Category: English

My own mother was catfishing eight different men online, simultaneously, using my face. In my past life, I begged her to stop before it was too late. She just rolled her eyes, waving me off with a manicured hand. “Relax, Natalie,” she scoffed. “Your mother is just a hopeless romantic. I’m only in it for the love, not the money!” But when those eight men—drained of their life savings and armed with actual machetes—showed up at our front porch, she had already packed her bags. She and my younger brother fled in the dead of night, taking every last cent. I was left behind to drown in millions of dollars of astronomical debt, branded a gold-digging whore by the entire internet. Driven to the absolute edge, with no way out, I climbed to the roof of my apartment building and threw myself off. My soul hovered in the cold air, suspended over the pavement, watching as my mother and brother rolled up to my shattered corpse in a brand-new Porsche. She looked down at me and laughed. “Well, gravity is a hell of an eraser!” she smirked. “With you dead, there’s no proof. That eight million your brother took is completely safe now.” She leaned closer to my ruined body, her eyes devoid of anything resembling maternal warmth. “Try to be born into money next time, sweetie. And whatever you do, don’t get in your brother’s way.” Then, I blinked. And I was back on the exact day I first discovered her little online game. … 1 “Daddy, come save your little princess, I’m so scared~” The sickeningly sweet, artificially high-pitched voice hit my ears the second I opened my eyes. I jolted upright. Sitting on the edge of the bed was my fifty-year-old mother, Donna, pinching her throat to sound like a helpless co-ed into her iPhone microphone. Hearing the exact same dialogue from my previous life, a cold realization washed over me. I was back. I had been reborn. “Jesus, Natalie! Don’t creep in here like a ghost without knocking!” Donna flinched so hard she nearly dropped the phone on her face. On her glowing screen was a selfie of me. It had been run through at least a dozen editing apps, making my skin look porcelain and my lips unnervingly pouty. In my past life, this was the moment I started shaking with rage. I had lunged for the phone, trying to delete her accounts. My reward had been a sharp slap across the face. This time, I stood perfectly still. Seeing my silence, Donna immediately pivoted to playing the victim. “What are you staring at? Your mother is just looking for a little emotional support!” She clutched her chest dramatically. “Ever since your father left, my heart has been an empty gaping hole! I sit in this dead, quiet house all day. Who cares if I live or die? So what if I’m getting older? What’s the crime in using your picture to make a few friends?” I looked at her self-righteous sneer, swallowing down the toxic, burning hatred that threatened to spill out of my eyes. Instead, I let out a soft sigh, walked over to the bed, and gently took her hand. “Mom, you misunderstood.” My voice was a whisper. “I’m not here to judge you. I’m here to support you.” Donna froze. “What did you just say?” I pulled out my phone and opened Zelle. Ding. Five thousand dollars instantly hit her checking account. “Mom, take this for now. I was going to buy you that physical therapy machine, but you need this more.” I kept my voice incredibly gentle, laced with the exact kind of daughterly devotion she exploited. “You’re right. A woman has the right to pursue love at any age.” Donna stared at the numbers on her screen, the wrinkles around her eyes crinkling into a massive, greedy smile. “Oh, my sweet girl! You’ve finally opened your eyes!” She practically vibrated with excitement, immediately transferring the funds into her high-yield savings. “Don’t you worry, Mom is just chatting with these guys. Playing some video games. I promise I won’t do anything crazy!” Watching her gorge herself on the money, a quiet, cold laugh echoed in my chest. “There is one thing I should warn you about, though, Mom.” I gently placed my hand over hers, stopping her scrolling. “You’re using my photos right now, right?” Donna instantly recoiled, defensive. “Yeah, so? Are you trying to take the money back?” I shook my head, leaning in closer, lowering my voice like a conspirator. “Mom, you’re taking money from these men. What if one of them turns out to be a psycho and traces your banking info? If you use your own ID and bank account, they’re going to find out you’re a fifty-year-old woman. Not only will your cover be blown, but they might call the cops and have you arrested for fraud.” All the color drained from Donna’s face. She slapped her thigh. “Oh my god, you’re right! What—what do I do? I just got eight new sugar daddies this week, and I was about to ask them for a thousand-dollar ‘welcome gift’ each!” “It’s an easy fix.” I walked over to the nightstand, pulled open the drawer, and took out a stack of debit cards. “Use Chase’s SSN and his bank accounts to set up your Venmo and Cash App.” They were empty accounts my brother, Chase, had left lying around the last time he had to dodge his bookies. “A guy’s identity is the safest,” I explained smoothly. “Even if things blow up later, when they see the money went to a guy named Chase, they’ll just assume they got scammed by some teenage gamer bro. And frankly, men have egos. If they realize they got played by another man, they’ll be too embarrassed to ever go to the police or make a public fuss.” I held her gaze, enunciating every word. “Besides, Chase is going to need a house and a wedding ring soon. If you collect the money directly into his accounts, you’re just saving it up for his future. Isn’t that perfect?” The moment the words left my mouth, Donna physically trembled. A feral, avaricious light exploded in her eyes. “Yes! Yes! My brilliant daughter!” She shoved her phone into my hands. “Quick, quick, show me how to change it! Frankie just said he wants to send me an allowance!” I nodded obediently. For the next thirty minutes, I methodically went through every single social media account, gaming profile, and payment app on her phone. I linked every last one to Chase’s social security number and his checking accounts. “All done, Mom. You can ask for whatever you want now. It’s completely untraceable to you.” Donna snatched the phone back, instantly holding down the voice memo button. Her voice pitched up into that nauseating baby-doll whine. “Frankie~ I really need my venti strawberry-crème pink drink! Don’t forget the extra sugar pumps, daddy!” “I’m so sad today… I think only a $5,200 transfer will make me smile again~” Listening to a woman with severe Type-2 diabetes demand full-sugar syrup, I turned and walked out of the room. “Cash App received: $5,200.” The crisp notification chime echoed through the door, followed by Donna’s unhinged, hysterical laughter. Laugh, Mom. Laugh it up. I just hope you and Chase are ready to catch this windfall. 2 The moment I pushed open the front door later that afternoon, Donna was already screaming from the living room. “Where the hell is my delivery? Frankie is waiting for a selfie of me drinking my pink drink!” I handed her the sweating plastic cup. “Right here.” Donna snatched it, stabbed the straw through the lid, and took a massive, gulping sip. “Mom, your diabetes is out of control, and your blood pressure is high. That cup is pure corn syrup and artificial dyes.” “What do you know?!” she snapped. “Frankie says he likes his girls sweet!” Suddenly, her eyes darted to me. She shoved the half-empty cup into my hands. “You know what, Mom shouldn’t be drinking this. Here, sweetie, this is for you! See how good I am to you?” I looked at the fake, plastic smile plastered across her face. I knew exactly what she was doing. Sure enough, a second later, she raised her phone, subtly aiming the camera at me. She needed a body double for her selfies. I didn’t expose her. Instead, I submissively took the drink. As I lowered my head to sip from the straw, I tilted my face just slightly, widened my eyes, and gave the camera a look of pure, innocent vulnerability. Click. After slapping a dozen soft-focus filters onto the photo she secretly took of me, Donna hit send. The reply came in seconds. A $500 Venmo notification. Attached note: Drink up, baby. I like you with a little meat on your bones. That look in your eyes is killing me. Before Donna could even type a reply— Crash. The front door was kicked open. My brother, Chase, swaggered in, sporting bleach-blonde hair and a permanent smirk of entitlement. “Mom, give me two grand. I’m taking the boys out drinking tonight.” He didn’t even glance in my direction, just held out his open palm like he was collecting taxes. Instead of scolding him, Donna practically vibrated with joy, waving him over. “Baby boy! Come look at how much Mom made for you today!” Chase leaned over her shoulder. His eyes bulged at the screen. “Holy shit! Thirty grand?! Did you rob a bank?” “Robbing a bank doesn’t pay this well!” Donna gloated, shaking the phone. “This is allowance money from Mom’s new online boyfriends! And it’s all sitting right in your checking account!” Chase lost his mind. He grabbed Donna and planted a huge kiss on her cheek. “Mom, you are a literal genius! You’re a walking ATM!” He turned, his eyes landing on me with absolute disgust. “Unlike Natalie, the useless parasite. Going to her stupid corporate job every day, working herself to the bone for a pathetic six grand a month. Looking like a beggar.” Donna nodded in profound agreement. “Exactly. Raising her is less useful than raising a dog.” I stood in the corner, holding the iced drink. I said nothing. Suddenly, a FaceTime Audio call lit up Donna’s screen. Caller ID: Preston (NYC Trust Fund) Without thinking, Donna tapped accept. Instantly, a furious, aggressive male voice blasted through the speaker: “Natalie! Why the hell did you sound like a chainsmoking seventy-year-old hag on that last voice note?!” “Are you fucking kidding me? Are you some old bitch stealing photos?!” The living room fell into a dead, suffocating silence. Donna trembled violently, nearly dropping the phone. The gig was up. The guy was about to explode. I moved. I snatched the phone from Donna’s hand and instantly hung up the call. Without a word, I walked into the bathroom. I unbuttoned the top two buttons of my blouse, exposing my collarbone. I ran my fingers under the faucet and slicked a few strands of wet hair against my skin. Keeping my face hidden in the shadows, I snapped a dark, suggestive photo of my neck and jawline. Send. Then, I held down the voice memo button. I lowered my voice until it was perfectly raspy, laced with breathless indignation. “Preston, I just got out of the shower. I swallowed water and my throat is killing me.” “If you’re going to talk to me like that, don’t ever call me again.” I released the button. Sent. Donna and Chase were huddled by the doorframe, entirely paralyzed, barely breathing. Five seconds later. The screen lit up. Wire Transfer Initiated: $100,000. Three frantic voice notes followed in quick succession, the arrogance completely stripped from the man’s voice. “Baby, I’m so sorry! I’m an idiot, I was raging at a video game and took it out on you!” “I’m booking a flight tomorrow. I have to see you next month. I swear I’ll make it up to you!” Staring at the endless string of zeros on the screen, Chase threw himself at the phone, clutching it to his chest like a life preserver. “One hundred grand… Mom! He dropped a hundred grand in one click!” Donna’s spine straightened. Her heavy body trembled with the sheer adrenaline of sudden wealth. “Chase! If money is this easy to take, we’re going big!” She gritted her teeth, a feral, emerald glint in her eyes. “Didn’t Brittany say she wouldn’t marry you unless we bought a new house? Forget a mortgage. Mom is going to use these idiots’ money to buy you a penthouse in the city. Cash!” “Next month, we are throwing the biggest, most expensive engagement party this state has ever seen!” Chase was slapping his own thighs in ecstasy. “Yes! We are doing it! Let all our broke-ass relatives see who Chase really is!” The mother and son practically wept with joy, feverishly planning which luxury cars to lease and which zip codes to buy into. I picked up the mop from the corner, slowly pushing it across the cheap linoleum floor to clean up a water stain. The repetitive, quiet motion anchored me. “Mom is right,” I chimed in softly, keeping my eyes down. “It’s Chase’s big day. We can’t look cheap. If these guys love you so much, it’s only right that they chip in.” Donna sneered, kicking a piece of lint toward me. “Glad you finally understand your place. For the next few weeks, your only job is taking photos for me to keep them on the hook. If you do well, I’ll let you have the leftovers from the catering.” I kept my head down. The mop moved in a steady figure-eight. “Okay.” I just hoped you both would still be breathing by the time those leftovers were served. 3 Over the next two weeks, Donna went absolutely feral. To scrape together the millions needed for Chase’s “wedding of the century” and the cash-paid penthouse, she was online twenty-four hours a day. Her excuses morphed from buying bubble tea into utterly deranged, high-stakes cons. “Frankie, my mom is in liver failure! I need fifty grand for the transplant!” “Preston, baby, my family’s business just filed Chapter 11. I need two million for payroll or the feds are going to take our house!” I watched from the sidelines, perfectly still, as she played with fire. Her targets weren’t just lonely old men. There was the Manhattan trust-fund baby, a ruthless loan shark, and the CEO of a tech multinational. Donna was essentially walking into a tiger’s cage covered in raw meat. But she didn’t care. Watching the balance in Chase’s checking account rocket toward the eight-million-dollar mark, both mother and son had completely lost their grip on reality. “Natalie! Get in here! Record a voice note for Mick—make it sound like you’re crying!” Donna kicked open my bedroom door. I looked at her twisted, greed-swollen face and took a deep breath. It was time. I grabbed a stack of printed bank statements I had prepared and shot up from my chair. I forced my hands to shake, mimicking absolute terror. “Mom! You have to stop!” I forced tears into my eyes, my voice shrill and panicked. “Eight million dollars! This is felony wire fraud! You are going to federal prison!” “Before they realize what’s going on, we have to wire the money back! If you don’t, you’re going to ruin Chase’s life!” Smack! A stinging backhand whipped across my jaw. Chase had stormed into the room. He glared at me with pure, unadulterated venom. “You jealous bitch! You just can’t stand that I’m rich now, can you?!” “Wire it back? Why the fuck would we wire it back?! That’s Mom’s hard-earned money!” Donna charged at me, her thick finger practically jabbing into my eyeball. “You worthless parasite! You just want to see us miserable!” “Let me tell you something! This money is for Chase’s future! If anyone tries to touch a single dime of it, I will kill them myself!” I clutched my burning cheek, letting the tears spill over. “Mom! I’m trying to protect you! These men are dangerous! If they track us down—” “Shut your mouth!” Donna ripped the bank statements out of my hands and shredded them to pieces. “Track us down how? Through the internet? They don’t know who the hell I am!” “Besides, the accounts are in Chase’s name! It has nothing to do with me!” She spun around and kicked me hard in the shin. “Get out! Pack your shit and get out!” “I’m sick of looking at your miserable face! If you can’t be happy for us, you are dead to me!” Within minutes, she and Chase grabbed my suitcase and violently threw it out the front door. Slam. The deadbolt clicked. From inside, the muffled sound of their hysterical laughter bled through the wood. “Ignore that psycho, Mom! We’re going to the dealership tomorrow to pick up the Porsche!” “Damn right we are! And the engagement party? We’re renting out the entire Grand Magnolia Country Club! I want three hundred tables!” I sat on the cold concrete porch, listening to them celebrate. Slowly, I reached up and wiped the tears from my cheeks. The panicked, terrified expression on my face melted away, leaving behind nothing but cold, empty air. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the burner phone I had been hiding. I opened the mass-text app. I selected the eight contacts of the men who had just been drained of their fortunes. [Hey guys. Thank you so much for taking care of me lately. Next Sunday is my younger brother Chase’s engagement party.] [I want to surprise you. I’m sending you the address. You have to promise me you’ll be there.] [Location Pin: Grand Magnolia Country Club, Main Lawn Banquet.] 4 The following Sunday. The Grand Magnolia Country Club. The outdoor banquet spanned the entire estate, with three hundred tables covered in white silk. A plush red carpet was rolled out all the way from the highway exit down to the main lawn. Chase was strutting around in a custom-tailored Tom Ford suit, a massive boutonnière pinned to his lapel, soaking in the admiration. Donna was an absolute spectacle. She had thick gold rings crammed onto all ten of her fingers, and a diamond tennis necklace resting heavily on her chest. The relatives and townsfolk whispered in awe: “Donna, I can’t believe Chase made it this big!” “A two-million-dollar penthouse in cash, and he pulled up in a Porsche! The kid is a prodigy!” Donna stood on the main stage, her chin tipped so high she was practically staring at the sky. “Of course! My Chase has always been a genius! He earned every penny with his own two hands!” She paused, shooting a nasty glare in my direction. “Unlike some ungrateful daughters who can’t even afford to give her own brother a decent wedding gift. Waste of my damn time raising her.” The eyes of the entire county shifted to me, dripping with undisguised contempt. “God, Natalie is such a loser. Showing up to an event like this in a faded t-shirt? Humiliating.” “Seriously. She has a millionaire brother and doesn’t even know how to suck up to him. No wonder she’s broke.” I stood perfectly still in the back corner, wearing my washed-out denim and a plain tee. I didn’t argue. I didn’t show an ounce of anger. I just looked past the gossiping crowd, toward the main entrance of the country club. Checking my watch. It was just about time. Donna grabbed the microphone from the emcee, ready to launch into another monologue about her superior parenting. But before she could speak— RUMBLE. A deafening roar of high-performance engines shattered the classical music playing over the speakers. Every single head in the venue snapped toward the entrance. A convoy of dozens of pitch-black, tinted-window luxury SUVs and sports cars crawled up the driveway, completely blockading the country club gates. The car doors opened almost in unison. Eight men stepped out. They radiated an aura of absolute, terrifying violence, flanked by their own private security. They looked like a firing squad. The eight men didn’t even glance at the gold-draped mother and son on the stage. Instead, they walked directly down the red carpet, parting the terrified crowd, and stopped dead in front of me. Every single one of them was clutching thick folders of my photos and background checks. “Natalie, right?” The man in the front—a polished, sharp-eyed executive in a bespoke suit—spoke first. His face was a mask of cold fury as he gripped a thick stack of bank transfer receipts. “That two million dollars to save your bankrupt family business. Did it help?” Immediately, a mountain of a man next to him, his arms covered in prison tattoos, slammed his palm down on the cocktail table in front of me, splintering the wood. “You little bitch!” He cracked his knuckles, his voice a low, gravelly snarl. “Didn’t you tell me your mother was in liver failure and needed fifty grand for a transplant?” He leaned in, his breath hot. “I just got out of federal lockup. I took out loans from the mob to get you that money, and you’re out here eating caviar at a country club?!” The entire wedding party erupted into chaos. “Oh my god! Natalie scammed all these billionaires?!” “Look at those cars! How much did she steal?! She belongs in prison!” Up on the stage, Donna realized things were spiraling out of control. She ripped the microphone from the stand and screamed at the top of her lungs: “Gentlemen! Sirs!” “It was her! Natalie did all of it! It has nothing to do with my Chase!” “She’s been a little slut since she was a teenager! Always sleeping around! She took your money and blew it all!” “Arrest her! Take her! We don’t care if you beat her to death, just leave us out of it!” The moment Donna’s words echoed over the speakers, the tattooed ex-con lunged. His massive hand wrapped around my throat, slamming my spine against the edge of the table. “Eight million dollars!” he roared in my face. “If you don’t cough up every cent today, I’m shipping you to a trafficking ring on the dark web!” He raised his other hand, curling it into a massive fist, ready to shatter my jaw. In that exact, razor-thin second. I reached into my pocket, pulled out the burner phone, and shoved the screen directly into the ex-con’s face. “Are you absolutely certain,” I choked out, my voice deadly calm, “that the person calling you ‘daddy’ every night and begging for your money… was me?” His fist stopped mid-air. His eyes involuntarily dropped to the glowing screen. The corporate executive and the other six men closed in, their eyes locking onto the evidence. When they saw what was on the screen, their pupils dilated in sheer, unadulterated horror.

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Three thousand, eight hundred dollars. My checking account was short exactly $3,800. I stared at the glowing screen of my phone, my thumb swiping down to refresh the banking app. It was still there. The fifteenth of the month. Auto-draft. I didn’t recognize the payee. I scrolled to the previous month. The 15th. There it was again. I scrolled to the month before that. Again. I didn’t keep scrolling. My fingertips felt numb, hovering over the glass. From the kitchen, the rhythmic clack-clack of Simona’s spatula hitting the rim of the frying pan drifted out to the living room. Just yesterday, she had stood in that exact spot, wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist, and said— “Just a little more belt-tightening, babe. We’ll get our house down payment next year. I promise.” I slowly lowered my phone to the coffee table. Face down. 1. I had only opened the app to check my cell phone bill. Verizon had sent a text offering a discount if I linked a bank account for auto-pay. I figured I should check my balance first. Six hundred and twenty dollars. I had frozen on the spot. I just got paid two days ago. My monthly take-home is $8,000. After transferring $2,000 to my father-in-law, Richard, for his “living expenses,” I should have had $6,000 left. You don’t spend over five grand in two days. I tapped into the transaction history. October 15. Auto-Draft. $3,800. Payee: Greg Harley. I knew that name. Simona’s ex-husband. I sat on the sofa, completely immobilized. The phone screen stayed lit, the black text burning into my retinas. Three thousand, eight hundred dollars. Last month at Whole Foods, I had stood in the dairy aisle staring at a $49 case of organic, grass-fed milk. I picked it up twice. Put it back twice. Simona had walked by, nudging my arm. “We have regular milk at home, Ben. Let’s not waste money.” I dragged the transaction history backward. The fourteenth, nothing. The thirteenth, nothing. The fifteenth. $3,800. The month prior. The fifteenth. $3,800. Before that. The fifteenth. $3,800. The exact same day, the exact same amount, the exact same name. Greg Harley. Greg Harley. Greg Harley. I locked my phone. From the kitchen, Simona called out, “Ben! Dinner’s ready.” She walked out carrying two plates. Sautéed spinach and roasted potatoes. “Potatoes were on sale today. A dollar-twenty a pound,” she said, offering a bright, proud smile. I looked at her. She hadn’t even taken off her apron. Her sleeves were rolled up to her forearms, water glistening on her skin. She looked completely natural. Exactly the same as she had looked every single day for the past five years. “What’s wrong?” she asked, noticing I hadn’t picked up my fork. “Nothing.” I picked up the fork, speared a piece of potato, and put it in my mouth. I chewed twice. It tasted like ash. After dinner, Simona went to the sink. The sound of running water echoed through the small apartment. I walked into our bedroom, quietly closed the door, and opened the banking app again. This time, I scrolled all the way back. From January of this year. January, $3,800. February, $3,800. March, $3,800. Last year. January, $3,800. February, $3,800. The year before that. January, $3,800. The year before that. Still there. I stopped swiping month by month and just dragged the scroll bar straight to the bottom. To the very first occurrence. The date was October 15th, five years ago. Five years ago. October. Simona and I had gotten married at the courthouse in September of that year. The second month of our marriage. That was when the bleeding started. I leaned my head back against the headboard. Right above me was a pale yellow water stain on the ceiling, shaped like a map of nowhere. It had been there since our first year in this cramped apartment. Back then, Simona had looked up at it and said, “It’s fine, Ben. Once we buy our own place, we won’t have to look at this.” Five years. The stain was still there. We were still renting. The bedroom door clicked open. “Ben, I sliced some apples.” Simona handed me a small plate. Three apples, cored and sliced, arranged in a neat, symmetrical fan. I stared down at the plate. Her hands were clean, the nails neatly trimmed but unpolished. To save money. When did these hands link my bank account to her ex-husband? “Not hungry?” she asked, tilting her head. “I am,” I said, taking the plate. She smiled, turned, and left the room. I picked up a slice and put it in my mouth. It was sweet. In five years, the way she sliced apples hadn’t changed at all. The way she smiled hadn’t changed. The way she gently reminded me to “tighten our belts” hadn’t changed. A memory suddenly surfaced, sharp and uninvited. Our first winter as a married couple. I caught a terrible flu. My fever spiked to 103 degrees. Shivering so hard my teeth ached, I asked Simona if we could take an Uber to the urgent care clinic. “An Uber is surging right now, it’s fifty bucks,” she had said, pulling on her coat. “The bus goes straight down the avenue. I’ll walk with you.” It was twenty-five degrees outside. Sleet. We walked six blocks to the bus stop and waited twenty minutes. By the time I stumbled into the fluorescent lights of the clinic, my lips were blue. That same month, on the 15th, $3,800 vanished from my account. Right on schedule. Down to the penny. I finished the plate of apples. Every last slice. 2. I didn’t sleep that night. Simona slept deeply. Curled on her side, her breathing was soft, even, rhythmic. I lay in the dark listening to her breathe, each exhale swinging back and forth like a pendulum. I used to find that sound grounding. Like coming home. Now, it sounded like a bomb ticking down. I rolled over and squeezed my eyes shut, but all I could see was that line of text glowing against the black behind my eyelids. $3,800. $3,800. $3,800. Five years. Sixty months. I didn’t even try to do the multiplication in my head. I was too terrified of the answer. The next morning, I got up exactly when my alarm went off and made breakfast, just like I always did. Oatmeal, toast, a side of scrambled eggs. She sat down at the table, scrolling through her phone as she ate. “Hey, the local grocer has eggs on special today, $2.99 a dozen. Can you grab a carton on your way home?” “Sure.” She set her bowl down. A spoonful of oatmeal was left at the bottom. “Gotta run,” she said, grabbing her car keys off the counter. The door clicked shut behind her. I picked up her bowl and scraped the leftover oatmeal into my own. I had done this for five years. She had never once finished her oatmeal. And I had never once thrown the leftovers away. After washing the dishes, I sat back down at the dining table. The chair opposite me was still slightly warm from her body. I thought about the day we got married. No real wedding. No reception. Simona had squeezed my hand in the courthouse hallway and said, “Let’s save the money. We’ll throw a huge anniversary party once we buy our house.” I had smiled and said okay. Her father, Richard, had driven in from upstate. He brought two quilts and a starter set of dishes. Before he drove back, he pulled me aside, gripped my shoulder, and said, “Ben, listen to me. Simona took a beating in her first marriage. She got taken advantage of. You do right by her, and I promise you, she will never shortchange you.” She will never shortchange you. I believed that sentence for five years. In those five years, the most expensive piece of clothing I bought for myself was a winter jacket on clearance at Macy’s. One hundred and twenty dollars. I had tried it on twice in the store. Checked the price tag three times. Simona had stood behind me, smoothing the shoulders. “It looks great on you, Ben. Just get it.” So I did. On the drive home, she rested her hand on my thigh and murmured, “Let’s try to hold off on clothes for a while, though. We’re so close. Next year, the down payment will be ready.” I said okay. I wore that jacket for three winters. The collar was permanently pilled. One summer, I was walking past a farmer’s market. A vendor was selling fresh Rainier cherries for $18 a pound. I stared at them for a long moment, then kept walking. When I got home, Simona was on the couch, typing on her laptop. “Did you get the groceries?” she asked. “Yeah. Cabbage, tomato, a bag of onions.” “Perfect.” She didn’t even look up. I made Borscht for dinner. As we ate, she smiled across the table. “You’re getting so good at cooking, babe.” I looked at my bowl. “When you cook the cheap stuff enough times, you figure out how to make it taste good.” She didn’t hear the weight in my voice. She just smiled, scooped up some salads, and took another bite. My salary was $8,000. I gave her dad $2,000. Auto-draft took $3,800. That left me with $2,200. Simona covered rent and utilities. She told me not to worry about those. Groceries, household supplies, and incidentals came out of my remaining $2,200. By the end of every month, my balance hovered around three or four hundred dollars. Once, I checked my balance and saw $72. It was six days until payday. I opened the fridge. Half a head of cabbage and three eggs. I did the math. It would be tight, but I could make it work. For six days, I ate Borscht soup with cheap white bread. Simona didn’t know. She was away on a work trip. Before she left, she had kissed my cheek and said, “Eat whatever’s in the fridge, babe.” There was nothing in the fridge but the cabbage, the eggs, and a single cup of artisanal yogurt she had bought for herself. I never touched the yogurt. It was hers. It cost six dollars. When she came back, she opened the fridge, pulled out the yogurt, and frowned. “This is still here? Why didn’t you eat it?” “Wasn’t craving it.” “It’s expired,” she sighed, tossing it into the trash can. Six dollars. I stared into the trash can at the plastic cup, but said nothing. On payday, my phone would ping with a direct deposit notification. I never checked my balance. Because what was the point? Two days later, $3,800 would evaporate into the ether. I was so used to the rhythm: Paycheck hits — two days pass — balance plummets. I just always assumed it was her moving the money into our high-yield savings account for the house. 3. The next day on my lunch break, I walked to the local bank branch. I asked the teller to print five years of transaction history. It was printed on standard printer paper. Twenty-three pages in total. I sat down in one of the hard plastic chairs in the lobby and turned the pages, one by one. Sixty transactions. Every single one fell on the 15th. Every single one was $3,800. Every single one went to Greg Harley. Not a single month was missed. I flipped past the last page and closed the stack. The bank’s air conditioning was blasting, but a cold sweat clung to the back of my shirt. Twenty-three pages. I sat there for a moment, then got back in line. I asked for a printout of the $2,000 monthly transfers to my father-in-law. This stack was thinner, but it was still sixty transactions. $120,000. I pulled out my phone and opened the calculator app. $3,800 multiplied by 60 equals $228,000. Two hundred and twenty-eight thousand dollars. Plus the $120,000 to her father. $348,000. Five years. $348,000. I made nearly six figures a year. Over five years, my net income was almost half a million dollars. They had taken $348,000 of it. I had survived on roughly $132,000 over five years. Groceries, gas, the occasional piece of clothing. That averaged out to $2,200 a month. In this city, $2,200 was the monthly budget of an unpaid college intern living with three roommates. I sat in that plastic chair for a long time, my fingers death-gripping the stack of papers. People were being called to teller windows. Pens scratched against deposit slips. Nobody looked at me. My phone vibrated in my pocket. A text from Simona. What are you craving tonight? I’ll swing by the store after work. I stared at the bubble of text. This was how she always started it when she volunteered to buy groceries. A gentle, loving tone. Bulletproof. Usually, I would reply: Whatever you’re in the mood for, babe. Today, I typed four words: You decide. Surprise me. She instantly sent back a heart-eyes emoji. I shoved the phone into my pocket. I folded the twenty-three pages of bank records and tucked them into the deepest zipper compartment of my work bag. When I walked out of the bank, the afternoon sun felt blindingly bright. Right next door was a real estate agency. The window was plastered with glossy flyers of local listings. Move-in ready 2-bed, 1-bath. 20% down payment: $180,000. One hundred and eighty thousand. I stood in front of the window for five seconds. Then I turned and walked away. When I got home, Simona was already in the kitchen. She had bought pork chops. “They were practically giving these away at the meat counter, $14.99 a pound,” she said, waving the crinkled receipt at me. “We haven’t had pork chops in a while.” “I know!” I slipped off my shoes. She brought the platter to the table. Garlic butter pork chops. They looked incredible. I cut a piece and put it in my mouth. She rested her chin in her hands, watching me with that familiar, expectant look in her eyes. “Is it good?” “It’s really good.” “Then eat up, babe.” She smiled. The exact same smile from five years ago. The considerate, gentle, completely flawless smile. I cut another piece of pork. I did the math in my head. Fourteen-ninety-nine a pound. She had probably bought two pounds. Thirty bucks. Less than one percent of the $3,800 she siphoned out of my life every single month. Were these pork chops an apology? Or just maintenance? After dinner, she washed the dishes while I sat in the living room. On the coffee table sat a small moleskine notebook. My budget ledger. I had kept it since our first month of marriage. Potatoes: $1.20. Loaf of bread: $2.50. Eggs: $4.50. Laundry detergent: $9.99. Every penny accounted for. There were five of these notebooks stacked on the bottom shelf of the bookcase. I opened the current one. Total expenses for last month: $1,642. The largest single expense: a $59 Yeti thermos I bought for Simona because her old travel mug was leaking. The smallest expense: $2.50. Bus fare. I spent $1,642 to keep us alive for a month. She took $3,800. I snapped the notebook shut. I didn’t sleep again that night. But this time, it wasn’t panic keeping me awake. It was a question. What the hell was the $3,800 for? A mortgage? Was she paying her ex-husband’s mortgage? With my account? Starting the second month of our marriage? When did she even link the account? …My banking password. She helped me set it up. Right before we got married, she had leaned over my shoulder, smelling like vanilla, and said, “Let me help you pick a password you won’t forget. That way, if you ever get locked out, I can help you reset it.” At the time, I thought she was just being sweet. A partner looking out for me. Looking back now— She didn’t want to help me remember my password. She just wanted my password. 4. It took me three days to confirm the details. 15th of the month. Auto-draft. Payee: Greg Harley. Category: Mortgage Payment. The funding source: My salary account. Date the auto-draft was authorized: October 6th, five years ago. What was I doing on October 6th five years ago? I opened my phone’s camera roll and scrolled back. October 6th. Columbus Day weekend. Simona and I had driven upstate to visit Richard. Her dad had cooked a massive dinner. Simona had taken a photo of the spread and posted it to Instagram with the caption: Nothing beats being home. I was in the background of that photo. Wearing a navy blue hoodie, laughing at something off-camera. I looked so ridiculously happy. Later that night, as we were getting ready for bed, Simona had said, “Hey, can I borrow your phone for a bit? Mine is totally dead and I need to check an email.” I handed it to her without a second thought. She gave it back the next morning. Everything seemed perfectly normal. Only now did I realize what she was doing while I slept in her childhood bed. Columbus Day weekend. Her father’s house. Her whole family around. When she took the phone from my hand, she had smiled and said— “Thanks, hubby.” Two words. Thinking about it now made bile rise in my throat. Confirming the payee wasn’t hard. I went back to the bank and spoke to a manager. She was very polite. “Sir, this is a recurring ACH transfer. The destination is a mortgage escrow account. The primary borrower on the loan is Greg Harley. If you’d like to revoke the authorization, we just need your ID to process the stop-payment.”

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“Let’s get married. As soon as possible.” Jodie said it casually, picking at her sea bass as if she were suggesting we try a new coffee shop instead of upending our entire lives. My fork stopped halfway to my mouth. Over the last three years, I had proposed seven times. I had curated sunsets, rented out galleries, and whispered the question in the quiet intimacy of our bed. Every single time, she had found a reason to say not yet. Jodie didn’t look at me. Her eyes wandered to the window of the dimly lit restaurant, watching the Manhattan rain streak against the glass. “I’m… I’m two months pregnant, Mike. It’s going to start showing soon.” I set my silverware down, the sharp clink against the china echoing like a gunshot. I stared at her, waiting for the punchline, but her face remained pale, strained. “If I remember correctly,” I said, my voice dangerously level, “two months ago, you were in London on a business trip. Alone.” She swallowed hard, her throat moving convulsively. When she finally spoke, the words felt like broken glass. “The baby… it’s my assistant’s. Jackson. That night in London, I’d had too much to drink. I was lonely, I was stressed, and for a second… I thought he was you.” I felt a cold numbness spread from my chest to my fingertips. “The doctor said if I terminate this pregnancy, I might never be able to have children again,” she hurried on, her voice rising in a desperate pitch. “If we marry now and announce it immediately, we can tell the world it’s ours. Once the baby is born, I’ll send Jackson and the child abroad. They’ll be taken care of, but they’ll never come back. They’ll stay out of our lives, I promise.” I looked at this woman—the woman I had loved for seven years, the woman I thought I knew better than my own soul—and for the first time, she looked like a complete stranger. “Jodie,” I said, the name tasting like ash. “We’re done. The engagement is off.” 1. Her face transformed instantly—the vulnerability vanished, replaced by a sharp, jagged panic. “You can’t be serious! Mike, think about the merger. Think about what our families have at stake!” I pressed my thumb into the palm of my hand, using the physical pain to tether myself to reality, forcing back the burning behind my eyes. I met her gaze with a terrifying stillness. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll give you two choices.” “One: We call off the wedding. You marry him, and you pay the exit penalties outlined in our pre-merger agreement. Every cent.” “Two: You deal with the pregnancy. You cut Jackson out of your life entirely. No contact, no ‘abroad,’ no traces. The alliance continues, but we sign a new prenuptial agreement. One that protects me from ever having to see his face—or yours—in my legacy.” Jodie froze. She looked at me as if I had suddenly started speaking a foreign language. “Mike, listen to yourself,” she hissed, her voice trembling with a mix of disbelief and burgeoning rage. “How can you be so cold? My health is at risk. You’re asking me to give up my only chance at motherhood. How can you live with that?” I looked at her, the disappointment weighing more than the anger. “You’re asking me to raise another man’s child as a lie to save your reputation, Jodie. And when I refuse, I’m the cold one?” She reached across the table, her fingers brushing my hand. I flinched away. “Mike, please. It’s you I love. You know that. Jackson was a mistake—a moment of weakness. I feel a responsibility toward the child, but there’s no emotion there. None.” Her hand hung in the air, trembling. She let out a long, shuddering breath, the kind of weary sigh that had made me cave a thousand times before. “Seven years, Mike. We have seven years of history. Are you really going to throw it all away over one mistake?” I leaned back against the leather booth, a profound exhaustion washing over me. “Do you remember the terms of our family pact? Our first child—regardless of gender—inherits the controlling interest in both the Blackwood and Wentworth estates. If I claim this child, if I put my name on that birth certificate, what happens in twenty years? Does Jackson’s son run my father’s company?” The question hit her like a physical blow. Jodie turned a ghostly shade of white. “I can sign a waiver,” she scrambled. “I’ll make sure the child has no claim to the inheritance. It won’t affect our future children…” “I don’t believe you.” I said it softly, but the words were final. Jodie fell silent. In seven years, I had never doubted her. I had been her rock, her most loyal soldier, her most devoted lover. I looked into her eyes and saw the ghosts of our youth. The night we got engaged at eighteen, my palms sweating as we stood on her parents’ balcony. She had squeezed my hand and whispered, Don’t worry, I’ve got you. The long nights in the university library, her bringing me lukewarm coffee while we pulled all-nighters. The two years in Paris during our grad studies, living in that cramped, drafty apartment where she tried to cook Coq au Vin and nearly burned the place down. When we returned to New York, I thought marriage was the natural next step. The first time I asked, she said she needed to focus on taking over the firm. The second time, she wanted to wait until the Sterling acquisition was finalized. The third, the fourth… the excuses became more polished, more frequent. On my birthday last year, the seventh time, she told me, Just a little longer, Mike. I want to give you the best version of us. The “best version” turned out to be a child with her assistant. “Give me a week,” Jodie said, her voice barely a whisper. her eyes were rimmed with red. “One week to handle this. Give me one more chance to fix it. Please.” I looked at her. For the first time, the face I had worshipped for nearly a decade felt hollow. “Fine. One week.” I grabbed my coat and walked out into the rain. “Mike!” She called after me, but I didn’t look back. I got into my car and caught my reflection in the rearview mirror. My eyes were bloodshot, but my vision had never been clearer. Suddenly, the weight of the last seven years felt unbearable. The alliance, the history, the woman I had built my world around—it all felt like a bad joke. And I was tired of being the punchline. 2. Three days into her “one week,” it was my birthday. The Wentworths had organized a gala. Investors, partners, and all the socialites within our orbit were there. Usually, this was the night Jodie and I would lead the first dance, the golden couple of Manhattan. “Mike, where is Jodie?” my mother whispered, her eyes searching mine with maternal intuition. “On her way,” I lied, forcing a smile as I took a sip of vintage champagne. As if on cue, Jodie swept into the ballroom. She looked breathtaking in a deep emerald silk gown, but the exhaustion behind her makeup was unmistakable. She hurried over, clutching my hand. “I’m so sorry, Mike. Something came up at the office.” “It’s fine,” I said, instinctively pulling my hand back. I offered a practiced, empty smile. A few of our old college friends crowded around us, grinning. “Hey, Wentworth! When are we finally getting that wedding invite? We’re not getting any younger.” I remained silent. Jodie’s smile wavered. “Soon. We’re just waiting on Mike to say yes this time.” I looked at her, my voice colder than I intended. “I think I need a little more time to… vet the candidate.” The room seemed to dip into an awkward silence for a split second before the band began to play. Someone shouted, “Jodie, it’s the opening dance! Take your man to the floor!” She smiled and nodded, but her eyes were glued to the phone in her hand. I caught a glimpse of the screen. A notification from Jackson. The messages were coming in like a barrage of gunfire. Her thumb hovered over the screen, trembling. She didn’t open them, but she was no longer in the room. Her mind was miles away, in a different borough, with a different man. The music swelled. It was time. I reached out my hand for her, but she didn’t see it. Her face went pale as a final text flashed on her screen. “Mike, I have to go. It’s an emergency,” she whispered, her voice tight with panic. “Jackson’s… he’s not stable. He’s alone at his place and he’s spiraling. I’m worried he’ll do something. I have to go.” “Jodie,” I said, my voice steady and quiet. “It’s my birthday. The dance is starting.” She looked at me for two seconds. In those two seconds, I saw the choice being made. “I’m sorry. I can’t let anything happen to him. Wait for me. I’ll be back as fast as I can.” Then, she turned and ran. I stood in the center of the ballroom, the air around me turning to ice. I could feel the weight of a hundred pairs of eyes—sympathy, mockery, delight at the scandal. I felt my mother’s gaze burning with worry. I heard the frantic whispers beginning to ripple through the crowd. I walked toward the microphone. The music was still playing, the guests waiting. I smiled, the mask perfectly in place. “Change of plans, everyone. Jodie had a sudden crisis at the firm. The opening dance is canceled. Please, enjoy the evening.” I set the mic down and walked out. The hallway was silent. I leaned against the cold marble wall and closed my eyes, taking a jagged breath. My phone buzzed. Mike, I am so, so sorry. Please. I replied with one word: Okay. Don’t be angry. I’m arranging for him to leave tomorrow. I’m not dragging this out anymore, I promise. I looked at the message and let out a dry, hallow laugh. She had promised me a week. It was day three, and one phone call from him was enough for her to leave me standing alone in front of everyone we knew. I didn’t believe in “waiting” anymore. I had done enough of it for a lifetime. When I got home after midnight, my mother was waiting in the library. “What is going on with her, Mike? Leaving you like that in front of everyone?” I sat down and poured myself a glass of water, my hands perfectly still. “Mom. I want to change the merger partner.” My mother froze. “What?” I looked her in the eye. “The Rossi family in San Francisco. Their daughter, Camille—didn’t they express interest in a partnership last year? I want to move forward with them.” My mother studied me for a long time, searching for a crack in my resolve. Finding none, she sighed. “Are you sure about this?” “I’ve never been surer of anything.” My phone buzzed again—a wall of texts from Jodie. I didn’t open them. The name that used to make my heart skip a beat was now just a series of pixels on a screen. Seven years. It was time to walk away. 3. On the fifth day, I didn’t get Jodie’s “resolution.” Instead, I got Jackson. I don’t know how he found my private address, but he was standing at my door, his eyes swollen and bloodshot. “Mr. Wentworth… please…” The moment I opened the door, he dropped to his knees. “Please, the baby is innocent. The doctors said if Jodie goes through with it, she might never have another chance. You can’t let her do it…” He looked up at me, tears streaming down his face. He looked so young—barely twenty-two, a kid who hadn’t been hardened by the world yet. “I don’t want anything,” he sobbed. “No money, no title. I just want Jodie to be able to have our child…” I looked down at him, feeling a strange sense of pity mixed with revulsion. “Get up.” “I won’t! Not until you promise!” his voice turned shrill, his fingers digging into my sleeves. “Jodie told me how much you love her. If you love her, how can you be this cruel? How can you kill her baby?” His nails scratched my skin. It stung. Before I could say a word, a car screeched into the driveway. Jodie blurred past me, hauling Jackson to his feet, shielding him behind her like a protective wall. She turned to me, her eyes flashing with indignant fury. “Mike! If you’re angry, take it out on me. Leave him alone!” Time seemed to stop. I slowly pulled my arm back, looking at the red welts Jackson’s nails had left on my wrist. The last crumbling pillar of my love for her finally collapsed. There she was—the princess guarding her knight. And there he was, cowering behind her like a wounded pup. They looked… right together. A sharp pang hit my chest, but it was brief. “Jodie,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Look at you. You’ve already made your choice. In your heart, he and that baby are the ones who need protecting. Not our legacy. Not me.” “No!” she cried, stepping toward me. I stepped back. “Mike, I’m pregnant, I’m not thinking straight! He was scared, he came here because he was spiraling… I was just afraid he’d hurt himself—” Behind her, Jackson let out a small, broken sob. Instinctively, Jodie turned her head to check on him. That look—that split-second flash of genuine, instinctive concern—was the final blow. “I’m going to have to ask you both to leave,” I said. “If you stay any longer, I might say something we’ll all regret.” Jodie grabbed my arm. “Mike! Talk to me. We’ll call our parents, we’ll sit down, we’ll fix this—” I shook her off. “There’s nothing left to fix. I told you everything I had to say the other night. Take him and go.”

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After I was forced to drop out of school, I took a job at a late-night boba shop called The Steep. It was ten minutes to closing when she walked in. She was stunning—the kind of girl who looked like she belonged in a high-end editorial, not a sticky-floored shop in a fading part of town. She didn’t look at the menu. She just looked at me and ordered twenty large iced matches with extra sea-salt foam. As I opened my mouth to tell her we were nearly out of supplies, a voice—sharp, clear, and definitely not hers—echoed in my brain: [The Lucky Break System says the Hero of this story is the guy working at the boba shop tonight.] [Heh. So this is my future husband, huh?] [God, help me. How is he even handsome when he’s just… breathing?] My fingers froze on the touch screen. My heart sank, hitting a cold, hollow depth. The person supposed to be working tonight wasn’t me. It was my co-worker who had begged me to cover his shift. She had found the right place, but she was looking at the wrong man. 01 I pretended I couldn’t hear the frantic, adoring monologue running through her head. “We don’t have enough foam for twenty drinks,” I said, my voice flat. More importantly, it takes three minutes to pull a decent drink. Twenty drinks meant sixty minutes. I was alone, the prep kitchen was a mess, and I was exactly ten minutes away from catching the last bus home. For a guy working for minimum wage, a twenty-drink order at 10:50 PM is a special kind of hell. The girl blinked, looking slightly dazed. “Oh. Then… just one?” I nodded. “Five-fifty. Tap whenever you’re ready.” Externally, she was the picture of cool composure. Internally, she was screaming. […You blew it, Susie. First impression? Total disaster. You’re annoying your future husband.] [System, if you’re listening, I’m going to delete you. I swear.] 02 Susie. So that was her name. It suited her—bright and out of reach. I gripped the cocktail shaker, my pulse thrumming in my wrists. I felt a sudden, sharp spike of anxiety. The guy who should have been behind this counter was Bennet. Ten minutes before my shift ended, Bennet had offered me fifty bucks to stay an extra half hour so he could sneak out to a party. I’d said yes because fifty bucks was three days of groceries. I didn’t say a word. I just started making her drink. Three minutes is usually nothing. Tonight, it felt like an eternity. Susie didn’t look at her phone. She watched me with an intensity that made my skin prickle. She looked like a frozen ice queen, but the commentary was relentless. [He looks so tired. His arms must ache from shaking those drinks all day.] [I want to help… but I’d probably just break something. I’m useless.] [System, say something! You told me to save him, to be his ‘salvation.’ How am I supposed to do that if I can’t even get him to look at me?] […Great. The System is ghosting me again.] I sealed the cup and slid it across the counter. “Here you go.” Susie stood up instantly. “Thank you.” When she took the bag, her fingers brushed mine. She jolted as if she’d been shocked. [His hands are freezing. I need to bring him a heater. Or a coat. Or just… hold them.] [Wait, ‘next time’? Is there even going to be a next time?] I looked at her. In the harsh fluorescent light of the shop, her features were sharp and perfect. She was beautiful, but there was a certain vacuousness to her expression—the look of a rich girl who had never had to solve a problem more complex than a broken nail. “Are you… working tomorrow?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly. Her mind was a riot: [Please say yes please say yes please say yes!] I hesitated for two seconds. Then, I looked her in the eye. “Yeah,” I said. I forced a small, gentle smile—the kind I knew people found disarming. “See you tomorrow, Susie.” She froze. She hadn’t told me her name. She stumbled toward the door, nodding like a broken doll, her limbs moving in a clumsy, uncoordinated rhythm. As the door clicked shut, her final thought drifted back to me like a radio signal fading out: [Oh my god, he has a dimple. He’s so cute I might actually die.] [Wait—did he just call me Susie? How did he—] [Whatever! He said see you tomorrow! He doesn’t hate me!] [Husband is the best!] I narrowed my eyes and ran out the door after her. “Hey!” I shouted at her retreating back. “Do you want to exchange numbers? In case… you know, we run out of matcha again.” Susie turned around, her eyes igniting with a sudden, brilliant light. “Yes!” 03 It was nearly midnight by the time I got back to the house. I saw a text from my father and felt the familiar weight of dread settle in my stomach. I climbed out of the basement and trudged up to the third floor. The keypad code had been changed—again. I knocked. My father opened the door, his face obscured by the shadows of the hallway. “You’ve been working for a month now. How is it?” “Exhausting,” I said shortly. He let out a derisive snort. “Now you know how hard your mother and I have it. It’s time you grew up.” I didn’t answer. I was staring past him into the hallway. My old bedroom door was open. It had been repainted a soft, pastel blue. It was a nursery now for the baby my stepmother had given him. Since I wasn’t talking, my father got to the point. “Your brother is starting his intensive prep for the Art Institute. Those portfolios and tutors are expensive, Cole. You’re making your own money now. It’s time you started contributing to the family.” “How much?” I interrupted. I was too tired for the lecture. He blinked, surprised by how quickly I’d folded. “Five hundred a week.” I felt the blood drain from my face. I made about seven hundred a week at the shop. He wanted nearly all of it. “You live here for free,” he snapped, sensing my resistance. “You eat our food. What else do you need money for?” Free? I lived in a damp, unfinished basement next to the furnace. And the ‘food’ was whatever leftovers my stepmother didn’t throw away. But I didn’t argue. I didn’t have the energy. “Fine.” He softened, a patronizing smirk touching his lips. “Your brother has real talent, Cole. He’s going places. You… well, you were never great at school anyway. Dropping out was the best thing for everyone. No point in having resentment about it.” I bit my tongue until I tasted copper. I retreated down the stairs to the basement. It was dark, cold, and smelled of mildew. But it had a twin mattress and a salvaged desk. For now, it was enough. 04 The next day, Bennet was already in his apron when I arrived. He gave me a lopsided grin. “Thanks for yesterday, Cole. I really needed that break.” “No problem.” “Anything happen? Any crazy customers?” I paused, my hand hovering over my locker. “Nothing.” My phone buzzed. A message from Susie: When can I come see you? I glanced at the schedule. Bennet was off at 9:00 PM. I texted her back: 10:00 PM. At ten sharp, Susie appeared. She looked like a million dollars in a silk trench coat. [He looked at me! He looked at me!] [Is this outfit too much? I should have worn the blue dress.] [Wait, he’s not smiling. Is he mad? System! Answer me! What do I do?!] I finished my closing tasks and walked out from behind the counter. Susie followed me like a shy shadow. “You want me to walk you to your car?” I asked, playing the part. She tried to sound casual. “Sure. It’s… a little sketchy around here at night. Safety first, right?” Her inner voice was doing backflips: [Nice one, Susie. High-five. He offered! This is basically a date!] I kept my face perfectly still. “Right.” 05 For the next six weeks, Susie was there every night at ten. Cool face. Burning heart. [New shirt. He looks incredible in navy.] [He smiled at me. He’s so sweet. I can’t breathe.] [Wait, is he playing hard to get? Is he ghosting me emotionally?] [Whatever. I’d let him ghost me any day. My husband can do no wrong!] I had to suppress a laugh every time I handed her a drink. She ordered something different every night—lychee black tea, taro slush, lemon zest. Her thoughts explained why: [I have to try the whole menu so when he asks me what I like, I can say ‘everything you make.’ I am a literal genius.] [Oh god. I think I love him more than I did yesterday.] I nearly spilled the milk foam. Who was this girl? She sounded like she’d stepped straight out of a cheesy romance novel. But then I looked into her eyes. They were bright, focused, and utterly devoted. For a moment, my heart actually skipped. It felt… good. To be someone’s entire world, even if it was based on a lie. But what happens when she finds out I’m not her “Hero”? I gripped the counter until my knuckles turned white. Susie noticed my tension. Her ears turned pink. “It’s late,” she said softly. “Are you hungry? Want to grab a bite?” I shook my head. “I’m exhausted. I just want to go home.” She nodded, her disappointment palpable. I looked at the clock. It was time. I needed to see if she was the “salvation” the System promised. As we walked toward the parking lot, Susie suddenly stopped. “Actually… my power is out. Some transformer blew in my neighborhood. I don’t want to sit in the dark alone. Can I… can I stay at your place tonight?” She looked perfectly calm. Inside, she was screaming: [AAAAAAH I SAID IT!] [If he says yes, we’re moving at light speed! I’m going to see his bedroom!] [Wait, no, he looks so tired. I’m a monster. I shouldn’t bother him…] I fought back a smile. “Sure,” I said. “If you don’t mind a basement.” 06 The walk to the basement was long and dark. Susie walked close to me, her shoulder occasionally brushing mine. She talked about her school, her friends, her life. She was a senior in high school. If my father hadn’t pulled me out, I would have been in the same grade. I felt a sharp pang of envy, but I buried it deep. She went quiet as we reached the rusted iron door of the cellar entrance. “We’re here,” I said. Susie froze. She looked at the rusted door, then at the overgrown weeds, then back at me. Her throat moved as she swallowed. [A basement? He lives in a literal dungeon?] [How can anyone live here? It’s damp, it’s dark… is this where he sleeps every night?] [No wonder his hands are always cold.] [Dammit.] I didn’t say anything. I just waited. I opened the door to reveal the peeling wallpaper, the single twin bed, and the flickering lightbulb. I poured her a glass of tap water. “You asked why I’m not in school. I’ll tell you.” I told her everything—but I framed it. I told her about the stepmother, the brother who took everything, the father who saw me as a paycheck. I let a single, perfect tear fall at the exact right moment. I played the part of the tragic, resilient hero perfectly. She was silent for a long time. But her thoughts were a storm of fury: [I want to put his stepbrother in the hospital.] [System, give me God Mode. Just for ten minutes. I’ll burn that house down.] I kept my head down, my shoulders shaking slightly. [He’s crying. What do I do? Should I hug him? Is that too much? But he’s so sad!] [System, you useless piece of trash! Tell me how to comfort a boy!] Finally, she whispered, “Cole… do you want to go back to school?” I looked up and gave her a truly genuine smile. Not the fake one. A real one. “More than anything.” 07 I learned young that the only way to get what you want is to take it. People called it selfish. I called it survival. I knew from day one that Susie was loaded. The car that dropped her off was a quarter-million-dollar Mercedes. Her necklace cost more than my father’s house. So I played her. I kept her at arm’s length to keep her hooked. I hid the fact that Bennet was the one she was supposed to “save.” I was a thief. I was stealing someone else’s destiny. I felt a flicker of guilt, so I tried to be “good” to Bennet. I covered his shifts, I bought him lunch. Bennet told me I was his best friend. I told him we weren’t. Bonds are fragile things. If you don’t let people in, it doesn’t hurt as much when they leave. 08 Susie’s “System” might have been a glitch, but her money was very real. Two weeks later, I was enrolled in a prestigious private academy. My tuition was fully covered. I knew she had pulled strings I didn’t even know existed. Now, we saw each other at school instead of the boba shop. She was a junior; I was a senior. Every afternoon, she’d find me in the library, claiming she needed to “study.” In reality, she just sat there staring at me. [He looks so handsome when he’s focused.] [He’s sitting so close today. I can smell his laundry detergent. It’s intoxicating.] [Focus, Susie! You’re going to fail trig.] [Whatever. It’s worth it.] I tried to focus on my prep books, but the air between us felt thick. She asked me to move out of the basement. I told her no—not yet. If I left, my father would hunt me down. I needed to finish the year first. 09 I lived on borrowed time, praying the lie would last just a little longer. But a week later, the signal went dead. I couldn’t hear Susie’s thoughts anymore. Instead, a strange, translucent scrolling text appeared in the air before my eyes—like a live chat on a video stream: [WTF? This guy is such a snake.] [I’m done. This random NPC is literally gaslighting the female lead into thinking he’s the hero. Has he no shame?] [He’s a thief. Plain and simple.] [Thank God the System update is finished. All bugs are patched.] [Finally! Now the real Hero can hear her thoughts, and this loser can go back to the gutter where he belongs.] I stared at the floating words, paralyzed. That was why Susie hadn’t come to find me all day. The “glitch” was fixed. The destiny had been recalibrated. I wanted to scream at the floating text. I wanted to tell them they were wrong. But they weren’t. I was a thief. Except for one thing. The “NPC” comment. I wasn’t just some background character. I had a life. I had a story. I had been happy once. 10 I remember being ten. My parents moved us to the city to give me a better education. We lived in a tiny apartment, but it was full of light. On hot summer nights, my mom and dad would sit on either side of my bed, fanning me with cardboard signs until I fell asleep. Then, things got “better.” My dad got a promotion. My mom got a raise. They bought a house. I got into a top-tier middle school. Then came the bullying. In eighth grade, a group of boys targeted me. I went to my father. He stood up for me at first. He went to the school. But the mother of the lead bully cried. She was a single mother. She begged my father not to report her son, saying it would ruin his life. My father looked at her, and he softened. He dropped the charges. “We have to be compassionate, Cole,” he told me as we walked out. “She’s had a hard life. We can’t be selfish.” What about me? I had cigarette burns on my collarbone that would never go away. Was I not worth “ruining” someone for? I stayed quiet to keep the peace. But then my father started coming home late. He and my mom fought constantly. Then came the truth: my father was having an affair with that woman. The bully’s mother. My mom found out. She left the house in a rage. My father chased after her. The next morning, the police found her in the river. My mom was dead. My father remarried within the year. The bully became my “brother.” The “single mother” became my stepmother. They didn’t join our family; they erased mine. My grandfather tried to take me away, but he died in a tractor accident on the way to get me. My grandmother took me in for two years until she was diagnosed with terminal cancer. To save me from the burden of her death, she gave me her life savings and chased me away. “Go, Cole,” she whispered, her hand trembling in mine. “Go to school. Become someone. Don’t rely on anyone but yourself.” She drank pesticides the day after I left. She died at the graves of my mother and grandfather. 11 After school that day, I didn’t wait for Susie. I walked home alone. The basement felt smaller than usual. Darker. My father sent a text demanding his five hundred dollars. I turned off my phone. I studied until my eyes burned. I tried to forget the floating text, forget the girl, forget the stolen light. But then, a soft knock came at the cellar door. My father didn’t knock softly. He kicked. He pounded. It was Susie. I opened the door. She stood in the shadows, her expression unreadable. “Cole,” she said. Her voice was cold. “You’re hiding from me.”

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My father brought home a stray. A secret son, a bastard—whatever you wanted to call him. He had this way of being perfectly submissive, always wearing a sweet, hollow smile and calling me “big sister” as if it were a title of devotion. But behind my back, he was a gatekeeper of the most violent kind. He made sure no one else could get close to me. Any young man from a decent family who dared to get engaged to me ended up ruined—maimed in accidents, or rotting in a prison cell. When the truth finally came out—that I wasn’t even the true daughter of the Blackwood estate—I took the chance to vanish. I changed my name, moved across the country, and rebuilt my life from the ground up. Seven years passed before I heard a whisper of that world again. My father was dead, and Darren had returned to the States to claim the empire. The day it happened, I pulled up to my small house and saw a sleek, black sedan parked in the driveway. A man was leaning against the driver’s side door, draped in a long, dark wool coat. In the twilight, he looked like a shadow carved out of the rain itself. He tilted his head when he saw me, a slow, familiar smile spreading across his face. “Elena. It’s pouring. Why didn’t you bring an umbrella?” 1 I looked at him, my blood turning to ice. “What the hell are you doing here, Darren?” He looked down at me, his voice dangerously soft. “You haven’t been home in seven years.” “That house has nothing to do with me. Not anymore. Why would I go back?” I pushed past him, marching toward my front door. I managed to get inside, but as I tried to slam the door shut, he moved with a speed that shouldn’t have been human. He shoved his hand into the closing gap. I heard the sickening crunch of wood against bone, but he didn’t even flinch. He just waited for me to recoil in shock, then pushed the door wide and stepped inside as if he’d been invited. “Are you insane?” I gasped, staring at his hand. Four of his fingers were already beginning to swell, the skin turning a deep, angry purple where the door had crushed them. Blood began to seep from under his nails. Darren barely glanced at the injury. Instead, he just stared at me, his eyes bright with a terrifying kind of joy. “Elena, aren’t you going to ask me to sit down?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He closed the door behind him, locking us in. He followed me into the living room, his gaze sweeping over my modest furniture with a clinical, judging eye. His eyes snagged on the entryway—specifically, on the two pairs of matching slippers sitting on the shoe rack. The smile on his face didn’t drop, but it stiffened, turning into something brittle and sharp. “You have a boyfriend?” “That’s none of your business.” “Why? Do I need to take care of him, too? The way I handled those boys back home?” He tilted his head, studying me for a long time. For a fleeting second, he looked almost… hurt. “You’re still the same, Elena,” he whispered. “You always knew exactly how to make me angry, and you always did it on purpose.” He stood up, adjusting his coat, and began to walk toward me. His steps were slow and rhythmic, the sound of his shoes on the hardwood floor echoing like a countdown. I backed away, step by step, until my spine hit the cold plaster of the wall. Darren stopped inches from me. He leaned in, his warm breath ghosting over the shell of my ear, sending a shudder of pure, primal fear down my neck. “Come home with me, Elena,” he murmured, his voice like a ghost story. I trembled violently. I looked down at his hand—the crushed one—now wrapped tightly around my wrist. His skin was freezing. Then, the doorbell rang. Darren’s brow furrowed in annoyance, but he didn’t let go. A moment later, the smart lock clicked. A man in a dark blue windbreaker—a detective’s badge clipped to his belt—stepped into the foyer. Nate shook his umbrella out into the stand, kicked off his boots, and slid into his slippers. He walked into the living room and sat down on the sofa right next to us as if he owned the place. “Oh, I didn’t realize we had company. Sorry, El. Work ran late—just finished wrapping up a case.” He set a paper bag of takeout on the coffee table and gave Darren a pleasant, empty smile. “Elena didn’t tell me we were expecting anyone. I only brought enough dinner for two.” Darren’s expression smoothed into something deceptively gentle. He looked at the takeout, then at Nate, then back at me. His eyes were like deep, dark wells—the kind you could fall into and never find the bottom of. He stared at me for a long, quiet moment, a small, dark laugh bubbling up in his throat. “It’s fine,” Darren said softly. “It’s late. I shouldn’t intrude. I was just leaving.” He turned to go, but as he reached for the doorknob, he paused. He looked back at Nate, his eyes sparkling with a mock-friendly light. “By the way,” Darren said, “she hates the smell of cigarettes. You should probably quit while you’re ahead.” 2 The second the door clicked shut, Nate let out a long whistle. “So that’s the ‘brother’ you told me about? The obsessive one?” He made a face of pure disgust. “Being in the same room as that guy made my skin crawl. You know the only type of person that gives a cop that feeling?” “What?” I asked, my heart still hammering against my ribs. “Criminals. Or the ones who are just waiting for the right excuse to become one.” I let out a bitter, jagged laugh. “And what if he’s both?” 3 Darren showed up at the Blackwood estate when he was fifteen. He was only a few months younger than me. When my father sat him down in front of me, he only said two things: “This is your brother,” and “Take care of him.” But my father didn’t actually care what happened to Darren. To him, bringing the boy into the house was his grand act of charity, his duty fulfilled. Once the introductions were over, he went back to his boardroom and his scotch, leaving the boy to the wolves. And the house was full of wolves. The housekeeper stole from his allowance; the staff looked through him as if he were a stain on the carpet. I saw it, but I stayed out of it. I had my own problems. That changed the day I found the butler punishing him. He’d locked Darren in a windowless pantry for twenty-four hours without a drop of water or a scrap of food. The reason? Darren had forgotten to feed my father’s prize canary. It was absurd. My father had a literal team of people to care for his birds. The punishment wasn’t about the bird; it was about reminding the bastard where he stood. I went straight to my father. By the next morning, the butler was fired, and every staff member who had touched Darren was gone. That was the first time I saw Darren smile. He looked up at me, his features softening into something beautiful and sweet. “Thank you, Elena,” he’d said. His voice was like honey. After that, he became my shadow. Even though we were in different grades, he stayed up all night for months, teaching himself the curriculum so he could skip a year and be in my classes. At the time, I was close with Tristan, the youngest son of the Sterling family. Our fathers were already talking about a merger, a marriage. Tristan and I were a “sure thing.” Darren made sure he was always around us. He became Tristan’s shadow, too. Then came winter break of our junior year. We went skiing. Tristan’s bindings “malfunctioned” on a black diamond run. He broke his leg so badly he had to be flown to Europe for specialized surgery. He never really walked the same way again, and the engagement talks evaporated. My father moved on to the next candidate. Within a month, that man’s family business was hit with a massive federal tax evasion scandal. It kept happening. Every man who came near me met a disaster. People started whispering that I was cursed—the “Black Widow of the Blackwoods.” My father suspected foul play. He hired investigators, but they found nothing. Whoever was doing it was a ghost. Years later, when I was starting to handle the family’s international accounts, I took Darren with me to London for a high-stakes negotiation. The client was an arrogant prick, making demands that were borderline insulting. I was desperate to close the deal, so I stayed late, trying to play the game. I didn’t realize he’d spiked my drink. I woke up in a hospital bed with Darren sitting by my side. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. His face was waxen, his eyes rimmed with red. I asked about the client. “He’s dead,” Darren said. His voice was flat, as if he were telling me the weather. “An overdose. Cardiac arrest.” I started to shake. The cold realization seeped into my marrow. “What did you do, Darren?” He leaned in so close our noses almost touched. He looked at me with an intensity that felt like a physical burn. “He touched you, Elena. Did you really think I’d let him keep breathing?” I realized then that it had always been him. Tristan’s “accident.” The scandals. Everything. Darren tilted his head, a dark laugh escaping him. “You’re making that face again. Did you figure it out? Want to know a secret?” I pushed him away, my voice trembling. “You’re a monster. You’re a freaking psychopath!” He didn’t care. He just smiled at me. Later, I looked into the old butler—the one who’d locked him in the pantry. Three years after he was fired, he’d been in a hit-and-run. He was paralyzed from the waist down. I was going to tell my father. I was going to scream it from the rooftops. But then my father was diagnosed with leukemia. Everything became a blur of hospitals and bone marrow tests. That was when the final bomb dropped. The tests showed that I wasn’t a match. Not even close. Because I wasn’t his biological daughter. Darren, the “bastard,” was the only true heir. My father still loved me—he’d raised me, after all. He asked me what I wanted as a settlement, a way to ensure my future since the inheritance was legally bound to Darren. I looked across the hospital room at Darren. He was watching me, his eyes hooded and dark. When he saw me looking, he gave me that bright, boyish smile again. It made my skin crawl. He was a demon wearing the skin of a brother. I didn’t want the money. I didn’t want the name. “I want to leave,” I told my father. “And I want you to make sure he can never find me.” My father kept his word. For seven years, I was a ghost. Whenever I talked to Nate about my past, I kept it vague. Even now, I don’t have the words to describe what Darren is to me. Nate, being a cop, has an annoying intuition. “He’s in love with you, isn’t he?” I bristled. “Shut up, Nate.” “Don’t get mad at me. Your whole face changes when you talk about him.” He flicked ash into a tray, his expression darkening. “He doesn’t sound like a good guy, El. You sure he won’t come looking for you?” “He won’t,” I told myself. “It’s been seven years. If he was going to find me, he would have done it by now.” 4 I was wrong. The news of Darren’s return hit the social columns a week ago. An old friend from my former life reached out, half-joking: “Watch your back, Elena. The king is back, and he’s still looking for his queen. Now that your father is gone, there’s no one left to hold him back.” I’d been careful. I moved every year. I’d only been in this town for twelve months. Not even Nate’s background checks could find my original file. But Darren wasn’t just anyone. Three days after his father’s funeral, he was on my doorstep. He’d probably been tracking me for years, just waiting for the old man to die so he could break the promise of staying away. I’d called Nate the second I saw him. Nate acted like a jerk about it, complaining about the “drama,” but he hadn’t left my side since. He said he felt like we were being followed, but the tail was too smart, too slick. Eventually, Nate got fed up. When he had to go out on a major raid, he practically dragged me to the station. “Do not leave this building,” he warned. “Stay in the lobby. If you even step ten feet outside, I’ll cuff you to the radiator myself. Got it?” I stayed. I waited through the afternoon and into the night as the sky turned the color of a bruise and the rain began to lash against the windows. Eleven o’clock came and went. Nate wasn’t back. I called him, but it went straight to voicemail. Lightning cracked across the sky. I couldn’t sit still. I grabbed my bag and ran toward the exit. A junior officer, Miller, stopped me. “Elena? Nate’s been in an accident. The suspect led him on a high-speed chase into the outskirts. His car rolled. They’re taking him to the ER now.” “An accident?” I whispered. No. It was too convenient. I remembered a text I’d received an hour ago from an unknown number: Stay away from the cop. Darren. I ran down the station steps, the rain soaking me to the bone. There was a silver Maybach idling at the curb. I didn’t think. I just threw open the passenger door and dived in. A flash of lightning illuminated the cabin. And there he was. Behind the wheel, his face pale and ghostly in the sudden light. He was staring at me with a look that was both beautiful and utterly terrifying.

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It started with a drunken taunt. Maddy came home reeking of expensive gin, complaining that I lacked “fire” in the bedroom. She tossed a stack of photos onto the duvet—shots of a man with the kind of rugged, hyper-masculine physique you see in gritty action flicks. I thought she was joking. I thought it was some weird roleplay, a way to spice up a marriage that had spanned nineteen years. I even looked at the photos with a half-amused curiosity. But Maddy didn’t laugh. She traced the lines of the man’s muscles with a trembling finger, her eyes glazed with a terrifying sort of devotion. “Pure perfection,” she whispered, her voice thick with longing. “He’s the father of my child, and he’s still got that raw, primal energy.” Nineteen years of what I thought was soul-deep devotion. I wrote it off as a blackout-drunk hallucination. Until the morning I went to the county clerk’s office to update our family trust records. The clerk looked at the screen, then back at me, her expression shifting from professional to pitying. “Mr. Sterling,” she said softly. “According to our records, your marital status is listed as ‘Divorced.’” My heart skipped a beat. “There must be a mistake. My wife is Madeline Sterling.” “Your ex-wife, Madeline Thorne—now Madeline Jay,” the clerk corrected, her voice dropping to a whisper. “She remarried five years ago. She and her husband, Darren Jay, have a son together. Sir… did you not know?” I froze. The world didn’t tilt; it shattered. Suddenly, a memory from five years ago clawed its way to the surface. Maddy had been “overseas” for an entire year, handling a high-stakes litigation case. Or so she told me. Everyone in this city knew Madeline Thorne loved me. It was the stuff of local legend. High school sweethearts. She had climbed the ranks of the city’s ruthless legal underworld to protect me, then washed her hands of the “gray business” because she knew it kept me up at night. And Darren Jay? He was the man we both hated most in the world. As the ringing in my ears became deafening, my phone buzzed. It was Maddy’s oldest rival, a woman named Paige who had spent a decade trying to best her in court and, apparently, in life. She sounded wasted. “Nate,” she slurred, her voice raw. “It’s been ten years. I’ve been pathetic enough to want you for a decade. Is there any universe where you’d actually look at me?” I gripped the edge of the counter, my knuckles white. “Yes,” I said. 1 My throat felt like it was lined with glass as I took a car straight to Maddy’s firm. I reached the executive suite just in time to hear laughter spilling from behind the mahogany doors. “Maddy, are you seriously transferring all those properties to that male secretary?” a voice teased—Ben, her senior partner. “Is this a severance package, or are you just that generous?” Then came the voice I knew better than my own. Maddy laughed, a light, airy sound that used to make me feel safe. “What severance? We have a child together, Ben. Relax, it’s not Nate’s money. I’ve taken on plenty of private ‘consulting’ work outside the firm. Everything I’m giving Darren, I earned myself.” There was a long silence. I heard Ben sigh. “I thought you’d only ever love Nate. Even if things changed… why Darren? His mother’s accident, Maddy… Nate waited ten years for his mom to regain her memory. He finally got her back, and then Darren hit her head-on while driving the wrong way down a one-way street. Nate cried until he nearly went blind that year.” Maddy’s voice was cool, clinical, devoid of the passion she used to reserve for me. “I know the history, Ben. But the crash was an accident. Nate’s mother was frail; she wouldn’t have lasted anyway. Darren was hurt too. He’s served his penance. The law found him not guilty. Why should we keep holding a grudge?” “He was found not guilty because—” “Ben.” Her voice carried a sharp, jagged edge of warning. I leaned my head against the cool drywall, tears stinging my eyes. The protective tone she used when she said “Darren” was the exact same one she used to use for me. I remembered her holding me while I collapsed after the funeral. She promised she would put Darren in prison with her own two hands. She offered a five-million-dollar bounty for witnesses. She told me if the law wouldn’t give me justice, she’d use every “gray” connection she had to break him. And now, she dismissed my mother’s death as a mere “accident.” “Nate is the great love of my life,” Maddy said, her voice softening. “Darren is just… a fleeting spark. A moment of madness that lasted.” “If Nate ever finds out—” “He won’t,” she said, and I could almost hear her twisting the wedding ring I’d bought her. “Darren is quiet. He knows his place.” Another woman, a socialite named Sarah, chimed in with a smirk. “Even if he does find out, so what? You’ve spoiled him for nineteen years, Maddy. He has no family left. The Sterling Group is basically run by your firm now. He’s got nowhere to go. He’ll do what he’s always done: close his eyes and pretend everything is fine.” I turned and bolted. I didn’t stop until I reached the street corner, where I doubled over and retched until my vision blurred. I felt like I was vomiting up my own heart. Distantly, I felt hands on me. A stretcher. “Severe gastric spasms!” a paramedic shouted. “Get his emergency contact on the line for surgery consent!” I swallowed the metallic taste of blood and spoke with a terrifying calmness. “Don’t bother,” I said. “I don’t have any family.” Maddy, you don’t have to choose anymore. Because your “great love” is gone. 2 When I opened my eyes, the ceiling was a mosaic of pearls and sea glass. I felt a wave of nausea. From the hallway, I could hear nurses whispering. “Ms. Thorne is truly obsessed. She had the entire suite remodeled into a coastal retreat just for a three-day stay.” Maddy was sitting by my bed, her eyes red-rimmed. She was staring at my bruised knees—the result of my collapse on the sidewalk. When she saw me wake up, she reached out to touch me, then flinched, pulling her hands back. But I saw them. Her palms were raw, covered in fresh bandages and the yellow stain of antiseptic. “Nate… I’m so sorry…” My eyes burned. I knew what she was remembering. When we were kids, I’d been snatched by one of my father’s business rivals. Maddy had chased the car, clinging to the door handle even as they dragged her down the asphalt. She didn’t let go until her finger bones were shattered and her palms were shredded. She told me later she only had two plans that day: save me, or die with me. She wasn’t going to let me be alone. For nineteen years after that, she wouldn’t let so much as a papercut go untreated on my body. I looked at her now, her face a mask of panicked devotion, and forced a casual smile. “What are you sorry for? Did you find another man while I was out?” She flinched. For a fraction of a second, true terror crossed her face. Then, she forced a laugh and leaned in to kiss my forehead. “What a ridiculous thing to say. I’m sorry I wasn’t there when your stomach flared up. I should never have let you go out alone.” I looked into her eyes—eyes that had lied to me for five years—and smiled. But Maddy looked terrified. She started screaming for the doctor, and it was only then I realized my face was wet. I was crying, and I couldn’t stop. “My husband doesn’t cry! Find out what’s wrong with him and fix it!” she screamed, clutching the poor doctor’s lab coat. She was running from the truth, desperate to keep the charade alive. My phone vibrated on the nightstand. It was a burst of photos. Darren, holding a young boy, standing in front of the Eiffel Tower, the Grand Canyon, the ruins of Rome. I looked at the dates. Every time Maddy was “overseas for a case,” she was with them. They had seen the world together while I stayed home, Maddy telling me she “couldn’t bear to see me exhausted by travel.” There was a photo of the boy wearing a heavy emerald pendant—a Thorne family heirloom that Maddy’s parents had supposedly “lost.” A text from Darren popped up: [Nate, you have no child and no legal standing. You look more like a mistress than I do.] [Want to bet? I got her to divorce you once. I can make sure she never looks back again.] I replied with only one sentence: [Does Maddy know you’re sending this?] The messages stopped instantly. When Maddy returned to the room, her mood had shifted. She was cheerful again, calling her nutritionist to plan a week of recovery meals for me. My mother told me before she died that I had inherited her honesty, but not her ruthlessness. She said Maddy was the shield I needed to navigate the world. My mother was right about me, but she was horribly wrong about Maddy. The door creaked open. A man stood there, soaked to the bone from the rain, holding a box of specialized medication. Maddy’s face turned to ice. “Who told you to come here?” The man—Darren—mumbled something I couldn’t hear. It didn’t earn him any mercy. “Get out. The cold on your clothes will chill my husband.” He let out a small, pathetic whimper and shuffled away. Maddy exhaled, turning back to me with a practiced softness. “I told HR not to hire male assistants. They must have forgotten. I’ll fire him tomorrow.” She spent the next hour fussing over me, her voice gentle, patient, as if she were talking to a child. Eventually, seeing my exhaustion, she kissed my brow. “Sleep, Nate. I’m right here.” I wasn’t sleepy. I just didn’t know how to keep playing my part in her theater. Half an hour later, thinking I was out, a man in a flashy designer jacket slipped into the room. Maddy immediately dragged him into the attached dressing area. “Are you insane? Wearing that here?” she hissed, her voice a mix of anger and weary affection. “If you don’t want me, why do you care who sees me?” Darren’s voice was a low, manipulative whine. “Don’t leave me, Maddy. I don’t want the money… but our son needs his mother. I wouldn’t have come back to bother you if he didn’t miss you so much.” “I know Nate wants a kid,” he continued, “but after… well, after how rough we used to get, you can’t have any more. I don’t want things to be hard for you. Why don’t we just register our son under Nate’s name? A Sterling heir would have everything. He wouldn’t be a ‘bastard’ anymore.” Then came the sound of a deep, wet kiss. And then, the sound of rhythmic, muffled slaps—a belt—and Darren’s soft moans of “penance.” After a long while, she sighed. “Fine. You can’t be my secretary anymore. I’ll fund a shell company for you. You can be the CEO. Just stay away from Nate. He is my red line.” Darren’s voice was saccharine. “I know. I wouldn’t dream of upsetting him.” I lay in the dark, my heart aching with a dull, rhythmic throb. She knew how much I hated him. She saw me wither away after my mother died, losing twenty pounds until I looked like a ghost. She had fasted with me, telling me if I didn’t eat, she wouldn’t either. And now, she was agreeing to let the child of my mother’s killer inherit my family’s legacy. Nineteen years of devotion was a punchline to a joke I wasn’t in on. I spent the night huddled over the toilet, and when dawn broke, I finally messaged the number that had been waiting for me. [I’ll do it. Come to Sterling Group as our new General Counsel.] 3 Discharge day coincided with what should have been our fifth wedding anniversary—or at least, the fifth anniversary of the date we’d “renewed” our vows. Watching Maddy bustle around, I felt a wave of dark irony. The divorce was finalized years ago, yet here she was, celebrating a phantom marriage. In the lobby, I heard staffers whispering. “Is the contract with Thorne Law up? Maybe we can pitch for the Sterling account.” “Dream on. Nate is obsessed with his wife. She’s the acting CEO in all but name. Unless Paige Miller from the Miller Group shows up, nobody’s getting through.” Maddy walked past them, a small, smug smile playing on her lips. Waiters began wheeling in mountains of gifts. “Ms. Thorne spent two years tracking these down!” one announced. “A gift for every year of Mr. Sterling’s life, from age one to twenty-six. Every piece has a story.” The guests marveled. Maddy’s eyes were bright. “Nate, want to open them?” I glanced at the boxes. Tahitian pearls, hand-carved charms from a temple in Kyoto… all places I’d seen in Darren’s photos. These weren’t gifts for me. They were souvenirs from her secret life, repurposed to appease her guilt. “No,” I said. The room went silent. Maddy stared at me, her smile faltering for only a second before she pivoted to the cake. “It’s fine! Let’s just cut the cake. Nate, you look tired, let me do the heavy lifting.” But as the knife descended— Crash! The massive multi-tiered cake exploded from the inside. A man tumbled out, naked and covered in frosting, looking utterly pathetic. It was Darren. “Mr. Sterling! I’ve resigned! I’ll take the boy and leave! I didn’t mean to kill your mother! Please, just let us go… my son can’t grow up without parents like you did!” Maddy stared at the knife in her hand, then at me. Her face contorted with rage. “What the hell are you doing? Get out of here!” Darren, eyes streaming with tears, threw himself at my feet. The impact sent a jolt of agony through my recent surgical site. As he wailed, he grabbed my wrist, snapping the string of meditation beads I always wore. The beads scattered, clattering across the marble floor like hail. My world stopped. Those beads had the faces of my family carved into them. My mother had walked a thousand steps on her knees to a mountain shrine to have them blessed. She told me that even if she forgot who I was, as long as she saw those beads, she’d remember. Tears hit the floor before I could stop them. Darren’s words—you have no parents—echoed in my head. Ignoring the pain in my abdomen, I dropped to my knees, frantically trying to crawl and gather the beads. But the guests only saw a “victim.” “Nate is being too cruel. It was an accident nineteen years ago, and he’s still torturing the man!” “Look at the whip marks on that guy’s back… Nate must be a monster behind closed doors.” Maddy panicked, trying to haul me up. “Nate, stop it! I’ll buy you ten thousand sets of beads! Don’t ruin your recovery over a trinket!” You don’t understand. You could never understand. Suddenly, Darren’s phone blared a recording of a child screaming. “Daddy, help! They’re hitting me! It hurts!” Darren slammed his forehead against the floor. “Mr. Sterling! Please! He’s only five!” I saw Maddy’s expression shift. She looked at me, then at the frantic “father” on the floor. In that moment, she chose to burn nineteen years of history to save Darren’s lie. She leaned down, her voice trembling with a different kind of anger. “Nate… where is the child?” The pain in my stomach was so sharp I couldn’t speak. She didn’t wait for an answer. She grabbed Darren and ran out of the ballroom. The guests followed, tossing insults over their shoulders. “To target a child… he’s trying to wipe out the whole bloodline!” I didn’t care. I knelt there until I found the very last bead, tucking it into my pocket. I stood up, swaying. As I reached the exit, a dull thud hit the back of my head. The last thing I heard before the darkness took me was a smug voice: “The boss said to give him the paralytic. Someone else will take the fall for the rest.” 4 I woke up in a world of stifling heat and rough fabric. I was bound tight, stuffed inside a heavy burlap sack. Every breath felt like inhaling fire. A child’s voice, cold and high-pitched, drifted in. “Mom, that’s the man who tied me up and hit me.” I froze. That was the boy from the photos. He was “saved”? I heard the frantic click of heels. In the next room, Darren was sobbing to Maddy. “He must have had accomplices, Maddy! Our son is traumatized… and Nate… Nate just had surgery. He can’t handle a kidnapping…” Maddy didn’t respond with words. Instead, I felt a heavy boot slam into the sack, right into my surgical wound. “Speak!” she screamed. “Where are your partners hiding Nate?” The pain was an explosion. It felt like a white-hot needle was being driven through my spine. I tried to scream, but my throat was frozen from whatever they’d injected into me. I could only curl into a fetal ball, convulsing. She took my silence for defiance. “Nothing to say?” she hissed. I felt her heel grind into the wound, twisting. Everything went black for a second. I felt a warm, sticky sensation spreading through my clothes. Blood. “Fine,” she spat. “I know a thousand ways to make people talk that won’t leave a trail in court. I’m a lawyer, remember? I own the law.” Darren’s voice was filled with a sick kind of admiration. “Just like when I hit that lady while I was drunk… Maddy made the whole thing go away. Don’t mess with her.” My brain felt like it was detonating. Drunk driving. It wasn’t a tragic accident. He was wasted, and she had covered his tracks while I sat by my mother’s cooling body. Thud. A heavy stone was dropped onto my chest. I heard a rib crack. Every breath was a lungful of copper. She didn’t tell them to stop. The men in the room began dropping stones systematically. One. Two. Three. Each one felt like a mountain. By the time they reached the double digits, I couldn’t feel the pain anymore. I was just a collection of broken parts in a red-stained bag. Eventually, even Darren sounded nervous. “Maddy… maybe that’s enough? He looks… he looks dead.” Maddy didn’t seem to hear him. Her voice was thick with tears now. “Nate is my life. I can’t lose him. If it wasn’t for him, I’d be a rotting corpse in some gangland gutter. Anyone who touches him… I will bury their entire family.” Darren fell silent. “Are you going to talk? Speak!” The sack remained silent. Maddy let out a laugh—a jagged, hysterical sound. “Then burn.” I felt the heat intensify. They had lit braziers and placed them inches from the sack. The smell of singed fabric—and then singed hair—filled the air. In the haze of agony, I remembered our high school graduation trip. The beach house caught fire in the middle of the night. Maddy had sprinted into the flames to find me, screaming my name until her lungs gave out. When she found me in the other room, she emerged with her hair and clothes charred, a permanent scar on her forehead. That day, she had smiled through the pain. “This is my medal for loving you, Nate.” The girl who once offered her life to keep me from a single scratch was now slowly roasting me alive. I closed my eyes. Tears tracked through the blood on my face and evaporated instantly. “Clean it up,” I heard her say. The warehouse erupted into a roar as the fire was set. As Maddy walked away, she saw a shadow—a woman—sprinting into the burning building like a madman. She didn’t care. She kept walking. Then, she felt something under her shoe. A single, blood-stained bead rolled out from under her heel.

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I chose Mike because he was the only man in our circle who didn’t come with a warning label. He was the anomaly—he didn’t smoke, he rarely drank, and he possessed a sense of boundaries that was almost architectural in its precision. In a world of men who treated infidelity like a corporate perk, Mike was the “Safe Bet.” But at our company’s annual gala, the man who prided himself on sobriety ended up in the ER because he’d spent the night drinking on behalf of his new assistant. I didn’t cause a scene. I didn’t scream. I simply waited for him to come home, lined up every expensive bottle from our cellar on the kitchen island, and gestured to them. “Drink up, Mike. You seemed to enjoy the hospital bed so much the first time, I thought you might want a permanent reservation.” He ended up back in the hospital the next day. Even then, I said nothing. I continued to appear by his side at board meetings and charity brunches. But the thing about rules is that once they’re broken, they don’t just bend—they shatter. Trying to glue the pieces back together only leaves you with something jagged, ugly, and unrecognizable. 1 A last-minute crisis at my own firm kept me an hour late for the gala. By the time I stepped into the ballroom, the air was thick with the scent of expensive cologne and desperation. The party was in full swing, a chaotic blur of champagne and forced laughter. I spotted Mike immediately. He was at the center of a group of tech moguls, but he wasn’t alone. A young girl I didn’t recognize was clinging to his arm like a decorative vine. When a glass was pushed toward her, she tilted her head back, looking up at Mike with wide, pleading eyes. Mike looked down at her with a flicker of what looked like weary affection. Then, with a practiced grace, he took the glass from her hand and toasted the executive across from him. “She’s allergic to alcohol,” he said, his voice carrying that steady, protective weight. “I’ll take this one for her. Don’t give her a hard time.” The protectiveness was visceral. It was a slap in the face delivered with a smile. I raised an eyebrow, handed my coat to my assistant, Shirley, and walked toward them. The crowd parted like a receding tide. Mike saw me first. He didn’t move toward me, though. He just gave me a curt, professional nod. The girl didn’t let go of his arm; if anything, she tightened her grip. One of the vendors, a man named Miller who’d been trying to get her to drink, gave her a pointed look. “This is Mrs. Harrison. Mike’s wife.” The girl beamed instantly. “Oh, hello! I’m Lexi, Mr. Harrison’s new Executive Assistant. You can just call me Lexi.” She said it while her hand remained firmly anchored to Mike’s bicep. Neither of them seemed to realize how damning that looked. I let out a soft, dry laugh and turned to Miller. “What were we discussing?” Before Miller could answer, Mike cut in. “You’re just in time, Jade. You should toast Mr. Miller on Lexi’s behalf.” I shifted my weight, tilting my head as I looked at him. “On whose behalf?” “Mike,” I said, my voice dropping to a dangerous silkiness. “The new girl doesn’t know the rules. Have you forgotten them too?” Mike’s expression stiffened. He looked uncomfortable as he handed the glass back to Lexi. “This is your first time meeting my wife. You should be the one to toast her.” Lexi pouted, taking the glass with a visible lack of enthusiasm. “I guess some women are just born lucky,” she chirped, her voice dripping with backhanded sweetness. “Married to a man as patient and sophisticated as our CEO. No need to work, just show up and have everyone bow to you. It must be nice. Some of us actually have to break our backs just to keep our heads above water.” She held the glass with one hand while the other stayed locked on Mike. Her tone was a toxic blend of condescension and poorly veiled contempt. I glanced at Mike. He was watching her with a deep, unreadable intensity. He made no move to correct her. I ignored her entirely and looked back at Miller. “I believe I heard you mention that Mike was feeling generous today? Something about a limited-edition designer bag as a year-end bonus for his assistant?” Lexi’s face darkened instantly. She looked like a child whose candy had been threatened. Mike frowned, stepping forward to take my hand. “Jade…” I caught his eye, a cold, sharp warning, and he went quiet. Miller, a man who survived on reading the room, gave a nervous laugh and looked away. I knew everything I needed to know in that moment. I didn’t interrogate him. I simply signaled Shirley. “Shirley, I want a full tally of every female employee at Harrison Group, whether they’re here tonight or not.” “Yes, ma’am?” “Every single one of them gets a limited-edition bag. Anyone who doesn’t want the bag gets the cash equivalent. Plus, a ten-thousand-dollar performance bonus for the top tier. Don’t bill the corporate account. Take it out of my personal trust.” Lexi scoffed, her voice a loud whisper. “Must be nice to spend the CEO’s money like that…” She thought she was being quiet. In a room full of sharks, she might as well have been screaming. Miller, who had been entertaining her five minutes ago, let out a sharp, mocking bark of laughter. “Sweetheart, let me give you some free advice. If you’re going to be a social climber, at least check the weather report. Your boss’s wife is the sole heiress to the Kensington empire. She doesn’t need his money; she is the money. Even Mike’s mother treats her with kid gloves. You? You’re just a temp with a loud mouth.” Lexi turned pale. But she didn’t apologize to me. Instead, she looked at Mike with the watery, helpless eyes of a wounded animal. Mike looked at me, then—either out of spite or sheer stupidity—he reached out and ruffled Lexi’s hair right in front of me. “She’s still learning, Jade. It’s fine. Lexi, apologize to my wife. Just be more careful next time.” Lexi bit her lip, clutching Mike’s arm with both hands now. “I’m sorry… ma’am.” Miller snorted. I felt a laugh bubbling up in my chest, bitter as bile. “If you’ll excuse me, the Kensington gala is still wrapping up across town. I need to be there.” I turned to the group. “If any of you have time later, feel free to drop by for a real drink.” I took my coat from Shirley and walked out without looking back. Not once did I acknowledge Lexi again. 2 I hadn’t been at the other venue for thirty minutes before Shirley found me. “Ms. Kensington,” she whispered. “The word from the other party is that Mr. Harrison has been rushed to the hospital.” I raised an eyebrow, signaling my VP to take over the conversation while I pulled Shirley aside. “What happened?” “Apparently, the new assistant said something else offensive,” Shirley said quietly. “Once you left, people started intentionally trying to get her to drink. To see what would happen. Mr. Harrison played the hero. He drank every single glass meant for her. And then… his stomach gave out.” For the first time that night, I actually laughed. “Quite the knight in shining armor.” “Get the car. I’ll go to the hospital.” I arrived at the private wing an hour later. Shirley led me straight to Mike’s room. As I reached for the handle, I heard the sound of muffled sobbing from inside. “I’m so sorry, Mike,” Lexi’s voice wailed. “If I could handle my liquor, you wouldn’t be in this bed. It’s all my fault. Please let me stay and take care of you. I won’t be able to sleep if I leave.” Through the small window in the door, I saw her. She was clutching Mike’s hand, her face a mess of tears and mascara. Mike didn’t pull away. Instead, he reached out a trembling hand and brushed a tear from her cheek. “It’s not your fault,” he whispered. “I did it because I wanted to.” Because he wanted to. I stood in the hallway and laughed again, silent and cold. I suppose not every hero saves the girl out of duty. Some do it because they’re looking for a way out of their own lives. I didn’t open the door. I turned around and walked out. When Mike texted me later to ‘report’ his condition, I sent back a two-word reply: Copy that. 3 On the day Mike was discharged, I was finalizing a major acquisition. He messaged me saying he was waiting downstairs. I didn’t decline the ride. A well-timed public appearance with my husband kept the tabloids quiet and my professional standing stable. I still had a use for Mike Harrison. I walked to the car, and as I reached for the passenger door, the window slid down. Lexi poked her head out, a triumphant, bright smile on her face. “Oh, sorry, Mrs. Harrison! Mike just got out of the hospital and I was so worried, I insisted on coming along to keep an eye on him. You don’t mind, do you?” My face went cold. I didn’t look at her. I looked at Mike. “Are you going to tell her to get out, or am I going to have someone drag her out?” The “innocent” smile froze on Lexi’s face. She looked at me, a flicker of genuine hatred masked by a sudden pout. “I was just worried. I stayed in the front seat so I could make sure he didn’t get dizzy while driving.” She didn’t move. Mike didn’t tell her to move. I smiled, pulled out my phone to call security, but Mike finally spoke. He looked past Lexi at me, a small, patronizing smile on his lips, his tone “warm” and “indulgent.” “Lexi, honey, get in the back. Listen to her.” Only his eyes were different. They were cold. Empty. Lexi climbed out with a theatrical sigh and slunk into the backseat. I stood by the open passenger door and didn’t move. Mike met my gaze. After a long moment, he unbuckled, got out, walked around the car, and adjusted the seat to my exact preference. Then he held the door, shielding the roof so I wouldn’t bump my head—the perfect, attentive husband. I ignored him. I pulled a silk handkerchief from my bag, covered my nose, and said, “It smells like trash in here.” My own driver pulled up behind us at that exact moment. I walked away from Mike’s car and climbed into the back of my own. In the rearview mirror, I saw Mike still standing there, holding the door for a ghost. He looked like an idiot. 4 Mike arrived home minutes after I did. He walked into the foyer and reached for my coat, hanging it up with a sigh. “You’re still acting like we’re newlyweds, Jade. Always looking for a reason to be dramatic.” He was referring to the beginning. When we first married, his mother tried to pull the ‘traditional’ card. She demanded I be in the kitchen at 5:00 AM every morning to make breakfast for the family. I had agreed with a smile. The next morning, I sent the staff away, locked the kitchen windows, turned on the gas range without lighting the flame, and waited. When the levels were high enough, I tossed a lit Zippo into the room. The explosion blew out the windows and woke up every living soul in the estate. As the smoke cleared and my mother-in-law came screaming downstairs, I stood there in my silk robe and smiled at her. “I’m sorry, Beatrice,” I’d said. “But my hands aren’t built for anything heavier than a pen. If you ask me to cook again, I might accidentally burn the whole house down next time.” Now, Mike was smiling at me. “I didn’t let her stay in the car. I came home alone.” I didn’t say a word. I just nodded toward the bar, where the maid had already lined up every bottle from the cellar. “Drink. Since you’re so fond of being the hero. You looked so happy in that hospital bed; I figured you’d want to earn your way back there.” Mike blinked, stunned. Then, he started to laugh. He took my hand, kissing my knuckles. “So that’s what this is.” “I was wondering why you were being so petty with a new intern. You’re jealous because I stepped in for her. Jade, I’m actually flattered. You’re usually so cold, so composed. I thought you didn’t care enough to feel anything for me.” He leaned in to kiss my lips. I turned my head, and his kiss landed uselessly on the corner of my mouth. The same man. The same routine. But for the first time, I felt a physical sense of revulsion. I looked into his eyes. They were the same eyes I’d seen in the photos before our merger—deep, soulful, seemingly full of tenderness. I traced his cheekbone and sighed. “You have such beautiful eyes, Mike. It’s a shame…” “A shame what?” he asked, confused. “It’s a shame you’re blind.” I pulled my hand back and drained the first glass the maid had poured. “Of course I care. We’re a strategic alliance. Our contracts are woven so tightly they’ll outlive us both. And honestly, I liked you as a person. You were stable. You were clean. You had boundaries. You were the one thing in my life that didn’t require constant management.” I met his gaze, my smile fading. “Because dealing with a husband is much easier than dealing with a husband’s scandals. Now, finish the bottles. Don’t make me ask again.” 5 Mike ended up back in the hospital that night. The maid called the ambulance. She also told me that the moment he was admitted, Lexi appeared. She was hunched over his bed, sobbing as if she’d just been widowed. Apparently, someone had leaked the news to Mike’s mother. Beatrice had been looking for a reason to claw at me for years. She called my cell, her voice shrill with indignation. “Jade! We brought you into this family to be a wife, not a drill sergeant! If you’re so incompetent that you can’t keep your husband’s heart, that’s your problem! You’re a disgrace!” I hung up. I sent a text to Shirley: Cancel the new partnership with the Harrison-Reed firm. I’ll cover the penalties personally. Beatrice’s maiden name was Reed. Ten minutes later, the phone rang again. It was Beatrice. Her tone was significantly softer. “Why don’t you come over for dinner tonight, dear? I’ll have the chef make those scallops you like.” “We’ll see,” I said coldly, and hung up. When I left the office that evening, Mike was waiting at the curb. He looked pale, his face drawn. He’d followed orders this time; Lexi was nowhere to be seen. I didn’t ask him how he felt. I just climbed into the back seat. The silence in the car was suffocating. Mike was radiating anger, but I didn’t have the energy to soothe his bruised ego. I kept my eyes on my phone, answering emails. We pulled up to the Harrison estate thirty minutes later. Mike didn’t wait for me. He slammed his door and marched inside. I knew this wasn’t just a dinner. Sure enough, when I walked into the drawing room, Beatrice was sitting on the sofa. Lexi was tucked right beside her. Beatrice was holding Lexi’s hand, looking at me with a smirk that felt like a challenge. “Lexi is such a sweet girl. So attentive. So thoughtful.” Beatrice patted the girl’s hand. “Unlike some people, she actually knows how to treat a man with respect.” Lexi looked up at me, her eyes dancing with malice. “If you’d like, Mrs. Harrison, I can come by more often to keep you company. Between helping Mike at the office, I’m happy to make sure you’re looked after.” Beatrice beamed. “What a darling. Honestly, if my son weren’t already married, I’d…” She trailed off, then turned to Mike. “Mike, what do you think? Maybe I should just adopt her as a goddaughter.” My useless husband was busy peeling an apple, a faint smile on his face, saying absolutely nothing. I didn’t even take off my coat. I stepped forward. “A goddaughter? Why go through all that paperwork? Lexi, where are you from originally?” I looked at her, my voice sharp and clear. “I’ll have Shirley prepare the dowry tonight. We can send a car to your parents’ house by morning. Mike is technically pre-owned, but he’s high-maintenance and well-groomed. He’ll suit a girl like you perfectly.” The room went dead silent. Beatrice stood up, slamming her hand on the table. “Jade! How dare you! Have you no respect for your elders?” I smiled, but the warmth didn’t reach my eyes. “Respect? Beatrice, have we met? I thought you knew by now—in this world, I am the rules.” “Oh, and one more thing,” I added, turning toward the door. “I’ve just pulled out of all other Reed family ventures. Goodnight. Enjoy your dinner.” I walked out to the sound of Beatrice’s screeching, leaving the three of them behind.

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I came home early from my business trip, only to find the living room door deadbolted from the inside. That wasn’t like her. Lydia was many things—brilliant, icy, meticulous—but she wasn’t someone who locked herself away in her own home. Something was wrong. I pressed the doorbell. It took thirty seconds—an eternity in a silent house—before she finally pulled it open. I spent the next few minutes pretending to unpack, my eyes darting across every corner of the house. I checked the guest room, the laundry room, even the master closet. Nothing. No one. I started to think I was being paranoid, a symptom of a marriage that had felt like treading water for years. Then, Lydia appeared in the hallway, gripping the handle of a suitcase. She told me she had to leave for an emergency conference. I was about to nod, to let her go with the usual polite indifference that defined us. Then, a flicker of light caught my eye. Transparent lines of text began scrolling through the air right in front of my face. … 1 [The male lead is a genius for hiding in the suitcase! The female lead just has to wheel him out and he’s home free!] [Our boy has such a perfect, lithe frame. If it were that hulking brute Callum, he’d never fit. Poor baby must be so cramped in there, though… ugh, my heart breaks for him!] Oh? Hiding in the suitcase? I reached for my car keys, my expression smoothing into a mask of perfect, terrifying calm. “Honey, let me drive you to the station.” As the glowing text faded, I looked down at the red suitcase in Lydia’s hand. It was a 32-inch hardshell, a gift from my father on our wedding day. It was massive—plenty of room for a person, provided they were willing to fold themselves into a ball. I narrowed my eyes and flashed the most flawless, supportive smile I could muster. “Where’s the conference? How long will you be gone?” She adjusted her gold-rimmed glasses, a nervous tic she thought she’d hidden years ago. “Um, Jersey. A seminar at Princeton. I should be back in three days.” Lydia was a law professor. Tall, statuesque, she commanded a room with the kind of sharp-suited elegance that felt both intellectual and intimidating. I had never once imagined she was capable of something as cliché as an affair. I looked at the suitcase, an idea sparking in my mind. “You always forget the essentials when you’re in a rush, Lydia. It’s freezing out there. Are you sure you packed enough layers? You can’t just wear power suits for three days; you’ll catch a cold. You need a heavy coat.” Lydia’s grip on the handle tightened. “I have everything I need, Callum. Really.” Above my head, more comments began to scroll: [God, Callum is such a controlling freak. Why does he care about a coat right now? He’s going to make her late.] [This isn’t the first time. Remember when she had that faculty gala and he spent twenty minutes obsessing over which blue tie she should wear? He’s a micro-managing nightmare. He just wants her under his thumb!] [Our boy is the total opposite. He’s sweet, submissive, like a little rabbit. It’s no wonder she fell for him.] According to these “comments,” I was some kind of villainous, controlling husband in a story I didn’t know I was starring in. And Lydia and the man in that bag? They were the star-crossed lovers. Unreal. Did these people even understand the plot? Did they know why I insisted on the blue tie that night? It was because it matched the donor’s corporate colors—a move that secured her tenure. They wanted a controlling husband? Fine. I’ll give them a performance. “Did you pack that wool overcoat I bought you last month?” I asked, stepping forward and reaching for the suitcase zipper. Panic flared in Lydia’s eyes. She lunged, grabbing the handle with both hands. I didn’t back down. I grabbed the base of the luggage. We stayed like that for a second—a tug-of-war over a red box of secrets. Then, I let go. Lydia wasn’t expecting the sudden lack of resistance. She stumbled back, and the heavy suitcase skidded across the hardwood floor, slamming into the baseboard with a dull, sickening thud. I heard it then. A very faint, muffled groan from inside the shell. Lydia scrambled toward it, checking the corners like it was a crate of Ming vases. The comments surged: [Holy crap! Is this psycho trying to kill our baby?!] [He’s so fragile, he’s basically skin and bones! He can’t take a hit like that!] [I remember his skin is so sensitive… if she even grips his wrist too hard, he bruises like a peach. He’s going to be covered in marks after that crash. Poor thing!] Skin and bones? Sensitive skin? That’s not a romantic trait; that’s a nutrient deficiency or a skin condition. And I knew everyone in Lydia’s circle. Who the hell would be this pathetic? I ran through the keywords—tender, sweet, skin and bones, sensitive. A face began to form in my mind. Could it really be him? I waved a hand dismissively, feigning hurt. “Fine. Pack what you want. I was just trying to help, but I guess I’m just ‘smothering’ you again.” Lydia let out a shaky breath. As she stood up to wheel the bag away, I cut her off. “I’m driving you. No arguments.” I didn’t wait for her to agree. I was already at the door, stepping into my shoes. “It’s fine, Callum. I’ll just call an Uber.” “You’re in a rush, right? Why wait ten minutes for a Prius when I’m standing here with the keys? Unless…” I trailed off, turning to look her dead in the eye. I kept the smile on my lips, but I let my eyes go cold. “You’ve been acting strange since I got home, Lydia. Is there something you’re keeping from me?” Lydia’s shoulders slumped. She looked at the floor, her throat working as she swallowed hard. “No,” she whispered. She looked at the suitcase. Through the glare of her glasses, I saw a flash of raw, agonized protection. She looked back at me, her gaze hardening into something resembling resolve. “Fine. Let’s go. But drive fast, okay? I can’t miss my train.” The station was a twenty-minute drive. Twenty minutes for her to find an excuse to let him out, twenty minutes for them to plan their secret getaway. How romantic. “Trust me, babe,” I said, clicking my car keys. “I’m a great driver. I’ll get you there in record time.” I glanced at the suitcase as she wheeled it past. Get ready for the ride of your life, kiddo. We walked out to the parking lot. To get there, we had to cross a long stretch of decorative cobblestone. Lydia winced with every thump-thump-thump of the suitcase wheels hitting the uneven stones. The sound was loud, rhythmic, and undoubtedly jarring for anyone inside. Her brow was furrowed in sympathy, as if she were the one feeling every jolt. “Oof—” A low, muffled cry drifted out from the suitcase seams. I pretended not to hear it, even as the comments on my “screen” went into a frenzy. [Oh my god, that has to hurt so much.] [My poor baby… stop shaking him!] Lydia stopped. Without a word, she bent down and hoisted the massive, heavy suitcase into her arms, carrying it the rest of the way. I gave her a sweet, puzzled smile. “Honey, that thing is huge. Why are you carrying it? That’s what wheels are for.” Lydia’s jaw was set. “The noise. I don’t want to disturb the neighbors.” The comments swooned: [God, look at that strength. She’s such a queen. Total protector energy!] [We all know she’s fierce in the bedroom, but this? This is love.] By the time we reached the car, Lydia’s arms were shaking from the effort. As she buckled her seatbelt, I saw her right hand trembling with exhaustion. I smiled to myself. I remembered three years ago, when we were hiking and I’d twisted my ankle. I’d asked her to help me down the trail, and she’d snapped at me for being “dramatic” and “needy.” She wouldn’t bend her “noble” knees for me then. But for the man in the box? She’d carry him across broken glass. Once in the car, I didn’t start the engine. I adjusted my hair in the rearview mirror. Then, I slowly opened the GPS and started typing in the address, one letter at a time. Lydia was vibrating with anxiety. After five minutes of me “fiddling” with the settings, she broke. “Callum, please. Can we just go? I’m really running late.” “Sorry, baby,” I said. The word baby felt heavy on my tongue. In five years of marriage, she had only called me that twice. She had been my senior in college, the “Ice Queen” of the law department. Every guy on campus had been obsessed with her. I had spent a year playing the devoted puppy, chasing her until I’d finally worn her down. I thought I’d won the prize. I thought the coldness was just a mask. But even after we married, the ice never melted. Every touch, every “I love you,” felt like something I had to earn. And yet, here she was, throwing terms of endearment at me just to protect the guy in the trunk. I slammed my foot on the gas. The Porsche roared to life and surged out of the driveway. “Slow down!” Lydia gasped. I ignored her. I hit a red light and slammed on the brakes. THUD. The suitcase flew forward in the trunk, hitting the back of the seats with a violent crack. Lydia’s face contorted in pain, but she didn’t dare scream. I drove toward the station, humming to myself. “You know, honey,” I said conversationally, “I was thinking about that boy I’ve been sponsoring.” Lydia’s head snapped toward me. “Why are you bringing that up now?” Her reaction was the final piece of the puzzle. I knew it. It was Toby. Toby Vance. The boy from the rural scholarship program my father’s foundation had funded for a decade. I’d personally seen to it that he got out of his small town, got through undergrad, and got into grad school. This was his gratitude. I sighed, putting on a show of regret. “I just feel bad. If I hadn’t introduced you to Toby, you wouldn’t have had to waste all that time helping him with his thesis because you felt sorry for him.” “Why are you talking about this?” Lydia’s voice was sharp with suspicion. A year ago, we’d taken Toby out to dinner to celebrate his upcoming graduation. He’d cried at the table—real, fat tears. “Callum, Lydia, you guys are my saviors. My advisor is failing me. If I don’t pass this thesis, I lose everything.” He’d claimed he was falling behind because he was working three part-time jobs. I’d found that odd; I sent him $2,000 a month for “living expenses.” It wasn’t a fortune, but it was plenty for a student. Before I could ask him about the money, Lydia had stepped in. “I’ll write it for you,” she’d said. I’d pulled her aside later. Writing a student’s thesis was academic suicide if she got caught. But she’d brushed me off. “He’s a poor kid from the sticks, Callum. He shouldn’t lose his future over one paper. You wouldn’t understand. You’ve always looked down on him because of where he’s from. That $2,000 a month? It’s an insult. It’s patronizing.” She had blamed me. Looking back, that dinner must have been the start of it. I forced a smile. “I’m just worried about your tenure review. If the committee finds out you ghost-wrote a student’s work, they’ll destroy you. It’s academic fraud, Lydia.” The comments started flying again: [Please! She was just being a decent person. Callum has such a dirty mind.] [Is Toby not suffered enough? He had to work at a dive bar for a year just to pay back a roommate for a bag he accidentally ripped. If Callum hadn’t been so stingy with the allowance, Toby wouldn’t have been so stressed!] [Callum basically pushed them together. He deserves to be cheated on.] [Just drive the car! My baby is suffocating in the trunk!] [Wait…] [Why is Callum staring at the trunk so much? Does he know?] [Can he see us?] I kept my eyes on the road. We were approaching a busy intersection. The light turned yellow. I floored it. CRUNCH. I “accidentally” clipped the bumper of the SUV in front of me. SLAM. The car behind us rear-ended me. A three-car pileup. I turned to Lydia, looking sheepish. “I’m so sorry, babe. I thought I could make the light, but the guy in front slammed on his brakes…” Lydia didn’t even wait for me to finish. She was out of the car in a second. When she saw the crumpled rear of the Porsche, she looked like she was about to have a stroke. I pulled out my phone. “I’ll call the cops and a tow truck.” Lydia grabbed my wrist. “No. Don’t call the police. It’s your fault anyway.” “I have to call insurance, Lydia.” “I’m in a hurry! Just give them your card and settle it privately!” When I insisted on calling 911, her composure finally shattered. She snatched my phone away, her voice rising to a scream. “Callum! What is wrong with you today? Are you seriously throwing a tantrum because I didn’t tell you about a business trip? You are acting like a spoiled brat!” The drivers from the other cars were standing nearby, and Lydia’s outburst went silent across the road. Everyone was staring. A woman from the car behind us—a sturdy, no-nonsense lady in a flannel shirt—marched over. She had a thick Philly accent. “Hey, lady! What’s your problem? Is that any way to talk to your husband?” Lydia looked at her like she was an insect. “Excuse me? Who are you?” The woman stood her ground, hands on her hips. “I’m the person you just backed into, honey. And I might drive a beat-up Ford, but I’ve never yelled at my man in the middle of the street like a banshee.” She turned to me and lowered her voice. “Don’t let her walk over you, sweetie. I’ll stay here and give the statement.” Then, she looked at the trunk. “You’re going on a trip, right?” She reached for the latch. “Let me help you with this bag. I’ll put it on the curb so she can grab her Uber and leave you in peace.” She grabbed the red suitcase before either of us could react. She hoisted it over her head with surprising strength. “Jesus!” she grunted. “What’s in here? A dead body?”

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After my brother ended up in the ER because I “accidentally” fed him mangoes—despite his allergy—my mother’s fury solidified into a terrifying new reality. She forced me to link my phone and a wearable bio-patch to an app called “The Virtuous Child.” From that moment on, she held the remote to my life. Every time my behavior deviated from her expectations, she would trigger a remote electric pulse. If I resisted, the voltage climbed until my world went black. Today was the first day of the spring semester, and Mom was taking my brother to the Oceanside Pier for a celebratory outing. I wasn’t invited, but I followed them anyway, a ghost trailing in their wake. At the amusement park, my brother, Leo, was face-deep in a bowl of mango sorbet. Mom was leaning against a railing, laughing with her best friend. “The new immunotherapy cleared up his allergy months ago,” Mom said, her voice breezy and light. “I just told Madison he was still allergic because I wanted to test her. I needed to see if I could break that stubborn streak of hers once and for all.” “Isn’t that a bit extreme?” her friend asked. Mom shrugged, adjusting her sunglasses. “It’s for her own good. One day, when she’s a functional, disciplined adult, she’ll thank me for it.” I stood frozen in the crowd, the sea breeze chilling the sweat on my neck. It had all been a lie. The guilt that had been eating me alive for weeks was a weapon she had forged herself. Suddenly, the alarm on Mom’s phone shrieked. A notification from the app: User has left the designated home perimeter. Her face contorted. In a fit of rage, she swiped the slider to the maximum setting and tapped the “Emergency Recall” command. The app issued the highest-priority directive: Return Home at Maximum Speed. I felt the surge before I saw it. My body wasn’t mine anymore. My legs moved with a mechanical, violent force, propelled by the high-frequency pulses hitting my nervous system. I didn’t walk; I lunged. I vaulted over the pier’s safety railing, my body a puppet jerked by invisible wires. I hit the freezing Atlantic water with a bone-shattering slap. I tried to scream for help, but the app’s “Correction Mode” had been triggered by my “disobedience.” As I struggled to stay afloat, my own hands—defying my brain’s desperate pleas—began to strike my own face. Hard. Rhythmic. Over and over. My mouth opened, but instead of “Help,” I was forced to scream “I’m sorry!” until my lungs filled with salt water. When Mom returned from the pier three hours later, she found me sitting perfectly upright at my desk, a textbook open in front of me. She looked at me, her expression shifting from anger to a smug, icy satisfaction. “See?” she whispered, patting my shoulder. “I knew you could be a good girl if you tried.” But Mom, you don’t understand. I drowned three hours ago. I’m finally the perfect daughter you always wanted. I’ll never disobey you again. … I am sitting at my desk, wearing my damp school hoodie, staring at a page of Hemingway. Mom and Leo burst through the front door, the smell of salt and sugar trailing behind them. Leo is clutching a giant blue-and-pink cotton candy cloud, his face smeared with sticky joy. The tension in Mom’s forehead vanishes the moment she sees me. “Look at you, Maddie. So studious. I knew that ‘Recall’ command would remind you where you belong.” She reaches out and brushes a stray hair from my forehead. Her fingers linger for a second, but she doesn’t seem to notice the unnatural, marble-like chill of my skin. To her, I’m just finally acting “cool” and collected. Leo skips into my room, waving his prize like a trophy. “Look what Mom got me, Mads! It’s the Mega-Cloud. You didn’t get one because you were bad.” I used to love those. A year ago, I begged Mom for one for three months. She finally gave in, but the second I took a bite, Leo started wailing. He wanted mine. Without a word, Mom snatched the cone from my hand and handed it to him. “You’re the big sister, Maddie,” she had said, her voice tight with that familiar, exhausted edge. “You need to learn to share.” “But it’s mine,” I’d whispered. “I haven’t even had two bites.” She sighed, kneeling down so she was eye-level with me. Her eyes weren’t kind; they were heavy with the weight of her own disappointment. “It’s just sugar, Madison. If it makes your brother happy, why can’t you just let him have it? Why do you have to be so difficult?” “He wants everything,” I muttered. “What did you say?” I’d looked at the floor and gone silent. I learned early that silence was the only shield I had left. Now, Mom pulls out her phone and snaps a photo of me at my desk. I feel my spirit—the real me, the one hovering a few inches above the chair—drift over her shoulder. I watch as she types a caption for her Instagram: While other kids are out getting into trouble, my Maddie is at home, ahead of her studies. So proud of the young woman she’s becoming. #ParentingWin #TheVirtuousChild Almost instantly, the pings start. Wow, Maddie is so disciplined! You’ve done such an amazing job with her, Kate. What’s your secret? I wish my daughter was half as obedient as yours! Mom’s lips curl into a thin, triumphant smile. She immediately starts replying with links to the app’s landing page. The phone rings. She walks out to the balcony to take it, and I follow, a silent shadow. “Yeah, we got the tickets you sent. Thanks, Sarah,” Mom says. “Oh, Maddie had a blast. She and Leo spent the whole day on the rides. You know how much she loves the boardwalk.” The lies come so easily to her. The caller is my godmother, Sarah, who lives in London. She’s the only one who ever really saw me. “Really? I’m so glad,” Sarah’s voice crackles through the speaker. “I remembered her saying she wanted to ride the old wooden coaster in that video call last month. Did she like it?” “She loved it. She couldn’t stop smiling. She told me to tell you ‘thank you’ the second we got home.” “That’s my girl. I was worried she’d be cooped up. Kids need a little rebellion, Kate, it’s healthy.” Mom’s voice hardens. “She’s just… stubborn, Sarah. You don’t live with her. You don’t see the tantrums. I’m doing the hard work here.” “Maddie, stubborn? She’s the most sensitive kid I know. Maybe you’re just pushing too hard.” “You see her twice a year. I see her every day. I think I know my own daughter.” I feel a pang of ghostly grief. Those tickets—they were meant for me. On Mom’s screen, a red warning box pops up. It’s an alert from the app’s log. WARNING: User terminal experienced severe overload during High-Priority Command. System rebooted automatically. When she had issued that “Return Home” command at the pier, the app had flashed a disclaimer. It was still in its beta phase. It warned against using the maximum voltage for extended periods. But she had been too blinded by the “disobedience” of me leaving the house. She hadn’t cared about the system limits. She just wanted me to hurt enough to come back. She scrolls down to the developer’s manual in the app’s settings. I lean in, reading the bold, red text that she quickly brushes past: DANGER: During the beta phase, overload commands may cause unknown biological risks, including but not limited to sudden cardiac arrest or respiratory failure… Mom hangs up the phone and glances back at me through the glass. For a split second, a flicker of unease crosses her face. I’m too still. I haven’t turned a page in ten minutes. But then Leo screams because he dropped his cotton candy on the rug, and she turns away, her motherly duties calling her back to the “good” child. I look down at my body. I remember the moment the command hit. I remember my legs stepping over the railing. I remember my mind screaming Stop! while my muscles obeyed the phone in her hand. I remember hitting the water. I was the captain of the varsity swim team. I knew how to survive. I knew how to tread water. But the app wouldn’t let me tread. Every time I tried to stroke, it forced my arms to fly up and slap my own face. It forced me to gasp “I’m sorry” into the waves until the water became my only breath. I stayed at the bottom of the lake for a long time. Then, the app forced me to walk. I walked along the lake bed, then up the shore, and three miles home, dripping and hollow. It wasn’t a hallucination. I really am dead. David—my dad—finally gets home from his week-long business trip around noon. He’s a middle manager at a logistics firm, always smelling of stale coffee and the faint scent of the cigarettes he smokes in secret to cope with the stress. He sees me sitting at the desk. “Maddie? You’re awfully quiet today. Everything okay?” Mom rushes to the foyer to greet him, eager to show off her progress. “I told you, David. She just needed a firmer hand. Since I started using the new tech, look at her. Not a single word of backtalk.” Dad looks at me, a shadow of doubt crossing his face, but he says nothing. He places a long, professional-looking tube on the entryway table. “That’s the vintage architectural rendering for the Miller project,” he says, his voice weary. “It’s a thirty-thousand-dollar original. If the presentation goes well on Monday, the partner bonus is easily six figures.” Mom’s eyes light up. She looks at him with a sudden, rare surge of affection. Dad starts laying out the snacks he bought at the airport—beef jerky, artisanal chips. Leo dives in, tearing open bags like a wild animal. My body, tethered to the app’s “Focus Mode,” remains perfectly still. Dad tears open a bag of jerky and holds it out toward me. “Want a piece, Mads?” Hovering in the air, I scream: Yes! Please! I’m so hungry. But my body has no command to eat. It stays frozen. Mom intercepts. “She’s fine, Dave. She’s learned that we don’t snack between meals anymore. It’s about discipline.” Dad frowns, pulling the bag back. “I don’t like this, Kate.” He drops the bag on the table. “Using an app to remote-control a teenager? It costs us three grand a month, and for what? She looks like a mannequin. She doesn’t have any… life in her.” Mom’s face turns pale with indignation. “I am parenting her. You have no idea how difficult she was while you were gone.” “Parenting is one thing, this is another.” Dad points at me. “She’s like a piece of wood. You don’t think that’s weird?” Feeling her pride wounded, Mom’s thumb flies to the app. “You think it’s a problem? I’ll show you how much of a ‘problem’ it is. It’s efficiency.” She types a command. Serve tea to Father. Immediately. My body stands up. It doesn’t transition; it just is standing. It walks to the kitchen with the precision of a surgical robot. I drift behind it, watching as my hands grip the kettle. If I were alive, I might be nervous. I might spill a drop. But the app doesn’t allow for human error. The tea is poured perfectly. The tray is balanced with mathematical certainty. My gait is measured, every step exactly twelve inches. As I approach the table, Leo—bored and looking for a reaction—sticks his foot out. It’s his favorite game. Usually, I’d stumble, Mom would scream that I was clumsy, and I’d spend the night grounded. But today, under the app’s control, my body doesn’t have a human “trip” reflex. When my foot hits Leo’s, my body doesn’t lurch or regain its balance. It remains rigid as it falls forward. The scalding tea flies through the air, dousing the entryway table. The hot liquid soaks through the cardboard tube. The thirty-thousand-dollar vintage rendering inside is instantly saturated, the rare ink bleeding into a hideous, yellowed smear. Dad’s face goes from shock to a terrifying, bruised purple in three seconds. He lunges for the tube, pulling out the half-ruined parchment, his hands shaking with a violent tremor. Mom starts shrieking. “You stupid, clumsy girl! Look what you did! You ruin everything!” She screams, lunging forward to shove my shoulder. My body doesn’t react. It just stands there, staring blankly, because it has no new instructions. Dad is blinded by rage. He points a finger inches from my nose. “Do you have any idea what you just did to this family? Do you have any idea how much work went into this?” I know, Dad. I know. I hover in the air, watching him roar and Mom scream. To save the project, Dad skips lunch and rushes the drawing to a professional restoration expert across town. Mom’s resentment curdles into something truly ugly. She decides I don’t get to eat for the rest of the day. More than that, she slides the “Punishment Level” to the maximum setting. Fortunately, it doesn’t hurt anymore. I watch with a strange, detached curiosity as my body twitches and spasms on the floor from the massive surges of electricity. Then, it goes still again. I look like a doll that a child has broken and tossed aside. That evening, Mrs. Gable, the neighbor from down the street, stops by. She’s a notorious gossip with a voice like a foghorn. “I saw your post on Facebook, Kate! You said Madison had a complete change of heart? I had to see it for myself.” Mom’s vanity is easily stoked. She calls me out of my room to display her handiwork. “Madison, honey, why don’t you get Mrs. Gable a glass of ice water?” My body executes the command with robotic stiffness. Mrs. Gable watches my movements, her eyes wide. “My god! It’s incredible! She’s better behaved than your Golden Retriever!” At the mention of the dog, Mom smiles. We don’t have a dog, but we do have my grandmother’s prized possession: a Congo African Grey parrot named Winston. The bird is brilliant, a legacy left to Grandma by a wealthy friend. Grandma holds the power in this family—she owns the house, has a massive pension, and millions in savings. Mom, who hasn’t worked in fifteen years, lives in constant fear of being cut off. To impress Mrs. Gable even further, Mom issues a new command. “Go on, Madison. Give Winston some sunflower seeds.” My body turns toward the sunroom where the cage sits. Winston seems to sense something is wrong. He flutters his wings nervously, letting out a sharp, piercing squawk. Mrs. Gable laughs. “He’s a feisty one, isn’t he?” Leo wanders over, looking up with wide, innocent eyes. “Mom, can I help Maddie feed him?” Mom is in a good mood now. “Sure, sweetie. Just be careful.” Leo runs to the cage. Just as “I” reach in to place the seeds in the tray, Leo yanks the cage door wide open. “Fly, Winston! Go play!” The parrot shoots out like an arrow. Terrified, it streaks across the living room, crashing into a vase on the coffee table. Mrs. Gable screams. Mom’s face goes ghost-white. “Madison! Catch him! Now!” she screams into the app, her voice shrill with panic. “Catch him” is interpreted by the app as a maximum-priority physical task. My body enters a state of hyper-acceleration. It moves with a terrifying, unnatural speed, lunging toward the bird. There is no grace in the movement, only momentum. Target: the flying object. The parrot flies toward the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. My body is right behind it. A split second before the bird hits the glass, my hand closes around it. There is a sickening crunch. A single, strangled chirp. My body turns around slowly, its hand opening. Winston, once vibrant and full of life, lies limp in my palm. His neck is bent at a grotesque, impossible angle. Mom rushes over, sobbing as she snatches the bird’s body. Her other hand swings around, slapping my face with everything she has. “I told you to catch him, not kill him! You monster! You cursed, miserable girl!” My head snaps to the side. It stays there, tilted at a weird, lifeless angle that no living person could maintain. A new command arrives: No dinner. Go to your room and stay there. At the table, Leo chews on a piece of pot roast, his cheeks bulging. “Mom, this meat is really good today.” I drift in the air, looking down at the “domestic bliss” of my family. Missing dinner doesn’t bother me. My stomach is still full of the murky, cold lake water I swallowed this morning. It tastes like silt and iron. The next day, Grandma returns from her weekend trip. The moment she walks in, she sees me standing in the center of the living room, my palm still held out as if I’m holding something. I’ve been standing like this for fourteen hours. When she realizes what’s missing, the color drains from her face. “Where’s Winston?” Mom starts crying instantly. “Oh, Mom! Thank God you’re back. It’s Madison… she… she snapped his neck. She just killed him for no reason!” Grandma snatches the small, cold body of her bird, her lips trembling. Dad walks in at that exact moment. He hasn’t slept; his eyes are bloodshot and sunken. “Your daughter! She killed Winston!” Grandma wails, nearly collapsing. Mom starts listing my “crimes” from the day before—the ruined drawing, the bird. Leo sits in the corner, head down. Dad, usually the peacemaker, slams his hand onto the dining table so hard the plates rattle. He stares at me—the silent, unblinking shell of a girl. “What is wrong with you?” he roars. “Since yesterday, you haven’t said a single word! You ruined my career, you killed your grandmother’s bird! Say something! Anything!” Finally. Someone noticed the silence. Floating in the air, I feel a flicker of warmth. Someone is finally looking at me. But my body doesn’t react. It remains in its “Idle Mode,” staring at a spot on the wall. Grandma speaks up, her voice low and dangerous. “Madison wouldn’t just do this. Not to Winston.” “Winston is gone, and my heart is broken. But I want to know what happened to my granddaughter.” She looks at Mom. “That software. The one you’ve been using. You installed it, didn’t you?” Mom’s voice goes small. “Mom, it was for her own good…” “For her own good?” Grandma stands up straight, her voice carrying a weight I’ve never heard before. “You turned a child into… this? You call this ‘good’?” I look at Grandma. I always thought she preferred Leo. I thought she looked at me with coldness. But seeing her defend me now feels like a knife in my ghostly chest. It’s a kindness I wasn’t prepared for. Dad’s fury boils over. He lunges at me, grabbing my shoulders and shaking me violently. “Give me a reaction! Cry! Scream! Do something, you brat!” Under the force of the shaking, my head lolls uselessly. My body is a ragdoll, offering no resistance. The eerie, limp silence finally makes Dad stop. Behind him, Leo—scared by the violence—begins to sob. Between gasps, he lets out a sentence that stops time. “Yesterday… at the pier… Maddie jumped in the water. She kept hitting herself… and saying sorry… over and over…” Mom’s face turns the color of ash. She remembers the “Severe Overload” warning. Dad’s eyes go wide. He lets go of my shoulders. His hand trembles as he reaches out to touch my wrist. No pulse. He moves his hand to my nose. No breath. The anger on his face is replaced by a primal, soul-deep terror.

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After I moved into my fiancé’s penthouse, I found his rigid, buttoned-up demeanor utterly exasperating. Every day, it was either a barrage of check-in texts or him insisting we make out like teenagers. At first, he seemed annoyed by my sheer existence, but considering the corporate merger between our families, he had no choice but to indulge my every whim. Until one afternoon. I discovered that the woman Nate Prescott was actually supposed to marry wasn’t me. It was my older sister. The moment the realization hit, I was straddling my future brother-in-law’s lap. The edges of my vision went entirely black. I scrambled to get off him, but Nate’s hands caught my waist, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion as he pulled me back against his chest. “I thought kissing was on the daily mandatory agenda,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble. “Are we skipping it today?” I waved my hands frantically, feeling the blood drain from my face. “We’re skipping it. We are definitely skipping it.” I mean, I had my flaws, but I drew the line at making out with my sister’s fiancé. 1 The hands gripping my waist tightened infinitesimally. Nate tipped my chin up with his index finger, his dark eyes searching my face with a mix of concern and bewilderment. “What’s wrong? Are you feeling sick?” “No.” “Then why the sudden strike?” he asked, his tone perfectly serious. “Usually, if I show even a fraction of hesitation, you throw a fit.” The fact that he was analyzing my erratic behavior with the gravity of a board meeting made my chest tight. Just minutes ago, everything had been perfectly fine. I had been whining for attention. Nate, ever the disciplined CEO, had actually sighed, closed his laptop, and pulled me onto his lap. Faced with a man who looked like he’d been carved out of marble specifically to wear Tom Ford suits, I was fully prepared to kiss him senseless. Then, my iPhone buzzed. It was a text from my brother, Brooks. [Heather, Caroline is flying back from London next week.] [Mom and Dad are getting everything lined up with that guy they set her up with… what was his name again?] [Oh right. Nate Prescott.] [Since you’re pretty tight with him, Mom wants to know if you can invite him over for a family dinner?] I had been lazily draped over Nate’s shoulder. Reading those texts, my spine snapped straight. Wait. Since when was Nate Prescott my older sister’s arranged match? It took my brain several agonizing seconds to process the information. Suddenly, the glaringly obvious signs I had ignored came rushing back to me. Muttering some incoherent excuse to Nate, I practically bolted from his home office and sprinted to my bedroom, locking the door behind me. I dialed Brooks. He picked up on the second ring. “What’s up, Harp?” “Brooks, I need you to clarify something right now,” I hissed, pacing the length of the balcony, keeping my voice to a frantic whisper. “Nate was originally set up with Caroline?” “What do you mean ‘originally’? He still is.” Brooks sounded completely bewildered. “Caroline isn’t getting any younger, and she insisted on doing that year-long fellowship in Europe. Mom and Dad have been stressed out of their minds.” “They’re planning to lock down the engagement between her and the Prescott family the second she lands.” … Brooks kept talking, his voice a steady drone on the other end of the line, but a high-pitched ringing had taken over my ears. I was doomed. I pressed my palm against my forehead, sliding down the glass door until I hit the floor. How on earth had I managed to create a disaster of this magnitude? 2 I had first heard about the impending marriage between the Kensington and Prescott families a few months ago. My parents had casually dropped it over Sunday brunch. At the time, Caroline was already across the Atlantic. In my typical, self-absorbed fashion, I naturally assumed I was the sacrificial lamb being offered up to the corporate gods. Initially, I was repulsed by the archaic idea of an arranged marriage. But then, on a whim, I typed Nate Prescott’s name into Google. That changed everything. The man staring back at me from the screen had the kind of devastating, razor-sharp jawline that ruined women. I was instantly hooked. I remember laughing to myself. Well played, Mom and Dad. How did you know exactly what my type is? My logic at the time was simple: if I was going to be shackled to this man for life, I needed to know if we had any chemistry behind closed doors. Because if he was all flash and no fire, I didn’t care how many commas were in his bank account—I was out. Once the idea took root, I didn’t even bother going back to my dorm at NYU. I packed a couple of Rimowa suitcases and showed up directly at Nate’s corporate headquarters. At first, he treated me like a rogue variable he couldn’t calculate. “Does your family know you’re planning to move in with me?” he had asked. I shook my head, then nodded vaguely. Nate stared at me, his cool, slate-gray eyes betraying absolutely nothing. “While your reasoning for a ‘trial run’ is logically sound, and theoretically, I shouldn’t object…” He paused, adjusting his cuffs. “I am absolutely refusing.” I flared up instantly. How could a man be so infuriatingly rigid? I was the youngest daughter of the Kensington family; no one had ever flat-out denied me anything. So, I did what any rational twenty-one-year-old would do: I threw an absolute tantrum. I cried, making sure to wipe my mascara-stained tears all over the lapels of his bespoke suit. The sheer volume of my dramatics made Nate rub his temples in defeat. He hit the intercom. His executive assistant rushed in. Seeing me essentially clinging to his boss like a weeping barnacle, the assistant immediately glued his eyes to the floor. “Mr. Prescott, you needed me?” “Take her… take her to the Tribeca penthouse,” Nate sighed, the fight completely drained out of him. “Have Martha prep the guest suite.” “Right away, sir.” With the orders given, Nate looked down at me, still sniffling against his chest. His brow furrowed. “Are you going to get up?” “Right.” I scrambled up, following the assistant toward the door. But before I left, I poked my head back into his office. “By the way, what time do you get off work?” Nate’s pen stalled over a contract. He looked at me, resigning himself to his fate. “Five.” “Perfect. I’ll be waiting for you.” I blew the man a kiss and practically skipped out the door, completely oblivious to the quiet sigh he let out as he looked down at his ruined suit jacket. 3 Once we started living together, I quickly realized that Nate was unbearably stoic. He was a man of routines, silence, and control. He was zero fun. So, I made it my personal mission to push his buttons. Yet, no matter how outrageous I was, his icy exterior would inevitably melt, dissolving like sugar in hot tea. It was infuriating, honestly. Like punching a cloud. The very first night, he didn’t get home until almost midnight. I was livid. In the middle of the night, I marched into his master bedroom, climbed right onto the mattress, and straddled his waist to demand answers. “You said five o’clock. You come back this late without a single text, and this is how you treat your fiancée?” The sudden weight of me, combined with the interrogation, completely derailed his breathing. His large hands gripped the silk sheets, his knuckles turning white. He looked less like a ruthless corporate titan and more like a Victorian maiden being scandalized by a pirate. “It was an oversight on my part, I apologize,” he managed to choke out, his voice rough with sleep. “But… could you please get off me?” I refused, stubbornly planting myself and poking at his chest to emphasize my points. As my hand trailed down the hard ridges of his abs, I brushed against something distinctly… substantial. Oh. Well then. It was genuinely impressive. I patted it approvingly, a smug sense of satisfaction washing over me as a dark, dangerous flush spread across Nate’s normally composed face. Knock, knock, knock— The sound of the bedroom door rattling snapped me back to the present. Nate tried the handle, finding it locked. After a beat of silence, his voice filtered through the wood, laced with an uncharacteristic edge of urgency. “Heather? Are you locking me out?” “Did I do something to upset you?” I buried my face in my hands, a massive headache blooming behind my eyes. Caroline was coming home. My time was running out. Before this entire situation detonated and took out both our families, I had to fix the colossal mess I’d made. 4 I unlocked the door. Nate was standing right there in the hallway. Seeing that I wasn’t crying, his rigid posture relaxed a fraction. “Are you in a bad mood?” he asked softly. “I made that cinnamon apple oatmeal you like. Do you want to try and eat a little?” I shook my head. “I’m not hungry.” “Then what are you craving? Tell me, I’ll make it right now.” Nate reached out, his long fingers gently smoothing down my messy hair, his tone entirely too patient. The truth was, Martha, the housekeeper, was an exquisite chef. But I had been a terror in the beginning. I had insisted that Nate cook for me himself, claiming that’s what couples in love did. His early attempts had been culinary tragedies. He had slowly, painstakingly gotten better. “I don’t want anything. Don’t worry about it.” Hearing this, Nate’s hand stilled. He looked down at me, his gray eyes performing a rapid, analytical sweep of my face. “You are mad.” I blinked, opening my mouth to deny it, but Nate was already running through his mental checklist. “Is this because you asked me to hand you your sunscreen this morning, and I accidentally gave you your foundation?” “…No.” I twitched. He kept going. “Is it because I was three minutes late replying to your text? Heather, I swear to you, I was in the middle of a board meeting.” “Nate, I said I’m not mad—” “I figured it out,” he interrupted, his jaw tight, looking as if he’d just solved a complex algorithm. “It’s because yesterday you asked me why there are twelve months in a year, and I said I didn’t know.” … I stared at him, utterly speechless. A wave of profound guilt washed over me. Looking back, I realized exactly how unhinged and demanding I had been over the past few months. God, I was a monster. By the time I snapped out of my spiral, Nate had already swept me off my feet. “What are you doing?” I gasped, clutching his shoulders, frantically trying to wiggle out of his grasp. Nate simply tightened his hold, carrying me down the hall and into the living room. He sat down on the expansive Restoration Hardware sofa, keeping me firmly perched on his lap. Beneath me, the solid, muscular planes of his thighs felt like a trap. I went pale, avoiding his gaze because the guilt was practically eating me alive. Then, two fingers caught my chin, forcing me to look at him. “Heather,” he said, his voice deadly serious. “Didn’t you tell me last week that whenever you’re mad, the only cure is for me to carry you?” I swallowed hard, my throat sandpaper-dry. “I… I made that up. I was just messing with you.” “You don’t ever have to carry me again.” Nate’s gaze dropped to my lips. I watched his Adam’s apple bob slowly against his throat. Finally, his eyes flicked back to mine, his voice dropping ten degrees. “Noted.” 5 That night, I didn’t sneak into Nate’s bedroom like I usually did. When I came out of the master bathroom, my face freshly scrubbed, I stopped dead in my tracks. Nate was walking into my bedroom, holding his pillow. I froze. Without breaking eye contact, he climbed onto my mattress, pulled back the duvet, and patted the empty space beside him. My feet were nailed to the floor. Half my spine broke out in a cold sweat. “What are you doing?” He raised an eyebrow, looking at me like I was the one being unreasonable. “Sleeping. Together.” “I’m actually feeling really exhausted tonight,” I stammered, wrapping my silk robe tighter around myself. “I think I want to sleep alone. Is that okay?” Nate’s breathing hitched. A microscopic crease formed between his brows. “If I recall correctly, the last time I suggested sleeping in separate beds, you gave me the silent treatment for three days.” “Well… you know. Hormones. Sometimes a girl just wants her space,” I offered weakly. That excuse only deepened the crease between his eyes. He sat there, studying me in the dim light of the bedside lamp. The silence stretched until the air in the room felt thick and suffocating. Finally, he spoke, his voice quiet but incredibly sharp. “Heather, there is something very wrong with you today.” “No there isn’t.” My heart hammered against my ribs, and I desperately lunged for a change of subject. “Nate, seriously… do you ever think I’m just way too annoying?” My question seemed to throw him off balance. He rubbed his jaw, looking uncharacteristically flustered. “I wouldn’t say that. I’m just… still adjusting…” “Exactly! You’re adjusting, meaning it’s not natural!” I interrupted, slapping my thigh for emphasis. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. I’ve been totally out of line, moving in here just because of the families. But looking at it objectively? We really aren’t a good fit.” I talked fast, the words spilling out before I could lose my nerve. “I think I’m going to pack up and move back to my apartment near campus in a few days. What do you think?” I slurred the “not a good fit” part, praying he would just let it slide and we could quietly go our separate ways. The room went dead silent. The kind of silence that precedes a hurricane. Nate stared at me, his eyes dark and entirely unreadable. When he spoke, he enunciated every single syllable. “Did you just say we aren’t a good fit?” “I just mean, with graduation coming up, things are chaotic, and if I move back…” “Heather. Do you think we aren’t a good fit?” His voice was heavier now, a low, dangerous frequency that vibrated in my chest. My heart skipped a beat. I decided to just rip the band-aid off. “Yes.” We weren’t a fit. We were never supposed to be a fit. What else was there to say? 6 But surprisingly, Nate didn’t explode. He looked at me for three agonizing seconds. Then, he reached out, caught my wrist, pulled me down, and pressed his mouth firmly against mine. What?! I froze completely, my brain short-circuiting as his lips moved over mine. When he pulled back, he looked utterly unfazed, though the tips of his ears were burning a dark, telltale red. “There. Today’s kiss is officially logged. Are you going to behave now?” I clenched my hands into fists, my fingernails biting into my palms. I wanted to slap myself. This was the karma I deserved for conditioning this man like a Pavlovian dog. The boomerang had come back and hit me right between the eyes. “Nate, I wasn’t throwing a tantrum because I wanted a kiss,” I said, taking a shaky breath, trying to inject some rationality into the room. “Actually, to be clear, I’m not throwing a tantrum at all. I’m saying… can we stop the kissing? Permanently?” Nate’s brow furrowed so deeply it looked painful. “But you told me that people in a relationship have to kiss every single day to maintain intimacy.” A beat passed. A dark realization dawned in his eyes. “Oh. I get it. Are you mad because I didn’t use tongue?” Before I could even process the absurdity of the sentence, he leaned in again. I thought I was going to die of sheer mortification. I threw my hand over his mouth, effectively blocking him. Seeing the sheer panic in my eyes and the light sheen of sweat on my forehead, Nate let out a low, breathless laugh against my palm. “Look how tense you are. It’s not like it’s our first time.” He pulled my hand away, his expression softening into something devastatingly tender. “Come on. Get in bed.” There was absolutely no way I was getting in that bed with him. It took me ten minutes of pleading and physical maneuvering to finally push him out of my room. By the time he stood in the hallway, his face was like thunder. “So, that’s it then? You’re just completely inconsolable today?” I didn’t dare answer, but I held the door firmly, my stance resolute. Before he turned away, Nate let out a short, bitter laugh. “Fine. We don’t ever have to sleep in the same bed again.” “Not that I care anyway.” 7 With graduation looming, I genuinely did have a lot on my plate. It provided the perfect cover. I avoided the penthouse for several days. Then, the phone call came. Nate’s voice was crisp, cold, and utterly terrifying. “Did you actually move back to your apartment?” “Why wasn’t I informed?” “When are you coming back?” The rapid-fire interrogation left me slightly breathless. “I probably won’t be coming back for a while,” I said, glancing down at my watch, desperate for a lifeline. “I’m drowning in my thesis. I barely have time to grab a coffee, let alone commute.” At that, the icy tension over the line seemed to thaw just a fraction. Nate’s voice dropped, slipping into a lazy, persuasive cadence. “That works out perfectly. I made a reservation at that omakase place you love. I also bought you those fuzzy bear slippers you pointed out. Didn’t you say your heels were killing you?” He paused, letting the bait dangle. “We’ll get dinner, and then maybe catch a movie?” The sheer temptation in his voice made me hesitate. God, I was weak. Sensing my internal struggle, Nate ruthlessly upped the ante. “If you don’t want to go out, we can stay in. I learned how to make those molten lava cakes you’re obsessed with. For dessert.” Lava cake?! I practically swallowed my own tongue. Stars danced in my eyes. But with Herculean effort, I forced myself to refuse. Nate clicked his tongue, drawing out his words. “I almost forgot. I had a few new dresses and some jewelry sent over. You’re really not going to come try them on?” “N-no. I’m not,” I croaked, the words tasting like ash. “Maybe another time.” I had read once that a truly powerful woman could conquer her own desires. If I couldn’t resist designer clothes and chocolate, how was I ever going to untangle this mess? Besides, if I caved now, all this agonizing distance would be for nothing. I just needed to find the right moment to sit him down and tell him the truth. I was desperate to hang up before I cracked. But just as I pulled the phone away, Nate called my name. My heart stalled. “The penthouse is completely empty without you here,” he said, his voice stripped of all its armor, raw and quiet. “Come home.” A warm spring breeze whipped across the campus quad, catching my hair. I pressed my free hand tightly against my chest, desperately trying to keep my heart from beating right out of my ribcage. 8 In the end, I stayed away. So, when Nate Prescott’s sleek black Range Rover materialized on campus a few days later, I wasn’t entirely surprised. The timing, however, was violently unfortunate. I was currently standing under an oak tree, being cornered by Cameron, a junior from my department, who was stammering through a very earnest, very public confession of love. He was telling me how he’d had a crush on me since his freshman year, and with me graduating, he didn’t want to live with the regret of never saying anything. I was literally opening my mouth to let him down gently when my phone started vibrating. Nate. His voice came through the speaker, cold, sharp, and laced with absolute venom. He didn’t even bother with a greeting. “Who is the guy standing next to you?” I froze. My head snapped around, scanning the perimeter. Sure enough, parked illegally by the gates, was the Range Rover. Nate was in the driver’s seat. The glare of the windshield obscured his expression, but I didn’t need to see his face to know he was furious. Panic and a desperate need to sever our ties collided in my brain, producing a spectacular lie. “He’s my boyfriend. Why?” The breathing on the other end of the line fractured. A heavy, suffocating silence stretched out for what felt like hours. Then, Nate let out a hollow, mocking laugh. He said a single word— “Oh”— and the line went dead. I stared at the black screen of my phone. Knowing Nate’s pride, I thought, he’ll put the car in drive and never look back. Unlike my sudden internal devastation, Cameron was buzzing with renewed energy. He rubbed the back of his neck, a massive grin spreading across his face. “Heather, did you just tell that guy I was your—” “Forget what I just said. There was a reason I did that,” I said, cutting him off, a sudden wave of exhaustion washing over me. “Don’t read into it. I just needed him to hear that.” Cameron blinked, his smile faltering. But he was young and resilient. A second later, his shoulders squared. “That’s okay. I know a lot of guys are into you. I can wait. I’ll just keep liking you until you finally notice me.” I stared at him, wanting to tell him not to waste his time. But before I could get the words out, he plowed ahead. “It’s almost noon. Let me buy you lunch?” He enthusiastically pointed out a new café that had opened down the street. Looking at his eager, hopeful eyes, I couldn’t find the heart to shoot him down completely. I was just about to ask if he had friends we could drag along as buffers, when my phone went off again. It wasn’t a call. It was a rapid-fire barrage of texts. [Making out with me every day while you have a boyfriend. You are truly something else.] [So what you told me the other night was true.] [You got bored. You suddenly decided we ‘aren’t a good fit.’] [Fine. Great. Keep being a spoiled brat.] [I’m sitting here dealing with the fallout of this alone, but it’s fine. I’m not hurt. I’m not tired at all.] [What do you want me to do, send you guys an Edible Arrangement to celebrate?] [I clearly can’t control you. Do whatever you want.] [By the way, his Jordans are fake.] [Your taste in men is absolute garbage.] 9 I stared at the screen, my jaw physically dropping. Was this the same Nate Prescott? The ruthless, untouchable CEO? Before, I was the only one who sent unhinged walls of text.

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