Category: English

I fell in love with my brother’s roommate at first sight. I spent nearly three weeks cultivating this breathless, high-pitched princess voice, practically purring whenever he walked into the room, only to find out he absolutely loathes sweet, girly girls. The realization shattered me. In a fit of sheer, dramatic panic, I hijacked his live stream, typing like a woman possessed: Hilarious. Honestly, you’re not even my type. You uptight poser. I already have a new man. He’s a college quarterback—sweet, gorgeous, and doesn’t look like he’s running on empty. That night, for the first time in his legendary esports career, the cold god of gaming shut down his stream mid-match. I didn’t even make it halfway out of the building before he caught me in the stairwell. Trembling, crying, begging for mercy in the shadows, the pink silk bow on the front of my dress shredded under his fingers. “Heather,” he whispered, his breath hot and dangerous against my ear. “Even bad girls have to be punished…” 01 My older brother, Brandon, was a certified player, but recently he seemed to have retired from the field. Lately, he was practically a monk, locked up in his off-campus apartment. No clubbing, no bars, and he’d even ruthlessly turned down several invitations from gorgeous women. Our parents grew highly suspicious. They were terrified Brandon was hiding some poor, innocent girl in his den of iniquity, tricking her with his charm. Naturally, they dispatched me to his apartment to investigate. I rang the doorbell. No answer. Frustrated, I pounded heavily on the heavy wood door. “Brandon Colton! Exactly how many food deliveries did you order?” A voice answered from the other side—deep, cold, and entirely unfamiliar. “One second.” My heart did a violent little flip. My mother’s instincts were spot-on. Brandon’s apartment actually had a secret resident. But the “sister-in-law” sounded incredibly intimidating, like someone who didn’t tolerate nonsense. I was busy conjuring up an image of a fierce, sophisticated older woman when the door was pulled open. I looked up. There was no beautiful, intimidating older sister. Instead, I was staring at a face so ridiculously handsome it stole the breath right out of my lungs. He was easily six-foot-three, with pale skin, sharp, aristocratic features, and a chilly aura that screamed do not cross me. He possessed a lean, muscular frame that even his casual gray t-shirt couldn’t hide, and an effortless, quiet wealth radiated from his very posture. I stood there, completely entranged, unable to even blink. Then a shocking realization hit me: had my brother actually pulled a god-tier hunk? Had Brandon gone on a journey of self-discovery and brought home a boyfriend who looked like a literal runway model? Every single cell in my body was suddenly screaming. He was, down to the very last detail, my exact type. I had to have him. If I didn’t get this man’s number, I’d regret it for the rest of my life. And if he really was my brother’s boyfriend… well, Brandon and I would just have to fight for him fairly. “Hi,” I said, tilting my head to offer my sweetest, most dazzling smile. “I’m Brandon’s sister, Heather Colton.” My mother was a beauty-obsessed woman who had married a strikingly handsome man, and I had been lucky enough to inherit their best features. All my life, teachers and classmates had told me my smile could melt glaciers. But right now, my face was practically aching from smiling so hard, and the man’s expression remained as cool and still as winter. His eyes swept briefly over my outfit—a pleated navy schoolgirl skirt, thigh-high white socks, and a tiny cropped cardigan—before he stepped back to let me in. “Brandon is in the shower,” he explained, his tone even and brief. “I’m his roommate.” Roommate. I let out a long, silent breath of pure relief. Thank god. He wasn’t the boyfriend. Once we sat down in the living room, he handed me a chilled bottle of strawberry cream soda. I seized the opportunity. As I took the bottle, my fingers deliberately brushed against his palm. I pitched my voice into a soft, breathless coo. “A guy this handsome must have a really beautiful name.” He paused, looking at me with a steady, unreadable gaze. “Beckett Song.” He seemed slightly caught off guard by the fact that a girl who looked like a quiet, sweet student would flirt so aggressively. “What a coincidence,” I said, my eyes shining with manufactured excitement. “A fortune teller once told me my future husband would have that exact name.” “Superstition is a bad habit,” Beckett replied, his voice entirely flat. “The fortune teller lied to you. You shouldn’t go back.” I choked on my own breath. Talk about a romance-killer. I pushed forward anyway. “Someone as amazing as you must have girls lining up to date you, right?” Instead of looking flattered, Beckett remained entirely indifferent. “Not really.” “Then can I be first in line?” I asked softly, gently tugging at his sleeve, looking up at him with the most innocent, earnest eyes I could muster. Beckett’s heavy lids lifted slightly, his dark eyes locking onto mine. “Dating too young will ruin your grades.” What? I sat up straight, my brain stalling. After all my heavy-handed flirting, this man thought I was a high schooler? What an absolute tragedy. I squared my shoulders and puffed out my chest. “Beckett, I’m in college.” I emphasized the word, making sure he got the point. Then, complaining about the heat, I casually slid my baby-blue cardigan off my shoulders. Beckett’s eyes followed the movement, drifting downward for a fraction of a second before he instantly looked away. His expression remained perfectly blank. “I’ll go get the air conditioning remote.” “Don’t worry about it,” I said, sliding closer to him. I could smell the faint scent of his clean, cedarwood soap. “AC isn’t eco-friendly. Besides, you look so delightfully cool. Why don’t we just…” Before I could finish, Brandon walked out of the bathroom, drying his hair with a towel, and sat down directly between us. “I’ll let you two siblings catch up,” Beckett said, rising smoothly and politely retreating to his room. I instinctively wanted to follow him, but Brandon caught me by the collar. Through the crack of Beckett’s door, I could only see the glow of a high-end dual-monitor gaming setup. 02 “Heather, take a piece of advice from your brother,” Brandon said, lowering his voice to a harsh whisper. “Drop the fantasy. Wake up. Do not mess with Beckett Song.” “Who’s messing with him?” I muttered, feeling a little defensive. With a face like that, he was clearly the one messing with my peace of mind first. Besides, Brandon was supposed to be in the shower—how much of our conversation had he actually heard? Brandon reached over and aggressively ruffled my pigtails. “We’ve both been playing the field for years, Heather. Don’t play innocent with me. You looked like you wanted to devour him whole.” “Fine,” I grumbled. “But I really like him. Didn’t you teach me that if you like someone, you go after them with everything you’ve got?” Brandon pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling a long sigh. “Kid, Beckett is different. He’s from an incredibly old-money, strict family. The guy’s never even had a girlfriend. He doesn’t know how to deal with a little predator like you.” “But physical attraction is a perfectly valid starting point,” I argued in a small voice. Then, remembering why I was here, I squinted at him. “Wait. If you and Beckett are living here alone, where is my sister-in-law?” “Which one?” Brandon asked dryly. I stared at him. “Look,” Brandon shrugged, “I’ve been taking a break to grind the new Wukong game. I haven’t had time to date anyone.” Mystery solved. No wonder Brandon hadn’t been leaving the house. He was just pulled into a massive gaming binge. 03 “Does Beckett play games too?” I asked, remembering the lit-up screen I’d glimpsed. Brandon waved a dismissive hand. “Him? Yeah. He’s a little worse than me.” I was shocked. Worse than my brother? He had to be absolute trash at gaming. Over the next few weeks, Beckett and I rarely saw each other in person. Most of our communication happened over text. No matter how I tried to flirt—asking him “innocent” questions about my college calculus homework—he managed to steer the conversation back to academics with surgical precision. After a month, our romantic progress was absolute zero, though my math grades had never been higher. My roommate, Chloe, finally offered a different perspective. “Heather, men find a girl most attractive when she’s dominating in her own element. What are you good at?” The only thing I could think of where I might have an upper hand on Beckett was gaming. I immediately opened his contact—which I had saved as Husband—and sent a sweet, breathy voice note: “Hey, are you playing games tonight? Want to play together? I can carry you.” “No,” came his predictable, swift rejection. I kept pushing: “It’s okay if you’re bad, Beckett! I’m really good.” This time, his reply was incredibly brief: “Sorry. I’m streaming.” Streaming? Did he stream his terrible gameplay as some sort of comedy routine? The more I thought about it, the more suspicious I became. I quickly opened a search engine and typed in his name. Within seconds, my jaw hit the floor. The man my brother claimed was “worse than him” was actually the reigning MVP of the pro league, a legendary esports champion nicknamed “The Reaper” for his brutal, merciless play style. And I had just offered to “carry” him. Before the mortification could fully paralyze me, I found his stream link and clicked in. There he was, sitting in his gaming chair, looking exactly like he did in person. Quiet. Distant. Aloof. When he wasn’t smiling, he looked entirely untouchable. He was pulling in millions of viewers purely on his god-tier mechanics and that face. His chat was usually focused on strategy, but because of my text, some unusual comments were slipping through: Who was that girl who texted Reaper saying he was bad? And why did he actually reply to her in the middle of a match? Lmao, I’m cringing for her. Imagine telling a world champion you’ll carry him. I stared at the screen, my face burning. A little later, the stream host announced a viewer giveaway: they would select one viewer for a live voice call, and they could ask Beckett for a small wish. I threw all shame out the window. Under the username Beckett’s Wife, I began furiously spamming the chat: Husband! Pick me! My school just paved a new road today, it’s called ‘No Way Out of Loving You.’ Beckett, you’re stepping on my hair… If we have a baby, I’ll let them take your last name. My shameless, chaotic energy quickly broke through the sea of standard gaming comments. Beckett looked at the screen, his eyes narrowing slightly as if his vision was being assaulted. He gestured to the moderator. “Pick her.” The chat erupted: Reaper is ruthless. He’s going to publicly execute this fan. Don’t you guys know? Beckett absolutely despises obsessive fangirls. He’s probably just going to give her a polite warning to behave. Everyone, including Beckett, probably assumed I’d back out of the call from embarrassment. But I clicked accept within a millisecond. Shame? What was that? Could shame help me land a gorgeous billionaire’s son? 04 The stream host laughed, reading my username aloud. “Beckett’s Wife, welcome. What is your wish?” My camera turned on, and my eyes met Beckett’s through the screen. His dark pupils contracted slightly, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his otherwise stoic face. “Beckett,” I said, resting my chin in my hands, putting on my sweetest, most teasing voice. “Can I get a kiss?” Under the gaze of millions of viewers, Beckett coolly replied, “No.” The chat flooded with comments: Oh my god, she actually asked that. “Can I come over and look at your abs?” I continued. “No,” he said, perfectly deadpan. “Will you call me baby or wifey?” “In your dreams.” I felt like I was interacting with an AI bot, and it was honestly thrilling. “You’re so good at this, Beckett. My brother lied to me. Your fingers are so incredibly flexible, and the pink on your knuckles is so pretty…” It would look even prettier on my skin, I added silently in my mind. Beckett maintained his polite, chilly distance, parrying every single one of my advances. As his scheduled stream time neared its end, I finally threw down my real card. “Take me out to dinner, Beckett.” He stared at his camera for a long moment. Then, his lips parted. “Okay.” “Love you, husband!” I blew a kiss to the camera and immediately disconnected the call. The host was grinning, and the chat was in absolute chaos: She’s like a sweet strawberry shortcake. I don’t know if Reaper was charmed, but I certainly am. I can’t believe I just witnessed this live. Is this a romantic comedy? I’ve been following Reaper for three years, and this is the first time I’ve ever seen a girl get close to him. Are they secretly dating? The straight-forward girl always wins the quiet guy. I bet he falls for her. No way, she goes to my college. She’s a total social butterfly. They’re from completely different worlds. On the day of our dinner, I woke up at six in the morning. I selected my absolute best dress—a pastel piece with a delicate pink silk bow at the collar. I spent two hours applying a flawless “no-makeup” makeup look. I spun around in front of my roommate. “How do I look?” Chloe gave me a thumbs-up. “Like a princess.” Satisfied, I arrived at the restaurant forty minutes early. I immediately ordered a full steak dinner for myself and devoured it. That way, when Beckett arrived, I could eat two bites of a salad and pretend I had the delicate appetite of a bird. I was happily chewing on my last bite of steak when I heard a familiar voice. I looked up to find Beckett standing there, staring at my empty plate with a highly complex expression. Even in my embarrassment, I couldn’t help but admire him. Unlike his usual gaming hoodies, he was wearing a crisp, tailored white shirt buttoned all the way to his collar, and dark trousers that emphasized his long, powerful legs. He looked incredibly sophisticated, and the restraint of his outfit only made him look sexier. I wondered if he had dressed like this on purpose, knowing exactly what it did to me. “The waiter just brought this by mistake,” I said, my voice entirely confident despite the lie. “I told him I didn’t want it, but he insisted.” Beckett listened to my terrible excuse, his lips twitching into a tiny, rare smile. The waiter walked over, handing us the menus. “What else would you like?” Beckett asked. I quickly slipped back into my sweet persona, smiling warmly. “I’m already full. My appetite is quite small. You should just order for yourself.” The waiter looked confused. “Miss Colton, did you still want the double order of truffle mac and cheese you requested with the steak, then?” The private room fell into a dead, agonizing silence. The dinner ended up being a very quiet affair, with Beckett quietly ordering a few signature dishes to save me from further embarrassment. 05 A few glasses of red wine later, the alcohol began to warm my blood. I slid my foot out of my heel under the table, letting my toes brush lightly against his trouser leg, slowly tracing upward. He moved his leg away, but I immediately followed, pressing closer. This time, I bumped against something solid and remarkably firm. Beckett looked up, his dark eyes darkened by a sudden, heavy intensity. “Heather, stop. My patience isn’t as limitless as you think.” I blinked, sensing a sudden shift in him that I couldn’t quite define. He quietly sliced a fresh piece of steak and placed it on my plate. “You’re still growing. Eat.” That word—growing—bothered me. I didn’t call him “husband” because I wanted to be his little sister. The wine gave me a sudden burst of courage. I reached across, grabbed his collar, and pulled him down into the seat next to me. Before he could react, I straddled his lap, my voice dripping with honey. “Husband, do kids do this to you?” “Get up, Heather, or I’m throwing you out the window,” Beckett said, his hand landing with a firm, swatting pressure just below my waist. It wasn’t hard, but the sheer intimacy of the contact sent a shiver straight down my spine. “You wouldn’t dare,” I whispered, staring at his lips. I leaned down, but just as our lips were about to touch, a sharp knock sounded on the door. I flinched, pulling back quickly, and my elbow slammed hard against the edge of the table. “Are you made of glass, Heather?” Though his voice was exasperated, his hands were incredibly gentle as he lifted my arm to inspect the rapidly reddening skin. Before we could adjust, the door swung open. The lingering tension in the room instantly turned into a cold, sharp awkwardness. I looked toward the door. Standing there was a highly elegant, sophisticated young woman. She was tall, impeccably dressed, with a classic, refined beauty that made her look like she belonged in a museum. But the way her eyes swept over me made me instantly uncomfortable. She froze at the entrance, looking shocked. “Beckett, I’m so sorry. Am I interrupting something?”

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During a department dinner, my wife, Delia, suddenly pulled a lighter from her pocket and handed it to the new intern, who had just fished out a cigarette. I sat across from them, my fork frozen in midair. We had been married for seven years. Because of her Asperger’s, she had always operated strictly on instructions, like a machine running on a fixed code. If I didn’t ask, she didn’t act. Even the last time I sliced my finger open, blood pooling on the kitchen counter, I had to physically ask her to pass me a paper towel before she would move. But tonight, no one had given her an instruction. I slowly lowered my fork, watching the intern take the lighter from her hand. A single, quiet thought bloomed in my chest. My marriage is over. … I pushed back my chair and stepped out of the private dining room. My chest felt tight, a dull, heavy ache settling behind my ribs. Seven years. I had never seen Delia do something for someone else out of her own initiative. Her condition made her a creature of absolute precision. I inputted the command; she executed it. If I remained silent, she stayed still. When the restaurant’s AC was too cold and I muttered that I was freezing, she wouldn’t understand the implication. But if I told her, Give me your jacket, she would strip it off immediately. When my ulcer flared up and I groaned that my stomach hurt, she would look at me blankly. But if I said, Pour me a glass of warm water, she’d be in the kitchen in a heartbeat. Yet there she was, offering a lighter to an intern without a single word from him. As I washed my hands and stepped out of the restroom, I nearly collided with someone at the corner of the hallway. “Oh, sorry about that.” It was the intern. Seeing me, he didn’t look surprised at all. He smirked slightly, adjusting his collar. “You’re Elliot, right? Ms. Caldwell’s husband?” I didn’t answer. I just quietly sized him up. His ID badge read Dustin Cross. “You’re a lucky guy,” Dustin said, his tone entirely too familiar. “Having a wife who’s so… attentive.” Attentive. The word didn’t belong in the same universe as Delia. Why would Dustin use it? The only logical explanation was that she behaved entirely differently around him. A version of her I had never seen. A tenderness she had never offered me. “Is there something you need?” I asked, finding my voice. He was still standing in my path, showing no intention of moving. Dustin leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, right against my ear. “Actually, Elliot, I’m more jealous of her skin. It’s incredibly soft. Like silk.” My entire body went rigid. I stared at him, my heart hammering against my ribs. He wore a smug, provocative grin, and seeing my reaction, he decided to press harder. “Last Thursday, after the client dinner, Ms. Caldwell and I both drank too much. We got a room at the Ritz. She was the one who suggested it.” He tilted his head, his eyes gleaming with malicious amusement. “It was just an accident, Elliot. You won’t hold it against me, right?” My mind went entirely blank, save for one phrase repeating like a broken record. She suggested it. But she never suggested anything. She never initiated. I remembered our first Valentine’s Day. She worked until past midnight, coming home with no flowers, no cake, no card. I had spent the evening watching couples hold hands on the streets, and by the time she walked through the door, I collapsed into a childish, desperate tantrum. At midnight, I demanded, Go buy me a cake. I want it right now. Delia didn’t argue. She got back in her car and drove through a torrential downpour, scouring the city until she found a bakery that hadn’t closed its doors yet. When she returned, her hair was plastered to her forehead, the cuffs of her jeans soaked. But she didn’t complain. She just handed me the box. Then there was the time we planned to hike up Mt. Rainier over the weekend. I had packed the gear, eager for a quiet escape. But that morning, she got a call from the office. An emergency. Furious, I took my pack and left alone. Sitting at the trailhead, the resentment festered until I couldn’t take it anymore. I called her. “Delia, you need to get up here right now. I’m waiting for you.” There was a three-second silence on the line. “Okay,” she said. An hour later, she appeared. She hadn’t even changed out of her work clothes. Within twenty minutes of walking the gravel trail in her designer heels, her feet were bleeding, leaving her limping painfully. Only later did I find out she had walked away from an eight-figure contract negotiation just because I told her to come. It was those moments that had kept me in this marriage for seven years. I had never regretted marrying her. I thought that was just her way of loving me. She couldn’t say the words, she couldn’t take the first step, but if I asked, she would tear her own world apart to give me what I wanted. The only time Delia had ever initiated anything was one quiet evening when she turned to me and said, “We should get married.” I had been stunned, blinking back tears of joy. “Why the sudden proposal?” Her face was completely expressionless. “We are dating. Dating leads to marriage. It is the logical next step.” Even then, I was moved. I convinced myself she wasn’t cold; she was just different. She loved me in her own silent, structured way. But now, a simple plastic lighter had shattered every excuse I had ever built for her. The motion-activated lights in the hallway clicked off, plunging us into shadow. In the dark, I felt a hollow ache open up in my chest, as if someone had cleanly scooped out my heart, leaving a void where the cold draft could whistle through. “What are you two doing?” The lights flickered back on. Delia stood at the end of the hall. She looked at me, then at Dustin. Her expression was as blank and unreadable as ever. “The food is getting cold. Are we going back?” I looked at her, and when I spoke, my voice sounded like dry gravel. “Delia, last Thursday. You didn’t come home. Where were you, really?” Her composure cracked, just for a fraction of a second. Then, she pinched the bridge of her nose, a flicker of irritation passing over her features. “I told you, Elliot. I had too much to drink. I fell asleep on the couch in the executive lounge at the office.” “I already explained this. Do you not trust me?” I stared into her eyes. There wasn’t a trace of guilt, not a hint of a lie. But that was her condition—she didn’t register deceit the way normal people did. And I didn’t believe a single word. A couple walked past us down the hall, casting curious glances. I took a deep, shaky breath, blinking back the hot sting of tears, and forced my voice to remain steady. “Let’s talk about this at home.” But deep down, I knew there was nothing left to say. Outside the restaurant, a summer storm was turning the streets into rivers. I got into the passenger seat first. Out of habit, I looked at the center console screen. The navigation system was still active, displaying our recent history. Thursday, 11:42 PM. Destination: The Ritz-Carlton Downtown. Vehicle parked until Friday, 8:15 AM. I stared at the screen, my fingers slowly tightening around the hem of my jacket until my knuckles turned white. She had lied to me. Through the rain-streaked window, I saw her walk over to Dustin, who was hovering near the restaurant’s revolving doors. They spoke for a brief moment. Then, holding her umbrella high, she guided him toward our car. “The weather is terrible. We’re dropping him off first,” she said, pulling open the door. Her tone was completely matter-of-fact, leaving no room for argument. I watched Dustin slide into the backseat. In the rearview mirror, his smirk was victorious—a blatant, mocking challenge. Delia leaned over the console, reaching back to adjust the rear AC vents, pointing them away from Dustin so the cold air wouldn’t hit him directly. I sat in the passenger seat, rainwater dripping from the ends of my hair onto my collar. She hadn’t cast a single glance my way. She hadn’t asked if I was cold. My mind drifted back to a storm just like this one the previous summer. I had been stuck at the office until nine in the evening. When I finally walked out, the rain was a solid wall of gray. I had no umbrella. I called her three times, but she didn’t pick up. I stood under the awning for forty minutes while the rideshare apps showed endless waiting times. Eventually, I gave up and ran to the subway station, getting thoroughly soaked. When I finally pushed open our apartment door, dripping wet and shivering, she was sitting on the couch with her laptop. She looked up once, her eyes sliding over my drenched clothes without a hint of concern, before returning to her work emails. The next day, my temperature spiked to 104. I lay in bed, shaking so hard my teeth chattered. She got dressed, grabbed her bag, and left for work right on schedule. She didn’t offer to drive me to the clinic. She didn’t even leave a glass of water on the nightstand. The car’s AC was blowing cold air directly onto my forehead, starting a dull throb. I looked in the side mirror. Dustin’s hair was barely damp. In the short walk from the restaurant lobby to the car, Delia had made sure the umbrella covered him completely. I wondered how she had even remembered to bring an umbrella. She never checked the weather forecast; usually, I was the one slipping a compact umbrella into her bag before she left for work. Finally, the car pulled up to Dustin’s apartment building. Before getting out, he leaned forward with a smooth smile. “Thanks for the ride, Ms. Caldwell. Goodnight, Elliot.” That smile belonged to a winner. The heavy door clicked shut, and the sound of the rain outside seemed to double in volume. Under the cover of the downpour, my voice cracked. “Delia, let’s get a divorce.” Delia’s brows knit together. She didn’t answer immediately. As the silence stretched, thick and suffocating in the cabin, I spoke again. “I checked the navigation logs. Thursday night. You were at the Ritz with him, wasn’t you?” She finally turned her head to look at me, a rare flash of panic and confusion crossing her face. Face-to-face with undeniable proof, she had no logical defense left. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I lied to you because I didn’t want you to be angry.” “I promise you, it was only that one time. It was an accident. I was drunk.” She paused, her hands tightening on the steering wheel. “Our vow renewal is in two days. Let’s just put this behind us. Don’t let it ruin our ceremony, okay?” I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the headrest. I remembered how she had brought up the idea of a vow renewal a few months ago. Because of her condition and our rushed marriage, we had only registered the paperwork at City Hall seven years ago without a proper wedding. With our seventh anniversary approaching, she had told me she wanted to do this to make up for what we missed. At the time, I had been incredibly touched. I thought she was finally understanding my emotional needs, trying to heal the quiet ache of our simple, uncelebrated beginning. Now, the truth tasted like ash. It wasn’t love or a sudden emotional awakening. It was guilt. She was tangled up with her intern at the office, doing things behind my back, and this ceremony was her logical attempt to balance the ledger. And her promise that it would never happen again? I couldn’t bring myself to believe it. The moment she chose to lie, the fragile trust I had spent seven years building evaporated completely. The car lurched forward again. I opened my eyes to stare out at the rain-soaked, pitch-black night. The warning signs had been there all along. Three months ago, I had stepped into the shower only to realize I’d forgotten a towel. Leaving the door cracked, I called out to her twice, asking her to bring me one. She never came. I had to shiver, dripping wet, as I walked out into the cold bedroom to fetch it myself. As I passed the study, I heard her on the phone with Dustin, patiently explaining how to handle a client deck. I hadn’t thought much of it then, assuming she was just mentoring a new hire. But looking back, Delia never called her subordinates after hours. And that was the very first time she had simply ignored a direct request from me. And a week ago, the night she didn’t come home, she had gone to a client dinner and taken only Dustin. Delia hated drinking. If she had alcohol in her system that night, she had undoubtedly been matching glasses to shield him. When the engine finally cut out in our building’s parking garage, the silence was absolute. I snapped out of my thoughts, realizing we were home. I walked straight to the bedroom. Delia went to her study. As always, there were no words between us. I sat down at my desk, opened my laptop, and stared at a blank document. My fingers hovered over the keys for a long moment. Then, I began to type: MARITAL DISSOLUTION AGREEMENT I printed it out, signed my name in clear, steady ink, and placed the pages inside the nightstand drawer. When I finished, I looked at the desk calendar. The date of our vow renewal, just two days away, was circled in thick red ink. I had looked forward to it for months. Now, I took a black pen and drew a heavy line straight through it. There would be no ceremony. I had already booked a one-way ticket to Switzerland for tomorrow evening. Once I left, I was never coming back. The next morning, the sharp buzz of the doorbell woke me. I opened the door to find Dustin standing in the hallway. Behind him, two delivery couriers in uniforms were holding stacks of luxury shopping bags. “Morning, Elliot. Ms. Caldwell asked me to drop these off.” “She said you seemed upset last night. She hoped these might cheer you up.” It was Delia’s clumsy attempt at an apology. If this had happened a year ago, I would have been thrilled to see her trying to make amends. But as I looked at the designer logos, I noticed two of the brands only made menswear. She hadn’t even bothered to curate them. She had probably just instructed her assistant to purchase a standard luxury package to placate me. Even when trying to save our marriage, she couldn’t be burdened to care. “Put them in the utility closet,” I said flatly. The delivery men deposited the bags and left, but Dustin remained in the doorway. He leaned against the frame, crossing his arms as he ran an arrogant gaze over me. “You know, Elliot, women—no matter their age—always prefer someone younger, someone with a bit of life in them.” “You’re losing your edge. You shouldn’t be surprised that she’s looking elsewhere.” “Are you finished?” I asked, keeping my voice completely devoid of emotion. “If you are, get out.” I had no desire to trade barbs with him. My marriage was already over. If he wanted to climb his way into her bed permanently, that was his business now. Dustin’s smirk faltered, clearly caught off guard by my lack of anger. He scoffed, his tone turning sharp. “Ms. Caldwell wants me to drive you to the tailor for your final fitting. You’re a lucky man, Elliot. After all these years, she’s still willing to give you your little dream wedding.” I didn’t argue. I grabbed my keys and walked past him. I was leaving tonight, and I didn’t want to cause any scene that might complicate my departure. He drove, and I sat in the passenger seat, staring out at the passing streets. We were only one intersection away from the bridal boutique. Suddenly, there was a violent shudder. The world spun sideways. My body was thrown violently against the passenger door, the seatbelt cutting deep into my chest with a sickening jolt. The sound of shattering glass filled the air. Then, a warm, thick trickle of blood began to slide down my forehead. I forced my eyes open through the haze. The white fabric of the airbag was deflated before me. Dustin was slumped over the steering wheel, cradling his arm, his face stark white. In the distance, the wail of sirens began to rise. Within minutes, Delia’s sleek black sedan pulled up to the curb. She threw her door open and ran toward the wreckage, her face pale with terror. But as she reached the passenger side, she didn’t stop. She ran right past my window, rounded the hood, and yanked open the driver’s side door, desperately pulling Dustin out into the open air. My hand, which had been weakly reaching out to tap on the cracked glass, froze in midair. Slowly, I let it drop back to my lap. My vision began to blur. I couldn’t tell if it was the blood in my eyes or the tears. The world went dark, and I let myself slide into the quiet. When I woke, the ceiling was a sterile, glaring white, and the sharp scent of antiseptic filled my nose. “Just a mild concussion. You need some rest, but you’re going to be fine,” a doctor’s voice said from nearby. I turned my head slightly. Delia was sitting in the chair beside my bed. There was a faint smear of dried blood on her white silk dress. “Since there are no major injuries,” she said, her voice steady and logical, “the ceremony tomorrow will proceed as planned.” She opened her mouth as if to say more, but her phone suddenly buzzed on the nightstand. I caught the name on the screen. It was Dustin. She answered, listened for a second, and then looked at me. “I need to step out for a moment.” The second the heavy door clicked shut behind her, I threw back the thin hospital blanket. I reached down and pulled the IV needle from the back of my hand. A small bead of dark blood welled up; I pressed a stray tissue against it until it stopped. I grabbed my jacket from the small closet. My phone, ID, and wallet were all in the pockets. It was everything I needed. I walked out of the hospital, hailed a cab to the airport, and finally turned my phone back on to send one last message to Delia: From now on, you don’t have to follow my instructions anymore. Follow Dustin’s. The signed divorce papers are in the nightstand drawer. Please sign them. I tapped send, shut the phone off, slid the SIM card out, and snapped it in half. As the cab merged onto the highway, I tossed the broken pieces of plastic out the window. Goodbye, Delia. I hope we never meet again.

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On Thanksgiving night, I stumbled upon a livestream that seemed to defy time. It was me, from five years ago. “Look, everyone! He just proposed!” She was beaming, radiating the dizzying happiness of Conrad’s grand, romantic gesture. I just watched quietly, a faint, tired smile resting on my lips. Then, my phone buzzed. It was a video from Conrad. The screen filled with raw, intimate heat. Heavy, breathless gasps echoed from the speakers as he pressed his new girl against a wall, kissing her with a desperate, performative hunger. I closed the video with practiced numbness and returned to the livestream. I looked at my past self, so young and glowing with hope. Amidst the flood of “forever and always” and “happily ever after” scrolling through her chat, I typed two lines: [You and Conrad—it doesn’t end the way you think.] [Leave now. While you still can.] … The moment those lines posted, the chat erupted. “Who is this bitter troll?” “Jealous much?” “Some people just can’t stand seeing childhood sweethearts make it to the altar.” Five years ago, I sat in front of the camera, trying to maintain a polite, fragile smile. “Don’t worry about it, guys. Just ignore them.” But less than three minutes after logging off, a direct message request popped up on my personal account. It was her. I accepted. Instantly, a FaceTime call rang through. She looked defensive, her eyes scanning my face. “I never mentioned Conrad’s name. How did you know? And please stop spreading lies. He’s protected me since we were seven years old…” Her voice faltered. She finally took in my gaunt, hollow face, the dark circles carved under my eyes. She froze. “Who… who are you? Why do you look exactly like me?” Before I could answer, the heavy front door of my apartment rumbled open. While she waited on the other end, demanding answers, I silently flipped the camera, aiming it toward the foyer. Conrad had brought her home. Their hands were all over each other before the door even clicked shut. He pinned her against the wall, her high heels kicking off onto the hardwood floor as they lost themselves in a frantic, sloppy kiss. On the screen, my past self went deathly pale. I watched the scene unfold, completely numb. I had stopped feeling this pain a long time ago. Every time Conrad got a new girl, he recorded a video and sent it to me. “Keeping me in the loop,” he called it. It was a cruel, humiliating game he had played for three years, never tiring of the sport. The noise at the door settled. Conrad spotted me sitting in the dark, motionless on the sofa. He didn’t even pause. Instead, he kept his hand wrapped tightly around her waist, guiding her over. “Why the long face? I sent you the video beforehand. You knew we were coming.” I looked at the woman. This time, it was my best friend. Daphne. Daphne giggled, pressing her body flush against his. “Gwen, sweetie. I always knew you were the understanding type.” With a sly smile, she hooked her finger into Conrad’s belt loop, tugging him toward the master bedroom. The heavy door slammed shut. From inside, the muffled, unmistakable sounds of intimacy began to drift out. I looked back at the phone screen. My younger self had red, swollen eyes. She was already crying. “I’m you, five years from now,” I whispered. “This is your future.” Tears spilled over her lashes, her voice trembling violently. “No. He would never do this. He’s loved me since we were kids…” I didn’t argue. I simply forwarded the video he had just sent me to her inbox. She watched it, her face a mask of absolute disbelief. “If… if he really becomes this monster… why are you still there? Why do you stay and take this?” I let out a dry, humorless laugh. How beautifully naive I was five years ago. I sat on the sofa all night, sleep a distant luxury. My phone screen lit up repeatedly through the dark hours. She was sending endless messages. “Daphne is my best friend. How could she and Conrad…” “Why did you let yourself become like this?” “Gwen, what on earth happened to you over these five years?” I stared at the glowing text, closed my heavy eyes, and didn’t reply to a single one. In the morning, Conrad left for the office. Daphne strolled out of the master bedroom, stretching lazily when she saw me. “Still here? God, Conrad was absolutely relentless last night. My back is killing me.” She lifted her hand, sweeping her hair back to deliberately show off the dark purple bruises blooming across her collarbone. “But don’t worry, Gwen. He’s never going to divorce you. After all, you have a lifetime of debts to pay him back for.” Daphne’s smile widened, sharp and poisonous. “Besides, even if you wanted to leave… would you dare?” She was right. Conrad would never let me go. And I couldn’t afford to leave. My father’s life was hanging by a thread, entirely dependent on the private medical resources and specialists Conrad funded. I said nothing. Feeling like she was throwing punches at a ghost, Daphne scoffs, lost interest, and left. My phone buzzed again. Unable to handle my silence, my past self called me directly on FaceTime. She looked like she hadn’t slept a wink either, her eyes raw and red. The moment the connection stabilized, she demanded, “Why aren’t you answering me? You have your own career! Even if he changed, why didn’t you just pack your bags and walk out?” My heavy silence slowly drained the remaining spark from her eyes. She began to realize the truth, her voice dropping to a fragile whisper. “So… in five years… we have nothing left? Is that it?” I nodded slowly. Walking over to the window, I aimed the camera down the street toward a cleared, gravel-strewn lot two blocks away. “That was my design studio,” I said quietly. The place I had built from scratch, pouring over hundreds of blueprints, working late into the night until my hands cramped. But Conrad had systematically pressured my clients to cancel their contracts, bought out the entire building, and razed it to the ground. Looking at the empty lot, she stammered in sheer shock. “Why? Why would he be so heartless? What did you do? Tell me, Gwen, please!” I looked down, my throat tight and dry. “You don’t want to know.” Four winters ago, Conrad’s younger sister, Iris, jumped from a high-rise building, dying instantly. And I was set up. I woke up in a hotel room, disheveled and barely dressed, lying in the same bed as Iris’s boyfriend. Conrad convinced himself that I was a shameless homewrecker whose actions drove his sister to suicide. From that day on, the boy who swore he would protect me forever died. He stripped away everything I loved, dragging me down into his personal hell. Pulling myself out of the memory, I looked at the screen. My past self was staring at me, her eyes hollowed by despair. “Is there really nothing you can do?” After a long, suffocating silence, I slowly shook my head. “Not for me.” In the quiet that followed, I held her gaze and spoke clearly, letting every word land. “But for you, there is still time.” The call disconnected, leaving me alone in the empty, silent house. Just as the screen went black, a text notification hums. It was from my dad: Gwen, sweetie, did you get some of those Thanksgiving pies? How are you holding up? Dad is doing just fine here at the clinic. Don’t work yourself too hard, okay? A sudden, sharp ache hit my throat, and my eyes prickled. After four years of systematic emotional wearing down, most of my wounds had lost their ability to feel pain. Now, Dad was the only thing left that connected me to this world. I went to the hospital. In the private room, Dad was propped up against the pillows, his skin a fragile, sallow yellow. He forced a weak smile when he saw me walk in. “Gwen. Have you eaten yet?” “Yes,” I lied. He studied my face, reaching out to gently brush a stray lock of hair behind my ear, just like he did when I was a little girl. “You’ve lost so much weight.” “Just busy at the studio,” I managed a faint, reassuring smile. Dad sighed, shaking his head. “The nurses told me, Gwen… your studio closed four years ago.” I froze, struggling to keep the fake smile on my face, murmuring that it was just a minor setback. Suddenly, Dad gripped my hand with surprising strength. “Gwen… is Conrad treating you well?” I wanted to say, He’s just busy. But the words lodged in my throat, choking me. “Dad, don’t worry about us. Just focus on resting.” I gently pulled my hand away and practically fled the room. Out in the quiet hallway, I tilted my head back, swallowing down the bitter lump in my throat. But before I could compose myself, the attending physician approached with a grim expression. “Gwen, your father’s kidney function is deteriorating rapidly. We need to increase his dialysis treatments. You need to speak with Conrad about funding this extension as soon as possible.” I nodded, my body stiff. As the doctor walked away, the elevator doors chimed open. Conrad and Daphne stepped out. Daphne was holding an ultrasound printout, one hand resting protectively over her stomach, a triumphant smile on her face. He was here for her prenatal appointment. Swallowing my pride, I stepped forward and blocked Conrad’s path. “The doctor says my dad needs more dialysis sessions. Can we please—” Conrad glanced at me with cold indifference. Daphne gently tugged on his arm. “Conrad, honey, they’re going to call our name. The doctor said we might hear the heartbeat today. Let’s go, please?” Without a second glance at me, he wrapped his arm around her waist and guided her toward the OB-GYN wing. I watched their retreating backs. A pain far deeper than any humiliation tore through my chest. Two years ago, the constant psychological abuse drove me into severe depression. I was surviving on heavy doses of medication. It wasn’t until I collapsed and was rushed to the ER that I found out I was pregnant. But because of the heavy meds, the fetus had already stopped developing. I had to undergo a grueling procedure. I hemorrhaged on the table, and they issued a critical condition notice. When I finally woke up from the anesthesia, cold and trembling, I called Conrad. The only response I got was the low, breathless sound of him with another woman. When he eventually found out about the baby we lost, he actually wept. He held me tightly, sobbing, begging for forgiveness over and over. For a brief moment, I thought it was a flicker of his humanity returning. But his guilt didn’t even last a month. Soon enough, he was back to his cold, sadistic self, revolving through an endless cycle of women. The pain of losing our child was a chapter he closed with ease. Leaving me to rot in the aftermath, day after day. My phone vibrated. It was my past self. She asked why I haven’t replied today. I looked toward the digital screen in the waiting area, took a quick photo of Daphne’s name listed under the OB-GYN appointments, and sent it to her. Then I locked my phone, dragging my exhausted body out of the hospital. What I didn’t know was that behind me, my father had slowly dragged himself out of his room, leaning against the hallway wall, his eyes red and brimming with silent tears as he witnessed the entire exchange. When I returned to the house, I find all my belongings piled in boxes out in the hallway. The housekeeper looked at me apologetically. “Mr. Dennis said… Ms. Daphne is moving in.” I nodded quietly and dragged my boxes into the small guest storage room off the hallway. Late that night, lying on the narrow cot in the storage room, my phone rang. It was the hospital. The nurse’s voice was shaking. “Gwen… your father… he waited until the night shift nurses were doing rounds, and he pulled out his ventilator tubes.” “We tried to resuscitate him, but he’s gone. I’m so sorry.” My mind went entirely blank. I didn’t even put on shoes. I ran out of the house barefoot, sprinting down the cold asphalt toward the hospital. Rocks cut into the soles of my feet, leaving bloody tracks, until I managed to wave down a cab. In the backseat, shivering, I finally saw the last voicemail Dad left me: Gwen, my sweet girl. Dad doesn’t want to be the chain that keeps you locked in that cage anymore. You’ve suffered so much for me over these years. My beautiful daughter… don’t look back. You’re free now. When I arrived, the hospital room was perfectly still. A white sheet was drawn over his face. Holding his cold hand, I broke down. For the first time in years, the wall of numbness cracked, and I sobbed until my chest felt hollow. By the time the paperwork was processed, it was four in the morning. I sat on the concrete steps outside the morgue, my phone screen glowing in the dark. On the other end of the screen, my past self had red, swollen eyes. She stayed on the line with me through the entire night. Without her, I wouldn’t have survived the dark. When I walked back into the house, the sun was already high. Conrad was sitting on the living room sofa. Hearing the front door, he cast a frigid look over his shoulder. “The housekeeper said you ran out in the middle of the night. What is wrong with you? You’re not answering your phone or your texts.” I ignored his anger. My voice was as flat as stagnant water. “I want a divorce.” Conrad blinked, stunned for a fraction of a second, before letting out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Sure. Try it. The moment you sign those papers, your father’s treatment stops. Gwen, you’d better think long and hard before you start playing games with me.” With that, he stood up and walked upstairs, completely unbothered. I watched him walk away, feeling nothing but a vast, silent emptiness. He thought he held the ultimate leverage. He thought that as long as my father needed his money to survive, I would always crawl back, begging for forgiveness. But he had no idea. Just hours ago, the only thing keeping me in this prison… vanished. I walked into the bathroom, splashed cold water on my face, and opened the video call with my past self one last time. The connection went through. Her eyes were still terribly red. “Tell me,” she said, her voice steady and resolute. “What do I need to do right now?” I looked at her—at my younger, unbroken self—and say only four words. “Leave him. Never look back.” She closed her eyes for a long moment. When she opened them, there was nothing left but sheer determination. “Okay. I promise.” The call ended. I took one last look around this house, realizing how absurd these last five years had been. But at least it was over. I walked out the front door, leaving it all behind. Meanwhile, in his second-floor study, Conrad leaned back in his leather chair. He wondered why I hadn’t come upstairs to beg for his mercy yet. Usually, all it took was a mention of my father, and I’d be knocking on his door within ten minutes, apologizing. This was taking too long. An unfamiliar prickle of irritation prompted him to stand up. He opened the door and walked down the stairs. The living room was dead silent. Empty. “Gwen!” he called out, his brow furrowing. No answer. He descended the stairs, but his steps suddenly faltered. The shoe rack near the door, which used to be lined with my neatly organized shoes, was completely bare. He looked around, a sudden sense of wrongness settling over him. The throw pillows I picked out for the sofa were gone. The mug I always used on the coffee table was gone. On the wall where our wedding portrait used to hang, there was now a landscape painting he had never seen before. Panic seizing him, he bolted up the stairs and threw open the door to the small guest storage room. It was completely bare, as if no one had ever set foot inside. Every trace of my existence in this house had vanished into thin air. “Gwen!” he roared, his voice cracking with sudden, desperate confusion. The housekeeper ran out of the kitchen, startled by his shout. “Mr. Dennis… who is Gwen?” Conrad grabbed her by the shoulder, his voice shaking with suppressed fury. “Stop playing stupid! My wife! She was just here!” The housekeeper trembled under his grip. “Sir, please… I’ve worked for you for five years. You’ve always lived here alone.”

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I was Kellan’s prized possession, a little gilded bird kept securely in his cage. When his empire crumbled and he filed for bankruptcy, I ruthlessly aborted our baby and walked out the door. Three years later, Kellan was back on top, a billionaire once more. And I came back. Everyone in our social circle whispered that he would never forgive me. But when we finally stood face-to-face, his hands gripped my shoulders, his knuckles white. He pushed me away, then pulled me back, finally crushing me against his chest in a gesture of pure, defeated surrender. “Daphne,” he murmured into my hair, his voice thick. “If I just stay rich, does that mean you’ll never leave me again?” He built me a house of glass and gold. Marble countertops, silk sheets, a life dripping in an opulence that eclipsed anything we had before. He was terrified of losing me. Eventually, I got pregnant. Right before my due date, Kellan had to fly to Europe for a crucial acquisition. Anxious about leaving me, he pressed three sealed envelopes into my hands. “Daphne,” he said, kissing my forehead. “Don’t open these until you feel like you absolutely can’t hold on anymore. Just pretend it’s me, standing right there with you.” When my labor turned into a nightmare and I found myself hanging on the edge of death in the delivery room, my breath shallow and my vision fading, I used the last ounce of my strength to tear them open. My blood turned to ice. The first envelope contained photos of him in bed with another woman. The second was a single, crisp piece of paper. The handwriting was sharp and mocking: Ready to die, baby? The third was a marriage certificate. Kellan and another woman. And his wife was the lead surgeon currently standing between my legs. … 1 The blood roared in my ears, rushing backward through my veins. I never, not in my darkest nightmares, imagined Kellan could hate me this much. Leila twirled the scalpel between her gloved fingers, a sickeningly sweet smile on her face as she looked down at my swollen stomach. “Well, well, the little homewrecker,” she cooed. “Kellan told me to take extra special care of you.” She leaned in closer, her eyes gleaming. “When you dumped him at his lowest, you didn’t think he’d claw his way back to the top, did you?” A cracked, pathetic laugh escaped my throat. Didn’t I? When Kellan went bankrupt, I immediately flew out of the country to beg my wealthy parents to bail him out. I never expected them to lock me inside their estate, confiscating my passport to keep me from returning to him. They froze all my accounts to ensure I couldn’t send him a dime. So, I fell into the dark web. I joined an underground syndicate of freelance hackers, coding relentlessly, day and night, running illegal penetration tests to make fast, untraceable cash. Every single cent was wired anonymously into Kellan’s depleted accounts. I pushed myself until I was coughing up blood onto my keyboard. Until the exhaustion metastasized into stomach cancer… “Ah!” A blinding, jagged spike of agony tore through my abdomen. Cold sweat drenched my hospital gown. I stared at her, my eyes wide with a horrific realization. “You… you didn’t give me anesthesia?” Before Leila could answer, the familiar, deep baritone of a man’s voice echoed from the speakerphone on a nearby surgical tray. “You’re used to being pampered, baby. You always turned your nose up at domestic meds. The imported stuff is on the way. You’ll just have to tough it out.” When Kellan first bought my time, I played the part of the impossible brat. I threw tantrums. I demanded only imported, out-of-season fruits. Everyone in his circle knew his little trophy girl was a nightmare to please, yet he had always catered to my every whim with a soft, indulgent smile. But this… this was pure, unadulterated vengeance. The pain was suffocating. I gasped for air, forcing the words out toward the phone. “Kellan… what happened back then… I can explain—” His voice dropped, freezing the air in the room. “Explain?” A second later, Leila let out a breathy gasp. Her hand jerked, the scalpel slicing millimeters off course. A fresh wave of white-hot agony ripped a scream from my throat. Leila’s face flushed a deep crimson. She shot a coy, scolding look at the phone. “Kellan, stop! I’m performing surgery here. Quit playing around!” A low, mechanical buzzing sound drifted from beneath her surgical gown. My entire body went rigid. While I was on the operating table, half a step into the grave, giving birth to his child… they were… Kellan… even sworn enemies wouldn’t do this… For the next three hours, every time Leila prepared to make a cut, Kellan would press a button on his end. Leila’s knees would buckle, and the blade would slip, tearing through my flesh. “Does that rhythm feel good, baby?” his voice rasped through the speaker. “Ah… babe… you’re so bad…” I lay strapped to the table, my jaw clamped shut so tight my teeth threatened to crack. My fingernails dug into the armrests until all ten beds bled profusely. But I didn’t make a sound. Working in the underground hacker network, I had made enemies. I’d been hunted, beaten, and tortured. I had learned how to swallow pain. There were nights I’d drag myself back to my safehouse, covered in my own blood, take a shower, and wake up the next morning to code so I could send Kellan more money. An eternity passed before the surgery was finally over. My once-smooth stomach was now a mangled, grotesque mess of butchered flesh. Just before the darkness pulled me under, I heard a flicker of genuine surprise in Kellan’s voice over the line. “Huh. You used to cry and beg me to stop if I gripped your wrists a little too hard.” A cruel, hollow laugh. “Look at how much you can take now. What’s the matter? Did you figure out that without me, nobody in this world is going to coddle you?” 2 In the hazy delirium of unconsciousness, my mind drifted back to the day we met. It was my first time back in the States. I saw Kellan across a dimly lit VIP lounge, and something in me just clicked. I was actually sitting there, sipping a martini, seriously wondering if it was a felony to kidnap a man and keep him, when he walked over and slid his black card across the bar. “Fifty thousand a month,” he had said, his eyes dark and appraising. “Be my girl.” From that day on, I played my role perfectly. The arrogant, spoiled brat who snapped her fingers whenever she was tired or hungry. His three frat-bro best friends despised me. “Who the hell acts like this?” Derek used to complain. “She literally kicked her Louboutins into your chest and told you to take them off!” They couldn’t stand me. They challenged me to a street race, betting that if I lost, I had to drop the diva act. I annihilated them in three straight laps. After that, they bowed to my authority, following me around like eager puppies, calling me their queen. When my eyelids finally fluttered open, the sterile chill of the hospital room reminded me that those days were dead and buried. My butchered incision burned with the threat of infection. Every breath felt like swallowing glass. Clutching the wall for support, I dragged myself out into the hallway to find a nurse. Instead, I saw Leila walking ahead of me, cradling a swaddled infant in her arms. Trailing behind her were Kellan’s three best friends—Derek and the others. They were holding up a massive, obnoxious banner, shouting at the top of their lungs: “CONGRATULATIONS TO THE REAL MRS. KELLAN ON DELIVERING THE HOMEWRECKER’S TRASH!” “CONGRATULATIONS TO THE REAL MRS. KELLAN ON DELIVERING THE HOMEWRECKER’S TRASH!” A crowd of onlookers, nurses, and patients had gathered, whispering and pointing. “Oh my god, his wife is a saint. If I were the doctor, I’d have thrown the mistress and her bastard out the window!” “Can you believe the nerve? Trying to trap Dr. Leila’s husband! Everyone knows the CEO worships the ground Dr. Leila walks on. Having her deliver the baby is the ultimate power move to humiliate the side piece!” The crowd surged forward, chaotic and tight. Suddenly, amidst the shoving, someone snatched the baby from Leila’s arms. With a sickening thud, the infant was hurled onto the hard linoleum floor. “That’s what you get, homewrecker!” someone spat. I pressed my hands against my bleeding incision and screamed, lunging forward like a feral animal. Derek caught me by the shoulders, shoving me back with a sneer. “Well, well. If it isn’t Kellan’s little gold digger. It’s been what, three, four years?” Tears streamed down my face, mixing with the cold sweat. Across the floor, my baby let out a faint, gurgling breath, barely clinging to life. “Derek, please…” I sobbed, dropping to my knees. “Please, remember when I helped you… please just let me get to my baby…” Back then, I had single-handedly hacked a rival firm to secure a massive merger for Derek. He had practically worshipped me, swearing he would take a bullet for me. Derek’s eyes turned dead and cold. He kicked me away. “You think a cheap whore gets to give me orders? I only take orders from Kellan’s actual wife.” The crowd was moving again, feet shuffling perilously close to the tiny bundle on the floor. “But it’s Kellan’s baby too!” I shrieked, my voice tearing. “Aren’t you afraid of what he’ll do?!” Leila burst into laughter. A second later, Derek and the others joined in, their laughter echoing off the sterile walls. “Oh, sweetie,” Derek mocked, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. “You didn’t actually think Kellan would ever touch you again, did you?” “You’re so obsessed with money, you actually convinced yourself he was treating you like royalty again?” another friend chimed in. “Newsflash, honey,” Leila whispered, her voice dripping with venom. “The guy you slept with was a homeless junkie Kellan hired off the street. He filmed the whole thing and sent the video to the group chat!” 3 I froze. The world stopped spinning. The passionate reunion I thought we had. The tender nights. The desperate, consuming love. It was all a lie. A meticulously crafted stage for his revenge. In the blink of an eye, a heavy boot came down in the chaos. There was a faint, sickening crunch. The baby stopped crying. Realizing what had just happened, the crowd suddenly scattered like roaches in the light, eager to distance themselves from the murder. I sat slumped against the wall, staring blankly at the tiny, lifeless body on the floor. “Why didn’t you believe me…” I whispered to the empty air. “He really was Kellan’s…” A primal, guttural scream ripped from my chest. I threw myself at Leila, tackling her to the ground, my fists hammering wildly at her stomach. Derek and the others rushed to pull me off, but before they could, a massive force kicked me squarely in my raw, unhealed abdomen. I flew backward, hitting the wall. Blood immediately soaked through my gown. I looked up, gasping for air, and saw him. Kellan. He was gently pulling Leila into his arms, checking her over before turning his furious, obsidian eyes on me. “Daphne!” he roared. “Leila worked herself to the bone helping me rebuild my company! She exhausted herself so badly she was hospitalized! Do you have a fucking heart?! How dare you touch her!” The tears broke, flowing silently down my cheeks. I had worked myself until I coughed up blood. Until my stomach rotted with cancer. And he was asking if I had a heart? A thousand explanations sat on the tip of my tongue, but looking at the absolute hatred in his eyes, I swallowed them all. “Our baby is dead,” I whispered, my voice hollow. “Did you know that?” Kellan froze for a fraction of a second. His eyes reddened, pooling with a toxic mix of grief and unadulterated rage. “Your bastard with some junkie dies and you cry for it? What about our child, Daphne?!” He took a step toward me, his voice shaking the walls. “You were almost five months along when you killed her! How could you do it?! Because I was broke? Because I lost my company, you murdered my daughter?!” Mentioning that child felt like taking a bullet to the chest. I squeezed my eyes shut. When Kellan lost everything and fell into a deep depression, I was desperate. I signed up for an illegal, high-risk clinical trial for pregnant women to earn a massive payout. But the drug failed. It killed the baby in my womb. I was a mother—did he really think I didn’t bleed for her? But I was terrified the guilt would push him over the edge. So, I hid the truth about the trials, packed my bags, and flew out to beg my parents for a loan. All he saw was the abortion clinic receipt I left on the kitchen counter. Seeing my silence, Kellan let out a bitter, jagged laugh. He turned, walked to his car, and pulled out a heavy duffel bag. He unzipped it and dumped it over me. Thousands of crumpled one-dollar bills rained down, burying me in dirty, degrading paper. “There’s the blood money for your kid!” he spat. “You made this big scene because you wanted a payout, right?! You came crawling back to me because you wanted cash, didn’t you?!” He closed his eyes, and a single, crystalline tear slipped down his jawline. “Everything you want, I’ll give it to you. But after today, our debts are settled. If I ever see your face again, I’ll kill you.” I shook my head frantically, my chest heaving with sobs that tore my stitches open. I didn’t want the money! I let them experiment on my body. I joined the criminal underworld. I severed ties with my family forever. I walked through hell and sacrificed my very soul. The only thing I ever wanted was you! The blood pooled beneath me, slick and warm against the cold tile. The pain finally short-circuited my brain, and I began to lose consciousness. In the fading light, Kellan’s face was a mask of stone. “Get a doctor to drag her out of here,” he ordered the room. “Tell her the next time we meet, I won’t hold back.” Suddenly, Derek’s phone pinged. He looked at it, his eyes widening in shock. “Kellan! We got a hit on the IP address for Sage! We’re finally gonna find out who the hacker is that funded your comeback!” A beat passed. Derek frowned. “Wait… the location is in Philadelphia. That’s the exact same address the private investigators found for Daphne when she left the country. You don’t think…” Kellan let out a harsh, dismissive scoff. “She used to cry if a tag on her dress scratched her neck. You really think my little princess was running a dark-web hustle to wire me millions?” He glared at Derek. “Use your brain before you speak.” 4 When I woke up, the bandages on my stomach had been changed. An older doctor stood by my bed, his eyes filled with profound pity. “Sweetheart, you shouldn’t have tried to have a child. The cancer was somewhat under control, but the pregnancy and the trauma… it’s spread aggressively. You don’t have much time.” I nodded, murmuring a quiet thank you. It didn’t matter anymore. I dragged myself out of bed, leaning heavily on the IV pole, and made my way down to the morgue. I needed to claim my son’s body. It’s better this way, I thought numbly. At least when I’m dead, he won’t be left behind for Kellan and Leila to torture. But when I pushed open the heavy metal doors of the morgue, I saw Leila. She was casually tossing my son’s tiny body into a biohazard trash bag. Adrenaline surged through my dying veins. I hurled myself at her. “What the hell are you doing?!” Leila rolled her eyes, unfazed. “Oh, look. The homewrecker is awake. My dogs are on a raw meat diet. I figured I’d do a little recycling.” She smirked. “What’s the big deal? It’s just a junkie’s trash. Don’t tell me you’re emotionally attached?” In my delirious haze, I hallucinated. Through the translucent plastic of the trash bag, I saw the face of the daughter I had lost years ago, crying out for me. I snatched the bag from her hands, ripping it open and pressing the cold, tiny body against my chest. “Shh, baby, don’t cry… Mommy’s here…” Leila sneered and reached out to grab him back. “Stop acting crazy, you psycho!” I clamped my arms tight around my baby and lunged forward, sinking my teeth into her extended forearm. “Don’t you ever touch my child!” Leila shrieked in pain. I bit down harder, tasting copper, refusing to let go until my teeth hit bone and a deep, ragged gash opened up. With her free hand, Leila slapped me across the face so hard my vision went black. “You stupid bitch! You have a death wish?!” But a second later, Leila’s demeanor flipped. She began to weep softly, her voice trembling. “Daphne, why would you bite me? It hurts so much…” I followed her gaze to the doorway. Kellan was standing there. He charged into the room like a bull, pulling Leila behind him, looking at me as if I were a monster. Leila whimpered, burying her face in his chest. “I was just trying to help her arrange the remains… and she attacked me. Kellan, this is the arm I injured while carrying boxes for your startup… and she bit it!” Guilt and fury warped Kellan’s features. He reached forward, violently ripping the dead infant from my grasp and tossing it onto a nearby metal gurney. His hand clamped around my throat, lifting me onto my toes. “I told you!” he roared, spit flying into my face. “I told you the next time we met, I would destroy you! Stop overestimating your place in my world!” He leaned in, his breath hot against my ear. “You wanted that junkie’s bastard so badly? Fine. I’ll give him back to you.” Before I could process his words, Kellan dragged me into the adjacent autopsy theater and slammed me down onto the steel table. The stitches on my abdomen ripped completely open. Blood poured over the sides of the table. I bit down on my own lip so hard my teeth were coated in scarlet. The older doctor from my room was forced in by Kellan’s security. He looked sick to his stomach, but under Kellan’s terrifying glare, he scrubbed in. He took a scalpel and cut through the ten layers of tissue they had just repaired. Every slice sent tremors of unimaginable agony through my fading body. And then… he picked up the dead infant. And placed it inside my open womb. Layer by layer, he sewed me back up. Kellan let out a cold, satisfied laugh and walked out, taking Leila with him. Left alone on the bloody table, hemorrhaging out, I looked up at the weeping doctor. He pressed his hands together in prayer. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart… God forgive me, I didn’t want to do this…” I smiled faintly, tasting my own blood. “I don’t blame you,” I forced the words out on an exhale. “But I need you to do one thing for me. Prepare three envelopes. On the day Kellan’s company goes public… hand them to him.” Three months later, Kellan’s tech empire went public on the New York Stock Exchange. Walking the red carpet with Leila on his arm, his mind felt heavy. A dense, chaotic fog had settled over him. Every single day since he walked out of that hospital, it felt like there was glass in his lungs. During the years I was gone, he had thought of me constantly. He convinced himself it was hatred. But now that he had his ultimate revenge, why did his chest ache with this suffocating pressure? Why, despite his monumental success, did he only feel alive when he was pretending things were back to the way they used to be with me? As he stood at the podium, flashbulbs exploding around him for the ribbon-cutting, an older man pushed through the security line. It was the doctor. He shoved three sealed envelopes into Kellan’s hands. “Mr. CEO… someone asked me to deliver these to you.” Kellan, assuming they were congratulatory letters from board members, absentmindedly tore them open. He froze. The first was a DNA paternity test. It proved, with 99.9% certainty, that he was the father of the dead infant. The second was my death certificate, stapled to a terminal, stage-four stomach cancer diagnosis. The third was a stack of bank transfer receipts. Millions of dollars. And the signature on the bottom line read: Sage.

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I had finally managed to carve out a few days of leave to visit my parents. We were sitting in the quiet warmth of their living room when the encrypted satellite phone in my pocket buzzed. A single message flashed on the screen: “Ticket booked. Depart immediately.” My professional instincts kicked in, accompanied by a cold spike of dread. I didn’t ask questions. Within minutes, I was in a cab rushing toward the airport. I sprinted through the terminal, arriving at the boarding gate just as the final call was echoing through the PA system. But a hand reached out, blocking my path. “I’m very sorry, sir,” the gate agent said, her voice carrying that practiced, plastic warmth common to airline staff. “The flight has been overbooked. We’ll have to move you to the next available departure.” “We can offer you a five-hundred-dollar travel voucher as compensation.” She was already tapping away at her keyboard, modifying my booking without waiting for my consent. “Wait,” I said, trying to keep my breathing steady. “That’s impossible. I booked this seat through a restricted federal priority channel. It bypasses standard inventory. You don’t have the authority to bump me.” She didn’t even look up. The aircraft was scheduled to push back in forty minutes. Thousands of miles away, thirty-five lives were counting on me arriving on that flight. 1. The agent handed me a new boarding pass with a polite, dismissive smile. I looked down at the paper. The next departure wasn’t for another sixteen hours. If I waited that long, whatever waited for me at the other end would be a recovery mission, not a rescue. “Ma’am, please,” I urged, leaning closer to the desk. “Double-check the system. This is a first-class ticket. How does a first-class seat get overbooked on a Tuesday morning?” She rolled her eyes, her professional composure fracturing just enough to let her irritation show. “We get it, sir,” she said, her tone dripping with mock sympathy. “You saved up and splurged on a first-class ticket. First time? Is that why you were loitering in the VIP lounge until the absolute last second instead of boarding like everyone else? You only have yourself to blame for missing the window.” I stared at her, bewildered. “A minute ago you said the flight was overbooked. Now you’re claiming I’m late? The gate doesn’t close until forty minutes before departure. It’s forty-five minutes right now. The jet bridge is still open.” “Look, there’s no need to keep shouting that you’re in first class,” she muttered, adjusting her headset. “It’s honestly embarrassing. We know you wanted your little taste of luxury, but you missed your chance. Don’t make a scene.” “I am not making a scene. I am asking you to respect the booking,” I said, the pressure in my chest tightening. “I do not consent to this change. You need to let me on that plane.” “Sir, please step back,” she said, her voice rising just enough to draw the attention of nearby passengers. “I’ve already been incredibly patient. I gave you the voucher out of our own courtesy pool. Most people would be grateful.” “I don’t want the voucher. I want my seat.” “Some people just don’t know how to act,” she whispered under her breath, loud enough for me to hear. I pointed a finger at the desk, my anger finally breaking through. “That is incredibly unprofessional. Let me speak to your supervisor.” Our exchange had begun to draw a crowd. Travelers carrying neck pillows and dragging carry-ons began to linger, sensing a delay. “What’s going on? Is the flight delayed?” a man in a business suit asked. The agent’s demeanor shifted instantly. She shrank back, her eyes wide and watery, playing the victim perfectly. “This passenger arrived late,” she told the gathering crowd, her voice trembling slightly. “The gate is closed, but he’s demanding we hold the entire aircraft of two hundred people just for him. He keeps throwing his first-class ticket in our faces, threatening to get us fired. We offered him a free change and five hundred dollars in compensation, and he’s still screaming at us.” The onlookers immediately turned their judgments on me. “Come on, man, she’s just trying to do her job.” “Seriously. Working gate duty is hard enough without some entitled guy throwing a tantrum over five hundred bucks.” “Who raised these people? He honestly thinks the world revolves around him.” I took a deep, centering breath, trying to block out the noise of their whispers. “I arrived on time. The gate was open when I got here. They claimed the flight was overbooked, changed my ticket without my permission, and then insulted me when I protested. I am only trying to get on the flight I paid for.” The crowd murmured, momentarily swayed, but the defense was weak. “Even if they made a mistake, you don’t treat service workers like that,” a woman in the back called out. “Just take the next flight. You’re disrupting everyone else.” “Yeah, who knows where he even got the money for first class anyway,” another whispered. Before I could reply, a man in a sharp navy blazer stepped through the security stanchions. “What is the issue here?” he asked, his voice carrying the practiced authority of airport management. “Why is there a crowd gathered at a closed gate?” 2. I felt a brief wave of relief. Finally, someone who might actually look at the data. “Are you the supervisor?” I asked. “My name is Dr. Lucas Edmund. I cleared security and arrived at this gate before the boarding window closed. Your staff refused to let me board, changed my reservation without my consent, and have been stalling me with false claims. I have an urgent matter to attend to. I need to be on this flight.” The supervisor adjusted his glasses, his eyes scanning me with a strange, calculating intensity. “Let me see your ID, sir,” he said. I handed him my government-issued identification, my eyes darting to the digital clock above the desk. The minutes were bleeding away. He tapped on his terminal for what felt like an eternity. Finally, he looked up, his expression completely blank. “Sir, our system shows you checked through the main security line only five minutes before the gate was set to close. It is physically impossible to walk from TSA to Gate B12 in under eight minutes during a holiday rush. Our agents followed standard protocol. There was no error.” I shook my head, a cold sweat breaking out on the back of my neck. “That’s a lie. I didn’t go through the main line. I cleared through the priority government lane. It took me less than two minutes.” “I’m sorry, sir,” the supervisor said, his smile entirely devoid of warmth. “The system doesn’t lie. You’ll have to take the next flight.” “See? I told you he was lying,” a bystander remarked. “Probably thought he could throw a tantrum and get away with it.” “Typical. Thinks because he bought a nice ticket he can rewrite the rules of space and time.” I felt like I was punching a wall of fog. Every argument I made was absorbed and twisted. I didn’t want to pull rank—doing so risked exposing the nature of my work—but the clock was down to thirty minutes. I pulled out my secure satellite phone to call my liaison. As I dialed, a gate agent moving a stack of metal queue barriers “accidentally” veered into my path, her shoulder slamming hard into my arm. The phone—a rugged, unbranded black device—slipped from my hand, skittering across the polished floor toward the boarding door. Another agent carrying a heavy metal stanchion tripped, dropping the heavy iron base directly onto the screen. A sharp crack echoed through the terminal. The screen shattered into a web of black glass. The two agents scrambled to their knees, their faces painted with exaggerated terror. “Oh my gosh, sir, I am so sorry!” the woman cried. “It was an accident, I swear! Please don’t report us. We’ll pay for the screen, just please don’t get us fired!” The crowd’s murmurs turned vicious. “What kind of phone is that? Looks like a cheap burner.” “Probably some knockoff he bought online to look like a high-roller. No wonder he’s so protective of it.” “He’s probably a grifter,” someone laughed. “Spent his last dime on a first-class ticket hoping to find a wealthy sponsor in the lounge, and now his little plan is ruined.” The laughter cut through the stress in my chest, leaving a cold, sharp anger. The supervisor, Howard Cross, watched me with a quiet, triumphant glint in his eyes. He knew exactly what he was doing. “Call the police,” I said, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Call them right now. We are going to review the security footage of this entire interaction. And let me make one thing absolutely clear: if I am not on that aircraft, this flight does not leave the ground.” 3. No one moved to help me. To them, I was just a man having a public breakdown. I stood there, watching the minutes tick away on the departure board. By now, the gate should have closed. The ground crew would be preparing for pushback. At my destination, the command center would be waiting for my confirmation of departure. When they realized I wasn’t on the manifest, the pressure would shift. But I hadn’t anticipated how far Howard Cross was willing to go to cover his tracks. Behind me, a young woman had her phone raised, her screen showing a live-stream interface. The title on the screen read: Entitled “First-Class” Loser Screams at Gate Agents. “Put that phone away,” I said, pointing at her. “You do not have my permission to record me. Shut it down.” The girl laughed, turning the camera back to herself. “Oh look, guys, he’s threatening me now. Keep sending those gifts, let’s see how far he goes before security gets here.” The comments flooded the screen, visible even from where I stood. “Call the cops on him.” “He’s probably broke and trying to scam a free flight.” “Look at his face, he knows he’s caught.” I clenched my fists, my chest burning. I couldn’t afford to have my face plastered across social media. The syndicate we were tracking was highly sophisticated. If they saw my face at a civilian airport, they would know we had compromised their location. My family in Maine would be in immediate danger. “Please,” I turned to a couple of men standing nearby. “Help me call the police. I need an officer here to take a statement. I will personally compensate you for any delay this causes you. Tenfold.” They looked away, avoiding my eyes. “Look, man, we don’t want to get involved in whatever scam you’ve got going on,” one of them muttered. “Just take the loss,” another added. Howard’s walkie-talkie chirped. He spoke into it quickly, his eyes never leaving mine. Moments later, the heavy doors at the end of the concourse opened, and two separate teams in uniform came marching down the terminal. The first team wore the dark tactical vests of airport security. The second wore the duty belts of the Port Authority Police. “Over here!” Howard called out, waving them down. “We have a passenger disrupting airport operations and making threats to halt the flight.” I looked at the lead officer, Captain Eric Shaw. For a brief second, I thought the system had finally worked. Surely they had been alerted to protect my transit. Then I saw the handcuffs on Shaw’s belt. 4. “Sir, step away from the desk and put your hands where I can see them,” Captain Shaw said, his voice level and cold. “Captain, there’s been a mistake,” I said, keeping my hands open and visible. “I am Dr. Lucas Edmund. I was booked on this flight under a federal priority clearance.” Howard stepped forward, pointing at his screen. “Officer, the priority passenger we were instructed to assist is already on board. Seat 2B. Mr. Frank Cross. This man is using a fraudulent name and trying to disrupt the flight.” Frank Cross. I looked at Howard Cross’s nametag, and then at the screen. It was a classic bait-and-switch. Howard had used his administrative override to bump me from the government-reserved seat and place his own relative on the flight, likely thinking I was just some low-level contractor who wouldn’t dare make a fuss. “Officer, call your district commander,” I urged, my voice tight. “Ask him who is supposed to be in seat 2B. This is a matter of national security. I am heading to Helena, Montana. There are thirty-five hostages in the wilderness right now, and I am the only specialist who can locate them. If I do not board this plane, people are going to die.” A collective snicker went through the crowd. “Oh, now he’s a secret agent,” the live-streamer giggled into her phone. “He’s literally inventing a terrorist plot because he missed his flight. This is gold.” Captain Shaw’s face hardened. He didn’t believe a word. To him, I was just another unhinged traveler who had snapped under the pressure of holiday travel. “Sir, you are under arrest for making false terroristic threats and interfering with airport operations,” Shaw said, grabbing my arm and pulling it behind my back. The cold steel of the handcuffs clicked around my wrist. “Wait!” I yelled, struggling against his grip. “Call the number on my profile! Just look at the reservation notes!” “Save it for the station, Dr. Edmund,” Shaw said, pushing me toward the exit. Howard Cross stood by the gate door, a thin, satisfied smirk on his face. “The plane is pushing back in five minutes, sir. Safe travels in the back of the cruiser.” They began to drag me down the concourse, the crowd parting to let us through, several people still holding up their phones to capture my humiliation. Then, the heavy security doors at the end of the terminal flew open. A squad of federal marshals in tactical gear, carrying automatic weapons, came sprinting down the hallway, their boots thundering against the tile.

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During my lunch break, a coworker leaned over to look at the new watch my husband had given me. “Fiona, why does the screw on the back of this watch look like it’s been messed with?” My stomach dropped. I grabbed a small precision tool from my desk and carefully unscrewed the backplate. Inside was a micro-GPS tracker. My mind raced, flashing back to all the times Jared had called me lately during my shifts, always saying, “I love you, babe,” with a strange, frantic intensity. Yet when I came home, he wouldn’t let me near him. I threw the watch into my desk drawer, grabbed my car keys, and bolted out of the office. … I slammed my foot on the gas. The world blurred outside the windows as my car tore down the road. The only thing spinning in my head was the image of that tracker. I screeched to a halt in front of our apartment building, threw the car into park, and rushed through the lobby. I pressed the elevator button repeatedly, my heart hammering against my ribs. The doors slid shut, lifting me to the seventeenth floor. The moment they cracked open, I squeezed through and ran down the hallway to our door. I pounded on the wood with everything I had. “Jared! Open the door!” Silence. “Open up, Jared! I know you’re in there!” I screamed, throwing my fists against the door. After what felt like an eternity, the door finally opened a fraction of an inch. Jared stood there in his silk robe, his hair slightly disheveled, his cheeks flushed a deep, guilty pink. “Fiona? What are you doing back? Did something happen?” He gripped the doorknob, blocking the entryway. I shoved past him and stormed inside. The living room looked exactly as I had left it this morning. “Are you out of your mind, Fiona?!” Jared yelled from behind me. I ignored him and marched straight into our bedroom. I ripped the comforter off the bed. Empty. I pulled open the closet doors, then dropped to my knees to look underneath the bedframe. “What are you looking for?” he asked, trailing after me, his voice trembling. I spun around and ran into the master bathroom, ripping open the shower curtain. Nothing. “What is wrong with you? Did something go wrong at work? You’re scaring me.” Jared reached out and grabbed my arm. His hand was ice-cold. I flung his hand off. “Where is she?” Jared’s face went entirely pale. “Who? What are you talking about?” Suddenly, a muffled commotion rose from the street below. There were shouts, followed by a man’s sharp scream. “She jumped! Someone fell from the balcony! I think it was the seventeenth floor!” I froze. The seventeenth floor. Our floor. I lunged toward the bedroom window. “Don’t look!” Jared threw himself in front of me, spreading his arms to block my path. “Fiona! Please, don’t look!” His face was white, his voice cracking with sheer panic. “Get out of my way,” I said, staring him down. “I don’t want you to see it! You’ll have nightmares!” he wept, shaking his head, refusing to budge. The more he resisted, the more I needed to see. I shoved him hard against the wall. He let out a muffled grunt, his knees buckling as he slid down to the floor. I leaned out the window, looking down. On the grass below, a few neighbors had gathered, pointing up at our building. But the lawn was empty. There was no blood, no body, no ambulance. An older woman called out, “Where did she go? Weren’t she hanging from the ledge just a second ago?” Another woman replied, “You must be seeing things. There’s no one there. Let’s go inside.” The crowd slowly began to disperse. I pulled my head back in, suddenly drained of all strength. I turned around and looked at Jared, who was slumped against the wall. On his face was an unmistakable, sickening look of relief. I walked over to him. “Where is she?” He lowered his head. I knelt, grabbing his jaw, forcing his face up. “I asked you a question. Who was at that window?” Jared shudders and tries to look away. “Who? Fiona, I don’t know what you’re talking about. You pushed me… it hurts.” He whimpered, tears welling in his eyes. I leaned in close. “You weren’t afraid I’d get nightmares from a body.” “You were afraid I’d catch her.” “Do you know what your face looked like when I turned around? Relief. You were relieved she got away, relieved I didn’t catch her. Do you think I’m blind?” My voice was quiet, but every word cut like a razor. Jared looked up, his eyes bloodshot. “Relief? Fiona, I’m relieved my wife isn’t losing her mind! I’m relieved our home isn’t ruined by some freak accident!” He scrambled up, pulling himself up by the wall, pointing at the messy bedroom. “Look at what you just did! Barging in, screaming, tearing the place apart! You don’t trust me?” “Is this what our marriage is to you?” His voice was high-pitched, dripping with defensive indignation. If it weren’t for the tracker sitting in my desk drawer, I might have actually believed I was the crazy one. I stood up, pulled out my phone, and brought up the photo of the tracker, holding it right in front of his face. “And what about this, Jared? Explain this to me.” The glow of the screen hit his face, and his features instantly drained of color. His lips parted, but no sound came out. I expected a confession, but instead, he burst into tears. Thick, heavy tears rolled down his cheeks. “I… I was worried about you!” he cried, his voice cracking. “You’ve been working late every single night, coming home and barely saying a word. I call you, and you don’t answer. I was terrified something would happen to you. What was I supposed to do?” “I just wanted to know you were safe! Is it a crime to love you, Fiona? Is loving my wife a mistake?” He wept, turning himself into the victim so flawlessly it made my stomach turn. I grabbed his wrist. It was freezing. “So, because you were worried about me, a woman had to dangle from our seventeenth-floor window?” “Stop it!” he screamed, ripping his hand away. “You just want to believe I did something wrong! You want to ruin us!” He stumbled back and grabbed his phone from the coffee table. “Fine! You want to play this game? I’ll call my parents. I’ll let them hear exactly how their perfect daughter-in-law is tearing their son apart over nothing!” He unlocked the phone, his thumb hovering over his contacts. My head throbed. I knew he’d do it. If his parents showed up, they’d only see a trembling, weeping son and a frantic, erratic wife. No one would believe me. I would be the villain who broke a good man’s heart. The fight drained out of me all at once. “Don’t call them.” My voice was dry, hollow. Jared stared at me, tears streaming, his finger poised over his father’s name. I closed my eyes, then opened them. “I’m sorry.” The words were like ash in my mouth. “I’ve been under too much pressure at work. I lost control. I’m sorry.” Jared’s sobbing slowed. He studied me for a few agonizing seconds, making sure I’m not mocking him, before slowly lowering the phone. He stepped closer and took my hand. “I know you’re tired, sweetie. I don’t blame you.” His hand was still cold, but his voice was a soothing, gentle purr. “Just don’t scare me like that again, okay?” I looked at his tear-stained face and nodded. “Okay.” He smiled—a soft, triumphant smile of pure relief. And I felt a deep, icy chill settle in my bones. The next morning, Jared was still asleep, resting peacefully with a faint, content smile on his lips. Yesterday felt like a fever dream. I made breakfast as usual, ate alone, and walked out the door. But the moment the front door clicked shut, I slipped into the stairwell and called my coworker Megan to take a personal day. I waited until I heard the hum of the elevator going down, then quiet as a ghost, I unlocked our front door and stepped back inside. While he was still asleep, I quickly and discreetly installed tiny cameras in a few blind spots around the apartment. For the next few days, I spent my working hours sitting in the coffee shop downstairs, my eyes glued to the live feed on my phone. On screen, he didn’t do his usual workouts or watch TV. By midday, he’d be curled up on the sofa, texting furiously. His fingers flew across the screen, his mouth curled into the goofy, lovestruck grin of a teenager in the honeymoon phase. Watching it, I felt like the air was being squeezed out of my lungs. At exactly six in the evening, I walked through the door. “Welcome home, babe,” he said, jogging over to take my bag, wrapping his arms around me. After dinner, he went to take a shower. Listening to the rushing water, I walked over to the sofa and picked up his phone. I used his passcode and opened his messages. The chat list was pristine. Aside from work channels and group chats with his buddies, the active conversation from this afternoon had been scrubbed clean. I stared at the blank screen, my blood running cold. Without a word, I slid the phone back into place. Two days later, in the dead of night, the silence finally drove me mad. I lay in bed, eyes closed, pretending to sleep, but my mind was spinning. At 1:30 AM, the mattress shifted. Jared pulled the comforter back and slipped out of bed barefoot. He padded out of the room and into the master bathroom, closing the door behind him. Soon, the faucet was running. The rush of water was loud enough to drown out a whisper. But the tiny microphone I had hidden beneath the vanity caught every single syllable, feeding it directly into the earbud in my left ear. “Hey sweetheart, I miss you too…” His voice was pitched low, thick with a sweet, cloying affection I hadn’t heard in years. “I know, but she’s like clockwork. Home every day, sitting there like a lump of wood. It’s exhausting just looking at her.” The voice on the other end mumbled something, and he let out a soft chuckle. “Alright, let’s wait until the weekend. I’ll tell her I’m going out with the guys, and then I’m all yours…” In the dark, I stuffed the corner of the comforter into my mouth to muffle my sobs. Tears soaked into the pillow. Every word felt like a physical blow to my chest. So that’s what I was to him. A boring piece of wood he had to tolerate. The weekend arrived. The city was alive with couples holding hands, enjoying the spring air. Jared spent the morning preening in front of the mirror. He wore a brand-new designer shirt I’ve never seen before and groomed his hair to perfection. As he headed for the door, he grabbed a sleek, brand-new leather bag. “Babe,” he said, leaning in to press a quick kiss to my cheek, “I’m heading out with the guys. Might be a bit late tonight.” I looked at his handsome, sculpted face, feeling nothing but a wave of nausea. “Sure,” I forced a smile. “Have fun.” His eyes crinkled with delight. “Thanks, babe!” The moment he stepped out of the building, I pulled my baseball cap low and followed him down. I slipped into my car, parked across the street. He didn’t head for the subway. Instead, he lingered on the curb, checking his phone. Within minutes, a sleek black Mercedes pulled up beside him. The door swung open, and he slid into the passenger seat. Before the car even pulls away, the woman in the driver’s seat leaned over, cupping his face, and kissed him deeply. I turned the key in the ignition and followed them. The Mercedes bypassed the city center, heading straight for the scenic, upscale suburbs of the north valley. My hands were steady on the steering wheel. Eventually, the car pulled into the grand driveway of the Whispering Pines Resort & Spa. Jared got out, and the woman followed, looping her arm through his. They laughed, sharing some private joke as they strolled into the gilded lobby. I killed the engine, pulled the key, and sat in the quiet of my car. The afternoon sun was blindingly bright. I pulled down the sun visor and retrieved my phone. First, I called my father. “Dad, it’s me.” “Fiona! Sweetheart, why are you calling at this hour? Aren’t you working?” “I took a few days off. I wanted to surprise Jared with a little getaway. We’re actually up at the Whispering Pines Resort—it’s beautiful here. I booked a private dining room for dinner. Why don’t you and Mom drive up and join us? Let’s have a family dinner.” My dad sounded thrilled. “Oh, that sounds wonderful, sweetie. Your mother and I will get ready right away.” “Perfect. I’ll text you the reservation details.” As soon as I hung up, I dialed my mother-in-law’s number. It rings a few times before she picked up. “Hello? Fiona?” Her voice was sharp, energetic. “Hi, Helen. Are you and Arthur home?” “Yes, we’re just watching some TV. Is everything alright?” “Everything’s great. Jared and I are out celebrating, and I booked a gorgeous private room at a restaurant up in the valley. I realized we haven’t all sat down for a nice meal in ages. I’d love it if you and Arthur could join us.” “Oh? Jared is with you? That boy didn’t say a word about a trip.” “I wanted it to be a surprise. Can you make it? It’s not far—the Whispering Pines Resort.” “Of course we can make it. We’ll get ready and head out now.” “Great. The room is called the Summit Suite. Just ask the host when you arrive.” “We’ll see you soon, dear.” I slid my phone back into my pocket, pushed the car door open, and stepped out into the warm breeze. Entering the lobby, the receptionist greeted me with a polished, professional smile. “Welcome, how can I help you today?” “I have a reservation for the Summit Suite. Fiona Albright.” She tapped on her screen. “Ah, yes, Mrs. Albright. The room is ready for you in our second-floor dining hall.” “Thank you.” I walked toward the elevators. I remembered exactly where the Mercedes parked, and I knew exactly which direction they went. I stood in the quiet, carpeted hallway of the resort, waiting for my family. Waiting for his parents. My parents arrived first. “Fiona, have you been waiting long?” My mom hugged me, pulling back to look at my face. “You look a little thin, sweetie. Are you sleeping?” “Just busy with the quarterly budget, Mom,” I smiled. “Dad, let’s head up to the room first.” A few minutes later, Arthur and Helen arrived. Arthur spotted me immediately. “Fiona! Where’s Jared? I thought you were surprising him.” “He’s upstairs freshening up. You know how he is—has to make sure every hair is in place before he dines.” Helen chuckled. “Naturally. It’s so sweet of you to plan this, Fiona.” I took Arthur’s arm. “We’re family. It’s the least I can do. Let’s go have some tea in the suite, and then I’ll go grab him.” The Summit Suite was beautiful, featuring massive floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a serene pine forest. I poured tea for the four of them. Arthur took a sip, then asked, “Which room are you guys staying in? I’ll go nudge him. I’d love to see the suites here anyway.” I set the teapot down, smiling warmly. “Actually, Dad, I was thinking we could all go up together and surprise him. He’ll be absolutely thrilled to see you both.” I stood up. “Come on, let’s go.” They all rose, smiling. The five of us walked out of the private dining room and stepped back into the elevator. On the ride up, Arthur was still singing my praises. “Fiona is one in a million. Jared is a lucky man to have a wife who cares this much about family.” My parents beamed with pride. The elevator chimes, opening on the sixth floor. The corridor was long, lined with plush, sound-dampening carpets that swallowed the sound of our footsteps. Helen whispered, “Which room is it?” “Just down here,” I said, pointing toward the end of the hall. We stopped outside Room 608. I turned around, putting a finger to my lips with a playful grin. “Shh. Big surprise.” They all quieted down, their faces bright with anticipation. I raised my hand and knocked three times. Firm, but polite. Nothing. I knocked again, harder this time. A few seconds passed, and then my husband’s voice drifted through the door. “Who is it?” Behind me, the smiles on four faces began to stiffen. The door swung open to reveal the woman from the Mercedes, a plush hotel bathrobe draped loosely over her shoulders.

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My name is Olivia. Back when I was studying in Boston, I fell hard for a guy named Luke. He had these striking, crystal-blue eyes and a sharp jawline framed by effortlessly messy blonde hair. He looked like he had stepped straight off a high-end fashion catalog, and I was completely, foolishly captivated. We had been married for just three months when I finally saw the darkness lurking beneath his polished exterior. It was a quiet weekend morning. We had just finished tangled in the sheets, and I was lying across his chest, my skin still flushed, feeling a lazy, post-coital warmth. “Olivia, Trey invited us to a couples’ retreat this weekend,” Luke said. His voice was entirely casual, but there was a flicker of eager anticipation in his eyes. I shifted slightly, a cold knot tightening in my stomach. “Are you sure you want to take me to that kind of party, Luke?” My tone was laced with quiet resentment. I knew exactly what he meant by a “party.” To Luke, it was never just about drinks and music; it was about swapping. He was a man who lived on the edge of cheap thrills. In our short three months of marriage, he had already pushed me into roleplaying as a nurse, a secretary, a schoolgirl… but apparently, those private fantasies were no longer enough to satisfy him. He chuckled, tracing a finger down my spine. “Come on, babe. Where’s your sense of adventure? Besides, Trey is built like a freight train. You’d probably enjoy him. Especially his…” He trailed off, leaving the implication hanging in the air like a dare. “And you’re okay with that?” I asked, testing him, my heart aching under the weight of my own words. “You won’t get jealous hearing me scream under your best friend?” “Jealous?” Luke smiled, a sly, wicked curve of his lips. “Of course not. Because I’ll be putting twice as much energy into tearing his wife apart.” ——– 1 The weekend arrived in a blur of silent anxiety. To prepare for the party, Luke hadn’t touched me in days. He claimed he was “saving his ammunition” for the main event. “Well, look at you. You actually showered and styled your hair this early,” I remarked, watching him stand in front of the bathroom mirror. Even though I had ultimately agreed to go, I had absolutely no intention of participating in their sick game. But seeing Luke so meticulously groom himself for another woman made a bitter taste rise in my throat. He flushed slightly, smoothing down his collar. “Just trying to make sure I don’t embarrass you, babe.” “Right.” I turned away, letting out a sharp, cold breath. I went to the closet and deliberately pulled out a set of black lace lingerie, pairing it with a deep-V plum silk slip dress and sheer black stockings. It was elegant, sophisticated, and undeniably provocative. When I looked in the mirror, my chest was partially exposed, the pale skin of my collarbone contrasting sharply with the rich fabric. I looked beautiful, and more importantly, I looked untouchable. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear that dress before,” Luke said, his eyes darkening as they swept over me. “I bought it specifically for today,” I said, offering him a cool, triumphant smile. I wanted him to see what he was so willing to throw away. I wanted him to realize that no matter how alluring another man’s wife might seem, she couldn’t compare to what he already had. “God, you look incredible. That purple is insane.” Luke stepped closer, his hands sliding around my waist as he lifted me onto the edge of the dresser. “We have some time. Let’s do a quick round.” “Oh? What about saving your ammo?” I patted his cheek, my voice dripping with quiet mockery. “You wouldn’t want to get outshined by your buddy, would you?” I expected him to brush it off, to choose me over the fantasy. But my words hit a nerve. Luke froze, his hands dropping from my hips. “Right. Right, you’re absolutely of course. Can’t let the team down.” My heart sank into a dark, hollow space. He actually stopped. Before the silence could stretch too thin, his phone vibrated on the counter. “They’re downstairs,” Luke said, checking the screen. “Trey and Tasha are waiting.” 2 “Let’s go,” Luke urged, grabbing his keys. “Okay,” I murmured, checking my lipstick one last time before following him down the elevator. The moment we stepped out of the building, I felt a heavy, burning gaze lock onto me. Standing by a sleek black SUV was Trey. He was tall, heavily built, with a raw, athletic frame and a magnetic intensity that made the air feel thick. When his eyes swept over my body, a sudden, nervous heat flushed through my skin. Even though I had resolved not to participate, knowing he was the man Luke had chosen for me sent a strange, involuntary shiver down my spine. Trey didn’t look away when he caught me watching him. Instead, he flashed a slow, predatory grin, his teeth white against his dark skin. “You look beautiful, Olivia.” My cheeks burned, and I struggled to find my voice. Fortunately, Luke chimed in, saving me from having to answer. “Babe, you ride shotgun,” Luke said, already opening the back door and sliding in. I hesitated, looking at Trey, who was holding the passenger door open for me. As soon as I buckled my seatbelt, a sharp, dripping voice cut through the quiet of the car from the backseat. “Is that really all you have to show off, sweetie? I expected more.” I glanced in the rearview mirror. Tasha, Trey’s wife, was sitting next to Luke, her posture rigid as she pointedly adjusted her own low-cut top. I had purposely gone braless beneath the silk dress to see if Luke would show even a shred of possessiveness. He hadn’t. But Trey had certainly noticed when I leaned in to buckle up, and Tasha’s sharp tongue was born out of pure jealousy. “I don’t see any issue with it, Tasha,” I said smoothly, looking back at her. “We’re all here to have a good time, aren’t we? Might as well put on a show.” “Don’t go easy on the exhibitionist, Trey,” Tasha snapped, her eyes narrowing as she targeted her husband. “Show her how we do things.” Trey let out a low, rumbling chuckle, his eyes darting toward me with a quiet amusement. “Consider it done, baby.” “And don’t you worry, Tasha,” Luke chimed in, his hand sliding onto her knee in the rearview mirror. “I’ll make sure to handle you so thoroughly she’ll be the one begging for a turn.” “Thanks, sweetie,” Tasha purred, leaning into his touch. I turned back to the road, my face frozen in a polite mask, though my chest felt tight enough to burst. Luke actually believed he was playing the game, completely blind to the hollow ache he was leaving in his wake. For a long stretch, the car was dead silent. I figured the tension would hold until we reached the secluded cabin in the Berkshires, but it was my husband who shattered the peace. An abrupt, breathless gasp echoed from the backseat. I adjusted the rearview mirror and caught Tasha quickly dabbing at the corner of her mouth with a tissue. Next to her, Luke was smugly zipping up his jeans, a look of pure, satisfied arrogance on his face. “Couldn’t even wait thirty minutes, Luke?” I asked, my voice dangerously calm. “How was she? Better than me?” Luke’s face flushed red in the mirror. He coughed, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Uh, she was great. Really great.” Tasha glared at him, clearly unsatisfied with the diplomatic answer. “Actually,” Luke quickly added, trying to smooth things over, “you’re both incredible. No comparison.” Tasha rolled her eyes. “I haven’t even brought out my best moves yet, Olivia. Just wait until we get to the cabin. We’ll see who keeps their man interested.” “I’m not worried,” I replied, staring straight ahead. 3 “That’s my girl,” Trey said, letting out a booming laugh as he gripped the steering wheel. “Don’t worry, Olivia. You’ve got this in the bag,” Luke added, though his gaze remained glued to Tasha’s collarbone. “If you two are so confident, why wait?” Trey suggested, his eyes gleaming with mischief as he looked between the rearview mirror and me. “We could pull over right now.” “Let’s do it,” Luke agreed instantly. “Don’t be ridiculous,” I cut in, my voice sharp. “The car is cramped and dusty. Wait until we get to the house.” I wasn’t trying to build anticipation; I was desperately trying to buy myself time. The casual degradation of the entire setup was beginning to suffocate me. “Olivia’s right,” Trey said, sensing my shift in mood. “Let’s wait till we have actual beds. We’re only twenty minutes away anyway.” The rest of the drive was heavy with unspoken hostility. What was supposed to be a weekend retreat had warped into a bitter, hyper-sexualized competition. And as I watched the trees blur past the window, a cold realization settled deep in my bones: Luke was entirely gone. There was no saving this marriage. When we finally pulled up to the secluded, modern cabin, the air was crisp. The moment the engine cut, Luke was out of the car. “Trey, let’s head upstairs and settle this.” “Hell yeah,” Trey replied, his eyes locked on me as he stretched his arms. “Tasha, go with Luke.” “My pleasure,” Tasha said, offering me a parting, victorious smirk as she wrapped her arm around Luke’s. “Shall we, Olivia?” Trey asked, reaching out to take my hand. “Lead the way,” I said, letting him lead me toward the cabin doors. We walked into the beautifully decorated living room and immediately split into separate wings of the house. No sooner had Trey closed our bedroom door than the thin cabin walls began to vibrate with the loud, performative moans of Tasha from across the hall. “Don’t let me down, Trey,” I murmured, stepping close and wrapping my arms around his neck. I had to play the part perfectly if I wanted to survive the night. “I won’t,” Trey whispered, his eyes dark with sudden hunger. 4 He leaned down, his hands sliding to my hips, but I gently pressed a palm against his chest to stop him. “Here,” I said, reaching into my bag and pulling out a cold bottle of water I had prepared. “Hydrate first. We have a long night ahead of us.” Unsuspecting, he took the bottle and guzzled down half of it in one go. Within ten minutes, the heavy sedative I’d dissolved in the water took effect. Trey’s eyelids fluttered, his speech slurred, and he collapsed onto the plush mattress, fast asleep. For the next two hours, I sat quietly in an armchair by the window, watching the shadows lengthen across the forest floor while the agonizing sounds from the other room slowly faded to a halt. Once the house went quiet, I got to work. I carefully undressed Trey, leaving him in his boxers, and ruffled his hair. Then, I unzipped my dress, messed up my hair, and lightly shook his shoulder until his eyes blinked open. He looked around, completely disoriented. “What… what happened?” “You got a little too excited, handsome,” I whispered, putting on a tired, breathless smile. “You passed out right after we started. I had to finish things on my own.” A flush of deep embarrassment crawled up his neck. He rubbed his large head, looking utterly mortified. “Olivia, I… I’m sorry. This has never happened to me before. Please don’t tell Luke.” “Of course I won’t,” I said, gently stroking his chest. “But you should probably head to the guest bathroom and clean up before he comes in. It might be awkward.” He nodded quickly, grabbing his clothes and scrambling out of the room. A few minutes later, the bedroom door swung open and Luke walked in, wearing nothing but a loosely tied robe. He looked thoroughly spent and incredibly pleased with himself. “Your friend’s wife is something else,” Luke boasted, leaning against the doorframe. “Incredible stamina.” “She has an insurance policy on that body of hers,” Trey’s voice called out as he walked back into the room, having successfully put his clothes back on. He gave Luke a knowing, masculine nod, then looked at me with a lingering, greedy hunger. “But Olivia… man, she’s something special. Totally worth the wait.” “Told you,” Luke smirked, slapping Trey on the back. “Let’s take a breather. We can go for round two tonight.” “Sounds good,” Trey agreed, though he quickly excused himself to go find Tasha. Once the door clicked shut, the smile fell from my face. I looked at Luke, allowing a look of intense physical distress to wash over my features. “Luke, we need to go home,” I said, my voice trembling. “I think Trey was too rough. I think I’m bleeding.” Luke frowned, his expression hardening with annoyance rather than concern. “Come on, Olivia. We just got here. Don’t ruin the weekend.” He stepped closer, a dark, unsettling smile spreading across his face. “Besides, it’s not really up to you to decide when we leave anymore.” He raised his hand and clapped twice. “Come on in, boys.”

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I never worried about any suitors circling my fiancée, Antoine. Everyone in our social circle knew who she was connected to, and no one dared cross that line. But after six months studying abroad, I returned to find a young man sitting in Antoine’s front passenger seat as she pulled up to the office. I didn’t confront them then. Instead, I had my secretary arrange a dinner, inviting Antoine and all her close confidantes. How can I put it? A woman who betrays me is easily disposable. But anyone who dares to tempt her, even just thinking about it, will pay the price. “Mr. Williams, Antoine has arrived with seven guests, but there’s one more… not on the list.” Sarah, my secretary, lowered her voice, subtly glancing towards the VIP private dining room. “Who?” I put my phone in my pocket and gestured for her to lead the way. “It’s… the man from the passenger seat.” I let out a soft laugh. It was exactly what I expected. Seven or eight people sat along the long table. When I walked in, they all stood up in unison. Antoine was seated in the middle. She looked startled when she saw me, then instinctively slid one seat over. The young man next to her looked to be in his early twenties, dressed meticulously but plainly. Everyone at the table was silent, the atmosphere thick with tension. Yet the young man, seemingly oblivious, picked up the glass in front of Antoine and took a sip. He even smiled playfully at her. “Antoine, aren’t you going to eat anything tonight? No way, I’m keeping an eye on you.” I stood by the doorway, unmoving. Noticing the unusual tension in the room, he finally noticed me. He tilted his head, gave me a quick look, then surveyed the silent, terrified people in the room before turning back to Antoine. “Who’s this guy? Shows up so late without a word. Antoine, the rules around here are way too lax, aren’t they?” Seeing no one respond, he spoke again, his tone innocent yet self-righteous. “No matter how high your position, basic manners are still required, right? Antoine, you spoil everyone too much; this dinner feels so awkward because of it.” Mark, Antoine’s assistant, went completely white with horror. He finally couldn’t hold back and tugged on the young man’s sleeve. “Chris, this is Mr. Williams. He’s Antoine’s fiancé, and also… the actual power behind the entire corporation.” The private dining room fell silent for a long moment. Chris’s hand, holding the glass, froze mid-air. The playful smile on his face slowly solidified. He put the glass back down. Before Antoine could speak, he piped up. “Oh, her fiancé. Well, you should have come earlier then. Everyone’s been waiting for you.” I sat down, my gaze fixed on Antoine. “Antoine, your intern is quite… interesting.” She finally looked at me, her expression utterly cold. “He’s just a kid, Alexander. Don’t mind him.” “Since when do I concern myself with those who ‘don’t know any better’?” I picked up the menu and turned a page. “Go scrap that car. Get a new one.” Her brow immediately furrowed. “What?” “I don’t want a car that’s had someone else in the passenger seat.” Chris muttered something under his breath. I didn’t catch it, and I didn’t need to. “And,” I closed the menu and looked at her. “Chris needs to be terminated by tomorrow. You’ll personally inform all our partners in the industry: he’s never to be hired again.” Chris’s face finally changed. He abruptly looked up at me. “How dare you!?” “Because I’m Alexander Williams.” Antoine’s face tightened as she started to speak, but she bit back whatever she was going to say. Everyone at the table breathed a collective sigh of relief. I stood up and patted Antoine on the shoulder. “Antoine, you’d better remember why you’re in the position you are today.” Her voice came from behind me, clearly laced with suppressed rage. “Alexander, why do you have to be so ruthless?” “Ruthless?” I pushed the door open, and a gust of wind swept into the corridor. “Seems you still don’t know me well enough.”

It was nearly eleven when I got home. I leaned back on the sofa. Not long after, Antoine returned. “Why are you sitting here by yourself?” “Waiting for you.” She walked over, loosening her cuffs, a barely suppressed irritation in her voice. “You went too far tonight, Alexander. Chris is just an intern, a twenty-two-year-old kid who doesn’t know any better. Was all that really necessary?” “He’s ‘naive,’ and you’re just as naive?” I looked at her, slowly lowering my legs from the sofa. “Antoine, you know what kind of man I am, don’t you?” “Of course I do.” She tugged at her collar, then her voice slowly rose. “You’re just too controlling. An intern sat in my car, and you react like this? What will people outside think?” “Do you think I care what people outside think?” She paused. “I have to take people with me for many things at the company. Giving him a ride when it’s ‘on the way,’ what’s wrong with that?” “On the way?” I chuckled. “Our villa stands on its own private estate; everyone around here knows it. Antoine, what ‘convenient route’ are you talking about?” Her face fell. She didn’t speak for a long time. After a good while, she finally spoke in a low voice. “I’ll take care of the car tomorrow. About Chris… can’t you reconsider? He just graduated.” “What I’ve said stands.” “Alexander!” “If you feel so bad for him,” I interrupted her, getting up and walking towards the bedroom. “You can go comfort him right now. But if you walk out that door, don’t bother coming back.” A long silence followed behind me. When I woke up the next morning, there was a vehicle disposal receipt on the coffee table, next to a copy of Chris’s termination paperwork. The signature block bore Antoine’s handwriting. I picked it up, glanced at it, then put it back down. She wasn’t foolish enough to directly defy me. A short voice message came through on my SnapChat from Sarah. “Mr. Williams, Chris’s termination paperwork is finalized. Antoine signed it herself. But he cried for half an hour at reception when he left, though. Said you’d regret this eventually.” I replied: “Noted.” I’d heard words like that too many times. Not a single person who said them had ever made me regret anything. I’m not someone who enjoys utterly destroying people. But I have one flaw: the harder someone tries to hit me, the harder I hit back. I’ll make sure they know regret will never be mine. During lunch, I received a SnapChat from Antoine. “Car’s replaced, Chris is gone. Is that enough?” I typed a few words back: “Depends on your performance.” She didn’t reply again, and the matter seemed to be over. But a month later, I realized something was off. Antoine had been too quiet lately, uncharacteristically so. That night, lying in bed, I scrolled through my company’s project records for the past six months, focusing on projects she had overseen. I found a new supplier I didn’t recognize, took a screenshot, and sent it to Sarah. “What’s the story with this company?” Sarah’s SnapChat reply came three minutes later. It was long, but one sentence was all I needed to see: “Mr. Williams, I need to check further. The registered legal information for this company is a bit strange.” I stared at the company name for a long time, then placed my phone screen down on the pillow. Before I went to sleep, I sent Antoine a SnapChat: “Breakfast together tomorrow.” She replied quickly: “Okay.” I turned off my phone, closed my eyes, and muttered, “Antoine, you’d better not disappoint me.”

“Mr. Williams, Antoine has been spending a lot of time with a particular company recently. The projects aren’t that significant, but she’s there at least twice a week, not even counting video calls.” Sarah handed me her tablet, showing Antoine’s schedule for the past month. I took it, scanned through, and said, “Continue.” “There’s one more thing…” Sarah hesitated. “After Chris was fired, he started working for *this* company. His position? Assistant to the Business Development Director.” My hand, scrolling the tablet, stopped. “A fresh graduate, blacklisted from the entire industry, suddenly becomes an Assistant Business Development Director?” “That company isn’t on our core partners list; they’re a second-tier supplier. So… we don’t usually pay much attention to smaller operations like that.” I put the tablet down and leaned back in my chair, silent. Sarah stood nearby, not daring to move. After about two minutes, I finally spoke. “How many active projects does that company have with us right now?” “Three. Two are still under contract, and one was just signed.” “Terminate all of them.” Sarah’s pen froze mid-air. “All of them? Mr. Williams, one project already received an advance payment…” “Forget the advance payment. I recall the breach clauses in the contract are in our favor. Have Legal send out the official notice today.” “Okay, anything else?” I picked up my phone, scrolled through my contacts one by one. “Get me a list of all suppliers who work with that company. You call them yourself. Every single company connected to our corporation in this industry will cut ties with them.” “Mr. Williams, isn’t that too big a move?” “This isn’t ‘too big a move’ at all.” I tossed the tablet onto the desk. “When I make someone disappear, I don’t expect them to resurface under a new name. Anyone who built him a bridge will see it immediately torn down. And if it can’t be torn down, I’ll bury the bridge and everyone on it.” Sarah took a deep breath, nodded, and left. That afternoon, Sarah was on the phone non-stop. She later reported back that not a single person dared to refuse. When Antoine returned that evening, her face was grim. Her phone wouldn’t stop ringing. She hung up countless times, only to answer another call, her voice now barely containing her frustration: “I get it! Just don’t panic!” I sat at the dining table, eating. She hung up and looked at me. “Did you do this?” “Yes.” “Do you know that project also impacts us?” “I know.” “Then why?” “Antoine.” I put down my silverware and looked at her. “I told you to fire him and scrap the car, and you did. But then you immediately found him a new spot, using company business as a cover. Did you think I was stupid?” She opened her mouth, but no words came out. “You can call me jealous, controlling, or heartless. But you can’t treat me like an idiot.” I stood up and walked over to her. “This is my last reminder to you: no more petty games.” Antoine stared at me for a long time, complex emotions swirling in her eyes. She finally looked away, her voice raw. “Alexander, can’t you just let people live?” I chuckled. “Who are these ‘people’ you’re talking about?” She didn’t answer. I turned and went into my study. Before closing the door, I dropped one last line. “Antoine Loris, if you defend him one more time, next time it won’t be this simple.”

The news reached Georgina Loris, the family matriarch, faster than I expected. That afternoon, I was in a meeting when Sarah urgently whispered in my ear. “Georgina threw a major fit at the Loris estate. She’s planning to ground Antoine and make her reflect on her actions.” I showed no emotion after hearing that and continued the meeting. Afterwards, Sarah came back. “Antoine… she slammed the door and stormed out. Her father, Christopher, couldn’t even stop her.” “Understood.” “However, Christopher himself issued a Loris family-wide industry blacklist, firing Chris on the spot. This time, the Loris family acted directly, and their methods were even more severe than ours.” I nodded, but I wasn’t worried about the Loris family’s attitude. I was worried about Antoine. Sure enough, Antoine returned at ten that night. The door swung open, hitting the wall with a loud bang. “Alexander.” Her collar was loose, and her eyes were bloodshot. I expected her to come find me tonight, but her disheveled appearance genuinely disappointed me. “Did you go tell my mom?” “I wouldn’t do that.” I didn’t even bother to open my eyes. “Then how did she know?” “You’ve done too much, Antoine. Someone was bound to find out.” She walked up to me, barely suppressing the urge to strike me. “My mom wants to ground me. Are you enjoying this?” “I think you deserved it.” She scoffed, then suddenly slapped her palm on the back of the sofa. “Alexander, what do you want from me? Is an intern really worth all this? You fired him, had every industry connected to you blacklist him, and now even my dad is helping you! He’s just a twenty-two-year-old kid. Can’t you just leave him alone?” I put my teacup down and slowly stood up. “Leave him alone? Antoine, the Loris family’s annual revenue doesn’t even amount to a fraction of my company’s quarterly earnings. Do you honestly think I, Alexander Williams, can’t ‘tolerate’ an intern?” Her expression froze for a moment. “You think I’m jealous?” I took a step forward, and her resolve weakened. “I’m giving you one last chance to maintain your dignity. You know better than anyone how you got where you are. If you dare to throw that dignity away, I’ll flip the whole damn table.” Her throat moved, but she didn’t step back, her hands clenched tightly into fists. “You only ever threaten me.” “I’m not threatening you. I’m reminding you not to lose sight of reality.” The air thickened. She suddenly turned, grabbed the car keys from the coffee table, and headed for the door. “Where are you going?” “Don’t ask.” She didn’t look back. The door slammed shut behind her. I stood there, sighing. Then I sent Antoine one last SnapChat: “Antoine, my patience has run out.”

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I scrolled past a post. “What’s the most thrilling thing couples do?” I paused for a moment, about to type: “We both grew up in the foster care system, and at 18…” But a shocking comment suddenly caught my eye. “I’m his intern, and now I’m his mistress.” “We’re true love. He’d do anything for me…” “The most thrilling thing, you ask? His wife has a unique condition. Whenever she gets emotional and feverish, cherry blossom-like red marks appear on her skin.” “He always says he loves watching her ‘bloom’ for him, but he’s actually making bets with me on how long those marks will take to fade.” “The most exciting part is, whenever his wife is most emotional, her skin covered in the fullest ‘bloom,’ he’ll quietly pull back the curtains, letting me watch everything clearly from outside the window.” I looked down at the cherry blossom-like red marks still visible on my own skin. My blood instantly froze. The comments section exploded with outrage, netizens expressing their condemnation. But the woman remained completely unfazed, her replies brimming with blatant pride. Someone asked, “Watching from outside? Aren’t you afraid of being discovered?” She instantly replied, “His penthouse apartment has floor-to-ceiling windows leading out to a small balcony. No one goes out there but him. His wife thinks it’s reflective glass and that you can’t see anything from outside, tee hee.” “Haha, she looks so pathetic and funny crying and calling his name when she’s emotional.” “Can’t chat anymore, I’m going to put on his favorite white T-shirt now. He said it’s a reward for me guessing correctly how long the marks would take to fade last night.” My fingers clutched the phone until they were white, a cold dread seizing my heart. Last night, Ethan said a company project was wrapping up and we should celebrate. He prepared a candlelit dinner, uncorked an expensive red wine. In the throes of passion, he carried me to the giant floor-to-ceiling window. Outside were the city’s dazzling lights. He whispered, “Mia, look at all these city lights. They don’t hold a candle to even a fraction of the cherry blossoms blooming on your skin for me.” I was so touched I couldn’t think straight. Now, remembering it, my stomach churned with nausea. All those words of love I thought were for me were actually meant for someone else outside that window. Calming myself, I followed the woman’s account, then sent Ethan a message. “Ethan, are you still working late tonight?” He replied almost immediately: “Yeah, still some loose ends to tie up with the project. What’s up?” I didn’t reply again, instead heading straight downstairs to the security office. Our years of shared history couldn’t be dismissed by a single anonymous post. The security guard on duty, Carl, looked surprised when he saw me. “Mrs. Ethan, what brings you down so late?” I forced a stiff smile. “I suspect someone might have tried to climb onto our balcony last night. Could you help me pull up the surveillance footage from outside our balcony between ten and twelve last night?” Carl nodded, immediately bringing up the footage. “Of course.” But I caught a flicker of something in his eyes. Just as I expected. On the monitor, everything appeared normal. “Could you also pull up the footage from the main entrance?” I asked. His hand trembled slightly, but after a moment’s hesitation, he clicked. A slender figure, dressed in a white shirt and short skirt, furtively appeared at the main entrance. That face, I knew all too well. It was Chloe, the intern Ethan had hired six months ago. The tension that had coiled in me finally snapped. A tidal wave of hurt, anger, and disgust instantly washed over me. My first instinct was to confront him. But my feet were rooted to the spot. “Don’t do anything rash.” A deep male voice came from behind me. I spun around. Liam was standing there, a box of medicine in his hand. I hadn’t even noticed him. “You have a sensitive stomach. Don’t drink cold water this late.” He handed me the medicine and a glass of warm water, his eyes full of concern. I fought desperately to suppress my trembling, just to keep the tears from falling. “I’m fine, just feeling a little unwell. I should go.” Without waiting for Liam’s reaction, I turned and ran. Back home, I locked myself in the bathroom. I turned on the shower, letting the ice-cold water pour over my head. My phone buzzed. It was a new post from Chloe.

She posted a selfie. The caption read: “My man is amazing, my legs are shaking.” In the photo, she was wearing Ethan’s shirt, the collar wide open, her collarbone bearing ambiguous hickeys. I bit down hard on my lip. A sharp pain and nausea twisted in my stomach. I rushed to the toilet, vomiting until I saw stars. Ethan and I both grew up in the foster care system. I’ve always had a weak constitution, especially with this unusual condition of mine. When I get emotional or feverish, cherry blossom-like red marks appear on my skin. The other kids used to call me a freak. Only Ethan would carefully cup my face and say, “Mia, you’re not a monster. This is a gift from God. It’s so beautiful.” To help me with my condition, he worked his fingers to the bone to earn money. In the early days of his startup, he once drank himself to a perforated stomach for a project. Lying in the hospital bed, he still held my hand and said, “Mia, when we have money, we’ll buy a big house with the best glass, so you can see the most beautiful scenery every day.” Now, those vows felt like the most cynical joke. I hugged the toilet, laughing and crying like a lunatic. After I’d vented, I wiped my tears and lay on the bed, scrolling through Chloe’s account. She hadn’t created the account long ago, and most of her posts were about luxury goods. Only a few posts were related to Ethan. One was from six months ago. She showed off her job offer from Ethan’s company, with the caption: “Now I can see my crush every day!” Another was from a month ago. That day was my birthday. Ethan said he had to work late and ordered takeout for me. But I saw in Chloe’s post that he had taken her to the mountaintop restaurant I’d always dreamed of, for a candlelit dinner. The screen went dark, reflecting my bloodless face. Ethan came home very late. “Why aren’t you asleep yet? You look terrible.” His hand had just brushed my forehead when I flinched away. He paused, then frowned, a hint of impatience in his voice. “I’ve had a long day. I’m not in the mood to guess what’s on your mind. Let’s talk about it tomorrow.” After he fell asleep, I picked up his phone. Instinctively, I typed in my birthday. Incorrect password. I didn’t give up, trying our anniversary next. Still wrong. Finally, on a strange impulse, I typed in the date Chloe started her internship. It unlocked. The pinned chat was with Chloe. I opened it, revealing sickening messages. “Playing flight attendant tonight, Master. When are you coming?” “On my way. Make sure you put on your toys like a good girl.” “Got it, Master.” I scrolled through every one of their messages. My jaw clenched tight, but tears still flowed uncontrollably. Ethan, sleeping beside me, seemed to sense it. He instinctively pulled me into his arms, gently stroking my back. “Mia, don’t be scared, your husband’s here.” His embrace was still warm, his voice as gentle as ever. In a daze, my mind drifted back to when I was eighteen. I had a high fever, and the cherry blossom marks on my body erupted in a large area for the first time. I was completely delirious. The staff at the children’s home were at a loss. It was teenage Ethan who carried me on his back for several miles, taking me to the hospital. The road was bumpy, and he fell several times, bruising and bleeding his knees and elbows. But he didn’t say a word, just kept whispering in my ear, “Mia, don’t fall asleep, please don’t fall asleep. We’re almost there.” “If you dare to fall asleep, I’ll never buy you your favorite chocolate again.” Back then, he truly loved me with his whole being. I lay stiffly in his arms, wide awake until dawn. The next day, after Ethan left for work, I contacted a private investigator. The detective was efficient. Three days later, I received the first batch of information. Among them was an audio recording.

“Ethan, what do you even like about Mia? She’s always so cold, like a statue.” Ethan chuckled softly, his voice laced with the familiar tenderness I knew so well. “I like the way she blooms beneath me, like a living painting.” “But even the most captivating painting eventually loses its charm if you stare at it every day.” The recording ended with their unbearable lewd laughter. I clutched my phone, but not a single tear fell. That evening, Ethan came home with my favorite cake. He lit the candles, gazing at me with deep affection. “Mia, this is our twentieth year. Thank you for being with me.” I looked at his face and suddenly smiled. Yes, from six to twenty-eight, we had been through so much. “Ethan, do you remember? You used to say the marks on my skin were a gift from God.” He paused, then nodded. His eyes overflowed with tenderness. “Of course, I remember. In my heart, they’re more beautiful than any star.” “Are they?” I picked up the red wine from the table and walked to the giant floor-to-ceiling window. “But lately, I keep having nightmares. I dream that someone is watching me from outside this window.” I turned back, staring into his eyes. A flicker of panic crossed Ethan’s face. He frowned, walked over, and pulled me into a hug. His voice held both pity and reproach. “What are you thinking?” But then, his tone shifted, and he chuckled softly. His fingers idly twirled my hair, a smile spreading in his eyes. “Mia, actually, there’s something I’ve been keeping from you for a while.” “Six months ago, at a party, someone drugged me, and I ended up sleeping with an intern.” “The girl was quite something, but I hurt her. She cried all night.” He withdrew his hand, patting my head. “She’s different from other women who only wanted something from me, so I kept her around.” “Lately, the girl got insistent. She really wanted to know my secret, so I told her about the cherry blossom marks.” “She didn’t believe me and insisted on seeing it with her own eyes. So that day, I let her watch from outside.” Even though I already knew the truth, hearing him say it with his own lips, a piercing pain spread through my entire body. My nails dug into my palms, and I bit my tongue so hard I tasted blood. I grabbed Ethan’s collar, slapped him across the face with all my strength, my voice trembling. “How could you be so disgusting?” Unconsciously, tears streamed down my face. Ethan’s face darkened. He pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek. “If you’re still upset, I can show you a video of us.” “You can learn a thing or two. She’s got quite a few tricks up her sleeve.” I looked at him, my eyes burning with unshed tears. “Let’s get a divorce.” Ethan’s entire body stiffened, his eyes instantly filled with rage. “Because of this? In our circle, who doesn’t have a few on the side?” “I’ve been good enough to you. All these years, it’s only been you.” “Besides, the girl knows her place. She won’t threaten your position. Can’t you stop being so selfish?” “Don’t forget who risked everything to get your condition under control!” With that, he stormed out, slamming the door behind him. I collapsed onto the floor, a sharp, twisting pain in my chest. My condition. That was the deepest thorn in my heart. Over the years, to control my symptoms, I had taken countless medications, suffered immeasurable pain. Ethan was the one who had walked me through those darkest days. I thought he was my savior. I never imagined that the boy who had pulled me from the abyss would now personally push me back into hell. And then use my most painful scar to torture my heart. I wiped my tears, walked into the study, and began drafting the divorce papers.

This time, no one could save him. I didn’t intend to get too entangled. But some people just had to provoke me. Chloe sent me a friend request. The verification message contained only four words. “Let’s talk about the baby.” I accepted. Immediately, she sent an ultrasound report. It was a pregnancy test. “I’m pregnant, six weeks. The doctor says the baby is very healthy.” “Mia, you know, with your unique condition, it’ll be hard for you to ever have your own children.” “Ethan really loves kids. We can’t let him be without an heir, can we?” “Ethan said that once the baby’s born, you can raise it.” “Tomorrow, he’s hosting a celebration party for me at the company, where he’ll officially announce my identity.” “It’s in the top-floor ballroom, at 8 PM. You’re welcome to come, Mia.” She sent another photo. Ethan was gently stroking her belly, his eyes filled with a tenderness and anticipation I had never seen before. I clenched my fists, hatred spreading through every fiber of my being. I remembered when Ethan and I got married, we didn’t even have a proper ceremony. He said, once the company was stable, he’d give me the grandest wedding in the world. I swallowed the bitter taste in my throat. That night, I called Liam. He answered instantly. After hanging up, I sat in the living room all night. I didn’t leave until 8 PM the next evening, heading to his top-floor restaurant. In the ballroom, Chloe wore a custom gown, her arm linked with Ethan’s, smiling brightly and radiantly. They looked like the perfect couple, a match made in heaven. In that moment, the emotions I had suppressed for days finally exploded. I rushed onto the stage, and in Ethan’s shocked gaze, I slapped Chloe across the face with all my might. “Mia, are you insane?!” Ethan reacted, shoving me hard, then turning to shield Chloe in his arms. I fell to the floor, ignoring the sharp pain of glass shards digging into my palms. I scrambled back up and rushed forward again, slapping him across the face. I laughed. “What? Does it hurt?” “Everyone, look closely! This woman is Chloe! She stole my husband and is pregnant with a bas—” Slap— I was struck, falling to the ground, my ears ringing. “Mia, shut up!” Ethan’s hand was still raised in the air, his other hand clenched, veins bulging, as he roared at me. “What the hell are you doing?! This is my project celebration party, what kind of nonsense are you spouting here?” Ethan grabbed my arm, forcing me to kneel on the shattered glass. A searing pain shot through my knees. Chloe cowered timidly in his arms, but when she looked at me, her eyes were filled with undisguised triumph. Someone must have called the police, and when they arrived, Ethan glanced at me coldly. “Officers, she’s my wife, but today she intentionally caused a scene and ruined my celebration. I won’t protect her.” “Please handle it according to regulations. Whatever fines or compensation are due, they should be paid.” “Oh, and she seems emotionally unstable. After you’re done, it might be best to contact a mental institution.” I was led away in handcuffs by two police officers. The people around me were pointing and whispering, their faces full of disdain and mockery. I didn’t struggle. I just stared fixedly at Ethan. Watching him gently wipe away Chloe’s tears. Watching him carefully protect her. I let out a bitter laugh. “Ethan, your surprise will be delivered soon.” The game has just begun.

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When my fiancé Ethan was picking out wedding jewelry, he bought two pieces — and let my sister Ava choose first. One was a pink diamond necklace he’d tracked down across three cities, paying a fortune at auction. The other was a cheap black brooch that came free with the necklace. It clashed completely with my wedding dress. For once, I pointed at the necklace. “This time — can I choose first?” Ethan ruffled my hair. “Ava’s always been picky. She has to have the best of everything. You’re not like that — whatever’s left is still fine.” I didn’t respond. I just felt hollow inside. Twenty years of growing up side by side with Ethan, and in his eyes, I would always be the one picking up what Ava left behind. Eventually, even love was no different. He’d had feelings for Ava. But Ava chose to chase her career. Heartbroken, Ethan turned to me and confessed. I stared at that black brooch, and suddenly reached out and gave it a small push. “Keep both. I don’t want to choose.” I was done choosing leftovers.

Ethan let out a helpless sigh. “Olivia, this brooch could never suit Ava.” I looked at him steadily. “Then why does it suit me?” Ethan froze for a moment, then smiled. “When you two were little and stood next to each other, everyone said you looked like her scrawny little sidekick.” “Pink diamonds aren’t your style. Black is good — understated, suits anyone.” Sidekick. Ava and I were twins. But I couldn’t match her in a single thing. At school, Ava was always number one. I’d pull all-nighters until my eyes were red, and still only hovered somewhere in the middle. Mom would press a finger to my forehead and sigh. “Same womb, same family — how are you this slow? Oh well. One smart kid is enough.” I trailed behind Ava everywhere. Carrying her bag, peeling her fruit. Ten years of being called her sidekick. I’d told Ethan more than once that I hated that nickname. He kept using it anyway. I looked at him calmly. “Ethan, let’s break up.” Ethan stared at me, laughing like he was humoring a child. “Alright, if you don’t like the brooch, just pick something else. You don’t need to say things like that.” “We’ll go to the mall right now. You pick until you’re happy. Deal?” Ava slid the pink diamond necklace across the table toward me. “Olivia, take my necklace. You’re practically married — you’re an adult now. Stop acting out.” But Ethan stopped her. “That one was specially picked for you. It wouldn’t suit Olivia — it’d be wasted on her.” So it wasn’t a choice at all. He’d always intended it for Ava. Ethan put his arm around my shoulders and steered me toward the door. But the moment we reached the ground floor of the mall, Ava said she wanted to check out a new perfume. Ethan nodded immediately. “Then we’ll go with Ava first. We can pick your gift after. There’s no rush.” Again. Ava spent a long time at the counter, testing different scents. She narrowed it down to two and couldn’t decide. Ethan noticed her hesitation. “Just get both. You pick one to use now, and the other one goes to Olivia. When you want it back, just swap with her.” He paid, then turned and handed a bottle to me. “See? Now you don’t even have to choose your own gift. Ava has great taste. You should be happy.” I didn’t take it. I stared at that bottle and almost laughed. Wasn’t I supposed to be choosing for myself today? “I’m going back to your place to get my things. I won’t be coming back after this.” Ethan’s hand froze mid-air. For the first time, he looked genuinely serious. “Olivia, stop this.” That same evening, he called my parents over. Mom walked in and immediately went for my temples with her finger. “Are you out of your mind? Breaking up? Over what?” “You tell me — what do you think you have that’s good enough for Ethan? You’re average-looking, you’re not the sharpest. If Ava weren’t busy with her career, you think you’d even be in the picture?” My temples throbbed with every word. I’d heard all of this so many times. Not a single word was new. I was slow. I was plain. I wasn’t Ava. Ethan stepped in front of me then, smiling, smoothing things over. “Don’t say that. Olivia is the sweetest — she’s more than good enough for me.” Mom immediately turned to Ethan with an approving look. “See? He’s defending you. Where are you going to find someone like him again?” “If you break up with him, don’t bother coming home.” Right. Such a wonderful man. I should be grateful. I breathed in slowly. “Okay.” Everyone let out a quiet breath of relief, like a difficult child had finally come to her senses. I went to my room. I called my friend and let the tears fall without a sound. “Lily, is there still room for me at that pottery studio?” On the other end, she was careful with her words. “Aren’t you about to get married? Will your family even let you go?” I looked out at the dark night beyond the window, and a small smile crossed my face. “Lily — what would you say if I told you I was going to skip the wedding?”

Lily couldn’t believe it. In her eyes, I was the good girl — obedient, easygoing, never pushed back. Eloping was the last thing she’d expect from me. But if I wasn’t good, no one would love me. Growing up, Ava blazed with a light that made everyone run toward her. I stretched onto my toes as hard as I could. Being obedient, being agreeable — that was the only way to make Ethan and my parents notice me at all. But I was tired of being good. The next day, Ethan took me to see how the new house was coming along. I moved toward the passenger seat, but he pulled me back. “That’s Ava’s seat.” Ava had just come in. Ethan stepped around me and opened the passenger door for her. “Ava’s thinking about buying a place too — might as well check this one out.” I sat down in the back without a word. “Sure.” It was a small standalone house. The moment Ava stepped into the master bedroom, her eyes lit up. “The light in here is amazing. The humidity is just right — perfect for the bacterial cultures I’m growing for my research.” Ethan stood beside her. “If you like it, this room’s yours whenever you want to stay.” “I’ll get our best designer in to set it up for you.” I stood in the doorway. When we were choosing this house — from the location to the layout to every design detail — Ethan had never once got involved. He always said, “It’s just a house. As long as it works, it works.” But now he stood shoulder to shoulder with Ava in front of the window, talking about how to redesign the room. Like a couple planning their own home together. Ava turned and gave me a playful look. “Olivia, would you mind if I took this room?” I looked at Ethan. “Do you remember this is the main bedroom? The one we set aside for the two of us?” Ethan’s expression was unbothered. “A bedroom label doesn’t mean anything. It’s not a lab experiment that needs special conditions. Pick another one.” I unclenched my hand — the one I’d been digging my nails into. “You’re my sister. Stay in whatever room you want.” Ethan patted my head. “That’s my girl.” After the house visit, we got a call from the bridal boutique. The three gowns for the wedding had been finalized. Ava linked her arm through mine. “Olivia, let me come help you choose.” It really did look like something a caring older sister would do. But while I was trying on the gowns, she got a phone call and came back with a pained expression. “There’s been a problem with the dress I was supposed to wear to an important event tonight. I can’t find anything suitable on such short notice…” Ethan’s eyes swept the boutique. “Then find something here.” Nothing caught his eye — until he looked at what I was wearing. “Ava’s fair-skinned. This one would look great on her. Why don’t you let your sister have this one?” The stylist stepped in on my behalf. “Sir, Olivia came in over thirty times for this dress. She designed it herself, made sketch after sketch to get every detail right. It was custom-made specifically for her.” “Besides — you can’t just lend out a wedding gown.” Ethan glanced at me like it was a perfectly reasonable request. To him, it probably wasn’t even a question. But strangely, my chest didn’t hurt the way I expected it to. I stepped out of the gown and handed it to Ava. “It’s fine. You’ll look beautiful in it.” Ethan looked mildly surprised for a moment, then softened. “Olivia, you’re so sweet. Come on, I’ll take you to find something even better.” But his eyes were already fixed on Ava in my dress. He knelt down and carefully smoothed out every fold of the skirt around her feet. I had imagined this scene once. I’d come to this boutique over thirty times. He had come with me exactly once. The stylist smiled and said something about how romantic it was to have your partner fix your dress for you. He hadn’t even looked up. He’d said: “That’s not romance, that’s fuss. They’re being paid to do exactly that.” Now I watched his back as he knelt at Ava’s feet, and I finally understood the price of that fantasy. Everyone had always liked Ava more. My parents. Ethan. Everyone. And still, I couldn’t stop loving him. Because there was only him — when Mom and Dad would grab my ear and call me slow, say I didn’t seem like their child at all — who would quietly slip a strawberry candy into my hand. “Being a little slow is kind of cute, you know.” I kept that love folded up somewhere small. Until the day he told Ava how he felt, and Ava said her heart only had room for her work. He was lost after that. Then he turned and confessed to me. I knew it was out of heartbreak. I said yes anyway. I put aside what I actually loved — art — and stayed by his side as his assistant. I taught myself to read dense data sets and technical reports the way Ava could. But I could never become Ava. And he would never love me the way he loved her. My phone buzzed. The pottery studio is all set up. When are you coming? Ava had already changed out of the dress. Ethan picked up a black gown from the rack without much thought and held it out to me. “Olivia, just grab one — we’re keeping Ava waiting.” “This one’s fine. Simple, classic. Very you.” Black again. My least favorite color. I looked down and typed back a reply. Wedding day. I said I was going to skip it. I meant it.

That night, when we all went to my parents’ house for dinner, I suddenly remembered — today was mine and Ava’s birthday. The cake had been chosen by Ethan. “You two share the same birthday. One cake does the job. So much easier.” It was a beautiful cake. But when I looked closer, I could see thick slices of mango tucked between the layers. Ava loved mango. I was allergic to it. Nobody seemed to notice anything wrong. Ethan was busy with the candles. He placed the birthday crown on Ava’s head. “Ava, make your wish first.” I sat looking at that mango cake, looking at the crown on Ava’s head, looking at the warmth on Ethan’s face — and something in me snapped loose. “Ethan.” “You always buy two of everything. How come there’s only one cake?” “And why is it always me who goes last?” The room went quiet for a moment. Ethan frowned slightly. “It’s been like this for years. What’s gotten into you tonight?” Mom shot me a look. “She’s Ava. And Ava is better than you in every way — of course she goes first. If you were half as capable as her, I’d let you blow them out first.” The words dried up in my mouth. Ava began to make her wish. The whole family gathered around her and sang. By the time it was my turn, the candles had burned almost all the way down. Ethan glanced over. “There aren’t any extras. A birthday wish is just a birthday wish — you can make yours next year, it’ll be the same thing.” Twenty years. Every year, next year. And next year never came. Do children who aren’t exceptional really not deserve to be loved? I sat quietly while they cut the cake, my mind drifting somewhere far away. Somehow the conversation turned to the wedding. Mom looked up and asked me: “How are the reception arrangements going?” I opened my mouth to answer, but she had already turned to Ethan. “Actually — Ethan, most of the guests on your side are from business circles, right?” “Ava’s new research product just launched. The wedding reception would actually be the perfect place to introduce it.” Ethan didn’t even hesitate. He smiled and nodded. “Sure, no problem. We can cut the part where the MC talks about our love story — have Ava present instead.” Ava smiled and said, “We don’t have to cut it. I’ll just say a few words. I don’t want to take over Olivia’s wedding.” Ethan looked at her seriously. “No, if we’re doing it, we do it properly. Don’t worry about that — I’ll take care of everything.” The three of them talked excitedly — where to set up the display table, when she should take the stage, whether they needed a banner. It was supposed to be my wedding. And it was turning into a product launch. Not once did anyone ask what I thought. It didn’t matter. The wedding wasn’t going to happen anyway. I couldn’t breathe in that room. I slipped back to my old bedroom. Out in the living room, Ethan and my parents were gathered around the TV. Ava was competing in a national competition tonight. The results were being announced live. Everyone stared at the screen, too tense to speak. I moved through the old house, quietly collecting my things. There wasn’t much to take. I only wanted one thing — a sketchbook buried in the back of the drawer. Drawings I’d made as a kid. Then the result came in. Ava won first place. The living room erupted. I heard cheers, applause, screaming. Then I heard Ava’s voice, a little playful, a little wistful. “The awards ceremony is on the same day as Olivia’s wedding. You won’t be able to come with me. Such an important moment — and I’ll be there alone.”

A second of silence in the living room. Then Ethan’s voice. “You won’t be alone.” A knock at my door. Ethan stood in the doorway, his tone careful. “Olivia — an award like this only comes once in a lifetime for Ava. It really is a big deal.” “What if we moved our wedding to the evening?” I almost wanted to laugh. As if a wedding only comes around more than once. One of the housekeepers muttered under her breath: “Who has a wedding in the evening?” Mom immediately snapped at her. “Don’t talk nonsense. And you — don’t go believing old superstitions like that.” Ethan looked at me with that soft, certain expression. “Olivia — what do you say? You’ve always been the understanding one.” I looked at him. And I thought of something from a long time ago. I had won a small art competition — the first time I’d ever placed. I was so proud, I counted the days until my parents could come see me collect the award. They told me Ava’s speech competition was more important, and went there instead. Ethan saw how crushed I was. “Don’t worry. I’ll be there. I promise.” But in the end, he went to Ava’s competition too. I stood on that stage alone. In the audience, every face belonged to someone else’s family, and the applause belonged to someone else. And here I was, still alone. “Fine. Move it to the evening. I don’t mind.” There was no point. A wedding without its real center — it didn’t matter when it was held. The moment they had their answer, the celebration started back up. Laughter rolled through the living room, one wave after another. By the end of the night, Ethan had drunk too much. They say people tell the truth when they’re drunk. I looked at his unfocused eyes and, before I could stop myself, I asked: “Ethan — are you looking forward to our wedding?” He didn’t answer. The wind passed between us, cold and thin. “Then why did you confess to me? Why did you ask me to be with you?” I knew the answer. I needed to hear him say it. His voice came out thick and blurred. “In this life… you aim for the top, and you settle for the middle. Finding someone five percent like her… that’s already the best I could do.” “And you’re her sister. Being with you, I still get to be close to her…” The wind stung my eyes. I didn’t know when the tears had run out. There were none left. The truth was crueler than I had imagined. The morning of the wedding. Before dawn, the whole house was in motion — but not for my wedding. Everyone was choosing outfits, doing hair and makeup, mapping out the route to Ava’s awards ceremony. I came out of my room, fully dressed and ready. “I’ll skip the ceremony. I need to get to the venue and make sure everything’s in order.” Ethan didn’t look up. He was helping Ava run through a last-minute checklist. “Okay, go ahead. Don’t keep the guests waiting.” I picked up a small bag and walked out the front door. Then I headed to the airport. As the car pulled away, I caught a glimpse in the rearview mirror — Ethan’s car, the whole family climbing in, laughing, heading off toward Ava’s ceremony. The awards show ran four hours. Four hours later, I landed in Millhaven. My phone buzzed. A message from Ethan. Olivia — the wedding’s in the evening anyway. Skip the reception prep for now. I’ll be there later. Ava needs me here. Go wait at the hotel. Be good. I stared at those words for a long time. Then I blocked his number and locked my phone. Lily wrapped her arms around me. “Let’s go.” Meanwhile, back at the venue. By the time Ethan’s group finally arrived, the wedding hall was chaos. A friend grabbed his arm. “Wasn’t the bride supposed to be here already? Where is she?” Ethan went still. The wedding coordinator spotted the groom and rushed over. “Mr. Carter — we’ve been trying to reach the bride all evening. She’s not picking up. We can’t get hold of her.”

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