Category: English

My husband always told me he loved me enough to buy me a one-carat diamond ring. But whenever our family actually needed money, his love came with a discount. When our son started preschool, the tuition was $4,800. He only transferred me $3,000. When the $3,500 rent was due at the end of the month, he sent $2,500. I put up with it until the night our three-year-old son spiked a massive fever and went into convulsions. The emergency room demanded a $5,000 deposit before they would admit him to the pediatric ICU. Like clockwork, my husband only transferred $3,000. “Figure out the rest yourself,” he told me. I broke down, begging him over the phone. All I got in return was a cold sigh. “Sarah, you are being completely unreasonable.” The line went dead. There was no further response. He left me alone in the sterile hospital corridor, holding my burning, seizing child, drowning in absolute despair. 1 “Ma’am! If you don’t pay the deposit right now, I have to take him off the monitors!” The nurse’s voice echoed down the empty, fluorescent-lit hallway. I looked down at little Noah in my arms. His lips had faded from a terrifying purple to a sickly, ashen gray. His tiny fingers weren’t even gripping my shirt anymore, and his seizures had grown weaker. That weakness was far more terrifying than the violent shaking. Instinctively, I glanced down at my left ring finger. That one-carat diamond caught the harsh hospital lights, glittering blindingly. He always said this was the absolute best thing he could ever give me. I ripped the ring off my finger, hoisted my son higher against my chest, and sprinted out the sliding doors of the ER. Two blocks east of the hospital, the neon sign of a 24-hour pawn and jewelry exchange was still buzzing. I crashed through the doors, holding my fever-hot boy. The owner barely looked up from his phone. “Please, how much can I get for this ring? It’s an emergency.” He took it, screwed a jeweler’s loupe into his eye, flipped it over for maybe five seconds, and tossed it onto the glass counter. “Look, lady. This isn’t a diamond.” I froze. “That’s impossible. It’s a full carat. My husband paid ten thousand dollars for it.” “It’s moissanite,” the owner said flatly. “Synthetic. Wholesale price is about thirty bucks. Factor in the cheap 18-karat gold-plated band, and the whole thing is worth maybe fifty dollars on a good day. You don’t believe me, take it to any appraiser in town.” I stood perfectly still in front of that counter. My baby was burning up with a 105-degree fever against my chest, and I just stared at the ring. Fifty dollars. He said he loved me. He said he spared no expense for my ring. A thirty-dollar piece of wholesale glass. Even his grandest gesture of love was heavily discounted. “Hey, lady? You okay? Your kid’s color looks really bad.” The owner’s voice snapped me back to reality. I shoved the useless metal into my pocket, turned around, and ran back into the night. By the time I reached the ER lobby, my legs were giving out. It wasn’t physical exhaustion. It was the feeling of being hollowed out, completely scraped clean from the inside. My phone buzzed. It was my mother. “Mom, can you please Zelle me two thousand dollars? Noah is having febrile seizures. We’re in the ER and I’m short on the deposit.” A two-second pause on the line. “Where’s Carter?” “He sent three thousand. It’s not enough.” “Sarah, your husband makes a great living. He bought you that huge diamond, and you’re telling me you don’t have enough money?” “Mom, please…” “Your brother’s wife has been married for three years and hasn’t asked us for a single dime. Look at you. Calling me in the middle of the night just to beg for cash.” “Mom, Noah is convulsing! I’m not making this up!” “Every kid shakes a little when they get a fever. When you were little and got a fever, I gave you some Tylenol and chicken soup and you were fine. You mothers today are just too dramatic.” I hung up on her. The plastic chairs in the ER waiting room were mostly empty. In the corner sat a woman in her early thirties, holding a sleeping boy about four years old. She was using a wet cotton swab to moisten her son’s cracked lips. She had been watching me the entire time. I ignored her and opened my contacts. I scrolled from A to Z, making three calls. The first went straight to voicemail. The second friend said things were tight this month. The third listened to me panic, muttered that two grand wasn’t exactly pocket change, and made an excuse to hang up. “Excuse me. Are you short two thousand for the deposit?” I looked up. It was the woman from the corner. “I… I don’t even know you.” “My name is Rachel,” she said softly. “Give me your Venmo. I’ll send it right now.” “I can’t take your money.” “If you waste time being polite, your kid might not make it.” Right on cue, Noah’s tiny body seized against mine again. I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper, and pulled up my app. Two thousand dollars hit my account three seconds later. I rushed the billing window, slamming down my debit card to pay the exact five-thousand-dollar deposit. Three thousand from a husband I had known for years, and two thousand from a stranger I had known for ten minutes. The nurses immediately swarmed Noah, rushing him through the double doors into the pediatric intensive care unit. Before the doors swung shut, one nurse looked back at me. “A few minutes later and there would have been brain damage.” The doors locked with a heavy click. I stood at the glass window, watching them hook my baby up to a maze of tubes. The green line on the EKG monitor spiked and dipped. In my pocket, that fifty-dollar piece of fake jewelry dug into my thigh. Rachel appeared beside me quietly. She crouched down slightly to meet my eye level and handed me a bottle of cold water. “Thank you,” I whispered, my hands shaking as I took it. “I will pay you back as soon as humanly possible.” She waved off the promise, staring intently into my eyes. Then she asked a question that made my blood run cold. “Your husband… does he always give you a discount whenever he sends you money?” 2 “How could you possibly know that?” Rachel didn’t answer immediately. She stood up, brushed the dust off her jeans, and glanced through the glass at Noah. “Let them stabilize him. Keep your phone charged. If you need anything, call me.” She pressed a business card into my palm, scooped up her own sleeping child, and walked toward the exit. I looked down at the card. Rachel Dawson, Administrative Assistant at Bennett Legal Group. On the back, written in blue ink, was a single sentence: You are not alone. Before I could even process what that meant, my phone vibrated in my hand. It was the family group chat. Carter had just posted a message, accompanied by a selfie of him standing outside the hospital entrance. He had put on a grim, concerned expression. The caption read: Got the terrifying call at 1 AM. Dropped everything and rushed to the ER for my boy. A father’s heart is breaking right now. Please pray for Noah’s speedy recovery. The replies flooded in instantly, full of sympathy. His mother was first. My poor Carter. Working so hard to provide, and now you have to deal with this exhaustion. His aunt chimed in. Where is Sarah? How does a mother let a child get that sick before going to the doctor? His mother replied to the aunt. Exactly. Some people just don’t know how to be mothers. I gripped my phone so tightly my knuckles turned white, my fingernails digging sharp crescents into my palms. Then, Carter’s reply popped up. Don’t blame Sarah. It’s hard for her to manage him alone. I’m already here at the hospital handling things. Don’t worry, everyone. He said he was already at the hospital. I looked up and down the desolate, echoing corridor. It was 3:30 in the morning. He was nowhere to be seen. That photo… I remembered taking that picture of him outside this very hospital last month when we brought Noah in for his vaccines. He had just slapped a dark, moody filter on it. Twenty minutes later, he finally showed up. He was wearing a rumpled t-shirt, his hair sticking up at odd angles. “How is he?” But those weren’t his first words. Instead of asking about his son, he glanced toward the ICU window, pulled out his phone, and snapped a picture through the glass. I watched him adjust the lighting, type out a caption, and post it to his Instagram story. The whole performance took less than thirty seconds. Only after sliding the phone back into his pocket did he finally look at me. “Did you figure out the money?” “I did.” “How?” “I pawned the ring.” All the color drained from his face instantly. “Where did you pawn it? Which shop?” “The gold exchange two blocks down.” “How much did they give you?” I stared dead into his eyes. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was looking at a complete stranger. “Take a guess.” “Sarah, don’t play games with me. That ring… you need to go buy it back right now.” “Why?” “That is the symbol of our marriage! You just pawned it like it meant nothing? Do you have any sentimental value in your bones at all?” He completely avoided the topic of the price. He didn’t ask what they appraised it at. He went straight for the emotional guilt trip. A dry, bitter laugh bubbled up in my throat. “I couldn’t pawn it.” “They wouldn’t take it?” His Adam’s apple bobbed nervously. “Why not?” “The owner said…” I paused, ultimately deciding to swallow the truth for a moment. “He said it was too late and the appraiser wasn’t in until tomorrow.” Carter visibly deflated, his tense shoulders dropping two inches. “Okay. Good. Don’t go back tomorrow. I’ll take it to the boutique this weekend to get it professionally cleaned and polished instead.” He had never once mentioned getting it cleaned. I had worn it for three years straight without him bringing it up. Tonight, he was suddenly terrified. Because he knew an appraiser would expose him. “What did the doctor say about Noah?” he asked, changing the subject. “They need to keep him under observation for at least three days.” “Three days? How much is a day in the ICU?” “About two thousand dollars a day.” “Two grand? So three days is six thousand? Plus the deposit… that’s over ten grand!” “Carter, he almost died tonight.” “I know, but look at him, he’s sleeping peacefully now! Kids bounce back fast. There’s no reason to bleed money staying in a hospital when he can rest at home.” He let out a loud yawn, slumped onto the vinyl waiting room bench, and pulled out his phone to start scrolling. I stood by the glass door, watching Noah’s little chest rise and fall faintly. My phone lit up. It was Carter’s mother. “Sarah, Carter told me the baby was admitted?” “Yes, Maggie. He had severe febrile seizures.” “I’ve told you before, you coddle him too much. If a kid has a fever, you put them in a lukewarm bath. Why do you insist on running to the hospital and burning through Carter’s hard-earned money?” “Maggie, his temperature was a hundred and five. He was convulsing.” “Don’t exaggerate. Carter ran a fever of a hundred and four when he was a toddler. I gave him some ice water and Motrin, and he was running around the next day. Look at how much stress you’re putting on my son. Dragging him out of bed in the middle of the night when he has to work tomorrow.” Carter was sitting five feet away. He heard every single word echoing from my phone speaker. He didn’t say a syllable to defend me. “Next time the boy gets the sniffles, just watch him at home. Carter is under a lot of financial pressure. You need to be a more supportive wife.” “Okay,” I said quietly, and ended the call. When I turned around, Carter had already fallen asleep on the bench. His phone screen was still illuminated, showing a lock screen photo of him and Noah. A stack of unread notifications piled up at the bottom. I didn’t snoop. Not because I trusted him, but because I was terrified of what else I might not be able to handle tonight. But Rachel’s question kept looping in my mind like a broken record. Does your husband always give you a discount? How could she possibly know our private financial dynamic? I reached out toward his glowing phone, then pulled my hand back. On the other end of the bench, Carter shifted in his sleep and mumbled something into his jacket collar. “Seventy percent… is enough.” 3 “What did you say?” I leaned over, bringing my ear close to his face. Carter just let out a muffled groan and rolled over. His phone slid off his chest and fell into the crack between the cushions. I left it there. At 7:00 AM, the attending physician did his rounds. He told us Noah’s inflammatory markers were dangerously high and he needed a heavy course of IV antibiotics for three full days. The moment Carter heard “three days,” he started nervously rubbing his fingers together. “Doc, can’t you just write a prescription for some oral antibiotics we can take home? It’s the same stuff, right?” The doctor shot him a look of absolute disgust, ignored him entirely, and turned to me. “Mom, the child had three consecutive severe seizures last night. I highly advise we keep him monitored until his bloodwork clears. As parents, you cannot put a price tag on your child’s life.” “You’re right, doctor. We will do whatever you recommend.” As soon as the doctor walked away, Carter’s face darkened. “Three days of IV meds is going to be another four grand easily. Plus the bed fees, the nursing fees… we’re looking at fifteen thousand dollars out of pocket.” I said nothing. “Sarah, how much money do you actually have left in your checking?” “Nothing.” “What about the money from your Etsy store?” “I spent the last of it covering the rest of Noah’s preschool tuition.” He stood up and began pacing the small corridor. “Well, you need to figure something out. You’re resourceful, right? You figured out the deposit last night.” I gripped Noah’s medical chart so hard my fingernails nearly pierced the plastic cover. Carter left for work at 8:00 AM. Before he walked out, he transferred me $1,500, claiming it was for the three days of hospital food and miscellaneous expenses. I did the math in my head. Three days of three meals from the overpriced hospital cafeteria, plus Noah’s liquid diet, was at least $120 a day. That’s $360. Diapers, baby wipes, and a change of clothes from the gift shop would be another two or three hundred. The remaining thousand was a drop in the bucket against the medical bills. Even with this, he was applying his discount. At 10:00 AM, Rachel walked through the sliding doors. She was holding a basket of fresh fruit. She sat quietly next to me on the vinyl chairs, studying the EKG numbers through the glass. “Has his fever broken?” “It’s down to a hundred. A little better than last night.” “You haven’t slept a wink, have you? Your eyes are completely bloodshot.” I shook my head. I stared at the floor for a long time before finally finding the courage to speak. “Rachel… that question you asked me last night. How did you know my husband always discounts the money he gives me?” She paused, the small pairing knife halting mid-air as she peeled an apple. “Because my ex-husband did the exact same thing.” “He…?” “Everything was discounted. Rent money, grocery money, pediatrician copays. He always gave me exactly seventy percent. He forced me to figure out the remaining thirty percent on my own.” She handed me a slice of apple. “I was a stay-at-home mom with no income. Every single time a bill came, I had to swallow my pride and beg him to cover the gap. I thought he was just struggling at work. I lived like a monk for three years, feeling guilty buying myself a five-dollar coffee. Until one day…” She stopped and looked at me. “Until what?” I asked. “I was doing laundry. A receipt fell out of his jeans pocket. It was an annual subscription fee for a private online community. Two thousand, nine hundred and eighty dollars.” “He lectured me over buying a twenty-dollar bottle of face wash, but dropped three grand on an online course.” “What kind of course?” Rachel put down the knife, unlocked her phone, and scrolled through her photos. She handed it to me. It was a screenshot of a Discord community landing page. The background image was a man in a tailored suit holding a heavy bag of cash. Bold letters across the top read: The 70% Principle: Mastering Financial Dominance in Your Marriage. The subheadline beneath it made my stomach churn: Give her seventy percent. Keep your leverage. Control the household. I stared at the glowing screen for what felt like hours. “What exactly does this group teach?” “It teaches husbands how to strictly cap their household contributions at seventy percent. If preschool is $4,800, give her $3,000. If rent is $3,500, give her $2,500. No matter what the wife asks for, multiply it by 0.7. Then, feed her a generic excuse: the economy is bad, work bonuses got cut, business expenses are too high.” “The goal is to condition the wife. Make her used to scrambling to cover the difference. Make her afraid to ask for money. Make her feel ashamed for being a financial burden.” My fingertips started to go numb. “How many men are in this group?” “When my ex was in it, there were over a hundred. That was two years ago. There are probably way more now.” She swiped to the next photo, showing the community’s ‘About’ section. “Look closely at the profile picture of the founder.” The avatar was a photo taken from behind. A man in a dark blue button-down shirt, standing in front of floor-to-ceiling office windows. He had a slight slouch in his shoulders, his head tilted just a fraction to the right, his left hand shoved casually into his pocket. I knew that posture. I knew that shirt. I bought it for him. It was Carter. “This guy…” Rachel said softly, “goes by the handle Mr. Markdown. He posts a new module every week, and it’s always based on a real-life case study. How he applied the 70% rule, how his wife reacted, and how she eventually panicked and solved the deficit herself.” “He repackages your misery into a curriculum and sells it to hundreds of men. The yearly fee is $2,980. The lifetime VIP membership is $9,800.” I heard my own voice trembling. “Are you saying… I am his course material?” Rachel didn’t nod or shake her head. She just pocketed her phone, looked me dead in the eye, and said, “Sarah, I think you need to read it for yourself. See if his ‘case studies’ match your life.” 4 “Can you send me the link to that community?” She sent it immediately. Sitting in the echoing hospital corridor, I pulled out an old burner phone I kept in Noah’s diaper bag for emergencies. I created a fake email, registered a new profile, and paid the $2,980 entry fee using money Rachel advanced me. My hands shook as the loading wheel spun. The pinned post at the very top of the forum read: Mandatory Reading for New Members: The Core Philosophy of the 70% Principle. The Harder She Works, The Easier Your Life Gets. I scrolled down. The posts were arranged chronologically, dating back three years. The founder, Mr. Markdown, had a gold verified badge next to his name. His bio read: Married, father of one. The pioneer and preacher of the 70% lifestyle. I clicked on his very first post. Gentlemen, a quick tip for you today. The Engagement Ring Hack. The wife wanted a one-carat diamond. Market rate starts around ten grand. I found a wholesaler online, bought a fake moissanite stone, slapped it on a cheap gold-plated band. Total cost: under a hundred bucks. Looks identical to the naked eye. She’s been wearing it for three years, bragging to all her friends about how much I spoiled her. Boys, this is the power of information asymmetry. Below it were hundreds of replies. “Legendary.” “Bro, teach me your ways! My girl wants two carats, what do I do?” Mr. Markdown had replied: “A two-carat moissanite is literally forty dollars. Be bold, brother.” I swallowed the bile in my throat and scrolled down to the second post. Preschool Tuition Execution. Wife told me the kid’s preschool was $4,800. I transferred $3,000. My excuse: ‘The company missed its quarterly targets.’ She went silent for three minutes and didn’t push it. When I went to bed, her phone was still glowing under the covers. I peeked. She was on Etsy, looking up how to sell handmade bracelets… Gentlemen, are you taking notes? This is the essence of the 70% Principle: You give her a number that is just out of reach, and she will pave the rest of the road herself. Comments: “Brilliant! My wife started walking dogs on Rover yesterday. Made four hundred bucks this month.” Mr. Markdown replied: “A woman’s true potential is unlocked by desperation. If you provide 100%, she becomes lazy and useless.” I kept scrolling. Third post: The Rent Stress Test. Rent is $3,500. I sent $2,500. The excuse this time: ‘Client dinners ate up my budget.’ When she asked what we were going to do about the missing thousand, I didn’t answer directly. I just hit her with, ‘What do you think we should do?’ She shut down completely. The next day, she came home from the grocery store with nothing but discount ramen and wilted spinach. Boys, when your wife starts actively starving herself to save your money, the conditioning is working. My fingernails dug into the cheap plastic case of the burner phone. I scrolled to the very top of the feed. The newest post. Published twelve hours ago. It had a bright red tag that read: ULTIMATE STRESS TEST. Gentlemen, we hit a milestone tonight. At 1 AM, my son spiked a massive fever and had severe convulsions. Wife was in the ER panicking, needed a $5,000 deposit. As always, I stayed disciplined to the 70% rule. I transferred $3,000. First came the begging. Then the crying. Then the accusations. Finally, the submission. The whole cycle took about forty minutes. After I hung up on her, she didn’t call back. When I casually rolled into the hospital this morning, the deposit was miraculously paid. What does this prove, brothers? It proves the 70% Principle holds up even in life-or-death scenarios. A woman’s breaking point is always much lower than you think. You assume she’ll shatter, but she won’t. She will find a way. Because you’ve trained her to believe she has no other choice. The comment section was exploding. “All hail the master!” “Dude, you held the line while your kid was in the ER? That’s ice cold. I don’t think I have it in me.” Mr. Markdown’s response was pinned right beneath that comment. If you can’t do it, it’s because you’re weak. Remember this: Empathy is the enemy of financial dominance. If you show weakness and pay the difference today, tomorrow she’ll ask for more. You have to be ruthless. Was I worried about my kid seizing in the ER? Of course I was. But you never break the rules of the system. I slowly lowered the phone to my lap. People were talking in the hallway. Doctors were walking by. The machines in the ICU were beeping rhythmically. But I couldn’t hear any of it. Everything had gone completely, utterly silent.

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On the night of our wedding anniversary, my husband burst through the front door covered in blood, dropping to his knees and weeping uncontrollably. “Maria, you have to save me! I borrowed from loan sharks, and if I don’t pay them a million dollars tonight, they are going to chop off my hand!” His mother followed right behind him. She pressed a kitchen knife against her own throat, trying to force me to sell the premium brownstone my late parents had left me. “Maria, he is your husband! We can always buy another house, but if he dies, you’ll have nothing!” Watching this mother and son duo deliver their Oscar worthy performances, a genuine laugh escaped my lips. “I will sell the house. But I have one condition.” “What condition?” “I want to sit here and watch them chop off one of his fingers first, just to verify these loan sharks are actually real.” 1 It was eleven o’clock at night. The frantic, violent twisting of the deadbolt shattered the dead silence of the house. Wesley stumbled through the doorway, reeking of copper and sweat. Before I could even stand up from the sofa, he dropped heavily to his knees right in the foyer. A thick, nauseating smell of blood instantly filled the air. His crisp white dress shirt was dyed a horrifying crimson. His face was covered in dark purple bruises, and his left arm hung at a sickening, unnatural angle. “Maria, save me… you have to save me!” He bawled, snot and tears streaming down his bruised face. With a violently trembling hand, he pulled a crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket and slapped it onto the hardwood floor. It was an IOU. Amount: One million dollars. Borrower: Wesley. Right at the bottom was a stark, bloody thumbprint. I remained seated on the velvet sofa, the novel in my hands still open. My eyes coldly swept over the crumpled paper, and then slowly trailed up to his pathetic face. “One million dollars. What exactly did you spend it on?” Wesley completely froze. He clearly hadn’t expected my first reaction to be a calm interrogation instead of screaming or rushing to bandage his wounds. A second later, he wailed even louder. “I… I just wanted to buy us a bigger estate! I invested in crypto with a buddy, and the entire market tanked. We got completely wiped out!” “Maria, they are underground loan sharks! The interest compounded daily until it hit a million!” “The boss made it perfectly clear. If he doesn’t see the cash by midnight, he is taking my life! He’s going to chop off my hands!” As he screamed, he crawled across the floor like a desperate dog and threw his arms around my calves. The blood from his expensive tailored trousers instantly smeared all over my silk pajamas. “Baby, I know you can fix this! That brownstone your parents left you in the Upper East Side is worth exactly a million on the market right now. Sell it, please. I am begging you!” Ah. So that was the endgame. I didn’t move a muscle. I just looked down at him, a cold, mocking smirk tugging at the corners of my mouth. “Wesley, did you somehow forget? That house is the only piece of my parents I have left. It is strictly my pre-marital property.” Wesley stiffened. A flash of raw resentment and disbelief crossed his eyes, but he quickly buried it under a mask of pure panic. “Maria, how can you draw lines between what’s yours and what’s mine at a time like this?” “I am your husband! Are you seriously going to sit there and watch me get murdered?” “How can you be so utterly heartless? What is more important, money or my life?!” His voice cracked into a hysterical shriek, his spit landing on my plush slippers. I pulled my leg away in absolute disgust, stood up, and looked down at him from above. “Life is obviously more important.” “But Wesley, what makes you think your life is worth a million dollars?” “What did you just say?” Wesley’s eyes bulged as if he were staring at a complete stranger. The old Maria was a soft, submissive pushover who catered to his every whim. The old Maria would have cried for an hour if he so much as got a paper cut. But right now, faced with her blood-soaked husband, I was treating him like a bad investment. “I said, you aren’t worth it.” I bent down, picked up the bloody IOU by the corner, and flicked the paper with my fingernail. “A crypto investment?” “As far as I know, you don’t even know how to open a basic brokerage account. What’s the name of this so called buddy? What is his phone number? I am going to call him right now and verify this.” 2 Wesley’s eyes darted around the room in a blind panic. He stammered frantically. “He… he’s a guy from the underground. You can’t just call him!” “Baby, please stop asking questions and just go get the property deed! I already contacted a realtor. They found a cash buyer who is willing to close tonight! The offer is a little below market value, but it will save my life!” He already had a realtor and a buyer lined up. Whoever wrote this script for him was incredibly thorough. Right at that moment, the door to the guest bedroom violently slammed open. Martha, my mother-in-law, charged out with her hair wildly disheveled. In her right hand, she gripped a sharp paring knife. “Maria, you venomous, cold blooded witch!” She shrieked, pressing the tip of the blade directly against her own throat. Her eyes were completely manic. “My son is bleeding out on the floor, and you’re worried about a stupid piece of real estate?! Are you trying to force the two of us into early graves?!” “Let me make this crystal clear. If you don’t hand over that deed right now to save my boy, I will slit my throat right in front of you! I’ll make sure the whole world knows you drove your own mother-in-law to suicide!” Wesley immediately played his part, screaming in terror. “Mom, don’t do it! Put the knife down! Maria doesn’t mean it!” “She means every word! All she cares about is her dirty money! She wants you dead!” Martha pressed the blade slightly deeper into her skin. It didn’t draw blood, but the theatrical display was certainly intimidating. If this were the old me, I would have been scared out of my mind. I would have sprinted to the safe and handed over the deed without a second thought. Unfortunately for them, they were entirely out of the loop. Just last night, I had placed a GPS tracker under Wesley’s luxury sedan. He hadn’t been anywhere near an underground casino or an investment firm. He had spent the entire evening at The Plaza Hotel, rolling around in the sheets with his college sweetheart, Mindy. I watched this beautifully choreographed performance of maternal sacrifice and undying marital love, feeling nothing but a deep sense of absurdity. “Mom, hold the knife steady. Don’t let your hand shake.” My voice was so eerily calm that it practically froze the air in the living room. Martha froze completely. The knife was still pressed against her neck, but she didn’t know whether to push deeper or pull away. “What… what did you just say?” “I said, if you really want to kill yourself, I am not going to stop you.” “But you should know that if you bleed out in my living room, this place officially becomes a stigmatized murder house. The property value will plummet, which means we won’t get enough money. Wesley will just die a little faster.” I calmly walked over to the water dispenser, poured myself a glass of iced water, and took a slow sip to soothe my throat. “Maria! Are you even human?!” Wesley leaped up from the floor. He completely forgot he was supposed to be a crippled victim, pointing a furious finger right at my nose. “My mother is about to end her life, and you’re making sarcastic jokes?! Do you want me to kill myself right now to prove it?!” “Sure.” I set my glass down, looked him dead in the eye, and took a slow step toward him. “Then kill yourself right now.” “Didn’t you say the loan sharks were going to chop off your hand?” “If you’re going to die anyway, what’s a few missing fingers?” I turned my back on them and walked straight into the kitchen. Wesley and Martha exchanged terrified, bewildered glances, having absolutely no idea what I was doing. A few seconds later, I walked back out, holding a heavy, razor sharp meat cleaver. The polished steel gleamed under the living room lights. “Ah! What are you doing?!” Martha shrieked, dropping the paring knife onto the floor with a loud clatter. Wesley stumbled backward in pure terror until his back slammed against the wall. “Maria… baby… put that down… don’t do anything crazy…” “I am not doing anything crazy.” I slammed the heavy cleaver down onto the glass coffee table. The impact rattled the teacups. “Since those men want your hand, I might as well do it for them. It’s much safer.” “I am your wife. It is my legal and moral obligation to help you.” I smiled sweetly at Wesley’s chalk white face. “Chop it off, and I will personally deliver it to them in a cooler. We settle the debt, you keep your life, and we save a million dollars. It’s a phenomenal return on investment.” Wesley stared at the massive blade. His Adam’s apple bobbed violently. Cold sweat mixed with the fake blood on his face, making him look utterly pathetic. “Maria… have you lost your damn mind?” “I am your husband! You want to mutilate me?!” “I don’t want to mutilate you. You just need to pay your debts.” I crossed my arms over my chest, watching him squirm with absolute amusement. “What’s wrong? You don’t have the guts?” “Or… is it possible that there are no loan sharks at all? And nobody is actually trying to chop off your hand?” Panic flared in his eyes. He immediately scrambled to defend his lie. “Of course there are! It’s real! Baby, stop messing around and go get the deed! The buyer is literally waiting downstairs in the lobby right now!” “Downstairs?” I caught the slip up instantly. “The big bad loan shark boss personally came to our lobby to collect a property deed? Wow, their customer service is incredible.” Wesley realized his mistake and desperately tried to cover his tracks. “No… it’s the realtor! The cash buyer is waiting down there! The second they verify the deed, they wire the million dollars!” “Oh, a cash buyer.” I nodded slowly, acting as if he had finally convinced me. 3 “Since they are already here, have them come up.” “What?” Wesley blinked in confusion. “I said, tell the buyer to come up.” “It’s a million dollar transaction. I need to look them in the eye. What if they’re a scam artist?” I glanced at the antique grandfather clock. “It is eleven thirty. We have exactly thirty minutes until your midnight deadline.” “Have them come up, sign the contracts, initiate the wire transfer, and hand over the deed. Simple.” Wesley clearly hadn’t anticipated this curveball. His eyes darted nervously toward the front door. “That… it’s the middle of the night. It’s totally inappropriate to invite a stranger up…” “What exactly is inappropriate? Is it more inappropriate than getting your hand severed with a machete?” My face hardened, and my tone dropped to a freezing command. “Wesley, you either invite them up right now, or I am calling the police to have a detective look into this phantom loan shark operation.” Hearing the word “police”, Martha started wailing all over again. “You can’t call the cops! If you call the cops, Wesley’s reputation will be ruined! How is he supposed to show his face at work?!” Wesley looked completely horrified. He gritted his teeth and nodded. “Fine. I’ll tell them to come up. Just go get the deed, Maria. Don’t keep them waiting!” He pulled out his phone and turned his back to me, furiously typing out a text message. I watched his back, my eyes colder than ice. Since you want to put on a show, Wesley, I will gladly play along until the curtain drops. I just hoped the “buyer” coming up the elevator was ready for their cue. Ten minutes later, the doorbell chimed. Wesley bolted toward the door like a startled rabbit and yanked it open. A man in a dark trench coat walked in, his face hidden behind a surgical mask and sunglasses. Trailing right behind him was a woman. The woman pulled down her mask, revealing a flawlessly contoured, beautiful face. Mindy. I knew it. Wesley’s beloved college sweetheart. The woman who had him so utterly mesmerized that he was willing to orchestrate an elaborate, violent fraud just to steal my inheritance. “Mr. Wesley, is the property deed ready?” Mindy asked, putting on a sickeningly professional tone. Wesley bowed repeatedly, playing the desperate victim to perfection. “It’s ready! Everything is ready! Maria, bring out the folder!” I stayed seated on the sofa. My gaze slowly swept over Mindy from head to toe. “And who might you be?” “I am the proxy attorney representing the buyer. My name is Mindy.” She pulled a sleek business card from her designer handbag and handed it to me. “Mrs. Maria, time is of the essence. We should proceed with the signatures immediately.” “An attorney?” I took the card, glanced at it, and let out a soft chuckle. “This season’s latest Chanel tweed jacket, paired with a custom Hermes Birkin. Practicing law must be incredibly lucrative for you, Miss Mindy.” Mindy’s expression cracked for a split second, but she quickly recovered her icy composure. “My wardrobe is a private matter. Let’s not deflect from the crisis at hand.” “I was informed that your husband needs immediate liquid capital to save his life. My client is only taking this property off your hands as a personal favor. If you miss this window, he dies.” “She’s right, Maria! Please hurry!” Wesley was sweating bullets, reaching out to pull me off the sofa. I slapped his hand away and slowly pulled a thick red, leather bound folder from the drawer beneath the coffee table. The second that folder appeared, all the air was sucked out of the room. Wesley’s eyes burned with rabid greed. Martha audibly swallowed her saliva. Mindy even took an involuntary step forward, her manicured fingers twitching. “Here is the deed.” I placed the heavy red folder onto the glass table and rested my palm flat against it. “But before I hand this over, I have one question for our esteemed attorney.” Mindy stared at the folder, clearly losing her patience. “What is your question?” “You claimed to be representing a cash buyer. So tell me, do you actually have one million dollars in liquid funds on you right now?” “Of course.” Mindy reached into her Birkin and pulled out a slip of paper. “This is a certified cashier’s check for exactly one million dollars. The moment you sign the transfer, it clears.” I took one glance at the check. It was a blatant, pathetic forgery. A cheap movie prop that could only fool an absolute idiot. Or, more accurately, Wesley knew perfectly well it was fake. He just needed to trick me into signing the transfer so he could put the house in Mindy’s name and leave me with nothing. “Perfect. Let’s do this.” I nodded, picking up the heavy red folder and extending my hand toward him. Just as Wesley’s greedy fingers were about to brush the leather cover, I violently flipped my wrist and smashed the heavy book directly into his face. Smack! The sharp, brutal sound echoed through the living room. Wesley staggered backward, clutching his bleeding nose, staring at me in total shock. “Maria! What the hell is wrong with you?!” “What’s wrong with me?” I stood up, pointing a furious finger down at the red book on the floor. “Open your damn eyes and look at what you’re actually trying to steal!” Wesley scrambled to his knees, picking up the book with shaking hands. He flipped the cover open, and all the blood instantly drained from his face. It wasn’t a property deed. It was a copy of the State Penal Code.

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After a drunken night with my best friend’s older brother, I became his secret, off-the-books girlfriend. For eight long years, I lived in the shadows. Finally, my family handed down a harsh ultimatum: I had to marry this year, or they would arrange a match for me. “Austin,” I told him, as we lay in the quiet dark of our bedroom. “My parents gave me an ultimatum. I need to get married this year.” He paused, his body tensing, before he pressed a soft, distracting kiss to my forehead. He gave me the same old line he always did. “Just wait a little longer.” But the very next day, I opened my social media and saw a post from our new office intern, Lily. It was a photo of her and Austin holding up a fresh marriage license outside the city courthouse. Her caption read: Got the handsome CEO locked down. Eight years of begging for a crumb of commitment, and she got the whole damn loaf in three months. Swallowing the bitter lump in my throat, I tapped the heart icon. Then, I left a comment: Congratulations! Wishing you a lifetime of happiness. Within the hour, I called my mother and accepted the match they had arranged for me. My phone rang almost immediately. For the first time in eight years, Austin’s voice sounded panicked. “Sydney, don’t get the wrong idea. It was just a stupid dare. I lost a bet with the guys, and Lily and I went to the courthouse as a joke…” I cut him off. “Austin, I’m getting married.” 1 There was a sudden, heavy silence on the line. Then, Austin’s voice returned, laced with his usual irritation. In the background, I could hear a girl’s soft, playful giggles. “Here you go again,” he sighed. “Are you really that desperate to walk down the aisle? The company’s cash flow is practically dry right now, Sydney. Can you please stop making a mess of things?” I stood on my balcony, watching the city lights flicker in the cool evening wind. My voice was flat, empty of the warmth I used to give him. “I’m not making a mess. I’m actually getting married.” He let out a sharp, mocking laugh, as if I had just told the most ridiculous joke. “You don’t even have a guy in your life. Who are you marrying? The wind?” I opened my mouth to say Nate’s name, but he was already in a hurry to end the call. “Look, I have to take this. I’m telling you, the license was just a stupid dare at a party. Don’t overthink it.” The line went dead, replaced by the cold drone of the dial tone. Eight years. He had spent eight years telling me to “don’t overthink it” while I quietly withered away in his shadow. The next morning, I walked into the office carrying two boxes of luxury, imported wedding chocolates. The open-plan office was buzzing with noise. A crowd of colleagues had gathered around Lily’s desk, and her face was flushed a deep, self-satisfied pink. “Lily, you are unbelievable! Austin is always so cold, and you managed to lock him down in three months?” “Does this mean we have to start calling you the boss’s wife? You have to look out for us now!” Lily covered her face with her hands, giggling. Her voice was just loud enough to carry across the entire room. “Oh, stop it, guys! It’s not like that. We just got hitched on a silly dare during a game. Please don’t spread it around.” I felt a cold sneer tugging at my lips. She had already broadcasted the marriage license to her entire social network, yet she wanted people to “not spread it around”? Her sharp eyes caught sight of the chocolate boxes in my hands. She practically bounded over in her designer heels, wrapping her arm tightly around mine. “Sydney! Are these the wedding chocolates Austin asked you to prepare for us? Thank you so much for the hard work!” Before I could open my mouth to correct her, she snatched the boxes right out of my grip. She tore open the expensive gold packaging and began stuffing the truffles into our coworkers’ hands. “Everyone, try some! Austin went out of his way to get these imported chocolates for the celebration!” The office erupted into cheers, praising Austin for being a romantic, attentive husband. Right on cue, Austin stepped out of the elevator. The crowd immediately started chanting, “Thanks for the wedding chocolates, Boss!” Lily looked up at him, her eyes wide and glittering with girlish adoration. Austin froze for a fraction of a second. Then, his lips curved into a smooth, easy smile. “I’m glad you all like them.” “The chocolates are mine,” I said. My voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the room like a blade. The entire office fell into a dead, suffocating silence. Every single pair of eyes pinned themselves to my face. Austin’s expression darkened instantly, a flicker of panic darting through his eyes. “Sydney, this is a place of business,” he muttered, his voice dropping into a harsh warning. “Don’t start acting out here.” “I’m not acting out,” I replied, looking him straight in the eye. “I bought those chocolates. I am getting married next Saturday.” His face turned so dark it looked like a thundercloud. He took a predatory step toward me, his voice a low, furious hiss. “Do you really have to push me like this?” Beside him, one of the junior marketers scoffed under her breath. “Honestly, Sydney, we’ve never even seen you with a guy. Who are you marrying? Are you just so jealous of Lily that you’re losing your mind?” Lily’s eyes welled with tears on command. She bit her lower lip, looking incredibly wronged. “Sydney, I know you used to have feelings for Austin. But he never felt that way about you. He even cleared up those rumors privately, telling us that you two were strictly professional colleagues.” The moment those words left her mouth, the collective gaze of the office shifted. They were looking at me like I was a desperate, pathetic side-piece who had tried and failed to home-wreck her way to the top. I looked at Austin. He turned his head away, staring out the window, refusing to offer a single word of defense. During our eight years in the shadows, I had ruined my liver drinking with clients to secure his contracts. I had pulled his company back from the brink of bankruptcy more times than I could count. When people whispered that I was desperately throwing myself at him, he had stayed silent. And now, he wouldn’t even grant me the dignity of the truth. “Seriously, Sydney,” another coworker chimed in, eager to please the new boss’s wife. “Austin and Lily are legally married now. If you keep throwing yourself at him, you’re just a homewrecker. If clients hear about this, it ruins our reputation.” “Exactly. Trying to steal your own intern’s husband? Have some self-respect.” I looked at these people, most of whom I had personally trained and mentored. A bitter laugh bubbled up in my chest. I had originally planned to invite them to my wedding, but now I realized they didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as my fiancé. I squeezed my phone in my hand and swept a cold glance over the room. “Since everyone is so desperately curious, I suppose I should introduce my fiancé.” I tapped my screen, preparing to pull up the photo of Nate and me. Suddenly, a hand clamped down on my wrist. Austin snatched the phone out of my hand, his face pale and twisted with rage. “Everyone, get back to work!” he roared. He gripped my arm tightly, dragging me toward his private office. Behind us, I could hear the team instantly whispering comfort to Lily, paired with the disgust they threw at my back. 2 He slammed the office door shut, aggressively loosening his tie as if he were suffocating. “I told you the courthouse was a stupid game!” he snapped. “Do you really have to make a scene and embarrass everyone?” “If it was just a game,” I said, staring at him with eyes as cold as stone, “why didn’t you clear the air? Why did you let them brand me a homewrecker?” He choked on his words, his jaw tightening. When he spoke, his tone carried that familiar, infuriating entitlement. “Lily is a young girl. She’s sensitive. I couldn’t just humiliate her in front of the entire company, could I?” So her feelings were precious, but my dignity was fair game to be dragged through the mud. I reached out, snatched my phone back from his grip, and turned toward the door. With my hand on the brass handle, I paused. I didn’t turn around. “My wedding is next Saturday. You and Lily are more than welcome to attend.” I walked down to the parking garage, my heels clicking sharply against the concrete. Before I could unlock my car, my phone buzzed. It was the executive recruiter who had been trying to poach me for months. “Sydney, about that director position at the multinational firm we discussed. They are willing to bump the starting salary by another twenty percent. Will you please reconsider?” The offered figure was at the absolute ceiling of the industry standard. “I accept,” I said, my voice steady. “Furthermore, I will be bringing a ten-million-dollar account with me. I expect the standard commission structure to apply.” The recruiter sounded like she was about to scream with joy. “Absolutely! I will have the contracts drafted immediately!” After hanging up, I sat in the driver’s seat. My thumb hovered over Nate’s name on my contact list. I sent him a quick text: Hold off on signing the contract. Wait for my word. Austin had complained about how hard things were for the company, telling me not to add to his stress. But for eight years, which of his crises hadn’t I personally resolved? This multi-million-dollar deal with Vanguard Group was something I had secured by swallowing my pride and pleading with Nate three separate times. It was the very lifeline Austin’s company needed to survive. As I drove out of the dark garage, the city blurred past my window. It felt like a metaphor for the last eight years of my life, a fast-forward reel of wasted youth. I met Austin outside my college dorm. He was Brooke’s older brother, arriving in a crisp white shirt to pick her up for summer break. He had stood under the shade of an oak tree, smiling, a tiny mole catching the light near the corner of his eye. My heart had skipped a beat. Later, at a graduation party, we both drank too much and ended up in bed. It felt natural to join his startup, beginning at the very bottom as a low-paid intern. At first, he said we couldn’t go public because he didn’t want people thinking I got promoted through favoritism. I believed him, so I waited. Once I became the top-performing manager in the marketing department, he said he was worried it would ruin my friendship with Brooke. I believed him again, so I waited. I foolishly believed that if I just kept quiet and worked hard, he would eventually give me a ring. It wasn’t until I saw Lily’s post that the fantasy shattered. He didn’t hate the idea of marriage. He just hated the idea of marrying me. 3 I drove back to the apartment we had shared for the last five years. My resignation would take a few days to process, but I wanted my personal belongings out of his space immediately. I dragged my suitcase out of the closet and opened the wardrobe. His clothes occupied more than two-thirds of the rack. In the past, I had complained that his style was too stiff and corporate. I had bought him bright, casual hoodies, but he had always shoved them to the back, claiming a CEO needed to look serious. Yet, hanging in the most prominent spot of the wardrobe were several brand-new, expensive designer hoodies in vibrant colors. He wasn’t incapable of changing. He just hadn’t wanted to change for me. I began folding my dresses into the suitcase. The sound of the front door unlocking cut through the quiet apartment. Austin walked in. Seeing the open suitcase and the bare hangers, his brow furrowed. “Sydney, there is absolutely nothing going on between Lily and me. Can you please stop throwing a tantrum?” He walked over, reaching out to grasp my hand. “The marriage license was a mistake. I’ll take her to the courthouse to file for divorce this afternoon.” “Once the Vanguard contract is signed and the company is stable, we can go public. Okay?” I parted my lips to say We are over, but he cut me off, scanning the room. “By the way, where did you put the keys to the Maple Heights townhouse?” I paused. “In the bottom drawer of the nightstand.” I looked at him. “Are you selling it to cover the company’s debts?” He blinked, then offered a casual, dismissive shrug. “Why would I sell it? It’s just sitting empty. Lily’s lease is up, so I told her she could stay there for a bit.” My chest tightened, a dull, throbbing ache spreading through my ribs. He had bought the Maple Heights house last year on my birthday, whispering in my ear that it would be our future home. And now, he was handing the keys to another woman. Before I could process the sting, he continued, entirely oblivious to my pale face. “Also, once you finish up the Vanguard contract, transfer the account details over to Lily. Her probation period is ending, and this deal will secure her permanent position. Don’t worry, I’ll still make sure you get the full commission.” My phone remained silent as his began to ring. He glanced at the screen and answered immediately, his voice instantly softening into a tone I hadn’t heard in years. “Yeah, sweetie. I’ll text you the address. Just have the movers head straight over…” He walked out toward the balcony to finish the call, never once looking back to see the expression on my face. The heavy thud of the glass door closing echoed in the quiet room. I stood in the center of the apartment and let out a soft, humorless laugh. Eight years of my youth, my sweat, and my devotion. In his eyes, it wasn’t even worth more than a three-month intern. I zipped my suitcase and walked out, never once looking back. I went straight to my parents’ house. Ever since I had agreed to the marriage with Nate, my mother hadn’t stopped smiling. The moment I walked through the door, she rushed to take my bag. “I always knew Nate was the one,” she beamed. “We watched that boy grow up. He’s decent, polite, and his family is wonderful. Your father and I can finally sleep easy.” Nate and I had been inseparable since childhood. Our mothers were best friends, and they used to joke about arranging our marriage when we were still in diapers. If I hadn’t met Austin in college, I probably would have married Nate years ago. I knew he loved me. He had always loved me. When Austin’s company was bleeding cash and on the verge of ruin, I had swallowed my pride to beg Nate for a lifeline. He had stayed silent for a long time before finally agreeing to the deal. Now, I realized just how incredibly foolish I had been. After dinner, I retreated to the study to organize my client files. My phone vibrated. A text from Austin: I’ll be late tonight. Don’t wait up. I stared at the screen for a moment, then deleted the chat thread entirely. By the time I finished organizing my files, it was past ten. I lay in bed, aimlessly scrolling through my social feed. The very first post on my timeline was from Lily, posted thirty minutes prior. The photo showed the living room of the Maple Heights townhouse. Austin was laughing, his arm slung over a friend’s shoulder as they played a drinking game, surrounded by empty beer bottles. Her caption read: He called me ‘kiddo’ in front of all his bros. Does he think I’m too childish? The comment section was filled with squeals and teasing, everyone gushing about how sweet and protective Austin was. I stared at the screen, then closed the app. There was no anger left, no tears. Whatever love I had carried for him for eight years had been burned to ashes the moment he let his employees call me a homewrecker. A new message popped up. It was from Nate. Are you free tomorrow? The bridal shop finished the alterations on your dress. Want to go try it on? I typed back a single word: Yes. The next morning, Nate arrived early to pick me up. My mother sent us off with a warm smile, stuffing two boxes of his favorite pastries into his hands. As we drove, I cleared my throat, feeling a bit self-conscious. “Nate, about that Vanguard contract… could you hold off on signing it? I’m moving to a new firm, and I’d like to use that account to make a strong first impression.” He glanced at me, a gentle smile playing on his lips. “Why don’t you just come work for Vanguard?” “I think it’s better if we keep our professional and personal lives separate,” I replied, smiling back. At the bridal boutique, the consultant welcomed us warmly, presenting a stunning, elegant mermaid-cut gown. “Mr. Nathaniel insisted on having the measurements adjusted three times to ensure it fits you perfectly, ma’am,” she said. When I stepped out of the dressing room and looked at myself in the mirror, I froze. Years ago, whenever Austin and I passed a bridal shop and I lingered at the window, he would pull me away, promising he would hire a world-class designer to make me a one-of-a-kind gown when the time was right. I waited eight years for that promise. Instead, I was standing in a custom gown Nate had quietly prepared for me. “Do you want to take a photo and post it?” Nate asked, standing behind me, his eyes full of warmth. I nodded and handed my phone to the consultant. “Could you take a photo of us, please?” Nate seemed slightly taken aback, but a brilliant, genuine smile quickly spread across his face. He stepped up beside me, gently placing his hand near his waist without fully touching, a gesture of pure respect. The photo was breathtaking. I uploaded it to my social media with a caption: Next Saturday, at the Apex Hotel. We would love for you to join us as Nathaniel and I celebrate our wedding. Within a minute, the comment section exploded. Oh my god! Is that the Nathaniel from Vanguard Group? Sydney, you’ve been holding out on us! And people actually thought she was chasing after Austin? Talk about a reality check! Nate makes Austin look like a boy playing dress-up! While I was scrolling through the comments, my phone rang. It was Austin. I picked up, and his voice came through, thick with alcohol and dripping with bitter sarcasm. “Nice move, Sydney. Dragging Nate into your little game just to force my hand? You really are desperate for a ring, aren’t you?” Before I could answer, Nate reached out, took the phone from my hand, and pressed the speaker button. His voice was calm, steady, and filled with an undeniable authority that echoed through the room. “Austin, we are actually getting married.” “She waited for you for eight years. I have been waiting for her for twelve.” “Thank you for letting her go.”

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I was three months pregnant, and it was the day before the promotion list was set to be officially announced. Behind my back, my colleague Jenny wasted no time leaking the news to our boss. Mr. Bennett called me into his office, phrasing it as tactfully as he could: “This role comes with immense pressure. Given your current condition, it might not be the best fit.” Later, Jenny cornered me in the breakroom, offering a smug smile as she cooed, “You’re about to be a mom, after all. Stop trying to snatch these opportunities from us younger folks.” I didn’t argue, nor did I throw a tantrum. During the evaluation meeting the next day, in front of the entire department, I voluntarily stepped aside and yielded the promotion to her. Fearing I might back out, Jenny urged HR on the spot to modify the official appointment letter right then and there. I simply smiled and reminded her: “Since you’re accepting the role, you should sign the transition documents as well.” Without so much as looking at the pages, she eagerly scrawled her name. Two weeks later, the company auditors walked in. Clutching the promotion letter she had fought so hard for, Jenny wept and begged me: “Please, can I give this position back to you?” 1 After the evaluation meeting adjourned, Jenny practically chased the HR director into the printing room. She was terrified I would change my mind. Or that Mr. Bennett would. Only minutes earlier, inside the conference room, her eyes had been brimming with tears as she looked at me. “Amy, I know how hard you worked for this. I feel so guilty taking this opportunity from you.” Yet the second the double doors swung shut, she pivoted on her stilettos and bolted after Brenda, our HR manager. “Brenda, will the official appointment letter be ready today?” Brenda glanced over her shoulder at me, looking slightly uncomfortable. “The standard protocol requires a multi-level approval. Tomorrow morning at the earliest.” Jenny immediately slid her arm through Brenda’s, offering a sweet, persuasive smile. “Can’t we make an exception for a special case? Mr. Bennett and the department heads were all present, and everyone heard Amy hand over the role. We should strike while the iron is hot, just to keep things clean.” She paused, turning her head to look back at me. “I don’t mean to sound untrustworthy, Amy. I just think the cleaner the company’s documentation is, the better it is for everyone.” She claimed it wasn’t about trust, but her eyes were sharp with paranoia. It was as if she expected me, a woman three months pregnant, to suddenly throw myself over her to claw back the promotion. I leaned against the hallway wall, one hand pressed flat against my stomach, trying to suppress the rising wave of nausea. Halfway through the meeting, my morning sickness had hit me like a wave, and I had been forced to suffer through the final twenty minutes in silence. Everyone in that room had noticed my pale face. And everyone had heard Jenny whisper, “Amy, given how you’re feeling, are you sure you can handle the pressure of this role?” She had kept her voice just loud enough for Mr. Bennett to hear. Mr. Bennett had immediately tabled the announcement slide he was about to project. He looked at me, his voice heavy with executive concern. “Amy, the company appreciates your dedication. But the role of Operations Manager isn’t just about sitting in an office signing papers.” “You have to run after clients, manage aggressive suppliers, and late-night emergency calls are the norm. Given your current situation, the company has to evaluate the operational risks.” Risks. I looked down at my flat stomach. The baby was only twelve weeks old, not even showing, yet in their eyes, I had already become a liability. Jenny had stood beside Mr. Bennett, her lower lip trembling. “Mr. Bennett, maybe we should forget it. Amy has prepared for this for so long, I don’t want to be the reason she’s unhappy.” The more she played the martyr, the more Mr. Bennett admired her maturity. “Jenny, there is no need to step aside,” he said firmly. “The company needs someone who can carry the weight.” And just like that, the promotion I had spent six months preparing for, pulling countless all-night sessions to secure, was handed over to Jenny. The hum of the industrial printer echoed from the room. Brenda walked out, holding a fresh, crisp sheet of paper. “Jenny, you are officially the Acting Operations Manager for Operations Department Two, effective immediately. The trial period is three months.” Jenny took the paper, her eyes gleaming as if she had just struck gold. She scanned the lines twice before turning to me with a look of mock concern. “Amy, you’re really not upset, are you?” “Do you want me to be?” I asked quietly. Her smile faltered for a fraction of a second, but she recovered quickly. “I just worry you might feel slighted. You put so much work into this transition.” “Not at all,” I replied, setting my laptop down on a nearby table. “My physical condition is delicate right now, and a lighter workload is exactly what I need.” Hearing this, she let out a visible breath of relief. She had finally gotten the validation she wanted: I was just a fragile pregnant woman who needed to step aside. In the next second, she waved the appointment letter toward a group of gossiping colleagues at the end of the hall. “I look forward to working with everyone in my new capacity!” A few people clapped. Others began to cheer. “Congratulations, Manager! You’ll have to look out for us now!” “Manager, you owe us a round of drinks!” Jenny giggled, covering her mouth. “Don’t call me that yet, it’s still just ‘Acting.’” But the smug curve of her lips remained. Looking at her face, I remembered the conversation I had overheard in the breakroom yesterday. She had been talking to two other girls from sales. “Pregnant women should act like they’re pregnant. The office isn’t her nursery, so why should a pregnant woman hoard a promotion?” I had been standing outside the door, holding a bottle of yogurt I had bought for her. When her stomach had flared up from stress last month, I was the one who took over her client meetings. When her boyfriend broke up with her, I stayed with her until eleven at night, rewriting her presentation slides. And now, she was telling people I was hoarding a spot. I suddenly felt a strange sense of peace. Some spots were indeed better left to others. As Jenny turned to head to her new desk, I called out to her. “Jenny, since the appointment is official, let’s complete the project handover today.” She stopped. “So soon?” I smiled. “Like you said, the cleaner the documentation, the better.” I opened my laptop and dragged a folder onto the shared drive. The title was simple: CareCore Project Handover. It contained eighteen subfolders, including client profiles, supplier contracts, payment milestones, outstanding issues, and risk assessments. Jenny glanced at the screen, her brow furrowing. “This is a lot of paperwork.” “The title of Manager comes with responsibilities,” I said smoothly. “And problems.” 2 Jenny’s first executive order was to move her desk. The manager of Operations Department Two had a small, private office: glass partitions, a window view, and a quiet space away from the open floor. That office had originally been reserved for me. Last month, facilities had even asked if I wanted a customized ergonomic chair. I had declined. Now, Jenny stood at the threshold, directing the office assistants. “Put the money plant by the window, yes, it brings good feng shui. Clear out all those old files on the desk, they look so cluttered. And change the blinds to a lighter shade, I hate dark rooms.” She patrolled the space like a queen surveying her domain. When she passed my desk, she paused. “Amy, have you compiled all the CareCore files? I’m holding my first department meeting this afternoon.” “The digital folders have been shared with your inbox,” I replied. “But I still need your physical signature on the transition ledger.” Jenny pulled up a chair beside me, lowering her voice. “Amy, are you still angry with me?” I looked at her. Her eyes immediately welled with tears. “I know this feels unfair, but it wasn’t my decision. Mr. Bennett was looking at the bigger picture. He felt your pregnancy made you a liability for high-intensity work. I was simply put in this position.” Her voice was pitched perfectly so that the surrounding desks could hear every word. Mike, a senior sales rep, immediately chimed in. “Amy, don’t take it personally. Being pregnant is a blessing, you shouldn’t be overworking yourself anyway.” Hazel from finance agreed. “Exactly, there will be plenty of promotions in the future. Your health comes first.” Another male colleague offered a smirk. “Maternity leave is six months long. By the time you get back, who knows what the company will look like? Taking a promotion now wouldn’t be fair to the team.” He seemed to think he was being incredibly clever. “Your primary target right now is delivering a healthy baby.” A few people chuckled. My grip on my mug tightened. Jenny looked down, a tiny, satisfied smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. When she looked up again, her face was once more a mask of sisterly concern. “Amy, they’re just looking out for you. Don’t take it to heart.” Listening to their endless stream of patronizing advice, my stomach churned. I hadn’t uttered a single word of complaint, yet they had already mapped out my entire existence. Pregnant. Fragile. Needs protection. Unfit for responsibility. Should step aside. During the afternoon department meeting, Jenny’s first order of business was to display her new organizational chart. On the projector, my name had been moved from CareCore Project Director to the bottom right corner of the slide. Beside my name was a note: Maternity Administrative Support. The meeting room fell silent. I stared at the slide, my fingers tapping a quiet rhythm on the table. Jenny smiled warmly at the room. “Since Amy is expecting, we naturally want to support her. I will be handling the heavy lifting and client negotiations from here on out.” She turned to me. “Amy, you don’t mind, do you?” Every eye in the room turned toward me. I shook my head. “Not at all.” Jenny’s smile widened. “Wonderful.” She clicked to the next slide. “The CareCore project is our most critical delivery this year. Some of our previous workflows might have been a bit too conservative, but under my management, we are going to streamline the process.” “I don’t believe in dragging things out. We sign what needs to be signed, we push back on what needs to be pushed back, and we collect our payments.” Mike immediately clapped. “Love the execution, Manager!” Jenny sat up straighter. “Unlike some people, I don’t believe in over-complicating things. A project shouldn’t take three years to close. If the client isn’t tired of the delays, the board certainly is.” Her words were a direct jab at me. I didn’t argue. I simply opened my notebook and wrote down her exact words: Sign what needs to be signed. Push back on what needs to be pushed back. Collect payments. At the end of the meeting, Jenny called me over. “Amy, email me the final CareCore sign-off report before you log off today.” “I can’t generate the final sign-off report yet,” I said. She frowned. “Why not?” “Because the client still has twelve critical bugs that haven’t been resolved, and the developers have two pending milestones. Signing off now would expose us to severe legal and financial liabilities.” Jenny let out a soft laugh. “Amy, you are far too cautious.” “No wonder Mr. Bennett said you are great at execution but lack the vision of a leader.” I stared at her. “Mr. Bennett said that?” Realizing she had let something slip, she quickly looked away. “My point is, the company needs results now.” I nodded slowly. “Then I will document these outstanding issues in the transition ledger.” Jenny’s tone turned frosty. “Amy, there’s no need to make everything sound so catastrophic. Every project has risks.” I closed my laptop. “Which is exactly why they need to be documented.” She stared at me for a few seconds, then suddenly laughed. “Fine. Document them. I’ll sign.” “After all, I’m the manager now. The credit for closing this project will be mine anyway.” Her face was flush with ambition. I smiled. “Great. Just make sure you sign.” 3 The transition ledger I compiled was seventeen pages long. I wasn’t trying to make things difficult for Jenny. The CareCore project was simply a nightmare. The client had originally contracted us for a basic healthcare management portal. But over the months, they had demanded add-ons: a nursing module, a family portal, a real-time data dashboard, and integrations with three separate municipal hospitals. The project scope had changed over twenty times. Yet we had only signed two contract amendments. The development team had been replaced twice, and the budget had ballooned from eight million to thirteen million. To make matters worse, the client had only paid sixty percent of the contract value. The remaining forty percent was contingent on final sign-off. But we were nowhere near ready for final sign-off. The nursing module crashed constantly. The family portal had massive message delivery delays. The data dashboard failed to sync three major metrics in real time. And the worst part was the hospital integration: one of the three hospitals hadn’t even begun testing. I had flagged these issues in my weekly reports, but Mr. Bennett’s response was always the same: Push for sign-off first, we can patch the bugs later. Push. Patch. Later. This was how corporate disasters were made, hidden beneath layers of optimistic terminology. I had originally planned to use my promotion to freeze the sign-off process, audit the project, lay out the unresolved issues to the board, and get a realistic timeline. It would have been slow, but it would have saved the company from a massive lawsuit. But now, that responsibility belonged to Jenny. Let her handle it. At three in the afternoon, I printed the transition ledger. Jenny was in her new office, taking photos. She had her appointment letter displayed on the desk next to a cup of artisanal coffee and a vase of fresh lilies. On her phone screen, I could see her editing an Instagram post: Hard work always finds its way to the light. I knocked on the glass partition. Seeing the thick folder in my hand, her smile dimmed slightly. “Amy, did you really have to print out so much?” I placed the folder on her desk. “This is the index of project files, the list of outstanding risks, the client’s pending approvals, the supplier disputes, the financial milestones, and my personal handover statement.” Jenny flipped through a few pages, her scowl deepening. “Why did you write all this?” “It’s a handover.” “I know what a handover is,” she said, her voice sharp with impatience. “I’m asking why you made every little issue sound like a crisis.” “Because they are crises,” I said simply. She slammed the folder onto her desk. “Amy, what is your problem?” She had finally dropped the “sisterly” act. I looked at her calmly. “I don’t have a problem. You are the new manager; you need to be aware of these details.” Jenny sneered. “You’re just bitter.” Her voice was loud enough to carry through the glass. Several heads turned on the open floor. She stood up, her eyes flashing. “Amy, I know you think I stole this from you. But this was the company’s decision, not mine. Writing this list of fake disasters—are you trying to make it look like I inherited a sinking ship?” The office went dead silent. I looked at her. “So you admit it’s a sinking ship?” Her face froze. “I never said that,” I added quietly. “You did.” At a nearby desk, someone cleared their throat to hide a laugh. Jenny’s face turned scarlet. She raised her voice further. “Stop playing word games with me! You just want me to sign this so you can wash your hands of any future issues, don’t you?” I nodded. “Yes.” The silence in the office deepened. Jenny clearly hadn’t expected me to be so blunt. “A handover is meant to define boundaries of responsibility,” I explained. “You took the promotion, which means you took the projects, the assets, the risks, and the liabilities. This isn’t a trap, Jenny. It’s standard corporate protocol.” Jenny’s chest heaved with anger. Just then, Mr. Bennett walked onto the floor. “What is all the noise about?” Jenny immediately adopted a wounded expression. “Mr. Bennett, Amy gave me a transition ledger full of exaggerated issues. She’s refusing to cooperate with my transition.” Mr. Bennett picked up the folder, flipped through a few pages, and frowned. “Amy, why did you make this so detailed?” “The CareCore project is up for final sign-off next month,” I replied. “If we don’t document the risks now, no one will be able to trace the liability later.” Mr. Bennett closed the folder with a snap. “I am aware of these issues. No project is perfect, Amy. You’re pregnant now; you shouldn’t be worrying about these things.” He turned to Jenny. “Jenny, push forward with confidence. The company needs results.” Jenny nodded eagerly. “Don’t worry, Mr. Bennett. I won’t let this project gather dust like some people did.” Mr. Bennett smiled warmly at her. I watched their little performance without saying another word. I simply slipped another document onto her desk. “Then please sign this confirmation sheet.” She glanced at the header: Operations Department Two: Project and Asset Handover Confirmation. Beneath it was a line of fine print: Including historical data for CareCore, outstanding issues, pending client approvals, supplier disputes, and financial milestones. Jenny bit her lip. Mr. Bennett prompted her from the side. “Go ahead and sign, Jenny. Let’s get to work.” She grabbed a pen and scrawled her name. I looked down at her signature. Jenny. It was a beautiful signature. Very neat, and very rushed.

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I was the Harrington family’s designated bride. But at eighteen, forced to choose between the brothers, I was paralyzed. Christian was ice-cold; Ashton was pure wildfire. Ready to flip a coin, glowing text suddenly invaded my vision: [Why is this annoying side character hesitating? Both brothers despise her.] [She only throws her weight around because of that ‘chosen bride’ title. Nothing like our sweet female lead.] [The main trio would be perfect without this stupid side character ruining it.] [At least she dies in childbirth. Main characters get their happy ending. Otherwise, I’d puke.] Gasping, I looked up at my childhood friends. Beneath their calm masks, I saw it—faint, repressed disgust. Aunt Beatrice urged me gently. Chaos reigned in my mind until new text appeared: [Forget the brothers! Look at the incubus uncle!] [He hides his feelings because of the age gap.] [Pick him, and you skip the tragic death. You’ll be living your best life in his bed!] Panicked, I glanced toward the quiet corner. There sat the man with hawk-like eyes, staring intently right at me. 1 “Sisi, Christian and Ashton both grew up with you. Their feelings for you are unquestionable.” “But this is about your lifelong happiness. Who do you want as your future partner?” Aunt Beatrice’s gentle voice cut through the silence, and instantly, everyone’s eyes locked onto me. They were holding their breath, waiting for my decision. Because this decision would determine the future heir of the Harrington empire. I was originally the daughter of the Harringtons’ housekeeper. When I was five, my mother died saving Aunt Beatrice’s life. On her deathbed, her weak, sorrowful gaze had lingered on me. “Ma’am, I don’t regret saving you,” she had whispered, struggling to speak. “I just… I can’t bear to leave my little girl behind.” Aunt Beatrice had immediately clasped her hands, tears streaming down her face as she promised: “Do not worry. From this day on, Sisi is my own daughter. She will be my future daughter-in-law.” “The Harrington family will cherish and protect her for the rest of her life.” With those words, my mother closed her eyes in peace. And just as Aunt Beatrice had promised, I became the jewel of the Harrington household. From that day on, I lived a life of luxury, showered with affection. Aunt Beatrice’s twin sons willingly became my knights, shielding me from the world. The three of us were inseparable childhood friends. But now, I had to choose one of them to be my partner for life. Choosing one meant hurting the other. It was an impossible choice. I hesitated, my gaze shifting between the two brothers. Just as I was about to suggest a round of rock-paper-scissors to let fate decide, dense rows of glowing comments erupted before my eyes. 2 [Wait, why does this annoying girl look so conflicted? Is she seriously picking between them?] [Does she actually think the male leads are head over heels for her? If Mrs. Harrington hadn’t forced them into this, they wouldn’t have pretended to tolerate her for so many years.] [Exactly. She’s been acting like she owns the place just because of her mom’s sacrifice. She’s not half as cute or endearing as our female lead.] [I’ve been waiting forever to see the relationship between the three main characters, and she’s ruining it.] [Thank goodness she dies during childbirth in the end. Otherwise, I would have lost my mind!] The floating comments were vicious and biting, filled with nothing but hatred and contempt for me. I pinched my arm hard. It stung. This wasn’t an illusion. If this was real, then according to these comments, I was merely the villainous side character in a reverse-harem romance novel. A girl who used her mother’s sacrifice to force an engagement on one of the male leads. A girl who, after marriage, would be neglected by her husband, eventually dying a miserable death on the operating table during childbirth. Nothing but a tragic stepping stone in the sweeping romance of the main characters. I couldn’t believe it; my tragic end, and the revelation that my two childhood friends actually loved someone else. We had spent over a decade together. I had felt their genuine care and protection. How could it all be a lie? But when I turned to look at the brothers, my confidence shattered. 3 The older brother, Christian. The younger brother, Ashton. They shared identical, striking features, yet their vibes were entirely different. Christian was cold and reserved; Ashton was wild and untamed. But right now, without exception, both of their dark eyes held a deeply buried flicker of annoyance. Yes, it was disgust. A cold chill washed over me. Seeing my prolonged silence, Aunt Beatrice couldn’t help but urge me again: “Sisi? Have you made up your mind?” [Oh my god, the dark moment is finally here!] [Who is this annoying girl going to choose? Don’t tell me she wants both of them?] [She’ll probably choose the older brother. That’s what happened in the original story.] [And then Christian completely ignored her after the wedding. She kept lying to herself, thinking he was just being considerate because of her weak health, while he was actually hooking up with the female lead behind her back.] [Hahaha, talk about a clown!] Staring at the glowing words, my eyes widened in shock. In my memory, Christian was always steady and calm, rarely showing extreme emotions. Was he really that wild with the so-called female lead in private? And what about Ashton? [As for the younger brother? With Christian taking one for the team, Ashton was free to be with the female lead.] [But the female lead missed Christian so much she kept waking up from nightmares. To comfort her, Ashton actually agreed to act as Christian’s stand-in, letting his brother slip in to meet her.] The details in the comments grew more bizarre and shocking by the second. Ashton was incredibly proud, and he had hated being compared to his brother since we were kids. Yet, for his beloved, he was willing to become his brother’s body double. 4 “Sisi?” Aunt Beatrice’s gentle voice called me back to reality. I shook off the shock, looking at the brothers one by one. The moment Ashton met my gaze, he quickly looked away. He was terrified of being chosen. Christian was more subtle. He simply lowered his eyes without a word. But his complete, quiet rejection stung my heart. So, our engagement was nothing but a burden to them. I took a deep breath, trying to suppress the bitter ache in my chest. I turned to Aunt Beatrice, biting my lip as I spoke hesitantly: “Aunt Beatrice… can I… choose neither?” Aunt Beatrice froze. “Why, sweetheart?” Then, seeing the conflict and struggle in my eyes, she seemed to have a sudden realization and lightly tapped her own forehead. “Oh, how silly of me. I should have realized.” “The three of you grew up together. You care for both of them equally. Forcing you to choose one over the other must be so difficult.” “In that case, let’s leave it to fate.” “Butler, bring the drawing straws!” Throughout my life, Aunt Beatrice had perfectly filled the role of my mother. Even now, she was trying to find a way to spare my feelings. But vicious comments began to flood my vision: [Is this girl for real? She can’t even make a choice, so she’s forcing Mrs. Harrington to play the bad guy?] [No matter who draws the short straw, they’re going to resent their mother for it.] [Seriously, the girl’s mom was just as annoying. Saving a life is fine, but using it to guilt-trip a wealthy family for generations is just cheap.] [If her mom hadn’t dumped this burden on them on her deathbed, the brothers wouldn’t be in this miserable position.] They weren’t just insulting me anymore; they were dragging my late mother into it. That crossed the line. 5 I swallowed the tears threatening to spill over and raised my voice: “Aunt Beatrice, there’s no need!” “Actually, I don’t love Christian or Ashton. I’m already in love with someone else!” My words were like a sudden thunderclap, shocking everyone in the room. But to my surprise, the strongest reaction came from the twins. Ashton snapped his head toward me, his eyes locking onto mine as he snarled: “You’re lying!” “You spend every single day with us. You don’t even have the chance to meet outsiders.” “How could you possibly be in love with someone else?” Ashton’s presence was always intense, and his current fury genuinely startled me. I shrank back slightly, my voice trembling with a hint of tears. “I… the person I like… is also a Harrington…” Hearing this, the harshness in Ashton’s eyes softened into a mocking sneer. “A Harrington, huh?” “I’d love to hear who this is.” “Who could possibly have more charm than my brother and me to make your heart flutter like this?” His eyes were filled with amusement, completely convinced I was making it up. Even Christian, who had remained silent, slowly raised his eyes to stare at me, demanding: “Who is it?” Suddenly, the pressure in the room felt suffocating. I clenched my hands tightly, my eyes darting around the room as I desperately searched for a suitable candidate. 6 The Harrington family was an absolute empire, controlling a massive portion of the country’s business landscape. But because of the immense wealth, the different branches of the family fought viciously behind closed doors. As a result, the younger generation had been competing since childhood. They didn’t dare target Christian or Ashton, so they chose me, the easy target, to bully. Almost every cousin in my age group, boy or girl, had secretly mistreated me at some point. Because I was timid, I never said a word. Eventually, the twins discovered the bruises on my arms and, defying family rules, fought back on my behalf. From then on, everyone knew one absolute truth: the quiet daughter of the housekeeper was the twins’ red line. Cross it, and you pay. So Ashton knew I would never be foolish enough to fall for any of the cousins who had bullied me. But now… [What is she doing? Playing hard to get? Is she trying to use this pathetic method to get the twins’ attention?] [Using such a cheap trick to make them jealous? How pathetic.] [Can the person above shut up? I’ve tolerated you for so long. If she chooses a male lead, you complain. If she doesn’t, you still complain.] [Wait, does she really not like the twins anymore? Then look at our gorgeous incubus uncle!] [He heard her say she likes someone else, and now he’s practically dying to confess to her!] [Oh my god, he’s actually been in love with her for years, but he was too insecure because of the age gap, and because she was supposed to be his nephews’ girl, he never dared to say a word.] [If she picks him, she won’t end up on an operating table; she’ll be thoroughly spoiled in his bed.] As the side character, even doing nothing was considered a crime. I expected another round of insults from the comments. Instead, a few strange comments defending me popped up. But the direction of these comments was getting incredibly wild. The seductive uncle was in love with me? Spoiled in his bed? Each comment was more scandalous than the last. And the only person in the family who fit the description of “uncle” was Gideon Harrington, my grandfather’s youngest son. He liked me? Was that even possible? Highly skeptical, I turned my head toward the corner. There, sitting elegantly on the sofa, was the refined and handsome man. His dark, intense eyes were fixed on me like a hawk. Deep within those dark depths, a storm of repressed, burning passion was swirling, threatening to break free. 7 [This is the burning, silent love of our incubus uncle.] The floating comment summarized it perfectly. In an instant, my heart skipped a beat. It was as if I could actually see the molten lava of his love rushing toward me from his deep eyes. Unable to handle the intensity, I hurriedly looked away. Meanwhile, Christian pressed on, his voice dripping with cold authority: “Sisi, tell me. Who is it?” I didn’t understand. Since he and Ashton already loved someone else, wasn’t it a good thing that I didn’t want to marry them? Why were they pushing me so hard? Seeing my hesitation, Aunt Beatrice spoke with deep concern: “Sisi, did someone threaten you? Just tell me, and I promise I’ll handle it.” As she spoke, she swept a warning, dangerous gaze over the cousins from the other branches of the family. I quickly shook my head. “No! Aunt Beatrice, it’s not that.” “I was just… too afraid to say it because the person I like is far above me in both age and family rank!” I clenched my teeth, throwing caution to the wind. I closed my eyes, preparing myself for the worst, too terrified to see anyone’s reaction. In the dead silence that followed, a sweet, innocent voice suddenly shattered the quiet: “Oh my goodness! Sisi, you don’t mean… you’re in love with Mr. Harrington, are you?” I opened my eyes. A slender, beautiful girl was standing at the entrance of the villa. She looked utterly shocked, as if she had just stumbled upon a scandalous secret, her hands covering her mouth, her eyes wide with surprise.

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Every time my chauffeur drove me to the office, he brought his girlfriend along. Since it was supposedly on the way, I never made a fuss about it. That was until the morning I opened the door to my Maybach and found a sticky note slapped right onto my reserved backseat. “Broke hitchhikers keep out.” I ripped the paper off the leather and looked at my driver. “What is the meaning of this?” His little girlfriend was sitting shotgun. She twisted around and glared at me, her voice dripping with venom. “Are you illiterate? You try to hitch a ride in my boyfriend’s car every single day. Have you no shame? If you can’t afford an Uber, stay home. I absolutely loathe cheap freeloaders like you!” I stared at her in sheer bewilderment. My driver instantly scrambled out, rushing to my side and lowering his voice to a frantic whisper. “Boss, she doesn’t know I’m your chauffeur. She’s just a little possessive. She put that up because she loves me. Listen, she’s really uncomfortable sharing a ride with you. Let me drop her off first, and I’ll come right back to pick you up.” Before I could even process his audacity, he hopped back into my car and sped off, leaving me eating his dust. I stood frozen on the pavement for a few seconds. Then, I pulled out my phone and dialed the police. “Hello, I’d like to report a grand theft auto. A man and a woman just stole my vehicle. Please send officers immediately.” 1 I never imagined that as the CEO of a publicly traded corporation, I would be pointed at and called a broke freeloader. Especially while standing outside my own multimillion dollar ride. Twenty minutes after I made the call, a police cruiser pulled up to the curb. The two officers had barely stepped out to take my statement when Connor came screeching around the corner in my sleek black Maybach. He slammed on the brakes right in front of us, stumbling out of the driver’s seat with a face as white as a sheet. “Boss, what is going on? Why did you call the cops?” I gave him a freezing look and kept my mouth shut. One of the officers looked him up and down. “Are you the individual Ms. Cathy reported for taking her vehicle without permission?” Connor completely panicked. “No, Officer, no! This is a massive misunderstanding! I’m her chauffeur! I drive her every single day. I just dropped someone off on the way and got delayed by a few minutes. I didn’t steal anything!” He gestured wildly toward my car, forcing a pathetic, apologetic smile. “Look, I brought the car right back, didn’t I?” The officer glanced between the two of us. “Ms. Cathy, do you still wish to press charges?” I was just about to tell them to arrest him when Connor practically folded himself in half, whispering desperately into my ear. “Boss, please. For the sake of the years my dad drove for you, let me off the hook this one time. You know how sick my old man is. Finding a girlfriend was the only way to give him some peace of mind. I only drove off like that to keep my relationship intact. I didn’t have a choice.” Hearing him bring up his father made a knot form in my chest. Henry had been my chauffeur for six years. He was an honest, hardworking man who never caused a sliver of drama. In all those years, he was never late, never broke a traffic rule, and even tried to refuse the holiday bonuses I slipped him. Three months ago, Henry was diagnosed with a severe lung condition that required permanent rest. He had no choice but to step down. On his last day, he stood in my pristine office, wringing his calloused hands together. After agonizing over his words, he finally asked if I could give his unemployed son a chance. Henry had lived his entire life without asking anyone for a favor. That was his first and only time. Out of deep respect for him, I nodded. Connor actually did a decent job for his first two months. He wasn’t the sharpest employee, but he showed up on time, drove safely, and kept the car immaculate. But everything changed last month. One morning, I walked out to find a woman caked in heavy makeup sitting in the passenger seat. Seeing my confusion, Connor quickly opened my door and whispered an excuse. “Boss, this is my girlfriend, Tiffany. Her workplace is right on the way to the corporate headquarters. I’m just giving her a quick lift.” I simply nodded. Giving someone a ride on a shared route wasn’t a fireable offense. But as the days bled on, I started realizing how twisted the situation was becoming. 2 That so called quick lift turned into an ironclad daily routine. Every morning, Connor would pick Tiffany up before coming to get me. At first, she just liked snapping selfies in the passenger seat, posting videos to flaunt that she was riding in a Maybach. I brushed it off. Young girls have their vanity. But what I couldn’t wrap my head around was the absolute disgust in Tiffany’s eyes whenever she looked back at me. She glared at me like I had personally bankrupted her family. A few times, right after I got into the backseat, she pulled out a bottle of overwhelming perfume and sprayed it frantically in my direction. “God, it is so annoying,” she would complain loudly. “How does a car this expensive always reek of cheap, poor desperation?” I genuinely thought she smelled something foul from the streets, so I even ordered Connor to take the car in for a deep clean and sterilization. But her antics only escalated. She started wiping down the backseat with sanitizing wipes the second I stepped out. Then, she progressed to tossing cheap, disposable seat covers onto the premium leather before I got in. When I demanded an explanation, Connor would pull me aside and offer a pathetic, sheepish smile. “Boss, Tiffany is just a clean freak. She’s terrified the seats might get your expensive designer suits dirty, so she goes overboard with the hygiene.” I didn’t have the bandwidth to overthink it. I was managing billion dollar acquisitions and endless board meetings. I did not have the energy to wage war against a petty twenty something girl. It wasn’t until this morning, when I saw that sticky note treating me like a stray dog, that all the pieces finally clicked together. Tiffany literally thought I was a pathetic hitchhiker mooching off her boyfriend’s ride. My initial plan was to teach both of them a harsh lesson right then and there. But looking at Connor practically groveling at my feet, begging for mercy… “Boss, I swear on my life, this will never happen again. I will tell Tiffany the truth today. She will never ride in this car again. Please, look at how sick my dad is. Just forgive me this once.” Thinking of old Henry, I let out a heavy sigh. “Forget it. I’m dropping the charges.” Once the police drove away, Connor exhaled a massive breath of relief. He bowed over and over, his attitude suddenly angelic. I ignored his theatrics, got into the car, and told him to take me to work. To his credit, Connor behaved himself for a while after that. The passenger seat remained empty. The interior smelled like fresh leather again, and the sticky note residue was scrubbed completely clean. The only issue was his sudden inability to be on time. He was perpetually late, and he always had a tailored excuse ready. “Boss, I am so sorry, there was a massive pileup on the highway.” “Boss, my sincerest apologies, my phone died and the alarm didn’t go off.” “Boss, a pipe burst in my apartment and I had to deal with the downstairs neighbors.” His excuses were flimsy at best, but since he remained excessively polite, I let it slide. I thought that was the end of the drama. Until one weekend, I spontaneously decided to spend a couple of days unwinding at my private estate out in the countryside. I called Connor. “Where are you? I need to go somewhere. Bring the car around.” He stammered on the other end for a painfully long time before answering in a strained voice. “Boss, I woke up to a blown tire this morning. I’m sitting at the repair shop right now, and the mechanic says it won’t be ready until tomorrow. Where do you need to go? Should I call a premium black car service for you?” I frowned, not wanting to deal with the hassle. “Never mind. I’ll get an Uber.” I hung up and ordered a ride to the Whispering Pines Estate. But the moment I stepped out of the Uber at the grand iron gates, I froze. My black Maybach, without a single flat tire in sight, was parked perfectly in my private driveway. I stared at the license plate for a solid five seconds to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. My blood turned to ice. I marched straight up to the massive front doors. The heavy mahogany door was cracked open. I pushed it wide and took one look at the inside. My mind went completely blank. 3 The pristine living room of my sanctuary was a literal landfill. Empty liquor bottles, fruit peels, sunflower seed shells, and cigarette butts littered the imported marble coffee tables and the custom hardwood floors. My multimillion dollar velvet sofas and handwoven rugs were stained with muddy footprints. Worse, I could see dark, charred burn holes chewed into the fabric from careless cigarettes. My fists clenched so hard my manicured nails bit into my palms. I bought this estate specifically to escape the chaos of the city. I had personally designed every inch of the interior. I treated this home like a shrine. And now, a pack of wild animals was tearing it to shreds. I swept my gaze across the room and locked onto the center sofa. Tiffany was lounging there like a queen holding court. A crowd of loud, obnoxious people surrounded her. “Tiffany, you seriously hit the jackpot. I can’t believe you locked down a billionaire.” “Right? He’s loaded and he treats you like royalty! You said you were craving a pastry, and he literally ran out the door like a puppy to go buy you one.” “When you officially become the lady of the manor, do not forget about us little people!” Tiffany’s lips curled into a smug, arrogant grin. She opened her mouth to soak up more praise, but her eyes flicked upward and landed on me standing in the doorway. Her smile vanished. She practically leaped off the sofa, her stilettos clicking sharply against my marble floors as she marched up to me with her chin in the air. Smack! Without a single word of warning, she slapped me across the face so hard my ears rang. “You absolute psychotic bitch! You stalked my boyfriend all the way to his house?” The sheer shock of the blow left me rooted to the spot. The music died. The room went dead silent as her friends gaped at us. “Tiffany, what is going on?” someone asked. Tiffany pointed a perfectly manicured finger at my face, her expression twisting into pure revulsion. “This is that pathetic little stalker I was telling you guys about! The one who constantly tries to hitch a ride in my boyfriend’s Maybach. Hitching rides wasn’t enough for her, so now she’s trying to crash his private estate!” I stared at her, my cheek burning, completely unable to comprehend her delusion. “Who on earth told you this house belongs to Connor?” Tiffany scoffed loudly. “He told me himself, you idiot.” She crossed her arms, looking me up and down like I was trash on the sidewalk. “You pathetic little homewrecker. You found out my boyfriend is the CEO of Apex Industries, and now you’re doing everything in your power to seduce him. Forcing your way into his car every morning to get alone time wasn’t enough, so now you show up at his mansion to throw yourself at him?” She leaned in closer, spitting her words at me. “Let me spell it out for you. Connor told me the only reason he ever drove you to work is because you’re a low level employee at his company and he didn’t want to make a scene. Know your place and back off!” Connor actually fed her this garbage? Suddenly, her psychotic behavior in the car made perfect sense. In her twisted little world, Connor was the billionaire CEO who owned the Maybach and the estate. And I was just a desperate, bottom feeding intern working under him. She honestly believed I was mooching rides to seduce her rich boyfriend. It was beyond absurd. Tiffany spun around to face her audience, raising her voice to make sure everyone heard. “Do you guys know how shameless this woman is? She literally glued herself to my boyfriend’s car and refused to leave! I even left her a note telling her to back off, and she threw a massive tantrum and called the cops, claiming my boyfriend was abusing his employees! She made such a massive scene that Connor had to start picking me up early, dropping me off, and then driving all the way back just to shuttle her around so she wouldn’t ruin his company’s reputation!” My eyes widened in realization. No wonder Connor had been late every single day this month. He was secretly playing billionaire, chauffeuring her around the city first, and then rushing back to do his actual job. Well played, Connor. Since you want to treat me like a clueless pawn in your little fantasy, do not blame me for tearing your world apart. 4 I pulled out my phone right then and there, dialing the head of my legal department. “Get a team down to the Whispering Pines Estate immediately…” Before I could finish the sentence, Tiffany lunged forward, snatched the phone out of my hand, and smashed it onto the marble floor. The screen spiderwebbed into a thousand pieces. “God, you are such a phenomenal actress!” she screamed. “Your estate? This is my boyfriend’s house, you psycho!” Her friends snapped out of their shock and started hurling insults at me. “What a shameless whore! She hasn’t even bagged the billionaire yet, and she’s already claiming his real estate as her own?” “Some women are just born cheap. The second they smell money, they spread their legs and beg on their knees. It makes me sick.” “You are way too nice, Tiffany! If some stray dog tried this with my man, I would have ripped her hair out!” Fueled by her friends’ toxic hype, Tiffany grew even bolder. She grabbed the collar of my silk blouse and yanked me forward. “Do you hear them? Everyone knows exactly what you are.” Suddenly, her eyes darted down to my throat. A greedy spark lit up her face. “This vintage emerald pendant doesn’t look cheap. Did you buy this by selling yourself to other rich men?” Before I could even blink, her hand shot out. She hooked her fingers around the delicate gold chain and ripped it right off my neck. The violent pull burned my skin. By the time I reacted, the necklace was dangling from her grip. The blood drained from my face. “Give that back to me right now!” Seeing my sheer panic, Tiffany smirked. “Aw, getting defensive? This must be worth a fortune.” I took a desperate step forward. “It has no monetary value, but it means everything to me. Give it back.” I reached out to grab it. That emerald pendant was the only thing I had left of my mother. She had traded her life for it. I was born sickly and frail. When I was four years old, I fell into a coma. The hospital gave up. The doctors told my parents to start making funeral arrangements. My mother refused to accept it. Desperate and broken, she went to a remote monastery deep in the mountains to beg for a miracle. To prove her devotion, she climbed the brutal, jagged mountain trail in the middle of a scorching summer heatwave. She took one step, then dropped to her knees and bowed, repeating the process for miles. She crawled until her knees were shredded to the bone. She bowed until her forehead was cracked and bleeding, her vision completely blurring. Only then did the monks bless that emerald pendant for her. Maybe the heavens actually listened to a mother’s bleeding heart. Against all medical logic, I woke up. But my mother never recovered. The brutal climb destroyed her frail body. Before she passed away, she placed that pendant in my tiny hands and begged me to never lose it. I treasured it more than my own life. I wore it every single day. It was the only armor I had in this cutthroat world. I would not let anyone defile it. “The more you want it, the better it will feel to destroy it,” Tiffany sneered. Before my fingers could even graze the gold chain, Tiffany raised her arm and hurled the necklace onto the marble floor with all her strength. A sickening, sharp crack echoed through the room. The heirloom emerald shattered into pieces, sending jagged green shards skittering across the floor. “No!” I stared at the broken pieces of my mother’s soul. It felt like a knife had just been twisted directly into my heart. All the air vanished from the room. “You absolute monster!” Blinded by grief and rage, I swung my arm and slapped Tiffany across the face with every ounce of strength I had. “You bitch! Did you just hit me?” Tiffany shrieked, clutching her burning cheek. “Teach this whore a lesson! Whoever beats her the worst gets a hundred thousand dollars from me!” Hearing the promise of cash, her friends’ eyes turned feral. They swarmed me, shoving me to the floor and raining kicks down on my body. “You dare touch her? She’s about to be the lady of Apex Industries! You are nothing!” “So what if she broke your little necklace? You probably bought it with dirty money anyway. Go sleep with a few more men and buy a new one! Stop being so dramatic!” “You dare strike the future wife in her own house? You’re asking to die!” I lay curled up on the cold floor, shielding my head from the blows, my entire body trembling with an icy rage. I gritted my teeth, tasting blood in my mouth. “You are all going to regret this.” The room erupted into roaring laughter, as if I had just told the funniest joke in the world. “Oh my god, I am terrified! Her boyfriend is the CEO of a multi billion dollar empire. Who the hell are you to make us regret anything?” “You are literally just a bottom feeding intern begging for attention. You sell your body for a living and you think you can threaten us?” “Know your place, trash. When you get beaten, you stay down and take it.” They pinned me down, their vicious insults washing over me. Tiffany pushed through the crowd, grabbed a fistful of my hair, and yanked my head back. “Regret?” She laughed darkly. “I have never regretted a single thing in my life. I cannot wait to see how a pathetic little bitch like you is going to make me regret anything!” The moment the words left her mouth, a convoy of sleek black SUVs roared up the driveway, slamming their brakes right outside the grand entrance.

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1 Three years of marriage, and Ava despised any form of romantic gesture. Even buying her a single rose was enough to get me locked out of our home. So, we never celebrated anything. Until I was hospitalized with an acute stomach hemorrhage, only to scroll through her social media. She had rented out the entire Coastal Cove Amusement Park, setting off a million-dollar display of fireworks for her depressed male subordinate. I didn’t lose my temper right then. Instead, at her company’s annual investment summit the next morning, I lit those multi-million-dollar contracts, which I had secretly signed on her behalf, on fire, page by page. “You always did love a grand gesture,” I said. “How does a ten-million-dollar firework look?” She stayed silent, but her subordinate lost it. “Mr. Ashford, you’re just a househusband living off Ava’s hard work. You know nothing. How dare you make a scene here!” “You just ruined everything she worked for. You’ve crossed the line!” I didn’t get angry. “You’re fired.” My wife, who always prided herself on being rational, slammed her glass down and screamed at me. “Jack, what right do you have to fire my people?” I just shook my head. Once a woman stops listening, there is no point in keeping her around. Worst case, I’d just fund another company and build up someone who actually knows how to behave. … At one in the morning, I was curled up on a hospital bed, cold sweat dripping from the agonizing pain in my stomach. The doctor said it was acute stomach bleeding. I needed to be admitted immediately. I called Ava for the fifth time. It went straight to voicemail again. The nurse adjusting my IV sighed, her brow furrowing. “Where is your family? You shouldn’t be handling this alone.” “She’s busy,” I managed a weak smile. “Extremely busy.” The nurse shook her head and walked out. Staring at the sterile white ceiling, my mind drifted back to our wedding day. Standing outside the courthouse, Ava had grabbed my sleeve and said, “Jack, I absolutely despise useless, superficial gestures. Don’t buy me flowers, don’t plan anniversaries, and don’t do surprises. That’s garbage only brainless, show-off rich people care about.” I believed her. For three years, I didn’t even dare buy her a birthday cake. Last Valentine’s Day, I made the mistake of bringing home a bouquet of roses. She didn’t even let me in, her voice cold through the door: “Leave them outside. The petals will mess up my clean floors.” The next morning, those roses were in the trash. I genuinely thought I had married a career-driven, low-maintenance woman. Until, out of sheer boredom, I opened my phone. The top post on my feed was from Ava, posted thirty minutes ago. A grid of nine photos, filled with brilliant fireworks exploding over the city’s largest amusement park, Coastal Cove. The caption read: May the rest of your life be free of shadows, burning as bright as these fireworks. I tapped the first photo. Ava was laughing like a carefree teenager, her arm wrapped around a slender, pale young man. He had delicate, almost fragile features, looking up at the sky with a melancholic, sickly beauty. Tristan. Her new executive assistant, hired barely a month ago. Just a few days back, Ava had casually mentioned him to me: “The kid suffers from severe depression. Be patient with him.” The comment section was already flooded. “Wow, Ava is so generous to Tristan! Rented out the entire Coastal Cove!” “A half-hour firework show… how much did that even cost?” Someone in the comments posted the exact figure: rental fee plus custom fireworks, three point eight million dollars. Staring at those numbers, the burning in my stomach suddenly vanished. Instead, my chest tightened so hard I could barely breathe. I scrolled through my chat history with Ava over the last three years. Me: Let’s have dinner together tonight. Her: Busy. Me: Want to catch a movie this weekend? Her: No time. Stop wasting energy on pointless things. Me: It’s our anniversary today. Her: Jack, how many times do I have to tell you to stop bringing up these useless dates? And yet, here she was, spending three point eight million dollars on fireworks for an assistant she had known for less than a month. Just to make him “burn bright.” A bitter laugh escaped my lips, sending another sharp spasm through my gut. The nurse rushed back in, holding me down. “What are you doing? Don’t move!” I ignored her, my eyes glued to the photo. “It’s fine,” I muttered. “I’m just done being the perfect, supportive husband.” The nurse stared at me, thoroughly confused. I ignored her and dialed my best friend, Justin. He picked up after two rings. “Jack? Man, it’s the middle of the night…” “Justin, first thing tomorrow morning, bring all the original investment contracts Ashford Group holds in Aura Financial to the International Convention Center.” A long silence stretched over the line. “Jack… you’re finally waking up?” “Yeah,” I said, staring at the ceiling. “I’ve played the part for three years. I’m done.” “Also, have the market research team look for new targets. Within three months, I want a company that can completely replace Aura Financial.” “Understood.” I hung up and closed my eyes. Ava, did you enjoy the fireworks? Tomorrow, I’ll show you a much bigger show. 2 The next morning, I discharged myself against medical advice, signing the waiver form before the doctor could protest further. Today was Aura Financial’s annual investment summit, an event Ava had spent over six months preparing for. The biggest players in the financial sector would all be there. And the highly praised “star projects” Aura had secured over the past two years, totaling nearly thirty million dollars in investments, were actually funded by me through the Ashford Group, channeled through seven layers of offshore shell companies. She had no idea. She genuinely believed she had married an average guy who relied on her for financial support. At last year’s company gala, she had raised her glass and joked to the crowd, “My husband’s greatest talent is knowing how to cook.” The room had erupted in laughter. I had sat there in the audience, smiling and clapping for her. What a pathetic fool I was. At the International Convention Center, crystal chandeliers cast a brilliant glow over flowing champagne. The staff at the registration desk recognized me instantly. As the CEO’s husband and the punchline of last year’s gala, I was let in without a single question. Ava stood on the stage in a sharp red blazer, looking radiant and confident. Standing right beside her was Tristan, the delicate young man from last night’s post. Tristan, dressed in a tailored suit, was eagerly handing her documents, occasionally leaning in to whisper in her ear. The crowd murmured in approval. Holding a glass of champagne, I walked up the side stairs and onto the stage. Every eye in the room immediately locked onto me. Ava’s face darkened instantly. “Jack, what are you doing here? Who let you up?” “I brought you a gift.” I signaled to Justin. He immediately stepped up and handed me a thick stack of original contracts. With the entire audience watching, I pulled a silver lighter from my pocket. The click of the ignition echoed as a flame flickered to life. I lit the first contract. “Jack! Are you insane?!” Ava’s voice cracked, her composure shattering. “Those are company contracts! The originals!” Ignoring her, I set the second one on fire. “Didn’t you say you hated superficial gestures?” The third one caught fire. “Didn’t you say only brainless, show-off rich people throw money away?” The fourth one turned to ash. “Does a three point eight million dollar firework show count as brainless?” The flickering flames illuminated Ava’s face, turning it incredibly pale. I spoke directly into the microphone, my voice so calm it even surprised me. “Tell me, Ava. Was the multi-million-dollar show beautiful?” The room fell into a dead silence. The contracts burned to ashes, fluttering down onto the crimson carpet. Ava’s chest rose and fell rapidly. She was a businesswoman first and knew she couldn’t lose her temper in public. But Tristan couldn’t help himself. His eyes welled with tears. He pushed past Ava and rushed in front of me, pointing a trembling finger at my face. “Mr. Ashford, who do you think you are?” “You’re just a kept man living off Ava’s hard work! What do you know about investments? What do you know about business?” “Ava poured six months of her life into this! This is the livelihood of hundreds of employees! Can you even begin to pay for the damage you’ve caused?!” “You are incredibly out of line!” His spit practically flew in my face. I tilted my head, looking down at him coldly. “And who are you? Did I speak to you? Know your place.” Tristan froze. I turned my gaze back to Ava. “By the way, your beloved assistant is fired.” Tristan’s face flushed red. “Fired by you?! You think you have the authority? Who do you think…” A sharp crash cut him off. Ava slammed her crystal glass onto the stage, sending shards flying everywhere. She marched over, shielding Tristan behind her, her eyes icy as she glared at me. “Jack.” “What right do you have to fire my people?” 3 I stared at her. This was the woman I had protected and cherished for three years, the woman whose favorite shampoo brand I still memorized. And here she was, in front of the city’s most prominent investors, smashing a glass to defend an assistant who had been with her for less than a month. A soft chuckle escaped me. “Ava, are you sure you want to make a scene here?” “You started this!” she hissed, her teeth clenched. “You will apologize to Tristan. Right now, in front of everyone!” An apology. While I was lying in a hospital bed with internal bleeding, she was setting off fireworks for him. And now, she wanted me to apologize. “Ava, you are the one who needs to apologize today.” “Me?” Ava let out a mocking laugh. “Jack, you just burned thirty million dollars worth of contracts and ruined a summit I prepared for six months. And you expect me to apologize?” She looked me up and down, as if examining an ungrateful stranger. Tristan immediately put on a display of fragile vulnerability, tugging gently at Ava’s sleeve. “Ava, it’s fine… it’s my fault. Mr. Ashford, I’m sorry. Please don’t be angry.” He kept his head low, his shoulders trembling slightly as tears pooled in his eyes. “Quite the actor, aren’t you, Tristan?” I said. Tristan snapped his head up, his expression instantly shifting to wounded innocence. “Mr. Ashford, I’m a diagnosed depression patient who has been with this company for barely a month. Your constant targeting… I really can’t take much more of this.” As he spoke, real tears began to stream down his cheeks. The whispers in the crowd grew louder. “Ava’s husband has a terrible temper.” “I heard the assistant is sick… why is he bullying him like that?” “Well, that’s what happens when a guy lives off his wife for too long. He gets insecure.” I didn’t look at them. I kept my eyes on Ava. “Ava, do you hear that? Everyone thinks I’m the one picking on your little assistant.” Ava’s lips curled into a cold, contemptuous sneer. “Jack, you aren’t just insecure from living off me. You’ve gotten so used to it that you actually think you’re someone important.” Her voice wasn’t loud, but every word felt like a blade. The crowd chuckled in agreement. Despite the sharp pain in my stomach, I smiled. “Good.” I gestured to Justin, who handed me another document. I slammed the paper onto the podium. “Tristan, you are fired.” Tristan let out a sharp laugh. “Mr. Ashford, you’re firing me? You don’t have the authority.” “Whether I do or don’t,” I looked at Ava, “is up to her.” Every eye in the room turned to Ava. She stared back at me, her eyes locking onto mine for three long seconds. Then, under the watchful gaze of the entire room, she slowly reached out, picked up the paper, and tore it in half. The shredded pieces drifted to the floor. “Jack,” her voice was like ice. “Tristan’s employment is none of your business. In this company, I make the decisions.” “Who are you? You’re just my husband.” A mocking smile touched her lips. “I let you come today out of respect. Don’t push your luck.” A collective gasp echoed through the room. Tristan kept his head lowered, his shoulders shaking, but I caught the smug, victorious grin stretching across his face. Looking at this woman who had just publicly stripped away the last shred of my dignity, the pain in my stomach intensified, yet my smile only widened. “Excellent, Ava. Very well.” Without another word, I turned and walked off the stage. Behind me, Ava was already smoothly explaining to the investors, “Apologies for the distraction, everyone. Just a minor domestic dispute. The summit will proceed as planned.” Her tone shifted back to professional efficiency so quickly, as if the entire incident had been nothing more than a minor, irritating blip. And I was barely even that. As I reached the corridor outside, the frantic click of high heels sounded behind me. Ava caught up, grabbing my arm with a tight grip. “Jack, have you had your fun today? Just tell me what you want. Name your price.” Name your price. She wasn’t trying to resolve things. She was dismissing me like a pet throwing a tantrum. “I don’t want your money, Ava. I want a divorce.” Ava froze for a split second. Then, she laughed. It was a laugh of disbelief, mockery, and ultimately, relief. “A divorce? Are you serious, Jack?” “Completely.” “Fine.” She let go of my arm, shaking me off as if I were a piece of dirty laundry. “I’ve been waiting for you to say that for a long time.” She pulled out her phone and dialed her lawyer right in front of me. “Robert, draft a divorce agreement and have it delivered to my place tonight.” “Yes, Jack leaves with nothing. No house, no car, no savings. If he refuses to sign, we’ll see him in court.” She hung up and looked down at me coldly. “Jack, don’t think for a second that today’s stunt will make me regret this. If anything, you’ve saved me a payout and a very awkward conversation.” “I can’t wait to get you out of my life.” “Oh, and make sure your things are out of my house by tonight.” With that, she took Tristan’s arm and walked away without looking back. 4 I didn’t go back to the house we shared. Justin drove me to my private penthouse in Riverview, owned by the Ashford Group. No one had lived here for three years, but a cleaning service maintained it weekly. The mahogany floors were polished to a mirror shine. After a hot shower, I walked into the living room, where Justin had already laid out a file on the coffee table. “Jack, I ran the background check you wanted on Tristan.” His expression was deeply unsettled. “You might want to sit down for this.” I picked up the file and flipped it open. Page one: Tristan’s resume. Flawless, with a master’s degree from a prestigious European university. Page two: Family background. His mother was Ava’s high school classmate; the two families had been close for decades. Page three. My fingers froze. Tristan and Ava had been legally married three years ago. They had divorced exactly one month before Ava and I were set up on our blind date. “Are you sure about this?” I asked, my voice dropping to a dangerous chill. “Absolutely,” Justin said quietly. “I pulled the records directly from the city archives myself.” “Also, that luxury riverfront condo Ava bought two years ago? The deed is in her name, but Tristan has been living there the entire time. Ava pays for everything; utility bills, HOA fees, even Tristan’s personal training sessions.” I closed my eyes. Three years. Every time she claimed she was working late, every business trip, every client dinner. It turned out that every single time she said she wasn’t coming home, she was with her ex-husband. And while I was lying in a hospital bed with acute internal bleeding, she was throwing him a three point eight million dollar firework show. Me, the heir of the massive Ashford Group, spent three years playing the doting, domestic husband, only to be a placeholder for her ex-husband’s transition period. A dry, mocking laugh escaped me, triggering another spasm in my stomach. What a joke. My phone vibrated. An unknown number. It was a screenshot of a wire transfer: fifty thousand dollars. A message followed. “Mr. Ashford, Ava asked me to send you this. She said you worked hard these past three years, and this fifty thousand should help you get by. Please don’t harass her anymore, and don’t try to interfere with the company.” Sender: Tristan. A second message popped up almost immediately. “Let me be frank with you, Mr. Ashford. Ava looked into the funding of those contracts. They came from the Ashford Group.” “She doesn’t know what low-level job you have there; running errands or pouring coffee, but you’d better know your place.” “The real owners of a conglomerate like Ashford could crush you with a single finger.” “You used your position to embezzle Ashford funds to get back at Ava. If this gets out, you’ll be the first one they throw under the bus.” “Out of pity for your time together, Ava gave you fifty thousand dollars to run. She expects you to be smart, show up at the courthouse tomorrow to sign the papers, and leave quietly.” “As for your threat to fire me today? Ava told me to tell you: an outsider trying to play these petty games is just pathetic.” I stared at the screen, completely dumbfounded for three seconds. Then, a loud laugh burst from my chest, causing my stomach to ache all over again. So, in Ava’s mind, the mysterious investor behind her success couldn’t possibly be me. She had traced the funds to the Ashford Group and assumed I was just some low-level employee who had embezzled company money to make his wife look good. A useless husband trying to play savior. And she had generously had her little lover send me fifty thousand dollars as a pittance to skip town. I typed back two simple words. “Sounds good.” I tossed the phone onto the sofa and walked into the study. I spun the dial on the safe, and the heavy door clicked open. Inside lay a single document: the true ownership structure of Aura Financial, controlled by the Ashford Group. Fifty-one percent of Aura Financial’s shares, held through seven layers of offshore companies, ultimately belonged to one name. Jack Ashford. Which meant that the CEO seat Ava had occupied for three years belonged to me. The entire company belonged to me. And that three point eight million dollar firework show was paid for with my money, thrown for her ex-husband. I picked up the file, a slow smile spreading across my face. Ava, you want me to sign the divorce papers tomorrow? Fine, I’ll show up. But the man signing those papers won’t be your penniless, useless husband. It will be the actual owner of Aura Financial.

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1 On the eve of our fourth anniversary trip, Jonah was in the bathroom taking a shower. His phone screen suddenly lit up on the nightstand. The message was brief: [Dr. Beckett, my sister just got her divorce finalized. She is alone in the psychiatric ward and she is in a really bad place. Please, you have to come see her.] The sender’s number belonged to Toby, the younger brother of Aria, the girl Jonah had once loved with a fierce, self-destructive passion. She was the ghost that had haunted our relationship from day one. The hum of the shower died down. When Jonah walked out, towel drying his hair, I handed him the phone. I turned my back, not wanting to see the expression on his face. Within seconds, Jonah wrapped his arms around me from behind, resting his chin gently on the crown of my head. “Don’t worry, I’m not going,” he murmured. “I promised I’d take you on this trip, and I’m keeping that promise.” Just as my racing heart began to settle, another message flashed on the screen: [She has been sobbing for hours. She keeps repeating one thing over and over: Jonah, I regret it.] The arms wrapped around my waist stiffened. It was funny how the future we had spent four years building could be derailed so easily. The past only had to wave its hand, and he was already turning back. “Jonah,” I said softly. He did not hear me the first time. Only when I called his name again did he seem to snap out of his trance, his eyes instantly clouding with guilt. “Sorry, Nell. Things at the hospital have been so hectic lately, I keep zoning out.” He reached out to pull me into his chest, just like he always did, but I stood frozen. Noticing my stiffness, his voice grew tense. “Are you feeling okay? Are you sick?” I looked into his eyes, keeping my voice quiet and even. “If you want to go to the hospital to see her, we can reschedule our trip.” “I am not going,” he replied instantly. He even managed a small laugh, reaching out to gently tap the tip of my nose. “Silly girl, stop overthinking. I’m a doctor, not her private caretaker.” He said it lightly, but I knew Jonah. He was never a man to hesitate or lose focus. He was always decisive, except during his college years when he was dating Aria. Back then, he used to wear that exact same vacant, distracted look. I knew that look because I used to look up at Jonah the exact same way he looked up at Aria. We hit a quiet stalemate that night. Jonah apologized repeatedly, trying to soothe the unspoken tension between us. “Nell, I admit I got distracted, but you’re the only one in my heart now,” he said, cupping my face in his hands, his eyes searching mine. “I don’t love her. I haven’t loved her for a long time.” His gaze was so earnest that I almost believed him. Almost. But Jonah had once been so reckless for Aria. Even though I had been with him for four years, her shadow still loomed over us, cold and insurmountable. Late into the night, he finally managed to soothe me to sleep. Through the haze of slumber, I felt him slip out of bed. A moment later, the muffled sound of a tense conversation drifted in from the balcony. His voice was cold and sharp. “I am a doctor, yes, but I am not the only psychiatrist at that hospital.” He sounded nearly impatient. “The nurses can handle her. Stop calling my personal number. My girlfriend is going to misunderstand.” The weight in my chest finally lifted. Beneath the covers, I let out a quiet breath, smiling at my own insecurity. Soon, the bed dipped as he climbed back in. He pulled me flush against his chest, his warm breath tickling my ear. “I love you, Nell,” he whispered. I woke up early the next morning. Jonah had to finish a morning shift before his vacation officially started, so I packed our bags and headed to the airport ahead of him. Looking at our detailed travel itinerary, I could already picture the snow falling on our shoulders in Aspen. I waited at the gate until noon, when a text from him finally arrived: [Sweetheart, hang tight. Just wrapping up my last patient and then I’ll head straight to the airport.] I texted back a quick confirmation with a heart emoji. At the time, I had no idea that the last patient he referred to was Aria. The hours ticked away. The departure boards in the terminal flickered, updating constantly. All the daytime flights to our destination had already departed, leaving only the final red-eye of the night. If we missed this one, the winter storm forecast for tomorrow would ground all flights, and our fourth-anniversary trip would be completely ruined. Jonah still had not arrived. I called him multiple times, but my calls went straight to voicemail. A knot of anxiety tightened in my stomach. My first instinct, ridiculously enough, was to worry that he had been in a car crash on his way to the airport. 2 Finally, my phone buzzed. I answered it immediately. “Jonah? Are you okay?” “Hello? Who is this?” a soft, delicate female voice answered. My throat went dry. It was Aria. “If you’re looking for Dr. Beckett, you’ll have to wait a moment,” she said calmly, her tone completely devoid of malice. “He went to get me some of his homemade potato soup.” The blood in my veins turned to ice. Potato soup. Jonah had spent nearly an hour in the kitchen this morning, slow-cooking it and leaving it in a thermos for me. He had once told me: “I only learned how to cook because of you, Nell. I only want to make these things for you.” I had always believed that this soup, this small gesture, was the one thing that set me apart from Aria. The line went quiet for a few seconds before Jonah’s voice came through. “Hey, Nell. I’m so sorry. Something urgent came up at the hospital today. It looks like we’ll have to push the trip back.” He apologized over and over, but he never mentioned Aria’s name. If she was just a patient, why the lie? What did his promise last night even mean? “I’m coming to the hospital,” I said, my voice eerily calm. There was a brief pause on the other end. “…Okay.” The sterile scent of disinfectant hung heavy in the hospital corridor. I stood outside the door of ward three. Through the small glass window, I saw Jonah sitting on the edge of the bed, holding a warm bowl. He carefully blew on a spoonful of soup before feeding it to Aria. Her movements were a bit sluggish, but she complied, swallowing quietly. Then, she picked up a half-eaten apple from the bedside table and offered it to him. Jonah smiled, leaned down, and took a bite right from the spot she had bitten. My breath caught. Jonah had mild germophobia. He was a man who politely declined when I tried to feed him with my own fork, yet here he was, sharing a half-eaten apple with another woman without a second thought. A dull, throbbing pain bloomed in my chest. There was nothing special about me. The rules he broke for her were the rules he rigidly kept with me. It was never about the action; it was always about the person. When I pushed the door open, Jonah froze. He hastily set the bowl and the apple down on the table. Aria did not look at me. Like a tired bird, she tilted her head and naturally rested her cheek against Jonah’s chest. He did not pull away. Jonah stood there and let her lean on him. I stood in the doorway, watching them. I felt like an intruder who had walked into someone else’s movie, making even my breathing feel like an inconvenience. “Nell,” Jonah said, finally standing up. Aria swayed slightly, losing her support. His face was a mask of guilt. “You can see how she is. The trauma affected her mind, she is acting like a child right now. Please don’t take it to heart, okay?” How could I not? My lips curved into a bitter smile, but the only word that escaped me was a hollow, “Okay.” Just as I was trying to force myself to accept his explanation, Aria looked up. Her eyes were vacant, but her voice was as soft as a feather. “Jonah, I like you so much.” Jonah went rigid, his expression turning incredibly complex. “Hold me, please?” She reached out her arms, her eyes wide and innocent, like a child who knew no boundaries. But this time, Jonah pushed her hand away. He quickly walked over to me, grabbed my wrist, and pulled me out into the corridor. “She is sick, Nell. She doesn’t know what she’s saying,” he said, closing the door behind us to shut her out. He repeated the same empty phrase: “Don’t take it to heart.” Seeing my silence, he let out a heavy sigh and cupped my face with both hands, forcing me to look into his exhausted eyes. “She is in a terrible state, Nell. Her ex-husband abused her for years, and she finally snapped when she caught him cheating,” he explained, his voice thick with emotion. “I had no intention of seeing her this morning, I swear. I remembered my promise to you. But her ex-husband showed up at the clinic, trying to drag her away. She was huddled in a corner, screaming my name. With all my colleagues watching, I couldn’t just stand there and do nothing. Just this once, Nell, please understand.” The desperation in his voice felt so real. It seemed as though he was just a good man carrying a burden he could not shake. 3 For a second, I almost relented. But then the image of him biting that apple flashed in my mind, the ease with which he threw away his principles for her. “Jonah,” I said, my voice dry. “The last flight is at nine tonight. Our trip.” He smiled, ruffling my hair the way he always did, momentarily dispelling the gloom. “We don’t have to wait until nine. Let’s go now.” “Dr. Beckett, the test results for bed three are in,” a nurse called out from down the hall. Bed three. Aria. “I’ll look at them right away,” Jonah replied instantly. The smile had barely left his face, but his body was already turning toward the nurse. My agreement died in my throat, shattering silently. And so, I ended up waiting at the hospital while he ran tests for her. By the time I checked my watch, it was six in the evening. If we did not leave for the airport now, we would miss the flight. “It’s six o’clock,” I said, standing by his desk, my voice quiet. Jonah was buried in paperwork, his brow furrowed as he reviewed Aria’s thick medical file. “Almost done. Just give me a few more minutes.” He did not even look up. Looking at the towering stack of files, I knew that “almost done” was a lie. My patience finally wore thin. “Aria is asleep now, Jonah. She isn’t going to wake up and demand you stay. Can’t another doctor on duty look at these files?” “No, they can’t,” he snapped, his pen never pausing. “Why not?” The question hung in the silence of the office. “Nell, can you please be quiet for a second? You’re distracting me, and I can’t get this done if you keep talking,” Jonah said, his forehead creasing with irritation. A wave of hurt washed over me. It was our anniversary trip, yet somehow I was the one being unreasonable. Perhaps seeing the tears welling in my eyes, Jonah softened. He sighed, walked around the desk, and took my hand. “I’m sorry. I’m just incredibly tired today, I didn’t mean to snap at you.” His grip was warm and familiar. “But Aria’s case is highly complex, and the board is monitoring it. Because of our history, I know her psychological triggers better than anyone else. But I promise you, I will make this up to you.” With that, he shut the file, handed it over to the resident on duty, and gave my hand a reassuring squeeze. His lips curved into a smile. “Come on, let’s go catch that flight.” “Dr. Beckett! The patient in bed three says—” another nurse ran up to us. “I’m off the clock,” Jonah interrupted her, his voice firm and clear. “Dr. Vance is taking over her case. I am taking my fiancée on vacation.” He pulled me by the hand, leading me past his colleagues and out of the hospital doors. The cold wind whipped against my face, but my cheeks felt hot. I asked myself if I was being too petty. She was just an old acquaintance who needed help, right? Only a month ago, Jonah had knelt on one knee and asked me to marry him. We were going to spend the rest of our lives together. The past belonged in the past. I forced myself to believe it as we boarded the flight to Aspen. During the flight, he adjusted my blanket and reclined my seat, talking and laughing just as he always did. But when he looked out the window at the heavy clouds, I saw the emptiness in his eyes. We landed, checked into our hotel, and everything went according to plan. The next day was filled with ice sculptures, skiing, and hot springs. The hospital drama felt like a minor bump in the road. Until that night, while Jonah was in the shower. His phone lit up on the nightstand with a stream of messages: [Dr. Beckett, Aria is doing a bit better, but she refuses to take her medication. She keeps crying and asking for you. Please, just call her.] [She just called me, Jonah. Don’t you want to know how much she has missed you all these years?] The sender was Toby. The timestamp was five minutes ago. I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering over the delete button for a long time. In the end, I put the phone back down. I was gambling. I was gambling our four years of history against his lingering feelings, hoping the scale would finally tip in my favor. 4 Jonah stepped out of the bathroom, water dripping from the ends of his hair. He picked up his phone, glanced at the notifications with a neutral face, and tossed it onto the sofa. He sat down, scrolling through social media and occasionally letting out a soft laugh. But that night, he was desperate. He kissed me with a frantic intensity, as if trying to leave his mark on every inch of my skin. Then, in the heat of the moment, a soft murmur escaped his lips: “Aria.” The name shattered the room. I froze, my body turning cold. In the darkness, the only sound was our heavy, ragged breathing. Jonah froze too. A second later, he scrambled to pull me back into his arms. “Nell! I’m so sorry! I…” He held me from behind, his hands trembling as he covered my clenched fists. “I zoned out, I swear! I was just thinking about the neurological patterns of her case! It’s a highly unusual medical phenomenon, and the hospital is putting a lot of pressure on me. I would never do anything to hurt you.” “Enough,” I whispered, my voice cracked and dry. I did not want to hear another word. Four years. More than a thousand days and nights, wiped out by the return of an old flame. Did he know that a tiny life was currently growing inside me? A secret that belonged to the two of us? The words rushed to the back of my throat, but I swallowed them down, bitter and cold. “Jonah,” I said, staring into the dark room. “I am so incredibly disappointed in you.” He fell silent. After a long pause, his voice returned, low and steady, but each word cut like glass. “I told you, I am only taking care of her because of my duty as a doctor. I didn’t have a choice in the beginning, but I left everything behind to come here with you. What more do you want from me, Nell?” Jonah had always been a gentle man. Even during our worst arguments, he had never spoken to me with such cold impatience. But ever since Aria got divorced and came back, everything had changed. Beside me, he turned over, his back to me. Though we were inches apart, he felt miles away. I closed my eyes, praying for sleep, but my tears soaked the pillow. Meanwhile, his breathing soon became deep and even. He had actually fallen asleep. When I woke up the next morning, the space beside me was empty and cold. His suitcase was gone. His shaving cream, his toothbrush, everything was missing from the bathroom. It was as if a sudden gust of wind had swept through the room, erasing every trace of his existence. He had left. Between me and Aria, he had made his choice without leaving so much as a note. Outside the window, the snow we had planned to watch together was still falling, beautiful and silent. But the man who had promised to watch it with me was gone. I calmly unlocked my phone and booked an appointment at an OB-GYN clinic back home. I packed my bags alone, navigated the crowded airport alone, and boarded the flight back to Boston alone. The day of my appointment, some morbid curiosity drew me to the psychiatric wing of the hospital first. The door to ward three was slightly ajar. Aria’s laughter drifted out, completely different from her usual fragile, childish demeanor. “Don’t worry, I’m doing great here. Jonah is taking perfect care of me.” “Of course he still cares. I knew he could never truly forget me.” “Even when I pretended to mistake him for my ex-husband and held onto him, he didn’t push me away.” It was all an act. Anger flared in my chest, burning away my remaining sanity. I thought of Jonah, a man who prided himself on his clinical objectivity, being played like a fool. Before I realized what I was doing, I pushed the door open, my voice trembling with rage. “You are still lying to him, Aria. Have you forgotten how badly you destroyed him the first time?” Aria gasped, staring at me in shock. Then, in the blink of an eye, tears welled in her eyes, and she shrunk back, looking fragile and defenseless. “What are you talking about?” She wrapped her arms around herself, trembling as she looked past my shoulder. “Jonah, I’m scared.” Jonah rushed into the room, his face tight with tension. “What’s going on here?” “I’m sorry,” Aria sobbed, beating me to the punch. “I shouldn’t keep troubling you. Nell must have misunderstood. But Jonah, you know I can’t handle people raising their voices at me. My condition…” She whimpered, timed to perfection. Jonah immediately stepped between us, shielding her with his body. He glared at me, his voice cold as ice. “I am the one who insisted on overseeing her treatment, Nell. If you have a problem, take it out on me. Her condition is finally stabilizing, and she cannot handle any emotional distress. Do you have any idea how dangerous this is?” He rubbed his temples, looking thoroughly exhausted. “I know you’re angry that I left the hotel without telling you. Just go wait in my office, and I’ll handle this.” He actually thought I had traveled all this way just to pick a fight over him. An explanation? What was left to explain? I bit my lower lip so hard the taste of blood filled my mouth. I turned and walked straight toward the elevator, pressing the button for the OB-GYN wing.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “459959”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 My husband bought a pair of black-rimmed glasses, claiming they were high-tech. He wore them while cooking, while reading the paper, and he even fumbled to put them on in the dark when he got up to use the bathroom in the middle of the night. I told him, “You don’t even need glasses, Arthur. Why do you keep wearing those things?” He just smiled, keeping his mouth shut, but when he looked at me, there was a softness in his eyes that I hadn’t seen in years. I wondered if the old man was going through some late-life spring awakening. So, while he was asleep that afternoon, I slipped them off his nightstand and put them on. The world looked exactly the same. Until I walked past the hallway mirror. Standing in the mirror was a young woman. I froze. The girl looking back at me was Vivian. His first love from forty years ago. I pulled the glasses off, and my own sixty-two-year-old face reappeared. I put them back on, and there she was again. Standing before the glass, I took them off, put them on, off, on. Before I knew it, hot tears were streaming down my cheeks. I cried in silence until the middle of the night. Once my chest stopped aching, I quietly placed the glasses back on his nightstand. The next morning, I went about my usual routine of making breakfast. Arthur leaned against the kitchen doorframe, studying me. “Why aren’t you wearing that white silk blouse today?” He asked, those new black-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. My hand holding the spatula froze for a fraction of a second. “It’s too tight, Arthur. It constricts my shoulders when I’m working in here.” “Go put it on,” he said, stepping closer. His voice was incredibly tender, a tone he hadn’t used with me in decades. “You look beautiful in it.” I turned my head to look at him. Behind those dark lenses, his eyes weren’t focusing on the deep crow’s feet framing my eyes, nor were they looking at my soft, aging waistline. His gaze was level, but it felt empty, as if he were looking right through my physical form to see someone else entirely. He was looking at the twenty-two-year-old Vivian. “Fine,” I murmured, turning off the stove and untying my apron. In the bedroom, I reached into the very bottom of the closet to pull out the white lace-trimmed blouse he had insisted on buying for me last week. A sixty-two-year-old woman squeezed into a style meant for a twenty-something girl. The intricate lace collar pressed against my sagging neck, looking entirely ridiculous. I looked in the full-length mirror. A thin, aging woman stared back. But I knew that through Arthur’s high-tech lenses, I was a radiant, ponytail-wearing girl in the prime of her youth. I walked back to the kitchen. He was still leaning by the door, and as my footsteps neared, he spun around. A massive, delighted smile spread across his wrinkled face. “Absolutely beautiful,” he whispered, reaching out to gently smooth the lace on my collar. “Just like when you were twenty.” I stared at the deep lines around his own eyes. “Arthur,” I said softly, testing the waters. “Do you even remember what I looked like at twenty?” He stiffened, his eyes darting away behind the lenses. “Of course I do. You were so bright and full of life back then.” “We didn’t meet until we were twenty-three, Arthur,” I said, my voice completely flat. His hand froze in midair. The kitchen went dead silent. After a tense couple of seconds, he let out a dry cough, withdrew his hand, and adjusted his glasses. “Old age is getting to me, I guess. Mixing up the years. Either way, you’re always young in my heart.” He was lying. Forty years ago, when he was twenty-two, the girl by his side was Vivian. She was his first love, the one who had allegedly drowned in a tragic accident after moving out West for work. I turned back to the stove and lit the burner to fry the eggs. “Arthur, I woke up late and couldn’t get any green onions. I put cilantro in your noodles instead.” Arthur despised cilantro. He always said it tasted like soap and stink bugs. But Vivian loved it; I had learned that years ago from reading his old diaries. “That’s fine,” he said with a chuckle behind me. “Cilantro adds a nice kick. Go ahead and put more in.” I stared at the hot oil sizzling in the pan, a cold shiver running straight up my spine. So that was it. No wonder he hadn’t been picky about his food lately. No wonder he looked at me with that sickeningly sweet adoration. He was using those AR glasses to superimpose a dead woman’s face, body, and habits onto mine. I scooped the noodles into a bowl and brought them to the table. He sat opposite me, greedily slurping down the cilantro-filled broth, even closing his eyes to savor every bite. “Is it good?” I asked. “Incredible,” he replied, looking up and smiling through his lenses. “Honey, your cooking is tasting more and more like the old days.” Whose old days? I didn’t ask. I already knew. I set my fork down, staring at the faint blue glow flickering along the edges of his frames. “Arthur, those frames look heavy. Why don’t you take them off while you eat? You’ll hurt your nose.” “No need,” he said, instantly putting a hand over the frame, his posture stiffening defensively. “I’m used to them. I can’t see right without them.” “You don’t have vision problems.” “They’re blue-light blockers! Everything has radiation these days. You wouldn’t understand.” His voice flared with irritation before he quickly forced a gentle tone, dropping a piece of egg into my bowl. “Eat up. It’ll get cold.” Looking at the egg, my stomach turned violently. “I’m not hungry.” I pushed my chair back and walked out to the balcony. Behind me, the sound of his wet, satisfied chewing echoed through the quiet apartment, filled with a grotesque greed. Forty years of marriage. I had believed that even if the romantic spark had faded, we shared a deep, unbreakable bond of companionship. But now, I saw the truth. I was merely a physical vessel, a convenient prop to keep his house clean and cook his meals while he wrapped me in a digital skin. My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a text from our daughter, Lily: Hey Mom, David and I are coming over this weekend. Dad said he’s going to cook for us! I stared at the screen and typed back: Sounds wonderful. Let me know what you want to eat. Just as I hit send, Arthur’s voice drifted from the balcony door. “Who are you texting?” He had crept up quietly, those black frames still glued to his face. “Lily. She says they’re coming over this weekend.” “Ah,” he nodded, his gaze lingering on my white blouse. “Wear this outfit when they come. Don’t change out of it.” That weekend, Lily and her fiancé, David, arrived carrying bags of groceries and gifts. “Mom, Dad! We’re here!” Arthur poked his head out of the kitchen, wearing my floral apron with those black-rimmed glasses resting firmly on his nose. “Lily, sweetheart! Make yourselves at home. Dinner is almost ready.” David set the bags down and walked over to the kitchen with a warm smile. “Hey, Mr. Cooper, what’s with the glasses? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear them before.” Arthur didn’t stop chopping. “Just getting old, son. My eyes aren’t what they used to be.” I quietly set the table, refusing to call him out. The man could thread a needle without straining his eyes; his vision was perfectly fine. During the meal, Arthur did something completely out of character: he opened a bottle of expensive red wine. He raised his glass, his cheeks flushed with a happy glow. “David, you and Lily are taking the plunge soon. Let me give you a piece of advice from forty years in the game.” David raised his glass respectfully. “I’m all ears, sir. Hit me.” Arthur looked at me through his lenses. “The secret to a long marriage is accommodation.” He took a slow sip, his eyes glazing over with nostalgia. “Take your mother-in-law, for instance. She has a wild streak. Whenever it rains, she loves to run barefoot across the hardwood floors, and I have to chase her down with a pair of slippers.” My hand froze holding my fork. Lily stopped chewing, looking bewildered as she turned to me. “Mom, you have severe arthritis. When have you ever run barefoot on the floor?” Arthur seemed entirely deaf to our daughter’s voice, continuing to drift through his own memories. “And she’s terrified of the dark. We always have to keep a nightlight on, or she’ll wake up sobbing like a little girl.” David let out an awkward laugh, trying to keep the mood light. “Wow, I didn’t know you were such a romantic at heart, Mrs. Cooper.” I set my fork down and stared at my husband. I wasn’t afraid of the dark. In fact, I was an incredibly light sleeper; even a sliver of light would keep me tossing and turning. For forty years, I had insisted on the thickest blackout curtains money could buy. The girl who ran barefoot in the rain and couldn’t sleep without a nightlight was Vivian. Arthur’s glasses hadn’t just replaced my face; they had rewritten his entire memory of our forty years together. Here he was, in front of our future son-in-law, fondly reminiscing about another woman’s quirks while I, his actual wife, sat there like a transparent prop. “Dad,” Lily finally interrupted, her tone sharp. “You’re getting things mixed up. Mom has never used a nightlight. Just last month, you complained that she kept the room too dark after you stubbed your toe in the middle of the night.” The smile vanished from Arthur’s face. It was as if he had been violently yanked out of a dream, his expression momentarily blank. Then, waving his hand dismissively, he snapped, “What do you kids know? I’m talking about back in the day.” “Not back in the day either,” I said, my voice ice-cold. The temperature at the dining table plummeted instantly. David quickly tried to patch things over. “Well, I’m sure Mr. Cooper is just remembering some fond memories from when they were dating. Anyway, this food is delicious! Mrs. Cooper, these baby back ribs are incredible.” “I made those ribs,” Arthur chimed in, a strange note of pride in his voice. He turned to me, practically begging for approval. “Go on, try one. Isn’t it exactly how you like it?” I looked at the sweet-glazed ribs. They were bright red, glistening with a sticky, sugary sauce. I hated sweet meat. More importantly, I had been diagnosed with type-2 diabetes five years ago, and I never used sugar in my cooking. He knew this perfectly well. I picked up my fork, grabbed a rib, and dropped it straight into the trash can beside the table. “Too sweet. It’s practically pure sugar.” Arthur’s face turned a violent shade of purple. He slammed his hand on the table. “What is wrong with you? I spend hours in the kitchen cooking for you, and you throw a tantrum?” “I’ve had diabetes for five years, Arthur,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “Did you really make these for me?” His breath caught. His lips parted, but no words came out. Lily scrambled to her feet, rubbing my back. “Mom, please don’t get upset. Dad probably just had a slip of the mind.” “Yeah, Mrs. Cooper, I’m sure he meant well,” David added quietly. He meant well. Those words pierced my ears like needles. For forty years, everyone thought Arthur was the perfect husband. He didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, handed his paychecks over, and never looked at another woman. Every anniversary, he would bring home a massive bouquet of lilies. Even though I was severely allergic to lily pollen and would sneeze uncontrollably every single time, he would just chuck me under the chin and laugh, saying, “My bad, I’ll remember next time.” And the next year, it would be lilies again. Because lilies were Vivian’s favorite flower. He used the guise of being a loving husband to mourn his first love, while I was painted as ungrateful whenever I showed even a hint of frustration. I stood up, ignoring my daughter’s pleas. “I’m full. Enjoy your dinner.” I walked down the hall, went into our bedroom, and locked the door behind me. Sitting in the dim room, I could hear Arthur’s muffled voice grumbling from the dining area. “I swear, your mother’s going through a late menopause. Her temper gets worse by the day.” “Dad, honestly, you know Mom has diabetes. Why would you make something so sweet?” Lily chided him. “Well, I just… I was…” He stammered, unable to come up with a decent excuse. I leaned against the heavy wooden door, letting out a soft, bitter laugh. After Lily and David left, Arthur pushed the bedroom door open. He looked thoroughly annoyed, those black-rimmed glasses still resting on his nose. “Did you really have to humiliate me like that in front of our daughter and her fiancé?” I sat on the edge of the mattress, my eyes fixed on him. “Arthur, when you wear those glasses, what do you see when you look at me?” He faltered, his gaze shifting nervously. “What do you mean? I see you, of course.” “Is that so?” I stood up and walked right up to him. Suddenly, I reached out and grabbed the edges of his glasses. “Then take them off. Look at my real face and tell me that.” He slapped my hands away, stumbling backward as he clutched the frames like they were his lifeline. “What the hell are you doing? Don’t touch my things!” “What are you so afraid of, Arthur?” I demanded, locking eyes with him. “Are you terrified that if you take them off, you won’t see Vivian anymore?” The room fell into a suffocating silence. His pupils dilated behind the lenses, his face turning ghostly pale. “You… you’re losing your mind.” “I don’t wear white lace blouses, I don’t eat cilantro, and I don’t sleep with a nightlight,” I said, taking step after step toward him. “Look at me. I’m Mary, not Vivian.” “Shut up!” he roared, pointing a trembling finger in my face. “You’re completely hysterical! Who said anything about Vivian? You’re sick, Mary!” Furious, he spun on his heel, stormed out of the bedroom, and slammed the door shut with a deafening bang. I stood alone in the quiet room, staring at the closed door. He was guilty. But I knew this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. Over the next few days, a cold war settled over our home. Arthur stopped asking me to wear specific clothes, and that sickeningly sweet smile disappeared from his face. But he never took off those glasses. In fact, things grew worse. He began spending hours locked away in his study, speaking softly into the empty air. “Yes, that little Italian bistro is still there… Of course, I’ll take you there sometime… You look beautiful in that dress today.” Standing outside the locked door, listening to his hushed tones, the blood in my veins turned to ice. If before he was just using the glasses as a visual filter to pretend I was Vivian, who was he talking to now? Was it an AI? Or some pre-programmed virtual girlfriend app? That Tuesday afternoon, Arthur left to play pickleball at the local recreation center. In his rush, he left his phone on the coffee table. For the past month, he hadn’t let that phone out of his sight for a single second. I walked over and picked it up. I tried entering his usual passcode, his birthday. Incorrect. I frowned. After a moment’s thought, I entered Vivian’s birthday. Click. The screen unlocked. I felt as though a heavy fist had punched me in the chest. Forty years of marriage, and he had changed his password to the birthday of a dead woman. Taking a deep breath, I opened the app on his home screen. It was called Mirage AR, the software linked to his high-tech glasses. As soon as it opened, the interface showed the device was connected. I tapped on the user profile and history. I expected to see some kind of AI avatar builder or custom image filter settings. Instead, I found an active online messenger. There was only one contact in the list. The display name read: Vivian. The status indicator said: Offline. My fingers began to tremble. Offline? This wasn’t an offline AI program. This was a real, live user account on an active network. I tapped on the chat history and call logs. There were daily voice calls lasting four to five hours, perfectly matching the exact times he spent locked in his study. I scrolled down. In a message sent a month ago, there was a photo of a street corner in some European city, accompanied by a voice note. I tapped play. A slightly raspy, aging woman’s voice came through the speaker. “Arthur, do you still remember the taste of those lemon lavender scones from the old bakery? I can’t find anything authentic in the shops over here.” It wasn’t a synthesized AI voice. It belonged to a real, breathing, sixty-something woman. The phone slipped from my fingers, clattering onto the glass coffee table. Vivian wasn’t dead. The woman who had supposedly drowned forty years ago, whose body was never recovered, was very much alive. She was living her life, and through this Mirage AR social app, she and Arthur had found each other again. Finally, I understood the true purpose of those black-rimmed glasses. It wasn’t just a filter to make me look younger. It was a real-time, interactive augmented reality communication device. When Arthur looked at me with those glasses, he wasn’t just superimposing Vivian’s youthful face onto my body; he was using me as a physical proxy while having a live, intimate roleplay with the real, aging Vivian across the ocean. I was nothing but a physical prop for their long-distance trysts. The front door clicked open. Arthur walked in, his eyes immediately landing on the phone on the coffee table, then on me. His face fell. He lunged forward in three quick strides and snatched the device. “Who gave you permission to touch my phone!” He shoved it into his pocket like a paranoid thief, his chest heaving. Looking at his panic-stricken face, I let out a sudden, mocking laugh. “What are you laughing at!” he barked, his voice cracking with defensive rage. “Arthur, Vivian never drowned forty years ago, did she?” The color drained from his face instantly, making those high-tech glasses look incredibly foolish. “What… what did you see?” he stammered. “I saw how you’ve spent the last forty years treating your wife like an absolute fool,” I said calmly. “Is life not going so well for her abroad? Is that why she suddenly remembered you exist?” He gritted his teeth, his jaw working for a long moment before he managed to spit out, “It’s none of your business.” “It wouldn’t be,” I nodded. “Except you’re using my pension to fund your little long-distance romance. That makes it very much my business.” I had seen the transactions in the app’s billing history. Every month, Arthur converted nearly twelve hundred dollars of our joint pension funds into the app’s tokens to send to her account. For years, he had been the one managing our finances. “That’s my money! I earned it, and I’ll spend it however I damn well please!” He finally ripped off his polite facade, revealing the raw selfishness beneath. “And don’t forget, my name is the only one on the deed of this house! If you don’t like it, you can pack your bags and get out!” He pointed a stiff finger toward the front door, his voice booming. He was absolutely sure I wouldn’t leave. A sixty-two-year-old woman with no independent income and no savings, in his eyes, I was a helpless dependent who had nowhere else to go. I stared at the man I had shared a bed with for four decades. The very last trace of affection I had for him dissolved into nothing but ash. “Fine,” I said quietly. “Just wait right here.” “For what?” he sneered. “If you’re going to apologize, don’t bother. It’s too late.” I walked into the kitchen, picked up the heavy meat cleaver from the chopping block, and walked back out. Arthur’s eyes went wide. He scrambled back two steps, his voice shaking. “Mary! Don’t do anything crazy! Murder is a life sentence!” Ignoring him, I walked over to the coffee table and slammed the cleaver down onto his most prized antique porcelain tea set. With a loud crash, the delicate cups and teapot shattered into a hundred pieces. “You’re insane!” he shrieked. I tossed the cleaver onto the sofa and brushed the dust from my hands. “Arthur, your former department is hosting your retirement gala the day after tomorrow.” I looked him dead in the eyes, speaking with absolute clarity. “I’ll see you at the party.” The day after tomorrow was Arthur’s sixty-fifth birthday, marked by a massive retirement celebration thrown by the engineering institute where he had worked his entire life. He had spent decades building his reputation there; he was a man of high standing, with a massive social circle. The gala was booked at the most luxurious hotel downtown, with over a hundred guests attending. Early that morning, he spent over an hour preening in front of the mirror, even using hair gel for the first time in years. He polished those black-rimmed glasses until they shone and slid them onto his nose. “Hurry up and get dressed,” he called out from the living room. “The Director is going to be there. Put on something decent.” I stepped out of the bedroom. I wasn’t wearing any of the cheap lace dresses he had bought to feed his fantasies, nor the white blouse. I wore a simple charcoal wool coat over a black turtleneck. It was elegant, understated, and perfectly appropriate for a woman of sixty-two. Arthur frowned. “It’s a celebration, Mary. Why are you dressed like you’re going to a funeral?” “If you don’t like it, you can always turn off your glasses,” I replied flatly. He choked on his words, glared at me, and shut his mouth. By the time we arrived at the hotel ballroom, most of the guests had already gathered, old colleagues, relatives, friends, as well as Lily and David. Everyone showered Arthur with compliments on how young he looked and praised us for our long, happy marriage. “Arthur, your greatest achievement in life wasn’t your research awards, it was marrying this wonderful woman!” Director Henderson laughed, patting Arthur on the shoulder. Arthur, wearing his glasses, beamed with pride. “You’re absolutely right, Director. Mary has been my rock through everything. I couldn’t have done any of it without her.” He turned to me, his eyes dripping with a sickening display of affection. I knew exactly what he was seeing through those lenses: a twenty-year-old Vivian in a white dress, smiling back at him. He was using this public tribute to me to declare his love to the dead girl in his eyes. Midway through the dinner, the massive projector screen lowered. This was Arthur’s grand surprise. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, taking the microphone as he walked up to the stage. “Today isn’t just my retirement; it also marks the fortieth anniversary of the day my wife and I first met.” A thunderous round of applause erupted. Lily was filming him excitedly on her phone. I sat at the head table, completely expressionless, watching his performance. “Forty years ago, I had nothing to my name. She stood by me through the hardest times of my life.” The screen began playing a slideshow. It was a series of landscape photos, interspersed with shots of us from behind, cooking, walking in the park. Oddly enough, every photo of me was either taken from the back or heavily blurred. There was only one clear photo of Arthur in his youth, with a long-haired, AI-generated silhouette superimposed beside him. “I know her greatest regret in life was that we never took a proper, beautiful photo together back then,” Arthur’s voice cracked, sounding choked with emotion. “So, with the help of some tech-savvy friends, I used the latest AI technology to recreate her voice and likeness from her youth. Consider this my special gift to her tonight.” The guests swooned, whispering about how romantic he was. My fingers tightened around my water glass. The screen flickered. From the ballroom speakers, a soft, youthful female voice echoed. “Arthur, congratulations on your retirement. You’ve worked so hard these past forty years. I will always love you.” The voice echoed throughout the hall. It was Vivian’s voice. It had been run through an AI filter to remove the age, restoring the bright, melodic tone of a twenty-something girl. Arthur stood on the stage, his eyes red. He closed them, completely lost in the delusion. In front of his family, his lifelong friends, and his colleagues, he was publicly broadcasting his first love’s voice, boldly claiming to everyone that it belonged to me. The room reached a fever pitch of sentimentality. His old buddies began shouting from their tables, “Come on, Arthur! Get your lady up on stage to say a few words!” Arthur opened his eyes and looked at me through those black frames. He extended his hand to me, like a gracious king granting an audience. “Mary, come on up.” I stood up. Every eye in the room followed me as I made my way to the stage. Arthur reached out to take my hand, but I smoothly stepped past him, walking straight to the microphone. The crowd wore warm, expectant smiles, waiting for a tearful response. I scanned the room. I saw the eager look in my daughter’s eyes, the nodding approval of his old boss. Finally, I turned to look my husband in the eye. “That isn’t my voice,” I said clearly into the microphone. The chatter in the grand ballroom died instantly. Arthur froze. The color began to slip from his face, and he muttered under his breath, “Mary, don’t do this now. It’s an AI recreation, of course it sounds a little different…” “It’s not just the voice,” I interrupted, raising my voice to carry over the speakers. “The silhouette on that screen isn’t me, either.” Whispers rippled through the audience. Beads of cold sweat broke out on Arthur’s forehead. He stepped forward, reaching desperately for the microphone. “You’ve had too much wine, dear. Come on, let’s get you sat down.” I shoved his hand away. “Arthur, who is standing on this stage in those high-tech glasses of yours right now?” I pointed a finger directly at his face, my voice as cold as winter stone. “It’s Vivian, isn’t it? The woman who supposedly drowned forty years ago?”

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I had to tag along to my brother’s business dinner. I never expected the man sitting across from us to be the city’s most ruthless billionaire heir. When I hesitantly raised my glass to toast him, he scoffed. Not once, not twice, but three times. Then, halfway through the night, someone brought up his mysterious, mute fiancée from the wrong side of the tracks. Gideon lazily raised his eyelids, his cold gaze sliding down the curve of my tight, custom designer dress. He let out another dark chuckle. “Why don’t you answer them? Is two years of playing mute still not enough for you?” 1 I was at a high-stakes business dinner. Sitting directly across from us was the massive client our family company was desperate to land. Dressed in a flawlessly tailored charcoal suit, his expression was colder than ice. This was Gideon, the legendary heir whose name dominated every financial headline. In our social circles, he was notorious for his mercurial temper and absolute ruthlessness in negotiations. Right now, his piercing gaze was locked onto me. The polite smile on his lips didn’t reach his eyes. His sheer presence suffocated the room. My brother, Christian, was still busy pitching me. “This is my little sister, Nicollette. I’m bringing her around to learn the ropes so she can eventually take over the family business.” The man across the table raised an eyebrow, slowly testing the weight of my name on his tongue. “Nicollette.” “The heiress of the Su empire?” He paused, letting out a dark, mocking laugh. “Fascinating.” I silently adjusted my hair, pulling the loose curls forward to shield my face as much as possible. Seeing me shrink back, Christian gave my shoulder a gentle nudge, his voice a low whisper. “Don’t just sit there with your head down. What are you hiding for? It’s your turn to toast him.” My stomach did a violent flip. I slowly forced myself to stand. When I raised my glass toward Gideon, my hand froze mid-air. The silence in the private dining room was deafening. Christian waited for me to speak, but when I remained frozen, he lost his patience and hissed under his breath, “What are you doing just holding your glass? Did you suddenly go mute? Say something!” He didn’t know the half of it. For two years, Gideon had genuinely believed I was mute. Even during our most passionate nights, when his hands would pin mine to the sheets, he would whisper with wicked amusement: Sweetheart, if it’s too much, just say the word and I’ll stop. Even when I was completely out of my mind with sensation, I had bitten my lip until it bled, refusing to make a single sound. Was it because I didn’t know how to speak? No. It was because I was absolutely terrified of what would happen if I did. My lips parted, and with agonizing effort, I managed to squeeze out a few quiet words. “Um, Mr. Gideon…” The moment the words left my mouth, the man across the table let out a sharp, frigid laugh. My heart sank into my chest. My cover was blown. “Mr. Gideon, it is a pleasure to meet you. I look forward to our future partnership.” “A pleasure to meet you?” Gideon repeated, his lips curling into a frigid, mocking smirk. “Right.” 2 I sank back into my seat, my fingers trembling as I unlocked my phone and immediately started searching for the earliest flight out of the state. I needed to run. Fast. Before I could even select a departure time, my brother’s voice drifted back into my ears, casually launching into another topic. “By the way, Gideon, rumor has it you’re getting married soon. When do we get to meet the lucky lady?” My eyelids twitched. Christian was literally digging his own sister’s grave. Gideon didn’t answer immediately. He slowly swirled the amber liquid in his glass. After a long, agonizing silence, he finally looked up. His icy gaze dragged slowly over the tight, provocative lines of my designer dress. He let out another cold laugh. “Why don’t you answer him? Is two years of playing mute still not enough for you?” The entire room went dead silent. Christian froze, his jaw practically hitting the table. He had absolutely no idea. According to the rumor mill, Gideon’s fiancée was a destitute, pitiful girl. Her brother was a degenerate gambler, her father was abusive, and her mother was terminally ill. She was a quiet, fragile mute whom the billionaire heir sheltered from the world out of sheer pity. He never could have guessed that his own pampered, billionaire sister was that very same girl. You have reached the end of the free preview. To unlock the next chapters and see Nicollette’s ultimate fate, please complete your payment to continue reading. 3 Although I had been pampered and spoiled by my family since childhood, Christian had warned me several times before I started dating. He gave me a strict list of men in our social circle whom I should never, under any circumstances, touch. Gideon was at the very top of that list. Not only did he have a notoriously volatile temper, but he was also rumored to be deeply obsessed with a tragic first love, a woman who had broken his heart and left the country. He was a walking red flag. But when I saw him at a high-society party two years ago, I was completely captivated. I was starstruck by the sheer, devastating beauty of him. Another woman had tried to throw herself at him, accidentally splashing red wine all over his chest. As the dark liquid dripped from the tips of his hair, sliding down his collarbone and over his sharply defined abs, Gideon had merely looked up with absolute indifference. His profile was as sharp as a carved statue. He slowly took a napkin to wipe his face, casually shedding his incredibly expensive jacket and tossing it into the trash. Every movement was slow, dripping with the effortless arrogance of a man born to rule. I had practically salivated on the spot. I couldn’t help but whisper to my best friend, “What do you think would happen if I took a little part-time job as his distraction?” My best friend, a classy, high-maintenance heiress, rolled her eyes with practiced grace. “Don’t tell me you want to humiliate yourself by acting as a substitute for his lost love. See that girl who spilled the wine? She fell in love, demanded a title instead of just cash, and got discarded in two months. That will be your fate.” I nodded thoughtfully. “Two months is a bit short. Two months isn’t enough time to really get a taste of him.” My friend stared at me, speechless. Before I set my sights on Gideon, I did try to spare my brother’s reputation. I went to great lengths to hide my identity. I used a fake name and created a completely fabricated background. Because my voice was somewhat distinctive and I was terrified of being recognized, I chose not to speak at all. I bought a VIP membership at the luxury hotel he frequented and spent two months pretending to be tipsy, waiting for the perfect moment. Finally, I staged a perfect, delicate collapse right into his arms as he walked through the door. He paused, his gaze lingering on my bare, makeup-free face. He caught me by the waist, a low chuckle escaping him as if he saw right through my little act. “You look a bit like her. Want to come with me?” I lowered my head with mock shyness, pulled out my phone, and typed on the screen: [Sure. My name is Felicity.] For two years, Gideon genuinely believed I was a mute girl named Felicity. And for two years, I assumed we were both just playing a mutually beneficial, temporary game. Until last month, when Gideon suddenly proposed. I was utterly blindsided. 4 I suspected Gideon might have suffered some sort of amnesia that made him forget his tragic first love. On the night he proposed, he was out drinking with his inner circle. I was sitting beside him, completely lost in thought as I stared at his jawline. Someone at the table casually mentioned a name. The atmosphere in the room immediately dropped. Someone muttered, “I heard she got engaged last month.” Gideon’s hand paused on his glass. He gave a quiet, indifferent shrug, then suddenly turned to look at me. He pinched my cheek with lazy amusement, waiting for me to snap out of my daze. “Let’s get married,” he said. My heart nearly stopped. Who? Married to who? This wasn’t part of the deal. I was supposed to be a temporary substitute, a pretty distraction. How did we get to marriage? I was terrified. That night in bed, I was trembling so violently that he noticed. He let out a low growl, murmuring, “Sweetheart, why are you so sensitive tonight? You’re soaking the sheets.” The moment the storm cleared and my body finally stopped shaking, I quietly gathered the scraps of my torn stockings from the floor, desperate to slip away before sunrise. “Damn it,” a low curse came from the shadows behind me. Gideon rarely swore, but before I could take a step, a heavy arm wrapped around my waist, dragging me back into the mattress. My freshly donned stockings were torn to shreds once again. Gideon never let women stay the night at his villa, but that night, he held me tightly against his chest until morning. I didn’t sleep a wink. I watched the sky slowly turn from gray to gold, my heart growing colder with every passing second. When he woke up, he gently ruffled my hair. “Pack your things and move in here. From now on, you live with me.” “And remember to bring your ID.” Gideon propped his chin on his hand, looking down at me with a rare, soft warmth in his eyes. “Felicity, I’ve had someone pick out a date. We’re getting married next month.” Hearing him call me by the fake name I’d used for two years made my stomach violently churn. I finally realized this wasn’t a game to him. Gideon was serious. 5 Gossip travels faster than light in our circle. My best friend messaged me the second she heard rumors of Gideon’s impending wedding. Are you out of your mind? I heard his first love got engaged last month. He’s obviously using you to spite her. If you actually marry him, you’re going to end up looking like a clown. I knew she was right, but my concern was far more practical. I was afraid of getting sued or worse. Gideon absolutely loathed being lied to. The second we stood in front of the clerk and he saw my real ID, I would be completely ruined. So, under the pretense of going back to my shack to retrieve my ID, I ran. I booked the earliest flight out of the state. As I boarded the plane, my heart was hammering against my ribs. Fortunately, I made it out. I figured that to a man of Gideon’s immense power, I was just a disposable toy. He didn’t even bother to verify my background during our two years together. Why would he waste his energy chasing me down when he could easily find another quiet girl to marry out of spite? Gideon’s family was based on the East Coast. My family was based on the West Coast. My name was fake, my identity was a lie. If I stayed away, we would never cross paths again. Even though I hadn’t quite had my fill of the gorgeous billionaire, I had enjoyed the ride. It was time to grow up, accept the business match my family had arranged, and learn to run the empire. 6 I just never expected we would meet again so soon, let alone in a corporate setting. Gideon’s company was based thousands of miles away, yet somehow, our family business had landed them as our primary client. “Why don’t you answer him? Is two years of playing mute still not enough for you?” Gideon’s voice snapped me back to reality. By the time he finished speaking, I had already made it to the door of the private dining suite. I turned around to face the stunned stares of the entire room, including my brother’s pale face. I cleared my throat, trying to sound casual. “Excuse me for a moment. I need to use the restroom.” I tried to make a run for it. But the moment I stepped into the hallway, two of Gideon’s massive bodyguards blocked my path. We stared at each other in a tense standoff. Finally, one of them cleared his throat politely. “Miss, there is a private restroom inside the suite.” I slowly marched back inside and took my seat. A second later, Christian let out a harsh, freezing laugh. Across the table, Gideon echoed him with an equally chilling chuckle. I sat there, frozen. Were they trying to harmonize their anger? After a few minutes of agonizing tension, Christian stood up. “I have an urgent matter to attend to. I must excuse myself.” Gideon rose smoothly. “I also have some business to take care of. I’ll head out as well.” I quickly chimed in, “Oh, I’m fine. I’ll just sit here for a bit longer.” Christian grabbed my arm, practically hauling me out of my chair. “Ow, ow! Lighten up on the grip, Christian!” “Oh, now you know what pain feels like?” Christian sneered, dragging me out of the suite and shoving me right in front of Gideon, who was waiting by his sleek sedan. “My sister has been spoiled rotten since she was a kid. For the sake of our families’ business relationship, deal with this quietly. I’ll be back to pick her up in an hour.” 7 The second Christian’s car pulled away, Gideon pinned me against the door of his sedan and kissed me. The kiss was fierce, desperate, and possessive, stealing the breath straight from my lungs. I thought he was overreacting. Sure, I was beautiful, but did he really have to be this intense the moment we reunited? When he finally let me go, there was no explosive anger, no furious demands about my lies. He gently pressed his thumb against my swollen lower lip, his eyes dark and swirling with unspoken emotion. “You lied to me. But why did you run?” “Um,” I muttered, looking anywhere but at him. “I heard your family already arranged a fiancé for you last year,” he whispered, his voice dangerously low. “Don’t tell me you never actually planned on marrying me.” “Well,” I squeaked. “Finding you was exhausting. Next time you decide to run, at least don’t block my number, okay?” “Oh,” I said. He tilted my chin up, a warning edge to his smile. “If you keep giving me these lazy, one-word answers, I won’t hesitate to show you exactly what we can do in the back of this car.” I shut my mouth immediately. We were out in public, for heaven’s sake. But looking up at him, under the silver glow of the streetlights, I felt a familiar, dangerous flutter in my chest. He had chased me down. He hated being deceived, yet he had forgiven my massive web of lies without a second thought. Over the past two years, his tenderness and absolute devotion had been real. I had tried so hard to keep my guard up, but looking at his face now, I felt myself slipping. It wasn’t just a physical craving anymore. I was genuinely falling for him.

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