Category: English

For three years with Bennett, I was the legendary “Saint of Manhattan”—the most chillingly perfect girlfriend his social circle had ever seen. I never tracked his location. I never blinked when he flirted with other women. No matter how late he stayed out or how many suggestive photos ended up on his Instagram, I never started a fight. Bennett wore my compliance like a trophy. He loved to brag to his friends about how much I worshipped him, how he’d finally found a woman who “knew her place.” That was until he accidentally found the old cloud account I shared with my first love. In those old videos, I was anything but stable. I was petty, prone to jealousy, and temperamental. I was a lightning storm of emotions. In one video, my first love laughed helplessly as he pulled me into a hug. “Why is your fuse so short, Jo?” he teased. I looked into the camera, chin tilted defiantly. “I only get angry because I love you. If I didn’t care about you, I wouldn’t give a damn what you did.” I saw Bennett’s face as he watched it. He went completely still. 1 When I walked into the dimly lit lounge, Bennett had a girl in a silk slip dress perched on his lap. Her thin, pale arms were draped around his neck, and her lips—glossed to a high, sticky shine—were inches from his. The married men in the booth were already standing up, offering sheepish smiles to Bennett. “Sorry, B. My wife’s been blowing up my phone for twenty minutes. If I’m not home by midnight, I’m sleeping on the sofa.” Bennett didn’t even look up. He let the girl pluck the cigarette from his mouth and take a drag herself. He let out a sharp, mocking huff. “You guys are pathetic. Letting a woman keep you on a leash.” The single guys in the group cheered. “That’s our Bennett. Doesn’t matter if he rolls in at 4:00 AM, Jo never says a word. Come on, man, give us the secret. How did you train her?” The girl on his lap giggled, pressing her chest against his blazer. “Seriously, Bennett. You’re doing this right in front of me—aren’t you afraid your girlfriend will walk in and lose it?” Bennett smirked, a flicker of performative arrogance crossing his handsome face. “She’s obsessed with me. She does whatever I say. In three years, we haven’t had a single argument. She doesn’t have it in her to be angry.” “Incredible,” someone muttered with genuine envy. “The guy spends three years playing the field and she stays silent. That’s a real man’s life right there—” The man’s voice died in his throat. He had spotted me standing by the velvet curtain, expressionless. Bennett turned. There wasn’t a trace of guilt on his face. He simply nudged the girl off his lap and beckoned me over with a flick of his wrist. “What are you doing here?” I paused for a second, then walked over. My voice was level, polite. “I’m out with some friends.” The girl he’d pushed aside looked annoyed. She sized me up, her eyes lingering on my modest coat before offering a tight, forced smile. “Hi, Jo.” Up close, I recognized her. She was the new intern at Bennett’s firm—Crystal. She’d graduated from a mid-tier state school; Bennett had personally insisted on hiring her after seeing her headshot in the HR pile. I didn’t realize he’d moved this fast. I ignored her. Bennett had clearly been drinking. His dark eyes were hooded and hazy, looking unfairly beautiful under the amber lights. He grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward him. “You should’ve told me you were coming out. Give me a kiss.” He leaned in toward my mouth. I instinctively tilted my head away. I didn’t know if he’d just tasted Crystal’s lip gloss, and the thought made my skin crawl. Bennett’s expression shifted instantly. The smug smile evaporated. Even though he was sitting and I was standing, the way he looked at me felt like he was peering down from a great height. “Joanna. What the hell was that?” I looked away and said softly, “You’ve had too much to drink.” “You’re disgusted by me?” He sensed the eyes of his friends on him. He felt his ego bruising. Suddenly, he reached out, grabbed Crystal by the waist, and pulled her back onto his lap. He cupped the back of her head firmly. Crystal’s eyes lit up. She surrendered to the kiss immediately. They shared a long, wet, performative kiss right in front of me. When Crystal finally pulled away, breathless, a thin silver thread of saliva connected their lips. She looked at me, her mouth curling into a triumphant smirk. Bennett watched me, his eyes a challenge. The table went silent. Every man there knew that no woman should be able to stomach this. They were all waiting for the explosion, for the drink to be thrown, for the screaming to start. I just met Bennett’s gaze and said calmly, “You’re drunk. I’m going home.” As I turned to leave, I heard one of his friends whisper in awe. “Damn. Her ’emotional stability’ is terrifying. She didn’t even flinch.” “Bennett’s got her under a spell,” another laughed. “She’s probably terrified he’ll dump her if she makes a scene.”

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To pull the campus golden boy off his pedestal, I created three separate burner accounts to date him online. My plan was simple: make him fall head over heels, then shatter his heart into a million pieces. Account No. 1 was the “Sweetheart” — high-pitched, needy, and constantly whining about her “tummy rumbling” until he’d Venmo me for UberEats. Account No. 2 was the “Pro-Gamer” — a cold-blooded assassin in League of Legends who carried his sorry ass through matches while teasing him for being a “cute little noob.” Account No. 3 was the “Sugar Mommy” — an older, wealthy woman who threw money at him just to coax out spicy voice notes and shirtless gym selfies. And then, one night, the floor fell out from under me. To prove to a room full of people that he actually had a girlfriend, the “golden boy” put his phone on speaker and dialed. A second later, my pocket erupted. “Honey-bunny is calling! Honey-bunny is calling!” The ringtone blared, relentless and shrill. The entire room went deathly silent. I stood there, frozen: Well, shit. I played myself. 1 The referee’s whistle cut through the air, signaling the end of the game. Our varsity team had sunk a buzzer-beater three-pointer in the final second. As the crowd erupted in a deafening roar, I was still sitting in the bleachers, staring into space. “Wren, aren’t you going to go give Bradley his water? Move it!” My best friend, Piper, nudged me with a wicked grin. “That last shot was Nate Miller’s. God, he’s hot, right? I saw you staring. Admit it—is he hotter than your ‘God of Basketball’ Bradley or what?” “Not even close,” I shot back instinctively, grabbing the chilled bottle of Fiji water and heading down the stairs. Today was a scrimmage against a rival college. It wasn’t supposed to be a big deal, and I’d only shown up to support Bradley. But for some reason, Nate Miller—the department’s resident heartthrob—had signed up for this game too. The second the girls in our year heard Nate was playing, they organized a cheering squad like it was the NBA Finals. From the moment he stepped onto the court, the screaming hadn’t stopped. It was terrifying, honestly. I sighed, feeling a pang of pity for my “God.” In every academic competition in our department, Bradley always seemed to fall just a hair behind Nate, forever relegated to second place. Now, Nate wouldn’t even let him have the spotlight in a measly scrimmage. Does the guy have a Main Character syndrome or something? Down on the court, Nate was already swamped by a mob of girls begging for selfies. Bradley stood in the corner, laughing and chatting with his teammates, looking heartbreakingly sidelined. Piper was still buzzing in my ear. “I seriously don’t get why you have such a massive chip on your shoulder when it comes to Nate. And this ‘Evil Catfishing Scheme’ of yours? It’s unhinged, Wren.” I clamped my hand over her mouth. If Nate Miller ever found out I was running three different personas just to mess with him, I’d be the lead story on the campus news by morning. Bradley spotted me and looked surprised. “Wren! You actually came to watch?” I gave him my best shy smile. “I came specifically to see you play, Bradley.” He chuckled, a hint of self-deprecation in his voice. “I didn’t think anyone was watching me today.” Poor guy. Nate had sucked the confidence right out of him. I looked at Bradley with soft eyes, completely oblivious to the world, and held out the water. “Bradley, I got this for—” Before I could finish, a pale, long-fingered hand reached out and snatched the bottle right out of my grasp. Me: “?” 2 The crisp, sharp scent of peppermint swirled around me. Nate Miller stepped directly between Bradley and me. He had one hand buried in his gym shorts pocket while he tossed the water bottle up and down with the other. He leaned in, his eyes curving into a brilliant, predatory smile. “Wow, Wren. How’d you know I was dying for a drink? You’re a lifesaver.” I stared at him, flat-eyed. If you’re thirsty, go to a vending machine, you prick. The damp strands of hair on Nate’s forehead were soaked with sweat. Almost as if he knew exactly what he was doing, he brushed them back, revealing the sharp, perfect lines of his brow and eyes. The fangirls nearby let out a collective, strangled gasp. Even I had to admit, the man was offensively attractive. But where the hell did he even come from? I was fuming. That water was for my guy. Nate turned to Bradley, his tone light but edged. “You don’t mind if I take this, do you, Brad? You’re not that stingy, right?” Bradley blinked, then shook his head. “No, it’s fine.” Nate grinned, looking like he hadn’t tasted water in a century. He twisted the cap and chugged half the bottle in one go, his Adam’s apple bobbing rhythmically. I heard the girls whispering behind us. “Who is she? She’s so lucky Nate’s drinking her water! I’m literally dying.” “I think she’s a junior in his department. They say he’s got a soft spot for her.” I watched Nate finish the water with a completely blank expression. When he looked down at me with those “soulful” eyes, I simply held out my phone, screen glowing with my Venmo QR code. “Nate, I’m sorry, I think there’s been a misunderstanding. I’m actually selling these. That’ll be four dollars.” Nate: “?” The Crowd: “…” The air went dead. I watched as the color rushed to Nate’s face, turning him a magnificent shade of crimson. He stared at me like I’d just grown a second head. What? You’ve never seen a girl run a business? Pay up. 3 To celebrate the win, the student union threw a small victory dinner at a local bistro. I was invited along with the rest of the support staff. When it was time to sit, I saw Bradley take a seat by the window. The chair across from him was empty. Jackpot. I kept my face neutral, moving with practiced ease to pull out the chair. “Bradley, what a coincidence! Looks like we’re table buddies.” Bradley smiled back, looking genuinely pleased. Suddenly, Nate, who was standing a few feet away, stopped mid-motion. He looked troubled, his brow furrowing as he scanned the room. The student union president asked, “Nate? Something wrong? Take a seat, man.” Nate bit his lip, looking embarrassed. “I… I have this weird thing. I can only eat if I’m sitting by a window. It’s a claustrophobia thing. If I’m not by the glass, I lose my appetite.” I stopped unwrapping my silverware. You lying sack of garbage. I’d seen him eat in the middle of a crowded, windowless cafeteria back in high school a thousand times. The president immediately turned to Bradley. “Brad, would you mind swapping with Nate? Just for the night?” No! Bradley, stay strong! I sat there, looking at Bradley with pleading eyes. But of course, being the “nice guy” he was, Bradley stood up and swapped places without a second thought. Nate slid into the chair directly across from me. He met my gaze and smiled like a harmless, fluffy golden retriever. “Wren, what a coincidence,” he purred, echoing my exact words back to me. “Looks like we’re table buddies.” The smirk he gave me made the hair on my arms stand up. 4 I was now eighty percent certain he was doing this on purpose. But I had no proof. I stabbed a piece of steak and chewed it with unnecessary violence. Just you wait, Nate. You have no idea what’s coming for you. Around us, the conversation was loud and cheerful. Nate, however, ignored the crowd, resting his chin on his hand as he watched me eat. His gaze was so intense it made my skin prickle. It was the kind of look that made you want to scream at someone to stop. But in real life, I was a chronic introvert with a touch of social anxiety. All I could do was bury my face deeper into my plate. Don’t look at me. Don’t look at me. Suddenly, Nate leaned in. “You know, Wren, you’re actually really cute when you eat.” “Pffft—” I choked, spraying a bit of rice across the table. My face felt like it was on fire. I glared at him, mortified. Nate didn’t even flinch. He just kept smiling that innocent, devastating smile. Ugh, such a player! I had three different personas currently blowing up his phone with “I miss you” texts, and here he was, flirting with the real me in broad daylight. Scum. Absolute scum. I pretended the steak was Nate’s heart and sliced into it again. 5 I had known Nate Miller was a two-faced playboy long before college. We went to the same high school. Back then, I was obsessed with this one specific Otome game. I was head over heels for a 2D character, calling him “husband” every five minutes. Piper used to say that if anyone ever talked trash about my 2D man, I’d haunt them like a Victorian ghost for the rest of their lives. Then, one day, I saw a video Nate posted on Instagram. He was already the school’s resident heartthrob. In the video, under moody purple lighting, he showed off his sharp profile, radiating a sort of “brooding loner” energy. But then he turned his screen to reveal… a photo of my 2D husband. The caption read: “On a snowy winter night, I wish I could be the one standing by your side, just like him.” The comment section was a disaster zone of thirsty girls. “OMG! My two favorite husbands in one frame!” “Nate, I’ll be your winter girl!” I felt my blood pressure skyrocket. I scrolled through Nate’s other posts. Nearly every single one featured a tag or a reference to my game. He even posted clips of himself playing it. To me, no matter how attractive a 3D guy is, “cosplaying” or trying to skin-walk a 2D character is a capital offense. That night, Piper witnessed the true terrifying power of a woman scorned. She watched me scroll through Nate’s feed, cursing him with every insult I could conjure. From that day on, Nate Miller was on my permanent blacklist. Then we got to college, and I met Bradley. I quickly realized that Nate was still overshadowing everyone—including Bradley. Even the girl Bradley had a crush on had once confessed to Nate, only to be rejected. That was the breaking point. To expose Nate’s true, manipulative nature, I launched the “Evil Catfishing Plan.” I would make him fall in love, drain his bank account (ironically, of course), and then dump him so hard he’d never look at a 2D character again. 6 Piper was scrolling through her phone next to me when she let out a quiet “Oh, wow.” She turned her screen to show me a post on the campus forum. Someone had snapped a photo of Nate taking the water bottle from me today. In the shot, my back was a blurry mess of pixels, but Nate looked like he’d been professionally airbrushed, drinking the water with cinematic grace. Me: “…” The injustice was staggering. I looked at Nate, who was currently charming the table, and a wicked idea took root. I ducked my head and switched my phone to the “Sweetheart” account. My thumbs flew across the keyboard. Bunny: [Sent a photo of the forum post] Bunny: Nate! Bunny is going to cry! Who is this girl at the game? People are saying you drank her water! Hmph!! Nate’s phone buzzed on the table. He glanced down, and I watched his expression from across the table. He froze for a second, but then a slow, genuine smile tugged at the corners of his lips. He typed back immediately. Nate: Bunny, baby, it was just water. She’s just a girl in my department. Nothing more. Bunny: Liar! Bunny doesn’t believe you. You’re surrounded by pretty girls every day. You’ve probably already replaced me, you big meanie! Typing that out took every ounce of my self-control not to burst out laughing. Nate looked genuinely distressed. Nate: How can I prove my heart only belongs to you? Just then, the student union president noticed Nate’s distraction. He stood up with a glass. “Nate! You were the MVP today. We couldn’t have won without you. Let’s have a toast!” Nate set his phone down and stood up with a glass of orange juice. “It was a team effort,” he said, sounding modest and perfectly composed. “I just helped get us over the finish line.” Piper sighed beside me. “God, he’s so well-spoken. It’s hard not to like him…” “Wait, are you even listening?” I was staring at my phone, imagining the look on Nate’s face when he read my next demand. Piper nudged my shoulder. “Wren, do you realize how creepy you look right now?” “What?” “You look like a thirsty fanfic writer who just saw their ‘ship’ go canon. It’s a bit much.” “…” Hehe. I can’t help it. Nate sat back down and checked his phone. His face went pale. Bunny: If you mean it, send me a voice note right now. Tell me you love your wittle Bunny-wunny the most in the whole wide world. Nate: Baby, I’m out at dinner with a bunch of people. Bunny: I don’t care! I want it now! Or we’re through! I was shaking with suppressed laughter. Nate suddenly bolted upright, nearly knocking his chair over. The whole table went quiet, staring at him. “Something wrong?” someone asked. Nate’s face was as red as a lobster. He stammered, “I… I have to go to the bathroom. Keep eating.” He practically fled the room. I couldn’t take it anymore. I turned away, burying my face in my hands as my entire body shook with silent, hysterical laughter. 7 Nate was gone for a long time. The table continued to chatter, while I sat in the corner, refreshing my screen. Given Nate’s flair for the dramatic, he was probably in a stall right now trying to find the perfect “seductive” tone of voice. Bunny: Nate? Why aren’t you responding? Bunny is getting really mad now! You want to break up, don’t you? A second later, a 23-second voice note appeared. My heart actually skipped a beat. Twenty-three seconds? What did he say? I moved away from the group, pressed the phone to my ear, and turned the volume down to the lowest setting. His voice was low, melodic, and held a trace of genuine embarrassment: “I love Bunny the most… Bunny is my sweetest little baby girl. I’m sorry for making you wait, princess. Don’t be mad, okay? Daddy’s coming home soon…” He had lowered his register until it was a husky, intimate murmur. It sounded like a lover whispering in the dark. My brain actually short-circuited for a moment. Even though I hated him, I had to admit—the man was a professional. When he “dated” my alt accounts, he was never stingy with his affection. Being pampered by him—even if it was all a lie—made me feel a strange, momentary dizziness. I slammed the “stop” button on the audio. Nate returned to his seat at the same time. My phone buzzed again. Nate: Did you hear it? Do you believe me now? Bunny: Teehee. You’re the best. I typed it out with cold, clinical precision. Hahaha. You don’t have a sincere bone in your body, Nate Miller. 8 Back at the dorm, I applied a face mask and pulled out my other two phones. Nate had been busy. Nate: Rogue, baby. I missed you tonight. Nate: Madeline, I’m thinking about you. What a dog. If there were an Olympic event for time management, this guy would take the gold every year. I decided to reply as Account No. 2, “Rogue,” the gamer girl. Rogue: Get online, kid. There’s a guild war. I’m carrying you. Nate replied instantly. Nate: Rogue! Where have you been? I checked the server, you weren’t even logged in. Are you ignoring me? Ah, the classic “guilt trip” play. Too bad “Rogue” was a stone-cold ice queen. Rogue: Don’t get clingy, little man. We’re here to play. If you’re going to whine, I’ll find another support to carry. Nate sent back a crying cat emoji. Nate: T^T No, don’t leave. I’ll play. But I’m still trash, so don’t let them bully me. Protect me, okay? It was honestly fascinating. He was a total chameleon. With “Bunny,” he was the doting older boyfriend. With “Rogue,” he was the submissive, clingy “soft boy.” And when I switched to “Madeline,” the rich older woman… he became the charming, flirtatious young puppy. He really put in the work. I logged into the game. My character was a fierce warrior in green robes, wielding a massive broadsword. Standing next to me was Nate’s character… a walking disco ball. He had spent a fortune on the gaudiest, most expensive gear. He wore a glowing crown, a shimmering cape, and rings that pulsed with golden light. He was a mobile loot drop. Nate was famous on the server for being the “No. 1 Pay-to-Win Noob.” A rival guild member typed in the world chat: “Is that the server’s richest loser again? Bringing out the shiny toys for us to break?” Nate’s character leaned against mine. Nate: Baby, they’re being mean to me! Honestly, the rival guy has a point, I thought, laughing as I swung my massive sword. The guild war erupted into a chaos of light and steel. 9 Nate’s voice kept crackling through my headset. “Rogue! My health bar is halfway gone! It hurts!” “God, you look so hot when you swing that sword. My heart is actually pounding.” I glanced at the screen where I had just used Nate’s character as a human shield to block a fireball. I smirked. Your heart is pounding? Let’s turn up the heat. I kept playing with one hand and used the other to switch to Account No. 3. Madeline: Sorry, sweetie. I had a long day at the office. What are you up to? The voice chat went dead for a second. Then, a message popped up. Nate: Just got out of the shower, Madeline. Liar. Madeline: Oh? Show me those abs. I’m exhausted and could use a little eye candy to wake me up. At the same time, I spoke into the headset as “Rogue.” “What’s wrong? Why are you quiet all of a sudden?” Nate didn’t answer in the game. Instead, my “Madeline” phone buzzed with a photo. It was Nate, leaning against a bathroom mirror, a towel slung low on his hips. His hair was damp, water droplets still clinging to his chest and tracing the lines of his V-cut. Jesus, have some decency. I cursed under my breath, feeling a flush creep up my neck. I typed back: Madeline: You really are my favorite little man. I think I need to hear your voice. I’m calling you now. Madeline: [Sent a screenshot of a “busy” signal] Madeline: Wait, why is your line busy, Nate? Who are you talking to? Nate: I’m… uh, I’m on a work call, Madeline! Meanwhile, in the headset, Nate’s voice finally returned. “Sorry, Rogue! I’m back.” I looked at the “Death” screen for Nate’s character. “You weren’t paying attention,” I said coldly. “You died so fast it was pathetic. I’m done for the night.” Nate panicked. “I didn’t mean it! I’m just… a little slow sometimes. Don’t be mad!” I ignored him on the headset and kept blowing up his “Madeline” phone. Madeline: I want to hear your voice right now, or I’m going to be very upset. Are you going to be a good boy for me? Nate: Okay… anything for you. Then, over the headset, I heard Nate say in a fake-sweet voice: “Rogue, honey, I have to take this. I’ll be back in a bit to make it up to you.” Rogue: “Who is it?” Nate: “It’s… my aunt. Family emergency.” “…” Unbelievable. I didn’t realize I’d been added to the family tree. I gritted my teeth. Just wait, Nate Miller. There’s going to be a day when you’re on your knees begging for my mercy.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “402448”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My mother always said her best friend was the most graceful, most principled woman in the world. But there she was. The woman I’d called “Auntie” my whole life, the woman who supposedly knew everything about boundaries, was currently curled into my husband’s chest. Her hand was wandering, tracing the line of his jaw with a sickening familiarity. The moment I ripped the mask off her face, the air in the hotel room turned to lead. The slap I’d rehearsed in my head, the screaming match I’d prepared for—it all died in my throat. My brain felt like it was short-circuiting, a dull numbness spreading from my skull to my fingertips. “You’re family,” I whispered, my voice trembling so hard it barely sounded like mine. “How could you do something so… so subhuman?” She didn’t flinch. Instead, she let out a soft, melodic laugh. With a straight face and a voice full of unearned authority, she told me she was simply “testing” my husband for me. I looked at the two of them—this scene so absurd it bordered on the surreal—and I started to laugh. A jagged, hysterical sound. Fine. If one of you has no shame and the other is looking for a thrill, I’ll give you exactly what you deserve. 1 The hotel hallway was bathed in a dim, amber glow that felt like sticky syrup, coating the two of them in a sickly light. My stomach did a slow, violent roll. Nausea surged in the back of my throat. I thought I would scream. I thought I’d turn into a madwoman, clawing at their lying faces. But I didn’t. My body reacted faster than my mind. A bone-chilling cold raced up my spine, settling at the base of my brain. The rage didn’t vanish; it was just compressed, shoved deep into my chest where it simmered without an exit. I forced myself to breathe. I dug my nails into the soft meat of my palms until the sharp sting brought a flicker of clarity. I pulled out my phone. As the screen lit up, I saw Bradley’s face. My husband. He looked like a dog that had just been caught eating off the table—panicked, pathetic, desperate to hide the evidence of his sin. He lunged toward me. “Summer, wait! Let me explain. It’s not what it looks like!” His voice was thin, reeking of his usual cowardice. “Don’t move,” Victoria said, stopping him in his tracks. Victoria. My mother’s best friend of thirty years. The woman who had watched me grow up. She didn’t even fully untangle herself from Bradley’s arms. She just hooded her eyes, looking at me with a strange mix of excitement and provocation. She was wearing that perfume my mother always praised—something “soft and elegant.” Now, mixed with the stale, recycled air of a cheap hotel room, it made me want to gag. I hit the record button. The small red dot on the screen blinked like a cold, unblinking eye, witnessing everything. “Testing my husband?” I repeated her words. My voice was so flat it sounded like I was reading lines for a play I wasn’t even in. Victoria smiled. It was a light, feathery thing, but it cut like a razor. “Yes, Summer.” She finally stood up straight, smoothing out her dress with practiced elegance. “Men these days… they can’t be trusted. I was worried you were being played, so I decided to see what he was made of.” She took a step toward me, her tone shifting into that of a concerned elder. “And look. He failed instantly. A man like this? He’s not worth your time.” Bradley’s face went from pale to a bruised purple. He opened his mouth to protest, but one sharp look from Victoria silenced him. He looked like a marionette, his strings held by a woman twenty years his senior. Suddenly, it hit me. This wasn’t just an affair. This was a joke. A cruel, meticulously planned joke at my expense. I pointed the camera directly at Victoria’s perfectly maintained face. “So, how long has this ‘test’ been going on?” “Bradley was the one who came to me,” Victoria said, her voice dripping with faux-sympathy. “He said your marriage was suffocating. That he couldn’t breathe. He said living with you was like living with a piece of wood—boring, lifeless. He needed someone who understood him. Someone who could bring back the spark.” She sighed. “Summer, don’t be mad at me. I did this because I care about you. I wanted you to see his true colors before it was too late.” Bradley was sweating now, stammering over his words. “No! That’s not—she seduced me! Summer, you have to believe me!” His defense only served to complete her narrative. A perfect, closed loop of betrayal. I watched them through the screen—one smug, one frantic. Whatever was left of the thing I called “love” was ground into the carpet. I could almost hear the physical snap of my heart breaking. “Test passed,” I said. I stopped the recording and tucked the phone away, forcing a twisted smile. “You two deserve each other.” I looked at them—the executioner and the man-child—standing in the shadows of the hallway. They looked ridiculous. I saw the confusion in their eyes, maybe even a flicker of fear, as I turned my back on them. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I didn’t waste another word. My heels clicked softly against the plush hotel carpet. I walked away as quietly as I had arrived. One step. Two steps. Three. The moment I pushed through the revolving doors and hit the street, the icy night air slammed into me. My knees buckled. I collapsed onto the sidewalk, my body shaking with a violence I couldn’t control. The tears finally came—a flash flood that blurred the world into a smear of neon lights. So this was what it felt like to be hollowed out. 2 I don’t remember the Uber ride. I don’t remember walking up the steps to my mother’s house. My hands shook so badly I couldn’t get the key into the lock. Before I could try a third time, the door clicked open. My mother, Evelyn, stood there in her silk robe, her face etched with worry. “Summer? What are you doing here at this hour? You look like a ghost.” The moment I saw her, the wire I’d been walking on all night snapped. I fell into her arms, sobbing like a lost child. She was the only person left who felt like home. Evelyn gasped, patting my back rhythmically. “What happened? Did you and Bradley have a fight? Honey, it can’t be that bad.” I couldn’t catch my breath. The words came out in jagged, broken shards. “Mom… Bradley… he’s with Victoria. At a hotel.” The hand on my back stopped moving. Evelyn gripped my shoulders and pulled me back, her expression hardening into something I didn’t recognize. “Summer, think about what you’re saying. What do you mean, Bradley and Victoria?” I looked at her, desperate for her to hold me again, to tell me she’d handle it. I told her everything. Every sordid detail of what I saw in that hallway. Evelyn’s brow furrowed. But her first reaction wasn’t anger at them. It wasn’t comfort for me. It was a sharp, cold interrogation. “Are you sure? Maybe you saw it wrong. Maybe it was a misunderstanding.” Those words hurt worse than the hotel air. “A misunderstanding? Mom, I saw them with my own eyes. I was there.” I fumbled for my phone, my hands still trembling. “I recorded it. Look!” Evelyn flinched as if the phone were a hot coal. She turned her head away, covering her eyes. “I won’t look at that!” her voice rose, sharp and scolding. “Summer! How could you even think such things about Victoria?” “She’s been my best friend for thirty years! I know her better than I know myself. She treats you like her own daughter! She would never do something so disgusting.” I stood there, arm extended, phone in hand. My own mother was looking at me with a mixture of disbelief and disgust—not for the cheaters, but for me. She started listing Victoria’s virtues like a litany. “She stayed up all night with you when you were sick as a baby. She gave you the biggest check at your wedding. She’s the one who introduced you to Bradley! Why would she destroy your marriage?” “You’re just confused. You must have seen someone else.” I felt the blood in my veins turn to slush. Thirty years of being her daughter didn’t stand a chance against thirty years of “sisterhood.” My pain was just “immaturity” to her. My trauma was a “slander” against her friend. She didn’t even look at me again. She picked up her own phone and dialed Victoria’s number. The second the call connected, Evelyn’s voice softened into a coo of concern. “Victoria? Oh, did I wake you? I’m so sorry, but Summer just got here and she’s saying the most awful things…” I watched my mother’s face shift from confusion to a slow, nodding realization, and finally, to a burning anger directed at me. She hung up and looked at me like I was a stranger who had just insulted her honor. “I’ve heard enough,” she snapped. “Victoria told me everything. She was at that hotel for a business meeting with a client. She happened to see Bradley there—he was drunk, Summer. She was just helping him to his room because she’s a decent person. And you? You burst in and started screaming at her. She’s been crying on the phone, she’s so hurt!” Evelyn pointed a finger at my face, her voice shaking with indignation. “Summer, you are going to call her right now and apologize.” Apologize? To the woman who had just dismantled my life? To the woman who was currently gaslighting my mother? A sense of profound absurdity washed over me. I looked at this woman—my mother—who was so blinded by a toxic friendship that she was willing to sacrifice her own child. I realized then that you can’t wake someone who is pretending to be asleep. We screamed at each other. I used words I’d never used with her, and she looked at me with a coldness that froze my heart solid. “I am so disappointed in you,” she said. It was the last thing she told me before I walked out. I grabbed my bag and ran into the night. I didn’t cry this time. I was numb. True loneliness isn’t being alone. It’s realizing that the person you trusted most as your backup just stabbed you in the back. 3 I went back to the place we called “home.” The moment I opened the door, the smell of stale cigarettes and cheap whiskey hit me. Bradley was curled on the sofa like a wounded animal, surrounded by empty bottles. He scrambled to his feet when he heard the door, his bloodshot eyes wide with terror. He tripped over his own feet and fell to his knees in front of me. “Summer, I’m sorry! I’m so, so sorry!” He grabbed my legs, sobbing like a child. “It was a mistake! I was stupid! I’m not a man, I’m a piece of trash!” He started slapping himself—hard. The sound of skin hitting skin echoed in the silent living room. I looked down at him. This was the man I’d shared a bed with for three years. His performance was top-tier; his face was already starting to swell. But I felt nothing. No pity, no anger. Just a vast, empty wasteland where my feelings used to be. “It was Victoria! She seduced me!” he cried when he saw I wasn’t reacting. “She told me you were too controlling, that you didn’t know how to take care of a man. She said she’d take care of me like… like a mother. I was just confused, Summer! I love you, only you!” He was weeping, painting himself as the victim of a predatory older woman. It was a pathetic, desperate attempt to shift the blame. I watched him like I was watching a bad movie. This man would never take responsibility. He would only kneel and bleed until he got what he wanted. In the past, I would have softened. I would have helped him up. Not today. He made a show of taking out his phone and deleting Victoria’s contact info, blocking her on everything. “See? I’m done with her! Just give me one more chance. Please.” He looked up at me, his face red and puffy, begging for the familiar comfort of my forgiveness. I knew he wasn’t sorry. He was just scared. Scared I’d post the video and ruin his reputation. Scared he’d lose his comfortable life. I looked at him, and a plan began to take shape. A cold, surgical plan. I let my expression soften, just a fraction. I pulled my leg away from his grasp and spoke in a raspy whisper. “I need time to think.” Bradley’s eyes lit up. He saw a crack in the door. He thought this was just like all our other fights—that if he groveled low enough, I’d eventually cave. “Yes, of course. Take all the time you need,” he said, scrambling to his feet. “But… don’t leave, okay? I’ll stay right here. I won’t leave your side.” I shook my head. “I’m staying at my mom’s for a while. I’ll contact you when I’ve cleared my head.” The light in his eyes dimmed, but he didn’t dare argue. “Okay. Whatever you need.” He thought “clearing my head” meant finding a way to forgive him. He had no idea that I was actually figuring out how to make him and Victoria pay for every single thing they’d taken from me. I started packing a bag. While he went to the kitchen to get me a glass of water, I grabbed his phone from the coffee table. No passcode. The irony was almost funny. I moved fast. I opened his messages, his bank apps, his call logs. I used a simple recovery tool I’d learned about for work to pull up the “deleted” chats. The filth I found was staggering. Explicit photos, high-frequency bank transfers, hotel bookings… every message was a fresh knife in my heart. I didn’t flinch. I backed everything up and sent it to a burner email address. When I was done, I zipped my suitcase and headed for the door. Bradley caught up to me, holding a glass of lukewarm water. “Summer, drink some water before you go.” He looked so small, so eager to please. I didn’t take the glass. I just looked at him and said, “Don’t follow me.” I shut the door on his desperate face. Outside, I took a long, deep breath. It tasted like copper. Summer, the girl who loved Bradley, died tonight. The woman who walked away is someone else entirely.

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I died at forty-five, my body a hollowed-out shell of used-up parts. But when I opened my eyes, I was back in the mountain air of Montana, the sun biting at my skin. I was standing right outside the staff dorms. David was there, leaning against his truck, checking his watch. We were supposed to drive down to the county clerk’s office to sign our marriage license. In my past life, this was the day I chained myself to a ghost. Back then, David found out I was pregnant, and then he vanished. He stayed gone for twenty years, chasing a woman named Rose. He only came back when I was on my deathbed. He didn’t come for me, though. He sat by my side, staring at a faded photograph of Rose—who had died shortly before—and whispered, “If I’d just waited a little longer to sign those papers with you, would things have ended differently?” 1 The realization that I had traveled back hit me like a physical blow. David looked younger, his face unlined by the decades of guilt he’d eventually carry. “Ready, Nora?” he asked, flashing that easy, clean-cut smile that used to make my heart skip. “I forgot I have to drop off some blueprints at the site office,” I lied, my voice steadier than I felt. “Why don’t you head to the clerk’s office first? I’ll meet you there in an hour.” He hesitated, then shrugged. “Sure. Don’t be late. They close at four.” The moment his truck kicked up dust down the trail, I turned and headed the opposite way. I climbed the ridge toward Mrs. Adler’s place. She was an old local who lived in a cabin overlooking the valley. I spent the morning in her weathered rocking chair, watching the mist roll over the pines. The sun felt different today—heavy, like it was trying to anchor me to this new reality. Mrs. Adler handed me a mug of hot cider. “Thought you were supposed to be eloping with that engineer today, Nora. What are you doing up here chasing clouds?” I took a slow sip, the warmth spreading through my chest. “I had a nightmare, Mrs. Adler. I woke up and realized I couldn’t breathe.” She patted my hand, her skin like parchment. “Dreams are just shadows, honey. Life is what’s in front of you. Once you’re Mrs. David Miller, you’ll have a house and a life. No use being scared of shadows.” I looked at her and forced a smile. “You’re right. I just needed a moment to think.” Marry David? Not in this lifetime. Not in any lifetime. 2 In the life I left behind, we signed the papers and walked out of that office as husband and wife. We hadn’t gone ten feet before he collided with a girl. Her name was Rose. She was a local girl, the kind with wild hair and eyes that looked like they held secrets the mountains hadn’t told anyone else. On the drive back to the site, David was silent. I thought he was just being respectful, settling into his new role as a married man. I thought he was being “proper.” I didn’t find out until the very end that he wasn’t being proper. He was mourning. That one collision had been lightning. He’d fallen in love with Rose at first sight, right there on the courthouse steps with our marriage license still damp in his pocket. He wasn’t avoiding other women for my sake; he was regretting me. He was cursing the fact that he hadn’t waited just one more day to be free. After that, the light in him went out whenever he looked at me. He spent hours staring toward the valley where Rose lived. When I asked him what was wrong, he’d snap at me or shut down. Eventually, I stopped asking. I threw myself into my work, thinking he just needed time to adjust to domestic life. When the Montana project ended, we were assigned to different states. Long distance. I thought it was a temporary sacrifice for our careers. But every time a new contract came up, he was in Maine while I was in Texas. He was in Oregon while I was in Florida. “It’s just how the firm assigned it, Nora,” he’d say over the phone, his voice flat. Years later, during a trip to the main office in Chicago, I overheard his colleagues talking. Every single “separation” had been requested by David. He was actively fleeing me. We had a screaming match that night. He held me, sobbing, apologizing for things he wouldn’t name. And then, the next morning, he was gone again. I thought our marriage was over then. But life is cruel—I found out I was pregnant. When I told him, he changed. He became the perfect husband. He moved back. He cooked for me, he pressed his ear to my stomach to listen to the baby, he walked me through the park every evening. I thought I’d finally won. Then, one Tuesday, he went out for milk and never came back. I spent twenty years looking for him. I raised our son alone. I worked two jobs. I buried my parents and his parents. I assumed he was dead. But when my heart started failing at forty-five, he appeared at my bedside. He’d been with Rose the whole time. They’d moved to a small town in Vermont and adopted a son. They gave that boy everything—all the love and presence he’d denied our biological son. The only reason he came back was that Rose had died of a broken heart, her only regret being that she was never legally his wife. David told me he was sorry, but he also said he resented me. He blamed me for being the “legal” obstacle that kept Rose from her dying wish. I wanted to scream. If you didn’t love me, why didn’t you just leave? Why didn’t you ask for a divorce? Why leave me to rot in the uncertainty of a “missing” husband while you played house with her? And the final twist of the knife? My own son, the one I’d sacrificed my health to raise, told me he envied the boy David had adopted. He told me he’d been in contact with his father for years. He’d kept David’s secret while I spent my nights weeping over old photos. 3 I stayed at Mrs. Adler’s for another hour. I didn’t rush. When I finally arrived at the county office, I saw it happening in real-time. Rose was on the ground. David was helping her up. He was staring at her with an expression I can only describe as “struck.” The irritation he’d felt waiting for me had vanished, replaced by a raw, hungry kind of awe. In my first life, I’d rushed over to help her. I’d been the one to strike up a conversation, being the “friendly wife.” I’d been so blind. Standing back now, as a spectator, it was so obvious it was sickening. “David,” I called out, my voice cool. “I’m here. Sorry I kept you waiting.” David stiffened. He looked at me, then back at Rose, his face a mask of panic and confusion. “Oh… Nora. You’re… you’re here. I was just… she fell.” I noticed Rose looking at me. In my last life, she’d been shy. This time? Her gaze was complicated. There was a flash of something sharp—was it jealousy? Or something else? I wondered: If they don’t have the marriage license to blame this time, what will they do? “Well, the clock is ticking,” I said, pointing at the office door. “Let’s go get this over with.” David’s face went pale. “Ow… my ankle,” Rose suddenly whimpered. In the first life, she hadn’t been hurt. This time, her timing was impeccable. A cold shiver went down my spine. Did she know? Was she “back,” too? I watched her closely, but her face was a mask of girlish pain. David didn’t even hesitate. He took her to the local clinic. The doctor told him there was nothing wrong—just a slight scrape that would have healed by the time they walked out the door. Rose looked embarrassed. David, however, looked relieved. As we walked back past the county office, David looked at his shoes. “Nora, they’re closed now. Maybe… maybe we should come back tomorrow?” I looked at the locked door. “We’ll see. You have to pick the right day for these things, don’t you?” There would never be a “right day” for us again. David sighed, his shoulders dropping. “Okay. I’ll tell Mrs. Adler we’re pushing it back.” 4 We had two bikes. On the ride back to the site, Rose didn’t even ask—she just hopped onto the back of David’s bike, her arms wrapping firmly around his waist. David looked at me, sheepish, but he didn’t pull away. I didn’t say a word. I pedaled ahead, the mountain wind whistling past my ears. I could hear them laughing behind me—low, intimate sounds. How long had it been since I’d heard David laugh like that? In my previous life, that sound died the moment he met her. Now, I realized it hadn’t died; it just wasn’t for me. When we reached the site dorms, the other engineers and locals watched them. They saw Rose clinging to him. They looked at me with pity or confusion, coughing and shaking their heads. I just smiled and went to my room. 5 David had already rented a small cottage near the site for our “honeymoon” phase. Most of my things were already there. I walked past the cottage on my way to the mess hall. It was a simple place—two bedrooms, a small porch. In my last life, I’d come back here and seen the red ribbons I’d hung up, feeling like the luckiest woman in the world. Nobody knew that on our wedding night, the “groom” had gone cold. We’d lain in that bed, side by side, two strangers in a room full of unspoken regrets. He hadn’t touched me. He’d just stared at the ceiling until dawn. 6 I didn’t wait for David to come back. I went to my old dorm room and pulled a manila envelope from the back of my desk. It was my transfer request back to the Chicago headquarters. It wasn’t just a transfer; it was a massive promotion. In my first life, I’d torn this paper up because I didn’t want to be away from my new husband. That choice cost me everything. My career stalled. I ended up in a dead-end administrative role because I was too busy being a single mother and a caretaker for his ungrateful parents. My son used to look at me with such disdain. “Why can’t you look like Rose?” he’d say. “Her clothes are always so nice. You’re just… tired.” Rose. He’d almost said her name back then, hadn’t he? The memory made my blood run cold. My son had been in on the betrayal for years. He’d hidden his father’s life from me while I worked myself into an early grave to buy him sneakers and pay for his college. 7 At dinner, David didn’t come by my room like he usually did. I went to the mess hall alone. I saw them immediately, tucked into a corner booth. They were sharing a plate, David leaning in close, murmuring something that made Rose giggle into her hand. When David saw me, he froze. He stood up so fast he nearly knocked over his water. “Nora! Hey. Uh, Rose just got back to town and she didn’t have any groceries. I figured I’d grab her a bite. I was going to bring you something later, I didn’t think you’d be here so early.” Early? The dinner service was almost over. The trays were nearly empty. I remembered the first life. The night we were supposed to celebrate our marriage. David said he’d go get food. He came back hours later, empty-handed, and said, “The kitchen ran out. Just go to sleep.” I’d gone to bed hungry on my wedding night while he was out feeding her. I didn’t say anything. I just grabbed a tray, took the leftovers, and went back to my room. Halfway through my meal, there was a knock. It was both of them. David looked awkward, clearing his throat. “Nora, I wanted to ask you a favor.” I looked at him, chewing slowly. He looked at Rose, who was standing there like a kicked puppy. His eyes softened—a look he never gave me. “See, Rose is back in her family’s old house, but it’s a mess. No heat, no water. And since we haven’t… you know, officially moved into the cottage yet… I thought maybe she could stay there for a few days?” I looked at Rose. She shivered, tucking herself behind David’s arm. The Rose I knew in my first life was a shadow. This Rose was a performer. I was almost certain now—she’d come back, too. She was playing the “damsel” role perfectly. “Sure,” I said. “It’s your lease, David. Do what you want.” David blinked. He’d expected a fight. He had a whole speech prepared about “Christian charity” and “neighborly duty.” “But,” I added, “I don’t like people touching my things. I’m going over there tonight to pack up my stuff.” “No need for that!” David said quickly. “I’ll just move your boxes into the spare room. She can have the main bedroom—it’s already made up.” The main bedroom. Our marriage bed. He wanted her to sleep in the bed I’d picked out for us. I saw the corner of Rose’s mouth twitch into a tiny, victorious smile. 8 After dinner, I took a flashlight and walked over to the cottage. When I arrived, David was already there, tucking Rose into bed. He was using the silk sheets I’d bought specially for our first night. “Nora,” he said, startled. “I put your boxes in the small room.” “Fine.” I went into the spare room and started dragging my boxes out. David followed me, his expression unreadable. “Nora… are you okay?” Rose drifted into the hallway. “David? Are those the sheets for your wedding? Oh, I feel terrible. Maybe I should just sleep on the floor on top of my old coat…” David’s heart clearly broke for her. He looked at me. “Nora, look, the sheets are already on the bed. It’s just for a few nights.” I saw the triumph in her eyes. She thought she was winning a prize. She didn’t realize I was handing her a ticking landmine. “The sheets were bought with your money, David,” I said flatly. “Use them however you like.” “Thank you, Nora! You’re so sweet,” Rose chirped. “I can’t believe I’m sleeping in David’s house. In his bed!” The implication hung heavy in the air. David looked at me, waiting for a reaction. A test of my boundaries. Rose realized she’d overplayed it and quickly covered her mouth. “Oh! I didn’t mean it like that! Nora, don’t be mad! I’m just a mess, I didn’t mean anything by it.” She made a move to grab her bags, pretending to leave. David stopped her, of course. I just smiled at her. “It’s fine, Rose. Really. Sleep tight. If you like the bed so much, maybe you should just keep it. I’m sure David wouldn’t mind if you stayed permanently.” Rose’s face fell. She couldn’t understand why the “dumb, jealous Nora” from her memories wasn’t showing up. I leaned in, whispering just loud enough for her to hear. “You want him so bad? He’s all yours. I just wonder if he’ll be as charming when you’re the one cleaning his parents’ toilets.” Rose’s eyes widened. She knew then. She definitely knew. 9 I hauled my boxes out to the porch. David ran after me, trying to take the heavy crate from my arms. I pulled away. “Nora, talk to me. Are you mad? I can explain.” Explain what? That he was already cheating emotionally? That he’d already moved his mistress into our home? “Help!” Rose screamed from inside. David didn’t even look back at me. He spun around and ran to her. I hitched the box higher on my shoulder and walked into the night. 10 In my last life, I died at forty-five. The doctor told me my heart gave out because of years of chronic stress and untreated complications from the birth of my son. I’d hemorrhaged during labor—David’s parents refused to pay for a private room or extra care, saying it was a “waste of money” for a woman’s problem. I’d spent my recovery cooking for them while they complained about the salt. I hadn’t slept a full night in twenty years. But tonight, in this new life, I was healthy. My heart was strong. And for the first time in two lifetimes, I slept like the dead.

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I was taking my wife’s car in for a routine service when a thick manila envelope slid out from the gap in the passenger seat. I assumed it was a stray invoice or a stray registration form, so I opened it without thinking. Inside were two plane tickets. First class. The Maldives. Departing next Wednesday. The first ticket: Claire Stanford. My wife. The second ticket: Sebastian Reed. I stared at those thirteen letters until they blurred. Sebastian Reed. Not me. I’ve memorized her company’s entire directory. That name isn’t on it. I searched the archives of my own memory, going back years. Nothing. I slid the tickets back into the envelope and tucked it exactly where I’d found it. My fingertips were like ice, but my head had never felt clearer. Four years of marriage, and for the first time, I realized that the passenger seat had never really belonged to me. 01 The mechanic at the dealership was waiting for me. I stepped out of the car, brushed a speck of non-existent dust off my slacks, and handed him the keys. “Just the standard synthetic oil change,” I said, my voice steady. “Use the high-end stuff.” “You got it, Miles. Have it ready for you by four.” I nodded, stepped out onto the curb, and hailed a cab back to the office. The leather seat of the taxi was scorching from the midday sun. I sat there, knees pressed together, clutching my phone. The screen was still glowing with the photo I’d just surreptitiously snapped of those tickets. Flight 402. First Class. Outbound December 18th. Return December 25th. A full week. They’d be coming back on Christmas Day. In the four years Claire and I have been married, she’s never spent a single Christmas with me. “It’s a commercialized Hallmark trap,” she’d always say. “Too much fuss for a Tuesday.” Back at the office, I went through the motions. I led the afternoon product meeting, reviewed the quotes for our new Southeast Asia luxury tours, and confirmed the block seating for the Lunar New Year charters. A colleague asked if I was feeling alright. I looked pale, they said. “Just something I ate at lunch,” I lied. Ten minutes before the end of the day, I texted Claire. Car’s done. You’ll have to pick it up yourself tonight. I’m pulling an evening shift. She replied instantly: Okay. Three seconds later, a follow-up: Don’t stay too late. I stared at the period at the end of that sentence. She used to be a fan of exclamation points, or at least a trailing ellipsis. When did she start sounding like a formal deposition? I flipped my phone face down, opened my laptop, and logged into the company’s GDS—the Global Distribution System for flights. I’m a senior product manager for a luxury travel firm; I spend eight hours a day in this system. I typed in the ticket numbers. Hit enter. When the order details populated, my throat went tight. Payment Method: Frequent Flyer Miles Redemption. More than half of those miles were mine. I’d spent three years flying for business, racking up over a hundred and fifty thousand miles. Last year, on my birthday, Claire suggested we merge our accounts to make it easier to book a “big trip” together. I hadn’t hesitated. I’d handed her the login. Since the merger, we hadn’t gone anywhere. But she had used my sweat and jet lag to buy a first-class seat for another man. I scrolled down to the remarks section. Four words were typed there in the “Special Requests” field. Honeymoon trip. Ocean suite. The office AC was humming, but a chill crawled up my spine. Honeymoon. Our honeymoon had been a long weekend in a budget hotel in Florida. She’d told me we needed to save every penny while she was launching her startup. I’d agreed. I’d been happy to. Four years later, it turns out she owed me a honeymoon. She was just giving it to someone else. 02 When I got home that night, Claire was on the sofa with her iPad. A glass of lukewarm water—my glass—sat on the coffee table. She looked up briefly. “You’re back. There’s some beef stew in the fridge. I warmed it up for you.” I kicked off my shoes and sat down beside her. “Are you traveling next week?” Her fingers faltered on the screen. It was subtle—less than a second—but I saw it. “Yeah. A client in San Francisco. Needs some hand-holding.” “When do you leave?” “Wednesday.” “Back when?” “The weekend, probably. Depends on how the meetings go.” I took a sip of the stew. The meat was tender, simmered with carrots and potatoes. She wasn’t much of a cook; this was almost certainly a high-end meal kit. But she had remembered to skim the fat off the top because she knew I hated greasy broth. The absurdity hit me like a physical blow. A woman planning a honeymoon with another man still remembered to skim the fat off her husband’s soup. “What’s the client’s name in SF?” She locked her iPad and set it down, her tone casual. “A project for the Reed account. You wouldn’t know them.” Reed. I set the bowl down. Claire’s company has three partners. She owns thirty-five percent. Two smaller shareholders own fifteen each. The remaining thirty-five percent belongs to a woman named Victoria Reed. Victoria Reed. Sebastian Reed. I put the names together for the first time. My heart hammered against my ribs. I didn’t dare ask anything else. I wasn’t sure my face would hold. “I’m going to shower and head to bed,” I said. Behind the closed bathroom door, the sound of the shower masked the world. I pulled out my phone and opened LinkedIn. Search: Sebastian Reed. Nothing. I tried Instagram. Private. The man was a ghost. Either he was incredibly low-profile, or he was being hidden. Neither was a good sign. The water scalded my scalp, but I didn’t turn it down. I made a decision then. I wouldn’t ask her. I would find out myself. 03 The next morning, the breakroom smelled of burnt espresso. My assistant, Ben, leaned against the counter. “Miles, you look like hell. You seeing a doctor?” “I’m fine. Just didn’t sleep well.” That was an understatement. I’d spent the night haunted by those thirteen letters. I retreated to my office and locked the door. Once the morning emails were cleared, I pulled up the photo of the ticket again. Next to the ticket number was a small string of digits: the Frequent Flyer ID. I logged into the airline’s member portal using the credentials I knew. Member Name: Claire Stanford. Balance: 3,200 miles. The account had been gutted. I clicked on the redemption history. In the last twelve months, this account had booked four trips. First: March. Two tickets to Chiang Mai. Second: June. Two tickets to Bali. Third: September. Two tickets to Hokkaido. Fourth: Next week. The Maldives. Four trips. Always two tickets. The companion passenger for every single one: Sebastian Reed. Four international vacations in a year. I hadn’t even had a weekend getaway. She told me the company was in a “growth phase.” I believed her. She said she had to work weekends. I believed her. She said her business trips were about securing investors. I believed every word. I’d spent 365 days being a supportive husband while she was busy being a girlfriend to someone else. I took a deep breath and dialed a number. “Elena, it’s Miles.” Elena was a contact I’d worked with for six years. She ran a high-end ground handling agency in the Maldives. “Miles! It’s been too long. What can I do for you?” “I need a favor. A discreet one.” I sent her the hotel name and the passport details for Sebastian Reed that I’d pulled from the flight booking. “Can you check the guest history?” “Give me thirty minutes.” Twenty-three minutes later, a PDF landed in my inbox. I opened it. My hands didn’t shake. But after I finished reading, I turned the phone face down and closed my eyes for a long time. Over the past year, Claire and Sebastian had stayed at that same resort three times. Always the same ocean suite. Every charge—the champagne, the private dinners, the spa treatments—was billed to the same corporate credit card. A company card. She wasn’t just cheating on me; she was using her company’s capital to fund her affair. I opened my eyes, saved the PDF to an encrypted folder, and named it 2024 Tax Receipts. No one ever looks at something that boring. I didn’t eat lunch. All afternoon, one question looped in my mind: Who exactly is Sebastian Reed? The hotel records had his passport number. It was a standard US passport, issued recently. I wrote down the sequence. I needed one more person to help me. 04 “Sebastian Reed. Born 1994. Registered address in Seattle.” My friend Daniel, a lawyer with a knack for finding things people want buried, paused on the other end of the line. “Miles, are you sure you want the rest of this? Once you know, there’s no going back.” “Keep going.” “He has a sister.” My grip on the phone tightened. “Name?” “Victoria Reed.” The name hit me like a physical weight. Victoria Reed. Claire’s business partner. The thirty-five percent shareholder. Her sister-in-law. Or, rather, the sister of the man my wife was sleeping with. “There’s more,” Daniel continued. “Sebastian owns a boutique trading firm. Five million in seed capital. He’s the face of it, but the ‘Beneficial Owner’ listed in the private filings…” Daniel hesitated. “It’s Claire, Miles. It’s your wife.” The silence on the line stretched out. “Miles, do you see the play here? This isn’t just a fling.” I saw it perfectly. Victoria wanted more control of the company. If Claire and Sebastian were “linked,” the Reeds could effectively control Claire’s thirty-five percent. Combined with Victoria’s thirty-five, they’d have seventy percent. Absolute power. And I, the legal spouse, was the only obstacle. In our state, the appreciation of her company shares during the marriage was considered marital property. If Claire wanted to funnel the value of the company to the Reeds, she had to get rid of me first. Divorce me, or make me want to leave. The beef stew, the “don’t stay too late”—it was all just smoke and mirrors to keep me docile until the trap was set. She was waiting for the perfect moment to cut me loose. Probably right after they got back from the Maldives. I hung up and sat in my office until the city lights flickered on outside. Four years. Was any of it real? I didn’t know. But I knew one thing for certain. She wanted me to walk away with nothing. I wasn’t going to let that happen. 05 That weekend, Claire told me there was a “company retreat” and she wouldn’t be home. “Have fun,” I said. Thirty minutes after she left, I went out. I didn’t follow her—that was beneath me. Instead, I went to a public records office and pulled the filings for every entity Claire was associated with. Three companies. The first was the tech firm she started with Victoria. I knew that one.

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My mother is a titan of industry, a permanent fixture on the Forbes list, and a ghost in my actual life. My father was the “supportive” one, the man who stayed behind to raise me while she conquered the world. He always told me she looked down on us—that to her, we were just “small-town trash.” He claimed she only sent eight hundred dollars a month for our living expenses, calling us “stray dogs that could never be fed enough.” I hated her with every fiber of my being for that. Until the day she made a surprise appearance at my university, looked at the sad tray of cafeteria food in front of me, and frowned. “I wire twenty thousand dollars to your account every single month,” she said, her voice cold and confused. “Is this really what you’re choosing to eat?” … 1 My phone screen buzzed on the library table. A notification from the bank. [Arthur Miller has transferred $800.00 to your account ending in XXXX.] Eight hundred. The number felt like a needle pricking a raw nerve. I put the phone down, a dull, hollow ache blooming in my stomach. To save money, I’d only eaten one meal yesterday. Now, I had to make this eight hundred last for thirty days in one of the most expensive cities in the country. My roommate, Sophie, leaned over and caught a glimpse of the screen. She immediately bristled on my behalf. “Rose, is your mom actually made of stone? What is eight hundred dollars supposed to do in Chicago? I spent forty bucks on a Uber and a latte yesterday! This isn’t an allowance; it’s an insult.” She reached for a small bottle of imported serum on her desk—a tiny glass vial that cost more than my entire month’s budget. I forced a smile that felt more like a grimace. She didn’t get it. She couldn’t. To my mother, the Great Diana Montgomery, we probably were just beggars. My father’s face flashed in my mind—that look of weary resignation he always wore. Since I was a child, he’d whispered the same poison into my ear. “Rose, your mother is a creature of the city. She despises where we come from. She looks down on me, she looks down on you, and she certainly doesn’t care about your sick uncle or your grandparents.” “I go to her,” he’d say, his voice cracking. “I beg her to give you a better life, and do you know what she calls us? She says the Miller family is a pack of ungrateful leeches. She says we’re just parasites trying to bleed her dry.” Those words had taken root in me, growing into a thicket of resentment. My phone buzzed again. It was him. “Rose…” His voice sounded exhausted. “It’s… it’s eight hundred again this month.” “I asked her. I swear, I practically got on my knees, but she said not a penny more.” He paused, a heavy sigh rattling through the line. “It’s my fault. I’m a failure of a father for letting you live like this.” Anger and pity surged through me. It wasn’t his fault. He was the one who had endured her cruelty for years just to stay by my side. The thought of a grown man having to beg his ex-wife for his daughter’s grocery money broke my heart. “Dad, stop,” I interrupted, my voice thick. “I’ll find a part-time job on campus. I can take care of myself.” “Good girl,” he whispered, sounding like he was on the verge of tears. “Just… don’t go hungry, okay?” I hung up. The dorm room felt suffocatingly quiet. I pulled a bag of two-day-old bagels from my drawer, tore off a piece, and forced myself to chew. It was dry, hard, and tasted like cardboard. My phone lit up again. The class group chat was exploding. [Birthday drinks for the class president tonight! Karaoke then late-night sushi. See you all at the usual spot!] [I heard that new Omakase place is $150 per person minimum. Let’s go big!] [Split the bill, obviously! But for Ben, it’s worth it!] The “it-girl” of our major tagged everyone. [@Rose Miller, you’re coming, right? Don’t be a hermit! It’s Ben’s 21st, no excuses!] I turned the phone face down, trying to shut out their world. $150. To them, it was a Tuesday night. To me, it was two weeks of survival. I picked up the phone, my fingers hovering over the glass. I typed and deleted, typed and deleted. Finally: [Sorry guys, I’ve got a shift at work tonight. Have a drink for me! Happy Birthday, Ben!] A lie. But I had no choice. I was too poor to have friends. I curled up on my bed, retreating into the dark. The joy of being a normal college student was a luxury I couldn’t afford. That night, I dreamed of the woman I only saw in business magazines. She was standing over my father, who was collapsed on the floor. “Arthur,” she sneered in my dream, “you and that hillbilly daughter of yours are nothing but dogs begging for scraps.” 2 A few days later, a glossy poster appeared on the campus bulletin boards. GUEST LECTURE: DIANA MONTGOMERY. Her name was printed in bold, authoritative serif right in the center. My heart did a violent somersault. I turned to bolt, but Sophie grabbed my arm, squealing with excitement. “Rose, look! It’s Diana Montgomery! An actual billionaire on our campus!” “Oh my god, can you imagine being her? I heard she cleared three billion in acquisitions last year alone.” “My mom literally has her autobiography on her nightstand like it’s the Bible!” I was dragged, kicking and screaming internally, into the packed auditorium. Diana stood on the stage. She was wearing a suit that probably cost more than my father’s house, speaking with a precision and clarity that commanded the room. She looked nothing like the screeching, bitter woman my father described. She looked… powerful. And terrifyingly calm. My chest tightened. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. When the lecture ended, the university deans swarmed her like moths to a flame. I kept my head down, trying to melt into the crowd of students heading for the exit. “Rose Miller.” The hall went silent. A hundred heads turned in unison. I froze, the blood draining from my face. She didn’t acknowledge the deans. She walked straight through the parting crowd until she was standing directly in front of me. “With me. Now.” She led me out of the hall. I could hear the whispers rising behind us like a tide. “Wait, is she Montgomery’s daughter?” “No way. Look at her clothes. She looks like she shops at a thrift bin.” “If that’s her daughter, why does she look so… tragic?” The words cut deeper than any knife. I clenched my fists, saying nothing. She led me to the student union cafeteria. It was the lunch rush. I felt her eyes on me as I reflexively went for the cheapest option—a side of steamed broccoli and a scoop of white rice. Four dollars and fifty cents. She looked at my tray, her brow furrowing into a sharp V. “I wire twenty thousand dollars to your account every single month,” she said. “Is this really what you’re choosing to eat?” Twenty thousand? The number exploded in my brain. “What… what are you talking about? Twenty thousand?” My voice was trembling so hard I could barely get the words out. I only ever saw eight hundred. She blinked, looking genuinely confused. “On the 15th of every month, a transfer goes out. Twenty thousand dollars.” She pulled out her phone and turned the screen toward me. There it was. A long, unbroken list of transfers. $20,000.00. Every single month. The recipient’s name: Arthur Miller. My world tilted on its axis. My hands went cold; my mind went blank. Where was the money? “Your father… he didn’t give it to you?” she asked, her eyes searching mine. I forced myself to stay upright. I swallowed the bile rising in my throat and plastered on a stiff, fake smile. “Oh. Right. Dad mentioned it. I… I just put it all into a long-term savings account. I forgot.” The moment the lie left my lips, I saw the tension leave her shoulders. “Rose,” she said, her voice softening just a fraction. “I know I haven’t been around. I’ve been… busy. I thought the money would at least make things easier for you.” “It does,” I lied again. “By the way,” she added casually, “why don’t I ever see you driving the Porsche I bought for your eighteenth? Your father said you hated it, so I didn’t push, but it seems a waste.” A car? Another thing I had never heard of. I gripped the fabric of my pockets, trying to stay grounded. “The city… parking is a nightmare. I didn’t want the hassle.” I made some more excuses and practically ran back to my dorm. I slammed the door and slid down against it, my body shaking uncontrollably. I pulled out my phone and found the contact I had never dared to call. Mom. She picked up on the second ring. “Rose?” I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper. “Mom… I… I need some money. An emergency.” There wasn’t a second of hesitation. “Of course. How much?” “Fifty… fifty thousand,” I said, a number that felt astronomical. “I’ll send it now.” “Mom, wait. Send it to a new account. I’ll text you the details.” “Done.” Ten seconds after I sent the info, my phone buzzed. $50,000.00. Instant. The memo read: Don’t ever hesitate to ask. Take care of yourself. I stared at the screen until the words blurred. This was the woman I had hated for eighteen years? I wiped my eyes and opened a different chat. I took a deep breath and typed to my father: [Dad, I have a huge emergency. Can you please, please ask Mom for some extra money?] His reply came back almost instantly. [You know how she is, Rose. She’ll just use it as an excuse to insult us. You have to learn to handle your own problems. Asking her only makes her despise us more. I’m sorry, honey. My hands are tied.] I stared at those words. My blood turned to ice. For eighteen years, I had been a pawn in his sick, twisted game. I took the money my mother had just sent and used it to hire the most expensive private investigator in the city. My goal was simple: I wanted every single bank statement associated with my father, Arthur Miller. 3 At 2:00 AM, I opened the encrypted file the PI sent over. Every month on the 15th, $20,000 arrived from my mother’s corporate account. And every month on the 16th, exactly $19,200 was transferred out. The recipient? Robert Miller. My “sick, bedridden” uncle. Eight hundred. My entire life—my meals, my clothes, my dignity—had been calculated down to the last cent. My father and his brother were tossing me the scraps of my own life like I was a dog under the table. No wonder my cousin Tyler was driving a brand-new car and wearing designer clothes. No wonder my grandparents looked at me with such pitying contempt every time I went home. They thought I was a charity case, a failure who couldn’t even get her “rich bitch” mother to love her. And my father? He was the hero. The martyr who “endured” his wicked ex-wife to provide for the family. I stared at the ledger until my eyes burned. I dragged the file into the trash and emptied it. The next day was the 16th. My father called right on schedule. “Rose, did the money hit? Make it last, okay? Don’t go wasting it on frivolous things.” “I got it, Dad,” I said, my voice perfectly level. “Thank you for begging her for me. I know how much it hurts your pride.” I could practically hear his smug satisfaction through the phone. “As long as you’re okay, it’s worth any humiliation.” I hung up and opened Instagram. I went straight to my cousin Tyler’s profile. His latest post was him sitting in a white Porsche Cayenne, grinning like a shark. The caption: Shoutout to my Uncle Artie for closing another “big deal”! Family first! The comments were a cesspool of Miller relatives. Aunt Sarah: Artie is the backbone of this family! So proud! Uncle Robert: We’d be nothing without your sacrifice, brother! A volcano of cold, hard rage erupted in my chest. I dialed my father back immediately. “Dad,” I said, making my voice tremble. “There’s an exchange program in London. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime chance, but I need a thirty-thousand-dollar deposit by tomorrow.” “Thirty thousand?!” he barked. “Rose, have you lost your mind? Where am I supposed to get that kind of money? That woman would kill me! She won’t give us a dime!” I squeezed my eyes shut, leaning into the performance. “But Dad… I heard some students say that for things like this, moms usually want to help. Actually, when she was here, she gave me her private number. She said I could call her if it was urgent.” I paused for effect. “Maybe I should just call her myself? Maybe if I explain it, she’ll say yes?” Silence. Absolute, dead silence on the other end. I could hear his breathing turn shallow and panicked. “No! Rose! Don’t you dare!” he hissed, his voice cracking. “Don’t humiliate yourself! You don’t know her like I do. She’ll tear you apart!” “Don’t worry about the money! I’ll figure it out! I’ll sell the house if I have to! I’ll go crawl to her on my hands and knees! Just… stay away from her. Do not call her!” I listened to his frantic rambling until he hung up. Thirty minutes later, a text arrived: [Rose, I found the money. I’m transferring it now. Just please, for the love of god, stay away from your mother. If she finds out we’re asking for more, we’re both finished.] I looked at the word “finished” and smiled. No, Dad. You’re done.

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My boyfriend told me his company was doing a week-long “dark period” retreat—no phones, no outside contact, just intensive leadership training. He was supposed to be back tomorrow. I decided to head over to his place a night early, wanting to surprise him with dinner and a bottle of the good bourbon he liked. But when I reached the door, I heard noise coming from inside. He’d lived alone for the three years we’d been in this city. He made a point of telling me how much he valued his “bachelor sanctuary” until we finally moved in together. A girl’s voice drifted through the wood, playful and teasing. “Stop it, let me see your phone.” My hand froze an inch from the keypad. Then came his voice, thick with a laugh I knew too well. “Not a chance. I didn’t even get your good side in those photos.” My body went cold, a sharp, localized frost spreading from my chest to my fingertips. I pulled out my phone and dialed his number. Inside, the laughter stopped. A few seconds later, he picked up. “Hey, babe? Everything okay?” His voice was smooth, practiced. “I’m at your front door,” I said, my voice sounding like it belonged to someone else. “Open up.” The silence that followed was absolute. 1 I hung up. I reached into my bag and pulled out my spare key. He’d given it to me two years ago, pressing it into my palm with a look of practiced sincerity. “Keep it,” he’d said. “Come over whenever. It’s going to be your house eventually anyway.” I had never once used it without calling first. I believed in boundaries. I believed in him. I slid the key into the lock. It turned with a sickeningly familiar click. The door swung open. The entryway light was on. His Nikes were kicked off by the shoe rack, sitting right next to a pair of strappy white heels I’d never seen before. I didn’t move past the foyer. I just stood there, rooted to the hardwood. From the living room came the frantic sounds of movement—the rustle of fabric, the friction of skin against cushions, hushed, panicked whispers. I took two steps forward. A lilac sundress was draped over the arm of the sofa. It was tiny, made of a flimsy material that looked like it would dissolve in the rain. A single white no-show sock lay on the rug. On the coffee table sat two half-empty wine glasses and a bottle of Cabernet. Then I saw them. He was scrambling up from the couch, fumbling with his jeans. His button-down was half-open, the buttons misaligned, his hair a bird’s nest of guilt. The woman was shrinking behind him, trying to use his frame as a shield. I could see a faint, angry red mark on the curve of her shoulder. I stopped in the middle of the room. A stray thought flickered through my mind: I’m glad I called first. If I hadn’t, what would I have walked in on? Would it have been more visceral? More disgusting than this? “Nydia.” His voice was tight, strained. “How… why are you here?” “I thought you were at a retreat,” I said, cutting through his stammer. He blinked, finally getting his fly zipped, but his shirt was still a mess. He looked down at himself, then back at me, his expression a pathetic cocktail of a caught thief and a man trying to pretend the house wasn’t on fire. “I, uh… I got out early,” he said. “Right,” I nodded slowly. “Got out early to continue the training here?” He went quiet. The woman stepped out from behind him. She kept her head down, snatching her dress off the sofa and pulling it over her head in one jagged motion. She looked young—maybe twenty-two, twenty-three. Her hair was a trendy honey-blonde, her face flushed with a wine-soaked glow. Her hands shook so violently she had to tug at her zipper three times before it caught. I watched her. She risked a glance at me, then looked away just as fast. “And who is she?” I asked. His mouth opened, a few hollow syllables dying in his throat. He stood there, hands hovering uselessly before he finally balled them into fists at his sides. The silence in the room was suffocating. The woman finished dressing and stepped into those white heels. The clack-clack of the plastic tips against the floor sounded like gunshots. She looked at him, then at me, then bolted for the bedroom, slamming the door behind her. Thud. I stared at the closed door, then turned my gaze back to him. “Talk,” I said. “Nydia, I…” He took a step toward me, then stopped. “I messed up.” “I asked you who she is.” “Just a friend. Someone from work.” “A friend?” He looked at the floor. I let out a short, sharp laugh. I didn’t know if I was laughing at him or at the sheer stupidity of my own life. Eight years. I had known him for eight years. We’d gone from high school proms to college midterms to our first real jobs. I thought I knew every mole on his back, every fear in his head. I had never seen this version of him. “It won’t happen again,” he said suddenly. He looked up, his eyes swimming with a desperate, manipulative kind of pleading. “I swear, Nydia. Never again.” I said nothing. He suddenly turned and began rummaging through the living room. He checked the drawers under the TV, the side tables, shoved his hand under the sofa cushions. I watched him, bewildered. After a minute, he pulled out a small, velvet red box. He walked over and held it out to me. “I got this for you,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate register. “I was going to give it to you in a few days. For our anniversary.” I looked down. It was a jeweler’s box. I opened it. Inside was a silver necklace with a small, diamond-chip star pendant. It was beautiful. It was also a bribe. I held the box for a few seconds, feeling the weight of it. Then I walked over to the kitchen trash can and dropped the box, necklace and all, right on top of the discarded takeout containers. “Nydia!” he barked. “I don’t want your guilt-offerings,” I said. I turned to face him. The light hit his face, and for the first time, he looked like a stranger. A poorly rendered imitation of the man I loved. “Eight years,” I said. “This is how you treat eight years?” He ducked his head, silent. “Eight years, Jason. Since we were seventeen. I moved to this city for you. I stayed up late making you dinner when you worked overtime. I took care of your mom when she was in the hospital so you wouldn’t have to miss meetings. I thought we were waiting for the right time. Waiting to save enough for the house, waiting for the promotion, waiting for life to be ‘ready.’ What were you waiting for?” 2 He still wouldn’t speak. “Were you waiting for her?” “No!” He looked up, his voice frantic. “It’s not what you think, Nydia. It was a mistake. I was drunk, I wasn’t thinking—” “Drunk?” “Yeah, we just had some wine, and things got out of hand…” The bedroom door opened. The woman walked out. She had changed into a white button-down and jeans, her hair pulled back into a messy knot. She looked more composed now. But she couldn’t hide the mark on her neck. A hickey. Fresh, purplish-red, sitting right above her collarbone. She walked over to his side and stood there. She didn’t look down this time. She stared straight at me, her lips set in a stubborn, defiant line. “I love him,” she said. I looked at her, unimpressed. “I love him more than you do,” she added, her voice small but clear. “We’re actually happy together.” “Shut up!” Jason snapped, spinning toward her. “Don’t say another word!” She flinched, then reached out and grabbed his arm, looking up at him with wide, watery eyes. “That’s not what you said ten minutes ago. You said you were going to leave her. You said you’d marry me.” He wrenched his arm away, stepping back as if she were radioactive. She stood there, her arm still hanging in mid-air, her face freezing into a mask of shock. I looked from her to him. He avoided my eyes, staring at the floorboards, picking at a loose thread on his jeans. She stood there biting her lip, her eyes welling up. “Do you even know who he is?” I asked her. “Do you know he has a girlfriend of eight years? That we have a joint savings account for a down payment?” “I know,” she said, lifting her chin. I blinked. “He told me. He said you’d been together forever.” She paused, glancing at him. He remained silent. “But he said the spark died years ago. He said you’re suffocating. That you track his every move, that he has to check in every hour, that he can’t breathe around you. He said being with me is the only time he feels like himself.” I stood perfectly still. So, asking if he wanted me to pick up Thai food on the way home was “suffocating.” Waiting up for him to make sure he got home safe from a late shift was “tracking his every move.” Caring about his life was a “burden.” I thought I was being a partner. He thought I was a jailer. “He said you’re too much work,” she continued, a hint of triumph creeping into her tone. “Always nagging him to eat better, to sleep more, asking why he didn’t text back. He said he couldn’t take it anymore.” I looked at Jason. He was a statue of cowardice. “Is that right?” I asked him. His lips moved, but no sound came out. “Jason,” I said, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. He finally looked at me. Just for a second. And in that second, I saw it. The resentment. The truth. Everything she said was true. He had turned my love into a list of grievances to tell a twenty-two-year-old in the dark. I felt a wave of exhaustion wash over me, starting from my heels and rising to my throat. My legs felt heavy, but I refused to sit. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me collapse. I took a deep breath. “Fine. We’re done.” 3 He snapped his head up. “Nydia—” “Don’t say my name.” I pulled my phone out of my pocket and tapped the screen. “I recorded everything.” He froze. The girl froze. “Everything you both just said,” I said, looking at her. “The part where you admitted you knew about me. The part where he admitted he cheated. It’s all on tape.” Her face went pale. “You recorded us? When?” I didn’t answer. I just slid the phone back into my pocket and turned toward the door. “Wait!” she screamed behind me. “You have to delete that! You can’t take that! What are you going to do with it? Are you going to post it? You’ll ruin my life!” I didn’t stop. I kept walking. “Jason!” she shrieked. “Make her delete it! Don’t let her leave with that! Do something!” I heard a scuffle behind me. Footsteps thudded on the hardwood. Before I could reach the handle, she lunged forward and grabbed my arm. Her skin was cold, her nails digging into my bicep. “Give me the phone!” she yelled. I shoved her off, stepping back. She lunged again, reaching for my pocket. I held the phone high above my head. She was shorter than me; she jumped, her nails raking across the back of my hand. A sharp, stinging heat flared up where she broke the skin. “Jason! Help me!” I shoved her harder this time. She stumbled back, her heels catching on the edge of the rug, and she landed hard on her backside. She let out a pathetic little yelp, sitting there on the floor, looking up at me with big, tearful eyes. Jason rushed over, kneeling beside her. “Are you okay?” He checked her shoulders, her head, his touch frantic. “Did you hit anything?” She leaned into him, sobbing, shaking her head. I stood there, watching the tableau. He looked up at me, his face darkening. “Nydia. What the hell? Why did you push her?” I said nothing. He helped her up. She clung to him, weeping softly, whispering that she was fine, it was her fault—the classic “damsel” routine that made him hold her even tighter. “Delete the recording,” he said, his voice hardening. “I messed up, I get it. But you don’t get to get physical with her.” I wanted to laugh, but the air in my lungs felt like lead. “Delete it?” I asked. “Yes,” he said. He hesitated, then added, “I’ll give you money. Just delete it and walk away.” “How much?” He blinked, clearly not expecting me to negotiate. He thought for a moment. “Two thousand dollars.” I looked at the woman. She was leaning against him, her tears dried up, watching me with a mix of anxiety and predatory hope. “Not a chance,” I said. “I’m keeping it.” His face twisted. “Nydia, don’t be a bitch about this.” “Don’t make this harder than it has to be. I’m trying to be civil.” “Civil?” I repeated. I turned back to the door. “Jason!” the girl cried. “You can’t let her go! If my parents hear that… they’ll kill me! You said you’d protect me!” He stood there, his face cycling through a dozen different shades of panic. My hand was on the doorknob. “Wait,” he called out. I didn’t turn around. “Nydia, please.” His voice went soft, pleading. “Just delete it. This is on me, not her. She’s young, she didn’t know any better. I’m the one who couldn’t keep it in my pants. Blame me, just don’t ruin her.” I turned back. They were standing there, hand in hand. “She didn’t know any better?” I asked. “She seemed pretty ‘aware’ a minute ago when she was telling me how much better she is for you.” He went silent. The girl looked at her shoes. “She’s a child, but you’re a man, right?” I looked at him. “And you still did it.” He wouldn’t look at me. “Jason,” she whispered, tugging at his sleeve. “Make her do it. Please. How much time is left?” He looked at me, his eyes suddenly cold, like a stranger’s. “Nydia,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “Delete the recording. If you don’t, I’ll have to take the phone from you.” I didn’t move. He took a step forward. I reached into my pocket and gripped the phone. “Try it,” I said. “It won’t matter.” He stopped. “I set a scheduled upload,” I lied. “In two hours, if I don’t enter a deactivation code, the audio file gets sent to every one of our mutual friends, your boss, and your mother.” His face went white. The girl looked like she was about to faint. He pointed a shaking finger at me. “You’re insane.” I said nothing. The room was silent for a long, heavy beat. “A hundred thousand,” he said suddenly. I stared at him. “A hundred thousand dollars,” he repeated. “You delete the recording, right now, and I’ll transfer it.” I remained silent. “I don’t have it all in cash, but I can get it,” he said, his voice rising in pitch. “I have eighty thousand in our ‘house fund’ account. I’ll borrow the rest from my brother tonight. A hundred thousand, and we call it even. You walk away, and this never happened. Deal?” The girl pulled at his sleeve, looking like she wanted to protest the amount, but she kept her mouth shut. “A hundred thousand. Transfer it now.” He hesitated, then pulled out his phone, his fingers flying across the screen. I pulled out mine and opened my banking app. His hands were shaking so badly he had to scan his face three times for the ID check. He tapped the screen, then looked up at me. “Sent,” he said. “Check it.” I looked down. A notification popped up. Transfer Pending: $100,000.00. “Now,” I said. “Write it down.” “Write what?” “A statement. Stating that this hundred thousand is a voluntary settlement for the dissolution of our relationship. Acknowledge the eight years. Acknowledge the infidelity. Sign it.”

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All this because I refused to hand over a 1.5-million-dollar “subsidy” to my company’s cleaning lady. Now, she had me in a courtroom, dragging my name through the mud. On the stand, she was a masterpiece of performative grief, tears tracking through the deep-set wrinkles of her face. “If you hadn’t used your family’s connections forty years ago to steal my spot at the university, do you think I’d be standing here today?” she sobbed, her voice cracking. “Do you think I’d be scrubbing your floors for peanuts?” She looked at me, her eyes red and accusing. “You watched me every day. You saw me breaking my back for twelve dollars an hour while you sat in your corner office. Does your conscience even spark, or is it as cold as your money?” I sat in the defendant’s chair, my expression a mask of practiced neutrality. Unmoved, she trembled as she pulled a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket—a critical care notice. “Now you’re a success. You’re worth millions. I’m only asking for a fraction of that to save my son’s life. Am I really the monster here?” The gallery erupted. The air in the room grew hot with the collective fury of people who wanted to see a “titan of industry” fall. “She’s heartless! She’s literally letting that woman’s son die!” “She built that empire on a stolen life. She’s a fraud!” “Don’t let her walk! Your Honor, she deserves to rot in a cell!” I looked at the ceiling, fighting the urge to laugh. She claimed I stole her college admission forty years ago. The problem was, forty years ago, I hadn’t even been born. 1 “You stole my future! You took my degree, used it to build your company, and left me with nothing!” Martha Higgins stood at the plaintiff’s table, her faded blue uniform hanging off her thin frame. She was screaming now, a raw, primal sound. “I want an apology, and I want what I’m owed! Everything you have should have been mine!” Martha was shaking with a frantic, desperate energy. Her hair was a messy nest of gray, her skin parched and weathered. She looked like a woman who had been beaten down by every decade she’d lived. Then there was me. My hair was just as white as hers, but that’s where the similarities ended. I was draped in a tailored charcoal suit that cost more than her annual salary. My handbag, resting on the table, was a fifty-thousand-dollar piece of hand-stitched leather. The contrast was staggering. To the jury and the gallery, I was the villain of a Dickens novel brought to life in modern-day Chicago. I leaned forward, exhaling a slow, tired breath. “Martha, I’ve told you this a dozen times. I didn’t steal your identity. I didn’t steal your degree. We aren’t even from the same generation. It’s physically impossible.” A year ago, I had donated bone marrow to a stranger—a young girl with a rare form of leukemia. It was supposed to be a simple, noble act. Instead, I suffered an incredibly rare, stress-induced reaction. My hair turned white overnight. I’m only forty years old. But with this hair and the weight of the company on my shoulders, people look at me and see a woman in her sixties. Martha used to be my office cleaner. We shared the same name—Meredith. We even grew up in the same corner of rural Ohio. At first, I thought it was a poetic coincidence. I liked her. I gave her bonuses. I treated her with the respect my grandmother taught me to show everyone. When I found out her son had been diagnosed with leukemia, I didn’t hesitate. I cut her a check for fifteen thousand dollars out of my personal account and organized a company-wide fundraiser. But fifteen thousand wasn’t enough. She demanded a million and a half. I thought she had suffered a mental break and ignored the demand. Two weeks later, I was served with a lawsuit. “Liar!” Martha hissed, her body vibrating. “If you didn’t steal my spot at Hudson University, how did a girl from a trailer park like you end up running a biotech firm? How did you get the credentials?” She choked back a sob. “I’m not asking for much. Just the money for the treatment. Because I didn’t have that degree, I couldn’t get a real job. We lived in a basement apartment full of black mold and lead paint—that’s why my boy is sick! It’s because of you!” I felt a pang of genuine pity. “I can authorize another donation for your son’s medical expenses, Martha. But I will not admit to a crime I didn’t commit.” Martha’s face hardened. She looked like she was stepping off a cliff. “I knew you’d lie. But I have proof.” She pulled a stack of yellowed papers from a folder. They were old high school exams and homework assignments. “These are your records from high school,” she announced to the room. “Look at the grades. F’s. D’s. You couldn’t even solve basic algebra. Someone this stupid doesn’t get into an Ivy-equivalent like Hudson University. Unless, of course, they aren’t using their own name.” I nodded slowly. “I did graduate from Hudson. I’ve never denied that.” Martha turned to the judge, her eyes wild with triumph. “You heard her! She admitted it! Your Honor, please, give me justice!” 2 The gallery was a beehive of whispers. Someone passed around copies of the failing grades—single digits circled in red ink, blank spaces where simple answers should have been. “She’s a fraud,” a woman in the front row hissed. “How does a kid like that get into Hudson? My son had a 4.0 and got waitlisted.” “It was the eighties,” a man replied. “Identity theft was easy back then. No digital records. She just slipped right into Martha’s life.” I watched them, my expression unreadable. I didn’t blame them for being angry. If the story were true, I’d want to claw my eyes out too. Martha took a deep breath, sensing the tide was with her. She pulled out a final document: a termination notice. “A month ago, she realized I was the woman she’d robbed,” Martha told the court, her voice thick with hurt. “She was terrified I’d remember. So she framed me. She said I was stealing office supplies and fired me on the spot.” She looked at the jury. “I’m sixty years old. Even if you gave me my degree back today, it wouldn’t matter. My life is over. But I want the world to know who she is. I want to save my son.” I sat there, perfectly still, watching her performance. It was masterful. She had the “quiet dignity of the wronged” down to an art form. The crowd was nearing a breaking point. A few people stood up, shouting insults. One man looked like he was ready to hop the railing and settle this with his fists. I didn’t flinch. I actually smiled—a small, tired tilt of the lips. The judge slammed his gavel. “Order! Sit down or I will have the bailiffs clear this room!” The judge turned to Martha. “Ms. Higgins, do you have any other evidence? Or a witness?” Martha glared at me, her voice rasping. “I have a witness. A classmate from forty years ago. He can prove I was the one who was supposed to go to college.” A man named Frank stepped forward. He was in his sixties, wearing a cheap suit and a nervous expression. “Your Honor,” Frank began, casting a look of pure disgust my way. “I was in the same graduating class as the real Martha Higgins. Forty years ago, the school posted the honors list on the bulletin board. Martha was at the top. She got into Hudson. It was a huge deal in our town. It was in the local paper.” Martha began to cry again, the sound echoing in the silent room. “I lived on a farm out in the sticks,” Martha choked out. “We didn’t get the paper. No one called me. I waited for that letter every day. I waited until the semester started, and when it never came, I thought I’d failed. I thought I wasn’t good enough. I spent forty years thinking I was a failure.” She paused, wiping her eyes. “It wasn’t until I was fired and went back to my hometown to see my sister that I heard the truth. People remembered me. They remembered the girl who got into Hudson. But if I got in… where did my life go?” The room was electric. All eyes were on me—the thief, the life-snatcher. “Where else could it go?” Frank added, sighing. “Communication was slow back then. I heard from a friend who went to Hudson that there was a ‘Martha Higgins’ in his year. We just assumed it was our Martha. We didn’t know someone had intercepted her mail and stolen her soul.” The fury in the room was a physical weight. I could feel the heat of their judgment. I stood up slowly, adjusting my sleeves. I looked at Frank, my voice calm and conversational. “Frank, you say Martha Higgins got into Hudson forty years ago. But do you have a single shred of evidence that I am the person who took that spot?” 3 Frank blinked, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face before he doubled down. “If I had the paper trail, I wouldn’t be standing here—I’d be at the police station. I’m here because it’s obvious. You have her name, you have her degree, and you have the money she should have made.” My question only served to stoke the fire. The insults coming from the gallery were getting personal, dragging my parents and my “corrupt” lineage into it. The bailiffs had to step between me and a particularly angry woman in a cardigan. Even the bailiffs looked at me with loathing. I remained unmoved, my smile sharpening into something colder. “So, to be clear, Frank… you have no proof. Just a feeling.” Frank sputtered, unable to find a comeback. Martha panicked. “Is all this evidence not enough? The failing grades? The names? The timing? Your Honor, I want her stripped of everything! She stole my life!” She broke rank, lunging across the floor to grab the lapels of my suit. “You stole it! You took my letter! You think you can just sit there and pretend you’re better than me? I’ll die before I let you get away with this!” Her hands were shaking, her face inches from mine. I didn’t move. I didn’t even blink. I just looked at her with an unsettling level of detachment. “You think a few old notebooks and a story from a man who hasn’t seen you in four decades is enough to convict me? This is a court of law, Martha. Not a campfire for ghost stories.” Martha’s face turned a violent shade of purple. “You monster! You’re still lying!” She pulled back her sleeves, revealing her forearms. They were a roadmap of bruises and needle marks. “You think I’m here for a payday? I’m doing this for my son! He’s twenty-seven. He’s supposed to be starting his life, and I’m watching him fade away. I’ve sold everything. I’ve sold my own blood to pay for his meds. Look at me!” The room was devastated. The “mother’s love” card was the ultimate play. “Just give her the money,” someone yelled. “Have a heart, you bitch!” I gently pried her hands off my jacket. My voice was steady, projecting to the back of the room. “I will say this one last time: I did not do this. And I will not admit to a lie to satisfy a mob.” 4 The tension snapped. Someone in the back threw a smartphone. It clipped the side of my head, drawing a sharp sting of pain. I felt a trickle of warmth run down my temple, but I didn’t reach up to touch it. “Apologize!” they screamed. “Pay her!” I stood my ground, my voice cutting through the noise like a blade. “I’m a busy woman. I don’t have time for this circus. Unless you can provide a legal link between her missed opportunity and my career, we are done here.” I looked at the judge. “Your Honor, I’d like to move for an immediate dismissal. Furthermore, I will be filing countersuits for defamation against both Martha Higgins and Frank.” The audacity of my statement was like pouring gasoline on a forest fire. “You’re a thief and a killer!” “If that boy dies, it’s on your hands!” I sat back down, pulled out my phone, and began checking my emails as if I were waiting for a flight at O’Hare. My indifference was the ultimate insult. Martha was screaming, “If my son dies, I will haunt you until the day you join me in hell!” The judge hammered his gavel until the room fell into a simmering silence. “Ms. Higgins, the court acknowledges the emotional weight of your testimony. However, the defendant is correct. Without a direct link… I cannot rule in your favor.” Martha wiped her face, her eyes glinting with a last, desperate hope. She pulled a final document from her bag—an official record from the Bureau of Vital Statistics. “I have proof that she changed her name forty years ago, on the very week the Hudson semester started!” she cried. “Her birth name wasn’t Meredith. It was Claire. She changed it to Meredith Higgins to match my admission letter. Deny that!” The room gasped. This was the “smoking gun.” “To change a whole identity… even the last name,” someone whispered. “She really did it.” I looked up from my phone and met Martha’s gaze. “I’m not denying it,” I said clearly. “I did change my name.” The gallery went wild. People were high-fiving. Martha was weeping with relief. “Finally!” she sobbed. “Justice! Your Honor, she confessed! Make her sign over the company! Make her pay for my son!” I waited for the noise to die down. Then, I reached into my briefcase and pulled out a small, laminated card. “You’re right, Martha. I did change my name. But there’s one small detail you’ve overlooked.” I handed the card to the bailiff to pass to the judge. “That is my birth certificate. I was born forty years ago. On the exact day you claim I was at Hudson University stealing your life, I was actually in a delivery room in Columbus, Ohio, weighing seven pounds and six ounces.”

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I’ve always been a spoiled prick. It was my brand. I married an ice queen who didn’t love me, and together, we produced a mini-iceberg of a daughter. By the time my daughter was five, I was still the undisputed tyrant of the household, treating them like high-end service staff. Honestly? I lived for it. I loved the way they looked at me with simmering resentment while still attending to my every whim. It felt like winning a game they hadn’t agreed to play. Then, the Feed appeared. Translucent lines of text began scrolling across my vision like a high-speed Twitch chat. [Finally, the villain’s countdown starts. The Male Lead just transferred to the Female Lead’s company. He even took Little Bit to KFC today. The story is finally getting on track.] [He spends all day abusing our Queen and the kid. Thank god they eventually kick him to the curb to make the Hero happy. Watching this spoiled brat end up homeless and paralyzed from the waist down after a car accident is going to be peak cinema.] [I’m literally just waiting for the scene where the happy family of three visits him in the hospital just to mock his useless, broken body. Pure catharsis.] I jerked my legs back so hard I nearly gave myself whiplash. My wife, Catherine, who was currently kneeling to dry my face, and our daughter, Madeline, who was massaging my calves, were both splashed with water. The two of them—the Big Iceberg and the Little Iceberg—simultaneously knitted their brows. Their expressions were identical masks of irritation. I started stammering. “That’s… that’s enough. I’ll do it myself.” Madeline, only five, tilted her head. Her tiny mind clearly couldn’t process why her father, the man of a thousand demands, was suddenly calling an audible. “Daddy? Is the water too cold?” My heart hammering against my ribs. “No. I’m done. I don’t need the massage. Just… stand up. Both of you.” I swallowed hard, looking at Catherine. She was still on one knee, a designer towel draped over her arm, looking like a Greek statue carved from spite. … “You too. Get up.” Compared to Madeline, Catherine was a fortress of composure. Used to my mercurial moods, she calmly stood and reached for a fresh towel. [The more humiliated they are now, the better the payback will feel later.] [Making a billionaire CEO wash his feet and an heiress rub his legs? This guy has a death wish.] I stared at the scrolling text in silence. So, I was the villain. A “Male Supporting Character” designed to be hated. Catherine and Madeline were the stars of some cosmic drama, and I was just the obstacle. According to the Feed, I was basically a placeholder. Catherine had only had Madeline with me because she was afraid of childbirth and wanted to “practice” with a secondary character before the real Hero arrived. Eventually, this guy—the Male Lead—would appear, rescue them from my tyranny, and they’d finally see what a “good man” actually looked like. Then they’d become a perfect family of three, and I’d be a memory in a wheelchair. I clenched my fists. Fine, Catherine was one thing. We were a corporate merger, an arrangement of convenience with zero emotional foundation. But Madeline… I looked at the little girl standing obediently by the chair. She had her mother’s sharp features and that same cool, detached gaze, but she was my daughter. I had raised her. I wasn’t about to just hand her over to some “Hero” so he could play house with my life. I cleared my throat, trying to sound casual. “Hey, kiddo. If… if Mommy and I ever got a divorce, who would you want to live with?” Madeline blinked. Then, mimicking her mother’s stoic posture, she spoke with a chillingly adult coldness. “Daddy, don’t make pointless hypotheses.” I felt the air leave my lungs. I looked up and met Catherine’s amber eyes. They were like a still lake—beautiful, but there was no life beneath the surface. She stepped forward, knelt again, and took my foot in her hand to finish drying it. “Don’t say things like that in front of the child,” she said softly. Madeline nodded, turned like a little soldier, and walked toward the door. “I’m going to sleep.” The Feed exploded with mockery. [What is he thinking? The daughter is a carbon copy of the mother. She hates him just as much.] [Catherine at least knows how to mask it for the sake of the prenup. The kid looks like she’s holding back vomit every time he touches her.] [LOL, as if he’d ever actually divorce her. And even if he did, why would Madeline choose him? To be his footstool for the rest of her life?] [His only purpose is to be a piece of trash, get thrown out, and then die in a wreck so we get a happy ending.] My heart skipped a beat. I snatched the towel out of Catherine’s hands. “I said I’ve got it!” Catherine’s brow furrowed slightly, but she didn’t argue. Later, lying in bed, I tried to process the information. I pulled up my silk pajama bottoms, staring at my legs. They were long, well-toned, and currently very much attached to my body. I refused to accept a future where I lost them. I decided then and there: I had to stop the “oppression.” If the Feed was right, I couldn’t stop the “Hero” and Catherine from meeting. Fate was a railroad track. But if I could prove to my daughter that I was a loving father, maybe—just maybe—she’d choose me when the inevitable split happened. I looked up just as Catherine stepped out of the ensuite. She was wrapped in a plush robe, droplets of water tracing the line of her throat. When she saw me lying there with my pajama legs rolled up, staring intensely at my own shins, she paused. Her eyes darkened. I was too busy planning my “World’s Best Dad” campaign to notice the shift in the room. Then, Catherine walked to the closet and pulled out a set of lingerie I’d bought for her months ago. She held a black lace slip in one hand and a sheer purple set in the other. Her ears were slightly flushed, but her face remained a mask of marble as she waited for my “command.” The Feed went wild. [Why is the screen going black?! I pay for the premium tier, let me see!] [Villain, I’ll stop cursing you if you just turn the camera toward your wife.] [Miles, share the wealth. Let us see the CEO in her prime.] Amidst the horny comments, a few “Original Story” purists chimed in. [I hate this. Even knowing how Madeline was conceived, I still feel like Catherine is being coerced. Does the villain not see how much she hates him every time he makes her wear that stuff?] [It’s disgusting. She said no the first time, and he keeps forcing the “dress-up” hobby on her. He’s a creep.] [Whatever. Just remember those legs she’s standing on won’t be there much longer. That makes it easier to watch.] I took a sharp breath. Looking at Catherine—who was bracing herself to put on clothes she clearly loathed just to satisfy my “whims”—I grabbed the duvet and yanked it over my legs. “I… I’m not in the mood tonight. Let’s just sleep.” The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush a man. The Feed was stunned. [Wait, did he just pass?] [Look at Catherine’s face. She looks… pissed? What did he do now?] [Probably some new psychological torture. Look how hard she’s gripping that lace. She’s at her breaking point.] I noticed it too. Catherine’s expression was harrowing. The moment I said “not in the mood,” her face darkened by several shades. Usually, it took an hour of coaxing and demanding to get her into those outfits. Now, seeing the Feed’s vitriol, I was terrified of even breathing too loud. “Understood,” Catherine said. Her voice was as cold and clinical as a surgeon’s. She tossed the lingerie back into the closet, climbed into bed, and turned away from me. I gripped the blanket, feeling my legs beneath the fabric. I love you, legs. See you tomorrow. The next morning, the sun was streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows of our penthouse. I walked into the dining area to find the Big and Little Icebergs already seated. The moment I sat down, Catherine stood up to get me a croissant. Madeline, struggling with the weight of a heavy glass milk carafe, hopped off her chair to pour my drink. The Feed started up again. [He really is a piece of work. They have three nannies and a chef, but he makes the wife and kid wait on him. Unbelievable.] [He says it’s to “teach Madeline the value of service” so she’ll be a good wife someday. As if an heiress needs to serve anyone.] [He just likes the power trip. He’s a control freak.] My pulse spiked. I reached out and caught Madeline’s small arm before she could pour. She looked up at me, confused. “I put in a spoon and a half of sugar, just like you like.” I took the carafe from her and poured it myself. “It’s fine. I can do it. Go back to your breakfast.” Madeline stared at me as if I’d grown a second head, but she slowly climbed back into her seat. Catherine emerged from the kitchen, looking troubled. “We’re out of the imported balsamic glaze. I’ve already sent the driver to pick some up…” I picked up a plain piece of toast. “It’s fine. I don’t need it today.” The room went silent. Even the housekeeper paused in the hallway. Catherine looked at her empty hands, her brow deepening into a heavy frown. “Daddy,” Madeline whispered, her eyes wide. “You didn’t throw the plate at Mommy.” I choked on my toast. Was I really that much of a monster? The Feed answered for me. [Wait, did he actually take the toast? Usually, if the glaze is missing, he has a full-blown tantrum. Last time, he threw the whole tray across the room.] [Look at poor Madeline. She’s terrified. She thinks her dad has been possessed by a demon.] I took a bite of the dry toast, too guilty to keep reading. A small piece of greens fell from my sandwich and landed on my thigh. Without thinking, I frowned at the stain on my silk loungewear. Suddenly, a hand reached out with a napkin. Catherine’s hand. She began to wipe my thigh, and for a second, my heart stopped. I had a flash of the “future”—my legs becoming invisible, growing wings, and waving goodbye to me. I swatted her hand away and stood up abruptly. “I can do it myself!” I snapped, then immediately softened my voice. “I mean… it’s just a small thing. I’ve got it.” I looked at my daughter. “Maddy, from now on, you don’t need to pour my milk or rub my legs. Daddy is a big boy. I can take care of myself.” Madeline’s brow remained tightly knitted. “Daddy… are you sick?” I felt a sting in my chest. This kid. I try to be nice and she thinks I’m dying. For the rest of the meal, I stayed quiet. I didn’t bark orders. I didn’t complain about the temperature of the coffee. Madeline kept glancing at me, her tiny face scrunched in suspicion. Catherine’s eyes tracked my movements like a hawk watching a confusing new prey. After they left for the day, I collapsed onto the sofa. I looked up at the massive, oversized wedding portrait hanging in the center of the living room. The truth was, I had been obsessed with Catherine long before the merger. But she was a glacier, and every guy I knew had crashed and burned against her. I had my pride; I didn’t know how to “pursue” someone like her. So, when the families tied us together, I was secretly ecstatic. Until our wedding night. I’d been outside her study, ready to be the perfect husband, when I heard her talking to a friend. “Miles is a spoiled brat,” the friend had said. “You really drew the short straw.” And Catherine’s voice, so flat and indifferent: “It’s just a transaction. We each get what we need. That’s what marriage is.” That little flame of hope in my chest had died right then. If she wanted a “spoiled brat,” I decided I would give her the most demanding, arrogant version of myself she could imagine. If she wasn’t going to love me, she was at least going to notice me. I’d designed every inch of this house. Every rug, every appliance. Catherine never cared. The only time she’d voiced an opinion was when I insisted on hanging that giant wedding photo. “It’s tacky,” she’d said. “It doesn’t fit the aesthetic.” I’d hung it anyway, out of pure spite. Now, six years later, I finally saw it for what it was: a monument to a one-sided fantasy. “Elena,” I called out to the housekeeper. “Get someone to take this down and throw it away.” The boy who hung that photo was gone. The man remaining realized that in Catherine’s eyes, he was no different from the furniture. I could handle a loveless marriage. What I couldn’t handle was the Feed, which was currently live-streaming the “Hero’s” day like a CCTV camera. [The Hero just got Catherine a coffee. She actually smiled at him! I’m screaming!] [He made a typo on a report, he’s such a clumsy dork. Catherine is definitely going to find him adorable.] I closed my eyes, trying to sleep. When I woke up, the sky was bruised purple, and thunder was rolling across the city. My phone buzzed. It was Catherine. “Did you fall asleep on the sofa?” Her voice was steady. “Yeah,” I mumbled. “I have to work late. If it gets too late, I’ll stay at the hotel near the office. Have Madeline sleep in your room tonight.” Before I could answer, the Feed blurred past. [She is working late, but the Hero is there too! A rainy night, an empty office… it’s so romantic.] [I love a power couple. The Ice Queen CEO and her hardworking, soulful employee. Unlike her man-child husband.] [Exactly. He’s scared of a little thunder? He needs his five-year-old to hold his hand? What a loser.] I took a deep breath. “No need. Stay at the office. I’m fine.” As I spoke, I noticed Madeline standing by the door, her backpack still on. She’d been listening. She didn’t say a word, just turned and walked into her room. Catherine spoke again on the phone. “The wall behind you…” I turned. The wedding photo was gone, leaving a blank, pale rectangle. “Where is it?” she asked. “I had it tossed,” I said. “Go back to work. Bye.” I hung up before she could respond. I stared at the empty wall. It looked better this way. Cleaner. After dinner, the storm worsened. I was rubbing my eyes when I felt a presence. Madeline was standing there, clutching a storybook. “Fine,” she said, her face a mask of duty. “Let’s go. I’ll put you to sleep.” I wasn’t actually that afraid of thunder; I just hated the heavy, oppressive atmosphere of storms. Usually, I used the weather as an excuse to be particularly “demanding” with Catherine in bed. [Ugh, he’s so annoying. A five-year-old has to tuck him in? This is ridiculous.] [He’s so oblivious. The kid looks like she’s going to a funeral. He can’t harass his wife, so he’s harassing his daughter. When does the Hero get here?] I looked at Madeline. She looked like a miniature version of Catherine—emotionless and bored. “It’s okay, Maddy. I can sleep by myself. Go to bed.” I waved her off. For a split second, her lip trembled. “But Mommy said I had to stay with you.” I was about to argue when the sound of a car horn honked in the courtyard. I froze. The Feed froze too. [Wait, why is Catherine home? What about the Hero?!] Madeline dropped her book and ran to the door like it was a life raft. She grabbed her mother’s hand the moment Catherine stepped inside. “Daddy won’t let me stay with him,” she tattled, her voice tight. Catherine nodded, her face unreadable. The Feed was a chaotic mess of question marks. “Why are you back?” I asked, confused. Catherine didn’t answer. She was staring at the empty space where the wedding photo used to be. Her eyes seemed to turn a shade darker. “You said it was tacky,” I said, feeling defensive. “So I got rid of it.” She stared at me until I felt a chill. Then she turned to Madeline. “Go to bed.” Madeline blinked, looking at me. “Do you still want the leg massage, Daddy?” “No, no. Go on.” Madeline pouted—a rare flash of emotion—and then stomped off to her room. Catherine reached up and loosened her scarf. She looked… stressed. “Are you in a bad mood?” she asked. “No, I’m great. Best mood of my life.” Silence. She took a deep breath. Outside, the rain lashed against the glass. The Feed flickered. [She left the Hero for this? The plot is broken.] [Don’t worry, the ‘red thread’ of fate is stronger than steel. They’ll find each other again.] Just as that text scrolled by, Catherine’s phone rang on the nightstand. She was in the bathroom, and the sound of the shower was already running. “Phone!” I called out. The Feed perked up. [Here it is! The Hero is calling!] [Is the villain going to answer it? He’s such a creep about privacy.] [Let him! It’ll just make her hate him more. In the original book, he answered her phone once and screamed at the guy. Catherine ended up throwing him out. It was glorious.] Then, Catherine’s voice came from the bathroom. “Answer it for me. See what they want.” I stared at the phone as if it were a live grenade. “No. Just come out and do it yourself.” The water stopped instantly. Catherine stepped out, her hair a mess of shampoo suds. She looked at me, her gaze heavy and strange, then picked up the phone. A man’s voice—clear, bright, and soulful—rang out through the quiet room. “Ms. Montgomery? I sent over the two proposals, but I haven’t heard back…” Catherine didn’t look at the phone. She looked at me. She seemed to be waiting for something. I felt incredibly awkward. Why was the guy’s voice so loud? The Feed was losing it. [Is he going to lose it? Usually, if a man calls her after hours, he breaks things. One time he even scratched her face.] [His tantrums just make the Hero look better. Keep it up, Miles! Every scream is a nail in your coffin!] The word “coffin” triggered a physical reaction. I started coughing violently. I stood up, heading for the door. “I’m… cough… going to shower.” A hand caught my arm. Catherine took a deep breath, as if she were suppressing a volcanic eruption. She hung up the phone without a word. “It’s after hours,” she said to the dead screen. “We’ll talk tomorrow.” Then she turned to me. “A man calls me at night, and you have nothing to say? You aren’t angry?” The room was dead quiet. She stared at me for a long time, then slowly let go of my arm. That night, she tossed and turned until the early hours of the morning. The Feed wouldn’t stop. [She’s clearly regretting her choice. She’s wondering why she isn’t with the Hero right now instead of this loser.] [He’s pathetic. His wife is literally dreaming of another man right next to him.] I clenched my fists under the covers. Fine. Whatever. As soon as I could convince Madeline to come with me, I was filing for divorce. I’d leave Catherine to her “Hero” and her “Destiny.” I just wanted my legs and my daughter.

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Six years. That’s how long Nicky and I had been a “we.” He’d tossed a ring at me like it was an afterthought, a piece of scrap metal he’d found in his pocket. “Take it,” he’d said. “And get your hair cut this weekend. My mom likes girls with short hair. It looks cleaner.” So, on Saturday, I wore that plain gold band with a heart full of hope. I sat in a sleek, overpriced salon and waited until the “Closed” sign flipped over and the stylists began sweeping the floor. He never showed. I pulled out my phone, my thumb hovering over his name, but then I saw it. His cycling partner, Jade, had posted a photo on her Instagram story. A selfie of the two of them, windblown and grinning, captioned: Someone decided to skip his “big family dinner” to help me conquer this winter trail. Bad boy! I’m making him sleep in the tent tonight as punishment~ In the past, I would have spiraled. I would have called him ninety-nine times, screaming, crying, demanding to know why I wasn’t enough. But this time? I was just tired. Bone-deep, soul-weary tired. It was mid-December in New York, and a freezing rain was slashing against the pavement. I huddled in the doorway of the darkened salon, shivering. Today was supposed to be the day I finally met his parents. Last night, Nicky told me his mother preferred the “professional, short-haired look.” So, before the sun was even up, I’d taken an Uber to this specific stylist he’d recommended. I’d watched three years of growth—hair I loved, hair that made me feel like myself—fall to the floor in dark, heavy clumps. Nicky said he had to pick up a gift first. He said he’d fetch me before lunch. And so, I waited. And waited. … Six hours. I had spent six hours in that chair and then on that curb. I called him eight times. He didn’t pick up once. My phone battery hit one percent. That’s when I saw the photo. Nicky and Jade, flashing peace signs at the camera, looking like the lead characters in a movie I wasn’t cast in. Skipped the dinner. I felt a sharp, hysterical laugh bubble up in my chest. He skipped it. Just like that. Did it ever occur to him to tell the person actually involved? I had hacked off my hair to please him, to win over parents I’d never met, to fit into a mold he’d designed. And he had discarded me on the most important day of our relationship without a second thought. The phone buzzed. A final gasp of life. It was Nicky. “Where are you?” he asked, his voice casual, as if he hadn’t just ghosted me. “You forgot about the dinner, didn’t you? It’s fine. Jade and I ended up heading upstate to the Finger Lakes for a ride. We’ll do the parents another time.” It wasn’t a question. it was a notification. A status update. Of course. Jade was already there. Why would he choose me when he had her? Nicky and I had met in college. Six years of “long-distance” within the same city, six years of breaking up and making up, of me chasing him while he ran toward his career. I thought we were finally at the finish line. I was wrong. A few months ago, Nicky got obsessed with cycling. He joined this elite, trendy “Century Club.” It was full of young, fit, “adventurous” types. And then there was Jade. Jade was a yoga instructor. Since she’d entered the picture, Nicky had started looking through me as if I were made of glass. He’d spend hours in their group chats, laughing at inside jokes I didn’t understand. He wouldn’t reply to my texts. If I complained, he’d snap, “You’re so suffocating. It’s just a hobby.” He remembered Jade’s cycle. He’d remind her not to overexert herself on those days. He’d bring her electrolyte drinks and heating pads. He didn’t remember mine. When I doubled over in pain, he’d just sigh. “Women are so dramatic. Take an aspirin and stop moping.” And now, he had sacrificed my six-year milestone for Jade’s “winter wish.” I looked out at the torrential rain and listened to the upbeat indie music playing in the background of his call. Suddenly, Nicky felt incredibly small. Uninteresting. “Nicky,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “I think you forgot that I’ve been sitting at the salon waiting for you all day.” “Oh, come on. I’ve waited for you plenty of times, Regina. Don’t start. I’m too tired for a fight.” “You aren’t listening. I’m not fighting.” “Good,” he huffed. “It was an accident. We’ll do the dinner next time. I promise.” Next time. I almost laughed. I’d spent my life in the “Next Time” waiting room. I wanted to go to the Vineyard. Next time. I wanted to try that new French place. Next time, it’s too expensive. I wanted to go to the movies. Next time, when work slows down. I was always waiting. He was always stalling. The salon was in a remote part of Brooklyn, far from the subway. The rain was coming down in sheets now. I had no umbrella. “Nicky, let’s break up.” I said it as simply as if I were ordering a coffee. On the other end, Nicky wasn’t even listening. He was arguing with Jade about some Marvel movie trivia. It was just another void of communication. Right as I was about to hang up, I heard him scoff. He’d heard me, but he didn’t care. “Here we go again,” he mocked. “How many times have you ‘broken up’ with me, Regina? We both know you’ll be calling me tomorrow morning crying your eyes out.” His tone was a needle, sharp and cold, stitching a map of scars across my heart. But for the first time, it didn’t hurt. It just felt… finished. I wanted to tell him I was serious. Before I could, Jade’s voice rang out, playful and cloying: “Hey, Regina! Sorry for stealing him! I just really had to get to the lake today, and Nate was such a sweetheart to drive me…” Click. My phone died. The clock inside the salon ticked. I had waited eight hours. Nicky wouldn’t think my phone was dead. He’d think I was playing games. He’d think I was “throwing a tantrum.” The storm raged. I curled into a ball in the corner of the doorway, my body shaking, my feet numb and swollen. Three hours later, the rain finally slowed to a drizzle. I tried to stand. My legs buckled. Every step was a jolt of ice through my veins. I’d dressed up for the parents. A thin, elegant wool coat and a silk blouse. It was meant for a heated restaurant, not a midnight walk in a freezing gale. My vision blurred. My teeth began to chatter so hard it was the only sound in the world. The last thing I remember was the asphalt rushing up to meet me in the middle of a deserted street. I woke up in a hospital bed. A cab driver had found me and brought me in. Seeing me wake up, the driver—an older man with kind eyes—offered me a cup of warm water. “Have a fight with the boyfriend? Even so, a man shouldn’t leave a lady on the road like that. It’s dangerous.” He saw it. A stranger saw what Nicky couldn’t. It took me six years to see it myself. I gripped the cup, my fingers still tingling. “It won’t happen again. Thank you, sir.” He nodded and handed me my phone, which he’d plugged in for me. He held up two fingers. “That fellow you have saved as ‘Babe’ called. It only rang for two seconds before he hung up.” Two seconds. That was the extent of Nicky’s patience for me. I looked at the screen and smiled. “That’s okay. He’s dead to me now.” The driver looked like he wanted to say something, but he just patted my hand. I checked my notifications. A single text from Nicky sat at the top of the list: Stop the drama. It’s just a dinner. We’ve been together forever, Regina. Just wait a little longer, I’ll take you to meet them eventually. I didn’t reply. I blocked him. On everything. After the IV was finished and the bill was paid, the driver insisted on taking me home. Before I got out, I tucked two hundred dollars under the floor mat of his back seat. “Sorry for the trouble, sir. Thank you.” “Be happy, kid,” he called out as I shut the door. “I will be,” I whispered. “I really will.” I walked into the apartment we shared and pulled a battered suitcase out of the closet. It hit me then—in this big, expensive apartment, there was almost nothing of mine. Nicky came from a struggling family in a small town. His dream was to make it big in DC or New York. When we graduated, he begged me to turn down a teaching position in my hometown to move to the city with him while he climbed the corporate ladder. I’d given in. I’d used my savings to support us while he took unpaid internships and entry-level grinds. Nicky hadn’t failed himself. He hadn’t wasted my money or my time. He was a rising star now. He had only failed me. They say you should never travel across the world for a man who won’t cross the street for you. I was the cautionary tale. Twenty minutes. That’s all it took to pack my life. Half a suitcase. As I reached for the door, it swung open. Nicky was there, holding a pale, wincing Jade. “Oh, good, you’re home,” he barked, his face tight with irritation. “Hurry up and make some ginger tea for Jade. Her cramps are killing her, and we’re both exhausted.” I didn’t even look at her. I gripped my suitcase and tried to walk past him. Nicky’s hand shot out, grabbing the suitcase handle. He yanked it so hard it hit the floor with a crack, the plastic shell splintering. “I said she’s in pain. Go make the tea.” “Are you deaf?” he shouted. “What is this? Another pathetic attempt to get attention? Pack a bag and walk out? Grow up, Regina.” I looked at my broken suitcase. I looked at the man I had loved for six years. Slap. The sound echoed in the hallway. “Give me a thousand dollars,” I said. Nicky’s head was whipped to the side, his expression one of pure shock. I held out my palm. “You want tea? You want my labor? It costs a thousand dollars. My time is very expensive now.” I wasn’t joking. Nicky didn’t know the truth about me. I was the daughter of a real estate mogul. I had run away to New York for love, cutting ties with my family to prove I could make it on my own. It was a cliché, and the lesson had been brutal. Nicky sneered, pulling out his phone. “Fine. If you’re that desperate for cash, I’ll Venmo you. Stop being a bitch about it.” I pulled out my phone and held up a QR code. “Actually, scan this. I’ve already blocked you.” Nicky’s eyes flickered with a brief moment of doubt, but he scanned the code. Payment Successful. I didn’t say another word. I went into the kitchen, sliced the ginger, and stirred the brown sugar into the boiling water. Nicky watched me from the doorway, probably expecting me to poison it. I wasn’t that petty. I even added extra sugar. “Regina,” Nicky said, his voice suddenly shifting. “Let’s just get married. We’ll have the families meet this weekend. For real.” I kept stirring. I didn’t even blink. “Is this a dare?” I wasn’t being sarcastic. A few months ago, Nicky had taken me on a hike. On a desolate, windy ridge, he’d dropped to one knee with a bunch of wildflowers and yelled, “Regina, let’s get married!” My heart had soared. I was ready to say yes. And then Jade had burst out laughing from behind a rock. Nicky had started laughing, too. Jade had doubled over, clutching her stomach. “Oh my god, Regina! You should see your face! We lost a bet at the bar last night—it was a Truth or Dare thing!”

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