Category: English

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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I spent seven years as Blake Warner’s dirty little secret. The day his company finally went public, he walked onto the trading floor holding another woman’s hand. “Gwen, I have to take care of her,” he told me, his voice excruciatingly calm. “You’re tough. You’ve always been a survivor. You’ll make it without me. But her? She only has me.” Adult breakups are supposed to be clean. Civil. Dignified. But when my car finally pulled up to the driveway of the old family estate I hadn’t seen in years, a familiar face was waiting under the porch light. “Finally decided to come home?” Chase stood there, his voice a cool breeze, though the grease-stained paper bag of warm cinnamon-sugar donuts he shoved into my hands was piping hot. He leaned against the wooden railing, his eyes burning through the dark. “I’ve been waiting ten damn years for you.” 1 The night before the IPO, Blake was relentless. He kept me awake until the sky turned a bruised, pre-dawn purple, pulling me into different positions on the mattress, desperate and feverish. I was so exhausted I could barely move. I kicked him weakly beneath the sheets. “Tomorrow is your big day, not your execution. If you keep tearing me apart like this, how are we supposed to survive the rest of our lives?” He had just stepped out of the bathroom, damp hair dripping water onto his shoulders. “What if I said we weren’t going to survive it? Would you make a scene?” “It’s been seven years, Blake…” I propped myself up on my elbows, a sudden chill settling in my chest. “Are you out of your mind?” Then the reality of his words clicked, and my breath caught. “Is there someone else?” If this had happened seven years ago, I would have thrown myself at him, screaming, crying, begging for an explanation. But I was twenty-seven now. The fire had been replaced by a slow, freezing numbness. I reached for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand and lit one. “What about the engagement party we planned? The deposit is already paid.” Blake reached down and took the cigarette from my fingers. “Don’t start smoking. You know I hate it.” I watched him put the same cigarette to his lips, inhaling deeply. A sharp, suffocating ache bloomed behind my eyes. “Who is she, Blake? Who is she?” Was she beautiful? Was her family wealthy enough to buy him the respect he had always craved? What did she have that gave her the right to steal the heart I had spent nearly a decade keeping alive? A tear slipped down my cheek, betraying my forced composure. Blake frowned, looking more annoyed than remorseful. “Gwen, we’re adults here. Let’s not do the whole hysterical, tragic scene, okay?” Blake had never been good at comforting me. In the beginning, when I actually let myself show anger, he would always wear this exact expression—this strained, patronizing tolerance. I hated it. So, I changed. Over the years, he used to brag to his friends about me. My Gwen is so good, he’d say. She doesn’t throw tantrums or act needy like other girls. But sitting on that bed, the truth finally tasted like ash. Other girls threw tantrums because they had the security of being loved. They had safety nets. I was “good” because I had nothing else to lose. My reward for seven years of silence was being erased entirely, without so much as a proper goodbye. I wiped my face, pulled myself out of bed, and began putting on my clothes. Blake reached out and grabbed my wrist. I froze. The dim yellow light of the bedside lamp cast long, ugly shadows across his face, making him look like a stranger. “It’s barely four in the morning. Just wait. It’s not safe to call an Uber right now.” His words were like a needle, piercing the very last pocket of softness left in my heart. I felt like a clown. I wrenched my hand away, but he grabbed me again, his patience finally snapping. “Have you had enough? If you hadn’t changed so much, do you think I ever would have looked at someone else? Gwen, why can’t you just reflect on your own behavior for once?” I almost laughed out loud. He was the one who cheated. He was the one who broke every promise we ever made. Yet here he was, standing on his moral high ground, blaming me for turning into the woman his neglect had created. The warmth inside me died. The tears stopped. I gently removed his hand from my wrist and quietly whispered, “Okay.” There was no point in arguing. Blake had forgotten that beneath the quiet, compliant shell he had molded, I was still Gwen Taylor. I was born with a vicious temper, and I had never lacked the courage to cut my losses. Seeing me calm down, Blake relaxed back into his usual detached, corporate persona. He began to talk about her. “Her name is Cassidy Wells. She’s not even twenty yet. She’s sheltered, sweet, and incredibly innocent.” “I have to protect her. She wouldn’t survive a day in my world without a proper title. She needs me.” “Gwen, you’re street-smart. You’re a survivor. You’ll make it without me. But her? She only has me.” His voice softened as he spoke her name, his sharp jawline relaxing in a way I hadn’t seen in years. He looked exactly like the twenty-one-year-old Blake Warner who used to lean against his battered motorcycle, holding my hand. Are you sure about this, Gwen? he had asked me back then. There’s no future for a bastard child like me. Later that day, he drove that motorcycle across the city, sold it for forty-eight hundred dollars, and rented our very first studio apartment. We were so poor we could barely afford heat, but we were so full of love that the cold never touched us. At six in the morning, Blake’s phone rang. It was Cassidy. “Blake, I had a nightmare,” her voice whimpered through the receiver, sweet and fragile. “I dreamed you left me.” She sounded so small, so beautifully helpless. Without a single word to me, Blake grabbed his coat and rushed out the door. Ten minutes later, a text popped up on my screen: Take your time packing. I’m taking her to a hotel for a few days. Try not to leave any of your things behind. If she sees them, she’ll cry. I stared at the screen, my hands trembling. Then, another text arrived: If you ever need help, you can still call me. We can still be friends. My fingers tightened around the metal frame of my phone. The next second, I threw it against the drywall with every ounce of strength I had left. Blake, you cruel, arrogant bastard. How terrified were you that I wouldn’t leave? How pathetic did you have to be to offer me the scraps of your “friendship” just to ease your own guilt? 2 We had only lived in this penthouse for two years, but as I packed, I realized how much of my life had accumulated in the corners. Outside, a gray, relentless rain began to beat against the floor-to-ceiling windows. I stood on a chair, reaching up to peel the very last Polaroid off the memory wall. A friend of Blake’s had taken it years ago in a smoky, subterranean pool hall. Blake was leaning against a cue stick, exhaling a plume of gray smoke. I was standing next to him, my face flushed red from coughing. He had laughed, his eyes dark and lazy. Gwen, this isn’t a place for a good girl like you. In response, I had grabbed the hem of his denim jacket, leaned in, and took a drag straight from his cigarette. He had panicked, pinching my nose and forcing me to exhale, laughing as I coughed my lungs out in his arms. Blake, I had gasped through my tears, wherever you are, that’s where I belong. Back then, his mother had just died, and his wealthy father refused to acknowledge his existence. He was working security at that pool hall just to have a cot to sleep on. A regular customer had taken our photo with a Polaroid camera that night. We couldn’t afford dinners or gifts; that cheap piece of film was our only treasure. My thumb brushed over my younger face in the photo. So young. So fierce. So willing to burn alive for him. A twenty-one-year-old Blake had squeezed my hand and looked at that photo. Just wait, Gwen. I’m going to make it to the top. And when I do, I’m going to give you the biggest wedding this city has ever seen. My new phone vibrated in my pocket. A contact from our old circle had sent me a video link. In the video, Blake was standing in a VIP lounge, his arm wrapped tightly around a young girl with straight, dark hair. This is my girlfriend, Cassidy, he announced to the room. Take good care of her, guys. Her face was young, but there was something disturbingly familiar about her. The friend who sent the video texted: What’s going on? Are you guys playing games again? I stared at the screen, then slowly crumpled the Polaroid in my fist and tossed it into the trash bag. No games, I replied. This time, it’s over. Once my suitcases were packed, I didn’t just leave. I hired a high-end demolition crew and paid them triple to strip the penthouse bare. Every custom sofa, every piece of Italian marble furniture, every light fixture I had picked out—I sold them to liquidators for pennies or had them hauled to the dump. I wanted to return the keys to a space that was white, hollow, and blindingly empty. Just like what he had left of my chest. Before I could leave the city, the company’s head accountant, Natalie, called me in tears. There was a discrepancy in the audit before the final SEC filing, and she couldn’t resolve it without me. My abrupt departure had left my former team pulling ninety-hour weeks to clean up the transition. I felt a pang of guilt. They hadn’t done anything wrong. So, I agreed to go in one last time. But when I swiped my card at the glass turnstiles of the corporate headquarters, the biometric scanner buzzed red. Access denied. The young receptionist looked up, her eyes widening when she realized who I was without my heavy makeup and tailored power suits. “Miss Taylor?” she stammered. She escorted me up to the financial department personally. Before she left, she whispered, “Gwen… you look so beautiful today. You look so young with your hair down.” I had naturally soft, youthful features. But for seven years, I had dressed in razor-sharp stilettos and severe, dark blazers to help Blake command respect in boardrooms. My feet ached so constantly I had forgotten what it felt like to walk on flat ground. Natalie was waiting for me with a stack of ledgers. After we corrected the errors, she walked me back down to the lobby. It was five o’clock, and the elevators were pouring out employees. Within seconds, a dozen of my former staff members surrounded me, their faces heavy with genuine regret. “Gwen, it’s not the same without you. The client from the Eastside project threw a fit this morning.” “Exactly. Without you leading the negotiation, we had to slash our margins by 5% just to keep them from walking.” I kept a polite, professional smile on my face, refusing to say a single negative word about Blake. Adults leave quietly. I had bled for this company. I had built its foundation from the ground up. Even if I was being discarded, I didn’t want to burn down the house I had built. During our first few years, Blake’s father had planted corporate spies and hostile executives to sabotage us. I was the one who went to war, taking the hits in public while Blake quietly consolidated power behind the scenes. It took us three years of absolute hell to purge his father’s men from the board. “Is this company really going to collapse just because we lost one Gwen Taylor?” The cold, mocking voice cut through the lobby like a blade. 3 The crowd of employees instantly fell silent, parting to create a wide path. Blake walked through the double doors, his fingers locked tightly with Cassidy’s. He glared at the gathered staff, his eyes dark with displeasure. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think Gwen was the one signing your paychecks.” He raised an eyebrow. “If you miss her so much, feel free to submit your resignations and follow her out.” No one dared to breathe. In this building, Blake’s word was absolute law. He had grown comfortable in his tailored Tom Ford suits, carrying himself with the ruthless authority of a man who answered to no one. But none of them had expected him to kick out the woman who had put him on that throne the moment he arrived. Cassidy tugged gently on his sleeve, her voice dripping with a soft, delicate innocence. “Babe… is this Gwen? She looks… different than I pictured.” Her eyes drifted down to my feet, and she gasped softly. “Oh! We have the same shoes…” Blake’s brow furrowed as he scanned me from head to toe. It wasn’t just the shoes. My camel trench coat and black baseball cap were from the exact same luxury designer. When I had seen that video of Cassidy the night before, I knew she looked familiar. Seeing her in person, the truth was almost laughable. She looked exactly like me at twenty. The same pin-straight, waist-length black hair. The same pale, clean skin. The same wide, quiet eyes. A bitter smile touched my lips. Blake’s taste in women really was incredibly consistent. “Gwen, we agreed there would be no scenes,” Blake said, his voice dropping into a warning register. I let out a soft sigh. “I didn’t seek her out, Blake. Believe whatever you want.” Cassidy bit her lower lip, looking terribly slighted. “But these boots just came out. Blake bought them for me two days ago as a special gift…” I knew exactly what she was trying to imply. But what she didn’t know was that I was a black-card VIP at that boutique. The boots had been delivered to our penthouse before they even hit the retail floor. In fact, Blake had been the one to sign for the package at our door. I kept my mouth shut, waiting to see what he would do. Blake made a sharp, clicking sound with his tongue, his fingers tapping against his thigh—his signature tell when his patience was entirely exhausted. “It’s pathetic, Gwen.” “Why are you doing this to yourself? It’s embarrassing.” “Go to the department store across the street and buy something else. Change out of those clothes.” He gestured to his secretary, who immediately handed him a leather checkbook. He unscrewed his fountain pen, his hand hovering over the paper. “How much do you want?” “Give me a number. Let’s make this a clean break so you don’t have to keep pulling these desperate stunts.” Natalie’s grip on my arm tightened so hard it bruised. My nails dug into the palms of my hands, breaking the skin. My chest tightened, my stomach twisting into a hard, painful knot. “Blake,” I said, my voice rising, vibrating with raw fury. “You think this is about money?” Blake’s expression turned to ice. “You gave me seven years. Think of this as severance. It’s only fair.” Outside of our executive circle, very few people in the company knew the true nature of our relationship. We had kept it hidden in the early years to protect the company from his father’s attacks. Once the danger passed, Blake simply never brought up making us public again. I had spent years imagining the day we would finally share our love with the world—the congratulations, the shared smiles. I never imagined that when the truth finally came out, it would be to paint me as a bitter, money-grubbing ex-employee who refused to let go. Cassidy leaned her entire body against Blake’s shoulder, looking up at him with adoration. Even during our most intimate years, Blake had rarely held my hand in public, always claiming he wanted to keep “professional boundaries.” Yet here they were, Cassidy’s lips practically brushing his ear. “It’s okay, babe. She doesn’t have to change. I understand Gwen. When a man is as incredible as you, any girl would find it hard to let go.” She turned her wide, doe-like eyes to me. “I just feel so incredibly lucky. As long as you love me, Blake, nothing else matters.” Blake’s gaze softened instantly. He leaned down and pressed a tender kiss to her lips, right there in front of his entire staff. Something inside me shattered into fine, sharp dust. The words tasted like copper in my mouth. I watched him stroke Cassidy’s cheek, whispering, “You’re so good to me. I won’t let anyone make you feel small. I’ve got you.” I bit my lip until I tasted blood, using the physical pain to force my voice steady. “Fine. There is one thing I want.” Blake looked down at me, a smug, victorious smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Name your price.” 4 I took two steps forward, reaching out until my fingers wrapped around the silver chain resting against his collarbone. Hanging from it was a hand-carved silver medallion. The year his father had handed him that failing subsidiary, Blake had been terrified of failing. I had spent weeks working twenty-hour days, drinking myself into a stomach ulcer just to land the accounts that saved us. The day we signed the contract, I collapsed and was rushed into emergency surgery for a ruptured ulcer. That was the first time I had ever seen Blake look truly terrified. He had sprinted through the hospital corridors, covered in mud and sweat from a fall on his way there. He looked worse than I did. He had taken my hand, tears streaming down his face. Gwen, does it hurt? I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. He stayed by my bedside for four days straight. As the anesthesia wore off, I kept calling his name in my sleep. Every single time I called out, he answered. He didn’t sleep; he barely drank water. When I finally woke up, his voice was completely gone, his throat raw. The nurse had smiled at me. While you were asleep, he never stopped talking to you. He kept telling you not to be afraid, that he was right here. He must love you very much. He did love me. Once. The day I was discharged, he disappeared for twelve hours. When he came back, his knees and forehead were scraped and bleeding. But he had smiled like a fool, holding out two matching, hand-carved silver medallions of Saint Jude, the patron of lost causes. He had hiked up a steep, rocky trail to a remote mountain monastery to get them blessed. They say if your lover places this around your neck, you’ll belong to each other for a lifetime, he had whispered, his hands shaking as he clasped the silver chain around my neck. Gwen, with this, we’ll never be lost. A lifetime. It turned out a lifetime only lasted seven years. The tears finally spilled over my lashes, hot and fast, as I looked Blake dead in the eyes. I watched the smugness in his expression slowly turn into a cold, hollow panic. “I want this, Blake,” I whispered. “Seven years of my life, paid in full with this.” I yanked the chain with everything I had. He let out a sharp gasp of pain as the metal clasp snapped. Originally, the medallion had been on a simple, sturdy cord. But as Blake grew wealthier, he had insisted on replacing it with a heavy gold chain. More expensive. But far more fragile. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my own matching silver medallion. Seeing them both in my hands, Blake reached out, his voice suddenly desperate. “Gwen, don’t—” But it was too late. I threw both silver medallions onto the polished marble floor with all my strength. The silver struck the stone with a sharp, echoing clatter, rolling into the dark corners of the lobby. A broken mirror can never be made whole. “Goodbye, Blake.”

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My skin was burning, a fierce, unnatural heat clawing its way up my throat. I yanked at the collar of my silk gown, gasping for air. The sight of the velvet drapes, the heavy mahogany wardrobe, and the flickering candlelight made my breath hitch. I was back. I had returned to the very night I was drugged. Damian’s brother-in-law, Lord George Harrington, would burst through that door in less than fifteen minutes. I had to get out. Cynthia, Damian’s scheming sister, had undoubtedly stationed her guards outside. She wanted me trapped. She wanted my ruin to secure her family’s fortune. Desperation overtook my fear. I grabbed the brass oil lamp from the nightstand and threw it directly onto the heavy bed curtains. The dry velvet caught instantly, flames hungry and bright, licking up the canopy. Within moments, the room was a furnace of smoke and fire. In this life, I would never play the tragic victim. I would never agree to become Lord Harrington’s second wife—a gilded prisoner brought in solely to bankroll his bankrupt estate and raise Cynthia’s spoiled children. 1 “Fire! Oh heavens, how did a fire start?” A frantic female voice cried from the hallway. Phoebe. Cynthia’s loyal lady’s maid. Of course she was out there. Cynthia had orchestrated every single detail. “You two, stay here and watch the doors! I’ll be right back!” Phoebe barked, her voice shaking with panic. She didn’t dare rush in to save me. According to their grand design, the Lord was supposed to “discover” me compromised, not roasted alive. My chest heaved. The drug in my veins, combined with the rising heat of the flames, made my head spin. I stumbled toward the door and yanked the handle. It was locked from the outside. Did George Harrington know of his wife’s plot? I was the sole heiress of the Whitmore merchant empire. Half the noble bachelors in the capital had begged for my hand. Why on earth would I have ever willingly thrown myself at a man twelve years my senior? In my past life, Cynthia had “discovered” us herself, dramatically coughing up blood, weeping, and accusing me of shameless debauchery. Damian had immediately and publicly broken our engagement. Shamed and desperate, I was told my only option to salvage a shred of dignity was to enter Lord Harrington’s household as his second wife. I wanted to shave my head and enter a convent instead, but Damian had played the martyr. “My sister is dying,” he had pleaded, tears in his eyes. “She only wants her children cared for. Please, Giselle. I will beg the Lord to grant you the status of an equal wife.” My poor mother, unable to bear the thought of me in a convent, had begged me to accept. And so, I had walked straight into their trap. The bitter memory made me bite my lip so hard I tasted copper. This time, I would not be their puppet. I kicked over the heavy chairs to create noise, then staggered toward the window. “Did she faint?” one of the maids outside squeaked. “If she dies in there, the Lord will skin us alive!” the older maid hissed, unlocking the door. “Hush! I’ll open it and check.” The moment she cracked the door open, I pushed the heavy window frame open, scrambled over the ledge, and tumbled into the cool night air, carefully pulling the window shut behind me. I couldn’t run far. The heat in my blood was reaching a boiling point. Dragging my heavy limbs, I slipped into the secluded wing of the estate—the quarters of Solomon Harrington, George’s younger brother. In my previous life, Solomon had been one of the few decent souls in this wretched house. I knew his character. He was a man of honor; he would never take advantage of a woman in my state. “Who’s there?” A cold, sharp voice sliced through the dark. A silver blade gleamed in the moonlight, resting flush against my throat. “Solomon… please. Help me,” I gasped. My vision blurred as I collapsed forward, tumbling right into the chest of the young man clad in a pale, moon-white robe. The sword clattered to the stone floor. Startled, Solomon instinctively pushed me back. I fell to the ground, a low groan escaping my lips. “Miss Whitmore? What are you doing here?” He looked bewildered, reaching out to help me before quickly drawing his hand back, mindful of propriety. “I’ve been drugged. Please… tell no one,” I whispered, my face burning, my voice trembling with the effort to stay conscious. “I… I will fetch your maid,” he stammered, his eyes wide. “No. I don’t trust her. I only trust you.” Monica had vanished the moment she escorted me to that room. In my past life, she eventually became Damian’s mistress. I wouldn’t trust either of them with my life. 2 In the dim light, Solomon’s eyes flickered with a sudden, intense warmth. “If you truly trust me, take this,” he murmured, pulling a small white porcelain vial from his sleeve and tapping out a round, chalky pill. I grabbed it without hesitation and swallowed it dry. Solomon blinked, surprised by my absolute faith in him, and a soft, genuine smile touched his lips. The cool medicine trickled down my throat, slowly dousing the roaring fire in my veins. I took a deep breath, reclaiming my sanity. “Thank you, Solomon.” I bowed slightly and pulled out a thick stack of banknotes from my hidden pocket, pressing them into his hand. “It was nothing. Please, there is no need,” he protested, trying to push them back. Our fingers brushed, and a dark blush crept up his neck as he hastily withdrew his hand. “You saved my life tonight, Solomon. You must take this.” I stuffed the money into his vest and turned on my heel. The Harrington estate was a hollow shell, rotting from the inside out under George’s poor management. If they weren’t bankrupt, Cynthia would never have targeted my family’s wealth. Right now, I needed to see exactly what role my beloved fiancé, Damian, had played in tonight’s little theater. “Then… I shall accept,” Solomon’s quiet voice drifted after me. I smiled softly to myself. Solomon lived in the forgotten, drafty wing of the estate, ignored and despised by his older brother. In my past life, he left to join the frontier army a few days after this night. Three years later, he returned as General Solomon Harrington, a decorated war hero. Right now, he needed every coin to buy his way in. I made my way back to the burning wing, hiding in the shadows of the courtyard. The room was mostly charred wood and smoke now. George Harrington stood with his back to me, barking orders. “She couldn’t have vanished into thin air! Search every room! Find her!” His voice was steady and sharp. There was not a single trace of the “drunken stupor” he had claimed to be in during my past life. He had lied to me from the very beginning. “George, she’s gone. What do we do now?” Cynthia coughed into a silk handkerchief. “She’s drugged. She won’t make it past the estate gates,” George snarled, turning around. In the torchlight, his eyes looked cold and vicious. “I am only worried someone else will find her first,” Cynthia whispered, quickly tucking her bloody handkerchief away. She was coughing up blood again. The royal physicians had whispered she had barely two months left. “Where is Damian? Tell him to search for her.” “Damian and Monica are in my private chambers. Phoebe, go fetch them.” George shot his wife a freezing look. “Keep those two on a shorter leash. The deed isn’t even done yet, and they’re already rolling around in your quarters like dogs.” My ears rang. A cold wave of nausea washed over me. So, even back then, Damian and Monica were already sleeping together. In my past life, Damian had played the devoted lover, milking me for every cent to “maintain his status” while pretending to be bullied by his peers. And because I was technically his brother-in-law’s wife, I couldn’t openly give him money. Monica had suggested a “solution”: I should adopt her as my sister and marry her off to Damian as a concubine. That way, I could funnel my family’s gold to Damian under the guise of her dowry. 3 Tears pricked my eyes, hot and angry. The fiancé I had trusted blindly had actively conspired to ruin me. I dabbed my eyes with my handkerchief. In my past life, when Damian married Lydia, the minor daughter of Minister Davenport, had he really been “forced” into it? I didn’t want to think about how deep his lies went. “We need Monica to keep Giselle compliant,” Cynthia murmured, her eyes darting toward the pathway. A group of high-society ladies was approaching. She had invited them specifically to witness my downfall. Now, the stage was set, but the star of the show was missing. “Look at the mess you’ve made!” George spat, sweeping his cloak around him as he stormed off. Cynthia bit her lip, tears of frustration swelling in her eyes. She only did this to secure her children’s future before she died. “Heavens! Why is there a fire?” Lady Davenport’s loud, shrill voice cut through the air before she even reached the courtyard. “Oh… Giselle was resting inside,” Cynthia whimpered, putting on her most fragile, tragic face. “I don’t know how this could have happened…” “Giselle Whitmore set a fire in Harrington Hall? How dare she!” Mrs. Gable chimed in, her eyes gleaming with delicious gossip. Cynthia remained silent, playing the victim. “I always knew she was trouble,” another lady whispered. “A merchant’s daughter has no breeding. Lady Harrington, should we call the city guard?” “Where is she now? To sneak away like this… how utterly classless.” “How can a brilliant scholar like young Damian Carlyle be tied to such a girl? She is entirely unworthy of him!” The ladies chattered like magpies, and Cynthia let out a faint, satisfied sigh. She had chosen these gossips carefully. By tomorrow morning, my reputation would be in tatters. “Why are you ladies so eager to spread lies? Where is your breeding? Your decorum? Your basic decency?” I stepped calmly out of the shadows, my voice dripping with ice. They gasped, spinning around to stare at me as if they had seen a ghost. “Giselle! Where were you?” Cynthia choked out, quickly recovering her composure. “Don’t worry, my dear. We won’t involve the authorities.” “How dare you speak to us with such disrespect!” Lady Davenport sneered. “Setting fire to a noble estate is a hanging offense. You truly are just a vulgar merchant’s child.” I locked eyes with her. “Did you see me start the fire, Lady Davenport?” She choked on her words, glancing awkwardly at Cynthia. Cynthia forced a tight, artificial smile. “Giselle, even if you did it, the family will not press charges.” “Lady Harrington, I was in that room for exactly five minutes before I stepped out. There was no fire when I left. If you suspect arson, let us summon Justice Albright of the High Court. I am more than willing to let his investigators find the real culprit.” I knew Cynthia wouldn’t dare. Justice Albright was famously incorruptible. “No! No need for the courts,” Cynthia said hastily, falling into a violent fit of coughing. The ladies exchanged knowing, suspicious glances. “If these ladies still doubt my word, I insist we call the guards,” I said smoothly, taking a step forward. “No one is accusing you, Giselle,” Cynthia rasped, swallowing the copper taste of blood. “Right, ladies?” “Of course,” Lady Davenport muttered reluctantly, while the others looked away, suddenly silent. “If I hear so much as a whisper of this slander tomorrow, I will sue for defamation. Spreading false rumors about a prominent family is a serious crime, after all,” I warned, brushing past Cynthia. 4 Cynthia stumbled, caught by Phoebe. “Giselle! Apologize to my sister!” Damian’s voice boomed as he marched into the courtyard, his face dark with fury. Monica followed closely behind him, keeping her distance. “Damian, it’s fine. I just lost my footing,” Cynthia lied, rubbing her eyes. “Giselle, where were you? I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Damian demanded, scanning me for any sign of the drug’s effects. He looked confused. Why was I perfectly fine? Had Monica failed?

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I live alone, but lately, I haven’t been able to shake the feeling that there’s a phantom in my apartment. It started with the small things. I’d make breakfast, turn my back for a single second, and the center of my fried egg would be scooped out, gone. Freshly laundered shirts hung in my closet would suddenly have faint, muddy smudges on the collars before I ever wore them. I tore the place apart, installed hidden cameras, and found absolutely nothing. Just as I started to let my guard down, convinced I was losing my mind, my girlfriend wrapped her arms around me from behind, her laugh warm against my neck. “You were so aggressive last night, babe,” she murmured. “I barely walked through the door before you pinned me to the wall.” The blood in my veins turned to ice. Because last night, I hadn’t been home at all. 1 Sophia’s fingertips were still tracing the line of my arm. When she noticed my face had drained of color, she paused, leaning in to brush her nose against my cheek. Her tone was light, teasing. “What’s wrong? Feeling shy? You certainly weren’t like this last night when you had your hands tangled in my hair, begging me not to let go.” Every muscle in my body locked into place. The sharp sting of my fingernails biting into my own palms was the only thing keeping me tethered to reality. I stared dead into her eyes, my voice trembling so hard I barely recognized it. “You’re saying… you saw me in my apartment last night?” Sophia nodded, the playful smile still lingering on her lips. She reached out to wrap her arms around my waist, but I flinched, stepping back instinctively. She froze, her brow furrowing in confusion. “Yeah. The power went out in my building, remember? I was bored, so I came over to surprise you.” “The lights were off when I walked in, and before I could even reach for the switch, you grabbed me. I ran my hands through your hair. You just got that new textured fade. I know the exact feel of it.” Every word she spoke felt like an ice pick driving into my bones. I grabbed her arm, squeezing hard enough that she winced. “I am not joking with you, Sophia. I was not home last night.” “I told you last week. Brody went through that horrible breakup, and I took him out drinking. I crashed on his couch. I never stepped foot in this apartment last night.” The smile on Sophia’s face died a slow, agonizing death. She reached out, her hand hovering nervously near my forehead. Panic was beginning to bleed into her voice. “Stop it, babe. This isn’t funny.” “Only you and I have keys to this place. You just installed that new smart deadbolt last month. Who else could it possibly be?” “We’ve been together for three years! Do you really think I wouldn’t recognize your body? Your voice? You sounded exactly like you always do. You even smelled like the cedarwood detergent you use for your sheets!” I didn’t argue. With shaking hands, I pulled out my phone, found Brody’s contact, and put it on speaker. He picked up on the second ring, his voice gravelly with sleep. “What’s up, man? You left your leather jacket on my chair when you took off this morning. When are you coming back for it?” I drew in a sharp, ragged breath. “Brody, tell me the truth. Did I sleep at your place last night?” “No shit, man. Where else would you be?” Brody yawned, a hint of amusement returning to his voice. “We stayed up until three in the morning watching some terrible rom-com. You got all emotional, told me you wanted to get married, and made me fetch you an iced Coke. Don’t tell me you blacked out.” “Wait, is Sophia interrogating you? Do you need me to vouch for you?” “No. Thanks, Brody.” I ended the call. When I looked up, Sophia’s face was the color of ash. A cold sweat had broken out along her hairline. She stumbled backward, her hip colliding with the dining table. The glass of water I had just poured wobbled perilously before tipping over the edge, shattering into a hundred glittering pieces on the hardwood. “No… that’s impossible. How could that be?” She muttered the words to herself before suddenly snapping. Like a woman possessed, she sprinted toward the bedroom. I heard the violent crash of the closet doors being ripped open, the sound of hangers clattering to the floor as she tore through my clothes. Then came the frantic scraping of her dropping to her knees, checking under the bed, ripping apart the storage bins on the balcony. She tore through the apartment like a burglar, leaving chaos in her wake. Ten minutes later, she emerged from the hallway, covered in dust, her eyes glassy and unfocused. She slowly shook her head. “Nothing… there’s no one here.” I slumped against the wall, my legs suddenly too weak to hold my weight, and finally dialed 911. 2 The police arrived within fifteen minutes. When Officer Harris and a crime scene technician stepped through my front door, I was still shaking. I tried to hand them bottles of water, but my grip was so unstable I nearly dropped them. I told them everything. From the very beginning. I told them about the breakfast food vanishing into thin air months ago. The mysterious smudges on my freshly washed shirts. And then, the events of last night. With every word, the trembling in my hands grew worse. The technician, wearing latex gloves, methodically swept the apartment. The windows were intact. The heavy steel deadbolt showed zero signs of tampering. The security bars on the balcony—which I’d had professionally installed last month—were welded shut. You couldn’t even slip a hand through the gaps. He ran a specialized scanner over every inch of the walls. No listening devices. No hidden pinhole cameras. No secret compartments large enough to conceal a human being. “Let’s go take a look at the building’s security footage,” Officer Harris said, offering a reassuring pat on my shoulder. “Take a deep breath, son. Let’s see what the cameras say.” Sophia and I followed them down to the property manager’s office. Standing behind the officers, we watched the monitors as they fast-forwarded through the footage, starting from the moment I left yesterday afternoon. The screen showed it clearly: At 5:20 PM yesterday, I walked out of the lobby doors wearing a white t-shirt and jeans. I never returned. At 11:07 PM, Sophia keyed into the lobby. At 8:10 AM this morning, she left to pick up coffee and bagels. In between those hours, aside from a FedEx guy and a DoorDash driver dropping off food on other floors, not a single unfamiliar face stepped off the elevator onto my floor. The last remaining drop of color drained from Sophia’s face. She gripped the edge of the security desk, her voice vibrating with sheer terror. “It’s not possible… Then who was in that room with me last night?” “His voice, his build… it was exactly like Declan’s. I know what I felt. Declan, you have to—” “Is this really the time for that?!” I snapped, cutting her off before turning back to the police. “Officer, I’ve suspected someone was living in my apartment for months.” “Sometimes I’d leave a glass of water on the nightstand before work, and when I came home, it had moved two inches to the left. I’d make a turkey sandwich, turn around to grab a LaCroix from the fridge, and half the sandwich would be gone. I’d hang a clean white t-shirt in the closet, and the next day the collar would be stained yellow, like someone had sweat in it.” “Last week, I put my keys on the entryway console. I swear on my life I put them there. When I got home, they were sitting on the kitchen island. I convinced myself I was just losing my memory. But looking at this… I wasn’t forgetting things. Someone is in there.” Hearing this, Officer Harris took the technician back up to my unit. They spent another grueling hour tearing the place apart. They removed the ceiling tiles in the bathroom. They knocked on the drywall around the plumbing shafts. Nothing. Finally, Officer Harris let out a heavy sigh and handed me his card. “We’re going to pull the last three months of lobby footage and run it through the system. If you notice anything else, call me directly.” He hesitated, his tone shifting into something overly gentle. “It’s also entirely possible that the stress of your job is getting to you. Memory lapses happen. If it gives you peace of mind, maybe talk to a doctor. But for now, I’d suggest staying somewhere else for a few days.” After the police left, the apartment fell into a suffocating, dead silence. Sophia and I sat on opposite ends of the sofa. Neither of us spoke. The only sound was the heavy, jagged rhythm of our breathing. After what felt like an eternity, I stood up and pulled my suitcase from the closet. Sophia blinked, snapping out of her trance, and hurried over to help me fold my clothes. “You’re right. We can’t stay here. We’ll check into a hotel.” Once we were checked into a downtown suite, Sophia immediately pulled out her laptop and called a high-end security firm. “I need your best technicians at my boyfriend’s apartment first thing tomorrow morning. I want the highest-grade cameras you have—local storage, battery backups, night vision. I want every single blind spot covered. I don’t care what it costs!” She hung up the phone and threw her arms around my neck, her body wracked with violent sobs. “Don’t worry, babe. I swear to God, we’re going to catch whoever is doing this.” I held her, but I felt entirely hollow. My chest was a cavern of ice. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that two weeks ago, I had secretly hidden a micro-camera inside the air conditioning vent. The very next day, the feed had gone black. I thought it was a defective unit. I bought three more, from three different brands. Every single one of them mysteriously died within forty-eight hours, having recorded absolutely nothing. Would this time really be any different? 3 First thing the next morning, Sophia and I went back to the apartment. We hovered over the technicians as they installed four state-of-the-art 4K cameras in the living room, bedroom, balcony, and entryway. Every possible angle was covered. When they finished calibrating the system, the lead tech looked me in the eye and swore on his reputation. The cameras were tamper-proof, connected to an independent cellular network, and saved directly to the cloud and a physical hard drive. They would not fail. As soon as they left, we locked the door and retreated to the hotel. We sat on the bed, staring at the live feeds on my iPad. We watched for an entire day. The apartment remained perfectly, hauntingly still. Not even the curtains shifted. My anxiety only tightened its grip. By late afternoon, my phone rang. It was Officer Harris. “Declan, we’ve reviewed the last three months of security footage for your building.” “Aside from you and your girlfriend, the only other person to visit your unit was your friend Brody, who came by once last month. No unauthorized personnel have entered the building.” “Everyone who used the stairs or elevator was a verified resident, a delivery driver, or a postal worker. None of them lingered on your floor.” His voice softened, taking on that same pitying tone from yesterday. “Son, I strongly recommend you schedule an appointment with a professional. Work stress can cause severe dissociation and memory gaps. There’s no shame in it. Don’t carry this burden alone.” When I hung up, my heart sank to the bottom of the ocean. Sophia, having overheard the conversation, threw her phone onto the mattress and burst into tears. I silently handed her a tissue. She took it, wiping aggressively at her mascara-stained cheeks, and grabbed her silk robe. “I’m going to take a shower, babe. Let’s go out and get a nice dinner afterward. Let’s just… try not to think about it for one night.” She disappeared into the bathroom. I sat on the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the endless stream of traffic on the avenue below, my mind a tangled, rotting mess. Was I actually going crazy? Was I having a psychotic break? But the missing food… the dirty laundry… the man who had touched Sophia in the dark. Those things were real. They couldn’t be hallucinations. I let out a shaky breath, pulling my gaze away from the window, and glanced down at the iPad on the nightstand. My blood stopped flowing. Just seconds ago, the feeds had been crystal clear. Now, all four screens were pitch black. A red icon blinked in the corner of the screen: Signal Lost. It looked like a slashed, bleeding eye. I shot up from the bed. They were dead. Again. Before, I could convince myself it was a faulty wire or a dropped Wi-Fi signal. But this system was brand new. It ran on its own cellular data. Even if the network crashed, it was supposed to record locally. There was no technical reason for all four to die simultaneously. There was someone in my apartment. Right now. I grabbed my phone. I didn’t even bother grabbing my jacket. I tore open the hotel door and sprinted down the hallway. I practically fell into a taxi on the street, barking my address at the driver. My voice was completely unhinged. The driver took one look at my wild eyes in the rearview mirror, swallowed hard, and gunned the engine. Halfway there, my phone lit up. Sophia. Her voice was thick with panic, the sound of the running shower echoing in the background. “Declan, where did you go? I heard the door slam. Why did you leave?” “The cameras went black!” I screamed into the receiver. “He’s in my apartment! He’s there right now!” “Declan, stop! Wait for me!” she shrieked. “Do not go in there alone!” “I’m not waiting!” I hung up on her. My hands were shaking so violently I dropped my phone twice trying to open my texts. I found Officer Harris’s number and typed frantically: The new cameras died. Someone is inside. I am going there now. Please hurry. The taxi screeched to a halt outside my building. I threw a twenty-dollar bill at the front seat and bolted. The elevator was stuck on the penthouse floor. I couldn’t wait. I shoved open the fire door and started sprinting up the twelve flights of stairs. Halfway up, the echoing silence of the stairwell began to mess with my head. I kept hearing footsteps behind me, but every time I whipped around, there was nothing but the sickly green glow of the EXIT signs. My lungs burned. My legs felt like lead. By the time I hit the twelfth-floor landing, I was gasping for air, leaning heavily against the wall to keep from collapsing. I fumbled for my keys. They slipped from my sweaty fingers, hitting the concrete floor with a deafening clang. I snatched them up, my hands trembling as I slid the key into the deadbolt. The moment the lock clicked, it hit me. The smell of Tom Ford Ombré Leather. My cologne. Drifting out from under the door. I took a deep breath and kicked the door open. The living room lights were on. Bathed in the warm glow of my floor lamp, a man was sitting on my expensive leather sofa. One leg was casually crossed over the other. He was lounging comfortably, scrolling through my iPad. He had the exact same textured fade I had just gotten at the barber last week. Hearing the door crash open, he tapped the screen off and slowly, lazily looked up. I froze. The breath was knocked out of my lungs. The face staring back at me… was my own.

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When the Henderson’s biological daughter finally came back from that strict correction boarding school, she was, by all appearances, entirely broken. During dinner, she no longer fought me for my custom velvet-upholstered chair at the head of the table—the one my parents had commissioned for their “little princess.” Instead, she clutched a battered metal bowl she must have bought for a couple of dollars, crouching in the far corner of the kitchen, eating with her bare hands. She stopped screaming in the dead of night, demanding that Mom and Dad sing her to sleep with childhood lullabies the way they always did for me. Now, she wrapped herself in a filthy, threadbare dog blanket, curling up on the cold tile floor right next to the dog door in the mudroom. She shivered in the draft, refusing to return to her bedroom no matter how much our parents pleaded. And she certainly didn’t demand that we legally swap our names anymore—a desperate scheme she had once plotted so she could marry my childhood fiancé, Luke. Instead, she kept her head low, quietly calling me “Paula” and referring to Luke as her “brother-in-law.” I thought everyone was satisfied with this version of Gemma. Until tonight. When Gemma crouched in the corner to eat again, my brother Brody didn’t try to stop her. Instead, he stared at me, his eyes overflowing with a cold, simmering resentment. And Luke—the icy, untouchable Luke whom I had spent five years trying to thaw—stood by the mudroom, his eyes fixed on Gemma as she lay shivering by the dog door. In his gaze was a profound, aching tenderness. It was a look I had never seen before. A look I had spent my entire life begging for, and had never once received. Luke came to find me with our wedding invitations just as I was finalizing the details with the transition agency. I opened the heavy, cream-colored cardstock, my eyes grazing the elegant calligraphy. A faint, hollow smile touched my lips. “The bride’s name is wrong,” I said softly, looking up. “It should say Gemma. Not Paula.” 1 Luke’s brow furrowed, just a fraction of an inch. Most people wouldn’t have noticed the shift. But I had spent my entire life studying him, molding myself into the perfect woman to stand by his side. I had memorized the map of his face. Every twitch of his jaw, every slight narrowing of his eyes—I could read his true emotions better than he could himself. “I’m just teasing,” I laughed, a light, airy sound that felt empty even to my own ears. “Why so serious?” I slid the invitation back into his hands. “It’s perfect. Go ahead and print them.” Even then, the tension in his forehead didn’t ease. He slid the invitations into his coat pocket, his fingers lingering on the paper. He didn’t leave. “Don’t make jokes like that,” he said, his voice flat and warning. “It’s not funny.” I froze for a split second, then let out a forced laugh. “Come on, Luke. Since when are you so sensitive?” He looked down at me, his eyes dark and heavy. “Gemma is suffering from severe PTSD because of the abusive discipline she faced at that school. Jokes like that will trigger her.” I pressed my lips together, offering a quiet, performative apology. “Right. I’m sorry. I didn’t think.” Luke averted his gaze, clearly unsatisfied with my response. “About the engagement party—I’ve decided we’re keeping it on the yacht. Gemma is terrified of open water, so I originally wanted to move it to the country club lawn. But she insisted we stick to your original plan. She didn’t want to ruin your night. So, we’re keeping the yacht.” I nodded slowly. “Okay. Sounds perfect.” Once Luke left, I pulled my laptop back up to resume my call with the coordinator at Elysium Transitions. “Miss Sampson,” the woman’s voice was smooth, highly professional, and entirely devoid of judgment. “Regarding your transition, we highly recommend an active, plausible accident. Because we must map and transfer your neural pathways, memories, and emotional consciousness into your new body, the transition must be seamless. Do you have a preferred method that fits your current life?” I thought of the yacht Luke had just mentioned. The top deck of the custom cruiser sat roughly thirty meters above the dark, icy ocean. “Drowning,” I said, my voice steady. “I was a competitive synchronized swimmer. Falling from a thirty-meter deck into the ocean would easily look like a tragic accident.” “Excellent choice. It fits your narrative perfectly.” “Let’s go with that, then.” I scrolled down the digital contract, reviewing my options for my new life. “What is this section? Grieving families?” The coordinator offered a detailed explanation. “Yes. We often work with parents who have tragically lost their only child and are unable to conceive again. If their psychological profile and biological compatibility match yours, we allow a mutual matching process. If both parties agree, you can step into their lives and become their new daughter.” I read through the fine print, digesting the concept. “So, it’s essentially an adult adoption?” “In a sense, yes. But our process is far more sophisticated. We require a compatibility match of ninety percent or higher to ensure emotional integration. And you have the right to terminate the contract at any stage if you feel uncomfortable.” I listened quietly, a strange warmth blooming in my chest. “Do you have any active profiles that match mine?” “We do, actually. There is one family with a ninety-eight percent compatibility match.” “Send me their file,” I said. “I’d like to see them.” Just as I disconnected the call, our family butler knocked on my door. “Miss Paula, your mother needs you in the home dance studio. Miss Gemma twisted her ankle during her practice, and your mother wants you to examine it.” 2 I hadn’t stepped foot in the home dance studio since the day I tore my Achilles tendon. When I walked in, Gemma was already drenched in a cold sweat from the pain. She was curled up in our mother’s arms, resting her head against Mom’s chest. In Mom’s eyes was a look of tender, desperate worry—a look I had never once received in all my years of broken bones and torn ligaments. My father stood off to the side, his hands trembling with helpless anxiety. When Brody saw me walk in, his first instinct was to yell, though he quickly suppressed the rage in his voice, keeping it to a harsh whisper. “Gemma was trying to learn your ballet routine and twisted her ankle. Massage it for her. You used to handle your own injuries all the time, so you know what to do.” Gemma was a complete novice. She had no basic training, no professional guidance. A sprain was inevitable. I knelt on the cold floor and gently pulled off her thick sock. There was no visible swelling yet, so I lightly pressed around her ankle joint to locate the strain. “Ah!” Gemma let out a piercing shriek of pain. Before her cry could even fade, a sharp, stinging slap landed across my face. The familiar physical shock left me temporarily dazed. My father’s hand was still suspended in the air, his chest heaving with anger. Mom cradled Gemma closer, kissing her forehead. “Oh, my sweet girl. We expected too much from Paula. You shouldn’t have to suffer the way she did.” I clutched my burning cheek, keeping my head bowed. “I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry, Mom. I’m sorry, Brody. It was my fault. I wasn’t careful—” “Paula, shut up,” Brody interrupted, his voice dripping with irritation. “How many times do I have to say this? Gemma is no longer trying to steal your spotlight. Why do you still seize every opportunity to punish her?” I raised my head, looking at him with wide, uncomprehending eyes. For a fraction of a second, a flicker of guilt crossed Brody’s face. When we were kids, whenever I couldn’t solve a mountain of math problems, I would look at him with those exact same innocent, pleading eyes. But he quickly looked away, his voice cold. “Just ice her foot. She doesn’t eat until she can walk again, and neither do you.” I nodded quietly and began to apply the ice pack I had brought. As the cold plastic touched her skin, Gemma flinched, pulling her leg back. Instinctively, I gripped her ankle to keep her still. “Mom… the ice is too cold,” Gemma whimpered, her voice trembling. “It… it feels like the freezing water they threw on me at the correction academy…” Brody instantly kicked my hand away, sending the ice pack flying. “Are you deaf? Go get a fresh towel to wrap it in!” The plastic ice pack skittered across the polished hardwood, making a soft, rolling clack-clack-clack sound before stopping in the corner. My eyes followed it. I stared at the lost ice pack, a realization washing over me like ice water. So… the real Henderson daughter didn’t need to be perfect to be loved, did she? She didn’t need to win trophies, or put her body through agony, or climb to the peak of high society to be protected by her brother and cherished by her parents. She just had to exist. 3 At dinner, Luke arrived. I assumed he was here to discuss the wedding details. Instead, he barely spared me a glance before walking straight toward Brody—or rather, toward Gemma, who was leaning heavily on Brody’s arm. “Let me,” Luke said, stepping in to lift Gemma into his arms. Seeing Luke, the fragile facade of strength Gemma had been holding up finally crumbled. Her eyes welled with tears, and she looked up at him, her lashes heavy with moisture. “Luke…” she whispered. Luke let out a soft sigh, his eyes melting with pity. “Did you try to learn ballet just because you wanted to dance at the engagement party tomorrow?” Gemma nodded miserably. “I wanted the night to be special for you and Paula. She looks so beautiful when she dances… I wanted to share that with her.” She turned her wet eyes to me, her lower lip trembling. “I’m sorry, Paula. This is all my fault…” Before I could even open my mouth to respond, Luke’s sharp, warning voice cut through the air. “Watch your tongue, Paula. I don’t want you repeating any of those cruel, inappropriate comments you made earlier around Gemma.” I forced a small, polite smile. “It’s fine. I appreciate the thought, Gemma. Just focus on resting your ankle.” Luke carried Gemma into the dining room. My custom velvet-upholstered chair—the one that had been reserved solely for me—was pulled back. Luke carefully laid Gemma down on the adjoining sofa, using my custom chair as a footrest for her injured ankle. My hand hovered over the back of the empty chair next to them, freezing in mid-air. “Gemma’s foot needs to be elevated,” Brody explained, his tone dismissive. “You can sit somewhere else.” He glanced at my plate. “Actually, you shouldn’t even be eating tonight. The engagement party is tomorrow. If you bloat, you won’t fit into your custom gown, and you’ll make a laughingstock out of the Henderson family.” I let my hand drop from the chair. “Thanks for the reminder, Brody,” I said softly, stepping back. “I’ll head up to my room. Enjoy your dinner.” As I walked toward the grand staircase, Gemma’s giggles echoed from the dining room. “Look at her walk,” she whispered. “She looks like a stuffed turkey from behind.” “Don’t insult turkeys,” Brody snickered. “Paula only acts high-and-mighty because of her trophies. That custom princess chair she’s so obsessed with? She basically threw a tantrum and forced Mom to buy it after she won her first regional title. It was never hers by right anyway.” Their laughter faded as I climbed the stairs. My phone vibrated in my palm. It was a notification from Elysium Transitions: Miss Sampson, your background check and compatibility match with the Scott family have been fully approved. I texted the coordinator: Can I go see them now? Of course. We have sent the coordinates to your device. You are free to visit them at your convenience. I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed my keys, slipped out the back door, and drove away from the Henderson estate. The moment I arrived at the modest suburban address, I saw them. They were exactly as their file described: a warm, ordinary middle-aged couple in comfortable, faded sweaters. When they opened the door, they looked startled, but recognition quickly filled their eyes. “You must be Paula,” the woman said, her voice instantly wrapping around me like a warm blanket. “Oh, sweetheart, you are even more beautiful in person.” She pulled me into the warm entryway, gently holding my hand. “You’re just in time. My husband and I just finished cooking dinner. Please, come eat with us.” The man came out of the kitchen holding a piping hot plate of homemade lasagna, a shy, gentle smile on his face. “We didn’t know what you liked, sweetheart. But our Gemma… her absolute favorite was always my homemade garlic bread and slow-simmered marinara. I hope you’ll give it a try.” 4 My engagement party to Luke was even more lavish than I had anticipated. My parents had invited every prominent figure in the tristate area. The docks were lined with luxury vehicles, and the yacht itself was a towering, multi-deck monument to excess. I sat in the bridal suite, staring at my reflection in the vanity mirror. The face looking back at me was mathematically perfect—every strand of hair styled to perfection, every feature painted to highlight the Henderson lineage. For my entire life, I had been molded into the ultimate trophy. I was a product designed to elevate the Henderson brand. “Miss Paula, you look absolutely breathtaking,” the stylist whispered, holding up a delicate pink-and-white diamond necklace that caught the light beautifully. Before she could clasp it around my neck, the door flew open. “Paula!” Gemma burst into the room. She was wearing a stunning, emerald-green silk gown with a dramatic train that swept across the floor. It was easily as expensive and elaborate as my own bridal gown. She spotted the necklace in the stylist’s hands and snatched it away. “Oh, this is gorgeous! It matches my green dress perfectly!” She sat down in front of the mirror, demanding the stylist put it on her. I watched our reflections side by side. She was right. The diamonds looked striking against her fair skin and dark green silk. Luke stepped into the room a moment later. “Gemma, stop playing around,” he said gently, though his eyes lingered on her. “Give the necklace back to Paula. I had a custom emerald piece placed in your suite. Go see if you like it.” Gemma’s eyes lit up. She quickly let the stylist unclamp the necklace and practically skipped out of the room. Luke watched her retreating figure, calling out, “Slow down! Your ankle isn’t fully healed yet!” “I know, I know! You’re worse than Brody!” her voice echoed down the corridor. Only when her footsteps faded did Luke turn his attention to me. He stepped up behind me, took the pink-and-white diamond necklace, and fastened it around my neck. Meeting my eyes in the mirror, a rare, soft smile touched his lips. “You look beautiful tonight, Paula.” I tilted my head, resting my chin in my palm, my gaze locked onto his reflection. “And when am I not beautiful, Luke?” The small trace of warmth on his face vanished. “You are my fiancée, Paula. On a night as important as this, please don’t act like a petulant child. It’s highly inappropriate.” A quiet, bitter laugh slipped past my lips. “You’re right. I won’t say things like that anymore.” The party officially began, and the yacht slowly drifted away from the harbor, heading out into the dark, calm waters of the Atlantic. The grand ballroom was packed to capacity. When Luke and I made our entrance, a collective murmur of admiration rippled through the crowd. “Thank you all for being here tonight,” Luke spoke into the microphone, his hand resting on my waist. “Paula and I grew up together. To call her my fiancée is an honor, and I know this night represents the culmination of everything she has dreamed of…” As he droned on about our history, my mind drifted. The transition window was approaching. It had to be timed perfectly—not a minute too early, not a minute too late. My parents cornered me near the bar a few minutes later, keeping their voices low and sharp. “What is wrong with you, Paula? Do you have any idea how much is riding on tonight?” I knew exactly what Dad meant. My entire existence was a business transaction designed to secure the Henderson-Lance merger. One step out of line, and the illusion of our perfect family would shatter. After the speeches, the music swelled, and Luke led me out onto the open deck for our first dance. Brody stood near the brass railing, holding Gemma close. Gemma whispered something in Brody’s ear, and Brody immediately caught Luke’s eye, giving him a subtle nod. They had grown up together; they shared a silent language. Luke understood the signal instantly. As the waltz reached its dramatic crescendo, Luke suddenly let go of my hand, pushing me outward to finish my spin. At the exact same moment, Brody gently pushed Gemma forward, guiding her into Luke’s waiting arms. Luke caught her seamlessly, continuing the waltz without missing a single beat. This yacht had been my eighteenth birthday present from Luke. I knew every inch of its polished wood and brass. I knew precisely how to use the momentum of Luke pushing me away to drift backward toward the low railing. The heavy brass bar hit my lower back. My three-inch stilettos caught on a deck groove, throwing off my balance. My body tipped backward into the empty, cold night. As I plummeted toward the dark ocean, thirty meters below, a sharp gasp erupted from the few onlookers on deck. Someone rushed toward the railing, but Brody and Luke quickly stepped in, blocking their path. “She’s a synchronized swimmer,” Brody said dismissively, his voice carrying over the wind. “Paula can swim in her sleep. She’s just throwing a tantrum. She’ll climb back up in a minute.” As the freezing water rushed up to swallow me, a calm, synthesized voice echoed in my mind: “Elysium Transition protocol initiated. Please prepare for consciousness transfer. Old identity memories will be archived and replaced.”

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At two in the morning, while a tired ER resident was looping black thread through the split skin on my forehead, my husband, Luke, updated his Instagram. The photo showed his colleague, Lexie, slouched in the passenger seat of his car, cradling a warm paper cup. His caption was dripping with mock-exasperation and cheap affection: “Chauffeur duty, round twenty. Too drunk to remember where she parked. I swear I don’t know what to do with her.” It had been posted at one-thirty. Exactly when my sedan was crumpled on the shoulder of the dark interstate, thirty miles outside the city, and I was clutching a blood-soaked napkin to my brow, dialing his number for the thirty-third time. I had bargained with God in the dark. I told myself that if he answered just once, I would turn down the massive promotion at our Chicago headquarters. I would stay here, in Boston, and fight for our marriage. But he never answered. He only sent a single, clinical text. “Lexie is too drunk to get home safe. I’ll be back later. Be good.” He was terrified for Lexie’s safety. He had no idea I was stranded on a pitch-black stretch of highway with a shattered windshield and a head wound. In our single year of marriage, he had played late-night chauffeur for Lexie twenty times. I had worked late sixty-eight times. He had never picked me up once. My mind drifted back to the worst of those nights—when a drunk stranger had cornered me in our office’s underground parking garage. I’d been so terrified I’d locked myself in my car and called the police. At the station, the female officer had looked at me with deep pity and asked, “Where is your husband, sweetie? Why isn’t he here?” I had forced a polite, empty smile. “He’s slammed at work. I can handle it.” Yes. I could handle it. In seven days, I would board a one-way flight to Chicago. The divorce papers waiting on my laptop were simply the final, quiet surrender. 1 At two-thirty, I finally pushed open our front door. I pulled off my heavy knit beanie, exposing the stark white gauze taped over my temple. The wound throbbed with a dull, sickening rhythm. The living room lights were blazing. Luke was sitting on the edge of the coffee table, a wet microfiber cloth in his hand, meticulously dabbing at a stain on a delicate silk scarf. Hearing the door, he looked up, a familiar crease forming between his brows. “Why are you working so late?” Then his eyes caught the bandage, and he froze. “What happened to your head?” “I bumped it,” I said, my voice entirely flat. “How are you so careless?” He didn’t ask how I had bumped it. I looked at the women’s scarf in his hands and felt too exhausted to explain. An hour ago, I had been rear-ended by a hit-and-run driver on a dark highway, my face slammed into the steering wheel. I had called him thirty-three times. And he had been cleaning silk. “You picked up Lexie tonight?” I asked, watching his face. Luke’s expression remained perfectly innocent. He lifted the scarf slightly. “Yeah. Her department was entertaining clients. She’s young, got pressured into drinking too much. She couldn’t even find her car in the dark. If I didn’t go, and something happened to her, I’d never forgive myself. The company wouldn’t either.” He paused, looking down at the fabric. “She ruined her scarf when she got sick. I brought it back to see if I could save it.” He had thought of everything for her. He treated her cheap silk with more tenderness than he treated my life. “I called you thirty-three times,” I said. My voice was so calm it surprised me. Luke blinked, pulling his phone from his pocket. He stared at the screen, a flicker of genuine guilt crossing his face. “I’m sorry, Novia. I was driving, and I didn’t want to get distracted, so I put it on silent. Next time you work late, let me know. I’ll come get you.” Next time. In a year, he had driven Lexie twenty times because “it wasn’t safe for a girl.” For my sixty-eight late nights, his only contribution had been a text telling me to “be careful.” I didn’t argue. I didn’t cry. I simply walked past him toward the bedroom. “Get some rest,” I whispered. “I’m tired.” As the bedroom door clicked shut, my phone buzzed. It was an email from the HR director in Chicago. “Dear Novia, your transfer paperwork is officially finalized. We look forward to seeing you in seven days. Please let us know if you need assistance with relocation.” I stared at the screen and typed a two-word reply: “Confirmed. Thanks.” Seven days. That was all that remained of this marriage. 2 I woke up the next morning to a violent wave of nausea. The pain in my forehead was sharp, radiating down into my neck. I forced myself out of bed, holding the wall for support. In the hallway, Luke was already fully dressed, putting on his watch. “Luke,” I called out, my hand gripping the doorframe. My knuckles were white. “I’m incredibly dizzy. Can you take the morning off and drive me to the clinic?” He turned, and when he saw my pale face, a flash of real concern came over him. “Of course. Let me grab my keys.” A tiny, foolish ember of warmth flared in my chest. Then his phone rang. The moment he swiped the screen, his face hardened into panic. “What? Someone hit your car?” “Lexie, hey, stop crying. Deep breaths. I’m coming right now.” He hung up and looked at me, his eyes full of frantic apology. “Novia, Lexie just got rear-ended on her way to work. The other driver is some aggressive guy, and she’s hysterical. She’s just a kid, she’s terrified. I need to handle this. I’ll be back in thirty minutes to take you, okay? Just sit down.” He squeezed my shoulder, grabbed his keys, and was out the door before I could speak. Thirty minutes passed. Then an hour. Then two. By ten o’clock, the apartment was silent except for the ticking clock. I sent him a text: “Are you coming back?” Ten minutes later, a voice memo arrived. In the background, I could hear Lexie’s soft, theatrical sobbing. “Novia, I’m so sorry. The guy is being completely unreasonable, demanding a cash settlement and threatening her. Lexie is a wreck, and the police are taking forever. If you’re really feeling terrible, can you just call an Uber to the clinic? I’ll Venmo you for it later.” I stared at the message and let out a quiet, self-deprecating laugh. I didn’t reply. I booked my own ride to the hospital. The CT scan revealed a mild concussion. The doctor handed me a prescription and warned me to rest, strictly forbidding any physical or mental strain. As I sat in the sterile waiting room waiting for my medication, a familiar voice called my name. “Novia? What happened to you?” It was Gavin, a close friend of ours from college. He hurried over, his brow furrowed as he looked at my bandage. “Just a clumsy accident,” I said with a weak smile. Gavin looked around the empty waiting area. “Where’s Luke? Why isn’t he here with you?” He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “I actually just walked past the bistro across the street. I could swear I saw him in there with a young girl.” “He’s busy,” I said, my voice perfectly steady. “A colleague had an emergency and he had to help out. I can handle this myself.” After Gavin left, I stared up at the flourescent lights of the hospital ceiling. I realized then that when disappointment reaches a certain depth, you don’t even have the energy to be angry anymore. You just go numb. 3 Four days left. I had been cold, distant, and quiet. Luke, finally sensing the shift, had booked a table at a newly starred French bistro downtown—a place I had wanted to try for months. He said he wanted to make up for our missed anniversary. That evening, I put on the deep red dress he loved and arrived early. A few minutes later, the door opened. The polite smile I had prepared froze on my face. Luke walked in, and trailing right behind him was Lexie. “Hi, Novia! I am so, so sorry to crash your date!” Lexie wore Luke’s oversized trench coat over her shoulders. She looked tiny, fragile, and utterly innocent. “Luke told me it was your anniversary, and I told him absolutely not, but my roommate locked me out of our apartment tonight and it’s freezing. Luke was worried I’d catch pneumonia, so he insisted I come.” She tilted her head, her eyes wide. “You’re not mad at him, are you? You’re always so understanding.” Luke pulled out a chair for her, then gave me an apologetic shrug. “Novia, she was shivering on the street. I figured it’s just one more plate. We can still have a nice dinner.” I stared at the trench coat she was wearing. I had bought it for Luke just last month. “The coat…” I murmured. “Oh, Lexie was freezing,” Luke said dismissively. “I had it in the back seat. Here, let’s order.” He handed the menu to Lexie. She immediately selected three highly spiced, heavy dishes. Then she gasped, covering her mouth in mock horror. “Oh my gosh, Novia, can you even eat spicy food? I’m so selfish, I only ordered what I like. Luke, why didn’t you stop me?” Luke laughed it off. “It’s fine. Novia’s had a terrible appetite lately. Maybe some spice will wake up her stomach.” A cold weight settled in my chest. Only yesterday, I had texted him a photo of my discharge papers and medical instructions, explicitly stating I had to avoid spicy and irritating foods due to the concussion nausea. He hadn’t even opened the message. “Luke, I can’t eat spicy food,” I said, my voice devoid of warmth. He blinked, the realization slowly hitting him. “Oh… right. Your head. I’m sorry, Novia, I’ve had so much on my mind I forgot. Server, can we change those—” “Don’t worry about it,” I interrupted. Lexie’s lower lip began to tremble. “Novia, are you mad at me? If I’m ruining your night, I’ll just leave…” She scrambled to stand up, her movements dramatic enough that her arm caught her water glass. The glass tipped, splashing warm water directly onto her hand. “Ow!” she gasped. Luke immediately grabbed a handful of napkins. He snatched her wrist, his face tight with concern. “Are you okay? Is it burned? Does it hurt?” I sat there, watching them. I didn’t scream. I didn’t throw a glass. While Luke was frantically dabbing at Lexie’s hand, I quietly stood up, grabbed my purse, and walked out of the restaurant. The autumn wind outside was freezing, but this time, I didn’t look back. 4 The morning of my departure. I woke up early, folding my remaining clothes and placing them neatly into my twenty-eight-inch suitcase. In the living room, Luke was adjusting his tie in front of the mirror. “You’re going out? On a Saturday?” I asked, leaning against the doorframe. “Yeah, Lexie is moving today. Her moving company is sketchy, and she has a ton of boxes. I promised I’d help her out.” He put on his coat and walked toward me, reaching out to pat my shoulder. I took a step back, slipping away from his touch. I looked into his eyes, giving him one last, silent test. “Luke, I feel really sick today. My head is spinning, and I have this awful tightness in my chest.” My voice was quiet, dead serious. “Can you stay? Just today. Stay with me.” Luke paused. For a second, a flicker of hesitation crossed his face. Then his phone rang. The moment he answered, Lexie’s crying voice leaked through the speaker. “Luke… the movers are demanding double the price, and they’re getting aggressive… I’m so scared, please get here…” The hesitation vanished from Luke’s face instantly. “Don’t argue with them,” he said into the phone. “I’m on my way.” He hung up and turned to me, his voice returning to that patronizing, soothing tone. “Novia, you heard her. She can’t handle those guys alone. Just take your meds and rest. I promise I’ll be back by noon to check on you, okay?” I watched his hurried retreat. The final, microscopic spark of hope in my heart went cold. “Okay,” I whispered. The front door slammed shut. I walked over to the coffee table and placed the signed divorce agreement right in the center, where he couldn’t miss it. Next to the agreement, I laid out two documents. One was my ER diagnosis for a concussion and head trauma. The other was the police report from the hit-and-run on the highway. As I dragged my suitcase out of the apartment lobby, I popped the SIM card out of my phone, snapped it in half, and tossed it into the trash can on the corner. Three hours later, my flight touched down in Chicago. I slid a new SIM card into my phone. The moment it connected, iMessages began to flood the screen in a violent, unending stream.

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Three years. My partner and I had finally put the syndicate behind bars. When they handed me our plane tickets home, I broke down and sobbed like a child. For three long years, I hadn’t slept a single night without one eye open. My partner, Paula, held me close, her voice a soothing murmur of comfort. But the words that tumbled from her lips sliced through me like a razor: “I wonder if the apple tree back home is still standing?” The tears dried instantly. The smile froze on my face. 01 “It’s over.” Paula’s voice was barely a whisper, heavy with the exhausting finality of dust settling after a storm. She held me tight, her arms wrapped around my shoulders with a desperate, crushing strength. Clutched in my fist were two boarding passes. The thin paper was already damp, soft from the sweat of my palms. Three years. Over a thousand days and nights. I hadn’t meant to cry, but the tears came anyway—unbidden, hot, and relentless—dripping one by one onto the shoulder of her charcoal-grey jacket. I felt like an idiot. But she didn’t laugh. She just kept rubbing her palm down my back, a slow, soothing rhythm. Her hand was warm, the heat of it radiating straight through my shirt. “We’re going home, Gavin.” I nodded, burying my face deeper into her shoulder. Around us, the airport hummed with chaotic energy. Strangers hurried past, and the PA system crackled with announcements in a foreign tongue I’d spent three years forcing myself to learn. Those voices felt so distant, yet so suffocatingly close. Like a dream I couldn’t quite wake up from. Then, she murmured it. “I wonder if the apple tree back home is still standing?” Every muscle in my face locked. The arms I had wrapped around her went entirely limp. The world fell dead silent. The roar of the airport, the static of the PA, the hurried footsteps of travelers—all of it vanished. I could only hear the sudden, violent thud of my own heart, hammering against my ribs like a caged beast. Blood rushed to my ears, then drained away just as fast, leaving me entirely hollow. Cold. So cold. Slowly, I pulled back and looked at her. Paula’s eyes were still soft, a gentle, comforting smile lingering at the corners of her lips. But deep in those eyes, something had shattered. And whatever had shattered in her took the rest of my soul with it. The apple tree. It was our trigger. A classified code established in the high-security bunker of Section Seven by Director Ward herself before we ever deployed. Operation: “Homecoming.” The condition for its activation: a fatal compromise of the mission. The directive: There is a traitor among us. Either Paula or I must be eliminated before the other can safely return. I stared at her, forcing the words out through clenched teeth. “What did you just say?” The warmth drained from her face, leaving only a hollow, bone-deep exhaustion. “I said, it’s time to go.” She let go of me, smoothly taking the handle of my suitcase. The movement was effortless, completely natural. Exactly how she would have done it yesterday. But I knew. Everything had changed. The second she uttered “apple tree,” the bridge back to who we were crumbled into ash. Between us, there was now a gun. And it only held one bullet. Either she died. Or I did. In the car on the way back to the safehouse, neither of us spoke a word. I stared out the window at the blurred streets of the city we’d called home for three years. It was a humid, suffocating place, perpetually smelling of rotting tropical fruit and diesel exhaust. I used to despise it with every fiber of my being. Now, staring at it, I felt a strange, desperate fondness. Because the place we called “home” had just transformed into an execution chamber. Paula drove. Her hands on the steering wheel were steady, her knuckles pale. Those hands had defused pipe bombs. They had used a crude scalpel to dig a bullet out of my shoulder. They had handed me mugs of warm tea on countless sleepless, terrifying nights. And now, those same hands wouldn’t hesitate to snap my neck. My hand rested on my lap. Beneath my palm, tucked into the crease of my thigh, was a three-inch folding knife. I’d confiscated it from a target during yesterday’s raid. I hadn’t turned it in. The air inside the sedan grew thick, heavy as a swamp, pulling us down into a suffocating silence. In the rearview mirror, I could see her eyes. She was watching me. Our gazes locked in the reflection. No testing the waters. No raw malice. Just an abyss of nothingness. Three years of living in each other’s pockets meant we were too tired to pretend. I knew she knew. And she knew I knew. “Why?” I finally broke the silence. My voice was dry, scraping against my throat like sandpaper. “I don’t know,” she replied. She swung the car into a narrow, dirty alley, pulling up in front of an unassuming two-story brick building. Our safehouse. We used to call it our “makeshift home.” How sickeningly ironic. She turned off the ignition and pulled the key from the slot. “Get out.” “After you,” I said. She glanced at me, didn’t argue, and pushed her door open. I watched her walk toward the entrance. Lean, poised, and perfectly alert. For three years, that back had been my shield. I had trusted her to watch my blind spots through gunfire and betrayal. I had truly believed I could trust her forever. My fingers tightened around the hilt of the knife. She unlocked the heavy door but didn’t step inside. She stood on the threshold, waiting. “Together,” she said. I got out of the car and walked up to her side. Inside, the familiar dark, musty smell of damp drywall and old floorboards hit us. Like the gaping maw of a beast. Step inside, and it would swallow us whole. I took a deep breath, and we crossed the threshold side by side. Behind us, the door clicked shut. The lock turned. The world shriveled down to just the two of us. And a bullet with one of our names on it. She walked over to flip the light switch. I stayed rooted to the spot, my hand never leaving the pocketed knife. The overhead bulb flickered to life. The room was sparse: a wooden table, two chairs, a battered leather sofa. On the wall hung a massive, detailed map of the city, crisscrossed with red string tracing our three years of movements. Every red line represented a moment we had cheated death. She walked to the table, picked up the kettle, and poured two glasses of water. She slid one toward me. “Drink.” I didn’t budge. “It’s not poisoned,” she added quietly, picking up her own glass and taking a long, deep swallow. Her throat bobbed. I kept my eyes locked on her. “Repeat the protocol.” “Homecoming is active. Target elimination required. One agent returns,” she said, setting the glass down. Her voice was terrifyingly flat. “Who is the target?” “You. Or me.” “Who authorized it?” “I don’t know,” Paula said, meeting my gaze. “It was a direct, encrypted feed from Director Ward.” Director Ward. Our commanding officer. The deputy director of Section Seven. The middle-aged woman who had hugged us before we deployed and told us, Make sure you both come back alive. I let out a laugh. It was a harsh, bitter sound that bounced off the peeling wallpaper. “So, we bleed for three years to dismantle the Medusa Syndicate, and this is our reward?” The Medusa Syndicate was a massive, shadow-dwelling data-brokerage ring. We had been the two scalpel blades sent to cut out its heart. Now that the heart was dead, they wanted to snap the blades in half. “I need a reason,” I demanded. “There is no reason. There are only orders,” Paula said. “It’s protocol.” “To hell with protocol!” I slammed my hand onto the wooden table, sending water sloshing over the rim of the glasses. “Gavin!” she hissed, her voice sharp. My chest heaved as I struggled for air. Rage, betrayal, and a cold, clawing terror I refused to acknowledge chewed at my sanity like venom. We stared at each other. Silence stretched. A silence so thick, so absolute, I thought we might stand there until we rotted. Then, she moved. She walked around the table, taking slow, deliberate steps toward me. Every nerve in my body screamed. My muscles coiled; the knife was ready to slip from my sleeve. One step. Two steps. She stopped right in front of me. We were so close I could smell her—that familiar scent of cheap tobacco, sweat, and the faint, copper tang of dried blood. “Are you going to try?” I whispered. She didn’t answer. Instead, she slowly raised her hand. For a fraction of a second, I thought she was going for my throat. But her palm rested gently on the crown of my head. She ruffled my hair softly. Just like she had done every single time I had lost my mind under the pressure over the last three years. “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “If the sky falls, I’ll hold it up.” I froze. My grip on the knife loosened. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, hot and sudden. But in that exact moment of fragile tenderness, I heard it. A tiny, almost imperceptible click. It came from behind her. Behind the heavy drapes of the window. My pupils dilated. There was someone else in the room. 02 My body reacted before my brain could process the threat. Instinct took over. I shoved Paula hard to the side and threw myself backward, my knife snapping open, held low and defensive across my chest. “Who’s there?” My voice cracked under the sudden spike of adrenaline. Paula stumbled from my push, but she recovered instantly, spinning on her heel. In a breath, her movements mirrored mine perfectly, the steel of a tactical spike sliding into her palm from her sleeve. Back to back, we stood, scanning the window. The drapes were a heavy, dust-caked navy blue, completely blocking out the streetlamps. Now, they hung perfectly still, as if that tiny click had been nothing more than a trick of my frayed nerves. But we both knew better. Three years in the trenches of the criminal underworld had honed our senses to a razor’s edge. There was a third breath in the room. Faint, but unmistakably alive. “Come out,” Paula ordered, her voice dropping to a low, lethal register. Nothing but dead silence from behind the fabric. I caught Paula’s eye. She mouthed two words: Left. I’ll take right. I gave a micro-nod. But just as we braced to spring, the drapes twitched. A paw slid out from the dusty blue velvet. A fat, ginger cat poked its head through the folds, let out a massive yawn, and leaped lazily onto the windowsill. As it landed, its rear paw clipped an empty soda can we’d left on the sill days ago. The can hit the floorboards with a sharp, clattering rattle. The click had been the sound of its claws snagging the wood. We both froze. The suffocating tension snapped like an over-tightened violin string, leaving a hollow, draining sensation in its wake. The ginger cat, utterly oblivious to the fact that it had nearly triggered a bloodbath, strolled over to my boots. It arched its back, rubbing its orange fur against my jeans, purring like a rusty engine. I stared down at it. It was a stray we’d started feeding about six months ago. It had no name, no schedule, but occasionally it would slip through the loose latch on the window to beg for scraps. I slowly folded my knife away and knelt down, scratching the soft spot behind its ears. The cat closed its eyes, leaning into my touch. Its body was warm, soft, and vibrantly alive. The simple, grounded reality of its fur beneath my fingers slowly dragged my heart rate back to normal. Paula slipped her tactical spike back into her sleeve and leaned her back against the wall, letting out a long, shuddering breath. “Jesus,” she muttered, rubbing her face. “That almost cost me ten years of my life.” I didn’t say anything. I just kept stroking the cat. The brief panic had acted like a bucket of ice water, freezing the hot anger in my chest, but also extinguishing the fleeting warmth of her promise to hold up the sky. The haze of emotion cleared, leaving us staring at the cold, hard facts. The “Homecoming” directive was still hanging over our heads like a guillotine. The cat, satisfied with the attention, leaped onto the table and began licking the condensation off Paula’s water glass. The room fell quiet again. But this time, the silence was different. It was fragile, paranoid. We were two birds trapped in a cage, so terrified of the shadow of a hawk that we were ready to tear each other’s feathers out at the slightest breeze. “Who do you think it is?” I stood up, turning my focus back to her. I wasn’t asking about the cat. I was asking about the directive. Who wanted one of us dead? Paula walked to the window, pulling the edge of the drape back an inch to peer into the alleyway. It was the usual view: rusted fire escapes, overflowing trash bins, damp brick. No one was there. “I don’t know,” she said, letting the curtain fall. “Director Ward is just the messenger. We don’t get to see the face of the actual hunter.” The messenger. Ward’s codename within Section Seven was Carrier Pigeon. She delivered the highest orders, and when the job was done, she was the one who reeled the kites back in. And now, she was cutting the string. “Could the mission have leaked?” I asked, pacing the small room. “Maybe we missed a loose end with the Medusa Syndicate. Maybe they have leverage on someone higher up, forcing them to clean house.” Paula shook her head. “Unlikely. We cleared out all seventeen core members. Every server, every hard drive, every ledger was encrypted and sent back to the mainframe. That line is completely dead.” She was right. We had spent three years meticulously plotting the takedown. Every variable had been checked, double-checked, and burned. We didn’t make mistakes like that. “Then…” I stopped, a cold, dread-inducing realization settling into my bones. “It’s internal.” Paula’s face darkened. It was the one theory neither of us wanted to touch, but it was the only one that fit. There was a leak inside Section Seven. And whoever it was had to be highly placed—high enough to authorize a red-level “Homecoming” protocol. During our deep-dive into the Medusa Syndicate’s databases, we must have unwittingly stumbled upon something that threatened them. They wanted us silenced. But why only one of us? “Because if one dies, the other can go home with a completed file,” Paula whispered, completing my thought. “The operation is wrapped up neatly. No questions asked.” “The dead one gets a star on the memorial wall.” “And the survivor gets a promotion.” We spoke in flat, clinical tones, as if discussing two strangers in a case file. But the words felt like ice picks driving into my temples. We weren’t being punished for failing. We were being liquidated because we had succeeded too well. “Who is the leak?” I asked. “Anyone with clearance to view the Medusa files,” Paula said, her eyes drifting back to the map on the wall. “Tactical, Intel, Logistics… and Ward herself.” When she said Ward’s name, my chest tightened. The woman with the weathered face and the deep laugh lines around her eyes. The woman who had pulled us out of the academy, telling us we were the finest officers she’d ever trained. Could she really be the one holding the scalpel? “We don’t have proof,” I said. “Then we find it,” Paula said, turning to face me. There was a spark in her eyes now—the familiar, brilliant fire that had kept us alive in the worst corners of this city. “Before they make their move. Or before we do.” I looked at her, searching her face. “Do you trust me?” “I don’t have a choice,” Paula said. “And neither do you.” She was right. We had two paths. We could tear each other apart in this dingy apartment like rabid dogs, leaving the survivor to walk back to a home that was nothing but a lie. Or we could pull the hand out of the puppet master’s sleeve. “How do we start?” I asked. “First, we make sure this room is actually clean,” Paula said, her eyes sweeping the ceiling. “Any comms device we have is compromised.” I got the point immediately. No phones, no internet. Every signal we broadcast would be a beacon to the hunter. We were bugs in a glass jar. “Sweep it,” I said. We moved in perfect, practiced unison. I took the bedroom and the bathroom; she took the main living space. I checked under the mattress, inside the closet vents, even the tank of the toilet. Nothing. No wiretaps, no pinhole cameras. When I walked back into the living room, Paula had finished her search. She met my eyes and shook her head. “Nothing.” “That doesn’t make sense,” I muttered, my brow furrowing. “If they wanted to keep tabs on us, this is the first place they’d bug.” “Unless…” Paula’s eyes locked onto the ginger cat. The cat was still on the table, licking its paws contentedly. “Unless the bug isn’t in the walls.” Paula took a slow step toward the cat. The animal seemed to sense the change in temperature; its back arched, and a low hiss vibrated in its throat. “Easy, boy,” Paula murmured, cutting her eyes to me. I moved into position on the opposite side of the table, cutting off its escape. The cat looked left, then right, ears flattening. Before it could spring, Paula’s hand shot out like a whip, catching it firmly by the scruff of its neck. The cat let out a sharp yowl, its legs flailing. I quickly stepped in, supporting its weight and stroking its back to keep it from scratching her eyes out. “Easy, easy…” Paula’s grip remained steady. With her free hand, she began feeling along the cat’s neck. Under the thick fur, her fingers brushed against the cheap red collar we’d slipped onto it a month ago, complete with a tiny brass bell. Paula’s expression went entirely rigid. She pinched the tiny bell between her thumb and forefinger. With a hard squeeze, the cheap metal shell cracked open. Tucked inside the brass casing was a tiny, black silicon chip. A microphone.

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