Category: English

Years into our marriage, when the critical condition notice for me arrived, Caleb Reed didn’t hesitate. He suggested mortgaging our house. To cover the sky-high medical costs, he, who once held himself so high, now toiled day and night, stripped of his pride. I couldn’t bear to be a burden on him and was preparing to give up on treatment. Then, a financial headline froze me in place. *“Reed Empire’s Heir Returns for Love! Takes Control of Multi-Billion-Dollar Company to Save His Beloved’s Life!”* The photo in the headline showed Caleb’s tired but deeply affectionate profile. I trembled, thinking this was his final desperate fight for *me*. But then the camera panned, and the woman in the sterile hospital gown was the same girl from the faded photo tucked away in his wallet. And I, I was foolish enough to believe he truly loved me. When Caleb pushed open the door, a chill from the late night swept in with him. He took off his cheap jacket, his face etched with exhaustion. “How are you feeling today?” He expertly poured a cup of hot water and brought it to my bedside. I shook my head, too weak to even speak. He sat on the edge of the bed, feeling my forehead to check my temperature. “The doctors say the situation isn’t optimistic, but Claire, don’t be scared. I’ve already sorted out the money.” He pulled a document from inside his jacket, carefully unfolding it. “I’ve already… mortgaged the house.” My heart constricted sharply. “You…” “Don’t say anything foolish.” He cut me off, as if expecting me to be moved by his gesture again. “Nothing is more important than you. As long as you get better, I’d be willing to sleep under a bridge.” He spoke with such earnestness, such deep affection. If I hadn’t seen that news just a few hours earlier, I would have believed every word. Caleb Reed, the scion of Reed Industries. My husband, who had played the role of a broke student for five years. “Caleb, do we… really have to come to this?” I asked, my voice dry. He was silent for a moment, then pulled out another document. It was a voluntary organ donation agreement. “Claire, the doctors said that given your condition, we might need to prepare for the worst.” His voice was light, but every word pierced my heart. “I know you’re the kindest person. The doctor told me today about a girl named Sarah Miller. She’s been waiting for a suitable heart for a very, very long time.” Sarah Miller. He finally said the name. The girl in the faded photo in his wallet’s hidden compartment, worn smooth from countless touches. “She’s really pitiful. She’s been sick since childhood, always living in pain.” He calmly recounted someone else’s story, a story that was, in fact, about my life and death. “If you… I mean, *if* you were to donate your heart to her, it would be a continuation of life, wouldn’t it?” I looked at this man who seemed to be losing his patience, not even bothering to craft another lie. He knew I was terminally ill and couldn’t afford the exorbitant treatment costs. He also believed, with certainty, that I loved him beyond words and would fulfill his every request. “So, mortgaging the house was to prepare for *her* surgery?” I asked bluntly. He paused, seemingly not expecting such a direct question. Then, he offered a sorrowful smile. “Claire, how could you think that of me? I’m doing this to cure *you*!” He became deeply affectionate again. “But your illness… you know, hope is slim. I just thought, on the off chance, if we fail, as the doctor said, we could save another life. It would be a way for a part of you to live on, wouldn’t it?” He held my hand, his hands warm and strong. “Just for my sake, okay? I don’t want you to leave with regrets.” “Sign this first, then we’ll fight together, alright?” I pulled my cold hand away. “I’m tired. I want to sleep for a bit.” A flicker of impatience crossed his face, but it was quickly masked by tenderness. “Okay, you rest. Don’t overthink things.” He placed the agreement and a pen neatly on my bedside table. In a spot I’d see the moment I opened my eyes. He got up, put on his jacket, and prepared to leave. At the door, he suddenly turned back and added, “Oh, and the doctor introduced me to the patient, Sarah. She’s in the VIP room on the top floor. If you want, I can arrange for you two to meet. She’s a really sweet girl.” With that, he closed the door. I stared at the agreement and the pen he’d left behind. It felt like a sharp blade, slowly carving into my heart.

The next day, a young nurse came to change my dressing. She was quick and efficient with her hands, but her mouth never stopped. “Ms. Davies, you really need to take good care of yourself. Your husband is so good to you.” I closed my eyes, not wanting to respond. “He comes to stay with you every day, running around for your medical bills. Everyone else is so jealous.” Jealous? Yes, how enviable. “Let me tell you, that lady on the top floor, in the VIP suite, she’s rich, but she’s truly pathetic.” The nurse lowered her voice, gossiping. “I heard her boyfriend is also a big shot – the scion of Reed Industries!” My fingers curled. “But honestly, I don’t think he cares that much about Ms. Miller. He’s busy with company affairs all day, only visits occasionally. Not like your husband, who practically wants to be glued to your side twenty-four-seven.” The nurse’s words dragged me back into my memories. I remembered when we first got together, Caleb was a broke student with nothing to his name. He would work odd jobs for a week just to buy me a lipstick I liked. He said, “Claire, when I’m rich, I promise I’ll give you the best life.” But later, after we graduated, he turned down all the high-paying offers, choosing the most ordinary job. He said, “Claire, I don’t want to work too hard. I just want to come home early every day to cook for you.” I believed him. I thought he didn’t care for wealth or status, that he loved me more than anything. Now, looking back, it was all just an act. He didn’t love me; he only cared about saving his Sarah’s life. “Ms. Davies? Ms. Davies? What’s wrong?” The nurse’s voice pulled me back to reality. I opened my eyes; she was looking at me with concern. “Did I say something wrong?” I shook my head. “No, just thinking about a few things.” The nurse sighed in relief, packed her things, and prepared to leave. “Your husband just called. He said he’ll be late tonight and not to wait up for him.” “Okay.” I replied. I knew he probably wouldn’t come tonight. Sarah Miller’s condition must be critical now, more important than me, his backup organ bank. In the evening, Caleb indeed didn’t show up. I propped myself up, slowly sitting. The agreement was still on the bedside table. Next to it lay my favorite poetry collection, the first gift Caleb ever gave me. He’d said, “Claire, in my eyes, you’re like a clear poem, I adore you so much.” I reached for the book. Its pages had yellowed, but it still held our unique scent. I opened the front cover, where his bold, sweeping handwriting read: *To my lifelong love, Claire Davies.* How ironic. Just then, the hospital room door opened. Caleb stood in the doorway. He saw the book in my hand and the still-blank agreement beside it. When he walked in, he carried a faint scent of perfume and a hint of red wine, strikingly clear in my sterile room. He didn’t ask if I’d eaten, walking straight to the bed and picking up the poetry collection. After absentmindedly flipping through a few pages, he finally couldn’t help but ask, “Claire, have you heard any gossip?” His question was calm. I didn’t answer, just watched him. Watched this stranger I shared my bed with. “Gossip spreads fast in a place like this. Just hear it and forget it, don’t take it to heart.” He was still playing the role of a considerate husband, comforting his emotional wife. “Who is Sarah Miller?” I finally spoke, mustering immense courage. His movements stopped. A few seconds later, he closed the book and set it aside. “To be honest, she’s just a friend of mine.” He answered airily. “A friend you need *my* heart to save?” I pressed. The air instantly solidified. The gentle expression on Caleb Reed’s face finally shifted. He stared at me, no longer bothering to pretend. “Yes.” He admitted it. “She’s really pitiful, she’s lived with illness since she was a child. Don’t you have any sympathy?” He countered. “Why should I sympathize with her? Sympathize with her using *my* life?” My emotions flared, and a sharp pain shot through my chest. “Claire Davies!” He raised his voice. “What kind of attitude is that? I’m discussing this with you, not begging you!” The impatience in his eyes was no longer hidden. “Are you sick, and your mind’s gone foggy too? When did you become so selfish?” Selfish? For him, I’d given up so many opportunities that could have given me a better life. For him, I wore cheap clothes, riding the bus, living on a shoestring budget for five years. Now, he wanted my life to save another woman, and then had the audacity to accuse me of being selfish. “Caleb Reed, you truly disgust me.” *“CRACK!”* A sharp sound. The poetry collection in his hand was violently thrown to the floor, its pages scattering everywhere.

“Don’t you dare be ungrateful, Claire!” His chest heaved violently. “Do you think you’re in any position to bargain with me now? Without me, you can’t even afford tomorrow’s medical bills!” This was the first time he had so blatantly threatened me with money. “Do you even deserve to look at these things in your current state?” He saw me staring at the floor, then pointed at the scattered poetry collection. “A dying person shouldn’t have any sentiment for our past!” His words tore my heart to shreds. In his mind, I was just a dying person, unworthy of anything beautiful anymore. I gave a bitter laugh, wiping away my tears. “So, you’re threatening me now? If I don’t sign, you’ll stop my treatment?” He probably hadn’t seen me like this before; he was momentarily stunned. But he quickly regained his cold composure. “I’m just making you face reality. Signing it is good for all of us.” He said “all of us,” which included Sarah Miller, but definitely not me. Just then, his phone rang. He answered, his impatient expression instantly turning anxious. “What? Her condition worsened? I’ll be right up!” He hung up, shooting me a furious glare. There was no love or tenderness left in his eyes. He advanced on me, step by step. “Claire Davies, now, immediately, sign it!” I leaned against the headboard, watching him coldly. Watching him frantic and distraught over another woman. Just as I’d suspected, he’d dropped all pretense because Sarah probably didn’t have much time left to wait. “What if I don’t sign?” “You have no choice.” He squeezed the words through clenched teeth. “Claire, don’t make me force you.” He started calling me by my name again, a cruel gentleness masking his true intentions. “Sarah can’t wait any longer. Help her, and you’ll be helping me.” He finally spoke his true thoughts. Not for any good deed, not for any continuation of my life, but simply to help *him*. To help him keep the woman he loved. “I spent five miserable years with you, Claire. Even if you don’t think for yourself, you should think for me, shouldn’t you?” “These five years, do you know what I gave up? I, the scion of the Reed family, lived with you in that tiny, rundown apartment, endured those tough years. I’ve done more than enough!” He completely tore off his disguise, revealing his true, ugly self. “It was all for Sarah! I approached you, married you, tolerated you – it was all for this day!” “The doctor said you had a weak constitution, that you wouldn’t live long, so I patiently waited for you!” “I thought once you died, I could naturally get your heart. I never expected you to drag it out for so long!” So that was it. My entire existence, from the beginning, had been a meticulously planned deception. A five-year performance staged solely to extract my heart. He saw my prolonged silence and seemed to realize he’d said too much. “Claire, struggling now is meaningless.” He picked up the agreement and the pen, pushing them into my hand. “Sign it. This is the last thing you can do for me.” “Is there anything you need to say, or any unfulfilled wishes you have in this life? I promise I’ll take care of them later!” I lowered my head, looking at the agreement in my hand. *Donor: Claire Davies.* *Recipient: Sarah Miller.* What a clean, cut-and-dry transaction. My hand trembled. Caleb thought I had given in. He leaned down, whispering into my ear. “Good girl, sign it. I’ll remember your kindness.” His breath on my earlobe made me feel a wave of nausea. I gripped the pen tightly. Then I looked up at him and smiled. He froze. The next second, I didn’t put pen to paper. Instead, I used every ounce of strength I had to tear the agreement in half. The tearing sound was deafening in the silent room. He hadn’t even reacted yet. I then tore those two halves into four, then eight… Countless pieces of paper fluttered from my fingertips, scattering across the floor. I dropped the pen; it rolled a few times on the ground, stopping at Caleb Reed’s feet. “Caleb Reed, you wish!” Before, I would have thought I had no money for treatment, no hope of getting better. But now, Caleb had inherited a fortune for a critically ill Sarah Miller. Logically, half of it should be mine. Why couldn’t I live?

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My boyfriend possessed a tongue sharp enough to draw blood, yet a face beautiful enough to make you forgive him. His favorite phrase to use against me, always laced with a condescending drawl, was, “Right, right, whatever you say.” In our tenth year together, Marcus finally caved. He agreed to come home with me for the holidays to meet my family. On the twentieth of December, brimming with foolish hope, I texted him: What day are you flying in? Radio silence. It wasn’t until Christmas Eve that my phone buzzed with his reply. K. I took a slow, deep breath, swallowing the familiar spike of frustration. Are you free on the 27th or 28th? Those are the only days that work for my folks back home. Earlier or later messes up my schedule. Just give me a firm date so I can tell my parents, I typed back. The response was instant this time. Again, just: K. A second later, a voice memo popped up. His tone was infuriatingly casual, dripping with detached arrogance. “You’re always complaining that I’m too sarcastic. I gave you a simple ‘K’. Are you satisfied now?” I sat there, my fingers wrapped tight around my phone, staring blankly at that single, dismissive letter. For a long time, the world was perfectly still. Then, my thumb moved. I opened my blocked contacts list. I scrolled until I found the man who had once shamelessly, relentlessly offered to be the other man in my life. Are you free to come home with me for the holidays and meet my family? We get married right after. His reply came in a heartbeat. Done. Marcus. If you refuse to show up, someone else will gladly take your place. 1 I opened Marcus’s thread one last time. That glaring “K” sat at the bottom of our history, a monument to his apathy. What was the point anymore? It had taken me eight grueling years just to force his hand into meeting my parents for the holidays. Was I supposed to spend the next eight years begging for a ring? Another eight begging for a child? We’re done. I sent the text without a tremor in my fingers. I locked my phone and started packing. We had made it official our freshman year of college. Ten years together, eight of them sharing a roof. The detritus of our shared life was everywhere—heavy, sprawling, suffocating. Yet, the moment the decision settled in my bones, packing felt lighter, faster than any move we’d ever done together. Throw it away. Donate it. Leave it. In a matter of hours, the three-bedroom apartment that had been stuffed to the brim with our existence echoed with emptiness. I called a moving company, efficient and cold, and had my boxes hauled to a small studio apartment I’d bought years ago as a quiet investment. Just like that, a decade was surgically removed. Before walking out the door, I took one last look around. This was the place we’d lived the longest. The place we were supposed to renovate into our marital home. A sudden, sharp ache bloomed in the back of my throat. Ten years. Over. Extinguished in absolute silence. By the time I dragged my suitcase into the fluorescent glare of the airport terminal, my phone chimed. Marcus’s custom text tone. Despite myself, a pathetic, unruly sliver of hope reared its head. My hand moved faster than my brain, tapping the notification bar. “Ha,” I let out a dry, neurotic laugh. Then, I blocked his number. Overhead, the airport coffee shop was playing a soft, melancholic indie-pop song. If we’re breaking, let’s break clean. No apologies, no regrets… What’s there to owe? I dared to give it all, I dare to let it break… I thought about the last decade. The dizzying highs, the screaming fights. Walking away now, while I still had a shred of dignity, felt like the only way to honor the genuine love we once shared. I couldn’t wait around until his little intern decided to knock on my door to stake her claim. That would be pathetic. Lost in thought, I aimlessly opened Instagram. A new story with a green ring popped up. Kenzie. Marcus’s twenty-one-year-old assistant. Ahhhh my boss said he’d pretend to be my boyfriend to get my parents off my back about dating! I am literally the luckiest girl in the world! The next slide: You guys don’t even know. He spent forever picking out outfits just to come home with me for the holidays. Who said men hate shopping? I’m exhausted! The photo grid showed Marcus in nine different casual outfits, looking effortlessly wealthy but shockingly youthful. A vintage hoodie. Distressed denim. Clean white sneakers. It was the complete antithesis of his usual, severely tailored aesthetic. I pressed the buttons to screenshot, but the story vanished mid-capture. Deleted. I smiled, a bitter, self-deprecating curve of my lips. I remembered meeting Marcus in college. Even back then, as the brooding student body president, he practically lived in button-downs and slacks. I used to beg him to wear matching college hoodies with me. He rejected me every single time. My position doesn’t allow me to dress like a clown, Camille. Stop acting like a child. Since when did hoodies and jeans become acceptable? Looking at the ghost of that image—Marcus, dressed like a carefree college boy for someone else—felt like taking a knife to the ribs. We were broken up, but he still had the power to make me bleed. The intercom called my flight. I stood up, gripped my luggage handle, and joined the boarding line. I had walked this terminal alone for ten years. For five of those years, I had begged him to come home with me. Kenzie had been his intern for exactly six months. It’s fine, Marcus. From now on, you’ll never have to wrack your brain for another excuse to say no. 2 The plane was dead quiet. Night flights always are. I was surrounded by sleeping strangers, yet I was drowning in an ocean of inexplicable, crushing loneliness. I opened TikTok, navigating to a burner account I used to quietly keep tabs on Kenzie. She had just posted a text-to-speech slideshow. The title: The Guy Who Loves You Doesn’t Need to Be Asked. The moment my boss found out my family set me up on a blind date for the holidays, he freaked out. I didn’t even ask him to pretend to be my boyfriend! He volunteered! Omg guys, I think I’m developing massive feelings for him. Am I crazy? It’s like having a crush on your strict professor. But he’s so good to me… What do I do if I’m actually falling for him? The comment section was a chorus of enablers. Girl, your boss is built like a Calvin Klein model and he’s initiating? How could you NOT fall for him? Diagnosis: Creator is a clueless, oblivious queen. He’s practically throwing himself at you. Wake up! Been following for six months. I’m literally screaming at my screen. When are you changing your handle from ‘InternKenzie’ to ‘Office Romance Diaries’? Confess to him already! You guys are totally one step away. Did I notice Marcus drifting away during our tenth year? Of course I did. I was just… so tired. Marcus was fundamentally anti-marriage. I didn’t find that out until the day we graduated. I thought about it for a week, then packed my things and told him I was leaving. “I’m an only child,” I had told him, my voice trembling. “If I don’t get married, if I don’t have a family, it would shatter my parents. It would shatter my grandparents.” The color drained from Marcus’s face. “Does leaving me mean nothing to you?” “What does it matter how much it hurts?” I was furious—furious that he had hidden this massive, life-altering truth from me. “I can’t just be your girlfriend for the rest of my life.” He scrambled for a lifeline. “Your life belongs to you, Camille. You shouldn’t have to carry the weight of your family’s expectations.” I held up a hand, cutting him off. “Who said it was just their expectation? We used to lay in bed and talk about having a baby. About giving it all the love in the world.” I looked at him, ice in my veins. “I want a family. I want children. Was all of that just pillow talk to you?” Marcus had no answer. We ended it that night. A month later, he showed up outside my corporate housing. He looked gaunt, pale, clutching a massive bouquet of flowers. “Camille. I can’t do this. I don’t want to be without you.” He looked at me with those devastatingly intense eyes. “Can you just give me a little time? I’m just… I’m not ready to step into a marriage right now.” I was soft. He was my first love. “I never said we had to get married tomorrow,” I whispered. “Are you sure about this?” I asked him, searching his face. “Don’t change your entire worldview just to keep me.” Tears welled in his eyes. “The fear of marriage is nothing compared to the terror of losing you.” He swallowed hard. “Wait for me, Camille.” “I’ll overcome it.” I waited seven years. I was done waiting. 3 Exiting baggage claim, I pulled out my phone to hail an Uber, but it rang before I could open the app. “Cammy, you land yet?” It was my dad. “Yeah, I’m heading to the curb.” “I’m parked by the cell phone lot near Terminal 1. Head this way.” “Oh. Okay.” I was genuinely shocked. Aside from my freshman and sophomore years of college, my dad hadn’t picked me up from the airport in ages. I dragged my suitcase through the freezing winter air. From fifty yards away, I saw my mom and dad leaning against their Subaru, craning their necks to scan the crowd. When they spotted me, they practically jogged over. Dad grabbed my bag to heave it into the trunk, while my mom kept peering over my shoulder, looking at the sliding glass doors behind me. Seeing their frantic, hopeful faces, I suddenly felt a wave of profound relief that I had called a backup. “Mom, Dad—” I opened the back door and slid in. “My boyfriend isn’t coming until the 27th. Stop looking.” “Oh, right, right!” My mom slapped her thigh. “It’s Christmas Eve! He’s gotta spend the actual holiday with his folks first. That makes sense.” My dad patted the steering wheel. “This Marcus kid is pushing thirty, right? Glad he finally realized he needs to step up.” I bit the inside of my cheek, cutting off their eager discussion about their future son-in-law. “Marcus and I broke up.” The car went dead silent. “I’m seeing someone new. His name is Alistair.” I looked out the window. “Don’t get the names mixed up.” My dad whipped his head around, entirely ignoring the icy road ahead. “Wait, when we talked on the phone last week you said Marcus was just on a business trip—” “Keep your eyes on the damn road!” My mom grabbed the steering wheel and violently corrected our lane. She turned her wrath on him. “It’s not you dating the guy, why are you having a heart attack? She said he’s coming on the 27th, so we’ll meet him on the 27th! You’re driving like you’ve downed a fifth of bourbon, acting a fool on the interstate…” I laid my head against the cold window, letting my mom’s familiar, abrasive nagging wash over me. It was true. I had told them just last week that Marcus was finally coming. Now, at the eleventh hour, the groom was swapped. I braced myself for the interrogation, but they just kept bickering about my dad’s driving, deliberately stepping over the landmine to give me space. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes. My chest physically ached from how fiercely I loved them. I dozed off in the backseat. The moment we pulled into the driveway of my uncle’s sprawling farmhouse upstate, I was swarmed. My dad was the youngest of five; my mom the youngest of six. This meant our family gatherings were chaotic, deafening, and heavily invested in the marital status of the youngest cousin—me. My oldest cousin bounced a toddler on his hip. “Brought the little guy over so some of his baby luck rubs off on you! Get married, have a kid, and give Auntie some peace of mind.” “Yeah, working on it,” I mumbled. My two older female cousins practically shoved their heads into the car window, scanning the empty seats. “Your guy has zero manners. Who drags his feet for almost a decade?” They clucked their tongues in disapproval. “If he had any sense, he would be here tonight with an armful of presents. You treat him like a goddamn prince for nothing.” “Yeah, totally uncalled for.” Aunts, uncles, and great-aunts crowded around the driveway. “Where’s the boy, Cammy? Didn’t show?” “Not today. He’s coming on the 27th.” My aunt stepped in, physically pulling me from the firing squad. “Give them a break! People have their own families to see on Christmas. She said he’s coming later. Back off and let the girl breathe!” It was twenty degrees outside, and I was sweating through my cashmere sweater. God help me, I thought. How the hell is Alistair, an actual European aristocrat, going to survive my lunatic American family? 4 Christmas and the day after passed in a blur of food comas, spiked eggnog, and relentless socializing. When I finally collapsed onto my childhood bed to rest, my phone buzzed with an unknown number. “Hello?” I answered, my voice raspy with exhaustion. “It’s me.” Marcus. Before I could even process the audacity, his voice cracked with indignation over the line. “You blocked me.” “Yeah.” I stared at the ceiling. “We broke up. Was I supposed to keep you unblocked so I could like your Instagram stories?” “I messed up! But Camille, you have to give me a little more time… I wasn’t ready.” “You messed up a lot of things. Which one are you apologizing for?” I asked, my voice chillingly detached. “You agreed to come home with me for the holidays. If you couldn’t do it, why promise? Hell, if you got cold feet, why didn’t you just communicate that to me?” I sat up, the anger finally catching fire. “Ever since you agreed to come, you either ignored my texts or gave me one-word answers. Scroll through our chat and count how many times you just sent me a ‘K’ this past year.” “You told me you were terrified of marriage. You didn’t want to meet my parents. I gave you time to process it. Seven years! Seven goddamn years!” I took a ragged breath. “I gave you nothing but understanding and space, and you turned around and spent Christmas playing house with your twenty-one-year-old assistant in her hometown.” On the other end, there was a loud crash, followed by Marcus groaning in pain. “Fuck!” “How did you know about… no, listen, let me explain!” he panicked. “I was just doing Kenzie a favor! Her parents were breathing down her neck about getting married. She’s only twenty-one, she shouldn’t have to—” “I don’t care,” I snapped, the sound of his voice physically repulsing me. “We are broken up. I do not want to hear your pathetic excuses.” Marcus’s panic morphed into defensive anger. “I admit that breaking my promise to you was wrong! But you can’t even give me the grace to explain myself? We had a rule, Camille! We promised we’d talk things out, that we’d never go to sleep angry!” He was still violently avoiding the subject of Kenzie. I wasn’t going to waste my precious holiday rest on him. “There’s nothing to talk out. You strung me along under false pretenses. You break promises, you deflect blame, and you are completely utterly gutless.” “I am officially informing you: we are done. Goodbye.” I hung up and instantly blocked the new number.

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I had been married to Garrett as his second wife for three years, and in that time, I had perfected the art of being a ghost. His daughter, Lucy, whom his ex-wife had left behind, never called me by any name. Garrett refused to let any photos of me be displayed in the house. For three years, I cooked, cleaned, did the school runs, and helped with homework. I did it all so quietly that even Lucy’s teachers assumed I was just the hired help. Then my sister-in-law, Cecilia, told me that his ex-wife, Giselle, was back from Europe. She told me that Garrett’s desk drawer was filled with her photographs. He had waited two hours at the airport just to pick her up. Meanwhile, that same night, Lucy and I waited at the diner until closing. My mother’s illness had recently taken a turn for the worse, requiring urgent surgery, but Garrett wouldn’t let me go back to see her. He told me the house simply couldn’t run without me. And then, finally, I stood outside his study door and heard Giselle’s voice. “Lucy wants both her mom and dad to be there for Parents’ Day.” And Garrett’s reply: “Okay. Actually, there’s something else. I’m ready to lay my cards on the table with the family.” I pushed the door open. “What a coincidence,” I said, my voice steady. “My bags have been packed since last night.” 01 “What did you say?” Garrett’s voice was low, his knuckles rapping twice on the mahogany desk. The other woman in the study stood up slowly. She had long, dark hair, wore a pastel yellow cardigan, and held a cup of tea. It was the celadon cup I had bought, filled with the reserve Oolong tea I sourced from a boutique importer in San Francisco every autumn. “Garrett, is this…?” she murmured, her voice soft and fragile. “Sit down, Giselle,” he said, before turning his cold gaze to me. “Gwen, out.” I didn’t move. “You mentioned laying your cards on the table. What cards, exactly?” Three seconds of dead silence stretched between us. Giselle set her teacup down gently, her voice dropping to a delicate whisper. “Garrett, did I come at a bad time? Maybe I should go. I don’t want to cause any trouble in your home.” She reached for her designer purse with slow, deliberate movements. “Don’t go,” Garrett said, his eyes still locked on me. “What is it you actually want, Gwen?” For three years, every time we had a disagreement, he asked me that. In his eyes, it was always me causing a scene, and him putting out the fire. “I don’t want anything. I just want you to make it clear. Whatever cards you’re laying down—what do they have to do with me?” He didn’t answer. Giselle sat back down on the sofa, her head bowed. “Gwen, I’m so sorry. I really only came back to see Lucy. She’s so big now… I’ve missed so much of her life. Please don’t worry, I have no intention of disrupting your life with Garrett.” As she spoke, she tilted her face slightly toward him. It was a fleeting glance. So brief that if my nerves weren’t raw and hyper-focused, I would have missed it. But I saw it. There was validation in that look. Reliance. An absolute certainty that he would take her side. I had never, not once in three years, received that kind of look from Garrett. “Giselle, when you left, Lucy was only three years old,” I said. “Gwen,” Garrett warned. “Let me finish.” His face darkened, but I ignored him. “When she had a hundred and four fever in the middle of the night, I was the one who called the Uber to the ER. On her first day of preschool, when she cried for two hours, I was the one crouching in the hallway, waiting. When she scraped her knee and needed three stitches, I was the one holding her leg, crying, begging her not to be scared.” “Enough,” Garrett interrupted, his voice dropping to a low, guttural rasp. “I’m not finished.” I looked him dead in the eye. “Three years, Garrett. What have you given me? You won’t even let me put up a single photo of myself. I’m less than a housekeeper in this house. At least a housekeeper gets paid.” Giselle’s eyes welled with tears, her fingers twisting the strap of her bag. “I’m so sorry… everything you’re saying is my fault. When I chose to go abroad back then—” Her voice broke. In that split second, Garrett’s gaze snapped away from me, softening instantly as it landed on her. Then, he drove the final knife in. “Gwen, I appreciate everything you’ve done. I really do. But Lucy needs her real mother. And that is something no one else can ever replace.” The tips of my fingers went entirely numb. I had done everything a mother was supposed to do. But I was irreplaceable only as a utility, and entirely disposable as a person. “Fine.” “Gwen—” “I’m going to my mother’s place tomorrow. Her surgery can’t be delayed any longer.” He frowned. “But Lucy has her school play next week—” “She has her real mother now. You just said so.” He froze. Not out of heartbreak, but out of sheer shock that I was talking back. As I walked toward the door, Giselle’s voice drifted from behind me, sweet as honey and sharp as ice. “Gwen, thank you for these past few years. Once everything is settled, we’ll make sure you’re taken care of.” I didn’t look back. My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a call from my mother. “Gwen, sweetie, the surgery got moved to tomorrow. If you’re too busy with the house, you don’t have to come…” “Mom,” I said, my voice shaking but firm. “I’m coming home tomorrow. No one is stopping me.” 02 “Write this down before you leave.” The next morning, Garrett placed a sheet of paper on the kitchen island, a pen beside it. I picked it up. In his neat, block handwriting, he had listed several bullet points: 1. Lucy’s daily schedule. 2. Dietary restrictions. 3. School pickup route. 4. Tutor contact info. 5. Common medications. Five points. Structured, numbered, sterile. I looked up. “What is this?” “Aren’t you going to your mother’s? Someone needs to take care of Lucy. Write these down clearly so I can give them to Giselle when she gets here.” He didn’t even say please. My eyes locked onto the words Dietary restrictions. For three years, these details had been etched into my brain more clearly than his own birthday. And now, he wanted me to hand-write an instruction manual for my own replacement. “You want me to write my own user manual?” “Don’t be dramatic, Gwen. I just want to make sure Giselle has all the facts.” The doorbell rang. He went to answer it, and Giselle stood on the threshold. Her hair was tied back in a neat, casual ponytail, and she was carrying two bags of takeout. “Garrett, I got those blueberry scones and steel-cut oatmeal Lucy loves. She mentioned them when we Facetimed last week.” She walked in with a bright smile, pausing as she passed me. “Morning, Gwen.” I said nothing. Just then, Lucy ran out of her bedroom. She stopped when she saw Giselle, her eyes widening, and then— “Mommy!” It was bright, clear, and without a second of hesitation. Three years. I had begged her, cried over her, tried everything, and she had never once called me Mom. I’d had to prompt her just to get her to say “Gwen.” Now, Giselle had been back for less than two weeks, and the word “Mommy” slipped from her lips like water. Giselle knelt down to hug her, her eyes glistening. “Oh, sweetie. Mommy brought your favorite scones.” Garrett stood nearby, the faintest, softest smile playing on his lips. It was an expression I had never seen on him in three years. I turned away, took the paper to the far corner of the kitchen, and began to write. Mango allergy—severe. Can cause anaphylaxis and airway swelling. Milk must be warm. Cold milk upsets her stomach. Keep an albuterol inhaler in the left pocket of her backpack. Her asthma flares up when the seasons change. By the third line, my hand was trembling. By the fifth, a text from my sister-in-law Cecilia lit up my screen. Gwen, we have a major problem. I just walked past Garrett’s home office and saw a document on his desk from his estate lawyer. It lists all your joint properties and bank accounts. I stared at the screen. What do you mean? I snapped a quick photo. Look. This isn’t normal financial planning. It looks exactly like a divorce asset division draft. The phone nearly slipped from my fingers. From the living room, Lucy’s laughter drifted over, paired with Giselle’s gentle cooing: “Slow down, baby, don’t burn your tongue.” Garrett walked over, noticing my pen had stopped. He frowned. “Done?” “Almost.” “Hurry up. Before you go, there’s one more thing. Lucy’s tutoring fees are due for this term. Send the portal login and password to Giselle.” I put the pen down. Three years of my warmth, my blood, and my tears, reduced to five bullet points on a transition sheet. And now, even the passwords to her life had to be handed over. “Is there anything else you want to hand over? My passwords? My keys? Or would it be easier if I just packaged myself up and gave myself to her too?” His brow furrowed. “Do you have to be so bitter—” “Gwen,” Giselle called out sweetly from the hallway. “Your mother’s surgery is the priority. Don’t worry about the rest of this until you’re back. By the way, where do you keep Lucy’s study guides? I looked around but couldn’t find them.” She was already digging through my drawers. She’d been here two weeks, and she was already going through my things. I stood up and slid the half-written paper across the counter to Garrett. “Write the rest yourself. You’re her father. You should know.” He looked down at the paper, silent. I went to the master bedroom to grab my suitcase. He followed, blocking the doorway. “Gwen, I’m going to say this one last time. Let Cecilia handle your mother’s hospital stay. We need you here.” “You think if I leave, this house stops spinning?” “That’s not what I meant.” “That is exactly what you meant.” I pulled my suitcase open and began tossing my clothes inside. He watched me, his face cold, his lips pressed into a thin line. “If you really leave, what about Lucy?” “Ask her real mother.” “You’re just throwing a tantrum.” I zipped the suitcase and stood up straight. “Garrett, read the first line of what I wrote on that paper. Mango allergy. Severe enough to close her throat. Are you absolutely sure Giselle knows that?” He didn’t answer. As I dragged my suitcase out of the room, Lucy was stuffing the last bite of her scone into her mouth, her cheeks puffed out. She glanced at me, then turned right back to Giselle. “Mommy, will you walk me to school today?” “Of course, sweetie. Mommy’s taking you.” In that moment, I finally understood what Garrett had meant. Lucy needs her real mother. He was right. This house had never needed me. It only needed my labor. Cecilia’s text was still glowing on my screen. Asset division. Divorce draft. He was already preparing the divorce, and he hadn’t even had the decency to tell me. The “cards” he wanted to lay on the table… It turned out that from the very beginning, the card being discarded was me. 03 “Gwen, where are you? Check your phone right now!” Cecilia sent three voice memos back-to-back, her tone escalating with panic. I was sitting in the sterile corridor of the hospital, waiting for my mother to be wheeled into the operating room. The nurse had just handed me the consent forms, and my hand was still shaking. I tapped open WeChat. Cecilia had sent a screenshot. It was the parent group chat for Lucy’s class. There was a new message from a profile I didn’t recognize. The name display read: Lucy’s Mom – Giselle. She had written: Hi everyone, I’m Lucy’s mom, Giselle. I’ve been working abroad, which made it hard to stay connected, but I’ll be handling all of Lucy’s school activities going forward. Looking forward to getting to know you all! Several parents had replied with warm welcomes. Then, one parent chimed in: What about the lady who usually picks Lucy up? Did she leave? No one answered. Cecilia sent another screenshot. It was a photo Giselle had posted in the group. In the photo, Giselle was wearing a light blue apron, holding a bowl of pasta. Lucy was sitting at the dining table, grinning ear to ear. That apron was mine. It had a small grease stain on the front from a year ago when I was frying chicken—a spot I had scrubbed dozens of times but could never quite get out. She was wearing my apron. Standing in my kitchen. Feeding the child I had raised for three years. Cecilia’s text followed: This woman behaves like she owns the place. What the hell is Garrett thinking? Do you know about this? I exited the app, my fingers slipping twice on the screen. The light above the operating room flared red. The nurse walked over with the clipboard. “Family of the patient? Please sign here.” I signed my name, my handwriting a jagged, crooked mess. Just as I handed it back, my phone rang again. It was Lucy’s homeroom teacher, Mrs. Henderson. “Hello, is this Lucy’s guardian?” “Yes, Mrs. Henderson. It’s Gwen.” “Oh, Gwen. Hello. Um, a woman came to pick up Lucy today, claiming to be her mother.” “We verified her identity, and she is indeed the biological mother. But our system has had you listed as the primary guardian. Do we need to update our records?” My throat felt incredibly dry. “You see, school policy dictates that any change in emergency contacts or pickup authorization requires the legal guardian’s signature…” “I am not her legal guardian,” I said. The moment the words left my mouth, the sheer absurdity of it washed over me. For three years, I had attended every parent-teacher conference. I had signed every report card. Every emergency call had gone to my phone. But I wasn’t her legal guardian. I was just Garrett’s current wife. The stepmother. A title that had never even been formally recognized. Mrs. Henderson was quiet for a long moment. “I see… in that case, I’ll need to contact Lucy’s father to confirm.” “Please do.” After hanging up, I slid down the hospital wall, burying my face in my knees. Then, Garrett’s name flashed on the screen. “Lucy threw a tantrum at school today. Did you know about this?” “I’m at the hospital.” “When are you coming home?” “My mother is on the operating table, Garrett.” A beat of silence. “Giselle said Lucy refused to eat lunch today. She kept asking where you went. Call her and calm her down.” I gripped the phone so hard my fingernails bit into my palm. “She has her real mother now, doesn’t she? Let Giselle calm her down.” “Why are you acting like this? I’m talking about the kid.” “And I’m talking about my mother. She is in surgery right now, and I am waiting outside. Can you, for once in your life, ask me how my mother is doing?” The line went silent for five excruciating seconds. Then, he said, “Just come back as soon as you’re done.” He hung up. He didn’t even have the decency to offer a hollow “hope the surgery goes well.” I rested the phone on my knees, watching the screen slowly fade to black. Eventually, the operating room doors swung open. When my mother was rolled out, her face was deathly pale, the anesthesia still wearing off. I walked alongside the gurney. She squinted, her eyes finding mine through the haze. Her first words were a raspy whisper: “Gwen… why have you gotten so thin? Are they not feeding you?” I forced a smile and squeezed her hand. She closed her eyes again, murmuring, “Don’t go back there.” I said nothing. A moment later, her voice dropped even lower. “That house doesn’t need a wife. They want a servant they don’t have to pay. Come home, baby. Mama will take care of you.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “456750”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

On the eve of our wedding, I borrowed my fiancée’s phone to order some takeout, and a hotel booking notification popped up on the screen: Deluxe King Room, $350. Special request: “Floor-to-ceiling windows on the top floor.” My chest tightened. I tapped into her message history. The pinned contact at the top of her list was no longer me. It was Chase, the college intern at her firm. I scrolled through dozens of Venmo transactions she’d sent him: $520, $1,314, $9,999… The latest message was a voice note from him: “You were so rough last night, babe. I’m still sore. Where’s my bonus?” She had sent him a thousand dollars instantly. When Lauren walked into the room and saw the phone in my hand, the color drained from her face. She dropped to her knees right there on the hardwood floor, the sound of her knees hitting the wood sharp and loud, and slapped herself hard across the face. “Adam, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking… it was a moment of madness. Please, just forgive me this once. Please.” Ten years of history—from high school sweethearts to this apartment. My throat burned, but I swallowed the humiliation and nodded. After we got married, Lauren became the perfect wife. Almost terrifyingly so. She texted me her location constantly, left her phone unlocked on the kitchen counter, and practically begged me to check it. When I got sick and had to leave my job to recover, she took care of everything, transferring ten thousand dollars into my account every month so I wouldn’t feel the sting of losing my career. Our friends told me I was lucky. They said she had learned her lesson, that a reformed partner was worth their weight in gold. Until the third month of my recovery. Lauren rushed out the door for work and left her burner phone behind. The screen suddenly lit up. It was an Amazon delivery notification: “Your order for [Lace Strappy Nightgown – Emerald Green] is out for delivery.” My hands shook as I unlocked it. The recipient’s name was set to “Chase Baby.” The exact same pet name she had used for the intern two years ago. … I stood frozen in the quiet living room, the air caught in my throat. My thumb moved on autopilot, scrolling up. In the purchase history, she had bought the same brand of nightgown three times, each in a different color. Along with boxes of condoms and sets of lingerie I had never seen. The shipping address wasn’t our home. It was a luxury high-rise apartment near her office called The Emerald. I clicked on the latest product review she had left. “Fits perfectly. My wife loves it.” Attached was a photo of two hands, fingers tightly intertwined. On the woman’s wrist was the Cartier watch I’d saved up to buy her for her birthday just a few months ago. My hands shook so violently I almost dropped the phone. When I logged into her secondary messaging app, a physical pain flared in my chest, sharp and suffocating. It was still him. “Chase Baby.” His profile picture was new. He was wearing a tailored designer suit, posing confidently right inside Lauren’s executive office. She hadn’t fired him back then. She had promoted him. He was now her senior associate. And they were just as obsessive as they had been two years ago. Lauren had sent him a provocative photo of herself in the lace nightgown with the caption: “My battle armor just arrived. Come tear it off.” A second later, Chase sent a pin to a five-star hotel downtown. At two in the morning, Chase had sent a voice note saying he missed her. Lauren’s reply was just two words: “On my way.” Twenty minutes later, her location showed she was parked outside his apartment. While I lay asleep in our bed, recovering from surgery, Lauren was either in his arms or on FaceTime with him. And every morning, I woke up to a bed that had already gone cold, assuming she had just left early for an important meeting. To the world, Lauren was the ultimate devoted wife. She sent me photos of her lunch, called me on her breaks, and let me browse her main phone whenever I wanted. She’d hold my face and say, “Adam, I owe you everything. I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you. I will never betray you again.” I had felt so incredibly grateful that I gave our love a second chance. But that “clean slate” was just a performance. This burner phone was her real world. I took slow, ragged breaths, trying to keep the burning in my chest from consuming me. Suddenly, the screen flashed with a new text: “Tonight, room 1201. Same place. I’m going to ruin you, babe.” The front door unlocked. I slid the phone back into her purse and sat back, taking a slow sip of my tea. Lauren rushed into the living room. When she saw the phone untouched on the counter, a wave of relief washed over her features. She grabbed it, quickly checking her notifications. “Forgot my work phone,” she said, her voice breezy. “Just some high-profile clients reaching out.” She turned to leave. I reached out and caught her wrist. I looked straight into her eyes, searching for even a flicker of guilt. “Are you coming home tonight?” There was nothing. Just empty, beautiful clarity. Lauren leaned down, kissing my forehead with that familiar, gentle warmth. “Work is crazy right now, sweetie. I have a late dinner with some investors. Don’t wait up for me.” She had said those words a thousand times over the last two years. And every time, I had stayed up until 2 a.m., keeping her dinner warm. I never guessed her “investor” was Chase, and her “dinner” was a hotel room. The click of the door closing echoed through the empty apartment, and something inside me finally went cold. On the coffee table sat a small, heart-shaped cake. Happy 2nd Anniversary, the icing read. Just last night, she had held my hand and talked about how we’d celebrate tonight. Now, a single text from Chase had wiped it all from her mind. Maybe because I’d already survived this pain once before, I didn’t break down. Not this time. After a few quiet minutes, I sat down, pulled out my laptop, and emailed a divorce lawyer to draft the agreement. When night fell, I grabbed my coat and drove to the five-star hotel downtown. It took me ten years to build my love for her. But it only took a second for it to die. When I pulled up to the valet, I saw them. Lauren was laughing, her hand locked in Chase’s as they walked through the grand revolving doors. I walked up to the front desk and booked a room right next to theirs. In the elevator, two room-service attendants wheeled in a cart. On the white tablecloth sat a small, elegant chocolate cake and a box of ultra-thin condoms. “Room 1201 again?” one whispered to the other. “That’s the third time this week.” “Yeah, the lady in 1201 is a VIP. She always wants the premium service.” My entire body went rigid. I forgot to even press the button for my floor. “Last time I dropped off the cart, the door wasn’t fully closed. They were right there against the floor-to-ceiling window… curtains wide open. The guy actually looked at me and smirked.” “Oh my god, seriously? No shame.” “Well, she’s rich. That’s how these corporate types are. Out here playing with a boy toy while her poor husband is probably sitting at home waiting for her.” “Sucks to be him. Imagine being that clueless.” The other shrugged. “If you can’t keep your wife satisfied, that’s on you.” Ding. The elevator reached the penthouse level. They wheeled the cart out, but my legs felt like lead. I couldn’t move. Every word had been a physical slap to my face, shattering what little dignity I had left. I slowly followed them down the carpeted hallway and stood outside 1201. Inside, Chase’s voice drifted through the door. “Babe, you ordered cake again? We never even finish it.” Lauren’s voice was teasing, dripping with honey. “If we don’t finish it, I’ll just bring it home to Adam.” My hands clenched into fists. All those nights she brought home “leftover desserts from corporate dinners”—they were Chase’s scraps. And I had eaten them gratefully, touched by her thoughtfulness. Hearing their laughter, a knife twisted in my chest. I didn’t know if I could keep my composure if I knocked. Part of me wanted to tear down the door, to scream and shatter things like I had two years ago. Instead, I walked into 1203 and closed the door behind me. The moment the latch clicked, my phone vibrated in my pocket. It was Lauren. “Hey, babe,” she said, her voice soft and sweet. “How are you feeling? Is your chest still hurting?” I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper. I couldn’t find my voice. “This dinner is going to run incredibly late, so I’m just going to crash at a hotel near the office. Get some sleep, okay?” In the background, there was a muffled, breathless groan. “Ah… Lauren, gentler… that hurts…” There was a rustle as she scrambled to cover the mic, but she wasn’t fast enough. “Oh, don’t worry,” she quickly lied. “One of my associates sprained his ankle at the restaurant. I’m just helping him with some ice.” For the first time in my life, I didn’t get angry. “Right,” I said quietly. “Go take care of him.” “Love you, babe,” she murmured before hanging up. It was fascinating, really, how she could divide her heart so neatly. One half to tell me she loved me, and the other to lose herself in another man. I leaned against the floor-to-ceiling glass of my room, lighting one cigarette after another. Ten years. We had gone from high school sweethearts to college sweethearts, to a beautiful wedding. We survived finals, four years of a grueling long-distance relationship, and the cramped, drafty apartments of our early twenties when we lived on instant noodles. I had watched her claw her way up from an entry-level clerk to executive vice president. She used to work herself to the bone. I remembered her with a hundred-degree fever, still typing away at her laptop in bed. I’d wrap my arms around her, begging her to rest. But she’d smile, press her cold forehead against mine, and say, “Adam, I want to build a life for us. I want to stand beside you and never have to worry about rent again.” That love was real. The ten years were real. That was why, when I first found out about Chase, my heart bled but I couldn’t let her go. I forgave her because I couldn’t bear to erase our history. At eight the next morning, the door to 1201 opened. I stood in the shadow of the hallway corner, watching Chase drape his arm over Lauren’s shoulders as they walked out. “Babe, that Porsche you wanted?” Lauren was saying, tapping his nose. “We’re going to the dealership after work to pick it up.” Chase’s eyes lit up. “Seriously? That’s a hundred and fifty grand. Is your husband going to check the joint account?” Lauren laughed, a cold, dismissive sound. “Adam is sitting at home playing sick. I pay for everything now. He doesn’t have a say in how I spend my money.” I pulled out my phone and checked our bank app. Half of our joint savings was gone. And the luxury apartment at The Emerald? She had bought that too. That money included my life savings, my parents’ wedding gift, and the nest egg we had built together for a future child. She had gutted it to buy her lover a condo and a sports car. A sudden, violent cough tore through my chest, and I doubled over, gasping for air. A passing housekeeper caught my elbow. “Sir? Are you alright?” The noise cut through their laughter. Lauren paused, her eyes scanning the hallway. “Come on, babe, I’m starving,” Chase whined, pulling at her arm. Her gaze brushed past me for a fraction of a second before Chase pulled her into the elevator. Wearing my oversized hoodie with my hood pulled low, she didn’t even recognize her own husband. My phone buzzed. A text from Lauren: “Morning, sweetie! Ordered you that green smoothie and avocado toast you like. It’ll be at the door soon. Take care of yourself today. Love you.” It was hilarious, really. She’d said “I love you” more times in the last three days than she had in the last three years. When I walked out to the parking garage, Chase was leaning against the driver-side door of my sedan. His eyes curled with amusement. “Hey, man. You were in 1203 last night, weren’t you?” Before I could speak, he smirked. “Since we both know what’s up, let’s grab a coffee. Talk like men.” In the quiet coffee shop across the street, I sat opposite him. Lauren had taken excellent care of him. A Gucci messenger bag, a Rolex Submariner, a bespoke wool suit. My entire wardrobe combined probably cost less than one of his buttons. Chase leaned back, looking completely at ease. “Look, Adam. Do you know why you can’t hold onto her? Women like Lauren—high-powered, successful women—they get bored. You can love your favorite meal, but eat it every single day for ten years, and you’re going to crave something new.” My fingers tightened around my paper cup until the cardboard buckled. Chase noticed and grinned. “Lauren says you’re great for keeping the house tidy and cooking dinner. You’re the perfect domestic husband. But me? I’m the adventure. She loves me too much to ever make me wash a dish.” I didn’t think. I just threw the boiling hot coffee straight into his face. Chase jumped back with a roar of rage. “Are you out of your mind, Adam?!” I lunged forward, raising my fist. But before I could connect, a cold, firm grip clamped around my wrist. Lauren shoved herself between us, pulling Chase behind her. Her face was dark with anger. “Adam! Enough! Get in the car. Stop embarrassing yourself in public!” I looked at her, standing defensively in front of him, and felt a dull, familiar ache behind my eyes. “It’s him again. The exact same guy. You really couldn’t let him go, could you?” Lauren didn’t even flinch. She pulled out a chair, her voice turning incredibly cold and practical. “Adam, you are my husband. That is never going to change. We have a home together. Don’t throw a tantrum over something this insignificant.” Insignificant. Two years of systematic betrayal, and she called it insignificant. She grabbed a handful of napkins, gently dabbing the coffee stains off Chase’s tailored lapels, whispering soft, soothing words to him as he pouted. I don’t remember leaving the cafe. By the time the fog cleared, I was sitting in the passenger seat of Lauren’s SUV. “I’m taking you home,” Lauren said, starting the ignition. “You’re tired. Once you’ve calmed down, you’re going to apologize to Chase.” I turned to her, incredulous. “Apologize to the guy sleeping with my wife? What is it about him, Lauren? What does he have that makes you lose your mind like this?” Lauren slammed on the brakes. I flew forward, my forehead cracking hard against the dashboard. Sharp pain bloomed in my temples, but she didn’t even glance over. She just gripped the steering wheel and screamed: “Enough! I have spent two years groveling at your feet, Adam! What more do you want from me? I like his body, okay? He’s young and he’s fun. But you’re the one I love! Why can’t you just accept that?” I pressed my palm to my bruised forehead and leaned against the cold passenger window. The fight drained out of me all at once. “Let’s get a divorce, Lauren. I can manage on my own.” The silence in the car stretched, heavy and suffocating. Then, Lauren let out a dry, humorless laugh and hit the gas. “A divorce? With what money? You can’t even pay your own medical bills without me.” Before my surgery, I was a senior marketing director making six figures, on track for partner. But when her company needed to restructure and she was pulling eighty-hour weeks, I stepped back to manage the house so she could focus. And then I got sick. I became a stay-at-home husband because she held my hand and whispered, “Let me take care of you now.” How incredibly stupid I had been to believe her. The moment we got back to the house, I dragged my suitcase out of the closet. Lauren ripped the shirts from my hands and threw them onto the floor. “Adam, stop this childish behavior. You have no job, no income, and without my insurance, you can’t even afford your physical therapy. Just sit tight and stop making a scene.” She tossed a slip of paper onto the bed. “Chase is coming over with some clients for his birthday tomorrow. Cook what’s on this list. He likes spicy food, so don’t hold back on the seasoning.” “I’m your husband, Lauren, not your housekeeper.” “Then act like it,” she snapped, grabbing her coat. “Making dinner is the least you can do.” She walked out without looking back. The next afternoon, Lauren arrived with Chase and several junior executives from her office. I was in the kitchen, sweating over hot pans, when she called me out to serve. One of the younger guys glanced at my apron and smiled. “Wow, Lauren, your maid is incredibly efficient.” Chase chuckled, taking a sip of his wine. “That’s not a maid. That’s Lauren’s husband.” The room went dead silent. Everyone stared at me, their eyes shifting awkwardly. “Oh… sorry. We didn’t… your husband looks…” “No wonder Lauren practically lives at the office,” another whispered, not quite quietly enough. “She’s got a sick kid at home.” Lauren didn’t say a word to defend me. Instead, her brow furrowed. She walked over and whispered sharply in my ear, “Go upstairs. You’re ruining the mood.” My hands trembled as I set down the serving platter. “Go to your room and stay there,” she commanded, her voice cold and impatient, like she was ordering a disobedient pet. As the bedroom door clicked shut behind me, a burst of laughter erupted from the dining room below, followed by the clinking of glasses. Ten minutes later, I walked downstairs and found her in the hallway. “I need you to sign this medical authorization form,” I said. Lauren snatched the paper with a sigh, signing her name at the bottom without even reading a single line. “Lauren, hurry up! We’re cutting the cake!” Chase called out from the living room. She tossed the pen onto the console table and hurried back to him. I looked down at the paper. Folded beneath the dummy medical form was our divorce agreement, now carrying her bold, hurried signature. I let out a long, quiet breath. By midnight, the guests had left, and my bags were packed by the door. The guest bedroom door creaked open. Chase was leaning against the frame, a smirk plastered on his face. “Packing your bags, big guy?” He strolled into the room, his eyes scanning the wide, beautiful floor-to-ceiling windows. “You know, Lauren and I love this room. Every time she brings me here when you’re asleep, we do it right against the glass.” He pulled back the sheer curtain, flashing me a cruel, triumphant grin. “She likes keeping the curtains open. Says the risk of getting caught makes it hotter.” “Did you ever guess, Adam? While you were drugged out in that bed, I was right behind you.” I stared at him, my face turning completely white. Chase slid his phone out and tapped the screen. It was a photo. Chase, shirtless, holding a half-naked Lauren from behind against the window. Their faces were flushed, her head tilted back as he kissed her throat. And right behind them, clearly visible in the background, was me—curled up in the bed, fast asleep. He swiped to the next photo. And the next. Different nights, different positions, same room. In every single one, my unconscious figure lay in the background. “Remember that month you slept like a baby? Lauren was slipping Ambien into your warm milk every night so we could have some fun.” “I really love these floor-to-ceiling windows. The moonlight is so romantic…” He leaned against the glass, sighing with theatrical ecstasy. Every drop of blood in my body turned to ice. Years ago, when we finally bought this house, I had told Lauren I wanted a bedroom with floor-to-ceiling windows. I wanted to wake up to the first light of dawn with her, to fall asleep under the stars. She had immediately hired contractors to customize the room just to make me happy. It had been my favorite corner of our home. And all this time, she had been pressed against that very glass, wrapped in another man’s arms, desecrating the one sacred space I had left. I lunged. My fist connected with his jaw with a sickening crack. Then another. And another. Chase shrieked, trying to shield his face, but I grabbed him by the hair and slammed his head against the glass. “You love this window so much?!” I roared, my voice raw and unrecognizable. “Look at it! Look at it!” I grabbed the heavy oak chair from the vanity and threw it with everything I had. The massive pane of glass shattered with a deafening explosion, raining sharp shards onto the balcony outside. The moonlight fractured into a thousand jagged pieces. Chase scrambled away, bleeding and terrified, sobbing on the floor. “Adam! You’re fucking crazy!” “If you’re mad, blame me! Don’t touch Chase!” Lauren burst into the room. She grabbed me by my collar and shoved me back with terrifying force. But there was no glass behind me anymore. My heel caught on the frame, and my balance tipped. I felt myself falling backward into the cold night air. The wind roared past my ears, and the last thing I heard was Lauren’s raw, terrified scream echoing through the dark: “Adam—!”

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The day my parents shipped me off to that behavioral modification camp, I still had the proof in my pocket—the footage that would have cleared my name. They didn’t even look at it. Instead, they chose to believe the girl who was sobbing so hard she choked on her own breath. Five years later, when the heavy iron gates finally swung open and let me out, the first thing I saw was her. She was wearing my old school uniform skirt, her hand tucked comfortably into my brother’s arm, smiling as she called me her “little sister.” In my absence, she had become an internet darling—an inspirational sweetheart with millions of followers. She slept in my bedroom, in my bed, and used my family’s last name to sign brand deals. My mother’s first words to me were a warning: “Hailey has a weak heart, Gwen. Don’t do anything to upset her.” My father handed me a clinical evaluation report. “You have documented aggressive tendencies,” he said, his voice flat. “Don’t ruin any more lives.” Behind them, shielded by their protective bodies, Hailey looked at me. The tears vanished for a split second, and her lips silently formed five words: You can’t beat me. I smiled. Five years in that hellhole hadn’t taught me much. But it had taught me one thing: how to make people who pretend to be asleep open their eyes and watch themselves rot. 01 There was a red carpet rolled out at our front door the day I came home. In the living room, ring lights were set up, glowing aggressively. Three different smartphones were mounted on tripods, streaming live. My mother, Dora, dressed in a flawless champagne-colored pantsuit, was draping an arm around Hailey. She smiled warmly at the camera. “Today is the day our family is finally whole again,” she said in her polished, charity-gala voice. “We hope our journey can bring awareness to troubled teens transitioning back into the home.” The lens swung toward me. The live chat on the screen began to scroll at a dizzying speed. Wait, is that the sister who pushed her classmate off the stairs? She looks so cold. Creepy vibe. Don’t be scared, Hailey! We love you! I stood in the entryway, clutching a single black duffel bag. Inside were two changes of clothes, a heavily dog-eared copy of the civil code, and a certificate of completion from the youth reform facility. My mother’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second before she quickly recovered, waving me over. “Gwen, sweetie, come here. Say hello to everyone.” My name is Gwen. But for the last five years, that name had been a hushed taboo in this house. They preferred to call me the “problem child,” the “delinquent,” the “unstable one.” Hailey walked toward me. She was even more beautiful than I remembered—doe eyes, cascading brunette curls, wearing a pristine white dress. Around her delicate wrist was the scarlet thread bracelet my father had bought me for my sixteenth birthday. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around me. As she did, her manicured nails dug viciously into the old, tender scar tissue on my lower back. “Little sister, you’re finally home,” she whispered against my ear, her breath warm and smelling of mint. “I’ve missed you every single day. Is the bed in there still as hard as rock? I heard you have to ask permission just to use the bathroom in the middle of the night.” I didn’t flinch. The cameras were rolling, my parents were watching, and tens of thousands of strangers in the chat were waiting. She wanted me to shove her. She wanted me to snap, to lose my mind, so the audience could witness the “aggressor” attacking her victim live. Instead, I lifted my hands and gently patted her back. “Don’t shake, Hailey,” I whispered back, leaning into her ear. “It’s been five years, and your acting has actually gotten worse.” She pulled back instantly, her eyes welling with tears. “Mom, it’s okay. I think Gwen is just… still adjusting.” My mother rushed over, placing herself like a shield between us, her voice dripping with suppressed anger. “Gwen, you just got back. Can’t you behave for once?” My father, Richard, turned off one of the streaming phones, his face dark. “Your sister is a public youth ambassador now. There are eyes on us. Don’t humiliate this family.” My brother, Wyatt, came down the stairs. I remembered when we were younger, how he used to lift me onto his shoulders, how he’d buy me double scoops of chocolate chip ice cream whenever I got an A. Now, he looked at me like I was a ticking bomb that needed immediate containment. “We gave your old room to Hailey,” Wyatt said, his voice clipped. “You’ll sleep in the downstairs utility room for now.” I looked up at the door at the end of the second-floor hallway. My room. A cute, pastel plaque was hung on the wood: Hailey’s Sanctuary. Hailey. The girl who, five years ago, had cornered our classmate in the gym locker room with her gang. The girl who had sliced her own arm with an Exacto knife, crying to the police that I was the one bullying her. The girl whose cruelty I had recorded on my phone—footage I never got to show anyone before she turned the tables on me. And now, she was the underprivileged, inspirational girl my parents sponsored. My sister. My father tossed a thick stack of papers onto the coffee table. “These are the enrollment documents for your new school. They’re willing to take you, on one condition: you do not cause trouble.” I picked up the top sheet. It was a Parental Guardianship Agreement. Underneath was a behavioral observation contract. If I exhibited any signs of aggression at school, my family had the legal right to immediately commit me to a psychiatric ward or another closed-management facility. Richard had already signed it. So had Dora. Wyatt’s signature sat at the bottom as a witness, his handwriting sharp and cold. I put the papers back down. “Very thorough.” My mother breathed a sigh of relief, assuming I was finally broken into submission. Hailey leaned against Dora’s shoulder, her voice soft and fragile. “Gwen, you really shouldn’t blame Mom and Dad. They didn’t have a choice back then. You pushed me down the stairs, and I still have chronic pain from it. The fact that they’re willing to take you back… it’s incredibly generous of them.” I looked at her. “Does it still hurt?” She bit her lip, nodding meekly. “When it rains. And in my nightmares.” I took a step toward her. My mother instantly blocked my path. “What do you think you’re doing?” I stopped a few feet away, a faint smile on my lips. “I just wanted to compare.” The living room went dead silent. I slowly rolled up my sleeves, revealing a neat row of faded, jagged white scars lining my forearms. “These are from the program’s counselors. They used wooden rulers when we didn’t sit straight.” I pulled my collar aside to expose the back of my neck, where a thick, uneven surgical scar sat. “And this is from a metal basin. A girl in my cabin threw it at me while I slept.” I pointed to my left ear. “And this one? I was forced to stand outside in the freezing rain for three hours. The infection got so bad it damaged the nerves. I can’t hear low frequencies anymore.” Hailey’s face drained of color. The other two streaming phones were still live. The chat went absolutely silent for several seconds before erupting in a chaotic frenzy. Oh my god, what are those scars? What kind of camp was she sent to? Why did Hailey stop talking? My mother panicked, lunging forward to kill the feeds. My father’s face turned livid. “Gwen! Are you trying to ruin this family on your very first day back?” I pulled my sleeves down, smoothing out the cheap fabric. “Of course not, Dad.” I glanced at the scarlet bracelet on Hailey’s wrist. “I was just reminding my sister to adjust her lighting next time. It would be a shame if she accidentally broadcasted someone else’s wounds.” 02 The utility room had no windows. It smelled of bleach and old cardboard. It was packed with mops, dusty boxes, a broken treadmill, and a rusted metal cot. While I was shaking out the thin sheets, Hailey stood in the doorway, her teary, victim act completely gone. “Did you really think playing the victim would work, Gwen?” I shoved my duffel bag under the cot. “It worked well enough for you. You’ve been living off that act for five years.” She let out a dry laugh and kicked the blanket I had just folded, sending it tumbling onto the dusty floor. “Look at me. I have millions of followers, a full-ride scholarship, your parents, and your brother. What do you have?” I knelt down to pick up the blanket, shaking off the dust. She crouched in front of me, dropping her voice to a vicious whisper. “You don’t even know, do you? Your early admission slot at Columbia? They gave it to me.” My hands paused. She smiled, deeply satisfied by my silence. “And that little lakeside apartment your grandmother left you? Your parents already agreed to transfer the deed to my name once I graduate. To ‘compensate’ me for my psychological trauma.” That apartment had been my grandmother’s. Before she passed, she had held my hand and told me that if the world ever became too loud, that apartment would always be my sanctuary. I hadn’t cried in five years. Not during solitary confinement, not when I was burning with a fever and ignored by the staff, not when the girl in the cot next to mine spent the night slamming her head against the brick wall. But right now, I almost laughed. The sheer, bottomless greed of it. Taking my silence as defeat, Hailey sneered. “Don’t look so bitter. You brought this on yourself. Who wants to give a house or a future to a violent delinquent? Keep dreaming.” I looked up. “Hailey, do you ever think about Paige?” The smugness on her face hardened. Paige. The girl she had terrorized five years ago. The day I found her, she was shivering in the corner of the sports equipment room, her school uniform covered in blue paint, her hair hacked off in jagged clumps. After they dragged me away, I never saw her again. Hailey stood up, smoothing her white dress, stepping back into her delicate persona. “She transferred schools. What happens to her has nothing to do with me.” “Good to know,” I said, flattening my blanket. “Get some sleep, sister. You have a live stream tomorrow, don’t you?” She eyed me warily. “What are you planning?” “Nothing. Just watching you make your money.” The next night, Hailey went live from my old bedroom. My childhood bookshelf was her backdrop, and my first-place piano trophies were meticulously arranged behind her. She beamed at the camera. “I’ve been using this scar cream for years, guys,” she said, her voice dripping with sweet sincerity. “Look at my arm. The scar from that… terrible incident back in high school? It’s almost completely gone.” She rolled up her sleeve to show the faint, superficial mark she had made herself. The chat flooded with crying emojis and heart filters. I walked into the room carrying a warm glass of water. “Time for your medication, Hailey.” Her smile fractured for a second. “Gwen, I’m working right now.” “Mom told me to bring it,” I said, setting the glass on her desk. “She said your health is fragile and you can’t miss a dose.” The live chat instantly went wild with questions. Wait, what medication does Hailey take? I thought she was fully recovered? How can she stream for four hours if she’s sick? Hailey shot me a murderous glare before quickly pivoting to the camera. “Oh, it’s just vitamins, guys! My sister just got back, she doesn’t really understand.” I didn’t leave. I stood just at the edge of the camera frame. Terrified of what I might do next, she rushed her pitch. “Anyway, guys, this scar cream is on a special flash sale tonight! Buy three, get one free!” I picked up an unopened box of the cream from her desk, examining it. “Is this really the same cream you’ve been using for years, Hailey?” She clenched her jaw. “Of course it is.” “But the manufacture date on this box says last month.” The chat froze. I turned the bottle toward the camera, highlighting the print. “Your injury was five years ago, but this product hit the market thirty days ago. Your skin’s healing abilities are practically miraculous.” Hailey’s face warped with panic. My mother burst into the room, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward the door. “Gwen! Stop causing trouble!” I let her pull me back, keeping my voice loud enough for the microphone to pick up. “Mom, I’m not causing trouble. I just don’t want Hailey to get sued for false advertising.” The words landed like a physical blow. The chat erupted in accusations, and Hailey panicked, abruptly ending the stream. The second the broadcast cut, she grabbed the heavy glass of water and hurled it at my face. I dodged. The glass shattered against the wall behind me, water and shards raining down. My father rushed in at the noise, finding a bedroom covered in broken glass and a sobbing Hailey. She was hyperventilating, clutching her chest. “Dad, I know Gwen hates me, but this is my livelihood! Why does she have to humiliate me in front of everyone?” My father turned to me, his chest heaving with rage. “Gwen, apologize to your sister. Now.” I looked at the shards on the floor. “She threw the glass, she sold the fake product, she told the lie. What exactly am I apologizing for?” Wyatt stepped into the room, his eyes cold as ice. “Are you determined to get her cyberbullied, Gwen?” I looked at my brother. “When they plastered my face all over the school bulletin boards five years ago, calling me a psychopath, did you ever ask who was pushing me?” Wyatt’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. Hailey suddenly gasped, clutching her heart, and collapsed backward. “Hailey!” my mother shrieked. They all scrambled to her side. I stood by the door, watching them fawn over her with practiced devotion. Over Dora’s shoulder, Hailey caught my eye. The panic was gone, replaced by a slow, triumphant smirk. I pulled out my phone and tapped the screen. I had recorded the entire exchange on my phone—the glass flying toward my face was crystal clear. But I didn’t post it. Not yet. A clown needs to be on the grandest stage before you pull the rug out from under them. 03 By the next morning, I was the most hated girl on the local internet. Hailey had posted a new video. She was sitting in a hospital bed, an IV line taped to the back of her hand. Her voice was raspy and weak. “I’ve tried so hard to heal my sister with love,” she whispered. “But trauma changes a person. Please, don’t send her hate. She’s just sick.” At the end of the video, she cried as she apologized on my behalf. The comment section was a sea of sympathy. Hailey is literally an angel. If my sister did that to me, she’d be dead to me. Get the sister to a psych ward already, she’s dangerous. My mother threw her tablet onto the kitchen table in front of me. “Look at what you’ve done!” I glanced at the screen. “Trending number seven. You guys should have bought more bot traffic.” Richard’s face darkened. “Are you not embarrassed enough?” Hailey sat on the sofa, looking pale and fragile, while Wyatt stood behind her, his hand resting supportively on her shoulder. “Gwen, just record a public apology. Let’s put an end to this.” “An apology for what?” “An admission that you lost control of your emotions. Apologize to Hailey and her followers.” I stared at him. “Did you write the script for me?” Wyatt stiffened. I picked up the printed sheet of paper from the coffee table. The heading was bold: An Open Letter to My Sister and the Public. I read a few lines aloud and laughed. “Very dramatic, Wyatt. Is this how you pitch start-ups to investors? By making up fairy tales?” Wyatt’s face flushed with embarrassment. “I’m trying to help you, Gwen.” “By helping me lock the straightjacket in place?” I ripped the paper in half. Hailey’s tears immediately began to flow. “Gwen, if you hate me that much, I’ll delete my accounts. I’ll give everything back to you.” “Hailey, don’t say that!” Dora cried out, panic-stricken. “You worked so hard for everything you have. Why should you give it up?” “Because she knows her accounts are built on a lie,” I said, my voice cutting through the room. The living room went dead quiet. Hailey’s fingers clenched the hem of her skirt. I looked at my father. “Do you actually know how she built her brand?” “Through charity work, academic excellence, and raising awareness for bullying victims,” Richard said, his tone impatient. “Try fake sob stories, falsified medical reports, paid bot networks, and heavily edited videos of me from before I was sent away.” Hailey scrambled to her feet. “You’re lying! You’re making things up!” “Nervous?” I pulled out my phone and cast the screen to the living room TV. It was a screenshot of a discord group chat. Group Name: Hailey’s Core PR & Data Team. The admin had posted: Tonight at 8 PM, push the narrative. Keywords: “Sister’s aggressive tendencies,” “Victim sibling,” “Family healing.” Another account replied: The throwback video is edited. We kept the part where Gwen shoves Hailey, but cut the provocation. Hailey lunged toward the TV to turn it off, but I stepped in her way. “Wait, there’s more.” I swiped to the next image. It was an invoice from a prominent digital reputation management firm. Inspirational Persona Maintenance Package: $30,000. My father’s expression shifted. Hailey burst into hysterical tears. “Dad, this is fake! She photoshopped this! Who knows what kind of criminals she met in that horrible place? She just wants to destroy me!” Wyatt grabbed my phone to examine the images. “Screenshots can be faked, Gwen. Do you have actual proof?” I nodded. “I do.” Hailey went entirely pale. I held out my hand. “First, give me the transfer deed to Grandmother’s apartment.” My mother gasped. “How do you know about that?” “Just because I sleep in the pantry doesn’t mean I’m deaf.” Last night, I had heard them whispering in the study, discussing how to transfer Grandmother’s apartment into “Hailey’s Recovery Trust” because my mental state made me “unfit” to hold property. My mother avoided my gaze. “We were only going to hold it for safekeeping, Gwen.” “By putting her name on the deed?” Richard slammed his fist on the table. “Enough! How we distribute family assets is none of your business!” I stared at the man who called himself my father. Five years ago, he had slammed his fist down the exact same way. The evidence is clear! Stop lying! Ship her out, tonight! A sudden wave of exhaustion washed over me. I had no desire to argue with them. I picked up my duffel bag. Wyatt blocked the front door. “Where do you think you’re going?” “The police station.” Hailey panicked. “Gwen, we’re family! Don’t drag this outside!” I stopped. “Didn’t you just say my evidence was fake?” I looked her dead in the eye. “Then let’s let the police figure out if the screenshots are fake, if the chat logs are fake, and if every dollar you made off playing the victim is clean.” Her knees buckled. My mother grabbed my arm, her eyes pleading. “Gwen, please don’t be reckless.” I looked down at her hand. Five years ago, this was the hand that had pinned me down while my father took my phone and dragged me into the unmarked van bound for the camp. I peeled her fingers off my arm, one by one. “Mom, you can’t pin me down this time.”

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For ten years, my sister and I loved the same man. Luke always said he liked girls who were soft, gentle, and nurturing. My sister, Hailey, knew how to shrink herself to make him feel big. She possessed an innate, honeyed helplessness. I didn’t. I couldn’t. Whenever the three of us were together, his eyes and words belonged entirely to her. I sat beside them, as invisible and rigid as a lamppost. On the day we graduated college, they got married at City Hall. So, I ran. I packed a suitcase, flew across the Atlantic, and took a full ride for an MBA in London. I spent four grueling years building my startup. By year six, I was ringing the bell on Wall Street as our stock went public. Recently, word reached me that Luke’s company was bleeding out. Desperate for capital, he posted on LinkedIn: “Big pitch meeting tomorrow with a major investment firm. Wish me luck!” Hailey commented right below: Go get ’em, babe! You’re the absolute best! I glanced down at the schedule my secretary had sent me for tomorrow. At nine-thirty, the founder of a struggling tech startup was coming in to pitch for funding. The name on the ledger read— Luke Davenport. 01 My mother called me, her voice heavy with a frantic, pleading edge. “Lindsay, your brother-in-law is drowning. You have to do something.” “Do what?” “His company is in trouble. He’s desperate for investors. You spent all those years in Europe—surely you know people in venture capital. Can’t you just make an introduction?” She spoke with a jarring lightness, as if she were asking what we should have for dinner. “I’ll look into it.” “Don’t just ‘look into it,’ Lindsay. Hailey is losing her mind. And honestly, you’re thirty-two, unmarried, and entirely alone. What’s the point of building an empire if you have no one to share it with? Look at your sister. She married so well.” I stared out the window of my office, watching the city lights flicker. “Mom—” “You’ve been drifting abroad for six years. You don’t even come home for Christmas. Ever since Hailey married Luke, she’s been the one taking care of your father and me. What have you done?” “Mom, I paid for Dad’s bypass surgery.” “Oh, so you wire some money and suddenly you’re a saint? Thirty thousand dollars to buy yourself a clean conscience? While Hailey spent seven days and nights sleeping on a plastic chair in that hospital room, where were you? In London, chasing dollars!” I stayed quiet, letting the silence stretch. “You’ve always been like this. Competitive. Aggressive. Always trying to one-up your sister. And for what? Hailey has a beautiful family. And you? Drifting alone in your thirties, without a single soul to love you.” I looked at Luke’s name on the schedule. My finger lightly brushed the glass. “Mom, it’s almost midnight.” “Fine, fine. You’re busy. You’re always busy.” Her voice dropped a fraction. “Hailey wanted me to ask… do you know anything about the firm Luke is pitching tomorrow? What kind of guy the managing partner is? Just so Luke can prepare.” The partner is me. “Yeah,” I said quietly. “I’ll ask around.” The moment I hung up, my phone buzzed. It was a voice note from Hailey. Thirty-six seconds. She never texts; she only sends voice notes, forcing you to listen to her breath. “Hey, Lindsay. Mom called you, right? Luke is under so much pressure lately, he can’t sleep. Since you lived abroad for so long, you must know some heavy hitters in venture capital. Can you do some digging for us?” A pause, followed by a light, airy giggle. “Oh, by the way, what exactly is it that you do now? Is it internet stuff or something? I can never quite remember, haha.” Thirty-six seconds. She didn’t even know what I did. When my company went public, my full name was splashed across the financial news. She couldn’t even bother to Google me. The family group chat was buzzing too. Mom: [Luke has a massive meeting tomorrow. Let’s all wish him luck! Let’s bring this funding home!] Dad replied with a thumbs-up. Hailey: [My husband is the best! You’ve got this!] I scrolled through twenty-odd messages. Not one of them was directed at me. For six years, I have been a ghost in this chat. I read, but I never reply. I tried, once. The day we closed our Series A funding, I texted: Just signed our Series A. Nobody asked what a Series A meant. Hailey had simply replied: [Oh, that’s cute, Lindsay! Glad your little project is still going. Keep it up! ~] I never posted about my life again. My secretary, Patricia, called through the office line. “Lindsay, the assistant for the nine-thirty appointment just called to confirm. I have their pitch deck. Should I bring it in now?” “Just leave it on my desk.” “Will do. Also… his assistant sounded incredibly anxious. Asked if they could meet ten minutes early.” “Tell him to wait in the lounge. We stick to the schedule.” “Understood. Anything else you need?” “No. We’ll treat this as a standard pitch.” 02 “Lindsay, why aren’t you replying?” At seven in the morning, Hailey’s second voice note blasted through my phone. Forty-two seconds. “Lindsay, Luke didn’t sleep at all last night. I’m literally sick with worry. I know you’re busy, and you have your own life. But if this pitch falls through… we might have to mortgage the house. And Zoe’s preschool tuition for next term…” Her voice cracked perfectly on cue. House, daughter, tuition. Every word was a calculated strike, designed to play on family obligation. Ten years. With Luke, she used sweetness; with me, she used tragedy. Those were her only two frequencies. I didn’t reply. Driving to the office, the phone rang again. Caller ID: Joyce. My college roommate. We hadn’t spoken in over four years. “Lindsay? Oh my god, long time no see! I heard you’re back in the States?” “What made you think of me, Joyce?” “Haha, actually, your sister mentioned you at a dinner party a few days ago—” “What did she say?” “She said you only moved to London because of a broken heart. That you were secretly in love with her husband, Luke, for ten years, and when you couldn’t get him, you fled the country out of spite.” My grip on the steering wheel tightened. “Everyone was saying how hard it must have been for you over there. Your sister even said she feels so guilty, and that since you’re still single, it’s probably because you still haven’t moved on.” “She was crying, wasn’t she?” I asked. “How did you know? Yeah! She said her biggest regret in life was hurting you. But she also said… well, she said you’ve always been stubborn and competitive, trying to prove you’re better than her. She said she actually feels really sorry for you.” Joyce’s laugh was light, casual. But every word was a dull blade. Hailey, playing the fragile victim, had carefully written my narrative: the pathetic, bitter older sister who failed to get the guy, fled the country in tears, built a career out of desperate spite, and ended up an unmarried, lonely woman in her thirties. Six years. An IPO on Wall Street. A valuation nearing a billion dollars. Hundreds of employees worldwide. To her, it was just “a bitter spinster running away from a broken heart.” “What else did she say?” “She said she felt so bad because you were sobbing at the airport the day you left—” “I was sobbing at the airport?” “Yeah, she said—” “Joyce.” “Yeah?” “The day I left, my flight was at four in the morning. I took an Uber alone. No one drove me, and no one even knew what day my flight was.” Silence stretched on the other end of the line. “Including Hailey,” I continued. “She didn’t even know what day I was leaving. How could she know if I was crying?” Joyce stayed quiet. Then, in a small voice: “So, what have you been doing these past few years?” “I’ve been well. Busy. Running my company.” “Your sister said you were running some little Etsy shop or something…” “It’s not an Etsy shop.” I didn’t bother explaining further. “Joyce, I’m at the office now. I have to go.” “Oh, sure. Let’s grab coffee sometime? Your sister said she’s been wanting to—” “I’m fully booked. Talk soon.” I hung up and pulled into the underground garage. I turned off the engine and sat in the quiet. She cried at the airport. She ran away because of a broken heart. She still can’t let him go. How many dinner parties had Hailey served this story at? How many times had she squeezed out tears to erase six years of my blood, sweat, and tears, turning it into a pathetic flight of defeat? My phone buzzed. The family group chat. Hailey: [Lindsay’s back in town but she won’t even reply to my texts… I hope she isn’t still mad at me…] Mom: [You know how your sister is. Don’t worry about her. If she won’t help Luke, she won’t. Let it go.] Dad: [Let’s focus on what matters today. Good luck, Luke.] They all accepted Hailey’s version. I was the petty, grudge-holding, unmarried older sister. She was the sweet, long-suffering little sister. The elevator doors opened. Patricia was waiting at the end of the hall. “Morning, Lindsay. The investment team pulled some supplementary files on Ignite Tech. Want to see them now?” “Bring them in.” “Is the nine-thirty meeting still on?” “Yes.” “How do you want to handle it?” I walked into my office. “By the book. It doesn’t matter who he is. The numbers do the talking.” 03 “Lindsay, you there?” At 7:23 AM, Luke’s text hit my phone. It was the first time he had messaged me in six years. No how are you, no it’s been a while. He wanted a favor. “I’m pitching a firm called Meridian Capital at nine-thirty this morning. Since you spent so much time in finance abroad, do you know anyone there? Can you feel them out for me? Find out what their CEO is like, what kind of angle they’re looking for.” I stared at the text. Ten seconds later, another one arrived: “Hailey mentioned you worked in investment banking or something? So you must know the crowd. Let me know if you can ask around. This is huge for me.” Investment banking. That was how Hailey had described my career to him. He didn’t even know what I did. The “investment firm” was my company. The “CEO” was me. But he had no idea. No one had ever cared to find out. I didn’t reply. Another text buzzed. “Lindsay? Did you get this?” Then: “Look, I know you might still be bitter about the past. But that’s over. Do this for me, even if it’s just for Hailey’s sake.” Bitter about the past. He actually believed my silence was because of lingering heartbreak, not because I had forty urgent emails waiting for me at dawn. He still believed my entire world revolved around him. I locked my phone and sat at my desk. Patricia had already laid out my agenda. “Lindsay, I went through the diligence files for Ignite Tech. The team found something interesting.” “Go on.” “The core technology framework for their main product, Nexus, is almost identical to the academic paper you published in the university journal back in 2016. The conceptual overlap is over seventy percent.” “I know.” “The investment team thought this might be an affiliated project at first and came to me to confirm. Your name isn’t listed anywhere in Ignite’s documents.” “Of course it isn’t.” Patricia hesitated. “If we need to initiate an intellectual property audit…” “No need.” “But Lindsay—” “An idea is nothing if it just sits in a notebook. At least he tried to build it. Whether he succeeded is another story.” Patricia pursed her lips. I flipped through his business plan. Four product lines, not a single one fully operational. Unbalanced tech team. His customer acquisition cost model was using data from three years ago. My phone lit up again. The family chat. Hailey: [Luke is on his way! Everyone cross your fingers!] Then she DMs me: “Lindsay, Luke said you aren’t replying to his texts. Can you please just help us out this once? He’s incredibly stressed.” Followed by an eight-second voice note: “Is your phone dead or something? Seriously, did you get my messages?” I closed the app. At 8:50 AM, Patricia peeked her head in. “Lindsay, Luke Davenport from Ignite Tech is at reception. He’s forty minutes early. Should I have him wait in the lounge?” “Yes. Give him a glass of tap water.” “Got it.” She took a step back, then turned around. “The receptionist said… he made a call as soon as he sat down. He wasn’t exactly quiet.” “What did he say?” “He told whoever was on the line: ‘Don’t worry, babe. I’ve dealt with VC firms this size a million times. Today is just a formality.’” Meridian Capital had over $3.8 billion under management. And to him, it was “just a formality.” “Patricia.” “Yes?” “Bring him in at nine-thirty sharp. Not a minute earlier.” 04 “It’s nine-twenty-eight, Lindsay,” Patricia whispered from the doorway. I closed my financial ledger. My phone lit up. Hailey’s voice note. Fifteen seconds. “Lindsay, Luke said you ignored his texts. Are you doing this on purpose? This meeting is everything to him. If you’re not going to help, fine, but don’t hold him back.” A pause. Her tone shifted, sharp and venomous. “I’m telling you, Lindsay, if Luke fails today, I’m telling Mom and Dad it’s your fault. You’re taking your bitter, spinster resentment out on us. When are you finally going to grow up?” Fifteen seconds of poison, without a single breath. To the world, she was a sweet victim. To me, every word was a serrated edge. Mom’s call came in immediately after. “Lindsay, are you picking fights with Hailey again?” “No, Mom.” “Then why won’t you help Luke? It’s a ten-minute favor and you’re making excuses.” “Mom, I’m at work—” “What’s so important about your little job? Luke’s company is a real business, Lindsay. Can’t you see the difference?” “Mom—” “Don’t ‘Mom’ me! Let me tell you something, Lindsay. If you can’t even do this for your family, don’t bother coming home. You ran away the day you graduated. You didn’t show up when your father had bypass surgery, and you skipped your sister’s wedding. Six years, and you haven’t done a single thing for this family.” I leaned back in my chair. The September sun outside was blindingly bright. “You’ve always been so competitive, so cold. Always trying to prove you’re better than Hailey. What was all that struggle for? Look how lonely you are.” In the background, I heard Hailey’s muffled voice: “Mom, stop. Lindsay has her reasons.” Mom sighed. “Don’t help him then. You’ve never cared about this family anyway.” Click. She hung up. I set the phone down on the polished wood desk. My fingertips were completely numb. Not from pain, but from gripping too hard. The day we went public on the New York Stock Exchange, I stood on that balcony watching the blue confetti rain down. Hundreds of people were cheering. The stage lights were incredibly hot. But in that moment, I wasn’t thinking about the success. I was thinking: I wish Mom could see this. I had sent the video clip to the family group chat. No one replied. Two hours later, Hailey texted: [Oh, did you go on a trip, Lindsay? Looks fancy! ~] And then the chat dissolved into a discussion about what color Luke should get for his new Tesla. “Lindsay.” Patricia’s voice broke my thoughts. “It’s nine-thirty. Mr. Davenport has been waiting for ten minutes. Should I bring him in?” I opened my eyes. I sat up straight. The pitch deck was open in front of me. Debt ratio, cash burn rate, product timeline, a request for five million dollars—all of his failures laid bare in my hands. “Bring him in.” The sound of footsteps approached. Polished leather shoes clicking confidently on the hardwood floor. Patricia led the way. “Right this way, Mr. Davenport.” The door swung open. Luke stood in the doorway. His suit was perfectly tailored. He held a bound business plan. His face wore a practiced, confident smile—the kind designed to charm investors. He looked up. His eyes scanned the office, the floor-to-ceiling windows, and finally landed on me. The smile vanished. The business plan slipped an inch through his fingers. His lips parted, but his voice was strangled. “…Lindsay?” I looked into his eyes. The distance between us across the desk was less than six feet. Ten years ago, when the three of us sat together, his eyes never lingered on me for a single second. “Mr. Davenport,” I said calmly. “Please, take a seat.” 05 “How… what are you doing here?”

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The ninety-ninth time my mother tried to run away from my father, she didn’t pack a suitcase. She simply walked out to the balcony of our seventeenth-floor apartment, climbed over the railing, and let go. But down on the street, as the sirens wailed, the neighbors only wept for my father. “Such a tragedy,” they whispered, patting his trembling shoulders as he squeezed out a few performative tears. “He is such a steady, respectable man. What a shame he was cursed with such a dark, neurotic, crazy wife.” None of them knew the girl she had been before she met him. Before the rings and the vows, she was a wild, laughing thing who filled every room with light. It wasn’t madness that killed her; it was my father’s quiet, systematic indifference, eroding her soul day after day until there was nothing left but a hollow shell. It was while clearing out her old things that I found the truth. Hidden in a false bottom of my father’s desk was a locked tin containing letters and photos of his first love—his untouchable “golden girl.” Worse, the dates on the letters showed they had still been in touch recently. When I confronted him, panic stripped away his mask of quiet dignity. Terrified of exposure, he frantically burned the letters, then lunged at me. In the struggle, he grabbed my wrist, forced my fingers around the handle of a pair of heavy shears, and plunged them deep into his own chest. Before I could even scream, he smiled. It was a cold, triumphant look. He had framed me. Overnight, I became the monstrous, patricidal daughter, hated by the entire world. But when I opened my eyes again, the sterile smell of the police station was gone. The air was thick with the scent of cheap perfume and greasy diner food. I was sitting in a crowded booth, and my hands—slender, unblemished, and elegantly manicured—were not my own. I was looking into a mirror across the room. I was Gwen. My father’s legendary golden girl. And my mother’s best friend. My mother, nineteen years old and radiating a vibrant life I had never seen in her, yanked on my sleeve, groaning. “Oh, Gwen, my dad is being absolutely insufferable,” she complained, her eyes rolling dramatically. “He’s dead set on setting me up with this ‘steady, mature’ guy. As if I want to spend my youth being bored to death!” Looking at her glowing, undamaged face, the tears spilled over my cheeks before I could stop them. “You…” I choked out, my voice trembling. “You really used to laugh like this.” 1 My mother, Daisy, was startled by my sudden tears. The annoyance on her face instantly dissolved into frantic worry. “Oh my gosh, Gwen! What’s wrong? Why are you crying?” She grabbed my hands, her brow furrowing. “Did some jerk break your heart? Tell me who he is, and I swear I’ll go break his windshield!” She shook her fist with a fierce, protective grin, ready to go to war for me. Looking into her bright, shadowless eyes, my heart ached. The memory of her broken body on the pavement seventeen floors below flashed behind my eyelids, overlapping with the vivid, breathing girl sitting in front of me. I squeezed her warm wrists, my voice thick with unshed tears. “You’re the one who’s about to get fooled by a jerk, Daisy.” “No way!” Daisy puffed out her cheeks, a faint blush creeping up her neck. “I haven’t even been on a date yet! How could a guy fool me? Besides, my standards are sky-high. I’m not falling for just anyone.” We paid for our sodas and walked out, strolling down the sidewalk of the bustling suburban town. Daisy kicked a stray pebble, her tone turning uncharacteristically quiet as she spoke of her fears. “Honestly, Gwen… I’m scared. I’m scared of finding a guy who seems perfect on paper, only to turn into a completely different person the second we say ‘I do.’ I hear the older women in the neighborhood talking. They say men put on a show until the wedding day, and then the trap snaps shut. I want passion, Gwen. I want a love that’s real and loud. I don’t want to spend my life sitting in a stagnant pond.” She looked up at the gray sky, a trace of vulnerability in her eyes. “Do you think there are actually men out there who don’t change?” I looped my arm through hers, drawing strength from her physical warmth. “There are no perfect men, Daisy. And usually, the ones who seem the most ‘mature and steady’ are the ones hiding the darkest secrets. Don’t worry. We’re going to grill this guy together today.” In my mind, a cold resolve took root. In my past life, I couldn’t save her. But in this one, the universe had given me a weapon. I was Trevor’s fantasy—the girl he had spent his life obsessing over. I would use that obsession to dismantle him, piece by piece. I would make sure he never got his hands on her. I pulled her along, quickening our pace. “Come on. Let’s go to the café and meet this ‘steady’ gentleman your dad found for you.” Daisy took a deep, steadying breath. “With you there, I feel like I can handle anything.” When we pushed open the door to the local café, the rich aroma of roasted beans and warm vanilla washed over us. In a quiet booth by the window sat a young man in a pressed white shirt. At the sound of the door chimes, Trevor looked up. The moment his eyes landed on my face, the water glass in his hand wobbled. His carefully constructed mask of calm composure cracked, and a raw, burning hunger flared in the depths of his eyes. “Gwen…” he breathed, his voice barely audible. “How… why are you here?” 2 I stared at the face of the man who had ruined my mother’s life. In my memories, this man sat coldly on our living room sofa, watching my mother scream and unravel, treating her agony like an annoying buzzing fly. His systematic indifference had suffocated our household for over twenty years. But right now, his eyes held a desperate, burning fire—a passion he had never once offered my mother. He wasn’t incapable of love. He had simply hoarded all of his devotion for Gwen, his untouchable golden girl. Daisy’s eyes widened in surprise. She looked between us, curiosity written all over her face. “Gwen, do you guys actually know each other?” I searched my mind. In this timeline, the real Gwen had never met Trevor. He had only watched her from afar, nursing a silent, obsessive crush. I met his burning gaze and shook my head coldly. “No. I’ve never seen him before in my life.” The light in Trevor’s eyes instantly died, his shoulders slumping. But he recovered quickly, taking a breath and flashing a practiced, polite smile to cover his slip. “My apologies,” he said smoothly. “You look remarkably like someone I used to know.” Daisy, sweet and entirely lacking in guile, didn’t sense anything amiss. The fact that her blind date had briefly mistaken her best friend for someone else actually seemed to put her at ease, lowering her defenses. Once we sat down, Daisy dug into the plate of pastries on the table, sliding the fruit platter toward him. “This place has the best apple tarts. Sweet things always put me in a good mood.” Seeing her so completely unguarded, I sighed inwardly. I reached over with a napkin, gently dabbing a crumb of pastry from the corner of her mouth. Leaning close to her ear, I whispered, “Take it slow, Daisy. Don’t be so eager to please. You can’t judge a man over a single cup of coffee. Keep your guard up.” My gentle caution made Daisy pause. She nodded, swallowing her bite, though her eyes still danced with excitement. “I know, I know. But he looks really nice. Not like those slick, sweet-talking guys at school.” I held back another sigh. Just wait, I thought. The universe had positioned me perfectly. I had the winning hand. Daisy cleared her throat and began the small talk. “So, Trevor, I hear you work really hard. Is your family putting a lot of pressure on you to settle down?” Trevor set his water glass down, his gaze dropping to the table as he put on a somber, vulnerable expression. “I grew up in a single-parent household,” he said softly. “My mother is the only reason I’ve made it this far.” He paused, a tremor of grief entering his voice. “But she’s very sick. The doctors say she doesn’t have much time left.” He let out a bitter, self-deprecating laugh. “To be honest, I didn’t expect much from this date. I know the massive gap between our families. I don’t mind telling you… even the money for these coffees today came from her meager life savings.” Daisy’s eyes immediately welled with tears. Trevor’s calculated display of vulnerability had struck her exact soft spot. A fragile, suffering man who needed saving was the polar opposite of her domineering, wealthy father. She laid her fork down, her voice soft with sympathy. “I’m so sorry, Trevor. I lost my mother when I was very young, so I understand the pain of family illness. You’re a wonderful son. I’m sure she’s very proud of you.” Trevor seized the opportunity to turn the spotlight, his eyes softening as he looked at me. “And what about you, Gwen? I imagine your parents must adore you.” I met his gaze, my voice flat. “I’m an orphan.” Daisy protectively grabbed my hand, explaining my history for me. “Gwen grew up in the municipal orphanage. She’s had a really tough life, but she’s the strongest person I know. I’m never going to let her be alone again.” Hearing this, Trevor’s eyes underwent a profound shift. A look of fierce, protective longing washed over his face, as if he wanted nothing more than to sweep me up in his arms and shield me from the world. “I had no idea you had suffered so much, Gwen,” he murmured, his voice dripping with intimacy. “If you ever need anything—absolutely anything—just ask me.” A wave of intense disgust rolled through my stomach. He is on a blind date with my mother, yet he’s openly playing savior to her best friend. In my past life, when my mother was burning with a 103-degree fever and begged him for a glass of water, he had locked himself in his study, telling her he couldn’t risk getting sick and ruining his productivity. Yet my sweet, naive mother was swallowed whole by his cheap tragedy act. She was nodding along, her heart aching for him. Seeing Trevor navigate the conversation with such practiced ease, the old feeling of dread from my past life crept back. He was a master at leveraging sympathy, building a flawless persona out of pity. Just as the atmosphere in the booth was growing suffocatingly tense, a middle-aged woman burst through the café doors, sweating and frantic. She spotted Trevor in the corner and screamed across the room, “Trevor! Come quick! Your mother collapsed at home! They’re rushing her to the ER!” 3 Trevor’s face drained of color. He bolted toward the register, his voice cracking. “Bill, please.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, frantically searching for cash. His movements grew chaotic, sweat beading on his forehead. The cashier tapped the counter, her expression cold. “Sir, you’re short by five dollars.” Trevor froze, his face flushing a deep, embarrassed crimson. He looked down, utterly humiliated, refusing to meet our eyes. Without a second thought, Daisy reached into her purse and handed her wallet to the cashier. “Keep the change,” Daisy said quickly, turning to Trevor with a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry about it. Let’s get to the hospital.” Trevor kept his head down, his voice barely a whisper. “Thank you.” Watching Daisy pull him toward the door, I clenched my fists until my nails bit into my palms. I swallowed my rage and followed them. When we arrived at the hospital, the red light above the emergency room was still glowing. Trevor slumped against the sterile white wall, hiding his face in his hands. His shoulders shook as tears slipped through his fingers, splashing onto the cold linoleum. My heart felt like ice. When my mother had jumped from the seventeenth floor, leaving a shattered, bloody ruin on the concrete, this man had stood outside the police tape without shed a single tear. He had calmly asked the officer if her outstanding funeral costs could be deducted from her state pension. But here he was, sobbing like a baby. The performance was flawless. Daisy was entirely heartbroken for him. She rubbed his back gently, whispering comfort. “It’s going to be okay, Trevor. The doctors here are excellent. Have faith.” Trevor looked up, his eyes red and pooling with tears as he gazed at Daisy. “I’m sorry, Daisy. I’m a mess. I didn’t want you to see me like this.” Daisy shook her head quickly. “Don’t say that. It just shows how much you love your mother.” I could feel my mother’s affection for him rising by the second. I dug my nails deeper into my hands, desperate to stop this trainwreck. Suddenly, the sleek cell phone in Daisy’s purse began to ring. In this era, a mobile phone was an incredibly expensive luxury. Trevor’s eyes instinctively locked onto the device, a flash of raw envy crossing his features. Then, he looked at me. Seeing my empty hands and simple clothes, his expression softened with a twisted sense of kinship, as if our shared poverty made us equals. Daisy answered the phone. “Dad?” My grandfather’s booming voice echoed faintly through the receiver. “How is the date going?” Daisy lowered her voice. “We’re at the hospital. His mother collapsed.” Charles sounded startled. “Her? Oh, heavens. My future in-law is in the ER? I’m coming down right now.” Hearing the words future in-law made my stomach turn. They had only just met, and already my grandfather was mapping out a wedding. The emergency light clicked off. The doctor stepped out, pulling off his mask with a heavy sigh. He shook his head. “The cancer has spread. There’s nothing more we can do. She doesn’t have much time left. You should go in and say your goodbyes.” We followed Trevor into the room. The woman on the bed was skeletal, her face pale beneath an oxygen mask. Her clouded eyes fluttered open. “Trevor…” she rasped. “Which one… is the girl?” Trevor stiffened. Almost by reflex, his eyes darted to me. Daisy, completely blind to the exchange, stepped forward warmly and took the dying woman’s hand. “Mrs. Osmond, it’s me. I’m Daisy.” I stood at the back of the room, my jaw clenched. Mom, why are you throwing yourself into this trap? Miriam’s dim eyes flickered with a sudden spark. She studied Daisy’s healthy, vibrant face. “What a beautiful, lovely girl…” she whispered, pausing to catch her breath. “My poor boy… he doesn’t deserve someone like you.” Daisy’s cheeks flushed pink, and she ducked her head. “Don’t say that, Mrs. Osmond. Trevor is wonderful.” Miriam, sensing Daisy’s sweet, pliable nature, squeezed her hand, beginning her emotional assault. “Daisy, my time is running out. But looking at you… do you think you could care for my Trevor?” Daisy bit her lip and gave a soft, hesitant nod. Miriam let out a ragged sigh, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes as she began to spin a tale of ancient history. As it turned out, my grandfather Charles’s first love had been Miriam. Due to family pressure and bitter misunderstandings, they had been torn apart, carrying the regret for decades. “Our generation’s tragedy,” Miriam wept softly. “If only the two of you could find happiness together… I could die in peace.” Daisy’s eyes welled with tears. The sheer, tragic romance of the story struck her romantic heart perfectly. Her desire to fulfill this dying woman’s wish skyrocketed. By midnight, the ward had fallen silent. Daisy had fallen asleep, her head resting on the edge of the mattress. Miriam, too, had drifted into a heavy, medicated sleep. Trevor quietly stood up and walked over to me. “Gwen,” he whispered, his eyes dark and pleading. “Can we talk outside? Just for a moment?” Looking at his handsome, earnest face, a cold smile bloomed in my chest. The trap is set. Time to spring it. 4 “Sure,” I whispered back. As he turned toward the door, I reached down and gave Daisy’s side a sharp pinch. It was our secret code—a signal we had used since childhood to mean something major is happening, pay attention. She stirred slightly, but her movements were incredibly subtle. Her breathing remained slow and deep, pretending to still be asleep. Trevor noticed nothing. Out in the quiet hallway, the cool night breeze rustled the collar of Trevor’s white shirt. He leaned against the windowsill, trying desperately to maintain his steady, mature persona, but the slight tremor in his hands gave away his frantic state. I pushed down the lingering terror from my past life and met his gaze coldly. He stared at me, a desperate, longing look in his eyes. “Gwen… I’ve actually known who you were since high school.” I raised an eyebrow. “And?” “You used to sit by the window in the library,” he murmured, taking a step closer. “You were so quiet, so elegant. All these years have passed, and you’re still exactly the same. Pure. Untouched by the world.” His praise didn’t flatter me; it made my skin crawl. He was deeply intimidated by Daisy’s wealth and sparkling confidence, but with me—the orphan he assumed was as desperate and poor as him—he felt a twisted sense of ownership. “Gwen, you have no idea the shock I felt seeing you today,” Trevor confessed, his voice dropping as he finally stripped away his saintly mask. “I’ll admit it to you. I wear a mask. I have to. My mother is dying, and I need money. I need a woman who can lift me out of this gutter.” “So you targeted Daisy?” I asked, my voice dangerously calm. “Daisy is rich and gullible,” Trevor said, showing his true, calculating colors. “And I know she’s already falling for me. If I ask, she’ll marry me in a heartbeat.” I swallowed the white-hot rage burning in my throat. “Then why are you telling me this?” He took another step, closing the distance between us, his eyes wild with a frantic, obsessive heat. “Because my heart has only ever belonged to you, Gwen!” His breathing turned shallow and rapid. “You and I… we don’t have the luxury of wealth. We are the same kind of people. Only we can truly understand each other. Gwen, say the word. If you tell me to, I will dump Daisy right now.” He reached out, his voice filled with a desperate promise. “I don’t want to hurt her, but if you agree to be with me, I will go inside and break it off with her immediately.” He paused, his tone turning subtly menacing. “But if you reject me… then for my mother’s sake, I’ll have to marry Daisy.” I stared at the monster in front of me. He was wrapping his greed and manipulation in the guise of tragic love, treating two women like commodities, and using his own dying mother as leverage. In my past life, he had drained my mother dry. He seized her inheritance, controlled her every move, and made her beg for grocery money, turning a vibrant girl into a ghost. “You really are a prince among men, Trevor,” I sneered. But he had vastly underestimated me. I had expected him to try this. My eyes flickered toward the hospital room door, which was cracked open just an inch. Behind the glass, a familiar shadow shifted slightly. Daisy was standing there, her hands clamped over her mouth to muffle her gasps. Her eyes were wide with horror as she listened to the man she thought was her destined romance describe her as a gullible ATM and a backup plan. Trevor, entirely unaware, reached out to grab my hand. “Just say yes, Gwen. Tomorrow, I’ll cut that stupid girl loose!” Before his fingers could touch my skin, the hospital door was kicked open with a deafening bang. Daisy stood in the doorway, her eyes blazing through her tears. “Trevor Osmond,” she spat, her voice shaking with rage. “Why don’t you say those exact words to my face?”

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For our high school graduation trip, Grace, our class princess, gave us three different itineraries. In my first life, we chose Route A. The tour bus plummeted off a mountain pass. The vehicle was pulverized, and not a single soul survived the impact. In my second life, we went with Route B. A head-on collision wiped out the entire class. Grace was the sole survivor. In my third life, we opted for Route C. A tire blowout caused a devastating rollover. Most of the class walked away with scratches, but Grace and I died on the spot. Now, my eyes snap open. Grace is leaning forward, her chin propped on her hands, smiling sweetly at me. “So, Hannah, which one do you want to pick?” Before I can even open my mouth, the others chime in. “Why are you asking her? She’s a charity case. Probably hasn’t even crossed state lines. What would she know about a vacation?” “Yeah, just choose, Grace. If she complains, I’ll shut her up myself.” On the morning of the trip, when they do the headcount and realize I’m missing, Grace calls me in a panic. “Hannah, where are you? The whole bus is waiting for you.” I am sitting on the terrace of a boutique resort at the foot of the mountain, leisurely sipping an iced latte. “I’m already here.” This time, they can keep their death trap of a bus. I’m going to sit back and watch exactly who pays the price. 1 At our post-finals dinner, the table was buzzing with talk about the trip. “Hannah, I asked you a question. Why are you spacing out?” Leonard asked, crossing his arms and looking at me with cold irritation. I looked up, meeting his eyes. For a split second, all I saw was his crushed, blood-soaked body pinned beneath the rusted frame of a bus. Grace slid over, draping her arm over my shoulder, her eyes sparkling. “Hannah, you’re the class president. Your opinion is super important to us.” I looked at her. Her smile was still effortlessly beautiful, sweet enough to rot your teeth. But I couldn’t stand the sight of it anymore. I looked down, surreptitiously checking my arms and torso. No broken bones. No exposed organs. I exhaled a long, shaking breath. I was back. The fourth time. In my first life, Route A ended on jagged rocks. I still remembered the copper smell of blood on the dirt, the silent, terrible carnage hanging over the cliffside. In my second life, Route B ended in a metal-on-metal scream. Grace was the sole survivor, but the internet turned on her, hounding her with cyberbullying until she jumped off her apartment balcony. In my third life, Route C ended in a violent roll. Almost everyone walked away with minor scratches—except Grace and me. We died on impact. Three times. I had died three distinct, agonizing deaths. The phantom pain still clawed at my chest. I couldn’t do this anymore. I gently slid Grace’s hand off my shoulder. “I’m not going.” The table went dead silent for a second, then erupted. “What do you mean? The class president is ditching?” “This is a once-in-a-lifetime trip, Hannah. Why do you always have to be so painfully antisocial?” Grace blinked, her voice soft and maternal. “Hannah, is there something holding you back? If you have any worries, we can totally change the plans.” I looked straight into her clear, deceptive eyes. “I am not going. Have fun, but leave me out of it.” Grace’s smile stiffened. Leonard scowled. “Hannah, don’t be a killjoy. Grace spent weeks putting this together. Can’t you just support her for once?” Leonard. My next-door neighbor since we were kids. He was brilliant, ridiculously handsome, the guy half the girls in our grade secretly cried over. I used to be one of them, but once I realized his heart belonged to Grace, I had forced myself to get over it. “The weather forecast for the mountain pass looks brutal,” I said, trying one last time to warn them. “Honestly, if you want my advice, none of you should go.” They burst into laughter. “Are you serious? It’s a road trip, not a horror movie.” “Typical Hannah. Class president to the end, trying to micromanage our lives.” Leonard’s jaw set. “Hannah, can you stop with the dark, dramatic warnings? Everyone is excited. Why do you always have to rain on our parade?” I let out a quiet sigh. Fine. Everyone has their own cross to bear. In my third life, when only Grace and I lay dying in the wreckage and the paramedics arrived, Leonard had grabbed a first responder by the coat. “Save Grace first,” he’d screamed. Nobody argued. In the end, they threw a massive candlelit vigil for Grace. Nobody even mentioned my name. “Go if you want,” I said, gathering my things. “I’m just telling you where I stand.” The dinner was wrapping up, and I stood to leave. But Grace suddenly caught my wrist, her eyes swimming with performative sympathy. “Hannah… is it a money issue? I heard your dad is just a security guard, and your mom is… well, she has a disability. If things are tight at home…” She caught herself, clapping a manicured hand over her mouth. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry! That was so insensitive of me. I didn’t mean to blurt that out, I just…” The room filled with hushed, venomous murmurs. “No wonder she never comes to parties. She’s dead broke.” “She probably only studies so she can escape her trashy life.” I looked down, not out of shame, but to hide the hysterical laugh bubbling in my throat. My dad did work in private security—as the CEO and owner of a firm with over two thousand contractors. My mother had a mobility impairment, yes, but her oil paintings sold for six figures at elite galleries in New York. We lived quietly because my parents despised flashing their wealth. But how did Grace find out about my family? I cast a cool glance at Leonard. He instantly shifted his gaze, looking guilty. I see. He’d gossiped about me to Grace, desperate to distance himself from the “poor girl” who used to crush on him. “Let me make this clear one last time,” I said, looking directly at Grace. “I am not going. Do not put me on the list.” Grace bit her lip, tears welling up. Leonard wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Don’t worry about her, Grace. Just book it. We’re all behind you.” The rest of the table nodded eagerly. Grace pointed to Route C on the flyer. “Let’s do Route C then. We can hike and go white-water rafting. Just Venmo me the $150, and I’ll book the group rate.” Phones started chiming with transaction notifications. I didn’t move. Grace walked over, looking hurt. “Hannah, you haven’t sent it… did you want me to cover you? I’d love to help, but I’m just a student too, and I can’t keep spending my parents’ money…” The room turned on me instantly. “Are you kidding me, Hannah? She’s doing all the work and you expect a free ride?” “Unreal. Some people are just shameless.” I set my bag down and looked up at Grace, my face completely expressionless. “When did I say I was going?” Grace blinked. “I told you four times I’m not going,” I said, enunciating every word. “Are you deaf?” Leonard snatched my phone off the table. He knew my PIN—he’d watched me unlock it during our AP study sessions. Ding. Transaction complete. $150 sent. He tossed the phone back onto the table like a piece of garbage. “Stop acting like you’re above everyone else,” he sneered, his disgust entirely undisguised. “If you keep acting this toxic, don’t expect me to look out for you when we get to college.” I picked up my phone. “I said, I’m not going. Keep the cash if it makes you feel better, but my seat will be empty.” I slung my backpack over my shoulder and walked toward the exit. Behind me, Grace burst into tears. “She’s doing this on purpose… she hates me…” Leonard pulled her close. “Don’t cry. I’ll make sure she goes.” The others nodded aggressively. “Don’t worry, Grace. If she tries to flake, we’ll drag her by her hair.” “Yeah, we’re not letting her ruin the class spirit.” Class spirit. What a joke. 2 The moment I walked through the front door of my house, my parents rushed toward me. My mom threw her arms around me, sobbing instantly. “Hannah! Oh thank god, you’re home!” My dad’s eyes were bloodshot, his voice thick with unshed tears. “You’re okay. You’re okay.” I froze, the realization washing over me. “Mom? Dad? You guys…?” “Yes, honey,” my mom said, wiping her face as she leaned heavily on her cane. “We remembered. We went through it too. Listen to me, Hannah—you cannot go on that graduation trip. Under no circumstances.” I nodded slowly. “Don’t worry. I have no intention of going.” My mom let out a ragged sigh of relief, but the anxiety still hung thick in her eyes. “Why don’t we go somewhere else? Just the three of us. Aspen? Maui? We can leave tomorrow and stay for a week.” My dad chimed in, “Yes, I’ll clear my schedule at the firm. I’ll drive us. Anywhere you want to go, sweetheart.” I look at their anxious, loving faces, and a deep warmth bloomed in my chest. “Let’s wait. Let’s wait until the standardized test scores come out, and then we’ll go with a clear head.” I didn’t spell out my deeper fear. After three consecutive fatal accidents, I didn’t know if the curse lay in the bus, the route, or the day itself. I needed to bypass all the variables entirely. The next morning, Grace posted an announcement in our group chat. We’re leaving in three days! Everyone meet at the school gates at 7:30 AM sharp. She added a voice note: We should go before the scores are released. That way, even if someone didn’t do great, it won’t ruin the vibe! The chat filled with praise. Grace, you’re literally an angel. Yeah, once the scores drop, half of us will be too depressed to pack a bag. Team Grace all the way! I scrolled through the messages, completely detached, until Grace tagged me. @Hannah, 7:30 AM in three days! Don’t be late! I didn’t reply. A few minutes later: @Hannah did you see this? Don’t pretend you forgot! Still, I ignored it. Three minutes later, my phone rang. It was Leonard. I picked up, and his voice was thick with irritation. “Hannah, what is your problem? Grace tagged you twice. Are you blind?” “I saw it.” “Then why aren’t you replying?” “Because I don’t want to.” Leonard took a sharp, angry breath, trying to control his temper. “Grace just called me crying. Are you seriously trying to humiliate her? Every single person in our class replied except you!” I pinched the bridge of my nose. He was doing it again—using that demanding, accusatory tone. If our parents weren’t old friends, I would have blocked his number years ago. “Leonard, I’ve told you. I am not going.” “Hannah!” his voice barked through the receiver. “We’re a class! Why do you always have to be the odd one out? If you hated the three options so much, you should’ve suggested a fourth!” “I didn’t hate them.” “Then why won’t you go?” “I just don’t want to.” A cold, mocking laugh echoed from the other end. “You really think you’re something special, don’t you? Playing hard to get, acting like some brooding outsider just to get my attention? You think this makes me want you?” My jaw tightened. How did I ever fancy this arrogant idiot? When I didn’t reply, his voice dropped to a chilling threat. “You’re just making yourself look pathetic, Hannah. I’m telling you right now—you will be on that bus. End of story.” He hung up. I almost wanted to laugh. He actually thought this was about him. Delusional. 3 With only twenty-four hours left before the trip, the group chat was booming. I remained a ghost. I was waiting—waiting to see how this timeline tried to force my hand. Suddenly, the doorbell rang. I opened it to find Leonard standing on our porch. “We need to talk,” he said, looking slightly uneasy. “About tomorrow.” I leaned against the doorframe, refusing to let him inside. “I’ve made my position very clear.” Instead of arguing, he pulled out his phone and hit play on a video. I looked at the screen, and my blood ran ice-cold. In the video, my mother was sitting in her wheelchair near the entrance of our high school. Grace was standing directly behind her, her hands resting heavily on the rubber handles. “Mrs. Clark, thank you so much for coming down to see us off,” Grace said, looking directly into the lens with a bright, manic grin. “Hannah, your mom is here. Aren’t you coming?” With a sickeningly sweet smile, Grace gently nudged the wheelchair forward. Just a little more pressure, and the chair would roll down the curb—right into the four-lane, high-speed traffic of the main road. My hands started to shake against my phone. My mother had told me this morning that Leonard’s mother had invited her out for coffee. I never imagined Grace would lay such a trap. I looked up at Leonard, my eyes burning with rage. “You lured my mother out there?” Leonard’s expression stiffened for a fraction of a second before smoothing over. “Lured? What are you talking about? We just invited your mom for coffee so Grace could meet her. Grace is really into art, you know…” I shoved the phone screen right in his face. “Look at her hands! What is this supposed to be? If I don’t show up, is she going to push my disabled mother into oncoming traffic?” Leonard glanced at the screen and frowned, clearly annoyed. “You’re being paranoid. It’s just a joke.” “A joke?” The anger in my chest was suffocating. “Leonard, my mom practically raised you when your parents were working. How can you stand there and defend this?” “Why do you always have to bring up the past?” Leonard muttered, dismissing it with a wave of his hand. “Just go on the trip. Support Grace. It’s better for everyone.” I looked at him. I had known this boy for twelve years. Twelve years. And suddenly, I was looking at a complete stranger. I drew a slow, shuddering breath. “Fine. I’ll go.” Leonard’s eyes lit up. “See? Was that so hard?” He held out his palm. “Give me your driver’s license and passport.” I stared at him, bewildered. “Excuse me?” “Just to make sure you don’t flake tomorrow morning. A guarantee.” I was trembling with rage. He was holding my official documents hostage. But with my mother’s safety on the line, I couldn’t risk defying them. I turned around, grabbed my wallet and passport from the drawer, and slapped them into his hand. Leonard tucked them into his jacket pocket, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. “Great. I’ll give them back when we get to the resort.” He reached out as if to pat my shoulder, but I flinch away. His hand froze in mid-air, a flash of annoyance crossing his face. “See you tomorrow.” As he walked down our driveway, I heard him dialing Grace. “It’s done.” Grace’s laughter leaked through the speaker. “I knew you could handle her. Your idea worked perfectly.” So it was his idea. A hollow, bitter laugh escaped my throat. I really, truly misjudged him. The moment he was out of sight, I called an Uber and sprint to the high school. By the time I arrived, Grace was gone. My mother was sitting safely in the air-conditioned security guard booth. When we got home, I told my father everything. He slammed his fist onto the dining table. “We’re calling the police! Right now!” I gently caught his hand. “It won’t work, Dad. She hasn’t done anything illegal yet. If the police show up, they’ll just question her and let her go. It’ll only make her more desperate.” My father’s fists trembled with rage. “So we just let her get away with this?” My eyes were cold and clear. “They want me on that trip? Fine. I’ll go.” “No!” both of my parents shouted in unison. My mother grabbed my hands, her palms sweaty. “Hannah, that bus is a death trap. You’ll die!” “I know,” I said softly. “Which is why I’m not taking the bus. We’re going to change the game.” I laid out my plan. When I finished, the room was dead silent. “Are you sure about this?” my dad asked. I nodded. “This loop has to end.” My parents shared a long, heavy look before finally nodding. “If anything looks off, you run,” my mother whispered. “Forget the evidence. Just stay alive.” “I will.” 4 If I was going, I was doing it on my own terms. No cursed bus. No cursed route. No cursed morning departure. That very afternoon, my dad packed my bags into his SUV and drove me directly to the mountain resort. I checked into the penthouse suite, which boasted a stunning panoramic view of the very peak we were supposed to climb. The next morning at 7:00 AM, I walked down to the resort terrace, ordered a full brunch spread, and enjoyed my coffee under the morning sun. My phone started buzzing. The group chat was alive. We’re on the road! Is everyone here? So excited! Grace sent a sweet voice note: Don’t worry, guys, I’m just doing a quick headcount… Hannah, are you here yet? She tagged me. I took a slow sip of my coffee and left it on read. Five minutes later, my phone rang. Grace’s voice was tight with a frantic, sharp edge. “Hannah, it’s 7:25. Everyone is on the bus. Where are you?” I swallowed a piece of smoked salmon. “I’m already here.” The line goes completely quiet for a beat. “What?” she asked, as if she didn’t hear me correctly. “I said, I’m already here. Sitting on the terrace of the resort, having brunch.” “That’s impossible,” her voice cracked. “The bus hasn’t even left the school. How could you be there?” “My dad drove me up last night. You guys take your time. No rush, I’ll be waiting.” Another long silence. When Grace spoke again, her voice was strained, her sweet facade cracking. “Hannah, stop playing games. Where are you really?” “I’m not playing. Want me to FaceTime you?” I hung up and immediately started a video call. On her screen, my classmates were gathered in front of the school bus, bags packed. On my screen, I showed her my father sitting across from me, the mountain peaks towering in the background, the gourmet breakfast spread, and the luxury resort logo stitched into the linen napkin. I waved cheerfully. “See you guys soon!” The classmates crowded around Grace’s phone, and the audio picked up their frantic whispering. Wait, she’s already there? Look at those keys on the table—is that a Porsche SUV? Oh my god, is Hannah actually loaded? Why are we still waiting then? Let’s get moving! They started climbing onto the bus. On the screen, Grace’s face went through a terrifying transformation—from pale white to a furious, blotchy red, and finally to a sickly, dark purple. Suddenly, her carefully constructed mask shattered completely. She screamed into the camera, her face contorting into something hideous and wild: “Hannah! Are you fucking doing this on purpose?!”

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I caught my boyfriend of five years cheating on me. But when I confronted him, his only reaction was a sigh of profound, exhausting irritation. “Can you please stop making a scene?” Gavin said, his voice dripping with condescension. “I already told you, it was just business. I was playing a part for the clients.” A bitter laugh escaped my throat. Playing a part? How far, exactly, did “playing a part” go before the theater became reality? I didn’t answer him. Instead, I tilted my head back, looking up at the ceiling, and spoke to the empty air. “System. This male lead’s character profile has completely collapsed. Decommission him and generate a new one.” The air in the room instantly froze. The world around us began to flicker, light and shadow warping like corrupted code. The very fabric of this reality—the high-end apartment, the skyline outside the window, the ground beneath my feet—began to splinter and dissolve. A few seconds later, the cool, synthesized voice of the System chimed in my mind: [Author confirmation received. Decommission current male lead, Gavin Sinclair? Begin character erasure countdown?] 1 “Yes,” I said, my voice steady, devoid of a single shred of doubt. “Confirm decommission.” The flickering reality paused for two agonizing seconds before the mechanical voice chimed again: [Request approved. Character erasure for male lead, Gavin Sinclair, has been initiated. Countdown: twenty-four hours.] [Upon completion, all protagonist halos, luck, and narrative privileges will be stripped. The world-line will automatically adapt to the new male lead.] As the last syllable faded, the lights in the room snapped back to normal. I looked down at my phone. The screen was still open to my text thread with Gavin. The messages were pouring in, one after another—not a single one containing an apology, only defensive accusations. I told you, it was just a corporate dinner. Just playing the game. In this industry, you have to entertain. I can’t just walk away from these mixers. Can’t you show a little understanding for the pressure I’m under right now? … Are you going to reply to me or what? Stop pulling your usual silent treatment. Monica, you never used to be like this. When did you become so incredibly unreasonable? Fine. Calm down. I still have to entertain these executives. Don’t ruin my night. Reading those words, I felt a strange, detached sense of amusement. Unreasonable? Making a scene? That afternoon, I had left work two hours early to book a table at his favorite steakhouse. I wanted to surprise him, to celebrate our fifth anniversary. At first, he texted to say he was running late at the office, telling me to go ahead and order. I didn’t want him to be hungry when he arrived, so I ordered a small appetizer and waited. Then, thirty minutes later, another text arrived. He claimed a client had called a last-minute meeting. He said we’d celebrate tomorrow, that my anniversary gift was on the nightstand at home, and that he’d make it up to me when he got back. I had felt a pang of worry. I knew how much he drank at these dinners, and how easily his stomach flared up. So, I paid the bill and walked to the pharmacy across the street to buy his favorite brand of hydration tablets. But as I stepped out, I saw him. He was walking into the very restaurant I had just left, surrounded by a laughing crowd. And right there beside him, practically glued to his arm, was Hailey. She was the sweet-faced intern from our alma mater, looking up at him with wide, worshipful eyes, her mouth moving in a continuous stream of “Gavin this” and “Gavin that.” I stood frozen in the cold air. Still, a foolish, desperate part of me wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. I thought, Maybe it really is a work thing. If I wait for him, we can go home together. That way, he won’t have to drive drunk. So, I slid into a quiet corner booth of the diner next door, ordered a lemon water, and watched through the window for two hours. I watched him block eight consecutive shots of tequila for Hailey. I watched him flag down a waiter to order three separate plates of those gourmet macarons she loved, placing them carefully in front of her. And when the dinner finally ended, I watched him take off his bespoke cashmere overcoat—the one I had saved up for months to buy him—and gently drape it over Hailey’s shoulders. My hands had been shaking so violently I could barely hold my phone. I took a photo and sent it to him. I had expected panic. I had expected a rushed, terrified phone call, a desperate attempt to explain. Instead, I got: Can’t you be a little more mature? Gavin hadn’t always been like this. When we first started dating in college, he was so terrified of losing me that he’d take screenshots of every text from a female classmate and send them to me, completely unprompted. If I got too busy with midterms and forgot to ask about his day, he would lean his head against my shoulder, his voice soft and teasing. “Baby, why aren’t you keeping tabs on me today? Do you not love me anymore? Look at how other guys’ girlfriends text them constantly.” I had laughed, calling him a dork, and told him I trusted him. Now, I realized how colossal of a fool I had been. When a man loves you, his devotion is a physical presence in the room. When he doesn’t, even your silent pain is an inconvenience. He used to panic if I so much as frowned; now, I was holding the receipts of his betrayal, and he was irritated that I was wasting his time. Gavin didn’t come home that night. I didn’t call him. I sat on the living room sofa, my eyes tracing the pink-wrapped gift box on the nightstand. I didn’t even bother to unwrap it. I stood up, walked over, and tossed it directly into the trash. Where he slept, or who he slept with, no longer mattered. The moment he chose to guard another woman’s comfort while throwing my dignity to the wind, he became garbage. And garbage belongs in the bin. 2 The next morning, I did something I hadn’t done in years: I slept in. It was past ten when I finally opened my eyes. I washed my face, walked downstairs, and had just taken a bite of toast when the front door lock clicked open. Gavin walked in, carrying his rumpled suit jacket over his arm. As he brushed past me, a wave of sweet, artificial perfume hit my nose. It wasn’t my clean, cedarwood scent. It was a cloying peach blossom fragrance—the exact scent Hailey always wore. Seeing me sitting at the dining table in my pajamas, chewing on a piece of toast, Gavin’s brow furrowed. The irritation of a hangover was plain on his face. “Why aren’t you dressed yet? I told you we were going to make up for our anniversary at lunch.” He checked his watch, his tone sharp. “You always take over an hour to do your makeup. By the time we leave, the afternoon will be half gone.” I took another slow bite of my toast, keeping my eyes fixed on the window. I didn’t say a word. Seeing my silence, he assumed I was still just sulking. He sighed, stepping closer, and reached out to pat my head. I tilted my head away, letting his hand fall through empty air. He froze, his hand hovering for a second before he slowly pulled it back. When he spoke, his voice carried the practiced, dismissive tone of a man who thought he could sweet-talk his way out of anything. “Alright, Monica. Stop acting out. I didn’t stay out last night on purpose.” He rubbed his temples. “The dinner ran until three in the morning. I was completely wasted, so I just crashed at a hotel near the venue. I was alone. If you don’t believe me, you can call my assistant, or I can pull the lobby camera footage. Satisfied?” I finally turned my head to look at him. My eyes locked onto the faint, dusty-pink smudge of lipstick on his white collar, then drifted down to his sleeve, where a tiny smear of yellow mango mousse had dried on the cuff. I let out a soft laugh. “There’s no need to explain,” I said, wiping a crumb from the corner of my mouth. My voice was as calm and pleasant as if we were discussing the weather. “Where you slept, and who you slept with, is none of my business anymore.” Gavin’s face darkened instantly. The familiar, impatient edge returned to his voice. “Can you stop with the passive-aggressive act?” he snapped. “I am out there every single day, breaking my back to build a life for us. Can’t you show a little trust? Everything I do is for our future.” He stepped closer, gesturing wildly. “Once this contract with Mr. Garrison is signed, the company is on track for an IPO. We’ll be set for life. You’ll have everything you’ve ever wanted. Why can’t you just support me?” I cut him off, my gaze cool and steady. “Gavin, do you actually know why a scholarship kid from a rural town, with zero family backing and zero connections, managed to secure his first round of seed funding the day after graduation?” “Do you know why, in just five years, your startup became the darling of the tech sector? Why every major bid, every impossible contract, somehow magically landed in your lap?” I paused, watching the confusion flicker across his face, before delivering the final blow. “It’s because I chose you to be the protagonist of this story. Every ounce of your luck, every stroke of your genius—it was all just the halo I gave you.” The brilliant underdog, the commercial genius, the fiercely loyal partner, the self-made billionaire. Those were the exact parameters I had typed into the System’s creation engine five years ago. But somewhere along the way, he had forgotten the script. Gavin let out a harsh, incredulous laugh. “Monica, I know you’ve always looked down on where I came from. But don’t you dare diminish what I’ve built. Everything I have today, I earned with my own sweat, working eighty-hour weeks while you sat at home. Don’t act like you’re some god looking down on me.” I watched him, my voice flat. “So, when you spent all of last night taking care of Hailey, it was because she worships you? Because calling you ‘Gavin’ feeds that fragile, self-made ego of yours? Is that it?” Gavin’s face flushed red with fury. He ripped at his tie, his chest heaving. “Are you ever going to drop this?” he yelled. “I looked out for her! She’s an alumna from our university, a brand-new intern at my firm. Me acting as a mentor to a junior is a crime now? Since when did you become so incredibly petty?” Looking at his angry, flushed face, my mind drifted back to our college years. I had entered a student entrepreneurship competition, and a male teammate had simply walked me to my dorm, carrying my laptop. Gavin had found out, and he had waited outside my building in the freezing rain, his eyes bloodshot, his voice trembling as he pulled me into his arms. “Baby, you’re only supposed to let me take care of you. I’ll only ever take care of you. If another guy even looks at you, it kills me.” Back then, his tears were so real. His devotion was so absolute that I truly believed we would last forever. I suppose vows only hold weight in the exact second they are spoken. Just then, his phone began to buzz in his pocket. The anger on Gavin’s face vanished the instant he saw the caller ID. His features softened, and he took a subconscious step away from me before sliding the phone green. “What’s wrong, Hailey?” his voice was suddenly a gentle, soothing caress. “Shh, it’s okay. Take a deep breath and tell me.” The room was quiet enough that I could hear the girl’s frantic, tearful voice through the receiver. She had scraped her car against a pillar in the parking garage and was completely panicked, not knowing what to do. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. Stay exactly where you are,” Gavin murmured, his eyes darting toward the door. “I’m coming right now. I’ll handle everything, okay? Just don’t cry.” He hung up, grabbed his jacket from the chair, and headed straight for the door. He didn’t even look back to offer an explanation. Only as his hand touched the doorknob did he seem to remember I was there. “We’ll do dinner tonight,” he threw over his shoulder, his tone commanding. “I have to handle this emergency. Just stay home, be good, and stop throwing tantrums.” The front door slammed shut, the heavy wood vibrating in the frame. As the silence settled over the apartment, I looked up. Above the door, a glowing, crimson digital timer was ticking down. [09:32:17] [09:32:16] … 3 Nine hours and thirty-two minutes left before his protagonist status would be shattered into dust. I smiled, stood up, and tossed the rest of my toast into the trash. I didn’t waste any time. I spent the afternoon cleaning out the storage closets, pulling out every single gift, trinket, and memento he had given me over the last five years. The designer handbag he had saved up for three months to buy me during our first anniversary. The hand-bound journal of love letters from our second year, along with a silver necklace he had crudely engraved himself. The custom evening gown he had commissioned for me during our third year. The hand-carved wooden comb from our fourth. And the stunning, untouched diamond-encrusted bracelet from last year, which I had deemed too precious to ever wear. I packed them all into a giant cardboard box, carried it down to the building’s alleyway, and dumped it straight into the commercial dumpster. The building’s custodian, an older woman, stopped her cart and looked at me in shock. “Sweetheart, those are gorgeous things. Why on earth are you throwing them away?” I offered her a gentle smile. “They’re useless now. They’re just taking up space.” Just like Gavin. By the time evening fell, I was sitting comfortably on the sofa, looking up at the ceiling. “System, I have the specifications for the new male lead.” The mechanical voice chimed instantly: [Please state your parameters, Author.] “First, he has to be stunningly handsome. Ten times more striking than Gavin,” I said, ticking off my fingers. “Second, he must be immensely wealthy—someone who sits at the absolute pinnacle of the financial world without needing a single drop of my protagonist halo to get there.” “Third, he must be completely, utterly devoted. His heart, his eyes, his entire world must begin and end with me.” “And finally… make him sweet. A total ‘golden retriever’ boyfriend. Clingy, attentive, someone who doesn’t have a polite bone in his body for other women, and someone who would rather die than wrap his coat around another girl or buy her sweets.” Before the System could reply, a cold, low voice cut through the quiet living room behind me. “What ‘golden retriever’ boyfriend?” I flinched slightly, turning my head. Gavin was standing in the entryway. I hadn’t even heard the door open. His face was a mask of dark, thunderous fury, his eyes burning with an emotion I couldn’t quite place. In his hand, he was holding a glossy pink luxury shopping bag. He kicked off his shoes and marched over, standing over me, his voice dripping with venomous sarcasm. “Monica. What the hell are you talking about?” I shrugged, leaning back against the cushions. “My new male lead. You’ve gone bad, Gavin. You’re corrupted. So, naturally, I’m replacing you. I think a sweet, loyal younger guy will suit me much better.” Gavin’s entire body went rigid. He took a step closer, trying to control the shaking in his hands. “Replacing me? We have been together for five years. You think you can just swap me out like a piece of old furniture?” “Why not?” I tilted my head, looking at the crimson numbers floating directly above his head. The digital clock was ticking through its final sixty seconds. Gavin’s face flushed with a mixture of rage and disbelief. I let out a soft laugh. “When I chose you to be my protagonist, I gave you five years of unparalleled success, fortune, and luck. But I’m bored of this storyline now. I want someone who actually listens to me. It’s really that simple.” Gavin let out a harsh sneer, reaching down to grab my wrist. I pulled back, easily dodging his grip. “Stop playing these childish, delusional games,” he hissed, his teeth clenched. “I built my company with my own two hands, through my own blood, sweat, and tears. Your little fairytale ‘halo’ didn’t do a damn thing for me!” He looked like he wanted to shake me. “I’m telling you right now, Monica, you are not walking away from me. Five years of history, and you think you can just walk away? Not a chance.” “Is that so?” I pointed a finger toward the empty air above his head, my voice as light as a whisper. “But in exactly ten seconds, Gavin… you will be absolutely nothing to me.” Gavin froze, his eyes instinctively darting upward, though of course, he could see nothing but the ceiling. He opened his mouth to call me insane, but before the first syllable could leave his lips, the phone in his pocket began to vibrate violently. He pulled it out, scowling at the screen, and answered it with a sharp, impatient snap. “What?” I don’t know what the person on the other end said. But within two seconds, the arrogance and fury on Gavin’s face turned to ash. He went utterly, deathly pale, and his eyes stretched wide as he turned to look at me in sheer, paralyzed terror.

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My stepsister, Gemma, always loved flaunting everything she had stolen from me, especially when the whole family was watching. It was our annual family memorial day, a humid afternoon when the relatives gathered at the old estate. She caught sight of my new trench coat and immediately lunged, grabbing me by the collar. “Cora, isn’t this the exact jacket I bought last week?” Gemma sneered, her voice carrying across the lawn. “Honestly, copying my style is one thing, but with a face like yours, any outfit is a lost cause.” The quiet chatter in the courtyard died down. A few of my older cousins leaned closer, whispering and casting mocking looks in my direction. My Aunt Carol couldn’t stand it anymore. She stepped forward, trying to shield me. “Gemma, Cora is your sister. How can you say something so cruel, and right in front of the family memorial?” The smug grin on Gemma’s face stiffened. Her eyes darted viciously between Aunt Carol and me before she rolled them, letting out a sharp, dismissive laugh. “Are you seriously taking her side, Aunt Carol? Let me remind you, we don’t even share a mother.” Gemma scoffed, smoothing down her own expensive top. “To put it bluntly, she’s just the baggage my dad brought back when he made a mistake years ago. We’re doing her a favor by keeping her fed and clothed.” Across the yard, a group of my male cousins burst into loud, mocking laughter. In the shadows of my sleeves, my fingernails dug so hard into my palms that they nearly broke the skin. A wave of profound, suffocating humiliation washed over me, leaving me trembling. I looked at Gemma, and for the first time in eighteen years, the endless endurance cracked. I was done playing the quiet, grateful little sister. Without a word, I turned on my heel and headed toward the house to retrieve the one thing my mother had slipped me on her deathbed: her locked metal box. 01 “Cora! Where do you think you’re going? Stop acting so pathetic!” Gemma’s voice chased me down the hall, sharp and dripping with her usual condescension. I ignored her. My footsteps quickened as I hurried down the corridor and slipped into my room—a tiny, cramped space barely under eighty square feet. As I pushed the door open, my knee slammed hard against the edge of the bed frame. A sharp spark of pain shot through my leg, but I ignored it, dropping straight to my knees on the cold floorboards. I reached under the bed, clawing at the loose brick in the corner. My fingers met nothing but cold, empty air. I froze. I swept my hand through the hollow space three times, my nails scraping against the rough concrete, making a dry, horrific sound. It was empty. Completely empty. “Looking for something?” The voice behind me didn’t belong to Gemma. It was my stepmother, Helena. She was leaning casually against the doorframe, a porcelain teacup cradled in her hands, a slow, mocking smile playing at the corners of her lips. My fingertips went numb. “My mother’s metal box,” I whispered, my voice tight. “It was right here.” Helena took a slow sip of her tea, not even bothering to look me in the eye. “Oh, that rusty old thing? I cleaned out your room three years ago and tossed it.” Three years ago. The strength drained from my limbs. I had to press my palm flat against the mattress just to keep from collapsing onto the floor. “Where are the things inside it?” She blew gently across the surface of her tea, her tone as casual as if she were commenting on the weather. “Just a few yellowed papers. I couldn’t even make out the writing, so I threw them in the incinerator. There was also a golden pendant—the quality was decent enough, so I gave it to Gemma as a little trinket.” Finally, she looked at me, her eyes scanning me from head to toe with utter disdain. “Your mother died when you were five, Cora. Did you really think she left you some secret fortune? Stop daydreaming.” Gemma sauntered into the room, leaning against her mother’s shoulder with a mocking giggle. “Cora, did you honestly think your real mom left you an inheritance? Come on. She didn’t even have a dowry when she married my dad. My mom told me all about it.” I stared at the empty dark space beneath the floorboards, the dust embedded under my fingernails, my breathing shallow and rapid. They burned it. The last pieces of my mother had been burned. Gemma reached into her collar and pulled out a vibrant green pendant, letting it dangle between us. The golden was smooth, shaped like a delicate leaf, hanging from a simple red cord. “Are you talking about this? It’s pretty, but I’ve been wearing it for two years now. It’d be a bit weird to give it back to you, wouldn’t it?” I recognized it instantly. It was the pendant my mother had never taken off. Right near the bottom-right corner, there was a tiny, natural-looking golden vein. On her deathbed, her cold hand had squeezed mine, her final words scraping through her throat: “Cora, the things in the box… open it when you’re older. I left the most important thing inside.” I reached out my hand. “Give it back to me.” Gemma stepped back, laughing loudly. “Why should I? My mom said everything in this house belongs to her and Dad. You’re just a stray. You don’t get to demand anything.” Helena set her teacup down on my small nightstand, her voice dropping half an octave, turning cold. “Cora, stop making a scene. We have guests outside. Don’t embarrass your father. You’ve lived under our roof for eighteen years. Have we ever starved you? It’s just a cheap piece of old golden. Gemma likes it, so let her keep it.” I looked at Helena, and then at the pendant resting against Gemma’s chest. The fire screaming in my throat eventually died down into a bitter, silent swallow. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to fight. It was that I knew, in this house, there was no room for my truth. As I turned to walk out, Gemma threw one last jibe at my back. “Oh, and Cora? Make sure you ladle the soup for dinner tonight. Aunt Carol loves the cream corn soup. Don’t mess it up.” Outside, the courtyard was loud with clinking glasses and laughter. My cousins were already downing beers, completely oblivious to me standing red-eyed in the dark corner of the porch. Aunt Carol walked past, holding a tray of appetizers. Seeing my face, she paused. “Cora?” I wiped my face quickly, forcing a tight smile. “I’m fine. Just the wind.” She looked as if she wanted to say more, but instead, she let out a quiet sigh and leaned in close, her voice barely a whisper. “That golden pendant of your mother’s… I saw Gemma wearing it earlier.” I stayed silent. Aunt Carol squeezed my wrist, hesitating for a fraction of a second before breathing into my ear, “Cora, that golden vein in the corner… it’s not a natural flaw. Your mother told me once. It opens.” 02 “It opens?” My throat constricted. I stared into Aunt Carol’s eyes, wondering if I had misheard her. She gave a small, deliberate nod, her eyes darting around nervously before another aunt called out to her. “Carol! Come over here, we’re pouring the wine!” Aunt Carol squeezed my hand one last time, whispered nothing more, and quickly vanished back into the crowd. I stood frozen, my mind roaring. The golden vein wasn’t a flaw. It was a seam. A hidden compartment. My mother hadn’t hidden her greatest secret in the metal box. The box was just a decoy. The real key had been hanging around Gemma’s neck this entire time. At dinner, I was relegated to the very end of the long wooden table. In front of me sat a single bowl of plain rice and a small plate of cheap pickled radish. My utensils were a pair of old, splintered bamboo chopsticks. Gemma sat right next to Helena, surrounded by the finest cuts of beef and fresh lobster. She chewed lazily, her eyes glued to her phone. Our cousin on the opposite side of the table chimed in. “Gemma, how many followers do you have on Instagram now? My girlfriend loved that outfit mood board you posted last week.” Gemma tilted her head, giving a sweet, practiced smile. “Almost three hundred thousand. But honestly, the sketches for that collection were just some doodles I drew up myself. I’ll show her the drafts sometime.” My chopsticks froze over the pickled radish. Those drafts were mine. I had drawn them last month and left them on my desk. When they went missing the next day, I had assumed I’d simply misplaced them in some drawer. Gemma flicked her eyes up to look at me, a tiny, knowing smirk playing on her lips. It was a look I knew all too well—pure, triumphant malice, meant for my eyes only. Suddenly, Helena clapped her hands, demanding everyone’s attention. “Since the whole family is here today, there’s something I’d like to share.” She reached beneath her seat and pulled out a small, pink leather-bound ledger. She opened the first page, revealing columns of meticulously penned numbers. “Cora is eighteen now,” Helena said, her voice dripping with maternal performance. “Even though she isn’t my biological daughter, I’ve kept track of every single cent we’ve spent on her upbringing.” She slid the ledger to the center of the table, tapping her manicured finger against the pages. “Formula, tuition, school uniforms, tutors, allowance, medical bills. Over eighteen years, it comes to exactly four hundred and thirty-six thousand, eight hundred dollars. Every cent is documented.” The table went quiet for a moment before the murmurs started. An aunt from the side spoke up, her voice laced with mock sympathy. “Nearly half a million dollars? Helena, you really are a saint. I don’t think I could ever spend that kind of money on someone else’s child.” My hands shook so violently the chopsticks rattled against the porcelain bowl. But I forced myself to look up, locking eyes with Helena. “Are you showing me this because you want me to pay you back?” Helena offered a soft, magnanimous smile. “Oh, darling, I’m not that petty. I just want you to understand that your father and I have done right by you. When you enter the real world, I expect you to remember that we never mistreated you.” Gemma pulled the ledger closer, flipping through the pages with mock curiosity. “Look at this, Cora. Your food expenses for middle school alone were twenty-eight thousand dollars. You sure eat a lot for someone who barely speaks.” A wave of laughter rippled through the cousins. I turned my head to look at my father. He sat right next to Helena, his head bowed low over his bowl, his fork aimlessly pushing food around. He didn’t say a single word. Later that evening, while washing the mountain of dishes left over from the party, I noticed a dusty shoebox shoved into the highest shelf of the pantry. I dragged a chair over, climbed up, and pulled it down. When I took the lid off, my heart stopped. The box was stuffed with envelopes—dozens of them, some yellowed with age, the earliest postmark dating back thirteen years. The recipient was always Cora. The sender was Beatrice. I tore open the top envelope. Inside was a cashier’s check and a handwritten letter. “My sweet Cora, Grandma sent you another birthday gift this year. I hope it reached you. Your stepmother told me you are doing wonderfully and do not need my interference, but I miss you so much…” My fingers began to shake uncontrollably. Thirteen years. Thirteen years of letters and money from my grandmother, and I had never seen a single one. Helena had told me years ago that my grandmother had abandoned me, that she wanted nothing to do with a child from a broken marriage. I flipped through the envelopes. Every single check had been cashed. On the back of each one, written in sharp, familiar cursive, was Helena’s signature and bank account number. At the very bottom of the box lay a letter written in a shaky, frail script. “Cora, Grandma is getting old, and I don’t know if I will live to see you grow up. Before your mother passed, she told me she left something for you. The most important thing is inside the golden leaf. I don’t know if you ever found it, but you must remember—never let anyone else open that pendant.” The box slipped from my hands, letters scattering across the kitchen tile like dry leaves. From the doorway, Gemma’s voice drifted in, lazy and threatening. “Cora, what are you snooping through now?” 03 “These letters are from my grandmother.” I knelt on the floor, gathering the scattered pages one by one, trying to keep my voice steady despite the trembling in my chest. Gemma leaned against the doorframe, scrolling through her phone, not even bothering to glance at the floor. “Oh, that crazy old woman from upstate? My mom said she was losing her mind, always sending weird, confusing things. My mom kept them hidden so you wouldn’t get upset.” “Hidden?” I stood up, clutching the stack of envelopes tight against my chest. “Your mother cashed every single check. For thirteen years, she stole every dollar my grandmother sent me.” Gemma finally looked up, letting out an indifferent shrug. “Well, obviously. You eat our food and live under our roof. My grandma’s little handouts were basically rent. You should be thanking her for helping out.” I took a deep breath, pushing past her. I needed to see my father. I needed him to look at this. But Gemma grabbed my wrist, her nails digging deep into my skin. Her expression turned cold, almost feral. “I wouldn’t go whining to Dad if I were you.” “You think he doesn’t know? He’s always known.” The pain in my wrist was sharp, but the realization was sharper. I stared at her, trying to find any sign of a lie on her face. Gemma let go, pulling out a wet wipe to clean her fingers, as if she had touched something filthy. “Cora, you really are pathetic. You always think someone is going to swoop in and save you. Aunt Carol? Dad? Your dying grandmother?” “Wake up. You know exactly who runs this house.” She turned and went upstairs. I went to my father anyway. He was in his study, the room thick with the scent of cigar smoke. As I poured out the story, he didn’t even look up to ash his cigar. “Dad, Grandma sent me letters and money for thirteen years. Helena took everything. Did you know about this?” The silence stretched so long the cigar nearly burned down to his fingers. Finally, he spoke. “Your mother passed away early, Cora. It wasn’t easy for Helena to take you in. Some things… you just have to learn to let go.” “Let go?” My voice cracked. “She hid my grandmother’s letters for thirteen years and stole her money. And you’re telling me to let it go?” My father extinguished his cigar in the heavy glass ashtray, still refusing to look me in the eye. “The money your grandmother sent was spent on you anyway. Tuition, clothes, food. The math works out.” Hearing him say those words, a sickening realization washed over me. The $436,800 ledger Helena had paraded at dinner—a significant portion of that was my grandmother’s money. Helena had used my grandmother’s funds to raise me, logged the expenses under her own name, and forced me to bear the weight of her fake generosity. When I walked out of the study, the hallway felt freezing. As I passed Gemma’s room, her door was slightly ajar. Through the gap, I saw her sitting at her desk, her computer screen glowing. It was the application portal for a prestigious fine arts academy. Under the “Portfolio” section, the file names made my blood run cold. They were my paintings. Every watercolor, every pencil sketch I had labored over during the past two years had been scanned and uploaded into her application. The applicant’s name: Gemma Norton. I pushed the door open. “Those paintings are mine.” Gemma spun around, her face flitting from panic to icy composure in two seconds flat. “What are you talking about? Do you have a signature on them? Is your name on the canvas? Did anyone see you paint them?” “Cora, you don’t even have a desk of your own in this house. How are you going to prove these are yours?” I stared at the screen, at the digital image of my watercolor magnolia. The brushstrokes, the composition, the specific empty space I always left in the bottom-right corner—every single detail belonged to my soul. “You don’t even know how many petals a magnolia has, Gemma. How could you have painted this?” Her face twitched for a second, then she scoffed. “Who says I can’t paint? You think you’re some kind of genius? I’ve taken art classes for three years. I could paint this in my sleep.” She stepped closer to me, her voice dropping to a low, venomous whisper. “Even if you did paint them, so what? In this house, what’s yours is mine.” “Your clothes, your art, your mother’s cheap little pendant. If I want it, it’s mine.” “What do you have, Cora? You don’t even own the room you sleep in.” The blood roared in my ears, blurring my vision. She snapped her laptop shut and leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs. “Oh, by the way, my interview at the academy is next week. I think I’ll wear your new trench coat. Don’t worry, once I get my acceptance letter, you’ll be the first person I thank.” I backed out of her room, standing in the silent hallway for what felt like hours, until Helena’s voice shrieked from downstairs. “Cora! The kitchen sink is still full of dishes! What are you doing up there?” I reached into my pocket, my fingers brushing against my grandmother’s final letter. Never let anyone else open that pendant. Returning to the sink, I stared at my reflection in the dark kitchen window. My eyes were red, but the tears wouldn’t fall. Eighteen years of crying had finally run my well dry. I needed that golden pendant. But getting it off Gemma’s neck was going to be the hardest thing I’d ever done. Just then, my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a text from an unknown number. “Dear Ms. Cora Norton, your late mother, Ms. Iris Raymond, established a secure deposit box with our firm eighteen years ago. The holding period has now expired. Please visit our office with your valid identification to retrieve the contents. — Simon Fletcher, Evergreen Legal Partners.” I stared at the screen, my fingertips turning ice-cold. Iris Raymond. My mother’s name. 04 “What are you smiling at like an idiot?” Gemma had sneaked downstairs, her eyes immediately darting toward my phone screen. I wasn’t fast enough to lock it. She snatched the phone from my grip. I reached for it, but she dodged to the side, her manicured thumb already sliding across the screen. “Evergreen Legal Partners?” She raised an eyebrow, holding the phone high out of my reach. “Cora, why are you talking to a lawyer? Are you trying to sue my mom for child abuse?” “Give it back.” She ignored me, reading the text message aloud before letting out a mocking whistle. “Iris Raymond… your dead mom, right? Secure deposit box? Eighteen years?” She laughed, turning toward the stairs. “Mom! You have to see this! Cora’s dead mom apparently left her a mystery package at a law firm!” Helena descended the stairs, taking the phone from Gemma. She read the message, her face tightening for a fraction of a second. But it was gone in an instant. She slipped my phone into her apron pocket. “It’s just a phishing scam. Scammers love targeting naive girls with these emotional tricks.” “That’s my phone—” “I’ll give it back tomorrow. Go to bed, Cora. Stop letting your imagination run wild.” Helena turned and walked back upstairs. Gemma followed close behind. As she passed me, she shoved her shoulder into mine, leaning in to whisper, “You can hire a hundred lawyers, Cora. You’re still absolutely nothing in this house.” I didn’t sleep that night. I lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, playing the words of that text over and over in my head. Evergreen Legal Partners. Simon Fletcher. The secure deposit box my mother left eighteen years ago had finally matured. She knew. My mother had known exactly what would happen to me after she died. She hadn’t just left a decoy metal box; she had secured a lawyer. The metal box was something Helena was meant to find—an easy target to satisfy her greed. But what lay with the lawyer… that was my mother’s true legacy. The next morning, before anyone else woke up, I slipped into Helena’s room to search her bag. I couldn’t find my phone, but in her vanity drawer, I found a bank transaction receipt. The recipient was an elite art auction house. The amount was $4.2 million. In the memo line, there were only three words: Iris Raymond Paintings. Four point two million dollars. I vaguely remembered my mother painting in the attic when I was very small. The sunlight would stream through the skylight, the smell of oil paints and turpentine thick in the air. That was my clearest memory of her. Helena had told me those paintings were “worthless junk” and that she had thrown them out during our last move. Worthless junk worth $4.2 million. Before I could look closer, I heard footsteps on the stairs. I quickly shut the drawer and slipped back into the hallway. Later that morning, Gemma left the house wearing my new trench coat, practically floating out the door for her interview at the art academy. With the house empty, I began my chores—mopping the floors, wiping down the windows, cleaning the dust off the family memorial altar. As I worked near the end of the hallway, I noticed Helena’s bedroom door was slightly ajar. She was on the phone, her voice kept to a low whisper, but the acoustics of the old hallway carried every word. “…I’m keeping an eye on Gemma. The interview will go fine.” “Cora? What can she possibly do? She’s just a stray. I’ve already wiped out everything her mother left behind.” “I know about the lawyer. I’m going there tomorrow to shut it down. She can’t find out…” The voice abruptly cut off. She had realized the door was open. The door slammed shut with a sharp clack. I knelt on the floor, the damp rag trembling in my hand, my entire body freezing over.

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