Category: English

On Mother’s Day, a woman who claimed to be my mother from three years in the future pushed open my front door. I looked at her, a faint, desperate hope fluttering in my chest, and whispered, “Mom… Wright and I… are we happy after the wedding?” Her face was deathly pale. She grabbed my arm, her grip bruising and desperate. “Ruth, you have to break up with Wright. Right now.” “He’s using you, sweetheart. You’re nothing but a placeholder to him. The only woman he’s ever loved is your stepsister, Hailey.” “He tricks you into a fake marriage. You end up severely depressed, and Hailey spends years rubbing it in your face, mocking you at every turn.” The words hit me like a physical blow. I froze, the breath trapped in my throat. With trembling hands, my mother pulled out her phone and played an audio recording. Wright’s voice came through the speaker. It was that lazy, slow drawl of his—casual, effortless, and utterly devastating. “She’s just a stand-in,” he said, his tone dripping with indifference. “Being with her is just something to pass the time when I’m bored. So what if the marriage license is fake? She doesn’t need to know, and she’s more than willing anyway. Sure, there’s someone else in my heart, but I’ve given Ruth respect, money, everything she could want. It’s not like I’m cheating her out of anything.” That voice. The familiar cadence that used to make me feel safe now made my knees buckle. I had to lean against the wall to keep from collapsing. “Don’t hesitate, Ruth,” my mother whispered, her voice shaking. “He’s going to propose to you on May eleventh. If you wait until then, it will be too late to escape.” I glanced at the calendar on the wall. A bitter, cold ache spread through my chest. Today was May eleventh. 1 A knock rattled the door. My mother slipped quickly into the shadows of the hallway, her voice a hushed, urgent warning. “That recording… you’re the one who sent it to me, three years from now. But by then, you were already pregnant. It was too late to untangle yourself. Remember, Ruth—do not say yes to him!” A profound sense of absurdity washed over me, tight and suffocating. Wright and I had been together for five years. Five years of what I thought was pure devotion. He catered to my every whim. He called me whenever he went out, wired me money without a second thought, and had even declared publicly that I was the only woman he ever wanted to marry. But now, hearing those words from his own mouth… I was just a surrogate. I wanted so badly for this to be a nightmare. The doorbell rang again, more insistent this time. I opened the door. A delivery courier stood there, holding a massive arrangement of nine hundred and ninety-nine red roses. Perched precariously on top was a velvet ring box. My body felt entirely numb as I took the flowers and brought them inside. A second later, my phone buzzed in my hand. It was Wright. His voice was flat, practical. “Ruth, things are crazy at the office right now, and I can’t slip away. Just put the ring on yourself, okay?” The words washed over me like a bucket of ice water. I went cold all over. A proposal—a once-in-a-lifetime moment—and he couldn’t even bother to show up? He sent it via courier? “No,” I said, my voice tight. “You need to come here. Otherwise, I’m not saying yes.” A heavy, impatient sigh came through the receiver. “Stop being difficult, Ruth. I told you, I’m busy. I got you the ring and the flowers. You’ve always been the sensible one. Don’t start disappointing me now.” The call was on speaker. My mother rushed out of the shadows and violently tapped the screen, cutting off the call. “Do you see it now?” she cried, her eyes wide with pain. “Do you see him for what he really is?” My heart shattered. Suddenly, a flood of memories rushed back, but they were different now—stripped of the romantic veneer I had painted over them. I remembered waking up early to brew his favorite coffee, only for him to sip it and frown, saying it was too weak, that Hailey made it better. I remembered trying to learn how to ride a bicycle, falling repeatedly until my knees were black and blue. He had laughed at me, calling me clumsy and uncoordinated, pointing out how graceful Hailey had always been. I remembered spending half the night baking a birthday cake from scratch, only for him to take one bite, call it too sweet, and complain that I didn’t even know his basic preferences. In five years of being together, he had done nothing but criticize and chip away at my self-esteem. The only praise he ever offered me—the only label he deemed fit to give me—was “sensible.” My mother saw the raw, quiet grief in my eyes. She grabbed my hand, pulling me toward the door. “Don’t waste another tear on him. Come on, I’m taking you out.” She tried to give me a watery, encouraging smile. “What is it you kids say these days? Out with the old, in with the new? No room for sad, only room for bad. I’m paying. Today, we leave all this misery behind and let you actually have some fun.” As we reached the door, she whispered, “I’ll follow you, but I can’t let him see me. Wright is paranoid. If he catches on to me, the timeline might forcibly drag me back.” We went to a high-end lounge downtown. The lighting was low and hazy, the bass humming through the floorboards. As soon as we sat down in our private booth, a line of handsome young men filed in. One gently massaged my shoulders; another poured me a drink with practiced grace. I sat there like a statue, stiff and painfully out of place. It was awkward, overwhelming, and utterly bizarre. The young man beside me stood up to hand me a glass of champagne, but his foot caught on the edge of the rug. He stumbled, losing his balance. My instincts kicked in, and I reached out to steady him. But the moment my fingers brushed his arm, the heavy oak door of the VIP suite was slammed open with a deafening crash. 2 Wright stood in the doorway, his face twisted in a dark, terrifying scowl. Without a word, he marched over, grabbed my wrist in a crushing grip, and dragged me out of the room. He slammed me against the corridor wall, his chest heaving with a volatile mix of fury and wounded pride. “Ruth Collins, I really underestimated you.” “You hang up on me, and then you come to a place like this? What is this, some kind of hard-to-get game? You think you’re being clever?” My eyes burned, hot tears threatening to spill. “Let go of me!” I spat. “How did you even know I was here? Have you been tracking me?” A flicker of guilt crossed his face, but it was quickly replaced by a harsh glare. “Yeah, I was! You’re my fiancée, Ruth. I have every right to know where you are.” I let out a bitter, mocking laugh. “Fiancée? What kind of man proposes through a delivery guy?” Wright’s eyes filled with dismissive arrogance. “Give it a rest. I’m offering to marry you. Isn’t that enough?” That sentence punctured the very last of my illusions. How had the man I once shared everything with become this stranger? Back in college, we used to sneak out past curfew, sitting on the curb of some quiet street all night. We talked about everything—the stars, the future, our smallest fears, our grandest dreams. It felt like we had a lifetime of words to share. But now, even with him standing inches away, it felt like we were separated by a thick, bulletproof glass wall. The warmth of our relationship had died a long time ago, washed away by the exhaustion of his work and the daily grind of his dismissive apathy. People were staring at us in the busy hallway, whispering. I struggled against his grip, but he only tightened his fingers, refusing to let go. Five years of swallowed pride and quiet humiliation boiled over. I raised my free hand and slapped him, hard, across the face. The slap echoed. His head snapped to the side. He stayed like that for a few seconds, silent, before turning back to me. This time, there was a patronizing, indulgent look in his eyes. “Fine,” he muttered, adjusting his collar. “That slap is your free pass for tonight. Are we even now? If you’ve got it out of your system, come home with me. I’ll make it up to you.” I turned to walk away, but out of the corner of my eye, I spotted my mother ducking behind a pillar at the end of the hall. I knew Wright. If I pushed him too hard right now, he would make a scene, cause a public spectacle, and refuse to let me go. But my mother’s presence was too risky. If he noticed her, or if anyone realized what she was, the consequences could be disastrous. I clenched my jaw, swallowing my rage. I stopped running and quietly followed him to his car. During the silent drive, I surreptitiously texted my mother. Mom, are you okay? Where are you? She replied almost instantly. I’m fine, sweetie. Play along for now. Don’t escalate things with him. Don’t worry about me—I have a safe place to stay. A second later, she sent a photo. In the image, my future mother and my present mother stood side-by-side, smiling warmly at the camera. Two identical versions of the woman who loved me, both fighting with everything they had to save me. A lump formed in my throat, and a soft, bittersweet smile touched my lips. Wright leaned over, trying to peer at my screen. “What’s so funny? What are you looking at?” I clicked the power button, locking the screen instantly, and turned my face to the dark window. “Nothing.” 3 The moment we got back to the penthouse, Wright went into the master bathroom to take a shower. I waited until the water started running, then quietly began searching through the drawers in the study. My fingers shook as I pulled open the very bottom drawer. Tucked deep beneath a stack of documents was a small, red booklet. A marriage certificate. I opened it. There was a photo of Wright and me against a red background, stamped with an official-looking seal. But when I touched the paper, I realized it was a cheap, fabricated replica. Just as my future mother had said. He had prepared this long ago. He never had any intention of giving me a real, legal marriage. I took a deep breath, slipped the fake certificate back exactly where I found it, and closed the drawer. Next, I picked up Wright’s phone from the nightstand. He hadn’t changed his passcode. I unlocked it and opened his social media feed. My heart plummeted into a cold, dark abyss. It was a post from Hailey, my stepsister. She had posted a photo just over an hour before my flowers arrived. It showed a stunning diamond ring nestled in a luxurious velvet box, surrounded by a sea of fresh roses. Her caption read: Someone popped the question today! I told him the flowers and the ring weren’t quite my style, and guess what? He immediately ran out to buy me the latest designer diamond ring just to show his commitment. Should I say yes? I stared at the photo. The wrapping of the bouquet, the velvet box… they were identical to the ones the courier had dropped off at my door. Except mine was the rejected draft. He had spent his afternoon running from mall to mall, desperately trying to find the perfect ring for Hailey. And the one he sent me? Just an afterthought. A leftover from his failed attempt to please her. A wave of profound nausea washed over me. I remembered when I first met Wright. Hailey had just secured a scholarship to study abroad and had left the country. Back then, he used to stare at me for hours, lost in thought. When I asked him why, he would smile and say, “Because you’re beautiful.” Now, the sickening truth was clear. He wasn’t looking at me. He was looking through me, searching for the ghost of Hailey. I was a substitute. A warm body to keep his bed comfortable until the girl he actually wanted came back. The night was pitch black outside, but my mind had never been clearer. The last lingering ember of my love for him died right then. I wanted nothing more than to pack my things and disappear. The bathroom door opened, and Wright stepped out, towel-drying his damp hair. Seeing me standing in the middle of the room, he smiled and walked over, reaching out to wrap his arms around my waist. I took a deliberate step backward, out of his reach. My voice was quiet, steady, and entirely devoid of emotion. “Wright, we’re done. I’m leaving you.” The smile on his face faltered for a fraction of a second, but then he chuckled, stepping closer again. He rested his chin on my shoulder, his voice dropping into that soft, coaxing tone he always used when he wanted to smooth things over. “Still mad, babe? Look, I’m sorry. I messed up today.” “I promise I’ll make it up to you this weekend. Just you and me, okay?” I closed my eyes, a heavy numbness settling over my chest. It was always the same. Every time he crossed a line, his apologies were swift and effortless. He knew exactly how to play the sweet, regretful boyfriend—soft words, sweet promises, endless charm. But he never actually changed. He knew exactly what he was doing, and he didn’t care. Because he was absolutely certain that I would never leave him. My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a flurry of urgent texts from my mother. Ruth, please don’t let him sweet-talk you! If you stay, you’ll end up broken. The depression will consume you. I’ve already booked our train tickets. We leave in two days. We’re going to get out of this city and never look back. I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. I typed a single word: Okay. 4 Wright didn’t take my breakup seriously. To him, it was just another tantrum. The very next morning, he announced that we were going to a luxury furniture outlet to pick out pieces for our new house. I was exhausted, drained of any desire to play along, and wanted nothing more than to stay in bed and count down the hours until my departure. But he practically dragged me out of the apartment and into his car. When I opened the passenger door, my stomach dropped. Hailey was already sitting in the front seat. She was perfectly made up, offering me a sweet, victorious smile. “Hey, Ruth. I wanted to look at some furniture for my new place too. You don’t mind if I tag along, do you?” Wright immediately shot me a tense, warning look, silently pleading with me not to make a scene and ruin the mood. When I climbed into the back seat without a word, I saw him visibly relax. “See? I knew my Ruth would be cool with it,” he said smoothly, starting the engine. “That’s my sensible girl. Exactly the kind of grace a future Mrs. Campbell should have.” He offered a casual explanation as he drove. “Hailey is family, Ruth. She’s going to be visiting our place a lot, so I figured we should get her input.” Family. The daughter of the woman my father had cheated on my mother with. I had to admire their acting skills. If I hadn’t heard that recording, I would still be the blind fool playing my part in their little drama. I kept my mouth shut and stared out the window. At the massive showroom, Wright was bursting with enthusiasm, painting a picture of our future home. He ran his fingers over a plush velvet sofa, his voice dropping into that gentle cadence. “We should get a soft couch like this. You love curling up to watch your shows. This will keep your back from aching.” “And we’ll do solid oak flooring in the study. It feels much warmer underfoot.” “We’ll install heated floors throughout the whole house, too. You hate the cold.” He spoke with such apparent tenderness, as if he had spent nights thinking about my comfort. But I noticed where his eyes went. Every single thing he described—the binge-watching, the preference for oak flooring, the poor circulation and hatred of winter—belonged to Hailey. When we reached the mattress section, his bias became impossible to hide. He turned directly to Hailey, ignoring me entirely. “What do you think of this one? Is it soft enough? Could you sleep comfortably on this?” The sales associate smiled, her eyes darting between Wright and Hailey. “You two make such a gorgeous couple, and your taste is impeccable. This mattress is top-tier; it won’t sag even after years of use.” Wright stiffened slightly, casting a brief, guilty glance in my direction, but he didn’t offer a single word of correction. A cold, mocking smile touched my lips. My heart was a frozen wasteland. Suddenly, a massive wooden display shelf nearby groaned. The heavy brackets holding it together snapped, and the entire structure began to tilt, collapsing directly toward Hailey and me. We both screamed, pinned by the shadow of the falling timber. Without a single second of hesitation, Wright lunged forward. He threw his entire body over Hailey, pulling her into his chest and shielding her with his back as the heavy shelves came crashing down. He didn’t look at me. Not even once. The sharp edge of a wooden plank scraped violently down my forearm, leaving a raw, stinging red gash. The sales staff rushed over, frantically lifting the debris. Only then did Wright let go of Hailey, his hands shaking as he checked her face and shoulders for injuries. “Are you okay? Did it hit you?” he gasped. He never looked at my arm. Not once did he check to see if I was bleeding. And Hailey, tucked safely under his arm, looked over his shoulder and flashed me a cold, triumphant smirk. On the drive back, the silence inside the car was suffocating. I quietly pulled out my phone and sent a text to my future mother. Everything is packed. We leave tomorrow. Back at the penthouse, I began quietly putting my clothes into a suitcase. Wright leaned against the doorframe of the bedroom, watching me. It was only then that his eyes fell on the red scrape on my arm. “Ruth… about today. I didn’t mean to ignore you.” “It was just reflex. Hailey was in a worse spot, and she’s always been fragile. She can’t handle getting hurt.” I zipped the suitcase shut, my voice completely flat. “You don’t need to explain.” I stood the suitcase up and pushed it into the corner of the closet. Wright frowned slightly. “Maybe a trip is a good idea. Go clear your head for a few days. I’ll wire you some money so you can treat yourself.” I didn’t answer. I suppose in his mind, I was still the sensible, easily mollified Ruth who would always come crawling back. He was so utterly confident in my devotion that he didn’t even bother to ask where I was going. He assumed this was just another short vacation to cool my temper. He would never know. This time, there was no coming back.

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Growing up in foster care, my roommate and I spent countless late nights reading stories about long-lost heiresses. Jessie was absolutely convinced that she was the secret, stolen bloodline of the Hamiltions, the city’s most untouchable dynasty. I’d always quietly assumed it was a harmless delusion, a coping mechanism for a girl who grew up with nothing. But then she actually showed me the DNA results. And then came the fleet of black town cars, sweeping her away to the Hamiltion estate in a flurry of flashing cameras and tinted glass. Every day after that, she posted video diaries in our private group chat. In the latest one, she was lounging on the sun-drenched deck of a private yacht, wind whipping through her expensive blowout. She leaned her head against the shoulder of a sharp-jawed man and beamed at the camera. “Babe, I talked to Tristan. Once my birthday passes next month, you are packing your bags and moving into the estate with me. We’re going to run this town together!” In the background, her newly found brother offered a warm, indulgent smile. “Any friend of my sister is a guest of the Hamiltions. Consider the black card yours to use.” A month later, my heart pounding with excitement, I stood before the towering iron gates of the Hamiltion estate, gripping the handle of my rolling suitcase. I beamed at the uniformed security guard at the gatehouse. “Hi! I’m Fiona. I’m Jessie’s best friend—your new heiress? She asked me to move in with her today.” The guard blinked, his brow furrowing. Then, his expression shifted into something bordering on pity—the way you look at a crazy person. “Who? Jessie? Look, lady, the Hamiltion family has eight sons. Mrs. Hamiltion had a tubal ligation twenty years ago. There is no daughter.” My hand slipped from the handle of my suitcase. The metal bar rattled against the asphalt. Cold sweat broke out across my collarbone, soaking into my shirt. If there is no Hamiltion heiress… then who has been sending me those videos every single day? And what kind of nightmare has she actually been living? 1. A bead of sweat traced a slow, icy path down my spine. I stared at the guard, my ears ringing so loudly it drowned out the rustle of the surrounding maples. “What do you mean?” I stepped closer to the intercom. “Jessie posted a video yesterday. From the yacht. I watched the Hamiltion town car pick her up from campus with my own eyes. How can she not exist?” The guard sighed, his irritation hardening. “Listen to me carefully. The Hamiltions have eight boys. No daughters. There has never been a girl born to this family.” He stepped out of the gatehouse and gave my shoulder a firm, dismissive shove. “Move along. We don’t do crazy here.” The force sent me stumbling back. My suitcase tipped over, its hard plastic shell scraping loudly against the driveway. The Hamiltion dynasty’s obsession with male heirs wasn’t exactly a secret in the city’s high-society gossip columns. Had they lured Jessie here under false pretenses? Had they locked her away to keep her from claiming her share of the inheritance? I swallowed the lump of panic in my throat, my trembling fingers fumbling in my pocket for my phone. “You don’t believe me? I have proof. I have the videos.” I swiped open the screen, my thumb jerking as I tapped into our saved chat. “This was yesterday. She was on your family’s yacht. Your boss’s son was right there with her.” The guard crossed his arms, letting out a dry, mocking chuckle. I pulled up the pinned video link and thrust the screen in front of his face. But instead of Jessie’s bright, laughing eyes, a gray warning icon flashed against a blank screen. This content has been deleted or does not exist. My breath hitched. That was impossible. With stiff, frantic fingers, I tapped the refresh icon. Once. Twice. Four times. The screen remained a dead, hollow gray. The guard sneered. “Nice try. Showing me a broken link? Look, kid, if you want a sugar daddy, find another gate to knock on.” “It wasn’t a broken link! It was there yesterday!” I frantically swiped out of the browser and opened our messaging app. “I have our entire chat history. I’ll call her right now. You’ll see.” I tapped her profile picture—a bright pink aesthetic shot of the two of us—and hit the call button. There was no ringing. No delay. Just the immediate, synthetic drone of an automated operator: The number you have dialed is not in service. Please check the number and try again. I snatched the phone away from my ear, staring at the name Jessie hovering at the top of the screen. An out-of-service number. How could an account that was sending me memes just hours ago suddenly dissolve into nothingness? Heavy, measured footsteps echoed from the other side of the gate. A middle-aged man in a tailored charcoal suit walked down the paved path, a silver crest pinned to his lapel. “What seems to be the disturbance?” His voice was flat, carrying the practiced coldness of someone who dealt with high-society scandals for a living. His gaze swept over me as if I were a piece of stray litter blown in by the wind. The guard straightened up instantly. “Sir, this girl claims she’s a friend of a ‘Jessie Hamiltion’—says she’s moving in. She’s trying to force her way in with fake links.” The butler adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, his eyes piercing through the lenses like needles. “Miss, I assure you, there is no Hamiltion daughter. If you continue to trespass and harass our staff, we will have our legal team file charges for extortion and harassment.” “I’m not extorting anyone!” I squeezed my phone so hard my nails bit into my palms. “Where is she? Where is Jessie? She had the DNA test from Westside Medical! She walked through these gates! What did you do to her?” “Remove her belongings from the property,” the butler cut me off, turning on his heel without a single backward glance. Two other guards stepped forward, ripping my suitcase out of my hands. With a harsh, metallic rip, they tore open the zipper. My sweaters, toiletries, and the worn-out plush bear Jessie had bought me at a thrift store tumbled onto the hot asphalt outside the property line. “Beat it. Step over this line again, and we won’t be so polite.” 2. The heavy iron gates swung shut with a resounding, definitive clang. The midday sun beat down mercilessly, but my teeth chattered as if I were caught in a blizzard. I knelt on the pavement, scooping up my scattered clothes. My hands shook so violently I could barely grip the fabric. The deleted videos. The dead phone line. The Hamiltion family’s cold denial. It was as if they were systematically erasing Jessie from the face of the earth. I stared through the ornate iron bars, shoving my clothes back into the suitcase with frantic, clumsy movements. I couldn’t leave. If the staff was lying, I would wait them out. Someone important would eventually drive through these gates, and I would force them to tell me the truth. I don’t know how long I sat there before the deep, throaty growl of an engine vibrated through the road. The gates groaned open. A sleek, midnight-black Maybach glided out, its custom license plate ending in five eights. My pupils dilated. It was the exact same car that had picked Jessie up from the dorms. The final thread of my composure snapped. I abandoned my suitcase and threw myself into the middle of the road, right into the car’s path. The screech of burning rubber pierced the quiet afternoon. The Maybach jerked to a halt, stopping mere inches from my knees. The driver threw open his door, his face red with fury. “Are you out of your mind? You want to die?!” I ignored him, lunging past the hood to the rear passenger window. I pounded on the dark, tinted glass with both fists. “Open up! I know you’re in there! Where is Jessie? What did you do to her?!” The window rolled down with a soft hiss, revealing a sharp, aristocratic face etched with annoyance. It was Tristan—the youngest of the Hamiltion brothers, infamous in the city’s tabloids. Just yesterday, in the video diary, he had been standing by Jessie’s side, smiling warmly as he called me an “honored guest.” “Where is she?” I gripped the edge of the window frame, my knuckles stark white against the black trim. “Did you lock her up to keep her away from the family fortune?” Tristan turned his head, surveying me with a look of pure, unadulterated bewilderment. “Who the hell are you?” He frowned, his tone dripping with irritation. “And who is Jessie? I don’t have a sister. I don’t even have a female cousin.” “Stop lying!” I screamed, a sob catching in my throat, burning my sinuses. “You were on the yacht with her yesterday! You filmed a video! You said next month, for her birthday—” “Call the police,” Tristan cut in coldly, leaning back into his leather seat. The window began to glide back up. “Wait! Don’t you dare walk away!” I pounded on the rising glass, but the window closed completely, leaving me staring at my own terrified, distorted reflection. In less than five minutes, the wail of sirens cut through the quiet neighborhood. Two police officers jumped out of a patrol car, grabbing my arms and pulling me back from the Maybach. “Step back! Blocking traffic on a public road—are you trying to get yourself killed?” I lunged toward them, grabbing the older officer’s sleeve like a lifeline. “Officer, please! They’re holding her! My roommate, Jessie. They took her into that house and now she’s gone, her phone is disconnected, and they’re pretending she doesn’t exist!” The younger officer frowned, pulling out his tablet. “Okay, calm down. What’s your roommate’s name? Birthdate? Where does she go to school?” I swallowed hard, forcing my voice to stabilize. “Jessie Miller. She’s a senior at Crestview University, English Literature major. Her date of birth is October 12, 2001.” I rattled off the details I had memorized from years of filling out housing forms together. The officer typed the details into the database. He paused, squinted at the screen, and cleared the fields to type them in again. “Are you sure about this spelling and date of birth?” “Yes! We’ve been roommates for four years. I know her legal name like my own!” The officer turned the screen toward me. In the center of the database portal, a flashing red warning read: No Records Found. 3. My mind went entirely blank, as if a physical blow had struck my skull. “No. That’s impossible.” I grabbed the edge of the tablet. “Search her student ID at Crestview. Class of 2023, English Department. The ID is 4820—” The officer pulled the device back, tapped in the student database query, and stared at me with an increasingly stern look. “Still nothing. There is no student registered under that name or ID at Crestview. And there’s no record of a Jessie Miller with that birthdate in the state database either.” My knees buckled, and I nearly hit the gravel. “How… how is that possible?” I whispered. Then, I looked up at the idling Maybach. “It’s them! The Hamiltions own half the city. They paid someone off to wipe her records! You have to search the estate! She’s in there!” The older officer’s face darkened. “Alright, that’s enough, kid.” His voice held a sharp warning. “You think someone can just pay to delete a citizen from federal databases? You’ve been watching too many movies. If you keep causing a public disturbance and blocking the Hamiltions’ driveway, we’re going to have to take you to the station.” “I’m not making things up! She’s a real person! She is real!” The officers didn’t listen. They escorted me firmly to the sidewalk, keeping their hands on their holsters until the Maybach roared back to life and swept past me into the afternoon traffic. I collapsed onto the curb, watching the taillights fade into the distance. The Hamiltions deny her. The police database has no record of her. They didn’t just hide her—they erased her entire existence. How deep did the Hamiltion family’s reach go? My canvas bag had spilled onto the dirt during the scuffle. I reached out numbly, gathering my keys, lip balm, and loose change. My fingers brushed against a crumpled piece of paper. I paused, smoothing out the tight paper ball. It was a receipt from a local coffee shop on campus. The date was from two afternoons ago. And in the delivery note section, printed clearly in black ink, were the words: For Jessie. I stared at those letters until my vision blurred and a single, heavy tear dripped onto the paper, smudging the ink. A physical receipt. It was real. She was real. I shoved the paper into my pocket, grabbed my suitcase, and stood up. I had to go back to campus. I had to find irrefutable proof to shove in their faces. The taxi screeched to a halt outside the South Gates of Crestview. I tossed a fifty-dollar bill at the driver without waiting for change and bolted toward dorm building number seven. Mrs. Higgins, the dorm mother, was knitting in her small office. “Mrs. Higgins!” I slammed my hands onto the wooden counter of her window. “Room 302—where are Jessie’s things? Did someone come and pack up her side of the room? Why is her bed stripped?” Mrs. Higgins gasped, nearly dropping her knitting needles. She pushed up her reading glasses, staring at me with deep confusion. “Jessie? Sweetie, what are you talking about? You’ve lived in 302 alone for the last four years.” The warmth drained from my face, my blood turning to ice. “What kind of joke is this?” I tried to laugh, but it came out as a strangled sob. “We walk past here together every single day. She literally brought you a bag of honeycrisp apples from her family’s orchard last week. Don’t you remember?” Mrs. Higgins set her knitting down, her expression softening into pity. “Fiona, honey… have you been sleeping? I know finals and job hunting are stressful. You brought me those apples. You told me you bought too many at the farmer’s market because living in that double room alone got lonely.” I stumbled backward, knocking over a recycling bin in the hallway. “No… no, that’s not true!” I spun around and bolted toward the administration building, the cold hallway air burning my throat like swallowed glass. I slammed open the door to my academic advisor’s office. Mr. Henderson was typing away, and his brow furrowed the second he saw me panting in the doorway. “Fiona? What have I said about knocking?” “Mr. Henderson, where are Jessie Miller’s student files?” I rushed to his desk, slamming my palms onto the mahogany wood. “I need to see her records. Right now.” Mr. Henderson sighed, pulling open a filing cabinet behind him. He retrieved a thick manila folder with my name on it and laid it flat. “Fiona… you applied for a single-occupancy waiver during your freshman orientation. You don’t have a roommate.”

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My wife handed me the first slice of our daughter’s third birthday cake. “Eat up,” she said, her voice casual, almost pleasant. “And then sign the custody waiver.” The metal fork froze halfway to my mouth. She reached up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her smile serene and untroubled. “Ryan’s fiancée just found out she’s sterile.” I forced my voice through a throat that felt like it was closing up. “And?” She let out a soft, melodic laugh. “So, his biological child—our daughter—needs to go back to her rightful father. It’s only fair.” Ryan. My best friend since high school. My daughter’s godfather. A cold numbness crept down my spine, making every breath feel like inhaling crushed glass. Rita pulled a tissue from the box on the table and gently wiped a smudge of frosting from my cuff. Her touch was tender, a mocking contrast to her words. “His sperm count was always so much better than yours, Matt. We tried for three years after Ella, and you couldn’t get me pregnant again. But that night before our wedding? He got it right on the first try.” She pointed a manicured finger toward the hallway. “Right there in our bed. On our wedding sheets.” She leaned in, her eyes shining with a cruel amusement. “He was so rough that night. It actually hurt. Remember the next morning, when you thought I was having bad menstrual cramps? You made me hot tea and held a heating pad to my stomach. Have you forgotten?” I looked past her to the living room, where Ella was playing. I looked at her small face, realizing for the first time that she didn’t share a single one of my features. With a hand that wouldn’t stop shaking, I picked up the pen and signed my name. Fine. Take her. Take both of them. I was done. 1. The pen scraped against the paper, leaving a dark, permanent line. Before my mind could fully process the sheer absurdity of the moment, the plate slipped from my fingers. The slice of birthday cake hit the floor with a soft, wet thud. Rita only gave me a look of pure disgust, the kind of look you’d reserve for a stray dog that had ruined a carpet. She didn’t say a word. She simply turned, walked into the nursery, and scooped our sleeping daughter into her arms. “I’m taking Ella to Ryan’s house now,” she said, her voice flat and cold. “She spent her first two birthdays without her real father. She’s three now. It’s time she spent a birthday with her actual dad.” She stood in the doorway, cradling the sleeping child, and looked back at me with absolute indifference. “Pack up the rest of her things. Bring them to Ryan’s penthouse when you’re done.” She didn’t wait for an answer. She walked out, confident that I would do exactly as I was told, leaving me alone in the quiet apartment. The silence in the living room was deafening, broken only by the sight of the ruined cake on the floor. I knelt down and began putting Ella’s toys, her clothes, and her little bottles into a duffel bag. Every single item felt like a physical blow to my chest. How had my life become this? Ryan had been my brother. Rita had been my college sweetheart, the woman I spent eight years loving, the woman I thought I would grow old with. I was the one who had introduced them. When Ryan fell on hard times after graduation, I was the one who begged Rita to use her family’s connections to get him a decent job. I still remembered the night Ryan threw his arm around my shoulder, his face flushed with gratitude. “Man, I’m so lucky to have you. And Rita? She’s an angel. I’m incredibly jealous of you, brother.” And Rita had smiled, slipping her hand into mine. “Any friend of Matt’s is a friend of mine. It’s the least we could do.” I had believed them. I had felt so incredibly fortunate to have them both in my life. Now, those memories felt like a sequence of cruel jokes, each one ending in a violent slap to the face. The two people I trusted most in the world had quietly aligned to destroy me. I took a cab to Ryan’s place. He lived in a luxury penthouse downtown, a sprawling, sunlit space with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city. It was a world away from our cramped, drafty apartment. The heavy front door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open and walked into the foyer, only to freeze at the scene playing out in the living room. Rita was holding Ella in her lap. Ryan was sitting next to them, laughing as he waved a peanut butter cookie in front of Ella’s face, about to feed it to her. The blood rushed to my ears. “Don’t give her that!” I lunged forward, slapping the cookie out of Ryan’s hand. It crumbled across the polished hardwood floor. Before I could even explain, a sharp sting exploded across my left cheek. The slap echoed through the high-ceilinged room. “Are you insane?” Rita screamed, her face contorted with rage. “Do you have to ruin everything? It’s her birthday!” Ryan immediately stepped between us, his hands raised in a placating gesture. “Rita, honey, stop. It’s okay. I’m sure Matt didn’t mean to.” Rita pushed him aside, pointing a finger at my chest. “Don’t defend him, Ryan. I know exactly what kind of bitter, pathetic man he is.” A hollow laugh escaped my throat. She knew what kind of man I was? In college, I was the top of my class, with a bright future ahead of me. But I had poured everything I had into her. I spent half my monthly allowance buying her gifts, making sure she never felt less than her wealthy classmates, while I quietly lived on instant ramen in my dorm room. When her father fell critically ill and his insurance wouldn’t cover the experimental treatments, I was the one who emptied my entire housing fund to pay the hospital bills. I remembered her crying in my arms in that sterile hospital corridor, whispering that I was the best thing that had ever happened to her, promising she would love me forever. And now, in front of another man, she looked at me like I was garbage. My cheek burned, but the pain was nothing compared to the cold ache in my chest. I forced myself to stand tall, looking directly at Rita. “Ella is severely allergic to peanuts,” I said, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands. 2. Rita froze. The color drained from her face as the realization hit her. She quickly kicked the remaining cookie crumbs under the sofa. She looked at my swelling cheek, her voice suddenly losing its sharp edge. “I… I thought you were just trying to cause a scene. I reacted without thinking.” A scene. To her, my protectiveness was just a bitter ex-husband throwing a tantrum. It was almost funny. Before anyone could say anything else, Phoebe, Ryan’s fiancée, walked down the stairs. She was wearing a cream-colored silk dress, her movements graceful and elegant. She looked at me with a polite, practiced smile. “Matt,” Phoebe said, her voice soft and full of pity. “Thank you so much for taking such good care of Ella these past three years. We really appreciate it.” She looked me up and down, her eyes lingering for a second on the frayed collar of my faded t-shirt. She reached into her designer purse and pulled out a check. “Please. Take this. It’s the least we can do.” The piece of paper felt like a brand, a physical manifestation of my humiliation. “I don’t want your money,” I said, stepping back. But Rita grabbed my arm, her grip surprisingly tight. “Matt, stop being so stubborn,” she said, her voice dripping with artificial sympathy. “We all know you’re drowning. You’re working three different jobs just to keep your head above water. You look like a ghost. Just take the money.” I stared at her, utterly speechless. Ryan stepped up, placing a heavy hand on my shoulder, playing the part of the benevolent savior. “She’s right, Matt. Don’t let your pride get in the way. Look at your clothes—you’re practically falling apart. We’re family here. If you need help, just ask. Nobody’s going to judge you.” I looked at his hand on my shoulder. I was broke. But why was I broke? Because I had given every penny of my savings to save Rita’s father. And right after that, Ryan had come to me, sobbing on his knees, begging for help because he had gotten mixed up with loan sharks over sports betting. He told me they were going to break his legs. I couldn’t watch my best friend get hurt. I took out a massive personal loan under my own name to clear his debt. I was still paying off the interest every single month. Meanwhile, Ryan used that breathing room to launch his tech startup, buying this penthouse and driving a Porsche, while I worked myself to the bone. And now, he was using my poverty as a stage to perform his charity. The last shred of warmth in my heart died. If they wanted to strip away my dignity, I had no reason to protect theirs. I knocked Ryan’s hand off my shoulder. I looked him dead in the eye, my voice quiet but perfectly clear. “You’re right, Ryan. Things are tight.” I turned to Phoebe, whose smile was beginning to falter. “So, Ryan, since we’re being honest here—when are you going to pay me back the fifty thousand dollars I borrowed from the bank to save your life?” The air in the room instantly turned to ice. Ryan’s face hardened. He hadn’t expected me to bring up the dirty details of his past in front of his wealthy fiancée. Phoebe frowned, looking between us. “What fifty thousand dollars?” She clearly knew nothing about it. I opened my mouth to tell her the whole story—how her perfect fiancé had whimpered like a child on my living room floor—but Rita cut me off, her voice shrill and defensive. “Matt, what are you talking about? Ryan paid you back years ago!” I stared at her, stunned by the sheer shamelessness of her lie. She stepped in front of Ryan, protecting him like a shield. “He paid you back the second his company went public! I saw the transfer myself. I know you’ve got a gambling problem of your own now, Matt, but trying to extort your best friend in his own home? That’s low, even for you.” 3. The pity in Phoebe’s eyes curdled into instant disgust. She instinctively took a step back, pulling Ella closer to her side as if I were a disease she might catch. Ryan recovered his composure quickly, stepping forward with a heavy, performative sigh. “It’s fine, Rita. Don’t get upset,” Ryan said, shaking his head at me. “Matt, I know things are hard for you. People say crazy things when they’re desperate. I don’t hold it against you. Let’s just let it go.” He turned to Phoebe, his voice softening. “Phoebe, why don’t you take Ella upstairs to the playroom? Let us men handle this.” Phoebe gave me one last look of utter revulsion, gathered Ella into her arms, and walked up the stairs. Once they were out of sight, the mask slipped. I looked at the two of them, the anger burning away the last of my restraint. “Do you think you can just lie your way out of this, Ryan?” I whispered. “What if I go up those stairs right now and tell Phoebe exactly what you and Rita did in my bed the night before my wedding?” Ryan didn’t flinch. He actually chuckled, adjusting the collar of his designer shirt. “Go ahead,” he said smoothly. “But who do you think she’s going to believe? A successful entrepreneur, or a broke, bitter construction worker who can barely pay his rent?” He was right. I had no proof. I had trusted them too much to ever keep records. Before I could say anything, a sharp, terrifying scream pierced the air from the second-floor landing. It was Phoebe. “Ella—!” Then came a sickening gasp. “She fell!” My brain stopped working, but my body moved on pure instinct. Even if she wasn’t mine by blood, she was the little girl I had tucked into bed every night for three years. She was the only thing I had ever loved. I sprinted toward the stairs. Looking up, I saw her small body tumbling over the low railing of the mezzanine. I didn’t think about the height. I didn’t think about the hard marble floor beneath me. I threw myself forward, diving onto the cold stone, extending my arms to create a human cushion. Thud. Her weight hit my chest, and the impact sent a white-hot jolt of agony straight down my spine. It felt as though my back had been split open with an axe. The breath was knocked completely out of my lungs, and for a second, the world went black. Ella started screaming in my arms, terrified but completely unharmed. I let out a ragged, painful breath, unable to move a single muscle. Phoebe came rushing down the stairs, her face white as sheet, her hands trembling. “I’m so sorry, I just turned my back for a second…” She didn’t check on me. Her first instinct was to tear Ella out of my grasp. Once she had the sobbing child in her arms, she patted her back, her voice shaking as she whispered, “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay. Let’s get you away from him. Uncle Matt is dirty.” Ella snifled, her tiny fingers clutching Phoebe’s silk dress. She looked down at me with wide, fearful eyes, repeating the words she had just heard. “Uncle… dirty.” Those two words felt like a knife twisting in my chest, tearing through the last fragile pieces of my heart. The little girl I had stayed up with through fevers, the girl whose tears I had wiped away, the girl I had just broken my back to save. She called me uncle. And she thought I was dirty. I looked over at Rita, who was standing by the couch. There was no concern in her eyes. No gratitude. No attempt to correct our daughter, to tell her that the “dirty” man on the floor was the only father she had ever known. Rita knew exactly why I was dirty. She knew about the construction sites. She knew about the twelve-hour shifts hauling drywall in the freezing cold, the dust that settled into the pores of my skin, the grime under my fingernails that never quite washed out. I did all of that to pay off her father’s medical bills and Ryan’s debts. And now, she stood there, silently validating the idea that my sacrifice made me filthy. 4. Something inside me died permanently in that moment. The desire to fight, to argue, to demand justice—it all evaporated, leaving only a hollow, heavy emptiness. I dragged myself up from the floor, every inch of my spine screaming in protest. I had to use the banister to keep from collapsing. “Her things are in the bag,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “I’m leaving.” “Wait.” It was Ryan. He walked over to me, a thin, patronizing smile on his face. “I hear you’re in a lot of debt, Matt. How about we make a deal?” I wanted to laugh, but it hurt too much to breathe. Why was I in debt? He knew the answer better than anyone. I ignored him and turned toward the door. The moment my back was turned, Ryan’s polite facade vanished. He kicked me hard in the lower back, right where the impact of the fall had settled. My legs gave out, and I hit the marble floor again, gasping for air. “Don’t turn your back on me, you pathetic piece of trash,” Ryan spat. Rita stood by, watching me sprawl on the floor as if I were nothing more than an annoying stray dog blocking her path. She walked over, looking down at me with a cold, lofty superiority. “Ryan is trying to help you, Matt. If you cooperate, you won’t have to break your back on a construction site for the next ten years.” I lay there, cheek pressed against the cold stone, listening. She knelt down beside me, her voice dropping to a casual whisper, as if we were discussing the weekend weather. “Ryan had a medical checkup last week. His kidneys are failing. He needs a transplant.” My stomach dropped. A dark, horrific realization began to take shape in my mind. And Rita, with her polished nails and calm demeanor, confirmed my worst fear without a single trace of hesitation. “You have two healthy kidneys. You’re going to give him one.” She looked at me, her eyes completely devoid of human warmth. “It’s not like you can have any more kids anyway. What do you need two kidneys for?” I stared at her, my throat tight, unable to form a single word. “What are you hesitating for?” she asked, her voice tinged with irritation. “Ryan’s going to pay you. He’ll cover the medical bills, give you a lump sum, and get you the best doctors. It’s a win-win.” She was talking about a part of my body, my health, my very survival. But to her, it was just a transaction. A piece of meat to be traded to settle a debt. I slowly shook my head. Ryan lost his patience. He waved his hand, and two large security guards stepped out from the hallway. Before I could move, they dragged me up and threw a heavy punch into my stomach. The air exploded from my lungs. I collapsed into a fetal position as they dragged me toward the back exit, throwing me onto the cold concrete of the service alley. The punches and kicks came in a relentless, brutal rhythm. I curled up, trying to protect my head, my vision swimming in and out of focus. Through the haze of pain, I heard a high, childish giggle from the doorway. “Look, Daddy! The dirty uncle looks like a little dog on the ground.” Rita’s voice followed, soft and doting. “Yes, sweetie. He does, doesn’t he?” Ella clapped her hands, laughing. “Stupid dog!” A wave of absolute despair washed over me, deeper and more painful than any physical blow. The child I had loved, the woman I had sworn to protect, the friend I had saved—they had all conspired to reduce me to this. It was enough. It was finally enough. 5. I stopped trying to shield myself. I let the blows land. “Stop,” I croaked, using the last of my strength. The guards paused, looking to Ryan for instructions. I lay in the dirt of the alley, gasping for breath, my eyes fixed on the gray sky above. “I’ll do it.” A bright, satisfied smile broke across Rita’s face. She stepped out into the alley, holding a clipboard with a voluntary donor agreement already attached to it, a pen in her hand. “See? If you had just cooperated from the start, we could have avoided all this drama.” I reached out with a trembling hand and signed my name. They didn’t know. Years ago, during my second year working construction, a stack of heavy steel rebar had collapsed, crushing my lower left side. I had never told anyone, not even Rita, because I didn’t want her to worry about the medical bills. But the truth was, my left kidney had been entirely destroyed in that accident. It had shriveled into a useless, dead piece of tissue. I only had one functioning kidney left. My right one. Giving it to Ryan didn’t mean losing a spare. It meant death. But as I looked at the woman I had once loved, I realized that dying on an operating table was far better than living another day in this world. They took me to a private, high-end clinic that Ryan had invested in. Everything was fast-tracked. No waiting lists, no questions asked. I was prepped for surgery, dressed in a standard blue gown, and wheeled into the sterile, freezing operating room. The bright surgical lamps above made my eyes ache. As the anesthesiologist prepared the IV, Rita walked in. She sat on the edge of the table, actually taking my hand in hers. Her palm was warm, and her voice carried a rare, gentle sweetness. “Matt, once this is over, Ryan’s transfer will clear,” she whispered, painting a beautiful picture of a future that didn’t exist. “We can pay off the rest of the debt, buy a bigger place in a better school district, and start over. We can be a real family again.” I slowly pulled my hand out of her grasp. Her touch made my skin crawl. Our future had died years ago; she had just finally buried it today. I closed my eyes, refusing to look at her. She had no idea that there was no “after” for us. The cold anesthesia began to flow into my veins, and the world faded into black. Outside the operating room, Rita waited, sipping a cup of coffee, expecting everything to go according to plan. But less than thirty minutes after the surgery began, the double doors swung open. The lead surgeon stepped out, ripping his mask off, his face pale and severe. Rita immediately stood up, a bright smile on her face. “Doctor! Is it done? Is Ryan okay?” The surgeon looked at her with a mixture of disbelief and utter disgust. “Are you the patient’s wife? Did you have any idea what his medical history was?” Rita’s smile faltered. “What do you mean?” The surgeon’s voice shook with suppressed anger. “The patient only has one functioning kidney! His left kidney is completely atrophied from an old trauma. If we take his right kidney, he will die on the table. What you are asking us to do is murder!” Rita felt as if the ground had opened up beneath her feet. She stared at the doctor, her mind spinning. “No… that’s impossible. He has two. He’s always been healthy…” Before she could finish, a nurse burst through the double doors, her face white, her voice filled with panic. “Doctor! We have a crisis!” Everyone in the hallway froze. “The patient’s old internal scar tissue has ruptured under the pressure of the anesthesia. He’s hemorrhaging internally! His heart has stopped!”

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We got caught in a sudden downpour during our weekend getaway. By the time we finally made it back to the hotel, my best friend was already shivering and complaining. “I swear my brain is completely waterlogged,” Polly grumbled, tossing her damp jacket onto the armchair. “Who in their right mind decides to go sightseeing in a storm like this?” “Then why don’t you just pour the water out?” I replied absentmindedly, throwing our room key onto the dresser. Polly paused and nodded seriously. Tilting her head to the side, she began wiggling her finger deep inside her ear canal, wincing slightly as if she were actually trying to drain her skull. I smiled, waiting for the punchline. But in the next second, my heart skipped a beat. A thick, steady stream of liquid began to pour from her ear. It wasn’t just a few stray droplets—it was a heavy, rushing flow. And it wasn’t clear. It was a dark, sickly crimson, thick with the unmistakable scent of copper. Blood. My eyes stretched wide, a cold knot of terror tightening in my chest. “Polly… what… what are you doing?” Polly stared straight at me, her eyes completely blank, though a flicker of mild confusion crossed her face. “What’s wrong, babe?” she asked, her voice perfectly casual. “We got absolutely soaked out there. Aren’t you going to drain yours?” 1 I stood frozen, barely two feet away from Polly. I could only watch in mute horror as the bloody water continued to cascade from her ear like a miniature, grotesque fountain, pooling onto the cheap carpet. Yet, she didn’t show even a flicker of discomfort. In fact, she looked at me with genuine, helpful encouragement, as if emptying a pint of bloody fluid from your skull was as routine as brushing your teeth. “What are you waiting for?” Polly nudged, tilting her head the other way. Another splash of crimson sloshed out, splattering onto the floorboards. “Doesn’t it feel heavy in there?” Every instinct in my body screamed that the thing standing in front of me was not human. I dug my fingernails deep into my palms, the sharp sting of pain anchoring me to reality. I forced my lips to stretch into a tight, artificial smile. “I… I had my umbrella up most of the time,” I stammered. “My head actually feels fine. I don’t think there’s any water in there.” It was just the two of us in this cramped hotel room. If she—if it—realized I was different, I had no idea what would happen. I had to play along. She shrugged, seemingly satisfied with my answer, and climbed onto the king-sized bed. Within seconds, she was scrolling through TikTok. When a video of a shirtless fitness influencer popped up, she gasped and giggled, turning the screen toward me just like she always did. “Oh my god, Mandy, look at those abs,” she sighed, shaking her head. “If I ever strike it rich, I’m buying a dozen of him.” In that moment, she was entirely normal. She was the same girl I’d grown up with, the hopeless romantic, the dork who shared her fries and her deepest secrets. I swallowed the lump in my throat, carefully sitting on the very edge of the mattress. “Hey, Polly? I’m kind of starving. I was thinking of ordering some oyster chowder from the place downstairs. Do you want some?” Polly immediately dropped her phone, her eyes narrowing in irritation. “Are you serious, Mandy? You know I have a massive shellfish allergy. Your family literally sent me to the ER for a week when we were kids because of those lobster rolls! How could you forget that?” I mumbled a frantic apology, but my mind was spinning out of control. This thing had Polly’s memories. It had her exact personality, her history, her outrage. What was it? Was I losing my mind? Was the bloody puddle on the floor just a stress-induced hallucination? No. The dark, copper-scented stain was still there, slowly soaking into the beige fibers of the hotel carpet. It was entirely real. I waited until Polly was distracted by another video, then grabbed an empty plastic water bottle from the nightstand. I knelt down, scooped a sample of the bloody water into it, and made a quick excuse. “I’m just going to run down to the lobby and grab a soda from the vending machine.” The moment the elevator doors closed, I pulled out my phone with trembling hands and dialed 911. “There’s something wrong… my friend, she’s not herself. I think she’s been replaced. Someone hurt her…” The dispatcher told me officers would arrive in ten minutes. I couldn’t bear the thought of going back up to the room, so I shrank into one of the plush velvet armchairs in the lobby, shivering. The middle-aged receptionist, a woman named Marsha, noticed my pale face and walked over. “Are you alright, dear? Do you need some help?” I nodded quickly, holding up the plastic bottle. I wanted her to look at it, to validate that it was indeed blood, to tell me I wasn’t crazy. But before I could utter a single word, Marsha reached out, took the bottle from my hand, unscrewed the cap, and drank it. 2 “What… what did you just do?” My voice cracked, a high-pitched squeak of pure terror. Marsha wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, looking thoroughly refreshed. “It’s brain-water, isn’t it? Rich and metallic. Delicious. Why else would you offer it to me?” My stomach turned. I wanted to vomit. She had just swallowed a bottle of bloody brain-water like it was a morning juice cleanse. And no one else in the lobby even blinked. The bellhop, the couple checking in, the family sitting near the fireplace—no one cared. It was perfectly, terrifyingly normal to them. My head throbbed. It wasn’t just Polly. Everyone here was wrong. But what about the police? What about the officers who were on their way? Suddenly, a bloodcurdling scream shattered the lobby’s quiet ambiance. “You’re all insane! This is sick!” I whipped my head around. A woman in disheveled pajamas burst out of the elevator, sobbing, her eyes wild with panic. Behind her, a man in a business suit casually walked out, holding his own eyeball in his hand, trying to pop it back into his socket like a loose contact lens. She was like me. A normal human. Terrified out of her mind. I wanted to run to her, to hold her, but my survival instinct screamed at me to freeze. What happened to the ones who broke character? Marsha and two other hotel staff members immediately lunged at the screaming woman, pinning her to the floor. Right then, the police cruisers pulled up, sirens wailing. The staff handed her over to the officers. “Officer, we’ve got another lunatic here,” Marsha said, smoothing down her skirt. “She’s hysterical, claiming we can’t take our organs out. Can you believe it? How else are we supposed to clean them when they get dirty?” The officer nodded grimly, clicking handcuffs around her wrists. “Don’t worry. We’ll take her to the facility for correction. She’ll be back to normal soon.” Correction. What did “normal” mean to them? Popping out eyes and washing them like dirty laundry? A cold dread settled deep in my bones. My phone suddenly buzzed in my hand, making me jump. It was the police dispatcher calling me back, but the officer standing in the lobby saw my screen light up. He walked toward me, his boots clicking heavily on the marble floor. “Are you the one who called about a domestic disturbance?” I swallowed hard, forcing my facial muscles to relax. “Oh… yes, Officer. But it was a complete misunderstanding. My friend is perfectly fine.” The officer’s eyes narrowed, sharp and calculating. “A misunderstanding? You sounded convinced she had been replaced. What exactly did you see?” 3 Panic gripped my throat. I didn’t know how to answer. When I called, I had told them there was a “strange creature” in my room. That meant they were already looking for anomalies. If they suspected me, I’d be thrown into that police car and taken to the “correction” facility. I had to speak their language. I had to pretend I was one of them. “I… I was just confused,” I stammered, offering a sheepish laugh. “We got caught in the rain, and I had already drained my brain-water. But when I looked at Polly, she was just sitting there, not doing it. I thought she was losing her mind, behaving like one of those ‘un-drained’ crazies. I panicked. But then I realized she was just wearing noise-canceling headphones, listening to an audiobook. Once she took them off, she tilted her head and drained her ears right in front of me. We had so much left over, we even shared some with Marsha at the front desk. Right, Marsha?” Marsha smiled, licking a faint smear of dried copper from her lip. “That’s right, Officer. Quite a tasty batch, too.” The officer’s tense posture relaxed slightly. “I see. Good. It pays to be vigilant. Those lunatics are a threat to public safety. Show me to your room, though. Just a quick welfare check and I’ll be out of your hair.” If he saw Polly, and she didn’t play along with my specific story, or if he saw through me… Suddenly, a loud crash echoed from outside. The pajama-clad woman had broken free from the police cruiser, her forehead bleeding as she scrambled across the wet asphalt. “I am not crazy! You’re monsters! All of you! If you rip out your heart, you die!” Her voice was raw, filled with a desperate, agonizing truth that echoed my own silent thoughts. But I couldn’t help her. To survive, I had to mock her. “Wow,” I said, forcing a mocking chuckle. “She really is far gone, isn’t she? Are there really that many of them, Officer?” “Not for long,” the officer muttered, turning on his heel to chase after her. The moment he was gone, I practically ran to the elevator, my clothes soaked in cold sweat. Back in the room, Polly was still scrolling on her phone. “Where’s the food?” she asked without looking up. “A crazy woman was making a scene in the lobby. The police locked the place down. Total nightmare,” I lied, collapsing onto my bed. I couldn’t sleep that night. Every time Polly snored, my heart leaped into my throat. Who was I living with? What had happened to my world? At 3:00 AM, staring at my phone screen in the dark, I searched desperately for any keywords related to the “crazy people.” Finally, deep in a hidden thread on an obscure forum, I found a post written in a complex cipher. Fortunately, my background in cryptography made it easy to crack. Is there anyone left out there? Anyone who hasn’t been turned into them? 4 My fingers trembled as I typed a reply. What do you mean? What monsters are you talking about? The reply came almost instantly. If you’re asking, you already know. If you don’t trust me, ignore this. My heart hammered against my ribs. I trust you. Please. The world has gone mad. I need to know what’s happening before I lose my mind. The user sent a coordinates link to an address in a neighboring state, then went completely offline. The next morning, I packed my bag with trembling hands. “Polly, my mom just called. There’s an emergency at home, I have to take the first train back,” I lied. “I’ll Venmo you for my half of the hotel.” I fled to the train station. Outside the terminal, my Uber driver finished his cigarette, casually unbuttoned his shirt, pulled his lungs out of his chest cavity, and shook them out to clear the soot before stuffing them back in. I swallowed my vomit, kept my face completely blank, and got into the passenger seat. At the station, I saw the pajama-clad woman from the hotel. Had she escaped? I felt a surge of hope and took a step toward her. But before I could speak, she paused, reached into her eye sockets, pulled out both eyeballs, wiped them on her sleeve, and popped them back in. The man from the elevator walked up, wrapping an arm around her waist. “Honey, thank god. You’re finally back to normal.” She smiled, looking slightly dazed. “Did something happen? I feel fine.” She had been “corrected.” Her memories of the truth were wiped. She was one of them now. I backed away, my blood turning to ice. I couldn’t let anyone know. Not my parents, who had texted me earlier saying, Your heart has been acting up, Mandy. Make sure you take it out and check the valves tonight. Not my boyfriend. No one. I arrived at the coordinates. It was a run-down diner in a quiet town. A man was sitting in the corner booth, wearing a heavy trench coat and a low-brimmed hat despite the warmth. His voice was a dry, exhausted rasp. “Are you BlueJay99?” I nodded, sliding into the booth. “I’m Mandy. Please, you have to tell me. What is happening to everyone?” He looked at me, his eyes hollowed out by a deep, eternal fatigue. “In forty-eight hours,” he whispered, “you’re going to become one of them, too.”

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At the foot of the snow-capped mountains in Jackson Hole, Fiona had just slipped the diamond engagement ring onto my ring finger when she spoke in a quiet, steady whisper. “Actually, last night, I slept with Connor.” My breath caught in my throat. I stood there, paralyzed, watching her lips move. “Right in your room. In the bed next to yours while you were asleep.” “He was terrified of waking you. He bit his own lip to keep from making a sound, but he was so intense, Jared.” “Every time the mattress creaked, he gripped my waist and held me down. That look on his face—trying so hard to fight it, only to completely lose control—it was beautiful. I couldn’t help myself.” I forced my stiff face into a smile, my voice trembling violently. “Fiona, it’s the day of our proposal. Don’t play this kind of sick joke.” But Fiona just looked down, gesturing slightly toward Connor in the distance. Her voice remained flat, entirely devoid of remorse. “I’m not joking. Turn around and look at him yourself.” I turned my neck stiffly, looking at Connor, who was standing a few yards away, holding the bouquet of flowers meant for our celebration. His collar was slightly open. His neck and collarbone were covered in raw, unmistakable scratches and red marks. Fiona looked at my pale face and let out a soft, relieved sigh. “I didn’t want to feel guilty every time I touched him, and I didn’t want to keep lying to you.” “Jared, if you regret this, take off the ring. It’s not too late.” … The air around us felt entirely hollow. The warmth she had just pressed into my hands evaporated, leaving me in a freezing, nauseating void. “Why tell me today?” My voice was a dry rasp. The diamond band suddenly felt like a vice crushing my finger. Fiona looked at me and sighed again, a soft sound of pity. “Because Connor was hiding behind the SUV earlier, smoking alone. His eyes were completely bloodshot.” “Everyone was cheering when I proposed to you, but he was just standing in the shadows, eating himself alive with guilt.” “Jared, I can’t bear to see him suffer like this, torn between us.” The raw protectiveness in her voice pierced through me like glass. Just last night, she had been whispering in my ear, breathless, telling me how much she loved me. Telling me I was the only man she ever wanted to marry. And now, she stood there with absolute indifference, telling me she had just slept with the man I called my brother. Sensing the shift in our atmosphere, Connor tossed his cigarette and walked over. “Hey, Jared. Is everything okay?” His eyes darted away, completely unable to meet mine. Fiona sighed, reaching out to pull Connor close to her side. “Connor, stop it. I already told him.” Connor froze. Every drop of color drained from his face. He violently yanked his arm from her grip, his voice cracking with pure panic. “Are you out of your mind, Fiona! We agreed we were taking this to our graves!” “Today is Jared’s day! How could you do this to him now?” He whipped his head toward me, his face a mask of desperate guilt. “Jared, man, I’m so sorry… I had too much to drink. I lost my mind. I swear to god I never wanted to ruin what you guys have…” Watching his face, twisted in a perfect display of remorse and pain, my chest tightened until I could barely breathe. Why did it have to be him? Back in high school, we got cornered in a back alley by a gang of older kids. It was Connor who grabbed a broken beer bottle, stepped in front of me, and took a brick to the skull. He spent two weeks in the hospital for me. When my mother was diagnosed with cancer, I begged every relative we had and still couldn’t raise the money for her chemotherapy. It was Connor who, without a second thought, handed over his entire life savings—the money he had spent years scraping together to open his first business. He had looked me in the eyes and said, “Jared, as long as you’ve got me, you don’t have to carry the weight of the world alone.” And now, the brother I would have died for was standing in front of me, admitting he had crawled into bed with the woman I loved. “Too much to drink? Lost your mind?” My eyes burned, my fists clenched so tightly that my fingernails cut deep into my palms. “So, as long as I didn’t find out, you two were just going to carry on behind my back? Clean consciences, no harm done?” Connor went silent, turning his head away, his eyes rimmed with red. “I’m sorry… Jared, it’s all my fault. Everything…” He took a step forward, reaching out to touch my arm, but I violently shoved his hand away. “Don’t touch me!” Fiona’s face darkened instantly. She shoved me back, stepping in front of Connor to shield him, her eyes flashing with pure fury. “Jared, what is wrong with you!” She glared at me as if I were the monster. “He has given you everything over the years! He nearly died for you! Can’t you find it in your heart to be decent enough to forgive him just once?” Stumbling backward from her push, I stared at her protective stance over him. The sheer absurdity of the moment washed over me. Ten years of brotherhood. Seven years of love. In a single second, it had all devolved into an ugly, toxic ledger. I opened my mouth, but no words came. My stomach churned with a deep, hollow sickness. There was only a crushing, freezing exhaustion. “Decent?” I let out a bitter, mocking laugh. “Maybe I should buy you guys a wedding gift instead. Give you my blessing.” Fiona looked down at Connor’s split lip, her expression turning completely cold. “Grow up, Jared. We are adults. You need to learn that love and marriage are not the same thing.” “Take some time to clear your head. The engagement party next month is still happening. You are still the only one I am legally marrying.” With that, she took Connor’s arm and led him toward the SUV. The doors slammed shut, the engine roared to life, and the tires kicked up a blinding flurry of snow as they drove away. I pulled out my phone, but the screen only showed a cold ‘No Service.’ Shaking, I pulled my collar tight and began the long walk back. The wind howled, pushing icy air straight down my jacket. My legs grew numb, but the dull ache in my chest only grew sharper. We had walked through blizzards together before. During college, when my stomach ruptured, they both stayed by my hospital bed for days, surviving on cheap coffee, their eyes completely bloodshot. On the day I was discharged, the roads were covered in black ice. They held me by my arms, guiding me step by step. Connor had grinned, shouting through the wind, “Hey, Jared, we’re your personal security detail today. Even if the sky falls, your brother’s got you!” Back then, they fought over who got to take care of me. I remember holding Fiona’s hand, smiling as I told her, “Connor is a great guy, but he’s careless. Look out for him when I’m not around, okay?” I never imagined that “looking out for him” would take them all the way to my bed. It was a ten-mile walk down the winding mountain road, and I moved entirely on survival instinct. When I finally pushed open the heavy wooden doors of the lodge, the blast of indoor heating hit my frozen face. The owner’s wife gasped when she saw me standing shivering in the entryway. “Oh my god, honey, did you walk all the way back? You must be frozen solid!” I couldn’t speak. My eyes were locked onto the Polaroid wall next to the reception desk. Following my gaze, she smiled warmly, sighing. “Oh, you’re looking at that couple? I’m so jealous of them. They’re gorgeous, aren’t they? They come here every winter to watch the snow. Honestly, their love is something out of a movie.” I stared at the fading Polaroid. In the photo, Connor was holding Fiona from behind, his arms wrapped tightly around her waist. Their faces were pressed together, laughing with a comfortable, intimate warmth. In the bottom right corner, a date was written in neat ink: December 24th, two years ago. That was the night my mother died. I had been alone in the hospital, signing the cremation papers. It was freezing. I sat in that sterile hallway clutching her ashes all night. I had called Fiona. Her voice on the phone had been breathless and distracted before she abruptly hung up, texting me later that she was stuck at a last-minute corporate event. I had called Connor. He told me he was out drinking with clients and couldn’t leave. They weren’t busy. They just had each other. This cabin had been their secret escape long before I ever set foot here. No wonder they booked the tickets and mapped out the trails with such practiced ease. I was the only fool who thought this was a special trip for a proposal. A sharp, burning pain hit my throat. I was the one who didn’t belong here. I was the one who needed to leave. With trembling fingers, I opened my phone and booked the earliest flight out of Wyoming for the next morning. I walked back to the room I shared with Connor. The scent of sex still hung faintly in the air, sending another wave of nausea through me. Dragging my suitcase onto the floor, I began packing my things in silence. But my eyes kept drifting to the other bed. The sheets were heavily wrinkled, marked with damp, telltale stains. A bitter laugh escaped my throat. This morning, Connor had groaned, rubbing his back, complaining that the cabin’s mattress was too stiff. I had teased him, calling him soft and apologizing for not booking a luxury suite. Now I knew. They had spent the entire night tearing each other apart in that bed. I pulled the diamond ring off my finger and set it on the nightstand. What was never mine didn’t deserve to be kept. Just as I was about to walk out to ask the front desk for a different room, the door swung open. Fiona and Connor walked in. Fiona’s eyes immediately fell on the open suitcase and the ring on the table. Her brow furrowed. “Jared, what are you doing? Are you still throwing a tantrum?” “Leaving you on the road was wrong, but I drove back to look for you. You were already gone.” When I didn’t answer, she stepped closer, her voice softening. “Come on, stop acting like this, okay?” “I gave you that ring because you’re the one I want. That hasn’t changed.” “Let’s go. Everyone is downstairs waiting to drink with us. Connor and I were worried sick about you.” I stepped back, evading her touch. My eyes drifted to the messy bed beside us. When I spoke, my voice was shockingly calm. “Worried? Were you worried while you were in that bed, or while you were posing for the photos on the wall downstairs?” Fiona’s hand froze in mid-air. Connor whipped his head up, his face pale with horror, his lips trembling. “Jared… you saw that?” He grabbed his hair in frustration, his eyes red. “I’m sorry… Jared. I know I’m a piece of shit. I shouldn’t have let my urges take over.” “But Jared, I really fell for her. I tried to walk away. I swear I tried…” Fiona pulled Connor behind her again, glaring at me with cold irritation. “Jared, do you have any empathy at all?” “Connor is a victim in this too. He has been suffering in silence for years. As the one who actually gets to have the marriage, can’t you just let this go once?” My hands balled into tight fists, my joints popping. The fragile control I had held onto finally shattered. “Fiona, does any man who wags his tail at you get a turn in your bed?” “My mother’s funeral… when you both disappeared. Were you screwing then too?” “Were you really that desperate for a cheap thrill while my mother was being laid to rest?” Fiona’s face turned white with rage, and she let out a venomous laugh. “Yes! We wanted a thrill! What does your dead mother have to do with me anyway?” “Do you want to know what it felt like in the restroom mirror of the funeral home? Do you want to know how wild it was on the balcony of this very cabin?” “The way Connor held me—the satisfaction he gave me—is something a broken, half-paralyzed man like you could never give me!” The room fell into a suffocating silence. The memory of my mother’s cold urn merged with the muffled noises I had heard over the phone years ago. Every breath felt like my lungs were being torn apart. It hurt so deeply that the tears wouldn’t even come. Connor gasped, grabbing her sleeve in a panic. “Fiona! Don’t…” Fiona looked at my ghost-white face, and a flicker of regret seemed to cross her eyes. But she quickly brushed her hair back, pulling Connor toward the door. “There’s a game night downstairs. Everyone is waiting.” At the threshold, she stopped, her voice hard. “If Connor hadn’t begged me in tears to come get you, I wouldn’t have even bothered.” “Come down or don’t. I don’t care anymore.” The door slammed shut, rattling the frame. I collapsed onto the bed that still smelled of their betrayal, and let the tears flow in silence. All I could see was the ash blowing through the wind on the day of my mother’s funeral. I don’t know how long I lay there before the room went completely dark. I forced my numb legs to stand. I wiped my face and finished packing my bag. My flight was in the morning, but I couldn’t spend another second in this room. Most of our friends were downstairs. I couldn’t avoid them forever. It was time for a clean break. Downstairs, the lounge was brightly lit, filled with roaring laughter. “Fiona! You chose truth! Now spill!” “What’s the best thing that happened to you this year?” I froze in the shadows of the staircase landing. The noise died down as everyone waited for her answer. A moment later, Fiona raised her glass, her voice carrying clearly across the room. “Last month, I found out I’m pregnant. It’s Connor’s.” My heart seized in a violent spasm. Years ago, during her car crash, the vehicle was completely crushed, and fuel was leaking everywhere. I had ignored the flames, using my bare hands to pry open the jammed door to pull her out. Right as I dragged her clear, the car exploded. The blast threw me yards away, shattering my pelvis and spine. The doctors told me my reproductive nerves were destroyed. I would never have children. She had wept at my bedside, swearing she would spend her life making it up to me, promising that a sexless marriage would be enough. And now, she was having another man’s baby. Downstairs, a loud cheer erupted. Tyler, who I had always treated like a brother, stood up and popped a bottle of champagne. “Holy shit, Fiona! Connor, you absolute legend! You kept that quiet!” “But seriously, Connor, bringing a pregnant woman to a ski resort? You’re going to give yourself a heart attack worrying about her.” “I’m going to be the godfather! No one else gets to claim it!” Another close friend, Mason, clapped Connor on the shoulder, laughing. “No wonder you guys had that sudden beach wedding last month. Shotgun wedding of the year!” Fiona raised her glass in a toast, sighing softly. “You all know Jared’s situation. He got hurt saving me, and he can’t have kids.” “Once the baby is born, we’ll put it under Jared’s name so he has an heir. Connor sacrificed a lot for us; giving him a small wedding was the least I could do.” A beach wedding? An heir? The words felt like a physical blow. Last month, Fiona told me she had to go abroad for an urgent business trip. Even when I was running a 104-degree fever, she said she couldn’t fly back. She was marrying Connor. And every single one of these friends, the ones who called me brother, had been there. I was the only blind fool. A wave of pure pain washed over me, making my body shake violently. My grip on my suitcase slipped. The heavy bag tumbled down the stairs. The loud, crashing thuds echoed through the suddenly silent room. Everyone whipped their heads around. As they saw me standing in the shadows, panic washed over their faces. Connor was the first to react, rushing to the bottom of the stairs. “Jared… it’s a blizzard out there. Where are you going?” I stared at him with cold, dead eyes. He took a step up, desperate. “Wherever you’re going, let me drive you. I don’t want you out there alone.” Tyler stepped in front of him, his face twisting with annoyance. “Jared, what is your problem? We all came out to this freezing resort because you wanted to.” “Fiona is pregnant. If you don’t care about your own life, think about her. You’re basically half-crippled anyway. Connor is literally letting you raise his kid to give you a legacy. What more do you want?” Looking at their defensive, self-righteous faces, I swallowed the bile rising in my throat. Years ago, when Connor and these guys had no money and no connections, I was the one who pulled them into my business, giving them clients and funding. And now, they were biting the hand that fed them. I walked down the remaining stairs, kicking aside a piece of broken glass. I looked at Tyler and Mason, my voice chillingly calm. “You’re right. She’s pregnant.” “And she just married my best friend. She’s fragile.” I reached the front door and looked back one last time. “You loyal bridesmaids and groomsmen better take good care of her.” “Make sure she doesn’t catch any bad luck from a useless, sterile man like me.” The room went entirely silent. Their faces turned a sickly shade of gray. Fiona stepped forward, pulling Connor back to her side. Her face was set in a hard mask. “Let him go.” “This dramatic exit routine is getting old, Jared. Stop wasting everyone’s time.” “But let me make this very clear.” “You walk out that door tonight, and the wedding is off.” The air was heavy, dead. I looked at her for a long moment, and a genuine, self-deprecating smile touched my lips. “Fine.” My voice was a quiet whisper. “It’s off, Fiona.” I pushed the heavy door open, stepping out into the roaring wind and snow, and climbed into the waiting black SUV. Inside, the heater blasted comforting warmth. The lodge owner’s wife handed me a steaming travel mug of hot tea. “You made the right choice, kid. Buckle up. Let’s get you to the airport.” “Thanks,” I whispered, taking the tea. I opened my phone and pulled up the pending transfer request for the European branch. Without a second thought, I tapped ‘Accept.’ I had nearly died trying to hold onto a lie. It was time to live my own life.

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It happened during Spirit Week. My son’s teacher had the class vote on the “most disgusting” student. My eight-year-old won. When Sam got home, he didn’t even drop his backpack. He ran straight into the hallway bathroom, slammed the door, and locked it. I knocked, my heart tightening at the sound of his muffled, ragged breathing. “Sammy? What’s wrong, sweetie?” Through the door, his voice cracked, thick with tears. “Mama… am I really disgusting?” My mind went entirely blank. A cold, sharp ringing started in my ears. It took me twenty minutes of gentle pleading to get the story out of him. That afternoon, Mrs. Geller, his homeroom teacher, had run a classroom poll. She asked the class to vote on the “Most Disgusting Kid.” Sam had won by a landslide. My hands shook so violently I could barely unlock my phone. I opened the parent-teacher group chat and typed: Did anyone else’s child participate in a classroom vote today? Mrs. Geller replied almost instantly: Mrs. Davis, let’s not make a mountain out of a molehill. I stared at the screen, a cold, hard laugh bubbling up in my throat. A molehill? Fine. I’ll show you what a mountain looks like. I didn’t reply to her. I let my phone sit, but the chat was already a hornet’s nest. … Mason’s mom was the first to jump in: Sam’s mom, Mrs. Geller is usually so dedicated. I’m sure she didn’t mean to hurt anyone’s feelings. Another parent quickly chimed in: Maybe we should look at Sam’s hygiene habits? Mrs. Geller is probably just trying to help him. Exactly. The school is deciding on the Citizenship Banner this week. Let’s not blow this out of proportion and ruin it for the class. That last message felt like a slap. I stared at the words Citizenship Banner, my palms turning icy cold. I ignored them all and knocked softly on the bathroom door again. “Sammy, I’m not going to ask any more questions. Come on out. I’m making your favorite chicken noodle soup.” The bathroom was quiet for a long time. Finally, the lock clicked, and the door opened just an inch. Sam stood in the shadow of the doorframe, his eyes red and terribly swollen. He was only eight. His school polo shirt was crumpled, and there was a sticky gray patch on his chest where his name tag had been torn off in a hurry. I knelt down so we were eye-to-eye. “You are not disgusting.” Sam stared down at the tips of his sneakers. His voice was barely a whisper. “But everyone raised their hand, Mama.” It felt like a physical blow to my chest. “Mrs. Geller said majority rules,” he whispered, looking up at me with raw, searching eyes. “Mama, if the majority says it… does that make it true?” I placed my hands on his small, trembling shoulders, swallowing the hot tears threatening to spill over. “No, baby. Even if a thousand people agree on a cruel thing, it is still a cruel thing.” Sam blinked at me, lost. “Tonight, I want you to remember only one thing,” I said, holding his gaze. “You are not a label voted on by a room of children. You are my son. You are Sam Davis.” His lower lip trembled, and then he finally collapsed into my arms, sobbing. I held him tight, rocking him on the living room rug for a long time. My phone kept buzzing on the coffee table. Mrs. Geller had posted a long, defensive paragraph in the group chat: Today was simply a small, lighthearted activity to address classroom hygiene. The children used humor to point out areas of improvement. The goal is progress, not public shaming. At the end of her text, she had added a passive-aggressive smiley face. I flipped the phone face down. Sam looked up, his eyes wide and anxious. “Mama, are you going to yell at Mrs. Geller?” “No, I’m not going to yell.” “Are you going to make me stay home tomorrow?” That question broke my heart more than anything else. I stroked his hair. “Let’s take tomorrow morning off. I’ll go to the school with you, and we’ll figure this out together.” Sam panicked. He grabbed my sleeve, his knuckles turning white. “Don’t go to my classroom! Please, Mama. They’ll say I’m a snitch.” I gently took his small hands in mine. “I won’t put you in that position. Adults made this mess, and adults are going to clean it up.” I made him soup and boiled an egg, but he only took two bites before whispering that his throat felt too tight to swallow. I didn’t push him. Once he finally fell into a restless sleep, I quietly went to his room and picked up his backpack. Tucked into the front pocket was a crumpled piece of wide-ruled paper. Written at the top in Mrs. Geller’s neat handwriting was: Hygiene Improvement Contract. Below it, Sam had written in his messy, uneven print: I promise not to make everyone think I’m disgusting. My fingers went cold. At the bottom right corner of the page, Mrs. Geller had written in red ink: To be shared at tomorrow’s class meeting for peer feedback. I sat at his desk, staring at the paper for a long time. When I unlocked my phone again, the group chat had become a one-sided lecture from Mrs. Geller about “parental cooperation.” Children do not harbor malice, she wrote. If parents overreact and overanalyze, it only damages class unity. I finally typed my reply: Mrs. Geller, I will be at the school tomorrow morning. Please have the lesson plan for yesterday’s activity, the names of the nominators, the exact wording of the poll, and your reasoning for making an eight-year-old sign this ‘contract’ ready for our meeting. I laid the crumpled contract flat on the kitchen table. Under the overhead light, the word disgusting looked like a scar on the page. The chat fell dead silent for three minutes. Then, Mason’s mom posted: Sam’s mom, you’re making things very difficult for the teacher. I stared at her profile picture and typed: It’s only difficult because she was wrong. No one else replied. The next morning, Sam woke up early. He didn’t put on his school uniform; instead, he sat on the edge of his bed, clutching his jacket. I asked him if he wanted to wait in the car with me. He shook his head, then nodded. “I just want to know if Mrs. Geller is going to call me a liar,” he whispered. I called the school to request a half-day excused absence, then drove him to a small diner down the street from the campus. He sat by the window, nervously spinning a straw, refusing to look toward the school gates. I didn’t rush him. I sent Mrs. Geller a text: I am outside the school. Are you available to meet? Eight minutes passed before she replied: I have class first period. If you are feeling emotional, I highly recommend taking some time to calm down first. I replied: I am perfectly calm. Two minutes later, she sent: Fine. Meet me in the Dean’s Office. The Dean’s Office was on the second floor of the administration building. A colorful banner hung outside the door: Where Every Child Belongs. The irony was suffocating. Mrs. Geller arrived quickly. She was in her mid-thirties, wearing a crisp white button-down, her district ID badge swinging from her neck. She didn’t look at the paper in my hand when she entered. Instead, she let out a long, weary sigh. “Mrs. Davis, I understand you’re acting out of maternal instinct. But parent-teacher communication is impossible when we let emotions dictate.” I slid the contract across the table. “This isn’t emotion. This is a fact.” Mrs. Geller glanced at it, her brow furrowing. “This is simply a tool for self-reflection. Sam’s hygiene has been a consistent issue. He leaves trash in his desk, gets food stains on his clothes, and keeps dirty tissues in his pockets.” “And your solution to that is a public class vote?” “I didn’t initiate the vote,” she corrected quickly. “The students did. It’s part of our classroom autonomy program. The children have a voice.” I stared at her. “An eight-year-old actively chose the word ‘disgusting’ to describe a classmate?” Mrs. Geller’s face hardened. “Children have a wider vocabulary than you think, Mrs. Davis. Let’s not underestimate them.” Beside her, the Dean of Students, Mr. Collins—a graying man with a practiced, diplomatic smile—cleared his throat. “Let’s find a middle ground here,” Mr. Collins said. “Mrs. Geller’s intentions were clearly positive. Perhaps the execution was a bit insensitive, but we can handle that internally.” “I didn’t come here to talk about ‘intentions,’” I said. I placed my phone on the table, showing the screenshot of Mrs. Geller’s text about the “humor style” of the activity. “Mrs. Geller claims this was a lighthearted exercise. Does this district permit the use of humiliating public labels as a tool for elementary classroom management?” Mr. Collins tapped his fingers rhythmically on the desk, looking uneasy. Mrs. Geller cut in, her voice rising. “Mrs. Davis, you’re twisting things. We’ve been using a peer-reminder point system all semester. Every child gets a turn to be reminded of things they need to work on.” A turn. The word chilled me. “You’ve done this to other children?” Realizing she had slipped up, Mrs. Geller quickly pivoted. “My point is, every child has to learn to accept feedback from the collective group.” Just then, there was a tentative knock on the door. A woman in a navy windbreaker stood in the doorway, looking incredibly anxious. “Mr. Collins? I’m Grace’s mom, Heidi. May I come in?” I recognized her. Grace was Sam’s desk mate. Her mother was usually entirely silent in the group chats. Mr. Collins looked surprised. “Are you here about yesterday’s incident as well, Mrs. Miller?” Heidi nodded. She stepped into the room, taking a deep breath as if gathering every ounce of her courage. “My daughter cried all night,” Heidi said, her voice shaking. “She told me Mrs. Geller forced every table group to nominate a candidate. She said any student who didn’t raise their hand to vote had to stand up and explain why. Grace didn’t want to vote for Sam, but the other kids were staring at her, so she got scared and raised her hand.” Mrs. Geller’s face drained of color. “Mrs. Miller, you need to be very careful with these accusations. Children’s memories are highly subjective.” Without a word, Heidi reached into her bag and pulled out a reading textbook. Tucked inside the front cover was a small pink sticky note. Written in a child’s shaky pencil print was: I didn’t want to vote for Sam. I was just scared Mrs. Geller would say I wasn’t being honest. The room fell dead silent. Mr. Collins’s diplomatic smile vanished. I didn’t touch the sticky note. I kept my eyes on Mrs. Geller. “Was this just ‘classroom autonomy’ too?” Mrs. Geller pressed her lips into a thin line. After a few agonizing seconds, she said, “Parents colluding behind the school’s back does not foster a productive educational environment.” I almost laughed. “I didn’t collude with anyone, Mrs. Geller. Grace’s mom is here today because her daughter was coerced into becoming your accomplice, and it broke her heart.” Heidi’s eyes welled with tears. “Grace told me that when Sam went to get water after the vote, the other kids plugged their noses and ran away. She wanted to go talk to him, but she was terrified the others would say she was disgusting too.” A heavy, suffocating weight pressed down on my chest. Yet Mrs. Geller remained defiant. “Which is exactly why we need to address his hygiene. Poor habits destroy peer relationships.” “You destroyed those relationships,” I said, my voice deadly quiet. “And now you’re blaming an eight-year-old for not fitting in.” Mr. Collins sat up straight, his tone suddenly very firm. “Mrs. Geller, do you have the lesson plan for yesterday’s class meeting?” She hesitated. “I have a brief outline.” “Go get it.” His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried an authority that left no room for argument. Mrs. Geller didn’t move. She shot a look at me, then at the Dean. “The outline is in my office. Actually, today is Parent Observation Day. I was planning to showcase our peer-mentorship program anyway. We can review the materials then.” I caught the word immediately. “Showcase?” Mr. Collins frowned. “What showcase?” Mrs. Geller looked momentarily uncomfortable. “The district is reviewing candidates for the Exemplary Educator award. I prepared a case study based on our class. The topic is ‘Growth Through Peer Mentorship.’” Heidi let out a sharp gasp. In that single moment, everything clicked. Sam wasn’t just the victim of a poorly planned activity. He was the prop. He was the negative case study Mrs. Geller was using to prove her “management system” worked. When we stepped out of the office, Mr. Collins assured us the school would investigate. But I didn’t plan on leaving Sam’s dignity in the hands of a school investigation. The school had its bureaucracy, but a mother operates on a different timeline. Sam was still waiting at the diner. The moment he saw me walk through the door, he stood up, searching my face for clues. I sat across from him and pushed his warm milk closer. “Mrs. Geller didn’t call you a liar.” Sam’s small shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch. “And Grace’s mom came to the school too,” I added softly. “Grace doesn’t think you’re disgusting, Sammy. She was just scared.” He stared down at his cup, quiet for a long moment. “What about everyone else?” I didn’t want to make excuses for the other kids, but I refused to let him grow up carrying a grudge against the world. “Some of them made a mistake. Some of them didn’t understand. And some of them were just following what the adult in the room told them to do. We’re going to make sure they understand why it was wrong.” He nodded, a single tear slipping into his milk. “But do I have to go back to that classroom tomorrow?” I reached across the table, covering his small hand with mine. “Not until this is made right. You are not going back there alone.” That afternoon, I focused on three things. First, I booked an appointment with a child therapist. I didn’t want Sam to feel like he was “broken,” so I explained it to him gently: “Sometimes Mama’s heart hurts when I hear these things, and teachers will try to make excuses. Let’s find someone whose only job is to listen to kids.” Second, I called Heidi. She spent the first five minutes of the call apologizing. “I saw your message in the group chat last night,” she whispered. “But I was too terrified to speak up. I was so scared Mrs. Geller would target Grace next.” “I understand,” I told her. “The power dynamic between a teacher and a parent isn’t something you can dismantle with just a sudden burst of courage.” Heidi was quiet for a moment. “I want to go to the Parent Observation Day this afternoon. But I don’t want Grace to be singled out.” “She won’t be,” I promised. “We are going to talk about the teacher’s process, not the children’s choices.” Third, I called Toby’s father. Toby rode the bus with Sam every morning; they lived in our neighborhood. His father was a quiet, practical engineer who usually only posted “Received” in the school group chats. When I explained what had happened, Toby’s dad went quiet. “Toby told me last night that Mrs. Geller asked the class if Sam was holding the group back,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. My grip tightened on the phone. “Those were her words?” “Yes. He said she wrote ‘Hygiene Black Hole’ on the white board, then asked who needed help. When a kid yelled out ‘disgusting,’ she didn’t stop them. She told the class the word was harsh, but it would make the lesson stick.” He took a heavy breath. “I actually scolded Toby last night. I thought he was being a bully. But then he started crying and said that if he didn’t raise his hand, Mrs. Geller would accuse him of not caring about the class.” I closed my eyes. That was Mrs. Geller’s real genius. She didn’t order the children to be cruel. She packaged humiliation as a collective responsibility, framed silence as dishonesty, and let the children push each other down a path she had carefully paved. “I’m taking the afternoon off,” Toby’s dad said. “I’ll see you at the observation.” “Thank you.” “Don’t thank me,” he said quietly. “Today it’s your son. Tomorrow it could be mine.” At one o’clock, the observation schedule was posted in the parent group. Mrs. Geller’s tone had returned to its usual professional warmth: Dear parents, our third-period open house will proceed as scheduled. The theme is ‘A Clean Classroom, A Shared Responsibility.’ We look forward to showing you our students’ wonderful self-governance skills. Immediately below, the Parent Association President—Mason’s mom—posted: Please cooperate with the school’s schedule, everyone. Let’s keep our questions focused and professional. Our class is a frontrunner for the Citizenship Banner this month; let’s not let minor misunderstandings get in the way of the children’s hard work. Minor misunderstandings. I stared at those words, and the anger inside me suddenly cooled into a quiet, steady resolve. Too many people are willing to overlook a wound as long as it isn’t bleeding on their own child. They decide silence is a cheaper price to pay. I typed my response in the group chat: I will be there. Mason’s mom immediately sent me a private message: You’re being too idealistic. Every classroom needs discipline. If you make a scene, your kid is the one who will pay the price. It was the classic threat used to silence protective parents. Fear for your child, so tolerate the abuse. Protect the institution, so quiet the victim. Mind your own business, so call someone else’s pain ‘sensitivity.’ I locked my phone and walked into Sam’s room. He was sitting at his desk, working on a writing assignment. He had stopped at the prompt: I love my school because… I reached over, took the pink eraser from his pencil case, and gently rubbed out his half-hearted attempt. “If you don’t feel like writing ‘love’ right now, you don’t have to,” I told him. “Just write a fact.” Sam looked up at me. “What kind of fact?” “Like, ‘My school has a playground.’ Or, ‘My school has a sweet-olive tree.’” He thought about it for a second, then carefully wrote: My school has a big sweet-olive tree in the courtyard. He paused, looking at the pencil in his hand. “Mama, will I ever love my school again?” “Yes,” I told him, smoothing down his collar. “But not by pretending you weren’t hurt.” The parent observation began at three. I arrived twenty minutes early. The hallway was already crowded with parents whispering in hushed tones. A few of them glanced at me, then quickly looked away. Mason’s mom was wearing a neat pencil skirt, clipboard in hand. She walked over to me with a tight, practiced smile. “Sam’s mom, the kids are all inside. Let’s make sure we keep things professional today.” I took the pen from her and signed my name. “I will.” She let out a visible breath of relief. “I will make sure,” I added, looking her dead in the eye, “that no child in that room is used as a prop ever again.” Her smile froze. The classroom door was half-open. The desks had been arranged into small group clusters. On the blackboard, colorful letters read: A Clean Classroom, A Shared Responsibility. Directly beneath the title, three large sheets of paper were taped to the wall. The first: Hygiene Monitor Duties. The second: Peer Feedback Process. The third sheet had a single name printed in bold black marker: Focus Student of the Week: Sam Davis. My blood ran cold. Under his name, several “peer recommendations” were bulleted: – Do not touch shared classroom items without washing hands. – Do not spill soup on your shirt during lunch. – Do not keep used tissues in your pockets. – Please accept the classroom’s help and supervision. The word disgusting was gone. Mrs. Geller was smart. She had scrubbed the vulgar language away, leaving behind only the sterile, polite vocabulary of modern bureaucracy. Toby’s father walked up beside me and slipped a folded piece of paper into my hand. “Toby wrote this down for you,” he whispered. “He said he only wants you to read it. He’s too scared to have his name called out.” The note was short but devastatingly clear: Mrs. Geller said we needed to pick someone who needed help. When someone said Sam was gross, Mrs. Geller said that word was mean but it would make him remember. I handed the paper back to him. “Keep it. If the time comes, you decide if you want to use it.” He nodded, the veins on the back of his hand tightening. At three o’clock, the bell rang, and Mrs. Geller stepped into the classroom. She scanned the room, her eyes lingering on me for a fraction of a second before she turned to the audience with a bright, welcoming smile. The children sat perfectly straight. Sam’s desk was empty, but a clean sheet of paper sat on his desktop. I recognized it immediately. It was a rewritten version of his “Hygiene Improvement Contract”—the handwriting was far too neat to be his. Someone had made him copy it over. “Welcome, parents,” Mrs. Geller began, turning on the projector. “Today, we are showcasing how our students participate in classroom self-governance.” The first slide appeared: From Peer Evaluation to Self-Reflection: A Case Study in Grade 2 Hygiene Habits. “Children at this age require tangible, visual feedback,” Mrs. Geller explained, her voice smooth and practiced. “Simple lecturing has limited results. By transferring the responsibility to the peer group, we teach them accountability.” She clicked to the next slide, showing photos of the kids sweeping the floor. The third slide was a bar graph titled: Distribution of Peer Feedback Votes. The tallest bar on the graph didn’t have a name. It was simply labeled: Focus Student. But every single child in that room knew exactly whose name belonged there. From the second row, a small boy let out a snicker. The girl next to him quickly nudged his arm, pointing subtly toward the back of the room where the parents stood. “We are not here to punish,” Mrs. Geller continued smoothly, picking up the rewritten contract from Sam’s empty desk. “We are here to show the student that the collective class has expectations for them. Sam is absent today, but he prepared his reflection. Since his mother is here, perhaps she would like to hear the class’s suggestions on his behalf.” Heidi’s face went white. Toby’s dad took a sharp, angry step forward. Mrs. Geller pointed her laser pointer toward me, her smile tight and victorious. “Mrs. Davis, would you like to step up and hear what the class has to say?” I pushed the heavy wooden door open and walked straight into the classroom.

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To save up enough for a down payment on a house we could call our own, I skimped on everything—even the copays for my pain medication. I hoarded my medical issues like overdue bills, waiting until I could pack five different surgical procedures into a single five-day hospital stay to maximize my insurance deductible. For a brief moment, I was a local legend in the surgical ward. But that was also the day I saw Griffith, my supposedly broke boyfriend, deep in conversation in the hospital’s restricted VIP wing. My feet moved on their own, drawing me stealthily behind them. They were talking in the hallway, completely unconcerned about who might hear. “You wealthy heirs love playing the savior to a working-class girl,” a voice drawled, laced with amusement. “Christian did it, and now you’re doing it. When do you plan on telling her the truth?” Griffith shrugged, his shoulders shifting beneath a designer coat I had never seen before. “To be honest, only Christian was actually in love. I only stepped in because I was terrified Christian would crawl back to her and make Haley miserable.” I froze in the shadow of the corridor, my mind going entirely blank. A high-pitched ringing filled my ears. Christian was my ex-boyfriend, the man who had vanished from my life five years ago after a brutal, ghosting-style breakup. Back then, his entire social circle had humiliated me, treating me like a street dog trying to sit at a banquet table. A single glass of vintage Merlot poured over my head had been enough to wash me out of his world. Since then, all I wanted was to find a normal, hard-working guy like myself and build a quiet, honest life. But it turned out I had just been a pawn in another rich man’s game. … A physical ache bloomed beneath my ribs, radiating outward. All the post-operative pain I had been trying so hard to breathe through came rushing back at once. Months ago, when the dermatologist found an atypical melanoma on my back and warned me of the malignant risks, urging immediate excision, I chose to wait. My stomach had been acting up too, and I figured I would just wait and handle everything at once. It wasn’t that I didn’t know the risks. It was just… a stubborn, foolish optimism. I had always believed that girls like me, grown from the cracks in the concrete, could survive anywhere. We were resilient. If I bundled the surgeries together, it would save us thousands in hospital facility fees and post-op prescriptions. So I delayed, week after week. When I finally scheduled the five procedures back-to-back, the surgeon had tried to talk me out of it. “Going under anesthesia five times in five days before the previous dose has even cleared your system is brutal on the body,” he had warned, looking at me with pity. “It’s safe enough under our supervision, but you are going to be in absolute agony.” But I had just smiled. At the time, all I could think about was celebrating Griffith’s promotion. He had told me he got a raise—an extra thousand dollars a month. That’s twelve thousand more a year for our house, I had calculated, tears of gratitude in my eyes. Looking back, his performance was flawless. I had been so deeply moved, believing we were finally closing the gap on our dream. After five years together, I thought we were both bleeding and sweating for the same future. To keep him from worrying, I had even scheduled the surgeries during a week he claimed he had to travel out of town for business. And yet, here he was. A slow, hot anger flared in my chest, carrying a heavy weight of humiliation. It felt as though these people could manipulate our lives on a whim, stripping away even our right to a simple, honest love. I could still hear the echoes of their old taunts. Gold digger. Social climber. A parasite trying to latch onto high society. When Christian and I were together, I admit I had a few innocent fantasies. I was eighteen, fresh-faced in college, and when a wealthy classmate pursued me, I naively wondered if I was the heroine of some romance novel. I believed that if I loved someone fiercely enough, the world would eventually bend in our favor. That illusion shattered the night of graduation. He had invited me to a private country club, promising I would finally meet his family. Instead, his mother had emptied a glass of red wine down the front of my cheap dress. Then, she slipped a few hundred-dollar bills into my wet clutch. “For girls like you, this is usually the standard rate,” she whispered. “Take it for the dry cleaning.” Christian had stood just a few feet away, swirling his own glass, silently watching. He never contacted me again. He said nothing, which in itself said everything. I became the joke of the campus. It was Griffith who had appeared in the aftermath, throwing his worn denim jacket over my shivering shoulders and screaming at the crowd, “You think your money makes you gods?” The memory made my chest tighten until it was hard to breathe. I dragged my feet back to the standard ward, my head spinning. The floor nurse saw me and immediately ushered me back into my room. “You need to stop walking around. If your vitals look good tomorrow, we’ll let you go home. Not a second sooner.” I nodded numbly, letting the movie of my last five years play on a loop behind my closed eyelids. That night, Griffith sent me a text. The business trip is going well. Want me to bring you back any local treats? I didn’t reply. Griffith had always been so good to me. He bore none of the cold arrogance of the wealthy elite. He would cook dinner for us after a long shift, knowing the price of every vegetable at the local market. He even knew how to mend a torn hem. He ate at greasy diners with me, and we would argue playfully over which brand of soy sauce was the better value. We fit together perfectly. Because of that, I never suspected a thing. I truly believed we were from the same world, two ordinary people pulling the cart together. I had brought him home to my parents, who treated him like the son they never had. I fully expected him to be my husband. He was my only one. That was why I worked myself to the bone to save for that down payment. I wanted to prove that regular people could build a beautiful, comfortable life. I had given up on fairy tales; I just wanted something real. When I didn’t reply for several hours, my phone rang. I stared at the screen, hesitated, and finally picked it up. Griffith’s voice rushed through the receiver, warm and energetic. He rambled about his day before adding, “Hey, Naomi, since I’m so close to my hometown, I think I’m going to drop by my parents’ place for a few days. You take care of yourself, okay?” “Yeah,” I murmured quietly, hanging up. I opened his social media profile. There were photos of him standing with his “parents” in front of a modest suburban house. But now I knew they were actors. His entire digital life was a curated set piece, likely visible only to me. A wave of bitter sorrow washed over me. During our third year of dating, we had gone to meet his “family.” I had spent weeks agonizing over my outfit. My parents, wanting to show their utmost respect, took a day off work and bought expensive gifts for me to bring. At the time, Griffith had only sighed. “You didn’t need to go through all this trouble. Just having you there is enough.” How hilarious. Of course it wasn’t a trouble for him—they weren’t even his real parents. But it certainly was a hassle to hire actors to play along with our earnest, working-class hopes. I wondered if, on our wedding day, he would have handed me a forged marriage certificate to keep the lie alive for another few decades, all to ensure his precious childhood friend Haley was safe from Christian’s lingering regrets. What a grand sacrifice. The next morning, I discharged myself from the hospital. I went straight back to work. I needed the distraction; work was the only thing that had never lied to me. But during an afternoon run to deliver some legal documents to a partner firm downtown, I ran into Christian. It had been years. The old anger had faded into a dull, cold indifference. I tried to step around him, but he blocked my path. “You and Griffith don’t belong together, Naomi,” he said, his voice tense. I looked up at him, a dry laugh bubbling in my throat. Was this a sudden burst of conscience, or was he just bored and looking to play the good guy? Before I could speak, a hand gripped my wrist with bruising force, pulling me backward. I stumbled, my lower back slamming into the sharp edge of a marble reception desk. The pain from my recent incision flared white-hot. I gasped, looking up to see Griffith standing over me, his eyes locked furiously on Christian. “Stay the hell away from my girlfriend,” Griffith spat. My wrist was already turning red under his grip, but Griffith didn’t notice. His focus was entirely on Christian. He wasn’t trying to protect me from being hurt; he was terrified Christian might still feel something for me, the girl he had abandoned. That was his entire mission. Griffith dragged me toward the exit, muttering under his breath, “He’s not the kind of man you can just climb up to. Why can’t you just…” My mind snapped into sharp focus. I wrenched my wrist from his grasp and walked away without looking back. I didn’t need anyone telling me where I belonged. I had no interest in Christian. And I was officially done with Griffith. That evening, Griffith came back to our apartment. Seeing me applying ointment to my bruised wrist, his expression softened into something resembling guilt. “I’m sorry about earlier. I lost my temper. I was just so worried he would hurt you again.” I didn’t have the energy to argue. I silently reached around to try and dab medicine on the deep bruise near my lower back where I had hit the desk. Griffith’s eyes flickered with remorse, and he reached out to help me. But before his hand could touch my skin, his phone buzzed. His face went instantly rigid. He grabbed his coat and walked out the door. An hour later, Haley posted a sad emoji on her social media, captioned with nothing but a single dot. The punishment for my defiance arrived the very next morning. When I walked into the office, the usual morning chatter died instantly. My supervisor, who had promised me a promotion and a raise just last week, handed me a termination letter without meeting my eyes. My body went cold. I stared at the paper, unable to process the words. “Why?” I whispered. My supervisor didn’t answer directly. He quietly slipped an extra month’s severance into my file and murmured, “Naomi, sometimes it’s not about your performance. Did you happen to offend someone powerful?” A sickening realization began to settle in my chest, but I still fought against believing it. Griffith knew how hard I worked. He knew how difficult it was for a girl from a rural town to secure a decent corporate job in the city. He knew every late night and skipped meal that had gone into building this modest career. The bitterness in my mouth tasted like ashes. When I returned to the apartment, Griffith was in the kitchen. The air was thick with the scent of extra-spicy chili. This was his traditional way of apologizing. He hated spicy food, but whenever he knew he had upset me, he would force himself to cook it to make me smile. Usually, seeing him sweat over a hot stove for my sake would melt my anger instantly. But now, it only made me shudder. Which transgression was he apologizing for today? The bruise on my back, or the fact that I had just been blacklisted from my industry? Probably both. To him, they were one and the same. My throat tightened, raw and dry. “Griffith, we’re done. I want a divorce from whatever this relationship was.” He froze, the spatula hovering over the pan. Then, he quietly finished stirring and turned off the burner. “It’s going to be okay,” he said, his voice incredibly calm. “Once they get this out of their system, things will go back to normal. Just think of it as a setback, a tough lesson learned. You can find an even better job later, somewhere far away from them.” He didn’t even ask why I had been fired. He already knew. A cold dread settled deep in my bones as I stared at him. To people like Griffith and Haley, lives like mine were as fragile and disposable as paper. They couldn’t begin to comprehend the concept of hard work because everything they had ever wanted was handed to them on a silver platter. Haley never had to lift a finger; an army of men stood ready to burn down my life just to keep her smiling. But I had only wanted to live my own life. Why did they have to drag me into their theater, break my spirit, and then tell me I hadn’t learned my lesson? Tears burned the backs of my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. Haley’s social media feed updated again. It was a photo of a beautifully lit restaurant table. Thank you to my boy for always being there to clean up my messes. There was a single like from an account I recognized instantly. It was Griffith’s real profile. Even after five years of careful deception, some habits are hard to break. He used the same unique handle structure he always used. I clicked through the account and saw his family—prominent, old-money philanthropists who looked nothing like the hired actors he had brought to meet my parents. Griffith hadn’t been on a business trip last week. He had been celebrating Haley’s birthday at an exclusive resort. I spent the next two weeks pounding the pavement, looking for a new job. But at twenty-seven, in a saturated market and with a sudden, unexplained termination on my record, every door remained firmly shut. I wanted to go home. But before I could even pack my bags, my mother called. She didn’t mention anything wrong at first. She just kept her voice light, asking, “Sweetie, how are things going? Is work keeping you busy?” A chill ran down my spine. My mother was caring for my ailing grandmother; she never called in the middle of a workday unless something was wrong. After I pressed her repeatedly, she finally broke down. Both she and my father had been laid off from their municipal jobs on the same day. The small income they relied on was gone, and the shock had caused my grandmother to collapse. She was currently in the ICU. “Don’t worry about us,” my mother wept, trying to sound brave. “You and Griffith are saving for your house. Keep your savings for your future. We’ll find a way to handle things here.” The tears I had held back for weeks finally spilled over. I hung up and immediately tried to wire my savings to my mother’s account. Transaction Declined: Account Frozen. A furious, desperate rage erupted inside me. I opened our shared expense app, tracked Griffith’s location, and ran out the door. I arrived at an exclusive private lounge downtown. Before I could even push the heavy oak doors open, the sound of laughter drifted through the gap. “Man, Griffith, you really went all out,” a male voice laughed. “Getting her fired was one thing, but getting her parents blacklisted from their town jobs? That’s cold. She’s definitely going to learn her place now. She won’t dare show her face near Christian again.” “Griffith’s always been the ruthless one,” another chimed in. “Christian just wanted to date her for a bit back in college. Griffith went ahead and played the fake boyfriend for five whole years just to keep the playing field clear for Haley.” The words felt like physical blows, knocking the wind from my lungs. My parents had treated Griffith like their own flesh and blood. They had cooked for him, bought him gifts, and prayed for our future. And all of it was just a joke to these people. Then, Christian’s voice cut through the laughter, sharp and tense. “Enough. We dated for four years. She never asked me for a dime, and she never took anything from me. I was the one who chased her.” He glared at Griffith. “You’ve gone too far. Stop playing god with her life. Haley and I are fine. We don’t need you running around ruining lives to protect her. Treat people like human beings for once.” Griffith stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. “What, you still have feelings for her? I warned you, Christian—stay away from her. She belongs to me now.” The room fell into an uncomfortable silence. The tension was thick enough to choke on. “We should probably get going,” someone muttered, sensing the impending explosion. As they opened the door to leave, they froze. I stood there, my fingers clenched into tight fists, staring directly at them.

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Less than a year after I faked my death, Thomas Oswald found me. But no matter how he knelt on the cold ground, begging, I refused to go back with him. Until he used his power to throw my elderly parents into a state penitentiary. “Novia, if you don’t want me supporting Lydia, I won’t bring her into our lives anymore. Just come home. Can’t we go back to how we were?” Thomas’s eyes were bloodshot, his voice thick with desperation. “You don’t want your parents spending their remaining years rotting in a maximum-security prison in the frozen North, do you?” I screamed every curse I knew at him, but he only laughed, a sound raw and bordering on madness. “Novia, without you, I’ve been out of my mind anyway.” In the end, I broke. When I returned, Thomas really did seem like a changed man. He stayed by my side constantly. He even proposed sending Lydia away to a secluded clinic in Vermont. Right in front of my eyes, he burned the trust fund agreements he’d prepared for her. He handed me the keys to the entire Oswald estate, telling me that from now on, everything was mine to rule. Our son, Henry—who had once screamed that he wanted Lydia to be his mother—now trailed after me, desperately trying to win my favor with sweet words and shy smiles. I actually believed they had changed. I was just about to write a letter to my savior, telling him I had no further requests. But then, I saw them. At the secluded chapel on the estate grounds, I caught Thomas. He was holding Lydia’s arm with a gentle, protective reverence as she prayed. And my son, Henry, was clinging to Lydia’s leg, looking up at her with a sweet, adoring smile. “Aunt Lydia, when is my baby brother coming out of your tummy to play with me?” Thomas gently pulled the boy back. “Don’t play around, Henry.” “And don’t mention your brother. You almost let it slip in front of your mother last time.” I froze where I stood. After a long, breathless moment, I tightened my grip on my umbrella and stepped forward. 1 “Remember, your mother is also coming to the chapel today to pray for your grandmother. We can’t stay long,” Thomas said, keeping his voice low and solemn. “And not a single word about the baby in front of her. Do you understand?” Henry nodded, though his lower lip trembled. “Dad… when can we bring Aunt Lydia back to the house? It’s so cold out here, and she doesn’t even have anyone to take care of her…” Thomas stroked the boy’s hair, a sigh escaping him. “We can’t rush this. We have to plan carefully. I’ll figure out a way once she’s closer to her due date.” But Henry wouldn’t let it go, mumbling petulantly, “It’s all Mom’s fault. She’s so selfish and jealous! Aunt Lydia is so sweet, but Mom just wants to keep you all to herself. She hates Aunt Lydia!” “Quiet!” Thomas snapped, cutting him off. “That is your mother. Don’t let me ever hear you speak of her with such disrespect again!” Silence fell over the small chapel. Henry pouted, tears welling in his eyes. Lydia gently pulled the boy behind her, lifting her tear-rimmed eyes to look at Thomas. “Thomas, please don’t blame the child. It’s my fault,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “That night… you were so drunk. I was careless. I forgot to take the morning-after pill, and now we’re in this mess. I’ve made things so hard for you.” “I was fully prepared to spend the rest of my life in isolation, never disrupting your life with Novia.” “But… if this child is born in some hidden clinic, they will grow up branded a bastard. They’ll face nothing but cruelty and scorn.” She slowly sank to her knees, tears spilling over her cheeks. “I don’t care what happens to me. But please, Thomas, give this baby a chance. As long as you don’t abandon them, I’ll wait. I’ll wait forever…” “Get up,” Thomas said, reaching down to pull her to her feet, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ll find a way.” “There’s no need to find a way,” I said, closing my umbrella as I calmly stepped over the threshold. “There is no time like the present. You can bring Lydia back to the house today.” My sudden entrance made Thomas stiffen. Every drop of color drained from his face. Yet, his hand instinctively moved to shield Lydia’s stomach. “Novia… let me explain,” he stammered, his throat working hard as he searched for words. “This baby… it was an accident. That night, I drank too much. I thought she was you…” “It was only that one time. I swear to you, only once.” He spoke in a frantic rush, his eyes locked onto mine. “I only wanted to bring her back so she could have a safe delivery, and then I was going to find a quiet place in the countryside for them. If you don’t want her in the house, I won’t do it. I swear I won’t…” I cut him off softly. “Thomas, I didn’t say I disagreed.” He blinked, utterly lost. “Are you… are you angry?” “No,” I said, my voice smooth and level. “I was just thinking that Lydia always preferred the Lakeside Cottage. I’ll move my things out tonight so she can have it.” Thomas stared at me as if I were a complete stranger. Slowly, his brow furrowed, and the panic in his eyes turned into something darker, sharper. “Novia, can you stop being so damn passive-aggressive?” I met his gaze, offering a small, polite smile. “You’re overthinking it. I’m not being passive-aggressive. I simply sympathize with how difficult pregnancy must be for Lydia, and I want to help.” Thomas lunged forward, grabbing my wrist. His grip was so tight I could feel the bones grinding together. His eyes were bloodshot, his chest heaving. “What do you want from me? I told you it was an accident! Why do you have to keep twisting the knife?” I looked down at his hand bruising my wrist. I didn’t struggle. I didn’t cry out. “You’re overthinking it, Thomas.” “I’m just doing what a good wife is supposed to do.” He violently flung my hand away, taking two steps back. With a sudden burst of rage, he swept his arm across the altar table, sending the brass chalice and offering plates crashing to the stone floor. “Fine! Beautiful!” “You’re burning with rage inside, but you’d rather die than show it. Who are you playing this saintly, uncaring martyr for?” I let out a soft breath, having no desire to argue with him. My silence only infuriated him more. He glared at me, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Suddenly, he grabbed Lydia’s arm, pulling her roughly to his side. “Fine. Since you’re so incredibly generous, I’m bringing Lydia back today.” “After all, your parents are still at my mercy. You wouldn’t dare run. Let’s see how long you can keep up this little act!” Lydia stumbled as she was pulled, glancing at me with a look of feigned terror, but as she lowered her head, I caught the swift, triumphant curl of her lips. Looking at the two of them, I felt a strange sense of detachment. I wasn’t surprised by her petty malice; I was surprised by myself. The girl who used to cry, shake, and lie awake all night at the mere mention of her name seemed to belong to another lifetime. “Of course,” I said, stepping aside to clear the doorway. “I’m a bit tired. I’ll head back to rest.” Thomas froze behind me for a second, then chased after me, his voice raw and heavy. “Novia, haven’t you punished me enough?” “I’ve done everything to accommodate you this time. I just wanted us to have a normal life. What do you gain by torturing me with this coldness?” I paused, but I didn’t turn around. His arrogance only existed because he was absolutely certain I could never leave him. But what he didn’t know was that during the year I had faked my death, I had saved the life of Governor Bradley. The Governor had promised me a favor—any favor. Originally, I was going to write to him to say I needed nothing. But now, I wanted to ask for a formal, legally binding decree of divorce and protection. I wanted to be truly free of Thomas Oswald. When I returned to the estate, I ordered the maids to move all my belongings to the carriage house at the far edge of the property. Mrs. Higgins, the old housekeeper who had once served Lydia, hurried in when she heard the news. She immediately began snooping around. “Ma’am, far be it from me to speak out of turn, but when Mr. Oswald furnished the Emerald Suite for Miss Lydia before, he cleared out three entire vaults of treasures for her.” “The cabinets were filled with fine imported porcelain, and the drapes were pure silk. This Lakeside Cottage… it’s a bit rustic. I’m afraid Miss Lydia won’t find it to her taste.” I set down my teacup and smiled. “Mrs. Higgins, take a few girls to the vault. Whatever Lydia likes, move it in.” “You can tear down and rebuild every brick of this cottage to match her exact taste.” Mrs. Higgins blinked, startled, before her face split into a wide, greedy grin. “Your generosity is a blessing to this household, ma’am. I’ll get right on it!” As Mrs. Higgins scurried away with a smug swagger, my maid Lucy ran to me, her eyes red and brimming with tears. “Ma’am, she’s just a widow! Why does she get to push you around like this over and over?” I stared out the window at the white magnolias in the yard. “It’s just a house, Lucy.” “If she wants it, let her have it.” Hardly had the words left my mouth when Thomas stepped into the courtyard. Mrs. Higgins was leading a group of maids carrying furniture. Running straight into him, she offered a fawning smile. “Mr. Oswald! You’ve come at the perfect time. The mistress is having us redecorate the cottage exactly to Miss Lydia’s liking.” “It’s just… the white magnolias in the yard are a bit of a problem. Miss Lydia has always despised the scent of magnolias; she says they give her a headache. What do you think…” I chimed in from the doorway, “Rip them out. Plant whatever she prefers. Peonies, roses—whatever Mrs. Higgins deems appropriate.” A suffocating silence fell over the yard. Thomas stood rooted to the spot, his face a mask of disbelief. “All of you, get the hell out,” he commanded. The servants scrambled to leave, terrified. Lydia didn’t leave immediately. Instead, she took a step closer to him, her voice soft and soothing. “Thomas, please don’t upset yourself. I can sleep anywhere, really. There’s no need to argue with Novia on my account…” “You too. Leave,” Thomas said, without even looking at her. Lydia’s sweet smile froze. Her lips parted, but she didn’t dare utter another syllable. She lowered her head and quickly retreated. Thomas strode over, towering over me. His chest rose and fell in violent, ragged breaths, the corners of his eyes so red they looked ready to bleed. “Novia Oswald. Do you have any idea that every single brick, every tree, every flower in this place was chosen because you loved them?” “I hauled these magnolias myself from three hundred miles away. I buried them in the dirt and watered them every day for weeks just to keep them alive. And now you’re telling them to tear them out?” “No matter how much you want to spite me, you shouldn’t stomp on my heart like this!” “Thomas,” I said, my voice empty of emotion. “Lydia is carrying your child. She should be kept comfortable. I am only thinking of the Oswald legacy.” He suddenly let out a laugh. It was a terrible, broken sound, uglier than any sob. “Novia… you are unbelievable.” “Since you’re so eager to give everything away, then get out! I’ll stay in this Lakeside Cottage tonight and sleep with Lydia.” I bowed my head slightly. “Enjoy your evening. I’ll take my leave.” The moment I turned, he lunged at me like a wild beast, locking his arms around my waist and pulling me flush against his chest. His fingers clamped onto my jaw, forcing my head back as his mouth crashed down on mine in a brutal, punishing kiss. The metallic taste of blood immediately spread between us. I didn’t struggle. I simply stood there like a block of wood, letting him tear at my lips. He must have felt my total lack of response, because he pulled back slightly, his eyes flashing with a sudden, desperate terror before he pressed down even harder. It was as if he believed that if he just forced it enough, he could spark the old warmth, the old passion we used to share. He carried me to the bed, tearing at my clothes. But when his fingers ripped at my silk camisole, a sudden, violent wave of nausea surged up from my stomach. I wrenched myself from his grip, leaned over the edge of the bed, and retched violently. “You…” Thomas froze on the mattress, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper. “For the year you were gone, I swear I didn’t touch another woman. Lydia’s baby… it was a drunken mistake.” “I’ve explained this a thousand times. Do you still not believe me?” He fell silent for a moment, then whispered, “Or is it… do you think I’m dirty? Because I touched someone else, do I disgust you?” I wiped my mouth with a handkerchief, slowly sat up, and pulled my torn shirt together. “You’re overthinking it, Thomas.” “I’m just not feeling well. I’m afraid I’ll make a poor companion tonight. You should go to Lydia.” Thomas stared at me, his gaze searching, trying to find a crack in my composure. Suddenly, he swept his hand across the nightstand, sending the porcelain water pitcher crashing to the floor. Shards of ceramic exploded everywhere. “Fine! If that’s how you want it!” He stepped back, his chest heaving, his voice grinding out between clenched teeth. “Since you’re so desperate to push me into her bed, I’ll give you exactly what you want!” He let out a cold sneer. “Novia, since you’re so noble, so entirely unbothered, you can kneel outside our door tonight and wait to bring us fresh water.” “I’m worried I might lose control with Lydia. It’ll give me peace of mind to have our resident doctor waiting just outside the door.” He stared intensely at my face, begging for even a flicker of pain. But I merely stood up and smoothed my skirts. “Then please wait a moment. I will go boil the water.” As the heavy oak door clicked shut behind me, I heard the muffled sound of something heavy slamming violently against the bedroom wall. I didn’t look back. When Lydia brushed past me on her way in, she paused, her lips curving into a triumphant smirk. She leaned close, whispering, “Novia, just watch. This time, I’m taking everything you have left.” I didn’t even blink. “You don’t need to waste your energy on me, Lydia.” “Within three days, I’ll be gone from this place.” She turned to look at me, her eyes wide with disbelief, searching my face for any sign of a bluff. I didn’t look back at her. I simply adjusted my coat against the chilly night breeze and kept walking. I had already sent a trusted contact to the capitol with my token. It wouldn’t even take three days before I was completely free. That night, he called for fresh water seven times. And seven times, I stood outside the door, listening to the sounds from within, carrying heavy buckets of boiling water in and empty basins out. By the time dawn broke, my body was numb with exhaustion. As I turned to leave, my son came sprinting into the courtyard, practically bursting with excitement. “Dad! Mom! Look! Aunt Lydia got me an admission gift for my new school! I love him so much! He’s so good, he never bites!” Seven-year-old Henry was leading a massive mastiff, nearly as tall as he was. The beast’s tongue lolled out of its mouth, its dark eyes locked instantly onto me. My blood ran cold. They both knew—both my husband and my son—how deathly terrified I was of dogs. “Henry, stop…” But instead of stopping, Henry let go of the leash. The mastiff lunged. Instinctively, I scrambled backward, tripped over my own skirt, and crashed hard onto the stone pavers. As the dog bore down on me, I reached out toward Thomas, trying to hide behind him. But Lydia suddenly let out a shrill scream. “Ah! It hurts! Thomas, my stomach…” Thomas hesitated for a fraction of a second, looking between me and Lydia. Then, without a backward glance, he turned and ran to her. When the dog’s teeth sank deep into my calf, I didn’t scream. It turns out that when pain reaches its absolute limit, you lose the ability to make a sound. Blood began to pool beneath my leg. I lay flat on the cold ground, my entire body shaking violently. The raw, bone-deep terror was far worse than the physical pain of the bite. I curled into a ball, unable to even crawl. “Mom, you are so dramatic,” Henry said, standing a few feet away, his head tilted in disgust. “Aunt Lydia said Buster never bites. You must have let him do it on purpose just to make Dad feel bad for you.” My mouth opened, but no sound came out. Thomas had already scooped Lydia up in his arms, roaring at the terrified servants standing nearby. “What are you doing? Get the doctor! Get every single doctor on this estate right now!” Everyone was running toward Lydia. I lay on the ground, my skirt soaked through with blood, the mastiff still standing over me, growling, teeth bared. I couldn’t even cry. Terror clawed at my throat, cutting off my breath. Suddenly, Lucy threw herself over me, violently shoving the dog away with her bare hands. The mastiff stumbled, snarled in fury, and lunged again. With a desperate cry, Lucy pulled a heavy silver hairpin from her hair and plunged it deep into the dog’s front leg. The beast howled in pain, tucked its tail, and bolted toward the gates. “Ma’am! Ma’am, where are you hurt?” Lucy wept, her hands shaking as she tried to lift me. “Insolent wench!” Henry’s face flushed purple with rage. He pointed a finger at Lucy, screaming, “You hurt the dog Aunt Lydia gave me! That’s my dog! Someone drag this useless maid out and beat her!” Two heavy-set older housekeepers stepped forward, grabbing Lucy by her arms. “Don’t you touch her!” Where the strength came from, I didn’t know. I grabbed Lucy’s wrist with a death grip, refusing to let go. “She is my maid. No one touches her.” “What a touching display of loyalty.” Thomas’s voice dropped from above. I looked up. He had walked back, looking down at me with cold, detached eyes. “You throw my feelings in the dirt without a second thought, yet you care so much about a common maid?” He crouched down, pinching my chin tightly. “Get rid of her.” “No!” I grabbed his leg, my voice cracking. “Thomas, please… punish me. Don’t hurt Lucy…” I slammed my forehead against the stone floor. Once. Twice. “Lydia spent weeks picking out that dog for Henry. Your maid injured it. Don’t you think, as her mistress, you owe Lydia and the dog an apology?” I froze, staring at him in utter disbelief. He wanted me… to apologize to the beast that had just tried to maul me? “If Novia doesn’t want to apologize, I suppose there’s another way,” Lydia said, leaning on a maid’s arm as she walked over, her hand resting gently on her stomach. “I only want to prove that Buster doesn’t bite for no reason. If Novia is willing to sit in the dog’s pen for just fifteen minutes, we can call it even and let the maid go.” Slowly, I turned my head to look at Thomas. “From now on, Lydia will share equal status with you in this house,” he said, his voice entirely devoid of warmth. “What she says is my command.” I let out a hollow laugh. “Fine.” Without a single hesitation, I dragged my bleeding leg and stepped inside the iron dog pen. The moment the gate clicked shut, the cornered, agitated mastiff locked its eyes onto me. “No, ma’am! Please! You’re terrified of dogs! Lucy would rather die than see you humiliated like this!” Lucy screamed, fighting against the housekeepers holding her. With a sudden burst of desperation, she broke free and lunged toward the concrete pillar nearby, intending to end her own life. “Lucy, no!” I threw myself against the iron bars, my fingers clawing at the gaps, tears finally blinding my vision. At that exact second, the mastiff struck. Its massive weight slammed me to the ground, a heavy paw pinning my shoulder blade down, trapping me. Its hot, foul breath washed over my face. Outside the pen, Thomas’s voice came soft, almost conversational. “Be reasonable, Novia. Just swallow your pride, stop fighting me, and I’ll let you out.” “Everything in this house can go back to being yours.” But before he could finish his sentence, the heavy iron gates of the estate were thrown open with a resounding crash. A fleet of black government vehicles rolled into the courtyard, followed by a squad of armed federal marshals. The lead envoy stepped out of the lead car, holding a sealed document high in his hand. “Federal decree! Let Novia Oswald step forward to receive it!”

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My parents set my sister up with a wealthy, handsome heir, but they sent me on a blind date with a short, miserable creep. I didn’t cry or throw a tantrum. Instead, I smiled and added him on social media. My sister and mother exchanged a look and smirked. “See, Mom? A perfect match.” Until her fiancé saw me at a high-end gala and completely lost his composure. He pointed at me and the man beside me, his voice trembling: “Mr. Holt, is this… your wife?” The man wrapped his arm around my waist, lazily raising his eyes. “No. She’s my investor.” 1. Mom thrust her phone in my face while I was chewing on a glazed pork chop. “Look. Your sister’s setup.” Her voice was high and ecstatic. “Ryan Sinclair. Got his master’s from Cambridge, family’s in commercial real estate, six-foot-two. They’re meeting tomorrow, and he’s already buying her a Porsche.” I glanced at the screen. The man in the photo was standing on a yacht in a white linen shirt and designer sunglasses, smiling like he was in a Ralph Lauren ad. “Not bad,” I said, taking another bite of my chop. Delia didn’t even look up from painting her nails. “Not bad? I’d love to see you find anyone half as good.” I ignored her. Mom glared at me, pulled a crumpled photo from her pocket, and slapped it down right next to my plate. “No need to be jealous of your sister. I’ve always treated you girls equally. I set up something for you, too.” I looked down. In the photo was a stout, middle-aged man standing outside a dingy shipping warehouse, grinning with a piece of spinach stuck between his teeth. Underneath, a handwritten note read: Gary Hodge, 38, divorced, one son. I smiled up at Mom. “Equal treatment, huh?” Her face stiffened for a second, but she quickly recovered her self-righteous tone. “How is it not equal? What your sister gets, you get. She gets a setup, you get a setup. That’s called being fair.” She pointed to Delia’s yacht photo, then to the shipping warehouse photo. “Look, Delia has high standards because she’s a high-quality girl. Your prospects are average, so you get an average man. I’m doing this for your own good.” “And how do you know my prospects are average?” Delia chimed in, “Nicole, honey, have you looked in a mirror lately?” Mom waved her off. “Gary is a decent man. I did my research. He doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke, he’s just a little on the shorter side. What’s wrong with a shorter man? He’s offering a sixty-thousand-dollar dowry. You marry him, you become a mother instantly without having to go through labor, and you don’t even have to work. You should count your blessings.” I spit a bone onto my plate. “Mom, I’m twenty-four.” Mom glared at me. “You make fifteen dollars an hour as a grocery store cashier. He’s doing you a favor by not looking down on you. And you’re picky?” Delia laughed. She capped her nail polish and tilted her head. “Nicole, I’m only saying this because I care. Honestly, you barely finished community college. Your looks are… passable, at best. And you’re just a cashier.” She sighed. “Gary owns his own delivery business. At least you won’t starve.” I looked at the stark contrast between the two photos on the table. Then at my parents’ impatient faces. I knew that if I don’t agree, this house wouldn’t know a moment of peace tonight. “Fine. I’ll add him.” Delia and Mom exchanged a glance, and both of them smiled. Mom nodded in satisfaction and patted the back of my hand. “That’s my girl. Would I ever hurt you? I would never treat either of you poorly.” As she said this, she casually slid the remaining plate of honey-glazed pork chops right in front of Delia. “Eat up, Delia. I bought these specifically for you. Look how thin you’ve gotten.” I looked down at the bare bone in my bowl and said nothing. The next afternoon, Gary scheduled our date at a rundown dive diner on the edge of town. By the time I arrived, he was already eating. Seeing me walk in, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Sit,” he grunted, gesturing to the plastic booth across from him. I sat. He eyed me up and down, his gaze lingering on my chest for a few seconds before a smug grin spread across his face. “No filters on your photos, then? You look better than I expected.” I said nothing. He bit into a greasy piece of fried chicken, grease splattering onto the laminate table. “I asked around about you. Cashier at the local mart, barely scraping by, renting a cramped studio.” He chuckled, revealing the spinach still lodged in his teeth. “Your family is something else. Same parents, but such a massive difference. Were you adopted from a dumpster or something?” I looked him in the eye. “Are you finished?” “Not even close,” he said, leaning back and crossing his legs. “Let me tell you something, sweetheart. Women can’t afford to be picky. In a couple of years, who’s going to want you?” “I’m willing to put down sixty grand because I’m being generous.” “Once we’re married, you’ll be at home cooking, cleaning, and looking after my kid. My boy is a bit of a handful, but if you treat him right, he’ll call you mom eventually.” I reached for the bowl of hot chicken noodle soup in front of me and dumped it right into his lap. “I’m so sorry. I have absolutely no interest in raising someone else’s kid.” 2. The boiling liquid drenched his trousers. He screeched, leaping out of the booth. “You little bitch—!” “Gary,” I interrupted smoothly, “your pants are soaked. You should head home and change before you catch a cold.” His face turned the color of raw beef, soup dripping down his legs. Every single person at the surrounding tables was staring. “You’ll regret this!” he yelled, his finger shaking as he pointed it at my nose. “I’m calling your parents! They already gave me their blessing! Who do you think you are, playing hard to get?” I was already at the door. I looked back at him. “Oh, and Gary? Next time you take a girl out, don’t pick a dive. Try somewhere with a tablecloth. It makes you look like you actually have some class.” With that, I pushed the door open and walked out, his shouting fading behind me. “Who do you think you are? A useless cashier! Let’s see who’s ever going to want a crazy bitch like you!” I don’t look back. When I got home, Dad was sitting on the couch smoking, Mom was standing by the coffee table with her arms crossed, and Delia was leaning against the wall, clearly waiting for the show. “You finally decided to show your face?” Mom exploded the second I stepped through the door. “Gary just called. He said you poured hot soup all over his lap!” I shrugged. “He has a big mouth.” “A big mouth? What did he say? He said you’re a cashier—is that not the truth?” Mom’s voice was loud enough to shake the drywall. Dad snuffs out his cigarette. “Why can’t you be more like your sister? When Delia was your age, men were lining up down the block for her. What about you? What do you have?” Delia looked up, offering a sweet, mocking smile. “Mom, don’t yell at her. Nicole just has high standards. She thinks she’s too good for a local business owner.” She paused. “Then again, who knows? Maybe some blind billionaire will fall for her one day. Right?” Mom scoffed. “A billionaire? She’d be lucky if a garbage collector took her in. Look at how she dresses. Clearance-rack rags, hair like a bird’s nest. What rich man would ever look twice at her?” I looked down at myself. A Target T-shirt, Walmart jeans, and hair I hadn’t washed in three days. “You’re right, Mom,” I said, nodding. “So someone like Gary is exactly what I deserve, right?” “At least you have some self-awareness!” Mom said, her voice softening slightly, thinking I’ve finally surrendered. “Tomorrow, you go and apologize to him. This marriage is happening. The sixty thousand dollars is non-negotiable, and you’re going to settle down and behave.” Delia chimed in. “Honestly, Nicole, Gary might be average, but he’s stable. You’ll be a business owner’s wife. It’s a sweet deal. Not like me—marrying Ryan means I have to learn high society etiquette, golf, wine tasting… It’s honestly exhausting.” She sighed. “But I guess we all have our own paths. Your life will be so much easier. Just scan groceries, take care of the kid, and relax.” I looked at her and smiled. “If you’re so jealous, Delia, why don’t we trade places? After all, haven’t I had to give up everything you’ve ever wanted since we were kids?” Delia’s face froze. Mom quickly stepped in. “Your sister is only looking out for you. She’d hate to see you struggle.” Delia nodded quickly, forcing a smile. “Exactly, Nicole. I’m doing this for your own good. Ryan is incredibly demanding; you wouldn’t survive a week with him. Gary is a simple, honest man. You’ll be happy.” I let out a silent, cold laugh. Looking out for me. She’s spent her entire life tearing me down. I don’t say another word. I turn and head to my room. Behind me, Mom grumbles, “Look at her attitude!” I shut my door. Through the thin walls, I can hear Delia’s high-pitched, sweet-talking voice. “Ryan, babe, I really want the wedding at that underwater restaurant in the Maldives…” Over the next few days, things moved at lightning speed for Delia. Ryan brought his parents over to formally propose. His shiny new Porsche was parked right outside our building. All the neighbors gathered around to gawk, and Mom was practically glowing, telling anyone who will listen that her future son-in-law bought it. The engagement party was set for a week later. Mom was running around like crazy, but she still finds time to call and instruct me. “For your sister’s party, just wear that plain white sundress. Don’t try to steal her spotlight.” “Your sister’s gown is custom couture. Don’t go near her; you can’t afford to replace it if you spill something.” “Got it.” “And keep your mouth shut. Don’t embarrass your sister. Her guests are people of status. A cashier has no business chatting them up and making us a laughingstock.” “Understood.” “I’m telling you this for your own good, Nicole. Don’t go thinking I’m being unfair. I’ve never treated you poorly. What Delia gets, you get. Look, even though it’s Delia’s big day, I’m still letting you attend, aren’t I?” I hung up. 3. Never treated you poorly. She’s been repeating those words my entire life. When we were kids, Delia got the drumsticks, and I got the chicken tail. “The tail is highly nutritious, Nicole. I’ve never treated you poorly.” Delia got brand-new dresses, and I got her hand-me-downs. “Worn-in clothes are softer, Nicole. I’ve never treated you poorly.” Now, Delia is marrying a man who drives a Porsche, and I’m set up with a delivery manager. “Gary is stable, Nicole. I’ve never treated you poorly.” Never treated me poorly. She’s been so incredibly good to me. A week later, at the engagement party. Delia was in her custom gown, clinging to Ryan’s arm, smiling like a cover model. I was relegated to the very back table. Seated with the drivers, the caterers, and the florists. When Delia came around to toast the tables, she raised her voice as she reached ours, making sure everyone could hear. “Everyone, I want to give a special shoutout to my little sister.” All eyes in the banquet hall turned to me. “She actually took a day off from work just to be here for my engagement.” She winked. “It’s not easy for a grocery store cashier to get shift coverage.” Whispers broke out among the guests. At the adjacent table, someone murmured, “Her sister is a cashier? Seriously? Wow, talk about a black sheep.” Delia swept her gaze over the room, wearing a triumphant smirk. “My sister is still single, so if any of you know anyone… average, please let me know.” She paused dramatically. “I tried setting her up with someone decent the other day, but she turned him down. I’m honestly worried sick about her.” She let out a theatrical sigh. Just as I started to stand up to confront her, Mom grabbed my arm, her grip tight. “What do you think you’re doing? It’s your sister’s engagement. Don’t you dare make a scene.” I looked at her, the disappointment in my eyes impossible to hide. “Mom, you’re seriously going to let her stand there and humiliate me?” She just looked annoyed. “She’s just joking. Besides, did she say anything that isn’t true?” Seeing the commotion, Delia walked over and held her champagne flute out to me. “Nicole, aren’t you going to toast your big sister?” Mom shot me a warning glare. I stood up, lifting my glass of Coca-Cola. “Congratulations, Delia. I hope you get exactly what you deserve.” Delia stepped closer, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper only I could hear. “A forty-dollar dress, sitting at the drivers’ table. You shouldn’t even have been invited.” She pulled back, smiling sweetly. I smiled right back. “You look beautiful today, Delia. I wonder how much it costs to rent a gown like that for a day?” Delia’s smile cracked. Beside her, Ryan quickly chimed in, trying to save face. “It’s custom-made. Platinum collection. Thirty thousand—” “Oh, custom,” I nodded. “I thought maybe you bought it with your own money, Delia. After all, with your salary, if you didn’t eat or pay rent for twelve years, you’d just about have saved enough.” Delia’s face turned pale. “What did you just say?” “My math is a little rusty. Did I calculate wrong?” I tilted my head. “Don’t be mad, Delia. I was just making conversation.” “You…” Delia raised her hand, her palm flying toward my face. Suddenly, the heavy double doors of the banquet hall were thrown open. A line of men in dark suits filed in. Leading them was a man in a tailored black suit, no tie, his collar slightly unbuttoned. The moment Ryan saw him, the glass in his hand nearly slipped. He rushed forward, bowing so low his spine was almost parallel to the floor. “Mr. Holt? What an honor! What brings you here?” The man didn’t even glance at him. His gaze cut through the crowd. And landed squarely on me. Ryan followed his line of sight, his face draining of color. “Mr. Holt, that’s… that’s just my fiancée’s sister. She’s just a cashier, she…” The man was already standing in front of me. “Playtime over?” I set down my soda glass and smile. “Not quite. But almost.” Ryan was panicking now, sweat beads forming on his forehead. “Mr. Holt, you… you know my sister-in-law?” The man ignored him entirely. He reached out, taking my wrist to pull me up from the chair. He slid his hand around my waist, drawing me firmly against his side. “She’s my investor.”

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Every night after my father cheated, Mom washed his body with steel wool. She would spray rubbing alcohol onto his raw, bleeding back, her voice a manic, repeating whisper. “Dirty. You’re so dirty, Wesley. So dirty.” Dad’s face would go bone-white from the agonizing sting, but his eyes were always swimming with guilt. He never flinched, never pulled away. Instead, he would look at my wide, bewildered eyes and offer a gentle, quiet comfort. “Daddy made a mistake, Gemma. Mommy is doing the right thing.” But on my sixth birthday, Dad asked if he could take a shower by himself. The knife shook in Mom’s hand as she sliced my birthday cake. Suddenly, she snapped, lunging at him and tearing desperately at his shirt. “Are you sleeping with her again? Your little apprentice, Amber? Is she that desperate? Can’t she live without you?” “You’re pathetic, Wesley! You have a family right here, but you’d rather ruin your career and throw away your reputation just to sleep with garbage!” After Mom slapped him for the eighteenth time, Dad finally reached his breaking point. He caught her wrists and yanked up his sleeve, exposing a jagged, angry wound on his arm. “I nearly lost my arm fixing the main press at the plant today, and you don’t even care! All you do is obsess over who I’m sleeping with! When does it end!” “Even if Amber is messy, she’s still better than you. At least she didn’t grow up fooling around with her own stepbrother! I’d rather sleep with her any day. What of it?” The candle on my cake flickered out without warning, plunging our small company-housing apartment into a dim, suffocating twilight. Mom’s hand fell limp at her side. The fierce, manic light in her eyes simply vanished. I knew then: Mom was tired. Truly tired. She was ready to let go. … 1 The dry air in the room was thick with a dead, heavy silence. Dad was the first to snap out of it. He tugged the pull-string switch, and the dim, yellow bulb cast a flickering shadow across the room. He reached out instinctively to grab Mom’s hand, but he caught only empty air. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” “The machine malfunctioned today. I got hurt while trying to repair it. I only wanted to wash up myself because I didn’t want you to worry.” “Look at me, Meredith. I’m clean. There’s no scent of another woman’s cold cream on me. I swear.” Mom’s stepbrother had been an orphaned boy her stepfather brought home when they were kids. Two years older than her, she had been thrilled to finally have an older brother. She never expected that years later, he would pin her against a wall, trying to make her his. It was Dad who had happened to walk by and save her, promising never to speak a word of it to anyone. But now, he was the one using it as a weapon to tear her apart. Mom didn’t say a word. She turned her back to him, picking up the cold dishes to put them back into the steamer to reheat. Only then did Dad realize he was two hours late getting home. Two hours. That was a very specific, agonizing number in our house. A year ago, when Dad was two hours late, Mom had been so worried she ran out into a torrential downpour to find him at the plant. Peering through the dusty glass of the control room, she saw Dad and Amber tangled together. I had been riding piggyback on Mom, giggling innocently. “Is Daddy playing a game? He’s riding on Auntie Amber’s back just like I ride on yours!” “Daddy is like a puppy, playing so happily with Auntie Amber.” Mom had quickly covered my eyes, whispering for me to look away. I only remembered how hard it rained that night, the thunder shaking the earth. But as she carried me home on her back, she wept louder than the storm. Remembering this, Dad’s face drained of color. He mumbled, his voice trembling. “I’m sorry. There was really an emergency at the plant.” “I promise you, nothing like that will ever happen again. Let’s just live our lives quietly.” Mom kept her back turned, offering no reply. Assuming her silence was a quiet acceptance, Dad let out a long, relieved sigh. He went to change his clothes and sat back down at the table, his bandaged arm resting quietly. “Happy birthday, Gemma. And here’s to many more years just like this for us.” To many more years, through every season. That had been their wedding vow. They used to repeat it to each other every year. But tonight, Mom didn’t complete the sentence. She just kept silently scooping food into my bowl. Dad sighed softly and pulled two beautifully wrapped gifts from his coat pocket. One was a pair of pearl earrings; the other was a porcelain doll. “I bought these on my business trip down south. I knew you two would love them.” Though I was thrilled, I stole a glance at Mom’s face first. She gave me a small, reassuring nod, signaling that I could accept them. A spark of hope lit up Dad’s eyes. He leaned in gently, trying to slip one of the pearl earrings into Mom’s earlobe. But before he could secure the clasp, the front door was hammered so violently by the night watchman that the frame rattled. “Engineer Wesley! Come quick! The calibration is off, and Amber got her sleeve caught in the assembly line again!” Dad’s hand slipped. The sharp metal post of the earring gouged into Mom’s earlobe, and blood began to bead and run. Mom gasped from the sudden sting, tears welling in her eyes. Without looking back, Dad pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it against her bleeding ear, already heading for the door. “There’s an emergency at the plant. I have to go.” We both knew there was no emergency at the plant. There was only Amber. And Dad’s injury from earlier wasn’t from a rogue machine—it was from shielding Amber. Mom stared down at the handkerchief left in her hand. It was embroidered with a wild rose—Amber’s favorite flower. After a long, quiet moment, Mom let out a soft, hollow laugh. She stroked my hair, whispering a gentle apology. “I’m so sorry I ruined your sixth birthday, sweetie.” “But Mommy can’t do this anymore. I’m leaving your father.” When Mom took me to the municipal registry office, it was already the next morning. Dad hadn’t come home all night, and Mom hadn’t slept a wink. She held her red identification booklet, staring blankly at the clerk, taking a long moment to process the words spoken to her. “What do you mean our marriage certificate is invalid? Wesley and I aren’t husband and wife?” The clerk, a kind-faced older woman, sighed with deep sympathy. “I checked the registry database multiple times. Wesley is indeed registered as married. But not to you. His legal wife is Amber.” “They filed the paperwork with a special unit exemption a year ago.” One year ago. That was exactly three months after Amber had first moved into our house. When Mom first brought her home, Amber was black and blue, covered in cuts and bruises. Mom had told us she was a broken soul, and that we must treat her with kindness. I remembered Dad complaining in private back then, calling Amber a troubled girl from the streets, warning that keeping someone like her around would ruin my upbringing. That was the first time I ever saw Mom raise her voice at him, accusing him of lacking basic human empathy, making him swear he would treat Amber like his own sister. Once Amber recovered, she clung to Dad, eventually becoming his apprentice at the plant. Mom had been genuinely happy, thinking Amber was finally on the right path, and that Dad had let go of his prejudices. She never expected the path would lead straight to her own undoing. Dad came home early that evening. Seeing the dining table bare, he arched an eyebrow. “I’m sorry about missing dinner yesterday. Let me make it up to you. I’ll take us out to a nice restaurant.” Mom didn’t move. She simply pointed to our framed wedding portrait on the wall. “Wesley, when did your heart change?” “Was it a year ago, or was it the very first moment you laid eyes on Amber?” The photograph on the wall was already yellowing, its edges curling. In it, Dad looked stiff and formal, while Mom’s lips were pressed into a tight, nervous line. But in the photos of Dad and Amber at the plant, they both laughed with radiant, carefree abandon. Dad froze for a second, then let out a dismissive laugh. “You’re angry over a piece of paper? If you want to take new pictures, we can go to the studio right now.” “Amber is young and brilliant; her talent shouldn’t be wasted. Marrying her was just a formality to secure her residency and her spot in the plant’s fast-track program.” “It’s just a legal loophole. If it bothers you this much, I’ll file for divorce immediately.” I tugged at the hem of Mom’s shirt, looking up with innocent confusion. “Is that why the school wouldn’t let me register? Because of that paper?” Dad went rigid, a flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck. I was already past the age to start school. Every time Mom took me to register, the administrators always told her my paperwork didn’t meet the requirements. Mom had spent weeks running from office to office, wearing out two pairs of shoes, only to receive a quiet warning from an old clerk: “Are you sure about your husband’s legal status? You should look into that before you try registering the child.” Mom had assumed it was because Dad worked on confidential projects for the plant. She didn’t know that her husband wasn’t legally her husband, and that I was an illegitimate child—a ghost with no legal standing. Mom held me close, keeping her silence. Dad cleared his throat, softening his tone. “Once Amber gets her union tenure, I’ll divorce her. Then we’ll get Gemma into the best private academy in town. Just wait a little longer, okay?” Mom slipped out of his reach, looking up with calm, empty eyes. “So you never had feelings for her? It was all just a favor?” Dad nodded vigorously, trying to pull us both into a tight embrace. “I swear to God. In my heart, there is only you and Gemma.” I wrinkled my nose, pulling away from him in disgust. The scent clinging to his collar was the unmistakable, sweet aroma of Amber’s cold cream. Just then, the door creaked open. Amber stood there in a delicate floral sundress, her bottom lip trembling, her eyes rimmed with red. “Wes… I’m pregnant.” I looked up, catching the unmistakable flash of joy that crossed Dad’s eyes before he could hide it. Amber slid a medical form onto the table, her expression torn. “I know you only married me to help me get my union status. I won’t keep this baby.” “I only came because I wanted the baby’s father to know he existed. The doctor said… it’s a boy.” Tears trickled down Amber’s pale cheeks, catching the light of the pearl necklace around her throat. It was a perfect match to the earrings Dad had given Mom, only hers was far larger, far more expensive. Amber touched her neck, looking sheepish. “Wes gave this to me as a reward for winning the plant’s design competition. If it makes you uncomfortable, sister, I’ll take it off.” Dad’s eyes darted around in panic. He opened his mouth to explain, but Mom cut him off. She calmly took off her own pearl earrings and tossed them onto the table. “You already wear my old clothes and sleep with my husband. Since you love my secondhand trash so much, you might as well take these too.” Amber’s mock-innocent smile stiffened, but she quickly recovered, flashing a sharp, triumphant grin. She picked them up and put them on. “Thank you, sister. You’re so generous. It seems Wes was right to sleep with me. Compared to your flat, cold body, I obviously know how to keep him happy.” “After all, he told me that no matter how wild I am, at least I never slept with my own brother. I’m clean where it counts.” “Amber! Shut your mouth and get out of here!” Dad roared, stepping between Amber and Mom. Amber’s eyes flooded with tears, and she spun around, running out into the twilight. Dad hovered in place for a second, then tried to sound casual as he looked back at Mom. “It’s getting dark. It’s not safe for her to be out alone in her condition.” “You two wait for me here. I’ll be right back.” Beneath the table, Mom’s nails dug so hard into her palms that her knuckles turned white. I never imagined Mom’s deepest, most painful secret would be whispered in bed to Amber as a joke. And I never imagined Dad would defend Amber, leaving Mom behind once again. Mom watched his retreating figure as he ran down the street, then quietly began packing our bags. As she locked the door behind us, I kept looking down the empty road. Mom took my hand, shaking her head softly. “Don’t look back, sweetie. He’s not coming back.” As we walked toward the train station, thin flakes of snow began to drift down from the gray sky. Suddenly, Amber stepped out from the shadows of an alley, blocking our path with a cruel, satisfied smile. “I knew you’d run. That’s why I waited here. See how well I know you?” Mom didn’t want any trouble. She picked me up and tried to walk past her, but several rough-looking men stepped out from the darkness, surrounding us. Amber’s eyes gleamed with malice as she stepped closer. “Do you remember these men, Meredith? You’re the one who rescued me from them in the first place.” “They made me a whore, and you took me into your home like a saint. You’re just too good to be true, aren’t you?” Mom held me tighter, her body tense. “What do you want, Amber?” Amber let out a sharp, cold laugh. “I want you to become exactly like me. That way, Wes won’t look at you like you’re some pure, untouchable angel anymore.” “I wonder what Wes will think when he gets here and finds you stripped and ruined in the dirt?” Her eyes shifted slowly toward me, a twisted grin spreading across her face. “Little Gemma is so small, but even little girls have a certain sweetness to them, don’t they?” Mom’s eyes went wild with terror. She pulled a small utility knife from her pocket, her fingers trembling violently. “Get back! Touch her and I will kill you!” It was the hunting knife Dad had given her years ago. I buried my face in Mom’s neck, crying in terror as the men laughed, closing the circle around us. I felt a cold, greasy hand brush against my cheek. Mom screamed, swinging the knife blindly into the air. A man cried out, clutching his arm, and curses filled the snowy air. Mom didn’t stop, slashing frantically to keep them away. Suddenly, Mom’s back hit a solid wall of chest. A familiar, stern voice boomed from above us. “Meredith! When are you going to stop this madness!” Amber was already on the ground, curled in a patch of blood-stained snow. She clutched her stomach, a tragic, fragile smile on her face. “Don’t blame sister… she saved my life once… if she wants to destroy me like this, I accept it…” “But my baby… he was so small… he hadn’t even kicked yet…” Dad looked down at Mom, his voice colder than the ice beneath our feet. “Meredith, you’d better pray to God that Amber’s baby survives.” He scooped Amber into his arms and ran toward the clinic. He ran so fast, never noticing that Mom’s hand was deeply gashed, blood dripping onto the snow. I dragged Mom to the clinic myself. The nurse on duty stitched her wound with brutal, careless tugs, making the skin tear further. I tried to blow on Mom’s hand to ease the pain, glaring at the nurse. “Listen here, you little brat,” the nurse snapped, wrapping the bandage roughly. “I’m doing your home-wrecking mother a favor just by stitching her up.” Mom immediately covered my ears, her voice sharp and cold. “Apologize to my daughter.” The nurse rolled her eyes, pointing toward the private recovery room down the hall. “Engineer Wesley and Amber are legally married. Their child is the legitimate one here. A mistress should learn to keep her head down instead of demanding respect.” Dad stood in the doorway, his eyes softening slightly as he saw the blood soaking through Mom’s fresh bandage. He sighed, walking over to gently re-wrap her hand. “Thank God Amber is going to be okay. But we can’t just let this go.” “There’s been a leak of proprietary blueprints from the design office. The ministry is investigating. I need you to take the blame for Amber.” Mom froze, staring at him as if he had struck her. “You want me to take the fall for Amber?” Dad frowned, his tone matter-of-fact. “Amber is young; a security mark on her record will ruin her career forever. But you… you’re a housewife. It won’t affect you. I’ll still provide for you and take care of you.” Tears streamed down Mom’s face, burning her cheeks. “And what about Gemma? She can’t have a mother with a criminal record! She’ll never be allowed to go to school!” Dad wiped her tears away, remaining silent for a long moment. “Don’t worry. I’ll have Amber legally adopt Gemma. That way, her records stay clean.” Mom went completely rigid. When she realized what he was saying, she lunged forward, wrapping her arms around me in a desperate, suffocating grip. “Amber sent those men to hurt us! I was only protecting my child!” “I didn’t steal any data! You can’t take my baby away!” From the recovery room, Amber’s weak voice drifted out. “If sister doesn’t want to, forget it, Wes… I don’t want to make things hard for you…” The horn of an official vehicle honked outside the clinic. After a moment of hesitation, Dad stepped forward and began tearing me from Mom’s arms. “It’s just a routine inquiry, Meredith. They just need to ask you some questions.” I screamed for Mom, kicking and scratching at Dad’s face. Two security officers came in and dragged Mom out, her knees scraping hard against the gravel driveway, leaving a smeared trail of blood. She wept, crying out into the cold night air. “I didn’t do it! I swear I didn’t!” “Gemma! My baby!” “Wesley, I hate you! I hate you!” The security vehicle sped away into the dark. It didn’t return until three days later. But Mom didn’t come back. Only the plant director did. He looked at Dad, who was currently sitting with his arm wrapped around Amber, and hesitated. Dad’s eyes fell to the white shirt the director was holding. It was the shirt Mom had been wearing when she was taken. It was stiff with dried mud and stained with dark, heavy blood. The smile died on Dad’s face, his heart leaping into his throat. “Meredith’s transport vehicle was caught in a flash mudslide on the mountain road. She died on impact.” “These are her belongings. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

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