Category: English

I finally chose to let go. After the ink dried on the divorce papers, I packed up my life and my daughter, scrubbed our digital footprints, and moved across the Atlantic to start over in London. The decision didn’t come from a single blow, but from a viral video I stumbled upon. In it, someone asked Damian what his happiest memory was from the last few years. He leaned back, a casual, almost nostalgic smile playing on his lips, and replied that it was probably last week—after he’d finally tucked Zoey into bed and managed to steal a private moment with Talia in the bathroom. The roar of laughter from the crowd in the video felt like an ice pick driven straight through my chest. For the three years he had been working “abroad,” he hadn’t been alone. He had been living with his first love, Talia, in a domestic bliss I could only dream of. Zoey was Talia’s daughter, and every whispered rumor I’d ignored turned out to be the sickening truth. To be honest, my heart had started to turn to ash the very day he returned to the States. I had canceled a high-stakes board meeting and driven Mandy to the airport to surprise him. When Mandy reached out her tiny hands, begging for a hug from the father she’d only seen on a screen, he didn’t even bend down. He just spared me a cold, sideways glance and muttered, “Sorry, I’ve developed a bit of a germaphobia. I need a shower first.” Because of that one sentence, Mandy and I spent the next few months washing our hands until they were raw. I kept the house like a sterile museum, scrubbing the floors until they shone, yet he still rarely came home. He never held her. Not once. Mandy was born while he was away. I went through labor alone and raised her alone for three long years, waiting for a man who was playing house with someone else. Our marriage had never been a fairytale. It started in the shadows of a scandal—my father, desperate to see his daughter married to the man she’d loved since she was eighteen, took advantage of Damian’s intoxication at a gala and maneuvered him into my bed. When Damian woke up the next morning, he didn’t scream or rage. He simply agreed to marry me with a face as cold as marble. 1 The nanny brought Mandy home from preschool, and her eyes were so swollen she could barely see. “Mommy… do I not have a daddy?” she sobbed, her little chest heaving with hiccups. “Daddy promised to come to the parent-teacher mixer… but when he got there, he told everyone he was Zoey’s dad.” “Mommy, they all said I’m a liar. They said I don’t have a father.” A sharp, throbbing pain bloomed in my chest. I pulled her into my arms, my own eyes stinging. I wanted to tell her something—anything—to comfort her, but the image of Damian’s indifferent face stayed stuck in my throat. I was drowning in regret. I thought that after three years, he had finally moved past his resentment and was coming home to be a family. I didn’t realize he only returned because Talia wanted to move back to the city. He’d booked the flights, arranged the penthouse, and even secured a spot for her daughter at the most prestigious preschool in the district—all while I was waiting at the airport in a dress he didn’t notice. That day at the terminal, Mandy had been so nervous. “Will Daddy like me, Mommy?” “You’re his only daughter, honey,” I’d told her, smoothing her hair. “Of course he will.” But when we arrived, we saw Damian walking through the terminal holding Talia’s hand, his other arm cradling a three-year-old girl. He looked at me as if I were a stranger blocking his path. “Sorry,” he said, his voice flat. “I need to get Talia and Zoey settled first. You two go on home.” He didn’t even look at Mandy. But the way he looked at Zoey—it was a tenderness I had never seen. Closing my eyes, I felt the weight of my mistakes. “I’m so sorry, Mandy. It’s my fault. Next time, Mommy will be there for everything. I promise.” I washed her face and tucked her in, but even in her sleep, her brow was furrowed. “Daddy, hold me…” she whispered. Every word felt like a needle. My father had thought he was doing me a favor ten years ago. “Gwen, I can see it,” he’d said back then. “You love him, and the boy has feelings for you too, he’s just too stubborn to admit it. I heard him call your name when he was drunk once. Let’s just skip the formalities and give him a reason to stay.” I had protested, but then he’d locked the door, and the room had grown warm. That night, Damian had looked at me with such icy clarity when it was over. “I’ll do the right thing, Gwen. I’ll marry you.” I thought I could win him over. Then, at a party months later, I overheard him talking to his friends. “Come on, Damian,” one of them said. “Gwen is gorgeous, she’s brilliant, and she’s obsessed with you. Just enjoy it.” Damian took a long drag of his cigarette, his lip curling. “I actually liked her once. But I never realized she was that desperate. Thinking about how she threw herself at me that night… it’s honestly pathetic. It’s repulsive.” I never got the chance to explain. Two weeks later, he filed for a long-term overseas assignment. He left me with a ring and a secret—I was pregnant. I raised Mandy in a quiet, empty mansion, counting the days until he’d return. And he did. But not to us. The house was silent when the front door finally clicked open at midnight. Damian walked in, his eyes skipping over the sleeping form of his daughter on the couch. “Zoey wants to come over to play tomorrow,” he said casually, as if he were discussing the weather. “You and Mandy should head out for the day. Take her to the zoo or something.” I looked at him, stunned. He actually smiled—a small, cruel twist of the lips. “Zoey’s very territorial. She’s not comfortable seeing other little girls call me ‘Dad’.” 2 The anger that had been simmering in my gut finally boiled over. I let out a sharp, dry laugh. “Damian, do you even remember which child is actually yours?” “Do you have any idea what happened to Mandy at school today because you—” He cut me off with a frown. “Gwen, I don’t need a lecture.” “I know the mixer was today. I’m sorry, but Talia is a single mother now, and she’s overwhelmed. Zoey needed me there.” “Besides, I made a promise to Talia long before I ever married you. I swore I’d never let her down again. I’ve given you the marriage you wanted. You don’t get to tell me who I can care for. I owe them.” He threw his blazer on the chair and headed for the master bath. The sound of the shower drowned out the sob I couldn’t hold back. If I had known that being his wife meant being a ghost in my own home, I would have fought my father tooth and nail that night. I looked at the divorce decree I’d been drafting on my laptop. If it weren’t for Mandy, I would have left years ago. But I had been selfish—I wanted her to have a father. I didn’t realize that a father who was physically present but emotionally absent was a far worse poison. The next morning, Mandy woke up and forgot her heartbreak the moment she heard her dad was home. She jumped on her bed, clutching a drawing she’d spent a week on. “I have to show Daddy!” Kids are resilient, or maybe just tragically hopeful. She ran downstairs, only to find Talia and Zoey already in the kitchen. Damian was sitting at the island, peeling an orange for Zoey with a look of pure patience. “Daddy? Who are they?” Mandy asked, stopping short. Damian’s face darkened. “Why are you still here? I thought I told your mother to take you out.” Mandy shrank back, but she still held out her drawing—a colorful depiction of the three of us. “It’s a family portrait… I made it for when you came home.” Before Damian could reach for it, a small hand snatched it away. “This is ugly!” Zoey shouted, tearing the paper in half. She shoved Mandy hard, sending her tumbling to the hardwood floor. “He’s my daddy! Everyone at school says you’re a nobody, Mandy. You’re not allowed to call him that!” Mandy burst into tears. I rushed over, pulling her up and staring down at Zoey. “Apologize. Now.” Damian stood up, his jaw set. “Gwen, don’t scream at a child.” He picked Zoey up and tucked her against his chest. “I told you last night, she’s sensitive about this. She’s just upset. She didn’t mean to push her.” I didn’t budge. “Did you not hear what she just called Mandy? She called her a bastard, Damian. Are you going to tell her the truth, or are you just going to let her bully your own daughter in her own house?” Damian hesitated, but then he just rubbed Zoey’s back. He wouldn’t look at me. Talia stepped forward, wearing a soft, practiced smile. “Gwen, I am so sorry. Zoey spent her formative years in Europe; she’s very blunt. She doesn’t mean anything by it. Please don’t take it to heart.” The little girl in Damian’s arms looked at us with a smug, triumphant grin. “I’m not lying! The kids at school said it! Mandy is a mistake! She stole my daddy!” I looked at Damian. I had tolerated his “germaphobia.” I had tolerated his long absences and the obvious lies about working late. But I would not tolerate this. “Damian, I’m going to ask you one last time. Is Mandy your daughter, or isn’t she?” He let out a cold, sharp laugh. “You really want to talk about how she became my daughter? Do you really want to revisit that ‘miracle’ of a night?” “Enough. Today is about Zoey. Let’s not ruin it with your drama.” Talia and her daughter exchanged a look of pure satisfaction. Damian kissed Zoey’s cheek. “How about we go get that Elsa dress you wanted? And some new toys?” “Yes! And the castle!” “Anything you want,” he murmured. As they walked toward the door, something inside me finally snapped. The love I’d carried for ten years didn’t just break; it evaporated. “Damian,” I called out, my voice strangely calm. “I want a divorce.” 3 Damian paused at the door, turning back with an arrogant sneer. “Gwen, haven’t we played this game enough? If you think threatening me is going to work, then fine. Have it your way. Get the papers ready.” He didn’t wait for a response. He walked out, the heavy oak door thudding shut behind him. Talia lingered for a second, a flicker of a smile crossing her face before she masked it with “concern.” She walked back to me, holding out her phone. “I’m so sorry, Gwen. Damian and I… we’re just friends. He’s just such a loyal man. He knows how hard it is for me after my divorce, and he just wants to help. Please don’t let this ruin your marriage.” She insisted on adding my contact info, claiming she wanted to “reimburse” Mandy for the ruined drawing. “Talia, come on!” Damian’s voice called from the driveway, soft and melodic. “Coming!” she chirped, running out to join them. Through the open window, I heard her voice drifting back. “Damian, you shouldn’t have said that. Gwen was just upset. You know she didn’t mean it.” Damian’s reply was loud enough for the neighbors to hear. “She worked too hard to trap me into this marriage to ever actually leave. She’s just throwing a tantrum because I’m giving Zoey attention. Trust me, she’ll be begging me to come home by dinner.” I leaned against the kitchen counter and laughed. It was a hollow, jagged sound. The Gwen who loved you is dead, Damian. And the mother who is left has work to do. Mandy cried herself to sleep in her room. “Mommy, the kids said he’s Zoey’s daddy… but I wasn’t trying to take him away…” I stayed awake. My phone buzzed. Talia had posted a photo on Instagram: the three of them at a toy store, looking like a perfect, sun-drenched family. The caption read: Zoey finally has the father figure she deserves. Some things are just meant to be. I “liked” the post. Seconds later, a DM arrived from Talia. It was a video file. I opened it. It was from a few months ago, back when Damian was still “working” overseas. In the video, a friend asked him, “Damian, what’s the best part of being back with Talia?” He was nursing a glass of scotch, looking more relaxed than I’d ever seen him. “Probably the quiet moments,” he said, his eyes dark with something like lust. “Last week, after we finally got the kid to sleep, I pulled Talia into the bathroom for an hour. Best hour of the trip.” The room spun. Talia’s caption on an old post flashed in my mind: Since having a kid, private time is hard to find. We have to sneak around when she’s asleep… My phone buzzed again. Another message from Talia: Oh my god, I am SO sorry! I meant to send that to someone else. I can’t believe I sent that to you. Please ignore it! But honestly, Gwen… you know where his heart is. You forced this marriage with a cheap trick, but he spent three years choosing us every single day. He might not be Zoey’s biological father, but he loves her more than he could ever love a child he was ‘forced’ to have. You have money, you have status—don’t make this harder than it needs to be. Just walk away. She followed it with a photo of Damian kissing Zoey on one cheek and Talia on the other. A perfect portrait of a family that didn’t include me. I typed back two words: You’re right. Then, I called my father. “Dad, I’ve made a decision. I’m taking Mandy and moving to London. We leave in three days.” My father sounded shocked. “Three days? But I heard Damian just got back. You finally have your family together. Does he know?” I looked at the torn drawing on the floor. “He’ll be thrilled.” 4 For the first time in our marriage, I didn’t stay up waiting for him. When he stumbled in at 2:00 AM, the house was pitch black. No porch light, no warm meal in the oven. For the next three days, I was a ghost. I didn’t speak to him. I didn’t ask where he was going. I just packed. Sensing something was off, Damian came home on the third evening with a Tiffany box. “Gwen,” he said, sounding almost sheepish. “I know things have been tense. Zoey was out of line the other day. I’m sorry.” He opened the box to reveal a necklace—a heart pendant that was clearly from an older collection. I recognized it immediately. Talia had posted it on her “sell” story months ago, calling it “outdated junk.” He tried to step closer to put it on me. I stepped back. “Don’t bother.” I walked past him, wearing a sharp, tailored blazer. I was heading out to finalize the sale of my car. He stared at me, his eyes lingering on my outfit. “You… you look different today. Where are you going? I’ll drive you.” He was being uncharacteristically attentive. It was pathetic. For three years, I’d worn the soft, feminine dresses he liked. I’d played the part of the doting, waiting wife. But in his absence, I’d built a multi-million dollar tech firm. I’d handled lawsuits, boardrooms, and plumbing emergencies. I didn’t need a driver. “I’m fine,” I said. “I’m a better driver than you anyway.” I was actually going to the consulate to finalize the paperwork for our relocation. Three hours later, as I walked out of the government building with Mandy, I saw Damian’s car idling at the curb. He looked frantic. “Gwen, what the hell are you doing here?” he demanded, jumping out of the car. He’d followed me. “You’ve been in there for three hours.” I smiled, a cold, empty thing. “Just updating some records. Our IDs were expiring.” “Don’t you have a job? I heard Talia was looking for a personal assistant. Maybe you should go help her.” Damian flinched, his expression darkening. “Fine. You want to push me away? Go ahead. I was trying to be nice, but you’re making it impossible.” He slammed his car door so hard the frame rattled and sped off. Later that afternoon, his assistant, Marcus, called me. “Ma’am, Mr. Sterling actually cleared his entire schedule today to spend time with you and Mandy. Why did you upset him? He’s at a bar right now, drinking himself into a stupor before heading over to Talia’s place…” Marcus had always tried to play peacemaker. I almost felt sorry for him. “Thanks for the update, Marcus,” I said. “But let him go. He’s exactly where he wants to be.” I had two days left. But I didn’t make it to the flight without one last nightmare. On the day I went to pick up Mandy’s final school records, Zoey pushed her into the decorative fountain at the school plaza. Mandy hit her head and went into a localized seizure—a complication from an undiagnosed condition. I was screaming, cradling my daughter’s limp, wet body as the ambulance arrived. At the hospital, the ER was in chaos. I was told that a “VIP” had redirected the city’s top pediatric neurologists to another wing for an emergency allergy consult. Damian had moved heaven and earth for Zoey’s hives while his own daughter was fighting for air. I called Damian, my hands shaking so hard I could barely hold the phone. “Damian, please. Mandy is in the ER. She needs a specialist. You have the connections—please, help her!” On the other end, I could hear Talia sobbing about “rashes.” Damian’s voice came through, cold and mocking. “Gwen, enough with the pathetic stunts. Mandy is fine. She was fine this morning.” “I tried to spend the day with you and you kicked me out. Now Zoey is having a real medical crisis, and you’re trying to fake an emergency to get attention? You’re sick.” “Damian, I’m not lying! She’s—” Click. The dial tone was the loudest sound I’d ever heard. I felt the metallic taste of blood in my mouth. I looked at Mandy. She was awake now, hooked up to an oxygen mask, her eyes too old for her face. She didn’t cry. She just reached out and wiped a tear from my cheek with a weak, pale hand. “Mommy… Daddy really doesn’t want me, does he?” She smiled, a heartbreakingly sad expression. “It’s okay, Mommy. I don’t want him either.” I called my father. Within thirty minutes, a specialist was flown in from a neighboring state. Damian never showed up. That night, the local news ran a segment on “The Heroic Father,” praising Damian Sterling for mobilizing the city’s medical resources to save a child from a “life-threatening” allergic reaction. They showed a clip of him looking “devastated” in the waiting room. I stared at the screen, at the man I had loved for a decade. You win, Damian. You can have them. The day Mandy was discharged, we went straight to the airport. I shredded my SIM card, left the keys to the mansion in a locker, and boarded a one-way flight to London.

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It was our fifth wedding anniversary, and instead of a candlelit dinner, I was behind the wheel of my sedan, grinding out another shift as a rideshare driver. The passenger door swung open, and a woman slid into the back seat. My breath hitched when I caught her reflection in the rearview mirror—underneath her designer trench coat, she was wearing absolutely nothing from the waist down. She was shivering, her teeth chattering from the Chicago winter, but her eyes were sharp, brimming with a cruel sort of provocation. “Never seen a girl having a little fun before?” she snapped. “Everett likes it this way,” she continued, her voice dripping with a smug, breathless pride. “He says the risk of being caught outdoors is the only thing that really gets him going. It keeps him on edge.” She let out a sharp, jagged laugh. “Not like that pathetic housewife of his. He says she doesn’t even know how to look at him, let alone touch him.” The woman—Roxy, according to the app—leaned forward, her smile widening. “Get this: just to impress me, he hired some guys to stage a kidnapping. He told his wife it was some old ‘business rivals’ coming for his head.” “And the idiot actually fell for it! She showed up to trade herself for him. They put her through hell for twenty-four hours straight while he and I watched.” “Tell me,” she whispered, leaning closer to the partition. “Isn’t that just madness? He loves me so much he’s willing to destroy his own wife just to give me a thrill.” I slammed on the brakes. The screech of tires echoed through the quiet street, but all I could hear was the blood roaring in my ears. My body went cold, paralyzed. A few months ago, I had been beaten into a coma trying to “save” my husband, Everett. I walked with a permanent limp now, a constant reminder of the night I thought I was being a hero. 1. I forced my hands to stay steady on the steering wheel, my knuckles white. “So,” I said, my voice sounding like it belonged to someone else—someone far away. “This… boyfriend of yours. How did you two meet?” Maybe it was a coincidence. The name ‘Everett’ wasn’t exactly rare. And the Everett I knew was a man of quiet habits, a low-level office drone who complained if the heating bill was ten dollars too high. He wasn’t some adrenaline junkie playing sick games in the woods. “He’s not my boyfriend,” Roxy said, lounging back against the leather seat, looking utterly bored with her own wealth. “He’s my benefactor. My sugar daddy, if you want to be gauche about it.” “I’ve been his ‘special project’ for five years. Since the day I graduated. He tucked me away in a corner office at his firm.” “A million-dollar salary just to look pretty.” I felt a microscopic surge of relief. My Everett was a nobody. He made less than I did. On my last birthday, I’d ordered a small cake, and he’d made me return it, calling it an ‘unnecessary extravagance.’ He’d scolded me for ‘wasting’ money when I made him a bowl of noodles with two eggs. Frugality is the only way we survive, Margot, he’d always tell me. Roxy’s lips curled into a sneer. “His wife is such a loser. She has no idea who she’s actually sleeping next to. A billionaire playing ‘poor’ just for the psychological experiment of it all.” “It’s hilarious, really. She’s out here breaking her back driving an Uber while he spends more on one of our lunches than she makes in a year.” I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper. My heart was a frantic, trapped bird in my chest. “Last year,” she went on, her voice a sing-song of malice, “my vacation happened to fall on the same day his wife ended up in the ER. Some car accident.” “He didn’t even blink. He skipped out on signing her consent forms and took me on a ten-country tour of Europe instead.” “I got upset because we were five minutes late for the private jet, so he bought me three supercars just to stop me from pouting. Fifty million dollars, just like that.” A wave of nausea hit me. Last year, after the accident, I was hovering on the edge of death. The hospital had called Everett dozens of times, but there was no answer. When he finally showed up days later, he told me he’d been in a dead zone for a ‘crucial business trip.’ He’d cried by my hospital bed, holding me, telling me he’d never leave me for work again once we finally ‘made it.’ He’d brought me three little plastic toy cars. I had to save up for weeks to get these for you, babe, he’d said. To remind you of the life we’ll have someday. I forced the car back into gear, my vision blurring. Roxy didn’t notice. She was too busy with her own reflection. “I think Everett actually loves her, in his own twisted way,” she mused. “That’s why he gives me the money but keeps her as the ‘wife.’ But who cares?” “He told me himself: she’s boring. Gray. A piece of stale bread compared to the fire I give him.” I forced a pale, hollow smile into the mirror. “Yeah. I bet.” Roxy seemed satisfied with that. She suddenly slapped her forehead. “Oh, I almost forgot.” She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a pair of lacy, discarded silk panties. “I’ll pay you double the fare if you drop these in the mail for me. Address it to the ‘little woman.’” “Today is their five-year anniversary,” she cackled. “Everett told me to pick out a ‘gift’ so she wouldn’t get suspicious about him being out late.” She handed me her phone to show me the delivery address. My last shred of hope withered and died. It was my house. 2. Roxy pulled her phone back, a look of smug charity on her face. “I’m honestly too kind, helping him manage his domestic trash,” she laughed. “But a woman who’s been cheated on that long? She deserves the leftovers. She’ll probably see the silk and think he’s finally being ‘romantic.’ God, I can’t wait.” I gripped the steering wheel so hard the plastic groaned. I wanted to turn around and wrap my cord around her neck, but I forced myself to breathe. If they wanted to play games, fine. I hoped they’d still be laughing when I saw them in court. I discreetly tapped the ‘record’ button on my dashboard dashcam. “He sounds devoted to you,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “I hope you get that wedding ring soon.” She tossed her head back, eyes burning with a manic sort of triumph. “Oh, it’s coming. That useless woman can’t compete with me.” “Do you know how much he spoils me?” she bragged, leaning in again. “I mentioned I had a headache this morning, and he hired two separate medical teams to stay on call for me twenty-four hours a day. He even bought me a brownstone right across from his office. If I so much as sneeze, he’s there.” A sharp, stabbing pain flared in my chest. I didn’t know Everett had that kind of tenderness in him. In five years, he had never even remembered my birthday. I’d asked to go to the beach once, and he’d lectured me on the cost of gas. He ‘forgot’ I was allergic to mangoes every time he bought groceries. To ‘save money,’ I lived on a five-dollar-a-day food budget. I’d spent years hovering around free sample stations at Costco, once fainting from hypoglycemia and being rushed to the hospital by a stranger. Everett had seen all of it. And he had smiled and lied. He’d even taken my meager earnings from my rideshare shifts, claiming he was ‘paying off our debts.’ “He’s… incredible,” I rasped, the lie burning my throat. Roxy kicked her bare feet up on the back of my seat. “That’s nothing. You want to hear the best part?” Her smile turned into something jagged and cruel. “A few months ago, I got bored. I told him I was jealous of how much time he spent at home with that ‘thing.’ So, to cheer me up, he staged that kidnapping.” My face went ghost-white. My hands shook. A game. It was all a game to make her smile. She was practically dancing in her seat now. “I told him I hated the idea of her ever touching him again. Do you know what he did?” My body convulsed—a phantom memory of the darkest night of my life. The humiliation. The screaming. “It was so intense,” she whispered, her eyes glazed with the memory. “She screamed all night long. And Everett and I were in the very next room… screaming for a different reason. I can still hear her sometimes. It’s a rush.” I remembered it with terrifying clarity. I thought my world was ending when I heard he’d been taken. I didn’t call the police because I was terrified they’d kill him. I begged the ‘debt collectors’ to hurt me instead of him. They tied me up. They broke my leg. They took away the last shred of my dignity as a woman. And all that time, I thought I was protecting the man I loved. I didn’t know he was ten feet away, tangled in silk sheets with her. I’d spent weeks crying in the hospital afterward. Everett had sat there with his fake tears, whispering, Even if you’re broken now, Margot, I’ll never leave you. I had actually felt lucky. I thought the tragedy had brought us closer. “It was a bit much, though,” Roxy added, her tone shifting to annoyance. “He felt ‘guilty’ afterward. Ignored me for a whole month. He even talked about ‘coming clean’ and telling her he was a billionaire, but I stopped him.” My voice was a jagged thread. “Why did he want to tell her?” Roxy scoffed. “He wanted to pay for some experimental surgery to ‘fix’ her. And her little brother—what’s his name? Jamie? The kid needs a transplant. Everett was going to reveal everything just to save the brat’s life.” 3. “And you stopped him?” My voice cracked, rising into a sharp, ragged edge. Roxy mistook my horror for awe. She smiled, preening. “Keeping him ‘poor’ was my idea. I told him it was the only way to test if she was really ‘loyal’ or just another gold-digger looking for a payout.” “He bought it. He decided to ‘test’ her for a little longer.” She sighed, looking annoyed. “But he still couldn’t let go of the brother thing. He actually made an anonymous donation. Millions of dollars to the hospital under some charity’s name. Such a waste.” “But I’m a smart girl. I intercepted the wire transfer. Spent two weeks in Vegas with some male models instead. Best vacation ever.” The world began to spin. I couldn’t breathe. Jamie had needed two hundred thousand for his heart surgery. I’d given up my own rehabilitation, choosing to remain a ‘cripple’ just to funnel every cent I had into his care. He was my only living relative. But Everett had been so angry back then. He’d insisted Jamie was faking it. He told me the kid was just trying to ‘drain us’ because he was lazy. We’d had the most vicious fight of our marriage over it. I never understood why he hated my brother so much. Now I knew. He thought Jamie had stolen the ‘anonymous’ millions he’d sent. After that fight, Everett ‘disappeared’ for a week. Jamie couldn’t wait any longer. I was desperate. I did the only thing I could—I sold a kidney on the black market to get the surgery money. But when I hobbled into the ward the next day, Jamie was gone. Missing. All that was left on his empty bed was the two hundred dollars he’d managed to save from his paper route. I knew why he left. He didn’t want to be a burden anymore. He chose to go off and die alone so I could have a life. But he could have lived! Everett could have saved him with a flick of his wrist! That money could have saved him ten times over! I was shaking so hard my teeth were clicking. I bit my lip until I felt the hot burst of blood. “Do you have any idea,” I hissed, my voice a ghostly rasp, “that playing with people like this… people die?” Roxy waved a hand dismissively. “If they’re too weak to handle it, that’s not on me.” “I actually went to the hospital myself to make sure that donation didn’t reach him. I needed a new phone and some boots, so I pocketed the ‘petty cash’ they had on hand and left the kid two hundred bucks.” She laughed, looking out the window. “I bet the sister thought he saved it up himself. It was probably ‘escort’ money from some nurse, for all I know.” Then she turned to me, her eyes bright, waiting for me to join in on the joke. She didn’t see a driver. She saw a mirror for her own cruelty. But she found herself staring into the bloodshot eyes of a woman who wanted her dead. 4. The rage was a tidal wave, drowning out every sense of law, reason, or survival. In that moment, Margot the wife died. There was only a monster left. “Want to know a secret?” Roxy asked, her voice light with a sense of total victory. “Everett’s been desperate for an heir. I’ve made sure that never happens. Every time his wife got pregnant, I bribed the ultrasound tech.” “We told her the baby had ‘genetic defects.’ Made her terminate.” She tapped her chin, counting. “Three, I think. Three little ‘mistakes’ gone.” She looked at me with a sickening confidence. “Now that she’s ‘barren’ from the trauma, I just have to get pregnant myself. The ‘Wife’ title will be mine by Christmas.” “And if she won’t sign the papers? I’ll let her stay. She can raise my kids while she scrubs my floors. She’s already used to being a doormat.” I stared at her pretty, hateful face. Every moment of the last five years—the hunger, the pain, the loss of my children—it wasn’t bad luck. It was a screenplay written by her and directed by him. “You animal,” I whispered. I lunged. I reached back and grabbed Roxy by her hair, slamming her head against the partition. I took my seatbelt and looped it around her throat, pulling with every ounce of strength I had left. I screamed—a primal, guttural sound—as I began to rain blows down on her face. Roxy’s nose shattered. Blood sprayed across the back of the car. “You soulless bitch!” I roared. “Why wasn’t it you? Why are you still breathing?” She was dazed, thrashing like a landed fish. “You… you’re dead! Everett will kill you! He’ll kill your whole family!” She spat out a piece of a broken tooth, still trying to look down at me. “I did her a favor! I got rid of her brat brother! I saved her from having kids she couldn’t afford! She should be thanking me on her knees!” I was seeing red. Pure, literal red. I grabbed the glowing, red-hot cigarette lighter from the dash and jammed it into her eye. A scream ripped through the car—a sound like a dying animal. “I’m going to make you pay in blood!” Roxy convulsed, blood and fluid streaming down her face. “Help! Murder! Someone help me!” The car swerved violently as she kicked at my seat, but I didn’t care. I let go of the steering wheel entirely, keeping the belt tight around her neck. I floored the accelerator. “My three children! My brother! My life!” I screamed. “You’re going to burn for all of it!” The car shot forward like a bullet, hurtling toward the guardrail of the bridge, sixty feet above the black, icy waters of the river. 5. “No! Stop! Don’t kill me!” “I’ll give you money! Millions! Just stop!” Roxy shrieked, her voice thin with the sudden, cold realization of her own mortality. I closed my eyes. I unbuckled my own seatbelt. Let’s end this together. Once we hit that rail, once we fell into the abyss, the pain would finally stop. Jamie, I’m coming. I’m bringing your murderer with me. I’m sorry, Jamie. I’m sorry I was too blind to protect you. The wind roared past the windows. The engine screamed. But the impact never came. Just as the car was about to shatter the guardrail, a heavy black SUV roared out from a side street, T-boning us at full speed. The force of the collision sent my head through the windshield. The world went white. Then red. I was dragged from the wreckage like a piece of roadkill. I hit the wet pavement, my vision swimming. Through the haze, I saw Roxy being helped up by several large men in suits. She was alive. She walked over to me, her face a mask of gore and hatred. “You thought you were so tough, didn’t you?” she spat, clutching a piece of jagged glass from the broken window. “I’m going to take my time with you. I’m going to make you beg for the ‘mercy’ of a bullet.” She drove the glass into my palm. I screamed, the pain lancing through my arm, as she laughed, a high, broken sound. She raised the glass again, aiming for my throat. “STOP!” A voice like a thunderclap echoed across the bridge. Footsteps. Familiar, expensive shoes clicking on the asphalt. Everett—no, Jackson—stormed into view, his face contorted with fury. “Who touches what’s mine?” he roared. I looked up, my face a mess of blood and glass. He didn’t recognize me. Not like this. Not in these clothes, covered in the filth of the road. “Jackson…” I whispered. I had loved this man for five years. I had sacrificed my body and my soul for him. He didn’t even look at me. He ran straight to Roxy. “Roxy, baby, are you okay?” He gathered her into his arms, stroking her hair as if she were a piece of fine porcelain. The tenderness in his eyes made me want to vomit. Roxy leaned into him, sobbing theatrically. “Jackson, this psycho… she blinded me! She tried to kill us both! You have to do something!” “If she stays alive, I can’t live like this, Jackson! I’m scared!” Jackson’s gaze shifted to me. It was the coldest thing I had ever seen. He walked over and ground his heel into my head, pressing my face into a freezing puddle. I choked, spitting out mouthfuls of dirty water and blood. “Roxy is my woman!” he hissed. “You touch her, you pay a hundredfold.” He waved a hand to his guards. Two men stepped forward and began to crush my hands under their boots. “Jackson, look at me…” I wheezed. But my voice was drowned out by Roxy’s screech. “Look at her! Still trying to beg for her life! She’s pathetic! Break her, Jackson! Do it for me!” Jackson nodded, his expression one of pure disgust. “You made a mistake, driver. Now you live with the consequences.” “Break her limbs. Then bring her to the basement. Roxy can finish her there.” A guard raised a steel pipe, aiming for my arm. I found one last spark of strength. I threw the guard off me and sat up, wiping the blood from my eyes with a trembling hand. I looked Jackson dead in the eye. His pupils dilated. The color drained from his face until he was as white as a sheet. “Mr. Billionaire,” I rasped, a bloody grin splitting my face. “Whose limbs were you planning on breaking?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “452012”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

In the heavy, gasoline-scented air of the highway-adjacent service station, I stood in my grease-stained blue coveralls. My head was bowed, fingers blindly tracing the step-by-step instructions I had painstakingly written in black Sharpie on my left cuff. Suddenly, a flawlessly dressed couple walked toward me. The sharp, rhythmic click-clack of the woman’s stilettos against the oil-slicked concrete cut through the ambient hum of the highway. She stopped right in front of me. She looked down, her gaze sweeping over me with a sneer that didn’t bother hiding its venom. “Hudson. You were so damn capable five years ago when you tried to kill me for the insurance payout,” she said, her voice sharp enough to draw blood. I froze. The woman staring at me was a total stranger. She called me “Hudson,” which I knew was my name, but the things she was saying meant absolutely nothing to me. My memory is a bucket with a hole in the bottom. It can’t hold onto anything. I survive solely on the faded ink tattooed on my forearm, a stack of Polaroid pictures in my chest pocket, and a battered leather journal filled with frantic handwriting. “It’s actually pathetic. You orchestrated this massive scheme, and you walked away with absolutely nothing.” When I didn’t react, she pressed closer to the man beside her, wrapping her manicured hand around his arm. The man looked refined. Expensive peacoat, wire-rimmed glasses. He looked like an Ivy League academic. “What, Mr. Taft? Are we playing the amnesia card to dodge the consequences?” the woman scoffed, a cold, hollow sound. “I have to admit, the acting is Oscar-worthy.” I stared at her, my mind a brilliant, blinding blank. Habit took over. It was the only thing I had left. “Ma’am, do you need premium or regular?” I asked mechanically. “Fill it,” she snapped, her eyes burning into mine. “Every last drop. Don’t you dare spill a single ounce.” I nodded. I looked down at my cuff, following the Sharpie guide, step by step, to begin the fueling process. The truth is, I have a rare, aggressive form of rapid neurocognitive decline. I can’t remember much of anything anymore. That includes the girlfriend from five years ago—the one this woman claimed I had tried to murder by pulling the plug on her ventilator. I’d written in my journal that a brilliant young doctor doing his rounds had saved her life that night. Not long after, she married him. Looking at the couple standing under the harsh fluorescent lights of the gas canopy, I figured they must be them. 1 “Keep the nozzle steady. Don’t drip on my husband’s shoes.” The woman’s icy voice floated above my head. I looked down at the bespoke Italian leather oxfords near my work boots and carefully angled the nozzle away. “Yes, ma’am.” I checked the guide on my sleeve one more time, unscrewed the gas cap, and inserted the nozzle. The digital numbers on the pump began to blur and spin. “Jo, why are you even wasting your breath on him?” The man holding her spoke in a soft, cultured voice dripping with disgust. “Look at the state of him. He smells like an oil spill. He’s going to ruin your coat.” Jocelyn St. James let out a low, breathy laugh. “Tim, you’re always too soft-hearted.” “Some people never change. Five years later, he’s still poor, but his pathetic little tricks to get a woman’s attention have hit a new rock bottom.” Every word she spoke felt like a poisoned needle, but I didn’t understand the context. I only knew my job was to pump the gas. “Ma’am, what make is the vehicle?” I looked up to ask. Different high-end cars sometimes required a manual override on the vapor recovery system. Jocelyn’s face instantly darkened. Storm clouds gathering. “Why the hell are you asking me that?” Tim chuckled, a patronizing sound. “Mr. Taft, this custom McLaren was commissioned in the exact shade of midnight blue you used to obsess over. It’s a one-of-one in the world.” “Don’t tell me your little act includes forgetting that, too?” I looked at him, completely lost. “I don’t know you.” “Jo, look. He’s doing it again.” Tim shook his head with theatrical pity, resting his chin on Jocelyn’s shoulder. “He’s so committed to the bit, I almost believe him.” Jocelyn’s eyes were glacial. She reached into her designer bag, pulled out a matte black Centurion card, and tossed it onto the dirty concrete at my feet. “When you’re done pumping, clean my rims.” “Wipe them with your sleeve.” My breath hitched. On my left cuff, in thick black ink, were the steps I needed to survive my shift. If I wiped the rims with it, the oil would erase the words. I would forget how to do my job. “I can’t.” I whispered the refusal. “Excuse me?” Jocelyn looked at me like I was the punchline to a terrible joke. “Hudson Taft, what did you just say?” I looked at the black card in the dirt, then at my sleeve. I planted my feet. “I can’t.” “I can’t get my sleeve dirty.” Jocelyn’s patience snapped. She lunged forward, her fingers wrapping around my wrist like a steel vice. She squeezed so hard I thought my bones would splinter. “Five years, and you still think you can tell me ‘I can’t’?” “You didn’t say ‘I can’t’ when you pulled the plug on my life support!” Her scream echoed across the station, turning the heads of the few customers at the pumps. I winced, pain shooting up my arm. The heavy gas nozzle nearly slipped from my grip. Just then, a woman in the same blue coveralls sprinted out from the convenience store. “Let him go!” She shoved Jocelyn hard, planting herself firmly between me and the wealthy woman. It was Haley. My sister. I fumbled in my chest pocket, pulled out my Polaroid camera, and aimed it at her face. Click. The film whirred out. I stared at the familiar face developing in the square frame, pulled out my pen, and wrote on the back: Haley Taft. My sister. Jocelyn looked at Haley, her lip curling in absolute disdain. “Ah. I wondered who you were clinging to these days. Found yourself a new sugar mama, Hudson?” “Your taste really does deteriorate by the year. From me, to some street trash, and now you’re sleeping with a gas station attendant?” Haley’s face flushed a violent, mottled red. “Watch your damn mouth!” “Who the hell do you think you are, talking to my brother like that?” Tim stepped forward instantly, pulling Jocelyn securely against his side, his chin tilted in arrogance. “I suggest you watch your tone.” “You are looking at the CEO of St. James Global. This is Jocelyn St. James.” “She is someone you could never afford to cross in a million lifetimes.” 2 Haley pushed me further behind her back. “I don’t care if she’s the Queen of England! She doesn’t get to bully my brother!” Jocelyn stared at us, her eyes dead and cold. “Cute.” “Playing the fierce protector, are we?” She lifted her foot—the one wearing the thousand-dollar shoe—and stomped it down hard onto the thick rubber gas hose. “I’m not going anywhere.” “Let’s see how long you can keep him safe.” All the blood drained from Haley’s face. I knew why. She was terrified of losing this job. It was the only thing keeping a roof over our heads. I stepped out from behind her and walked up to Jocelyn. I dropped to my knees on the oily concrete and picked up the black card. Then, I lifted the hem of my shirt and began to carefully, meticulously polish the spotless silver rims of her hypercar. Whispers broke out from the onlookers. I heard the word “pathetic.” I heard someone say “deserves it.” Jocelyn stood above me, a goddess executing judgment, her eyes entirely devoid of warmth. “Remember this feeling, Hudson.” “We are just getting started.” I finished the last tire, stood up, and held the black card out to her. “Ma’am. It’s done.” She didn’t take it. Tim laughed softly. “Jo, look how obedient he is. See? He can be trained.” Without warning, Jocelyn slapped my hand. The card clattered to the ground. “Who told you to use your shirt?” “I told you to use your sleeve.” She pointed a manicured finger right at my left cuff, the one covered in my jagged handwriting. “Now. Do it. Use your sleeve.” “Wipe it until the fabric is shredded to pieces.” My body locked up. The words on that cuff had taken me all night to memorize and write down. Step 1: Ask the customer what grade of gas. Step 2: Select the correct nozzle. Step 3: Punch in the amount. …Twenty-seven steps in total. Without them, tomorrow, I wouldn’t know how to exist here. “What? Refusing me again?” There was a dangerous, thrilling edge to Jocelyn’s voice. “Or is that gibberish on your arm a love letter from your little mechanic friend?” She reached out, grabbing for my arm. Haley lunged forward again, placing herself squarely in front of me. “Enough!” “What do you want from us?!” Jocelyn glanced at her, thoroughly bored. “I am catching up with my ex-fiancé. Did anyone invite you to speak?” “Ex-fiancé?” Haley let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. “Is this how rich people catch up? This is abuse!” Tim chimed in, his voice dripping with faux-sympathy. “Miss, Jocelyn is simply helping Mr. Taft jog his memory.” “After all, he knows exactly what he did to her for a payout five years ago.” “Jocelyn is being incredibly gracious by giving him a chance to make amends. He should be on his knees thanking her.” “Amends?” Haley looked at them like they were psychopaths. “You’re torturing him, and you call it making amends?” Jocelyn was done playing. She looked past us, locking eyes with the gas station manager who had just scurried out of the office. “Does your corporate office want to keep its fuel supply contract with my logistics firm?” The manager’s knees practically buckled. “Ms. St. James! Ms. St. James, please, I am so sorry!” He bowed and scraped his way over, shooting a lethal glare at Haley. “You! Apologize to Ms. St. James right now!” Haley’s fists were trembling, her knuckles bone-white. The manager turned his wrath on me. “And you, Taft! She asked you to wipe a damn tire! What is wrong with you?” “Stop wasting her time and do your damn job!” I looked at the manager’s sweaty, subservient face. I looked at the tears of rage gathering in my sister’s eyes. I lowered my head. Slowly, I unrolled my left sleeve. And then, I sank to my knees. I took the fabric—the very blueprint of my survival—and pressed it against the cold metal rim of the tire. Once. Twice. Thick, black grime instantly soaked through the blue cotton, blurring the Sharpie ink into meaningless gray smears. 3 As the ink faded, my memory faded with it. I forgot what Step Three was. Then Step Four vanished. Jocelyn just stood there, watching me with cold satisfaction. Like she was sitting in the front row of a tragedy she had written herself. Only when the fabric of my cuff was frayed and torn, the words completely obliterated by grease, did she finally speak. “That’s enough.” I stopped my hand and looked up at her. Her face was an unreadable mask. “Hudson. Do you remember what today is? Five years ago today?” I stared at her blankly and shook my head. She wasn’t surprised. She just smiled. A terrible, broken smile. “It’s the day you agreed to marry me.” “You were crying. You looked at me and said, ‘Jocelyn, I will never love another woman as long as I live.’” “You promised to build a home with me.” With every word she spoke, a spike of pain drove itself deeper into my skull. Flickers of static-laced memories flashed behind my eyes. Stained glass. White silk. A diamond catching the light. “Can’t remember?” Jocelyn leaned down, her fingers gripping my chin, forcing my gaze up to meet hers. “It’s fine. I remember enough for both of us.” “Everything you owe me, Hudson… I’m going to extract it from you. Piece by piece.” She released me, straightening up and smoothing the lapels of her coat. “Tim. Let’s go.” Tim shot me a triumphant smirk, tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, and helped her into the passenger seat. The black McLaren roared to life, leaving nothing but the smell of exhaust and burnt rubber. Haley rushed over, pulling me up from the dirty concrete. “Hudson! Are you okay? Did she hurt you?” I looked at her, my vision swimming, my mind entirely hollowed out. “Haley… who am I?” Her eyes instantly filled with tears. She threw her arms around me, holding me tight against her chest. “You’re Hudson. You’re my little brother. You’re my favorite person in the whole world.” I fumbled in my pocket and pulled out the Polaroid I had just taken. The one I hadn’t had time to put away safely. I didn’t recognize the face on the film anymore. The writing on the back had been smeared by the oil on my hands. I pointed at the picture and asked in a whisper. “Then… who is she?” Haley looked at the photo, then at my blank face. The tears spilled over, tracking through the dirt on her cheeks. “That’s me, Hudson.” “We’re family.” I nodded slowly, trying to process the concept. Before I could, the manager marched over and slapped two white envelopes against my chest. “You’re both fired.” “Clean out your lockers and get the hell off my property.” Haley stepped up, furious. “On what grounds?!” “On the grounds that you pissed off Jocelyn St. James!” The manager waved his hand dismissively. “You’re blacklisted. No station in Seattle is going to hire you now.” “Good luck starving on the street.” Haley swayed on her feet. I reached out to steady her, picking the envelopes up from the ground. I didn’t really understand the politics of what had just happened. I just knew we didn’t have a place to go to tomorrow. I pulled out my battered journal, flipped to a fresh, crinkled page. With my clicking pen, I carefully wrote: Today, a woman named Jocelyn St. James made me lose my job. I closed the book and looked up at my sister. “Haley. What does ‘starving’ mean?” We moved into a smaller, darker basement apartment on the outskirts of the city. There were no windows. The air constantly tasted of damp concrete and mildew. Haley walked miles every day, hitting every garage and gas station in the county, but the manager had been right. No one would touch her. She ended up taking day labor—hauling bricks at construction sites or sorting heavy crates at the docks. Every night, she came home practically paralyzed with exhaustion. And me? I couldn’t even get hired to sweep floors. Without the guide on my sleeve, I couldn’t even do basic subtraction to hand back change. So, I stayed in the dark room. I spent hours staring at my journal and the polaroids, chanting the facts over and over, trying to anchor myself and my sister to my fading brain. One afternoon, Haley came home before the sun went down. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright, and she was carrying a small white bakery box. “Hudson! Look what I got!” She popped the lid. Inside was a tiny, perfect vanilla cupcake. Written in red icing on top were the words: Happy Birthday. “Birthday?” 4 I stared at her, genuinely confused. “It’s your birthday today, you idiot,” Haley said, affectionately ruffling my hair. “You’re twenty-five.” She reached into her worn jacket pocket and pulled out a small object wrapped in newspaper. “I didn’t have much cash, but I got you this.” I peeled back the paper. It was a sleek, silver digital voice recorder. “What does it do?” I asked, turning it over in my hands. “Let me show you.” She guided my thumb over the buttons. “This is record. This is stop. This is play.” “From now on, when something happens that you really need to remember, just speak into it.” “It’s faster than writing. When you forget, you just hit play.” I lifted it to my mouth, pressed the red button, and spoke. “Haley Taft is my sister.” I hit play. My own voice, clear and steady, echoed in the damp room. A massive smile broke across my face. “Thank you, Haley.” Watching me smile, her eyes watered again. “Don’t thank me, kid. You’re my brother.” That night, we split the cupcake down the middle. I swear, the cheap vanilla frosting was the sweetest thing I had ever tasted in my life. The next morning, I was sitting on my cot, practicing with the recorder. Suddenly, the flimsy door to our basement was kicked off its hinges. Three men in tailored black suits stormed into the room. The one in front was Jocelyn’s executive assistant. “Mr. Taft. My boss would like a word.” It wasn’t a request. Instinctively, I shoved the voice recorder behind my back. “I don’t want to go.” “That really wasn’t an option.” The assistant smirked, flicking his wrist. The two muscle-bound suits grabbed my arms and hauled me out. I was thrown into the back of a black SUV and driven to a place that felt like another planet. It was a sprawling, glass-and-steel mansion overlooking Lake Washington. Jocelyn sat on a white leather sofa in the center of the cavernous living room. Tim was curled into her side, a glass of champagne in his hand. When she saw me dragged in, a cruel, razor-thin smile touched her lips. “Hudson. It’s been a while.” I stared at her, every muscle in my body tight. “What do you want?” “To give you an opportunity to make some real money.” She pointed elegantly toward the far wall. There was a massive, floor-to-ceiling decorative water tank, meant for exotic fish, but currently empty save for the deep, crystal-clear water. “Do you see the bottom of the tank?” “There’s a ring down there. The engagement ring I was going to give you five years ago.” “You jump in, you swim down, and you bring it to me. I’ll write you a check for one hundred thousand dollars right now.” I stared at the deep, shimmering water. A cold sweat broke out over my entire body. I couldn’t swim. My journal clearly stated: You are terrified of deep water. “What’s wrong? Scared?” Tim practically purred the words. “Mr. Taft, you were bold enough to try and murder Jocelyn for her money. Surely a little swim isn’t too frightening?” “Or is a hundred grand just pocket change to a high roller like you?” Jocelyn swirled the red wine in her glass, her eyes locked on my trembling hands. “A million, then.” “You jump in, you get the ring, and a million dollars is yours.” “With a million dollars, you and your sister will never have to rot in that moldy basement ever again.” My breath caught. She knew where we lived. She was watching us. My grip tightened on the voice recorder hidden in my pocket. “I won’t do it.” Jocelyn’s amusement vanished. The air in the room went freezing cold. “Hudson. Don’t push your luck.” “I’m giving you a choice. You go in the water, or I have my men drag your sister here, and I make her go in the water.” My heart slammed against my ribs. “Don’t touch her!” “Then be a good boy.” Jocelyn set her wine glass down with a sharp clink. She stood up and walked slowly toward me. “I’m going to ask you one last time. Are you going in, or is she?” I looked into her dead, beautiful eyes. I looked back at the towering tank of water. I didn’t have a choice. My legs felt like lead as I walked toward the glass. I nudged off my worn sneakers. Ice-cold panic had already gripped my lungs. Just as I braced my hands on the edge to pull myself up— “Ah!” Tim let out a high-pitched gasp. “My watch!” He pointed frantically at the surface of the water, his face twisted in horror. “Jo, my watch just slipped off! It fell in!” “That was my grandfather’s! It’s the only thing I have left of him!” Jocelyn immediately pulled him into her arms, stroking his hair. “Shh, it’s okay. I’ll have the staff drain the tank.” “No!” Tim shook his head, actual tears in his eyes. “The mechanism is too delicate! The pressure from the drain pull will destroy it! It has to be retrieved by hand!” 5 He turned to look at me, his eyes wide and pleading. “Mr. Taft, please! You’re such a strong swimmer. Could you please bring it up for me?” “If you do… I’ll… I’ll beg you on my knees!” He actually made a show of bending his knees to drop to the floor. Jocelyn caught him by the shoulders, pulling him back up. “Tim, stop it! Have some dignity!” She looked at him with profound tenderness, and then turned her gaze to me. It was like a switch flipping from summer to absolute winter. “Hudson. There’s been a change of plans.” “Now, you are going to dive down and retrieve Tristan’s watch, too.” “If you come up missing either the ring or the watch, I will have my security break one of your sister’s legs.” I stood on the edge of the massive glass tank, my hands entirely numb. Two items. A ring. A watch. I could only hold my breath long enough to grab one at a time. “Why are you just standing there?” Jocelyn’s voice sounded like it was echoing up from hell. “Are you trying to calculate which one is worth more so you can negotiate a better payout?” Tim leaned heavily against her, his voice a tragic whisper. “Jo, don’t force him.” “My watch doesn’t matter. Let it rot at the bottom.” “Mr. Taft obviously cares more about the diamond. He’s always been about the money.” His words acted like gasoline on an open flame. “Hudson. I changed my mind again.” “You will bring up Tristan’s watch first.” “The ring… you don’t get the ring anymore.” She was doing this on purpose. She wanted to watch me sacrifice the last physical tether between us just to appease her current lover. I took a jagged, desperate breath. I closed my eyes. And I let myself fall into the freezing water. The shock of the cold was an instant physical assault. I couldn’t swim. I was sinking like a stone. The pressure crushed against my eardrums. My lungs screamed. I thrashed wildly, my arms and legs kicking at the empty water, but I was only sinking deeper. Through the distorted, bubbling glass, I saw the two of them standing in the living room. Jocelyn stood perfectly still, a statue of ice. Tim had a small, triumphant smirk playing on his lips. They were just watching me. Like scientists observing an insect drowning in a jar. Black spots danced in the corners of my vision. My consciousness was fraying. Just as my body surrendered, convinced I was going to die on the tiled bottom of this tank… A tiny red light blinked in my pocket. With the absolute last ounce of my strength, my thumb jammed against the fabric of my pants, hitting the play button. Through the muffled, rushing sound of the water, Haley’s voice crackled out. You’re Hudson. You’re my little brother. You’re my favorite person in the whole world. Haley. I have a sister. I can’t leave her alone. Pure, primal survival instinct injected a surge of adrenaline into my dying muscles. I kicked off the bottom with everything I had. My hand swept across the tiles. My fingers brushed against cold metal. It was the ring. I didn’t even look for the watch. I closed my fist around the band and kicked upward, thrashing blindly toward the light. Splash—! I broke the surface. I dragged myself over the edge of the tank and collapsed onto the marble floor, coughing up pool water, gasping so hard my chest tore with pain. “What did you pull up?” Jocelyn’s voice was devoid of humanity. My hand was trembling violently. Slowly, I uncurled my fingers. The diamond ring sat in my palm, catching the harsh track lighting above. Tristan’s face contorted in fury. “Hudson! What the hell is wrong with you?” “I begged you to get my grandfather’s watch, and you went for the diamond?!” “You really are a greedy, heartless bastard!” Jocelyn’s eyes looked like they wanted to strip the flesh from my bones. She took slow, deliberate steps toward me, leaned down, and snatched the ring from my palm. She held it up, stared at it for a second, and then hurled it onto the marble floor. “You make me sick.” She lifted the heel of her shoe, aiming directly for the diamond, ready to stomp down and shatter the setting. “No!” I lunged forward, throwing my upper body over the ring, burying it under my stomach. Jocelyn’s heel came down—landing hard between my shoulder blades. She didn’t stomp with her full weight, but the heavy, crushing pressure of her shoe pinning me to the floor made it impossible to breathe. “You care about it this much?” She laughed, a hollow, bitter sound. “You’d literally take a beating for the payout?” I lay pressed against the cold marble, soaking wet, shivering violently. I didn’t care about the money. I just felt, deep in my broken brain, that this ring was incredibly important. I couldn’t let her destroy it. “Jo, let it go.” 6 Tim walked over, placing a gentle hand on her arm, playing the merciful saint. “If he’s that desperate for cash, let him keep the scraps.” “Besides, you love me now.” “That ring means absolutely nothing. It’s garbage.” Slowly, Jocelyn lifted her foot off my back. “You’re right.” “There’s no point in fighting with trash over trash.” She turned, sliding her arm around Tristan’s waist. “Let’s go upstairs. He’s ruining the aesthetic.” They walked away like two untouchable gods who had just handed down a sentence, leaving me completely alone in the massive room. I pushed myself up onto my knees. My fingers traced the marble until I found the ring. I held it up to the light. There was an engraving on the inside of the band. I squinted, trying to focus my blurry vision. V.C & H.E? No. J.S & H.T. Jocelyn St. James and Hudson Taft. Suddenly, my brain felt like it was being pierced by a thousand white-hot needles. A violent, agonizing pressure built behind my eyes. Shattered glass fragments of memory violently forced their way into my consciousness. “Hudson, marry me.” “I love you, Jocelyn.” “Pull it… it hurts so much…” “Hudson! Don’t you dare!” “Help me…” “No…” “AGH—!” I grabbed my head, a raw, animalistic scream ripping from my throat. My body seized. I collapsed onto the floor, my limbs thrashing uncontrollably as a grand mal seizure took hold. My vision narrowed into a dark tunnel. My lungs paralyzed. I forgot how to breathe. Just as the darkness was about to pull me under completely… The heavy oak doors of the mansion burst open. Haley rushed into the room like a bat out of hell, dragging a man in a white doctor’s coat behind her. “Hudson!” When she saw me seizing on the wet marble, her eyes went wide with pure terror. The doctor sprinted over, dropping his bag and instantly beginning emergency protocol, forcing my airway open. Jocelyn and Tim, having heard the scream from the stairs, had rushed back down. When Jocelyn saw the chaos on the floor, she froze for a split second, before her face hardened into a sneer. “A new performance, Hudson?” “Faking a seizure now?” “The lengths you’ll go to keep my attention are honestly pathetic.” Haley launched herself across the room. Her fist connected with Jocelyn’s cheekbone with a sickening crack. “Shut your fucking mouth!” Haley’s eyes were bloodshot. She looked like a cornered wolf, her voice completely shredded by grief and rage. “He isn’t acting!” “He is sick!” Jocelyn stumbled back, touching her bruising cheek. Her eyes narrowed into slits of pure hatred. “Of course he’s sick. Greed is a disease!” “No!” Haley screamed, her voice breaking into a gut-wrenching sob. “He has a neurological disease! The doctor is right here!” She pointed a shaking finger at the man currently trying to keep me from swallowing my tongue. “He has Rapid Progressive Neurocognitive Decline! His brain is literally dying, you stupid, arrogant bitch!” “What the hell did you just do to him?!”

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Today is the highly publicized “Love of the Century” mega-wedding event, and my fiancé, Isaac, and I are one of the couples. Fifty couples are scheduled to sign their marriage licenses and say their vows on a live, nationwide broadcast. According to the network’s run-of-show, the grooms are currently downstairs navigating the “Groom’s Gauntlet”—a televised obstacle course and trivia game—while the brides wait in our respective hotel suites. I wanted to give Isaac a little surprise. I slipped out of my suite and crept down the hall, planning to hide in the alcove so I could jump out when he finally made it to my floor. I had just ducked behind the ice machine when I heard the low, hushed voices of Isaac and his groomsmen. “Isaac, man, I don’t know about this,” one of his friends muttered, sounding frantic. “This is a massive, officially sponsored live broadcast. If you use this setup to secretly marry your brother’s widow, Josie is going to be publicly humiliated.” I froze. My breath caught in my throat. Then, Isaac’s voice drifted over, dripping with an exhausted kind of martyrdom. “I don’t have a choice. Lola has been a widow for three years. My parents treat her like absolute garbage, blaming her for Declan’s death. The only way she gets legal protection and access to the family trust is if she has my name.” “And as for Josie,” he continued smoothly, “she and I have always had a connection that transcends a piece of paper. We are soulmates. We don’t need a marriage license to validate what we have. She won’t care about the legalities.” The groomsman still sounded hesitant. “But dude, you’re forgetting something. When your brother dumped Josie for Lola at their engagement party three years ago, Josie nearly drowned herself in the river. It took you three years to pull her out of that dark place. If she finds out… she’s losing her husband to the exact same woman twice. She’ll lose her mind.” Isaac cut him off, his tone dismissive and cold. “It’s a fifty-couple wedding. It’s chaos down there. The network mandates that all brides wear those heavy, opaque vintage lace veils for the ‘blind reveal’ at the altar. I’ll just say I couldn’t see through the lace and grabbed the wrong hand. No one is going to investigate it.” “Besides, you guys know the truth. The only reason I pursued Josie back then was to keep her occupied so Lola could marry my brother in peace. Now that Declan is gone, it’s my duty to protect Lola.” He turned to the other two groomsmen, his voice dropping into a hard, authoritative register. “Go stand outside Room 302. Don’t let Josie out. Once the ink is dry on the license and the live broadcast wraps, it’ll be legally binding. Even if my parents throw a fit, it’ll be too late to undo it.” Listening to him, a hollow, freezing sensation washed over me. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just let out a quiet, bitter exhale, and silently slipped back into my room. I pulled out my phone, opened the massive group chat the network had set up for the couples, and scrolled until I found the guy who had originally been paired with Isaac’s sister-in-law for the broadcast. I typed out a quick text: Room 302 is missing a groom. You want to swap in? …… 1 I set my phone face-down on the vanity. The screen was still glowing. “Josie, get over to the door! Isaac’s group just passed the first checkpoint!” The corner of my mouth twitched. It wasn’t quite a smile. Seeing me frozen there, my best friend Gemma rushed over and grabbed my arm. “Hurry up! They’re on the second floor. When he gets up here, what kind of riddle should we make him solve to get in?” “Don’t bother,” I said, gently pulling my arm out of her grip. Gemma blinked, confused. “What do you mean?” I looked at her, enunciating every word. “I don’t think this wedding is happening.” Gemma stared at me, completely lost. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “You two have been waiting for this broadcast for months. You fought tooth and nail to get one of the fifty spots. What do you mean it’s not happening?” I didn’t answer. Fought tooth and nail to get a spot… Three months ago, Isaac had slammed the application forms onto my kitchen counter. He told me about this massive network event. A live-streamed wedding. Fifty couples. The whole country watching. He told me he had stayed up for forty-eight hours straight just to secure our audition spot. He said he was only going to do this once in his life, and he wanted it to be spectacular. I had hesitated. Because right around that time, my mother had been moved into the ICU. Her biggest regret in life was that she and my dad never had a real wedding. They were poor; they signed some papers at the courthouse and called it a day. She always told me that when I found the right man, she wanted to see me in a white dress. She wanted to physically place my hand into his. I wanted her to have that. I took the application to her hospital room. I showed her the fine print at the bottom of the page: “Due to live-broadcast logistical constraints, the traditional parental give-away will not be permitted.” My mom had smiled a frail, paper-thin smile and said it was fine. “As long as I live long enough to see you marry him, I don’t care about the logistics.” But when she flipped to the page showing the venue layout, she had gone quiet for a long time. “So… I won’t even get to see you walk down the aisle?” she had whispered. I had broken down in the hospital corridor that afternoon. That night, I begged Isaac. “Can we just pull out of the TV thing? Let’s just do something tiny. A backyard ceremony. Let my mom sit in her wheelchair and hand me over to you…” Isaac had pulled me into his arms, stroking my hair. “Baby, don’t be unreasonable. We fought so hard for this spot. It’s going to be broadcast live. Your mom can watch it from her hospital bed. It’s the same thing.” “It’s not the same,” I had cried. “When I come to pick you up at the hotel, we’ll FaceTime her,” he promised, his voice thick with emotion. “It’s the same thing, Josie.” I stopped fighting him. Because when he said it, his eyes were red. He told me he just wanted to give me the most magnificent day of my life. I believed him. My mom’s condition deteriorated. She was moved to the palliative respiratory ward. On the last day she was truly lucid, she held my hand and wheezed, “Momma isn’t going to get to see you in your dress.” “You will,” I promised, swallowing my tears. “It’s on TV. I’ll have the nurses turn it on. You have to watch.” She nodded. “Okay.” And yet today, just moments ago, the man I was supposed to marry said: “She and I have always had a connection that transcends a piece of paper. She won’t care about the legalities.” My mother was lying in a hospital bed right now, her eyes glued to a television screen, completely unaware that her daughter didn’t even deserve a piece of paper. Suddenly, heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway outside our suite. Gemma’s head snapped toward the door, her eyes narrowing. “That’s weird. Why is it only two groomsmen? Where’s Isaac?” 2 She looked back at me, her face scrunched in confusion. “The gauntlet is over. Shouldn’t he be the first one sprinting up here to get his bride?” I let out a dry, hollow laugh. “Gem… when the groom gets here, don’t give him too hard of a time.” Gemma paused, then covered her mouth and giggled. “Oh, whatever! I know you’re just protective of him.” “Fine,” she said, pulling out her phone. “Considering the poor guy chased you for three years, I’ll tell the other bridesmaids to go easy on him. Maybe just twenty push-ups at the door.” She rapidly typed out a text to the girls in the hall. “Bride’s orders. Don’t be too vicious. Leave the groom some dignity.” The corners of my mouth curved up slightly, but I stayed silent. Under any other circumstances, this would have been such a sweet, perfect moment. Gemma tucked her phone away and came over to loop her arm through mine. “Honestly, Isaac is going to look devastating in his tux today. You guys have been together for three years, and he’s always treated you like fragile glass. You’re finally making it official. Are you nervous?” “No,” I said. Gemma laughed. “Liar. Your lips are completely white.” Just as the words left her mouth, my phone buzzed on the vanity. It was a FaceTime call from my mom. She had just finished her final, desperate round of chemo. She was completely bald, her skin a sickly, jaundiced yellow, but her eyes were crinkled in absolute joy. “My beautiful girl,” she rasped, beaming. “I’m watching the broadcast. Isaac was working so hard during those silly games to get to you. You tell your friends not to torture him too much…” I forced out a laugh and nodded. “I just can’t wait to see you two sign those papers,” she whispered. A nurse walked into the frame to adjust her IV and glanced at the screen. “Oh, is your daughter one of the TV brides today?” “Yes she is! Fifty couples, live on national television!” My mom’s voice was as frail as a flickering candle in the wind, but it was filled with so much pride. “She found herself a wonderful man. Three years, and he’s never given me a single reason to worry. He cherishes her like she’s the most precious thing in the world.” I gripped my phone so hard my fingernails dug half-moons into my palms. She didn’t know. She didn’t know that the man who had pursued me for three years, who had “loved” me for three years, had orchestrated this massive television spectacle for one singular purpose. To use the chaos of the broadcast to marry his brother’s widow. To force his parents’ hands into accepting an unholy alliance, live on television, where they couldn’t scream and stop it. I took a deep, shuddering breath, and smiled into the camera. “Alright, Mom, the signal is getting a little choppy. I’ll call you as soon as the ink is dry.” I hung up. Gemma stepped behind me and carefully draped the heavy, opaque vintage lace veil over my head, completely obscuring my face. “You know, this whole vintage veil gimmick is actually kind of romantic,” she mused, adjusting the lace. “And your mom being able to watch it live… I bet just seeing this will cure her halfway.” She wandered over to the window and peered down at the courtyard. “Where is Isaac?” she muttered. “The other rooms are already clearing out. The host on the loudspeaker is already calling the twenty-eighth couple down.” 3 She turned back, picked up a favor box of jordan almonds from the table, popped one into her mouth, and crunched down. “But seriously,” she said, her voice softening. “Three years ago, if someone had told me you’d be marrying him today, I would have thought they were crazy.” I didn’t say anything. Gemma chewed her candy, her gaze drifting to a memory. “When Declan broke your heart like that, I was genuinely terrified we were going to lose you.” “Declan was such a manipulative piece of trash,” she spat. “When you two were together, he acted like he would pull the stars from the sky for you. We all thought you two were endgame.” Her voice dropped. “And then Lola showed up.” My fingers curled inward, the heavy lace of my dress scratching against my skin. Lola. I hadn’t let anyone say that name around me in a long time. It wasn’t until I had been dating Isaac for six months that he finally brought me home to meet his family. That was the day I found out that my ex-fiancé, Declan, was his older brother. And the woman who had destroyed my life, Lola, was already his sister-in-law. I had started shaking violently. I turned to walk right back out the door. Isaac had grabbed my hand, his grip tight, his voice shaking. “Josie, please. Give me a chance. I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you. Let the past be the past. Please.” I had struggled with it for months. Every time I had to sit across from Declan and Lola at family dinners, my stomach churned with nausea. But Isaac… Isaac was so incredibly good to me. He never forced me to call Declan ‘brother’ or Lola ‘sister’. He intercepted the wine glasses they tried to hand me. He filled my plate. At family gatherings, he acted as a physical shield, ensuring they never even got close to me. “You don’t have to talk to them,” he would whisper. “They don’t exist in our world.” But I didn’t want him to be caught in the middle. He was a part of that family. Lola was his sister-in-law. Holidays were inevitable. The better he treated me, the more guilty I felt for holding onto my trauma. After eight months of inner warfare, I finally raised my glass at Thanksgiving, looked right at the woman who ruined my engagement, and smiled. “To you, Lola.” Beneath the table, Isaac had gripped my hand so hard, his eyes shining with unshed tears. From that day on, I played the part. For him. But it wasn’t long after that Declan was killed. A freak accident on a construction site. Gone in an instant. Lola became a widow overnight. “I really didn’t want to bring all this up on your wedding day,” Gemma scoffed, pulling me out of my memories. “I’m just so pissed off. My boyfriend and I couldn’t even get on the waitlist for this TV wedding, but somehow she gets to participate?” “And the guy she’s marrying is Brandon? Isaac’s old college roommate who just moved back from London?” She threw her hands up. “Like, seriously? Does every man on earth just fall for her tragic, helpless act?” She was getting angrier the more she spoke, her fingers crushing the cardboard favor box. “When you and Declan were celebrating your engagement, he literally abandoned you in front of both your families to run to Lola because she ‘wasn’t feeling well’ and ‘needed someone to take care of her’. And how did he take care of her? By sleeping with her!” Gemma’s voice cracked, tears suddenly springing to her eyes. “That night… you went down to the river all by yourself…” I lowered my eyes beneath the veil. My eyelashes fluttered. “If Isaac hadn’t jumped in and dragged you out…” She couldn’t finish the sentence. She aggressively wiped at her face. I handed her a tissue from my lap. “Isaac,” Gemma sniffled, taking the tissue and forcing a watery smile. “He was soaking wet. His lips were literally blue from the cold. And he just knelt there in the mud, holding you, saying, ‘Don’t be afraid, I’ve got you.’ Why would a total stranger do that for someone?” Her tone lightened, filled with that survivor’s reverence she always had when talking about my relationship. “He told us he understood you. He said he had been betrayed too, and that he was willing to spend his whole life helping you heal.” “Do you remember? You had withered away to nothing. You wouldn’t speak to anyone. But when he came over, you’d finally eat. We all thought he was a literal angel sent to save you. He chased you for three years. He respected your boundaries so much he barely even held your hand for the first year. We used to joke that maybe he had intimacy issues—but looking back, what kind of man has that much patience? A man who is truly, deeply in love with you.” Her eyes were bloodshot by the time she said the last word. I tilted my head up, looking toward the window, my face hidden beneath the thick lace. I let out a soft laugh. “He didn’t love me.” Gemma froze. “What did you say?” 4 My lips parted in a dry, humorless smile. “He only approached me to keep me out of the way, so his precious Lola could marry his brother in peace.” Gemma was completely derailed. “Wh… what does that mean?” I looked at her blurred silhouette through the veil. Suddenly, I felt utterly exhausted. There was no point in explaining it all now. Why ruin her day, too? All she saw was the Isaac who saved me. The Isaac who treated me like royalty. She didn’t know about the late-night phone calls he took in the driveway whenever the ‘widow’ was having a panic attack. She didn’t hear the way eight out of ten sentences out of his mouth ended with, “Lola has it so hard, Josie, please just be understanding.” She didn’t know that for every birthday, every anniversary, he insisted on taking Lola to lunch first, because she ‘needed the company’, before coming to celebrate with me. I should have woken up a long time ago. But I couldn’t let go. I couldn’t let go of the man who had pulled me out of the freezing water. “You… you always do this. You swallow everything and only tell me the good stuff. What’s going on?” Gemma’s voice was trembling now, her eyes locked onto me. “Don’t think I didn’t notice. The way Isaac treats his sister-in-law… it’s crossed the line into weird so many times.” “I used to ask you about it, and you’d always just brush it off. ‘It’s fine, she’s his family, he’s just being supportive.’ You seemed so okay with it, so I kept my mouth shut.” She sniffled, a sob catching in her throat. “But I kept track of it. I worried about it.” “Until the day he proposed to you. In the plaza below your office building. Hundreds of roses. When he yelled your name, his voice was literally cracking. I thought to myself, how could a man who looks at her like that not love her?” She forced a laugh, wiping her nose. “So I threw all those doubts away. Because today is the day my Josie finally gets her happily ever after.” Right on cue, a chorus of cheers and laughter erupted from the hallway. “The groom is here! The groom is here! Pay the toll!” Gemma’s eyes lit up instantly. She wiped the last of her tears away, a massive grin breaking across her face. “He’s here! Isaac is finally here!” “Okay, sit up straight, fix the veil, don’t let him see you yet—wait, is my makeup ruined?” I sat perfectly still, watching her flurry of movement through the lace. She was smiling. I was smiling, too. She was smiling because she thought Isaac had finally arrived. I was smiling because my groom had finally arrived. 5 The moment the door swung open, the smile vanished from Gemma’s face. The man who walked in was not Isaac. The other brides’ bridesmaids were still in the hallway, cheering and yelling things like, “Give us the envelopes!” and “Sing us a song!” They didn’t know Isaac; they just assumed the man walking into 302 was the groom assigned to this suite. But Gemma knew. Her head whipped back to look at me, her eyes immediately welling up again. The look on her face was a devastating cocktail of confusion, panic, and a dark, sinking realization that she had just put the pieces together. I reached out and gently squeezed her hand. It was as if she had been struck physically. The tears spilled over her eyelashes. She didn’t ask why. Maybe the sentence I had just spoken—”He only approached me so Lola could marry his brother”—finally clicked into place. Or maybe it was because the woman sitting beneath the heavy lace veil was so eerily calm. She understood. In an instant, she understood everything. Biting down hard on her lower lip, Gemma took a step back and gave a shaky wave to the man in the doorway. The man walked in. He didn’t say a word. He simply reached out, took my hand in his, and led me out the door. The hallway was eerily quiet now. All the other suites had been emptied out in a flurry of laughter and camera flashes. Only Room 302 remained, its bride walking silently away, her hand held by a complete stranger. When we reached the outdoor plaza, the fifty brides in their identical vintage lace veils were lined up in five perfect rows. The network host’s voice boomed over the loudspeakers. “Alright! The final couple has taken their place! Fifty couples, all present and accounted for!” “It is time for the couples to take their vows—” Isaac, who had been whispering and laughing with Lola, heard the words ‘all present’ and frowned. “Wait,” he said sharply.

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Three years ago, the global outbreak of the “Dark Strain” plunged me, along with the rest of humanity, into permanent midnight. And then, this morning, I opened my eyes and the world was there again. It was nothing short of a miracle. My heart hammered against my ribs, wild and euphoric. I couldn’t wait to run downstairs and tell Dad. But as I sat up and looked around my bedroom, the breath completely left my lungs. My body went rigid. Across every single wall of my room, smeared in thick, frantic strokes of dark paint, was the exact same warning. The letters wrapped around me like a brand, screaming in silence: DO NOT TELL THEM YOU CAN SEE. — 1 The sheer joy in my chest curdled into a cold, heavy knot of confusion. Surely, this was a prank. But who could have crept into my room in the dead of night to paint all of this without making a sound? Mom and Dad? That was impossible. They were entirely blind, just like me. Before my mind could spiral further, Dad’s voice drifted up from the foot of the stairs. Warm. Familiar. “Breakfast is ready, kiddo!” I pushed the dread down. There was no time to overthink it. I scrambled out of bed and jogged out of my bedroom. The dining table was laden with all my favorites: a stack of golden buttermilk pancakes, crispy thick-cut bacon, scrambled eggs, and a steaming hazelnut latte. “Thanks, Dad,” I chirped. He reached out, his hand finding the top of my head with practiced, gentle precision, ruffling my hair before pressing my backpack into my arms. Over by the sofa, Mom was quietly zipping up her own tote bag for work. Everything was devastatingly normal. It had to be a sick joke. Maybe some kids from the neighborhood broke in? I shook my head, desperate to toss the absurd, terrifying thoughts away. “I’m heading out to campus, Dad.” I grabbed my bag and headed for the front door. I had just wrapped my fingers around the brass doorknob when a hand slipped over my shoulder. It was utterly soundless. “You forgot your cane, sweetie.” I forced out an awkward, breathless laugh. “Oh, right. Guess I’m just in a rush.” Dad pressed the collapsible white cane into my palm. His tone was breezy, almost conversational. “Your vision came back, didn’t it?” My pulse spiked. I hesitated, biting the inside of my cheek, debating whether to tell the truth. But then Dad chuckled, tapping a finger against his own temple near his eyes. “I don’t know how it happened,” he said, smiling softly. “I woke up this morning, and the blindness was just… gone. I was actually going to suggest we skip school and go to the hospital to get checked out.” A massive wave of relief washed over me. “Wait, you can see?” I gasped. “Sure can.” Whatever the hell was written on my walls, it didn’t matter. Dad would never hurt me. The tension drained from my shoulders in a long, shaky exhale. “Oh my god, really? Dad, my sight came back too! Just this morning, I—” The smile froze on my face. A sudden, wet tearing sound echoed in the foyer. I looked down, my brain struggling to process the visual. The sharp metal tip of a mobility cane was buried deep in my abdomen. Blood, hot and shockingly red, poured over the white shaft, pooling onto the hardwood floor. My eyes tracked the length of the cane to the hands gripping the handle. Mom’s hands. My lips parted, but all that came out was a wet gasp. “Why…?” Dad was standing right in front of me, staring at my face. His eyes were entirely dead. He didn’t answer. Instead, he raised his hands and shoved me backward with a brutal, mechanical force. There was a sickening thud as my body pitched backward down the porch steps. Then, a sharp, deafening crack. I felt the spine in my neck sever. A gurgling sound scraped up my throat. The blood pooled around my head, thick and warm. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. My vision began to blur at the edges, tunneling into darkness. But in my final, fading second of consciousness, I looked up. Dad was standing at the top of the stairs, looking down at me. The gentle, paternal warmth had completely melted off his face, leaving behind something utterly hollow. Something that wasn’t human at all. 2 I gasped, my eyes flying open. I was staring at the walls again. DO NOT TELL THEM YOU CAN SEE. My chest heaved as I sucked in greedy, panicked breaths. I looked around wildly. “What the hell…?” I yanked up the hem of my shirt, staring at my stomach. Smooth skin. No blood. No gaping hole. Had I… reset? Was it morning again? I sat in my familiar bed, surrounded by my familiar things, but a creeping, suffocating terror wrapped around my throat. What is happening? Downstairs, the voice rang out again. Cheerful. Warm. “Breakfast is ready, kiddo!” I squeezed my eyes shut and forced myself to breathe. Hiding up here wouldn’t do any good. If I stayed, they would eventually come up. I needed to take control of the narrative. I pasted a smile onto my face—or at least, what I hoped looked like one—and opened my bedroom door. I nearly screamed. Dad was standing inches from my door. Ramrod straight. Completely motionless. My heart stalled, but survival instinct kicked in. Without missing a beat, I unfolded my cane, tapping it rhythmically against the floorboards, acting exactly as I had for the last three years. I walked forward, pretending I couldn’t see the man blocking my path. He didn’t speak. He just turned, his footsteps falling perfectly in time with mine, trailing me down the hall. I sat at my usual spot at the dining table. Only then did Dad pull out his own cane, tapping it lightly against the kitchen tiles, fabricating the auditory illusion that he had just walked into the room. A cold sweat broke out across my spine. He can see. He can see perfectly fine. So why is he pretending to be blind? Has he been pretending for the last three years? I ate my pancakes in suffocating silence, using my peripheral vision to watch him. He looked exactly like my father. The same laugh lines, the same tiny mole near his left eye. But the way he sat was wrong. He didn’t eat. He didn’t blink. He just sat directly across from me, his dark pupils locked onto my face with a terrifying, predator-like stillness. My breath caught in my throat for a fraction of a second. Instantly, his hand shot across the table, pressing against my forehead. “You feel cold, sweetie. Didn’t sleep well?” I forced a weak chuckle. “Probably just kicked the blankets off. I’m fine.” His voice was dripping with fatherly concern, but his facial muscles were completely slack. It was like watching an animatronic doll. I forced myself to keep eating, meticulously mimicking the clumsy, cautious movements of a blind person. Halfway through my eggs, I purposely fumbled my fork, letting it clatter to the floor. I bent down to pick it up. As I did, I peeked through the space beneath the table toward the living room. Mom was on the sofa, methodically packing her bag. Normal. Ordinary. Except her head was turned at a sharp, unnatural angle. Her unblinking eyes were fixed dead on me. She was faking it too. The air in the room felt like it was turning to glass, fragile and sharp. I couldn’t keep this up. I was going to crack. I grabbed the fork, sat up, and kept my eyes fixed firmly on the empty space ahead of me. “I’m full, Dad. Gotta head to class.” I stood up quickly. “Hold on a second.” Dad moved with terrifying speed, stepping directly into my path. I froze, my muscles locking up. He knew. He had to know. Then, he let out a soft chuckle and slipped my travel mug into the side pocket of my backpack. “You forgot your coffee, kiddo.” I kept my chin down. I couldn’t let him see my eyes. He patted my head. “Alright. Dad’s off to work.” “Bye, Dad.” I intentionally fumbled with the straps of my backpack, buying time, waiting for him to leave first. The rhythmic tap-tap of his cane faded toward the front door. The latch clicked shut. I exhaled, the tension draining from my muscles. But then, the knob turned again. Without making a single sound, the door cracked open. Dad stepped back inside on the balls of his feet. He held his cane suspended an inch above the ground. Absolute, terrifying silence. He crept back into the living room, sat down on the sofa next to Mom, and together, they stared at me. Unmoving. — 3 A violent shudder ripped through me, my clothes instantly sticking to the icy sweat on my back. He didn’t go to work. Why was he back? I bit the inside of my lip so hard I tasted copper, forcing myself not to process the horror. I gripped my cane—the one I’d made sure to grab this time—and tapped my way to the front door. As I walked out, I saw them rise from the sofa. They followed me. I walked down the sidewalk, tapping my cane, staring straight ahead, while my “parents” stalked me on their tiptoes just a few feet behind. It wasn’t until I crossed the iron gates of my boarding school campus that the suffocating weight of their stares finally vanished. When I slid into my seat in the lecture hall, I immediately scanned the room for Dustin. He was a few rows ahead of me, sitting rigid. The professor was droning on at the front, his eyes glazed and vacant. All the students around me had the same hollow, unseeing gaze. Everyone was blind. But Dustin was shifting in his seat. Twitching. The second the bell rang, Dustin grabbed my arm and dragged me into the boys’ restroom, shoving me into a stall and locking the door. His breathing was ragged. “Gemma, have you noticed anything weird?” My stomach plummeted, but I kept my face utterly blank. “What do you mean?” “My parents,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “Something is really wrong with them.” I raised an eyebrow, gesturing for him to keep going. He checked under the stall door, paranoid. Seeing him like this made my own hands curl into fists. Satisfied we were alone, he leaned in, his lips barely brushing my ear. “I can see. It came back this morning.” A shockwave hit my chest. I opened my mouth to say Me too, to tell him everything. But then the image of my own blood pooling on the hardwood flashed in my mind. DO NOT TELL THEM YOU CAN SEE. I swallowed the truth like broken glass. “Wait, really?” I faked a gasp of awe. “That’s amazing! I wish mine would come back. But what does that have to do with your parents acting weird?” Dustin looked terrified. He started rambling about his parents standing over his bed, about them tracking him with dead eyes. I murmured comforting words, validating his fear, but I locked my own secret tight behind my teeth. The warning bell rang. Dustin looked like he was on the verge of a breakdown. A pang of guilt hit me. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe we were in the exact same boat and we needed to team up. Then, without warning, Dustin’s hand shot out, his index finger jabbing directly toward my left eye. Every instinct screamed at me to flinch. But the sheer, paralyzing terror of what my father had done to me overrode the reflex. I forced my eye to stay wide open, my face completely slack. His fingernail stopped less than a millimeter from my cornea. Dustin tilted his head. The panic on his face evaporated, replaced by a chilling, clinical emptiness. He stared at me for a long, agonizing moment. Slowly, he lowered his hand. “I guess so,” he muttered, his voice entirely devoid of emotion. “We should get back to class. Maybe I’m just losing my mind.” “Yeah,” I breathed. Cold sweat trickled down my temple. He had been testing me. If I had blinked, I’d probably be dead on the bathroom floor. I made the right choice. I couldn’t trust anyone. — 4 After the incident with Dustin, I existed in a state of hyper-vigilance. Everyone was a threat. I went through the motions. Classes. Lunch. Small talk. Heading back to the dorms. I played the perfect blind girl. My plan was to lay low for a few days, gather supplies, and figure out a way to run. But during afternoon cleaning duty in the library archives, I found something. A diary. It was shoved behind a loose baseboard. The cover was worn leather, with several frantic, red warning symbols etched into it. I frowned, tracing the cover. More importantly, it wasn’t written in Braille. Since the Great Blindness hit, almost all printed text had been converted to Braille. Traditional books were incinerated or recycled as scrap. Written words simply didn’t exist anymore. Who wrote this? Was it the same person who painted my walls? The other students were busy sweeping. No one was looking. I smoothly slid the book up my sleeve. I didn’t dare pull it out until I was back in my dorm room, safely hidden beneath my heavy comforter with a flashlight. — 5 The entries were a chaotic mess. The sentences were disjointed, punctuated by grotesque, scribbled illustrations. At first, my heart sank. It read like the fever dream of a terrified child. I risked so much to steal this, and it was just nonsense? But as I flipped the pages, a cold knot formed in my gut. March 7: Toby and I got our sight back a week ago. He didn’t believe the writing on the wall. He said it out loud… He’s gone. I looked everywhere. Mom and Dad keep dragging me from town to town. I don’t know what we’re running from. I’m so scared. April 1: He’s dead. Toby didn’t run away. He’s dead. His body was shoved in the… No wonder I couldn’t find him. April 7: Dad has Toby’s watch in his pocket. They killed him. But they loved him the most, didn’t they? April 15: They asked me today if I could see. I said no. It’s the only thing keeping me alive. I stopped reading, my breath shallow in the stale air under the blanket. Was this real? If it was, why were the dates marked 2036? That was ten years from now. And if the parents were on the run, why would they murder their own kid? The logic was completely fractured. I rubbed the goosebumps on my arms, the parallels to my own life sinking in. If telling the truth meant death, did I have to fake being blind forever? What if I slipped up? Would I get to respawn again? Something deep in my bones told me no. I only had one extra life. This was it. The later entries grew shorter. The handwriting was erratic, deeply panicked. Several pages had been entirely blacked out with heavy ink, masking whatever horror the author had witnessed. May 2: There are more people running now. We passed three groups on the highway. What are they so afraid of? Is something chasing them? I looked back. I saw it—[heavily blacked out]. I pray to God I never have to look at that thing ever again. May 10: I finally found others like me! It’s not just Toby and me. There are so many whose sight came back, and they’re all hiding. They’re hiding in the… I clawed at the pages, frantic. Hiding where? Who is chasing them? Why the hell did they ink out the location?! I carefully tore out the page with the heavily blacked-out illustration and held it up to the beam of my flashlight. The light barely pierced the ink, but I could make out the faint silhouette of… something. It was vaguely humanoid, but the proportions were horribly wrong. Was that a person? I flipped to the end. The remaining pages were ripped out. There was only one entry left on the inside back cover. If you are lucky enough to read this, RUN. Run right now. Do not hesitate. I shivered. Run? My eyes drifted to the very last line, scrawled in tiny letters at the bottom corner. I wish I had stayed blind. A profound, bone-deep chill swept through me. I pulled my knees to my chest. It might have been paranoia, but the hair on my arms stood up. I felt like I was being watched. I whipped the blanket down and scanned the dark dorm room. Empty. Just me and the moonlight filtering through the blinds. A hallucination. It had to be. Knock. Knock. Knock. I jumped, nearly dropping the flashlight. “Gemma?” It was the dorm mother’s voice, muffled through the heavy wood. “Pack your bags, sweetie. Your dad is here to take you home.” My stomach dropped into a bottomless pit. Boarding school students only went home on weekends. Today was Monday. He knew. He figured it out. I looked back down at the diary. Run right now. If I got in that car with my “father,” I knew with absolute certainty that I would never see the sun again. “Okay! Just a second!” I called out, forcing my voice to sound tired and compliant. I shoved my wallet, the diary, and a water bottle into my backpack. I opened my window, slipped out onto the fire escape, and dropped quietly into the bushes below. The night was pitch black, a thick, suffocating overcast hiding the moon. Normally, running in the dark would be terrifying. But I had spent three years living without light. The darkness was my element. I sprinted toward the woods bordering the campus, heading for the county road. Suddenly, from the tree line behind me, I heard it. The crunch of dead leaves. The wet, frantic sound of heavy footsteps. Something was hunting me.

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The roar of the pier market was still ringing in my ears, but my mind was already made up. Tomorrow was the start of the Memorial Day weekend—the busiest three days of the year. I had gone out of my way to ensure these local vendors could maximize their profits, rerouting my own deep-sea fleet and cold-chain logistics to provide them with priority stock at near-wholesale prices. It was supposed to be a win-win. Then I stepped into the market today. I was just browsing, pointing a finger toward a sea bass in a tank to ask the price, when the vendor grabbed a heavy wooden club. With a sickening thud, he crushed the fish’s head right in front of me. Then he looked me dead in the eye and demanded a hundred dollars. I told him I hadn’t agreed to buy it. He didn’t blink. He slammed a blood-stained gutting knife into his cutting board, the blade quivering. He told me, “Market rules, city boy. You point, you buy. The fish is dead because you spooked it. Pay up.” I wasn’t in the mood for a scene. I turned my back and started walking away without giving him a cent. I hadn’t gone ten steps before my phone buzzed. It was a notification from the “Pier District Merchants” group chat—a group I monitored but never posted in. I clicked it open. There was my face, a candid photo taken seconds ago. “Got a live one at Stall 4. Just tagged a dead grouper for a hundred bucks. Boys, get out there and block the exits. No pay, no play. Drinks are on me tonight.” The replies flooded in immediately. “On it.” “Teach the tourist some manners.” “Rule of the docks, baby.” It seemed my charity had reached its expiration date. It was time to cut the cord. 1 I shoved my phone back into my pocket, not even glancing at the dead fish. I just kept walking toward the main exit. But I only made it two steps. Two heavy industrial carts were pushed out from the neighboring stalls, one from the left and one from the right. The aisle, already narrow and slick with melted ice and fish guts, was suddenly a dead end. The two vendors behind the carts leaned against them with practiced nonchalance, their faces twisted into mocking smirks. My phone buzzed twice more in my pocket. I didn’t need to look. The “boys” had arrived. Behind me, I heard the heavy, wet slap of footsteps. Big Mike, the owner of the fish stall, rounded his counter. He was carrying the sea bass by its tail, the head a mangled mess of scales and red pulp. He strode up behind me and dropped it at my feet with a wet thud. “Where you going, pal?” Big Mike crossed his meaty arms over his stained apron, looming over me. “You bought that fish the second you pointed at it.” He leaned in, smelling of old brine and cheap cigarettes. “You don’t pay that hundred, you aren’t just staying in the market—you aren’t leaving this street.” He paused, using the toe of his boot to nudge the carcass. He let out a dry, jagged laugh. “Actually, you just dropped this dead fish on my floor. That’s a mess. Call it another fifty for the cleaning fee. One-fifty, total. Venmo or CashApp. Now.” I looked down at the blood blooming across the toe of my shoe, then back at the mutilated fish. A wave of nausea hit me, but beneath it, the heat of my anger had crystallized into something cold and sharp. “I never said I wanted it. You killed a fish to force a sale,” I said, my voice leveled, meeting the eyes of the vendors circling me. “And now you’re blocking my path. Is this a market or a mugging?” A chorus of jagged laughter erupted around me. The lanky guy leaning on the left cart shook his head. “Mugging? Calm down, Senator. This is a ‘transactional dispute.’ You spooked the livestock. In this harbor, if you break it, you bought it.” The guy on the right chimed in, his voice dripping with faux-concern. “Look at him. Suit probably cost more than my truck, and he’s crying over a hundred and fifty bucks. Just pay the man and go get your latte, man. Don’t be a cheapskate.” Big Mike stepped closer, his finger almost touching my nose. “I’ll tell you how it is. In this market, my word is the law. You call the cops? Go ahead. They’ll see a civil dispute over a dead fish and tell us to work it out. By the time they leave, I’ll make sure you’re leaving in an ambulance.” They worked together like a well-oiled machine. Every word was a calculated move in a game they’d played a thousand times, wrapping their thievery in the “tradition” of the docks. To them, I was just another nameless suit, a “mark” with deep pockets and no backbone. I looked at their ugly, greedy faces. Tomorrow was the holiday rush. Every shop on this street was expecting my fleet’s refrigerated trucks to roll in. I had always felt for the “little guy,” the ones waking up at 4 AM to haul crates. I’d kept the wholesale prices at rock bottom, even let them run tabs, just so they could keep their heads above water. I had been feeding a pack of wolves, and they had mistaken my kindness for weakness. I didn’t argue. I just pulled out my phone. “Fine,” I said quietly. “If we’re playing by market rules, let’s bring in the Market Director. Let’s check the cameras and see whose ‘rules’ carry more weight.” 2 It didn’t take long for the “authorities” to arrive. A few minutes after I called the complaint line, a man in a faded windbreaker with an official-looking lanyard pushed through the crowd. He was balding, with a gut that hung over his belt and a bored expression. Big Mike grinned the moment he saw him. “Director Halloway! Glad you’re here. This guy’s causing a scene, killed my fish, and now he’s trying to skip out on the bill.” I pointed to the high-definition security camera mounted directly above the stall. “Director, please check the footage. I was two feet away. I asked a price. I never touched the tank, let alone the fish.” Halloway didn’t even look up at the camera. He didn’t even look at me. “Cameras have been down for maintenance since Tuesday,” he muttered, his voice flat. “Line issues.” I let out a short, sharp laugh. How convenient. Halloway tucked his hands into his pockets, looked at the fish on the ground, and started in with a practiced, bureaucratic drone. “Look, son. Mr. Vancini has been a staple of this pier for fifteen years. Honest guy. These deep-sea fish are delicate. You start waving your hands around, you stress ’em out. If they flip, it’s on the person who caused the stress. That’s the code of the docks.” It was a masterpiece of gaslighting. This man was likely on my payroll indirectly—Voss Maritime paid a hefty “security and management” fee to the city for this district—and here he was, acting as the muscle for a shakedown. Just then, an older man in a stained chef’s coat pushed through the onlookers. He sighed, looking at me with a face full of weary disappointment. “Listen to him, kid,” the old man said, sounding like a concerned grandfather. “I’m a chef at the bistro around the corner. Sea bass are high-strung. One bad shock and their hearts give out. These vendors work twenty-hour days for pennies. You look like you’re doing well for yourself. Don’t be that guy. Don’t ruin a man’s day over a few bucks. Pay the man, and let’s all get back to work.” The crowd murmured in agreement. “Exactly. Look at his shoes—they cost more than my rent.” “Rich guys think they can just do whatever they want.” “Just pay him, you jerk.” The theater was flawless. They had their villain, their victim, and their moral compass. I was being cast as the heartless elite. Halloway saw me go quiet and took it as a sign of surrender. He pulled a crumpled citation book from his pocket and ripped off a yellow slip, flicking it toward my chest. “Enough talk,” Halloway said, his voice hardening. “Pay the one-fifty plus the cleaning fee. If you keep obstructing the flow of trade, I’m calling the pier security to hold you in the cold storage office until you cool off. And believe me, you don’t want to see the ‘processing fee’ for that.” 3 I watched Halloway’s thumb hovering over his walkie-talkie. Suddenly, my phone vibrated several times in quick succession. I made a show of opening my banking app, but I was actually looking at the group chat. The same people who were currently looking at me with righteous indignation were having a digital party. Halloway is a pro! ‘Maintenance’—I love it! Did you see Old Man Jenkins? Give that man an Oscar! The kid looks like he’s about to cry. Dotty, you’re up! Do the ‘good cop’ routine. Drain him dry before he leaves! The cynicism of it was almost impressive. They had turned extortion into a choreographed stage play. They were rotten to the core. The crowd parted again. A middle-aged woman in a red waterproof apron rushed in, looking breathless and frantic. “Oh, now, let’s be reasonable! Everyone just take a breath!” Dotty Higgins shoved Halloway’s hand away from the radio. As she did, I saw her hand slip something—a pack of cigarettes, maybe with something tucked inside—into Halloway’s pocket. She turned to me, her eyes wide and full of “kindness.” “Sweetheart, you’re not from around here, are you? Listen to Dotty. Don’t let this escalate. Going to the security office… that’s a nightmare you don’t want. These boys have tempers, but they’re good people.” She sighed, the picture of a tragic peacemaker. “Tell you what. I’ll help you out. I’ll take that dead fish off your hands for fifty bucks—I can use it for fish cakes at my stall. You pay Mike the remaining hundred, and we all walk away friends. How does that sound?” The “passersby” immediately flipped the script. “See? There’s still some heart on this pier!” “You’re a saint, Dotty. Kid, you better thank her.” I looked at Dotty’s “honest” face. I turned off my screen. “Fine,” I said, nodding. I opened my Venmo and scanned Big Mike’s QR code. Payment Received: $150.00. I saw the flicker of greed in Mike’s eyes as the notification hit his phone. I was a “whale.” A sucker with an open wallet. Dotty’s eyes lit up. She grabbed my arm with surprising strength, pulling me toward the stall next door. “You’ve had a rough start, honey. Come on, let me get you a water. Relax a bit. Mike’s just stressed about the holiday. Tell you what, I’ve got some prime Dungeness crab today. I’ll give you a deal—wholesale price, just to make up for the trouble.” I looked at the crabs snapping in her tank. A thin, cold smile touched my lips. “Sure, Dotty. I’d love some crab.” I wanted to see how far they’d go. 4 Dotty moved with lightning speed, scooping two large crabs out of the water. “Look at these beauties! Best in the Atlantic. Usually fifty a pound, but for you? Thirty. You’re getting away with murder, honey!” She tossed them onto a digital scale. “Four pounds. That’s a hundred-twenty. I’m practically giving these away!” She reached for a black plastic bag. “Wait,” I said, reaching out to stop her. I picked one of the crabs up from the scale. It was heavy—unusually so. But I didn’t feel the weight of the meat. I felt the thick, heavy industrial rubber bands wrapped four, five times around each claw. They weren’t the standard thin bands. These were thick, water-logged strips of heavy-duty rubber. I grabbed the end of one and pulled. It uncoiled like a snake. I dropped the crab back into the tank and laid the wet, heavy pile of rubber on the scale. The red numbers flickered. “Half a pound of crab. Half a pound of rubber,” I said, looking Dotty dead in the eye. Her “kindly” face froze. “Is this the ‘wholesale’ deal, Dotty?” For one second, she looked panicked. Then, the mask shattered. She didn’t apologize. She didn’t even try to explain. She sat down right on the wet floor and started screaming. “Help! Help! He’s attacking me! This big man is bullying a widow!” She started slapping her own thighs, her voice reaching a shrill, piercing pitch. “I put the bands on so he wouldn’t get bit! I was trying to protect him! He’s trying to steal from me! He’s trying to ruin my business!” It was the ultimate trump card. The damsel in distress. Predictably, the pack descended. Big Mike was back in my face instantly, and Halloway was already on his radio. “You piece of work!” Big Mike roared. “You think you can come here and harass women? You’re paying that hundred-twenty and you’re paying it now, or you’re leaving here in a box!” Halloway yelled into his mic: “Security to Stall 5! We’ve got a violent 10-34! Bring zip ties!” The other vendors joined in, their voices a cacophony of manufactured rage. “Scumbag!” “Think you’re better than us?” “Pay her!” I stood there, perfectly still, as the circle closed in. I took out my phone and dialed a number on speed dial. It picked up on the first ring. I looked at the screaming mob, my voice quiet but cutting through the noise like a blade. “This is Voss. Call the logistics lead and the warehouse managers. Now.” “Lock the trucks. Stop the offloading. Every Voss Maritime shipment scheduled for the Pier District is to be diverted to the downtown markets immediately.” “As of this second, this street is under a total supply embargo. Not a single fish moves into this market until I personally sign off on it.”

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The air in the suite was still heavy with the scent of expensive lilies and the lingering hum of the reception downstairs. It was my wedding night—the beginning of everything I had spent years dreaming of. But when I reached for my wife, she pulled away with a coldness that made my skin crawl. I thought she was just exhausted. The wedding had been a marathon of high-society expectations and forced smiles. I reached out again, trying to pull her into my arms, ready to make a joke to break the tension. “It’s actually pretty boring being with you,” she said. Her voice was flat, as if she were discussing the weather. She gestured toward the nightstand, where a box of condoms sat. My best friend, Dexter, had handed them to me earlier that day with a wink. “Before the ceremony, he and I were together all night,” Monica said, her tone light, almost conversational. “That box? It’s empty. We used them all.” The room seemed to tilt. I felt the blood drain from my face, but she wasn’t finished. “When I was late to the toasts? It wasn’t because I felt faint. We were in the dressing room for another round. That’s why my legs were shaking when I finally came out.” A small, reminiscent smile played on her lips. “To be honest, being with him is the only thing that makes me feel alive. He knows exactly how to handle a woman. He gave me a pleasure I didn’t know existed.” She looked at me then, her eyes sharp as glass. “Something you could never do.” Her words were like serrated blades carving through my chest. I stood there, frozen, my mouth opening and closing as my throat tightened, sealing off any sound. Monica sighed, a soft sound that held a hint of apology but far more relief. “Logan, I’ve said what I needed to say. Whether we keep this farce going or not… that’s up to you.” 1 I stared at her, listening to the casual cruelty of her voice. I forced every ounce of my remaining strength into three raspy words. “Why? Just… why?” Monica paused, her gaze drifting back to me with utter indifference. “Why what? Why did I sleep with him? Or why am I telling you now?” The silence that followed was suffocating. She let out a short, mocking scoff. “Logan, every time we tried, you always had an excuse. ‘Not in the mood,’ ‘Not feeling right.’ If you’re broken, is it really my fault for looking elsewhere? I wasn’t going to tell you—Dexter was worried about losing his ‘brother’—but three years is a long time to play pretend. Hiding every time we wanted to touch each other was getting exhausting.” My heart hammered against my ribs. “Three years?” Monica nodded, her expression thoughtful. Then, she let out a genuine laugh. “Yeah. Three years ago, at your parents’ funeral. After you passed out from crying so hard, we went into the room next door. It was the first time. We were so reckless I ruined my dress. You thought it was my period, remember? You spent the whole day taking care of me. You even hand-washed the silk, thinking you were being so sweet, not realizing you were scrubbing his fluids out of my skirt.” Seeing that malicious glint in her eyes, I reached my breaking point. I didn’t think; I just reacted. My hand swung out, and the crack of the slap echoed through the room. “Have you no shame, Monica? Have you no soul?” The despair felt like a black hole opening up inside me. It dragged me back to when I was eighteen. My father’s business had collapsed into a heap of debt and scandals. I watched him walk off the edge of a rooftop. I came home to find my mother being tormented by creditors—men who stripped her of her dignity until she, too, followed him into the abyss, dying right in front of me. I lost everything in a single night. The depression that followed wasn’t just sadness; it was a physical weight that crushed the life out of me. During those dark years, Monica and Dexter were my anchors. They were the ones who stayed. I worked three jobs, destroying my health to pay off the debts my father left behind. Every time I felt like I was slipping into the dark, Monica would hold me, whispering into my ear, “Don’t be afraid, Logan. You have me. I’m never leaving.” Even last night, she had called me, her voice trembling with what I thought was joy, calling me “husband” over and over. Remembering how raspy her voice had sounded on that call, the realization hit me like a physical blow. She wasn’t crying because she was happy to marry me. I was just the audience for their twisted foreplay. My stomach churned. I lurched off the bed, stumbling toward the bathroom, and began to retch violently. My strength evaporated. A shadow fell over me. Monica stood in the doorway, looking down at my trembling body. For the first time in years, she didn’t reach down to hold me. She just watched me, her face a mask of boredom. Finally, she pulled a tissue from the box and dropped it near my hand, like she was feeding a stray dog. “Clean yourself up. A grown man acting like this… it’s pathetic.” 2 The disdain in her voice acted like a trigger. I shoved the tissue away, my voice cracking. “Don’t touch me. We’re done, Monica. I want a divorce.” My vision swam with black spots. I scrambled toward the nightstand to find my medication, but my hands were shaking so violently that the bottle shattered against the floor, spilling pills everywhere. Monica chuckled, picking up a single pill and rolling it between her fingers. “Divorce?” she asked, her voice mocking. “Logan, look at yourself. You’re a wreck. Without me, without my family’s influence, you wouldn’t last a week in this city. You’d be back in the gutter where I found you.” Her eyes began to blur as my consciousness flickered. As I slipped into the dark, memories flashed like a frantic montage. The years of heavy medication just to keep my heart beating. The relatives who vanished the moment the money did. The funeral where no one showed up except for them. Monica, the spoiled rich girl who didn’t know how to boil water, had spent months learning to cook just to make sure I ate. When the medication made my hair fall out in clumps, she didn’t hesitate—she cut her own long, beautiful hair off to match me. And the last time I tried to end it all… when I stood on that window ledge… she had climbed out right next to me. “If you jump, Logan, I’m right behind you. I don’t want a world without you.” The sweetness of the past felt like poison in my veins. The image shifted—distorted. I saw them together, laughing at me. I bolted upright in a hospital bed, gasping for air. A muffled, rhythmic sound came from behind the thin curtain of the room’s partition. Groans. Whispers. I froze. I wasn’t dreaming. I forced myself out of bed, my legs like lead. I stood outside the heavy door of the private suite’s sitting area. The sounds from inside made the bile rise in my throat again. I pushed the door open and vomited right there on the polished floor. The room went silent. Dexter, fully dressed but with his shirt tucked in haphazardly, rushed over to help me. I looked up at him, my eyes bloodshot and stinging. I saw the marks on his neck, then looked past him at Monica, who was adjusting her skirt with a look of pure guilt. I swung. My fist connected with Dexter’s jaw, fueled by years of misplaced gratitude. “How could you?” I screamed. “You’re supposed to be my brother!” Before I could land another blow, I was shoved hard. I hit the floor, the world spinning. Monica was standing over Dexter, shielding him, her face contorted with rage. “What is wrong with you, Logan? Are you insane?” She frantically checked Dexter’s face for bruises. Dexter looked at me, then at her, his expression shifting to one of feigned regret. “Mo… you told him? I told you not to tell him.” He turned to me, his voice smooth and manipulative. “Logan, look, it was an accident. Just let me explain.” 3 “An accident?” I stared into Dexter’s eyes, searching for a shred of the friend I thought I knew. “Fucking my girlfriend at my parents’ funeral was an accident? Sleeping with my wife for three years was an accident? Monica said you were together all night—she was still on top of you while she was supposed to be changing for our wedding toast! Are you two really that desperate? That pathetic?” My words stung. Dexter’s face darkened. “Logan, we’ve been friends since we were kids. Don’t make this uglier than it has to be.” Monica let out a sharp, cold laugh. “Logan, watch your mouth. Don’t talk about ‘affairs.’ To be honest—” “Monica, don’t,” Dexter snapped, cutting her off. I looked at her, at the way she looked at him, and I felt a hysterical laugh bubbling up. “Did I say something wrong? You two are the ones doing the dirty work, yet you want to keep your hands clean? I didn’t realize how truly disgusting you both were.” Monica snapped. She screamed at the top of her lungs, “Disgusting? You want to talk about disgusting? Dexter and I might be a lot of things, but we aren’t so pathetic that we watched our own mother get ruined until she jumped off a building. You want to talk about ‘dirty’? Look in a mirror, Logan!” The world stopped. Dexter’s face went pale. He immediately grabbed her, covering her mouth. “Monica, shut up!” She realized what she’d said. She looked at me, at the way the light had completely vanished from my eyes, and a flicker of remorse crossed her face. She opened her mouth to apologize, but I didn’t give her the chance. I grabbed a heavy gift basket from the table—something Dexter had brought—and hurled it at them with every bit of strength I had. “GET OUT!” “Monica, watch out!” Dexter lunged in front of her. The wicker and glass shattered against him, slicing into his arms. “Dexter!” Monica screamed. Seeing the blood blooming through his shirt, her guilt vanished, replaced by a white-hot fury. She marched over and slapped me, hard. “You’re out of your mind! You know Dexter has a coagulation disorder! Are you trying to kill him?” Dexter held her back, playing the martyr. “Mo, it’s fine. I deserve it. He’s sick, don’t let him get to you.” His “noble” act made me look like the villain. It worked. Monica’s rage doubled. “Sick? He’s plenty strong when he’s attacking people! Why is it that everyone else gets better, but you just stay ‘sick’? You’re faking it, Logan. You just love the attention!” I stood there, paralyzed. Ever since I proposed to Monica, I thought I was cured. I thought I had finally found the light. I didn’t realize that to her, my survival was just a long, boring performance. “Ms. Thorne, Mr. Brooks is losing too much blood. He needs an immediate transfusion,” a doctor said, rushing in after hearing the commotion. “But he’s O-negative, and the hospital bank is low.” Monica didn’t hesitate. She grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the door. “He’s the same blood type. Take it from him.” I tried to fight, but the Thorne family bodyguards were already there. They pinned me down and dragged me into a procedure room. A sedative hit my veins. My resistance died. Monica forgot one thing. Dexter had a clotting issue, yes. But after years of illness and malnutrition, I was severely anemic. By the time they were done, I was hovering on the edge of a blackout, unable to even lift my head. Monica never came back to my room. Instead, Dexter sent a flurry of “apology” texts in the middle of the night. I didn’t read them. I blocked his number. At dawn, I checked myself out. I limped to the city hall, the marriage certificate clutched in my hand. I couldn’t bear to be tied to her for another second. But when I handed the papers to the clerk, she looked at them, then at me, with a strange, pitying expression. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hunter. This certificate is a forgery.” I stared at her. “That’s impossible. We signed it three months ago. Monica Thorne. Look again.” The clerk sighed and pulled up the records on her screen. “Ms. Thorne is indeed married, sir. But her husband’s name isn’t Logan Hunter. It’s Dexter Brooks.” 4 I walked out of the government building, the useless piece of paper fluttering in my hand. I started to laugh, and the laughter turned into ragged, choking sobs. So that’s what she was going to say in the hospital. It wasn’t an affair. I wasn’t the husband being cheated on. I was the mistress. I was the side-show. I was the third wheel in my own life. I was wandering aimlessly when a black SUV screeched to a halt beside me. Two men jumped out and threw me into the back seat. Monica was there, her eyes red and swollen. “Logan! I told you to stay away from Dexter! Are you trying to destroy him?” She shoved her phone into my face. SCANDAL: Brooks Heir Caught in BDSM Affair at Funeral; Brooks Group Stock Plunges. The video on the screen was a grainy, hidden-camera shot. The background was unmistakable: it was the funeral home where my parents had been laid to rest three years ago. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Dexter’s father had a heart attack. The family had him whipped—he’s in the ICU right now! He worked for years to become the heir, and you ruined it in a second!” I stared at her, bewildered. I was so sick back then; I barely remembered the funeral. How could I have filmed anything? “You think I did this?” Monica’s fury spiked. “Who else would want to hurt him like this? You’ve pushed me too far, Logan.” She tapped her phone and sent a file. Then, she ordered the driver to the city center. “Dexter and I got married a year ago,” she said, her voice trembling with a cruel sort of triumph. “He’s my legal husband. Out of pity for you, he let you have the ‘wedding.’ He was willing to be the invisible man just so you wouldn’t break. And this is how you repay him?” “You like posting videos?” she hissed. “Fine. Let’s see how you like this one.” We pulled up to the tallest skyscraper in the city, the one with the massive LED screens. My heart stopped. On the giant screens, visible to thousands of commuters, a video began to play. It was my mother. The night of the bankruptcy. The men who had broken into our house were humiliating her, laughing as she begged for mercy. It was the deepest, most private trauma of my life. “Stop it,” I whispered. “Monica, stop it!” But she wasn’t done. The car sped toward the outskirts, toward the abandoned apartment building where my parents had jumped. Monica’s smile was demonic. “Since you love funerals so much, why don’t we visit them one last time?” Several of her family’s men were already on the roof. They were holding two ceramic urns. My parents’ ashes. “No! Stop! Please!” I tried to lunged out of the car, but the guards pinned me to the pavement. I watched, screaming, as they tilted the urns. A gray cloud of ash spilled into the wind, scattering over the trash and the dirty concrete of the alleyway. “Drag him up there,” Monica commanded. “Lock him in that building until Dexter wakes up. Let him think about what he’s done.” By the time they dragged me to the roof, the urns were empty. I fell to my knees, clawing at the dust and gravel, trying to find any trace of them, let alone a goodbye. I let out a sound that wasn’t human—a raw, broken howl of agony. In the car below, Monica’s assistant winced. “Ma’am… is this too much? He’s unstable. If he has an episode…” Monica scoffed, her eyes cold as she watched the building. “There are no ‘episodes.’ It’s just fake ash—I had the urns swapped. It’s a lesson. He needs to learn that for every action, there’s a consequence. Dexter is the victim here.” Her phone rang. It was the hospital. Dexter was awake. Without another look at the building, she ordered the driver to go. She spent the night by Dexter’s side, managing the PR crisis and ensuring the scandal was buried. Only when his vitals were stable did she finally relax. “The heat is off Dexter,” she told her assistant. “Call the guys at the apartment. Tell them to bring Logan here. He’s going to apologize to Dexter on his knees.” Just as the assistant reached for his phone, the hospital’s waiting room TV flashed an emergency bulletin. “Breaking News: A man has just jumped from the roof of the Willow Street Apartments. Witnesses say he was clutching two empty urns. The victim was pronounced dead at the scene. Viewer discretion is advised…”

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My best friend, Jackson, had been stood up by his bride-to-be, and there he was on his wedding day, tears streaming down his face, begging me for a favor I never thought I’d have to grant. My fiancée, Michelle, patted his shoulder with a confident smile, trying to soothe him. She told me they had grown up together, that their bond was thicker than blood, and that stepping in today was just a formality—a way to save face for his family. “Besides,” she’d laughed, her eyes bright and teasing, “we’re getting married next week anyway. Think of this as a dress rehearsal. We can get the jitters out of the way early.” Out of respect for our years of friendship, and despite the knot of unease tightening in my chest, I gritted my teeth and agreed. I had no idea that my fiancée, the woman who was supposed to be the maid of honor, would actually step into that white gown and become Jackson’s “bride.” At the altar, Michelle’s arm was hooked firmly through Jackson’s. The look in her eyes as she gazed at him wasn’t the look of a friend performing a favor; it was a raw, unshielded adoration I hadn’t seen in years. When the officiant asked if she would take him to be her husband, her “I do” was sharper, more certain than it had been when I’d proposed to her on a rainy night in October. I stood there, a glorified extra in my own life, telling myself it was just an act. Don’t be the jealous guy, Theo, I whispered to myself. It’s just a performance. The ceremony moved to the exchange of rings. Everything was going according to the script—until the officiant smiled and announced, “The groom may now kiss the bride.” The guests began to cheer and hoot. Jackson actually had the nerve to walk over and clap me on the shoulder first. “Don’t worry, Theo,” he whispered, a smug glint in his eye. “We’re just going to fake it. Camera angles, you know?” Like a fool, I believed him. But a second later, Michelle didn’t just lean in. she stood on her tiptoes, pulled Jackson down by his lapels, and lost herself in a deep, lingering French kiss right in front of everyone. … 1 The moment their lips met, the room erupted. It wasn’t a “stage kiss.” It wasn’t a peck on the cheek. It was a hungry, desperate entanglement of lips and tongues. I froze, the blood draining from my face until I felt as pale as the tablecloths. Beside me, one of the bridesmaids whispered, “Oh my god, are they still acting? That looks… really intense.” Intense. Yeah, that was one word for it. They looked like the only two people in the world. The applause thundered like a physical blow. Someone shouted, “One more!” Jackson finally pulled away, his face flushed as he glanced toward me. He looked like he was about to say something, but Michelle didn’t let him. She hooked her arm around his neck and pulled him back down for a second round. I looked down at my groomsman’s tuxedo, feeling the sheer absurdity of the situation. When the kiss finally ended, Jackson hurried over to me. “Theo, man, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think she would—” He didn’t finish. Michelle grabbed his wrist, pulling him behind her as if she were protecting him from me. “Theo, it’s just a show,” she said, her voice ringing with a terrifyingly calm authority. “You’re the one who gave us the green light. Don’t take it out on Jackson.” She sounded so righteous, so logical, that for a split second, I felt like the one being unreasonable. Jackson chimed in, “Seriously, Theo. There’s nothing going on. Michelle loves you. You’re her world.” Her world? She knew how much this would hurt me, and yet she chose to devour another man’s mouth in a room full of our peers. I didn’t say a word. I threw the boutonniere I was holding onto the floor and turned, running out of the banquet hall into the biting afternoon air. In the past, Michelle would have chased after me. She would have apologized until she was blue in the face, begging for my forgiveness. But today, I stood in the cold for thirty minutes, smoking through two cigarettes, and she never came. Finally, I crushed the second butt under my shoe and walked back inside. As I passed the hallway leading to the bridal suite, I noticed the door was cracked open. A soft, rhythmic sound caught my ear. I stopped. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Through the gap in the door, I saw them. On the velvet sofa, Michelle and Jackson were a mess of limbs and white lace. Her gown was pushed up to her waist, her breath coming in jagged, rhythmic gasps. She let out a soft moan and playfully slapped his chest. “Jackson, are you crazy? What if Theo sees us?” Jackson didn’t flinch. He let out a low, dark chuckle. “Michelle, babe, we’ve been sneaking around for two years. If he was going to find out, he would’ve done it by now.” He gripped her hips, pinning her deeper into the cushions. “Besides, we just signed the papers. Is it a crime to sleep with my own wife?” Two years? Signed papers? I felt like I’d been plunged into a frozen lake. My lungs burned as I tried to draw air. Michelle didn’t pull away. Instead, she wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer. “I only signed those papers because of the baby, Jackson. I’m supposed to marry Theo next week, and I still haven’t figured out how to break it to him…” My fingernails bit into my palms, drawing blood. The baby. The pregnancy she’d announced three weeks ago—the one that had me crying tears of joy, the one that had me rushing to finalize our wedding plans. It wasn’t mine. Jackson leaned down, his voice dripping with a tenderness he’d never shown me. “We’ll just get a fake marriage certificate for the Theo wedding. He’s so gullible, he’ll never check the registry. Even after you marry him, you’ll still be mine…” “Careful,” Michelle whispered, her voice breathless. “Think about the baby.” “I’m being careful. I’ll be so gentle…” The sounds that followed—the wet, sickeningly intimate noises of a couple in love—made the world tilt on its axis. I stumbled back, leaning against the cold wallpaper, gasping for air. One was my best friend of ten years. The other was the woman I’d loved for five. The two people I trusted most in the world had been using the “best friend” label as a cloak for their filth. Eventually, they emerged from the room, hand in hand. When they saw me standing there, the blood drained from their faces. Jackson was the first to react. He rushed forward to grab my arm, but all I could see was the fresh, red hickey blooming on his neck. “Theo, look, I’m sorry,” Jackson stammered. “Michelle lost her head for a second, but I’ve already talked to her about it. I told her she needs to be more careful.” He glanced back at Michelle, a silent command in his eyes. “Tell him you’re sorry, Michelle.” Michelle stepped forward, putting on that sweet, pouty face she used whenever she wanted something. “Theo, honey, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking about how it would look to you.” I looked into her eyes. They were the same eyes that, just minutes ago, had been clouded with passion for a man who wasn’t me. I balled my fist, the rage finally overriding the shock. I swung at Jackson’s smug face, but Michelle was faster. She grabbed my wrist and shoved me back with a strength born of pure adrenaline. “Have you lost your mind?” she screamed. I didn’t fight back, terrified of hurting her—or the child I still, for some stupid reason, felt a protective instinct toward. I hit the wall hard, stars dancing in my vision. “Michelle,” I rasped, “is he just a friend? Tell me the truth.” 2 Panic flickered in Michelle’s eyes, but she smothered it instantly, replacing it with a look of offended confusion. “Are you seriously questioning me right now?” she snapped. “Jackson and I grew up together. Sometimes we get a little too comfortable, sure, but it’s not what you’re making it out to be. You’re being paranoid.” She wouldn’t admit it. Not even now. Looking back, the breadcrumbs were everywhere. I had just been too blind to follow the trail. Ever since I started dating Michelle, we were a trio. Everywhere we went, Jackson was there. She could never remember my birthday, but she always had a midnight surprise ready for his. I can’t eat spicy food—it triggers my ulcers—yet she always ordered the spiciest dishes on the menu because “Jackson loves the heat.” When Jackson felt a cold coming on, Michelle would tell him to take the day off work. When my stomach was cramping so hard I was curled on the floor, she told me to “tough it out” and reminded me not to be late for our board meeting. We had started our company together—the three of us. But after we went public, Jackson’s salary was mysteriously double mine. I’d complained. I’d been jealous. But Michelle always had the same answer: “Jackson has been in my life forever, Theo. He’s your brother. I can’t treat him like a stranger.” Brother? The way she looked at him wasn’t sisterly. It was the look of a woman who had found her home. Michelle told me to go home and “calm down,” practically shoving me into an Uber. But as soon as we reached my apartment, she didn’t get out. She kept the engine running. “Jackson’s bride leaving him really messed him up,” she said, not looking at me. “After that scene you just caused, he’s probably drinking himself into a hole. I’m going to go check on him for you.” She didn’t care about my state of mind. She didn’t care that my world had just collapsed. Her only concern was the man she’d just been tangled with on a locker room sofa. Once I was inside, I found myself pacing the living room like a caged animal. I stumbled upon a leather-bound journal tucked behind some cookbooks. Every page was a log of flights to London. Below the dates were her notes in cramped, neat handwriting. [Jackson moved to the London branch. I can’t breathe without him. I have to go.] [Three days in London. I told Theo it was a tech conference. In reality, I just needed to feel Jackson’s skin against mine.] I flipped to the entry from our three-year anniversary. My vision blurred with hot, angry tears. [I finally told him. I confessed. It turns out he’s loved me since we were kids. I can’t let him go. Jackson doesn’t want to lose Theo as a friend, though. He told me not to break up with him. I agreed. It hurts, but as long as I get to keep them both, I’ll play the part.] [We finally did it. Compared to Theo, my body just… responds to Jackson. He knows exactly how to touch me.] That night, on our anniversary, I had called her a dozen times. She’d declined every one. Finally, she’d sent a cold text: Busy. Stop bothering me. She wasn’t busy. She was busy sleeping with my best friend. I reached the last page. It was dated from three days ago. [Jackson tried to find some random girl to marry to keep up appearances. I told him no. He’s the father of my child. I won’t let him go. I’ll find a way.] Tucked into the back of the journal was a prenatal report. Under “Father’s Name,” the name Jackson Vane was printed in cold, black ink. I crumpled the paper, my fingers shaking. The day Michelle found out she was pregnant, she’d flown to London. She’d even given me time off work, telling me to “help Jackson with his wedding planning” while she “handled business.” She had orchestrated the “runaway bride” herself, just so she could have an excuse to stand at that altar with him. My phone buzzed. It was my mother. “Theo, honey! When are you and Michelle coming home? The whole family is waiting for the big day!” “Mom,” I said, my voice sounding like it was coming from a great distance. “I’m not marrying Michelle.” Before she could protest, I added, “But don’t worry. The wedding is still happening. I’m just changing the bride.” 3 I spent the entire night reading that journal. Two years. Over a hundred flight stubs. Every single word was a testament to her devotion to Jackson. By sunrise, I was standing at Jackson’s front door. Michelle’s designer heels were in the entryway. The sound of light, melodic laughter drifted from the kitchen. Michelle, who had never cooked a meal for me in five years, was wearing an apron, stirring a pot of soup for him. Jackson wrapped his arms around her waist from behind. “You should probably go check on Theo. He’s definitely spiraling.” Michelle’s voice was cold, indifferent. “Why should I care if he’s sad? I’m the one who’s pregnant, and he hasn’t even asked how I’m feeling. He expects me to coddle him?” She sighed, leaning back into Jackson. “I don’t think I ever really loved him, Jackson. Not like this. Not in any way that matters. He’s just… less than you. In every way.” The words were a physical serration across my heart. Five years. I helped her build her company from a garage startup to a multi-million dollar IPO. And all it was worth to her was “less than.” The rage finally broke through. I didn’t think; I just moved. Before I knew it, my palm had connected with Michelle’s face. “It’s over, Michelle. I’m done. You two deserve each other.” Jackson jumped in front of her. “Theo, wait! You’re misunderstanding—” I threw the prenatal report and the journal into his face. “The baby is yours. You’re both disgusting. Why even pretend anymore?” Michelle slowly knelt to pick up the papers. When she looked up, her expression was terrifyingly calm. “So what, Theo? Our wedding is next week. If you bail now, how are you going to explain it to your parents? To the board? To the press?” Jackson looked down, his voice thick with fake guilt. “I’m sorry, Theo. I’ll take her to the clinic today. We’ll take care of it.” Michelle gripped his arm, glaring at me. “No! I’m not terminating this pregnancy.” She looked at me with pure venom. “Theo, let’s be honest. You’re the one with the ‘issues.’ It took us years and we never conceived. This baby is a miracle. You should be thanking Jackson.” She smirked. “I’ll play along for the wedding. It’s the least I can do. After all, with your reputation, who else would ever want you?” Jackson tried to cover her mouth, but the damage was done. I stood there, paralyzed. She had gone for the jugular. When I was nineteen, an ex-girlfriend of mine got pregnant. She was terrified, and the timing was all wrong. I did the “honorable” thing and went with her to the clinic. But when we got back to campus, the rumors started. People whispered that I was “unclean,” that I was a predator who got girls pregnant and then forced them into procedures. I was blacklisted, bullied, and spat on. I almost didn’t make it through those years. Jackson was the only one who stood by me. He was the one who pulled me back from the edge. And then he introduced me to Michelle. She claimed she never believed the rumors. She fought people who spoke ill of me. The day we went public with our relationship, the university was in an uproar. Why would the campus golden girl date a “tainted” loser like me? She had squeezed my hand and said, “Theo is the best man in the world. I want to give him everything.” I believed her. But now, the person who pulled me out of the abyss was the one kicking me back in. “Michelle,” I whispered, looking into her eyes. They used to be so warm. Now they were just glass. “You said you only believed in me. Was that all a lie?” She didn’t answer. Her silence was the loudest thing in the room. Jackson saw the look on my face—the look of a man who had nothing left to lose—and he panicked. “Theo, don’t listen to her, she’s just upset—” He reached out to grab my shoulder, and I shoved him away with every ounce of strength I had left. He tripped, his head slamming into the corner of the marble dining table. He collapsed, clutching his bleeding forehead, his face going ghostly white. Before I could even process what happened, a force slammed into me. Michelle shoved me against the table. A glass vase shattered under my weight. Shards of glass sliced into my palm, but I didn’t feel the pain. She rushed to Jackson, cradling his head, screaming at me. “If anything happens to him, Theo, I will destroy you! And don’t even think about the wedding. It’s off! You’re nothing without me!” She didn’t look back as she helped him out the door. I stayed there, kneeling in the mess of glass and blood. Michelle didn’t realize one thing. Even without her, the wedding was going to happen. 4 I flew back to the city that night. As soon as I landed, I sent a text to a number I hadn’t dialed in years: I’m back. Let’s get the license tomorrow. The reply came instantly: Okay. Michelle had dumped all the wedding planning on me months ago. She said she was too busy with “work,” and told me to make all the executive decisions. So, I did. I changed the name on the marriage license. The morning of the wedding, I was in my tuxedo, heading downstairs to the car. A black sedan was idling at the curb. Michelle stepped out, holding a bouquet of red roses. Her expression was softer than it had been, almost nervous. “Theo, look. About the other day… I was out of line. I’ll do whatever you want today. I’ll be the perfect bride, okay? Let’s just get through this.” Before I could speak, she added her terms. “But you have to promise me you won’t make things hard for Jackson. He’s still your best friend, even if we messed up. We can still be a family… the three of us.” She said it like she was doing me a favor. Like she was a queen granting a pardon. I just shook my head slowly. “No thanks, Michelle.” She assumed I was just being stubborn. She grabbed my wrist and tried to pull me toward the car. “Come on, Theo. Don’t be a child.” “Michelle, let go—” She didn’t listen. She signaled to her driver to help her force me into the back seat. I pounded on the window. “Michelle, what the hell are you doing? Let me out!” “Theo, it’s our wedding day! Do you really want to make a scene?” “You don’t understand, Michelle. The bride isn’t—” My words were cut off by the shrill ring of her phone. Jackson’s voice, panicked and weak, filled the car. “Michelle… I’ve been in a wreck. I don’t think I’m going to make it to the ceremony…” Michelle’s entire demeanor shifted. The color drained from her face. “I’m coming! Hang on!” She slammed the car into gear and pulled a jagged U-turn, flooring the accelerator. Rage and grief boiled in my throat. I hammered on the glass until my knuckles were raw and bloody. “Michelle, let me out! I have a wedding to get to!” She gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles white. “Jackson might be dying and you’re worried about a party? The wedding is canceled, Theo! How can you be so cold-blooded when your best friend is hurt?” I stared at her, my voice rasping. “I don’t care if he’s dead or alive, Michelle.” She didn’t say another word. She just pushed the car faster. The speedometer hit 80, then 90. She took a sharp turn, and my head slammed against the window. Blood started to trickle down my forehead. She glanced at me, but she didn’t slow down. “I told you to sit still! Stop acting like a psycho!” The world was turning red as blood ran into my eye. The speedometer hit 110. Desperation is a powerful thing. It makes the impossible seem like the only option. “You aren’t going to let me out, are you?” I whispered. “Not until we see Jackson. And when we do, you’re going to apologize to him.” I took a deep breath and reached for the door handle. “Theo, what are you—” I didn’t give her time to finish. I threw the door open. The roar of the wind filled the cabin, whipping my suit jacket around. Michelle’s eyes went wide with pure terror. “Theo, don’t!” I jumped. For a second, I was weightless. Then, the world became a symphony of pain and screaming wind, followed by the distant, haunting sound of Michelle’s voice. “THEO!”

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“Natalie, this is the last viable embryo. Without Mr. Sterling’s signature, we cannot proceed with the transfer.” I clutched my phone. The screen showed I’d called him 99 times. No response to any of them. But on TV, Adrian Sterling was in Switzerland rescuing his first love. He held that woman in his arms. “I love you. Even if it costs me these hands, I’m willing to save you.” He’d forgotten. Today was our last chance to become parents. Ninety-nine hormone injections, three years of torture, wounds covering my body. I’d shouldered the family shame of his infertility for him, yet there he was on a cliff’s edge, making passionate declarations to his mistress. Later, when I hemorrhaged from my uterus, he kicked me in the knee and cursed me as vile. “Did you miscarry because you were carrying some bastard’s child?” Love turned to hate. I came to despise Adrian. Two years after I faked my death and escaped, Adrian tracked me down. I pointed to the man beside me and smiled: “Adrian , let me introduce you. This is my husband.”

Natalie POV The private hospital’s air conditioning ran at full blast. The instant the needle pierced my skin, I felt no pain. This was my ninety-ninth ovarian stimulation injection. “Natalie, this is the last viable embryo we have.” The doctor looked at my abdomen, covered in bruises, with sympathy in her eyes. “Is Mr. Sterling still not coming to sign today? Without your spouse present to sign, we cannot transfer this embryo for you.” I lowered my lashes, my fingertips gripping the phone turning an unnatural pale color. On the screen, I’d sent Adrian thirty-six messages and made over a dozen calls. Without exception, all had gone unanswered. “He’s… busy.” I forced out a smile uglier than crying. “Doctor, can we wait a bit longer? He promised he’d definitely come today.” The doctor sighed, about to speak, when the LCD TV on the wall suddenly interrupted with breaking international news. “A major avalanche struck a canyon in Switzerland. Our country’s renowned extreme rock climber Adrian Sterling, three hours ago, free-soloed a sheer cliff face without protection to successfully rescue his former partner, Sophie Lane…” On screen, wind and snow raged. The man I’d been waiting for an entire day and night wore a thin windbreaker, clutching a woman tightly in his arms. His hands, those hands he took such pride in, those hands insured for hundreds of millions, now gripped the rock face. Blood dripped from between his fingers onto the snow, a shocking sight. When the reporter thrust the microphone toward him, Adrian gasped for breath, but his eyes held a fervor and relief I’d never seen before. “As long as she’s safe, I’d be willing even if it cost me these hands.” I stared at the screen, my heart seized by an invisible hand, each breath tasting of blood. He’d sacrifice his hands. Yet he knew full well that today was the most important day of my life. Adrian had azoospermia. Three years ago when we got the diagnosis, this prideful rock climbing genius locked himself in a dark room for an entire week. I was the one who stayed with him, kissing his trembling spine over and over, telling him. “It’s okay if we don’t have children. I only need you.” But Adrian’s soul was too proud. He felt he’d wronged me, even suggested divorce. To soothe his ego, I volunteered to do IVF. Punctures, egg retrievals, failures, trying again. Over three years, I’d put myself through hell, forcing out this one last successfully matched embryo from his body that had been practically sentenced to death. Last night, he’d held me, kissing the needle marks on my abdomen, his voice tender enough to drip water. “Nat, tomorrow I’ll be there with you. We’ll bring our baby home.” But now, he was in Switzerland, holding another woman. Sophie. The first love who’d pursued Adrian for seven years, who once broke her leg saving him. “Natalie?” The doctor called out tentatively. I closed my eyes as tears finally fell onto my hand. I took a deep breath, my voice terribly hoarse. “Never mind. This embryo… destroy it.” “Are you certain? This is your last chance.” “I’m certain.” I stood, didn’t spare the TV screen another glance, and walked out of the examination room. The sunlight outside was blinding. Standing on a New York street, I suddenly felt cold. I remembered five years ago, when Adrian was pursuing me, he carved my name with pitons into a snow-covered mountain at 16,000 feet elevation. He said. “Natalie, I’ve entrusted my life to the mountains, but my heart will forever hang from your carabiner.” However earth-shattering his devotion once was, that’s how heartbreaking his betrayal felt now. I’d endured three years of physical torture for him, while he’d risk his very life for Sophie. My phone suddenly vibrated. A message from Adrian, just one cold sentence. “Emergency situation in Switzerland. Postponing the transfer procedure. We’ll proceed when I get back.” Postpone? He didn’t even ask if today’s injection hurt, didn’t offer a single explanation. Just casually pronounced a death sentence on the procedure. I stared at those words for a long time, my fingers trembling as I typed a reply. “No need to postpone, Adrian. We’re done.” Message failed to send. He’d blocked my messages. I suddenly laughed, laughed until tears came. How absurd. I was here in agony while he found even my messages annoying.

Natalie POV Adrian returned three days later. Not only did he return, he brought Sophie back to our New York townhouse. I was sitting on the living room carpet sorting through discarded hormone medication boxes when the door opened. A wave of Sophie’s signature cold cedarwood perfume aggressively invaded my nostrils. “Nat, I’m home.” Adrian’s voice carried exhaustion. He strode over, habitually moving to kiss my forehead. I turned my head away, dodging. Adrian’s movement froze mid-air, his brow furrowing almost imperceptibly. He glanced at the medication boxes scattered across the floor, his tone taking on a hint of impatience. “Didn’t I say the transfer was postponed? What are you throwing a tantrum about now?” “Throwing a tantrum?” I looked up at him. The man before me was still handsome, though his eyes now held an edge of irritation toward me. Behind him, Sophie sat in a wheelchair, face pale and pitiable. “Adrian, am I disturbing you two?” Sophie bit her lower lip, her voice light as a feather. “Maybe I should stay at a hotel instead. Natalie doesn’t seem to welcome me.” “Your leg’s injured, there’s no need for a hotel.” Adrian immediately turned, his tone gentle in a way completely different from moments ago. “The doctor said you need rest. This environment is best for you.” Then he turned to look at me, his tone nearly commanding. “Nat, Sophie got injured saving me in Switzerland. She has severe high-altitude sickness aftereffects and needs to stay in the room with the best ventilation. Clear out the second-floor master bedroom and move to the guest room for a few days.” I looked at him in disbelief. The second-floor master bedroom was the one Adrian personally designed when we got married. It had an entire wall of floor-to-ceiling windows and an indoor climbing wall he’d built for me himself. He once pressed me against that wall, kissing my earlobe as he said. “Nat, this is our absolute domain. No one can set foot here.” Now, he wanted me to give it up to Sophie. “What if I refuse?” My voice was soft but carried the finality of death. Adrian’s expression darkened. “Natalie, since when did you become so unreasonable? Sophie got injured because of me. She’s a patient! Can you stop taking out whatever grievances you suffered at the hospital on her?” Whatever grievances. I felt my heart being sawed back and forth with a dull knife. The torture of ninety-nine injections, countless days and nights of hope, my last chance to become a mother. In his eyes, just “whatever grievances.” “Adrian, have you forgotten that three days ago was my last embryo transfer appointment?” I stared at him, eyes red. “Do you know that because you didn’t show up, that embryo has been destroyed?” Adrian froze, a flash of panic in his eyes, quickly masked by irritation. “If it’s destroyed, it’s destroyed. We can just do it again later.” He tugged at his tie, his tone matter-of-fact. “I’m standing right here in front of you, aren’t I? Lost embryos can be replaced. If Sophie had fallen off that cliff, she’d be dead!” I found it utterly absurd. Do it again later? Did he think this was grocery shopping? Did he know how severely my ovaries had deteriorated from excessive stimulation? “Adrian, don’t blame Natalie.” Sophie timely grabbed Adrian’s sleeve, tears uncontrollably falling. “It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have come back. I understand she wanting a child to secure her position, especially since… since your condition is special.” That sentence precisely hit Adrian’s sorest spot. Azoospermia was the greatest shame of his life. Adrian’s gaze instantly turned ice cold. Looking at me, he spoke with cruel words. “Natalie, must you push me at a time like this? Do you want a child because you love me, or are you afraid I’ll leave you if I don’t have children, so you’re desperate to create leverage to bind me?” I felt thunderstruck. Looking at this man I’d loved for five years, I only felt he’d become terrifyingly unfamiliar. I’d swallowed all my pain to protect his dignity, only to receive such vicious suspicions in return. “Fine, I’ll move out of the master bedroom.” I closed my eyes, swallowing the taste of blood in my throat. “Adrian, don’t you dare regret this.”

Natalie POV I moved to the cold guest room. New York autumns were bone-chillingly cold. The guest room’s heating was broken. I curled up under thin blankets, sharp pains radiating from my lower abdomen. These were side effects from the ovulation drugs, combined with hormonal withdrawal after the embryo destruction. I started hemorrhaging heavily. Blood stained the sheets. The pain left me drenched in cold sweat, without even the strength to reach for my phone. Outside the door came Sophie’s delicate laughter, mixed with Adrian’s low, indulgent voice. “Adrian, this carabiner is so beautiful. It even has letters engraved on it.” “That was something I casually carved ages ago. If you like it, it’s yours.” I bit my lip until I tasted rust. That carabiner was made of pure titanium, custom-made for me the year Adrian won the world championship. Our initials were engraved on it. He said it was proof that he’d entrusted his life to me. Now, he’d casually given it to Sophie. The severe pain began blurring my consciousness. I struggled to crawl out of bed, wanting to find painkillers in the living room. Just as I pushed open the door, I saw Adrian half-kneeling on the floor, holding Sophie’s ankle, carefully applying ice to it. Hearing the noise, Adrian turned his head. Seeing my ashen face and the bloodstains on the hem of my nightgown, his pupils constricted sharply. He stood abruptly. “What happened to you?” I leaned against the doorframe, lacking even the strength to speak. But Sophie cried out, covering her mouth. “Oh my God, Natalie, you… you didn’t have a miscarriage, did you? But Adrian is…” She deliberately left the sentence half-finished, her eyes full of malicious insinuation. Adrian’s face instantly turned iron-gray. He strode over, grabbing my wrist with force nearly crushing my bones. “Natalie, what’s with the blood? What have you been doing behind my back?!” A man with azoospermia, seeing his wife bleeding from below. His first reaction would always be suspicion. The pain made me gasp. Looking at Adrian’s eyes full of doubt and rage, my heart completely died. “What do you think I’ve been doing?” I laughed weakly, my eyes full of mockery. “Adrian, do you think that to have a child, I went and found some random man?” “What else?!” Adrian’s eyes were bloodshot, like an enraged beast. “I can’t have children! Unless you’re telling me you’re on your period?!” He shouted loud enough for even the servants in the living room to hear clearly. To humiliate me, he didn’t even hesitate to publicly expose his own condition. I felt so tired, too tired to even desire explaining. “Yes, I found someone else.” I looked at him, speaking in despair. “Because you’re worthless, Adrian. Not only is your body worthless, your heart has rotted too.” Crack! Adrian slammed his palm against the wall beside me, his knuckles instantly bloody. He stared at me intently, chest heaving violently. “Natalie, you disgust me. You claim to love me, but you actually despise me! All that IVF was just to satisfy your vanity as Mrs. Sterling!” He released his grip abruptly, flinging me aside like discarded trash. I lost my balance, falling hard to the floor. The cramping in my lower abdomen instantly intensified as another warm flow gushed out. “Adrian, don’t be like this. Natalie might just have hormonal imbalance…” Sophie rolled her wheelchair over with false concern, looking down at me on the floor. “Leave her alone!” Adrian coldly glanced at the blood on the floor, his eyes devoid of any compassion. “Since she wants a child so badly, let her lie here in pain until she dies!” With that, he pushed Sophie’s wheelchair and left the townhouse without looking back. The front door slammed shut with a bang. I curled up on the cold floor, staring at that glaring pool of blood, tears silently falling. Adrian, you’ll never know that this pool of blood represents the last drop of blood I shed for loving you.

Natalie POV I spent an entire week in the hospital. Severe ovarian hyperstimulation syndrome, combined with internal bleeding from extreme emotional distress. I nearly died in that hospital. During that entire week, Adrian never appeared once. On discharge day, I took a cab back to the townhouse alone. As soon as I entered, I heard cheering from the second floor. I dragged my weakened body upstairs and pushed open the master bedroom door. On the indoor climbing wall that once belonged to me, Sophie wore my favorite custom climbing outfit, my titanium carabiner with our initials hanging from her waist, struggling to climb upward under Adrian’s protection. “Adrian, I’m scared!” Sophie called out sweetly. “Don’t be afraid. I’m down here holding the belay rope. You’re absolutely safe.” Adrian looked up, hands gripping the safety rope tightly, his gaze focused and tender. This scene pierced my eyes. This wall was built by Adrian for me. He said that because I was afraid of heights, he wanted to build the safest wall at home so I could overcome my fear under his protection, step by step. But now, he was protecting another woman. “What are you doing?” My voice wasn’t loud, but in the empty room it seemed particularly jarring. Adrian’s hands paused. Turning to see me, his brow immediately furrowed. “You’re discharged? Why didn’t you say something in advance?” His tone was bland, as if I’d merely gone on vacation rather than nearly died. Seeing me, Sophie deliberately slipped, screaming as she fell from the wall. “Sophie!” Adrian’s expression changed drastically. He quickly tightened the belay rope, catching Sophie securely in his arms. “Adrian, I was so scared…” Sophie clung tightly to Adrian’s neck, looking at me through tears. “I’m sorry. I just saw this wall hadn’t been used in so long and wanted to try it. Please don’t be angry with Adrian.” I looked at the carabiner on Sophie’s waist and said coldly. “Take off my things.” Sophie shrank back, burrowing deeper into Adrian’s embrace. Adrian protectively held Sophie, his eyes sharp as he looked at me. “Natalie, haven’t you made enough of a scene? Sophie’s just borrowing your equipment. Do you have to be this petty?” “I’m petty?” I pointed at the carabiner, my finger trembling slightly. “Adrian, do you know what that clip means to me? That was your promise to me!” “Promise?” Adrian laughed coldly, as if hearing the world’s greatest joke. “Natalie, you want to talk to me about promises now? When you were bleeding all over the floor behind my back, why didn’t you think about your promises to me?” He still suspected me. I took a deep breath, suppressing the pain in my heart. “I’ll say it one more time. Return my things.” I walked forward, reaching to unfasten the carabiner from Sophie’s waist. “What are you doing!” Adrian shoved me away. Already weak, his push sent my back crashing hard against the solid rock wall. The pain made my vision go dark. Adrian looked down at me condescendingly, his eyes full of disgust. “Natalie, your emotions are too unstable right now. You’re acting like a lunatic. This carabiner would be wasted on you. Sophie’s doing rehabilitation training now. She needs it more than you.” He personally unfastened the carabiner engraved with our names and, right in front of me, rehung it on Sophie’s waist. “From today on, this wall belongs to Sophie. If you’re dissatisfied, get back to your guest room.” I leaned against the wall, watching Adrian’s back as he protectively escorted Sophie away, suddenly feeling this wall was as cold as ice. I once thought Adrian was the safest rope in my world. But it turned out, when he wanted to leave, I didn’t even have the right to be shattered.

Natalie POV Deep autumn in Los Angeles, the ocean breeze carried bone-chilling cold. The annual top-tier charity gala was held at a hotel in Beverly Hills. Adrian forcibly brought me along to dispel rumors about our marriage falling apart. I wore a black high-necked evening gown to hide the bruises on my neck from IV injections. My face was pale, like a soulless puppet, letting Adrian hold my hand as we walked the red carpet. Camera flashes fired frantically. “Mr. Sterling, we heard you nearly died in Switzerland saving Miss Lane. What does Mrs. Sterling think about this?” “Mrs. Sterling, rumors say you haven’t gotten pregnant in five years of marriage because of Mr. Sterling’s physical condition. Is this true?” The reporters’ questions were like poisoned knives, each one extremely sharp. Adrian’s expression instantly darkened. His grip on my hand tightened sharply, squeezing my knuckles in warning. The pain made me frown, but I lacked even the strength to struggle. Just then, a commotion erupted from behind the crowd. “Miss Lane has fainted!” Adrian’s whole body jolted. Almost reflexively, he released my hand. Wearing four-inch heels, his forceful motion made me stumble several steps, nearly falling on the red carpet. But Adrian didn’t even glance at me, pushing through the crowd and rushing toward the back like a madman. On the red carpet, only I remained, standing alone surrounded by countless cameras. Whispers surged around me like a tide. “See? She’s Adrian’s wife, but she still can’t compare to his first love.” “I heard she goes to the hospital every day trying to have a baby, completely exhausting herself. If I were Mr. Sterling, I’d choose Sophie too.” “A woman who can’t have children still occupying the position of Mrs. Sterling. How embarrassing.” Those socialites and wealthy women covered their mouths with fans, their eyes full of undisguised mockery and contempt. I stood in place, nails digging deep into my palms. I didn’t cry, just felt cold. A cold seeping from the marrow of my bones. After the gala officially began, Adrian returned with Sophie. Sophie had changed into a dazzling red gown, holding Adrian’s arm as if she were the evening’s protagonist. The charity auction segment. A painting appeared on the big screen. A snow-capped mountain with a pair of embracing lovers at its peak. This was painted five years ago by a local artist after Adrian and I were rescued from a mountain emergency. An anonymous buyer later purchased it. I never expected to see it here. “Starting bid, one million.” The auctioneer’s gavel fell. I raised my paddle. “Two million.” This was the last clean memory between Adrian and me. I wanted to buy it, then burn it with my own hands. “Three million.” A sweet voice rang out. I turned to see Sophie leaning against Adrian, smiling as she held up her paddle. “Adrian, this painting is so beautiful. I want to hang it on the master bedroom wall.” Sophie spoke coquettishly. Adrian affectionately stroked her hair. “If you like it, buy it.” My fingers trembled slightly as I raised my paddle again. “Five million.” “Ten million.” Adrian didn’t even lift his eyelids, directly bidding for Sophie. The entire room erupted. Everyone looked at me with eyes watching a show. A husband publicly suppressing his own wife at an auction for another woman. This was the ultimate humiliation. I stared intently at Adrian. “Adrian, that’s my painting.” “Your painting?” Adrian laughed coldly, his eyes full of disdain. “Natalie, get it straight. Every dollar you’re spending right now is mine. I’ll spend my money on whoever I want.” He turned to the auctioneer. “Twenty million. This painting is mine.” The gavel fell. This painting no longer belonged to me. Sophie smugly raised her eyebrow at me, then covered her head and leaned on Adrian’s shoulder. “Adrian, I’m so dizzy. It’s too stuffy inside.” “I’ll take you back.” Adrian immediately stood, carefully protecting Sophie as they walked out. Passing by me, he paused, using a voice only the two of us could hear. “Natalie, stop embarrassing me. When the gala ends, get yourself back to New York.” With that, he escorted Sophie away, never looking back. I sat in my seat, watching their departing backs, suddenly laughing out loud. I laughed until tears fell. Under the stares of people looking at a madwoman, I picked up a glass of red wine from the table and drained it in one gulp. Adrian, you won’t even leave me the last bit of memory. Fine. Just fine.

Natalie POV I returned to the New York townhouse in the rain. On the way back to New York, I was like a puppet without a soul. Pushing open the townhouse door, the living room was in chaos. The locked box I’d left on the table had been forcibly pried open. That was where I stored all my IVF documentation and medical records. Now, those consent forms, stimulation records, and embryo cultivation reports that carried three years of my suffering were torn to shreds, scattered across the floor like snow. Sophie sat on the sofa, holding scissors, slowly cutting up an ultrasound report. “Oh my, Natalie is back.” Sophie looked up, her smile innocent yet vicious. “I’m so sorry. I was looking for something earlier and accidentally knocked over your box. These waste papers looked rather unsightly, so I took the liberty of disposing of them for you.” All the blood in my body instantly rushed to my head. I lunged forward, snatching the scissors from Sophie’s hand, pointing at her with bloodshot eyes. “Do you have a death wish?!” “Ahh! Help!” Sophie screamed, toppling from her wheelchair to the floor, a shallow cut from the scissors appearing on the back of her hand. The front door opened at precisely that moment. Adrian stormed in. Seeing this scene, his eyes nearly split with rage. “Natalie! Have you lost your mind!” He charged forward violently, kicking me in the knee. Already weakened, his kick sent me heavily to my knees on those shredded papers. Broken glass shards pierced my kneecap, blood instantly seeping out. Adrian tenderly lifted Sophie from the floor, looking at the cut on her hand, then turned to roar at me. “Are you sick?! How did Sophie offend you that you’d try to kill her with scissors?!” I knelt on the floor, looking at the shredded papers everywhere. This was proof that for him, I’d endured ninety-nine needle punctures. Now, all of it had become “waste paper” in his eyes. “She tore up my medical records.” My voice was eerily calm, calm in a frightening way. “Adrian, she destroyed all the records from three years of IVF treatments I did for you.” Adrian froze, glancing at the shredded papers on the floor, a flash of embarrassment crossing his eyes. But his expression quickly hardened again. “If they’re torn, they’re torn! What’s the point of keeping those things? To remind me you’re a waste who couldn’t even protect a child?!” Those words were like a rusty knife, viciously stabbing into my heart and twisting violently. Looking at Adrian, I suddenly felt the man before me was as unfamiliar as a monster. “Adrian.” I slowly stood, blood from my knee flowing down my calf, leaving shocking red traces on the carpet. I walked to a nearby cabinet, took out a document I’d prepared long ago, and threw it at Adrian’s feet. “Let’s get divorced.” The document clearly read “Divorce Agreement.” Adrian’s pupils constricted sharply. He stared intently at that agreement. “Divorce?” Adrian laughed coldly, tearing the agreement to shreds right in front of me. “Natalie, what game are you playing now to win me back? You want to divorce me over some torn papers?” “Don’t forget. You were the one who insisted on marrying me! You want to leave now? I don’t allow it!” He pointed at Sophie, speaking with self-righteous indignation. “Sophie saved my life on K2! I owe her a debt I can never repay in this lifetime! As my wife, what’s wrong with you suffering a little? Why can’t you be more magnanimous?!” Looking at his furious face, I suddenly felt unbearably sad. “You owe her a life, so you’ll use mine to repay it?” I pulled at the corner of my mouth, my eyes lifeless. “Adrian, I don’t owe you two anything. These five years, I’ve given you everything I could. Now, I want nothing anymore.” I turned toward the stairs, my figure resolute. Adrian suddenly roared. “Natalie! If you dare walk out that door today, don’t ever come back!” My steps didn’t pause. Never come back? That suits me perfectly.

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On our third wedding anniversary, he stayed at the hospital with his first love and only sent me a text message. “Serena’s depression relapsed. I won’t be coming home tonight.” No apology, no explanation. For three years, it had always been like this. For his first love, he trampled on my dignity again and again. She stole my aromatherapy formulas to launch her brand. She shattered my late professor’s legacy on the floor. When I asked him why, he frowned. “She needs this success to overcome her depression.” “Can’t you just behave and stop acting like a difficult woman?” My love for him had already died. I left the signed divorce agreement in the villa and flew to France. The sunlight in Provence was blinding. I picked up a male college student. He looked just like my deceased first love. His features, his outline, even the way he wore a white shirt was identical. I took him walking through the small town and kissed him right in front of Damian. Damian came chasing after me and knelt down, saying he’d get plastic surgery to look like Sebastian, begging me to stay. I laughed. “Damian, you’re not even qualified to be a substitute.”

Natalie’s POV On our third wedding anniversary, Damian stood me up. I sat in my aromatherapy boutique, staring at the French dinner on the table that had long gone cold, sitting motionless for a long time. My phone screen lit up. It was a brief message from Damian. “Serena’s depression relapsed. I’m at the hospital with her. I won’t be coming home tonight.” No apology, no explanation, just a matter-of-fact notification. I stared at those words for a few seconds, then pressed the lock button. I stood up and dumped the carefully prepared steak and red wine into the trash can without the slightest hesitation. A year ago, I might have called him in tears, demanding to know whose husband he really was, or even hysterically rushed to the hospital to try to win him back from Serena. But now, I couldn’t even be bothered to sigh. Because the death of a heart is a long and irreversible process. At two in the morning, the door lock of the villa clicked softly. Damian pushed the door open, bringing in a wave of cold air, and took off his coat that reeked of hospital disinfectant and some sickeningly sweet commercial perfume. I was familiar with that perfume smell. It was Serena’s favorite Sweet Bomb, cheap and pungent. As a professional aromatherapist, I was extremely sensitive to scents. In the past, I had fought with Damian countless times over this smell, only to be met with the man’s impatient rebuke. “Serena is sick. Can’t you stop being so unreasonable?” Now, when I smelled this scent, I only felt a wave of physical nausea rising in my stomach, but no longer had any desire to argue. “Why aren’t you asleep yet?” Seeing me sitting on the sofa, Damian frowned slightly, his tone carrying a hint of habitual wariness. He probably thought I was going to throw a tantrum again because he came home late. “I was waiting for you.” I stood up, walked to the table, and handed him a small bottle of sleep-aid essential oil I had just formulated. “You’ve been having serious insomnia lately. This is a new formula. Just put a few drops on your pillow.” Damian froze for a moment, clearly not expecting me to be so calm. He took the essential oil. “Serena was very emotionally unstable today. She kept holding onto my hand and wouldn’t let go. I couldn’t leave.” For once, he offered an explanation, seemingly making excuses for breaking our date. “Mm, I understand.” I responded coolly and turned toward the bedroom. “Get some rest early.” Damian stood there, gripping the bottle of oil, his frown deepening. Damian irritably tugged at his tie. Back in the bedroom, I was already lying down with my back to him. After showering, Damian lay on the other side. Between us was a distance that could fit an iceberg. He habitually applied the essential oil to his pillow. This was a scent I had custom-made exclusively for him, one of a kind in the entire world. Soothed by the fragrance, Damian quickly fell asleep. And I slowly opened my eyes in the darkness. Listening to the man’s steady breathing, I exhaled softly. I gently lifted the covers and got out of bed, walked to the study, and opened an encrypted folder at the bottom of a drawer. Inside lay a prepared Divorce Agreement. In the lower right corner, at the wife’s signature line, my name was already written neatly. There were thirty days left until I completely left. I took a deep breath and locked the drawer again. Damian, the debt I owed you for the past three years, I’ve already repaid with countless nights of companionship. From now on, we owe each other nothing.

Natalie’s POV The next morning, I prepared breakfast as usual. When Damian came downstairs, he looked more relaxed than the night before. He sat down at the dining table, picked up his coffee and took a sip, then spoke in a seemingly casual manner. “The water pipes burst in Serena’s apartment, and the landlord can’t fix them right away. She’s scared to stay in a hotel alone. It might trigger her depression. I told her she could stay in our guest room for a while.” His tone wasn’t asking. it was informing. Even as he said this, his body tensed slightly, bracing himself for my outburst. After all, no wife would accept having her husband’s “good friend” move into their home. However, I only paused in cutting the bread, looked at him for a second, then calmly nodded. “Okay, I understand. I’ll have the housekeeper prepare the guest room.” The knife and fork cutting Damian’s sausage suddenly halted, making a harsh scraping sound in the quiet dining room. He looked at me in disbelief. “You don’t mind?” Damian couldn’t help but ask, his brow furrowed tightly. I asked back: “If I minded, would you tell her not to come?” Damian choked, then said in a low voice: “Serena’s mental state is very fragile right now. As her friend, I can’t ignore her.” “So, since the result won’t change, what’s the point of me minding?” I smiled faintly. “The house has plenty of rooms. As long as she doesn’t mind.” That afternoon, Serena moved in with large and small pieces of luggage. She wore a pure white knit dress, her long hair draped softly over her shoulders, her eyes slightly red, looking pitiful and delicate. “Natalie, I’m sorry to intrude on you both.” Serena stood in the living room, nervously clutching the hem of her dress. “I promise, as soon as the apartment is fixed, I’ll move out immediately.” I watched her performance without responding. Seeing this, Damian immediately shielded Serena behind him, his tone carrying a hint of reproach. “Natalie, Serena is a guest. Show some courtesy.” How interesting. I hadn’t said anything, yet somehow my attitude was bad? “The guest room is on the second floor, first door on the left. The housekeeper has already changed the bedding.” Too lazy to deal with them, I turned to leave for my shop. “Wait!” Serena suddenly covered her nose, her brow furrowed tightly, looking very uncomfortable. “Damian, what’s that smell in this house? It’s so pungent. I’m getting dizzy and my chest feels tight…” Damian immediately supported her anxiously. “What’s wrong? Is your depression causing somatic symptoms again?” He turned to look around, his gaze landing on the diffuser operating in the corner of the living room. It was a top-grade neroli essential oil I had specially formulated to purify the air. “Natalie, get rid of all this aromatherapy nonsense!” Damian ordered sharply. “Don’t you know Serena is sensitive to scents?” I stopped in my tracks. That so-called “aromatherapy nonsense.” It came from precious raw materials I’d spent countless nights collecting from around the world. Once, Damian said he loved having this calming scent in the house. Now, because of Serena’s one word, “pungent,” it had become trash. “Fine.” I didn’t argue. I walked over and unplugged the diffuser directly. Not only that, I called the housekeeper and had all the aromatherapy equipment and essential oil bottles from the living room, hallway, and even Damian’s study packed into boxes. “What are you doing? I only said to remove the one in the living room. I didn’t tell you to take away the ones in my study too.” He said in a low voice. “Since we’re removing them, might as well do it thoroughly, so Miss Serena won’t feel dizzy from catching even a whiff.” I sealed the last box with tape. I removed the aromatherapy, and with it, the last trace of myself in this house. Damian opened his mouth to say something, but Serena timely leaned into his embrace, weakly calling out. “Damian, my head hurts so much…” Damian’s attention was instantly diverted. He immediately lifted Serena in his arms and carried her upstairs. I stood there, watching their intimate figures disappear, and couldn’t help but laugh. I took out my phone and called the real estate agent. “Mr. Wilson, my aromatherapy shop. You can put it on the market now. Yes, the sooner the better.”

Natalie’s POV A week later, the annual business gala was held at a five-star hotel in the city center. As the wife of the CEO of Harrison Group, I was supposed to accompany Damian. I wore a black evening gown with minimalist tailoring, my long hair pinned up, without any excessive embellishment. When Damian saw me, a flash of amazement crossed his eyes, but it was quickly concealed. We had just arrived at the banquet hall and hadn’t yet had a chance to greet several important business partners when a soft voice called from behind. “Damian…” I turned around to see Serena standing not far away in an extremely flamboyant pink strapless gown. Around her neck, she wore a dazzling pink diamond necklace. It was the piece Damian had purchased at auction last month for a high price. At the time, the media had widely reported that he spent so much money to give me a surprise for our anniversary. Turns out, the surprise went to Serena. “Why are you here?” Damian frowned and quickly walked over. “Didn’t I tell you to rest at home?” “Being alone at home was too stifling. I wanted to get some fresh air. A friend had an extra invitation, so I came.” Serena looked at him timidly, then glanced at me. “Natalie, you don’t mind, do you?” I didn’t spare her even a glance. “This is a public venue. What’s there for me to mind?” The gala officially began, and Damian was surrounded by a group of business tycoons offering toasts. Serena stayed close by his side the entire time, as if she were the rightful Mrs. Harrison. And Damian naturally blocked drinks for her, quietly reminding her to avoid cold beverages. Their intimate gestures drew whispers from the socialites and wealthy ladies around. “Mr. Harrison treats that Miss Serena so well. In contrast, Mrs. Harrison is left ignored.” “It’s a business marriage, after all. Where’s the real affection? She’s just a placeholder.” “I heard Mr. Harrison gave that pink diamond necklace to Miss Serena too. What a humiliating position for the wife.” These gossips floated into my ears without any attempt at discretion. In the past, I would have felt embarrassed, humiliated, even cried. But now, I simply picked up a glass of champagne and walked to the quiet terrace alone, enjoying the city’s night view. Just then, a voice with a heavy French accent spoke beside me. “Beautiful lady, you have a very special scent about you.” I turned to see a blonde, blue-eyed foreign man looking at me intently. I recognized him as the internationally renowned master perfumer, Laurent. “It’s vetiver mixed with cedar and just a touch of oud, isn’t it? This ratio is extremely bold, yet surprisingly harmonious, like a forest after a rainstorm.” Laurent didn’t hold back his praise. I smiled faintly and responded in fluent French. “You’re too kind. This is a personal fragrance I formulated myself. I call it Ashes.” “Ashes?” A flash of surprise crossed Laurent’s eyes. “A very fitting name. After everything burns away, what remains is the purest essence. Miss Natalie, your talent is astonishing. I’m currently setting up a perfume laboratory in Grasse, France. Would you be interested in joining my team?” This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, the holy grail every perfumer dreamed of. Without the slightest hesitation, I smiled and extended my hand. “I’d be delighted.” Damian suddenly strode over, grabbed my wrist, and pulled me to his side, his eyes coldly sweeping over Laurent. “Sorry, my wife can’t hold her liquor. I need to take her away now.” Without regard for my struggles, he forcibly pulled me out of the banquet hall. “What are you doing? Let go!” He was gripping my wrist so hard it hurt. I snapped at him coldly. Damian shoved me against the corridor wall, hands planted on either side of me, his eyes dark. “Natalie, have you no shame? Flirting with another man on the terrace right in front of me?” I found this absurd. “We were discussing perfume, talking about work. Damian, do you think everyone is like you, with nothing but filthy thoughts in their head?” “Does talking about work require smiling so happily?” Damian said through gritted teeth. Just as we were at an impasse, a cry came from the end of the corridor. “Something’s wrong! Miss Serena has fainted!” Damian’s body stiffened. Almost reflexively, he released me and ran toward the voice. I leaned against the cold wall, watching the man’s unhesitating departure, and looked down at my reddened wrist. Damian, your possessiveness is disgustingly cheap.

Natalie’s POV Serena’s “fainting” was just a case of low blood sugar, yet Damian treated it like a crisis, not only rushing her to a private hospital overnight but also staying by her side for two whole days. I didn’t ask a single question, because I was busy handling the transfer of the aromatherapy shop. The shop had found a suitable buyer, and the price negotiations went smoothly. Today was my last time at the shop to pack my personal belongings. On the shelves were many rare essential oils and antique perfume bottles I had collected. The most precious was a small bottle of ultra-pure Bulgarian rose absolute. A legacy from my late professor. Worth a fortune. And more than that, my spiritual anchor. I carefully packed it into a shock-proof box. The wind chimes on the shop door suddenly rang. I looked up to see Serena, wearing sunglasses and a mask, walk in surrounded by a group of bodyguards. “Natalie, so you’re here.” Serena removed her sunglasses and surveyed the aromatherapy shop, a flash of undisguised jealousy in her eyes. “Can I help you?” I didn’t stop what I was doing, my tone indifferent. “Damian said he’s been having insomnia lately. I want to personally pick out a calming aromatherapy for him.” Serena walked to the shelf and casually picked up a bottle of essential oil to examine. “Natalie, you won’t mind me choosing something from your shop to give him, will you?” “Pick whatever you want. Pay at the counter when you’re done.” I didn’t even look up. Serena’s gaze scanned around the shop and finally landed on the exquisite shock-proof box beside me. “What’s this? It’s packaged so nicely, it must be something special, right?” Serena suddenly reached out and grabbed the box. “Don’t touch it!” I shouted sharply. But it was too late. Serena deliberately let it slip. “Oops,” she said, and the box crashed heavily onto the hard marble floor. The crisp sound of shattering glass was especially piercing in the quiet shop. The rich, pure scent of roses instantly permeated the air. It was my professor’s life’s work, my most treasured possession, now reduced to a sticky mess of shards on the floor. I froze in place, my mind blank for a moment. Looking at the fragments, my hands trembled uncontrollably. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to!” Serena put on a panicked expression, her eyes instantly reddening. “Natalie, please don’t be angry. I’ll pay you back however much it costs…” Just then, Damian strode into the shop. As soon as he entered, he saw Serena with red-rimmed eyes standing to one side while I stared at the broken glass on the floor, the atmosphere tense. “What happened?” Damian pulled Serena into his arms, frowning. “Damian, I accidentally broke something of Natalie’s. She seems really angry…” Serena leaned into his embrace pitifully, tears falling on cue. Damian glanced at the glass shards on the floor and looked at me impatiently. “It’s just a perfume bottle. Serena didn’t do it on purpose. Do you really need to look like you want to kill someone?” I slowly raised my head, looking at this man I’d shared a bed with for three years. He didn’t even ask what she broke before rushing to take Serena’s side. “Just a perfume bottle?” I softly repeated his words. I didn’t scream hysterically, nor did I lunge at them like a shrew. I simply walked to the counter, took out an invoice, quickly wrote down a string of numbers, then walked up to Damian and slapped the invoice against his chest. “This is my professor’s rare legacy piece, with a market value of three million dollars, but to me, it’s priceless.” I said, “Since Serena says she’ll compensate, then please settle the bill for her, Mr. Harrison. Three million dollars. Not a penny less.” Damian froze. “Natalie, are you insane? How could something in this dump be worth three million? You’re extorting me!” Damian said through clenched teeth. “You can choose not to pay. I’ll call the police right now and check the security footage.” I held up my phone, unyielding. Damian looked at me, his chest heaving violently. He suddenly pulled out his checkbook, scrawled three million on it, and slammed it on the table. “Natalie, you’ve really fallen into the money pit! I was so wrong about you!” With that, he pulled Serena away and left the aromatherapy shop without looking back. I stood there, looking at the three-million-dollar check. I crouched down and picked up the glass shards soaked in essential oil with my bare hands, piece by piece. The sharp edges cut my fingers, blood mixing with the scent of roses dripping onto the floor. I didn’t cry. Because this three million was exactly enough to cover the admission fee for the Grasse laboratory. Damian, this debt between us. We’re even.

Natalie’s POV The shop transfer procedures were completed within three days. Watching the sign being taken down from the storefront, I felt little attachment. I cashed the check, transferred it to the French laboratory’s account, and booked a one-way ticket to Paris for two weeks later. Damian knew nothing about any of this. I heard he’d been busy helping Serena launch a new lifestyle brand, leaving early and returning late, rarely even coming home. Until one night, late, Damian returned to the villa. He irritably loosened his tie and pushed open the bedroom door. I was sitting at the desk, writing intently under a small lamp. Hearing the sound, I didn’t look up. Damian walked behind me, suppressing the anger in his heart, and said in a low voice. “I have a terrible headache. Go make me a bottle of that sleep-aid oil like before.” “There isn’t any.” My tone was flat, my pen never pausing. “If there isn’t any, then make some! You have all those materials in your shop. Can’t you even make one bottle of essential oil?” Damian’s tone grew heavier, carrying the commanding tone of someone in authority. I stopped writing and turned to look at him. “I’m out of materials, and the shop is closed. If Mr. Harrison is really having insomnia, you can go to the hospital for sleeping pills.” Damian froze, his brow instantly knotting into a tight frown. “The shop is closed? When did this happen? Why didn’t you tell me?” “No need to.” I turned back and continued organizing my materials. Damian suddenly reached out and slammed my notebook shut, forcing me to look at him. “Natalie, what exactly are you throwing a tantrum about? Is it because Serena broke your thing, or because I haven’t been spending time with you? You weren’t like this before. Why have you become so unreasonable?” “Unreasonable?” I laughed lightly. “Damian, in your eyes, as long as I don’t go along with what you and Serena want, I’m being unreasonable, right?” He took a deep breath, trying to soften his tone. “Fine, I won’t argue with you. Serena’s brand is launching next week, but the signature fragrance she’s been working on isn’t quite right. You’re a professional. Tomorrow, bring out your formula book and help her adjust it. Consider it a favor to me.” I looked at him, feeling like I was watching an utterly absurd joke. He actually wanted me to hand over my life’s work to the woman who destroyed my professor’s legacy? “Impossible.” I refused flatly. “Natalie!” Damian’s patience completely ran out. “Can you stop being so selfish? Serena’s depression is just starting to improve. This brand is very important to her! You’re just sharing one formula. What’s the big deal?” “Since it’s no big deal, let her formulate it herself.” I stood up, looking directly into his angry eyes. “Damian, I’d rather destroy my work, throw it away, than let Serena use even a drop of it.” Damian laughed bitterly, his eyes cold. “Fine, very good. Natalie, don’t forget. When you opened that shabby shop, Harrison Group invested money too. If you won’t help, I’ll immediately withdraw the investment and make sure your shop can never open in this city again!” He thought this threat would be enough to make me comply. After all, that was my life’s work. I just looked at him calmly and smiled. “Do whatever you want.” After saying that, I walked past him straight into the bathroom. Damian stood frozen in place, his fists clenched so tightly they cracked. What he didn’t know was that the shop no longer belonged to me. The leverage he used to threaten me was nothing but a ridiculous empty shell.

Natalie’s POV A week later, Serena’s personal lifestyle brand “Serena’s Time” held a grand launch event at the city’s most luxurious hotel. Not only did Damian personally appear in support, but he also mobilized all of Harrison Group’s PR resources to promote it for her. The core highlight of the launch was a custom fragrance called “First Love.” When the big screen displayed the composition and the top, heart, and base notes of this fragrance, I clenched my fists. Cedar, white tea, mixed with an extremely minute amount of bitter orange leaf. This was the competition piece I had spent half a year preparing for the International Perfumery Competition. “Rebirth.” The formula ratios were precise to the milligram. Besides myself, only one other person could have accessed my formula book. I stood up, pushed through the crowd, and walked straight to the VIP lounge backstage. The moment I opened the door, Damian was bent down adjusting Serena’s dress, the two looking at each other with smiles, a painfully warm scene. Hearing the noise, Damian looked up and saw me standing in the doorway, his brow instinctively furrowing. “What are you doing here?” I ignored him, walked straight to the table, picked up the bottle of “First Love” fragrance being used as a display piece, and looked at Serena. “Where did you steal this formula from?” Serena’s face went pale. She immediately hid behind Damian, her voice trembling. “Natalie, what are you saying? I formulated this myself…” “You formulated it yourself?” I pressed forward step by step. “What’s the extraction temperature for bitter orange leaf? What’s the fusion ratio of white tea and cedar? Can you tell me?” “Enough!” Damian pushed me away and shielded the swaying Serena, shouting sharply. “Natalie, are you done with your madness!” I was pushed back two steps, my waist hitting the edge of the table, a sharp pain shooting through me. I stared straight at Damian. “You gave it to her, didn’t you? You went through my formula book.” Damian’s eyes flickered, but he quickly regained his cold, righteous composure. “So what if I did?” He admitted it, his tone even carrying a trace of condescending arrogance. “Serena’s brand urgently needs a blockbuster product to break into the market. Your formula was perfect for it. You’re so talented. You can just formulate another one for the competition. But Serena can’t. She needs this success to build confidence and overcome her depression.” A roar echoed in my ears. My world completely collapsed. The man before me was terrifyingly unfamiliar. In Damian’s eyes, my life’s work, my dreams, all those sleepless nights. They meant nothing next to Serena’s so-called “confidence.” My talent had become a cheap gift he used to please another woman. “Damian, that was my competition entry,” I said softly. “In the perfumery world, stealing someone’s formula can ruin your career.” “As long as you don’t say anything, no one will know.” Damian adjusted his cuffs dismissively. “As compensation, Harrison Group will transfer five million to your account. This matter ends here.” Five million. He bought out my life’s work, and with it, the last shred of my feelings for him. I didn’t cry or make a scene. I just quietly looked at Damian, for a long time. “Fine.” I nodded gently. I carefully placed the fragrance bottle on the table and turned toward the door. As my hand gripped the doorknob, I stopped but didn’t turn around. “Damian, the formula is yours to give. I wish you both eternal happiness.” The door closed softly. There were three days left until I left. The atmosphere in the villa became eerily quiet. I sat on the living room carpet, organizing several small cardboard boxes. “What are you packing?” Damian walked over. “Some old things I don’t need anymore. I’m planning to donate them.” I didn’t even look up, placing some old books into a box. Damian didn’t think much of it. He sat down beside me, pulled out a velvet jewelry box from his pocket, and placed it in front of me. “Open it and see.” His tone carried a hint of expectation. I stopped what I was doing and looked at the ring inside the box, sparkling with brilliant light from a pink diamond. Very beautiful, very expensive. But I only found it ironic. He shattered my life’s work, trampled on my dignity, then tried to buy me off with a stone. This was Damian’s love. “Thank you, it’s beautiful.” I didn’t refuse. I took the jewelry box and casually placed it on the table beside me without trying it on. Damian’s brow furrowed. He was getting irritated. “You don’t like it?” “I like it.” I gave a perfunctory response and continued organizing the box. Damian grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward him, trying to kiss my lips. “Natalie, it’s been so long since we…” His voice was low and husky, carrying a hint of suggestion. I turned my head away, avoiding his touch. “I’m very tired today. I don’t want to.” My rejection was undisguised.Damian’s hand froze in mid-air, his expression instantly darkening. He stared at me for a long moment, then finally let out a cold laugh and stood up. “Fine, I won’t force you. Tomorrow is your birthday. I’ve reserved a table at the rooftop restaurant. Seven o’clock in the evening. Don’t be late.” With that, he turned and strode upstairs, his back radiating suppressed anger. I watched him go, my gaze returning to the cardboard box filled with “old items.” Inside wasn’t old books at all, but everything Damian had given me over the past three years. Including the wedding album that had been flipped through countless times. I tossed the pink diamond jewelry box in as well and sealed it with tape. Tomorrow was my birthday, and also the day I flew to Paris. Damian, you’re destined to wait in vain for this birthday dinner. The next day, at the international airport departure hall. I sat by the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking at my phone screen. I calmly powered it off, removed the SIM card, and tossed it into a nearby trash bin. “Attention passengers traveling to Paris, flight AF112 is now boarding…” A gentle female voice came through the speakers. I stood up and pulled my single small suitcase. Without looking back at this city I’d lived in for three years, I strode toward the boarding gate.

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