Category: English

On the day of our engagement, Ward vanished. He didn’t answer my calls, and my texts went completely ignored. My parents and I were frantic, terrified that he had been in a horrific car crash on his way to the venue. We were on the verge of calling the police when, after dozens of attempts, we finally reached his driver. The man stammered on the other end of the line, sounding incredibly uncomfortable. “Mr. Ward is… he’s currently with Ms. Lacey, helping her pitch a new client. The client is proving difficult, and Mr. Ward can’t step away right now.” I swallowed the rising tide of anger, opening my mouth to demand that he put Ward on the phone, when a series of text messages from Ward popped up on my screen. “Our families have known each other for over twenty years, Izzy. Don’t sweat the formalities today.” “This is Lacey’s first time pitch-meeting a client on her own. The guy is a notorious shark, and I need to make sure she’s safe.” “I’ll add another thirty thousand dollars to our wedding fund. Don’t be mad.” My dad’s face fell as he read the messages over my shoulder. Without a word, he turned his back to me, staring out the window, his hands trembling slightly as he lit a cigarette. My mom’s eyes welled with tears. She looked at me, her voice thick with emotion. “Sweetheart, are you absolutely sure you want to marry him? I’ve watched that boy grow up, but familiarity shouldn’t give him the right to treat you like an afterthought…” Seeing my parents’ heartbreak cut through me like a knife. I squeezed my mom’s hand, forced a bright smile, and turned to our gathered family and friends. “Everyone, please, let’s eat! The engagement is off. Let’s celebrate my return to single life!” … Throughout the dinner, hushed whispers echoed around the private dining room. My parents kept brave, smiling faces until the last of the guests had been sent off. Watching their retreating figures, a burning pressure built behind my eyes. They had worked tirelessly their entire lives, looking forward to this day, dressing up in their finest clothes to host this celebration—only for it to end in public humiliation. The crushing weight of guilt broke me. “Mom, Dad, I’m so sorry. I embarrassed you both.” My mom turned, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear, and smiled gently. “What are you talking about? You are our greatest pride. Whatever you decide, we’re right behind you.” My dad, a man of few words, gave a firm nod. “Your mother is right. No matter what, we’ve got your back.” With that, he pulled out his phone and immediately wired back the wedding funds Ward had sent. Worried I hadn’t eaten enough, they went to the grocery store to pick up some of my favorite ingredients to cook at home. Shortly after we returned and I changed into my loungewear, Ward let himself in. Our families had been neighbors since childhood. After his father passed away and his mother remarried and moved, leaving him alone, my parents had practically adopted him, always inviting him over for family dinners. Over the years, he’d memorized our front door keypad code. He had used it for over a decade without it ever being changed. Seeing me in sweatpants on the sofa, his brow furrowed. He opened his mouth to speak, but seeing my parents busy in the kitchen, he grabbed my wrist and pulled me into my bedroom, slamming the door. His face was twisted with anger. “Izzy, what the hell is this?” he snapped. “You turned our engagement dinner into a single-life party? Do you have any idea how that makes me look to all our relatives?” I stared at him, letting out a soft, hollow laugh. “Oh, so now you care about the relatives? You didn’t care when you stood me up, leaving my parents to swallow their pride in front of everyone. What was your excuse again? Ward, if you didn’t want to get married, nobody was holding a gun to your head.” It was likely the first time he’d ever heard me stand up to him. He blinked, momentarily caught off guard, a flash of panic crossing his features. He knelt down, taking my hands, his tone softening. “Izzy, I’m sorry. It was poor judgment on my part. But have you forgotten what happened when you first started working? That client who tried to touch you?” He looked at me pleadingly. “You cried so hard. And your boss didn’t even support you; they blamed you for losing the account. I just didn’t want Lacey to go through the same nightmare you did. Can’t you understand that?” I looked down at the faint scar on the back of my hand, a dull ache blooming in my chest. Of course, I hadn’t forgotten. The client back then had been a notorious predator in the industry. The moment the project was assigned to me, I had warned Ward. We made a pact: if things went south during the dinner, I would text him three specific numbers as a distress signal, and he would come in to rescue me. But when the night came, I sent dozens of messages, and not a single one was answered. Ultimately, it was a pot of scalding water on the table that saved me. Amidst the client’s screams, I stumbled out of the room and ran downstairs, only to find Ward fast asleep in the driver’s seat of his car. I didn’t wake him. With trembling hands, I called the police myself. It wasn’t until the sirens wailed that he finally woke up. At the hospital, he wept and begged for forgiveness, claiming he’d been running on no sleep due to a major company launch and had only closed his eyes for a second. Seeing his dark circles and deep exhaustion, I forgave him. But now, he was using that unresolved guilt to justify rescuing another woman. And he expected me to just understand. Sensing my silence, he assumed I was softening. A relieved smile touched his lips. “Don’t be mad, Izzy. I’ll apologize to your parents properly, and we’ll pick another date. I promise I’ll be there for every second of it…” “Don’t bother,” I interrupted quietly, pulling my hands from his grasp. “We’re done. Check your bank account. The wedding money has been returned. Once you see it, please leave my house.” Ward’s face hardened as he checked his phone notifications. He stood up abruptly. “Izzy! We’ve been together for eight years. You’re seriously throwing all of that away over this?” Before I could answer, a soft, sniffling cry echoed from the living room. I bypassed him and opened the bedroom door. Lacey was standing in the entryway, clutching a basket of fruit and a carton of organic milk. My mom was sitting on the couch, and my dad stood by the kitchen door, his expression grim. Lacey’s fingers were tightly laced together, her eyes red and tearful. “I’m so sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Miller,” she whimpered. “Today was entirely my fault. I shouldn’t have begged Ward to come with me. Please don’t be angry with him.” I turned to Ward. “You brought her here? Ward, are you out of your mind?” Lacey rushed forward. “Izzy, please don’t blame Ward. I came here on my own. I swear I had no idea today was your engagement party. If I had known, I never would have asked for his help. It won’t happen again…” “Again?” I let out a bitter chuckle. “What’s next? The wedding day? Or maybe our wedding night? If you’re so dependent on your boss, why don’t you just move in with him?” Lacey looked up, her tears finally spilling over. “Izzy, I know you’re angry with me, but that’s not fair. This was my first business trip out of town, and it was in Ward’s hometown. I didn’t know anyone else…” Before she could finish, Ward stepped in front of her, shielding her from me. He glared at me, his voice dropping an octave. “Izzy, there’s a limit to everything. Why are you taking this out on a kid?” “I’m taking it out on her?” “Yes,” he said defensively. “Apologize to her. If you don’t…” “If she doesn’t, what exactly are you going to do to my daughter?!” My dad stormed out of the kitchen, putting his trembling, aging frame between Ward and me. A man who had never raised his voice in his life was now shouting in pure rage. “Ward! As long as I am breathing, you do not get to threaten my child!” My mom stood up from the couch, wrapping her arm tightly around my shoulder. Ward took two steps back, his composure crumbling. “Mr. Miller, Mrs. Miller, that’s not what I meant…” Lacey shook her head, biting her lip. “This is all my fault because I’m incompetent. I should be the one apologizing.” To our horror, she reached onto our entryway console, grabbed a bottle of high-proof whiskey my father had saved for years to toast our wedding, uncorked it, and began chugging it straight from the bottle. She choked on the first gulp, coughing violently and clutching her chest. Within seconds, her fair skin began to break out in bright red hives. “She’s allergic to alcohol!” Ward gasped. He snatched the bottle away and threw it onto the hardwood floor. It shattered into pieces, filling the room with the sharp scent of aged liquor. He swept Lacey up into his arms, grabbing her purse from the entryway hook, and rushed toward the door. Just before stepping out, he glanced back. “Izzy, I have to get her to the ER. You and your parents need to cool down. I am not agreeing to a breakup. Wait for me to come back.” Then, he was gone. Staring at the shattered glass and spilled amber liquid, a profound bitterness washed over me. I turned to my parents. “Mom, Dad, remember how you wanted to rent a cabin in Charleston for a while? A friend of mine just opened a branch office there and offered me a director position. If you’re up for it, we can book a flight tonight. I’ll finish my wrap-up work here and join you in a few days.” My parents exchanged a look. My mom nodded gently. “Let’s do it. Your father and I have worked our whole lives; it’s about time we took a real trip.” While my dad quietly returned to the kitchen to pack up the food and my mom began packing their bags, I swept up the broken glass. I texted my friend to accept the position, asked him to help coordinate my parents’ arrival, and changed our front door keypad code. After seeing my parents off at the airport, I caught a flight back to the city where my job was based. I landed around 8:00 PM. Outside the airport, a young college couple walked ahead of me. The girl was sitting on her rolling suitcase while the boy pushed her, wearing her pink backpack and holding her half-finished boba tea in one hand. They were laughing effortlessly, drawing fond looks from passersby. Watching them, my mind drifted back to my early college years with Ward. We were nineteen. His mother had just had a child with her new husband, cut off all contact, and stopped paying his tuition and living expenses. Ward worked back-to-back part-time jobs while juggling classes. Since we were dating, our expenses naturally went up. Knowing he was drowning in stress, my parents quietly gave me an allowance so I could cover our dates. But Ward was proud; he quickly caught on. From then on, whenever we dined out, he’d make an excuse to use the restroom and secretly pay the bill beforehand. He would hold my hand, his eyes burning with absolute sincerity. “Izzy, I’m your boyfriend, and I’m going to be your husband. I know you’re trying to protect my pride, but providing for you is my job. No matter what gifts I buy you, you don’t need to match their price. It makes us feel like strangers, and I want us to be closer than anyone else.” When his college startup finally took off, he showered me with everything that was trendy. We rented a tiny apartment together after graduation. Because of his devotion, I allowed myself to fully lean on him. We had our share of petty arguments, but we always took the time to learn each other’s love languages. As the years bled together, however, I noticed his attentiveness drifting. His emotional bandwidth for me grew narrower. Back then, I convinced myself that adult relationships required compromise, and that over-analyzing these shifts would only tear us apart. So, we kept walking until we reached the age where marriage was the natural next step. I had envisioned a beautiful wedding this year and perhaps a baby the next. But my mother’s words at the canceled dinner had shattered my denial: “Familiarity shouldn’t give someone the right to treat you like an afterthought.” I quickened my pace, bypassed the young couple, and hailed a cab. As soon as I closed the cab door, Ward’s name popped up on my screen, accompanied by a little red heart. I let it ring. He tried four more times; I declined every call. Finally, a local, unrecognized number called. Thinking it might be my landlord or a delivery service, I answered. Before I could speak, Ward’s voice barked through the speaker, thick with irritation. “Izzy, have you lost your mind? You changed the door code and ignored my calls?” He let out an exhausted sigh. “I brought Lacey here to apologize to your parents. Open the door.” “I can’t,” I said quietly. “And that door will never open for you again.” He scoffed. “Are you seriously doing this right now? How old are you, Izzy? You’re going to throw our entire relationship away because of a stupid engagement dinner? You even dragged your parents into this. Don’t you think you’re being ridiculous?” “It isn’t just about the dinner, Ward,” I said, watching the city lights blur outside the window. “It’s about who you used to be.” Silence fell over the line. “Who I used to be? What is that supposed to mean?” I toyed with the engagement ring on my finger. “Remember in college, when you said you wanted us to grow closer and depend on each other? I did that for eight years. You didn’t. Instead, you let our history become an excuse to treat me with contempt.” He let out a dry, dismissive laugh. “Izzy, is that what this dramatic speech is about? Who stays head-over-heels after eight years? Stop reading those trashy relationship blogs. You’re turning thirty soon. Aren’t you embarrassed to be throwing a temper tantrum like a teenager and humiliating your family? Let’s just end this drama. We’re getting our marriage license tomorrow. I’ll meet you at the city clerk’s office at two.” Even though I had already checked out of this relationship, his words still managed to squeeze the air from my lungs. A sharp pain bloomed in my throat. Before the tears could fall, a bitter laugh escaped my lips. “I will never marry you, Ward.” I hung up, rolled down the window, slipped the diamond ring off my finger, and flicked it into the darkness. The taxi pulled up to my apartment complex. The driver, an older woman around my mother’s age, looked at me in the rearview mirror, her eyes soft and understanding. “Sweetheart, half-baked love only leaves a bad taste in your mouth. I admire your courage to close the book. Don’t ever settle.” My throat tightened. “Thank you,” I whispered, nodding. Inside the apartment, the first thing I saw was our Polaroid photo wall in the living room. Seven years of memories. Looking closely, I realized that from year one to year seven, our physical gap had widened—from our cheeks pressed together to a stiff elbow’s distance apart. This year’s photo was supposed to be taken at the courthouse. There was no point now. I pulled every single photo off the wall, fed them into the paper shredder, and watched seven years turn into confetti. I opened my laptop and submitted my formal resignation letter to HR. Within minutes, my phone vibrated. It was Becca, my close friend in HR. “Izzy! Aren’t you supposed to be celebrating your engagement? Why am I looking at a resignation letter? Tell me you’re not pregnant because I’m not ready to be an aunt!” I managed a weak chuckle. “You’re safe. The engagement is off, we broke up, and there’s no baby on the way.” “What? What did that bastard do?” I told her everything. Becca was practically vibrating with rage through the phone. “I knew he was a piece of work! Thank God you got out. Remember that massive rainstorm last month? You went back to the office to grab some files and got stranded. I had to come pick you up because you couldn’t get a ride. Well, on my way home, I drove past his office building. I saw him carrying a girl on his back across the flooded street…” My heart seized. “Are you sure it was him?” “I took a video. I’m sending it to you right now.” The video arrived a second later. Outside Ward’s corporate office, the water was shin-deep. Ward was carrying Lacey on his back, her arms wrapped around his neck, her colorful slip-on shoes dangling as she laughed happily. I watched it on a loop, feeling a slow, cold numbness spread through my chest. That night, I had been trapped in the lobby for over an hour, unable to secure an Uber. When I called Ward, he told me he was stuck on a highway outside the city. He Venmoed me $500, telling me to use it for a premium ride-share. By midnight, my clothes were soaked, my period had started early, and I was in agonizing pain. I had no choice but to call Becca. When Ward finally got home in the early hours of the morning, he stayed up to make me chamomile tea, prep a heating pad, and bring me Midol without even changing out of his damp clothes. I had been so deeply moved by his care back then. Now, it just felt pathetic. “Izzy… Izzy, are you there?” Becca’s voice was soft, laced with worry. “I’m here. Thanks, Becca. I appreciate you.” I hung up, packed the remainder of my things, booked a moving service, and notified my landlord of my immediate move-out. The next morning, I handed in my keycard at the office. Just as I walked out of the building, an Instagram notification popped up. It was Ward. He had posted a picture of his car parked outside the city clerk’s office, with Lacey sitting in the passenger seat. The caption read: “Waiting for our turn at the courthouse. Lucky number 13.” The post was thirty minutes old. We shared dozens of mutual friends, yet there wasn’t a single like or comment. There was only one explanation: he had customized his privacy settings so that only I could see it. I smiled faintly and got into my airport ride. As the flight attendant requested we switch our phones to airplane mode, I opened Instagram, pulled up the post, and left a comment: “Congratulations. Wishing you a lifetime of happiness.”

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Lauren was allergic to romance. Ever since we got together, anniversaries were just another square on the calendar. I did my thing, she did hers. So on our seventh anniversary, when my phone stayed silent all day, I didn’t think twice about it. I was used to the quiet. But when she came home that night, she did something completely out of character. She handed me a small, wrapped box. I froze for a couple of seconds, my eyes instantly stinging with a sudden, ridiculous warmth. The stubborn, practical woman I loved had finally turned a corner. I eagerly took a dozen photos of the box, trying to find the perfect angle to post on my Instagram. But right before I hit upload, my feed refreshed. It was a post from her new personal assistant, Tony. “100 days at the firm! Thank you so much for the sweet surprise, Boss~” In the photo, the handsome, sharp-featured kid was standing next to an open car trunk overflowing with beautifully wrapped gifts, fairy lights, and expensive-looking boutique bags. When I tapped the live photo, the sound of Lauren’s voice played. It was soft, carrying a rare, gentle laugh I hadn’t heard in years: “It suits you.” I looked down at the cheap, flimsy five-dollar plastic trinket in my hand—the kind of throwaway item you buy in bulk off Temu. Suddenly, the last seven years felt entirely pointless. … My phone buzzed on the coffee table. It was a string of texts from my close friend, Zach. You could practically feel his excitement vibrating through the screen. “Did Lauren finally turn a corner???” “Seven years! A literal miracle!” “I know the box looks a little small, but a gift is a gift! She finally learned how to be romantic.” I let out a dry, humorless laugh and forwarded him Tony’s Instagram post. “This is what she gave her assistant today.” Zach’s side of the chat went dead silent for a few seconds. Then, a barrage of question marks and exclamation points flooded my screen. “That new kid, Tony?” “Doesn’t he know about you and Lauren?” “She bought him an entire trunk full of gifts?!” “Are you kidding me? This is messed up, Matt.” I stared at the messages, a slow, aching burn rising in my throat. In the past, whenever Zach tried to stick up for me, I’d always scramble to make excuses for her. She’s stressed. She doesn’t think about these things. She didn’t mean any harm. But this time, I couldn’t find a single word to defend her. When Lauren came out of the shower, I was still sitting on the sofa. She rubbed her damp hair with a towel, glanced at the unopened gift on the coffee table, and then looked at me. “Why aren’t you in bed yet?” Instead of answering, I opened Tony’s post and held the screen out to her. “Did you buy him this?” She barely glanced at it, her expression entirely flat. “The kid reached his hundred-day mark. I wanted to keep his morale up.” I stared at her indifferent, casual posture and spoke softly. “Lauren, do you know what today is?” The hand drying her hair paused. “What?” “Our seventh anniversary.” The room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. Lauren looked at me, a flicker of irritation crossing her features. “Matt, really? We’re not in college anymore. Why are you suddenly obsessing over these trivial things? Can’t we just focus on building our lives together?” She draped the towel over her shoulders and turned to walk away. Watching her retreating back, I called out, my voice barely above a whisper. “Lauren, I’m turning thirty next month.” She stopped. “Most of my friends are already settling down, having kids. When… when are we getting married?” She sighed, turning back to face me with a pinched, exhausted expression. “The company is in a critical growth phase right now. Just give it some time.” “How much more time?” Lauren didn’t answer. She pinched the bridge of her nose, her face darkening. “Matt, I had an incredibly long day. Stop starting fights.” With that, she walked into the bedroom and shut the door behind her. I sat alone on the dark sofa, staring at the cheap box on the table. The wrapping paper was wrinkled and torn at the edges, looking like something pulled from a clearance bin. Late that night, my dad called me from London. “Hey, Matty. You still up?” “Yeah, Dad.” “I just wanted to check in. Have you thought any more about what we talked about last time?” I gripped the phone, staying silent. Five years ago, my parents had relocated to the UK for my dad’s work. They had begged me to come with them. But because of Lauren, I had stubbornly insisted on staying behind. For seven years, I had stayed by her side. I was there when we lived in a cramped, drafty studio apartment, and I was there when we moved into this luxury high-rise. I had helped her build her company from a tiny, two-person operation into a thriving business. I had always told myself that once the hard part was over, marriage would be our natural next step. But looking at the closed bedroom door, I realized I had been lying to myself the entire time. “Matty?” my dad’s voice was gentle, filled with a quiet concern. “Don’t take this the wrong way, son. But if she wanted to marry you, she would have done it years ago. She wouldn’t keep you waiting in the wings for seven years.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I know, Dad. Give me a few days. I’ll make a decision.” After hanging up, I sat in the quiet living room for what felt like hours before finally heading into the bedroom. Lauren was already fast asleep. I carefully climbed into my side of the bed, turning onto my side to look at her. When we first started dating, she had nothing. Every time she got paid, the first thing she did was transfer her paycheck to my account so we could save. If I hesitated to buy something for myself because of the price, she would drag me back to the store and buy it anyway. She wasn’t big on sweet talk, but her actions always made me feel like I was her entire world. I had never doubted her love for me. Until Tony arrived. One hundred days was all it took to dismantle seven years of devotion. The next morning, the office was buzzing when I arrived. A small crowd of coworkers had gathered around Tony’s desk. “Come on, Tony, what was that post about last night?” “An entire trunk! The boss really went all out for you.” “Spill the details. Is there something going on between you two?” Tony cupped his hands over his red cheeks, his voice dripping with performative shyness. “Oh my god, guys, stop! Don’t make assumptions. Lauren was just celebrating my hundredth day at the firm, that’s all.” “Oh, really? Then why didn’t the rest of us get a trunk full of gifts on our hundredth day?” “Exactly!” The teasing grew louder. Tony caught my eye from across the room. A small, smug smile touched his lips, but he quickly looked down, playing the part of the innocent junior. Just then, Lauren walked out of her corner office. Ignoring the knowing looks exchange among the staff, she gestured to Tony. “Tony, in my office, please.” “Right away, Lauren!” Tony piped up, practically skipping toward her door. Once the door clicked shut, a few colleagues drifted over to my desk. “Hey, Matt. You’ve been with the company since the beginning. What’s the actual deal with Lauren and Tony?” I kept my eyes on my monitor. “I wouldn’t know.” They looked disappointed but didn’t push further, quickly moving on to whisper about something else. I gripped the folder in my hands, a familiar tightness squeezing my chest. Lauren had always been incredibly sensitive about keeping her professional life professional. For years, we had kept our relationship strictly underground to avoid office gossip. Once, early on, I had left a homemade sandwich on her desk because I knew she had skipped breakfast. She had lost her temper, accusing me of being unprofessional, and didn’t speak to me for an entire week. From that moment on, I kept my distance. We never rode in the same elevator, never ate lunch together, and barely made eye contact in the hallways. But apparently, those rigid rules didn’t apply to Tony. It was a grueling day, and by the time I finished wrapping up my work, it was nearly midnight. The trains had stopped running. After a moment of hesitation, I swallowed my pride and walked down to the parking garage, hoping to catch a ride with Lauren. But as I reached her SUV, the elevator doors slid open. Lauren walked out, and right behind her was Tony. When she saw me standing there, she froze, her brow furrowing immediately. “What are you still doing here?” My voice was quiet, stripped of any emotion. “I had to finish the quarterly reports. I missed the last train.” She stared at me for a couple of seconds before letting out a sharp sigh. “Get in.” The headlights flickered on. I walked over to the passenger side and reached for the door handle. But before my hand could make contact, Tony slipped right in front of me and pulled the door open, sliding into the front seat. “Oh, sorry, Matt,” Tony said, blinking up at me with an innocent, wide-eyed look. “Lauren promised me I could always have shotgun. My motion sickness is really bad at night.” My hand hovered over the empty handle. I didn’t move. Lauren tapped the horn, her face tight with impatience through the windshield. I let go of the handle, walked to the back, and silently got into the rear seat. The SUV merged into the late-night traffic. Tony chattered the entire way, his voice high and animated. “Lauren, that client today was so hilarious, he kept telling the worst dad jokes…” “Oh, and did you see that new sushi place that opened down the street? Some of the girls said it’s amazing. We should definitely try it sometime!” Lauren offered soft, amused replies, occasionally laughing at his jokes. I leaned my head against the cold window, watching the city lights blur into streaks of gold and red. The silence in the back seat felt like an ocean. When we finally dropped Tony off at his apartment building, the car fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. Lauren kept her eyes on the road, driving in silence until we pulled into our garage. She unbuckled her seatbelt and reached for the door handle, but I spoke before she could open it. “Lauren.” She paused, turning her head slightly. “Yeah?” I took a slow, steady breath. “Let’s break up.” The air in the car turned freezing. Lauren stared at me for a long moment, then let out a soft, dismissive chuckle, shaking her head. “Matt, are you seriously throwing a tantrum over a car seat?” I didn’t say anything. Her tone softened slightly, condescendingly. “Tony is just a kid, and it was late. As his boss, making sure he gets home safely is just basic responsibility. Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill.” I looked directly into her eyes. “Lauren, it’s been seven years. Every single time I worked past midnight, I walked to the train station alone.” “That’s completely different—” “How?” I interrupted, my voice cracking slightly. “Am I not allowed to want someone to care about me?” She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. “I’m serious, Lauren. We’re done.” Her brow furrowed, her voice sharp with irritation. “Matt, this is getting ridiculous. Are you really going to throw away seven years over this?” I kept my gaze steady, refusing to back down. Eventually, she sighed, reaching out to pat my cheek. Her touch felt incredibly heavy. “Fine. I’m sorry, okay? Let’s just go inside. I have a flight tomorrow morning, and I need to get some sleep.” She opened her door and walked toward the elevator. I remained in the back seat, watching her figure disappear around the corner. The last lingering ember of warmth in my chest went entirely cold. I pulled out my phone and texted my dad. “Dad, I’ve made up my mind. As soon as I wrap things up here, I’m coming to London.” The reply was almost instant. “Good. Your mother and I will have everything ready for you. Just come home.” The next morning, the sound of sizzling oil woke me. I walked into the kitchen to find Lauren standing at the stove, frying eggs. I stood in the doorway, momentarily stunned. It had been at least five years since she had cooked anything. When she noticed me, she gestured toward a pot on the counter. “There’s oatmeal. Help yourself.” Then, my eyes drifted to two neatly packed lunchboxes on the counter. “Who are those for?” “Oh, those are for Tony,” she said, her focus entirely on flipping the eggs. “He always skips breakfast, and his blood sugar drops. He’s passed out at work a couple of times.” Before I could even process the words, she checked her watch and hurriedly wiped her hands on a dish towel. “Shoot, I’m going to miss my flight. I have to go.” She grabbed her suitcase by the door, then paused, stepping back to give me a brief, obligatory hug. “I’ll be back in a few days. Take care of yourself.” The door clicked shut. I stood alone in the messy kitchen. If this had been any other day, I would have immediately started cleaning up her mess. But not today. Today, I had an appointment at the consulate. The wait at the visa office was long, but my paperwork was processed without any issues. By the time I returned to the office, the sun was already starting to set. The hallways were quiet, most of our colleagues having already left for the day. I knocked on the HR door. Katie was still at her desk. “Matt? What are you doing here so late?” “I’m here to submit my resignation.” Katie’s jaw dropped. “What? Why? You’re a founding member of this place. Lauren was literally talking about setting up your equity package next quarter.” I offered her a polite, tired smile. “I’m ready for a change. I want to go spend some time with my family overseas.” She saw the look in my eyes and didn’t press further. “Alright. If you’re sure, I’ll start processing it.” She turned to her computer, her fingers flying across the keyboard. “Once we finish the offboarding paperwork, your last day will be next Tuesday.” I nodded. “Thank you, Katie.” As I turned to leave, I paused. “One more thing. Please keep this between us. I’d prefer if Lauren didn’t know until after I’m gone.” Though confused, she gave me a reassuring nod. “Understood. I’ll keep it under wraps.” Over the next few days, I threw myself into wrapping up my projects. Lauren sent me several text messages, but I left every single one of them on read. On Friday night, I finally dragged myself back to the apartment, completely exhausted. I was just taking off my shoes when my phone rang. It was Lauren. I stared at her name on the screen for a long time before finally picking up. “Matty…” her voice was thick, slurred, and carried that soft, clinging tone she only used when she was completely drunk. “I drank way too much… Can you come pick me up?” My heart gave a painful, familiar thud. She hadn’t called me “Matty” in years. Normally, it was just a blunt “Matt.” She continued to mumble into the receiver. I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing down the sudden wave of emotion. “Send me the address. I’ll be there.” The city was wrapped in a heavy midnight fog when I arrived at the restaurant. But as I approached the entrance, my steps faltered. Lauren was leaning heavily against Tony, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck. When Tony spotted me, he stiffened, taking a hurried, awkward step back. “Matt… I… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” his voice was panicked, his eyes wide with a performative fear, as if I were about to strike him. The movement shook Lauren awake. She blinked, her instinct immediately driving her to step in front of the kid, shielding him from me. “Matt, don’t start with him,” she mumbled, her eyes glassy. I let out a soft, bitter laugh. Even completely wasted, her first instinct was to protect him. Tony clutched Lauren’s arm, his eyes shining with tears. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have let her drink so much. I’m so sorry, Matt.” Lauren reached up, gently patting his hair. “It’s not your fault, Tony. Don’t apologize to him.” Unable to watch another second of it, I stepped forward, pulling her dead weight away from him. “Let’s go. We’re going home.” She mumbled incoherently against my shoulder the entire ride back. I didn’t say a single word. By the time we got back to the apartment and she finished throwing up in the bathroom, she had sobered up significantly. She walked into the bedroom, a sheepish smile on her face, and tried to wrap her arms around my waist. I stepped back, letting her arms fall into the empty air. She blinked, confused. “What’s wrong?” I sat down on the edge of the bed, looking up at her. “Next Tuesday is my birthday. I want you to have dinner with me.” She hesitated, her eyes darting away. “I think I have a client dinner that night…” “Lauren,” I interrupted. “In seven years, you have never once spent my birthday with me.” She stared at me, the silence stretching between us. Finally, she nodded. “Okay. I’ll clear my schedule.” On Tuesday evening, I put on a tailored charcoal shirt—the one she used to tell me made me look handsome. When she walked into the restaurant and saw me, a flicker of genuine appreciation crossed her face. “You look nice tonight.” I offered a polite smile but didn’t reply. Make it special, I told myself. A proper goodbye to the last seven years. At the table, Lauren ordered several of my favorite dishes without even looking at the menu. But then, she turned back to the waiter. “And could you prepare a duplicate order of these to-go, please?” Seeing my questioning look, she explained, “Tony’s been talking about wanting to try this place for weeks. Since we’re already here, I figured I’d grab some for him.” I didn’t say anything. I just lowered my eyes and took a slow sip of water. The food had barely arrived when Lauren’s phone lit up on the table. She glanced at the screen, and her face immediately tightened. She set her fork down. “There’s an emergency at the office. I have to go. Go ahead and eat without me.” Without waiting for my response, she grabbed the takeout bags the waiter had just brought over and rushed out the door. I sat alone at the table, looking at the steaming dishes. I had completely lost my appetite. I paid the bill, walked out into the cool night air, and went home. I spent the next hour packing my life into two suitcases. At the bottom of the closet, I found an old shoebox. Inside were all the tiny mementos I had saved over the last seven years—movie ticket stubs, concert wristbands, and the annual photo booth pictures I had practically begged her to take with me. I stared at them for a few seconds, then carried the box to the trash chute and let it go. As I was wrapping up, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Tony. No words, just a single image. It was a close-up of his hand. Slid onto his ring finger was the thin silver band I had given Lauren for our first anniversary. My stomach dropped. I stared at the screen for a long, quiet moment. Then, I reached down, slid my own matching silver band off my finger, and set it gently on the coffee table. I took one last look at the apartment we had shared for years. There was nothing left here for me. The airport terminal was bright and loud, filled with families and travelers rushing to their destinations. I sat at the gate, opened my phone, and went through my contacts. One by one, I deleted and blocked Lauren’s number, her social media accounts, and her email. I was finally cutting the cord.

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Before the surgical lights flickered on, I slipped my hand-written suicide note beneath my brother’s pillow. “Wes, I wanted so badly to stay by your side forever.” “But Mom and Dad work too hard to make a living. I can’t bear to watch them pour every last cent into my treatments.” “Besides, the chemo hurts so much. My hair is entirely gone, and I’m not pretty anymore.” “I saved up some allowance—it’s in the envelope. Please use it to buy Mom and Dad that orthopedic massage chair they need. Their lower backs are always in so much pain.” “The rest of the money is for you. Thank you for taking such good care of me, Wes. From now on, you’ll have to look after Mom and Dad for me.” Two years. More than six hundred days and nights of excruciating agony. I had long since made up my mind to find my own release. As I lay there, quietly waiting for the poison I had swallowed to take effect, I heard my brother’s low, muffled voice echoing from the hallway: “Double the dosage. Once the Juilliard early-admission slot is officially transferred to Ivy’s name, I’ll find the best specialists in the country for Lucy. We will save her, I promise.” My mother’s voice broke as she choked back a sob, hitting his chest. “You’re going to destroy her! This past year has been pure torture for her. She’s nothing but skin and bones!” Wes’s voice trembled slightly. “Mom, Ivy doesn’t have Lucy’s raw talent. If we don’t let Lucy endure these two years of struggle, Ivy will never have a chance to stand out. I’ll hire the most elite physical therapists for Lucy’s rehabilitation afterward. If her health takes a turn, I’ll give her my own blood, my own kidney. I’ll even sign over both of our lakefront estates in Tahoe to her.” So. My parents were actually incredibly wealthy. And I didn’t have leukemia. I wasn’t paralyzed. But Wes… I’ve already swallowed the poison. There is no saving me now. 1 I lay perfectly still on the freezing operating table. The anesthesiologist inserted a sharp needle into my vein, murmuring softly, “Don’t be afraid, sweetheart. Just close your eyes and go to sleep. It’ll all be over when you wake up.” I nodded. In truth, fear was the furthest thing from my mind. All I felt was a profound sense of relief. Because right before they wheeled me in, I had swallowed an entire bottle of industrial weedkiller. I never planned on surviving today. My parents didn’t know. They had stroked my hollow cheeks with tear-filled eyes, whispering words of encouragement. “Don’t be afraid, Lucy. Mom and Dad will be right outside waiting for you.” Wes didn’t know, either. He had gently squeezed my frail, skeletal arm, his eyes red and brimming with unshed tears. “Our little princess is the strongest girl in the world. When you get out, Wes will take you wherever you want to go.” I swallowed my tears and forced a faint smile. “Okay,” I whispered. But inside, I was apologizing over and over again. “Mom, Dad, Wes… I’m so sorry.” “I’m not as strong as you think I am, and I can’t bear to drag this family down any longer.” I let my gaze linger on the three faces I loved most in this world, committing every line to memory. I wanted their faces to be the last things I took with me. I had always believed that my parents and brother loved me more than anything else. We weren’t well-off, but my parents never hesitated to give me whatever I wanted. They were so frugal with themselves, yet they never looked at the price tag when it came to buying me pretty dresses or cute stuffed animals. I had wanted to dance, but knowing how expensive ballet school was, I never dared to ask. Still, my parents gritted their teeth and sent me to the finest instructor in the city. That summer, Dad worked construction, his back so stiff from hauling bricks that he could barely stand upright at night. Mom ran her fishmonger stall at the local market by day, and woke up at five in the morning to prep breakfast pastries to sell, her eyes perpetually bloodshot with exhaustion. Even when I cried and lied to them, saying I hated ballet and didn’t want to dance anymore, Mom had only wrapped me in a warm, gentle embrace. “Lucy, we named you Lucy because you are the light of our lives,” she had whispered. “Whatever our little princess wants, Mom and Dad will work ourselves to the bone to give you. It’s our joy, sweetheart. It’s never a burden.” Wes had spoiled me just as much since we were kids. He always gave me the best pieces of food. Whenever my feet ached on the walk home from school, he would carry me on his back without a single complaint. “You’re my little sister,” he’d say, as if it were the simplest truth in the world. “Of course I’m going to spoil you.” When we grew older, he would stay up past midnight writing out study guides for me so my grades wouldn’t slip. He worked odd jobs to buy me birthday gifts he could never afford for himself. So when I overheard the truth… My mind went completely blank. I honestly thought I was hallucinating. We were wealthy. Their struggle, their desperate toil to raise me, was nothing but a carefully orchestrated performance. And those expensive medications they “sacrificed everything” to buy for me weren’t meant to cure me. They were the very things pushing me into this living hell—all to clear the path for Ivy’s future. Two years ago, I began feeling chronically ill. Dad had carried me on his back all the way to the clinic, where they diagnosed me with leukemia. I had broken down sobbing. My parents cried with me, holding me tight. “It’s okay, Lucy. We’ll get you the best treatments. We will never give up on you, no matter how much it costs.” Wes’s hand had trembled as he held mine, though his voice remained steady and reassuring. “Don’t worry, Lucy. I’m here. Mom and Dad are here. We won’t let anything happen to you.” Looking back now, of course nothing fatal was supposed to happen to me. Because I never had leukemia in the first place. But the “treatment” began anyway. Over the next two years, countless injections left my once-pale skin bruised and mottled, covered in a web of dark needle marks. I swallowed handfuls of bitter pills that burned my throat and made my stomach churn with nausea. For someone who used to be terrified of pain and hated medicine, I never uttered a single whimper. I swallowed every pill without hesitation, all to spare my family any extra grief. Whenever I saw their eyes redden, I would squeeze out a cheerful smile. “I’m okay, Mom. I’m strong. I can handle this.” But the monthly chemo sessions made me vomit violently. I couldn’t keep anything down; even when I forced myself to swallow a few spoonfuls of broth, I would end up purging it in the bathroom, spitting up bile and blood. My hair began falling out in thick clumps. Eventually, I had to wear a beanie to hide my bald head. I lay awake night after night, my body wracked with a deep, throbbing ache. But to keep them from worrying, I would bite down on my blanket to muffle my tears. They were sacrificing so much for me, I thought. The least I could do was be brave. But even though I did everything the doctors asked, eating nothing but bland porridge and clear soups, my body continued to waste away. I used to be a little swan, full of life, leaping across the stage. Now, I couldn’t even stand. I was confined to a bed, watching my muscles atrophy. The schoolwork I had fought so hard to master began to blur; letters twisted into incomprehensible shapes on the page, leaving me with blinding headaches. I lost my health, my hair, and eventually, my friends, who gradually stopped visiting as the months dragged on. My world shrank to the size of a hospital mattress, surrounded by sterile walls, endless medications, and my family. One evening, after a particularly brutal session that left me dry-heaving until my throat bled, I finally broke down.

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On our eighth anniversary, my boyfriend and I joined a tour group to visit a remote mountain range, only to be caught in a sudden avalanche. Amidst the chaos and panic, our group scrambled into a narrow cave. As the hours ticked by, hopelessness settled over us like a suffocating shroud. Eventually, the guide handed out scraps of paper and pens, telling us to write our final letters. I leaned in, my heart aching, wondering what beautiful, tragic final words he would write for me. But as his pen touched the paper, the first name he wrote was my best friend’s. “Grace. It took facing death to finally see clearly: you are, and always have been, the quiet moonlight of my soul.” “If I don’t make it out of here alive, and if someone ever finds my remains, please take this letter—and my ashes—to her.” What followed were pages of tender, agonizingly detailed instructions. “You have low blood sugar, remember to keep a piece of chocolate in your coat pocket.” “Your cramps get terrible; always keep a heating pad in your purse.” “You struggle with insomnia, so keep your phone far from the bed before you sleep.” Three whole pages. 1,537 words. And not a single mention of my name. In the face of death, his deepest truths had finally spilled onto the page. But they were not meant for me. My voice trembled as I confronted him, whispering, “Why?” “At the end of my life, I don’t want to lie to myself anymore,” he said, his eyes casting downward. “Besides, you get to die right here by my side. What more could you possibly want?” Nobody expected the rescue team to find us. But they did. In a flurry of tears and hysterical laughter, everyone tore up their final letters, scattering the scraps like confetti. I didn’t follow suit. I quietly folded the paper covered with my boyfriend’s and best friend’s names and slipped it into my pocket. My prognosis was grim anyway; whether it was a sudden departure or a slow fade, I figured I could always rewrite it later. It might still come in handy. … When our flight finally touched down in the middle of the night, the rain was pouring like a deluge. Grace was waiting at the terminal. The moment she saw us, she sprinted forward. Austin quickened his pace to meet her, catching her in a desperate, crushing embrace. The stoic tension he had maintained throughout the entire ordeal finally shattered, and he began to sob openly against her shoulder. “Grace, the only reason I held on… the only reason I kept breathing was because of you.” Her face buried in his chest, her voice cracked with emotion. “You two scared me to death. I thought I’d lost you forever. Promise me, no more climbing. No more snowy mountains.” She used the words “you two,” but her eyes were locked entirely on him, brimming with a devotion that excluded the rest of the world. He gently stroked her back, his voice softening to a soothing whisper. “Okay. Anything you say.” Outside, the rain lashed against the glass as they held each other in the crowded terminal, looking for all the world like a pair of star-crossed lovers reunited by fate. I stood a few paces behind, struggling with our heavy luggage, soaked and utterly pathetic. I didn’t know whether to step forward or disappear into the crowd. I was a ghost, a redundant bystander in my own life. It seemed the desperate longing in Austin’s letter was far from one-sided. Grace finally noticed me. She flinched as if burned, pulling back from his arms. “Chloe, are you okay?” She reached out to take my hand. I took a step back, letting her fingers grasp empty air. Her hand froze in midair, a flicker of panic crossing her face. “Are you mad at me for ignoring you? I… I was just so overwhelmed…” “How long has this been going on?” my voice was quiet, stripped of any anger. Grace’s face went entirely pale. She whirled her head toward Austin, her eyes wide with terror. Austin rubbed the bridge of his nose, exhaling a heavy sigh. “She knows.” “You told her?” she cried, hitting his chest in a panic. “We agreed to keep it a secret forever! How… how am I supposed to look her in the eye now?” “When did it start?” I interrupted, keeping my voice steady. She froze, her eyes welling with fresh tears as she stammered, unable to find the words. “Chloe, do you really have to make a scene here?” Austin interjected, smoothly pulling Grace behind him. His face hardened. “She drove all this way in a torrential storm just to pick us up. Don’t be so unreasonable.” He took Grace’s hand and guided her toward the exit. “I’ll drop her off first. You can take a cab.” Grace tugged on his sleeve, whispering, “Maybe I should take an Uber. There’s so much luggage, how is she supposed to handle it all by herself?” “She’s fine, she’s always been independent,” Austin said, his tone casual and unbothered. “Besides, she needs some time alone to clear her head.” I watched the two most important people in my life walk away together, their figures blurring into the rainy night. I stood frozen for a long time. My chest felt hollow, a cavernous space where the cold wind blew right through, leaving only ice in its wake. By the time I hauled all the bags through the rain and into our apartment, I was soaked to the bone. Within hours, my body temperature spiked to over a hundred and two. I dialed Austin’s number. “I have a fever.” “Don’t waste your breath making up excuses, Chloe. I’m not coming home tonight,” his voice was sharp with impatience. “And even if you do have a fever, go to the clinic. What do you expect me to do about it? I’m not your nurse. Grace said our dynamic doesn’t have to change. You should be grateful for that. Stop bothering me over nothing.” I listened to the dial tone, staring blankly at the screen. A strange, surreal numbness washed over me. For years, I had been conditioned to call him first, for absolutely everything, big or small. Eight years ago, when he asked me to be his girlfriend, he had made a solemn vow: “From this day on, if you call, no matter where I am or what I’m doing, I will answer. I will always come to you.” And for a long time, he kept that promise. Whether I was caught in a sudden downpour without an umbrella, or away on a business trip just missing his voice, he would fly to my side. How could that Austin vanish so completely overnight? A notification lit up my phone. Grace had posted an update. It was a photo of a steaming bowl of spiced ginger tea, rich with honey. “No matter how fierce the storm, there is always someone to keep me warm.” But that tea was supposed to be mine. It was always my remedy. “Chloe, you’re the only person in this world I’d ever step into a kitchen for.” Outside, a sudden crack of thunder shook the windowpanes, making the whole world feel incredibly fragile. I sat in the darkness, unable to tell if the dampness on my face was leftover rainwater or my own tears. There was nothing left to deny. He hadn’t changed; he had simply packed up all his tenderness and devotion and moved them into someone else’s heart. The last lingering shred of hope evaporated into the night air. A sharp, blinding spasm of stomach pain tore through my thoughts, jolting me back to reality. Cold sweat beaded on my forehead as I forced myself to sit up and unlock my phone. I composed a text to a contact I hadn’t messaged in months. “I agree to go abroad for the clinical trial of the new treatment. I accept all the risks and consequences.” The reply came almost instantly. “Are you absolutely sure, Chloe? Under palliative care, we could stretch this out for a few more months. If the experimental surgery fails, you might never wake up from the table.” “I’m sure,” I typed back. I had once wanted to spend my final days by Austin’s side, holding onto whatever time we had left. Now, there was no point. “Understood. I will come get you in three days.” It wasn’t until the third day of my raging fever that I saw Austin again. It happened at the hospital, right outside the OB-GYN wing. He was standing there with Grace. My hand shook as I signed my own discharge papers, and a sudden, quiet tear escaped down my cheek. Grace caught sight of me and hurried over, reaching up to gently wipe my tear away. “Chloe, please don’t get the wrong idea. I had some terrible menstrual cramps, and he just brought me in to get checked out.” She threw a quick, meaningful glance over her shoulder at Austin. “Right, Austin?” Austin offered a low, murmured assent, but the raw worry in his eyes when he looked at her was impossible to hide. I stared at Grace through my blurred vision, my gaze fixed on her. I was terrified that if I blinked, the girl who used to cry whenever I cried would vanish forever. When we were five, a boy at the children’s home tried to steal my bread roll. Grace had charged at him, shoving him away and standing in front of me like a tiny, fierce shield. At twelve, when a group of older girls cornered me in the school bathroom, she had burst in, grabbed my hand, and run. Her palm had been slick with sweat, but her grip was unyielding. At eighteen, she had secretly skipped the college entrance exams. When I wept over her ruined future, she had shrugged it off with a grin. “I’m not cut out for college anyway, Chloe. It’s just a waste of money. I’d rather start working double shifts to help pay for your tuition. Besides, you have Austin to look after you now. I’m not worried.” Having Grace as my best friend was the proudest achievement of my youth. I never could have imagined we would end up in a place this humiliating. Yet, she looked at me now with genuine worry, acting as though nothing had ever changed between us. “Why are you at the hospital, Chloe? Are you sick?” “Just a cold,” I muttered, not wanting to say more as I turned to leave. But she slipped her arm through mine, laughing just like she used to. “Oh, good. Austin is taking me to the theme park today. Come with us!” That theme park. I had begged Austin to take me there dozens of times, but he had always been “too busy.” I figured before I left the country—and maybe this life—I might as well cross one last thing off my list. After days of ceaseless rain, the sun finally broke through the clouds. Austin immediately opened an umbrella to shield Grace from the heat. She paused, pulling me under the shade as well, offering a mock scolding. “Why are you letting Chloe stand in the sun? Don’t do that again.” He blinked, offering a helpless, affectionate smile. “Got it, princess.” The look in his eyes was pure, unadulterated devotion. I didn’t know what kind of peaceful illusion they were trying to maintain. Did they truly believe that acting as if everything was fine would make it so? Inside the haunted house, when Grace shrieked in fear, Austin instinctively threw his arms around her, shielding her with a desperation that laid his feelings completely bare. When a passing actor accidentally knocked me to the ground, scraping my elbow until it bled, I looked up only to see the back of his jacket as he rushed after her. He protected her with his front; he abandoned me with his back. The math of love was cruel and incredibly simple. Once we emerged into the daylight, Austin suddenly got a playful glint in his eye. He snuck up behind Grace and yelled, scaring her so badly she laughed and punched his arm. He raised his hands in mock surrender, both of them dissolving into giggles, their eyes locking with an intimacy that I had spent years refusing to see. Whenever they had been overly close in the past, I had always rationalized it. We grew up in the same group home; they were childhood friends. But standing there, I realized my entire life had been a masterclass in self-delusion. The scarf he “happened to grab” for her when he brought me a coat. The birthday gifts he bought her to “keep things fair” on my special day. The photos of meals he would text her, promising to take her there next time. Every single detail had been a breadcrumb, pointing to the truth. When we got tired, Austin went to buy drinks. Grace pulled me down onto a park bench, her smile strained. “Chloe, I want to be your maid of honor next month. Austin is actually really invested in the wedding. He’s been asking me for advice on all the details. Don’t be mad at him, okay?” I managed a faint smile. So he actually remembered we were getting married. Yet, only this morning, the wedding planner had called me: “Ms. Foster, we need to secure the deposit for the venue. Mr. Ward hasn’t replied to any of our messages. Are we rescheduling?” I took a deep breath, a profound, crushing exhaustion settling deep into my bones. “Chloe, we’re still best friends for life, right?” she asked, her eyes pleading. I remained silent. She wrapped her arms around me, her voice trembling with unshed tears. “We are, right? Nothing changes between us.” I looked over her shoulder. Austin was walking back toward us, holding Grace’s favorite ice cream and a bottle of tea. There was nothing in his hands for me. “Everything has changed.” My hands curled into tight fists at my sides. I didn’t hug her back. Grace let out a choked sob. Hearing her cry, Austin rushed forward, shoving me aside so hard I fell off the bench. He pulled her into his chest, carefully wiping away her tears. When he looked down at me sitting on the gravel, his face was contorted with disgust and blame. “Chloe, it’s been three days! Have you still not gotten over this?” he hissed. “For the sake of her friendship with you, she was willing to ask for nothing, to stay in the shadows as the other woman just so she wouldn’t lose you. How can you be so cruel to her? The wedding is still happening. What more do you want?” Staring at his furious face, he felt cold and entirely unfamiliar. This wasn’t the boy who had beaten up my bullies in high school. This wasn’t the man whose face had flushed red when he asked me out, or who had knelt on one knee, swearing that I was the only woman he would ever love. The old Austin had loved me with a fierce, undivided heart. The man standing before me had split his soul in two. And I had no interest in a tarnished love, or a marriage built on scraps. A sudden spasm of pain clawed at my stomach. I pushed myself up from the gravel, my voice dry and hollow. “The wedding is off. We’re done, Austin.” For a second, Austin’s face went entirely blank. “What kind of game are you playing?” Grace broke away from his embrace, sobbing. “It’s my fault. I never should have come back to the States. I’ll leave. I’ll go back.” His expression shattered. He frantically grabbed her hand. “Chloe, what is this cheap reverse-psychology trick? Are you trying to ruin her life again?” He glared at me, his jaw clenched. “Do you have any idea why she left the country back then? It was because I confessed my feelings to “you”. She couldn’t bear to watch us, and she fled because she loved me too much to stay.” I froze, a high-pitched ringing filling my ears. Back in college, right after Austin and I started dating, Grace had suddenly married a wealthy older man and disappeared overseas. None of us knew that the man already had a family in Europe. She spent years trapped in a lie before discovering the truth. When she confronted him, he kicked her out onto the street with nothing but a one-way ticket back home. A year ago, if I hadn’t spotted her, disheveled and scavenging for food near a dumpster, she would have starved to death. The apartment she lived in now was paid for with my money. The funds in her bank account came from my paychecks. I had never asked for anything in return. I did it because she was my sister, the only family I had left, and I wanted to give her the world. I had thought Austin felt the same way, helping her out of shared history. How naive of me. For him, it had started as guilt, turned into pity, and festered into love. Looking at the wreckage of our lives, I couldn’t even tell whose fault it was anymore. We were just pieces caught in the gears of a cruel machine. I forced a dry laugh. “Then I wish you two a very happy life together.” As I turned to walk away, a flash of movement caught my eye. A feral, foaming dog was hurtling toward us, its bared teeth snapping. In a split second, I remembered a local news alert about rabid strays in the area. I was terrified of dogs, but instinct took over—I lunged forward to shield Grace. But in my panic, my foot caught on a root, and I stumbled heavily toward her. At that exact moment, Austin’s furious roar clashed with the dog’s vicious barking. “Chloe, what the hell are you doing?!” Before I could steady myself, I was violently shoved aside. I hit the dirt, and a searing, white-hot agony tore through my right calf. The stray had clamped its teeth into my leg, tearing at the flesh. Screaming in pain, I kicked out wildly, hitting the dog’s snout until it released me and fled into the bushes. Austin was already standing over Grace, holding her tightly. He glared down at me, chest heaving with rage. “When did you become so malicious? You tried to push her in front of you as a shield?!” It was only as the words left his mouth that his gaze drifted down to my mangled, bloody leg. His pupils contracted in horror. “Chloe… you…” He froze, slowly bending down to reach for me. Suddenly, Grace let out a sharp cry of pain, clutching her abdomen as she collapsed onto the grass. Austin froze. He instantly spun away from me. “Grace! What’s wrong?!” He scooped her into his arms, frantic, and began sprinting toward the street to hail a cab. I watched his retreating figure, my voice barely a whisper in the wind. “Austin… it hurts so bad…” But his entire universe was centered on Grace. My cries never reached his ears. Behind him, another pool of blood began to seep into the dry earth. It wasn’t coming from my leg. I hacked violently, coughing up thick, dark blood. The agonizing fire in my stomach flared to life, hotter and sharper than before. I lay there alone, gasping for air like a fish stranded on dry land, watching the yellow taxi speed away, kicking up a cloud of dust that settled over my face, my clothes, and my broken heart. It was a kind stranger who eventually drove me to the emergency room. The doctors patched up my leg and administered a rabies shot, but when they saw me coughing up blood, their expressions turned grim. While waiting for my lab results, I spotted Austin in the hospital corridor. He was pacing back and forth outside an examination room. The moment the door opened, he lunged forward. “Doctor, how are my wife and the baby?” The doctor adjusted his glasses. “The mother and fetus are stable for now, but we need to keep her for observation. I suggest admitting her.” Austin let out a massive sigh of relief and hurried off to fill out the paperwork. I sat on a plastic chair nearby, my entire body turning to ice. Six months ago, Grace had been dragged into an alley by a drunk. I had run to find her, stumbling right into the nightmare. The man had raised a knife to slash her, and I had thrown my body over hers. The blade plunged into my lower abdomen, releasing a torrent of blood. I survived the ICU, but the damage was irreversible. I had to undergo an emergency hysterectomy. When Grace wept by my bedside, I was the one comforting her. “It’s okay, we’re alive. The worst that happens is I’ll just be the godmother to your kids.” Austin had stood in the corner, his face pale and unreadable. Later, I found him sobbing in the hospital stairwell. I had tried to lighten the mood. “What, are you going to dump me now because I can’t have kids?” “Don’t talk like that,” he had choked out, holding me so tightly I could barely breathe. “I almost lost you… I don’t care about kids, Chloe. I only want you. I will never have a child with anyone else.” His vow had felt so solid, so incredibly warm. I had believed him. I didn’t know then that promises carry an expiration date. His had lasted exactly six months. The lab results finally came back, and the doctor’s face instantly dropped. “It’s gastric cancer, and the trauma has triggered an acute stomach perforation! We need to operate immediately!” he turned to the head nurse. “Our hospital doesn’t have the specialized equipment for this complex of a case. There’s a brilliant young specialist who just got back from Europe—he has the expertise we need. Quick, get her family to sign the transfer papers! If we wait any longer, she won’t make it!” The nurse leaned over my gurney. “Ma’am, where is your family?” The pain in my abdomen was a white-hot blade. I curled into a ball, coughing up another dark splatter of blood. “I don’t have any family…” I whispered. “Search her phone for emergency contacts!” the doctor urged. The nurse found the number. It took thirteen consecutive calls before the line finally clicked open. “Hello?” Austin’s voice sounded exhausted. “Hello, this is the municipal hospital emergency room…” “I’m already at the hospital,” Austin interrupted, his voice spiking with panic. “Is there something wrong with Grace’s lab results?” “Grace? No, we’re calling about Chloe Foster,” the nurse said rapidly. “Are you her next of kin? Her stomach cancer has progressed rapidly, and she has a perforated stomach. We need you to sign her transfer papers immediately!” “Chloe? Cancer?” Austin’s voice instantly turned cold. “She had a scrape on her leg. Now she’s inventing stomach cancer?” In the background, I could hear Grace’s whimpering voice. “Austin, my stomach hurts so bad… can you call a nurse? Go check on Chloe, really, I’ll be fine by myself…” “Nurse! I need a nurse!” Austin shouted into the room, ignoring the phone. Then, his voice softened into a gentle, soothing coo. “Don’t worry, sweetie. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” Once the nurse in their room reassured him, he spoke back into his phone, his tone dripping with disgust. “Tell Chloe to stop acting. I don’t have time for her drama.” “Sir, this is not a drill!” the nurse yelled back, her voice cracking with desperation. “The patient is in critical condition! We just need your signature—” “Why does she always have to be so incredibly high-maintenance?” Austin snapped, his patience entirely gone. “Tell her that once her leg is bandaged, she needs to stay in her room. I’ll drop by when I have a minute. If she keeps pulling these pathetic stunts, the wedding is off. And let her know—since she doesn’t know yet—Grace is pregnant with my child. If Chloe behaves herself, she can still be the godmother. Unless she’s literally dead, don’t call me again.” The call went dead. The nurse stared at the screen, then looked down at me with profound pity. I stared up at the sterile, white ceiling, a tear of blood and sorrow leaking from the corner of my eye. More than twenty years of shared life, and it ended like this. He had blinded himself to my agony, completely indifferent to whether I lived or died. As my vision began to darken, I closed my eyes, letting the blackness take me. Grace eventually drifted off to sleep. Austin stepped out into the quiet hallway and answered a call from the wedding planner. “Mr. Ward, are we moving forward with the ceremony? The venue’s hold expires in an hour.” “Yes,” he replied without a second thought. “I’ll wire the deposit right now.” After completing the transaction, Chloe finally crossed his mind. He walked down the corridor to her room and pushed the door open. The bed was empty, the sheets stripped. He frowned, pulled out his phone, and typed a quick, annoyed text. “Why can’t you just stay put? Do you really need me to cause a scene and hunt you down to feel special?” The message went through, but there was no read receipt, no reply. A strange, cold prickle of worry brushed against his chest. He grabbed a passing nurse by the arm. “Where is the patient from this room?” The nurse, recognizing his voice from the phone call earlier, gave him a freezing look. “She’s dead,” she said flatly, pulling her arm away. Austin’s face drained of color, turning instantly white.

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With our wedding just weeks away, I found a stack of toll receipts on my boyfriend’s phone. Every single one showed a midnight departure, a grueling twelve-hour drive, and a frantic return the very next morning. To keep me from noticing his absence, he had pulled off these brutal, back-to-back road trips, running on pure adrenaline and desperation. Looking at that exhausting, dangerous schedule, my friends tried to soothe me over brunch. “It’s normal,” they said, offering sympathetic smiles. “Cold feet. Guys freak out before the wedding. He just needs to get it out of his system, he’ll snap out of it.” But I didn’t believe them. So, that very night, I booked a ticket and followed him to Chicago. And there, in the passenger seat of his car, I saw the girl. They got out together and walked into a boutique motel off the highway. Panic, hot and sudden, blinded me. I lunged forward, desperate to catch him, to scream his name, but I didn’t see the oncoming traffic. The bumper of a sedan clipped me, sending me sprawling onto the wet asphalt. Through a haze of white-hot pain and blurring vision, my fingers shook as I typed a desperate text. “Pick up the phone. I’ve been in an accident.” A few yards away, Luke stopped. I saw him pull out his phone and look at the screen. I held my breath, waiting for him to spin around, to run to me. Instead, he swiped the notification away, shoved the phone back into his pocket, and guided the girl inside. I blacked out. It wasn’t until seven that evening, dragging my fractured leg in its fresh plaster cast, that I finally made it back to our apartment in New York. Only then did Luke’s name light up my screen, his voice laced with practiced panic. “Oh my god, Freda! What happened? Are you okay? Which hospital are you at? I’m coming to get you.” “Don’t bother,” I said. My voice was hollow, entirely flat. No need to pick me up. And no need to get married, either. … My silence must have made him uneasy. “My phone died this afternoon,” Luke explained quickly, his voice soft and placating. “It was so hectic, I didn’t have a chance to charge it.” For the past three months, this had been his go-to excuse. If I hadn’t seen him with my own eyes, I would still be entirely in the dark, shielded by my own naivety. “Okay,” I murmured. “How bad is the leg? What did the doctor say?” His voice sounded genuinely worried. I looked up at the wall clock. It was 7:40 PM. It had been nearly eight hours since I sent that text. I snapped a photo of my heavy plaster cast and sent it to him. A compound fracture. Luke looked at the photo but didn’t ask any more questions about the pain or the diagnosis. Instead, he sent over a few photos of pink blossoms framing a lakeside path. “They’re in full bloom here,” he wrote. “It’s a literal sea of pink. Photos don’t do it justice.” I stared at the image for a long moment before typing back: “Is Chicago really that beautiful?” Beautiful enough to drive twelve hours for, four times in a single month? He had sent me the exact same photos four times now. The same angles. The same composition. He was so lazy with his deceit that he couldn’t even bother to take a new picture. There was a long pause on his end, as if he hadn’t expected the question. “It’s nice,” he said, his tone turning guarded. “To be honest, half of it was just helping a friend move her things. I was doing a favor.” He didn’t name the friend, and I didn’t ask, because I already knew he wouldn’t tell the truth. It was Giselle. I had scrolled through her Instagram earlier. She had posted a photo of herself looking radiant, standing under those exact crabapple blossoms. The photographer had clearly adored her, waiting for the perfect golden-hour light to hit her face before clicking the shutter. It was nothing like the photos Luke took of me. Nine times out of ten, his photos of me were blurry or off-center. Whenever I complained, he would just laugh helplessly. “I’m just a typical guy, babe. I don’t know how to work a camera.” But looking at Giselle’s profile, I finally understood. It wasn’t a lack of skill. It was a lack of care. Seeing that I wasn’t responding, Luke assumed I was tired. “You should get some rest. I’ll be back first thing in the morning.” “Okay,” I said, and hung up. I clicked on Giselle’s caption again. It was a sweet, bubbly update: “Grad school is officially over! Four trips back and forth, but so lucky to have had a dedicated helper. Thank you, you know who you are.” She went four times. He went four times. He hadn’t missed a single trip. Meanwhile, our caterer, the florist, the tux fittings—he hadn’t shown an ounce of interest in any of them. My head throbbed, a dull ache matching the tight pressure of the cast. After sending an email to cancel the wedding venue, I finally fell into a fitful sleep around 2 AM. When I woke up, Luke was already home. The apartment smelled of rich herbs; he was in the kitchen brewing chicken broth. Seeing me awake, he walked over and gently brushed a hand against my cheek. “How did you manage to get hit by a car?” I stared at him for a moment. “I went out, saw someone I recognized, and tried to catch up with them.” Luke offered a mild, distracted nod. “Well, be more careful next time.” He didn’t ask where I had gone, or who the person was. Because he didn’t care. My train ticket to Chicago was sitting right there on the entryway table, fully visible. He didn’t even glance at it. My eyes stung for a brief second. I grabbed my crutches and dragged myself out of bed. After a quick wash, I hobbled over to the dining table and reached for a bowl of the soup. “Don’t touch that!” Luke suddenly yelled, lunging forward, his voice cracking with panic. I froze, the ladle hovering in mid-air. “It’s not for me?” He cleared his throat, trying to soften his tone. “A friend of mine has a terrible flu. I promised I’d drop some homemade soup off. But I mean… if you really want some, go ahead.” Though he smiled, the reluctance in his voice was sharp enough to cut. I didn’t argue. I looked down at my heavy plaster cast, then quietly put the ladle back down. Luke immediately sealed the thermos and packed up a few side dishes. Once everything was neatly packed into a tote bag, he finally looked at me. “What do you want to eat? I can whip up some quick food before I go?” “Who is this friend?” I asked. Our voices collided in the quiet kitchen. “Just someone from school. You don’t know them,” he said, his voice perfectly smooth. “Male or female?” The easy smile vanished from Luke’s face, replaced by a flicker of annoyance. “Freda, what is this? It’s just a normal friend. Are you just stressed about the wedding?” I didn’t push further. He turned back toward the stove to put a pot of water on, but his phone suddenly buzzed on the counter. He glanced at it, and within seconds, he was ripping off his apron and grabbing the thermos. “Something came up, I have to run. Make sure you eat something, okay?” He didn’t wait for me to answer. He was out the door before the lock could even click back into place. He rushed out to care for his ex-girlfriend’s mild flu, completely disregarding his fiancé with a broken leg. My phone vibrated with a text. The bridal boutique confirmed that the cancellation of my wedding dress order had gone through. I tapped to confirm the refund, then ordered myself some takeout. After eating, I took a cab to the clinic to pick up my pain medication. And there they were, walking right toward me in the lobby. Luke was carrying Giselle’s designer tote bag in his left hand, and the empty thermos in his right. The moment his eyes met mine, his smile froze. But he quickly adjusted his expression, smoothing over the cracks. “What a coincidence,” he said. Yes. A coincidence that we were at the same clinic, and a coincidence that she had already finished my soup. Giselle didn’t offer any explanation. Instead, she gave me a sweet, polite smile. “Freda, go grab your prescription first. We’ll wait for you outside.” She sounded so poised, so entirely at home, as if she were the one hosting the afternoon. Luke naturally nodded along with her suggestion. I didn’t say anything. When we got to the parking lot, I instinctively reached for the passenger door. Giselle was already standing there, looking at me with a soft, apologetic expression. “I’m so used to sitting up front. Do you mind if I take it, or do you want me to move?” She didn’t make a single move to step aside. The seat’s angle and distance from the dash were already adjusted perfectly to her petite frame. Before I could speak, Luke opened the rear door. “Freda, why don’t you sit in the back? There’s more legroom for your cast.” Throughout the drive, they laughed and chatted easily. I sat in the back, isolated behind an invisible wall, watching them exist in a world that didn’t include me. Suddenly, Luke pulled over by a roadside farm stand. Without a word, he jumped out of the car and ran toward the stalls. Seeing me lower my window, Giselle turned back with a smile. “Don’t worry, he just went to get fresh cherries. There’s a specific orchard stand he always stops at.” My chest tightened, but before I could say anything, Luke was running back, panting, his face bright with excitement. “Giselle, look, they had the sweet ones!” The moment the words left his mouth, he seemed to remember I was in the back. “Freda, do you want—” Before he could finish, Giselle plucked a cherry, pulled the stem, and popped it directly into his mouth. “Told you they’d have them!” Her finger lingered on his bottom lip for a fraction of a second before she pulled away. Luke’s face flushed red. He shot a quick, guilty glance at me in the rearview mirror, then cleared his throat and shifted into drive. “Let’s get going.” Giselle sat back, perfectly relaxed, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. In the reflection of the mirror, my expression was entirely blank. When Luke met my eyes, trying to gauge my reaction, I actually let out a quiet laugh. The car’s speed gathered abruptly. After we finally dropped Giselle off at her apartment, Luke immediately turned around to explain. “Don’t take her seriously, Freda. She’s always been a tease, it doesn’t mean anything.” “Do you even remember you’re getting married?” I asked quietly. The question was too sharp, and Luke’s face darkened. He didn’t answer. I turned my head to look out the window, my mind drifting. Luke and Giselle had been the classic college sweethearts. They were the golden couple—the debate partners, the honor students, the ones who traveled together every summer. But they were both too stubborn, constantly fighting, breaking up, and making up. When they finally called it quits after graduation because of differing career paths, Luke had wept as if his world had ended. I had never seen a man break down like that. I remembered walking up to him on that rainy evening, pulling my own beanie over his head to shield him from the cold, and running off before he could see my face. We reconnected a year later, and our relationship had progressed naturally. It was comfortable, steady, and peaceful. There was no screaming, no devastating heartbreak. And because of that, he had grown bored. “Don’t overthink this. Nothing happened between us,” his voice was stiff now, cold. I met his eyes in the mirror. “The sick friend was her, wasn’t it?” “Yes,” Luke admitted, his tone defensive. “She was sick, and I looked after her. That’s all it was.” He had built a thick, protective wall around himself. But I was the one left standing outside of it. We drove the rest of the way in silence. When we reached the parking garage, my leg was throbbing from the day’s movement. I wanted him to help me, to offer a shoulder. Instead, Luke walked over and simply hoisted me onto his back. I was too exhausted to fight, so I closed my eyes and rested my head against his shoulder. While we were waiting for the elevator, his phone buzzed in his hand. He paused, glancing down at me. “Freda?” I didn’t move, pretending to be asleep. Luke opened the notification. It was a photo from Giselle. She was wearing a tiny, black string bikini. “Does this look good? Thinking of posting it on Facebook.” I felt Luke’s breath catch. He typed rapidly: “Don’t you dare post that.” “Why not?” Luke’s grip on my thighs tightened. “Because you’re mine.” “I know. But you’re still getting married.” Luke didn’t reply to that. The elevator doors chimed open. He carried me into the apartment with careful, gentle steps, laying me down on the sofa. Then, he immediately hurried into his study, desperate to check if she had posted the photo anyway. He didn’t notice the tear tracking down the side of my face. He didn’t notice the damp patch of moisture on the shoulder of his shirt where my head had rested. It was nearly two hours later when he finally came out of the study, looking entirely at ease. Seeing me “awake,” he walked over and patted my head. “What do you want for lunch, babe?” “Fried rice is fine,” I said, shifting my weight and pulling my hand away from his touch. Luke froze, his eyes dropping to my bare ring finger. “Where is your engagement ring?” I had taken it off the moment I got home from Chicago. “It’s annoying to keep on with the cast when I wash up,” I said simply. “Did you put it somewhere safe? You can’t just lose a wedding ring, Freda.” “Is it really that important?” Luke’s brow furrowed. “What kind of question is that? Of course it is. It’s the symbol of our commitment to each other.” The very commitment he had been trading away in his study just minutes ago. Seeing my silence, he took a deep breath, kneeling down to take my hands in his. “Freda, you need to have more faith in us. You’re the only one I want to marry.” Yet he couldn’t bring himself to let go of his ex. I looked at him, genuinely wondering if he wasn’t exhausted by his own performance. How did he manage to split his heart so easily between two women? After lunch, I went into the bedroom to start quietly packing my things. When I came out, Luke was putting on a jacket. “Where are you going?” I asked. “An alumni mixer,” he said. Then, as if sensing my skepticism, he added, “Do you want to come?” “Yes.” Meeting his startled gaze, I offered a small smile. “I’ll go with you.” It was the first time in our three years together that I had ever insisted on joining him for an alumni event. The look on his face was far from happy. When we arrived at the restaurant, Giselle was already waiting at the entrance. Her smile faltered for a fraction of a second when she saw me, but she quickly masked it. “Freda, so glad you could make it!” “Thanks,” I said, but my eyes were drawn to her outfit. She was wearing a dusty blue knit dress. Beside her, Luke was wearing a matching dusty blue button-down. Even the leather-strapped watches on their wrists were from the same brand. Walking in beside them, I felt like the intruder. As soon as we walked into the private dining room, a guy near the head of the table stood up, waving a beer. “Luke! Heard you’re finally tying the knot! Man, when did you and Giselle get back together? You guys always were the perfect match.” Luke’s entire body went rigid beside me. Giselle, however, kept her face perfectly composed, even turning to look at me to see if my expression would crack. A friend nearby quickly tugged the guy’s sleeve, whispering loudly, “Shut up, you’re drunk. That’s his fiancé over there.” The guy’s face went bright red. He looked at me, stammering, “Oh, man, I’m so sorry. My bad, truly.” I smiled politely. “Don’t worry about it.” From beside me, Giselle let out a sharp, mocking laugh. It was brief, but loud enough to cut through the sudden quiet of the room. This time, I turned to look at her directly. “What’s funny, Giselle?” She clearly hadn’t expected me to call her out so bluntly. The tight, practiced smile on her face began to slip. “Nothing, Freda. Honestly, you’re just being so sensitive.” “Am I?” I said, my voice steady and clear. “Is it sensitive to care that you sent my fiancé a bikini photo yesterday? Or was that just another one of your little jokes?” The entire room went dead silent. Giselle’s face went completely white. Within seconds, she collapsed against the table, burying her face in her hands as she began to sob. Luke’s expression turned utterly hostile. He grabbed my wrist, his grip painfully tight, and dragged me out into the hallway. “Freda! Have you lost your mind? What are you doing?!” As he pulled me, my cast-bound leg clipped the sharp corner of the wall. A wave of agony shot up my spine, making me gasp. When the pain finally subsided, I looked at him and felt a sudden, bitter urge to laugh. I had just exposed his betrayal, and he was standing here, demanding to know what was wrong with “me”. “What are you so defensive about?” I asked. “I’m not defensive!” Luke hissed, his face dark with anger. “It was just a photo. Don’t be so provincial.” I nodded slowly. “Right. So I can send a bikini photo to my ex, too? And tell you it’s just a photo?” Luke rubbed his temples, looking thoroughly exhausted. Inside the room, Giselle’s crying was growing louder, drawing more attention. He had no interest in continuing this fight with me. “Just go home, Freda. We’ll talk about this at home.” Whenever there was a conflict, his first instinct was always to cast me out. Through the crack of the door, his classmates were looking at me with a mix of pity and discomfort. Behind them, Giselle had lifted her head, resting her chin on her hands, watching me with a smug, victorious little wave. I turned and walked away. When I got back to the apartment, my parents were already there waiting for me. They had already loaded the last of my boxes into the trunk of their car. My mom looked at me, her eyes quiet and steady. “Are you sure about this, sweetie?” I nodded. “I’m sure.” Before we drove away, my parents sent out a group text to all of our relatives, formally cancelling the wedding. On the drive back to my hometown, my phone buzzed with an Instagram notification. Giselle had posted a photo from the reunion. “The perfect reunion. Can’t wait for next year, guys!” In the group shot, Giselle was pressed tightly against Luke’s side, her arm wrapped possessively around his. But I had already left the battlefield. At 8 PM, Luke unlocked the door to the apartment, expecting to find me waiting for him. Instead, he was met with nothing but silence, and a sudden, cold dread began to settle in his chest.

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In the middle of the scorched-earth apocalypse, the impossible happened: I got a video call from myself, ten years in the future. “When does this end? Are Mom and Dad going to make it back with the water? What about Toby? Is my brother safe?” The questions poured out of me, desperate and breathless. But the face staring back at me from the screen didn’t look like mine. It was a nightmare. He was covered in weeping, infected sores, his scalp entirely bald and raw. His eyes, sunken deep into a hollow skull, were yellowed and threaded with dark purple veins. He was so gaunt he looked like a skeleton draped in graying skin. “Apocalypse?” My future self let out a rasping, bitter laugh. “There is no damn apocalypse, Sean. This is a cage. An underground tomb your parents custom-built just to appease their golden boy, Toby.” My breath hitched. “For ten years, they’re going to bring you a single piece of moldy, expired bread every day, and you’re going to wag your tail like a dog, crying with gratitude. To stay alive, you’ll drink your own filtered urine. When the hunger gets too sharp, you’ll gnaw on the wooden frame of your cot…” He leaned closer to the screen, his skeletal face filling my vision. “And Toby? He isn’t missing. While you’re down here on your knees, licking condensation off the filthy concrete, he’s sitting in the air-conditioned mansion directly above your head. He’s drinking iced sweet tea, holding your fiancée, and whispering with your parents about how many more heating elements they can install to make your life a living hell.” I froze, my mind completely short-circuiting. He pulled his cracked lips back into a agonizing, hollow smile. “I traded my last breath to get this call through to you, Sean.” “They forgot to lock the heavy bulkhead door today. If you don’t believe me, push it open. See for yourself. The apocalypse only exists for you.” … The call cut out, leaving a wall of dead static. My hands shook so violently that my phone slipped from my grasp, clattering onto the cold concrete. All I could see was the reflection of my future self—broken, ruined, stripped of any humanity. “No… it can’t be…” I looked up at the reinforced skylight. Through the thick glass, I could see the desolate street. Scorched, skeletal trees. Cars melted into puddles of metal. Not a single living soul. The world outside was supposed to be a blistering, 120-degree wasteland. Ignoring my trembling knees, I scrambled on all fours toward the heavy bulkhead door. The door was lined with state-of-the-art thermal insulation. To ensure my “safety,” my mother had stuffed every seam with fireproof stripping. My father, a renowned meteorologist, had told me himself that the surface temperature had surged past critical levels. He said the streets were crawling with desperate, murderous scavengers. He warned me that without a tactical hazmat suit, I would burn to death within ten minutes. This door was the only barrier between me and a living hell. I placed my palm against the heavy brass handle. It was supposed to be scalding, hot enough to sear my skin off. I closed my eyes, gritted my teeth, and braced myself for the pain as I twisted my wrist. I barely had to apply any pressure. The door swung open. There was no blast of white-hot air. No suffocating heatwave. Instead, a cool, gentle breeze washed over me, carrying the faint, sweet scent of rain-soaked gardenias. Soft drops of summer drizzle fell onto my parched, cracked face. I stood there, paralyzed. A cold dread pooled in my stomach, making my knees buckle. My brain refused to process the sensory reality of the world before me. There was no apocalypse. It was a meticulously crafted stage play, designed by my own parents, just to soothe Toby’s bruised ego. This basement wasn’t a fallout shelter. It was my coffin. “Toby, sweetheart, come eat some of this chilled watermelon I just sliced.” The familiar, warm voice of my mother drifted through the air. A violent shiver ran down my spine. I instinctively shrank back, slipping behind the shadow of the villa’s brick siding. The house was beautifully, freezing cold. My mother, who supposedly had been missing for three days on a perilous run for canned goods, was sitting on the plush sofa. She had her arm wrapped around Toby, sipping a glass of cabernet while they watched a talk show. My father walked over, gently placing a piece of perfectly seared ribeye into Toby’s mouth with a fond smile. “Our sweet boy,” my father said softly. “Right now, Sean is either weeping over your photograph or staring at his skylight in despair.” “He still doesn’t realize you didn’t run away because of some stupid argument. He actually believes the sky is falling. He has no idea that skylight is just a high-definition LED screen.” “That boy had the nerve to embarrass you at school and try to steal your girlfriend. He deserves to learn what happens when he crosses you.” Embarrass Toby? Steal his girlfriend? I had done none of those things. But my parents had taken a handful of Toby’s venomous whispers and used them to sentence their own flesh and blood to ten years of psychological torture in a dark hole. Hot, bitter tears spilled over my cheeks, dripping onto my hands. Just ten minutes ago, I had forced myself to drink half a cup of stagnant, yellow water to save a single moldy crust of bread for my parents. I had starved myself so they could live. I had truly believed that if I just endured, if I was just strong enough, our family would make it to the other side of the end of the world. I caught my reflection in the patio glass. My knees gave out, and I nearly collapsed onto the wet grass. My lips were split and bleeding. My skin was yellowed with dirt, and my hair was falling out in clumps near my temples. I looked like a gutter rat. And according to the video call, this was just the beginning. I was going to get so much worse. I was going to die down there, believing their lie until my very last breath. I bit my own arm, squeezing my eyes shut to stifle the sob clawing its way up my throat. On the living room wall, a new family portrait hung in a gilded frame. I wasn’t in it. In my place stood Toby, flanked by my parents, with his golden retriever sitting at their feet. “Ah.” I swallowed the suffocating grief, turning silently toward the garden hose lying in the flowerbeds. I grabbed the nozzle and let the cool, clean water gush into my mouth. Over the past year, my parents would occasionally bring back half a plastic bottle of lukewarm, brackish water. Drinking a single capful of that felt like a gift from heaven. I had been pampered for twenty years; I never knew plain tap water could taste so sweet. But the image of my future, skeletal self remained burned into my retinas, cold and unyielding. My hand trembled against the plastic hose. “Fine.” “You want a post-apocalyptic wasteland?” “Since you went to all the trouble of building this beautiful stage… I’m going to make sure you get to play your parts to the very end.” I slipped quietly back into the basement. I pulled the heavy bulkhead door shut, sealing myself back in. The stifling, stagnant air of the cellar instantly wrapped around me, threatening to suffocate me. The cool rain outside felt like a dream I had already forgotten. I crawled back to my spot in the corner, pressing my face against the thumb-sized ventilation pipe, and watched the simulated red dust swirl on the LED skylight until sleep finally claimed me. In my dreams, I lived those ten years. I dreamed of the simulated “deaths” of my parents during a scavenge run. I dreamed of surviving on their meager, pre-staged rations. The hunger and thirst were constant, gnawing monsters. The basement walls in my dream were covered in desperate messages written in my own blood. Several times, I had tried to throw myself open to the “scorched air” outside just to end the misery. But the bulkhead door’s handle had been rigged to run scorching current, searing my flesh whenever I touched it. It was locked from the outside. And even then, in my madness, I had believed my parents locked it to protect me from the savage survivors outside. I dreamed of the day the food ran out. I was eating dirt and splinters. Then, the door opened. Toby stood there, looking down at my broken body, howling with laughter. “You absolute moron! You actually believed the world was ending?” Behind him stood his wife—Bridget, my former fiancée—looking at me with profound disgust. “How pathetic. He looks like a hairless mole rat. Is this really the great heir of the family?” My father grabbed me by the few remaining strands of my hair, dragging me out into the light. “Stop playing dead. The rations I left were more than enough to keep you alive!” “If you hadn’t bullied Toby, we wouldn’t have had to go to such lengths…” “Slap!” The sharp sting across my cheek snapped me awake. I opened my eyes to see my father looking down at me, his expression tight with irritation. He was wearing a heavily scuffed, spray-painted hazmat suit. Fresh, synthetic blood was smeared across his shoulder. “Sean! Why do you have a fever?” Perhaps it was the sudden intake of clean water, but my body had gone into shock. My forehead was burning. My father looked exhausted, his eyes performing a perfect imitation of paternal despair. “Sean, your mother and I are putting our lives on the line out there just to bring you a single bite of food.” “It’s a wasteland out there! A literal wasteland!” “Because you fought with your brother and drove him out of the house, he missed his chance to get to the shelter. We can’t even find his body! I’m begging you, stop making things harder for us, okay?” If this were yesterday, I would have wept with guilt. I would have fallen to my knees, begging for his forgiveness. Now, looking at his sweat-streaked, theatrical makeup, I felt nothing but a cold, heavy disgust. “You love acting so much?” “Let’s see how well you perform.” I lowered my head, letting my shoulders slump in manufactured shame. “I’m sorry, Dad. I didn’t mean to get sick. Maybe… maybe I should go out there with you next time. I can help scavenge. I can help keep us alive.” My father’s face went stiff for a fraction of a second. He quickly masked his panic with a heavy, theatrical sigh. “The survivors out there are desperate beasts, Sean. You wouldn’t last five minutes.” “Besides, we only have two functional suits. If anything happens to you, your mother and I wouldn’t be able to go on.” “Get some rest. I’ll go see if I can find some fever reducers in the ruins.” He stood up, turning his back on me without another word, and heavy-handedly shut the thick bulkhead door. “Click.” The tiny piece of sheet metal I had wedged into the strike plate earlier rattled softly. I crept over, carefully manipulating the metal shim to keep the latch from fully engaging, and pulled out the small garden trowel I had hidden down my trousers earlier. I pried the door back open. I crept up to the glass pane of the back patio, moving like a shadow. Inside, my father was peeling off the stiff hazmat suit with a look of deep revulsion. He grabbed a bottle of rubbing alcohol, scrubbing his hands raw. “Useless brat,” he muttered, spitting his words. “How did I end up with a son like Sean?” “Always causing problems, always a burden. I swear, he needs another ten years down there to finally fix that rotten attitude of his.” Toby stepped up, affectionately wiping the dark theatrical grease from my father’s cheek. He wrapped an arm around my father’s shoulders, cooing playfully. “Dad, you’ve worked so hard!” “It looks like Sean still hasn’t learned his lesson. We should seal up his main ventilation pipe. If he has a fever, he can just sweat it out!” “Or we can turn up the heating rods. Let’s see how cocky he is when it’s 104 degrees down there.” “Oh, and we should add some zombie-dog sound effects to the LED sky screen! We can just tell him the virus mutated and the infected are roaming the streets.” Toby gushed about his plans to torture me, his eyes gleaming with excitement. My parents hesitated for a moment, but then nodded with indulgent, doting smiles. The blood in my veins turned to ice. If it hadn’t been for that video call, I would have been subjected to these monstrous cruelties for ten agonizing years. My mother turned on the television, pulling Toby down to sit beside her. She handed him a bowl of freshly peeled grapes, her eyes warm and tender. “We’ll take it one step at a time,” she said softly. “This isn’t just about making you feel better, Toby. It’s about correcting his character.” “Your father and I have calculated his rations perfectly. He won’t starve, but he won’t have the strength to act out. Until he learns how to be a proper, humble brother to you, we cannot afford to be soft-hearted.” “Brother?” I would never be a brother to a parasite. Toby was my mother’s favorite student. After his own parents passed away, she had brought him into our home. In the beginning, I had been happy to welcome him. I wanted to share my family. But he had repaid me with a campaign of systematic ruin. He framed me for burning his school projects, claimed I orchestrated his bullying at school, and accused me of hiring thugs to assault Bridget just so I could “possess” her. At the mention of my name, my mother’s expression hardened. “Once he’s broken and goes back to being the obedient, quiet boy he used to be, we’ll let him out.” She tapped a button on the smart remote, but as she glanced at the security feed, her brows knit together. “Where did that boy go? Why isn’t he on the camera?” My heart leaped into my throat. Toby leaned closer, gasping. “You’re right! He’s completely gone from the main feed!” “Did he… did he figure it out? Did he escape?” Cold sweat broke out across my back. I gripped the wooden handle of the trowel tightly. But my father let out a dismissive snort. “Escape? The master key is in my pocket. How could he get out?” “Besides, that insulated door gets hot enough to peel his skin if he tries to tamper with it. He’s far too soft to even touch it.” “He’s probably crying in the blind spot of the bathroom.” My father swiped the screen, bringing up yesterday’s footage. “Remember how picky he used to be? Yesterday, I threw him a half-eaten piece of dry salami, and he bolted it down like a stray dog.” “Your plan is working beautifully, Toby. He’s nearly tamed.” My mother pinched her nose in disgust, as if she could smell the stench of the cellar through the screen. “Tamed? He looks like an animal. No dignity at all. It’s embarrassing.” I let out a silent, cold laugh. What was I to them? A dog to be trained? Toby rested his head on my mother’s shoulder, sighing softly. “Since Dad told everyone I was lost in the wasteland, I wish I could go down there and see his face myself.” His eyes gleamed with sadistic anticipation. Naturally, my parents couldn’t bear to deny him. “That’s easy enough,” my father said warmly. “Put on a respirator mask. I’ll tell him you’re a survivor who helped us forage for his fever medicine. He’ll be weeping with gratitude at your feet.” “We can even bring Bridget along. Let her see what a pathetic worm her former fiancé has become. It’ll give her peace of mind.” To please their adopted darling, my parents were willing to utterly destroy me, body and soul. My initial instinct was to call the police. But now, I had a better plan. I was going to give them the exact apocalypse they had built. I slipped backward, quietly returning to the dark of the basement. I needed to be ready before they arrived. I had spent months studying the bulkhead door. My father had installed an emergency safety latch on the exterior—a standard heavy-duty fallout door mechanism. I remembered reading the manual in his study when I was younger. Once the manual override lock was engaged from the outside, no key, no electronic code, and no amount of physical force could open it from the inside. Come on down. Since you built the trap, you might as well see how it feels to be the prey. I dragged myself into the dirty bathroom corner, curling my body into a tight, shivering ball. Suddenly, the LED skylight flickered, displaying a horrifying image of a mutated golden retriever with half its skull exposed, clawing frantically at the glass. Before I could react, the alarm system blared, and the entire basement began to shudder violently under a simulated blast wave. The heavy door was thrown open. My parents, accompanied by two figures in bulky hazmat suits, came tumbling into the room in a state of orchestrated panic. My father frantically ripped off his respirator, his back drenched in sweat. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a handful of dry dog kibble, and shoved it into my trembling hands. “The fallout is spreading! The surface is crawling with mutated beasts! The neighbor’s dog turned and slaughtered its owner!” “This is all the food we could salvage. Your mother and I had to eat wild rats to survive out there. Keep this dog food—it’ll keep you alive!” The dry kibble was covered in dried saliva. I recognized it instantly; it was the leftover food from Toby’s dog bowl. When I didn’t move, my mother’s temper flared. She snatched a crushed, dusty tablet from Toby’s hand and forced it past my lips. “Eat it! Sean, you aren’t some delicate prince anymore! We are in the end times; you don’t have the luxury of being squeamish!” “These two saviors risked their lives to bring you this medicine. Eat it!” “I raised you to show gratitude. Once you swallow it, get on your knees and thank them for saving your miserable life!” Even behind the heavy plastic visor of the hazmat suit, Toby’s eyes danced with sadistic glee. Bridget looked down at my filthy, skeletal frame and visibly gagged. I watched their performance in absolute silence. Then, with a cold smirk, I spat the pill onto the dirty floor. “Dad, Mom… it’s a lawless wasteland out there. How can you trust strangers so easily?” “What if this is poison? What if they followed you to steal our bunker?” The room went dead silent. Bridget was the first to react. She snatched the discarded pill off the floor with her gloved hand, turning toward the exit. “Ungrateful trash. We shouldn’t have bothered.” My mother, humiliated and furious, raised her hand and delivered a stinging slap across my face. The crack echoed off the concrete walls. “You spiteful, arrogant little monster! I swear, you are utterly irredeemable! You deserve to rot down here—” She caught herself, cutting her own words off as she realized she had almost broken character. Toby stepped forward, picking up the pill and grabbing my hand, forcing it into my palm. “The surface pharmacies are gone. We salvaged this from a frozen warehouse; it’s the last dose. Survival is all that matters, Sean.” But as he spoke, his grip suddenly tightened on my arm. With a sharp, sudden jerk, he threw himself backward, crashing heavily against the sharp iron frame of my cot. He let out a sharp cry, looking at me with wide, terrified eyes. “You… you tried to push me onto the exposed bolts?” “I risked my life to save you, and you try to murder me?” Before I could even speak, my father’s massive hand gripped my collar. He hoisted me off the floor and threw me violently into the bathroom corner. “I knew you hadn’t changed!” “Stay in there and rot! Don’t you dare come out until you’re ready to beg for forgiveness!” “Slam!” I was thrown into the shallow pool of grey water on the bathroom floor. The stench of stagnant waste filled my nose, making my stomach heave. My fever made my skull feel like it was cracking open. But my mind had never been clearer. The bathroom was the closest point to the exit. Through the cracked door, I could see Toby holding up his phone, snickering as he took photos of my pathetic state. My parents and Bridget stood by, their faces filled with doting amusement. “Now.” “This is the moment.” Adrenaline surged through my veins, hot and electric. With every ounce of strength left in my starved body, I lunged from the floor and bolted toward the bulkhead door. A furious, stunned roar shattered the quiet behind me. “Sean! What the hell are you doing?!”

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The soul-snatcher who hijacked my life for three years turned my family’s estate into a toxic battleground of manufactured drama. The second she checked out and I finally woke up in my own skin, my vision was flooded with a frantic, glowing chat stream. [Oh my god, the real Grace is finally back! Her sister Sadie is a total snake now, and their brother Wyatt is incredibly biased.] [The impostor spent three years ruining everything, playing the victim, and trying to secure the entire inheritance.] [Grace’s reputation is in the gutter now. Let’s see how she cleans up this absolute trainwreck!” While I was sorting through the glowing words hovering in the air, my younger sister, Sadie, walked in holding a cup of hot tea. She had a timid, fragile smile plastered on her face. “You’re finally awake, Grace. Wyatt said you’re still too weak, so he wants me to represent the family at the gala next week.” I looked at the chat stream scrolling by—”Here comes the fake sister, trying to steal her power.” Then I looked at the fragile, sweet girl standing in front of me. Instead of taking the tea, I reached out, gently pinched her soft cheek, and let out a soft laugh. “Sure. If you want to go that badly, go pick whatever you want from my closet.” …… Sadie froze. Her hand holding the tea hovered in midair, her practiced smile evaporating into pure, unadulterated confusion. The chat exploded: [She’s totally glitched!] [Sadie did not see that coming, lmao.] [Look at her eyes, her brain has completely shut down.” But she recovered quickly. She took a sharp breath, her eyes welling with tears. “If I said something wrong… I’m sorry, Grace. I didn’t mean to upset you.” She took a tiny step back, shrinking into herself like a delicate wildflower caught in a sudden draft. I gave her performance a 9.5 out of 10. Half a point off because her eyes were too bright, constantly darting to gauge my reaction. She slipped. The chat agreed: [I gotta hand it to Sadie, her acting is top-tier.] [The impostor must have traumatized her so badly she developed survival reflexes.” Before I was shoved out of my own body, Sadie was a fierce, fearless kid. At thirteen, she got into a fistfight with a boy from the next block, won, and grinned at me with blood split across her lip. Now? She had learned to slouch her shoulders, flutter her eyelashes, and cry on command. All of it carved into her by that malicious squatter in my soul. I gestured for her to come closer. She took a tentative step forward. I reached out and pinched her cheek again. Still as soft as it was when we were kids. Sadie stood there, completely petrified. The chat went wild: [She pinched her! She actually pinched her face!] [The impostor used to scream if Sadie got within three feet of her, and now she’s playing with her cheeks??” “G-Grace?” “It’s nothing. Just felt like doing it.” Her lips parted, but she was speechless. The hundred lines she had probably prepared were suddenly useless, and she couldn’t improvise fast enough. The door clicked open. A middle-aged woman in a housekeeper’s uniform entered with a silver tray. When she saw me awake, a sycophantic smile spread across her face. “Miss Grace, you’re awake. I brought the lavender-infused broth you requested—” She glanced at Sadie, and her smile instantly dropped. “What are you doing here, Sadie? Miss Grace is recovering. Don’t come in here making trouble.” The sheer contempt in her voice was palpable. Sadie’s shoulders tensed as she looked down, silent. I realized then how much the impostor had enabled this behavior. With Wyatt away on a business trip, Sadie had no one to shield her from the staff’s petty cruelty. “Who gave you permission to speak to her like that?” My voice wasn’t loud, but the housekeeper froze. “Miss Grace?” “She is my sister.” I looked her dead in the eye. “I don’t know how you treated her while I was out of it, but starting right now, anyone who shows her even a shred of disrespect will be packed and fired by sunset.” The housekeeper’s face flushed red and white. Sadie snapped her head up, her eyes wide as saucers, staring at me like I was an alien. The chat went crazy: [She’s protecting her! She’s actually protecting her sister!] [The impostor used to lead the bullying, and now Grace’s first act is to shield her!” The housekeeper awkwardly set the tray down and scurried out. Sadie was still frozen in shock. I pushed the bowl of hot broth toward her. “Want some?” She shook her head mechanically, then nodded mechanically, completely overwhelmed. “I… I should go.” The door clicked shut, followed by the frantic “pitter-patter” of her running down the hallway. Faster than a mouse running from a cat. I leaned back against my pillows, the humor fading from my face. The mess left behind from the last three years was worse than I thought. But it was fine. Now that I was back, I’d clean it up. One piece at a time. The next morning, as I descended the grand staircase, I saw a confrontation in the foyer. Sadie was backed into a corner, her face pale. Facing her were two meticulously styled middle-aged women in designer activewear. One was pointing a manicured finger in her face. “Sadie, you ruined my daughter’s limited-edition Birkin bag last week. We agreed on a replacement. Where is the money?” Sadie bit her lip. “I didn’t ruin it—” “Didn’t ruin it? You’re a charity case living under this roof, who’s going to take your word?” the woman sneered. “Or are you trying to play dumb? I heard Grace absolutely despises you. You’re a ghost in this house. Who’s going to bail you out?” The new butler stood off to the side, watching with a smirk. [Wyatt is out of town, so these vultures come to bully the kid.] [They’re totally making this up because they know she’s an easy target.] [The butler is loyal to the impostor. He probably let them in on purpose.” I stepped off the stairs. My voice was quiet, but it commanded the room. They all turned. The two women’s eyes lit up, their sneers instantly morphing into sycophantic grins. “Oh, Grace, darling! You’re just in time. We were just telling your sister—” “What bag did she supposedly ruin?” I cut her off. “An Hermès limited-edition. Over forty thousand dollars.” Sadie’s face went even paler, her lips trembling. I glanced at her, then looked at the women, offering a cold smile. “Forty thousand? Fine. I’ll pay it. But—” I walked over, standing firmly at Sadie’s side. “Did my sister actually damage the bag, or did your daughter stage an accident to shake her down?” The woman’s expression faltered. “What is that supposed to mean?” “Exactly what I said.” I pulled out my phone. “There are security cameras in public spaces. Let’s pull up the footage. If my sister was at fault, I’ll write you a check for forty thousand without batting an eye. But if your daughter staged it…” I smiled. “We’ll let our lawyers handle the extortion charges.” The two women looked at each other, their faces draining of color. One of them let out a forced, nervous laugh. “Oh, Grace, there’s no need to take it that far. We were just asking… anyway, we should get going.” They practically sprinted out the front door. Once the door clicked shut, I turned to the butler who had been enjoying the show. “What is your name?” He blinked. “I… I’m Thomas, Miss Grace.” “Who let those women in?” “I didn’t realize they would—” “And how long did you stand there watching them berate my sister?” His face went white. “You’re let go. Pack your things and leave the property by noon.” “Miss Grace! I’ve worked for this family for years—” “Then you should know that Sadie is a daughter of this house,” I interrupted. “Not entertainment for your amusement.” The butler was escorted out by the security staff. The foyer fell silent. Sadie stood there, looking like she’d been struck by lightning. “You… you defended me?” “Obviously,” I said, looking at her. “You’re my sister.” Her eyes welled with tears. She blinked fiercely to force them back. “I… I’m going to my room.” She ran. Again. [She’s crying!] [Three years… and someone finally had her back.] [My heart is melting!” In the afternoon, Sadie crept out of her room, clutching a dress in her arms. My dress. A sage-green floral silk wrap dress from my closet. She stood in front of me, looking as conflicted as if she were deciding the fate of the nation. “Grace… you said I could pick whatever I wanted.” She took a deep breath. “I only tried this one on. If you’re mad, I’ll put it right back.” The chat exploded: [Here it is! The ultimate test!] [The impostor would literally fly into a rage if anyone touched her clothes.] [Remember when the maid touched her dress and she screamed for three hours?” I looked at the dress. I’d bought it right before my life was hijacked. I remember thinking how beautiful that shade of green would look against her skin, intending to give it to her. I never expected it to happen like this. “Try it on,” I said. Sadie froze, then, as if terrified I’d change my mind, dashed back into her room. When she emerged, she stood before the full-length mirror, spinning around. The silk flared, exposing her slender ankles. It was stunning, but— “The waistline is too high. Without a belt, it looks like a nightgown. Hold on.” I went upstairs, grabbed a leather belt, and brought it down. I cinched it around her waist, tying a neat bow at the back. “There. Take a look.” Sadie stared at her reflection, silent for a long moment. Then, she let out a tiny, soft giggle—like a bubble escaping a freshly opened bottle of soda. She caught herself, quickly covering her mouth with the back of her hand, but it was too late. [That was a real laugh! Not her act!] [Her green-tea armor is completely cracking!” That evening, we curled up on the sofa eating fresh strawberries. Sadie, still in her green dress, had her legs curled up under her, stuffing her cheeks like a little hamster hoarding food. I was scrolling through my phone next to her, a matching bowl of strawberries in my lap. Peaceful, quiet. She wasn’t afraid of me anymore; she was finally letting her guard down. “Grace, these are so sweet.” “Yeah.” “Grace, you want to try one dipped in chocolate?” “You eat it.” “Grace—” “Stop saying my name or I’ll think you’re casting a spell.” She burst into a bright laugh, her eyes curving into crescent moons. [She looks so happy, oh my god.] [Three years of walking on eggshells, and she can finally breathe in her own home.” Just then, the front door opened. Wyatt was back. He stood in the entryway, taking in the scene. Sadie in my dress, legs curled up, eating strawberries. Me scrolling on my phone. Two identical bowls on the coffee table. His expression shifted from exhaustion to confusion, and then to pure disbelief. [The big brother is back!] [He was away for a week and comes home to a parallel universe, lol.” “Wyatt!” Sadie called out, her voice muffled by a strawberry. Wyatt walked in, his eyes darting between us. “You two… aren’t fighting?” Sadie shook her head, gesturing to her dress. “Grace let me wear it. She even styled it for me.” Wyatt stared at the dress, then at me. His gaze shifted. It was no longer the cold, defensive wall he’d put up for three years. There was something else flickering in his eyes—something fragile and searching. Over the next few days, I could feel Wyatt watching me. At dinner, while watching TV, even when I was just talking to Sadie. Sadie had told him everything that happened—how I protected her, kicked out the scammers, and fired the butler. Wyatt listened in silence. On Saturday, Sadie was sprawled on the living room rug, sorting through nail polishes. “Grace, this one or this one?” she asked, holding up dusty rose and cafe au lait. “Dusty rose.” “Let me paint yours too. Sit.” She pulled up a small stool, taking my hand and resting it on her knee. Mid-stroke, she paused. “Your hands are freezing, Grace.” Without waiting for an answer, she squeezed my hand, pulling it into her warm palms. When she finished, she held my hand up, admiring her work. “Pretty, right?” “Very pretty.” She smiled brightly. Wyatt was sitting on the adjacent sofa, a folder in his lap, but he hadn’t turned a page. He was staring at us. I stood up and walked toward the kitchen. “Where are you going?” Sadie asked. “To make coffee.” A few minutes later, I walked out with a mug and set it on the side table next to Wyatt. “For you.” Wyatt looked at the cup. Black coffee. No cream, no sugar. His fingers tensed on the folder. “Who asked you to make this?” “No one,” I said, sitting back down. “You always drink it like this.” The room went dead silent. Wyatt stared at the dark liquid for a long time. Then, slowly, he picked it up and took a sip. [He drank it!] [Only the real Grace knew his coffee order. The impostor never paid attention!” Sadie stopped painting her nails. Her eyes darted between Wyatt and me. Wyatt set the mug down, his eyes locked on mine. The coldness was entirely gone, replaced by a complex, trembling hope that he barely dared to believe. “Grace,” he said quietly. The air in the room stretched taut. Sadie held her breath, clutching her nail polish brush, watching me. “How did you know I take my coffee black?” I looked at him, saying nothing. Sadie leaned forward, her voice trembling slightly. “Grace… is it really you? Are you back?”

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Just because I ate an extra tub of the company’s Greek yogurt, the new intern reported me for embezzling company property. My fiancée, who was the CEO, called me out in front of the entire company at our weekly all-hands meeting. She suspended me on the spot and had the intern lead a full investigation—even tracking how many squares of toilet paper I used. Two weeks later, the intern rolled out a forty-foot-long invoice, claiming I owed the firm ninety-three thousand dollars in damages. I looked at my fiancée. She was staring at him with pure admiration. “Pay up, Wade. It’s strictly business. No one gets special treatment.” I nodded. “Fine. Strictly business.” Then I unrolled a hundred-and-fifteen-foot-long invoice of my own. “Helena, before I pay your ninety-three thousand, I’m going to need you to settle this bill for sixteen million, eight hundred and thirty-one thousand dollars.” The entire room went dead silent. … As the weekly staff meeting was wrapping up, Helena suddenly looked my way. “Wade, there’s one last item to add to the agenda. Someone has reported you for abusing company resources for personal use, causing significant financial loss to the firm.” The conference room fell dead silent. I froze. “Abusing company resources? When?” Dustin, the administrative intern who’d only been with us for two months, stood up. “Wade, the catered afternoon snack bar. We get one tub of Greek yogurt per person, right?” I stared at him. “But you take two every single day.” The kid flipped open his notebook. “This brand retails for six-eighty a tub. Even wholesale, it’s four-fifty. Five days a week, you’re taking five extra tubs. That’s ninety dollars a month. You’ve been with the company for seven years. On yogurt alone, you’ve pocketed seven thousand five hundred and sixty dollars of company property.” A wave of muffled snickers rippled through the room. Dustin wasn’t finished. “And it’s not just the yogurt. You charge your personal phone, tablet, and laptop at your desk every day. You treat the office electricity like it’s free. You have a personal mini-fan on your desk that runs from morning till night, five months out of the year. You drink three Nespresso capsules a day when the standard limit is one. You load a case of company-provided bottled water into your car every single week. And worst of all, you use the restroom four or five times a day, using three times as many paper towels and toilet paper squares as the average employee. Individually, these are small expenses. But compiled over seven years? It’s a massive bleed on our bottom line.” More people started laughing. I felt a hot, burning flush creep up my neck. “Dustin, you’ve been here two months. How do you even know my daily routine? Do you actually do any work, or do you just spend your day stalking me?” Dustin squared his shoulders. “As an administrative assistant, auditing resource allocation is literally my job. Identifying waste and reporting it is standard procedure.” He turned to Helena. “Helena, I recommend we place Wade on immediate unpaid suspension pending a full audit.” I looked at Helena. She was my fiancée. We were supposed to sign our marriage license at City Hall in less than two weeks. She knew me. She had to know how absurd, how utterly petty this was. Helena tapped her fingers twice against the mahogany table. “Wade, I am incredibly disappointed in you.” “Being my fiancé doesn’t give you a free pass to exploit this company. If everyone behaved like you, we’d go bankrupt in a month.” “Effective immediately, you are suspended pending investigation. Dustin, you will head the audit committee and trace every single discrepancy.” “You got it, Helena. I’ll make sure we get to the bottom of this,” Dustin replied, practically beaming. I opened my mouth to speak, but the words died in my throat. Out of the hundred-plus people in that room, not a single one spoke up for me. Helena stood up. “Meeting adjourned.” I sat frozen in my chair. Dustin strutted past me, packing up his notebook with a bounce in his step, looking like he’d just won the lottery. What these people didn’t know—but Helena knew perfectly well—was that the afternoon snacks, the yogurts, the pastries, and the fruit baskets were all provided entirely free of charge by my eldest sister Fiona’s catering conglomerate. Because I loved that specific premium brand of Greek yogurt, she always instructed the delivery team to leave extra cases. I wasn’t “stealing” company yogurt. I was eating my own family’s food. It was one thing for a new kid like Dustin to be clueless. But Helena knew. And yet, she hadn’t said a single word to defend me. I stood up, unplugged my personal laptop, my tablet, and my desk fan, and shoved them into my backpack. Near the exit, I ran into Dustin. He was leaning against the hallway wall, a smug grin plastered across his face. “Don’t take it personally, Wade. Just doing my job.” He lowered his voice. “But a word of advice—don’t be so cheap next time. It always catches up to you.” I stared him down. “Just get your audit done quickly.” He pulled out his phone, ignoring me, and hummed a mindless tune as he walked away. When I got home, I called Helena three times. No answer. The next morning, Pete texted me. Pete had worked under me for six years; I’d hired and trained him myself. He knew my work ethic better than anyone in the office. Hey Wade, Helena just transferred the Atlas Fabrics account to Dustin. I stared at the screen, stunned. Atlas Fabrics was my biggest account of the year. I had spent three months nurturing the relationship, and we were scheduled to sign the final contract next week. And she was hand-delivering it to Dustin? Whose idea was that? I texted back. Dustin told her he could handle it, and Helena greenlit it. I replied with a simple Got it and tossed my phone onto the couch. That afternoon, Pete sent another message. Wade, Dustin just copied all your client files. He claimed it was necessary for the audit. An audit for personal use of office supplies? What do my clients have to do with that? Pete didn’t reply. On the third day, I ran into Toby from the marketing department near my apartment complex. “Wade, people at the office are talking. It’s getting ugly.” “What are they saying?” Toby hesitated. “Some people are saying you weren’t just stealing yogurt. They’re saying you’ve been taking side consulting gigs under the company’s name and pocketing the commissions.” “Who started that rumor?” “I don’t know, but it’s spreading like wildfire.” “What about Helena? What did she say?” Toby looked down. “She said… ‘where there’s smoke, there’s fire,’ and that the audit committee would verify the truth.” I let out a dry laugh. Where there’s smoke. She wouldn’t even offer a basic denial. She was letting them tear my reputation to shreds. I wanted to clear things up face-to-face. I dialed her number six times, getting nothing but a busy signal. On the seventh try, she finally picked up. “What?” her voice was clipped. “Helena, do you actually believe Dustin’s nonsense? You know exactly where the afternoon catering comes from.” “Wade, we are in the middle of an active investigation. Nothing has been finalized, so don’t get defensive.” “Besides, as the subject of an active audit, it’s highly inappropriate for you to be involved in company business. Just stay home and wait for our decision.” “Wait for your decision? What about my clients? Atlas Fabrics is signing next week—” “Dustin will handle it.” “Dustin? The kid’s resume is thinner than a sheet of printer paper. What is he going to handle?” “Your bias against Dustin is showing. He might be young, but his work ethic is impeccable. Honestly, you could learn a thing or two from him.” The line went dead. I stood by the window, staring down at the street below for a long time, the silence of my empty apartment pressing in on me. Day five of my suspension. I received a call from an unfamiliar number. “Hello, Mr. Lu? This is the account manager from Harvest Table Catering. We handle the afternoon snack deliveries for Summit Crest Brands. I wanted to verify some details regarding our ongoing agreement.” I recognized the voice. It was a customer service representative from my sister’s company. “What details?” “A Mr. Dustin contacted us this morning. He stated that Summit Crest is requesting to transition the complimentary catering into a formal commercial contract, and he wanted to settle the ‘outstanding balances’ for the past seven years. He mentioned you were aware of this.” I leaned back in my chair, a bitter smile touching my lips. Dustin was more ambitious than I gave him credit for. “You haven’t signed anything, have you?” “No, the paperwork is still pending. We wanted to clear it with you first.” “Don’t sign it. He doesn’t speak for me.” Not five minutes after I hung up, Fiona called me directly. “Wade, what’s going on at your office? Someone just called my billing department trying to convert our free catering into a commercial contract. They’re talking about back-paying ‘unbilled balances’?” “Fiona, don’t worry about it for now.” “Did something happen at work?” “Nothing major. I’ll have it sorted in a few days.” She didn’t press, but before hanging up, she added, “Alright, but if anyone is giving you a hard time, you tell me.” “I will,” I said. I sat back and thought about Dustin. He’d only been at the company for two months. There was no way he could have known the specifics of the catering arrangement, let alone track down the exact contact information for Harvest Table and initiate a contract, unless he had been digging through my personal files. This wasn’t the intuition of an eager intern. What was he really after? Two weeks later, Dustin texted me. The audit was complete, and I was required to attend a meeting at the office. When I arrived that afternoon, the main conference room was packed. It felt like the entire staff had gathered to watch a show. Dustin met me at the door, holding a massive roll of continuous feed paper. In front of everyone, he unrolled the paper. A forty-foot-long invoice stretched from one end of the conference table to the other, cascading off the edge and pooling onto the carpet. “Wade, this is the audit committee’s comprehensive log of your unauthorized use of company assets during your tenure,” Dustin announced, gesturing to the top of the roll. “Item one: one extra tub of Greek yogurt daily. Over seven years, that totals seven thousand five hundred and sixty dollars.” “Item two: charging personal electronic devices. Based on average power consumption over seven years, that’s eleven thousand three hundred dollars.” “Item three: personal desk fan drawing company power over seven years, totaling four thousand two hundred dollars.” “Item four: excessive consumption of pantry coffee pods…” He read the list item by item. It took him seventeen agonizing minutes. Finally, he stepped back and cleared his throat. “According to our calculations, you owe the company ninety-three thousand four hundred and seventeen dollars and fifty-six cents in damages. Here is the itemized breakdown, backed by concrete data.” He looked at me, his chest puffed out. “If you refuse to settle this debt, I will have legal counsel initiate immediate litigation.” I turned my gaze to Helena. “Did you look at this?” “I did,” Helena said smoothly. “Dustin was very thorough. Every item is fully documented. This is what real diligence looks like.” She patted Dustin on the shoulder. “Excellent work. I’ll make sure HR adds a substantial bonus to your check this month.” Dustin beamed, practically glowing. “Thank you so much, Helena!” I pointed a finger at him. “He’s an administrative intern. On what grounds is he getting a bonus?” “Besides, this list is absolute fiction. Take the charging costs—I brought in my own laptop and tablet because the company-issued computers were constantly freezing. I submitted three hardware upgrade requests, and administrative services rejected every single one. How was I supposed to pitch clients without a functioning computer?” “And the desk fan? It was a prototype the product team asked me to beta-test. It wasn’t even mine.” “As for the coffee—” “Enough, Wade,” Helena interrupted, waving her hand dismissively. “Anyone can make up excuses. None of that changes the fact that you’ve been draining company assets for years.” I pointed to myself. “Me? Draining company assets?” “Ninety-three thousand dollars, Wade. Look at the numbers. And that’s just what we managed to track down,” Helena said, tossing a printed copy of the invoice onto the table. I felt a cold numbness spreading through my chest. For seven years, I had been the top sales producer, bringing in over twenty million dollars in closed contracts. And yet, my boss—the woman I was supposed to marry—was demanding ninety-three thousand dollars over an intern’s fabricated report. Seeing my silence, Helena frowned. “Why are you just standing there? Pay it. Yes, you’re my fiancé, but this is strictly business. No exceptions.” I stared at her face. Really stared at it, as if seeing her for the first time. Around us, my coworkers watched. Some looked sympathetic, some looked amused, but most kept their heads down, pretending to be invisible. “Fine,” I said quietly. “Strictly business. Then let’s make sure we settle every single account.” Dustin brushed some dust off his hands. “No need to recalculate, Wade. I’ve double-checked every line. The math is perfect.” “You calculated what you think I owe. I’m going to calculate what this company owes me.” Dustin laughed. “Helena, has the company ever missed a paycheck for Wade?” Helena smiled thinly. “Your salary has been paid on the first of every month, Wade. Trying to deflect now is pointless. Pay the invoice, and we can talk about putting you back on the schedule.” I walked to the corner of the room, sat down, and opened my laptop. It was an older model and took its time booting up. Dustin scoffed. “Are you trying to stall, Wade? Is ninety grand too much for you to pull together?” He whipped out his phone and dialed. “Yes, hello? I’d like to report a case of embezzlement. An employee has stolen over ninety thousand dollars in company property and is refusing to return it.” Hanging up, Dustin sauntered over and waved his phone in my face. “I’d suggest writing that check before the police get here. Once we go down to the precinct, a civil settlement isn’t going to save you.” I ignored him, my eyes fixed on the loading screen. The spinning cursor seemed to take an eternity just to open Excel. Within twenty minutes, two police officers arrived. Dustin practically flew to the door to let them in, looking like a civic hero. “Officers, right this way. He’s the one. He’s embezzled over ninety thousand dollars from the firm and refuses to make restitution.” He lifted a section of the long paper roll. “Here’s the itemized evidence, and the entire office is our witness.” One of the officers walked over to my desk. “Sir, I’m going to need you to come down to the station with us to answer some questions.” Helena sighed, her voice dripping with artificial pity. “Wade, why must you be so stubborn? If you had just paid the money, we wouldn’t have to do this. You’re making a scene.” I stood up and closed my laptop. “I’ll cooperate fully, officer.” Helena’s face hardened. “Do you have any idea how busy my schedule is today? I have three executive meetings, and now I have to waste my afternoon giving a statement at the precinct. You are such a headache.” I stared directly into her eyes. “You’re the one who started this, Helena.” We were taken to the local precinct. After hours of statements and paperwork, the duty officer remained strictly neutral. “We need to verify the corporate records and the nature of these expenses. In the meantime, you’ll need to remain in holding.” In plain English: I was spending the night in a cell. Helena and Dustin finished their paperwork first. As an officer escorted me back toward the holding cells, I caught a glimpse of them through the glass partition of the lobby. Dustin muttered something, and Helena laughed—a light, musical sound that I used to find beautiful. I spent the night on a cold metal bench. I was released the following morning with instructions to return for follow-up questioning, and a firm warning that civil disputes of this scale could quickly escalate to formal charges if not resolved within fifteen days. Standing outside the precinct, the morning sun was so bright it made my eyes water. I checked my phone. Seven missed calls. All from Helena. I dialed her back. “Where the hell have you been?” Helena’s voice exploded through the speaker before I could even say hello. “Did you forget what today is? We were supposed to be at City Hall at nine to sign our marriage license! I’ve been waiting here all morning. If this is how little our marriage means to you, then the wedding is off.” “Helena,” I said, my voice dead and empty. “What?” “I was in a holding cell all night because you and Dustin called the police on me. Did you forget?” “Well, whose fault is that? If you had just paid what you owed, you wouldn’t have been in there. Did you really need to spend a night in jail just to learn your lesson? Honestly, Wade, sometimes you act like a child.” She slammed the phone down. I stood on the sidewalk, holding the dead phone. After a long moment, I walked into a print-and-copy shop in the alley adjacent to City Hall. The owner, Henry, was an old friend of mine, and his shop’s security camera pointed directly at City Hall’s main entrance. “Hey, Henry. Can you pull up your front camera footage from this morning?” “Sure, what’s up?” “Someone told me they spent the morning waiting for me on those steps. I just want to see if she was there.” Henry pulled up the feed and let me sit at the terminal. I held down the fast-forward key, scanning the footage from 8:00 AM to noon. People walked up and down the concrete steps of City Hall. Couples holding flowers, lawyers carrying briefs. But no Helena. Not for a single second. I closed the window, thanked Henry, and walked out into the cool air. I stopped at the corner of the block, pulled out my phone, and opened a group chat. The name was The Golden Boy and His Sisters. Six participants. I typed out a message: Fiona, Charlotte, Beatrice, Maeve, Regina—Helena let her new intern accuse me of theft over office snacks. They demanded ninety-three thousand dollars. When I refused, they called the cops. I just spent the night in a holding cell. I’m out now, and Helena just called to tell me the wedding is off. Within three seconds, the chat erupted. Fiona: “What? That miserable woman dared to do what? Has she forgotten who owns the lease on her office building?” Charlotte: “So that’s why some intern was trying to get my property management group to sign a new lease agreement. They’re trying to play us.” Beatrice: “I wonder how clean her company’s tax records are for the last seven years. Let’s find out.” Maeve: “An intern? Some two-month hire put my baby brother in a cell? Helena has officially lost her mind.” Regina: “Where do I send the legal summons? And how much time do we want to give them to respond?” Fiona called me immediately. “Wade, where are you? We’re coming to pick you up. We are going to her office right now.” In the background, I could hear Maeve’s sharp voice: “Does she actually think she can touch a member of this family and walk away?” “Don’t go over there yet, Fiona,” I said quietly. “Let me compile the invoice first.” “What invoice?” “She wanted to play accountant and count every single square of toilet paper. I’m going to return the favor. Every single thing she and her company have taken from us over the last seven years, I’m putting it on paper.” There was a brief silence on the other end. “Do it,” Fiona said, her tone icy. “Whatever records you need from my catering company, they’re yours.” After hanging up, I went back to my apartment, opened Excel, and started a new spreadsheet. Helena’s name flashed on my screen again. I picked up. “Wade, since you’re out of jail, why aren’t you at your desk?” she snapped. “The client from Atlas Fabrics is breathing down our necks. They refuse to sign with Dustin; they keep asking for you. You need to get down here and close this deal.” “I’m busy.” “Busy? You’re suspended, Wade. If you don’t show up to transition your accounts, it counts as job abandonment. Three consecutive days of unexcused absences and you’ll be terminated for cause—no severance, nothing. Think carefully.” “Do whatever you want,” I said, and hung up. I went back to my spreadsheet. The next morning, she called again, sounding more frantic. “Wade, are you seriously quitting? Fine, but you still have to complete a formal handover. You need to hand over the client strategies, the active proposals, and the vendor contacts to Dustin. And another thing—why did your sister’s company stop the daily snack deliveries? There was nothing in the pantry today, and the staff is complaining.” I let out a soft, cold laugh. “Dustin is an intern who excels at making spreadsheets, Helena. You really think he can manage enterprise clients? Atlas Fabrics only works with Summit Crest because of my relationship with them. Now that I’m gone, they won’t even take his calls. And the snack bar? My sister provided that for free for seven years because of me. Why on earth would she keep feeding your employees when you put her brother in a holding cell?” There was a long, stunned silence on the line. “What is that supposed to mean?” “It means,” I said, “it’s strictly business.” I hung up and added her number to my block list. Over the next few days, other colleagues from Summit Crest tried to reach out—some out of curiosity, others acting as messengers for Helena. I ignored and blocked every single one. These were the same people who had snickered and watched the show during the all-hands meeting. A week later, the invoice was complete. I printed the spreadsheet on a continuous paper roll. When it finished, I pulled out a tape measure. One hundred and fifteen feet. I dialed Fiona. “It’s ready, Fiona.” She answered with just two words: “Let’s go.” That afternoon, my five sisters met me at the entrance of Fairview Plaza. We walked into Summit Crest Brands together. Once again, an all-hands meeting had been called. When I stepped into the conference room, Dustin was sitting in my old chair, scrolling through his phone. He looked up and smirked. “Well, look who decided to show up. Ready to settle your tab, Wade?” I didn’t say a word. I placed the heavy roll of paper on the edge of the long conference table. One by one, my sisters walked in, lining up behind me like a wall of sheer quiet authority. Helena sat at the head of the table. Seeing the five women behind me, her brow furrowed. “Wade, what is the meaning of this? Why did you bring your family?” “You said it yourself, Helena,” I replied. “Strictly business.” I pressed the end of the roll onto the table and gave it a firm push. The heavy cylinder rolled down the entire length of the mahogany surface, tumbled off the edge, and uncoiled along the carpet all the way to the glass doors of the room. The room went so quiet you could hear the hum of the fluorescent lights. I looked directly at Helena. “Helena, before I pay your ninety-three thousand dollars, I’m going to need Summit Crest to settle this bill for sixteen million, eight hundred and thirty-one thousand.” Regina stepped forward, placing a thick, official document in front of Helena. “This is a formal demand letter. If your company fails to clear these outstanding debts within the designated timeframe, we will initiate immediate asset seizure proceedings.” Dustin scoffed, jumping to his feet. “Sixteen million? Are you insane? Who owes you that kind of money?” Helena’s lip curled in disgust. “This is a joke. You’re a sales manager, Wade. You think you can extort sixteen million dollars from me with a roll of paper?” I pointed to the unrolled sheet. “Read it yourself.” Helena leaned forward and glanced at the first line. Her face froze.

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My wife attended a client appreciation dinner, where my business partner, Richard Dalton, dragged her into a private dining room and assaulted her. I was right next door. I heard her screaming my name, her voice tearing at the seams, but I never pushed that door open. Afterward, she broke down and called the cops. On the day of the trial, I took the witness stand and testified that it was consensual. I told the court that she was the one who undressed and climbed onto his lap. The judge ruled right then and there: insufficient evidence. Richard was acquitted. My wife smashed her stainless-steel Yeti tumbler directly into my forehead. “Jack Colins, I want a divorce. You’re a monster.” Everyone said I was an animal. A coward. A piece of trash. But nobody knew that I had been waiting for this exact day for three agonizing months. … “Jack! Get out here right now!” Isabelle’s voice chased me down the courthouse corridor. I didn’t turn around. Blood was pooling at my eyebrow, tracing a hot, wet line down my cheek. She had swung that tumbler with everything she had, splitting the skin clean open. “Stop right there!” She lunged forward, grabbing my arm and jerking my entire body around to face her. Her face was a mess of running mascara and tears, her eyes swollen into thin slits. “How could you perjure yourself for him?” I looked down at her. I didn’t say a word. “I am your wife! I was violated! You were right outside that door! You heard me! Why didn’t you come in?!” Her fists hammered against my chest. One after another. There wasn’t much physical force behind them, but the rhythm grew frantic, desperate. “Tell me why!” I raised my hand, catching her wrists and peeling her fingers away from my collar. “Stop making a scene.” Four words. It was as if those four words drained the last drop of life from her. Isabelle stumbled a half-step backward. “Stop making a scene?” She laughed. A hollow, broken sound that shook loose more tears. “You’re telling me to stop making a scene?” “I was pinned against a table by your partner. My dress was ripped open. You were standing right outside. I screamed your name seventeen times, Jack. Seventeen times. And you didn’t make a sound.” “And now you’re telling me to stop making a scene?” I shifted my gaze past her shoulder. At the end of the hallway, a group of people was marching toward us. Her father, Robert. Her mother, Martha. Along with her cousin, Jessica, and Jessica’s husband, Todd. I wiped the blood from my jaw with the back of my hand and turned to walk away. Isabelle threw herself at my back, wrapping her arms in a death grip around my waist. “You are not walking away until you give me the truth.” “I already gave you the truth.” My voice was dead flat. “Every single word I said on that stand was a fact.” Her arms went slack. As if she no longer had the strength to hold onto anything in this world. “Jack.” Her tone shifted. It was no longer a question. It was pure, concentrated hatred. “The biggest regret of my life is marrying you.” “I’m divorcing you.” “Okay.” I dropped the word like a stone and stepped toward the exit. Robert’s slap landed faster than I anticipated. “Crack.” My head snapped violently to the side. “You son of a bitch!” Robert was shaking from head to toe, his chest heaving. “I gave you my daughter’s hand, and this is how you protect her?” I steadied my footing. I kept my hands at my sides. “Robert—” “Don’t you dare call me by my name!” He swung again, the back of his hand catching my jaw. “You don’t have the right!” Martha shoved her way to the front and spat directly into my face. “You’re not a man.” “A grown man, listening to his own wife get ripped apart, standing outside a door like a statue. Are you just useless, or are you an accomplice?” I wiped my face with my sleeve. “Martha, are you done?” “Done? I want to kill you with my bare hands!” Todd, the cousin’s husband, surged forward and grabbed me by the lapels of my suit. “How do you have the nerve to even stand upright, Jack? You should be on your knees begging Isabelle for forgiveness.” I met his eyes. “Let go.” “Are you threatening me, you piece of shit?” “There are court bailiffs right inside those doors,” I said, my tone completely devoid of emotion. “You throw a punch, I press charges. Assault is a felony, Todd. You’re a smart guy. Do the math.” Todd’s fist froze in mid-air. Robert stepped up, pulling his son-in-law back, before turning his furious glare back to me. “Jack, for the sake of the man I thought you were, I’m going to ask you one last time.” “Why did you cover for Richard Dalton?” “How much did he pay you?” I looked past them, toward the glass doors of the courthouse. A black SUV was idling by the curb, the tinted window rolled halfway down. “There’s nothing to explain.” “You—!” Martha lunged at me again, throwing wild slaps and kicks. The rest of the extended family swarmed in, a chorus of screaming, spitting venom. Someone tossed a cup of muddy coffee from God knows where. It splashed across my hair and face. I stood exactly where I was, letting them shove me back and forth. The blood from my forehead mixed with the cold coffee, staining the entire front of my white dress shirt a dark, rust-colored brown. The phone in my pocket buzzed. I didn’t take it out. It wasn’t time yet. The crowd was still screaming when a shrill voice pierced through the chaos. “Excuse me! Make way! Press!” A woman in jeans holding a phone mounted on a gimbal shoved her way to the front, pointing the lens directly at my face. “Hi, Kelly here from Metro True Crime. Sir, there are allegations online that you just committed perjury to protect your wife’s rapist. Is that true?” On her screen, the live chat was scrolling so fast it was a blur. Jessica, the cousin, immediately pushed her face into the frame. “It’s true! He’s the monster husband! His wife was assaulted, he did nothing to save her, and then he testified for the predator!” The vlogger pivoted the camera to Jessica, who fed off the attention, her voice growing hysterical. “My cousin has done nothing but suffer since she married him! She takes care of the house, raised their kid, works a full-time job. And what does he do? He sells her out!” The comment section exploded. “Die, trash.” “Dox him.” “Waste of oxygen.” The vlogger turned the camera back to me. “Sir, do you have a statement?” I gave her a long, hard look. I didn’t answer. I turned to walk down the steps. “He’s running! Look at him run! Guilty!” Jessica shrieked behind me. Robert grabbed my shoulder in a vice grip. “You aren’t going anywhere.” I stopped. My phone buzzed again. I looked down and tapped the screen. One new message. “Still tracking the ping. Give me two more hours.” I locked the screen and slid the phone back into my pocket. When I looked up, my face was a mask of stone. “Fine. We’ll do this here.” “What exactly do you all want to hear?” Martha pointed a trembling finger at my nose. “I want you to tell the world the truth! How much blood money did Richard give you?” “I answered that on the stand,” I said, my voice steady enough to cut glass. “I didn’t take a dime from anyone.” “I told the absolute truth.” “That night, Isabelle wanted it. She initiated it.” The second the words left my mouth, the entire crowd surged toward me. But then, the heavy courthouse doors swung open. Richard Dalton walked out. Immaculate custom suit, perfectly dimpled tie, wearing the relaxed, arrogant smirk of a man who just bought his way to an acquittal. He paused when he saw the mob on the steps. Robert was the first to break from the crowd, sprinting toward him. “Dalton! You animal! Look me in the eye!” I moved. Two quick steps, and I inserted myself directly between Robert and Richard. “Robert, we are on federal property. What are you doing?” “Get out of my way!” “I can’t do that.” “Jack!” Robert’s voice broke, vibrating with a profound, sickening disbelief. “You’re still protecting him?” “The court ruled.” I spoke as casually as if I were reading a weather report. “He’s an innocent man. You put hands on an innocent man, that’s aggravated assault.” Martha charged forward like a woman possessed. “I don’t care what the corrupt court says! He destroyed my daughter! You destroyed my daughter! I hope you both burn in hell!” I extended my arms, keeping her a safe distance away. Richard stood behind me. He didn’t flinch. He pulled a silver lighter from his pocket, sparked a cigarette, and took a slow drag. “Go to the car, Rich,” I said, not looking back. “It’s on the left.” Richard clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Jack. You’re a real one.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “Dinner’s on me next week.” He stepped around the screaming family, making his way down the steps to the idling black SUV. Just before he pulled the door handle, he looked back at me. The smile was gone. It was replaced by a look of profound, aristocratic pity. “You’re a good guy, Jack. It’s a damn shame you married a slut and had to clean up her mess.” He climbed in, and the heavy door slammed shut. The tires squealed, and the car vanished into traffic. In a split second, the entirety of the crowd’s wrath refocused onto me. “Jack! You just let him walk away?!” Isabelle’s voice cut through the noise. She was leaning heavily on Jessica, looking as though her bones had turned to glass. “Are you even human?” I turned around and faced her. Her face was stained with tears, her eyes bloodshot, radiating an agonizing hatred. “Isabelle, I told you. This ends today.” “Ends today?” Her voice cracked into a shriek. “He destroyed my body, he destroyed my reputation, he destroyed my life, and you say it ends today?” “The judge made the ruling.” “He ruled that way because you lied under oath!” She stumbled forward, only to be yanked back by her cousin. “Why did you say those things? Why did you say I wanted it? You heard me! You were right there!” I didn’t answer. Suddenly, someone in the crowd yelled. “He’s here! Her brother’s here!” A pickup truck slammed on its brakes at the curb. Mark leaped out of the driver’s seat. He didn’t even bother shutting the door before he was sprinting up the steps. He hit the concrete like he wanted to shatter the earth beneath him. “Jack!” Before my brain could register the movement, his boot connected squarely with my stomach. I folded in half, my knees crashing onto the hard pavement. He grabbed handfuls of my ruined shirt and hauled me upward. “How the fuck do you dare show your face?” He was so close I could smell the adrenaline on him. His eyes were wild, fully bloodshot. “What did I tell you the day I gave my baby sister away to you?” “I told you if you ever hurt her, I would break your legs.” He slammed me back down onto the concrete. Then he bent over and hauled me up by the collar again. “Three years. Three years. My sister gave you three years of her life. Do you have any idea what she’s sacrificed for you?” I stayed down on the ground. Not because I couldn’t get up. Because I didn’t want to. The phone in my pocket vibrated against my thigh. I lay on the pavement and subtly angled my head to glance at the glowing lock screen. “Location locked. En route. ETA 1 hour 40 minutes.” I squeezed my eyes shut. “I have to survive another hour and a half.” “Do you people even know what else he did?” Isabelle’s voice suddenly shifted pitch. The hysterical, piercing anger was gone, replaced by a hollow, bottomless despair. The entire crowd fell dead silent, turning to look at her. She stood in the center of the ring, her body trembling violently, her lips quivering. “Our daughter… Sophie.” “We lost Sophie in March.” Martha gasped, a horrible, choking sound. “What? Sophie? What happened to my grandbaby?” Isabelle buried her face in her hands, sobbing uncontrollably. “You told us Jack’s mother took Sophie to stay with her!” Martha rushed forward, grabbing her daughter’s shoulders. “Tell me! What happened to her?” Isabelle slowly lifted her head, her tear-soaked face locking onto mine. “It’s because of him.” “He was gambling. He owed sixty grand to loan sharks. They came to the house. It was just me and Sophie.” “They demanded the money. I told them we didn’t have it, and they…” Her voice shattered into pieces. “They shoved Sophie. Her head hit the corner of the coffee table…” “By the time the ambulance arrived, she was gone.” Martha’s legs gave out. She collapsed onto the hard concrete. “My grandbaby… my sweet Sophie…” Robert’s face turned the color of wet ash. “Why didn’t you call us? Why didn’t you tell me?” Isabelle shook her head frantically. “I couldn’t bear to break your hearts. And I was terrified they’d come after you. The men told me if I went to the cops, they’d kill my whole family.” “So I swallowed it.” “I carried it all alone.” “And him?” She pointed a shaking finger at me. “He’s still gambling. Still racking up debt. Wasn’t my daughter’s life enough?” The bystanders were circling tighter now. Phones were out, red recording lights blinking everywhere. Whispers hissed through the crowd: “This guy got his own kid killed, and then covered for a rapist?” I remained on my knees, listening to every word. I didn’t defend myself. Not once. Robert walked slowly over to me. His voice sounded like grinding stones. “Jack. Is this true?” I looked up at him. “Trust your daughter.” That was all I said. I lowered my head and checked my watch. “You’re checking the time?!” Mark stomped his boot down onto my wrist, pinning it to the ground. “Got an appointment at the casino? Or a brothel?” White-hot pain shot up my arm, but I swallowed the groan. “I’m going to count to three,” Mark sneered, leaning over me. “And you’re going to tell the truth about the debt. Did you get Sophie killed?” I stayed silent. “One.” Silence. “Two.” He pressed his heel down harder. I felt the bone grinding. I clenched my jaw and forced my head up. “None of your damn business.” “Three.” He reared back and kicked me squarely in the ribs. I rolled onto my side, curling into a tight ball as the air left my lungs. Slowly, agonizingly, I forced myself into a sitting position. Isabelle was screaming from the sidelines, crying, “Mark, stop! Stop hitting him!” “You’re defending him?” Mark snapped, turning to look at her. “Izzy, open your eyes! He got Sophie killed, he sold you to Richard Dalton, and you’re begging for his life?” Isabelle shook her head, tears flying. “I’m not begging for him, I’m trying to protect you! If you put him in the hospital, you’ll go to prison!” “Then I’ll go to prison!” Mark spun back around, hauling me up by the front of my shirt again. “For my sister and my niece, I’ll do the time gladly.” The crowd was practically a mob now. People were yelling, “Give him what he deserves!” The true-crime vlogger’s livestream had crossed ten thousand viewers. The chat was a unified chorus demanding my death. Mark slammed me against the stone wall of the courthouse. “Last chance. Did you kill Sophie?” I let the silence hang for three seconds. Then I opened my mouth. “Yes.” One word. Martha fainted dead away. As Robert caught his wife, hot tears streamed down his weathered face. “My baby… my little girl…” I leaned against the cold stone, watching the destruction. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. I swallowed it down. “Monster.” “Psychopath.” “Burn in hell.” The curses rained down from every direction. The bystanders weren’t just watching anymore. A middle-aged man in a track jacket stepped forward and shoved my shoulder hard. “I have a three-year-old at home. You don’t deserve to breathe.” I stumbled, the small of my back slamming into the sharp edge of a concrete planter. A sickening jolt of pain shot up my spine. But I pushed myself upright. Mark lunged at me again, fists raised. Isabelle threw her arms around him, pulling with all her might. “Mark! Enough!” “Why is it enough?!” Mark roared, trying to shake her off. “He killed Sophie, he let you get raped, he deserves to be gutted!” I raised a hand and slowly wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth. I looked at all of them. Every single one. And then, I smiled. “Are you all done talking?” The smile caught everyone completely off guard. The yelling faltered. “Because if you’re done, it’s my turn.” I pushed myself off the planter, standing at my full height. “Does anyone here know what Isabelle was wearing that night?”

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The Mojave Rally was swallowed by a sudden, blinding wall of desert dust, cutting visibility to absolute zero for every driver on the track. I pressed my headset tighter against my ear. Through the static, the voice of my fiancé, Garrett, came through—steady, warm, and reassuring. “Don’t panic, Ellie. You’ve got five hundred yards before Dead Man’s Curve. You can floor it here, push past the car next to you to shave off 0.7 seconds. Then it’s a hard right-three into a left-two.” Blindly trusting Garrett’s pace notes, I slammed my foot on the gas, the sand battering my windshield. He was my co-driver, my navigator, and the only man I trusted with my life. But three seconds later, a soft, mocking chuckle crackled through my earpiece. “Ellie, babe? Honestly, Dead Man’s Curve is actually a right-two into a left-three. But if Chelsea doesn’t win the championship this year, she’s going to throw another tantrum.” “You’re already a three-time champion. Giving her this one won’t kill you.” “I’ve already got an ambulance waiting at the bottom of the ridge, and I had them lay down some crash mats. I’d never let anything seriously happen to you. Just close your eyes, sweetheart. It won’t hurt as bad if you don’t look.” With a soft click, Garrett cut the feed. He wanted to spare his ears the sound of my car tearing through the guardrails and plummeting off the cliffside. But he forgot one thing. I had run this track for five years. Even with my eyes closed, I knew every single inch of this dirt. … “Garrett!” I screamed his name, my knuckles turning white against the steering wheel. But the headset remained dead. Silence, heavy and suffocating, filled the cabin. Sweat soaked through my racing gloves. My foot was glued to the floor, the engine roaring as we pushed past 120 miles per hour. At this speed, lifting off wouldn’t save me in time. The dust storm completely covered the windshield, and the tires screamed as they spun over loose gravel. Dead Man’s Curve—the most brutal stretch of the Mojave—was right ahead, and I was flying blind. My brain scrambled to process Garrett’s words. “Did he really just feed me fatal pace notes just to hand Chelsea the trophy?” Dead Man’s Curve was named that for a reason. Countless racers had been broken by this mountain. The road was narrow, the turns sharp, and the drop-off was a sheer cliff. A single miscalculation meant free-falling into a ravine. Best-case scenario: a dozen broken bones and a shattered career. Worst-case: a body bag. Yet Garrett spoke of crash mats like he was tucking me into bed. Was he insane? He had been in the car with me the last time we flipped. Five years ago, during our very first trial run here, Garrett had been so terrified of me getting hurt that he secretly paid the track crew to line the ravines with high-density rescue pads. But my nerves got the better of me. I panicked, slammed the pedal to the floor, and missed the turn entirely. Garrett was in the passenger seat next to me. As the car rolled over, his immediate instinct was to throw his body over mine, shielding my head. Even with the safety pads, the impact sent us spinning into the rock face. I lay there shivering in his arms, and despite the agonizing pain of his fractured wrist, he stroked my hair and whispered, “It’s okay, baby. You’re the best driver out there. You’re safe.” I spent the next two years driving myself to the bone, running lap after lap under the scorching sun, just to win the championship. Because under rally rules, the champion’s co-driver had the option to stay in the air-conditioned command center, away from the dust and the danger. I won the title for him. I took the microphone in front of thousands of fans, and when they asked if I wanted prize money or endorsements, I shook my head. “I just want my co-driver to never have to risk his life in the passenger seat again.” I did it to protect him. And this was my reward. “Right-three into left-two.” The moment he said it, I knew it was wrong. But I was already committed, flying blind in a storm of dust. Suddenly, Garrett’s voice patched through the main rescue channel. “Search and rescue! Car number seven, Ellie Ross, has gone over at Dead Man’s Curve! Dispatch immediately! We need to save her!” My heart turned to ice. He was so sure I was going to crash. Already, the clueless media would be drafting headlines: “Three-time Mojave Queen Falls from Grace.” He was clearing the path for Chelsea. I couldn’t let them have it. “Just close your eyes, sweetheart. It won’t hurt as bad.” Garrett’s hollow words echoed in my mind. I closed my eyes. But not to surrender. I closed them to remember. Eighteen seconds had passed since his last correct note. At my current speed, that meant… I had it. I knew exactly where I was. Even with the sand blotting out the world, the map in my head was clear. I feather-touched the brakes, dropped the gears, and prepped the wheel. Then, a roaring engine behind me. Someone was catching up. Not just one car—two. Three yards. Two yards. Now! I yanked the wheel to the inside, hugging the cliffside blindly. It was a suicidal gamble, but my only choice. “CRASH!” A deafening impact rattled my teeth. Chelsea’s car clipped my rear quarter panel, the sheer force of her momentum spinning my car through the apex. I slammed hard against the canyon wall, the car tilting sideways and wedging into the rocks. But I made the turn. Behind me, a sickening crunch and a scream of metal echoed down the ravine as the third car missed the turn entirely. My heart beat so hard it felt like it would break through my ribs. As I sat there shivering in the tilted cabin, I noticed my collar was torn. The silver St. Christopher medal—the one Garrett had given me for my twenty-first birthday—had shattered against the steering wheel. Only the frayed red cord remained around my neck. “It’s not tacky,” he’d insisted back then, kissing my forehead. “It’s a protector. As long as you wear it, it’s like I’m right there with you, Ellie. You’re going to be the first queen of the Mojave.” I ripped the remaining cord from my neck, leaving a thin, burning welt. I stared at the broken silver pieces and threw them to the floorboards. It had kept me safe, I suppose. But some things stay broken forever. Suddenly, static hissed in my helmet. Because of the impact, my receiver had glitched and crossed onto Chelsea’s private radio channel. “Garrett, babe… if you’re this good to me, aren’t you worried Ellie will be furious?” Chelsea’s voice was a soft, calculated purr. “Worried? She’s hogged your spotlight for three years. It’s your turn to be queen. Besides, she’s probably unconscious in a ravine right now. By the time she wakes up, she won’t remember a thing.” The sheer cruelty in his voice made me shake. Along with his words, a wave of physical pain finally hit me. The car was tilted at a ninety-degree angle, trapping me inside. Every breath sent a sharp, stabbing pain through my left shoulder. Within minutes, the rescue crew arrived, hauling the car back onto four wheels. “Ellie Ross! Can you hear us?” “Get the stretcher! The driver has a suspected collarbone fracture and head trauma!” The paramedics removed my helmet, but the audio feed in my earpiece kept playing. “I tapped her car on the way past,” Chelsea giggled. “That loud crash down the cliff… that had to be her.” “You’re brilliant, sweetheart,” Garrett replied. “I’m taking you out for oysters tonight. Your favorite.” Oysters. I had spent years suffering through high-end seafood bars with Garrett, popping allergy pills and hiding my hives, just because I thought “he” loved it. I realized now he was taking Chelsea’s favorite meals and feeding them to me. The realization burned away the pain. I pushed past the paramedics, climbed back into the driver’s seat, and slammed the door shut. “Ellie! Stop! You’re injured! You need to get to a hospital!” I ignored them, threw the car into gear with my right arm, and roared back onto the track. Chelsea, Garrett… you want to take my crown? Not in this lifetime. By now, I was far behind the pack. The live broadcast commentators were already eulogizing my career. “We’ve just received word from the track. Three-time champion Ellie Ross has suffered a major crash near Dead Man’s Curve. It’s a devastating turn of events for the crowd favorite.” “It really is. Fans were hoping to see Ellie and her fiancé, star navigator Garrett, make history today. But the crown is up for grabs now, and Chelsea, who has played bridesmaid for three years, is currently leading the pack.” My left arm hung uselessly at my side. I grabbed a spare harness strap and bound my arm tightly to my chest to keep it from jarring. Everything relied on my right hand. As the dust storm cleared, the track ahead became visible. I didn’t need pace notes anymore. I knew every turn. “Chelsea is entering the final stretch!” the commentator screamed. “She’s almost at the finish line!” At the finish line, Garrett was already standing near the barrier, holding a massive bouquet of red roses next to a giant banner that read: “TO MY QUEEN, CHELSEA.” Reporters swarmed him. “Garrett! The race isn’t over, and Ellie is reportedly injured. What is this?” He smiled smoothly for the cameras. “My queen has worked hard for this. I wanted to make sure she had a proper celebration.” “But Ellie—” “Only a true queen of the Mojave deserves my heart. I’ve waited five years for this moment.” Suddenly, the crowd gasped. “Wait! Look at the track! An orange car has just blasted into the final straightaway! It’s number seven! Ellie Ross is still in the race!” I squeezed the wheel with my right hand, gritting my teeth through the pain, and drove straight at Chelsea’s blue car. I didn’t lift. I rammed her—a metal-on-metal screech that sent both our cars crossing the finish line in a cloud of burning rubber. “I see it! It’s number seven, Ellie Ross! She’s done the impossible!”

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