Category: English

Even after marrying my childhood friend, we remained strangers. Except for our routine nightly obligations, we rarely saw each other. He had an incredibly cold personality. Even when I asked for a divorce, he only spaced out for a second before pushing himself up from my body. “Alright. Got it.” I said, “I don’t want custody of the kid either. He’s going to be your problem from now on.” “It’s fine.” I insisted, “You’ve worked hard these past few years. Thank you.” I had very little luggage. A single suitcase held everything I owned. Before leaving, I turned back to close the door. Carter, shirtless and covered in the scratch marks I’d just left on his back, stood silently on the balcony smoking a cigarette. 01 My sister Chloe Miller’s return to the States was trending everywhere on Twitter. After all, she was a dance prodigy who found fame young. In the interview video, she wore a red dress, looking as vibrant and fiercely dazzling as ever. But my attention was drawn to the final photo attached to the article. Through a half-lowered car window, Chloe’s head perfectly blocked the side profile of the man waiting inside. Though you couldn’t see his full face, the superior curve of the man’s brow, nose, and jawline was unmistakable. Not to mention, the angle of their bodies made it look exactly like they were kissing. Chloe’s fans were going crazy, digging everywhere to find out who owned the car. I recognized the owner at first glance. It was my husband, Carter Hayes. After all, a globally limited-edition Rolls-Royce Phantom was hard to mistake. It looked like Carter wouldn’t be coming home tonight. So, I comfortably took over our massive king-sized bed. Late in the night, a pair of ice-cold arms woke me up. “Are you awake?” The newcomer was very polite. “Sorry to bother you.” My mind was still a bit foggy. It took me a moment to gather the strength to sit up. He had already wrapped his arms around my body, making room for himself on his half of the bed. “Sorry,” I said. “I thought you weren’t coming home tonight.” The lamp clicked on. Carter turned his back to me and took off his bathrobe. The warm light painted his broad back and neck with a pale golden hue, like an oil painting, full of raw power and aesthetics. A minute later, that neck leaned in close to me. “Can we kiss?” He asked politely enough. But in reality, he didn’t wait for my consent at all. As our lips and teeth tangled, I could clearly feel the sweat slowly seeping through his skin beneath my palms. Carter propped himself up, extended his long arm, and opened the nightstand drawer on his side. Then, he frowned. “Why are we out?” “Sorry… I forgot to buy more,” I said slowly. Carter looked down at me for a moment, then lay back down beside me. He spoke in what sounded like a very considerate tone: “It’s fine. I’ll pick up a box on my way home from work tomorrow.” A box… If I had known, I would have hidden them. I braced myself and replied, “Thanks for the trouble.” “Don’t mention it.” 02 When I woke up the next day, the other half of the bed was already empty. I casually scrolled through my phone, and before I knew it, it was noon. The man I shared a bed with last night was in the news again. Carter Hayes, CEO of Hayes Corporation, was invited to watch Chloe Miller’s first stage performance since her return to the country. This time, the internet sleuths not only figured out that Carter was the owner of the car from last night, but they also used magnifying glasses to analyze the photos and concluded that the two definitely spent the night together. Because even though Carter was wearing a high-necked black shirt, it didn’t hide the hickey on his neck. And Chloe’s lip, coincidentally, was slightly bruised. You didn’t need much imagination to guess how intense they were last night. The hype was so massive that an insider soon leaked the backstory: Years ago, to ask for Chloe’s hand in marriage, Carter had threatened to voluntarily give up his inheritance rights to the Hayes empire. But at the critical moment, Chloe turned him down. She didn’t want to become a wealthy socialite wife and end her dancing career. Reuniting years later, the teenage lovers who missed their chance had both reached the absolute pinnacle of their respective fields. Every look, every gesture between them seemed to steep in their lingering past love. … The comments section was flooded, basically all praising how perfect they were for each other. Only one anonymous burner account posted a few consecutive comments: [Fake news. He has a wife.] Very quickly, that account was chased down and flamed by a mob: [So what if he has a wife? No one can replace the first love of his youth!] [Then he’ll just get a divorce and pursue Chloe again. Duh.] I was just about to hit ‘like’ on their comments when the trending page was flooded with a new picture. It was backstage after the dance performance. Carter was handing Chloe a bouquet. Chloe held the flowers, smiling like a little girl. And Carter, who never showed emotion to anyone, was looking at her, seemingly infected by her joy, with a smile on his own face. Though faint, it held a very rare kind of tenderness. My heart suddenly skipped a beat. A complex knot of emotions surged in my chest. We had known each other for decades. We had been married for five years. I had never seen Carter smile at me like that. And he had never, ever given me flowers. 03 If Chloe was Carter’s lingering regret from his youth, then I was the obligation forced upon him by the Hayes family. Chloe, Carter, and I all grew up in the same wealthy neighborhood and attended the same prep school. But they took calligraphy classes together under the same tutor since childhood; their bond was much closer. I only got Carter’s personal cell phone number half a month after our wedding. Right after we got married, Carter worked overtime and didn’t come back to the bridal estate for half a month. When my mother-in-law found out, she visited specifically to lecture me about not taking the initiative to care for my husband’s health. I sent him my first text message: [Sorry to bother you. Are you coming home for dinner tonight?] Half an hour later, he replied: [Who is this?] [Maya.] [Thank you. No need to wait for me.] It wasn’t until three months later that Carter sent me his first initiated text. [Christmas Eve dinner tomorrow.] Me: [Is there an occasion?] [We need to go back to the main estate.] [Okay. Do I need to bring anything?] A moment later, my phone chimed with the pleasant sound of a deposit: [Chase Bank: Your account ending in 730 has received a wire transfer of $100,000.00. Available balance: $100,123.00.] Carter replied: [You decide. Just buy whatever.] From that moment on, I knew Carter would never love me. He treated me like an employee of his company. He dismissed me with money. But I was very open-minded about it. An arranged marriage was exactly like this. It didn’t matter if he came home or not. I could just spend his money like crazy by myself. Our relationship only improved slightly after we spent a night at the Hayes estate. To fool the elders, he was forced to sleep in the same bed with me. I thought he wouldn’t touch me. But my mother-in-law had spiked the soup she served that night with a lot of “herbal supplements.” Carter spoke first: “I’m sorry.” Then he asked: “Can we?” And finally: “If you’re uncomfortable, tell me to stop.” I endured it for a long time before I finally let out a sound. “…I’m sorry, I think this is a bit too much for me.” “I’m sorry.” He apologized quickly. “It’s okay,” was all I could say. … A long time later, I couldn’t help but ask, “Why haven’t you stopped yet?” Carter finally lifted his head and looked at me. Under the dim yellow light, he seemed hesitant, but he still leaned down and kissed me. It was much later when I found out why he lost control that night. Chloe had started dating a guy abroad. That night was the day she went public with the relationship. 04 After finding out I was pregnant, I sent Carter a message. It was a photo of the obstetric ultrasound report. He was busy for a long time before replying: [Congratulations.] Five hours later, he finally realized something else was required. [Chase Bank: Your account ending in 730 has received a wire transfer of $5,000,000.00. Available balance: $6,000,123.00.] [Thanks for your hard work.] Six months later, our child, Leo Hayes, was born. Carter was very good to Leo. He set up a massive trust fund that covered his education, medical, and living expenses for a lifetime. The days passed slowly. Many people knew Carter Hayes was married, but they had no idea what his wife looked like. Except for our routine nightly obligations, we rarely saw each other. Except for discussing Leo, we never made small talk. In these five years, we never had a single fight over anything. You could even say we respected each other like polite guests. We were simply still strangers. At 3 PM, I picked up Leo from his private kindergarten. Pushing open the door, Chloe was lounging on our living room sofa, holding my little dog and waving at me. “You’re back?” Leo, who always kept a straight, serious face, let out a scream of joy: “Auntie Chloe!” He was Chloe’s biggest fan. Ever since he saw a video of her dancing, he had been obsessed. Chloe ruffled his hair and looked up at me with a beaming smile. “Maya, your son seems to like me more.” Leo, usually an old soul in a kid’s body, looked at her with sparkling eyes. “Auntie Chloe, you should live at our house from now on. Don’t leave, okay?” I carried the groceries I bought on the way home into the kitchen. From far away, I could hear Chloe’s giggles. “If I live at your house, where is your mommy going to live?” “She can leave,” Leo said. “She’s useless around here anyway.” … The water from the faucet rushed down into the sink. The kitchen door was suddenly pushed open. Carter stood in the doorway, looking a bit tired. “Can I come in?” “You can. What is it?” He pointed at the pot on the stove. “The soup smells really good. Can I have some?” “Sure.” I nodded. I had originally simmered it for him anyway. I ladled a bowl and handed it to him. Carter took it. “Thanks for your hard work. Thank you.” Walking out of the kitchen, I saw Chloe suddenly flash a smile at me. She said, “Maya, your soup is as delicious as always.” I froze, realizing the bowl I had just handed him was now in Chloe’s hands. She sighed comfortably as she sipped it. “I’m so jealous you know how to cook. Unlike me, I’ve never even stepped foot in a kitchen.” Leo chimed in, “Auntie Chloe, you’re so amazing at dancing. It doesn’t matter if you can’t cook. My mommy can just cook for you.” Since birth, Leo had been spoiled rotten by the Hayes family. I was the only person who was strict with him, refusing to let him act entitled or use his family’s wealth to bully other kids. As a result, Leo had always disliked me. He was like his father; he only valued the things, or people, he actually liked. Chloe wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t just my husband. My son, and even my dog, liked her better. The thought of divorce was finalized in that exact moment. 05 I asked Carter for a divorce on a night one week later. We had just finished. He suddenly said he had a work emergency and needed to leave. I interrupted him and said I had something to say too. As expected, he had no reaction after I said it. He just spaced out for a second, pushed himself off me, his face devoid of emotion. “Alright. Got it.” Like he was receiving a memo from his secretary. I said, “I don’t want custody of the kid either. He’s going to be your problem from now on.” “It’s fine.” I insisted, “You’ve worked hard these past few years. Thank you.” Even though there were no feelings, he did sleep with me for all these years. It was hard work for him, too. I had very little luggage. A single suitcase held everything I owned. The divorce papers were left on the living room coffee table. I had already signed them. Before leaving, I turned back to close the door. Carter, shirtless and covered in scratch marks, stood silently on the balcony smoking a cigarette. I didn’t tell anyone about the divorce. Leo was asleep in his room. Further away at the Miller estate, my parents were celebrating Chloe’s birthday. When Carter finished his cigarette, he would probably go find Chloe, too. Bringing along the gift he had prepared in his study— A custom-made red dance dress. The first time I saw it, I loved it too. But just like this marriage, it wasn’t something that belonged to me. No one remembered that when I was young, I had also won the National Youth Dance Championship trophy. My instructors used to say my physical gifts were one in a thousand. But after accidentally falling from a high stage, I could never dance again. After that, I locked myself in my room and cried every day. It was the most agonizing memory of my life. My parents grieved for a brief period, then turned around and sent Chloe to the exact same instructor. “If the older sister had talent, the younger sister’s might be even higher.” From that moment on, I couldn’t bear to look at anything related to dance. Tonight, like countless nights before it, was a very ordinary night. The wind was light. The moon was bright. From the moment I decided to leave, right up until I boarded the plane, I never looked back. Once I was on the flight, a beautiful flight attendant brought over a small slice of cake. “Dear Miss, thank you for choosing our airline. Our entire flight crew wishes you a very happy birthday.” I paused for a second. Then I smiled at her. “Thank you so much.” 06 The destination I chose was my grandmother’s house in the countryside. After getting off the plane, I had to catch a regional train, and then a dedicated tourist bus. In recent years, the mountain town where my grandmother lived had been developed into a tourist heritage site by the state. After enduring five or six hours of travel, the bus wound its way up the mountain roads of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Looking out the old glass windows, the white clouds seemed to grow right out of the earth. The wind rushed in, carrying a wave of summer heat. I took a few pictures and happily posted them on Instagram. A sudden phone ring broke my relaxed mood. It was Carter. “What is it?” “Leo has a fever. Do you know where the medical kit is?” “Second-floor storage room.” “Okay.” After a moment of silence, Carter added, “Found it. Thank you.” “You’re welcome.” I was just about to hang up when Carter continued, “Say hello to Grandma for me. Come back when you’ve had enough fun. Leo keeps asking for you.” I gripped the phone. “Then you need to tell him we’re already divorced.” Click. It sounded like Carter had lit a lighter. His tone was unnervingly calm. “Is this because of Noah Brooks?” “Noah Brooks?” It took me a long time to pull that name from the depths of my memory. I was baffled. “What does he have to do with this?” “He returned to the States,” Carter said. “Your IPs are currently in the exact same location.” “Carter,” I rubbed my temples. “You don’t seem very clear-headed right now. I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t want to know.” “From now on, if you can’t find something, ask the housekeeper. If the kid is sick, take him to a doctor.” “I want our relationship from here on out to be completely undisturbed by one another.” Carter was silent for a moment. “Fine. As you wish.” 07 When I reached Grandma’s doorstep, I was thrilled. The once-rustic mountain town had become modernized, but it still retained its indigenous folk charm. The familiar front yard, the grape trellis, the creek… But— There was an unfamiliar person standing at the door. He was very young, wearing a black T-shirt and a silver bone chain. He seemed to have just washed his hair, carrying a cool, damp aura. I wheeled my suitcase up, looking at him hesitantly. He stared back at me. As we got closer, we both exclaimed in sudden realization: “Noah Brooks?” “Maya?” I couldn’t believe the coincidence. Returning to my hometown, I actually bumped into a former teammate from my competition days. During the years I gave up dancing due to my injury, Noah had kept going. After graduating from an arts conservatory, he, like Chloe, went abroad for further training. I had seen his promotional posters many times. The fact that Carter knew his itinerary so well was also because of Chloe. They were in the same dance company. Noah explained that since returning to the US, he had wanted to choreograph a unique piece inspired by Appalachian folk mythology. Since my grandmother’s village was famous for its heritage culture, he had come specifically to sketch out ideas and find inspiration. After a brief catch-up, Noah suddenly asked me tentatively, “Maya, after… back then, did you ever try to dance again?” I fell silent. Noah pressed on, “When I was in Europe, I met a doctor involved in sports medicine. His clinic specializes in this exact kind of rehabilitation. Maya… if you still want to dance, do you want to give it a try?” “The success rate might not be 100%,” he continued. “And the treatment costs can be quite high. But if you need it, I can… lend you the money.” Looking nervous, as if afraid he had said the wrong thing, he watched me carefully. “Of course, if you don’t want to, just pretend I never brought it up.” In the first few years after the accident, I never gave up on rehab. But those treatments ultimately yielded no results. Facing exorbitant rehab fees, I was filled with hope time and time again, only to face despair. Combined with my family’s subsequent business failures, we couldn’t afford the extra money, and I slowly gave up. Marrying Carter, hiding in a loveless marriage to drift through the years, I had long lost my former spirit. I wanted to reject Noah, but when the words reached my lips, they changed into: “I want to.” “Even if it’s only a 10% chance, I want to try.” After I said it, I stood frozen in place. My arms hung by my sides, trembling uncontrollably. My body… was still unwilling to give up. Plans changed immediately. After staying in the village to have dinner with Grandma, I contacted the professor Noah mentioned. Professor Ross asked me a lot of questions, mentioned he had successfully treated similar cases before, told me not to worry, and had his assistant book an appointment for next month. Hanging up the phone, I felt like I was dreaming. Noah seemed even more excited than I was. “This is amazing, Maya!” “Thank you.” My heart started racing, my entire body engulfed in a surreal feeling. He just shook his head. “Honestly, I’m doing this for myself too. Maya, if the treatment goes well, I want to ask you for a favor.” “Okay.” I didn’t even ask what the favor was. I just agreed instantly.

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We got together when I was 18. At 22, I followed him all the way to New York City. But in the end, all I got for my devotion was a casual, “I never planned to marry her, don’t make a big deal out of it.” Eight years of love led to absolutely nothing, so I chose to walk away. I was gone for three years. The day I returned to the city, his friends asked me: “It’s been three years. You guys must have made up by now, right?” They all thought I came back to beg for a reconciliation. Little did they know, I came back to get married to someone else. 01 “You’re getting married?” I was organizing the guest list and replied, “Yeah. The wedding is next week.” My friend paused on the other end of the line before asking, “Then… what about Ethan?” Hearing Ethan’s name after three long years gave me a momentary sense of whiplash. But Ethan and I had ended three years ago. I was the one who initiated the breakup. It was his birthday. I had come back from a business trip a day early, planning to give him a surprise, but I accidentally overheard him talking to his friends. A friend asked him, “You’re 26, man. When are you planning to propose to Chloe?” Ethan’s posture was lazy, a half-smile playing on his lips. “I never planned to marry her. Don’t make a big deal out of nothing.” His friend was stunned. “You guys have been together for years. If you don’t marry her, who are you going to marry?” Ethan scoffed. “You said it yourself. We’ve been together for years. Do you really think there’s any spark left?” To be honest, in that split second, I couldn’t believe my own ears. We had just been on the phone half an hour prior. On that call, his voice had been incredibly soft, playfully begging me to hurry back so we could celebrate his birthday together. It had only been thirty minutes, yet I could no longer associate that man with the gentle, considerate boyfriend I thought I knew. The thought of breaking up materialized in that exact moment. That night, I didn’t push open the door to confront him. Instead, I calmly turned around, went back to our apartment, and packed my bags. Ethan came home at 2 AM. The moment he walked through the door, he bumped right into me holding my suitcase. He froze for barely a second before quickly stepping forward, pulling me into his arms, and affectionately nuzzling the crook of my neck. “Is this a surprise? I love it.” I pushed him away. “Ethan.” “Yeah?” “Let’s break up.” It wasn’t that we had never threatened to break up before, but every single time, I was the one who lowered my head and begged for peace. Our mutual friends always said, “Ethan is insecure. He needs someone who loves him enough to never leave. If you really want to be with him long-term, you need to be more accommodating.” Back then, I really, truly loved him. So I was willing to coax him, putting his emotions above everything else. From 18 to 26, I loved him fiercely and without reservation. But in the end, all it earned me was: “I’m never going to marry her.” 02 “What are you talking about? Are you breaking up with me just because I didn’t spend my birthday with you?” Ethan’s voice pulled me back to reality. He looped his arms around me again. “Alright, I’m not mad. We’re not breaking up.” Actually, his friends weren’t entirely right. Ethan wasn’t an awkward lover. On the contrary, when he wanted to be, he was incredibly good at coaxing people. On the surface, every time we “broke up,” he was the one who initiated it, and I was the one who patched things up. But no one knew that in the dead of night, behind closed doors, he was the one who would use every trick in the book—soft words and hard demands—to win me back. He knew exactly how to poke at the softest parts of my heart. He made me willingly forgive him. Just like now. He was playing his old tricks again. Just as he leaned in to kiss me, I shoved him away hard. Caught off guard, he stumbled back a few steps. Barely steadying himself, he heard me say, “I’m serious. I’m not joking with you.” In an instant, his tone turned icy, his eyes dark and terrifying. “Say that again?” It wasn’t surprising he was angry. After eight years together, this was the very first time I had initiated a breakup. Everyone thought it was impossible for me to leave him. Even Ethan believed that. But this time, I was truly exhausted. My gaze lingered on his handsome profile for a few seconds before I pulled away without hesitation, grabbing my suitcase and walking toward the door. I hadn’t taken more than a few steps when the suitcase suddenly wouldn’t budge. Ethan gripped the handle of my luggage, staring daggers at me. “Why?” He had beautiful eyes. When those deep, reserved eyes looked at you, it always gave you the illusion of being stared at with profound love. I avoided his gaze. “If we don’t break up, will you marry me?” Over these eight years, he was rational, ambitious, and had long since planned out his perfect future. He just never included me in it. The silence in the room was terrifying. I don’t know how long that dead silence lasted before he finally asked: “Do we have to get married? Can’t we just date forever?” I met his gaze head-on. The man’s dark eyes instantly grew even more unfathomable. It was the same look that had made me fall for him the very first time we met. But no matter how hard it was to let go of eight years of history, continuing a dead-end relationship was pointless. I looked into those bottomless eyes and let out a small, bitter laugh. “Dating for too long gets boring.” The veins on his hand gripping the suitcase handle popped. He practically ground the words out through his teeth: “You’re bored?” “Yes.” Ethan said “Okay” three times in a row. By the third time, his eyes were bloodshot. I didn’t dare look at him anymore, terrified I’d look even more pathetic than he did. I turned around, yanked my suitcase free, and kept walking. In the quiet night, the only sound was the heavy rolling of my suitcase wheels against the hardwood floor. As I reached the entryway, a freezing voice came from behind me: “If you walk out that door today, don’t you ever come back!” I paused, my throat suddenly dry. After a long moment, I left him with a single word—”Okay”—and walked out without looking back. 03 After that day, we saw each other one last time. It was the night before I left New York. I realized I had left a crucial document in his study. I texted him to let him know before I went over. The living room was empty, so I headed straight for the study. Passing by the master bedroom, I heard voices. I instinctively looked inside and saw Ethan lying on the bed, while a woman carefully wiped his face with a warm cloth. I recognized her. Olivia Bennett. The daughter of his father’s close friend. She was also the fiancée his family had arranged for him. Noticing me, Olivia blushed and quickly explained: “Chloe, please don’t misunderstand. Ethan had too much to drink. We… nothing happened between us.” I nodded, having no desire to chat, and went to the study. When I came back out, the bedroom door had been shut. Even so, I could clearly hear Ethan call out, “Wifey~” His voice was affectionate, gentle, and intimate. Even though we had already broken up, in that moment, an uncontrollable sourness still spread through my chest. I didn’t dare listen anymore and quickened my pace to leave. As I reached the entryway, Ethan called out to me. “Don’t come over anymore after this. Olivia will mind.” He leaned against the bedroom doorframe, looking lethargic. His shirt was unbuttoned down to the third button, revealing a lipstick mark right on his collarbone. My eyes lingered on his collar for a few seconds before I nodded. “Okay.” The moment I stepped out the door, the sound of a shattering vase echoed from behind me. Followed by Olivia’s gasp: “You’re bleeding!” I didn’t turn back. I walked away as fast as I could. That was the last time we saw each other. Over the next three years, we never contacted each other once. So, to this day, he still didn’t know I was getting married. 04 When the news of my wedding got out, the first person to call me was Mason Cole. He was a mutual friend of mine and Ethan’s. “Chloe, I heard you’re getting married?” I didn’t hide it. “The wedding is next week. I won’t be sending you guys invitations.” My fiancé had already sent out invitations to his own circle; it wouldn’t be appropriate for me to send separate ones to my old crowd. As soon as the words left my mouth, I heard the mocking laughter of other people in the background. “See, I told you! If she was really getting married, why wouldn’t she invite you? It’s obviously just an excuse to come back to the city.” “She’s out of options, right? Ethan is getting officially engaged at the end of the month. She has to make one last desperate play.” “Exactly! After eight years together, how could she just stand by and watch Ethan marry someone else?” I froze, quickly realizing that all of Ethan’s friends were gathered together. They were waiting to see how I would beg Ethan to take me back. This was their usual MO. In the past, whenever Ethan and I fought, they would place bets on how many days it would take me to cave and beg for forgiveness. They were absolutely certain I couldn’t bear to let Ethan go. Setting aside how wealthy his family was, just based on those eight years of emotional investment, no one believed I could just drop it all and walk away. They clearly thought this time was no different. Just as the thought crossed my mind, someone yelled into the phone: “E! If she begs to get back together, are you gonna take your ex back?” After a long pause, Ethan’s voice finally drifted over the line, cool and slow: “I’m getting engaged. Why are you even bringing this up?” Someone laughed and joked: “You think Ethan is an idiot? Giving up the Bennett family heiress to marry a girl with zero background… If it were you, would you?” Amidst their roaring laughter, an old memory surfaced in my mind. When I first moved to the city, Ethan’s friends treated me with respect. I thought they had accepted me. That was until Mason’s birthday party, when Olivia lost a priceless diamond necklace. Her friends surrounded me, demanding I hand it over. By the time Ethan arrived, I had been shoved around and looked like a total mess. Olivia looked at Ethan and said: “Ethan, please don’t be mad. They just really wanted to help me find it, so they resorted to extreme measures…” “Once we find it, I’ll apologize to Chloe, okay?” Ethan smiled, walked up to me, and affectionately patted the top of my head. “Alright. It’s not a big deal.” I gripped the hem of his shirt. In the moment he appeared, all my grievances and feelings of being wronged rushed up at once. Just as I was about to defend myself, I heard him say: “If you wanted it, you should have just told me. Why do something like this?” In that split second, my brain completely short-circuited. I looked at the man in front of me in utter disbelief. “You don’t believe me?” Ethan looked at me and didn’t say a single word, but his mocking gaze said it all. I couldn’t stop shaking. My hands and feet went ice cold. After being together for so long, I thought he knew exactly what kind of person I was. I never expected that, in a situation like that, without even asking me a single question, he would immediately stand on the opposing side. In that moment, everyone was looking at me. With contempt. With mockery. With indifference. Not a single person trusted me. For some reason, it made me think of what my grandfather had told me before I moved: “Kid, I won’t stop you from doing what you want to do. But you have to remember, social classes aren’t that easy to cross.” “Even if he holds you in his heart, will his family and his friends ever truly accept you?” I had patted my chest and promised my grandpa, “Don’t worry, Grandpa! Ethan won’t let us down.” I was young and arrogant. I didn’t understand what ‘unsurpassable social classes’ meant. It was only when I was pushed into the storm, isolated and helpless, that I profoundly realized there was an invisible, insurmountable chasm between Ethan and me. 05 The laughter on the other end of the phone continued for a long time. I don’t know who shouted: “Mason, ask her where she’s holding the wedding. We used to be friends, the least we can do is drop by and give her a wedding gift.” After a moment, Mason’s voice came through: “Chloe, which church are you having the wedding at?” “The Grand Cathedral in Manhattan.” As soon as the words left my mouth, someone immediately chimed in: “Listen to her! I told you she’s delusional. The Vance family heir’s wedding is next week, and it’s also at the Grand Cathedral. Let me guess, her husband is Liam Vance?” The crowd laughed even harder. Even Mason couldn’t help but gently warn me: “You remember Liam Vance, right? He’s getting married next week too…” “Mason,” I cut him off. “That day is my wedding with Liam.” The other end of the line went dead silent. I don’t know how much time passed before an explosive roar of laughter erupted. “She must have lost her damn mind! Now she’s dragging Liam Vance into her delusions.” “She really will say anything to make Ethan jealous.” “Ethan, just take pity on her and go see her. After all, she went crazy because you broke up with her…” I didn’t listen to the rest. I hung up. A text message from an unknown number immediately popped up: [Add me back.] The familiar tone, the familiar phrasing—I instantly knew it was Ethan. Expressionless, I deleted the text, turned off my phone, and went to sleep. When I woke up and turned my phone back on the next morning, I received a video from Mason. It was a recording of what happened after I hung up last night. Ethan was sitting on a single sofa, lighting a cigarette, the glowing red ash illuminating his callous features. He let out a low, raspy laugh. “Plenty of people have broken up with me. Do I have to go see every single one of them?” “Hell yeah, E! But if you don’t go see Chloe, are we just gonna let her walk away empty-handed?” Someone else retorted: “It’s her own fault for wanting a breakup! Now she regrets it and wants to get back together—three years later! She’s too spoiled!” “Exactly. Look at her making up ridiculous lies about marrying Liam Vance. Ethan was way too good to her.” Ethan didn’t speak. He just looked down, playing with his phone, lost in thought. Then, Mason spoke up: “Chloe isn’t a liar. Maybe she’s telling the truth.” “Come on, Mason. Are you defending her because she gave you something on the side? Or do you have a thing for her?” Mason glared deeply at the guy. “Have you all forgotten about the time she was framed for stealing that necklace? It was because of your prejudice that she had to suffer all those dirty looks for nothing.” There was a brief silence in the private room. Suddenly, someone said: “It’s easy to prove if Chloe is lying. You guys all got the Vance family invitation, right?” “I’ll call home and have someone take a picture of the invite and send it to me.” About a minute later, the guy laughed. “I knew it. Why would Liam Vance marry Chloe Miller? The bride’s last name is Miller, but her first name is Harper.” “Ethan, you can relax. She definitely came back to beg for a reconciliation.” … The video ended there. They were right. Liam’s bride was named Harper. But what they didn’t know was that Harper was me. Three years ago, my grandfather consulted an astrologer who said I had been carrying a lot of bad energy in recent years, and legally changing my first name would ward off the bad luck. So, my grandfather gave me a new name. Harper. 06 I knew that coming back to the city meant I would inevitably run into Ethan. But I never expected to run into him this fast. On the day of my wedding dress fitting, Liam had a last-minute emergency at work and said he’d be late. When I arrived at the bridal boutique, Ethan was sitting in the VIP area. Our eyes met. I gave a polite nod of acknowledgment and followed the attendant into the dressing room. While I was waiting for the makeup artist, Ethan walked in and locked the door behind him. By the time I registered what was happening, he was already standing right behind me. The vanity mirror reflected his handsome face. “Why did you block me?” His tone was casual, as if we had never been apart. Actually, he was the one who deleted and blocked me first. Three years ago, on the day I left the city, he removed me from his contacts and blocked my number. How did I know? I didn’t, initially. Mason accidentally let it slip. Three years ago, Mason passed a message for Ethan, asking me for a specific photo of him. I told Mason I’d just send it directly to Ethan. But Mason said, “You won’t be able to. Just send it to me.” I was stunned. No one knew this, but Ethan and I had an unspoken rule— Even if we fought and broke up, we were never allowed to delete or block each other. That was the first time. And Ethan was the one who broke the rule. That day, after sending the photo to Mason, I opened my camera roll and deleted every single photo and file related to Ethan. At the same time, I deleted and blocked him on every single platform. And now, the instigator was here questioning me. I cautiously backed away, putting distance between us. “Ethan, we’re broken up. Besides, we’re both getting married soon. There’s no reason for us to contact each other anymore.” He slowly curved his lips into a meaningful smirk. “There’s no one else here. You don’t have to pretend.” I frowned. “Pretend what?” “Saying you’re getting married—isn’t it just to provoke me? To make me come back to you?” To be honest, I never expected that even after three years, Ethan would still be so absolutely certain I would go back to him. And I finally understood. During those eight years, I had tolerated his toxic behavior time and time again, which gave him this unshakable, arrogant confidence. “Ethan,” I said. “Whatever you want to think, I came back this time to hold my wedding. Once the wedding is over, I’m leaving.” “If I did anything that gave you the illusion I want to get back together, I apologize.” Ethan didn’t say a word. He silently scrutinized me. After a long time, he suddenly spoke: “Is it because I’m in an arranged marriage?” “It has nothing to do with that, Ethan. I’m marrying someone else—” He cut me off. “Okay, okay, I get it. You’re still mad.” He completely ignored the second half of my sentence and softened his tone. “It’s been three years. You’re really still holding a grudge?” Saying that, he raised his hand, wanting to pat my head like he used to. I dodged his hand, my brow furrowing deeply. “Do you not understand English? I said I came back this time to marry Liam Vance. It has nothing to do with you.” His hand just froze in mid-air. His eyes went cold, inch by inch, and his voice turned incredibly dark: “Chloe, if you wanted to find someone to piss me off, why did you have to pick Liam? You can’t even touch the threshold of the Vance family.” Just like before, Ethan still didn’t believe me. Those prejudices were etched into his very bones. He was convinced I couldn’t even get close to Liam, let alone marry into his family. For some reason, I suddenly laughed. “In your heart, am I really that pathetic?” His brow knitted tightly. “What are you talking about?” He paused, then let out a sigh. “Alright. If you want to come back to me, then come back.” “Come back where? To your marital home? What identity do you expect me to have when I go back?” His face darkened slightly. “Chloe, I’m already making concessions. What more do you want?” “I don’t need them.” Not wanting to waste any more time in this pointless argument, I tried to step around him and leave. As soon as I turned, he grabbed my wrist. Ethan’s voice was low: “If you really want to get married that badly, I can marry you.” I looked back at him, a mocking smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. “Marry me? Didn’t you say you never planned to marry me from the very start?” His face went stark white. “You… who told you that?” “You said it yourself.” I looked at him deeply. “That day, I was standing right outside the door.” Ethan’s eyes went from confused, to shocked, to a sudden, crushing realization. “So the reason you broke up with me… was because you heard that?” “Yes!” If I hadn’t acted on a whim to go back and celebrate his birthday that day, I might still be completely in the dark. I might still be desperately holding onto a relationship that was never going to lead anywhere. The atmosphere in the cramped dressing room instantly shifted. The man’s thin lips pressed into a cold, hard line. “Why didn’t you come in and ask me?” his voice was hoarse. “If I asked, wouldn’t the answer have been the same?” He wanted to say something else, but a knock on the door interrupted him. It was the boutique attendant. “Ms. Miller, do you need any help?” “No, I’m coming out.” Catching Ethan off guard, I ripped my hand away and walked out briskly. But when I saw who was outside the door, my footsteps faltered.

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The day the Whitakers officially brought me home—the “biological daughter” finally reclaimed from the fringes of poverty—the air in the foyer was thick enough to choke on. I looked at the four of them standing there, a united front in designer silk and cashmere. My stomach did a slow, painful roll. I knew this script. I’d read the tabloids and the trashy paperbacks. This was the part where the “true” daughter is treated like a virus invading a healthy cell, while the “fake” one—the girl who had lived my life for eighteen years—played the martyr. A sudden, sharp wave of vertigo hit me. My ears began to ring with a high-pitched, mechanical hum, followed by a cold, synthesized voice that echoed only inside my skull: [Ping—Truth System Activated. Forced Honesty Triggered within a 15-foot radius.] Across from me, Courtney—the girl who had spent the last ten minutes sobbing about how she “didn’t want to be a burden” and “would just move out tonight”—suddenly stiffened. Her face contorted, her teary-eyed innocence replaced by a sneer so sharp it could draw blood. “Please,” she spat, the word dripping with venom. “Why the hell should I be the one to leave? If anyone’s going, it’s this trailer-park charity case. I’m the only Whitaker that matters. Mom, Dad, and Derek… they’re mine.” The room went deathly silent. … My father’s face darkened instantly. “Courtney! What on earth has gotten into you? Apologize to your sister right now.” Courtney looked as if she’d been slapped. She clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with genuine terror. She looked at her parents, her voice trembling. “I—I’m sorry. I’m just scared. I didn’t mean that, I swear…” But then, her features began to twitch again, as if her muscles were being pulled by invisible wires. Her mouth opened against her will, the words tumbling out like a landslide. “…Except I totally did. Let’s be real, Mom and Dad think she’s a downgrade too. I get the master suite with the balcony; she belongs in the windowless maid’s quarters in the basement. She’s a stain on the family portrait.” My mother looked like she was about to faint. She grabbed my hand, her grip frantic and cold. “Isabel, honey, that’s not true. You have to believe me.” “We aren’t going to play favorites,” Mom continued, her voice gaining a desperate, melodic quality. “You and Courtney are both our daughters. We’ll treat you exactly the same…” She paused, her eyes glazing over as the system took hold. “Even though we’ve loved Courtney for eighteen years and the bond is deeper, and honestly, having you here is just… awkward. But we’ll do our duty. We won’t let the help think we’re cruel.” Mom’s eyes went wide. she practically choked on her own breath, pressing her palms against her lips so hard her knuckles turned white. My “brother,” Derek, didn’t even try to hide his disdain. He stepped forward, his lip curled. “In my heart, Courtney is my only sister. A girl who grew up in the dirt doesn’t deserve to be treated like an equal. If I catch you making Courtney cry, I’ll make sure you regret ever finding your way to this zip code.” I felt a strange sense of calm wash over me. Good, I thought. No more shadows. No more guessing. I’d spent weeks preparing myself for the cold shoulder, but having their raw, unfiltered ugliness laid out on the Persian rug was almost refreshing. There was no room for disappointment when you knew exactly where the knives were hidden. My father rubbed the bridge of his nose, looking at his family as if they’d all developed sudden, inexplicable Tourette’s. “Arthur,” he called out to the butler, his voice weary. “Take Courtney to the guest cottage at the shore. She stays there for a month to reflect. She doesn’t step foot back in this house until she remembers her place.” He turned to Derek. “And you. Threatening your sister? Your trust fund is frozen for three months. Grow up.” The butler, a man usually as stoic as a statue, nodded, but then his mouth started working. “The ‘true’ daughter certainly has some pull. One day back and the golden children are banished. I’ll have to make sure I suck up to Miss Isabel if I want to keep my Christmas bonus…” Everyone stared at him. He turned pale as a ghost, his hands shaking. “I… I’m so sorry. I didn’t say that. I didn’t!” He practically scrambled out of the room to execute his orders. The living room felt cavernous now. I looked at my parents, letting a flicker of hurt show in my eyes. “So, the windowless basement room? Is that where I’m headed?” Mom’s mouth twitched. “Of course not… Maria! Take Isabel to Courtney’s old suite. Make sure she has everything she needs. Replace it all—new linens, new furniture. Only the best for my daughter.” Maria, the head housekeeper, hurried up the stairs, but we could still hear her muttering as she retreated: “Is that girl a walking lie detector? How is… everyone… just… saying it out loud?” That night was the first time I slept in a silk-sheeted bed, and I slept like the dead. By morning, a rumor had taken root among the staff: The new Whitaker girl had a “Truth Mirror” soul. If you stood within five feet of her, your secrets became public property. The maids who used to gossip behind their hands now scurried away when they saw me coming. The ones who couldn’t avoid me were unnervingly polite, their heads bowed. One young girl passed me in the hall, whispering a frantic mantra: “I’m not thinking anything, I’m not saying anything, I’m not thinking anything…” Being feared was a different kind of power. I didn’t mind it. But I knew the real battle wouldn’t be in this mansion. According to every story I’d ever read, the next stop on this collision course was St. Jude’s Prep. Sure enough, the moment I stepped onto the manicured campus, I saw a pack of students huddled around Courtney. They looked at me as if I were a pile of trash left out in the sun. “Is that the ‘country cousin’?” one girl sneered. “Ugh, do you smell that?” another laughed. “Smells like… debt and cheap laundry detergent.” Courtney didn’t bother playing the “sweet sister” today. She stood there, chin tilted up, looking down her nose at me. “You think winning over the staff at home means you’ve won the war, Isabel? I’m living in the beach house now. It was my early graduation gift from Mom and Dad. They come over every night to tuck me in. You’re just a ghost in a big, empty house.” Her friends snickered. “A crow in peacock feathers,” Courtney added. “Just wait until the midterms. When you bottom out the curve, you can go back to whatever gutter you crawled out of.” I almost laughed. Is that all you’ve got? The final day of midterms arrived. I was just finishing my calculus exam when a hand shot up in the back of the room. “Proctor? I think Isabel Whitaker is cheating.” The teacher, a stern woman in a grey suit, walked over. “What’s the problem?” “I saw someone toss her a note,” one of Courtney’s cronies said, pointing at me. “She looked at it and hid it under her desk.” Courtney was sitting two rows over, looking devastated. “Izzy, if you were struggling, you should have just asked for help. Why would you do this? Mom and Dad are going to be so heartbroken.” Half an hour later, my mother arrived at the principal’s office, looking like a block of ice. Before I could even open my mouth, her hand connected with my cheek. Slap. “Isabel! How could you be so embarrassing? Apologize to the school right now.” I touched my stinging cheek, looking her dead in the eye. “Did you even check my records before you flew into a rage, Mom? I was the top-ranked student in my district. I don’t need to cheat on a mid-term. Is there anyone in this entire school with a higher GPA than mine?” One of the administrators, who had been scrolling through a tablet, cleared his throat. “Actually… her transfer credits are perfect. She was a state-level scholar.” Mom shifted uncomfortably, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. “Well… you never mentioned that.” I turned to the teacher. “Since I’m being accused, let’s bring in the witnesses. Face to face.” [System Warning: Strong emotional spike detected. Truth Radius activated.] The students who had gathered to watch the drama suddenly froze. It was as if a spell had been cast. Then, the girl who had pointed me out started to babble. “Courtney told me to throw the paper. She said if I didn’t help her get the ‘trash’ out of her house, she’d kick me out of the inner circle.” “Isabel didn’t even see the note,” another added. “It’s still sitting under the leg of her chair. She never touched it.” Courtney’s face went pale, but her mouth was already moving. “I had to! She was doing too well. If she aced these exams, I’d look like a fool. I had to make her disappear.” I turned back to my mother. “So, Mom. Who exactly needs to apologize?” Mom took a step back, her face a mask of awkwardness. “Well… even if it was a mistake, Courtney was just worried about the family reputation. We should all just move past this.” “So this is what you meant by ‘treating us the same’?” I looked at the principal. “Sir, Courtney and her friends just confessed to defamation and academic fraud. I want a formal apology in front of the entire student body. And I want a transfer to the honors track. Today.” Two days later, my father received my report card—Number One in the grade—along with the report of Courtney’s “malicious slander.” My parents quietly moved Courtney out of the beach house and back into a secluded boarding school dorm. A wave of gifts started arriving at my room—jewelry, tech, designer bags—as if they could buy their way out of the guilt. But I knew the truth. Once the glass is cracked, you can’t polish the fracture away. Derek, however, was like a cornered animal. He spent his days pacing the halls, begging my parents to let Courtney come home. “If you hadn’t brought her back, Courtney wouldn’t be so insecure,” he shouted one afternoon. “She’s hurting! She’s lived her whole life with us, and you’re throwing her away for a stranger?” My parents looked torn, but they stayed silent. Derek turned his rage on me. “You’re a parasite. If it weren’t for you, we’d still be a family. You just wait.” I found out what “waiting” meant after school that Friday. I was cornered on the roof of the science building. The wind was howling, and Derek stood there with two of his football teammates. “Search her,” Derek said, his voice cold. “I want to know what kind of freakish tech she’s hiding on her person.” Someone grabbed my shoulders. Large, rough hands started patting down my blazer. I panicked. “Derek, stop this! I’m your sister! You’re going to hurt me for a girl who isn’t even related to you?” “Courtney is my sister. You’re just a mistake,” he spat. He stepped forward and began to roughly search me himself. “Tell me! What are you using? Why does everyone lose their minds and start blabbing when you’re around? Is it a wire? A drug?” I struggled, but I couldn’t break free. In a moment of pure adrenaline, I leaned down and bit his hand hard. Derek roared in pain and squeezed my jaw so hard I thought it would snap. When I didn’t let go, he threw a punch that caught me right across the bridge of my nose. Hot blood bloomed across my face, mixing with my tears. In my head, I started a silent countdown. 5… 4… 3… 2… 1… CRACK. The roof door was kicked open. “Get away from her!” My father stormed over, shoving the other boys aside and landing a heavy blow across Derek’s face. My mother rushed to me, her hands shaking as she tried to wipe the blood from my face. She looked at Derek with pure horror. Derek stood his ground, his chest heaving. “Don’t you see? She’s a witch! We loved Courtney, and then she shows up and you both turn on us! She’s doing something to your heads!” He pointed a finger at me, his teeth bared. “You’re a weed that should have been pulled years ago. I don’t regret a single thing. I didn’t regret it back at the hospital, and I don’t regret it now—” “Enough, Derek! Shut up!” Mom screamed, clutching her head. “Don’t talk about the past. Why can’t we just be a family? Why does it have to be a war?” My ears started ringing—not from the system, but from the shock. What did he mean, ‘back at the hospital’? I looked down at my watch. The silent alarm I’d had installed after the cheating incident was still pulsing. My parents had arrived just in time, but the “rescue” didn’t feel like a victory. This family was a graveyard of secrets, and I was the only one without a map. To “make it up to me,” my parents decided to throw a massive debutante gala to officially introduce me to high society. The ballroom of the Whitaker estate was filled with the elite of the coast. I could hear the whispers echoing off the marble floors. “Is that the ‘real’ one? She looks… surprisingly polished.” “I heard she’s a genius.” Then, the sharper voices from Courtney’s fan club. “She’s a social climber. She forced Courtney out.” “Look at her. You can put a crown on a goat, but it’s still a goat.” I looked up. Courtney wasn’t there—she was still grounded—but her “loyalists” were out in force. They had a mission. [Ping—System Active.] I walked straight toward them, a glass of sparkling cider in my hand. I smiled. “If you’re going to talk about me, at least have the courage to say it to my face. Or better yet, tell me what your ‘leader’ promised you for this little performance.” The air shifted. The boy who had been sneering at me suddenly looked like he was in a trance. “Courtney said if I made you look like a fool tonight, her dad would sign the merger with my family’s firm.” “She said if I ruined your dress, she’d finally go out with me. I’ve been her lapdog for two years; I’m just desperate for a chance.” “Courtney said the Whitakers don’t even like Isabel. They’re just doing this for the PR. They actually sent Courtney on a secret vacation to France while Isabel has to play ‘daughter’ for the cameras.” The room went silent. I had mirrored my phone to the giant projection screens meant for my childhood slideshow. The entire room saw the “truth session” in high definition. The parents of these “loyalists” rushed over, faces red with shame, dragging their kids away. My parents stood frozen, caught in the crosshairs of their own lies. In the corner of the room, an old friend of my grandfather’s—a retired Police Commissioner named Miller—was watching me with intense interest. He nodded slowly, a small smile on his face. He pulled out his phone and made a call. “Get Detective Beckett over here. Now.” “Sir, we’re in the middle of a homicide investigation—” “I’m not asking. I’ve found a miracle. If you want to close every cold case on your desk, you get down to the Whitaker gala in ten minutes.” Ten minutes later, I was introduced to Detective Miller. He was young, sharp-eyed, and looked like he hadn’t slept in three days. “So this is the ‘miracle’?” Miller asked, looking me over. “She looks like a kid. You brought me here for a debutante?” The Commissioner grinned. “Just watch.” He turned to me. “Isabel, would you mind helping the Detective with a quick question?” I looked at Miller. I could feel a strange, dark energy coming from him—a weight of unsolved puzzles. But before I could speak, I caught sight of Derek in the shadows. He was staring at me with a look of pure, unadulterated hatred. I caught the tail end of a thought he didn’t realize he was whispering: “Once the party is over… it’s done.” My heart hammered against my ribs. My own brother was planning something, and for the first time, the “Truth” felt like a death sentence.

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The holidays were over. My parents were packing the SUV, ready to head back to the city for work. My little brother, Beau, had already claimed the front passenger seat, looking like a little king. I wanted to go, too. I needed to go. But no matter how hard I pulled at the door handle, it wouldn’t budge. It was locked tight. As the engine roared to life and the car began to crawl forward, panic seized me. I threw myself in front of the hood, screaming until my throat felt raw. “Why does he get to go? Why not me?” I pounded on the tinted glass, desperate for a glance, a sign. Finally, Mom turned her head. She didn’t unlock the door. Instead, she pulled out her phone and aimed the camera at me. “Look at her,” she muttered, her voice muffled by the glass, likely recording a video for her followers. “She’s old enough to know better. If we don’t go work, how is she going to eat? How is she going to have nice clothes?” She caught my breakdown on screen, then turned back to the road. I was gasping for air, sobbing so hard I couldn’t stand. A small crowd of neighbors and relatives had gathered to watch the spectacle. “Just take her,” a cousin shouted. “What’s one more? You’ve got the space.” Suddenly, a pair of rough hands lifted me off the ground. It was Dad. He stepped out of the car for a moment, wiping the tears from my cheeks with a thumb that smelled of tobacco and gasoline. “Hey, hey, princess. Stop the waterworks,” he whispered. “Tell you what, let’s play a game. Hide-and-seek. If you can hide so well that we can’t find you, we’ll take you with us. Deal?” 1 I nodded frantically, my heart hammering against my ribs. I turned and ran, my mind racing for the perfect spot. I found it—the old root cellar behind the shed. It was a heavy wooden hatch set into the frozen earth. I climbed down into the dark. It was freezing and smelled of damp soil and rotting potatoes, but my chest felt warm. If I just stayed quiet, if I won this game, I’d be with them. I wouldn’t have to stay here anymore. Last year, they left only with Beau, too. But they promised—next year, we promise. Grandma and Grandpa had smiled then, looking like the kind grandparents in a picture book, promising they’d take such good care of me. But the second my parents’ car rounded the bend at the end of the gravel road, Grandpa’s smile vanished. “They don’t want you, girl,” he’d chuckled, lighting a cigarette. “Liar!” I’d screamed, biting back tears. “Mom and Dad love me!” Grandma didn’t say a word. She just grabbed my long braids and dragged me into the kitchen. She took the heavy kitchen shears and hacked my hair off right there. When I looked in the mirror, my head looked like a jagged, ruined field after a harvest. I touched the uneven stubble, my hands shaking. My hair was the one thing Mom always loved. Every time she visited, she’d brush it for hours, telling me how beautiful and dark it was. And now it was gone. I hadn’t protected the one thing she liked about me. Grandma tucked ten dollars into her pocket—the money she’d get from the local wig-maker for the hair. “Easier to keep clean this way,” she snapped. “And stop that crying. You’re crying away all the luck in this house.” I didn’t cry after that. Not out loud. I’d just let my shoulders shake in silence. The kids at school started calling me “Rat-head.” I learned to run fast so they couldn’t catch me. I told myself I didn’t care. But at night, curled under a thin, moth-eaten quilt, I’d rub those jagged ends of hair and my nose would sting. I’d bury my face in the pillow so the sound wouldn’t escape, even as the tears soaked into the old cotton. But today was different. Today, I was leaving. No one would call me names ever again. Mom would brush my hair, and we’d let it grow long together. I huddled in the corner of the cellar, hugging my knees, holding my breath. I had counted to a hundred three times over by now. I was getting anxious, but I told myself to wait. They were looking for me. They had to be. They were probably searching the barn, or the attic, taking the game seriously. Then, through the heavy wooden door above me, I heard the sound of an engine turning over. I froze. No. That’s not right. 2 I scrambled for the wooden ladder, my hands slipping on the damp rungs. The ladder wobbled dangerously, but I didn’t care. I shoved my head against the cellar door, trying to peek through the crack. The winter light was blindingly bright. I saw the silver SUV backing out of the driveway, turning toward the main road. “Dad!” I screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the celebratory firecrackers the neighbors were setting off to see them south. I pushed against the door with everything I had, but it was heavy, and something felt stuck. Wait for me! I’m not in the car yet! In my desperation, my foot slipped off the frozen rung. I fell backward. My head hit the icy concrete floor with a sickening thud. Pain exploded in the back of my skull. Gold stars danced behind my eyelids. The sound of the engine grew faint. Fainter. I tried to scream for help, but no sound came out. I couldn’t move. My hand brushed something wet and warm spreading out from under my head. I didn’t know what it was. I just knew I was cold. So cold. The engine noise vanished completely. They had forgotten me. Just as the darkness started to pull at me, I heard footsteps above. Hope flared like a dying ember. They remembered. They realized I wasn’t in the car. They came back for me! “Where’d that brat hide herself?” It was Grandma’s voice. My heart sank. But maybe… maybe they sent her to find me. Maybe they were waiting at the gate. I tried to thud my hand against the ground. Once. Twice. But I had no strength left. The sound was weaker than a mouse scratching in the walls. “Whatever,” I heard Grandpa say. “She’ll come out when she gets hungry enough.” Grandma let out a sharp, dry laugh. “Her dad told me before he pulled out—said the girl was making such a scene about leaving, he had to trick her with that hide-and-seek nonsense. Told us to just play along and ‘comfort’ her once they were gone.” “Hide-and-seek?” Grandpa chuckled. “Smart kid. He always was a quick thinker.” “Had to do something,” Grandma said. “She was blocking the car, crying like a banshee. Imagine what the neighbors would think if they saw us just peeling her off the door.” My ears began to ring. They never intended to find me. “If she hadn’t been the one to give me my grandson, I wouldn’t even bother with this little debt-trap,” Grandma grumbled. “They barely come back once a year to see her. They’re probably sick to death of her themselves.” The footsteps faded away. In the dark, I lay alone. Was I never wanted? Not even from the start? But Mom and Dad told me they worked so hard in the city for us. They said it was too dangerous and busy for a little girl there. When I asked why Beau got to go, they said it was because he was a boy, and he needed to “learn the struggle.” I wanted to tell them I wasn’t afraid of the struggle. I would have worked. I would have done anything just to be near them. In the deepening shadows, I thought I saw Mom brushing my hair again. I saw Dad lifting me onto his shoulders, running through the tall grass. I saw them laughing. I laughed, too. I reached out toward the light, trying to catch them, but my fingers only grasped the freezing air. The world went black. The last bit of light flickered out. 3 It felt like I had fallen into a long, heavy dream. When I opened my eyes, I was floating near the ceiling of the cellar. I looked down and saw myself—a small, crumpled shape on the floor. Beneath my head, a dark, frozen flower had bloomed on the concrete. By the time I drifted out of the cellar, it was night. In the yard, Grandpa was snapping a padlock onto the back door. Grandma glanced over. “How’s she supposed to get in if you lock it?” Grandpa didn’t look up, testing the chain. “Let her stay out a bit. Teach her a lesson. Did you see her this morning? Blocking the car in front of everyone. Now the whole town is whispering that we’re cruel, that we favor the boy. She’s ruining our reputation.” Grandma tossed a basin of dirty water into the corner. “Spiteful little thing. Girls are never as simple as boys. Always got a scheme.” I wanted to scream: No! I wasn’t being mean! I just wanted to be with them! But I drifted right through them. I couldn’t touch a thing. “She’s probably hiding in a corner of the house somewhere, watching us look for her,” Grandma said, heading inside. “The more we look, the more she wins. Just leave her.” Grandpa kicked a bowl of leftover scraps toward the dog’s house. “Don’t say we didn’t feed her. If she’s hungry, she can eat what the dog eats.” They went inside and killed the lights. I stood in the freezing yard, looking at the bowl of dog food. Even if I were alive, that was my dinner. The wind blew through my transparent chest. For the first time, I realized I couldn’t feel the cold anymore, yet I had never felt more chilled. The next morning. Grandpa came out of the house and squinted toward the kitchen shed. “Where is she? Why isn’t breakfast started?” I usually made breakfast. The stove was taller than me; I had to stand on a rickety wooden stool to reach the pots. Sometimes the stool slipped and my knees would turn purple from the fall, but Grandma would just call me clumsy and tell me I was wasting time. Grandma grumbled as she stoked the fire herself. “Lazy brat’s hiding in her room, I bet.” “I saw the dog bowl was empty this morning,” Grandpa noted. “And her bedroom door is shut tight. She’s probably throwing a tantrum because her dad left her.” I hovered in front of her, desperate. No! The dog ate the food! And the door is stuck because the old wardrobe tipped over in the wind! But they heard nothing. Grandpa grabbed his hoe and banged on my bedroom door. “Get out here and work! You’re too young to be this lazy!” Silence. Grandma’s temper flared. She caught sight of a pile of gifts my mom had brought—the only things she’d given me. She grabbed the one thing I loved most: a dress. “No! Please, no!” I cried. She didn’t hear. She took the shears and ripped them from the collar to the hem. It was a princess dress, layers of soft pink tulle. I had begged Mom for months for it. Grandma had always said dresses were useless for chores, but Mom had finally given in. I had only worn it once. I was so afraid of getting it dirty that I’d folded it perfectly and put it back in the bag, waiting for the first day of school. I wanted the kids who called me “Rat-head” to see that I had something beautiful. That my mom loved me. Now, it was a rag in Grandma’s hands. “Wants to go to the city, does she? I feed her for free and she gives me attitude!” Scraps of pink gauze flew through the air. “Fine! Stay in there and rot! You love this dress so much? Now it’s trash, just like your attitude!” I knelt to pick up the pieces, but my fingers passed through the fabric like smoke. “Forget it,” Grandpa said, pulling her away. “She’s stubborn. Just make sure there’s something for her to eat at lunch. The kids should be in the city by now. They’ll probably FaceTime tonight. And hey—those sweet potatoes in the cellar need to be brought up before they spoil.” “I know, I know,” Grandma waved him off. Grandpa headed to the fields. Grandma stood up and started walking toward the root cellar. My heart—or where my heart used to be—seized. She was going there. She was going to find me. I flew ahead of her, watching as her withered hand reached for the heavy wooden handle. 4 Just as she was about to pull it open, her phone chirped in the house. She paused, grumbled, and turned back. I stayed by the hatch, staring at the wood. So close. Grandma answered the phone, her face instantly breaking into a wide, toothy grin. “Oh, my precious boy! My grandson!” She held the phone high. On the screen was Mom, holding Beau in a bright, modern apartment. “Did my little man have a long trip? Is he tired? Grandma’s going to Venmo your mom twenty dollars so you can get a big ice cream sundae!” “Thanks, Grandma,” Beau chirped. “Such a good boy!” Grandma beamed. She never called me a good girl. I was a “mouth to feed” or a “debt.” I had gotten straight A’s on my report card, and she’d told me education was a waste on a girl who’d just end up in someone else’s kitchen anyway. But Beau… Beau just had to exist to be worth twenty dollars. Mom’s voice came through, sounding a bit guilty. “Mom? Where’s Lucy? We lied to her about the game… she’s probably pretty upset, isn’t she?” Grandma pointed the camera at my locked bedroom door. “Still holed up in there. She’s got a temper on her, that one!” Grandma raised her voice, making sure the “Lucy” she thought was inside could hear. Mom sighed, shifting Beau on her hip. “Lucy!” she called out. “Listen, Mom and Dad are sorry we tricked you.” Her voice softened. “But Beau is starting preschool, and there’s just so much going on here. We couldn’t manage. Next year. I promise, next year we’ll bring you up, okay?” Silence from the room. I watched Mom’s face. I felt a surge of guilt. I was being “difficult.” My parents were working so hard, and here I was, making them worry. When there was no answer, Mom’s patience began to fray. “Lucy! Be a big girl and answer me! Don’t make us worry!” Dad leaned into the frame. “Lucy, hey, it’s your birthday, kiddo. We ordered that strawberry shortcake you like. The bakery is delivering it to the house. Why don’t you come out and have a slice?” I jumped for joy. My favorite. But then I looked at my translucent hands and the joy turned to lead. I’d never taste it. “For heaven’s sake,” Mom snapped, her tone changing. “We’re exhausted, we remembered your birthday, and you’re still acting out? What else do you want?” Still nothing. Mom took a deep breath and handed Beau to Dad. She looked right into the camera. “Lucy, I’m asking you one last time. Are you coming out?” No answer. “Fine. Stay in there. Starve for all I care.” Mom’s face went cold. She looked at Grandma. “Mom, when the cake gets there, you and Dad just eat it. Don’t give her a single bite. She needs to learn she can’t hold us hostage with her moods.” The call ended. I hovered by the door, watching the empty room. They didn’t know. There was no one in there to hear them. The cake arrived that evening. Grandma put it on the table and grumbled to Grandpa, “A cake for a girl who won’t even work. In our day, we were lucky to get an extra egg on our birthday.” Mom called again. “Is she out?” When Grandma said no, Mom’s eyes looked red, her face weary. “Lucy… Mom said some mean things earlier. Come out and eat your cake. We’ll sing to you over the phone, okay?” Silence. “Lucy?” Nothing. The last of Mom’s patience snapped. “Lucy! I am talking to you!” Her chest heaved. “There is a limit to how much attitude I will take! We didn’t raise you to be disrespectful to your elders!” The anger, the fatigue of the move, the guilt she was trying to outrun—it all boiled over. “Mom! Where are the keys? Open that door. This is ridiculous!” Grandma started rummaging through drawers. “I don’t know where the spare is…” “Check under the rug by the front door,” Mom said. Grandma froze, then bent down. Sure enough, a key was tucked there. It was a secret between Mom and me. Before Beau was born, I lived with them in the city. I was always losing my key, so she hid one there and told only me. Back then, I was her “little star.” Grandpa held the phone so Mom could see. Grandma slid the key into the lock and pushed. But the door wouldn’t open.

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I was in the middle of a high-stakes board meeting when my phone buzzed with a FaceTime request from the nanny. I ignored it, but she called again immediately. Then a third time. I stepped out, a knot tightening in my chest. “Mrs. Benson? I’m in a meeting, what—” “Ma’am, you have to come home! Now!” The camera was shaking, her face a mask of pure terror. “It’s Sophie! Someone… someone broke her leg!” The world tilted. “What do you mean? You’re at the house, aren’t you? How could this happen?” She opened her mouth to speak, but the screen abruptly went black. The call was cut. A second later, a notification pinged from the neighborhood WhatsApp group. Someone had posted a photo. “I didn’t realize trash moved into ‘The Heights’ until today. Luckily, my son gave this little brat exactly what she deserved for her mother’s sins!” I tapped the photo. My breath hitched. It was Sophie’s smart-watch, the screen cracked and smeared with fresh, bright red blood. The wallpaper on the watch was still visible: a happy photo of the three of us—me, my husband, and our daughter. … But it was the sender’s profile picture that stopped my heart. It was a wedding photo—a young, blonde woman in white, beaming next to my husband. Before I could process the image, she tagged me in the group. “You’re the mistress, aren’t you? Sorry about your daughter’s leg, but I guess that’s what happens when you try to steal another woman’s husband. Consider it a debt paid by the next generation.” The group chat exploded. Hundreds of messages poured in, a localized lynch mob of neighbors calling me a home-wrecker and my daughter a mistake. I didn’t wait. I sprinted toward the parking garage, dialing my executive assistant as I ran. “My daughter’s been assaulted,” I barked, my voice cold and vibrating with rage. “Get the legal team and the best pediatric trauma surgeons on standby. I want whoever touched her destroyed.” “Also,” I added, getting into my car, “freeze every single accounts under Richard Whitaker’s name. Draft the divorce papers. Total asset reclamation. I want him on the street.” “A kept man playing ‘CEO’ while he maintains a second family on my dime? He’s finished.” I tore into the community square ten minutes later. A crowd had already gathered near the fountain. At the center stood a woman I’d never seen before—Tiffany. She was dressed in head-to-toe designer gear that I recognized as last season’s boutique leftovers, surrounded by neighbors who were practically bowing to her. “Mrs. Whitaker, you’re far too humble,” one neighbor cooed. “If it wasn’t for this drama, we never would have known you were the actual First Lady of Whitaker Industries.” “Exactly! I knew the moment I saw you that you had that ‘old money’ grace. A real billionaire’s wife!” “Don’t worry, we’ll help you deal with that slut. Your son, Mason, is such a little protector! Taking down a mistress’s kid at his age? He’s a chip off the old block!” Mrs. Benson, the nanny who had been so desperate to warn me minutes ago, was now standing near Tiffany, her face twisted into a sycophantic grin. “Mrs. Whitaker, I am so sorry,” she said to Tiffany. “I had no idea you were the real wife. I almost protected that little brat over the young Master.” “Rest assured, even though I’m just the help, I have morals. I won’t spend another second in that mistress’s house.” Tiffany stood there like a prize-winning peacock, soaking in the adoration. The “CEO of Whitaker Industries” they were praising was my husband, Richard. When I married him, his family’s firm was a sinking ship, worth less than one of my father’s regional branches. Out of love—or what I thought was love—I’d funded his lifestyle and propped up his failing company with my family’s capital. I had let him play the part of the powerful executive to save his ego. I never imagined he’d use that fake persona to start a second life. I scanned the crowd, my eyes stinging. Sophie wasn’t there. “Where is my daughter?” I screamed, stepping into the circle. The crowd turned. The adoring smiles vanished, replaced by looks of pure, unadulterated disgust. No one spoke. I lunged forward, grabbing Mrs. Benson by the arm. “Where is Sophie? You said she was hurt!” Then, I saw it. On the pavement, near the edge of the fountain, lay the shattered, bloody watch from the photo. My lungs felt like they were collapsing. Mrs. Benson sneered, ripping her arm away as if I were contagious. “Mrs. Lang—oh, wait, Miss Whitaker. Consider this my formal resignation. I’m done.” “I thought you and Mr. Whitaker were a legal couple. I had no idea I was working for a ‘side-piece.’ If I’d known, I wouldn’t have taken the job for ten times the salary!” I grabbed her collar, my vision tunneling. “I treated you like family! You let my daughter get beaten while she was under your care and now you’re lecturing me on morality? Where. Is. She?” The nanny rolled her eyes. “Look, a mistress’s kid getting a little rough-and-tumble? That’s just karma. You can’t blame anyone but yourself.” “It’s a curse. If I don’t quit now, my own kids will be ashamed to have a mother who served a woman like you.” I forced the rage down, my voice dropping to a lethal whisper. “Defamation carries a heavy price, Mrs. Benson. I suggest you look very closely at who the ‘mistress’ really is before you open your mouth again.” Suddenly, a hand swung out. Slap. My head snapped to the side, the sting burning across my cheek. Tiffany was standing there, her eyes narrowed. “Just a cheap little whore,” she spat, “and you still think you can bark orders here? You’re lucky I don’t have you dragged out of this neighborhood by your hair.” “Don’t think that because you popped out a bastard, you can just walk into my life and take my title. You’re dreaming.” The world spun for a moment. Around me, the whispers of the neighbors became a dull roar. “She looks so polished, too. Goes to show, you can’t trust the quiet ones. Probably just a gold-digger after Mr. Whitaker’s billions.” “Disgusting. People like her are a cancer. And that little brat of hers? Probably better off with a broken leg if it teaches her not to follow in her mother’s footsteps.” Someone from a second-story balcony threw a bag of kitchen scraps. It burst near my feet, splattering my heels with rotted greens and coffee grounds. I didn’t care about the filth. I wiped a smudge of grease off my blazer and stared Tiffany down. “Where is my daughter? If you don’t give her to me right now, I’m calling the police. Kidnapping, assault of a minor, and aggravated battery. You’ll be lucky if you ever see the sun again.” Tiffany crossed her arms, laughing. “Call them. Go ahead. When they get here, they’ll see a wife defending her home against a home-wrecker. Besides,” she leaned in, her voice dropping, “my husband is the CEO of Whitaker Industries. He owns people like you. Even if we killed that little brat, he’d just write a check and make it go away.” The neighbors cheered. “She’s trying to play the victim! How pathetic!” Seeing the crowd was on her side, Tiffany’s eyes landed on my Hermès Birkin. Her face contorted with jealousy. “You bitch! You manipulated my husband into buying you this?” she shrieked. She snatched the bag from my shoulder. I didn’t fight her. I watched as she threw it onto the pavement, stomping on the leather with her heels, trying to rip the stitching apart. “Die, you slut! My husband works his ass off for this money! Why should it go to you and your little mistake?” As the bag spilled open, my car keys tumbled out. Tiffany froze. She picked them up, her brow furrowing. She pressed the unlock button. A few yards away, the lights of my custom Maybach flashed. Tiffany looked like she’d been struck by lightning. “A Maybach? I’m the legal wife and I’m driving a mid-tier BMW, and you—the mistress—are driving a three-hundred-thousand-dollar car?” She went into a frenzy. She pulled a lipstick from her pocket and ran to the car, scrawling “WHORE” in jagged, red letters across the hood. I watched her, my expression frozen in a mask of cold irony. “You’re going to regret those words very soon. They describe the wrong woman.” “Shut up!” Tiffany screamed. “You think you’re special? You think you’re ‘the one he really loves’? Newsflash: you’re a hobby. And today, the hobby ends.” She picked up a heavy decorative brick from a nearby flowerbed and hurled it at the windshield. The glass spiderwebbed with a sickening crack. Seeing her, the other neighbors joined in, picking up rocks and trash, smashing the lights and kicking the doors until the car was a mangled wreck. I looked up at the security camera mounted on the gatehouse and smiled. “I hope your bank accounts are as full as your mouths. You’re going to need every penny for the damages.” But they were far gone, fueled by a collective, suburban madness. Someone opened the trunk and gasped. “Hey! There’s a crate of vintage liquor back here!” Tiffany peered in, sneering. “Wine? Probably some cheap rot-gut she bought to feel sophisticated. Move aside.” She grabbed a tire iron someone had pulled out. “Wait,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “That crate is worth more than the car. I’d think twice if I were you.” It was a pristine, original case of 1967 Petrus. I’d won it at a Sotheby’s auction in London as a birthday gift for my father, who was born that year. I’d just picked it up from the bonded warehouse that morning and hadn’t had time to move it to the cellar before the nanny called. Tiffany laughed. “You think you can scare me? You’re a charity case. A Maybach was probably his last gift to you before he realized what a mistake you were.” “And even if this stuff is expensive, it’s a waste on a woman like you. It’s an insult to the wine.” She hauled the crate out and slammed it onto the concrete. The sound of shattering glass and the heavy, oaky scent of vintage Bordeaux filled the air. One of the neighbors, a man who looked like he knew his labels, leaned over and picked up the auction certificate that had fluttered out. His face went ghostly white. “Wait… this says 1967 Petrus. The auction price was… four million dollars?” Tiffany hesitated for a fraction of a second, then snatched the paper and tore it up. “Four million? So what? It’s my husband’s money! It belongs to me! If I want to break my own things, I will!” I almost laughed out loud. Richard’s company had been bleeding cash for three years. Every “success” he had was a facade funded by my personal trust. If Richard sold his entire soul, he wouldn’t be able to afford a single bottle of that wine, let alone a case. But Tiffany was convinced her “CEO husband” was a god. And the neighbors, desperate to stay in her good graces, followed her lead. They smashed the rest of the wine, then moved on to the other auction items in the trunk—a set of rare Ming-style ceramics and a first-edition manuscript. Fine. Let them destroy it. Every shard was another year in a cell. My only priority was Sophie. I looked toward the security office. I needed the footage to see where they took her. But when I tried to enter the gatehouse, the security guard—a man who had tipped his hat to me every morning for a year—blocked the door. “Security area is for residents only,” he said, his lip curling. “Not for home-wrecking trash.” “My daughter is injured,” I said, my voice cracking despite my efforts. “She needs a hospital. Just let me see the footage so I can find her!” The guard didn’t budge. “She’s missing? Good. Maybe she’ll learn what happens when you have a mother who sells her soul for a handbag. Don’t make my job harder, lady. I don’t get paid to talk to your kind.” Then, I heard it. A faint, muffled whimper coming from inside the guard shack. “Mommy… Mommy, help…” It was Sophie. I lunged for the door, but the guard shoved me back hard enough that I hit the pavement. “I heard her! She’s in there!” I screamed. “I’m a homeowner here! Let me in!” The guard laughed. “A homeowner? You’re a kept woman. Mr. Whitaker is the resident. He’s the one who pays the HOA fees. You’re just an occupant. And I’m just doing my job—protecting the real Mrs. Whitaker from the help.” The neighbors cheered. “Give this man a raise! That’s what I call integrity!” “Exactly! Clean up the neighborhood! Get the trash and her bastard out of here!” Tiffany walked over, looking down at me with a smirk. “Hear that? Even the staff knows who the real queen is. You’re nothing but a shadow, honey. It’s time you faded away.” The insults were a roar now. Someone grabbed my arms, pinning me. The guard turned to Tiffany, his voice dripping with sycophancy. “Mrs. Whitaker, I hope you’re pleased with how I’ve handled this. I’ve always admired your husband’s work. If you could perhaps… mention me to him?” Tiffany waved a hand dismissively. “You did well. We’re looking for a new head of security at the firm. I’ll tell Richard to give you the job.” The guard’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Thank you, ma’am! Anything you need, I’m your man!” The neighbors swarmed her then, offering business cards, beauty spa vouchers, and golf club memberships, all hoping for a piece of the Whitaker empire. Tiffany stepped toward me, her heels clicking on the stone. She delivered a sharp kick to my stomach. I gasped, doubling over. “That,” she whispered, “is for the car. Now take your brat and disappear. If I see you in this zip code again, I won’t be this ‘merciful.’” The guard shack door creaked open. Sophie crawled out, her face pale and streaked with dirt and blood. She was dragging her left leg behind her at an unnatural angle. “Mommy…” she sobbed. “Make them stop… please…” The sight broke something inside me. I looked at the bruises on her small arms, the terror in her eyes. “Did your son do this?” I hissed at Tiffany. Tiffany shrugged. “He’s a boy. He was defending his family’s honor. It’s just a broken leg. Stop being so dramatic.” “She shouldn’t even exist,” a neighbor added. “Mason was just doing what we all wish we could do to people like you.” The guard patted the little boy—Mason—on the head. “Good job, kid. You’re a real man.” Mason, chewing on a piece of candy, smirked. “She tried to say my Daddy was her Daddy. So I kicked her down the stairs. She’s a liar.” I trembled, a cold, quiet fury taking over. “I am going to make every single one of you pay for this. I will take your homes, your jobs, and your futures.” They laughed. A loud, ugly sound. “The mistress thinks she has power! How cute!” “Go back to the gutter, honey. The adults are talking.” Someone picked up a curb-side trash bin and dumped it over my head. The stench of rot and waste filled my senses. Tiffany clapped her hands, howling with laughter. And then, a black SUV screeched to a halt at the gates. A man stepped out. Crisp suit, perfectly coiffed hair, the image of a man who owned the world.

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On the night of my eighteenth birthday, my boyfriend’s hands were firm on my hips, his voice a low, honeyed lure as he coached me through the end of my innocence. “Quiet now, baby. Just a little more. I want to see you.” But at the exact second I reached the precipice, the world exploded into light. The bedroom lights flared, blindingly bright, and the floor-to-ceiling mirror—the one I’d admired myself in all evening—shattered the illusion. It wasn’t a mirror. It was one-way glass. Behind the glass sat an audience. The city’s elite, perched in theater seating, watching my undoing. By the next morning, a high-definition video of my most intimate moment had been scorched into the digital landscape of our social circle. My reputation was dead on arrival. He, however, walked away with the glamorous title of a “heartbreaker” and a “rogue.” The night we broke up, he left me with only two sentences: “When my sister was being tormented, your brother just stood there and watched. He didn’t lift a finger.” “Now it’s your turn to feel what that’s like, Nora. This is the debt you owe me.” My parents, desperate to scrub the stain from the family name, threw me out. My brother, Sam, couldn’t take the injustice. He went to demand an explanation, but his legs were snapped by the man’s security detail. On the way home from the hospital, a “freak accident” involving a hit-and-run left him in a vegetative state. With nowhere to turn and a mountain of medical bills to keep Sam alive, I became exactly what they wanted me to be: a plaything for the elite. For three years, I drifted through the penthouses of the powerful, trading pieces of my soul for the next month of Sam’s life support. Until tonight. Three years later, I stood before a door at the most exclusive hotel in Chicago. I looked at the man I hadn’t seen in years and offered a practiced, glittering smile. “Sir, did you call for service?” … 1 “Maid or flight attendant?” I held up a black shopping bag, my eyes crinkling at the corners as I looked at Emmett. He stared at me, his eyes dark with a disgust so thick it felt like a physical weight in the room. “I’d recommend the flight attendant. Higher altitude, higher stakes, Boss,” I drawled, dragging out the last word until it was sickly sweet. Emmett’s hand shot out, wrapping around my wrist like a vice. He jerked me into the room and kicked the door shut. The lock clicked—a final, heavy sound. He didn’t hold back. He slammed me against the foyer wall, the air huffing out of my lungs. “Three years, and you’ve really turned yourself into a common whore?” The words were spat through gritted teeth, his face inches from mine. I swallowed the sharp spike of pain and kept my professional smile pinned in place. “Money is money, Boss. Whatever makes the client happy.” He recoiled as if he’d touched toxic waste. He pulled a sanitizing wipe from a dispenser on the side table and scrubbed his fingers with a frantic, rhythmic intensity. “I’d heard rumors about a new shared toy in the city. Someone who’d do anything for a check. I thought it was beneath me to look into it.” He reached into his pocket and threw something at my feet. A pearl hair clip. It hit the marble floor, two of the pearls snapping off and skittering into the shadows. I recognized it instantly. “I was at a board member’s house for a meeting. I saw this on his floor,” he sneered. I glanced down, then nudged the broken clip away with the toe of my stiletto. “It’s just a clip, Mr. Blackwood. Hardly worth your stress.” The veins in Emmett’s neck bulged. “Just a clip? Nora, I gave that to you for your eighteenth—” “Mr. Blackwood, we aren’t here for a trip down memory lane,” I interrupted, pulling a scrap of white lace from the bag. I brushed the fabric against his chest. “You still haven’t picked. Though, for an extra fee, I have a nurse’s outfit in the car.” Slap. The force of it whipped my head to the side. My ears rang with a dull, persistent roar. “You shameless bitch!” he hissed, his finger trembling as he pointed it at me. I kept my head tilted, a brief, hazy memory flickering through my mind. Once, if I so much as bruised my knee, he would turn pale with worry, cradling my leg and whispering that he wished he could take the pain for me. Now, he looked like he wanted to watch the life leave my eyes. I wiped a streak of blood from the corner of my mouth and reached into my clutch. “If you like it rough, Boss, that works too.” I pulled out a short, black leather crop and pressed it into his hand. “But that costs extra.” Emmett stared at the leather in his palm, then let out a sharp, jagged laugh. “Fine. Fine!” he barked. “You want to be a dog? You’ll do anything for the money? Let’s see it.” He grabbed his phone and opened a group chat—a private channel for the city’s wealthiest heirs. He hit the video call button. The screen flooded with faces, the noise of a dozen parties bleeding through the speakers. “Yo, Blackwood! Streaming a late-night show for the boys?” “Who’s the girl? Body looks lethal.” Emmett propped the phone on the coffee table, the camera aimed squarely at me. He pulled a checkbook from his jacket, scribbled a number, and threw the slip of paper at my chest. “One million dollars.” He pointed to a maid costume on the floor and a leather collar with a metal chain. “Put it on. Put on the collar. Crawl to me and bark for the camera.” The men on the screen went wild as they recognized me. “Is that Nora Moore? The fallen princess?” “She’s a pro. Come on, Nora, let’s hear it!” I looked down at the check resting on the rug. One million dollars. That was six months of Sam’s experimental treatment in the ICU. I didn’t hesitate for a single second. I knelt, picked up the check, folded it neatly, and tucked it into my bra. Then, in front of hundreds of people watching through the screen, I shrugged off my coat. I took the leather collar, buckled it around my own throat, and dropped to all fours. I began to crawl toward Emmett’s polished leather shoes. “Enough!” Emmett kicked the coffee table aside and grabbed his phone, smashing it against the floor. “Does it get you off? Humiliating yourself like this?” I just looked up at him, my smile as sharp as a razor. “As long as you’re satisfied, Boss.” 2 I don’t remember leaving the hotel. All I remember is that Emmett, despite his fury, never touched me. He couldn’t bring himself to touch something he considered so filthy. As soon as I hit the street, my phone buzzed. A text from a regular, a tech mogul named Miller. Same place. Same price. I hailed a cab and headed for one of the most discreet private clubs in the city. Half an hour later, I was walking into a VIP suite filled with the thick scent of expensive cigars and the heavy silence of men with too much power. In the center of the room stood a waist-high iron cage. Miller blew a plume of smoke and kicked the bars. “Nora’s here. Strip.” I didn’t flinch. I reached for my zipper and let my clothes fall to the floor. I climbed into the cold, cramped cage. Click. Miller locked the door himself. “Let’s try something new,” he said, sliding his Rolex off his wrist and dropping it through the bars. “Give us a show. Be the bitch we know you are. If you’re convincing, the watch is yours.” The room erupted in laughter. “Miller, you’re making it too easy. She’s better than any dog I’ve ever owned.” I stared at the watch—a piece of hardware worth fifty thousand dollars. I lowered my body to the floor of the cage. “Whatever the client wants,” I purred. I arched my back, and someone threw a wad of cash through the bars. “Look at her! So pathetic!” “Louder!” Car keys, poker chips, and crumbled bills rained down on me like I was a beggar in the street. I didn’t move. I just gathered the scraps beneath me, putting on the performance they paid for. Suddenly, a literal rain of red bills—thousands upon thousands—poured over the top of the cage, nearly burying me. Bang! The cage door was kicked open. I looked up. Emmett was standing there, his face pale, his jaw set so tight I thought his teeth might crack. “Is this enough for the night?” he asked, his voice trembling with a flicker of something I couldn’t identify. “Take the money and get out!” The room went silent. The other men traded looks, but no one dared challenge a Blackwood. I reached for the cash, but a soft, feminine voice drifted from the doorway. “Emmett, darling? Why are we making such a scene?” Isabella Montgomery walked in, her diamonds catching the light. She was Emmett’s fiancée—the heiress to a medical empire. She looked at me in the cage, her eyes glinting with pure, unadulterated malice. “Oh, look, it’s Nora. I wondered what was upsetting you.” She leaned into Emmett, looping her arm through his. “I’ve never seen a show like this. Why stop now?” Emmett’s body went rigid. He looked at Isabella, then down at me—naked and shivering on the floor of a cage. He smiled. It was a cold, dead thing. “You’re right. If you want to see it, she’ll keep going.” Emmett reached for a silver champagne bucket filled with ice and water. He walked to the cage and… Splash. The freezing water hit me like a physical blow. I couldn’t stop the violent shudder that took over my limbs. “If you love being a dog so much, you can stay in the cage all night,” Emmett said, dropping the empty bucket. He looked around the room. “Keep going. It’s on my tab.” With Emmett’s blessing, the room turned feral. Isabella leaned against his chest, watching the sport. Emmett sat on the leather sofa, a glass of bourbon in his hand, watching me with eyes like ice. I endured until dawn. When the crowd finally dispersed, I was a map of bruises and burns. I crawled out of the cage, my fingers trembling as I stuffed the cash and the Rolex into my bag. A pair of diamond-encrusted heels appeared in my field of vision. Isabella knelt, her heel grinding into the back of my hand as I tried to pick up the last of the bills. I didn’t make a sound. “How tragic, Nora,” she whispered. She pulled a gold-embossed business card from her clutch and forced it into my mouth. “Because you entertained me tonight, I’ll give you a lead.” “My family owns the top neuro-recovery team in the world. Do one more job for me, and I’ll send them to save your brother. I’ll make sure he wakes up.” She smirked. “Think about it. It’s his last chance.” 3 The next day, I called the number. An hour later, I was driven to a secluded estate in the hills. I was led to the master suite. The air was thick with expensive incense. A man sat on the edge of the bed—not like the men from the clubs. He had sharp, predatory eyes that watched me without the usual smugness. He looked me up and down. “You really are as beautiful as they say. No wonder they’re all obsessed with you.” He gestured to a black gift box at the foot of the bed. “Open it. Put it on.” I walked over and lifted the lid. My breath hitched. Inside was a high school uniform—blue and white. The crest of our old academy was embroidered on the pocket. This was the same style of outfit I had been wearing the night my life ended. The man tilted his head. “Can’t handle it?” I didn’t answer. If it meant Sam waking up, I’d wear a shroud. I stripped off my clothes and pulled on the uniform. The pleated skirt, the crisp white shirt. I climbed onto the bed, moving toward him with practiced grace, but he grabbed the back of my neck and dragged me toward the massive floor-to-ceiling window. “Better view here,” he whispered. He pressed me against the cold glass, leaving me completely exposed to the dark night outside. I didn’t fight. I leaned into it, playing my part. Then, the roar of an engine echoed from the driveway below. Forced against the glass, I looked down. A black sports car had pulled up. Isabella stepped out, clutching Emmett’s arm. She looked up and pointed directly at the window where I stood. Emmett followed her gaze. The glass was one-way during the day, but at night, with the lights on inside, it was a translucent stage. Just like the mirror on my eighteenth birthday. Through the darkness, our eyes met. He stared at the uniform. He froze. His face went through a kaleidoscope of emotions—shock, then something that looked like devastating realization. We stayed like that for seconds. Then, he didn’t say a word. He wrenched his arm away from Isabella, got back into his car, and tore out of the driveway, disappearing into the night. 4 The next morning, I walked into the city hospital, my body a ruin of hidden scars. For the first time in three years, I was actually smiling. Sam was going to wake up. Everything I’d endured—the cages, the collars, the shame—it was all worth it. I pushed open the door to his room, my heart hammering against my ribs. The bed was empty. The monitors were dark. The tubes and wires were piled neatly on the bedside table. Even the sheets had been stripped. I stopped breathing. I grabbed a passing nurse by the arm. “Where is he? Sam Moore? Did he move to a ward?” The nurse stopped, her expression softening into a look of deep pity. “Ms. Moore… I am so sorry.” “He went into multi-organ failure at 6:00 AM. We tried to resuscitate him for forty minutes… he’s gone. They just moved him to the morgue.” The world didn’t just break; it detonated. “Gone? No! He can’t be gone!” I shoved past her, running for the elevators like a madwoman. “I have the money! The specialists are coming! He has to wait for me!” The morgue was in the basement. When I burst in, the doctor was about to pull a white sheet over a pale, gaunt face. “Don’t touch him!” I lunged forward, shoving the doctor aside, and threw my arms around Sam’s cold, skeletal body. “Sam… I’m late. I’m so sorry. Please, I’m so sorry…” I collapsed onto the floor, burying my face in his neck, let out a sound that wasn’t human—a raw, jagged wail of pure agony. The doctor sighed. “He’s been unresponsive for three years, Ms. Moore. His body just gave up. You need to sign the papers.” But as the darkness began to swallow me, the sound of heavy, rhythmic footsteps echoed in the hallway. A group of men in dark suits and police uniforms walked in. At the lead was a high-ranking detective. He walked to the bed, looked at Sam, and suddenly snapped to attention. “Present arms!” Every officer in the room saluted my brother’s body with solemn, rigid respect. I looked up, dazed. The detective knelt beside me, holding a file embossed with a “Classified” red seal. “Are you Nora Moore?” I nodded, numb. “We’re late,” the detective said, his voice thick with regret. “The investigation is closed. We’re here to clear your brother’s name.” I stared at him. “What investigation?” He opened the file. “Three years ago, when the Blackwood girl was abducted… everyone thought Sam Moore just stood there. They thought he was a coward who watched it happen.” The detective gripped the file. “But the evidence tells a different story. Sam didn’t run. He threw himself into the fray. He didn’t have a weapon, so he used his own body to shield her. He provoked the kidnappers to keep them from taking her to a secondary location.” The detective stood up. “He didn’t just watch. He saved her life. The Blackwoods… they had it wrong the whole time.” The room was deathly silent. Then, a sharp clack echoed from the doorway. I turned. Emmett was standing there. He was staring at Sam, then at the police, his lips trembling. “What… what did you just say?”

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My husband’s untouchable first love and I went into labor on the exact same day, but I was the one barred from the delivery room. Even after she had safely delivered her baby, the doors remained locked to me. Henry stared down at me, his face a mask of terrifying indifference. He looked at me not as a husband looks at his wife, but as a stranger evaluating a piece of property. “The spiritual advisor was very clear, Madeline,” he said, his voice maddeningly calm. “A child born exactly at the stroke of dawn possesses the grounded, stoic energy required to serve. You just need to wait three more hours. It will go by fast.” As he spoke, his fingers dug into my upper arms, pinning me against his chest like a vice. My water had already broken. The sterile hospital floor was slick with it. Yet, he didn’t even flinch. My eyes burned with unshed tears; my hands shook violently from the sheer agony radiating through my pelvis. “Henry! Have you lost your damn mind?!” I screamed, my voice tearing at the edges. “The baby is coming now! It can’t wait! We are going to die!” The pressure was unbearable. The doctor had already seen crowning—the top of my baby’s fragile head pressing against the threshold of the world. But Henry simply signaled his private security. They hoisted me onto a gurney. At his nod, the concierge physician he had on payroll took a pair of cold, heavy surgical forceps and brutally, unthinkingly, forced the progression to a halt. It was the act of a savage. “The advisor said Vanessa’s baby was born with a fragile constitution. He will need a lifelong companion, someone bound to him to carry his burdens,” Henry explained, his tone conversational, as if discussing private school tuitions. “Since we can’t trust outsiders, our child will just have to take on that role. But he won’t have the inherent loyalty unless he’s born exactly at dawn.” A chilling realization washed over the white-hot pain. From the very moment I told him I was pregnant, he had been calculating this. He had been calculating how to turn my child into a lifelong servant for the woman he never truly got over. As the first tear finally broke free and tracked through the sweat on my cheek, the remaining love I held for this man shattered into a million irreparable pieces. … 1 My spine was pressed flat against the freezing metallic surface of the hospital bed. My wrists were bound to the bedrails with thick, coarse restraints, digging deep into my skin. The room was stripped of all dignity, echoing only with my guttural, animalistic wails. “Henry! Please, God, I am begging you!” I thrashed wildly against the straps. “The baby didn’t do anything wrong! Please let it come!” The rough material of the restraints had already chewed through my skin, leaving raw, bloody rings around my wrists. Dr. Gallagher, the highly-paid private obstetrician standing by the monitor, finally cracked. He swallowed hard, his brow furrowed in ethical agony. “Mr. Scott… Henry,” the doctor stammered. “A child’s temperament is dictated by genetics and environment, not the hour of their birth. Mrs. Scott is hemorrhaging. If we delay this any longer, she is going to die…” A sharp, echoing crack cut him off. Henry had backhanded the doctor across the face. Henry smiled, but it was a dark, venomous thing. “Since when do I pay you to give me unsolicited opinions?” The silence that followed was deafening. The nurses, who moments before had been whispering in horrified sympathy, snapped their mouths shut. They lowered their eyes to the floor. They didn’t even dare to administer an epidural or a drop of morphine, terrified that a single misstep would cost them their careers—or worse. My cervix was dilating to its absolute limit. My hands curled into tight, trembling fists as the pain ripped through my core. The baby was fighting, pushing desperately against the artificial barrier, tearing my insides in its fight for life. “Henry… please,” I gasped, the world spinning in and out of focus. “Eight years. We’ve been together for eight years. For the love of God, spare me and the baby. Please.” He hadn’t always been this monster. When I first showed him the positive pregnancy test, he had wept. He spent entire nights wide awake, devouring medical journals and parenting books so he could anticipate my every need. He, a man who had never turned on a stove in his life, learned to cook exquisite, nutrient-dense meals from scratch. He memorized my dietary restrictions. Before the sun even rose, he would be in the kitchen, prepping my meals for the day. But then Vanessa got her divorce. She moved back from Paris, and everything changed. His eyes, which used to trace the contours of my face with absolute devotion, began to drift. He stopped sitting by my side, instead splitting his time, rushing across the city at all hours. “Vanessa is pregnant and alone. She’s delicate right now. I can’t just leave her,” he had reasoned, his voice laced with a manipulative gentleness. “You’re a mother-to-be too, Maddie. You of all people should understand.” And with that sickeningly perfect justification, he left me alone. I went to my ultrasounds alone. I lay on the bathroom floor, crippled by morning sickness, alone. When I called him, sobbing from the isolation, his response was a tired sigh. “Just push through it, Madeline. Every pregnant woman deals with this. You’re not the first.” As the memory faded, the sheer stupidity of my own hope choked me. I had genuinely believed that once our baby was born, things would magically reset. I thought he would look at our child, let go of the ghost of Vanessa, and finally come home to us. “Ahhh!” The cold metal instruments dug deeper into me, an unnatural violation that made my heart stutter and practically stop. “See? The advisor was right. The child is unruly, undisciplined. It keeps trying to push its way out early,” Henry murmured. He reached out, his cool fingers brushing the sweat-soaked hair from my forehead in a grotesque pantomime of affection. “Just one more hour, sweetheart. Be a good girl.” My vision blurred. I managed to tilt my chin down, looking at the soaking sheets between my legs. It was crimson. “Henry! I’m bleeding!” Panic, primal and consuming, overtook the pain. “If you don’t let me push, the baby is going to suffocate!” Adrenaline flooded my veins. Ignoring the agonizing burn, I wrenched my arms violently against the restraints. I pulled and twisted until the skin tore away, exposing the white gleam of bone beneath my mangled wrists. With a sickening pop, the strap gave way. I lunged, my bloody fingers latching onto the collar of his tailored shirt. “Please!” My voice was nothing but a broken sob. “This is our baby! How can you stand there and torture it like this?!” A flicker of something—doubt, perhaps, or a delayed spark of humanity—crossed Henry’s face. He frowned. Dr. Gallagher seized the momentary hesitation. “Henry, we can still save them. If we do an emergency C-section right this second, we can save both your wife and the child!” I stared into Henry’s eyes, my tears dripping onto his expensive cuffs. “Please…” He let out a heavy breath. He opened his mouth to speak. Then, the heavy oak door of the VIP suite swung open. It was Vanessa. The moment Henry saw her, he peeled my bloody fingers off his shirt and rushed to her side. “What are you doing out of bed?” he chided softly. “You just delivered. You need to be resting.” Vanessa’s gaze drifted over his shoulder, landing on my pathetic, bleeding form. The corner of her mouth twitched upward into a faint, unmistakably triumphant smile. “I heard Madeline was being difficult. I thought I’d come talk some sense into her,” she said, her voice dripping with practiced sweetness. She leaned against him. “It’s fine, Harry. My husband abandoned me. What does it matter if my child doesn’t have a perfectly matched companion?” Henry wrapped his arms protectively around her waist, his eyes fierce with misplaced devotion. “As long as I’m breathing, you and your baby will have everything you need.” He slowly turned his head. The softness vanished, replaced by the eyes of an executioner looking down at a corpse. “No one touches her,” he ordered the room. “No surgery without my explicit command.” 2 In that singular moment, the blood in my veins turned to ice. I wanted to launch myself across the room. I wanted to grab him by the throat and scream until my lungs gave out. But my body had nothing left. I tried to stand, but the catastrophic blood loss caught up to me. My legs buckled, and I crashed to the floor, taking a heavy glass vase down with me. It shattered beneath my weight. Thick shards of glass sliced deeply into my arms and legs, painting the pristine floor with fresh, terrifying streaks of red. For a fraction of a second, Henry panicked. Instinct drove him forward; he reached out to catch me. “Madeline, what the hell are you doing?!” he yelled, turning his face away from the gruesome sight of my bleeding limbs. I didn’t care about the glass. I didn’t care about the pain. I crawled toward him, leaving a smear of blood in my wake. “I won’t cause trouble!” I begged, my dignity entirely discarded, traded for the microscopic hope of my baby’s survival. “Just let me have the baby! I’ll do whatever you want! I’ll be Vanessa’s nanny! I’ll be her maid! Just let my baby live!” In my peripheral vision, I saw Vanessa’s smile widen. She had won. She was the absolute victor, looking down from her pedestal. She took a slow, deliberate step toward me, playing the role of the benevolent queen. “Harry, look at her. She’s so pathetic. Maybe we should just let it go. I mean, she was already so jealous when you took care of me during my pregnancy. I don’t have the right to ask this of you.” As she spoke, she knelt down and placed her perfectly manicured hand over mine. And then, hidden from Henry’s view, she dug her nails directly into my open, glass-filled wound. “Get off me!” I gasped, yanking my hand away. I was so weak I could barely lift my own arm. But Vanessa threw her upper body backward with theatrical force, letting the back of her head knock against the edge of the mahogany side table. “Vanessa!” A thin line of blood trickled down her forehead. Her lips trembled perfectly. Henry whipped his head toward me, the rage in his eyes so intense it felt like a physical blow. “Madeline! Are you insane?!” he roared. “Security! Get in here! Bind her hands again!” His chest heaved. “And if she breaks out again, drag her outside and leave her for the coyotes!” Before the echo of his voice faded, his private security detail swarmed the room. They pinned me down, their heavy boots and knees carelessly grinding into my lacerated flesh. This time, they didn’t use nylon restraints. They used heavy, metallic zip-ties. And just to ensure I couldn’t move an inch, they secured a thick strap across my collarbone, pinning my throat to the mattress. If I struggled, I would suffocate myself. One of the younger nurses covered her mouth, tears spilling over her cheeks. “Is this really necessary? She’s pregnant…” Dr. Gallagher clamped a hand over her mouth, his eyes wide with warning. “Shut up!” he hissed under his breath. “Do you not see Vanessa standing right there? Madeline might wear his ring, but Vanessa is the one who holds the power.” The nurse shook her head, her eyes fixed on me with a devastating, helpless pity. She was right. It took me eight years of unwavering loyalty to get a ring on my finger. But Vanessa had been back for barely eight months, and she had effortlessly claimed the throne. She didn’t have to beg. She didn’t have to compromise. Everything she wanted, Henry laid at her feet like an offering. I stopped fighting. The fight had drained out of me, pooling with my blood on the floor. I stared blankly at the sterile acoustic tiles on the ceiling. My hospital gown was soaked through, the blood beginning to oxidize into a stiff, rusty brown. From across the room, the hushed, intimate sounds of Henry and Vanessa murmuring to each other floated over to me. They were discussing baby names. They were discussing the future. I lay there, an empty, bleeding husk. My eyelids grew incredibly heavy. A quiet, dark gravity pulled at them until they fluttered shut, locking away the horrors of the room. “Doctor!” a voice suddenly shrieked. “She’s losing consciousness!” Dr. Gallagher sprinted to the bedside, prying my eyelids open with his thumbs. “Get the crash cart! Intubate her! She’s going into hypovolemic shock!” The three hours were finally up. My body had simply surrendered. I slipped into the dark. … When I opened my eyes again, the room was blindingly white and utterly silent. I was alone. Ignoring the searing, tearing agony in my lower abdomen, I ripped the IV from my hand and stumbled blindly out into the corridor. “Where is it?!” I grabbed the first set of scrubs I saw. “Where is my baby?!” A seasoned floor nurse looked at me, her eyes immediately welling up. She gently pried my hands off her shoulders. “Oh, honey. You need to go back to bed.” My eyes were bloodshot, feral. “What do you mean? Tell me where my baby is!” She looked around the empty hallway, her voice dropping to a devastated whisper. “To harvest the stem cells from the placenta without contamination… the procedure they forced… the baby, sweetheart… the baby didn’t make it.” 3 A crushing, monolithic despair slammed into my chest. It was as if someone had severed my spine. My knees gave out, and I collapsed onto the linoleum. The freshly placed sutures between my legs tore open instantly, a hot, wet rush of blood soaking through my clean gown. “No… No, that’s impossible.” “Where is he?! Where is Henry?!” I screamed, my voice cracking into a hoarse, guttural sound. I slammed my fists into the floor, not feeling the bruised bones, feeling nothing but a void where my soul used to be. “Enough!” Henry’s sharp voice cut through the corridor. He strode toward me, his face tight with annoyance, and hauled me up off the ground by my arm. I grabbed the lapels of his jacket, shaking him with whatever phantom strength I had left. “Where is my baby?! What did you do?!” For a fraction of a second, he looked away. A heavy silence hung between us. “Madeline, calm down,” a sickeningly sweet voice chimed in. Vanessa stepped out from behind him, holding a steaming porcelain thermos. “You just went through a traumatic labor. Have some of this broth. It will help with the recovery.” I stared at her, the smug satisfaction radiating from her pores. The white-hot fury that had been suppressed for months finally detonated. I swiped my arm out, violently knocking the thermos from her hands. It shattered, splattering the dark, rich broth across the floor. “Drop the act, Vanessa!” I shrieked. “If it weren’t for you, my child wouldn’t have been tortured to death!” Vanessa didn’t flinch. She simply looked down at the spilled liquid, a cruel, lazy smile stretching across her lips. “What a shame,” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper. “That broth was made from the stem cells extracted from your baby’s placenta. I guess the little thing died for absolutely nothing.” I froze. The world stopped spinning. The ambient hum of the hospital machinery faded into a high-pitched ringing in my ears. Down the hall, two residents walked by, speaking in hushed, disgusted tones. “It’s horrific. If the husband hadn’t demanded the immediate extraction of the placenta while the child was stuck in the birth canal, the baby would have survived.” “Money talks. He’d burn this hospital down if it gave Vanessa an extra year of youth.” He killed our baby. My husband murdered our child. The tears fell freely now, hitting the floor in heavy drops. Something inside my brain snapped. The tether to reality, to sanity, completely broke. I lunged forward, tackling Vanessa to the wall, raising my hand to claw her perfectly symmetrical face. “You bitch!” I screamed, entirely unhinged. “Give me back my child!” Before my nails could make contact, Henry’s hand locked around my wrist like a steel trap. Before I could even blink, his other hand swung through the air, striking my cheek with enough force to snap my head back. “Are you asking for a death wish?!” he snarled, looking at me as if I were a rabid animal that needed to be put down. As if I was the one who had committed the atrocity. All I wanted was to protect the tiny life inside me. Was that a crime? This was the same man who had dragged me to high-end boutiques, agonizing over the softness of organic cotton onesies. The man who spent his Sunday afternoons painting the nursery a soft, calming sage green. The man who used to press his mouth against my swollen belly every night. “Your mom is working so hard to grow you,” he used to whisper to my skin. “You have to love her the most when you come out. You don’t have to love me as much, because Mommy already loves me enough for both of us.” The memory of that beauty made the present reality so unimaginably grotesque. Henry pulled Vanessa into his chest, carefully inspecting her face to make sure I hadn’t scratched her. Meanwhile, I stood there, blood pooling around my feet from my torn sutures, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth from where his ring had cut my lip. He didn’t notice my blood. He only saw her. “Apologize to Vanessa, Madeline.” His voice was lethal. “You tried to strike her. Now, you’re going to hit yourself for every time you tried to hit her.” A dry, hollow sound scraped its way out of my throat. I was laughing. This was the man who once panicked if I got a papercut. Now, he was commanding me to mutilate myself. “Henry!” I spat blood onto the floor. “You two murdered my baby! You are the ones who are going to burn in hell!” He didn’t even blink. He adjusted his cuffs, perfectly composed. “The infant’s remains are in the sub-level morgue,” he said casually. “Keep pushing me, Madeline, and I will personally walk down there and throw it in the incinerator while you watch.” 4 I stared at him, my mind unable to process the sheer depravity of the man standing before me. The man who once swore on his life to protect me was now holding our dead baby hostage. “Maddie, don’t make this difficult.” Henry took a step forward, his hand reaching out to stroke my cheek. I shuddered at his touch. “I don’t want to be cruel. We can always have another baby. There’s no need to make a scene.” “If you just apologize, properly, I’ll give you whatever you want.” The absolute clarity of my worthlessness to him was blinding. I would never eclipse Vanessa. In every single choice he made, I was the acceptable casualty. “If I hit myself, you’ll give my baby’s body back to me?” I whispered, pulling away from his touch. The love in my eyes had burned out completely, leaving only ash and venom. “Yes.” He paused, his eyes shifting slightly. “And…” “And what?” My voice was entirely dead. “The advisor mentioned that since the child passed away, the remaining cord tissue is highly potent for Vanessa’s baby. But…” He cleared his throat. “The infant died in distress. It was clutching the umbilical cord. Rigor mortis has set in. They’ll have to amputate its fingers to retrieve the cord intact.” A primal scream tore from my lungs. I threw myself at him, my fists hammering violently against his chest. “Are you even human?!” I shrieked. “That is your flesh and blood! It’s dead, and you want to butcher it?!” I had read the books. When a fetus senses the mother is in extreme peril, it instinctively grips its umbilical cord. It was terrified. My baby died terrified in the dark. And it died without ever knowing that the monster terrorizing its mother was its own father. Henry grabbed my wrists, shoving me back. “I was going to give it back to you in one piece. But since you want to act like a lunatic, I’ll go have it incinerated right now.” He turned on his heel. Panic overrode everything. I collapsed to my knees, wrapping my arms desperately around his legs. “I’ll do it! I’ll do it!” Tears streamed down my face as I raised my trembling hands and began slapping my own face. Hard. I didn’t hold back. I struck myself over and over, the sharp smacks echoing through the hallway. My cheeks swelled instantly, blooming with dark purple bruises. Vanessa watched, leaning against the wall, shaking her head. “Look at her,” she sighed. “She’s so thick-skinned she can’t even force out the words ‘I’m sorry.’ Slapping isn’t going to get through that thick skin.” She snapped her fingers at a bodyguard. Minutes later, he returned from a hospital supply closet with a high-grade medical adhesive sheet—the kind used for intense surgical bindings, smeared with industrial-strength epoxy. “Since your skin is so thick, let me help you peel a layer off,” Vanessa cooed. She looked at Henry. “Hold her head still.” “No… Please, no!” I clawed at Henry’s suit jacket, searching his eyes for even a shred of the man I married. But Vanessa knew exactly which string to pull. “If she hadn’t been so hysterical, the baby wouldn’t have died, and my little Leo would have had his companion.” That twisted, psychopathic logic. They genuinely believed my child was born owing them a debt. “It’ll be over in a second, sweetie,” Henry murmured, his voice gentle, as if he were comforting a child before a vaccine. “Then you can see the baby.” He clamped his large hands onto the sides of my head, locking my skull in place. I couldn’t move. Vanessa stepped forward. She slammed the adhesive sheet directly onto my face, pressing it hard into my bruised flesh. And without a second’s hesitation, she ripped it backward. “Oh! How does that feel?” she chirped. The agony was indescribable. It felt as though my face had been dipped in acid. The air hit the exposed nerves. The violence of the rip had taken the top layers of my skin, leaving raw, bleeding meat in its wake. Even Henry flinched, his hands dropping from my head. I forced my eyes open, though my eyelashes had been torn away. Blood dripped down my chin. “Where is it?!” I gasped, my voice unrecognizable. Trembling, Henry pointed down the hall toward the elevator bank. As I stumbled past the reflective glass of the nurses’ station, I caught a glimpse of myself. I looked like a flayed corpse. My face was a horrific canvas of mangled tissue. But there was no time to mourn my face. I dragged myself down to the morgue. The attendant was away. I found the tiny, stainless-steel drawer. I pulled it open and gathered that freezing, impossibly small body into my arms. As I turned to the exit, Vanessa blocked the doorway. She held a surgical scalpel in her hand, her eyes gleaming with dark intent. “Did you forget something?” she sneered. “I still need to cut its little fingers off to get my cord tissue.” A low, guttural growl vibrated in my chest. When I bared my teeth to scream, the torn muscles in my face ripped further, fresh blood pouring down my neck. “Get out!” I roared. “This is my baby! If you want to touch it, you’ll have to kill me first!” I curled my body entirely around the tiny corpse, ready to die right there on the frozen tiles. Henry rushed into the room behind her. He stared at me, genuinely bewildered by my reaction. “Maddie, for god’s sake, it’s a dead fetus! Why are you acting like this?!” he yelled. “If you want a baby that badly, I’ll get you pregnant again! We can have three more!” A dead fetus. This was the child I had carried for nine months. The child whose kicks I had mapped. Henry reached for the scalpel in Vanessa’s hand, stepping toward me. “Be reasonable, Maddie. I don’t want to accidentally cut you.” I backed away until my spine hit the large, frosted glass window at the end of the morgue corridor. I looked out at the city skyline. Eight years. Eight years of my life, sacrificed at the altar of this man’s ego. “Henry,” I said, my voice eerily calm through the bleeding tissue of my mouth. “I wish to God I had never met you.” Without another word, I turned, tucked my baby tightly against my chest, and threw myself backward through the glass. As I fell into the open air, Henry’s agonizing scream tore through the night. “Madeline—!”

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Brandon, our office intern, was the resident “Golden Boy.” Everyone in the firm was convinced he was some billionaire’s heir playing at a career. This past April Fool’s Day, he went all out, buying gifts for the entire department out of his own pocket. The team practically worshipped him for it. I didn’t realize the truth until my front door was doused in thick, crimson spray paint and “SCAMMER” was keyed into my car. Brandon hadn’t spent a dime. He had used my phone number to create accounts, exploited a “refund-only” loophole to keep the goods while getting the cash back, and effectively framed me for a massive retail fraud scheme. Overnight, I became the internet’s favorite villain—a “professional fraudster.” When I confronted him, he just tucked himself behind my fiancée, looking like a kicked puppy. “Jordan, I know you’re jealous that everyone likes me more, but you can’t just invent lies to ruin me.” My fiancée, Rachel, didn’t even hesitate. She shielded Brandon and slapped me across the face so hard my ears rang. “Jordan, your greed finally caught up to you. Don’t you dare try to pin your filth on Brandon. You’re pathetic.” My colleagues joined the chorus, filming me with their phones, calling me a moral stain. In the ensuing scuffle, as I tried to grab the evidence, Brandon shoved me. I tumbled backward, shattering the glass of the thirteenth-floor window. As I fell, the last thing I saw was the entire office standing at the ledge, watching. Later, I’d learn they all gave false statements, claiming I jumped because my “guilt” was too much to bear. They used the payout from my corporate life insurance to throw a celebratory dinner. Between bites of steak, they laughed about me. “A cheapskate like Jordan? Honestly, the world is better off without him.” Then, I blinked. The smell of expensive cologne and office coffee hit me. I was back at my desk. It was the morning Brandon announced his grand gesture. … “Since April Fool’s is just around the corner, I wanted to do something special,” Brandon announced, his voice booming with that practiced, easy charisma. “To thank you all for taking care of the ‘new guy,’ I’m footing the bill for a round of holiday gifts for everyone!” The office erupted. People literally stood up to cheer. “Oh my god, Brandon! You’re way too generous!” “A real-life Prince Charming! We’re so lucky to have you.” A moment later, Brandon was at my elbow, looking slightly bashful. “Hey, Jordan? Could you do me a quick favor? Can I send a verification code to your phone?” My heart did a slow, painful roll in my chest. I looked up at him. He was smiling—that shy, dimpled look that hid the predatory gleam in his eyes. “My friend just opened a boutique shop,” he continued, the words identical to my previous life. “She needs to hit a member-referral quota for her investors. If I sign you up, she’ll give me a forty-percent discount on the gifts for the team. Help a guy out?” I sat there, frozen. I remembered what came next. He would bind my number to his shopping accounts, go on a “refund-only” spree, and leave me with the debt and the criminal record. My number would be blacklisted by every major retailer; my personal info would be leaked by angry vendors. I thought of the red paint on my door. I thought of Rachel’s hand against my cheek. “Jordan, come on,” Brandon prodded. “It’s just a text.” I gritted my teeth, the phantom pain of the fall still echoing in my bones. I spoke coldly. “My phone is for personal use only. I don’t participate in ‘referral’ schemes.” Brandon’s face fell instantly. He looked like I’d slapped him. “Jordan… I already promised her. If I get thirty people to register, she’s sending over thirty premium ergonomic massage pillows for the whole department. Everyone gets one. You’re the last person I need. Just one code, please?” The colleagues nearby caught wind of this. Their eyes lit up at the mention of the $300 pillows. “Seriously, Jordan? It’s a text message, not a kidney,” one of the senior analysts snapped. “Brandon is paying for everything. Don’t be a buzzkill.” “Yeah, don’t be that guy,” another chimed in. “We’ve all been working overtime. We need those pillows.” I felt a cold smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. It’s easy to be “generous” with someone else’s life. “I’m sorry. I’m not comfortable with it.” Rachel marched over then, her brow furrowed in that specific way that meant she was embarrassed by me. “Jordan, what is wrong with you? Brandon is trying to do something nice for the whole team. Just cooperate. It’s not going to kill you.” Actually, it did, I thought. Brandon sighed, looking down at his expensive loafers. “Jordan, look… if you think the pillows are too cheap, I’ll add in a little something extra for you. How about a solid gold commemorative coin? From Tiffany’s? Just as a thank you for the ‘trouble’ of receiving a text.” Rachel’s eyes softened as she looked at Brandon. “You are way too good to him, Brandon. He’s being difficult, and you’re offering him gold?” She turned to me, her voice sharp with disdain. “Did you hear that? He’s offering you a luxury gift just to be a team player. I wish you had half of Brandon’s class. Give him the code. Now.” I actually laughed. “No thanks. I’m not that desperate for a handout. Give your gold to someone else.” Brandon bit his lip, his voice trembling slightly—a masterclass in manipulation. “Is the gold not enough? How much do you want, Jordan? My allowance for the month is mostly gone after buying these gifts, but I can get you the new Armani watch next month? Just… please don’t let the team down.” Rachel looked at me like I was something she’d stepped in on the sidewalk. “Unbelievable. You’re holding out to extort a kid? A watch and a gold coin… that’s thousands of dollars. More than your phone is even worth. Just give him the damn code and stop being a parasite.” “Exactly,” a coworker hissed. “Brandon is a literal heir, and he’s being so humble. You’re just jealous he’s more popular than you.” “Typical Jordan. Cheap and petty. If he can’t be the big shot, he tries to ruin it for everyone else.” Cheap? For five years, I was the one who brought back luxury hampers from my travels for everyone. I spent thousands every Christmas making sure the support staff felt seen. They’d swallowed my gifts for years and, the second a shiny new intern arrived, they called me a “cheapskate.” They weren’t colleagues. They were a pack of wolves. Brandon stepped closer, his hand reaching for my shoulder. “Jordan, man, stop the act. Give me the code, and I’ll personally bring your gift to your desk tomorrow.” Rachel’s voice was a low warning. “Jordan. My patience is at an end. Do the right thing.” I didn’t feel like arguing with idiots anymore. I stood up to walk away to the breakroom. “Stop right there!” Rachel barked. She lunged, her manicured nails digging into my hand as she tried to snatch my phone off the desk. “You won’t give it? Fine. I’ll get it myself!” I was faster. I lunged for the device, but in the scramble, the phone was swiped off the edge of the desk. It hit the hardwood floor with a sickening crack. The screen shattered into a web of dark glass. The office went silent. Rachel froze. Brandon moved like a lightning bolt, dropping to his knees to “rescue” the phone. “Oh no! Jordan, I am so sorry! This is all my fault,” Brandon cried, his hands fluttering over the broken screen. “I shouldn’t have pressured you. I just wanted everyone to have a nice holiday. If you’re this upset, we’ll just forget it.” The whispers started immediately. “Great. There go the pillows.” “What a psycho. He’d rather break his own phone than let us have a gift.” “I bet he did it on purpose. If he can’t have the spotlight, he breaks the stage.” “I don’t know how Rachel stands him. She deserves so much better.” Rachel’s face was flushed with fury. “You’re insane, Jordan. I didn’t realize you were this malicious. You broke your phone just to spite us?” I didn’t answer her. I was watching Brandon. He was still on the floor, his fingers moving suspiciously fast over the shattered, but still glowing, screen. He wasn’t checking the damage. He was trying to see if he could bypass the lock. I stepped forward and ripped the phone out of his hand. A shard of glass sliced my palm, but I didn’t care. “Stay away from my things.” “Jordan!” Rachel screamed. “He was trying to help! Apologize to him right now!” “Apologize?” I looked at her, truly seeing her for the first time. “You tried to rob me, you broke my property for an intern you barely know, and you want me to apologize? Rachel, get your head checked.” “I am your fiancée! I have every right to see your phone!” “Not anymore,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “We’re done, Rachel. The engagement is off. Consider the ring my ‘parting gift’ to your delusions.” I walked out of the office, ignoring her shriek of, “Jordan! If you walk out that door, don’t you dare come back!” The cold air outside cleared my head. I looked at the broken screen. When Brandon had handed it back, it hadn’t been on the lock screen. He’d managed to trigger a notification that kept the display active. A chill crawled up my spine. He was already trying to get in. I hailed a cab and went straight to the flagship mobile store. “Hi, how can I help you today?” the clerk asked. “I need to deactivate this SIM and cancel the number entirely. Right now.” The clerk checked the records. “Sir, you’ve had this number for ten years. You’re on a legacy premier plan. If you cancel, you lose all those grandfathered benefits.” “I know,” I said, my voice steady. “But this number is a ticking time bomb. Kill it.” I watched him snip the SIM card. I threw the pieces into the trash outside. Three days later, the delivery trucks arrived at the office. Stacks of boxes were wheeled in, clogging the hallways. The atmosphere was electric. “Look at all of this!” “Brandon, you’re a legend!” “See? Brandon keeps his word. Unlike some people who act like a text message is a life-or-death situation.” Brandon was the man of the hour, directing the distribution like a young CEO. He picked up the largest, heaviest box and brought it over to my desk. “Jordan, I got this one specifically for you. No hard feelings about the other day, okay? Happy April Fool’s.” I didn’t touch it. I pushed it back. “No thanks. I don’t want it.” Brandon’s “good guy” mask flickered. “Jordan, come on. Don’t be like that. I really went out of my way for this.” Rachel appeared behind him, looking triumphant. “Take the gift, Jordan. Stop acting like a martyr. Brandon is being the bigger person.” The office watched, waiting for me to cave. I looked at the massage pillows, the “luxury” gadgets, the jewelry boxes. I knew exactly where they came from. “I’m going to give you all one piece of advice,” I said, loud enough for the room to hear. “I wouldn’t keep those if I were you. Those gifts are… tainted. They aren’t as ‘free’ as you think.” The room exploded. “God, you’re bitter! Just because you didn’t get to play the hero!” “He’s actually trying to curse our gifts now? How pathetic can you get?” “He’s just jealous of Brandon’s wealth. It must hurt to be so middle-class and petty.” Rachel looked disgusted. “You have no soul, Jordan. Brandon’s kindness is wasted on you.” I sat back, folded my arms, and waited. I had done my part. I had warned them. Brandon wiped a fake tear from his eye. “Jordan… I bought these with my own money. Why would you say that? Why do you want everyone to hate me?” Rachel grabbed his arm comfortingly. “Ignore him, Brandon. He’s just a dark, lonely person. He can’t stand seeing others happy.” She turned to me, her eyes spitting fire. “Apologize to him. Now.” “For what? For telling the truth?” A guy from sales threw a plastic water bottle at my head. “Shut up, Jordan! Nobody wants to hear your crap!” Others followed suit—pens, crumpled paper, small office supplies began flying toward my desk. I ducked, feeling a bruise forming on my temple. Suddenly, Dave from the tech department let out a sharp, strangled gasp. “Holy shit. Guys… you need to see this.” “What now, Dave?” someone groaned. Dave held up his phone, his face pale. “This thread… it’s the number one trending topic on Twitter and Reddit right now.” The headline, splashed in bold, angry red, read: [EXPOSED: The ‘Friendly Fraud’ Serial Scammer Ripping Off Hundreds of Small Businesses. Personal Info Attached.] Brandon’s face went white as a sheet. He shot a frantic look at me, then back at the screen.

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The penalty for losing the game was supposed to be a simple, if slightly humiliating, dare: post “I’m in love with you. Just you.” to my Instagram Story. But there was a catch. It couldn’t be restricted to my Close Friends list. It had to be public. For all seventy million of my haters to see. And the real kicker? I had to screen-mirror my phone to the live broadcast and instantly open the direct messages of the men who replied. The entire internet was holding its collective breath, waiting to watch Hollywood’s most notorious serial dater—me—crash and burn on live television. They didn’t expect what actually happened. The brooding, Oscar-winning A-lister: [Are you actively trying to destroy our family?] [Delete this right now. I’m going to pretend I never saw it, sis.] [DELETE IT NOW!] The chart-topping pop idol: [Whatever you want, just name it. I’m sending my black card over now.] [Actually, Harps, please delete that post! My brother just saw it and I think my soul just left my body!] The notoriously ruthless billionaire venture capitalist: [No.] [But if you’re absolutely desperate, I suppose I could make an exception.] [Ground rules: if we do this, you cut off every other guy. Clean break.] [Wait? Didn’t I reply in less than a second?] [Why aren’t you answering?] [Fine. You don’t have to cut them off. I’m a traditional man—I just demand to be the primary husband. Make sure your little harem brings me my morning coffee.] 1 My name is Heather. In the eyes of the internet, I am Hollywood’s most manipulative, clout-chasing villain. The moment my name trends, a bloodbath ensues. If you venture into the comment sections of any pop-culture account, you’ll find variations of the same venom: [How desperate is she for relevance?] [Did her sugar daddy cut off her allowance? Why is she preying on my man? He literally has PTSD from trying to avoid her!] [Honestly, seeing her act like this makes me feel better about my own life.] And those are just the ones that don’t get flagged for community guidelines. I don’t have fans. I have a dedicated mob of anti-fans. I mute them all. The origin of this mass hatred? I happen to be a little too close to some of the industry’s most untouchable leading men. What the public doesn’t know is that most of these men are my older brother’s best friends. He’s a fiercely private, method-acting hermit who spends half the year off the grid in a Montana cabin. Before he disappears, he casually asks his high-profile buddies to “keep an eye on the kid.” Naturally, the paparazzi only catch the moments that look incriminating. Add that to the time I was photographed sneaking onto my brother’s closed set. In the eyes of the public, I was defiling their untouchable, fiercely single cinematic king. The tabloids ran with it, and the internet swallowed it whole. Just like that, I became Heather: the calculating, coattail-riding siren. To salvage what was left of my non-existent reputation, my manager, Valerie, threw me into Girls’ Getaway: Unplugged. It was an all-female, slow-paced travel reality show known for its wholesome vibes and positive PR. Please, I prayed to whatever PR gods were listening, let this save my career. 2 The premise was a four-person girls’ trip, live-streamed 24/7. The cast included Bonnie and Kendall, a comedy duo who were actual best friends in real life. Ironically, Bonnie had a very public, unrequited crush on my emotionally unavailable brother, Henry. Kendall, on the other hand, was aggressively pursuing Mason, the pop star who currently acted as my personal lackey. The final cast member was Sophia. Sophia was the golden girl. Effortlessly chic, universally beloved, and possessing a rare superpower: no matter who she was paired with, she had insane, palpable chemistry with them. It was a foolproof setup. Without a doubt, this show was tailor-made to wash my sins away. 3 Brimming with a dangerously high level of optimism, I arrived at the set. The production team had rented a sprawling, Tuscan-style villa in the hills. The interior was draped in warm linens and fresh eucalyptus—exactly the kind of healing, aesthetic sanctuary you’d expect from an all-female retreat. I was still taking in the sweeping vineyard views when I saw them: Bonnie and Kendall, practically sprinting toward me with beaming, enthusiastic smiles. I dropped my posture, throwing my arms open to embrace them. Only, they didn’t stop. They blew right past me, their momentum carrying them toward the driveway behind me. Toward the radiant, glowing Sophia. Sophia was dressed in understated vintage denim and a crisp white button-down, her makeup impossibly fresh. She flashed a smile that could disarm a bomb. Men loved her; women worshipped her. The internet had declared her the ultimate “chemistry queen,” and it was easy to see why. The live chat, projected on a monitor behind the cameras, was already having a field day at my expense: [LMAOOOO look at the clout-chaser! She really thought they were running to hug her!] [I’m screaming. You love to see a pick-me girl get completely ignored by real women.] [Thank god there are no men on this cast, otherwise she’d be playing the victim right now.] [Why did production even cast her? She ruins the whole vibe.] [Okay but honestly… I don’t mind the producers throwing her in if we get to watch her squirm like this all season.] Catching sight of the vicious comments, I immediately stepped up to defend Bonnie and Kendall. “Sophia is literally glowing,” I said to the cameras, forcing a bright, self-deprecating laugh. “I was staring at her myself! I don’t blame them for not noticing me.” Bonnie and Kendall turned around, freezing in their tracks. They stared at me, their expressions twisting into something guarded and strange. I shot them a reassuring look. Don’t worry. I’m cool with it. Sophia’s lips curved upward. It was a knowing, somewhat inscrutable smile. She gave me a polite nod of acknowledgment. I wiped my palms on my jeans and stepped forward, cautiously extending a hand. “Hi, Sophia. I’m Heather. Huge fan.” Sophia chuckled softly, her grip firm and warm. “Hi, Heather.” The chat wasted no time ripping me apart: [Ha! The second she realizes there are no men to manipulate, she starts kissing up to the most popular girl.] [Sophia is a class act. Even knowing this girl is obsessed with her brother, she’s still so polite.] [Classic social climber. Notice how she hasn’t even acknowledged Bonnie and Kendall because they aren’t A-listers?] Wait. Sophia’s brother? Who the hell was that? I racked my brain. I didn’t know any men who shared Sophia’s last name. If I did, there was no way I would only be meeting the goddess herself today. I let out a quiet, internal sigh. A disastrous opening move. Fixing this image was going to be an uphill battle through mud. Keeping my head down, I grabbed the handle of my oversized suitcase and trailed behind the trio, chanting my manager’s golden rules in my head: Speak less. Work more. Stop staring at beautiful people. Watch the live chat. 4 We reached the sweeping stone steps leading up to the villa’s main entrance. As we prepared to haul our luggage, Bonnie paused, turning back to me with an exaggerated look of distress. “Heather, your bag looks so heavy,” she cooed, her tone carrying a brittle, overly-sweet edge. “We really can’t lift it. You don’t mind carrying it up yourself, do you?” As a chronic people-pleaser who melted whenever a pretty girl looked distressed, I shook my head vigorously. “No, of course not! I’ve got it. Don’t worry about me.” Bonnie and Kendall exchanged a sharp, loaded glance. I felt a beat of confusion. The chat, naturally, erupted in glee: [HAHAHA! YES Bonnie! Give it to her! When she was trying to get Henry’s attention last month, she claimed her bag was too heavy to move!] [No men around to do her heavy lifting, so the mask slips. Love to see it.] [This is the exact kind of reality TV justice I signed up for!] I gripped the handle of my suitcase, hesitating on the bottom step. Huh? They seemed like such nice girls. Why did that feel like a targeted hit? Surely the internet was just reading too much into it. The irony was, the last time I visited Henry’s set, my suitcase was impossibly heavy. It was packed full of homemade preserves and heavy winter coats our mother had forced me to mule across the country for him. I had to play the damsel in distress just to guilt Henry into giving me my monthly shopping allowance. Before I could open my mouth to explain, the camera operators and the rest of the cast had already migrated inside the cool, marble foyer. I stood alone in the heat for a second, then let out a breath. Whatever. We had weeks of filming left. There would be time to clear the air. 5 The ice-breaker for the first night was Truth or Dare. Simple, unpretentious, and dangerously effective for reality television. A steaming hot pot bubbled in the center of the dining table. The cameras were rolling. The empty wine bottle spun, slowing down until the neck pointed directly at my chest. “Truth or Dare?” Bonnie asked, a spark of anticipation in her eyes. I rolled up my silk sleeves. “A real woman never chooses truth.” Bonnie and Kendall shared another one of those loaded looks. A tiny knot of panic tightened in my stomach. I maintained a facade of absolute calm. What was the worst that could happen? They were gorgeous, sweet women. It wasn’t like they were going to feed me to the wolves. I leaned forward, trying to look eager. Kendall’s face grew deadpan. “Do you have a boyfriend? Or anyone you’re… casually seeing?” I blinked, thrown off. “Wait, is this a Truth? I thought I picked Dare.” “We’re just asking because we don’t want your boyfriend to break up with you after you do this dare,” Bonnie explained smoothly. I let out a dry, theatrical scoff. “Please. Men are merely stepping stones on my path to greatness.” A flicker of genuine amusement flashed in Sophia’s eyes, though it was quickly masked by something more complicated. Bonnie offered a tight smile. “So, that’s a no?” I nodded with total conviction. Bonnie’s smile widened as she read the dare from a card. “Post the following to your main Instagram feed, no filters, no privacy settings: ‘I’m in love with you. Just you.’ Then, you have to screen-mirror your phone and open the DMs of the men who reply instantly.” A heavy silence fell over my end of the table. I raised a hand, feeling very much like a reprimanded schoolgirl. “What if… no one replies instantly?” “Then you just open the chat of whoever replies first,” Kendall said, entirely unsympathetic. I nodded slowly, the gears turning in my head. I pulled out my phone, typed the caption over a black background, and hovered my thumb over the ‘Share’ button. Kendall raised an eyebrow. “You’re not restricting certain people from seeing it, are you?” I hesitated, then slid my phone across the table toward them. “Do you want to press post?” I closed my eyes tightly as I heard the soft tap of the screen. Dread washed over me. What if no one texted? My reputation was already in the gutter. If I went viral as the girl who couldn’t even get a pity text from a fake love confession, the humiliation would be permanent. It’s fine, I reasoned with myself. Valerie is watching the live stream. She’ll text me to save face. The live chat was moving so fast it was a blur: [Oh my god, Bonnie is a reality TV genius! Right for the jugular!] [Look at how terrified she is! I’m living for this!] [This post is about to expose her entire roster. I cannot WAIT.] [They really put the clown makeup right on her face. I get why she’s on this show now—she’s the sacrificial lamb.] The comments were brutal, some crossing into territory too vile to read. My heart hammered against my ribs. Please. Someone. Anyone. Just text me. Perhaps the universe took pity on my pathetic internal pleading. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. A rapid-fire barrage of notification chimes echoed through the silent dining room. I let out a long, shaky exhale. Thank God. Across the table, Kendall and Bonnie’s eyes lit up the moment they heard the chimes. Within seconds, a producer had mirrored my phone screen onto the large monitor mounted on the dining room wall. I looked up at the fresh stack of direct messages. There were… a lot of them. As Kendall and Bonnie read the names on the lock screen, the smug anticipation completely drained from their faces. They went rigid. Forcing a stiff smile, Bonnie swallowed hard. “So, Heather… whose message do you want to open first?” I stared at the list of chaotic notifications, a unique brand of despair settling over me. I decided to go with the safest bet. The softest target. My brother—Henry. His contact name was saved simply as “The Spark.” I used to have him saved as “Pretentious Drama Queen” because I blocked him so often, but eventually, I got too lazy to type it out. Bonnie stared at the avatar next to the name, her voice trembling slightly. “Is… is that Henry’s private account?” I nodded, utterly relaxed. “Yeah.” The phone in Bonnie’s hand visibly shook. “Aren’t you terrified he’s going to rip you apart?” I lunged forward, snatching my phone before she could drop it into the boiling hot pot broth. “Why would he yell at me?” I asked, genuinely baffled. Bonnie’s eyes practically bugged out of her head. “Because you’re… you’re using him for clout?” I had no idea if Henry was currently yelling at me in those messages, but the internet certainly was. [Are you kidding me? Is she seriously doing this?] [She is shameless. Absolutely shameless. Hooking her claws into him on live TV?] [I mean, bad press is still press. She knows exactly what she’s doing.] [Does Heather have zero shame? What is wrong with her?] [Henry HATES people who use him for PR. Watch him absolutely end her career right now.] I turned my back to the monitor. Out of sight, out of mind. I tapped Henry’s message thread. The chat expanded on the massive screen behind me, the camera zooming in perfectly. The Spark: [Are you actively trying to destroy our family?!] [Delete this right now. I’m going to pretend I never saw it, sis.] [DELETE IT NOW!] A deafening silence dropped over the room. The only sound was a soft plop as Sophia dropped her sushi roll into her soy sauce dish, staring blankly at the screen. Everyone was paralyzed. Bonnie looked physically ill, completely forgetting she was on camera. The producers behind the lenses looked like they needed medical attention. I was the only one moving, calmly typing my reply. [Relax, Drama Queen. If I ever fall in love, it definitely wouldn’t be with you.] [It’s a Truth or Dare penalty.] The response was instantaneous. [Oh thank god. My life is spared.] The chat box on the live stream broke. It was moving so fast the text blurred into a solid white block. [AHHHHHHHHH! IS THAT ACTUALLY HENRY?!] [Wait. Holy shit. Is she faking this? Did she hire an actor to run a fake account?] [Why would she fake something that could be disproven by his PR team in three seconds?]

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During our emergency layover in the Infestation Hotspot, my five-year-old daughter was left behind. I remember kneeling on the floor of the private jet, sobbing, clawing at my billionaire husband’s tailored suit, begging him to save her. He looked down at me with eyes as cold as a morgue slab. “The plane is already on the taxiway, Natalie,” he said, his voice devoid of a single tremor. “I can’t turn back for one person. Not even her.” “It’s just her luck. It’s her fate.” Desperate and broken, I managed to sneak back into the terminal alone to find her. I didn’t find my daughter. I found a horde of the Undead. As they tore into me, a strange, flickering translucent screen appeared before my failing eyes—a stream of digital comments, like a twisted live-chat from another dimension: [Does the wife even know? Her daughter was left behind on purpose. The kid was killed by the Infested within the hour!] [Finally! Now that the brat and the wife are out of the picture, Derek can finally merge the two branches of the family and be with his precious widowed sister-in-law!] [They’ve suffered so much to be together. True love is invincible!] The world went black. When I opened my eyes again, the air was thick with the smell of jet fuel and ozone. I was back at the layover. Without a word to anyone, I moved like a woman possessed. I booked my daughter on a separate, earlier private charter and watched with my own eyes as she boarded and the wheels left the tarmac. But then, the overhead speakers crackled to life. The gate agent’s voice was frantic, echoing through our cabin: “Attention, crew. We have a report of a child left behind in the terminal…” 1 I froze. I had personally seen Maddie off. I had the confirmation code burned into my brain. She was safe. She was in the air. How could there be another child? My sister-in-law, Diane, pressed a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide with a performative horror that didn’t quite reach her pupils. “Oh my god! Someone left their baby in the airport!” “I heard they’re locking down the perimeter,” she whispered, her voice trembling just enough to sound sweet. “This is the last flight out. The very last one.” My husband’s sister, Becca, let out a sharp, annoyed huff. “Well, it’s obviously not one of ours. Probably some poor kid from another flight. What does it have to do with us?” She glanced out the window toward the flickering lights of the terminal. In the distance, a low, guttural rhythmic sound—the collective moan of a thousand hungry throats—wavered in the wind. The intercom crackled again. This time, it was the pilot. “Ladies and gentlemen, please perform a final head-count of your parties. Airport security reports a minor is still grounded. We are under strict orders to depart immediately.” The cabin erupted. “Who loses a child in a Collapse Zone?” “Every second we sit here is a death sentence! Why aren’t we moving?” “I’m terrified… please, just fly!” My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I knew Maddie was safe. I knew it. But a cold, oily dread began to seep into my gut. If it wasn’t her… then who? I turned to the man sitting next to me. My husband. The man who, in another life, watched me die with a shrug. “Derek, we should check,” I said, my voice forcedly calm. Derek didn’t even look up from his tablet. “Check what?” “The broadcast. They said a child was left behind. What if—” “There is no ‘what if,’” he interrupted, his tone dismissive. “Maddie is asleep in the first-class sleeper pod. I saw the attendant carry her in myself. Don’t be hysterical, Natalie.” Becca rolled her eyes, crossing her legs. “Honestly, Natalie, get a grip. We’re sitting here in business class to save weight, and the kid is up there living the dream in a lie-flat bed. What are you worried about?” Another roar echoed from outside, closer this time. The plane shuddered. I couldn’t sit still. I unbuckled my belt, intent on speaking to the lead flight attendant to confirm the identity of the missing child. Becca’s hand shot out, gripping my wrist like a vice. “Where do you think you’re going?” “Let go, Becca.” “Who cares whose kid it is?” she snapped. “It’s not ours. That’s all that matters.” I stared her down, my gaze like ice. “Is that right? If it were your child down there, would you be saying the same thing?” Becca flinched, her face flushing a deep, ugly crimson. Derek’s brow furrowed. “Natalie! Stop making a scene!” “I told you, I saw her go into the pod. Are you calling me a liar?” Diane reached over, patting my shoulder with a gentle, condescending touch. “Natalie, honey, I saw her too. She was so sleepy, poor thing. Derek is her father—do you really think he’d let anything happen to his own daughter?” I looked at her, and for a second, I almost laughed. In my last life, they said the exact same thing. How could a father hurt his own flesh and blood? Even a tiger doesn’t eat its cubs. And I, the fool, had believed them. I had believed him right up until the moment the plane was halfway across the Atlantic and I realized my daughter wasn’t on board. I had knelt at his feet, begging him to turn back. And he had told me it was for “the greater good.” That the lives of the many outweighed the life of one child. I died believing he was a man of cold logic and heavy burdens. I didn’t know his logic was rooted in a blood-soaked conspiracy. He didn’t just leave her; he discarded her. He needed her gone so he could legally “adopt” Diane’s son and marry her, merging their inheritances without the “complication” of a previous heir. As I sat there, my vision blurred again. The flickering text returned: [Wait, what?? Why is the wife’s daughter on a different flight?] [Then who the hell is grounded at the airport?] [If the kid doesn’t die, how are the ‘Lead Couple’ supposed to get their tragic-sweet ending?] I looked into Diane’s watery, deceptive eyes and nodded. “You’re right, Diane. I’m just… it’s the stress. I’m overreacting.” She blinked, surprised by how quickly I’d folded. Becca let out a triumphant snort. “Finally. She grew a brain.” I leaned back and buckled my seatbelt, my hands shaking. The plane hadn’t pushed back yet; the cellular roaming was still active. I pulled out my phone and sent a silent, frantic text to the private charter’s concierge line. Query: Flight NV882. Passenger: Maddie Valentine. Confirm boarding and takeoff status. My heart was a drum in my ears. The flight attendants were already demonstrating the oxygen masks. My phone buzzed. Dear Mrs. Valentine, Flight NV882 departed ten minutes ago. Passenger Maddie Valentine is confirmed on board and currently in transit. Have a safe journey. She was safe. My baby was in the air, far away from this nightmare. I let out a breath that felt like it had been held for a lifetime. Just then, the lead attendant’s voice came over the system, her tone sharp with panic. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have an emergency update. Ground control has confirmed the child left in the terminal… is a passenger from this manifest.” “Parents, please! Check your children now!” The cabin turned into a riot. “What do you mean, from this flight?” “Who is missing a kid? Count your kids!” “Move this plane! If we wait, we’re all dead!” Becca rolled her eyes. “This is ridiculous. Can people not count to one?” Derek stood up, his presence commanding and regal. He waved down the attendant. “I am Derek Valentine, CEO of the Valentine Group and a majority shareholder in this airline,” he said, his voice a calm, authoritative anchor in the storm. “We have broadcasted three times. No parent has come forward.” He paused, looking around the cabin with the air of a martyr. “We cannot jeopardize the lives of two hundred passengers for one child whose parents were too negligent to watch them. Pilot, take off immediately. I will assume all liability.” The cabin fell silent for a heartbeat. Then, a cheer erupted. “Thank God for a man with a spine!” “He’s right! We have families waiting for us!” “Get us out of here!” Becca clapped her hands, her face glowing with pride. “See that? That’s my brother. A real leader.” I watched them, a sickeningly sweet irony coating my tongue. Derek thought the child down there was Maddie. He was so certain he’d successfully staged the “accident” that he was now playing the role of the tragic, decisive leader, sacrificing his own child for the “greater good.” But I couldn’t do it. Even knowing what they intended for my daughter, I couldn’t watch a child die. “Derek,” I said, my voice cutting through the noise. He looked down at me, his eyes full of practiced annoyance. “What now, Natalie?” “The attendant said the child is from this flight,” I said softly. “We should wait. It’s a life. We have the time.” He stiffened. The passengers around us went quiet. The people who had been cheering seconds ago now glared at me like I was a lunatic. Becca let out a jagged laugh. “Are you insane? You want to risk a thousand Infested breaching the gates for some random kid?” A man in the row behind us chimed in. “Lady, look after your own and shut up! Why do you care about someone else’s mistake?” “Exactly,” Diane added, her voice a silky thread of poison. “Natalie, I know you have a big heart, but you can’t be a saint at the expense of everyone else’s lives. We all have people waiting for us at home.” She was so good at it. Standing on the moral high ground while her hands were buried in the mud. I looked at her beautiful, “grieving” face and smiled. “You’re right, Diane.” She blinked, confused by the shift. “Since you’re so concerned about safety,” I continued, my voice gaining strength, “why did you insist on booking a flight with a layover in a Collapse Zone? There were direct flights available out of London. Why put us all in this danger to begin with?” Her face went pale. She lowered her head, her voice a mere whisper. “I… it was a mistake. I must have clicked the wrong booking link.” “Oh? A mistake?” I dragged out the words. “A mistake that brought us to a zombie-infested airport.” Becca jumped to her feet. “What is your problem? Stop attacking her!” The flickering text scrolled by: [The ‘Lead Couple’ are actually kinda monstrous…] [Yeah, they’re just leaving a kid to die? Cold.] [This is a ‘No Morals’ novel, guys. If you want a hero, go read something else!] [Natalie is such a ‘Mary Sue.’ In an apocalypse, you kill the saints first!] [The ‘Heroine’ Diane is so pitiful, being bullied by the wife even after losing her husband…] I closed my eyes, watching the comments fade. A “No Morals” novel. That explained it. It explained why Derek could murder his own daughter without a flinch. In this world, the “Lead Couple” were allowed to be monsters as long as they were “in love.” “Enough!” Derek hissed, his face tight with rage. “She made a clerical error. There’s no need to be cruel, Natalie!” Diane sniffled, a single, perfect tear rolling down her cheek. “I’m so sorry… it’s all my fault. Derek, don’t blame Natalie. She’s just stressed about the kids…” “We’re done waiting.” Derek turned back to the attendant and gave a sharp nod. “Take off. Now.” The attendant hesitated, then nodded. The engines roared to a scream. The ground crew outside became tiny specks, then vanished into the darkness of the night. A wave of relief washed through the cabin. People were hugging, weeping, praising Derek’s name. The child—whoever they were—was gone. The flight was halfway to its destination when the lead attendant came running from the cockpit. Her face was white as a sheet. Her hands were visibly shaking as she approached Derek. “Mr. Valentine,” she stammered. “Something has happened.” Derek didn’t even look up from his scotch. “What is it?” The attendant swallowed hard. “We’ve just completed the final manifest reconciliation with ground ops.” “The child who was left behind… the child in the terminal… he’s been identified.” “It was your son, Benny.” The world seemed to stop spinning. Becca let out a strangled shriek. “What?!” Diane’s glass of wine slipped from her fingers, shattering on the floor. Her face went from pale to ghostly. “No… that’s impossible. Benny was in the sleeper pod! He was with Maddie!” Derek’s face transformed. The mask of the stoic leader shattered, revealing a raw, jagged panic underneath. The cabin erupted in whispers. “Oh my god, it was his own kid?” “That’s horrific…” “Is he going to turn the plane around?” “How? We’re over the ocean now…” Derek sat in a stunned, suffocating silence. He stared at nothing for a long time. Finally, he looked up, his face settling into a grim, hollow mask. “I am Benny’s father,” he said, his voice raspy and thin. “But I am also the head of this company. I cannot turn back and risk two hundred lives for one. Benny… Benny would understand.” The silence in the cabin was heavy. Then, someone—probably a corporate sycophant—started to clap. “So brave!” “What a sacrifice!” “He’s a hero… I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr. Valentine!” I listened to them, and a hysterical laughter bubbled up in my chest. What a performance. I looked at the attendant. “Are you absolutely certain the child in the terminal was Benny?” She looked uneasy. “Yes. We verified the ID tag on the jacket left at the gate.” Derek turned on me, his eyes bloodshot. “Is this a joke to you? The boy is gone! My son!” I leaned back, a cold smile playing on my lips. “Benny isn’t in that terminal, Derek.” Diane looked at me, her eyes darting frantically. “Natalie, have you lost your mind? I know you’re in shock, but don’t make this harder for Derek…” She started to sob again. “Are you deaf?” I snapped. “I said the child isn’t Benny.” Someone whispered nearby, “She’s lost it. Poor woman, the trauma broke her.” Derek surged to his feet, his shadow looming over me. “Natalie! Stop taking your frustrations out on Diane!” His voice was a low, dangerous growl. “You were the one supposed to be watching the kids! This is your failure, and now you’re lashing out at her?” Becca joined in, her voice shrill. “Exactly! Diane is trying to comfort you, and you’re acting like a rabid dog!” Derek saw me fall silent and softened his tone, though it was still laced with ice. “We don’t blame you for losing track of him in the chaos. It was a war zone. No one expects you to be perfect.” He paused, as if rehearsing his next move. “The flights to the Hotspot are grounded, but I will find a way. I’ll send a private security team back to recover him…” He trailed off, waiting. He was waiting for me to say, “I’ll go with them.” He wanted me to volunteer to go back into the Infestation. To die there. That was the plan all along—to get me back into the terminal so I could be “lost” alongside the children. Then he could be the grieving widower who finds solace in his brother’s widow. I looked at him and smiled slowly. “Derek, don’t you want to know why I’m so sure it’s not Benny?” His expression faltered. Diane jumped in, her voice sweet and trembling. “Natalie, please… we know you’re hurting, but Benny is…” “Is what? Dead?” I looked her in the eye. “Or is that what you were hoping for?” Derek’s jaw tightened. “You’re going too far, Natalie!” Diane grabbed Derek’s sleeve. “It’s okay, Derek… she’s just grieving. She doesn’t mean it.” Derek glared at me, his eyes cold and final. “Listen to me, Natalie. Since you were the one who lost him, you’re going back. As soon as we land, you’ll join the recovery team. Don’t bother coming back until you find him.” The passengers watched me with a mix of pity and judgment. Just then, the “Fasten Seatbelt” sign chimed. We were beginning our descent. People began to turn on their phones. A scream pierced the cabin from the front row. “Oh my god! Look at the news! The airport was overrun! A massive horde breached the terminal five minutes after we took off. Zero survivors!” The cabin descended into chaos. Everyone was frantically scrolling through their feeds, faces turning from shock to a sickening sense of relief. “We made it… we actually made it.” “If we had waited five more minutes, we’d all be dead.” It was the ultimate ‘I got mine’ moment. Then, a quiet voice muttered, “But the CEO’s son… he was still down there.” The cheering stopped abruptly. Diane threw herself into Derek’s arms, wailing. “Derek! You have to be strong! You still have the company… you have us… you can’t fall apart now!” Becca stood up, pointing a finger at me. “It’s her fault! Natalie let him slip away! Don’t you dare blame yourself, Derek! This is all on her!” The chorus began again. “Yeah, what kind of mother doesn’t hold her kid’s hand?” “He’s the victim here. He had to choose between his son and all of us.” “She should have stayed behind if she cared so much.” Diane wiped her eyes and looked at me. “Natalie, we know you’re in denial, but Benny is—” “Who said my son is dead?” The air in the cabin went still. “She’s gone full psychotic,” someone whispered. Derek’s face was a mask of fury. “Accept reality, Natalie! Stop this—” My phone rang. The screen lit up with a FaceTime request. It was my mother. I hit ‘Accept.’ “Natalie!” my mother’s voice boomed through the speakers. “Where are you guys? Maddie’s been here for ages!” Derek froze. A small, familiar face pushed into the frame. Maddie. She waved at the camera, her eyes crinkling into half-moons. “Daddy! Mommy! When are you getting here? Grandma made cookies!” Derek stared at the screen as if he were seeing a ghost. “Maddie… how… how are you there?”

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