Category: English

In my last life, my best friend—the sole heiress to a billionaire’s empire—stole my husband. They mocked me, degraded me, and eventually, they pushed me down a flight of stairs, leaving me to bleed out on the cold marble floor. Given a second chance, I set my sights on a different prize: her wealthy, silver-fox of a father. He had no biological heirs, only his adopted daughter. She thought her father’s empire made her invincible, giving her the right to play God with my life. But she didn’t know about my family’s secret. I possessed a rare, genetic predisposition for extreme fertility. Soon enough, I’d be slipping into his bed, carrying his quadruplets. In this life, I’m going to make you drop to your knees and call me “Mother.” …… 1 I feigned a hazy disorientation, stumbling my way toward the master suite on the second floor of the mansion. Richard Kerwin stood there in a plush robe, silver-rimmed glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. When he saw me burst in, surprise flashed across his face, quickly followed by a cold, guarded mask. I played the part of the innocent, drunken guest perfectly, bumping into his solid chest and letting out a soft, incoherent murmur. At this point in my timeline, my body hadn’t yet been ravaged by the grueling rounds of IVF hormone injections. I was still in my prime—radiant, vibrant, and undeniably alluring. Silky strands of my hair brushed against his fingers. A delicate, intoxicating perfume drifted into the air between us, sinking right into his veins. The man’s eyes darkened instantly. Every single detail of this moment—the precise length of my slip dress, the plunge of the neckline, the slit at my thigh, even the breathy cadence of my voice—had been meticulously calculated. Because I knew that if I missed this window, I might never get close to him again. I watched his Adam’s apple bob. The icy restraint in his gaze was rapidly melting, replaced by a raw, primal heat. Suddenly, his arms came around me, pulling me flush against him. I could feel the searing heat radiating from his skin and the frantic, heavy thud of his heartbeat. He leaned down, his voice a low, gravelly whisper against my ear. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing right now?” In that split second, the sheer weight of his hunger washed over me. I smiled inwardly. Checkmate. The next morning, a piercing shriek shattered the silence. “Helen! What the hell are you doing?! That is my father!” Bernice stood paralyzed in the doorway. Behind her, a small crowd of guests from her birthday party the night before lingered in the hall, their faces a canvas of shock and morbid curiosity. I blinked up at her with wide, innocent eyes, pulling the duvet tightly up to my collarbone, deliberately cutting off whatever explanation Richard was about to offer. “I… I was just so drunk last night,” I stammered, my voice trembling perfectly. “We just laid here and talked under the covers. Nothing happened, I swear.” I knew how the game was played. A ruthless, highly respected titan of Wall Street was never going to let himself become the punchline of a society scandal. Especially not with half of New York’s elite standing in his hallway. Bernice’s face morphed from sheer shock to a violent, trembling rage. She ground her teeth, her eyes practically vibrating with hatred. “Do you… do you think I’m a fucking idiot?” She lunged forward, hands raised to strike me. “Enough!” Richard’s voice cracked through the room like a whip. Bernice froze. “Did you not hear what she just said?” Richard demanded, his tone brokering no argument. “It was a misunderstanding. An accident.” Bernice stared at him, utterly betrayed, her mouth opening and closing as she desperately searched for a rebuttal. I leaned forward, closing the distance between us until my lips were inches from her ear. “You’d better play along with my story,” I whispered, so low only she could hear. “Because if your dad decides he actually does have a taste for me… you’re going to have to start calling me Mom.” Her pupils dilated in pure horror. A flicker of profound hesitation crossed her face. Finally, she shot me a look of pure, venomous hatred, then whipped around to face her guests, forcing a sickeningly sweet, plastic smile onto her face. “Everyone, please, let’s not jump to conclusions. They… they really just stayed up talking.” The guests exchanged awkward, knowing glances, muttering polite excuses as they quickly dispersed down the hall. Before Bernice walked away, she turned and glared at me one last time. It was the exact same look she had given me in my past life, right before she shoved me to my death. I was born in an isolated, forgotten valley deep in the mountains—a place locals whispered about in folklore. The women from my hometown were famously beautiful, but more importantly, we were known for a fierce, generational vitality. We were built to bear children, effortlessly and abundantly. Because of that trait, I was nearly trafficked three times as a toddler, eventually ending up in the foster care system, which is where I first met Bernice. 2 Back in the foster home, while the other kids were sickly and hollow-cheeked, I was thriving—radiant and healthy. The system wasn’t some magical sanctuary. It was a brutal competition for survival, and amid all that ugliness, Bernice was the only one who looked out for me. There were always families who wanted to adopt me, but somehow, at the very last second, the paperwork would always fall through. Not long after, Bernice hit the jackpot. She was taken in by Richard Kerwin, the legendary corporate shark. I had been genuinely happy for her. I truly believed she was my sister, the most important person in my life. I believed it so deeply that in my previous life, when Bernice stood in my living room, caressing her swelling belly and telling me she was carrying my husband’s baby, my brain simply couldn’t process it. They stood there together, laughing at me. They called me a barren, useless husk. And when I finally snapped, threatening to take my husband for every penny he had in the divorce, they dragged me to the staircase. When I opened my eyes again, I was back. Back before the blood, before the betrayal. Realizing that the two people you trusted most in the world were the architects of your destruction… it’s a suffocating, paralyzing kind of agony. An agony so deep that in my last life, I died before I could even scream the truth at them: The problem wasn’t me! The one who was medically sterile was my husband! My bloodline practically guaranteed fertility. I had spent years burying the truth, silently taking the blame and enduring endless pity just to protect his fragile male ego. Well, no more. Bernice thought she could play with human lives just because she had a billionaire daddy backing her up. She loved my useless, sterile husband so much? Fine. She could keep the trash. I, on the other hand, thought her father was quite the catch. Wealthy, devastatingly handsome, and completely alone, save for one adopted daughter. Let’s see how much he remembers you, Bernice, once I give him a biological child of his own blood. In this life, you will drop to your knees and call me Mother. By the time Richard and I were dressed and making our way downstairs, Bernice was already sitting stiffly on the living room sofa, radiating fury. “Dad… Helen… Now that the guests are gone, do you two have absolutely no sense of shame?” Shame? Hilarious. I doubt the word crossed her mind when she was climbing into my husband’s bed in our past life. Swallowing the urge to laugh in her face, I buried my face in my hands and let out a soft, pathetic sob. “I don’t even know what happened,” I cried, my voice thick with tears. “I just drank that one cocktail you handed me last night, Bernice, and then everything went blurry…” Bernice’s righteous anger immediately dissolved into panic. “What?! Are you trying to say I drugged you?!” I looked up at her, my eyes swimming with wounded vulnerability. “No, of course not! You’re my best friend, I would never suspect you. But… those people you hang out with… they don’t seem like good people. What if one of them slipped something into my glass behind your back?” Bernice was turning purple. The elite circles of New York had always quietly shunned her for being an adopted outsider. Getting those socialites to attend her birthday had been a monumental task. “You bitch,” she hissed. “If you want to sleep with my dad, just say it! Stop making up lies!” “That’s enough,” Richard interrupted, his voice dropping an octave. He looked at Bernice. “She was clearly not in her right mind last night.” He rubbed his temples. “I thought I raised you better than this. I know what kind of person you are, but I also know I’ve spoiled you rotten. You’ve been running around with a degenerate crowd. Your black card is cut off. You’re grounded. You will stay in this house and think about your actions.” “Dad—!” “My decision is final.” Bernice let out a scream of frustration and stormed out of the room. The heavy oak doors clicked shut, leaving just Richard and me in the cavernous, quiet room. I took a shaky breath, speaking before he could. “Richard… Mr. Kerwin. Last night was a mistake. I only came here to celebrate Bernice’s birthday. I never imagined things would spiral out of control like this.” I let a small, choked gasp escape my lips. “But I need you to forget this ever happened.” The request caught him completely off guard. He was a billionaire; he was no stranger to women trying to manipulate their way into his bed. But he remembered last night. He remembered that I really was delirious, that I had even tried to push him away a few times. And then he remembered that his own daughter’s party guests were likely the cause of it. A rare flicker of guilt crossed his sharp features. His jaw tightened. “Whatever compensation you want,” he said quietly. “Name it. It’s yours.” I shook my head, offering him a sad, fragile smile. “You’re a victim in this too.” I paused, looking down at my hands. “The truth is… I’m a married woman. But I don’t think I can live with this guilt. I’ve betrayed my husband, and I need to ask him for a divorce.” I looked back up, letting a single tear slip down my cheek. “But we built our company together. If he finds out why I’m leaving him, he’ll destroy everything I’ve worked for. My life’s work will be gone.” Richard stared at me, his expression softening into something entirely new. He reached out, his large, warm hand tentatively resting on my shoulder. “I understand,” he said softly. “Don’t worry about the company. What belongs to you will stay yours.” I widened my eyes, looking up at him with pure, unadulterated admiration. “Thank you, Richard. You really are a good man.” I could see the gears turning in his head. To him, I was entirely different from the predatory socialites he was used to. He was the one who had taken advantage of me in my compromised state, yet here I was, thanking him. He walked me to the front doors and instructed his private driver to take me home. As I stepped out into the crisp morning air, I paused, pretending to remember something. I turned back, ‘accidentally’ bumping softly against his chest, just as I had the night before. Instinctively, his arm came around my waist to steady me. I stepped back quickly, putting a polite distance between us, and carefully handed him my business card. 3 “Mr. Kerwin,” I said, my voice steady now. “I hope we can start over and reintroduce ourselves properly. I have a feeling we’ll be seeing each other in the boardroom.” As the town car pulled away from the estate, I could feel the weight of his lingering stare on the back of my neck. I didn’t look back. Since Richard had promised to ensure my divorce went smoothly, I didn’t have to waste a single ounce of energy worrying about asset division. I made one phone call and had a team of movers pack up every single thing I owned from the townhouse. I also left a very clear warning for my husband—no, my ex-husband. I told him I already had an ironclad file of evidence proving his affair with Bernice, and if he ever showed his face near me again, I’d ruin him. In my past life, I had convinced myself that his infidelity was my fault—a byproduct of my supposed inability to give him a child after years of marriage. But when I woke up in this timeline and hired an investigator, the truth made me sick to my stomach. He and Bernice had been sleeping together since the very beginning. They had played me for a fool for years. You both wanted to play dirty? Fine. Welcome to the mud. Sitting in the quiet of my new apartment, I rested a hand over my flat stomach. I could already feel it. One shot was all it took. A new life was already taking root inside me, waiting for the perfect moment to bloom. For the next month, despite having my card, Richard didn’t reach out. I wasn’t worried. With Bernice hovering around, she was doing everything in her power to keep her father away from me. But I was supremely confident that Richard couldn’t just erase me from his mind. The memory of that night was hammered into his brain like a silver nail, impossible to ignore. Meanwhile, I threw myself into my work. I was the CEO of my firm, and by pure, beautiful coincidence, our upcoming project involved a direct partnership with Kerwin Enterprises. Up until now, all our correspondence had been digital. By the time the in-person summit rolled around, my baby would be exactly six weeks along. I ruthlessly polished the project proposals, settling for nothing less than absolute perfection. Leaning back in my ergonomic office chair, I let out a long exhale, quietly thanking the universe for the timing of this rebirth. I was at the absolute peak of my life—young, sharp, and radiant. I hadn’t been bullied into quitting my career to focus on IVF. I hadn’t spent my days acting as a live-in maid for my horrid mother-in-law. I wasn’t bloated, exhausted, and practically gray from the stress of it all. The day of the negotiation, I walked into the Kerwin boardroom wearing a tailored, powder-blue power suit, a thick stack of flawless dossiers in my arms. Richard was seated at the head of the long glass table. His eyes were sharp and unyielding, but the second he saw me, a micro-expression of shock cracked his facade. I treated him like a complete stranger. I offered a polite, professional smile as I slid the documents across the table toward him. As he reached for the file, his fingertips brushed against mine. I felt the sudden, electric jolt of his body heat, and my heart gave a calculated little flutter. Our eyes locked, and the air in the boardroom suddenly felt incredibly thick. I led the presentation. Derek, my ex-husband, was technically still a partner on paper, but he sat beside me looking like a deer in headlights, muttering useless filler words while I dominated the room. It only served to make my brilliance shine brighter. I yielded no ground during the negotiations. After an hour of intense, exhilarating back-and-forth, we reached a highly lucrative agreement. The room erupted into polite applause and cheerful corporate pleasantries. As I was packing up my briefcase, preparing to escort them out, Bernice suddenly appeared from the hallway. She grabbed my arm, dragging me into a quiet alcove, her eyes blazing. “Don’t think I didn’t see you making eyes at my dad in there,” she hissed. “Are you still delusional enough to think you’re going to be my stepmother?” I smoothed down the lapel of my jacket, my expression perfectly serene. “Whatever do you mean? I was just doing my job. Honestly, instead of obsessing over my love life, you should worry about your own. I’ve already divorced Derek… so why hasn’t he put a ring on your finger yet?” Her face drained of color. She stammered, “How… how did you know? I mean—what kind of crazy nonsense are you talking about?” “You were right about one thing, though,” I said, letting a slow, venomous smile spread across my face. “I really, really want to hear you call me Mom.” I paused, leaning in close. “I’m pregnant,” I mouthed the next words so only she could read my lips: With your dad’s baby. Bernice’s face contorted in sheer, unadulterated madness. She lost her mind. Screaming a string of obscenities, she lunged at me, her manicured hands clawing wildly. I let her push me. I hit the hardwood floor hard, a sharp jolt of pain radiating up my spine. The hallway descended into chaos. Executives shouted. Richard pushed through the crowd, his face pale with panic, and violently yanked Bernice off of me. “What the hell is going on here?!” Richard roared. I looked up at him, letting the tears spill over my lashes in a torrential flood. “I don’t know!” I sobbed, clutching my stomach. “I thought Bernice just wanted to catch up, and then she just attacked me!” Bernice pointed a shaking finger at me, hyperventilating. “She’s lying! My dad would never—he only wants me! He’s not having any more kids! Tell them you’re lying about being pregnant!” Before she could finish the sentence, Richard’s hand connected with Bernice’s cheek. The sharp crack of the slap echoed through the dead-silent hallway. Bernice stumbled back, holding her face in disbelief. “You… you hit me? For her?” Richard’s jaw was clenched so tight I thought it might shatter. “Enough! Not another word. The truth is, Helen and I… we’ve been seeing each other since her divorce.” Suddenly, one of my assistants gasped, pointing at the floor. “Oh my god, she’s bleeding!” I looked down. A small pool of crimson was seeping into the fabric of my skirt.

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The day I found out my husband was cheating on me, I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I picked up my phone and called my sister-in-law, who was currently living five thousand miles away in Moscow. A week later, on a pristine, sun-drenched Tuesday afternoon, my sister-in-law and I were strolling through a high-end designer boutique when we spotted my husband. He was buying a ridiculous leather handbag for the woman draped over his arm—the ghost of his past, the golden girl he never quite got over. I let my eyes well up with perfect, cinematic tears. I opened my mouth to speak, but my sister-in-law didn’t wait. With a flick of her wrist, she and the two hulking bodyguards flanking her descended upon them like a force of nature. Ten minutes later, my husband had four fractured ribs, two dislocated shoulders, and a face so swollen he looked like a bruised plum. His golden girl was lying on the marble floor, a warm puddle of urine soaking into her designer skirt, weakly sobbing for someone to call the police. I bit the inside of my cheek until it bled to keep from laughing. What the rest of the Harrington family didn’t know—what they had never bothered to notice—was that since we were little girls, my sister-in-law had been fiercely, unapologetically in love with me. 1 I was lounging on a chaise on the terrace, letting the late-morning sun warm my skin, when my assistant, Carter, crouched down beside me. “Boss. Mr. Harrington has been busy,” he said, his voice a low, professional murmur as he handed me his iPad. I opened my eyes, squinting against the glare, and looked at the screen. The paparazzi—or whoever Carter had hired—knew how to frame a shot. Every image dripped with undeniable, suffocating intimacy. There they were, embracing at the JFK arrivals terminal. There they were in a dimly lit booth at Le Bernardin, him reaching across the white tablecloth to gently wipe the corner of her mouth. There they were, slipping through the wrought-iron gates of a secluded Hamptons estate. I zoomed in on the woman’s face. Bella Crawford. Peter’s ultimate “what if.” She was back. No wonder Peter hadn’t slept at home in a month. I tossed the iPad back onto the cushion just as my phone began to buzz. Peter’s name flashed across the screen. Right on cue. “Diana,” his voice crackled through the speaker, clipped and impatient. “Go out to the family compound in Connecticut by yourself today. Things blew up at the firm. I’m tied up.” I frowned, keeping my voice perfectly even. “Peter, we agreed. We do the monthly family dinner together.” A heavy sigh echoed through the receiver. “What does it matter if you go alone? You just sit there and make polite conversation with my parents. You can handle it. I have a crisis here. I’m hanging up.” The line went dead. It was mid-afternoon by the time my driver pulled up to the sprawling, ivy-covered Harrington estate. “Margaret,” I said, keeping my voice respectfully neutral as I walked into the grand living room. My mother-in-law was lounging on a velvet sofa. The moment she turned her head and saw I was alone, her eyes hardened. Without a word of warning, she snatched the heavy, beaded throw pillow next to her and hurled it at my face. I flinched, but not fast enough. The sharp metal detailing of a decorative zipper caught the edge of my forehead. A thin, hot line of blood immediately began to trickle down my pale skin. Neither Margaret nor my father-in-law, who was sitting in the armchair opposite her, even blinked. In fact, Margaret let out a short, derisive scoff. “Peter isn’t with you?” she sneered. “I suppose you’ll just have to stop using my son as your personal meat shield.” I kept my head bowed. I let a single drop of blood fall, sinking into the priceless Persian rug beneath my feet. Richard Harrington peered over his reading glasses, his eyes flicking from the Wall Street Journal to my bleeding face. He looked mildly annoyed, as if I had tracked mud into the house. He gestured vaguely to a maid to fetch the first-aid kit. While the maid dabbed at my forehead with trembling hands, Margaret’s voice echoed through the cavernous room, sharp as broken glass. “I don’t know why the Kensingtons bothered raising such a useless daughter. You can’t keep your husband’s attention, you can’t manage to get pregnant, and you drain my son’s bank accounts. You provide absolutely nothing to this family. Nothing.” She paused, her eyes narrowing. “And your pathetic father. Always trying to ride Harrington Holdings’ coattails. Have you seen the cut he took on the waterfront development? Cheap materials, shoddy workmanship. If his incompetence damages the Harrington name, I’ll sue him into the ground myself.” I sat there, the picture of docile submission. The maid wiping my forehead shot me a look of profound, silent pity. “Enough, Margaret. What’s the point of barking at her? She’s not exactly playing in our league,” Richard interrupted, his voice laced with absolute boredom. “The girls are coming over for bridge in an hour. You’ll stay in the corner and serve the drinks,” Margaret ordered, dismissing me with a wave of her manicured hand. For the next four hours, the sunroom was suffocating. The air was thick with the smell of expensive gin, heavy perfume, and Virginia Slims. Four society matriarchs in immaculate Chanel, blowing smoke like industrial chimneys. It made me want to vomit. “Oh, dear. I think I just ashed on my shoe,” Mrs. Davenport, the mother of a tech billionaire, purred, looking pointedly at Margaret. “Don’t worry about it, darling,” Margaret smiled sweetly, before her gaze snapped to me. “Diana. Get down there and clean Mrs. Davenport’s shoe.” She commanded me with the exact same tone she used for her purebred Dobermans. I didn’t argue. I walked over, knelt on the hardwood floor, and took a cloth to the cherry-red patent leather stilettos. You’re pushing seventy, I thought distantly, and you’re wearing fire-engine red pumps. I glanced down at my own sensible black flats. Mrs. Davenport looked down at me from her perch, practically vibrating with the thrill of dominance. Every few seconds, she’d subtly shift her foot, letting the sharp toe of her stiletto kick against the fabric of my skirt. “You really do have the best daughter-in-law, Margaret,” Mrs. Davenport cooed. “So obedient. Not like my Chloe. That girl is spoiled rotten. Doesn’t listen to a word I say.” Margaret let out a bell-like laugh. “Oh, please. You can’t compare them. Chloe is a Harvard law graduate. Ours? Ours is completely useless.” I was still kneeling beside the table when Margaret casually reached for her silver insulated teapot. With a flick of her wrist, she tipped it. Boiling water cascaded directly onto the back of my hand. I gasped, shooting up from the floor, shaking my hand frantically. The skin was instantly an angry, blistering crimson. The pain was blinding, a sharp, searing heat that radiated up to my elbow. “Oh! My goodness. Clumsy me,” Margaret said. Her voice was flat. There wasn’t a drop of remorse in her eyes; they were dancing with cruel amusement. “You’d better go run that under the tap.” I rushed to the kitchen, shoving my hand under the freezing water, biting my lip so hard I tasted copper, just to keep the scream trapped in my throat. By the time I left the estate that evening, I felt hollowed out. I had played the servant all day. I hadn’t been offered a single bite of food. When Carter saw me walking down the driveway, my hand wrapped in a makeshift gauze bandage, he practically ripped the car door open, his jaw clenched tight as he helped me into the back seat. “Boss,” Carter said, his eyes dark in the rearview mirror. “How much longer are we playing this game?” I leaned my head against the cool leather of the headrest. A slow, terrifying smile curved across my lips. “Not long,” I whispered. “I just need to make sure I have every single piece on the board exactly where I want it.” 2 Peter wasn’t answering his phone, so the next morning, I went straight to the Harrington Holdings headquarters. When the elevator doors opened to the executive penthouse, I wasn’t expecting a party. But there they were. Peter’s inner circle. The boys’ club. Spencer and Nate. These were the men I had spent my college years with. We had crammed for finals together, drank cheap beer on fire escapes together. I had given them my genuine, unfiltered loyalty. I was just about to push the glass door open, a soft smile forming on my face, when a woman’s voice drifted through the gap. “You guys, stop it. Peter, tell them to stop teasing me.” It was Bella. Then came Spencer’s voice, booming and jovial. “Come on, future Mrs. Harrington! Don’t be shy. The whole city knows Peter’s basically built a shrine to you.” Bella was sitting on the edge of Peter’s mahogany desk, swinging her legs, the absolute center of gravity in the room. She ducked her head, offering a practiced, blushing smile. Peter reached out and affectionately tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Nate chuckled, leaning back in his leather chair. “You’ve been back in the States for a month, Bella. I don’t think Peter’s even seen his own house since you landed.” Bella covered her mouth, giggling. “I haven’t kidnapped him! He’s the one who refuses to leave my apartment. And please, you guys have to stop calling me that. I don’t have the luxury of being his wife.” She let her gaze drop to the floor, the picture of tragic longing. Spencer immediately jumped in to soothe her. “Don’t sell yourself short, Bells. If you hadn’t moved to Paris, there is zero chance that ice-queen Diana would be sitting in the Harrington wife slot right now.” I stood frozen in the hallway. My perfectly manicured nails dug into the leather of my handbag until my fingers ached. There was a hollow, echoing pain in the center of my chest. Three years ago, Spencer’s startup had been on the verge of total bankruptcy. He came begging Peter for a five-million-dollar bridge loan. Peter had laughed in his face, telling me in private that Spencer’s company was garbage and wasn’t worth his spare change. He was going to let him drown. It was me. I was the one who begged Peter to remember their years of brotherhood. I was the one who personally signed a guarantee, promising Peter that if Spencer defaulted, I would liquidate my own private trust to cover the loss. My kindness. My loyalty. It was all just a punchline to them now. And Nate. Nate, whose father had abandoned him and his mother for a younger woman and a secret second family. Nate’s mother had broken her back working double shifts to give him a life, eventually building a multimillion-dollar bakery franchise from scratch. Nate always spoke of his mother with a fierce, protective pride. He openly despised his father for his infidelity. Yet here they were. Both of them. Forming a protective shield around their buddy’s affair. Bowing at the altar of the other woman. I didn’t understand how men could be so exceptionally hollow. How they could experience the fallout of betrayal, yet so easily inflict it on someone else. Through the crack in the door, Bella’s eyes suddenly met mine. The brief flash of shock in her gaze was immediately swallowed by a sickeningly sweet, triumphant smirk. The sheer audacity of it made the air leave my lungs. I wanted to run. Bella turned back to Peter, casually wrapping her arms around his neck. “Peter, I’m craving Italian. Let’s go to that place in SoHo. My treat.” Spencer and Nate immediately cheered, agreeing that whatever “the golden girl” wanted, she got. Once upon a time, they had called me by my first name. They used to swear they didn’t hang out with me just because I was dating Peter. They said we were a family. I believed them. God, I was naive. It takes the absolute worst moments of your life to strip the mask off the people around you. They were all exactly the same. They were all trash. 3 I turned on my heel and left. By the time I reached the lobby, I was on the phone with my private wealth manager, initiating the quietest, deadliest divorce prep New York had ever seen. Carter had also emailed me the Q3 projections for my shadow portfolio. Looking at the staggering numbers, a genuine, terrifying smile broke across my face. That was exactly how Peter found me when he finally walked through the front door of our townhouse that evening—staring at my phone and smiling. He dropped his briefcase, walked over, and draped himself over the back of the sofa, pressing a kiss to my hair. “Hey, beautiful. What’s got you so happy?” The moment I had heard his key in the lock, I had swiped away from my financial spreadsheets and opened a gossip blog. My face was a mask of utter serenity. “Just reading some ridiculous celebrity drama.” He leaned in, trying to catch my lips for a kiss. I turned my head just enough so his mouth grazed my cheek. I gave him a gentle but firm push backward. His face instantly clouded over. “You reek of garlic and cigar smoke,” I said, keeping my tone light. “Did you go out for Italian?” Peter stiffened. A flicker of panic crossed his eyes before he smoothed it over. “Uh… yeah. Grabbed dinner with Spencer and the guys. I’m gonna go take a shower.” I watched him walk up the stairs, my eyes cold. By the time he got out of the shower, I had already turned my back to his side of the bed and feigned a deep, heavy sleep. The next morning, Peter was putting on an absolute clinic in husbandly devotion. He was sitting at the breakfast island, pushing a mug of perfectly frothed matcha and a warm croissant toward me. “You aren’t rushing to the office today?” I asked, taking a sip. “I’m too busy? Never too busy for my wife,” he grinned smoothly. “So, how was it? Did my mother give you a hard time at the estate the other day?” I set the mug down and looked at him, letting a small, humorless laugh escape. “What do you think?” Peter saw the smile and assumed the coast was clear. “Come on, Diana. You know how she is. It’s just family dynamics—” I reached across the marble counter and yanked back the silk cuff of my blouse. The burn took up the entire back of my hand. The skin was an angry, mottled purple. A massive blister had popped in the night, leaving the dead skin wrinkled and peeling over raw, weeping tissue. It looked like something out of a horror movie. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” I whispered. “Your mother poured boiling water on me.” Peter’s eyes bulged. He stared at the mangled flesh of my pale hand, the color draining from his face. His eyes immediately went red. He reached out, his hands hovering over mine, terrified to touch it. He fell to his knees beside my barstool, wrapping his arms around my waist, burying his face in my stomach. “God, Diana. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry she put you through that.” Put me through that. I stared down at the top of his perfectly styled hair. Not I’m going to kill her. Not I’m going to burn that house down. Just a passive acknowledgment of my suffering. My utter lack of reaction seemed to unnerve him. He pulled back, looking up at me, his guilt rapidly souring into defensive anger. “Well, what do you want me to do, Diana?!” he snapped, his voice rising. “You want me to drive over there and beat up an old woman? She’s my mother! What am I supposed to do? Why can’t you just learn to stroke her ego a little bit? Play the game!” I looked at him. The disappointment was a physical weight in my chest. There was a time, years ago, when this man actually gave a damn about me. When we were engaged, Margaret had made a snide comment about my weight. Peter had flipped a dining table. He refused to speak to his mother for six months, and the freeze-out only ended because his father begged him to come to a board meeting. After that, whenever Peter was in the room, Margaret treated me like glass. But it had been too long. Peter stopped caring, stopped showing up, and Margaret, like a rabid dog returning to its vomit, reverted to her true nature. Crushing my dignity was her favorite parlor game. The Harringtons were rotten all the way down to the studs. Peter played the doting husband for exactly three days before he vanished again. He didn’t come home for the rest of the week. I didn’t care. It gave me the silence I needed. My empire was on the precipice of something massive. Everything rode on the next few weeks. Bella was a D-list influencer before she moved away. Now that she was back, Peter was funneling Harrington Holdings’ marketing budget into reviving her career. I was scrolling through my phone while drinking coffee when an algorithm pushed one of her posts onto my feed. I clicked it. The blood in my veins turned to ice. The caption read: “Thank you to my angel for the necklace. I’ve loved this piece for years, and after so much time, it finally found its way to where it belongs.” Attached was a photo of her delicate collarbone. Resting against her skin was a massive, pear-cut blue diamond, surrounded by a halo of flawless white diamonds. It was the Tear of Artemis. The necklace my grandmother had secured around my neck on her deathbed. A ringing sound started in my ears. So that was why Peter had played house for three days. He wasn’t guilty about my burned hand. He was waiting for me to leave the house so he could crack the safe in my dressing room, steal my grandmother’s legacy, and strap it around his mistress’s neck. My hands were shaking so violently I dropped the phone twice before I managed to dial his number. He answered on the second ring. He sounded completely unfazed, as if he’d been waiting for the call. “Diana. I know why you’re calling. Listen, let’s just say I bought it from you. I’ll wire five million into your personal account today. Is that enough?” “Peter,” I breathed, my voice vibrating with a rage so profound it scared me. “Are you out of your absolute mind? You broke into my safe. You stole from me. I am giving you until midnight tonight to bring that necklace back to this house, or I will ruin you.” “Jesus, Diana, calm down. It’s just a piece of jewelry. Haven’t I bought you enough diamonds over the years? I’m not stealing it, I’m compensating you for it. The wire transfer is already pending.” I cut him off. “Men who play God eventually have to face the devil, Peter. I hope you’re ready for the fallout.” I hung up. I immediately dialed Carter. “Accelerate the timeline,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “I want the IPO launched within seven days.” There was a brief pause on the line. Then, Carter’s voice, hard and absolute. “Consider it done.” I hung up. I stood in the middle of my silent, immaculate kitchen, trembling with adrenaline. Then, I pulled up my contacts and dialed a number with a +7 country code. Moscow. “Sabrina,” I whispered when the line connected. “I need you.” 4 When I met Sabrina at JFK, I barely recognized her. She was a vision in a sharply tailored, blood-red leather trench coat. She had grown at least two inches taller than me, her hair chopped into a sleek, ruthless bob that framed a face carved out of marble. People in the arrivals terminal were literally stopping to stare at her. If it weren’t for the ten towering, heavily armed Russian private security contractors forming a wedge around her, a dozen men would have tried to hit on her. I ran to her, tears spilling hot and fast down my cheeks. She caught me, wrapping me in a crushing, desperate hug. “Diana. I missed you so much,” she breathed into my hair. “Sabrina…” I sobbed, the sound tearing out of my chest. “Hey, hey. Look at me.” Sabrina pulled back, taking my face in her black-leather-gloved hands, her thumbs gently swiping away my tears. “You’re a titan, Diana. You run an empire from the shadows. Why are you crying? Did my brother do this?” I looked up, stunned. She knew. She knew about my company. Not even my own father knew about my business. It was an entity I had built from the ground up using my grandmother’s inheritance while I was supposedly “just studying” abroad in London for ten years. It had grown into an apex predator in the venture capital world. Sabrina pulled me back against her chest, her hand stroking the back of my head. It was the safest I had felt in years. The cavalry wasn’t just coming. The cavalry was here. I moved Sabrina into one of my private penthouses in Tribeca. I refused to go back to the townhouse I shared with Peter. The next afternoon, Carter sent me a ping with a location. I grabbed Sabrina, telling her I wanted to take her shopping. She just smiled softly, saying she didn’t need anything, but let me drag her out the door. We were strolling arm-in-arm through the most exclusive luxury department store on Fifth Avenue, a discreet phalanx of Russian muscle trailing thirty feet behind us. Sabrina stepped away to use the restroom. I was idly browsing a rack of silk blouses when a voice sliced through the quiet ambiance like a rusted knife. “Oh my god! Peter, look, it’s Diana!” I turned slowly. Bella was clinging to Peter’s bicep like a barnacle. Peter looked momentarily panicked, shifting his weight uneasily, before attempting a mask of authority. “Diana? What are you doing here?” I stared at him deadpan. “I’m in a Bergdorf’s. What do you think I’m doing? Ordering a pizza?” Bella stepped forward, her voice dripping with sickly-sweet concern. “Diana, I heard you and Peter had a fight. Was it over this?” She reached up, her manicured fingers brushing against her collarbone. Resting there, mocking me, was the Tear of Artemis. Something inside me snapped. The world went terrifyingly quiet. I didn’t think. I lunged. I grabbed the heavy platinum chain and ripped it downward with all my body weight. The clasp snapped. Bella let out a blood-curdling shriek. “Ah! Are you crazy?! It cut me!” I gripped the cold diamonds in my fist, a massive wave of relief crashing over me. Carter was right. He had profiled her perfectly. The woman was too vain, too desperate to prove she had won; she would never take it off. She’d wear it in public like a trophy. Peter practically tackled Bella to check on her. A thin, angry red welt was rising on the back of her neck. He spun around, his face contorted with rage. “Diana, how dare you put your hands on her! I told you I bought that from you! I’m wiring you five million dollars! If you want more money, name your price, but you do not assault her like a feral animal! Apologize to Bella right now!” “Assault?” I stepped right into his space, my voice dropping to a lethal whisper. “You broke into my home and stole from me. You’re nothing but a common thief in a Tom Ford suit.” I looked him dead in the eye. “I’m filing for divorce, Peter.” Peter froze. Next to him, a flash of pure, euphoric victory sparked in Bella’s eyes. But she was a professional victim. She immediately grabbed Peter’s arm, her voice trembling. “Diana, please, you can’t do that! Peter loves you! If this is a misunderstanding, I’ll explain everything. Please don’t throw your marriage away because of me!” I let out a sharp, barking laugh. “Are you seriously that delusional, Bella? You’re older than I am, stop playing the naive little girl. My mother died a long time ago, she never gave me a sister. I’m divorcing Peter because he repulses me. It has absolutely nothing to do with you. You are nothing.” Peter’s face flushed a deep, ugly crimson. As I turned to walk away, he lunged, grabbing my arm and slamming my back against a mirrored pillar. His hand clamped around my jaw, his fingers digging brutally into the soft skin beneath my chin. “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?” he spat, his breath hot against my face. “You don’t get to file for divorce. Your family begged for this union! The Kensingtons survive off the scraps from my table! I call the shots, Diana. You have no power here.” I thrashed against him, tears of pain pricking my eyes as his grip bruised my jawline. Bella stood three feet away, watching with a small, satisfied smirk. I was just starting to wonder what was taking Sabrina so long. I didn’t even see the blur. I just felt the sudden rush of displaced air. Before I could blink, Peter was violently ripped away from me. He didn’t just fall—he went airborne, crashing backward into a glass display case with a deafening shatter.

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Once upon a time, I had a sudden, terrifying moment of clarity. I realized I was nothing but a disposable background character in the sweeping, dramatic romance of someone else’s life. So, I pivoted. I became the golden boy’s best friend, married the affluent, tragically heartbroken second female lead, and gave the main couple their happily ever after. But a decade later, he’s back. He just announced his newly single status and dropped two messages into a college alumni group chat that had been dead for years. [I’m back stateside. Let’s all get together soon.] [@Madeline, you’ll be there, right?] The group thread instantly exploded. Everyone remembered how Tristan Crawford, the arrogant, untamable Ivy League prince, had walked away from the ice-queen valedictorian who had spent four years chasing him. To this day, it was the great, unresolved tragedy of our social circle. I stared at the glowing screen, then shifted my gaze to Madeline sleeping soundly beside me. I raised an eyebrow in the dark. I had some unresolved business, too. After all, her assets didn’t entirely belong to me yet. 1. [Madeline has to go, right? She waited for Tristan for ten years. What guy could resist that kind of devotion!] [Seriously! She’s been married, but come on, we all know who owns her heart. The ultimate tragic romance!] [I could feed off this drama forever. It’s too good.] I stared at the messages cascading down the screen. My fingers tightened unconsciously around the edges of my phone, but my eyes drifted back to Madeline. She slept so peacefully. Her breathing was a steady, quiet rhythm, her elegant profile softened by the warm glow of the nightlight. Fifteen years. It had been fifteen long years since my senior year of high school, the year I “woke up” and realized I was just an extra in this narrative—a guy whose name people barely remembered. When I got to college, the first thing I did was gravitate toward Tristan Crawford. He was the protagonist. The sun around which everyone else orbited. Relying on my uncanny intuition for how his story was supposed to go, I showed up exactly when he needed a wingman. I said exactly what he needed to hear when his ego took a hit. Seamlessly, inevitably, I became his best friend. Everyone used to say, Cameron Wright, you’re so lucky to be Tristan’s brother-in-arms. Only I knew the truth. I was just basking in the residual glow of his main-character energy, using his light to carve out a slightly smoother path for my own life. For four years of undergrad, I shadowed Tristan to every exclusive fraternity mixer and hamptons weekend, infiltrating his elite circle. That was how I met Madeline Sinclair. She came from old money. She had a razor-sharp intellect, top-of-her-class grades, and eyes that saw absolutely no one but Tristan. Until graduation year. That was when Tristan chose Bernice Kensington, the stunning, equally wealthy campus darling, and moved to London with her. Right before he left, Tristan threw an arm around my shoulder, flashing that signature, blinding smile. “Cameron, Madeline is an incredible woman. You guys should get together. It would give me peace of mind.” I looked at his bright, oblivious smile, knowing the truth better than anyone. Madeline’s heart belonged entirely to him. I also knew that, according to the unwritten script of this world, Tristan would return a decade later, and Madeline would pack up our child and run straight back into his arms. But so what? Madeline’s pedigree, her education, her family’s capital—they were stepping stones a guy from my middle-class background couldn’t reach in three lifetimes. Marrying her meant I could climb. I could access a higher echelon, network with the right investors, and build my own empire. As for love? I never expected it. So, when Tristan played matchmaker, I didn’t hesitate to say yes to Madeline. I was as cold and calculating as a corporate raider executing a merger. I had every step mapped out. I would use her family’s connections to launch my tech startup. I would build my own wealth. And in ten years, when Tristan inevitably returned and Madeline inevitably cheated, I would file for a very public, very justified divorce, take half of everything, and secure my absolute freedom. I calculated every variable. Except one. I didn’t factor in how a human heart can soften under the quiet, steady weight of a shared life. In our third year of marriage, my company finally gained traction. Madeline, without ever asking for credit, quietly fed me high-level industry contacts. In our fifth year, our daughter, Sophie, was born. Madeline was incredibly clumsy at first, but she learned to be a mother with an exhausting, fiercely tender devotion. In our eighth year, my firm hit a massive cash-flow crisis. Without a word, she liquidated her personal trust to help me weather the storm. Ten years. Everyone told me, Cameron, you married a truly good woman. And I almost fooled myself into believing it. I almost believed that living like this, for the rest of our lives, wouldn’t be so bad. But now, Tristan was back. The narrative was violently course-correcting. I looked at the endless notifications lighting up the group chat, and the last lingering traces of hesitation in my chest were ruthlessly crushed by logic. Fine. This would be my final test for her. If, this time, she chose me—if she chose this home we built—I would bury my grand plan. I would pretend I never saw the messages. I would stay in this marriage forever. But if she chose Tristan… Then it was time to close the net. 2. The next morning, sunlight slipped through the gap in the blackout curtains. Madeline was already awake, lying on her side, watching me. Her voice carried the raspy, intimate weight of sleep. “You’re up?” “Yeah,” I murmured. I stretched, pretending the thought had just casually crossed my mind. “By the way, the alumni chat blew up last night. Tristan is back from London. He’s putting together a get-together this weekend. You going?” Madeline’s movements stalled for a fraction of a second. Then she rolled onto her back, staring blankly at the ceiling. Her tone was flat. “No.” “Why not?” I propped myself up on one elbow to look at her. “Back in the day, you guys…” She cut me off, turning her head to meet my eyes. Her gaze was eerily calm. “There’s no point.” “It’s all in the past. Besides, it’s just a bunch of people who barely know each other anymore, pretending to be close and stroking each other’s egos. It sounds exhausting.” I didn’t say a word. I just waited. She shifted closer, burying her face against my chest. Her voice was muffled against my skin. “You shouldn’t go either.” “Sophie has her ballet grading exam this weekend. One of us needs to be there. If you go, who’s going to take care of her?” I held her in the quiet room. I breathed in the familiar, expensive scent of her shampoo. I let the silence stretch for several long seconds before I spoke softly. “You’re right. I’ll skip it.” Friday evening, Madeline came home earlier than usual. During dinner, she casually placed a piece of roasted chicken onto my plate, her voice the picture of domestic warmth. “Oh, I almost forgot. I have to pull some overtime this weekend. We have a massive project launching, and I need to push the timeline.” My fork hovered in the air. I looked up at her. “Both days?” “Yeah, I’ll probably be at the office pretty late,” she nodded, quickly adding, “I’ll drop Sophie off at my parents’ place tomorrow morning. They can take her for the weekend. You should just rest. You’ve been working so hard with the kid lately.” I looked at her gentle, flawless expression. I smiled and nodded. But deep in my chest, that final, pathetic ember of hope went ice cold. “Alright. Just don’t overwork yourself. Take care of your health.” Madeline looked at me, her eyes pooling with affection. “You’re always the sweetest husband.” Saturday morning, Madeline slipped out of bed with practiced stealth. I kept my eyes shut, feigning heavy sleep. I felt her lean over, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead. I felt her tuck the duvet securely around my shoulders. Then, the soft padding of her footsteps retreating. When the front door clicked shut, my eyes snapped open. Ten minutes later, I was dressed in dark clothes, a baseball cap pulled low, and a surgical mask covering my face. I hailed a cab and told the driver to follow her Audi. She didn’t head toward the financial district where her firm was located. Instead, her car glided toward the East Side, into the heart of the city’s most exclusive private club district. She pulled up to the valet stand of a members-only lounge. I had the cab driver pull over half a block away. Through the smudged glass of the taxi window, I watched her step out. And then, I saw Tristan. He was draped in designer clothes, his hair styled to that effortless, messy perfection. He stood by the entrance, wearing that same, radiant, arrogant smile. Ten years had passed, but he hadn’t changed a bit. He was still the untouchable golden boy. Madeline walked toward him. Tristan stepped forward to close the distance, wrapping an arm naturally around her shoulders. He leaned down, whispering something in her ear, laughing. Madeline tilted her head up to listen. The curve of her jawline was the same gentle silhouette I had kissed a thousand times. Then, Tristan let his arm drop, turned fully toward her, and pulled her into a deep embrace. Madeline went rigid for a second. But she didn’t push him away. They held each other in front of the club, looking exactly like two star-crossed lovers reuniting against all odds. I sat in the back of the cab, watching them. And I felt… nothing. Just a vast, hollow calm. That ridiculous, lingering hope was finally, permanently dead. I pulled out my phone, zoomed in on the embracing couple, framed the shot perfectly, and tapped the shutter button. “Driver. Take me to the financial district. I need a law firm.” 3. The air conditioning in the conference room of the law firm was aggressively cold. I slid my phone across the polished mahogany table. The screen displayed the crisp photo of Madeline and Tristan locked in their embrace. The attorney sitting across from me, David Pierce, was a man in his late forties, wearing wire-rimmed glasses and an aura of expensive competence. He adjusted his glasses, scrutinized the photo, and then looked up at me. His tone was clinical. “Mr. Wright, a single photograph of an embrace in a public setting is insufficient to definitively prove infidelity in a court of law. Judges require a much higher burden of proof—explicit photographs, hotel receipts, incriminating text threads, or unexplained financial transfers.” I smiled faintly and pulled the phone back. “The proof is coming. David, I need you to draft the divorce settlement. My terms are very straightforward: she gets full custody of our daughter, and I walk away with every single cent of the marital assets I am legally entitled to.” David raised an eyebrow, clearly taken aback by my lack of emotional distress, but his professionalism quickly masked it. “Understood. I’ll begin drafting the initial paperwork. However, I must advise you that if you can procure concrete evidence of marital misconduct, it will grant us significantly more leverage during the asset division phase.” “I’m aware.” I stood up, buttoning my jacket. “Email the draft to me when it’s ready. I’ll be waiting to sign.” By the time I left the firm, it was early afternoon. I didn’t go home. I wandered through a high-end department store, bought myself a tailored jacket I didn’t need, and spent an hour getting a deep-tissue massage. At four o’clock, I walked into my house carrying shopping bags. It was dead quiet. Predictably, Madeline wasn’t home. I boiled some water and made myself a simple bowl of pasta. Just as I finished eating, my phone buzzed on the counter. An MMS message from an unknown number. I tapped the notification. It was a ten-second video file. The lighting was dim, clearly a private VIP booth. Madeline was pressed against Tristan’s chest, her head tilted back, kissing him with a desperate, almost religious fervor. The resolution was high. You could clearly see the flush on Madeline’s cheeks and the slight flutter of her eyelashes as she kept her eyes tightly shut. As soon as the video ended, a text message popped up from the same number. [Cameron, a marriage only survives when a woman is actually in love with her husband. Don’t you agree?] I saved the video to a secure cloud folder. I took a screenshot of the text thread. Saved that, too. At seven o’clock, my phone rang. Madeline. “Hey honey, I have a client dinner tonight that’s going to run late. Don’t wait up for me, just go to sleep.” Her voice floated through the speaker. The background was entirely silent—far too quiet for a bustling restaurant or a corporate event. “Got it,” I said, keeping my voice utterly level. “Don’t drink too much.” I hung up, walked over to the living room couch, and turned on the TV, putting on a mindless action movie. The movie was terrible. I fell asleep halfway through. Sometime in the middle of the night, in the hazy space between sleep and waking, I felt the mattress dip. Someone was slipping under the covers, moving with agonizing slowness. The faint, sweet stench of alcohol drifted through the dark. Madeline pressed her body against my back, wrapping her arms around my waist. She buried her face between my shoulder blades and whispered, so quietly it was almost a breath: “I’m sorry…” I didn’t move a muscle. I kept my breathing deep and even, playing the sleeping husband to perfection. But in my head, I was laughing. A cold, hollow sound. What was this? A sudden flash of Catholic guilt after sleeping with another man? Or did she just feel pathetic, and decided to throw a crumb of counterfeit affection to the husband she was destroying? Madeline held onto me for a while until her breathing evened out and she slipped into a deep sleep. I opened my eyes, staring into the dark room, watching the moonlight pool on the floorboards. My heart was a block of ice. 4. Over the next few weeks, Madeline’s “overtime” escalated aggressively. Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays. She always found a pristine excuse to stay out past ten. “The project deadline was moved up.” “Entertaining a prospective client.” “Department team-building.” The excuses rotated, but the outcome was identical—she wasn’t home. And Sophie, who used to spend only one night a week at her grandparents’ house, was now being shipped off for three nights a week. Worse, every time Sophie came home, the way she looked at me grew a little colder, a little more disdainful. “Daddy, why are you always in a bad mood? You look crazy.” “Daddy, why are you never home? Is it because you don’t love me?” “I hate you! You’re the bad guy! Go away, I don’t want you here!” I knew exactly what was happening. Tristan was already weaving his way into my daughter’s life. The plot was unfolding flawlessly, just like the original script. Madeline would pack up our child and run off into the sunset with Tristan. And me? The supporting character was finally being written out of the story. But before I exited stage left, I was going to take every single thing I was owed. I quietly hired a forensic accountant to audit Madeline’s personal and corporate assets. What I found was staggering. Over the past month, the deeds to three of our investment properties, her equity in two shell companies, and the bulk of her liquid savings had been quietly drained into an offshore account. The beneficiary of that offshore account? Tristan Crawford. But the detail that truly made my blood run cold was the corporate ledger. Madeline had embezzled three million dollars directly from her firm’s operational accounts and wired it straight to Tristan. I photographed every wire transfer, every doctored equity transfer, every forged property deed. I compiled it all into a meticulous, encrypted dossier. And I sent it to David Pierce. Half an hour later, David called me. His normally calm voice was vibrating with urgency. “Cameron, what your wife is doing constitutes gross dissipation of marital assets. But more importantly, the corporate embezzlement is a severe federal felony. With this evidence, not only will she walk away from the divorce with absolutely nothing, but she is looking at serious prison time.” “My advice is to file the divorce petition immediately and request an emergency freeze on all remaining assets.” “I know.” I stared at the spreadsheets illuminating my dark office. My voice was eerily calm. “David, get the filings ready. I’ll let you know the exact day to drop the hammer.” “When are you planning to proceed?” I thought about it. An old memory from the “script” surfaced in my mind. Tristan’s birthday was approaching. He was going to throw a massive, opulent gala. And according to the narrative, it was at this party that he and Madeline would be overcome by passion, sleeping together in one of the estate’s private VIP rooms. In the original story, this party was the turning point. It was the night Tristan publicly announced his divorce, his return to high society, and his rekindled romance with Madeline. “Give me a few days,” I said. “Right after his birthday party.” I hung up, opened my desk calendar, and stared at the date circled in red ink. Three days away. I traced the red circle with my fingertip, a razor-thin smile touching my lips. Tristan, I really hope you like the gift I’m bringing.

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I used to be a deep-sea recovery specialist. That was before I was convicted of murder—accused of cutting my dive partner’s oxygen line out of sheer greed—and handed a life sentence. After rotting in a cell for eight years, I was granted early parole. Now, my entire world had shrunk to the size of a wet, foul-smelling stall at the local harbor market, where I spent my days gutting fish. Until today. My family tracked me down like a pack of rabid dogs. My parents fell to their knees right there on the concrete, indifferent to the blood and fish viscera soaking into their designer clothes. “Carter,” my mother sobbed, her voice echoing off the corrugated metal roof. “Your brother went diving in the sound two hours ago. He hasn’t surfaced. Something’s wrong.” “You were the best commercial diver on the coast,” my father demanded, his face red. “Get in the water and save him!” Then came Yvonne. My ex-wife. She stepped forward, her hands trembling as she pulled out the diamond wedding band she’d kept all these years. She grabbed my calloused, scarred hand and forced the ring onto my finger. “I promise you,” she choked out, tears ruining her immaculate makeup. “If you go down there and bring Porter back, I will remarry you. We can start over.” I didn’t say a word. I just reached up, my fingers instinctively brushing the hard plastic of the hearing aid tucked behind my right ear. Had they genuinely forgotten? Eight years ago, we found a sunken wreck loaded with illicit gold bars. It was Porter—the golden boy, the adopted son—who fought with our crewmate underwater to keep the gold for himself. When the dust settled and the police circled, Yvonne forced me to sign a confession to protect him. My father had sealed the deal by backhanding me so hard across the side of the head that he ruptured my eardrum, leaving me half-deaf. With the state of my inner ear now, if I attempted a deep-sea dive, the barometric pressure would cause my cerebral blood vessels to burst. I would drop dead before I even reached the ocean floor. … 1 “Don’t be an ungrateful prick, Carter.” Bill, the market manager, stepped into my stall. His tone was venomous. He’d spent the last year treating me like dirt, but now he was practically bowing to Yvonne and my parents—the city’s top taxpayers. He turned his sneer on me. “They’re handing you a fortune and a chance to clear your name. You think you’re too good for it? You think this rotting fish stand is a palace?” A crowd of onlookers had started to gather, their whispers carrying over the smell of brine and ice. “What kind of monster just stands there?” a woman muttered. “That’s his brother.” “Probably trying to extort them for more money,” a man sneered. “Looks decent enough, but he’s got a heart of stone.” Every word was a needle slipping beneath my skin. I was the victim. I was the one who took the fall for Porter’s greed. My entire life had been incinerated, yet here I was, nearly a decade later, still being painted as the villain. I pulled the diamond ring off my finger and shoved it back into Yvonne’s chest. Then, I pointed to my hearing aid and shook my head. “It’s not that I won’t,” I said, my voice hoarse from disuse. “My ear is ruined. If I go down there, the pressure will kill me.” My mother, Helen, froze. Then, with a theatrical wail, she threw herself onto the filthy, scale-covered ground, beating her fists against the wet concrete. “Carter Pierce! Eight years in a cell and you’re still a cold-blooded sociopath!” she screamed. “You’d curse yourself with a fake disability just to avoid taking responsibility? That is Porter! He is your brother!” My father, Richard, pointed a trembling finger at my face. His eyes were wide with a sickening cocktail of disgust and fury. “How did I raise such an abomination? You’d watch him die and spin lies to justify it. You are garbage.” Yvonne’s eyes were bloodshot. She dug frantically into her pristine leather handbag, pulling out a sleek black debit card and shoving it into my apron pocket. “Please, Carter,” she begged, her voice cracking. “There’s five million dollars on that card. It’s enough for the rest of your life. Just bring him up. I’ll give you whatever you want.” Hot tears spilled from her eyes and landed on the back of my hand. They burned. In eight years of prison, she hadn’t visited me once. Not a single letter. Now, we were finally face to face, and she was humiliating me with money, begging me to risk my life for the very man she’d chosen over me. I was suffocating. I couldn’t do this anymore. With shaking hands, I reached into my back pocket and pulled out the folded, creased medical certificate detailing my severe tympanic membrane perforation. But Yvonne didn’t even look at it. She slapped the paper out of my hand. “Are you seriously waving a piece of paper around right now?!” she shrieked hysterically. “Is this a negotiation? I gave you the money! Porter is running out of air!” That was the cue for Bill. The market manager lunged forward, grabbing the edge of my folding table and flipping it. Ice, dead fish, and bloody water crashed over my boots. “Get the hell out of here, you murderer!” Bill roared. “Don’t bring your bad karma into my market! If you don’t go save him, you’re never working on these docks again!” The crowd surged, feeding off the hostility. An old man spat at my feet. “Get out, killer!” “Doesn’t even deserve to breathe our air!” I looked down at my medical records, now soaking in a puddle of bloody fish water. A quiet, hollow absurdity settled in my chest. All I wanted was to be a ghost. To exist quietly in a dark corner of the world. Why was even that too much to ask? Did they really want me dead that badly? 2 The sheer weight of their collective hatred broke something inside me. Without another word, I turned and ran. I don’t remember the walk back to my rundown apartment. I just remember the slurs shouted from car windows and the pounding of my own heart. Before I could even catch my breath, my phone started vibrating violently on the kitchen counter. Notifications flooded the screen. Local news alerts. Viral TikTok tags. #KillerBrotherLetsSiblingDrown #PierceFamilyTragedy: Adopted Son Fights for Life, Biological Son Refuses to Help #CEOYvonnePierce Offers Millions to Save the Man She Loves I tapped a notification and found myself staring at a livestream. It was Yvonne’s account. On screen, my mother was weeping, her face pale and tragic. “I am so sorry… I’m sorry to take up public resources,” she trembled into the camera. “But as a mother, I am out of options. We failed in raising our eldest son. Eight years ago, that animal killed a man for gold. I thought prison would rehabilitate him, but… he is rotten to his core. His brother is dying underwater right now, and Carter just ran away.” My father stepped into the frame, wrapping a supportive arm around her shaking shoulders. He bowed deeply to the camera. “We are begging the public for help. If anyone can locate my son, Carter Pierce, we are offering a one-million-dollar bounty.” The live chat was a waterfall of digital venom. Doxx him! Someone find this psycho! I know where he works! He lives in the slums by the old rail yard! Any Seattle boys in the chat? Let’s go pay him a visit! Grab your bats. This guy needs to learn a lesson. Less than five minutes later, the violent pounding began. Before I could even reach the deadbolt, the cheap wooden door was kicked off its hinges. My landlord stormed in, flanked by a dozen strangers. Phone flashlights blinded me. Cameras were shoved into my face. “Thought you could hide, didn’t you, killer?” the landlord spat. The mob rushed the room, smashing my plates, kicking over my chairs. I tried to push my way to the door, but two massive guys grabbed me, slamming my face down onto the cheap linoleum. “Stay down!” one of them barked. “Apologize to the stream! Tell them you’re a piece of shit who doesn’t deserve to live!” Humiliation crashed over me like a tidal wave. They grabbed me by the hair, forcing my face toward the glowing lenses. I couldn’t move. Then, the crowd suddenly parted. My parents stood in the doorway. For a fleeting, pathetic second, the little boy inside me thought they had come to stop the violence. Instead, my father’s face was an emotionless mask. He reached behind his back and handed the closest vigilante a thick coil of heavy marine rope. He pointed at me, his jaw clenched tight. “Tie him up. If he won’t walk to the boat, we will drag him.” I yanked my head up, my voice tearing from my throat in pure disbelief. “Dad?! Do you even hear yourself? I told you I can’t go down there! It will kill me!” I looked at my mother. “Mom… doesn’t my life mean anything to you? You’re going to murder your own flesh and blood for an adopted son?” Helen’s eyes flickered with a microsecond of guilt before her face hardened into absolute conviction. “Shut your mouth! Porter might not share our blood, but his soul is a thousand times purer than yours! While you were eating off the taxpayer’s dime in a cell, Porter was taking care of us. He was the one holding this family together! Now he’s dying, and you won’t even lift a finger? Where is your conscience?!” My heart had been calloused by years of abuse, but in that moment, it shattered all over again. Blood meant nothing. I was just a stain on their perfect lives. Expendable. “I won’t go,” I thrashed against the men holding me down. “I never killed anyone! You never even looked at the evidence! Why didn’t you ever believe me?!” No one listens to a convicted murderer. Just as my strength started to give out, Yvonne stepped into the apartment. She looked immaculate, save for the heavy, black high-voltage stun gun gripped tight in her right hand. “Don’t make me do this, Carter,” she whispered, her eyes dark. “I will do whatever it takes to save Porter.” She didn’t hesitate. She drove the prongs directly into my spine and pulled the trigger. Electricity ripped through my nervous system. Everything seized, and the world went pitch black. 3 When I opened my eyes, I was lying like a dead dog on the steel deck of a ship. The roar of the ocean surrounded me. We were miles offshore, the waves slamming violently against the hull. Yvonne was standing over me, her arms crossed, her foot tapping anxiously. “Stop playing dead, Carter. Get up. You’re going in the water.” When I didn’t move, she crouched down, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “I told you, bring him up, and I’ll consider letting you come back to me. You’ll never have to gut another fish again. You won’t have to be a peasant.” A peasant. The word made my stomach turn. Six months ago, right after my release, I had walked to their sprawling lakeside estate, clinging to the pathetic hope that maybe, just maybe, I could find my family again. I stood in the snow, looking through their massive floor-to-ceiling windows. Inside, the fireplace was roaring. My parents and Yvonne were gathered around the dining table with Porter, laughing, raising their wine glasses in a toast. From the outside, looking in at that warmth, I realized something fundamental: I was just an ex-con, freezing in the dark, half-deaf and entirely broken. They had built their heaven on the foundation of my hell. I was the interloper. My focus snapped back to the present, landing on a crumpled photograph gripped in Yvonne’s hand. It was a candid shot from a beach volleyball tournament years ago. Porter was shirtless, standing out among the other divers. But what caught my eye—what made the breath catch in my throat—was the jagged scar on his right shoulder. Seeing that scar was like being struck by lightning. Ten years ago. I was the dive captain. Yvonne and Porter were rookies on my crew. A freak storm hit, and a severe undertow caught us off guard. I signaled for an emergency ascent. In the chaos, I fought the current, using every ounce of my strength to physically shove Yvonne and Porter into the safety netting of the boat. In doing so, my muscles gave out. The undertow dragged me down. By some miracle, I washed up on a remote stretch of coastline. I was in a coma for three days before a passing trawler found me. When I finally made it back home, Porter tackled me in tears. “Carter! You’re alive! It’s my fault… if I had just been stronger… I only had the strength to pull Yvonne onto the boat. I had to watch you get swept away!” The pieces finally clicked into place. The realization made me physically nauseous. No wonder my wife fought so hard to protect him. No wonder she forced me to take the fall for his murder. For ten years, she thought Porter was the one who saved her life! During the three days I was presumed dead, Porter had spun a narrative where he was the knight in shining armor. He took credit for the rescue. He used the scar he got from scraping against the boat’s hull as proof of his heroism. And I was cast as the reckless captain who almost got them all killed. It was the sickest joke in the world. My throat was raw, but I pushed myself up onto my elbows and screamed over the wind. “I told you! I cannot dive! My eardrum will rupture! The pressure will cause a cerebral hemorrhage! Are you trying to execute me?!” Yvonne’s gaze wavered. A flicker of genuine panic crossed her face. But my father didn’t miss a beat. He stepped forward and delivered a brutal kick to my ribs, sending me sprawling back onto the wet deck. “Stop acting!” Richard roared. “You are rotten to the core! You’ll fake a medical emergency just to let your brother die?!” Nearby, my mother slumped against the railing, crying hysterically into her hands. “God… Porter is such a good boy. He’s so dutiful. If he dies down there, how am I supposed to go on living?” 4 The captain of the salvage ship walked over, tapping his diver’s watch with a grim expression. “Ms. Pierce, we are right above his last known coordinates,” he said. “Based on the time he’s been down, his oxygen supply will last exactly thirty more minutes.” That sentence snapped the last thread of Yvonne’s sanity. Her beautiful face twisted into something ugly and frantic. She whirled on me, pointing a trembling finger. “Did you hear him?! What are you waiting for?! Suit him up!” I stared at her. The last embers of hope I had for any of them finally burned out, leaving nothing but cold ash. “Fine,” I croaked. “I’ll do it.” I coughed, tasting blood. “But I have one condition. I need your top-tier atmospheric diving suit.” If they were forcing me into an execution, I had to fight for the one-in-a-million chance I had to survive. A hard-shell pressure suit was the only way I could withstand the deep-water compression without my brain bleeding out. Yvonne’s shoulders sagged with immense relief. She rushed forward, grabbing my hands, her eyes shining with manic gratitude. “I knew it. I knew you still loved me. I knew you wouldn’t let him die.” But a second later, she bit her lip, gesturing awkwardly to a pile of gear in the corner. “We… we don’t have that. We chartered this boat in a rush. They only have standard wet suits and some old commercial gear.” She forced a bright, patronizing smile. “But you were the best in the business, Carter. You can overcome a little equipment issue, right?” I followed her gaze. Lying on the deck was an outdated neoprene suit with visible dry rot and a rusted regulator valve. It was obsolete garbage. A death trap even for a healthy diver. Cold terror spiked through my veins. I ripped my hands out of hers and scrambled backward. “Are you insane?!” I yelled. “You used to dive! You know damn well that putting me in that gear is a death sentence!” The boat captain shuffled his feet, looking intensely uncomfortable. “Ms. Pierce, the gear is compromised. Sending a man down in that… the risk of catastrophic failure is—” “We don’t have time for this!” Yvonne snapped, cutting him off with lethal authority. “Restrain him! Get the suit on him!” Four of her private security guards descended on me. They slammed me into the deck. In the struggle, someone’s heavy combat boot came down squarely on the side of my head. I heard the sickening crunch of my hearing aid shattering into plastic splinters. They forced my limbs into the decaying rubber suit. To ensure I wouldn’t try to swim away, Yvonne personally dragged over a thirty-pound iron anchor chain and commanded the guards to padlock it around my waist. I was dragged to the edge of the ship, bound and weighted like a sacrifice. In my final moments of sunlight, I looked back at the people who were supposed to be my family. My father stood with his arms crossed, watching me with dead eyes. He looked like a man watching a minor annoyance being dealt with. My mother had her eyes squeezed shut, her hands clasped in fervent prayer. “Please, God… please bring Porter back to me safely.” At the edge of death, she was praying for the man who ruined my life. It was so utterly absurd, I almost laughed. Then came the hard shove against my chest. As gravity took me, Yvonne’s voice cut through the rushing wind one last time: “Bring him back, Carter, and we’ll get married again! I’ll be waiting right here!” The freezing black water swallowed me whole. The heavy iron chain dragged me down into the abyss at a terrifying speed. Within seconds, the oceanic pressure slammed against my skull like a sledgehammer. My already weakened right eardrum gave way with a muffled, sickening tear. It felt like a balloon popping inside the center of my brain. The pain was biblical. My body convulsed violently. I opened my mouth to scream, but freezing saltwater flooded my lungs. The pressure crushed my chest like a vice, and my vision bled out into a wash of crimson red. My consciousness was fading. Just as I surrendered to the suffocating dark, giving up my last biological instinct to survive… a pair of soft, incredibly strong hands reached out of the blackness and grabbed me.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “409885”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

A week before our wedding, Beryl went on a last-minute business trip. When she finally got back, she melted into my arms, resting her chin against my chest, and out of nowhere, she murmured, “Did you shrink?” I froze. A microscopic tightening of my muscles. I forced a laugh, keeping my tone light. “What, did you spend your trip hugging guys taller than me?” Beryl’s body went rigid. Instead of answering, she shoved me backward onto the mattress, her mouth crashing down on mine, shutting down the conversation. After we made love, she wrapped herself in a towel and headed to the en-suite bathroom to shower, just like she always did. Everything felt perfectly, painstakingly normal. But I knew it wasn’t. Thirteen years. We had been each other’s entire world for thirteen years, and not once had she ever made a comment about my height. I lay there in the tangled sheets, staring at the ceiling. I took a slow, jagged breath, marshaling my courage, and reached for her phone on the nightstand. I scoured it. Texts, emails, hidden folders. Nothing. Not a single red flag. When Beryl stepped out of the bathroom, steam billowing around her, she noticed my silence. She climbed into bed, curling into my side with a soft, exasperated laugh. “Are you mad? Just because I said you felt a little shorter? Baby, we haven’t seen each other in a week. My spatial awareness is just out of whack.” I gave a curt nod. I didn’t say a word. I just let her tuck herself against my chest, the silence stretching out between us, heavy and suffocating. The next morning, I stepped out onto the terrace and called my parents. “Beryl might be cheating on me,” I said, the words tasting like ash. “I’m calling off the wedding.” 1. My parents urged me not to be rash, to find concrete proof first. So, I grabbed my keys and drove straight to Beryl’s corporate headquarters. It was a Saturday. She had promised me weeks ago that today would be our date day, a break from the wedding planning, but she’d canceled at the last minute, claiming a sudden “overtime crisis.” Sitting in my car in the parking garage, I pulled out my phone to call her, only to see a notification light up my screen. It was a message from Beryl on our personal iMessage thread. We both had separate phones for work, but for the last four thousand days—over a decade—we had never missed sending a good morning text. We even had a Snapchat streak that had been going since high school. Her text looked completely standard: “Did you eat lunch yet, baby?” But I stared at the screen, my brain short-circuiting. Beryl hated flashy, cutesy tech features. When Apple rolled out all those message effects and custom avatars, I’d asked if she wanted to match, and she had scoffed, calling it childish. But right now, her Memoji avatar—the one attached to her contact profile—had been changed to a pink bunny with hearts floating around its head. I typed back a single question mark. Immediately, the read receipt appeared. A second later, her avatar flickered and reverted to her standard, professional headshot. Her next text popped up: “Apple must be glitching. What was that bunny thing? I didn’t even touch my settings.” A glitch? My jaw tightened. I opened TikTok, my thumb flying across the search bar. It took me less than three minutes of searching trending couples’ aesthetics to find it. The “Pink Bunny and Bear” matching profile trend. My fiancé had matching couple profiles with someone else. I tapped into the top videos under the audio trend. A video posted barely ten minutes ago by an account named CEO’s Boy Toy featured a screenshot of a text conversation. The texts were mundane—Do you love me? Always.—but the problem was the profile picture of the person on the other end. It was Beryl. Specifically, a candid photo I had taken of her in Cabo, her hair windblown as she peeled shrimp for me at a beachside table. My breathing grew shallow, the air in the car suddenly too thin. The truth was violently clawing its way to the surface. I scrolled through the account. It was a goldmine of digital humiliation. Vlogs titled “Day in the Life of a Sugar Baby,”showing glimpses of expensive coffees, a luxury office, and the manicured hand of a woman passing him a credit card. I knew that hand. I bought the engagement ring currently sitting on its fourth finger. My phone buzzed. Beryl was sending me the profile link herself. A barrage of frantic voice memos followed. “Baby, please don’t ignore me. Okay, I admit it, I changed the avatar. I did it to help out the new marketing assistant. We’re shooting some viral POV videos to boost the company’s social media presence.” “He just turned twenty-one, he’s fresh out of college and full of Gen-Z ideas. He said this kind of ‘CEO and intern’ romance bait is super popular on TikTok right now and it’ll help us recruit younger talent.” I left her on read. I killed the engine, got out of the car, and walked straight to the private elevator, swiping my keycard for the penthouse floor. I really wanted to see what kind of twenty-one-year-old visionary thought pretending to date his boss was a solid corporate recruitment strategy. 2. I expected the office to be a ghost town, but the bullpen was actually buzzing. People really were working overtime. I exhaled a fraction of the tension in my chest. At least she hadn’t lied about the overtime. But a second later, my heart slammed into my throat. I was staring straight at her corner office. The floor-to-ceiling glass walls were completely obscured. The automated blackout blinds were drawn tight. Beryl hated closed blinds. Since the day she took over as CEO, she had never once lowered them. Even when I came to visit her for lunch, she loved leaving them open, never caring if her employees saw us kissing or being affectionate. So why were they down now? What exactly was happening in there that the rest of the floor couldn’t see? I took a step toward her door, but a senior project manager practically threw herself in my path. Her smile was tight, her voice a pitch too high. “Mr. Wright! What a surprise. What brings you to the office today?” she babbled. “With the wedding next weekend, I figured you’d be up to your neck in seating charts!” Before I started taking time off to handle the wedding, everyone in this building knew exactly how ruthless I could be. I was the silent majority shareholder; they feared me more than they feared Beryl. No one casually made small talk with me. My face went entirely blank. I stepped neatly around the woman, gripped the heavy brass handle of the office door, and shoved it open. Beryl was instantly there, her smile overly bright as she threw her arms around my waist. “You weren’t answering my texts! Were you planning a surprise visit?” I didn’t look at her. My eyes were fixed on the kid standing rigidly by the mahogany desk. He was huge. Easily six-foot-five. Definitely taller than me. He caught my gaze, a slow, insolent smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth as he gave a slight nod. “Afternoon, sir.” It was a micro-expression, gone in a flash, but it was dripping with unfiltered malice and triumph. I slowly reached down and peeled Beryl’s arms off my waist. I walked toward the boy, stopping just inches from him. I raised my hand and lightly, almost affectionately, patted his cheek. “What’s your name?” I asked. The kid’s smirk vanished. He refused to look at me, instead casting large, pleading puppy-dog eyes toward Beryl. He stayed silent. I let out a dry, hollow laugh. “I took a leave of absence right before you got hired, so maybe no one briefed you. I own the lion’s share of this building.” I tilted my head. “Am I no longer entitled to know the names of the people on my payroll?” I didn’t try to hide the sheer, unadulterated arrogance in my voice. Instantly, the kid’s eyes welled with tears. He shrank back, the perfect picture of a bullied victim. Beryl hurried over, grabbing my wrist and pulling my hand away. She stepped between us, shielding him. Her voice held a sharp edge of reprimand. “His name is Jaxon. He’s my new assistant. He’s barely out of school, Camden. Why are you talking to him like he’s trash?” I looked down at Beryl, meeting her defensive glare. A cold smile touched my lips. “What’s the matter? Does it hurt your heart to see him scared?” Beryl’s face flushed with anger. “Camden! We are in a place of business. You’ve always been the one to keep personal and professional lives separate. Why are you throwing a temper tantrum right now? Do you want to become the office laughingstock?” Thirteen years. Thirteen years, and this was the first time Beryl had ever raised her voice at me over my personality. In our social circle, plenty of people despised me. They thought I was an arrogant, privileged rich kid with a god complex. But Beryl never did. She used to stand in front of my critics, her chin held high, and say, “Camden has the background and the brilliance to back up his attitude. If you don’t cross him, he won’t burn you. Maybe look in the mirror before you judge him.” But now, she was tearing me down. Without hesitation, without knowing the full story, she was berating me to protect a twenty-one-year-old assistant. I slowly shook my head. “No. I don’t.” I pulled my arm free from her grasp. I pulled out my phone, pulled up the TikTok profile, and shoved the screen inches from Jaxon’s face. My voice dropped to a lethal whisper. “Jaxon, was it? Care to explain this account to me? I must have missed the memo that my fiancé was keeping a sugar baby on the company dime.” 3. A fat tear spilled over Jaxon’s lashes. He didn’t look at the phone; he kept his eyes locked on Beryl, waiting for his knight in shining armor to slay the dragon. But Beryl just stared at me. Her face had gone completely bloodless. She didn’t say a word. Realizing he wasn’t getting backup, the kid panicked. He was too young to handle a real confrontation. He shoved past me, yanked the door open, and sprinted out of the office. The employees outside, who had been blatantly eavesdropping, suddenly found their spreadsheets very interesting. I let out a harsh exhale and looked around the office. Really looked at it. Now that the adrenaline was fading, the clues were screaming at me. The framed painting I had done in high school—the one that had hung on her wall for five years—was gone. In its place was a framed print of Jaxon’s TikTok avatar. Her elegant espresso machine had been replaced by a neon-pink mini-fridge stocked with iced matcha and sugary energy drinks. Beryl despised sweet drinks. Even the $15,000 Italian leather sofa I had bought her for her promotion was covered in a cheap, fluffy cream-colored throw blanket. Everything was tainted. The evidence of a ghost living in her space. Beryl saw me taking it all in. Her expression darkened. She grabbed my hand and practically dragged me out of the building. We got into her car. She didn’t say a word as she slammed her foot on the gas, blowing through three red lights on the way back to our townhouse. The second the front door clicked shut, she grabbed my collar, shoved me against the wall, and kissed me. It wasn’t romantic; it was desperate, frantic. Her hands were everywhere, pulling at my clothes. I felt absolutely nothing. My blood was ice. I caught her wrists and held them in a vice grip. “Beryl, are you out of your mind?” She winced slightly at my grip but didn’t stop. She dropped to her knees, her hands going for my belt. “I think you’re the one who’s out of his mind, Camden. Going after a kid like that? Really?” Her voice was breathless, manic. “What, are you getting cold feet? Feeling insecure? Let me make you feel secure right now.” She leaned in, but I didn’t push her away. I just stared down at the crown of her head. My voice was eerily calm. “Is this the post-infidelity guilt trip?” That one sentence paralyzed her. She let go of my belt. Her face burned a dark, ugly red. She stood up in silence, turned her back on me, and walked out to the balcony. She lit a cigarette. Then another. Ten minutes passed, and she didn’t come back inside. I changed out of my suit, pulled on a sweater, and walked out to join her. I glanced at the pack sitting on the patio table, and a fresh wave of nausea hit me. Beryl had started smoking at eighteen. For seven years, she had exclusively smoked Capri slim menthols. The exact brand I had bought her when she had her first panic attack in college. Even right before her business trip, she had whined playfully, “Other guys buy their girls flowers; I just want you to buy my vapes and my cigarettes, baby.” But the pack on the table wasn’t hers. It was a pack of Marlboro Reds. Heavy, unfiltered, cheap tobacco. A frat boy’s cigarette. I paused, pulled one out, and lit it. I took a deep drag. It burned my throat. It tasted like ash and cheap chemicals. Zero mint. Zero sweetness. It was the exact flavor Beryl had always sworn made her sick to her stomach. I stood there, smoking the entire cigarette in silence. When the cherry finally burned down to the filter, Beryl turned to look at me. Her eyes were red-rimmed, begging. “Stop this, baby. Please?” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I know you have anxiety about the wedding. But we’ve been together for thirteen years. You know my soul. How could I ever cheat on you?” “Jaxon is just an assistant. I swear on my life.” “If you hate him that much, I’ll fire him right now. I’ll delete the TikTok account. Just… please. Let it go.” I looked down at the city lights bleeding into the twilight, the neon blurring as a lump formed in my throat so large I could barely swallow. “Your business trip,” I said quietly. “Did you go alone?” She didn’t miss a beat. “Yes.” “You can check the hotel logs. Only my name was on the reservation.” If she was bold enough to offer the logs, there was no point in checking. They’d be clean. After a long, suffocating silence, I gave a slow nod. “Okay.” “I don’t want to see his face tomorrow.” The next day, Jaxon was terminated. Word on the grapevine was that he was escorted out by security, looking like a kicked puppy. I told myself that maybe she hadn’t physically crossed the line. Maybe, in the grand scheme of a thirteen-year relationship, she had just gotten bored and indulged in a two-day ego trip with a starry-eyed kid. With the wedding days away, I couldn’t find the strength to throw away over a decade of my life for what might have been a fleeting emotional affair. I loved her too much. It was a pathetic realization, but it was true. For the next few days, life course-corrected. She smelled like her usual Tom Ford perfume again. The office returned to its sterile, elegant state. The TikTok account vanished. Our Snapchat streak ticked up to 4,005 days. I thought we had survived it. Until the day before the wedding. My phone rang. It was the Chief Financial Officer—a proxy I had personally installed at Beryl’s company years ago. “Mr. Wright. I apologize for bothering you before the big day,” he said, his voice tense. “A few days ago, Ms. Kensington authorized a hire. The kid didn’t do any actual work, but his compensation package is causing a near-mutiny in HR. Ms. Kensington isn’t answering her phone, so I have to bring this to you.” 4. The CFO forwarded the documents to my encrypted email. I opened the PDF. It was a guaranteed one-year contract for Jaxon, paid upfront. Ten thousand dollars a month as a base salary, plus a guaranteed five-thousand-dollar performance bonus. For an “intern” whose only job was allegedly photocopying spreadsheets. A second email chimed. It contained photos of a matte-black Maserati, alongside a lease agreement for a luxury penthouse in the city center—a property reserved for C-suite executives. Jaxon’s name was on the lease. And the Maserati? That was the car Beryl had bought for me on my twenty-third birthday. I knew the VIN by heart. It felt like someone had reached into my chest, gently lifted my heart, and then spiked it onto concrete. It shattered, the pain so blindingly sharp I had to grip the edge of the kitchen counter just to stay on my feet. I couldn’t breathe. My phone kept buzzing. The CFO was venting now, explaining that Jaxon had come into the office for exactly five days, picked fights with five senior employees, and Beryl had fired all five of them the next morning. Never in my life did I think Beryl—the woman who used to look at me like I hung the moon—would become a sugar mama to a frat boy. Right under my nose. Using my car. I stood there for a long time, staring blindly at the marble countertop. Finally, I wiped the cold wetness from my cheeks and typed my reply. “Freeze the assets. Initiate a clawback lawsuit for corporate embezzlement. The board did not approve this hire, which means the compensation is fraudulent. Retrieve every cent.” “As for the rest, stand down. I’ll handle it.” The moment I hit send, my phone rang again. My parents. “Camden,” my dad’s voice was heavy. “Your mother and I have been talking. If you feel in your gut that she’s cheating, there’s a reason for it. Let’s call off the wedding. To hell with the Kensingtons, we don’t need their business.” I cleared my throat, forcing my voice into a casual, breezy register. “It’s nothing, Dad.” “I was just being paranoid. The wedding is on. I’ll see you both tomorrow.” I don’t know how long I sat in the dark after that call. By the time I finally drove back to the townhouse, it was pitch black outside. Beryl was in the kitchen, her phone to her ear, about to call me. When she saw me walk in, her face lit up. “Where have you been? You’re so late! Come here, we need to celebrate. It’s our last night as single people!” She had cooked a massive feast. Candles were lit. Wine was poured. I stared at the domestic perfection and forced the corners of my mouth to lift. “Smells great.” Beryl was buzzing with manic energy. She drank three glasses of Pinot Noir in rapid succession, a heavy flush spreading across her cheeks. She leaned across the table, her eyes glassy and adoring. “I can’t believe we’re actually getting married tomorrow,” she slurred softly. “I’ve waited for this for so long. It feels like a dream.” “We grew up together. We went to the same college. We’ve never been apart, Camden. And we never will be.” I watched her over the rim of my glass. “Are you bored of me?” The question cut through her romantic monologue like a knife. Beryl blinked, the alcohol seeming to clear from her system for a split second. She looked at me, her expression dead serious, and slowly shook her head. “Never.” “Growing old with you… that was a promise I made to myself the first time I saw you when I was twelve years old.” “I love you, Camden.” Hearing those beautiful, poetic lies, I felt the familiar burn at the back of my throat. My eyes stung. She wasn’t lying about the past. She had chased me since we were twelve. We officially started dating at eighteen. Now we were twenty-five. Half of my entire existence on this earth had been spent by her side. I used to believe we were bulletproof. That we would never let each other go. But reality had just delivered a fatal blow. I couldn’t endure this “minor detour” in our marathon. I wasn’t built to share. I smiled, raised my glass, and downed the rest of my bourbon. I stood up, completely ignoring her declaration of love. “You’re drunk,” I said softly. “Get some sleep. Goodnight.” Tradition dictated we sleep apart the night before the wedding. Beryl had cried, begging me to stay in the master suite, but I locked myself in the guest room. Through the thin drywall, I heard the distinct click-hiss of her lighter. Over and over again. I didn’t sleep a wink. The next morning, we drove to the venue in separate cars. The wedding was straight out of a Pinterest board. A sprawling estate, acres of manicured lawns, hundreds of A-list guests dripping in designer clothes. Everything was perfect. Except for the bride and groom. I stood at the altar. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jaxon sitting in the back row. He was glaring at us, his eyes burning holes into Beryl’s back. She didn’t spare him a single glance. The officiant signaled the string quartet. The opening notes of the bridal chorus floated over the crowd. Behind us, massive LED screens were supposed to play a montage of our engagement photos. Instead, the screens went pitch black. The chatter in the crowd died down. Hundreds of eyes snapped to the displays. A second later, the screens exploded with light. A collective gasp ripped through the audience. It wasn’t our engagement photos. It was a slideshow. Beryl and Jaxon on her “solo” business trip. Selfies of them in bed. Screenshots of their explicit text messages. Security footage of them making out against her office door. And finally, a crystal-clear photograph taken last night. Beryl, sneaking out of our townhouse at 2 AM, kissing a crying Jaxon under a streetlamp. “Beryl Kensington!” My dad’s voice shattered the stunned silence, roaring like thunder. “My son gave you his entire soul, and this is how you repay him?!”

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One minute, Vicky was posting a glowing tribute to me on Instagram. The next, she was quietly driving my custom-ordered, limited-edition hypercar right off the dealership lot. An hour later, her male assistant posted a photo from the driver’s seat to his Story. Caption: Blessed to have a female boss who takes such good care of her team. The wind just hits different today. She knew I lived and breathed cars. It was an obsession. Yet she had the nerve to take mine behind my back and hand the keys to him. That night, I had my team transport every single vintage and top-tier sports car from my private garage, lining them up perfectly in the driveway. I told her she could pick whichever one she wanted to give away next. And then, I made a call to my father in New York. I told him I’d accept the arranged date with the heiress of the city’s biggest real estate dynasty. I had the looks, the money, and the pedigree. There was absolutely no reason to waste another second of my life on someone who no longer loved me. 1 Dusk was settling over Seattle as I stood on the balcony of our waterfront estate. A deep, arrogant roar of an engine shattered the quiet of the neighborhood. A matte-black-and-gold hypercar pulled up to our driveway. Spencer walked around the aerodynamic hood, his steps light, and opened the passenger door with exaggerated gentleness. A silver stiletto stepped out onto the pavement. Vicky emerged, looking immaculate in a tailored white power suit, her fingers gripping a white Birkin. But it wasn’t her outfit that caught my attention. It was her eyes. They were locked onto Spencer—the man who had just opened her door—and there was a predatory, lingering warmth in her gaze that I hadn’t seen directed at me in years. They exchanged a few words, and a radiant, unguarded smile broke across her face. My phone buzzed. A notification from Twitter. Spencer had just tweeted a photo. It was a shot taken from the passenger seat—the “girlfriend POV.” Long, artistic fingers resting casually on the steering wheel, his jawline angled perfectly, a smirk playing on his lips. Driving the boss home in the car she gifted me. Life is sweet. In that single, crystalline moment, the floor dropped out from under me. When the dealership had texted me earlier that afternoon, I genuinely thought Vicky was trying to surprise me. I had spent three hours in my walk-in closet, meticulously picking out an outfit for our celebratory dinner. I had waited, starving and excited, until I opened my phone and saw Spencer’s posts. At first, I tried to rationalize it. Maybe Spencer was just posing for clout. Maybe Vicky didn’t know. But seeing that tweet confirmed it. She had actually taken the car I had been anticipating for over six months, bypassed me entirely, and gifted it to another man. I walked down the stairs and stepped out the front door, stopping right in front of her. Spencer immediately took two long strides forward, physically placing himself between Vicky and me. “Good evening, Mr. Sterling,” he said, his tone dripping with fake politeness. “Vicky and I just grabbed a bite to eat after closing a deal. We’re a little late. Please don’t be mad at her.” I looked at him, the coldness behind my eyes sharpening into something lethal. It was almost laughable. Who the hell did he think he was, telling me how to treat my own girlfriend? “I haven’t said a word yet, but you’re awfully quick to play the white knight,” I said, my voice dangerously even. Spencer’s eyes flickered, the color draining slightly from his perfectly manicured face. I let a slow, mocking smile touch my lips. “How’s the handling on the car? Smooth?” We were all adults here. We all knew how the game was played. A three-million-dollar hypercar wasn’t something a marketing director with no trust fund like Vicky could just buy on a whim. If Spencer had the audacity to accept it, he absolutely knew who paid for it. Spencer let out a stiff, barely audible, “Yeah.” Vicky stepped around him, putting herself in front of him, and lightly tugged at my sleeve. “Come on, Clark,” she murmured, her tone placating. “Spencer drives me to and from work every single day. I just remembered you had that car coming in, so I picked it up for him as a bonus. You have a whole fleet of sports cars. You can’t possibly care about one little car, right?” I slipped my hands into my pockets. The corners of my mouth curled up, but my eyes remained dead. “No. I do care.” “I waited over half a year for that car. No one touches it. Not even you, Vicky.” She recoiled, clearly not expecting me to strip away the polite veneer so abruptly. Her face darkened. The driveway went dead silent. Spencer pressed his lips together, saying nothing. As a man, he knew exactly why the air had turned toxic. There isn’t a man alive who can stomach watching the woman he loves take his money to buy lavish gifts for another guy. Even if she justified it as an “investment in her assistant.” “Mr. Sterling, this is on me. I shouldn’t have accepted the bonus from Vicky,” Spencer said, playing the martyr flawlessly. “I’ll go to the DMV tomorrow, cancel the registration, and return it to the dealership.” Listen to him. Crafting the narrative to make me look like a petty tyrant. “Spencer, was it? It’s just a car. I can afford to lose it,” I said, my voice dropping an octave, carrying the effortless weight of generational wealth. “I’ve got a dozen supercars in the garage right now. Go ahead. Pick one. Consider it a gift from me.” He looked up, genuine shock breaking through his composed mask. I stared him down, letting the silence crush him. “Vicky and I have been together for nine years. She’s used to this kind of money, so she doesn’t think handing over a hypercar is a big deal,” I continued, my words slow and deliberate. “But as an assistant, you need to learn your place. You need to know what you are allowed to accept, and what you are not.” Spencer took a step back, totally outmaneuvered. He stammered out an apology. “You’re right, Mr. Sterling. It’s my fault. Please, don’t blame Vic.” Vic? Since when were they on a first-name nickname basis? Vicky stepped into her stilettos, shielding Spencer entirely with her body, and wrapped her arms around my waist. She dug into her Birkin and pulled out a bottle of cologne, flashing me a sickeningly sweet, coaxing smile. “Okay, Your Highness,” she teased. “I bought you that limited-edition cologne you used to look at. Don’t be mad anymore, okay?” I stared down at the glass bottle in her hands, and the weight of the last nine years pressed heavy on my chest. Vicky and I had been together since our freshman year of college. Back then, she was the untouchable ice queen of the campus. Guys lined up to humiliate themselves for her attention, but she rejected them all, choosing to stand by my side. I remember nights tangled in the sheets, her whispering fiercely against my collarbone that I was the only man she would ever love. That I was her lifeline. But looking at her now, the fracture was undeniable. In her eyes, I had just seen genuine admiration—and a fierce, protective instinct—directed at another man. I had seen her laugh for him in a way she hadn’t for me in months. And the cologne in her hand? It was a brand I had stopped wearing four years ago. Her voice, a mix of scolding and sweet-talking, pulled me out of my memories. “I know you’re only acting like this because you love me and you’re jealous,” she said smoothly. “But to anyone else, it just looks like you’re bullying a junior employee.” Bullying. He wasn’t even worth the effort of bullying. I narrowed my eyes and turned toward the front door. “The way Spencer looks at you isn’t the way an employee looks at a boss,” I said coldly, pausing on the steps. “You’re a marketing director. Your entire career is built on reading people. You’re telling me you don’t see it?” “You gifted a multi-million-dollar car to a man who is clearly obsessed with you. Vicky…” She frowned, her tone taking on a defensive, dramatic edge. “Oh, stop it! There is absolutely nothing going on between me and Spencer. Not now, not ever.” I studied her face. I let the silence stretch out before I nodded, accepting her hollow reassurance for the night. I had loved this woman for nearly a decade. We had built a life together. Throwing a massive tantrum over a mildly attractive assistant felt beneath me. I had made my point, and I was getting my car back. There was no point in burning the house down tonight. Especially since I didn’t have hard proof of their emotional affair. Yet. 2 Vicky grabbed my hand and pulled me upstairs toward our master bathroom, her eyes slightly red, playing the part of the devoted, distressed girlfriend perfectly. “The housekeeper is off today. Why don’t you take a shower, and I’ll go downstairs and sear you a steak?” she offered softly. I nodded, watching her walk away. I turned to my dresser to grab some fresh clothes and pulled open my underwear drawer. I froze. “Oh, by the way!” Vicky called out from the hallway. “The housekeeper said your boxers were getting a little worn out, so she threw the old ones away. Just grab a fresh pair from the bottom row.” I bent down and slid the bottom drawer open. I am incredibly particular about my things. My housekeeper knows I have a strict organizational system; everything must be perfectly aligned. She checks it meticulously every day. But right in the middle of the drawer, a brand-new box of my imported silk boxers was missing. A memory hit me like a physical blow. Two days ago, Spencer had posted one of those curated, “aesthetic lifestyle” photo dumps on Instagram. In the third slide, sitting casually on his coffee table next to an espresso, was a brand-new box of that exact, hyper-specific brand of luxury underwear. A suffocating, white-hot rage hijacked my nervous system. Vicky took my underwear from our home and gave it to her assistant? I didn’t want to admit it, but in that moment, I was consumed by a visceral, humiliating jealousy. In nine years, I had never felt this kind of blinding fury over another man. I wanted to storm down the stairs, corner her in the kitchen, and scream at her. Did she have any idea what it meant for a woman to buy a man underwear? I gripped the edge of the marble counter, fighting to regulate my breathing. Just as I managed to unclench my jaw, the bathroom door swung open. Vicky walked in, her heels clicking against the tile. “Clark, Spencer just brought the car back to the dealership. But the title transfer requires me to be there in person,” she said briskly, already checking her reflection in the mirror. “You’ll have to figure out dinner yourself.” The embers of my anger instantly flared back into a roaring fire. “It can’t wait until tomorrow?” I demanded. “You have to leave the house now, in the middle of the night?” Vicky paused, her brow furrowing as if I were the one being unreasonable. “You’re the one who loves this car so much. I’m rushing to get the paperwork done for you.” The heat in my chest instantly vanished, replaced by an expansive, hollow ice. “You took my car without my permission,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “I merely reclaimed what was already mine.” “It’s late. It’s dark. You can go tomorrow.” She let out a long, heavy sigh, looking at me with undisguised disappointment. “You publicly humiliated Spencer by forcing him to return my gift. Now you’ve got him waiting around at the dealership wasting his night.” “Clark, you can’t just think about yourself all the time.” “When you act like this, it’s like I don’t even know you.” I stared at her. The absurdity of her words echoed in the tiled room. I’m thinking about myself? I’m the stranger? “Do you hear yourself right now, Vicky?” I asked quietly. A flash of impatience crossed her face, but she forced her tone into a patronizing patience. “Maybe I phrased that harshly. But you need to understand—Spencer is the only man at the company right now who can actually carry the weight of this workload with me. You stripped him of his dignity tonight. I can’t just abandon him there.” When I didn’t respond, she sighed again, a deeply tired sound. “Clark, you come from old money. Your family has everything. You don’t get what it’s like for normal people like me.” “If I want a future with you, I have to be ruthless. I have to build an empire. Sure, you can throw a childish tantrum tonight and demand I stay home. But if I alienate the one partner who is in the trenches fighting beside me… that’s a cost I’m not willing to pay.” A ringing sound filled my ears. The one partner in the trenches with her. So that was it. Deep down, Vicky had always felt our backgrounds made us incompatible. And now, she saw Spencer as her true equal. Her comrade in arms. I see. The last thread holding my heart together snapped. “Go,” I said, my voice completely devoid of emotion. Without a single second of hesitation, she turned on her heel and walked out. The heavy oak door clicked shut, leaving nothing behind but the fading scent of her gardenia perfume. There was a time when I admired Vicky’s cold, calculating rationality above all else. And she used to say she loved my innate pride, the unyielding backbone I was born with. But everything had rotted. I looked up at the ceiling and let out a long, shuddering breath. When a woman’s heart leaves the room, there is no point in blocking the door. I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialed a New York area code. “Dad,” I said when the line clicked. “Tell the heiress I’ll take the meeting.” Five years ago, after graduation, my father demanded I return to Manhattan to take over the family’s investment firm. I refused to leave Vicky behind, so I stayed in Seattle. For five years, I stripped away the “trust fund kid” label and built something from the ground up. Whatever Vicky wanted to do, I backed her financially and emotionally. We stumbled, we bled, and eventually, we built the largest apparel conglomerate in the Pacific Northwest. We were pulling in over a billion dollars in annual revenue. And my reward was her telling me we weren’t “in the trenches” together. Leaving all this behind to go back to New York… it stung. But I was done. My screen lit up. A text from Vicky. The title is transferred. Car is at the dealership. Spencer and I are heading back to the office to pull an all-nighter. Won’t be home. I lay down on our king-sized bed in the dark, my eyes wide open until the sun came up. 3 The next morning, I walked into the executive suite with a hollow stomach. To my surprise, there was a takeout bag from a luxury bakery sitting on my desk. Spencer and I are meeting a few distributors. We’ll grab lunch out. —V The handwriting on the sticky note was Vicky’s. But inside the bag was a trendy matcha chia pudding. The one thing in the world I absolutely despised eating. It was painfully obvious she hadn’t bought this for me. I handed the bag to my assistant and asked him to run down and get me a black coffee and a plain bagel. A rotting relationship is exactly like food you hate. There’s no point in forcing yourself to swallow it. By 1:00 PM, I had cleared my inbox. There was no sign of Vicky. My assistant knocked and walked in, casually mentioning, “Hey boss, looks like Vic and her assistant are out at that new oyster bar on the pier. What do you want me to order you for lunch?” I paused, my pen hovering over a document. I frowned. “Where did you see that?” He waved his phone at me, looking slightly awkward. “Instagram. Spencer posted a story thanking Vic for treating him to a seafood feast.” I leaned back, pulled a cigarette from my desk drawer, lit it, and blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling. Any lingering guilt I felt about drunkenly agreeing to the arranged date last night evaporated completely. At 3:00 PM, Vicky pushed open my office door, her heels sinking into the plush carpet. Spencer trailed right behind her like a shadow. “Clark, I’m so sorry. The meetings ran long so we couldn’t make it back. We just grabbed a quick bite. Did you eat?” she asked, dropping a stack of files on my desk. I barely glanced at her, offering a monotone, “Yeah.” She pulled out the chair across from me and sat down, rubbing her temples. “Clark, I don’t know how the rumor about the sports car leaked, but the whole office is gossiping about Spencer. Considering we just locked in three massive contracts today, do you think you could step up and make an executive statement to clear his name?” My hand, which was about to sign a ledger, froze. I slowly raised my eyes. “You gave him a car. He accepted it. And you want me—the bystander whose car was stolen—to clean up the mess?” Vicky’s beautiful, icy features twisted into a scowl. “Clark, you’re the CEO. It would literally take you one sentence to shut this down.” I leaned back in my leather chair and let out a dark, abrasive laugh. “You want me to abuse my corporate authority to forcibly silence the staff?” “A boss buys her assistant a hypercar. You think people aren’t going to talk? If he has the audacity to take it, and the ego to brag about it on social media, he should have the spine to handle the fallout.” Look at her. Going to war to protect him. And demanding that I swallow my pride to protect him with her. Nine years, Vicky. Do you even have a soul left? Spencer stepped forward, interrupting my thoughts. “It’s okay, Vic. A few rumors won’t break me,” he said softly, playing the wounded soldier. “Mr. Sterling is incredibly busy. We shouldn’t bother him with trivial matters.” Vicky shot out of her chair, her brow furrowed in fierce defense. “How is this trivial? You travel with me constantly. You work yourself to the bone. I will not let these people drag your name through the mud!” I slammed the leather portfolio onto the desk. The sharp crack made them both jump. “First of all,” I said, my voice dropping to a lethal quiet. “If there’s nothing going on, there’s nothing to hide. If you were strictly professional, Vicky, and you wanted to reward him for generating unprecedented revenue, a car is fine.” “But the reality is, the margins on those contracts don’t come close to justifying a three-million-dollar bonus.” “I don’t care if you genuinely miscalculated his value to the firm, or if your heart just bleeds for him because he drives you around. This company pays him a highly competitive salary. If he wants a raise, he can formally request one. What you don’t do is steal my property to compensate him under the table.” “This is a mess of your own making. Do not expect me to use my title to shield either of you.” The room fell dead silent. Spencer recovered faster than Vicky. He bowed his head, his voice trembling with perfectly calibrated remorse. “I am so sorry, Clark. I was careless. I’ll handle the rumors myself. Please, don’t be angry with Vic.” Vic. Overnight, he had dropped the professional title entirely. The boundaries were already gone. Vicky slammed her hand onto my desk, her eyes blazing with fury. “Fine. We’ll handle it ourselves. We don’t need you.” She grabbed Spencer by the wrist, yanked my office door open, and stormed out without looking back. Right before 5:00 PM, an automated notification popped up on my screen. A joint business trip approval request for Vicky and Spencer. I clicked Approve. That night, I met up with Cole, my business partner and oldest friend, at a dimly lit speakeasy downtown. Over bourbon, he told me I should have cut her loose months ago. “You poured nine years of your life into her, man. You gave her the world, and she treats it like a burden,” Cole said, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “Deep down, she resents you. She knows no matter how hard she grinds, she’ll never touch a fraction of your family’s wealth. And her pride won’t let her just enjoy it. It’s a classic complex.” I downed my drink, letting the burn slide down my throat. I didn’t say anything. Cole was wrong. When two people truly belong to each other, love isn’t a burden. It’s only when the love dies that people start calculating the math. Whatever. She wasn’t mine anymore. “So, when is this dinner with the New York heiress?” Cole asked, leaning forward. “You’re seriously leaving Seattle?” “Next week,” I said quietly. “I’ll transfer my voting rights to you, and then I’m gone.” 4 Vicky and I had built this apparel empire together. We split the equity fifty-fifty. If I was cutting the cord, I needed everything legally severed. I spent the entire next week locked in meetings with corporate lawyers, finalizing the transfer. Since our fight in my office, Vicky had blocked my number and my socials. But Spencer’s Instagram was public. Every single day, he posted a breadcrumb trail of their life together. A photo of the two of them watching the sunset on a beach after a client dinner. A shot of room service breakfast for two. A 3:00 AM photo of two iced Americanos on a desk, captioned about the grind. At first, a dull ache throbbed in my chest. But as the days passed, it hardened into total numbness. Until Thursday, when my assistant walked into my office, looking like he was about to be sick. He slid an iPad across my desk. “Boss… the algorithm pushed this to my feed. I think you need to see it.” I stared at the screen for a long time. It was Spencer’s latest post. A dimly lit photo of Vicky, fast asleep, her head resting intimately on a man’s chest. His chest. I scrolled to the comments. [Omg! From unrequited love to official boyfriend! Congrats!] [I’ve been following your sad boy aesthetic for four years, I’m so glad you guys finally made it official!] [Proof that if you wait long enough, you get the girl!] I felt absolutely nothing. No anger, no grief. Just the hollow click of a lock snapping shut. I handed the iPad back, a faint, indifferent smile on my face. “Send out a company-wide memo. Mandatory all-hands meeting at 3:00 PM.” This pathetic, suffocating love triangle was over. At exactly 3:00 PM, Cole and I walked into the main glass-walled conference room. “Effective immediately, I am stepping down as CEO,” I announced to the packed room. “Full operational control of the company will be transferred to Cole and Vicky.” The room erupted into gasps and chaotic murmurs. I didn’t offer an explanation. I stepped off the podium and walked out. The next morning, a luxury real estate broker came by to photograph the house. I sat in the back of my town car, watching the Seattle skyline blur as we headed to Sea-Tac airport. The terminal was a sea of people. I was dragging my carry-on toward the TSA PreCheck line when I heard the frantic clicking of heels. Vicky and Spencer had rushed straight from their flight. Across the sea of travelers, our eyes met. I had already asked my lawyer to text her a formal breakup message yesterday. I didn’t break my stride. I didn’t even look at them as I went to walk past. But Vicky lunged forward, grabbing my forearm in a vice grip. “Clark, what the hell kind of tantrum is this?” she demanded, her voice tight. I looked down at her hand, my brow furrowing in disgust. “Let go. You’re dirty.” She didn’t let go. Instead, her grip tightened, and her voice took on a pleading, desperate edge. “I know you’re mad. I’ll apologize, okay? I’m sorry. But Spencer and I haven’t done anything wrong! You’re selling your shares, you’re breaking up with me over a text…” The intercom chimed, announcing the final boarding call for my flight to JFK. I had zero interest in dragging this out. I pulled out my phone, opened Instagram, and shoved Spencer’s account directly in her face. “The evidence is right here. Did you really need me to drag all your filthy secrets into the light before you’d let me leave in peace?” She stared at the screen. Her lips parted, all the color draining from her face. Absolute, unadulterated shock. I didn’t care if it was real or an act. I shoved my phone in my pocket and pushed past her. Behind me, the illusion shattered. Vicky spun around, her voice echoing violently across the terminal. “What the fuck is this?! When was I ever in bed with you?!”

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Cameron and I officially started dating on April Fool’s Day. So, when he called me with a manufactured sense of sheer panic on the eve of our sixth anniversary, begging me to meet him at the exact spot of our first date, I thought the moment had finally arrived. I thought he was finally going to propose. I spent hours getting ready. I got a blowout, had my nails done in a soft bridal blush, and meticulously applied that effortless, no-makeup makeup look. On the cab ride over, I practiced my reaction in a compact mirror—the right balance of surprise, the perfect angle of my smile, the exact pitch of “I do.” I even had the Instagram announcement drafted and sitting in my notes app. But when I pushed open the heavy oak doors of the private room, my heart soaring, a heavy, sickeningly sweet mass of vanilla buttercream was violently smashed into my face. The room erupted. Above the din, a girl’s boisterous, triumphant laugh rang out. “I told you she’d come! Pay up, Cam, you lost!” Cameron stepped forward, using his thumb to gently wipe the frosting from my cheek, just as tenderly as he always did. “You dressed up so beautifully, too,” he murmured, a hint of pity in his voice. “Shame about the outfit.” He chuckled, entirely missing the ice freezing over my veins. “I made a bet with the guys. I bet you wouldn’t drop everything and come out tonight. I figured if I won, I’d propose tomorrow. Since I lost… looks like I’m pushing the proposal to next year.” I just looked at him. Quietly. Steadily. “So you do know what tomorrow is,” I said, my voice eerily calm. He smiled, utterly unbothered. “Of course I do. It’s our anniversary. How could I forget?” In that singular, crystallizing moment, I felt the absolute exhaustion of the last six years wash over me. The charade was entirely devoid of meaning. Our anniversary would never be as important as an April Fool’s joke. Just like I would never be as important as his “one of the guys” best girl friend. I reached down, grasped the simple promise ring I had worn for six years, and pulled it off my finger. “Then let’s break up.” 1. The sharp, metallic ping of the ring hitting the hardwood floor silenced the entire room. Cameron’s brow furrowed in irritation. “Harper, stop. Don’t cause a scene. It’s just a little frosting. I’ll help you wash it off when we get home. You know Lexi—she used to pull way worse pranks than this. She actually held back for you.” He lowered his voice, his tone shifting into a subtle warning. “It took a lot to get you out here. Don’t make the guys think my girlfriend can’t take a joke.” Lexi collapsed onto the leather sofa, her face twisting into a theatrical pout. “God, Harper, it was just a joke. If you hate it that much, we’ll stop, okay? You don’t have to throw around the word breakup over a little cake.” She looked around at the guys, her eyes wide and victimized. “I told you she couldn’t handle it, Cam, but you insisted she come. Look what happened.” The collective gaze of the room shifted toward me, their eyes turning cold and judgmental. Lexi was the only girl in their tight-knit fraternity of friends. She was the mascot, the untouchable center of their universe. If Lexi was unhappy, the whole group scrambled to fix it. Cameron was no exception. I remembered the first time I met her. She had organized a brutal game of Truth or Dare. While the guys were dared to do goofy, harmless things outside, my dare from Lexi was to fake an orgasm in front of a room full of strangers. When I quietly declined, stating I wasn’t comfortable with that kind of humiliation, Lexi immediately burst into tears and ran out of the bar. The entire pack of guys chased after her. Cameron did, too. The night that was supposed to be my welcome party ended with me sitting alone in a booth, waiting. Cameron never brought it up afterward, but from then on, unless Lexi explicitly gave the green light, I was never invited to their gatherings again. Cameron stared at me now, a deep crease between his eyes. “Harper, apologize to Lexi.” Years ago, desperate to fit in, terrified of embarrassing Cameron in front of his friends, I would have swallowed my pride. I would have stammered out an apology before he even had to ask. But standing there now, realizing that my breaking point meant less to him than Lexi’s manufactured pout, a profound clarity settled over me. From the very beginning, this relationship, my feelings, my dignity—none of it held a candle to his loyalty to the boys’ club and their favorite girl. I bent down and picked up my designer coat and the handbag I had meticulously saved up for, specifically to impress his parents. I met their judgmental stares head-on. “Cameron, we’re done. And I mean it.” I turned on my heel and walked out, my frosting-splattered heels clicking unevenly against the floorboards. As the door clicked shut behind me, Lexi’s teasing voice drifted through the wood. “You’re not gonna chase after your little lovesick puppy?” Cameron scoffed, the sound sharp and dismissive. “She’s just throwing a tantrum. If I chase her, who’s gonna comfort you? Besides, she doesn’t have anyone else to lean on. She’ll come around. She always does.” My heart, laid bare and bleeding, was sliced open by his words. The cold wind outside felt like a mercy compared to the chill spreading in my chest. 2. Six years ago, on these exact front steps, Cameron had confessed his love to me, vowing that I was the only woman he would ever want. He had to work hard to break down my walls. When I was fifteen, both of my parents remarried and started new families. I became the awkward, leftover baggage neither of them wanted to claim. Because of that, I was terrified of romance. I was terrified of building a home, only to have it ripped away. I rejected Cameron five times. The turning point came when I was walking back to my lonely apartment and was followed by a mugger. Cameron appeared out of nowhere, tackling the guy to the ground. He took a knife to the arm in the process and ended up in the ER. After the nurse finished wrapping his stitches, his eyes had grown red and wet. “Harper, why do you always have to be so tough?” he had whispered. “Why won’t you just let me protect you?” In that instant, the impenetrable fortress around my heart crumbled. I thought that maybe, just maybe, loving someone this reliable, this fiercely protective, wouldn’t be a mistake. That night, he brought me to this venue. When I finally said yes, the usually stoic, sophisticated man scooped me up and spun me around like an oversized kid until we were both dizzy, collapsing onto the grass. He held me tight against his chest, shielding me from the impact. Sitting on those steps, he looked up at the moon and swore that as long as he was alive, I would never be lonely. I would never be abandoned again. Yet tonight, the old wounds I had finally allowed to heal under his care were ripped open by his own hands. I let out a hollow, self-deprecating laugh. Standing on the sidewalk, I opened my email and found the corporate transfer offer to the New York headquarters—an offer set to expire in five days. Accept. It turned out, pressing that button wasn’t so hard after all. I looked up at the moon, partially obscured by thin, wispy clouds. I am not easy to win back, Cameron. And I will never need you to try again. My train to New York was booked for the afternoon of the 2nd. Time was running out. The second I got back to our shared apartment, I scrubbed the sticky, humiliating frosting from my skin and began packing. My presence in his home had always been surprisingly minimal; it only took one large suitcase and a carry-on to pack away six years of my life. At 3:00 AM, having booked a hotel for the night, I was zipping up my coat to leave when the front door swung open. Cameron stumbled in, reeking of stale beer. He dropped a blackout-drunk Lexi onto our living room sofa, then turned and shoved a plastic bag of pears into my hands. “Good, you’re still up. She drank way too much. Go make some hangover soup, otherwise she’s gonna be puking all night.” I stood perfectly still, letting the bag of fruit drop to the floor. When we first moved in together, Cameron came home trashed from a frat reunion, throwing up endlessly. My heart had ached for him, so I got up at 2:00 AM to boil him soup. But the cheap ceramic pot cracked under the heat and exploded. Boiling broth and shattered clay splattered all over my legs. The sight of my burns sobered him up instantly. He was wrecked with guilt. From that day on, he forbade me from cooking. Even when he had the flu and craved soup, he ordered takeout rather than let me near the stove. I hadn’t cooked a meal in years; he even washed and sliced my fruit for me. On the kitchen door, there still hung a small, hand-painted wooden sign he had made: Danger Zone. Harper Keep Out. A bitter smile touched my lips. I walked over, unhooked the sign, and dropped it straight into the garbage can. “I’m not obligated to take care of her. If she needs soup, order Postmates.” I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and moved toward the door. He lunged forward, grabbing my wrist and pinning me back against the heavy wooden door. “Alright, Harper, enough. Saying it was one thing, but actually packing your bags? I told you, it was an April Fool’s joke. Stop overreacting.” His breath, heavy with alcohol, brushed against my neck. “I know you want to get married. I want to, too. Next year. I promise we’ll get married next year, okay?” Once upon a time, those soft, placating words would have worked like magic. Tonight, I shoved my hands against his chest, broke his grip, and slapped him hard across the face. “Listen to me, Cameron. We are broken up. I am never marrying you.” 3. The sharp crack of the slap didn’t just stun Cameron; it jolted Lexi awake on the sofa. She scrambled up, stumbling drunkenly across the rug, and threw her hand out, slapping my cheek with staggering force. “Who the hell do you think you are?!” she shrieked. “Nobody touches Cam! You want to break up? Fine! There are a million girls better than you… you’re nothing but a placeholder!” A blistering heat radiated across my cheek. Seeing red, I raised my hand to strike her back. But Cameron’s hands clamped down on my wrists like iron vises. He shoved me backward to protect her. The small of my back slammed into the sharp brass doorknob, sending a sickening jolt of pain up my spine. He shielded Lexi with his body, looking at me with exhausted annoyance. “She’s blackout drunk, Harper. Why are you picking a fight with a drunk girl?” He sighed, rubbing his temples. “Look, just… go take a walk. Cool off. We’ll talk about this tomorrow when you’re being rational.” I stared at him in utter disbelief. He was so incredibly detached, looking at me like I was some random, bothersome stranger. He didn’t check to see if I was hurt. He turned his back to me, wrapping his arms around a sobbing Lexi, whispering soft, gentle reassurances into her hair. He saved all his tenderness for her. My fingernails bit into my palms until they bled. I grabbed my suitcase and walked out into the night. I checked into the nearest Marriott and didn’t close my eyes until dawn. When I finally woke up, my phone was paralyzed by an avalanche of notifications. Aside from the group chat blowing up with prank videos, there were dozens of messages from coworkers and friends asking why I wasn’t at work, fishing for gossip about a proposal. My chest tightened. I typed out a quick, blanket reply—We broke up—feeling an immense, hollow fatigue settling into my bones. The pings didn’t stop. Some thought I was pulling my own April Fool’s joke. Others told me to stop throwing a tantrum just because I didn’t get a ring. In their eyes, Cameron was the gold standard—steady, gentle, a man who would always provide a safety net. But they didn’t know the reality of that man. They didn’t know that for our fourth anniversary, he had set up a romantic, candlelit proposal setting just to lower my guard so Lexi could jump out and throw a live snake on me. They didn’t know that for our fifth anniversary, he got down on one knee with a rigged gag-ring Lexi had bought online, which clamped down on my finger so hard I spent the night in the ER with the fire department trying to cut it off before I lost circulation. He was a safety net, alright. Just not for me. For years, I had gaslit myself. I suppressed the humiliation, repeating the mantra that aside from Lexi, he treated me like a queen. But the fog had cleared. A relationship built on this kind of foundation wouldn’t survive a marriage anyway. Smiling through the ache in my chest, I opened Instagram. Past the sea of corporate April Fool’s posts, Lexi’s new photo dump sat at the top of my feed. It was Cameron. Winning her a stuffed bear at an arcade. Eating popcorn next to her at a matinee. Playing air hockey, throwing his head back in laughter. He used to tell me that arcades and movies were “juvenile” and a waste of time. He told me he preferred mature, meaningful evenings—making pottery, drinking wine at home. I thought it was a sign of his sophisticated nature, so I buried all my silly, youthful desires to match his pace. Looking at the unbridled joy on his face in those photos, I finally understood. It wasn’t that those activities were boring to him. It was that doing them with me was boring. The comments were a chorus of “You guys are so cute together!” Our mutual friends had all liked the post. It had more engagement than our official dating announcement ever did. Just as I went to force-close the app, a text dropped down from the banner. It was Cameron. [Don’t misunderstand the photos. I just took her out to detox. Come back to the apartment when you have a minute. She says she wants to apologize to you.] My brow furrowed. I typed out a quick No need, ready to hit send, when another notification popped up. It was a FedEx delivery confirmation for his anniversary gift—a vintage watch I had spent months tracking down. It had just been delivered to his building. I paused. I needed to get the watch back. And I still had his spare keys. It was time to sever this cleanly. I threw on some clothes and caught an Uber back to the apartment. But the moment I unlocked the door and stepped inside, a bucket of freezing liquid was thrown directly into my face. A sharp, chemical stench flooded my nostrils, followed instantly by a terrifying, burning agony across my cheeks. “Surprise! April Fool’s!” 4. Before I could even pry my stinging eyes open, Lexi was in front of me. She grabbed a rough makeup wipe and began scrubbing my face aggressively. The burning sensation exploded. It felt like acid was eating through my skin, accompanied by a frantic, suffocating itch. The friction of the wipe felt like sandpaper tearing my flesh off. I shoved her away with everything I had. I reached up to touch my cheek, but the slightest contact sent a blinding spike of pain through my skull. “Cough… God, my face… it burns! What was in that?!” I gasped, my throat closing up. Cameron sprinted into the hallway, grabbing my wrists to stop me from clawing at my own skin. His voice was laced with genuine panic. “Lexi, you said it was just micellar water! Why is her skin blistering?!” Lexi’s face flushed a deep, guilty red. “I… I don’t know! I just grabbed a bottle from under the sink! And anyway, she’s always doing that stupid natural-makeup thing to look better than me! I hate it! You’re the one who agreed her makeup was annoying, that’s why you let me prank her!” My body began to convulse. My limbs went numb, and drawing a breath felt like inhaling glass. “I knew… I knew you wouldn’t actually make her apologize,” I wheezed, my vision tunneling. “Cameron… you don’t even know what human decency is.” I pulled out of his grip, stumbling blindly toward the bathroom to flush my skin with cold water. But after one step, the world tilted violently on its axis, and everything went black. “Harper! Harper, hey, look at me!” When I finally regained consciousness, the room was bathed in the dull orange glow of twilight. The throbbing heat in my face was still there, but muted. Through the lingering fog of anaphylaxis, I vaguely remembered the ER doctor mentioning chemical burns and a gash on my chin that required stitches from where I had collapsed against the tile. I shifted on the stark hospital bed. The rustle of the sheets woke Cameron, who was slumped in the plastic chair beside me. “Harper, thank God. You’re awake. You terrified me,” he breathed, his voice trembling. “The doctor said you had an anaphylactic reaction to some heavy-duty industrial cleaner under the sink. You went into shock.” He leaned in, his eyes pleading. “She really did want to apologize today. You know how proud she is. She took it too far, but she didn’t do it on purpose. Please don’t be mad at her, okay?” I stared up at the sterile ceiling. In all his frantic rambling, not once did he ask how I felt. Not once did he acknowledge the fact that I might be permanently scarred, or how traumatizing it was to wake up with stitches in my face. His only instinct was to act as Lexi’s defense attorney. I looked at the man I had loved for six years, and saw an absolute stranger. A single tear slipped down my temple, stinging the raw skin of my cheek. “I’m not mad,” I whispered. “I’m just entirely full of regret. I never should have said yes to you.” Cameron froze. He opened his mouth to speak, but his phone illuminated the dark room. The caller ID flashed: Lexi. He immediately masked his panic with a calm, businesslike expression. “I need to take this. Just rest. I’ll be right back.” He practically sprinted out of the room. Driven by an intuition I couldn’t suppress, I peeled the blankets back. My legs shook, but I forced myself out of bed and crept down the hallway. I found them near the heavy fire doors of the emergency stairwell. They were sitting on the steps, his arm wrapped around her shoulders. “Hey, stop crying. It’s okay. She’s not gonna be mad,” Cameron soothed. “She always gets over it.” Lexi punched him lightly in the arm, sniffling. “If she can’t even handle this, imagine if she knew the truth! If she found out that you only asked her out because you lost a bet to us, and that you specifically picked April Fool’s Day to do it as a joke… she would literally lose her mind!” Time stopped. The air vanished from the stairwell. A high-pitched ringing pierced my ears, drowning out the hum of the hospital. Through the crack in the door, I saw Cameron slap his hand over Lexi’s mouth, looking around frantically. “Shut up! Are you insane? That was six years ago. You take that to your grave, do you hear me?” My knees buckled. I slumped against the cold plaster wall, entirely boneless. Suddenly, every agonizing contradiction of the last six years snapped into terrifying focus. Why I could never compete with Lexi. Why a man who claimed to love me could stand by and watch me be humiliated over and over again. I had been so hopelessly naive. I thought his loyalty to his friends was just a flaw in his character. I never realized that every single thing he had given me was counterfeit. The beautiful, cinematic rescue I thought was my salvation was built on a punchline. To them, I was never Cameron’s beloved girlfriend. I was a prop. A six-year-long inside joke. A clown performing for an audience that despised me. Every shred of my dignity was incinerated in that stairwell. I clamped my hand over my mouth to stifle the sob violently tearing up my throat. I had to get out. I had to escape this suffocating, psychopathic lie. I managed to sneak back, rip the IV from my arm, and discharge myself against medical advice. I caught a cab to my hotel, grabbed my luggage, and went straight to Penn Station. I paid the penalty fee to change my ticket to the earliest possible Amtrak heading for New York. As I sat on the hard plastic benches waiting to board, my phone buzzed. [The doctor says they need to observe you overnight. Don’t wander off. Where are you? I’m coming to find you.] Staring at that manufactured, hypocritical concern, I actually laughed out loud, the sound mingling with my tears. I didn’t reply. I went into my settings, blocked his number, deleted his contact, and did the exact same for every single one of his friends. Cameron. I resign from your little April Fool’s game.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “409888”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Arthur Kensington, the ruthless patriarch of the Kensington dynasty, owed the Montgomery family a life. And Mary Montgomery, the woman who had raised me, cashed in that blood debt to force the old man into making his grandson, Cole, marry me. But for the ten years of our marriage, Cole looked at me with nothing but absolute revulsion. To shake me off, to force my hand, he let a revolving door of women climb into his bed. I became the punchline of our elite circle. Whenever the whispers grew too loud, Cole would just look at me with those glacial, empty eyes and say, “You don’t get to play the victim. You asked for this.” Everyone in New York high society thought I would cling to Cole Kensington until my dying breath. He thought so, too. Until the person I trusted most in this world pushed the blade into my back. That was the moment the foundation cracked. When I finally slid the divorce papers across the mahogany table, a quiet, genuine smile broke across my face. It’s finally over. This beautiful, hollow cage of a marriage is finally over. 1 I stepped onto the deck of the mega-yacht just as the party was reaching its chaotic, glittering peak. In the center of the crowd, Cole leaned back against the plush crescent sofa, his posture a picture of lazy, arrogant grace. But it was the silhouette of the woman on his lap that made my breath catch in my throat. She was straddling him, her posture dripping with invitation, her manicured fingers lightly tracing the nape of his neck. Men and women in designer resort wear raised their champagne flutes, chanting, “Kiss her! Kiss her!” in a rhythmic, intoxicating blur. Paige Montgomery’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes heavy with a springtime kind of lust. Cole’s eyes narrowed slightly as his gaze lazily tracked over the crowd. The corner of his mouth ticked up. He didn’t rush. He simply lifted a finger, pointing straight at me. “Look over there,” his voice cut through the noise, low but carrying. “Your best friend is watching us.” The crowd spun around. The pulsing music seemed to fade into a vacuum. The drunken cheers died in their throats, replaced by a collective, suffocating silence, thick with anticipation and cruel amusement. Someone in the back drunkenly slurred, “Oh, hey, Mrs. Kensington,” and a ripple of nervous, mocking laughter followed. Paige, still seated firmly on my husband’s lap, glanced over her shoulder at me. She didn’t move an inch to get up. My fingernails bit so deeply into my palms they drew blood. I stared at her, unblinking. Deep in my chest, my heart was slowly, methodically tearing itself apart. I never thought Paige would be the one. She was the family I had chosen. She was the one person in this cold, transactional world I relied on, the one I trusted implicitly. I wanted to scream. I wanted to march over and shake her, to ask her why. But not here. Not now. Paige let out a soft, breathy laugh. “Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted to see?” She murmured to Cole, though her eyes were locked on mine. “I betrayed her. I chose you. Can you love me now?” A fresh wave of murmurs rippled through the crowd. They were practically salivating, waiting for the explosion. My marriage to Cole Kensington was an open secret. He flaunted his indiscretions with a brazen, almost violent kind of freedom, replacing the women on his arm as easily as he replaced his watches. Only this time, the woman wearing his jacket was my best friend. I forced my eyes off Paige and locked them onto Cole. My face was a mask of perfectly carved ice. My voice came out dead flat. “The paparazzi are swarming the marina. They’re waiting for the yacht to dock.” I paused. “Cole. Let’s go.” He tilted his head, drawing out a dramatic, considering hum. “Hmm… No.” Taking her cue, Paige pressed herself deeper into his chest, burying her face against his neck, shooting me a triumphant, challenging smirk. As the yacht slowly drifted toward the slip, the long lenses of the paparazzi were already waiting, a firing squad of flashbulbs bursting through the coastal darkness. I curled my fingers inward, the sting of my own nails grounding me. They got the shot. I already knew the Kensington board, and Cole’s venomous parents, would crucify me for this. Suddenly, Cole’s voice ghosted right by my ear, thick with dark amusement. He had walked over while I was staring at the docks. “Do you like the show, Mrs. Kensington?” he whispered. “Those old vultures at the estate aren’t going to let you survive this one. How about you finally divorce me, and I’ll help you pack?” I ground my teeth together, fighting the knot of pure grief lodged in my throat. I forced the words out. “Do you really want a divorce that badly, Cole?” In ten years, it was the first time I had ever entertained the word. The mocking smirk vanished from Cole’s face instantly. The dark, stormy depths of his eyes clouded with something unreadable—something dangerously close to panic. Before he could recover his armor, I looked him dead in the eye and said the words. “Then let’s divorce.” I felt like I had been holding my breath for a decade, and I had finally exhaled. The moment the words left my lips, a profound, weightless peace washed over me. What isn’t mine will never be mine. The agonizing pressure that had sat on my chest for ten years finally found a fracture, and the pain began to bleed out into the night air. “Hedy, are you serious?” Paige’s voice pitched up, entirely unable to hide her elation. But Cole’s arm, which was still loosely hooked around her waist, clamped down like a steel vise. Paige gasped, flinching. “Ow! Cole, you’re hurting me.” Cole didn’t even look at her. His eyes were burning holes into mine. In a jarring, violent motion, he dropped his arm, stepping completely away from Paige. He closed the distance between us until he was towering over me. “Let’s go. We’re going home,” he ordered. Then, he added with a sneer, “Mrs. Kensington.” I saw the malicious glint in his eyes. He had orchestrated this whole thing. He knew exactly what Paige meant to me. He knew that calling the paparazzi to capture this exact humiliation would ruin me, that I would be the one dragged through the mud by his family. He had choreographed the ultimate betrayal, just to finally break my will. 2 I didn’t flinch. I calmly looped my arm through his. “Let’s go.” Cole let out a harsh, jagged laugh, the sound practically vibrating with poison. I was used to it. I simply shut off the audio in my brain. As Mrs. Kensington, my only job in public was to remain elegant, poised, and untouched. Soon, I told myself. Soon, I won’t have to do this anymore. The second my heels hit the concrete of the pier, I unlinked my arm from his. Cole instantly caught my hand, lacing his fingers brutally tight through mine. “Keep up the performance,” he sneered. “Don’t get lazy now. The cameras are still rolling.” I furrowed my brow slightly, turning my face toward the tinted window of the waiting town car. Whatever. Let him have his petty victories. We rode back to the penthouse in total silence. The second the heavy mahogany door clicked shut behind us, Cole slammed me back against the entryway wall. In the dim, ambient light of the foyer, I could see the dangerous, chaotic energy buzzing in his eyes. I was utterly exhausted. My soul felt hollowed out. “Cole, please. I don’t want to do this tonight.” I pushed against his chest. Cole’s grip only tightened. He dipped his head, his teeth grazing my collarbone in a sharp, punishing bite. He let out a low, cruel chuckle. “Play your part, Mrs. Kensington. The old guard is still waiting for you to pop out an heir.” My body went completely rigid. Every time he spat the words Mrs. Kensington like a curse, it was a deliberate reminder of the cage I had locked myself in. I was the one who had willingly put on these chains. I had surrendered the right to say “stop.” I had always just endured it. But not anymore. The one reason I had compromised my entire existence had just betrayed me. I had nothing left to protect. No more collateral damage to fear. For the first time in a decade, I shoved Cole Kensington with everything I had. “I don’t have to be Mrs. Kensington anymore, Cole.” He froze, his hands hovering in the air. He stared at me, his chest heaving, his eyes searching my face for a lie. “Hedy… are you serious?” My heart plummeted like a stone, heavy and cold. “I’m giving you exactly what you want. Isn’t this enough?” I whispered, my voice exhausted. “I’ve suffocated you for ten years. You’re tired. I’m tired. Let’s just let each other go.” Before the silence could settle, Cole grabbed my wrists, pinning them against the wallpaper. His body pressed flush against mine, as if he were trying to crush me into the drywall. We stayed locked in that strained, breathless stalemate until he finally hissed, his voice vibrating with barely contained rage, “Your little hard-to-get act is pathetic, Hedy. Do you really think I’m going to let you win?” He released me as abruptly as he had grabbed me, turning on his heel. He stormed down the hall without looking back. I stood in the shadows, entirely bewildered. I watched his retreating back, my mind spinning in quiet confusion. I gave him exactly what he had tortured me for ten years to get. So why was he so angry? CRASH. The sound of shattering glass from his study snapped me back to reality. It didn’t matter. My mind was made up. But the moment the adrenaline faded, the thought of Paige sent a fresh, agonizing spike of pain through my chest. My phone buzzed in my coat pocket. I pulled it out, my thumb hovering numbly over the glowing screen. Finally, I opened the chat from Paige. The messages were coming in rapid succession. [Hedy, I guess you know everything now.] [Since it’s out in the open, just let me have him.] [You’ve had ten years with him and he still doesn’t love you. Why don’t you let me try?] [Who knows? Maybe he’ll actually fall in love with me.] [I know stealing your best friend’s husband is wrong, but I couldn’t help it.] [The day you introduced us, I was obsessed with him.] [I tried, okay? I tried avoiding him, but you always brought him around. It’s not my fault.] [You practically forced us together!] … With every word I read, my heart turned a little more to ash. This was the person I trusted with my life. I let out a dry, self-deprecating laugh. [Paige, I was so wrong about you.] [If you want him that badly, he’s yours. Take him.] I typed the two sentences, hit send, and blocked her number. Just like that, the sisterhood I had bled for was dead. She had sold me out for a man. I had spent my life protecting a snake. I didn’t sleep a single minute that night. When dawn finally broke, my eyes were swollen shut. I had to sit with ice packs pressed to my face for an hour just to look human again. 3 I let my mind go entirely blank for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling. Knowing I had to face a firing squad today, I picked up my phone. I opened Twitter. Sure enough, we were trending at number one. The photo of Paige straddling Cole, with me standing opposite them like a discarded ghost, was splashed across every gossip blog. The comments were a bloodbath: [Mrs. Kensington is so generous, letting her hubby test-drive the bestie. ] [The Kensington Heir is wild for this. Hooking up with the wife’s BFF while the wife watches? Alpha energy.] [God, he’s so hot though. If I were Hedy, I’d be picking out his side pieces for him just to stay in the will.] [Am I the only one who feels bad for Hedy? Betrayed by her husband and her best friend at the exact same time. That’s vile.] [Lmao she deserves it! He literally never wanted her. If she hadn’t used her family’s sob story to blackmail the grandfather, she wouldn’t even be in his orbit.] [Right? She’s obsessed with him. Zero self-respect. If she still doesn’t divorce him after this, she’s just pathetic.] [Are y’all okay?? Cole is openly emotionally abusing her, but you’re dragging Hedy? Why aren’t we torching him and the trashy friend? Y’all are sick.] [Look, they’re billionaires. We’re just here for the drama. Pass the popcorn. ] The internet was tearing me apart. Then, I refreshed the page, and it was gone. All of it. Erased from the internet. The Kensington PR machine had woken up. I heard the heavy click of the front door. Cole was back. He didn’t even look at me. “We’re expected at the estate in thirty minutes.” I nodded. Of course we are. It was the golden rule of the Kensington dynasty. Every Sunday, family dinner at the estate. Absence was considered an act of treason, punishable by whatever financial or social torture Grandpa Arthur saw fit. Even a reckless god like Cole never dared to miss it. “Good luck in there, Hedy,” Cole murmured as we walked out, a cruel, gloating curve to his lips. When we pulled up to the sweeping gravel driveway of the Kensington Manor, Cole dropped the act entirely. He left me in the dust, striding into the grand foyer without waiting. By the time I walked in, he already had his grandmother laughing over tea. “Grandma,” I greeted her softly, keeping my posture perfect. “Hmm,” the older woman hummed dismissively, not looking away from Cole. “Your in-laws are waiting for you in the study.” “I understand,” I said quietly. I knew exactly what was waiting for me. I glanced at Cole. He was sipping his tea, a smug, satisfied smirk playing on his lips. He didn’t even bother to look up. The moment I stepped into the mahogany-paneled study, Victoria Kensington’s hand cracked across my cheek. The sheer force of the slap snapped my head to the side. The sharp, metallic taste of blood bloomed on my tongue. She gracefully adjusted the rings on her fingers, instantly reverting to the picture of old-money elegance. She looked at me like I was something she had scraped off her shoe. “Hedy, you are an absolute embarrassment,” her voice was hushed, but it carried the weight of a whip. “A woman who can’t even keep her husband out of her own friend’s bed? How do you call yourself a Kensington?” “If I had known you were this pathetic, I would have fought Arthur to the grave before letting him marry Cole to you!” “It is a tragedy.” I kept my head lowered, my fingers curling tightly into my palms. “Hedy,” she sneered, “if you are truly this incapable of making my son care for you, then do us all a favor and divorce him before you humiliate us any further.” I snapped my head up. I looked her dead in the eye, my voice steady and unshakeable. “Okay. I’ll divorce him.” Victoria physically recoiled, her eyes widening in sheer shock. Even Richard Kensington, who had been silently nursing a scotch by the window, frowned deeply. “Are you serious?” “Completely,” I said, my tone as solid as stone. Richard stared at me for a long moment before waving his hand dismissively. “Wait outside.” I stepped out into the corridor, leaning against the cool plaster. Through the heavy oak door, their hushed, frantic argument bled into the hallway. “Why are you attacking the girl?” Richard hissed. “Your son is the one acting like a degenerate!” “Who else am I supposed to blame?!” Victoria shot back. “Cole never behaved like this before he was chained to her!” “If you hadn’t let Arthur force him to marry a woman he actively despises, none of this would be happening! Do you have any idea how miserable my boy is?” Richard sighed, the sound heavy with exhaustion. “You think you know your own son? Victoria, if Cole didn’t want to marry her, do you really think Arthur—or anyone—could have forced him to say ‘I do’?” “And now she’s actually asking for a divorce. Mark my words, all hell is about to break loose.” Victoria paused, her voice faltering. “That’s… that’s impossible. If Cole actually cared for Hedy, why would he torture her like this?” “Because he’s an idiot,” Richard muttered. “And he’s going to keep playing these sick games until the girl finally runs.” 4 Right. As if Cole Kensington could ever love me. I turned and walked down the long, gallery hallway. At the far end, Cole was leaning against a marble pillar, a half-smoked cigarette dangling between his fingers. I didn’t look at him. I tried to walk right past him. His hand shot out, wrapping around my wrist like a shackle. His other hand drifted up, his thumb brushing callously over the stinging, red imprint his mother had left on my cheek. He clicked his tongue. “Tsk. That’s it?” “A little light on the punishment, don’t you think?” His voice was a low, velvet purr, masked in lazy amusement. I couldn’t read his eyes. My gaze met his, utterly hollow. “I told them I want a divorce.” Cole’s hand froze. He took a sharp, deep drag of his cigarette. “And what did they say?” I shook my head. “Nothing definitive.” Because as long as Grandpa Arthur was breathing, Richard and Victoria had no real power. If I wanted out, I had to wait for the patriarch to return from his trip. “Right. As if those cowards have the spine to say no,” Cole muttered, his voice dropping into something cold and vicious. “Fuck. You brought this all on yourself, Hedy. You deserve every bit of it.” He dropped my wrist, turned, and walked away without another word. He left me there, bracing myself for the rest of the day—a grueling marathon of the Kensington relatives pulling me aside, using “marital advice” as a thinly veiled excuse to degrade me. I took it all. Calmly. Quietly. I was just waiting. When I finally escaped the estate, I had my driver take me to the private care facility in the Hamptons. Halfway there, my phone rang. It was the head nurse. “Mrs. Kensington, I’m so sorry. It’s an emergency. Mrs. Montgomery’s condition has crashed. You need to get here immediately.” My stomach dropped into a bottomless gorge. My hands shook as I dialed Paige’s number over and over. Voicemail. Voicemail. Finally, as I was sprinting down the pristine, sterile hallway of the facility, Paige answered. “Paige! Get to the clinic right now! Your mom is crashing!” I screamed into the phone. Paige let out a dramatic, mocking sigh. “Hedy, really? You let Cole surround himself with supermodels for a decade, but the second it’s me, you throw a tantrum and start cursing my mother?” “I know my mother’s chart, Hedy. She’s fine.” “And even if something was wrong, she’s got you! God knows she’s always loved you more than her actual daughter anyway. She’s the one who traded you to the Kensingtons like livestock!” Before I could even breathe, the line went dead. I gripped the phone so hard the glass creaked, shoving open the door to the ICU. Mrs. Montgomery was lost in the sheets, a frail, skeletal ghost of the woman who had raised me. Tears instantly blinded me. “What happened?” I choked out. Two days ago, she was sitting up, laughing with me. The attending nurse looked at the floor. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Kensington. Somebody left the television on… she saw the morning gossip broadcasts…” I froze. “Hedy…” a papery, wheezing voice called out from the bed. I threw myself into the chair beside her, grabbing her fragile hand. “I’m here. I’m right here.” She weakly patted the back of my hand, her cloudy eyes filling with tears. “Hedy… I am so sorry. I am so sorry for what Paige did to you… I failed her. I failed you.” “If her heart hadn’t failed… if we didn’t need the money… you wouldn’t have had to sell your life to Cole Kensington…” “I ruined your life, my sweet girl…” With every word, the monitors around her beeped more frantically, her lungs fighting for air. I wiped the tears slipping down her sunken cheeks, forcing my voice to stay soft and steady. “No, no, please don’t say that. I chose to marry him. You didn’t force me. Please, don’t carry this.” “If you hadn’t taken me in when I had nothing, I would have died on the streets. I owe you everything.” She just cried harder, her chest heaving. “We dragged you down to hell with us… and now my own flesh and blood does this to you… I am so sorry, Hedy.” “Listen to me… I called Arthur… I told him to let you go. Divorce him, Hedy. Go find a beautiful life… you don’t have to suffer anymore…” My vision blurred completely. I forced a bright, trembling smile. “I’m not suffering. Being Mrs. Kensington is great. The money, the clothes… it’s a good life.” She stared at me for a long time, the heartbreak evident in her eyes. Finally, she turned her head away. After a long, suffocating silence, she whispered, “Hedy… can you bring my daughter to see me? Just once?” I nodded frantically. “Yes. I’ll get her.” But my calls went straight to voicemail. I dialed Cole. Nothing. In a panic, I called Cole’s executive assistant. The assistant hesitated before admitting, “Mr. Kensington took Ms. Montgomery on a private jet to Iceland. To see the Northern Lights.” The phone slipped from my ear. The tears I had been fighting finally broke, spilling over my cheeks in hot, silent waves. Mrs. Montgomery saw my face. She knew. She let out a soft, hollow laugh. “It’s alright. Don’t punish yourself anymore, my sweet girl. You don’t owe us anything anymore…” She closed her eyes. And she never opened them again. I collapsed over her bed, weeping until my ribs felt like they were shattering. After Mrs. Montgomery’s funeral, Grandpa Arthur sent his private security to drag Cole and Paige back from Iceland. In the great hall of the Kensington estate, the air was thick with terror. I stood in the corner, completely numb. Cole was forced to his knees on the Persian rug. Paige had been banished to the cemetery to sit by the grave. Grandpa Arthur stood over Cole, gripping his heavy, silver-tipped mahogany cane. He raised it and brought it down across Cole’s shoulders with a sickening crack. In the past, whenever Arthur lost his temper and struck Cole, I would throw myself over him. I had taken those hits to my own back to protect him. Today, I stood by the wall, watching the man I loved take a beating, and I felt absolutely nothing. Grandpa Arthur, seeing that I didn’t even flinch to defend Cole, realized the truth. My spirit was utterly broken. I was gone. Panting, leaning heavily on the cane, Arthur looked down at his bleeding, bruised grandson. “Tomorrow,” the old man rasped. “You will sign the divorce papers.” Cole, slumped on the floor, snapped his head up. Shock rippled through his dark eyes. Then, his face contorted into pure, venomous rebellion. “I absolutely will not! Who gave her the right to just walk away when she feels like it?!” Arthur brought the cane down again. “You don’t get a choice! You tore that girl’s heart to shreds, and you think she’s ever going to look at you again?!” I stepped forward and bowed my head to the old man. “Thank you, Arthur.” The patriarch sighed, suddenly looking his age. “My boy failed you, Hedy. Go.” I picked up the suitcase I had packed days ago, and I walked out the door.

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For three years, I was the ghost in the rehearsal studio. Three years of dancing in the background until the synovial fluid in my knees practically screamed with every drop. In the glittering, cutthroat ecosystem of GIRLZ—America’s biggest pop ensemble—I was the understudy. The invisible filler. Meanwhile, our frontwoman, Valentina, was the undisputed golden girl. The ace. The center of gravity. I was the girl whose name the fans never bothered to learn. Until the night she went on a live stream and playfully called out to her trust-fund billionaire boyfriend: “Patricia, if I dance a solo just for you on our Comeback Special…” “Would you marry me?” I thought it was a PR stunt. A joke for the timeline. It wasn’t until the night of the live network broadcast—when Valentina deliberately missed her cue, derailed the entire choreography, and hijacked the biggest stage of our careers to turn it into her personal bridal shower—that I realized she was dead serious. Watching her drop to one knee as the final confetti fell, screaming into her glittering mic, “Patricia, marry me!”… The director froze. The label executives froze. I froze. Wow. So the stage was just a cheap hotel room for their romance, wasn’t it? 1 My earpiece cracked with the panicked, pitchy voice of my bandmate. “The count! The count is off! What the hell is Valentina doing?!” I stood in the heavy shadows of stage left, my breathing perfectly regulated, watching the trainwreck unfold under the brutal glare of the spotlights. Out there, wearing a custom Swarovski crystal bodice, was Valentina. This Comeback Special was supposed to be our redemption arc, the performance that secured our number one debut on the Billboard charts. Instead, she intentionally dragged the tempo down by two whole eight-counts. She didn’t even glance over her shoulder to check our marks. She just let the backup dancers crash into each other, unraveling three months of grueling, blood-sweat-and-tears rehearsal, twisting our lead single into her own self-indulgent solo act. “Oh my god! Valentina is serving!” her solo stans shrieked from the front rows. Behind her, the rest of us lost our formation. We were scrambling like birds hitting a glass window. “Hold the line! Hold it!” Natalie, our group captain, pleaded through the internal mic, her voice thick with unshed tears. “Val, hit your mark! The chorus is coming!” Valentina didn’t hit her mark. She stood dead center on the hydraulic lift, slowly raising her arms, completely indifferent to the four of us scrambling desperately behind her to save the visual. Instead, she looked up at the VIP suites on the mezzanine and flashed a perfect, manicured heart sign. Cut. The track died instantly. We all froze in our broken, asymmetrical positions. The curtain dropped. The live feed was killed. We blew it. We blew the prime-time slot that was supposed to put GIRLZ back on the map. A suffocating silence fell over the arena. Thousands of our fans stared in sheer disbelief at the massive flashing “NG” (No Good) sign on the teleprompters. By the director’s monitors, our manager, Carmen, shot up from her chair. Her usually composed, Botox-smooth face was flushed a dangerous, mottled red. Next to me, Natalie had both hands pressed over her face, her shoulders shaking violently. Only Valentina—the architect of this disaster—seemed perfectly fine. She smoothed down her skirt and stood up with an elegant, practiced grace. There was no panic in her eyes. No guilt. Only a radiant, triumphant smirk. Ignoring us, ignoring Carmen, she strutted right to the edge of the stage, raised her mic, and yelled a name toward the VIP boxes. “Patricia Sullivan!” A spotlight aggressively whipped up to the second level. There he was: her tech-heir boyfriend, swirling a glass of champagne, looking down at her with an insufferable, indulgent grin. “Patricia,” Valentina purred, gazing up at him, her voice echoing through the stadium-grade speakers. “They say a Grammy is every pop star’s dream.” She paused for dramatic effect. “But tonight, I wanted to trade my solo for a chance to ask you a question. Will you marry me?” The arena erupted. The stunned silence shattered, replaced by a seismic wave of pure, unadulterated rage. “Where’s your professionalism?! This is the center we voted for?!” “Disband GIRLZ!” “Get off the stage, Valentina!” The screams, the crying, the piercing mockery from rival fandoms—it all mashed into a deafening roar that felt like it would tear the roof off the stadium. Carmen was shaking so hard she ripped her headset off and threw it against a flight case. But Valentina? She was still living in her own romantic comedy. She blew a theatrical kiss up to Patricia in the mezzanine. She thought she was the queen of the world. She didn’t realize that a crown only takes a fraction of a second to hit the floor. And me? I had waited exactly three years for that fraction of a second. 2 The ride back to the label in the black SUV was a nightmare. Furious fans had barricaded the alley. Glow sticks and torn posters battered the tinted windows like hail. A teenage girl wearing a GIRLZ varsity jacket was sobbing hysterically, pounding her fists against the door panel, screaming the word, “Traitor.” Inside the car, it was like a morgue. Natalie sat with her chin practically touching her chest, entirely mute. Carmen’s phone hadn’t stopped buzzing since we got in. She kept her voice to a furious, raspy whisper, repeating the same phrase over and over to whatever executive was screaming on the other end: “I know. I know. I’ll handle it.” Only Valentina was relaxed. She had her oversized Prada sunglasses on, leaning her head against the headrest, trying to catch a nap as if the riot outside was just bad weather. When the SUV finally crept into the underground garage of Apex Entertainment, we practically ran to the dressing rooms. But before we even reached our lockers, we heard the noise coming from Valentina’s private suite. It wasn’t arguing. It was a party. Mia, our youngest member, kicked the door open and held up her phone, her face ashen. “Look at this. They’re on IG Live.” On the screen, Valentina and Patricia were draped over each other, a massive “She Said Yes” cake sitting on the vanity in front of them. The chat was scrolling so fast it was a blur of profanity and broken heart emojis. Valentina pouted at the camera, her eyes strategically misty, her voice dripping with sugar. “Guys, please stop being so mean to me. I just love him so much!” She giggled. “Chart positions come and go, but I can only give him a surprise like this once in a lifetime.” Patricia pulled her closer, sneering at the camera. “You haters don’t know a damn thing about romance,” he scoffed. “Without my girl here, GIRLZ wouldn’t even chart. The label will slap her with a fine, and that’ll be it. What are you losers gonna do about it?” He actually raised his champagne flute to the lens. “To our love, babe. And to the future of GIRLZ. Which, let’s be honest, rests on Valentina’s shoulders.” “That bastard,” Natalie hissed, slamming her fist so hard against a makeup table that her knuckles instantly bruised. I didn’t say a word. I just turned on my heel and walked toward the rehearsal studios. For three years, I had spent practically every waking hour in there. That room offered me a peace the dressing room never could. Just as I rounded the corner, Valentina’s door swung open. She was probably heading out for a touch-up. She was still wearing her custom hoodie with her name rhinestoned across the back, that same smug, victorious smile plastered on her face. She spotted me, paused, and then sauntered over, deliberately blocking the hallway. “Well, if it isn’t our perpetual backup, Harper.” She looked me up and down, her eyes assessing me the way one might look at a harmless, slightly pathetic stray dog. She reached out and tapped my shoulder with two manicured fingers. It was a deeply, intentionally degrading gesture. “Stop walking around looking like you’re at a funeral. You always act like the world owes you something.” She leaned in, her voice dripping with mockery. “Did you enjoy the view from the shadows tonight?” I kept my mouth shut. I just looked at her. My utter lack of reaction seemed to bore her. She pulled her hand back and scoffed. “Backups should act like backups. Watch and learn, sweetheart.” She adjusted the hem of her designer skirt, throwing one last look over her shoulder. “Get this through your head: I am the cash cow of this label. This little ‘incident’? They’ll slap my wrist and buy me a drink. Nobody touches my center spot.” She turned and headed back to her room. Right at that moment, my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a text from Carmen. Two words. My office. 3 I didn’t look back at Valentina. I walked straight down the corridor to the corner office. When I pushed the door open, the heavy stench of dark roast coffee and stale nicotine hit me like a wall. Carmen was sitting alone behind her massive mahogany desk, the ashtray beside her laptop overflowing. She looked like she had aged a decade in the last two hours. She looked up, her eyes mapped with broken red veins, and pointed a manicured finger at the leather chair across from her. “Sit.” I pulled the chair out and sat down. Silence stretched between us. The only sound was the faint crackle of her slim cigarette burning down to the filter. Finally, she crushed it out, her voice rough like sandpaper. “The board had an emergency meeting.” She paused, staring right through me. “Valentina is done.” I didn’t flinch. I just listened. “The fallout is catastrophic. Our three biggest brand partners called in the last hour to sever ties. The fan forums are completely mobilized against her, and the network executives are threatening litigation.” Carmen’s voice carried a dangerous, exhausted edge. “No one can save her this time.” “The label is terminating her contract. Effective immediately.” “Legal has already compiled the evidence of her breach of contract. We’re filing it with the industry union by morning.” Carmen opened a drawer and pulled out a thick stack of legal documents, sliding them across the desk. The top sheet was a Notice of Termination. “This is her death sentence. A breach penalty so massive she’ll be paying it off until she’s sixty, and… a total industry blackball.” Every word fell like a gavel, nailing Valentina’s coffin shut. Then, Carmen reached into a separate, sleek black folder. She pulled out a pristine, freshly printed contract and laid it directly on top of the termination notice, perfectly covering Valentina’s name. “And this,” Carmen said softly, “is yours.” “GIRLZ. Lead vocalist. Center.” I lifted my eyes and met her gaze. I didn’t ask a single question. I didn’t offer a single breathless ‘thank you.’ For three years, for over a thousand nights of bleeding through my pointe shoes in an empty studio, I had been preparing for this exact second. I picked up the heavy silver pen from her desk, uncapped it, and signed my name on the dotted line with steady, deliberate strokes. Harper. Carmen let out a long, ragged exhale, as if a physical weight had been lifted off her chest. She leaned back in her chair, watching me closely. “We aren’t notifying Valentina just yet,” she murmured. “Let her keep living in her little fantasy world for a bit.” She pulled my contract across the desk and tucked it away, her eyes suddenly hardening with a terrifying intensity. “We have a three-month blackout period to do damage control. She’s going to think everything is business as usual. But you…” She leaned forward, enunciating every syllable. “You have exactly three months to become a star ten thousand times brighter than she ever was.” 4 When the office door clicked shut behind me, it locked the absurd, chaotic world outside. For the next three months, Apex Entertainment fell into an eerie, suffocating calm. During the blackout period, the label sent the rest of the girls home to rest. The sprawling, multi-story rehearsal complex was a ghost town, populated only by me and a handful of essential staff. Valentina and Patricia became forbidden words in the building. Nobody spoke them. But I saw her everywhere. My feed was choked with her updates: scuba diving in Cabo one day, kissing under the Eiffel Tower the next. Flexing a limited-edition Birkin, flashing a diamond the size of a quail egg. She was still floating on her artificial cloud, soaking up the tabloid attention and the intoxicating rush of new money, completely oblivious. The label hadn’t called her once. I, on the other hand, bolted myself inside Studio A. Fourteen hours a day, high-impact training. From eight in the morning until long past midnight. The scuffed hardwood and the wall-to-wall mirrors were the only witnesses to my existence. The heavy bass vibrating through the floorboards was my entire universe. I dissected every microscopic detail of my body mechanics. I studied the stage presence of every legendary frontwoman in pop history. I engineered my formations, my eye contact, my micro-expressions down to the millisecond. Physical exhaustion was entirely eclipsed by a manic, adrenaline-fueled high. I could feel it in my bones. I was molting. I was becoming something lethal. Occasionally, around 2 AM, Carmen would push the studio door open. She’d stand in the shadows, silently watching me run the new lead track from the top. Then she’d leave a bottle of electrolyte water by the door and walk out without a word. Three months dissolved into the rhythm of the metronome. Slowly, the cracks in Valentina’s facade began to show. Her follower count started hemorrhaging. Without the halo of the stage, the “hopeless romantic” persona soured fast. The comments shifted from #CoupleGoals to God, is she still posting this guy? and finally, to utter apathy. She started to panic. The launch for our new single was approaching, and she still hadn’t received a rehearsal schedule. Carmen had stopped answering her calls. It was a Tuesday afternoon. I was deep in a brutal cardiovascular dance drill when the studio door violently slammed open. A wave of cloying, expensive perfume and raw entitlement flooded the room. I didn’t stop moving. I kept the rhythm, but in the mirror, I watched the reflection of the intruder. “Well. Look who’s still here.” Her voice was shrill, dripping with that trademark arrogance. The backup dancers froze in their tracks. The music pumped on, but the room went dead silent. Heavy footsteps marched right toward me, stopping directly behind my back. I could feel a blistering, judgmental stare burning a hole between my shoulder blades. She was looking down at the floor. Specifically, at the metallic gold star taped to the hardwood. The center mark. The throne. A second later, a hand clamped down on my bicep, violently yanking me backward. Valentina’s perfectly contoured face was suddenly inches from mine, twisted in ugly, unmasked fury. “Who the hell told you you could stand on my mark?!” she shrieked. I stumbled slightly from the force of her pull, but my core was iron. I let the momentum carry me into a clean, improvised pivot, landing perfectly balanced on both feet. Only then did I slowly lift my chin and look her dead in the eyes. “This spot,” I said, my voice perfectly level over the pulsing bass. “Has been mine for three months.”

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It was during a game of Truth or Dare that Valerie decided to drop the bomb. “Actually, the night before our wedding, Cameron and I checked into a hotel together.” In a heartbeat, the air was sucked out of the room. Every pair of eyes shifted to me, heavy with a suffocating, pitying weight. Valerie leaned back against the plush leather of the VIP booth sofa, nursing her drink. She looked completely at ease, just waiting for me to lose my mind. Instead, I gave a calm, measured nod. “I have something I’ve been keeping from you, too,” I said. “I have a daughter. She’s seven.” 1 The private room went dead silent. You could have heard a pin drop. It took a long, agonizing moment before Brooke, Valerie’s self-appointed best friend, scrambled to break the tension. “Nathan… God, Nate, Val is just messing around,” Brooke laughed, a shrill, nervous sound. “Your joke isn’t exactly funny, either.” I cut her off. “I’m not joking.” Valerie shifted. Her posture straightened, and that smug, playful glint in her eyes began to freeze over. “Nathan,” she said, her voice dropping to a low, warning register. “Do you have any idea what you’re saying right now?” Right on cue, Cameron leaned a fraction closer to Valerie. He had that soft, almost fragile cadence down to a science. “Nate,” Cameron murmured, his eyes big and earnest. “I know you’re in a bad mood tonight, but you really shouldn’t joke about something like that. If what Val said upset you… I’m so sorry. I apologize on her behalf.” As he spoke, the rims of his eyes turned a delicate shade of pink. The perfect picture of the long-suffering victim. Watching his little performance, I actually let out a genuine laugh. “I’m not joking, and I’m not in a bad mood. It’s just that listening to you two talk about the past reminded me that it’s probably time I came clean about a few things, too.” Valerie let out a sharp scoff, slamming her cocktail glass down on the glass table. The ice clinked violently. “Nathan, if you can’t handle the game, just leave. There’s no need to say this kind of garbage just to get a rise out of me.” “Exactly,” Cameron chimed in, perfectly synchronized. “Whatever happened between Val and me, it’s in the past. If it really bothers you, I can explain everything. You don’t need to invent some imaginary kid just to throw a tantrum.” I met Valerie’s stare head-on. “I’m not throwing a tantrum. I’m not lying. I have a child. A seven-year-old girl.” This time, even Brooke’s nervous smile vanished. The rest of the friends in the booth, who had been aggressively pretending to look at their phones, snapped their heads up. Their gazes darted back and forth between Valerie and me like they were watching a tennis match. Valerie’s face cycled through a spectrum of emotions before settling into a cruel, mocking smirk. “Seven? Nathan, we’ve been married for six years. Care to tell me where exactly you conjured up a seven-year-old daughter?” “She was born before the wedding,” I said simply. “Impossible,” she hissed, her jaw tight. “I’ve known you for eight years. You think you could hide a kid from me?” But I saw the flicker in her eyes. The anger was morphing into suspicion, and the suspicion was curdling into something darker, something deeply unsettled. I could practically see the gears turning in her head, frantically scanning the last eight years for any blind spots, any missing hours. Sensing the shift in the atmosphere, Cameron decided to intervene. “Well, Nate, if you really have a kid, why don’t you bring her around?” He tilted his head, flashing a sweet, innocent smile. “We’d love to meet our new little niece.” There was a faint, taunting edge to his mouth. He thought he was calling my bluff. “There’s no need,” I said flatly. “Why not?” Cameron pressed, his tone dripping with fake concern. “Is she shy? Or…” Or does she not exist? He left the implication hanging in the air. “She has no desire to know people like you,” I said. Cameron’s smile shattered. Valerie stared at me, a violent storm brewing in her dark eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, but for once, the words failed her. 2 Brooke leaped to her feet, practically vibrating with forced cheer. “Okay, wow! Let’s… let’s keep playing! Come on, guys, it’s rare we all get together. Let’s not kill the vibe!” She grabbed an empty vodka bottle from the table, rolling it between her palms. “Next round! Nobody be a buzzkill!” She spun the bottle. It clattered against the glass table, slowing down until the neck pointed dead center at Cameron. “Truth or dare?” Brooke asked, breathless. Cameron glanced at Valerie, then shot a hesitant look at me. He bit his lower lip. “Dare.” Brooke pulled a slip of paper from the bowl. She cleared her throat. “Share a chocolate pretzel stick with someone of the opposite sex. You have to eat it until your lips are less than half an inch apart!” The booth erupted into immediate, rowdy cheering. Cameron’s face flushed a deep, becoming red. He turned to Valerie, his eyes swimming with a perfectly calculated mix of helplessness and quiet anticipation. Valerie, however, was still staring at me. Unblinking. I broke eye contact, picked up my glass of club soda, and took a slow sip. Three, maybe four seconds ticked by. Then, I heard Valerie let out an irritated, dismissive click of her tongue. A plastic wrapper tore open. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her place one end of a chocolate-coated stick between her teeth. She turned her body, leaning heavily into Cameron’s space. The catcalls and whistles from their friends grew louder. I set my glass down. My eyes traced the shrinking distance between them. Valerie held the biscuit in her mouth, leaning further in. Cameron’s face was flushed, his head tilted back slightly, his eyelashes fluttering like a baby bird waiting to be fed. The stick got shorter. And shorter. When they reached that final half-inch, Valerie didn’t stop. Cameron let out a soft, muffled gasp as her mouth crushed against his. The VIP room went absolutely feral. People were clapping, howling, and Brooke even whipped out her iPhone to start recording. “Holy shit, Val is going for it!” “Look at Cam, he’s melting!” “It’s been almost a minute, damn!” I sat there, watching their performance with the detached clinical interest of an outsider. Valerie’s hand slid to the back of Cameron’s neck, pulling him deeper into her. Cameron melted against her, his fingers bunching the fabric of her silk blouse like it was a life preserver in a stormy sea. One minute and three seconds. I picked up the highball glass in front of me and stood up. Nobody noticed. All their attention was glued to the center of the booth, where the two of them were completely lost in each other. I stepped around the low table and walked right up to them. Cameron opened his eyes first. His pupils dilated in sheer panic. Before he could even flinch, I threw the entire glass of ice water directly into his face. “Ah—!” The freezing liquid splashed over his delicate features, ice cubes bouncing off his cheekbones, water plastering his perfectly styled hair to his forehead. Valerie shoved him away instantly. Water dripped from her chin, a massive dark stain spreading across the front of her expensive silk blouse. The screaming in the booth stopped. Complete, suffocating silence. Cameron curled into Valerie’s side, trembling violently. Drops of water clung to his eyelashes. He looked incredibly pathetic. He bit his lip, fat tears rolling down his cheeks, but he didn’t dare say a word. Valerie looked up at me. The strange thing was, there was no rage in her eyes. Instead, there was a twisted sense of relief. “Valerie,” I said, my voice sounding completely steady, almost foreign to my own ears. “We’re getting a divorce.” I turned on my heel and walked toward the door. “Nate, wait!” Brooke was the first to scramble up, throwing herself in my path. The rest of the group stood up in a panicked wave. “Nate, don’t do this,” Brooke pleaded, holding her arms out. “It’s just a stupid game! Val’s had too much to drink, please don’t take it seriously!” “Yeah, come on, man,” one of the guys chimed in. “We’re all friends here. People get a little wild, it’s normal. You storming out just makes you look insecure.” “Exactly. It’s just Cam. We’ve known him forever. It’s not like he’s a stranger.” I looked at Brooke and smiled. “I hope, when you get married, your husband finds a female friend he can aggressively make out with in public.” Brooke froze, the color draining from her face. “And the rest of you,” I said, sweeping my gaze over the room. “I wish you all partners who have a ‘best friend’ they can just passionately kiss during party games. You deserve exactly what you’re defending.” The smug expressions in the room evaporated. “What the hell is that supposed to mean, Nathan?” one of them snapped. “Brooke is trying to help your marriage and you’re cursing us?” I didn’t bother replying. I pushed Brooke’s arm aside and walked out the door. Rapid footsteps echoed behind me. “Nathan!” Valerie’s hand clamped down on my wrist. Her grip was brutal, her nails digging into my skin. She yanked me around. In the dim, moody lighting of the club hallway, half her face was cast in shadow, making her expression unreadable. “Let go of me, Val,” I said. She didn’t. “Nathan,” she said, her throat bobbing as she swallowed. “I am going to ask you one last time. The kid. Is it real?” I was exhausted. Bone-deep tired. Was I speaking a different language, or were they all just incapable of basic comprehension? “She is real. I can show you the DNA test whenever you want,” I cut in. Valerie let out a bitter, jagged laugh. “People fake DNA tests all the time.” Looking at her, a strange sense of dark amusement washed over me. Six years of marriage, and in her eyes, I was still just a man desperate enough to invent a secret child to make her jealous. To provoke her. To beg for her attention. “Believe whatever you want,” I said, wrenching my arm out of her grasp. “We’re getting a divorce either way.” This time, she didn’t follow me. As the elevator doors slid shut, the last thing I saw was Valerie standing alone in the dark hallway, one hand buried in her damp hair, pulling at the roots. The elevator descended. I leaned my head against the cool metal wall, my mind drifting back to our wedding day, six years ago. When we exchanged vows, Valerie had held my hands, her eyes bright with tears, promising she would protect my heart for the rest of our lives. Sitting in the front row, my father-in-law had been weeping like a baby. Later at the reception, Arthur had pulled me aside, gripping my shoulder. Nate, son, he’d said, if my Valerie ever breaks your heart, you tell me. I’ll break her legs. Back then, I really believed I was marrying for love. My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was Arthur. I stared at the caller ID for several long seconds before swiping to answer. “Nate, my boy,” Arthur’s warm, gravelly voice echoed through the speaker. “It’s the weekend tomorrow. You and Val coming over for dinner? I’m slow-roasting a brisket, and I picked up that maple pecan pie from the bakery you love.” I closed my eyes, the cold elevator wall grounding me. “Arthur,” I paused, swallowing the lump in my throat. “I have some things to take care of tomorrow. I don’t think I can make it.” “Sunday, then? You can’t be busy the whole weekend!” “I have plans Sunday, too.” “Nate…” Arthur’s voice dropped, turning cautious. “Did you and Val have a fight?” I didn’t answer. The elevator reached the lobby with a soft ding, the doors sliding open to the chaotic noise of the street. “No, Arthur,” I said, walking out into the night. “Work is just really crazy right now.” There was a long stretch of static on the line before Arthur let out a heavy sigh. “Nate, listen to me. I know my girl can be reckless sometimes, but she loves you. She really does. Whatever it is, talk it out. Don’t let it fester.” The night breeze hit my face, sharp and cold. “Arthur,” I interrupted him gently. “I really have to go. Goodnight.” I hung up before he could say another word. Standing on the curb, I watched the blur of headlights rushing past. My phone vibrated again. A voice message on iMessage from Mia’s teacher. I held the phone to my ear. A sweet, high-pitched voice flooded the speaker. “Daddy! Are you coming to the parent-teacher thing tomorrow? My teacher said we could bring our paintings, and I painted you!” I listened to it twice. Then I typed back: I’ll be there. 3 I was Valerie’s white whale. Her ultimate prize. She chased me for years. It took a long time before I finally let my guard down and agreed to marry her. After the wedding, she treated me like royalty. She would have given me the moon if I asked for it. At least, for the first year, that’s what everyone told me, and that’s what I believed. But three months into our marriage, I was taking her blazer to the dry cleaners and found a Polaroid tucked into the inner breast pocket. It was a picture of a boy. Early twenties, wearing a crisp white linen shirt, smiling brilliantly under a large oak tree. That face paralyzed me for several seconds. He looked exactly like me. The shape of his eyes, the slope of his nose. The way his smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. It was a mirror image of a younger me. I put the photo back. I didn’t say a word. But I started paying attention. I noticed how Valerie always put her phone face down. I noticed that when she was in the shower, her phone would buzz with texts from a contact saved simply as “Cam.” Cameron. I finally met him six months into our marriage, at a dinner party. He arrived trailing behind some of Valerie’s friends, slipping into a corner seat, quiet and unassuming. Someone introduced him. “This is Cameron.” He stood up to greet everyone. When his eyes landed on me, he paused just a fraction of a second. Then he smiled. A bright, meticulously polite smile. “Hi, Nate.” In that exact moment, I understood why that Polaroid was hidden in her suit pocket. He was younger than me. Softer than me. And he knew exactly how to look at Valerie with big, tear-filled eyes. And Valerie? From the second he walked through the door, she hadn’t looked at me once. 4 The first time I caught them kissing was eight months after the wedding. It was Valerie’s birthday. We threw a massive catered party at our house. I was running around playing the perfect host, refilling glasses and making small talk. It wasn’t until the cake was being brought out that I realized Valerie was missing. I went to check the second-floor balcony. When I pushed the glass door open, I saw two silhouettes pressed together against the railing. Cameron had his back arched over the balustrade, his hands clutching Valerie’s shoulders. Valerie had her hand buried in his hair, kissing him with a desperate, consuming hunger. The moonlight washed over their faces. Cameron’s eyes were closed, his eyelashes trembling beautifully. I stood in the doorway. The silver cake server I was holding slipped from my fingers and clattered onto the hardwood floor. They broke apart. Cameron saw me, and the blood instantly drained from his face. He scrambled behind Valerie like a frightened child. Valerie spun around. For a split second, there was sheer panic in her eyes, but she ruthlessly buried it. “Nathan,” she said, taking a step toward me. “Listen to me—” I didn’t listen. I turned around, walked down the hall, and went straight into our master bedroom. I opened the nightstand drawer and pulled out our framed wedding photo. It was a heavy, solid mahogany frame. I lifted it above my head and smashed it onto the floor with everything I had. The glass shattered into a thousand pieces. The photograph ripped right down the middle, perfectly severing Valerie and me. The guests downstairs heard the crash and came rushing up, crowding the doorway in shocked silence. By the time Valerie sprinted into the room, I was already destroying the crystal figurines on her desk. The first gift she ever gave me. The souvenirs from our honeymoon in Paris. The expensive colognes she bought me. Anything I could lift, I threw. She lunged at me, wrapping her arms around my torso from behind, locking me in a vice grip. “Nathan! Stop it! That’s enough!” I couldn’t break free. I just stood there, chest heaving, gasping for air. She turned me around, her eyes red and pleading. “I cut him off,” she swore, her voice trembling. “I swear to God, Nate, it’s over.” I looked at her, and suddenly, I started to laugh. Why was it that she was the one who cheated, but I was the one standing here looking completely unhinged? That night, she sat on the floor beside my side of the bed until dawn. I didn’t let her under the covers, and she didn’t try to leave. When the sun came up, I opened my eyes to see her asleep, her head resting on the edge of the mattress, her brow furrowed, one hand still desperately gripping the corner of my blanket. I stared at her for a long time. Then, slowly, I reached out and brushed a piece of hair away from her face. I thought, maybe, just maybe, she would actually change. 5 Three months later, Cameron was kneeling on my foyer floor. I was home alone that afternoon. The doorbell rang, and when I opened it, there he was. He was wearing an oversized sweater, his face ghastly pale, his eyes swollen from crying. He walked inside, dropped to his knees on the imported tile, and looked up at me. “Nate,” he choked out. “I know I shouldn’t be here, but I have nowhere else to go…” I stared down at him. I didn’t say a word. His trembling hands reached into his messenger bag and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He offered it up to me like a sacrifice. A clinical ultrasound report. Patient: Valerie Hayes. Diagnosis: Early intrauterine pregnancy. Approximately 6 weeks.

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