Category: English

The arranged marriage came out of nowhere, but I nodded and agreed without a single second of hesitation. The engagement party was an intimate affair, strictly reserved for immediate family. No outsiders. No unwanted noise. Just as I picked up my champagne glass to toast my future in-laws, my older brother’s phone rang, loudly interrupting the quiet elegance of the room. He answered it, his tone dripping with casual amusement. “Hey man, it is Sherry’s engagement party today. Where the hell are you? She used to follow you around calling you her favorite big brother back in the day.” Dead silence echoed from the receiver. It took a painfully long time before I heard Rowan’s voice bleeding through the speaker. It was hoarse, fractured, and completely unrecognizable. “Who is getting engaged?” Nobody knew our secret. For five years, I had been completely devoted to him, the absolute best friend of my older brother. We had been dating in the shadows for three of those years. It was a toxic, hidden relationship, and I only found the courage to finally kill it when his adopted sister returned from overseas. 1 “So, you finally cut the cord with that mysterious boyfriend of yours?” my brother, Cole, asked over the phone. He was clearly enjoying the drama. I couldn’t really blame him. For three years, I had stubbornly refused to tell him who I was dating. He had warned me plenty of times. “A guy who refuses to walk through our front door and shake my hand is a coward. He is not going to step up for you. It is going to crash and burn, Sherry.” I was completely deaf to his advice back then. I was foolish enough to believe that raw, unwavering devotion could fix a broken man. Reality ended up slapping me right across the face. “Yeah,” I replied, keeping my voice flat. “We are done.” My blunt answer caught him off guard. The line went quiet for a moment. “Did he hurt you?” I thought I was completely numb to the situation, but that single protective question made my throat tight. I took a shaky breath and shook my head at the empty room. “No. It was just time to walk away.” “Alright. Because if he laid a finger on you, I would bury him.” Cole sighed. “Sherry, most guys out there are trash. If you are actually ready to settle down, let me find someone on our level. Someone who will actually treat you right.” “Okay,” I whispered. “Set it up. I am flying back to New York the day after tomorrow.” I had barely ended the call when the bedroom door clicked open. Rowan walked in. “Who were you talking to?” I kept my back to him, terrified he would see my red eyes. “Just a friend from college.” “Right.” He walked right past me without a second glance and headed straight for his study. We had been officially together for three years, and he had always been this freezing cold. I used to justify it. I told myself it was just his personality, that he was guarded and emotionally unavailable to everyone. Until last night. I had finished a business trip early and rushed back to our Los Angeles penthouse, hoping to surprise him. His study door was usually locked tight, but last night, it was left slightly ajar. A sliver of warm, golden light spilled onto the hardwood floor. I crept closer, raising my hand to knock, but the sight inside paralyzed me. Rowan was sitting at his heavy mahogany desk, his face twisted in a look of desperate, painful pleasure. His eyes were glued to his phone screen, his breathing ragged, his hand moving rhythmically beneath his waistband. I stood frozen in the hallway. The picture on his screen was not some random model. It was Tina. The sweet, innocent girl his family had adopted. He was so consumed by his twisted fantasy that he never even heard me stumble backward and walk out the front door. I spent the entire night sitting in a cheap hotel room, staring at the wall, putting the puzzle pieces together. I finally understood everything. His coldness over the last three years had nothing to do with his personality. His refusal to go public with our relationship had nothing to do with being afraid of Cole finding out. It was all a smokescreen. He never loved me. He just needed a convenient, disposable girlfriend to hide his repulsive obsession with his adopted sister. I chased him, and he used me as a human shield. Later that evening, Tina posted a photo on her social media. “Flying back home tomorrow! Someone better come pick me up!” 2 After hanging up with Cole, I ordered a cab back to the massive, sterile mansion I shared with Rowan. I needed to pack the last of my things. He was sitting at the marble kitchen island, eating breakfast. He glanced up as I walked in and calmly instructed the housekeeper to prepare another plate. “I didn’t know you were coming back this morning,” he muttered, not looking away from his tablet. “I didn’t tell them to make enough for two.” “It’s fine,” I nodded. He didn’t know because he never bothered to ask. He never cared where I was. Rowan’s hand froze over his coffee cup. He finally looked up from his screen, a flicker of confusion crossing his dark eyes. Normally, I would have squeezed onto the stool next to him, snatched the toast right off his plate, and joked about how he was starving his poor girlfriend. Or I would have wrapped my arms around his shoulders from behind, kissing his cheek and asking if he missed me. Rowan was a brilliant, highly observant CEO. He instantly registered the dead, empty space between us. But he didn’t push. He just nodded. “I am heading to the office. Take your time.” The housekeeper handed him his tailored suit jacket. He paused. For a split second, I thought he was waiting for me to jump up and help him put it on, just like I always did. But he just slid his arms into the sleeves himself. The heavy front door clicked shut. His footsteps faded away. “Ms. Davis, what would you like to eat?” the housekeeper asked gently. I shook my head. “Nothing, thank you. Could you bring some cardboard boxes to the bedroom? I have a lot of packing to do.” I dragged my suitcase into the master suite and started dumping my clothes and toiletries inside. Once my personal items were cleared, I walked into his sprawling walk-in closet. Over the years, I had bought him countless gifts. Silk ties, custom platinum cufflinks, designer watches, tailored shirts. He barely touched any of them. The only time they ever saw the light of day was when I practically forced him to wear them. Just like his girlfriend, my gifts were kept hidden in the dark. I swallowed the bitter lump in my throat and started tossing every single thing I had ever bought him into a box. It took hours. By the time I was done, I was exhausted. I sat on the edge of the mattress, catching my breath. My phone buzzed. A text from Rowan. “Sent the driver to get you. He will be there in thirty.” Short, demanding, lacking any context. He just expected me to show up wherever he wanted. He was so incredibly used to me dropping everything to please him. I let out a dry, self-deprecating laugh. Perfect timing. It was a great opportunity to look him in the eye and say it was over. 3 The VIP lounge was drenched in pulsing neon lights and heavy bass. This used to be my playground. I was born into old money, spoiled rotten, and completely fearless. Back in New York, my friends called me the life of the party. Then I met Rowan at Cole’s university alumni gala. I was completely captivated by his icy, untouchable aura. I practically interrogated Cole, trying to find out if Rowan was single. Cole rolled his eyes. “With that freezing personality? Women are terrified of him.” I was thrilled. He was ice, I was fire. We were a perfect match. I started hunting him down behind my brother’s back. I even changed my college applications at the last minute, ditching New York for Los Angeles just to be near him. Cole lost his mind when he found out. He yelled at me for hours, but he loved me too much to stay mad. He eventually called Rowan and asked him to keep an eye on his little sister in the new city. I thought I was an absolute genius. I thought I had manipulated both Cole and Rowan perfectly. Looking back now, I was just a tragic, delusional clown. A waiter opened the heavy velvet door to the private room. It was packed and loud. Rowan rarely brought me around his inner circle. But the few times he did, he treated me with a distant sort of respect. I remember the very first time he introduced me. One of his friends smirked and said, “Damn, except for Tina, Rowan never brings girls around. You must be special.” Back then, I just thought of Tina as his little sister. I was stupid enough to think his cold exterior was just a shell, and that deep down, I was actually melting his heart. Now I realized he brought me around purely to maintain the facade. A zero-effort tactic to keep me insanely loyal while deflecting rumors. I froze just outside the door. Inside, someone whistled loudly. “Rowan, you keep your girl locked up tight. We never see her. But now Tina is back. Your absolute favorite little sister. We gotta know man, who is more important? The girlfriend or the sister?” I held my breath. My nails dug into my palms. Rowan took a slow sip of his bourbon. He didn’t say a word. Tina stomped her designer heel, pouting her glossed lips. “Rowan!” Rowan finally cracked a smile. He set the crystal glass down on the marble table with a sharp clink. His cold, velvet voice cut through the room. “A girlfriend is replaceable. I only have one sister. What do you think?” “Oh, damn! That is cold!” the room erupted in laughter and jeers. Tina beamed with triumph. She stood up, pointing a manicured finger at the guys around the table. “You, you, and you. Pay up. You lost the bet.” Rowan frowned slightly. “What bet?” “They bet me twenty grand each that you cared about your girlfriend more than me,” Tina smirked. Amidst a chorus of groans, the guys pulled out their phones to wire her the cash. Rowan watched them complain and let out a soft, genuine laugh. “You idiots deserve to lose.” I raised my knuckles and knocked on the door. 4 The raucous laughter died instantly. Rowan looked toward the entrance. There was an empty seat waiting right beside him. I ignored it entirely. I walked past him and took a seat in the darkest, furthest corner of the room. Rowan’s jaw clenched. “Sherry?” I offered a polite, empty smile and said nothing. Tina grabbed a shot glass and strutted over to my corner. “You must be Sherry. I am Tina. Rowan’s…” She paused dramatically, faking a moment of hesitation. “Sister,” Rowan supplied smoothly. Tina’s smile tightened with sheer annoyance. She shoved the glass toward me, her tone dripping with petty defiance. “Right. Sister. I just flew in today. Drink with me.” I didn’t need to be a genius to feel the toxic waves of hostility rolling off her. That was absolutely not how a sister looked at her brother’s girlfriend. It was the look of a territorial rival. She was in love with him too. The image of Rowan touching himself to her photo flashed in my mind. The whole situation was utterly repulsive. I kept my smile perfectly pleasant. “Welcome back. But I am not feeling well today. I will pass on the drink.” Tina’s face fell into an exaggerated pout. She looked back at Rowan. “Wow. That is incredibly disrespectful. I fly all the way across the world, this is my welcome home party, and she refuses to drink with me? Do you hate me or something?” “I said I am not feeling well.” Tina’s eyes watered instantly. “Rowan, she really doesn’t like me.” Rowan fixed me with a freezing, oppressive glare. “Sherry. Stop acting like a child. Drink it.” A bitter laugh almost escaped my lips. “Did you drag me all the way out here just to force me to take a shot?” He leaned back, his expression completely detached. “Tina wanted to meet you.” Right. Because his precious Tina wanted to look her competition in the eye. They were both using me as a prop in their sick, unspoken game of jealousy. I stood up. “Cool. She met me. Can I leave now?” My total lack of obedience was clearly pushing him over the edge. The temperature in the room plummeted. “What exactly is your problem today?” Rowan’s voice was dangerously low. I looked dead into his eyes, a mocking smile curving my lips. I know exactly what you two are doing. And I am entirely done playing your game. I turned on my heel to walk out. Tina lunged forward and grabbed my wrist, her nails digging into my skin. “I am the guest of honor tonight. I did not give you permission to leave.” I ripped my arm out of her grip and slapped her hard across the face. The sharp crack echoed through the dead silent room. “Who taught you manners?” I asked coldly. “Because clearly, your parents failed.” 5 I stormed down the dim, neon-lit hallway, completely ignoring the drunken shouts spilling from the other rooms. My chest was tight. I needed air. I shoved open the heavy club doors and took a massive, shuddering breath of the cool night air. I didn’t want to wait for an Uber, so I started walking down the quiet sidewalk to clear my head. I hadn’t gone more than two blocks when a black van slammed on its brakes right beside me. Instinct took over. I froze, my hand diving into my purse for my phone. I hit the emergency contact button. Rowan. Before the call even connected, the side door ripped open. Three men in black ski masks poured out. A rough burlap sack was shoved violently over my head. A sharp, stinging blow connected with the back of my neck, and the world went completely black. When I finally regained consciousness, the stench of rust and mold filled my lungs. My wrists and ankles were bound tight with heavy rope. I was dangling suspended in the air. “Lower her a bit,” a gruff voice echoed through the massive, empty space. The rope jerked, and I dropped a few feet. A filthy rag was crammed deep into my mouth, making it impossible to scream. I tried to stay calm. Once they took the gag out, I could negotiate. I had money. I could buy my way out of this. But before I could even formulate a plan, a massive hand cracked across my cheek. The force of the slap made my ears ring. Blood instantly flooded my mouth. The man wearing a cheap plastic mask grabbed my hair, yanking my head back. “Sorry, Ms. Davis. Strictly business. You pissed off the wrong person today.” He leaned in close. “Our boss has a message. Take these hundred slaps like a good girl, and you get to walk away breathing.” “If you fight back, or if you go to the cops, he guarantees you will spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder.” Tears of pure, agonizing terror burned my eyes. The masked man looked up at a small security camera mounted on the concrete pillar. “Sir, are we clear to begin?” A beat of static. Then a voice came through the speaker. “Yes.” My entire body went rigid. It felt like a bolt of lightning struck my spine. One syllable. Just one word, but I would recognize that deep, gravelly voice anywhere in the world. It was Rowan. The reality hit me like a freight train. He hired thugs to kidnap me. He ordered them to slap me a hundred times. He was avenging Tina. I bit down hard on the filthy gag, violent, muffled sobs tearing from my throat as I stared wildly at the camera lens. He loved her. He loved her so deeply, so psychotically, that he couldn’t stand the thought of her suffering a single moment of humiliation. But how could he do this to me? Even if he never loved me, I had given him five years of my life. I worshipped the ground he walked on. I was his best friend’s little sister! How could he be this deeply, inherently evil? I thrashed wildly against the ropes, screaming through the rag, praying he had a single shred of humanity left in his rotting soul. The speaker remained dead silent. The slaps rained down. One after another. The sharp, burning agony slowly faded into a dull, terrifying numbness. Hot blood dripped steadily from my chin onto the cold concrete floor. 6 When I opened my eyes again, the harsh fluorescent lights of the Pierce family’s private hospital blinded me. Rowan was standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, his back perfectly straight, hands in his pockets. Hearing the rustle of the sheets, he turned around. “You’re awake,” he said, his voice completely devoid of emotion. I forced my cracked lips into a grotesque smile. “Are you disappointed I didn’t die?” Rowan’s expression didn’t even twitch. “You crossed a massive line yesterday.” “Tina just moved back. You humiliated her in front of our entire circle. How is she supposed to show her face in this city after you slapped her?” “So you decided a hundred slaps was fair compensation?!” I screamed, grabbing the glass water cup from the nightstand and hurling it at his chest. It shattered on the floor. “You care about her reputation, but what about me?!” “If you are so desperately in love with her, then go be with her! Why use this sick ‘brother-sister’ excuse to torture everyone else?!” “Sherry Davis!” He barked my name, his entire body going rigid. The calm facade cracked, replaced by a storm of dark, terrifying fury. He glared at me, his chest heaving. “Tina will only ever be my sister. Do not ever say that again.” “Calm down and stop being so dramatic.” He turned on his heel and walked toward the door. Just as his hand hit the doorknob, he stopped. Without turning back, he lowered his voice. “I will make this up to you.” “You have been begging me to go public with our relationship, haven’t you? Next month, I will fly to New York and officially meet your parents.” I stared at his back, a bitter, hysterical laugh bubbling up in my chest. How many times had I begged him to meet my brother? He always had a million excuses. But now that Tina was back, he was suddenly volunteering to lock us down. He was terrified. He was terrified of his own sickening desires, so he desperately needed a public commitment to me to build a cage around himself. Did he honestly think I would stay and play the warden for his incestuous little fantasy? I pulled out my phone and texted Cole. I am flying home tomorrow. 7 The ride back to the penthouse was suffocating. Rowan sat in the back of the Maybach, radiating a lethal, freezing silence. His assistant, who was driving, checked the rearview mirror a dozen times before finally working up the nerve to speak. “Mr. Pierce, if you keep blindly protecting Tina and hurting Ms. Davis like this… you are going to lose her for good.” Rowan stared out the tinted window, ignoring him. The assistant took a nervous breath and pushed harder. “Ms. Davis gave you everything. When she was in college, she was the absolute IT girl. Guys were lining up around the block just to talk to her, but she never looked at anyone but you.” “She was so wild and free back then. But she completely erased her own personality to fit into your world. You hated bright colors and tight dresses, so she threw out her entire wardrobe and only wore white for you.” “When you were working yourself to death and neglecting your health, she spent weeks tracking down holistic recipes. She stood in the kitchen for hours learning to make your favorite soups. She burned her hands so badly she had blisters for weeks.” “When you drank yourself into a bleeding ulcer trying to close that tech merger, she sat on the hospital floor and cried the entire night. But the second you woke up, she wiped her face and smiled at you like nothing happened.” The assistant choked up. Even he felt the crushing injustice of it all. He had gone to the same university. He remembered the blazing, radiant girl Sherry used to be. Seeing her crushed into a submissive, battered shadow just to appease a man who clearly preferred his adopted sister was sickening. “Shut up,” Rowan snapped, his voice dangerously low. But the assistant couldn’t stop. He looked at Rowan through the mirror with a look of genuine pity. “Boss, people have limits. Once a heart goes completely cold, you can’t warm it back up.” Rowan’s chest tightened violently. The memory of waking up in the hospital hit him like a physical blow. Sherry sitting in the chair, her eyes bloodshot and swollen, forcing a radiant, exhausted smile just for him. Another memory flashed. The first time she brought him soup in a thermos. He had caught a glimpse of the angry red burns blistered across her knuckles. He had only taken one sip before pushing it away. “Don’t cook anymore.” He said it because he didn’t want her getting hurt again. But he remembered the flash of crushing disappointment in her eyes before she plastered on a bright smile. “Guess you hate the chicken soup. It’s okay, I will learn to make chowder next time.” Then, the final image slammed into his brain. The security feed from the warehouse. Sherry suspended in the air, covered in dirt and blood, staring directly into the camera with tears streaming down her bruised face. Suddenly, Rowan couldn’t breathe. “Turn the car around,” he ordered sharply. “Back to the hospital.” The assistant’s face lit up with massive relief. He whipped the steering wheel hard, tearing back down the avenue. Just as the Maybach pulled up to the hospital entrance, Rowan’s phone lit up. It was Tina. Her voice was trembling with fake, high-pitched sobs. “Rowan, I slipped in the shower. It hurts so much, please come home.” Rowan gripped the phone, his knuckles turning white. He looked up through the windshield. He could see the warm light glowing from Sherry’s hospital room window. “Please, Rowan,” Tina whined through the speaker. Rowan closed his eyes. He took a slow, deep breath, then looked at the rearview mirror. “Drive to the family estate.” The assistant opened his mouth in shock. “But sir—” “I said drive!” Rowan roared. The assistant flinched, shifting the car into drive and pulling away from the hospital. 8 I stood by the hospital window, staring down at the street. I had been trying to figure out the logistics of my flight when I saw the sleek black Maybach pull up to the curb. My heart did a strange, painful stutter. I didn’t know why he came back. Was he here to threaten me again? To make sure I knew my place regarding Tina? Or did a miraculous shred of guilt actually bring him back to apologize? But a minute later, the Maybach abruptly pulled away from the curb and vanished into the city traffic. Whatever his reason was, it didn’t matter anymore. I let out a quiet breath and smiled. I was genuinely free. I stayed awake the entire night. I went through my phone and deleted his contact, his messages, and his email. I opened my photo gallery and permanently erased three years’ worth of pictures and videos. By the time the sun began to rise over the skyline, I walked out of the hospital doors. The weather was beautiful. The highway to LAX was completely empty. Walking away from him was infinitely easier than fighting to stay beside him. I remembered a quote I had read online once: Fate will force you to repeat the same painful lesson until you finally learn how to handle it. Walking away from the wrong person is the only way to let the right things happen. Even the universe was telling me to cut my losses. The flight was smooth. When I landed at JFK, Cole was leaning against a concrete pillar in the arrivals terminal, wearing dark aviators and waving lazily. “Finally decided to come home?” Seeing my family, breathing in the chaotic, familiar air of New York… a massive wave of emotion crashed over me. I swallowed the lump in my throat and shot him a cocky smirk. “Yeah, I came back to make sure you haven’t bankrupted the family empire yet.” Cole barked out a laugh. “Still got a razor-sharp tongue, I see.” He stepped forward and pulled me into a crushing, fiercely protective hug. “Alright, alright, I will let you have the empire. Having my little sister back is all that matters.” The tears I had been fighting back finally spilled over. I reached up and quickly wiped them against the shoulder of his jacket. “Come on,” Cole patted my back and released me. “I actually prepared a surprise for you.” “A surprise?” Cole smirked and pointed a finger over my shoulder. My stomach dropped. A terrible sense of dread washed over me. I turned around. Standing a few yards away, looking effortlessly handsome in a tailored coat, was a man who easily stood out from the rushing airport crowd. Cole slipped his hands into his pockets. “Let’s go say hi to your future husband.”

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The System wiped every trace of me from my fiancé Declan’s memory, all to ensure he would effortlessly fall for the predestined female lead. I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. What the System completely failed to realize was that I had manipulated my way into his bed. Declan actually loathed the very ground I walked on. Once he and the female lead made their relationship official, I packed my bags, left the city behind, and flew across the globe to Europe. I never expected to bump into him on a cobblestone street in Florence. His eyes locked onto mine. A furious blush crept up his neck, and he clutched his chest, breathless. “Who are you? Can we get to know each other?” What an absolute idiot. He was probably having heart palpitations from the sheer rage of seeing me, and his broken brain actually mistook it for love at first sight. 1 My family survived entirely on the Sinclair family’s charity. From the time I could walk, I was groomed to be their perfect daughter-in-law. When the eldest son, Arthur, passed away, the second son, Declan, became my only target. But Declan despised me. Whenever I tried to get close to Arthur when we were kids, Declan would tremble with anger. I honestly thought he was just jealous. So, I threw myself at Declan with reckless abandon, trying to win him over. The boy rolled his eyes so hard he nearly passed out on the spot. Once, the Sinclair family’s puppy and I both tumbled into a muddy ditch. Declan marched right over, scooped up the shivering puppy, and left me sitting in the muck. In the end, it was the dog who led the estate staff back to rescue me. That was the exact moment I knew Declan hated my guts. After all, he was severely allergic to dog hair. He was willing to risk a severe allergic reaction for a dog, but wouldn’t lift a finger for me. When the System finally manifested in my head, I was busy snapping covert photos of Declan in his mahogany study. I was reporting his every after-hours move to his grandfather, the patriarch of the Sinclair empire. I texted the old man. Grandfather Sinclair, he just finished dinner and went straight to the study. He is likely handling the Silver Coast port project. He is on a video call with the European valuation team right now. I reported everything with robotic precision. Right then, Declan’s sharp gaze shifted from his glowing monitors directly to me. He flinched slightly, then let out a long, heavy exhale. His dark eyes bored into mine, brimming with severe impatience. He always knew I was his grandfather’s little spy, which explained the constant scowl. I offered him an apologetic smile and turned to leave. That was when the static buzzed in my skull, followed by the System’s voice. “Apologies, supporting character. The female lead arrived far too late to capture the male lead’s heart. I never calculated that you would actually be on the verge of marrying him.” A sharp crackle of electricity echoed in my mind. “To ensure this world functions correctly, the core programming demands that the female lead successfully romances Declan Sinclair. I am required to purge every single memory he has of you. As compensation, your family’s assets will remain untouched. Grandfather Sinclair will not retaliate against you. Feel free to state any other demands.” 2 I nodded vigorously, like my life depended on it. The System was stunned into silence, clearly not expecting me to agree so eagerly. “Do you not feel any regret? You are literally about to get married.” Regret? Absolutely not. It had no idea that Declan would never have agreed to this arranged marriage in his right mind. I had followed Grandfather Sinclair’s ruthless instructions, slipped sleeping pills into Declan’s drink, and staged a series of highly compromising, half-naked photos of us tangled in the sheets. It was pure blackmail. He was forced to marry me. He hated me with a burning, venomous passion. The System’s intervention meant Declan got his freedom, and I finally got to breathe. What was there to regret? It was a miraculous pardon for two miserable enemies. Right after finalizing the deal with the System, my phone buzzed. It was the wedding planner, brightly asking if I preferred a garden ceremony or a private island getaway. “Either is fine,” I brushed her off. Soon, Declan would forget my face. Grandfather Sinclair would let me off the hook. I would fade into the background, a ghost of a supporting character in this sprawling world. Nobody would remember me. Nobody would speak my name. The planner sounded slightly awkward. “Mr. Sinclair explicitly said to follow your preference. The aesthetics for those two options are drastically different.” She was highly tactful. Declan would never utter those words. She clearly couldn’t reach him and was forced to consult me instead. I sighed. “The island, then.” Hanging up, I stepped out of the guest room and nearly collided with Declan in the hallway. He had just stepped out of the shower. A single white towel hung low on his hips. His damp hair was pushed back, revealing sharp, handsome features and an aura of cold detachment. He radiated the oppressive authority of a man born to rule. I gripped my phone and shrank back against the wall, trying to make myself invisible. Declan let out a dark chuckle. He raised a brow. “What? Do you need to report my shower schedule to the old man too?” He took a step closer, towering over me, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Want to take a picture right now?” His sculpted chest and abs were right in my line of sight. A pale, jagged scar rested just above his hip, moving as he breathed. The owner of that scar was glaring down at me with pure hostility. Financial magazines always painted the Sinclair heir as a paragon of gentle, refined elegance. The city’s most eligible bachelor. Why was he such a menace around me? Right. Because he hated me. “No,” I muttered softly. “I don’t report this.” Declan shot me a lethal glare. “You better not.” He walked away with a slow, measured predatory grace. The shifting muscles in his back looked like a masterclass in Renaissance sculpting. “I’m sorry,” I blurted out. He stopped dead in his tracks. He turned his head slowly. “What did you just say?” Then realization dawned on him, followed by a scoff. “Camellia, don’t you think it’s a little too late for apologies?” It really was. I had missed countless chances to apologize. I could have apologized for invading his childhood, for intentionally falling into that mud puddle, for the drugged photos, for the constant surveillance. So now, I just looked at him. “I’m sorry, Declan. And you are going to be free.” My voice was barely a whisper. I wasn’t even sure if he caught it. His jaw clenched. He stared intensely at my face, lips parting as if he wanted to argue. But then his eyes flicked to a hidden security camera tucked in the crown molding. He snapped his mouth shut and walked away without another word. 3 The very next morning, I stopped waking up early to force him into having breakfast with me. I stopped sending daily briefs to Grandfather Sinclair. Declan obviously did not care about my sudden absence. Surprisingly, Grandfather Sinclair did not call to reprimand me either. I spent my days lounging around the sprawling estate, snacking, and binge-watching television. I was just biding my time, waiting for the System’s final cue to vanish. An entertainment news segment flashed across the screen, detailing Declan’s latest romantic exploits. He always had a revolving door of tabloid rumors, mostly smoke and mirrors. But not a single article ever linked him to me. Even when we visited the ancestral estate and paparazzi caught us in the same frame, Declan would either physically block me from the lens or spend exorbitant sums to kill the photos. He treated any association with me like a plague. Ever since our engagement was forced upon him, he had kept his name out of the gossip rags. But this time was different. The woman in the headlines was the actual female lead. She was Olivia, a stunning, highly capable prodigy who had just returned from overseas and was immediately parachuted into an executive role at the Sinclair conglomerate. The wedding planner called again to confirm dress fittings and casually asked me to nail down the groom’s tuxedo style. Sure, why not. Declan had met his destined soulmate; he had zero time for this charade. The wedding was doomed anyway, so I just played along to keep up appearances. While I secretly arranged my international visa, Declan started leaving before dawn and returning long after midnight. We rarely crossed paths. Until one random Tuesday afternoon. He burst through the front doors, looking frantic. He practically tore through the mansion, hunting for something. He flung open a second-story window, spotted me walking the dog in the courtyard, and froze. He was sweating, his chest heaving as he stared down at me with wild desperation. I jumped. Did he find out I had been secretly skimming cash from his black card? I only took five thousand at a time. Would a billionaire CEO really lose his mind over a few grand? “Do you need something?” I called up, suddenly feeling very guilty. He let out a shaky breath. The frantic energy drained from his face, replaced by a deep frown. He stayed silent for a long time before speaking. “Have you seen my black onyx tie clip? Never mind. Asking you is worse than asking this fat dog.” The dog, Tank, tilted his head in confusion. I stood there utterly bewildered. I wasn’t even sure which one of us he was insulting. But at least I was safe. I really thought he was coming after me for the twenty grand missing from his account. 4 We ended up eating a painfully awkward lunch together. Maybe I was imagining things, but I could feel his gaze constantly sticking to my face. The System chimed in to reassure me. This was a normal side effect. As his memories of me dissolved, his brain was trying to fill in the blanks, causing mild confusion. As the memories vanished, the hatred vanished with them. He no longer looked at me with sheer disgust or cold distance. Instead, his eyes held a complex, murky blend of bewilderment and hesitation. Slowly but surely, he was forgetting I even existed. We went two full weeks without seeing each other. When we accidentally bumped into each other in the kitchen, he would just stare at me, his brows knitted together in deep concentration, looking like he wanted to ask a question but didn’t know the words. It was almost comical. He probably thought it was strange to have a random woman living in his house. Everything was going perfectly. The media was buzzing with news of him and Olivia. I was just waiting for the perfect moment to slip away. Then, I woke up in the dead of night to find a tall silhouette standing right beside my bed. I let out a muffled scream. It was Declan. He was standing perfectly still in the dark. He stared down at me for an eternity before finally speaking. “Oh. It is just Camellia.” Then he turned and walked out, leaving me stunned. I actually found this non-toxic, confused version of Declan slightly endearing. He wasn’t biting my head off anymore. I suppose taking away the memory really does take away the venom. I immediately contacted the System. “If you keep dragging this out, your precious male lead is going to develop schizophrenia. Change my flight to tomorrow morning.” At the crack of dawn, armed with the twenty grand I had siphoned from his accounts and a single suitcase, I headed for the airport. Tank circled my ankles whining before I walked out the door for good. Right before takeoff, the wedding planner called one last time. “Ms. Sinclair, apologies for the intrusion. The custom rings you ordered have arrived, but yesterday you also selected a ready-made pair from our showroom. Which set would you prefer for the ceremony?” She texted me two photos. The first set was clearly a bespoke masterpiece, far more exquisite than the showroom rings. I frowned at the screen. I never ordered custom rings. Declan certainly wouldn’t order them either. They must have mixed up their billionaire clients. The intercom announced that all electronic devices needed to be switched off. I didn’t have time to argue. “Just go with the second picture.” I felt terrible making this poor woman work on a wedding that would never happen. I quickly added, “If he hasn’t paid the final balance, just hold off on everything. The wedding might not even happen.” Dead silence on the other end of the line. Finally, the planner spoke. “Rest assured, we offer premium service. Mr. Sinclair already paid the entire balance in full.” I let out a dry laugh. “You definitely have the wrong file. We didn’t order custom rings.” She made a confused sound, but before she could reply, a flight attendant tapped my shoulder, gesturing to my phone. I gave an apologetic smile and ended the call. I wasn’t sure if the System orchestrated the weather, but outside the tiny window, the rain was coming down in sheets, looking determined to wash away every trace of my existence in this city. Thankfully, the flight wasn’t delayed. Goodbye, male lead. 5 Halfway across the world, Declan stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Sinclair corporate headquarters. He had just wrapped up a grueling international conference call, finally securing the elusive Silver Coast project. His perpetually tense jaw relaxed. A faint, triumphant smile touched his lips. His dark eyes caught the reflection of the city lights. He stared out at the ink-black sky with a lazy arrogance. A single drop hit the reinforced glass. Then, an overwhelming deluge. Declan’s smile froze. His expression went dangerously blank. Why did he fight so viciously for this project? Was it to prove a point to the old man? To prove he could break free from those suffocating chains and become the absolute ruler of the Sinclair empire? And then what? He becomes the patriarch. Then what? A man known for his ruthless corporate slaughter suddenly looked completely lost. Yes, it was about power, but it wasn’t just about power. Panic flared in his chest. He literally could not remember why he had spent the last three years locked in a brutal power struggle against his grandfather. His hands twitched. He started looking frantically around his pristine office. He paced the thick carpet for twenty minutes until his newly appointed assistant knocked, asking if he needed a driver to take him home. He stopped. Right. Home. There was something at home he needed to find. The assistant asked if she should accompany him. Declan shot her a cold look and declined. The tabloids were having a field day with the two of them. Even sharing an elevator resulted in leaked photos. The media loved the narrative of the playboy billionaire and his gorgeous, starlet-level assistant, but he had zero intention of touching her. He hired her for her brutal efficiency, not for a fabricated romance. He walked out alone. The storm was violent but brief. By the time his car pulled into the estate, the rain had stopped. Martha, the housekeeper, brought out his dinner. Declan chewed the Michelin-star food mechanically. Tank sat nearby, loudly crunching his kibble. The massive house felt suffocatingly quiet. Halfway through his steak, Declan looked up at Martha. “Do I normally eat alone?” 6 Martha blinked, thoroughly confused. She thought he was offering to share the meal. “I have already eaten, Mr. Sinclair.” Declan didn’t say another word. He had no idea what was missing from his brain. He just knew there was a massive, gaping hole in his reality. He stared out the dining room window at the beautiful camellia tree in the courtyard, its delicate red petals battered and scattered across the wet stones by the storm. Suddenly, he felt a hot drop of liquid slide down his cheek. Absurd. Why the hell was he crying over a rainstorm? He wiped his face. He told himself he was just burning out from the endless negotiations. But why wasn’t he celebrating the Silver Coast victory? Why did his chest feel like it was trapped in a vise? He pushed his chair back and walked over to Tank. Just as he reached out to pet the golden fur, Martha gasped. “Sir, please! Your allergies!” Declan’s hand froze mid-air. He distinctly remembered telling people he was highly allergic to dog hair. But a quiet voice in his head called him a liar. He was faking it. He faked the allergy so people would praise his boundless empathy for keeping a dog he was allergic to. No, that wasn’t right. Why go through all that trouble? Oh. It was because he wanted someone specific to worry about him. He wanted someone to pay attention to him instead of spending all their time rolling in the grass with a fat dog. Did he really fake an allergy just to compete with an animal for affection? Did he stoop that low just to make someone choose him over the dog? Declan’s head began to throb violently. He pulled his hand back. Who was that someone? Who dared to treat him like an afterthought? The pain in his skull flared hot and sharp. He decided to medicate and sleep it off. He would figure out the missing pieces tomorrow. But a blurry, indistinct silhouette kept flashing behind his eyelids. He couldn’t stay in bed. He got up to grab melatonin from the downstairs bathroom. But instead of turning toward the stairs, his body moved on autopilot. He walked down the silent corridor and pushed open the door to the guest suite. It was completely empty. Not a single personal item remained. Declan had no idea why he was standing in a room nobody used. But he walked over to the neatly made bed and stood there in the dark for a very, very long time. He was not a sentimental man. Even surviving years of Grandfather Sinclair’s psychological warfare hadn’t broken him. He never threw pity parties. But standing next to that empty bed, Declan felt his soul hollow out. He collapsed onto the stark white sheets. Out of nowhere, all the loneliness, agony, and bitter resentment in the universe crashed down on him, burying him alive.

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There were eight of us in the department. Only seven spots remained. The voting results were in. Seven votes, all pointing directly at me. Valerie held the tally sheet up for the entire room to see. She took a red marker, circled my name twice, and pinned the paper to the whiteboard. A relieved, triumphant smile spread across her face. She looked right at me, asking if I had any objections to being the one eliminated. I glanced around the conference table. Brittany was staring intently at her phone, pretending to be busy. Phillip was looking up at the ceiling tiles. The rest of my colleagues shifted in their seats, their eyes darting anywhere but my face. Not a single person was willing to meet my gaze. I thought about the last three years. I thought about the clients I had personally secured for this team. My accounts brought in twenty-four million dollars a year. Sixty percent of the entire department’s revenue was built on my blood, sweat, and overtime. The absolute irony of it all was staggering. They were voting out the only person in the entire agency who actually had the private cell phone numbers of our biggest clients. I quietly unclipped my corporate ID badge. I placed it gently on the polished oak table. “I have no objections,” I replied, my voice dead calm. 1 The conference room door clicked shut behind me. The hallway light had been flickering for half a month, buzzing faintly overhead. I barely took three steps before a burst of laughter drifted through the glass walls. Through the frosted privacy film, I watched Brittany raise her iced caramel macchiato. She tapped her plastic cup against Valerie’s coffee mug. She congratulated Valerie loudly, celebrating the fact that the dead weight was finally gone. Valerie tried to lower her voice, but the hallway was far too quiet. She complained that I should have been fired ages ago. She whined about how embarrassing it was every time a client praised me instead of her. I pulled my gaze away and walked back to my desk. A new email popped up on my monitor. The sender was Sarah from HR. The subject line was blunt. I was instructed to complete my offboarding and handover process by five o’clock this afternoon. The email ended with a brightly colored smiley face emoji. My desk was right by the window. The potted ivy on the windowsill was the first thing I bought when I got hired three years ago. It cost me ten bucks online. Now, the green vines cascaded all the way down to my keyboard. Phillip walked out of the conference room. He paused as he passed my desk, shifting his weight nervously. He whispered my name. I kept my eyes on my monitor, sorting through my digital files. I told him to just spit it out. He dropped his voice to a bare whisper. He explained that Valerie promised the vote was anonymous. But she stood right behind the ballot box, watching exactly what everyone wrote. I nodded slowly, saying I already knew. He stammered, asking why I didn’t say anything. I finally looked up at him. I asked him who exactly I was supposed to report it to. The manager who rigged the vote? Or the seven colleagues who blindly followed her orders? Phillip’s face flushed deep red. He stood there in agonizing silence for a few seconds before hurrying away. I opened my bottom drawer and pulled out three thick notebooks. The covers were labeled Category A, Category B, and Category C. The Category A notebook was completely battered. It held the meticulous, unspoken habits of every single major client I managed. Richard Henderson does not drink coffee. He only accepts an exclusive, single-estate Darjeeling tea, and he absolutely refuses to drink anything past the third steep. Manager Davis has a son applying to Ivy League schools. The first ten minutes of any meeting must be spent asking about SAT prep, and the word “rejection” is strictly banned from the conversation. Director Smith has a clinical obsession with presentation aesthetics. Any font smaller than size 24 gets the entire deck thrown out, and using harsh red or green colors is an automatic failure. None of this information existed in the company’s official CRM software. It only existed in my brain and within the pages of these three notebooks. The sharp clack of high heels approached my desk. Brittany stopped right beside me. She was holding Valerie’s half-finished latte. She demanded that I compile every single file regarding the Apex Holdings account and hand it over to her immediately. I asked her what exactly she needed. She rolled her eyes. She wanted everything. Contact details, communication logs, price quotes, and contract addendums. She insisted I leave nothing out. She admired her freshly manicured nails. They were painted a pale pink, each one embedded with a tiny rhinestone. Just last month, Apex Holdings asked her for a standard quarterly billing spreadsheet. She dragged her feet for three days because she couldn’t figure out the formatting macros. Finally, at eleven o’clock on a Tuesday night, she texted me begging for help. I stayed up all night finishing it for her. The very next morning, Valerie sent out a department-wide email praising the team for their collaborative effort. She cc’d upper management. I gave Brittany a slow nod. I told her I would get it organized. She turned on her heel and strutted away, looking entirely pleased with herself. The sickly sweet smell of caramel syrup lingered in the air around my desk. I opened a hidden folder on my hard drive labeled “Daily Backups.” Three years of emails. Three years of text message screenshots. Three years of original pitch decks, all marked with irrefutable digital timestamps. Every single document bore one name. Mine. I didn’t rush to export them. Instead, I picked up my watering can and tended to my ivy. I wasn’t going to let a few minutes change anything today. 2 When I joined the agency three years ago, Valerie was not here. Our manager at the time was an older guy named Arthur. He was coasting through his final year before retirement and managed absolutely nothing. On my first week, I was tossed directly into the Apex Holdings bloodbath. It was a twenty-four-million-dollar annual contract. There were eight agencies fighting tooth and nail to get on their vendor list. We were ranked dead last at number six. Nobody wanted to touch the account. It wasn’t because the workload was impossible. It was because their CEO, Richard Henderson, was notoriously brutal. The account manager before me spent six months trying to win him over. Richard looked at him during a pitch meeting and asked if our agency always sent bottom-tier talent to waste his time. The guy was dismissed on the spot. On my very first day managing the account, I walked into Richard’s office carrying a small, elegant tin of that rare Darjeeling tea. It cost me a hundred and twenty dollars. My monthly salary was four thousand. I was living in a cramped, windowless basement flat that ate up two thousand of my paycheck every month. Richard glanced at the tin. His face was entirely devoid of emotion. He ordered me to speak. I opened the pitch deck I had spent an entire week agonizing over. He listened for exactly ten minutes. Then he pointed at the cost breakdown on slide three, stating the data modeling was completely flawed. He kicked me out. I went back to the office and worked for three days straight, fueled by nothing but adrenaline and cheap takeout. The second time I visited his office, I brought another tin of tea. This time, he listened for forty minutes. When he finally rejected the proposal again, he gave me a sharp look. He said it was getting interesting and told me to come back next week. On my fifth visit, he signed the letter of intent. After his signature dried, he opened the tin of tea, brewed two cups, and slid one across his massive oak desk toward me. That was the year we went from being the sixth-ranked backup to Apex Holdings’ exclusive annual agency. Valerie parachuted into the company the following year. Rumor had it she was college friends with our upper management, specifically Director Wallace. Her resume boasted eight years of elite client relationship management. During her first week, she ordered me to consolidate every single piece of data on the Apex project into a comprehensive transition manual. She used a sickeningly sweet tone. She told me it was company policy to ensure client relationships weren’t tied to a single employee. She asked what would happen if I got sick and needed a week off. I spent two grueling days drafting a detailed, thirty-two-page operational manual. On the third day, she took that exact document into a closed-door meeting with Director Wallace. The title slide of the presentation read: “Client Relationship Optimization Strategy by Valerie.” She hadn’t changed a single word of my thirty-two pages. She simply swapped the color palette and adjusted the fonts. During the quarterly review, Director Wallace asked who was responsible for boosting the Apex contract renewal rate from sixty-eight to ninety-seven percent. Valerie smiled warmly. She credited the entire team for their hard work, adding that she personally spearheaded the strategy and high-level negotiations. When the holiday bonuses rolled around, Valerie received an elite A-tier rating. Her bonus was eighty thousand dollars. I was given a C-tier rating. I received four thousand. I pulled out my phone and opened the calculator app. I typed in some numbers. Since my first day, I had revised forty-seven different pitch decks for Apex Holdings. I had shared thirty-two pots of tea with Richard. I had defused eleven major operational crises. The worst crisis happened at two in the morning on Christmas Eve. Richard sent an emergency email stating our server integration was failing. Valerie’s phone was turned off. I crawled out of my warm bed, hailed a cab in a blizzard, and spent six hours sitting on the freezing floor of our IT department fixing the corrupted code. The cab fare that night cost me a hundred and fifty dollars out of pocket. Nobody ever reimbursed me. Richard found out about it the next day. He personally called me to say thank you. That was the exact moment he saved my personal cell phone number. Valerie knew absolutely nothing about that night. All she knew was that Richard renewed the annual contract. She eagerly forwarded his confirmation email to Director Wallace. She added her own little note at the top, thanking Wallace for his brilliant leadership in securing the renewal. 3 The offboarding process officially began at ten in the morning. Sarah from HR sent over a massive checklist containing fourteen mandatory tasks. Task number one required me to log all client contact information into the company’s master directory. I read the checklist carefully, then locked my three personal notebooks inside my desk drawer. I paid for those notebooks with my own money. The details inside were personal observations about human behavior, not proprietary corporate data. Every standard metric the company required was already uploaded to their official CRM system. Brittany dragged an ergonomic chair over to my desk to supervise my exit. She crossed her legs, scrolling lazily through her social media feed. She asked me what Richard usually liked to talk about. I told her he liked to talk about work. She sighed, asking what he discussed outside of work. I told her there was no outside of work. She huffed in annoyance, dropping her phone into her lap. She crossed her arms. She told me Valerie ordered a complete brain dump. She said dumping files into a shared drive wasn’t enough. I needed to teach her exactly how to manipulate the client. I kept my eyes on my screen. I told her the CRM system held incredibly detailed communication logs. She scoffed, asking who actually had time to read all that garbage. She demanded I just give her the bullet points. I dragged my final compressed folder into the company’s secure cloud drive. I looked her in the eye. I told her every single piece of project data was officially uploaded. If she didn’t understand something, she was welcome to read the logs. She glared at me, her voice rising. She started to complain about my attitude. Valerie suddenly appeared behind us holding a steaming mug of pour-over coffee. She cut Brittany off smoothly. She asked me to do one final favor before I packed my boxes. She placed her sleek smartphone directly on my keyboard. The screen displayed her messaging app, specifically a drafted text addressed to Richard Henderson. She wanted me to use my personal phone to send him a very specific message. I was supposed to tell him that my health was failing, that I was stepping away from the industry, and that Brittany would be taking over my accounts moving forward. I was supposed to explicitly endorse her. I stared at the drafted text. I read every single manipulative word. I asked her if she seriously wanted me to lie to the CEO of a major corporation, claim I was medically unfit to work, and beg him to trust someone else. Valerie’s voice was sickeningly gentle. She sounded like a preschool teacher explaining a basic concept to a slow child. She told me it wasn’t about me failing. It was just a corporate restructuring. She suggested I play along so we didn’t end things on bad terms. Brittany giggled loudly from her chair. I stared at Valerie’s screen. Richard’s profile picture was a high-resolution shot of a massive pine tree. It was the same tree outside his corner office window. Last winter, he pointed it out to me. He said he had been building his company in that building for eighteen years, and that tree had weathered every storm right alongside him. Valerie tapped the desk impatiently, demanding to know if I was going to send it. I pushed her phone back across the desk. I told her absolutely not. The gentle, maternal mask on Valerie’s face instantly cracked. Her voice dropped, growing harsh and sharp. She reminded me that I was a terminated employee. I had no leverage and no right to act superior. I calmly stated that Richard had my personal number. I refused to send him a fabricated script. She snapped back, pointing out that his number was logged in the company system. I smiled faintly. I suggested she use the official company system to contact him herself, rather than desperately trying to hijack my personal phone. The air around my desk froze. Valerie took a deep, trembling breath. She forced her voice back to a level volume. She told me to finish my checklist and walked away. Brittany shot me a dirty look and hurried after her. I could hear their hushed voices drifting from the breakroom. Brittany sounded panicked. She asked what they were going to do if I refused to cooperate. Valerie laughed dismissively. She said that once I was out the door, she would simply have Director Wallace call Richard directly. She sneered, asking if Brittany genuinely believed a multi-million dollar client would follow a low-level grunt out the door. I turned back to my desk and began packing my pens. A twenty-four-million-dollar contract. Richard was a lot of things, but he was certainly not an idiot. My phone vibrated violently against the wood. A text message lit up the screen. It was from Richard. He asked if the renewal pricing for next month was finalized. He casually reminded me not to forget his Darjeeling tea for our upcoming meeting. I placed my phone face down on the desk. I didn’t reply. 4 At noon, Valerie sent a cheerful message to the department group chat. She announced she was treating everyone to an expensive sushi lunch to celebrate the successful optimization of the team. She added a bunch of party emojis, wishing everyone a strong start to the new quarter. The chat instantly exploded with praise. People sent fireworks, calling her the best boss ever, hyping up the free food. The sole reason for the celebration was my termination. Nobody felt an ounce of guilt. Or if they did, they were far too terrified to speak up. Brittany walked over to my desk, her eyes practically gleaming with malice. She asked if I wanted to join them, adopting a pitying look that suggested I should be begging for a seat at the table. I told her I was passing. She shrugged dramatically, telling me it was my loss. She grabbed her designer purse and strutted out. The click of her heels echoed loudly down the corridor. By a quarter past twelve, the entire floor was dead quiet. I was the only person left. The low hum of the air conditioning was the only sound in the massive room. I unzipped my bag and pulled out a cheap tuna sandwich I bought from the corner deli that morning. I took a bite. The bread was slightly stale. The afternoon sun spilled through the window, catching the bright green leaves of my ivy plant. A sudden memory hit me. Last Christmas, the company distributed boxes of artisanal chocolate truffles to every department. There were exactly eight truffles in a box. Valerie was the one handing them out. She walked down the row, placing one perfectly wrapped truffle on every desk. When she finally reached me, the box was empty. She put a hand to her chest, acting completely shocked. She laughed loudly, saying she totally forgot I was on a strict diet, adding that skipping the chocolate was a favor to my waistline. The entire team laughed with her. Only Phillip had the decency to quietly slip his truffle into my desk drawer later that afternoon. It was dark chocolate raspberry. I absolutely hated raspberry. But it was the only piece I received. I finished my sandwich, wiped my hands clean, and opened the photo gallery on my phone. The oldest photo in my work album was taken the day I secured the letter of intent from Apex Holdings. I was standing in front of the office’s broken printer, wearing a cheap white blouse, grinning so hard my cheeks hurt. The most recent photo was taken last month when Richard visited our headquarters. I was standing by the entrance doors, guiding his team inside. Valerie was standing dead center in the frame, shaking Richard’s hand for the cameras. That specific photo was blown up into a massive promotional poster and hung in the main third-floor corridor. The poster featured Valerie’s name in bold letters. It featured Director Wallace’s name right below hers. My name was nowhere to be found. At one-thirty, the elevator doors chimed. The team returned from lunch, smelling faintly of expensive soy sauce and grilled wagyu beef. Valerie marched straight over to me. Her face was slightly flushed from the midday sake. She told me there was one last item on the agenda. She shoved her phone directly into my face. The screen displayed a video recording app with a teleprompter script running across the top. She ordered me to record a thirty-second video. I was to formally announce my departure to the Apex team and enthusiastically introduce Brittany as my highly capable replacement. She told me to sound genuine, warning me not to make the agency look unprofessional. Brittany was already standing beside me, holding her own phone up, the camera lens pointed squarely at my face. She complained about the lighting, telling me to brush my hair out of my eyes so I didn’t look like a mess. I stared into the dark, unblinking lens of the camera. Three years. I arrived at this office at seven-thirty every single morning. I rarely left before nine at night. If Richard sent a message on a Sunday, I replied within twenty minutes. I dragged myself out of bed in the freezing cold on a holiday weekend to fix their servers. I wrote every single successful pitch deck, only to watch other people claim the credit. I built an ironclad client relationship from nothing, only for it to be categorized as a transferable team asset. And now, they wanted me to smile for a camera and beg my client to love them instead. I stood up slowly. I told them I wasn’t recording anything. The corners of Valerie’s mouth tightened. She told me it was a mandatory part of the exit procedure. I fired back, stating I had read the HR checklist thoroughly. A hostage video was not on the list. Her voice pitched higher. She ordered me to hit record immediately. I checked my watch. I told her my official termination took effect at five o’clock. It was currently one forty-three. Until five o’clock, I would comply with actual corporate policy. But I was absolutely not recording a video. Brittany kept her phone raised, recording the entire exchange. Valerie stared me down for three agonizing seconds. She sneered, asking if I thought my little rebellion would actually change anything. She stated that the second I walked out the door, the client would naturally transition to the account managers who actually had power. I told her we would just have to wait and see. I sat back down and pulled my noise-canceling headphones over my ears. Valerie didn’t leave. She leaned down, her face inches from mine. Her voice was barely a whisper, dripping with absolute malice. She told me I was nothing but an expendable errand girl. She swore Richard didn’t care about me at all, and that the agency had a dozen better people ready to take my place. I reached down to my keyboard and turned the volume on my music all the way up. I ignored her completely. 5 At two forty-seven in the afternoon, my phone rang. The caller ID flashed bright on the screen. Richard Henderson. Brittany was sitting directly across from me. She was the first person to see the name illuminate the glass. She leaped out of her chair like it was on fire. She screamed across the open-plan office, yelling for Valerie, announcing that Richard was calling me. Valerie popped her head out of her glass-walled cubicle instantly. I had already pressed the answer button. I greeted him calmly. Richard’s deep, gravelly voice echoed through the speaker. He asked why I hadn’t replied to his message from that morning. I apologized smoothly, explaining that things were a bit chaotic at the office today. He didn’t like vague answers. He demanded to know what was going on. Valerie sprinted across the floor. She stopped directly in front of my desk, frantically waving her hands, mouthing the words “speakerphone.” I refused to look at her. I told Richard that I was officially being terminated from the agency today. Dead silence fell over the line for two solid seconds. He asked exactly when this decision was made. I told him I was notified this morning. Valerie was pacing wildly in front of me now. She silently screamed at me to hand over the phone, practically clawing at the air. I turned my chair around, putting my back to her. Richard asked whose brilliant idea it was to fire me. I answered honestly. I told him it was the result of a department-wide vote. A dark, dangerous tone entered Richard’s voice. He noted that we were sitting on a twenty-four-million-dollar contract that was scheduled for renewal next month. He asked if my agency seriously decided to vote me out right before the ink dried. I confirmed it. The silence stretched again. Then, Richard delivered a sentence that practically detonated in the middle of the office. “Tell your management team that Apex Holdings only works with Nora. If you walk out that door, we are pulling our account and finding a new agency.”

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It was April Fools’ Day. I jokingly joined a live video call with a famous antique appraiser online. I really just wanted to show off the priceless collection my husband had spent years building. But the appraiser took one single look at the screen and frowned. He suddenly looked up and asked what my husband did for a living. I told him he was an entrepreneur and asked if there was a problem. The appraiser paused for three solid seconds. Then he looked right into the camera and told me that every single antique in my house was a cheap fake. 1 I laughed out loud, telling him that was impossible. I brought my phone closer to the display cabinet. I pointed out the delicate glaze and the intricate patterns. I told him my husband had paid a fortune for this seventeenth-century Meissen porcelain vase, assuring me it belonged in a museum. Arthur, the appraiser, adjusted his glasses. He leaned into his screen for a few seconds, scrutinizing the footage. Then he slowly leaned back in his leather chair. He asked me where my husband bought these items. He wanted to know if they came from an elite auction house or a private dealer. I hesitated, thinking back. I told him it was mostly private sales through wealthy friends. Arthur asked if I had the certificates of authenticity or the original receipts. I racked my brain. I remembered seeing a leather-bound folder once. He had practically shoved it in my face a year ago. I stammered, saying we definitely had them, but my husband kept them locked away. Arthur took off his glasses. He looked at me with genuine pity. He told me that if I truly believed my husband had purchased authentic antiques, then there was only one logical explanation. Someone had broken into my house and meticulously swapped every priceless artifact with a cheap replica. I gasped, my voice pitching up in pure shock. I asked him if he was joking. We had over a dozen massive pieces. The bronze Renaissance statues alone weighed forty pounds each. Nobody could have swapped them out right under our noses. Furthermore, the passcode to the climate-controlled basement vault was something only my husband and I knew. The moment the words left my mouth, the live chat on the right side of the screen exploded. Comments rolled in relentlessly, calling me a clueless trophy wife. People told me to stop analyzing the pottery and start checking my joint bank accounts. One user pointed out the obvious. If only the two of us knew the passcode, then my husband was the one who swapped them. They mocked me for being so blind. Others told me to keep living in denial, saying it was not Arthur’s money going down the drain anyway. Reading those sarcastic, biting comments made my blood boil. I glared at the camera and asked Arthur if he was paying these people to troll me. I accused him of calling my collection fake just so he could offer to buy it off me for pennies. I had seen those exact scams all over the internet. Arthur shook his head, a tired sigh escaping his lips. He told me he had twenty thousand people watching his stream. He appraised hundreds of items a day and had never been wrong. He certainly did not need to run cheap scams. Then he gave me one final piece of advice. He told me to log off, walk out my front door, and find the most ruthless divorce lawyer in the city. And he told me to do it fast. The chat went wild. People were laughing at Arthur losing his patience. Users warned me that if I kept defending my husband, he would take the money and vanish. One comment caught my eye. They bet real money that my next video would be me crying about my missing husband, a house full of useless junk, and a bank account drained to zero. I stared at the glowing screen. The entire situation felt utterly absurd. Fake? How could they be fake? Simon was obsessed with antiques. He treated these objects like royalty. Every time he entered the basement vault, he wore shoe covers and white cotton gloves. He would practically hold his breath before turning on the display lights. So when Arthur called them fakes, my immediate instinct was to defend my family. I grabbed my phone, dialed Simon’s number, and waited for him to pick up. I kept my voice light and breezy. I asked what time he was coming home. I told him the funniest thing just happened and I had to tell him about it. He sounded distracted, mentioning a business dinner, and asked what was so urgent. I giggled. I told him about the live stream I finally managed to join. I told him I showed the appraiser his precious Meissen porcelain and the Renaissance bronzes. I laughed, saying the guy was totally full of it, calling our entire collection a bunch of worthless replicas. Dead silence echoed through the receiver. Then he asked me what I just said. I repeated myself, naming the popular appraisal channel. I reiterated that the guy called the porcelain, the bronzes, and the vintage oil paintings completely fake. His voice suddenly erupted, vibrating with a rage I had never heard before. He demanded to know what was wrong with me. He screamed, asking what qualifications a random internet streamer had to judge his multi-million dollar investments. The barrage of questions left me dizzy. I stuttered, trying to explain that it was just for fun. He cut me off brutally. He asked if I was trying to prove he was an idiot. He asked if I wanted the whole world to think he spent millions on garbage. His voice grew louder, echoing in my ear. He accused me of sitting around the house all day with nothing better to do than humiliate him. I shrank back, confused and hurt. I asked him why he was getting so defensive over a joke. He told me to shut up. He ordered me to lock the doors and wait right there. He was bringing an expert home immediately. 2 The line went dead. I stood frozen in the middle of the living room. Simon had never raised his voice at me like that. Not once in twenty years. His reaction was entirely disproportionate. It was terrifyingly abnormal. Two hours later, the front door flew open. Simon stormed in, followed by a middle-aged man wearing thick glasses and a tailored suit. Simon’s face was pale and tight. He shoved past me without a word. He gestured to the vault, respectfully asking Mr. Sterling to evaluate the pieces. The expert pulled out a jeweler’s loupe and a high-powered UV flashlight. He spent ten agonizing minutes examining the sixteenth-century bronze statuette. Finally, he stood up. His expression was grim. He looked at Simon and delivered the verdict. The bronze was a modern reproduction. The artificial patina and casting marks were dead giveaways. Simon’s face drained of all color. He lunged forward, snatching the bronze statuette, inspecting it under the light before slamming it down. He grabbed the porcelain vase and shoved it toward the expert. The man moved down the line. With every piece he touched, he shook his head. Fake. Reproduction. Modern tourist garbage. Simon stood rooted to the spot. He looked like a man who had just been struck by lightning. Slowly, he turned his head and locked eyes with me. He asked me when I found out. I trembled, whispering that it just happened today. He took a step closer. His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. He asked why I felt the need to broadcast our assets on a live stream. I flinched. I explained that I just happened to be scrolling and sent a request on a whim. I never expected to get picked. His eyes turned ice-cold. He asked if I realized what I had just done. He told me that by exposing the collection to a massive audience, I had ruined the resale value entirely. Even if some pieces were authentic, the entire network of high-end buyers now considered our collection tainted. No one would ever touch them. I whispered back, pointing out that they were already fake to begin with. He exploded. He screamed that fakes could still be sold to naive buyers. But now, thanks to my sheer stupidity, the entire investment was completely destroyed. A cold shiver violently shook my body. Something felt profoundly wrong, but I could not quite put my finger on it. Over the next few days, Simon dragged me across the city, marching into upscale galleries and private dealers, demanding our money back. At the first gallery, the owner barely looked up from his cigar. He told us all sales were final. He sneered, saying that if we claimed the fake came from his shop, he would counter-sue for defamation. He ordered his security to throw us out. The second dealer was even more aggressive. She yelled at Simon, asking where he had been for the past year. She claimed her gallery had a flawless reputation for two decades. She accused us of swapping the real items ourselves to extort her for cash. The third private broker slammed the door in our faces. He threatened to call the cops. He told us we bought the items as is, and if we lacked the eye for fine art, that was our own problem. Every single place gave us the exact same routine. All sales final. Buyer beware. Where is your proof? You swapped them yourself. As the days dragged on, our collective anger morphed into heavy silence. Eventually, it settled into a crushing, suffocating numbness. Late one night, Simon’s phone rang. He shot me a dark look and stepped out onto the balcony. He left the glass door slightly ajar. I could hear his voice dripping with desperation. He begged the person on the other end for more time. He swore he was trying to liquidate his assets, but the market was dead. He pleaded for just one more week to find the cash. The call ended. He stood alone in the cold night air, smoking cigarette after cigarette for half an hour. When he finally walked back inside, he stared at me with hollow eyes. He asked if I heard everything. I nodded slowly. He let out a ragged breath. He explained that his business loans were defaulting. He had planned to quietly sell off a couple of the most expensive antiques to inject cash back into his company. His voice grew bitter and resentful. He told me that if I had not played the fool on that live stream, he could have found a gullible buyer. Now, the entire dealer network knew our inventory was toxic. We were stuck with millions of dollars in worthless junk. I looked him dead in the eye. I asked him what we were supposed to do now. He threw his cigarette butt onto the pristine hardwood floor and crushed it beneath his heel. He gritted his teeth, his voice filled with venom. He told me he never should have given me the passcode. He never should have let me see the collection. He blamed my boredom for destroying his company. I opened my mouth, but the words caught in my throat. Then he dropped the bomb. He wanted a divorce. I stared at him, my mind blanking entirely. He laid out the terms. He would leave the marriage with nothing. I could keep the penthouse, the SUV, and the two hundred thousand dollars in my personal savings account. He would shoulder the massive corporate debt alone. 3 My mind drifted back to three years ago. That was when Simon first became obsessed with collecting. At first, he only brought home a few small pieces using his year-end bonuses. I was anxious about it. Spending tens of thousands of dollars on a dusty vase felt incredibly reckless. He used to laugh, kissing my forehead, telling me I just did not understand the luxury asset market. Then, he flipped a vintage painting. He bought it for forty thousand and sold it for eighty thousand to a private collector. Seeing that kind of cold, hard cash hit our bank account made me drop my guard. After that, his obsession spiraled. He bought bigger, more expensive items. He even tried to convince me to take out a second mortgage on our penthouse to fund a massive acquisition. But I kept delaying the paperwork, insisting we needed to keep the house secure for our son’s college fund. I never signed the documents. So now, all we had between us was this paid-off house, my modest savings, and a basement full of garbage. Simon did not come home that night. I stood at the entrance of the vault, staring blankly at the rows of high-end fakes. Where exactly did everything go wrong? Suddenly, a comment from the live stream flashed in my memory. If you keep defending him, he will take the money and vanish. Next video: Husband missing, antiques fake, wife left with nothing. A violent shiver ran down my spine. I sprinted into the master bedroom and tore open our wall safe. I stood frozen. The appraisal certificates were gone. The original purchase receipts were gone. Every single piece of paper linking him to the purchases had vanished. Panic seized my chest. I dialed his number. It rang endlessly before he finally picked up. His voice was cold. He asked if I was ready to sign the papers, mentioning he had a courier waiting to deliver the documents. I demanded to know where the certificates were. I told him we needed to hire a lawyer and fight the dealers. He laughed mockingly. He told me to go ahead and hire a lawyer. He warned me that the creditors would just sue me too, freezing the house and leaving me homeless. I gripped the phone tightly, my knuckles turning white. I begged him to think of another way, reminding him that the vault represented millions of dollars. He hung up before I could finish. True terror finally set in. My legs shook as I walked down the street, stepping into the first law office I could find. I sat across from a sharp-suited attorney. I told him I thought my husband was setting me up. I explained the fake antiques, the sudden massive debt, and his rush to divorce me. The lawyer adjusted his glasses. He asked if I had any proof of the original purchases. I shook my head. I explained that Simon took everything. I told him how Simon personally marched me into the dealer shops, making sure I heard them all deny liability. The lawyer let out a heavy sigh and shook his head with grim finality. He told me I was going to lose this war. I asked him why. He explained that Simon’s frantic behavior over the past few days was nothing but a theatrical performance designed specifically for me. Buying art and antiques was the absolute ultimate, untraceable method for a spouse to hide assets. The execution was simple. The husband buys a few real pieces, convincing the wife they are worth a fortune. She believes it. When he is ready to file for divorce, he quietly moves the real pieces to a secure location and replaces them with identical fakes. Then, he plays the martyr. He generously lets the wife keep the house, leaving her with a vault full of worthless metal and clay, while he walks away with millions in hidden, untraceable assets. The lawyer looked at me with deep sympathy. In his profession, using high-end collectibles to launder marital assets was known as the invisible murder. My eyes widened in absolute horror. I asked if I could sue him for fraud. The lawyer said it was nearly impossible. Without a single receipt, Simon could simply claim he had a bad eye and bought fakes by mistake. The art world operates on individual expertise. Making a bad investment is not a crime. I sat there, completely paralyzed. The lawyer leaned forward. He told me that no one can ever anticipate an ambush from the person sleeping next to them. A man who spends three years meticulously laying a trap is not someone who leaves loose ends. It was going to be a brutal, uphill battle. He asked me what assets I still controlled. I told him I had the house and two hundred thousand in cash. He gave me my options. I could spend years bleeding my savings to gather evidence, or I could take the settlement and walk away. He warned me that fighting a ghost required endless money, time, and emotional devastation. I needed to decide how much I was willing to bleed for the truth. The wind outside the law firm felt like ice against my face. The entire situation felt like a waking nightmare. We had been together for twenty years. We met when we were eighteen. We built this life from nothing. Did he really spend three years laundering our entire net worth through fake vases and statues? Refusing to accept it, I dialed his number again. He ignored the first call. He ignored the second. He ignored the third. On the twenty-fifth attempt, the line finally clicked open. I called his name. An automated voice cheerfully informed me that the subscriber was busy. He had declined the call. I stumbled aimlessly along the edge of the sidewalk, my vision blurred with tears. I never even saw the heavy e-bike speeding toward me. The impact was brutal. I was thrown hard against the concrete. 4 The delivery rider cursed loudly, struggling to pull his heavy bike off the pavement. He yelled at me to watch where I was walking. My phone had flown out of my hand. A passing sedan ran directly over it. The screen shattered into a spiderweb of glass. The back panel snapped off, exposing the battery. I pointed at the ruined device, my voice trembling. The young rider sneered. He warned me not to try and extort him, claiming the phone breaking had nothing to do with him hitting me. A small crowd began to gather. A kind woman asked if I needed an ambulance. She suggested I call my family. Family. The word echoed in my mind. I stared blankly at the asphalt, slowly pushing myself up to my feet. I whispered that I was fine. I dragged my bruised body over to the gutter and picked up the crushed phone. The screen was completely dead. The power button did nothing. I limped away, heading slowly toward my neighborhood. Footsteps hurried up behind me. It was the delivery boy. He shoved a crumpled piece of paper into my hand. He looked guilty, telling me it was his number. If I needed to go to the hospital later, I could call him. He hopped back on his bike and sped off. I turned the corner and walked into a small, brightly lit phone repair shop. The technician took one look at my device, clicked his tongue, and tossed it on the mat. He told me it was completely destroyed. The motherboard was cracked. I needed a new one. Before I could even process his words, he expertly popped out my SIM card. He reached under the glass counter and pulled out a sleek, refurbished phone. Same brand, same model. He popped my SIM card in and powered it up. He told me it was essentially brand new. He offered it to me for eight hundred bucks. I watched the screen illuminate. Zero missed calls. Simon had not checked on me once. Which meant… Wait. I stared at the glowing home screen. My heart began to hammer violently against my ribs. I looked at the technician and told him I would take it. I walked out of the shop gripping the new phone. My hands were shaking uncontrollably. It was not from the cold. It was because I finally knew exactly how to destroy him. The lawyer was right about one thing. No one can anticipate an ambush from the person sleeping next to them. Simon thought his performance was over. But mine was just about to begin. 5 I sat alone on a park bench, downloading my apps one by one. When the banking app finished installing, I hesitated for exactly three seconds. I transferred five thousand dollars directly into Simon’s account. Then, I stared unblinking at the screen. If he accepted the transfer, it meant his fake company was genuinely strapped for cash, and he would not disappear just yet. If he rejected it, it meant he had already fenced the real antiques and had millions sitting in an offshore account. A notification popped up a second later. He asked what the money was for. I typed rapidly, crafting the perfect lie. I told him I got hit by a car and the driver gave me a cash settlement. I told him to use it for his debts. I typed that we were a team. I would never abandon him when things got tough. I reminded him that I still had the house and my savings. I promised that if he needed it, I would sign it all over to him without hesitation. I added one final, devastatingly manipulative line. Because years ago, you took care of me the exact same way. I hit send. A single tear tracked down my bruised cheek. I remembered fifteen years ago. We lived in a cramped, illegal basement apartment. The rent was a hundred dollars a month. The only window was the size of a shoebox, and the walls were coated in black mold. Winters were brutal. We shared one thin blanket. He used to take my freezing feet and press them against his stomach to warm them up. He used to kiss my forehead and swear that one day, he would give me the life I deserved. Back then, I believed every single word he said. In the sweltering summers, we could not afford a fan. He would take me to the park under the highway overpass just to catch a breeze. We would split a cheap popsicle, and he always let me take the first bite. I spent my entire adult life believing that as long as we were together, I had everything I needed. That was why I fought those strangers in the live chat. They didn’t know the man who dropped to his knees and wept in the hospital corridor when I gave birth to our son. They didn’t know the man who would come home at three in the morning and sleep on the living room rug just so he wouldn’t wake me. My phone lit up. Simon replied, thanking me. He said he was on his way home. I stared at the text. I did not reply. The harsh glare of the screen illuminated the wet tear tracks on my face. Tonight was my one and only chance to turn the tables. 6 The electronic chime of the front door lock echoed through the hallway. Simon was back. As he walked into the dining room, our teenage son, Noah, looked up with wide, hopeful eyes. Noah asked why he was home. He mentioned that I had pulled him out of evening tutoring because there was a big family announcement. Simon froze. He walked over to the dining table and sat down heavily. He pulled two thick manila folders from his briefcase and slid them across the marble surface. He looked at me with a pained expression. He said one was the mortgage application for the house, and the other was a divorce settlement. He told me that if I was scared, I only needed to sign the divorce papers. He promised he still wanted Noah to inherit the house one day. Noah stood up, his chair scraping loudly. He looked panicked, asking why we were getting a divorce. I reached out and ruffled Noah’s hair, keeping my voice incredibly calm. I told him not to panic and asked his father to explain. I shifted my gaze to Simon. I asked him exactly how much money he owed his creditors. Simon rubbed his temples, looking exhausted. He claimed the debt was around six million dollars. His supply chain collapsed, and the cash flow was dead. He sighed heavily. He pointed out that we bought the penthouse for nearly seven million, but in this market, it would appraise for barely four. Even if we mortgaged it to the absolute limit, it wouldn’t cover half the debt. He pushed the divorce papers closer to me, insisting it was the only way to protect me and our son. I looked at him with unwavering devotion. I told him it was fine. I promised to go to my parents tomorrow and beg for a loan. I told him Noah had a college fund with eight hundred thousand dollars in it, and we would drain it completely to save his company. Simon’s eye twitched. He hesitated, warring with his own greed, but ultimately gave a slow, tragic nod. He whispered that I was sacrificing too much. He picked up his fork, took three bites of cold dinner, and stood up, reaching for his wool coat. I shot Noah a look. Noah immediately jumped up, blocking his path. He asked his dad where he was going, pleading with him to stay since he hadn’t seen him in over a month. Simon froze mid-motion. A heavy silence stretched across the room. Slowly, he let the coat slip from his fingers and hung it back on the hook. He didn’t leave that night. I made him a glass of warm milk. I dissolved a heavy dose of prescription sleeping pills into it. He drank it all. He wasn’t waking up anytime soon. Once his breathing leveled out into a deep snore, I slipped into Noah’s room. I took Simon’s phone from where he had left it charging on the desk. It was locked with an encrypted passcode and tied to his FaceID. His security was flawless. Unlocking the physical device was impossible. But it didn’t matter. I didn’t need to unlock his phone. I took a paperclip, pushed it into the tiny hole on the side, and popped the SIM tray out. I took his SIM card, slid it into my brand new phone, and began downloading every major app he used. Banking apps and secure messaging apps would immediately log him out of his original device. I couldn’t risk those. But food delivery apps allowed multiple active sessions. Navigation apps didn’t log out. Hotel booking apps stayed active. For the government tax portal, all I needed was an SMS verification code to reset the password. I went through the list methodically. Every time a verification code texted his number, it popped up on my screen. I logged in, copied the data, and permanently deleted the text message from the carrier network. When I was done, I popped his SIM card out and slid it perfectly back into his locked phone. I had spent twenty years respecting his privacy. I had never once snooped through his messages. He thought my trust made me weak. He didn’t realize that the moment I decided to cross that line, I would scorch the earth to find the truth.

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Just past midnight, the muffled cry of a baby echoed outside my thirtieth-floor apartment door. My heart dropped to my stomach. Cold sweat prickled my spine. Then I remembered the two undercover cops crashing in my guest rooms. I pressed the intercom button, faking absolute panic. The screen flickered to life, showing a woman with tear-streaked cheeks begging me to let her hide. I smiled soundlessly and unlocked the reinforced steel door. She would never know she was stepping into a perfectly baited trap. And nobody told her that the bedroom down the hall held a lot more than just two cops. 1 My name is Tessa. I live in a bizarrely zoned luxury high-rise on the outskirts of the city. It is considered luxury because the property values are sky-high, completely sold out before the foundation was even poured. It is bizarre because most of the tech bros and investors who bought the units never actually moved in. The massive complex looks like a ghost town by day and sounds like a graveyard by night. I chose the penthouse on the rear building. Thirtieth floor. Three thousand square feet, four bedrooms, panoramic floor-to-ceiling windows. The view is so clear you can see the sprawling agricultural fields and greenhouses miles away, watching the seasons change right from the living room. When I bought this place, my mother nearly disowned me. She could not understand why I would pass up a fully furnished condo downtown to live like a hermit in the middle of nowhere. But I loved it. Standing on the balcony, feeling the night breeze, staring out at the dark fields. It was pure peace. My best friend joked that I paid a premium for an overpriced birdhouse, hinting that I might be a little crazy. She was probably right. But having a slice of total isolation so close to the city was a luxury not many people understood. On Friday morning, just as I stepped out of the lobby to head to work, two women in plainclothes blocked my path. One had sharp, short hair. The other wore her hair long. Both had eyes that felt like they were scanning my soul. The short-haired woman flashed a gold badge. Her voice was crisp and strictly professional. She introduced herself as Detective Sarah from the city narcotics and vice division. The long-haired detective gave a tight nod. She added that they needed to commandeer my two south-facing bedrooms to set up a temporary observation post. I blinked. Observation post? I looked them up and down, verified their badges, and finally let out a breath. Sarah pointed toward a distant cluster of industrial buildings billowing dark smoke. She explained that a massive counterfeit syndicate was operating out of a warehouse out there. They had been tracking them for weeks. The factory was churning out dangerous, unregulated narcotics disguised as prescription pills. My penthouse had the absolute best vantage point to monitor the loading docks. I am a simple woman. If it means catching bad guys and keeping the streets safe, I am all in. I agreed immediately. I told them they could have the two master suites, gave them the passcode to my digital lock, and told them to make themselves at home. Sarah was polite, telling me to go about my normal life. They would stay out of my way, making zero noise. I waved it off. Being a single woman living alone, having two seasoned detectives sleeping down the hall was the ultimate security system. I was thrilled. When I got home from work that evening, the doors to the south bedrooms were shut tight. Not a single sound leaked out. As I kicked off my heels, Sarah poked her head out of one door and gave me a tired smile. She thanked me for the hospitality. I beamed back, pointing toward the kitchen. I told her the pantry was fully stocked with snacks and energy drinks, free for the taking. She nodded, pulled her head back in, and shut the door without making a single click. I hummed a tune and headed straight for the living room. It was Friday night. I had zero plans other than binge-watching a trashy reality dating show on my massive projector screen. I had a family-sized bag of chips and an ice-cold cola. Life was perfect. Since the south rooms were occupied, I took the smaller north bedroom. It was cozy, quiet, and overlooked the glittering highway lights. I curled up on the velvet sofa, munching on chips, occasionally shouting at the TV whenever a contestant did something stupid. Time slipped away. Before I knew it, the clock hit one in the morning. My eyes burned. My stomach gave a little rumble. I stretched my arms, thinking about boiling some pasta before taking a hot shower and crashing. Right at that moment, the sound hit me. A faint, trembling cry of a baby drifted through the thick front door. 2 The crying was not loud. It was a thin, reedy sound, dripping with misery. In the dead silence of the night, it made my skin crawl. I froze. The potato chip slipped from my fingers and hit the rug. Goosebumps erupted from my ankles all the way to the base of my neck. Every true crime podcast I had ever listened to suddenly flooded my brain. Stories about traffickers using recordings of crying babies to lure women into opening their doors. Home invasion crews using women with infants as bait. Worse yet, local urban legends about things that lurked in the dark. I swallowed hard. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Normally, if I were alone, I would not even breathe. I would have army-crawled into my bed, muted my phone, and prayed whatever was out there would just go away. But tonight was different. I had cops in my house. Two of them. My spine straightened. Confidence surged through my veins. I marched right up to the entryway and hit the button for the video intercom. The screen flared bright. Standing in the hallway was a woman in her twenties. She wore a faded, oversized jacket. Clutched tightly against her chest was a baby wrapped in a thick blanket. Her hair was a greasy mess. She looked pale, her eyes red and puffy, like someone who had just been through hell. I leaned toward the microphone. I demanded to know who she was. The woman’s voice cracked. She sobbed, pressing her face near the camera. She told me her boyfriend’s mother had thrown her out into the cold. She had nowhere to go. She saw my lights on and begged me to just let her sit in my hallway for a few minutes to warm the baby. I narrowed my eyes. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. The security in this building was notoriously strict. You needed an encrypted fob to even get the elevator to move. Guests had to be escorted by security guards from the front desk. How did a homeless, crying woman get past the lobby? Did she climb thirty flights of stairs? Even a marathon runner would be gasping for air, but her breathing was perfectly steady. The lie was painfully obvious. I was just about to call her out on the intercom when my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a text from Sarah. Let her in. I understood instantly. This woman was either connected to the cartel they were watching, or she was a completely different predator walking right into a trap. The cops needed her inside. I pressed the unlock button and yanked the heavy oak door open. The woman stumbled inside, bowing so deeply her head nearly touched her knees. She kept crying, thanking me, calling me a saint. I stepped aside, keeping my face perfectly blank. As she walked past me, her puffy red eyes darted around the apartment. She scanned the expensive furniture, the wide hallway, and finally locked onto the two closed doors facing south. There was a brief, greedy flash in her pupils. She was assessing the target. I laughed internally. This woman deserved an Oscar for that performance. 3 The woman stopped in the middle of the living room, shifting the baby in her arms. She rubbed her hands together and put on a pathetic, embarrassed smile. She asked if she could use the restroom, claiming the baby needed a change. I nodded and pointed toward the north wing. I told her the guest bathroom was right down that hall. But she completely ignored my gesture. She took three fast strides toward the south bedrooms and reached for the brass handle of the first door. I raised my voice, telling her to stop. Her hand froze inches from the knob. She snapped her head toward me, a flash of genuine panic crossing her face before she buried it under a fake smile. I kept my tone casual. I told her those rooms were rented out, the doors were deadbolted, and the bathroom she needed was in the opposite direction. The panic faded. She forced a laugh, showing off a row of yellowed teeth, and thanked me again. I escorted her to the north bathroom, pointed to the fresh towels, and told her to let me know if she needed anything. She slipped inside and clicked the lock. I leaned against the hallway wall, listening to the rustling sounds and the soft whimpers of the baby. It sounded incredibly real. I pulled out my phone, pretending to scroll through social media, but my mind was racing. Was the baby real? Or was it one of those creepy, ultra-realistic reborn dolls? If I accidentally poked a doll, she might flip the script, accuse me of assault, and start a shakedown. I had read about scams like that online. A few minutes later, the door swung open. She walked out, apologizing profusely for the trouble. I waved it off and forced a warm, naive smile. I asked about the baby. I told her the little one looked adorable and asked how old it was. She hesitated. It was just a fraction of a second, but it was there. She muttered that he was just a month old, growing fast, heavy for his age. I peered into the blanket. The baby had a wrinkled little face, eyes squeezed shut, tiny lips smacking together. It definitely looked real. I offered to hold him for a minute so she could rest her arms. I was not doing it out of kindness. I needed to know if it was breathing. Her eyes darted nervously. She clearly did not want to hand over her prop, but refusing would blow her cover. Slowly, she transferred the bundle into my arms. Warmth seeped through the blanket. The baby squirmed slightly, letting out a soft breath. It was alive. I exhaled quietly. I held the infant awkwardly, terrified of squeezing too hard. The last thing I needed was to drop a kidnapped baby in front of a trafficker. She watched me struggle. A dark, mocking smirk briefly touched her lips before vanishing. She introduced herself as Brenda. She launched into a tragic backstory about living in a trailer park nearby, a deadbeat boyfriend who vanished for months, and an abusive mother-in-law who finally snapped and kicked her to the curb. She squeezed out a few fresh tears for dramatic effect. If I had not already known she was playing me, I might have felt sorry for her. I gave her a sympathetic nod, carefully handing the baby back. I asked if she was hungry, offering to boil some pasta since it was freezing outside. Honestly, my cooking skills were practically nonexistent. I survived on takeout and microwave meals. Boiling spaghetti was the absolute limit of my culinary talents. Brenda’s eyes lit up. She nodded eagerly, playing the part of the starving victim perfectly.

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For five years, I was confined to a wheelchair, just a prop to make my sister look better. On my tenth birthday, I finally whispered to my father, asking if we could stop the injections. His face darkened. “You can’t handle five years? Your sister will be in a wheelchair for life!” He then pushed her out, leaving me alone. I wheeled myself to the balcony and saw something that froze my blood: my sister, whose legs were supposedly paralyzed, stood up and ran across the grass. My father patted her back, his tone strict but fond. “Don’t feel sorry for your sister. She mocked your disability—she deserves this.” “Five years of injections is harsh, Daddy. But she’s so cold. She needs to be taught a lesson!” my sister added. I sat there, stunned. My sister’s legs had healed years ago. My five years of confinement were just my father’s excuse to torture me. I looked down at my numb knees and let out a hollow laugh, tears falling onto my hand. I had actually stopped the medication a month ago. But my legs still felt nothing. You don’t need to give me shots anymore, Dad. It seems your punishment will never end. 1 I wheeled myself back into my bedroom. Suddenly, my right hand went completely limp. My fingers slipped off the metal rim of the wheel. All the strength drained from my arm, leaving it dangling uselessly at my side. What was happening? Panic set in. I remembered the small medical box on my nightstand. It contained a specific stimulant pill. Once, my father had injected me with too heavy a dose of his chemical paralytic. I had collapsed on the floor like a puddle of muddy water, unable to even move my eyes. He forced one of those pills down my throat to reverse the worst of the paralysis so I wouldn’t die. If I could just take one of those pills, I would regain control of my hands. I pushed the wheelchair closer to the nightstand. The gap was just a few inches too wide. I leaned forward, extending my left hand to grab the box. My fingertips brushed the plastic edge, but it slid further back. I tried again. The wheelchair rolled backward an inch. On my third attempt, a sudden, mortifying warmth spread beneath me. Warm liquid soaked through my pajama pants and dripped down my thighs. I froze. I looked down. A small puddle was already forming on the floor beneath my chair. My face burned with a shame so intense it felt like a physical slap. I had known how to use the bathroom since I was three years old. I was ten. How could I wet myself? I frantically tried to slide out of the chair, but my legs were dead weight. The humiliation kept flowing, completely out of my control. Hot tears spilled down my cheeks, soaking my collar. It was so embarrassing. If my father came home and saw this mess, he would scream at me. He would look at me with absolute disgust. I used my good left hand to push against the mattress, trying to haul myself onto the bed. But with my right arm completely useless, I lost my balance. I tumbled out of the wheelchair and crashed hard onto the floor. My knees slammed into the cold tiles, but I felt absolutely nothing. I lay there, staring at my twisted, useless legs. I had to get the medicine box. I dragged my heavy, dead lower half across the floor using only my left arm. The hard tiles dug into my ribs. Every inch forward left me trembling with exhaustion. When I finally reached the nightstand, I yanked the box down. It crashed onto the floor, scattering supplies everywhere. A bottle of the stimulant pills rolled out. My chest suddenly seized. My heart began to pound erratically, skipping beats, fluttering like a dying bird. The cumulative toxicity of five years of paralytics was finally shutting down my organs. I fumbled with the bottle, managing to pop the cap off with my teeth. I tipped a pill into my mouth and swallowed it dry, praying for it to work. But my right arm remained dead. The crushing weight on my chest only grew heavier. I gasped for air, tears blurring my vision. I poured a few more pills into my palm, shoving them into my mouth, swallowing through the sharp pain in my dry throat. It didn’t work. The numbness was creeping up my spine. My lungs felt like they were filled with wet cement. I dug my fingernails into my dead thighs, scratching and clawing, begging for a single spark of pain. Nothing. It just needs more time, I told myself. The medicine just needs time to work. My vision faded at the edges. I let my head rest on the cold floor. I remembered a month ago when my father went on a business trip. There was no one to force the injections into my arm. Every morning, I woke up and tried to wiggle my toes. First day, nothing. Second day, nothing. When he returned, I told him I wanted to inject myself to prove I was being obedient. He sneered and handed me the syringes. He didn’t know I emptied the medicine down the drain and injected myself with saline. I wanted to see if my legs would heal without the poison. A whole month passed. They never woke up. My legs were permanently broken. My eyes felt incredibly heavy. The sickening nausea in my stomach faded into a strange, floating lightness. I closed my eyes, thinking I just needed to sleep. When I opened my eyes again, I was standing. My bare feet were touching the floor. I could wiggle my toes. I could lift my right arm. I was overjoyed. The pills had worked! I was cured! I spun around in pure delight, only to see someone lying perfectly still on the floor. That person was me. 2 I stepped closer, the horrifying reality sinking in. The girl on the floor had a pale, ashen face. Her eyes were closed in an expression of absolute agony. I wasn’t cured. I was dead. Once the initial shock washed over me, a strange sense of relief bloomed in my chest. Dying wasn’t so bad. I didn’t have to endure the needles anymore. I wouldn’t wet myself again. I wouldn’t make my father angry. And Amelia wouldn’t have to pretend to be paralyzed to match me. Footsteps echoed in the hallway. I floated through the closed bedroom door and saw my father and sister returning. My father pulled a pristine wheelchair from the corner of the hallway. Amelia looked at it with deep annoyance. “Daddy, how much longer do I have to pretend? I really hate sitting in this thing.” My father gently helped her sit down, his voice softening. “Just hold on a little longer, sweetheart. Your sister threw a tantrum about her shots again this morning. She still hasn’t repented for her sins.” Amelia looked up hesitantly. “Daddy, what if she really wasn’t mocking me back then? What if it was a misunderstanding?” His face hardened instantly. “You were both so young. You don’t understand how malicious she is. Your sister was born bad. She has cold blood.” “You only broke your leg and needed the chair for a few months, and she dared to limp around the house to make fun of you.” “If you were actually paralyzed, she would have bullied you to death!” “You are just too kind and forgiving, Amelia.” “Your sister lacks basic human empathy. If I don’t break her spirit now, she will grow up to be a monster.” I hovered in the air, listening to his cruel words. I lowered my head. Was I really that evil in his eyes? It didn’t matter anymore. You don’t have to worry, Dad. I am dead. I can’t grow up to be a monster now. My father pushed Amelia inside. He glanced at the quiet living room and yelled toward my bedroom door. “Caroline! Caroline?” When only silence answered him, he muttered a harsh curse. “That wretched girl is probably sleeping all day. She might as well sleep forever.” Amelia quickly chimed in. “Daddy, just let her sleep.” My father smiled, his anger vanishing as he placed the groceries in the fridge. He pulled out a beautiful, delicate strawberry shortcake and handed it to Amelia. His voice was so gentle it made my ghostly heart ache. “Here you go, sweetheart. I bought your favorite. Eat it quickly before your sister wakes up and asks for some.” Amelia’s eyes lit up. “Thank you, Daddy!” “If only your sister was half as sweet as you,” he sighed, stroking her hair affectionately. “Take your time. Daddy is going to make your favorite sweet and sour ribs for dinner.” He walked into the kitchen. I watched the picturesque scene unfold, feeling like my soul was being submerged in freezing water. He had never spoken to me with that much tenderness. He had never bought me a cake. He truly hated me. A while later, the rich aroma of cooking filled the house. My mother, Sarah, unlocked the front door and stepped inside. Seeing Amelia alone in the living room, she asked, “Where is Caroline?” My father yelled from the kitchen, “Sleeping like a log!” My mother sighed, walking over to my bedroom door and knocking softly. “Caroline, it is time for dinner.” After two attempts with no response, she frowned and reached for the doorknob. “Caroline!” my father roared from the kitchen. My mother paused. My father stormed out of the kitchen, clutching a black plastic bag. He slammed it violently onto the dining table. It was the bag of unused syringes I had hidden over the past month. 3 My mother walked over to the table. When she saw the dozens of full vials and unused needles, her brow furrowed deeply. My father planted his hands on his hips, screaming at my closed door. “I knew she was up to no good! I wondered why she suddenly volunteered to do her own injections last month!” “She was hoarding the medicine! She never learned her lesson at all!” “Caroline! Get your worthless self out here right now!” The room remained deathly quiet. “Caroline! Are you deaf? Get out here and apologize!” Still nothing. His fury boiled over. He rolled up his sleeves, unbuckled his leather belt, and marched toward my door. My mother grabbed his arm, pulling him back. “David, stop! Just calm down!” She dragged him back to the dining table. “Take a breath.” She glanced at the bag of medicine, then looked at him with a serious expression. “She has been taking these shots for five years. She has been confined to that wheelchair for five years. The punishment has to end.” “Are you really going to force her to be crippled for the rest of her life?” She lowered her voice, glancing at my door. “Even if you don’t care about Caroline, what about Amelia? Is she supposed to pretend to be paralyzed in her own home forever?” Hearing Amelia’s name made my father hesitate. The rage in his eyes flickered. My mother pressed the advantage. “Use this as an excuse to stop the medication completely. Let them both go back to normal lives.” “Caroline was only five years old when she did it. She was just a baby. She is ten now. Talk to her, she will understand.” My father remained silent. He didn’t argue. My mother turned to Amelia, who was watching them nervously. Her voice softened. “Amelia, we won’t give your sister the shots anymore. You don’t have to pretend to be sick either. Neither of you will use a wheelchair at home anymore, okay?” Amelia’s eyes sparkled with pure joy. She nodded vigorously. “Really? I really don’t have to sit in it anymore?” Seeing her bright smile, my father finally gave a reluctant nod. “Fine.” He immediately justified it. “I am only doing this for Amelia. Caroline is completely beyond saving.” My mother offered a tired smile and didn’t push him further. “Alright, let’s eat. I will go wake Caroline.” “Don’t bother!” my father snapped. “She lied to us. Let her starve tonight!” My mother sighed, sitting down at the table without another word. I floated in the corner of the room, watching my father lovingly place the best pieces of meat onto Amelia’s plate. I watched the relieved smiles on their faces. I watched this picture-perfect family enjoying their warm dinner. My heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vice. Bitter, aching sorrow flooded my chest. I wouldn’t have to take the shots anymore? I wouldn’t have to use the wheelchair? But Mom. Dad. I am already dead. I looked down at my translucent hands and squeezed them into fists. I couldn’t feel a thing. Late that night, the living room was pitched in absolute darkness. My parents had gone to sleep. My bedroom door creaked open just a fraction. It was Amelia. She slid a small piece of strawberry cake wrapped in a napkin through the gap in the door. She kept her voice to a tiny whisper. “Caroline, you didn’t eat dinner. This is for you.” “Daddy bought it for me. It is really good.” When no sound came from the darkness, she assumed I was fast asleep. She quietly closed the door and went back to her room. I stared at the crushed piece of cake on the floor. Thank you, Amelia, I whispered into the silence. 4 The next morning, the sky was still a hazy gray. My parents were packing suitcases, preparing to take Amelia on a weekend trip. My father helped Amelia into her jacket, speaking in that gentle tone I craved. “We are going to visit Grandpa and Grandma for two days. Grandma made your favorite bamboo shoot stew.” Amelia tugged at his sleeve, her voice quiet. “Is Caroline not coming?” His hands stopped. His face instantly clouded over. My mother frowned, hesitating before she spoke. “We are going to be gone for two whole days. Are we really leaving Caroline behind?” “She is in a wheelchair. What if something happens to her while she is alone?” My father’s voice spiked in volume, leaving no room for argument. “She is ten years old! What could possibly happen?” “Besides, she stopped taking her medicine a month ago. Her legs are fine!” “She has been sitting in that chair for a month pretending to be paralyzed! She is a pathological liar!” I stood right next to them, desperately wanting to scream. No, Dad! I wasn’t pretending! I stopped taking the medicine, but my legs are still dead! I wasn’t lying! But my voice was nothing but air. It caused no ripples in their world. They couldn’t hear me. They couldn’t see me. My mother sighed heavily, a flash of worry crossing her eyes. But my father was already zipping up the luggage, dragging Amelia toward the front door. Before leaving, my mother pulled a few bills from her purse and left them on the dining table under a teacup. She walked to my closed door and knocked gently. “Caroline, Daddy and I are taking your sister away for the weekend. Be a good girl and stay out of trouble.” “I left money on the table. Uncle Marcus will drop by later to bring you some food.” “If you feel sick, call us immediately, understand?” She wanted to say more, but my father was already barking from the hallway. “Hurry up! We are going to hit traffic!” The heavy front door slammed shut. My soul was pulled along by an invisible tether, dragging me right into the backseat of their car. The engine hummed to life. I pressed my ghostly face against the window, watching the city blur past us. It was fascinating. I hadn’t been outside in five years. The world was so big and beautiful. Amelia fell asleep with her head resting on my father’s lap. He stroked her hair with infinite tenderness. Watching them, my soul trembled with pure envy. If I was a good girl, would he stroke my hair like that? After a long drive, we finally arrived at my grandparents’ house in the suburbs. Grandpa and Grandma were waiting on the porch. As they stepped out of the car, Grandma peered into the empty backseat, her brow furrowed. “Where is Caroline? You left her behind again?” My father hauled the suitcases out of the trunk, his voice utterly cold. “She didn’t want to come.” I stood right next to the car, shaking my head violently, waving my hands at my grandmother. “No! Grandma, I wanted to come! I didn’t say that!” Grandma shot my father a disapproving glare. “I highly doubt she didn’t want to come. You just refused to bring her, didn’t you, David?” He didn’t answer. He just carried the bags toward the house. Grandma followed him, her voice rising in frustration. “I know you resent that poor girl.” “When Sarah had severe postpartum depression after Caroline was born, you had to raise her alone. You thought she was too loud, too fussy, too demanding.” “You blamed a crying infant for your stress!” My father stopped dead in his tracks. He spun around, his eyes flashing red. He yelled back at his own mother. “Then why was Amelia so perfect?!” “They are both girls! Amelia was an angel. She was quiet, obedient, and she loved me from the day she could walk.” “But Caroline? She broke a neighbor’s window when she was three! She hit a kid in kindergarten when she was five!” “She is a demon! She was sent to this earth just to torture me!” I stood frozen on the lawn. So that was it. I was a monster in his eyes long before the wheelchair. My father’s voice cracked. Tears welled up in his angry eyes. “They are both my children. Do you think I don’t care about her?” “I am just… I am so angry!” “I am angry that I can’t fix her. I am angry that she refuses to be good like her sister.” Grandpa and Grandma exchanged a look and sighed deeply. My mother walked over, linking her arm through his to comfort him. “It is okay, David. We will teach her together.” “When she grows up, she will finally understand and be a good daughter.” Amelia grabbed his hand, using her small thumb to wipe away his tear. “Don’t cry, Daddy. I will teach Caroline. I will make her listen to you.” My father hugged Amelia tight, nodding through his tears. Right at that heartwarming moment, my mother’s cell phone rang in her pocket. It was a sharp, jarring sound. A sudden chill swept through my soul. My mother answered the phone. Before she could even say hello, Uncle Marcus’s terrified, screaming voice ripped through the speaker. “Sarah! Sarah, you need to come back right now! It is Caroline… Caroline is dead!”

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1 My roommate was a scholarship student, a bit slow on the uptake when it came to people. One afternoon, as we were passing the campus gates, her eyes fixed on a couple of drinks sitting on the hood of a car parked by the curb. “Look, free drinks,” she said, already starting to walk over. “They must be giving them away. I’m gonna grab one.” I quickly grabbed her arm, my voice a low hiss. “You can’t just take those. Around here, a drink on a car like that… it’s a signal, it means something else…” The warning went straight through her. She shook my hand off. “You’re overthinking it. Why else would they leave them out if not for people to drink?” “Don’t be so cynical, always assuming the worst in people.” She picked up a bottle, a premium iced latte, and took a long swig right in front of me. Then she turned to me, a smirk on her face. “You know, you’re one of those people from the internet. The ones with a one-track mind. You twist everything into something about sex. Are you that desperate for a guy?” “Just because a man exists doesn’t mean he’s thinking about you,” she added dismissively. But what she didn’t see, what she couldn’t see, was the man behind the tinted window of that car, his predatory gaze fixed on her as she drank. … “I’m a little thirsty. There are some drinks on that car, I’m just going to grab one.” As we walked by the main gate, my roommate, Jenna, suddenly stopped, pointing a finger at a black sedan parked on the street. I followed her gaze and my stomach tightened. I knew that car. It was parked here almost every day. “You can’t just take a drink off a car like that!” I whispered urgently, pulling her back. “It’s a code. ‘Having a drink with him’ is a twisted way of saying ‘sleep with him’…” Jenna yanked her arm away, her expression a mask of pure innocence. “What code? They’re obviously just free for anyone passing by.” I held onto her sleeve, my tone firm. “Let’s not drink something from a stranger. There’s a convenience store right there—” Jenna cut me off, her voice taking on a lecturing tone. “Sarah, you’re just too sensitive. You always think people have some dirty ulterior motive. You should learn to be less uptight, you know? Stop being so suspicious of everything. Doesn’t it get exhausting?” I frowned, trying to explain the grim reality of it. “Haven’t you heard about this? Different drinks mean different prices. Bottled water is like, twenty bucks. Iced tea is eighty. A premium iced latte…” But Jenna cut me off again, her face a canvas of impatience. “Enough! You know what you are? You’re exactly what they talk about online. Someone who sees sex in everything! Are you just so single and lonely that all you can think about is men?” Her voice was loud. A few students walking past shot me strange looks. Before I could respond, she gave me a disdainful glance. “I’m just thirsty. Don’t project your own desperate, filthy thoughts onto me!” With that, she practically skipped over to the black sedan. She stood before the car, making a show of choosing her beverage before finally settling on the iced latte. My blood ran cold. The latte was the highest tier. It meant anything goes. Suddenly, the car’s window slid down with a soft whir. A middle-aged man’s face appeared, a greasy smile plastered on it. “Well, how’s it taste, little lady?” Jenna, far from being alarmed, bent down slightly, flashing the man a brilliant smile. “Oh, are these yours, mister? Thank you so much! I was so thirsty.” I watched in horror as the man’s eyes, unabashed and predatory, fixated on the neckline of Jenna’s shirt. Alarm bells screamed in my head. She was my roommate. I couldn’t just stand by and watch her walk into a trap. I rushed forward and grabbed her arm with force. “Jenna, we’re going back to the dorm. Now!” She reacted with disgust, flinging my hand off with such strength that I stumbled and fell to the pavement. The rough concrete scraped my skin, sending a sharp, stinging pain up my arm. The man in the car feigned concern. “Whoa, what’s all this about?” Jenna immediately turned on me. “Don’t mind her. She’s my roommate, the one with the one-track mind. Everything is about sex to her. A bottle of water makes her think of sleeping with someone, a man makes her think of getting paid for it.” The man let out a booming, patronizing laugh. “I didn’t realize college girls these days were so dirty-minded. Getting all hot and bothered over a bottle of water, ha!” Jenna, as if she’d found a kindred spirit, eagerly agreed. “Exactly! I don’t know where she gets the confidence, acting like every man in the world wants to sleep with her!” The man nodded along, his words stroking Jenna’s ego until she was beaming. He pushed his door open. “Well now, little lady, seeing as we’ve had such a fateful meeting, how about we go grab a bite to eat?” Without a moment’s hesitation, Jenna chirped, “I’d love to!” 2 The black sedan peeled away from the curb, leaving me in a cloud of exhaust. I pushed myself up from the ground, the raw scrapes on my hand burning. I didn’t bother with her anymore. I just walked back to the dorm alone. I had tried to help. I’m not a saint. If she was so convinced he was a good guy, then let her find out for herself what kind of “good thing” her determined obliviousness had attracted. That night, Jenna returned to the dorm draped in designer labels, her arms loaded with shopping bags. “Girls, come look! It’s all designer!” Our other two roommates immediately swarmed her. “Oh my God, Jenna, is that the new C&V handbag? Did you win the lottery?” “That thing must be worth thousands! Where did you get the money?” Jenna was the only student in our major on a full scholarship, scraping by each month on aid and a part-time job. A single one of those bags was a luxury for a normal person, let alone for her. She smugly flicked her newly permed hair. “Rick gave them to me. I told him not to, but he just insisted…” I sat on my bed, headphones on, not even glancing up from my phone. My indifference clearly annoyed her. She raised her voice, letting a mocking tone drip from her words. “Sarah, weren’t you the one trying to stop me today? Going on about how taking his drink meant I had to sleep with him?” “Rick is just a genuinely nice guy! Unlike some people, who only think about what’s in a guy’s pants. Always seeing the worst in men!” I finally looked at her, my expression flat. “A guy you met today is dropping thousands of dollars on you. You think that’s normal?” “Rick’s rich! He can do what he wants!” she shot back, completely unfazed. The other two roommates started to look uneasy. “Jenna, you only met him today…” one said quietly. “Yeah,” the other added, “he’s a total stranger. Giving you such expensive gifts… it just feels a little…” Jenna’s patience snapped. “Rick’s a big-shot businessman! He makes tens of thousands a day. This is nothing to him!” One of the roommates hesitated, then asked, “But… did he do anything to you? Or… ask for anything weird?” Jenna’s face twisted in disgust. “You’re asking if we slept together, aren’t you? God, is that all you people can think about?” She raised her voice again, her eyes darting in my direction. “Do you all really think every man on the planet is dying to sleep with you? Get over yourselves! Rick said he could tell the moment he saw me that I was pure. Not like other scheming, entitled girls!” That shut the other roommates up. I expected this. I just never imagined she’d twist my warning into an act of jealousy. Fine. Whatever sweetness she was tasting now would have to be paid for later. And it wouldn’t be me footing the bill. 3 I had no interest in arguing. I just grabbed my towel and headed for the shower. I had just stepped out, wrapped in a towel, when there was a sharp knock on our dorm room door. I froze. “Who could that be? It’s so late.” But Jenna seemed to know exactly who it was. With a triumphant little hum, she sauntered over to open it. Standing in the hallway was the middle-aged man from the campus gate. Rick. He hadn’t just come onto campus. He was inside the women’s dorm. Jenna’s voice was sickly sweet. “Rick, I told you to go home. You didn’t have to come all the way here to see me. Look, is the new dress you bought me a good fit?” My mind went blank for a second, then filled with a roaring anger. “Jenna, you brought a man into the women’s dorm!” She stared at me as if I were the crazy one. “What’s the big deal? Don’t be so dramatic.” I was trembling with rage. “This is a women’s dorm! Men aren’t allowed in here, don’t you know that?” She shrugged, completely unconcerned. “He’s not a stranger, he’s my friend. Besides, I had him come up the back stairs. No one saw anything.” I was so furious I could barely breathe. “You—” Her eyes suddenly narrowed as they swept over me, her expression turning strange. “Why are you dressed like that?” A bitter laugh escaped my lips. “Are you serious? I just got out of the shower!” Jenna just pouted and turned to Rick to complain. “See, Rick? She’s just standing there in a towel, not even trying to cover up. Do you think she’s doing it on purpose? Trying to put on a show for you?” Rick didn’t say a word, but his eyes slid over to me. They lingered on the edge of my towel with a predatory gleam that made my skin crawl. I instinctively took a step back. Rick smirked, a greasy, knowing look on his face. He played dumb. “So this is that roommate you were telling me about?” Jenna nodded eagerly. “That’s her. The one who tried to stop me from drinking your water this afternoon. She even had a price tag for every single drink—” She burst out laughing. “Isn’t that ridiculous?” Rick’s gaze landed on me again, heavier and slimier than before. I had no time to waste on these two lunatics. I turned to grab my phone from my desk. I was calling the dorm supervisor. A man in the women’s dorm? The school had to do something! Jenna’s face fell. She lunged forward and snatched my phone. Then, she tossed a designer bag at me, her voice dripping with condescension. “If you keep your mouth shut, you can have this one. It’s way more expensive than the ones I gave them. Don’t be an idiot.” I glanced at our other two roommates. They were hiding behind their bed curtains, silent. It was clear they had already accepted Jenna’s terms. Rage burned through me. There was no way I was backing down. So what if she took my phone? I’d just go find the dorm supervisor myself. I had barely reached the door when a fat, sweaty hand clamped down on my arm. I tried to pull away, my voice sharp. “Let go!” Rick didn’t let go. He tightened his grip, his thumb rubbing against my skin as he grinned. “Not so fast, little beauty. You must be the… thirsty roommate Jenna was telling me about?” I froze. “What?” His grin widened. “She said your mind is always in the gutter. That you look at every man like he’s a potential conquest. I didn’t believe her at first.” His eyes dropped down, and he gave me a look that said, I get it now. “But seeing you all dressed up like this… maybe she wasn’t wrong. Fresh out of the shower, parading around in a towel? You must have known I was coming. Got yourself all ready for me, didn’t you?” Beside him, Jenna covered her mouth, giggling. “Rick, this afternoon, the first thing she thought when she saw the drinks on your car was that drinking one meant sleeping with you. See? Isn’t that all she ever thinks about?” I summoned all my strength and finally ripped my arm from his grasp. Just then, Rick pulled out his phone and aimed the camera at me. “Don’t cover up. What’s wrong with one little picture? Isn’t this what you wanted?” My first instinct was to grab the phone, but if I moved my hands, my towel would slip. I was trapped, forced to hold it in place. Rick’s laughter grew louder. “Oh, don’t play shy now.” I took a deep breath, forcing myself to be calm. Then I lifted my chin, my voice ringing out clear and strong. “Go ahead. Take your pictures. I dare you.” “The dorm supervisor’s office is right downstairs. All I have to do is scream, and this entire building will hear me. Where do you think you are? This is a university! A man illegally entering a women’s dorm, taking indecent photos of a student… that’s enough to land you in a cell for a few months!” 4 With every word I spoke, the color drained from Rick’s face. He probably never expected me to fight back so fiercely. Most girls in this situation would be too scared or ashamed to make a scene, let alone scream for help. But my expression was absolute. He finally lost his nerve. Muttering a curse, he stuffed his phone back in his pocket and stormed out. “What a waste of time!” The moment Rick was gone, Jenna turned all her fury on me. “Sarah! You scared him off! Are you happy now? He was just here to visit me! He wasn’t going to do anything to you! Did you have to be so dramatic? Calling the cops? Are you insane?” I just looked at her, genuinely wondering if her head was filled with anything but air. This wasn’t just being oblivious. This was being an idiot. She stomped over to my desk, snatched back the designer bag, and shot me a venomous glare. “You can forget about this!” Then she flounced back to her bed, picked up her phone, and started sending voice messages to Rick. “Rick, baby, don’t be mad. My roommate’s just a psycho. She’s jealous of me…” As the adrenaline faded, a cold clarity washed over me. Reporting this now wouldn’t give them the punishment they deserved. Rick was an outsider. Since no actual harm was done, the university couldn’t do much, especially if Jenna lied and said he was a visiting relative. The most they’d get was a slap on the wrist. Besides, I had no proof. The only witnesses, my other two roommates, had been bought off and wouldn’t back me up. I didn’t want a slap on the wrist. I wanted them to get what was coming to them. But I never imagined Jenna would be the one to strike first, running to our academic advisor to report me. When I was called into the office, Jenna was already there, tears streaming down her face. “Professor, my family is poor. Rick just felt sorry for me and wanted to sponsor my education. But Sarah… she’s been spreading vicious rumors, telling everyone I have a sugar daddy, that I’m selling my body for money…” Her voice cracked. “The things she’s saying are so horrible. I just don’t know what to do…” The advisor frowned at me, her face a mask of disappointment. “Sarah, how could you spread such rumors about your roommate? Jenna’s financial situation is not something for you to gossip about!” I tried to explain. “Professor, it’s not what she’s saying. That man—” The advisor cut me off sharply. “What man? As a young woman, why is your mind so filthy? Someone offers a kind gesture to a student in need, and you twist it into something sordid. I think you’re just jealous!” A few students had gathered by the office door, whispering and pointing at me. “So that’s her. The one who’s always saying her roommate has a sugar daddy.” “Tsk, what a nasty piece of work.” Finally, the advisor made her decision. “For maliciously slandering a fellow student and demonstrating poor moral character, your scholarship for this semester is hereby revoked.” Jenna stood to the side, a triumphant smirk playing on her lips. She thought she had won. In the weeks that followed, Jenna was out almost every night, returning with armfuls of luxury shopping bags. She would flaunt her new possessions while taunting me. “Remember when you told me not to drink the water? Bet you regret that now, huh?” I ignored her, treating her voice like the buzzing of a fly. Then, one night, she got all dressed up to go out on another one of her dates. But it wasn’t long before she burst back into the dorm, frantic and disheveled. Her hair was a mess, her makeup was smeared, and her expensive designer dress was ripped in several places, revealing the lace edge of her bra. Her voice was a choked sob, laced with terror. “Sarah… please, you have to help me!”

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1 To outsiders, I, Daniel Franco, seemed to have everything. In truth, kinship carried a cold price. My father calculated I owed the family $200,000 from birth. Now he holds my debit card, giving just $300 a month as “interest” payment. To pay off the debt sooner, before Christmas, I put on a simple knit sweater and set up a stall by the street, selling hot cocoa and cinnamon rolls. After all, warm drinks and sweets are most popular in winter, and I could earn a bit more. Unexpectedly, a passerby took a photo of me, and it went viral online. The hashtag #HottestCocoaGuy was surprisingly popular. In the photo, I was bending over to pack a cinnamon roll, my profile clean and sharp. The thermal pot beside me steamed, creating a striking contrast with the bustling street stall. My father called, furious: “You’re an embarrassment! Must you sell hot cocoa and cinnamon rolls on the street?” He added, “Look at your brother Brian—studying in Europe soon. Why are you so worthless?” That’s when I understood: this priced “kinship” was only for me, their biological son. I hung up and asked Woody, who was livestreaming nearby, “Big audience? I can help you trend again.” Then I said clearly, “My name is Franco. As in, Franco Industries.” The moment those words dropped, Woody almost dropped his phone. The chat feed froze for a second. Then, it absolutely exploded. “Holy crap? Franco Industries? The real estate and finance giant?” “Seriously? Doesn’t old man Franco only have one son? Is the eldest son slumming it for kicks?” “Scripted! Definitely scripted! He’s desperate for fame!” I ignored the comments, just calmly continued making hot cocoa and cinnamon rolls for the camera. I ignored the comments on the live stream and just calmly made hot cocoa and packed cinnamon rolls in front of the camera. Cocoa powder smeared on my face, steam rose from the thermal pot of hot cocoa, and the freshly baked cinnamon rolls gave off a sweet, warm aroma. #FrancoIndustriesHeirSellsCocoaToPayDebt My phone shrilly rang. The caller ID read “Mr. Vance Miller.” I answered, putting it directly on speaker. Woody, sharp as a tack, brought his phone closer. Vance’s voice sounded like it would rip through the speaker. “Daniel, have you lost your mind? Stop making a spectacle of yourself, delete that video immediately! Get your ass back here!” My hands didn’t stop. I packed two servings of hot cocoa and cinnamon rolls and handed them to a guy waiting in line. “Twenty bucks, thanks for your business.” Only then did I pick up the phone, addressing the mouthpiece and the millions of viewers in the live stream, and smiled. “Did everyone hear that? That’s my dearest father, Mr. Vance Miller.” “Dad, you say I’m an embarrassment because I’m selling hot cocoa and cinnamon rolls and shaming the Franco name.” “Or is it because letting people know you forced me to sign a two-hundred-thousand-dollar IOU is shaming you?” There was a two-second dead silence on the other end. Followed by an even wilder roar. “You ungrateful brat, what the hell are you babbling about! When did I ever make you sign an IOU?” I pulled a grease-stained ledger from my apron pocket. “Didn’t you personally hand me this ledger?” “Daniel, four years of college tuition, sixty thousand. Dorm fees, eight thousand. Living expenses, at two thousand a month.” “Plus all the money for your meals since you were a kid, thirty dollars a meal, a hundred a day.” “And rent for that tiny room you live in, let’s say three thousand a month.” “All in all, two hundred and three thousand, three hundred and sixty-five dollars. Dad will round it down for you, let’s call it two hundred thousand.” My voice was clear, every word distinct. “Dad, you said all this to me yourself, calculator in hand. I haven’t forgotten a single word.” “Now, I make ten bucks selling a serving of hot cocoa and cinnamon rolls. A hundred servings a day is a thousand. That’s thirty thousand a month.” “I wanted to ask the internet to help me figure out how many years it’ll take me to pay it all back if I don’t eat or drink.” “And how is me working hard to sell hot cocoa and cinnamon rolls and pay off a debt shaming the Franco name?” The live chat went absolutely bonkers, the viewership skyrocketing. Gift animations almost covered my face. On the other end of the line, Vance was too choked with rage to speak, only sharp, ragged breaths. At that moment, a cold, steady female voice took over the phone. It was my mother, Sally Franco. Her voice was devoid of any warmth. “Daniel, have you made enough of a scene?” “Stop this charade at once and come home.” I scoffed in return. “Is ‘home’ priced by the day or by the hour? Has the entrance fee gone up again?” Sally’s voice was barely controlled fury. “That was all to toughen you up! I’m giving you one last chance.” “Otherwise, I’ll freeze all your bank accounts and have the police take you in for disturbing public order.” I laughed out loud. “Chairwoman Franco, feel free to freeze them.” “It’ll be good for the whole country to see exactly how much money the eldest son of Franco Industries has in his accounts.” “Three hundred dollars.” “That’s the living allowance Mr. Vance Miller transferred to me last month.” “The kicker is, he gives me three hundred, but then expects me to pay him back another twenty-three hundred for ‘living expenses.’” Sally was completely enraged and angrily hung up. A moment later, the live stream feed on my screen suddenly went dark. Woody’s phone showed a violation pop-up. My phone rang at that exact moment. It was Sally again. I answered. Her voice was like it came from hell, chilling to the bone. “Daniel, the internet can’t save you.” “Now, it’s time for you to come home.” Two black luxury SUVs, like ghosts, pulled up in front of me. Several bodyguards in dark suits stepped out, their faces devoid of emotion, and walked towards me. No restraints, no gags. They simply made a “please” gesture, but I knew I had no choice but to comply. I was “escorted” back to that opulent mansion. What awaited me was neither a beating nor a verbal assault. Vance sat on the sofa, his eyes red-rimmed, looking like a victim of some terrible injustice. Sally stood beside him, her face grim. In the living room, an unfamiliar middle-aged woman sat, wearing gold-rimmed glasses, with a demure demeanor. I was locked in a small room, worse than the staff quarters. The next day, Franco Industries held an emergency press conference. Sally, before countless flashing cameras, spoke with feigned heartbreak. “My son, Daniel, has been suffering from extreme mental stress, leading to a bout of delusional disorder.” “All his statements online were ramblings from his illness. I deeply apologize for any distress this has caused.” “Going forward, we will have him suspend his studies and receive the best treatment at home.” That woman with the gold-rimmed glasses was the “best treatment.” She was Dr. Reeves, the family’s trusted psychologist. Every day, she would come to my room and “chat” with me. “Daniel, tell me, why do you think your mother demanded two hundred thousand from you?” “Do you feel she doesn’t love you?” I just hugged my knees, staring blankly out the window. Any rebuttal would be recorded, becoming evidence of my “worsening condition.” My adopted brother, Brian, perfectly played the role of the “kind angel.” He would bring in soup and pastries every day, asking after me with concern. “Brother, please don’t make trouble anymore, just cooperate with Dr. Reeves.” “Mom and Dad love you; they just want to help ‘cure’ you.” He placed a bowl of warm broth on my bedside table, his voice so soft it could melt butter. I looked up, my eyes vacant, at him. I took the bowl of broth. But as he turned to leave, I whispered, in a voice only we two could hear: “Cure? Yes, I’m sick.” “So sick I can’t even recognize my own biological parents.” “Brian, you’re so well-behaved and sensible, do you also ‘get sick’ often?” “Are you so beloved because your ‘illness’ was cured?” Brian’s body visibly stiffened. He whirled around to face me, and for the first time, there was terror in his eyes. I gave him a chilling smile. From that day on, I started “acting out.” I would scream in the middle of the night, claiming there were ghosts in the room. During meals, I’d put a plate on my head, declaring it was a crown. When Dr. Reeves was “treating” me, I’d suddenly hug her leg and call her “Mommy.” Their guard, under my apparent madness, slowly lowered. Vance’s gaze towards me shifted from anger to disgust and impatience. Sally simply stopped seeing me altogether. They thought they had won. They thought I had been completely broken. One night, I started “sleepwalking” again. Barefoot, in my white pajamas, I drifted out of my room like a ghost. The bodyguards and staff saw me, but simply turned their heads, accustomed to the sight. No one paid attention to a “madman’s” sleepwalking. I deftly avoided the surveillance cameras and made my way to Sally’s study on the second floor. I approached the massive mahogany bookshelf and, following a memory, twisted one of the decorative vases. The bookshelf silently slid open to the side, revealing a hidden safe compartment. The password was Brian’s birthday. I entered the code, and the compartment clicked open. Inside, there were no jewels or gold, only a brown paper envelope. I opened it. A DNA test report lay quietly within. Subjects: Sally Franco, Brian Franco. Conclusion: Biological mother-son relationship. Beneath the report, a stack of yellowed letters was tucked. They were letters from a man named Ethan Reeves to Sally. Every line overflowed with love, reluctance, and hopes for the future. I took both items. These were my chips to escape this prison. And the damning evidence to condemn them. I planned an escape. The time, route, and method were meticulously thought out. I knocked out the attendant who brought me meals, changed into his clothes, and walked boldly out of the mansion’s main gate. I even successfully made it to a main road and hailed a taxi. But just as I thought I had succeeded, those familiar black SUVs once again blocked my path. I was dragged back. My “failed” escape was the final straw, breaking Sally and Vance’s patience. They looked at me, their eyes devoid of any lingering pretense of warmth, only cold annoyance. Sally looked down at me. “It seems Dr. Reeves can’t cure your illness anymore.” “Daniel, you’re far too disobedient.” She made a call. Half an hour later, I was taken to a private sanatorium on the outskirts of the city. This place was less a sanatorium and more a prison. High walls, electric fences, and emotionless attendants. The director of the sanatorium, a portly woman, respectfully told Sally. “Ms. Franco, rest assured, we specialize in ‘curing’ rebellion here.” “We guarantee we’ll return a docile, obedient son to you in two weeks.” I was told my “condition” had worsened and required a more “efficient” treatment. They called this treatment “electrotherapy.” Two burly attendants dragged me into a stark white room. In the center of the room was only a cold metal chair, covered in leather restraints. They roughly shoved me into the chair, binding my hands, feet, and body with the straps. Vance watched me, restrained through the viewing glass, a look of vengeful satisfaction on his face. “Daniel, this is your last chance.” “Sign this ‘Voluntary Treatment Consent Form,’ and once you’re ‘cured,’ we can still acknowledge you as our son.” A paper and a pen were offered to me. I looked at him, my gaze sharp as a blade. I screamed: “Every word I said before was true.” “And you are the ones who are truly sick.” “Your illness is called ‘Moral Bankruptcy.’ And this disease, electroshock can’t cure.” Vance was utterly infuriated by me. He yelled at the doctor inside. “Look at him, does he look like a son? His condition has clearly worsened.” “Don’t let him babble, start the treatment!” A doctor in a white coat entered, holding two metal electrodes. He expressionlessly applied a cold conductive gel to my temples. Looking at him, I finally understood. They were no longer content with just silencing me. They wanted to use electricity to burn my memories, my will, my personality, into ashes. They wanted to destroy me with their own hands. The doctor picked up the electrodes and slowly brought them towards my temples. The cold metallic touch was clearly imprinted on my skin. I closed my eyes. That failed escape was real. But its purpose wasn’t to get out. In those few minutes when I knocked out the attendant and changed into his clothes, I went to the old oak tree in the mansion’s backyard. I dug open a tree hollow, wrapped the brown paper envelope in a waterproof bag, and hid it inside. The DNA report, Ethan Reeves’s letters, and a small voice recorder. The recorder held the entire conversation between Sally and Vance discussing how to send me to this electrotherapy center. They hadn’t decided to send me to the sanatorium because I tried to escape. This was a pre-planned treatment. During my escape. I used a pre-arranged phone to send a timed text message to a journalist known for fighting for justice, who had been following my case. The message was simple: “If I disappear for more than 24 hours, please call the police and tell them to look for the truth under the old oak tree in the backyard of the Franco mansion.” Now, twenty-three hours had passed since that message was sent. … “Zzzzzzzzzz—” An indescribable pain. It was as if countless burning hot steel needles were piercing through my brain. My body convulsed violently in the chair, arching backward uncontrollably. My teeth bit down hard on the mouth guard, making a “clack-clack” sound. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. I could feel my consciousness being torn to shreds by this brutal force. The first electroshock ended. I was utterly limp, like a rag doll, my clothes soaked with sweat. My vision blurred. I saw Vance’s face through the viewing window, a satisfied smile plastered on it. Sally just watched impassively, as if observing a play that had nothing to do with her. The doctor checked the equipment, preparing for the second electroshock. I knew I was running out of time. I used every last ounce of my strength, lifted my head, and stared intensely at the surveillance camera in the corner. I knew they were watching. My voice was hoarse and broken, almost inaudible. “Tell… Sally…” “I found… what he hid in the study’s secret compartment…” “Uncle Ethan’s… Ethan Reeves’s letters…” “I’ve already… called the police…” These words, like an detonated bomb.

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Tonight at exactly eight seventeen, I checked my phone and found nine missed calls. They were all from my father-in-law, Robert. In our five years of marriage, he had never tried to reach me with such frantic urgency. I tapped the screen to play his latest voicemail. His voice trembled with an unmistakable edge of panic. “Oliver, I kept your dinner warm in the oven. Please don’t eat anything from those random takeout places. You have a sensitive stomach. The food out there is filthy, it will make you sick.” That wasn’t the voice of a concerned parent. It was the sound of barely concealed terror. I lowered my phone and absentmindedly scratched my forearm. Then, I completely froze. My skin was entirely smooth. There were no raised welts, no burning redness, no agonizing itch. For the first time in five years, my arms were completely clear. My mind raced back through the events of the day. The only thing I had done differently was skip Robert’s home-cooked dinner. 1 I had been stuck at the pharmacy doing inventory until almost seven thirty. The diner next door was closed, so I grabbed a pre-packaged turkey sandwich from a convenience store to hold me over. My phone had vibrated relentlessly in my pocket the entire time. I saw Robert’s name flash on the screen, but my hands were full of heavy boxes. I figured I would just call him back later. By the time I finished, it completely slipped my mind. When I finally checked my notifications, I saw the nine missed calls. I unlocked the front door just before nine o’clock. Robert rushed out of the kitchen the second he heard the latch click. He hadn’t even taken off his apron, and his knuckles were dusted with flour. “Why are you so late?” he demanded. “We had to do a full stock count at the pharmacy today,” I replied, slipping off my shoes. “Took longer than expected.” “Did you eat?” “Yeah, I grabbed a sandwich on the way.” Robert’s expression faltered. It was barely a fraction of a second, but I caught it. It wasn’t the relieved look of a father hearing his son-in-law had been fed. It was a sharp, poorly hidden flash of anxiety. “Store-bought food is garbage,” he muttered, turning sharply back toward the kitchen. “I will heat up some chicken broth for you. It has been simmering all afternoon.” “Robert, I am honestly full.” “A bowl of broth won’t ruin your appetite,” he insisted. He was already carrying the steaming bowl out to the dining table. I didn’t want to argue, so I sat down and forced myself to drink half of it. It had a very faint, almost imperceptible savory tang, but immediately after swallowing, the tip of my tongue began to tingle and go numb. It had always been like this. For five years, I just assumed my immune system was a wreck. Later that night, as I stood under the bathroom shower, I glanced down at my forearms. Still perfectly smooth. But deep down, I already knew they wouldn’t look like that tomorrow. The next morning, I woke up and looked at my skin. Three angry red hives had blossomed in the crook of my left elbow. A raised, intensely itchy patch of inflamed skin covered my right forearm. It looked exactly the same as every single morning for the past five years. I sat on the edge of the mattress, staring blankly at the red marks. Yesterday, I didn’t eat his food, and my skin was clear. Last night, I drank his broth, and the hives returned. Maria sat up beside me, pulling on her blouse for work. “Flaring up again?” she asked, glancing over. “Yeah.” “Isn’t it time you booked another appointment with the specialist? Did you finish that last round of steroids?” “I still have half a pack.” She applied her lipstick in the vanity mirror and shot me a sympathetic look. “Try not to scratch it, Oliver. You will just make it bleed.” Then she grabbed her purse and walked out the door. I remained frozen on the edge of the bed. My mind was circling a terrifying, completely insane theory. From the kitchen, Robert’s voice echoed down the hall. “Oliver! The oatmeal is ready, come eat while it is hot!” I slowly stood up and walked out of the bedroom. A faint smile touched my lips. “Coming,” I called back. I sat down at the table and pulled the bowl toward me. I stared at the tiny, almost invisible flecks of seasoning floating in the creamy oats. I had never noticed them before. Today, they looked glaringly obvious. I took a small bite. The tip of my tongue went numb again. 2 I had suffered from a severe shellfish allergy my entire life. When I was a kid, I accidentally ate a piece of fried shrimp and my throat swelled shut. I nearly died in the back of an ambulance. From that day on, my parents banned all seafood from the house, and I learned to read every food label like my life depended on it. I managed it perfectly for over twenty years. I rarely had a reaction. Everything changed the moment I married Maria. The hives started during our first month of marriage. By the second month, they refused to fade. By the third month, both of my arms were covered in a permanent, burning rash. I went to the top allergists in the city. They diagnosed me with chronic idiopathic anaphylaxis. They couldn’t pinpoint the trigger. “Do you have any known severe allergens?” the doctor had asked. “Shellfish. But I absolutely never touch it.” “Then we will have to keep running panels. For now, we manage the symptoms.” He prescribed heavy antihistamines and topical steroid creams. The consultation was two hundred dollars. The medication was another hundred and fifty. Three hundred and fifty dollars for the very first month. I went back a month later, desperate for relief. I saw a different specialist. Another four hundred dollars for consultations and stronger topical treatments. By the third month, the inflammation subsided slightly, only to roar back with a vengeance in the fourth. I started using my employee discount at the pharmacy to buy the medications at cost, but I was still burning through hundreds of dollars every few weeks. Over five years, the empty pill bottles and crushed ointment tubes in my nightstand could have filled a dumpster. Maria noticed the massive pile while cleaning one afternoon. She looked genuinely stunned. “You take all of this?” “Yeah.” “Can’t you find a cheaper generic brand?” I didn’t answer her. I was already buying the absolute cheapest options available. And that was just the daily medication. Factor in the specialist visits, the endless blood panels, the holistic doctors, the allergy testing kits. I kept a meticulous spreadsheet of my medical expenses over the last five years. Just managing the hives had cost me over twelve thousand dollars. But that wasn’t even the worst part. During our third year of marriage, we decided to start trying for a baby. After twelve months with zero success, we went to a fertility clinic. Maria was perfectly healthy. My results, however, were devastating. The chronic, severe allergic inflammation in my body had wrecked my endocrine system, severely impacting my fertility. The doctor tried to break it to me gently. “We need to get this chronic allergic response completely under control before your body can recover enough to conceive.” But I couldn’t control it. For five unbroken years, my body had been locked in a constant state of panic. Desperate, I agreed to an aggressive series of hormone therapies and specialized treatments to boost my chances. Each cycle cost around eight thousand dollars. I went through three grueling cycles. None of them worked. Twenty-four thousand dollars, completely burned to ashes. During that dark period, Robert started sighing a lot around the dinner table. “Oliver, I am not trying to pressure you two,” he would say, placing a choice cut of roast beef directly onto Maria’s plate. “It is just a shame. Maria is my only daughter, and she would make such a wonderful mother.” I stared at my bowl. He never served me the good cuts. Over the last five years, I had grown completely used to him treating Maria like royalty while barely acknowledging me. “We are still trying, Robert. The doctors said there is still a chance.” “Right. Just don’t push yourself too hard. Health comes first,” he replied, flashing a gentle, comforting smile. That following Saturday, Ken came over to visit. Ken was the son of David, Robert’s oldest friend. He was a few years younger than me, working a comfortable job at a corporate bank. His skin was flawless. Not a single red mark, not a single blemish. Robert’s face lit up the second he opened the door. “Ken! Come in, come in, sit down.” He practically dragged Ken to the best spot on the sofa. “Look at you, getting more handsome every year. And you look so healthy.” Ken chuckled modestly. Robert shot a sideways glance at me. “Not like our Oliver. The poor guy is always breaking out. His face and arms are always a mess.” Ken glanced at me, his expression unreadable, and stayed quiet. “I will go make some coffee,” I said, standing up from my chair. Once I was alone in the kitchen, I rolled up my sleeves. A violent, red rash crawled from my wrists all the way past my elbows. I quietly rolled my sleeves back down. When I carried the coffee tray into the living room, Ken was sitting directly in the center of the sofa, occupying the exact spot I normally sat in every evening. I set his mug down in front of him and took a seat on a small wooden stool in the corner. Late that night, after Maria had fallen asleep, I stood alone in the bathroom under the harsh fluorescent lights, trying to squeeze the last drops out of my hydrocortisone tube. The tube was completely flattened. The tiny ribbon of cream wasn’t enough to cover both arms. I scraped the plastic nozzle clean and smeared the meager amount onto my right elbow. I looked up into the mirror. The rash had crept up my neck. Angry red patches covered my cheeks and jawline. I turned off the light and stepped back into the dark bedroom. Maria shifted under the blankets but didn’t wake up. 3 The following Monday, I made a decision. I cornered my coworker, Marcus, in the breakroom. “Hey, can I take your evening shifts for the whole week?” “Why the sudden change?” Marcus asked, looking surprised. “Just dealing with some stuff at home.” The evening shift ran from two in the afternoon to ten at night. It meant I would have to eat dinner at the pharmacy. When I called Robert to tell him, I kept my voice perfectly casual. “The schedule got flipped this week. I am on nights, so I won’t be home for dinner.” “What? What are you going to eat?” “We have a microwave in the back room. I will just grab something from the deli.” “You can’t eat that processed garbage. It will make you sick. Let me cook something and—” “Robert, it’s fine. It is just for one week.” Dead silence hung on the line for two agonizing seconds. “Fine,” he finally said. “Just don’t eat anything strange.” I promised I wouldn’t. That week, I ate basic cafeteria food for lunch and survived on microwaved pasta and convenience store sandwiches for dinner. On Monday, the hives remained. On Tuesday, the angry red color began to fade. On Wednesday, the burning itch completely vanished. On Thursday, the thick, raised welts on my left arm flattened out. On Friday, my right arm had nothing but faint, pale pink shadows where the rash used to be. By Sunday, both of my arms were completely spotless. Even my face had cleared up. Marcus caught me hauling boxes in the stockroom with my sleeves rolled up. He stopped in his tracks. “Whoa, your skin looks great,” he said. “Yeah, it has been getting a lot better recently.” “I thought you said that chronic allergy thing was incurable? You looked like a walking tomato just last month.” I offered a thin smile and went back to work without explaining. During that entire week, Robert called me religiously every single day. Monday: “What exactly did you eat for dinner?” Wednesday: “I made a huge pot of beef stew. Do you want Maria to drop some off at the pharmacy?” Thursday: “Maria mentioned your skin is looking a lot better.” Friday: “Your night shifts end this weekend, right? Come straight home on Sunday, I am cooking a massive feast.” On Saturday morning, Robert personally walked through the glass doors of the pharmacy. He was holding a heavy insulated thermos. “Robert? What are you doing all the way out here?” “You haven’t had a decent home-cooked meal in a week. I couldn’t stop worrying about you.” He set the thermos down on the checkout counter and unscrewed the lid. Rich, savory steam drifted into the air. It was chicken broth. But underneath the smell of the chicken, there was another scent. It was incredibly faint. I had never been able to isolate it before. But after a week of eating clean, bland food, my senses were razor-sharp. “Drink it while it is hot,” he urged, staring at me intently. I picked up the plastic bowl and took a tiny sip. The immediate, familiar numbness hit the tip of my tongue. “Delicious,” I said, offering him a bright, appreciative smile. The moment Robert left the store, I locked the front doors and marched straight into the sterile stockroom. I pulled a medical-grade specimen bag from the supply cabinet, poured the remaining chicken broth directly into the plastic pouch, and sealed it tight. I slapped a blank label on the front, wrote down the date and time, and shoved it into the medical refrigerator used for storing vaccines. 4 Our pharmacy didn’t have the equipment to run advanced allergy panels, but after six years in the medical supply industry, I knew exactly who could. There was an independent testing laboratory just a few blocks away that handled commercial food safety and allergen trace testing. I had delivered medical supplies to their technicians plenty of times. First thing Monday morning, I walked into their lobby carrying the sealed sample. The receptionist smiled when she saw me. “Hey Oliver, dropping off a sample for a client?” “Actually, this one is personal,” I said, sliding the bag across the counter. “I need a qualitative allergen screening. Specifically, I need you to test for the presence of shellfish proteins.” “No problem. If you pay the rush fee, we can have the results emailed to you by tomorrow afternoon.” “Put a rush on it.” I swiped my own credit card for the eighty-eight-dollar invoice. I spent the rest of my shift in a total daze. Marcus kept asking if I was feeling okay. “I’m fine. Just didn’t sleep well,” I lied. That night, I went back to eating at home. Robert had gone all out. He had prepared a massive spread: slow-cooked pot roast, garlic butter asparagus, creamy potato soup, and baked salmon. “You worked so hard this week, Oliver. Eat up,” Robert said, pushing a plate toward me. “Thanks, Robert.” I ate. I made sure to take a few bites of every single dish on the table. The next morning, I looked in the mirror. The hives were back. They covered my neck, the crooks of my elbows, and both forearms. It was a violent, total relapse. It was as if my week of clear skin had never happened. Maria frowned over her coffee. “It flared up again? You were doing so well last week.” “Probably just stress from the night shifts,” I replied blankly. At exactly two in the afternoon, my phone rang. It was the testing lab. “Oliver, we just finalized the report on your sample.” “Tell me.” “Positive for crustacean protein. The concentration is relatively low, but it is definitively positive.” The phone trembled in my grip. I wasn’t scared. The trembling came from a sudden, overwhelming wave of clarity. Five years. It wasn’t a weak immune system. It wasn’t idiopathic inflammation. It wasn’t an unsolvable medical mystery. Someone had been meticulously lacing my food with shellfish every single day. And my severe, potentially lethal allergy to shellfish was something everyone in my household knew about. I stood in the cold, sterile pharmacy stockroom and took three long, deep breaths. Then I opened the supply cabinet and pulled out six more medical-grade specimen bags. For the rest of the week, I ate dinner at home. And every single night, I managed to slip a sample into a bag. Tuesday: Potato soup. Positive. Wednesday: Steamed vegetables. Positive. Thursday: Casserole. Positive. Friday: Oatmeal. Positive. Saturday: BBQ ribs. Positive. Sunday: Beef stew. Positive. Seven separate laboratory reports. All seven came back completely positive. After my shift ended, I locked the pharmacy doors and spread the seven printed reports across the checkout counter. I was entirely alone. The only sound was the hum of the fluorescent lights. I read through them, one by one. Every single page ended with the exact same bolded conclusion. Crustacean Protein: DETECTED. Seven days. Seven completely different dishes. Zero omissions. This wasn’t a dirty cutting board. This wasn’t accidental cross-contamination at a factory. This was in every single dish, every single day, for every single meal. It was intentional. It was mathematically precise. And it had been happening for five years. I stacked the seven papers together, slid them into a manila folder, and zipped it securely inside my backpack. I splashed cold water on my face in the employee restroom, dried off, and pulled out my phone. I opened my messages and texted Robert. “Dad, I have been craving your famous BBQ ribs. Could you make them tomorrow?” A minute later, my screen lit up. “Of course! I will go to the butcher tomorrow morning!!!” Three exclamation points. 5 Now I needed to find the weapon. I didn’t want theories. I didn’t want circumstantial deductions. I needed the physical proof. On Wednesday afternoon, Robert left the house to meet his friends for a walk in the park. Maria was still at her office. The house was completely empty. I walked into the kitchen and began systematically dismantling the space. First, I checked the visible spice racks. Olive oil, balsamic vinegar, Italian herbs, black pepper, Cajun seasoning. Nothing out of the ordinary. I moved to the upper cabinets. Flour, sugar, cornstarch, baking soda. Nothing. I paused, calculating his movements while cooking. I crouched down and pulled open the heavy wooden doors beneath the stovetop. It was full of heavy cast-iron skillets and soup pots. I reached all the way to the very back. Hidden in the darkest corner, behind a massive Dutch oven, my fingers brushed against cold plastic. I pulled it out into the light. It was a generic brown plastic bottle. There was no label. A thin layer of grease and dust coated the cap, but the body of the bottle was wiped clean. It was handled frequently. I unscrewed the cap. A fine, pale pink powder filled the bottle. I brought it close to my nose and inhaled slightly. The sharp, unmistakable stench of dried brine and fishiness hit the back of my throat. It was pure dehydrated shrimp powder. I pulled out my phone and took several high-resolution photos. The bottle in my hand, the texture of the powder, and the exact spot where it had been hidden behind the pots. Then, I screwed the cap back on and placed it precisely where I found it. I walked into the living room and sat heavily on the sofa. I reached over and picked up Robert’s iPad. He never used a passcode. He only used it to watch baseball highlights and browse the internet. I opened the Amazon app. He was still logged in. I tapped the search bar in his order history and typed in “Shrimp Powder.” When the results populated the screen, I stopped breathing for a long time. Sixty individual orders. Every single order was from a storefront called “Ocean Bounty Spices.” One order per month. I scrolled down to the very first purchase. Date: March 17th. Maria and I got married on February 28th. He placed the first order exactly seventeen days after my wedding. The most recent order was placed on February 8th of this year. Just last month. Five years. Sixty orders. One 8-ounce bag every single month. Price: $15.80. I took screenshots of every single order. All sixty of them. Once I was done, I cleared the search history, closed the app, and placed the iPad exactly where he had left it. I sat alone in the quiet living room and did the math in my head. Sixty bags of shrimp powder at $15.80 each. Total cost: $948. Not even a thousand dollars. I pulled out my phone and opened my terrifyingly detailed medical spreadsheet. The copays, the steroids, the emergency clinic visits, the blood panels, the fertility treatments. Total cost: $162,780. Less than a thousand dollars worth of crushed shrimp. One hundred and sixty-two thousand dollars in agonizing medical debt. My grip tightened until the metal edges of my phone dug painfully into my palms. I took a deep breath, forcing my heart rate to slow down. It still wasn’t enough. I knew the what, the how, and the how much. Now I needed the why. I reached for the iPad one more time and opened his WhatsApp application. I scrolled through his recent chats. The third conversation on the list caught my eye. Contact name: David (Ken’s Dad). I tapped it.

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1 While helping Leo search for his laptop, I accidentally stumbled upon his wedding proposal plans. To surprise him, I quietly hid inside the wedding venue, preparing for a reverse proposal. Under the crystal chandeliers, Leo knelt on one knee. But standing before him was my own sister! “Ruby, from the first moment I saw you, I knew you were the only one for me in this life.” My sister lowered her head, covering her mouth, shaking her head vigorously. “No, we can’t do this. Vivian has been with you for five years. What about her?” My mother walked over, laughing. “Don’t worry, does she dare to disagree?” “Mom already knew who Leo truly cared for. What brother-in-law would buy you a mansion worth hundreds of millions and jewelry worth tens of millions? She never got that kind of treatment.” My father directly handed over the household registry. “Let’s just get the marriage certificate today. A double celebration!” “At worst, you can have your children raised by her in the future. That would repay her for saving you two years ago by having her uterus removed.” A metallic taste of blood surged in my throat. I watched, my eyes wide, as they kissed. The ring slipped silently from my fingers. This family, I didn’t want it anymore. … I dialed Leo’s number, my hands trembling. “Where… are you?” He was too happy to notice the catch in my voice. “Vivian, I’m on a business trip. Get some rest. I have to go, talk later.” Ruby bit her lip, frowning. “Did Vivian find out something?” Leo smoothed her brow, scoffing softly. “She’s not that smart. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have given up her advanced study spot for me back then.” Three years ago, he’d approached me, his face full of guilt. “Vivian, can you put off your studies for now? I’ve just started my business, and I’m afraid I can’t manage without you.” I believed him, gave up my dream, and immersed myself in domestic life. But Ruby returned from studying abroad the following year and became his personal secretary. At the time, my parents didn’t approve of Leo and me dating. It was only after Ruby joined Leo’s company that they relented. “It’s all my fault.” Ruby’s eyes were slightly red. “If it weren’t for me, Vivian wouldn’t have been kidnapped, lost her virginity, and lost the ability to be a mother…” Her words dragged me back to the most painful day of my life. That day, I received a call saying Leo had been in an accident in the suburbs. I rushed there, frantic. He was suspended above a cement mixer, covered in blood. “He owes us millions. You’re his girlfriend, you pay it back.” I was penniless then. The thugs laughed. “No money? Then whenever you make us comfortable, we’ll let him go.” I struggled, begged, fought back repeatedly. “I’ll pay! Any amount, just give me some time.” “Money? We want fun.” Five hours? Or ten hours? Or longer? I couldn’t remember. I only remembered waking up to the doctor’s cold notification. “Uterine rupture, requiring removal.” Leo held me, sobbing uncontrollably, promising he’d never betray me. I gripped my palms tightly. My mother’s next sentence sent shivers through my body. “A sister’s debt is a sister’s responsibility. This is what she should do. Don’t blame yourself.” She gently hugged Ruby, comforting her. My father also sighed deeply. “You borrowed money from online lenders for Leo’s business; what’s wrong with that?” “If anyone’s to blame, it’s her for being so stupid, not even noticing such an obvious loophole.” Leo pulled her into his arms. “You are a goddess, and it’s only right for her to sacrifice for you.” “In the future, we’ll let her raise our children. That will be enough to repay her.” My mind buzzed as if struck by lightning. It turned out, this was all planned by them. I stayed in the country, becoming Ruby’s “scapegoat.” Five years of devotion, from head to toe, completely squeezed dry! “Who are you?!” The security guard shouted, drawing Leo’s attention. The moment our eyes met, his pupils contracted sharply. 2 “Vivian?” Leo’s face flashed with panic for a moment, then he quickly regained composure. “Since you’re here, I won’t bother explaining.” He grabbed Ruby’s hand as if asserting ownership. “Ruby and I are getting married next week. Don’t blame me; you can only blame yourself.” “Myself?” I looked up, incredulous. Leo gave a mocking laugh. “My family is a prominent one; do you think I’d marry a woman who can’t have children?” “Besides, if you don’t find yourself dirty, I do.” Fury surged through me, blood gushing from my nose, smearing my face. “You clearly ruined me…” Leo stared at me, momentarily lost. “Vivian, I know you’re hurting, but you can’t force feelings.” Ruby nestled into his embrace, a defiant look in her eyes. “You’ve been used by so many people, your insides must be rotten and foul. Even if I were Leo, I couldn’t stomach it.” “Bang—” My high heel flew, splashing near Ruby’s feet. She shrieked in fright. “Ruby!” Leo’s face darkened, and he glared at me fiercely. “Vivian Ruffalo, don’t push your luck! Ruby is right; your furious face is disgusting!” Ruby sobbed. “Vivian, you won’t even let me tell the truth?” The disgust in Leo’s eyes was overflowing. “Apologize immediately! Otherwise, don’t blame me for ruining your reputation!” I stared fixedly at the video on his phone, no longer able to hold back my furious roar. “You said you destroyed it!” “Leo, you lied to me! Why are you doing this to me?! Am I not your girlfriend? Didn’t you say you’d protect me forever?!” I cried hysterically, unable to vent all the hatred in my heart. A flicker of something that looked like regret crossed his eyes. “Enough!” My mother stormed over, slapping my face. “Aren’t you ashamed?! You’re not welcome here, get out! Don’t ruin your sister’s good day!” My father’s face darkened. “You’d best face reality. Ruby and Leo are a match made in heaven!” My cheek burned. I looked up, meeting Leo’s pitying gaze. “Be good, just apologize properly, and Auntie and Uncle will try to accept you, try to love you.” “Isn’t that what you always wanted?” I looked up, meeting their disgusted eyes. Yes, I was their daughter too, but from childhood, they only loved Ruby. In high school, Ruby led the bullying against me. Dragged me into the bathroom, forced me to drink toilet water. Spread rumors that I was dating some scummy guy, got me drunk, and put me in his bed. It was Leo, passing by, who intervened, swinging an ashtray at the guy, dragging me out of that hell. “Your sister is a piece of trash! Don’t worry, she won’t get away with it. I’ll beat her every time I see her!” Under the moonlight, Leo, panting, stood up for me. After we started dating, he’d often say. “Your sister shamelessly keeps asking you for money!” “When we get married, your husband will get even for you!” Thinking of this, my heart felt like a piece had been brutally ripped out. I wiped away the tears from my face, a calm almost akin to destruction settling over me. “I won’t let any of you get away with this.” I turned and walked away, dialing a number that had been dormant for a long time. “Professor… I need to take back everything that belongs to me.” 3 I obtained Leo’s business trip records from over the years. In a self-destructive manner, I cross-referenced them with Ruby’s social media posts, one by one. The day they watched the sunset on Bali beach, I was suffering from severe period pain and the flu, with a fever of 102 degrees. I asked Leo if he could stay with me. He said he had to attend an industry summit in Europe. I chuckled apologetically, only to be met with his comment about my immaturity. Something suddenly clicked in my mind. I opened the home surveillance. Three days ago, I attended a class reunion. In the video, just as I left, Ruby arrived. In the entryway, the two kissed passionately, and under her trench coat, she was wearing nothing. They were in my marital bedroom, on my bed, using my pillows. Finally, Leo opened my closet, took out my underwear, and bent down to help her put them on. I slammed the laptop shut. Kneeling on the carpet, I vomited until only bile came out. My phone suddenly rang. It was an unknown number. “You dirty bitch, come out and play with me? I promise I’ll serve you better than those other guys.” I abruptly hung up. The next second, malicious texts instantly flooded my inbox. “Who are you trying to fool?! You’ve been used by so many people, your insides are rotten and stinking!” “President Leo is so unlucky, stuck with a slut like you, truly disgusting! You’re an embarrassment to women!” My face was ashen. The trending topic title was blindingly bright. [President Leo’s Girlfriend: A Promiscuous Woman Whose Uterus Was Removed Due to Abuse.] I rushed into Leo’s company. A group of people surrounded me. “Slut! You still have the nerve to show your face! You deserve to die, you whore!” “Let’s get revenge for President Leo!” “You tramp, if you’re lacking men, I’ll take good care of you!” I was pinned to the ground, countless hands roaming over my body. “Let me go! Where’s Leo?!” My shirt was ripped, and the moment my pale chest was exposed, I burst into uncontrollable sobs. “Stop!” A powerful force pulled me up from behind, holding me tightly. Leo’s face was dark as he swept his gaze over the attackers, then ordered his assistant. “Call the police! Arrest every single one of them!” Ruby’s face was very grim. In the office, Leo looked at me reassuringly. “The video was accidentally exposed. I’ll take care of it.” Ruby suddenly spoke. “Vivian, you wouldn’t have staged all this yourself, would you?” “Are you trying to gain our sympathy, mine and Leo’s, by deliberately releasing the video and forcing Leo to marry you?” I looked up in disbelief, meeting Leo’s suspicious gaze. My whole body was numb with pain, my heart seizing. “It was you!” Meeting Ruby’s challenging eyes, I lunged at her. Ruby screamed, dodging behind Leo. “Leo, protect me! Vivian is desperate now that I’ve exposed her!” Leo shielded her, then fiercely shoved me away. I hit a nearby teapot, and scalding hot water poured onto my face. “Ah—!” The intense burning pain made every inch of my skin scream. But Leo didn’t even turn his head; he was only anxiously checking if Ruby was hurt. “Vivian Ruffalo, stop your pathetic act! Ruby is carrying my child, and I won’t allow anyone to hurt her! Especially you!” I clutched my scalded face, trembling with pain. A guttural sound escaped my throat, but I couldn’t utter a single word, and I simply collapsed. 4 I woke up in the hospital. The face in the mirror had a huge blister, clinging to my face like a grotesque worm. “Awake?” Ruby looked at my disfigured face, her smile growing even brighter. “Do you know why I stole so many things from you, but never Leo?” She leaned closer to me, smiling gleefully. “Because Leo has been mine from the very beginning, you know?” She looked at me, grinning. “What made you think he would save you? Or fall in love with you? It was all my doing, you see.” “I just wanted to watch you fall in love, then cut you off at the root, completely shattering your heart.” She deliberately winked. “How is it, my dear sister? Do you like the gift big sister sent you?” Countless sweet memories of Leo flashed through my mind. My head buzzed and then exploded. I resisted, my eyes wide with fury. “How could you do this to me?!” The bodyguards by my side held me firmly to the hospital bed, making it impossible to struggle. Ruby’s long, sharp fingernail traced my chin. Then she violently pressed it into the blister on my face. “Ah—!” Yellow pus splattered everywhere, choking my throat, sending a searing pain through me. I screamed, heartbroken, blood and tears mingling on my face. Ruby reveled in my agony, her smile growing even more defiant. I stared at her, then suddenly broke free and lunged. “Bang—” Leo, his face filled with savagery, kicked me away. My grotesque scars crawled all over my face; he paused for a moment, then spat viciously. “You reap what you sow!” Ruby clutched her lower abdomen, gasping. “Leo, my stomach hurts so much!” Leo strode forward, abruptly grabbing my throat. “Vivian Ruffalo, I’m warning you one last time. My wife will only be Ruby. If you dare to bully her again, I promise I’ll make your life a living hell.” He lit a cigar, and the thick, burning tip, as if to vent his anger, seared my tender facial flesh. It sizzled. I choked, clutching his hand, slowly sliding down as I covered my face. Leo paused, then tossed a tube of ointment at me. “Don’t play dead. This is excellent healing salve; it’ll prevent scarring.” “In three days, Ruby and I are getting married. You must be there.” “I want everyone to know that you are the one who wronged me!” Watching his retreating back as he carried Ruby away. I clenched my fists tightly, murmuring, “You two will regret this.” Three days later. At the wedding, everything proceeded in an orderly fashion. Leo scanned the room but didn’t find me. Ruby, in a pearl-white satin wedding gown, was incredibly beautiful, like a ripe, alluring pearl, exuding a tempting luster. Yet, Leo was unexpectedly distracted. He remembered the day they designed the wedding dress, and his mind was filled with images of me wearing it. “Leo?” Ruby called him several times before he snapped back to attention. For some reason, a vague unease settled in his heart; he simply attributed it to pre-wedding jitters. The ceremony continued. “Now, now the groom may kiss the bride.” The emcee’s words brought the atmosphere to a crescendo. The moment Leo leaned in, the entire venue plunged into sudden darkness. The next second, the big screen lit up. The scene showed two people entangled, naked. “Leo, when do you think that idiot Vivian will find out that we’ve been hooking up for ages?”

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