Category: English

To help my boyfriend pay off his loans, I spent two years shampooing hair at a salon. Christine, who requested me every single day, couldn’t understand it: “Lora, why don’t you find someone like my boyfriend? He’s incredibly generous with money — gives me at least five million a month as pocket change. “Though he has a bit of a twisted streak. He likes to play poor outside and mess around with naive girls. I heard some idiot was working herself to death supporting him, ended up in the hospital multiple times.” I turned to reach for the shampoo. “My boyfriend may not be rich, but he’s loyal. He really loves me.” Just then, a luxury car pulled up outside the salon. A man dressed head to toe in designer brands pushed the door open with a frown. “Christine, why are you getting your hair done at a dump like this again? The people here are unsanitary — don’t let them give you some kind of disease.” “Did you get the two million I transferred to your card?” My body went rigid. I didn’t dare turn around. The man’s voice was identical to my boyfriend’s — the one with two hundred thousand dollars in loans hanging over his head.

The cheerful click of heels sounded behind me. Christine fluttered over like a butterfly. “Got it! Why so much today? You just bought me a necklace yesterday.” Carter’s voice was warm. “I couldn’t be with you last night. Consider it an apology — one necklace isn’t nearly enough.” I stood frozen, my back to both of them. Last night, my arm had been in searing pain. I’d begged Carter for a long time before he finally agreed to take me to the hospital. Christine noticed I hadn’t moved and tilted her head. “Lora? Why aren’t you doing anything? My hair isn’t finished yet.” I took a deep breath. My voice came out a little unsteady. “Sorry… just a little dizzy. Low blood sugar. I’ll be fine in a second.” Carter’s tone turned cold. “What’s the point of an employee like this?” “I’ll tell the manager to fire her.” Christine laughed it off. “Oh, babe, don’t be so hard on her. She’s got a leech of a boyfriend draining her dry. She’s pathetic enough as it is.” The shampoo bottle slipped from my hands and hit the floor. Foam splattered everywhere. The man behind me went suddenly quiet. A pair of expensive leather shoes appeared at the edge of my vision. They stopped for two seconds. Carter said, “Go wait in the car. I need to talk to the owner.” Christine pouted. “Why? I haven’t finished my hair yet.” “Be good. I’ll have the driver pick up those pastries you love.” That was enough to get her moving. “Fine, but be quick,” she said, and walked out. The sound of her heels faded. The shop door closed. Carter stood behind me, his voice low. “Lora.” I crouched on the floor and didn’t move. “Why are you here?” I slowly stood up and turned around. Carter was wearing a perfectly tailored black suit. On his wrist was that limited-edition watch I’d only ever seen in magazines. He looked completely out of place in this run-down little salon. His eyes were cold. “Didn’t you tell me you worked in an office building?” “So every day when you came home from work, you were coming back from a place like this?” He stepped back, as if I actually had some kind of contagious disease. I opened my mouth. The explanation I wanted to give lodged in my throat. Right. I had lied to him. But why? Because of his two hundred thousand in loans — the monthly payment hanging over our heads like a blade. Because every time he noticed the calluses on my hands, he’d say with such tenderness, “Lora, once I make it, you won’t have to work this hard.” I didn’t want him to know I was washing people’s hair. I didn’t want him to feel like he was dragging me down. Suddenly I found it all very funny. For two years, I’d spent over twelve hours a day on my feet. My fingers were waterlogged and peeling. I’d developed cervical problems, tendinitis, low blood sugar — I’d been hospitalized more times than I could count. And he could casually wire two million dollars to another woman without a second thought. The shop door cracked open. Christine stuck her head in. “Honey, are you done? The pastries are here — they’re going to melt if you don’t hurry.” Carter glanced at me and lowered his voice. “Don’t say a word about today.” The door closed. I stood alone in the empty salon, staring at the puddle of shampoo foam on the floor. For a long time. My phone buzzed. A message from my manager: “Lora, you’re fired. A customer just complained about your service. Your entire paycheck will be withheld to cover the damages.” “Don’t blame me. These people have money and connections. Pack up your things and go now.” I stared at the screen. I couldn’t find a single word to say. Outside the window, the black luxury car slowly pulled away. The window was half down. I could see Christine leaning on his shoulder, and him bending down to press a kiss to her forehead. That kiss looked exactly like the ones he used to give me.

By the time I walked out of the salon, it was dark. The bank sent a payment reminder. Next week: two thousand dollars. My paycheck would have barely covered it. But now, I had less than five hundred in my account. I went home. Carter was standing at my door, holding a bag of fresh mangosteen — the kind I’d never let myself buy. “Lora, you shouldn’t be angry with me. I did it for your own good.” I stepped around him and kept my head down. He sighed. “I know I’ve let you down. These two years have been hard on you. But if you just trust me, I’ll find you a decent job. Somewhere clean and respectable. You won’t have to wash anyone’s hair ever again.” Memories flickered past like a slideshow. My back aching after twelve hours on my feet every day. A strain that never healed. The day I collapsed and couldn’t get up off the floor, the only thing running through my mind was: I can’t afford to be hurt. If something happens to me, Carter is finished. “Lora, I love you. Why else would I leave Christine to come find you? Isn’t that enough?” “You need to understand my situation. I wasn’t trying to deceive you. If you had my status and my position in this world, you would’ve kept it hidden too. Think about it — if I’d told you from the start that I was the CEO of the Carter Group, would you have treated me the same way? You would’ve been after my money and my name.” He said all of this with complete sincerity. As if he had spent two years lying to me, and somehow that was my fault. He held out a business card. A company address. “Come find me here tomorrow.” My tears were pooling at the edges of my eyes. I bit down hard on my lip and held them in. The next day, I went anyway. I knew how wrong it was. I knew what kind of person he was. But I’d borrowed two hundred thousand dollars to pay off his debts. If he walked away, I had no way to repay it. The loan sharks had made it clear: if I couldn’t pay, they’d take something else instead. I didn’t let myself think about what that meant. The Carter Group. The most impressive office tower in the city center. Twelfth floor. Human Resources. A middle-aged woman in glasses looked me up and down. “Lora?” She pushed her frames up and her voice came out with an unmistakable edge of contempt. “Mr. Carter already briefed us. We’re placing you in a janitorial position. Here’s your badge. Report at seven tomorrow morning. You’ll be responsible for floors eighteen through twenty.” Janitorial. I thought I’d heard her wrong. “He said… janitorial?” “What, too good for it?” The woman gave a short, cold laugh. “No degree, no skills. You should be grateful we’re giving you anything at all. Mr. Carter specifically requested this for you. Otherwise, do you think we’d just take anyone off the street?” I gripped the badge so hard my nails pressed into the plastic. First day on the job. I showed up in a cleaning uniform, pushing a supply cart down the hallway, mopping the floor. When I passed the elevators, the doors opened. Christine stepped out on Carter’s arm — designer everything, ten-centimeter heels. She spotted me and blinked. “Lora? What are you doing here?” She turned to Carter. “You got her a job?” Carter’s face was unreadable. “You kept saying you felt bad for her. Janitorial is all she qualifies for.” That afternoon, I was assigned to clean Carter’s office. I followed behind with my cart. His office was on the top floor — floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the entire city. When I pushed the door open, what I saw nearly made me sick. Christine was lounging on the couch with her legs crossed. “Sorry to bother you, Lora. Be a dear and clean up for us.” Carter sat behind his desk and didn’t even look up. I got down on my knees and started wiping the floor with a cloth. The things I was wiping up clung to the rag. My eyes burned. I was his girlfriend. How could he make me clean up after him and another woman? Christine suddenly spoke. “Carter, maybe give her a better position? Janitorial feels a little…” “She can’t do anything.” Carter’s voice was flat. “She’s barely fit to sweep floors. Giving her this job was already more than enough.” His words hit like something sharp driven straight into my chest. I kept my head down, finished the last section of floor, and walked out with my cart. The moment the door closed behind me, my tears finally broke loose.

It was almost the end of my shift. I was still cleaning the hallway windows. Christine appeared behind me. “Lora, did you see my gold bracelet anywhere?” I turned around. Her wrist was bare. “No. I haven’t seen it.” “That’s strange, it was just here.” She frowned. “Carter gave me that bracelet. It’s really important to me.” She started searching the hallway — checked the trash bin, looked through the break room. Nothing. Then she looked at me. “Lora, let me see your bag.” I stiffened. “What?” “I think you stole my bracelet.” “I didn’t!” I felt a rush of panic. “I’ve been washing windows the whole time. I never went anywhere near you.” “Then show me your bag. If you didn’t take it, I’ll apologize.” I had nothing to hide. I opened my bag and held it out. She rummaged through it. From the innermost pocket, she pulled out a gold bracelet. “That’s—” My eyes went wide. “That’s impossible. I never touched that.” Christine held the bracelet and her eyes went red. “Lora, how could you steal from me? Carter gave me this. It means everything to me.” “I didn’t! I really didn’t!” My mind was racing, and then a detail came back to me. “You picked up my bag earlier — at the elevator. You said my hands were full with the cart and you’d carry it for me. You must have put it in there then and forgotten.” Christine tilted her head with wide, innocent eyes. “When did I ever carry your bag?” “At lunch—” “Lora.” She cut me off. Her tone changed. It went cold. “I never touched your bag. Are you sure you’re not confused?” A chill moved through my whole body. Carter walked out of his office and saw Christine’s red-rimmed eyes. His expression darkened. “What happened?” “My bracelet…” Christine held it up. “Found in Lora’s bag.” Carter looked at me. His eyes were like ice. “It wasn’t me. I didn’t steal anything. She—” I pointed at Christine. My voice was shaking. “That’s enough.” Carter took out his phone. “I’m calling the police.” Christine grabbed his arm. “Don’t call the police, Carter. She’s so young. A record would ruin her.” He frowned. Christine thought it over and said: “Then… make her kneel outside the building. It’s busy out there. Until the end of the workday should be enough.” The blood rushed straight to my head. “What did you just say?” Christine blinked at me with that same guileless look. “I just want you to learn your lesson. So you don’t steal again.” “I didn’t steal anything!” I was almost shouting now. The tears finally came. “Carter, I’m your girlfriend. How can you do this to me?” The entire hallway went still. Christine’s eyes went wide. She looked at me, then at Carter. “Girlfriend?” Her voice jumped up an octave. “Carter, she’s saying she’s your girlfriend?” The expression on Carter’s face shifted several times. “She’s lying.” “Lora, there is nothing between us. You stole. You’re fired.” He took out his phone and dialed. “It’s me. I need you to put the word out across the industry. Lora — nobody hires her. Nobody.” Then he looked at me. “Go kneel outside until nine tonight. Otherwise, the consequences will be a lot worse than this.” Christine put on a heartbroken expression. “Lora, I thought of you as a friend. How could you do this to me? You’ve really, truly let me down.”

It was raining when I knelt outside the building. People walked past. Some looked with pity. Some with amusement. Some stopped to take pictures for their Instagram. My knees pressed against the cold marble. My wet pants clung to my skin, cold enough to sting. But the pain in my knees was nothing compared to what was happening inside my chest. Carter came through the glass doors with a black umbrella. Christine walked beside him. He saw me kneeling there. One look — and then he turned away fast, like holding his gaze on me even a second longer would somehow dirty his eyes. The rain got heavier. Nine o’clock finally came. I pushed myself up against the wall. My knees had gone numb. My calves were swollen and bruised. I made my way home one step at a time. Three kilometers. It took me an hour and a half. I collapsed onto the floor, soaked through. Carter’s calls came one after another. I never picked up. He kept calling. Third call. Fourth. Fifth. What could he possibly have to say to me? I didn’t want to hear it. I was afraid to hear it. I switched my phone to silent and tossed it aside. About fifteen minutes later, it buzzed. A text. From Carter: Two hundred thousand. I’ll have someone deliver it tomorrow. We’re done. We’re done. I stared at those two words on the screen. I wanted to cry but couldn’t. What gave him the right to call us done? But I had no energy left to fight it. I really had nothing left. The next morning, someone knocked on my door. I thought it was the money Carter had promised. I opened it. It was Christine. She was wearing a cream-colored trench coat, a sleek leather case in her hand, smiling at me brightly. “Morning, Lora.” I watched her carefully. “What do you want?” She let herself in without being asked, looked around my small, worn-out apartment, and made a little sound of disdain. “A place like this. How sad.” “What do you want?” She turned around, set the case on the table, and opened it. Inside were stacks of cash. “Two hundred thousand, from Carter. He asked me to bring it.” She smiled. “Except I told him you already received it.” I froze. “And then I told him you took the money straight to a casino and lost every cent.” Her smile widened. “Carter absolutely despises gamblers. Right now, he thinks you’re disgusting. Isn’t that hilarious?” Everything fell into place. “You—” “I’ve known about you for a long time,” she said, cutting me off, casually examining her freshly done nails. “I knew from the beginning that Carter was playing broke and dating you. Did you think you were keeping a secret? I knew everything.” “I just didn’t want him staying connected to you. So I took care of it. Pretty clever plan, right?” My whole body was trembling. I grabbed my phone and called Carter. He answered. “Lora.” His voice was as cold and hard as stone in a freezer. “I never thought you were a gambler. Gamblers are the one thing I can’t stand. Good thing I hid who I was — otherwise a woman like you would’ve drained everything I had.” “Carter, I never gambled!” “Don’t bother explaining.” He cut me off. “You took the money. You lost it yourself. There’s nothing left between us.” “Don’t call me again.” Click. I called back. It didn’t go through. He’d blocked me. Christine clapped her hands together lightly and called toward the door. “Come in.” Several men filed into the room. My stomach dropped. The loan sharks. The one in front looked me over with a slow, ugly smile. “Since you can’t pay the money, you’ll just have to pay another way. Don’t worry. We’ll be gentle.” I backed into the corner. I was shaking. They moved toward me. I fought. I screamed. Then my phone rang. Christine bent down and picked it up off the floor. “Oh, it’s Carter calling. But you’re a little busy right now. What a shame.” She hit accept and set the phone on the table. Speakerphone. One of the men grabbed me deliberately hard. I couldn’t stop the cry that tore out of me. The man in front laughed. “Don’t be scared, sweetheart. We’ll take good care of you.” On the other end of the line, Carter’s breath caught. “Lora, you really are something. I actually feel sorry I ever knew you. Any man will do, huh?” The call ended. He would never speak to me again. I knew it. “See? Now he really is disgusted by you.” My tears had run dry. The men in the floral shirts and their friends went about their business. I don’t know how long it lasted. An hour. Two hours. Maybe an entire day. All I know is that eventually they were gone. The room was destroyed. My body was covered in wounds. Blood everywhere. I lay on the cold floor and stared at the crack in the ceiling. It ran from the corner of the wall all the way to the light fixture, like a dried-up riverbed. I thought about two years ago, the day I first moved into this apartment. Carter had come to help me move in. He looked at that crack in the ceiling and said, “What a dump. Once I start making real money, I’ll buy you a proper place.” I slowly got up and walked to the window. It was open. The wind came in cool and easy. I looked down. Eighteenth floor. That would be enough. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. The wind roared past my ears. And then there was nothing. “Carter. Now we really are done.”

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I spent seven years with Ethan Cole. He was firm about it — no marriage, no kids. That was just who he was. I believed him. Three months ago, I got pregnant. Then I lost the baby. Alone in a hospital room, after what they called an “accident.” Until today. I went with my best friend Lily to a high-end immersive parenting experience — one of those events for expectant couples. She was the pregnant one, not me. On the stage, the host smiled and announced: “Please welcome the husband of Ms. Joanna Quinn to come up and experience labor contractions!” The next second. A man stood up, smiling, and walked onto the stage. It was my boyfriend. Ethan Cole. The electrode pads had him sweating through his shirt, but he held another woman’s hand tight the whole time. His voice was so tender it could melt: “Don’t be scared. I’ll go through the pain first so I’ll know how to take care of you.” That was the moment I understood. It wasn’t that he didn’t want children. He just didn’t want mine.

“Well, isn’t this a surprise, Ms. Smith.” Joanna Quinn spotted me before Ethan did. She was wearing a loose maternity dress, holding a warm cup of milk, her face soft with the kind of glow that only comes from being truly loved. My best friend Lily followed her gaze and her expression darkened instantly. “Ethan, when exactly did you sneak off and become someone else’s personal support system behind our girl Mia’s back?” Ethan had been crouched down, gently dabbing the cold sweat from Joanna’s forehead. He paused at the sound of Lily’s voice and looked up. The moment he saw me, a flash of shock crossed his eyes. His brow tightened — barely visible, but I caught it. As if my being there had interrupted something precious he’d carefully put together. “Joanna’s fiancé is abroad and couldn’t make it. She would’ve been here alone. I just came as a friend, to keep her company for a bit.” As he said it, he reached over and took the empty cup from Joanna’s hand with practiced ease, passing it off to a nearby staff member. His tone was completely flat. Like he was explaining away something trivial. But I kept my eyes locked on the veins standing out on the back of his hand — still raised from the level-ten contraction simulation he’d just put himself through. “Just keeping her company?” I stepped forward. My voice was steady in a way that surprised even me. “Keeping her company means taking a level-ten contraction for her? Standing up in front of everyone and letting them call you her husband?” Ethan’s brow furrowed deeper. That familiar edge of irritation crept into his voice. “Mia, can you stop being so sensitive? Joanna is pregnant — her emotions are already unstable. I just didn’t want her to feel embarrassed in front of everyone.” There it was again. Stop being sensitive. Stop overthinking. Stop making a scene. Three months ago, I was curled up in the hallway outside the maternity ward at St. Mary’s Medical Center, shaking so hard I could barely breathe. I called him ten times. From hopeful, all the way to numb. What I got back was a single cold text on Snapchat: [I told you — the company’s IPO is at a critical stage. Don’t interrupt me.] [If the baby’s gone, it’s gone.] That day, the doctor stood in front of me with a surgical consent form, looking at my pale face with the kind of eyes that meant he’d seen this before. “No family member coming? General anesthesia carries risk when the patient signs alone.” I bit down on my already-bleeding lip and signed my name, one stroke at a time. I walked into that operating room alone. I came out of it alone. I woke up to an empty room and lay there, alone. He never once asked if I was okay. And now — now he was willing to strap himself into that chair and endure pain most people can’t handle, all so another woman wouldn’t feel embarrassed. Joanna reached over and gently tugged at the hem of Ethan’s jacket. Her eyes went red in seconds, her voice small and shaky: “Mia, please don’t blame Ethan. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have let myself lean on him like this. If it bothers you, I’ll never contact him again, I promise…” Lily let out a sharp laugh that had nothing funny in it. She pointed straight at Joanna. “You’re lonely and pregnant, go find your fiancé who’s supposedly abroad! What kind of person goes and borrows someone else’s boyfriend to play house with? What is wrong with you?” Joanna’s tears spilled over, one after another, and she swayed like she might actually fall. Ethan stepped forward almost before she’d started leaning, putting himself squarely between her and the world. He turned to Lily, and his eyes went cold. “Lily, watch your mouth. Joanna isn’t well. She can’t handle this right now.” I stared at his arm — that arm positioned in front of her like a shield — and felt something twist in my stomach. Ridiculous. The whole thing was ridiculous. A staff member chose that moment to walk over, holding a framed certificate and looking visibly uncomfortable. “Um… Ms. Quinn? This is your commemorative completion certificate — yours and your… partner’s. Please hold onto it.” The certificate had two names printed on it in clean, official lettering: Joanna Quinn. Ethan Cole. Ethan didn’t say a word to correct it. He took the certificate, folded it carefully, and slid it into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. Then he turned to me. His tone softened just slightly — the way someone softens their voice when they think they’re being generous. “Mia, once the event’s over, I’ll come home and explain everything tonight. Go with Lily for now. Don’t make a big deal out of this.” Don’t make a big deal out of this. In his eyes, the simple fact of me standing in front of him was already “making something bigger.” I didn’t cry. I didn’t do what I’d done so many times over the past seven years — stand there with red eyes, waiting for him to come around and soften. I just looked at him. Then I let one corner of my mouth pull into the faintest, coldest smile. “Sure. You two enjoy the rest of it.” I turned and walked away without hesitating. Ethan stood there, frozen. He clearly hadn’t expected me to let it go that easily. For seven years, I was always the one who fell apart over the smallest sign of his coldness. But I didn’t have anything left to fall apart with. In that moment, something in me finally came fully awake. It wasn’t that he didn’t know how to be a good partner. He just never wanted to be one. Not for me.

The drive back was suffocating. Lily gripped the steering wheel and let it all out. “Has Ethan completely lost his mind? He ghosts you during a miscarriage, won’t even show up, and now he’s playing devoted daddy-to-be for someone else’s kid?” “Mia, if you forgive him this time, I swear to God I’m done with you.” I leaned my head against the passenger window and watched the city blur past. My eyes felt hollow. My phone buzzed in my bag. A Snapchat from Ethan. [Joanna got a little shaken up after what Lily said. Her doctor wants to monitor her. I’m taking her in to get checked.] [What do you want for dinner? I’ll grab it on my way home.] I stared at the words. She got shaken up. Something cold wrapped itself around my chest and squeezed. Three months ago, I came out of surgery barely able to walk a straight line. I messaged him. Told him I was in so much pain. He wrote back: [It was a minor procedure. Stop being so dramatic. I’m in a meeting.] So. Someone else’s baby catching a scare was a crisis worth dropping everything for. But me losing a life — that was just me being dramatic. I turned the screen off and dropped the phone back in my bag. “Lily.” I closed my eyes. My voice came out barely above a whisper. “I’m not forgiving him. Not this time. Not ever.” Lily hit the brakes hard enough to jolt us both. She turned and stared at me, eyes already going red. “Mia. God. You should’ve done this so much sooner. Do you have any idea how much you’ve given up for him? Seven years. Your whole twenties. You put your career on the line for him. And he treated you like — ” Seven years. I was twenty-one when I moved into that basement apartment with Ethan. It was barely four hundred square feet and always smelled like damp concrete, but we were in it together, and I didn’t care. His startup was hemorrhaging money. He had no way out. I went behind his back and sold the one thing I had — a vintage cello my grandfather had left me. Irreplaceable. Gone. The money, half a million dollars, went straight into his account. That night he held me and sobbed like a kid. He promised me. He said he would spend the rest of his life making me the happiest woman in the world. Then he made it. The Cole Group became a name people recognized. He became exactly what everyone wanted him to be — young, successful, the kind of man who gets featured in magazines. And he got busier. And more distant. And came home less and less. He said he didn’t want marriage. I said okay, I’ll wait. He said he didn’t want kids, said it would be too much of a distraction. I said okay. Then three months ago, the pregnancy happened. I thought it was a gift. I actually went out and bought a pair of baby shoes — tiny things with little bunny ears on them — and hid them in the back of my closet. I kept imagining the look on his face when I finally showed them to him. Instead, reality hit me harder than anything I’d ever felt. That evening, I came home to the penthouse apartment Ethan and I shared. I pushed open the door to find the crystal chandelier blazing in the living room. Joanna Quinn was stretched out on the sofa, covered with Ethan’s favorite cashmere throw. The coffee table was covered in washed fruit. Right in the center — a plate of sliced kiwi. I’m severely allergic to kiwi. Even being in the same room as it is enough to make my skin break out in hives. In bad cases, it affects my breathing. Ethan was in his home clothes, coming out of the kitchen with a cup of coffee. He saw me standing in the entryway and stumbled slightly. Something flickered across his face. Like he’d been caught off guard by his own life. “You’re back.” I didn’t take off my shoes. I looked past him, straight at Joanna. “Why is she here?” Joanna sat up immediately, like a startled rabbit. Her eyes filled instantly, and she looked at me with that particular brand of fragile helplessness. “Mia, please don’t misunderstand. I went for a checkup today and the doctor said the pregnancy is unstable — I need to rest. I was scared to be alone. Ethan offered to let me stay here for a few days, just until things settle…” Ethan set the milk down on the coffee table and turned to me with a look that said he’d already decided how this conversation was going to go. “Joanna’s situation is serious. She doesn’t know anyone in this city. As a friend, I can’t just leave her on her own. This place has four bedrooms — she’ll be in the guest room. It won’t affect you.” I stared at him. The sheer nerve of it almost made me laugh. “As a friend, you have a responsibility? Ethan, did you forget — this is my home. You brought a pregnant woman into our home. Did you think to ask me first?” His expression hardened. “Mia, do you have to be so aggressive about everything? She’s just staying for a few days. Why do you have to make it a thing?” “Just staying.” I walked toward him slowly, and pointed at the kiwi on the coffee table. “You let her eat kiwi in here. You know what happens to me if I even get near that.” Something shifted in his eyes. He looked at the plate. “I… forgot. Joanna said she was craving something sour, so I just picked it up without thinking.” Forgot. Seven years together. And my most dangerous allergy was something he could just forget. Joanna scrambled up from the sofa, flustered. “I’m so sorry, Mia — I had no idea you were allergic. Let me get rid of it right now…” She reached for the plate, and then her legs buckled. She started to go down. “Watch out!” Ethan crossed the room in an instant and caught her, pulling her against his chest. The reflex was too smooth. Too practiced. He turned and looked at me like I was the one who’d done something wrong. “Mia, enough. Are you trying to actually hurt her?” I watched them — his arms around her, her face against his shoulder — and felt my stomach turn. I was done talking. I walked into the bedroom and dragged out the suitcase I’d already half-packed. Ethan followed me in and grabbed the case. “What are you doing?” “Leaving.” I pulled his hand off the handle. My voice was completely flat. He looked at me like I was speaking another language. “Because I let Joanna stay for a few days? Mia, when did you get this petty?” I stuffed the last few things in, zipped the bag shut, and stood up. “It’s not about her.” I looked at him straight on. “Ethan. It’s about seven years. It’s about finally realizing that the man I fell in love with doesn’t actually have a heart.” He went still. Like something in my expression actually reached him. “What does that mean?” “Exactly what it sounds like.” I grabbed the handle. “We’re done.”

Ethan’s first reaction wasn’t to ask me to stay. It was anger. He thought I was pulling the same move I’d always pulled — threatening to leave as a way to get his attention, the same small-scale back-and-forth we’d fallen into so many times before. “Are you serious right now? You think breaking up is some kind of leverage?” He was practically grinding his teeth, his eyes sharp and cold. “What is this, Mia?” I reached into my bag, pulled out my key to the apartment, and set it down on the nightstand. “It’s not leverage. It’s just what’s happening.” I didn’t look at him again. I wheeled the suitcase out. Joanna was standing in the living room. She watched me pull the case toward the door. Something crossed her face — gone almost as quickly as it appeared — and then she was back to performing concern. “Mia, please don’t do anything rash. This is all my fault. I’ll leave right now. Please don’t fight with Ethan because of me…” Ethan grabbed her wrist before she could move, pulling her back toward the couch. “Sit down. She wants to leave, let her leave. Let’s see how far she gets.” He raised his voice at my back: “Mia, if you walk out that door, don’t even think about coming back.” I kept walking. I didn’t turn around. The door shut behind me with a heavy sound — and with it, seven years of my own foolishness. That night, I stayed at Lily’s place. Lily looked at my face — totally still, no tears, nothing — and started crying herself. “Mia, you can cry. Seriously. You don’t have to hold it all in.” I shook my head and leaned back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. “I’m not sad, Lily. I’m just tired. It’s like I’ve been carrying something incredibly heavy for seven years and I finally put it down. Honestly? I feel lighter.” The next morning, I went to St. Mary’s Medical Center to pick up my post-op report from three months ago. My regular doctor was out, so I was sent to a different exam room. The nurse searched my file on her computer. She took a while, and her expression started to pinch. “Ms. Smith, it looks like your folder was misfiled. Give me a moment — let me check the VIP prenatal suite next door.” A few minutes later she came back with a manila envelope and handed it to me. “Found it. So sorry about that. Oh — there’s also a consent form from three months ago that got mixed in with yours by mistake. It has a Mr. Cole’s signature on it. You can pass it along to him.” I stopped. “Which Mr. Cole?” She pointed to the form. “Ethan Cole. He came in three months ago with a Ms. Joanna Quinn to complete her VIP prenatal registration. This form was left behind. The front desk was slammed that day and it accidentally got filed with your records.” The world went silent. I looked down at the thin sheet of paper in my hands. VIP Prenatal Registration and Informed Consent Registration Date: Three months ago. Thursday. 10:30 a.m. That was the exact same time I was alone in the hallway outside the OR, shaking, calling him ten times, begging him to come. He hadn’t answered. He’d texted me that he was in a meeting. That I needed to stop bothering him. But he wasn’t in a meeting. He was in another building of the same hospital, standing next to another woman, reserving her a premium delivery suite for their baby. I looked down to the bottom of the page. Family member signature: Ethan Cole. And next to the signature, in small printed text: Relationship to patient: Fiancé. “Fiancé…” The word came out of me like I was reading something in another language. A cold so deep it felt physical moved through me from the floor up. The nurse was still talking beside me, her voice warm and cheerful: “Mr. Cole was so attentive that day — running around taking care of everything, making sure Ms. Quinn didn’t have to lift a finger. Our whole unit was talking about it.” I don’t remember walking out of the hospital. The sun outside was brutal. It should have been warm. I couldn’t feel it. This was the truth I’d been standing next to the whole time. He was never anti-marriage. He just didn’t want to marry me. He was never against having kids. He just didn’t want mine. While I was in the most pain I’d ever been in — alone, losing our baby — he was in the same building, practically glowing, checking in his pregnant girlfriend and signing his name as her fiancé. Seven years. I spent seven years warming up a stone, only to find out someone else had already carved it into exactly what they wanted.

I didn’t go back to Lily’s. I went straight to work — to my company, Bloom Early Learning. I’d built it from nothing two years ago. Every part of it was mine. My assistant, Sophie, nearly jumped when I walked through the lobby. “Ms. Smith — you look really pale. Do you want to sit down for a bit?” “I’m fine.” I walked past her and into my office. I locked the prenatal consent form in my desk drawer, took a slow breath, and steadied myself. “Call all the department heads. Meeting in ten minutes. And the co-branded curriculum project with Cole Group — shut it down. Effective immediately.” Sophie’s jaw dropped. “Ms. Smith, Cole Group has already put significant marketing resources behind that launch. If we pull out now, we’ll owe them a substantial termination fee.” “I’ll cover it personally. Pull everything — any promotional material with the Cole Group logo, I want it gone.” She didn’t push further. She hurried out. At three in the afternoon, Ethan kicked open my office door. He didn’t knock. His tie was half-undone, his expression wild. “Have you completely lost it?! Who gave you the right to unilaterally cancel the project? Do you have any idea what this does to Cole Group?” I didn’t look up from the document in front of me. “Mr. Cole. Watch your tone. This is my office. I don’t owe you an explanation for my business decisions.” He crossed the room in a few strides and slammed both palms down on my desk, looming over me. “What is this really about? Because I had Joanna stay over, you’re going to tank a business deal? Since when do you mix personal feelings with professional responsibilities?” I set down my pen. I looked up at him. “Mixing personal and professional?” I almost smiled. I reached into the desk drawer, took out the VIP prenatal consent form, and threw it at his face. “Tell me something, Ethan. When you signed ‘fiancé’ on that form — were you thinking about professional boundaries then?” The paper caught the edge of his cheek and drifted to the floor. He looked down at it. The color drained out of his face. The anger in his eyes cracked, and underneath it was something raw and cornered. “How did you — where did you get this?” “Surprised?” I stood up and faced him across the desk, my voice like something frozen solid. “Three months ago, I was in the OR in this same hospital, losing a pregnancy due to an accident. You didn’t even show up because of your IPO. While I was in there alone, you were one building over, registering Joanna for a VIP delivery suite. Ethan. Your time management is really something.” His throat moved. When he spoke, his voice wasn’t steady. “Mia, listen to me. That day — Joanna had a cramp, I was scared something was wrong, I drove her in. The signature was just to get through the paperwork faster. It didn’t mean anything — ” “It didn’t mean anything.” I cut him off. “Then explain this to me. You didn’t come to the hospital during my miscarriage because of the IPO. But somehow Joanna’s pregnancy doesn’t affect the IPO at all?” He opened his mouth. Nothing came out. The office door opened. Joanna walked in, wearing a designer maternity outfit, one hand pressed to her lower back. She looked down at the form on the floor. Her eyes shifted — just for a second. Then she rearranged her face into something soft and devastated. “Mia, please don’t be angry at Ethan. This is all on me. I was the one who asked him to come. And the fiancé thing — I begged him to write that because I was embarrassed about being unmarried and pregnant…” She drifted toward Ethan and caught his sleeve. Tears were already running down her face. “Ethan, please don’t fight with Mia because of me. If my being here causes this much pain for everyone, I’d rather just take my baby and disappear…” Ethan closed his hand around her arm, his face tightening with alarm. “Don’t you dare say that.” I watched them. I felt sick. I took out my phone. I pulled up a screenshot, zoomed in, and turned the screen toward them. “Joanna. Since you’re so reasonable and understanding — explain this. Three months ago, someone sent me this from an anonymous number.” The screen showed a text message: [Don’t blame Ethan for being cold, Ms. Smith. It’s not that he doesn’t like kids. He just doesn’t want to be tied down to you through one.] [My baby is different. He actually cares. He stayed up all night arranging the best doctors for me.] The moment Joanna saw it, she went white. Her whole body flinched. “That — that’s not from me. I don’t know anything about that.” I let out a short, cold laugh. “Really. Should I contact the carrier and pull the registration on that number?” Joanna’s lips were shaking. She couldn’t get a single word out. Ethan looked at the screenshot, then looked at Joanna. For the first time, something uncertain moved through his eyes. “Joanna. Did you actually send this?” “No — Ethan, I swear, it wasn’t me, please believe me — ” She was shaking her head over and over, face a mess of tears. I was already done watching. I pressed the intercom on my desk. “Security. Please come up and escort two visitors out of my office. If they refuse to leave, call the police.” Ethan stared at me. The look on his face was complicated in a way I didn’t have the energy to decode. “Mia. Are you really going to take it this far?” “You’re the one who took it this far, Ethan.” I pointed to the door. “Take your fiancée and get out of my building. After today, the only place I want to see you is in a courtroom.”

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The day Ethan Shaw took home the Annual Medical Pioneer Award, I canceled a livestream that could have earned me over a million dollars. I put on my most ordinary clothes and sat in the most inconspicuous corner of the audience. I wanted to surprise him. Seven years of marriage, and I was the invisible ATM behind his success. To fund the ALS treatment he called “a drug that will change the world,” I worked nonstop for seven years, pushed myself until I coughed up blood, and wired him a total of thirty million dollars. But when the spotlight came on, and the host invited his family to the stage — A woman in a custom couture gown walked up holding the hand of a five-year-old boy. Ethan’s eyes glistened with tears as he kissed her forehead. “Thank you to my wife. Without her, there would be no Ethan Shaw standing here today.” I stared at that boy, and felt the blood drain from my entire body. The boy’s name was Noah Shaw. That was the name we had chosen for the child I miscarried.

The applause in the hall was thunderous, so loud it made my eardrums ache. I stared, unblinking, at the smiling faces of that family of three, enlarged on the giant screen above the stage. Ethan was wearing the black tailored suit I’d had custom-made for him. He stood tall and straight. He glanced down at the woman beside him, his eyes overflowing with a tenderness that looked almost too deep to be real. Her name was Vivian Cole. The starfield gown she wore was a globally limited edition from one of the most exclusive luxury fashion houses in the world. Last month, Ethan told me that a core centrifuge in the lab had broken down. He said they needed to rush-order a replacement from Germany, and they were two hundred thousand dollars short. Without a second thought, I dragged my fever-wracked body through four extra hours of livestreaming and wired him the money. That two hundred thousand dollars was now wrapped around Vivian Cole’s body. “Mr. Shaw, the journey to developing this treatment must have been full of obstacles,” the host said with a smile, holding out the microphone. “What kept you going?” Ethan squeezed the hand of the woman beside him, his expression warm and gentle. “She did. My wife. She’s been by my side every step of the way, and she gave me this wonderful son — Noah.” Another wave of thunderous applause swept through the hall. I sat in that dark corner and bit down on my lip until I tasted blood. Noah. Seven years ago, I was five months pregnant. We were crammed into a studio apartment that barely fit the two of us, and we spent an entire week going back and forth before we settled on that name. He said, “Lily, when our baby comes, let’s name him Noah.” The baby didn’t make it. That day, I was hemorrhaging on the operating table. I called him over a dozen times. Every single call went straight to voicemail. Afterward, he knelt beside my hospital bed with red-rimmed eyes and slapped himself across the face again and again, saying he’d been locked in the lab running the most critical data tests of his career and had missed everything. He said, “Lily, let’s keep the name Noah. Save it for our next one.” I believed him. I believed him for seven years. I thought he was pouring his soul out for the sake of humanity. I thought he was carrying the weight of our future on his shoulders. Turns out, he was just draining me dry — so another woman could live in comfort and ease.

The awards ceremony ended. The crowd dispersed. I pulled on a baseball cap and a mask, slipped past the press, and made my way to the VIP lounge. I knew this hotel well. The venue fee for tonight had been charged to Ethan’s account last month, under the line item “laboratory space rental” — approved by me. The door to the lounge was slightly ajar. I pushed it open. Vivian was sitting at the vanity mirror, touching up her makeup. The boy named Noah was on the sofa, slamming a rare limited-edition Transformer toy against the cushions. At the sound of my entrance, Vivian glanced at me through the mirror and frowned slightly. “Who are you? How did you get in here?” She looked me up and down — faded jeans, plain black tee — and made no effort to hide her contempt. “I’m here for Ethan.” My voice came out rough. Years of high-intensity livestreaming had done a number on my vocal cords. Vivian turned around and let out a cold laugh. “Another desperate patient’s family member? Or some broke startup founder begging for funding?” She stood up, smoothed out her starfield gown, and walked over to me, looking down at me like I was beneath her notice. “Ethan is very busy. I manage his entire schedule. Whatever it is, you can tell me.” I looked at her — specifically at the massive pink diamond on her ring finger. It caught the overhead light and threw sharp, glittering sparks in every direction. Your husband? I slowly curled my hand into a fist, my nails pressing deep into my palm. “Of course,” Vivian said, arching an eyebrow, her tone drenched in self-satisfaction. “We’ve been married for five years. Our son is right there. Do you have a problem with that?” Five years. Ethan and I had been married for seven. For all seven of those years, he’d told the outside world he was single. He said medical research demanded total purity of focus — that investors would think he was distracted. He was also afraid that my identity as a “livestream shopping influencer” would drag down the image of his high-tech company. To protect his reputation, I had never once mentioned his name in public. Even my closest assistant thought I was just a single woman who worked herself to the bone. Standing there looking at Vivian, I suddenly started to laugh. The kind of laugh that brings tears to your eyes. “What’s so funny?” Vivian stiffened, her expression darkening. “I’m laughing at you,” I said. “You’ve been played for a fool, and you think you’re the lady of the house.” Vivian’s face changed. She swung her hand up to slap me. “Who the hell do you think you are, talking to me like that?!” I caught her wrist mid-air and shoved it away. She was wearing heels. She stumbled and nearly fell. “Mom!” The little boy dropped his toy and ran over, wrapping his arms around Vivian’s legs. At that moment, the door to the lounge was shoved open. “Vivian, the car’s ready, we should –” The words died in Ethan’s throat. He looked at me, standing in the middle of the room. Every trace of warmth and tenderness on his face vanished instantly, replaced by sheer, undisguised terror. “L-Lily?” Even his voice was shaking.

Vivian steadied herself and immediately switched to a wounded expression, throwing herself at Ethan. “Ethan! This crazy woman came out of nowhere and started screaming at me — and then she hit me!” Ethan went rigid. His eyes bounced between me and Vivian. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead in real time. “Ethan, get security to throw her out!” Vivian tugged at his sleeve, her voice syrupy. Ethan sucked in a slow breath, forced down the panic behind his eyes, and pushed Vivian away. “Vivian, take Noah to the parking garage and wait for me.” Vivian froze. “Ethan?” “Go. Now.” Ethan’s voice cracked like a whip, leaving no room for argument. She flinched. Shot me one last suspicious look. Then clenched her jaw, picked up the boy, and walked out. The door slammed shut behind her. Just the two of us now. The silence was total. Dead. Ethan looked at me. His throat moved. The panic bled out of his face, replaced by a look of weary resignation — the expression of a man burdened by circumstances beyond his control. He came toward me, reaching for my hand. “Lily. When did you get here? You should’ve texted me.” I stepped back. Kept my eyes on him, cold and steady. “If I hadn’t come, how would I have known that you’ve got a wife and a five-year-old son on the side?” Ethan sighed. Pressed two fingers to his temple. His tone took on that familiar flavor — patient, indulgent, the way you’d humor someone being unreasonable. “Lily, calm down. Let me explain.” “Her name is Vivian Cole. She was placed here by one of our major financial backers. You know how it is — we’re in the most capital-intensive phase of our Phase Three trials. There’s an overseas investment group willing to fund us, but they require one of their representatives embedded in the core management structure.” He held my gaze. Every word came out perfectly sincere. “To secure the funding, I had to play along. The boy was adopted — purely for optics. We needed the image of a stable, family-oriented man so the investors would feel confident putting money in.” I stared at his familiar face and felt a sudden, nauseating wave of revulsion rise in my stomach. There was a time when all it took was that look — weary eyes, quiet devotion — and I would soften. I would hand over every last dollar in my account without hesitation. “Playing along?” I let out a short, flat laugh. “Playing along means buying her a limited-edition designer gown? Playing along means buying her a pink diamond ring? Playing along means taking the name of my dead child — and giving it to someone else’s son?” Ethan’s expression flickered. But he recovered quickly. “Lily, those things were provided by the investors. I didn’t buy any of it. As for the name — that was a coincidence. Vivian insisted on it, and I had no choice but to go along for the sake of the bigger picture.” He stepped closer and gripped both my shoulders, his eyes pouring out a depth of feeling that should have been impossible to fake. “Lily, trust me. Everything I’m doing is for us. Once this drug hits the market, once I’ve made it — I’ll announce to the entire world that you, Lily Johnson, are the only woman I have ever married.” “Just give me a little more time. Please.” I looked at him and said nothing. If I hadn’t watched him kiss Vivian on that stage with the look of a man who had everything he’d ever wanted — If I hadn’t seen that boy’s face, and recognized Ethan’s features in every line of it — I might have believed him again. “Sure,” I said. The corners of my mouth pulled up into something that looked more like a wound than a smile. Ethan visibly exhaled with relief. “I knew it. You’ve always been the most understanding woman I know.” He moved to pull me into a hug. I put a hand against his chest and stepped back. “I’m tired. I’m going home.” I turned, opened the door, and walked out without looking back. Behind me, he didn’t follow. He probably assumed this was like every other time over the past seven years — that a few carefully chosen words had smoothed everything over. He didn’t know that the moment I turned away, the last of my tears had already dried. What was left wasn’t grief. It was the cold, bone-deep resolve of someone who has decided to burn it all down.

By the time I got back to my apartment, it was late. The place was empty, just like always. I’d paid for this penthouse in full. Ethan came by maybe once a month. He said the lab was too far away, that he kept a studio apartment near the office. I walked to the bar cart and poured a glass of whiskey. Drank it in one go. The burn traveled all the way down, but it didn’t touch the cold at the center of my chest. I picked up my phone and called my personal attorney, James. “James, I need you to pull everything you can on a woman named Vivian Cole. And I need a full financial audit — every dollar I’ve transferred to ‘Shaw Medical Technologies’ over the past seven years. Every transaction. I want it itemized down to the cent.” There was a brief pause on the other end. Then James’s voice sharpened with quiet understanding. “Ms. Johnson — are we closing the net?” “No,” I said, looking out at the city lights bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows. My voice was flat as ice. “We’re going for the kill.” After I hung up, I opened my laptop and logged into a secondary account. I started searching Vivian Cole’s name across every social media platform I could think of. A woman like her — one who lived to show off — couldn’t possibly have left no trace online. I was right. It took almost no effort at all. Her verified account bio read: Lifestyle & Luxury Blogger | Wife of Shaw Medical Technologies CEO. Over a million followers. I scrolled through her feed. Page after page of obscene wealth dressed up as aesthetic living. Ethan’s five-year anniversary gift finally arrived after six months of waiting. Worth every second. The photo was the pink diamond I’d seen on her finger tonight. Posted three weeks ago. Three weeks ago, Ethan had told me there had been an incident in the clinical trials. He said they needed three hundred thousand dollars in hush money, or the company was finished. I’d stayed up all night running a flash sale livestream. By the end, my voice was completely gone. I spent three days on an IV drip at the hospital. Noah’s 5th birthday! Ethan chartered a whole yacht just for our little man. Best childhood memories incoming. The photo showed Ethan holding the boy on the deck of a luxury yacht, grinning like the happiest man alive. Posted two months ago. Two months ago was the anniversary of my miscarriage. I spent that entire day sitting alone at a memorial park. Ethan sent a message saying he was locked in the lab and couldn’t get away. Another day of being absolutely spoiled. Just picked up our new ocean-view villa — going to use it as my art studio. The photo showed a standalone house in the most expensive coastal neighborhood in the city, valued at no less than five million dollars. Posted one year ago. One year ago, Ethan knelt in front of me, crying, saying the company’s cash flow had collapsed and he wanted to jump off a building. I sold off majority stakes in my two most profitable beauty brands at a steep loss. I liquidated five million dollars in assets to bail him out. I went through the photos one by one. Every glittering image, every breezy caption. Behind each one was a night I’d stayed up past dawn. Blood I’d coughed into a sink. Pain I’d swallowed and kept moving through. I thought I was funding a dream that would matter. I was feeding two parasites. I screenshotted everything, packaged it all up, and sent it to James. Then I went to the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror. The woman looking back at me was pale from chronic sleep deprivation. Dark circles carved into the skin under her eyes. I turned on the tap and splashed cold water on my face. Lily Johnson. You really are something else. But it’s fine. Starting right now, I’m taking back everything that’s mine. Every single cent, with interest.

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Grandpa said the caregiver pinched him at night and tied him up in the bathroom. I didn’t believe him, of course. An eighty-year-old man with worsening dementia — he’d make up anything to avoid staying in the nursing home. I swallowed my frustration, forced a smile at the caregiver, and even had a commendation banner made for him. The next day, Grandpa had another bruise on his arm. He was still trembling as he said it was the same person who’d pinched him. His eyes were full of disappointment in me, but he kept saying it with total certainty. On the third day, when I watched the security footage again and saw the caregiver gently feeding him, I completely lost it. “Do you just not want to stay here? Is that it? You’re making all this up just to mess with me!” Grandpa shook all over, but still worked up the courage to nod. “It’s true. It really is…” That night, I left him alone at the nursing home. I was halfway home when I couldn’t stop myself from thinking: Why would an eighty-year-old man keep insisting he was telling the truth even after I screamed at him?

Grandpa was my only family. My parents died when I was young. Grandpa raised me by collecting scrap and recycling, scraping together enough to put me through college so I could build a life in the city. I bought an apartment in the city, but he refused to move in. He said the place felt like a cage — too cramped, hard to breathe. Last year, his memory started getting worse. One time he put water on to boil and forgot to turn off the stove, nearly burning down the old house. Our neighbor called me, voice shaking. “Lily, you need to come back right now. Your grandfather almost burned himself alive!” I took a week off work and brought Grandpa to the city. But I had a job to go to, trips to take — I couldn’t watch him twenty-four hours a day. Hire a home aide? He got anxious around strangers. Two different aides quit within their first three days. With no other options, I gritted my teeth and moved him into the best care facility in the area. Sunset Haven Senior Living. Eight thousand eight hundred a month. Premium care — doctors, nurses, meals delivered to the room, one-on-one caregiver service. When the director gave me a tour, he made a point of introducing the lead caregiver. “This is Greg. Eight years with us. The most patient man we have, best at keeping our residents comfortable. Leave your grandfather with him and you won’t have a thing to worry about.” Greg was in his fifties, heavyset, soft-spoken. “Don’t you worry,” he said. “I treat every resident like my own family.” I left feeling completely reassured. The first month, Grandpa sounded happy every time he called. “Lily, the food here is great. Greg is so good to me — draws me a foot bath every single night.” The weight lifted off my chest. Eight thousand eight hundred well spent. But starting the second month, his calls changed. “Lily, I don’t want to stay anymore. Please come take me home…” I asked why. He fumbled and couldn’t explain — just said he missed home. I tried to reassure him. “Grandpa, your legs aren’t good. I’d worry if you were home alone. Once things calm down at work, I’ll bring you over to stay for a few days.” He went quiet for a long moment, said “okay,” and hung up. I didn’t think much of it at the time. It was normal for old people to miss home. Over the next few days, his calls came more and more often. The same thing, over and over: “Lily, when are you coming to get me?” I started losing my patience. “Grandpa, I’m busy with work. Can you please stop calling so much? If you need something, ask the caregiver. Isn’t Greg good to you?” Grandpa went quiet after that — and then something happened. I was in a meeting when my phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. The nursing home. I slipped out to take the call. Greg’s voice came through, carrying a hint of resignation. “Lily, your grandfather took a fall. Just scraped his arm a little — nothing serious, already taken care of. Don’t worry.” When I got there, Grandpa was sitting on his bed. His right elbow had a large bruise on it, and a few marks that looked like scratches. “How did he fall?” Grandpa glanced at Greg, shrank back, and said nothing. Greg sighed. “He got up in the night to use the bathroom. I offered to help him, but he wouldn’t let me — insisted on walking himself. His foot slipped and he went down. I rushed to catch him, and he grabbed onto me and scratched me.” He rolled up his sleeve. There were a few red marks on the back of his hand. “It’s fine, really. Old folks can be stubborn. I get it.” I believed him. As I was leaving, Grandpa suddenly grabbed my hand — with a grip that scared me. “Lily, I didn’t fall. Greg pinched me. He pinches me in the middle of the night…” I froze. I looked back at Greg. He wore a helpless expression, shaking his head with a tired smile. “Lily, your grandfather has been a little confused lately. The doctor says it’s the disease progressing — he may start having hallucinations and paranoid episodes. Please don’t take it to heart.” I let out a slow breath. Right. Grandpa had dementia. The doctor did say hallucinations would come eventually. I crouched down beside him. “Grandpa, were you maybe dreaming? Greg takes such good care of you — why would he pinch you?” Grandpa got upset, eyes going wide. “I wasn’t dreaming! It was him!” “At night, when I’m asleep, he comes and pinches my thighs, pinches my sides. I wake up from the pain, and he tells me I was dreaming!”

Greg kept that same patient expression, walked over, and tucked the blanket around Grandpa’s shoulders. “Sir, if you’re not comfortable with me, I can talk to the director and have someone else assigned to you. How does that sound?” Grandpa went completely silent. A flash of fear crossed his eyes. I thought it was guilt. I even resented him a little for being so unreasonable. “Grandpa, can you please stop this?” “I pay all that money so you can be taken care of.” “Greg does so much for you, and you’re accusing him of things like this — does that seem right to you?” Grandpa opened his mouth. Tears spilled down his face. He let go of my hand, turned onto his side, and lay with his back to me — shoulders trembling. I felt awful too. But I wasn’t wrong. He was confused. I couldn’t let his confusion pull me under too. The drive home, my mind was a mess. Eight thousand eight hundred a month — nearly half my salary. I’d agreed to it without flinching because I wanted Grandpa to have a good life. Why couldn’t he understand that? The next day, Greg sent me a few photos. Grandpa sitting in a wheelchair in the sun. Greg crouched beside him, clipping his nails. Both of them smiling. Greg sent a voice message too. “Lily, your grandfather is in a much better mood today. I took him outside for some sunshine and got him to eat half an apple. Don’t stress — older folks just need a little extra love and attention.” I felt a warm rush of gratitude. Greg really was a good person. That evening I called Grandpa, hoping to smooth things over. It rang for a long time before he picked up. His voice sounded flat. “Lily…” “Grandpa, did Greg take you outside today? Did you have a nice time?” Silence on the other end. After a long pause, he said, “Lily, do you trust me?” My stomach dropped. “He pinched me again. Outside in the sun, when no one was around — he pinched my side. He said if I told on him again, he’d pull out my teeth…” My anger flared instantly. “Grandpa! Why do you keep making things up like this?” “Greg sent me photos. He was crouched down clipping your nails, smiling like he loves you. Why would he pinch you?” Low, muffled sobbing from the other end of the line. “You don’t believe me. You never believe me…” I took a deep breath and forced my voice steady. “Grandpa, it’s not that I don’t believe you. The doctor said this disease causes hallucinations.” “Think about it — if Greg were really doing that to you, could he smile like that?” “He puts on an act. Everything nice he does is an act…” “Enough!” I cut him off. “I’ll come see you this weekend. Stop overthinking and get some sleep.” After I hung up, there was a heaviness in my chest I couldn’t shake. My friend saw the look on my face and asked what was wrong. I told him everything. He let out a long breath. “That’s just how dementia goes. My grandpa was the same way — kept saying I stole his money when it was sitting under his pillow the whole time. Don’t get worked up over it. Just go along with whatever he says and keep him calm.” I nodded. He was probably right. That weekend I went to the nursing home and knew something was off the moment I walked in. Grandpa was sitting on the bed. When he saw me come in, his first reaction wasn’t happiness — he flinched back. “Grandpa?” He kept his head down, wouldn’t look at me. I walked over and tried to take his hand. He pulled away. “Grandpa, what’s wrong?” Still nothing. Greg came in carrying a plate of fruit, greeting me with a smile. “Lily, you’re here! Have some fruit — I just cut it.” At the sound of Greg’s voice, Grandpa’s whole body jerked. For just a moment, something nagged at me. But Greg seemed so completely normal — smiling warmly, casually mentioning that Grandpa had eaten half a bowl of rice, that his mood had been pretty good today. I pushed the feeling aside and told myself I was reading too much into things. As I was leaving, Grandpa suddenly grabbed my arm. His eyes were red. “Lily, are you coming back next week?” “Yes. Of course I will.” He nodded, let go, and curled back onto the bed — small and still, looking so fragile. I stepped outside. Greg caught up with me, his manner careful. “Lily, there’s something I’d like to run by you.” “Go ahead.” “Your grandfather has been saying some confused things lately, and it’s been disturbing the other residents.” “I was thinking — would it be possible to move him to a private room? The cost is a little higher, about two thousand more per month. What do you think?” My chest tightened. “What has he been saying?” Greg sighed, looking pained. “You know — saying I’ve been pinching him, hurting him. Honestly, it doesn’t bother me personally. I know who I am. But it’s not a good look.” “If other families hear it, they might think we actually mistreat residents here.” My face went hot with embarrassment. “Greg, I’m sorry. He’s causing you trouble. I’ll think about the private room — money’s a little tight right now.” “No rush, no rush. I just wanted to mention it. It’s for your grandfather’s sake too.” On the way home, the more I thought about it, the worse I felt for Greg. He worked so hard caring for these elderly residents, and my grandfather was putting him through this — with not a single complaint. I decided I needed to do something.

On Monday I took a half day off and went to a gift shop to have a commendation banner made. Eight words: Dedicated Care — Better Than Family. I brought it to the nursing home during afternoon visiting hours. There were several other families in the hallway. When Greg saw the banner, his eyes crinkled completely shut with his smile. “Oh, Lily, you really didn’t have to do this! I’m just doing my job!” I held his hand and raised my voice on purpose. “Greg, you have to accept this banner!” “My grandfather isn’t all there — he says confused things and puts you through so much, and you still take such good care of him. I honestly don’t know how to thank you!” The families nearby nodded along. Someone gave a thumbs-up. “Greg really is great — my mom says so too.” “Absolutely. Greg’s been at Sunset Haven for years. Best caregiver here.” Greg smiled from ear to ear and made a show of waving off the praise. The director came out too, and posed with Greg and me in front of the banner for a photo to post on the facility’s social media page. I smiled for the camera, and felt something settle in my chest. Maybe now Grandpa would finally let this go. When I went to see him, I found him crying. No sound — just tears running down his face. When he saw me come in, he quickly wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “Grandpa?” He wouldn’t look at me. He was staring at the banner. A flicker of irritation. “Grandpa, I just gave Greg a commendation banner to recognize how well he cares for you. Please stop saying things about him. He really is good to you.” He slowly raised his head and looked at me. His eyes held something — a deep hurt, and beneath it, despair. “Lily, do you think Grandpa has lost his mind?” The words hit me like a wall. “Grandpa hasn’t lost his mind. Sometimes his memory slips. But whether something hurts — Grandpa can tell the difference.” He pulled up his pant leg and showed me the inside of his thigh. Covered in bruises. Several had gone black, and you could see individual finger marks pressed into the skin. “He did this yesterday. He knew you might look, so he pinched where it wouldn’t show.” A roaring sound filled my head. The next second, Greg’s voice floated in from the doorway. “Sir, telling on me to Lily again?” He came in carrying a mug of hot water, smiling pleasantly, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “Lily, don’t mind him — older folks go through phases. He was laughing with me just a little while ago, and now he’s upset. It happens.” I stared at the bruises. Then I looked at Greg’s smiling face. I didn’t know who to believe. Grandpa pulled his pant leg back down, closed his eyes, and stopped looking at me entirely. Greg steered me toward the door and lowered his voice. “Lily, those bruises on his legs are from when he knocked himself getting into the shower. I saw it happen myself.” “His memory’s poor — he bumped himself and forgot all about it. Now he thinks someone did it to him. If you don’t believe me, pull up the security footage.” Security footage. My eyes lit up. “Can you actually do that?” “Of course. All the common areas have cameras. The rooms don’t — privacy reasons, obviously.” “But the hallways, the activity room — all covered. You can check anytime you want.” I followed Greg to the security office and pulled up yesterday’s footage. On the screen, Grandpa sat in a wheelchair. Greg pushed him down the hall toward the activity room — gentle, steady, leaning down to say something to him. Nothing but calm between them. In the afternoon, Greg helped him into the shower. When Grandpa came out, he did walk with a slight limp — but Greg was supporting him the whole time. Nothing out of the ordinary. I exhaled. “Greg, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have doubted you.” Greg patted my hand, expression warm and kind. “It’s fine. I understand. Families have it hard too.” On the way home, I called my friend and told him about checking the security footage. “See? I told you — he’s confused. Don’t be too hard on yourself. Nothing you could’ve done.” I nodded. The knot in my chest finally loosened. Wednesday. Two in the morning. My phone went off. The nursing home’s landline. Half-asleep, I picked up. Greg’s voice came through, slightly breathless. “Lily, I’m so sorry to call at this hour.” “Your grandfather is acting up again. He’s locked himself in the bathroom and won’t come out no matter how many times we call.” “We’re worried something’s happened. Do you have any idea how to reach him?” I sat bolt upright. “What happened?” “I honestly don’t know. He was fine earlier tonight. I was doing rounds and noticed he was gone. Searched everywhere, found him in the bathroom with the door locked from the inside. He won’t answer. It’s been almost an hour.” I threw on my clothes and ran. By the time I got to the nursing home, it was nearly three in the morning. A small crowd had gathered outside the bathroom — staff and security. Greg stood at the front, looking frantic. “Lily, thank God you’re here! He’s still in there. Won’t respond to anything. I’m worried he’s hurt!” I knocked on the door. “Grandpa! It’s me! Lily! Open the door!” Silence. Panic gripped me. I told security to force it open. The door gave way — and what I saw inside is something I will never forget for the rest of my life. Grandpa was on the floor with his back against the wall. His hands were bound to the radiator pipe with his own pajama pants. There was a wad of cloth shoved into his mouth. When he saw me, tears poured down his face. He made muffled, desperate sounds, but he couldn’t speak. I flew at him, tore his hands free, yanked the cloth from his mouth. “Grandpa! Grandpa! Who did this? Who did this to you?” Grandpa shook violently and collapsed sobbing into my arms.

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The day I received the Outstanding Young Entrepreneur Award, I stared into the camera and said what I’d been holding back for years. “Grateful to her? No. The driving force of my entire life has been the refusal to end up like her.” The host awkwardly held the microphone toward me. On the screen behind us, a live feed showed my mother, Linda, slouched on the couch picking at her feet while playing video games. I went home and dropped the trophy on the coffee table. I stood there in the cold silence, staring at the takeout containers littering the floor. “Linda, can you at least get a job? Sweeping streets, anything.” She kept her eyes on the screen, thumbs working the controller. “Sweeping streets sounds exhausting. I’ve got a daughter to support me — why would I work? Ugh, I died again. Top up my account, would you? I need sixty bucks for the battle pass.” A mother like that? I was done with her. I dropped the crystal award — the one engraved with Outstanding Young Entrepreneur — straight into the trash can. Right in front of Linda. It hit the bottom with a sharp crack. Linda was buried in the couch, her flannel pajamas stained with grease at the collar, her hair a tangled mess. She didn’t even turn around. Her fingers kept pressing buttons on the controller. On the screen, a little pixel character ran into a wall, died, and respawned. Over and over. “Ellie, honey,” she said, eyes still fixed on the screen, voice thick and unfocused, “if you don’t want it, you don’t want it. Why all the drama?” “Oh, and this month’s allowance still hasn’t come through.” “My premium subscription expires tonight.” I laughed — the kind of laugh that comes out when you’re too angry for words. My chest heaved. “Linda, you make me sick.” I grabbed my bag and slammed the door behind me. The deadbolt clicked shut. Inside, the apartment went still. I didn’t go far. I stood in the hallway catching my breath. It was quiet in there. No shouting after me. No sounds of things being thrown. Just the tinny loop of game music bleeding through the wall. On the other side of that wall — The moment the door slammed, Linda’s controller slipped from her hands and clattered to the floor. The hands that had been pressing buttons were curled inward now. Her knuckles were swollen and misshapen, trembling. She tried to bend down to pick it up, but her back seized and she slid off the couch entirely, hitting the floor hard. “Hss—” She sucked in a sharp breath. Beads of sweat broke out across her forehead. The takeout containers spread across the floor smelled of rot. She moved through the garbage, arm stretched out, reaching for the pill bottle wedged under the coffee table. The bottle rolled a few inches further away. Linda closed her eyes. Tears ran down the creases at the corners of her eyes and disappeared into her hair. “Ellie…” she murmured, barely audible. “Mom’s useless… I’m sorry…” — I checked into a five-star hotel in the city center. I lay on the king bed and didn’t sleep a single hour. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Linda’s back. The mother in my memory always wore blazers and heels. She’d been the top sales rep at her company. She was the one who could scoop me up with one arm and spin me around. Back then my father was still around — but he was a compulsive gambler. Every time debt collectors showed up at the door, Linda would drive them off with a broom, then pull me out of the corner where I was hiding and hold me close. “Ellie, don’t be scared. Mom’s here.” Later, he cleared out every dollar in the house. He maxed out Linda’s credit cards. Then he ran off with another woman. That night, Linda held me and cried until morning. The next morning she made me breakfast with red-rimmed eyes and said: “Ellie, from now on it’s just the two of us.” “Mom is going to give you a good life. I won’t let you make the same mistakes I made.” To pay off the debt. To keep me in private school. Linda worked three jobs at once. She sold insurance. She sold real estate. She washed dishes at a diner late into the night. I remember one winter, her hands were covered in chilblains — the cracks raw and weeping — and she still came home smiling with a keyboard for me. “Girls need grace. Hands are for playing piano, not washing dishes.” That version of Linda was the light I carried inside me. She was the person I swore I’d spend my whole life paying back. Then everything changed the year I was a senior in high school. I came home from school one afternoon and found out she’d quit her job. She was lying in bed. She looked at me and said: “I’m tired. I’m done.” “Ellie, you’re grown now. You’re on your own. Mom’s going to start enjoying her life.” At first I told myself she just needed rest. But one month passed. Then two. Then a year. She never looked for work again. She fell into video games. The apartment turned into a mess she never touched. When debt collectors came, she just shrugged. “No money. Come back when I’m dead.” In the end it was me, working part-time around my classes, chipping away at the interest payments one by one. I got into a top university. I came home with the acceptance letter, hoping to see relief on her face. She stared at the TV screen. “Oh, you got in? Good.” “Don’t forget to take care of me once you’re making money. It wasn’t easy raising you, you know.” My phone buzzed. —

A voice message from Linda on Snapchat. I frowned and opened it. “Ellie, honey, the hotel comfy?” “So… since you’re not coming home… can you transfer this month’s allowance over?” “It’s urgent. There’s a limited skin in the game store, goes away at midnight.” I took a deep breath and typed back: “Linda, go ahead and waste away in that game for the rest of your life.” Then I transferred five hundred dollars with a note: [Buy yourself a coffin.] A second later, I blocked her. What I didn’t know was that on the other end of the call, Linda looked at that transfer notification and tugged the corner of her mouth into a small smile. With trembling fingers, she unlocked the screen — a phone with no games installed on it at all — and opened a delivery app. She placed an order for a box of painkillers and a pack of adult diapers. Account balance: $23.50. “That’s enough… two more days…” She said it softly to herself, then tried to roll over. A bolt of pain cut through her and she let out a muffled groan. — Without Linda dragging me down, my career moved fast. The company was gearing up for Series A funding. As the founder, every day was packed. I had something to prove to Linda. That I was better off without her. That I was doing more than fine. Then, about a month later, I decided to sell the old apartment and free up capital. The property was in my name. Years ago, Linda had transferred the title to me to keep my father from gambling it away. The day I brought a real estate agent to see the place, I timed it deliberately — during what should have been Linda’s afternoon nap. The door swung open and a wave of stale, sour air hit us both. The agent stepped back, hand over his nose, and glanced at me. “Ms. Harris, this is…” My face burned. I pushed inside. The living room curtains were drawn tight. It was dim and stifling. Linda was sprawled on the couch under a blanket. The coffee table was buried under takeout containers and bottles. The floor was covered in crumpled tissues. She heard us and lifted her eyelids. When she saw me, her eyes shifted. “Well,” she said, voice raw. “Ms. Harris herself. To what do I owe the honor?” I crossed the room and yanked the curtains open. Sunlight poured in, lighting up a storm of dust swirling in the air. Linda reflexively raised a hand to shield her face. “I’m selling the apartment. I’ve rented you a studio. You’ll move in a few days.” I told her. Not a question. Linda lowered her hand and squinted at me. Then she smiled — slow, showing her two front teeth. “Selling? Sure.” “But I have one condition.” Those misshapen hands of hers extended two of the fingers that still moved. “I want half the sale price.” “Otherwise I’m staying right here, and I’d love to see who’s brave enough to buy it.” The agent drew a sharp breath and gave me a sympathetic look. Every drop of blood in my body rushed to my head. Half? That was hundreds of thousands of dollars. “Linda, have you lost your mind?” “You signed this place over to me voluntarily years ago. You’ve been living off me ever since. And now you want half the money?” “I was foolish back then.” Linda maneuvered one trembling hand toward her water glass on the table. She missed. Water soaked through her clothes. She didn’t seem to care — she even rubbed it deliberately into the couch cushion. “I have no job. No insurance. If you don’t support me, who will?” “Give me two hundred thousand, and I walk out of here today. I won’t get in the way of your big career.” “Fine.” I nodded. I pulled a bank card from my purse — the company’s reserve fund. “Fifty thousand now. The rest when the sale closes.” “Now. Get out.” I snapped the card onto her. The edge of the card caught her cheek. It left a thin red line. Linda didn’t flinch. She grabbed the card, brought it to her lips, and kissed it. “Deal.” She pressed her hands against the arm of the couch and tried to stand. Her legs didn’t respond. The moment she shifted her weight, her whole body pitched forward and she went straight down. The impact was loud. I stood where I was and watched. Cold. Another performance. She’d been pulling this since I was a child. I’d seen it a hundred times. “Save it. The agent’s right here. You want to embarrass yourself?” Linda lay face-down on the floor, her face buried in a pile of tissues. A long moment passed. Then she let out a low, quiet laugh. “Oh my… legs fell asleep… guess I’m just getting old…” “Give me a minute, Ms. Harris… I’ll grab a few things and get out of your hair… I’m sorry for the trouble…” Inch by inch, she began to crawl toward the bedroom. Something flickered in my chest watching her move like that. But the feeling was quickly buried under disgust. She was just lazy. Too lazy to bother walking. — In the month after Linda moved out, my company closed its funding round. I treated that fifty thousand dollars as the final price of severing a family tie. I thought I was free. Then one day, my fiancé, James, suggested we swing by and pick up my ID documents to start the marriage paperwork. —

James came from a good family. I didn’t want him to see where I came from. But he insisted on meeting my mother, even a mother with a “difficult personality.” I couldn’t talk him out of it. I drove him to the studio I’d rented for Linda. The moment we entered the stairwell, I smelled it. Rot and waste and disinfectant, all tangled together. We knocked for a long time before her voice came through the door: “It’s open…” I pushed inside. Linda was lying on a cot. Around her, half-eaten instant noodle cups and empty pill bottles were piled up in every direction. She’d wasted away. Her cheeks were hollow, her cheekbones jutting. The sheet under her was damp. The kind of damp that comes from something drying and being soaked through again. James pressed his hand over his nose. His brow furrowed. He took a step back. “Ellie… is this… your mom?” I rushed to her and ripped the blanket back. “Linda! What the hell is going on?” “Where is the fifty thousand? All of it?” “You let yourself get like this on purpose? Are you trying to humiliate me?” Linda squinted against the sudden light. She spotted James standing behind me, and something flickered in her eyes — a split second of alarm. She struggled to reach for the blanket, to pull it over her legs. The legs that had shriveled away. She wheezed. “It’s… it’s gone… the gear in the game was expensive…” “Ellie, can you give Mom a little more… I want the roast duck from downstairs…” “Gone?” I shouted. “Fifty thousand dollars. In one month?” “Did you gamble it? Are you on something?” I tore through the room looking for evidence of where the money had gone. Under her pillow, I found a box. It was the packaging for a game controller. “Give me that.” Linda erupted. She threw both arms around the box and her eyes went fierce. “That’s mine. Nobody touches it.” “That’s your whole life, isn’t it? A stupid game console matters more to you than your own daughter?” I yanked it away from her. “Give it back! Ellie! Please, give it back!” Linda rolled off the cot. Those completely deformed hands clawed at the air, her nails raking across my forearm. “Ow!” I cried out and shoved her backward. She hit the dresser with a dull thud and stopped moving. “Ellie, stop wasting your breath on her.” James had seen enough. He took my hand. “Find the documents and let’s go. A mother like this — you’re better off without her.” “You’re right. Better off without her.” I caught my breath, staring at the woman still twitching on the floor, trying to drag herself back toward the box. “Linda. Starting today, you are not my mother.” “I’ll arrange for you to go to a care facility. Whatever happens after that — don’t call me.” I pulled the document from my purse — a formal written declaration of severance — and slapped it on the table. “It doesn’t hold up in court. But in my heart, you’re already gone.” I turned and pulled James toward the door. “Wait…” Her voice came from behind me, barely a sound. She didn’t beg. She didn’t curse. She raised her head. And somehow, there was a smile on her face — faint, but unmistakable. The smile of someone being released. “Ellie… keep going… don’t look back…” I stopped mid-step. My chest clenched. Those words. I knew those words. “Crazy woman,” I said through my teeth, forcing the tears back down. I grabbed the controller box I’d taken from her and hurled it at the floor. “Take your junk and die.” I walked out before James could stop me. By the time I got to the car, my hands were still shaking. “Don’t cry, Ellie.” James started the engine. “Some people can’t be helped.” I nodded and looked out the window. Then, from somewhere in the distance, a siren began to wail. An ambulance, lights flashing blue, pulled directly up to Linda’s building. My heart lurched. I looked down at the paper that had slipped out of the box — the one I’d never dropped. I’d assumed it was a manual. It wasn’t. It was a trust fund statement. Beneficiary: Eleanor Harris. Amount: $200,000. Date: five years ago. The same year Linda quit her job. The same year she “gave up.” Tucked beneath the statement was a stack of medical documents. The first one was dated five years ago too. Diagnosis: Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS). Estimated prognosis: 3 to 5 years. Patient notes: Patient declined all treatment. Pain management only. Requested all remaining funds directed to trust… The world went silent. My mind went blank. My hands shook as I turned to the note folded beneath everything else. The handwriting was almost illegible — smeared with tearstains and grease. “Ellie, Mom couldn’t give you much. I’m sorry I couldn’t build you a fortune. Mom didn’t want you to watch me fall apart. To watch me turn into something that just drools and stares. Hate me. Hate me so you can fly far away. That fifty thousand — Mom used it to clear the last of the loan sharks your father owed before he died. Nobody will come after your company anymore… Ellie, it hurts. Mom is so tired… Mom just wants to sleep…” “Stop the car!” I screamed it. The car hadn’t even stopped fully when I threw the door open and ran.

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My right hand was deliberately smashed by a rival. My father — one of the country’s top hand surgeons — falsified the injury assessment. At the police station, he spoke with complete conviction, dismissing the deliberate attack that destroyed my career as “soft tissue contusion from an accidental fall.” All because that girl’s mother was the woman he’d been in love with for half his life. When I confronted him, my father looked me dead in the eye, righteous as ever. “As a physician, I deal in objective facts. I can’t exaggerate an injury just because you’re my daughter — that would be framing an innocent person.” “Anya is about to compete in an international piano competition. A criminal record would ruin her life. Can’t you show a little compassion?” I watched Anya and her mother walk out of the police station, smug and untouched. And I smiled. I reached into my bag and pulled out the document I’d prepared — a formal declaration severing our relationship as father and daughter — and threw it in his face. “Since you’re so committed to your medical ethics. Since you love being the good guy so much.” “Then I hope when you’re old, your precious first love is there to see you through the rest of your days.”

My father didn’t read the declaration. In his eyes, it was nothing but a jealous tantrum. “Emma, are you done throwing your fit?” He picked the paper up off the floor, didn’t even glance at it, tore it in half, and dropped it in the trash. “Mrs. Shen is hosting a dinner at the Prestige Club tonight. You’re coming with me.” “Anya will be there too. It’s a good chance to clear the air and put all this behind us.” I stared at him, disbelief written all over my face. Put it behind us? My right hand was shattered. I couldn’t even lift a cup. The person who did it had just walked free. And he wanted me to go celebrate with her? “I’m not going.” Three words, flat and cold. I pushed the door open with my good hand. Behind me, my father’s voice followed — barely containing his fury. “Emma! Why do you have to be so cruel?” “Mrs. Shen raised Anya alone. It wasn’t easy. She practically begged me to come to this dinner.” “If you don’t show up, you’re disrespecting me. You’re as good as destroying that woman and her daughter.” I didn’t look back. I walked fast, down the corridor and out into the open air, away from him. Outside the police station, the night wind cut through me. My bones ached. My mother’s car was parked at the curb. She saw me and rushed over, eyes red and swollen, wringing her hands. “Sweetie, what happened? Did they open a case?” Looking at this woman — who’d spent her whole life swallowing her pain inside that house — I felt something hollow open up in my chest. “No case. They ruled it accidental.” My mother froze. Tears spilled down her face. “How… your father said he’d make sure Anya faced consequences. How can they call it an accident?” I let out a short, humorless laugh. “Mom. Your husband is a top authority in his field.” “If he says it’s an accident, then it’s an accident.” “Even if the person just crushed his own daughter’s hand.” My mother twisted her fingers together, visibly uncomfortable. “I… I’m sure your father had his reasons.” “That woman — she did save his life once, all those years ago…” “Stop.” I cut her off. “Take me to the hospital. I need nerve repair surgery.” My mother hesitated, glancing at her phone. “The thing is… your father just texted. He wants us both to go straight to the Prestige Club.” “He said if we don’t show up tonight, he’ll cut off my allowance.” I looked at her. Forty-five years old. Living like a ghost wearing someone else’s skin. Every cent she had came from my father. She didn’t even dare raise her voice at him. “Then you can go.” I took out my phone and called a rideshare. “I’ll get there myself.” “Emma, please don’t—” She reached for me. I stepped back. “Mom. If you still want to be my mother, don’t go to that dinner.” “If you go, then as far as I’m concerned, you never had me.” The car arrived. Through the window, I watched my mother standing on the curb, torn. Then she sighed, turned around, and got in her own car. Heading toward the Prestige Club. I closed my eyes. The tears finally came. This was my family. A father drowning in a love that wasn’t meant for us. A mother too weak to swim against the current. And me — the unwanted sacrifice caught in the middle. — Back at the hospital, I’d barely lay down when my phone started buzzing nonstop. On Instagram, Anya had posted a nine-photo spread. She was in a designer gown, seated at a grand piano that probably cost more than most people’s apartments. My father stood behind her, smiling — warm, paternal, like something out of a catalog. The caption read: “Grateful for Dr. Lin’s integrity, and for my mom’s love. Real talent doesn’t bow to rumors. Cheers!” Integrity? Real talent? Go to hell. I tapped the comments. All her socialite friends, falling over themselves. “Anya, you’re amazing!” “Dr. Lin truly put principle over family — respect!” “Whatever happened to that girl who played piano like she was punching it? She couldn’t even make it to toast her?” Anya replied: “Probably home losing her mind, lol lol lol.” I stared at the screen. My good hand clenched into a fist. Then a new notification popped up. A money transfer. From my father. Amount: $200. Note: “Stop acting out. Get yourself some vitamins. I’ve already told Mrs. Shen she doesn’t need to cover your rehab costs — they’re preparing for an international tour and expenses are tight. Try to be understanding.” I read it twice. My stomach turned over. I wanted to be sick. I threw my phone at the wall. —

I spent three days in the hospital. My father didn’t visit once. Instead, Mrs. Shen — Sandra Shen — showed up. She brought a box of discount cookies that were nearly expired. She was dressed in a simple but well-tailored dress, standing at the door of my room with her signature wounded expression. “Emma, sweetie. Just came to check on you.” She set the cookies on the bedside table and smoothed her hair. “Anya’s been under so much pressure with the competition. She accidentally hurt your hand.” “I’ve already had a serious talk with her.” “And your father helped clear everything up. So we’re even now, right?” Even? I looked at that cheap little box of cookies and almost laughed. “My hands could play Chopin. And you think they’re worth a box of clearance cookies?” Sandra’s expression flickered. Then the smile came back. “Oh, Emma, don’t be like that.” “When your father had that malpractice incident years ago, it was me who took the fall for him. Remember that.” “A person has to have some conscience. Your father understands that — that’s why he’s so reasonable.” “Besides, your family is well off. You’re not exactly hurting for the rehab money, are you?” “My Anya is performing at Carnegie Hall. She cannot have a criminal record following her around.” In that moment, I finally understood the expression shameless and unstoppable. These people were leeches. And my father was the fool who’d been baring his neck for them — and complaining the blood wasn’t flowing fast enough. “Get out.” I pointed at the door. “Take your cookies and get out.” Sandra’s smile collapsed. “You have no manners whatsoever. No wonder Anya can’t stand you. You need to be taught a lesson.” She muttered all the way out, cookies in hand. Right before the door closed, she threw one spectacular eye roll. Disgusting. Absolutely disgusting. That afternoon, the head nurse came in with a billing statement. Her expression wasn’t good. “Emma, your account is in arrears.” “If you don’t make a payment, tomorrow’s secondary nerve reconstruction surgery will have to be cancelled.” I went still. “Arrears? My father — Dr. Lin — didn’t pay?” The head nurse shook her head. “Dr. Lin called yesterday and withdrew the $20,000 prepayment.” “He said… he said the other family urgently needed the money to purchase a limited-edition antique violin, and he was lending it to them in the meantime.” “He said you should cover it yourself for now.” Something snapped inside me. Clean and final. He withdrew my surgery money — to buy an instrument for the person who destroyed me? What kind of father does that? My hands were shaking as I borrowed the nurse’s phone to call him. It rang for a long time before he picked up. From the background came the lilt of a violin, and my father’s easy, relaxed laughter. “Hello? Who’s this?” “It’s me.” A brief silence on the other end. Then my father’s voice, impatient. “Emma? Where’s your phone? Why are you calling from a strange number?” “Richard. You withdrew my surgery funds.” I used his first name. “Is that how you talk to your father?” His voice climbed a few notes. “Sandra and Anya are about to go on tour and they need to look the part.” “You’re resting in the hospital — that surgery can wait a few days, it’s not going anywhere. So I moved the money to help them out temporarily.” “You still have money from your performances, don’t you? Use that.” “Don’t be selfish. Learn to be happy for other people.” Happy for other people? He was breaking my fingers one by one to roll out a red carpet for someone else. “That surgery is my only chance to save my right hand!” I screamed into the phone. “The doctor said if we miss this window, I will never play again!” “You gave the money to Anya for a violin? Are you out of your mind?” From the other end, Sandra’s voice drifted in, theatrical and soft. “Oh, Richard, if Emma really needs it urgently, we can hold off on the violin for now…” Then my father’s voice, firm and decided. “Sandra, don’t listen to her. She’s being dramatic.” “These local doctors love to scare people — it’s never as serious as they make it sound.” “The performance is what matters. Anya is on the verge of being scouted by the Royal Academy. She needs a proper instrument.” “Emma, figure it out yourself. Don’t bother me with this.” Click. The line went dead. —

I stood there holding the phone. Frozen. The head nurse looked at me with something like pity. “Emma… maybe you could call your mom?” My mom? The woman who had to log every grocery receipt and get it approved? I shook my head. “It’s okay.” “Please start the discharge paperwork.” “But your hand—” “I’m not getting treated.” If the world was going to be this rotten, I didn’t have to keep pretending to be a good girl. I went home once — while no one was there. I packed everything that was mine. Except for the written declaration severing ties with my father. That I left behind. My rare vinyl records. My formal gowns. Every gold medal I’d earned since childhood. All of it went up on eBay. Priced to sell. Cash only. With that money, I rented a small apartment in the next town over — one with an elevator. Then I found a private rehabilitation center. I’d missed the optimal treatment window. I’d never play technically demanding pieces again. But the doctor said with enough hard work, I could regain basic use of my hand for everyday life. I used to be the national youth piano championship winner. Now I was someone who couldn’t hold a fork without trembling. But I didn’t cry. I’d cried all my tears out that afternoon. There was nothing left. — Half a month later. I was in the middle of rehab, sweating through grip exercises with a silicone ball. The door to my room swung open. My father walked in with Anya and Sandra. The three of them moved like they owned the place. His face was tight. He was holding a document. “Emma! What are you doing hiding out here?” “Do you have any idea how long we’ve been looking for you?” I ignored him. Kept squeezing the ball, jaw clenched. Every squeeze felt like tearing something loose inside my hand. Anya was chewing gum, bored out of her mind. “Told you she was hiding, Dr. Lin.” “So dramatic. It’s just a hand injury. It’s not like she’s dying.” My father dropped the document on my bedside table with a slap. I glanced at it. Voluntary Waiver of Liability. For the competition organizing committee. “Word got back to the committee that Anya hurt someone. They’re threatening to revoke her entry.” My father said it like he was stating obvious logic. “If you sign this — admit that you hurt yourself accidentally — they’ll reinstate her spot.” “Anya is on the verge of winning gold. You can’t let something this small ruin her future.” I hurt myself. I stopped moving. I turned and looked at him. “She waited until I wasn’t looking and brought a solid wood piano lid — dozens of pounds — crashing down on my hand.” “And you’re calling that me hurting myself?” “Dr. Lin, how do you even say that out loud?” His eyes shifted for just a second. Then the authority snapped back into place. “If you say it happened that way, then that’s how it happened.” “I’m the certified expert. I know how to handle these things.” “Sign it. Stop wasting everyone’s time.” Sandra chimed in helpfully from the side. “Exactly, Emma. We’re practically family. Why make everything so tense?” “If Anya gets banned, how is she supposed to have a career?” “Why do you have to be so vindictive?” I looked at the three of them. And suddenly the whole thing felt almost absurd. “And if I don’t sign?” Anya spat her gum on the floor, crossed the room, and shoved me — hard. I was already off-balance. I hit the ground. My right hand caught the floor. The pain was blinding. “Ahh—” I cried out. My father flinched, started instinctively toward me. Anya stopped him. “Don’t baby her, Dr. Lin.” “She’s faking.” “Emma, listen to me. You’re signing this today whether you want to or not.” “Every time I see you, I’ll make you hurt. Every single time.” She raised her foot — in heels — directly over my bandaged right hand. “Stop!” —

My father finally spoke up. Not to protect me. To protect himself. “Anya, keep your hands to yourself. There are cameras in here.” He pulled Anya back and looked down at me from where I lay on the floor. “Emma. I’m asking you one last time. Are you signing or not?” “If you don’t sign, don’t expect another cent from me. Ever.” “And don’t bother coming home.” I was on the floor, soaked in cold sweat from the pain. But I started laughing. “Home?” “The home where my surgery money was handed to the person who broke my hand so she could buy a violin?” “The home where my own father lied for the person who attacked me?” “Richard. Did you forget?” “I already cut ties with you.” With my left hand, I pulled a backup phone out of my pocket. The screen showed it was recording. “Anya shoving me just now. All of you pressuring me to sign a false statement. I got it all.” “This time, I’m not letting any of you walk away from this.” My father’s face went white. “You… you set me up?” I pushed myself up off the floor, inch by inch. Like a hawk with a broken wing — but with the eyes of something far more dangerous. “You taught me, Dad.” “A physician deals in objective facts.” My father panicked. He was one of the top specialists in the country. He knew better than anyone what reputation was worth. Anya shoving me — causing a second injury. Combined with audio of them pressuring a victim to sign a false statement and admitting to falsifying the original assessment. If any of this got out, his career was finished. “Emma, give me the phone.” His tone softened. Trying to use family as leverage. “We’re family. We can talk this through.” “Anya just has a short temper. She didn’t mean it.” I watched his hand reach toward me. “Grab the phone, Anya.” Sandra’s voice cut across the room. Anya lunged for it. I’d been ready. I hit send. The file went straight to cloud storage — and simultaneously to several prominent music journalists I’d already contacted. “Too late.” I dropped the phone on the floor. “It’s already out.” Anya stomped it to pieces, then grabbed my collar. “You little—you set me up?” Then the door burst open. Security flooded in, followed by my attending physician. “Hey! What the hell is going on in here!” The doctor took one look at me on the floor — blood seeping through the bandaging — and went pale with fury. “She’s in recovery. This is deliberate assault!” “Call the police. Right now.” The police arrived fast. It was a hospital — a public space — and the conduct was flagrant. Anya was cuffed on the spot. Sandra threw herself on the floor, wailing that I was trying to frame them. My father stood in the corner like a statue someone had forgotten to animate. He looked at me. No guilt in his eyes. Only the stunned, burning anger of a man who’d been defied. “Emma. You’ve deeply disappointed me.” His voice was hoarse, but he was still trying to hold onto that tone — authoritative, above it all. “Is this you destroying Anya? Destroying your own father?” I climbed back into my treatment chair. The nurse came over and rewrapped the bandaging. Blood seeped slowly through the gauze, blooming like something ugly. I looked up at him. My voice was perfectly calm. “Dad, it’s not me that’s destroying you.” “It’s your greed. Your favoritism. And that self-righteous idea you have of what ‘integrity’ looks like.” I paused, like I was just reminding him of something routine. “Also — while you still have a license, find yourself a good lawyer.” “I’m going all the way with this.” — That night, the video went viral.

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I opened my eyes again. The cold still clung to my skin. The terror from my final moments — that suffocating grip on every nerve — hadn’t left me yet. I was locked in a psychiatric facility. So how am I back here, on the day I married Ethan? I’ve been reborn. A rush of wild joy swept through me. Does this mean I can change the fate of myself and my family? In my past life, Ethan had crushed my entire family into bankruptcy — all for the sake of his first love. Then, after he’d destroyed everything we had, he had me committed. The orderlies were free to do whatever they wanted to me. I died slowly, broken, in the cold of a winter night. This time around, I had spent my days scouring the world for women who looked like her — like Catherine, his precious first love. This time, I want to see for myself just how unshakeable this great love of yours really is. In my past life, Ethan and I married as part of a business arrangement between our two families. At first, we managed a civil enough distance. Then his first love, Catherine Cole, came back from abroad — and everything changed. I didn’t care how many women he kept on the side. Our marriage was a bridge between the Song family and the Lu family, and that was all it needed to be. But I underestimated how cruel people could be. And I overestimated how much that bridge meant to him. All it took was Catherine saying she refused to get involved with a married man. That one sentence was enough for Ethan to make up his mind. He planted spies inside my family’s company, stole our most valuable technology, then turned around and accused us of wrongdoing. He drove the Song Group into bankruptcy. My brother and my father were sent to prison. When my mother heard the news, she stepped off the roof of the Song Group building. And me — I went after Ethan with nothing left to lose. He had me committed to a psychiatric facility for it. I endured the orderlies’ endless cruelty until one winter night, they left me outside in the cold and I never came back in. Thinking about it now, I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek until I tasted iron. Ethan. This life, it’s your turn to pay. After the wedding, Ethan and I moved into his villa up in the hills. I hadn’t noticed before, but the whole place was soaked in memories of him and Catherine. The pink stuffed animals on the couch. The bow-tied curtains. The sweet floral diffuser in the bathroom. Eight years, and he’d kept every trace of their life together perfectly intact. First thing the next morning, I called the housekeeper and had all of it removed. When Ethan woke up and found the house completely transformed, he came at me furious. “What did you do? You completely rearranged my house without even asking me?” I looked at him with a calm smile, mockery tucked just beneath the surface. “Your house? We’re married — I live here too. Why can’t I change what I don’t like?” I tilted my head. “Or are you saying you never actually intended to make this marriage work?” Ethan’s move against my family wouldn’t come for another two years. Right now, he still needed the Song family’s support, so he had no choice but to swallow his anger. “I’m sorry. I lost my temper. That was out of line.” He stared at me, his words slow and deliberate. I pretended not to notice the fury in his eyes. I didn’t even bother responding. After breakfast, I went back to the office at Song Group. My brother, Marcus, looked up in surprise when he saw me walk in. “Why didn’t you take a few more days? Aren’t you two supposed to be on your honeymoon?” I laughed it off. “I wasn’t feeling it. I’m young — I have plenty of time to travel. Right now I’d rather be building something.” Marcus shook his head with a grin and gave me a light knock on the head. “Relax. Even if you turned out to be completely useless, I’d still take care of you.” My throat tightened. I almost cried right there. My brother. This wonderful, ridiculous man. In my last life, he ended up in prison because of me, beaten so badly he walked with a permanent limp. I pushed the rage back down and called my assistant over. I handed her a photo and a USB drive. “Find me at least five women who look as close to this person as possible.” “Have them study the videos on that drive. Every gesture, every expression — I want them to learn how she moves, how she smiles.” “It has to be convincing. So convincing that even I can’t tell them apart from the real thing.” What I was doing didn’t stay secret from my parents or Marcus for long. At dinner, my father glanced at me carefully, then finally spoke up. “Ava… who is this woman you’ve been looking for?”

I swallowed my food and answered quietly. “Ethan’s first love. He never got over her.” I set down my fork. “I figured — why wait for her to show up and blow everything apart? Better to get ahead of it. Kill it before it starts.” My parents exchanged a long look. Neither of them spoke. Marcus stepped in. “Ava’s handling her own marriage, and she’s doing it for a reason. Our job is to have her back.” He glanced at me. “When has she ever done anything without thinking it through?” I shot him a grateful look. My parents didn’t push further, though the worry never left their eyes. That evening, I came home to find Ethan on the couch, looking dark. I had no interest in engaging. I walked straight past him and headed upstairs. The sound of glass shattering stopped me on the stairs. “Ava. We’ve been married one week. Is it too much to ask where you’ve been?” His voice rose. “I came home expecting to have dinner with you. I waited three hours!” I turned and looked at him, my voice flat. “Ethan, this is a business arrangement. What exactly did you think was going to happen — that we’d actually build a life together?” I held his gaze. “And for the record, don’t wait on me for dinner. I’m not here to cater to you.” I ignored the crash of something else hitting the floor behind me and locked my bedroom door. Three months later, my assistant reported back: the women were ready. She asked me to come review them. Five near-identical versions of Catherine stood in the dance studio, lined up and waiting. They greeted me politely in unison. “Miss Song.” The college student — Zoe — was the most convincing of them all. The moment Ethan spotted her at the charity auction, something shifted in him. “Catherine?” I watched his hand tighten around the railing. “What’s wrong?” I asked, playing innocent. A flicker of something crossed his face. “Nothing. I thought she was someone else.” He didn’t say another word for the rest of the evening. I spent the night happily putting Ethan’s credit card to good use, bidding on a necklace I’d had my eye on — a massive, deep blue sapphire pendant they called the Heart of the Ocean. Zoe brought it to me with both hands, her head slightly bowed. Her hair smelled like gardenia, which was exactly the scent I’d told her to wear. Catherine’s scent. That same night, Zoe messaged me. Ethan had already reached out to her. The fish had taken the bait. After meeting Zoe, Ethan stopped coming home. He set her up in a private villa on the outskirts of the city. Two months later, I arranged for another Catherine lookalike to apply for the position of his personal assistant. She got the job without a hitch. Then came the elder Mr. Lu’s birthday. Ethan came to pick me up — but someone was already sitting in the passenger seat. His new personal assistant, Jessica. Catherine number two. I stood outside the car, arms folded, and just looked at him. Jessica played her role perfectly, greeting me with a bright smile. “Ma’am, Mr. Lu says I’m required to accompany him at all times. I hope that’s not a problem?” I made a show of irritation and fixed her with a cold look. “Get out.” She reached for the door handle, but Ethan’s hand shot out and stopped her. “Stay where you are. That’s your seat.” Then he turned to me. “If you don’t want to ride with us, you’re welcome to drive yourself.” I turned and walked toward the garage. That was exactly what I’d been waiting for him to say. By the time I arrived at the Lu estate, everyone was already assembled. Jessica stood at Ethan’s side, playing the gracious companion as he greeted guests. When I walked in, the room went quiet. Jessica moved to greet me — and managed to splash red wine all over my dress. Every person in that room read it the same way: Ethan’s mistress putting his wife in her place. Ethan stepped forward and put himself between us, shielding her. “Jessica didn’t mean it. Just go change.” I didn’t say a word. I simply looked at both of them. Sensing the tension, Ethan’s mother cut in and slapped him on the arm. “Who told you to bring someone like this to a family event?” To his credit, Ethan wasn’t stupid enough to embarrass his parents over a kept woman. He hesitated, then quietly told the butler to see Jessica out. Her eyes went glassy, and she looked up at him with the expression of someone trying very hard not to cry. “Behave. I’ll come find you when this is over.” Then he shot me a look of pure disdain — as if I were the one responsible for her being sent away. Everyone present could see exactly what he was doing. He was humiliating me, and he wasn’t trying to hide it. On the drive home after the banquet, with the elder Mr. Lu present, I brought up the matter of compensation. “What you do on your own time is your business. But if you want me to keep covering for you, that’s a separate conversation.” Ethan had drunk more than usual. He let out a short, contemptuous laugh. “Ava. You really do have a price for everything.” I didn’t flinch. “I want the position of Director of Human Resources at Lu Group. Is that unreasonable?” He opened his eyes and looked at me sideways. “What would you want that for?” The elder Mr. Lu cut him off with a quiet nod in my direction. I understood. It was his apology for his grandson’s behavior. And his way of asking me not to make a scene.

In the days that followed, I installed Catherine number three as a live-in housekeeper at the hill villa. Then I arranged for Catherine number four to take up a regular spot at the bar Ethan liked to visit. Each of them had her own personality — but every one of them moved with a trace of Catherine in the way she carried herself. Every single one of them pulled at something in Ethan he couldn’t control. He welcomed all of them, one by one. But after a while, even the things you’re drawn to start to lose their pull. Ethan began coming home more often. That irritated me. I did the math. Catherine would be back in the country in six months. It was time to make sure he was completely, thoroughly worn out on her face before she arrived. His university’s alumni anniversary was coming up. As his wife, I was expected to attend. I planned something special for the occasion. I’d heard the story of how they first met — at a campus gala. Catherine was the emcee. Ethan, as student body president, was called up to give a speech. As they passed each other on stage, she turned her ankle. That stumble was where it all began. I decided to recreate it. Catherine number five was booked as the emcee for the event. Right on cue, she stumbled as she passed Ethan — and fell neatly into his arms. But something unexpected happened. Ethan paused for only a moment. He didn’t seek her out afterward. If anything, he surprised me completely. After the speech, he walked directly toward me, took my hand, and led me over to the faculty members and administrators gathered nearby. “I’d like you all to meet my wife, Ava. I wanted to take the opportunity to introduce her to the people who’ve meant the most to me here.” I smiled and greeted them warmly. One of the professors — an older man — chuckled and said, almost to himself, “Didn’t you spend half your university years chasing after that girl… what was her name, Catherine? You two were absolutely inseparable.” “Half a semester, you were skipping my class for dates. If I hadn’t gone easy on you, you would have failed.” Ethan took it in stride, laughing and making an apology to his old professor. Still, I wanted to be thorough. To make certain that face had completely lost its hold on him. On the drive home that night, Ethan had been drinking. I suggested we walk a little to clear his head. He agreed easily enough. We were passing a narrow alley when a woman’s voice rang out from the darkness — crying for help. The voice was identical to Catherine’s. Ethan grabbed my hand and told me to call the police. Then he went in himself. By the time the police wouldn’t have even arrived, he was already walking back out — with Catherine number five in his arms. But the moment he got her to the hospital and made sure she was settled, he turned to leave, pulling me along with him. I was surprised. “You’re not going to stay with her?” He gave me an odd look. “Do we know her? We helped her — that doesn’t mean we’re responsible for her. Come on, let’s go home.” I let myself smile. When the white-moonlight fantasy stops working, what comes next isn’t indifference. It’s revulsion. On my instructions, Zoe — who had recently been broken up with — began making a scene. Every day, she packed a homemade lunch and waited outside Ethan’s office building, eyes red-rimmed and brimming. One afternoon, Ethan happened to be walking a client out when she spotted him and ran over, not caring who was watching. “Ethan, please don’t do this. You said you’d love me forever — were you lying?” The clients turned to stare. The expressions on their faces said everything. Ethan’s face went through several shades. He shook her off hard. “Security — get her out of here!” Zoe stumbled and hit the ground. The carefully packed lunch she’d brought him scattered across the pavement. Afterward, she sent me a message confirming it was done. I raised my glass. Ethan. This is only the beginning.

The second one to cause a scene was Jessica. Ethan and I had just come home from a dinner event when we found her blocking the entrance to the villa. He’d spoiled her. She knew it. She yanked open the car door and pulled me out by the arm before either of us had a chance to react. I stumbled and barely caught myself. “Jessica, what the hell—” Her eyes were red. Her voice shook with barely contained fury. “You said you’d never fall for her! You said you only loved me! You said I could do whatever I wanted!” The tears came then, fast and uncontrolled. “I’m not accepting this breakup. If you leave me, I’ll kill myself.” That woke Ethan’s temper up fast. He stepped in front of me, then turned and slapped Jessica hard across the face. “Don’t ever threaten me. You want to? Go ahead.” His coldness chilled something inside me. This was the same man who, in another life, had turned on me after two years together without blinking. Even for someone he’d actually cared about, he could walk away without hesitation. His assistant called shortly after — Jessica had gone home and slit her wrists. Ethan’s only response was to mutter that it was bad luck. He didn’t go see her. He didn’t even look up. Just sat there looking mildly inconvenienced. Two months left before Catherine’s return. I was getting anxious. I couldn’t let last time repeat itself. To be sure, I had the remaining lookalikes turn up the pressure — pushing every boundary until, within a single week, Ethan ended things with all of them. That evening, Marcus called me out for dinner. He leaned back in his chair and gave me a look that was almost reproachful. “Ava, since you moved into Lu Group, I’ve noticed you’ve been pulling some of our people over there.” He paused. “Can you tell me why?” I stared at him. My grip tightened on my fork. After a long pause, I finally spoke. “What if I told you that Ethan is going to come after us? Would you believe me?” Marcus went still. “How could you know that? Did he do something to you?” My eyes burned. I felt the tears coming before I could stop them. So I told him everything. The whole truth — the other life, the rebirth, all of it. I wasn’t sure he’d believe me. But the secret had been crushing me for months. I couldn’t carry it anymore. What I didn’t expect was for him to stand up immediately and pull me into a hug. “Ava. I’m so sorry. You’ve been carrying all of this alone.” I grabbed the sleeve of his jacket and finally let myself fall apart — crying until I couldn’t breathe, letting out everything I’d been holding back across two lifetimes. When I finally steadied, Marcus asked what my plan was. “I’m not completely sure whether Ethan went after us purely because of Catherine or whether there were other factors. But we can’t afford to assume anything.” I steadied my voice. “The people I moved from Song Group to Lu Group — they’re the same employees who sold our core technology last time. Given how greedy they are, a little persuasion is all it’ll take to get them selling Lu Group’s secrets back to us instead.” “And Jessica already handed over everything she could access — evidence of Lu Group’s connections to some very questionable business dealings.” “This time, we’re going to be ready. By the time we’re done, Ethan won’t have anything left to stand on.” Marcus held my shoulder and told me not to worry. This time, he promised, he would protect me. The two months passed quickly. The contact I’d placed near Catherine sent word: she’d bought a return ticket. She’d be landing next Monday. That night, I overheard Ethan on the phone. His voice was calm, measured — but he agreed to pick her up from the airport. At arrivals, the moment Catherine saw Ethan, her eyes lit up. But Ethan — something was different. The instant he saw her face, an inexplicable irritation rose inside him and didn’t stop climbing.

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For three hundred and sixty-two days, I have texted my boyfriend the exact same photo as a daily check-in. He still hasn’t noticed. Other messages quickly buried the photo I just sent, rolling up and off the screen. My roommate leaned over my shoulder, her eyes wide with disbelief. “Is Gilbert literally blind? You’ve sent him the exact same picture of your lunch for almost a year, and he hasn’t noticed once?” A year ago, he asked me what I was having for lunch. I snapped a quick, nondescript photo of a turkey panini and a side salad and sent it over. He told me to keep doing it—to send him a daily update of my meals so he’d know I was eating well. But I’ve sent that exact same photo three hundred and sixty-two times since. He hasn’t tapped to enlarge it once. I typed another message below the photo: Out at that bistro with Erica today. His reply came instantly. Erica hates onions. Why didn’t you ask them to take them off her plate? Of course. The moment Erica’s name entered the conversation, his attention to detail became razor-sharp. We’ve been together for a year, yet he knows my best friend’s quirks and preferences infinitely better than my own. Every time we planned a weekend trip or a night out, he only agreed to come if Erica was joining us. Even at our university’s career fair, he went out of his way to hand-deliver Erica’s resume to an alumnus he was close with at a top firm. “Erica’s resume isn’t as strong as yours,” he’d told me casually when I asked why he hadn’t done the same for me. “You’ve got the GPA to get hired anywhere on your own.” So Erica got the offer. She walked right into the same corporate office as Gilbert, working just down the hall from him. I was rejected, landing a role at a firm on the opposite side of the city. Seeing Gilbert became a logistical chore, a trek across heavy traffic. Meanwhile, he and Erica commuted together every single day, sharing morning coffees and evening rides. I’m organizing a dinner with our college friends this weekend, I texted him. Can you make it? Can’t do it, he shot back. It’s Erica’s birthday this weekend. Why would you even schedule it for then? He had completely forgotten. That Saturday was our one-year anniversary. It was also the day my wager with Erica would expire—the day I was supposed to leave him. 1 Gilbert’s messages popped up in rapid succession. And you call yourself her best friend. How do you not even remember her birthday? Reschedule the dinner with your friends. We’re celebrating Erica this weekend. I couldn’t reschedule the dinner. It wasn’t just a casual get-together; it was my farewell party. I had quietly accepted a three-year transfer to our London office. When I returned, it would be with a guaranteed promotion to regional director. A year ago, on Erica’s birthday, her wish over the blown-out candles had been to end up with Gilbert. I remember the flickering warm light on her face, and how her eyes had swollen red with tears when she confronted me afterward, asking why I had confessed my feelings to him first. I hadn’t known. I had absolutely no idea we were in love with the same man. I had felt so horribly guilty, so deeply apologetic. Erica had pointed at my glowing phone screen. “If you text him the exact same photo every day for a year and he never notices, it means he doesn’t really look at you. If he doesn’t notice, you let him go, and let me have my chance. Deal?” It sounded absurd at the time. I wanted to laugh. Who could possibly go a whole year without noticing their partner was sending the exact same picture? So, I had smiled and nodded, confident in my relationship. But I had been incredibly, foolishly naive. Gilbert had made sure I lost the bet in the most devastating way possible. I went to put my phone down to continue packing my suitcases, but the screen lit up again. It was a message from Erica: Three days left on our bet! She didn’t need to remind me. I had long realized this was a game I had already lost. That was why I hadn’t invited her to the farewell dinner. Our friendship, once so open and effortless, had deteriorated into something sharp, fragile, and distant. I didn’t know how to look her in the eye and say goodbye. When I didn’t reply to his texts, Gilbert’s incoming call screen flashed. “What are you doing? Why aren’t you replying?” His tone was sharp, a demand rather than a genuine inquiry. He wasn’t worried about my well-being; he was simply irritated by the delay. He expected immediate compliance. He didn’t even wait for me to answer. “You can hang out with your college friends anytime. We all live in the same city; you can see them whenever. Erica’s birthday only happens once a year.” I stared at my flight itinerary on my desk. Even though we lived in the same city, the last time we had seen each other in person was three months ago. He always blamed it on work—late nights, deadlines, climbing the corporate ladder. “I’m doing this for us,” he’d say. “If I don’t grind now, how am I going to afford a ring and a house for us?” An empty, glittering promise used as a shield to avoid a forty-minute drive to see me. Yet, he always found the time to travel to Chicago for a three-day marketing seminar because Erica needed a senior mentor to accompany her. I knew the answer, but a pathetic, stubborn part of me still needed to ask. “Gilbert… do you know what day it is in three days?” 2 “Erica’s birthday. What else would it be?” He sounded entirely dismissive, moving briskly to his next point. “Just make sure you buy her a nice gift. I already booked the restaurant and ordered the cake.” He let out a dry laugh. “Honestly, you’re her best friend and you’re this hands-off. Good thing I’m here to handle the details.” I swallowed the sudden lump of bitterness in my throat. On my birthday last month, he had told me he had to work late. I had driven down to his office downtown, booked a table at a bistro nearby, and waited in my car until he finally logged off. He had forgotten to order a cake, grabbing a dry, single-slice cupcake from a grocery store counter on his way out. I had been visibly upset that night, and we hadn’t spoken for three days afterward. He had complained to his friends that I was high-maintenance and didn’t understand the pressure he was under. Yet, for Erica, he remembered everything. He planned everything. “I’ll have a gift for her,” I said quietly. Hearing this, Gilbert finally seemed satisfied. Without another word of inquiry about my day or my health, he hung up. I stared at my call history. His name appeared so infrequently it looked like the contact log of a distant acquaintance. Our last call before today had been a month ago, when Erica fainted at work due to severe menstrual cramps. Gilbert had panicked, rushing her to the ER in a frantic state. He had called me from the waiting room, his voice shaking, asking what medication she usually took for pain. I had never heard him sound so terrified, so desperately anxious. A few months prior, I had fallen off a step-stool while cleaning my apartment windows, fracturing my ankle and spending a week in the hospital. Gilbert hadn’t shown up until the second evening. “How do you manage to break a bone just cleaning a window?” he had muttered, setting down a cheap bouquet of supermarket flowers. “You’re so clumsy.” He stayed for exactly thirty minutes before his phone buzzed with a work question from Erica. He left in a hurry to help her iron out a proposal. He never visited me again during my recovery. I reached for the beautifully wrapped gift box sitting beside my suitcase. I did have a gift for Erica. We had been best friends for over a decade, growing up on the same tree-lined street, sharing lockers, sharing secrets. I used to think what we had was unbreakable. I used to start planning her birthday gifts six months in advance, sourcing rare books or handmade jewelry. I thought we’d be doing this when we were grey and old. I didn’t realize this would be the final one. My transfer paperwork was complete. The HR department had already signed off, granting me a week of paid leave to pack before my flight. I was at a local boutique picking out small parting gifts for our college friends when my phone rang. It was Derek, our former class president, who was coordinating the dinner. “Hey, Melissa. Gilbert called me earlier and said we need to cancel the dinner this Saturday? Does this mean you’re staying? Are you guys finally getting engaged or something?” Derek’s tone was teasing, though I could hear a faint trace of disappointment. Back in college, I had graduated top of our major. Everyone assumed I’d easily land a spot at the prestigious consultancy firm alongside Gilbert. But during the final round, something shifted behind closed doors. Gilbert’s uncle was a senior partner there, and somehow, Erica ended up with the position instead of me. Everyone in our department had been shocked, but we were quickly learning that the corporate world cared very little about grade point averages compared to personal connections. I had swallowed my pride, taken a role at a smaller competitor, and worked my way up through sheer grit. But I never expected Gilbert to take it upon himself to call Derek and cancel my own send-off party. 3 I swallowed the tightness in my throat, forcing my voice to remain steady. “No, nothing like that. Gilbert just won’t be able to make it himself. The dinner is still on. My flights are already booked, Derek.” Derek sounded confused, but he had the grace not to pry. “Alright, then. We’ll see you Saturday at seven.” After hanging up, I took my items to the counter. As the cashier was ringing them up, a familiar laugh echoed from the high-end boutique across the atrium. “Will that be all for today, ma’am?” the cashier asked, her polite voice snapping me out of my trance. I looked across the mall. Gilbert was standing outside a luxury shoe store, carrying three large shopping bags. Erica was beside him, holding a designer coat against herself, looking up at him with a bright, radiant smile. How rare. In our year of dating, I could count the times he had accompanied me to a mall on one hand. Even then, he’d set a strict timer. Twenty minutes, max. “If you know what you need, just buy it and let’s go,” he would grumble, checking his watch. “What’s the point of wandering around aimlessly?” But now, watching him lean against a railing, patiently waiting as Erica tried on different outfits, it was clear his patience wasn’t short. It was just reserved entirely for her. I paid for my items and turned toward the escalators, hoping to slip away unnoticed. “Melissa!” Erica’s voice carried over the ambient mall music, sharp and clear. Several shoppers turned their heads, and I had no choice but to stop and turn around. Gilbert approached, his eyes dropping to the boutique bags in my hands. “Is that Erica’s gift?” I shook my head slightly. “No. These are just some things for the weekend.” His brow furrowed immediately, a familiar look of disapproval settling over his face. “I thought I told you to get her gift ready. You’re always focusing on your own things.” The casual sting of his rebuke made my chest tighten. He spoke with the easy authority of someone who had entirely forgotten whose boyfriend he actually was. Erica nudged his arm, looking at him with gentle reproach. “Stop it, Gilbert. Melissa probably bought my gift weeks ago. Right, Ly?” She gave me a playful, knowing wink, playing the role of the peacemaker perfectly. Gilbert let out a soft sigh, his expression softening as he looked down at her. “You always defend her, Erica. But look at her—she didn’t even remember your birthday until I brought it up.” “How could I forget a day this important?” I said, my voice flat, devoid of any anger. The day I confessed my feelings to him. Our one-year anniversary. The day I officially conceded the wager. But in Gilbert’s mind, the only significance of this date belonged to Erica. Gilbert scoffed. “Sure. If I hadn’t reminded you, you’d be off having dinner with Derek and the others.” Erica’s eyes widened slightly in surprise. “A reunion dinner? You didn’t tell me about that.” She looked at me, her expression instantly shifting to one of hurt. “Melissa, are you mad at me? I feel like you’ve been so distant lately. You never have time to hang out anymore. Gilbert’s the only one who ever keeps me company these days.” “I’ve been very busy,” I replied quietly. And soon, I won’t have any time for you at all, I added in my head. Besides, she didn’t need my company anymore. She had already replaced me with my own boyfriend. Seeing the disappointment on Erica’s face, Gilbert quickly stepped in to comfort her. “Well, her office is all the way uptown now. It’s naturally harder for her to make the drive than it is for me.” Erica’s smile returned, bright and easy. “Yeah, that’s true.” I watched them stand there, their shoulders brushing. Even though I had spent months preparing myself for this, the sight still carved a cold, hollow space in my chest. It felt like standing in an open field in dead winter, watching the wind carry away the last remnants of my twenties—my best friend and my first real love—leaving me entirely bare. My phone vibrated in my hand with a notification—my boarding pass confirmation for London. Gilbert caught a glimpse of the screen. “An airline confirmation? You going on a business trip?” I didn’t answer, letting the silence serve as a quiet affirmation. He didn’t press further anyway; it was just a passing thought. He had always been this way—asking questions about my life out of habit, never actually waiting for the answers. By the time we walked out of the mall, a torrential downpour had started. I was waiting under the awning for an Uber when Gilbert’s dark sedan pulled up to the curb. The passenger window rolled down. “Get in,” Gilbert called out. “We can drop you off on our way.” Erica was sitting in the passenger seat, looking out at me with a warm smile. On our way. The words felt like a small, sharp twist of a knife. But what made me freeze entirely was the small, playful decal on the passenger-side dashboard: Reserved for the Girlfriend. I stood there, paralyzed, as rain began to splatter against my shoes. Behind Gilbert’s car, a taxi honked impatiently. Gilbert glared at me through the windshield. “Come on, Melissa, you’re blocking traffic. Get in.” “No, thanks,” I said. I turned, stepping out from under the dry awning, and ran straight into the pouring rain toward a yellow cab that had just pulled up down the block. 4 The rain caught up to me. By the next morning, I was running a high fever, my joints aching under the blankets. My mother called me on FaceTime to check in on my packing progress. “Oh, sweetie, you look terrible,” she said, squinting at the screen. “Where’s Gilbert? Shouldn’t he be there taking care of you?” She paused, her expression turning tentative. “Is he… is he upset about the London transfer? Does he think three years is too long to wait?” When Gilbert and I first started dating, I had called her immediately, bubbling over with excitement. I had spent three years of college harboring a quiet, desperate crush on him, and when he finally asked me out, it felt like a miracle. Back then, I was naive enough to believe in happily-ever-afters. I shook my head on the pillow. “We actually broke up, Mom.” My mother sighed, a soft, sympathetic sound. “Oh, honey. I’m sorry. But you’re so young. There are plenty of good men in England. You’ll find someone who deserves you.” I offered a weak smile. Maybe she was right. But this relationship had cost me both my love and my longest friendship in one swift blow. Sometimes, in the quietest hours of the night, I wished I could go back to the afternoon I confessed to him on the university quad. If I could, I would have kept my mouth shut. But regrets are just ghosts. Later that afternoon, an email arrived from the London office with transition documents. I tried to read through the first few pages, but the letters swam together, my head throbbing. A knock sounded at my apartment door. Assuming it was the pharmacy delivery I’d ordered, I wrapped a blanket around my shoulders and dragged myself out of bed. I opened the door to find Gilbert standing on the welcome mat. He didn’t wait for an invitation, stepping past me into the entryway with a flat pastry box and a bouquet of flowers. “I knew you were acting weird lately,” he said, setting the items on my kitchen island. “If Erica hadn’t reminded me, I honestly would have missed it.” He turned to face me, a defensive edge to his voice. “If you wanted to do something for our anniversary, you should have just said so instead of playing these passive-aggressive games.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Erica actually canceled her birthday dinner plans for Saturday so I could spend the weekend with you. I figured, since it’s only a one-day difference, I’d come over tonight and get this done early.” I stayed by the door, holding the blanket tight. “Why didn’t you just celebrate her birthday early instead?” His hands paused over the bakery box. He looked at me, his voice tightening. “People don’t celebrate birthdays early, Melissa. Besides, an anniversary is just a date on a calendar. What difference does it make which day we celebrate, as long as I’m here?” It made all the difference in the world. He spent every single day with Erica. Yet our one milestone required my best friend’s permission, and his presence felt like a chore he was checking off his list. I pulled the front door wide open. “I don’t want to celebrate. You should go.” Gilbert stepped closer, reaching out to wrap his arm around my shoulders. I stepped back, evading his touch. His expression softened slightly, adopting a patronizing tone. “Come on, Lyd. Stop being dramatic. If I actually leave, you’re just going to lock yourself in here and cry.” I looked down at the hardwood floor. Erica was the one who cried when things went wrong. I had never once let myself cry in front of him. Perhaps that was why he assumed I was indestructible—that I didn’t need comforting, that I could handle everything on my own. The truth was, whenever I actually wanted to cry, he was never there to see it. He certainly wouldn’t have rushed over to stop it. I looked up, meeting his eyes. “Gilbert… do you ever regret saying yes when I asked you out?” If he had said no back then, Erica would have confessed her feelings next. If he were Erica’s boyfriend, would he treat her the way he treated me? He frowned, seemingly taken aback by the question. He hesitated, then shook his head. “No. I remember how nervous you looked when you handed me that cup of coffee at the library. I thought you were sweet.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Stop overthinking things.” He opened the bakery box, pulling out a small cake and sliding a single candle into the frosting. “You made a big deal about me forgetting the cake on your birthday, so see? I got you a cake and flowers this time.” I looked at the counter. The cake was strawberry chiffon—Erica’s favorite. The bouquet was pink roses—also Erica’s favorite. There was no warmth in my chest, only a dull, nauseating ache. My head throbbed violently. Gilbert lit the candle, then immediately pulled out his phone. He snapped a quick photo of the cake and the flowers, his thumbs flying across the screen. I caught a glimpse of his chat with Erica. Mission accomplished, he had texted her, followed by a playful puppy emoji. It was all just a task to him. A favor he was performing to appease Erica’s conscience. “If Erica asked you to break up with me,” I asked quietly, “would you do that too?” 5 Gilbert stared at me, his eyes wide with incredulity. “How can you be so cynical about her? Erica spends half her time reminding me to call you and buy you things. She’s the one who remembered our anniversary and made me get the cake. She’s constantly looking out for you, and you treat her like she’s some kind of enemy.” I gave him a tired, empty smile. “Maybe I’m just petty like that.” Another knock sounded at the door. This time, it was the courier with my fever medicine. I signed for the delivery and took the brown paper bag. Seeing the logo of the local pharmacy, Gilbert finally seemed to notice my pale face and glassy eyes. “Are you sick?” he asked, stepping forward and reaching out to touch my forehead. I slammed the door shut, locking it in his face. Outside, the delivery courier was walking down the hall, muttering under his stomach, “Bro doesn’t even know his own girl has a fever. Unreal.” Gilbert’s pride was wounded. He knocked on the heavy wood several times, his voice muffled but sharp. “Melissa! Open the door. Take your medicine. And don’t forget—tomorrow at seven, we’re celebrating Erica’s birthday at the Aventine. Don’t be late.” Eventually, the sound of his footsteps faded down the corridor. I walked back to the kitchen, scooped up the strawberry cake and the pink roses, and tossed them directly into the trash can. The next morning, my phone buzzed with a text from Gilbert. Room 203 at the Aventine Grill. Seven sharp. Don’t forget. I stared at the screen, a dry laugh escaping my lips. It felt like a joke designed by fate itself. My farewell dinner with our college friends was booked at the exact same venue—in Room 204. I arrived at the restaurant early, carrying a small tote of wrapped gifts for the group. Our friends knew about my impending departure, and when they saw me walk in without Gilbert, they exchanged quiet glances but had the decency not to ask. My phone kept vibrating in my pocket with incoming texts from him. I ignored every single one. As the dinner drew to a close, Derek pointed to a beautifully wrapped, heavy box sitting on the edge of the table. “Hey, Melissa, didn’t you hand out all the parting gifts? Who’s that last one for?” I flagged down our server. “Could you do me a favor? Please deliver this to the table in Room 203. Just tell them it’s a birthday gift from Melissa, and that I couldn’t stay.” The server nodded and took the box. Derek nudged my shoulder gently. “You and Gilbert having a rough patch?” “We broke up,” I said simply. Through the thin walls, the faint, joyous chords of “Happy Birthday” drifted over from the adjacent room, followed by Erica’s delighted laughter. My presence had never been necessary at that table anyway. When our party finally broke up and we walked out into the corridor, a few of our friends stopped outside Room 203, looking through the glass door. “Wait, isn’t that Gilbert and Erica?” someone whispered. They turned back to look at me, their expressions a mix of confusion and awkwardness. “Melissa… I thought you and Erica were practically sisters. Why is she in there with him instead of out here with us?” The question hung in the air, answerless, though the reality of it was obvious to everyone in the hall. “It’s fine,” I said quietly, adjusting my purse strap. “That’s all in the past now.” My feelings for Gilbert, my decade of friendship with Erica—they were all just relics of a life I was leaving behind. I left the restaurant, took a cab back to my apartment, picked up my suitcases, and headed straight to the airport. After clearing security, I sat at the gate and opened my text thread with Gilbert. We’re done, I typed. Goodbye. I popped the SIM card out of my phone, held it in my palm alongside the thin silver necklace he had bought me for our six-month anniversary—the only piece of jewelry he’d ever given me—and dropped them both into the recycling bin near the boarding gate.

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There was an open secret in the upper-bracket social circles of Chicago. Beckett Shaw, the ruthless heir of Shaw Enterprises, was marrying his kept woman of five years—not out of love, but out of sheer spite toward his first love. In the master bedroom of his Gold Coast penthouse, Beckett wrapped his arms around me from behind. His breath was hot against the crook of my neck, smelling faintly of expensive scotch and cedarwood. “Gwen,” he murmured, his voice thick with a sudden, heavy warmth. “It’s been five years. I can barely even remember what Cynthia looks like.” He turned me around, holding my face in his hands. “Give me a child after the wedding, and we’ll build a real life together. Just you and me.” I looked into his dark eyes, watching the sudden, intense affection swirling in them. My chest tightened, and my eyes stung with a sudden rush of heat. I nodded, leaning into his touch like the obedient girl I had always trained myself to be. I actually believed him. I believed that five years of quiet, devoted companionship had finally thawed the icy edges of Beckett Shaw’s heart. Until the night before the wedding. I was walking down the hallway of our new suburban estate when I heard muffled voices coming from the master suite. Cynthia Ward—his first love, the girl who had left him to marry a European baronet, and who had just returned to the States after a bitter divorce—was standing inside, confronting him. “Are you serious, Beckett?” her voice cut through the heavy oak door, sharp and trembling with indignation. “To force me back to Chicago, you’re really going to marry some cheap escort just to make me suffer?” Inside, there was a long, heavy pause, followed by the low, dragging sound of Beckett exhaling smoke. “Even if she’s just a placeholder,” Beckett said, his tone dripping with a quiet, lethal indifference, “she’s the one I’m putting at the altar. At least Gwen doesn’t pack her bags and run off with another man the second things get difficult. At least she didn’t leave me alone for five years.” The air in the hallway seemed to drop to freezing. … Inside the room, Cynthia’s voice cracked, turning into a frantic, desperate plea. “Beckett, I divorced my husband for you! I came back for you! Are you really going to go through with this tomorrow? Are you really going to marry her?” A dry, rustling silence followed. Then came the sound of Beckett fastening his cufflinks. When he spoke again, his voice had returned to its usual, haughty calm. “Cynthia, you didn’t honestly think that the moment you showed up, I’d just fall back to my knees, did you? The wedding is happening tomorrow. And I want you sitting in the front row, watching me put a ring on Gwen’s finger.” I stood frozen in the dim hallway, my fingers gripping the paper in my pocket—the positive pregnancy scan I had picked up from the clinic only three hours ago. I couldn’t move my feet. I didn’t even have the right to push open the door. The five years of devotion I thought had finally borne fruit were nothing but a weapon. I was just a tool he was using to bleed his ex-wife dry. I didn’t storm in like a madwoman. Instead, I walked down the hall, dropped the ultrasound scan into the silver trash can by the stairs, and stepped out into the freezing Chicago night wind. It was nearly midnight when Beckett returned to our city penthouse. The moment he saw me sitting on the sofa, his eyes lit up. He held out a wrapped bundle of white lisianthus flowers, presenting them to me with a boyish, almost proud grin. “The florist finished setting up the pavilion by Lake Michigan, baby,” he said, pulling me into a tight embrace, burying his face in my hair. “It’s covered in your favorite lisianthus. Tomorrow, you’re going to be the most beautiful bride this city has ever seen.” He held me so tightly I could barely breathe. “It’s only when I’m next to you that I feel grounded. Gwen, you’re never going to leave me, right?” I sat rigid in his arms, my face blank. If I hadn’t heard his conversation with Cynthia, I would have spent the night worrying about his hectic schedule, convincing myself that this was what true love felt like. But as he leaned closer, the heavy, sweet scent of a woman’s expensive French perfume invaded my senses. I had the quiet, practiced dignity of a kept woman. I knew when to look away. But tonight, I couldn’t force myself to play the part. I took a slow step back, slipping out of his embrace. Beckett’s hands remained suspended in the air for a fraction of a second, his posture stiffening. “Where is the silver tie clip I bought you last month?” I asked, looking him dead in the eye. My voice was flat, devoid of any warmth. A flicker of panic crossed his eyes, but he quickly masked it, reaching out to pinch my earlobe with an easy, patronizing smile. “I must have misplaced it during the dinner meeting tonight. Don’t worry, I’ll have my assistant track it down tomorrow.” I didn’t flinch away from his touch. I just stared into those arrogant, old-money eyes—eyes accustomed to owning everything they looked at. “Beckett,” I said softly, “since Cynthia is back, let’s call off the wedding.” The smile on his face froze. He was so used to my obedience over the last five years that he had never expected me to be the one to rip the curtain down. The warmth in his eyes drained away, replaced by a cold, unfamiliar glare. “Gwen, a wedding of this scale isn’t something you get to cancel,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. He stepped closer, towering over me. “You’ve always been the smart one. There are a thousand women in this city who would crawl through broken glass to be Mrs. Shaw. Don’t lose your head at the finish line.” Beckett once told me that I was the first woman who had ever actively pitched herself to him. Before I met him, I was a struggling actress, suffocating on the fringes of the indie film scene, desperate to avoid the greasy, bloated producers who viewed girls like me as currency. At a high-profile charity gala, I had slipped away during the dinner service, cornering Beckett Shaw outside the private restroom. I didn’t play coy; I laid myself bare and told him exactly what I wanted: protection, stability, and a way out of the meat market. Beckett had looked me up and down, his gaze heavy and assessing, the tip of his cigarette glowing like a dying star in the dark hallway. “You’re very young to bind yourself to a man like me,” he had said, blowing a thin stream of smoke over my head. “Are you sure you’ve thought this through?” After that night, the indie film scene lost a promising face. And the Shaw estate gained a perfectly obedient canary. When his personal assistant handed me the contract, his voice was filled with a strange, quiet envy. “You’re very lucky, Ms. Collins. In all his years, Mr. Shaw has never let a woman stay the night.” I spent the night of my wedding eve dreaming of that first meeting. When I woke up, I was already in my wedding dress, sitting alone in a small, drafty holding room at the luxury hotel. There was no grand motorcade. No family greeting me. The Shaw family’s elderly butler walked in, his eyes carrying that familiar, quiet disdain he had worn for five years. “Ms. Collins, Mrs. Shaw senior had her spiritual adviser run the charts again last night. He claims the alignment today is highly inauspicious. The ceremony has been postponed.” I kept my smile pinned to my face, nodding politely. “I understand.” But we both knew the truth. There was no room for spiritual charts in a family that worshipped compound interest. It was simply a matter of old money drawing its borders. The holding room was freezing, the air conditioning humming loudly in the silence. On the velvet sofa sat my parents, looking small and deeply uncomfortable in their cheap off-the-rack formal wear. Next to them were two of my college friends who had flown in to be my bridesmaids. I forced myself to walk over to them, trying to maintain some shred of dignity. “Mom, Dad… I’m so sorry. There was an issue with the scheduling…” I bowed my head, offering a deep, silent apology to everyone in the room. When I straightened up, my father was rubbing his calloused hands together, his face flushed with embarrassment, while my friends whispered quietly among themselves. In five years, I had never once told them about the nature of my relationship with Beckett. Suddenly, they were told I was marrying a multi-billionaire, only to be left standing in a cold backroom on the morning of the wedding. My pride was ground into dust, scattered across the polished marble floor. Before I could comfort my mother, the heavy double doors were pushed open. Cynthia Ward marched in, wearing a vibrant, custom-tailored red silk dress that practically screamed defiance. She swept her eyes over my family, her lips curling into a smug sneer. “Oh, sweetie, there’s no scheduling error,” she said, her voice dripping with artificial pity. “Beckett’s mother found out I was back in town. She was never going to let a woman with a price tag on her head walk down their aisle.” Seeing the color drain from my face, she stepped closer, leaning in. “Do you want to know what old Mrs. Shaw actually said? She said she’d rather leave the seat empty than let a paid escort play house in her family home.” My mother’s eyes filled with tears. My father’s chest heaved with rage, his fists clenching so hard his knuckles turned white. He took a step toward her, but I grabbed his arm, my nails digging deep into my own palms to keep from shaking. Just as I was about to scream at her, a pair of warm, heavy hands settled onto my waist. Beckett had arrived. He pulled me flush against his side, his eyes burning with a dark, lethal intensity as he glared at Cynthia. “Who let her in here?” Beckett’s voice was a low growl. “If you ever show your face near Gwen again, Cynthia, I will personally ensure your family’s firm is run out of this state by Monday morning.” Cynthia’s face went pale. Before she could speak, two of Beckett’s security guards grabbed her by the arms and dragged her out of the room. The silence that followed was suffocating. Beckett turned around and, in front of my trembling parents, took my hand in his. His grip was tight, almost desperate. “I apologize for the distress, everyone,” Beckett said, his voice loud and clear. “The real reason we are postponing the ceremony is because Gwen is in her first trimester. The doctor advised against any unnecessary stress. We’ve decided to postpone the wedding and combine it with our child’s christening.” Once the room cleared, leaving only the two of us in the quiet bridal suite, the silence returned. I slowly placed my hand over my flat stomach, my voice trembling. “Beckett… was any of that true?” The man rubbing his temples paused. He looked down at my hand resting on my stomach, a cold, amused smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Gwen, you didn’t actually think you were going to have my baby, did you?” My heart stopped. Before I could explain that I actually was pregnant, Beckett let out a dry scoff. “If I didn’t tell them you were pregnant, the Shaw Enterprises stock would have plunged five percent by tomorrow morning on rumors of a jilted bride. Besides,” he added, his eyes flashing with a cruel satisfaction, “Cynthia didn’t look miserable enough when she left. I need her to stew in that jealousy for a few more days. It’ll teach her a lesson.” The blood in my veins turned to ice. He looked at my pale face, his expression turning slightly mocking. “Do you really think kept women get to play house with their benefactors? We don’t belong in the same world, Gwen. I pay you for your time, not your feelings.” For the next two weeks, Beckett didn’t come home once. The white lisianthus in the living room withered into brown, crispy husks, their petals scattering across the hardwood floor. I didn’t bother cleaning them up. The next time I saw him was on the television screen during a live broadcast of a Shaw Enterprises press conference. Beckett stood at the podium in a bespoke charcoal suit, his posture impeccable. It was the exact suit I had spent three weeks picking out for our rehearsal dinner. Back then, he had dismissed it as too theatrical. Now, he was wearing it while holding Cynthia’s hand under the flashing lights, his face softened by a warmth I had never seen. “Five years ago, there was a terrible misunderstanding between Ms. Ward and myself,” Beckett said to the crowd of reporters. “Next month, we will be holding a private ceremony on Lake Michigan to celebrate our marriage.” The room erupted into murmurs. A bold reporter stepped forward, raising a microphone. “Mr. Shaw, what about your previous engagement to Gwen Collins? There were rumors of a pregnancy…” The warmth vanished from Beckett’s face instantly. He stared directly into the camera lens, his expression hardening into a wall of cold, professional detachment. “Ms. Collins was well aware of my desire for a family. In a desperate bid to force her way into my family, she went so far as to forge a pregnancy test. I do not tolerate that kind of manipulation in my personal or professional life.” I sat quietly on the sofa, a pair of wooden needles in my hands, slowly knitting a tiny pair of yellow baby booties. My phone began to vibrate violently on the coffee table. When I picked it up, my mother’s sobbing voice filled the quiet room. “Gwen… marrying into that kind of wealth is like swallowing broken glass. I don’t want you to destroy yourself just to keep up with those people. Come home, baby. Please.” My hand slipped. The sharp wooden needle pierced my index finger. A bright bead of crimson blood welled up, dripping onto the soft yellow yarn, blooming like a tiny, violent flower. I quieted my mother with a few soft lies and hung up the phone. With a deep, exhausting weariness, I stood up and walked over to my vanity, pulling open the bottom drawer. Lying right next to the non-disclosure agreement I had signed five years ago was an official ultrasound report from three days prior. The image showed a tiny, dark shadow. The report noted a strong fetal heartbeat and the faint, delicate outline of a spine. That afternoon, I put on a black face mask and drove to the private hospital owned by the Shaw family’s medical group. The chief of obstetrics recognized me instantly, her manner overly deferential. But the moment she looked at the termination consent form in my hand, her face went white. She reached frantically for the desk phone. “Ms. Collins, I… I have to notify Mr. Shaw immediately.” I reached out, pressing my hand firmly over the receiver. I forced a small, tired smile. “Why? Men are allowed to keep women in the dark. Why can’t a woman keep a secret too?” I leaned in, my voice dropping to a whisper. “Don’t bother calling him. The baby isn’t his.” The doctor froze, staring at me as if I had lost my mind. I could see the frantic calculations running through her head—the assumption of a massive, career-ending scandal. Without another word, she signed her name on the authorization line. I took the paper back, turned around, and walked into the cold prep room. On the line marked Patient Signature, I wrote my name. Loss is a two-way street. If Beckett Shaw was willing to let me go, then I was going to make sure I left nothing of myself behind. Two hours later, my body aching and empty, I walked out of the hospital doors. A sharp spring breeze swept across Lake Michigan, carrying the scent of thawing ice. I looked out over the gray water, feeling an odd, weightless peace for the first time in five years. Standing on the crowded street corner, I dialed an old friend who had moved to Europe years ago. “I need a new identity,” I said, my voice barely carrying over the wind. “As fast as possible.” “I want to go somewhere Beckett Shaw will never find me.” By evening, Beckett was waiting for me at the penthouse. The anesthesia had mostly worn off, leaving a dull, throbbing ache in my lower abdomen. My back was damp with cold sweat. Beckett stood near the glass window, keeping a deliberate, polite distance from me. “The reporter who asked that question at the press conference won’t be working in Chicago anymore,” he said, his tone casual, as if discussing the weather. “I’ve settled things with the major networks. You’re getting older, Gwen. It’s time you moved on and lived a normal life.” He lit a cigarette, his eyes lingering on my face with a faint, unspoken regret. We had lived together for five years. We knew each other too well. We both knew this was the end. “Gwen,” he said softly, “if your family had a different name, I really would have made you Mrs. Shaw.” I nodded quietly. “I know.” Seeing my compliance, Beckett pushed two thick leather folders across the marble kitchen island. “You gave me five years of your life. These two lakefront properties are yours. Consider it a parting gift.” He paused. “If you ever run into financial trouble, contact my assistant. He’ll take care of it.” I didn’t look at the deeds. I picked up the pen and signed my name at the bottom of the release form. My hand didn’t shake. I pushed the signed documents back toward him, keeping my eyes on his face, offering him one last, gentle smile. Beckett seemed taken aback by how quickly I had signed. He stared at me, his eyes dark and complicated. “Gwen… is there anything else you want?” Beckett, what else could I possibly ask for? The divide between us was a chasm of old money and power. The more I wanted, the less I would ever have. I looked at the cigarette burning down between his fingers. “You’re getting older, Beckett. You should really smoke less.” Our final dinner ended without another word. I packed my single suitcase and climbed into the back of his Mercedes. The pain in my stomach was so sharp I had to curl into a ball against the leather seat. As the car pulled out of the iron gates, a sleek red sports car passed us, heading toward the house. Cynthia was moving in. I looked through the tinted window, watching the warm lights of the master bedroom flicker on. On the sheer curtains, a slender silhouette reached up to drape her arms around a man’s neck. The driver looked at me through the rearview mirror. “Ms. Collins, Mr. Shaw instructed me to take you to the lakefront property. Shall we head there now?” I pulled my gaze away from the house, looking at the familiar skyline of the city I was leaving behind. “No,” I said quietly. “Take me to O’Hare Airport.” Back at the estate, Beckett was pacing the living room, a strange, suffocating restlessness clawing at his chest. Upstairs, Cynthia was tossing my remaining things out of the closet, her voice carrying down the hall. “Cheap polyester trash. How did you let her keep her things in our room?” With a sharp clatter, a thick manila envelope rolled down the stairs, landing right at Beckett’s feet. A folded piece of thermal paper slid out. Beckett looked down. The moment his eyes registered the black-and-white ultrasound image, his knees buckled. He collapsed onto his knees on the hardwood floor. His fingers shook so violently he could barely pick up the paper. He scrambled for his phone, dialing his driver’s number three times before the call finally went through. “Where is she? Did she get to the penthouse?” he roared, his voice cracking. On the other end, the driver’s voice was trembling. “Mr. Shaw… Ms. Collins didn’t go to the penthouse. She… she had me drop her off at O’Hare.” Realizing what was happening, Beckett tore off his tie, bolted out the front door, and scrambled into his car. “Stop her! Block the terminal! Don’t let her plane take off! Now!” “It’s too late, Mr. Shaw,” the driver whispered. “She’s already cleared security. But before she left… she told me to give you a message.”

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The ninety-ninth time my father tried to run away from my mother, he didn’t pack a bag. He simply stepped off the seventeenth-floor balcony of our apartment building. And yet, our neighbors spent the evening wiping tears from their eyes, offering their deepest condolences to my mother. “She’s always been so poised, so steady,” they whispered in the hallways. “It’s a tragedy she was saddled with a husband so brooding, so utterly unstable.” No one remembered the boy my father had been before he married her—the loud, laughing teenager who carried the sun in his eyes. It was her cold, systematic indifference that had carved him out, day by day, until there was nothing left but a hollow shell. It wasn’t until I was packing up his things that I found the truth buried in a dusty shoe box in the back of her closet: a faded photograph of her high school sweetheart, surrounded by a thick stack of hand-written love letters. And worse—recent call logs. They were still in touch. When she realized I’d found them, panic broke through her cool facade. She threw the letters into the fireplace, and before I could even process the smoke, she grabbed my wrist with terrifying strength. She snatched a pair of sewing shears from the table and drove them straight into her own chest. I stood there, covered in her blood, holding the scissors she had forced into my hand. Overnight, I became the monster of the town—the son who had murdered his own mother. But when I opened my eyes again, the smell of copper and smoke had vanished. The air was loud, vibrating with chatter and the rich, roasted scent of coffee. I was sitting in a crowded local diner. I looked down at my hands—they were smooth, uncalloused. I caught my reflection in the dark windowpane. I wasn’t myself. I had traveled twenty-five years into the past, inhabiting the body of Drew—the very man my mother had spent her life obsessing over. Beside me, a hand tugged impatiently at my sleeve. “Come on, man,” my father said, his voice bright and dripping with youthful irritation. “Evelyn is driving me insane. She’s dead set on setting me up with this ‘sensible, grounded’ girl.” I stared at him. His face was vibrant, untouched by the decades of silent misery that would eventually ruin him. He was alive. He was whole. Tears blurred my vision, hot and uncontrollable, spilling over my cheeks. “You… you used to laugh like this,” I whispered, my voice cracking. … Wright blinked, his annoyance melting into instant worry. “Whoa, Drew. Hey, what’s wrong? Why are you crying? Did some girl break your heart? Tell me who she is, and I’ll go break her windshield.” He raised a fist, a fierce, protective grin breaking through his concern. Looking into his clear, shadowless eyes, my throat tightened. The image of his broken body on the pavement twenty-five years later overlapped with the warm, living boy sitting right in front of me. I grabbed his wrist, feeling the steady, rapid beat of his pulse. “You’re the one who’s about to be fooled by a monster, Wright.” “Shut up,” he said, flushing slightly as he pulled his hand back. “I haven’t even been on a date yet. Besides, my standards are sky-high. I’m not that easy to fool.” We walked down the parkway toward the café. Wright kicked a loose pebble along the sidewalk, his playful demeanor softening into something quieter. “Honestly, I’m terrified,” he admitted, his eyes fixed on his sneakers. “I’m scared of finding someone who seems perfect, only for the mask to slip after the wedding. The guys at the auto shop say women change the second you put a ring on their finger. I want something real, Drew. Something passionate and warm. I don’t want to spend my life trapped in a quiet, freezing house.” I slung an arm over his shoulder, drawing strength from his warmth. “No one is perfect, Wright. Sometimes, the ones who seem the most composed on the outside are hiding the ugliest secrets. Let’s go make sure she’s actually worth your time.” In my heart, a cold resolve took root. This time, I would do whatever it took to pull him back from the edge of the cliff. I would not let Penny destroy his life. “Come on,” I said, quickening our pace. “Let’s go meet this ‘sensible’ girl.” Wright took a deep breath, his chest rising. “As long as you’re with me, I can handle it.” When we pushed open the heavy glass door of the café, the bell chimed above us, and the scent of cinnamon and espresso washed over us. In the far corner, sitting by the window, was a young woman. Hearing the bell, Penny looked up. The moment her eyes landed on my face, the glass she was holding rattled against the tabletop. Her carefully constructed poise shattered in an instant, her eyes flaring with a raw, desperate hope. “Drew?” she whispered, her voice trembling. “What… what are you doing here?” I stared at her young face. In my past life, she was the woman who sat in silence on our velvet sofa, watching my father unravel into madness without offering a single word of comfort. Her indifference had been a slow-acting poison. But looking at her now, her eyes held a burning intensity she had never once directed at my father. She wasn’t incapable of love; she had simply hoarded all of her passion for Drew—the boy who got away. Wright looked between us, his eyebrows knitting together. “Drew? Do you two know each other?” I searched my mind. In this timeline, the original Drew barely knew her—perhaps a passing glance in a school hallway years ago. I met her intense gaze and let my face remain entirely blank. “No. I don’t know her.” The light in Penny’s eyes extinguished instantly, her shoulders slumping. She caught herself quickly, taking a shallow breath and forcing a polite, fragile smile to cover her slip. “I’m so sorry. I thought you were someone else.” Wright, completely oblivious to the undercurrents, seemed charmed by the coincidence. The fact that his match had recognized his best friend made him let his guard down. He slid into the booth and immediately pulled the pastry basket closer, pushing a plate of scones toward her. “These are actually really good,” Wright said, trying to break the ice. “Sugar always makes things better, right?” I watched his sweet, unguarded face and felt a pang of protectiveness. Pulling a napkin from the holder, I gently reached over and wiped a speck of powdered sugar from the corner of his mouth. I leaned close to his ear, my voice barely a whisper. “Slow down, Wright. We have all afternoon. Don’t lay your cards on the table too fast. You can’t see who someone really is in the span of a single cup of coffee.” My quiet warning seemed to ground him. He swallowed his bite and nodded, though his eyes still danced with excitement. “I know, I know. But she seems nice. Not fake at all.” I kept quiet. The universe had handed me the ultimate weapon by placing me in the body of her obsession. I just had to wait for the right moment to strike. Wright cleared his throat, leaning back. “So, I hear you’re pretty busy with work. Your family putting the pressure on you to settle down?” Penny set her cup down, her long eyelashes casting shadows on her cheeks. “It’s just me and my dad,” she said softly. “He’s… he’s my entire world.” She paused, her lips trembling with practiced sorrow. “But he’s very sick. The doctors say he doesn’t have much time left.” She let out a dry, bitter laugh. “To be honest, I didn’t expect much from today. I know our families are in different leagues. If I’m being completely honest, the money for this coffee… my dad took it out of his emergency medical fund just so I could look presentable for you.” Wright’s eyes softened, turning a sympathetic pink at the rims. This was her trap, and it was engineered perfectly for him. A fragile, grieving girl who needed a savior was the exact opposite of his domineering mother, Evelyn. He put his fork down. “I lost my father when I was very young. I know how hard it is. But your dad is a fighter. He’ll make it.” Penny turned her gaze back to me, her voice softening into a gentle, probing tone. “And what about you, Drew? Your parents must be so proud of you.” I met her eyes, my voice flat. “I’m an orphan.” Wright immediately reached out, squeezing my hand supportively as he filled in the blanks. “Drew grew up in the county home. He had a really rough start, but we’ve been inseparable ever since. I’m not letting him go anywhere.” Hearing this, the way Penny looked at me shifted entirely. There was a sudden, intense flash of maternal protectiveness in her eyes, a desire to pull me under her wing. “I had no idea you’d gone through so much, Drew. If you ever need anything… anything at all, please let me know.” A wave of disgust washed over me. She was actively flirting with her blind date’s best friend, right in front of him. In my past life, when my father had been burning with a high fever, begging her for a glass of water, she had locked herself in her study, complaining that his sickness was distracting her from her work. Yet here she was, playing the patron saint of broken boys. And yet, Wright was completely taken in by her performance, nodding along with a look of pure admiration. Before the conversation could go any further, the diner door burst open. A middle-aged man, drenched in sweat and panting heavily, scanned the room until he spotted us. He sprinted toward the booth, his face pale with panic. “Penny! Quick!” he gasped. “Your dad collapsed. The paramedics just rushed him to the county hospital!” Penny’s face drained of color. She stood up so fast her chair screeched against the floor. She ran to the register, her voice tight. “Bill, please.” She began digging through her pockets, her movements growing frantic as she realized she didn’t have enough. Cold sweat beaded on her forehead. The cashier tapped his fingers impatiently. “Ma’am, you’re five dollars short.” Penny froze, her face burning with humiliation as she tried to avoid looking back at our table. Wright didn’t hesitate. He pulled out his leather wallet and slid a twenty-dollar bill across the counter. “Keep the change,” he told the cashier, then turned to Penny with a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry about it. Let’s get to the hospital. We’ll drive you.” Penny kept her head down, her voice barely audible. “Thank you.” I watched Wright take her arm and lead her out of the diner. My hands curled into tight fists in my pockets, and I followed them into the cold afternoon air. When we arrived at the hospital, the red “In Use” light above the emergency room door was glowing. Penny collapsed against the sterile white wall, burying her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook as tears slipped through her fingers, splashing onto the linoleum floor. A chill went down my spine. When my father had jumped from that seventeenth-floor balcony, his body shattered on the pavement below, she hadn’t shed a single tear. She had stood behind the police tape, calmly asking the investigator if his life insurance would cover the cost of the cleanup. Now, she was weeping like a broken child. It was a masterpiece of a performance. Wright was utterly devastated by her grief. He stepped closer, gently patting her back. “He’s going to make it, Penny. He’s a strong man.” Penny looked up, her eyes red and swimming with tears. “Thank you, Wright. I’m sorry you have to see me like this.” Wright shook his head quickly. “Don’t say that. You’re a good daughter.” I could feel the trap closing around him. He was falling for her, hook, line, and sinker. My fingernails dug into my palms. Just then, a sharp ringing broke the silence. Wright reached into his pocket and pulled out a bulky mobile phone—a rare, expensive luxury in this era. Penny’s eyes locked onto the device, a fleeting glint of naked envy crossing her face. Then, she looked at my empty hands, her expression softening into a look of quiet solidarity. She assumed I was as penniless as she was. “Hey, Mom,” Wright said into the receiver. It was Evelyn. Her voice carried clearly through the cheap plastic. “How’s the date going?” Wright lowered his voice, turning away slightly. “Her dad just got rushed to the hospital. We’re in the waiting room.” Evelyn gasped. “Oh my goodness. I’m coming right over.” Hearing her panic made my stomach churn. They hadn’t even finished a first date, and my grandmother was already acting like they were family. The emergency room light clicked off. A doctor emerged, pulling down his mask with a heavy sigh. “The damage is severe. His organs are failing, and we can only keep him comfortable. You should go in and say your goodbyes.” We followed Penny into the dim hospital room. The man in the bed was skin and bones, his chest rising and falling in shallow, rattling gasps under an oxygen mask. He slowly opened his clouded eyes. “Penny…” his voice was a dry rattle. “Which one… is the boy?” Penny stiffened. Her eyes instinctively darted to me first. Wright, completely blind to her reaction, stepped forward and gently took the old man’s frail hand. “Sir, I’m Wright. Evelyn’s son.” I stood in the back of the room, my jaw clenched. Don’t do this, Wright. Don’t let them pull you in. Frank’s dull eyes flickered with a brief spark of interest as he studied Wright’s handsome, healthy face. “You’re a beautiful boy,” the old man whispered. “My Penny… she’s a lucky girl. I’m afraid she’s too good for this world, and far too gentle for me.” Wright flushed, looking down. “Don’t say that, sir. Penny is wonderful.” Frank recognized the boy’s innocence immediately. He squeezed Wright’s hand, pivoting into a calculated emotional plea. “Wright, my time is running out. But looking at you… I can tell you care about her. Am I right?” Wright bit his lip, casting a shy glance at Penny, and nodded. Frank let out a ragged sigh and began spinning a story from the past. He revealed that Evelyn had been his first love—a grand romance cut short by family disapproval and stubborn pride. A single tear slipped down the old man’s hollow cheek. “The regrets of the old shouldn’t belong to the young. If you two could find happiness together, I could close my eyes and finally rest in peace.” Wright’s eyes welled with tears. “I understand, sir.” This narrative of fated love was the ultimate trap for a boy as romantic and soft-hearted as Wright. I could see the decision sealing itself in his mind. By midnight, the room had fallen into a heavy silence. Wright had fallen asleep with his head resting on the edge of the mattress, and Frank had drifted into a deep, medicated slumber. Penny stood up from her chair and walked over to me. “Drew,” she whispered, her eyes shining with an intense, quiet heat. “Can we talk outside? Just for a minute?” A cold smile touched my lips. The moment had finally come. “Sure,” I said quietly. As she turned to walk out, I reached down and lightly tapped the side of Wright’s ribs—a specific, rhythmic double-tap. It was a secret signal we’d used since we were kids, a silent code that meant wake up and pay attention. He stirred slightly, his eyes opening just enough to show he was awake, his breathing remaining slow and even so Penny wouldn’t notice. Out in the hallway, a cold draft stirred the hem of Penny’s white blouse. She leaned against the windowsill, trying to maintain her poised, tragic mask, but the slight tremor in her hands betrayed her desperation. I leaned against the opposite wall, watching her silently. She looked at me, her eyes filled with a sudden, suffocating longing. “You know… I’ve known who you were since high school. You used to sit by the window in the library. You were always so quiet, so out of reach.” “And?” I asked, my voice flat. She took a step closer. “All these years have passed, and you haven’t changed at all. You’re still so clean, so untouched by the world.” Her praise made my skin crawl. I knew what this was. When faced with a wealthy, vibrant boy like Wright, her deep-seated insecurity made her feel small. But with me—the boy she believed was as poor and broken as she was—she felt a sick sense of ownership. “Drew, you have no idea how shocked I was to see you today,” she said, a bitter, honest laugh escaping her lips as her mask finally slipped. “I’ll admit it. I’ve been living a lie. My dad is dying, and I’m drowning. I need money. I need someone who can carry the weight of this family so I don’t sink.” I raised an eyebrow. “So you targeted Wright?” “Wright is perfect. He’s rich, he’s naive, and he’s stupidly sweet,” she said, her voice dripping with cold calculation. “I know he’s already half in love with me. If I say yes, he’ll marry me by the end of the week.” I forced my voice to remain steady. “Then why are you telling me this?” She took another step, closing the distance between us until I could smell the stale coffee on her breath. Her eyes were wide, manic with obsession. “Because my heart has only ever belonged to you, Drew. We are the exact same kind of person. We don’t have the luxury of wealth, which means we actually understand what it takes to survive. We belong together.” She grabbed at my sleeve, her chest heaving. “Drew, just say the word. If you want me, I will dump Wright tonight. I don’t want to hurt him, but if you tell me to stay, I’ll tell him it’s over. I’ll explain everything.” She paused, her voice dropping into a dark, threatening register. “But if you don’t… I have to marry him. For the money. For my dad.” I stared at her—this woman who could speak of survival and love while planning to hollow out two different men for her own gain. She had wrapped her greed in the language of tragic necessity. In my past life, she had taken everything my father owned. She had controlled every cent, making him beg for pennies while she slowly drained the joy from his soul until he had no choice but to leap into the dark. “You really are something else,” I whispered, a cold smirk playing on my lips. She thought she was making a grand, romantic confession. She had no idea I had built this trap specifically for her. My eyes drifted to the hospital door, which was cracked open just an inch. In the shadow of the doorway, a familiar figure stood perfectly still, a hand clamped tightly over his mouth to muffle his sobs. Wright was standing there, his heart shattering into a thousand pieces as he heard the girl of his dreams describe him as a brainless safety net. Seeing my silence, Penny reached desperately for my hand. “Just say yes, Drew. I’ll cut that idiot loose tomorrow morning!” Before she could touch me, the hospital door slammed open against the wall with a resounding thud. Wright stepped out into the harsh fluorescent light of the hallway, his face tear-stained and twisted in fury. “Why don’t you say that to my face, Penny?”

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