Category: English

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Carter and I were getting married, and he insisted that his ex-wife be our maid of honor. This was our seventeenth attempt at a wedding. And for the seventeenth time, Becca fainted in Carter’s arms right as we were about to exchange vows. The ceremony ground to a jarring halt. Carter scooped her up with a practiced, rhythmic ease, his face a mask of grim determination as he announced the wedding was off. Again. I didn’t break down this time. I didn’t scream or beg. I just stood there in my Vera Wang, watching the man I loved prepare to carry another woman out of our life together. “Carter,” I said, my voice cutting through the murmurs of the confused guests. “If you walk out that door today, we’re done. There is no tomorrow for us.” He paused, looking back with a flicker of annoyance, as if I were the one being unreasonable. “June, you know she’s carrying my child. She’s my responsibility. I can’t just leave her.” He adjusted his grip on her. “You wouldn’t want to marry a man who abandons his duties, would you? Be a good girl. I’ll take Becca back to our place so she can rest in the master suite. Stay here, apologize to the guests, and when you’re done, come home and make us some dinner. We’ll talk then.” As the heavy oak doors clicked shut behind him, I reached up and ripped the cathedral-length veil from my hair, taking a few strands of scalp with it. I stared at the ceiling, blinking hard to force the stinging tears back into my skull. My phone vibrated in my lace clutch. An old, familiar number. “Left at the altar again?” the voice teased, sharp and brimming with a dark kind of amusement. “You really should have just married me, June.” I took a shaky breath, my resolve hardening into something cold and crystalline. “If you’re still asking, the answer is yes.” 1 There was a stunned silence on the other end. Then, his tone shifted, the playfulness replaced by a low, gravelly seriousness. “Are you for real? Because if you are, I’m getting on a plane.” Before I could breathe a word, he added, “June, I’m heading to the airport now. If I come back for you this time, I’m never letting you go. No regrets.” He hung up. I drove back to the penthouse we shared, but when I tried the keypad, the red light flashed. The code had been changed. My stomach dropped. All my things were in there—including the hand-stitched silk duvet my mother had finished on her deathbed, her final gift for my wedding night. I called Carter. He declined. I called again. Voicemail. Ten minutes later, the door finally groaned open. Carter stood there in his undershirt, looking disheveled. “Sorry,” he said, wiping sweat from his brow. “I was helping Becca clean up. She’s so far along she can’t reach her own back… I couldn’t get to the phone.” He saw my expression—or lack of one—and forced a small, condescending smile. He reached out to pull me into his side. “Are you actually jealous?” he chuckled, as if I were a child pouting over a lost toy. “She’s my ex-wife, June. There’s nothing I haven’t seen. We aren’t together anymore, but she’s family. It was just a sponge bath. Don’t be so small-minded.” “Okay,” I said quietly. In the past, I would have burned the house down. I would have screamed until my throat bled. But now? I just wanted my mother’s quilt. My lack of a reaction seemed to unnerve him. He cleared his throat. “By the way, I changed the door code to Becca’s birthday. She’s got pregnancy brain—kept forgetting the old one.” He watched me closely, waiting for the explosion. “Fine,” I replied. He hesitated, his hand reaching for mine, but a sharp “Oh!” drifted from upstairs. Carter didn’t even look at me; he practically shoved me aside to bolt up the stairs. I lost my balance, my heel catching on the rug. I hit the floor hard, a sickening pop echoing from my ankle. Pain flared, white and blinding. By the time I managed to crawl to the hallway and grab the first-aid kit, Carter was coming back down. He snatched the kit out of my hands without a word and turned to head back up. “Carter,” I hissed through gritted teeth. He stopped, his back to me. “I’m hurt, too.” When he turned around, his eyes weren’t filled with concern. They were filled with a scorching, weary disgust. “Do you have to turn everything into a competition?” he snapped. “Can’t you just give it a rest for one night?” He disappeared back into the master bedroom. It took me a long time to stand up. Every step toward the stairs was a jagged bolt of agony. When I finally reached the landing, I saw my life piled in the hallway. My clothes, my shoes, my books—all tossed out like trash. And there was the quilt. It was crumpled in the corner, covered in the sour, yellow reek of vomit. Carter stepped out of the bedroom, holding the empty kit. He looked at the mess, then at me, and spoke with the casual tone of a man ordering a coffee. “Good timing. Becca got sick. Go wash the linens, would you?” My fingers trembled as I picked up the silk quilt. The delicate, intricate embroidery my mother had spent months on was matted with filth. “Hand wash only,” Carter added, leaning against the doorframe. “Don’t use the machine. Becca’s a light sleeper and she needs the rest. Her ankle is swollen, so she’s taking the master bed tonight.” I stood up, my vision blurring with a sudden, violent red. “She’s your ex-wife, Carter. You don’t think it’s a little twisted for her to sleep in our marriage bed?” Becca appeared in the doorway then, looking pale and fragile in a silk nightie that looked suspiciously like one of mine. “Carter… maybe I should just go,” she whimpered, her voice cracking. Carter was at her side in an instant. “You’re hurt! Where are you going to go?” “Just let me leave,” she sobbed, leaning into him. “Tonight was supposed to be your wedding night. I shouldn’t be here.” Carter gripped her wrists, his voice dropping to a low growl. “The wedding didn’t happen, Becca. There is no wedding night.” He looked at her with an intensity that made my skin crawl. “You’re the one who said if we ever split, we’d always be there for each other’s big moments. You’re staying.” He swept her up into his arms. As she “struggled” half-heartedly, the strap of her nightgown slipped, exposing her shoulder, her skin glowing in the hallway light. Carter didn’t even look away. I didn’t stay to watch the rest of the soap opera. I gathered the ruined quilt and retreated to the guest room. Surprisingly, I didn’t cry. I didn’t lie awake wondering what I’d done wrong. I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. But in the gray hours of the morning, I felt a hand sliding under the covers. I bolted upright, adrenaline spiking, and shoved the person away. It was Carter, his shirt unbuttoned, his eyes dark and heavy. “Don’t touch me,” I spat. His face contorted into a mask of cold fury. “June, I know you’re upset about yesterday, but I’ve been working my ass off all day and I came in here to make it up to you. Don’t push your luck.” I stared at him, feeling a profound sense of revulsion. “I don’t want it. Go back upstairs to Becca.” He sighed, his voice softening into that manipulative, ‘reasonable’ tone he used whenever he wanted something. “How long are you going to keep this up? I’ve told you a thousand times: Becca is my past. You are my future. I’m only looking after her out of duty. Why can’t you just understand that?” I let out a harsh, jagged laugh. “I let her ruin seventeen weddings, Carter. I think I’ve been plenty understanding.” He flinched, his ego bruised. “You’re being impossible!” He slammed the door so hard the pictures on the wall rattled. Years ago, I would have chased him. I would have apologized for my “tone” and begged for a scrap of his affection. But lying there in the dark, I just felt hollow. My eighteen-year-old self wouldn’t have believed it—that a decade of obsessive, bone-deep love could end with such a pathetic whimper. I remembered the day it started. I was eighteen, climbing over the school fence to cut class, and I fell. Carter caught me. One look into those dark eyes and I was gone. I spent years molding myself into what I thought he wanted. I went abroad for school because his family suggested it. When I came back and found out he’d married someone else, I stayed in a hotel room and cried for a month. When he got divorced and ended up in a body cast after a car wreck, I begged my father to let me use our family’s influence to help him. I spent six months in a hospital room, cleaning him, feeding him, pulling him out of the darkness. When he finally proposed, I thought I’d won. I didn’t find out until later that Becca had announced her new boyfriend the very same day. I wasn’t his choice. I was his consolation prize. I finally drifted off, and when I woke, a knock at the door startled me. “Get up,” Carter’s voice came through the wood. “Breakfast is ready.” I blinked. He had never made me breakfast. My stomach grumbled—I hadn’t eaten since the rehearsal dinner. When I walked into the dining room, the table was covered. Crepes, eggs benedict, fresh fruit, artisanal pastries. It was a feast. I reached for a plate, but Carter’s hand shot out, blocking me. “Wait your turn,” he snapped, his brow furrowed. “We’re waiting for everyone.” He caught himself, his expression shifting to something more neutral. “Becca’s cravings are all over the place. Let her pick what she wants first.” I didn’t say anything. I turned around, went to the pantry, and grabbed a slice of dry toast. Carter followed me into the kitchen. “Listen, when Becca and I were married, we never had a real wedding. I want to give her that. A ‘do-over’ ceremony.” I froze, the toast like ash in my mouth. I almost had to laugh. Of course. The breakfast wasn’t a gift; it was a bribe. “And?” I asked, turning to face him. “She’s too tired to plan anything. I want you to handle the details. You’ve got plenty of experience with weddings, and you know what I like. Becca will send you her Pinterest board later.” I stared at him, wondering if he was actually insane. “Carter, you’re asking your fiancée to plan a wedding for you and your ex-wife?” “Do you have any idea how much of a laughingstock I am because of those seventeen failed ceremonies?” My voice rose, the dam finally breaking. The first wedding, I was so happy. I thought I was finally marrying the love of my life. Becca was the maid of honor, and I was naive enough to think it was a sign of maturity. Then she threw up on my dress in front of the altar. Carter carried her away and left me standing there. He spent the next twenty-four hours on his knees, begging for my forgiveness. The second time, she showed up in a white gown identical to mine. He walked her down the aisle by mistake. The third time, she slit her wrists in the bathroom. He broke the door down and forgot I existed. Every time he left, he came back with a ring, a car, a promise. By the seventeenth time, he didn’t even bother to lie. He just knew I wouldn’t leave. But he forgot one thing. Beyond the “love,” our relationship was a contract between two powerful families. And that contract had an expiration date. The project our families were collaborating on was over. And so was my love for him. Seeing the tears in my eyes, Carter looked momentarily flustered. “Look, if it’s too much…” He stopped as Becca entered the room, dragging a suitcase. She looked like a martyr. “Carter, I was just joking! I can’t believe you actually asked June to plan our wedding,” she said, her eyes downcast. “I shouldn’t have come back. I’ll just leave and raise the baby on my own. I won’t make things difficult for June.” She let a single, perfect tear fall and bowed to me. “June, the baby… it was an accident. I was drugged at a party, and Carter was just trying to save me…” Seeing her “trauma” resurface, Carter turned on me with a snarl. “June, for God’s sake! She’s pregnant. As a woman, have you no empathy?” He swept her into his arms again. “Come on. I’m taking you to try on dresses.” As he passed me, he leaned in, his voice a cold whisper. “The planning details will be in your inbox by five. Don’t be a brat. This is part of your job.” I stood in the silent kitchen for a long time. Then, my phone chimed. “June, what kind of wedding do you want?” It was Brooks. “The flight was delayed. I’m sitting at the gate, thinking we should settle the details now. What do you think?” I laughed until I cried. My “fiancé” was forcing me to plan his wedding to his ex, while the man I’d called my rival for years was asking what I wanted. I replied to Brooks. Then, I opened Instagram. Becca had already posted a carousel of photos. Her in a lace gown, Carter holding her waist. The caption: The Final Chapter. The comments were a cesspool of “I knew they’d find their way back” and heart emojis. And there was a comment from Carter’s official account: Don’t be silly. You’ll always be the mother of my child. The ring on her finger in the photo was the one Carter had never managed to put on mine during our seventeen ceremonies. It felt like a physical weight was being lifted off my chest. I liked the post, closed the app, and sent my resignation to HR. The HR director called me within minutes. “June? Does Carter know about this?” “Did you see Becca’s post?” I asked, my voice calm. “It’s his wish. Just process it and send me the confirmation.” Ten minutes later, the signed exit papers were in my inbox. Then, Carter called. His voice was sharp, commanding. “Get to the Sapphire Club. Now.” I was about to hang up when he added, “Our friends are all here. They’re waiting for you.” I hesitated. I didn’t want to make a scene in front of our social circle. I figured I’d go, say my goodbyes, and leave for good. But when I walked into the private lounge, Becca was sitting in the center of the room, daintily wiping a smudge of food from Carter’s lip. She stopped when she saw me, flashing a shy, guilty smile. “Oh, sorry, June. Old habits die hard. Come, sit here.” She made a move to stand up, but Carter pressed a hand on her shoulder, keeping her down. “It’s fine,” I said, taking a seat by the door. Carter’s eyes narrowed. He gripped his scotch glass a little tighter. Throughout the dinner, he kept glancing at me, trying to gauge my reaction. He even peeled a plate of shrimp and pushed it toward me. I looked at the plate, then at him. “I’m allergic to shellfish, Carter.” He blinked, a flicker of genuine confusion—and maybe shame—crossing his face. Becca seized the moment. “Oh, June, don’t be mad. Carter probably just remembered that I love shrimp. He’s so forgetful lately.” She was trying to bait me. Usually, I would have snapped. I would have made a scene and looked like the “crazy” one. Instead, I just pushed the plate toward her. “Then you should have them.” Carter stared at me, his gaze heavy and unreadable. Becca tried to get his attention, but he was locked onto me. “June,” Becca said, standing up with a glass of champagne. “I feel terrible about everything. Let me make a toast to you.” She walked over to me, her pregnant belly leading the way. Before anyone could react, she drained half the glass, leaned in, and dumped the rest over my head. The cold liquid drenched my hair and soaked into my blouse. “The baby wasn’t an accident,” she whispered into my ear, her voice a venomous hiss. “I told him I wanted one, and he gave it to me. Oh, and remember the day your mother died? We did it three times right behind the funeral parlor while you were giving the eulogy.” Suddenly, she threw herself backward. “Ah! My baby! The baby!” “Becca!” Carter screamed. SLAP. The world spun. My cheek exploded in a searing, throbbing heat. It took me a second to realize Carter had hit me. I sat on the floor, the champagne dripping from my chin, as the tears finally fell. Carter scooped Becca up. When he looked at me, his eyes were bloodshot, filled with a primal, terrifying hatred. “She organized this whole night just to apologize to you,” he roared. “And you push her? How can you be so goddamn evil, June?” I stayed on the floor, Becca’s words echoing in my head like a death knell. While I was saying goodbye to the woman who gave me life, the man I loved was rutting against his ex in the shadows of the cemetery. I looked at Carter’s retreating back. “I will never forgive you for this,” I whispered. “Not in this life or the next.” He stiffened for a fraction of a second, but he didn’t look back. I stumbled home, dragged my suitcase out of the closet, and walked out. But as I reached the driveway, Carter’s car swerved in, nearly hitting me. He jumped out, his face pale, his voice shaking with rage. “Why did you do it? Why did you kill my child?” I gripped the handle of my suitcase. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” “Don’t lie to me!” he screamed. “That hospital is owned by your family! You told them to kill Becca’s baby during the exam!” My brain went numb. “I didn’t do anything.” His phone rang. It was his assistant, his voice frantic even through the speaker. “Sir, it’s Becca. She’s on the roof of the clinic… she’s going to jump.” The phone hit the pavement with a crack. Carter grabbed me by the arm, shoved me into the passenger seat, and drove like a maniac, blowing through every red light. When we reached the hospital roof, the wind was whipping. Becca was standing on the ledge, looking like a broken bird. Carter’s breath hitched. He looked like a man watching his entire world dissolve. “Becca, please,” he choked out. “Don’t do this.” Becca saw me and her hysteria reached a fever pitch. “It was her! She killed my baby!” She was sobbing, clutching a blood-stained bundle to her chest. “You hate me! You can hit me, you can call me names, but why my baby?” I looked at the bundle and felt a wave of nausea. “Sweetheart, don’t be scared,” Becca cooed to the bundle. “Mommy’s coming to be with you.” “No!” Carter screamed. He suddenly kicked me behind the knees, forcing me to the concrete. “Becca, look! I brought her here to pay for what she did. You can do whatever you want to her. Just come down!” I stared at him, horrified. “Carter, I didn’t do it!” But he wasn’t listening. He was crying now. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have divorced you. I didn’t protect you.” He looked at me with cold, dead eyes. “June, tell her you’ll do whatever she wants.” Becca’s eyes glinted with a momentary triumph. “I want her to crawl. I want her to beg my baby for forgiveness. A hundred times.” “Fine,” Carter said without hesitation. “I want her to kneel at the hospital entrance and let every passerby slap her until her face bleeds.” “Fine.” “And I want her… I want her to never be able to be a mother. Ever.” “Fine!” Carter yelled. The bodyguards grabbed me before I could even scream. “Don’t you touch me!” I shrieked. But Carter’s voice came from above me, cold as a winter grave. “Do what she says. Call the surgeon. Perform the hysterectomy.” Thump. Thump. Thump. My head was forced against the concrete again and again until the world turned red. The slaps came in a rhythmic blur, my cheeks swelling until I couldn’t see. I finally broke. “Carter, please… I’m losing consciousness. I can’t breathe.” He didn’t even look at me. “Take her to the OR. No anesthesia. I want her to remember this lesson.” In the operating room, I felt the cold bite of the scalpel. I felt the invasion of the metal. Every cut was a scream that died in my throat until the room faded into blackness. Just as I was slipping away, the doors to the OR were kicked open. The surgeon, trembling, held up a tray with a tiny, bloody mass. He ran out to the hallway where Carter was waiting. “Mr. Jared… we didn’t know… she was pregnant too…” At that moment, Carter’s phone rang. It was his grandfather. “You idiot! What have you done to June?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “408312”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Twenty-three years. That was the lifespan of my marriage to Robert. Together, we’d built a home, a reputation, and raised a son we thought was the best of us. After our son started college, he began bringing a girl home. I was thrilled. I genuinely liked her. I thought I was witnessing the start of my son’s first real love story, imagining a future daughter-in-law. That illusion shattered the moment I saw Robert’s phone. There, tucked behind the digital folders of family vacations and graduation photos, was a shot that didn’t belong. It wasn’t a family portrait. It was a nude. In that heartbeat, the world tilted. The girl wasn’t our son’s girlfriend. She was Robert’s mistress. Our son wasn’t a young man in love; he was the lookout. He was the smoke and mirrors for his father’s mid-life filth. “She’s barely older than your own son,” I screamed, my voice cracking, the hysteria clawing at my throat. “Do you have even a shred of dignity left?” Robert didn’t flinch. He didn’t even look guilty. He just sat there with the terrifying composure of a man who believed he was owed the world. “Joanna, look at us. Twenty years of history. No one can touch what we have,” he said, his voice smooth, academic. “Piper… she’s just a distraction. A detour.” He paused, then looked me straight in the eye with a cold, clinical honesty. “When I married you, you’d already given yourself to someone else. For twenty-three years, that’s been a thorn in my side. I just wanted to know what it felt like…” He hesitated, tasting the words. “I wanted to know what it felt like to be a girl’s first.” 1 Today was the third time Piper had been to the house. She was wearing a white pleated sundress, her long hair loose and effortless. She was barely wearing any makeup, the kind of natural beauty that only comes with youth. The second she walked in, she chirped a sweet “Hi, Professor!” to Robert. She didn’t even look at me. It had been like this every time. She ignored me as if I were part of the furniture. No “Mrs. Bennett,” no “Ma’am,” not even a polite nod. It was raining outside, a sudden summer downpour that had soaked her through. Robert, a man who usually guarded his personal space like a fortress, immediately grabbed a plush towel. He began to dry her hair himself, his movements rhythmic, intimate. “You’re drenched,” he murmured. “Next time it rains, call me. I’ll come down to the parking lot with an umbrella.” “I will. Thanks, Professor,” she sang back. “What are you hungry for? I’ll have her fix us something.” Piper pouted her lips, rattling off a list of complicated, high-maintenance dishes. Then, all three of them—Robert, Piper, and my son, Tyler—turned to look at me. “Go on, Joanna,” Robert said. “And remember, she can’t do spicy. Make sure there’s no heat in anything.” Piper offered a hollow, performative smile. “Do you want me to help in the kitchen, Mrs. Bennett?” “No,” Robert snapped before I could answer. “You just got your nails done. Don’t ruin them. Joanna’s hands are… well, she’s used to the work. It’s fine.” “Okay! I’ll just wait for the feast then!” A knot of unease tightened in my chest, but I forced it down. You’re being paranoid, I told myself. She’s Tyler’s girlfriend. Robert is just being a mentor. I spent the next two hours sweating over a stove while laughter drifted in from the living room. They were playing chess. Piper lost two games and, in a fit of “adorable” rebellion, used a felt-tip marker to draw whiskers on Robert’s face as a penalty. Robert, a man with a notorious obsession with hygiene, just threw his head back and laughed, letting her mark his skin. I remembered a time, years ago, when I’d tried to touch his face before washing my hands. He’d recoiled as if I were covered in acid. The knot in my chest turned into a cold weight. I scolded myself for being jealous of a girl. She was my son’s partner, after all. That evening, after Piper left, I remembered she’d taken some photos of the three of us earlier. I asked Robert to air-drop them to me. “Sure,” he said. He sent over a dozen shots, but then, his face went pale. He frantically tapped his screen, unsending a photo. “Slip of the thumb,” he muttered, his voice thick with fake casualness. “Sent a random screenshot by mistake. You didn’t see it, right?” I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I was paralyzed. In the five seconds before he’d deleted it, I’d seen it. It wasn’t a screenshot. It was Piper. Posing. Exposed. 2 In the photo, she was provocative, her tongue out, her legs parted in a way that was undeniably an invitation. There was no mistake. None. Why was that on my husband’s phone? The realization hit me like a physical blow. All the “small things”—the lingering glances, the hair-drying, the whiskers—they weren’t my imagination. They were the truth. My brain was a chaotic roar of static. She was Tyler’s age. Robert could have been her father. It was grotesque. And Tyler… did he know? The questions were exploding in my head like shrapnel. I needed the truth. I needed to see it all. I waited. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, until 1:00 AM, listening to the steady, rhythmic snoring beside me. Once I was sure Robert was dead to the world, I reached under his pillow. My fingers were trembling as I pulled out his phone. I entered our anniversary—the code he’d never bothered to change—and the screen glowed to life. I searched his messages. My breath hitched. Hidden in his archived chats was a group thread. Three people: Robert, Tyler, and Piper. Robert had sent the last message: [Piper, are you back at the dorm?] Piper’s response was a voice note. I pressed the phone to my ear. Her voice was a sugary purr: “I’m back, Professor. Did the Wife suspect anything today?” Robert had typed back: [No. She spends her whole life in the kitchen. Her brain has turned to mush. She won’t figure it out.] Then, Tyler’s text popped up below it: [Exactly. Mom is clueless. Besides, I’ve got you guys covered. Don’t worry about it.] The betrayal was total. My husband. My son. They had invited this girl into my home, sat at my table, and treated me like a court jester in my own life. I scrolled up, my chest tight, my ribs feeling like they were about to crack under the pressure. They had started six months ago. Tyler had introduced them. Piper was a “fan”—a literature student who had idolized Robert’s published novels since high school. When she found out Tyler was the son of the great Robert Bennett, she begged for an introduction. Admiration had turned into an affair within weeks. In six months, they had met at hotels thirty-one times. Once a week, like clockwork. I found digital receipts for thousands of dollars. Lingerie. Jewelry. And prescriptions for Viagra. Robert and I hadn’t touched each other in two years. He’d told me it was “low testosterone,” a natural part of aging. It was a lie. He just wasn’t interested in me. The room blurred as tears finally came—hot, silent, and bitter. I turned to look at the man sleeping beside me in the dark. For a long time, I just watched him breathe. Then, I reached over and flipped on the bedside lamp. I shook him hard. 3 “What… what is it? It’s the middle of the night,” he groaned, squinting against the light. Then he saw my face. “Joanna? What’s wrong?” “I know,” I whispered, my voice a jagged edge of rage. “I know everything.” I shoved the phone into his chest. “You’re sleeping with a girl who could be your daughter. Have you no shame, Robert? Do you have even a pulse of human decency?” Robert sat up. He didn’t look scared. He didn’t look panicked. He just sighed, reached for a tissue on the nightstand, and offered it to me. “Joanna, let’s be adults. Twenty-three years. That’s a foundation no one can shake. Piper… she’s just a lapse in judgment. A mid-life glitch.” His tone was insufferably condescending, like he was explaining a difficult text to a freshman. “Look,” he said, leaning in. “When we got married, you weren’t ‘new.’ You’d been with that guy before me. For twenty-three years, I’ve had to live with that. I’ve had to carry the weight of being the second man.” He paused, a flicker of something dark crossing his face. “I just wanted to experience what it was like to have someone who was only mine. To taste… purity.” I couldn’t hear him anymore. My ears started ringing, a high-pitched drone that drowned out his voice. I could see his lips moving, but the words were just static. Twenty-three years. He’d been nursing a grudge for twenty-three years over something that wasn’t even my fault. Before him, I’d dated a man who turned out to be a predator. He’d drugged me. I’d woken up in a nightmare. When I tried to go to the police, he’d threatened me, told me he’d tell everyone I was “used goods.” I went to the police anyway. It was a scandal. My classmates whispered behind my back. Robert was the only one who stood by me. He told me he loved me, that my past didn’t matter, that he wanted to protect me. I had spent two decades being grateful to him. I thought he was my savior. I didn’t realize he was just a bookkeeper, tallying up a debt I could never pay. “Joanna, do you know what it does to a man’s ego? Knowing his wife was handled by someone else first?” he continued. “I don’t blame you, but I needed balance. I found Piper. I promise you, it was a one-time thing. It’s over.” My stomach lurched. I scrambled out of bed, ran to the bathroom, and doubled over. I retched until my throat burned. Robert followed me, standing in the doorway, looking mildly inconvenienced. “Joanna…” “I had no idea you were this broken inside,” I gasped, wiping my mouth. “If you’ve been in this much pain for twenty years, then we’re done. I want a divorce.” Robert’s face hardened. “No. Absolutely not. We’re an institution, Joanna. We’ve come too far.” He stepped forward and tried to put a hand on my shoulder. I flinched away. “We’re almost fifty,” he said, his voice softening into a manipulative purr. “In a few years, Tyler will get married. We’ll have grandkids. We’ll retire, travel the world. It’s going to be beautiful. Don’t throw all that away over a tantrum.” A tantrum? I felt a wave of vertigo. For a split second, I actually hesitated. The “sunk cost” of my life felt like a physical weight. Our lives were like two vines that had grown so tightly together you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. To pull apart would mean tearing skin, breaking bone. Could I actually survive the surgery? 4 Robert helped me back to bed. He stroked my hair with a chilling tenderness. “Just sleep. When you wake up, this will all feel like a bad dream.” The next morning, he was the picture-perfect husband. He made breakfast—avocado toast and poached eggs, just the way I liked. He even went out to the local bakery for the sourdough I loved. He was “better” than he’d been in years. Remorse, or the fear of losing his lifestyle, had made him attentive. Throughout the day, he sent me texts from his office. Thinking of you. What do you want for dinner? I’ll pick it up on the way home. He ended the texts with a little winking bunny emoji. I’d seen that emoji in Piper’s texts. The nausea returned, violent and absolute. I realized then that I couldn’t lie to myself. Betrayal isn’t a smudge you can wipe off; it’s a crack in the foundation. I called Tyler. “Hey, Mom. What’s up?” His voice was casual, flippant. “I know about your father. And Piper.” There was a long silence on the other end. “I’m not calling to argue,” I said. “I’m calling to tell you that I’m divorcing him.” Tyler actually laughed. “Mom, are you serious? You’re going to blow up our whole family over this? At your age?” “Tyler—” “Dad treats you like a queen. So he had a little fun on the side. Big deal. Every guy does it. Just close your eyes and let it pass. You’re halfway to the grave, don’t you think a divorce is a bit embarrassing?” He sighed, his voice dripping with disdain. “And honestly, Mom? You’ve been a housewife for twenty years. How are you going to survive? You want to be a beggar? Get over yourself.” He hung up. The silence of the dial tone was the coldest thing I’d ever felt. My son was gone. My husband was a stranger. That night, Robert and Tyler walked through the door together. Tyler had obviously tipped him off. Robert was in full “damage control” mode. He even went into the kitchen to help me prep vegetables—something he hadn’t done since the Clinton administration. “Look, Mom,” Tyler said, leaning against the counter. “Dad is trying. He’s tired from work, and he’s still helping you. He’s a good guy.” I let out a sharp, dry laugh. “Oh, and I’m not tired? Keeping this house running for twenty years isn’t work?” The two of them exchanged a look. The “crazy woman” look. “Joanna, honey,” Robert said with a forced smile. “Stop being angry. If you don’t want to cook, let’s go out. That French bistro you like? The one with the long waitlist? I’ll get us a table.” I’d been asking him to take me there for six months. He always said he was too busy with his research. It wasn’t that he didn’t have time. It was that his time belonged to her. I shoved his hand off my arm. “Don’t touch me. I’m not going anywhere with you.” “Joanna… for God’s sake! I’m giving you an out here! How much more do I have to grovel?” Robert’s patience finally snapped, his true face peeking through. “If you keep pushing this, it won’t end well for you.” I opened my mouth to scream at him, but the doorbell rang. It was Piper.

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I was standing in the checkout line at the grocery store, waiting to snag a carton of eggs on clearance, when the glowing text suddenly materialized in the air in front of me. [So this is the phantom ideal the male lead has been obsessing over all these months?] [Look closely, the villainous adopted daughter actually looks a lot like her…] [Because of that resemblance, the male lead blindly favors the adopted kid. The actual heroine never stood a chance.] [The heroine was depressed for years. It wasn’t until she was diagnosed with terminal cancer that the male lead finally woke up and regretted everything.] A violent shudder ripped through me. I stood frozen in the middle of the aisle, my hand hovering over the carton. A phantom ideal? A tragic muse? But… I’m fifty years old. 1 Because I had stopped moving, the woman behind me seized the opportunity. She reached right past my elbow and snatched the largest, most pristine carton of jumbo eggs from the display. My old friend Barb nudged me hard in the ribs. “What are you doing, Maggie? You just gonna let her take your eggs?” I blinked, the neon lights of the supermarket coming back into focus, and hurriedly grabbed a different carton, dropping it into my basket. By the time Barb and I squeezed our way out of the crowd and headed toward the registers, the floating lines of text were still scrolling relentlessly across my vision. [As a billionaire CEO, the male lead gave the heroine plenty of money, but he never gave her an ounce of love.] [Yeah, the poor heroine. She loved him so much…] [If he’s emotionally unavailable, fine, but why does he unconditionally pamper the evil adopted daughter? What’s his problem?] A hand suddenly waved in front of my face. “Earth to Margaret. You’re spacing out again.” Barb frowned, eyeing me up and down. Then, as if struck by a sudden epiphany, she clapped her hands together. “Oh, I get it! Arthur asked you to the community center dance yesterday, didn’t he? Finally falling in love? If you ask me, Arthur is a catch. Back in the day, he was the most handsome guy in the county…” Barb was the undisputed gossip queen of our little social circle. She thrived on sniffing out secrets. Ever since Arthur made his feelings known a little over six months ago, she hadn’t stopped teasing me about it. “I’m just saying, a twilight romance isn’t the worst idea in the world,” she prattled on. “Arthur is financially stable, his kids are all grown and living in Europe…” I waved her off, exhausted. “Drop it, Barb. I’m used to being on my own.” Barb and her husband had a wonderful marriage; even in their golden years, they still liked to play at romance. I was different. I had lived on this earth for half a century and had never been married. No strings, no attachments, no lingering regrets. My days were quiet, unhurried, and perfectly my own. But today, these bizarre, hallucinatory comments had appeared out of nowhere. Calling me the “phantom ideal” of some fictional male lead. What an absolute joke. I’m retired. I have a pension. I don’t have time for this nonsense. 2 I went home and started cooking dinner. The text began scrolling again against the backdrop of my kitchen cabinets. [The heroine accidentally broke a picture frame today and the male lead screamed at her. She’s still hiding in her room crying.] [Yeah, she hasn’t even eaten dinner.] [The housekeeper tried to bring her some food, but the male lead stopped her. Said he wanted to teach the heroine a lesson.] [You’ve gone too far this time, you garbage CEO!] Before I retired, I was a high school teacher. I made a decent living. As an older woman with a bit of money and a lot of free time, I’d read my fair share of romance novels. The whole “billionaire loves the evil stand-in while the true heroine gets terminal cancer” trope? I’d read at least eighty variations of that exact story. But according to the glowing commentary, this specific tragedy was somehow connected to me. The so-called “villainess” was only receiving the male lead’s twisted, unconditional love because she looked like me. And that favoritism was indirectly driving the heroine toward a miserable, lonely death. My conscience simply couldn’t take it. Through the comments, I pieced together the details. The male lead was Nathaniel Bancroft, the thirty-year-old CEO of Bancroft Holdings, based in Chicago. …I was twenty years older than him. How on earth did I become the object of his eternal fixation?! I wrestled with it all night, but by dawn, I had booked a flight to Chicago. After a cab ride that cost entirely too much, I finally stood before the towering wrought-iron gates of the Bancroft estate in the affluent North Shore suburbs. Only to discover, unsurprisingly, that I couldn’t even get past the security checkpoint. I was standing on the sidewalk, seriously debating whether I should try to fake my way in as a newly hired maid, when the comments suddenly exploded. [The girls are home from school!] School? I froze. A second later, a sleek black Bentley glided down the street and pulled to a smooth stop just outside the estate gates. The tinted rear window rolled down, and a small, delicate face peered out. The girl looked at me with cautious, innocent curiosity. “Excuse me, ma’am? Do you need some help?” Before I could even open my mouth, the text went wild. [Sobbing! Our baby heroine is just too sweet.] [She’s living in a nightmare, but the second she sees someone who needs help, she still reaches out…] [And this beautiful angel ends up with terminal cancer. My heart is literally breaking.] [It’s all Nathaniel’s fault. Just you wait, Nathaniel Bancroft, I’m going to climb through this screen and rip your throat out.] Before I could reply to the sweet girl, another face appeared from the shadows of the backseat. Two small heads, side by side. Only, the one on the right had a voice like grinding glass. “You’re being pathetic again, Clementine,” the second girl sneered. “Did you forget how hard you cried the last time you got scammed by a beggar?” [The villainess is so spoiled. Does she even remember how hard she tried to suck up to Clementine when she first moved into this house?] [Right? A perfectly good kid, completely warped.] [You can’t entirely blame her. Kids mirror the adults around them. She sees Nathaniel treating Clementine like trash, so she just copies him.] [At the end of the story, when Clementine gets cancer, Nathaniel finally regrets everything and kicks the villainess out.] [But by then, he’s already spoiled her beyond repair. She can’t survive on her own and literally starves to death on the streets.] [Basically, Nathaniel ruins everyone!] Amidst the furious debate scrolling before my eyes, I stood rooted to the pavement, utterly dumbfounded. Wait a minute. Why did no one mention that the “heroine” and the “villainess” in this tragic saga… were currently just two little kids?! 3 I lied. I told them I had come to Chicago looking for work and had my purse stolen at the station. I just needed a little something to eat. Without a second of hesitation, Clementine said, “Please, get in the car. We have food at the house. I’ll have the chef make you something.” Isabelle, the younger girl, let out a sharp, aristocratic scoff. She looked at me with naked disgust. “Who goes looking for a job outside a gated billionaire’s community? You’re so stupid, Clementine. You deserve to get scammed.” “When Dad gets home, he’s going to scream at you for this.” At the mention of their father, Nathaniel, a shadow of genuine sorrow flickered across Clementine’s eyes. But she forced a brave, wavering smile and looked back at me. “Please, ma’am. Come inside.” I slid into the front passenger seat and reached for the seatbelt. Behind me, Isabelle scoffed again. I studied her in the rearview mirror. She couldn’t have been more than seven or eight years old. But the slight, upward tilt of her eyes, and that distinct, dark beauty mark resting just beneath her left eye… it did look like me. But that was where the resemblance ended. I am fifty years old. The silver in my hair is undeniable, the lines around my mouth etched deep by decades of living. She was just a cruel little child. 4 It didn’t take long for me to follow Clementine and Isabelle into the cavernous Bancroft mansion. The interior was a masterclass in cold, sterile wealth. Marble floors, vaulted ceilings, and staff bustling about like silent ghosts. The house lacked even a single ounce of warmth. Clementine dropped her backpack on an absurdly expensive leather sofa and scurried toward the kitchen on her short little legs. Isabelle simply rolled her eyes, swinging her designer backpack over her shoulder as she marched upstairs. A few minutes later, Clementine reappeared, carefully balancing a plate with a thick turkey sandwich. “Here, ma’am. You can eat this.” She tilted her head back, offering me the sweetest, most blinding smile. “I’ll go pour you a glass of milk.” Looking into her wide, earnest eyes and her soft, flushed cheeks, I felt my heart melt into a puddle. The comments were practically howling. [Ahhh! Clementine is so cute I could die!] [If Nathaniel doesn’t want this perfect angel, can I please adopt her?!] [Honestly, I’m just confused. This random lady is old. Why would the CEO use her as his ultimate phantom ideal?] Her curiosity matched my own perfectly. Unfortunately, the comments debated it for a while and came up with absolutely nothing. They eventually just blamed the author for being a hack who wrote illogical plot holes just to torture the heroine. I had just finished the last bite of my sandwich when Isabelle came sauntering back down the grand staircase. “Dad comes back from his business trip tonight,” Isabelle announced, a wicked glint in her eye. “The teacher said we need a parent’s signature on our report cards. Have you figured out how you’re going to explain failing math yet, Clementine?” At the mention of the failing grade, the soft smile vanished from Clementine’s face. Her shoulders slumped, and she bowed her head in defeat. The comments wept for her. [Poor Clementine.] [She had food poisoning the day of the test! She was in agony for two hours and couldn’t even finish the paper.] [Nathaniel didn’t even ask. He just saw the grade, screamed at her, and then praised the villainess right in front of her.] [Clementine cried in her room all night.] I looked at Clementine. She was gripping the straps of her backpack, her knuckles white, practically trembling where she stood. I couldn’t help myself. “Bring me the test,” I said softly. “I’ll sign it for you.” 5 Neither of them seemed to expect that. Both girls froze. After a long, agonizing moment, Clementine reached into her bag, bit her lip, and handed me the crumpled math test. “I… I didn’t finish it,” she whispered. I took it. It was a second-grade math assessment. At the top, in aggressive red ink, was a glaring 43%. Large sections of the paper were completely blank. The long addition and word problems were almost entirely untouched. Isabelle leaned over to sneer at it. “It’s so easy. I got a hundred percent. Dad is going to give me a massive reward later. I’m going to make him buy me that new designer princess dress!” I ignored her. I just put a gentle arm around Clementine’s narrow shoulders. “Tell me the truth,” I said quietly, looking into her eyes. “Do you know how to do these problems?” Encouraged by my steady gaze, Clementine gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. Beside us, Isabelle shrieked, “You’re lying! If you knew how to do them, why didn’t you write the answers? You’re just scared Dad is going to yell at you again—” I cut her off. My voice was calm, but sharp enough to slice glass. “Little girl. This is your older sister. Speaking to her with that kind of venom is hardly what I would call good breeding.” Clementine’s head whipped up. She stared at me, her mouth slightly parted in shock. Isabelle looked like I had just slapped her. Her face twisted in ugly indignation. “You’re literally a beggar! How dare you lecture me?!” she screamed, completely losing her composure. “You have no right to talk to me! Get out of my house! Get out right now!” Just then, the heavy oak front doors swung open. A chorus of staff voices murmured, “Welcome home, Mr. Bancroft.” Both little girls instantly went rigid. In the blink of an eye, I watched Isabelle undergo a terrifying metamorphosis. She rubbed her eyes furiously until they were red, squeezed out a single, glittering tear, and looked past me with an expression of pure, victimized terror. “Daddy! Clementine found a crazy beggar on the street and forced her inside! I tried to tell her it wasn’t safe, but she wouldn’t listen!” “And then they both called me uneducated! Daddy, I’m scared!” 6 The floating text exploded into a frenzy of rage. [This manipulative little monster! I want to strangle her.] [It’s over, it’s over. Nathaniel already comes home in a bad mood on this day. He’s going to destroy Clementine.] [Random grandma, please do something! Channel your inner phantom ideal!] Sure enough. A second later, a voice like a frozen blade cut through the foyer. “Isabelle.” “Apologize to your sister. Right now.” Clementine flinched violently. I pulled her tighter against my side, resting a hand on her hair to soothe her. “It’s okay,” I whispered. “Don’t be scared.” I stood up straight and slowly turned around. My eyes met the gaze of a tall, imposing man. He was young, undeniably handsome, with sharp, aristocratic features—but there was a suffocating, violent gloom baked into his expression. This was the male lead. Nathaniel Bancroft. I steadied my breathing. “Mr. Bancroft. Hello.” Nathaniel didn’t speak. He just stared at me. I watched his pupils blow wide, consuming the irises. I watched his Adam’s apple bob frantically as his breathing hitched. I frowned, momentarily thrown off by his intense reaction. I quickly tried to explain myself. “I’m not a beggar. I came to Chicago looking for work. My name is Margaret Callahan.” The man’s gaze suddenly sharpened into something terrifying. His jaw locked. Through clenched teeth, he forced out a single, trembling sentence: “What did you say your name was?”

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I stumbled across a shared folder titled “Honeymoon” on my wife’s laptop. For a fleeting, beautiful moment, I thought she was finally making good on a promise she’d deferred for five years. I clicked into it, my heart light with anticipation, only to find a spreadsheet that looked nothing like the one we’d drafted together. The departure date fell right in the middle of a business trip I’d already scheduled, so I pushed it back two days. I noticed she’d picked Antarctica; I changed it to Iceland, remembering that she’d once mentioned wanting to see the Aurora Borealis, which wouldn’t be visible in the south this time of year. Then, thinking of the budget we were trying to save for the baby we were planning, I downgraded the first-class flights to business. Suddenly, a cursor flickered on the screen. Another user had entered the document. With surgical precision, they reverted every single one of my changes. Then, a comment popped up in the sidebar: “Mommy, we said Antarctica. If we change it, Daddy will be sad!” I froze. A prank? A virus? A neighbor’s kid who’d somehow linked accounts? I didn’t hear Claire walk up behind me. Her voice was terrifyingly level when she spoke. “He’s the son of my foster brother, Bennett. Next time, Nigel. I promise, next time I’ll take you on a honeymoon.” 1 Claire said it with the casual indifference of someone mentioning the weather. She had a son. With Bennett. My jaw tightened, a ghost of a smile twitching on my lips. “It’s not April Fools’, Claire. What kind of joke is this?” I prayed for it to be a joke. A cruel, tasteless one, but a joke nonetheless. Instead, Claire picked up her phone right in front of me and hit a contact. “Hey, sweetie. No, that was just an accident. Someone touched the computer who shouldn’t have. I promised we’re going to see the penguins, didn’t I? Mommy never breaks her promises.” The softness in her eyes—a maternal glow I had hungered to see directed at a child of our own—felt like a hallucination. She hung up and turned the screen toward me, showing the traveler list for the “Honeymoon” trip: Claire Steward, Bennett Steward, and a five-year-old named Jamie. “Honestly, keeping this from you for five years has been exhausting,” she said, leaning against the desk. “Maybe it’s better this way. Now you know.” She reached into her bag and tossed a document onto the desk. A marriage certificate. “We’re a family. Legally.” The room seemed to tilt. The oxygen left my lungs. “A… family?” I thought back to the beginning. My internship at her firm, the whirlwind romance, the quiet ceremony we had five years ago, the domestic life we’d built. Every meal, every shared secret, every night in each other’s arms. I wasn’t even her husband. Not in the eyes of the law. Claire nodded, her expression bored. “At our engagement party, I had too much to drink. I thought Bennett was you. I was pregnant with his child when we ‘married.’ I had to take responsibility for him, Nigel. I had to give Jamie a legitimate home.” “But… the baby you had,” I stammered, my mind racing back to that sterile hospital room five years ago. “The doctors said he died. Minutes after he was born.” She stepped closer, placing a hand on my chest. “Don’t worry about the logistics. In my heart, you’re my husband. That’s how we’ve lived all this time, hasn’t it? Nothing has to change.” How we’ve lived. The pieces began to click into place, a mosaic of betrayal. The nights I’d spent in the ER after a car accident while she was “working late.” The times I’d waited at home with a candlelit dinner for an anniversary she forgot. She wasn’t at the office. She was with them. With her real family. I looked at the flight confirmation I’d printed out just an hour ago—the one I’d intended as a surprise. I felt a laugh bubble up in my throat, bitter and sharp. “You know, this was the last time,” I whispered. “The last time I was going to ask you to choose me.” Before I could finish, her phone chimed. The caller ID read Husband, punctuated by a heart emoji. Claire walked toward the hallway, answering with a voice so honeyed it made my skin crawl. Bennett’s voice bled through the speaker—intimate, demanding, familiar. I stood there in the silence of our—her—house, my hands shaking so hard I had to shove them into my pockets. That was when my phone buzzed. A friend request on Instagram from a private account: Bennett_Steward. 2 I accepted. The first thing I saw was a pinned post from two weeks ago. A wedding. A real wedding. Claire in white, Bennett in a tuxedo, Jamie between them, all of them laughing under a canopy of wisteria. Claire had told me she was in London for a merger that weekend. I had stayed up all night worrying because she hadn’t texted. While I was staring at the ceiling, she was promising forever to another man on a cliffside in Big Sur. I scrolled down. It was a curated gallery of a life I wasn’t part of. Family trips to Disney, weekends in the Hamptons, Christmas mornings. Everything I had begged for—the simple intimacy of a shared vacation—was their everyday reality. The final blow was a locked album he’d sent me a link to in a DM. Thousands of photos of Claire. But these weren’t the stiff, professional headshots she let me take. These were candid. Claire laughing with a smear of flour on her nose; Claire sleeping; Claire looking at the camera with raw, unfiltered adoration. Whenever I tried to take a photo of her, she’d swat my hand away. “I’m not a child, Nigel. Put the phone away. It’s tacky.” She wasn’t camera-shy. She just didn’t want to be captured by me. Claire walked back into the room, her phone tucked away. She wrapped her arms around my waist from behind, a practiced, hollow gesture of affection. “Nate, I’m sorry I kept it from you so long. I’ll make it up to you. Next time, I promise, it’ll be just us.” She said it so easily. As if five years of systemic gaslighting could be brushed away with a “next time.” I wrenched myself out of her grip. “I don’t want a next time! You’ve lied to me for half a decade. You think I’m that pathetic?” I felt the heat behind my eyes, the sting of humiliation. “We’re done. Get out.” I realized, with a sickening jolt, that I couldn’t even say the word divorce. There was nothing to divorce. Claire’s face hardened. The mask of the doting “wife” slipped, revealing the cold CEO underneath. “A man in my house doesn’t throw tantrums, Nigel.” She saw my tears and her voice softened, though it was the softness of a parent talking to a deluded child. “Jamie will learn to call you Dad eventually. As for the ‘legal’ part… to the rest of the world, you’re the man of this house. Why obsess over a piece of paper?” “Because it’s a lie!” I shouted, the dam finally breaking. “It’s not fair! None of this is fair!” She looked at me as if I were a tragic, broken thing. “You’re the only man who lives here. Bennett is just family. You should be set an example. Bennett’s birthday gala is tomorrow night. I expect you to be there, and I expect you to be composed.” She turned and left without looking back. She didn’t come home that night. Instead, she appeared in Bennett’s stories. The woman who claimed she hated the smell of grease was in a kitchen, covered in flour and butter, laughing as Jamie threw dough at her. Then, an anonymous DM hit my inbox. A video. It was grainy, shot in a hospital five years ago. A doctor was walking out of a delivery room with a crying newborn. Bennett stumbled into the frame, sobbing, grabbing the doctor’s coat. “The doctor just told me… I’ll never be able to have kids,” Bennett wailed into the camera. “No one will want me. I’ll never be a father. Claire, are you really going to leave me like this?” Claire was there, holding the baby. She looked torn, her eyes darting to the door where I was presumably waiting in the hallway. The baby in the video was loud, healthy, and very much alive. Then Claire spoke, and the sound of her voice made my ears ring. “Go tell my ‘husband’ the baby died. Tell him there were complications.” 3 I felt as if I’d been struck by lightning. The child I had mourned for five years—the son I had wept for in a cemetery for three days straight—wasn’t dead. She had given him away. She had handed my flesh and blood to Bennett like a consolation prize. The next evening, Claire’s security detail literally forced me into a suit and drove me to the gala. Bennett was there, looking every bit the master of the house, one hand on Jamie’s shoulder, the other resting possessively on Claire’s waist. I stood on the periphery, a ghost at my own funeral. I heard the whispers behind me. “I heard Nigel can’t have children. That’s why she keeps Bennett around—to secure the Steward heir.” “Bennett’s the real power there. Nigel’s just the trophy.” Claire looked at me, a small, triumphant smirk on her lips. She thought I’d finally folded. She thought I was there to play my part. I didn’t. I walked straight up to them, my voice trembling with a decade’s worth of suppressed rage. “You stole my son. You told me he was dead and gave him to him.” Claire’s eyes went wide for a fraction of a second before they turned into icy daggers. “We’ll discuss this at home. Do not make a scene.” The last flicker of hope I had for her died in that moment. The video was real. The betrayal was total. Bennett pulled Jamie closer, shrinking back with a look of practiced terror. “Nigel, please. Don’t hurt us again. I never told her about what you did… just leave us alone.” He shifted his sleeve, intentionally revealing bruises on his and Jamie’s arms. The guests gasped. “He’s bitter because he’s sterile?” someone hissed. “To hit a child…” another whispered. “Nigel, you monster!” Claire’s voice boomed over the crowd. “He’s my son!” I screamed. “I would never—” “That mean man hit me!” Jamie cried out, his voice shrill and rehearsed. “He told me to stay away from my real Daddy! I saw him hit Papa too!” The room spun. My own son was looking at me with eyes full of lies, coached by a sociopath. Claire’s face was a mask of pure loathing. “I had no idea you were this sick, Nigel. To take your jealousy out on a child?” I reached for Jamie, a desperate, primal instinct to connect with my son. “Luke—Jamie—I’m your father—” Bennett gave the boy a subtle, violent shove. Jamie tumbled backward, crashing into a towering pyramid of champagne flutes. Glass shattered. Blood bloomed on the boy’s white shirt. “Nigel, no!” Bennett shrieked. “He’s just a baby!” 4 I froze, paralyzed by the horror of the setup. Claire’s palm slammed across my face before I could breathe. “You did that right in front of me!” she screamed, her voice shaking with rage. “God knows what you’ve been doing to them behind my back!” The taste of copper filled my mouth. The room was a cacophony of insults and camera flashes. Bennett looked at me from behind Claire’s shoulder. His face shifted—the fear vanished, replaced by a slow, mocking grin. His lips moved silently: How does it feel to lose everything? I lost it. I lunged for him. I didn’t even reach him. Claire’s heel caught me in the chest, a brutal, practiced kick that sent me spiraling down the marble stairs. I landed in a bed of broken glass. “Nigel, enough!” Claire yelled from the top of the stairs. I couldn’t move. The pain in my chest was sharp, but the shards of glass in my skin were worse. “Help me,” I wheezed. “Please… he’s lying. Look at him.” “You’re a danger to this family,” Claire said, her voice dropping to a deadly, cold whisper. “If I leave Jamie with you, you’ll kill him.” She turned to her security team. “Take him to the private clinic. I want him sterilized. A man like this doesn’t deserve the chance to ever be a father again.” My heart stopped. “Claire, you can’t. That’s illegal—Claire!” She let out a short, sharp laugh. “Consider it a lesson in accountability. You want to play the victim? I’ll give you something to cry about.” The guards pinned me down. The last thing I saw was Claire turning her back to me to comfort Bennett and the boy. I was dragged into the back of a black SUV. The clinic was private, unmarked, and cold. The anesthesia was poorly administered; I felt the tugging, the slicing, the agonizing heat of the procedure. I thought of the years Claire and I spent talking about names for a second child. I thought of the nursery we’d painted blue. While I lay on that table, Bennett posted to his stories. The three of them were at the airport, heading to Antarctica. A perfect family, heading to a frozen wasteland. Claire sent me a text while I was in the recovery room: If you can learn to accept Bennett and Jamie, maybe I’ll take you on that honeymoon when we get back. I didn’t reply. I waited until I could walk. Then I gathered the medical waste—the physical evidence of what she’d stolen—and the flash drive of the clinic’s security footage I’d bribed an orderly for. I packed them into a cold-storage box and addressed it to her office. Claire, I’m returning what’s yours. We’re even now. A week later, Claire returned home with her “family.” The house was silent. Nigel was gone. The doorbell rang. A courier stood there with a package. “For Ms. Steward. Mr. Nigel said you’d want this personally.”

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My best friend set his sights on the reigning queen of Alden University, relentlessly pursuing her for weeks. She wouldn’t even spare him a passing glance. Feeling too pathetic dying on this hill alone, he tried to pawn her best friend off on me—the resident sickly shut-in. I pointed to my chronically pale lips. “Marcus, do I look like I have the stamina to court someone?” He just patted my shoulder with the solemnity of a slick-haired preacher. “Romance is good for your cardiovascular health, Eden.” Eventually, Marcus decided to give up the chase. Naturally, I stopped mine too. That was when the campus queen texted my best friend, her tone utterly exhausted: Fine, I’ll go out with you. Just make your friend unblock my best friend. I’m drowning in her tears over here. 01 Ever since my best friend, Marcus, attended a guest lecture at Alden University last month, he had been profoundly, irritatingly obsessed with Valerie, the school’s untouchable IT girl. He made up his mind to win her over, dedicating weeks to the pursuit. The girl was carved from ice; she didn’t so much as look in his direction. Yet, rejection only seemed to fuel his delusion. It was like a sickness. “This is exactly the kind of woman I need, Eden,” he’d declare, pacing the floor. “If she’s too easy to get, I won’t cherish her later.” Because of my perpetually poor health, my parents rented a quiet off-campus apartment for me. Marcus moved in to keep an eye on me. We were a package deal. It was past nine on a Tuesday night. A cold, rhythmic rain beat against the windows. Marcus burst through the front door, dropping a pile of shopping bags, his face twisted in utter indignation. He kicked off his soaked loafers, his voice echoing in the hallway. “Damn it all. Why is Valerie so impossibly immune? I wore my killer crimson blazer today, the lucky one. I looked devastating. But she’s like a damn saint. Completely unfazed.” I dragged my eyes away from the movie playing on my laptop, taking in the sight of Marcus standing there in a dripping red suit. “If she’s that impossible to reach, maybe look somewhere else?” I suggested softly. “It’s not like you have a shortage of people throwing themselves at you.” “No, no, no.” He padded over to the fridge, pulled out a soda, and slumped onto the sofa, cracking it open. “Valerie isn’t like the rest of them. Just looking at her makes my heart do this… this crazy flip. And besides…” He covered his mouth, a dopey, lovesick grin spreading across his face. “Her body is insane. I went to watch her dance rehearsal last time. She has these killer abs, that sharp V-cut, straight out of an anime. Kissing her would be an absolute religious experience.” I turned my attention back to the screen, entirely unable to comprehend the chaotic inner workings of a man drowning in unrequited lust. “Hey!” He bumped his shoulder against mine, a sly, dangerous glint in his eye. “Let me show you a picture.” Before I could protest, he unlocked his phone, pulled up a photo, and shoved the screen into my face. I took it, mildly curious. A girl stared back at me. Her gaze was chillingly cool, her features bright but aggressively sharp, with an intimidating arch to her eyebrows. It looked like a screenshot he’d stolen from Valerie’s social media. “What about it?” “Eden. Do you like her?” Marcus and I had been joined at the hip since childhood. I could read the twitch of his brow before he even opened his mouth. I pointed to my pale, bloodless lips. “Marcus, do I look like I have the stamina to court someone?” His eyes sparkled. He grabbed my hands, holding them tightly. “Eden, listen to me. These two girls are attached at the hip. We need someone to divide and conquer. Plus, chasing Valerie all by myself is just… really lonely.” He gave me his best puppy-dog eyes, his tone shifting into earnest desperation. “Just keep me company in the trenches. Besides, getting your heart racing a little is good for your health.” The movie played on in the background, the protagonist’s voice cutting through the silence: I can’t believe I’m buying into your twisted logic! A second later, his phone pinged. Marcus instantly forwarded me the girl’s contact. “Trust me, Eden. You have to give this a shot. She… well, she looks a little fierce, but she’s actually really sweet.” I let out a long, heavy sigh. “Fine.” “God, I love you!” He lunged forward to hug me, then abruptly froze, realizing he was still drenched in rainwater and hair product. “Wait, let me shower first, then I’ll squeeze the life out of you. Wait for me!” I just stared at him. While he was in the shower, I tapped the link to add her, only to realize I was already on her friends list. Huh? I lowered my eyes, studying the girl’s profile picture. It was Snorlax from Pokémon. My own screen name was a bit embarrassing, a relic from my teenage years: SleepyPuff. My icon was Jigglypuff. I just wanted to live a simple, well-fed, deeply sleepy life, completely free of worries. Her screen name was CheeryPuff. My finger hovered over the glass screen. Anyone who loves vintage Pokémon can’t be a bad person, I reasoned with myself. By the time Marcus emerged from the bathroom, I had already switched the movie to My Neighbor Totoro. I didn’t have many hobbies outside of staying alive, but getting lost in animation and cinema was my sanctuary. “Eden, did you add her?” He walked out aggressively towel-drying his hair, wearing nothing but a faded tank top. “Yeah,” I mumbled, my eyes glued to the magical creatures on screen. Suddenly, a thought struck me. I scratched my head. “Wait, am I supposed to announce my intentions? Like, ‘Hello, I will be pursuing you now’?” “Hmm…” He leaned against the wall, pondering. “Ask her if there’s anyone she likes right now. If she says no, you hit her with: ‘Would you mind if I took that spot?’” “What?” My face scrunched up in pure disgust. “That sounds incredibly cheesy. Is this seriously how you hit on people?” “Look, there are a million complicated mind games out there. A raw, unpolished line like this will make her think you’re pure and innocent. Do exactly as I say. It’s foolproof.” “It’s called… laying the groundwork.” Despite my overwhelming skepticism, I tapped out the message: Hi. Do you have someone you like right now? I set the phone face down, expecting it to take hours. I was just settling back into the movie when the screen immediately lit up. “?” “Marcus,” I panicked quietly, “what if she just sends a question mark?” Before I could even voice the question aloud, a second message popped up. No. A shiver ran down my spine. Marcus peered over my shoulder. “Copy exactly what I told you. I’m gonna go blow-dry my hair.” “Okay.” Her message: Why do you ask? I typed: Would you mind if I took that spot? The moment I hit send, I threw the phone onto the cushions in sheer agony. God, the cringe was physical. The phone stayed silent. I forced my attention back to the movie. When Marcus returned, hair perfectly styled, he flopped onto the sofa next to me. “Well? How’d it go?” “She left me on read,” I said honestly. He grit his teeth, staring at the ceiling. For a second, I thought he was having an epiphany about his own terrible flirting strategies. Instead, he sighed, “It’s fine. That’s normal. Valerie didn’t reply to my first text either.” I stared at him in silence. I wanted to tell him that she probably didn’t reply because the line was a radioactive level of cringe, leaving her paralyzed with secondhand embarrassment. Marcus had a group project to work on, so he booted up his laptop to edit some video slides. I picked up my phone to check the time, and my breath hitched. Marcus spoke up, “By the way, her name is Morgan.” Morgan: Wait, what do you mean? I don’t just accept anyone’s feelings. Morgan: I’m not that kind of easy girl. Morgan: Are you saying you actually like me? There was a one-minute gap after those texts. She was probably waiting for my reply, which never came because my phone was face down. Morgan: Actually, I’m pretty easy. Are you trying to court me? Morgan: I’m really easy to catch. Another minute passed. She was panicking. Morgan: If you like me, let’s just date. Morgan: I’m sorry, I was playing hard to get just now. Morgan: Are you busy? Can you reply when you see this? Morgan: It’s been ten seconds. Still busy? Morgan: I messed up. I should be the one pursuing you. You don’t have to lift a finger. Please text me back? Morgan: I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have acted so detached. I was just so excited, I asked my best friend what to say, and she told me to play it cool. Morgan: She said if I said yes too fast, you wouldn’t cherish me. Morgan: Baby, I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad. Morgan: The truth is, baby, I’ve liked you for a really long time. I just didn’t know how to tell you. I had no idea you liked me too. I sat there. Utterly speechless. “What’s wrong?” Marcus asked, not looking away from his screen. “Did she reply?” I pressed my lips together in a tight line. “Chasing someone usually requires them to reject you first, right?” I asked carefully. “Yes, exactly.” Then what on earth is happening right now? A sudden spark of inspiration hit me. I typed: Reject me. If she rejected me, I would have a legitimate excuse to pursue her. Then I wouldn’t be leaving my best friend alone in the trenches. Morgan immediately fired back a crying meme: No! I don’t want to reject you! I was wrong, okay? I want to go back in time and strangle the version of me that tried to play it cool. I shouldn’t have listened to my friend. I know I messed up. You can yell at me, just please don’t leave me. I rubbed my temples. No. Reject me, so I can chase you. This time, the reply didn’t come as quickly. The “typing…” bubble pulsed at the top of the screen for what felt like an eternity. Finally, a cautious message appeared: Baby, is this some kind of roleplay thing? Promise me you won’t actually leave me. How long do you plan on chasing me? Give me a timeline so I can emotionally prepare. I glanced over at my fiercely focused best friend and typed: I don’t know yet. Okay, baby. I reject you. That rejection only applies to the roleplay, not to my actual feelings for you. Seeing that, I finally turned to Marcus with a straight face. “She rejected me.” Marcus leaned over, clapping my shoulder. “It’s fine. We have to be resilient. I’ll teach you the advanced pursuit tactics later.” Then, I watched in abject horror as he cleared his throat, put on his deepest, most affected voice, and sent a voice memo to Valerie: Could you save two seats for me and my friend tomorrow? I really want a front-row view of you playing basketball. I quietly opened a browser tab and searched: How to woo a girl. The top results from a dating blog laid out a few key points: a. Master the push-and-pull. Don’t be too eager. b. Match her energy. If she runs hot, you run hot. If she goes cold, ice her out. c. Maintain an aura of innocent charm. d. Never act desperate. I looked at Marcus. “Did you get your dating advice from the internet?” “Ha.” He confidently ran a hand through his hair. “Do I look like a guy who needs to steal someone else’s playbook?” No wonder you’ve been single so long, I thought. My mentor is a certified disaster. 02 The next afternoon, right after our last class, Marcus expertly navigated us to the Northridge College campus. By the time we arrived, the dance studio was already packed. His eyes lit up the moment he spotted someone. He waved frantically over the crowd. “Valerie!” I was still scanning the sea of bodies when he practically dragged me forward. The girl was wearing a sleek white performance outfit, her expression completely detached. I hadn’t actually seen Valerie in person before, only through the obsessive lens of Marcus’s camera roll. Because of my fragile immune system, I rarely ventured into crowded spaces. “Eden, if you start feeling faint, tell me immediately. The air is pretty stagnant in here,” he whispered, suddenly shifting into protective-brother mode. “I’m fine,” I signed with an okay gesture. We were just about to back away to the bleachers when we heard Valerie turn to the other dancers. “Where’s Morgan?” “No idea, haven’t seen her all day.” A second later, a girl near the entrance gasped, pointing a shaking finger toward the door. “Holy crap, that absolute vision cannot be Morgan!” Every head in the room instinctively swiveled. A tall girl stepped into the frame. She had fresh, silver-blonde highlights woven through her dark hair, a sleek silver stud catching the light on her left ear. She radiated an effortlessly beautiful, razor-sharp energy. “What… what did she do? Did she skip practice just to get her hair done?” “Who provoked her this time?” From the moment Morgan walked in, her eyes darted furiously across the room until they finally locked onto my pale pink sweater in the crowd. No, I have to play the part, she must have reminded herself. Her determined stride toward me abruptly veered off-course halfway across the floor. Marcus was just about to pull me toward the seats when a guy jogged up and clapped Valerie on the shoulder. “Hey, Valerie, where’s the seat you saved for me?” The guy had a clean, preppy haircut and a small entourage of equally loud guys trailing behind him. “Who is that?” I asked quietly. The bright smile on Marcus’s face instantly died. “Her childhood friend. They grew up together.” I might not socialize much, but I consumed romance novels like they were keeping me alive. The scent of a toxic, boundary-crossing orbiter hit me instantly. A single phrase flashed in my mind: The ‘Just a Friend’ Guy. “Um…” Morgan had inevitably gravitated toward me, desperate to speak, but before she could formulate a sentence, Marcus grabbed my wrist and pulled me away. His mood had plummeted. “Out of sight, out of mind,” he muttered darkly. I glanced back over my shoulder, catching Morgan’s devastatingly pitiful gaze. She looked exactly like my mother’s golden retriever right after being told she couldn’t have table scraps. “Over there. Go sit yourself down,” Valerie pointed out a row of seats to Spencer, the preppy guy. Morgan, looking absolutely murderous, intentionally shoved her shoulder hard against Valerie’s as she walked past. Valerie stumbled slightly, blinking in shock. “Did you eat gunpowder for breakfast?” Morgan silently stripped off her oversized jacket. A couple of guys tried to approach her, but one sweep of her frigid glare froze them in their tracks. … In the bleachers, I tentatively probed Marcus. “How does she treat that guy?” Marcus shot me a defeated look, his lips pressed into a thin line. “I don’t know how to explain it. It’s just… wherever Valerie is, he is.” Speak of the devil. Spencer and his entourage swaggered over to our section. Valerie was truly a piece of work. She had reserved an entire row. The words I wanted to say died in my throat. Sigh. The spectator sees the game best. Right before the performance started, my phone buzzed with rapid-fire texts from Morgan. Why didn’t you talk to me? I thought you were supposed to be chasing me? Are you giving up? Can I chase you now instead? I’m going on stage in a second. You have to keep your eyes on me. I looked up from the screen just as Morgan glanced up at the stands, her eyes locking onto mine. The guys next to me immediately started whispering. “Morgan keeps looking up here. Spencer, is she looking at you?” “Man, I’m so jealous you grew up with two absolute goddesses.” Spencer’s cheeks flushed slightly, a sickeningly smug gleam in his eyes. “Oh, come on, it’s not like that.” Marcus let out a loud, derisive scoff next to me. I calmly broke eye contact, and the corners of Morgan’s mouth instantly turned down into a pout. Once the music started, I completely lost myself in the performance. I genuinely loved watching dance. The room was filled with gasps of admiration, applause, and whispered debates about who had the best technique. Suddenly, Morgan executed a flawless, brutally difficult sequence of rapid pirouettes, sending the entire gymnasium into a frenzy. The girl’s face was flushed with exertion, the sleek lines of her exposed arms flexing with a mesmerizing grace. She instinctively looked up at our section again, drawing more hushed gasps from the crowd around me. “Is her girlfriend sitting up here or something? She keeps staring right at us.” To my right, someone sighed enviously. “Spencer, if both Valerie and Morgan wanted you, who would you even pick?” “They’re both so stunning. That’s an impossible choice!” “Oh, stop it, you guys, just watch the show,” Spencer deflected, basking in the attention. Marcus leaned over and mouthed the word, Poser. When the showcase ended, Marcus turned to me, panic in his eyes. “Eden, don’t move a muscle. Stay exactly right here. I’ll be right back.” With that, he bolted toward the backstage area with a bottle of water clutched in his hand. Spencer was already long gone, naturally. I sat obediently in the empty bleachers. Against the flow of the departing crowd, a girl pushing her way up the steps caught my eye. She had changed into street clothes, her hairline still damp with sweat. I didn’t blink as Morgan closed the distance and dropped into the empty seat beside me. Seeing me, a slow, breathtaking smile spread across her face. “I thought you were courting me? Where’s my water?” “I’m sorry. This is my first time chasing someone. I lack experience.” My voice was soft, airy, but my eyes held absolutely zero remorse. Morgan was still breathing heavily from the routine. Hearing my response, she let out a breathless, exasperated laugh. She tilted her head back, taking a long pull from her own water bottle. She was already devastatingly cool, but right now, with the corners of her eyes tinted red and a post-adrenaline flush on her cheeks, she looked dangerously intoxicating. She wiped her mouth, dropping her head in defeat as she leaned in close. “Stop torturing me, baby.” “Can we just make it public right now?” The heat radiating off her skin carried the sharp, clean scent of sweat and adrenaline. I instinctively leaned back. “Sit up straight.” I tapped her shoulder with one finger. Tilting my head, I asked softly, “You like me?” She immediately snapped to attention, nodding with frantic sincerity. “But…” I let the word hang, pointing down toward the gym floor where Spencer was marching toward the backstage area. “What is your relationship with him? I heard you two were childhood sweethearts.” Morgan’s dark, obsidian eyes locked onto mine as she scrambled to explain. “Valerie, him, and I did grow up together, yes. But we are strictly platonic. Literally just friends.” “Really…” I shifted my gaze past her shoulder. Spencer, looking livid, was stomping up the bleachers toward us. He glared at me before hissing through gritted teeth, “Morgan!” “Where the hell did you go? I searched the entire backstage for you! Wow, choosing a pretty face over your best friends, huh? Unbelievable!” I stared at the two of them in utter silence. Morgan’s jaw clenched. She turned her head slightly away. “I already told you, Spencer. I don’t drink water given to me by anyone. Except my partner.” “I… how can you compare me to anyone else? We grew up together! What’s the big deal about me bringing you water? Are you saying the second you get a partner, we can’t even be friends anymore?” Instantly, Spencer’s eyes went red. He bit his lip, playing the absolute picture of a wounded victim. I looked calmly at Morgan. “I never said you couldn’t be friends once you have a partner. I just said there needs to be boundaries.” Spencer’s teary eyes snapped to me. His voice wavered with a perfectly engineered tremor. “I didn’t see you there earlier. I didn’t realize you were her partner. I’m so sorry if I made you misunderstand.” Wow. Coming right out of the gate, slapping the ‘jealous, unreasonable girlfriend’ label on me. I spent my life locked in my room reading hundreds of novels where the female lead mathematically dismantled toxic orbiters. I just never had the chance to test it in the field. Until now. The theory was about to meet practice. I mentally rolled up my sleeves. But Morgan beat me to it. She scowled, her voice dropping to a dangerous register. “What the hell are you talking about? She hasn’t agreed to be my girlfriend yet, but honestly, the way you’re talking right now is pissing me off.” Spencer’s face froze. He literally forgot to keep fake-crying. Right on cue, Marcus called me. “Eden, let’s go.” I grabbed Marcus’s bag from the seat and stood up. Morgan looked up at me, panic and desperation swirling in her eyes. I smiled, pulling a fresh bottle of water out of Marcus’s bag. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Spencer watching. I handed it to Morgan. “Here.” Morgan’s amber eyes practically lit up like floodlights. Her knuckles grazed mine as she snatched the bottle. “We’re going out to celebrate later. Do you and Marcus want to come?” I stepped around the benches, stopping right in front of Spencer, with Morgan trailing obediently behind me like a shadow. I smiled at him. “Excuse me, classmate. You’re blocking the way.” Spencer ground his teeth together and stepped aside. I walked a few paces down the stairs, then glanced back over my shoulder. I gave Morgan a brilliant, lingering smile. “See you next time, Morgan.” When I reached the bottom of the bleachers, I grabbed a shell-shocked Marcus by the sleeve and dragged him toward the exit. He whipped his head around, staring in disbelief at Morgan, who was glued to her spot, watching me leave like a sailor watching a lighthouse. He looked back at me. “Holy… what did you do? How did you train a wolf into a golden retriever in five minutes?” “Secret.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “408314”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel