollow sense of relief. Because two days ago, I had “mistakenly” sent the confirmation details for our City Hall marriage license appointment to my ex-boyfriend instead. And right now, he was already driving a getaway car of his own, heading this way to steal the bride. It worked out perfectly. Today, all four of us would finally get the marriages we actually wanted. … Halfway to the venue, my stomach began to churn violently. I grabbed a paper bag from the seat pocket, dry-heaving into it. Garrett immediately glanced back, his eyes tight with worry. But when he spoke, his voice was a hushed whisper: “Keep it down. Serena’s sleeping.” I stared at him, numb. Garrett knew exactly why I was sick. He knew better than anyone that I had a severe, life-threatening allergy to motion sickness medication. Yet earlier, when Serena had handed me a bottle of water, he had watched me drink it down before murmuring with a slight hesitation: “Serena knew you get carsick and hate swallowing pills, so she was sweet enough to dissolve one in your water.” The fact that I was only nauseous right now, and not in anaphylactic shock, was a miracle. Eventually, the car rolled to a stop outside the reception hall. Following a script he had run a dozen times before, Garrett stepped out and immediately opened the passenger door for Serena. The waiting media herd swarmed them instantly, cameras flashing in a frenzy. “Is this the lovely bride, Miss Hannah? Absolutely stunning! Look at how cherished she is—true love indeed!” I couldn’t blame them for the mistake. I had spent five years dreaming of this day. Every detail—from the venue styling to the floral arrangements—had been planned entirely by me. But Garrett had handed all of it to Serena on a silver platter. A beautifully made-up woman sitting in the front seat, helped out of the car by the groom himself, looked infinitely more like a bride than the pale, shaking ghost left behind in the back seat. I swallowed the bitter taste in my throat and slipped out of the other side of the car. I had only taken two steps before Garrett caught up, grabbing my wrist. “What is your problem now? Just because I didn’t stop the car to let you switch seats?” “You know how sensitive Serena is about her boundaries. If she realized she took your spot and forced you to sit in the back, she’d blame herself for weeks.” My lips parted, but no sound came out. Right. Serena’s feelings were always the priority, lest she feel a moment of guilt. So my stolen engagement ring became a generous gift to “spread good energy.” The wedding gown I designed became a custom-made bridesmaid dress. Even the wrong parking spots, the wrong seating arrangements, and the endless delays of our actual wedding day—Garrett explained them all away as my own stage fright, claiming I had begged Serena to step in and take the pressure off me. A quiet ache bloomed in my chest. I looked up at him. “Garrett, do I look like the bride of this wedding to you?” He blinked, his handsome features tightening into a scowl. “Can you please grow up? Serena flew back from Paris three months early just to be here for you. Now you’re throwing a tantrum, saying you don’t want to be the bride? What is she supposed to do?” “Garrett, if Hannah doesn’t want to do this, she shouldn’t have to,” Serena said, stepping between us. Her tone was soft, protective, and completely reasonable. “I can stand in for her for the ceremony so the guests aren’t confused. You two can just sign the legal papers later.” Garrett reached out and took her hand. The movement was so natural, so practiced. “Fine. Let her do what she wants. She’s always throwing these little fits at the worst times, making everyone walk on eggshells. You’re the only one who tolerates her.” “Hannah only has us,” Serena murmured, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “We should be patient with her.” They traded soft words, turning their backs to me as they walked hand-in-hand into the grand ballroom. But Garrett seemed to have forgotten that when he was in that horrific car crash years ago, I was the one who threw my body over his to shield him from the glass. And Serena seemed to have forgotten that when her family tried to ruin her reputation and safety during their corporate feud, I was the one who took a physical blow for her. Years had passed, and the fierce loyalty I had poured into my friendship and my love had been reduced to a dismissive, “She’s got a small heart and a terrible temper.” I stood before the welcome sign—”The Wedding of Garrett and Hannah”—for five long minutes. The irony of it was suffocating. The hives on my neck were beginning to bleed from where I had scratched them. The allergy was clawing its way through my system. I pulled out my phone, booked an outpatient appointment at the hospital, and turned to hail a cab. But before I could open the taxi door, two of Garrett’s private security guards blocked my path. “Sir’s orders, ma’am. You can’t leave. Miss Serena will worry if she can’t find you.” By the time they dragged me back inside, Serena had already changed into a stunning silk reception dress. She was floating through the crowd on Garrett’s arm, raising glasses to the guests. Whispers of “the perfect couple” drifted through the air, as if this had always been their wedding. I gripped the edge of a table, my chest tightening as the room spun. I needed to get out. But before I could send a text, Serena appeared in front of me, holding a crystal glass with effortless grace. “Hannah, a toast. To our friendship. You will always be my sister.” Garrett naturally took the glass from Serena’s hand and held it out to me, replacing hers with a glass of sparkling water. Serena laughed softly. “You’re overprotecting me again. I can handle a sip of champagne.” I stared at the amber liquid in front of me. The nausea was rising, my vision blurring at the edges. “I can’t. I’m not feeling well.” Garrett didn’t seem to hear me. “Be good, Hannah. Don’t embarrass Serena in front of everyone.” Seeing my hesitation, Serena quickly spoke up. “It’s fine, Garrett. If Hannah doesn’t want to drink, she doesn’t have to.” “No, she does.” Garrett’s smile remained intact for the surrounding guests, but his voice dropped to a cold, warning whisper. “Hannah, it’s one glass of champagne. Your tolerance isn’t this low.” I looked up at him, disbelieving, my eyes stinging. “Garrett, if I drink this right now, I might end up in the ICU. Do you still want me to drink it?” He frowned, looking at me like I was a hysterical child. “Are you really going to use dramatic threats to ruin everyone’s night?” My throat closed up, not from the allergy, but from the sudden, sharp realization of what I was to him. I didn’t say another word. I reached out with a trembling hand, took the glass, and downed it in one swallow. The alcohol burned like fire against my swollen throat. I broke into a violent, racking cough. Garrett reached out to pat my back, but I shoved him away with every ounce of strength I had left. “Hannah!” Garrett pulled Serena back, his face darkening with irritation. “Leave her. She always demands that everyone cater to her drama. It’s embarrassing.” I left their voices behind, stumbling blindly into the corridor and collapsing into the nearest restroom stall. I retched until my throat tasted like copper and bile. By the time the black spots cleared from my vision, the noise from the grand ballroom had died down to a low murmur. I checked my phone. Two hours had passed. Neither Garrett nor Serena had sent a single text to check if I was alive. I let out a dry, silent laugh. Supporting myself against the cold tile wall, I dragged my exhausted body out of the restroom, only to collide straight into a broad chest. I gasped, immediately trying to push him away, but Garrett’s arms wrapped around me, pulling me tight against him. “Don’t move,” he mumbled, his voice thick with alcohol, dropping heavily against my hair. “Just let me hold you for a second.” I froze. I remembered when we first started dating. Back then, Garrett would frequently get drunk late at night, looking lost and vulnerable. He would hold me exactly like this, whispering, “Hannah, please don’t leave me. You’re the only one I have left.” Back then, I was foolish enough to believe that my quiet, years-long devotion had finally earned me a place in his heart. Until the night I accidentally overheard him talking to his friends on his balcony. “Garrett, you know Hannah is completely devoted to you. Leading her on like this when you don’t love her is cruel. What happens when she finds out she’s just a placeholder?” Garrett had flicked his cigarette ash into the darkness, his voice detached. “Keeping Hannah close is the only way I can keep Serena in my social circle without raising eyebrows. Just being able to see Serena from a distance is enough. Since I can’t have her, Hannah is the next best thing. I’ll make sure she’s taken care of.” And he had kept that promise. Over the years, the luxury cars, the penthouse keys, the designer jewelry—he gave them to me without a second thought. He was always there when I needed him, giving me a false sense of security that made me believe, just for a moment, that he cared. A warm tear slipped from his cheek, wetting the collar of my dress. He whispered into the crook of my neck: “Serena…” My entire body went rigid. It took me a long moment to find my voice. “Garrett, who am I?” He stiffened. Slowly, the alcohol haze seemed to clear from his eyes. He let go of me, stepping back and rubbing his temples. Neither of us spoke. It felt as if a cold hand had reached into my chest and scooped out whatever warmth was left, leaving only a hollow cavity. I really was just a placeholder. I turned to walk away, but his hand clamped around my wrist again. “Go apologize to Serena,” he commanded. I stared at him, unable to comprehend the words. Seeing my expression, his patience snapped entirely. “Do you still not realize what you did wrong? You made those dramatic remarks, drank the champagne like a martyr, and then hid away just to make Serena feel guilty on her first night back.” “She’s exhausted from running around acting as the bride for your sake, and all you can think about is your own petty jealousy.” I looked at his stern, righteous face, and the truth of my existence in his life became devastatingly clear. Serena’s slight discomfort was an emergency; my actual physical distress was an inconvenience. “Did I ask you to give her my dress?” I asked, my voice trembling. “Did I ask her to take my place at the altar?” “Crash!” The sharp sound of breaking glass shattered the quiet of the hallway. “Serena!” Garrett’s head snapped toward the sound, and he instantly let go of my wrist, throwing me off balance. I stumbled against the wall. When I looked up, Garrett was staring down at me, his eyes cold and full of disgust. “Are you satisfied now, Hannah?” he sneered. “You said those awful things just to hurt her, didn’t you? Serena doesn’t owe you anything. Stop treating her kindness like it’s your birthright!” My ears rang. It was the first time in five years Garrett had ever raised his voice to me like this. Before I could even process the sting, tears blurred my vision. “And now you’re crying. You’re always so damn fragile.” Completely done with me, he turned on his heel and ran toward the ballroom. A few of his friends walked past the hallway, their voices carrying clearly to where I stood. “Honestly, what a waste of space. She’s followed Garrett around like a lost puppy for five years, and she still can’t compete with a single second of Serena’s time.” “She brought it on herself. She never knew her place. She was always just a tool; did she honestly think Garrett would ever actually choose her?” Garrett paused for a fraction of a second, his brow furrowing as if he wanted to say something. But another cry of concern from the ballroom made him quicken his pace, leaving me behind. I slid down the wall, collapsing onto the carpeted floor. My skin was burning with hives, and the copper taste of bile was back in my mouth. My phone vibrated in my clutch. With shaking fingers, I unlocked the screen and sent my live location. The response came within seconds: “Three minutes away.” I waited until the dizziness subsided slightly, then forced myself to stand and drag my feet toward the grand exit. As I passed the open doors of the ballroom, Serena spotted me. She hesitated, then walked over, her expression clouded with gentle concern. “I’m so sorry, Hannah. I almost tripped, and Garrett caught me. But… during the rush, his necklace caught on my bracelet. It broke.” I looked down at the glittering green shards scattered on the floor. I recognized that necklace. Years ago, after the car crash, Garrett had been so guilt-ridden and desperate to save our relationship that he had climbed to the peak of a snowy mountain temple in the middle of a blizzard. He knelt there for three days and three nights, praying for my recovery. When he came back, he gave me a pair of matching jade amulets. It was the first time I had ever seen him smile like a happy child. I looked up at Garrett, whose jaw was clenched tight. He was terrified. Terrified that I would say something to upset his precious Serena. I forced a small, tired smile. “Don’t worry about it. It’s just a necklace. It wasn’t anything important anyway.” I reached up to my own neck, unclasped the matching jade amulet, and held it out to Serena. “Since you like it so much, you can have this one too. I don’t want it anymore.” The temperature in the room seemed to drop to freezing. Before Serena could reach for it, Garrett lunged forward, snatched the necklace from my hand, and slammed it onto the marble floor. “Fine! If you don’t want it, then none of it matters!” The jade shattered into a hundred pieces. Garrett instinctively stepped back, shielding Serena from the flying shards. But my balance was gone. I stumbled, falling hands-first into the sharp debris. A sharp, hot pain sliced through my palms. Blood pooled instantly onto the white marble. Garrett started to bend down to check if Serena had been touched by the shards, but she violently pushed his hand away. “Don’t touch me! I’m fine… Garrett, look at Hannah!” Garrett finally turned his head. His eyes widened slightly as he registered the angry red hives covering my neck and arms, and the blood dripping from my hands. His face went pale, but his voice came out defensive and angry. “Hannah! Can you stop causing a scene for one minute?!” He stepped forward to lift me up. I flinched, pulling my hands back, refusing to let him touch me. His hands hung uselessly in the air as I scrambled to my feet, using the wall to steady myself as I made my way toward the exit. “Hannah, stop! What are you doing?!” he yelled, his voice rising in panic. “I’m warning you—if you walk out that door today, the marriage license is off the table! We are done!” He made a move to follow me, but Serena’s weak voice drifted from behind him. “Garrett… I think the blood is making me dizzy…” Garrett’s head snapped back. He instantly turned around, catching Serena as she swayed. “Don’t look at it. Close your eyes, I’ve got you…” No one noticed the sleek black Maybach idling quietly under the canopy outside. The door opened, and a tall, commanding figure stepped out. Without a single word, he gathered me into his arms, lifting me off the wet pavement. Buried against his chest, the last of my strength finally gave out. After ensuring Serena was resting comfortably in the bridal suite, Garrett felt a dark, restless anger settling in his chest. He was convinced I was just throwing a tantrum. He was certain that within three days, I would crawl back to him, apologizing. To teach me a lesson, he spent the next few days taking Serena to high-profile events, making sure the media captured every moment. The tabloids were flooded with photos of them. Serena had watched him with a look of quiet exhaustion. “Garrett, since when did you become so childish?” Garrett kept his mouth shut, but his grip on his phone was tight enough to turn his knuckles white. But by the day we were supposed to sign our marriage license, I still hadn’t called. After tossing and turning all night, Garrett finally broke. He picked up his phone and typed out a message: “Hannah, this is getting ridiculous. Have you completely forgotten that we’re supposed to register our marriage today?” He pressed send. A sharp red exclamation point popped up on the screen. He stared at it, frozen. Before he could process the block, his phone began to ring. It was one of his friends. “Garrett! You need to look at the news right now. Hannah…”

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My girlfriend, Lauren, once told me she could see a number floating above people’s heads. A “need index” from some cosmic system, she called it. A real-time gauge of how much they depended on her. In the beginning, she looked at me with red-rimmed eyes, her voice trembling. “Your number is only thirty, Ian. Do you even love me?” I told her, “Not needing someone to survive doesn’t mean you don’t love them.” But then the shifts started. She began holding her umbrella over her assistant, Connor, in the middle of a downpour, driving miles out of her way to drop him off at his apartment. When I asked her about it, she brushed it off. “Don’t overthink it. His number was in the high seventies. He just really needed the help.” It went on like that until the day I lay in bed, burning with a fever, while she chose to go shopping with him. “Your number is low,” she said, her hand already on the doorknob. “He’s in a crisis right now. I’ll help him finish buying his things, and then I’ll come right back to take care of you.” She pulled the door shut. I closed my eyes, letting the quiet settle into my bones, and reached for my phone. “Dad,” I murmured into the receiver. “For the holidays this year… I’m coming home alone.” … I didn’t know how long I slept, but a parched throat eventually woke me. The soft beep of the front door’s smart lock echoed through the apartment. I didn’t turn around. Lauren stepped in, her slippers making quiet, heavy thuds against the floor before she stopped just behind me. “How are you feeling? You didn’t reply to my texts.” I stayed silent. She stepped closer, reaching out to touch my forehead. As she leaned in, a faint scent drifted from her clothes—the distinct, woodsy cologne that Connor always wore. I pulled my face away. Her hand froze in midair, stiffening for a second before slowly dropping to her side. “Right,” she said, her voice dropping to a cool, detached register. “Looking at your number, I shouldn’t have worried.” Her eyes drifted upward, lingering on the empty space just above my head. Always there. “Can’t you just turn it off?” My voice was raspy, like coarse sandpaper. “Can’t you just look at “me”?” I remembered her telling me once that the system could be disabled. Lauren fell silent for a few seconds, offering no answer. Instead, she set a plastic bag down on the coffee table. “Fever meds. Take them.” I waited a moment, then dragged myself over to the table and crouched down. My hands were shaking so badly I struggled to untie the tight knot in the plastic. “Connor got them for you,” she added. “He knew you were sick and grabbed them on his way back.” My fingers kept fumbling with the plastic. If this had happened a few months ago, I probably would have pushed the bag back across the table and told her I could buy my own medicine. But today, the exhaustion was crushing. Even a plastic knot felt like an opponent I didn’t have the strength to fight. She stood over me, watching my clumsy attempts, before speaking again. “Try to be a little nicer to him. He’s just a sweet kid, fresh out of college. He doesn’t have your experience.” The bag finally gave way, revealing a box of Advil, DayQuil, and some cooling gel sheets. And two slips of paper. One was a receipt from the local pharmacy; the other was a purchase slip from a luxury jewelry boutique. The timestamp read 4:24 PM. The total was a number with too many digits. I stared at the jewelry receipt for two seconds, said nothing, and tucked it back beneath the medicine boxes. I peeled open a cooling sheet and pressed it to my forehead. The icy chill sank into my skin, offering a brief, numbing counterpoint to the throbbing in my temples. I stood up and walked toward the bedroom. “I’m tired. Sleep in the guest room tonight.” Without waiting for her reply, I shut the door and lay back down on the bed. The apartment fell into a heavy quiet. Sometime later, the phone rang in the living room. Lauren answered it, her voice dropping to a low murmur, punctuated by soft, easy laughter that gradually drifted further away. Then, the front door clicked shut. I turned onto my side, facing the blank wall, and pulled the duvet over my head. The phone vibrated beneath my pillow. I left it there. By the next morning, the fever had broken, though my throat still felt raw. I leaned against the headboard and pulled out my phone. The vibration from the night before had been a voice note from my dad. I tapped play. “Lauren’s not coming with you? Is she busy? That’s fine, work is important. We can always see each other next time. Don’t worry about me, son.” His voice was full of heavy pauses, though he tried to end on a cheerful note. I stared at the screen for a long time, scrolling upward through our chat. He had sent several photos of himself trying on clothes in front of a dusty mirror. A man who never bought anything for himself had tried on four different outfits, asking which one looked best for meeting his future daughter-in-law. There were also photos of food. He had practiced making pot roast because Lauren had mentioned liking it during a phone call months ago. “I’m getting better at it,” he had written. “She’ll love it.” I could hear the eager, hopeful smile in his voice. I swallowed hard, listening to the voice note one more time, before typing back a brief reply: “She’s just really busy lately.” When I finally stepped out of the bedroom, Lauren was already gone. The plastic bag on the coffee table had been cleared away, the medicine boxes neatly arranged in its place. Next to them sat a bag of bagels and a cold latte. As I walked past the trash can, I caught a glimpse of the crumpled luxury receipt sitting right on top of the garbage. On the counter, a sticky note read: “Don’t forget to eat breakfast.” She hadn’t bought me breakfast in months. Ever since she bound that system, she seemed to view tending to my needs as a waste of energy. Yet here she was, doing it again. I touched the bagel. It was ice-cold. I warmed it in the microwave, but every bite felt like swallowing glass. I stood there and forced myself to finish it. When I drove into the office parking lot, I spotted Connor stepping out of Lauren’s passenger seat. He was holding a bag of hot takeout, blowing on his fingers to cool them down. Lauren locked the car and walked beside him. Neither of them looked in my direction as they headed into the elevator lobby. Around noon, I ran into Connor in the hallway. He looked as if he had been waiting for me. He hurried over, grabbing my arm. “Ian! Lauren asked me to pick out a holiday gift for her family. I’m terrible at this. Can you take a look?” He thrust his phone toward me. The screen showed his text thread with Lauren. Her contact name was saved as “Boss” followed by a blowing-kiss emoji. I didn’t say anything. He scrolled up, showing me page after page of shopping screenshots. Under each one, he had typed questions: “Would your dad like this?” “Does your stepmom prefer red or navy?” Lauren’s replies were short and indifferent: “Sure,” “Fine,” or “You decide.” I glanced at the prices. Combined, the gifts didn’t cost a fraction of the amount on the receipt I’d seen in the trash. At the very top of the screen, there was a message from Lauren: “Just something simple is fine. Old people don’t need expensive things.” Connor’s thumb froze on the screen, as if he had only just realized I could see that part of the conversation. His expression turned awkward, a forced smile plastering onto his face. “Lauren is just… trying to save money,” he mumbled. “She works so hard, you know.” I looked at him, his synthetic smile unwavering. “She does,” I said flatly. “So don’t bother buying anything.” His smile faltered. I stepped past him and walked away. When I got home that evening, Lauren was sitting on the living room sofa, her phone screen going dark just as I entered. She didn’t waste any time. “Did you pick on Connor today?” I paused, my hand on my shoes, looking at her from across the room. “He told you?” “He said you told him not to buy the gifts. He spent all day researching them. Why would you throw his kindness back in his face like that?” She let out a heavy sigh. “I don’t understand why you’re being so difficult.” I straightened up and placed my shoes on the rack. Sitting on top of the cabinet were two paper bags from a cheap department store—the exact items Connor had shown me on his phone. They had already been bought. “Kindness?” I asked, walking into the living room. “He did that research on company time, didn’t he? You pay him for that.” Lauren frowned. “And besides,” I continued, “why is my secretary picking out holiday gifts for “my” parents?” She stayed silent for a moment before replying, “I just thought a younger guy might have a better sense of what people actually want.” She paused, her voice dropping an octave. “And I asked you last month what we should get them, and you just said ‘anything.’ Your need index was only thirty-four when you said that, Ian. Connor just wanted me to buy him a coffee, and his number was seventy. You clearly didn’t even care about the gifts. Why are you picking a fight over this now?” I stared at her. The warm, low light of the living room cast a sharp shadow across her jawline. Her eyes weren’t looking at me—they were fixed on the empty air just above my head. Always measuring. Always calculating. “Thirty-four.” She used to know exactly why I was like this. My biological mother was a violent alcoholic. After she split my dad’s lip so badly he couldn’t speak normally for two weeks, I learned to make myself invisible. My stepmother was a kind, gentle woman, but the instinct to never impose, to never ask for anything, was already baked into my bones. I remembered high school, sitting on the cold bleachers, overhearing a group of classmates nearby. “He acts like he’s too good for everyone. I offered to help him carry his books and he practically ran away.” “Just a stuck-up prick. Good intentions are wasted on him.” “Don’t you know? His mom was a drunk who beat him, and his dad remarried.” “No wonder he’s so weird. Who would actually want to be friends with him?” They hadn’t named me, but they didn’t have to. Then Lauren’s voice had cut through the whispers, sharp and clear. “But he gets top marks in every single class. He does it all on his own. Don’t you think that’s incredibly brave? I admire him. Could any of you do what he does?” Later, when we fell in love and I finally gathered the courage to tell her about my past, she had held me tightly, as if trying to shield a child. I was a head taller than her, and I had to look down to see her face. She had looked into my eyes and whispered, “You’re independent because you had to survive, Ian. But you don’t have to carry it alone anymore. I love who you are. Do whatever you want, you don’t have to explain yourself to me.” Then, she added five words I never forgot: “I’ll hold you up. I’ve got you.” I had lived by those words for years. I wasn’t that scared kid anymore, but letting myself depend on someone was still the hardest thing in the world. Lauren was the only person who had ever made me want to try. But she had forgotten all of it. A system, some numbers, and six months were all it took to erase it. I didn’t bother explaining. I turned to walk back to the bedroom. As I passed the sofa, she grabbed my wrist. Her grip was tight, but her fingers were trembling. “Ian… why did your number drop so much?” She stared at me, panic flickering in her eyes. I paused. “How much?” Her mouth opened, but the words seemed to catch in her throat before escaping. “…Fifteen.” “So there’s still fifteen left,” I said quietly, looking down at her hand on my wrist. “Does fifteen or thirty actually make a difference to you?” Silence fell over the room, stretching like a wire pulled to its absolute limit. Then, she let out a cold, bitter laugh. “Right. No difference. You wanted me to turn your numbers off? Fine. Consider them off. They only stress me out anyway. Don’t expect me to care about your needs anymore.” She stared at me, searching my face for some kind of crack. “Okay,” I said. Her grip tightened further, her knuckles turning white. It hurt. “Are you done? Can you let me go now?” “…” “Let go.” She slowly released her grip. I turned away. “Do you even want me to go home with you for Christmas?” her voice rose suddenly, sharp and loud. I stopped, keeping my back to her. “I literally put a major project on hold for this trip. If this is going to be your attitude, I’m not going.” She paused, waiting for me to turn around, to beg, to explain. I didn’t. She kept going, her pace quickening. “That project is too much for Connor to handle alone. He’ll be working through the holidays. I already feel terrible about it. I can only imagine how high his need index will be—” “—probably over eighty by then,” I finished for her. The room went dead silent. I stared at the blank wall at the end of the hallway. Smooth, sterile, unyielding. I had already bought my ticket home. Alone. But hearing her say she wasn’t coming still left a cold, hollow ache in my chest. I remembered last Christmas. She had rested her head on my shoulder, her ears flushed red, asking when we could make it official. “Give me a title, Ian,” she had teased. Now… I turned around. “Lauren.” My voice was flat, devoid of emotion. “If his number gets high enough… high enough that he wants to sleep with you. Will you do it?” She didn’t speak. A moment later, she let out a short, scoffing laugh, as if she had just heard something utterly absurd. “Ian,” she said, her tone icy. “Do you hear yourself?” I didn’t answer. “Connor and I are boss and employee. He works hard, he helps out, and you turn it into some cheap affair? Me showing some basic care to my staff is cheating to you?” Was it just “basic care”? The umbrella, the rides, the lattes, the luxury necklace. Those were just the things I had happened to see. “I’m asking about the system. If that day comes, what do you choose?” “You’re putting me on trial for a hypothetical?” She laughed, frustrated. “Then let me ask you: if you weren’t so paranoid, would we even be fighting like this?” She stepped closer. “Have some empathy. Imagine being a kid fresh out of school, and your boss treats you like dirt. How would he feel?” I looked at her. “You’ve never asked how I feel.” “I can see how you feel! It’s right there in that pathetic little number above your head! What do you want me to do? Beg for the attention of someone who doesn’t even want it?” Her chest heaved. “Just give me a straight answer. Is it that hard?” She glared at me, her breathing ragged. “No! I wouldn’t! Happy now?” She stormed over to the entryway, grabbed her boots, and snatched the two cheap gift bags from the rack, slamming them onto the floor. “I’m leaving on a two-week business trip. I won’t be back until after Christmas.” She opened the door. “You better think long and hard about this if you still want me to show up at your dad’s place.” The door slammed shut so hard the walls vibrated. Then, silence. I stared at the door for a long time before turning back. It was better this way. I sat on the edge of the bed and looked down at my hands. I had been clenching them so hard that the color hadn’t returned to my fingers. They felt numb, but I knew the feeling would come back eventually. I began to pack. I had lived in this apartment for two years, but everything I owned fit into a few storage bags. The next morning, I handed in my resignation. The HR manager joked, “Going to be a house husband now?” I smiled, not correcting him. “Just don’t tell Lauren yet.” During my final days, I went to work as usual. Nobody noticed anything different. On my last day, I took my accumulated leave. I spent the afternoon buying Christmas gifts for my parents. When I returned to the apartment, only my single suitcase remained. I walked over to the front door’s keypad and pressed the reset sequence. “Fingerprint deleted,” the system chimed softly. I looked back one last time. The decorative pillows were perfectly aligned on the sofa. The box of Advil sat on the coffee table. I left everything she had ever bought me behind. The wheels of my suitcase rolled over the threshold. I pulled the door shut, quietly, letting the latch click into place without a sound.

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After graduation, I stayed in the South to start my own business. We started with three people in a cramped room; today, we employ over eight hundred. This year, we landed a massive contract. My team spent three exhausting months grinding day and night to pull it off, so I made the executive decision to give every single employee a hundred-dollar monthly raise. But the morning after the HR notice went out, my landlord called. “Hey, Caroline,” Richard said, his voice dripping with easy familiarity. “Next month’s rent is going up by fifteen thousand. Just letting you know so you can prepare.” I froze. Five years ago, this commercial park was practically a wasteland—barren, cheap, and isolated. That was why I planted my company here. Over the past five years, as we grew brick by brick, he raised the rent more than ten times. Every single time, I swallowed my pride and paid. I did it out of respect for family ties—he’s my mother’s cousin—and because I wanted to spare my team the chaos of a relocation. But this time… I forced myself to swallow the rising heat in my chest and speak reasonably. “Richard, commercial rents in this district are dropping. You know the market as well as I do. An extra fifteen thousand a month is completely unreasonable.” “Oh, is the market bad?” He let out a dry, mocking laugh. “You just gave eight hundred people a raise, Caroline. That’s eighty grand a month out of your pocket, but suddenly you’re pinching pennies with me?” He scoffed. “If you think it’s too expensive, move. This property is hot now. The whole neighborhood has built up around it. I don’t need to beg you for rent.” I looked at the receiver, visualizing his smug face, completely assured that I would roll over yet again. A strange, cold wave of calm washed over me. “Fine,” I said. “We’ll move.” I hung up and looked out the window at the bustling commercial hub below. I felt a grim smile pull at my lips. Ninety percent of the foot traffic down there existed solely because of my employees. Soon, Richard was going to learn exactly who needed whom. … My assistant, Phoebe, was incredibly efficient. Within three minutes of sending out the relocation memo, our internal Slack channels exploded. Hundreds of messages flooded the screen in a blur of scrolling text. “Wait, what? We’re moving? Just like that?” “Caroline, did something happen? Are we having cash flow issues?” One of my veteran employees, Samantha, wrote: “Caroline, this office is where we built everything. I’m sentimental about this place…” The main channel went quiet for a beat, and then a wave of agreement washed over it. “Exactly. My kid’s daycare is literally next door. What am I supposed to do if we relocate?” I stared at the screen for a long time before typing my response: “Everything is fine. No financial issues. Details on the new location will follow shortly.” The rumors traveled faster than I anticipated. By lunchtime, the panic had spilled over into the retail strip downstairs. First, the owner of the local diner came running up to our office, hovering anxiously by the reception desk. He refused to leave, cornering Phoebe with desperate questions. “Are you guys really leaving? I heard a rumor. Tell me it’s not true.” Phoebe did her best to soothe him and gently ushered him back to the elevator. Right after that, Mia, who owned the corner bodega, sent me a text: “Hey Caroline, I heard a rumor you’re moving. What am I supposed to do? I literally just signed off on a massive inventory order…” Then came the owner of the local café, and even the proprietor of the Italian bistro I had personally helped keep afloat during the construction delays. Everyone was trying to get a straight answer out of me. By mid-afternoon, the chatter reached the local business association group chat—a massive, crowded channel of several hundred merchants where I rarely, if ever, spoke. At three, someone tagged me directly: “Caroline, are you guys actually relocating? What’s going on? Give us some clarity here.” I stared at the blinking cursor, thought about it, and typed: “The landlord is raising our rent. We can’t afford to stay.” The chat erupted. “How much of a raise?” “Fifteen thousand. Monthly.” “Fifteen grand?! Is Richard Crawford out of his mind?” “No office space in this zip code is worth that. Half the buildings down the street are sitting empty…” The merchants immediately turned their anger toward the landlord. I watched the screen, feeling a brief, fleeting sense of relief. Then, Richard joined the chat. “What are you all getting so worked up about?” “Caroline just handed her eight hundred employees a hundred-dollar raise. That’s eighty thousand dollars a month in extra overhead, but she’s crying poor over fifteen grand for the space that houses them. Who’s being unreasonable here?” The chat went silent. Then he added: “Besides, inflation is hitting everyone. It’s about time you all raised your prices anyway.” In the heavy silence that followed, the tide began to turn. A few merchants started singing a different tune. “Honestly, Caroline, your company is massive. Fifteen grand is a drop in the bucket for you. Why drag your employees through a move over a drop in the bucket?” “We run small businesses here. If your team leaves, we’re ruined…” “Maybe you should take a deep breath, Caroline. Go back to the table and work it out with Richard.” I scrolled through the messages, one by one, feeling a profound chill seep into my bones. I remembered every single one of those names. The bistro owner—six months ago, his business was on the verge of bankruptcy. I had our administrative team set up a feedback group, encouraging our staff to dine there and leave suggestions to help him revamp his menu. That was the only reason his kitchen was still open. The bodega owner—she had zero foot traffic when she first opened. I authorized an exclusive corporate supply agreement with her, routing all our office snack and pantry purchases through her store just to keep her afloat. The café—I had personally invested my own capital to help them franchise. And now, they were tagging me, telling me to “look at the bigger picture.” “Don’t ruin good relations over a little bit of money, Caroline.” A bitter laugh escaped my throat. People are truly frustrating. Suddenly, my private messages pinged. It was the owner of the little flower shop I frequented. She sent a quiet, tentative emoji: “Are you doing okay, Caroline?” Looking at her message, the tight knot in my chest loosened slightly. I closed the app and dialed a number. “What do we have on the market?” I asked my commercial broker. “The faster we can move, the better.” When my broker, Joe, sent over the listings for the fifth potential property, I took one look at the photos and set my phone face down on the desk. “Caroline, I’ve literally scoured this entire sector for you,” Joe sighed over the line. “Either the square footage is a joke, or the lease terms are even more ridiculous than what you have now.” “I’ll be honest with you,” Joe lowered his voice, his tone shifting to a conspiratorial whisper. “Yesterday, I went to inspect that building on the east side. Everything was lined up perfectly, but this morning, the owner suddenly called and jacked up the rate by twenty percent.” “I asked him what changed, and he got incredibly vague. Said the market here is tight right now.” I was quiet. “That building’s vacancy rate literally crossed forty percent last month. Tight?” Joe didn’t answer, but the silence spoke volumes. Richard might be an aging, small-time landlord, but he still had his old boys’ network. And his phone calls were working. Over the next two days, I expanded my search, looking further out toward the southern suburbs, but the results were the same. The moment a commercial agent heard the name of my company, the price miraculously spiked. It was as if the entire city knew I was desperate to escape. My HR director, Helen, knocked on my office door. Her expression was strained. “Caroline, I have some updates. And they aren’t great.” She stepped inside and shut the door. “Kyle from Tech, Tyler from Supply Chain, and Samantha, our senior sales lead…” “They all submitted their resignations this morning.” I flinched. Kyle was one of the original three who had helped me build this company from a garage. Tyler was a high-priced executive I had spent months headhunting last year. Samantha had been with me for six years. “They cited personal reasons on paper,” Helen paused, chewing her lip. “But off the record? They’re terrified of the relocation. They think the company is unstable.” “There are rumors going around that you’re uprooting eight hundred lives just to win a petty feud with a landlord. People are worried this is how you’ll handle crisis management in the future.” I nodded slowly, keeping my face blank. “I understand.” The calls from our key accounts began shortly after. It was Tom Davis, a client of three years. We had ironed out a major contract renewal at the beginning of the year, and we were just waiting on final signatures. “Hey, Caroline. I’ve been hearing some rumblings down your way. Your staff is talking about a massive move?” “Yes, we have relocation plans.” “Right… Well, regarding the renewal contract, I think we might want to hold off on signing for now. Just to see how things settle down? No rush, of course.” I hung up the phone and leaned back against my chair, a dull ache throbbing behind my temples. “Caroline, I ran the numbers.” Charles, our CFO, walked in next, sliding a spreadsheet across my desk. “If we move by the end of the month, factoring in the lost security deposit, tenant improvements for a new space, and the actual moving logistics… the upfront capital requirement looks like this. I want you to be prepared.” I glanced down at the bottom line. “It’s nearly double what the rent increase would cost us for an entire year,” Charles noted quietly. The office fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. He hesitated, choosing his words with extreme care. “So… I was wondering if we should put the employee raise on hold for now? Just until the dust settles. We can explain the situation to the team. I’m sure they’ll understand.” Before I could reply, my phone lit up. It was a text from Richard. “Hey kiddo, heard you’ve been house-hunting for a few days. Find anything nice?” “If you want my advice, stop running around. If you keep dragging this out, it’s not going to be fifteen grand anymore.” He appended a smug, yellow smiley face. I didn’t reply. I looked up at Helen and Charles. “The raises go through as planned. Not a penny less, and it hits everyone’s accounts this month.” Charles opened his mouth to object, but I raised a hand, cutting him off. “Additionally, Helen, I want HR to issue an announcement today.” “Tell everyone that the new headquarters will be in a far more convenient location. The commute will be easier, the amenities will be better, and their quality of life will improve. Give them peace of mind.” “As for those who want to leave… let them go. Don’t fight them. Give them a generous severance package. We part on good terms.” Helen blinked, momentarily stunned, before nodding. “Understood.” The two of them exchanged a look, realized my mind was made up, and quietly exited. Once the door clicked shut, I pulled up my messages and sent a text to Phoebe: “Stop looking at the listings. Set up a walkthrough for the building we discussed last week. We’re going tomorrow morning.” The next morning, I walked into my office to find three people already waiting on my sofa. Richard was occupying the center cushion, legs crossed, wearing a look of absolute triumph. My parents were flanking him. The moment my mother saw me, she stood up, rushing over to grasp my hands. “Caroline, Richard says you’re trying to move the company! Why on earth would you do that? You’ve been so happy here for years.” My father remained on the couch, his face dark and disapproving as he stared me down. “Mom, Dad, what are you doing here?” “Uncle Richard called us,” my mother whispered, squeezing my fingers. “He said you were throwing a tantrum over a rent negotiation. I had to come see what was going on.” “Caroline, Richard is family. He practically gave you this space for free when you were just starting out. Have you forgotten that?” I looked over her shoulder at Richard. He gave me a lazy, mocking smirk but remained silent. “Mom,” I said, keeping my voice as flat and even as possible. “He gave me a discount years ago, yes. I acknowledge that. But in the five years since, he has raised my rent more than ten times, and I paid every single increase without complaint.” “Now, commercial rates are dropping everywhere, and he wants an extra fifteen thousand a month. I’m not being difficult; he’s being extortive.” “What is fifteen thousand dollars to you?” my father interjected, his voice booming. “You run a company of eight hundred people. You’re telling me you can’t afford that?” “It’s not about what I can afford, Dad. It’s about business.” “Business?” My father slammed his hand down on the coffee table. “The man helped us when we had nothing, and now you’re talking about ‘business’? Your wings have grown too big, Caroline. You have zero respect for family.” Richard chimed in, his tone dripping with false benevolence. “Come on, Frank, don’t get worked up. She’s young. She’s built a little business, she thinks she’s a big shot now. It’s natural.” His words were polite, but the condescension in his eyes was sickening. My mother pulled at my sleeve. “Caroline, please. Just listen to us. It’s just fifteen thousand dollars. You’ve always been such a good, obedient girl. Why are you acting like this now?” “Mom, this isn’t about being obedient.” “Then you’re doing this out of pure spite!” my father roared, standing up. “When your brother wanted a job at your company, you shut him out, and we let it go. You’ve been making all this money for years, and what has this family ever seen of it?” “And now you’re showing this level of disrespect to your elders over a rent check? Do you even care about this family?” I took a slow, deep breath, feeling the coldness settle deep in my chest. “Brad wanted an executive role. He has no qualifications, Dad. What exactly was he going to do here?” I looked directly into my father’s eyes. “And as for family… who paid for Brad’s wedding? I did. Who put down the fifty-thousand-dollar down payment on his house? I did.” “Who covered your entire heart surgery out of pocket? I paid every single medical bill. And the monthly allowance I send to your account—where do you think that money comes from?” My father’s face flushed a deep, angry crimson. His jaw worked, but no words came out. Richard let out a sharp, mocking scoff. “Jesus, Frank. Your daughter really thinks she owns you because of her bank account. If she were my kid, I’d have slapped that smug look off her face years ago.” The air in the room turned to ice. In the next fraction of a second, my father’s hand swung. I didn’t even have time to turn my head before his palm cracked against my cheek. My mother shrieked, throwing herself between us to hold him back. “Are you insane?!” My father stood there, his hand trembling in mid-air, his chest heaving. The anger in his eyes suddenly flickered, replaced by a desperate, pleading gaze. “Caroline… just… just do what your Uncle Richard wants…” He couldn’t even finish the sentence. I didn’t say a word. My cheek burned, a sharp, searing heat radiating across my skin. Richard stood up, brushing imaginary dust off his trousers, acting as if he were the bigger man. “Alright, alright. Tell you what, I’ll shave a bit off your utility fees. I know you’ve been looking at that plot in Southside. You know what a dump that neighborhood is.” “Just wire the rent over, and we’ll pretend none of this happened. You’re a woman, Caroline. Being this aggressive isn’t a good look.” I stared at him, and slowly, a smile touched my lips. “You think Southside is a wasteland, Uncle Richard?” “Five years ago, when I moved my company here, this place was a wasteland too.” “What makes you think that once I move, Southside won’t become the new center of the map?” Richard’s smirk froze. He let out a harsh, irritated grunt, turned on his heel, and stormed out of the office. My mother looked at me, then at my father, her eyes filled with a mixture of fear and shame. Without a word, she grabbed his arm and dragged him out behind Richard. The silence of the empty office rushed back in. I walked over to the window, lightly touching the side of my face. It felt like fire. I pulled out my phone and dialed Joe’s number. “The building in Southside,” I said, my voice steady and cold. “I want it. We sign the lease this week.” The final days at the old building were chaotic. Seven more employees resigned. When Helen handed me the list, I felt entirely numb. During their exit interviews, they couldn’t even look me in the eye, mumbling whispered apologies. “I’m sorry, Caroline.” On the client side, things were noisier. A few more partners called, and I returned every single message, reassuring them that the transition would not disrupt operations and that our deliverables would be met on time. They gave polite, non-committal murmurs, but none of them brought up signing the pending contracts. Then, the internet started talking. A local business blog published an editorial. The headline read: “Ego Over Economy: Why One Local CEO Is Uprooting Eight Hundred Employees Over a Rent Dispute.” The comments section was a swamp of judgment: “Petty,” “Short-sighted,” “She won’t last another year.” We scheduled the move for Friday evening. I had Phoebe arrange a fleet of moving trucks and shuttle buses. The staff was instructed to board the shuttles directly after hours, while the moving company handled the heavy packing overnight. On Thursday night, around eleven, I drove past the office building one last time. When we first leased it five years ago, the concrete still smelled fresh. The framed photos of our very first team members, hanging in the lobby, had long since faded under the fluorescent lights. Downstairs, the shopfronts were still brightly lit, looking exactly as they always did. By six on Friday evening, employees were carrying their packed boxes down to the curb. I stood by the entrance, watching the line of shuttle buses idle by the curb. Richard appeared out of nowhere, a lit cigarette dangling from his lip, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked at me like I was a petulant child who would eventually learn her lesson. He made sure to raise his voice so the staff could hear. “Moving to Southside? Your boss sure knows how to pick ’em. Don’t worry, I’ll keep the space open for when she comes begging to move back.” A few employees carrying boxes glanced at him, but no one spoke. One of our junior designers, a kid named Marcus, murmured as he passed me: “Don’t listen to him, Caroline.” Richard stood there, watching the building grow emptier by the minute. For a split second, a shadow of panic crossed his face. But then he remembered the phone calls he’d made, the assurances he’d locked in with his network. The smug, self-satisfied grin returned to his face. By the time the last box was loaded, night had fallen. The final shuttle bus rumbled to life. I cast one final look at the five-story office building. Almost every window was dark. Richard was still standing on the pavement, his face bathed in the harsh, mocking glow of the streetlamp. I turned and stepped onto the bus. The drive was short, the shuttle navigating the highways quickly. When the doors hissed open at our destination, a collective gasp rippled through the front rows of the bus. Then, the chatter erupted. Phoebe stood beside me, her phone already snapping a photo to upload to our company Slack. She looked up at me, her eyes reflecting the bright, modern lights of our new home. “Caroline… this is incredible. It’s lightyears ahead of the old place.” I didn’t say anything immediately. I just stood there, taking in the towering structure. Behind me, employees poured off the buses, phones raised to capture the view. Someone snapped a photo and posted it directly into the local merchants’ group chat. Within three seconds, the chat went wild. The next morning, at six on the dot, Richard’s phone rang. “I’m breaking my lease,” the caller said, without preamble. And then came another. “Richard, we’ve talked it over. The moment our lease is up, we’re out. There’s going to be zero foot traffic in this park without Prescott’s employees.” Richard stared at his phone. On the screen was a photo someone had forwarded to him—a shot of our new building. The device slipped from his fingers, clattering loudly against the tiled floor. The blood drained from his face, leaving him a sickly, pale color. He collapsed onto the floor, staring blankly ahead. “No… that’s impossible… it’s impossible…”

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It was exactly eight o’clock in the evening. I was about to click the checkout button on my Nordstrom app for a high-end La Mer skincare set when the screen flashed a bright, clinical red: “Transaction Declined.” Before I could even process the notification, my phone buzzed with a FaceTime audio call from Cassandra Drake, the new Chief Financial Officer my husband, Richard, had hired only two weeks ago. “Hey, Victoria,” Cassandra’s voice came through, dripping with a sweet, calculated condescension. “Just letting you know I’ve suspended your corporate secondary card. Richard asked me to keep a very tight grip on the company’s operating expenses.” “You’re just at home doing light housework, right? It’s not like you have board meetings or charity galas to attend. Frankly, luxury skincare is wasted on you.” “But don’t worry, I just ordered you a fifteen-dollar bottle of Jergens lotion from CVS. It’s on its way. Much more suited to your lifestyle!” She cut the line before I could draw a breath. A second later, a text message arrived on my screen. It was a screenshot of a delivery confirmation, captioned: “Moisturizer for Victoria.” I stared at the screen, a dry, bitter laugh escaping my throat. The sheer, unadulterated absurdity of it made my head spin. Then, another text popped up: “[Make sure you clear any future purchases with me first!]” I was being told to ask permission from a complete stranger to spend money from my own household’s accounts. The sheer audacity of this woman—using my family’s wealth to lecture me on how to pinch pennies. I forwarded the screenshot directly to Richard. “Fire Cassandra before the end of the day,” I wrote. “Or tomorrow morning, you can pack your bags and go back to driving for Uber in Ohio.” … “Oh, look at that. Running to complain already, Victoria?” Cassandra’s voice was a low, mocking purr when she answered my callback. “Why do you have Richard’s phone?” I demanded, my fingers tightening around the cold metal of my device as I fought to keep my voice level. “Put him on. Now.” “Mr. Moore is in a closed-door meeting, trying to secure a ten-million-dollar deal that actually keeps this company afloat,” Cassandra said, her tone heavy with a smug, self-righteous superiority. “Victoria, while your husband is out here bleeding himself dry to build an empire, you’re sitting comfortably at home. Don’t you think you’re being a little ungrateful?” “I am going to say this exactly once. Unfreeze my cards.” She let out a soft, pitying chuckle. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. Richard has fully authorized me to oversee all accounts—both personal and corporate. Oh, and by the way, I went ahead and canceled your memberships at the country club and your private spa. Those refunds have already been routed back into our cash flow ledger. As for that housekeeper of yours? Five thousand dollars a month is an absolute luxury we cannot afford. I let her go this afternoon.” A cold dread crept down my spine. The air in the room suddenly felt thin, suffocating. Who did this woman think she was? “Cassandra, who gave you the authority to dismantle my personal life?” “Richard did,” she said, entirely unfazed. “The company is in a scaling phase. Every dollar needs to be deployed with precision. Your lavish habits are a liability, and I’ve been tasked to curb them. From now on, you will submit your weekly grocery receipts to the finance department. Anything over fifty dollars will require my written approval.” She didn’t even give me a chance to reply, her voice rising in triumph. “Victoria, Richard is a young, brilliant executive with a company valued at over nine figures. Do you have any idea how many young, beautiful, highly educated women are waiting in the wings for a man like him? You only keep the title of Mrs. Moore because he’s sentimental about the past.” The line went dead. When I tried to call back, the call went straight to a automated message. I was blocked. My hands were shaking with a rage so visceral it made my stomach turn. I was reaching for my keys to drive to the office when the front door clicked open. Mary, our live-in housekeeper of four years, stood in the entryway. Her eyes were red and swollen, and she was clutching a worn suitcase. “Mrs. Moore,” Mary whispered, her voice trembling. “That new executive, Miss Drake, called me. She said if I didn’t pack my bags and vacate the premises immediately, she would have me arrested for criminal trespassing. Please… did I do something wrong?” Looking at Mary’s tear-stained face, something inside me snapped. The fragile structure of my patience shattered completely. “You did absolutely nothing wrong, Mary. Put your bags down. No one is throwing you out of this house.” I dialed Richard’s private personal number. “The mobile customer you are trying to reach is currently unavailable.” Beautiful. Truly beautiful. Richard had gotten so drunk on his self-made billionaire persona that he had willingly handed over the keys to his kingdom to an outsider. Suddenly, my phone vibrated in my palm. It was the billing department from New York Presbyterian Hospital. “Mrs. Moore, we’re calling regarding your mother’s VIP oncology suite. The automated monthly payment failed this evening due to insufficient funds.” My heart stopped. “What?” “If the balance isn’t cleared by tomorrow morning, we’ll have to pause her immunotherapy and targeted drug treatments. Please come down to the billing office to resolve this as soon as possible.” The room seemed to tilt. My mother had been diagnosed with early-stage lung cancer two weeks ago and was preparing for surgery. Her medical expenses were tied to a dedicated corporate trust account. How could there be insufficient funds? “I’m on my way,” I managed to say. I drove through the city like a woman possessed, the tires screeching as I pulled into the hospital’s parking garage. I practically ran to the oncology wing. But as I neared my mother’s room, I saw two orderlies wheeling her gurney out into the hallway. Standing in the center of the corridor, arms crossed and looking thoroughly pleased with herself, was Cassandra Drake. She was barking orders at the staff. “Move it. A thousand dollars a day for a private room is a ridiculous waste of capital. Get her moved to the shared ward on the fourth floor. A six-bed room won’t kill her.” Rage, hot and blinding, surged through my veins. I lunged forward, grabbing Cassandra by the shoulder and shoving her hard against the wall. “What do you think you’re doing? Who gave you the right to touch my mother?” Cassandra stumbled, her designer heels clicking against the linoleum as she regained her footing. She looked at me with deep disgust. “Victoria, I just finished auditing the corporate accounts,” she sneered, smoothing down her blazer. “A massive amount of company capital is being funneled into this hospital every single month. Your mother is living in luxury on experimental, imported drugs. You’re practically draining Richard dry.” My fists clenched so hard my fingernails bit into my palms. “That is a dedicated medical trust set up by the board, you idiot!” “And you don’t contribute a single dime of your own. It’s all Richard’s hard work,” she countered, rolling her eyes. “I froze that account. Richard agreed that during this expansion, all non-essential liabilities must be cut.” The head nurse stepped forward, looking incredibly uncomfortable. “Mrs. Moore, if the payment isn’t cleared, hospital policy dictates…” “If she can’t pay, she goes to the general ward!” Cassandra interrupted, her voice echoing loudly down the hallway, drawing the eyes of patients and visitors alike. “Are you really using your husband’s blood money to give your mother VIP treatment? Most elderly patients do just fine with standard Medicaid. Demanding five-thousand-dollar injections is purely selfish. I’ve already authorized the transfer. The shared ward is only fifty dollars a day.” My mother was trembling on the gurney, her frail hand reaching out to clutch mine. “Victoria…” “Mom, don’t say a word. I’ve got you,” I whispered, squeezing her cold fingers. I turned back to Cassandra, my voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “You are playing with my mother’s life.” “Oh, please, Victoria. Stop trying to guilt-trip Richard. If your family can’t afford healthcare, that’s your problem.” Cassandra reached into her leather tote, pulled out a crumpled stack of twenty-dollar bills, and tossed them at my feet. “Here’s a few hundred bucks of my own money. Go buy her some supplements. Stop being a parasite.” Whispers broke out among the onlookers in the hallway. “She’s spending her husband’s money like water…” “That executive is actually doing her job, protecting the company.” Cassandra smiled, enjoying the audience. She raised her phone, aiming the camera directly at my face. “I’m sending this video to Richard so he can see exactly how hysterical and entitled you are. Once he sees your true colors, he’ll throw you out on the street where you belong.” I looked at her, my expression turning utterly calm. The storm inside me had passed, replaced by a cold, sharp clarity. “Keep recording, Cassandra. Make sure you get every frame.” I turned to the head nurse. “Wheel my mother back into her room. The entire balance will be paid in full tomorrow morning.” Cassandra scoffed, but I ignored her, walking past her into my mother’s room and closing the door on her shrieks of protest. The next morning, I took a taxi to the Moore Enterprises headquarters. When the executive elevator doors slid open on the penthouse floor, two burly security guards immediately stepped forward, blocking my path. “The executive level is restricted today, ma’am. No visitors without an appointment.” I looked at them. They were new faces, hired during the recent expansion. “I’m Victoria Moore. Step aside.” “CFO Drake gave strict instructions. There is a high-stakes board meeting today. No unauthorized persons allowed.” Before I could reply, the sound of clicking heels echoed down the marble hallway. Cassandra appeared, surrounded by a entourage of department heads and junior executives. The moment she saw me, her face contorted into a mockingly sweet grin. “Well, look who it is. Our spendthrift first lady.” A few of the department managers let out low, sycophantic snickers. “Who is she, Cassandra?” a young receptionist at the front desk asked, leaning forward. “Oh, just Richard’s useless housewife,” Cassandra announced loudly. “The one who tried to blow thousands of dollars on luxury face creams while the company is trying to manage its debt.” She walked up to me, looking down her nose. “Victoria, if you’re here to beg Richard to reinstate your allowance, save your breath. I manage the treasury now. In this building, my word is law.” “Your word is law?” I let out a soft laugh, my gaze sweeping over the crowd of employees watching the spectacle. “And the rest of you agree with her?” “Of course we do,” the receptionist chimed in, rolling her eyes. “Miss Drake is saving this company millions. Who do you think you are, coming in here and causing a scene?” Cassandra patted her perfectly styled hair, turning to the guards. “Why are you two still standing there? Richard is arriving with our primary investors any minute. Drag this hysterical woman out of here before she ruins our corporate image.” The two guards immediately stepped forward, grabbing my shoulders and forcing my arms behind my back. “Get your hands off me!” I struggled, but my physical strength was no match for two trained security officers. “Accept reality, Victoria,” Cassandra whispered, stepping closer, her voice laced with venom. “Richard is sick of you. You’re a relic of his past. You think you’re still the queen of this castle? Here, Richard is king, and I am the one who controls his wealth.” None of the employees stepped in. They watched me being dragged toward the elevator, whispering and snickering among themselves. “She’s so pathetic.” “Richard deserves someone actually on his level.” “Cassandra and Richard look like a real power couple anyway.” Just then, the chime of the private executive elevator rang out. The doors slid open, and a group of men in bespoke suits stepped out. Leading them was Richard Moore, looking polished, arrogant, and entirely detached. “What is the meaning of this commotion?” Richard barked, his brow furrowing as he took in the scene. Cassandra’s sharp, malicious face transformed instantly. Her eyes welled with tears, and she ran toward him, throwing herself slightly into his space. “Richard! Thank goodness you’re here!” she whimpered, her voice trembling. “Victoria… she barged in here and started screaming. I tried to explain that we had to freeze her cards to protect the company’s capital, but she attacked me. I had to have security step in before she ruined your meeting with the investors.” Richard’s face darkened instantly. He walked over to me, looking at my disheveled hair and the guards holding my arms. There wasn’t a shred of concern in his eyes. Only cold, deep-seated embarrassment. “Victoria, haven’t you embarrassed me enough?” he hissed. “It’s bad enough you act like a spoiled child at home, but bringing your tantrums to my office? Cassandra is a highly paid professional. She froze those accounts under my direct authorization!” I stared at the man I had shared a bed with for five years. A sudden wave of nausea washed over me. “Is this really where you stand, Richard? She cut off my mother’s cancer treatments and fired our housekeeper. Did you authorize that too?” “The company is in a liquidity crunch!” Richard yelled, entirely defensive. “Cassandra is doing her job, trimming the fat! Instead of supporting me, you come here to harass my executives? Apologize to Cassandra. Now.” Cassandra stood behind him, her lips curving into a silent, triumphant smirk. “Victoria,” Richard warned, leaning in. “Apologize to Cassandra and go home. Otherwise, I will cut off your living expenses entirely.” I looked at him, and for the first time in years, I felt absolutely nothing. No anger, no sorrow. Just a clean, empty space. I wrenched my arms free from the guards and stood up straight, smoothing down my coat. “Richard, have you sat in that leather chair so long that you actually forgot whose name is on the deed of this company?” Richard blinked, momentarily thrown off. “What are you talking about? Have you completely lost your mind?” “You’re about to find out.” I pulled out my phone and pressed a speed dial contact. “Walter. Bring the legal team and the forensic auditors up to the penthouse.” Before Richard could speak, the doors of the freight elevator opened. Walter Hughes, the legendary corporate attorney and the second-largest shareholder of Moore Enterprises, stepped out, followed by a dozen men and women in dark suits carrying heavy leather briefcases. Richard’s face drained of color. “Walter? What is this? I didn’t call a board meeting today.” Walter didn’t even look at Richard. He walked straight past him, stopped in front of me, and bowed his head respectfully. “The entire legal and forensic teams are present, Mrs. Moore. We await your instructions.” The lobby fell into a suffocating, dead silence.

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In our social circle, my husband, Adrian, was the textbook definition of a devoted partner. He was the man other husbands were compared to, always pulling out my chair, anticipating my needs before I even realized them myself. But no one knew the silent boundary lines he drew around that devotion. I wanted to go swimming, but Adrian wouldn’t allow it. “You’re too fragile, Iris,” he’d say, brushing a stray hair from my forehead. “And you’ve always been afraid of the water.” But the thing was, everyone who actually knew me before our marriage knew I was an excellent swimmer. I had never been afraid of the water. I wanted to eat at the greasy, late-night food trucks downtown, but Adrian shook his head. “The bacteria, the low-grade oil—your stomach simply can’t handle that kind of food.” Yet, having grown up in a family that struggled to put food on the table, my childhood had been defined by eating whatever cheap leftovers we could find. My stomach was far more resilient than he cared to admit. I wanted to get a perm, to give my hair some volume and life, but Adrian refused. “Straight hair is classic,” he’d soft-spokenly insist. “It suits your quiet nature.” My friends, however, had always teased me that my pin-straight hair made me look like a washed-out ghost, arguing that it wasted my sharp, expressive features. One afternoon, while organizing some old digital files, I logged into a college email account I hadn’t used in years. An unread message from the city symphony’s recruitment board sat in the archive: “Voluntary Withdrawal from Symphony Violinist Audition.” I stared at the screen, my hands turning cold. Adrian had told me my audition tape had been rejected. He had held me while I cried, telling me the board just didn’t think I was a good fit. Clutching my phone, I drove straight to his office, my mind spinning. But as I reached his door, the sound of muffled weeping from inside stopped me. “If my sister were still here,” a young woman sobbed, her voice raw with grief, “you wouldn’t have to stare at a replacement’s chest just to feel close to her!” The blood rushed to my ears, a violent, throbbing pressure hammering against my ribs. Five years ago, I had received a heart transplant. … I stood outside that door for what felt like an eternity, my legs turning entirely numb, waiting for Adrian to say something. To deny it. To defend us. But before he could speak, I turned and fled. At one in the morning, my phone buzzed with a text from Adrian. It was unusually brief. Just two words. “Working late.” No explanation, no sweet sign-off. It was entirely unlike him. He knew I hated being alone in the house at night and usually went out of his way to keep me updated. Tonight was the exception. I sat in the dark living room, clutching an old Polaroid photo. The paper was worn, depicting a brilliant orange-gold sunset melting over a vast ocean, the warmth of the light stretching beyond the horizon. When I had woken up from my transplant surgery five years ago, someone had left that photo on my bedside table. The nurse told me it belonged to the donor’s fiancé—they were supposed to have been married that very month. I still remembered the profound pity in the nurse’s eyes. “The poor boy loved her to pieces,” she had murmured. “It’s a tragedy, really.” A tragedy. I swallowed the bitter taste in my mouth, the weight on my chest making it difficult to draw a full breath. With trembling fingers, I opened Adrian’s social media profile and looked at his banner image. It was a brilliant orange-gold sunset over the ocean. An exact match to the Polaroid in my hand. My own profile banner was our wedding photo. On the day we took it, the photographer had told us to look directly into the camera. But right before the shutter clicked, Adrian had suddenly leaned down, pressing his ear flat against my left breast. I had laughed, trying to push him away, but he remained still, his voice thick and raspy when he spoke: “Don’t move. Just for a second.” Even the photographer had been touched. “Oh, that’s beautiful! You can truly tell how desperately Mr. Morton loves his wife.” What I had cherished as a moment of pure romance now felt like a dull blade twisting in my ribs. After sitting awake all night, I finally called Belinda, my closest friend. “Iris? What’s wrong? Is your heart acting up again?” Her voice was tight with immediate concern. “We can’t delay the evaluation for a secondary transplant. What did Adrian say about the hospital’s latest report?” With transplant patients, the reality of chronic rejection is always lingering. For five years, Adrian had been meticulous about my immunosuppressants, watching me swallow them every morning. I used to think it was devotion. I would wrap my arms around his neck, teasingly asking, “Are you really that afraid of losing me?” But the word “losing” had always made his face go pale. He would peel my hands off his neck, his expression turning cold and distant. “I won’t let anything happen to it,” he would say. “To it.” Not “to you”. Two weeks ago, my body had started showing signs of severe rejection. I hadn’t told him yet, terrified of worrying him. I squeezed my eyes shut, my voice barely a whisper. “Belinda… who was the donor? What was her connection to Adrian?” Silence stretched over the line. “You found out?” Belinda asked cautiously. “Did Adrian finally talk to you about it? Has he still not let go of Delilah?” My hand went to my chest. Every beat of my heart felt heavy, a dull ache radiating outward. So her name was Delilah. Hearing my silence, Belinda tried to comfort me. “I know it’s hard, Iris. But no one actually spends their life clinging to a ghost. We’ve all watched him these past five years. He’s taken care of you with more devotion than anyone could have expected.” Maybe she was right. Even if his initial intentions were tied to a ghost, five years of shared life had to mean something. Surely he had let go by now. I hung up, changed my clothes, and left the house. I wanted to prove Belinda right. I wanted to fight for my own life, for my own identity. I went to a local boutique salon. I dyed my hair a rich, warm chestnut and got soft, modern curls. Then I went home, cooked a beautiful dinner, and waited for Adrian. When the front door clicked open, I forced a bright smile. “Adrian, you’re—” The words died in my throat. He wasn’t alone. He leaned down, gently helping a young woman step out of her sneakers before he even looked up at me. When his eyes finally met mine, his pupils contracted, his face tightening instantly. “What did you do to your hair?!” He didn’t even take off his shoes. He strode across the hardwood floor, his hand reaching out to roughly grab a handful of my new curls. “I told you never to touch your hair. Why don’t you ever listen to me?” The sharp tug on my scalp brought hot tears to my eyes. A wave of sheer absurdity washed over me. “I wanted to change it,” I said, my voice shaking. “It’s my hair. Let go, you’re hurting me.” Adrian’s expression grew incredibly dark. “Have you forgotten about your heart—” “Adrian, I’m really thirsty,” a sweet, youthful voice interrupted us. I looked past him toward the entryway. It was the girl from his office. She stood there, poised and entirely comfortable, showing no sign of awkwardness at having walked into a domestic dispute. Adrian’s grip slackened. He turned away from me, his voice softening instantly. “I’ll get you some water. Your hand is still healing, go sit on the couch.” Then he turned back to me, his tone flat and dictatorial. “This is Daisy. She’s the sister of an old friend. She’s going to stay in our guest room until she finds her own apartment.” My nails dug so deep into my palms that they broke the skin. “What friend?” I asked, staring directly into his eyes. “Have I ever met her?” Before Adrian could answer, a soft, mocking laugh came from the living room. “She passed away, Iris. You won’t be meeting her,” Daisy said, her eyes scanning me with blatant condescension. “Though, if she were still here, Adrian would probably be the happiest man in the world.” Despite the obvious malice in her voice, Adrian said nothing to defend me. He simply handed her the glass of water. “Get your hair straightened tomorrow,” he told me, his tone leaving no room for argument. “This look doesn’t suit you.” I bit my lip and said nothing. He took my silence as compliance, just as he always did. “Oh, the camellias are still here!” Daisy squealed, stepping toward the console table. “Don’t touch those!” I blurted out. Adrian was fiercely protective of that plant. Once, I had clipped a single white bloom to use as a centerpiece, and he had reacted with a cold, terrifying fury. It was the first time he had ever raised his voice at me, followed by a month of absolute silence. Even when I bought two expensive, perfectly manicured replacement bushes to apologize, he had refused to look at them. Daisy ignored my warning, plucking a white flower and tucking it behind her ear. “How do I look, Adrian?” Adrian only sighed, a look of mild indulgence on his face as he moved the pot to a safer shelf. My heart sank into a cold, dark void. What was the point of that month of freezing silence he had subjected me to? Why was the boundary so rigid for me, but entirely non-existent for her? Stepping backward, my heel caught the sharp corner of the wooden coffee table. I stumbled, a sharp pain radiating up my ankle as a thin line of blood began to seep onto the floor. Seeing the blood, Adrian’s entire posture went rigid. “How can you be so careless!” He hurried to the closet and grabbed the medical kit. But before he could even kneel beside me, Daisy let out a sharp cry. “Adrian! My hand… I think the cut opened up again!” He dropped the bandages instantly, turning his back on me to rush to her side. “Does it hurt? Let me see. Do we need to go to the hospital?” The blood trickling down my ankle felt ice-cold against my skin. I looked past Adrian’s frantic shoulders and caught Daisy’s triumphant smirk. “Iris,” Adrian said, his brow furrowing slightly as he noticed my gaze. “Daisy’s hands are her livelihood. She’s a classical violinist. She can’t afford any permanent damage. Don’t make a big deal out of this. She’s like a sister to me.” A sister. Of course. If Delilah were alive, he would be her brother-in-law. “Exactly,” Daisy whined, her eyes shining with mock tears. “Adrian promised he’d always take care of me.” I caught my reflection in the glass cabinet—my beautiful, soft curls had been pulled into a messy, tangled bird’s nest. The physical ache in my ankle was nothing compared to the hollow emptiness in my chest. “I don’t want her staying in our house,” I said. Adrian’s jaw tightened. “Iris, stop acting like a child.” Like a child? For wanting boundaries in my own home? Daisy stood up abruptly, her face flushing red. She pushed Adrian away, grabbed the pot of camellias, and marched toward the door. “Fine! I’ll leave! I knew your wife would hate having me here anyway. I’ll just take everything my sister left behind with me, so I don’t offend her precious eyes!” Without hesitation, Adrian lunged forward to stop her. As he rushed past, his shoulder shoved me hard, sending me crashing onto the hardwood floor. My injured ankle twisted beneath me, a sharp burst of agony making me gasp. But his words were far more damaging. “She’s lost her mind over a haircut, Daisy. This is your home. You can stay as long as you want.” Daisy was instantly mollified. Adrian carefully took the camellias from her hands, holding the pot as if it were made of spun glass. My gaze drifted out the window to the garden, where two empty clay pots sat abandoned in the dirt, their contents long since rotted into the soil. So the camellias had belonged to Delilah. The replacements I had bought were discarded like trash, but the plant Adrian held in his arms was treated like a sacred relic. “Adrian,” I whispered from the floor, my voice entirely flat. “Was her sister the only woman you ever truly loved?” The room fell into a suffocating silence. I didn’t expect an answer, but the silence itself was a confirmation that carved out whatever was left of my spirit. When I finally managed to limp up to our bedroom, everything looked different. During our marriage, I had tried so hard to make this house feel like ours. But every piece of decor I brought home would quietly disappear within a few days. “I’m just sentimental,” Adrian had explained at the time. “I like keeping things the way they’ve always been.” He wasn’t sentimental about the furniture. He was keeping the space frozen for her. I was nothing more than a living container, a warm vessel keeping Delilah’s heart beating in a world she had been forced to leave. In the quiet hours of the night, I heard Adrian in the hallway—gently running a bath for Daisy, helping her unpack, making sure she had everything she needed. The tender, protective care that I thought belonged only to me was easily given to someone else. Five years of shared warmth, of late-night conversations and whispered promises, had simply been a side effect of the heart inside me. When Adrian finally came to bed, he pulled me against him, his large, warm palm resting directly over my chest. He held me tightly, ignoring the stiffness of my body, and sighed softly against my neck. “Iris, I didn’t want to lie to you. I only kept it from you because I didn’t want you to worry. When Delilah died in that accident, her biggest fear was leaving Daisy alone. You have such a good heart, Iris. I knew you’d understand.” He spoke with such gentle reasonable certainty that any objection on my part would make me look cruel. I didn’t try to pull away, nor did I argue. But the tears slipped silently from my eyes, soaking into the pillow. The next morning, I found Daisy sitting at the kitchen island, sipping coffee. When I opened the cabinet to grab a mug, my favorite ceramic cup was gone. In its place stood two customized photo mugs. One showed Daisy laughing with a girl who looked remarkably like her. The other showed Adrian and that same girl, their cheeks pressed together, smiling radiantly under a bright summer sun. I closed the cabinet door, the morning light suddenly feeling entirely too bright. Daisy stepped up behind me, reaching past my shoulder to grab one of the mugs. “Do you like this roast, Iris? My sister always insisted on this specific brand.” It was a bitter, dark roast. I had always hated it. Adrian was the one who drank it every morning. “Oh, and those oil paintings in the entryway,” Daisy continued, gesturing toward the hall. “My sister loved that artist. I was so surprised to see them here.” She took one of the framed paintings off the wall and held it up to me, her eyes gleaming. “Isn’t it fascinating? Once you fall in love with something, you can never really let it go.” I stared at the heavy, dark canvas. “I don’t like it.” Daisy blinked, caught off guard by my directness. The dark, brooding landscape had always clashed with the minimalist aesthetic I wanted for our home. When I had suggested replacing it, Adrian had looked at me with deep disappointment. “Iris, as my wife, I hoped you would learn to appreciate fine art.” The sound of the front door unlocking broke the silence. Daisy’s expression shifted instantly. With a sudden, violent movement, she slammed the heavy frame against the edge of the console. The glass shattered, raining shards onto the floor. She let out a piercing, terrified shriek. “Iris! Why would you break my sister’s favorite painting?!” Adrian stormed into the hallway, his face instantly contorting with anger. He grabbed my wrist, his grip painfully tight. “Iris! What is wrong with you? Apologize to Daisy right now!” I looked into his eyes, seeing only raw, defensive hostility. I let out a soft, humorless laugh. “Are you demanding this apology for her, Adrian? Or for her sister?” Daisy didn’t wait for a response. She sobbed dramatically and ran out the front door. Adrian released my wrist, his voice cold and disgusted. “Stop this childish jealousy. And go fix your hair.” He shoved a business card for his personal hair stylist into my palm. “I don’t have time for this.” He turned and ran after Daisy. I stood in the quiet hallway, looking down at the card. Without a word, I walked to the kitchen and dropped it into the trash can. I called Belinda. “I’m divorcing Adrian. And please, don’t tell him about my transplant status yet.” Belinda was furious on my behalf, her voice shaking with protective anger. “Do you need me to come over? Do you want me to find someone to deal with him?” I couldn’t help but smile slightly. “No. He probably won’t sign the papers initially. I’m going to contact a lawyer and pack my things tomorrow.” “Why wouldn’t he sign? What right does he have?” I smiled bitterly. She didn’t understand. That heart was his holy grail. He would never let it walk out of his life. I spent the afternoon drafting the divorce agreement, printing it, and signing my name at the bottom. Just as I finished, my phone vibrated. It was a colleague from the symphony association. “Iris, I’m so sorry, but the board rejected your petition to rejoin the first chair. They’ve already filled the position… apparently, your husband wrote a glowing, two-thousand-word recommendation for the new violinist.” The world seemed to tilt. “Who is she?” “A girl named Daisy. She’s taking over the lead chair starting next week.” I couldn’t hear anything else. My eyes drifted to the glass display case in the corner of the room. Inside sat the handcrafted violin Adrian had gifted me when I was “rejected” the first time. “I’ll be your only audience,” he had promised me back then. Tears finally spilled over my cheeks. I walked over, opened the case, grabbed the violin by its neck, and smashed it violently against the edge of the dining table. In the deep quiet of the night, a metallic “snip-snip” sound woke me. I reached up to my head, my fingers meeting short, jagged edges. A cold dread washed down my spine. They were cutting my hair. The soft chestnut curls I had chosen for myself lay scattered across the floor like dead leaves. Adrian stood over me, holding the shears, his expression entirely neutral. Before he could speak, Daisy giggled from the doorway. “I told him the only way I’d forgive him was if we got rid of those ridiculous curls. I didn’t think he’d actually do it!” I sat up, my body shaking with a rage so intense it felt physical. Adrian looked down at me, his voice calm and patronizing. “The chemical perm is bad for your recovery anyway, Iris. I’m doing this for your health.” I stared at him, a ragged laugh escaping my throat. “Come on, Adrian,” Daisy complained, pulling at his sleeve. “I’m starving, and my debut performance is tomorrow. Let’s go get dinner.” Adrian let her pull him toward the door, but he paused at the threshold. “Iris, I bought that lobster bisque you like from the market. And I know you love the violin—I left a ticket for my performance on the counter.” I stared at the hair on the floor. I have a severe shellfish allergy. I am not the one who loves lobster bisque. When I finally finished packing my bags, the photo mug of Adrian and Delilah was sitting on the coffee table. I slid my wedding ring off my finger and dropped it into the cup. I called Belinda one last time. “Let’s schedule the surgery for tomorrow.” I was going to give him back his lover’s heart. From now on, I would only belong to myself. At that exact moment, miles away, Adrian’s phone screen lit up with an automated notification from St. Jude’s Memorial Hospital: “Pre-op verification required for patient Iris Morton.”

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On the night of my boyfriend’s birthday, he closed his eyes and made three wishes over the cake I’d spent all afternoon baking. “First, I hope Cora is happy every single day.” “Second, I hope Cora’s project wins the design award.” “Third, I hope Mochi, the kitten we’re raising together, grows up healthy and strong.” Cora is my best friend. I froze. But the room, packed with our friends, dissolved into laughter and cheers. Cora’s cheeks flushed pink, and she gave Troy a playful, mock-annoyed shove. “Why didn’t you make a wish for Summer?” she teased, her voice dripping with sweet innocence. “She’s your actual girlfriend, you know.” Troy looked at me, his smile lazy and utterly confident. “Do I even need to say hers out loud? We all know what she wants.” “To marry me.” Then, he dropped to one knee and pulled out a small velvet box. If this had been a few months ago, I probably would have burst into tears and nodded until my neck hurt. But now, as he slid the diamond band onto my ring finger, the metal felt cold and loose. It immediately slipped off my knuckle, dangling precariously. It was a size too big. Exactly Cora’s size. A quiet, humorless laugh slipped past my lips. I had loved Troy for seven years. But letting him go took only a single second. … Someone who loved drama laughed, shouting, “Hey, isn’t that ring a little big? Looks like it might fit Cora better!” Cora’s face burned a deeper crimson, and she quickly hid her hands behind her back. “Stop it, guys. Don’t say things like that.” The more she tried to play it down, the thicker the tension in the room became. Another friend chimed in, laughing. “What are you hiding your hands for, Cora? Is it actually your size?” I stood in the center of the laughter, my fingertips turning numb. Cora rushed to my side, wrapping her arm around mine. “Summer, please don’t be mad. Troy definitely didn’t do this on purpose.” Her voice was soft, laced with an anxious, protective warmth that felt entirely performative. “He’s always helping me carry my rings and bracelets when I’m working. He probably just got the sizes mixed up.” Her eyes were glassy, like she was on the verge of tears, but there was a flicker of quiet triumph swimming in her pupils. So they had gotten that close. Close enough for Troy to hold her jewelry, to slide bracelets onto her wrists. Close enough that he remembered her finger measurements better than mine. Cora squeezed my fingers, offering a small, pitying smile. “Honestly, Summer, you’re just too tiny. Everything slips right off you.” She let her eyes drift down to my chest, her tone light, almost teasing. “It’s like when we go lingerie shopping. Even in a 32A, you still have room to spare.” A wave of snickers rippled through the room. I stood frozen, heat rushing to my face. But Troy only looked at Cora with a helpless, fond shake of his head. “Stop teasing her, Cora,” he said. His voice held a nominal warning, but his eyes were completely indulgent. Someone called out to cut the cake. “Alright, proposal’s done! Birthday boy, cut the cake!” I picked up the silver cake server to hand it to him when Cora’s phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen and lit up. “Oh my gosh! The pet-sitter just sent a video of Mochi!” Troy froze, immediately leaning over her shoulder. “Let me see.” Cora held the phone up between them. On the screen, a tiny, round kitten was batting at a yarn ball. Their shoulders brushed, their heads tilted together so closely that there was no physical space left for anyone else. Not even me. Standing before the birthday cake I’d poured my heart into, I felt like an uninvited guest at my own life. When Troy finally remembered to cut the cake, he took the server from my hand, sliced the first piece, and naturally handed the plate to Cora. “You barely ate anything at dinner,” he murmured. “Get some sugar in you.” Cora hesitated, lowering her voice. “Troy, is this really okay? Summer made this from scratch. She should have the first slice.” Troy didn’t even look up. “She won’t mind.” Hearing those three words, I felt a profound, exhausting wave of tiredness wash over me. Over the last few years, “She won’t mind” had become Troy’s favorite shield. When Cora worked late and he drove across town to pick her up: ““Cora is your best friend, Summer. You won’t mind, right?”” When Cora’s presentation failed and he stayed up all night helping her redesign it: ““I’m only doing this because she’s your friend, Summer. You won’t mind.”” When Cora called saying Mochi was sick, and he spent the night at her apartment: ““It’s just a kitten, Summer. You won’t mind.”” But Troy had never once asked me. He never asked if I actually minded. Cora took the plate, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears as she looked at me. “Summer, please don’t be upset. I’m just having a bit of low blood sugar today.” As if to prove her point, she swayed slightly. Troy instantly caught her by the waist. “Why didn’t you say something earlier?” His voice cracked with genuine worry. “Sit down.” He guided her gently to the sofa, placing the cake in her hands with a practiced ease that suggested he’d done this a thousand times before. He didn’t ask if I was tired after standing all night. He didn’t notice that I had been running around since dawn to organize this party, or that I hadn’t eaten a single bite. I looked down at the empty, oversized ring on my finger. It was comically large. The moment I bent my hand, it slid down my palm. Just like this relationship. I had tried so hard to hold onto it, but some things are simply impossible to grasp. Without saying another word, I grabbed my coat and left. By the time I got back to our apartment, a text from Cora popped up. ‘Summer, please don’t be mad. Troy feels terrible about getting the size wrong. I’m with him right now helping him pick out a replacement.’ Below it was a photo. Under the bright, sterile lights of a luxury jewelry boutique, Cora sat next to Troy, a sparkling diamond ring resting on her finger. Troy was leaning in, studying her hand closely, checking the fit. I stared at the image, memories flooding back. I remembered the first time I introduced Cora to Troy. She was loud, vibrant, and they immediately started bickering. She called him a brooding snob; he called her a chatterbox. I had sat between them, laughing, genuinely happy that the two most important people in my life were getting along. Later, when we went out for ramen, Cora would always fish the soft-boiled egg out of my bowl, and Troy would slide his over with a cold, protective look. ““Don’t steal hers. Order your own if you want one.”” Back then, I believed I would always be his priority. But somewhere along the way, their bickering morphed into a private language only they understood. Their shared jokes turned me into an awkward spectator, forcing a smile from the sidelines. In a three-person dynamic, the one being pushed out is always the last to realize it. Now, Troy was buying me a new ring, but he was still using Cora’s finger to measure it. To them, there was probably nothing wrong with that. At 11:00 PM, a screenshot from a mutual group chat was forwarded to me by a friend. Someone had messaged Troy: ‘Dude, you need to go apologize to Summer. That ring thing tonight was really messed up.’ It took Troy ten minutes to reply. ‘Summer’s just being dramatic. I’m already getting her a new one. She’ll cool off once she’s had some time.’ Cora chimed in: ‘It’s all my fault. Maybe I should go over tomorrow and apologize to her myself.’ Troy replied immediately: ‘How is any of this your fault? You were put in an incredibly awkward position tonight. She shouldn’t have taken her mood out on you.’ I stared at the screen. Surprisingly, my chest didn’t ache. Perhaps I had simply run out of pain. When the final blow lands on a heart that is already numb, it barely registers. A little while later, the front door clicked open. Troy walked in, holding a sleek black jewelry box, which he offered to me with a sheepish, careful smile. “Summer, I messed up. The ring was totally on me. I got you a new one.” He took my hand and slid it onto my ring finger. This time, it fit perfectly. But as I looked down, I noticed a tiny engraving on the inside of the band. “T & C.” Troy & Cora. A sharp, sarcastic laugh escaped my throat. Troy followed my gaze, his face freezing for a fraction of a second. “The jeweler must have messed up the engraving. Don’t overthink it.” But then, a small piece of paper slipped out of the shopping bag and fluttered to the floor. It was the receipt. Same day. Same store. Troy had bought two rings. The one in my hand was cheap. The other one—the one meant for Cora—cost three times as much. The realization hit me like a splash of ice water. This ring, engraved with his and Cora’s initials, was never meant for me in the first place. He had simply given me Cora’s leftover. Troy cleared his throat, gently patting my head. “When we actually get married, I’ll buy you an even better one.” Another “next time.” Another “later.” Troy always assumed my hurt could be patched up with future promises. My mind flashed back to our first trip together. I had spent two weeks meticulously planning every detail—the best beach for sunsets, the quietest coves, the local seafood spots. But at the airport, as we checked in, I discovered my name wasn’t on the tickets. Troy had stared at the screen in confusion before muttering, “I think I put Cora’s passport number in by mistake. The tickets are non-refundable, and the hotel is already booked… Summer, I’ll take you next time.” That island vacation ended up being just the two of them. Cora posted dozens of photos—sunsets, palm trees, and a shot of Troy carrying her sandals as she waded through the surf. I had cried myself to sleep back then. But when Troy returned, he only handed me a box of duty-free chocolates. ““Don’t be sad, babe. I’ll definitely take you next time.”” Then there was the concert. An indie artist I’d loved for a decade was coming to town. Troy managed to get two front-row tickets. I was so excited I couldn’t sleep. But at the gate, the ticket scanner shook her head. “I’m sorry, these tickets are registered under Troy Collins and Cora Ross.” Troy rubbed the back of his neck, looking mildly embarrassed. “I messed up again.” So he and Cora sat in the front row. That night, Cora posted a photo of her leaning her head on Troy’s shoulder, holding up a glowing wristband. ‘The best songs, shared with the person who knows me best.’ When I confronted him, he only sighed. “Summer, you’re overthinking. Cora is your best friend, not some stranger. I couldn’t just leave her to go to a concert alone, could I?” He always had an excuse. And I was always expected to be understanding. I pulled the ring off my finger and dropped it back into the box. Turning around, I walked into the bedroom and pulled my suitcase from the closet. As I began packing, I realized how little of myself was actually in this apartment. The cashmere throw on the sofa was bought because Cora complained about being cold when she visited. The next day, Troy had ordered it. I opened my vanity drawer and found a silver chain bracelet. It was my birthday gift from him last year—a cheap, thin thing in a crumpled box. ““It’s the thought that counts,”” he’d said. Yet, for Cora’s birthday this year, he had bought her a custom-designed necklace. I had found the receipt tucked inside a book she left on our sofa. $2,800. More than ten times the price of my gift. Even our fridge was stocked with the cold-brew oat milk lattes Cora loved, while my favorite jasmine tea had been empty for months. I had reminded Troy several times to restock it. “I’ll get it next time,” he’d say. But there was never a next time. Troy stood at the bedroom doorway, watching me pack my clothes. His patience finally wore thin. “How long are you going to keep up this tantrum?” he snapped. “I got you the ring. I apologized. What more do you want?” I zipped the suitcase shut, my voice barely a whisper. “Troy.” “There won’t be a next time.” He scoffed, turning on his heel and slamming the front door as he left the apartment. I didn’t run after him. On my phone, the confirmation email for my overseas transfer sat quietly in my inbox. My flight was booked for tomorrow morning. Troy and I. We were done. The next morning, I drove to Cora’s apartment. I needed to retrieve the glass photo frame I’d made for her when we were eighteen. It held our very first photo together. On the back, I had written in careful, looping cursive: “Summer & Cora, best friends forever.” I remembered how Cora had cried when I gave it to her, clutching me tight. ““Summer, I’ll never lose you. Ever.”” Using the spare key, I unlocked the door, only to freeze. Cora was standing in the hallway, wearing an oversized designer button-down shirt that hung loosely off her shoulders. A faint, pink mark was visible just below her collarbone. I recognized that shirt. It was the limited-edition Tom Ford piece I’d searched three different cities to find for Troy’s birthday last year. Cora gasped when she saw me, but she quickly recovered, her lips curving into a soft, sleepy smile. “Summer! What are you doing here?” She rubbed her eyes, her voice thick with sleep. “Mochi was throwing up all night, and Troy was so worried he drove over. We were up until three in the morning. We’re both absolutely exhausted.” I stared at her bare legs peeking out from under the shirt, my fists clenching so hard my nails bit into my palms. She blinked innocently, her eyes sparkling with a subtle, intimate amusement. “By the way, your boy is in serious shape. But his abs are like granite—my neck is literally sore from resting on them all night.” An icy chill swept through my veins. I looked past her toward the cracked bedroom door. “You slept together?” Cora laughed, waving it off. “Oh, please. It’s not the first time. When Mochi was a sick kitten, we used to fall asleep on the floor together all the time.” She stepped closer, playfully tapping the tip of my nose. “Don’t worry, babe. I tested him for you. Even with a pretty girl in his arms, he was a total gentleman. Though he could probably work on his form—tell him to hit the gym more.” Just then, Troy leaned against the bedroom doorframe, a low chuckle escaping him. “Who was the one clinging to me all night then? Saying I’m softer than the cat?” Cora flushed, turning around to swat at his chest. “Troy! Shut up!” They dissolved into giggles, flirting and play-fighting. Cora tripped slightly, falling flush against his chest, her soft curves pressing right against him. Troy’s laughter faltered. His ears flushed a deep, violent red. He made a half-hearted attempt to pull away, but his hands naturally settled on her waist. Cora didn’t move either. They remained locked in that quiet, loaded embrace, completely forgetting I was even standing in the room. I looked down at the glass photo frame in my hands and let out a dry laugh. “Cora.” “Do you know what people call girls like you?” “A home-wrecker. A cheap, pathetic home-wrecker.” The laughter died instantly. Cora’s face went pale, tears immediately welling in her eyes. “Summer, how could you say that to me? Troy is just my friend.” I smirked, cold disgust radiating from my chest. “Friends don’t sleep on his chest all night.” Troy’s face darkened. “Summer, that’s enough.” I turned my gaze to him, my voice trembling but sharp. “Enough? You two are sleeping in the same bed, and I’m supposed to just pretend nothing happened?” Troy frowned. “Summer, is there really any need to be this vicious? Cora is clearly better than you in every way, but do you have to be this jealous? Stop making up disgusting lies about us.” The words felt like a physical blow. My hand shook, and the glass photo frame slipped from my fingers. It shattered on the hardwood floor, pieces of glass flying everywhere. The old photo fell right into the center of the shards. I instinctively knelt to grab it. Cora reached down at the same time. The sharp edges of the glass sliced into both of our hands simultaneously. I gasped as a sharp pain bloomed in my palm. But Troy didn’t even look at me. He lunged forward, grabbing Cora’s hand. “Are you okay? How deep is it?” Cora wept, shaking her head. “I’m fine… Summer’s bleeding too…” Only then did Troy glance at me. His eyes lingered on the blood pooling in my palm for a split second before he looked away. “She can handle herself. If you scar your hand, what then?” I knelt there among the shattered glass, the physical pain suddenly feeling dull, distant. Troy scooped Cora up in his arms and walked toward the door. As he passed me, his voice was ice. “Get some help, Summer. When you learn how to speak to people properly, you can apologize to her.” The front door slammed shut behind them. I went back to our apartment, threw the old photo into the trash, and packed my passport, bank cards, and a few clothes into my suitcase. My phone buzzed with a text from Troy. ‘I’m taking you to that Italian place you like tonight. You’re going to apologize to Cora, and we’re going to put this behind us.’ I stared at the words, then quietly turned the phone off. The click of my suitcase locking was barely audible. But in that quiet room, I knew I was never looking back.

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In the third year of my marriage to Beck, I accidentally unlocked the hidden folder on his phone. There, staring back at me from the screen, were intimate photos of him and another woman in bed. My hands shook as I tapped through the photo library and then opened his notes app. What I found wasn’t just a fleeting mistake; it was a meticulous, years-long archive of his life with his ex-girlfriend, Talia. There were even photos of them holding a baby girl, smiling warmly, looking every bit like a happy, picture-perfect family. But before we married, Beck had looked me in the eye and promised he had deleted every trace of his past. He had held my hands and sworn he would never betray me. I shook him awake, my chest tight with a sudden, suffocating panic. He blinked against the light, his expression shifting from confusion to a brief flash of guilt, before settling into a weary sigh. “Since you’ve seen it, I suppose there’s no point in hiding it anymore,” he said, sitting up. “Talia doesn’t believe in marriage. We broke up before she realized she was pregnant, and I couldn’t just abandon my own daughter.” He looked at me, completely devoid of remorse. “I’ve given you a stable, respectable marriage, and I get to be responsible for them. Isn’t this a win-win? Why do you have to make a scene?” … “A scene?” I threw the phone onto the mattress between us. My voice was dangerously quiet, but my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I picked up the phone again and began reading his notes aloud, each word tasting like ash in my mouth. ‘September 5th — Mia’s first day of preschool. She was so excited, saying she finally has a dad to walk her to school. I feel so guilty for not being there more.’ I looked up at him. “September 5th, Beck. The day after Labor Day. My father was in the ICU. I called you twenty times. You didn’t answer until midnight, claiming you were locked in a critical board meeting.” I swiped to the next entry. ‘July 18th — Took Mia and Talia to the Hamptons for a beach weekend. The kid was so happy, and Talia finally looked relaxed. I’m so glad I can give Mia a normal childhood.’ My voice cracked. “July 18th was our anniversary. I cooked a three-course dinner and waited up until dawn. You texted me saying you had to work late and promised you’d make it up to me.” Before I could read the next one, Beck snatched the phone from my hand, his face darkening. “Look at the bigger picture, Naomi,” he said, his tone patronizing. “We’ve been married three years and have no children. Your health has always been fragile, and I didn’t want you to go through the physical toll of pregnancy. Now, you get to be a mother without any of the pain. You should be grateful.” I stared at him, my lips trembling, utterly speechless. The air in the bedroom felt heavy, pressing down on my chest until I could barely breathe. He stood up, grabbing his coat from the chair. “Enough. Mia is my daughter, and Talia is a fragile single mother. Can’t you show a little compassion? I came home to rest, not to deal with your hysterics.” He walked toward the door, his voice echoing back down the hallway. “I’m going over to Talia’s. Let me know when you’ve calmed down and are ready to act like an adult.” He left in such a rush that he forgot his personal phone on the nightstand. I sat on the edge of the bed and scrolled through the hidden album. There were thousands of photos. They spanned five years—capturing the baby in her crib, her first wobbly steps, and eventually her carrying a tiny backpack. He had been there for all of it. He had built a parallel life while I was left in the dark. My eyes burned as I tapped on another note. ‘September 6th — Mia’s fever is spiking after her first day of school. Stayed up all night holding her. Talia was crying, too. My heart breaks for them.’ On that exact night, September 6th, I had been admitted to the emergency room with severe gastroenteritis, vomiting until I was dehydrated. I had begged him to come home. His reply had been a single, cold text: “I’m working late. Don’t be dramatic.” The next morning, as I lay in the hospital bed, a local news notification had popped up on my phone. It was a photo from a children’s charity gala. Beck was there, holding a little girl’s hand, his arm draped protectively around Talia’s waist. They looked radiant. I stared at the screen, a hollow laugh escaping my throat. Just an hour ago, I had received a follow-up email from my doctor. My stomach lining was severely inflamed, and I needed to be admitted for immediate treatment. Perhaps, up until last night, a foolish part of me still hoped that even if the love had faded, there was at least some respect left between us. But he had gone straight from our home to play the doting father in public, treating his legal wife like an invisible nuisance. I stood up, walked into his home office, and began searching his desk. For three years, I believed I had a clear picture of our finances. But as I tore through the drawers and the small safe, I realized the deeds to our properties and our major investment portfolios had all been moved. He had been quietly shielding his assets from me for a long time. My stomach dropped. I logged into our joint bank portal on my laptop and pulled up the statements for the past six months. The transaction history was damning. Every major withdrawal was a direct transfer to Talia Pierce—or directly to a private preschool and pediatric clinics. The amounts ranged from ten thousand to nearly eighty thousand dollars. Meanwhile, when my father was fighting for his life in the ICU, Beck hadn’t offered a single dollar toward his care. He was funding his mistress and his child with our marital assets, while I had been pinching pennies, skipping new clothes, and draining my own modest savings to keep my father alive. With trembling fingers, I took clear, high-resolution photos of every single statement on the screen. The front door clicked open. Beck was back. He didn’t look tired. He had the relaxed, easy air of a man who had spent a comfortable night in a warm bed. When he walked into the office and saw the papers scattered across the desk, he merely frowned. “You really have no boundaries, do you? I’ll have Mrs. Gable come and clean this up later.” I looked up at him, my expression cold. “Tens of thousands of dollars transferred out of our accounts to support your mistress. You really are a piece of work, Beck.” He tossed his coat onto the sofa, his tone dismissive. “Talia has had a hard time raising a child on her own. What’s wrong with me helping her out? Mia’s tuition is expensive, and as her father, it’s my responsibility. I’ve never let you go without. You live in a beautiful home, so why are you obsessing over a few bills?” “Those ‘few bills’ belong to our joint estate,” I said, my voice cutting through the quiet room. “You transferred them without my knowledge or consent. Do you honestly think that’s legal?” Beck let out a soft, mocking laugh. “Naomi, don’t start acting like one of those petty, small-minded women who only care about money. You have the status of being Mrs. Marshall. You should know that tearing this family apart won’t benefit you. You should be thanking me for the lifestyle you enjoy.” A tear finally escaped my eye, hot and bitter. When Talia left him years ago because he was flat broke, I was the one who stayed. I was the one who went to corporate dinners, drinking until my stomach bled just to help him secure his first major investors. We had lived in a drafty, one-bedroom apartment, sharing packets of instant ramen. I had supported him through every sleepless night until his company finally took off. And now, he was asking me why I wasn’t grateful. I didn’t argue. Instead, I unlocked my phone and tapped on an audio file I had transferred from his device the night before. Talia’s voice filled the quiet office. “Beck, when are you going to tell Naomi? I’m tired of hiding. My friends keep asking when they can finally congratulate us. Mia wants her dad to show up at her school events.” Then came Beck’s voice, smooth and reassuring. “The timing isn’t right yet. She’s stubborn. If she makes a scene, it could hurt the company’s valuation and damage your reputation. Don’t worry. I’ll keep taking care of Mia, and I’m not leaving you. Once things settle down, I’ll ask for a divorce, pay her off, and we can finally be together.” Beck froze. The color drained from his face as he stared at me. After a long, heavy silence, he spoke, his voice dropping to a low, placating register. “Naomi… Talia’s mental health hasn’t been stable lately. I was just saying what she needed to hear to keep her calm. I never actually intended to divorce you.” He took a step closer. “I promise you, once Mia is a little older, I’ll phase them out of my life entirely.” I let out a soft, humorless laugh. He always had a logical excuse, always prioritizing everyone else’s comfort over my survival. “Phase them out?” I asked. “Do you honestly think I’m that stupid, Beck?” He frowned, clearly frustrated by my lack of compliance. He reached out to grab my hand, using the gentle, persuasive tone he always used when he wanted me to back down. “Sweetheart, you’re my wife. What I feel for them is just obligation. You’re the one I love. Mia is young, and Talia is struggling. I can’t just walk away. I know this is hard on you, and I’ve tried to make up for it. Don’t ruin what we have by being greedy.” I violently shoved his hand away. “Make up for it? You used the money that could have saved my father to fund your secret family!” I pulled up the recent hospital invoices on my phone and thrust the screen in front of his face. “My dad was in the ICU, and the daily bills were astronomical! I called you begging for help, but your phone was off. I had to swallow my pride and borrow from every distant relative just to keep him on life support! And what were you doing? You were wire-transferring eighty thousand dollars to Talia for her apartment down payment!” Beck flinched, his eyes darting away. He swallowed hard. “If you needed money, you should have just told me directly. There was no need to go behind my back to borrow from others. Besides, I didn’t realize your dad’s situation was that critical. I thought it was just routine monitoring…” “You didn’t know?” I screamed, my voice cracking under the weight of three years of suppressed pain. “I sent you the medical updates every single day! I sent you the physician’s reports! I begged you at three in the morning to come to the hospital! You didn’t ‘not know,’ Beck. You just didn’t care!” “Alright, that’s enough!” Beck snapped, his patience finally wearing thin. He pulled a black titanium credit card from his wallet and slammed it onto the desk. “This is getting ridiculous. It was an oversight on my part, okay? But I can fix it. I’ll cover all of your father’s medical bills moving forward. Just stop screaming, and promise me you won’t go looking for Talia.” I looked at the black card sitting on the mahogany desk. The room fell into a dead, chilling silence. I didn’t want to cry anymore, but the tears kept coming, silent and cold. Beck watched me, momentarily stunned by my silence. I turned on my heel, walked into the master bedroom, and pulled my suitcase out of the closet. He followed me, grabbing the clothes out of my hands. “Naomi, stop acting like a child!” He threw my favorite sweater onto the floor. I stood frozen, looking down at the worn wool. It was a simple, gray thrifted sweater I had bought two years ago. On our first wedding anniversary, before his company went public, I had refused to spend money on myself, choosing instead to use my savings to buy him a luxury watch to help him look the part in front of investors. He had held me so tight that night, his eyes shining. “I don’t have much right now, Naomi. But I swear, once the company succeeds, I will make sure you have everything you’ve ever wanted. If I ever betray you, may I lose everything.” I had believed him. But looking down at that cheap sweater now, the illusion shattered. Last night, while scrolling through Talia’s social media, I had seen her posts from the last five years. Her gifts were never cheap. On our first anniversary, while I wore a thrifted sweater, he had bought Talia a designer handbag. On our second anniversary, he gave me a simple, unadorned gold ring. Talia received a three-carat diamond ring. On our third anniversary, I received nothing. Talia received a townhouse. This marriage had been a prison of my own making. My phone buzzed. It was an email from my regional director, sent late Friday night, offering me a transfer to our European headquarters. I realized then that it was time to cut my losses. Suddenly, Beck’s phone rang. The screen lit up with the name “Talia”. He immediately turned away, answering it in a soft, hushed voice. When he hung up, he looked back at me, his expression stern and commanding. “Stay here. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone. Mia has a high fever, and I need to go check on her.” The cold, dismissive authority in his voice made my heart go completely numb. The moment his car pulled out of the driveway, I packed my bags, ordered a rideshare, and left the house. Sitting in the backseat, I stared at my phone and booked the earliest flight out of the country. I called my director, my voice steady and clear. “Mr. Jenkins, I’m calling about the London transfer. I accept. I can be on a flight tonight if you can expedite the paperwork.” “Consider it done, Naomi,” he replied. “We’d be thrilled to have you.” I hung up, pulled the SIM card from my phone, and tossed it into the trash can at the airport terminal. As the plane climbed into the night sky, watching the city lights shrink into tiny, glittering dust motes below, I felt a physical weight lift from my chest. “Goodbye, Beck. The next time you hear from me, it will be through my lawyer.”

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Shortly after my online relationship transitioned into the real world, I stumbled upon a thread on Reddit. “If you could go back in time with all your current memories, what is the one thing you would change?” People in the comments talked about wanting to change their marriages or their careers. Some wished they could have saved a loved one they had lost. But one comment stood out, completely out of place. “I would have personally asked for his number myself.” “That way, my friend wouldn’t have handed me the wrong guy’s contact info, and I wouldn’t have spent six months falling in love with a stranger over text.” “Now we’ve met in real life, and I’m stuck trying to make things work out of sheer obligation.” I was about to leave a sarcastic reply and swipe away, but then I caught sight of the user’s profile picture and handle. Even the short, poetic quote in her bio was identical to my new girlfriend’s. Natalie. Suddenly, the pieces clicked. I finally understood why she had always avoided FaceTime, and why, when we finally met today, her smile felt so forced, like a mask slipping at the edges. The love she had been giving me… It was never meant for me in the first place. … I looked up. Across the crowded bistro, I saw Natalie sitting at our table, talking furiously on her phone. She was likely ripping her friend a new one for giving her the wrong contact info six months ago. “You’re back?” Natalie hung up just as I approached, sliding the menu toward me with a gentle smile. “I ordered a few of your favorites. Take a look and see if you want anything else.” She had always been incredibly attentive. Even before we met in person, she never missed a holiday or a birthday, sending thoughtful gifts right to my door. She knew how easily I lost track of time when work got chaotic, so she would order dinner for me every week, ensuring it arrived at my office right on time. My quirks, my food allergies, the precise schedule of my chronic stomach flare-ups—she memorized them better than I did. My friends and coworkers used to tease me, saying I had won the lottery. Who finds a gorgeous, deeply devoted partner online? But none of it belonged to me. I was living in a stolen house. She waved a hand in front of my face, letting out a soft, teasing laugh. “What? Staring at your girlfriend already?” she joked. “You have all the time in the world for that. Let’s eat first. If you skip meals, you’ll be complaining about your stomach hurting later.” My hands tightened into fists under the table, the fabric of my jeans rough against my palms. I forced myself to look at her. “You know, you don’t have to force yourself to settle,” I said, my voice quiet but steady. “If you realized you made a mistake, you could have just told me.” The playful curve of her lips vanished. “How did you find out?” My gaze drifted, unable to hold her eyes. “The day your friend asked for my contact info, my coworker was standing right next to me. I think she got us confused.” I pulled out my phone, pulled up his contact card, and slid it across the table. “This is Connor. He’s the guy you were actually looking for.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “If you want, I can introduce you. But as for us… let’s just call it off.” Natalie’s fingers tightened around the edge of the menu, her expression a mix of guilt and confusion. “Jack, you really don’t have to do this. I wasn’t planning on—” “But I do,” I interrupted gently. I didn’t want to be anyone’s “good enough” option. I didn’t want to be the consolation prize, and I certainly didn’t want the truth to blow up later, making me look like the guy who stole someone else’s life. “I won’t say anything to anyone,” I added. “You don’t have to worry about him finding out we were together.” Natalie remained silent for a long moment, staring at the screen. Finally, she looked up, her expression incredibly solemn. “To make it up to you, I’ll grant you one favor. Absolutely anything, whenever you need it.” Her eyes were so earnest, almost desperate, as if she feared that if I didn’t agree, I would use this leverage to cling to her. I didn’t want anything from her. But to put her mind at ease, I simply nodded. Only then did she seem to breathe a sigh of relief. “Let’s eat first, then. My treat.” I grabbed my bag and stood up. “No, it’s fine. I need to get back to the office.” When I walked back into my cubicle, Brad, my usual lunch partner, stared at me in absolute shock. “I thought you took the whole day off to meet your mystery girl? Why are you back in the trenches?” I had spent hours getting dressed up for this lunch. I had used a full day of my hard-earned PTO just to see her. But now that it had turned out to be a massive misunderstanding, there was no point in wasting the rest of my afternoon. “Just had some things to take care of,” I muttered. Seeing my exhaustion, Brad patted my shoulder sympathetically. “Ah. The classic online-dating bait-and-switch. Reality rarely matches the profile picture, huh?” I let out a dry, humorless laugh. If only it were that simple. A few days later, Brad leaned over the partition, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Hey, have you heard? Connor’s dating some filthy rich heiress. She’s been showing up in a different luxury car every evening to pick him up from work.” My fingers froze over the keyboard. After that lunch with Natalie, I had gone to see Connor. He had been skeptical at first, but he accepted her request on Instagram, saying he didn’t believe in online dating but was open to meeting up. Clearly, their meeting had gone exceptionally well. “Earth to Jack,” Brad said, nudging my arm. I looked up to find Connor standing right beside my desk, a sleek gift bag in his hand. “Hey, Jack. I really appreciate you setting me up with Natalie. We’re doing great, and we wanted to give you this as a thank you.” He also handed Brad a thermal bag. “My girlfriend ordered too much food for lunch. Here, you can have the extra.” Brad’s eyes lit up as he grabbed the bag. “Oh, man, Connor! You are a lifesaver!” But as Brad peeked inside, he paused, looking confused. “Wait, isn’t this from that French place downtown? I thought they didn’t do delivery. Did they finally get on DoorDash?” Connor’s smile faltered slightly. “Oh, really?” Connor asked, his tone shifting, becoming suddenly sharp and inquisitive. “Actually, Jack, I’ve been meaning to ask… how do you even know Natalie?” The scrutiny in his eyes made me feel incredibly uncomfortable. “I don’t really,” I lied smoothly. “I just know her friend, Roxy. When Roxy found out Connor and I worked at the same place, she asked for your contact info. You’re a good-looking guy, Connor. It’s not hard to see why she wanted to get in touch.” It was technically the truth, just heavily sugarcoated. “Oh, come on,” Connor said, blushing slightly, his suspicion melting away. Once Connor walked off, Brad practically exploded with excitement. “Man, your luck is unreal! First you find yourself a sweet girl online, and then you somehow play matchmaker for Connor and a literal heiress? When are you going to set me up?” I forced a smile. “Connor’s a catch on his own. If I actually had that kind of matchmaking magic, my own date wouldn’t have gone down in flames.” “Anyway,” I added, trying to redirect his energy, “you might want to focus on how we’re going to handle that nightmare client tomorrow morning.” Brad groaned, his excitement instantly evaporating. That evening, the clear skies suddenly ruptured into a massive downpour. As I stood under the awning of our office building, waiting for the rain to let up, Connor walked out and patted my shoulder. “Hey, it’s pouring. Don’t bother waiting for the bus. We can give you a ride.” I was about to decline when Natalie’s car pulled up. She rolled down the window and spoke with quiet authority. “Get in. This rain isn’t stopping anytime soon.” With both of them insisting, turning them down would have made me look suspicious. But as I went to open the back door, Natalie reached over and popped open the front passenger door. “Don’t you get carsick? Sit up front.” My hand froze on the rear door handle. I could feel Connor’s intense, burning gaze from behind me, practically drilling holes into my skull. I didn’t actually get carsick. A few months ago, when our office was going through a chaotic merger, I had worked several sleepless nights in a row before heading out on a business trip. Having not eaten breakfast, I spent the entire drive to the airport throwing up my guts, unable to reply to her texts. When she asked about it later, I briefly mentioned that the ride had made me feel sick. I never expected her to remember it. Much less misinterpret it as chronic carsickness. I forced a smile. “You must have me confused with someone else. I don’t get carsick.” Natalie’s face remained entirely expressionless. “No, you misunderstand. I was talking to Connor.” The sting of humiliation was immediately swallowed by a cold wave of fear. For the entire drive, Connor watched me through the rearview mirror. He repeatedly tried to steer the conversation toward the “devoted online girlfriend” I used to talk about. “Yeah, online dating is just a phase,” I muttered, sweating under my collar as I tried to deflect his questions. “Just a way to pass the time.” I couldn’t wait to get out of that car. By the time the car finally pulled up to my apartment complex, I didn’t even wait for them to say goodbye. “I need to get upstairs—I left my dog locked up all day and need to take him out. Thanks for the ride!” I practically bolted before they could even reply. Later that night, after a hot shower, my phone buzzed on the nightstand. It was a text from Natalie. “Keep your distance from Connor at work. He’s smart. He’ll put the pieces together.” A bitter ache bloomed in my chest. Just a week ago, she was the girl sending me sweet morning texts and caring for me. Now, she was warning me to act like a stranger to protect her new relationship. “I know,” I replied. “Actually, to keep things simple, we should probably delete each other’s contacts.” Without waiting for her reply, I blocked her number. It was a petty, impulsive move, but it felt like the only way to claw back some dignity. The next morning, I walked into the office with swollen, heavy eyes. Brad slid an ice pack across my desk. “Don’t tell me you were crying over your ex last night?” “Of course not,” I lied, pressing the cold pack to my eyes. “Just drank too much water before bed.” I didn’t notice Connor walking past my cubicle. On our way to meet the client, Brad was visibly shaking. “You look like you’re going to a firing squad,” I teased. “You don’t understand,” Brad whispered. “This client is brutal. Last month, she made Lucy from accounting cry in the middle of a meeting.” His warning had me on edge, but when we stepped into the conference room, my jaw dropped. Roxy was sitting at the head of the table. She gave me a bright, mischievous grin and held out her hand. “Jack. Fancy meeting you here.” A few months ago, Roxy had tagged along with her mother to negotiate a contract with our firm. Connor and I, as the new interns, were brought along to observe. That was the day Roxy had asked for my contact information—and accidentally set off this entire chain of events. Brad’s eyes darted between us, and he nudged me with his elbow. “You two know each other? Oh, we’ve got this in the bag.” I kept my voice low. “We’re not close. We met briefly during a project review a while back.” Roxy, sensing my awkwardness, didn’t push it further during the meeting. Once we wrapped up, Brad slipped out to use the restroom, leaving the two of us alone. Roxy immediately stepped closer, an apologetic look on her face. “Look, I’m really sorry about the mix-up,” she said. “Natalie just told me to get the number of ‘the cute intern,’ so I naturally assumed she meant you. How was I supposed to know she wanted Connor?” It was hard to stay mad at her when she put it like that. “It’s fine,” I said quietly. “I should have insisted on a video call sooner. It’s on me, too.” Roxy crossed her arms, looking indignant. “Honestly, Natalie handled this so poorly. As her best friend, I feel like I owe you some kind of compensation.” “No one needs to compensate him.” I turned around. Natalie was standing a few feet away, her face dark with anger. “Mind your own business, Roxy,” Natalie snapped. I felt a sudden chill run down my spine. “Thanks for the offer, Roxy, but I’m really okay,” I said quickly. Just then, Connor stepped out of a private dining room nearby. He glanced at Roxy, then turned to me with a smug smile. “Oh, is this your online girlfriend? She’s beautiful, Jack.” “She’s a client,” I corrected immediately. Roxy smiled, her teeth flashing. “For now.” Natalie shot her an icy glare. “If she’s a client, she’s a client. Why say ‘for now’?” Connor looked slightly embarrassed, his grip tightening on Natalie’s arm. “Right. Well, we should get going. Let’s not disturb them.” Natalie let out a cold hum and let Connor lead her away. Watching them walk off, I couldn’t help but ask Roxy, “Aren’t you and Natalie supposed to be best friends? You two seem… tense.” Roxy smirked. “Let’s just say we have history.” Fortunately, Brad returned from the restroom, saving me from further awkwardness. When our cab pulled up back at the office, a sleek black sedan parked in the corner honked its horn. It was Natalie’s car. The one she had driven on the day we met. I ignored it and kept walking toward the entrance, but the horn honked louder, sharper. “Go ahead up, Brad. I need to take care of something,” I said. I waited until Brad was out of sight before walking over to the car. The window rolled down, revealing Natalie’s freezing expression. “Stay away from Roxy,” she said. “She’s not the kind of girl you want to get mixed up with.” A surge of anger, boiling over from days of suppressed humiliation, finally broke through. “Who are you to tell me what to do?” I snapped. “We’re done, Natalie. Stop checking in on me. I don’t want Connor seeing us and getting the wrong idea.” I turned to leave, but she threw the door open and grabbed my wrist. “I’m not joking, Jack,” she said, her voice tight. “And unblock my number.” I took a deep breath, forcing my voice to remain steady. “You said it yourself—Connor is smart. My number in your phone is a ticking bomb. It’s better this way.” She stared at me, then nodded slowly. “Fine. If you won’t unblock me, I’ll just wait for you outside your office every day. It’s easier that way anyway.” “Are you insane?” I ripped my hand away. “You agreed to put this behind us. You went out and got with Connor. What is the point of this?” She paused, her grip loosening. “Roxy is a serial heartbreaker. I just don’t want to see you get hurt. That’s all. Besides, I promised I’d do you a favor. I don’t want that favor to be cleaning up your mess after she ruins your life.” “My life is none of your concern,” I said coldly. “The best thing you can do for me is to leave me alone.” The drama had drained me completely. I ended up taking the rest of Friday afternoon off. But when I returned to work on Monday, the atmosphere in the office was suffocating. People were whispering, throwing disdainful looks in my direction. Even Brad, who usually couldn’t wait to dump the weekend gossip on me, was staring silently at his screen. I rolled my chair over to him. “What’s going on? Did the boss rip everyone a new one over the weekend?” He looked at me with a complicated expression. “Jack, I honestly admire your nerve. I had no idea you were capable of this. And you’re still acting like nothing happened.” I blinked, confused. Before I could ask what he meant, Connor walked up to my desk and slapped me hard across the face.

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