Category: English

1 There were seven minutes left before the window closed on saving my mother-in-law’s life. I had finally found the emergency debit card in the back of the dresser—the one Nathaniel kept our $50,000 “rainy day” fund in. I was sprinting through the hospital lobby, chest burning, my eyes locked on the billing window, when two police officers stepped into my path. Behind them stood my husband, Nathaniel Harper. His face was a mask of cold, calculated fury. “Officer, that’s her,” Nathaniel said, his voice steady and clinical. “Riley Harper. I’m reporting a theft of marital assets. She’s trying to drain our joint accounts.” I tried to push past them, pointing wildly at the double doors of the ICU. “Nate, stop this! Eleanor is in there—she’s in acute liver failure. They need the deposit for the emergency plasma exchange now or she won’t make it!” Nathaniel reached out and snatched the card from my trembling fingers. A cruel, mocking smile touched his lips. “Yesterday you were hounding me for ten grand to fund your deadbeat brother’s new truck. I said no, so now what? You’re dragging my mother into your latest scam? You’re getting desperate.” “Nate, look at me!” I screamed, my voice cracking. “She ate the wild mushrooms from the backyard. It’s Amanita poisoning. She’s dying!” “My mother is fine, Riley. Your theatrics are getting pathetic.” I fumbled for my phone, trying to call Dr. Aris, the attending physician. My hands were shaking so violently I couldn’t even swipe the screen. When the call finally went through, it skipped straight to a cold, mechanical voicemail: The subscriber you are trying to reach is unavailable. The digital clock above the triage desk ticked down. Six minutes. Five. I literally sank to my knees on the linoleum floor, grabbing the hem of his tailored trousers. “Nathaniel, please. If I’m lying, I hope I walk out those doors and get hit by a bus. Just pay the deposit. Please, just save her!” He huffed a laugh, looking up at the officers with an ‘can you believe this?’ expression. “What are you waiting for? Take this woman away before she causes a bigger scene.” In that exact moment, the red “Emergency in Progress” light above the ICU doors flickered and went dark. A heavy, hollow silence settled over the hallway. I let go of his pants. My hands fell limp at my sides. Slowly, I stood up and held out my wrists toward the officers. “I’m done,” I whispered, my voice sounding like it was coming from miles away. “Officers, please. Just put the cuffs on me.” Nathaniel pointed toward the ICU. “Go ahead, Riley. Keep up the act. You think if you go to jail, I’ll feel guilty and give you the money? I told you, Tyler isn’t getting a dime of my hard-earned cash.” I looked him straight in the eye. “Nate, are you absolutely certain you don’t want to swipe that card?” “Enough!” He shoved the card deep into his pocket. “Officer, you saw it. She was caught red-handed with the card she stole from my private drawer. I want to press charges. Grand larceny, embezzlement—whatever sticks.” The younger officer looked between us, his brow furrowed with a hint of doubt. “Mr. Harper, if there really is a medical emergency in there…” “There isn’t!” Nathaniel snapped. “She’s a liar. She’s been ‘bleeding’ our finances to her family for years. I want her processed immediately.” The officer sighed, his face a mix of pity and duty. “Ma’am, please come with us.” The steel was cold against my skin. The click-click of the handcuffs felt like the final punctuation mark on my marriage. The interrogation room smelled of stale coffee and industrial cleaner. I sat on a hard metal chair, the fluorescent lights humming overhead. The young officer from the hospital brought me a plastic cup of lukewarm water. “Mrs. Harper, your husband is making a very serious allegation,” he said, opening a folder. “Fifty thousand dollars is a felony amount. Do you have anything to say in your defense?” I watched the ripples in the water. My throat felt like it was filled with glass. “That card holds our combined savings. It’s marital property. I took it to pay for a life-saving procedure.” The officer flipped through his notes. “Mr. Harper claims you wanted the money for your brother’s vehicle. He even showed us your texts from yesterday.” He slid a few printouts across the table. Riley: Nate, Tyler found a great deal on a truck. He’s just a bit short on the down payment. Can we loan him $10k? He’ll pay it back by Christmas, I promise. Nate: No. Your family is a black hole. You’re not taking another cent from me. I looked at the words, a bitter smile tugging at my lips. “Yes, I asked. And when he said no, I dropped it. I went to the hospital today because of a medical crisis. Someone’s life depended on that money.” “Whose life?” the officer pressed. I took a shaky breath. “A member of the family. Someone very close to me.” The door to the room swung open. An older detective leaned in and whispered something into the younger officer’s ear. The officer’s expression shifted—his jaw tightened, and he looked at me with a sudden, haunting intensity. He turned back to me. “Mrs. Harper… we just got a report from the City Medical Center.” He paused, his voice dropping an octave. “The patient in the ICU—the one suffering from acute liver failure due to Amanita poisoning—has been pronounced dead.” He cleared his throat. “The hospital confirmed that if the deposit had been paid and the plasma exchange started when you arrived… there was an eighty-percent chance of survival.” I closed my eyes. A single, hot tear traced a path down my cheek. Suddenly, the door was kicked open. Nathaniel marched in, followed by his high-priced corporate lawyer. He didn’t look like a grieving man. He looked like a man who had just won a merger. “Don’t bother with the questions, Detective,” Nate said, pulling out a chair and sitting with his legs spread wide. “I’m sure she’s confessed by now. Using a fake death to scam me—it’s a new low, even for her.” I opened my eyes and stared at him. “Why are you here, Nathaniel?” “To give you an out,” he said, pulling a thick envelope from his briefcase and slamming it on the table. “Divorce papers. A clean break.” He leaned in, his voice a low, venomous hiss. “You sign these, you agree to a ‘zero-asset’ walk-away, and you go on record admitting you attempted to defraud me. If you do that, I’ll drop the charges. Otherwise? Fifty grand is enough to send you to a state penitentiary for a long, long time.” I looked down at the document. It was a total surrender. I would lose the house, my savings, even the equity in the car. I would even be responsible for the lion’s share of our credit card debt. “Everything?” I asked, my voice hollow. “You want me to walk away with nothing?” “You’re lucky I’m being this generous,” Nate scoffed. “You’re a parasite, Riley. A ‘sister-provider’ who’s been draining my veins for three years. Every cent Tyler spent on tuition, every medical bill your parents had—it all came out of my pocket.” I stared at him in silence. For three years, I had worked sixty-hour weeks to cover our mortgage and groceries so he could “invest” his entire salary. I paid for my parents’ help with my own secret freelance work. I gave Tyler a few hundred bucks for groceries once a month. And in his mind, I was the vampire. “Nathaniel,” I said quietly. “Did you go into that room? Did you look at the body?” He waved a hand dismissively. “Why would I? To see how well she can play dead? I’m not wasting my breath on that old woman’s schemes. Sign the papers, Riley. My sister, Lexi, is flying in from London tonight, and I have to get to the airport to pick her up. I don’t have time for this.” I felt a cold, jagged sense of peace settle over me. “Fine.” I picked up the pen and scrawled my name on the lines he pointed to. Nathaniel snatched the papers back, checking the signature like a vulture. “Smart girl,” he said, signaling his lawyer. “Drop the charges. We’re done here.” He stood up, looking down at me with pure disdain. “Riley, if I see you starving on a street corner tomorrow, don’t expect a nickel. You’re dead to me.” “Nathaniel,” I called out as he reached the door. My voice was light as a feather. “I hope you get some sleep tonight. You’re going to need it.” The police let me go an hour later. Since Nate dropped the charges and no money actually changed hands, they didn’t have much of a case anyway. I stepped out of the station into the humid night air. My phone was silent—no calls, no texts. I started walking, aimlessly, through the city lights. Meanwhile, Nathaniel was at The Gilt Room, the most expensive steakhouse in the city. Lexi Harper raised her crystal wine glass, her diamonds glittering under the chandelier. “To freedom, Nate! Honestly, I never thought you’d get rid of that gold-digger so easily.” Nathaniel clinked his glass against hers. “And with a clean break. Not a cent in alimony. It was a masterpiece.” Lexi took a sip of her Pinot Noir. “But seriously, was her mother actually in on it? Pretending to die in the ICU? That’s some dedicated method acting.” Nathaniel snickered. “She probably just paid off some nurse to tell me that. If she were actually dead, Riley wouldn’t have signed those papers so fast. She would have been a mess.” Lexi nodded. “Ugh, so gross. You’re so much smarter than her, Nate. You saw through it instantly.” Nate basked in the praise, checking his Rolex. “Anyway, where is Mom? She was supposed to meet us here for your welcome-home dinner.” Lexi checked her phone. “I’ve called her four times. It goes straight to voicemail. Maybe the signal is bad out at the cabin?” “She was obsessed with finding those ‘rare chanterelles’ in the woods behind the property yesterday,” Nate said, waving for the check. “She probably stayed out too late foraging. She loves that pioneer woman routine.” They finished their meal, laughing about the future. Nate drove Lexi back to his—formerly our—suburban villa. As they pulled into the driveway, the headlights swept across the front porch. “What is that?” Lexi asked, pointing. Nate stepped out of the car. There, right in front of the door, was a battered wicker basket. It had been tipped over. A dozen or so mushrooms—vibrant, beautiful, and deadly—were scattered across the welcome mat. Nate froze. A cold prickle of sweat broke out on the back of his neck. His phone began to vibrate violently in his pocket. It was an unrecognized landline. He answered it with a trembling hand. “Hello?” “Is this Nathaniel Harper?” a stern voice asked. “This is Officer Miller from the 4th Precinct.” Nate tried to swallow, but his throat was dry. “Yes… what is it? If this is about my ex-wife again, I told you, I’m done with her.” There was a long, heavy silence on the other end. “Mr. Harper, we aren’t calling about Riley Harper. We need you to come to the City Medical Center morgue immediately.” “The morgue?” Nate’s voice went up an octave. “Look, Riley’s mother—” “Mr. Harper, please listen,” the officer interrupted, his tone chillingly professional. “The deceased was brought in with no ID, only a damaged cell phone. We managed to recover the emergency contact list. There was only one name on it. Yours.” Nate looked down at the mushrooms on the porch. The “rare chanterelles” his mother had been so excited to find for him. “Nate? Nate, what’s wrong?” Lexi asked, her face pale. “Mom…” Nate whispered, his breath coming in short, jagged gasps. “Lexi… did you get through to Mom?” “No… Nate, you’re shaking. What’s happening?” Nate didn’t answer. He turned and bolted for the car, driving like a madman back toward the city. The basement of the hospital was silent and smelled of antiseptic and frost. Nate and Lexi stumbled out of the elevator. They saw the officer waiting by the heavy steel doors. And they saw me. I was leaning against the tiled wall, my face a blank slate. When Nate saw me, he lost it. He charged at me, grabbing the collar of my coat, his eyes bloodshot and wild. “Riley! What are you doing here? Tell me! Tell me what’s going on!” I didn’t move. I just looked at him with eyes that felt a thousand years old. The officer stepped in, pulling Nate back. “Sir, calm down. Step inside.” The morgue technician pulled a gurney out from the wall. A form lay beneath a heavy white sheet. “Mr. Harper,” the officer said softly. “Please identify the body.” Nate moved forward, one agonizing inch at a time. Lexi was behind him, whimpering, clutching his arm. I watched him, a cold, sharp stone where my heart used to be. “Well?” I whispered. “Aren’t you going to look?” I stepped forward before he could react and grabbed the edge of the sheet. “Look closely, Nathaniel,” I said, my voice cutting through the air like a blade. “Look at the ‘lie’ I was telling.” I yanked the sheet back.

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It took exactly three years for my marriage to free-fall from a modern-day fairytale into a living hell. Harrison Winthrop was Boston real estate royalty—the heir apparent who had never been told “no” a day in his life. I was Rowan Hayes, an orphan with nothing to my name but a degree and a mountain of student debt. Society pages and whispered gossip agreed: our love story was a delusion. But Harrison shielded me from the vicious rumors. He went to war with his own family, surrendered his inheritance, and gave me a wedding that brought the entire city to a standstill. Three years later, Serena Montgomery—the golden girl he grew up with, the one who got away—got divorced and moved back from Paris. I was four months pregnant at the time. The very next day, I was served with divorce papers. The terms were brutally simple: the settlement was contingent on me terminating the pregnancy. The sheer shock and devastation sent my body into a traumatic tailspin. I went into premature labor, hemorrhaged heavily, and nearly died on the operating table. As my emergency contact, Harrison’s phone rang and rang. It wasn’t until the fourteenth attempt that someone finally picked up. It was his executive assistant. “Mr. Winthrop is currently hosting Ms. Montgomery’s birthday dinner. Please direct your calls elsewhere.” 1 Three years later, my phone lit up with an unsaved number. It was my long-lost ex-husband. His tone was deeply familiar, colored with the distinct, boyish pout I hadn’t heard in years. “Ro, I’ve been hurt for so long. Why haven’t you come to see me?” I hung up immediately. The phone rang again, relentless and shrill, until I finally blocked the number. By 8:40 PM, a panicked hospital resident called, practically begging me in tears to come down to the ward, saying his job was on the line. Out of pity for a fellow working professional, I went. Harrison was propped up in a hospital bed, his right leg immobilized in a heavy brace. A thick ring of gauze wrapped around his forehead, a faint bloom of crimson seeping through the white fabric. He was aimlessly scrolling on his phone when he suddenly stopped, lifting his head. His eyes lit up instantly. “Rowan. I knew you’d come.” He flashed a cocky, triumphant grin, boasting about his incredible hearing just like he used to. “I’d know your footsteps anywhere.” I stood in the doorway, offering no smile, no greeting. I just looked at him in total silence. Harrison Winthrop had amnesia. His assistant had briefed me in the hallway: during a site inspection for a new high-rise, a piece of scaffolding had collapsed on him. The neurologists had no timeline for his recovery. 2 His memory had hard-stopped at seven years ago. He was trapped in the era of the fierce, defiant boy who loved me. Back then, the trust-fund brats in his circle used to call me a social-climbing gold digger, placing bets on when I’d milk him dry and dump him. When Harrison found out, he flew into a blind rage and brawled with his own friends in the middle of a country club. He came back to my dorm that night, holding my hand, crying out of sheer frustration, promising me he would cut ties with all of them for disrespecting me. Shortly after, he moved out of the Winthrop estate and rented a cramped apartment with me off-campus. On our first night there, he held me so tightly I could barely breathe. He buried his face in the crook of my neck, refusing to let go, trembling like a puppy separated from its mother. In the dead of night, I heard him whisper into the dark, “Ro, you’re all I have left now.” On the eve of our wedding, he couldn’t stop talking. He held both my hands, his voice vibrating with a frantic, euphoric joy, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “Rowan, we have a family now. We have a home.” “I swear to God, Rowan, I will treat you like a queen. I will love you until the day I die.” But as the years bled on, Harrison forgot those promises. He stopped loving Rowan Hayes. He gathered up all his fierce, world-burning devotion and handed it to another woman. His home no longer had room for me. All he left me was a brush with death on a sterile operating table and a stack of legal documents severing my life from his. 3 But the Harrison sitting in the hospital bed remembered none of that. He didn’t understand why the girl who used to melt into his embrace was now standing ten feet away, staring at him like he was a stranger. “Ro?” He called out softly, his fingers anxiously twisting the edge of his bedsheet. “Did Pierce and those assholes say something to you again? Tell me. I’ll go beat the shit out of them right now.” When I didn’t answer, he tugged at my sleeve, trying to coax a smile out of me the way he used to. I lowered my gaze, letting it rest on the jagged, faded scar across his knuckles. He had gotten that scar fighting for my honor. What was once a pair of perfectly manicured, aristocratic hands had been permanently marred for my sake. Now, there were fresh cuts on his face and arms, yet none of it diminished his striking, arrogant beauty. He was still the dazzling, untouchable Harrison Winthrop. Time had seemingly spared him. —Except for the faint, almost imperceptible lines at the corners of his eyes. A quiet, cruel reminder that he was no longer the twenty-year-old boy who would burn down the world for me. I pulled my gaze away, took out my phone, opened the calendar app, and held it up to his face. My voice was utterly flat. “It is 202X. We have been divorced for three years.” Reality slammed into him. His expression froze, the light draining from his eyes. But a second later, he let out a breathless laugh, as if I had just delivered a punchline. “So we did get married.” He smiled—that arrogant, magnetic, irrepressible smile. “I knew it. I always knew I was going to marry you. Who else could it be? I’m so obsessed with you, it had to be my Rowan.” He was still wearing that boyish armor. Bold, unwavering, with a touch of stubborn childishness. But this time, there was no one left to play along with his banter. I let out a slow exhale, pulled up a vinyl chair, sat down, and began casually inspecting my fresh manicure. The glossy polish caught the harsh fluorescent light. Across from me, the room went dead silent. I finally looked up. His eyes were rimmed with red. The lazy, confident drawl was gone. “Rowan. If you want to take a knife and drive it straight into my chest, just do it. Don’t torture me with a sick joke like this.” His stare turned defiant, desperate. “What did I do wrong? Or… did you find someone else?” Even as he tried to flip the blame onto me, I didn’t feel a flicker of anger. I just looked at him, my eyes as still as a frozen lake. “Harrison,” I said softly. “You forgot.” “You were the one who handed me the knife. And you were the one who filed for the divorce.” “That’s impossible.” He shot back instinctively, the denial sharp and absolute. “I would never leave you. Not in this lifetime. I’d have to be dead first.” A short, hollow sound escaped my lips. “Hah.” At twenty, that exact sentence had brought me to my knees in tears of gratitude. At twenty-five, the memory of that sentence had nearly destroyed me. Now, pushing thirty, it was just a bad joke. He had said it a thousand times, and I had believed it with every fiber of my being. And then, he betrayed me. He grew disgusted by me. He discarded me. I remembered the day I called him. I remembered the careless, mocking lilt in his voice through the receiver. “I did love you once. But that was a long time ago. We’ve been together too long. It got stale. Isn’t it normal to lose the spark?” “And get rid of the kid. Stop standing outside the Winthrop lobby waiting for me. It’s pathetic.” I had been so desperate to save our marriage. He hadn’t come home in weeks, and I had no idea where else to find him. So, I had stood on the pavement outside his gleaming corporate tower, four months pregnant, waiting. I knew it was an ugly scene. I knew how it looked to the executives in their bespoke suits. But when the word pathetic slipped so easily from the mouth of the man I loved, my heart actually stopped beating for a second. 4 In the hospital room, his knuckles turned white as he gripped my coat, his hands trembling violently. His voice cracked into a plea. “Ro, you have to believe me. Look at me. How could I ever say something like that to you?” I smoothly pulled my coat from his grasp, looking down to adjust the chain strap on my leather purse. My voice didn’t waver. “Believe you?” “Harrison, you have a thousand different resources at your disposal to verify your own history. Don’t sit here grabbing at my clothes, telling me it’s impossible.” I turned on my heel and walked toward the door. Behind me came the violent clatter of crutches hitting the linoleum. Then, the heavy, agonizing thud of him dragging his shattered leg, stumbling frantically after me. “Rowan! Rowan, stop!” “Rowan Hayes, you are not walking out that door!” A heavy crash shook the floorboards, followed immediately by a nurse’s terrified scream and the chaotic squeak of rubber soles rushing down the hall. “Mr. Winthrop! You can’t put weight on—!” Dr. Aaron Miller rounded the corner, slowing his pace when he saw me standing by the elevator. He hesitated. “Are you… sure you don’t want to stay a little longer?” I shook my head. Aaron nodded slowly. “Right. Make sense.” “I mean, you guys have been over for a while. Listen, thanks for coming down anyway. I gotta go deal with this.” He pointed a thumb back toward the chaotic shouting in the ward and hurried off. I stood in the corridor for a moment, listening to the muffled commotion, and then I pressed the down button and left. I didn’t go back to see him. The incident didn’t so much as ripple the surface of my life. Aaron Miller called me a few times over the next couple of weeks. I didn’t answer, but I didn’t decline the calls either. I just let the phone vibrate on my desk until the screen went black. Harrison Winthrop and I were always meant to be parallel lines. When I was young, I crashed into his orbit with reckless abandon, foolishly believing it would earn me a lifetime of being cherished. In the end, I was nothing but collateral damage. The price of entry into his world had been so agonizing that, even now, I still woke up suffocating in the middle of the night from the nightmares. 5 A few weeks later, a crisis at the firm kept me late. It was nearly 10:00 PM by the time I stepped off the elevator on my floor. Leaning against the wall next to my apartment door was a woman with a perfect salon blowout. She arched a manicured brow at me, her expression radiating innocent concern. She offered a sickeningly sweet smile. “Rowan. It’s been a while.” My face remained blank. “Can I help you?” “Oh, it’s nothing major. I just really need you to stop clinging to Harrison.” Serena Montgomery blinked playfully, taking a step closer, the scent of her expensive Parisian perfume invading the hallway. “After all, the divorce is finalized, and he has a girlfriend now. It’s not a great look for you to throw yourself at him and play the other woman, is it?” I actually laughed out loud. I was too exhausted to even bother being insulted. “What’s wrong, Serena? You don’t trust the epic romance you’re so confident about?” Her sugary smile vanished instantly, replaced by a venomous sneer. “I’m just here to give you a reality check. Don’t flatter yourself. The person he is most disgusted by on this planet is you.” “Right. Got it.” My tone was deadpan. I brushed past her, unlocked my door, and slammed it shut without looking back. The very next day, I ran into Harrison. He had apparently broken out of the hospital. He was standing on the sidewalk outside my building, leaning heavily on a single crutch. He was wearing scrub pants and an oversized, mismatched wool coat. I kept my hands buried in my pockets, genuinely bewildered as to why the universe had suddenly decided to make me a magnet for Winthrop drama this week. At the sound of my footsteps, his head snapped up. Relief flooded his face, a brilliant smile breaking through his exhaustion—until his gaze drifted downward, and the smile shattered. I followed his line of sight down to the little hand wrapped tightly inside mine. Sophie’s hand. A second later, he was lurching forward, dragging his bad leg in a grotesque, desperate limp. Before he even reached us, his leg gave out. He collapsed hard onto the concrete, the crutch clattering violently against the pavement. Sophie jumped, terrified, and hid behind my legs. I turned slightly and gently stroked her hair. “It’s okay, Sophie, don’t be scared. This man is just… an old friend of Mommy’s. Why don’t you run upstairs and start your homework, okay?” She peeked timidly at Harrison, then looked up at me, gave a small nod, and scurried into the building. I stayed exactly where I was. Harrison Winthrop was kneeling on the cold sidewalk. He didn’t look like a thirty-something corporate titan; he looked like a lost toddler who had just watched his balloon float away into the sky. After a long pause, I walked over. I extended my hand, hesitated mid-air, but ultimately grabbed his arm to help him up. He stared up at me, his eyes wet and remarkably fragile. I hauled him to his feet, instantly let go, and took a half-step back. “You’re blocking the walkway.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. He let out a low, breathy chuckle. “When did you get so strong?” “None of your business.” He didn’t argue, but his eyes were locked onto my face, his voice tight and strained. “That little girl… is she your daughter?” “None of your business.” We moved into the narrow foyer of the building. His towering frame leaned heavily against the drywall, his expression bleeding with an unbearable sense of grievance. “You used to tell me we’d never keep secrets from each other.” 6 I smiled faintly. “You said it yourself. Used to.” His voice hitched. “Rowan, I—” I cut him off, having absolutely no desire to hear the rest of whatever he was about to say. “Save it. Why are you here? Did Serena send you to interrogate me?” At the mention of her name, his brow furrowed in sheer disgust. “Who cares about her? I saw her exactly once when I woke up. She wouldn’t stop whining. It was annoying as hell.” As soon as the words left his mouth, his gaze softened again, morphing into a tentative, agonizingly careful plea. He shuffled an inch closer, lowering his voice until it was almost a whisper. “I… I just wanted to come talk to you. Please?” Once I let him into the apartment, the crease between his brows never smoothed out. I poured him a glass of water and set it on the coffee table. The living room suffocated in silence for a long time. Suddenly, he looked up at me. His voice was hoarse, sounding like a man questioning his own sanity. “I don’t get it, Ro… All I ever wanted was to be with you. To protect you. To marry you and spend the rest of my life making you happy. But somehow, it all went completely wrong…” I looked into those confused, devastated eyes, and my voice came out eerily detached. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Harrison. It’s just biology.” “People stay together too long, and they get bored. They get annoyed. Eventually, they get disgusted. People change. Reality isn’t the immutable, frozen fantasy you cooked up in your head when you were twenty.” He had loved me. He had desperately wanted to marry me. He couldn’t bear the thought of me suffering even a papercut. But the promises made in the throes of love are only valid as long as the love remains. My words seemed to physically strike him. His eyelashes fluttered rapidly, his lips parting in mute horror. “But I remember…” he mumbled, shaking his head. “I remember we were in college. I loved you so much. I wanted to kill anyone who looked at you wrong. And you loved me. You used to blow on my bruised knuckles after a fight. When I got hurt, you would cry…” He started speaking faster, the words tumbling out in a broken, incoherent rush as tears spilled over his lashes. The sound of a man’s psyche fracturing filled my small living room. “Rowan, I didn’t do anything. I just went to sleep! And when I woke up, I was suddenly this… this evil bastard who betrayed you and destroyed your life… Do you have any idea how insane this is?” I let out a bone-deep sigh, letting the silence swallow his broken sobbing. He forgot. He refused to accept reality, or rather, he was terrified to face the monster he had become over the last seven years. But what did he expect me to do? In the years he had conveniently wiped from his brain, there was no domestic bliss. There was only a barren wasteland of cruelty. “Stop crying,” I said, pulling a tissue from the box and handing it to him. I walked into my bedroom to call Aaron Miller. When I came back out, Harrison was fast asleep on my cheap sofa, his breathing heavy. Noticing the bruised, purple exhaustion beneath his eyes, I instinctively softened my footsteps.

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1 Miles Bennett claimed he had a crippling sleep disorder. By day, he was the city’s golden boy—a brilliant neurosurgeon, a man who treated me with a tenderness that felt almost holy. But the moment the sun dipped below the Seattle skyline, he became a ghost. He claimed he needed total sensory deprivation to function: earplugs, a blackout mask, and a heavy oak door locked from the inside. Because I loved him, and because his hands held the lives of others, I didn’t question it. I moved my things into the guest suite with my best friend, Sophie, who had been staying with us while she “got back on her feet.” I gave Miles the silence he said he needed to save lives. A week before we were supposed to sign our marriage certificate at City Hall, I woke up at 2:00 AM to grab a late-night UberEats delivery—a habit of my own restless heart. As I passed the master suite, I noticed the heavy oak door wasn’t clicked shut. It was a sliver of darkness in a hallway of shadows. Thinking he’d simply forgotten to lock it, I reached for the handle. Then I heard it. “Does it make you feel powerful, Miles?” Sophie’s voice was a low, honeyed purr I barely recognized. “Inviting me into your marriage bed while your little saint sleeps just down the hall?” Then came the laugh. Low, rumbling, and devastatingly familiar. “Let’s just enjoy our final week of freedom, shall we?” Miles whispered. “Once the papers are signed, I’ll tell her my ‘insomnia’ has miraculously cleared up. By then, you’ll have your own place, and we’ll find a new way to play.” I stood frozen in the hallway, the bag of Thai food in my hand suddenly feeling like lead. The “sleep disorder.” The “locked sanctuary.” It was all a curated lie, a stage-managed play to let them screw under my roof while I tipped-toed around their pleasure. I didn’t scream. I didn’t burst in. I turned around, went to my room, and opened my laptop. I canceled the ten-day honeymoon to Bora Bora and booked a one-way ticket to a town I hadn’t visited in years. Then, I pulled up the private listing for the penthouse—the one I had paid for in full with my inheritance—and sent a one-word email to my broker: Sell. I left the cold containers of Pad Thai on the marble kitchen island. My phone buzzed in my palm. [Expedia: Your trip to Bora Bora has been successfully canceled. Refund processing.] A sliver of warm, amber light spilled from the master bedroom. Miles’s voice floated out, dripping with that practiced, bedside-manner concern. “Is your stomach still cramped, honey? Did the ginger tea help?” “You have to be careful with what you eat, Serena. You know how sensitive you are.” A moment later, the door creaked open. Sophie—no, Serena—stepped out. She nearly walked into me. “Avery! You… you’re up late.” I looked at her. Really looked at her. She immediately shifted into her role: the fragile, wayward friend. “My gastritis flared up again,” she stammered, clutching her stomach. “I was doubled over in pain, and I knew Miles had his medical kit in there. I… I’m so sorry if I disturbed him. I know how much he needs his rest.” Miles stepped out then, draped in a charcoal silk robe. He saw me, and his brow furrowed with that perfect, theatrical display of worry. He reached out, his warm palm pressing against my forehead. I felt the slight, microscopic tremor in his fingers—the only tell of a man who knew he was standing on thin ice. “Hey,” he murmured, his voice like velvet. “You’re freezing. Are you okay?” I stared at his face—the face I’d spent three years adoring—and looked for a crack. There was none. He was a surgeon; he was trained to stay calm while everything bled out. “Serena had a spasm,” he explained, his thumb tracing my temple. “I’m a doctor, Avery. I couldn’t just ignore her, even if it meant breaking my ‘sleep protocol.’” He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose—a gesture I used to think meant he was exhausted from saving lives. Now, I saw it for what it was: a reset button for his next lie. “I know,” I said. My voice was a flat, dead thing. He took the takeout bag from my hand. “This is cold. Let me microwave it for you. Go sit down.” He turned toward the kitchen, his silhouette tall and commanding. He was the man I had loved for a thousand days. Serena leaned in, whispering with a nauseating intimacy. “Avery, be extra sweet to him tonight. His insomnia is getting worse with the wedding stress. Don’t give him a reason to be edgy.” She patted my arm and disappeared into the guest wing. I sat at the table. Miles set the steaming bowl in front of me. “Eat. You need the strength.” He handed me a spoon. In the harsh glow of the pendant lights, I saw it: a faint, shimmering streak of rose-gold dust on the lapel of his silk robe. It was ‘Mermaid Glow’—the specific, overpriced highlighter Serena had bragged about buying yesterday. The last thread of my self-delusion snapped. Just then, his phone, left on the sofa, lit up. A notification from the Four Seasons popped onto the lock screen. [Reservation Confirmed: ‘Everlasting Devotion’ Suite booked for Friday the 14th…] My hand started to shake. Miles noticed my gaze. He didn’t panic. He walked over, picked up the phone, and looked at me with a smile so bright it was blinding. “You caught me,” he said, sounding playfully defeated. “I wanted it to be a surprise for the night we sign the papers. A little celebration just for us.” My stomach turned, a physical wave of nausea hitting my throat. I forced my lips into something resembling a smile. “I can’t wait.” I didn’t ask why the “surprise” had been booked three days ago—on Serena’s birthday. The next morning was a tableau of domestic bliss. Artisan coffee, poached eggs, and a bowl of steel-cut oats specially prepared for Serena’s “delicate stomach.” Miles was in his scrubs, looking every bit the hero, adjusting his tie in the hallway mirror. He leaned down and kissed my forehead, lingering a second longer than usual, inhaling the scent of my hair. I’ve always made my own botanical mists—lavender, cedar, and a hint of sandalwood. He called it his “anchor.” “Big day today, Avery. A complex craniotomy. The Chief is observing. I might have to stay at the hospital overnight for post-op monitoring.” He took a deep breath of my scent, his shoulders visibly relaxing. “Stay safe at home for me, okay?” I nodded and stood on my tiptoes to straighten his collar. “Don’t work too hard, Miles. Focus.” I watched from the floor-to-ceiling window as he pulled his Porsche out of the garage. Serena’s Prius followed a minute later, supposedly headed for a “job interview.” The moment they were gone, I pulled the spare key from the hidden compartment in my desk. The door to the master suite—the door that had been a barrier for three years—swung open. I walked to the bed. I lifted the corner of the heavy, king-sized mattress. Tucked away in the divan were several pieces of black lace lingerie that weren’t mine. Underneath them was a moleskine journal. I opened it. Two sets of handwriting filled the pages, chronicling dates, hotels, and the thrill of their “shadow life.” The latest entry was Serena’s: “Avery bought him more ‘calming’ essential oils today. Hilarious. She’ll never realize that I am the only medicine he actually needs. Holding him in her bed, in her house… it’s the ultimate high.” I closed the book, my nails digging into the leather. I remembered her holding my hand in college, crying about how “lucky” I was to be born into money, to have a life that seemed so easy. She hadn’t wanted a life like mine; she had wanted my life. As I moved to leave, I saw a folded slip of paper under the nightstand. It was a lab report from a private clinic. Patient: Serena Miller. Result: Positive (6 weeks). And at the bottom, the signature of the referring physician: Dr. Miles Bennett. I spent the day in a trance of cold efficiency. By 7:00 PM, the door lock clicked. Miles and Serena walked in together, Miles carrying a container of high-end bone broth. “Hey, beautiful,” Miles said, kneeling in front of my chair. “Sorry I’m late. Surgery ran long. I picked this up from that deli you like on the way home. Just in case I’m stuck at the hospital tonight, I wanted to make sure you were fed.” I took the bowl, the warmth of it seeping into my skin. “Thanks. But my stomach is a little off. I’m not hungry.” I set the bowl aside and picked up my phone. I hit ‘Send’ on a group message to my realtor and the legal team. “I just listed the penthouse,” I said calmly. The silence that followed was deafening. Miles blinked, his smile faltering. “What? Avery, what are you talking about?” “I’ve already accepted a cash offer from an investor. Quick close. The inspection is waived,” I said, showing him the Zillow ‘Pending’ status. “The movers are coming tomorrow morning. You should probably start packing your things.” Miles’s face went through a kaleidoscope of emotions—confusion, then a sharp, jagged anger he couldn’t quite hide. Serena gasped, her hand instinctively going to her stomach. As Miles stood up to argue, a small velvet box tumbled out of his coat pocket. Inside was a pink diamond ring—the one I had helped design months ago. He caught my eye, and for a second, he tried to pivot back to the script. “Avery, wait… I was going to give this to you at the hotel. I… I was stressed, I wasn’t thinking…” The next afternoon, while I was at the lawyer’s office finalizing the deed transfer, Serena’s Instagram story popped up. It was a photo of her hand, the pink diamond sparkling on her finger. The caption: “He said only a queen deserves a one-of-a-kind diamond. A little gift for the mom-to-be. Love you, Mr. B.” I called him. I didn’t yell. I didn’t cry. “Miles, why is she wearing my ring?” Miles didn’t even sound guilty. His voice was laced with a condescending, clinical coldness. “Serena’s hands are swelling because of the pregnancy. The ring fit her, and she was having a panic attack. I gave it to her to calm her down, Avery. Be rational. It’s just a rock. I’ll buy you a bigger one when this is over.” “I see,” I said. “Don’t bother with the bigger one. Enjoy your night, Miles.” I hung up. I looked at the ‘Expedited Title Transfer’ in my hand, stamped with the notary’s seal. Miles, you’re right. It is just a rock. And this penthouse? It’s just a building. But it’s my building. I hailed a Lyft. “Take me to the Waterfront. I have some packing to do.” When I entered the penthouse, Serena’s shoes were scattered in the foyer like she already owned the place. I ignored them and went to the guest room to grab my suitcase. Suddenly, a thick, familiar scent drifted through the air. It was Old Growth—a rare, vintage sandalwood oil my mother had left me. It was irreplaceable, a relic of a lost world. I only used a drop when Miles was truly suffering, treating it like liquid gold. I threw open the master bedroom door. Serena was lounging on my silk pillows, scrolling through her phone. Miles was standing by the humidifier, tilting my mother’s crystal bottle. He was pouring the last of the oil into the water tank. “What are you doing?” I screamed, lunging for the bottle. It was empty. Miles blocked me with his arm, his face a mask of annoyance. “It was just sitting on a shelf, Avery. Serena is nauseous and can’t sleep. Why are you being so materialistic? It’s just oil.” “It was my mother’s! It’s the last thing I had of hers!” My voice broke, my heart splintering in my chest. “People are more important than things,” Miles said dismissively. He turned his back on me and clicked the humidifier on. A mist of my mother’s memory began to fill the room, being inhaled by the woman who was trying to steal my life. I walked back to the guest suite. I didn’t say another word. Miles, thinking I had folded like I always did, went to the kitchen to slice some fruit. Serena walked to my doorway. She saw my suitcase, which only held a few old clothes and a framed photo of my parents. She laughed, a sharp, ugly sound. She walked over and, with the tip of her toe, hooked the frame. It shattered on the hardwood. Then, she stepped on my mother’s face in the photograph, grinding her heel into the glass. “You’re pathetic, Avery,” she hissed. “A little orphan playing house with a man who was bored of you a year ago. You think you’re so special because you have money? You have nothing.” I looked up at her. The grief was gone. In its place was something cold and sharp. “Get your foot off my mother.” “Make me.” I didn’t think. I stood up, grabbed her by the hair, and threw her toward the hallway with every ounce of rage I’d suppressed for years. She hit the edge of the wardrobe and slid to the floor, let out a piercing, theatrical scream. “Miles! Help! She’s trying to kill the baby!” Miles stormed in. Seeing Serena on the floor, his eyes went red. “Avery, you’ve lost your mind!” He shoved me—hard. My head hit the sharp corner of the nightstand. I felt the hot, wet slide of blood down my temple. Everything went blurry. Miles didn’t even look at me. He scooped Serena up in his arms. “I’m taking her to the ER. Don’t you dare follow us.” He walked out, and I heard the heavy click of the deadbolt from the outside. He had locked me in. “Reflect on what you’ve done!” his voice boomed through the door. “If anything happens to this baby, I will ruin you!” I listened to their footsteps fade. I sat on the floor, pressed a tissue to my bleeding head, and waited. Then, I walked to the closet, grabbed a 15-pound dumbbell, and smashed the lock until the door groaned open. I walked out into the Seattle night, my suitcase in one hand and my dignity in the other.

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1 A week before the wedding, my boyfriend Zane and I were lying in bed playing a game of Truth or Secret. Whoever drew the red slip had to reveal something the other person didn’t know. Zane drew it. He looked into my eyes, a gentle, practiced smile playing on his lips. “I was going to wait a couple more days to tell you, but I guess now is as good a time as any,” he said, his voice as smooth as velvet. He enunciated every word with terrifying clarity. “I’m getting married.” I froze for a heartbeat, then forced a small laugh. “Well, yeah. Next week is our—” “The bride isn’t you, Serena.” The smile died on my face. My brain went completely blank, a high-pitched ringing filling my ears. “What does that even mean? I’ve waited eight years for you!” I choked out. He reached out and stroked my hair, his touch as paternal and condescending as ever. “The firm is in trouble. We’re facing a liquidity crisis. I have to marry Bianca Moore. Her family is the only one with the capital to bail us out.” He leaned in, whispering like it was a sacred vow. “I swear, Serena, you’re the only one I’ll ever love.” I looked down at my right side—at the empty sleeve pinned up against my shoulder. I lost that arm in a car wreck years ago. I had thrown myself across him to take the impact. I remember how he held me afterward, sobbing, swearing to the heavens: “I’ll take care of you for the rest of your life.” I didn’t realize that “taking care of me” included marrying someone else. “Don’t take it so hard,” Zane continued, his tone nauseatingly tender. “It’s just a strategic merger. Once we weather this storm, I’ll find a way out and we’ll get married for real. Okay?” I felt a chill settle into my marrow. “You did so much for the company back in the early days,” he added. “You wouldn’t want to see it all go under, would you?” I stared at him. Back when we started Fletcher Tech, we were so broke we shared dollar-menu burgers. I was the one who landed our first seven-figure contract that put us on the map. “So, like every other executive decision we’ve made, this is for the company. For our future,” he said, still smiling. He had forgotten. In the beginning, he used to make a point of sitting three seats away from any other woman at a business dinner. He used to say: “The firm is the firm, but I won’t do anything that makes my sweet Serena jealous.” Now, he was attending his own wedding for “the company.” I took a deep breath, trying to claw back some dignity. “And our wedding next week?” “Oh, don’t worry about that,” he said casually. “The venue is booked, the catering is set. We’re just changing the names on the program.” Changing the names. Eight years of anticipation, discarded in a single sentence. I looked at Zane. His eyes were still as soulful as the day I met him, but the man inside was a stranger. “If you marry her, we’re done,” I said. Zane blinked, looking genuinely puzzled. “Don’t be dramatic. I know this is a lot to take in—I should have told you sooner. But it’s for the firm. I swear on my life.” He raised his right hand, four fingers extended in a scout’s honor. It was the exact same gesture he made the day I lost my arm. But a vow is only as good as the man making it. When I didn’t respond, his voice hardened. “Serena, be realistic. You aren’t exactly young anymore. And with the… missing limb… if you leave me and the company, where would you even go?” He didn’t finish the thought, but the implication hung in the air like a threat. His phone buzzed—a text. He checked it and stood up. “The office needs me. I have to go handle something.” I watched him leave, thinking about the man who once lived and breathed for the success of Fletcher Tech. I had poured everything into him. I remember when we hit our first major milestone, I told him: “This is enough. We have enough to live comfortably forever. We can finally start our real lives.” He had looked at me blankly and said: “That was a lot of work. You go home and rest, Serena. I have another meeting.” That was the moment I should have realized. The only thing he truly cared about wasn’t me. It was the empire. I picked up my phone, my hand trembling as I dialed a number I hadn’t called in years. The next morning, I woke up to an empty house. Zane hadn’t come back. He used to rush home after every late-night session, claiming he hated the thought of me being alone and scared in the dark. I sighed. My phone buzzed. A text from Zane. “I’m downstairs. I want you to meet someone.” I tightened my grip on my phone, then let go. Fine. One last time. I went down and got into the car. Zane handed me a bag. “Breakfast,” he said. I opened it: a cream-filled pastry and a latte. I felt a bitter laugh bubble up in my throat. He had even forgotten I was severely allergic to dairy. I set the bag aside. “Still pouting?” Zane asked, his voice breezy. I didn’t answer. He frowned slightly, and we drove in silence to a high-end restaurant where he usually took me for celebrations. He led the way into a private booth. A woman was already sitting there. Bianca Moore. Zane didn’t even flinch. He gestured toward her. “Serena, I’d like you to meet my fiancée, Bianca. Bianca, this is Serena.” I stared at him, waiting for the punchline. “She’s my sister,” Zane told her, his voice steady. “And one of the original founders of the firm.” I felt like I’d been kicked in the chest. Sister? Eight years of my life, reduced to a platonic lie. My heart felt like it was being squeezed by a cold hand. Zane looked at me, his eyes offering a sliver of that old warmth as he grabbed my wrist and pulled me into the booth. I stumbled, my balance off without my right arm, and he practically shoved me into the corner seat while he sat down next to Bianca. My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from him: “Important people are coming. This lunch is crucial for the firm. Play along.” He didn’t even bother to apologize for the “sister” comment. It was always about the firm. The pain started to fade, replaced by a cold, hollow numbness. The room filled up quickly. Partners, investors, family friends. Zane stood up, raising a glass of champagne. “I wanted to bring everyone together to celebrate my upcoming marriage to Bianca,” he said, beaming. “Thank you for your support. We look forward to a very successful partnership, both personally and professionally.” The room erupted in cheers. “A perfect match!” “To the happy couple!” “Come on, Zane! Give us a toast! A kiss!” The crowd started chanting. I looked at Zane, my eyes pleading. Please, don’t do this. Not in front of me. Zane caught my gaze for a split second, then looked away. “If you insist,” he laughed. They linked arms, drinking in the traditional wedding style. When they set their glasses down, they looked at each other as if they were the only two people in the world. Bianca tilted her head back, and he kissed her. The applause was deafening. I stood up slowly from my corner. I slipped out the door, unnoticed. In the restroom, I looked at myself in the mirror. My face was a mask of tears I didn’t even realize were falling. Every promise he’d ever made was shattering in the air around me. I splashed cold water on my face and headed for the exit. Halfway there, I passed a partially open door to another private room. I heard my name. I froze. I couldn’t help but lean in. Zane was in there with his oldest friend, a guy I vaguely remembered from college. “Serena just walked out without a word,” the friend said. Zane swirled his scotch. “Yeah, I know.” “You’re a savage, Zane. Kissing another woman right in front of her?” Zane chuckled. “Why worry? We’ve been together forever. She’s got nowhere else to go. She’s obsessed with me. Besides… she’s only got one arm. Who else is going to take her in?” The friend laughed, punching Zane lightly on the shoulder. “Man, you’re something else. Using the ‘sister’ bit to keep the peace?” I moved closer to the crack in the door. Using what? Zane set his glass down, his expression cynical. “Look, Bianca is high-maintenance. Very traditional. Unlike the others, she wouldn’t let me touch her until there was a ring on it. I had to sell the ‘sister’ story to Serena to keep her quiet until the deal is sealed.” The others? The air left my lungs. It hadn’t just been Bianca. “I promised her this is the last one,” Zane continued. “Once I’m bored with this, I’ll crawl back and give Serena the wedding she wants.” The friend rolled his eyes. “You said that about the last one too.” Zane sighed. “Well, Serena has sacrificed a lot. I’m not a total monster. I’ll marry her eventually.” “You better,” the friend said. “She lost that arm saving your life.” Zane went silent for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was lower, edged with a trace of disgust. “That’s exactly why I have to get out of the house. You have no idea… every time I look at that stump, I feel sick. In the rain, when the nerves twitch… it looks like a pile of—” “Miss Lin? What are you doing here?” A sharp female voice cut him off. A server was standing behind me. Inside the room, Zane and his friend turned toward the door. Through the gap, our eyes met. Zane reacted instantly. He walked toward me, his hand reaching out to stroke my hair. “Serena, you… how much did you hear?” Bianca stepped out behind him, looking confused. I didn’t wait for him to finish. I swung my left hand and slapped him across the face with every ounce of strength I had left. Before I could even register the sting in my palm, Bianca stepped forward and slapped me back. “What is wrong with you?!” she screamed, shielding Zane. “How dare you hit him!” She stood in front of him, fierce and protective. I looked at them and felt a hysterical urge to laugh. It was like a scene from a soap opera, and I realized with brutal clarity that I wasn’t the lead. In this story, I was the villain. The “other woman.” I looked at my empty sleeve, then at the “happy couple.” Fine, I thought. The villain is leaving. I stepped back, but the floor suddenly rolled beneath my feet. A low roar filled the building. “Earthquake! Get out!” someone screamed. The ceiling began to shed dust and plaster. The floor tilted violently. A heavy service cart laden with crystal and silverware broke loose, hurtling toward Bianca. “Bianca!” Zane didn’t hesitate. He lunged forward, shoving her out of the way and throwing his weight against the cart to deflect it. He saved her, but the momentum sent the heavy steel cart spinning. Straight toward me. I saw Zane look back. For a second, his face was a mask of panic, then confusion as he realized the cart was about to crush me. He opened his mouth to scream my name, but the impact hit. The world went black. As my consciousness faded, I saw the crowd trampling over each other to get to the exit. I saw Zane grab Bianca’s hand and run for the door. He didn’t look back again. But just before the dark took me, I felt a pair of strong hands catch me.

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1 The crash happened while Sean was speeding to get to her. He was halfway to Roxanne’s apartment when his Porsche spun out. Now, the doctors were saying the nerves in his spine were shattered. They said he’d never walk again. The moment the word “paralyzed” left the surgeon’s mouth, Roxanne—his “soulmate,” his “White Moonlight”—didn’t just distance herself; she evaporated. Within weeks, she’d already moved on to someone else, leaving the wreckage of Sean’s life for me to sweep up. I pulled back the sterile white sheets of his hospital bed, preparing to help him with his morning sponge bath. It was a humiliating routine for a man who used to command boardrooms. Before the cloth could touch his skin, he swiped a glass of water off the bedside table. It shattered against the wall, shards spraying across the linoleum. “Get out!” he roared, his voice raw with a mix of agony and venom. “Get the hell away from me!” I looked at the mess, then at him. For three years, I had been the perfect, dutiful wife, the one who stayed in the shadows while he chased the sun. “Fine, Sean,” I whispered. “I’m going.” I didn’t just leave the room. I packed my life into two suitcases, left the hospital, and went further than he ever expected. On the empty pillow next to him, I left the one thing he’d always claimed he wanted: signed divorce papers. Of course, life has a cruel sense of irony. Later, when his legs finally healed and his world turned cold, he came crawling back. But by then, the woman who would have died for him was gone. Sean’s face was the color of ash. His eyes were bloodshot, his knuckles raw and bleeding where he’d struck the bed rail. When he looked up and saw me, the tiny flicker of hope in his gaze died instantly, replaced by a searing, visceral disgust. “What are you doing here?” he spat. He let out a jagged, mocking laugh. “Come to watch the show? Come to see the great Sean Miller reduced to a piece of furniture?” My heart gave a familiar, dull throb—the kind of pain you get used to when you live with a man who hates you. I stepped carefully around the broken glass and placed a basket of fresh fruit on the table. “Your mother asked me to look after you,” I said softly, keeping my eyes down. CRASH. With a violent sweep of his arm, he sent the basket flying. It clipped my ankle before the fruit scattered across the floor like marbles. “Get out!” he screamed. “God, Autumn, do you have any idea how pathetic you look? Your spinelessness… it makes me sick.” I turned and limped out of the room, my own ankle throbbing, my chest feeling like it had been filled with frigid lake water. In the hallway, I nearly collided with Roxanne. She didn’t offer an apology. She just gave me a look of triumphant disdain before smoothing her silk dress and rushing into Sean’s room, her face instantly morphing into a mask of tragic concern. “Oh, Sean… honey, are you okay?” I heard her sob as she threw herself into his arms. “I’m fine, Roxie,” Sean’s voice was suddenly transformed—soft, melodic, brimming with a tenderness he hadn’t shown me in three years of marriage. “It doesn’t even hurt when you’re here.” They held each other as if they were the only two people in the world, completely oblivious to the wife standing just outside the door. A moment later, the attending physician entered to check Sean’s vitals and discuss the long-term prognosis. When the doctor mentioned the likelihood of permanent paralysis, I saw Roxanne’s entire body go rigid. She slowly untangled herself from his grip. She took a step back, her eyes darting toward the door. Suddenly, her phone was in her hand, pressed to her ear before it even rang. “I… I have to take this. It’s work,” she stammered, already backing away. The shift from “devoted lover” to “stranger looking for an exit” was so fast it was dizzying. I caught her in the hallway. “Roxanne,” I said, my voice steady. “The doctor said it’s a possibility, not a certainty. If he has the right care, he could recover.” She looked at me with pure, unadulterated annoyance, her red-painted lips curling. “Care?” she snapped. “Autumn, you’re the wife. If he needs a nurse, that’s your job. Why are you telling me?” 2 I couldn’t help the dry, bitter laugh that escaped me. Now she remembered I was his wife. Where was that realization when she was flirting with him in our own bedroom? Where was it during his birthday gala, when she lured him away from a hundred guests, leaving me to host his family alone? Where was it when she whispered in his ear that he should leave me, that he deserved a “real” life? Even the accident—the very reason he was lying in that bed—happened because he was racing through a storm to get to her. She had taken every ounce of the “good” Sean Miller, and now that he was broken, she was ready to wash her hands of him. Roxanne pulled out a Chanel lipstick, fixing her pout in the reflection of the glass door. “Don’t try to guilt-trip me,” she said, blotting her lips. “This was a mutual thing. I didn’t force Sean to come see me. Besides, I’m not coming back to this depressing place. It’s a waste of my time.” She turned on her heel and strode toward the elevators, her heels clicking a sharp, rhythmic goodbye. The hospital walls were thin. Inside the room, Sean was silent, but I knew he’d heard. I walked back in and saw him staring at the ceiling, his jaw clenched so tight I thought his teeth might crack. A single tear tracked down his temple. I felt a strange, hollow mixture of satisfaction and grief. Does it burn, Sean? I wondered. Does it burn to be discarded by the only person you ever valued? 3 The days that followed were a slow descent into a living hell. Sean became a ghost inhabiting a corpse. He refused to eat, staring blankly at the wall as his body survived on IV drips and spite. I opened a thermos of homemade chicken broth—the kind my grandmother used to make—and held a spoonful near his lips. “Please, Sean,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Just a little. You need your strength.” He didn’t move. His face was a mask of frozen granite. My arm began to ache from holding the spoon, but I didn’t pull back. “Just one sip…” His eyes snapped to mine. They were dark, bottomless pits of rage. SMASH. He swiped the bowl out of my hand. The porcelain shattered on the floor, and the scalding liquid splashed across my hand and arm. I gasped, the sting immediate and sharp. Tears welled in my eyes, blurring my vision. Sean didn’t apologize. He just looked at me with utter loathing. “What are you doing, Autumn? Playing the martyr? Waiting for me to thank you?” He closed his eyes, shutting me out entirely. I bit my lip to keep from crying out. The burn on my hand was turning a vivid, angry red. I spent the next ten minutes on my hands and knees, cleaning up the mess, before retreating to the bathroom. I ran cold water over my skin, watching the steam rise. In the mirror, the woman looking back at me was unrecognizable. Pale, hollowed-out, her spirit frayed to a single thread. Sean had hated me from our wedding night. He’d moved into the guest suite before the cake was even cold. He’d spent three years staying late at the office, drinking himself into a stupor, or simply ignoring my existence whenever we were in the same room. Being trapped here with him, in this small, sterile box, was the most intimacy we’d ever had. And it was killing me. I took a deep breath, patted my hair into place, and walked back out. “Roxie must have a reason,” I heard a voice say from inside the room. “She was probably just overwhelmed… she’ll be back.” I froze at the door. 4 Blake Harrington, Sean’s best friend, was sitting in the visitor’s chair, his expression full of the same condescending pity Sean always showed me. Sean never introduced me to his inner circle. To them, I was just the “placeholder” his mother had picked. Roxanne, however, was their queen. “Blake, man…” Sean’s voice was shaky, devoid of its usual bravado. “Can you call her? Tell her I… I can’t do this without her.” He stopped, his head sagging. “Never mind.” He gripped the blanket over his useless legs, his knuckles white. “Look at me. I’m half a man. I don’t deserve her anyway.” I walked past them, heading for the nurses’ station to get a fresh bandage for my hand. My palms were clenched so tight my nails were drawing blood. He was making excuses for her. Even now, after she’d looked at him like he was a piece of spoiled meat and walked away, he was blaming himself. I remembered a gala we’d attended a year ago. I had been ten minutes late because I was running a fever of 102 and could barely stand. Sean hadn’t asked if I was okay. He’d hissed that I was an embarrassment, driven me to a dark stretch of road near our estate, and told me to walk the rest of the way in the cold. I leaned against the hallway wall, trying to swallow the lump in my throat. As I turned to go back in, I ran into Blake. He stopped, looking me up and down with an arched eyebrow. “Still hanging around, Autumn? Don’t you get tired of being the third wheel in your own marriage?” I didn’t answer. “If it weren’t for you,” Blake continued, his voice dropping to a cruel whisper, “Sean and Roxie would have been married years ago. He wouldn’t have been speeding to find her that night. He wouldn’t be in that bed.” He stubbed out his cigarette in a nearby bin and turned away. “You’re a curse, you know that?” The words hit me like a physical blow. I stood there, trembling, holding my burned hand. In their world, I was the villain. I was the one who had “stolen” a life that didn’t belong to me. 5 Sean began to drink. He used his status as a Miller to bully the orderlies into smuggling in bourbon. The room soon smelled like a dive bar—stale booze and despair. The doctors were furious, but Sean didn’t care. “Mrs. Miller,” the head surgeon said, pulling me into the hallway. “You need to take some responsibility. He’s a patient. He cannot be self-medicating like this.” I looked at the bandage on my hand, now stained with a bit of blood from where I’d tripped earlier after Sean pushed me away. The doctors didn’t see the bruises. They only saw a wife who couldn’t “control” her husband. “I’ll try,” I said, my voice hollow. When I walked back into the room, the scene was worse than I imagined. Sean was propped up against the pillows, a half-empty bottle in one hand and a woman I didn’t recognize in the other. She was a gorgeous, leggy redhead with the kind of perfume that gives you a headache. Sean didn’t even look at me. He cupped her jaw and kissed her deeply, a performative, cruel display. I stood there, paralyzed by the sheer indignity of it. Sean pulled back, breathless, and pointed a finger at the floor. “The trash, Autumn. Pick it up.” I lowered my head and began picking up the discarded clothes and empty bottles. The woman giggled, a shrill, sharp sound. “Sean, baby… there’s someone else in the room…” “She doesn’t matter,” Sean said, his voice cold. “Keep going.” The girl began to slip her dress off, straddling him on the hospital bed. “Well, if you can’t move much… I guess I’ll have to do all the work.” She leaned in to kiss his neck, throwing a smirk of pure malice my way. But then, the mood shifted. Sean suddenly shoved her. Hard. She went sprawling onto the floor with a muffled cry. Sean’s face was contorted, the veins in his neck bulging. “What did you say?” he hissed, his eyes glowing with a terrifying light. “Sean, I was just—” “You think I’m helpless?” He grabbed her hair, pulling her face close to his. “You think because I’m in this bed, you can mock me? Get out! Get out before I have my security throw you off the roof!” The girl scrambled up, sobbing, and ran out the door. Sean was gasping for air, a predator trapped in a cage. He looked at me, his eyes landing on the clothes I was holding—the stranger’s dress. He let out a jagged, mocking sound. “Look at you, Autumn. Have you no soul? No pride? You just stand there and take it.” 6 He kicked me out of the room shortly after. I found the girl crying in the hallway, half-dressed. I handed her her clothes. “Just go home,” I said quietly. I was used to this. Over the last three years, Sean had brought home a revolving door of women, treating them like disposable tissues. Only Roxanne was the exception. Only Roxanne was sacred. Later that evening, I returned with a basin of warm water. He smelled of sweat, bourbon, and the cheap perfume of the girl from earlier. He looked like a man rotting from the inside out. “Don’t touch me,” he warned, his voice dangerous. I ignored him, pulling back the covers. “Your mother will be back in the country tomorrow. I need to make sure you’re presentable.” “I said, don’t touch me!” he roared. “You’re not her! You’ll never be her!” The water basin tipped, soaking my shirt. I stood there, dripping, as he continued to scream into the empty air. “Nobody touches me but Roxie! Do you hear me? Nobody!” He was so far gone he was calling her name in his sleep. Even as she was likely in someone else’s bed, he was guarding his body for her like a temple. I felt a vibration in my pocket. A notification from my bank. The final installment of the “stipend” from Sean’s mother had been deposited. Looking at the balance, I felt a sudden, sharp clarity. I was done. I walked over to the bed and threw a stack of photographs onto his lap. “You want Roxanne?” I asked, my voice devoid of emotion. Sean froze, his eyes scanning the photos. His face went through a kaleidoscope of expressions—confusion, denial, and finally, a crushing, soul-shattering realization. The photos were from a wedding chapel in Vegas. Roxanne, looking radiant in white, was kissing a man. Not just any man. Grant Montgomery—Sean’s biggest rival, the man who had been trying to dismantle Miller Holdings for a decade. They’d been married for three days. Sean’s hands began to shake so violently the photos fluttered to the floor. “No… no, she wouldn’t…” “She did, Sean. She waited just long enough to make sure you weren’t going to stand up again, and then she cashed in. While you’ve been pining for her, she’s been giving your business secrets to Montgomery as a wedding present.” I pulled an envelope from my bag and dropped it on his chest. “Our three-year contract is up, Sean. I’m not playing the devoted wife anymore. You want to rot? Rot. But I’m not watching it happen.” I turned and walked out, leaving him in the wreckage of his own illusions.

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As the only Alpha female in the werewolf world, my mate had always looked down on me. He even had the audacity to bring his pregnant mistress into my estate. He barked threats about throwing me out of my own home while letting his mother steal my specially formulated potion, which ended up ruining her face and leaving her completely bald. His sister even had the audacity to tell me to keep a low profile and pack my bags to make room for the mistress. Looking at this ridiculous family, I laughed. They seemed to have forgotten that I didn’t become the Alpha just because of my bloodline. Those who looked down on me and tried to install someone else as Alpha? They are all dead. Since they wanted to act so high and mighty while living off my money, they could go join the corpses! After watching Margaret sneak into my master bedroom on my security camera for the hundredth time, I finally lost my patience. On my phone screen, she was sitting at my vanity, her eyes locked on the unlabeled white ceramic jar on the table. She scooped out a huge dollop of the white cream with her rough fingers, ready to smear it all over her face. I took a deep breath and sent a voice note. “Mom, do not touch that white jar on my vanity. That’s an experimental formula from the Pack’s research department. It’s highly corrosive and will cause severe chemical burns if it touches skin.” Not even thirty seconds later, Emily’s voice note popped up on Snapchat. Her voice was shrill and annoying. “Ellie, who are you trying to scare? It’s just a jar of face cream! What’s wrong with my mom using a little bit of your stuff? Do you really have to make up such disgusting lies just to curse her with disfigurement?” Right after, James jumped into the chat with a text message. [Ellie, you’re going too far. As a female Alpha, you should learn how to keep the Pack in harmony. My mom uses a little bit of your stuff, and you curse her? How do you expect to lead anyone like this?] Looking at the screen, I literally laughed out loud. This downtown Sterling Estate was a Pack asset, but as the Alpha, I had absolute authority over it. James was nothing but a parasite living off me. He only had a place in this city because of my status. The cars he drove, the designer clothes he wore—which of those didn’t come from my pocket and my position as Alpha? My kindness didn’t earn their gratitude. It only made these leeches greedier. Fine. Since I had already warned them, and they chose not to listen, I wasn’t going to waste my breath. I calmly typed out a reply: [I’ve warned you. Enjoy the consequences.] Emily replied instantly: [Ugh, save it! Mom just told me the cream has a nice, light scent and feels cool on her skin. It’s definitely high-end stuff! You’re just jealous because you’re stuck at the office. Just wait till my brother gets back—he’s going to teach you a lesson, you cheap, classless woman! A female Alpha… you really think you’re something special, don’t you?] I locked my phone, took a sip of my iced Americano, and let my eyes grow cold. Teach me a lesson? Let’s see who teaches whom a lesson today.

At six in the evening, I pushed the front door open. Before I could even change my shoes, a blood-curdling shriek echoed from the living room. “Ahhhh! My face! It burns! Help me! Somebody help me!” I changed into my slippers and strolled into the living room. The scene before me was ten times more entertaining than I had imagined. Margaret was rolling on the floor, clawing at her face, screaming at the top of her lungs. Her already thin hair was falling out in massive clumps, scattering across the wool rug like dead grass. Her face was even worse. The areas where she had applied the white cream were now swollen like a purple balloon, her skin glowing with a sickening red rash, and yellow fluid was beginning to ooze out. “Mom! What’s wrong, Mom!” James and Emily rushed out of the kitchen. Seeing Margaret on the floor, they gasped in horror. “Jamie! Mom’s hair is completely gone! Her face is ruined!” Emily screamed, her voice shaking violently. James whipped his head around, his eyes red as he glared at me like a rabid beast. “Ellie! You evil bitch! What kind of poison did you put in that jar?!” He marched up to me, raising his hand to slap me across the face. I stood my ground, not even blinking, and met his gaze with an icy stare. “Touch me, and see what happens.” My voice wasn’t loud, but it carried absolute dominance. “If that hand lands on me, I guarantee your corpse will be hanging from the estate gates by tomorrow morning.” James’s hand froze in mid-air. The muscles in his face twitched. He was clearly intimidated by my Alpha aura. “You dare threaten my brother?!” Emily barked from the side. “You did this on purpose! You left poison on the table to hurt our mom! I’m taking this to the Elders!” I let out a cold laugh, walked over to the sofa, and sat down, crossing my legs. “Take it to the Elders? Go ahead. I’d love to see how they react when they find out who stole and used the Alpha’s personal property after being explicitly warned.” I pulled out my phone and flashed the Snapchat chat history in front of their faces. “The records are right here, clear as day. I told you exactly what that experimental formula would do. You insisted on using it as high-end skincare. Now that her face is melting and she’s bald, you’re blaming me?” Margaret was rolling in pain on the floor, her eyes rolling back as she neared unconsciousness. “Stop talking! Call a Healer!” James panicked, screaming at Emily. The Pack medical van arrived with sirens blaring. When the Healer saw Margaret’s condition, even he couldn’t help but grimace. “The chemical burns are severe. We need to get her to the clinic for emergency treatment immediately!” As the stretcher carried Margaret out, James pointed a trembling finger at my nose, spitting out a final ultimatum. “Ellie, you’re going to pay for this! If anything happens to my mom, I’m done with you! Once I’m back from the clinic, you’re packing your bags and getting the hell out of this house!” The front door slammed shut. I looked around the empty living room, the smirk on my lips deepening. Get the hell out of this house? James, you must be dreaming.

At ten in the evening, the front door opened again. I was sitting on the sofa, using my iPad to reply to Pack emails. James walked in first. There wasn’t a single trace of worry or sadness on his face. Instead, he looked smug. Following behind him, besides Emily, was a young woman in a tight-fitting dress, her baby bump slightly showing. “Lily, careful. Watch your step, babe.” James held her hand gently, his voice so sweet it made me sick. The woman, Lily, leaned into James’s chest, her eyes scanning the living room with a critical look. “Oh, Jamie, is this the twenty-million-dollar villa you talked about? The location is great, but the decor is so cold. It doesn’t feel like a home at all. Tomorrow, let’s throw all this black and gray furniture away and replace it with something warmer, okay?” “Of course, babe. Whatever you want. You’re carrying the heir to the Miller family. Your word is law.” James smiled like a loyal dog. Emily rushed over, eager to please, and took Lily’s designer bag. “Don’t worry, Lily. This awful decor was done by that sterile woman. Once she gets kicked out tonight, this house is all yours!” Lily? I arched an eyebrow, put down my iPad, and watched the drama unfold with amusement. James helped Lily sit down on the other end of the sofa, then turned to face me, his gentle expression instantly turning hostile. “Ellie, how do you still have the face to sit here?” He pulled a medical report from his pocket and slammed it onto the coffee table. “My mom has severe chemical burns on her scalp. Her hair follicles are completely dead. Even her wolf form is bald now! Her face is ruined! You’re going to answer for this today!” I glanced at the report, not even looking up at him. “And? What do you want to do about it?” “I don’t need to play nice with you anymore!” James stood tall, pointing proudly at Lily. “Lily is pregnant with my son. She’s already three months along! You’ve been married to me for three years and couldn’t even give me a child, and now you’ve ruined my mother’s face!” “This estate will be your payment for my mom’s medical bills, and compensation for Lily to raise our baby! Now, pack your things and get out of here with nothing!” Looking at his shameless face, I was amazed by how thick-skinned a person could be. A man who lived off my Alpha status, who used my wealth to find a mistress and get her pregnant, actually had the nerve to bring his mistress into my Pack’s estate and try to give away my property. “Jamie, why is she still here?” Lily covered her nose, looking at me with disgust. “I don’t even want to sit on the couch she used. What if she passes some bad luck to my son?” “Exactly! Get lost! Stop ruining our view!” Emily chimed in, hands on her hips. “A woman playing Alpha… you really thought you were a queen. My brother staying with you was a blessing you didn’t deserve. Don’t be ungrateful!” I glanced quietly at the security camera blinking red near the TV console. “Fine.” I stood up and brushed the creases out of my pants. “Since you guys are such a loving family, I won’t interrupt your sweet reunion.” James blinked, clearly not expecting me to agree so easily without a fight. “Smart move,” he said, barely hiding the greed in his eyes while trying to sound generous. “Take your cheap clothes and get out. Don’t even think about touching anything valuable in this house!” I ignored him, walked into my walk-in closet, grabbed a small suitcase, and packed a few changes of clothes and my important documents. At the foyer, I paused and looked back at the couple cuddling on the sofa. “Jamie, I hope you remember what you said tonight. You guys better enjoy living in this estate.” With that, I pushed the door open and walked out without looking back. As the door clicked shut, I heard Lily’s high-pitched giggling. “Jamie, you’re amazing! You got rid of that old woman in just a few words! This big house is ours now!” “Of course, babe. I run this house!” James bragged loudly. I walked toward the guest house on the other side of the estate, pulled out my phone, and smiled coldly. The real show was about to begin.

I walked straight into the guest house. This guest house was part of my private Alpha quarters. I had converted it into a personal studio and lounge, and James’s family had no idea it existed. I poured myself a glass of red wine, walked to my computer, and pulled up the security feeds for the main mansion. On the screen, the squatters were already celebrating their new life. Lily was bossing Emily around, throwing my belongings out of the house. “That vase is too dark, looks like a funeral urn. Throw it out!” “What is this ugly painting? It’s bad luck. Throw it in the trash!” Emily, acting like a loyal maid, threw my antique porcelain vase—which I had bought at an auction for over a million dollars—straight into the trash. “Lily, how’s this?” Emily smiled eagerly. “Not bad,” Lily said, rubbing her stomach. “Jamie, I want to host a party tomorrow. I want to invite all my friends to show off our new mansion.” “Sure, babe! Whatever you want! I’ll transfer some cash to you tomorrow. Spend as much as you want!” James said, puffing out his chest. Watching him play the rich guy on screen, I sneered and opened my financial management system. Step one: I canceled all automatic payments linked to the estate, including electricity, water, gas, and the massive estate maintenance fees. Step two: I immediately froze the black card with a one-million-dollar limit that I had given James. Back then, despite the Elders’ objections, I had quietly given James a mid-level management position in the Pack. Even that black card was just something I gave him to save his pathetic pride when he hung out with his friends. I didn’t expect him to actually believe my charity was his own success. Using my money to feed his mistress and trying to steal my Pack’s estate? He was delusional. After doing that, I sent a text to the Pack Treasurer. [Tomorrow morning, start a full financial audit on James’s department. Investigate every single cent he handled. Not a single penny should be missed.] The Treasurer replied instantly: [Understood, Alpha Sterling.] I swirled the wine in my glass, watching the cheating couple fall asleep on screen. Enjoy your last night of luxury.

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Isabella was marrying Alpha Henry, and she insisted that I be her maid of honor. But on the day I tried on my dress, my wolf—who had never shown herself before—suddenly sent me a warning through our telepathic bond. “Be careful. Your stepmother and Isabella are trying to steal your destiny!” The next second, I intercepted Linda’s wicked thoughts through our Mind Link: “The waistline of this maid of honor dress is perfect for covering up the curse marks. Once the ritual is done next week, Emma’s destiny will belong to Isabella. Isabella will marry Alpha Henry in glory. As for whether Emma survives the ritual… well, that’s up to her luck.” At that moment, a chill ran down my spine. I was never their beloved younger daughter. I was just a destiny vessel they had raised for twenty-two years, waiting to be sacrificed for Isabella! Since you chose to be ruthless, don’t blame me for tearing this hypocritical family apart! The fitting room had a massive full-length mirror, lit by bright, harsh lights. I stood on the pedestal, wearing a pure white maid of honor gown. My stepmother, Linda, knelt at my feet. With pins held between her lips, her hands deftly tightened the fabric around my waist. She looked up, her eyes filled with warmth and motherly affection. “Our Emma is so beautiful. On your sister’s wedding day, you’ll definitely be the most stunning maid of honor.” She reached up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear, her fingertips warm against my skin. Looking at the reflection in the mirror—a face that shared some resemblance with hers—I was about to offer a happy smile. But then, a cold, sharp voice echoed abruptly in my mind through our Mind Link. *This waistline is perfect. Once the ritual is done next week and the cursed seal is covered with lace, no one will notice a thing under this dress.* *As long as she doesn’t survive the ritual, Isabella can take her destiny. Then, her bond with Alpha Henry will be completely secure.* *Trading one worthless life for our family’s lifelong wealth is an honor for this brat.* My smile instantly froze on my face. I felt the blood drain from my body. My hands and feet went completely numb. I stared blankly at Linda. Her lips hadn’t moved at all. She was still wearing that same sweet, maternal smile. But that voice was unmistakably hers, filled with a chilling, calculated malice. “Mom…” I heard my own voice trembling. Linda immediately stood up, grabbing my hands with deep concern. “What’s wrong? Is the dress too tight? Why are you so pale?” *Did this brat notice something? No, I need to keep a close eye on her these next few days. Nothing can go wrong at the final moment.* I bit the tip of my tongue hard until I tasted copper, using the pain to suppress my terror. “I’m fine. I just didn’t sleep well last night,” I forced a weak smile. Linda let out a sigh of relief and patted the back of my hand. “That’s good. The big day is just around the corner, so you must take care of yourself. Isabella is counting on you to walk her down the aisle.” I lowered my eyes to hide the cold anger in them. Walk her down the aisle? More like delivering my destiny—and my life—on a silver platter. This would be the last day I played the role of their obedient daughter. On the drive home, my father, David, was behind the wheel. Usually a man of few words, he uncharacteristically glanced at me several times through the rearview mirror today. “Emma, I’m taking you to see a witch tomorrow. You’re twenty-two and still haven’t shifted. Maybe she can find out why.” His tone was flat, as if he were talking about a trivial errand. I leaned against the car window, watching the city lights blur past, and said nothing. Linda immediately chimed in. “Yes, if you had even half of Isabella’s talent, I wouldn’t have to worry so much.” *The witch tomorrow is already paid off. Once we bring her there, we can complete the final preparation for the ritual. David even has the wolfsbane ready to suppress her wolf. She won’t be able to resist.* I gripped my seatbelt so hard my knuckles turned white. Twenty-two years. I was finally seeing this so-called family for what they truly were. The living room walls were covered with portraits of Isabella from childhood to present. She wore designer dresses and tiaras, treated like the family’s most precious treasure. Meanwhile, I didn’t have a single solo photo on the wall. Growing up, if Isabella coughed, Linda would cry with worry. If Isabella got sick, David would drive across the city in the middle of the night just to get her favorite strawberries. And me? I was always physically weak, barely showing any werewolf traits. When I ran high fevers, Linda would simply toss two pills onto my nightstand. “Be good, Emma. Mommy has to go take care of Isabella. Take the medicine and sleep it off.” I used to think they favored her because she was more talented. I tried so hard to be perfect. I did all the chores and pushed myself in training, desperately hoping for just one nod of approval. Now, I finally understood. I wasn’t their daughter. I was just a “destiny vessel”—carefully raised and ready to be slaughtered for Isabella. ***

At dinner, the table was filled with a lavish feast. Linda set a steaming bowl of meat soup directly in front of me. “Emma, drink more of this. You need to build up your strength.” She smiled warmly, the wrinkles around her eyes softening. *The heavy sedative is already mixed in. Once she falls asleep, we’ll drag her to the witch tomorrow morning. It saves us the trouble of dealing with a struggle.* Looking at the greasy soup, my stomach churned. “Thanks, Mom.” I picked up my spoon and gently stirred the liquid. Linda sat across from me, her eyes locked onto my every move without blinking. “Drink it while it’s hot. It won’t taste good once it cools down,” she urged. I lifted a spoonful to my lips, pretended to get burned, and coughed violently. “Cough, cough… It’s too hot!” I bent over, spitting the soup into a thick napkin I had prepared in advance, then quickly stuffed it up my sleeve. “How can you be so clumsy?” Linda frowned, a flash of impatience crossing her face. *What a useless brat, choking on a spoonful of soup. Just drink it and go to sleep. Don’t ruin tomorrow’s plans.* I looked up, my eyes red from coughing. “Mom, I really can’t drink any more. I’m going to my room to sleep.” Linda looked at the half-full bowl, her expression darkening. “No! You have to finish it! I spent the whole afternoon brewing this for you!” She abruptly stood up, grabbing the bowl and trying to force it down my throat. I jerked back, causing the soup to splash all over the tablecloth. “Mom! I said I don’t want any more!” I raised my voice. Beside her, David slammed his forks down onto the table. “Is that how you speak to your mother? Drink it when you’re told!” Looking at their mask-slipping faces, the coldness in my heart deepened. I couldn’t have a direct confrontation right now. I inhaled deeply, pretending to submit. I picked up the bowl and drank it down in large gulps. But with every gulp, I held the soup in my mouth, using the napkin to wipe my lips while spitting the liquid into a dry sponge hidden in my sleeve. After the last gulp, I slammed the empty bowl onto the table. “I’m done. Can I go to sleep now?” Linda’s expression finally softened, and she smiled with satisfaction. “Good girl. Go on, get some rest.” *The sedative will kick in within thirty minutes. Tonight is secure.* Once inside my room, I locked the door. I rushed to the bathroom, turned on the faucet, and shoved my fingers down my throat to force myself to throw up. I retched until nothing but stomach acid came out. Weak and exhausted, I leaned against the sink. In the mirror, my face was ghostly pale and my eyes were bloodshot. I looked like a monster. But I didn’t cry. My tears had dried up the moment I realized the truth. I pulled a small glass vial from the bottom of my backpack. I carefully squeezed the remaining soup from the sponge in my sleeve into the vial. This was my evidence. Next, I pulled out an old, deactivated phone, connected it to a power bank, and hid it under my bed inside a pile of junk, turning on the voice recorder. With everything set, I lay on the bed, closed my eyes, and waited. At midnight. Faint footsteps approached my door. With a soft click, the door was unlocked from the outside with a spare key. I slowed my breathing, lying completely still. Linda and David crept to the side of my bed. “Is she completely out?” David whispered. Linda waved her hand in front of my face and shook my shoulder. “She’s dead to the world. That sedative is strong.” She sneered, showing no pity for her daughter, only the triumph of a successful plot. “Hurry up, stop wasting time and get the contract,” David urged. The sound of rustling paper echoed in the quiet room. “Grab her thumb. Press it right here,” Linda directed. I felt a rough hand grab my right thumb, pushing it toward a cold ink pad. *Once she signs this blood contract, she’s ours forever.* Just as my fingertip was about to touch the “Destiny Swap Contract,” I snapped my eyes open. In the darkness, my gaze was piercing. “Dad, Mom, what are you doing?” ***

Linda shrieked in terror, dropping the ink pad. It shattered on the floor, splashing red ink like a pool of fresh blood. David stumbled back, crashing into the wardrobe. “You… how are you awake?!” Linda pointed at me, her voice trembling. I slowly sat up, my cold gaze sweeping over their panicked faces before landing on the paper with the partial thumbprint. “A Destiny Swap Contract?” I read the words aloud, a mocking smile playing on my lips. “You sneaked into my room in the middle of the night just to make me sign this?” Linda recovered quickly. She snatched the paper, trying to hide it behind her back. “Emma, let me explain. You know Isabella’s situation. She needs a stronger destiny to match Alpha Henry. I had no choice. Can’t you just do this for your sister?” She fell to her knees by my bed, tears streaming down her face. “I raised you myself. How could I want to force you? But Isabella… she can’t lose everything!” *Calm her down first. Once she softens, we’ll bind her and take her to the witch tomorrow.* Watching her Oscar-worthy performance, I felt sick to my stomach. “Do this for her? By giving up my own destiny?” I asked coldly. David’s face darkened, and he took a harsh tone. “What do you mean ‘your destiny’? A destiny swap won’t kill you! We’ve raised you for twenty-two years, fed you, and clothed you. Now that the family needs you, what’s wrong with making a small sacrifice?” “A small sacrifice?” I scoffed. “Your idea of a sacrifice is drugging me and trying to force my thumbprint while I’m unconscious?” I threw off the covers, walked to my desk, and picked up the glass vial containing the soup. “This vial contains the soup you fed me tonight. If I take this to the Werewolf Council for testing, guess what will happen? Drugging, coercion, and conspiring with dark witches to swap destinies… how many packs do you think will banish you for these crimes?” Linda and David’s faces drained of color. “You… you dare threaten us?!” David snarled, his finger shaking as he pointed at me. “Try me.” I met his gaze without a hint of fear, refusing to back down. The air in the room froze. Seeing that force wouldn’t work, Linda tried to play the emotional card again. “Emma, don’t be so heartless! We are your parents! If you report us, where will you go? No pack will ever accept an outcast like you!” *This little bitch dares to threaten me! Once this is over, I’ll make her pay!* Staring at her fake, pleading face, the last shred of familial affection in my heart shattered. “Parents? The moment you decided to use me as a destiny vessel for Isabella, we ceased to be family.” I pointed at the door. “Now, get out.” David exploded in rage. He lunged forward, raising his hand to strike me. “You ungrateful brat! I’ll beat some respect into you tonight!” I didn’t flinch. I just stared at him coldly. “Go ahead. Hit me. But I promise you, if you touch me tonight, this recording and this vial of evidence will be on the Elders’ desks by tomorrow morning.” I pointed toward the bed. I knew he wouldn’t dare kill me. He still needed me alive to swap destinies with his golden daughter. David’s hand froze in mid-air, unable to come down. Linda grabbed David’s arm, glaring at me with venomous eyes. “Fine. You think you’re so smart. You think these cheap tricks can threaten us? Let me tell you, Isabella’s marriage is set. Alpha Henry has already agreed to the alliance. If you ruin this, I will make your life a living hell!” “We’ll see about that.” I walked over and flung the door open. “Get out.” Linda and David slunk out of the room like scolded dogs. The moment the door slammed shut, all my strength vanished. I slid down against the door, collapsing onto the floor. I hugged my knees tightly, burying my face in my arms. I didn’t cry. I just felt cold. Bone-chillingly cold. ***

The next morning, I got up and washed my face as usual. Linda and David were sitting on the living room sofa, their faces incredibly grim. Seeing me walk out, Linda sneered. “Pack your things. We’re going to the witch.” I ignored her and walked straight to the foyer to put on my shoes. “I have errands to run.” “What errands?! Your sister’s entire future depends on today!” David leaped to his feet, blocking the door. I looked at him calmly. “I said, I’m going out. If you want a scene that the entire pack will talk about, I don’t mind screaming for help right now.” David grit his teeth, but eventually stepped aside. They didn’t dare risk it. They had too much to hide. Leaving the house, my first stop was to see Susan Wilson, a retired member of the Werewolf Council. Susan was a highly respected and righteous Elder Luna. We had met by chance, and after learning about my situation at home, she had been quietly looking out for me. I handed her the recording, the vial of drugged soup, and the photo of the “Destiny Swap Contract” I had taken on my phone. “Ms. Wilson, I need your help.” I explained everything that had happened from start to finish. Hearing the story, Susan trembled with rage. “This is monstrous! How can parents do this to their own flesh and blood!” She slammed her hand on the table and stood up. “Emma, don’t worry. I’ll take you to the Council right now! This cannot be tolerated!” I caught Susan’s hand and shook my head. “Ms. Wilson, if we go to the Council now, they will just deny everything. Once we go back, they’ll only find more vicious ways to retaliate.” “Then what do you want to do?” Susan frowned. I took a deep breath, determination shining in my eyes. “I want to ruin their reputation completely. I want them to lose everything they care about.” I looked at Susan. “Ms. Wilson, I need you to help me find a certified witch to analyze the chemicals in this soup. Also, I need you to look into Isabella’s birth records. I suspect she isn’t my father’s biological daughter.” Susan stared at me for a moment before nodding firmly. “Alright, I’ll help you. Rest assured, as long as I’m here, no one will hurt you.” Over the next few days, I didn’t go home. I stayed in a safe house Susan arranged for me. Linda and David searched everywhere for me. They even confiscated my old ID and phone that I left at home, but I kept my actual phone with me. By the weekend, Isabella’s fiancé, Henry, came to visit the family. Henry was the Alpha of the Shadowfang Pack, a powerful and arrogant man. Linda and David treated him like royalty, serving him tea and flattery. Isabella wore an elegant, expensive dress, leaning softly against Henry’s chest, letting out sweet, delicate giggles from time to time. “Henry, do you think our wedding will be the grandest of the year?” Isabella asked, her eyes sparkling. Henry wrapped his arm around her, kissing her forehead. “Of course. You’re the most beautiful she-wolf I’ve ever seen. Our wedding will be the talk of the entire territory.” “But… I feel like someone is jealous of me…” Isabella sighed, her eyes drifting toward me standing in the corner. Linda instantly got the hint. She marched over, grabbed my hand, and dragged me forcefully in front of Henry. “Alpha Henry, don’t worry. Everything is going according to plan. Emma is very obedient. She will cooperate fully.” *Once we seal the deal in front of Alpha Henry, this brat won’t dare back out. And if Alpha Henry is pleased, we can demand twenty percent more in the dowry alliance.* I stared coldly at Linda’s pathetic, flattering face, and violently shook off her grip. “When did I ever say I would cooperate?” The living room went dead silent.

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My boyfriend, Tony, dragged me to the campus blood drive run by the Student Volunteer Coalition. I was chronically anemic—nowhere near the safety threshold to donate—but when I tried to pull back, he just scoffed. “Why did you even join the SVC if you don’t have a bone of civic duty in your body, Naomi?” He coaxed and guilted me onto that bloodmobile. But I didn’t know then—not until I was already lying on a sterile hospital bed—that my blood wasn’t destined for some anonymous bank. It was being sent directly to a private lab to be matched with the bone marrow of our campus darling, Susanna Hastings. Tony forged my signature, shoved me into the extraction room, and watched as they took what wasn’t theirs. In the end, I got a severe infection, went into septic shock, and died alone in the ICU. When I open my eyes again, the harsh fluorescent lights of an observation ward blind me. A nurse walks in, clipboard in hand. “Naomi Miller? Get ready. We’re heading up to Hematology for your final matching confirmation.” My boyfriend, Tony Henderson, is sitting by the bedside, his hand reaching out to stroke my hair with that practiced, sickening tenderness. “Don’t worry, babe. It’s just a formality.” I stare up at him, my heart hammering against my ribs, and dial 911. 1 The second the line connects, Tony’s gentle smile freezes. I hold his gaze, my voice steady and clear as I speak to the dispatcher. “Hello. My name is Naomi Miller. I’m a freshman at Coastal State University.” “I have reason to believe that someone used a campus blood drive to illegally harvest my blood sample for a bone marrow match without my consent. Now, they are trying to force me into further testing.” “I am chronically anemic. I do not consent to any matching, harvesting, or donation.” “Please send officers. I’m in the observation wing of the Hematology Department at Valley Memorial Hospital.” Tony snaps out of his trance, lunging forward. “Naomi, have you lost your mind?” He reaches out, clawing at my phone. I don’t shrink back. I scream at the top of my lungs: “Nurse! He’s trying to take my phone! Someone call security!” The entire hallway goes dead silent. Two nurses poke their heads into the room, and a patient’s relative in the next bay stands up to get a better look. Tony’s hand freezes mid-air, his face twisting through a dozen ugly shades of panic before he quickly plasters on his signature look of gentle, long-suffering patience. “She’s just stressed,” he says, looking at the onlookers with a helpless shrug. “It’s a misunderstanding. We’re classmates—well, we’re dating. I just brought her in for a routine volunteer checkup.” I let out a cold laugh. “A volunteer checkup that requires HLA high-resolution typing?” The nurse blinks, looking confused. Tony’s eyes darken. “Naomi, stop throwing around medical jargon you don’t understand.” I reach under my pillow and pull out the clipboard clipped to the foot of my bed. In my past life, I hadn’t even glanced at it before he stuffed it into my bag. This time, I unfold it, holding it up for everyone to see. Under the “Requested Procedures” column, the words scream in black ink: “HLA Recipient Cross-match, Donor Confirmation, Complete Blood Count.” I point my finger directly at the word “Recipient”. “Who is the recipient, Tony?” Tony squeezes his eyes shut, exhaling slowly as if trying to tolerate an unreasonable child. “Susanna’s condition is critical, Naomi. You’re just doing a confirmation. Nobody is making you donate right this second. Is saving a life really worth calling the cops?” “When did I consent to being screened in the first place?” I ask him. He doesn’t answer. “When did I sign the informed consent form for bone marrow donation?” Still silence. “And why does the system show my anemia profile as perfectly normal?” Tony’s expression turns utterly venomous. Sensing the shift in the room, the nurse immediately turns on her heel to fetch the charge nurse. I clutch my phone, my voice unwavering. “I want my medical records, blood draw logs, security footage, and signature files flagged and sealed immediately,” I announce to the room. “No one is taking me anywhere without my explicit, in-person consent.” Tony steps closer, dropping his voice to a menacing whisper. “Naomi, don’t blow this out of proportion. Susanna Hastings is lying in a ward upstairs, fighting for her life.” I look up at him. “And?” “Because she wants to live, I’m obligated to hand over my blood, my marrow, my actual life?” His brow furrows in genuine frustration. “How can you be so dramatic? No one is trying to kill you.” In my last life, I believed him. And it cost me my life. I don’t have the energy to appeal to his conscience anymore. Conscience is a luxury Tony traded away a long time ago to pave his career path. Ten minutes later, hospital security arrives. Twenty minutes after that, Officer Darren from the local precinct walks in with his partner. Tony is finally sweating. But his first instinct isn’t to explain—it’s to blame me. “Officer, she’s emotionally unstable,” Tony says, turning to Officer Darren. “We were just registering for a charity match. She suddenly panicked and started making wild accusations against the hospital.” Officer Darren looks at me. “Are you the caller?” I nod, unlocking my phone and pulling up the voice recorder app. I play it. From the moment the nurse walked in saying “final matching confirmation” to Tony whispering “Susanna is fighting for her life,” every single syllable is laid bare. Tony’s lips drain of color. I bring up my medical history, my freshman physical, and the photo I took of the bloodmobile schedule. “I don’t meet the medical criteria for blood donation. But during the drive, the Student Volunteer Coalition still drew an extra vial of my blood, claiming it was for a ‘volunteer health database.’ I never signed a registry. I have no idea how my sample ended up in a matching lab.” Officer Darren’s face hardens. He asks the staff to call the department head. Tony tries to speak, but I cut him off. “Officer, I want a forensic handwriting analysis on any consent form they claim to have. If my signature is on there, it’s forged.” Before the words can settle, a weak, trembling voice drifts in from the open doorway. “Naomi… why are you doing this to Tony?” I turn my head. Susanna Hastings is sitting in a wheelchair, draped in an oversized hospital gown. Her face is so pale it’s almost translucent, her eyes brimming with tears. “I just want to live.” 2 The moment Susanna appears, the atmosphere in the hallway shifts. She’s the golden girl of Coastal State—the face of our university’s promotional videos, the straight-A student, the star of every gala. Since her diagnosis, the university’s social media pages have posted endless pleas for her: “Save Our Golden Girl.” Thousands of dollars have poured into her GoFundMe. Even I had donated fifty dollars in my past life, genuinely wishing for her recovery. That was before she used my body to buy herself a second chance. Susanna grips the armrests of her wheelchair, tears spilling over her lashes. “Naomi, I know you’re scared. But it’s just a test. No one is forcing you to donate right now.” Tony immediately drops to his knees beside her, adjusting the blanket over her legs. It’s a scene I know all too well: the frail beauty, the devoted boyfriend, and me—the cold-hearted, selfish villain refusing to help. That was exactly how they painted me in my past life, turning the world against me. I don’t even look at Susanna. I keep my eyes on Officer Darren. “I refuse to discuss my medical information in front of people who have nothing to do with my care.” Susanna’s sobbing hitches. Tony looks up, his eyes flashing with rage. “She isn’t an unrelated party! She’s the recipient!” I let out a soft laugh. “So you admit it?” His face pales. Officer Darren immediately steps in. “You already knew the donor-recipient match? Who disclosed that information? Did the donor sign an authorization for this match?” Tony opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. Susanna lowers her head, her voice barely a whisper. “I don’t know the procedures… I just heard from the doctor that there was hope.” Just then, a middle-aged man in a white lab coat rushes down the hall. His badge reads: “Dr. Barlow, Chief of Hematology.” In my last life, he was the one who altered my hemoglobin levels in the system. He was the one who breezed into my room before the harvest and said, “You’re young and healthy, kid. A little bone marrow draw won’t hurt. You’ll bounce right back.” Dr. Barlow frowns the second he steps inside. “Why are the police here? This is a routine medical consultation.” I look him dead in the eye. “Dr. Barlow, when did I authorize your department to run an HLA test on my blood?” He doesn’t look at me, keeping his tone icy and professional. “You registered with the SVC donor database. Screening is part of the standard protocol.” “Show me the registration,” I say, holding out my hand. “Show me my signature.” He hesitates for a fraction of a second. “The documents are filed in our system.” “Then pull them up. Right now.” The hospital’s chief administrator arrives shortly after. Officer Darren requests that all related physical charts, system logs, and signed authorizations be impounded. Dr. Barlow’s expression sours. “Officer, these are private medical files. We can’t just hand them over.” “The patient is the one requesting her own records,” Officer Darren replies calmly. “She has every legal right to verify her own signature.” While we wait for the physical archives to be pulled, a nurse begins to wheel Susanna back to her room. Suddenly, Susanna reaches out and snatches the hem of my shirt. “Naomi, please… I’m running out of time,” she whimpers, her hand trembling. “I don’t want to hurt you. I just need a little bit of hope.” I look down at her pale fingers. She had held me just like this in my previous life. Right before I was wheeled into the harvest room, she lay on her gurney, crying, “I’ll never forget what you did for me.” And then I died. And she lived. I gently but firmly pry her fingers off my shirt. “Your hope cannot be bought with my life.” Her tears flow faster. Within minutes, my phone starts vibrating violently. The SVC group chat is blowing up. “Did Naomi Miller seriously call the cops after matching with Susanna?” “Susanna is literally dying. Calling the police is so toxic.” “She was happy to log volunteer hours for her resume, but the second she actually has to give back, she plays dead?” “Anemia is literally so common. Stop using it as an excuse.” Then, someone posts a cropped screenshot of my university freshman physical. My name is fully visible. My low hemoglobin level is circled in red, captioned: “She’s not even that sick. Drama queen.” I stare at the screen, my fingertips turning numb. The cyberbullying in my past life had been brutal, but seeing it play out again makes my stomach turn. They called me selfish. They said I was a parasite. They said Tony deserved so much better. And when I died, they simply said, “Well, her health was poor anyway. You can’t blame anyone.” This time, I don’t type a single word of explanation. I screen-record the chat. I take screenshots. I save the names, the timestamps, the member list, and the forward history. Then I call Dean Collins, the faculty advisor for the Student Volunteer Coalition. “Dean Collins, my private medical records have just been leaked online by members of the coalition. Furthermore, I have reason to believe the campus blood drive was used to illegally harvest student blood samples.” There is a long pause on the other end. “Naomi, where are you right now?” “Valley Memorial Hospital.” “Stay put. I’m on my way.” As soon as I hang up, Tony steps into the doorway. The tender boyfriend act is entirely gone. “Naomi, do you really have to drag everyone down with you?” I look at him. “You’re the ones who dragged me onto a harvest table first.” His eyes turn cold and menacing. “If Susanna misses her transplant window because of you, you’ll regret this for the rest of your life.” I hold his gaze. “I’ve already regretted it for a lifetime.” He doesn’t understand what I mean. But I do. And the real battle hasn’t even begun. 3 By afternoon, the university forum is in a complete frenzy. The headlines are vile: “Donor Backs Out Last Minute, Calls Cops: Susanna Hastings Left to Die?” “Freshman Uses Volunteer Hours for Resume, Cowards Out When Actually Needed.” “It’s Just a Bone Marrow Donation. Does It Ever Actually Kill Anyone?” The comment section is a toxic wasteland. “Her boyfriend literally begged her. She’s so cold-blooded.” “Susanna is the pride of our school. If she dies, how will this girl sleep at night?” “I’m anemic and I donate blood all the time. Stop whining.” “Can we expose her face? People like this shouldn’t be allowed in our community.” My roommate, Becca, sends me a text. She’s usually timid, always trying to keep the peace. “Naomi, maybe you should just talk to Tony? Donating bone marrow is a good thing. Involving the police is going to ruin your reputation.” I stare at her message for a long time before replying: “If someone stole your blood, tested it without your knowledge, and then forged your signature to force you into surgery, would you still think it’s a “good thing”?” Becca doesn’t reply for several minutes. Finally, she writes back: “But Susanna is just so sweet. It’s so sad.” I close the chat. People always confuse sympathy with entitlement. Being pitiful isn’t a free pass, and it certainly doesn’t give anyone the right to harvest my organs. By evening, Dean Collins arrives at the hospital. Her face grows grimmer with every document I show her. “The university never approved any bone marrow screening programs for the blood drive,” she says. “Then who had access to the student roster and our ID copies?” I ask. Dean Collins hesitates. “The club president. Tony Henderson.” She immediately contacts the university’s legal counsel. Meanwhile, Officer Darren and his team secure the registration logs from the bloodmobile, the blood sample transit logs, and the hospital’s internal database history. Dr. Barlow keeps insisting it’s all a misunderstanding. “The student probably signed a stack of volunteer paperwork and forgot. Screening is a routine part of these drives. We haven’t performed any invasive procedures.” I listen to his excuses, feeling completely numb. This was exactly what they did last time. Step by step, they claimed it was “just a formality” until I was trapped in the ICU, and even then, they blamed my “unfortunate, weak constitution.” At nine o’clock, the head nurse comes by to check on me. “No one is authorized to transfer you or perform any tests without your physical, written consent. Don’t worry.” I nod. But I don’t feel safe. In my past life, they took me in the middle of the night. Not through the front lobby, but through the back exit. The transport vehicle didn’t even belong to the hospital; it was a private van belonging to some sketchy “wellness center.” Tony had told me then, “Valley Memorial is too crowded. We’re going to a partner clinic for a quick checkup. We’ll be right back.” I had been so blind, so trusting. By the time I realized something was wrong, they had confiscated my phone. Thinking of this, I open my location sharing and send it to Officer Darren and Dean Collins. Then I walk to the nurse’s station. “If anyone tries to transfer me, order a test, or check me out, please verify it with me directly. It only counts if I say yes on camera.” The head nurse looks at me with a soft, sympathetic gaze. “Understood, sweetie.” By ten-thirty, the ward grows quiet. Tony has been missing all afternoon, but I know he won’t let this go. Sure enough, at 11:07 PM, my door creaks open. A man wearing a blue transport uniform walks in. His badge reads “Blood Center Logistics Agent”. He holds a clipboard. “Naomi Miller? We have a transfer order for your follow-up screening.” I stare at his face, and the blood in my veins turns to ice. It’s him. The exact same transport driver from my past life. The one who had sneered at my tears and told me, “You’re a lucky girl. You get to save a life and get paid for it.” I lower my eyes, pretending to be frightened. “Now? Where’s my boyfriend?” The driver says, “He’s waiting for you downstairs.” Just as he says it, Tony steps into the room from behind him. He’s wearing a crumpled white shirt, looking exhausted, like a good guy who’s been driven to his wit’s end by a difficult girlfriend. “Naomi, please stop making a scene,” Tony says softly. “Let’s just finish the confirmation test, and this will all be over.” I shrink back into the mattress. “I’m not going.” He steps closer, lowering his voice. “The Hastings family is going to compensate you. Fifty thousand dollars, plus an internship at their firm. You’ve been stressed about paying tuition, Naomi. This solves everything.” I look at him, my heart turning to stone. So that was my price. “And if I still say no?” Tony’s expression hardens, the gentle facade completely slipping. “You already signed the consent form.” He pulls a few sheets of paper from a folder. “Naomi, don’t make me make this ugly.” I look at the signature at the bottom of the page. The messy, curved letters look remarkably like my handwriting. But they aren’t mine. “Let me see that,” I say, reaching out. Thinking I’ve finally capitulated, Tony hands the papers over. The moment they touch my fingers, I slam my hand down on the emergency call button. Footsteps immediately start echoing down the hall. The transport driver’s face pales, and he spins around to bolt. Tony lunges forward, grabbing my wrist in a vice grip. “Naomi!” But before he can pull me, the door is flung wide open. “Let go of her!” a cold voice barks.

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dating eight girls at the same time. Someone on the Hudson University forum had posted a thread complete with over a dozen photos as evidence. Monday: a woman in a sharp black blazer delivering pastries to me at Dining Hall Three. Tuesday: a woman in gold-rimmed glasses sitting next to me in my elective class. Wednesday: a woman driving a cherry-red sports car picking me up at the campus gates. … 1 The thread title read: [Oliver Garrison’s Eight-Timing Timeline: Sweet-faced College Boy or Master Player?] Overnight, it hit over ten thousand views. “Average looks, but quite the player.” “Eight of them on rotation? How does he manage the schedule?” Wesley was the resident golden boy of the Liberal Arts department—short hair, crisp white shirts, the kind of guy who looked like he stepped out of a classic Ralph Lauren ad. The next day, he stood in front of my oldest sister, blushing. “Is anyone sitting here?” The forum was updated instantly: Girl #1 seemingly charmed by our campus golden boy. The “Girl #1” they were gossiping about was actually the youngest regional president of Garrison Properties—my oldest sister, Diana. The rest of them? Also my sisters. But our mother had set a strict family rule, and my lips were sealed. If they knew those eight “conquests” all shared the same last name, I wondered if they’d still be so smug. The day after the post blew up, Diana showed up on campus. The Garrison intelligence network was infinitely more reliable than the Hudson University Wi-Fi. At seven-thirty in the morning, while I was still playing dead under my dorm blankets, her call came through. “Oliver.” The moment she used my first name instead of a nickname, I knew I was in trouble. I pulled the duvet over my head and whispered, “I’m fine, Diana.” Diana paused on the other end for two seconds. “I saw the forum screenshots.” I sat up instantly, sleep completely vanishing. “Algorithms don’t just target college students.” Wonderful. Death by algorithm. I lowered my voice. “Leave it alone. I can handle it.” “By staying silent? That’s your handling?” “We have the family rules.” “The rule is to stop you from using the Garrison name to bully others. It’s not meant to turn you into a sitting duck.” I fell silent. She added, “Dining Hall Three. Lunch.” I bolted upright. “What are you going to do?” “Eat lunch.” “Diana, please don’t come.” “Already on my way.” The line went dead. I stared at the dark screen. Just one word echoed in my mind: Screwed. My name is Oliver Garrison, a junior majoring in English at Hudson University. To my classmates, I was just an ordinary local kid. Canvas sneakers, a battered canvas tote bag, the kind of guy who would be thrilled for hours if the cafeteria server scooped an extra spoonful of potatoes onto his plate. Nobody knew what my family actually did. And none of my classmates knew that Diana wasn’t some “sugar mommy,” but my biological older sister. To prevent us from getting spoiled and entitled, my mother, Margaret Garrison, had personally laid down the law three years ago when I started college. 1. No actively revealing your family background. 2. No using family connections for personal affairs. 3. If caught violating a rule once, cards are frozen for a month. 4. For severe offenses, cars, vacations, and travel plans are confiscated. Back then, I had asked, “What if someone bullies me?” My mother had sipped her tea slowly. “Learn to stand on your own two feet first.” I thought she was cold-blooded. But I was also terrified of having my cards frozen. So, for three years, I kept such a low profile I was practically invisible. Diana arrived right on time at noon, when Dining Hall Three was at its busiest. She wore a sharp black blazer, her coat draped over her arm, with no assistants in tow. But it didn’t matter. Some people simply don’t look like they’ve come to fight for the last portion of sweet and sour pork. The moment she stood there, the ambient noise in the cafeteria dropped a notch. Sitting in the corner, I wished I could bury my face in my rice. Diana set two boxes of pastries in front of me. “Sweet yam cakes. Mom made them.” I gritted my teeth, whispering, “You knew they were taking photos of you on the forum, and you still came to deliver this?” She sat down, her expression cool and unbothered. “Let them take photos.” “Did you do this on purpose?” “I came to see exactly who has the audacity to paint my little brother as some cheap player.” My chopsticks froze. The quiet frustration that had been building up inside me suddenly popped like a bubble, leaving a sharp, aching sting. But before I could speak, a soft voice drifted down beside us. “Excuse me, is anyone sitting here?” Wesley was standing by the table, holding a tray. White shirt, dark hair, eyes bright and clear. He was looking at Diana, his cheeks slightly flushed. He didn’t look at me at all. People at the surrounding tables were already raising their phones. I realized his game instantly. He wanted to prove that even “Girl #1” on the forum would fall for his charm. Diana didn’t even look up. “Yes.” Wesley stiffened slightly, finally turning his gaze to me. He offered a sweet, gentle smile. “Oliver, do you mind if I sit next to you?” Before I could speak, Diana set the container of yam cakes on the empty seat. “This spot is taken, too.” The cafeteria went quiet for a few seconds. The smile on Wesley’s face froze. He bit his lower lip, his eyes instantly welling with tears. “My apologies. Sorry to bother you.” He turned and walked away slowly, his retreating figure looking so pitiful, as if he had been abandoned by the entire world. With acting skills like that, it’s a crime he isn’t in the drama club. Sure enough, the forum updated that night: Girl #1 coldly rejects Wesley; Oliver seemingly marks his territory on the spot. After the lights went out, I stared at those words on my phone. Diana knew. The rest of the family would know eventually. But before I decided to tear down this wall of anonymity, I wanted to endure it just one more time. I wanted to see exactly how far Wesley was willing to go. 2 On Tuesday afternoon, my second oldest sister, Isabel, sent me a message ahead of time. “I’m giving a guest lecture at Hudson. Stopping by to sit in on your class.” I replied instantly: “It’s not on your way. Mentally, it’s not on your way.” “Denied.” The word “gentle” had absolutely nothing to do with Isabel. She wore gold-rimmed glasses, spoke with a measured pace, and possessed the emotional stability of a high-precision Swiss watch. Growing up, whenever she tutored me, her favorite line was: “The errors in your logic have fascinating layers.” It almost drove me to run away from home. At two in the afternoon, Isabel stood right outside the lecture hall. White shirt, gray trousers, holding a thick, original academic text. On the forum, they called her “Girl #2.” Some commented that she looked like a dangerous, ice-cold academic who would lock you in the library until you memorized the entire dictionary. Just looking at her made my scalp tingle. “You saw the forum too?” She pushed up her glasses and gave me a flat look. “So, do you plan to keep playing the martyr and let them keep dragging you?” I muttered a correction. “Not everyone is dragging me.” “No, just a loud vocal group of idiots.” “Isabel, remember your professional ethics as an academic.” “Right now, I am not a teacher. I am your sister.” I couldn’t out-argue her, so I had no choice but to lead her into the classroom. The moment she stepped through the door, the atmosphere shifted. The noisy back rows fell completely silent. Wesley was sitting in the third row, chatting with a few guys. When he saw Isabel, his eyes lit up. I took a seat by the window. During the lecture, the professor asked a question about the narrative structure of Wuthering Heights. The entire class ducked their heads, pretending to be statues. I did the same. Isabel tapped my notebook with her pen. In the next second, she raised my hand for me. I wanted to throw her out the window right then and there. The professor beamed at me. “Oliver, let’s hear your thoughts.” I had no choice but to stand up and speak for five minutes. The classroom was dead quiet. When I finished, the professor nodded in approval. “Excellent. Write those points down and email them to me as a short essay after class.” I sat back down, gritting my teeth. “Isabel.” She casually turned a page. “Your articulation hasn’t deteriorated.” “Your conscience, however, has.” She ignored me. After class, Wesley walked over, clutching his books. His voice was soft and tentative. “Oliver, is this your friend?” He obviously knew what the forum was saying, yet he insisted on asking in front of everyone. “No.” Wesley blinked. “Oh, is she pursuing you? She seemed very eager to help you just now.” Heads turned instantly. Isabel closed her book and looked up. “I am his—” I grabbed her wrist, stopping her. She paused, her eyes cool behind her lenses. Seeing my reaction, a flash of smugness crossed Wesley’s eyes. He said gently, “Oliver, I don’t mean to pry into your personal life. It’s just that the rumors on the forum are getting quite nasty. You should really be more careful. A guy’s reputation is incredibly important.” I stared at him. “Wesley, if you care so much about reputations, you seem to have a very precise finger when it comes to liking those rumor posts.” His face went pale. A guy next to him immediately chimed in. “Oliver, how can you talk to Wesley like that? He’s just trying to look out for you.” “You’re the one behaving sleazily, and you’re mad that people are calling you out?” “You’re juggling eight girls like a damn shipping company. Stop acting innocent.” Isabel’s face darkened. I held her back with all my might, terrified that a single “I’m his sister” would blow my cover and freeze my bank accounts. I grabbed my bag and walked out. Behind me, Wesley whispered, “Forget it, guys. Don’t say any more. He’s probably just sensitive.” That night, a new thread popped up: Girl #2 accompanies Oliver to class, acting as his shield. Wesley’s well-meaning advice met with hostility. Someone photoshopped my face onto an octopus, with eight tentacles holding the silhouettes of eight different women. The comment section was toxic enough to make me physically sick. It’s fine. Every single word will become evidence. 3 On Wednesday evening, my cousin Beatrice parked her cherry-red sports car right in front of the campus gates, blocking the path. “Oliver, you have three minutes. If you don’t get out here, I’m driving straight to the English department and blasting celebratory pop music.” Students were streaming in and out of the gates. The red car sat there, loud and burning like a flame. Beatrice leaned against the door, her sunglasses hooked in her collar, holding a cup of boba tea. On the forum, they called her “Girl #3.” The comments suggested she looked like she chewed up and spat out young college boys for breakfast. She swung the passenger door open. “Get in. Your mom wants me to drive you home to grab some things.” “Mom knows about the forum?” “Oh, she knows. She even asked me why I was only ranked third on your list of ‘conquests’.” I nearly squeezed my boba cup to bursting. “Can you guys please stop treating this like a joke?” Beatrice climbed back in, wearing a smug, irritating grin. I ignored her. By the time I returned to campus, things had escalated. I went to my evening class, left my backpack on my seat, and went to the restroom to wash my hands. When I returned, my backpack strap was severed. The cut was clean, clearly done with a utility knife. My textbooks were scattered all over the floor. Scribbled across the cover of my main text in thick red marker were the words: PLAYER, GET OUT. Snickers echoed through the classroom. A few guys kept their heads down, staring at their phones, but the smirks on their faces were unmistakable. Wesley sat in the front row. Turning around to see the books on the floor, his face immediately crumpled into a look of shock and deep concern. He hurried over and bent down to help me gather them. “Oliver, are you okay? Who would do something like this?” I placed my hand firmly over the book, staring up at him. “Don’t touch it.” Wesley’s hand froze in midair. His eyes filled with tears instantly. “I was only trying to help.” I let out a cold laugh. “Every time someone does something to me, you just happen to be standing right there. Every time someone drags me, you’re the one playing the victim. Don’t you get tired of the act?” Wesley’s tears spilled over. “I don’t understand why you hate me so much. Yes, I liked the post, but I never told anyone to bully you! You can’t just blame me for everything just because people happen to side with me.” The people around him immediately leaped to his defense. “Don’t cry, Wesley.” “Oliver, that’s enough out of you.” “Just because he doesn’t have your mysterious sugar mommies backing him up doesn’t mean you get to drag him through the mud.” Hearing the phrase “doesn’t have backing,” I suddenly wanted to laugh. They truly had no idea. Not a single person in this room knew who I actually was. To them, I was just some low-life juggling eight women, unable to explain my relationships. They believed they were on the side of justice, which made them feel entirely righteous in hurling the most venomous insults. That night, I returned to my dorm to find my bed soaked. Sweet boba milk tea had been poured all over my comforter, pillow, and sheets. The cloying, sugary scent was nauseating. I gathered up my sheets and carried them to the washroom. Under the cold tap, the milk tea ran into the drain in a sticky, murky stream. I knelt by the sink, scrubbing the fabric over and over again. Not yet. It’s not time. I would wait until they played every single card they had. Keeping a cool head and letting the line run long before reeling in the catch was a trait encoded into the Garrison DNA. 4 On Thursday morning, I was targeted in the library. A full cup of iced Americano was dumped over my head from the upper balcony. The cold liquid hit the crown of my head, dripping down my hair, neck, and soaking my white shirt. I froze from the sheer chill of it. “Wake-up call for the player.” “Time to sober up, lover boy.” I didn’t say a word. I simply turned and walked to the restroom. The reflection staring back at me was pathetic. My shirt was stained a dark, messy brown, my hair was plastered to my forehead, and my eyes were rimmed with a redness I couldn’t hide. My phone buzzed. It was my third oldest sister, Valerie. She was a lead detective with the city’s police department. Growing up, I feared her the most. One look from Valerie felt like a full-blown interrogation, capable of making you confess to stealing cookies from the jar years ago. I picked up. “Valerie.” Her voice was low and commanding. “Have you been crying? Don’t lie to me.” I bit my lip. “Just spilled some coffee.” She paused. “You need to understand something, Oliver. Endurance doesn’t mean lying down and letting people walk all over you.” The tears I had been holding back nearly spilled over. That afternoon, my academic advisor, Mr. Henderson, called me into his office. “Oliver, this situation has blown up completely. Do you have any idea how badly this reflects on our department?” “If you hadn’t kept these inappropriate involvements with external women so public, none of this gossip would have started.” I let out a dry laugh. “So, being secretly photographed, photoshopped, and publicly harassed is my fault?” His tone turned icy. “Tomorrow afternoon, Wesley is going to make a public statement in front of the library. I expect you to be there to clarify everything.” “Clarify what?” “Acknowledge your lack of appropriate boundaries with these women, and apologize to Wesley for dragging him into this mess.” I thought I had misheard him. “I need to apologize to him?” “He is under immense academic and social stress because of this. He came to my office yesterday in tears. Liking a post is not the same as fabricating a rumor. Meanwhile, your refusal to offer any explanation has only allowed these rumors to fester.” A fire flared in my chest. “Mr. Henderson, have you even dared to investigate who actually made that post?” “The university will conduct its own inquiry, but right now, you need to cooperate to quiet the public outcry.” “And your way of quieting it is making me bow my head?” Mr. Henderson slammed his pen onto the desk. “Oliver, don’t think that just because you associate with some wealthy women outside of school, you’re above our regulations. If you continue with this attitude, the department will seriously consider disciplinary action.” “Fine. Tomorrow afternoon at three, in front of the library. I’ll be there.” The moment I stepped out of his office, an announcement thread had already been posted on the forum. The comments were practically throwing a party. “Can’t wait to watch the player’s downfall.” “Will his eight sugar mommies show up to rescue him?” “Wesley is finally standing up for himself.” Standing at the end of the corridor, I pulled out my phone and texted Diana: “Tomorrow at three. Hudson Library.” Diana replied within seconds: “Are you ready?” I stared out the window. The sky was heavy and dark, holding back a storm. I typed back: “Tell everyone to come.” The family group chat exploded. Isabel: “Rescheduling my lectures.” Valerie: “The chain of evidence is complete and secured.” Beatrice: “The red ride is washed and ready.” Caroline: “Bringing my medical kit.” Rebecca: “Wrapping up my project review early.” Natalie: “Should I wear my team jacket to show some muscle?” Charlotte: “I’ll be there at three sharp.” Finally, our mother, Margaret, sent a single text: “The family rules are meant to keep you from bullying others, not to make you a victim of bullies.” Staring at the screen, a lump formed in my throat. I was done holding back. Let my eight sisters line up at the campus gates. We were going to shatter this lie once and for all. 5 The next afternoon, the plaza in front of the library was packed. The tree-lined boulevard of Hudson University was choked with students. People were standing on the steps, the edges of the planters, and beneath the streetlamps, all holding up their phones, waiting for the show. Wesley stood right in the center of the crowd. Crisp white shirt, perfectly styled hair, eyes red-rimmed. He had chosen his spot brilliantly. Behind him rose the white marble pillars of the library, with dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves. He stood there like the tragic, noble protagonist of an indie film, misunderstood but brave. Mr. Henderson stood beside him, looking solemn and severe. When I arrived, the crowd parted automatically. Whispers broke out. “He actually showed up.” “Where are his eight girls? None of them came today?” “It’s a trainwreck. Who would want to be seen with him now?” I walked to the base of the steps and stopped. Looking down at me, Wesley’s eyes pooled with tears. “Oliver, I truly never wanted things to go this far.” His voice was soft, but pitched perfectly to carry through the quiet plaza. “I admit I liked those posts. But I was just shocked. I never had any malicious intent.” “You’ve always believed I had it out for you, but I’m only standing here today because I want you to be honest. Who are those women to you, really?” The crowd instantly erupted. “Explain yourself!” “Are those eight actually your girlfriends?” “Don’t play dumb!” Mr. Henderson lowered his voice, warning me, “Oliver, mind your attitude. Speak clearly and honestly, and the department might still show some leniency.” I gave him a long look. “Mr. Henderson, I hope you maintain that same firm resolve in a few minutes.” He frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?” I didn’t answer. Because from the direction of the main gates, the first powerful growl of an engine had just echoed through the air.

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At my son’s hundred-day celebration, my sister-in-law, who had spent the last three years treating my life like her personal bargain bin, suddenly leaned over the banquet table. She wore a bright, sharp grin that didn’t reach her eyes. “Quanna,” Monica said, her voice cutting through the chatter of the private dining room. “How come this baby doesn’t look a single bit like Wyatt? Come on, you have to tell us the truth.” In my past life, I froze. Under the weight of thirty pairs of staring eyes, my tongue turned to lead. My silence was all the proof she needed. She immediately accused me of stepping out on her brother, spinning my stunned confusion into a confession of guilt. My mother-in-law turned on me instantly. Wyatt demanded a paternity test. I took it, and the results proved Henry was his. But they didn’t care. They claimed I’d forged the paperwork, dragged my name through the mud, and locked me out of my own home. Sinking into a severe, suffocating postpartum depression, I ended my life. Now, a sharp gasp rattled my lungs. The freezing water of the river from my memory vanished, replaced by the warm, yeast-heavy scent of the restaurant. I was back. Before I could even gather my bearings to fire back, my mother-in-law, Helen, stepped in to play her favorite role: the peacemaker. “Oh, ignore her. You know she’s got a big mouth. She’s just joking,” Helen said, waving a hand dismissively. But Monica, emboldened by my quietness, leaned in closer, raising her voice so the neighboring tables would hear. “Quanna, if you’ve got nothing to hide, why aren’t you saying anything? You know exactly whose baby this is, don’t you?” I remained silent, watching the two of them perform. It was only after my death in my previous life that I discovered how meticulously choreographed this routine was. Monica played the attacker; Helen played the reasonable mediator; Wyatt played the silent, heartbroken victim. It was a coordinated siege designed to wear me down, force me to agree to a divorce, and walk away with absolutely nothing—leaving them to seize the estate my parents had built for me. I looked down at the baby sleeping in my arms, and a quiet, cold smile touched my lips. … “Quanna, if you’ve got nothing to hide, why aren’t you saying anything?” Monica’s voice went up an octave, slicing through the ambient clink of silverware. “Whose kid is it, really?” I didn’t answer. My death in the last life had been too miserable, too quiet. This time, I wanted to let them perform. I wanted them to build their stage so high that the fall would shatter them completely. Seeing that I wasn’t rising to the bait, Monica reached back into her arsenal and pulled out her first witness. It was Wyatt’s distant aunt, Agnes, who worked as a nurse receptionist at the local community clinic. “Aunt Agnes, you were down at the municipal women’s clinic late last year, wasn’t that right? Tell everyone what you saw.” Agnes was pushed into the spotlight. Her face flushed a deep, uncomfortable red as she shifted her weight, stammering, “I… well, I was picking up some inventory records near the OB-GYN wing. I’m pretty sure I saw Quanna there. There was a man with her… and it definitely wasn’t Wyatt.” “Did you all hear that?” Monica slapped her knee, her voice screeching like metal on glass. “Going to her prenatal appointments with another man!” Agnes waved her hands in a frantic attempt to cover herself. “I only said it looked like her. I didn’t get a clear look at her face. I could have been mistaken…” But Monica had already turned to the rest of the family. “Even our own blood won’t cover for her anymore! I think we all know what’s going on here.” “Young women these days, honestly…” “Wyatt treated her like royalty. Bought her a house, let her drive the car, and this is how she repays him.” The murmuring rippled through the tables, growing thicker, heavier. The looks directed at me shifted from idle curiosity to cold disgust. My father-in-law, Richard, had remained quiet until now. He sat at the head of the table, slowly blowing the steam off his tea. He took a deliberate sip, set the cup down, and spoke with a low, measured gravity. “In matters like this, where there is smoke, there is usually fire.” The words weren’t loud, but they carried the weight of an verdict. Helen’s face hardened instantly. She slammed her palm onto the white tablecloth. “Quanna, you will give us an explanation today! You’ve dragged our family’s honor through the dirt!” The relatives quickly chimed in. “Exactly. She needs to explain herself.” “You can’t just sweep this under the rug.” “Wyatt, say something!” Every eye in the room pivoted to my husband. Wyatt sat beside me, his head bowed, slowly pushing food around his plate. Hearing his name, he raised his head, his face a perfectly crafted mask of quiet agony. “Quanna… just tell them. If you’re innocent, what is there to be afraid of?” His voice was gentle, almost pleading. But every syllable was a calculated twist of the knife. I kept my mouth shut. I knew this was only the prologue. Next, they would try to force me to my knees, demanding a confession before the entire family. I let out a soft, sharp laugh—at myself. At how desperately I had tried to explain myself in my past life, begging for Wyatt’s trust, completely blind to the fact that the man looking at me with such wounded devotion was the one pulling the strings. Monica caught the tiny curve of my mouth and pointed a manicured finger at me. “Look! She’s laughing! She’s not even ashamed! Look how shameless she is!” She reached into her designer purse, pulled out a folded, crumpled sheet of paper, and held it high above her head. “Look at this, everyone! I had a friend in the pathology lab run a check. Quanna had an amniocentesis done during her second trimester, and the genetic markers are right here—this baby does not belong to my brother!” She marched around the table, tossing the paper in front of the older relatives. “Black and white. Read it yourselves. It has her name right at the top.” Wyatt’s aunt Beatrice took it, clicking her tongue. Aunt Cynthia shook her head in disapproval. Monica sneered, turning back to me. “What do you have to say now?” I reached out my hand, letting it tremble just slightly. “Let me see it.” Monica rolled her eyes and flicked the paper toward me. It drifted to the carpet. I bent down, picked it up, and smoothed out the creases. My name was indeed printed at the top, but the formatting was completely off, and the processing dates didn’t align with my actual medical records. It was a cheap, rushed forgery. “This is fake,” I said. “I don’t recognize this.” Monica practically leaped into the air. “Fake? You’re calling an official lab report fake? You’re just terrified because you’ve been caught!” Helen joined the fray. “Quanna, do you think a hospital just hands out fake reports? Stop lying to save your skin.” “Fine,” I said, looking up. “Since you’re all so convinced, let’s do a legal paternity test. We can go to the clinic tomorrow morning.” Monica’s eyes flared with triumph. “Fine! But when the results come back and prove you’re a liar, you leave this marriage with nothing. No alimony, and you don’t touch a single thing.” I stared directly into her eyes. “Deal. But if the test proves you’ve slandered me, every single one of you packs your bags and gets out of my house.” The room went dead silent. Helen’s expression faltered. She knew exactly whose house it was. My parents had paid for it in cash, and the deed carried only my name. A relative muttered from the back, “Wait, I thought the house belonged to Wyatt?” “Yeah, didn’t he say he bought it before the wedding?” The whispers started up again, turning in a different direction. Wyatt’s face flushed a deep, ugly crimson. He lunged forward, grabbed my arm, and dragged me toward the quiet hallway near the restrooms. “Quanna, are you out of your mind?” he hissed, his grip tightening. “Saying things like that in front of my family? Where am I supposed to put my pride?” I pulled my arm back, but his fingers held fast. “Did I say anything that wasn’t true? Did my parents not pay for that house in full? Is my name not the only one on the deed?” Wyatt’s eyes widened, his lips trembling with anger. “You married me! What’s yours is mine. We’re a family—why do you have to keep score like this? How am I supposed to look my relatives in the eye if they think I’m living off my wife?” I wrenched my wrist free, leaving a dull red mark on my skin. “And how am I supposed to look anyone in the eye when your sister is calling me a whore in front of thirty people and you’re standing there letting her?” Wyatt choked on his own breath. He paused, his eyes darting around the hallway before his expression softened into a familiar, manipulative pity. “Quanna, I’m on your side. But you’re embarrassing me in public. Can’t you just swallow your pride for once? For the family?” “For the family.” I had swallowed my pride for three years. I had endured their demands, their insults, their passive-aggressive jabs, even through a difficult pregnancy. And this was my reward. Without another word, I turned and walked back to the dining room. Wyatt followed close behind, clearing his throat as we reached the table. He put on a brave, strained smile for the relatives. “Everyone, please ignore what she just said. The house is mine. I paid for it in full. She’s just lashed out because she’s backed into a corner.” The relatives sighed in relief, nodding. “I knew it. How could a schoolteacher afford a place like that?” “To lie about something so easily… she has no shame.” I stood at the edge of the table, my nails digging into the palms of my hands until it stung. I closed my eyes, letting the memories of the last three years wash over me. My parents had bought that house for $750,000, completely in cash, ensuring I would never have to worry about a mortgage. But from the day we returned from our honeymoon, Wyatt’s family had moved in like locusts. Helen had insisted that “a big house needs a family to keep it warm,” bringing Richard and Monica with her. Even Wyatt’s older sister, Diane, would bring her kids over to stay for weeks at a time. In a four-bedroom house, Wyatt and I took the master. His parents took one bedroom, Monica claimed another, and Diane’s family occupied the guest room. When my own parents drove down to visit me, there was no room left for them. They had to stay at a cheap motel down the interstate. I still remembered the quiet, sad look in my mother’s eyes as she hugged me goodbye in the motel lobby, pretending she didn’t mind. During my pregnancy, when the morning sickness was so severe I could barely keep water down, I dragged myself to the living room at midnight to get a glass of water. Monica was there, hosting a loud, drunken party with her friends, music blasting through the speakers. I had begged her, “Monica, please, can you turn it down? I’m so sick.” She had rolled her eyes, sneering, “This is my brother’s house. I can do whatever I want. You’re just an outsider here.” Helen, sitting on the sofa nursing a drink, hadn’t even looked up. And the postpartum weeks were a living hell. Whenever Henry cried at night, Helen would kick my bedroom door open, screaming at me for being incompetent, while Monica laughed down the hallway. The constant anxiety and lack of sleep dried up my milk. When I went to the kitchen to find the organic chicken soup my mother had prepared and left in the fridge, I found Monica feeding it to her dog. They truly believed the house belonged to Wyatt because he had spent years bragging to his colleagues and relatives about his “achievements.” And because they believed he owned the place, they treated me like unpaid help. “Quanna, vacuum the stairs!” “Quanna, go grocery shopping!” “Quanna, hand over your salary card. Helen will manage the household finances. You don’t have to worry about the mortgage, but you need to cover the utilities and groceries.” There was no mortgage. But my salary card went directly into Helen’s purse. Every dollar I spent on myself—even for basic hygiene products—required her permission and came with a lecture on budgeting. Monica was a parasite. She refused to keep a job, yet she treated me like her personal credit card. “Quanna, buy me that bag.” “Quanna, there’s a pair of boots online for four hundred dollars. Order them for me.” “Doesn’t your family have money? Lend me ten thousand so I can start my boutique.” She never paid back a dime. When I finally brought it up, she threw a glass at my feet. “This is my brother’s house! I live under his roof and spend his money. You have no right to talk to me!” And Wyatt would always pat my shoulder. “She’s just young, Quanna. Let it go.” I let it go for three years. They lived in my home, ate my food, drove my car, and didn’t contribute a single cent. Even the property taxes and HOA fees were drafted from my salary account, while Wyatt kept his paycheck entirely to himself for “professional networking.” I had stayed because of the baby. The doctor had warned me that stress could cause a miscarriage, so I endured. I survived until the hundred-day party. But this time, the debt was settled. My house. My child. My life. Everything they took, they were going to vomit back up. We had agreed on nine in the morning, but the entire family arrived at the clinic by eight-thirty, filling the narrow corridor with their loud, self-righteous presence. When I arrived, carrying Henry in his car seat, Monica was leaning against the waiting room counter, scrolling through her phone. Wyatt stood near the water cooler, deliberately looking away from me. Monica looked up, her lips curling into a smirk. “Well, look who actually showed up. And she brought the little mistake with her.” I ignored her, walking straight to the reception desk. Henry was fast asleep, his small face pressed against the soft cotton lining of the carrier. The blood draw was quick. The nurse took samples from both Wyatt and Henry, explaining that the official results would take three business days. Henry gave a tiny, startled cry when the needle pricked his foot, but he settled quickly when I rocked him. But the family didn’t leave. Monica grabbed Helen’s arm and pulled her into one of the consultation rooms, closing the door behind them. Ten minutes later, they emerged. Monica was beaming, holding a freshly printed sheet of paper in her hand. She marched to the center of the waiting room, holding the paper up like a trophy. “Attention, everyone! The doctor just pulled her medical history! Quanna has a record of multiple terminations before she married my brother! Her uterine lining is so thin she could barely carry a child to term. This baby is a miracle—or more likely, she brought home someone else’s trash!” The patients waiting in the lobby turned to look. People waiting by the pharmacy and the elevators shifted their attention to our corner. Helen chimed in, her voice dripping with artificial grief. “How could you do this to us? We took you in!” Richard shook his head, his voice booming in the quiet clinic. “Our family cannot associate with this kind of filth.” “I knew something was off about that kid.” “She should be thrown out on the street.” Wyatt stood at the back of the crowd, his head lowered, playing the part of the humiliated husband. Seeing the crowd gather, Monica grew bolder. She grabbed the arm of an elderly woman who was just passing by. “Ma’am, look at this. This woman cheated on my brother, had a bastard child, and is trying to swindle him out of his inheritance. Don’t you think she’s disgusting?” The woman looked at me, shook her head, and muttered something about “young people today” before walking away. A man holding a toddler nearby whispered to his wife, “Why would anyone bring this kind of drama to a hospital?” Monica ran toward the elevator bank, shouting to the people getting off. “Look at her! Quanna Vance! She’s trying to pass off another man’s mistake as my brother’s son!” There were nearly thirty people in the corridor now. Some were whispering, some were raising their phones to record, and others were murmuring insults. I stood by the lab entrance, holding Henry close. He stirred, unsettled by the noise, and I gently patted his chest until his breathing slowed again. “You still have the nerve to stand there?” Monica screamed, stepping into my space. “If I were you, I’d find a bridge and jump off it!” Richard: “You’ve ruined our family name.” Aunt Beatrice: “Just sign the divorce papers. You’re not getting a single dime of our money.” The crowd’s voices rose like a wave, but the noise felt distant, like static. The phone cameras flashed in my face, capturing my stillness. Monica, breathless from her performance, crossed her arms and sneered. “What’s the matter, Quanna? Lost your tongue? Or are you just too guilty to speak?” I raised my eyes, looking directly at her. The corridor went quiet for a fraction of a second. Every phone was pointed at my face, waiting for a breakdown, a tear, a confession. My voice was quiet, but it carried perfectly through the silent room. “Are you done? Because if you are, it’s my turn.”

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