Category: English

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.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “404094”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

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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The day the company hit rock bottom, the man I’d loved for five years held me and sobbed through the night. My heart broke for him. I was ready to swallow my pride and crawl back to the father I hadn’t seen in half a decade—the man I’d sworn to excise from my life like a tumor. The rumors said the former underworld kingpin had finally scrubbed his money clean; his empire now stretched across every corner of the city. I wanted to surprise him. I didn’t say a word. I just spent the afternoon cooking a feast, waiting for him to come home so I could tell him the nightmare was over. But I never got to eat that dinner. One sip of my drink, and the world began to tilt. I went limp in his arms, the floor rushing up to meet me. “Regina, baby, please understand… it took everything I had just to get a meeting with Big Mick,” I heard him whisper, his voice sounding like it was underwater. “He told me himself. The CEO of Summit Holdings is looking for a woman. He’s offering ten million dollars for anyone who matches your description. You’re a perfect fit.” “Don’t hate me. If you have to blame someone, blame yourself for being too good to me when I had nothing. You’re too much for a guy like me to keep.” “Don’t worry. I heard they’re legitimate now. You’ll be living in luxury. You’ll be happy…” As my consciousness frayed at the edges, the words Summit Holdings hit me like a physical blow. Suddenly, the terror vanished, replaced by a cold, surreal irony. Summit Holdings? That was my father’s company. The “legitimate” front for the man who had spent five years trying to hunt me down, desperate to play the doting parent. He was selling me to my own father. If Nelson wanted me to live a life of luxury, he was about to get exactly what he asked for. … 1 The sedative was heavy. I was tossed into the backseat like a piece of luggage. My head felt like it was splitting open, and my limbs were useless weights. In the front seat, the conversation between Nelson and his assistant, Amber, drifted back to me with agonizing clarity. “Nelson, are you really going through with this? She’s been with you for five years,” Amber said. Her voice lacked any real conviction; she sounded more curious than concerned. “What choice do I have? The company is dead in the water. Summit has been looking for her for years. They put a ten-million-dollar bounty on her head.” Nelson’s voice was a jagged mess of exhaustion and cold pragmatism. “Ten million. It covers every debt we have. It’s a clean slate.” I kept my eyes closed, drifting through the fog of our history. Five years ago, my mother caught my father in what she thought was an affair. The stress sent her into a tailspin, landing her in a hospital bed she never left. I hated that man. I hated him for breaking her, and I hated myself for carrying his blood. At eighteen, I walked out. I changed my name, moved across the state, and swore I’d never touch a cent of his blood money. Then I met Nelson. Back then, he was just a guy with a dream and a cramped studio apartment in a bad neighborhood. He worked twenty-hour days, but he’d always come home with a hot coffee for me. He promised me that once the company made it, he’d give me the world. I believed him. I ate instant noodles with him for months. I pulled all-nighters helping him with spreadsheets. I begged clients to give him a chance. I watched him grow from a one-man show into a firm with fifty employees. I knew my father was looking for me. But I stayed hidden. It wasn’t just spite; it was a matter of pride. I wanted to wait until Nelson was a success, so I could walk back into my father’s mansion on my own terms—to show him I didn’t need him. And this was the payoff. Nelson had succeeded. And now, he was cashing me in. “Nelson, aren’t you afraid she’ll hate you when she wakes up?” Amber asked. “Let her hate me.” There was a brief silence. “Regina, don’t blame me. I’m at the end of my rope. You’ve suffered through the lean years with me—you of all people should understand. You wouldn’t want to see me lose everything, would you?” Understand? I don’t understand a damn thing about you. I tried to scream, to lash out, but all that came out was a pathetic, muffled groan. “Summit Holdings isn’t a bad place,” he continued, his voice dropping an octave as if he were trying to convince himself. “Mr. Rossi has gone legit. He’s been searching for this specific girl for half a decade. Word is, his wife died years ago and he never remarried. Maybe… maybe he just wants a trophy wife. Isn’t that better than struggling with me?” My brain felt like it was exploding. Rossi? Mr. Rossi? That was my father. The man who had been scouring the country for his daughter. You’re selling me to my own father? And you think he wants to marry me? Nelson, you delusional sociopath. I wanted to laugh, but the muscles in my face wouldn’t move. I could only lie there, paralyzed, listening to his self-serving monologue. “Regina, you love me so much. You’ll forgive me eventually. You’re saving me. You’re saving the company. You’re saving everything we built together…” Everything we built? Five years ago, when he held me and told me I was his soulmate, he sounded just as sincere. Last night, when he cried about the bankruptcy, he sounded just as sincere. Now, he was selling me and convinced himself it was a sacrifice I was making for him. The car moved fast. The scenery outside the window began to look hauntingly familiar. I’d run away from these streets five years ago. The car slowed as we approached a massive set of wrought-iron gates. The Rossi Estate. The gold-leaf lettering mocked me. I was home. Nelson killed the engine but didn’t move. “Nelson?” Amber whispered, touching his arm. He said nothing. Amber watched him for a moment, her voice turning soft and manipulative. “Are you having second thoughts?” Still, silence. Amber let out a sharp, cynical laugh. “Think about the company, Nelson. Think about…” She paused, and I heard the rustle of fabric. “Think about me. And think about the baby. Do you want our child to grow up in a trailer park, or do you want the life we talked about?” A tremor went through Nelson’s shoulders. A baby? The last string of my heart snapped. Five years of memories. Five years of cold pizza, late nights, and shared dreams. It was all a lie. He’d already replaced me. She was already carrying his future. I was just the collateral. “Regina.” Nelson suddenly turned around, looking at me. I forced my eyes open, locking my gaze onto his. He flinched, clearly not expecting me to be conscious. But the guilt lasted only a second. He gritted his teeth, his expression hardening into something ugly. “I’m sorry.” He climbed out of the car, and together with Amber, they dragged me out into the cold night air. 2 Nelson hauled me toward the gatehouse. Two security guards stepped out, looking bored until they saw my face. “State your business,” one said. Nelson offered a greasy, desperate smile. “I’m here to see… uh, Mick. Tell him I have the girl.” The guard looked me up and down, his eyes lingering on my disheveled state with blatant disgust. He didn’t say a word, just jerked his head toward the interior. “Get inside.” Nelson and Amber lugged me through the grounds. The estate was massive—it had grown even more opulent since I left. We passed through a grove of birch trees to a detached guest villa. The guard opened the door. “Wait here.” He disappeared. Nelson dumped me onto a leather sofa. Amber stood by the window, checking her phone every few seconds. The drugs were wearing off slightly. I was still weak, but I could wiggle my fingers. My throat felt like it was filled with glass, but I could finally make a sound. Nelson sat beside me. He watched me for a long time, then reached out and took my hand. “Regina.” His voice was soft again, that practiced, soothing tone he used whenever he messed up. “I know you’re angry. But think about everything I’ve done for you over the last five years. If the company goes under, I’m nothing.” He leaned in closer. “When Mr. Rossi gets here, just… cooperate. Don’t make a scene. Later on, when he’s bored with you, you can come back to me. I’ll take you back. I promise.” I stared at him, my expression blank. He took my silence for hesitation and squeezed my hand tighter. “I swear, I’ll treat you better than ever. We’ll have the money, we’ll have everything.” Suddenly, Amber marched over and slapped his hand away from mine. She reached down and pinched my arm, hard. I gasped at the sharp sting of pain. “You little bitch,” Amber hissed, glaring at me. “Stop acting so innocent. You’ve spent five years riding his coattails, and now that it’s time to pay the bill, you’re going to act like a martyr? You loved him, didn’t you? Well, prove it. Save him.” Nelson caught her wrist. “Amber, take it easy.” He turned back to me, his voice returning to that sickeningly sweet pitch. “Regina, don’t mind her. She’s just stressed because of the baby. Just be a good girl for Mr. Rossi. Once this hurdle is cleared, I’ll owe you everything.” He reached out to stroke my cheek. My voice finally came back. It was dry, a raspy whisper, but it carried. “You… pathetic… animal.” Nelson’s hand froze in mid-air. His face transformed. The tenderness vanished, replaced by shock, and then a searing, bright red rage. “What did you say?” “I said… you’re a pathetic animal.” My voice was hoarse, but every syllable was a dagger. Nelson’s features twisted into a mask of fury. He lunged forward and slapped me across the face. Crack. My head snapped to the side. The metallic tang of blood filled my mouth. “Ungrateful bitch!” He stood up, towering over me. “I give you five years of my life, I talk to you like a human being, and you throw it back in my face?” “Look at where you are, Regina! Look at who I am! You have nothing without me!” I lifted my head, my hair matted against my face, and looked him dead in the eye. “I will destroy you.” He blinked, then let out a sharp, jagged laugh. He grabbed me by the hair, pulling my head back until I was forced to look at him. “Destroy me? Do you have any idea how much this company means to me? You should be honored you’re finally useful for something!” My scalp burned, but I didn’t make a sound. I just watched him with cold, dead eyes. Amber stepped up and kicked me in the shin. “Still staring? You really don’t know where you are, do you?” She leaned down, patting my bruised cheek. “Let me make this clear: Nelson loves me. You were just a placeholder. If you really loved him, you’d be happy to do this.” Nelson pushed her back slightly, then knelt down again. He let go of my hair and cupped my face with a horrifying gentleness. “Regina, stop fighting. Listen to me. Just make Mr. Rossi happy tonight. I won’t even care that you’re ‘dirty’ afterward. I’ll still marry you. How about that?” Amber scoffed in the background, but didn’t argue. I looked at this man. The man I had shared a bed with for eighteen hundred nights. The man who had cried on my shoulder. He was leaning in, waiting for my submission. I opened my mouth. He thought I was going to agree. He leaned closer. I bit his ear as hard as I possibly could. 3 Nelson let out a blood-curdling scream and threw me back against the sofa. My mouth was filled with warm copper; blood from his ear began to pour down his neck. “You fucking whore!” He lost it. He grabbed a heavy glass ashtray from the coffee table and slammed it into the side of my head. The world went black for a second. I slumped onto the cushions. Before I could even register the pain, his fists started raining down on me. It hurt. God, it hurt. “I’ll kill you! You think you’re special? You’re just a piece of meat I’m selling!” He was panting, his voice a guttural snarl. “I tried to be nice! I tried to do this the easy way, and you had to pull this shit!” Amber rushed over, grabbing his arm. “Nelson, stop! Stop! If you break her, Rossi won’t pay! That’s ten million dollars you’re hitting!” Nelson shoved her away and backhanded me one last time. My vision was swimming, my mouth a mess of blood. He raised his heavy boot to stomp on me, but a voice like thunder boomed from the doorway. “ENOUGH!” Nelson’s foot froze in mid-air. I forced myself to look up. Standing in the doorway was a man with a long, jagged scar running from his temple to his jaw. Mick. I remembered him. Five years ago, he was a low-level thug, the guy who fetched coffee for the real players in my father’s circle. Now, he was wearing a tailored suit, flanked by two massive bodyguards. He carried an aura of genuine power now. Nelson’s face transformed instantly. He pulled back his foot, wiped his bloody hands on his trousers, and practically sprinted toward Mick with a subservient bow. “Mr. Mick! Sir! I’m… I’m Nelson. Nelson Woods. We spoke on the phone.” Mick didn’t even look at him. His eyes were locked on me. I was curled on the sofa, bleeding, my clothes torn, looking like something dragged out of a wreck. His brow furrowed. “This is the woman? The one the boss is looking for?” Nelson nodded frantically. “Yes, yes! She’s the one. Matches the description perfectly. I made sure of it.” Mick walked over and looked down at me, his eyes cold. “You sure?” Nelson leaned in, a sycophantic grin on his face. “Certain, sir. Mr. Rossi mentioned a specific heart-shaped birthmark on her left chest. Look, I’ll show you—” He actually reached down to rip my shirt open. I clutched my collar with the last of my strength, my nails digging into the back of his hand. Nelson hissed in pain, his face darkening as he raised his hand to strike me again. “Stop,” Mick barked. Nelson stopped instantly, retreating a few steps with a sheepish grin. I looked up at the scarred man, my voice a dry, rattling ghost of itself. “Mick.” Mick’s eyes narrowed. I didn’t stop. I stared right into his pupils. “You’re Mick ‘The Blade’ Sullivan, aren’t you?” His expression shifted. He reached down and hoisted me up by my collar. “You think you can get cozy with me, sweetheart?” His face was inches from mine, the scent of expensive tobacco and old violence rolling off him. “Who do you think you are, trying to use my name?” I was dangling, my feet barely touching the floor, gasping for air. Nelson rushed over and slapped me across the mouth. Hard. “Don’t you dare use his name, you trash!” He turned back to Mick, his voice dripping with honey. “Don’t mind her, sir. She’s just a brat who needs to be taught a lesson. If she gives the boss any trouble later, I have ways of making her talk.” Amber piped up from the corner, smirking. “Exactly. A big man like Mr. Mick doesn’t have time for your games, Regina. You’re lucky he hasn’t killed you yet.” The slap had made my head spin. I spit a mouthful of blood onto Mick’s polished Italian leather shoes. He stiffened, his eyes darkening to a dangerous black. He dropped me, and I collapsed onto the floor. “You’ve got a lot of nerve,” he whispered. I stayed there, huddled on the carpet, every inch of me screaming in pain. But I forced my head up. I looked at him and said, word for word: “Mick. Go get Joseph Rossi. Now.” 4 He froze. Then, a slow, mocking laugh rumbled in his chest. “You’re telling me to go get the boss?” He knelt down, pinching my chin between his fingers, forcing me to look up. “Do you have any idea who Mr. Rossi is? Do you have any idea who I am now?” His grip tightened, feeling like he was going to crush my jaw. “Just because the boss is looking for you doesn’t mean you’re someone. You’re just a job.” Nelson chimed in from the sidelines. “She’s delusional, sir! Mr. Mick is one of the top guys at Summit now. Rossi’s right hand. You think you can just order him around?” Amber laughed. “She really thinks she’s a princess. It’s pathetic.” Mick let go of me and stood up, looking down with icy contempt. “The boss is busy tonight. I’m the one handling this. If you’re a good girl, you’ll sit there until he has a free minute. If you’re not…” He paused, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. “I have plenty of ways to make you behave.” Nelson’s eyes flickered with a dark thought. He leaned into Mick’s ear. “Mr. Mick… since she’s being so difficult… maybe you should… take the edge off her?” He lowered his voice, but I heard every word. “The boss will never know. Once she’s had a taste of what you can do, she’ll be much more compliant for him.” Amber’s eyes lit up with malicious glee. Mick looked at Nelson, saying nothing. Nelson pushed harder. “I’m a vault, sir. I’ll never say a word. If she tries to tell him, I’ll tell him she’s a pathological liar. Consider it a favor—teach this bitch some respect.” Mick remained silent for a few seconds. Then, he smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. He knelt back down and grabbed my face again. “Hear that? Your boyfriend wants to give you to me as a gift.” “Tell me… how should I thank him?” I said nothing. He suddenly let go and stood up. “Fine.” He turned to Nelson. “You’ve got instincts, kid. I like that.” Nelson’s face lit up with pure, unadulterated joy. “Anything to make you happy, sir! Anything!” Mick waved a hand. “Take her upstairs.” Two bodyguards stepped forward, grabbing me by the armpits and dragging me toward the stairs. Nelson’s grin was so wide it looked like his face might split. Amber leaned against him, watching me like I was a dying animal. As they dragged me past Mick, I managed to hook my foot against the bannister, forcing them to a halt. I looked Mick in the eye. “Mick.” “My father hasn’t been looking for me for five years because he wants a mistress.” His eyes twitched. I kept going. “I’m his daughter.” Mick went dead still. Then, he exploded into laughter. It was a loud, ugly sound that echoed through the marble hallway. “You?” He pointed a finger at my nose. “You’re Joseph Rossi’s daughter?” Nelson joined in, cackling. “Don’t listen to her, sir! She’s just a liar trying to save her skin. If she were Rossi’s daughter, would I have been able to keep her in a shithole apartment for five years? Would I be selling her?” Amber was doubled over. “Oh my god, a princess! A princess who lived on ramen and worked a nine-to-five! That’s rich!” Mick stopped laughing. His face turned stone-cold. “Listen to me, little girl. I’m giving you one last chance.” He leaned in, his gaze like a blade. “Go upstairs. Behave. After tonight, you’ll still be the girl the boss wanted.” “But if you say one more word of this bullshit…” He leaned closer. “I will end you right here and bury you under the patio.” I looked at him, enunciating every syllable. “Are you deaf? I told you to go get Joseph. Now. Immediately.” “Because if you don’t…” I spat a glob of blood directly onto his cheek. “You won’t survive the consequences.” The room went silent. Dead silent. Mick slowly reached up and wiped the blood from his face. His eyes changed. He wasn’t looking at a person anymore; he was looking at a corpse. “Fine,” he whispered. “Fine.” “I gave you a chance.” He stepped back. “Strip her. Hold her down.” “If I don’t break you tonight, my name isn’t Mick Sullivan.” Nelson didn’t hesitate. He lunged forward to pin my arms. Amber was cheering. “Hold her! Let’s see how much she talks then!” I was slammed onto the floor, my face pressed into the rug. Mick walked over and ground his heel into my hand. I felt the bones groan. The pain was blinding. He leaned down to my ear. “You wanted me to call the boss? You said I couldn’t handle the consequences?” “I’m going to show you exactly what I can handle.” He stood up. “Take it off.” I closed my eyes. And then, the front door was kicked off its hinges.

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My twin brother became a household name overnight by playing the tragic, ethereal lead in a viral gay romance series. To protect his “pure, untouchable” image, I didn’t hesitate to take the fall for every single one of his PR disasters. Smoking? Yeah, that was me. Partying at a club until 4 AM? Me again. Caught kissing the newest “it-girl” in a parking lot? Guilty as charged. The internet had a field day with us: [Mother of the year: She has two kids, one’s gay, and the other… well, she’s trying her best.] [LMAO, did these twins swap their sexual orientations in the womb or what?] That night, Davis Blackwood—the crown prince of the East Coast elite—posted a tweet that broke the internet. “Funny. When we broke up, she told me I wasn’t her type. I didn’t realize she meant she wasn’t into my entire gender.” Wait. What? The tea is boiling, everyone. Grab a cup. 1. My brother, Cody Miller, and I are twins. Except for the ten-inch height difference, we are carbon copies. He’s six-one; I’m five-three. He launched his career by playing the “fragile beauty” in a high-fantasy M/M drama. I launched mine by getting an extra scoop of mashed potatoes in the college cafeteria because the lunch lady thought I was a “handsome young man.” “You have such a delicate face, sweetheart,” she’d say. Thanks, ma’am. But I’m a girl. While Cody was becoming a superstar, I was in a cramped dorm room living off instant ramen and dreams. The night his first series, The Master’s Shadow, premiered, the streaming servers crashed three times. The comments were unhinged: [HE IS MY WIFE! MY DESTINED WIFE!] [That waist! Those eyes! The vulnerability! I’m literally dying!] [He is a literal treasure!] In the show, Cody’s character—a cold, distant mentor—was pinned against a wall and kissed by his demonic disciple. His eyes were rimmed with red, a perfect mix of resistance and desire. I watched it and felt my skin crawl so hard I could have retreated into my own skeleton. He called me the moment he got his first real paycheck. “Sis, I’m taking care of you now.” I looked at the notification for the fifty-thousand-dollar wire transfer and felt tears prick my eyes. I threw the ramen in the trash and ordered a five-course meal from the best bistro in town. “From this day forward,” I declared, “your scandals are mine.” Cody was touched. He actually sniffled. “Casey, you’re the only one who truly has my back.” “Don’t mention it,” I said, puffing out my chest. “You’re a queer icon now, Cody. Your brand is ‘Ice King.’ You can’t have a single crack in that porcelain skin.” “Actually,” he stammered, “I play the lead in a romance, Casey. I’m not a monk.” “Irrelevant!” I snapped. “Your fans want you pure, untouchable, and ideally, not even human. I’m the designated sinner now.” “I think you have a very skewed perception of my job…” I didn’t care. I saw the business opportunity. The Professional Scapegoat. Salary: Six figures. I was in. 2. Cody didn’t just become famous; he became an obsession. People dug up photos of him in a princess dress from when he was seven. #CodyMillerPrincessDress #BornToBeTheOne #CodyMillerIsMyWife I sat in my apartment scrolling through Twitter, fuming. Why was it “destiny” when he wore a dress, but when I wore one, people asked if I was “trying a bit too hard to be feminine”? The world is remarkably unkind to actual women. Suddenly, my phone buzzed. It was Cody’s manager. Six exclamation marks. “WE HAVE A PROBLEM!!!!!!” My heart skipped. Three seconds later, the hashtag #CodyMillerSmokingAtTheClub hit number one. The grainy video showed a slim figure in a black hoodie leaning back in a VIP booth, a cigarette between long fingers, his profile blurred by neon lights. Even with the mask, those eyes—those deep, soulful eyes that looked at a dog like it was the love of his life—were unmistakably “Cody.” The comment section was a battlefield. [I’m out. I can’t believe ‘my wife’ is a smoker.] [Smoking indoors? Isn’t that a violation?] [The club? Please. I heard he was making out with girls in the back.] That last comment was mine. Don’t ask. My finger slipped. I deleted it immediately, but the internet is forever. The “Cody Miller Is Into Women” rumors began to spiral. Cody called, his voice shaking. “Casey… that video is you.” “Excuse me?” I bristled. “I was in the library writing a thesis last night!” “It’s you,” he insisted. “You were wearing my hoodie. We’re twins. We look the same in low light. And you’re wearing those three-inch platform sneakers again, aren’t you?” “…” “…” Ten minutes later, a notification popped up: Venmo: Cody Miller sent you $20,000. I immediately logged into my burner account, CaseyM_Real. I posted: [That’s me in the video. I’m his sister. We’re twins. I’m the smoker, I’m the club rat. My brother was just there to pick me up. Move along.] I attached a photo of us together—same hoodie, same eyes, same… wait, why am I still shorter than him? Whatever. Post. The narrative shifted instantly. #CodyMillersHotSister #ProtectiveBrotherCody #TwinGoals I stared at the word “hot.” It felt like a consolation prize. Cody was “ethereal,” and I was “hot”? Cody sent another thirty thousand. Note: Emotional damages and a fund for taller sneakers. I took the money and ordered ten pairs of insoles. Next time, I was going to be six feet tall. 3. The first hit was a success. I got a taste for it. There’s a strange thrill in being a superstar’s shadow. The money comes fast, the insults come faster, but I didn’t care. I could count cash faster than the trolls could type. Then, the second crisis hit. Cody messaged me: “Casey, SOS. Life or death.” My eyes lit up. “What’s the budget?” “…Can you ask what the problem is first?” “The problem is secondary to the price point.” “One hundred thousand.” “Deal. What happened?” “You didn’t even haggle!” “Do you want me to come over or not?” I went to his penthouse and found him staring at his phone in a trance. On the screen was a video. A dimly lit hotel corridor. A slim figure in a white silk shirt was being pinned against the wall by a woman. She was on her tiptoes, seemingly mid-kiss. Even blurred, that silhouette, that jawline… it was Cody. I blew up. “Cody! You’re dating?! And a woman?! Do you have any idea what this does to your brand? To your ‘wives’?” If you’re going to eat from the plate of queer romance, you have to respect the fans who cooked the meal. They can handle him kissing a man; they cannot handle him kissing a girl. It’s the principle of the thing. “Can you just… watch the whole thing?” Cody muttered, burying his face in his hands. I watched. I didn’t recognize the woman personally, but I knew her face. Sophie St. James. A rising starlet who just hit it big with a teen rom-com. Cody looked miserable. “We were at the wrap party. She said she was a fan. She wanted a photo. Then she just… slammed me into the wall. I didn’t even realize what was happening until…” He touched his cheek. “Why is she so strong?” “…” “So you got harrassed?” “Yes.” “And you didn’t push her off?” “I tried! She wouldn’t budge!” My brother. Six-one. The nation’s heartthrob. Pinned by a five-foot-four actress. No one would believe it. But the video was already leaked. The headlines were screaming: #CodyMillerSophieStJamesKiss #CodyMillerScandal #TheLieIsOut Cody’s fandom was in a state of nuclear meltdown. [I don’t believe it! He’s being forced!] [The video is real. I’m burning my merch.] [Wait, does he look like he’s struggling?] [Struggling? He’s a foot taller than her!] I looked at Cody. “Are you sure you pushed?” “I am positive!” “With all your strength?” “…I didn’t want to hurt her.” I sighed. Cody wasn’t weak; he was just too damn polite. He spent so much time playing a “submissive” role that he’d forgotten how to be a person who says ‘no’ in the real world. He was a professional victim. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll take the fall.” “How?” I smirked. “You forget. We have the same face.” 4. I tweeted: [That’s me in the video. Sophie and I are exploring things. Everyone has a type. Mind your business.] The internet exploded. [Wait… what?! Is this a coming out post?] [So… Cody’s sister is gay?] [LMAO, the Miller twins literally swapped their souls.] [Actually, she’s kind of a badass. I’m into it.] [Is it just me, or is the sister even more ‘Cody’ than Cody is?] Sophie St. James didn’t say a word. Why would she? She was loving the clout. Ten minutes later, she posted: [Just a dinner between friends! Don’t overthink it! <3] She attached a photo of her and "Cody"—a cozy, intimate shot where she’s tucked into his side. Cody turned pale. "That’s Photoshopped. I never took that picture with her." "I know," I said. "But she’s a leech." "What do we do?" "Cody, you forget who I am." I posted again: [Sophie, honey, your editor is great, but next time, remember: my brother has a tiny mole under his left eye. I don't. Check the zoom.] I attached a high-res selfie of Cody’s face and a zoomed-in shot of Sophie’s "cozy" photo. The "Cody" in her photo had no mole. The backlash was instant and brutal. [HOLY CRAP. SHE PHOTOSHOPPED HIM IN?] [Sophie is a psycho. Clout chasing is a disease.] [Casey is a queen. I’m stanning.] [Wait, so Casey actually kissed her or not?] Sophie deleted her post and went ghost. Cody sent me another hundred thousand. Note: Scapegoat fee + P-eye detective fee. I was feeling pretty good about myself. Until three minutes later, when my "Important Person" notification rang. I thought it was Sophie trying to fight. I rolled up my sleeves, ready for war. But the name on the screen made my blood turn to ice. @DavisBlackwood: [She told me I wasn't her type. I didn't realize she meant she wasn't into my entire gender.] Wait. 5. My history with Davis Blackwood is... complicated. It started three years ago.

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Inside the VIP fitting room of the Givenchy bridal boutique on Fifth Avenue, the custom haute couture gown I had waited six months for was currently draped over the body of Betty Sinclair, Hollywood’s newest “It” girl. The boutique manager stood by the velvet sofa, trembling, breaking out in a cold sweat as she looked at Tristan. Tristan stood up, his hands smoothly adjusting the cascading tulle of Betty’s train. His tone was casual, laced with that effortless arrogance he carried everywhere. “She’s missing a show-stopping piece for the red carpet next week. What’s the big deal if she borrows it? Just pick something off the rack to make do for now. Don’t make a scene here.” Under the glaring fitting room lights, Betty twirled in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror, a radiant, triumphant smile playing on her lips. I looked at my own reflection in the adjacent mirror. I was wearing a simple cashmere sweater and jeans, looking utterly out of place in this cathedral of white silk and diamonds. Suddenly, the wedding I had spent an entire year meticulously planning felt like a grotesque punchline. I didn’t scream. I didn’t throw a tantrum. I simply slid the five-carat flawless diamond engagement ring off my left hand and placed it quietly on the glass coffee table. “You’re right, Tristan. Off-the-rack is perfectly fine,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “So, I’ll just find a groom who is perfectly fine with marrying me in one.” 1 The air in the bridal boutique instantly thickened, heavy and suffocating. Tristan’s hands froze on Betty’s skirt. He turned around slowly. Behind the gold-rimmed glasses, his dark eyes narrowed, sweeping over me with a cold, detached scrutiny. “Margot, what did you just say?” His voice carried that familiar, low hum of intimidation—the same tone he used to gut rival CEOs in the boardroom. I looked at his undeniably handsome face, and a sudden wave of nausea rolled through my stomach. “I said, the wedding is off.” My voice didn’t shake. Pfft. Betty, still posing in front of the mirror, suddenly covered her mouth, letting out a breathy, delicate giggle. Lifting the hem of the diamond-encrusted gown—my gown—she glided over to me. “Oh, Margot, don’t be so petty,” she cooed, her voice dripping with weaponized innocence. “Tristan is just stressed because I don’t have a dress that can hold the room at the Venice Film Festival.” She batted her doe eyes. “This dress… it’ll generate so much more commercial value on me, you know? You’re usually such a quiet, supportive stay-at-home fiancé. Why are you acting so immature when it actually matters?” She said his name so naturally. So intimately. I stared right through her. “Take it off.” Betty gasped, shrinking back behind Tristan’s broad shoulders, her eyes instantly welling with perfectly timed tears. “Tristan… Margot is being so mean to me. I’m scared.” Tristan instinctively shielded her, his brow knitting into a furious knot. He stepped toward me, his eyes flashing with raw impatience. “Have you lost your damn mind, Margot?” He spoke to me with a specific kind of cruelty, the kind reserved for something you own. “Betty is the cash cow of the agency. Funneling resources to her is for the future of our family. You don’t even work. You sit at home all day. Who exactly are you wearing a three-million-dollar dress for?” The sheer entitlement in his voice felt like a physical blow to my chest. Five years. Five years of shrinking myself, of managing his life, his diet, his fragile ego. And in his eyes, it amounted to: Who are you wearing it for? I took a deep, jagged breath, my fingernails biting into my palms. “Tristan, this is a custom piece. I went to Paris three times for the fittings.” My voice dropped to a whisper. “You gave it away without even asking me?” Tristan let out a short, hollow laugh. “Ask your opinion?” He closed the distance between us, his tall frame casting a shadow over me, his expensive cologne suddenly suffocating. “I paid the three million for this dress, Margot! The clothes on your back, the food you eat, the credit cards in your wallet—name one thing that doesn’t come from me.” “And you want to talk about opinions?” He reached out, his index finger jabbing hard into my collarbone. “Learn to be grateful, Margot. Don’t mistake the fact that I spoil you for permission to throw a tantrum in public.” I stared up at this aggressively arrogant man, and for the first time, he looked like a total stranger. He honestly didn’t think stripping his fiancée of her wedding dress was a betrayal. In his world, I wasn’t a partner. I was a pet. An accessory that lived off his scraps. 2 I was done wasting oxygen on him. I turned on my heel and headed straight for the glass double doors. “Stop right there!” Tristan barked. He lunged forward, his hand clamping down on my wrist like a steel vice. “Let go of me, Tristan!” I hissed, wincing as a sharp pain shot up my arm. Instead of letting go, he yanked me violently against his chest. He lowered his head, his lips brushing my ear, his voice a lethal, vibrating threat. “Don’t push your luck, Margot.” “Go pick out a ready-to-wear dress. The wedding happens next week as scheduled. If you play nice, once Betty’s press tour is over, I’ll rent out a private island in the Maldives and throw you an even bigger reception.” “But if you dare walk out that door today…” He paused, his eyes darkening to a pitch-black abyss. “I swear to God, not a single boutique in Manhattan will sell you so much as a veil.” I swallowed the agonizing pain in my wrist, tilted my chin up, and locked eyes with him. “You make me sick, Tristan.” With every ounce of adrenaline I had, I wrenched my arm free. A bright red, bruising ring was already blooming on my pale skin. I didn’t look back. I just walked. Behind me, I heard his arrogant, dismissive scoff. Then, the heavy, metallic click of the electronic lock. The thick glass doors of the boutique locked shut, trapping me on the inside. I spun around. Tristan was standing there, casually tossing the boutique manager’s master key fob in his hand. He looked at me through the glass partition, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. “I told you, Margot. You don’t go anywhere until I say you can.” I pounded my fists against the tempered glass. “Tristan! This is false imprisonment! Open the damn door!” “Imprisonment?” Tristan strolled back to the velvet sofa, sitting down and crossing his long legs with absolute leisure. “This is me teaching my future wife how things work.” Betty sidled up to him, draping herself over his shoulder, flashing me a sickly-sweet, triumphant smile. “Margot, just give it up. Tristan is doing this for your own good. It’s about to pour outside. You won’t even be able to get an Uber.” Tristan pulled his phone from his tailored suit jacket and dialed a number, holding my gaze the entire time. “Cancel all supplementary Amex black cards under Margot’s name. Revoke her access to the Four Seasons and the Plaza. And notify the black-car services—anyone who picks her up today loses the corporate account for my entire firm.” He hung up, walked over to the glass door, and tapped his knuckles against it. “Your pride is worthless, Margot.” “Without me, you can’t even afford a place to sleep in this city. I’m giving you two hours to think about what you’ve done. When you figure it out, get on your knees and beg me to let you back in.” The New York sky darkened rapidly. The wind howled down Fifth Avenue, and soon, a torrential, freezing rain began to fall. I stood shivering under the narrow awning outside the boutique, the icy spray soaking right through my clothes. I pulled out my phone. A dozen notifications instantly lit up the screen. [American Express: Your account has been suspended by the primary cardholder…] [Uber: We’re sorry, your Black SUV request has been overridden…] He wasn’t bluffing. He was using the immense power of his wealth to suffocate me, trying to break me until I remembered my “place” as his dependent. My teeth chattered uncontrollably, but I clenched my jaw and scrolled through my contacts. I wasn’t going to break. I hit dial on my best friend, Harper’s, number. “Harper, it’s me. Come get me. I’m stranded outside the Givenchy store on Fifth.” On the other end of the line, Harper’s voice broke into a terrified sob. “Margot… I’m so sorry…” 3 “Tristan just called my dad,” Harper cried, her voice muffled as if she were hiding in a closet. “He said if I come get you, he’ll pull the bridge loan for our Hudson Yards project tomorrow. Our family will go bankrupt. My dad locked me in my room… Margot, please, just apologize to him! He’s lost his mind!” My stomach plummeted into an endless, dark void. He had severed my last lifeline. Through the rain-streaked glass, I could see Tristan lounging inside, swirling a glass of vintage Pinot Noir. He watched me shivering in the storm like he was watching a mildly entertaining television show. Betty was kneeling on the plush carpet, massaging his calves. The scene burned itself into my retinas. In that single, excruciating moment, the last lingering embers of my love for him died completely. I realized then: you shouldn’t go digging for love in a dumpster. Trash belongs in the garbage. I took a deep breath, the icy air searing my lungs, and shoved my numb hands into my pockets. If no one was coming for me, I would walk. I turned my back on the boutique and stepped directly into the torrential downpour. Screech! I hadn’t taken three steps before a jet-black Maybach slammed its brakes in front of me, sending a wave of filthy street water splashing against my legs. The tinted window rolled down. Tristan’s executive assistant stepped out, holding a large black umbrella over himself. He looked at my drenched, shivering form with overt disgust. He threw a plastic garment bag directly at my wet sneakers. Through the half-unzipped plastic, I could see a cheap, polyester white dress, threads still hanging off the hem. The assistant looked down his nose at me, his tone dripping with condescension. “Ms. Margot, Mr. Stanley is feeling generous.” “Betty has her red carpet tonight, and she needs an assistant to hold her train. He says if you put this on and make yourself useful, he’ll unfreeze your cards tomorrow. He’ll even let you keep your spot at the altar next week.” He wanted me to hold the train for the woman who stole my custom wedding gown? While wearing some cheap polyester rag? It wasn’t just a punishment; it was a public execution of my dignity. I stared at the garment bag in the puddles. My body was violently shaking from the hypothermia creeping in, but my spine remained rigidly straight. “Tell Tristan,” I whispered, my voice slicing through the rain. “To rot in hell.” The assistant’s face twisted in fury. He pointed a manicured finger at my face. “You ungrateful bitch!” “Do you think you’re still the future lady of the house? You’re nothing! Without him, you’d starve on the streets!” He flicked his wrist. The back doors of the Maybach swung open. Two massive security guards piled out, grabbing me by both arms and twisting them painfully behind my back. “Get off me! What the hell are you doing?!” I thrashed wildly, but my frozen muscles were no match for them. The assistant scooped the mud-stained dress off the pavement and shoved it hard against my chest. “The boss said if you want to do this the hard way, we drag you there!” I was violently shoved into the back of the SUV, the heavy door slamming shut behind me. The Maybach tore through the flooded streets of Manhattan, heading straight for the Lincoln Center film premiere. The AC in the back was blasting. Soaked to the bone, my lips turned a bruised shade of purple, my teeth clacking together so hard my jaw ached. The assistant sat in the passenger seat, watching me suffer through the rearview mirror with a smug smile. “You brought this on yourself, Margot.” “Women… if you just lower your head and act soft, you get everything. But you had to challenge him. Who’s paying the price now?” I closed my eyes, shutting out his pathetic sycophant voice. Thirty minutes later, the car jolted to a stop near the backstage loading dock of the red carpet. The guards dragged me out by the shoulders. A few yards away, in a glass-walled VIP green room, Betty was standing in the center of a media frenzy, wearing mybridal gown. Cameras flashed like lightning. Tristan stood beside her in a bespoke Tom Ford tuxedo, looking at her with absolute adoration. Catching sight of me being hauled in like a prisoner, Tristan excused himself from the press and marched toward the loading dock. He glanced down at the muddy polyester dress clutched in my frozen hands, his brow furrowing in distaste. 4 “Look at the state of you.” He shrugged off his tuxedo jacket, making a move to drape it over my shivering shoulders. He was still using that sickeningly fake, paternal tone. “You’re just too stubborn, Margot. If you would just be a good girl and listen, do you think I’d ever want to see you suffer like this?” My stomach heaved. I twisted my body violently, dodging his touch. The expensive tuxedo jacket fell into the wet grime of the floor. Tristan’s face instantly hardened. The mask slipped, revealing the predator beneath. “My patience is gone, Margot.” His hand shot out, his fingers digging into my jawline, forcing my face up to meet his cold eyes. “Go put that dress on. Right now.” “When Betty walks out there, you will be ten steps behind her, carrying her train. If you try to ruin this for me…” He let out a dark chuckle and reached into his trouser pocket. He pulled out a piece of jewelry. An antique, flawless emerald-and-diamond bracelet. The only thing my late grandmother had left me. “Tristan! Give that back!” Panic surged through me. I lunged at him, clawing at his hand. He held it high above his head, his gaze devoid of any human empathy. “Hold her train, and I’ll give it back.” “Refuse, and I will smash it into powder on this concrete.” That bracelet was placed on my wrist by my grandmother as she took her dying breath. It was my only anchor to the family I had lost. Tristan’s thumb pressed hard against the delicate gold setting. One slip, and a century-old heirloom would shatter into a thousand pieces. “I’ll count to three,” Tristan said, looking down at me like a god negotiating with an insect. “Three.” “Two.” My entire body convulsed. My fingernails dug so hard into my palms that warm blood began to pool in my hands. “One.” “I’ll do it!” The words ripped from my throat like shards of glass. My eyes burned with unshed, humiliating tears. Tristan smiled. A genuine, victorious smile. He slipped the bracelet back into his pocket and patted my frozen cheek. “Good girl. Now go. She’s up in five.” Clutching the muddy polyester rag, I walked into the backstage bathroom. I stood in front of the vanity, looking at my reflection. My hair was plastered to my skull, my lips blue, my eyes hollowed out. But deep inside those eyes, something ancient and cold had just woken up. For five years, to protect his fragile male ego, I had buried my true self. I had hidden the fact that I was the founder of one of the most ruthless venture capital firms on Wall Street. I willingly played house, baking sourdough and picking out throw pillows, thinking I had found a man with ambition who just needed support. I thought I was nurturing a partner. I was actually fattening up a parasite. Tristan. Every ounce of humiliation you forced down my throat today. Tomorrow, I am going to make you bleed your entire empire to pay for it. I didn’t put on the dress. I dropped it straight into the garbage can. Pushing open the bathroom door, I walked toward the red carpet staging area. Betty had her arm laced through Tristan’s, ready to step out into the blinding sea of flashbulbs. When Tristan saw me walk out in my soaked, ruined street clothes, his face contorted in rage. “Margot! Are you deaf?!” he hissed, keeping his voice low to avoid the press. Betty immediately pouted. “Margot, how could you? Without you holding the train, the silhouette of the dress will be totally ruined in the photos!” I stared at them with dead eyes. The announcer’s voice boomed over the speakers, calling Betty’s name. The wall of photographers erupted. I ignored Tristan completely and turned toward the exit. “Grab her!” Tristan barked, abandoning all pretense. The two massive security guards lunged. One of them kicked me brutally in the back of my knees. Smack! My legs gave out. I crashed down hard onto the unforgiving marble floor. A sickening bolt of pain shot up from my shattered knees. Heads turned. Journalists, PR reps, and staff all froze. Some immediately raised their cameras, the rapid click-click-clickechoing in the silence. Tristan strode over to where I was kneeling in the dirt. His eyes were utterly merciless. He pointed a manicured finger at my face in front of the entire New York press corps. “Ladies and gentlemen of the press, my deepest apologies.”

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My younger brother, Cooper, had finally reached his breaking point with his dissertation advisor. He came to my apartment, practically vibrating with tectonic levels of stress. “Natalie, you don’t understand,” he groaned, burying his face in his hands. “The man doesn’t just give feedback. He uses his words like biological weapons.” I didn’t understand. Honestly, I couldn’t. My life had always been a series of paved roads and open doors. I was the girl who cruised through life on a wave of gold stars and “well dones.” Even my romantic life was effortless; I was currently deep in a digital romance with a man I’d met online who was the personification of a warm blanket. He had a voice like velvet, a soul that seemed perpetually anchored, and a way of saying exactly what I needed to hear to make my heart do that embarrassing little skip-beat. But for the sake of Cooper’s failing mental health, I decided to intervene. I would meet this “monster” of a professor and have a civilized, stern talk about the boundaries of constructive criticism. Then I saw him. The cold, sharp-tongued Dr. Adrian Thorne looked exactly like the man I’d been falling for behind a screen for the last year. To test my theory, I hovered outside his office door, heart hammering against my ribs, and sent a text to my mystery man: I’m having a moment. I need you to comfort me. Right now. Inside the room, the young, formidable professor glanced at his phone. He stood up abruptly and walked toward the balcony. Cooper looked like he was facing a firing squad. “Great. He’s probably going to yell at someone else now. We’re just collateral damage.” But I didn’t hear Cooper. I was too busy staring at my phone, frozen, as a voice memo popped up. 1 The day after Cooper submitted his first draft, he looked like a ghost of himself. When I asked what was wrong, a single, tragic tear escaped the corner of his eye. He didn’t speak. He just turned his laptop screen toward me so I could read the “notes” his advisor had left on his manuscript. I read them, and for the first time in my life, I was speechless. “I’ve read historical fiction before, but this is the first time I’ve read a historical pile of garbage.” “Come to my office tomorrow. I need to see if you’ve been possessed by a malevolent spirit or if this is genuinely your best work.” “Are you so in love with this university that you’ve decided never to graduate?” “Thankfully, only the two of us have read this. Let’s keep it that way.” “Keep writing. Once you’re finished, we can finally start the rewrite.” “Your narrative structure is more chaotic than the Fall of Rome.” The final blow came in the acknowledgments section. The professor had left one blistering remark: “I appreciate the sentiment, but if you truly want to thank me, leave my name out of this.” I glanced at the top of the syllabus. Dr. Adrian Thorne. A sophisticated name for a man with a mouth like a serrated blade. Cooper was at the point where the mere sound of a laptop opening gave him palpitations. “He’s a demon, Nat,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to live in fear like this?” I didn’t. Compared to my poor brother, I was the universe’s favorite child. As the only girl in my generation of the family, I’d been pampered since the cradle. School, career, social life—it had all been a green light. And then there was my guy. My digital sanctuary. His voice was steady, his temperament was a calm sea, and he spent his evenings making me feel like the most important woman in the world. So, no, I couldn’t relate to Cooper’s trauma. Cooper yanked at his hair. “I’m never going to graduate. Every time my phone pings with an email notification, I think my heart is going to stop. He’s terrifying. Maybe I should just drop out.” “Drop out?” I panicked. “Absolutely not. You worked your tail off for this. You stayed up through the heat of summer and the dead of winter in that library. Cooper, you aren’t quitting.” If he dropped out, he wouldn’t get his Master’s. If he didn’t get his Master’s, his job search would double in length. Which meant he’d be living on my couch, eating my groceries, and draining my sanity for the foreseeable future. Cooper looked moved by my sudden “support.” I doubled down. “Look, your paper probably isn’t even that bad. Your advisor is just being a pedantic jerk. He’s nitpicking.” Cooper blinked. “You really think so?” I nodded firmly. “I’m sure of it.” 2 Cooper mentioned that his advisor was only three years older than me—just hitting twenty-nine. It caught me off guard. Dr. Thorne was the same age as my online boyfriend. Yet they were polar opposites. One was a poet of affirmation; the other was a walking hazard. Determined to save Cooper’s degree, I decided to take the professor out for a “diplomatic” lunch. It wasn’t about getting Cooper a free pass. It was about humanizing the target. I figured if the professor had someone else to vent his frustrations on—namely me—maybe he’d dial back the cruelty on my brother. Before heading to the campus, I sent a text to my guy. Going to handle a major life crisis for my brother. Wish me luck. The reply was almost instant. No matter what happens, you’re incredible for doing this. You’ve got this, baby. He was always like that. Constant validation, even when he didn’t have the full story. I smiled and gave him a few more details. He typed back: I’ve always believed in positive reinforcement. Pushing students too hard usually backfires. You’re doing the right thing. See? My man and I were on the same wavelength. Soulmates. I was grinning at my phone when Cooper, sitting in the passenger seat, turned a sickly shade of gray. “Nat, maybe we should just call it off?” I put my phone away. “We can’t call it off. I’m getting you across that finish line if it kills me.” 3 Standing outside the faculty office in the Science Building, I looked through the glass partition and then slowly pulled back. My face went blank. “Cooper? Change of plan. Let’s go.” “Wait, why?” “Just… stick it out for a few more months. You can do it.” “Nat, what are you talking about?” I wanted to know too. I wanted to know why Dr. Adrian Thorne, the academic butcher of dreams, looked identical to the man I’d been e-dating for a year. I thought maybe I was hallucinating. I peeked again. Nope. The jawline, the way his glasses sat on the bridge of his nose—it was him. We had never met in person. We’d met in a rescue dog forum a couple of years ago. I was on a business trip in a different city when I saw a shivering puppy on the side of a highway. I was already on the ramp and couldn’t stop safely, so I posted an SOS in the local rescue group. A user named “Lavender” replied an hour later. He asked for the exact coordinates. The next message I got was a photo of the pup. Don’t worry. I’ve got him. He’s safe, a bit shaken, but the vet says he’s okay. I felt a massive wave of relief. I tried to Venmo him a few hundred dollars for the vet bills, but he wouldn’t accept it. Later, I saw him posting updates about the dog. He had been in that city for work too, but he ended up adopting the pup and taking him back to his home city. My heart melted. I added him on social media just to see more of the dog. Eventually, the pet updates turned into daily “good mornings.” We shared our lives, our hobbies, our secrets. We were in sync. In the digital world, we were everything to each other. Then, he became my boyfriend. Once, he sent a video of the dog playing, and for a split second, he passed a mirror. I saw him—half-rimmed glasses, sharp features, handsome in a way that felt both intellectual and rugged, wearing a charcoal sweater. He looked like a dream. I hadn’t slept for half the night after seeing that. Now, standing outside that office, my mind was racing. The world couldn’t be this small. Besides, Adrian Thorne was a cold-blooded critic. My guy was a sweetheart. They couldn’t be the same person. But I had to be sure. I pulled out my phone. Hey baby, what are you up to? He replied in seconds. Just at work. Why, you okay? I looked into the office. Adrian Thorne was typing furiously at his desk, his expression stern. It was impossible to tell. I decided to be a little high-maintenance. I’m in a bad mood. I need you to comfort me. Right now. Cooper caught a glimpse of my screen and his eyes nearly popped out of his head. “Natalie! Are you serious? You’re flirting with some guy while my future is at stake?” I pushed him aside, my eyes glued to the man in the office. Adrian’s hands stopped. He picked up his phone. Two seconds later, he stood up and walked out to the balcony. Bzzzt. A voice memo. I stepped into a quiet corner, my fingers trembling as I tapped play. “Can you talk? Tell me what’s wrong. I’m here. I’m always here for you.” His voice was low, melodic, and devastatingly tender. My heart didn’t just skip; it did a full gymnastic routine. But not because of the romance. It was because in the background of that voice memo, I heard a faint, rhythmic cheering. I looked out the hallway window at the small courtyard next to the building. A group of college guys were playing basketball. Every time someone scored, a cheer erupted. The cheers in the courtyard matched the background of the voice memo perfectly. 4 Adrian Thorne was my boyfriend. Before I could process the cosmic irony, the phone started ringing. An audio call. I panicked and hit decline. I typed back: It’s okay now. I just can’t talk at the moment. I shoved the phone into my bag and turned to Cooper. “I have to go. You’re on your own with the professor.” There was no way in hell I was “meeting” my boyfriend like this. I turned to bolt. Cooper sighed. “You’re right. It was a bad idea.” He kicked a loose tile on the floor. “It wouldn’t look good for you to have lunch with him alone anyway. If his wife found out, she’d probably lose it.” I froze. My neck felt like it was made of rusted iron as I slowly turned back. “His… wife?” The words felt like they were being squeezed out of my lungs. Cooper didn’t notice my meltdown. “Yeah. I mean, I’ve never seen her, but the upperclassmen say he’s married. Apparently, she’s got a hell of a temper.” Right. Perfect. Suddenly, it all made sense. The stable personality, the smooth-talking, the “perfect” emotional support—he’d had plenty of practice with a wife at home. And why was he a monster at school? Because he was venting all the frustration he couldn’t show his “fierce” wife. And I… I was the “other woman.” The digital mistress. I almost laughed. It was either that or screaming. I had to restrain myself from storming into that office and tearing him apart. “Cooper?” A deep, baritone voice echoed from the doorway. I stiffened. Adrian Thorne was standing there, watching us. There were barely six feet between us. His eyes locked onto mine. After two seconds of intense scrutiny, I was the one who looked away. This was a university. I wouldn’t make a scene. Not with Cooper’s future on the line. I forced a brittle, fake smile. “Hello, Professor. I’m Cooper’s sister, Natalie.” Adrian continued to stare at me. He looked… dazed. Even Cooper noticed the weird vibe. “Professor?” Adrian snapped out of it, but his voice sounded uncharacteristically strained. “Hello.” I nodded, wanting to be anywhere else. “I just wanted to ask you to look out for my brother. I’d love to take you to lunch to discuss his progress, but if you’re too busy, we can just rain-check…” I expected a rejection. I was counting on it. I wanted to run. But the man had nerves of steel. “I have time,” he said. Cooper looked at his advisor like he’d just grown a second head. I was equally stunned. A second later, I looked down at my carefully curated outfit—a silk blouse and tailored trousers—and it hit me. The bastard isn’t just a cheater. He’s a predator. I’d spent my whole life winning, and here I was, failing spectacularly at a digital relationship. 5 An hour later. At the restaurant, the three of us sat in a silence so thick you could cut it with a dull steak knife. Cooper nudged me under the table. “Nat, why did you pick this place? The food here is notoriously terrible.” That was the point. I wasn’t going to give a man like Adrian a five-star meal. The service was fast, unfortunately. I gestured toward the plates with fake enthusiasm. “Please, Dr. Thorne, try the steak. It’s supposed to be… memorable.” Adrian smiled—a small, enigmatic thing—and cut into his steak. He took a bite, chewed, and then paused. Cooper looked pained. “Professor, if you don’t like it, you don’t have to force it. We can go somewhere—” “It’s actually quite good,” Adrian said, his expression remaining perfectly polite and warm. “I like it.” I gripped my fork so hard my knuckles turned white. Looking at his hypocritical face, I felt my composure slipping. The lunch was agonizing. I exchanged a few stiff pleasantries about Cooper’s academics, and then we lapsed back into silence. Halfway through, I excused myself to pay the bill. The hostess stopped me. “The gentleman already took care of it.” It wasn’t my cheapskate brother. “When?” I asked, stunned. “A few minutes ago.” Adrian had used the bathroom as an excuse to settle the check. I felt a surge of complicated annoyance. I felt like I owed him something now, which I hated. Especially because the food sucked. I walked back to the table and watched him finish the last of his steak. He seemed to be enjoying it. Is he for real? I took a bite of my own steak. I chewed. And chewed. And chewed. It was like trying to eat a Goodyear tire. I swallowed hard, nearly choking, and reached frantically for my water. Before I could grab it, a glass was placed in my hand. Long, elegant fingers. Well-manicured. Nothing like my brother’s stubby hands. I looked up. Adrian was watching me, a hint of a smile playing in his eyes. I looked down, my heart sinking. He was flirting. He was actually trying to charm me. And the worst part? Thump-thump. Thump-thump. My heart was actually racing. 6 It was a workday, and everyone had things to do. We parted ways quickly after lunch. I drove Cooper to a local diner to get some actual food. As we sat down, I got a message from “Lavender.” Did you get home safe? Baby, are you free? Can I call you? God, he’s a master of time management, I thought bitterly. I stared at the messages. Thinking about him as a married man made my skin crawl. Without another thought, I typed back: We’ve been doing this a long time, but I don’t think we’re right for each other. It’s over. Don’t contact me again. Send. Block. Delete. I leaned back in the booth and closed my eyes. Adrian Thorne was exactly my type physically, but I couldn’t do the “other woman” thing. It made me furious. If he wasn’t Cooper’s advisor, I would have burned his life down today. But for my brother’s sake, I had to swallow the bitter pill. Two months, I told myself. Just wait until he graduates. I glared at Cooper. “You better work on that paper!” Cooper jumped. “Okay, okay! I got it!” He finished eating quickly and started scrolling through his phone. Suddenly, he let out a loud laugh. “Oh man, this poor guy.” He showed me his screen. “I just found a post on a forum. This guy says he went on a first date with his long-term online girlfriend today, and she blocked him right after lunch. He thinks it’s because he ate too much. Ha!” I wanted to laugh, but I couldn’t. I was a casualty of the same war. I spent the rest of the afternoon in a funk, thinking I was finally done with Adrian Thorne. I was wrong. We met again that very night.

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The Accidental Protagonist: Thriving on the Scraps of the “Chosen One” My family and Bella’s family moved into the Oak Creek Estates on the exact same Tuesday. That afternoon, I was in my new bedroom, carefully organizing my bookshelves, when a voice bled through the thin drywall separating our townhouses. It was Bella, and she sounded ecstatic—the kind of breathless, frantic joy of someone who had just scratched off a million-dollar lottery ticket. “A System?! You’re an actual, literal System! I knew it. I always knew I was meant for something bigger. Look at me—I’m obviously the main character! Quick, who is my male lead?” A cold, synthesized voice, devoid of any human inflection, answered her. “Your designated male lead is Cole, heir to one of the four legacy families in New York City.” “New York?! Do I need to pack my bags? My parents just transferred their jobs down here to Richmond.” “Negative. Cole will transfer to a high school in Richmond for his senior year. Your objective is to secure his affection within that twelve-month window.” “Done. Easy. So, what kind of cheat codes do I get?” “I am the Daily Drop System. I refresh two rewards annually. This year’s options are Flawless Symmetry or Devastating Beauty. You may choose one.” Bella didn’t even pause to breathe. “Oh, Devastating Beauty, obviously. Guys are purely visual creatures.” “This year’s selection is complete. Please utilize your reward effectively, Host. I wish you a swift and successful conquest.” The room next door fell silent. What Bella didn’t know—what she couldn’t possibly have anticipated—was that the reward she discarded didn’t just vanish. A faint, iridescent streak of light phased right through my bedroom wall and sank deep into my chest. I froze, dropping a paperback. My hand instinctively went to my face. I stepped in front of the closet mirror. The reflection staring back at me hadn’t morphed into someone else, but the subtle architecture of my features had refined. The lines were sharper, the symmetry striking. It seemed the universe had a glitch. Whatever the “Chosen One” threw away, it fell to me. 1 While Bella was busy preening in front of mirrors, entirely consumed by her increasingly stunning reflection, I was boarding a bus to the National Youth Math Decathlon. I was representing our district, fueled by Mental Agility. That had been the leftover reward from when we were nine years old. Bella, naturally, had chosen Photographic Memory. It was in the finals that I first met Cole. My school, Richmond High, and Cole’s elite Manhattan prep school were the last two teams standing on the brightly lit auditorium stage. “I’m just happy we made it this far,” one of my teammates muttered, wiping sweat from his palms. “Yeah,” another whispered. “They’ve won the national title six years in a row. They’re basically machines.” I didn’t offer empty comforts. I just kept my eyes locked dead ahead, stepping into my designated podium zone. My mind felt cool, vast, and electric. Relying on thousands of hours of grueling practice, pattern recognition, and the raw processing power of Mental Agility, I tore through five complex equations flawlessly. On the final, tie-breaking buzzer question, my hand slammed down exactly 0.1 seconds faster than Cole’s. Six to five. We won. The auditorium erupted. The roar of the crowd was a physical weight against my chest. After the medals were handed out, Cole chased me down in the lobby. There was no bitterness in his eyes. Only the sharp, electric thrill of finding an equal. He was fourteen, standing about five-foot-seven, not yet grown into his frame, but his features were already striking—chiseled and intense. I remember thinking, When this guy turns eighteen, he’s going to ruin lives. “Hey, Harper, right? I’m Cole,” he said, holding out a phone. “You’re terrifyingly good up there. Can I get your number? I’d love to bounce some theories off you sometime.” “Sure,” I said. 2 Cole: Harper, take a look at this proof. Am I missing a variable here? Ever since we swapped numbers, my phone buzzed every few days with Cole’s name on the screen. It was always math. I’d stare at his screen-grabbed equations for a few minutes, let the gears in my head turn, and text back a breakdown. Try approaching it from this angle. Does this track? A few minutes later, my screen would light up. Brilliant. That actually sparked a much cleaner shortcut. Look at this. Seeing his elegantly restructured proof, I’d shoot back a mind-blown GIF. Cole: By the way, I shipped that box of advanced placement study guides from New York you asked for. Should be there by Tuesday. Harper: You’re a lifesaver. Thanks! Midterm rankings were posted the following week on the bulletin board outside the counselor’s office. Unsurprisingly, I was sitting comfortably at rank number one. Bella hovered around rank twenty. “Bella, you’re so lucky,” one of her orbiters fawned, tracing the printed list. “You literally never study and you still pull straight A-minuses.” Bella flipped her long, glossy hair over her shoulder. “Some of us are just blessed. The curriculum here is a joke. I read the textbook once and it just sticks.” “Not like some people,” another girl sneered, shooting a sideways glance at me as I walked past. “Grinding away in the library 24/7 just to beat you by a few points.” “Please,” Bella said, her voice dripping with haughty confidence. “If I actually tried, that number one spot would be mine in a heartbeat.” I didn’t bother engaging. Time spent arguing with them was time I could spend solving another theorem. Photographic Memory was certainly a massive crutch for Bella. It let her coast through middle school and early high school without breaking a sweat. But rote memorization had a ceiling. Once we hit advanced placement classes—where critical thinking and abstract logic outweighed simple recall—the cracks would start to show. That night, lying in bed, I heard it again. “Ding. The annual drop has refreshed. Please make your selection, Host.” “I’ll take Porcelain Skin,” Bella commanded. A heartbeat later, a warm, golden pulse of light—Peak Vitality—drifted through the drywall and settled into my chest. Instantly, the chronic stiffness in my shoulders from hunching over textbooks vanished. A deep, clean energy flooded my veins. Bella had no idea. The very things she deemed useless were exactly the weapons I needed to build my empire. 3 Today was Richmond High’s eightieth anniversary gala, opening its doors to alumni and the public. I was assigned to the welcome committee at the front gates. But once people stepped inside, their eyes immediately locked onto Bella. “Whoa, why isn’t she the one at the front gates? She looks like a literal runway model,” a young guy muttered. Groups of college kids pulled out their phones. One bold girl walked right up to her. “Excuse me, you’re gorgeous. Can I get a selfie with you?” Bella obliged seamlessly, her lips curving into a mathematically perfect, camera-ready smile. It was an angle she had practiced in the mirror a thousand times. She knew exactly how the light hit her cheekbones. After all, when she was twelve, she had chosen the Irresistible Charm perk. But not everyone bought it. A few older alumni murmured that her smile felt a little too manufactured, a little too hungry for the lens. Meanwhile, I had inherited Magnetic Warmth. My smiles weren’t devastating, but they were genuine. They put people at ease. By the end of the morning, I had naturally charmed half the returning faculty and several notable alumni. That evening, at the showcase, I took the stage in a flowing, deep crimson dress. I performed a breathtaking contemporary solo, manipulating a massive sweep of red silk that rippled through the air like liquid fire. The auditorium erupted in a standing ovation. That was the remnant of the Kinetic Grace perk she had rejected at age nine in favor of The Siren’s Smile. “She’s incredible! Hey, is she your Prom Queen?” I heard a visiting girl ask her older sister in the crowd. “Nah, the school’s ‘It Girl’ is someone else.” “Seriously? I saw this girl’s name on the academic wall today—she’s rank number one. She’s smart, stunning, and dances like that. If she’s not the It Girl, who is?” The older sister pointed across the quad. “See the girl with the waist-length hair holding court with the football team? That’s Bella. She’s the undisputed Queen Bee.” “Wow. Okay, she is insanely pretty. Like, ruin-your-life pretty.” “Exactly. That’s why she won the title.” “Just because of her face?” “Pretty much,” the sister nodded. “Are the guys at this school allergic to depth?” “Hey, don’t lump us all together. The girls, and the guys with actual brain cells, voted for Harper. But the school is heavily skewed male, so she lost by a handful of votes.” “Tragic,” the younger girl sighed. “Besides, don’t pretend your favorite pop stars are any better. They lip-sync half their sets and look like carbon copies of each other, and you still buy their merch.” The younger girl stuck her tongue out. “You just don’t get the vision.” “I really don’t want to.” After the curtain fell, I slipped into the wings and texted a video of my routine to Cole. He must have been holding his phone, because the typing bubble appeared the second the file delivered. Incredible. Harper, you are without a doubt the most impressive person I know. I burst out laughing in the dressing room. Harper: You didn’t even watch it yet! The video is four minutes long! Cole: I don’t need to watch it to know you killed it. Harper: I’m taking my makeup off. I’ll text you later. Cole: Call me when you’re walking home. It’s dark. I want to make sure you get back safe. Harper: Deal. Bella sat in her room next door, convinced she had laid out the perfect trap, waiting for her predestined male lead to walk right into her meticulously manicured snare. She had no idea the tracks had already been diverted. 4 “Listen up, everyone. We have a new transfer student joining us today all the way from New York. Let’s make him feel welcome.” Right on the System’s schedule, at the dawn of our senior year, Cole walked into Richmond High. And he was placed right into my AP Calculus class. Right into the empty desk next to mine. It couldn’t be helped; the advanced STEM track was notoriously skewed, and our particular class only had five girls. I had specifically requested a solo desk at the back so I could spread out my towering stacks of reference books. “Alright, let’s skip the fluff,” Mr. Davis said, clapping his hands. “If you need help with college prep timelines, my door is open. For now, open your textbooks to chapter four. We’re reviewing set theory.” Cole leaned over, smelling faintly of clean laundry and something sharp, like cedar. “Hey, desk-mate. I haven’t gotten my books from the office yet. Can I share?” “Of course,” I whispered. I slid the heavy textbook to the middle of the desk and focused on the board, entirely oblivious to how the space between our shoulders had shrunk to a fraction of an inch. During the passing period, Bella made her move. She came up to the senior science floor and engineered a near-collision with Cole as he walked out of the classroom. But Cole had fast reflexes. He sidestepped her smoothly, patting his chest in mock relief. Bella stumbled slightly, recovering her poise. “Oh my god, I am so sorry! Are you okay? Do you need me to walk you to the nurse?” “I’m totally fine. No need, thanks,” Cole said, taking a step back. “I’m Bella, by the way. I’m a senior too. If you ever need someone to show you around or help you adjust, I’d love to take care of that for you. What’s your name?” “I’m good, I don’t need a tour, and no thanks.” Without missing a beat, Cole grabbed the sleeve of my hoodie and dragged me down the hallway, fleeing from her like she was carrying a highly contagious pathogen. As we rounded the corner, my sharpened hearing picked up Bella’s frantic whisper. “System! Why didn’t he react?! I just wasted a whole Serendipity drop on that!” “Please maintain your efforts, Host. Rely on your charm to capture the male lead.” 5 During P.E., the coach ran us through warm-ups and then blew the whistle for free time. Most of the AP kids sneaked back into the bleachers to study, but I liked to stay on the turf to clear my head. “Hey Harper, come mess around with the soccer ball!” A classmate waved me over to a small circle of five people near the track. “Coming.” I stepped into the circle. When the ball was lobbed to me, I caught it effortlessly on the side of my foot, popped it up to my knee, and stalled it on the back of my neck before flicking it back into the air. “Holy crap, Harper,” one of the guys laughed. “You’re top of the class, you dance like a pro, and now you’re showing us up on the field? Did the universe actually give you any flaws?” “I’m terrible at parallel parking,” I deadpanned. The circle cracked up. My leftover Kinetic Reflexes perk had essentially hardwired my nervous system for perfect athletic coordination. “What are we looking at?” The team captain jogged over, spinning a basketball on his finger. Cole was trailing right beside him. “Nothing,” Cole said, his eyes lingering on me for a second before he turned to the captain. “What’s up?” “We need a fifth for a pickup game. You in?” “Let’s do it,” Cole said. 6 When I got back to the classroom after dinner for evening study hall, I stopped in my tracks. Cole, who lived off-campus and had absolutely zero obligation to be here, was sitting at his desk, spinning a pencil. “What are you still doing here?” I asked, pulling out my chair. “Shouldn’t you be home?” “Figured I’d finish my problem sets here. I don’t want to lug all these books back.” I raised an eyebrow. You’re a trust-fund kid. You literally have a driver waiting outside the gate to carry your backpack. You expect me to believe the walk to the parking lot is too strenuous? The AP study hall was pin-drop silent for the first hour. Everyone was buried in their own world. But in the last thirty minutes, the room naturally thawed into a low hum of collaborative chaos. We had petitioned the principal for this exact setup—it was the most efficient way to cross-check our work. “Harper, did you finish question twelve? Can I see how you structured the proof?” I glanced at the number, slid my notebook across the aisle, and went back to work. “Harper, Mr. Davis explained this formula today, but I completely zoned out. Can you translate?” “Sure, give me a sec.” “Harper, the answer key says 42, but I’ve run the numbers twice and keep getting 38. Am I crazy?” “Let me look.” Three minutes later, I slid his paper back. “You’re not crazy, but you dropped a negative sign on line four. The key is right. Here’s my scratch paper.” “Lifesaver. Thanks.” I finally caught a breather and looked down at my own mock exam. “Cole, look at question eighteen. I’ve tried three different formulas and I’m hitting a wall.” I turned my head. Cole was resting his chin on his hand, just watching me. There was a soft, entirely unguarded smile playing on his lips. It looked like he had been staring for a while. “Do I have ink on my face?” I asked, suddenly self-conscious. He blinked, snapped out of it, and shook his head, clearing his throat. “No. Let me see the question.” Three minutes later, he slid the paper back with a flawless, elegant solution penciled in the margins. “Wow. That was fast.” “Obviously. Do you know who you’re talking to?” he smirked. “Arrogant,” I muttered, but as I traced his handwriting, the logic clicked perfectly into place. 7 “Listen up! We’re playing against Bella’s class in the gym today. I need everyone in the bleachers making noise!” the athletic rep yelled from the front of the room. “We’ll be there!” the class chorused back. Job done, the rep hopped off the podium. Cole leaned over his desk, his voice dropping an octave. “Are you going to be there, Harper?” I didn’t stop highlighting my notes. “Do you want me there?” “Yeah.” I stopped. The absolute lack of hesitation in his voice caught me off guard. I looked up, meeting his eyes. “Okay. I’ll be there.” Right before tip-off, Cole walked over to the bleachers and tossed two icy bottles of Gatorade into my lap. “What am I supposed to do with two?” I asked, juggling the condensation. “I can’t drink that much.” “One is mine. When they call a timeout, I expect you to hand it to me.” I tilted my head, deciding to push back a little. “Can’t you just grab it from the bench like everyone else?” I wasn’t an idiot. I knew exactly what high school sports politics meant. A guy coming to the bleachers to get water from a specific girl was a billboard-sized declaration to the entire student body: She’s mine. He hadn’t officially said the words yet, but I wasn’t going to lie—I liked the electric, unspoken tension between us. “No,” Cole said, his tone suddenly firm, brokering no argument. “I want it from you.” I tried to hide my smile. “Alright.” A few rows down, a guy from our class nudged the athletic rep. “No way. Bella is here? She literally never comes to these games, not even for her own class. Bro, I think she’s looking right at me. She just waved!” The guy sat up straighter, puffing his chest out and waving back frantically. “Dude, she smiled at me.” The athletic rep, who possessed actual situational awareness, looked at the court, looked at Bella, and sighed. Yes, Bella was looking at their section. But her eyes were laser-focused on the space right next to them—where Cole was currently stretching. The rep clapped his delusional friend on the shoulder with deep pity. “Well, you better play the game of your life then.” “Watch me!” the guy yelled, fired up. The whistle blew. The gym erupted into a deafening roar of dueling chants. “Hey, Harper,” a girl from Bella’s class leaned over the railing behind me. “Who is number 11? He is unreal. Is he the new transfer? Does he have a girlfriend?” I glanced back at her. “Yeah, that’s Cole. He’s in our class. And I’m not sure about his relationship status.” “Look at those arms,” she swooned. “When his jersey lifted up… definitely an eight-pack.” I turned back to the court, hiding a laugh behind my hand. Cole was playing like an absolute maniac, a peacock showing off his feathers to the entire gym. Though I had a sneaking suspicion I knew exactly who the display was for. 8 “Bella is handing out water! Who the hell is number 11?! I need his Instagram, his GPA, and his blood type right now!” The bleachers were a chorus of shattered teenage hearts. “That’s Cole. The genius from New York.” “Wait, the guy who’s fighting Harper for valedictorian?” Down on the court, Bella intercepted Cole before he could reach the sidelines. She held out a pristine bottle of water, offering him that devastating, mathematically perfect smile. “Great game, Cole. You look exhausted. Here.” “Excuse me,” Cole said. Bella’s smile widened. She knew it. No teenage boy could withstand a point-blank blast from her beauty. The hallway incident had just been a fluke. “I said, excuse me. You’re blocking the way.” Bella blinked. “What?” Cole sidestepped her without a second glance, weaving through the swarm of cheerleaders and thirsty players, and walked straight to where I was sitting in the first row. “Where’s my drink?” he demanded, breathless, sweat dripping from his jaw. I held out the unopened Gatorade. He ignored it. Instead, he reached down, snatched the bottle I had already been drinking from out of my hand, and downed the rest of it in three massive gulps. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning. “Much better.” I rolled my eyes, fighting a blush. Child. As I watched him jog back to the huddle, I caught movement in my peripheral vision. Bella was staring at me, her eyes dark with a humiliation so toxic it practically radiated off her. I held her gaze for a second, gave her a mild, polite smile, and turned away. All her meticulous calculations, completely obliterated by Cole in a matter of seconds. 9 After that game, Bella’s desperation escalated. She engineered “coincidences” with terrifying frequency. After an assembly, when the hallways were packed, she was “accidentally” shoved from behind, falling perfectly toward Cole. Cole, acting on pure reflex, caught her by the arm before she hit the tile. A week later, in the alley behind a local cafe, she was cornered by a group of loud, aggressive guys from a rival school. Cole “happened” to be walking by, stepped in, scared them off, and rescued a trembling, tearful Bella. “Thank you, Cole,” she had whimpered, her eyes wide and wet. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been there.” Cole told me about it later. He said the moment he grabbed her arm in the hallway, this bizarre, artificial wave of sympathy washed over him. It freaked him out so badly he dropped her arm like she was radioactive and practically sprinted away. I knew exactly what was happening. She was burning through her Serendipity and Damsel in Distress perks. As for why Cole wasn’t succumbing to the mind-altering effects of the System, I had a theory. That night, lying in bed, the silence of my room was shattered by Bella’s furious voice echoing in my mind. “Why?! Why isn’t he falling for me?! Your stupid cheat codes are broken!” The System’s voice was arctic. “The efficacy of the rewards is absolute. As the beneficiary, you are aware of this. Do not assign blame to the System for your own tactical failures.” There was a heavy pause, followed by a shrill, digital siren that made my teeth ache. “Warning. Male lead’s affection metric remains at absolute zero. Emotional tether to interference source is reaching unbreakable levels. Recommending initiation of Omega Protocol: Eradication of the interference source.” “Interference source?” Bella hissed, her voice dripping with venom. “Who?” My breath hitched. When the System spoke again, the robotic monotone seemed laced with a very human malice. “Har-per.” The worst-case scenario. But then again, I had been preparing for this exact moment for years.

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The day I was supposed to be promoted to a full residency at the hospital, a private video of me and Darren Wilder—seven rounds of intimacy in a single night—was leaked to every medical group chat in the city. In the video, he was whispering sweet things, coaxing me into positions I’d never tried, while I clung to him with a desperation I now realize was pathetic. By noon, I was escorted out of the building. By sunset, I was blacklisted from the entire medical industry. Eight years of grueling study, sleepless shifts, and a mountain of debt vanished into thin air. Darren didn’t just watch me fall; he pushed me. He forcibly pried the engagement ring off my finger—the same one he’d slid on while kneeling in a field of wildflowers a year prior. He used the toe of his designer loafer to tilt my chin up, his eyes cold enough to freeze my blood. “You really thought you could get away with it, Norma? You were so jealous of my sister’s talent that you started those rumors. You reported her for sleeping with her mentor just to take her spot. Because of you, Melanie spiraled into depression. Because of you, she jumped into the harbor.” His voice dropped to a lethal whisper. “How does it feel to have your own reputation dragged through the dirt? Does it sting?” I had stared at him, my breath hitching, trying to explain that I had nothing to do with it. But Darren wasn’t listening. He threw me out of his car and left me on the shoulder of the interstate, speeding away without looking back. Four years later, I wasn’t wearing a white coat. I was wearing a sequined dress that barely covered my hips in a high-end lounge. I sold my dignity for tips, clawing for every dollar to pay for my daughter’s heart surgery. And that’s when I saw the toe of that same designer shoe again, pressing into my space. … 1 The cool leather of a man’s shoe hooked under my chin, forcing me to look up. The pressure was exactly the same as it had been four years ago. Darren Wilder stood over me, arms crossed, looking down as if he were inspecting a piece of expired meat found in the trash. “Tch.” A short, sharp sound escaped his nose. “Has business at this place dropped so low that they’re putting vintage scrap on the floor?” He ground the toe of his shoe against my cheek, a malicious smirk playing on his lips. “This one… she has to be what, thirty? Thirty-five?” His gaze raked over my chest, where the cheap fabric strained against my skin. He had kissed that skin a thousand times once. Now, his eyes held nothing but mockery. “A bit old to be playing the coy schoolgirl, don’t you think?” he asked the room. “Careful, you might make the customers lose their appetite.” A roar of laughter erupted from the surrounding booths. The group of men and women he was with—the city’s young and heartless elite—stared at me with predatory amusement. I felt like I’d been slapped in public. The practiced, customer-service smile I wore for tips froze on my face. I am thirty. In this industry, where eighteen-year-olds are a dime a dozen, I was a relic. I had spent hours crying in the manager’s office just to keep this job, begging him to remember my years of reliable service. I survived on dim lighting and layers of heavy foundation. “Hey! I like the mature ones!” a balding man at the next table shouted, his greasy eyes sliding over me. I gripped my drink menu, took a steadying breath, and forced the smile back into place. “Coming right up!” I turned away from Darren, walking toward the balding man. I bowed lower, made my smile wider. “You have excellent taste, sir. What can I get started for you tonight?” The man immediately slid a hand onto my thigh, his palm sweaty and lingering. “That depends on how well you perform, sweetheart.” Nausea rolled through my stomach at his touch. But then I pictured Maisie—my daughter—pale and breathless in her hospital bed. I pushed the disgust down and made my voice sweet, almost a purr. “If you order the premium bottle service, I’ll make sure you have a very… memorable night.” The man squinted, his pudgy finger poking at my cleavage as he pushed a shot glass toward me. “One shot, one bottle. One bottle, one case. You game?” I laughed, a bright, brittle sound. I picked up a glass of straight bourbon and downed it in one go. The liquid scorched my throat, and my stomach threatened to rebel. Don’t throw up. If you throw up, you lose the sale. Maisie’s medical bill was short six thousand dollars. “Good!” the man cheered. “Another!” One shot. Then another. By the third, the room started to tilt. My hands shook so badly that I spilled a drop on my dress. “Whoops, spillages don’t count,” the man chuckled, reaching for me again. I gritted my teeth and grabbed a full bottle, ready to chug it if that’s what it took. But before the glass hit my lips, someone ripped it out of my hand. The bourbon splashed over my chest, soaking into the fabric. Darren stood there, his face an unreadable mask of fury. “What are you doing?” I snapped, instinctively reaching for the bottle. His eyes were like poisoned daggers. “Look at yourself. You’re pathetic. Do you have no shame left at all?” “That’s none of your business!” I lunged for the bottle again. “Give it back! If I drink this, he pays!” He stared at me like I was a madwoman. Then, he reached into his blazer, pulled out a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills, and threw them at my face. “You want money that bad? Here. Is this enough?” The crisp bills stung as they pelted my skin. They fluttered through the air like pink-hued snow, landing all over the sticky floor. I froze for a heartbeat, then dropped to my knees. My joints hit the marble with a sickening thud, but I didn’t care. I scrambled, gathering the bills into my arms with zero dignity. He was being generous. This wasn’t just Maisie’s bill—there might be enough left over to buy her a strawberry cream cake. I could still see the way she looked at the other kids in the ward eating cake, her eyes filled with a longing that broke me every single day. 2 I was hunched over, reaching for the last bill stuck under the edge of the sofa, when Darren’s polished shoe landed on the money—and my fingertips. He ground his heel down, crushing my knuckles against the floor. I shook with pain, biting my lip so hard I tasted copper. I refused to let the tears fall; I couldn’t ruin my makeup. I had more tables to work after this. Darren looked down at me, his silhouette framed by the neon lights. His voice was a cold rasp. “Norma Whittaker. You really are just a dog, aren’t you?” I opened my mouth to snap back, but years of survival had rewritten my instincts. “Thank you for the tip, sir,” I whispered. Darren went silent for a moment, his anger seemingly intensifying. Without a word, he picked up a glass of ice water from the table and poured it directly over my head. The freezing water shocked my scalp, mixing with my cheap foundation and running in muddy streaks down my face. “Whoa, what’s going on here?” The manager rushed over, bowing to Darren while throwing me a look of pure loathing. “Norma! What did you do? Apologize to Mr. Wilder this instant!” I looked up, water dripping from my eyelashes. My throat felt like it was clogged with broken glass. The manager gave me a sharp kick in the ribs. “Now!” I clutched the wet bills to my chest, my knuckles white, my nails digging into my palms until I drew blood. I bent my stiff back into a ninety-degree bow. “I’m sorry, sir. Please forgive me.” Darren let out a dark laugh. “Does this place double as a junkyard now? Why are you putting trash like this on display? It’s embarrassing.” The manager smiled obsequiously. “My apologies, Mr. Wilder. It’s a charity case, really. She’s a single mom, struggling to get by. I felt sorry for her, so…” He didn’t finish. A young girl on Darren’s arm giggled, covering her mouth. “Single mom? Or just doesn’t know who the father is?” Darren’s brow furrowed deeper. “People like you shouldn’t be allowed to have children. Having a mother this pathetic… that kid will never be able to hold their head up. You’re incredibly selfish.” I flinched as if he’d struck me. The girl on his arm chirped, “She probably thought a baby would be her meal ticket, but the guy realized what she was and bailed. Typical.” Darren’s lips curled into a sneer. “She’s delusional if she thought anyone would want a permanent tie to her. Women like this… you don’t marry them. You don’t even keep them for fun. They’re just… dirty.” The laughter returned, louder and sharper than before. A strobe light caught Darren’s face, and for a split second, I saw the ghost of the man who had knelt in the grass and promised to love me forever. Then he turned, pulling the young girl closer to his side. “Darren,” the girl whispered as they walked away. “Did you actually know her?” His voice floated back to me, casual and cold, like he was flicking ash off his sleeve. “I don’t know people like that.” 3 I saw him again three days later at a high-end reflexology spa where I pulled double shifts. I had just finished cleaning the basin from the previous client when the receptionist told me a VIP had specifically requested me. I walked into the private suite, carrying the cedar soak bucket. I knelt by the chair and began prepping the hot towels. “Lighter,” he commanded. I adjusted my pressure. “Are you starving? Put some muscle into it.” I gripped his ankle and pressed harder. He spent the next ten minutes picking apart every movement I made. “You can’t even massage a foot properly. To think you actually wanted to hold a scalpel once.” My hand slipped. He let out a cruel, mocking laugh. “You’re willing to do this kind of work now? Does that mean you’ll do anything for a price?” I stayed silent, focusing on the tension in his arch. “I asked you a question.” He used his foot to tilt my head back, his heel pressing against my windpipe. “Norma, why don’t you just sell your body? It’s faster money. Or wait…” He paused, his eyes scanning my face like a blade. “Have you already tried? Did nobody want you?” The blood rushed to my head. I stood up abruptly, letting the hot water splash all over his expensive trousers. “Enough! Darren, that’s enough! What gives you the right to treat me like this?” He smiled, a slow, predatory expression. “Oh, so the dog still has a bark? I thought you’d lost it.” I was shaking with a mixture of rage and humiliation. I was about to scream at him to get out when my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was the hospital. I rushed out of the room to answer. “Ms. Whittaker? We have a match for Maisie. A heart has become available.” My heart stopped. “Oh my god.” “The surgery and procurement fees total one million dollars. We can only hold the heart for eight hours, Ms. Whittaker. If the funds aren’t cleared by then, the organ will go to the next person on the list.” The line went dead. The world turned black. I leaned against the wall, my mind racing. A million dollars. Eight hours. I looked at the door to the VIP suite. I thought of the Patek Philippe watch on Darren’s wrist—a piece of jewelry that cost more than a house. I closed my eyes, took a breath, and walked back in. I didn’t say a word. I simply dropped to my knees in front of him. I pressed my forehead against the cold, hard tile. “Darren.” My voice was a broken rasp. “I’ll sell myself to you. Do whatever you want. Anything. Just… please. I need a million dollars.” He looked down at me, genuinely stunned. “A million? You’ve got a high opinion of yourself, don’t you? You think you’re worth that much?” He stood up, looking at me with pure disgust. “Get up. You’re embarrassing yourself.” He turned to leave. “My daughter has a congenital heart defect!” I screamed, crawling after him, grabbing the hem of his pants. “She needs a transplant! She’s dying, Darren! Please!” The words hadn’t even fully left my mouth when his hand blurred. Crack. The slap sent me sprawling. My ear rang, and my cheek bloomed with heat. Darren’s eyes were bloodshot, swimming with a terrifying, ancient rage. “How dare you?” he hissed, his voice trembling. “How dare you use that lie on me? You know Melanie died of a heart condition! You drove her to suicide, and now you’re using her illness as a script to scam me? Do you even have a soul?” “It’s not… it’s not a lie…” I sobbed, shaking my head. “Shut up!” he roared. He looked at me for a long time, his face twisting into something dark and experimental. “Fine. You want a million dollars? I’ll give it to you.” I didn’t care why he changed his mind. I scrambled to unbutton my uniform top, my fingers fumbling. “Stop.” He caught my hand, his touch icy. I looked up. The rage had been replaced by a cruel, clinical interest. He walked to the sofa and made a quick phone call. Five minutes later, the door opened. A man walked in—thick-necked, with a face that looked like it had been carved out of granite. Mr. Miller, a local slumlord known for his “appreciation” of the nightlife scene. Darren gestured toward me with his chin. “Miller, you said you liked the girls from the viral videos, right?” Darren lit a cigarette, watching me through a cloud of blue smoke. “This is the star of the Whittaker leak. She’s got… extensive experience.” The man’s eyes lit up, roaming over my body with sickening intent. “Really? I’ve been wanting to see if she lives up to the hype.” I felt the blood drain from my face. I looked at Darren, praying this was a joke. He just leaned back and flicked his ash on the floor. “Well? Start working. You want the money or not?” I dug my nails into my palms. I looked at the stranger approaching me and instinctively backed away. Darren suddenly stood, grabbed my shoulder, and leaned into my ear. “Stop acting like a virgin, Norma. I know exactly how you move. You said you’d do anything for your daughter? Let’s see what kind of mother you really are.” Maisie’s face flashed in my mind. Her tiny, blue-tinged fingernails. Her struggling breaths. My soul went numb. I closed my eyes. In the dim light of the suite, under Darren’s watchful, hateful eyes and the stranger’s heavy breathing, I reached up and pulled my shirt over my head. 4 Then the skirt. The stockings. With every layer I shed, the room felt colder. Miller grinned, showing yellowed teeth as his hand landed on my waist, sliding upward. He shoved me back onto the sofa. He began unbuckling his belt, his eyes fixed on my bra clasp. “Enough!” Darren’s voice cracked like a whip. He was on his feet, his face pale with a sudden, violent nausea. He marched over, snatched his blazer from the chair, and threw it over me. Then he slapped a black titanium credit card onto the coffee table. “The PIN is your birthday.” I stared at the card for one second before grabbing it and sprinting out of the room, dressing as I ran. I reached the hospital billing window, gasping for air. “Maisie Whittaker. Heart transplant. One million dollars. Charge it now!” The nurse swiped the card. She frowned. She swiped it again. “Ma’am, this card is declined.” “That’s impossible!” I screamed. “Try again! Please!” She tried three more times before sliding the card back through the slot. “There’s a balance of five dollars and twenty cents on this account. It won’t even cover the co-pay for a check-up.” I froze. The air in my lungs turned to lead. I dialed Darren’s number, my voice a shriek of pure agony. “You lied to me! You promised!” The line stayed silent, but I heard a footstep behind me. Darren was standing at the end of the hallway, his phone in his hand, watching me. “I thought you were just telling stories for cash. I didn’t think you’d actually show up at a hospital.” “I wasn’t lying!” I ran to him, grabbing his arms. “She’s in there! Go look for yourself!” He shoved me off, his eyes like ice. “If your kid is sick, Norma, it’s karma. It’s a tragedy, sure, but it’s a fair trade for what you did to Melanie.” I felt like I’d been struck by lightning. “A life for a life,” he whispered. “Seems poetic, doesn’t it?” The darkness swallowed me whole. “You… you really don’t believe me. You never will.” His eyes burned with hate. “I’ll tell you what. Go to Melanie’s grave. Get on your knees and apologize. For every minute you stay there in the rain, maybe I’ll think about a wire transfer.” I didn’t hesitate. “I’ll go.” Darren’s eyes flickered with something—uncertainty, perhaps. He turned and spoke to a nearby nurse. A few minutes later, a team of doctors moved toward Maisie’s room with a gurney. “I’ll pay the prep fee,” Darren said, looking back at me. “The rest… depends on how sorry you are.” The sky was a bruised purple, leaking a cold, miserable drizzle. I knelt on the grass in front of Melanie’s headstone. The granite was cold against my shins. I began to speak. I apologized to the stone. I begged for forgiveness I didn’t owe. One hour passed. Two. Five. My vision began to blur. My body was shutting down. But the thought of Maisie kept my spine straight. My knees had lost all feeling. The only thing I could feel was the sharp sting of the rain against my skin. Ten hours. Finally, a shadow fell over me. Darren was standing there, holding an umbrella. He looked at my blue lips, at the way my body was vibrating with hypothermia. For a second, his hand twitched as if he wanted to reach out. But he stopped. He tossed a different card into the mud at my feet. “Get out of here. Don’t get your filth on her grave.” I picked up the card, my voice barely a whisper. “Darren… if this one is empty too, I will spend the rest of my life making sure you regret it.” His back stiffened. I stumbled back to the hospital, half-dead. I handed the card to the nurse. She swiped it and handed it back immediately. “There’s ten dollars on this one, honey.” The last string of my sanity snapped. “DARREN!” I found him in the lobby. I lunged at him, grabbing his collar, screaming like a wounded animal. “You monster! You’re killing her! Do you even know who her father is? Do you—” “Are you Darren Wilder?” A middle-aged woman in a white coat stopped in front of us, her expression filled with profound disdain. “I’m Dr. Sarah Miller. I was the Chief of Medicine at St. Jude’s four years ago. You’re Melanie Wilder’s brother, aren’t you? The one who made that disgusting scene at the funeral?” Darren’s grip on my wrists slackened. “What did you say?” At that moment, a nurse ran toward us, her face pale. “Ms. Whittaker! Your daughter is crashing! We need to move now!”

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