Category: English

When my online gaming boyfriend found out I scored a 1590 on the SATs, he dumped me. “With grades like that, going into a STEM major? She’s probably a literal ogre.” He snickered, mocking my looks to his frat brothers, forgetting his mic was still hot. A second later, our teammate lifted his rifle and gunned him down. “Talk trash to a junior from my department, consider yourself unlucky.” Fast forward to the start of the semester. I stared at the 6-foot-2, drop-dead gorgeous guy standing in front of me, completely speechless. Bro, with a face like that, calling someone else a scumbag… isn’t that a bit hypocritical? After the SAT scores were released, I pulled an all-nighter gaming. My parents were too busy calling every relative we knew to brag, so they left me alone. By the time morning rolled around and I got a call from Mason, my voice was completely hoarse. He cut straight to the chase: “Riley, let’s break up.” Mason and I had met randomly in an online lobby. He was a painfully average player but had a lot of money—a total pay-to-win whale. Plus, he was a smooth talker. The night after the SATs, he asked me out, and we made it official. I didn’t expect it to crash and burn in less than a month. “Okay,” I agreed, not bothering to cling to him. We hadn’t even met IRL yet. I just treated it like my Tamagotchi had died. Mason seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. “We can still game together, right?” I said sure. Right after we finished a match, Mason changed his profile picture. I didn’t think much of it and was about to log off. Suddenly, an unfamiliar, teasing voice came through the headset: “Yo, Mason, what’s with the new PFP? You break up?” Mason’s mic was still open. Before I could warn him, I heard him scoff: “Obviously! Do you know she scored a 1590 on her SATs? And she’s going to Stanford for Computer Science!” “With grades like that, doing a STEM major? She’s probably a literal ogre. If I didn’t dump her before we met IRL, I’d probably die of fright.” The other guys in our squad went dead silent. Mason sounded confused: “Hey, why aren’t you guys moving—” Bang! Bang! Bang! The God-tier player on our squad suddenly fired three consecutive shots, blowing Mason’s head off in-game. Mason instantly raged: “Are you insane?! Why the hell did you team-kill me—” His voice abruptly cut off. He finally realized his mic had been hot the whole time. A lazy, nonchalant voice drifted through the headset. “Talk trash to a junior from my department, consider yourself unlucky.” Wait, what??? This teammate almost never used voice chat, but his skills were absolutely insane. In my head, he was always the cold, untouchable pro. Who would have thought the first time he ever spoke, it would be to defend me? Right then, my phone started buzzing like crazy. It was my best friend, Chloe. I exited the lobby and picked up, instantly bombarded by her frantic screaming. “Riley Evans! You! Are a literal god!” “You got a 1590! You’re valedictorian! You have to carry me through life now, ahhhhh!” I pulled the phone away from my ear. “Stop yelling. Your girl just got dumped.” Chloe: “?” I gave her the rundown of what just happened. “He probably thought I was ugly.” Chloe was furious: “??? Is he clinically insane? If the Prom Queen of West High is an ogre, what the hell are the rest of us?!” “Whatever.” I didn’t want to waste energy on him. Thinking back to what that God-tier teammate had said, I sent him a private message: “Hey, senior? Thanks for today! Can I get your number? I’ll treat you to food when the semester starts!” A minute later, the aloof senior blessed me with a single word: “Sure.” Getting publicly executed by a teammate completely destroyed Mason’s ego, and he rage-quit the lobby immediately. But that night, Mason sent me a message. “Log on. Let’s run it again.” It seemed he was determined to win his pride back. Talk about a bruised ego. I glanced at his new teammate. “This gamer tag looks familiar.” A lazy voice drifted through my headset: “He’s a paid pro-carry.” I jumped slightly, rubbing my ear in surprise. This guy… we had played together for so long, and he barely ever typed a word. But ever since he stood up for me, he seemed too lazy to type and just exclusively used voice comms. I wasn’t quite used to it yet. Looking at the expensive new gear Mason had equipped, I felt a bit nervous. “Can we win?” He was dead set on making a comeback, spending real cash to buy a victory. The senior asked lazily, “Do you want to beat him?” I didn’t hesitate: “Duh!” So what if he’s a trust fund whale? I heard a low chuckle. “Alright.” Nine minutes later, Mason and his expensive pro-carry both got sniped in the head. Mason screamed an obscenity over the mic and instantly logged off. I sat in deep thought for a long time before finally texting the senior: “Senior, if I go to Stanford for CS, will I become as cracked at this game as you?” “…Not necessarily.” The senior graciously typed a few extra words for me. “Depends on your raw talent.” Ah. I understood. “Well, I’m covering your breakfast for a month!” He went back to his aloof self and didn’t reply. After the scores were finalized, my life became a blur. Doing college prep interviews, picking dorms, getting my driver’s license… I was so busy I barely touched the game for over a month. Out of nowhere, Mason messaged me. “Riley, we had an amicable breakup. You don’t have to literally quit the game just to avoid me, you know.” Me: ??? What kind of delusional nonsense was he typing? When I finally logged into my neglected account, I realized the rumors were already flying. Several of my regular squadmates instantly spammed me. “Riley! You’re finally back!” “It’s just a breakup! It’s not the end of the world!” “Guys like Mason who only care about looks are shallow anyway! Good riddance!” I was totally lost. “No, I’ve just been super busy lately.” But no matter how much I explained, nobody believed me. After a few minutes of confusion, I finally figured out why—Mason had a new girlfriend. “That low-level account he’s carrying around is his new girl. I heard her PFP is actually her, a broadcast journalism major.” I spectated them for a bit and cringed. She was painfully bad. Even with his pay-to-win items, it was agonizing to watch. Hats off to Mason for having the patience to peacefully coax and carry her. To bleach my eyes, I grouped up with the senior. Sometimes he seemed incredibly busy, and other times he seemed like he had nothing but free time. I was very blunt about my needs: “Senior, my eyes are bleeding. Mind flexing some plays to cleanse my vision?” Five minutes later, we loaded into a match and absolutely decimated the enemy team. I felt so much better. I was perfectly satisfied, but right as I was about to log off, that deep, lazy voice echoed in my ears again. “Looks like you really liked him.” I thought I was hallucinating. “What?” He elaborated, “They all said you cried so hard you lost your voice the day he dumped you.” Me: “…” “But now he’s got someone new, and they look pretty happy. You should let it go. Crying over a jerk like that isn’t worth it.” Me: “…” This was absurd. I kept my face deadpan. “Why would I be hung up on him? Stanford has a massive ratio of guys to girls in the CS department. You think I’ll have a shortage of options?” Senior: “…” Realizing that might have sounded a bit arrogant, I corrected myself: “Actually, let’s not be too greedy. I just want the most handsome one!” The line was quiet for a long moment before a low chuckle broke the silence. “You’ve got some high ambitions.” Late August rolled around, and I dragged my suitcase onto campus for freshman move-in day. The California sun was relentless. There wasn’t a single breeze. I pulled my baseball cap lower and kept walking. Stanford was great and all, but the campus was so massive I felt like I was walking halfway to my grave. Suddenly, a guy jogged over from nearby. “Hey, freshman? Are you an English major?” I looked up, and he froze for a second, his ears rapidly turning red. “Thanks, but I’m in the Computer Science department. Do you know where their check-in booths are?” His eyes widened in shock. It took me asking a second time for him to snap out of it. “Oh! Just go straight down this path and take a left at the end. That suitcase looks heavy, want me to walk you there?” I politely declined and kept walking until I finally found the spot. A few guys were slouched lazily in folding chairs under the canopy. When they saw me stop, one of them let out a low whistle. “Hey, freshman, you looking for Liam too? Tough luck, he just stepped out to the advisor’s office. Come back later.” Liam? Who? “No.” I handed over my ID. “I’m here to check in.” The guys slouched under the tent all whipped their heads around in absolute shock. “Holy shit?!” As soon as I got settled into my dorm, I got a text from Chloe. “Rileyyyy I miss you so much waaaaah! Thinking about not seeing you every day is breaking my heart!” “Chloe, just to remind you, your college is literally across the bay.” “I don’t care, I don’t care!” Chloe whined. “Do you know you made the Campus Confessions Instagram page on your literally first day?! Now I have a million more people trying to steal my gorgeous bestie!” Me: “…Campus Confessions?” I tapped the link she sent, and sure enough, someone had taken a candid photo of me and posted it. Emmm… At the time, I was dragging my suitcase, sweating like a dog under the sun. I didn’t even notice anyone taking a picture. “BRO! Are the freshmen really this gorgeous this year!?” “If I call her the Campus Queen, nobody can object, right? What major? English?” “Drop the Insta handle! I am begging!” “Give up, guys, she’s a CS major! How the hell did those nerds get so lucky! FML!” “??? No way? The CS department already has Liam Wright, how did they pull someone of this tier too? They get the absolute hottest guy AND girl on campus? Where is the justice?” Liam Wright? That must be the Liam those guys mentioned at the booth. Seems like he’s pretty popular. Oh right, I almost forgot to text my senior. “Senior, I checked into campus!” A little while later, he replied: “Was busy earlier, didn’t see this. You arrived?” “Yep! You go do your thing, my roommates just got here, we’re gonna go grab food.” A few minutes later, he sent a short list. “These spots near the West Gate are pretty good.” Man, having a ‘local’ is the best! So convenient. My roommates were all in different majors, but they were super nice. After introducing ourselves, we headed out. We had just sat down at a restaurant when Mason randomly sent me a photo. My heart jumped. —It was the exact candid photo from the Campus Confessions page!

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After receiving the seventy-eighth explicit photo from my husband’s mistress, I finally snapped. I uploaded every single picture to my social media accounts. His little lover cried her eyes out, screaming to anyone who would listen that her life was ruined. Less than a minute later, Vincent called me. His tone was absolute ice. “Delete them.” I refused. Ten minutes later, I was forcibly logged out of all my accounts. The posts were deleted, my profiles were deactivated, and the trending hashtags were wiped clean. It took Vincent Cross less than ten minutes to erase the entire scandal. Three days later, he stood in front of me with divorce papers in hand. His voice was soft, carrying a veiled threat. “It is just a PR stunt to coax the girl. Be a good wife, Diana. Play along.” I nodded and signed my name. As soon as he left, I called the clinic. I changed my upcoming prenatal checkup to a clinical abortion. He probably never believed that I could actually walk away from being Mrs. Cross. 1 Half an hour after signing the divorce papers, I was lying on an operating table. My phone rang shrilly just as the procedure finished. The anesthesia was wearing off. A cold, dense layer of sweat broke out across my forehead from the sharp cramps. I bit my lip against the pain and answered the call. Vincent’s voice came through, completely devoid of warmth. “Diana, pack up all your things and get out.” “Okay.” I agreed without a second thought. We had been married for five years. The girls he kept on the side rotated like a revolving door. To ensure I did not interfere with his latest romance, he had his assistant rent a house for me out in the Chicago suburbs. He had laid down the ground rules on day one. “If I want to see you, I will call you. My assistant will wire your living expenses. Unless I give you permission, you are not allowed to show your face in my presence.” Yet, a year ago, he was the one kneeling on the floor, begging me to come back. He looked at me with such raw sincerity, swearing he was done playing the field. He promised we would build a real life together. Like a fool, I cried tears of joy and believed every single word. So I moved back into our marital home. A week later, a young model tripped on her gown during a runway show. She fell right into his line of sight, looking exactly like a startled, helpless fawn. I saw the way he looked at her. My heart screamed in agonizing betrayal, but I had to admit the truth. He was captivated all over again. That very night, headlines of him walking that model into a luxury hotel plastered the internet. Once again, I became the laughingstock of our social circle. This time, the girl seemed to have a real hold on him. A whole year passed, and Vincent still had not grown tired of her. Throughout that year, I received seventy-eight provocative photos and videos, along with countless harassing texts. Every single message dripped with her desperate ambition to replace me. Then came today. Three hours ago. He placed the divorce papers on the table for the very first time. “It is just for show. Be good. Do not make me angry.” I fought back my tears, staring at him with red, swollen eyes. I did not want to sign. No matter how wild his previous affairs had gotten, he had never brought out legal documents. But this time, he slowly stroked my hair, treating me like a pet he was trying to pacify. I knew exactly what happened when Vincent got angry. Just like today, all it took was a snap of his fingers to fix every single problem for Sienna. So I signed the papers and left him with a single word. “Okay.” When I finally dragged myself back to the house, Vincent and Sienna were nowhere to be found. Martha, our housekeeper, was busy in the kitchen. She saw me and her face lit up. “Ma’am! How was the prenatal checkup?” My face was pale as a sheet. I slowly shook my head. I had originally planned to tell Vincent about the baby tonight. But plans rarely survive reality. In the span of a few days, I lost my marriage, and I lost my child. “I ended it,” I said softly. Martha stared at me in absolute shock as I continued. “If this baby was born into this house, they would never know what happiness looks like.” Before Martha could process my words, the front door swung open. Sienna walked in, her arms loaded with luxury shopping bags. Behind her, a dozen bodyguards carried even more boxes of designer clothes and jewelry. She did not look surprised to see me. She made herself comfortable on my chaise lounge, flashing a sugary, mocking smile. “Honestly, I do not get it. Vincent treats you like garbage. Why are you still clinging to this house?” “Yesterday, I told him I was craving those artisan macarons from that boutique downtown. He did not even hesitate. He walked three miles in a blizzard just to get them for me.” She tilted her head. “Has he ever done anything like that for you?” I fell completely silent. Yesterday was the anniversary of my father’s death. When I finally managed to reach Vincent through his assistant, I could hear the howling winter wind through the receiver. But I also heard him say, very clearly, that he had no time for me. It turned out he was busy fetching pastries for Sienna. A wave of helplessness washed over me. I gripped the hem of my shirt tightly. There was a time when Vincent was the person who loved me most in this entire world, second only to my parents. He was the son of my family’s chauffeur. He had no status, no wealth, and he never quite fit in with the rich kids in our neighborhood. Back then, the other children loved to bully him. But he never cared about their taunts. He used to look at me and say, “The only person whose opinion matters to me is Diana.” When I ran a high fever as a kid, he stayed awake all night, sitting on the floor right beside my bed. When a minor earthquake hit our city, he threw himself over me. Falling debris cut his head wide open, but he swallowed the pain without making a single sound. He just kept whispering that I was going to be safe. We had a massive argument in college. He bought my favorite street food, wrote a ten-page apology letter by hand, and stood outside my dorm room in the freezing snow for an entire night just to prove his loyalty. The day we graduated was the day we got married. At the wedding, my father placed my hand in his, his voice stern. “If I ever catch wind that your heart has strayed, I will take her away without a second thought. My daughter will never have to beg for love.” Vincent had clenched his hand into a fist, swearing on his life that his heart belonged only to me. He looked into my eyes and promised, “I am going to make you the happiest woman in the world. I will never let sadness touch your life.” From high school sweethearts to a married couple, we were the envy of everyone who knew us. A year into our marriage, my father passed away. Vincent took over the entire company. He worked himself to the bone, collapsing from exhaustion and ending up in the hospital multiple times. My heart broke for him. I had grown up spoiled, never stepping foot in a kitchen, but I learned how to cook just so he could come home to a warm meal. He used to bring me a bouquet of yellow roses every single day after work. He told me they were the ultimate symbol of devotion. Every night, we would sit on the patio and look at the stars. He would hold me until we both fell asleep. I just could not figure out when everything started to rot. 2 I suppose it started when he finally shed the title of “the chauffeur’s son.” Once he became the untouchable CEO, his schedule filled up with endless networking dinners and exclusive parties. He started coming home smelling of cheap, cloying perfume. When I looked at him with questioning eyes, he would just laugh it off. “It is just the scent of some client I had to entertain. Do not overthink it, honey.” I believed him. He used flimsy excuses to slowly chip away at my unconditional trust. Once his grip on the company was absolute, he stopped pretending altogether. And I was left stranded in the illusion of love he had woven around me. I was completely trapped. The first time I caught him cheating was on his birthday. I had prepared a massive surprise party on a yacht. The guests waited until they were exhausted, but the guest of honor never showed up. Desperate, I had his location tracked. The signal showed he was working overtime at the office. All the way there, I silently scolded him for pushing himself too hard. I pushed open the heavy oak doors of his executive suite, holding a cake I had baked myself. But his desk was cluttered with the remains of a candlelit dinner. Lingerie was scattered across the expensive carpet. The most ridiculous part was the two bodyguards standing right outside his private lounge door. When I kicked the door open, Vincent did not even look panicked. He gently pulled the blanket over the naked woman beneath him to protect her modesty, then casually grabbed a towel for his own waist. He looked up at me. His eyes were as cold as a glacier. “Shut the door. You might not care about your dignity, but she cares about hers.” His icy composure made me feel like an absolute clown. I completely lost my mind. I lunged forward, desperate to drag the homewrecker out of that bed. Before I could even reach her, one of Vincent’s bodyguards stepped in and slapped me across the face so hard the room spun. In the chaotic blur, I finally got a good look at the woman hiding under the sheets. It was the young nurse who used to change his IV bags when he was hospitalized for exhaustion. She was crying fake, terrified tears. “Please do not misunderstand! I just came to drop off some liver supplements for Mr. Cross. I never wanted to ruin your marriage.” “We just had a little wine, and things got out of hand…” Vincent pressed his lips into a tight line, glaring at me with dark, threatening eyes. “Diana, I am warning you. Do not lay a finger on her.” That was when I realized he had been stepping out on me for a long, long time. Those romantic bouquets of roses were nothing more than a guilty afterthought. A cheap peace offering to the wife waiting at home while he partied with other women. After that day, the floodgates opened. The women draped over his arm changed with every corporate dinner. He stopped caring about my feelings. He stopped caring about my life. It seemed like the only things that made him feel alive were ruthless business deals and the bodies of different women. I slowly grew numb to the constant humiliation. Until one day, I completely stopped waiting for him to come home. I tuned out Sienna’s arrogant taunts. I walked upstairs, packed my passport and some essential documents, and headed back down. When I reached the living room, Sienna was digging through the purse I had left on the sofa. My breath hitched. I rushed forward and snatched the bag right out of her hands. Sienna rolled her eyes and held up her empty hands. “There is nothing valuable in there anyway. What are you so nervous about?” I subtly felt the bottom lining of the bag, making sure my medical documents were still there. I let out a quiet breath of relief. Sienna stepped closer to me, a nasty, knowing smile spreading across her face. “You are pregnant, aren’t you?” “I saw the prenatal vitamins in your bag.” “You know Vincent absolutely despises children, right? If he finds out you are carrying his kid, he will drag you to a clinic himself.” “Take my advice. Get rid of it before he finds out, or else…” Right at that moment, the front door opened. Vincent walked in. He shot me a casual glance. “Did you drop something?” I forced a polite smile and tucked my passport deeper into the bag. “Nothing important.” Vincent stared at me for a long second. As I turned to leave, he pulled out two plastic cards and held them out to me. “Here is a keycard to the presidential suite at the Grand Plaza. Stay there for now.” “The other is a bank card with ten million dollars. Spend it however you like.” He cleared his throat slightly. “Yesterday… I really was busy.” Busy? Busy buying macarons for his mistress? In that exact moment, looking at the man in front of me made my stomach churn with pure disgust. I gave him a warm, gentle smile. Then, I raised my hand and slapped him directly across the face. I shook out my stinging palm, my smile never fading. “You are absolutely disgusting, Vincent.” “You were nothing but a chauffeur’s kid. A stroke of luck turned you into a billionaire, and suddenly you forget who begged my family for help when you had nothing?” I had never spoken to him with such cruel precision before. Vincent did not strike back, but his expression instantly darkened into a storm. Before he could even react, Sienna grabbed a heavy crystal ashtray from the coffee table and slammed it directly into the side of my head. Warm blood immediately spilled down my temple. A violent wave of dizziness hit me. The bright living room lights suddenly felt blinding, making the floor tilt beneath my feet. Martha gasped and rushed forward to catch me before I collapsed. She turned to Vincent in a total panic. “Sir! Stop this! You have no idea that she just…” 3 I cut Martha off before she could finish her sentence. “Martha, I am fine.” The man standing in front of me did not flinch. He just gave the housekeeper a cold, dismissive look. His voice was like shards of ice. “Martha, do not forget who signs your paychecks.” “Since she has already signed the divorce papers, she is no longer the lady of this house.” Martha looked at me with frantic, heartbroken eyes. I just shook my head slightly. There was no point in telling him anything now. He was no longer the boy who used to lean in close, smiling just to hear me speak. Vincent immediately reached out and gently took Sienna’s trembling hands. “Did you hurt your hand swinging that?” Sienna sniffled, shaking her head pitifully. “No… I just could not stand watching her disrespect you…” The harsh overhead lights caught the absolute tenderness in his eyes as he looked at her. “You are an idiot. It does not matter if she disrespects me, but I will not let you suffer any grievances.” Hearing his validation, Sienna’s posture instantly shifted into smug triumph. “She slapped you. I want to pay her back ten times over.” She waited for his permission. He remained silent. Seeing his hesitation, Sienna stood on her tiptoes, pressing her chest against his arm as she whispered sweetly in his ear. “You are the great Vincent Cross. Word gets out that your ex-wife slapped you and got away with it, you will be a laughingstock.” A satisfied smirk finally broke through Vincent’s cold exterior. He wrapped an arm tightly around her waist and kissed her lips. “Alright. Whatever you want.” I stumbled backward, staring at the two of them in absolute horror. Two bodyguards immediately stepped forward, shoved Martha out of the way, and pinned my arms behind my back. I thrashed against their grip. “Vincent! You cannot do this!” Sienna just sneered. She stepped up and delivered a brutal, stinging slap across my cheek. At the exact same time, a sharp, agonizing cramp ripped through my abdomen. My head throbbed violently. Cold sweat drenched my back. By the time the tenth slap landed, I was thrown to the floor like a broken doll. Tears slid down my swollen cheeks, disappearing into my tangled hair. I bit down on the inside of my cheek, using every ounce of my willpower to swallow my sobs. I refused to let them hear me cry. He did not look at me even once as he led Sienna up the stairs. Just before they disappeared, I heard his low, magnetic voice echoing in the hallway. “Wear that black lace set tonight.” Sienna giggled, leaning into his chest, shooting me one last victorious glare from the top of the stairs. The bedroom door clicked shut. Martha rushed over and helped me up from the floor. But the dull, aching pain in my stomach did not fade. It only grew sharper and more terrifying. I have no idea how long I was unconscious. When I finally opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was Vincent sitting by my hospital bed. His eyes were completely devoid of warmth. His voice lacked any real emotion. “Martha told me you fainted. If your body is this weak, stop causing unnecessary drama. Just behave, and I will not have to worry.” His lazy, arrogant tone was casual, yet every word felt like a knife twisting in my chest. “Diana, look at the tax bracket I am in now. What man at my level does not mess around? Expecting me to be completely monogamous for the rest of my life is just unreasonable.” “I cannot do it. Whether it is a private party or a business deal, people are constantly throwing women at me.” “I already told you, the divorce is just for show. Just be good. Give me some time. Once I get bored of playing around, I will come back to you. We will have kids, and everything will be better than before.” “But only after I have had my fill out here.” He paused, finally lifting his heavy eyelids to look at me. The moment our eyes met, my heart went entirely dead. I searched his face for a single shred of guilt. There was none. He was absolutely certain I would back down, just like I always did. “You really need to learn how to be obedient, Diana.” Obedient? The old Vincent never wanted me to be obedient. He used to love my stubborn streak. He used to say that obedient girls had no spine, no fire. I looked down at the wedding ring still sitting on my finger. My chest felt like it was being pierced by a thousand suffocating needles. After a long, suffocating silence, my voice came out hoarse and cracked. “I understand.” “The purse I left on the sofa back at the house… there is something inside that Sienna really wants. She will be thrilled when she sees it.” My apparent surrender brought a genuine, relieved smile to Vincent’s face. “Is it that pigeon-blood ruby set from the auction last month? Diana, if you had just swallowed your pride earlier, things would never have gotten this ugly.” No. It is the medical receipt for my clinical abortion and the post-op care instructions. I answered his question silently in my head. We would never have children again. Vincent took my silence as a submissive agreement. He left the hospital room looking completely satisfied. An hour later, I checked myself out of the hospital and moved into the presidential suite he had arranged for me. I spent the next two weeks meeting with brokers, liquidating every single piece of jewelry he had ever given me, and funneling the cash into an offshore trust fund. The day the final wire transfer cleared, I bought a one-way ticket out of Chicago. As I dragged my suitcase toward the door, the bodyguards stationed outside asked where I was going. I ignored the question. They asked how long I would be gone. I thought about it for a second. “A couple of days.” Those couple of days turned into weeks. I never went back. A full month passed. The first people to realize I had vanished into thin air were those two bodyguards. Trembling with fear, they dialed Vincent’s number to report that I was missing. 4 One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. The call abruptly disconnected with the sound of heavy breathing. At that exact moment, Vincent had Sienna pinned against the massive floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse. He had not heard a single word the bodyguards said. His kisses rained down on her like a violent storm, his hands aggressively pushing her clothes to the floor. Just as things were about to cross the line, Sienna pushed against his burning chest. “Wait.” Vincent grabbed her chin, forcing her glossy, hazy eyes to meet his. “What is it?” Sienna’s cheeks flushed crimson. Like a magic trick, she pulled a crumpled ultrasound report from her pocket. Her voice trembled with excitement. “You cannot have me tonight, Vincent. I am pregnant.” The temperature in the room plummeted instantly. The raging fire of lust vanished as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped over his head. Vincent let go of her jaw, his face entirely blank. He slowly, methodically picked up his silk robe and tied it around his waist. He looked at the stunned woman standing in front of him. A cold sneer echoed in his mind. This woman had crossed the line. Just like every other stupid girl he had entertained, she overestimated her worth. He gave a noncommittal grunt, walked over to the leather sofa, pulled a cigarette from his case, and lit it. He did not say another word. Just a grunt? Sienna stood there, completely bewildered. This was not how the script was supposed to go. In her fantasy, Vincent was supposed to scoop her into his arms, kissing her deeply, and promising to take responsibility. Then, she would smoothly transition into becoming the new Mrs. Cross. She would have maids waiting on her hand and foot, living a life of endless, disgusting luxury. But instead, the man just gave a dismissive grunt and lit a cigarette. The brutal reality check made her lose control of her emotions. “What does that mean? Do you not want this baby? When we were in bed, you swore I was the only woman you ever wanted to have kids with!” Vincent’s voice dropped to a lethal register. Every trace of desire was gone. “You actually believe the garbage men say when they are trying to get laid?” “Sienna, I thought you were different. I thought you knew your place. But it turns out you are just as delusional as the rest of them.” Sienna stumbled backward, convinced she was having a nightmare. “What…” Vincent slowly exhaled a thick cloud of white smoke. “Go to a clinic tomorrow and get rid of it. If you do that, I will overlook your little stunt tonight.” “If you insist on having this kid, fine. I do not care.” “I will pay child support every month. But the amount is entirely up to me. Maybe it will be a million. Maybe a hundred thousand. Maybe ten thousand. Hell, maybe I will just send a hundred bucks. If you want to take me to family court, be my guest. I will hire the most ruthless legal team in the country.” “Your chances of winning are less than ten percent.” His voice was quiet, but every word systematically butchered the grand future she had mapped out in her head. After rapidly calculating her options, Sienna realized she was trapped. She lowered her eyes, bit her lip, and gave a humiliated nod. Vincent finally smiled, though the warmth never reached his eyes. Women like her were so easy to manage. No leverage, no backbone. They lived entirely on the scraps of pity and cash men threw their way, ready to compromise their entire existence for a payout. Suddenly, he remembered what Diana had said to him in the hospital room. He reached into the designer purse sitting on the side table, expecting to find the velvet box containing the pigeon-blood ruby set. He figured he could use it to pacify Sienna. His fingers did not brush against velvet. They touched a stack of folded papers. Curious, he pulled them out and unfolded them under the dim light. The bold, black letters on the medical report screamed at him, burning into his retinas. Diana Cross. Patient voluntarily terminated pregnancy. He froze. His muscles locked up. His hands began to ache from gripping the paper so tightly, but his brain completely short-circuited. Voluntarily terminated pregnancy?

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1 I was cutting through the underground parking garage when I saw it. My ex’s sedan was rocking violently on its suspension. Behind the tinted, reinforced glass, I heard a muffled, tear-choked scream from my best friend: “No… please, stop…” Any normal person would have pulled out their phone to record the affair. But me? I’m the ultimate ride-or-die bestie. A hot surge of adrenaline slammed into my brain, bypassing all logic. “You filthy animal! Forcing yourself on my girl in broad daylight? Baby, hang on, I’m coming for you!” I didn’t hesitate. I snatched the fire extinguisher from the wall and went full-on berserk, hammering the heavy canister against the windshield of his million-dollar ride. CRACK! SMASH! CRASH! Safety glass sprayed like diamonds. The screaming inside turned into a terrified shriek. Before the two naked bodies inside could even process the assault, I jammed the nozzle of the dry-chemical extinguisher through the shattered window and pulled the trigger. FOOSH! A suffocating, blinding cloud of white powder instantly filled the cabin. … The air turned into a choking, chemical nightmare. “Cough! Cough! Gag!” Hacking and retching, they finally kicked the doors open. Two pale, shivering figures—looking like deep-fried shrimp covered in flour—tumbled onto the concrete, scrambling for cover. The garage smelled of harsh chemicals and raw panic. The guy wiped the white dust from his eyes, his pupils bloodshot with pure, unadulterated rage. He locked eyes with me and his jaw dropped. “You lunatic! Have you lost your mind? I’m your—” Before he could finish, I launched a brutal kick squarely into his chest, sending him sprawling back into the wreckage. “Shut your mouth! A rapist trying to talk back? Security! Get me some rope! We’ve got a perverted freak attacking someone down here!” My voice echoed off the concrete walls like a siren. It was rush hour at the corporate plaza; the blaring car alarms and my frantic screeching drew a crowd of onlookers like moths to a flame. Phones were out, flashes popping like a paparazzi frenzy. My heart hammered against my ribs. I snatched a grimy, sweat-stained security guard’s parka and lunged forward. “Baby, stay with me! I’ve got you!” I wrapped my best friend, Elena, in the heavy, moldy jacket, cocooning her like a mummy. I pulled the collar tight—so tight it covered her nose and mouth. Elena thrashed inside the fabric, muffled sounds of “Mmph! Mmph!” erupting from the coat. I pinned her down, turned to the gathering crowd of lens-wielding vultures, and let out a sob that tore through the air: “Don’t record this! Please, show some decency! Give her some dignity!” I knelt on the floor, cradling the “mummy” in my arms, tears streaming down my face. “She’s the victim! Do you know who she is? She was just voted ‘Teacher of the Year’ in this city! She’s supposed to be teaching children tomorrow! If her students’ parents see this, how will she ever stand in front of a class again? To think she was assaulted by… this monster! God, have mercy!” The words “Teacher of the Year” hit the crowd like a shockwave. The laughter died, replaced by gasps of genuine horror. “Wait, that’s her? The one from the news?” “That’s sick. In the middle of the day?” “Is he even human? Someone break his jaw!” A few hot-headed employees were already rolling up their sleeves, ready to jump the guy. 2 Inside the parka, Elena was fighting for air, trying to push her head out to explain, but I wailed even louder, drowning out her muffled cries. “Baby, don’t be scared! I don’t care that you’re dirty! Nobody will ever know it was you! As long as I’m breathing, I won’t let that scum’s filth stain your reputation!” That was when Marcus finally cleared the dust from his lungs. He crawled halfway out of the car, his face white, his features twisted in fury. “Sarah! Are you blind?! It’s me! I’m your boyfriend!” The entire room—no, the whole garage—went dead silent. Every head swiveled between us, hungry for the drama. I stood frozen for a beat, acting like the betrayal had just shattered my soul, then I let out a scream that was even more pathetic and piercing than the last. “AAAAAH!” I lunged at Marcus and swung my arm with everything I had. SLAP! The sound was like a gunshot. The force sent a cloud of white powder flying off his face. “You have the nerve to call yourself my boyfriend?!” I was shaking, my finger inches from his nose, tears pouring down. “How could you do this to my best friend? Do you even have a soul?!” Marcus was reeling, clutching his cheek, his teeth bared. “Are you crazy? She… she was the one who seduced me!” SLAP! Another strike, even harder this time. I felt the skin break at the corner of his mouth. “You filthy liar! I won’t let you drag her name through the mud!” I turned to the crowd, sobbing. “People, judge for yourselves! My best friend loathes cheaters! She’s a woman of absolute integrity! She’s going to be my maid of honor next month, for heaven’s sake! You think she’d throw her life away for someone like him?” I locked eyes with Marcus, my gaze filled with the jagged edge of betrayal. “Marcus, you’re so desperate to save your own skin you’d destroy an innocent woman’s reputation? You’re not even a man. You’re trash.” The crowd swayed. Someone muttered, “Yeah, that’s twisted. Who hits on their best friend’s bride-to-be?” “He definitely drugged or forced her. Look at her, she’s so terrified she can’t even speak.” The sympathy in the room was palpable. Marcus was officially the villain. 3 Sirens wailed in the distance. Marcus was thrashing in the back seat, shouting at the arriving officers like he’d found salvation. “Officer! It’s a setup! It was consensual! This crazy woman assaulted me! I want to press charges!” “Still lying?” I stepped in front of Elena like a mother hen shielding her chicks. I pointed straight at the backseat of his wrecked ride. “Officers! Look! Look under the seat! That’s the evidence!” A cop peered inside with a frown, pulling out a pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs and a leather crop with a pair of sterile evidence tweezers. A wave of knowing titters rippled through the crowd. Even the cops looked uncomfortable, their expressions shifting from duty to disgust. I pointed at the items, my entire body trembling. “Why are you laughing? This is sick! My friend is a teacher! She doesn’t even wear skirts above her knees! She’s the most conservative person I know!” I glared at Marcus, who was being dragged out and pinned against the hood. “Marcus, you’re a deviant! You forced her to use these? Is that how you treat a woman? You’re a monster!” The crowd stopped laughing. A respectable woman wouldn’t touch that gear. He had to be the sick one. Marcus turned purple. “Those are just toys! It was consensual! That’s our business!” “Business?” I gasped, turning to the police with eyes full of tears. “Officer, who uses a whip in a healthy relationship? Please, save her! She’s been screaming for mercy!” The police officer looked at the gear, then back at the hysterical crowd. The pressure was on. “Enough! Save it for the station!” CLICK. The handcuffs went on Marcus. He was shoved into a cruiser, shouting into the void. I stood there, clutching a shivering Elena, refusing to give a statement. “Officer, can we get her to the hospital first? She inhaled so much dust and she’s in a state of severe shock! She needs medical care now!” I squeezed the cop’s hand, my voice cold as ice. “We want a full medical exam. A gynecological report. We’re going to sue this animal for every cent he has!” Elena went rigid at the word exam. The ambulance roared toward the city hospital. Once on the stretcher, Elena was finally freed from the coat. She was hacking, coughing up white dust, her face a mask of trauma. When I reached for her purse, she froze, her eyes widening in sheer terror. “Oh, baby! Don’t move! The doctor said your airways are scorched!” I gently pinned her hand down and snatched her phone. 4 Elena was crying, shaking her head, her throat raw and failing. “You want to call your parents, don’t you? Don’t worry, I’ll show them exactly what this monster did to you.” I swiped her phone across her face. Beep. Face ID unlocked. Elena squeezed her eyes shut, her body shuddering. A nurse hurried over. “Ma’am, stop moving! You’re on an IV!” “It’s okay, she’s just panicked, she wants her mom,” I cooed to the nurse. I turned my back to Elena and dialed the number of her uptight, image-obsessed parents. The moment they picked up, I didn’t say a word—I just started wailing. “Auntie… something happened to Elena… Marcus… that animal… I shouldn’t have let him near her…” I gave them just enough—assault, undressed, police are here—to trigger their worst nightmares. Every word was a needle to their pride. Twenty minutes later, they burst into the ER. Her father looked like he’d aged ten years, his knuckles white around his walking cane, his face a storm of rage. “Dad… Mom…” Elena shrank under the blankets. Before they could speak, I dropped to my knees. “I’m sorry! It’s my fault! I didn’t see him for the beast he was! He dragged her into the garage… the handcuffs… if I hadn’t arrived, he would have destroyed her!” Her mother started wailing, clutching her daughter. “My poor baby! What kind of karma is this? How are you supposed to get married now?!” Her father banged his cane on the floor. “Where is he? I’ll kill him! And you—why were you even with a man like that? Do you know what this does to our reputation?!” Elena looked ready to faint. She opened her mouth to speak, to defend herself, but I lunged up, clapping a hand over her mouth. “Doctor! Get in here! She’s hallucinating! She needs a sedative, now!” The staff rushed over. “What’s happening?” “She’s in shock! She’s trying to defend her attacker! He’s completely broken her mind!” In the chaos, I leaned in close to her ear, my whisper sounding like a velvet-lined threat. “Baby, take a good look at your father’s cane.” She went rigid. “Think carefully,” I breathed. “If you say it was forced, you’re the victim. Everyone will pity you. Your parents will shield you. But if you say it was consensual… knowing how much your father cares about his ‘image,’ do you think he’ll stop at just shouting? He might beat you to death right here in this room.” I paused, my voice chilling. “And tomorrow, the headlines will read: ‘Teacher of the Year caught in affair.’ You’ll be ruined. Your parents’ entire legacy will burn. So, what’s it going to be?” I felt her hot tears hit my skin. I patted her back like I was putting a child to sleep. “Choose.”

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1 A midnight emergency call came in, and as a firefighter, I was among the first to arrive on the scene. It turned out to be a couple playing bedroom games. The man was locked in a pair of steel handcuffs, and they had lost the key. Following standard protocol, I asked the young woman if there were any other hazards in the room. She shook her head with a playful, amused smirk. I felt a sudden unease. When I looked down at the bed, the man had his face completely covered with a dark towel. But the inner side of his exposed thigh bore a very distinct tattoo: a black-and-gold butterfly, identical to the one on my husband, a rising actor who was supposedly away on a shoot. I froze. The woman arched an eyebrow, her tone dripping with mock sweetness. “Is something wrong? I’m so sorry to drag you out in the middle of the night. My guy just couldn’t wait. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, you know? We got a little carried away.” I tightened my grip on the hydraulic rescue cutters and sheared through the metal links. So, his coldness was reserved only for me. If that was the case, I was more than happy to set him free. The handcuffs snapped with a sharp metallic crack. I forced my voice to remain entirely professional. “All set. Sir, try to move your wrists and let me know if you feel any discomfort.” The man on the bed gave a muffled, low response. “No.” My heart plummeted into a bottomless pit. Even with a single, garbled word, I recognized that voice instantly. It was Austin, my husband. The woman, Giselle, suddenly stepped between me and the bed, blocking my view. “I’m so sorry, but my husband is a bit of a public figure. He needs his privacy, so no faces. I’m sure you understand.” I turned toward the door. “Understood. The call is resolved. I’ll be leaving now.” Giselle blocked my path, pressing a paper cup into my hand. “It’s freezing outside. Have a cup of water before you go. It’s the least we can do.” “No, thank you.” I looked down to decline, but my eyes caught the diamond ring on her left ring finger. My brain went entirely numb. I knew that ring. I had saved my salary for two years to have it custom-made for our wedding, a completely unique design. A year ago, the famous designer who crafted it passed away, turning that ring into a rare masterpiece worth a fortune, often called the Ring of True Love. Right around that time, my own ring had gone missing. I thought I had lost it during a fire rescue and had been desperate to search the station or call the police. Austin had been unusually gentle that night, telling me it didn’t matter. He said as long as he kept wearing his, our love was proven. His rare warmth had made me believe that despite his cold demeanor, he truly loved me. Now, I realized the sickening truth: he had simply stolen it to give to another woman. While I stood there in shock, Giselle shoved the cup against my lips. “Oh, don’t be polite. Just drink it.” Caught off guard, I swallowed a mouthful. Almost immediately, I realized something was horribly wrong. My vision blurred, my limbs grew heavy, and I collapsed sideways onto their living room sofa, completely blacking out. When I drifted back into a hazy consciousness, the faint sound of rustling sheets and soft whispers echoed from the bedroom. Giselle was giggling. “She’s sleeping right out there on the couch. Isn’t this incredibly thrilling?” Then came Austin’s voice, laced with mild annoyance but heavy with arousal. “Why did you drug her?” “What, you don’t like it?” Giselle purred. “Then why is your heart racing so fast?” My chest tightened painfully. I forced my eyelids open a crack, looking through the gap in the doorway. Austin was pressing Giselle down onto the bed, his face flushed, his eyes half-closed with a passion I had never once seen him show me. “I love it,” Austin groaned. “You’re the only one who can give me what I really want. If Amber hadn’t been decorated for bravery during that major fire when my career was in the gutter, I would never have married her just to salvage my public image.” I began to tremble, fighting the residual fog of the drug with sheer willpower. “But she really is a gullible idiot,” Austin chuckled, a smug arrogance in his voice. “As long as I say I’m too depressed and heartbroken over her miscarriage, she doesn’t dare touch me.” Giselle moved against him, and Austin gasped. “Jealous? Come on, I’ve barely touched her. I can count on one hand the number of times we’ve actually slept together.” A invisible blade seemed to pierce my chest. Our baby. The child I thought I had lost to a tragic, unavoidable miscarriage. Had his own father played a role in ending his life? How could he be so monstrous? A sharp gasp caught in my throat, and I let out a violent cough. The sounds in the bedroom stopped instantly. “Don’t worry, she probably just woke up,” Giselle whispered. Wrapped in a bedsheet, Giselle strolled out of the bedroom, looking down at me with an innocent smile. “You slept like a rock, sweetie. I couldn’t even shake you awake. You must be completely exhausted from your job.” I struggled to my feet, my fists clenching with an overwhelming rage. But before I could swing at her face, my emergency pager began to blare a high-pitched alarm. Without a word, I pushed past her and bolted out of the apartment. Outside, the morning sun was already high in the sky. They had used me as a spectator for their twisted games all night. Biting through the excruciating pain in my chest, I rushed to the scene of the fire. By the time our shift ended and the last flames were extinguished, a text message from Austin popped up on my screen. It was characteristically cold and brief: I’ll be home tonight. Have a hot bath ready for me. I took a deep breath, forcing my hands to stop shaking as I typed back: We need to talk. Sitting in the back of the fire truck, I stared at my phone. The air was warm, but my body felt ice-cold. Our chat background was the only photo we had ever taken together. Scrolling up, his messages were always single words or brief commands, while mine were long paragraphs of worry and care, usually left on read. A younger firefighter patted my shoulder with a grin. “Writing another novel to your mysterious husband, Captain?” In the past, I would have made excuses for him, saying he was just a private, quiet person. But today, the words tasted like ash. He wasn’t quiet. He possessed a wild, burning passion, he had just chosen to give it all to someone else. The young firefighter chuckled. “Just teasing. We all know your guy is just shy. I actually saw him on social media yesterday. He was buying a bunch of luxury men’s items, like high-end massagers and designer leather belts. It’s so sweet that he still spoils you after all these years of marriage.” He showed me his screen, playing a short video of Austin’s shopping vlog. My chest thudded painfully. Those exact luxury items, along with their expensive packaging, had been scattered all over Giselle’s living room floor last night. The truck came to a halt. I leaped down, ignoring the calls of my crew behind me, and walked into my apartment. Standing in the entryway, I stared at the wall for a long time. Directly ahead hung our massive wedding portrait. That was the only thing in this apartment I had chosen. Every other piece of furniture, the cold gray walls, the minimalist decor, had been selected by Austin. It made the space feel like a sterile hotel room. I used to think he just preferred a modern aesthetic. Now, I realized he simply never viewed this place as a home. I sat in the silence for hours until the lock clicked. Austin walked in, ignoring me as usual. He headed straight to the bathroom, poking his head out a moment later. “I thought I told you to have a bath ready.” In the past, even if I had just pulled a seventy-two-hour shift, I would have had his bath drawn, the fridge stocked with his favorite foods, and his clothes laid out neatly. Now, I simply rubbed my temples. “I forgot.” Austin paused, glancing at my dusty uniform. “Fine. I’ll let it slide this time.” A moment later, he walked out of the bathroom, tossing a cheap plastic keychain onto the counter. “Brought you a souvenir from my trip.” I let out a soft, humorless laugh. “Just the one?” Austin blinked, a look of smug satisfaction crossing his face. “Did you watch my vlog again?” “The other stuff was for my staff. My new show is airing soon, and I have to keep my team happy.” He sat down beside me, and after a brief hesitation, he leaned in and pressed a dry kiss against the corner of my mouth. I stiffened. In public, Austin would occasionally put an arm around my shoulder for the cameras. But in private, he detested even holding my hand. The last time he had kissed me was months ago. “A new reality show wants us as guests,” he said casually, though my heart only sank lower. “The producers want to capture our daily life. Especially your work as a decorated firefighter.” Of course. He only touched me when he needed something. I tried to pull away from him, but he kept leaning closer, trying to play the doting husband. I took a deep breath, firmly pushing him back, and turned my face away. “I can’t do the show. Austin, I want a div…” Before I could finish the word, Austin stood up abruptly, his face darkening. “Another shift call? I swear, rescuing stray cats and putting out grease fires is always more important to you than your own husband.” He grabbed his jacket and marched toward the door. “Don’t bother looking for me tonight. You won’t be touching me anytime soon.” The door slammed shut, shaking the walls, leaving the apartment entirely silent. In the past, I would have chased after him, begging for his forgiveness until he finally decided to stop punishing me. But today, I simply sat in the dark. I pulled out my phone, found his agent’s contact, and sent a message: These are the divorce papers. Have him sign them. Austin had long since muted my notifications, but his agent always replied instantly. I walked through the apartment, realizing I had almost nothing of my own to pack. Finally, I stepped into the small room we had set aside as a nursery. It was the only room in the house that had any warmth, decorated during my brief pregnancy. After sitting there for a while, I grabbed my gear, threw our wedding portrait into the trash chute, and moved into the fire station barracks. Two days later, my Chief called me into his office and pushed a transfer file across the desk. “The position in the capital we talked about. I want you to seriously consider it.” Shortly after I left his office, Austin’s agent called me, his voice frantic. “Amber, please. You know how Austin is. He doesn’t say much, but he cares about you. He actually has a private social media account where he documents your entire relationship. Just look at it, please.” Curious, I hung up and opened the link he had sent. The moment the page loaded, my hands began to shake. The very first photo was taken on our bed. A woman was lying there, wearing my spare firefighter uniform. It wasn’t me. I remembered when that uniform had gone missing. I had searched everywhere, eventually receiving a disciplinary write-up and a six-month reassignment to a remote station as punishment. With trembling fingers, I scrolled down. Every post was a beautiful landscape, accompanied by sweet, loving captions. In our seven years of marriage, we had never taken a single vacation together. I kept scrolling, each image a fresh knife to my chest. On our second anniversary, he was at a beach resort with Giselle. He had told me he was on set, claiming he didn’t even have a signal to take my calls. On my last birthday, he was at a mountain cabin bonfire with Giselle. He had texted me that the mountains had no reception, failing to send even a simple birthday wish. And then there was New Year’s Eve, the day after my miscarriage. I had sat alone in our empty apartment, finally letting myself scream and cry. I had forced myself to stay strong at the hospital because I thought he was grieving just as deeply as I was. But the photo on his private account showed him and Giselle in a luxury hotel room that very night, clinking champagne glasses. I leaned against the wall, sliding down to the cold floor of the barracks, my entire body shaking with violent, silent sobs. Every single photograph was a venomous mockery of my grief. I called his agent back. “You’ve changed your mind, right?” the agent asked, sounding relieved. “I haven’t shown him the papers yet.” “Put him on the phone,” I said, my voice hoarse and raw. After a brief hesitation, Austin’s voice came through the line. “I knew you’d come to your senses. This reality show is going to be great for your career too…” “Sign the papers, Austin,” I cut him off, speaking slowly and deliberately. “I am completely done with you.” “What are you—” I hung up, refusing to listen to another word of his voice. An instant later, the station alarm blared. “We have a structure fire! Move, move, move!” I bolted to my feet, throwing on my turnout gear. The fire engine sped through the streets, sirens wailing. When we arrived, my heart stopped. It was Giselle’s apartment building. I took a deep breath, tightening my grip on my halogen tool. “Let’s go,” I barked to my crew. The smoke was thick and black. We navigated the burning hallway, eventually finding Giselle collapsed near a bedroom doorway. I hoisted her onto my shoulders and carried her down the smoke-filled stairwell, bursting out into the fresh air. While the crew worked to contain the flames, the safety officer reported the cause of the fire. “It started in the bedroom. A basket of adult toys left on cheap chargers overheated and ignited the mattress.” I closed my eyes. Suddenly, Giselle began to scream hysterically, holding onto a paramedic. “My baby! My baby is still in there!” The crowd gasped. A sleek sports car suddenly blew past the police barricade, screeching to a halt. Austin scrambled out of the driver’s seat, completely frantic. He threw himself by Giselle’s side, weeping and clutching her hand with a raw agony he had never shown on any stage. I pulled my heavy visor down, blocking out the sight. My teammate turned to me. “Captain, did she say there’s a child inside? The fire is spreading fast.” “If there’s even a slight chance, we don’t leave them behind,” I said. “Let’s move.” We charged back into the burning building. The heat was immense, searing my skin even through my heavy gear, but we searched every room. My radio crackled with the incident commander’s voice: “Amber, the victim says the child is trapped under the coffee table.” The coffee table? I crawled through the thick smoke to the living room, reaching under the table. My hand wrapped around something soft. It was a plush stuffed bear. “I have the target. It’s just a stuffed animal,” I reported into my radio. Giselle’s voice shrieked through the channel: “That is our baby!” My teammate swore over the comms. “Are you kidding me?!” Before we could retreat, a massive backdraft tore through the apartment. A deafening explosion ripped through the walls, the force of the blast throwing us straight through the third-story window. I slammed onto the safety cushion below, my vision fading fast. Through my cracked visor, I saw Austin running toward me. But he didn’t look at my face. He reached down, violently prying the scorched stuffed bear from my burned, blistered fingers, and ran back to comfort a weeping Giselle. “It’s okay, sweetie! I have our baby!” I closed my eyes and let the darkness take me. When I finally woke up in the hospital, the muffled voice of a police officer drifted from the hallway. “Because of your false emergency report, a firefighter is currently in critical condition. You are both under investigation.” Giselle’s voice was defiant. “After my miscarriage, my husband and I treated that bear as our child. Is it a crime to love our baby?” Then came Austin’s voice. “We were legally married abroad. She signed my medical consent forms as my wife. It was a stressful situation, officer.” My mind reeled. Seven years ago, on the day we were supposed to get our marriage license, an emergency call had pulled me away. Austin had gone alone, bringing back two marriage certificates that he kept locked in his desk, claiming they were safe. Our marriage was a lie. It had been fake from the very beginning. I drifted back into unconsciousness. When I opened my eyes again, Austin was sitting by my bed, his brow furrowed. “You’re finally awake. You’ve been out for three days.” An elderly patient in the neighboring bed smiled. “Your husband is so sweet, dear. He’s been here every day, watching over you.” Austin didn’t correct her, reaching out to adjust my pillows. I turned my head away, avoiding his touch. His hand froze in midair. The doctor walked in, checking my vitals and asking how I felt. “How is my teammate?” I managed to ask, my throat burning. “He’s stable,” the doctor said, “but he has a long road of physical therapy ahead.” Austin frowned, his tone annoyed. “You should worry about yourself first, Amber. Stop focusing on people who don’t matter.” “You’re right,” I whispered, my voice flat. “Because of people who don’t matter, my friend almost lost his life.” Austin stared at me, speechless. Over the next few days, he came to the hospital every afternoon. But no matter what he said, I simply closed my eyes and ignored him. On the day of my release, I snatched my bag from his hand. He finally snapped, his frustration boiling over. “I made one thoughtless comment, and you’ve been giving me the cold shoulder for days? And what is this nonsense about divorce papers? Just because of some stupid argument?” “You’ve got it wrong,” I said coldly. Before he could respond, his phone rang. He glanced at the screen, then looked back at me, trying to appear charming. “Go home and wait for me, okay? I’ll make it up to you tonight. I promise.” He gave me a wink and rushed out to answer his call. I carried my bag down to the lobby and got into my Chief’s waiting car. “Have you sorted things out with your family about the promotion to the capital?” the Chief asked gently. I pulled out an envelope containing my savings card and handed it to him. “I don’t have a family anymore.” “Please give this to my teammate’s wife to help cover his physical therapy.” I pulled out my phone and opened a chat with a investigative journalist who had been trying to interview me for months. I attached a compressed folder. Inside was a screen recording of Austin’s private account, the station’s call logs, and the complete, unedited footage from my helmet camera on the night of the lock assist. Firefighters’ body cams record everything. It captured the entire sequence: Giselle drugging me, their conversations in the bedroom, and their confessions in the hospital corridor. As the car pulled into the airport terminal, my finger pressed send. By the time my flight took off, the internet was already beginning to burn.

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I was pulling a graveyard shift for a delivery app when I unexpectedly ran into Beth. She took the pharmacy bag of condoms from my hands, pulling her silk robe tighter around herself. Her neck was pale, dotted with fresh red marks. She looked at me with casual indifference. “Is this all you do now?” I offered a polite smile. “I am broke. Don’t forget to leave a five-star review.” A man’s voice called out from inside the penthouse, urging her to hurry. Beth glanced back over her shoulder, but still paused to look at me. “I haven’t changed my number.” “If you are struggling, all it takes is a phone call.” I did not bother giving her an answer. I just turned and hurried down the hallway as the app pinged with my next order. Honestly, I was already used to not loving her anymore. 1 When I got back to the dispatch station, my phone buzzed with a bank notification. Beth had just wired one hundred thousand dollars into my old checking account. I stared at the screen for a moment. After a long hesitation, I hit the button to reverse the transfer. I was working myself to the bone to save up medical fees for my family. Truth be told, that kind of money would instantly lift the crushing weight off my shoulders. But it would also drag me right back into another abyss. An abyss named Beth. It took me three years of crawling through glass to climb out of there. Jumping back in would make me a complete fool. Beth did not send a follow-up text. But the very next night, she ordered delivery again. The algorithm assigned the route to me. When I arrived at her luxury high-rise, the elevator that worked perfectly fine yesterday was suddenly blocked off with an “Out of Service” sign. I had no choice. I climbed thirty-six flights of stairs. When I finally stood panting in front of Beth’s door, she just raised an eyebrow. “Sorry about this. We used up all the ones from yesterday.” I waved it off, catching my breath. “Sounds like you two have a very active sex life. Good for you.” I turned to leave, but Beth reached out and grabbed the back of my jacket, her grip tight. She gritted her teeth, her voice thick with a bitter resentment I could not even begin to understand. “Noah, why do you always have to be so damn stubborn?” “Would it kill you to just say one soft word to me?” I had no idea what game she was playing. I twisted my arm, broke her grip, and walked away to grab my next delivery. Three years ago, I said every possible word a man could say to Beth. I begged. I cursed. I screamed. I whispered shattered declarations of love. All I ever got in return was the deafening slam of a door and endless busy signals on my phone. What exactly did she want to hear from me now? Running into Beth again felt like a nightmare waking up from hibernation. You forget the exact details the second you open your eyes, but that heavy, suffocating dread clings to your skin all day. Or at least, I thought that was the worst of it. When I returned to the station, Beth’s sleek black sports car was parked right out front. Frank, my shift manager, rushed out to meet me. He slapped my back, looking a mix of furious and amused. “Noah, why didn’t you tell me your sister is the billionaire heiress they always talk about on the financial news?” “She is sitting right inside my office. Says she came to take you home.” “Listen to me, man. Stop fighting with your family. Go back and live your life as a rich kid.” The blood drained from my face, leaving me freezing cold. My legs gave out. I crouched down in the shadows by the curb, curling into myself. My voice was completely muffled. “She is not my sister. She is my ex-wife.” “The kind of ex-wife you have a very, very ugly divorce with.” 2 Frank’s face changed instantly. He stayed quiet for a second, then shoved me deeper into the shadows by the alley so I was completely hidden. He walked back inside to deal with Beth himself. I do not know what he said to her, but it did not take long for Beth to march out the front doors, her face dark with anger. Frank practically herded her to her car. By the time I gathered my composure and walked inside, Frank was staring at the table, looking incredibly stressed. He gave me an awkward smile when he saw me. Then he reached behind his desk and pulled out a cheap grocery store cake and two six-packs of beer. The light from a single candle flickered in his eyes. “Look at this mess. I was supposed to give you a surprise.” “Happy birthday, brother.” That was when it hit me. Today was my birthday. Seven years ago on this exact day, I was the happiest groom on the planet. Three years ago on this exact day, I pressed a paring knife against my own throat and signed the divorce papers. Today, I was just me. And I had absolutely nothing to do with Beth anymore. I wiped the moisture from the corners of my eyes, closed them, and made a wish. I wished for Frank to live a long, happy life. I wished for Lily to get well soon. And I wished that the last two days were just a bizarre glitch in the universe, and that Beth and I would never cross paths again. Frank felt bad about how the night went down, so he insisted on treating me to dinner. We found a late-night diner. After a couple of beers, something inside me broke loose, and I started telling him about Beth. Honestly, Beth calling herself my sister was not entirely a lie. When I was nine years old, the Sinclair family took me in. I became their foster son. My father died when I was a baby. My mother raised me all by herself. She was a senior director at Sinclair Enterprises. One day, the Sinclair heiress came to tour the corporate estate and accidentally fell into the massive ornamental lake. My mother used every last ounce of her strength to push Beth above the surface. But my mother never came back up. Beth owed me a life. From that day on, she was ready to lay down her own life for me at a moment’s notice. When I first transferred to her elite prep school, I fell behind on the curriculum. The rich kids mocked me and looked down on me. Beth dragged them up to the school roof. She fought them with her bare hands, sobbing the entire time. When the principal called the parents in, her eyes were still red, but she stood her ground. “They made fun of my brother! They called him a stray dog with no family! I am not dead yet! My mom and dad are not dead yet!” Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair rushed to the principal’s office. One rubbed his temples, the other offered a helpless smile. Neither of them wanted to be the one to discipline their daughter. When I first moved into the Sinclair mansion, I could not sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, the nightmares came. In my dreams, my parents were lying on metal tables under white sheets, and no matter how loud I screamed, they never answered. I never made a sound in my sleep, but Beth somehow always knew. She would drag her pillows and blankets into my room, yawning, and set up camp right next to my bed. She would reach up and pat my back. “Go to sleep, Noah. Your sister is right here.” By the time we hit high school, I started getting confessions from girls. As the attention grew, Beth’s temper got worse. She stopped wanting to call me her brother. And if anyone else dared to call her my sister just to get close to me, she exploded like a powder keg. After she ruthlessly bullied the hundred-and-first girl into crying and running away, her best friend made a joke. “Beth, are you falling for your own foster brother?” “You guys do not share any blood. He has not even had his first kiss yet, and you are acting like a guard dog. It makes total sense if you are just jealous.” Beth’s face turned bright red. It was like a lightbulb finally clicked on in her head. She went home utterly speechless. That weekend, Mr. Sinclair called her into his study. They argued for hours. When she came out, there was a red handprint on her cheek. But she did not care at all. She just looked at me and smiled the sweetest smile. When we got acceptance letters to the same university, Beth confessed her feelings to me. I had absolutely no reason to say no. She was my guardian angel. For over a decade, she had stood firmly between me and my nightmares. Once she realized her own feelings, she went straight to her parents and confessed, clearing all the obstacles out of our way before I even had to ask. Without Beth, my life would instantly have a massive, gaping hole in it. A hole nothing else could ever fill. We dated through college. It was incredibly sweet. When we graduated, I proposed to her. And that was exactly when everything started going straight to hell. 3 After graduation, we both started working at Sinclair Enterprises. The corporate machine never slept, and Beth and I rarely saw each other. She was the future CEO. I was just another corporate drone. Even on our rare date nights, I was always the one getting pulled away by emergency work calls. Beth hated it. She threw tantrums, and I naturally felt terribly guilty. After working seven days straight, I finally caught a break. I wanted to surprise her at home. I thought we were on the same page. When I walked through the door, the floor was covered in rose petals. My favorite love song was playing on the speakers. The air smelled of expensive wine. My heart melted. I walked into the master bedroom. And my soul was ripped into a million tiny pieces. Beth was curled up in the arms of a strange man. He was wearing my bathrobe. They were dead asleep, exhausted from whatever they had just finished doing. My entire world collapsed. I ran out of the apartment we bought for our wedding. I blocked her number everywhere. It took her three days to track me down. The proud, radiant Sinclair heiress looked absolutely wrecked. Her face was pale, her eyes completely bloodshot. She wrapped her arms around my legs, swearing on her life that she just had too much to drink. She claimed she thought that college intern was me. “Noah, I know I messed up. I deserve to die. But I just missed you so much.” “You are never home. Everyone keeps joking that my fiancé is a ghost.” “We have been together for over a decade. Are you really going to throw me away over one stupid mistake?” I hesitated. Seeing the crack in my armor, Beth immediately fired the intern. She kicked him out of the Sinclair building in front of everyone. Watching him walk out the glass doors holding a cardboard box, looking completely humiliated, I actually felt a tiny twinge of pity. We got married exactly as planned. At the wedding, her parents cried tears of joy. Beth smiled so hard she looked like she was glowing. Caught up in the magic of the day, I made a silent promise to myself. I was going to care for her more. I was going to be a perfect husband, and one day, a perfect father. So, when she suggested I quit my job after the wedding to stay home and take care of our family, I agreed without a second thought. Time flowed by like water. A few years later, Mrs. Sinclair baked some fresh pastries and asked me to drop them off for Beth at the corporate office. As I walked past the breakroom, I heard a group of guys laughing and bragging. One voice sounded incredibly familiar. “Hey, bet you guys didn’t know this. The boss’s husband used to be a charity case. He was the Sinclair family’s foster kid.” “Talk about a parasite. Seducing his own foster sister to climb the social ladder. Who could possibly be more shameless than him?” It turned out the entire company knew. The intern never actually left Sinclair Enterprises. Beth spoiled him rotten. He felt invincible. He said whatever he wanted, and most people assumed he was slandering me under orders from the Sinclair family themselves. The executive position I emptied when I quit? It was handed to him the very next day. But Beth was the heir to the throne. I was just the outsider living off her scraps. Nobody was going to risk their career to cross her and tell me the truth. I was just a colossal idiot kept completely in the dark. When I kicked the door to Beth’s office open, she was signing contracts. She did not even look up. “Didn’t I tell you Noah is coming to see me today?” “Be a good boy and make yourself scarce. I will spend time with you tomorrow. I will buy you that sports car you wanted.” When she got no answer, she looked up, a soft, indulgent smile still painted on her face. Instead of her lover, she saw my pale, bloodless face. 4 I tore the Sinclair corporate office apart. I demanded a divorce. Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair scolded Beth, then immediately pivoted to lecturing me. “Noah, Beth only has you in her heart.” “That guy is just a pet to her. Like a stray cat or a dog. It doesn’t mean anything.” “In our social circle, keeping a little toy on the side is completely normal. You need to be the bigger person. Do not lower yourself to her level, okay?” I was the foster son. I had over a decade of history with them. Before we got married, nobody even brought up a prenup. Mrs. Sinclair used to tell me I was her own flesh and blood. She promised her company shares would go straight to me, to protect me. Holding onto a shred of hope, I looked at her. “Mrs. Sinclair, if I were your biological son, would you tell me to endure this? Would you tell me to just swallow it?” She avoided my eyes. She gave a bitter smile and stopped talking. When we were kids, Beth gave me a home. Decades later, I realized I never truly had one to begin with. The second time around, Beth did not panic. She did not look wrecked. She went to work. She came home. And she kept spoiling her intern. Nosy friends asked her if she was worried I would actually file for divorce and take half the Sinclair empire. She leaned back into the intern’s chest and laughed. “Noah? Since we were kids, he has followed me around like a loyal dog. Even if I kick him, he will just whimper and crawl right back.” “Let him throw his little tantrums. He can never escape the palm of my hand.” Everyone thought I was just throwing a fit. They thought I would wake up to reality and never actually leave. So when I filed the lawsuit and requested a zero-dollar divorce—asking for absolutely nothing—nobody was prepared. The tabloids ran wild with the story of the billionaire heiress and the zero-dollar divorce. The Sinclair Group’s stock tanked overnight. Mr. Sinclair went into a blind rage and suffered a massive stroke. While Mrs. Sinclair was rushing him to the hospital, their car was hit. Everyone in the vehicle, including the driver, died on impact. When I arrived at the hospital morgue, Beth charged at me and slapped me across the face with everything she had. She screamed, her entire body shaking. “Noah, just because you are an orphan, did you have to destroy my family too?!” “How can you be so incredibly cold-blooded? I wish… I wish I had never met you!” I was already paralyzed by grief. Beth hit me with a terrifying amount of force. I stumbled, the room spinning violently. And then I just blacked out. The only thought echoing in my head as I fell was a deep, hollow regret. Beth was right. If I had never met her, my mother would still be alive. I would still have a home. I would have someone who genuinely loved me. Someone who would stand between me and danger without a second thought, and always take my side. Beth, I really wish I had never met you either. When I woke up, Beth was sitting by my hospital bed. She was resting a hand on her flat stomach. The hatred on her face flickered, morphed, and eventually vanished. She spoke softly. “Noah, I am pregnant.” “You are giving me a family again.” “For the baby’s sake, let’s just pretend none of this ever happened. Okay?” I was completely drained. My soul was hollow. In absolute despair, I nodded my head.

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1 My mom came back from her trip. She was suddenly incredibly sweet, cooking for me every single day. But in the dead of night, she would always hide in her room, frantically slathering cheap concealer all over her body. Her movements were unnervingly stiff, and stubborn, dark purple splotches kept blooming across her skin, refusing to wash away. She wept as she apologized to me, sobbing that she had caught some bizarre disease that made her hideous, terrified that I would start to hate her. I didn’t pull away. I was the chief orthopedic surgeon at the county hospital. I calmly took her ice-cold hand and injected a full vial of formaldehyde straight into her veins. Tears of deep gratitude welled in her eyes, and she swore she would protect me for the rest of her life. But I didn’t feel a thing. Because she had no idea that just yesterday, the police had called me to the morgue to identify a dismembered body. And on the shattered knee of that corpse was a custom titanium joint I had personally implanted in my mother. … The fluorescent lights in the autopsy room flickered, buzzing with a faint, low hum. I stood before the cold, stainless steel table, staring at the pile of remains. They had been cleaned, but they were still a jigsaw puzzle missing half its pieces. The blood in my veins felt like it had instantly turned to ice, leaving my hands and feet completely numb. Detective Carter stood beside me, holding a freshly printed report. He looked at me with a heavy, sympathetic gaze. “Dr. Brooks, do you need to take a closer look?” There was no need. My eyes were locked onto a fractured section of the femur. Embedded in the bone was a titanium artificial joint, gleaming with a cold, metallic luster under the sterile lights. Etched into the metal was a unique medical serial number: A-7734. I had flown to Switzerland myself last year to beg my former doctoral advisor to expedite its custom fabrication. My mom was dead. She had died on a winding mountain road in the Appalachians, caught in what was described as a horrific multi-car pileup. I signed the release forms, but I couldn’t even remember how I walked out of the station, let alone how I drove myself home. My mind was a chaotic blur of my mother at the airport terminal, holding my hands and fussing over me before she boarded. “Gwenny, sweetie, Mom’s only going to be gone for a few days. I left three hundred homemade chicken pot pies in the chest freezer.” “Just bake some when you get off work. Stop ordering that greasy takeout…” The deadbolt clicked. I pushed the front door open, and the warm light of the entryway greeted me. My entire body froze, the air caught in my throat. The kitchen exhaust fan was humming, carrying the rich, savory aroma of a beef and potato stew. “Gwenny, is that you? Go wash your hands, dinner’s almost ready.” A voice, so familiar it made my chest ache, drifted out from the kitchen. I pinched my thigh as hard as I could, letting the sharp pain force me into a cold state of focus. I tossed my bag onto the entryway bench and pumped a generous glob of hand sanitizer, scrubbing my hands fiercely. I washed them three times until the pungent, chemical sting of the morgue’s formaldehyde was completely gone. Only then did I step into my slippers and slowly, stiffly, force myself toward the dining room. The table was laden with a comforting feast. Glazed pork chops, garlic butter shrimp, roasted green beans, and sautéed spinach. Every single one of my favorites. “You look like you’ve starved yourself since I’ve been gone,” she said. She walked out of the kitchen carrying a heavy, bubbling cast-iron pot, her face lit with a warm, maternal smile. The fine lines around her eyes, the gentle curve of her lips, even the slight tilt of her head when she spoke, they were all carbon copies of my mother. She was wearing the floral lounge dress I bought her last Christmas, down to the slightly frayed collar. But my eyes instantly locked onto her hands. The stew had just been pulled off the raging stove. Steam rose in thick, white plumes, and the liquid inside was still boiling violently. She wasn’t using a towel. She wasn’t wearing oven mitts. She was carrying the blistering metal pot with her bare hands. The scorching iron was pressed directly against her palms. A normal person’s pain receptors would have screamed in agony within a fraction of a second, resulting in severe, blistering burns. Yet her face didn’t twitch. She simply kept smiling warmly at me, setting the pot down gently onto the wooden trivet. “Eat up. Mom let this simmer for three whole hours.” She let go and casually wiped her hands on her apron. I stared intensely at her palms. There was no redness, no blisters, no damage at all. Her skin just looked incredibly pale, like old, fragile paper that hadn’t seen the sun in decades. As the steam from the stew filled the room, another scent began to seep through the rich aroma. It was a very faint, sickeningly sweet smell. I knew that smell all too well. It was the scent of organic matter losing its spark of life. The smell of decay. “Mom, isn’t that too hot?” My voice sounded hollow, scraping against my throat. She blinked, following my gaze down to her hands. In an instant, she yanked her hands behind her back, and her eyes welled with tears. “N-no… I’m just getting old, sweetie. My hands are getting numb. I can’t really feel much of anything anymore.” Her voice trembled with a heavy sob, and her eyes filled with a desperate, pleading urge to please me. Her frame shook slightly. “Gwenny, did I ruin the table? I’ll clean it up right away…” If I hadn’t seen that custom titanium plate with my own eyes in the morgue, I would have believed her. “It’s fine,” I said, pulling out a chair and sitting down. I picked up my spoon and stirred the hot stew. “Mom, did you have fun on your trip?” I kept my head down, not daring to look her in the eyes. “I did. But I missed you terribly.” Seeing that I wasn’t upset, her face instantly brightened through her tears. She reached out, wanting to stroke my hair, but she hesitated midway, awkwardly pulling her hand back and nervously twisting her apron. “The world is beautiful, but nothing beats being home.” “I’m not going anywhere else. I’ll stay right here and cook for you every day.” “How is the stew?” Her eyes shone with hopeful anticipation. I took a bite. The flavor was exceptionally light, the vegetables perfectly tender, the seasoning incredibly subtle. But my mother was from the Midwest. She loved heavy, salty seasonings. She had mild hypertension, and every time I begged her to cut back on the salt, she couldn’t help herself. We used to bicker about it constantly. But today, this stew was seasoned exactly to my strict medical standards. “It’s perfect,” I said, forcing a tight, rigid smile. “Stay as long as you want, Mom. I’ll make sure to keep you company.” 2 It was two in the morning. The walls in this cramped, old apartment were paper-thin, and a soft, rustling sound was drifting from the bedroom next door. I lay awake in the dark, my mind spinning. On one hand, I saw the serial number A-7734 on the cold metal plate. On the other, I saw the woman who had so carefully carried the hot pot to the table. “Ugh…” A heavily muffled gasp of pain echoed from her room, followed by the soft thud of something hitting the wooden floor. I pulled back my blanket, ignored my slippers, and walked barefoot to her door. I gently pressed down on the handle. The door wasn’t latched, leaving a small crack. Under the pale, cold moonlight streaming through the window, I saw her. She wasn’t in bed. She was sitting on the floor in front of her vanity, clutching a bottle of cheap, heavy concealer I had abandoned long ago. She was clumsily dabbing the thick makeup onto her neck and arms. Her movements were awkward, her shoulder joints creaking with a terrible stiffness. Every lift of her arm seemed to require an immense amount of physical effort. The spots she was trying so desperately to hide were dark, purplish-blue patches of postmortem lividity. As the door gave a tiny squeak, her hand jerked. The glass bottle slipped from her fingers and landed with a soft thud on the rug. She spun around, her eyes wide with sheer panic and vulnerability. “Gwenny… don’t look! Please, go back to bed!” She scrambled to grab a nearby throw blanket, wrapping it tightly around herself as she tried to retreat into the shadows beneath the vanity. Large, heavy tears rolled down her cheeks, her voice shaking violently. “Mom caught some weird skin disease… there are ugly spots all over me…” “I look horrible. I don’t want to scare you. Please don’t look at me like this, Gwenny. Go on, get out!” She was trembling, clutching the edges of the blanket for dear life. I took a deep breath, keeping my face entirely blank, and flipped on the overhead light. Under the harsh, white glare of the bulb, she huddled in the corner, shaking. I pulled a pair of sterile medical gloves from my pajama pocket, slipped them on, and knelt down in front of her. “I’m a surgeon, Mom.” “If you’re sick, why didn’t you tell me?” I reached for the blanket. She held onto it with a death grip, weeping. “Gwenny, it’s so ugly… you’ll hate me…” “I’m your daughter. I could never hate you.” My voice was soft, but it carried a quiet, unyielding authority. I gently pried her fingers loose and pulled the blanket down. Up close, the purple patches were clearly not a skin disease. They were the classic signs of pooling blood after circulation had stopped. Her body temperature was incredibly low. Even in the sticky heat of this summer night, her skin felt like solid ice. “Bear with me,” I said. I reached into the small medical kit I had brought from my room and pulled out a syringe. The cylinder was filled with a concentrated embalming fluid I had quietly taken from the pathology lab. “It’s just fatigue from the trip, Mom.” “The mountain air was damp, which triggered some acute arthritis and poor circulation. I’m going to give you a special injection. You’ll feel much better tomorrow.” Her tear-filled eyes looked at me with a pure, almost childlike trust. “Really? After the shot, you won’t think I’m gross?” “Really.” I pushed up her sleeve, wiping her shoulder with an alcohol swab. There was no bounce or elasticity to her muscle. When the needle pierced her skin, it felt like pushing into a cold, dense piece of raw meat. Not a single drop of blood emerged. My expression didn’t change as I slowly pushed the plunger down, injecting the entire dose of preservative. When I pulled the needle out, I held an alcohol pad over the puncture site for a long moment. “All done. Go get some sleep.” I helped her stiff arms up, guiding her toward the bed. She complied like a obedient doll, letting me tuck her in. Her lips parted, as if she wanted to say something, but only a faint whisper escaped. “Gwenny… Mom will protect you. No one is ever going to hurt you again…” I turned off the light and stepped out, leaning my back against the hallway wall. I covered my mouth, tears finally spilling over. 3 The next morning, the autumn sun filtered through the living room blinds. A gentle clinking of pans came from the kitchen. When I finished washing up and walked into the dining room, a fresh breakfast was already waiting on the table. Fluffy biscuits, warm oatmeal, and a small dish of fresh berries. She stood there in her apron, placing a mug of coffee on the table. Today, she had changed into a high-collared silk blouse with the cuffs buttoned tightly around her wrists. She had also sprayed a heavy amount of lavender perfume, trying desperately to mask that subtle, sweet smell of decay. “Morning, Gwenny. Sit down and eat while it’s hot.” She smiled warmly at me, her panic and shame from the night before carefully hidden away. Yet her movements were still painfully mechanical. When she poured some milk, her wrist jerked like a rusty gear, nearly knocking the glass over. “Mom, sit down and eat with me,” I said, pulling out a chair. “I already ate, sweetheart. Your job at the hospital takes a lot out of you, so make sure you finish it all.” She sat down beside me, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her eyes never leaving me for a second. Suddenly, my phone on the table began to vibrate violently. The screen flashed with the name Detective Carter. My heart dropped. I instinctively shot a glance at the woman sitting across from me. Her smile faltered for a fraction of a second, a fleeting look of panic crossing her features before she quickly masked it. I answered and put it on speakerphone. “Dr. Brooks, I’m sorry to call you so early,” Carter’s voice echoed clearly in the quiet room. “But we have some strange developments regarding your mother’s case.” My hand holding the fork froze. “Go ahead.” “The forensics team worked through the night to piece together the remains,” Carter said, his tone turning incredibly grim. “We found out that the crash wasn’t an accident.” “Before the tour bus went over the cliff, there were clear signs of a deliberate ramming and a violent struggle on the road.” “We recovered a discarded backpack in the brush halfway down the mountain. It contained your mother’s ID and a small journal. The last few entries… they’re very disturbing.” I raised my eyes to look at my mother. Her hands had clenched into tight fists, her knuckles a pale, lifeless gray from the sheer pressure. “What did the journal say?” I asked. “It said, ‘That man isn’t dead. The fire ten years ago didn’t kill him. He found us. He saw Gwenny’s social media check-in, and he’s coming for her. I can’t let him ruin her life. I have to stop him.’” Carter’s words felt like a physical blow to my chest. That man. Ten years ago, the abusive, alcoholic monster who had haunted our lives was declared dead, supposedly burned to ash in a warehouse fire. “Dr. Brooks, the man mentioned in the journal might still be alive,” Carter warned. “We suspect he engineered the crash. He is highly dangerous, so please lock your doors and stay vigilant. If you see anyone suspicious, call us immediately.” “I understand. Thank you, Detective.” I hung up. The apartment fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. I looked at my mother. She had her head bowed, her entire body shaking uncontrollably. Tears dripped onto the wooden table, leaving small, dark spots. “Gwenny…” She slowly looked up, her familiar face a mask of desperation and absolute terror. “Don’t be scared. Mom is here.” “Even if I have to tear myself apart, I won’t let him touch a single hair on your head.” 4 Over the next three days, the air in the apartment grew so thick it was hard to breathe. I took a temporary leave of absence from the hospital, staying home to watch over her. My mother’s condition was deteriorating rapidly. The high-collared blouse could no longer hide the dark lividity spreading up her neck. The lavender perfume she sprayed was losing the battle against the heavy, sweet scent of rot. Her movements grew slower with each passing hour. Sometimes when she was chopping vegetables, her knife would sink into the cutting board, and she would freeze for several seconds before she could pull it back out. Yet she stubbornly insisted on doing all the chores. Every single night, she would drag a small wooden stool over and sit directly behind the front door, acting as a silent, unyielding sentry until dawn. I never called her out on it. Instead, I bought several tubes of heavy-duty pain creams and anti-inflammatory ointments. Every night, under the pretense of treating her arthritis, I would gently rub them into her rigid, unfeeling joints. When my fingers touched her cold, stiff skin, neither of us said a word. Only her shallow, dry breathing filled the quiet room. On the evening of the third day, a massive storm rolled in. Thunder rumbled deep within the black clouds, and with the lights off, the living room felt as dark as midnight. My mother was in the kitchen, preparing dinner. I sat on the couch, staring anxiously out at the sheets of rain. Crash! A loud shatter echoed from the kitchen. My heart leaped into my throat, and I ran inside. My mother was standing helplessly by the sink, a shattered glass jar of spices scattered around her feet. Her right hand was frozen in midair, a deep, jagged cut running from the center of her palm all the way down her wrist. “Mom! Don’t move!” I rushed over, grabbing her hand. The gash was deep, the flesh gaping wide. But to my horror, not a single drop of blood leaked out. Deep inside the wound, I could only see pale, bloodless connective tissue and dull, graying muscle fibers. Terrified, she snatched her hand back, frantically shoving it down her sleeve. “I-I’m fine… the glass was just slippery. I didn’t hold it right.” “It doesn’t hurt. Really, it doesn’t hurt at all…” She rambled, her eyes darting away as tears began to fall again. “I told you to rest!” I yelled, my emotions finally snapping. She flinched at my tone, her eyes wide with fear as she shrank into the corner of the kitchen. Just then, my phone on the living room coffee table rang. The loud, shrill sound cut through the noise of the thunderstorm like a knife. I took a deep breath, walked back to the living room, and picked it up. It was Detective Carter. “Dr. Brooks,” Carter’s voice was tight, nearly drowned out by the sound of sirens and heavy rain on his end. “We just reviewed the highway traffic cameras from the night of the crash, and we found something that defies all logic.” “What is it?” “The crash occurred on a remote stretch of road with no witnesses, but we expanded our search radius. On a state route camera a few miles away, we spotted a man walking.” Carter paused, taking a shaky breath. “Dr. Brooks, the man on the camera… his body is covered in severe, full-body burn scars. He looks like a walking charred corpse.” My chest tightened so hard I could barely breathe. “But that’s not the worst of it,” Carter whispered, his voice trembling with sheer terror. “On the footage, the man is walking directly toward your city. And about twenty yards behind him… a woman is following him. Her gait is completely stiff, and her clothes are soaked in blood from the crash.” “We just pulled the security footage from your apartment building from three nights ago…” Carter let out a sharp gasp. “The camera shows that same woman walking into your building. Dr. Brooks… are you absolutely sure you’re alone in that apartment right now?!” Boom! A blinding flash of lightning lit up the living room, followed instantly by a deafening crack of thunder. My phone slipped from my fingers, landing softly on the carpet. I slowly turned around. The woman I called Mom was standing by the kitchen door. She was completely backlit, her face masked in deep, impenetrable shadow. And then, a violent, earth-shattering blow struck our heavy front door. Bam! Bam! Bam! The entire frame rattled. From the other side came a raw, raspy voice that sounded like wind scraping through a burnt, hollow pipe: “Open the door! I know you’re in there! Open the damn door!” The monster was standing right outside.

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1 The day I caught Sylvia cheating, I took the Swiss Army knife she gifted me and permanently ruined my stepbrother’s manhood in a single, bloody slash. After I was sent to prison, my marriage to Sylvia was automatically annulled. She finally gave my stepbrother the lavish, fairy-tale wedding they always wanted. Three years later, I was released. Sylvia hired twenty bodyguards to keep me away. She set up fifty legal traps, hoping to send me right back behind bars. She even sent a hundred different mediators to tell me I could name my price, as long as I never laid a finger on her precious husband again. But she was overthinking it. Like a drop of water vanishing into the ocean, I completely disappeared from her life. The next time we met, it was at an auto repair shop in the gritty outskirts of Chicago. I blew out a puff of cheap cigarette smoke, popped the hood of her car with oil-stained fingers, and asked in a flat, even tone. “How old is this model?” Her eyes instantly welled up with tears. “Victor, this is the car you bought me for my eighteenth birthday.” … My hand froze on the wrench for a split second. “Oh. It is getting up there in years, then. Definitely due for a major overhaul.” My tone was painfully indifferent. Sylvia stiffened. She opened her mouth several times, but the words died in her throat. I tapped the wrench against the engine block, methodically checking every bolt. I treated the dazzling yellow sports car in front of me exactly like the thousands of beat-up sedans I had fixed before it. Perhaps the harsh clanking of metal on metal grated on her nerves. Sylvia’s expression shifted drastically before she finally managed a mocking, cynical smile. “If you are short on cash, Victor, you could have just called me.” “There was no need to scatter nails on the highway just to lure me to this dump and put on a show.” I chuckled, making casual small talk like I would with any random customer. “If I were that good of an actor, I would be in Hollywood by now.” “You came down Third Avenue, right? The morning news reported a hardware truck flipped over there yesterday. You have to be careful on those roads.” As I spoke, I grabbed a filthy, grease-soaked rag and casually wiped the sludge off my hands. Sylvia stared at that rag. It seemed to be the last straw. Her voice rose in pitch. “You used to be as proud as a swan, Victor.” “Claustrophobia, obsessive-compulsive disorder, an absolute germaphobe. You were the textbook definition of a billionaire heir. If a single speck of dust landed on your leather shoes, you would polish them for an hour. If there was a grease spot on the dining table, you would fire the housekeeper on the spot…” “And now look at you…” “Hey, Victor! Why didn’t you wash my car properly!” A shrill voice cut through the garage as the glass door was shoved open. A heavy-set woman stomped in, jabbing her stubby finger right at my nose. “You left a massive mud stain! Does washing my car for free hurt your pride or something?” “Come on, Brenda,” I quickly rushed over, plastering on an apologetic smile. “I was just swamped today and missed a spot. Head on home, and I will come over later to give it another wash!” I pleaded and smoothed things over for a good five minutes. Brenda finally backed down. “One more mistake, and your shop rent goes up thirty percent!” I kept smiling, bowing my head and promising it would never happen again. Times were tough. Brenda’s garage was only fifteen hundred a month, the cheapest rent in the entire district. It was only after I walked Brenda out that I remembered I still had a customer. I turned to Sylvia and offered an awkward, apologetic smile. “Sorry about that. Anyway, Miss, your car is good to go. That will be twenty bucks.” “You…” Sylvia stared at me blankly. It took her a long time to force out a single word, completely drained of the energy to finish her sentence. Instead, she hurriedly pulled out her phone to scan my payment code. I looked at the notification. Five hundred dollars. I immediately waved my hands. “Miss, you paid way too much. Let me send the rest back.” I instinctively went to find her contact on my phone. Then I remembered. She had blocked me on everything the day I went to prison. I scratched my head helplessly. “Well, this is awkward. Miss, you will have to show me your Venmo code.” “Didn’t you say the car needed a major overhaul?” Sylvia’s expression was a tangled mess of emotions. “Do a full diagnostic on the other parts. Is that enough to cover it?” My face lit up. “More than enough. Please, take a seat and wait over here.” I pulled a cheap plastic stool out from under a workbench and slid it toward her. Noticing her pristine white designer dress, I thoughtfully grabbed a few paper towels and layered them over the plastic seat. Sylvia stayed silent for a long time. She sat down stiffly, keeping her knees tightly together. A second later, the squeak of the glass door startled her so badly she nearly jumped out of her seat. “Hey Victor! Still grinding through lunch hour? Business must be booming. No wonder you ordered the deluxe combo today.” “Oh wow, and you have a gorgeous customer waiting. Lucky guy.” It was the delivery driver who brought my lunch every day. I bantered with him for a moment, laughing as I took the cheap takeout bag from his hands. Sylvia, clearly offended by being called ‘gorgeous’ by a random delivery guy, let out a frustrated breath, her cheeks flushing red. But there was nothing I could do. This was how the neighborhood operated. Martha from the fruit stand next door rolled her scooter in, asking me to check her loose brake cables whenever I had a minute. A young corporate worker from the apartments upstairs dragged a suitcase down, asking if she could stash it in the corner until she got off work. A college student sprinted in, scanning the code on my counter to rent a portable charger. Their gazes ranged from blatant staring to poorly concealed glances, but every single one of them let their eyes linger on Sylvia. Finally, she shifted uncomfortably on the stool. “Victor, are you really content sinking this low? Flirting and mingling with these bottom-feeders?” 2 Her eyes looked a little red, though I might have been imagining it. After spending three years operating a sewing machine in a fluorescent prison workshop, everything looked a little red to me. “The car is in decent shape.” I straightened up, wiping my hands. “But the brake pads are worn down. You really need to get them replaced. This is just a budget shop, I don’t stock original factory parts. You will have to take it to a dealership for that.” I pointed her in the direction of the nearest luxury dealership, then eagerly tore into my cheap takeout box. Curry chicken, spicy fried chicken, and braised eggplant. All my favorites. But even as I snapped my disposable chopsticks apart, Sylvia showed zero intention of leaving. I was a bit confused. After a moment’s thought, I slid the plastic container toward her. “Are you hungry? If you don’t mind the grease, you can have a few bites to hold you over.” Sylvia’s gaze drifted. It snagged on the motor oil permanently embedded under my fingernails, then shifted to the excessively oily food in the container. When she finally spoke, her voice was hoarse. “This is all cheap, processed garbage. It is toxic. You never used to eat this kind of food.” In her memories, I was a culinary snob. A picky eater who lived on organic greens and raw sashimi. If a dish was even slightly past its prime, I would be hugging the toilet, throwing up until I saw stars. I just smiled. “Well, the prison cafeteria doesn’t exactly offer a tasting menu. Plus, doing hard manual labor all day magically cured all my snobby habits.” “Every delivery place uses pre-packaged stuff now anyway. But their spicy chicken really kicks. You should try a piece.” “Oh nice, they threw in an extra packet of chili oil today. Score.” I happily fished the cheap plastic packet out of the bag and tossed it into a cardboard box behind me. That box was already half-full of complimentary condiment packets. Buy a plain piece of bread, squeeze some of that on it, and it made a decent meal. Sylvia abruptly shot up from the stool, her voice thick and nasal. “Enough!” I jumped, genuinely startled. The next second, she hurled a sleek, matte-black credit card at my chest. “This is a supplementary card to my account. Take it.” Her movements were so violent that she knocked over the plastic stool and nearly sent my takeout flying. Fortunately, my reflexes were still sharp. I lunged forward and barely managed to save my lunch. “Miss,” I sighed, completely exasperated. “If you are not going to eat it, I am…” “Victor!” Sylvia roared, her voice dropping into a frantic hiss. “I am serious!” “This card is linked to a platinum account. It has a five million dollar limit. Spend it however you want.” “Buy a proper storefront in a nice area. Start a legitimate business. Be your own boss. Stop renting this toxic dungeon and playing the role of a pathetic, foul-smelling grease monkey!” “You used to be an elite professional racer from one of the wealthiest families in the country. Have you completely forgotten who you are?!” Her screaming echoed in the garage, dragging me violently back into the past. It was true. My family was incredibly wealthy, one of the biggest investment tycoons in the city. I lived the life of a billionaire’s sole heir until I was seven, right around the time my mother got pregnant with twin girls. But as we eagerly awaited their arrival, my father’s infidelity shattered everything. He fell recklessly, destructively in love with a biracial adult film actress. It got to the point where his mistress marched straight into our home, demanding my mother step aside and sign the divorce papers. My mother was a fiercely proud woman. A screaming match erupted. In the chaos, I watched with my own two eyes as that woman reached out with her long, acrylic nails, locked her hands around my mother’s throat, and shoved her down the grand staircase. Three lives were extinguished in a matter of seconds. My mother died with her eyes wide open. Afterward, my father locked me in a room and beat me for a full day and night to force me to change my police statement. Because of that, the mistress walked away without a single charge. They got married. The mistress brought along a son from her previous marriage. My new stepbrother, Tristan. That was when my true nightmare began. The beatings, the verbal abuse, the psychological torture, the endless bullying. To survive, I fled to France. I put my life on the line and became a professional rally racer, shocking the motorsport world with my debut. At the time, Sylvia was in Paris studying fine arts. After catching a glimpse of me on a live broadcast, she became my most obsessive fan. Every time I crossed a finish line, she was in the stands, holding a glowing sign with my name, screaming her lungs out. When a corrupt official intentionally penalized me, she rallied hundreds of students to march through the streets of Paris demanding justice for my career. She held my hand through injuries and dragged me out of my darkest slumps. Finally, the day I secured my first major championship, I stepped out of the car and sprinted straight toward the grandstands. Beneath a sky raining confetti and the deafening roar of the crowd, I pulled her into my arms and kissed her in front of the entire world. The toxic dynamic of idol and fan evaporated. She was officially my girlfriend. But I never could have predicted what would happen that very night. While we were strolling through the romantic streets of Paris, two armed muggers cornered us. They only wanted our wallets at first. But when they saw Sylvia’s face, their intentions turned violent. Without a second thought, I threw myself at them. In the terrifying struggle, a gun went off. The bullet tore straight through my chest. It didn’t kill me, but it punctured my lung and grazed my heart. The doctors told me I could never engage in extreme sports again. My racing career was dead. But I never regretted it. Sylvia was the absolute love of my life. She meant infinitely more to me than racing ever could. I could win a hundred trophies, but I only had one Sylvia. When I lay in that hospital bed, pale and gasping for air, I held her hand and told her exactly that. She collapsed against my chest, sobbing uncontrollably. “Victor, let’s go back home. My family has deep roots in business and politics. Whatever you want to do with your life next, I will back you up a hundred percent!” That was who Sylvia was. She was terrible at whispering sweet nothings, but she moved mountains when it came to action. My heart overflowing with hope, I held her hand as we flew back to the States. Only to walk out of the terminal and see Tristan waiting for us in the arrivals lounge. When he locked eyes with the heiress of the powerful Sylvia family standing by my side, his pupils dilated with pure shock. A second later, he flashed a blinding, innocent smile. It reminded me of his mother. The exact same predatory smile she wore whenever she stood next to my father. My gut told me a disaster was coming. And that premonition became a brutal reality. 3 I could not pinpoint exactly when it started, but Sylvia began bringing Tristan up in casual conversation. Constantly. First, she said he was cute and obedient. Then, she mentioned how pitiful it was that he had to walk on eggshells in his own home. Eventually, it turned into, “Victor, you really need to stop being so mean to Tristan.” I intended to sit her down and have a serious conversation about it. But the anniversary of my mother and sisters’ deaths was approaching, so I had to focus on arranging the memorial service. When I returned home from the cemetery, I witnessed a scene that would be burned into my retinas for the rest of my life. Sylvia and Tristan. The two of them were completely naked, tangled together on the pristine white sheets of our bed. “Hehe, Sylvia, why didn’t you go pay your respects to your future mother-in-law today?” “What mother-in-law… Some uncultured country woman isn’t fit to be my mother-in-law… If I have to pick, your mother is a much better fit…” A deafening ring hijacked my ears. My sanity entirely snapped. I charged into the bedroom like a rabid animal, grabbed a blade, and swung. I still remember the sound of his agonizing screams. God, it felt incredible. During the trial, the judge took pity on me. Considering the extreme emotional distress and my history as a victim of a broken home, he wanted to give me a suspended sentence. But Sylvia hired the most ruthless, expensive legal team in the country. She even bribed key witnesses to commit perjury, ensuring I was slapped with a hard three-year prison sentence. Time really does fly. It had been seven years since the stabbing, and three years since I walked out of a cell. I exhaled a cloud of stale air and quietly observed the woman standing in front of me. Money really was magic. Time had not left a single flaw on this beautiful woman’s face. Yet time had cursed me with cracked, calloused hands, a slight hunch in my spine, and the stench of motor oil permanently baked into my pores. I gently pushed the black credit card back across the counter. “Keep it. There is no need, Miss. I am perfectly fine with how I live.” “I have enough to eat, clothes on my back, and total freedom. I don’t steal, I don’t rob. I make a living with my own two hands.” “I am just a regular guy now. No massive fortunes, but no massive tragedies either.” But Sylvia stubbornly kept her hand extended. “Just consider it… my way of making amends. You take the money, let go of the resentment, and from now on, we are entirely even.” I shot her a genuinely surprised look. The proud, untouchable Sylvia heiress had actually learned how to compensate people. In the past, she would never bow her head to anyone. “Then there is even less of a need. I took that bullet in Paris because you were my girlfriend. And I went to prison because I intentionally maimed a man. It is basic cause and effect.” “Neither of us owes the other a damn thing.” Sylvia clenched her fists, her eyes locked onto my face. It was as if she was desperately trying to confirm if the man standing in front of her was actually Victor. Finally, she slowly lowered her head. A faint glimmer of moisture caught in the corner of her eye. “Victor… you feel like a complete stranger to me.” I glanced up at the cheap plastic clock on the wall. “Well, it has been years. Of course we are strangers.” “Back then… I just got caught up in the heat of the moment.” She paused, her voice shaking. “For years, I have thought about it constantly. If you hadn’t committed such a violent, impulsive crime, I would have married you out of pure guilt. I would have spent the rest of my life making it up to you…” I didn’t respond. I let the relentless ticking of the clock stretch the silence into infinity. “Everyone walks their own path.” I pulled out a crumpled cigarette, lit it, then immediately crushed it out, remembering I had a customer. “When you make your bed, you lie in it. No point looking in the rearview mirror.” “You—” Sylvia choked on her words, completely derailed by my casual, working-class philosophy. After a long moment, she snapped angrily. “You haven’t changed in one regard. You are still a stubborn, insufferable rock!” I nodded cheerfully. “The neighbors say the exact same thing.” “Victor!” Sylvia tightened her fists. After holding it in for so long, my actual name finally tore from her throat. The sound of her voice made the room spin for a second. The way she said it sounded exactly like she used to. Noticing my brief hesitation, she instantly softened her tone. “If you refuse to take my money, I can act as a mediator between you and your father. You probably don’t know this, but your father was diagnosed with terminal pancreatic cancer. He is running out of time.” “If you just go beg for his forgiveness now, you can still secure a portion of the inheritance. It is enough money to last you ten lifetimes…” “Really?” I smiled brightly. “Karma finally caught up to him.” Derailled once again, Sylvia lost the last shred of her patience. She grabbed my arm, trying to physically drag me toward her car. “Victor, how long are you going to keep playing tough?!” “Take a good look in the mirror! Look at the pathetic, miserable state you are in!” “Renting a dark, filthy shack. Breaking your back doing a dirty, foul-smelling job!” “Eating literal garbage processed in a factory, and acting like a thirty-cent packet of hot sauce is a gift from God!” “Do you think this aesthetic makes you look rebellious? Do you think this edgy, starving-artist act is attractive?” “You are a mechanic! You are the absolute bottom of the barrel!” I scratched the stubble on my chin and offered a very honest rebuttal. “I am not entirely at the bottom. At least I am still a complete, fully functioning man. Unlike some people…” It was like I had stepped on a landmine. Sylvia’s face turned a violent shade of red as she exploded. “Tristan had reconstructive surgery! They reattached it perfectly! He might be infertile, but his sex life is completely normal!” “Meanwhile, you reek of toxic chemicals. The smell makes people’s eyes water. What woman could ever tolerate being near you?!” Pushed to the brink of hysterics, she started wildly hitting my chest with her designer Birkin bag, treating me like a hopeless disappointment. Right at that exact moment, the glass door creaked open again.

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1 On the first day of our honeymoon, my husband, Silas, and I were driving down the scenic route toward Napa Valley. We hadn’t been on the road for thirty minutes when an elderly woman suddenly collapsed onto the asphalt just a few yards ahead of our bumper. Silas slammed on the brakes, the tires letting out a violent screech. “Please, kind souls,” the woman groaned, her voice trembling as she huddled on the tarmac. “Help me up. I can’t stand.” She looked incredibly frail, lying there in the middle of the road. If someone didn’t help her, she could easily be hit by another car. Silas immediately reached for his seatbelt, ready to get out. I grabbed his arm, my grip tight and unyielding. “If you dare step out of this car to help her, we are getting a divorce.” Silas froze, his hand hovering over the door handle. He turned to look at me, his eyes wide with utter confusion. “Vivian, since when did you become so heartless? That is a human life!” I knew exactly what it was, but I didn’t feel a single shred of pity. “My point stands. Step out of this car, and we are done.” … “Vivian, I know you’re worried about scammers, but we can’t just leave a helpless old woman in the middle of the road!” Silas’s voice was soft, trying to soothe me. Seeing that we weren’t getting out, the woman on the ground let out an even louder, more agonizing wail. “Please, dear Lord, someone help me! My leg, it hurts so much!” Silas was growing increasingly anxious, his tone softening into a plea. “Vivian, I understand you’re afraid of being sued. But what if she’s actually hurt? How are we supposed to live with ourselves if we just drive away?” He reached over, gently placing his hand over mine. I shook his hand off coldly. “If you want to play the hero, go ahead. Just sign the divorce papers first.” Silas stared at me, looking as if he were staring at a complete stranger. The old woman continued to groan on the asphalt. Realizing we weren’t budging, her cries became louder and more dramatic. A few passing drivers began to pull over, rolling down their windows to peer at us. A few even pulled out their phones, aiming their cameras at our car. “Oh, the pain! It’s unbearable!” the woman cried, her voice cracking. “Young people these days have no heart!” A girl in a pink cardigan rolled down her window from the lane next to us. “Hey! What’s your problem? The poor lady is hurt, go give her a hand!” Silas’s face flushed deep red. He opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out. Seeing his hesitation, the girl’s brow furrowed in disapproval. “Seriously? She fell right in front of your car. The least you can do is get out and check on her!” Before she could finish, a battered van pulled up behind her. A burly, bald man stepped out, his voice booming over the sound of the idling engines. “Hey! What’s the holdup? You’re blocking the road!” But the moment the bald man walked over and saw the old woman groaning on the ground, his expression shifted. He didn’t say a word, quietly turning around and walking straight back to his van. More cars began to pile up, and the backroad quickly became congested. The onlookers started whispering among themselves. “How can people be so cold-hearted?” “Record them! Put them on the internet!” “Driving such a luxury car, yet they have garbage for hearts!” With the growing crowd, the old woman’s groans reached a theatrical crescendo, her voice trembling with artificial tears. “My leg is completely numb! Please, someone show some mercy!” Silas was sitting on pins and needles. He reached for the door handle again. “Think carefully, Silas,” I warned him. His hand froze, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the handle. “Vivian, what is wrong with you today? You’ve never been like this! You’d stop the car to rescue a stray dog or cat, but you won’t even help a human being? Besides, with our financial standing, even if she tries to sue us, we can easily handle it.” He looked at me, his eyes filled with near-desperation. But I remained entirely unmoved. “If you want to help, do it on your own. It has nothing to do with me.” The old woman on the ground continued to howl, her voice surprisingly strong for someone supposedly on the verge of death. Silas’s frustration finally boiled over. He threw the car door open and stormed out, marching directly toward the old woman. I immediately got out of the car, grabbing his arm before he could reach her. “Vivian, can’t you see she needs a hospital? Let go of me!” Silas yelled, his eyes red as he tried to shake me off. I held on tighter, my nails digging into his sleeve. “Wait.” I quickly pulled out my phone and started recording. Aiming the camera at Silas, myself, and the old woman on the ground, I spoke clearly and calmly. “Let the record show that I strongly object to Silas’s decision to help this woman. This is his personal choice, entirely independent of me. Any legal, financial, or civil liabilities resulting from his actions are his sole responsibility. I assume zero liability.” “Vivian… you…” He was so furious his voice shook. “And since you’re so determined to do this,” I added, locking eyes with him, “we’re filing for divorce as soon as we get back.” 2 The old woman suddenly stopped crying. Instead, she offered a sweet, fragile smile, speaking in a gentle tone. “Young man, don’t worry about me. Don’t let a poor old lady ruin your marriage. Just leave me here to rot.” This sudden act of selflessness from the victim instantly turned the crowd’s hostility toward me up to eleven. “My god, she’s actually recording a video to protect herself? What a toxic woman!” “Bro, how can you stand her? Divorce her! You have to divorce her!” “Unbelievable. To be this selfish is a disease!” Standing amidst the shouting crowd, Silas’s face flushed a deep, embarrassed red. He looked at me, pleading one last time. “Do you really have to do this? Are you seriously throwing away your conscience and your dignity just to avoid a little trouble?” I looked at the righteous crowd surrounding us. “If any of you want to help her, be my guest. But if anything goes wrong, you take full responsibility.” The moment I said that, the girl in the pink cardigan scoffed loudly. “Listen to her! What an absolute piece of garbage!” I ignored her, turning back toward our car. Silas grabbed my hand. “Vivian! I know you’re not a bad person. This is just anger talking, right? Let’s stop fighting.” “Fighting?” I yanked my hand back. “Silas, let me ask you: before we left, you insisted on taking this backroad, didn’t you? You said it would save us an hour.” Silas blinked, confused. “Yes… I thought there would be less traffic. Are you really throwing a tantrum over a route?” Less traffic meant fewer witnesses. And more blind spots for surveillance cameras. I let out a cold laugh. I had a strong feeling that if I checked our dashcam right now, it would be conveniently broken. “Vivian,” Silas said, lowering his voice. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have chosen this road without asking you.” He reached out to touch my arm, but I stepped back, easily dodging his hand. “I know you’re angry, and it’s all my fault. From now on, I’ll listen to you. For the rest of the honeymoon, we’ll take whatever road you want, stay wherever you want. I promise I won’t make any decisions without you, okay?” If this had been before, his gentle apology might have softened my heart. “You don’t need to apologize to me. Do whatever you want. We’re getting a divorce anyway.” My tone was entirely flat, but Silas looked panicked. The old woman on the ground spoke up again. “Forget it, young man. I don’t need your help. I’ll just crawl to the side of the road myself. I’d feel terrible if I caused a divorce. Thank you for your kindness, truly.” “Ma’am, please don’t move,” Silas said quickly. “Let me talk to my wife.” The old woman’s movements stiffened slightly. “You fell so hard you couldn’t move your leg,” I chimed in, staring at her. “Moving now might cause secondary injuries. We certainly can’t afford to take responsibility for that.” I tapped on my phone screen. “I’ve already called emergency services. An ambulance is on its way, and I’ve filed a report with the police. They will investigate the cause of your fall. Even though this road is quiet, there should be a traffic camera at the intersection back there. Once the police and medics arrive, they will perform a full inspection. If we are at fault, we will pay. If not, the law will decide.” Hearing my words, Silas looked like he was about to explode with rage. “Vivian, since when did you become so cynical? How can you suspect a poor old lady of lying? I’m telling you, I’m helping her up right now. Can’t you see how much pain she’s in? Stop being so heartless!” Right then, my phone began to ring. It was my mother. 3 “Hello, Mom.” “Vivian! I just saw a video trending online. People are claiming you and Silas left an old woman to die on the road! The video is blurry, but the license plate looks exactly like yours! The comments are absolutely brutal!” I kept my breathing steady. “Mom, don’t worry. She fell on her own. It has nothing to do with us. Silas wanted to help, but I stopped him.” “What? Why would you stop him?” my mother asked, her voice tight with anxiety. “This is terrible for your public image! Besides, we aren’t short on money. Even if she’s a scammer, we can just pay her off!” “Mom, don’t worry about it. Oh, and by the way, I’m divorcing Silas.” There was a sudden, stunned silence on the other end of the line. “Vivian! What nonsense are you talking about? A divorce over a little road dispute? Have you lost your mind?” “I’ll explain when I get back, Mom. I have to go.” I hung up and tucked my phone away. Silas glared at me, his voice hoarse with fury. “Vivian! You…” But seeing the absolute seriousness in my eyes, he didn’t dare move. The silence lasted for a moment before the girl in the pink cardigan stepped out of her car. “Seriously, what is wrong with you two?” she snapped, her tone dripping with self-righteous anger. “Are you done arguing? The poor lady is still on the ground! If you’re not going to help, get out of the way! The rest of us have places to be!” The old woman immediately let out a weak groan, attempting to push herself up only to collapse back onto the road with a fragile sigh. “Miss, thank you for your concern,” I said, looking at the girl. “But we’ve already called the police and an ambulance. Until the professionals arrive, we shouldn’t move her, both to preserve the scene and to avoid any unnecessary medical complications. It’s the responsible thing to do for her, and for us.” The girl blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “How long is that going to take? We’re in the middle of nowhere! You’re just trying to find an excuse to be heartless!” “Precisely because we’re in the middle of nowhere, we need professional help,” I replied, my voice hardening. “If you move her and cause a spinal injury, are you going to take responsibility? If there’s a dispute over her injuries later, who is going to settle it?” The old woman’s groans paused for a fraction of a second. The girl in pink was momentarily silenced, her face flushing with embarrassment, but she remained stubborn. “You’re just cowards. Heartless cowards!” “Yes, I am. So let’s all wait patiently for the deputies to arrive.” Hearing this, the girl grew visibly anxious. “Fine! If you won’t help, I will!” With that, she marched directly toward the old woman. Silas quickly stepped forward, catching her arm. “Miss, please, let us handle it. It wouldn’t be right to let you take the risk.” He turned back to look at me, his eyes filled with a dramatic mix of guilt and heroism. “Vivian, this happened in front of our car. We can’t let a stranger bear the risk. If anyone is going to help her, it should be me. If anything goes wrong, I will take full responsibility!” He spoke with grand, heroic resolve. The surrounding crowd began to whisper in approval. “At least the guy has some decency. His wife, though…” Silas seemed to stand a little straighter, his chest swelling with self-righteous pride. “Silas, you must be joking,” I laughed. “We’ve already made things clear. If you touch her, it has absolutely nothing to do with me. You’re on your own.” “You…” Silas gritted his teeth, unable to vent his fury. He knew his place. He was nothing but a dependent husband who had married into our family, signing a strict prenuptial agreement because he didn’t bring a single cent of his own to this marriage. My family was one of the most prominent dynasties in the city. Marrying me was the jackpot of his life. Yet here he was, publicly defying me. He thought he could play the hero, but without my money, he couldn’t even afford to pay for her band-aids. “Oh, right,” I added, my voice dripping with cold amusement. “Lest you forget, you’re just a dependent who married in. I’m simply throwing you out now.” “Vivian, do you really have to do this?” his voice was dry. “I’m just stating facts.” 4 “You two are unbelievable. Arguing back and forth while this poor lady is left to suffer!” The girl in the pink cardigan scoffed, bending down to grab the old woman’s arm. “Ma’am, let me help you! We don’t need these heartless snobs!” I watched her hand stretch toward the old woman’s sleeve. “Wait.” I spoke up again. The girl froze, glaring at me with irritation. “What cold-hearted comment do you have to make now?” “Nothing. I just haven’t started recording yet. I need clear evidence that you were the one who moved her, just in case there’s a dispute later.” I slowly lifted my phone, aiming the camera at her and the old woman. “Why are you recording this?” Her tone was no longer as aggressive, a hint of nervousness slipping into her voice. “Just keeping a record.” I adjusted the angle, ensuring a crystal-clear view. I paused, tilting the camera slightly toward the old woman. “Ma’am, you understand, right? This kind girl is trying to help you, so we should make sure she feels safe doing it. If you’re really in that much pain, waiting for the paramedics is the best option anyway, don’t you think?” Suddenly, Silas stepped in front of the lens. He blocked my view of the girl and the old woman completely. “Enough, Vivian.” He lunged forward, trying to snatch the phone from my hand. During the struggle, he pushed me back. My patience vanished. Slap! The sharp sound of the slap echoed through the quiet road, leaving Silas’s cheek burning red. “Get out of my way, Silas.” I pushed past him before he could react. But I was too late. Taking advantage of our distraction, the girl in pink had already pulled the old woman to her feet. The old woman stood perfectly straight. Though her back was slightly hunched, both of her feet were planted firmly on the asphalt. “Ma’am, how do you feel? Can you stand?” the girl asked quietly. “Oh… much better. Thank you, dear. You’re a savior.” Silas clutched his cheek, glaring at me with utter humiliation. “Look at that! She’s perfectly fine! Did you really have to make such a disgusting, embarrassing scene over nothing?” He tried to apologize to the old woman and the girl, before grabbing my arm to drag me back to the car. “Are you done making a fool of yourself? I didn’t even touch her, and you still managed to ruin everything!” I violently shook his hand off, my expression ice-cold. “I told you, we are getting a divorce.” My voice was loud, echoing across the quiet road. Silas froze, his arm still suspended in the air. He stared at me as if he couldn’t comprehend my words. A flicker of panic crossed his eyes. “What… what did you say?” “I said,” I met his stunned gaze, “we are getting a divorce, Silas. Right now. We’re going straight to the lawyers as soon as we get back.” The remaining onlookers began to whisper among themselves. “She’s divorcing him just because he wanted to do a good deed?” “Yeah, this woman is ruthless.” “Look at how pale the poor guy is.” With the crowd’s support, Silas seemed to regain his courage, standing a little straighter. “Vivian, listen to them! Everyone can see the truth! I only wanted to help someone today. Was I wrong? Even if my methods weren’t perfect, did you really have to humiliate me in public and throw around the word ‘divorce’?” He grew more confident, his voice rising. “We’re married! If there’s an issue, can’t we discuss it behind closed doors? You had to slap me, scream at me, and demand a divorce in front of all these strangers… What do you think of me? What do you think of our marriage? Is it just a joke to you?” Silas’s accusations, coupled with the murmurs of the crowd, made me look like a hysterical, toxic villain who was single-handedly destroying her own marriage. A few people in the crowd even started live-streaming the scene on their phones. “Look at this, guys! The couple involved in the roadside incident is fighting! The wife just slapped the husband, and now she’s demanding a divorce!” “The poor guy just wanted to help an old lady, and his wife is treating him like trash…” “She looks so arrogant. She’s probably used to getting her way.” The whispers and the annoying electronic chimes from the live broadcasts were incredibly grating.

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1 When Mom issued her seventh warning about my “biological clock,” she gave a final ultimatum: marry Declan by year’s end—or she’d arrange a match upstate. Declan barely looked up from his phone. “We’ll marry eventually. What’s the rush?” I counted the years I’d given him. Year one: I gave up a London fellowship for him, only to find him sharing an apartment with a female colleague. Year three: I ruined a setup Mom made; he swore he’d propose, then ditched me at our engagement dinner to care for that same woman when she got sick. Year eight: Mom’s guards dragged me home; I fell in the mud. Declan sat in his car with her in the passenger seat, drove off without helping, then later held me, promising this year we’d wed. Now, staring into his evasive eyes, I knew the truth—he didn’t want to marry me, and neither did I. In three days, I’d return upstate for the arranged marriage. … “Declan, I am out of time.” I had waited eight grueling years. My friends were all buying houses and chasing toddlers around their living rooms. I was the only one stuck in this humiliating limbo, battling my family’s ultimatums while begging a man to commit. Whenever my friends gave me those pitying looks, I would force a stiff smile. “He promised. He is going to do it.” The awkward silence of my friends, the vicious words from my mother, and Declan’s constant moving of the goalposts were tearing me apart piece by piece. Hearing my flat tone, Declan finally looked up from his aggressive texting. His phone screen was still lit. Audrey had just texted him, asking to carpool to the office. He never said no to her. In fact, he kept a pair of plush slippers in his passenger seat just for her, so she could kick off her heels and be comfortable for a twenty minute commute. He seemed to have completely forgotten that the passenger seat was supposed to be mine. Years ago, he had jokingly slapped a label with my name on the dashboard, bragging to his buddies. “This seat is reserved for the boss. Nobody else gets to sit here.” But lately? When a massive thunderstorm hit the city and I begged him to pick me up, he told me I was completely out of his way. He was busy driving Audrey home. I had to run six blocks in the pouring rain. I sat shivering in our apartment, sneezing violently while clutching a mug of hot water. Meanwhile, he lingered at Audrey’s place, meticulously blow drying her hair so she would not catch a chill. Pulling myself out of the memories, a bitter, acidic ache settled deep in my chest. “Louisa, I told you we are going to get married. Stop suffocating me, okay?” Declan furrowed his brows, his eyes flashing with unfiltered annoyance. “My career is just taking off. Are you really that desperate for a ring?” Desperate. That one cruel word completely erased eight years of my unwavering loyalty and sacrifice. The fading scratches on my arms throbbed faintly. My mother’s furious, disappointed face flashed in my mind. He never saw the immense pressure I carried for him. He never saw the physical bruises I took to defend our relationship. He never understood my desperate need to prove to my family that I hadn’t wasted my twenties on the wrong guy. Before I could form a response, his phone buzzed. The irritation on his face melted instantly, replaced by a soft, genuine smile. “Are you in the lobby? I will be right down.” “I made that artisan honey ginger tea you were craving the other day. I am bringing it down, you have to try it.” He bumped his shoulder roughly against mine as he grabbed the insulated thermos off the kitchen counter. He made it halfway to the door before realizing I had not stepped in front of him to demand an explanation, like I usually did. He paused, shifting his weight uncomfortably, and softened his voice. “Louisa, everything I promised you, I will do.” “Just give me a little more time, alright?” The old me would have interrogated him. How much more time? Which month? When are we booking a venue? Only when he patiently answered every question with a firm tone could I finally relax, gaslighting myself into believing he actually meant it. But tonight, I just offered him a small, empty smile. “Okay.” 2 The heavy front door clicked shut. Declan was gone, leaving the apartment suffocatingly quiet. Standing by the living room window, I watched Audrey do a little jog straight into his chest down on the sidewalk. He froze for a split second, but he didn’t push her away. Instead, he stripped off his tailored jacket and draped it over her shoulders. A sharp gust of wind rattled the windowpane, sending a shiver down my spine. I couldn’t pinpoint exactly when it happened, but sharing a roof with this man felt like living with a complete stranger. There used to be a time when a single sniffle from me would have him rushing over to wrap me in a thick blanket. Now, I could be sneezing my lungs out, surrounded by a mountain of used tissues, and he would just keep scrolling through his phone, reading articles about how single women could improve their apartment security. I had been so sick with a fever that I couldn’t even sit up in bed. I croaked his name, begging for a glass of water, but he was completely deaf to it. It wasn’t until I passed out from the fever and my friends realized I was ghosting their texts that they kicked my door in and dragged me to the ER. The doctors said my brain would have practically cooked if they had been an hour later. Exhausted, I collapsed onto the couch and closed my eyes. This was my home, yet it was absolutely contaminated with her presence. Audrey had lived with him for two years before I arrived. There were literally dozens of polaroids of the two of them pinned to the corkboard in the hallway. I still remember the day I flew thousands of miles to finally move in. I stood in the doorway, stiff and awkward, feeling like an intruder. Audrey was packing her bags, tossing out instructions like she owned him. “Well, now that the girlfriend is here, I should make myself scarce. I am moving out.” “Oh, by the way, Declan sleepwalks sometimes, so watch out for his swinging arms in the dark.” “And he needs hot milk right before bed, but an iced americano the second he wakes up. Don’t mix it up.” I could not even articulate how nauseous I felt in that moment. The girl standing in front of me wasn’t just a coworker. She was acting like a veteran wife handing over the reins. Later that evening, Declan’s coworker called my cell. He told me Declan had drank way too much at a corporate mixer and needed a ride. I gave a flat acknowledgment, knowing exactly what happened. Declan only drank himself into a stupor when he was taking shots for Audrey. He had a terrible stomach lining and avoided alcohol at all costs. But Audrey was his permanent exception. He had literally ended up in the hospital three times because of it, yet he still threw himself on the front lines to protect her at every single networking event. When I arrived at the upscale lounge, Declan was swaying on his feet. Yet he stood firmly in front of Audrey, gripping a shot glass. “Bullying the new girl? Really guys?” “I will take her shots. Line them up.” One of the senior managers chuckled, leaning against the bar. “Declan, the way you guard this girl, people might start thinking you are in love with her.” The entire booth erupted. People started happily gossiping about their dynamic at the office. How they always synced their lunch breaks. How he tracked her menstrual cycle better than she did, magically producing painkillers and a heating pad on her desk every single month. How they were an unspoken package deal at the annual gala, walking the red carpet arm in arm. I stood in the shadows, listening to all of this for the very first time. I had no idea he was capable of being so meticulously thoughtful. When I had brutal cramps, his only advice was a brief text telling me to drink warm water. Suddenly, someone brought my name up, and the table fell dead silent. A coworker sighed, clapping Declan on the shoulder. “Look man, you and Louisa have been together for eight years without a ring.” “Honestly, if the spark is gone, just cut her loose.” “Stop wasting her youth so you can both go find what you actually want.” Declan said absolutely nothing. He just nodded slowly, looking deep in thought, as if he was seriously considering the advice. Audrey’s ears flushed bright red. she pressed herself a little closer against his side, looking completely bashful. “Ma’am, can I help you find someone?” A passing waiter shattered the group’s silence. Declan’s head snapped up. His eyes locked onto me, his expression totally freezing. I just shook my head and turned toward the exit. Declan chased me out to the sidewalk, grabbing my arm. “Louisa, let me explain.” 3 “They were just messing around. I don’t feel that way about her.” “Audrey and I are strictly professional.” He looked so incredibly earnest, acting like I was the only woman in the universe for him. But I knew the game. This was just his standard damage control. Years ago, when he kept stalling the proposal, I threw fits. I packed my bags. I threatened to walk away. He would do exactly this. He would grip my hand, look me dead in the eye, and swear he was committed. Then, two days later, the proposal would be forgotten, and he would start working late to avoid me. Back then, I swallowed the disrespect because I wanted our eight years to mean something. But now? I was flying home to marry a stranger. I truly did not care anymore. I slipped my arm out of his grip, taking a deliberate step back. “It is fine. I believe you.” There was no screaming match. No tearful, heartbroken interrogation. Just a calm, dismissive nod. The sheer indifference made him visibly panic. He opened his mouth to speak, but Audrey rushed out of the lounge and planted herself right beside me, cutting him off. “Louisa, it really is not what it looks like.” “I have known Declan way longer than you have.” “If there was a spark between us, do you really think you would even be in the picture?” Her words were laced with toxic sweetness, carrying an unmistakable undertone of mockery. And she was right. I had seen the polaroids. They cooked together. They binged movies together. They hid under blankets and laughed through thunderstorms. She got to experience a version of Declan I never had access to. Every milestone I thought we hit, he had already practiced with her. If I threw a tantrum right now, I would just look like a bitter, paranoid girlfriend. “You are absolutely right.” “My mistake.” My deadpan response sucked the oxygen right out of the conversation. For the first time in his life, Declan didn’t put Audrey in an Uber and wait until she was safely inside her building. Instead, he gripped my hand and pulled me toward his car. The second we walked into the apartment, I headed straight for the bathroom. I just wanted a hot shower and sleep. Declan stepped in front of me, completely blocking the hallway. His jaw ticked with barely suppressed rage. “You are pissed.” “We have been together for eight years. Do you honestly think I don’t know when you are giving me the silent treatment?” “Then why did you take shots for her?” The exhaustion cracked my composure, the words spilling out before I could stop them. “She is a lightweight. Did you want them to force alcohol down her throat?” “Are you blind? The whole department was trying to set you two up. They were doing it on purpose.” Declan wasn’t stupid. He knew exactly what his coworkers were doing. But he loved the ego trip. He loved playing the knight in shining armor for Audrey. He thrived on the cheers from his buddies and the pure adoration shining in Audrey’s eyes. My private humiliation was a price he was more than willing to pay. “We are all coworkers. Why does your mind have to be so twisted?” Declan let out a long, exhausted sigh, framing me as the hysterical villain. “I took a few drinks for her. That doesn’t mean we are sleeping together. Why are you so damn obsessed with this?” “Who knows, maybe tomorrow you will be.” “Louisa.” My dry laugh was cut off by his furious roar. His chest heaved, his temper flaring right to the edge. Then, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen just once. Instantly, he turned on his heel, grabbing his keys. “See? I can never get you to stay.” “Even when I am standing right in front of you.” Declan stopped by the door, but he refused to look back at me. “You are acting completely unhinged right now. You need to cool off.” It was always the same script. Every time he abandoned me, he made sure to diagnose me as the problem first. When my mother’s guards threw me to the pavement, he was standing ten feet away. He called it a “private family dispute,” said he didn’t want Audrey caught in the crossfire, and drove away without checking if I was bleeding. On the day we were supposed to get engaged, he bailed to play nurse for Audrey. Later, he blamed my mother for making too many demands, using it as his excuse to bolt. And now, one single text from Audrey, and he was walking out the door. I didn’t try to block his path. As his hand hit the doorknob, I spoke very softly. “You don’t need to marry me anymore. I am marrying someone else.” 4 Declan didn’t come home that night. The next morning, I was just hanging up the phone after confirming my flight with my mother when the front door finally opened. He stood in the entryway, kicking off his shoes, sounding totally bored. “Where are you going?” “Family emergency?” I tossed my phone onto the counter and lied without blinking. “My mom is having some health issues. I need to go upstate to check on her.” He bought it immediately, launching right into a lecture. “Good. While you are there, talk some sense into her. Tell her to stop harassing us about a wedding.” “Does she want you to be happy, or is she just trying to sell you off to the highest bidder?” I let out a flat “Yeah,” and walked into the bedroom to pull out my luggage. Declan trailed behind me. When he saw me clearing out my entire side of the closet, a frown pulled at his lips. “How long are you staying? You are packing half the room.” “Not long.” “What time is your train? I will drive you.” “Flight. Out of JFK. Three o’clock.” He went completely quiet, a conflicted shadow passing over his face. I zipped the suitcase shut and stood it upright before he finally spoke. “I have a meeting at three. Do you want me to call you a black car so you can get there yourself?” “Just text me your return flight, and I will definitely be at the airport to pick you up. Deal?” There is no return flight. I kept the thought locked in my head. My face betrayed absolutely nothing. I gave him a bright, easy smile. “It is fine. I can get an Uber.” Right on cue, the doorbell rang. Before I could even take a step, the person on the other side unlocked the deadbolt and walked right in. That was the moment I realized he had given her a key. He had let her keep it for years. So all those times I came back from girls’ trips and noticed the furniture slightly rearranged or a different scent in the air. I wasn’t going crazy. “Louisa. Today is my birthday, and I really wanted Declan to celebrate with me.” Audrey stood in the foyer, fully glammed up, flashing me a sugar sweet smile. “You don’t mind, do you?” Everything finally clicked into place. The velvet jewelry box I found hidden in his sock drawer last week wasn’t for me. The email receipt for nine hundred and ninety nine roses I saw pop up on his tablet wasn’t for me either. He could buy diamond rings for a “purely professional” colleague, but couldn’t commit to the woman who gave him her entire twenties. He didn’t even remember that yesterday was our six year anniversary. Looking at him standing there, practically vibrating with eagerness to leave with her, I felt a strange sense of peace. I didn’t call him out. I played my role perfectly. “I don’t mind at all. Happy birthday, Audrey. Have a great time.” Audrey beamed, immediately hooking her arm through his and tugging him toward the door. Maybe some buried instinct finally kicked in, because right before crossing the threshold, Declan stopped and looked back at me. “Text me when you get to the gate.” “I will see you when you get back. Bye.” Declan, this is the very last time you will ever see me. There is no coming back. After the door closed, I wheeled my suitcase down to the street and climbed into a cab. The familiar skyline blurred past the window, slowly fading into the distance. The only thing I left behind for Declan was a heavy, gold embossed wedding invitation sitting dead center on the coffee table.

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1 I was born with dyslexia. To me, letters were a chaotic swarm of bugs; reading felt impossible. Since elementary school, I ranked at the very bottom. Kids called me “stupid,” “retard.” Rowan always defended me—shoving them away, sitting me down, promising, “Serena, I’ll be your translator. I’ll help you read every word in the world.”With his help, I reached high school and found my true gift: art. After winning gold at the International Youth Art Biennale twice, I earned early admission to Ashton University, the nation’s top art school. I ran to tell Rowan first. Instead of congratulating me, he handed me a form. “Sign this donation consent. We’ll give your old textbooks to charity.” As always, the words blurred into nonsense. But I trusted him—so I signed. Days later, our teacher announced, “Congratulations to Lily for taking Ashton’s early admission slot—our school only had one.” I frowned. “Mr. Davis, wasn’t that mine?” He stared. “Serena… didn’t you sign the waiver giving it up?” My heart stopped. Then my mind went completely blank. The whispers of my classmates faded into static. A high pitched ringing pierced my ears. Slowly, agonizingly, I turned my stiff neck to look at Rowan, who sat by the window. He was busy swatting a bug away from his desk mate, Lily. His smile was as bright and carefree as ever. It was as if he hadn’t heard a single word of my exchange with the teacher. I have no idea how I survived the next forty five minutes. The second the bell rang, I forced my trembling legs to stand and walked over to his desk. “Rowan, why did you do that?” My voice shook violently. I was clenching my fists so hard my knuckles were bone white. He looked up from his textbook. He noticed my pale face, looking momentarily stunned, but quickly regained his casual composure. He spoke in a tone you’d use to discuss the weather. “Serena, getting into Ashton is Lily’s ultimate dream. You know how expensive art is. Her family is struggling financially. You have absolutely no idea how much blood, sweat, and tears she put in just to get this far.” He shrugged. “You get first place in every competition anyway. There’s another international contest in a month. Just win gold again and you’ll get your spot back. What’s the big deal about letting Lily have this one?” He made it sound so incredibly easy. As if winning a global art competition was as simple as breathing. I ground my teeth together, feeling an invisible hand reaching into my chest and ripping my heart in two. He knew all about Lily’s hardships, but he conveniently forgot the absolute hell I had crawled through to get here. The years of being called an idiot. A waste of space. The years where I didn’t even have the courage to step out of my front door. Every time I opened a book, normal letters turned into hostile, crawling ants. Everyone told me I was useless, destined to be a nobody for the rest of my life. Until that one afternoon. Rowan pointed at the chaotic scribbles in my notebook. “Whoa, Serena, this is actually amazing. You might be a genius at this.” That single sentence pushed me to pick up a paintbrush. At first, the whispers around me were dripping with venom and pity. “Only the dumb kids do art. It’s because she has no other options.” “Does she actually think she has talent? People are just pitying her.” I wanted to prove them wrong. But more than anything, I didn’t want to disappoint Rowan. I painted day and night. My used brushes piled up like mountains. Blisters burst on my fingertips, bleeding into the canvas. My clothes were permanently stained with acrylic and oil. When everyone else was partying, dating, or sleeping, I didn’t dare stop for a single second. And finally, I made something of myself. I thought he would be proud of me. We had promised to go to Ashton together. Instead, he took the results of my bleeding fingers and handed it to someone else. Anger, betrayal, and a suffocating wave of disappointment clogged my throat. My eyes burned, pooling with tears. Rowan froze. A flicker of panic crossed his eyes. “Hey, don’t cry.” He stood up, reaching out to grab my arm. But Lily, sitting right next to him, suddenly let out a choked sob. “I’m so sorry! I knew I shouldn’t have taken it. Serena, I’ll go tell Mr. Davis right now that I’m giving the spot back!” 2 She barely stood up before Rowan grabbed her wrist, pulling her back down. “Give it back? Are you crazy? You earned this with your own hard work!” He turned his glare on me, his tone laced with heavy resentment. “If it weren’t for Serena, you would have gotten the gold medal anyway.” In every competition, my scores were always a few points higher than Lily’s. Rowan was right. Without me, Lily would be number one. But I never expected him to paint me as the villain who stole her glory. A million tiny needles pierced my chest, the pain radiating outward. The boy who once swore to protect me from the world had quietly, seamlessly, crossed over to the enemy lines. It wasn’t just him. The guys hanging around our desks chimed in, eager to play the hero for the crying girl. “Yeah, Serena, you can win awards in your sleep. It’s just one admission spot. Don’t be a bully.” “Do you know how stressful it would be for Lily to repeat a whole year? Have some empathy for once.” Lily kept up her soft, pathetic whimpering, playing the perfect victim. Rowan pulled a tissue from the box on his desk and gently wiped her tears, shooting me a look of deep dissatisfaction. As if I was completely out of line for questioning why he forged my signature. Silence hung heavy in the air. I took a slow, jagged breath and finally found my voice. “Keep it. If you want it that badly, it’s yours.” Lily blinked, stunned. Rowan’s face lit up with absolute relief. “Serena, you finally get it?” “I knew you’d understand where I was coming from!” he beamed. “I’ll be cheering for you at the competition next month. You’re going to crush it, get the gold, and we’ll all go to Ashton together!” Lily broke into a fragile, watery smile. “Good luck, Serena. I know you can do it.” I didn’t say a single word. I just turned around and walked away. My expression was ice cold. I would win that competition. But I was absolutely done with Ashton University. For the next few weeks, I practically lived in the art studio. The blisters on my fingers burst, bled, and hardened into thick calluses until I couldn’t feel the pain anymore. Rowan dropped by occasionally. He proudly announced that his early admission letter had arrived. Ashton, of course. He was a STEM prodigy, sweeping national math and physics olympiads since middle school. His admission was a given. “Serena, we promised to go to Ashton together. I haven’t forgotten,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “Don’t hold a grudge about that paperwork thing. Lily’s situation is just complicated. She’s the oldest of three. Her parents basically told her if she didn’t get a full ride to Ashton, they’d cut off her tuition. They wouldn’t let her do a gap year.” I put my brush down and stared at him, truly baffled by his logic. “And why exactly am I expected to foot the bill for her life?” Rowan looked genuinely confused. “I thought… you’d get it. You both had it rough.” I let out a harsh laugh, picked up my brush, and went back to my canvas, ignoring his existence entirely. Watching my freezing response, a weird spike of panic hit Rowan’s chest. “Serena, look, I…” He stepped forward, desperate to say something, but was cut off by Lily prancing into the studio. “Serena! I brought you food!” She held up a plastic takeout bag from the cafeteria. I told her I wasn’t hungry. She ignored me, pulling out the containers one by one and setting them right on top of my cramped desk, completely ignoring the expensive supplies scattered everywhere. As she lifted a bowl of hot soup, her hand conveniently twitched. The greasy broth splashed right onto my brand new, premium watercolor paper. She did it on purpose. It was painfully obvious. My patience snapped. “I said I don’t want it!” My shout made her jump. Hot soup splashed onto her own hand, and she let out a dramatic shriek. She let go of the bowl completely. It tipped over, flooding my desk. My brushes, my imported paints, my sketches. All soaking in greasy, steaming liquid. Panicking, I reached out to salvage my work. The boiling broth scalded my raw fingertips, sending sharp jolts of pain up my arm. “Serena, it’s just a bunch of cheap paper! Are you insane?” Two hands shoved my shoulders hard. I stumbled backward, my heel catching on the heavy metal bucket I used to wash my brushes. I crashed to the filthy floor. The murky, black wastewater spilled over, instantly soaking into my jeans and shirt. 3 The moment my back hit the floor, a montage of memories flashed through my mind. Fifth grade. The first time I seriously took up art. The bullies from my class would sneak into the studio just to mock me. “Look at the retard trying to paint!” “A retard is a retard. Thinks she can draw just because she can’t read. Hilarious.” “Let’s rip her stuff up!” A group of boys had rushed in, ready to tear my canvas to shreds. Suddenly, Rowan flew out from behind a shelf, tackling the ringleader to the ground. It turned into a massive brawl. Later, sporting a black eye and a busted lip, Rowan gave me his solemn promise. “You just keep painting, Serena. I swear I’ll protect your stuff with my life.” From that day on, he treated my art supplies better than I did. He would carefully wash out my brushes until the water ran clear. He would neatly arrange my paint tubes. He would gently blow the eraser shavings off my sketches. As for my hands, he practically kept them under twenty four hour surveillance. He refused to let me do anything that might risk cutting or burning my fingers. He always said he was guarding the hands of a future Picasso. The sharp, stinging pain in my palm violently yanked me back to the present. I lifted my right hand. A jagged piece of gravel on the studio floor had sliced a deep gash straight across my palm. Crimson blood was bubbling out, dripping onto the floor tiles. But Rowan’s eyes were entirely glued to Lily. He was cradling her hand, frantically asking if the splash of soup had burned her. Then, he shot me a look of pure disgust. “Serena, she went out of her way to bring you food. If you don’t want it, fine, but did you have to scream at her?” “Do you have any idea how precious her hands are for her art?” I slowly picked myself up from the dirty floor. My clothes were heavy with toxic black paint water, clinging uncomfortably to my skin. My right hand hung by my side, blood steadily dripping from my fingertips. He didn’t notice at all. His eyes held nothing but disappointment. It was in this exact moment that the truth finally settled into my bones. The fiercely loyal boy who once swore to protect me against the world was dead. He had been gone for a long time. My chest felt entirely hollow. Using my bleeding hand, I silently bent down to pick up my ruined brushes from the puddle of soup and dirty water. Rowan finally caught a glimpse of the red. He froze. The icy anger in his eyes melted into sudden dread. “Your hand…” “Rowan, my hand burns so badly. Do you think it’s going to scar?” Lily’s voice was thick with tears. She sounded soft, helpless, like a wounded puppy. She was a master at using fragility to monopolize attention. Rowan had been my desk mate since elementary school. Because of my severe dyslexia, he would read the textbooks aloud to me, translating the chaotic letters into a language I could understand. He always said he didn’t trust anyone else to sit next to me. But in our junior year, Lily murmured something about struggling with math and hoping Rowan could tutor her. Rowan immediately asked the teacher for a seat change. His excuse to me was that Lily needed his help more than I did. Just like right now. The second she whined about her pain, Rowan’s attention snapped away from my bleeding palm. He grabbed Lily’s uninjured wrist and hurried toward the door. “Come on, let’s get you to the nurse.” He didn’t hesitate. His strides were long and purposeful, looking exactly like the boy who used to carry me on his back to the emergency room. Only this time, the person he was carrying in his heart wasn’t me. A cold breeze blew through the studio window, passing right through my chest, carrying away whatever lingering affection I had left for him. I walked to the hospital alone to get my hand stitched up. Walking out of the clinic, I scrolled through my phone and saw Lily’s latest post. [Our Future.] The photo was a side by side shot of two Ashton University early admission letters. Their names were placed closely together. It felt like a needle stabbing directly into my retinas. The comments were blowing up. [Damn, power couple alert!] [Have mercy on us mortals! We’re still grinding for finals, keep your PDA out of the classroom please!] There were a few snarky ones too. [Flexing a stolen spot? Classy.] Within seconds, Rowan replied to that specific comment. [She earned every bit of it.] I let out a dry chuckle. Earned it. Right. So I totally deserved to have my spot stolen. Got it. I locked my phone. I went home and picked up my brush again. The doctor had strictly forbidden me from using my right hand for at least a week. But I couldn’t sit still. If I stopped moving, the suffocating noise in my head would drown me. So I painted. I painted until the stitches tore, until fresh blood seeped through the bandages. The dark red smeared across the pristine white canvas. It was a shocking, violent contrast. I finally stopped. Looking at the finished piece, the corner of my mouth tipped up. A month later, my painting Awakening absolutely obliterated the competition. I took home the undisputed, unanimous Gold Medal. 4 I stood on the podium, deafened by the applause. The camera flashes blurred into a sea of stars before my eyes. This year’s competition was unprecedented. Scouts and professors from top tier international art institutions had flown in to judge. An older professor with sharp blue eyes walked up to me, smiling warmly. “Miss Serena, it would be my absolute honor to see you walking the halls of The Royal Academy in London this fall.” I smiled back. “The honor would be mine.” All the agonizing nights, the bleeding fingers, the shattered trust. It had all amounted to this. The tight coil of anxiety in my chest finally unspooled. I felt lighter than air. Walking out of the exhibition hall, a familiar figure was waiting by the entrance. Rowan was leaning against a concrete pillar, aimlessly twisting a Rubik’s cube. He caught sight of me and pushed off the wall, a massive grin spreading across his face. “Serena. Congrats on the gold.” “Told you. I knew you could pull it off.” “Now we can finally go to Ashton together.” I looked at him, my expression perfectly serene. “Yeah.” Hearing my response, a visible wave of relief washed over him, and his smile grew even wider. A few days later, the official acceptance letter from The Royal Academy of Arts arrived in my mailbox. I asked Mr. Davis to keep it entirely off the record. When I walked into the classroom, my classmates swarmed me, cheering for the “genius painter.” I caught the ugly flash of pure jealousy in Lily’s eyes before she looked down. Someone chimed in, “Serena, I heard all the fancy European schools were practically begging you to enroll. You’re not going abroad, are you?” Rowan’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second before he confidently interrupted. “Serena’s only ever wanted to go to Ashton. It doesn’t matter how good those foreign schools are. She’s super picky with her food, she’d starve over there.” He turned to me, his tone suddenly incredibly soft. “Right, Rena?” My mind drifted for a second. How long had it been since he called me Rena? Probably since junior year, when Lily first transferred. His voice carried a hint of desperate pleading, a cautious test of the waters. I couldn’t be bothered to start drama, so I just gave a noncommittal “Mm.” Rowan instantly reverted to his goofy, relieved smile. Lily kept her head down, her face dark and stormy. Shortly after, nasty rumors started spreading like wildfire through the school. Everyone was whispering about how Lily had manipulated her way into stealing my admission spot. Because of the recent gold medal, I was practically a local celebrity. Naturally, public opinion heavily favored me. Whenever Lily walked down the hallway, she was met with side eyes and blatant disgust. The toxic whispers followed her everywhere. She looked more miserable with every passing day. I, on the other hand, was practically living in the studio, entirely oblivious to the high school drama. Until one morning. The second I stepped into the classroom, Rowan marched toward me, his face a mask of furious thunder. “Serena, you actually disgust me.” The words hit me like a physical blow. I stopped in my tracks. I stared at him, genuinely lost. “Excuse me?” “I was the one who tricked you into signing that form. If you’re pissed, take it out on me. Why the hell are you organizing a witch hunt against Lily? Do you get off on stabbing people in the back?” A friend quickly rushed over and whispered the context in my ear. It clicked. Rowan assumed I was the mastermind behind the bullying campaign. Looking at his hateful glare, and then at Lily cowering pathetically behind his broad shoulders, a laugh bubbled up in my throat. I didn’t even want to defend myself. I just looked at him with absolute indifference. “Whether I started it or not, are they lying?” Rowan glared at me, his jaw tight. “So what if you have talent, Serena? With a heart as toxic and dark as yours, you will never be half the person Lily is!” He shouldered past me aggressively, grabbing Lily’s hand and pulling her out of the room. I stood there in the middle of the aisle. My heart was terrifyingly calm. From that day until graduation, we didn’t exchange a single word. In August, holding my acceptance letter from The Royal Academy, I boarded a one way flight to London. A few days later, Rowan rang the doorbell of my house. My mom opened the door to find him standing awkwardly on the porch. “Hi, Mrs. Davis. Is Rena home? I… I really need to apologize to her.” My mom looked at him, completely baffled. “Rena didn’t tell you? She left for campus a few days ago.” Rowan blinked. “She’s already moved into Ashton?” My mom let out a confused laugh. “Ashton? What are you talking about? She’s in London. At The Royal Academy.” Rowan froze.

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