Category: English

Ethan was famously cold and arrogant, a man who never bent his knee to anyone. Yet, he would willingly drop to one knee just to change my shoes. He always said my ankle had an old injury and would ache if I stood for too long. So, in the trunk of his car, there was always a pair of white sneakers kept just for me. Everyone joked that Ethan spoiled me so much that I had lost the ability to take care of myself. He didn’t care at all. He would just wrap his arm around me and smile. “I spoiled her. Anyone got a problem with that?” That was until his childhood friend, Chloe, whose family had just gone bankrupt, moved into our home. Tonight, at the end of the charity gala, Chloe sprained her ankle. I was about to ask someone to bring over some slippers, but Ethan had already knelt down. He slid my exclusive white sneakers onto Chloe’s feet. “If you give me these shoes, Olivia won’t be mad, right?” Ethan didn’t even look up. His tone was incredibly casual. “They’re just shoes. She’s not that petty.” “Chloe’s ankle is swollen. Just deal with it tonight, Olivia. I’ll buy you new ones tomorrow. You can have as many pairs as you want.” The chill of the marble floor seeped through the thin soles of my high heels. He took it for granted that because we were married, my things were his to give away. But he forgot. The person whose shoes were taken… her feet hurt, too.

When we got home, Chloe looked down at the shoes on her feet and wiggled her toes slightly. “Olivia, your shoes are so comfortable. No wonder Ethan always keeps them ready for you.” I said nothing. Ethan’s voice was flat. “Just wear them for tonight.” “She has an old ankle injury. She can’t just wear any shoes.” Chloe immediately looked up. “I don’t deserve such nice shoes anyway. If Olivia wants them back, I’ll take them off right now.” Ethan reached out to stop her and looked at me. “Olivia, I’ll tend to your foot in a minute.” I suddenly remembered many years ago when he first found out about my ankle injury. He had frowned just like this. Back then, he said, From now on, I will make sure every path you walk is soft. The path was still the same path. It was just that he had given the softest part to someone else. Chloe sat on the sofa, carefully lifting her leg. “Ethan, where is the first-aid kit? It hurts a bit.” I stood in the entryway, bending over to change into my house slippers. The back of the heel rubbed against my raw wound, making my fingers tremble. Ethan looked back and saw this, his footsteps pausing for a second. Chloe let out a soft gasp. “It looks even more swollen now.” Ethan ultimately turned toward the living room and pulled the medical kit from the cabinet. That tube of ointment was the one I frequently used during my physical therapy. My name was still written on the label. Chloe held it in her hand, looking at it. “Olivia, can I use this?” Ethan unscrewed the cap for her. “It’s just ointment.” He handed the ointment to Chloe, then stood up and walked over to me. “Let me see your foot.” I took a half-step back. His brow furrowed. “Olivia, don’t start a fight right now.” Chloe immediately spoke up. “Olivia, please don’t misunderstand. Ethan is just helping me out first.” “You two have been together for so many years. You’re obviously the one he loves the most.” She sounded so understanding. But those white sneakers on her feet were blindingly clean. I looked down at my own feet. The edge of my high heels had worn my skin raw. A bit of blood was smudged on the edge of my sock. It wasn’t much, but it stung badly. Ethan saw it too. “Tomorrow, I’ll go with you to the store…” I quietly declined. “No need.” His movements froze. “It’s just a pair of shoes. Are you really going to hold a grudge over this?” Chloe gently tugged at his sleeve. “Ethan, maybe Olivia doesn’t care about the shoes. Maybe she cares that you put them on me.” The living room fell silent. Ethan didn’t deny it. I looked up at him. In the past, whenever anyone said something like that, he would always defend me. He would tell them that Olivia wasn’t petty; she was just injured and knew what pain felt like. But now, he just rubbed his temples. “Chloe just got back, and she’s not used to a lot of things yet. Just cut her some slack.” Cut her some slack. I had yielded the guest room, half of my walk-in closet, and my usual spot at the breakfast table. Now, it was my shoes. I didn’t say another word. I turned and walked back to the bedroom. Ethan followed me to the door. “Olivia.” I stopped. “Tomorrow, I’ll have the boutique deliver everything from your favorite brand. Don’t throw a fit tonight. Chloe’s family just went through a crisis. She can’t handle any emotional stress right now.” My hand rested on the doorframe. The throbbing pain in my heel came in waves. “Ethan, I feel pain too.” He stared at me, looking as if he didn’t understand. Chloe called out softly from the living room. “Ethan, I think I put too much ointment on.” Ethan looked at me for two seconds before finally turning around. “Get some rest. Don’t overthink things.” After the door closed, I sat on the edge of the bed and peeled my socks off. The fabric was stuck to the wound. As I tore it away, I bit my lip. From outside the door, Chloe’s giggles drifted in. “Ethan, Olivia’s shoe size is almost the same as mine. Can I keep these shoes for now?” “I have to meet some clients at the office tomorrow.” Ethan’s voice came through the door. “Just wear them. She has plenty of other shoes.”

The next morning, Ethan stood in front of the shoe cabinet. “Come to the office with me this afternoon. We’ll talk about the shoes later.” “Didn’t you spend six months designing that dance therapy curriculum for disabled kids? We are finalizing the launch process today.” Chloe walked out of the guest room, wearing my white sneakers. “Olivia, look. Ethan really cares about you.” Ethan didn’t respond to her. He pushed a shoe box to my feet. “These are similar to the ones from last night. Wear them.” I looked at the shoes in the box. They were expensive, and very soft. But they weren’t mine. Seeing that I didn’t move, Ethan’s tone cooled. “Olivia, I’ve already replaced them.” Replaced. It turned out that to him, some things only required a new package. I put the shoes on. My heel still hurt, but at least I could walk. The launch event was on the first floor of the company’s exhibition hall. My curriculum display board was pushed to the very back. The main screen at the front, however, showed Chloe’s face. She was labeled as the “Charity Ambassador.” Chloe walked up from behind and warmly took my arm. “Olivia, you don’t mind, right?” “I used to take dance lessons too. Although I’m not as professional as you, my family is in a tough spot now. Ethan wanted to give me some exposure to help me start over.” I pulled my hand back. “This is a rehabilitation project, not your comeback stage.” Chloe’s eyes welled with tears instantly. “I just wanted to help.” “Olivia, do you think I don’t deserve to be here?” Ethan walked over right at that moment. He looked at Chloe first. “What’s wrong?” Chloe shook her head. “Nothing. Olivia probably thinks I don’t understand rehabilitation. She’s afraid I’ll embarrass her.” Ethan looked at me. “Olivia, Chloe is just reading the script on stage. You’re still in charge of the professional execution.” I asked him, “Why didn’t you tell me beforehand?” Ethan’s brow furrowed. “I was afraid you’d overthink it.” “Besides, this isn’t a big deal. The successful launch of the project is more important than who stands on stage.” In the past, Ethan knew exactly why I created this project. After my ankle injury, my biggest fear wasn’t that I could no longer dance. It was being pinned down by a casual, “Well, you’re broken anyway.” That was why I wanted to give those injured kids a path where they could walk slowly. But now, he hid my name in a corner and gave all the spotlight to Chloe. The event coordinator whispered, “Ms. Olivia, are you still going on stage to present the curriculum later?” Ethan answered for me first. “Her foot is bothering her. She won’t be presenting. Let her manage the backstage flow.” When the launch event started, I sat in the corner of the backstage. When the slide for the curriculum credits came up, the screen flickered. The original line: Curriculum Designer: Olivia had been changed to Charity Founder: Chloe. When Ethan returned backstage, I handed him the run sheet. “Where is my name?” He glanced at it. “The PR department changed it on their own. I’ll have them add it back later.” “You have me. Isn’t that enough?” I flipped to the sign-off page. In the Project Consultant column, Chloe’s name was already stamped with the company seal. My name had been moved to the appendix.

When I returned to the studio, Chloe was standing in front of the mirror practicing her moves, still wearing my white sneakers. Ethan held a new class schedule in his hands. “I asked Chloe to shadow a few classes. She needs to familiarize herself with the project.” I took the schedule. My hours had been cut in half, and Chloe’s name was scheduled for Saturday morning. That was the class with the most children. “Who changed this?” Ethan said, “I did.” I looked at him. “Do you even know the condition of these kids’ ankles? Do you know which ones can’t spin, and which ones can’t stand for too long?” His brow furrowed slightly. “Olivia, don’t make a simple matter sound so dramatic.” “Chloe is just coordinating the promotion. She won’t actually be teaching the movements.” Chloe immediately nodded. “Olivia, I’ll listen to you. I’ll do whatever you want me to do.” As she spoke, her gaze fell on the glass cabinet in the corner. Inside the cabinet was an old pair of ballet slippers. The fabric had yellowed, and the silk ribbons were washed soft. That was the pair my mom bought for me when I first stood up after my surgery. She had stroked my head back then and said, It doesn’t matter if you can’t walk fast. Just being able to walk is enough. Chloe walked over. “These shoes have so much history. Can I borrow them for some promo photos?” I spoke almost instantly. “No.” Her hand stopped on the cabinet door, and her eyes turned red again. “Olivia, I just think they’re really meaningful. I didn’t want to steal them.” Ethan looked at me. “They’re just an old pair of shoes. She’ll return them after the shoot.” My tone was resolute. “My mother gave them to me.” He paused. For a second, I thought he would remember. He would remember the year I came out of the operating room, crying because I could never dance again, and how he had placed these exact shoes by my bed. He had said, Olivia, take it slow. I’ll help you stand up again. But Ethan only said, “That makes them even more perfect for the project’s background story. People will connect with it more.” Chloe softly added, “Exactly. Olivia’s journey can inspire so many people.” I gripped the key to the cabinet. Ethan’s face darkened. “Olivia, are you really going to be this petty over a charity project?” “Don’t embarrass yourself in front of the kids.” The children were standing quietly nearby. Suddenly, I found myself unable to speak. Ethan reached out and took the key from my palm. “She’ll return them as soon as she’s done.” The moment the cabinet door opened, a sharp pain shot through my old ankle injury. Chloe took out the old ballet slippers. “Thank you, Olivia. I’ll be very careful.” During the shoot that afternoon, she couldn’t fit into them. The shoes were half a size too small. Chloe looked at Ethan. “Maybe we should forget it. My feet are a bit wide. Forcing them in will ruin them.” Ethan looked at me. “Olivia, how did you fit into them back then?” I said quietly, “Because they’re my shoes.” He thought for a moment. “Cut the silk ribbons off and wrap them around her current shoes. The effect will be the same.” I looked up at him. Chloe had already picked up the scissors. “Olivia, I really will replace them for you.” Snip. The old silk ribbons were severed. I stood frozen, my palms turning ice-cold. Seeing the expression on my face, Ethan looked as if he wanted to say something. But Chloe wrapped the ribbons around her sneakers and twirled in front of the mirror. “Does it look good, Ethan?” Ethan glanced at her. “It’s fine.” After the shoot, the old ballet slippers were carelessly tossed onto the table. The fabric had a dusty footprint on it, and the ribbons were reduced to frayed stumps. I picked them up, rubbing the spot with my thumb for a long time. But the dirt wouldn’t come off. Ethan walked over. “I’ll have someone restore them.” He reached out to touch them, but I pulled the shoes back into my bag. Ethan’s eyes darkened. “Olivia, I’ve noticed you’ve been getting harder and harder to communicate with lately.” Chloe whispered from the side, “It’s all my fault. Olivia probably thinks I stole her memories.” Ethan rubbed his temples. “Don’t let your mind wander.” I grabbed my bag and walked out. Ethan called after me. “Come home tonight. We need to talk.” I didn’t answer. After leaving the studio, I sent a message to Lucas. “Does the rehabilitation center you mentioned still need a curriculum designer?” The reply came almost instantly. “Yes. Have you made up your mind?” I looked at the ruined ballet slippers in my bag. The next second, Ethan’s call came through.

Ethan didn’t ask where I had gone. He only said over the phone: “Come home early tonight. Chloe’s press release needs your sign-off.” I stood on the sidewalk, my ankle wrapped in a cold brace. When I returned to our historic townhouse, Ethan’s PR team was sitting in the living room. Chloe, wearing the sneakers tied with my ruined silk ribbons, was reviewing the interview outline. “Olivia, you’re finally back.” “Some people online are saying I stole your project. Ethan said it would all blow over if you just clarify things.” Ethan handed me an iPad. It showed a statement. The gist of it was that I had voluntarily stepped back from the promotion, and Chloe was simply helping me present the charity work. The so-called “stealing of shoes and projects” was just a misunderstanding between friends. After reading it, I placed the iPad back on the table. “I’m not posting this.” The PR manager’s expression shifted. But Ethan remained calm. “Olivia, the public backlash has already started. Just say a word. It’s better for everyone.” Chloe bit her lip. “Olivia, I’m really getting dragged online.” “You know my family just went bankrupt. I have nothing left now.” I stared at the ribbons on her feet. Ethan stood up. “Olivia, enough.” “I replaced the shoes, and you’re still working on the project.” “Chloe just needs a temporary opportunity. Why do you have to push her into a corner like this?” I shot back, “What about you? Have you not pushed me into a corner?” He stared at me, frustration flashing in his eyes. “You have the studio, you have Blackwood Enterprises’ resources, and you have me.” “What does Chloe have?” I suddenly found it incredibly laughable. So having him was, in his eyes, a form of compensation that could wipe away all my grievances. Ethan handed me his phone. “Olivia, don’t make things difficult for me in front of others.” Chloe said softly, “Ethan, let it go. If Olivia doesn’t want to, forget it. I shouldn’t have come back anyway.” She stood up to leave but tripped on her feet. Ethan caught her immediately. The ribbon-wrapped sneakers struck the leg of the coffee table, ripping the old fabric further. My mind went completely blank. Ethan followed my gaze, and his face turned pale for a split second. But Chloe cried first. “I’m sorry, I didn’t do it on purpose. I’m just so clumsy. I can’t do anything right.” Ethan helped her sit down, then turned to me. “Don’t look at her like that.” “Olivia, if you don’t post the statement today, I will freeze the funding for the project.” “The studio’s lease is under Blackwood Enterprises. Think carefully.” The PR team remained silent. Chloe kept her head down, but her fingers were tightly gripping the frayed ribbon. I heard my own voice ask, “So you want me to endorse her lie?” Ethan said, “It’s not an endorsement. It’s for the bigger picture.” The bigger picture. I nodded and took the phone. Ethan’s expression softened as I posted the statement exactly as written. Within minutes, the comments shifted. Some praised my generosity. Some pitied Chloe. Others said that anyone truly doing charity wouldn’t care about getting credit. Seeing the public opinion die down, Ethan looked relieved. “Tomorrow, I’ll take you to buy shoes. You can pick whatever limited edition you want.” “Olivia, let’s stop fighting.” I looked at the smear of ointment on his cuff. I suddenly remembered how he had opened the tube of medicine for Chloe last night. My heel was still taped with a band-aid, and it still hurt to walk. But I no longer wanted him to know. The next day, Ethan actually went to the luxury boutique. The sales associate lined up ten pairs of limited-edition flats. The colors, leather, and sizes were all chosen according to my taste. “Wrap them all up,” Ethan said. The associate smiled. “Mr. Blackwood is so good to his wife.” Ethan’s fingers paused, but he didn’t deny it. At nine in the evening, he returned to the townhouse carrying ten luxury shoe boxes. The lights in the living room were off. He frowned and called out, “Olivia?” No one answered. Ethan put the shoe boxes down in the entryway and opened the shoe cabinet. The row that used to be filled with my shoes was completely empty. His hands froze. The door to the walk-in closet was half-open. Only empty hangers remained inside. My suitcase was gone, my passport was gone, and even the ruined ballet slippers in the glass cabinet were gone. On the top shelf of the shoe cabinet, only a single key remained. Beneath the key lay a divorce agreement, signed with my name. The luxury shoe boxes in Ethan’s hands crashed to the floor.

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The day I took my wedding ring to the jeweler to get it resized, the appraiser stared at it through his magnifying glass for a long time. He looked up, frowning. “Sir, is the name engraved inside this ring your wife’s?” I froze. I had worn this ring for five years. I never knew there was anything written inside. Three years ago, an accident left me deaf in both ears. My right hand was ruined, too. Because the ring was swollen onto my finger, I could never take it off to look. “What does it say?” I asked, my voice slightly raspy. He slid the ring off—a painful process—and pointed to the inner band. “Adrien.” My name is Julian Vance. Adrien Hayes was my student. For years, I funded his tuition at the Royal College of Music. I paid for his life abroad. I treated him like my own brother. My fingers trembled. I could barely stand. When I got home, the study door wasn’t fully closed. I heard Victoria’s voice coming from inside. She was on the phone, her tone sickeningly sweet. She had no idea that just last week, I had secretly gotten a cochlear implant. I could hear everything now. “Just wait a little longer,” Victoria whispered into the phone, giggling. “Once that deaf cripple dies, his estate, his music catalog, his connections—it will all be ours.” I stood in the hallway, my blood running cold. Our five-year marriage was nothing but a calculated scam. Slowly, I pulled out my phone, opened Snapchat, and hit the voice recorder. Over the next few days, I quietly gathered every contract Victoria had signed using my name, and every single dollar she had transferred behind my back over the last three years. I packed them all into a secure folder. And sent it directly to my attorney.

When I walked into the living room, both Victoria and Adrien were there. Seeing me, Victoria immediately began mouthing her words. She moved her lips in exaggerated, slow motions, as if teaching a toddler. “Adrien’s studio is being remodeled. He’s going to stay with us for a while.” I looked at her face—a face I once loved, but now felt entirely foreign. I gave a slow, vacant nod. Being deaf for three years had made her think of me as nothing but a brainless, compliant ghost. Adrien dragged his suitcase inside. As he brushed past me, his nose wrinkled in open disgust. Right in front of my face, he typed something on Victoria’s phone and tilted the screen so I could see. *Julian smells like cheap medicine. It’s disgusting.* Those words felt like a physical slap. Victoria just laughed, her eyes crinkling. “He takes a lot of pills. Just bear with it, sweetie.” I stood rooted to the spot, unable to move. To them, I was just a smelly piece of broken furniture. That night, Victoria told me to clear out of the master bedroom. “Adrien needs absolute quiet to compose. Go sleep in the guest room.” I gathered my blanket and pillows. I made trip after trip to the cramped guest room down the hall. Victoria just leaned against the doorframe, watching me. She didn’t lift a single finger to help. When I passed her, she instinctively took a step back, terrified she might catch the “smell of medicine” from my clothes. That tiny movement cut deep. I had watched her make that same movement for three years. Only today did I realize it was pure disgust. That night, lying on the narrow guest bed, I stared at the ceiling. My heartbeat thudded loudly in my new implant. It was a brutal reminder: *You can hear now.* *But all you can hear is how much your wife loathes you.* The next morning, I was in the kitchen making breakfast. Suddenly, the beautiful sound of a grand piano echoed from the living room. Ever since my ears and hands were ruined three years ago, no one had touched my Steinway. Adrien was sitting at the bench. He was playing the exact Chopin piece that had won me the International Gold Medal years ago. He missed three notes in the first verse. Each mistake grated on my ears like nails on a chalkboard. My hand shook violently. The chef’s knife slipped, slicing deep into my index finger. Blood gushed out, staining the cutting board a bright, sickening red. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the ache in my chest. Adrien spun around. Seeing my bleeding finger, a smirk played on his lips. He turned back and kept playing, deliberately missing another note. It was a silent, arrogant boast. He was mocking me. He was playing with the one thing I used to be proud of, treating it like garbage. Victoria came downstairs. Seeing the blood on the counter, her face instantly fell into a scowl. “There’s blood everywhere. How filthy.” She didn’t walk over. She didn’t ask if I was okay. Instead, she walked straight to the piano. She took Adrien’s hands off the keys, cradling them gently. “Stop playing,” she murmured, her voice dripping with maternal sweetness. “The keys are cold. Don’t ruin your precious hands.” She examined his fingers with absolute devotion. I stood by the kitchen door, wrapping my bleeding finger in a dirty apron. The blood soaked through the fabric, cold and sticky. Three years ago, the day my hand was crushed, Victoria was supposedly on a business trip. I had called her seventeen times. She didn’t answer once. Now I finally understood. Her tenderness was never meant for me. I clamped my jaw shut, turned around, and finished making their breakfast. That afternoon, I went to the clinic for a follow-up on my implant. As I was walking out, someone called my name. “Julian?” I turned. It was Clara Montgomery. Three years ago, before my accident, she was the conductor who contracted me the most. She was a rising star in the orchestral world. After my accident, my social circle vanished overnight. Only Clara had visited me in the hospital. Back then, when I couldn’t hear, she wrote a note on a piece of scrap paper: *The stage will always be waiting for you. Just get better.* But after my hand was declared permanently ruined, I was too ashamed to ever face her again. “I heard you got the implant,” Clara said, stepping closer. “Can you hear me?” I stared at her. For three years, the first person to ask if I could hear wasn’t my wife. It was Clara. “Yes,” I said, my voice cracking slightly. “I can hear.” She glanced at my bandaged finger but didn’t pry. Instead, she looked me in the eye. “Julian, the contracts Victoria has been signing under your name these past three years… they’re highly illegal. I have some evidence. Do you want to take back what’s yours?” I gripped the strap of my bag. The wound on my finger throbbed. But compared to those seventeen unanswered calls, this pain was nothing. “Yes,” I said. It was the first real word of defiance I had spoken since regaining my hearing.

On the weekend, Victoria hosted a private dinner party. She invited several prominent figures from the classical music scene. In front of everyone, she played the part of the doting, saintly wife. She placed my pills neatly next to my plate and smiled warmly at our guests. “Julian’s health is quite fragile these days. Thank you all for understanding.” The guests sighed in admiration. “Victoria is such a devoted woman. To stay with him through all this… she’s a saint.” Victoria lowered her head, wiping a fake tear from her eye. For a split second, she looked so sincere I almost believed she cared. But the moment she turned her back to the guests, her mask fell. Looking at me, she mouthed with utter, cold disgust: “Are you done playing the victim yet?” Her face still wore a polite, public smile, but her eyes were venomous. I kept my head down. I swallowed my pills, one by one. Each one felt like a jagged rock sliding down my throat. After the guests left, Adrien went upstairs. I silently began clearing the messy table. Victoria grew impatient with my slow pace. Suddenly, she gave me a violent shove. “Get out of the way, you useless mute!” I lost my balance. My hip slammed hard against the sharp corner of the mahogany dining table. A sharp, blinding pain shot through my side. I let out a muffled groan. She didn’t even bother to look back. She just swept upstairs, treating me like an annoying piece of trash she had cleared from her path. I held onto the table, slowly forcing myself up. When I pulled up my shirt in the bathroom, I saw a massive, deep purple bruise forming on my hip. The skin was scraped and oozing blood. With shaking hands, I took out my phone and took a clear photo. When I came out, Adrien was coming downstairs to get a glass of water. Seeing me clutching my side, he hurried over with a look of mock concern. But the second his hands touched me, his fingers dug brutally into the fresh bruise on my hip. I nearly fell to my knees from the sheer agony. He smiled warmly, typed a message on his phone, and flashed it in front of my eyes: *Be careful, Julian. Don’t go hurting yourself. You’re already enough of a burden to Victoria.* Looking at his innocent, smiling face, my stomach churned. I had treated this boy like a brother. I had paid for his dreams. And now, he amused himself by stepping on my wounds like I was an ant. That night, I sent the photo of my bruised hip and the video of Victoria’s abusive mouthing to Clara. She replied almost instantly on WhatsApp: *Keep collecting evidence. Until we are ready to strike, play the deaf man. The deafer, the better.* I stared at the glowing screen, then switched off the lights. In the dark, I lay awake, my teeth clenched in silence.

When the first winter cold front hit the city, Victoria came down with a severe fever. By midnight, she was delirious. I stayed by her bedside, constantly changing the cold towel on her forehead. Through my implant, her heavy, ragged breathing sounded incredibly loud. Suddenly, she reached out and grabbed my hand. Tears rolled down her flushed cheeks. “Julian… don’t leave… please, don’t leave me…” Her eyes were closed, her brow furrowed like a child terrified of the dark. My stupid, weak heart softened. I let her hold my hand. I didn’t move an inch the entire night. I actually thought, just for a second, that maybe deep down, she still loved me. But when dawn broke, Victoria’s fever subsided. She slowly opened her eyes. The moment she realized she was holding my hand, she recoiled as if she had touched a hot stove. She grabbed a wet wipe from the nightstand and scrubbed her palm with disgust. Then she pointed coldly to the door, gesturing for me to get out. I stood there for a second, numb, before turning to leave. As the door clicked shut behind me, the tiny bit of warmth I had felt during the night froze over completely. I should have known. Her warmth was never meant for me. Even if she called my name in her delirium, she would take it back the second she woke up. At lunchtime, Adrien was carrying a pot of freshly boiled water. As he walked past me, his hand “slipped.” The entire pot of scalding water poured directly onto my right hand. The hand that had already been ruined three years ago. Instantly, my skin turned angry red and began to blister. I dropped to my knees, clutching my hand, gasping in agony. Hearing the commotion, Victoria rushed into the kitchen. She bypassed me entirely, throwing herself in front of Adrien. Her voice was frantic with worry. “Did it burn you? Are you okay? Let me see your hands!” Adrien shook his head, looking pathetic. Only then did Victoria glare at me, her face twisted in annoyance. “Can’t you just stay out of the way for once? Do you have to be a useless burden every single day?” I cradled my blistered, throbbing hand, my whole body shaking. I couldn’t even scream. I watched her gently blow on Adrien’s perfectly fine hands. The very last piece of my heart shattered into dust. That afternoon, Clara took me to the emergency room to treat the burns. The doctor looked at my blistered hand, then pulled up my medical records from three years ago. He sighed heavily. “You know, looking at your old charts… if your hand had been operated on immediately after the accident, it wouldn’t have been permanently ruined. You were brought in way too late. You missed the critical window.” I froze. “How long was the delay?” “According to the logs, there was a delay of over four hours between the injury and the surgery.” My grip on the medical chart tightened. What actually happened that night? I suddenly realized that the “accident” three years ago might not have been an accident at all.

I pulled up my complete medical file from three years ago. As I scrolled through the digital records on my phone, my heart hammered against my ribs. I had fallen off the back of a high stage, fracturing my wrist. It should have been an easy fix. But the record showed a four-hour and twenty-minute delay before the surgery began. And the signature on the emergency authorization form wasn’t Victoria’s. It was Adrien’s. My mind went completely blank. Adrien… the boy I had raised and sponsored, was the only one with me that night. Victoria had been out of the country. Adrien was supposed to be taking care of me. I tracked down the caregiver who had worked on my hospital ward back then. The moment she saw my face, she recognized me. She gave me a look of deep pity. “Ah, the famous pianist. Yes, I remember you. And I remember that young man who always visited you.” She paused, looking around before whispering. “One night, while you were heavily sedated, he stayed in your room alone for a very long time. The next morning, your hand was swollen to twice its size… the doctor said the internal tissue was completely crushed. That’s why it never recovered.” She sighed and walked away. I sat on the plastic bench in the hospital corridor, the world spinning around me. My implant picked up nothing but the sound of my own shallow, ragged breathing. My hand wasn’t ruined by the fall. While I was unconscious, someone had deliberately destroyed it. And that person was Adrien. The boy I had given everything to. When I got home, the sound of cheerful piano music and laughter echoed from the living room. Adrien was sitting at my Steinway. Victoria stood behind him, her hands resting gently on his shoulders. They looked like a picture-perfect couple. I stood quietly in the shadow of the hallway. Adrien hit a wrong note and looked up at her poutingly. “It’s too hard…” Victoria laughed, running her fingers through his hair. “Take your time, sweetie. Your hands are precious. They are worth a thousand of this stupid piano.” She paused, her voice turning contemptuous. “Not like Julian. His hands are useless now. Honestly, it’s better this way. At least we don’t have to listen to his annoying practicing anymore.” Every word was a knife in my chest. I clenched my fists, forcing myself to remain silent. I had to keep playing the deaf man. I walked into the study, scanned the old medical logs, and saved the caregiver’s recorded statement into the secure folder. My mercy was officially gone.

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“Serena is divorced, and her depression is getting worse. We need to get a divorce too.” My husband, Ethan Carter, said this as he handed me a stack of divorce papers. “What?” This wasn’t the first time we’d been down this road. But this time, his ridiculous excuse left me completely speechless. “I’m just worried that seeing me happily married will trigger her depression even more. Don’t worry, Chloe. Once she recovers, we’ll get married again. Just like before.” Ethan spoke in a casual, breezy tone. Serena Hayes and Ethan had grown up together. They were like conjoined twins, doing absolutely everything together. When Serena quit her job, Ethan immediately resigned from his high-paying corporate position to help her start a business. When Serena moved, Ethan sold our marital home behind my back just so he could buy a house in her neighborhood. When Serena had a fight with her husband, Ethan spent an entire month living in a hotel just to support her. Every single time something went wrong in Serena’s life, Ethan would turn our lives completely upside down. He lived under the delusion that after eight years of marriage, I would never actually leave him. But this time, I simply took our daughter’s hand and nodded calmly. “Okay. Let’s go sign the papers.”

I looked at the freshly signed divorce certificate and smiled. This time, both my daughter and I were done with him. The day before we went to City Hall, it was snowing heavily. I had held my red-eyed daughter in my arms, not saying a word. Lily had a terrible fever, but she still forced a sweet, innocent smile for Ethan. “Daddy, tomorrow is my birthday. I only have one wish. Can you please not divorce Mommy? Please?” “Lily, Daddy made a promise to your Aunt Serena. I can’t break my word. It’s just a birthday. Be a good girl and stop throwing tantrums.” At that moment, Ethan was on the phone with his childhood friend, Serena. He didn’t even notice our daughter’s flushed, feverish face as he brushed her off with a laugh. “But the other kids at school are laughing at me and Mommy…” Lily’s voice was hoarse, her eyes welling with tears. Suddenly, a mocking snort came from the other end of the phone. “Wow, Ethan. Your kid is quite something. So young, yet already so manipulative, trying to control her parents’ marriage?” Ethan laughed, but his voice instantly grew cold when he addressed Lily. “Lily, if you still want me to be your dad, go back to your room right now. Otherwise, don’t even think about having a birthday party tomorrow.” Seeing Ethan’s impatient scowl, Lily could only walk back to her room in silence. My heart ached as I held my daughter. Neither of us slept that night. My mind snapped back to the rainy present. Ethan walked out of City Hall looking completely relaxed. He glanced at the divorce papers and tossed them carelessly into the trunk of his car. Looking at me and our daughter in my arms, he smiled. “Don’t worry, Chloe. This is just a temporary fix. I know Serena. She has a three-minute attention span. In a few days, she’ll get over her drama, and we can get remarried.” Right. A three-minute attention span. But that was for her life, not mine. I used to wonder why Ethan behaved this way when he was married to me. Now, I finally understood. It was simply because Lily and I combined didn’t hold a candle to Serena and their twenty-eight years of history. So, we were the ones who deserved to be humiliated and cast aside. But this time, we didn’t want to hold on anymore. Sensing the cold silence between Lily and me, Ethan broke the ice. “It’s pouring. Let me drive you guys back.” The rain was getting heavier. My car had been sent to the repair shop last week, so I hadn’t driven today. I didn’t want my sick daughter to get soaked in the rain, so I nodded. But before we could even settle into our seats, Ethan’s phone rang. The next second, Serena’s voice echoed through the car speakers. “Ethan, I got into a car accident. I’m nearby. Come pick me up.” Ethan tensed up instantly. He turned around and looked at me with an icy expression. “Chloe, you and Lily need to get out of the car right now. I have to go pick up Serena!” “It’s pouring outside, and Lily is running a high fever! You’re kicking us out of the car right now?” I looked at my drowsy daughter in my arms and couldn’t help but argue. “Lily has a fever? Since when?” Ethan looked slightly surprised, but his tone remained firm. “Lily’s fever can wait. Serena’s car accident is an emergency! There’s no room in the car for you guys anyway!” “Ubers are everywhere these days. You can easily get a ride home!” “Get out! Now!” Under Ethan’s harsh urging, I clenched my fists. But Lily gently tugged at my sleeve. “It’s okay, Mommy. Let’s get out.”

Lily and I were dumped at the curb of City Hall. Ethan slammed on the gas, his car speeding away and splashing dirty rainwater all over us. I don’t even remember how we got home. By the time we walked through the door, Lily’s fever had gotten worse. Our housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson, took Lily from my arms, her face filled with anxiety. “Oh my god, why is Lily burning up like this? We need to get her to the ER right now! Where is Mr. Carter? Did that Serena woman drag him away again?” “That Serena is a disease! All these years, she’s done nothing but ruin your marriage!” “She’s the one who slept around and got kicked out by her own husband! You and Mr. Carter had a good life. Why do you have to suffer because of her? No marriage can survive being treated like a joke!” Even Mrs. Hudson, an outsider, saw the situation clearly. Yet, the one person who should have seen it kept playing the fool. I opened my mouth, but my throat was tight with bitterness. Before I could speak, Lily grabbed my hand. She spoke in a weak, fragile voice. “I don’t want to go to the hospital, Mommy. Today is my birthday. I don’t want to spend it in a hospital. And Daddy…” And Daddy wouldn’t be able to spend her last birthday with her. I understood what she left unsaid. I held her burning hand, my eyes stinging. “Let’s call our family doctor to come over. Lily is right. Spending her birthday in the hospital is too depressing. Mrs. Hudson, please help me decorate the living room. Let’s give Lily a proper birthday.” After a long pause, I spoke in a hoarse voice. After today, neither Lily nor I would ever wait for him again. After hours of rushing around, the living room was decorated with balloons and a beautiful birthday cake. Everything was ready. We just needed the guest of honor. Lily’s fever had finally gone down, but she was exhausted. Still, she forced her eyes open, staring intently at the front door. I couldn’t bear to watch my daughter wait in vain any longer. I closed my eyes, took out my phone, and dialed the number I knew by heart. Ring. Ring. Ring. It rang three times before it was picked up. “Hey, Ethan. Is Serena okay now? Can you please come home and spend—” But before I could finish, a loud burst of laughter and music erupted from the other end. “Ethan! You’re the only one missing from the single party! What are you standing there for? Let’s drink!” “Don’t waste Serena’s effort! She literally faked a car accident just to trick you into coming here to celebrate!” The teasing voices of his friends echoed over the phone. I held the phone, feeling as if I had been struck by lightning. Ethan’s voice was quiet, but it pierced through the noise like a dagger. “I have to go, Chloe. Take care of Lily. I’ll be back later.” With that, the line went dead. When I tried calling back, it went straight to voicemail. My face went completely numb. I was about to call him again when Lily gently pulled my sleeve. Her usually bright eyes were dull and lifeless, but she was incredibly understanding. “Mommy, don’t call him. It’s okay. Having a birthday with just Mommy is perfect.” At that moment, my heart felt like it was being ripped apart. I carried Lily to the dining table, placed the birthday hat on her head, and lit the candles. Neither of us had any appetite. We just sat there, staring at the flickering flames. We watched the candles burn down, the melting wax dripping onto the cake. That was how we spent Lily’s birthday. I don’t know when I drifted off. By the time I woke up, the clock struck midnight. Lily’s birthday was officially over. Lily was asleep on the table, her brow still furrowed in discomfort. As I picked her up to carry her to bed, I noticed she was clutching her Apple Watch tightly. Even in her sleep, she was mumbling. She had dialed that familiar number over a thousand times today. But not a single call had been answered. The icing on the cake had completely melted, and the man who promised to return never did. This nine-year farce was finally over.

The next morning, I got up early and listed our house—the home that held seven years of memories—on a real estate app. Then, I contacted a moving company and scheduled the move for tomorrow afternoon. Once everything was set, I called my parents. I told them I would be bringing Lily back to their place for dinner tomorrow. My parents were thrilled, but their voices carried a hint of anxiety. “Chloe, is everything okay between you and Ethan? Is it because of Serena again?” “Did Ethan ask for a divorce again?” My parents lived hundreds of miles away. The first time Ethan demanded a divorce, they had driven all night to beg him to reconsider. But they were no match for Ethan’s twenty-eight years of obsession with Serena. When Ethan wanted to leave, he left. My parents had been left holding a baby who was just learning to talk, their hair turning gray from worry. The second time, my parents came again, only to be humiliated. They held our toddler, unable to find any words. The third time… The fourth time… By the eighth time, my parents couldn’t take it anymore. With red eyes, they told me to just let him go. Now, it was the ninth time. “It’s not Serena’s fault,” I said. The problem had never been Serena. It was Ethan’s enabling behavior. My parents sighed with relief, their voices brightening. “Okay, as long as you two are fine. Bring Ethan and Lily over tomorrow. We’ll make your favorite homemade pizza!” I forced a smile, my eyes turning warm. “Don’t go to too much trouble. Ethan…” Before I could finish, the front door suddenly swung open. “I don’t think that’s going to happen, Chloe. Ethan is going to be busy tomorrow. He won’t be joining you.” “Besides, you guys are divorced now. Why is your ex-husband going to your parents’ house anyway?” A smug, mocking voice echoed through the hallway. My parents heard her over the phone, and their voices shook with shock. “Another divorce? This is the ninth time!” After a brief silence, my mother tried to force a cheerful tone, though the disappointment in her voice was heartbreaking. “It’s okay, sweetheart. We’ll let you go. Talk to you later. Take care of Lily.” After hanging up, I looked toward the door. Serena was supporting a heavily intoxicated Ethan. Her hand was draped suggestively over his half-unbuckled belt, a teasing grin on her face. “Chloe, Ethan got totally wasted. I brought him back. I hope what I just said didn’t make you mad?” I closed my eyes, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a reaction. “Serena… am I home?” Ethan mumbled, slowly waking up and rubbing his temples. “Where’s Lily? Why don’t I see her?” “Ethan, yesterday was Lily’s birthday. Did you completely forget?” I finally snapped, my voice shaking with rage. “I’m sorry. My friends wouldn’t let me leave. I couldn’t make it back.” “But look, I brought her favorite pizza from that place downtown.” For once, a flash of guilt crossed Ethan’s face as he held up a takeout box. I looked down at the box. Yes, it was Lily’s favorite. I blinked back my tears, my heart softening for a brief, foolish second. “What are you doing tomorrow?” Ethan rubbed his neck, looking slightly sheepish. “Oh, it’s nothing big. I’m having a wedding with Serena tomorrow.”

Smash— I spun around and saw Lily standing barefoot in the hallway, the plate of cake she was holding shattered on the hardwood floor. “Oh, hey there, Lily! Long time no see. You’re getting cuter and cuter. Why don’t you come live with me for a few days?” “Come on, call me Mommy.” Serena laughed, stepping forward to pat Lily’s head. But Lily lunged forward and bit Serena’s hand hard. “You bad woman! I will never call you Mommy! I only have one mommy! No one can replace her!” She bit down with all her might. Serena shrieked in pain, raising her hand to slap Lily. I quickly pulled Lily behind me, shielding her with my body. Ethan grabbed Serena’s arm. Seeing the deep teeth marks on her hand, his face darkened instantly. “Lily! Who taught you to bite people? Apologize right now!” “No! She’s the bad guy! I won’t apologize!” Lily peeked out from behind me, tears welling in her eyes, but she stubbornly refused to let them fall. Serena began to sob dramatically. “I’m sorry, Ethan. I was just teasing her. I didn’t expect her to react so violently. Maybe I shouldn’t have made that joke.” Her tears instantly set off Ethan’s temper. “You think you did nothing wrong? Aunt Serena was just playing with you! Was it necessary to bite her?” “Lily, you have deeply disappointed me!” Ethan’s chest heaved with anger. His sharp, hateful glare pierced through Lily’s fragile heart. My daughter finally broke down, tears streaming down her face. One of her tears fell onto the back of my hand, feeling as hot as a branding iron. I looked up, staring dead into the eyes of the two people in front of me. For the first time, I laughed coldly. “So, your wedding tomorrow is just a joke too?” “When is this joke going to end?” Ethan rubbed his temples, his tone softening slightly. “I’m sorry for raising my voice. I apologize.” “But Serena and I are really not what you think.” “The wedding tomorrow is just a staged event. We’re doing it to make her ex-husband jealous and force him to come back to her.” “Once they get back together, we can remarry immediately. Shouldn’t you be happy about this?” “Happy? Oh, I’m thrilled!” I laughed, tears streaming down my face. “My husband is marrying someone else. How could I not be ecstatic?” “Chloe, stop being so sarcastic. If Ethan wanted to be with me, you wouldn’t even have had a chance in the first place,” Serena sneered, pretending to offer comfort. Ethan sighed, trying to explain. “It’s just a fake ceremony. We aren’t signing any legal papers. Can you please stop making a scene?” “We need to make it look real tomorrow. Serena and I won’t be coming back tonight. You should stay home and teach our daughter some manners.” “What she did today was completely out of line.” With that, Ethan took Serena’s hand and walked out the door. Lily slowly knelt on the floor, picking up the ruined pizza. She took a bite, her tears falling onto the cold crust. “Mommy, it’s cold.” “It’s okay, sweetie. We don’t eat cold food anymore.” I smiled through my tears, gently taking the pizza from her hands and throwing it into the trash. No matter how good something once was, once it goes cold, it’s trash. We don’t want it anymore. The same went for our marriage. The next morning, Ethan showed up at the house in a sharp, tailored tuxedo. “According to the wedding planner, the groom needs to pick up the bride from her ‘family home.’ Serena is staying at a hotel nearby, but we need to do some photos here first. Chloe, you don’t mind, right?” Lily and I remained silent, merely giving him a cold nod. As he got into the wedding limo, Ethan seemed to sense our unusual calmness. He leaned out of the window, trying to reassure us. “Don’t worry. Serena and I are just putting on a show for her ex. As soon as the ceremony is over, we’ll go straight to City Hall and get our marriage license, okay?” He didn’t wait for our answer before the limo sped away. As the wedding procession disappeared around the corner, I stroked Lily’s head and led her in the opposite direction. The world was vast, and we were finally done with him. Halfway to the wedding venue, Ethan finally noticed the thousands of missed calls from Lily on his phone. He tried to call back, but the line was dead. “Stop the car! Go back to the house! I forgot something!”

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I planned to propose to my boyfriend, Julian, on my 28th birthday. I baked a cherry cake from scratch and hid a diamond ring inside. But when Julian came home that night, he had a kid with him. “Sienna has a business trip, so I’m babysitting Noah for her.” Sienna was his coworker, a single mom. Julian had been hovering over her like a savior ever since she got divorced a year ago. “Can’t she hire a nanny?” I complained. Julian immediately frowned, accusing me of lacking empathy. He didn’t even take a single bite of the cake I made. Instead, he gave the whole thing to the kid. I reached out to stop him, wanting to tell him about the ring hidden inside, but his face darkened. “Are you seriously fighting a toddler over a slice of cake, Chloe?” With that, he grabbed the kid and walked out. When Julian finally came back in the dead of night, he was holding a massive bouquet of 999 white roses. “Happy birthday, baby!” “Don’t worry, Sienna is just a coworker. You’re the only one I love.” I forced a smile and chose to forgive him. But later that night, I saw the notifications light up on his phone. Sienna: That ring in the cake… was your girlfriend trying to propose to you? Julian: Just keep it. I don’t really want to get married anytime soon anyway.

Julian called out from the bathroom, “Chloe, I forgot to grab a towel. Can you bring me one?” I put his phone back down. My heart sank to the bottom of the ocean. The moment he opened the door, I handed him the towel. He wrapped it around his waist, his expression softening as he reached out to ruffle my hair. “What’s wrong? Still mad at me? You’re usually the understanding one.” I flinched away from his touch, my voice cold. “Give me my ring back.” Julian’s smile froze. “What ring?” “Stop acting. I put a ring inside that cake, and you know it.” Julian glanced at his phone on the nightstand, and his face instantly turned angry. “Did you go through my phone?” “I told you, Sienna and I are just coworkers!” I didn’t have the energy to argue. I held the phone up to his face. “Call her right now. Tell her to give me my ring back.” Julian looked embarrassed. “I already gave it to her. I’ll buy you another one, okay? I promise I’ll get you a much more expensive one.” “Julian, that’s not the point,” I interrupted. Julian suddenly slammed his phone onto the floor. His voice boomed through the room. “Chloe! What is your problem tonight?!” “It’s just a stupid ring! How was I supposed to know it was inside the cake?” “I already gave it to her! How do you expect me to ask for it back?” I stared at him, numb. Julian pulled a thick stack of cash out of his wallet and threw it right at my face. The bills fluttered down around me, and among them were three tickets to Disneyland. “Is this enough?” Then he whipped out his black card and threw it at me. “Is this enough?!” My ears rang from his shouting. In our six years together, this was the first time Julian had ever raised his voice at me. He looked so vicious, like he wanted to tear me apart. My chest tightened, a suffocating pain paralyzing me. Trembling, I opened the photo gallery on my phone, frantically searching for the video from five years ago—the one where he promised he would marry me today. He was the one who forgot. “Fine. Let’s both take the night to cool off.” Julian pushed my phone away. “Chloe, you need to seriously reflect on your jealousy.” The door slammed shut. My stomach knotted, and I began to dry heave uncontrollably. I clutched my shirt tightly over my chest. It felt like the only way to breathe. I cried until I had no tears left. When I finally dragged myself off the floor, I began to pack my few belongings. Six years ago, I came here with nothing but love. Six years later, I was leaving completely alone. My phone buzzed. Sienna had posted on Instagram. Her caption read: [Thank you for always being by my side through the hardest times. ❤️] The photo showed a high-end restaurant. Julian was holding Noah, and Sienna was leaning closely against his shoulder. Today was my birthday, but he was out having a fancy dinner with Sienna and her son. Julian’s assistant had commented on the post: “Damn, that was fast. Sienna’s charm is no joke.” “Julian keeps telling everyone at the office that he’s a non-marriage guy, but he still fell for Sienna in the end.” I turned off the screen, staring at my pale reflection in the dark glass. My hands shook so hard I could barely zip my suitcase. At the very bottom of my bag lay the train ticket to Minneapolis from six years ago. But these six years had just been brutally ended by Julian’s own hands.

It was honestly pathetic. After living in Minneapolis for so many years, I had no friends and no job. Even the money I used to buy that ring was saved up from the allowance he gave me. My entire world had revolved around him. I was so incredibly stupid. Stupid enough to hand him my heart on a silver platter, letting him shred it to pieces. “One-way ticket to Miami, please,” I told the ticket agent. The elderly woman at the counter looked up. “Oh? Aren’t you the girl from six years ago?” I looked up, a faint bit of life returning to my numb face. “You remember me?” The lady smiled warmly. “How could I forget you two?” “Back then, your boyfriend waited outside this station for a whole day and night. The snow was piling up on his shoulders, and he looked like an ice sculpture, but he refused to leave. He was so terrified of missing you.” “We told him to come inside the lobby to have some warm tea, but the poor boy just smiled awkwardly. He said he was starting a new business and spent every penny buying you a welcome gift. He couldn’t even afford a bus ride. He walked five hours in the freezing snow just to get to this station.” I listened, dazed. A dull, aching pain squeezed my heart. From a run-down basement to a tiny rental, and finally to our current luxury penthouse. The boy had swallowed all the bitter cold alone. With his frostbitten, calloused hands, he had built our lives brick by brick, trying to give me a home. He used to say, “We don’t have to be afraid of winter anymore.” “Chloe, honestly, I was so scared you’d come find me and suffer, but I was even more terrified that you wouldn’t come.” “I didn’t want you to struggle with me.” “But I was so scared you’d stop loving me.” He had cried that day, holding me so tight it felt like he wanted to merge our bodies into one. My tears flowed silently now. We were supposed to be happy. How did we end up so broken? “Here’s your ticket, sweetheart.” My fingers trembled as I took it. It didn’t feel like a ticket. It felt like a blade severing my past. “Don’t cry.” The ticket agent glanced at the expensive Cartier bracelet on my wrist and sighed with relief. “When you build a man up from nothing, don’t look at his sweet words. Look at his wallet, and see if he’s still willing to spend on you.” I nodded slowly, clutching the crumpled ticket. Before I could board, Julian ran into the station. He sprinted toward me just like he did six years ago, throwing his arms around me and crushing me into his chest. I could hear his ragged breathing, his racing heartbeat, and his cracking voice. “Don’t go…” “Chloe, I was just angry. I didn’t want you to leave…” Julian snatched my ticket, tore it to shreds, and carried me out to his car, putting me into the passenger seat. “You hate that I hang out with Sienna, right?” “I’ve transferred her to another department. I’ll keep my distance from now on.” I remained silent. I just stared blankly at the car air freshener hanging from the mirror—it was a gift from Sienna. The car smelled faintly of citrus—Sienna’s perfume. The glove compartment, which used to hold my lip balms, was now stuffed with Noah’s favorite snacks and a couple of lipsticks that didn’t belong to me. I blinked, my eyes burning with dryness. Julian didn’t notice my silence. He was already talking about taking me to Hawaii for the upcoming holidays. I let out a soft sigh. I didn’t even have the energy to nod.

Julian never brought up Sienna again. Their chat logs on Snapchat were strictly about work. Everything seemed clean. “Chloe, I’m running for vice president at the firm. I’m going to be extremely busy lately,” his voice came through the phone, sounding distant. “I transferred some money to your account. Go shopping, buy yourself something nice. Don’t just stay home waiting for me.” Lately, by the time he came home, I was already asleep. When he left in the morning, I was still dreaming. There was always warm breakfast waiting for me in the microwave, and my dirty laundry was always washed and dried. Julian’s presence was everywhere in the apartment. I could see it. But I couldn’t feel it anymore. The distance between us was growing, our relationship rusting away. Even if we tried to polish the rust, the weight of our love was gone. We were floating in the air, ready to be blown away by the slightest breeze. I had planned to take my money and leave, but then, the ultimate complication happened. I got pregnant. At first, I was just exhausted, losing my appetite, and throwing up constantly. I mentioned feeling sick to Julian, and the next day, he brought home a huge bag of pills and told me to take them. Without a single word of comfort, he rushed back to the office. I took them, but the nausea only got worse. Finally, I went to the hospital, only to find out I was pregnant. “We need to run more tests to see if we can keep the baby,” the doctor said, frowning. “You’ve taken a heavy dose of strong antibiotics. There’s a high risk of birth defects.” I was wheeled out of the room by two nurses. Outside the ultrasound room, I spent the most agonizing six hours of my life. I pinched the back of my hands until they were bruised. My eyes stared blankly as tears of guilt ran down my cheeks. I blamed myself for not realizing sooner. Why didn’t I check the medication? Why did I blindly swallow whatever Julian handed to me? “The baby looks fine for now. Come back next month for a checkup.” A wave of relief washed over me. My mood brightened, and I even ordered a whole pizza for dinner. Julian didn’t get home until midnight. He reeked of alcohol, his cheek was bleeding, and one of his eyes was badly bruised. “Did you get into a fight?” He mumbled something incoherent and went straight into the bathroom. His work phone was lying on the bed, and it lit up with a Snapchat notification. Sienna: Julian, thank you so much for standing up for me today. Otherwise, my ex-husband would have kept harassing me. Sienna: I feel so helpless. If you hadn’t been here for us, Noah and I wouldn’t have survived. Noah loves you so much, he calls you Daddy Julian every day. Julian… please give us a real family. The words pierced my chest. It hurt so bad, like my lungs were collapsing. Daddy… Then who was my baby going to call Daddy? Give them a family… Then what about my family? The warm, safe home I had dreamed of since I was a child was gone. Shattered by Julian. I bit my tongue hard, letting the pain snap me back to reality as I scrolled through his Snapchat. They had never stopped talking. They just moved their conversations from his main account to a private burner account. His private feed was filled with photos of him, Sienna, and Noah, receiving warm blessings from his close friends and relatives. I had been abandoned again. I couldn’t play the polite girlfriend anymore. With shaking fingers, I typed a message to Sienna: Do you love being a homewrecker that much? You can have this trash. I’m throwing him out. “Chloe! What the hell are you doing with my phone?!”

Julian’s gentleness always vanished the second his boundaries were crossed. He grabbed my arm and yanked me forward. I stumbled and fell against the bed frame. Ignoring the sharp pain in my lower abdomen, I scrambled up and slapped him across the face. Julian’s bruised face swelled even more. He glared at the phone in my hand. “Give it to me.” I didn’t budge. He lunged forward to grab it, grabbing my wrist and forcing my fingers open one by one. My joints popped painfully, and through my scream of pain, he snatched the phone back. “The message already sent, Julian. It’s too late to delete it,” I laughed hysterically. I sounded like a madwoman. “I called her exactly what she is. A homewrecker. Does your heart bleed for her?” “Sienna is just—” SLAP! The force of his hand sent me crashing onto the bed. My words were swallowed back into my throat, turning into a sickening pain that twisted inside my stomach. My eyes throbbed. For a second, I thought he had ruptured my eye. Otherwise, why was there so much warmth flowing down my cheek? Was it blood, or just tears? “Do you have any idea how much trauma Sienna has been through?!” Julian roared. “Chloe, you’re going to drive her over the edge!” “Would you only be happy if she died?!” My voice was completely hoarse. “Yes.” “Go die. Both of you.” Julian ran to the kitchen, grabbed a knife, shoved it into my hand, and pressed the blade against his own neck. It was a dramatic, toxic standoff. “Come on! Kill me!” “Kill me if you have the guts!” “Chloe, I never said I wouldn’t marry you! I’m just trying to handle Sienna’s situation first. I don’t have the energy to deal with your drama right now!” “You waited six years, but you can’t even give me a little time? Are you really that starved for love?!” Yes, I was. I was pregnant, and I didn’t want my child to grow up in a broken home like I did. He accused me of hurting Sienna. But he was the one ripping my old wounds open, sticking his fingers in, and twisting them. His phone rang. It was Noah, crying. “Daddy… Mommy ran out of the house crying. I’m so scared something happened to her… Please come find her…” Julian hauled me up from the bed by my collar. “Get up. You’re coming with me to see exactly what you’ve done to her!” “Chloe, your spoiled attitude needs to stop!” The car sped down the highway. Soon, Sienna’s figure appeared on the side of the road. Julian dragged me out of the car, forcing me to apologize to her. He shoved my shoulders down, forcing me onto my knees in the freezing snow. My knees burned against the icy ground through my thin leggings. “Chloe, I can tolerate your little tantrums, but not this time.” “Sienna has severe depression from her divorce. She can’t handle this kind of trigger.” The snow fell heavier, and as my body shivered violently, Julian pressed down harder on my shoulders. People walked past us. I envied them so much. They were whole. The snow falling on them was just snow, not salt on open wounds. “Julian… I’m pregnant…” A desperate, empty laugh escaped my lips. A warm gush of liquid began to spread beneath me, slowly staining the white snow crimson. “I can’t handle this kind of trigger either…”

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It took three years for the entity who hijacked my body to fail her mission. To win over the elite heirs of Manhattan, she had used my face to play a desperate, clawing game of seduction. Instead of succeeding, she made me the laughingstock of the city and tore my family apart. Before she finally vanished from my consciousness, she left a parting note in my mind, dripping with malice: “What a shame. I played this hand straight into the ground.” “Your three brothers wish you were dead, and your man treats you like a stray dog he can’t shake off.” “Have fun cleaning up the mess.” I gasped, opening my eyes to the sudden, disorienting rush of reality—only to be met with a stinging slap across my face. 1 “Smack.” My head snapped to the side, a high-pitched ringing filling my ears. “Summer, when is this endless drama going to stop?!” The roar of fury came from above me. I forced myself to look up. Standing over me was my second brother, Dylan. This was the same man—a famous pop star—who had once stood in a torrential downpour for three hours just to buy me a limited-edition birthday cake. Now, he looked down at me with nothing but disgust. A few yards away, the poolside was in utter chaos. My adoptive sister, Tiffany, was shivering on a lounge chair, wrapped in towels, coughing weakly as water dripped from her hair. The man holding her was Adrian Lockhart. Adrian was the untouchable heir of New York’s old money, and the primary target the soul-hijacker had spent the last three years shamelessly chasing like a dog. Adrian gently patted Tiffany’s back, then raised his eyes to glare at me, his gaze cold and sharp as ice. “Dylan, your family’s lack of breeding is truly something to behold,” Adrian said, his voice dropping to a dangerous register. “Since Miss Harrington loves the water so much, perhaps she should spend the night in the pool to clear her head.” Dylan’s face paled at Adrian’s words, turning even more hostile. He whipped around and snarled at me, “What are you waiting for? Get over there and beg Tiffany for forgiveness!” “If you had actually drowned her today, I would have been the first to throw you to the wolves!” I said nothing. For three long years, I had been locked in a dark room of my own mind, a silent observer forced to watch that imposter use my body. I watched her put on gaudy, heavy makeup and throw pathetic, hysterical tantrums just to get attention. To please Adrian, she had gone so far as to slip drugs into his drink. To steal her brothers’ affection back from Tiffany, she had resorted to cheap manipulation, self-harm, and endless lies. She had dragged my dignity through the mud and exhausted every ounce of my family’s love. And now, she had patted herself on the back and vanished, leaving me to stand in the wreckage. Seeing my silence, a dry chuckle echoed from the other side of the patio. My eldest brother, Lawrence, stood up from his chair. He walked over and casually tossed a stack of papers at my feet. “Don’t waste your breath demanding an apology, Dylan. She doesn’t have a soul.” Lawrence looked down at me, his eyes entirely devoid of warmth. “Summer, we gave you countless chances over the last three years. You threw them all away.” “Sign the severance agreement. From this moment on, you are no longer a Harrington.” “Lawrence…” Tiffany whimpered from Adrian’s arms, looking up with big, watery eyes. “Please don’t do this. Summer only did it because she loves you all so much. It’s my fault… I shouldn’t have come back to this family…” “Tiffany, you’re far too soft. That’s why she keeps stepping on you.” My third brother, Oliver, walked over from the shadows. As a prominent surgeon, his voice carried a clinical, detached authority. “Summer, you are suffering from severe manic episodes and paranoid personality disorder. As a medical professional, I highly recommend involuntary psychiatric admission.” “Tiffany survived today, but you should use whatever sanity you have left to keep some dignity.” The onlookers at the party whispered among themselves, enjoying the spectacle. They were waiting to see the once-spoiled heiress of the Harrington family get publicly cast out. According to the memory of the entity who had run my life, this was the part where I was supposed to throw myself at Lawrence’s feet, weeping and begging for mercy. Or scream at Adrian that I was innocent, that Tiffany had jumped in herself. They were waiting for my hysterical break. They expected me to kneel. But I didn’t. I stood quietly in the cool night air, raising a hand to wipe the corner of my lip. It felt sticky. I stared at the smudge of blood on the back of my hand for a second, then slowly bent down to pick up the severance papers. “Do you have a pen?” 2 My voice was quiet, but it made everyone freeze. Dylan looked bewildered, his brow furrowing deeper. “What kind of game are you playing now? I swear to God, Summer, you could die right here and none of us would shed a single tear.” “I’m not playing a game.” I straightened my back and looked him dead in the eye. “I asked for a pen. Don’t you want me to sign?” The utter lack of emotion in my face made Lawrence frown. He let out a harsh breath, pulled a sleek fountain pen from his breast pocket, and threw it at my feet. “Stop acting.” “If you sign this without making a scene, I’ll have accounting wire a million dollars to your account, so you don’t starve on the streets and embarrass us.” I bent down and picked up the pen. Without a single word of protest, without even skimming the legal clauses, I flipped straight to the signature page and wrote my name in clear, elegant cursive. I handed the papers back to Lawrence. He didn’t take them. He just stared at my face, a flicker of shock crossing his eyes. “You don’t want them? I’ll leave them here then.” I placed the document gently on the table, then turned my gaze to Oliver. “Dr. Harrington,” I said, dropping the title of ‘brother’ entirely. Oliver stiffened, his eyes narrowing. “I’m not sick, but thank you for the clinical assessment,” I said softly. “Going forward, you should tell the chef to put less salt in your food. Your stomach has always been sensitive. If you keep eating like you do, you’ll get ulcers.” I turned my eyes to Dylan. “That slap just now clears whatever debt we had between us.” “All those embarrassing airport pickups and film-set visits that made you feel so ashamed? You don’t have to worry about them anymore.” Finally, my gaze drifted past them, resting on Adrian and Tiffany. Whether the intruder had actually pushed Tiffany tonight didn’t matter to me anymore. “Mr. Lockhart,” I said, looking at his handsome, stony face. “I apologize for the last three years of desperate clawing. I won’t cross your path again. Have a long, happy life together.” Saying all of this felt like it had drained the last reserves of my physical strength. I turned on my heel and walked toward the grand entrance of the estate. Behind me, the silence was absolute. They were likely paralyzed by this unfamiliar, eerie calm. As I reached the threshold, the heavy wooden doors swung open, letting in a gust of cold night wind. It was starting to drizzle. I was wearing the intruder’s favorite dress—a cheap-looking, low-cut red gown that offered no warmth. The wind hit me, and a violent shiver ran through my bones. “Summer!” Dylan’s voice came from behind me, sharp and frantic. “If you walk out of those doors, don’t you ever think about coming back!” “Do you honestly think this reverse psychology is going to make us feel sorry for you? Dream on!” I didn’t look back. I pushed through the heavy doors and stepped out into the rainy night. The wind was howling now, and the cold rain instantly soaked through my hair. Before I could even make it down the grand stone steps, a dozen blinding flashlights cut through the darkness. “She’s out! Summer Harrington is coming out!” “Block her! Don’t let her run!” A girl with short hair rushed to the front of the crowd, throwing a cup of ice-cold water directly onto my chest. 3 “We saw the group chat! You actually tried to drown Tiffany tonight!” “You toxic, miserable bitch! Why don’t you just die?!” A crowd of young girls carrying light-up signs blocked the path down the steps. The signs bore Dylan’s name. These were his fans. Over the last three years, the entity in my body had constantly crashed his filming sets to gain attention, turning his fanbase into my fiercest enemies. The schedule of tonight’s private gala was no secret, and they had clearly gathered here specifically to ambush me. The freezing water soaked through my thin dress. As the wind blew, my teeth began to chatter. According to the intruder’s habits, she would have shrieked, covered her face, and run back inside to throw herself into Dylan’s or Lawrence’s arms, screaming for protection. But I didn’t hide, and I didn’t cry. I just stood there, letting the rain wash over me. Behind me, the heavy double doors clicked open again. My three brothers, along with Adrian who was still sheltering Tiffany, walked out onto the landing. Security guards immediately stepped forward, holding large black umbrellas to shield them from the elements. They stood at the top of the grand steps, watching me get swarmed by the angry crowd in the freezing rain. Dylan didn’t try to stop his fans. Instead, he let out a bitter laugh. “Summer, is this another one of your pathetic pity plays?” “Did you choose the front exit on purpose just to rile up my fans so I’d feel bad for you?” His eyes were filled with nothing but disgust. “I’m telling you right now, even if they tear you apart tonight, I won’t lift a finger to save you.” Lawrence adjusted his gold cufflinks, his voice matching the coldness of the rain. “Get her out of here. She’s embarrassing the family just by standing there.” Oliver pushed his glasses up his nose, looking at my shivering, soaked figure. “You brought this on yourself.” As for Adrian, he didn’t even look in my direction. His attention was entirely focused on Tiffany. They were waiting. They were waiting for me to break down under the weight of the crowd’s insults, to weep and beg them to save me. Suddenly, Tiffany pulled away from Adrian’s chest and took a small step forward. “Summer… the rain is so heavy. You’ll get sick if you walk home like this.” She blinked her damp eyelashes, her eyes dropping to the glittering diamond necklace around my neck. “Summer… that necklace is the coming-of-age gift Mom left for me before she died. If you’re really leaving for good, could you please give it back?” The crowd erupted instantly. Several fans pointed directly at my face, shouting, “How shameless! Even after getting kicked out, she still stole Tiffany’s inheritance!” “She’s a thief! Don’t let her take Tiffany’s things!” Dylan’s face turned livid, and he marched down the steps. “Summer, you really are a piece of trash! Stealing from Tiffany? Take it off. Right now!” Lawrence’s expression grew even colder. He turned to the security guards. “Go strip the necklace off her. If she resists, use force.” Adrian finally looked up, his eyes filled with mocking disdain. “Summer, if you need money, I could have given you some. But resorting to theft is just pathetic.” Hearing his words, my heart didn’t even flutter. Before the soul-hijacker took over my body, Adrian and I actually had a real engagement. 4 Back then, he was cold to everyone else, but he saved every ounce of his warmth for me. He had severe germaphobia and hated physical contact, yet during the freezing winter months, he would naturally take my cold hands and tuck them into his coat pockets to keep them warm. He was a notorious workaholic, but when I once mentioned offhand that I wanted to see the ocean, he canceled a multi-billion-dollar merger without hesitation just to drive me to the coast overnight. He would frown and scold me for being reckless, all while wrapping his own heavy coat around my shoulders. But over the last three years, the entity had ruined every memory of us. She had drugged him, tried to climb into his bed, and acted like a hysterical, jealous lunatic in public. She didn’t just throw my own dignity out the window; she systematically turned Adrian’s deep affection for me into absolute disgust. The only reason he was treating Tiffany so well now was because she reminded him of the quiet, gentle girl I used to be three years ago. Looking at the deep contempt in his eyes, I felt nothing but exhaustion. This necklace was indeed a maternal heirloom—but it belonged to me. My mother had left it to me. Yet, because the intruder had worn it every single day just to spite Tiffany, everyone in the family had somehow convinced themselves it belonged to her. Under normal circumstances, the intruder would have screamed and fought to prove the necklace was hers. But I didn’t care to argue. Explaining anything to these people was a waste of breath. I reached behind my neck and unclipped the clasp. “Click.” A triumphant smirk flashed across Tiffany’s face, and she reached out eagerly. “Thank you, Sum—” I didn’t hand it to her. With a flick of my wrist, I tossed the diamond necklace directly into the muddy puddle at my feet. Dirty water splashed up, staining the hem of Tiffany’s pristine designer dress. “Ah!” Tiffany shrieked, jumping back and bursting into tears. “Summer, if you didn’t want to give it back, you could have just said so! Why would you throw away Mom’s memory like that?!” “What the hell is wrong with you?!” Adrian yelled, pulling Tiffany back under the umbrella and glaring at me with raw fury. Dylan looked like he was about to burst a blood vessel. He rushed forward, raising his hand to strike me again. “You miserable bitch! I’ll teach you—” I didn’t flinch. I just stood there, staring directly at his raised hand. “Go ahead,” I said, my voice cutting through the rain. “Hit me. If that hand lands, tomorrow’s front-page headline will read: “‘Pop Icon Beats Defenseless Woman on the Street.’” Dylan’s hand froze mid-air. He was shaking with rage, but he didn’t dare let his hand fall. I ignored him, turning my attention back to the rest of them. Right there, in front of the cameras and the crowd, I unclipped my diamond earrings and unclasped my bracelet, letting them drop into the mud. Finally, I bent down and slipped off my designer heels—the ones that had rubbed my heels raw, leaving them slick with blood. I stood barefoot in the cold rainwater, looking up at the figures on the stone steps. “I am leaving nothing that belongs to the Harringtons. From this moment on, I have absolutely no relation to any of you, or the Lockharts.” I turned around. The fans at the bottom of the steps seemed stunned by the cold, quiet intensity radiating from me. Without anyone saying a word, the crowd parted, leaving a clear path through the dark street. The rain poured over my face as I took my first steps into the night. Behind me, Dylan’s hand was still hanging in the air, his eyes slowly dropping to the pair of discarded high heels on the wet stone. Suddenly, a cold chill ran down his spine. The inner back of the heels was completely stained with deep crimson blood. It wasn’t just him. Every man standing on that landing was staring at that smear of red. For the past three years, the “Summer” they knew would cry and scream for weeks if she so much as nicked her finger on a piece of paper, forcing everyone in the house to appease her. But just now, with her feet rubbed raw and bleeding, she had walked barefoot onto the gravel-strewn pavement without even a flinch. The behavior was unfamiliar, yet terrifyingly recognizable. Because three years ago, before she “went mad,” the real Summer Harrington had been exactly like this. Tiffany sensed the sudden shift in the air. Seeing the men stare intensely at the direction where Summer had disappeared, a flash of panic washed over her. She quickly knelt down and scooped the muddy necklace out of the puddle. “Brothers, please don’t be mad at Summer,” Tiffany said, holding the muddy jewelry in her hands with a fragile smile. “She must have just been confused when she took it from my room. I told her I didn’t mind, but she still has such a temper…” She leaned instinctively back toward Adrian’s chest. In the past, Adrian would have immediately wrapped his arm around her. But this time, Adrian didn’t move. Instead, he took a step back, letting her lean into empty air. Tiffany stumbled, looking up in disbelief. “Adrian…?” Adrian stared at the muddy necklace in her hand, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Tiffany, you said she stole this from your room?” Tiffany’s heart skipped a beat, but she forced herself to nod. “Y-yes, it’s the coming-of-age gift my mother left for—” “You’re lying.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “505106”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Margot fell in love with my roommate at first sight. She snapped a candid photo of him and dropped it into our university’s most notorious, invite-only group chat for trust-fund kids. [Does anyone know who this guy is? Ten grand to whoever gets me his number.] Someone replied almost instantly. [I have it.] But they made a typo. They sent her my number instead. Margot and I dated exclusively online for the entirety of winter break. It wasn’t until the spring semester started, when we finally met face-to-face, that she realized the massive mistake. She stared at me, thought about it for a long, agonizing minute, and then offered a compromise. “We break up. You help me get Wyatt. And when it’s done, I’ll give you a blank check. Write whatever number you want on it. Do we have a deal?” 1. Margot’s attitude was remarkably sincere. We went to the same university, but this was the first time she was truly looking at me. I, on the other hand, had stolen hundreds of glances at her over the years. In my mind, she was always this effortlessly aloof creature, as if nothing in the world was quite worthy of her attention. But now, for Wyatt, she was being incredibly generous. She literally slid a blank check across the table. “Don’t worry,” she told me, her voice smooth. “The second I get back, I’m going to wring Delaney’s neck for this.” I knew who Delaney was. A notorious rich kid with a reputation for chaos. She was the one who had accidentally sent Margot my number. I clenched my hands under the table, forcing my breathing to steady. “It’s fine,” I said. “I’ll do it.” There wasn’t much point in hesitating. Yes, I liked Margot. I liked her a lot. But at the same time, I was desperately broke. I just hadn’t expected my first foray into love to end in such a pathetic, transactional disaster. A gust of freezing wind tore past us, and I instinctively pulled my scarf tighter around my neck. Margot looked at me sideways, her eyes as dark as ink. She sighed. “I’m sorry.” It suddenly hit me that the day she first added me, it had been snowing just like this. I had just gotten back home from the bus station, standing in the freezing snow, reading her friend request over and over again. We had gone to the same high school. I had memorized her profile picture and screen name years ago. And now, we were college juniors. Six whole years had passed. My hands had literally shaken when I hit accept. Her first message to me had been: [Hey, I’m Margot. I saw you this afternoon, thought we should get to know each other.] That fleeting moment was the happiest of my entire life. Only now did I realize that from the very beginning, the whole thing had been nothing but a beautiful, cruel illusion. 2. After getting Wyatt’s permission, I passed his number to Margot. Wyatt wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous, but he had this golden-retriever, sun-kissed energy that naturally drew people in. He had plenty of girls chasing him. But obviously, none of them could compete with Margot. He sat on his bed, phone in hand, typing out a message to her before looking up at me, thoroughly confused. “How do you even know Margot?” I fell silent for a second. I swallowed the truth. “Randomly got added. We never really talked.” Wyatt looked relieved. “Man, I’m so nervous. I don’t even know how to talk to a girl like her. Do you really think she’s into me?” I nodded. “Yeah.” I grabbed my textbooks and walked out of the dorm. Just as I reached the bottom of the library steps, my phone buzzed. It was Margot. [I want to take him to dinner tomorrow. Does he have any allergies? What kind of food does he like?] I took a deep, heavy breath. I rested my thumb on the screen and scrolled up. Just a few weeks ago, she had been calling me by my childhood nickname. For two months, we had texted from the second we woke up until we fell asleep. She knew every tiny detail about what I liked. Before we were supposed to meet, knowing I had a sweet tooth, she had actually spent days learning how to bake a complicated French pastry from scratch. Wyatt’s tastes were the exact opposite of mine. [He hates sweets. He likes it spicy,] I typed back. The three typing dots appeared, vanished, and appeared again. A long silence stretched over the digital space before she finally replied. [Okay.] Staring at that single word, I locked my screen. Sometimes, the sheer whiplash of life makes you want to laugh out loud. Just days ago, she was the one coaxing me to sleep, texting me things that made the blood rush to my face. [I’m not a good girl, you know,] she had teased.[You’ll find out when we meet.] But when we finally met, the only thing she left me with was an apology. 3. Margot didn’t text me often after that. Only occasionally, to ask for intel on Wyatt’s preferences. I played my part dutifully. If I knew the answer, I gave it to her straight. Then came the day I walked back into the dorm to find Wyatt shivering under his blankets, looking awful. I pressed a hand to his forehead. He was burning up. Right on cue, Margot’s name flashed on my phone. [Is Wyatt in the room? I’ve been calling him but he’s not picking up.] I quickly explained that Wyatt was running a high fever. Her reply was instant. [Help him downstairs. I’m pulling the car around.] I texted back a quick ]Okay.] The problem was, I had badly sprained my ankle a week prior. Hauling Wyatt’s dead weight down three flights of stairs was agonizing. By the time we made it to the lobby doors and I saw Margot, my grip slipped for just a second. Wyatt bumped into the doorframe and nearly crumpled to the ground. Seeing this, Margot sprinted out of her car. Her brow was furrowed, her voice icy. “Jonah.” “You almost let him fall.” Swallowing the sharp, shooting pain in my ankle, I quickly muttered, “I didn’t mean to.” Margot didn’t even look at me. She just wrapped her arm around Wyatt and guided him into the passenger seat. I stood there on the pavement for a long time, watching her taillights disappear. So this is what it feels like. Watching the person you love meticulously care for someone else. 4. For a long time after that, Margot vanished from my inbox. Once Wyatt got back from the hospital, they started FaceTiming every single night. Our other two roommates would occasionally pop into the frame, cracking jokes or saying hi to her. Except me. Every time she called, I retreated to the furthest corner of the room, completely silent. She used to call me like that. Back then, I really believed we were the start of a great story. Then, one evening, Wyatt was in the shower. He had left his phone on his desk. It rang, loudly and persistently, for a solid minute. “Hey man, can you answer that for me?” Wyatt yelled over the water. I looked at the screen. Margot’s name was glowing brightly. She had already called three times. She was probably panicking, worried he had spiked a fever again. I hesitated, then tapped the green button. Margot’s voice came through the speaker, impossibly soft. “Wyatt?” A bitter ache bloomed in my chest. I pressed my lips together. “He’s in the shower.” A beat of silence. Then, Margot spoke, her tone shifting into something definitive. “It’s you.” Of course she recognized my voice. “Yeah,” I replied. The line went quiet. I had delivered the message. I thought about it, and started to pull the phone away to hang up. Suddenly, her voice came back. “I didn’t mean to snap at you the other day.” I gripped the phone. I didn’t know what to say. It took me a long time to force out two hollow words. “It’s fine.” She seemed caught off guard that after such a long pause, that was all I had to offer. She let out a soft, breathy laugh. “Right.” That night, for the first time in weeks, Margot texted my actual phone. It felt like a fragile olive branch. [Thanks for answering today.] Margot’s devotion to Wyatt was bordering on obsessive. She showered him with expensive gifts. A PS5, a vintage Rolex, limited-edition sneakers. So much stuff he could barely fit it in his closet. But despite it all, Wyatt seemed frustrated. “She treats me amazing. But I don’t get it. It’s been over a month, and she still hasn’t made it official. Does she want me to make the first move?” One of the roommates leaned over, curious. “Have you guys kissed? Hooked up?” Wyatt shook his head. “No.” He paused, looking almost embarrassed. “Honestly, we haven’t even held hands yet.” I sat on the sidelines, listening in absolute silence. “I heard Margot has never dated anyone,” another roommate chimed in. “She’s practically royalty on campus. Before you, she never looked twice at a guy. You gotta step it up, man. Lock it down.” But I remembered winter break. We had been texting for barely two weeks before she confessed her feelings to me. My guess? She had gotten burned by rushing in with me, and now she wanted to take it agonizingly slow. Either way, it didn’t matter. They were bound to make it official soon. I just didn’t expect to run into Margot the very next night. 5. She was playing volleyball on the campus courts with some friends. I was just passing by when a stray ball slammed hard into the side of my head. The girl who hit it came jogging over, breathless. She took one look at the forming bruise on my temple and grabbed my arm. “Shit, sorry. Come on, I’m taking you to the clinic.” I looked up. The stadium lights were blinding. The girl finally got a good look at my face and froze. Right at that moment, I saw Margot walking up from behind her. Her face was dangerously dark. “Delaney,” Margot warned, her voice low. It suddenly clicked. This was Delaney. The girl who had accidentally handed Margot my phone number. Margot’s eyes dropped to where Delaney’s hand was wrapped around my arm. There was no warmth in her expression. “You’re just taking him to the clinic. Do you really need to be grabbing him like that?” Delaney immediately dropped my arm like it burned her. In the end, they both escorted me to the campus hospital. Thankfully, it was just a mild concussion. Throughout the whole ordeal, Delaney wouldn’t stop hovering, asking me rapid-fire questions. [Does it hurt? Do you need water? Are you dizzy?] Margot just stood by the wall, arms crossed, wrapped in a suffocating silence. It wasn’t until we were leaving the clinic that Delaney casually pulled out her phone. “Hey, let me get your number? Just in case you feel weird later, I can cover your medical bills.” I blinked. Before I could even open my mouth, Margot let out a cold, sharp laugh. “That’s Jonah. The guy you tricked me into dating for a month. You already have his number.” Delaney cursed under her breath. “Holy shit, it is you. I completely forgot when I even added you.” “Your last name is the same as Wyatt’s, right? I totally got you two mixed up in my contacts.” I tightened my jaw. “A few weeks ago, I was supposed to be a volunteer for a campus event you were organizing. You reached out to me online.” The event had been canceled, so we had never actually crossed paths. Delaney’s eyes lit up with sudden realization, a bright smile breaking across her face. “Right! Wow, small world. I guess we were destined to run into each other.” 6. That night, not long after I got back to my dorm, I got a text from Delaney. [Feeling better?] [Yeah,] I typed back. The little typing bubble popped up on her end. It stayed there for a solid five minutes. Finally, the message came through. [Margot almost killed me over that mix-up. I wanted to text you and apologize back then, but she wouldn’t let me. Said the damage was done and I shouldn’t poke the bear.] [But since we actually met today, I just wanted to say I’m really sorry.] I thought about it for a second, then replied. [It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.] I set my phone down and went to take a shower. When I came back out, there was an absurdly elegant pastry box sitting on my desk. The packaging alone screamed luxury. Wyatt was lounging on his bed. “Margot bought those. I hate sweets, so I just split them between you guys. Smells pretty good, though.” I glanced over. My other two roommates were happily digging into their boxes. Maybe it was just the steam from the shower, but my throat felt incredibly dry. My voice came out raspy. “I’m cutting carbs. I’ll pass.” 7. Wyatt and Margot’s relationship seemed to be sailing smoothly. But secrets don’t stay buried forever. It didn’t take long for him to find out about the whole ‘wrong number’ fiasco. It happened at an off-campus party. Someone had too much to drink and let it slip to Wyatt. “Hey man, heard you’re rooming with the fake boyfriend. What’s he look like? Bet he’s not half as good-looking as you.” “Who knows, though. Delaney hasn’t shut up about him all week…” Wyatt came back to the dorm completely furious. In front of all our roommates, he grabbed me by the collar and punched me square in the jaw. He spat out a warning, telling me to stay the hell away from Margot. I tasted copper and was just about to push back when my phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from Margot. [Wyatt knows. He has a temper. Just let him vent, please. Consider it repaying the favor you owe me.] During winter break, when we were on a late-night call, my grandmother had taken a bad fall and hit her head. I was entirely alone, terrified, and broke. Margot had instantly stepped in. She made the calls, got my grandmother transferred to a top-tier hospital, and even secured an elite neurologist. She had been so apologetic back then.[“I’m stuck in New York, I can’t leave. Otherwise, I’d be right there with you.”] She had no idea that just the simple act of her caring so much was enough for me. And now, she was calling in the debt. I stood there in the dorm, bleeding, and texted back: ]Okay.] Then, I looked at Wyatt and apologized. After lights out, the other two guys were still whispering, trying to stroke Wyatt’s ego. “Always the quiet ones, right? Doing sneaky shit behind your back.” “Seriously, who tries to move in on another guy’s girl?” Wyatt laughed, the tension finally leaving his voice. “She’s not even officially my girl yet.” I lay in the dark, my face throbbing. It was definitely going to bruise by morning. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the sickening ache left by Margot’s text. 8. When it rains, it pours. The next day, during my shift at an upscale restaurant, I was still so distracted by the previous night that I completely zoned out. A customer bumped into me, and I ended up wearing a tray of iced cola. Combined with the ugly purple bruise blooming on my jaw, I looked utterly pathetic. The customer was livid, screaming about two tiny drops of soda on his designer shirt and demanding I pay for the dry cleaning. I was exhausted. Bone-tired. I looked up, and there, standing near the host stand, were Margot and Wyatt. They stood shoulder to shoulder. Looking at them, you’d think they were cut out of a magazine. The perfect, wealthy couple. When Wyatt noticed me, he let out a scoff of disgust and tried to pull Margot toward their private booth. Margot had Wyatt’s trench coat draped over her arm. She stopped and looked in my direction. Her eyes skipped over my soaked uniform, landing squarely on the bruise on my face. Her lips parted slightly. She looked like she wanted to say something. But she didn’t. She slowly pulled her gaze away, turned, and followed Wyatt into the dining room. I watched her walk away, fighting back the humiliating sting of tears. I swallowed my pride, apologized profusely to the angry customer, and cleaned up the mess. At the end of my shift, the manager pulled me aside. He told me someone from the private booths had formally complained about me. He had no choice but to let me go. “It was a guy about your age,” the manager sighed. “What the hell did you do to piss him off?” I kept my head down. I didn’t answer. That night, I missed the last bus to campus. I stood alone in the biting cold wind, scrolling aimlessly on my phone, and saw Wyatt’s latest Instagram post. A photo of him and Margot at the beach. He was smiling; she was looking slightly away from the camera. They looked flawless together. The caption was simple: ]Finally official.] I stared at the screen until the edges of the photo blurred. Right then, a banner notification slid down from the top of my screen. A text from Margot. Her tone was utterly clinical. [I’ll have Keeley drop off the check for you in a few days.] I wanted to scream. I wanted to ask her: ]When Wyatt complained to the manager and got me fired, were you sitting right next to him?] Seeing me so broken and pathetic, was she relieved she dodged a bullet? Or, for the sake of those two months we spent talking every night, did she feel even a fraction of guilt? In the end, I typed a single word. [Okay.] 9. Wyatt made sure the whole world knew they were dating. His social media became a shrine to Margot. But none of that was my business anymore. To replace the restaurant job, I picked up two new part-time gigs. I was constantly running, leaving before dawn and crashing after midnight. One afternoon, I was standing on a busy street corner handing out flyers when Delaney found me. She had just gotten back from an out-of-state academic competition. She stood before me, looking travel-worn but wired with energy. She reached into her bag and handed me a folded check. “Margot told me to give this to you.” I hesitated. “Didn’t she say someone named Keeley was going to bring it?” Delaney coughed, looking a little guilty. “I heard about it and intercepted it. Margot doesn’t know, so… don’t tell her, alright?” I pressed my lips together. “I won’t.” Margot and I were never going to speak again anyway. Delaney let out a visible breath of relief. Then, without asking, she grabbed half the stack of flyers from my hands. “I’ll help.” When we finally finished, we walked back to campus together. Under the glow of a streetlamp, I turned to say goodnight. She stared at me, her eyes catching the light, and asked a question that came entirely out of left field. “I never asked you. Aside from that whole fake-dating disaster with Margot… have you ever actually had a girlfriend?” My heart skipped a beat. I opened my mouth to answer.

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In the world of broadcast journalism, Zack and I were the undisputed golden couple. He was the brilliant, obsessive executive producer, and I was the face of the network. Together, we were a “one-plus-one-equals-three” kind of phenomenon. But Zack’s genius came with a sharp edge. He was notoriously demanding, the kind of producer who could reduce seasoned anchors to tears with a single sigh. He’d say it openly in production meetings: “If any of you had a tenth of Leona’s drive, we wouldn’t be bleeding hours on these edits.” When I was selected for a prestigious three-month media fellowship in New York, he spent the night before my flight holding me tight. He buried his face in the crook of my neck, his voice muffled and unusually soft. “I dread having to work with anyone else,” he murmured. “They’re all so slow. Promise me you’ll come back the second it’s over.” I laughed, running my fingers through his hair, but I couldn’t help but worry. “The girl stepping in for me is my own protégée,” I reminded him. “Olivia works incredibly hard. She just needs a break. Don’t go tearing her to pieces on day one.” Three months later, I walked back into the Chicago studio, dragging my suitcase straight from the airport. I stopped at the heavy double doors of Studio B. Zack was standing on the stage, leaning in close to Olivia. He was adjusting the lapel mic on her collar, his hands lingering just a second too long. Then, he patted her head and smiled—a warm, bright expression I hadn’t seen on his face in months. “You’ve got this,” he said, his voice carrying over the quiet stage. “Don’t be nervous. Frankly, you’re bringing something to this that Leona never did. This show belongs to you now.” … My hand slipped, and my heavy duffel bag hit the floor with a dull thud. The noisy control room suddenly went dead silent. Olivia’s face turned pale, her smile freezing. “Leona… you’re back.” She flusteredly began unclipping her mic, stepping down from the stage. “I—I can hand this broadcast back to you.” But before she could take two steps, Zack grabbed her wrist. He didn’t even look at me. He just stared at Olivia, his voice firm. “No. Stay. We’re keeping you on tonight.” The tension in the studio became palpable. The crew stood frozen, trading uneasy glances. Olivia looked at me with wide, panicked eyes, pleading for help, but her feet stayed glued to the floor. I looked at the shifting gazes of the staff, forced a polite smile, and said, “It’s fine. Keep going with the scheduled run-of-show.” The recording began. I sat in the very back row of the dark studio audience seats, watching Olivia shine under the studio lights. She used to sit at my desk, practically trembling, asking me, “Leona, do you really think I can do this? What if I freeze up?” I always told her that one day, she’d own the camera. Now, she was doing exactly that, but I felt no pride. Because Zack was standing by the monitor, a soft smile playing on his lips. The way he looked at Olivia—the sheer warmth, the absolute focus—was a look I knew all too well. It was the look that, for five years, had belonged only to me. It was past midnight by the time the taping wrapped. The crew was buzzing, talking about heading out for late-night drinks. Zack finally pulled off his headphones and looked in my direction, giving me a brief, casual nod. “You’re back. Why didn’t you let me know?” I lowered my eyes. “I texted you.” He blinked, momentarily confused, and reached into his pocket for his phone. But Olivia appeared from behind him, handing it over with a playful grin. “Producer’s rule, remember? Phones go on silent the moment you step into the studio. You forgot, so I did it for you.” Sensing the sudden chill between Zack and me, she faltered, her smile slipping. “Did… did I do something wrong?” Zack recovered first. He took the phone and let out a soft laugh. “Bold of you, using my own rules against me.” He tapped her lightly on the head. “Go on, didn’t you guys want sushi? Take the team and order whatever you want. It’s on my card.” Once she was out of earshot, Zack turned back to me, taking my suitcase. “I’m sorry, Leona. Today’s broadcast was a massive ratings hook. I couldn’t slip away to pick you up at the airport.” At the high-end sushi restaurant, the crew was loud, thanking Zack before diving into the menus. Olivia laughed, rubbing her stomach. “I am absolutely starving. I could eat an entire cow right now.” Zack poured himself a cup of green tea, deadpan: “Waitress, bring this lady an entire cow.” The table erupted in laughter as Olivia blushed. My stomach twisted. After a long silence, Olivia looked up at me cautiously. “Leona, you’re so quiet. What are you having?” I forced a thin smile. “Nothing for me, thank you. I’ve been recovering from a bad bout of gastritis. My stomach can’t handle raw food right now.” Zack frowned, a flicker of irritation passing through his eyes. I looked down, a bitter ache spreading through my chest. Sometime during my three months away, his texts had grown sparse, his replies taking hours, then days. When the gastritis had hit me in New York, leaving me curled up alone in an ER chair under the fluorescent lights, hooked to an IV drip, I had sent him a text: “It hurts so bad. I wish I was home.” He still hadn’t replied to that message. I had convinced myself he was just in his typical workaholic zone, blind to the world. But clearly, he wasn’t too busy to remember who wanted sushi. The dinner felt like chewing on cardboard. I rode home in the passenger seat of Zack’s car, surrounded by a suffocating silence. When we unlocked the door to our apartment—a place I hadn’t stepped into for ninety days—the living room was pitch black. Zack’s voice cut through the dark behind me. “Leona. We need to talk.” Zack sat on the leather sofa, lighting a cigarette and letting it burn halfway down in silence. “In the three months Olivia covered for you, the ratings for “The Point” jumped by twenty percent. We picked up two major national sponsors. I’m going to keep her on as the permanent anchor.” My heart skipped a beat, then began to thud violently against my ribs. “What does that mean?” The moonlight cut through the window, illuminating only half of his face, leaving the rest in shadow. “I’m giving her “The Point”. I’ll put together a pitch for a brand-new show for you.” His tone was final. With those words, he pulled the rug out from under my life. “The Point” was our baby. Five years ago, when we were just two hungry kids trying to make a mark, we had pitched it together, signing a virtual blood oath with the network executives. The show, with its razor-sharp journalism and uncompromising truth, had taken off. It gave Zack his power, and it gave me my reputation. It was the foundation of our careers, and the backdrop of our entire five-year relationship. I let out a hollow laugh. “Do you have any idea what I poured into that show? Do you even care what it means to me?” Zack pinched the bridge of his nose, looking exhausted. “Leona, we have to look at the bigger picture. We have to move forward.” I stared at the face of the man I loved, searching for something familiar. “Moving forward? Is that about the show, or is it about her?” Though I hadn’t used her name, Zack’s expression instantly hardened. “Olivia works hard. She just needed a platform. Leona, you have the status, the awards, the financial security. You have everything. What hurts you to give her a little room to breathe?” I couldn’t help but laugh out loud, the sound sharp and ugly. “How incredibly familiar.” Three months ago, I was the one begging him to be patient with Olivia, telling him to go easy on her. Three months later, he was throwing my own kindness back in my face to justify taking my life’s work. I cared about Olivia. I wanted her to succeed. But “giving her a chance” did not mean letting her steal the ground from under my feet. “I’m not stepping aside,” I said, my voice cold and steady. “If you think she’s so brilliant, produce a new show for her.” Zack looked at me, his eyes dark and unreadable. “Leona, I am the executive producer of “The Point”. I have the final say on who anchors the desk.” He stood up abruptly. “You just got back. Get some rest. I’ll sleep in the study.” I pressed a hand to my aching stomach, wiping a cold bead of sweat—or a tear—from my temple. Late that night, lying in our king-sized bed that felt as vast and freezing as an ice sheet, my phone buzzed. It was an Instagram notification from Olivia. A photo of her smiling in the studio. Caption: “Grateful for the climb. Never look back. Let’s do this!” And there, right at the top of the likes, was Zack’s name. He had liked it seconds after she posted. I stared up at the dark ceiling. It turned out my desperate rush to finish my fellowship, to catch the earliest flight home, was just a return to a life where I was no longer wanted. The next morning, I walked into the dressing room. Olivia was in the makeup chair, and she froze when she saw me in the mirror. The assistants in the room quickly found excuses to slip out, leaving us alone. Olivia hesitated, then stood up and gave me a deep, stiff bow. “Leona. I’ve looked up to you since college. You’ve been my mentor, my idol. You’ve helped me so much, and honestly, I would do anything for you. But I’m not giving up “The Point”.” “You were the one who taught me to seize every opportunity,” she added, her chin lifting slightly. I smiled, though it didn’t reach my eyes. “I told you to seize opportunities, Olivia. I didn’t tell you to build your career on theft.” “During my fellowship, the network executives talked about launching a new weekend segment. I put your name forward to anchor it.” Olivia’s face shifted, the sweet, deferential act melting away in an instant. She let out a sharp, cynical breath. “Oh, how noble of you. I’ve trailed behind you for years, Leona. When did you ever actually give me a real shot? Even when your stomach was tearing you apart and you were practically fainting on set, you wouldn’t let me fill in. If the network hadn’t forced you to go to New York, you would have kept me in your shadow forever.” She sneered. “In this business, Leona, it’s survival of the fittest.” I looked at her, seeing the ugly distortion on her face, and felt a strange sense of clarity. “Fine. Let’s see what you’re actually made of.” Before the evening taping, I walked onto the studio floor dressed in my anchor wardrobe. Zack’s brow furrowed immediately. “Leona, we talked about this last night—” “Zack,” I cut him off, keeping my voice professional. “We work in television. The audience is the only boss that matters. If you want to decide who gets “The Point”, let the ratings do the talking.” The studio fell dead silent. Olivia, standing nearby, smiled sweetly. “I think that’s incredibly fair. It would be an honor to compete with you, Leona.” Zack’s frown deepened. He opened his mouth to object, but Olivia stepped in, playfully tugging his arm. “Come on, boss. Don’t tell me you don’t think I can win?” Watching their easy, familiar intimacy in front of the entire crew felt like a physical blow. My eyes stung, but I kept my posture perfect. Zack finally sighed. “Fine. Tonight…” I interrupted with a cool smile. “My segments aren’t fully prepped yet. Tonight’s broadcast belongs to Olivia.” I took a deliberate step back, leaving the stage entirely to them. I sat in the darkness of the back row, watching the monitor. As her mentor, I knew Olivia’s technical skills were impeccable. But tonight, on camera, her tone was different. It was sweet, dripping with sentimentality, and midway through the lead story, she let tears well up in her eyes. She wiped a tear away, her voice trembling but dramatic. “I’m sorry, everyone. But looking at the footage of this woman… a simple housekeeper trying to make an honest living, humiliated and abused by her wealthy employers… it breaks my heart. Because she’s vulnerable, does she deserve to be treated like trash?” Her story was about a domestic worker allegedly abused by a wealthy family. I shook my head in the dark. Journalism is supposed to be objective. An anchor weaponizing their own tears to manipulate the audience is a betrayal of the craft. Under my tenure, “The Point” had always been clinical, calm, and devastatingly precise. We didn’t sell cheap tears; we delivered cold, hard facts. When the lights went down, Olivia came off the stage, flushed with excitement, clearly looking for approval. I stood up and intercepted her. “I taught you better than this,” I said, my voice low but firm. “When a story is this polarized, you do not take sides on air. You are an anchor, not an activist. You took a complex situation and turned it into a witch hunt.” Olivia’s face flushed red, then went white. She ripped off her earpiece and slammed it onto the desk. “I am sick of your lecturing! You just got lucky, Leona. You got Zack, you got a hit show, and now you think you’re God. Who are you to judge me?” She snapped her fingers at a production assistant. “Do we have the overnight ratings?” The assistant stepped forward, swallowing hard, stammering. “Yeah… they just came in. We… we beat Leona’s historic peak. By three points.” Olivia threw me a triumphant, venomous look. I didn’t say a word to her. I turned my eyes to Zack. “You’re okay with this?” Zack avoided my gaze for a second, then looked up. “Leona, the numbers don’t lie.” I nodded slowly. “Understood.” I turned and walked out. A week later, our scheduled broadcasts fell on the same day. When I walked into the makeup room, I saw the artist applying fake bruises and cuts to a man’s face. I stopped. “What is this?” A production coordinator mumbled, “Olivia’s segment. It’s the exposé on the construction worker beaten up by the trust-fund kid. The actual victim is too shy to speak on camera, so they brought in his brother to do the interview. The makeup is just to make it look… more authentic.” Cold dread settled in my chest. “Faking physical evidence? Are you out of your minds?” Olivia strolled into the room, leaning against the doorframe with a smug look. “Leona, this is my segment. I don’t recall asking for your input.” “This is a news broadcast, Olivia,” I said, my voice rising. “We have kept this show clean for five years. Fabricating a victim’s injuries is career suicide. Do you have any idea what this will do to the network if it gets out?” She matched my gaze, entirely unbothered. “The facts are the facts. We’re just using a visual aid to help the audience understand. What’s the big deal?” The shouting drew Zack into the room. His first instinct was to step in front of Olivia, shielding her. I looked past her, straight into his eyes. “Did you know about this? Faking a news package?” Zack remained silent. “What happened to the ethics we built this department on?” I asked, the words cutting through the chaotic room. “Do you even remember why we started this show?” We had been in a cold war since the night I returned, sharing a bed of silence, avoiding each other in the halls. I had planned to wait for the ratings war to settle before forcing a conversation about our marriage. But standing here, watching him protect a fraud, the fight evaporated from me. We had met in college. We were the top two students in the journalism department, rivals who fell in love over late-night editing sessions. He used to hold my hands, his eyes bright with a fire that consumed us both. “We’re soulmates, Leona. You’re my partner in everything. My dream only exists because of you.” Zack finally spoke, his voice quiet, flat. “Leona, this is the real world. Integrity doesn’t pay the electric bill. The market dictates what we do.” I stared at him. The passionate, idealistic boy I had loved was entirely gone, replaced by a cynical corporate empty suit. The silence stretched between us until Zack sighed, reaching out to touch my hand. I took a step back, out of his reach. “I won’t be a part of a network that fakes the news,” I said quietly. “You want “The Point”? It’s yours.” I didn’t look at Zack’s suddenly pale face as I walked out the door. I submitted my resignation that afternoon. Zack called my phone repeatedly, but I ignored every ring. I left a signed copy of the divorce papers on the kitchen island and moved my things into a short-term rental. From that day on, Olivia became the undisputed face of “The Point”. Zack launched a second, lighter entertainment show for her, and her star rose exponentially. She was guest-starring on talk shows, signing brand endorsements, and becoming a household name. On “The Point”, there were still viewer comments calling out the shift in tone—noting that the show had lost its objective, analytical edge. But those voices were quickly drowned out by a highly coordinated PR campaign. One night, around 2:00 AM, my phone lit up with a text from Olivia. It was a photo of Zack, flushed and half-asleep from too many drinks, resting his head heavily on her shoulder. “Leona, did you ever think things would turn out like this?” I didn’t reply. I was too busy drafting a pilot script. After leaving the network, I accepted an offer from their main competitor—a rival station that had tried to recruit me for years. They offered me absolute creative control. A new team, a new format, a blank slate. I worked eighteen-hour days, barely keeping my head above water. Sometimes, during the quiet hours of the night, I would look out at the city skyline and let my mind drift back to college, to the early days at the studio, to the husband who used to hold me in the dark. But the nostalgia only lasted a minute before I pulled myself back to the page. We decided on a live format. It was high-wire journalism, leaving no room for errors or second takes. Right before our debut broadcast, the energy in the studio was electric. Some of the crew members whispered anxiously, “Our time slot is directly against “The Point”. We’re going head-to-head with Zack.” I just smiled. “Zack? Let him come.” The director gave me the thirty-second cue. The makeup artist touched up my lipstick, and the technical director flashed a thumbs-up from the booth. I looked at the exhausted, hopeful faces of my new crew, pumped my fist in solidarity, and sat in the anchor chair. I took a deep breath as the red light flared on Camera One. “Good evening. Welcome to “The Lens”. I’m Leona.”

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On the day of my wife Elena’s funeral, a man with a face carved from pure grief walked through the chapel doors. He didn’t leave after placing a single white chrysanthemum on the casket. Instead, he walked straight toward me. “To be honest, I’ve envied you for thirty years.” My brows knit in confusion. He let out a bitter, humorless laugh, his eyes welling with tears as his gaze drifted to the framed portrait of Elena. “For thirty years, she gave me everything. Her love, her time, her money—she was never stingy with any of it.” He paused, turning his head to look at me, his eyes burning with a deep, unresolved resentment. “But she had one absolute rule. I was never, under any circumstances, allowed to appear in front of you.” A cold dread seized my chest. “What the hell are you talking about?” He let out another soft laugh. “I mean that for the thirty years you two were married, she was with me.” With that, he turned and walked away, leaving me standing there as the blood drained from my face. My eyes stretched wide, my lungs begging for air. The sudden, suffocating weight of thirty years of betrayal and lies crashed over me. A violent rush of heat surged to my head, and the chapel floor rushed up to meet me as I collapsed beside her casket. … When I opened my eyes again, I was standing at the altar on our wedding day. “Jason, do you promise to love me and be with me for the rest of our lives?” I stared at her in silence for a long, agonizing moment. Then, I took the platinum band from the velvet box and tossed it directly down the drain of the nearby baptismal font. The romantic, beautifully decorated chapel fell into a suffocating, dead silence. The hands of our friends and family, poised to clap, froze in midair. Elena looked up at me, her face a mask of utter bewilderment. “Jason?” She didn’t raise her voice or scold me. Instead, she immediately reached out and grabbed my hand, her eyes filled with frantic worry. “What’s wrong? Did I do something? Is it me?” I looked down at her, memorizing the soft curves of her face. She looked exactly the way she did in my memories. For thirty years, she had looked at me exactly like this. No one in our social circle would have ever dared to say Elena didn’t love me. They all said she loved me more than her own life. Even when we got into that horrific car crash years later, her immediate, instinctual reaction had been to throw her body over mine. She hadn’t cared that she walked away with three broken ribs, as long as I didn’t have a scratch. Yet, this very woman—the one who supposedly loved me to the point of madness—had built our entire life on a thirty-year lie. I closed my eyes, forcing down the suffocating wave of nausea rising in my throat. Under her frantic, searching gaze, I slowly pulled my hand from her grasp. My voice was entirely devoid of emotion. “We’re done. The wedding is off.” Her pupils dilated in terror, and the color drained from her lips. “What?” She scrambled to grab my arm again, her voice shaking so hard she could barely form the words. Her eyes darted around the room, full of desperate, trembling panic. “Is it the crowd? Is this whole big production too much pressure? Did I push you too hard?” She swallowed hard, her voice cracking. “It’s my fault. I’m so sorry. Please, don’t be angry.” I remained silent. The longer I stood there, the more she unraveled. My sister, Lucy, was completely bewildered. She dropped the confetti popper she was holding and rushed up the altar steps, her forehead creased in deep concern. “Jason, what are you doing? You and Elena have been head over heels for each other since high school! She worships the ground you walk on. What is wrong with you?” A sharp, unbearable ache pierced my chest. Lucy was right. We had loved each other for so many years. But the deceit had lasted even longer than the love. Taking a deep, steadying breath, I ignored my sister’s demands. Under the stunned, whispering glares of a hundred guests, I turned around and walked out of the church. I had barely stepped through the front door of our townhouse when Elena burst in behind me, breathless and disheveled. She threw her arms around me from behind, burying her face in my back. Her entire body was trembling. “Jason, please. Just tell me what I did wrong. I’ll change it. I’ll fix whatever it is. Just don’t throw us away.” I pried her arms off me and stepped back. The embrace that used to feel like a warm sanctuary now felt like ice against my skin. I turned to face her. “Fine. Let me ask you one thing. Are you keeping any secrets from me?” For a fraction of a second, her face stiffened. If I hadn’t spent two lifetimes learning every line of her expression, I never would have caught it. “No,” she said, her voice steadying. “I swear, Jason. Absolutely nothing.” Watching her lie so effortlessly, my heart plummeted into a cold, dark abyss. There was nothing left to say. I turned on my heel and went upstairs to the guest room, locking the door behind me. Around midnight, a muffled vibration woke me. Through the thin wall, I heard Elena whispering. She called my name twice to check if I was asleep. When I didn’t answer, the quiet jingle of her car keys echoed down the hallway, followed by the soft click of the front door. In the dark, I opened my eyes. I quietly got out of bed, grabbed my jacket, and followed her. I needed to know. I needed to see the shape of the ghost that had haunted our entire marriage. An hour later, her black Porsche Cayenne pulled up outside a historic, secluded brownstone in Boston’s South End. Elena got out, her face set in a grim, dark expression, and went inside. I pulled up a block away and opened the tracking and audio-monitoring app I had stealthily installed on her phone while she was in the shower earlier that evening. I slipped my headphones on. Immediately, a muffled, furious argument filled my ears. “Did I not make myself clear?” Elena’s voice carried a cold, venomous authority I had never heard from her before. “Unless I reach out to you first, you do not call me!” A man’s voice answered, frantic and hysterical. “Why? Why do I have to hide? I knew you were marrying him today! If he gets to be your husband, what the hell am I to you?” Elena’s response was ice-cold. “I love him. You? What are you, Mason? I warned you. Stay away from Jason. Do you understand me?” A long silence followed. Then, the sound of the man sobbing softly. Elena’s tone softened, turning into a coaxing, manipulative purr. “Just be good. I’ve already set up your position in the project management department at Kingsley Enterprises. I can give you everything except my last name. If you want a child, we can do that too. Just don’t cross my line.” Outside, in the cold cabin of my car, I gripped my phone so hard my knuckles turned white. Tears fell silently, hot and fast, blurring the dashboard lights. The argument in my headphones dissolved into whispers, followed by the unmistakable, quiet sounds of intimacy. I took a long, trembling breath, pulled up my email, and opened the acceptance letter from Oxford University. In my past life, I had rejected the doctoral fellowship to stay by her side. This time, she wasn’t worth the sacrifice. “Mason…” The name clicked. In my previous life, a man named Mason had indeed worked in our corporate project division for a short time. No wonder he looked familiar at the funeral. A bitter, mocking smile touched my lips. She had kept her secret hidden right under my nose the entire time. By the time I returned home and crawled back into bed, it wasn’t long before Elena slipped back into the house. She crawled under the covers and snuggled into my chest, her breathing slowing into a peaceful rhythm within minutes. The next morning, she was up early, preparing breakfast as if nothing had happened. “I made your favorite crab-meat crepes,” she said, offering a bright, warm smile. Watching her act so perfectly innocent, a wave of intense physical revulsion washed over me. I wondered how many mornings in our past life—mornings I had cherished as peak happiness—had been preceded by nights she spent in another man’s bed. I ignored her outstretched hand and left the plate untouched. “I said we’re done. Do you have a hearing problem?” Her smile faltered, her hands freezing over the counter. A flash of raw panic crossed her features. “Jason, I’m not letting you go.” I let out a harsh laugh. “What, you don’t want to lose this townhouse? Fine. I’ll pack my bags and leave today.” “No!” she cried out, her shoulders slumping as she saw the absolute indifference in my eyes. “I’ll go. You stay here. Just… please, don’t make any permanent decisions yet. Give yourself some time to cool down.” She untied her apron, her face pale and defeated, and quietly left the house. By the afternoon, as I was gathering my documents for the UK visa, my phone buzzed. The GPS tracker showed Elena’s phone was back at the South End brownstone. I decided to go there. I wanted to confront them, tear down her web of lies once and for all, and put a clean end to this nightmare. But when I arrived, her black Porsche was already tearing out of the driveway. I trailed her at a distance, my heart sinking further with every turn until she pulled into the parking lot of a private women’s health clinic. The air felt thin. I followed her inside and watched from a distance as Mason held her hand, guiding her toward an examination room. I stood near the door, which was left slightly ajar. “Congratulations,” the doctor’s voice drifted out. “You’re pregnant. About five weeks along. The fetus is developing perfectly.” Mason’s face lit up with pure ecstasy. Elena’s lips pressed into a tight line, her expression unreadable. “Elena, we’re having a baby! You’re going to be a mother!” Mason threw his arms around her, practically weeping with joy. She offered a small, flat smile. “Yeah.” They left the clinic and got back into her car. I followed them back toward the brownstone, the audio monitor in my ear springing to life again as another fight erupted. “What the hell do you mean?!” Mason’s voice was cracking with disbelief. “You want me to let Jason raise my child?!” “Are you insane? That’s my kid!” Elena’s voice remained practical, devoid of any maternal warmth. “Jason was in an accident when he was young; he’s sterile. I’ll take a year-long remote consulting assignment out of the country to give birth in secret. When I bring the baby back, we’ll present it to Jason as an adoption. He’ll never know the difference.” I slammed my foot on the brakes. The screech of my tires was drowned out by the thunderous, erratic beating of my own heart. The child. Everything clicked. Every single puzzle piece of my miserable past life fell perfectly into place. In my past life, exactly one year after our wedding, Elena had sat me down. She comforted me about my inability to have biological children and gently suggested we adopt. Around the same time, she took a year-long sabbatical to oversee an overseas project. Back then, I had felt so much guilt over my physical limitations. I thought a child would complete our family, so I eagerly agreed. I burst into a fit of breathless, hysterical laughter, tears streaming down my face. The child I had raised for thirty years—the boy I had poured my entire soul, energy, and love into—was Mason’s. I gripped the steering wheel, my body shaking so violently I could barely breathe. A dry, painful sob tore through my throat, leaving my eyes stinging and red. Through the headphones, Elena’s voice was absolute and unyielding. “This isn’t up for debate, Mason. I promise you, we can raise our second child together. But this one goes to Jason.” And Mason, weeping, surrendered to her terms. I sat in my idling car, laughing until my chest ached. Every memory of my “happy” past life was nothing but a carefully orchestrated play, a sickening monument built on betrayal. Thirty minutes later, I walked up the steps of the South End brownstone and rang the bell. “Who is it?” Mason’s voice called out. He opened the door, and the moment his eyes landed on me, his entire body froze. His breath hitched. “J-Jason…” I pushed past him without a word, walking straight into the living room. Elena was just coming out of the bathroom, drying her hair. The towel slipped from her fingers, hitting the hardwood floor with a soft thud. Her eyes stretched wide with terror. I looked around. Her personal belongings were scattered everywhere. On the mantelpiece sat a framed photo of the two of them, smiling and holding each other. We stood on opposite sides of the room, the silence stretching between us like a physical wire. My hands were numb, cold as ice. “You said you had nothing to hide,” I whispered, my voice trembling under the weight of my fury. “What is all of this?” Elena finally snapped out of her stupor. Her face turned deathly pale, and she rushed forward, grabbing my shoulders. “Jason, please, listen to me! It’s not what it looks like!” Being this close to her, the faint scent of Mason’s cologne on her skin turned my stomach. It was the final spark on a fuse that had been burning for two lifetimes. “Get your hands off me!” I wrenched myself away and struck her. The sharp, stinging slap echoed through the quiet house. Elena’s head snapped to the side, her cheek instantly flushing a deep red. Mason let out a roar of anger and lunged forward, shoving me back. “Are you insane?! You don’t lay a hand on her!” I stumbled backward against the wall. Before I could steady myself, Elena turned on Mason like a wild animal, her face contorted in rage. “Get upstairs! You don’t get to touch him! Get out of my sight!” Mason stared at her, utterly stunned, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “He knows, Elena. Do you seriously think you can go back to him now?” He looked at me, his eyes gleaming with a sick sense of victory. “Elena is pregnant, Jason. With my baby.” Elena’s face drained of what little color it had left. “Mason! Shut up!” I looked at them both, my expression hardening into a cold, mocking sneer. “Why stop him? Let him speak. I’d love to hear how many other things I’ve been blind to.” “Jason, please…” Elena pleaded. Mason ignored her, a desperate, weeping pride in his voice. “The night you graduated? She told you she was in New York working on a project with her academic advisor. She wasn’t. She was here, with me.” “Mason, I swear to God!” Elena screamed. “The wedding decorations you liked? I chose them,” Mason sneered, stepping closer. “The vows she said to you? I wrote them. She just memorized the script.” “And the baby? This isn’t even the first one. There were two others before this. She just didn’t keep them.” Every word felt like a physical blow to my chest. My face grew paler with every sentence, the room beginning to spin. My chest tightened, a familiar, terrifying pressure squeezing my heart. I had a congenital heart condition as a child; though I had surgery, the sudden shock was too much. My breathing grew rapid and shallow, and before I could reach for a chair, my knees gave out, and the world went black. When I woke up, the hospital room was dark. Elena was sitting by my bedside, her head resting in her hands, looking entirely defeated. The moment she heard me move, she bolted upright, her eyes wide with frantic concern. “You’re awake! Are you okay? Does anything hurt?” I stared at the ceiling, refusing to look at her. After a long, heavy silence, she leaned closer, her voice soft and coaxing. “Jason… I only did this because of us. You can’t have biological children. Instead of raising a stranger’s child with absolutely no connection to either of us, wouldn’t you rather raise a baby that shares my blood? I did this for you. Can’t you see that?” I turned my head to look at her, my eyes wide with disbelief. She was entirely serious. My pain, my humiliation, the fact that she had treated me like a fool for half my life—none of it mattered to her. She honestly believed she was doing me a favor. A violent tremble shook my entire body. I pointed toward the door. “Get out. Get the hell away from me.” Elena bit her lip, slowly pulling the hospital blanket up to my chest. “I’ll come back tomorrow. Just… try to rest. Don’t excite yourself.” The moment she closed the door, it clicked open again. Mason walked in, his eyes gleaming with a toxic, petty satisfaction. “There’s one more thing you should know,” he said, pulling up a chair and sitting down with a smirk. I stared at him coldly. “Five years ago, when you submitted your college applications,” Mason said, leaning in. “Elena was the one who changed your choice.” My heart stopped. “What did you say?” He let out a quiet giggle. “It wasn’t her clumsy little sister who messed up your computer. That was just a story they made up to keep you happy. Elena did it herself. She logged into your portal and rejected your Yale acceptance so you’d have to go to Boston University with her. I watched her do it.” A rush of old memories flooded my mind. After high school graduation, I had trusted Elena with all my passwords. When my admission letter came from Boston University instead of Yale—where I had been a shoe-in—I was devastated. I had suspected her for a fleeting moment. But when I went to her house to confront her, her younger sister, Chelsea, had dropped to her knees, sobbing and begging for forgiveness. ““I’m so sorry, Jason! I thought it was just a game! I didn’t know I was changing your real applications!”” Elena had immediately sent Chelsea abroad to study, cutting off her allowance as “punishment,” and spent weeks holding me, crying and apologizing for her sister’s stupidity. I had let it go because Chelsea was punished, and because I was happy enough to at least be going to college with Elena. It was all a lie. A beautifully choreographed play written, directed, and starred in by Elena. Mason smiled, satisfied with the damage he had done, and quietly slipped out of the room. I sat in the hospital bed as the night bled into dawn, staring blankly at the wall. My heart felt hollow, like an empty chamber where a life used to be. At mid-morning, the door opened. Elena walked in carrying a bag of warm breakfast. She began setting the containers on the bedside table, her movements so careful, so dedicated, as if my nourishment was the only thing that mattered in her world. It was sickening. “Why?” I asked, my voice dry and hollow. Elena paused, looking up in confusion. “What do you mean?” “Why did you change my college application?” Her hands froze. After a long pause, she let out a soft sigh. “Didn’t you want to be with me? You didn’t need Yale anyway. The Kingsley Group will eventually be yours. I just wanted you by my side. I didn’t want you to have to work so hard.” The sheer, arrogant entitlement of her words broke something inside me. I grabbed the bowl of hot porridge and threw it directly at her chest. “That was my life, Elena!” I screamed, my voice cracking with pure, unadulterated hatred. “Do you have any idea how hard I worked for that acceptance?!” The hot liquid splattered across her expensive coat, but she didn’t even flinch. She just looked at me, her expression entirely rational. “I did it because I love you.” I let out a low, bitter laugh that sounded more like a sob. “Love? You call this love? Sleeping with another man is love? Forcing me to raise his bastard child is love? Destroying my dreams is love?!” I stared at her, my eyes burning. “Your love is a disease, Elena. It’s disgusting.” Her jaw tightened, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Calm down,” she said, her voice dropping into a chilly, commanding tone. “I’ve already rescheduled the wedding. I expect you to move past this so we can start over.” She stepped closer, her voice laced with a subtle, sharp threat. “I’ve already sent out the new invitations to your parents and friends. If you don’t want them to be humiliated in front of everyone, you will show up on Thursday. Don’t make this ugly, Jason. You know you can’t leave me.” Without waiting for a response, she turned and walked out. The room fell silent. I closed my eyes, a cold, dark resolve settling over me. She thought she could use my parents to force my hand? Not a chance. I picked up my phone, called my parents, and told them everything. I told them to pack their bags immediately and block Elena’s number. The next evening, as my flight to London climbed into the sky, I looked out the window. I knew Elena and I were finally over. But I wasn’t going to let her walk away unscathed. I had left a very special wedding gift waiting for her.

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The nanny was in the middle of giving the baby a bath when his elbow accidentally brushed against the smart assistant on the living room console. The device beeped, automatically slipping into developer diagnostics mode, and began playing back the history of my wife’s voice commands. My wife, Lauren, is a senior software architect. Every piece of smart tech in our house was custom-designed and installed by her, specifically for me. Before I could even reach out to turn the speaker off, her voice drifted into the quiet room. “Set the master bedroom to sixty degrees. He’s always whining about his circulation anyway. Let him freeze a couple of times; that’ll shut him up.” “He made that awful soup again today. Honestly, if it weren’t for the shares his mother is releasing at the end of the fiscal year, I couldn’t play the doting wife for another second.” “Just three more months. Once the equity transfer goes through, I’m throwing both of them out.” Tom, the nanny, froze. He didn’t say a word, but his eyes widened as he quietly gathered the baby in a towel and moved away from the speaker. I stood in the center of the room, my fingernails digging so deeply into my palms that they left white, bloodless crescents. Slowly, the roaring in my ears faded into a cold, hard calm. Three minutes later, the equity transfer document was nothing but confetti at the bottom of the paper shredder. … I pushed the shredder drawer back in, the plastic latch clicking softly into place. Tom stood by the nursery door, holding the baby close to his chest, his lips parting as if he wanted to speak but couldn’t find the air. He glanced at the pulsing blue light of the smart speaker, then tightened his grip on my son. “Take him into the back bedroom,” I said. Tom hesitated. “Sir?” “There are no smart devices in that room,” I explained, my voice steady. “I kept the physical brass key.” He nodded quickly and retreated, closing the door behind him. The moment the latch clicked, the smart speaker in the living room flared to life again. Lauren’s recorded voice cut through the silence. “At two in the morning, set the hallway nightlight to eighty percent brightness. Make it flash every ten minutes.” “He says he’s having trouble sleeping. Let’s make sure he stays that way.” I didn’t move. My fingers curled tighter. For the past two months, whenever the baby cried and the nightlights flashed, I would wake up in a panic. Lauren would hold me close, whispering comfortingly into my hair: “You’re just too anxious about the baby, sweetheart. Stop letting yourself get so worked up.” And I had believed her. The speaker kept playing. “Set the baby formula prep machine to night mode, ninety-five degrees.” “If the baby cries a little longer, he won’t have the energy to look over my ledgers.” The nursery door cracked open. Tom peered out, his voice trembling. “Mr. Wyatt… the last few nights, the baby wouldn’t stop crying after his bottles. I thought I was mixing the formula wrong. Mrs. Wyatt told me I was being unprofessional and needed to pay closer attention.” I looked over at the sleek, chrome formula machine sitting on the counter. It was connected directly to Lauren’s home network. When we first bought it, she had looked my mother in the eye and promised it would make my life easier. My mother had patted her hand and said, “Lauren is so detail-oriented. She’s more thorough than I ever was.” I pulled out my old phone—the one not synced to the house—and pressed record. “Should we call the police?” Tom whispered, stepping fully into the hall. “Not yet.” “But she’s hurting the baby!” he insisted, his voice rising in panic. “Every device in this house is logged under her administrator account,” I said, staring at the glowing blue ring on the speaker. “The second she realizes we know, she’ll wipe the server logs from her office.” Tom’s hand shook as he grabbed a pen from the counter. I recorded the rest of the audio playback, then had him write down exactly what he had heard tonight. He was shaking so badly that the pen skidded off the margin of the notepad. I paused the recording, giving him a moment to breathe, then guided him through the rest. When we finished, I walked into the study. A few paper scraps still clung to the teeth of the shredder. I knelt down, picking them out one by one. The fragments bore fragmented words: “Authorization,” “Proxy,” “Irrevocable.” A real equity transfer document would have a legal filing number and a notary seal. This didn’t. It was a proxy agreement. If I had signed it, she would have had the authority to vote and make decisions on my behalf at my mother’s board meeting tomorrow morning. She would have effectively seized control of the shares my mother built. I looked up the number for our family’s estate lawyer—a contact I had saved weeks ago when the first faint doubts began to creep in. My phone buzzed. It was a text from Lauren. “Did you sign the papers? Mom needs them for the funding round tomorrow. Let’s not disappoint her. I know you’ve been exhausted lately. Once this crazy week is over, I’m taking you and the baby away for a long weekend.” I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering. “Waiting for you,” I replied. I transferred the audio recordings, the smart kettle logs, and the nightlight schedule into an old, external hard drive. The drive belonged to my college laptop, which had never been connected to our smart home network. Lauren had always complained the machine was too slow to bother with. Just as the transfer finished, my mother’s name flashed on the screen. When I answered, she didn’t offer a greeting. She simply coughed, her voice raspy. “Ivan, Lauren spent the entire afternoon defending our valuation to the investors. She’s carrying the weight of this company on her shoulders. Don’t start another fight with her over nothing.” I held the phone to my ear, staying silent. “The funding round tomorrow is critical,” she continued. “Just sign the papers. We’re a family. Do you really think she would do anything to hurt you?” I looked out at the dark living room. The smart speaker had finally gone silent. “Mom,” I said quietly. “Do you truly believe she wouldn’t?” “You’ve only just started staying home with the baby, Ivan. Your emotions are running high. I get it. But there are fifty employees who need to get paid. We can’t afford your mood swings right now.” The line went dead. At nine o’clock, the front door lock chimed, and Lauren walked in. She immediately went to the nursery. When Tom opened the door, her voice was light and warm. “Thank you for staying late, Tom. How was our little angel today?” She kissed the baby’s forehead, then walked over to me, resting her palm against my cheek. “You look terrible, honey. Still not sleeping?” I stepped back, breaking the contact. “The papers are in the study.” Her hand hovered in the air for a fraction of a second before she smiled. “Good. Let me take a look.” She disappeared into the office. I stood in the hallway, listening to the sound of the desk drawer sliding open and shut. Before she came home, I had placed an identical manila envelope in the drawer, stuffed with blank printer paper of the exact same weight. She felt the thickness of the envelope and assumed the document was safe, merely waiting for my signature. When she came out, the smile was still plastered on her face. She didn’t mention the papers directly. Instead, she pushed up her sleeves. “Did you put them somewhere else?” she asked casually. “Maybe. I might have misplaced them. My mind has been foggy.” She studied me for a long beat, then let her gaze drop. “You really are working yourself into the ground.” She walked into the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with a small ceramic bowl. “Drink this and get some rest. We’ll find the papers in the morning.” As she set the bowl on the table, the faint, bitter scent of valerian root and chamomile drifted up. Every time the company had a major compliance review over the past year, Lauren would brew me this exact “wellness tea.” She always told me I needed to sleep first. And every time, I would wake up late the next morning, leaving her to handle the meetings alone. I picked up the cup and took a small sip, keeping my eyes on her. “Is it too bitter?” she asked. “It’s fine.” I walked into the kitchen to wash my hands, turned the faucet on high to drown out the sound, and poured the rest of the liquid down the drain. As I walked back out, the front door unlocked again. My mother-in-law, Helen, walked in carrying a thermal food container. The moment she saw me, her forehead creased. “Ivan, why is Lauren in the kitchen while you’re just standing there?” Helen sighed, setting the container down. “She went back to work before she was even fully recovered from childbirth. You can’t keep throwing these tantrums. Someone has to keep this family afloat.” Lauren stepped out of the kitchen, taking the container. “Mom, please. Ivan has been under a lot of pressure.” “Pressure is no excuse to jeopardize our future,” Helen snapped. “Your mother’s health is failing, Ivan, and the company is at a tipping point. What is so hard about letting Lauren manage your shares temporarily?” I looked at Lauren. “So you need me to sign tonight. No matter what.” She sat down opposite me, her voice dropping into a soft, pleading register. “Ivan, if we don’t even have basic trust between us, it’s going to break your mother’s heart.” “Exactly,” Helen chimed in. “You aren’t yourself lately. You’re going to make a decision you’ll regret. If you can’t handle it, just let Lauren sign as your proxy. You’re married. It’s not like she’s a stranger.” Tom stepped out of the hallway, his hands clenched at his sides. He couldn’t stay silent any longer. “He’s not unstable. The baby’s formula has been freezing cold, and the lights have been flashing in the middle of the night.” The living room fell into a suffocating silence. Lauren set her mug down with a soft click. She didn’t look at Tom. “Are you saying we don’t pay you enough, Tom?” Tom swallowed hard. “That’s not what I mean.” “Then what do you mean?” She smiled, though her eyes remained entirely cold. “I hired you to watch my child, not to drive a wedge between my husband and me.” Helen pointed a finger toward the foyer. “This is ridiculous. People like him shouldn’t be in this house. Fire him and get him out of here tonight.” Tom looked at me, his eyes pleading. I pulled out my phone and processed a digital transfer for three months of his salary right in front of them. “He stays tonight to watch the baby.” Helen slammed her thermal container onto the coffee table. “Ivan! Who do you think you’re throwing a tantrum at?” “I’m not throwing a tantrum,” I said. “I’m just protecting my son.” The corners of Lauren’s mouth tightened. She stood up and walked over to the smart home control panel on the wall. “Protecting him from what? From me? From the system I built?” She tapped the screen. One by one, the lights in the living room, the foyer, and the hallway went dark, until only the tiny safety light outside the nursery remained. Helen gasped, taking a step back. “Lauren, what are you doing?” Lauren ignored her mother, keeping her eyes locked on mine. “Every lock, every light, every security camera in this house was installed by my hands. Ivan, I did all of this to keep you and our baby safe.” I stared at the dark hallway, my hands trembling. Later that night, Helen retired to the guest room. Lauren tucked the blanket around my shoulders, leaning down to whisper in my ear, “Just sleep, Ivan. In the morning, this will all be over.” I closed my eyes. In the darkness, I heard the faint, digital chirp of the bedroom door lock engaging. She hadn’t just cut the Wi-Fi. She had locked me in from the outside. At one in the morning, the baby started crying. I stood up and grabbed the doorknob. It wouldn’t budge. I turned it again, and the digital display on the lock flashed: Night Safety Mode Active. I grabbed my phone to call Tom, but the external network was offline. The screen only showed our local intranet connection. Lauren’s voice drifted through the door’s intercom. “Ivan, stop fighting it. You need to calm down.” Down the hall, the baby’s cries grew sharper, turning into a frantic shriek. My palms slicked with sweat against the brass handle. I reached under the nightstand and pulled out the physical backup key I had hidden months ago. Lauren had told me to throw it away when she installed the digital locks, but I had quietly slipped it into my drawer. The lock clicked mechanically, and I threw the door open. Lauren was standing at the end of the hallway, her phone in her hand. When she saw the physical key, her face went rigid. “Running around like this is only going to prove to everyone that you’re sick, Ivan.” I held up my phone. “The system logs showing you locked my door just synced to my lawyer’s server.” Lauren’s thumb froze over her screen. I pushed past her and walked into the nursery. Tom was cradling the baby, rocking him back and forth as he wiped a tear from his own cheek. “The door to the nursery locked too,” Tom whispered. “I couldn’t get out to find you. I’ve just been trying to keep him quiet.” I took my son into my arms. He buried his wet face against my neck, his little shoulders shaking with small, hiccuping sobs. Lauren walked into the room, her phone screen glowing as she initiated a FaceTime call with my mother. My mother’s face appeared on the display, her eyes tired and strained. The camera feed showed me holding the crying baby in the dark hallway, with Tom and Helen standing in the background like witnesses to a domestic dispute. “Ivan,” my mother sighed, her voice heavy with disappointment. “What on earth is going on over there?” Lauren stepped next to me, rubbing her temples with a look of practiced exhaustion. “Mom, I’m sorry to wake you. But Ivan’s state is deteriorating. I’m genuinely afraid his anxiety is turning into severe postpartum depression. He’s going to hurt himself or the baby. I had to lock the door temporarily just to get him to de-escalate.” Helen chimed in from the doorway, wiping her eyes. “Diane, I hate to say it about your own son, but he’s simply not stable. We can’t leave a newborn with someone who is losing his mind.” I kept my head down, patting my son’s back, refusing to engage in the theater. My mother stared at the screen. After a long silence, she spoke. “If I don’t show up to the board meeting tomorrow, the investors will require a proxy signature. Lauren, will you be able to sign for the family?” I watched my mother’s silent capitulation on the small screen, holding my son closer. “In an emergency like this,” Lauren said smoothly, “we have to put the company first.” They were all waiting for me to break. I tapped the screen, disconnecting the call, and carried my baby back to my room. When Lauren followed me inside, I was already transferring the final logs from the offline laptop onto a micro-SD card. Her expression shifted. “What are you doing?” Suddenly, the power to the room cut out. The laptop screen flickered, but because it had a battery, the progress bar kept moving until the transfer reached one hundred percent. Lauren stepped in front of me. “Where is the proxy agreement?” “I’m not signing it.” She let out a dry, humorless laugh. She reached into her folder and pulled out a document, tossing it onto the bed. It was an intake form for a psychiatric evaluation, scheduled for eight-thirty tomorrow morning. “If your mother and a licensed professional agree that you aren’t fit to make legal decisions, you won’t even be allowed into the building tomorrow,” she said quietly. Helen stood at the threshold, leaning against the doorframe. “Ivan, stop being stubborn. It’s normal for a man to feel overwhelmed when he steps back from his career. There’s no shame in admitting you need help.” Tom took a step forward. “He doesn’t need help. I have the logs of the formula temperatures and the flashing lights right here on my phone.” Lauren turned her cold gaze toward him. “How much is he paying you to lie for him?” Tom opened his mouth, but under her icy glare, he quieted down. Lauren turned back to me, holding out her hand. “Give me the hard drive, Ivan. We can still pretend none of this happened.” I looked down at the external drive in my hand. It was just the enclosure. The actual storage card was already slipped into the side pocket of the baby’s diaper bag. I turned to Tom. “The baby needs some fresh air. Take him out to the backyard for a minute.” Tom caught my drift. He grabbed the diaper bag, lifted the baby, and walked toward the back exit. Lauren didn’t stop him. Her eyes were fixed on the silver drive in my hand. Once the back door clicked shut, she dialed my mother again. When the call connected, my mother’s voice was cold and sharp. “Ivan, do you have the documents or not?” Lauren leaned over my shoulder, her voice dropping to a gentle whisper. “Just hand them over, Ivan. I’ll explain everything to your mother. We can fix this.” My mother added, “Give her the papers, Ivan. Don’t make me look like a fool in front of the board.” I looked at the screen, then at Lauren. They were waiting for me to surrender. Instead, I walked over to the shredder, pulled out the drawer, and dumped the pile of white paper confetti directly in front of the camera lens. Lauren’s knuckles went white as she stared at the shredded remains. The fake smile vanished from her face entirely. She stepped closer to me, her voice dropping to a lethal whisper. “Ivan, you have no idea what you’ve just done.”

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There was an emergency at the office, so I had to ask my fiancé, Wyatt, to pick up my parents from the train station. It was their first time visiting the city. Half an hour later, he sent a single-character reply: “K.” A faint sense of unease settled in my chest, but I brushed it aside. It wasn’t until I got home after work to find the apartment completely dark and empty that the dread turned into a cold certainty. I rushed back out, heading straight for the station. It was ninety-five degrees outside. Three heavy wooden crates of home-grown sweet potatoes had split open, scattering the purple tubers all over the concrete walkway. My father, suffering from severe heat exhaustion, was slumped against a stone planter, while my mother used the plastic cap of a water bottle to feed him tiny, careful sips of water. Wyatt had never shown up. Instead, he had simply sent my father a text: “I’m tied up. Just download the new AI assistant app and look up the bus route.” But my father used a twenty-dollar prepaid flip phone. He was holding the scuffed, plastic brick to his ear, his voice trembling and incredibly small as he spoke to the automated voicemail greeting over and over again: “How do we get to my daughter’s place? Please, just tell me where to go.” When they saw me running toward them, my parents tried to force a smile, though their eyes were bloodshot and watery. My mother nervously pulled at the frayed hem of her cardigan. “Don’t be mad at Wyatt, sweetie. It’s our fault. We’re just too old for this high-tech stuff. We caused trouble.” Shaking, I opened my phone. Wyatt’s childhood friend, Chelsea, had just posted an update. In the photo, Wyatt was gently helping her parents into a sleek, rented luxury RV. [Mentioned offhand that my dad gets car sick, so Wyatt took the afternoon off and rented an RV to pick them up from the airport. Sweeter than a real son.] I knelt down and took my father’s shaking, calloused hand. The scratched screen of his phone was still lit up, displaying the outgoing call log to Wyatt. Forty-three calls. Every single one had been declined. I swallowed my tears, my voice terrifyingly calm. “Dad, the AI isn’t the problem.” “It’s the man. He’s rotten to the core.” 1 My father’s IV ran until nine at night. He lay on the ER cot, his face pale and waxy, his dry lips parting slightly with a tremor. “Caitlin, this must have cost a fortune. I brought cash.” He reached with shaking fingers toward the waistband of his trousers, trying to unbutton a hidden pocket my mother had hand-sewn into the lining. I pressed my hand over his, my throat feeling as though it had been scraped with sandpaper. “It didn’t cost much, Dad. I already paid for it.” In reality, I had Wyatt’s credit card in my wallet, but I instinctively used my own savings. From the moment that forty-third call went unanswered at the station, I knew I didn’t want to owe him a single cent ever again. When I finally brought my parents back to the apartment, Wyatt was already home. He was lounging on the sofa in his cashmere sweatpants, his AirPods firmly in his ears. Hearing the front door click, he looked up, his eyes lingering on my parents’ wrinkled, sweat-stained clothes for a fraction of a second. “Hey, you made it. Must be brutal outside.” His voice was polite, perfectly smooth, and entirely hollow. Then he pointed toward the entryway. “Slippers are on the second shelf of the shoe rack. And Helen, Robert’s boots have quite a bit of dried mud on the soles. Could you put them in a plastic bag once he takes them off? That entryway rug is custom-woven wool. It’s incredibly difficult to spot-clean.” My mother, who had been about to step onto the mat, froze mid-motion. She looked down at my father’s dusty work boots, panicked, and took two steps back, retreating entirely into the concrete hallway outside our front door. “Oh… oh, of course. I understand.” She knelt on the hard floor of the corridor, pulling the heavy boots off my father’s feet herself. She wiped the soles with the clean hem of her shirt before she dared carry them inside. My father stood awkwardly in the entryway, rubbing his hands together. He reached into his worn canvas duffel bag and pulled out a heavy glass jar. “Wyatt, I harvested this clover honey myself. Caitlin told us you lecture a lot at the university and your throat gets dry. This will help.” He held it out with both hands, offering it like a peace offering. Wyatt took out one AirPod. He didn’t reach for the jar. Instead, he gave a small, indulgent smile. “Thanks, Robert, but I only drink single-origin espresso. No sugar.” He paused, adjusting his posture. “Besides, raw, unpasteurized honey from private, unregulated hives carries a pretty high risk of botulism and heavy metal contamination. If I get sick, I miss work. You should probably just keep it for yourselves.” My father’s hands froze in mid-air. A deep, agonizing flash of humiliation crossed his weathered face. Slowly, he pulled the jar back, tucking it into the absolute bottom of his bag. His voice was barely a whisper. “Oh… I see. I don’t know much about science. I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.” Wyatt tapped his AirPod back in, turning his attention back to his iPad screen. “It’s fine. Just use your phone to search things if you’re unsure. Caitlin, why don’t you take them to get showered? They have… that damp, crowded transit smell on them.” His tone was entirely natural, as if he were simply pointing out a draft in the room. I stood in the shadows of the hallway, digging my fingernails into my palms until they drew blood. Minutes later, his phone rang. Wyatt immediately pulled out his AirPods, put the call on speaker, and his voice transformed. It became warm, patient, and incredibly attentive. “Mr. Clifford! Yes, that smart neck massager was from me.” “You can’t find the power button? No problem, let me walk you through it.” “Feel that raised metal button on the left? Hold it down for three seconds, then slide it up. That’s level one.” Chelsea’s father laughed warmly on the other end. “Oh, Wyatt, you kids and your high-tech gadgets. My old bones can barely keep up. Thanks for your patience.” Wyatt chuckled, his tone entirely devoid of any irritation. “Come on, Mr. Clifford. It’s no trouble at all. It’s our job to help our elders navigate these things. Don’t think twice about it.” I stood in the hallway, watching my father creep along the edge of the baseboards toward the guest room, avoiding the wool rug as if it were a minefield. It’s our job to help our elders navigate these things. Then what was telling my father to ask an AI? 2 The next day was Saturday. I wanted to take my father to a local clinic to follow up on his heart rate after the heatstroke. As we stepped out of the guest room, I found Wyatt standing in the living room holding a sleek black smart speaker. He plugged it into the outlet right outside the guest room door and turned to my parents. “Helen, Robert, I’m usually swamped with work, and Caitlin has her own schedule. You probably don’t know how to run the smart systems in this apartment.” He tapped the top of the speaker. “I set up this home assistant for you. If you want to turn on the TV, use the washing machine, or don’t know how long to microwave something, just talk to it. It’s smarter than a person, and it won’t get annoyed no matter how many times you ask.” My mother’s eyes lit up with a mixture of fear and awe. “Oh, that’s amazing. Thank you so much, Wyatt. We promise not to be a burden.” Wyatt nodded, satisfied, and checked his watch. “I have to head out. Probably won’t be back for dinner. Help yourselves.” As the door clicked shut, I saw a text flash on his screen from Chelsea: [Wyatt, my dad wants to try that new Michelin-starred spot downtown, but I heard bookings are blocked out a month in advance!] Wyatt’s reply was instant: [Already taken care of. I used a connection through the dean to get a private room. I’ll pick you all up at eleven.] I stood frozen in the hallway, the blood in my veins turning to ice. I had asked Wyatt about that exact restaurant a month ago, mentioning how rare it was for my parents to visit and how much I wanted to treat them to a nice meal there. Wyatt hadn’t even looked up from his screen then. “Places like that are about the ambiance and the upcharge. Your parents prefer simple food; they wouldn’t appreciate it anyway. It’s a waste of money.” At eleven o’clock that night, I got up to get a glass of water and noticed the guest room door was slightly ajar. The room was pitch black. By the faint glow of the hallway light, I saw my father kneeling on the carpet in front of the smart speaker. He was wearing his reading glasses—the ones with a broken temple held together by blue painter’s tape. In his hand was the manual Wyatt had tossed on the counter earlier. My mother had accidentally spilled some soup on the sofa cushion and had tried to wash it, but couldn’t get the smart washing machine door to unlock. My father leaned close to the speaker, his voice a low, heavy-accented whisper. “Uh… hi, AI. Excuse me… how do we open the… washer?” The speaker pulsed with a cool blue light. An artificial, robotic voice responded: [I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that. Please repeat your command in a clear voice.] My father broke into a sweat, clearing his throat and trying to enunciate perfectly. “AI. Washing… machine. How… open?” The speaker replied: [Searching for: “How to wash a machine.” Here is what I found…] My father stared at the glowing blue light, completely lost. He sat back on the floor, defeated. Then, slowly, he raised his calloused hand and slapped himself across the face. A sharp, flesh-on-flesh crack cut through the quiet of the apartment. “Stupid…” he whispered, his voice cracking with tears. “Even a machine looks down on you. How is Caitlin supposed to hold her head up in this family?” I stood outside the door, biting my hand to keep from sobbing, tears streaming down my face. This was Wyatt’s pride and joy—his high-tech solution to every inconvenience. It was a mirror, reflecting his deep-seated arrogance and my parents’ painful humility. 3 Sunday afternoon brought uninvited guests. Wyatt didn’t give me any warning; he simply walked in with Chelsea and her parents. “Mr. Clifford wanted to see the river view, and my place has the best angle,” Wyatt explained naturally as he kicked off his shoes and took Chelsea’s mother’s designer handbag. Chelsea clung to her father’s arm, her voice sweet and high. “Wyatt, I hope we aren’t interrupting anything with Caitlin. My dad’s arthritis has been flaring up from all the walking, so we’re moving a bit slow.” I came out of the kitchen with a plate of sliced fruit and met Wyatt’s eyes. His gaze landed on the plate, his brow furrowing slightly. “Caitlin, go grab that German physical therapy device from my study drawer for Mr. Clifford.” I froze. “That’s for my dad.” I had bought it just yesterday. Because of my father’s heat exhaustion at the station, his lower back and legs had been aching. I had ordered it through a friend from an overseas medical supplier, spending nearly a thousand dollars. The box hadn’t even been opened. Wyatt’s face darkened with familiar, condescending impatience. “Your dad’s spent his whole life doing heavy farm labor; his joints are chronically worn out. A precision device like that won’t do anything for him. Mr. Clifford has acute inflammation from the cold weather. It’s different.” He lowered his voice. “And when I bought this place, Mr. Clifford pulled some strings to get me a builder’s discount. We owe him. Go get it.” He was so reasonable, so clinical, weighing every human interaction like a transaction. My father, who had just come in from the balcony after hanging up the laundry, heard us. Panic flickered in his eyes. He quickly set the laundry basket on a chair and stepped forward. “Caitlin, I don’t need that thing! My back is tough, let’s not waste the electricity.” He gave Chelsea’s father a warm, placating smile, bowing slightly as he handed over the boxed device. “Here, sir, please use it. My son-in-law bought the best; it’s bound to work wonders.” Chelsea’s father took the box with two fingers, giving a dry, dismissive nod. Wyatt knelt on the carpet, carefully peeling open the packaging. He attached the therapy pads to Mr. Clifford’s knees, adjusting the settings with extreme care. “How’s that, Mr. Clifford? Is it too intense?” “It’s perfect, Wyatt. You always think of everything,” Chelsea’s mother beamed. My father stood there, rubbing his hands together, looking completely out of place. To ease the awkwardness, he reached for a microfiber cloth on the kitchen counter. “I’ll… I’ll wipe down the coffee table. You folks chat.” “Robert,” Wyatt called out, not even looking up from his remote. “That coffee table is sintered stone. You can’t use a wet cloth on it; it leaves streaks. If you have nothing to do, feel free to rest in the guest room. The Roomba will handle the cleaning.” My father froze, the cloth clutched in his hand. He looked like a child caught doing something wrong. Slowly, he hid the cloth behind his back, bowed his head, and crept back to the guest room along the wall. As the door clicked shut, I heard Wyatt murmur to Chelsea: “Older folks always need to feel useful, but honestly, it just slows everything down.” The paring knife clattered onto the kitchen counter. I took a deep breath, turned, and walked into the guest room. 4 The next morning, my father began coughing violently in the bathroom. I pushed the door open to find a splash of dark crimson in the sink. The severe heatstroke from the station had triggered a latent cardiovascular crisis. “Caitlin, don’t tell Wyatt…” my father whispered, clutching his chest, terrified of being an inconvenience. My hands shook as I texted Wyatt: My dad is coughing up blood. Can you contact someone to get him into an emergency specialist slot? Wyatt replied instantly. But it wasn’t a message. It was a block of AI-generated text. [Based on your description, coughing up blood may indicate a severe cardiovascular event. It is recommended to visit the nearest tertiary hospital. You can book an appointment via the hospital’s portal. The steps are as follows: Step 1, download the app…] Looking at that sterile, automated reply, my heart died. I closed the app, wiped my tears, and called an Uber to take my father to the State Medical Center. The diagnosis was grim: he needed an immediate coronary angioplasty and stent. “Our cardiology unit is world-class, but Dr. Mercer is the only surgeon who can perform this delicate of a procedure this week,” the doctor said, reviewing the scans. “His schedule is booked through next month. Your father can’t wait that long. You should see if you have any personal connections.” Dr. Mercer was Wyatt’s university mentor. Wyatt visited him every holiday, and they were incredibly close. I dialed Wyatt’s number. It rang for a long time before he answered. “Wyatt, my dad needs emergency heart surgery. Can you call Dr. Mercer? The doctors say it’s urgent.” Silence on the line. Then, “Caitlin, aren’t you overreacting? I sent you the booking instructions. It’s normal for older people to have heart issues. They can manage it with medication.” “The doctor said he needs surgery now! He’s coughing up blood!” I raised my voice. Wyatt sighed. “Look, stop yelling. I already used Dr. Mercer’s emergency slot for this week.” My body went rigid, the blood rushing in my ears. “Used it? On who?” “Chelsea’s uncle,” Wyatt said, his voice completely matter-of-fact. “He runs an import-export business. His time is literally money. He had a mild arrhythmia, so I gave him the slot.” My hand shook so hard I could barely hold the phone. “An arrhythmia? My father is spitting up blood! He is fighting for his life!” “Caitlin!” Wyatt’s tone grew icy. “Stop using emotional blackmail. Resources have to be used where they matter. Chelsea’s uncle can secure corporate sponsorship for my research grant next semester. What can your father do?” “He’s an old farmer. Even if he gets the surgery, what social value does he have other than eating up resources for a few more years?” The sterile, cold air of the hospital hallway crawled up my spine. I opened my mouth, but suddenly, the words dried up. “Why aren’t you saying anything?” Wyatt seemed to realize he had gone too far, and his voice softened a fraction. “Look, I’ll send you a link. I integrated the latest system into it. Have your dad check it periodically to see if there’s a cancellation. We live in a digital age; he needs to learn to adapt.” The line went dead. And in that moment, any lingering hope I had for us was gone. That afternoon, after settling my parents into a temporary ward, I went back to the apartment. Wyatt wasn’t there. I pulled out my largest suitcase and packed our lives into it. We didn’t own much anyway. When everything was packed, I walked over to the sintered stone coffee table. I slipped off my diamond engagement ring and set it gently on the polished surface. Then, I closed the door behind me. No slamming. No sound.

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