Category: English

My husband took our daughter for a routine check-up, and she never came home. He returned to the house alone, placing a single glittery hair tie on the coffee table as if it were a peace offering. “Donna is staying at Clara’s place for a while to recover,” he said, his voice flat, refusing to meet my eyes. “She’ll be back in a few weeks.” Three days later, I found her. Not at Clara’s, but in a stainless-steel drawer in the basement of the county morgue. When I pulled back the sheet, I saw the thick, jagged black sutures running down her small chest. Inside, she was hollow. I brought her ashes home and placed them in the sunroom, surrounded by the scent of the jasmine she loved. Three days after that, the car pulled into the driveway. My husband, Marcus, stepped out of the SUV. Clara followed close behind him, cradling a rosy-cheeked little girl in her arms. Clara walked right up to me, her chin tilted up in that practiced way of hers—half-pitying, half-superior. “Elaine,” she said, her voice like honey poured over glass. “My daughter’s recovery isn’t going as well as we hoped. She needs regular transfusions from Donna to help with the rejection. Tell her to come out; we need to leave now.” I looked at her, then pointed toward the small, blush-pink urn sitting among the flowers. I actually felt a smile touch my lips—a cold, jagged thing. “You want her blood?” I whispered. “Then you’d better go over there and get on your knees first.” 1 I was in the sunroom, my hands deep in the damp earth as I repotted the succulents Donna used to help me water. The sound of tires on gravel announced their arrival. Then came the laughter—a bright, silver-bell chime that set my teeth on edge. I knew that sound. It was Zoe, Clara’s daughter. And then I heard Clara’s voice, that breathless, performative trill she used whenever Marcus was within earshot. “Marcus, honey, Donna went missing from the room last night, but Zoe started having complications and I just couldn’t leave her side… a child that small, she wouldn’t have anywhere else to go but home.” Marcus’s voice was a low murmur of comfort. “Donna’s always been difficult. I’m sorry you had to deal with her for those few days.” Clara gave a soft, saintly laugh. “You don’t have to thank me. Not after everything we’ve been through.” Marcus pushed open the glass door of the sunroom, the child in his arms. I didn’t look up. I kept my focus on the dirt under my fingernails. “Where is she?” His tone was exactly what it always was—the impatient command of a man who expected the world to rearrange itself for his convenience. I didn’t blink. I didn’t stop my work. “What do you want?” I asked. When I didn’t jump to my feet to greet him, his jaw tightened. He started to snap at me, but Clara reached out and touched his arm, a gentle, restraining gesture that felt like a claim of ownership. Clara stepped forward, looking down at me with a faint expression of disgust. “Elaine, listen. Zoe’s post-op isn’t going well. The doctors say she needs three days of transfusions from a direct match to stabilize the rejection. Let Donna come out and help her, okay? For the sake of the family.” The words were kind, but her eyes were hard as marbles. Marcus couldn’t see it. He only saw the version of Clara he’d been obsessed with since high school—the “one who got away,” the soft, selfless woman he’d traded his soul to protect. I glanced at the pink urn on the windowsill. I said nothing. Marcus’s patience snapped. He set Zoe down on the floor with a tenderness he had never shown his own daughter. My Donna had spent years begging for that look, and she’d never received it. Even though she was his flesh and blood, she could never compete with the ghost of his first love’s child. He turned to me and kicked the tray of seedlings at my feet, sending soil and plastic pots flying. “Stop acting like a martyr and go get Donna. Now!” I stood up slowly, brushing the dirt from my palms. I pointed to the pink urn by the window. “Donna is right there.” Marcus let out a sharp, mocking bark of a laugh. “I don’t have time for your games, Elaine. Zoe is in pain.” “I’m not playing,” I interrupted him. “Donna is dead. That’s her, in the jar.” The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the wind whistling through the screen door. Marcus frowned at me as if I were a stranger speaking a foreign language. “Are you insane? What kind of mother wishes death on her own child just for attention?” I didn’t flinch. “Donna is dead.” He sneered, tossing his car keys onto the wicker coffee table and slouching onto the sofa. “Enough with the drama.” He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, his movements arrogant and heavy. “She’s throwing a tantrum, isn’t she? Just like last time.” “She’s just being a brat,” he continued, blowing a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. “Remember when I wouldn’t let her have that candy? She gave me the silent treatment for two days. Refused to take my calls.” The “candy” he was talking about was a souvenir he’d promised to bring her from a business trip. But the moment Zoe saw it, she’d wanted it. Marcus had snatched it out of Donna’s hands without a second thought, then yelled at her for being selfish and not “looking out for her sister.” He looked at me with profound boredom. “You and your daughter are exactly the same. Drama queens. Donna can act out all she wants, but you’re an adult. Stop being ridiculous.” Clara stepped out from behind him, holding Zoe, a sympathetic smile plastered on her face. It was nauseating. “Elaine, don’t be mad at Marcus. He’s just stressed,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I know you’re worried about Donna, but Zoe really can’t wait. Just let her come out. I promise I’ll bring her right back after the transfusion, good as new.” She looked down at Zoe, her eyes welling with practiced tears. “Zoe had a fever of 104 last night. I didn’t sleep a wink…” Marcus stood up immediately, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, his face a mask of devotion. “Why are you even explaining yourself to her?” He turned back to me, his voice cold. “Elaine, I’m warning you. Don’t push me.” “Zoe’s health is the priority here. Get Donna out here before I lose my temper.” I stood there, watching them play their parts in this twisted little play, and felt a sudden, violent surge of bile in my throat. “I told you,” I said, pointing once more to the urn. “Donna is right there.” 2 Marcus actually laughed this time. It was a sound of pure exasperation, the way you’d laugh at someone who thinks the earth is flat. “Are you serious right now?” He walked over to me, towering over me. “You put a cheap jar on a shelf and tell me it’s my daughter?” He reached out and flicked the side of the urn with his finger, a hollow clink echoing in the room. “Have you finally lost it? You stayed in this house too long, Elaine. You’re telling me a living, breathing kid turned into ash in three days? There’s a limit to how much bullshit I’ll swallow.” Clara let out a soft, tinkling laugh. “Elaine, do you have some kind of paranoid delusion?” She stepped forward, shifting Zoe on her hip. “How about this? Let Marcus go see Donna, just to prove she’s okay, and then we can talk about the transfusion. Does that work?” She looked at Marcus, playing the role of the peacemaker. Marcus huffed, pulling his phone from his pocket and thrusting it in front of my face. “Look. Look at the video Clara sent me yesterday.” “Donna and Zoe were playing with blocks. They were perfectly happy.” I looked down at the screen. In the video, a little girl with a ponytail was hunched over a set of Lego bricks, Zoe sitting beside her. The girl’s face was turned away from the camera. All I could see was dark hair and a pink hoodie. It was Donna’s hoodie. But it wasn’t Donna. Donna had a bright red strawberry birthmark on the back of her right hand. We’d taken a photo of it on her third birthday. The child in the video had hands that were perfectly, hauntingly clear. “See?” Marcus retracted the phone, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “What do you have to say to that?” I looked at his face—the arrogance, the absolute certainty—and I wanted to scream. He didn’t even know his own daughter had a birthmark. He didn’t remember what she looked like. He saw a pink sweatshirt and that was enough for him. It was easier to believe a lie than to look at his own life. “That isn’t Donna,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “Donna has a birthmark on her right hand. Did you forget that?” Marcus blinked, a flicker of confusion crossing his face before he looked at Clara. Clara’s expression shifted for a fraction of a second—a momentary crack in the mask—before she smoothed it over. “A birthmark?” She smiled thinly. “Elaine, you must be misremembering. Donna didn’t have anything on her hands. I watched her for days; I would have seen it.” I stared at her. “When exactly did you ‘watch’ her?” “Every time she came over, I took wonderful care of her,” Clara said, her tone dripping with mock-innocence. “Whatever Zoe had, Donna had. I treated them exactly the same.” Exactly the same. I almost choked on the irony. Every time Donna came home from “visiting” Clara, she had tiny red dots on her skin. Her arms, her legs, her ankles. They were hidden under her clothes, small enough that you’d miss them if you weren’t looking. Once, Donna cried and told me, “The lady poked me with a needle.” I’d called Clara, furious. Clara had laughed it off. “Elaine, you’re overreacting. It was just a routine blood draw for her check-up. Kids are just dramatic about needles.” Marcus had been standing right there. He’d told me I was making a scene over nothing. “It’s just a blood test. What’s the big deal?” “She’s weak, Marcus. She can’t keep giving—” “She’s ‘weak’ because you spoil her,” he’d snapped. “Clara is a nurse. She knows what she’s doing.” He thought she knew what she was doing. And she did. She knew exactly what she was doing while her daughter’s father remained blissfully, willfully ignorant that his own child was being drained dry. 3 “Just leave,” I said, turning my back on them. “Donna isn’t here anymore.” Marcus’s patience finally evaporated. He lunged across the sunroom, grabbing my arm and jerking me around. His grip was like iron, and my shoulder slammed into the doorframe. I gasped as a sharp pain flared through my arm. “Listen to me,” he hissed, his face inches from mine. “If anything happens to Zoe because you’re being a psycho, I will make sure you and that kid never see the light of day again.” “Make her life miserable?” I looked at him and started to laugh. It was a jagged, broken sound. “When have you ever made her life anything but miserable?” “You think hiding her is going to work?” he sneered. “I have people in this city. I’ll check every school, every daycare, every relative’s house. I will tear this town apart until I find her.” “Go ahead,” I said. “Dig.” He let go of me, disgusted. He turned to Clara. “Call the kid.” Clara pulled out her phone and hit speaker. Ring… ring… ring… “The subscriber you are trying to reach is unavailable.” Clara looked at Marcus with a worried pout. “Marcus, she’s probably just upset. She won’t pick up…” “FaceTime her.” Clara tried the video call. No answer. She looked at me, her voice softening into that faux-maternal tone. “Elaine, please. Just have her pick up the phone. Just for a second. I just want to say hi to her.” I said nothing. Clara sighed, turning to Marcus. “Maybe we should go? She’s clearly just having a moment. We can come back when she’s calmed down.” “When she’s calmed down?” Marcus’s eyes were like flint. “Does Zoe have time to wait for her to calm down?” Clara’s eyes reddened. “I know she doesn’t. But if Donna won’t come out, we can’t… we can’t force her, can we?” She looked down at Zoe, her voice trembling. “We can’t just make her.” Marcus’s face went dark. He looked at me, then at the pink urn, and then he smiled. It was a cruel, ugly expression. “You think this is a game, don’t you? You think if you hide her, I’ll come crawling back to you?” He stepped closer, his shadow falling over me. “You think you can use our daughter as a bargaining chip to save this pathetic marriage?” He shook his head with a look of mock-pity. “Let me be clear: give it up. I love Clara. This stunt you’re pulling? It just makes me hate you more.” Clara reached out and tugged at his sleeve. “Marcus, don’t be so hard on her. She’s had a difficult time…” Marcus scoffed. “Difficult? She lives in my house, spends my money, and her only job was to raise one kid—and she couldn’t even do that right. Donna is a spoiled, selfish brat because of her.” He looked at me as if I were something he’d stepped on in the street. “Look at Clara. She raised Zoe alone, worked a full-time job, and never complained once. And look at you. Aside from holding your hand out for a check, what are you actually good for?” I stared at him. I watched his mouth move, heard the poison spilling out, and suddenly I was back in time. Three months ago. Donna on the phone, whispering: “Mommy, Daddy took me for a check-up. The lady gave me some juice that tasted like strawberries, and then I went to sleep.” When she woke up, there was a fresh bruise on her arm. It stayed swollen for three days. I’d sent a photo to Marcus, asking what happened. He’d replied with one word: “Ok.” That was it. “Marcus,” I said quietly. “You don’t know anything. You don’t even know how she died.” “Don’t start with the ghost stories again, Elaine.” His voice was a low growl. “We’ll deal with Donna’s ‘disappearance’ later. Right now, Zoe needs help. Give her up, or so help me—” “Or what?” “Or you’ll find out exactly how little our marriage certificate means.” I looked at him and laughed. “You’re using my daughter’s blood to save your mistress’s kid, and you want to talk to me about the sanctity of marriage?” 4 The tears finally spilled down Clara’s cheeks. “Elaine, how can you be so cruel?” She clutched Zoe tighter. “I know you hate me, but Zoe is innocent. She’s just a baby…” “My daughter was a baby, too,” I snapped. “She was three.” Clara’s sobbing hitched for a second. Marcus stepped forward and shoved me. It wasn’t a light push; I lost my balance and fell back into the potting soil, my clothes staining black, my hair disheveled. I looked pathetic, broken. “Elaine, that’s enough!” “Clara has been nothing but kind to Donna! Your jealousy is turning you into a monster.” “Jealousy?” I pointed to the urn. “Your daughter is in that jar, and you think I’m jealous?” Marcus reached his breaking point. He let go of Clara and marched toward the window, his hand reaching for the pink urn. “Fine. Let’s see what’s actually in this thing!” “Don’t you touch her!” I screamed. Marcus froze, his hand inches from the ceramic. He turned to look at me, a sadistic glint in his eyes. “You think you can threaten me? You think I care about your little shrine?” His fingers closed around the top. “This pile of trash is going in the garbage!” He jerked his hand. The urn slipped. It hit the tile floor with a sickening, final shatter. “No! Donna!”

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Before Memorial Day weekend, I pre-loaded five thousand dollars onto my loyalty account at The Lakehouse, an upscale waterfront restaurant, planning to treat my mom and my son, Sammy, to a beautiful dinner. During a family gathering, my brother-in-law, Tyler, overheard me mentioning the card. His eyes flickered, but he didn’t say a word. The next afternoon, a notification popped up on my phone: a charge for $18. It was the exact price of the cheapest appetizer on The Lakehouse’s menu—their signature truffle fries. Before I could even process who had used my card, Tyler sent a voice note to the family group chat. His voice was practically booming with excitement, like he’d just hit the jackpot: “Hey family! I just went down to The Lakehouse to scout it out. The place is absolutely gorgeous! Lunch on Memorial Day is on me. Everyone has to come!” I stared at that $18 pending charge, and the pieces clicked together. He hadn’t been “scouting the place out.” He was testing my card to see if it would go through. On Memorial Day, Tyler swaggered into The Lakehouse with a massive entourage of my wife’s relatives. He ordered the most expensive items on the menu—colossal seafood towers, oysters, dry-aged ribeyes, and even ordered two bottles of vintage Dom Pérignon. He beat his chest in front of the relatives: “It’s my treat today, guys! Order whatever you want, don’t hold back!” The relatives all gave him thumbs-up: “Tyler, you’re so generous!” He posted on Facebook: “Treating the whole family to an epic Memorial Day feast! Nothing beats making the people you love happy!” But when the bill came, he froze. 1. I frowned when the notification chimed on my phone. The card was linked to my loyalty account at The Lakehouse, where I’d just deposited five grand the week before. I’d briefly mentioned it to my wife, Lauren, telling her I wanted to take my mom out for Memorial Day. She’d just hummed in response, barely looking up from her phone. I wasn’t even sure she’d heard me. Eighteen dollars. The exact price of their truffle fries. I brushed it off at first, thinking maybe it was a delayed charge from the last time I’d eaten there. Ten minutes later, the family group chat started blowing up. Tyler sent a voice memo, sounding like a kid who’d just hit the jackpot. “Mom! Sis! I just went down to The Lakehouse with Uncle Bob’s son, Tommy, to check it out! It’s incredible. The private room fits fifteen people easily, and the floor-to-ceiling windows look right out over the lake. I booked it for Memorial Day lunch. Everyone’s coming!” Before anyone could reply, he fired off another text: “My treat! Just bring yourselves. It’s about time your favorite brother spoiled you all a little!” The chat went quiet for a beat. Then my mother-in-law, Diane, sent a thumbs-up emoji: “My boy is so mature now, always thinking of his family.” Lauren replied with a smiley face: “Look at my brother, the big spender.” Cousin Eric chimed in: “Did you get a bonus, Tyler? The Lakehouse isn’t cheap.” Tyler replied instantly: “Oh, please, it’s family. What’s a little money compared to making everyone happy?” I didn’t say a word. I opened the restaurant’s loyalty app and pulled up the $18 pending transaction again. Timestamp: 2:10 PM. The Lakehouse. Truffle fries. $18. Tyler’s “scouting trip” was nothing but a test run. He bought a plate of fries to see if my card would work. Once it cleared, he hopped on the group chat to loudly declare his generosity. He was hosting the party, but I was paying the bill. He was buying their admiration with my hard-earned cash. I exited the app. Balance: $4,982. The math was flawless. The card was mine. The money was mine. But in Tyler’s mouth, it was: “My treat.” He was using my sweat and tears to play the big-shot benefactor. I didn’t call him out in the group chat. I knew exactly how it would play out if I did. I’d been through this script too many times before. Tyler would play dumb: “Wait, seriously? Did I grab the wrong card? I must have mixed them up!” Then Diane would flood the chat with defensive voice notes, going around in endless, exhausting circles. “We’re family! Is it really that big of a deal? Your brother didn’t do it on purpose!” “You’ve always been so petty!” And Lauren? She’d inevitably sigh and say, “Oh, come on. Let it go. It’s no big deal.” No big deal. In our four years of marriage, Tyler had “borrowed” well over four thousand dollars from me. The first year, he needed $1,500 for some professional certification course that never materialized. The second year, it was $2,500 for dental work. He paid back $500 and then developed selective amnesia. Every time I brought it up, Lauren’s face would harden. “He’s my brother. You hounding him over money makes me look terrible in front of my mother. How am I supposed to face her?” How was she supposed to face her? I didn’t care anymore. All I knew was that my money didn’t grow on trees. I set my phone down on the kitchen counter. The pot of beef stew on the stove was bubbling, releasing a rich, savory steam. Fine, Tyler. You want to play the millionaire? Let’s see how far you can ride that wave. 2. I sank into the sofa and meticulously combed through The Lakehouse’s mobile app. Buried deep in the account settings, I found what I was looking for: Transaction Security. I tapped it, and a prompt popped up: “Enable PIN protection. Once activated, every transaction will require a 6-digit security code. You can also set a custom single-transaction limit (minimum $1). Please keep your PIN secure.” I dragged the transaction limit slider all the way down from “Unlimited.” One dollar. Then, I set the PIN—a combination of my son’s birth year and the last two digits of my own birth date. Next, I turned on push notifications and SMS alerts for any account activity. Finally, under Device Management, I registered my phone as the sole authorized device and enabled FaceID. A triple-layered lock. Even if he had my card number, he wouldn’t be able to bypass the security. I laid my phone on the coffee table and picked up my bowl of stew, which had gone cold. Lauren drifted out of the bedroom, chewing on an apple. She glanced at my screen. “What are you doing?” “Nothing.” “Everyone is talking about The Lakehouse on Memorial Day. Are you coming?” “I told you, I’m taking my mom out.” “Right.” She took a loud bite of her apple, talking through a mouthful. “Well, can you let Tyler borrow your loyalty card? He’s finally treating everyone. Let him have his moment to shine in front of the family.” I looked up at her, holding her gaze. “It’s his treat. Why does he need my card?” Lauren blinked, her expression instantly souring into irritation. She waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, don’t start. Why do you always have to make everything a competition? You make way more than he does anyway. The relatives are going to praise him, sure, but it’s not like it takes anything away from you.” “So my hard-earned money is just supposed to fund his ego?” “Here we go again.” She tossed the apple core into the trash with a wet thud. “He says he’s paying, everyone gets a nice meal, and everyone is happy. Why do you have to be so difficult about everything?” She turned and walked back into the bedroom. A moment later, the mindless tinny audio of TikTok videos started filtering through the door. I leaned back against the cushions and scrolled through the group chat again. Tyler and Diane were practically salivating over the menu. “Mom, The Lakehouse has their signature dry-aged ribeye on special. Let’s get three of those to share!” “And the lobster tail appetizers! They’re like $50 a pop, Uncle Bob and the guys are going to love them!” “For drinks, I’m thinking we go all out. A bottle of vintage Dom Pérignon is $350. Let’s get two. It’s my treat, so let’s do it right!” Diane replied: “Sweetheart, don’t spend too much. You don’t make a ton.” Tyler sent a smug emoji: “Don’t worry about the bill, Mom. I’ve got a system.” I’ve got a system. The words looked so effortless on the screen. His “system” was my bank account. I didn’t reply. He had no idea that the $18 plate of truffle fries had already triggered the silent alarm. He was just counting down the days until Memorial Day, waiting to play the generous patriarch. As the holiday approached, Tyler’s performance in the group chat reached a theatrical fever pitch. “Just confirmed with The Lakehouse! We’ve got the lakefront room from noon to four. Four whole hours!” “I picked out the premium appetizers. They look amazing in photos!” “I even ordered custom party favors—little boxes of imported chocolates for everyone. Classy, right?!” Every sentence ended with at least three exclamation marks. The family fawned over him in the comments. Aunt Susan wrote: “Tyler, you’ve always been such a thoughtful boy.” Aunt Carol added: “Seriously. I wish my son was more like you. He spends his whole paycheck on video games.” Aunt Judy chimed in: “Where are you working these days, Tyler? The benefits must be incredible!” Tyler replied: “Oh, you know, it’s alright. Just glad I can finally spoil my favorite family.” Then, my cousin Eric sent me a private message: “Have you seen the group chat? Your brother-in-law is laying it on thick. He’s paying? With what money? Let me guess—he’s using your card, isn’t he?” I texted back: “Bullseye.” 3. Eric replied with a string of shocked emojis: “No way! He is unbelievable. Buying his own reputation with your money. Are you still going on Monday?” “I already told them I’m taking my mom out. He specifically picked Monday because he knew I wouldn’t be there.” “So what are you going to do? Just let him steal all the credit?” “I set a transaction limit on the card. One dollar per transaction.” Eric sent a literal paragraph of “HAHAs.” “Oh my god. So he’s going to order a massive feast and then his card is going to decline at the end? He’s going to be completely exposed!” “Yep.” “The whole family is going to see exactly who he is. That is ruthless, man.” “He made his choice.” “Should I go? I can be your eyes and ears.” “Go. Eat your fill. Take videos, post them in the group chat. Do your thing.” “You got it. Live updates incoming.” After hanging up, I called The Lakehouse front desk to verify a crucial detail. “Hi, I have a quick question. If a guest wants to open a tab and charge it to a membership account, what is the policy?” The receptionist’s voice was bright and professional. “Members can absolutely open a tab under their account number and settle it at the end of their meal. However, to finalize the payment, the member must enter their secure PIN or scan their face via our mobile app. You will also receive real-time notifications for every item added to the tab, and the total cannot exceed your account balance.” “So anyone can add things to the tab without a PIN?” “Yes, they can build the tab, but they cannot authorize the final payment without the security code. The system will prompt for the PIN before processing.” “Perfect. Thank you so much.” I hung up, a profound sense of peace washing over me. Every single dish Tyler ordered would ping my phone. On Memorial Day, I would be sitting on my mom’s quiet porch, eating barbecue, watching him play the billionaire while his trap slowly closed around him. Memorial Day arrived. By 8:00 AM, my son Sammy was jumping on my bed. “Dad! Wake up! We’re going to Grandma’s!” I got dressed, packed a small bag, and grabbed a nice bottle of wine for my mom. By the time we got to her place around ten, the smell of roasted garlic and slow-cooked ribs was already drifting from the kitchen. I sat down on her porch swing and pulled out my phone. In the family chat, Tyler was already hosting his pre-show. “Alright everyone! Ninety minutes until showtime! I’m fully dressed and ready to roll!” “I checked the parking situation—there’s plenty of space right by the valet!” “Call me when you pull up, I’ll come grab you! Today is on me, so come hungry!” Underneath, a waterfall of replies: “On our way!” “Can’t wait!” “Tyler, you’re the best!” Eric texted me privately: “I just got here. Your brother-in-law is standing by the entrance in a bright red blazer, literally adjusting his hair gel in the glass doors. Uncle Bob, Aunt Carol, Aunt Judy—everyone is here. There are at least fifteen of them. He’s greeting them like he owns the place. ‘Right this way, guys, I’ve got us the best table in the house.’” I replied: “Let him put on his show.” Eric: “Oh man, I cannot wait for the finale.” At 11:30 AM, Tyler dropped a photo dump in the group chat. Nine pictures. The first was the private dining room: a massive round table draped in white linen, adorned with elaborate floral centerpieces. The second was a group photo of everyone raising their glasses, smiling wide, with Tyler standing dead-center in his red blazer. The third was a steaming, magnificent seafood tower piled high with oysters and crab legs. Caption: “Memorial Day at The Lakehouse! So happy to host my wonderful family today. Drink up, everyone!” The comments section lit up with praise from the relatives. “Tyler is so successful now.” “So generous.” “Whichever girl marries our Tyler is going to be so lucky.” Just as I was about to lock my phone, a direct message from Tyler popped up. It was a photo of the center of the table: a massive, steaming whole lobster, flanked by fresh oysters, prime rib, and a chilled bottle of Dom Pérignon. He was in the center of the frame, grinning so wide his eyes were closed. Caption: “Man, you’re really missing out, bro! This lobster is insane. Sammy would’ve loved it. Wish you were here, but hey, my treat next time!” 4. I stared at the photo, taking a slow sip of my coffee. He sent it to rub it in my face, of course. Look at me. I don’t need you. I can throw a massive party and look like the king of the family. He probably thought he was making me feel small. But he had no idea my phone was vibrating off the hook. Your Lakehouse account has been charged (pending authorization): 2 Colossal Seafood Towers – $500.00 Pending charge: 12 Premium Lobster Thermidors – $1,440.00 Pending charge: 1 bottle of Dom Pérignon – $350.00 Pending charge: 1 bottle of Macallan 18 – $450.00 Pending charge: 3 Wagyu Ribeyes – $450.00 In less than an hour, the pending tab had surpassed three thousand dollars. I screenshotted every single notification, recorded my screen, and backed it up to my cloud storage. I typed back a reply, letting the sarcasm bleed through: “Looks amazing. Glad to see you’re finally throwing your weight around.” He replied instantly: “Don’t even worry about it, man, I’ve got your card. The server said we can just keep charging it to the room and swipe at the end. Super easy!” Not a single mention of how he planned to pay me back. He spoke as if the money in my account was a communal resource. I didn’t bother replying. Eric texted me: “Your brother-in-law is currently telling everyone at the table that he got a massive quarterly bonus. Aunt Carol just ordered a second seafood platter because he told her to. Aunt Judy asked if she could order a whole key lime pie to go for her husband, and Tyler literally told the server to double the order. He even told them to package up an extra lobster tail for him to take home.” I replied: “Tell him to keep going. Go big or go home.” Eric sent a facepalm emoji: “Are you really not stressed about this? He’s running up a crazy bill on your dime.” “I’m not worried. Because by the end of the day, his reputation is going to cost him a hundred times more than this bill. He’s not spending my money, Eric. He’s spending his own dignity. And once that’s gone, you can’t buy it back.” Around 1:30 PM, my phone buzzed again. It was a short video from Tyler. He was holding up a glass of Macallan, a group of cousins cheering “To Tyler!” in the background. Caption: “Everyone’s showing me so much love today! Seriously, you should’ve come!” The sheer, unearned arrogance of it was almost comical. The notifications kept rolling in. Pending charge: 12 Signature Desserts – $216.00 Pending charge: 3 To-Go Key Lime Pies – $105.00 Pending charge: To-Go Lobster Tail – $85.00 I opened the app to check the running total. $4,126.00. There was still about $800 left of my original deposit. But the balance wasn’t the issue. The issue was that one-dollar transaction limit. He thought he was sliding my plastic through a golden machine. In reality, he was dragging his own name through the dirt. By 3:30 PM, the feast was winding down. Tyler posted a massive family portrait on Facebook, captioned: “An incredible day with the best family! My treat, as always. Let’s do this again soon!” The comments were flooded with “Thank you, Tyler!” “You’re amazing!” “Best Memorial Day ever!” I locked my phone and glanced at my watch. Almost time. Eric texted: “I’m heading to the lobby near the host stand. Get ready for the show.” I smiled. Fifteen minutes later, my phone rang. It wasn’t a notification. It was Tyler calling. I answered. “Hey, Tyler,” I said smoothly. “Hey, Daniel…” His voice was hushed, frantic, a desperate whisper that sounded nothing like the confident man in the red blazer. “Uh, quick question. What’s the PIN for your Lakehouse card?”

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Mrs. Gable, a legendary retired educator, was a guest on a high-profile talk show. She had spent forty years molding the minds of the elite; her former students were now CEOs, tech moguls, and Nobel-nominated scientists. When the host asked which student left the deepest mark on her soul, Mrs. Gable’s composure faltered. She pressed her lips together, a bitter, haunting smile playing on her face. “The one who failed the most,” she whispered. “She was the valedictorian, a brilliant girl with the world at her feet. But she fell for the class burnout—a boy with bleached hair and a record. To save her future, I intercepted their love letters and read them aloud at a PTA meeting, framing them as a cry for help against his ‘harassment.’ I tore them apart to save her.” Mrs. Gable looked into the camera, her eyes glassy. “I thought I was playing God. But she ended up failing her finals, while the boy she loved—the one I tried to ‘protect’ her from—went on to an Ivy League, became a titan of Wall Street, and changed the world. Life has a cruel sense of irony.” The host sighed, moved by the weight of the confession. “If she’s watching now, what would you say to her?” Mrs. Gable let out a ragged breath, a single tear escaping. “She can’t hear me. She developed leukemia and couldn’t afford the treatment. She died three years ago, alone and penniless.” The clip went viral instantly, a lightning strike across social media. But Rowan, the man at the center of the story, knew nothing of the storm. He had just stepped out of an international summit, his mind focused on a single task: buying a rare pink diamond necklace for his fiancée, Felicity. … Felicity’s radiant face filled his phone screen. “Don’t be late to the auction, Rowan. If you lose that necklace to some hedge fund brat, I’ll never forgive you,” she teased. Rowan felt the weight of his exhaustion lift. He looked at her with a soft, indulgent gaze. “Mission accepted. I’ll bring it home. I had the housekeeper pick up those potato wedges you like from the place downtown. You’ve been skipping meals lately; you need to eat.” Felicity laughed, holding up a takeout container. “I’m eating, I’m eating! Honestly, I should thank your ex-girlfriend. Whoever she was, she trained you so well. I’m just reaping the benefits of her hard work.” Rowan’s face went rigid. He blinked, his voice turning cold and flat. “How many times do I have to tell you? There was no one before you. You’re the only one.” I was drifting silently in the air above him, watching the micro-expressions he thought he was hiding. I didn’t miss the flicker in his eyes. At the mention of an ‘ex,’ his gaze didn’t soften with nostalgia; it sharpened with a vivid, crystalline hatred. Rowan hated me. He hated me with a fervor that had fueled his ascent to the top. My ‘confession’ letter hadn’t just stripped him of his dignity; it had triggered his father’s massive heart attack. His father was still in a vegetative state, a ghost kept alive by machines. Rowan had ridden that rage all the way to a scholarship, a billion-dollar exit, and an engagement to a girl like Felicity—the kind of girl who was born into the world he had to conquer. I understood why he denied me. When life is perfect, you don’t acknowledge the monster who broke your world. His assistant checked the tablet and cleared his throat. “Sir, we’re passing the television studios. Your old high school teacher, Mrs. Gable, is finishing an interview. Would you like to stop and send flowers? She’s a major figure in education now; a photo op would be great for the firm’s ESG branding.” The company was in the middle of a massive expansion. They needed the good press. Rowan nodded. In his mind, he owed Mrs. Gable a debt. If she hadn’t exposed my ‘true’ feelings, he would have stayed a fool, shackled to a girl who looked down on him. Mrs. Gable appeared under the flashing lights of the studio exit. She looked older, but she carried herself with a sharp, vibrant energy. As the crowd parted, she recognized Rowan instantly. “Rowan… I didn’t expect to see you,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. Rowan gave her a dutiful, polished smile. He handed the bouquet over with the practiced grace of a man used to public appearances. “It’s been a busy few years, Mrs. Gable. I’ve been meaning to reach out. I’d love to take you to dinner to catch up properly.” She looked at him with a strange, pitying kindness. “Tonight, then. Your old class is having a small reunion at the Tavern. You should come.” Rowan hesitated. The silence stretched. Mrs. Gable leaned in, her voice low. “Don’t worry. She won’t be there.” It was a tactful, adult way of acknowledging a wound that had never closed. The reunion was loud, fueled by expensive bourbon and the desperate need to prove how much everyone had changed. One former classmate, several drinks deep, raised a glass with a flushed face. “Remember the last time we were all together like this? Right before the scandal broke with Rowan and Willa? God, seven years flies by.” The room went tomb-quiet. Everyone stole glances at Rowan, waiting for the explosion. Rowan just took a slow sip of his scotch and smiled. “Willa? Which one was she again?” The tension broke into a wave of awkward, forced laughter. “Exactly! Too busy making billions to remember some high school drama. Not important.” Our three years of fire and wreckage were dismissed as a footnote. As the night ended, Rowan walked Mrs. Gable to her car. The alcohol had loosened her composure. She looked at him, her eyes heavy with a complicated grief. “Rowan,” she said, her voice cracking. “Don’t hold it against her anymore. She didn’t have it as good as you. When she passed… she didn’t even have anyone to claim her. She was so alone at the end.” “You’re successful now. You’re getting married. It’s time to let it go.” Rowan claimed he didn’t remember me, but his body betrayed him. His knuckles were bone-white against the car door. He had spent the whole dinner glancing at the entrance, a reflex he couldn’t kill. Mrs. Gable saw his agitation. She felt the guilt gnawing at her. She had truly believed she was doing the right thing, never imagining she would dismantle two lives so completely. She had tried to make amends to me in the end; she was the one who sat by my bed through the worst of the chemo. Rowan paused as he closed her door. He let out a sharp, cynical laugh. “Willa always was a great actress,” he said. “She probably convinced you to play along with this little ‘death’ stunt. People like her don’t just die. They’re like cockroaches.” “I won’t seek revenge, as long as she stays gone. Tell her if she shows her face like she did three years ago, I won’t be so generous.” Three years ago, when the diagnosis came, I was utterly alone. I went back to my childhood home, only to find my mother had moved and changed her number months ago. A young couple lived there now, their toddler’s laughter ringing through the hallway where I used to hide from my mother’s moods. I stood on the sidewalk that day, crying until the rain soaked through my skin. That was the day I broke a four-year silence and called Rowan. I asked for money. A million dollars. “Consider it back pay for all the tutoring I gave you in high school,” I told him, my voice shaking. Rowan’s laugh on the other end was jagged. “My father’s ICU bill is ten thousand a day, Willa. If you were the one lying in that bed, I’d pay it gladly just to watch the monitor flatline.” I was silent for a long time. “Rowan, I’m dying.” The line went dead. He hadn’t even waited for the end of the sentence. The universe has a sick sense of humor, because the very next day, I fainted while handing out flyers in the heat and collapsed right into his arms outside his office building. At first, he was the Good Samaritan. He told his assistant to call 911, offered to cover the initial ER bill. But when he pulled my hair back and saw my face, he recoiled as if he’d touched a corpse. I hit the pavement hard. The sun-baked asphalt scorched my arms. As I slipped into unconsciousness, I felt something fluttering down onto me. Rowan was throwing cash—hundreds of dollars—onto my limp body like I was a cheap performer. “You must have worked hard to track me down,” he sneered, his voice echoing in the darkness of my fading mind. “Since you’re so committed to the ‘dying’ act, take this. It should be enough for a decent casket.” The rest of the story followed a predictable, dreary script. I didn’t want to die, so I scraped together every cent for chemo. I actually used that money he threw at me to prepay for my cremation. The remaining seven thousand dollars? I left it with Mrs. Gable to give back to him. Mrs. Gable stood by my grave now, her lips trembling. “I’ll wire the money to your account, Rowan. Willa wanted things settled between you.” “Tomorrow is the anniversary of her passing. Whether you believe it or not… I hope you’ll come say goodbye.” Rowan stood by his floor-to-ceiling windows that night, staring out at the city. I remembered the first time I saw him look like that. I had gone to find him, intending to pick a fight, only to find him huddled in an alley, bleeding from a fight with his dad. It was pouring rain. He had handed me his jacket to keep me dry, even as he shivered in the cold. He had been my hero once. He used to leave warm breakfast in my desk. He’d wait two hours in line just to get me a seat in the quiet section of the library. When my mother had her first psychotic break, he stood between us and took the blows she meant for me. “Don’t cry,” he’d said, wiping my tears with a bruised hand. “I’ve got you. Always.” By senior year, that protection had turned into something deeper. He had walked ninety-nine steps toward me, and I wanted to take that final one. I wrote so many drafts of that letter—bright, colorful stationery scattered across my floor. I never imagined Mrs. Gable would go through our bags during the PTA meeting. In her version of the letter, I called Rowan the ‘son of a mistress,’ a ‘piece of trash with bad genes’ who I was only using to feel better about myself. Rowan’s father heard it all. He collapsed that night. The doctors issued three critical notices before his heart finally gave out, leaving him a shell on a ventilator. My mother locked me in my room, screaming that I was a disgrace. I climbed out the window to find Rowan, to tell him it was all a lie. But his eyes were like shards of ice. “Loving you was the biggest mistake of my life. My mother ruined yours, and now you’ve killed my father. We’re even.” He threw a bouquet of lilies at my feet. The graduation card was trampled into the mud. I knelt at his door, begging for an hour, but he never came out. On the walk back, I was dragged into a dark alleyway. A group of men, smelling of stale beer and malice, tore at my clothes. In the struggle, I managed to hit redial on my phone. It was Rowan. “Rowan… please… help me… I’m at the park… please…” Rowan’s voice was clear, sharp, and utterly devoid of mercy. “Congratulations,” he said. “You always hated women like my mother. Now you can finally understand what it’s like to be one.” The line clicked. He blocked me. My plea for help vanished into the ether. All I remember from that night was the sound of the dial tone and the cloying scent of lilies. When they found me, my right arm was shattered, and I was covered in bruises that would never really fade. My mother’s condition worsened. Only Rowan and I had no parents at graduation. That was the last time I saw him. Later, I heard he got into Harvard. I bombed my SATs and barely made it into a local community college. I didn’t go. I needed money for my mother’s care. In my third year working at a textile factory, my health broke. That was when Mrs. Gable found me. She told me what she’d done and offered to pay for my school. I just shook my head. “I’m sick. I just want to live. That’s all I want.” But after the second round of chemo, the will to live started to fray. I lay in that hospital bed, too weak to even cry, watching Rowan on the news talking about his latest acquisition. He flashed a wedding ring at the camera. I told Mrs. Gable I wanted to stop. Everyone had let me go, so I was letting myself go, too. In my final days, I prayed for one last glimpse of him. Not for revenge, but because I didn’t want to leave with a heart full of misunderstandings. God listened, in a way. Rowan came to the hospital for a charity gala. He was only a curtain away from me. I tried to call his name, but blood surged up my throat, choking the words. Nurses rushed in, and as the world turned gray, I felt my soul lift. Rowan seemed to hear something. He turned, looking toward my bed, but the doctors were already pulling the white sheet over my face. We passed each other in the hallway—the living and the dead—separated by nothing but a thin shroud. The sound of glass shattering snapped me back to the present. Rowan was in his office, bleeding from a cut on his hand. He didn’t seem to notice. “Cancel my meetings,” he told his assistant. “We’re going to the cemetery tomorrow morning. I want to see how far Willa is willing to take this performance.” My plot was in the cheap, overgrown section of the cemetery. It was covered in dead leaves and silt. Mrs. Gable was there, huddling under an umbrella, trying to clean the headstone. “I never liked you two together,” she whispered to the wind. “His mother destroyed your family. I thought I was putting things back on track. I didn’t realize you were serious about him. I didn’t realize I was killing you.” I watched her. Her hair was entirely white now. She was sobbing harder than I ever had. In the end, she had used her entire pension to pay for my comfort. A pair of polished leather shoes appeared. Rowan looked horribly out of place in the gray, muddy yard. He tossed a bunch of lilies—the same flowers from graduation—onto the dirt. I flinched. Even without a body, the memory of that scent made me recoil. Willa Dwight. Passed January 1st, 2022. Free at last. My entire life, summarized in three lines. “Not bad,” Rowan sneered. “She even got the props right. She must have spent years planning this exit strategy.” “She called me a mistake once. Now she’s probably waiting in some hotel for me to call her, begging for a payout. Well, she can rot here. I will never forgive her.” Mrs. Gable stood up slowly. She looked at him with a hollow expression. “She knelt at your door and you didn’t open it,” she said. “She called you for help and you laughed. She owes you nothing, Rowan. You were the one who destroyed her.” She pulled a piece of crumpled, pink paper from her pocket and handed it to him. The letter. Seven years late. I felt a phantom surge of anxiety. I watched his face, waiting. Rowan frowned. The paper slipped from his fingers and landed in a puddle of muddy water. He wiped his hand on his trousers, disgusted. “I don’t need to read her trash.” My heart—or where it used to be—ached. Mrs. Gable couldn’t take it anymore. She slapped a bank card against his chest. Her voice was a ragged scream. “She bought her own coffin with your twenty thousand dollars! This is what’s left!” “She only had one wish: for you to know the truth. She didn’t want to leave this world with you hating a lie.” She closed her eyes, gasping for air. “I changed the letter, Rowan! She was going to tell you she loved you! I was the one who wrote those things about your mother! I wanted to break you up… I never knew your father would die… I never knew what would happen to her that night in the park…” Rowan froze. His pinky finger twitched—a nervous habit from high school. After a long silence, he let out a dry, hollow chuckle. “You’d say anything to protect her. Even lie about your own career. Even if she is dead, she’s still a murderer in my eyes.” Mrs. Gable reached into her bag one last time. “If you don’t believe me… look at this.”

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Three days before my son’s fifth birthday, I sat on the edge of his bed, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. I asked him what he wanted this year, hoping to get a head start on the preparations. Toby blinked his big, innocent eyes. A bright, enthusiastic smile spread across his face. “When I grow up, I want to be just like Daddy and have two wives!” he chirped, his voice bubbling with excitement. “One to stay at home like a tired old hag to scrub the floors, and one to keep outside who is pretty and fun.” The air left my lungs in a sharp, painful gasp. I looked down at the faded kitchen apron tied around my waist. I caught my reflection in the dark windowpane—my hair was thrown into a messy, utilitarian bun, my face pale and exhausted. I had spent the last seven years working myself to the bone, keeping our home spotless and raising our son, only for Daniel to cheat on me behind my back—and worse, teach our five-year-old to view me as nothing but a worn-out servant. Toby tilted his head, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Oh, and Mommy? Daddy said he’s going to make you disappear. Is he going to turn you into a kid like me so you don’t take up so much space?” A cold, bitter laugh escaped my throat. So, Daniel thought a few million dollars in his bank account gave him the right to play emperor and build a harem. I pulled out my phone and dialed a number I hadn’t called in years. “Dad,” I said, my voice trembling but absolute. “Pull the funding from Daniel’s company. Cut him off completely.” “He doesn’t deserve a single cent.” … The line went quiet for two agonizing seconds. “Done,” my father replied, his voice thick with protective rage. “Anyone who dares to humiliate my daughter has lived a comfortable life for far too long.” There were no demanding questions, no doubts. Just the immediate, unwavering shield of a father’s love. My throat tightened, and hot tears threatened to spill over. Seven years ago, I had practically severed ties with my family for the sake of Daniel Ward. I had hidden my wealthy background, packed my bags, and squeezed into a damp basement apartment with him. We survived on instant ramen while pulling all-nighters to rewrite his business proposals. We had built everything from nothing. We went from scraping pennies together to owning a luxury estate and a thriving enterprise. And this was how he repaid me. By raising a mistress in the dark. The front door clicked open. Daniel walked into the foyer. Strutting right behind him, with an insufferable air of entitlement, was a woman in a perfectly tailored designer suit and flawlessly airbrushed makeup. Gemma Cox. Gemma didn’t even glance at me. She bypassed me entirely and walked straight toward Toby, holding up a massive gift bag filled with expensive, imported sweets. She offered him a saccharine, practiced smile. “Toby, look what Mommy brought you today. Come here, let Mommy give you a big hug.” Mommy? My fingernails dug so deeply into my palms that they nearly broke the skin. Toby had a massive sweet tooth, but I strictly monitored his diet. He had an incredibly sensitive stomach; even a small amount of processed sugar could leave him crying in pain with severe diarrhea. Gemma was dangling the ultimate temptation in front of a toddler. Toby’s eyes lit up. He grabbed the bag of treats and squealed. “Wow! So many candies!” Gemma’s smile widened, triumphant. She leaned down to pull him into her arms. “Such a good boy. Aren’t you going to say thank you to Mommy?” She threw a smug, pitying glance over her shoulder at me. My chest constricted. I held my breath, waiting for the blow. But Toby took a step backward, clutching the bag tightly, and said in his clear, childish voice: “Thank you, Aunt Gemma.” Then he turned and ran straight back to my side. He looked up at me, his eyes wide and pleading. “Mommy, can I please have just one tiny piece of candy? Just a little one?” A wave of profound relief washed over me. Gemma’s face instantly froze. I gently patted Toby on the head, swallowing the bitter taste in my mouth. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but you know we can’t. Remember what happened last time you ate those? Your tummy hurt so badly you cried all night.” Though disappointment clouded his face, Toby obediently handed the bag back to her. “Okay. Then I won’t eat them.” Gemma’s expression turned incredibly sour. Her eyes darted around the room before she knelt down again, trying to salvage her pride. “Toby, if you just call me Mommy, I promise to buy you whatever toys and sweets you want every single day. You can eat as much as you want. How does that sound?” I braced myself, wondering if my five-year-old would succumb to the bribe. But Toby merely frowned. He looked at her with utter seriousness. “I don’t want to. I only have one Mommy. Aunt Gemma, don’t you have your own children?” A sharp, hysterical laugh almost escaped my lips. Gemma’s mask cracked completely. Furious and embarrassed, she spun around and threw herself into Daniel’s arms, weeping theatrical tears. “Daniel, look at him! I went out of my way to buy him the best gifts, and he treats me like an intruder!” Daniel’s face softened with immediate pity. His expression darkened as he turned to glare at Toby. “Toby, how dare you be so disrespectful—” “That is enough!” I barked, cutting him off. “Daniel, you know damn well that Toby has a severe gastrointestinal condition. One bag of those sweets could land him in the emergency room. Are you seriously willing to compromise your own son’s health just to appease your mistress?” Daniel stiffened, caught off guard by my sudden ferocity. Then, his jaw tightened, and he adopted a tone of supreme arrogance. “He’s a kid. It’s your job to manage his diet. Raising him properly is your duty, Helena. Don’t blame Gemma for trying to be a good parent.” My duty. So, in his eyes, I was nothing more than an unpaid, live-in nanny. “Helena, let’s not beat around the bush anymore,” Daniel said, his voice cold and transactional. “Gemma is the love of my life. Seven years ago, I didn’t have the money to give her the life she deserved, so I let her go because I didn’t want her to suffer with me. But now that I am a success, I am going to have her by my side.” A dull, heavy ache settled deep in my chest. So that was the truth. I was never his partner. I was merely his stepping stone, his safety net during his years of poverty. “In three days, at Toby’s birthday gala, I will publicly announce Gemma as my wife,” Daniel continued smoothly. “As for you, you’ve worked hard these past few years. You can stay here and continue managing the household. I’ll make sure you’re taken care of.” He wanted to reduce me to a shadow. A hidden, shameful domestic servant while his mistress paraded around in my place. The humiliation felt like a thousand needles pricking my skin. “No need,” I said, my voice dead and cold. “We’re going to the courthouse tomorrow to file for divorce. You can marry whoever you want. I’m leaving.” Daniel remained silent for a long moment. For a fraction of a second, a flicker of guilt crossed his features. “We can’t get a divorce.” A wave of absurdity washed over me. “Don’t push your luck, Daniel. Do you honestly think you’re some medieval lord who can keep a wife and a concubine under one roof?” Daniel cleared his throat, looking away. “I mean… that marriage certificate we got seven years ago? It was fake. We were never legally married.” “Fake?” I froze, the ground beneath my feet suddenly feeling like quicksand. “You were pressuring me so hard to marry you back then, and I didn’t want to hurt your feelings,” he said, dismissively waving his hand as if he had done me a great favor. “So I hired a guy to print a fake certificate to keep you happy.” I wanted to scream, but only a dry, self-deprecating laugh emerged. I remembered the night we “married.” He had held my hands under the dim streetlights, swearing an oath to the stars: “Helena, once I make it, I’m going to buy you the biggest house in the city. I’m going to make you the happiest wife in the world.” I had believed every single lie. I had sacrificed my youth, my family, and my body to build his empire. And it was all a calculated, seven-year scam. Gemma leaned her head against Daniel’s shoulder, a patronizing smirk playing on her lips. “Helena, you’ve really outdone yourself these past few years. But don’t worry, from now on, your only job is to make sure Toby is looked after.” Daniel squeezed Gemma’s hand affectionately. “Gemma is incredibly kind-hearted. Don’t go taking your bitterness out on her. Just behave yourself in this house, and I’ll make sure you always have food on your plate.” I could hear the unspoken threat vibrating beneath his words. If I didn’t play along, he, the powerful CEO, had a million ways to make my life a living hell. My eyes stung with unshed tears. Toby tugged gently at the hem of my shirt, whispering softly, “Mommy, don’t cry. Toby will protect you. Daddy is mean, and that lady is mean too.” My son’s quiet voice broke the dam. Tears spilled over my cheeks. I knelt down and pulled him into a desperate, tight embrace. I looked up at Daniel, my gaze cutting through him like broken glass. “Keep dreaming, Daniel. I will never be your dirty little secret. I am taking Toby, and we are leaving tonight.” I stood up to go upstairs and pack our things. Even if I had to leave with nothing but the clothes on my back, I would not spend another second in this house. But Daniel stepped in front of me, his face turning dangerously dark. “Leave? To where? You haven’t worked a day in seven years. You’ve been living off my dime, wearing my clothes, eating my food. You think you can just walk out?” “And Toby is my son. He stays here.” “Living off your dime?” My voice shook with pure rage. “Where did you get your startup capital, Daniel? When your company was on the verge of bankruptcy, who bowed her head and begged clients for mercy? Look me in the eye and tell me you would have any of this without me!” Daniel’s eyes flickered with a brief moment of shame. But his arrogance quickly returned. “Stop living in the past. I succeeded because of my own brilliant mind.” “You will be at the gala in three days, Helena. You will play the supportive, quiet domestic partner, and you will not make a scene.” “If you don’t, I will make sure you never lay eyes on Toby again.” I stared at him, utterly paralyzed by his cruelty. He was using our son as a hostage. Seven years of love. Seven years of devotion. All thrown to a pack of wolves. My heart died in that very room. Seeing me stand there, pale and silent, Daniel assumed I had surrendered. He wrapped his arm around Gemma’s waist and led her toward the stairs. “Get some rest,” he called out over his shoulder. “Gemma will find something suitable for you to wear tomorrow. Look at yourself—you’re an embarrassment to my reputation.” I held Toby close to my chest, my face cold, but a roaring fire of hatred began to consume my soul. I had been willing to walk away and chalk this up as a lesson learned in blood. But since they wanted to drag me into the dirt, I would make sure they drowned in it. The next morning, before I was even fully awake, Gemma kicked my bedroom door open. She walked in like she owned the place, holding a cheap plastic grocery bag. She tossed it onto my bed, and a few faded, worn-out thrift store dresses spilled out. “Here you go, Helena,” she sneered, her eyes dripping with malice. “At your age, these are perfect for you. No need to look too flashy.” I stared at the pile of rags. This was her idea of “finding me something suitable.” She wanted to humiliate me publicly, to make sure I looked like a charity case at the gala. “Gemma, you are playing a very dangerous game,” I said, my voice deathly quiet. “What I wear is none of your business.” “None of my business?” Gemma laughed, a sharp, grating sound. “Daniel told me that I run this house now. You’re just a dried-up old housewife. Putting expensive clothes on you is a waste of money anyway.” Dried-up old housewife. The words stabbed deep. I looked at myself in the vanity mirror. Years of endless cooking, cleaning, and stressing over Daniel’s company had taken their toll. My skin was dull, and there were dark circles under my eyes. I had given up my beauty for him. And this was the reward. Seeing my pale face, Gemma grew bolder. “Daniel has only ever loved me. If I hadn’t gone abroad years ago, you wouldn’t have even gotten a foot in his door. You were just a placeholder, Helena. Now that the queen is back, the maid needs to step aside.” She paused, leaning in close. “And Toby is going to be mine. I can’t have children of my own, so he will be my legal son. If you know what’s good for you, you won’t fight me on this. Otherwise, I will make sure you end up on the streets.” So that was her angle. She was infertile, so she wanted to steal my child to secure her place in high society. Before I could reply, the door opened, and Daniel walked in. Seeing us standing face-to-face, he didn’t hesitate to bark at me. “Helena! What did you do to upset Gemma now? I told you to show her some respect!” Gemma immediately dissolved into a pout, clutching his arm. “Daniel, don’t be mad. I was just trying to help Helena pick out an outfit for the gala, but she threw a tantrum and threatened me.” “I threatened you?” I let out a harsh laugh. “Daniel, look at what she brought me. Rags. And you expect me to let this woman raise my son?” “Enough!” Daniel snapped, waving his hand impatiently. “You’re a shut-in housewife who can’t even hold a proper conversation. You think you’re qualified to raise a child who will inherit a multi-million-dollar estate? Toby will have a much better future with Gemma as his mother.” Looking at Daniel’s cold, unfeeling face, my mind drifted back to five years ago. I had hemorrhaged during childbirth, nearly dying on the operating table. When I finally woke up, Daniel was kneeling by my bedside, sobbing like a child, kissing my hands. “Helena, I swear to God, I will never let you suffer again. I will spend the rest of my life making you happy.” Back then, I believed his tears. I thought every sacrifice was worth it. Now, he was not only breaking every promise he had ever made, but he was also trying to steal the child I had nearly died to bring into this world. I stopped arguing. I clenched my fists and forced myself to remain silent. If I fought him now, they might lock me up or take Toby away before I could act. Two days. I just had to endure two more days. And then, I would tear their lives apart. The day before the gala arrived. The mansion was a whirlwind of activity. Catering staff and decorators bustled in and out, preparing a grand welcome for the city’s elite. It was designed to be Gemma’s grand debut as the new lady of the house. I was treated like a ghost, pushed into the shadows. Gemma had ordered the maids to throw away my personal belongings. She even converted my bedroom into her walk-in closet, banishing me to the tiny maid’s quarters in the back of the house. I endured it all. I was waiting for tomorrow, when every single debt would be paid in full. That evening, Toby clung to my neck, crying and begging me to read him a bedtime story. Gemma walked past the doorway, her expression souring instantly. She marched into the room and tried to yank Toby away from me. “Toby, come to Mommy. I’ll tell you a much better story.” “Stop clinging to this woman.” But Toby held onto me with all his tiny might, shaking his head and crying out. “No! She is my mommy! I don’t want you!” Gemma’s fake sweet persona shattered. She bared her teeth in a sudden, ugly rage. “Toby!” “Let me tell you something—tomorrow, you are going to call me Mommy whether you like it or not!” “You better get used to me, or I’ll tell your father to throw you out on the street!” Toby flinched, terrified by her venomous tone, tears streaming down his face. Yet, he still bravely shielded me, standing on his tiny legs. “You’re a monster! I won’t call you Mommy! I only want my mommy!” “You little brat!” Gemma’s face twisted with malice, and she raised her hand to strike my son. I lunged forward, throwing myself between them. “Gemma! If you have a problem, take it out on me! Don’t you dare touch my son!” “Take it out on you?” Gemma sneered. “You’re right. Toby was always a sweet boy before you poisoned his mind against me.” “I think it’s time someone taught you a lesson!” She reached out, grabbing a handful of my hair. Instinct took over. I raised my arms and shoved her away. I didn’t use much force, but Gemma seized the opportunity. She stumbled backward, dramatically collapsing onto the hardwood floor, sobbing hysterically. The door burst open. Daniel, hearing the commotion, rushed into the room. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t look for evidence. He immediately assumed I was the monster. “Helena, have you lost your mind?!” He rushed over to pull Gemma into his arms. He turned his head to glare at me, his eyes filled with absolute disgust. “How dare you lay a hand on Gemma!” “I didn’t touch her! She tried to strike Toby, and I was protecting my son!” I knew tomorrow would bring the end of this nightmare, but the sheer injustice of his accusation made my chest heave. “Liar!” Daniel spat, a vein pulsing in his forehead. “Gemma is the gentlest soul I know. She would never hurt a child.” “You’re just consumed by jealousy. Apologize to her right now!” “I will not apologize. I did nothing wrong.” I stood tall, refusing to bend. “You won’t?” Daniel’s temper flared. He raised his hand and delivered a brutal slap across my face. The sharp crack echoed through the quiet room. My cheek burned like fire, and a high-pitched ringing filled my ears. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the cold shock of reality. He had actually hit me. For her. Toby screamed, throwing his little body over mine, sobbing uncontrollably. “Bad Daddy! You hurt Mommy! I hate you!” The tears finally fell, cold and bitter. Not because of the pain, but because the last remaining trace of my youth had just been violently erased. Seven years of devotion, ending in a slap. Daniel’s eyes flickered with a brief moment of panic, but his face hardened again as he looked down at Gemma, who was whimpering in his arms. “You brought this on yourself,” he said coldly. “Behave yourself at the gala tomorrow. If you make a scene, I will destroy you.” With that, he lifted Gemma into his arms and walked out, leaving me alone on the floor with my sobbing child. I gently stroked Toby’s hair, my voice a quiet, lethal whisper. “Don’t cry, Toby. Tomorrow, Mommy is going to take care of everything.” “No one will ever hurt us again.” Toby looked up, nodding through his tears, trusting me completely. The night of the gala arrived. Daniel and Gemma stood at the grand entrance of the ballroom, greeting the city’s high society, looking every bit the picture of a wealthy, successful couple. Meanwhile, I was forced to sit in the darkest, dampest corner of the room, wearing the faded, patched-up dress Gemma had thrown at me. I was a spectacle. Whispers and mocking giggles drifted over from the surrounding tables. “Is that the CEO’s first partner? She looks like a kitchen maid.” “First partner? Please. I heard she crawled into his bed while Gemma was studying abroad. She’s just a glorified nanny.” “Look at her clothes. How embarrassing.” I sat in silence, a cold smile playing on my lips. These were the same people who, just a year ago, had kissed my hand and begged me to introduce them to my father’s business associates. Now that they thought I had fallen from grace, they couldn’t wait to kick me while I was down. Daniel stepped up to the microphone on the stage, clearing his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us for my son Toby’s fifth birthday.” “Tonight, I would also like to make a special announcement.” He reached out, drawing Gemma to his side. “The true lady of the Ward estate, and the mother of my child, is Gemma Cox.” As the crowd erupted into polite applause, confirming Gemma’s status, the whispers around me turned into outright jeers. “So she really was just a placeholder.” “Hey, Helena, since Daniel is done with you, maybe you can come clean my house next? I’ll pay you more than he did.” Toby ran up to me, throwing his arms around my legs, glaring at the crowd. “She is my mommy! She’s not a servant! Stop saying mean things to my mommy!” I held my crying son tight, my body trembling with a mixture of rage and anticipation. Gemma, seeing Toby still clinging to me, gestured to the security guards with a look of pure venom. “Guards, take the child away from her.” “Daniel, this bitter woman is clearly brainwashing Toby to cause a scene. We need to handle this.” Faced with the judgment of his wealthy peers, Daniel’s face hardened. “Guards, drag Helena down to the basement. Lock her in the cellar for ten days. Let’s see if a little starvation teaches her how to behave.” Two heavy-set security guards immediately lunged forward, grabbing my arms and ripping Toby away from me. “Mommy! Mommy!” Toby screamed, his voice raw with terror. I struggled, trying to shield him, but a guard violently grabbed my hair, dragging me backward across the marble floor. The room filled with mocking laughter, drowning out my son’s desperate cries. Suddenly, Daniel’s personal assistant burst through the double doors, his face pale as a ghost. He ran up the stage, whispering frantically into Daniel’s ear. “Sir… our largest investor has just pulled all their capital. Our stock is crashing. We are completely bankrupt!” The microphone picked up his panicked whisper, and the laughter in the ballroom died instantly. A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the room. Before anyone could comprehend what was happening, the massive oak doors of the ballroom were slammed open. A dozen tall, imposing security guards dressed in black suits marched into the room, forming a human corridor. And then, a tall, grey-haired man with an aura of immense authority stepped inside. “Unhand her. Whoever touches my daughter dies tonight.”

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The first year after I died, my daughter, Lily, was diagnosed with a terminal illness. Director Davis from the orphanage called Nicholas, telling him they needed half a million dollars for her treatment. He was holding Barbara, his childhood friend, absently toying with her hair. His face was cold as ice. “No treatment. If she dies, she dies. She can just go keep her short-lived mom company.” In the end, Lily died at the orphanage because there was no money for her medical care. Director Davis called Nicholas again. He sounded annoyed. “Oh? Is she really dead this time?” It was a full day after Lily died before Nicholas finally showed up at the orphanage, sauntering in without a care. He looked even colder than when I’d last seen him a year ago. In his hands were bags full of baby supplies. My heart twisted. No wonder he was so late. It was because his current wife was already pregnant with his child. He saw Director Davis and snapped, “Where’s Lily’s body? Weren’t you calling me non-stop to come and deal with it?” The director, who had been wiping away tears, froze. She led him to the room where Lily’s body lay. Nicholas walked over, pulled back the white sheet, glanced at it, and then chuckled. “Not bad. This prop looks pretty real. Chloe must have paid you a lot to put on this act with the orphanage, right?” The director’s anger flared. “Mr. Nicholas, Lily is truly gone. If I didn’t need a relative’s signature for the cremation, I wouldn’t have bothered you.” Nicholas ignored her and spoke directly to Lily, who was still covered by the sheet. “Looks like you weren’t that important to your mom either! You’re dead, and she still won’t show up.” My nose stung. Nicholas, it’s not that I don’t want to show up. It’s because I’m already dead. I died a year ago. But for some reason, my soul stayed by Lily’s side after death. Countless nights, I watched Lily convulse in pain, kneeling on the ground and calling my name. Yet, I was powerless. And her biological father? He was busy creating a new life with his childhood friend. Lily didn’t seem like his flesh and blood; she was more like trash he’d tried every possible way to discard. “Since she’s dead, I can take her body, right?” Nicholas’s words pulled me back from my thoughts. He walked out the front door, answered a phone call, and then tossed Lily’s body into a garbage can. He even remembered to tell his bodyguards to buy some hungry dogs from a pet store. I was stunned. After I registered what was happening, I immediately flew into the garbage can, frantically trying to pull Lily’s body out. He wanted Lily to be torn to pieces! But no matter how hard I tried, I could only watch helplessly as drooling, vicious dogs slowly closed in on Lily’s body. Nicholas’s lips curled into a cold smile. He murmured, “Trash belongs in the trash can.” “Chloe, why would I want your discards?” I screamed in despair, “Nicholas, this is our Lily!” The stray dogs pounced on Lily, tearing at her relentlessly. When cold blood splattered onto the ground, a flicker of confusion crossed Nicholas’s eyes, but it vanished instantly. “The props are quite convincing, but even if this little brat was truly dead, I wouldn’t feel a thing.” “Just like your dead mother, you should have been out of my life long ago.” Nicholas only looked away, satisfied, when the hungry dogs had devoured Lily’s remains, leaving nothing intact. Just then, Director Davis rushed out of the orphanage. She was speechless at the sight. She pointed a trembling finger at Nicholas. “You… you…” Nicholas looked at the director with icy eyes, a confident smirk on his face. “Tell Chloe that if she wants custody, she shouldn’t hide. This trick of using the little brat to fake her death won’t fool me.” “My mother’s anniversary is coming up. If she doesn’t show, I don’t mind making sure this little brat is truly dead.” He emphasized “truly dead” with chilling intensity. Others might think he was joking. What father could be so cruel to his own daughter? But I knew. He meant every word. I suddenly felt a strange relief, a twisted gratitude that Lily was truly dead. Before Director Davis could speak, Nicholas left, surrounded by his bodyguards. My soul followed him. The bodyguard drove to a villa. As soon as they reached the entrance, a woman with a visibly pregnant belly ran out to meet him. Her figure felt incredibly familiar. It wasn’t until she walked up and embraced Nicholas that I remembered who she was.

Barbara. Nicholas’s childhood friend. During the years Nicholas and I were together, she had humiliated me countless times. She’d told me to stay away from Nicholas, even calling me a low-class nobody to my face, saying my meager salary wasn’t even enough for one of Nicholas’s meals. I ignored her, but she kept showing up at the hospital every few days, making appointments at my clinic. She spread rumors, accusing me of being an incompetent doctor, and even arranged for someone to try and cripple my surgeon’s hands. When Nicholas found out, he immediately had his company heavily suppress Barbara’s family business, vowing that if she ever bothered me again, he wouldn’t hesitate to bankrupt her family. Barbara’s father had no choice but to keep her locked up. And now, Barbara first asked about Nicholas’s whereabouts that day with concern. When Lily was mentioned, Nicholas’s striking eyes turned cold. “My bodyguard already told me Lily is perfectly healthy. This is all just a trick Chloe pulled, in league with the orphanage, to deceive me.” Barbara’s face showed a hint of guilt. She tentatively asked, “What if she really died?” My heart felt clutched by a giant hand as I also stared at Nicholas. The old Nicholas, the one I knew, would lose sleep over Lily even just sneezing. He used to say that Lily and I were the most important people in his life. But now, Nicholas’s face was cold, and his tone was impatient. “Then I’ll hire a band and celebrate for three days and three nights.” The next morning, Barbara suddenly had stomach pains, and Nicholas rushed her to the hospital. At the hospital, Barbara was wheeled into the delivery room. After several hours, she gave birth to a girl who was the spitting image of Nicholas. Nicholas’s gaze softened as he held the baby in his arms, refusing to let go for a moment. He looked exactly like he did when I first gave birth to Lily. But now, he had given his fatherly love to another child. His phone rang on the bedside table. As soon as Nicholas answered, his secretary’s hurried voice came through the line. “Mr. Nicholas, I apologize, but there’s an urgent company matter that requires your attention.” After talking for a while, Nicholas placed the baby next to Barbara, his voice gentle. “Be a good girl, or Daddy won’t spare you just because you’re small.” These words struck me like a lightning bolt, making my ethereal form tremble slightly. Barbara’s child was Nicholas’s? How could this be? Why Barbara? She was the one who caused your mother’s death! “Nicholas!” I screamed, rushing to his ear. But how could he hear a dead person’s voice? I gradually calmed down. As Nicholas was about to leave, a doctor walked in, holding a stack of files, a worried frown on his face. “Mr. Nicholas, our examination shows that the baby has a heart condition.” “If she doesn’t get a heart transplant before she’s three, she likely won’t survive to adulthood.” “But finding a suitable heart is extremely difficult, and it needs to be from a child under ten, otherwise there’s a high risk of rejection.” The doctor’s words cast a dark cloud over everyone in the room. Nicholas’s face first showed shock at the news of his child’s illness, then it relaxed. “Leave this to me. I have a way.” After the doctor left, he gestured for a bodyguard to come in. “Bring Lily here.” I instantly understood his plan. He wanted to use Lily’s heart for this new child. The bodyguard received the order and immediately left. Nicholas looked out the window, his eyes fierce. He muttered to himself, “Chloe, you and your daughter owe me this. A life for a life. Fair enough, isn’t it?” I gave a bitter laugh. I couldn’t even explain when I was alive that I wasn’t responsible for his mother’s death. How could I expect him to believe me now that I was dead? After all, all the evidence surrounding his mother’s death had pointed to me. Nicholas had believed it. On the day of his mother’s funeral, Nicholas had pinned me in front of her urn, forcing my head down, hitting the ground again and again. That day, he held his mother’s urn in his arms, his eyes bloodshot, staring at me with pure hatred. “Chloe, we’re enemies to the death.”

From that day on, I transformed from Nicholas’s most beloved person to his most hated. He tormented me endlessly, and he tormented Lily, who resembled me so much. Lily was only a few years old, yet she was forced to do housework and hard labor. If anything displeased him, she would be severely disciplined with a ruler. I had considered divorcing him and taking Lily, but he refused. He even threatened that if I dared to mention divorce again, he would break Lily’s legs. When he saw the despair in my eyes, he would chuckle, pinch my chin, and sneer, “Chloe, feeling hopeless? You deserve every bit of it.” But I truly wasn’t responsible for his mother’s death, even though his mother had never liked me, believing I wasn’t good enough for Nicholas. Even though she humiliated me in every setting, calling me a worthless tramp, a shameless whore. Even when she slapped me in front of the media. I never resented his mother, because I always remembered that Nicholas, to marry me, had not hesitated to break ties with his mother, on whom he depended so much. But his mother died at the hands of someone he loved. How could he not break down? In the evening, the bodyguard returned. When Nicholas heard that Lily hadn’t been found, he immediately swept the fruit from the coffee table onto the floor. “What?” “Lily has already been taken by Chloe.” My skeptical gaze fell on the bodyguard. If I hadn’t been right in front of him, I never would have imagined how much blame was being heaped on me. During Barbara’s postpartum recovery, Nicholas directly hired a private investigator to find my whereabouts. Upon receiving the information, he immediately rushed to that location. He had his men kick the door in, then walked in unhurriedly. “Chloe, hand over Lily, now.” Seeing no response, he sat on the sofa, waved his hand, and sent the bodyguards to look for me. By the time the bodyguards reported they hadn’t found me, his face had turned dark. He called the private investigator directly. Upon learning that this was the last place I had been seen, he gritted his teeth and said, “Chloe, I dare you to hide like a rat in a sewer forever.” Nicholas, I’m not hiding! I don’t need to hide! I’m standing right in front of you, but you can’t see me! The sky slowly darkened. Nicholas’s face was grim, his eyes fixed on the doorway. Finally, a sound came from the entrance, and soon, Gregg’s figure appeared. When he saw Nicholas through the bodyguards outside the door, a flicker of hatred crossed his eyes. “What are you doing at my house?” Nicholas sneered, “What am I doing? Of course, I’m looking for Chloe and Lily.” Gregg saw something and chuckled. “You’ve probably come to the wrong place, haven’t you?” “They’re both dead. You haven’t forgotten, have you?” “You think a fake dummy can fool me? I’m not an idiot. Hand them over right now.” A trace of pain flashed across Gregg’s face, his eyes, like stagnant water, coldly fixed on Nicholas. “I told you, Chloe and Lily are both dead. You even went to retrieve Lily’s body yourself.” Nicholas grabbed Gregg by the collar, staring intently at him. “Are you taking me for a fool?” “Lily cherished her life so much, how could she die?” “I’m warning you, make her come out and see me immediately. Her worthless life was always meant to repay me!” Just then, his phone rang. Nicholas saw the incoming call, put it on speaker, and scoffed, “Chloe, what? Finally willing to show yourself?” But it was the private investigator’s voice on the other end. “Mr. Nicholas, I learned through an informant that Ms. Chloe died a year ago.”

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At my own birthday party, I finally crossed the line I’d been walking for ten years. I slept with Hudson, the boy I’d trailed after since we were in pigtails and grass-stained sneakers. When I woke up, the air in the room felt like ice. He was already dressed, his eyes curdled with a cold, sharp disdain. “That was a cheap move, Jennifer,” he said, his voice flat. “Lower than I thought even you would go.” I looked at the glass of orange juice on the nightstand—the one he’d probably assumed I spiked, even though I hadn’t touched it—and I said nothing. No explanations, no defense. I just waited for him to leave, let the ache in my body settle into my bones, and then I went home. I didn’t call him. I didn’t text him. I cut him out of my life for three straight months. The silence finally broke when his mother dragged him to my front door. “This stubborn boy of mine is finally growing up, Jennifer!” his mom chirped, her face glowing with a pride that made my stomach churn. “He’s getting engaged! You’re the best interior designer in the city—could you do us a huge favor and handle the renovations for their new place? You know his taste better than anyone.” In the kitchen, my hand jerked. Hot soup splashed across my knuckles, stinging, but I didn’t flinch. My mother, oblivious, beamed and patted my arm. “See? I knew you’d wear him down eventually. I always told her, Hudson, that she had nothing going for her but thick skin. Persistence pays off, doesn’t it? You’re a lucky girl, Jennifer.” The air in the room shifted, turning heavy and toxic. Hudson’s face darkened until it was almost unrecognizable. “Jennifer, is this what you’ve been telling people?” he spat, his voice trembling with fury. “Is this how desperate you are? Let me make this clear: even if you lied and said we had a kid together, I wouldn’t marry you.” The silence that followed was deafening. Both mothers froze. His mother was the first to recover, her voice a frantic whisper. “Hudson! What on earth are you saying? Jennifer is a good girl, she would never—stop being such a damn fool!” She swatted at his arm, over and over, trying to beat the cruelty out of him. I chose that moment to set my spoon down. “It’s okay, Mrs. Miller,” I said, my voice surprisingly steady. “But I can’t help with the house.” I instinctively rested a hand on my stomach. “I’m pregnant. Just hit twelve weeks.” I forced a small, polite smile, looking directly at the three people who had spent my entire life defining who I was. “And just so we’re all on the same page—don’t worry, Hudson. It’s not yours.” … The words landed like a physical blow. Hudson lunged forward, kicking a dining chair so hard it toppled over with a bone-jarring crack. He looked like he wanted to break something else. “Are you kidding me?” he snarled. “You’re choosing now to play this kind of game?” Under my mother’s horrified gaze, I pulled a bowl of chicken soup toward me and sat down. I looked at his explosive rage and felt… nothing. Just a dull, echoing hollow. “No games,” I said. “I’m pregnant. And it’s definitely not yours.” I tilted my head, offering a dry, apologetic smile. “I only found out a few days ago. I was going to tell my mom tonight, but since you’re here… sorry, Mrs. Miller. You’ll have to find another designer.” I looked at my mother. “I asked you to get that organic chicken today because I needed the nutrients. The doctor said the baby’s a little underweight.” The room turned into a vacuum. My mother’s eyes brimmed with tears; she looked like she’d been struck dumb. Sensing the disaster, Hudson’s mother grabbed his arm and practically hauled him toward the door. Before he disappeared, Hudson looked back, his eyes dark and unreadable. “Even if it were true,” he bit out, “I’d never acknowledge it.” The moment the front door slammed, my mother found her voice. She slammed her hand on the table. “I know you’ve been obsessed with that boy for a decade, but this? To lie about your reputation just because he’s marrying someone else? You haven’t even gone on a date in years, Jennifer! Where would a baby even come from?” I reached into my pocket, pulled out the sonogram, and slid it across the table. The words Twelve Weeks Gestation stared back at her. She closed her eyes, her breath hitching. Then, a thought struck her, and she grabbed my wrist. “He said… he said even if it were true, he wouldn’t acknowledge it. Jennifer, did something happen? Is it his?” I took a sip of the soup. It tasted like ash. “Mom, how many times do I have to say it? It’s not Hudson’s.” Her hands started to shake. “Then who? Who is the father? I’m not against you dating, Jennifer—you’re nearly thirty! Every time I tried to set you up, you refused. I thought you were heart-set on Hudson Miller until the day you died. And now…” She lowered her voice, looking around as if the walls had ears. “Now you’ve gone and gotten yourself a fatherless child.” A wave of nausea hit me. I stood up and dumped the rest of the soup down the drain. She kept rambling, her voice rising in pitch, until I finally turned around. “The father knows. He’s excited. He’s taking care of it.” She followed me into the hallway. “Taking care of it? How? Men say that until the diapers need changing, and then they disappear!” My mind flickered to a certain someone. When I’d told him, he hadn’t flinched. He’d immediately wired me more money than I’d ever seen in my savings account and sent over a list of the best pediatricians in the state. Compared to Hudson, he was a giant among men. “Don’t worry, Mom. I’m not a little girl anymore. I’m going to work.” I grabbed my bag and headed for the garage. When I got to my car, I found Hudson’s black SUV blocking the driveway entirely. I reached into my purse for the spare key he’d given me years ago, intending to move it myself. Then I remembered—the day of our ‘cold war,’ he’d demanded it back. I hesitated, then pulled out my phone. I scrolled to the very bottom of my contacts. Can you move your car? I’m going to be late for work. A red exclamation mark appeared instantly. Message not delivered. He’d blocked me. I went to his Instagram. His profile picture, which had been a silhouette of Kobe Bryant for years, was now a high-definition shot of two hands intertwined. An engagement announcement. I closed the app with a bitter laugh. Of course. He took the keys, and he took the bridge. As I turned to head back inside to call a ride, my foot caught on something. I stumbled, gripping the side mirror to keep from falling. The ground was littered with things. My things. Items I’d left in his car over the years. The vintage denim jacket I’d given him on a freezing December night. The handcrafted lucky charm I’d hiked five miles up a mountain trail to get blessed for him. A small, carefully stocked first-aid kit I’d tucked into his glovebox because he was always so reckless. And then the scraps. A stray lipstick. A single false eyelash. A hair tie. In his eyes, I was worthless, so my belongings were trash. I looked through the passenger window of his SUV. The seat was different. It was covered in a soft, plush pink fabric with a designer bear keychain dangling from the mirror. A matching steering wheel cover sat in the front. I remembered trying to put a tiny, hand-carved wooden bird on his dash once. He’d thrown it out the window before we even left the driveway. “If people see this, they’ll think I’m actually dating someone,” he’d said. My eyes stung. So, this was what it looked like when he actually cared about the ‘someone’ in the seat. I gathered the items from the pavement and dumped them into the trash bin at the curb. Then I called an Uber. I’d just sat down in the back seat when my best friend, Cassie, called, her voice a frantic squawk. “Jennifer! Hudson is getting engaged! Please tell me you’re okay.” “I’m fine, Cass. I already know.” “You saw the post? We’re all losing it! He never posts anything, and then he drops five photo dumps in one hour! We all thought the bride was you, but it’s—” “Cass,” I interrupted, staring out the window at the passing trees. “Want to hear something even bigger?” “What?” A soft, genuine warmth spread through my chest. “I’m pregnant. You’re going to be a godmother.” “What?!” “Twelve weeks. It’s real.” I snapped a photo of the sonogram and sent it. I could hear her starting to cry on the other end. “Oh my god, Jennifer. I thought you were going to spend your whole life banging your head against the brick wall that is Hudson Miller. I was literally calling to tell you to give up on him. But you… you moved on! You actually did it! This is amazing!” She paused, her voice turning conspiratorial. “Okay, spill. Who’s the dad?” “Not yet,” I teased. “He’s away for work. When he’s back in a few days, you’ll be the first person to meet him.” We hung up after a long talk about baby names and nursery themes. A few minutes after I got to my desk at the firm, I saw Cassie had posted on her story. Thank the universe! My bestie is pregnant! I’m going to be an auntie! I was about to text her to keep it low-profile when I saw a comment from Hudson. He must have been stalking her page. ? You’re in on this act too? he wrote. Cassie clapped back instantly: Don’t talk to people with kids until you have some of your own, sweetie. Are you blind, or can you just not read a hospital seal? The knot of tension in my chest loosened slightly. I hummed to myself as I worked through the afternoon. Later, I took a photo of the bouquet of lilies that had been delivered to my office—a ‘thinking of you’ gift from the baby’s father—and posted it to my own feed. It’s nice to be cared for. Hudson’s reply came within seconds: Is self-delusion an Olympic sport now? Stop telling people I sent those. He really thought he was the only man in the world who would ever look at me. I didn’t bother replying. When I walked out to the curb after work, a familiar black SUV pulled up. The window rolled down to reveal Hudson’s scowling face. “Get in.” I didn’t move. “I have a ride coming.” “I’m not asking, Jennifer. Get in the car.” I sighed, canceled my ride, and walked toward the car. Habit made me reach for the passenger door, but his sharp look reminded me of the pink seat covers. I walked to the back and climbed into the rear seat. Hudson drove like a maniac. The wind whipped through the cracked windows, stinging my face. At a red light, he habitually reached for a cigarette, glanced at my flat stomach in the rearview mirror, and then shoved the pack back into the console with a curse. “You can’t keep this,” he said, his voice low. “I’ll pay for whatever you need. I’ll make it right. But I won’t be responsible for a child’s entire future because of one mistake.” I placed a hand over my belly. “You’re acting like I forced you that night. Let me be clear one more time: I don’t want anything from you. The baby isn’t yours.” Hudson slammed his hand against the steering wheel, the horn blaring. “Stop it! Just stop the act! I don’t think you’re so incredibly charming that some other guy just happened to sweep you off your feet the second I looked away.” He caught my eye in the mirror, his gaze dripping with mockery. The glass reflected my tired, pale face. I didn’t argue. Hudson had always been the ‘Golden Boy.’ Tall, athletic, effortlessly brilliant. Girls had lined up for him since middle school. I was just the girl next door—the plain, reliable shadow. I was so ‘non-threatening’ that the girls used to give me their love letters to pass to him. I remembered the first time I did it. He’d looked at me with genuine confusion. “Why are you giving me this? I don’t like you, Jennifer. Don’t get ideas.” I’d adjusted my thick glasses and said, “It’s not from me. It’s from Sarah.” “Good,” he’d sighed. “Let’s keep it that way. You’re like a sister to me. No—you’re basically genderless.” That had stung, but I’d followed him anyway. Through high school, into college. I’d watched him on the court, sweat glistening on his skin in the sunset, looking like something out of a movie. I’d tried to change for him. I’d ditched the glasses, tried on makeup that made me look like a clown, and wore dresses that felt like costumes. “You look ridiculous,” he’d said, laughing. I’d even tanked my college applications to follow him to a school in the same city. I’d played the ‘Best Friend’ role perfectly, hiding my heart behind a wall of jokes and drunken dares. Then came the birthday party three months ago. I’d gone out to get him some cold medicine—he’d been feeling under the weather—and when I came back to the hotel suite, I heard them talking. “So, Hudson,” one of his friends asked. “Is Jennifer going to pull her usual ‘confession’ move tonight? It’s been, what, ten thousand times now?” Hudson’s voice was light, amused. “Let her hint all she wants. I just play dumb. Honestly, she’s useless as a girlfriend, but she’s the best personal assistant a guy could ask for.” I hadn’t opened the door. That was the night I finally stopped trying. Ironically, it was also the night he’d cornered me as the party wound down, acting weirdly possessive, demanding to know why I was being so quiet. He’d taken me back to his room, acting like he had something to prove. And then, the morning after. The disgust. The silence. The car jerked to a stop in my apartment’s underground garage. I took a breath. I decided, once and for all, to tell him the truth about that night. “Hudson, about that night… nothing actually—” His phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, and his entire demeanor shifted. “Isabelle, don’t worry. I’m coming right now. Just stay there.” He didn’t even look at me. He threw the car into park and sprinted for the elevator without a second thought. He left me sitting in the back seat, the child-lock on, trapped in the dark. Isabelle. The one that got away. The high school senior who had been the only girl to ever tell Hudson Miller ‘no.’ I sat there for an hour, then two. I realized he wasn’t coming back. Why would he? His muse was home. Why would he care about the girl who was ‘genderless’? I thought about calling Cassie. I thought about the drama it would cause. Then I felt a wave of dizziness. The air in the garage was thin, and my blood sugar was crashing. The world went black. I woke up to the smell of antiseptic and the glare of fluorescent lights. A muffled argument was happening nearby. Hudson’s mother was screaming at him. “Are you insane? You knew she was pregnant, and you left her locked in a car overnight? If anything happens to that baby, Hudson, I swear to God—” My mother was there too, her voice trembling. “It’s fine, Mary. She’s awake. The doctor said she’s just dehydrated.” I coughed, and the room went silent. My mother rushed to the bedside. “Jennifer, honey, thank God. The doctor said the baby is stable, but you have to be careful. No more stress, okay?” She was glaring at Hudson over her shoulder. Hudson’s mother looked mortified. “I am so sorry, Jennifer. I won’t let this idiot near you again.” It sounded almost like a threat—as if I were the one stalking him. I turned my head away, but Hudson stepped forward. He looked haggard. He tried to press a cup of soup to my lips. “Drink this. You need the nutrients.” I pressed my lips thin, refusing to take a sip. He snapped. He slammed the bowl onto the nightstand, splashing broth everywhere. “Drink it! If something happens to the kid, you aren’t going to blame me!” I actually laughed. It was a weak, jagged sound. “You spent all day telling me the kid wasn’t yours and that I should get rid of it. Now you’re playing the devoted father? Pick a lane, Hudson.” Hudson’s mother’s face shifted. She looked at me with a new, colder curiosity. “The baby has a father,” I said firmly. “And it’s not you.” Hudson’s jaw tightened. “Fine. You’re in the first trimester; I’ll play along. I bought all the stuff the internet said you’d need. It’s in the corner. Take care of yourself.” I looked at the mountain of baby gear piled by the door—strollers, monitors, designer clothes. He still didn’t get it. I was about to explain exactly who the father was when the door opened. A tall, elegant woman walked in. The room seemed to brighten just by her presence. Hudson immediately stood up, his anger vanishing as if it had never existed. “Isabelle? What are you doing here? I told you I was just visiting a friend.” Isabelle smiled—that same effortless, polished smile from years ago. “I heard your old friend was in the hospital. We met once or twice back in the day, didn’t we, Jennifer? I thought I’d bring some flowers.” I smiled back. “That’s very kind of you, Isabelle.” She looked at the pile of baby gear. “Oh, I didn’t realize. I’ll have to get a gift later.” Hudson jumped in, his voice hurried. “I just picked this stuff up because she asked me to. It was just an errand. Don’t worry about it.” His mother chimed in, “Exactly! Hudson is just helpful to a fault. Don’t read into it, Isabelle.” Isabelle gave him a playful, possessive look. Hudson melted, his voice dropping to a soft, coaxing tone. “I’ll make it up to you. I just didn’t want to interrupt your practice.” Watching them, I remembered the day they met. I’d been at the courts with Hudson, and he’d been making fun of my backhand. Then he saw her through the window of the music hall, practicing the cello. It was instantaneous. He spent years chasing her. When she moved to Europe for her master’s, he was devastated. Now that she was back, he was folding like a house of cards. I couldn’t even be mad. He was finally getting what he wanted. A week later, the news of my pregnancy had leaked into our old high school group chat. Someone suggested a reunion. “Double celebration! Jennifer is having a baby, and Hudson is marrying a goddess. We have to get together!” I didn’t respond. I knew they just wanted to see the wreckage. Cassie wanted to flame them all, but I stopped her. “It’s just a dinner, Cass. I can handle it.” When we walked into the private room at the restaurant, the air was thick with whispered gossip. Hudson was there with Isabelle, looking like the king and queen of the prom. I sat in the corner, eating fruit and ignoring the pointed stares. People eventually got bored of trying to get a rise out of me and started reminiscing. “Hey, remember that kid who moved away in tenth grade?” someone asked. “The one who used to follow Jennifer around? What was his name?” “Oh! Nate! The chubby kid!” someone laughed. “Nate Joseph! Didn’t he ask Jennifer out and then cry when she said no? Poor guy. His family moved to London or something because they realized he was a lost cause.” The table erupted in laughter. I stayed silent. Hudson frowned, surprisingly. “Is it really necessary to pick on a guy who isn’t even here? And Jennifer… she’s pregnant. Show some respect.” He looked at me, his eyes full of a strange, lingering guilt. I shrugged. “It’s fine. I actually think you’d all be interested in meeting my husband. He’s on his way.” The room went dead silent. A second later, the door opened. A man in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit walked in. He was striking—strong jaw, piercing eyes, and an aura of calm, understated power. He walked straight to me and kissed my forehead. “Sorry I’m late, sweetheart.” Hudson’s spoon hit his plate with a loud clatter.

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It was the fifth year after my parents’ divorce when I ran into my dad at school. He had just finished a parent-teacher conference for Ethan, my stepbrother, who was the top student in his grade, and he was beaming. The moment he saw me, his face fell. “Is this what you usually wear to school? Is this how your mom raises you?” He handed me a business card, his tone condescending. “Take this. Tell your mom that if she just apologizes and admits her mistakes, I’ll immediately enroll you in an advanced placement program. It’s better than rotting away in a regular class.” I didn’t take it, just stepped back. “No need, Mr. Maxwell.” His brow furrowed, his eyes filled with disgust. “Just like your mother, a lost cause. Don’t ever tell anyone you’re my daughter again.” I clutched the paper in my hand, watching him leave with a calm expression. He didn’t know, That wasn’t my report card. It was my withdrawal application, after Mom died and there was no one left to pay my tuition. I refolded the paper and went to the Registrar’s Office. Ms. Davies took it, first flipping to the report card tucked inside, pausing for two seconds. “Chloe, are you really sure about this?” “With your grades, dropping out now would be such a waste. You’ve always been in the top few in your regular class, and your last practice test scores were good enough to get you into a top university.” I gripped my backpack strap, simply shaking my head gently. Another teacher, who had just returned from outside, was in the office and casually mentioned, “Mr. Maxwell came for a parent-teacher conference today, and afterwards, he donated an additional scholarship fund to the school, specifically for the top ten students in each grade and those in academic competitions. The principal was just praising him.” Another teacher laughed and chimed in, “He’s truly dedicated to that boy. I heard he’s even planned out his future college abroad.” “And the kid is bright, consistently ranking first in his grade. Of course, the school welcomes parents like that.” I stood by the desk, silent. There were a few other students at the door, here to submit paperwork, and they couldn’t help but glance my way. Someone looked at the withdrawal application in my hand, then at my faded school uniform, and murmured softly, “They’re both kids, but their fates are truly different.” “Someone like Mr. Maxwell, with such a good reputation publicly, donating money to the school and even personally attending parent-teacher conferences, he surely wouldn’t neglect his own daughter privately, would he?” I looked up and met their gaze. “Whether he neglects me isn’t about what he says, but what he’s done these past five years.” That person froze. The office fell silent for a moment. Ms. Davies looked at me, as if wanting to ask something, but in the end, she didn’t. She just placed the withdrawal application beneath a corner of her desk. I turned and walked out. The school hallway was long. Light streamed in through the windows, making the floor tiles alternately bright and dark. I walked past the Wall of Fame and saw the photo in the very center. Richard Maxwell stood to one side, while Ethan stood in the middle, holding a trophy. Both of them were smiling. It was a perfect photo. Polished, shining, like a real father and son. Who would ever connect them to me? After school, I went to my part-time job at the convenience store as usual. After the evening rush, I stood behind the counter again, busy until almost ten at night. Mr. Henderson, the store manager, poured me a cup of hot water and placed it by my hand. “Is the school hassling you for tuition again?” I gave a quiet affirmative. Mr. Henderson sighed. “When your mom was still around, she was most afraid of your education being disrupted. Every time she got her paycheck, the first thing she’d ask wasn’t if she had enough for herself, but when your tuition bill was due. She always told me, ‘We can scrimp and save on other things, but your education can’t be cut short.’” The scanner in my hand paused. My gaze landed on the shelves, unmoving for a long time. After Mom left, the first thing that was cut off wasn’t my living expenses. It was that feeling of someone caring about my schooling. No matter how late I came home, she would always ask if my homework was done, how my exams went. When she was at her sickest, with needles in the back of her hand, she was still mumbling about my midterms and college applications. Now, no one asks. There’s no one even to remind me to bring my exam ID. After work, I went to the local florist and bought a small bouquet of white flowers. Then I bought a discounted cake from a bakery that was about to close, and took the last bus to the cemetery. The wind wasn’t strong tonight; the mountain road was quiet. I placed the flowers and cake before the grave, squatting down to look at Mom’s photo. “The school asked for tuition again today.” “I submitted the withdrawal application.” I paused, then recounted what had happened that afternoon. “I saw Richard Maxwell at school today.” “He had just finished Ethan’s parent-teacher conference, beaming.” “The first thing he said when he saw me was still asking if I usually dress like this for school. Then he handed me a business card, saying if you just apologized and admitted your mistakes, he’d immediately enroll me in an advanced placement program.” As I spoke, I couldn’t help but let out a soft laugh. The smile was so faint I could barely feel it myself. “He still doesn’t know you’re dead.” I unwrapped the cake, cut a small piece with a tiny fork, and placed it on the small plate beside the grave. “Mom, I originally wanted to hold on a bit longer.” “But I really can’t anymore.” “Please don’t blame me.” I stared at the gravestone, my throat tightening. “I know you were most afraid of me not going to school.” “But I’ve truly tried my best.” The wind swept down from the mountain, rustling the blades of grass before the grave with a faint, brittle sound. I sat by the grave for a long time, until my phone screen lit up. It was a message from Ms. Davies. 【Please come to school tomorrow to pack up your personal belongings.】

The moment I stepped through the school gate the next day, I sensed something was off. Some people saw me and immediately lowered their heads to whisper to those beside them. Others held up their phones, pointing them at me, and quickly lowered them when I looked up. As I walked toward my classroom, passing the staircase, two girls who had been talking suddenly lowered their voices when they saw me, their eyes still drifting to my face. I reached my seat, placed my backpack down, and then saw several lines written in chalk on my desk. Ungrateful wretch. Can’t stand to see others do well. Jealous of her stepbrother. Every word was written heavily, as if afraid someone might miss it. I stood there for a few seconds, then took out a tissue from my backpack, moistened it slightly, and slowly wiped the words away. My deskmate subtly shifted away, as if afraid of getting tangled in trouble. Just then, Ms. Davies stood at the doorway and called my name. “Chloe, to the office.” I zipped up my backpack and followed her out. When the office door opened, my gaze immediately fell on Richard Maxwell. He stood by the window, his face looking even worse than yesterday. Vivian sat in a chair, her eyes red-rimmed, clutching a tissue. Ethan stood beside her, head bowed, looking all hurt and innocent. Ms. Davies handed me her phone. “See for yourself.” Last night, an anonymous post had suddenly appeared on the school forum. The post’s title was direct, and its content even more so. It claimed that Ethan wasn’t Richard Maxwell’s biological son, yet he was using Richard’s money to pave his way, monopolizing all resources. It also hinted that Richard had abandoned his first wife and biological daughter, only to raise someone else’s kid. The post was quickly deleted, but screenshots had already spread everywhere. Richard stared at me, opening with a question: “Was it you who posted it?” I pushed the phone back. “No.” Vivian immediately wiped away a tear, her voice trembling. “Chloe, I know you’re upset. But Ethan hasn’t done anything wrong.” I stayed silent. There were two other teachers in the office, and hearing this, they couldn’t help but side with her. “Yes, if there’s an issue, handle it privately. Don’t air it out on the forum for the whole school to know.” Listening to these words, I found it utterly ridiculous. I hadn’t done anything, yet everyone already assumed I was the most suspicious one. Because in their eyes, Richard was rich and influential, while I was just a student in a regular class who was about to drop out. So, regardless of the truth, blaming me was always the safe bet. I looked up, addressing Richard directly. “What good would it do me to post that?” “I’m already here today to withdraw from school. Do you really think I have time to watch you three play happy family?” Everyone in the office froze for a moment. Ms. Davies frowned, “The withdrawal process isn’t finalized yet, is it?” I didn’t answer, just gripped my backpack straps tighter. Richard, however, seemed to grasp something significant, staring at me, his tone suddenly dropping. “So you did this on purpose?” “Intentionally staging this withdrawal to make me soft-hearted?” “Your mom used to love playing the victim card. Now you’ve learned it too.” I looked up at him sharply. That sentence was like a needle, stabbing directly into my heart. The emotions I’d suppressed for a day and a night completely broke at that moment. “If my mom was truly as good an actress as you claim, she wouldn’t have been so thoroughly deceived by you back then.” The office went silent. Ms. Davies’s face changed, and she opened her mouth to intervene, but Richard cut her off with a raised hand. His face slowly darkened, his gaze fixed intently on mine. He turned to the teachers in the office and said, “Could you please step out for a moment? This is a family matter.” Ms. Davies hesitated for a moment, then led the others out. The moment the door closed, only the four of us remained in the room. No, Ethan was there too. He stood beside Vivian, his head bowed even lower, his hands clenched tightly. Richard took a step closer to me, his voice heavily suppressed. “Chloe, how much longer are you going to keep this up?” I scoffed. “What am I ‘keeping up’? Did I post it, or did I beg you to acknowledge me yesterday?” “I came quietly today to withdraw from school. You’re the ones who cornered me in this office first thing in the morning, determined to pin this on me.” Richard frowned, “If you weren’t instigating things behind the scenes, Ethan wouldn’t have suddenly found out about all that.” I looked up at him, questioning him word by word. “So in your eyes, the truth itself isn’t important? What matters is who said it?” Richard paused. Seeing the situation was turning bad, Vivian immediately stood up, her eyes red as she looked at me. “Chloe, I never intended to steal anyone’s place, nor did I want you to drop out. If you’re really short on money, I can privately help you out financially. But I beg you, please stop targeting Ethan. He knows nothing and has never hurt anyone.” I stared at her. Her ‘my child is innocent’ act was exactly the same as five years ago. Back then, she was just like this, standing behind the crowd, clutching her stomach, claiming she couldn’t handle the stress. Richard immediately turned to comfort her, not even sparing a glance for my mom and me. I forced a smile. “You’re best at using ‘the child is innocent’ as a shield, aren’t you?” “It was true five years ago, and it’s true now.”

What Richard hated most was anyone bringing up five years ago. I looked at him and suddenly remembered the many years ago when I used to watch from the window, waiting for him to come home. I was little then, and Mom always defended him. She said Dad’s company was going through a tough time, and things would get better after this rough patch. Then one day, Richard came home, looking terrible. He sat at the dining table in silence for a long time before telling Mom that the company’s finances had collapsed, he was in debt, and he was afraid of dragging us down, so he wanted a divorce first. Mom’s face turned pale that day. But she didn’t blame him. She only asked one question: “Is it really that hard?” Richard nodded. After that, Mom took out all the money she’d saved during their marriage—bank cards, savings passbooks—she gave him everything, keeping nothing for herself. She also took on many odd jobs, sewing clothes for others during the day and helping out in the kitchen of a small restaurant at night, wanting to help him get through that difficult period together. Back then, what I looked forward to most every day was coming home from school and waiting by the window. Waiting for him to open the door, waiting for him to pick us up. Mom always said, “Just wait a little longer, Dad will come when he’s not so busy.” I believed it for a long time. Until later, Richard came again and said that the house also had to be collateral for his debts, and we needed to move out. Mom still believed him. She took me to live in the cheapest rental apartment in the run-down part of town, continued to work desperately, and continued to wait for him. But it wasn’t long before news of Richard’s remarriage was everywhere—on TV, phones, and big screens in shopping malls. The wedding venue was grand, the lights were bright, and there were many people. Vivian stood beside him in a wedding dress, and Ethan stood between them, like a child recognized by everyone. The host said it was the picture of a perfect family of three. Mom held her phone, her hand trembling. She watched for a long time before finally coming to her senses. She took me in a taxi to the wedding venue. But we couldn’t even get inside. Security guards blocked us, and everyone around was staring. Mom explained repeatedly that she just wanted to see Richard and get some answers. But no one would let us through. Later, Richard saw us across the crowd. I thought he would come over. But the next second, Vivian clutched her stomach and leaned into his arms, claiming she couldn’t handle the stress. Richard immediately told the security guards to drag us out. “Don’t let them cause a scene here.” Those were the last words he said. When Mom and I were pushed out of the hotel entrance, it was raining outside. Mom was drenched but refused to leave, staring at the lights inside. Later, I chased after Richard, refusing to let go, grabbing his jacket corner and asking him why. He got annoyed and just shook me off. I tumbled down the steps, my ear hitting the railing. The pain was so intense I couldn’t hear anything. Mom held me and rushed to several hospitals. The doctors made it clear: if treated early, there was still hope. But we didn’t have the luxury of “early.” Thinking of this, I looked up at Richard. “Aren’t you supposed to be the best at protecting her and her son? Now you can’t even stand to hear the truth?” Richard’s face was terrible, and a flicker of unease finally crossed his eyes. But when he spoke, he still chose to blame Mom. “What happened back then, your mom just couldn’t let go. She refused to accept reality and insisted on blowing things up. If she hadn’t kept pestering us, we all could have lived in peace.” I stared at him, feeling a surge of anger flare in my chest. “Live in peace?” “Do you know why my ear was damaged?” Richard froze. This was the second time today he truly noticed the hearing aid behind my ear. Yesterday, when we met, he was too busy complaining about my shabby clothes to even notice anything new on my ear. I raised my hand and tucked my hair behind my ear, letting him see more clearly. “The day you had us thrown out, I fell down the steps, and that’s how my ear was damaged.” “Of course, you don’t remember. That day, you were busy getting married, busy comforting Vivian. You didn’t have time to care if I’d fallen and gotten hurt.” Richard’s lips moved, as if he wanted to argue. I didn’t give him a chance, continuing. “All these years, my mom and I did try to find you. We called, we messaged, we begged, and we waited. But every time, the call was hung up, or Vivian would pick up and tell us you were busy, to be ‘sensible’ about it.” “Later, my mom’s health worsened, and she was diagnosed with a condition requiring long-term treatment.” “You didn’t even bother to properly look at her medical records, assuming it was just another one of my mom’s acts.” “Finally, you threw a bank card at me, saying there was money in it, and told me to disappear.” As I spoke, my hand was numb from clenching. That day, I really believed it. I thought, no matter how cruel a person was, they wouldn’t joke about a human life. I ran back to the hospital with that card, not even noticing one of my shoes had fallen off, my mind filled with the thought that Mom was saved. But at the billing office, the staff swiped the card three times, then looked up at me. “There’s no money in it.” At that moment, standing in the hospital lobby, my whole body went numb. I didn’t know whom to blame. The bank, myself, or the father who never once looked back? I looked at Richard, my voice growing colder. “You call that ‘living in peace’?” “Was there ever a single moment when you genuinely wanted my mom and me to survive?” The room was eerily silent. Richard looked at me, the expression on his face finally changing. But after a long silence, his first words were still, “I would never give you an empty card.” I almost laughed. Even now, his first instinct was to defend himself. “So you think my mom and I conspired to deceive you?” “There must be another reason for this,” he said. “Yes, another reason,” I stared at him. “But whatever that reason is, the only one who died was my mom.” Richard’s face changed instantly. “What did you say?” I looked at him and said, “My mom died.”

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1 On my eighteenth birthday, burning with a fever of a hundred and six degrees, I lay alone on the freezing concrete floor of my tiny apartment. On my phone, notifications from the family group chat were lighting up the screen like fireworks. A five-tier custom cake. Ninety-nine red roses. My father was holding her, my mother was kissing her forehead, and my brother was raising a glass to toast her. The girl they were celebrating was Molly, the adoptive daughter who had been raised in my place. I was the biological daughter of the Prescott family, lost for fifteen years. They found me and brought me back three years ago, yet I had never truly managed to step inside their front door. I called Dad seven times, but nobody answered. I messaged my brother, but he left me on read. I called Mom, and the first thing she said when she picked up was, “Maeve, can you stop causing trouble?” Then the line went dead. I lay on the floor, next to a cheap strawberry cupcake that cost me under ten dollars. The candle on top was crooked, never having had the chance to be lit. I closed my eyes and made the exact same wish I had made for the past eighteen years. I hoped someone would remember today was my birthday. I hoped someone would say those two simple words to me: Happy Birthday. I had made this wish for eighteen years, and not once had it ever come true. And this time, it would be my last. … On the night of my eighteenth birthday, my fever spiked to a hundred and six degrees. I curled up on the cold floor of my rented room, waiting for the end. The room was barely seventy square feet, with no heating. The bitter November wind whipped through a cracked windowpane, cutting into my skin like tiny knives. I huddled into a tight ball, my bones feeling as if they were roasting in a furnace. Every cough felt like shards of broken glass scraping through my lungs. My phone screen lit up. It was the family group chat. Dad had sent a sixty-second voice note. My trembling finger tapped it, and a flood of laughter and music poured from the speaker. “Come on, everyone! Our darling Molly is eighteen today! Raise your glasses. Happy birthday to our little princess!” My brother Tristan’s voice followed immediately after. “Happy eighteenth to the sweetest little sister in the world!” A stream of photos flooded the chat. A heart-shaped wall of ninety-nine red roses, a five-tier custom fondant cake, and a glittering crystal chandelier. Dad, Mom, and Tristan stood in the center, their smiles brighter than the lights. Molly, the center of their universe, wore a pink gown shimmering with diamonds, her makeup flawless, her smile radiant. Three years ago, a DNA test had rewritten our destinies. I was the biological child the Prescotts had lost fifteen years ago, and Molly was the girl who had been accidentally swapped at birth. But three years later, the Prescotts kept Molly and left me out in the cold. “Molly grew up with us. It would be too cruel to force her to leave,” they had told me. “Just live on your own for a bit to adapt, and we’ll bring you home when the time is right.” Three years had passed. Three years of renting a room alone, working part-time, and going to school. What I got in the end was not a ticket home, but a steady stream of family portraits in the group chat, each one more lively than the last, and none of them featuring me. Mom sent another message, just three words: “My precious girl.” It was paired with a selfie of her kissing Molly’s forehead. My tears fell onto the hot, glowing screen. Today was my birthday too. Molly and I shared the exact same birthdate. Yet the entire group chat, the cakes, the flowers, the warm embraces, were all for her. Nobody remembered it was Maeve’s birthday too. I desperately dialed Dad’s number. The first call rang eight times and went to voicemail. The second call rang twice before being declined. The third, the fourth, the fifth… By the seventh try, his voice finally came through. But he wasn’t speaking to me. “Hey, stop it, Molly! Don’t cut the cake yet! Let me take this call… Hello? Who is this?” “Dad… it’s me, Maeve…” Laughter bubbled up on the other end, someone shouting for her to make a wish. “Maeve? What’s going on? I’m busy right now, let’s talk tomorrow…” “Dad… I’m sick… my fever is so bad…” Before I could finish, a sweet, high-pitched voice erupted through the receiver. “Dad! The ice cream cake is going to melt! Hurry up!” “Coming, sweetie! Maeve, take some medicine and go to sleep. I have to go.” Beep. The line went dead. The phone slipped from my weak fingers and hit the floor with a dull thud. I turned my head, my eyes scanning the suffocating space of my apartment. Cheap instant noodles were stacked like a mountain in the corner. Two faded shirts hung on the drying line, and the broken window was sloppily patched with plastic wrap and tape. Finally, my gaze landed on the old cardboard box at the foot of my bed, tied neatly with a ribbon. Those were the gifts I had saved up all year to buy. Just hang in there, Maeve. Once you give them these gifts, they’ll want you back. I dragged myself up, leaning against the wall to search for fever reducers. The nightstand was completely bare. I was certain I had left the bottle on top of the cabinet yesterday. Molly had come by yesterday afternoon to return some keys, and the medicine was there. She had claimed her stomach hurt and asked to use my bathroom, staying for about five or six minutes. When she left, she had given me a sweet smile. “Take care of yourself, Maeve. Drink plenty of water.” Where was the medicine? I bent down, searching under the cabinet, the bed, the table. Nothing. My head felt like it was splitting in two, and there was no time to think. I dragged my shaking legs toward the door. I grabbed the knob and twisted. It didn’t budge. I twisted harder, putting all my weight into it. The lock remained completely frozen. I couldn’t open it from the inside. This lock worked perfectly last week. Why was it suddenly… I banged on the door, kicked it a couple of times, but the solid wood only gave a muffled thud. The hallway outside was silent and empty. Pressing my back against the door, I slid down to the cold floor. The phone buzzed again. A video was uploaded to the group chat. Molly was sitting on the leather sofa in the middle of the living room, surrounded by beautifully wrapped designer boxes. She opened the first one and squealed dramatically, “Oh my gosh! Tristan, the limited-edition journal! Thank you so much!” Tristan sat beside her, gently ruffling her hair. The room was bathed in golden light, the crystal chandelier casting a warm glow over their happy faces. I watched the video three times. On the third run, my eyes locked onto the corner of the living room, onto the empty chair beside the piano. During the brief two weeks I was allowed to stay with them three summers ago, that was where I sat every day. I had been too terrified to reach for food at the dinner table, too scared to speak loudly, too timid to touch the fruit on the coffee table. I had just watched them from afar, quietly, thinking that simply being in the same room was enough to make me happy. But then Molly had wept into Mom’s arms. “Mom, she wants to steal my family. I don’t want her here!” That very night, Dad had the driver take me back to my rented room. They didn’t even let me pack my things. I dialed Tristan’s number. It was my second call of the night. It rang three times before he picked up. “Maeve?” Tristan’s voice was laced with irritation, the background music deafening. “What is it?” “Tristan… I have a fever, a really bad one… and the door is locked from the inside… could you…” “Hold on.” In the background, Molly’s voice floated over, dripping with sweetness. “Tristan! Come take a picture with me! Mom wants to post it on social media!” Tristan’s tone shifted instantly, turning soft and indulgent. “Coming! Maeve, you do this every time. Every single time Molly has a birthday, you have to start drama. Just take some medicine and go to sleep. Stop acting out.” Beep. Call ended. Total duration: 23 seconds. He didn’t even listen to what I had to say. My phone screen reflected my shattered image, pale-faced, with dry, cracked lips bleeding slightly. I dialed Mom’s number for the very last time. It rang twice and connected. “Maeve? What’s wrong?” It was Mom’s voice. The voice of the woman who had given birth to me but never raised me for a single day. Tears spilled over my cheeks. “Mom… Mom, I feel so sick… I have a fever… the lock is broken and I can’t get out… Mom, can you come see me? Just for a minute… please…” A second of silence on the other end. Then, a slight scuffle over the phone, followed by Molly’s low but crystal-clear voice. “Mom! Who are you talking to? We’ve tried taking the family photo three times already, we’re just waiting for you!” Then, Molly’s voice rose, her sweet facade barely concealing the cold calculation beneath. “Maeve! If you’re not feeling well, you should sleep early. Make sure to drink plenty of water! Mom is really busy right now, so we can’t talk!” Beep. The call ended. It wasn’t Mom who hung up. It was Molly. I heard her laugh in the final second before the line went dead. A light, brief snicker. But that laugh carried a chill that turned my blood to ice, even through my hundred-and-six-degree fever. The floor was freezing. The chill brought a fleeting moment of relief to my burning skin, but it was immediately followed by a wave of violent shivering. I curled up by the door, my limbs spasms uncontrollably. My coughs grew heavier, leaving a metallic taste of iron in my mouth as warm blood dribbled from the corner of my lips. My vision blurred with tears. Looking up at the yellow water stain on the ceiling, I hallucinated that it was a moon. The moon of my eighteenth year. I only wanted to celebrate my birthday. No cake, no gifts, no parties. Just a single phone call, just a simple “Happy Birthday.” But the entire world was celebrating Molly, while I burned away in a dark corner. With the last of my strength, I reached for the cracked phone, unlocking it after three attempts. My call history showed: Dad, seven missed calls. Tristan, one call connected, 23 seconds. Mom, one call connected, 47 seconds. With trembling fingers, I dialed the final number: 911. “911, what is your emergency?” “I… fever… can’t get out… door is locked…” “What is your address?” “7… Cooper Lane… Apt… 3B…” “Understood, we are dispatching a unit. Can you open the door?” Open the door. I stared at the brass knob that refused to turn. The final ounce of life slipped from my fingers. “Can’t… can’t open…” “Stay on the line, we will contact you when we arrive.” The operator’s voice grew distant, muffled as if traveling through thick layers of cotton. The phone slipped from my grasp, the screen splintering further. Through the cracks, a new notification from the family group chat flickered: a family photo. Dad, Mom, Tristan, and Molly, all smiling perfectly. There was no fifth chair. There was no need for one. I collapsed onto the floor, my eyes taking a final look at the ribbon-tied cardboard box, then at the cheap strawberry cupcake under the bed. The crooked candle remained unlit. Forget it. I’ll just wish in my heart. I closed my eyes. “I hope in my next life… someone will say Happy Birthday to me on my birthday…” Eighteen years. The same wish every year. Not once had it been granted. My consciousness receded like a retreating tide, draining from my fingertips, my toes, my heart. In my final moments, I heard the wind howling through the broken window. The bitter November wind, weeping for someone.

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Our marketing agency was practically bleeding out, inches away from total bankruptcy. I was the one who pulled us back from the ledge. I spent a month practically living at the office, surviving on black coffee and sheer willpower, until I finally locked down a ten-million-dollar contract that would save all our jobs. Just hours before the official ink was supposed to dry, my phone buzzed. A notification from the company’s main Slack channel. Brittany, our newest intern, had tagged me. [Hey Nicole. No offense, but I’m just curious.] [Did you take a massive kickback on this deal?] [The company is literally failing to make payroll, and you’re secretly lining your pockets. How do you sleep at night?] Within seconds, the typing bubbles from other coworkers flooded the screen. They were backing her up. Okay. Fine. I canceled my morning alarm. I wasn’t going to sign the contract. I was going to drop the entire ten-million-dollar account directly into our little intern’s lap. Let her see exactly how those “kickbacks” taste. 1 I had worked myself to the bone for thirty straight days. When I finally got the verbal confirmation for the ten-million-dollar account, I crawled into bed, ready to sleep for a week. Suddenly, my phone started vibrating off the nightstand. At first, I smiled. I figured the team had heard the news and was losing their minds with excitement. After all, management hadn’t issued a paycheck in two months. This deal meant everyone was finally getting their back pay, plus a massive bonus. I opened Slack, my thumb hovering over the screen, ready to type out a celebratory message. Then I read the chat. My blood ran cold. Brittany, a twenty-one-year-old intern, had publicly tagged me in the #General channel. [@Nicole, no offense at all!] [I just want to know… for a ten-million-dollar account, you must have negotiated a pretty sweet under-the-table cut for yourself, right?] [Every dollar you pocket is a dollar taken right out of our bonus pool.] [Based on what I know about the industry, you’re probably taking home at least seven figures in kickbacks, aren’t you?] My fingers froze over the keyboard. Every ounce of exhaustion vanished, replaced by a spike of adrenaline. Was she actually out of her mind? Did she seriously believe I was embezzling? Earlier that afternoon, right before I left the building, Brittany had cornered me by the elevators. She had given me this sly, conspiratorial wink and whispered something about me securing a “retirement fund” from the client. I was rushing to a final pitch meeting and didn’t have time for her games. I just told her to mind her own business and stepped into the elevator. She took that as a confession. Logically, I didn’t owe a junior intern an explanation. But Brittany was a special case. She was hired under the table, bypassing HR completely. The office rumor mill swore she had deep, personal ties with our CEO. Because of her supposed status, the rest of the desperate, unpaid staff treated her words like gospel. [Wait, seriously? The company is literally drowning and Nicole is skimming off the top?] [I haven’t been paid in eight weeks! Are you kidding me?!] [We all worked on the pitch deck. If she’s taking a secret payout…] We were in the most critical window of the negotiation. If the client caught wind of internal fraud rumors, they would pull the plug instantly. I swallowed my rage, kept my professionalism intact, and typed a response to the entire company. [Every single cent of the project funding is legally bound in the contract and routed directly into the corporate escrow account. I have not received a single dime in personal kickbacks. Do not spread baseless, defamatory rumors.] That last sentence was a direct warning. 2 The Slack channel went dead silent for a few minutes. Slowly, private messages started trickling into my inbox from the core team. [God, sorry Nicole. We just panicked. We know you wouldn’t do that.] [Yeah, we know how hard you’ve bled for this agency. Just ignore her.] [Brittany is just a kid. She doesn’t know how corporate billing works.] My team wasn’t stupid. They knew my character. I let out a long breath, tossed the phone aside, and let the sheer exhaustion pull me under. I had been averaging four hours of sleep a night. I passed out the second my head hit the pillow. The next morning, I walked into the bullpen with a coffee in hand, only to be met with dead silence and averted eyes. I pulled my lead designer, Jenna, into a glass meeting room. When she told me what happened, the floor dropped out from under me. While I was asleep, Brittany had created a new, private Slack channel. She invited everyone in the company. Except me. Jenna showed me the chat logs. Brittany had spent the entire night brainwashing the staff. [I can’t stand watching her play you guys for absolute fools while you’re struggling to pay rent.] [Nicole signed a backdoor deal. The official contract shows one price, but the client is paying her a massive consulting fee on the side.] [I have an inside source.] [She already pocketed a cool million.] [That million was supposed to be our hazard pay. Why are we letting her steal food from our tables?!] Between her untouchable status as the boss’s favorite and the absolute certainty in her tone, the desperate staff swallowed the bait. [What the hell do we do? A million bucks split between us… that’s five figures each.] [I can’t believe Nicole is a thief. Does Richard know?] [Telling the CEO won’t help if we don’t have paper evidence.] [She’s smart. She probably scrubbed the paper trail months ago.] Jenna looked at me, her eyes filled with conflict. “Nicole… I don’t want to believe you’d do this to us…” My heart ached. This was my team. But the agency hadn’t paid us in two months. People were missing mortgage payments. Panic makes people turn on each other. But what was Brittany’s endgame? Was she clinically insane? Regardless of whether the rumor was true, if this leaked outside these walls, our client would drop us like a bad habit. No company wants to work with a vendor under investigation for embezzlement. If the deal died, the agency died. None of us would ever see our paychecks. I had to cut the head off this snake right now. 3 Some things need to be handled in public. I marched out of the glass room and walked straight to Brittany’s cubicle. She was sitting there, sipping an iced latte, a smug little smile on her face. She was expecting me. Before I could even open my mouth, she leaned back in her ergonomic chair and spoke loud enough for the entire floor to hear. “So, Nicole. Does your conscience hurt at all? Stealing the team’s hard-earned money?” I had no idea where she got this psychotic delusion, but everyone in the bullpen had stopped typing. Dozens of eyes were locked on me. They needed an answer. I forced my voice to remain perfectly level. “Every single financial transaction goes through the corporate accounting department. I have absolutely zero private financial dealings with the client. Every wire transfer goes to the agency. Not a single cent touches my personal accounts.” Not to mention, the contract wasn’t even signed yet. Nobody pays a bribe before the ink is dry. Brittany stared at me, letting out a sharp, mocking laugh. “No private dealings? Really?” My stomach did a slow flip. She picked up her phone and tapped the screen. A second later, a notification chimed on every single computer in the office. She had dropped a photo into the main channel. It was a picture of me, taken from a distance, walking out of the client’s corporate lobby. I was carrying a heavy, polished wooden box. The kind used to hold vintage Macallan 25 Scotch. “Look closely, guys,” Brittany announced, her voice dripping with venom. “Nicole doesn’t drink. She hates whiskey. So why did the client’s VP personally walk her out and hand her a luxury liquor box? We’re all adults here. Do I really need to spell out what was stuffed inside that box?” The implication hung heavily in the dead air. Cold, hard cash. The moment the staff connected the dots, the energy in the room shifted violently. The looks they gave me turned from doubtful to downright hostile. 4 The picture was real. But there was no money in that box. I had been running between meetings all day and the heel of my Louboutins snapped cleanly off in the client’s lobby. Their HR director felt terrible. She gave me a pair of company-branded slide sandals to wear home and handed me an empty wooden display box from a corporate gift to carry my broken heels in. Saying it out loud in my head, I realized how incredibly absurd the truth sounded. Seeing my momentary hesitation, Brittany pounced. She slammed her hand on her desk, her eyes lighting up with vicious triumph. “See?! Look at her face! She’s completely speechless because she knows I caught her!” I gritted my teeth and explained exactly what happened with the shoes. Exactly as I predicted, nobody bought it. Even Jenna, who had warned me earlier, looked away, her face hardening with disappointment. Brittany looked me up and down, putting on a highly exaggerated theatrical performance. “Wow. A broken shoe? Really? If you didn’t do it, why are you sweating so hard to invent these ridiculous stories?” She fluttered her eyelashes at me. I finally understood what it meant to be trapped in a kangaroo court. If I explained myself, I was being defensive. If I stayed silent, I was admitting guilt. A sudden, chilling calm washed over me. Playing nice in the corporate world only makes you a target. Brittany felt perfectly comfortable humiliating a senior director because she truly believed she was untouchable. “What exactly is your goal here, Brittany?” I asked softly. I still had her final internship evaluation on my desk. Regardless of who she was sleeping with, I was going to make sure she never worked in this industry again. She pouted her lips and held her hand out to me, palm up. “Spit out the kickback. Distribute it to the team. Do that, and we can sweep this little indiscretion under the rug.” She paused, letting her voice drop into a sickly-sweet threat. “If you don’t… well, I’ll just have to go to the CEO. And corporate fraud carries a pretty heavy prison sentence, Nicole.” 5 A low murmur of approval rippled through the bullpen. They were actually moved. They saw Brittany as some sort of corporate Robin Hood, risking her own internship to fight the evil management for their paychecks. One of the senior copywriters stood up, his face red with stress. “Nicole, just give the money up before the feds get involved. Split it with the floor and we’ll call it even.” “We are drowning here,” another developer chimed in. “I haven’t brought a check home in two months. My wife is threatening to take the kids to her mother’s.” “Brittany is just trying to look out for us…” Wow. Okay. “Fine,” I said, my voice cutting through the noise like glass. “Since you’ve all unanimously decided I’m a criminal, let’s take this straight to the top. Let’s go see Richard.” The sheer injustice of it made my chest physically ache. I knew they were struggling. That’s exactly why I had destroyed my physical and mental health for thirty days straight to land this account. I practically gave myself an ulcer for these people. I didn’t get a single word of thanks. Only a lynch mob. I swallowed hard, fighting the burn in the back of my throat. As I turned toward the executive suites, I caught a glimpse of Brittany’s face. A flash of pure, unadulterated victory crossed her eyes. It was so fast I almost missed it. Half the office trailed behind me as I marched into Richard’s spacious corner office. Before I could even close the door, Brittany turned on the waterworks, spinning her wild narrative to the CEO. “Richard, Nicole took a massive under-the-table payout from the client, and she’s refusing to make the company whole!” Richard leaned back in his leather executive chair. His brow furrowed deeply. His gaze swept over the angry crowd of employees before finally landing on me. His voice was dripping with accusation. “Nicole. Explain the Macallan box.” The absolute lack of hesitation in his voice—the immediate assumption of my guilt—was a physical blow. He knew me. Out of everyone in this building, he knew I had built this agency from the ground up with him. I had never taken a single penny that wasn’t on my W-2. Staring at the hostility in the room, I forced my heart rate to slow. “Richard,” I said, enunciating every single syllable. “Are you forgetting that the contract hasn’t even been signed yet? The client hasn’t wired a single cent to anyone. Brittany’s entire accusation is legally impossible.” I turned slowly, looking every single person in the eye. “Even if I was a corrupt, thieving executive, I would have to wait for the ink to dry and the funds to clear escrow before securing a kickback, wouldn’t I?” “Put yourselves in the client’s shoes. Would you hand over a million dollars in cash to a vendor before the legal documents were even drafted?” The crowded office suddenly went dead silent. A few of the developers shifted uncomfortably, the logical flaw in the witch hunt finally dawning on them. 6 Brittany didn’t miss a beat. She immediately doubled down, raising her voice. “So what?! The only reason they agreed to the deal is because of the pitch deck the team built! Anyone could have walked in there and closed the deal! Why should you get a massive payout while we starve?!” She took a step toward me, a vicious sneer on her face. “You already shook hands on the backdoor deal. You’re just waiting to sign the official papers tomorrow so the client can wire the dirty money to your offshore account!” I stared at her in utter disbelief. The mental gymnastics required to spin reality like that were staggering. But what truly shattered my faith in the company was what happened next. Richard, the CEO I had worked alongside for five years, slowly nodded. “Brittany makes a valid point.” In that exact second, all the exhaustion, the loyalty, and the late nights evaporated. A cold, heavy void opened up in my chest. All the fight drained right out of me. I let out a soft, hollow chuckle. “So that’s how it is, Richard? You, and everyone standing in this room, truly believe I’m defrauding the company?” Nobody said a word. The heavy silence was all the confirmation I needed. The ice in my veins solidified. When I spoke again, my voice was completely devoid of emotion. “Since you all think closing a ten-million-dollar account is so incredibly easy, and since I’m apparently too corrupt to handle it…” I looked right at the intern. “Let Brittany sign the master contracts tomorrow. I wash my hands of this entirely.”

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1 My wife, Wendy, was a titan of Manhattan’s elite finance. She had an adopted younger brother, Jackson, a brilliant but volatile hacker who existed only to cause chaos. For seven years, they had a very public dynamic: he would tear the world apart, and she would write the checks to rebuild it. Until he tampered with my car’s brake system, sending me over a cliff and leaving me hanging by a thread. As she signed the surgery consent form in the sterile hospital corridor, she offered only a weary sigh. “Don’t be angry with Jackson, Reid. He just thought it was a game. He didn’t actually mean to kill you. He knew I had secured the best medical team in the city for you; he was just trying to scare you.” Before the ink on her signature could even dry, her assistant reported that Jackson was being bullied by some rivals at a nightclub downtown. Wendy dropped the pen and ran. She left in such a frantic rush that she didn’t even notice she had checked the wrong box for my blood type. At that moment, the long-dormant system in my mind chimed. “Dying at the hands of the female lead will immediately complete your mission. Death by mismatched blood-type hemolysis is imminent. Do you accept this exit protocol?” I looked at the bag of blood the nurse was hanging, smiled weakly, and whispered, “Do it.” … “Mr. Beckett, this is Type A blood. Are you absolutely certain you want us to start this transfusion?” The male nurse held the IV bag, the veins on the back of his hand bulging slightly. His eyes were wide with hesitation, even a touch of panic. “Hang it,” my voice was flat, devoid of any emotion. “My wife signed the consent form herself. How could there be a mistake?” The nurse bit his lip, let out a slow sigh, and unpacked the sterile tubing. The thick needle slid cleanly into the vein on the back of my hand. The dark red liquid slid down the clear plastic line, dripping slowly into my bloodstream. The system’s cold, synthesized voice chimed in my head. “Mismatched blood type accepted. Fatal hemolytic reaction countdown initiated. Remaining time: seventy-two hours.” I closed my eyes, feeling the first quiet tremors of poison spreading through my organs. Within thirty minutes, a sharp, grinding ache flared in my lower back, as if a dull, rusty chisel were digging into my spine. My body began to shake with uncontrollable chills. I pulled the heavy hospital blanket tight, but my teeth still rattled violently. The heavy door was thrown open. Wendy stormed into the room, bringing a suffocating cloud of cheap liquor and cigarette smoke with her. The hem of her expensive designer dress was dusted with gaudy, colorful sequins from the club. Behind her stood Jackson, completely unharmed. He wore a sequined shirt, his eyes slightly pink as he clutched her sleeve like a frightened puppy. “What kind of tantrum are you throwing now, Reid?” Wendy stood over my bed, arms crossed, her brow furrowed with sheer annoyance. “The doctor said you only have minor abrasions. Who are you putting on this shivering act for?” I gritted my teeth against the mounting agony in my spine, cold sweat dripping down my temples. “I’m freezing.” Wendy scoffed, irritably tugging at her silk scarf. “Freezing? The thermostat is set to seventy-eight degrees. Stop acting.” She turned to Jackson, her voice instantly softening. “Jackson, go turn off the AC so your brother-in-law doesn’t have another excuse to complain.” Jackson nodded obediently and flicked the switch. He turned to me, looking timid and tearful. “Reid, I’m so sorry. I really didn’t mean to mess up your brakes. I just wanted to test my new exploit program. Wendy already chewed me out. Please don’t be mad at me, okay?” Big tears rolled down his cheeks. Wendy immediately pulled him behind her, shielding him from my gaze. “That’s enough, Jackson. You don’t owe him an apology. He’s lying here in one piece, isn’t he?” She glared at me. “Reid, Jackson was almost assaulted at that club tonight. He was terrified, yet he still rushed over here to apologize to you. You can’t even offer him a decent look. Don’t you think you’re being incredibly petty?” I stared at her self-righteous face, a dry chuckle bubbling in my throat. My brakes had failed on a winding mountain road, sending me crashing through the guardrails. I was dragged out of a crushed, bloody metal heap. And her only concern was whether her precious adopted brother got his feelings hurt at a bar. “He was terrified?” I rasped, my throat raw. “He was out drinking and partying at a club. You call that terrified? What about me? I almost burned alive in that car. What does that count as?” Wendy’s annoyance grew. “Can you stop talking about death? I hired the best trauma surgeons in the state for you. Besides, your car has a top-tier safety cage. Jackson calculated the physics; he knew you wouldn’t die.” Calculated? I glanced at the dark red blood dripping into my vein. The toxic, mismatched cells were already attacking my organs. He calculated it, alright. He calculated exactly how to end my life. “Wendy,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “What if I actually die?” She froze, then her expression hardened into disgust. “Are we doing this again? Every time Jackson makes a minor mistake, you play the victim and threaten me with your death. Don’t you get tired of being this pathetic, Reid?” She pulled up a chair and crossed her legs. “Stop the drama. If you’re really hurting, I’ll have the nurse bring you some painkillers. Jackson is shaken up, so I’m staying with him tonight. Take this time to reflect on your attitude.” I remained silent. My temperature was climbing rapidly, and my vision began to blur. My chest felt like a furnace, every breath searing my lungs. These were the classic early symptoms of acute hemolysis. My red blood cells were rupturing in mass numbers. “Is Reid really okay, Wendy?” Jackson murmured, peeking from behind her. “His face is so red. Is he running a fever?” Wendy glanced at me dismissively. “It’s not a fever. He’s just throwing a tantrum because I didn’t drop everything to stay by his side.” She stood up, looking down at me with cold warning. “Reid, I’m warning you for the last time. Drop these pathetic jealousy games. Jackson is my brother, and I will protect him. If you keep pushing this, don’t expect me to keep tolerating you.” I offered her a pale, empty smile. “Fine. You go ahead and protect him.” Wendy sneered, taking Jackson’s hand. “Let’s go. Leave him to his self-pity.” The door slammed shut. I looked at the near-empty blood bag and closed my eyes. “System, dial the pain blocker to maximum.” “Pain-blocking protocol at one hundred percent. Have a peaceful journey, Host.” The sound of leather shoes echoed in the hallway. The door clicked open again. Jackson was back, and Wendy wasn’t with him. The timid, tearful mask had vanished, replaced by an ugly, malicious sneer. I ignored him. The fever was leaving me entirely limp, and the scent of iron filled my throat. Jackson walked over to the bed, idly flicking the IV tubing. “Tsk, tsk. Look at you. Pathetic.” “You know what Wendy said in the hallway? She called you a dramatic, exhausting drag. She said you don’t even compare to a single hair on my head.” I forced my heavy eyelids open. “Are you done? Get out.” Jackson chuckled, completely unbothered. “You still have quite the attitude, Reid. But don’t worry, you won’t be talking like that for long.” He pulled out a compact, palm-sized netbook from his bag. His fingers flew across the keyboard as the screen cast a pale blue glow on his face. “Wendy thinks you’re faking, but I think you look a little too peaceful. Why don’t I help make your vitals look a bit more… realistic?” The moment his finger hit enter, the multi-parameter monitor beside my bed let out a deafening screech. The red warning light flashed violently. My heart rate jumped to 180 on the display, while the blood pressure readings crashed below critical thresholds. The alarm echoed down the sterile hallway. I watched him calmly. He wasn’t just a hacker; he was a sociopath with no concept of boundaries. Footsteps thundered outside. “What’s happening?!” Wendy was the first to burst in, her face pale. A swarm of panicked doctors and nurses followed closely behind. Jackson had already tucked the netbook back into his bag with practiced ease. He stumbled back, covering his ears, trembling like a leaf. “Wendy! I don’t know what happened! I didn’t touch anything! The machine just started screaming! It’s terrifying!” He buried his face in her chest, sobbing hysterically. Wendy held him tight, gently rubbing his back. The attending doctor, Dr. Collins, rushed to my bedside, checking the sensors. “This makes no sense. His pupils are normal, and his pulse feels steady. Why is the machine reading a cardiac arrest?” She rebooted the monitor. The readings instantly returned to normal. Wendy’s face turned dark as thunder. She calmed Jackson down, then spun around to glare at me with pure venom. “Reid, is there no limit to your desperation?” “You’re tampering with hospital equipment now? Just to force me to stay? Do you have any idea how many actual patients need these resources?” I lay there, staring at her furious face. “You think I did this?” I didn’t even have the strength to lift my arm, let alone hack a hospital network. Wendy let out a harsh laugh. “Who else could it be? You’re so consumed by your pathetic jealousy that you’ll do anything to frame him!” She marched to the bed and violently ripped the blanket off me. “Get up! Apologize to Jackson right now!” A wave of cold air hit my burning body, and a violent fit of coughing shook my chest. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth, but I swallowed it down and looked up at her. “Wendy,” I said, my voice dead. “Are you out of your mind?” She froze. In our seven years of marriage, I had never spoken to her like this. I had always been patient, gentle, and yielding. “What did you just say to me?” she hissed. “I called you an idiot.” I reached out with the last of my strength and ripped the power cord of the monitor from the wall. The screeching alarm died instantly. “The next time you two want to play this pathetic game, leave me out of it,” I whispered, turning my back to her. “It’s disgusting.” Wendy clenched her fists so hard her knuckles cracked. “Fine. You want to act tough, Reid? Let’s see how long you can last.” She grabbed Jackson’s hand and stormed out. “Let’s go, Jackson. Leave this lunatic to himself.” I closed my eyes and swallowed another mouthful of blood. “System, how much time do I have left?” “Remaining time: sixty hours.” “Good,” I murmured. “Almost there.” The hospital television was on, the volume low. A breaking news report flashed across the screen. “Vanguard Holdings’ smart-driving system, Aegis, has suffered a catastrophic security breach. Multiple vehicles equipped with the system have reportedly lost control on major interstate highways. At least ten pile-ups have been reported, with numerous injuries.” I leaned back, wiping the thin trail of blood from my lips. My vision was double now, the hemolysis systematically dismantling my internal organs. Wendy was standing by the window, screaming into her phone. “What is the PR department doing?! I don’t care how much it costs, bury the story! Find a subcontractor and blame the code on them!” She tore off her scarf and threw it onto the sofa, breathing heavily. Jackson sat in the corner, staring at his hands with a practiced look of innocence. “Wendy, I’m sorry. I just thought the core logic of the system was boring, so I added a little backdoor exploit. I wanted to surprise them, I didn’t think it would cause actual accidents.” He shrugged, entirely devoid of genuine remorse. Wendy sighed, walking over to smooth his hair. “It’s fine, Jackson. I’ll handle it. Just don’t be so reckless next time. The media loves to blow things out of proportion. It’s just a few fender-benders, we can settle it with money.” Listening to her dismiss those human lives so casually made my stomach turn. I reached under my pillow, pulling out my slim laptop. The tactile feel of the keys brought a brief moment of clarity to my fading mind. My fingers flew across the keyboard. Wendy would do everything in her power to scrub Jackson’s digital footprint, so I had to act fast. I needed to package every bit of raw data proving his culpability before my body gave out entirely. The progress bar crawled forward. I was blind-typing now, relying entirely on muscle memory. “What are you doing now?” Wendy’s sharp voice cut through the room. She marched over and slammed my laptop shut. “The company is facing a crisis, and you’re lying here playing games on your computer? Do you even have a conscience, Reid?” I looked up at her frantic, angry face. “A conscience?” I let out a dry, rattling cough, spitting a dark glob of blood onto the floor. “Wendy, you are harboring a criminal who has endangered public safety, and you want to lecture me about a conscience?” Her expression turned dark and dangerous. “Watch your mouth, Reid! Jackson is just a kid, he didn’t know any better! Don’t think that just because you sit at home all day, you understand how to run a conglomerate!” Jackson smirked, leaning against her. “Reid, are you going to report me to the police? You don’t have any evidence. Wendy already had the server logs wiped. No one will believe you.” I pushed the laptop screen back open. “Is that so?” I tapped the enter key. An encrypted archive was instantly generated. It contained not only the files proving his sabotage of the Aegis system, but a comprehensive log of his cybercrimes over the past seven years, including corporate espionage and server intrusions against Wendy’s competitors. “Reid, don’t you dare!” Wendy lunged to grab the laptop. I pulled it back, staring at her coldly. “Relax. I’m not calling the police. I’m just writing my will.” Wendy’s hand froze. She looked at my deathly pale face, then let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “A will? For a few scratches? You are completely out of your mind.” She grabbed Jackson’s arm. “Let’s go. Let him play his pathetic games.” The door closed, and I fell back against the pillows, my strength entirely depleted. The scheduled transmission was locked. The payload would deploy automatically three days after my death. “System,” I whispered, my breathing shallow. “How long?” “Remaining time: twelve hours. Multi-organ failure has commenced.” I watched the light fade from the window. “Let’s end this.” The room grew dark. Every breath felt like swallowing shards of glass. My kidneys had shut down, and my lungs were filling with fluid. Outside, the distant boom of fireworks echoed through the sky. The system projected a virtual screen in my mind. Wendy had rented out the city’s largest amusement park for Jackson. Under a sky filled with brilliant colors, Jackson wore a custom diamond crown, smiling like a prince while Wendy looked at him with absolute adoration. “Congratulations on getting through this, Jackson,” her voice was incredibly gentle. “If you want to play with software, I’ll buy you an entire tech firm next week.” A soft alarm chimed as the male nurse burst into my room, his flashlight catching my grey face. “Doctor! We need help in Room Three! The patient is in shock!” Panicked shouts filled the corridor. A crash cart was wheeled in, and the blinding procedural lights flared above me. “Heart rate is dropping! Blood pressure is unreadable! Push epinephrine, now!” “Where is the emergency contact? Get the spouse on the line for a critical notice!” The nurse frantically dialed Wendy’s number. On my mental screen, I saw her phone vibrate in her pocket. She pulled it out, frowning at the caller ID: “St. Jude’s Memorial Hospital.” Jackson glanced at the screen, rolling his eyes. “Wendy, he’s playing the boy who cried wolf again. He’s just mad because you’re with me.” Wendy scoffed and swiped to decline the call. The nurse dialed again, but this time, the line was dead. She had blocked the hospital’s number. “I can’t get through! She blocked us!” the nurse cried. The doctor gritted her teeth, delivering chest compressions. “Keep going! Don’t stop!” I looked at their futile efforts, and issued my final command. “System, release the files.” “Command confirmed. Scheduled package locked. Deployment in seventy-two hours.” “Host, your vitals are flatlining.” I took one last look at the dark window. The final firework bloomed and died, leaving only empty darkness. Beside me, the erratic line on the monitor stretched into a single, flat green line. A sharp, continuous tone pierced the silence of the room. I felt my consciousness detach, rising slowly toward the ceiling. “Congratulations, Host. Mission completed. Exit protocol initiated.” Looking down, I saw the medical team slowly step away, pulling the white sheet over my face. “Time of death: two-fourteen AM.”

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