Category: English

After spending $600 to buy my mom a new washing machine, she did nothing but complain that it didn’t wash clean. “Honestly, you’re pretty calculating. You didn’t even split the $10 you got from selling the old washer with your sister; you just pocketed it yourself.” My face suddenly flushed. I thought she was joking, so I forced an awkward smile and asked her why she would think that. She rolled her eyes at me and changed the subject: “This piece of junk washer leaves the sheets and duvet covers soaking wet.” I took a look and realized she was using the 15-minute “Quick Wash” cycle. As I adjusted the settings for larger loads and explained which cycles to use for which clothes, she pushed me aside and stubbornly turned the dial back to “Quick Wash.” “Your sister said Quick Wash saves water and is gentler on clothes.” She got angrier as she spoke, slamming the laundry basket down. “You calculate every little thing! It’s not like you’re paying the water bill, so of course you don’t care. Unlike your sister, who considers everything for us.” My heart went cold. I called the junk hauler, paid him $20 to buy the old washer back, and moved the new one into my own apartment. 1 I got an $800 bonus from a project at work, and I immediately thought of the washing machine at my parents’ house. It was over a decade old, the kind of ancient machine where you had to manually take the wet clothes out and put them into a separate spin-dryer tub. Sometimes, when washing heavy items, they would soak up so much water that it was a huge struggle for my mom to lift them. She’d almost thrown her back out several times. I specifically took half a day off on delivery day. Watching the junk hauler carry away the old washer, I felt a warm glow inside, thinking about how surprised and happy my mom would be when she got home. My mom came back from her Zumba class, opened the door, and froze. Still holding her workout towel, she stood in the doorway of the bathroom, staring at the new washing machine for a long time. “Where’s the old one?” she asked. “Sold it to the junk guy,” I said, wiping down the control panel of the new machine. “Only got ten bucks for it.” Her expression instantly changed, and she threw her towel onto the sofa with a smack. “Who gave you permission to make that decision?!” Her voice was shrill enough to startle me. “That washer still worked fine!” I thought she was just being her usual frugal self, so I hurried to explain. “Mom, this new one is energy-efficient and quiet, and it can…” “Spendthrift!” she cut me off, turning on her heel and marching into the kitchen. She turned the faucet on full blast, vigorously scrubbing a dishcloth that didn’t even need washing, as if she were venting her anger. She didn’t speak to me for the rest of the night, not even touching the macarons I had specially bought for her. Two days later, while I was at work, my phone suddenly rang. As soon as I answered, I heard her yelling on the other end: “What kind of piece of junk washing machine did you buy?! It doesn’t wash clean at all!” When I rushed over, she was pulling bedsheets out of the drum. Detergent had clumped together, sticking to the soaking wet fabric, and water was dripping down, forming a small puddle on the floor. I crouched down to check what was wrong. “Honestly, you’re pretty calculating,” she said suddenly. My fingers paused, and I looked up at her. She was scrubbing the outside of the washing machine hard with a rag, not even looking at me. “You didn’t even split the ten bucks you got from selling the old washer with your sister; you just pocketed it yourself.” I thought I misheard her. “Huh?” “Ten dollars.” She finally straightened up and threw the rag heavily into the sink. “You even scheme over such a petty amount of money.” My face suddenly burned. I laughed awkwardly. “Mom, why would you think that…” She rolled her eyes at me and turned to pull the duvet cover out of the drum. “This piece of junk washer leaves the sheets and duvet covers soaking wet.” Only then did I notice she had been using the 15-minute “Quick Wash” cycle. No wonder the detergent hadn’t even fully dissolved. As I adjusted the settings for larger loads and explained which cycles to use for which clothes, she pushed me aside and stubbornly turned the dial back to “Quick Wash.” “Your sister said Quick Wash saves water and is gentler on clothes.” She got more agitated as she spoke, slamming the laundry basket down heavily. “You calculate every little thing! It’s not like you’re paying the water bill, so of course you don’t care. Unlike your sister, who considers everything for us.” 2 I finally understood what she was really upset about. Everything in this house, in my mom’s eyes, belonged to my sister, Chloe. Even a broken-down old washing machine that could only fetch ten dollars. Even though I spent $600 buying her a new washing machine, I shouldn’t have taken that ten dollars from the old one; I should have given it to my sister. My hand was still resting on the washing machine’s control panel, my fingertips turning cold. My mom stood nearby, impatiently shaking out the clothes that needed to be rewashed, waiting for me to move out of the way. “Mom,” my voice trembled slightly. “Do you really think that ten dollars should have gone to Chloe?” She furrowed her brow. “Who cares about ten dollars? I’m just saying that you as a person are…” “Do you?” I interrupted her, my voice sharper than I intended. “Do you think the money from selling that washing machine should belong to Chloe?” “That’s not what I meant!” My mom suddenly raised her voice. “I just think you act too selfishly, never considering anyone else.” That sentence was like a key, suddenly unlocking the floodgates of memory. Two years ago, when they remodeled the kitchen, they sold the old cabinets for $150. The money was wired directly to Chloe’s account. At the time, my mom said, “Your sister is a bit strapped for cash right now.” But back then, I had just put down the deposit on my apartment, and the monthly mortgage payments were so high I couldn’t sleep at night. “It’s been like this since we were little,” my voice grew steadier. “As long as it’s something in this house, it eventually becomes Chloe’s. You were even afraid I was taking advantage by taking the money for a broken washing machine.” My mom suddenly slammed the laundry basket down again. “What nonsense are you talking about!” “Nonsense?” I pulled out my phone. “What about the tea set Grandpa left behind last year? You said you wanted to save it for Chloe because she ‘knows how to appreciate it.’ But Grandpa explicitly said he was leaving it to me!” The washing machine emitted a shrill beep; the Quick Wash cycle was over. My mom yanked the door open, a blast of damp air from the wet clothes hitting my face. “Your sister has always been thoughtful since she was little,” she said, shaking the clothes vigorously, water droplets splashing onto my face. “Unlike you, always nitpicking over every little thing.” I wiped my face, suddenly remembering something from college. That year, I saved up my work-study money to buy my mom a cashmere sweater. Without even trying it on, she said the color was too dull. Later, I saw that exact sweater on Chloe’s Instagram, with the caption saying it was a new outfit Mom bought her. “Nitpicking?” I let out a laugh, took out my phone, and dialed the junk hauler. “Hey, Frank, could you bring back that washing machine from the other day… yeah, the one I sold you for ten bucks… Pay extra? How much? …Fine, twenty bucks it is.” My mom snapped her head around. “What are you doing?!” “Buying my sister’s washing machine back,” I said, hanging up the phone. My voice was so light it didn’t sound like my own. “After all, it’s ten dollars. I can’t just pocket that all by myself.” Her face instantly turned bright red. “Are you crazy? Why are you wasting money buying that junk back?!” “Wasting money?” I nodded. “I spent six hundred dollars on this new washing machine. It was the bonus from the project I worked late nights to finish. Do you know what I use? The broken, secondhand washer the previous owner left behind. It sounds like a tractor when it runs. I’ll take this new one back for myself to use. This way, no one wastes any money, and you can keep living with your precious sister’s washing machine.” My mom opened her mouth, seemingly unable to believe I would say such a thing. After all, I had always been incredibly obedient to her, never showing a hint of defiance. She was so angry she couldn’t speak for a long time. I made another call to schedule a mover for the new washing machine that afternoon. After hanging up, the room was terrifyingly quiet, save for my mom’s heavy breathing. “Mom,” I said softly. “Do you remember the year I took the SATs?” Seeing my tone soften, she thought I was about to apologize. Her attitude immediately became arrogant, and she let out a cold snort. “I had a fever of 102 degrees, but you said Chloe had finals the next day and we couldn’t disturb her sleep.” My nails dug deeply into my palms. “I sat alone in the urgent care clinic getting an IV drip until 3 AM.” My mom was completely enraged now. She grabbed a plastic hanger and hit me on the back. “Why are you bringing up ancient history!” My back stung with fiery pain. I couldn’t help but think of how, whenever it rained when we were kids, my mom waiting at the school gate always only had one umbrella—the one meant for Chloe. My mom would always say, “You’re older than your sister. Run faster and you won’t get wet.” “You know what,” I said, picking up my purse and heading for the door. “Sometimes I really wish you’d just say it straight. Just say you like Chloe more. Just say everything in this house belongs to her.” As the door clicked shut behind me, I heard a loud crash from inside. She had probably thrown the laundry basket again. 3 The movers were quick. The new washing machine was moved to my apartment that same day. When we went to pick it up, my mom blocked the doorway, refusing to let us move it. In the end, I had to call the building super to come help carry it out. And that old washing machine was placed exactly back in its original spot. That night, as I was assembling the hookups for the new washing machine, my sister called. As soon as I answered, her shrill voice pierced my eardrum: “Are you serious? Causing such a huge scene over a stupid washing machine!” I crouched on the floor, still holding a screwdriver. “Am I the one causing a scene, or is Mom? Do you even know what happened?” “You’ve been like this since we were little!” She completely ignored what I said. “Whenever you see me have something, you have to fight Mom for it. Now you’re even fighting over a washing machine. Mom is right, you act like a beggar!” The screwdriver trembled in my hand. I suddenly remembered buying my apartment two years ago. I could have bought the place I liked in cash. But Chloe said she wanted to go on an exchange program abroad. My mom cried at home all day, saying the art school was too expensive and she felt like she was failing Chloe. Seeing my mom’s red, swollen eyes, my heart softened, and I gave her $30,000. Then I took out a mortgage to buy my place. I’m still paying it off. “A beggar? Since you brought it up,” my voice was surprisingly calm, “when do you plan on returning the thirty thousand I gave you?” The other end of the line went suddenly quiet. “What… what do you mean?” Chloe’s voice was noticeably weaker. “You know how much I make right now…” “When you came back to the States last year, you said you’d pay me back as soon as you found a job.” I jammed the screwdriver hard into the toolbox. “It’s been over a year now. You’ve changed jobs twice, bought a three-thousand-dollar designer bag, but you just don’t have the money to pay me back?” “You!” She suddenly raised her voice. “Mom is right, you’re cold-blooded! You deserve it that Mom doesn’t love you!” The call disconnected. The dial tone sounded exceptionally harsh in the empty apartment. I crouched next to the new washing machine and suddenly laughed out loud. It’s true, Mom doesn’t love me. Everyone knows it, but I was the only one still deceiving myself. I picked up my phone and sent Chloe a text message: “Transfer the money to my card by next week. Otherwise, I’m coming to your work to cause a scene.” When we were little, Mom would buy Chloe new dresses, while mine were made from Chloe’s hand-me-downs. When I thought they were ugly and refused to wear them, Mom would coax me, saying: “Your sister’s clothes are good quality.” Now, I no longer plan to yield or wrong myself. Even if the price is finally admitting that the person I tried so hard to please will never love me. 4 By Monday noon, my bank account balance remained unchanged. Chloe hadn’t replied to my messages or called me. I stared at my phone screen, suddenly feeling a bit ridiculous. She probably thought I would just swallow my anger and let it go, like always. At 3 PM, I hired four friends who were personal trainers and went to the dance studio where Chloe worked. They wore black tank tops, their arm tattoos faintly visible. Standing at the studio entrance, they immediately drew the side-eyes of the parents waiting there. “Who are you looking for?” the girl at the front desk asked, her voice trembling. My friend showed a picture of the IOU on his phone: “Looking for Chloe Evans. We’re here to collect a debt.” In less than five minutes, my phone started vibrating wildly. Chloe’s voice was tearful: “Are you crazy?! Make them leave! There are kids here!” “Where’s the money?” I asked calmly. “Where am I supposed to get thirty thousand dollars right now?!” she practically screamed. “Hannah, are you trying to drive me to my death?” I listened to the noisy background sounds on her end—the murmurs of the parents and the crying of the kids. Unable to handle the pressure, Chloe burst into tears. This scene was all too familiar to me. From childhood to adulthood, as long as she cried, the whole world would make way for her. “Then we’ll do it my way,” my voice was light, but very clear. “Every day at 2 PM, they will wait for you punctually at the studio entrance. Until you pay off your debt.” “You!” She suddenly lowered her voice. “Mom is right, you’re just a…” I hung up immediately. Ten minutes later, my mom’s call came in as expected. The word “Mom” danced on the screen. I stared at it for a long time until the ringing stopped. She called three more times in a row, and I muted them all. Towards evening, my friend texted: “Your sister was scared out of her mind. She hid in the bathroom crying the whole time. An old lady came running over and yelled at us, saying she was her mother.” I replied with a cash tip via Venmo to express my thanks, then opened my photo gallery and scrolled to a family portrait from last Thanksgiving. In the photo, Chloe, wearing an expensive dance outfit, stood in the center. Mom had her arm around Chloe’s shoulder, smiling with pride. And I stood on the far edge, wearing a sweater bought on sale. My finger swiped across the screen, and I opened another folder. Inside were a few yellowed old photos. In them, a seven-year-old me wearing an obviously oversized dance leotard stood on the stage of the community center. That leotard was altered by Mom from an old dress of Chloe’s. The lace on the collar was yellowed from washing. I still remember that summer. I secretly saved my allowance for half a year just to afford the tuition for the dance class at the community center. Every time I went to class, I had to arrive half an hour early to hide in the bathroom and change from my school uniform into the leotard, because Mom wouldn’t let me learn, saying it was a waste of money. “Your limbs are as stiff as a board,” she always said. “You look like a duck when you dance.” But for that recital, the teacher specifically chose me as the lead dancer. I gathered the courage to tell Mom. What I got in return was a slap across the face: “Who gave you permission to make that decision?!” On the day of the performance, I was dancing enthusiastically when I suddenly saw Mom storm onto the stage angrily. In front of everyone, she grabbed me by my ponytail and dragged me off the stage. “You dance so ugly and you still go on stage, aren’t you embarrassed?” Her voice echoed through the entire auditorium. I will never forget the surprised looks of the kids in the audience and the awkward expression on my teacher’s face. And Chloe? When she was five, Mom signed her up for the most expensive private dance lessons. “Our Chloe is going to pursue the arts in the future,” she told everyone she met. “So she can take fewer detours.” But Chloe was afraid of pain. It wasn’t until she was ten that she could barely manage a backbend. Every time she practiced basic skills, she cried hysterically. Mom would hold her and coax her: “Stop practicing, stop practicing. Our Chloe is so talented, she doesn’t need to practice these.” Later, when Chloe graduated high school, her academic grades were terrible. Mom insisted on spending tens of thousands to send her to an arts college. The teachers at that third-rate arts school shook their heads when they saw Chloe’s dance video, but Mom insisted, “You guys just don’t know how to appreciate art.” Later, Chloe threw a fit about wanting to study abroad for a semester, and Mom took out all her retirement savings. “Foreign education resources are better,” she explained to our relatives, never mentioning a word about how that money was what I was supposed to use to buy a house. In the photo, seven-year-old me has bright eyes, not yet knowing that I would never get a single word of praise from my mom in this lifetime. And the present me, who finished college on scholarships, working as a manager in a multinational corporation, still couldn’t compare to Chloe, who taught dance at a children’s art center. In Mom’s eyes, at least Chloe had an artistic dream, while I was just a cold-blooded money-making machine. I locked my photo gallery just as the washing machine beeped. The clothes were done washing, emitting a faint lavender scent. I shook them out one by one, suddenly noticing an old pajama set pressed at the very bottom. It was a hand-me-down Chloe didn’t want anymore last year. I picked up the pajamas and threw them into the trash can without hesitation. Just like throwing away the dance dreams I desperately suppressed for so many years to please my mom. 5 But I never expected that before my friends could go back to Chloe’s studio, my mom would find her way to my office first. She made a huge scene in the lobby of my company. Her voice was sharp enough to pierce the glass doors: “You heartless thing! I raised you, and this is how you treat your sister?” The young receptionist shrank back in fear. A few colleagues poked their heads out of the elevator. Mom intentionally wore an old winter coat today, and deliberately left her hair uncombed, looking exactly like an old woman bullied by her unfilial daughter. “You just want to cause a scene, don’t you?” She suddenly lunged at me, trying to grab my hair. “Everyone can cause a scene!” I stepped aside to avoid her, pulled out my phone, and dialed a number right in front of her. “Hey, Mark, take ten guys to Chloe’s dance studio right now.” I intentionally raised my voice. “Yes, right now.” My mom’s hand froze in mid-air, her expression looking like she had suddenly been choked. “You… you wouldn’t dare!” her voice started to tremble. I turned the phone screen towards her, showing the ongoing call. “I’m not afraid of losing face, but I wonder if Chloe is?” I lowered my voice. “Ten guys standing at the classroom door. Do you think those parents will still let their kids learn dance from her?” My mom’s face instantly turned deathly pale. She knew this daughter’s weak spot too well. The thing Chloe cared about most was her pathetic pride. “You’ve changed,” her voice suddenly dropped. “You used to never be like this…” “Yeah, I’ve changed.” I sneered. “Because I don’t want to be that idiot kneeling and begging you for a glance anymore.” A memory suddenly flashed back to when I was twelve. I won first place in a school poetry recitation competition. When I rushed home excitedly to show Mom my certificate, I found her helping Chloe practice a simple nursery rhyme. Chloe couldn’t even sing in tune, yet Mom clapped until her hands were red. “Do you remember my elementary school graduation?” I asked suddenly. “You said you were too busy at work to come. But that day, I saw you in the corner of the playground giving Chloe a popsicle.” Mom’s eyes darted away for a second, but she quickly hardened her heart again. “Why are you bringing this up now? Chloe has always…” “Always needed special care, I know.” I cut her off. “But I don’t need it. Push me too far, and I’m capable of anything.” “Do you think you can still control me?” The security guards had gathered around. Mom finally realized this tactic wasn’t working. She glared at me fiercely one last time. “Karma will get you!” Watching her stumbling away, I suddenly remembered a dream I had last night. In the dream, seven-year-old me wore that ill-fitting dance leotard, dancing freely on an empty stage. No mockery, no interruptions, and no one rushing up to drag me off. My phone buzzed. It was a text from Chloe: “I transferred half the money. I’ll pay the rest next month. Tell them not to come.” I didn’t reply, just put the phone back in my pocket. The elevator doors slowly closed. The mirror reflected my calm face. It turns out, burning bridges feels much more liberating than I imagined. 6 I knew they wouldn’t let it go so easily. Sure enough, within two days, they started acting up again. A message tagging me popped up in the family group chat. It was a voice memo from Chloe. I tapped it on speaker. Her tearful voice immediately exploded in the room: “Hannah, are you trying to drive me to death? I really don’t have any money right now! I can barely pay my rent this month…” Following that was a 60-second voice memo from Mom. I didn’t even need to listen to know the contents. It was the same old tired rhetoric: “ungrateful monster,” “heartless,” etc. Sure enough, halfway through, I heard her screaming: “You think you’re so tough now, huh? Even scheming against your own sister!” I sneered and scrolled up the chat history. I found that my aunts and uncles had long joined the crusade: “We’re all family, why make it so ugly?” “Your sister is having a hard time right now. As the older sister, can’t you be a little accommodating?” “Young people these days, no sense of family loyalty at all…” My finger hovered over the screen for a few seconds. I suddenly found it extremely ridiculous. These people didn’t say a word when Mom humiliated me in public. They played deaf and dumb when Chloe stole from me. Now they’re all acting like champions of justice. I opened my photo gallery and dumped all the pre-prepared photos of the IOU, transfer records, and chat screenshots of Chloe promising to repay the loan into the group chat. Then I typed slowly and deliberately: “I originally wanted to give you some leeway, but now, within three days, transfer the remaining fifteen thousand dollars to my card.” “Otherwise, see you in court. Don’t blame me for not warning you when you become a deadbeat debtor.” The group chat instantly became terrifyingly quiet. I could imagine those relatives on the other end of the phone, eyes wide, fingers hovering over the screen, not daring to press down. In less than two minutes, a private message from Mom popped up: “Do you have to make this so ugly? If your sister becomes a deadbeat debtor, how will she get married? How will she find a job?” I could almost hear her grinding her teeth. In the past, whenever she acted like this, I would soften and back down. But this time, I replied directly: “Why didn’t she think about that when she borrowed the money?” “You’re ruthless! I raised you for nothing!” she replied immediately. Looking at that sentence, I suddenly remembered when I was in college. I lived frugally, eating instant ramen for half a month straight just to buy her a birthday present. After she received the gift, she turned around and gave it to Chloe. “Yeah,” I typed out word by word. “You raised me just so I could be a human ATM for Chloe.” After sending that sentence, I left the family group chat entirely. Those so-called relatives were only ever spectators. Let them think what they want. In all the years I was bullied, none of them ever spoke up for me anyway. My phone vibrated again. It was a call from Chloe. I declined it immediately. She then sent a message: “Hannah, I really don’t have the money. Please give me a few more months…” I replied firmly and decisively: “Three days. Not a penny less.” “Are you trying to ruin me?!” she replied instantly, adding an angry emoji. Looking at that sentence, I suddenly laughed out loud. How ridiculous. She was the one who borrowed money and refused to pay it back, and now it’s my fault for ruining her? “You ruined yourself.” I replied, then put the conversation on ‘Do Not Disturb’. 7 When the doorbell rang, I was organizing litigation materials. Through the peephole, I saw Mom standing awkwardly outside. She was carrying a bulky plastic bag, her hair slightly messed up by the wind. Today, she surprisingly wore a relatively new winter coat, instead of the faded, worn-out jacket she usually wore. “Who is it?” I asked intentionally. “It’s Mom,” her voice came through the door, carrying a deliberately softened tone. “I brought you some home-cured meat.” I opened the door, and a gust of cold wind carrying the salty, fishy smell of cured meat hit my face. Mom immediately thrust the plastic bag towards me: “Look, I brought this especially for you. You loved it when you were little.” I didn’t take it. She just pushed past me and squeezed inside, leaving muddy footprints from her shoes on the floor. She walked familiarly towards the kitchen, the plastic bag rustling: “You kid, why throw such a big tantrum over a few words? Still as stubborn as when you were little.” The sound of the refrigerator door opening came from the kitchen, followed by her exaggerated gasp: “Oh my, why is the fridge empty? What do you usually eat? Don’t tell me you order takeout every day.” She poked her head out, feigning a look of heartache. “Let Mom cook a meal for you?” I didn’t say anything, walking to the dining table to look at what she brought. The plastic bag contained a few bags of expired dates, an opened tin of lotus root powder with only a little left, and a package of cured meat wrapped in old newspaper. The newspaper was stained with grease. It was probably ancient inventory dug out from the very bottom of her freezer. “No need,” I put the lotus root powder tin back. “I don’t like spicy food.” Mom’s hand froze as she was washing it at the sink. The faucet was running. With her back to me, her shoulders stiffened slightly. “Nonsense. Didn’t you love the meat I cured when you were little? You used to eat two big bowls of rice with it every time.” Ten years ago, that winter, I was hospitalized with acute gastroenteritis. The doctor advised a bland diet. Mom, however, insisted on bringing her specially made spicy cured meat, claiming it would stimulate my appetite. The truth was, she had a craving for spicy food while keeping me company at the hospital. I forced myself to finish it despite the stomach pain. I vomited violently in the middle of the night, but she complained that I was being delicate. “I was faking it,” I said. The faucet was jerked shut. Mom turned around, not even drying her hands. Dark water stains were left on her clothes. “What do you mean?” “I don’t like spicy food. I never have.” I heard my own voice sound very calm. “Just like I don’t like Chloe’s hand-me-downs, I don’t like being treated as an ATM, and I don’t like always being put last.” Her expression started to contort. That familiar look of anger mixed with guilt resurfaced on her face. “I went through so much hardship raising you, and this is how you repay me?” “I worry about your health. I spend $500 every year to take you for checkups. I saw you stressing about Chloe not having money for her exchange program, stressing so much you got sores in your mouth, so I gave you $30,000 and took out a mortgage to buy my own place. All these years, I’ve been by your side every time you got sick. When has your precious Chloe ever done that?” I counted on my fingers. “Does none of this count as repayment?” “That’s what you’re supposed to do!” She suddenly raised her voice, the mask of maternal love completely shattering. “You’re the older sister! Isn’t it right to yield to your younger sister?” “I’m your mother. Isn’t it right for you to do these things?” I looked at her face, flushed red with anger, and suddenly found it absurd. I had actually wronged myself for thirty years for a person like this. “You should leave.” I pulled the front door open, letting the cold wind rush in. “The lawsuit will not be withdrawn, and the money must be returned.” Her lips trembled, a hint of panic flashing in her eyes. “Are you really going to be this ruthless?” “Compared to what you guys did to me,” I smiled, “what is this?” “I’m warning you, don’t make a scene here. I’m not afraid. If you really want to cause a scene, I have ways to cause a scene with Chloe.” I watched her cheap lipstick-painted lips open and close a few times. Ultimately, she couldn’t say a word. She just violently yanked off her apron, threw it on the floor, and stormed out without looking back. The moment the door clicked shut, I picked up that package of cured meat and threw it into the trash can.

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When my brother was just a baby, I found out he had been accidentally switched at birth with the son of the wealthiest family in the state. Back then, I made sure they were switched back. Years later, my brother found out the truth. He blamed me for being a meddlesome busybody, screaming that I had ruined his life as a billionaire’s heir. Driven by years of festering resentment, he sneaked into my room while I was sleeping and released a venomous snake, letting me be bitten to death. When I opened my eyes again, I was back to the time before the switch was exposed. This time, I kept my mouth shut. Because someone as purely evil as him didn’t deserve a life of wealth and luxury. 01 Ever since my brother, Tyler, was little, my parents assigned me the role of his caretaker, constantly warning me that I had to yield to him in everything. If he cried, it was my fault for not watching him properly. If he tore up my homework, it was my fault for leaving it out. In short, whatever mistakes my brother made were ultimately my fault. If there was good food in the house, Tyler always got first pick. Whatever he couldn’t finish went to our parents. Only if there were leftovers did I get a share. If it was all gone, then it was gone. If I dared to complain or cry, all I got was a severe beating. They constantly brainwashed me with the idea that I had to accommodate him, to be good to him. They said that when I grew up and got married, my brother would be my safety net, the one who would back me up if I ever ran into trouble with my husband’s family. They preached this day in and day out. But after being killed by him once, how could I ever believe that garbage again? Of course, I knew there was no point in arguing with them. My parents’ hearts were permanently biased. This time around, I didn’t tell a single soul about the hospital mix-up. In my past life, I had been naive and revealed the truth. From then on, my mom would constantly bring it up in front of Tyler. When Tyler grew up, he secretly went to look at that wealthy family. He found out they were ridiculously rich, the wealthiest family in the region. His mind completely snapped. He hated me to his core, eventually dropping a venomous snake into my room to kill me. So, this time, I buried the secret. I knew the only way to escape this toxic household was to study hard, get into an out-of-state college, and leave this city for good. That was the only way to break free from their control. Once my mind was made up, I hid all my dissatisfaction and resentment. I never fought with Tyler over anything. Aside from studying, I acted like someone with zero desires. Because I worked so hard, my grades were outstanding. I was constantly praised by my teachers, and since my academic success gave my parents something to brag about, they treated me tolerably well. That was until Tyler turned six, and something massive happened. A family in our neighborhood lost their cat and put up missing posters everywhere. The poster made it very clear: the cat was a highly expensive purebred. If someone had mistakenly taken her, they needed to return her immediately. If the cat wasn’t returned within three days, they were calling the police. When my mom came home for dinner, she brought it up as a casual joke. Unexpectedly, Tyler slipped from his chair and fell to the floor. Startled, my mom rushed to help him up. “Tyler, sweetie, are you okay?” Tyler refused to look at her, visibly panicking. My mom froze for a second, her voice trembling in disbelief. “Tyler… did you take that cat?” “I… I… Mom, I didn’t mean to! If they call the cops, are the police gonna arrest me?! I don’t want to go to jail, I’m scared!” No matter how malicious Tyler was, he was still just a little kid. The threat of the police terrified him. He grabbed my mom’s sleeve and begged. “Mom, I’m sorry! I just thought it looked fun to play with! Don’t let the police take me!” His words hit the house like a bomb. My mom stared at him, her eyes wide. “You actually took their cat?! Why would you take someone else’s cat?! Hurry, where is it? I’ll go return it right now!” Tyler kept his head down, mumbling incoherently. My dad, sensing something was very wrong, roared at him. “You little brat, that cat is worth thousands of dollars! Where is it?! Speak!” “Oh, stop yelling at him! He’s just a little boy, talk to him nicely,” my mom complained, unable to bear seeing my dad scold her precious son. She turned to Tyler with a gentle voice. “Tyler, don’t be scared. Tell Mommy, where did you put the cat?” Perhaps sensing that she wasn’t mad at him, he finally looked up and spoke slowly. “Mom, I just saw it after school and thought it was pretty. I played with it for a bit, but it was so fragile. It died super fast, so I just buried it!” 02 A dead silence fell over the room. My parents looked at each other, unable to believe that their precious six-year-old had tortured a cat to death. But I wasn’t surprised in the slightest. He was a psychopath born with a rotten core. This was just the beginning. After the initial shock wore off, panic set in. It was painfully obvious from my parents’ faces that they had absolutely no intention of paying thousands of dollars in compensation. Right then, their eyes landed on me, sitting silently on the sidelines. They exchanged a look and turned my way. “Chloe!” my mom started. “Look, your brother is little and doesn’t know any better. He made a tiny mistake. Can’t you think of a way to help him out?” I frowned in disbelief. Why would they ask me, a high school sophomore, for a solution? “The only solution is to go to their door, apologize, and pay them for the cat! There is no other way.” My mom seemed to be waiting exactly for me to say that. She immediately jumped in. “Chloe! You know we don’t have that kind of money. That cat is worth thousands! Where would we get it? How about this… you take the blame for your brother. Your dad and I will take you over there and beg them for mercy. Who knows, maybe they’ll just forgive us?” I couldn’t believe my ears. I shot up from my chair. “Me take the blame?! Do you two have any sense of right and wrong?! He’s six years old and already torturing animals! Instead of disciplining him, you’re covering for him. Aren’t you afraid he’s going to grow up to be a monster? “Whoever committed the crime does the apologizing! We’d be begging them either way, so why does it have to be me?!” Smack! Seeing that I was refusing to take the fall and even daring to lecture them, my dad crossed the room and slapped me hard across the face. “You do what you’re told! I feed you, I put a roof over your head, and it sure as hell isn’t so you can talk back to me!” He hit me so hard I was knocked to the floor. Blood instantly pooled in the corner of my mouth. Tyler watched from the side, a gleeful smirk on his face. He was young, but he was cunning. He understood perfectly that my parents were shifting the blame onto me. All the panic completely vanished from his face. My mom squatted down, pulled me up, and wiped the blood from my mouth with fake tenderness. “Chloe, don’t be mad at your dad. Your brother is a boy, after all. If he really gets a police record, his reputation will be ruined! If he doesn’t go, and they call the cops, what if they take him away? “Be a good girl. Just help your brother this one time. Mom will make your favorite dinner tonight!” So, in their eyes, my reputation meant absolutely nothing. My feelings didn’t matter at all. In that moment, the urge to escape this house became overwhelming. I didn’t say another word. I knew arguing was useless. Any further resistance would just earn me another brutal beating. I needed to think of a different way out. Assuming my silence meant compliance, my mom grabbed my arm and dragged me out the door. 03 The cat owners were a young couple. When they saw us at their door, they were initially confused. After hearing the story, the young woman, Emily, refused to believe it. It wasn’t until my parents led her to a secluded corner of the neighborhood and dug up the cat’s body that she finally broke down. The little cat was covered in blood and dirt. There wasn’t an inch of unharmed fur on its body, and its four legs were bent at grotesque angles. Emily collapsed, sobbing hysterically as she held the cat’s body. She completely lost it, pointing a shaking finger right at me. “You look like such a quiet, normal girl. How could you be so evil?! Bella was so sweet, how could you do this?! I don’t care, I’m calling the cops! I’m going to make sure you rot in juvenile detention!” Seeing this, my mom panicked and shoved my head down, forcing me to bow. “Chloe, apologize! Tell her you’re sorry right now! Tell her that as long as she doesn’t call the police, she can do whatever she wants to you!” My mom’s grip was painfully tight. Her words sent a chill straight to my bones. If this woman wanted to beat me half to death, my parents would probably hand her the bat. Smack! “You wretched girl! Your mother told you to apologize, are you deaf?! Apologize!” My dad slapped the other side of my face. The cut on my lip tore open again, dripping fresh blood. Seeing me get hit didn’t ease Emily’s fury. She screamed at my parents. “Enough! Stop putting on a show! Do you think slapping her a few times means I’ll forgive this?! Let me make this clear: I am calling the police. Not only is your psycho daughter going to juvie, but you are paying me for my cat!” Hearing about me going to juvie didn’t faze my parents at all, but the moment they heard “paying,” the color drained from their faces. My mom forced a sickeningly sweet smile. “Miss, please! Look, my daughter is still a minor. Can’t you give her a second chance? I know what she did was extreme, but I promise, as long as you forgive her and don’t make us pay, you can make her do whatever you want!” “What could she possibly do for me?! Can anything she does bring Bella back?!” Emily wept uncontrollably, cradling the dead cat. My mom, with her twisted logic, suddenly grabbed me by the hair and started viciously beating me. “Then I’ll beat her for you! I’ll beat her senseless! Will that make you feel better?!” I raised my arms to protect my head. Beside her, my dad grabbed a thick wooden branch from the ground and started striking me. Seeing my dad join in, my mom simply pinned me down so he could have a better angle to swing. While I screamed in agony, curled up defensively on the ground, Tyler stood on the sidelines, completely silent. His eyes were practically glowing with excitement. 04 The young couple had never seen anything like this. Emily opened her mouth to stop them, but looking down at her cold, broken cat, she clamped her mouth shut. Because Tyler had buried the cat in an isolated corner of the subdivision, there weren’t usually many people around. But the commotion was so loud that a crowd quickly gathered. An older woman, seeing me getting brutally beaten, stepped right in. “What are you doing?! Are you trying to kill the kid?! I’m telling you, child abuse is a felony! Stop it right now!” My mom, seeing the crowd intervene and noticing that Emily still hadn’t said a word of forgiveness, didn’t let go of me. She just paused her swings to explain. “Lady, mind your own business! This kid tortured a cat. Look at what she did to their poor pet! If I don’t beat some sense into her today, she’ll never learn!” My mom’s words instantly drew the crowd’s eyes to the cat. That was when they noticed the bloody, mangled corpse in Emily’s arms. Some of the younger kids in the crowd started crying in fear. The adults stopped trying to intervene. Some self-righteous bystanders even started agreeing with my parents. “That is purely evil. She needs to be taught a lesson. Keep hitting her!” “You really can’t judge a book by its cover. Such a quiet-looking girl, who knew she was a sociopath? Terrifying!” “She deserves it. If you don’t discipline her now, who knows what she’ll do to a person next!” … I lay on the dirt, protecting my head, groaning and thrashing. Eventually, I was too weak to even move, lying there gasping for air like a slab of dead meat. 05 After what felt like an eternity, my parents finally started to get scared. They didn’t actually want to murder me in front of dozens of witnesses. My mom let go of me, crawled over to Emily, and begged through crocodile tears. “Miss, please! Please just forgive my daughter! We are so poor, we really can’t afford to pay you thousands of dollars!” Blood had soaked through my shirt. Seeing how severely I had been beaten, Emily finally relented. “Just… take her home and get her psychological help. To do something like this as a minor… it’s terrifying.” My mom knew immediately that they were off the hook. She exchanged a thrilled look with my dad, grabbed Tyler’s hand, and turned to leave. They didn’t even cast a single glance at me bleeding on the ground. Right at that moment, I slowly pushed myself up. Facing the crowd that was just starting to disperse, I cried out: “I didn’t torture the cat… I didn’t do anything! He did it!” With my face covered in dirt and blood, I pointed a trembling finger at Tyler, who froze and turned around. “My brother tortured the cat… My parents favor sons over daughters. They forced me to take the blame for him so they wouldn’t have to pay! They beat me half to death to put on a show… I won’t be framed! I can’t take this anymore, call the police!” “You lying little bitch, shut your mouth!” My dad raised the branch and lunged at me. But halfway there, a burly man stepped in and grabbed his wrist. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?! Is what this girl saying true?! If you’re lying to us, I’m calling the cops right now!” “Yeah! Did you really beat your own daughter half to death to cover for your son?! Speak up!” “Wait, it was your son who killed my Bella?! If you lied to me, I’ll sue you for everything you own!” The crowd and Emily exploded in outrage. My dad froze, terrified by the angry mob. My mom, always the slickest liar, immediately tried to do damage control. “Don’t listen to her nonsense! She’s just scared because we disciplined her, so she’s making up lies! Chloe, get up! We are going home right now!” She reached out to grab me, shooting me a lethal glare warning me to shut up. But I had endured that brutal beating specifically to break away from them. There was no way I was backing down now! “I’m not lying! There are security cameras at the neighborhood entrance. Check them, and you’ll see who was walking around with the cat!” 06 Someone in the crowd had already dialed 911, and the police arrived shortly after. They didn’t listen to a word of my parents’ excuses and took all of us to the precinct for an investigation. As soon as the truth came out, my parents panicked. My mom immediately changed her tune, claiming Tyler was too young and had a weak constitution, which was why they wanted me to take the blame. She blamed Emily for being “too ruthless” and forcing them to beat me so severely to earn her forgiveness. Emily was so furious at my mom’s twisted logic that she broke down in tears again. Her boyfriend, Matt, comforted her and angrily addressed the police. “Officers, the way they brutally assaulted their daughter tonight clearly shows this isn’t the first time. If you don’t intervene, this girl is going to be beaten to death by her own parents!” Matt was smart; he pushed the issue of child abuse to the forefront. The officer looked at me, advised me to get medical attention, and promised to give my parents a stern warning. “They definitely won’t dare lay a hand on you again after this!” I frantically shook my head. I knew exactly what I was doing. My injuries looked horrific, but they were mostly superficial flesh wounds. More importantly, I knew I couldn’t waste this opportunity. There would never be a better one. “I exposed their secret! If I go back with them, they will definitely beat me again! “Officer, I’m seventeen. I want to file for legal emancipation. I want to move out and separate from them legally so they have no right to touch me ever again!” Because my birthday was late in the year, I was a few months shy of turning eighteen. If I could get emancipated or placed under state protection, any future assault by them would be treated as a full adult felony. “Emancipation?! Over my dead body! You are my blood, and you’ll die under my roof!” My dad, hot-tempered and brainless as ever, completely lost it in the precinct. I deliberately shrank back, my face pale, tears streaming down my cheeks, looking utterly traumatized. “You’re threatening me right in front of the police?! Your son tortures animals at six years old, did he learn that from you?! “By law, you committed child abuse. I have every right to request removal from your custody!” The officer looked at me sympathetically. “You’re only a few months away from eighteen, and you’re still in high school. If you leave them, how are you going to support yourself?” I looked over at Emily and Matt, pleading with my eyes. “I have straight As. Once I finish my college entrance exams, I can get a part-time job. “Could you… could you please lend me some money just to survive the next few months? I can sign a legally binding IOU!” Emily’s heart ached seeing me beaten and framed, but living expenses for a high schooler weren’t cheap. She was young herself and didn’t have much money, so she hesitated. My parents, confident that no stranger would be stupid enough to hand over money, sneered at me in disgust. I refused to lose this lifeline. I dropped to my knees in front of them and begged. “Please, I will sign a promissory note! The second I turn eighteen, I’ll get a job and pay you back with interest! Please help me, if I go back there, they will actually kill me!” I clutched Emily’s sleeve, sobbing hysterically. The blood from my hands stained her jacket. Emily couldn’t bear it anymore. She exchanged a look with Matt, and finally, she nodded. 07 The moment I got the answer I needed, the adrenaline that had been holding me together crashed, and I passed out. I spent a week in the hospital. When I woke up, I applied for emergency student housing at my high school. My parents tried to drag me home, but the school administration, having heard that my parents put me in the hospital, barred them from campus to protect my studies. A few months later, I officially turned eighteen. I marched to the police station, filed the paperwork, and had an officer escort me home to retrieve my vital documents. My parents were furious, but legally, there was nothing they could do. The moment I held my own birth certificate and social security card in my hands, I let out a long breath. From that moment on, I was an independent adult. They could never control me again. Time flew by, and the SATs were just around the corner. Right before exam week, my guidance counselor called me into her office with urgent news. “Chloe, your mom called. Your dad drank too much and suffered a massive stroke. It doesn’t look like he’s going to make it, and your mom is begging you to come see him one last time. I’m just passing along the message, Chloe. It’s up to you to decide.” I thanked her and nodded. My dad having a stroke was something that never happened in my past life. I didn’t know if this was the butterfly effect of me moving out, or if there was some darker conspiracy at play. A stroke right before my college entrance exams? The timing was way too suspicious. I couldn’t afford a single misstep right now. But if I didn’t go, and he actually died, the social stigma of refusing to see my dying father would haunt me forever. After thinking it over, I decided to go. When I arrived at the house, it felt like they had been waiting for me. I knocked twice, and the door swung open. Seeing me, my mom’s eyes instantly went red, and tears streamed down her face. She wiped them away, choking out, “Chloe, you finally came home! Your dad… he’s not going to make it!” Honestly, in that exact second, I thought I had misjudged them. I walked inside, and my mom kept rambling about how much she missed me over the past year and how guilty she felt. I looked at my dad, lying perfectly still in bed, his face pale and eyes tightly shut. My suspicions eased a fraction. A moment later, my mom handed me a glass of water. “Chloe, drink some warm water. Your dad… we just have to leave it in God’s hands now.” I took the glass. Looking down, I noticed a faint layer of white powder settling at the bottom. We only ever drank filtered bottled water in this house. There shouldn’t be any sediment! My heart hammered against my ribs. I knew instantly it was a trap, but I pretended not to notice and took a few small sips. Then, using the excuse of needing the bathroom, I locked myself inside. I turned on the faucet to muffle the sound, shoved my fingers down my throat, and threw everything up. When I came out, I pretended to feel dizzy. I slumped onto the dining table and faked falling into a deep sleep. My mom called my name a few times to test the waters. When I didn’t respond, she dropped the act entirely and yelled toward the bedroom. “Richard, get up! The brat passed out!” Immediately, I heard the rustle of blankets being thrown off. My dad was perfectly fine. It was all an act. But what was their goal in tricking me back here? Smack! My dad walked up and slapped me hard across the face. I forced myself to stay completely limp and kept my eyes shut. “You ungrateful little bitch, thought you could spread your wings and fly? Thought you could cut ties with us? If you hate living here so much, I’ll ship you off to someone else’s house!” “Hey, stop hitting her! Don’t damage the goods. If Earl sees bruises tonight, he’s gonna lower the price! We need that money for Tyler’s college fund!” my mom quickly intervened, seeing my face start to swell. “He wouldn’t dare! He’s a fifty-year-old creep getting a fresh young bride. If he tries to short me on the twenty grand, the deal is off!” A fifty-year-old creep? Twenty grand?! They orchestrated this massive lie just to drug me and traffic me to some old man! It was as sickeningly predictable as always. 08 They dragged me into my old bedroom, tied me to the bed, and left to call this ‘Earl’ guy to finalize the pick-up time. The moment the bedroom door clicked shut, my eyes snapped open. I sat up. Because they assumed I was drugged, their knot-tying was incredibly sloppy. It looked complicated, but it was loose. Within minutes, I had untied myself. I pressed my ear against the door. Hearing no movement outside, I quietly slipped out. But just as my hand touched the front doorknob, Tyler suddenly appeared from the hallway and shrieked. “Chloe’s awake! Mom! Dad! Chloe woke up!” His voice was deafening. I frantically twisted the doorknob, but Tyler lunged forward and grabbed my waist, anchoring me. My parents never hid anything from him. He knew exactly what they were planning to do to me. Yet here he was, stopping me from escaping. It was pure, unadulterated malice. To him, I wasn’t a sister anymore. I was a commodity that was going to buy him video games and a college fund. “You can’t leave! You can’t go! Mom! Dad!” He was a boy, but he was only seven. With a hard shove, I threw him aside, but the delay was enough. My parents burst out of the living room and cornered me. “You little rat, I underestimated you! How did you wake up so fast? Trying to run?!” My dad lunged, shoving me violently away from the door, his eyes full of mockery. I knew I couldn’t overpower them both right now, so I resorted to screaming at them. “Are you even my real parents?! My exams are in two days, and you’re trying to traffic me?!” “College is a waste of money! You might not claim us, but we’re still your parents! You’re eighteen now. Today, you’re getting married, and paying us back for raising you!” “Twenty thousand dollars! You’re selling me for twenty grand! Dad, let me go, and I’ll pay you back fifty thousand!” My dad paused. The sheer dollar amount made him hesitate. He looked at me suspiciously. “You can get fifty thousand?” “Once I go to college and get a corporate job, fifty thousand is nothing! Tyler is only seven, you don’t even need the twenty grand right now. Let me go, and I’ll sign a legal promissory note!” My dad’s eyes lit up with pure greed. My worth to him was entirely monetary. My heart was ice cold, but I was relieved. I had found an opening to save myself. But just as my dad was wavering, Tyler suddenly shouted. “I don’t want it later! I want the twenty grand now! I want to buy a new PlayStation! I want the money now!” My mom had always spoiled him rotten. She was naturally cowardly and had no mind of her own, so she echoed her golden boy. “Richard, if she really goes off to college, do you think she’ll ever come back? What if she just rips up the IOU? Tyler is right. Cash in hand today is safer!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “408338”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

When the tabloids broke the news of Ethan Cross’s engagement, he was lying on my lap, reviewing a merger file. I thought it was just another piece of celebrity gossip. I teased him. “Very funny. They’re saying you’re getting married next month.” Ethan casually flipped to the next page of the contract. “Yeah. Make sure you’re free to play piano at the reception.” I froze, completely stunned. Ethan traced a hand over my face, a touch of mockery in his eyes. “It took a lot of work to get her to say yes. Be a good girl, okay? Don’t make a scene.” 01 My mind went completely blank. I stared at him, not knowing how to react. Ethan let out a soft scoff and set the merger file down on the coffee table. “Don’t look at me like a deer in headlights. It’s not like we’re never going to see each other again.” He paused, tilting his head. “Or did you actually think I was going to marry you?” I fought back tears, pushing against his shoulders to sit up. “These five years… what was I to you?” Ethan refined his brow, sitting up and gripping my chin. “An assistant. You are the most capable assistant I’ve ever had.” I wasn’t satisfied. I asked again, my voice trembling. “Just an assistant?” Ethan’s expression darkened slightly. He wound a lock of my hair around his finger. “Sarah, do you know what I like most about you? You’re compliant. Smart. Rational. Sane.” He applied pressure to my chin. “Right now, you’re acting in a way that is very annoying.” My heart felt like it was being stuck by a thousand needles. A dense, stinging pain surged through my body. He leaned in and kissed away the tear at the corner of my eye, his hand moving down. My body’s instinctual reaction made me shudder slightly against my will. He let out a sharp laugh, the sound filled with ridicule. “Don’t act so aggrieved. After all, you enjoy this too, don’t you?” I pushed him away with all my might and frantically grabbed my clothes, pulling them on over my head. He sat back, resting his chin on one hand, watching me amusedly. “By the way, you know my fiancée. She’s timid. Don’t go near her, don’t scare her.” I froze mid-motion. A horrifying premonition seized my brain. “Who is it?” “The Sterling Group heiress. Harper Sterling.” It was like a lightning bolt struck me. My brain felt like it exploded, pressure throbbing violently at my temples, mixed with a piercing pain. “Why her? You know… she…” “That was all a misunderstanding.” Ethan reached out, pulled me back toward him, and got down on one knee to slide my high heels back onto my feet. “Harper already explained everything to me. If you are disrespectful to her because of things that happened in high school, don’t blame me for being ruthless.” He squeezed my ankle hard, looking up at me. It was an open threat. The pain made it almost impossible to sit still. I forced a sliver of a voice out of my throat. “Understood.” 02 Winter in the Midwest is unforgivably cold. I stood by the railing of the downtown bridge, the wind stinging my face like a slap. I used to think that Ethan and I would get married, have kids, and live a quiet, happy life just like any other loving couple. After all, no other man had ever treated me as well as he did. He would clumsily cook my favorite dishes. Even though he hated the smell of spicy crawfish, he still took me to a shack on the Gulf just to get the authentic stuff. He even went to a simulation class to experience the pain of childbirth, crying as he told me we shouldn’t have kids because he didn’t want me to suffer. I thought he loved me to his core. But it turns out, he never once considered marrying me, let alone having a family with me. The wind howled past, and the black water rushed furiously beneath the bridge. I lifted my foot to step onto the bottom railing, intending to just feel the wind, but someone suddenly grabbed me from behind in a tight bear hug. It was an older woman, her face filled with panic, gripping my arm tightly. “Oh dear, I’ve been watching you for a while. It’s not worth it, sweetie, it really isn’t.” “If something happened to you, it would break your parents’ hearts.” “Life is long. There’s nothing you can’t get through.” She practically forced her own gloves, scarf, and beanie onto me. Finally, she pulled a warm, foil-wrapped breakfast burrito from her coat pocket and shoved it into my hand. I had been holding back tears for so long, but at that moment, they completely exploded. I sobbed uncontrollably. I wasn’t trying to jump. I just wanted to freeze myself into feeling rational again. I wanted to accept the brutal reality that Ethan Cross did not love me. But facing this stranger’s warmth, I suddenly felt so aggrieved, so full of resentment. 03 By the time Ethan’s call came through, I was already back at my apartment. “I’m formally introducing Harper to everyone tomorrow. You should be there.” I gripped the phone, my hand slowly tightening. “I don’t want to go.” Ethan let out a soft scoff. “Sarah, this is a notification, not a request. Harper wants you there.” “I said I don’t want to go.” My voice was terribly raspy. The cold wind from earlier seemed to have blown into my very bones. A bone-deep chill settled into my core. “Sarah!” Ethan lost his patience, his voice booming through the speaker. “If I don’t see you tomorrow, you can forget about ever getting your mother’s prescription covered again.” The line went dead. I leaned against the wall and slid down to the floor, collapsing. 04 Having been with Ethan for five years, I knew his friends well enough. So, at the party, when they saw me, their eyes were filled with mockery. “How does she still have the nerve to show up? Live as a mistress long enough, and you actually start thinking you belong here.” “Some people just don’t know what shame is. Who else would stripped naked and crawl into a bed for a promotion?” I kept my eyes on the ground, pretending to be deaf. Someone walked over and pressed his hand down on mine on the table. His sticky breath fanned against my ear. “Sarah, don’t be sad. Now that Ethan’s done with you, you can always come find me. I don’t mind seconds.” The area erupted in crude, disgusting laughter. I clenched my teeth, stood up, and took a step back to put distance between us. “Respect yourself, please.” He gave me a predatory look, scanning my body. “Still acting high and mighty? Believe it or not, I could handle you right here.” My body instantly went rigid. My palms were wet with fear. I looked toward the door over and over, desperately hoping Ethan would walk in. I knew exactly how vicious these people could be. At a moment like this, only Ethan could help me. As he kept crowding me, I slowly backed into a corner. “Sarah, just give in to Mr. Miller. It’s not like trash like you has other options.” They looked at me with greed, disdain, and excitement. They were nailing me to a cross of shame. I had nowhere left to retreat. I tried to quickly dart around him. But someone stuck their leg out, tripping me. I crashed to the floor. My arm caught a bottle of Cabernet on the adjacent table. It fell and shattered. I landed with both hands directly onto the glass shards. My white dress was instantly stained red with blood. The crowd erupted in roars of laughter. I struggled to move, trying to stand up, but a sharp, agonizing pain shot up from my ankle. Mark Miller bent down and grabbed my wrist. “Sarah, let me help you…” The door suddenly opened. Ethan walked in, Harper Sterling on his arm. They were late. He saw me sprawled on the floor. He frowned. “What’s going on?” “Sarah wasn’t careful. She tripped and broke a wine bottle. Mr. Miller was just trying to help her up,” someone smoothed over. Ethan’s gaze moved to Mark Miller’s hand gripping my wrist. His expression darkened slightly. “Let go.” Mark awkwardly stood up, backing away from me. “Mr. Cross, don’t misinterpret this.” Ethan walked over quickly, a faint trace of worry in his eyes. “Ethan, let me help Ms. Jenkins up.” Harper Sterling’s voice was soft and warm, interrupting him as he started to bend down. Ethan froze for a microsecond, then stood back up. “Alright.” Harper extended her hand to me. I looked at that smiling face, and it was like I was transported back ten years. Pure terror broke me into a cold sweat. “Ms. Jenkins, do you not like me helping you?” She looked innocent, a trace of grievance in her voice. Before I could speak. Ethan said with a cold face, “If she doesn’t want to get up, let her crawl on the floor. What an embarrassment.” “Ethan, don’t speak to a woman like that,” Harper chided softly, helping me up. “Are you okay?” Then, she whispered close to my ear, just loud enough for me to hear. “Even though everyone knows Mark is a predator, you didn’t have to humiliate yourself like this just to get his attention.” Her face was full of concern, but her eyes were venomous. She viciously pinched the glass wounds on my hand. The pain was unbearable. I violently pushed her away. “Get away from me. Don’t touch me.” Harper staggered back a step and fell toward the floor. I stared straight at her, wishing with every fiber of my being that she would fall onto the broken glass. Unfortunately, Ethan caught her. He stepped forward furiously and slapped me across the face. “Harper was kindly trying to help you, and you treat her like this? You ungrateful bitch.” My ears were ringing. I felt like I stepped off a ledge, plunging into darkness. Ethan’s mouth was opening and closing; he was probably saying more horrible things, but I couldn’t hear him. When my senses finally returned, I only heard the last sentence. “Sarah, apologize to Harper.” I looked at him in disbelief, wanting to defend myself, but not knowing how to say it. Even if I did say it, Ethan wouldn’t believe me. “I am telling you for the last time. Apologize. Otherwise, you know what I’m capable of.” His voice held an undertone of a threat. I curled my lips in a self-deprecating smile, letting out a bitter laugh. “If I don’t apologize, you’ll cut off my mother’s treatment, right?” He snorted coldly and said nothing else. How ridiculous. The man who once swore he would never let me suffer a single grievance was now forcing me to apologize to the person who used to bully me. Just a week ago, he was sitting in front of my mom, peeling an apple for her, swearing that she would live to be a hundred. “Forget it, Ethan. Sarah didn’t do anything wrong. She just doesn’t like me, that’s all.” Harper’s eyes were downcast, pulling on Ethan’s sleeve. “I don’t need your hypocrisy,” I snapped, not knowing where the courage came from. Harper looked frightened by me. Her rim med with red, and she shrunk back behind Ethan. “Don’t be scared,” Ethan comforted her gently. Then he turned and viciously kicked my knee. “Watch your attitude!” I was forced to my knees on the ground. “Apologize, Sarah. Don’t push me.” Ethan’s jaw was tight, a storm brewing in his eyes. My heart was completely dead. My body didn’t even seem to feel the pain anymore. My mom’s illness could only be treated with a specialty drug developed by Ethan’s company. I could not sacrifice my mother’s life for the sake of my dignity. “I’m sorry. I was wrong. I beg for Ms. Sterling’s forgiveness.” I looked down, my voice shattered and broken. 05 Late that night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, listening to the torrential rain outside. I heard the smart lock chime as the front door opened. A moment later, the sound of the shower ran in the bathroom. I turned over and closed my eyes. The other side of the bed dipped, and I was pulled into a damp, cold embrace. “Does your face still hurt?” He asked neutrally. “We broke up.” I pushed him away calmly. He let out a light laugh. “Still angry? It was just an apology.” I tightly gripped my nightgown. “Stop it, I’m having a hard time right now,” he mumbled, his voice hoarse, burying his face in the crook of my neck. “Why didn’t you go to Harper Sterling?” “We’re not married yet. It wouldn’t be right to do this to her.” My heart was completely ash. I let my hands fall lifelessly, like a dead fish. Ethan struggled for a while, but seeing I was unresponsive, he turned over and flipped on the bedside lamp. “Sarah, do you have to ruin the mood like this?” He lit a cigarette, his cold gaze sweeping over my barely covered body. “I really don’t know what you’re dissatisfied about.” “If it weren’t for me, could you afford to live this decently?” I clenched the bedsheets, tears silently flowing down my face and into my ears. He forcefully turned my face toward him. When he saw my red, swollen eyes, he froze. His phone on the nightstand suddenly buzzed. It was Harper Sterling calling. “Ethan, it’s thundering. I’m so scared.” He comforted her with a few soft words, then quickly put his clothes back on. He turned to look down at me, his voice freezing. “Sarah, you need to seriously reflect on yourself. Don’t just cry over every little thing. Crying doesn’t solve any problems.” He was right. Crying doesn’t solve any problems. But nobody cries because they want to solve problems. 06 I stood outside the hospital room door and took several deep breaths before pushing it open. “Whose mom is this? Why is she so pretty?” I teased with a smile. My mom was sitting in bed, knitting a scarf. When she saw me, she dropped the yarn and waved me over. “There’s my girl.” Then she pretended to be angry. “Hmph. You haven’t been here to see me in days.” I happily hugged her. “I was just here two days ago. Didn’t the doctor say you need to rest? What are you busy with now?” She took my hand, showing off her work. “Oh, just lying here gets so boring. I’m knitting scarves for you and Ethan.” “Is this color nice? I specifically picked matching ones for couples.” My eyes stung with sourness. I slowly ran my hand over the scarf. “It’s beautiful.” “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” My mom realized my mood was off, her voice filled with worry. “Did you and Ethan have a fight?” “No.” I snuffed. “I just feel so lucky to have you, Mom.” “Silly child.” My mom patted my shoulder gently. “I only have one wish in this life, and that is for you to be happy and safe. I can’t be with you forever. You have to walk your own path in the future. Ethan is a good man, you can rely on him. When two people are together, there will always be disagreements, but as long as you talk it out, it’ll be fine.” “I know, Mom. Don’t worry, Ethan and I… are great.” I looked down to hide my expression. “That’s good.” My mom nodded in relief. “One of these days, when he isn’t busy, bring him by and we’ll all have… cough cough cough…” My mom suddenly started coughing, unable to catch her breath, her mouth suddenly filled with bright red blood. “Doctor! Nurse!” I frantically pressed the call button. A massive panic seized me. 07 After emergency resuscitation, my mom was temporarily out of danger. I stopped the primary physician in the hallway. “My mother’s condition has been stable for years. What happened today?” Dr. Lee looked at me with a complicated expression. “Ms. Jenkins, you should probably talk to Mr. Cross.” “What do you mean?” “Mr. Cross cut off the coverage for her specialty drug. If this happens again, I’m afraid your mother won’t make it. You need to handle this immediately.” My heart dropped into a bottomless pit. I frantically dialed Ethan’s number, but it showed that his phone was off. I called over twenty times, with the same result. I knew this was my punishment for not being “compliant” last night. He was waiting for me to beg. I looked everywhere—at the office, his house, his private club, the golf course. He was nowhere to be found. I collapsed helplessly against the front of my car. Finally, the housekeeper at his villa couldn’t watch me suffer anymore and told me where Ethan was. I immediately booked the closest flight to Miami. 08 When Harper Sterling saw me, her eyes filled with genuine surprise. “Sarah? What are you doing here?” Ethan, on the other hand, was not surprised at all by my arrival. I cut straight to the chase. “Mr. Cross, my mother…” Ethan gave a low, appreciative whistle, refined his brow, and pulled Harper into a tight embrace by her waist. “I’m busy.” I took a deep breath. “Then when will you have time?” “Depends on my mood.” He leaned back, resting his chin on his hand, looking down to coax Harper. “Should I take you to watch the sunset?” “I knew you were the best, Ethan.” Harper blushed and kissed him shyly. I turned to leave, but Ethan called out to me. “Stay right there. Don’t move.” 09 The night grew deeper. A few stars poked through the high sky. Giggles and soft sounds kept drifting out from Ethan’s suite. I looked down at the potted hibiscus nearby; there were fewer blooms this year than in the past. For the five years I was with Ethan, he took me here every winter. The same hotel. The same room. The pool, the lounge chairs, the balcony swing. Every inch of this place witnessed our past happiness. He really knew how to find new ways to humiliate me. But it didn’t matter. As long as my mother lived, I would do anything. The door was pushed open from the inside. I lifted my eyes, then immediately looked back down. “Sarah, you are just as spineless as always.” Harper smiled as she walked up to me, a lit cigarette dangling between her fingers. The terror that had disappeared for so long drilled back into my brain. For a dazed moment, I was back in high school. It was the same kind of lit cigarette. They had shamelessly used me as a human ashtray. Ash tapped into my mouth. Cherry pressed against my skin. They forced me into the abandoned art room. Harper said that if I crawled on all fours like a dog, they wouldn’t go cause trouble at my mom’s street food stall. Day after day. For all three years of high school—what should have been the brightest years of my life—I lived in an absolute living hell. Someone kicked the back of my knee, forcing me to stumble. Harper leaned close to my ear, her voice like a demon’s whisper. “Don’t be scared. Your life is only going to get more miserable from now on.” I looked up, staring straight into her eyes, asking the question I had wanted to ask for years. “Why? Why do you hate me so much?” She laughed arrogantly. “Sarah, you are still so naive. Hating someone doesn’t need a reason, just like loving someone doesn’t need a reason. From the moment I saw you, I despised you. Everything you want to protect, I want to take away. Including your mother.” Alarm bells went off in my head. A moment later, Dr. Lee’s call came through. “Ms. Jenkins, your mother needs the medication immediately, or…” I didn’t stay to hear the rest. I yanked open the door to the suite. “Ethan Cross, get out here. I’m begging you. Cover my mother’s medication again.” I woke him up. He looked annoyed, then quickly got out of bed and rushed toward me. A sliver of hope ignited in my heart. But it was quickly doused. “Harper! What’s wrong? Sarah, what did you do to her?” He pushed me aside furiously and scooped up the unconscious Harper from the floor behind me. I anxiously explained, “I didn’t! She’s faking it! Ethan, please, call the hospital. If my mom doesn’t have that medicine, she will die.” He snorted coldly. “Sarah, you really will stop at nothing. Just to get my attention, you’re actually cursing your own mother to die. You are truly shameless and disgusting.” “If anything happens to Harper, I will never forgive you.” He rushed out with her in his arms. I knelt on the floor, grabbing the cuff of his jeans. “I am telling the truth! It only takes a minute to make a phone call! Ethan, please! If you make the call, I will do anything. I’ll apologize to Harper Sterling with my life if you want!” “Get lost.” Ethan kicked me hard in the chest. “Your mother must be so miserable having a daughter like you.” 10 By the time I rushed back to the hospital, completely frantic, it was too late. I never got to see my mother for the last time. I collapsed to the floor. It felt like an invisible hand was squeezing my heart, ripping it right out of my chest. Dr. Lee walked over and handed me a paper bag. “I’m sorry.” His eyes were full of guilt. I slowly opened it. The two brightly colored scarves were inside. I couldn’t hold it back anymore. I cried out in agony. “Mom, I was wrong… It’s all my fault!” 11 After finishing my mother’s funeral arrangements, I locked myself in my apartment. On the third day, Ethan showed up. He disgustedly yanked open the blackout curtains. “What? Planning to die here? You’re going through all this life-and-death drama just over a little medication hitch?” “Do you love me that much?” The bright light outside instantly stung my eyes. Then he threw a designer handbag at me. “Here. The one you’ve always wanted. I brought it straight here from the airport.” Ethan’s mouth kept opening and closing. My head hurt so much from the noise. “Get out.” I stood up, hysterical, grabbed a pair of scissors from the table, and viciously stabbed them into the handbag over and over. “Have you gone insane?” Ethan walked over, clamped my wrists, and threw the scissors away. “Sarah, think about your mother before you do anything stupid. My patience is not unlimited. If you keep throwing these tantrums, you will never get that medication covered.” I suddenly started laughing. The laughter grew louder and louder, eventually turning into choking sobs. I forcefully slapped him across the face, pointing at the black-and-white photo on the wall. “My mother is dead.” 12 “That’s not possible. When?” Ethan froze, a trace of suspicion in his eyes. “Sarah, are you lying to me again?” I didn’t have the energy left to argue with him. I leaned against the table, breathing heavily. He violently grabbed my wrist, forcing me to look up. “Sarah, speak to me. You do not joke about things like this.” I let out a cold scoff, fighting the urge to vomit. “You’re right. I am lying to you. My mom isn’t dead at all. I staged this whole thing.” “Now that you’ve caught me, can you get the hell out?” He tightened his jaw, his eyes turning cold. He snorted and flung my hand away. “Don’t ever play stupid games like this again.” 13 After Ethan left, I changed the security code on the door lock. I called a real estate agent I knew to list the apartment. “Ms. Jenkins, the market isn’t great right now. The price might…” I interrupted him. “It doesn’t matter. Just sell it as quickly as possible.” This was the apartment I bought during my second year with Ethan. Back then, I thought he was just a struggling artist. To reassure my mom, I worked myself to the bone, saving every penny to make the down payment on this place, intending for it to be our future home. Later, when his true identity was revealed, I broke up with him in a rage. He stood outside in the pouring rain all night. Asking me pitifully, “Sarah, I was wrong. Please don’t leave me.” I was soft-hearted. I made him ginger tea to ward off the chill. I thought I had found true love.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “408339”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

After marrying my childhood best friend, we treated each other like polite roommates. He barely spoke, and I was naturally cold. To this day, we still haven’t consummated our marriage. But what I didn’t know was… my husband could hear my inner thoughts. In the bedroom, I wore my usual blank expression, staring at my husband who had just stepped out of the shower. But in my mind: [If I do him right here, would he pass out?] 01 [It would definitely feel amazing. That spicy romance novel Chloe showed me described it as… what was it? Losing focus?] [I think they called it the ‘wet and wild’ shower scene.] Caleb slipped and almost fell. I stepped forward and caught his arm. “Are you okay?” [Why won’t this towel drop? Why wrap it so tightly? It’s not like I haven’t seen him before.] [His abs are perfectly sculpted. Long fingers, too.] “I’m fine.” Caleb spoke rapidly, as if desperately trying to stop something. He clutched his towel tightly. “Sorry, I couldn’t find my bathrobe earlier, so I just grabbed a towel…” [Of course you couldn’t find it.] [I threw it away.] [It’s probably being shredded in a landfill right now.] [I’ll throw the towel away tomorrow, too.] I let go of him and said flatly, “Be careful next time.” “…Okay.” 02 Caleb changed into his pajamas and got into bed. I flipped through my book, my peripheral vision instinctively darting toward him. He was wearing dark pajamas, long sleeves, and long pants. [Tank tops are better. Easier to cop a feel. Shame I only dare to do it when he’s asleep; I’m terrified of waking him up halfway.] [Ugh, I really want to slip a sleeping pill into his water.] [Then I could do whatever I want with him.] I stared blankly at the words in my book. Caleb, who had just gotten into bed, suddenly threw off the covers and got up. I looked at him, puzzled. “Not sleeping?” “I haven’t been sleeping well lately. I’m going to take some melatonin.” I didn’t think much of it and went back to my book. When Caleb came back, he had changed his clothes. He was wearing exactly what I wanted: a loose tank top. He explained, “It was too hot.” I replied softly, “Mhm.” Caleb lay down. Maybe it really was too hot; he only pulled the covers up to his waist. He rested his arm behind his head. His broad chest and defined muscles made it hard for me to look away. His body was better than a fitness model’s. He fell asleep quickly. Thoughtfully, I turned the AC down. After reading for a bit longer, I turned off the light and went to sleep. In the dark, Caleb silently opened his eyes, staring with a complex expression at Olivia sleeping beside him. She was fast asleep, her eyes shut tight, taking shallow breaths. No secret touches. No ‘wet and wild’ scenes. Caleb just lay there with his eyes wide open until dawn. The next morning, I walked out of the bedroom, rubbing my sleepy eyes. Maria was cooking breakfast. The delicious smell woke up my appetite. I pulled out a chair and sat down like a good girl. Today it was sweet potato pancakes and a fresh smoothie. Maria smiled at me. “Is it good?” My mouth was too full to answer, so I nodded enthusiastically. “Don’t choke,” Maria said, handing me the smoothie. “My own kids never appreciate my cooking this much.” Speaking of her kids, Maria couldn’t help but sigh. I comforted her. “They just don’t get it.” Maria genuinely adored me. Even though I seemed aloof on the outside, my eyes would instantly light up whenever I ate something delicious. It gave her a huge sense of accomplishment. “Speaking of Caleb, he’s usually up by now, isn’t he?” “He took a sleeping pill last night.” A sleeping pill? Maria thought back to when she was cleaning the bathroom that morning. The bottle in the medicine cabinet hadn’t looked touched. But the lid on the espresso powder hadn’t been screwed on tight. 03 I didn’t expect Caleb to sleep straight through to the afternoon. Even after sleeping that long, he still had dark circles under his eyes. [Looks like the quality of his sleep is really terrible. Good thing I didn’t grope him last night, or he’d be even worse off. I guess I’d better behave myself from now on.] Caleb, whose back was to me, suddenly turned around and stared at me darkly for a long time. “I slept perfectly fine.” “?” [What does that have to do with me?] Caleb ignored me. [Men are so complicated. Annoying.] Caleb slammed the door shut with a loud bang. That evening, the high school alumni group chat started blowing up. The reunion organizer was throwing a get-together. My best friend Chloe called. “Liv, you’re going, right?” “Yeah, I’m free.” Chloe and I met in high school and coincidentally went to the same college. We’ve always been super close. “What about your husband? Is he coming?” She was talking loudly. I looked up at Caleb across the room. He opened his mouth. [Please say no. I really don’t want to bring him.] Caleb closed his mouth. He gently shook his head. Satisfied, I replied to Chloe, “He’s not coming.” Chloe seemed to breathe a sigh of relief on the other end. “Good that he isn’t. Ethan is going to be there this time. You remember your high school boyfriend, right? He’s been single since you guys broke up. I heard he still wears that woven bracelet you gave him.” Chloe’s voice echoed clearly in the room. “…Oh.” I gave a dry response. “Awesome. Next Tuesday at 7 PM. Be there or be square.” I hung up. Seeing Caleb’s calm, unbothered expression, the slight anxiety in my heart faded. [What was I worried about? Even if I actually cheated on him, he probably wouldn’t care. How could he possibly get jealous over something so small…] “Terrible!” Caleb’s expression suddenly turned ice-cold. I jumped, staring at him in confusion. [What is his deal?!] Meeting my gaze, Caleb’s brow twitched, and his expression relaxed. “I meant Maria’s cooking… it’s terrible today.” Maria, hurrying in with a spatula: “?” 04 Tuesday before heading out. Caleb spent half the day staring at the mirror, styling himself. From head to toe, he was impeccably groomed. He had a handsome face and a body built like a runway model. Dressed up like this, he was even more eye-catching. [Chloe said that when a guy dresses up this much, there’s an 80% chance he’s looking for a side chick.] Caleb’s hand, about to spray hairspray, froze. He awkwardly put the can down. He turned, his gaze landing heavily on my shoulders. “It’ll be cold tonight. Take a shawl.” “It’s 85 degrees out.” “…Drive safe.” When I arrived at the venue, the private lounge was already packed. Chloe waved me over. I sat down next to her. She nudged me, gesturing for me to look to the side, and whispered, “Look at his wrist.” Ethan had shed some of his youthful awkwardness. He was chatting effortlessly with others. As he raised his cocktail glass with his right hand, his cuff slid down, revealing that old, worn-out woven bracelet. It was just a cheap trinket I bought at a street fair near our school years ago. In high school, Caleb was in the class next to mine. We weren’t particularly close; we just had that obligatory bond of growing up together. At school, we barely spoke. But Caleb’s mom frequently asked him to drop things off for me. And every day after school, Caleb would wait by my classroom door. Over time, everyone assumed we were a thing. I explained it a few times, but no one believed me, so I gave up trying. Later, those rumors died down. Because of Ethan. Whenever he had the chance, he’d clarify things for me, more enthusiastically than I ever did. Under his relentless chatter, our classmates got annoyed, then bored, and eventually stopped gossiping about me and Caleb. To thank him, I offered to buy him a smoothie after school. That was the first time I didn’t walk home with Caleb. Hearing my plans, Caleb didn’t say much. He just gave a slight nod and walked away. Ethan and Caleb were polar opposites. Ethan was warm, outgoing, and never hid his feelings. If he was happy, he was happy; if he was mad, he was mad. At eighteen, he confessed his feelings to me. I didn’t really understand what it meant to “like” or “not like” someone. But when he confessed for the thirty-fifth time, I said yes. Ethan clung to me, begging me to say I liked him. Worn down, I sighed, “Yeah, I like you.” Right as I said it, I saw Caleb. He stood in the doorway, backlit by the setting sun. His handsome features were cast in shadow, his dark hair looking soft and fluffy in the golden light. His expression was blank. I couldn’t tell if he was happy or angry. I felt a twinge of awkwardness. Ethan stood with one hand in his pocket, holding my backpack with the other. A little bunny plushie Caleb had given me was still dangling from the zipper. He smiled brightly, almost arrogantly. “Hey, Caleb. Liv and I are together now, so I’ll be walking her home from now on. Sorry for bothering you all this time. Let me buy you dinner sometime to make up for it.” Caleb stared unblinking at Ethan, his lips pressed into a tight line. Even someone as emotionally dense as me could feel the tension in the air. I walked over and grabbed Ethan’s arm, telling Caleb, “I’ll be home late tonight. Tell my parents for me.” “…Okay.” After that day, I never walked home with Caleb again. 05 Everyone in our class knew about my history with Ethan. But they also knew I was married, so by silent agreement, nobody brought up the past. One classmate who was a bit out of the loop noticed the bracelet on Ethan’s wrist and teased, “Ethan, man, you’re doing so well for yourself. Why are you still wearing a cheap bracelet like that?” The room fell silent for a second. Everyone’s eyes darted between Ethan and me. “Someone special gave it to me,” Ethan said, his voice soft but clear. “It’s priceless.” The classmate caught on. “Then you’d better cherish it.” Ethan rubbed the red bead on the bracelet, his gaze intentionally or unintentionally landing on me. Halfway through the night, I left the lounge to use the restroom. When I came out, Ethan was waiting for me. He stood with his hands in his pockets, the top button of his dress shirt undone. “Long time no see.” I glanced at the sinks. “This isn’t exactly the best place to catch up.” “Let’s go somewhere else then.” “We aren’t exactly in the kind of relationship where we need to catch up.” Ethan didn’t seem surprised by my response. “Liv, you haven’t changed. “When you broke up with me back then, you were just as calm and straightforward. Exactly like your little childhood friend.” My relationship with Ethan ended the summer after senior year. No dramatic reason—he just decided to study abroad because his family arranged it. When I suggested breaking up, Ethan couldn’t believe it. “I’m not staying overseas forever. I’ll come back after I get my degree. Why do we have to break up?” “The future is too unpredictable. I don’t like it.” He frowned, a hint of resentment in his voice. “We have something so good. We could totally face the uncertainty together. Liv, why won’t you sacrifice just a little for me?” I looked at him calmly. “Why don’t you sacrifice for me?” Ethan was speechless. We both chose our own paths, went our separate ways, and never saw each other again. “You married Caleb, right?” Ethan trailed behind me. I nodded. “Why? Didn’t you dislike him in high school? You even thanked me for clearing up the rumors about you two.” “I don’t dislike him.” Ethan didn’t seem willing to let it go. He stared at me intensely. “But a quiet, reserved guy like Caleb isn’t right for you at all. He’s cold, and you’re cold. How does a marriage like that even work?” I stopped in my tracks. Because of Caleb. He was standing at the end of the hallway, leaning against the wall. His sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, looking clean and sharp. His gaze lingered on Ethan for a moment. His eyes darkened. Caleb walked over, wrapped an arm around my shoulders, and said softly, yet coldly, “Whether we’re suited for each other or not, we’re already married. Mr. Davis, I hope you’ve been well.” Ethan narrowed his eyes, doing nothing to hide his displeasure. 06 “Caleb, old classmates are just catching up. Do you really need to hover?” “Catching up is fine, but there are boundaries, and I suggest you keep them, Mr. Davis. After all…” Caleb put on the perfect smile of a victor, masking the provocation underneath. “Olivia is my wife now.” “And… we love each other very much.” Saying that last part, Caleb’s confidence clearly faltered. He secretly glanced down at me. My eyes were lowered, lost in thought. A second later— [White pants really do emphasize the bulge.] Caleb closed his eyes. Forget it. “Love?” Ethan chuckled mockingly. “Olivia only married you because you two grew up together, and she’s used to you being around. Otherwise, why would she have ever dated me?” Caleb’s arm tightened slightly around me. His fingertips were ice cold. “Because I was young and stupid.” I replied calmly, “Whether we love each other or not is between me and my husband. We broke up years ago. You don’t get a say in my marriage.” I hated scenes like this. I came to a reunion, not to watch my husband and ex-boyfriend bicker. Ethan clearly didn’t expect me to defend Caleb. His face paled slightly. “I didn’t mean it like that…” Caleb, however, was incredibly satisfied. He smiled brightly. “She’s right, Mr. Davis. The past is the past. Why cling to it?” Ethan’s temper flared again. He forced his voice down, suppressing his rage: “If you hadn’t manipulated—” “Whoa, there you guys are! I was wondering where everyone went.” Mark, the reunion organizer, popped out of nowhere, interrupting Ethan. I frowned in confusion: [Manipulated what?] Caleb’s hand suddenly slid down to my waist, pulling me flush against him. I looked up at him. He smiled warmly. “And you are?” Mark enthusiastically introduced himself and asked, “You must be Caleb? I heard your name all the time back in high school. You really do look the part. Nice to finally meet you, man.” […You were always front row for the gossip, how could you have never met him?] [Oh right, he was the captain of the Olivia-and-Ethan ship.] [Whenever Ethan and I were together, he was always the loudest one cheering.] “Yes, I’m Olivia’s husband.” Caleb shook Mark’s hand with excessive force. Mark hissed in pain. “Sorry. I’ve been doing a lot of rowing lately. Grip strength is a bit tight.” [? What does rowing have to do with grip strength… actually wait, it does. Okay.] Mark seemed to have the same question. But seeing Caleb’s polite smile, he brushed it off. “It’s awesome that you childhood friends ended up getting married. Huge congratulations. Shame we didn’t get to go to the wedding.” “We’ll be sure to invite you to the vow renewal.” Ethan gave a fake, tight-lipped smile. [Pfft.] Caleb’s smile froze. “Haha, Ethan, you joker. Come on, let’s head back and get some drinks. Caleb, you should join us! Everyone really wants to meet Liv’s husband.” Mark hastily smoothed things over and dragged the three of us back. 07 As the party wound down, quite a few people were drunk. A girl I was friendly with leaned in. “Liv, you really scored with your husband. So handsome, so classy.” Caleb said politely, “You flatter me.” Someone else chimed in, “Ethan isn’t bad either. Liv, you’re so lucky, surrounded by hot guys.” “Liv was always top of the class, and she’s got a great job now. Hot guys are exactly what she deserves.” The girl clung to me. “Hey, Liv, who do you think is hotter? Your husband, or Ethan?” [Is this the grown-up version of ‘who do you love more, mommy or daddy’?] [How am I supposed to answer this??] But my friend was totally wasted, hanging onto me and demanding an answer. The girl who chimed in was also staring at me expectantly. It felt like they wouldn’t let me leave until I gave them a satisfying answer. I brushed them off casually: “They’re both pretty hot.” They finally let me go. I breathed a sigh of relief. I slowly went back to munching on my crackers. Completely oblivious to the fact that the man sitting next to me had vanished. Chloe was the first to notice. “Where’s Caleb?” “Huh? I don’t know.” “You’ve got a big heart, not even noticing your own husband bolted.” Chloe looked around, then pointed to a corner. “Ooh, looks like someone’s throwing a tantrum.” She had witnessed the whole exchange. I was confused. “Why is he mad?” “Go ask him yourself.” [So annoying.] Reluctantly, I walked over. Caleb was sitting in the corner nursing a drink. His face was blank; you couldn’t tell anything was wrong. But keeping Chloe’s words in mind, I asked anyway. “Are you mad?” He muttered a denial. “No.” “Then why are you sitting all the way over here?” “Fresh air.” I looked at the sweaty, drunken mess of our classmates tearing up the dance floor next to him. […It smells like straight tequila and body odor over here.] [Does he have a weird fetish for this smell?] [I don’t understand, but I respect it.] [I really am such a supportive wife.] After mentally giving myself a pat on the back, I dropped an “okay” and turned to leave. Before I could fully turn around, someone grabbed the hem of my shirt. The man’s voice carried a faint, barely noticeable pout, almost like he was accusing me: “You called him hot.” [Who did I call hot?] “You called Ethan hot.” “I was just blowing them off.” “Really?” [Of course really. I was just trying to get them to leave me alone.] [And objectively speaking, Caleb is way hotter anyway.] The corners of Caleb’s lips involuntarily curled up. [Though Ethan isn’t bad either. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have dated him.] [As for Caleb… he’s hot, sure, but I see him every day. You get numb to it.] I nodded seriously. “Of course.” I figured that answer would definitely pacify him, but somehow, he looked even more pissed. For someone usually so stoic and quiet, this was the first time I had ever seen his face cycle through so many vibrant emotions in one go. [Did I say something wrong?] [Obviously not.] [He’s just too picky.] Caleb looked like he was about to laugh from sheer frustration. He pulled me down to sit on the sofa, while he unexpectedly dropped to one knee in front of me. His eyes were dark and heavy as he asked: “Between me and Ethan, who do you like more?” It was only then that I realized Caleb had unbuttoned his shirt at some point. Below his collarbone, his chest peeked through. Rising and falling with his breaths. “…You’re my husband.” “I want to hear you say it.” This request was actually quite difficult for me. I was used to keeping a poker face. I was terrible at expressing my feelings, especially out loud. Seeing me hesitate, Caleb undid another button. He leaned in, the neckline opening even wider. [Oh, dear lord.] From my vantage point looking down, Caleb’s incredible physique was on full display. Pale skin, a tight core, and I could even faintly see the… black waistband of his boxer briefs. They looked like the same brand I saw in his drawer. In this quiet, dimly lit corner of the loud party, the usually proper, aloof Caleb was kneeling beside my legs. The contrast against the noisy background made it secretly, thrillingly intoxicating. “Liv. Me or him. Who do you like?” Caleb asked me one more time. His voice was hoarse, magnetic, hanging on every syllable. As if under a spell, I whispered, “You.” “Only me?” “Yeah. “Only you.” 08 By the time the party ended, my face still felt hot. Caleb followed behind me, looking a bit unnaturally stiff too. [Such nice pecs. Such gorgeous lines. I want to take a bite. Chomp, chomp, chomp.] [Also, was he pitching a tent just now?] Caleb suddenly coughed. “We should get going.” “Liv!” Chloe popped out from nowhere and slapped me right on the butt, admiring my blushing face with satisfaction. “Leaving already? Not gonna grab one more drink?” I suppressed the urge to rub my stinging behind. I shook my head. “I’m tired.” […My poor butt.] [It just shattered into two pieces. Waaah.] [Wait, butts are naturally two pieces anyway.] [Left and right. I wonder… if it was an upper piece and a lower piece, would it make a clapping sound when you walk?] Caleb glared fiercely at Chloe’s offending hand. He silently shifted a step closer, perfectly blocking my back from view. Back home. Maria had prepared a late-night snack for us. Even though it wasn’t my usual time to eat, I dug in anyway. It was so good I completely forgot about Caleb. When I got back to the bedroom, he was in the shower. I went to hang up my jacket and spotted his phone screen lighting up on the nightstand. When did Caleb change his font size to be so huge? Is he going blind? Before I could process it, I had already read the text on the screen. It was an Instagram DM from Ethan: [A marriage without love won’t last.] [You and Olivia have known each other for years, and she never fell in love with you then. You think getting married magically changes that? Caleb, stop lying to yourself. Stop dragging her down. Divorce her while you still can.] I paused for a few seconds. Then Maria called out to me from the hall. She had made mango coconut panna cotta. The fruity and creamy flavors mixed perfectly; it was chilled and melted right in my mouth. It was so delicious that if Ethan had dropped dead next to me, I wouldn’t have even noticed. Caleb finished his shower and immediately checked his phone. The screen was black. Before going into the bathroom, he had specifically set it to “Never Sleep.” Caleb smirked victoriously. If Ethan had the guts to send a message like that, Caleb had the guts to tattle by leaving it out. He didn’t plan on replying anyway. Caleb unlocked his phone. Only to find a few short words typed out right below that arrogant text: [We’re trying to sleep. Stop messaging.] 09 I went to bed a little later than usual that night. I ate too much, and it took a while to digest. I slowly lay down, and the second I closed my eyes, they snapped wide open again. An arm was suddenly draped across my waist. Caleb pressed against my back, his breath tickling my neck. My brain completely short-circuited. He was holding me so tightly. Through the thin summer pajamas, I could clearly feel the heat of his skin and the contours of his chest. The intimate position put every nerve in my body on high alert, my spine stiff as a board. Caleb and I shared a bed every night, but we both slept peacefully on our respective sides. This had never happened before. I didn’t dare move an inch. “Caleb.” Is he asleep? I whispered his name a few more times. Caleb seemed to stir slightly. He let out a soft hum and buried his face into the crook of my neck like a giant cat. “Sleepy…” [Can’t move. Absolutely dare not move.] [Is he going to hold me like this all night?] [This feels so weird… but his chest is actually kind of soft.] [I want to bite it.] [Oh God, Olivia, stop these terrifying thoughts!] [I really want to bite it… come here, milkman. Tsk tsk tsk…] I was so absorbed in my own filthy mental world. Naturally, I completely missed the fact that the man behind me had shifted his lower half backward, leaving a safe distance between our bodies. The corners of his lips, however, were curving up like crazy. 10 Ever since that night, Caleb would cling to me every time we went to bed. The moment we lay down, he was stuck to me. During the day, he’d wake up and earnestly apologize, and then go right back to cuddling me at night. Honestly… I didn’t hate it. It was just that sometimes, Caleb would suddenly let go, rush to the bathroom, and stay there for ages. I mentioned this to Chloe over lunch. Chloe chewed on her straw, shaking her head. “You guys are finally acting like a married couple.” I looked confused. “We didn’t before? This is exactly how my parents act around each other.” “That’s because you’re in the room.” Chloe put down her drink. “I refuse to believe they’re that proper behind closed doors. Otherwise, how do you think you were born?” Now I was the one chewing my straw. “But we aren’t that familiar with each other.” “Then start by making out. Build up the familiarity.” “Alright, I’ll go back and ask him.” Chloe: “…” When I got home, I couldn’t stop thinking about Chloe’s advice. Making out… it sounded like a solid starting point. I looked over at Caleb, who was busy in the kitchen. He was wearing an apron, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealing his toned forearms. A delicious smell was wafting from the stove. Maria had taken the day off. Caleb volunteered to cook. [This scene looks so familiar.] [In that new graphic novel Chloe sent me this morning, the male lead was also cooking in the kitchen. Wearing an apron. And nothing else.] Caleb, who was tasting the soup, violently choked. Being a helpful wife, I went over to hand him a tissue. Caleb snatched it, his face red and glaring. If this kept up, he was either going to slip and crack his head open or choke to death on his own saliva. I casually let my gaze drift over his apron. [If he didn’t wear anything underneath, his whole back would be bare.] [I wonder if it would bounce when he chopped vegetables.] [Well, if he’s packing enough, it probably would.] [I wonder how big Caleb’s actually is.] “The kitchen is too smoky, you should go wait outside.” Caleb used both hands to shove me out of the kitchen and ruthlessly slammed the door shut in my face. I was baffled. Sure, my cooking skills were terrible, but it’s not like I was going to magically blow up the kitchen just by standing there. Why was he guarding the room like it was a crime scene? Men are truly incomprehensible creatures.

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Seven years. That’s how long we were together, and in all that time, there wasn’t a single trace of me on Maya’s social media. No tagged photos, no subtle shots of my hand across a dinner table, nothing. Until yesterday. She posted a photo with a junior colleague from her firm—a clean-cut guy she’d mentored back in college. They were standing in a sleek conference room, looking like a power duo. Her caption read: “Look who’s all grown up and holding his own against me at the negotiation table.” The guy commented almost instantly: “Checkmate, Maya. I’m just getting started.” This time, I didn’t pick a fight. I didn’t even send a snarky text. I just felt a strange, hollow quiet settle in my chest. When my mom called later that evening to suggest a blind date with a family friend’s daughter, I didn’t argue. I just said, “Okay.” The high school reunion was held two weeks after I walked out on Maya. It was the first time I’d seen her since the breakup. … When I walked into the private room at the bistro, the old gang was already mid-toast. Our old class president was teasing Maya. “Come on, Maya,” he laughed. “Are you really going to play the Ice Queen forever? You’ve been single since graduation.” “Seriously,” another girl chimed in. “I’ve tried setting you up with half the eligible bachelors in the city. What’s your type, anyway? Does he even exist?” I kept my head down, sliding into an empty seat at the far end of the table. Maya’s eyes shifted, landing directly on me. She took a slow sip of her water and looked back at the class president. “Ask him,” she said. The table went silent. Twenty heads turned toward me in unison. “Oh, that’s right! Ben, you were her desk mate for three years. You’ve got the inside track. What does our resident genius actually look for in a man?” “How would I know?” I said, my voice flatter than I intended. The guy who asked looked a bit taken alphabetical back by my tone. Maya’s lips twitched into a faint, unreadable smirk. She didn’t look away. Someone else broke the tension. “Wait, Ben might not know, but I have a theory! Did you guys see Maya’s post the other day? That guy in the suit? With a face like that, I don’t blame her for finally catching feelings.” “I saw that!” Suddenly, everyone was fumbling for their phones, scrolling through Instagram to find the photo. But they hit a wall. “So stingy, Maya!” someone teased. “Did you archive it already? Keeping him all to yourself?” “Lucky for you, I took a screenshot!” a girl at the end of the table announced, proudly waving her phone. She sent it to the group chat. In the photo, the guy’s eyes were bright, his gaze fixed on Maya with an expression that bordered on worship. Maya stood beside him in a sharp blazer, the corner of her mouth lifted in a rare, soft smile. They looked like the lead couple in a high-end legal drama. The room erupted into chatter about how “perfect” they looked together. My best friend, Matt, nudged me with his elbow. “Maya never comes to these things,” he whispered. “What’s she doing here today?” I took a long pull of my soda. “Who knows.” A few days ago, on my birthday, Maya and I had the worst fight of our seven-year relationship over that very photo. I asked her why she could never acknowledge me—not once—but could post a glowing tribute to some guy she’d known for five minutes. She just frowned and told me I was being “insecure and dramatic.” Seven years is a long time to wait for a person to be proud of you. I couldn’t do it anymore. The anxiety, the constant questioning of my own worth—it had eroded everything. I’d reached the end of my rope. That night, I had lit a single candle on a grocery-store cupcake. I made a wish. For seven years, the wish had been the same: Please let her love me enough to show me off. This year, I changed it. I looked at Maya’s tired, annoyed expression and said, “Maya, my birthday wish this year is for us to break up.” It was the first time I’d ever suggested it. She froze for a second, her face transitioning back to its usual, cool composure. “Are you sure about that?” she asked, her voice dangerously quiet. “Ben, if you walk out that door, you’re the one who’s going to regret it. Not me.” I knew what she meant. She had the pedigree—the Ivy League degree, the seven-figure salary at a top tech firm, the effortless beauty. She was the girl who had everything. And me? I was the son of a high school teacher. I worked a steady, mid-level marketing job. I was “fine.” If my mom hadn’t been the head of the honors program, I wouldn’t have even been in the same classroom as Maya, let alone her life. But that night, I just nodded. “I’m sure.” It took me three hours to pack my life into boxes. I moved out before sunrise. “Earth to Ben,” Matt said, snapping his fingers in front of my face. I blinked, returning to the present. Maya was currently fielding questions about the “mystery man.” “Stop it, guys,” she said smoothly. “He’s just a junior from the office. He recently transferred to my department.” Matt leaned in closer to me. “I don’t buy it. Maya doesn’t post anyone. You don’t break a streak like that for a ‘junior.’” “I guess not,” I muttered. It took seven years of me begging, and I couldn’t even get a blurred photo of my shadow on her grid. When the reunion ended, a light drizzle had started to fall. I didn’t want to wait twenty minutes for an Uber, so I pulled my jacket over my head and started jogging toward the subway station. I was halfway there when a familiar black Audi pulled up to the curb. The window rolled down. “Get in,” Maya said. I didn’t stop. I kept walking, my sneakers splashing through the puddles. Maya hopped out of the car and grabbed my arm. “Why are you being so stubborn? You’re going to catch a cold.” I wrenched my arm away. “Since when is that your problem?” “Ben,” she said, her grip tightening. “Are you actually serious about this? This… tantrum?” I knew what she was doing. She was giving me a “way out.” A chance to apologize, to slide back into our routine, to pretend the breakup never happened. “What do you think, Maya?” She let out a sharp, cold laugh and let go of my arm. “Fine. Suit yourself. I’m done playing games.” She got back in the car and floored it. The spray from her tires soaked my jeans and sneakers. The spring air in the city was starting to turn, but the rain brought a biting chill. I pulled my jacket tighter and kept walking toward the station. When I finally got back to my mom’s house, she was waiting with a mug of hot ginger tea. “I figured you’d be walking in the rain,” she said, shaking her head. “You never listen, Ben. I told you to take an umbrella.” I took the mug, leaning against the kitchen counter. I’d ignored a lot of warnings lately. “Did you see Maya?” Mom asked, her eyes lighting up. She loved Maya. To my mom, Maya was the gold standard—the star student who had actually made it. She kept tabs on Maya’s career like it was a hobby. “Yeah. I saw her,” I said, looking into my tea. “I wonder if she’s seeing anyone,” Mom mused. “A girl like that… she’s so brilliant, so picky. Most men wouldn’t even know how to talk to her.” I felt a sharp ache behind my eyes. I swallowed a mouthful of the spicy tea. “I think she’s found someone.” “Really?” Mom looked genuinely excited. “Yeah.” She must have noticed my mood shifting. She went quiet for a moment, then added, “Well, my Ben is a catch too. If you’d just put yourself out there, you’d find someone wonderful.” I looked up at her. “Do you really believe that, Mom?” She looked surprised. Usually, whenever she brought up dating, I’d get defensive or change the subject. She nodded firmly. “Of course! Your Aunt Sarah mentioned a girl—Chloe. She’s lovely, very successful, and she’s back in town for the holidays. Why don’t you meet her for a drink?” “Okay,” I said. “Let’s do it.” The next two days were quiet. I slept in, spent hours scrolling through apartment listings, trying to figure out where I’d move once I got back to the city after the break. I was walking out of my bedroom on the third morning when I stopped dead. Maya was sitting on our living room sofa. My mom came out of the kitchen with a plate of sliced fruit. She saw me and frowned. “Ben! You’re still in your pajamas? Maya stopped by to say hello, and you’re being a terrible host. Go change.” I retreated into my room and stayed there as long as possible. I wasn’t being vain. Maya had been a student of my mom’s, and she came by every year to pay her respects. The irony was that even after we’d started dating, Maya insisted we keep it a secret from my mother. At first, I thought it was romantic—our little secret. Then, as years passed, it felt like a cage. “I’m just not ready to tell her yet,” she’d say. “It’ll be awkward. Let’s just keep things as they are.” “I’m not the type to do the whole ‘meet the parents’ thing as a couple. It’s cringe.” “Next year, Ben. I promise.” Next year turned into seven years. When my mom called for me the third time, I forced myself out. “Look at him, he’s actually shy around his old classmate,” Mom joked. I didn’t look at Maya. “Mom, I’m actually heading out to meet someone. I should probably get going.” “Oh?” Mom’s eyebrows shot up. She lowered her voice, a huge grin spreading across her face. “Is it for your date with Chloe?” I didn’t answer, but my silence was all the confirmation she needed. “Go, go! Don’t keep a lady waiting.” Maya spoke up suddenly. “Who’s Chloe?” “A girl Ben’s aunt set him up with,” Mom answered, beaming. “She’s wonderful. She works in the city too. Actually, Maya, you should look out for our Ben since you’re both in the same circles. Make sure he doesn’t pick someone too crazy.” She didn’t notice Maya’s face go pale and then settle into a cold, hard mask. “Mom—” I cut her off. “I’m leaving.” I walked out the door, but I didn’t even make it to the end of the driveway before Maya caught up to me. “A date?” she hissed, grabbing my wrist. “Care to explain that, Ben?” I shook her off. “Does it matter to you?” She let out a sharp, angry breath. “My boyfriend is going on a blind date. Yeah, I’d say it matters.” “Ex-boyfriend,” I corrected her. Maya’s jaw tightened. “You’re really doing this? Over a stupid Instagram post? You’re throwing away seven years because of a photo of a coworker?” “I’m not throwing it away,” I said, and to my surprise, my voice was perfectly calm. “I’m just finally realizing there’s nothing left to hold onto.” Maya stared at me, looking genuinely confused. She was brilliant, but she had a blind spot for things she didn’t value. And she didn’t value my feelings. Before she could speak, Matt pulled up to the curb in his beat-up truck. “Hey, Ben! Sorry I’m late, man. You ready?” He hopped out and saw Maya holding my arm. “Uh… what’s going on?” Maya suddenly let go. A strange, smug little smile played on her lips. “Oh, I see,” she said, her voice dripping with relief. “You’re ‘meeting’ Matt. I should have known.” She reached out and playfully flicked my forehead, as if I were a child who’d been caught in a lie. “I was wondering how you could possibly be over me so fast. Go have fun with your friend. Get it out of your system.” She turned and walked toward her car, humming to herself. Matt looked at me, then at her retreating back. “What the hell was that? Is she… okay?” My phone died later that afternoon. When I finally plugged it in at home that night, I had fifteen unread messages from Maya. I opened them, expecting an apology or another lecture. Instead, it was like the breakup had been erased from her memory. “Are you home yet?” “Want me to come pick you up?” “I bought those honey cakes you like. I’ll bring some back to the city for you.” “The company site crashed today. I had to fix the backend before it went viral. Your girlfriend is a genius, isn’t she?” “That boba place you like has a new seasonal flavor. We’ll go when we’re back.” I scrolled up to the very top of the thread, back to the night of my birthday. I had sent her a photo of us that a colleague had taken at a Christmas party. I looked hurt in the message: “Am I really that much worse-looking than your junior? Is that why you won’t post us?” I had sent three more photos. “I’m not an ugly guy, Maya. Pick one. Post it. Let’s just be public for once.” Her reply, thirty minutes later, had been: “Don’t be insecure. It’s not a big deal.” She never tried to comfort me. She never used more words than necessary. She knew I would eventually just… deal with it. But looking at these new, “warm” messages, I realized I didn’t want them anymore. I hovered over the option to Clear Chat History. My thumb trembled. Deleting seven years felt like cutting out a piece of my own chest. It took the loading circle a full minute to finish. When the screen went white, I fell back onto my pillow and finally let the tears come. The Sunday after New Year’s was always the day we drove back to the city together. Usually, I’d have to lie to my mom, tell her I was taking the train, wave goodbye at the station, and then sneak back out to meet Maya at a nearby gas station. Maya’s Audi was idling in front of my house. She had texted me the night before: “Picking you up at ten. Be ready.” She was certain I’d be there. After all, I’d spent seven years begging to be part of her world. She probably thought that by showing up at my mom’s door, she was finally “giving in” and making me happy. Maya stood at the front door, her heart racing. For the first time, she wasn’t just visiting Mrs. Adler as a former student. She was here as the woman who loved her son. My mom opened the door, looking surprised. “Maya? What are you doing here?” “Mrs. Adler,” Maya said, her voice tight. “I’m here to pick up Ben.” My mom’s expression turned to one of confusion. “Oh, dear. You missed him. Ben left for the city hours ago. I just got back from dropping him off.” Maya froze. She pulled out her phone and opened our chat. No new messages. She didn’t believe it. He wouldn’t leave without her. “Ben, where are you?” she typed. The message sent, and then—a bright red exclamation point appeared.

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My husband’s car was taking up my spot again. The nose of his silver Audi was shoved diagonally across the white paint, aggressively claiming two stalls. It was the third time this week. I didn’t call him. I didn’t text him to come down and move it. Instead, I pulled out my phone, recorded a quick ten-second video of the hack job, and posted it to my private Story. Seconds later, my phone buzzed. It was a DM from Jordan, the new intern at my firm—a kid who was barely twenty-three but had already cycled through eighteen girlfriends and considered himself an amateur profiler of the male psyche. “Look, Nat,” he wrote. “In my experience, this reeks of a distraction. If you still want to make it work, call him and tell him to move the car. If you’re done, go upstairs right now and open the bedroom door. Keep the camera rolling.” My hands went ice-cold. I walked toward the elevator, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I let myself into the penthouse, expecting… I don’t know. Chaos? Another woman’s shoes? But Chris was just sitting there, calm as a monk on the living room sofa, his laptop balanced on his knees as he hammered away at an email. The bedroom was empty. Crisp sheets, no lingering scent of perfume, nothing out of place. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, feeling a wave of self-loathing wash over me. You’re doing it again, Natalie. You’re making a mountain out of a molehill. But then I looked closer, and my stomach dropped. The tie Chris was wearing—a navy silk with gold accents—wasn’t the red polka-dot one he’d put on this morning. And he never worked in the living room. He always, always used the home office. 1 I set my bag on the console table and kicked off my heels, trying to keep my voice from trembling. “Your car is blocking my spot again.” “Oh, sorry, babe,” Chris said, his tone relaxed, eyes never leaving the screen. “I got a frantic call from the creative team the second I pulled in. I had to get this copy edited immediately. I figured I’d go down and move it once you got close, but I got sucked in. I’ll go down in a second.” Everything he said sounded reasonable. Smooth. “Don’t bother. I parked on the street.” I sat down across from him, my pulse still racing. “Since when do you work in the living room?” “The lamp in the office started flickering. It was giving me a migraine.” He sensed my stare and finally paused, his fingers hovering over the keys. “Is something wrong?” “Where’s the red tie?” He looked down at his chest, then let out a small, tired laugh. “I was at lunch with a client and spilled a bit of espresso on it. It’s the one you got me for our anniversary, so I didn’t want the stain to set. I ran in and hand-washed it the second I got home.” He gave me that look—the one that usually melted me. Pleading, boyish, charming. “My fault for being a klutz. Don’t be mad, okay?” I walked over to the balcony. Sure enough, the red polka-dot tie was draped over the drying rack, dripping wet. It all made sense. Every single detail had a perfectly logical explanation. But the noise in my head wouldn’t stop. I started gnawing on my thumbnail, a habit I thought I’d kicked years ago. “Are you feeling okay, Nat? You look exhausted.” Before I realized he’d moved, Chris was kneeling in front of me. He gently pulled my hand away from my mouth. He sighed, pulling me into his arms, resting his chin on top of my head while he rubbed slow, rhythmic circles into my back. He knew. He knew the anxiety was clawing its way back up my throat. “Come here,” he whispered. “Where?” He led me by the hand to the office. He flipped the switch. The desk lamp flickered twice, a sharp, annoying strobe, before dying completely. The room was spotless. The trash can was empty. There wasn’t so much as a stray hair on the rug. “Feel better now?” he asked softly, his voice full of nothing but tender concern. I nodded, then shook my head. I didn’t know what I felt. He didn’t get frustrated. He led me back to the sofa, poured me a glass of room-temperature water, and pulled a small orange bottle from the side drawer. Xanax. The prescription my therapist had written three years ago. I’d stopped taking it months ago, but he always kept it ready. He held two tiny pills out to me. Suddenly, the air in the room felt too thick to breathe. The anxiety surged into a blind, white-hot panic. I jerked my hand away, knocking the glass out of his grip. Water splashed all over his expensive wool trousers. Chris froze. For a split second, I saw a flash of pure, bone-deep weariness in his eyes. My breath hitched. But true to form, he didn’t snap. He quietly picked up the glass, blotted the coffee table with a napkin, and reached out to ruffle my hair with a small, sad smile. “I’ll go make us some pasta,” he said. I curled into a ball on the sofa, watching his silhouette move through the kitchen. My eyes burned. I felt like a monster, a broken woman sabotaging her own happiness. And yet, the question kept looping in my mind: Is he cheating? I’d asked that question a thousand times three years ago. The answer then had been a definitive no. But the process of proving it had nearly killed me. Was I really going to do this to us again? I didn’t sleep. I spent the night staring at the ceiling, replaying his excuses about the parking spot and the tie until my brain felt like it was bleeding. The next morning, Chris left early. He left a plate of avocado toast on the counter with a Post-it note that had a little smiley face drawn on it. I couldn’t touch it. I walked out to the balcony and stared at the tie. It was mostly dry now. I took it down and examined it. It was clean, except for one tiny, microscopic white speck on the back of the narrow end, right near the label. Espresso is brown. Even a faded stain would be yellow. It wouldn’t be white. And why had he been in such a rush to hand-wash it yesterday while it was still dripping? Why not just toss it in the hamper for the housekeeper? On a whim, I lifted the silk to my nose. Underneath the scent of expensive detergent, there was a faint, unmistakable smell. The sour, slightly metallic scent of baby formula. 2 Holding that tie, I felt a string inside me snap. I stumbled into the storage closet, digging through dusty crates until I found the hidden nanny cam I’d bought years ago. When I finally found a spot for it on the bookshelf in Chris’s office, I stopped. There was a faint mark on the wood—residue from a piece of mounting tape. My own mark. From three years ago. My fingers were numb. My lips were numb. Three years had passed, and it turned out I had never actually gotten better. I wasn’t always “sick.” Three years ago, Chris had just been promoted to Creative Director and hired a new executive assistant. I hadn’t thought twice about it until their company retreat. A friend of mine who worked in the same building sent me a photo. It was a candid shot. Chris was at a grill, flipping burgers, and a woman with a sleek low ponytail was leaning in, gently dabbing sweat from his forehead with a tissue. The intimacy of the gesture was a knife to the gut. “Hey Nat, do you know the new assistant? Is this normal?” the text read. I zoomed in. I knew that face. Rachel Ward. Chris’s college sweetheart. The “one who got away.” When we first started dating, Chris had been honest about her. He told me she was the only woman he’d ever truly loved before me. At the time, I’d appreciated the honesty. That night, when he came home, I showed him the photo. He didn’t lie. He told me he’d run into Rachel working a dead-end job at a hotel. He felt sorry for her, and since the department needed a junior assistant, he gave her the role. “The photo? I wasn’t thinking, Nat. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” He was so sincere. The next day, he even brought Rachel to our apartment so she could apologize to me in person. I accepted it. But the seed was planted. A month later, I found a pair of black sheer tights wedged into the gap of the passenger seat in his car. That was the moment the “sickness” took hold. “Rachel’s tights ripped right before a big pitch meeting,” Chris explained, his voice calm and patient. “It looked unprofessional, so I stopped at a CVS so she could grab a new pair. She changed in the car because we were running late. Diane, the CFO, was in the back seat the whole time. Rachel must have just forgotten the old pair.” Diane confirmed the story. She even sent me a voice note. But I didn’t believe it. I wanted the truth, and I wanted it so badly I became a ghost in my own life. I stormed into his office one afternoon while Rachel was pouring him a cup of coffee. I grabbed the mug and threw the contents in her face, screaming every slur I could think of. Rachel didn’t fight back. She just cried. The entire office watched. That was the first time Chris ever raised his voice at me. He laid out his entire itinerary, his call logs, the sign-in sheets for the pitch meeting. “The evidence is right here, Natalie! What more do you want from me?” I couldn’t hear him. From that day on, I demanded a play-by-play of his life. What time did he leave? Who was he eating lunch with? If he didn’t answer his phone for an hour, I’d call him twenty times. I installed cameras. I tracked his GPS. People felt sorry for him. “Poor Chris.” “Rachel didn’t deserve that.” “Has Natalie… lost her mind?” I knew what they were saying. I couldn’t stop. The breaking point came when I forced him to fire Rachel. Usually gentle, Chris finally snapped. He threw his glass against the wall. He shouted something—I don’t even remember what. I just remember backing away, tripping over the coffee table, and hitting the floor hard. The blood started shortly after. I was lying in a hospital bed when I found out I had been three months pregnant. I lost the baby that night. The grief acted like a cold shower, breaking the fever of my paranoia. The doctors said my hormones had likely exacerbated my anxiety, creating a perfect storm of instability. Chris knelt by my bedside, crying for the first time. He gripped my hand like a lifeline. “Natalie, I give up. It’s all my fault. I never want to see you hurt like this again.” Rachel was gone. Chris promised there would never be another “trust crisis.” But as I sat on the floor of the office three years later, staring at the hidden camera, I felt sick. The green light was blinking, ready to record. One tiny white speck. A faint smell of milk. Was that enough to justify destroying myself all over again? I closed my eyes and leaned my forehead against the bookshelf. Two voices were screaming in my head. Natalie, when does the nightmare actually end? 3 I left work early and waited for Chris outside his building. When the elevator doors opened and he stepped out, laughing with a group of colleagues, I stepped forward. “Chris.” His smile faltered for a fraction of a second. “Natalie? What are you doing here?” “I realized we haven’t had a real dinner date in forever. I came to drive you home.” I tucked my arm through his, smiling at his coworkers. “Sorry for crashing the happy hour, guys. I’m stealing my husband for the night.” The atmosphere shifted instantly. Their expressions were guarded, tight. One of the younger guys actually took a step back, looking at me with something close to fear. My “meltdown” three years ago was clearly still a legend in these halls. Chris smoothed it over with a quick goodbye and led me toward the garage. At dinner, I kept it light. “How’s work? Did that project from last week wrap up?” “Yeah, finished. This week is mostly client maintenance. Lot of dinners, lot of golf.” “Wednesday too?” “Yeah. Full eighteen holes with the guys from the tech firm.” I nodded, then acted as if I’d just remembered something. “Oh, by the way, I heard you had your new assistant run some errands for you? What did you have her pick up?” Chris stopped mid-bite. He set his fork down and looked at me, his eyes darkening. “When did you talk to my assistant?” “I was waiting for you in the lobby today. The receptionist had her come down to keep me company.” “She’s a kid, Natalie. She’s fresh out of college and doesn’t know anything.” He was staring at me, searching for something. I smiled. “Relax. I didn’t interrogate her. I’m not that woman anymore.” I poked at my salad, my appetite gone. “I just feel like… we’re drifting, Chris.” Silence stretched between us. He reached across the table and squeezed my hand, his thumb stroking my knuckles. “I’ve just been so busy. I’m sorry.” I didn’t push it. That night, I told him I needed some space and slept in the guest room. I locked the door, propped myself up against the headboard, and opened my phone. While I was waiting in the lobby, the assistant—a mousy girl who looked like she was about to faint at the sight of me—had been incredibly jumpy. I hadn’t been mean. I’d just chatted. “I heard you’re a lifesaver with the errands,” I’d said. The girl had been so relieved I wasn’t screaming that she’d practically offered up her phone to show me how organized her shopping lists were. I’d taken a screenshot of the recent ones. Now, I zoomed in. Bottled water. Printer paper. Envelopes. Nespresso pods. All normal. And then: One box of Graham crackers. Two pouches of organic pear and spinach puree. I opened a grocery app and searched the brand. The reviews were full of moms talking about how much their toddlers loved the “no-spill” pouches. I stared at the screen until my eyes burned. The next day at noon, I walked into Chris’s office carrying a thermal bag. He looked up from a meeting, visibly startled. His colleagues scurried out like mice, whispering the moment they were in the hall. “She’s back. God, I feel so bad for him…” “It’s like a horror movie. The control she has.” Chris ignored them, closing his office door and turning to me. “Natalie, you can’t just show up during the middle of the day. It’s too much.” “I took the day off.” I set the bag on his desk and unzipped it. “I made you lunch.” His brow furrowed. “Natalie…” “Just open it.” He hesitated, then sighed and lifted the lid. He froze. Inside the container was a heap of Graham crackers and two pouches of pear puree. I gave him a thin, bright smile. “Baby food. Since you had your assistant buy it, I assumed you’d developed a taste for it.” 4 His face went white, then a mottled, angry red. “Not hungry?” I reached out and flipped the container over. The puree splattered across his mahogany desk and his expensive sleeve. “Then don’t eat it.” Chris shook his arm, his voice a low, dangerous hiss. “What is wrong with you? What kind of psychotic episode is this?” “Tell me why you bought it, Chris. Tell me who it’s for.” I didn’t flinch. “Are you seeing Rachel again?”

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Jackson was obsessed with doomsday prepper novels. When the temperature dropped to seventy below zero for three consecutive days in my previous life, he was convinced the apocalypse had arrived. He went into a frenzy, hoarding enough supplies to last a decade. As a graduate student in meteorology, I tried to offer a rational analysis—the mercury would bounce back within a week. I begged him to only buy a week’s worth of food. But he wouldn’t listen. He insisted on cramming the house with frozen meat until the floorboards groaned. To prevent the inevitable disaster of the meat rotting once the power failed and the thaw began, my parents and I distributed the excess to our starving neighbors. That night, Jackson lost his mind. He grabbed a kitchen knife and slaughtered us all. “The first rule of the apocalypse is to kill the bleeding hearts!” he had screamed, his eyes bloodshot and wild. “Family means nothing now! Three fewer mouths to feed means my odds of survival just went up!” He survived until the National Guard swept through the neighborhood. Mistaking them for raiders coming for his hoard, he charged them with his blade. They didn’t hesitate. A single shot ended him. Then, I opened my eyes. We were back. Three days before the Great Freeze, sitting at the family dinner table. … “As of this moment, I am done with the Miller family! We are finished!” Jackson’s voice sliced through the air, sharp and dripping with venom. The moment I heard him, I knew. He had come back too. My parents sat there, stunned. They immediately tried to soothe him, their faces etched with that familiar, heartbreaking concern. “Jackson, honey, what’s wrong? Did something happen? Talk to us.” I glanced at my phone. It was mid-August, peak summer in Minnesota, yet the temperature had dipped to seventy-seven degrees. In three days, the world would turn into an icebox. I looked at my parents, their desperate pleas ringing in my ears, and I couldn’t find my voice. I was paralyzed by the phantom sensation of Jackson’s knife sinking into my chest. “You don’t have the right to tell me anything!” Jackson spat. “I’m not even your real son!” He threw his napkin onto his plate and stormed out. Within hours, he had moved out of the house. Over the next three days, he went on a scorched-earth spree of predatory online lending, racking up nearly seven million dollars in high-interest debt. He bought a fortified suburban estate, rented out climate-controlled warehouses, and began snapping up grain, generators, and shotguns at astronomical prices. Then, the snow started. Great, heavy flakes that looked like feathers but felt like ash. As the realization dawned on the public that this wasn’t a normal storm, the panic-buying began. I helped my parents stock up on the essentials—enough to keep us comfortable for a couple of weeks. We had just finished hauling the last of the groceries inside when Jackson called. His voice was thick with a manic, triumphant glee. “Is that it? A hundred pounds of rice and some canned beans?” He laughed, a jagged, ugly sound. “God, you people are such pathetic peasants. A hundred pounds won’t even last you through the first month of the New World.” “Jackson, please—” my mother started, but he cut her off. “I don’t care if you live or die this time. I’m going to be the king of this wasteland while you rot. Maybe if you crawl to my gates and beg, I’ll throw you a bone. Maybe.” He hung up. My parents looked at the modest pile of supplies in our pantry, their faces clouded with anxiety. “Miles,” my father said, looking at me. “Is your brother right? Is this… is this the end? Maybe we didn’t buy enough.” I didn’t look up from my laptop. “He’s been reading too many of those trashy novels, Dad. His brain is fried. Don’t listen to him.” The wind began to howl outside, rattling the windowpanes. As a meteorology student, my word held weight in this house. They wanted to believe me. They needed to. They stopped entertaining Jackson’s taunts. My mom even sent him a text: Jackson, please stay safe out there. Miles says this will blow over in a few days. We’ll come pick you up and bring you home then. Reading that made my stomach churn. My parents still didn’t get it. They didn’t know that for fifteen years, they had raised a viper. Jackson had been switched at birth with me, and when he was finally “returned” to his biological parents in the countryside, his resentment had curdled into something demonic. My parents, out of a misplaced sense of guilt, had brought him back into our lives when they heard he was struggling. They died in the last life believing he was just a “troubled boy.” They never saw the monster underneath. Jackson’s reply to the group chat was immediate and mocking: A few days? You’ll be frozen carcasses in a few days! This is the Great Reset! Watch me build my empire while you starve—if you even live long enough to watch! My father sighed and turned away, focusing on cleaning his old gym equipment just to stay busy. My mother hopped onto her iPad to play bridge with her friends online. Listening to the mundane sounds of our home, Jackson’s voice came through the speakers again, dripping with contempt. “Laugh while you can. You’re dead men walking.” I took a deep breath. I couldn’t let the bitterness stay down. “I heard you bought a fortress, Jackson. Generators, weapons, the whole nine yards. Where’d the money come from? We both know you don’t have two nickels to rub together.” Jackson sounded like he’d been stung. “None of your business! I earned that money. I have resources you couldn’t dream of!” I let out a cold laugh. “You mean payday loans and Maxed-out credit cards? Real ‘resourceful’ of you. How do you plan on paying that back? The family isn’t bailing you out this time.” “Who’s going to collect when the world is a graveyard?” he snapped. “Don’t ask the Millers for a cent, and don’t come knocking on my door. It’s every man for himself now.” To drive the point home, he flooded the family group chat with photos. Warehouses packed with pallets of food, enough to sustain a small army for a decade. I heard you city folk like small portions, he texted. That hundred pounds of rice should last you until the heat death of the universe. Good luck! I didn’t hesitate. I screenshotted every single photo and posted them to a local survivalist forum and several neighborhood watch groups. My brother is convinced the world is ending and has hoarded a literal mountain of food in the suburbs, I wrote. Is he crazy, or should we all be worried? The internet is a volatile place during a crisis. The post went viral within the hour. It’s definitely the end, one user commented. Look at the sky. He’s a genius. He’s a ‘reborn’ for sure. Does anyone know where this warehouse is? My kids haven’t eaten in two days. I’m going to go find this guy. If he has that much, he has to share. I watched the comments roll in, a grim satisfaction settling in my chest. I replied to one particularly desperate-sounding man: I’m sorry, I don’t live with him. He really does have a massive hoard, but he’s not the sharing type. You might have to find another way. Then, I deleted the post. The storm intensified. The sky turned a bruised, sickly purple. Suddenly, a drone buzzed outside our window, hovering in the freezing gale. Dangled from a string was a piece of grey, putrid meat. Jackson’s voice crackled through the drone’s speakers. “Miles, don’t say I never gave you anything. For old times’ sake, here’s a treat for you and the folks.” I stared at the rotting meat, then at our own modest, clean supplies. I felt a wave of nausea. Suddenly, on Jackson’s end of the line, there was a frantic pounding on a door. At seventy below, the only people moving outside were government officials or the truly desperate. “Mr. Miller?” a muffled male voice shouted. “We’re with the Regional Emergency Task Force. The floods downstream have destroyed the local food banks. We saw reports online that you have a surplus of supplies. We need you to contribute to the community effort.” Jackson’s scream was shrill. “How did you find me? No! It’s mine! Go away!” “Sir, please,” the officer replied, his voice calm but firm. “The meteorological models show the weather will stabilize in less than a week. This is not the end of the world. People are dying of cold and hunger right now. You will be compensated, and you’ll receive a ‘Civilian Service’ commendation.” That was the breaking point. I heard a muffled bang—a gunshot. “I don’t want your blood money!” Jackson roared. “Rice is worth more than gold now! Step back or I’ll kill every last one of you!” The line went silent on the other side of the door. My hands were shaking. “Jackson, what have you done? You need to stop.” “You did this, Miles!” he bellowed into the phone. “You leaked my location! You think I’m scared? I’m prepared for anything!” To prove his point, he switched to a video call. The camera panned to a woman shivering in the corner of his opulent, heated living room. It was Madison, my fiancée. She looked at the camera, a flicker of shame crossing her face before it was replaced by a hard, cold stare. “Miles, I… Jackson and I got married this morning. He can protect me. He has everything. I know it seems cruel, but survival comes first.” I let out a dry, hollow laugh. “Madison, you’re a PhD candidate. How can you be this incredibly stupid?” Her face flushed crimson. “Just… take care of yourself, Miles. I hope I see you on the other side of this.” Jackson sneered. “The National Guard is going to give up on your neighborhood soon. When you’re too weak from hunger to even crawl, you’ll realize who was right.” I hung up. I was angry, yes, but mostly I felt a strange sense of relief. At least I knew exactly who Madison was now. My parents had overheard everything. The color had drained from their faces. The next morning, the sound of a heavy engine roared past our house. We ran to the window. It was the National Guard supply truck—the one that was supposed to drop off our emergency rations. It didn’t stop. It accelerated, disappearing into the white haze. “Miles… Jackson was right,” my mother whispered, her voice cracking. “They’ve abandoned us.” They collapsed into chairs, staring out at the frozen wasteland. “What are we going to do? We’re going to die in here.” I felt a prick of doubt, but I checked my data again. “Mom, Dad, look at me. Don’t panic. We have enough food for a week. The atmospheric pressure is already shifting. Trust me.” They nodded, but the trust was gone. The atmosphere in the house turned funereal. We ate in silence, small, meager portions. Meanwhile, Jackson was a ghost in our group chat, haunting us with photos of feast after feast. Fried chicken, burgers, chilled sodas. I have so much food it’s going to go bad before I can eat it, he messaged. Dad, Mom, don’t blame me. Blame the ‘genius’ son who told you not to prep. My parents didn’t say it, but I could see the resentment simmering in their eyes. They looked at me like I was the one who had sentenced them to death. When the temperature hit seventy-five below, they couldn’t take it anymore. They started packing their heaviest coats. “Miles, we’re going,” my father said, his voice hard. “While the roads are still somewhat passable, we’re driving to Jackson’s. We’ll apologize. He’s family. He’ll take us in.” They hadn’t lived through the last life. They didn’t know that Jackson didn’t have a heart to appeal to. “Dad, if you leave this house, you’re putting yourselves at his mercy. He doesn’t have any!” “Miles, we know you’re bitter because we loved him too,” my mother said, her eyes welling with tears. “But we can’t let your pride kill us all.” “It’s not pride! If we go to him, we are signing our lives away. When this is over, he’ll make us pay for every grain of rice with our dignity!” “If you won’t come, stay here,” she said, her voice trembling as she squeezed my hand. “I’ll bring food back for you if I can.” The warmth of her hand made my soul ache. I couldn’t let them go alone. I drove the SUV through the drifts, a grueling, three-hour battle against the elements. When we finally reached Jackson’s gated estate, it was dark. My parents frantically dialed his number. Finally, the video connected. Jackson’s face appeared, his neck covered in fresh hickeys. He looked entirely unsurprised to see us. “Look at that. The prodigal parents return. I thought you had eighty pounds of cabbage to keep you company?” “Jackson, please!” my father begged, his voice muffled by the cold seeping into the car. “Let us in! I’m begging you!” Jackson’s expression turned into a mask of pure coldness. “In your dreams. I spent millions to build this sanctuary. Why should I share it with people who didn’t believe in me?” I leaned into the frame. “And Madison?” Jackson grinned and tilted the camera. My heart stopped. Madison was on the floor, stripped of her dignity and her clothes, crawling at his feet like a dog. “That’s the price of admission,” Jackson said. “What are you willing to pay, big brother? I bet those two ‘Saint’ parents of yours would do anything to save their precious Miles.” He leaned in close to the screen. “Tell you what. I only have room for one more. Either the parents come in, or Miles does. You choose.” The car went silent. The cruelty was so profound it felt physical. My parents looked at me, their eyes overflowing. “Miles,” my father whispered. “The last fifteen years… we haven’t been fair to you. We tried so hard to make up for the switch that we neglected the son who was actually ours.” “Go,” my mother sobbed. “Go inside. Live.” I looked at them, my heart breaking. They thought I was going to leave them. Instead, I pulled out my phone and sent a pre-timed message to a contact I’d made on the forums. Then, I looked at Jackson. “Fine,” I said. “I’m coming in.”

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I was in the middle of closing a nine-figure patent deal when my wife’s new intern burst into the boardroom and demanded I go out and buy him breakfast. Looking at the lead investor’s darkening expression, I didn’t hesitate. I tore into the intern right there, telling him to get the hell out of my sight. It took ten minutes of frantic apologies and a one-percent equity concession to smooth things over, but I finally secured the deal—the one project that would pull our company back from the brink of bankruptcy. Exhausted but triumphant, I headed toward my wife’s office to share the news, clutching the signed partnership agreement like a lifeline. Instead, she met me in the lobby. In front of the entire staff, she swung her hand and slapped me—hard—twice. “You cold-blooded bastard,” Victoria hissed, her eyes welling with a fury I didn’t recognize. “Is money the only thing that exists in that head of yours?” I stared at her, my cheek stinging. “Victoria, what are you—” “Do you have any idea that Tyler almost died because of you?” That was how I found out that Tyler, the intern, had been rushed to the hospital for a “hypoglycemic episode” because he hadn’t eaten breakfast. But as I looked past her, I saw Tyler’s desk. Sitting right there, in plain view, was the Coke and the Snickers bar I had bought for him earlier that morning when he’d complained of feeling lightheaded. I looked back at Victoria. Her face was contorted with a protective rage for a boy she’d known for three weeks, while I stood there, the man who had built her empire for ten years, feeling my heart turn to ash. After a long, hollow silence, I finally found my voice. “Victoria,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “I want a divorce.” … The words seemed to hang in the air for a second too long. Victoria’s expression froze, a flicker of genuine shock crossing her features. Then, she reached out and grabbed a bucket of grey, stagnant water from the cleaning cart parked nearby. Before I could react, she heaved it over my head. The cold, foul-smelling liquid drenched me instantly. My white dress shirt turned translucent, clinging to my skin, heavy with the stench of floor cleaner and old grime. The office went silent. It was the kind of silence that rings in your ears. I stood there, drenched, water dripping from my hair and stinging my eyes, completely humiliated in front of every person who worked for me. Victoria pointed a trembling finger at me, her voice trembling with vitriol. “You’re clearly not thinking straight. Consider that a wake-up call.” I gripped the damp patent agreement in my hand, my fingers icy. A wave of bitter grief crashed over me, and for the first time in a decade, I didn’t swallow my pride. I bit back. “Do you have any idea what this project was for, Victoria? That bonus was supposed to pay for my mother’s surgery. It’s her life-saving money.” I stepped closer, the smell of the dirty water rising between us. “What could possibly be more important than keeping this company from folding? Than keeping my mother alive? Tyler had a Snickers bar on his desk. He chose not to eat it. Half the staff was sitting idle in the breakroom, yet he chose to barge into a high-stakes board meeting to ask the Executive VP for a bagel? Let’s be real—why the hell am I supposed to be playing delivery boy for an intern?” Victoria’s face went pale, then flushed a deep, ugly purple. She was speechless for a heartbeat before she sneered. “If you want that money so badly, fine. I’m telling you now: you won’t see a single cent of that bonus. I’m giving the entire commission to Tyler as a ‘hardship’ grant.” I felt a physical jolt in my chest. I couldn’t believe these words were coming from the woman I’d loved for ten years. “You have no right.” She looked at me with pure, unadulterated disdain. “Your mother already has one foot in the grave, Mike. Does the money even matter at this point? Tyler is young. He has a future. Giving him that money will be a good lesson for you—to take that arrogant ego of yours down a notch.” The words felt like a serrated blade twisting in my heart. I leaned against the wall to keep from collapsing, tears finally escaping despite my best efforts to hold them back. This company didn’t belong to her. Not really. It was built on the patents my mother had spent her life developing—patents she’d earned while being exposed to toxic radiation in labs for decades. That radiation was exactly why she was dying of cancer now. I had destroyed my health for this project. I’d spent months networking, drinking myself into a stomach ulcer at corporate dinners just to get an audience with an investor of this caliber. And now… “Victoria,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “Have you forgotten? Have you forgotten how you had nothing? How you sat in my mother’s kitchen and begged her to let you use her intellectual property to start this firm? She loved me, so she pitied you. she gave you those core patents for free. For twelve years, she didn’t ask for a dime. Doesn’t it hurt you, even a little, to speak about her like that?” The lobby remained deathly quiet. My voice echoed off the glass walls. I could see the employees shifting uncomfortably, their eyes darting between us. “That’s cold, even for the CEO,” I heard someone whisper. “Tyler didn’t even ask us for food… why did he go to Mike?” “The company wouldn’t even exist without Mike’s mom…” The murmurs hit Victoria like physical blows. Her face shifted through a dozen emotions—embarrassment, regret, and finally, a hardened, defensive pride. “Mike, I… I didn’t mean it like that,” she started, her tone softening just a fraction. But she didn’t get to finish. The heavy glass doors at the entrance swung open. Tyler was being practically carried in by two of our security guards. He looked pale, leaning heavily on them, his eyes wide and brimming with performative sorrow. “Please, don’t fight,” he whimpered, his voice cracking perfectly. “It’s all my fault. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have bothered the Vice President for something as trivial as breakfast.” He looked at me, his lip trembling. “A person like me… my life isn’t worth anything. I’m not worth this kind of trouble. Please, don’t be angry at her because of me.” He started to sob, his knees buckling as if he were about to drop to the floor in front of me. “It’s my fault! I’m useless! I should just jump off the roof and stay out of everyone’s way!” He wailed, making a clumsy break for the floor-to-ceiling windows. Victoria’s face transformed. She lunged forward, catching him in a tight embrace, pulling him back toward her. “Tyler! Stop! Don’t you dare! I’m here, okay? I’ve got you!” In the scuffle, the top button of Victoria’s silk blouse popped. As she held him, I saw them. Scattered across her collarbone and disappearing into the hollow of her throat were dark, unmistakable marks. Fresh hickeys. Faded bruises. We hadn’t slept in the same bed in over a month. Suddenly, everything clicked. The late nights. The scent of expensive cologne on her clothes that wasn’t mine. The guarded phone. The strange credit card charges. She was sleeping with him. She was throwing away a decade of marriage for a boy who played the victim as easily as he breathed. I felt a phantom chill settle into my bones. Breathing became a chore. Victoria caught me staring at her neck. For a split second, panic flickered in her eyes, followed immediately by a defensive, ugly anger. “Mike, stop bringing up the past like it’s some kind of shield,” she snapped, adjusting her collar. “I run this company now. You answer to me.” She sneered, emboldened by the boy in her arms. “And stop lying. Your mother isn’t that sick. She told me herself she was doing fine. You’re just being dramatic to get your way.” The bitterness in my mouth tasted like copper. My mother had lied to Victoria because she didn’t want her to worry; she wanted Victoria to focus on the company’s success. But anyone who cared enough to ask a doctor would know she was weeks away from total organ failure without surgery. “Since you seem to think being Vice President gives you the right to be a bully,” Victoria continued, her voice cold as steel, “you’re demoted. Effective immediately. You’ll be Tyler’s personal assistant. You can spend your days getting himcoffee and learning some damn humility.” The humiliation of the day, the betrayal of her affair, and the insult to my dying mother finally snapped something inside me. I lost control. I lunged forward, my hand swinging toward Tyler’s smug, weeping face. “Security!” Victoria screamed. “Restrain him!” Two large guards tackled me instantly, pinning my arms behind my back and forcing me to my knees on the wet carpet. Victoria’s eyes were black with malice. “You want to get violent? Fine. Teach him a lesson. Don’t stop until he’s ‘lucid’ again.” The first slap caught me across the jaw. Then another. And another. I lost count after ten. My lip split. My cheeks burned like they were on fire. My ears rang with a high, piercing whistle, and my vision began to go dark at the edges. Victoria turned to the staff, her voice booming. “If a single word of this leaves this room, you’re fired and blacklisted. Am I clear?” The guards threw me to the ground like a bag of trash. Drenched in foul water, blood, and tears, I looked like a stray dog. I tried to push myself up, but Victoria stepped into my line of sight. She knelt down, whispering so only I could hear. “Mike, if you even think about calling the cops, I will personally pull the funding for your mother’s hospice care. I’ll let her rot.” My heart constricted. My mother had been a professor her whole life—frugal, kind, giving everything she had to charity or to Victoria’s startup. She had nothing left. I clenched my teeth, swallowing the bile and the sobs. I had no choice. I stumbled out of the building and hailed a cab to the hospital. But as I reached the oncology ward, my phone buzzed. It was my mother’s doctor. “Mr. Vaughn, I’m so sorry,” the doctor said, his voice frantic. “Your mother’s medication… the payment was cancelled. We’ve been ordered to cease treatment.” I started shaking. I dialed Victoria’s number with trembling fingers. She picked up on the second ring. “Consider this a taste of what happens when you don’t listen,” she said coolly. “Be at the office tomorrow morning to assist Tyler, or she doesn’t get another drop of morphine.” In the background, I heard Tyler’s playful giggle. “Victoria, babe, can we do that Omakase place for dinner?” The line went dead. I stood in the sterile, fluorescent-lit hallway of the hospital and finally collapsed. I curled into a ball on the floor and sobbed until my throat was raw. I pulled out my wallet and took out the savings card I’d been contributing to for ten years—my entire salary, meant for our retirement. I handed it to the billing nurse. She swiped it, then looked at me with pity. “I’m sorry, Mr. Vaughn. This account has been frozen. You’ll need the primary cardholder to authorize any release of funds.” The last of my strength left me. Twelve years of marriage. A decade of building a life. And in her eyes, I wasn’t even worth the cost of my mother’s breath. I had no choice. I wiped the tears from my face, gritted my teeth, and headed back to the office. By the time I arrived, the building was dark except for the penthouse suite. I reached the elevator, but the head of security blocked my path, looking at me with pure mockery. “VP Vaughn? Oh, wait. You’re the assistant now, right? What are you doing here after hours? Looking to steal something?” I didn’t have the energy to fight him. I pushed past him and ran for the stairs. As I approached the executive suite, the sounds coming from behind the mahogany doors were unmistakable. The soft, rhythmic creak of the desk. A man’s breathless moans. A woman’s low, guttural growl. “Victoria… slower… I can’t…” “What if that old man finds out? He’ll kill me,” Tyler’s voice teased. Victoria panted in response. “It doesn’t matter. He’s nothing without me. He has nowhere else to go.” My mother was dying in a cold hospital bed, and Victoria was using the desk I’d bought her to cheat with a boy half her age. Rage, pure and blinding, took over. I kicked the door open with a deafening crash. “Bang!” The scene inside was wretched. Victoria scrambled to pull a shirt over her shoulders, glaring at me. “Mike! Are you insane? You’re acting like a damn lunatic! Did you not learn your lesson this afternoon?” I was shaking so hard I could barely stand. Tears blurred my vision again. “Victoria… please. Just give me the money for her medicine. What do you want from me?” She smoothed her hair, reached into a drawer, and tossed a folder onto the desk. “Simple. Sign the patent transfer. Move the core intellectual property from your mother’s estate into my personal name.” She leaned forward. “The patents are still technically in her name, and that makes me nervous. Sign them over, and I’ll resume her treatment immediately.” I looked at the document. It was a death warrant. That patent was my mother’s legacy—the work that had literally given her cancer. “I won’t sign it. It’s hers. You’ve stolen enough from us.” “Fine. Have it your way.” Victoria’s expression went dark. She stepped toward me. I moved to back away, but a sudden, white-hot explosion of pain erupted at the back of my skull. The world tilted. Black spots flooded my vision. I slumped to my knees, turning my head just enough to see Tyler standing behind me, gripping a heavy metal paperweight. Victoria’s voice sounded miles away. “Let’s see if a few days of reflection makes you more cooperative. Let him see what Tyler had to go through.” She hooked her arm through Tyler’s, and they walked out, leaving me bleeding on the carpet. I lost consciousness as the door clicked shut. When I woke up, I was in total darkness. The air was thick with dust and the smell of mildew. I was in the basement archives—a concrete box with no windows and a heavy steel door. I was still in my wet, filthy shirt. I was shivering, my throat parched, my stomach cramping with hunger. I called out, but no one answered. All I could think about was my mother. Was she in pain? Was she scared? Was she… I curled into a corner and prayed. I don’t know how long I was in there. I drifted in and out of fever dreams, watching the sliver of light under the door fade and brighten twice. Two days. Two nights. Just as I felt my heart beginning to slow to a crawl, the door creaked open. An old janitor, someone who had worked for us since the beginning, had heard my weak scratching. He pulled me out, his eyes wide with horror. The moment I was free, I staggered to the street and hailed a cab. I borrowed the driver’s charger and plugged in my dead phone. The second it powered on, a message popped up. “Is this Professor Vaughn’s son? I’m one of her former PhD students. I’ve been tracking the patent she licensed to the Vaughn-Price Group. I see the license expires tonight. My firm, the Beaumont Syndicate, is prepared to offer $1.5 billion for a ten-year exclusive lease, plus a 51% royalty stake. Are you interested?” Before I could even process the number, the cab pulled up to the hospital. I ran inside, nearly crashing into my mother’s primary physician. “Where is she? Where’s my mother?” The doctor looked down, his face a mask of professional sorrow. “Mr. Vaughn… your mother was discharged two days ago. A young man came with a notarized directive from your wife. He said you couldn’t afford the private care anymore and that she would be ‘resting’ at home.” My brain felt like it was short-circuiting. “Who?” “A Mr. Tyler Evans. I tried to explain the severity of her condition, but he insisted.” I didn’t wait. I flew to my mother’s small apartment. The moment I pushed the door open, my world collapsed. My mother was lying on the cold hardwood floor of her living room. She looked small. Peaceful. Her skin was the color of winter marble. She wasn’t breathing. She was gone. While I was locked in a basement, while Victoria was celebrating her “victory,” my mother—the woman who had given everything to a world that took her for granted—had died alone, in the dark, without a single dose of the medicine she needed. I fell to my knees and pulled her cold body into my arms. I screamed until my lungs burned, until no sound came out but a jagged, hollow wheeze. I didn’t call Victoria. The next few days were a blur of cold rooms and paperwork. I moved like a ghost. On the final day of the wake, a woman in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit entered the funeral home. She walked up to the casket, bowed her head in genuine respect, and then turned to me. “Mr. Vaughn. My name is Serena Beaumont. I’m the one who messaged you.” She looked at my bruised face, my hollow eyes, and as I told her—in broken, halting sentences—what had happened, her expression hardened into something terrifyingly cold. “I had no idea,” she whispered. “I had been trying to reach her for weeks. I should have come sooner.” I shook my head. My mother had hidden her illness from everyone, including her students. She didn’t want to be a burden. I looked at Serena, my eyes bloodshot. “Ms. Beaumont… is that offer still on the table?” This patent was my mother’s life’s work. I would be damned if I let Victoria Price profit from her death for one more second. Serena nodded firmly. “It is.” The moment my pen hit the paper, my phone vibrated. A text from Victoria. “Have you had enough? Sign the transfer today, and I’ll tell the hospital to start the surgery. Don’t be a martyr, Mike. Think of your mom.” Looking at the screen, a hole opened up in my chest—a void of pure, cold hatred. My mother was already at the morgue, and Victoria was still using her ghost as a leash. Serena saw the message over my shoulder. She placed a hand on my trembling arm. “Don’t reply. If you want a monster to fall, you wait until they’re standing on the very edge of the cliff.” She was right. I gripped the phone until my knuckles turned white. I didn’t send a single word back. On the other side of town, Victoria paced her office, glancing at Tyler, who was lounging on her sofa. “He hasn’t replied. Tyler, are you sure the doctor said his mother was fine?” Tyler shifted, his eyes darting away for a split second. “Totally fine, babe. Just a bit of a cough and some fatigue. Mike is just a drama queen. He’s trying to guilt-trip you.” Victoria exhaled, a smug smile returning to her lips. “I knew it. He’s trying to play me.” She checked her reflection in the mirror. “It doesn’t matter. The IPO launch is the day after tomorrow. I’ll announce that the company has secured permanent ownership of the patents. Once it’s public record and the stock prices soar, it won’t matter what he says. I’ll throw him a few crumbs later, and he’ll come crawling back. He always does.” Tyler grinned, showing his teeth. “You’re brilliant, Victoria. We’re going to be the most powerful couple in the city.” The day of the Price Group IPO arrived. The grand ballroom of the Pierre Hotel was a sea of flashing lights and expensive champagne. Victoria stood on the stage, radiant in a red gown, the image of a titan of industry. She stepped up to the microphone, ready to announce the “permanent acquisition” of the core technology that would make her a billionaire. Suddenly, her secretary burst through the double doors, her face ashen, her hands shaking so hard she dropped her tablet. “Victoria! Stop! We have a massive problem!” Victoria frowned, her voice a sharp hiss through her forced smile. “Get off the stage, Sarah! What the hell are you doing?” “The patents!” Sarah cried out, her voice echoing through the silent room. “The license for Professor Vaughn’s tech expired at midnight. And…” Before she could finish, the giant screens behind Victoria—intended to show the rising stock ticker—flickered and changed. A headline from the Financial Times flashed in huge, bold letters: BEAUMONT SYNDICATE ACQUIRES EXCLUSIVE RIGHTS TO VAUGHN PATENTS IN $1.5 BILLION DEAL. PRICE GROUP LOSE CORE ASSETS. Below the headline was a crystal-clear photo of me and Serena Beaumont signing the documents. The room erupted. Investors stood up, shouting. The lead underwriters grabbed their phones, their faces pale. Victoria stood frozen, her mouth agape. “That’s… that’s impossible. It’s my mother-in-law. I’ll just call her. It’s a mistake!” Sarah looked at her with a mix of terror and pity. “Victoria… Professor Vaughn died four days ago.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “408326”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Rich people have a favorite catchphrase, unspoken but universally understood: Reality is whatever I decide it is. And so, simply because I possessed the exact bone structure and eye color of the Kensington family’s runaway heir, they collectively decided I was their son, Sean. I explained it to them. Over and over again. I told them my name wasn’t Sean Kensington. My name was Cole Bennett. It was printed in black ink on my NDA, right next to my signature. But they would just stare at my face, their expressions dead serious. Since you’re finally home, stop throwing tantrums, they’d say. Using a fake name? Is that really necessary? Do you honestly expect us to cut ties with you? Or is this about Tristan? Will you only be happy if we throw him out? He’s lived in this house for twenty years. Giving him away now would be abandonment. That was how I learned about the twisted ecosystem of the Kensington estate. There were two sons: the biological heir, and the golden replacement. When the real Sean was finally found and brought back to the family, he couldn’t stomach the reality waiting for him. The Kensingtons favored their adopted son, Tristan, in every conceivable way. Even Sean’s own childhood fiancée, a high-society heiress, always took Tristan’s side. Three years ago, after a massive, foundation-shaking argument, Sean walked out of the estate and vanished into thin air. Then, they found me. I looked so terrifyingly much like him that even his fiancée, Betty Montgomery, mistook me for him. She even organized a lavish, highly publicized proposal ceremony to welcome me back into her life. Except, when the day of the proposal arrived, Betty stood under the crystal chandeliers in front of hundreds of elite guests, bypassed me entirely, and dropped to one knee in front of Tristan. Tristan gasped, his hands flying to his mouth in perfectly choreographed shock. “Oh my god… I had no idea she was going to propose to me,” Tristan whispered, looking at me with wide, innocent eyes. “You two have always been so close. I really thought this was for you…” Betty stood up, looking down her nose at me. “Sean, so what if you share their blood?” she said, her voice dripping with icy condescension. “Tristan and I grew up together. I hope today serves as a lesson. Learn your place in this hierarchy, and stop coveting things that will never belong to you.” Beside me, my friend Carter was practically vibrating with rage. “Are you seriously going to take this?” he hissed. “They’re humiliating you!” I let out a slow, quiet breath. Could I take this? Yes. I absolutely could. … When the diamond ring slid onto Tristan’s ring finger, the collective gaze of the ballroom shifted to me. I could feel the weight of their mockery, a hundred pairs of eyes peeling back my dignity. “He really thought it was going to be him. Hilarious.” “If I were him, I’d find a hole to crawl into and die.” “He deserves it. Everyone knows Tristan and Betty are the real power couple. He just uses his biology to try and steal everything Tristan has.” Carter lunged forward, his fists clenched, but I grabbed the back of his jacket, yanking him back. “They’re doing this on purpose, man! How can you just stand there?” Carter demanded, his face flushed. “Why wouldn’t I?” I asked quietly. I looked past the whispering crowd and watched Tristan pull Betty into a tight embrace. Over her shoulder, he caught my eye and let a slow, triumphant smirk curl the edge of his lips. Looking at that smirk, I didn’t feel anger. I felt an overwhelming, intoxicating wave of relief. I finally get to stop acting in this psychotic family’s play. Three years ago, when I first applied for an entry-level corporate job at Kensington Holdings, the CEO—Mr. Kensington himself—had taken one look at me and teared up. “Sean,” he had choked out. “After all this time… you’re finally willing to come back?” You left because of a petty fight with Tristan, and he’s been blaming himself ever since. I had tried to explain. I brought out my ID. I am Cole Bennett. But the delusion of the ultra-rich is a fortress. They refused to hear it. They offered me a choice: I could leave and try to survive in a city they practically owned, or I could stay. Betty herself had cornered me in the lobby that day, shoving a sleek black card into my chest. “Are you trying to drive Tristan into another depression?” she snapped. “Your little disappearing act nearly ruined him. If you stop throwing these tantrums, I’ll honor our engagement. But the prerequisite is that you stop making Tristan’s life miserable. Stay. There’s three hundred thousand dollars on this card. It reloads every month.” Three hundred grand. A month. Who would say no to that? So, I became the ghost of Sean Kensington. I kept my head down. I stayed out of the way. I practically lived as a vampire, sleeping during the day and haunting the estate at night, collecting my paycheck. But Tristan was relentless. He had a pathological need to frame me. He would throw himself down the sweeping mahogany staircases. He would deliberately slip peanut oil—his known allergen—into his own soup and go into anaphylactic shock. There were security cameras. I pointed out the footage time and time again. But nobody in that house ever wanted to look at a screen that proved their golden boy was a sociopath. At three hundred thousand a month, it wasn’t a salary. It was hazard pay for my fading sanity. But tonight, the mask was off. They weren’t even pretending anymore. Which meant I could finally hand in my resignation. Under the blinding glare of the chandeliers, I stepped forward and approached the happy couple. “Congratulations to you both,” I said, my voice steady and clear. “I’m genuinely happy for you. I wish you a lifetime of joy together. And on that note, I’ll be taking my leave.” Tristan froze, his smirk faltering. Betty’s perfectly manicured brows snapped together. “Sean, what kind of act is this?” Instantly, Tristan’s eyes welled with tears. “Don’t be like this. I swear, I had no idea Betty was going to do this. If you’re upset, here—you can have the ring.” “I don’t need it,” I said, taking a step back. “No, I mean it!” Tristan insisted, stepping into my space and grabbing my hand, trying to force the heavy diamond onto my palm. “Take it!” “Seriously, let go—” I pulled my hand back. It was a reflex, a slight push to break his grip. The ring slipped from his fingers and clattered onto the marble floor. Tristan gasped, his eyes instantly brimming with devastated tears. “Do you really hate me that much?” “That is enough!” Betty stepped between us, shoving me backward. She shielded Tristan like he was a fragile piece of glass. “Who the hell do you think you are?” Betty snarled, her voice echoing in the sudden silence of the ballroom. “Yes, you have the Kensington blood. But Tristan and I have known each other for twenty years. If we’re getting down to brass tacks, you are the outsider here!” A fuse blew in my chest. Three years of biting my tongue finally snapped. “You’re right!” I shouted, the sound ringing out over the gasps of the crowd. “I am an outsider! I’m not your missing heir. I am not Sean Kensington! My name is Cole Bennett!” The ballroom plunged into a dead, suffocating silence. I was breathing hard, my chest rising and falling sharply. Tristan covered his mouth, a sob escaping his lips. “How can you say something like that just to throw a tantrum? Do you have any idea how much that hurts me?” I stared at him, my eyes wide. “What?” Did none of them speak English? I pointed a rigid finger at my own face. “Look at me! Look closely! I don’t even look exactly like him. His eyes are slightly wider than mine. His earlobes sit lower. Open your damn eyes!” “Stop it!” Betty shoved me again, harder this time. “I told you, you are never to make things difficult for Tristan again.” Behind her, Tristan buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with manufactured grief. The murmurs in the crowd morphed from shock into disgust. “What is he trying to pull? He’s a carbon copy of Sean.” “Lying through his teeth just to make Tristan look bad. He’s just playing the victim to force Tristan into giving Betty back.” Betty glared at me, her eyes flat and cold. “My patience has limits. If you keep making these unreasonable scenes and attacking Tristan… don’t expect any mercy from me.” …Was there a single sane person in this room? I threw my hands up. “Fine! You don’t believe me? Let’s go get a DNA test. Right now.” Both Betty and Tristan flinched, staring at me in shock. I pointed straight at Tristan. “Let’s go back to the estate. We’ll swab Mr. and Mrs. Kensington. We’ll pay for the rush order. And then you can all see, in black and white, whether or not I belong to this family!” Betty’s frown deepened. A flicker of genuine uncertainty crossed her face. The guests exchanged uneasy glances. “He doesn’t sound like he’s bluffing… is he actually going to do it?” “Wait, could he seriously not be Sean?” “Look at his posture. He’s dead serious.” Betty opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, Tristan let out a loud, agonizing wail. “I know I’m the outsider!” he cried, gripping his chest. “You don’t need to use this to humiliate me! You don’t need to keep reminding me that I don’t share their blood!” With a theatrical sob, he kicked the fallen diamond ring across the floor, covered his face, and sprinted toward the exit. When a waiter tried to gently stop him, Tristan violently shoved the poor guy aside. I stood there, completely stunned. “Wait, I wasn’t talking about—ah!” Two hands hit my chest with the force of a battering ram, sending me stumbling backward. Betty looked at me with a hatred so pure it was almost glowing. “When are you going to stop ruining everything?” she screamed. “Listen to me! I am not Sean!” “Shut up!” She spun around, her heels clicking frantically as she chased after her weeping fiancé. “Tristan! Tristan, wait, where are you going?!” Carter sidled up next to me, watching the chaos unfold. “Is there something literally wrong with the brains of the one percent?” “I’m starting to think it’s a genetic requirement,” I muttered, rubbing my chest. I turned my back on the ballroom and walked out. I had made enough money. Regardless of whether they believed me or not, I was going back to the estate, packing my bags, and getting the hell out of Connecticut. But the moment I pushed open the heavy oak doors of the Kensington mansion, two massive security guards stepped out of the shadows and grabbed me by the arms. “Mr. and Mrs. Kensington heard about the stunt you pulled, making young Master Tristan cry,” one of them rumbled, his grip like a vice. “They left orders. You’re going in the attic to reflect on your behavior for three days.” “What? Wait! I’m not Sean! I’m seriously not! Let me go!” My protests were useless. They dragged me up three flights of stairs, shoved me into the dusty, unfinished attic, and the heavy door slammed shut with a sickening thud. I pounded on the wood until my knuckles bruised, screaming until my throat was raw. Nobody came. Eventually, I slid down the wall and sat on the floorboards in the dark. I stopped fighting. Fine, I thought. Three days. I’ll just leave in three days. But by the second day, a terrifying reality began to set in. They hadn’t sent anyone up with food. By the third day, I didn’t know how many hours had passed. The hunger had hollowed me out, and I didn’t even have the energy to call for help anymore. Three days. Not a single drop of water. I realized, with a quiet, creeping horror, that I might actually die up here. Suddenly, there was a soft rustle. A plastic-wrapped slice of bread slid under the narrow gap beneath the door. I scrambled toward it, my hands shaking so badly I barely managed to rip the plastic open before tearing a piece off with my teeth. “It’s me.” The voice on the other side of the wood made me freeze. “Tristan?” I rasped, my voice barely a croak. “I believe you,” Tristan whispered, his tone hushed and urgent. “I believe you aren’t Sean. I can get you out of here, but you have to promise me something. You can never, ever come back.” It was a deal I would have sold my soul for. “Swear it!” he demanded. “I swear it,” I choked out. “I will never step foot in this house again. I will never look at another Kensington for as long as I live!” “Wait here. I’m going to get the key.” Of all the things I expected, being rescued by Tristan Kensington was at the bottom of the list. He was a manipulative psychopath, but right now, he was opening a door that was saving my life. He snuck me out through the service quarters and drove me to a hotel in the city. He even carried my duffel bag up to the room. But the moment I swiped the keycard and pushed the heavy hotel door open, my stomach dropped. We weren’t alone. Seven or eight massive, heavily tattooed men were standing in the center of the room, their arms crossed, staring at us with predatory eyes. Before I could even process what was happening, Tristan shoved a baseball bat into my hands. In one fluid, violent motion, he grabbed the collar of his own silk shirt and ripped it down the middle, popping the buttons off. Then, he unleashed a blood-curdling scream. “No! Please, Sean, I’m sorry! Don’t let them touch me!” I stood there, paralyzed, the bat heavy in my grip. Three of the men lunged forward, grabbing Tristan and dragging him toward the bed. I hadn’t even found my voice to yell when the sound of frantic, pounding footsteps echoed down the hallway. “Tristan!” “Oh my god, my son!” The hotel door burst wide open. It was Mr. and Mrs. Kensington. And Betty. “Tristan!” Betty shrieked. Her eyes went completely red as she took in the torn shirt, the men, and the baseball bat in my hands. She crossed the room in a blur, shoving me violently against the wall before turning and slapping the largest thug hard across the face. “Do you want to die?!” she screamed at him. Mrs. Kensington dropped to her knees, her hands trembling violently as she took in the angry red marks Tristan had deliberately scratched onto his own neck just seconds prior. Mr. Kensington turned to me, his face purple with rage. “Sean! He is your brother! How could you be this vicious? This evil?!” “I…” I dropped the bat as if it had caught fire. Tristan curled into a pathetic ball, burying his weeping face in Betty’s chest. “It’s okay, you can have her,” Tristan sobbed, his voice trembling with manufactured trauma. “I know you love Betty. I can give her back to you. I know you’re the real son, and everything belongs to you. If you just ask, I won’t say a single word of protest. But why… why did you have to hire these men to ruin my purity? Did you just want Betty to be disgusted by me? Did you want mom and dad to throw me away?” He broke down into hyperventilating sobs. I just stared. …Wow. I genuinely had to hand it to him. I never saw this coming. Mrs. Kensington threw her arms around him, burying her face in his hair as she screamed at me. “How did we give birth to such trash?! To think up something so vile to destroy your own brother! Are you even human?!” “You’re all insane!” I yelled, my exhaustion replaced by pure, blinding adrenaline. “I am not a Kensington! I just happen to share his face! I have absolutely zero interest in Betty! She is a pawn in his game—he set this entire thing up!” Betty let out a sharp, cruel laugh. “Do you really think spewing garbage is going to save you?” she said, her voice dropping into a terrifyingly calm register. “Tristan is my fiancé. No matter what happens to him, he will be my husband. You thought you could use cheap, filthy tactics to ruin him? Fine. I’ll just ruin you first.” She stood up, smoothing her skirt. “Take him to the cold storage.” My blood ran cold. “What?” Her security detail—the men Tristan had supposedly hired to ‘attack’ him—grabbed me by the arms and dragged me out of the room. I fought them like a cornered animal. “I am not Sean! Run a damn DNA test! Let go of me! Let me go!” But money is a louder language than truth. As they shoved me into the back of a black SUV, I realized something profound: the three hundred grand a month was nothing compared to the monsters I was dealing with. The commercial freezer at one of the Montgomery family’s distribution centers was kept at five degrees Fahrenheit. I was wearing a thin t-shirt and jeans. The moment they hurled me onto the frost-covered concrete and slammed the heavy steel door, the cold hit me like a physical blow. I scrambled to my feet, pounding on the metal. “I am not Sean! You have the wrong person!” “Still playing the victim?” Betty’s voice was muffled through the thick insulation. “This door operates on biometric scans. Only Kensington and Montgomery fingerprints can open it. You keep up the act, and you can freeze to death in there.” I heard the sharp click of her heels turning away. Panic flared in my chest. “Betty? Betty! I am not Sean! I’m going to die in here!” But there was no answer. Only the low, mechanical hum of the refrigeration units. I retreated to the corner, curling my body into the tightest ball possible. I blew hot air into my cupped hands, trying to trap the warmth against my face. But it wasn’t enough. The chill seeped through my clothes, into my muscles, and finally settled into my bones. I started to shake uncontrollably. Then, terrifyingly, the shaking stopped. Hypothermia was setting in. My mind began to drift, blurring the edges of my terror into a heavy, seductive sleepiness. Through the fog, I heard a sharp beep. The heavy lock disengaged. The door cracked open, letting in a sliver of warm, dusty warehouse air. I dragged myself across the floor, my limbs feeling like lead. I pushed the door open. There was no one there. The corridor was empty. I don’t know how I made it back to the Kensington estate. Pure, spiteful adrenaline, mostly. When I stumbled into the grand parlor, they were all sitting by the fireplace. Mr. and Mrs. Kensington were fussing over Tristan, while Betty paced the floor, her phone in hand. “Is that bastard still pretending in the freezer?” Betty snapped to someone on the phone. “Drag him out. I want him on his knees apologizing to Tristan.” “You don’t need to drag me,” I croaked. “I’m right here.” She jumped, spinning around. Her eyes widened for a fraction of a second before hardening into a sneer. “Oh, look who it is. I thought you said you weren’t Sean?” she mocked. “How did you get out, then? Did your phantom identity open the door?” I scanned the room. All the key players were right here. Whoever had pressed their finger to that scanner to let me out… it wasn’t one of them. When I didn’t answer, Mr. Kensington slammed his fist on the coffee table. “Tristan doesn’t share our blood!” he roared. “It’s only natural he feels insecure! Giving him preferential treatment is our duty as his parents! You are our biological son—nothing can change that! So why do you insist on competing with him? On hurting him? Are you even a part of this family?” He stood up, pointing a trembling finger at the floor. “Get on your knees and apologize. Or you are no longer a son of mine.” A dark, broken laugh scraped its way out of my throat. “Sure!” I shouted, my voice cracking but loud enough to echo off the vaulted ceilings. “I’ll kneel. I’ll even bow my head to the damn floor! But since you are so adamant that I am your flesh and blood…” I locked eyes with the patriarch. “Where is my dividend?” They all froze. I took a step forward, the residual cold radiating off my skin. “Don’t think I don’t know the financials. Tristan gets an eight-figure payout from the family trust every single year. You claim I’m your son. You claim I belong here. Fine!” I held out an open palm. “I’m not greedy. Five million. Transfer it to my account right now, and I will drop to my knees and apologize to your golden boy.” “You…!” Mr. Kensington choked, his face reddening. “What?” I cut him off, my voice sharp as glass. “You want me to play the dutiful son, but you won’t give me a dime of what’s mine? You funnel the entire family wealth into someone with no blood tie to you, and call it love?” I looked at Mrs. Kensington, who was staring at me in shock. “Is that what family means to you?!” Mr. Kensington opened his mouth, but no words came out. “You talk a big game about me being your child,” I sneered, “but when have your actions ever backed that up? For three years, all you’ve done is demand I step aside, make myself small, and swallow abuse so Tristan can feel better about himself. What have you ever actually given me?” The parents exchanged an uneasy, guilty look. Even Betty looked slightly taken aback by the sheer venom in my voice. “You refuse to give me what is mine, and then you punish me for fighting for scraps!” I yelled. “You want me to be magnanimous? You want me to play nice? Pay me!” The parlor was dead silent. Only the crackle of the fireplace dared to make a sound. “If you won’t pay,” I whispered, dropping my hand. “Then don’t talk to me about apologizing. Don’t talk to me about kneeling. You don’t deserve it.” I turned my back on them and walked toward the grand foyer. “Wait.” Mr. Kensington’s voice stopped me in my tracks. “Five million,” he said, his voice tight with barely suppressed rage. “I’ll wire it. And then you will get on your knees and grovel for Tristan’s forgiveness.” Hah. These pathetic, twisted people. They were willing to pay off their ‘biological son’ with his own birthright, just to buy a moment of satisfaction for the imposter. I slowly turned back around. “Deal,” I said smoothly. I reached into my jacket—thank God I had packed it before the gala—and pulled out a folded legal document. “Oh, and you’ll be signing this.” I tossed it onto the glass coffee table. It was an Irrevocable Deed of Gift. I had my lawyers draw it up weeks ago, just in case I ever found an exit strategy. It explicitly stated that the funds were a voluntary, unconditional gift, immune to any future legal recall or clawback. Mr. Kensington grabbed a pen, scrawled his name across the bottom, and threw the pen at my chest. “Three years out in the wild,” he spat with disgust, “and you’ve turned into nothing but a calculating, greedy street rat.” I didn’t care. I didn’t care about his insults. I didn’t care about his opinion. Because my phone vibrated in my pocket. $5,000,000 USD successfully wired to account ending in 4921. I walked over to where Tristan was sitting, looking at me with wide, nervous eyes. I dropped to my knees. The hardwood floor dug into my joints. I leaned forward. Thud. I hit my forehead against the ground. Thud. Again. Thud. A third time, loud and hollow. “I’m sorry,” I said, my voice entirely devoid of emotion. “I was wrong.” I stood up. I didn’t brush off my jeans. I didn’t look at their faces. I turned on my heel and walked out of the Kensington estate for the absolute last time. As I passed Betty, she took a half-step toward me, her mouth opening as if to speak. I didn’t even glance at her. I just kept walking. She left her hand suspended in the empty air. As the massive iron gates of the estate closed behind me, my burner phone buzzed. It was a call from a detective at the NYPD missing persons bureau. “That missing persons report you filed three years ago?” the officer’s rough voice came through the speaker. “The kid named Sean Kensington? We found him.”

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I’ve been an OB-GYN for ten years. I’ve delivered thousands of babies, and finally, I was pregnant with my own. On our anniversary, I’d planned to leave the hospital early to celebrate with my husband. But a last-minute emergency surgery landed on my schedule. The patient was young—barely twenty, a college student who’d taken a leave of absence to have this baby. She wasn’t due for another few weeks, but her water had broken prematurely, and the umbilical cord was wrapped around the infant’s neck. We had to go straight to a C-section. “Dr. Brooks, I’m scared,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I had a nightmare last night. I dreamed that after the baby was born, you stuffed her back inside me… that you let her suffocate.” I gave her a small, professional smile to calm her nerves. “I’m not that’s not how this works. Don’t be nervous. I promise I’ll get both you and your baby through this safely.” The delivery went perfectly. It was a girl, with a cry so loud it filled the entire OR. I placed the baby on her chest for skin-to-skin contact. The girl pressed her cheek against the infant’s, her eyes damp as she whispered her thanks to me. The nurses hurried out to give the family the good news, and I stepped aside with the baby for a moment, waiting for the final sutures. The girl suddenly spoke, a weak but provocative smile flitting across her lips. “Ma’am… the baby looks just like Professor Miller, doesn’t she?” … 1 My head spun. The blood in my veins seemed to turn to ice instantly. Then, Christopher Miller walked into the OR, still in his surgical scrubs. The girl immediately began to sob piteously. “Chris… why are you just getting here?” she wailed. “I don’t want anyone else touching me. I was so scared. Dr. Brooks was so mean to me.” Christopher rushed to her side, his voice a low, soothing murmur that felt like a serrated blade to my heart. “It’s okay, honey. Don’t cry. I’m here now. No one is going to hurt you.” Then, he turned a cold, dismissive gaze toward me. “I’ll handle the closing. Take the baby and get out. She’s young; I need to make sure the scarring is minimal.” I don’t know how I made it out of that room. The weight of my colleagues’ shocked, gossiping stares felt like needles in my back. Their whispers were low, but in the sterile silence of the hallway, they hit me with perfect clarity. “What does that mean? Is that girl’s baby Dr. Brooks’ husband’s? Did Natalie know?” “They’ve been together since high school. They’re the ‘it’ couple. There’s no way.” “Please. You never know what goes on behind closed doors. Maybe it’s some twisted arrangement. Maybe she’s in on it.” … I stripped off my scrubs, my skin drenched in a cold, sickly sweat. Sophie, one of my residents, helped me back to the breakroom. “Dr. Brooks…” She started to speak, but she didn’t know what to say. Eventually, she just started crying out of sheer indignation on my behalf. I managed a hollow laugh and told her to go back to work. I needed to be alone. I sat there, my hand trembling as I touched my still-flat stomach. The tears finally broke. Just a week ago, when I saw the positive test, I had wept with joy. I had been waiting for tonight—our anniversary—to give him the surprise. But I was the one who got the surprise first. Months ago, I’d found a scrap of paper in his pocket with a list of names. I had assumed, naturally, that they were for our future child. I’d even teased him about it: “I thought you said we were letting nature take its course? You’re clearly dying to be a dad. I think ‘Everly’ is the prettiest one on the list.” During the surgery, when I heard the girl whisper that name, I had told myself it was just a coincidence. The door pushed open. Christopher walked in, his face shadowed and grim. The silence stretched between us until he finally spoke. “I’m sorry, Natalie. I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t want to break your heart.” “Brianna is an orphan,” he continued, his voice devoid of the warmth he’d just shown her. “She was abandoned at birth. She couldn’t bring herself to terminate the pregnancy, and I couldn’t force her to.” “Moving forward, I’ll have to split my time between you and them. But you’re my wife. You’ll always be my priority. That will never change.” I let out a jagged, hysterical laugh. My teeth were chattering. “When… when did it start? Why?” He looked out the window, his tone light, almost nostalgic. “Almost two years ago. Being with her is just… easy. It’s fun. I couldn’t help myself. She made me feel that rush again—the racing heart, the heat in my blood.” “Natalie, we’ve been together for twenty years. That’s a very long time.” He didn’t finish the sentence, but he didn’t have to. Because it had been so long, the fire had gone out. But for me, the time had been even longer than that. 2 When I was in the third grade, my father went back to prison. My mother didn’t say a word; she just packed a bag and left me behind. My only relatives were two aunts who treated me like an unwanted piece of luggage, kicking me back and forth between their houses. I grew up in the shadows of other people’s homes, living in constant fear. When I was ten, my uncle tried to put his hands on me in the middle of the night. I cracked his head open with a heavy lamp. The scandal was massive. My aunts called me a “little slut” and decided to ship me off to foster care. It was Christopher’s mother—who was also my teacher—who took me in. In those early days, I would hide in the laundry room and cry. Christopher would find me and press a piece of chocolate into my hand without a word. At seventeen, I thought he was seeing someone else and spent a week acting out in a jealous fit. He demanded to know what was wrong until I broke down in tears. He looked at me with such helpless devotion and pulled me into his arms. At twenty-seven, we married. At the altar, his hands shook so hard he could barely slide the ring onto my finger. He choked up during his vows. “Natalie, we have so many decades left. I dreamed about us last night—two old people with white hair, walking hand in hand. I think that’s God’s promise to us.” Only one decade had passed. I didn’t have a single gray hair yet. And he had already traded our “forever” for a girl who made his heart race. Christopher’s phone buzzed. He glanced at me, muttered a quick “stop crying,” and walked out. I laughed until I felt sick. A violent wave of nausea hit me, my internal organs twisting in a knot of physical grief. A few minutes later, the door opened again. Christopher pulled me up by my arm. “I need you to go in there and calm her down,” he said. He dragged me toward the maternity ward. I felt every eye in the hospital tracking us. Brianna Scott was pale, looking fragile in her recovery bed. Her face and neck were flushed a deep, blotchy red from crying. She looked utterly pitiable. “Dr. Brooks, I’m so sorry,” she sobbed. “I really didn’t know the extent of your relationship with Professor Miller.” “The baby has nothing to do with him. I’ll raise her myself. I won’t come between you ever again.” “Chris, please apologize to your wife. Beg for her forgiveness.” Christopher wiped her tears with a tenderness that made me want to scream. Then, Brianna did something insane. Ignoring her fresh surgical incision and the IV lines, she scrambled out of bed and dropped to her knees on the cold tile. Her face contorted in genuine pain. “I’m sorry, Natalie! It was me. I seduced him. Blame me, hit me, do whatever you want—just please, don’t hurt my baby. She’s innocent…” Christopher looked like his heart was shattering. He lifted her back into bed and then roared at me, “Natalie, say something! Are you a statue?” I just looked at him and smiled. It was the only thing I had left. He grabbed my wrist, his face a mask of irritation. “Is it that hard to be human? She’s just a girl. she just gave birth. Why do you have to be so cruel?” My phone began to vibrate incessantly. I yanked my arm away from him. It was the Chief of Medicine. He wanted to see me in his office. Immediately. My stomach dropped. I knew this wasn’t good. “Natalie,” the Chief said, sighing heavily as I entered. “A formal complaint reached the Board. They’re accusing you of abuse of power and professional misconduct—specifically, that you used a medical procedure to intimidate a student.” “We’ll investigate, obviously. But the promotion to Associate Chief? That’s off the table for now. You need to take a few weeks of administrative leave. Let the dust settle.” I clenched my fists and walked back to Brianna’s room. “Christopher, is this the plan? You won’t be happy until you’ve destroyed my entire life?” He knitted his brows, his expression cool and detached. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I trembled with a mix of fury and sorrow. “Why here? Why did you bring her to my hospital? Why did you make medeliver her child?” “This hospital has the best OB-GYN department in the city,” he said calmly. “The baby was high-risk. I wasn’t going to gamble with their lives. As for the surgery… that was just luck of the draw.” I nodded, biting my lip so hard I tasted blood. “Fine. But what about you? If this goes public, what happens to your tenure? Her reputation? You’re throwing it all away.” He pushed his glasses up his nose, considering his words. “I turned in my resignation a month ago. A friend of mine, Marcus, asked me to join his private surgical group. He’s giving me equity.” “And Brianna? She’s already transferred to a different university. I’ll continue to mentor her there.” I started to clap. I couldn’t help it. “Bravo. I’m the only one who didn’t get the memo. I’m the only one left standing in the ruins.” Christopher’s face darkened with shame-induced anger. “I should have consulted you. If you can’t handle this, then fine. We get a divorce.” “We don’t have kids. I’ll give you the house and the car. Whatever else you want, just name it.” A sharp, stabbing pain flared in my lower abdomen. I let out a long, cold peal of laughter. “Why would I make this easy for you? You want me to step aside so you can play house? In your dreams.” 3 After we got married, we were both so busy with our residencies that we wanted to enjoy being a couple for a while. We didn’t rush into parenthood. Three years ago, we started trying. We saw every specialist in the city. There was nothing physically wrong with either of us, but I just couldn’t get pregnant. The pressure became an obsession. I tested myself every single morning. Once, I even had a phantom pregnancy—all the symptoms, the morning sickness, the missed period—only to find out it was my mind playing tricks on me. When the blood finally came, I cried for three days. Christopher held me, his own eyes red. “Remember that dream I told you about? The one where we were old? There were no kids in that dream, Natalie. Maybe this is just the way it’s supposed to be. Maybe the universe doesn’t want anyone coming between us.” So, we stopped trying. We let it go. We chose “us.” And now, the baby had finally come, but the “us” was gone. The room began to tilt. I felt lightheaded, my legs turning to water. Christopher reached out to steady me, leaning in close. His voice was a low hiss in my ear. “Let’s just end this quietly, Natalie.” “I got a call from back home yesterday. Your father was paroled. He’s looking for you.” A chill ran down my spine. It wasn’t just the thought of my father finding me—it was the fact that Christopher was the one telling me. When I was in high school and my father got out of prison the first time, he stayed clean for six months before the gambling debts piled up. He tried to “sell” me to a local businessman to clear his tab. Christopher had broken down the door. He’d seen me tied to a chair, and he had gone primal. He’d nearly killed my father with a baseball bat. Now, the person he was protecting had changed. He was using the man who traumatized me as a bargaining chip. My heart finally turned to ash. I hadn’t eaten all day, and the stress was too much. The world went black. “Natalie!” I heard him calling my name. When I woke up, his hand was resting on my forehead. His brow was furrowed with that familiar, worried look. For a split second, I thought this was all just a fever dream. Then, he pulled the divorce papers out of his bag. “Sign them. Brianna won’t stop crying. I need to go be with her. Stress is bad for her recovery.” I took the pen. I read every page. He was giving me seventy percent of our assets. It was more than fair. I was about to sign when he suddenly pressed his hand over mine. Outside, a commotion erupted. The door was kicked open. A gaunt, hollow-eyed man burst in. “Baby girl!” It was my father. He rushed to my side, grabbing my hand with a mock-devotion that made my skin crawl. I looked at Christopher, horrified. He looked away, his expression a guilty knot of conflicting emotions. He reached out to pull my father back. My father dropped to his knees, slapping his own face. “I know I messed up, Natalie. I’m a new man. I’m going to make it up to you.” Then his eyes lit up with a predatory gleam. “Where’s my grandbaby? Let me see the little princess!” He saw the divorce papers on the bed and snatched them up, tearing them to shreds. “So what if your womb is broken? The man had to find a backup. It’s all the same once they’re grown. You’re the wife; you need to show some grace.” I felt like I was going to vomit. “Christopher… is this what you want?” He wouldn’t look at me. “If you could just accept them… it would be for the best.” His face was becoming a blur. I wiped the tears away before they could fall. “I’ll do it. I’ll do it, Dr. Brooks. I’ll give you the baby, as long as you promise to be a good mother to her.” Brianna had appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame for support. Christopher rushed to her side, his voice frantic with concern. “What are you doing out of bed? Do you want your stitches to pop? Think about your health!” A crowd had gathered in the hallway. People were holding up phones, filming the scene. Christopher roared at them to get out. The lenses were inches from my face. My head throbbed. In a moment of pure, reflexive habit, I looked to Christopher for protection. I only saw his back. He was wrapping his jacket around Brianna’s face to shield her from the cameras as he led her away. I looked at the scar on his forearm—the one from the burn. I remembered how he’d come home two years ago, complaining about a “clumsy student” who’d spilled boiling water. “She started crying before I could even say anything,” he’d said. “I ended up having to comfort her.” He’d started keeping a little wooden rabbit charm on his keychain around then. Brianna had a tattoo of rabbit ears in the exact same spot on her arm. I had been so blind. I had trusted him with my life. I leaned over the side of the bed and retched. 4 My father grabbed a camera from a bystander and smashed it on the floor. He picked up a chair, waving it around. “Who wants to mess with my daughter? I just got out of the pen! My daughter and her husband have money—they can have as many babies as they want, however they want! It’s none of your business!” I closed my eyes, wishing the earth would swallow me whole. Security finally arrived and cleared the room. My father turned to me with a greasy smile. “Did I say the wrong thing again, honey?” The story exploded. Before I could even leave the hospital, I was cornered by a mob of reporters. Microphones were shoved into my face. “Dr. Brooks, is it true you’re unable to conceive and hired a student as a surrogate?” “Did your husband fall in love with the surrogate? Do you have any regrets?” “As an OB-GYN, how do you justify the ethical breach of using a student for your own reproductive needs?” … Two hours later, “Renowned OB-GYN’s Illegal Surrogacy Scandal” was trending. The internet was a cesspool of vitriol. The hospital board called me back in. Christopher denied the surrogacy, but his version of the truth was even worse. He claimed our marriage had been over for years, that I had filed for divorce and then refused to sign the final papers out of spite. The hospital issued a formal statement clearing me of medical malpractice, but the public didn’t care. They saw a cover-up. Someone leaked my father’s criminal record, using his “thug” persona as proof of my own “wickedness.” Protestors showed up at the hospital with banners. I was fired that afternoon. My phone number and home address were leaked. Every time I turned on my phone, I was met with death threats. My front door was splashed with red paint; someone left a dead rat on my porch. I tried to post a clarification on social media. It only invited more abuse. I spent the night curled on a hotel bathroom floor, the darkness of my thoughts turning toward a permanent exit. But Christopher found me. He forced me to go back to the small apartment he had rented for Brianna. It was decorated with photos of the two of them. “Stay here for a while. Turn off your phone,” he said, his tone incredibly casual. “In a week or two, they’ll find something else to talk about.” “If you’re embarrassed to go back to the hospital, don’t. Our friend Sarah has been trying to get you to join her private clinic for years.” “You need to keep busy. You can help Brianna with the baby.” Every word was a fresh puncture wound. He talked as if he hadn’t just burned my world to the ground. “I’m not a nanny, Christopher. And I still have my dignity.” I signed the new set of divorce papers and walked out. A month later, Christopher called me to meet at the courthouse to finalize everything. But instead, he directed me to a hotel ballroom. The sign outside read: Everly Miller’s One-Month Celebration. “Let’s just have lunch first,” he said. “We can go to the courthouse afterward.” Brianna was there, radiant in a silk dress. She saw me and walked over, holding the baby. “Natalie, you came! Look, she’s smiling at you. You were the first person she saw in this world. I hope she grows up to be as beautiful as you.” The room went quiet. I could hear the whispers of the guests. “That’s the ex? She’s actually quite striking.” “Doesn’t matter how she looks if she’s barren. No wonder he left.” … Brianna smiled, extending the baby toward me. “Please, Natalie. Hold her. We wouldn’t be here without your… sacrifice.” I stepped back instinctively. She stepped forward, pushing the baby into my space. I kept backing away until I hit the top of the stairs. My heel caught on the carpet. I tumbled. The world blurred into a series of sharp impacts. I landed at the bottom, my hands clutching my abdomen. A hot, wet sensation spread through my clothes. Christopher saw the blood, and his face went white. “Natalie?”

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