Category: English

Daisy and I spend two hours every day trapped in the soul-crushing crawl of Seattle traffic, commuting twenty-five miles to a mediocre elementary school on the ragged edge of the county. For two years, I’ve swallowed the bitterness of it. I did it because my husband, Nelson, told me our downtown condo didn’t fall within the catchment area for Westside Elementary—the crown jewel of the district. I believed him. Until my best friend, Sasha, bought an identical unit three floors below us. She texted me this morning, vibrating with excitement. Her son was just approved for a transfer to Westside. “They’ll be classmates!” she chirped. She sent a screenshot of the approval letter. There it was—the district’s official digital seal, confirming her residency at our exact address qualified her for the school. The floor seemed to tilt beneath my feet. My heart didn’t just sink; it turned into a lead weight. We were in the district. We always had been. And I had been kept in the dark for two years. 1 I typed back to Sasha, my fingers trembling so hard I nearly dropped my phone: “Are you sure about the zoning? I thought our building was excluded from Westside.” Sasha replied instantly. “Of course it’s included! That’s literally the only reason we bought here. We’re broke after the down payment, but for the kid’s education? We’d eat ramen for a decade to get into Westside.” Westside Elementary. The highest-rated public school in the city, boasting resources that rivaled elite private academies. It was exactly a five-minute walk from our front door. Two years ago, when Daisy was starting kindergarten, I had gone to the district office with our deed in hand. I was rejected. I remember coming home, frantic and tearful, waving the paperwork at Nelson. “It doesn’t make sense. We’re right next door. How can we not be zoned for it?” “Nelson, didn’t you check this when we bought the place? We agreed the location was everything because of the schools.” This condo was our first real home. It was expensive, a brutal sacrifice funded mostly by my parents’ life savings, though Nelson and his parents had been the ones to scout the listing and handle the closing. They’d told me to focus on the wedding, to be the “beautiful bride” while they handled the “boring logistics.” Nelson had just rubbed the back of his neck, looking genuinely stressed. “I had no idea, Ada. I’m as shocked as you are.” Then came the pivot. The soothing, condescending tone he’d perfected over the years. “Look, it’s just elementary school. Kids are resilient. Does it really matter if she’s at Westside or somewhere else? You’re getting worked up over nothing.” We had a screaming match that night. “How can you say it doesn’t matter?” I’d yelled. “The resources, the networking, the safety—everything about Westside sets the trajectory for her entire life! Are you even her father? How can you be so indifferent to her future?” “Fine!” he’d snapped. “If you don’t believe me, call the agent who sold us the place. Here’s his number. Just don’t harass the guy; he’s just doing his job.” I called the agent immediately. He was curt, bordering on rude. “Mrs. Mitch, I told your husband at the closing—that unit doesn’t come with the Westside enrollment rights. It’s a legal quirk of the building’s history.” “Why didn’t you disclose that earlier?” I demanded. “You didn’t ask,” he said flatly, then hung up. Daisy had tugged on my hem then, her eyes wide and watery. “Mommy, do I not have a school to go to?” I knelt, brushing her hair back, forced a smile that felt like a crack in porcelain. “No, baby. Mommy’s going to fix it. You just enjoy your summer.” But fixing it wasn’t easy. It was late August. Every reputable school in the city was capped. I had banked everything on Westside. I was losing sleep, my hair thinning from the stress. Then, two days later, Nelson walked in grinning, waving an enrollment packet for a school in the far suburbs. “I solved it!” he shouted, lifting me off my feet. “I pulled some strings with a guy I know at the district. They found a spot for Daisy at Pine Ridge. It’s a bit of a drive, and since we’re out of their zone, there’s an ‘out-of-district’ fee—about $7,500 a semester.” At that moment, I didn’t care about the money or the commute. I gripped his hands like he was my savior. I felt guilty for ever doubting him. I thought I was married to a man who could handle anything. Now, looking at Sasha’s text, I realized I hadn’t been married to a savior. I’d been married to a ghost-writer of my own misery. Sasha sent another message: “Hey, is Daisy not at Westside? I thought that was the plan.” I let out a sharp, jagged laugh. “No. She’s at Pine Ridge. Twenty-five miles away.” The commute is a nightmare. To get Daisy to class by 8:00 AM, we’re out the door by 6:45. I leave the house again at 3:00 PM to make the pickup. Because of the schedule, I had to quit my job as a marketing director. I went from a six-figure salary to a full-time chauffeur and housewife. I’d hesitated to quit, but Nelson had been so persuasive. “Ada, you’re the one who said her education is the priority. This is for Daisy. Besides, I’ll take care of you. My salary is more than enough. My card is in your wallet—buy whatever you want. Isn’t it better to be home, cooking, doing what you love, instead of grinding in an office?” I fell for it. For two years, I believed the lie of the “easy life.” Nelson makes $180,000 a year. It sounds like a lot, but in this city, it disappears fast. Groceries, utilities, insurance, Daisy’s extracurriculars—it adds up to a mountain of stress. And then there’s that $15,000 annual “tuition” for the suburban school. Whenever I mentioned the budget, Nelson would scold me. If I bought a cheap gift for my parents, he’d scoff. “This looks pathetic. My parents’ neighbors will laugh at us. Spend a little, Ada!” When I’d explain we were tight on cash, his brow would darken. “Tight? I bring home fifteen grand a month. Where does it go? Maybe if you stopped shopping so much, we’d have enough for a real vacation.” I was trapped in a cycle of defense and exhaustion. I had no time for myself. I used to have a cleaning service; now, I scrubbed the floors myself to save money. I didn’t shop. I went to the discount grocer across town. Sometimes, I even swallowed my pride and asked my parents for a “loan” just to cover the gas for the commute. The revelation hit me with the force of a physical blow. A dark, terrifying hypothesis began to take shape in my mind. I texted Sasha: “How can I find out who is officially using the school district spot for our address?” Following her advice, I bypassed the local office and went straight to the District Headquarters. The clerk there was professional but firm: “I can’t give you the names of other residents’ children due to privacy laws.” She started to slide my file back, but then paused, looking at my haggard face. “However… I can tell you the enrollment dates and the grade level currently attached to your tax parcel. Would that help?” I nodded, my throat tight. She printed a single sheet. Enrollment started: Fall 2022. Release date: 2028. 2022. The year Daisy was supposed to start. The year Nelson told me we were excluded. The child using our spot wasn’t just some random tenant. They had started exactly when Daisy was supposed to. And based on the grade level, the child was two years older than her. My hands shook as I grabbed the paper. Then, a text from Sasha: “Ada, I talked to my cousin in the Records Department. She said for a child to use a specific address for Westside, the parents have to show proof of residency or be listed as a legal dependent of the property owner on insurance or tax records.” My heart stopped. “So the child has to be on our legal records?” “Yes. Check your husband’s health insurance portal or your joint tax filings. If there’s another kid using that spot, they’re hidden in your paperwork somewhere.” Since we married, Nelson’s mother had insisted on keeping our “important documents” in her safe deposit box. “You kids are so disorganized,” she’d say with a saccharine smile. “I’ll keep the birth certificates and the deed safe. Just ask if you need them.” I couldn’t go to her. If Nelson was lying, she was the architect. But this was the digital age. I opened my laptop and logged into our joint health insurance portal. I needed to see the dependents. The screen prompted for Two-Factor Authentication. I grabbed Nelson’s iPad from the coffee table—he always left his messages synced. The code popped up. I entered it. My breath hitched as the “Loading” circle spun. One second. Two. The page loaded. Primary Subscriber: Nelson Mitch Dependent 1: Ada Mitch (Spouse) Dependent 2: Isabella Mitch (Daughter) I scrolled down. Dependent 3: Tobias Mitch (Son) The world went silent. Tobias Mitch. Memories I’d suppressed came rushing back with agonizing clarity. I knew that name. Or rather, I knew the “Toby” he belonged to. He was the son of Melanie Vance, Nelson’s “work wife” from his firm. Melanie was a single mother. Her story, according to Nelson, was tragic—her husband had died in a car wreck years ago. Nelson always mentioned how “lucky” it was that her late husband shared his last name. It made the paperwork at the office easier, he’d joked. Melanie and I had met. We’d even had dinner. I remember seeing her post on Instagram in the fall of 2022. A photo of a little boy in a navy blazer in front of a red brick building. “So proud of my big boy starting at the best school in the city! Resources are hard to come by, but we made it happen,” the caption read. At the time, I’d shown it to Nelson. “Wow, Melanie is impressive. A single mom buying into the Westside district on one salary? That’s incredible.” Nelson had been cold, dismissive. “Why do you care about her business? Focus on our own kid.” “I’m just saying,” I’d replied, “maybe I should talk to her. Get some tips for when Daisy finally gets in. They’re close in age; maybe they can be friends. Like siblings.” Siblings. I let out a choked, hysterical sob. They were siblings. On paper, anyway. Right then, a notification popped up on the iPad. A message from Melanie. “Hey, the team is celebrating the big contract win tonight at The Cut. You coming? Or do you have to check with the Warden first?” Nelson’s reply followed instantly: “I’ll be there. And don’t worry, I’ll bring Ada. It keeps her quiet when she feels ‘included.’ Plus, she loves playing the doting wife in front of the bosses.” I stared at the screen, the betrayal tasting like copper in my mouth. I’d spent two years as a “drudge,” a “warden,” a “housewife,” while he played family with another woman’s son using my daughter’s future. I didn’t scream. I didn’t throw the iPad. I felt a cold, crystalline clarity settle over me. “I’ll be there,” I messaged him from my own phone. That night at the restaurant, the wine flowed easily. Nelson’s colleagues were half-drunk by ten. I did what I always did—I played the gracious hostess, organizing Ubers and settling the coat check. But this time, I didn’t use my phone. I picked up Nelson’s. “Honey,” I whispered, leaning over him as he slumped in the booth. “Face ID isn’t working for the Uber app. Can you look at the screen?” He looked up blearily. The phone chirped and unlocked. I slipped into the hallway and opened his messages. I searched for “Melanie.” The first thing I saw was a Venmo transfer for ten thousand dollars. “Bonus for my favorite girl,” Nelson had written. Melanie’s reply: “Won’t your frumpy housewife notice?” Nelson: “Please. She thinks I make a flat salary. She has no idea my bonuses and commissions go to a separate account. She’s happy with her ‘allowance’—she’s basically a live-in nanny who thinks I’m a hero. It’s a perfect setup.” Tears blurred my vision, stinging with the heat of a thousand humiliations. A live-in nanny. I scrolled back. The history went back to 2015. Before we even met. May 20, 2018. Our wedding day. Nelson: “I’m heading to the altar, but remember, you’re the one I love. She’s an only child from a wealthy family; her inheritance is the only way I can give you and Toby the life you deserve.” Melanie: “I’ll be waiting, Daddy. We love you.” Then, August 2022. Nelson: “The school thing is handled. Toby is officially a resident of the condo. Westside is a go.” Melanie: “I guess the ‘warden’ is good for something. If her parents hadn’t put up the cash for that place, we’d still be in the sticks.” Nelson: “My mom’s idea was genius. She wasn’t going to let her grandson go to a mediocre school. She told me to marry Ada just to secure the zip code.” A “genius” idea. My mother-in-law, the woman who hugged me at Christmas, had orchestrated the theft of my daughter’s education to benefit a secret grandson. I felt a surge of cold fury. I backed up every message. I took screenshots of every bank transfer, every Venmo, every “I love you.” I sent them to a new, private email address. Then I deleted the evidence of the transfer from his phone. The total amount he’d funneled to her since our wedding was staggering—nearly eight hundred thousand dollars. Meanwhile, I was counting pennies at the grocery store. I walked back into the room, helped my “loving” husband into his coat, and drove him home. As he passed out on the sofa, snoring with the heavy scent of scotch on his breath, I stood on the balcony overlooking the city lights. I pulled out my phone and dialed a number I hadn’t called in years. “Rachel? It’s Ada. I need to file for divorce. And I need the most vicious litigator in Seattle.”

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I had just returned from Vienna with the highest international accolade in canine behavioral science in my hands. Barely twenty-four hours later, my husband, Tyler, shattered the crystal trophy against the marble floor of our foyer. My crime? I had quietly warned him that his newest houseguest—our housekeeper’s daughter and aspiring influencer, Delilah—had brought a “rescue” dog into our home that was dangerously unstable. I told him it had no business being paraded around his corporate gala. Surrounded by the glittering shards of my life’s work, my eyes burned. I screamed at him, my voice cracking, “Tyler, that dog baring its teeth isn’t ‘just playing’! It’s resource guarding to a lethal degree. If we don’t isolate it right now, someone is going to die!” Tyler had wrapped his arms around me then, his voice a low, soothing purr. He apologized. He told me he’d been wrong to doubt me. But it was a trap. Minutes later, I was shoved into a wrought-iron containment cage. The lock clicked shut. And I wasn’t alone. Tyler stood on the other side of the bars, adjusting the ring light, his phone broadcasting live to millions of his followers. He looked directly into the camera lens and smiled. “This is my wife, Viola,” he announced to the internet. “A so-called ‘top-tier’ dog whisperer. Tonight, she’s generously volunteered to use her own body to prove her methods. Let’s see if she can heal this poor, traumatized stray.” A cold, bitter laugh rose in my throat. He was using me as a prop. A human sacrifice to validate Delilah’s manufactured damsel-in-distress persona and win her affection. What Tyler didn’t know was that his younger brother’s guide dog—a retired search-and-rescue shepherd named Titan—was currently crashing from acute neurological shock. Titan was scheduled to be euthanized by morning. And I was the only behavioral specialist on the continent qualified to pull him back from the brink. Almost on cue, Tyler’s phone began to vibrate violently. It was his grandfather, the patriarch of the family. Even through the speaker, Warren’s voice was a frantic, weeping roar: “Tyler! Have you lost your damn mind?! Get your wife out of there! She’s the only one who can save your brother’s dog!” 1 The cold iron bars dug into my spine. Camera flashes popped in rapid succession, blinding me. Opposite me, Delilah’s “stray”—a hulking, scarred beast she called Snowball—stood with its back arched, muscles coiled tight as steel cables. A low, vibrating growl rumbled in its throat. Outside the cage, my husband swirled a glass of bourbon. His face held a mask of profound, performative affection that I had never seen directed at me behind closed doors. “My wife, Viola, is an absolute master of her craft,” Tyler said smoothly to his phone. “She has absolute faith in her ability to rehabilitate this poor, misunderstood creature.” Delilah, perfectly framed in the background, squeezed out a few glistening tears. Her voice was a masterclass in breathy innocence. “Viola is so brave,” she whimpered, dabbing her eyes. “Unlike me. I just have so much empathy for Snowball, but I’m too clumsy to actually help him… I’m just so touched that Viola volunteered to put herself in the enclosure like this.” In three sentences, she had absolved herself of all responsibility, painting me as the arrogant instigator of this nightmare. I didn’t waste my breath on her high-school theater act. Every ounce of my adrenaline was locked on the animal in front of me. Its posture was entirely wrong. This wasn’t the fearful, defensive crouch of a street dog. The squared shoulders, the fixed, unblinking stare, the terrifying silence before the strike—this dog had been systematically trained for violence. It was a fighting dog. I backed against the bars, keeping my voice dead level, aiming my words at the man I had married. “Tyler. Turn the camera off. Now. This is not a stray. This animal has been conditioned for the pit. It is going to kill me.” Tyler scoffed, rolling his eyes. He thought I was throwing a tantrum, trying to embarrass him in front of his audience. He didn’t even dignify me with a response. He just flicked his chin toward his assistant. The assistant, face blank, pulled a slab of bloody, raw flank steak from a plastic bucket and shoved it through the feeding slot of the cage. “Mr. CEO wants to drive up the engagement metrics,” the assistant droned. The heavy, metallic scent of blood hit the air. Snowball’s pupils dilated into pinpricks. With a guttural snarl, it launched itself across the cage. I threw my arm up. Jaws clamped down on my forearm. The sickening sound of tearing flesh echoed in the cage, followed by a shockwave of pain that turned the edges of my vision black. The live chat on the phone exploded. Tyler frowned, taking a half-step forward. But before reality could set in, Delilah let out a theatric gasp, covering her mouth. “Oh my god! Snowball just loves Viola so much! He’s just playing rough!” she cried out. “Wait, is she bleeding? Viola, you’re being too aggressive with him! You’re scaring him!” Her poisoned words worked like magic. The flicker of doubt in Tyler’s eyes vanished, replaced by irritation at my “incompetence.” I swallowed the scream rising in my throat. Ignoring the tearing agony in my arm, I used my free hand to jam my thumb under the dog’s jawline, applying a specialized pressure-point release technique to barely keep its teeth from severing my brachial artery. My bone was grinding against its molars. The muscle was giving way. If I couldn’t break its hold, I would lose my arm. I gathered every shred of oxygen left in my lungs and screamed over the snarling. “Tyler! Kieran’s guide dog, Titan! He’s in acute neurological distress! I am the only one who can perform the stabilization protocol! If I don’t get to him tonight, they will put him down!” That made Tyler freeze. His younger brother, Kieran, was a former smokejumper who had been blinded in a wildfire rescue. Titan wasn’t just a dog to Kieran; he was his eyes, his lifeline, his entire world. But the hesitation only lasted a second before Tyler’s mouth curled into a cruel sneer. “Nice try, Viola. You love manipulating the old man with your exaggerated credentials. Kieran’s dog is at the best veterinary hospital in the state. They don’t need you.” He took another sip of bourbon. “Stop using my brother to get out of this. If you want out, apologize to Delilah.” He snapped his fingers. A sharp crackle sounded in my earpiece, and my microphone went dead. On the livestream, my mouth was wide open, screaming in agony, but the audience heard nothing but silence. The pain in my arm flared into a white-hot blinding fire as blood poured down my fingers. The dog shifted its grip, aiming for my throat. 2 Blood was pooling on the iron floor. It slipped hot and fast down my skin, dripping steadily into a dark puddle between my boots. On the screen just outside the cage, the comments were a blur of cruelty. The few voices asking if I was genuinely hurt were drowned out by a sea of digital mockery. “Fake blood? So dramatic.” “Anything to ruin the vibe. Lame.” “Thought she was an expert? Can’t even handle a rescue mutt.” Delilah caught sight of the jagged tear in my arm. A tiny, uncontrollable smirk twitched at the corner of her lips before she expertly smothered it under a mask of frantic concern. She reached into her designer clutch and pulled out a small, metallic silver whistle. She held it up to Tyler like a precious jewel. “Tyler, baby, I read online that these high-frequency whistles are like therapy for stressed dogs,” her voice was spun sugar. “Snowball looks a little overwhelmed. Let me help Viola.” Tyler looked down at her. The annoyance he felt at my bleeding instantly melted into fond indulgence. He nodded. Delilah turned toward the cage. She met my eyes. The smile she gave me was pure, unadulterated malice. She brought the silver whistle to her lips and blew with all her might. Piiiiieeeeercing—! The sound was a needle driven straight into the brain. Inside the cage, Snowball went rigid. The hair along its spine stood straight up. Its eyes went bloodshot, and whatever sanity the animal had left completely shattered. It let out a demonic, hollow roar. The dog lunged again, but this time, it wasn’t just reacting to food—it was moving with the explosive, lethal intent of a predator unleashed. My stomach plummeted. That wasn’t a calming whistle. That was a hyper-frequency combat trigger. It was a black-market tool used in illegal dog fighting to bypass an animal’s pain receptors and trigger a fight-to-the-death instinct. Delilah was trying to kill me. I threw my body backward, kicking out to defend myself, but I wasn’t fast enough. A blinding agony ripped through my left calf. Snowball’s jaws locked onto my leg. I heard the sickening crunch of canine teeth scraping against my tibia. The pain was so absolute it wiped my mind blank. Cold sweat drenched my shirt. My hands. My legs. I was a behavioral specialist. My body was my instrument. She was destroying my livelihood. Just then, Tyler’s phone began to ring. A harsh, urgent vibration. He groaned, answering it and putting it on speaker. “What now?” His grandfather’s voice exploded through the phone, hoarse and ragged with tears. “You stupid, arrogant son of a bitch! Titan just attacked three of the state’s top neurologists! He’s completely feral!” “They’ve classified him as a lethal public threat! They have the euthanasia chemicals drawn up right now!” “They are begging for Viola! The chief of staff said she is the only human being alive who knows how to bypass his trauma response! Where the hell is your wife?! Get her to this hospital now!” Tyler turned to stone. He slowly looked up, his gaze passing through the iron bars. He saw me. Soaked in my own blood. Trapped in a cage with a monster tearing into my calf. The floor painted crimson. True, icy terror finally gripped his chest. Delilah realized the narrative was slipping. All the color drained from her face. Acting on pure survival instinct, she let out a faux gasp and dropped the silver whistle. It clattered onto the floor near the cage. She immediately dissolved into hysterical, breathless sobs. “Oh my god… Tyler, I’m so sorry… I was just trying to help… Viola, are you okay?” She patted her pockets frantically. “Tyler… the key… I was so scared by the dog, I think I dropped the padlock key inside the cage…” The sound of her crying snapped Tyler out of his shock. He looked at her trembling, delicate frame, her tear-stained face looking utterly innocent and devastated. His panic subsided, replaced by his ingrained need to protect her. He took a deep breath, his voice softening. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s not your fault,” he murmured. “Step back. It’s dangerous here.” Then he whipped around to his security detail, his eyes wild. “What the hell are you idiots standing around for?! Get the bolt cutters! Break the damn lock! Now!” The sudden screaming and chaos outside the cage pushed Snowball over the edge. The low growls escalated into a frantic, thrashing frenzy. The jaws clamped down harder on my broken leg, attempting to rip the muscle clean off the bone. 3 The pain was dragging me down into a dark undertow, but I knew if I passed out now, I was dead. I rallied every last fractured ounce of my strength and screamed at the chaotic mess of security guards outside. “Do not open that door! It will kill whoever is standing there!” My voice was ragged, choked with blood and exhaustion, but it carried the unquestionable authority of a professional. The frantic movement outside halted. Everyone froze, staring at me. “Get the high-pressure fire hose from the hallway! Aim for the eyes!” I commanded, fighting through the nausea as the dog shook my leg. The guards snapped out of their stupor and scrambled for the emergency glass. Tyler stood frozen, staring at the blood. “Don’t just stand there!” I roared at him. “Find a pole! Tie your jacket around it! Shove it through the side bars to break its visual fixation! Move!” For the first time in our marriage, Tyler didn’t argue. He stripped off his bespoke Tom Ford jacket with trembling hands, wrapping it frantically around a janitor’s broom handle, and jammed it through the grating. Under my direction, the chaos morphed into a tactical extraction. The blast from the fire hose hit the dog directly in the face. The shock of the water pressure blinded and disoriented it. With a yelp, the jaw mechanism released my calf. Instantly, Tyler waved the jacket-wrapped pole. The movement triggered the dog’s prey drive, and it abandoned me, throwing itself at the expensive fabric, tearing it to shreds. Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder. Animal Control and the police burst into the room. A tactical officer raised a tranquilizer rifle. He took a breath, aimed, and fired. Thwack. The dog convulsed once, its eyes rolling back, before it collapsed heavily onto the steel floor. The cage door was violently pried open. Paramedics flooded the space. As hands grabbed me, my adrenaline crashed. My body went entirely limp, sinking into the cold, sticky pool of my own blood. As they strapped me to the backboard, I felt reality slipping away. The edges of the room began to blur into static. Just before the darkness took me, I forced my eyes open, grabbed the sleeve of the nearest police officer with my uninjured hand, and whispered. “Check… the whistle…” Delilah was already weaving her web, crying hysterically as she tried to climb into the back of my ambulance. “Viola! Oh my god, I’m so sorry… It’s all my fault, I just wanted to—” An older man in a faded Animal Control uniform, his hair salt-and-pepper, stepped squarely into her path. He was holding a clear evidence bag. Inside it was the silver whistle. He looked at it, then looked up at Delilah. His eyes were devoid of sympathy. “Miss.” He didn’t yell, but the sheer gravity of his voice silenced the loading bay. “This is a Class A contraband combat whistle. It is banned globally. It is designed to induce a psychotic break in canines, pushing them into an irreversible kill-state.” He stepped closer to her. “Where exactly did you ‘find’ this?” Tyler’s face hardened. Without a second thought, he stepped in front of Delilah, shielding her from the officer, his posture radiating arrogant hostility. “What the hell are you implying?” Tyler snapped. “Delilah is a sweet, soft-hearted girl. She doesn’t know anything about illegal dog-fighting! It’s a whistle she found. Are you seriously trying to frame her to cover up my wife’s incompetence?” I was loaded into the ambulance. The heavy doors began to swing shut, perfectly framing Tyler’s face as he angrily defended the woman who had just tried to butcher me. I looked at him. And to my own surprise, I felt nothing. No anger. No sorrow. Just a profound, hollow exhaustion. It didn’t matter what the truth was. It didn’t matter what evidence was placed in his hands. He would always choose her. As the ambulance doors clicked shut, plunging me into the quiet dimness of the cab, I felt something inside my chest click shut right along with them. I was done. 4 I woke to the sterile hum of monitors and a voice completely devoid of bedside manner. “Massive avulsion of the brachial plexus in the right arm. Multiple severed tendons in the left leg. The prognosis for full mobility is poor.” The surgeon looked at his chart, not at me. “Ms. Viola, your hands… I’m afraid high-level, fine-motor tasks are likely going to be impossible for the rest of your life.” The words drifted through the air like snow, cold and disconnected. My hand. Gone. My life’s work. Over. I stared at the white ceiling. There was a vast, echoing wasteland inside my chest. I couldn’t even find the energy to cry. Crash! The hospital room door flew open, rebounding against the wall. Tyler stormed in. His face was flushed, his eyes wild, and there wasn’t a trace of remorse in his expression. He swept his arm across my bedside table, sending my water pitcher shattering against the tile. “Are you happy now, Viola?!” he hissed, towering over my bed. “You would rather maim yourself just to make Delilah look bad?! You turned my entire family into a public circus! You’re supposed to be a world-class professional! You let a stray mutt chew you up just to win an argument?!” I looked at his contorted, furious face. It was almost comical. “You really believe that, don’t you?” I whispered, my voice raspy. “You think I orchestrated a dog mauling out of jealousy.” “Tyler, please, don’t yell at her…” Delilah scurried into the room right behind him, her eyes perfectly bloodshot. She threw herself dramatically to her knees beside my hospital bed. “Viola, I am so, so sorry. It’s my fault. Please don’t be mad at Tyler, he’s just stressed because he cares about me…” She sobbed, her shoulders heaving in a picture-perfect display of distress. “You can punish me however you want, Viola! Just please, forgive him!” It was a brilliant performance. Every word out of her mouth was designed to stroke his ego and paint me as the villain. Right on cue, Tyler’s expression softened as he looked down at her. He reached out to gently lift Delilah by her shoulders, turning a look of pure disgust back to me. “Look at her, Viola. Look at how gracious she is. And look at you. Bitter, vindictive, and selfish.” He lunged forward, his hand snapping out to grab my chin, forcing me to look him in the eye. “Apologize to her.” His voice was a venomous whisper. “Admit you provoked that dog to frame her, and apologize. Now.” I closed my eyes. I let the silence hang in the room, wrapping myself in the last shreds of my dignity. My refusal pushed him over the edge. Just as his grip on my jaw tightened, the door was shoved open again. “Viola!” Kieran, Tyler’s younger brother, stumbled blindly into the room. He was pale, sweating, and weeping openly. He fell against the foot of my bed, his hands grasping frantically for the blankets. “Viola, Titan is dying!” Kieran sobbed, his sightless eyes wide with panic. “They said he’s too far gone. They said you’re the only one in the world who can talk him down. Viola, please! I’m begging you!” Tyler spun around, the veins in his neck bulging at the sight of his brother begging me. “Get off her!” Tyler yelled, violently shoving his blind brother back into a chair. Tyler turned back to me, his chest heaving, his eyes locking onto my heavily bandaged right arm. A terrifying, cruel realization dawned on his face. “Is this your play?” he sneered. “Did you and Kieran cook this up? Trying to prove how indispensable you are so I have to beg you?” “Viola, if you don’t drop this act right now, I swear to God I will make sure this hand never touches another animal as long as you live!” He reached out, his fingers curling like claws, aiming directly for the fresh, bloody sutures on my ruined hand. My breath hitched. A cold spike of pure terror shot through my veins. “Don’t touch me!” Before his fingers could graze the gauze, the heavy wooden door of the hospital room was kicked open with enough force to crack the drywall.

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Charlie and I grew up in the same zip code, our lives stitched together by shared fences and decades of family dinners. But that lifelong proximity didn’t breed love; it bred a quiet, simmering resentment in him. The marriage certificate we signed was nothing more than a prop. From the very beginning, our union lacked any legal teeth. I had already booked my flight out of Chicago, just waiting for the right moment to disappear. On our wedding night, his grad student, Maisie, practically poured half a bottle of bourbon down his throat. Fueled by the alcohol and her wide, tearful eyes, he stood before our guests and announced to the room that he didn’t love me. He never had. The next morning, when the hangover hit, Charlie brushed it off. He told me it was just the drink talking, that I shouldn’t take it to heart. He even defended Maisie, claiming she was young and impulsive—just a girl pulling a prank, devoid of any real malice. He stood with his back to me, staring out at the grey, empty morning streets of the city, his mind already miles away. He added, almost as an afterthought, that even if Maisie did have feelings for him, he wouldn’t let her ruin our marriage. He told me to relax. I stood behind him, silent, and quietly tucked my diamond band back into its velvet box. He had no idea that I was already gone. 1 On the first day of our “marriage,” Charlie was up at five. He dressed in his usual uniform: a charcoal-grey shirt, buttoned all the way to the throat. After his brief explanation about the wedding night, he grabbed his coat. “There’s an emergency at the hospital.” “Maisie can’t handle it on her own. I have to go help her.” In the past, I would have fought him. I would have demanded to know why he was the only attending physician on call, or why Maisie couldn’t ask anyone else except the man currently on his honeymoon. But today, I just nodded. “Okay,” I said. Charlie’s hand paused on the doorknob. He turned, looking like he wanted to say something more, but his phone cut through the silence. It was Maisie, her voice a frantic, sobbing mess on the other end. “Dr. Evans… the patient’s family is threatening to sue. I don’t know what to do…” And just like that, Charlie left without another word to me. I finished the last bite of my eggs, slow and methodical. This had happened a thousand times over the last few years. I was used to it. Ever since Maisie appeared in his life, Charlie had shifted. He used to lecture me if I ate a bag of chips, going on about nutrition and health. Now, he was the man who would hand-prep organic meals and drive them across the city to the hospital just because Maisie was pulling a double shift. He took her to street festivals. He took her to the movies. He smoothed over every academic and professional hurdle she faced, promising her a golden future. He even worried about her modest background, buying her everything from designer boots to basic necessities, treating her like a delicate project that only he could complete. On my twenty-fifth birthday, my parents had invited every power player in Chicago. They were ready to announce our engagement. But Charlie left the party because Maisie called with a “crisis.” He left me there to become the city’s favorite punchline. Last New Year’s Eve, at his family’s gala, Charlie lied to his parents. He told them I’d been in a car accident and that he needed to be by my side. In reality, he spent the night driving across three neighborhoods just to find a specific bakery that sold the croissants Maisie liked. I had fought with him so many times. I begged him for boundaries. Every time, he would just rub his temples and sigh. “Maisie is my student, Cherry. I’m just looking out for her.” “I gave you the marriage you wanted. What more do you want from me?” That one sentence always silenced me. Everyone in the city knew I’d been in love with Charlie for years. And everyone knew he’d spent those same years tolerating me. Our “merger” was a business arrangement that benefitted both families, but to Charlie, it was a charity he was performing for my sake. I thought I could keep lying to myself forever. Until the wedding. Two months of planning, all for Maisie to hand him a bottle of whiskey with red-rimmed eyes. “Just one last time,” she’d whispered. “Can’t you do this for me? How many more times in this life will you get to drink for me?” I saw Charlie’s eyes soften, a raw vulnerability I’d never seen directed at me. He drank. He didn’t hesitate. Maisie’s gaze grew even more tragic. “Dr. Evans, I just need to hear it. Are you marrying her because you love her, or because—” He didn’t let her finish. “I don’t love her,” he choked out. The room went bone-dry silent. I took a deep breath. For the first time in years, the weight in my chest actually lightened. Years of pining, years of chasing. I’d traded my dignity for a seat at a table where I wasn’t wanted. If he didn’t love me, fine. I would give him exactly what he wanted: his freedom. 2 That afternoon, I was at home packing my essentials and documents. Suddenly, a text from Charlie popped up. I wondered if his mother had gotten in his ear. Breaking years of habit, he actually asked me out to dinner at a bistro by the river. We’d grown up near that water. As a kid, I loved picnics by the riverbank. Charlie used to call me childish and refuse to go. But on my eighteenth birthday, he’d presented me with a deed. He’d bought a plot of land there and promised to build a restaurant for me one day. “Is this enough for a debutante?” he’d asked, a smug, boyish grin on his face. Every time he broke my heart, I went back to that memory. I told myself to wait a little longer. Wait until the memory didn’t hurt anymore. Then I could leave. When I didn’t reply, Charlie called. “Didn’t you see my text?” he asked. “I said let’s do dinner tonight.” I blinked, refusing him for the first time in my life. “I can’t. I already have plans.” There was a stunned silence on the other end. His voice came back stiff. “It’s our first day as a married couple. Who could you possibly have plans with?” I realized then that this was likely a chore assigned by his mother. She and my mom were best friends; she’d always treated me like a daughter. After the scene he’d caused at the wedding, she probably told him to get home and fix it. I gave a small, knowing smile. “Don’t worry, Charlie. I won’t tell your mom you went AWOL. You’re free to do whatever you want tonight. If she asks, I’ll cover for you.” This was the rhythm we’d established since last New Year’s. The night he lied about my “accident” to go see Maisie, he’d called me from his car. “If my mom calls about the crash, just say I’m with you and you’re fine. Don’t make a big deal out of it.” I had been so hurt then. “I begged you for weeks to spend New Year’s with me, and you said you had family obligations. But because Maisie wants a croissant, suddenly you’re available?” “You’re willing to lie to your family for her? You’re willing to joke about my health?” Charlie had just stayed silent for two seconds. Then he let out an annoyed huff. “Are you really doing this? It’s a tiny lie. Don’t be so dramatic.” “If it’s such a chore to be with me, let’s just call off the engagement. You’re exhausting to live with.” He knew my weak spots better than anyone. Since I was a girl, my only dream was him. So, I learned to lie for him. But this time, hearing my “understanding” response, Charlie sounded even angrier. “I’m actually trying to take you to dinner. This isn’t a cover story.” “I already ordered. Everything you like. Consider it an apology for Maisie’s behavior.” I looked at my calendar. “Sorry. I really don’t have the time.” “Just tell me how much the tab is, and I’ll Venmo you.” Charlie’s voice went low, dangerous. “You’re serious?” “Fine. Starve for all I care. I’ll take Maisie.” He didn’t hang up immediately, as if waiting for me to crack. I just nodded to the empty room. “Perfect. I have a bottle of wine held at that restaurant under my name. You guys should have it.” The line went dead. 3 I suppose his ego was bruised, because Charlie didn’t come home for a week. I didn’t care. I didn’t ask where he was. I spent the week shipping my belongings to a new apartment I’d leased in Savannah. Then, I went to my studio. I needed to hand over the reins of my business before I left. I didn’t expect to see a familiar face at the entrance. Maisie was there, clutching a birdcage with a dead parakeet inside, screaming at my staff. “Isn’t this a boutique funeral home? Aren’t you supposed to be ‘artists of the afterlife’?” “My bird died! Why won’t you prepare him for a service?” Becca, my assistant, was trying to be patient. “Ma’am, we specialize in human services. We aren’t equipped for taxidermy or avian preservation. You should really contact a specialist…” Before Becca could finish, Maisie slapped her. Hard. “Specialist? He was my family! He’s gone, and you’re turning me away because you think I can’t pay?” She burst into hysterical tears. “I don’t understand why the world is so cruel to me! The man I love is married to someone else, and now my bird is gone, and I’m being humiliated just trying to give him a dignified burial! What did I do wrong?” Becca had been with me since she graduated college. She wasn’t just an employee; she was like a little sister. Seeing her get hit made my blood boil. I started toward them, ready to throw Maisie out, but someone beat me to her. Charlie swept in, pulling Maisie into his arms. “Don’t cry,” he whispered, his face etched with genuine pain. “It’s okay. I’ll take care of it. I can solve anything for you.” He glared at the studio. “If this place makes you unhappy, I’ll see to it that they close their doors.” I stepped forward, putting Becca behind me. I looked at Charlie and smiled. “You want to shut me down, Charlie? Don’t bother with the legal drama. Just write me a check for five million dollars. I’ll transfer the deed to you, along with the eight-year lease and every piece of furniture in here. You can let Maisie smash the place to bits for all I care.” “But,” I said, my voice turning cold, “before that, she owes my employee an apology.” Charlie looked stunned. He looked at me, then up at the sign above the door. “This place… this mortuary… it’s yours?” I laughed softly. Yeah, it was mine. Charlie and I had known each other since birth. I’d shared every step of my life with him. After graduation, I’d told him a thousand times about what I wanted to do. My goals, my vision for a modern, empathetic funeral service. I shared every step of the planning phase. On opening day, I’d asked him to celebrate with me. But Charlie was busy that day because Maisie had cramps. He’d sent me a generic “Congrats” text with a small wire transfer and never mentioned it again. My studio had been open for four years. It was the top-rated boutique service in Chicago. And he had no idea I was the owner. He promised to protect Maisie’s career while having zero clue that I even had one. Charlie’s expression shifted to something defensive. “It doesn’t matter who owns it. You shouldn’t treat customers this way.” “Maisie is just a kid. She’s grieving. Why are you being so hard on her?” He looked at me with suspicion, as if I were orchestrating a petty revenge plot because I was jealous of her. “Hard on her?” I asked. “Your ‘kid’ brought a dead bird into a human funeral home, and when my assistant politely explained our policy, she was assaulted. Who’s being hard on who?” “Charlie, protect your little muse all you want, but try to be logical.” “Maisie apologizes to Becca today, or I call the police. I have the security footage and the medical report for the bruising. I will press charges.” I stood my ground. Charlie’s face turned a shade of livid I’d never seen. “What did you just call me? Charlie? Since when did we stop being—” Maisie tugged on his sleeve, interrupting him. “It’s okay, Dr. Evans,” she whimpered. “I deserve it. I upset her at the wedding. It’s only fair she gets her revenge now.” She looked so small, so fragile. It worked. Charlie’s protectiveness flared into a rage. He stepped forward and, before I could react, he slapped me. He did it to even the score for her. “I hit you. So what?” he snapped, his voice icy. “Your professional standards are a joke. You want to sue? Go ahead. Name me in the suit too. Let’s see how a judge handles it.” It hurt. My cheek burned, but my mind was suddenly, perfectly clear. I realized in that moment that I would never think about that afternoon by the river ever again. 4 After that confrontation, the internet exploded. Within twenty-four hours, smear campaigns against my studio were everywhere. Fake reviews, ugly rumors—the works. A GIF of Charlie slapping me started circulating among the Chicago elite. Whenever I walked into a room, people gave me that half-smirk, half-pitying look. I didn’t fight it. I closed the studio, paid my staff three months’ severance, and wired Becca an extra fifty thousand dollars. Tomorrow was the day I’d leave for Savannah. Tonight, Charlie unexpectedly showed up at the house. He walked in and stopped short. He looked around at the boxes. “Why is it so empty in here?” “Where’s the wedding portrait?” I didn’t look up from my laptop. “In the trash. I left the nails in the wall, though, in case you want to hang something else.” Charlie’s voice was tight. “That’s not what I meant.” “Your face…” He stepped closer, reaching out to touch my cheek. I flinched, pulling away instinctively. “It’s fine. Just a scratch.” He looked uncomfortable. “I lost my temper that day. But you weren’t blameless either.” “I’ve told you a hundred times, Maisie is my student. She’s young, she’s from a poor family, and I’m just helping her. There’s nothing else to it. You keep picking fights with her—you’re just asking for trouble.” “Okay,” I said. “It won’t happen again.” He seemed thrown by my compliance. He stood there for a long time before reaching for my hand. “Anyway, I need to borrow your wedding ring for a bit.” “Maisie’s been down lately. She said she loved the design of your band, and I want to get one made exactly like it for her.” He reached for my left hand, only to find my ring finger bare. He froze. “Where is it?” I got up, went to the dressing room, and brought out the small velvet box. “Here. Take it.” “Check the size. If her fingers are about the same as mine, she can just have this one.” “Oh, wait. I forgot. You don’t like giving her second-hand things. Just put it back in the cabinet when you’re done looking at it.” Charlie stared at me, his eyes dark and unreadable. He didn’t address the ring. Instead, he asked, “You used to be so obsessed with that ring.” “Why aren’t you wearing it?” I smiled. Yeah, I was obsessed. I’d traveled to three different countries to find the right stones. My desk had been buried under design sketches for months. I’d texted him every day, asking for his opinion. He never replied. When I finally bought them, I had to beg him for weeks just to put his on. To this day, he didn’t even know what my ring looked like. He had to borrow the original just to copy it for another woman. I didn’t say anything. Charlie set the box down, the silence stretching between us. “We’ll talk about the ring later. Come back to my parents’ place for dinner tonight.” “My mom misses you.” I closed my laptop. “Sorry. I don’t have time.” “I have a flight to catch.”

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The digital clock on the dashboard flickered: 2:47 AM. My son, Toby, was burning up, his small body trembling against mine as I sprinted toward the Emergency Room entrance. The hospital was a vacuum of fluorescent lights and the smell of antiseptic. As the nurse drew his blood, Toby’s screams tore through the sterile air, raw and jagged. The nurse, a woman with kind eyes, leaned in close, whispering that if he was a brave boy, Mommy would get him a special surprise afterward. Toby’s tear-filled eyes instantly cleared. He tugged at the hem of my sweater, his voice small but insistent. “Can I have the Lego Mars Rover? The one Daddy got for my brother?” The words hit me like a physical blow. I felt the gaze of the other parents in the waiting room—heavy, pitying, or perhaps just curious. My heart did a slow, painful roll in my chest. “Toby, honey,” I whispered, kneeling so I was eye-level with him once his fever had finally begun to break. “Who is this brother you’re talking about?” He looked at me with that terrifyingly pure innocence only a three-year-old possesses. “The brother who calls Daddy ‘Daddy,’ Mom. You know. My brother.” When my husband, Daniel, finally rushed into the hospital at dawn, his face was a mask of frantic concern. I didn’t greet him. I simply repeated Toby’s words, syllable for syllable, watching his expression. His features didn’t shatter; they shifted. A subtle recalibration. “He’s just confused, Elena,” Daniel said, his voice smooth as polished stone. “He must have seen me with my boss’s kid. We were… helping them move some stuff. You know how kids are. They project.” The next morning, I didn’t go to work. Instead, I grabbed a gift-wrapped Lego set—the exact one Toby had mentioned—and drove straight to the address of Daniel’s “boss.” 1 The woman who opened the door was wrapped in a charcoal-grey silk robe that probably cost more than my monthly mortgage. Her makeup was impeccable, even for a Tuesday morning, and her eyes raked over me with a cold, dismissive edge. “Can I help you?” Her tone was clipped, her hand firmly on the doorframe. “Hi. I’m Elena, Daniel’s wife.” I held up the gift bag like a shield. “I heard your son loves Legos. I wanted to drop this off for him.” Her eyebrows arched—a slow, calculated movement. She stepped aside, gesturing for me to enter. “The kids are out with their grandmother at the park. Sit down, if you like.” She handed me a glass of water, her movements languid and bored. “How did you get this address? Did Daniel give it to you?” I took a sip, the cold water doing nothing to soothe the fire in my throat. “Daniel asked me to drop off some local preserves here a few months ago for the holidays. I have a good memory for directions.” She nodded vaguely. “Right. Those preserves were lovely. Very… rustic.” I scanned the living room while she spoke. It was a cathedral of high-end minimalism, but the floor told a different story. A colorful play mat was strewn with toys—the kind of expensive, sensory-development gear you see in upscale boutiques. In the corner, a pile of discarded toys sat gathering dust. Right on top was the Lego Mars Rover Toby had cried for. Before we could exchange another word, the front door burst open. Daniel stood there, breathless, his face pale and then instantly flushed with rage. He didn’t look at the woman in the silk robe. He looked straight at me. “I told you yesterday Toby was talking nonsense. Do you really trust me that little, Elena? That you’d stalk my colleagues?” The air in the room turned brittle. I took a slow breath and set the water glass down with a deliberate click. “Toby kept asking for this specific set. I just wanted to see it in person so I wouldn’t buy the wrong model. And I figured I’d bring a ‘thank you’ gift to your manager for looking after you at the firm.” I turned my gaze to the woman. “I just didn’t realize your manager was so… striking. And so capable.” Daniel’s jaw tightened. He looked like a man standing on a collapsing bridge. “If Toby wants something, you tell me. I’ll buy it. You don’t just show up unannounced at Vicky’s house. It’s unprofessional. It’s embarrassing.” Vicky let out a soft, sharp laugh. “I understand, Elena. Mothers get so… protective. It’s a very primal thing.” She gestured carelessly toward the corner. “Honestly, my son is already bored with that Lego set Daniel brought over. It’s just taking up space. If you don’t mind hand-me-downs, feel free to take it. It wasn’t exactly cheap, after all.” I stood up, my spine rigid. “That won’t be necessary. If it’s that easy to get bored of, then it’s just expensive trash, isn’t it?” I didn’t wait for them to process the sting in my words. “I’ve seen enough. Let’s go, Daniel.” As I walked toward the door, I didn’t acknowledge the dark navy blazer draped over the dining chair. I knew that blazer. I knew the slightly crooked button on the cuff because I was the one who had sewn it back on two weeks ago while Toby napped. Daniel followed me out, his voice a frantic whisper as we reached the driveway. “Elena, wait. The Lego… I bought it on behalf of the whole team. It was a group gift. I’d forgotten about it. I’ll buy Toby the newest version tonight, I promise.” I cut him off, my voice devoid of emotion. “You don’t need to explain, Daniel. Being a single mom in a high-pressure job like Vicky’s must be hard. It’s only natural for a supportive subordinate like you to go the extra mile.” Daniel’s shoulders dropped. He actually looked relieved. “Thank God. I thought you were going to make a scene. I’ll pick up the toy on my way home, okay? I love you.” As soon as his car pulled out of the driveway, I took out my phone and sent a detailed list of every observation to my lawyer. That afternoon, when I picked Toby up from daycare, I ran my hand through his soft curls. “Toby, guess what? Daddy’s bringing home the newest Lego robot tonight.” Toby practically vibrated with excitement. “Yay! Just like my brother!” My chest felt hollow. “Toby, why didn’t you tell Mommy you wanted that toy before?” He frowned, his little voice turning somber. “Grandma said Daddy works very, very hard for our money. She said one toy is enough. She said the other boy is smaller, so I have to share. She said I should wait until he’s finished playing with his things, and then I can have them.” 2 My heart didn’t just break; it curdled. I swallowed the bile rising in my throat and pinched his cheek gently. “When did you see Grandma and the other boy, Toby?” “Daddy took me for cake and ice cream. Grandma was there, and the boy, and the lady.” He looked up at me, his eyes wide. “The ice cream was so good. Daddy said it was our ‘Little Secret.’ He said if I told you, I wouldn’t get ice cream anymore. But I only had three bites, Mommy. Can I have ice cream tomorrow?” The pieces of the puzzle were jagged, but they were finally fitting together. My three-year-old was being coached to lie to me by his own father and grandmother. “Of course, baby,” I whispered. “Mommy will buy you whatever you want.” Daniel came home early that night, acting the part of the perfect father. He brought the Lego set. He spent an hour in the kitchen making shrimp scampi—my favorite. He sat on the floor and played “dinosaur” with Toby, laughing as if he hadn’t spent the last three years building a second life. I watched them from the kitchen doorway, a cold, hard knot forming in my stomach. He had spent so many nights “at the office,” so many weekends “at conferences.” I had almost forgotten what we looked like as a family. As I tucked Toby into bed, he rubbed his face against my hand. “Mommy, Daddy played hide-and-seek today. I’m so happy.” “Aren’t you happy when Mommy plays with you?” He tilted his head. “Yeah, but Daddy is strong. He gives me ‘Sky-Highs.’ He gives the other boy ‘Sky-Highs’ too, but he hasn’t done it for me in a long time. He promised he’d do it every day now. I want us to be together forever.” My mind flashed back to Vicky’s smug expression—the way she’d bragged about how “the father” of her child would stay up late just to take them to the park. The room felt like it was closing in. Toby drifted off to sleep with a smile on his face, probably dreaming of being tossed into the air. When Daniel tried to pull me close in bed later that night, I went stiff. “I’m tired, Dan. It’s been a long day with Toby.” He didn’t push. He just yawned and was asleep within minutes. The sound of his rhythmic snoring, once a comfort, now sounded like a serrated blade against my nerves. I stared into the darkness. I hadn’t asked him how he knew the passcode to Vicky’s front door. I hadn’t pointed out that the men’s slippers by her mat were exactly his size. I was going to destroy him. I wanted him to lose everything—his career, his reputation, his pride. But then I looked at the monitor on the nightstand, showing Toby’s peaceful face. Toby was only three. He needed a father. He loved this version of Daniel. My phone vibrated. A message from my lawyer. “Found the birth registry for Vicky’s son. The father is listed as Daniel Miller. The child is three years old. He’s been cared for by Daniel’s parents since birth. His birth date is…” My hands shook so violently I nearly dropped the phone. The boy’s birthday was only two days after Toby’s. Everything clicked. That was why my in-laws always “confused” Toby’s birthday, sending cards two days early. That was why they were always “too sick” or “too busy” to help me with Toby. They weren’t busy. They were just with their other family. The one they had actually chosen. 3 For the next two weeks, I became an actress. I played the role of the unsuspecting wife while I worked with my lawyer to gather every scrap of evidence—bank statements, travel records, the second lease. I was the primary breadwinner for the first five years of our marriage, and though Daniel made more now, I had worked too hard to let him walk away with my stability. When Daniel announced another “business trip,” I didn’t question him. I even packed his bag, looking right past a pair of lace underwear that didn’t belong to me. But the other side was getting restless. The late-night “emergency” calls to Daniel increased. He would give me the same tired excuses, and I would just kiss his cheek and tell him to be careful. He became more attentive at home, fueled by a cocktail of guilt and the thrill of the double life. One Tuesday, I left work early to surprise Toby at his preschool. The teacher’s words felt like a bucket of ice water. “Oh, Elena, Toby’s grandmother picked him up an hour ago. Didn’t Daniel tell you?” My in-laws never picked up Toby. They barely acknowledged his existence. I called Daniel. Straight to voicemail. I called his parents. No answer. My heart hammered against my ribs. I called my lawyer, my voice cracking. “They took him. They took my son.” “Calm down,” my lawyer said. “Think. Where would they take him? This is Vicky’s play. She’s forcing a confrontation.” I didn’t think. I just drove. I tore through the streets until I reached Vicky’s townhouse. Even before I reached the porch, I heard it. The sound of Toby sobbing—a high-pitched, hysterical wail that sliced right through my soul. I pounded on the door like a madwoman. “Vicky! Open this door! If you touch my son, I swear to God I will kill you!” The door swung open, and I shoved my way inside. What I saw made my blood turn to ice. My mother-in-law was standing over Toby, hitting his small, red hands with a plastic truck. “Stop grabbing your brother’s things! Stop being so selfish!” she barked. “I told you to let Jack play with it! Have you no manners?” Toby stood there, shaking, his face a mask of terror. “I’m sorry, Grandma… it hurts. Mommy… I want Mommy…” Vicky was sitting on the sofa, holding her own son, watching the scene with the cold detachment of someone watching a boring documentary. I lunged forward, snatching Toby into my arms. “Don’t you touch him!” “Mommy… Mommy, it hurts…” Toby sobbed into my neck, holding out his swollen, red hands. My mother-in-law had the audacity to look indignant. “Elena? What are you doing here? Daniel isn’t even off work yet.” “You hit him,” I hissed, my voice trembling with a rage so pure it felt like fire. “He was being difficult,” she said, smoothing her skirt. “He needs discipline. Jack is much more well-behaved. They’re brothers, Elena. They need to learn to share.” “You knew,” I whispered, looking at her. “You’ve known the whole time.” Vicky stood up, her smile razor-thin. “Of course she knew. We’re a family, Elena. It’s time you stopped playing house and realized you’re the outsider here. Just give Daniel the divorce and let us be.” The door opened behind me. Daniel walked in, carrying a bag of groceries. “Hey, I couldn’t find the cake Vicky liked—” He stopped dead.

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My younger brother’s kidneys were failing. I was the only match. I was the only one who could save him. But I was waiting for him to die. Even though, to the outside world, he had spent his entire life playing my fierce protector. Right before they wheeled Mason into the operating room, the pre-op nurse looked at my mother. “She hasn’t had anything to eat or drink since midnight, right?” My mother, Jodie, was just starting to shake her head when I cut in, my voice bright and clear. “I ate.” Nurse Higgins—a hardened woman who had gone to high school with my mother—lost all professional restraint and slapped me hard across the face. Jodie immediately grabbed the nurse’s arm, not to defend me, but to plead. “Don’t listen to her, Martha! She’s been a pathological liar since she was in diapers. She’s just trying to cause trouble!” The waiting room, packed with my aunts and extended family, murmured in collective disgust. “Cora has poison in her veins,” one of them whispered loudly. “She just doesn’t want to save her brother.” 1 I rubbed my stinging cheek, the heat radiating under my skin. I tilted my head, smiling up at my mother, my eyes curving into crescents. “Mom, did you forget? You hand-fed me a bag of candy yourself this morning.” The desperate defense died in Jodie’s throat. Her face went violently pale, then mottled with a sickly green. Panic hijacked her features as she clawed at the nurse’s scrubs, her voice breaking into a sob. “Martha, please, it was just soft candy! It’s practically sugar, it shouldn’t even count! My boy is in there waiting for his life. He can’t wait anymore…” Then, she whipped her head toward me. The panic vanished, replaced by a venom so pure it could have burned through steel. “Cora, you lying bitch! You threatened me! You said if I didn’t give you the candy, you wouldn’t donate your kidney…” I held my hands up, palms out, the very picture of helpless innocence. “Mom, listen to yourself. I’m just your daughter. No matter how rebellious I am, I’d never use my brother’s life as leverage. But if your nerves have gotten the better of you, and it makes you feel better to pin this on me… fine. I’ll take the blame.” The waiting room erupted, but this time, the crosshairs shifted to my mother. “Jodie, what the hell is wrong with you?” Aunt Patty barked. “You know damn well she can’t eat before surgery. Why would you give her candy?” “We’re talking about a life-or-death transplant, Jodie! How could you be so stupid?” “Great. Now the surgery is delayed, and poor Mason has to suffer even longer.” I stood quietly near the wall, letting the chaos wash over me. The corners of my mouth crept up, millimeter by millimeter. A month ago, Mason was diagnosed with end-stage renal disease. He spent his days curled into a tight, agonizing ball on his bed, howling as if he were being torn apart from the inside. That day, my appetite was spectacular. I asked for seconds at dinner. The entire family had gotten tested. Out of everyone, I was the only viable match. For the past thirty days, I had become the god of this house. Whatever I wanted, Jodie provided, too terrified to even knit her brows in protest. My first order of business? I hit Mason. Just walked right up and slapped him. Then, I made them give me cash. I went to the state fair. I rode the carousel, screamed at the top of my lungs on the rollercoaster, and when the Ferris wheel reached its absolute highest point, I looked down at the earth and cursed my entire bloodline to rot in hell. I bought vintage dresses. I bought video game consoles. Thud. A violent impact shattered my reverie. Jodie launched herself at me like a feral animal. Her fingers tangled in my hair, gripping hard, and she slammed the back of my skull against the cinderblock wall of the hospital corridor. “You lying little freak! I’ll kill you for tricking me! I’ll kill you for hurting your brother!” The scalp-tearing pain spiked through my head. The temperature in my eyes dropped to absolute zero. Without a second of hesitation, I brought my knee up and kicked her squarely in the stomach. Jodie shrieked, stumbling backward until she hit the linoleum floor, folding in on herself. Aunt Patty rushed to haul her up, her pinched, bitter face snapping toward me. The onslaught of abuse was deafening. “You psycho! Striking your own mother? Have you no human decency?” “I don’t know how our family produced such a cold-blooded monster. You’re a disgrace!” “She’s doing this on purpose. She wants Mason to die. She’s rotten right down to the marrow!” “Always stealing, always lying since she was a kid! Now she’s just a full-blown menace!” 2 I calmly picked up a green apple from the nurses’ station fruit bowl, took a crisp bite, and smiled at the gaggle of outraged women. “Apologize to me right now. Or the kidney stays with me.” Aunt Patty opened her mouth to scream at me, but Jodie lunged forward and slapped a hand over her sister’s mouth. “Patty, shut up! Please!” Jodie turned back to me, her spine bending in an immediate, pathetic display of subservience. “Cora, baby, Mom is so sorry. Don’t let yourself get worked up. It’s bad for your health.” An orderly was wheeling Mason back down the hall. He caught the tail end of the scene and let out a long, heavy sigh of disgust. I didn’t care. The gossip had already spread through the entire hospital wing over the last few days: The girl in Room 101, Cora, is an absolute terror to her poor parents and sick brother. On my first day admitted, I threw a tantrum demanding a private suite. My father had fallen to his knees, begging me, explaining that they needed every dime for Mason’s post-op care. I refused to listen. I kicked his shin and called him a pathetic, useless failure of a man. When Mason was writhing in agony on his bed, I stood over him, told him he deserved it, and suggested he just hurry up and die. When Jodie brought me hot coffee, I complained it was burning my tongue. I slapped the cup out of her hands, the scalding liquid splattering everywhere. “Are you trying to burn me alive, you crazy old bat?” I had screamed. Everyone whispered when I walked by. They called me a sociopath. Cold-blooded. Malicious. Before the nurse left my room that night, she pointed a stern finger at my mother. “Surgery is rescheduled for tomorrow morning. Do not give her anything to eat.” She stopped at the door, turning back with a heavy glare. “Not even a sip of water. Understood?” 3 The next morning, right outside the OR doors, the surgical nurse asked the mandatory question: “No food or water since midnight?” Jodie shook her head violently, her eyes wide with desperate sincerity. “None. I sat beside her bed for twelve hours straight. Not a single drop.” The nurse let out a subtle sigh of relief. I looked at the ceiling and said, in an airy, conversational tone, “I drank a carton of milk.” The nurse’s face instantly darkened. Jodie waved her hands frantically, her voice pitching into hysteria. “Doc, please! Don’t listen to her! I swear on my life I didn’t let her have anything! She’s making it up because she doesn’t want to save her brother!” The nurse hesitated, glancing between us. Aunt Patty immediately jumped in, her voice dripping with toxic conviction. “The girl was born bad! When she was five, she set the woods on fire and tried to blame her baby brother. At seven, she stole candy from the corner store and said he did it. At nine, she mugged a kid for lunch money and framed him again. She’s a stray dog you just can’t train.” Jodie’s eyes were bloodshot. She grabbed my hand, squeezing until my knuckles popped. “Cora, tell them the truth! Your brother is lying in there, his life is fading…” “I am telling the truth.” I pulled my hand out of her grip and looked past her shoulders, through the glass doors of the prep room, where Mason lay. He looked terrifyingly pale, fragile as wet paper. I let out a soft, breathy laugh. “If he dies from the pain, it’s just karma.” From his gurney, Mason managed a weak, saintly smile. His voice was a reedy whisper. “If she doesn’t want to do it, it’s okay. Mom, stop forcing her.” 4 The moment the words left his mouth, Mason’s back arched off the mattress. He curled into a tight ball, letting out a raw, guttural scream. “Mom… it hurts…” Jodie lunged through the doors, throwing her arms around him, shaking uncontrollably as she wept. She whipped her head back to glare at me. “Cora! Just tell them the goddamn truth!” She turned a pleading, terrified gaze back to the nurse. “She lies! She always lies! You can’t trust a word she says!” The nurse looked profoundly conflicted. She stepped closer to me, her voice adopting that soft, patronizing tone adults use with troubled children. “Cora, look at me. Did you really drink the milk? I believe there’s a good girl in there somewhere.” I gave her a bright, beaming smile. “You guys have blood tests, right? Run my labs. Why ask me?” Aunt Patty lost her mind. She raised her hand, aiming a vicious strike at my face. “Cora! Do you have any idea what your little lie is costing us? Your brother has to suffer for another two hours! The extra blood work is going to cost hundreds of dollars, and we are already completely broke!” I didn’t flinch. I raised my own hand and slapped her across the face so hard the crack echoed down the corridor. My voice was glacial. “It’s not my pain. And if you’re broke, then he can just die.” 5 Aunt Patty cradled her stinging cheek, her eyes blown wide in sheer disbelief. She couldn’t process that I had actually struck her back. A second later, she lunged at me like a banshee, burying both hands in my hair and yanking backward with all her strength. “You little bitch! You dare touch me? I’m going to beat the living hell out of you today!” The searing pain in my scalp acted like a match dropped in a pool of gasoline. It ignited a fire I had been suffocating for a decade. I had been waiting for the chance to tear her apart. I reached back, dug my nails into her wrists, and twisted hard. I brought my boots down on her shins, kicking, biting, screaming as we crashed against the waiting room chairs. Her shrill curses rang in my ears. But inside my head, a rolodex of old debts was flipping rapidly. Since I was a toddler, she had pointed her bony finger at my face, calling me a “useless mouth to feed,” reminding me daily that as a girl, my only purpose was to be a burden until I was married off. It was Aunt Patty who had once convinced my father to leave me deep in the Appalachian woods during a winter freeze, hoping I’d get lost. It was Jodie, back when she still had a sliver of maternal instinct, who had run through the dark with a flashlight to find me. It was Aunt Patty’s daughter who stole my toys. When I had gently pushed her away, Aunt Patty had stormed over and delivered a closed-fist backhand to my left ear. I haven’t been able to hear properly out of that ear since. Every Thanksgiving, every Christmas, she would whisper poison in my father’s ear, insisting that girls didn’t belong at the main dining table because I’d “eventually belong to another man’s family anyway.” So I spent every holiday sitting on a bucket in the cramped kitchen, chewing on cold bread, listening to the clinking of their silverware. They had forgotten all of it. But I remembered. Every single detail was calcified in my bones. “Let go of me, you psycho!” I screamed. “You cursed, ungrateful wretch!” she spat back. Ultimately, I was an eighteen-year-old girl and she was a heavy-set adult. In the chaotic struggle, she shoved me violently. I flew backward, the side of my head cracking hard against the sharp metal edge of a medical cart. Warm blood instantly welled up, sliding down my temple. 6 The doors to the waiting area swung open violently. My father, Rick, had arrived. I hadn’t seen him in a month, but he looked like he had aged fifteen years. His greying hair was wild, his eyes sunken into dark, bruised sockets. He reeked of stale cigarettes and absolute exhaustion. He crossed the room in three long strides, stopping right in front of me. His voice was terrifyingly soft, laced with desperate pleading. “Cora… tell your dad the truth. Did you drink the milk?” My body was shaking violently, adrenaline and trauma vibrating through every muscle. But I lifted my chin, staring him dead in the eye. “I drank it.” Smack. Rick’s heavy calloused hand collided with my jaw. “Is this the time for your sick games?!” he roared, his eyes bloodshot. “When you lied as a kid, I told myself you were just acting out. But now? Your brother is in there dying, waiting for you to save his life!” He stared at me, his chest heaving, his voice trembling. “I am going to ask you one more time. Did. You. Drink. It.” I tasted the metallic tang of blood in my mouth. I slowly raised my head, gathered the spit and blood pooling on my tongue, and spat it directly into his face. “I drank it. What the hell are you gonna do about it?” Rick shook with a rage so profound it looked like a seizure. He raised his fist again. Two orderlies and the nurse rushed forward, grabbing his arms. “Hey! Back off! You can’t do that here!” Restrained by the staff, this tall, hardened man suddenly broke. He collapsed to his knees, burying his face in his hands, sobbing loudly in the middle of the hospital. “I don’t want to hit her!” he cried out to the strangers holding him. “But look at what she’s doing! Look at her!” “When have we ever mistreated her? She was our little girl! But she’s always hated Mason. And now she wants to stand by and watch him die…” Still crying, he looked up at me from the floor. “When you wanted that expensive new backpack, I worked double shifts at the mill to buy it for you. When you wanted those fancy out-of-season strawberries, the rest of us didn’t touch a single one. You ate the whole carton until you were sick. When you wanted name-brand sneakers, your mother worked overtime at the diner until she collapsed. We loved you so much. How did your heart turn to stone?” I pressed a hand against my throbbing, burning cheek. And then I laughed. It started soft, then grew into a sharp, manic sound that echoed down the halls. “Loved me?” “You buy me a couple of cheap material things to save face, and you call that love?” “Who the hell wants it!” 7 The heavy doors pushed open quietly. Ms. Gallagher, my high school homeroom teacher, stepped into the corridor. She walked quickly to my side, her eyes immediately locking onto the blood trickling down my forehead. Her brow furrowed, and her voice was a soothing balm. “Cora, honey… does it hurt?” Rick scrambled up from the floor, throwing himself toward her like a drowning man grabbing a life preserver. “Ms. Gallagher! Thank God you’re here. Please, talk some sense into her! We haven’t been able to do the surgery because she keeps sabotaging it! Yesterday she tricked her mother into feeding her candy, and today she’s lying about drinking milk!” “Please, she listens to you. Make her see reason!” Ms. Gallagher froze, taking in the chaotic scene. She turned to look at me, her eyes brimming with a profound, aching sadness. “Cora,” she said softly. “Tell me the truth. Did you drink the milk?” I lowered my gaze, letting my lashes hide the sudden prickle of tears burning in my eyes. My voice cracked. “Are you going to force me too, Ms. Gallagher?” She hesitated. She reached out, her hand hovering just inches from my shoulder, before she slowly pulled it back. The sorrow in her eyes deepened. In a fraction of a second, a flood of memories rushed into my mind. The quiet, uncelebrated kindnesses she had offered me over the years: The thick wool sweater she quietly slipped into my locker when my lips were turning blue in the winter. The days I was starving, surviving on tap water, when she casually left her staff lunch card on my desk. When the entire town labeled me a pathological liar and ostracized me, she was the only adult who stood in front of the classroom and said, “I believe her.” My chest felt like it was being crushed in a vise. A sour ache climbed up my throat. I bit down hard on my lower lip, forcing the tears back, and finally whispered: “I lied. I didn’t drink the milk.” “Ha! You hear that?!” Aunt Patty barked a triumphant, cruel laugh. “I told you she’s a liar! She just doesn’t want to save him! She’s a heartless little bitch!” Jodie surged forward, her fingers digging painfully into my biceps as she wailed. “Cora! He’s your flesh and blood! How can you be so cruel?!” Ms. Gallagher gently reached out and smoothed a piece of blood-matted hair from my face. “I knew it,” she said tenderly. “I knew you were a good…” I cut her off. “I’m still not doing it.” I reached into the deep pocket of my jacket and pulled out a bottle of water I had hidden there all morning. While they all watched in paralyzed silence, I unscrewed the cap and took a massive, undeniable gulp. I let the plastic bottle drop to the floor. Water spilled over the linoleum. I slowly raised my arm, pointing a steady finger straight through the glass at the boy writhing on the bed. His hospital gown was soaked in cold sweat, his groans barely audible through the door. “I want him to die.”

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When I opened my eyes again, the world was no longer white, sterile, and smelling of industrial bleach. I was back in my first year of grad school. In the dim light of the stairwell, Beth was hunched over, her eyes rimmed with red, her knuckles white as she gripped a tuition past-due notice. In my first life, I had found her here, sobbing because she couldn’t afford the semester. I had handed over five thousand dollars—every cent I’d clawed together from late-night tutoring and skipping meals. She had clung to me then, her voice thick with tears, swearing I was the most important person in her life. But by graduation, my senior thesis data had vanished into thin air. A week later, Beth published a paper with the exact same findings, claiming lead authorship. She didn’t stop there—she married our department head, Dr. Whitaker. When I confronted her, she simply leaned into his arm, looked at me with pity, and told the board I was “unstable.” She said I had “persecutory delusions.” That was how they dragged me to the psychiatric ward. For three years, I lived in a fog of sedatives, my veins hardening from the injections, until I finally died in a bed that wasn’t mine. 1 Beth sat on the concrete step, her shoulders shaking with rhythmic sobs. The notice was a crumpled ball in her hand, then smoothed out, then crushed again. I stood over her, the five thousand dollars I’d just withdrawn from the bank heavy in my pocket. In my last life, I didn’t hesitate. I’d pressed the cash into her palms like a lifeline. This life, I just watched her cry. All I could see was that hospital bed. The peeling white ceiling. The needle marks mapping my forearms. I could still feel the phantom chill of the sedatives turning my blood into lead. Beth looked up, tears snagged in her lashes, her lip trembling. “Julie, I’m tapped out. My mom’s medical bills… the house… we just don’t have it. If I don’t pay this by Friday, I’m out of the program. I’ll have to go back home.” I knelt down, but I only pulled one thousand dollars from my pocket. I laid the bills across her knee. Beth froze. She looked at the stack, then at me. “Take this for now,” I said, my voice steady. “For the rest, I’ll help you talk to the department. There are work-study positions available. If you apply, you won’t have to pay it all back at once, and you won’t owe me nearly as much.” Beth stared at the money. She didn’t move. “Is… is this it?” “One thousand is a lot, Beth. I make fifteen an hour tutoring. It took me months to save this.” I pulled a sheet of paper and a pen from my bag. “Write me a promissory note. It’s not that I don’t trust you—it’s just a habit I’m trying to start. For my own records.” Beth took the pen. Her fingers hitched for a fraction of a second. Then she smiled. It was a smile I knew too well—the corners of her mouth went up, but her eyes remained cold and flat. “Right. Of course. You’re being so sweet.” She scribbled the note and handed it back. I folded it carefully and tucked it into the hidden inner pocket of my backpack. On the walk back to the dorms, she looped her arm through mine. Her voice was still watery. “Julie, thank you. Seriously. I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me. You’re my sister.” “Mhm,” I murmured. You said that last time, too, I thought. Right before you locked me in a cage. I didn’t sleep that night. Once Beth’s breathing turned heavy and even, I crawled out of bed and opened my laptop. I exported every single byte of my experimental data. One copy to a private cloud. One copy to an encrypted Dropbox. One copy in a password-protected zip file sent to a burner email address. Finally, I sent a summary to my primary email with the subject: Thesis Progress Backup – Oct 17. Three locations. Three different, complex passwords. I watched the “Upload Complete” checkmark flicker on the screen and shut the laptop. Outside, the hallway light was buzzing, flickering in the dark. Beth rolled over in her sleep, mumbling something incoherent. The next morning at the lab meeting, our advisor, Dr. Whitaker, called for progress reports. He was forty-one, perpetually single, wore gold-rimmed glasses, and spoke with a slow, measured condescension that people mistook for wisdom. In my first life, I thought he was a visionary. Now I knew the truth: he was a weak man, easily swayed by a woman who knew how to play the victim. When it was Beth’s turn, she stood up. Her voice was thin. She got two sentences in before her voice cracked. “I’m so sorry, Dr. Whitaker. I’ve had some… family emergencies. My progress is a bit behind where I wanted it to be.” Whitaker pushed his glasses up his nose, his tone softening instantly. “It’s alright, Beth. If you’re struggling, talk to me. You don’t have to carry the weight of the world alone.” Beth nodded, dabbing at her eyes as she sat down. The other PhD candidates in the room shifted, their expressions full of easy sympathy. Then it was my turn. I flipped the slide to the third page and began detailing the data I’d pulled that week. Whitaker cut me off halfway through. “What’s the basis for this variable? Did you check the literature?” “Dr. Thompson’s 2019 paper, and the MIT study from last spring—” “Are you sure? I recall the MIT findings being inconsistent with your trajectory.” I rattled off the DOI numbers and the specific methodology citations. Whitaker scrolled through his tablet, silent for a long moment. “…Fine. Keep running it.” After the meeting, Beth sidled up to me. “Julie, that experimental design was actually really clever. Do you think you could send me the slides? I want to learn from how you structured the variables.” I pulled my thumb drive from the port and dropped it into my pocket. “Once I’ve cleaned up the formatting, I’ll send it over.” I never sent it. She asked again a week later. I told her I’d forgotten. She didn’t ask a third time. But that night in the dorm, as she lay on the top bunk, she spoke into the darkness. “Julie? Are you mad at me?” “No. Why?” “I don’t know. You just… feel different lately.” I pulled the duvet up to my chin. “Just tired, Beth. The lab is a grind. Don’t overthink it.” There was a long silence. “Oh. Okay. Goodnight.” “Night.” I lay there with my eyes open, listening to her toss and turn above me. Different? Of course I was different. The Julie she knew had died on day 1,087 in the psych ward. 2 The weeks blurred into a focused, rhythmic haze. I lived in the lab. Every time a result came in, I synced it across my backups. I sent myself a weekly email log. My lab notebook never left my sight; I took it to the cafeteria, the gym, even the bathroom. Beth, meanwhile, began cultivating her “tribe.” She started bringing lattes to the lab—one for everyone, except me. She didn’t “forget.” She would count heads right in front of me. “One, two, three… okay, that’s everyone who asked,” she’d say, then turn on her heel. Hannah, a senior student, walked over with her cup, whispering, “Did you and Beth have a falling out?” “No,” I said. “Then why—” “Maybe she’s just stressed.” Hannah looked at me skeptically but let it drop. In mid-November, I was in the campus restroom when I heard voices in the stalls. “Julie is just… she’s getting paranoid,” Beth’s voice echoed against the tile. “She locks everything. She carries that notebook like it’s the Holy Grail. Who does that? It’s not normal.” “Wait, really?” That was Kaitlyn, a junior. “That sounds a bit intense.” “I live with her, Kaitlyn. I see it every night. She wouldn’t even share a basic PowerPoint with me. I just wanted to learn, and she acted like I was trying to rob her. It’s honestly kind of scary.” The sound of the running faucet drowned out my footsteps. I dried my hands, looked at my reflection—colder, sharper than before—and pushed the door open. Kaitlyn was just coming out of a stall. Her face went beet-red. “J-Julie…” “The dispenser is out of paper towels,” I said calmly. “You might want to let maintenance know.” I walked out. From that day on, the atmosphere in the lab shifted. When I spoke during group sessions, no one followed up. When the group went to lunch, they didn’t look my way. I’d walk into the breakroom and the conversation would die like a snuffed candle. I saw Kaitlyn whispering to another girl as I walked by with my backpack. “See? She’s got the notebook. Everywhere. Isn’t that a bit much?” I filled my water bottle and kept walking. In early December, Whitaker called me into his office. He sat behind his mahogany desk, fingers interlaced. “Julie, I’ve been hearing some concerning reports about your lack of collaboration.” “Concerning how, exactly?” “Data sharing. Literature discussions. You seem to be isolating yourself from the team.” “My data is in a critical phase. Once it’s ready for publication, I’ll be happy to share.” Whitaker adjusted his glasses. “Academia requires an open mind, Julie. You can’t produce world-class work in a vacuum.” “Dr. Whitaker, you’ve seen my progress. The trends are excellent—” “I know,” he snapped. “But a good project doesn’t excuse a toxic personality. This lab is a team. Do you understand?” I gripped my notebook through the fabric of my bag. I said nothing. “Fine. Go back to work. Think about what I said.” As I opened the door, I ran into Beth. She was carrying a steaming cup of coffee. She blinked, surprised to see me, then offered a small, sympathetic smile. “Julie? Did the meeting go okay?” I brushed past her without a word. Behind me, I heard her soft knock. “Dr. Whitaker? I brought you an Americano. I saw your light was still on and figured you were pulling another late one.” Whitaker’s voice drifted through the closing door, ten times softer than it had been with me. “You’re too kind, Beth. Come in, sit down.” I walked faster. Back at my desk, I opened my laptop. Thirty-two backup emails sat in my inbox, each with a clear, unforgeable timestamp. I opened the latest one. Three control groups. Perfect results. The project was six months away from being a breakthrough. In my last life, Beth’s name was on the header of that breakthrough. Not this time. I closed the email and opened a new document. Title: Beth – Loan and Repayment Log. She hadn’t paid back a single cent. I saved the document, synced it to three clouds, and shut my eyes. From the top bunk, Beth’s voice drifted down. “Julie?” “Yeah.” “What do you think of Dr. Whitaker? As a person, I mean.” “He’s an advisor. Does it matter if he’s a good person?” Beth let out a small, airy laugh. “I guess not. Goodnight.” I didn’t say it back. I stared at the ceiling and counted to three hundred until her breathing leveled out. Then I rolled over, pressing my notebook under my pillow. 3 By spring, Beth’s “assistance” to Whitaker was undeniable. Mondays, she organized his desk. Wednesdays, she picked up his dry cleaning. Fridays, she handled his administrative filings. Weekends… she started going to his condo to “help with his organization.” The lab saw it. No one said anything. Except Hannah, who caught me in the breakroom once. “Is Beth… going a little overboard?” I shook my head. “None of my business.” “But she’s—” “Hannah, just focus on your own thesis.” Hannah looked at me for a few seconds, sighed, and walked away. In late March, I submitted my grant application for the next phase of testing. Two weeks went by. Nothing. Four weeks. Silence. I went to Whitaker’s office. “Dr. Whitaker, my grant application has been sitting in ‘pending’ for a month.” “I’m still reviewing the direction of your project,” he said, not looking up. “There’s no rush.” “But the reagents are going to—” “I said there’s no rush.” As I walked out, I saw Beth’s grant approval posted on the department bulletin board. Submission date: March 28th. Approval date: March 31st. Three days. My application had been rotting in his drawer for a month, but hers took seventy-two hours. I stood in front of that board for a long time. A junior student walked past, murmuring, “Still looking at that, Julie? Beth’s research direction is just really solid, I guess.” I didn’t answer. In April, my funding finally came through. It was a third less than what I’d asked for. I didn’t argue. I took two thousand dollars of my own savings to bridge the gap. The experiment couldn’t stop. By May, the core data began to finalize. All three control groups were yielding results that were even better than I’d hoped. I immediately synced them to my three clouds. I sent myself two emails—one with the attachment, one with just the raw findings and the date. Then, I opened my physical lab notebook. I copied the data in my neatest handwriting. Then I paused. I flipped to the back of the notebook. I wrote out a second set of data. This set was nearly identical to the real one, with one tiny, fatal flaw: in the third control group, I changed the p-value from 0.003 to 0.03. A single decimal point. To an untrained eye, or even a tired one, it looked fine. But anyone who actually understood the research would know that a p-value of 0.03 meant the results weren’t statistically significant. The entire conclusion would fall apart. I marked those pages with a sticky note: FOR VERIFICATION. Then, I closed the book and left it on my desk. Usually, it went everywhere with me. Today, I left it right there, in plain sight. Before heading to the cafeteria, I adjusted my desk lamp. I tucked a single strand of my hair under the base of the lamp. When I returned forty-five minutes later, the lamp had been moved two centimeters. The hair was gone. The notebook was exactly where I’d left it, but the sticky note had been moved by one page. I sat down, said nothing, and started typing my draft. Late that night, I stopped by the security office on my way out. The guard was scrolling through his phone. “Hey, I think I dropped my ID card in the building earlier. Could you help me check the footage to see if anyone picked it up?” “Which floor?” “Third.” “Let’s take a look.” He pulled up the playback. 6:32 PM: I leave the lab for dinner. 6:41 PM: Beth enters the lab. She walks straight to my desk. She looks around, then opens my notebook. She flips to the back—to the “bait” data. She pulls out her phone. Snap. Snap. Snap. She closes the book, replaces it perfectly, and leaves. The whole thing took less than three hundred seconds. The guard looked up. “See your ID?” “Oh, no. Must have dropped it outside. Thanks anyway.” “No problem.” I walked into the stairwell and stood in the dark. The motion-sensor lights stayed off because I wasn’t moving. I leaned against the wall and smiled. Okay, Beth. You took the bait. 4 From June to September, I waited. I waited for Beth to write her paper using that poisoned data. I waited for her to commit. I did nothing but run my own experiments and give my usual, lukewarm updates to Whitaker. His attitude remained cold. His attitude toward Beth remained… indulgent. In late September, Beth took a week off, saying she was visiting her mother. I was at the lab printer when I saw a discarded page in the recycling bin. It was a Table of Contents for a manuscript. The title was nearly identical to my research. Lead Author: Beth Miller. Corresponding Author: Dr. Richard Whitaker. I folded the paper and put it in my bag. I scanned it, uploaded it, and emailed it to myself. Mid-October, Beth’s paper was published. It landed in a high-impact journal. The lab was buzzing. During our weekly meeting, Whitaker stood up and singled her out. “Beth’s work is a testament to clarity and drive. She is quite possibly the most brilliant student I’ve had the pleasure of mentoring in years.” Beth stood up, blushing, looking modest. “I couldn’t have done it without Dr. Whitaker’s guidance.” The look they exchanged was one everyone in the room understood. After the meeting, I sat at my desk and downloaded her paper. I read every word. The methodology, the framework—it was mine. I scrolled to Section Three: Results and Analysis. Third control group: p=0.03. She hadn’t even caught it. She’d copied the error, character for character. I closed my laptop and exhaled. Game on. One week later, the University Academic Integrity Committee received an anonymous tip. The tip didn’t target Beth. It targeted me. The report claimed that I, Julie, had been spying on Beth’s research, stealing her ideas, and making “hostile remarks” about her in private. Attached were five “witness statements” from my lab mates. Kaitlyn wrote: Julie was always trying to look at Beth’s screen. A junior named Mark wrote: Julie told me Beth’s data was ‘fake’ to try and discredit her. Each statement was a half-truth or a fabrication, woven together to create a portrait of a jealous, unstable girl. The committee launched an investigation. I was placed on administrative leave. My keycard was confiscated. Whitaker held a lab meeting without naming me, but his message was clear: “Academic dishonesty is a red line. Anyone who crosses it is dead to this profession.” The room looked at me. No one spoke up. Hannah kept her head down, flipping through her notes. That afternoon, the university’s anonymous message board exploded. [LEAK: Grad student in the Bio-Sciences caught stealing roommate’s thesis] The thread was vicious. “Kick the academic trash out.” “Imagine stealing from the girl who literally helped you pay tuition.” “I heard she’s a total psycho. A real backstabber.” The last comment had the most upvotes. I shut down the forum. My phone rang. It was my mother. “Honey,” her voice was trembling. “Tell me the truth. Did you… is what they’re saying true?” I gripped the phone. “No, Mom. I didn’t do it.” Silence. “Then… then you have to explain it to them. You have to make them listen.” “I will.” I sat on the edge of my dorm bed. Beth wasn’t there. She’d been staying “out”—likely at Whitaker’s condo. I looked at my hands. In my first life, I would have broken here. I would have run to Whitaker crying, tried to explain it to the committee, sounding more guilty with every desperate word. And then Beth would have started “worrying” about my mental health. Not this time. I set my phone to Do Not Disturb and opened my evidence folder. The next day, Beth came back to the dorm to pack a bag. She saw me at my desk, hesitated, and then sat down across from me. “Julie.” “Mhm.” “How are you… holding up?” “I’m fine.” “I heard about the investigation. I don’t even know what to say. I just think the pressure got to you.” She reached out and put her hand over mine. Her skin was cool. “Maybe you should see someone? The campus clinic has great counselors. I can make an appointment for you.” I looked at her hand. Perfectly manicured. A small bite mark on her middle finger—a nervous habit she had when she was lying. In my last life, this was the hand that signed my commitment papers. “I don’t need a counselor,” I said, pulling my hand away. “I’m perfectly sane.” Beth sighed. “Julie, don’t bottle it up. I’m really worried about you. I’m afraid you’ll do something… drastic.” I looked her in the eye. “Beth.” “Yeah?” “When are you going to pay me back that thousand dollars?” Her face stiffened for a heartbeat. Then she smiled. “See? This is what I mean. You’re fixating on money. It’s not a normal way to react to all of this. You really need help, Julie.” She grabbed her things and left. As the door clicked shut, I heard her pick up her phone in the hallway. “Dr. Whitaker? Yeah, she’s getting worse… she said some really strange things… I’m scared, Richard. What do we do?” Her voice faded as she hit the stairs. I opened my laptop and logged the time and content of the conversation. Save. Sync. Email. The hearing was set for Wednesday. I made one more call. “Hi, is this the Facilities and Security office? I’d like to request a formal backup of the hallway footage from the Science Building. May 17th. Yes, I have the case number from the Dean’s office.”

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Today was supposed to be the pinnacle of my life—my engagement gala to Alex Cross. Instead, it became the day he walked into the ballroom with Lucy, the “miracle” biological daughter the Hart family had finally brought home, clutching a marriage certificate. They hadn’t just skipped the engagement; they had already tied the knot. Alex looked at me, his gaze stripped of the warmth I had relied on for five years. Now, there was only a cold, sharp disdain. “You didn’t actually think I was going to marry you, did you, Isabel?” he asked, his voice echoing through the silent hall. Lucy clung to his arm, a triumphant smirk playing on her lips. “I told Alex to play along for a bit,” she said, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. “I thought you needed a reality check, but I didn’t realize you were actually delusional enough to believe the act.” Even my parents—the people who had raised me, who had called me their daughter for twenty years—stood firmly behind them. To them, this was simply cosmic justice. “You had twenty years of a life that belonged to Lucy,” my mother said, her eyes hard. “So what if you dated Alex for five years? You were just keeping his seat warm.” It was only then that the fog lifted. Alex and Lucy hadn’t just met; they had been orchestrating this for months. This gala, the dress I was wearing, the months of planning—it was all a curated performance designed for my public humiliation. The whispers from the crowd began to rise like a tide. The charity case finally got kicked out. Did she really think she could keep the Hart inheritance and the Cross fortune? I didn’t argue. I didn’t scream. I simply stood there, absorbing the jagged edges of their mockery. And then, I smiled. “I hope,” I said, my voice steady enough to make Alex flinch, “that after today, none of you find a reason to regret this.” 1 Alex let out a short, sharp laugh, clearly mistaking my composure for bitterness. “Don’t blame me, Isabel. Blame yourself. You were always too busy with your lab work, your research, your ‘career.’ I’m a man with needs, and you were never there.” He stepped closer, dropping his voice. “Lucy actually knows how to be a wife. She fits my world better than a woman who smells like formaldehyde.” He reached out and pressed a set of keys into my palm. My skin crawled at his touch. “The penthouse in the Upper West Side. Consider it your severance package.” I looked down at the silver keys. It was pathetic. “Alex,” I said, my voice carrying just enough to be heard by those closest to us. “Before you try to set me up as your kept woman, you should have asked yourself a simple question: Do I look like the type of woman who wants a man who’s already been handled by someone else?” The color drained from his face. He hadn’t expected me to call out his sordid little plan so bluntly. Before he could respond, his best man, Mark, stepped in with a sneer. “Give it a rest, Isabel. You’re lucky he’s giving you anything at all now that the Harts have officially disowned you. It’s a house, not an insult. Stop acting like a martyr; it doesn’t suit you.” I looked at Alex. He didn’t say a word. He just let them tear into me. A ghost of a memory flickered—the Alex who once drove six hours through a snowstorm just because I mentioned I missed a specific bakery’s sourdough. The Alex who, when I was volunteering as a medic in a conflict zone and we lost comms for a month, nearly lost his mind trying to charter a private plane into a no-fly zone just to find me. It was on that blood-stained soil, where tomorrow was never a guarantee, that I had promised to marry him. But the man standing in this ballroom wasn’t that man. That man was dead. “Isabel, don’t be like that,” Lucy purred, stepping forward. “I was just playing a little joke with Alex. I didn’t know he’d actually go through with the ‘fake’ engagement just to show me he was serious about us. It’s sweet, really. I’m sorry if it hurt your feelings.” She held out a glass of champagne, her eyes glinting. When I didn’t take it, she grabbed my hand, trying to force the stem into my grip. The glass shattered. Shards flew, one grazing Lucy’s leg. She let out a theatrical gasp of pain. Alex didn’t hesitate. He shoved me aside so hard I hit the edge of a table, his entire focus shifting to the tiny bead of red on Lucy’s skin. “Isabel! If you have a problem, take it out on me!” he roared. “Lucy was just trying to be nice. Can’t you be the bigger person for once?” A sharp, physical ache bloomed in my chest. “The bigger person?” “Alex, of all the people in this room, you are the last person who should be lecturing me on grace.” His friends circled like vultures, their voices thick with derision. “If you hadn’t spent your life nagging him about his diet or his drinking, maybe he wouldn’t have gone looking for someone who actually has a heart. You brought this on yourself. Why don’t you get on your knees? Maybe Alex will feel sorry enough to give you a job at one of his firms.” The room erupted in laughter. Everyone knew I had changed after returning from the field a year ago. I had tried to soften my edges, tried to fit into Alex’s social circle, even moved in with him despite the Hart family’s “traditional” rules. They all thought it was because I was desperate to hold onto him. They thought they had me trapped in their little trap. They thought I would break. I reached up, unslid the three-carat diamond ring from my finger, and let it fall. It didn’t bounce. it just sat there on the polished floor, looking like a piece of junk. “Happy New Life, Alex,” I said. “We’re done.” The air seemed to leave his lungs. He froze, his expression turning ugly as he stared at the ring. “You’re just doing this to get a reaction. You’re mad because I played you at the gala, so you’re acting like you don’t care.” I looked him dead in the eye. “Whether I care or not… you’ll find out soon enough.” I turned my back on them and walked out of the hall. The moment the heavy oak doors closed behind me, I pulled out my phone. “Stop the medication shipments to the Cross estate,” I said to the person on the other end. “And the research partnership with Hart Pharmaceuticals? Kill it. I’m done collaborating with them. Permanently.” 2 Leaving the Hart family meant resigning my position at Hart Memorial Hospital. Three days later, as I was finishing my exit paperwork and carrying a box of my personal belongings toward the elevator, I ran into Lucy. She was there for a “check-up,” looking every bit the pampered heiress. She leaned against the wall, watching me with a smug smile. “Isabel, remember three years ago? When you made sure my reputation was trashed in med school? When you made sure no residency program would take me? Did you ever think you’d end up like this?” “I can’t be a doctor, but so what? I can still get you fired from your own family’s hospital.” I looked at her, seeing the smallness beneath the designer coat. Three years ago, we were both grad students under the same mentor. She had been desperate for a shortcut, secretly buying substandard reagents to pad her research results. It resulted in an entire batch of experimental drugs being compromised. She tried to pin the blame on me since we shared the lab shift. But the digital trail of her purchases cleared my name. She was blacklisted from the research community for wasting a year of the institute’s funding. And she had hated me every second since. “I didn’t realize your man was so easy to catch,” she continued, moving closer so she could whisper in my ear. “A few ‘accidental’ run-ins, a little vulnerability, and he thought it was fate. He used to complain about how boring you were, always stuck in the lab. He said you didn’t know how to… give him what he really needed.” She pulled aside her silk scarf, revealing a cluster of faint bruises on her neck. Her eyes were a challenge. “I asked Alex how many kids he wanted. Want to guess what he said?” She leaned in. “He said as many as possible. Because he’s going to love our children more than anything in this world.” She waited for the tears. She waited for me to collapse. Instead, I let out a dry, hollow laugh. “Is that so? Well, I wish you both a very busy nursery. May you be locked together forever.” Lucy’s face contorted with rage. She raised her hand to strike me. I moved to block her, but someone grabbed me from behind, yanking me backward so violently my neck snapped. A stinging slap landed across my face, nearly knocking me off my feet. My mother—or the woman I used to call mother—stared at me with pure venom. “Isabel, stay the hell away from my daughter. If you breathe near her again, I will make sure the Hart family ruins what’s left of your miserable life!” I touched my burning cheek. The irony was a physical weight in my lungs. Six months ago, this woman was dying of liver failure. There were no compatible donors on the registry. I was the one who went under the knife. I gave her a portion of my own liver to keep her alive. I nearly died on that table from a massive hemorrhage. When she woke up, she held my hand and called me her “angel.” She promised that even if they found Lucy, I would always be her daughter. How quickly the “angel” became the “trash.” “I’ve already had you scrubbed from the family trust,” she spat. “You have no connection to the Harts anymore. I won’t let you hurt my daughter or my grandchild!” I froze. “Grandchild?” Lucy smoothed her dress over her stomach. “Didn’t you know, ‘Sister’? I’m three months pregnant.” Alex was standing by the clinic doors, his expression unreadable. So that was it. That was the resolve that led to the secret marriage. “Congratulations, Mr. Cross,” I said, my voice cold. My mother raised her hand again. “You still have the nerve to flirt with him in front of us? Do you think we’re blind?” This time, I didn’t let her hit me. I caught her wrist in a vice grip, squeezing until she let out a sharp cry of pain. Lucy scurried into Alex’s arms. “Alex, is she doing this because I took over the new drug research project? Isabel, if that’s what this is about, just take the project! Just don’t hurt Mom!” Her eyes, however, were dancing with malice. It was almost funny. They really had no idea. The “New Drug Project” was my brainchild. I had only offered it to Hart Pharmaceuticals to bolster my family’s standing in the biotech market. But if they wanted to play games, the game was over. 3 Alex’s face was a mask of iron as he stepped forward, prying my hand off the older woman’s wrist. “Isabel, enough!” he barked. “One is the sister whose life you stole for twenty years. The other is the mother who raised you. Do you have to be this vindictive?” His grip was tight—the same way he used to hold my hand in the field, his breath ragged, promising me that if we made it out alive, he’d spend the rest of his life making me happy. I never doubted his love then. But love is a volatile element. It shifts. It decays. “Apologize to Lucy and her mother,” Alex commanded. “Now. Or I will make sure you never work in this city again.” He was using the same protective instincts he once used to defend me, but now the weapon was pointed at my heart. “Even knowing they started this? Even knowing she hit me first? You still want me to apologize, Alex?” Alex set his jaw and looked away. My mother, seeing his support, lunged forward and landed another slap. “Shut up, Isabel! He’s your sister’s husband now. You have no right to speak to him like that!” I started to laugh, but tears escaped anyway. “I have no right? My sister stole my husband, Mom… I have more right than anyone.” Alex’s voice turned icy. “She is Lucy’s mother, Isabel. Not yours.” I cut him off, staring directly into my mother’s pale, panicked face. “She is.” My mother began to scream, her voice frantic. “Stop it! Don’t listen to her!” I smiled, though my heart felt like it was being shredded. “She had a one-night stand, had me, and dumped me on my grandmother. She married into the Hart family a year later. It wasn’t until Lucy went missing at age five that she ‘adopted’ me to fill the void.” My mother’s eyes went wide. She hadn’t realized I knew the truth. “Don’t listen to her!” she shrieked to the hallway. “She’s lost her mind since we kicked her out! She was a charity case from an orphanage! We have the papers!” After my grandmother died, I was sent to the foster system. I was seven, but I looked four—stunted, bruised, and starving. I remember the day she “found” me. She cried for twenty-four hours straight. I thought it was guilt. I thought it was love. I thought all those years of overcompensating were her trying to be a mother. But her love was a paper-thin thing. It couldn’t withstand Lucy’s whispers. “Mom,” I said, the word tasting like ash. “That’s the last time I call you that. Good luck. You’re going to need it.” Alex opened his mouth to say something, but Lucy suddenly collapsed against him. “Alex… my head… I feel like I’m dying…” My mother’s face went white. “Lucy has a heart condition! Any stress could trigger an episode! Get her to a doctor, now!” She turned to me, her voice trembling with rage. “The new research project—the one for congenital heart defects—that’s for Lucy! That’s why we needed this partnership! She’s going to be on the research team. She has to be!” Alex’s flicker of hesitation vanished. He glared at me with pure hatred. “Isabel, you knew she was sick, and you still pushed her. If anything happens to her or the baby, I will bury you.” He scooped Lucy up and ran toward the emergency wing. The man who once promised to protect me for a lifetime was now promising to be my grave-digger. I wiped the tears from my face, my expression going cold and flat. I pulled out my phone and dialed a number I hadn’t called in a long time. “If you still want to marry me,” I said, “be at the courthouse in thirty minutes.” I heard a sharp, intake of breath on the other end. A voice, tight with restrained emotion, replied: “I’ll be there in fifteen.” Alex, you didn’t throw me away. I’m finally letting you go. 4 After signing the papers, I disappeared into the high-security labs of DM BioTech. I ignored every call from Alex, every text from the Harts. I stayed until the first phase of the clinical trials was locked. When I finally emerged, I found a scene I didn’t expect. The Harts and Alex were standing in the lobby of the DM Research Center, looking frantic. I had given orders to blackball both families. Why were they here? I turned to take the side elevator, but Alex spotted me. “Isabel!” he roared, charging across the lobby. He grabbed my arm and shoved me against the wall. My head cracked against the marble, and my ears began to ring. “I knew it! You’re the one blocking Lucy’s spot in the trial!” I didn’t have the energy for this. I tried to pull away, but he pinned me harder. “The Harts already wired you a million dollars as a settlement! What more do you want? Why are you trying to kill her?” He was shaking with rage. “Lucy needs to be part of this research team to get priority access to the trial drug. Her heart can’t wait. Do you really want her blood on your hands?” Lucy was leaning weakly against my mother, playing the frail victim to perfection. I knew her medical history—she had a murmur, but it wasn’t the death sentence she was pretending it was. “This project is a joint venture between DM and Hart Pharmaceuticals,” Alex spat. “Who do you think you are? You claim you don’t want anything from the Harts, yet here you are, clinging to a research position just to spite her. You’re pathetic.” He leaned in closer, his breath hot against my face. “One phone call from me, and I’ll have you fired. You’ll be lucky if you can get a job as a school nurse when I’m done.” My assistant, Sarah, came running over, looking horrified. “I am so sorry, Dr. Hart—I mean, Ms. Sterling. I didn’t know they would force their way in.” Alex misinterpreted her apology. He turned to Sarah, sneering. “You’re damn right you’re sorry. Get your boss, Anna, down here in ten minutes. If I don’t see her, Cross Holdings pulls every cent of investment from this project.” My mother stepped up, her face twisted in a mask of self-righteousness. “And tell her if Isabel isn’t gone by tonight, the Harts are pulling out too!” Lucy watched me, a tiny, triumphant smile tugging at her lips. She thought she had won. She thought money and influence could buy her a seat at a table she hadn’t earned. But they didn’t realize that I wasn’t just a researcher. I was the reason they were even in the building. Sarah stood frozen. Alex growled, “What are you waiting for? Call Anna!” I held up a hand to stop Sarah. “Let him.” Alex pulled out his phone, his eyes fixed on mine. “Fine. Watch your career die, Isabel.” He hit the speed dial. A second later, a clear, crisp ringtone echoed through the silent marble lobby. It was coming from my pocket.

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I awakened to the truth right before my arranged marriage with the male lead. After being drugged, I didn’t push open his hotel room door. Instead, gritting my teeth, I shoved open my stepbrother’s door. Under his stunned gaze, I pinned him against the door, kissed his earlobe, and whispered against his skin, “Please, save me.” I decided to go off-script. I wasn’t going to marry the male lead over some orchestrated accident, only to get divorced later because of another woman. I wasn’t going to waste years entangled with him, nearly losing my life in the process, just to have a toxic “happily ever after.” This time, I was going to hold onto the man who would give up his own life for me, even if he refused to say the words “I love you.” At the wrap party celebrating my Best Actress win, a single glass of wine sent my head spinning. I opted to leave early and head back to my hotel room to rest. Right before I pushed open Carter’s door, a flood of memories and scenes I had never actually lived flashed through my mind. I awakened to reality: I was the female lead in a toxic, angsty romance novel where the guy treats the girl like trash before finally begging for her back. The spiked drink tonight was a setup to get me into the director’s room, framing me for sleeping my way to the top and securing my award through the casting couch. In the original plot, I stumbled into the wrong room—Carter’s room. The next morning, a swarm of paparazzi would burst in, snapping photos of our one-night stand. To save face, Carter would be forced to put his arm around me and announce to the press that we had been secretly dating and were planning to get married. He would marry me, but in his heart, I’d always be the scheming woman who used dirty tricks to trap him into marriage. Because of that, the second we were married, he would slap a prenup and divorce papers in front of me to sign. The marriage would have a three-year expiration date. After three years, we’d divorce, and I’d get a ten-million-dollar alimony payout. He would repeatedly warn me not to catch real feelings during our sham marriage. But as the tragic female lead, I had already fallen hard for him long before this incident, all because he helped me out once in the past. Faced with his coldness, I foolishly hoped he’d change his mind, especially after I got pregnant from that one night. When I hinted at it, asking what he would do if I were pregnant, he ruthlessly told me to get an abortion. Later, when his childhood sweetheart and I were kidnapped together, he wouldn’t hesitate for a second—he’d choose to save her, leaving me alone on a burning yacht. I would fall into the ocean, my fate unknown. I’d end up stranded overseas, secretly giving birth to his child. Five years later, I would return to the States, determined to get justice. After my supposed death, he would finally realize his “true feelings” for me. He’d search frantically, throwing away business deals just to cross paths with me again. He’d uncover the truth about the spiked drink and confess that I was the one he truly loved. Eventually, after he took a knife for me from his deranged childhood sweetheart and ended up in the ICU, I’d soften, forgive him, and accept his proposal. The sweetheart would go to prison, and we’d have a grand vow renewal. What an absurd, pathetic storyline. Why should I ever look back at a man who put me through absolute hell? I was going to rewrite the script and sever all ties with Carter. This time, standing in front of the door I was supposed to open, I gritted my teeth and forced myself to walk a few steps further. Just as I was about to reach my own room, my legs gave out, and I crashed into another door. The moment the door opened, I froze. Standing there was Caleb, my stepbrother. I hadn’t seen him in seven years. He was wearing a bathrobe, the collar slightly parted. Droplets of water from his damp hair trailed down his chest. He wore a pair of gold-rimmed glasses now, making him look far more aristocratic and aloof than he did at eighteen. He looked even more unapproachable now, radiating a cold, restrained energy that was completely intoxicating. Thanks to whatever was in my system, I was feeling a lot bolder than usual. Normally, I’d be slightly intimidated by him and would never dare to do what I did next—I shoved him backward, pinning him against the door. He looked down at me and reached out to feel my forehead. “Are you drunk?” The last thread of my rationality completely snapped. His hand felt so incredibly cool against my burning skin. I leaned in and haphazardly kissed his earlobe, whispering against his skin, “Please, save me.” I watched the tips of his ears turn a furious shade of red, a stark contrast to his usual stoic, ascetic expression. A second later, he scooped me up into his arms and carried me inside. But instead of the bed, he headed straight for the bathroom. Oh wow, going straight for the shower play… He turned on the showerhead, and freezing cold water instantly drenched my entire body. He looked away, his voice ice-cold. “Are you sober now? What kind of game are you playing this time?” Crap. I forgot. The first two years after he returned from abroad were when our relationship was at its absolute worst. He couldn’t stand seeing me act like a pathetic doormat for Carter, so he always gave me the cold shoulder. And ever since I joined his family, I felt like Caleb and I were natural enemies. I never had a nice word to say to him, thinking he was just my stepbrother who had no right to boss me around, so I constantly pulled pranks on him. It was completely normal for him not to trust me right now. I looked at his soaked torso, his bathrobe pulled halfway open by my grabbing hands, and closed my eyes. “I was roofied. Please get me a doctor.” When he heard I was drugged, his head snapped back toward me, his eyes dropping to freezing temperatures. “Who did this?” “I don’t know.” I paused, looking at his face, then took a deep breath and gritted my teeth. “Now get out.” I was barely holding it together. He let out a self-deprecating chuckle, muttered a quiet, “No wonder,” and stepped out of the bathroom. Caleb found a female concierge doctor who hooked me up to an IV. Finally, the heat in my blood subsided. The next morning, the paparazzi arrived right on schedule. But when the hotel door burst open, the cameras caught Carter in bed with his childhood sweetheart, Ashley. I guess she got exactly what she wanted. All these years, Carter had never really gotten over Ashley. She was his first love. Back in the day, his prominent family forced them to break up. The reason was cliché: Ashley came from a working-class background, and the wealthy family didn’t think she was good enough. She was smart about it. Instead of fighting a losing battle, she took the initiative to leave. She refused the buyout money his mother offered, smoothly handed the audio recording of the threat over to Carter, broke up with him on the spot, and flew overseas to build her acting career. She understood the toxic male ego perfectly: men always obsess over what they can’t have. So for years, Carter never forgot her. The second she returned to the States, his eyes were glued to her, clearly signaling he wanted her back. Behind the scenes, Ashley constantly provoked me, trying to make me lose my temper in front of Carter while simultaneously stringing him along. This time, she probably panicked because rumors of a corporate merger and arranged marriage between my family and Carter’s were leaking to the press. She wanted to kill two birds with one stone. She was the one who spiked the drinks last night, taking the same drug herself. The substance metabolized quickly in the bloodstream, leaving no trace for a tox screen. That was why I told Caleb I didn’t know who did it—without proof, pointing fingers was useless. In the original timeline, the truth only came out much later when she completely lost her mind and confessed. Besides, I didn’t want Caleb fighting my battles. I wanted to destroy her myself. “Are Mr. Carter and Ms. Ashley rekindling their romance?” a reporter shouted. “What kind of question is that? Look at them—the real question is, when’s the wedding?” “Could you two give a statement on your current situation?” Ashley played the shy, victimized card, pulling the duvet over herself and refusing to speak. All eyes darted to Carter, but he didn’t immediately confirm their relationship. Instead, his eyes were locked onto me, standing in the hallway, watching the drama unfold. Following his gaze, the paparazzi spotted me. A few reporters practically sprinted over, their eyes gleaming with the promise of drama. “Chloe, did you know about them? What are your thoughts?” I casually tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and smiled gently. “I wish them the best on rekindling their spark. They should totally lock it down.” The second the words left my mouth, a stunned silence fell over the hallway. “Chloe, there’s no need to pretend you’re fine. Everyone knows your history with Carter.” It was true—everyone knew the wealthy socialite Chloe was psychotically obsessed with Carter. For him, I got into underground street racing and ended up with a broken leg that took six months to heal. For him, I got into a fistfight that landed me in a police precinct. I even joined the entertainment industry purely because he once offhandedly mentioned he liked watching movies and would probably date an actress one day. I knew full well that comment was aimed at his ex, Ashley, but I blindly dove into Hollywood anyway. Even after his ex returned, I shamelessly clung to him. Despite being an A-list actress, my fans endlessly roasted me online for being a desperate “pick-me,” but I never changed. So, it was impossible for me to just casually wish them well. “In the past, I was blinded by my own stupidity. My brain was basically mush,” I said breezily. “But that’s all in the past. I have new priorities now. They’re a perfect match, and I hope they stay together forever.” Carter’s face darkened terrifyingly. Instead of announcing his reunion with Ashley like I expected, he snatched a microphone from a reporter, slammed it into the floor, and roared, “Get the hell out! All of you, get out!” With the show over, I turned around and headed back to my room. As I turned, I saw Caleb standing nearby, his brows furrowed as he stared at me. Once we were inside my room, he spoke. “If it hurts, just cry. I won’t laugh at you.” His voice was surprisingly gentle. He genuinely thought I was heartbroken over Carter and was just putting on a brave face for the cameras. A mischievous urge took over, and I threw myself into his arms. “I’m so heartbroken! My chest physically hurts. I gave up so much for him… why won’t he just love me?” Caleb went entirely rigid, his voice tight with a hoarse, bitter edge. “Do you really love him that much?” Seeing him like that, I couldn’t bear to tease him anymore. In the past, I used to think he was just after my family’s wealth, which was why he always tried to manage my life and play the responsible older brother. Whenever we were in the same room, I was usually mocking him. I mocked him for shamelessly following his mother to marry into my wealthy family. I mocked him, calling him a gold-digging freeloader who would do anything for cash. I constantly told him to drop the fake “caring brother” act. That is, until I was trapped on that yacht. When the fire raged and I was abandoned to the flames, I thought I was dead. But Caleb charged in from the outside. To protect me from the flames, he shielded me with his own body. Half of his face was severely burned, and a collapsing steel beam crushed his leg, leaving him with a permanent limp. After that, he only dared to protect me from the shadows. He secretly paid for my directing classes overseas, wrote me anonymous letters encouraging me to become a famous director, and helped me return home in triumph. When his wounds got infected in the hospital, he held a photo of me, whispering quietly to himself, asking if I really hated him that much. He said his scars were too terrifying now, and he didn’t even dare to show his face to me. He wanted me to remember him the way he was before—handsome and whole. When he died, he left his entire estate to me, never once mentioning that he loved me. I looked up into his eyes and told him with absolute sincerity, “Starting today, I don’t love him anymore. I am completely over Carter.” He froze for a second. Then he lifted a hand, gently wiping away the fake tear on my cheek, and spoke in a strained voice. “You don’t have to put on a brave face to lie to me. If you can’t drop the act around me, I’ll leave. I’ll have your friend come keep you company.” “I’m not lying!” “I get it. Brooke should be here soon.” He pulled my hands away and walked out with long strides. Damn it. I only fake-cried because I felt terrible remembering how painfully he repressed his love for me in the original timeline. Now he totally misunderstood. By the time my best friend Brooke arrived, I was downing shots out of frustration. “Wow, the great socialite Chloe is actually day-drinking over a piece of trash?” “I am not drinking over that idiot Carter.” I guess I was a little too blunt, because Brooke actually looked up at the ceiling in shock. “Is the sky falling? You actually insulted him? In the past, if I said a single bad word about him, you’d rip my head off and remind me he was your savior.” Carter had saved me once. I was walking home late at night and realized I was being followed into an alley. He happened to be there and scared the creep away. I had begged for his help, and he put his arm around me, pretending to be my boyfriend, forcing the stalker to back off. He probably didn’t even remember it, but it was seared into my brain. The moment I saw him on the cover of Forbes, I did everything in my power to get close to him. Honestly, everything I’d done for him over the years had more than repaid that debt. But I kept acting like a brain-dead simp, constantly offering myself up to get hurt. What a garbage plotline. “That’s ancient history,” I said. “Right now, I want to chase Caleb. But he keeps thinking I’m trying to prank him.” “It’s just the two of us here, you can drop the act. Haven’t you tortured the poor guy enough since we were kids? You really want to play mind games and break his heart now? Honestly, you don’t even need to try…” She trailed off abruptly. I raised an eyebrow. “Why’d you stop?” “He’s been hopelessly devoted to you for years. If you really want to mess with him, find another way. Watching you obsess over another man has been pure torture for him. He’s suffered enough.” So his feelings for me were blatantly obvious to everyone else, and I was the only idiot who hadn’t noticed. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?” “I couldn’t even mention either of their names around you! One was your untouchable god, and the other was your mortal enemy. The second I brought Caleb up, you’d rant about how much you hated him. Years ago, just because you threw a tantrum and said you didn’t want to see his face in your house, he instantly packed his bags, went to college overseas, and built his own empire. He only came back this time because he has domestic corporate mergers to handle.” Back then, the year after my mom passed away, sixteen-year-old Caleb and his mother moved into my family’s estate. I blamed my dad for my mom’s death. I thought he didn’t care about her enough, which drove her to swallow a bottle of pills. While she was dying in the ER, he was away on a business trip and didn’t even make it back in time to say goodbye. And yet, so shortly after, he brought home a new woman—who was supposedly his first love. Because of that, I looked at Caleb with pure hatred. Even though he and his mom constantly tolerated my awful behavior. Once, when kids at my prep school mocked me for being motherless, Caleb actually threw punches for me. He told them I had a mom, and that his mother was mine too. I looked at him with pure disgust and told him they didn’t deserve to be my family. He would always quietly trail behind me, making sure I got home safe. But I kept relentlessly targeting him. I even went so far as to intentionally cut my own leg on a glass sculpture he made, just so I could frame him for it. Looking at my bleeding leg, he asked me in a dazed voice, “Do you really hate seeing me that much?” Back then, I was paranoid and obsessed with the idea that they were here to steal my father. I glared at him with hateful eyes. “Yes. I’m sick of your fake, hypocritical faces. You act like you care about me, but you’re just trying to push me out of this family.” “I’ll leave.” He immediately filed the paperwork for an overseas boarding school and never stepped foot in the house again. It was only after he left the country that I ended up being stalked and saved by Carter. I only found out the truth about my mom’s death much later. It had nothing to do with my dad being distant. She just never loved him. She manipulated him into traveling constantly because she was planning to run away with her high school sweetheart. When her lover died in a car crash on his way to get her, she couldn’t cope and took her own life. My dad had kept her ugly secret hidden, quietly enduring my misplaced hatred all those years. He and Caleb’s mom had only reconnected by chance long after my mom’s funeral. “What does he even see in me? I’ve basically been the evil stepsister in his life story,” I muttered. “You’d have to ask him,” Brooke said. “You want to chase him? Didn’t you just get an offer for that celebrity dating reality show? The one you were going to turn down? Don’t turn it down. Go on the show. And try to get him cast too. Let’s see how long he can keep up the stoic act.”

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I spent three days and three nights as a ghost, screaming into the void, before the universe finally granted me a second chance. It all started with a Chanel bag. My mother had sent it to me as a surprise, and the sight of it sent my roommate, Teresa, into a spiraling, tear-filled jealousy that lasted for days. I couldn’t stand the noise—the constant sniffling, the weaponized fragility. In a moment of sheer desperation for some peace and quiet, I used a burner account to message her on WhatsApp and transferred fifteen thousand dollars to her, disguised as a “secret admirer” who just wanted her to stop crying. I never expected her to turn around and post the bank balance to the campus GroupMe. She announced to everyone that she’d been “testing” us by playing poor, and that I—the girl who actually owned the bag—was the greedy, social-climbing fraud who failed her little litmus test. The backlash was instant. My classmates’ vitriol felt like a physical weight, and my boyfriend, Jordan, didn’t even hesitate to dump me. When I finally confronted her on our dorm balcony, she “accidentally” pushed me. I died hitting the pavement three stories down. My other two roommates? They took a thousand dollars each from Teresa to testify that I had jumped out of shame. … I opened my eyes. The air felt thick, real. Teresa was staring at her phone, her eyes widening as she saw the notification for the money I’d just sent. She looked up, a triumphant, ugly smirk twisting her face. She pointed a manicured finger at my nose. “Sophie, get your ass up and fetch me some water for a foot soak. Do it now, or I’ll tell the whole class exactly how much of a shallow, gold-digging bitch you really are.” I didn’t waste a heartbeat. I lunged forward, snatched the phone out of her hand, and hit “Refund” before she could even blink. I met her panicked, confused gaze and patted my chest, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. Thank God, I thought. Almost fed the stray dogs again. Can’t have that. Living with Teresa was like living in a low-budget soap opera. If I washed my face, she’d stand behind me, sobbing. “I heard that cleanser is eighty dollars a bottle. That’s my grocery budget for the month! How can you be so wasteful?” If I brushed my teeth, she’d wipe away a stray tear. “Is that an ultrasonic toothbrush? I guess girls like me will never know what it’s like to have the best things in life…” If I tried to sleep, she’d moan from the across the room. “Can I just touch your silk sheets? I just want to know what it feels like to be special for one second.” Then my mom went to Paris and sent me the Chanel. Teresa snapped. She cried for three days straight, a relentless, performative mourning of her own perceived poverty. I’d cracked. I’d sent the fifteen thousand with a simple note: Stop crying. In my past life, the GroupMe had exploded seconds later. [OMG, did you guys see Teresa’s balance? Fifteen grand in one go? She’s literally a secret heiress!] [Wait, so Sophie was the one faking it the whole time? That’s so pathetic.] [I knew Teresa had that ‘old money’ vibe. Sophie just looks like she’s trying too hard. Gross.] I scrolled up on my own phone, watching the history repeat itself—almost. In my previous life, Teresa had cropped my burner account’s profile picture and posted the screenshot with a caption that made my blood run cold: I only pretended to be struggling to see who my real friends were. Most of you are amazing, but Sophie… I’m going to be blunt. Sophie, it’s okay to be poor. You don’t have to carry knockoffs to feel important. It’s honestly just sad. And then, the killing blow. Jordan, the campus golden boy, tagged me in front of everyone. [Sophie, I can’t believe I fell for your act. You’re hollow. The most embarrassing thing I’ve ever done is date you. We’re done. Don’t ever call me again.] The class responded with cheers and “victory” emojis. [Justice!] [Good for you, Jordan. You deserve way better than a fake like her.] In that life, I had stormed out to the balcony to find Teresa. She hadn’t even looked at me. She was too busy typing furiously to my “secret admirer” account. Who are you, handsome? You care about me so much… can we meet tonight? Why aren’t you answering? Are you shy? It doesn’t matter what you look like. I’m a person who looks at the soul, not the face… I had waved my phone in her face, the words “There is no secret admirer, you idiot, it was me” dying on my lips as she shoved me. She was surprisingly strong when she was annoyed. Damn, she’s got a grip, was my very last thought before the world went black. Floating as a spirit, I watched her cry “accidentally-on-purpose” tears. My other roommates, Kelly and Bella, came out to see my body on the concrete. They looked at each other, then at Teresa—or rather, at Teresa’s new wealth. “Don’t worry, Teresa,” Kelly said, her voice devoid of emotion. “We saw it. Sophie jumped. She couldn’t handle being exposed. It has nothing to do with you.” Teresa had hugged them, sobbing with “gratitude,” and promptly sent them a thousand dollars each from my money. They celebrated my death like it was a civic service. But now, I was back. Teresa was currently typing her “I’m treating the whole class to dinner tonight—except Sophie” message into the GroupMe. She looked at me, gloating as she pulled up the chat with my burner account. “Ever seen this much money in your life? All your little flexes? They’re nothing.” She leaned in, her voice a poisonous whisper. “Do you feel small yet? Do you want to go find a hole to crawl into?” I stayed silent. It was hilarious, really. My baseline lifestyle was a fever dream of luxury to her. Fifteen thousand dollars had been enough to make her lose her mind and reveal her true, ugly self. When I didn’t respond, she got bolder. She pointed at my face. “I told you, Sophie. Fetch me the water. Now. Or the whole school finds out what a lying, status-obsessed freak you are.” I looked at her phone. The transfer was still pending. She hadn’t officially “accepted” it into her bank balance yet. My eyes lit up. I lunged, grabbed the phone, and tapped “Refund.” The money vanished from her screen and slid back into my account. I let out a long, shaky breath of relief. Safe. Teresa’s face contorted. “Sophie!! Are you insane?! You owe me fifteen thousand dollars! Give it back!” Having died once, I knew I wasn’t going to win a physical fight with her. I didn’t grab a single thing. I just took my phone and bolted out of the dorm. Goodbye, snakes. I was going home to my parents’ villa. I didn’t hear her chase me, but I heard the scream. It was primal. Even as I reached the ground floor, I could hear the sound of things being smashed in our room. My phone started buzzing incessantly. Teresa was blowing up the burner account. [Hey, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to ignore you! I’m not a gold digger, I swear. I don’t even want the money, I just want to see you…] [Please answer… I grew up an orphan, it’s been so hard, but I have my pride. I can’t just take money even if I’m starving… but I don’t know how I’ll pay my tuition now…] [Talk to me… please…] I kept walking, shaking my head at the absurdity. I wondered how she was going to treat the whole class to dinner on her five-hundred-dollar-a-month allowance. I was so caught up in the irony that I walked straight into Jordan. He was clearly on his way to the dorm to deliver his “righteous” breakup speech in person. “Ow!” I stumbled, hitting the pavement. Jordan looked down at me. A flash of pity crossed his handsome face, but he quickly masked it, clenching his fists. “Get up. Don’t think for a second that acting pathetic will make me stay. I’m breaking up with you, Sophie. You know how hard I worked to get out of my small town and into this university. I won’t have my reputation tarnished by a fraud. You’re a stain on my life.” He sighed, looking like a martyr in a Greek tragedy. “Don’t blame me for being cold. I loved you, really. But I can’t sacrifice my future for you.” In my last life, I’d believed that look. But I remembered him after my death, holding Teresa, whispering, “Don’t feel bad. I was with her for a month; I know who she was. She jumped because she was a bad person. It’s not your fault.” They had been hooking up behind my back the whole time. I stood up, brushed the dust off my jeans, and while he was still mid-sigh, I wound up and slapped him across the mouth as hard as I could. “You’re the stain, Jordan. Your whole family is a stain.” He was too stunned to move. By the time he found his voice, I was half a block away. “You crazy, fake bitch!” he roared. “You’re not worth a hair on Teresa’s head! You’ll regret hitting me!” His impotent rage was an exact match for Teresa’s. Honestly, they were perfect for each other. It was the weekend, so I went straight to my parents’ place, soaked in a tub that cost more than their combined tuition, and waited for the show to begin. The GroupMe was humming. [Hey Teresa, where are we going for dinner?] [I just finished my makeup! Can’t wait for pics with our girl Teresa!] [I’m wearing my best shirt for our princess!] Teresa was silent. On my burner account, however, she had sent over three hundred messages and attempted a dozen video calls. The texts turned into frantic voice notes. I played the last one. She was sobbing. [Please… my grandmother just called, she needs emergency surgery. If you can just lend me a little bit of money, I’ll be yours forever. I’ll do anything…] I felt like playing a little. I typed back: Anything for you, sweetheart. “Sweetheart” was Jordan’s pet name for her. I’d only found out after I was dead. This time, I’d help them synchronize. Teresa must have seen the reply and assumed Jordan was the “Secret Admirer” finally revealing his billionaire status. She immediately posted the dinner location to the GroupMe: a trendy new Hot Pot place near campus. [To make it easy for everyone, we’re going here! Next time, I’ll have my driver take us somewhere truly high-end!] I turned off my phone, smiling. But then the screen lit up again. Someone had @-ed me in the main group. It was Jordan, of course. [Sophie, we’re at the Golden Pot at six. Show up and apologize to Teresa on your knees, or don’t show up at all.] Before I could type a snarky reply, he posted a photo. It was a pile of all the gifts I’d bought him over the last month. A Rolex, a curated Hermes messenger bag… [Teresa said these are all fakes. Come get your trash. It’s making me nauseous just looking at it.] I sat bolt upright and typed one word: Deal. I didn’t want him to change his mind. Any one of those items could pay for his life for years. He thought I was coming out of fear. Let him think that. I wanted to see how they’d handle a four-figure bill with zero dollars in their pockets. When I arrived at the restaurant, the whole class was there. Teresa hadn’t heard back from “Sweetheart” yet, so she was too scared to ask for a private room. They were crammed into three tables in the corner of the main floor. As soon as I walked in, Jordan stood up, adjusting his sleeves with an air of unearned importance. “Sophie. Down on your knees. Tell Teresa you’re sorry for everything you did to her, and maybe we’ll let you leave with your dignity.” I actually laughed. “Where do you get off, you absolute hobo? Who are you trying to impress?” Jordan’s face turned a shade of purple. Being called poor was his ultimate trigger. For the month we dated, I had paid for everything—his clothes, his meals, his tech—because I knew he struggled. At first, he was grateful. Then, he became entitled, telling me that once he graduated, his “future earnings” would be mine, so my spending was just an “investment.” The audacity was breathtaking. “Where’s my stuff?” I asked. “Give it here.” Jordan held up a large shopping bag, threatening to drop it. “Who wants this junk? I only took it because I didn’t want to embarrass you.” “If it breaks, you’re paying full retail price,” I said coldly. He froze. He couldn’t afford to pay for a sandwich, let alone a Rolex. He handed the bag over with a trembling hand, his face flushed with shame. Teresa signaled for a soda, and Bella immediately poured it and placed it in front of her like a servant. Teresa nodded, dismissed her with a wave, and looked at me like I was dirt. “What,” I said, “did you become a paraplegic in the last three hours? You can’t pour your own drink?” “You!” Teresa slammed her hand on the table. The table wobbled, and the entire glass of dark soda spilled directly onto her pristine white dress—the one she’d saved for months to buy. “No!!” she shrieked, looking at the ruin of her only ‘expensive’ outfit. She pointed a shaking finger at me. “This is your fault! Kneel! Kneel right now!” “You’ve been watching too many teen dramas, Teresa. You’re not a princess; you’re a roommate with a stain on her lap.” I ignored her and sat down at an empty table nearby. The smell of the broth was actually amazing. “Waiter! Menu, please!”

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My ex-boyfriend was loaded, so I became his simp for the cash. I kissed his ass diligently every single day, right up until a two-faced pick-me girl stepped in. On the day we broke up, I cautiously asked, “Hey, about that condo you gave me… are you…” “Can you just get the hell out of here?” he snapped. He was annoyed. It was a scorching hot day. I obeyed, clutching the deed to the condo, and ran away as fast as my legs could carry me. Ever since elementary school, I was a total doormat for money. My desk-mate back then was filthy rich, his desk drawer literally stuffed with loose bills. I ran errands for the little rich boy every day—five bucks a pop. I was so money-hungry I even escorted him to the bathroom to make an extra buck. At a young age, my piggy bank was overflowing. Eventually, the rich kid transferred schools, but the stash I saved up got me through my childhood. In middle school, I ran a little side hustle. I’d hit up the corner store during lunch, pack my backpack full of snacks, and sell them at a markup to the kids in my class between periods. My best customer was a girl named Harper. She was a preppy, flawless girl who got hundreds of dollars a day in allowance. I still don’t understand her mindset back then. Every recess, she’d buy dozens of dollars worth of snacks from me. She wouldn’t even eat them; she just bought them to pass around for fun. When the empty wrappers littered the floor, she’d pay me twenty bucks to sweep them up. I was incredibly hardworking back then, buzzing around the rich girl day in and day out. Honestly, most students have zero concept of money, so I made a killing. On my best days, I could clear three hundred bucks. Student money is always easier to make than real-world money. People who haven’t tasted absolute rock bottom don’t realize how important cash is. As for me? No mom, no dad. I grew up in the foster system, so I was street-smart from day one, constantly scheming on how to secure the bag. When I got to college, I grinded hard to make a living. I worked my fingers to the bone until I met Tristan. He was a trust fund baby on steroids, spent money like water, and was an absolute godsend for my wallet. What kind of guy was Tristan? A brilliant art major whose family owned a massive real estate empire. A total golden boy. How did we meet? I was a campus RA, and this was the twelfth time I’d caught him skipping class. His academic advisor looked at the attendance sheet, furious. “So what if he’s rich? Look, don’t clear his name from this list. Let the penalties stand.” Since the advisor gave the word, I kept my mouth shut and kept marking him absent. Finally, right before the holidays, he sought me out. He asked me what the deal was. I carefully replied, “I’m sorry, I don’t really have a choice here.” “If there’s no choice, invent one.” He leaned back on the sofa, looking at me with pure irritation. Later, I actually did invent a way for him. I ran around campus with the golden boy, pulled a few strings, and got the issue resolved. He was extremely satisfied with my bootlicking. Probably because he was in a good mood, and because I looked tragically broke, he casually tossed me a designer gold chain. A thirty-thousand-dollar piece of jewelry. I pledged my highest allegiance to the golden boy on the spot, texting him good morning and good night like clockwork. Then one day, he asked if I was trying to hit on him. I cautiously replied: Are you annoyed by my texts? I can stop sending them. He didn’t reply. A long time passed before a message popped up: Your name is Riley, right? Yes. (Cute cat sticker attached). You know Harper, right? The popular girl? I do. She flunked a final… Understood. I’ll ask around the registrar’s office for you over the next couple of days. Cool, thanks. Tristan truly lived up to his status. Right below that text was a Venmo transfer. Five thousand dollars. I didn’t hesitate. I accepted the money and immediately sent back a wildly grateful reaction meme. Probably because I took so much of his money in the beginning, the phrase Tristan said to me the most when we eventually started dating was: Riley, could you stop being such a gold digger? I never defended myself. After all, I was a gold digger. I kept every single dollar he transferred me. From the very start, I was never in it for him. How did Tristan and I actually start dating? It all goes back to Harper. Harper and I actually had a lot of history—same middle school, same high school, and we both got into the same university. But once college started, our majors were completely different, so we rarely spoke. If we bumped into each other, we’d say hi, but that was the extent of it. Until one night, in the dead of winter, Tristan called me. He asked if I had a ride. I said yes. He said he was wasted and couldn’t drive. He shot me a Venmo payment and told me to come pick him up. In the middle of the night, I rolled up on my beat-up e-bike. The golden boy took one look at me and couldn’t hold back a laugh. “First time I’ve ever been on a moped.” “Do you want me to call you an Uber instead?” “Nah, cars make me nauseous right now. The moped is fine. The fresh air will help.” I picked him up, but before we even got back to campus, the alcohol took over. He started crying softly, mumbling into the wind. “She rejected me… First time I’ve ever confessed to a girl… and she rejected me…” Tristan looked so incredibly pathetic in the night breeze. Eventually, he just wrapped his arms around my waist, rested his head against my back, and fell asleep. I stiffened. I was only paid for a pickup; getting treated like a body pillow cost extra. When I finally parked the bike, Tristan confessed to me. He didn’t say it out loud. He just transferred me twenty thousand dollars with the memo: Be my girlfriend. I gritted my teeth and accepted it. When I looked up, Tristan saw the transfer go through, shoved his phone into his pocket, and walked into his frat house, completely satisfied. I stood outside in the freezing wind before it finally dawned on me. The golden boy wasn’t confessing his love. He was just humiliated from being rejected, and he was using me as a rebound to stroke his ego. I stared at the balance in my banking app under the streetlights. The longer I looked, the wider I smiled. I went home and slept like a baby. I had a boyfriend, but the only person who knew was Tristan. He didn’t tell anyone, and neither did I. Occasionally, he’d Venmo me with a note: Come eat. Followed by an address. I’d happily rush over. It was great—not only did I get paid, but I also scored a free meal. Sometimes it was just the two of us. Tristan would book a private room and eat at a leisurely pace. He was used to the finer things in life, completely unhurried. He also couldn’t stand seeing me scarf down my food. If I inhaled three bites at once, he’d raise an eyebrow. “Drink some soup.” I’d take a sip from the tiny bowl, look up to make sure he was satisfied, and then get right back to devouring my meal. If it was a group dinner, I’d rein it in. I’d sit quietly, taking small, polite bites. If someone spoke to me, I’d look up, smile, and answer their questions. When they stopped asking, I went back to eating. People told me I seemed so sweet and well-behaved, telling me to make myself at home. I’d just smile and nod. As for being “well-behaved,” I really can’t judge. All I can say is, if you grew up in the foster system, you’d be just as well-behaved as me. I stayed in my lane. When my birthday rolled around, Tristan told me to come celebrate, so I went. We were on his family’s massive yacht. The ocean breeze felt incredible. I closed my eyes to make a wish. He leaned back on the lounge chair and lazily interrupted, “If you want something, just say it out loud. Why keep it in your head?” I hesitated for a second before bluntly saying, “I want a house.” Tristan raised an eyebrow. “Funny you say that. My family literally builds houses. Congrats, your wish aligns with my inventory. I’ll take you to get the deed transferred in a few days.” He leaned back, casually scrolling through his phone. He promised it so effortlessly that my heart pounded, but I didn’t dare ask if he was serious. I just cut myself a piece of cake and sat beside him. The sunset over the marina was gorgeous, and the frosting was so sweet. For a brief, crazy second, I turned my head. I wanted to kiss him. I didn’t care about the house anymore. I could always save up and buy my own eventually. In that exact moment, I just really, really wanted to kiss him. But I didn’t say a word, and I didn’t move. He kept scrolling out of sheer boredom until he played an audio message. I didn’t catch what the voice said, but he frowned immediately. “Let’s go. We’re heading back.” It was getting dark. He had an emergency and left. I grabbed a rideshare back to my dorm, only to find out that Harper had passed out from low blood sugar and was rushed to the ER. I leaned over my roommate’s shoulder and saw a photo someone had taken at the hospital. Tristan was standing right by Harper’s bed. Suddenly, I remembered the slice of cake I never finished. I stood there for a long time, finally let out a yawn, took my phone, and climbed into bed. For the next few days, Tristan was busy, and I didn’t bother texting him. It wasn’t until the day Harper got discharged that Tristan finally messaged me, inviting me out. A weekend camping trip. He sent the money, so I happily packed my little duffel bag and went. When I arrived, I realized they brought two SUVs. Exactly eight people. I was the odd ninth wheel. I froze. Everyone was already in their seats, dead silent. The awkwardness hit me like a truck, but I was already there. I couldn’t exactly turn around and walk away without making it worse. Tristan looked at me, frowned, and then glanced toward the park’s shuttle carts nearby. Harper reached out and grabbed my arm. “Come on in, we can squeeze.” There was a tiny bit of space in her row, but she had just gotten out of the hospital and clearly still looked weak. I immediately shook my head. “I’ll just take the shuttle cart! It goes to the same place.” Harper looked at me, our eyes met, and after a long silence, she finally let go of my arm. Their cars drove off. I sat alone in the pavilion. It wasn’t tourist season, so the park was completely deserted. Just me, sitting there by myself. I waited a long time before the cart finally arrived. By the time I made it to the peak, it was pretty late. The group had already started the cookout. I barely knew any of them—I’d only had dinner with them once or twice. I found a quiet corner and sat there from noon straight through the afternoon. Tristan was grilling. Occasionally, someone would hand me a skewer. The scenery was beautiful. Once I was half-full, I decided to go for a walk to look around. I told Tristan I was heading out. He seemed preoccupied with something and didn’t even look at me, just giving a dismissive grunt. The mountain air was crisp. Because of my time in the group home, I rarely got the chance to just wander in nature. I walked for almost an hour, figuring they’d be wrapping up lunch by now, so I headed back. But things didn’t go as expected. I stared at the completely empty campsite. In that split second, I realized it’s impossible for a person to not feel a little heartbroken. It was already dusk. The shuttle carts had stopped running. My only option was to walk down the mountain. The sun dipped below the horizon, and I was alone in the wilderness. Halfway down, my phone died. I kept walking in dead silence. This trail felt exactly like the road I took when I ran away from the foster home as a little kid. The same dim light, the same blurring surroundings, slowly dissolving into pitch-black, suffocating darkness. I couldn’t find my way home, and my dad wasn’t coming back for me. I looked around in sheer terror and started running. The moonlight filtered through the trees onto the dirt path. I was terrified. I screamed at the top of my lungs: “Tristan…!” The echo bounced through the mountains, sending a bone-chilling shiver down my spine. I walked for the entire night. And I was terrified for the entire night. When dawn finally broke, I found a bus driver at a transit stop who let me charge my phone. He took one look at my disheveled state and jumped. “Were you out here all night? Why didn’t you call 911?” I held up my phone. “Forgot to check the battery. It died.” “Sweetheart, you can’t come hiking all by yourself. At least bring a boyfriend or some friends!” I did bring one… or maybe, he didn’t count as one after all. “Yeah, I’ll remember that. Thanks so much, sir.” I turned my phone on to see a text Tristan had sent me last night. He said they were heading out first and told me to get home safe. I let out a bitter laugh, leaned my exhausted body against the bus window, and fell asleep. Tristan still called me out to eat every few days. One day, he apparently remembered his birthday promise. He actually transferred the deed of a condo into my name. It wasn’t massive—three bedrooms, never been lived in. For Tristan, it was probably just spare inventory he kept around for loose gifts. The day I got the deed, I was just as ecstatic as I always was about cash. I happily inspected every inch of my new little home. Tristan couldn’t understand it. “It’s just a small condo. You really like it that much?” I nodded solemnly. “You just don’t get it.” I was still the campus RA. When I didn’t have class, I’d check in for Tristan’s courses. His only demand was that if he skipped, he didn’t want to hear about any disciplinary issues. I did my job perfectly. When winter break rolled around, everyone went home for the holidays. I didn’t, because I didn’t have a home. I went to my little condo. It had basic furnishings, but not even a TV. I figured I’d buy one before New Year’s. I bumped into Tristan while browsing at an electronics store. He was out with his little sister, who looked about eight or nine. She was adorable. He clearly had no idea how to handle kids. The second he saw me, he grabbed my arm. I immediately slipped into my simp persona. “Hey, Tristan.” “Do you know how to fold origami cranes?” “Yeah.” “Teach her for a minute, I’ll Venmo you.” Say less! I nodded instantly, noticing the little girl holding a piece of paper, crying her eyes out. Hearing my voice, she handed it to me. It was just standard origami paper. I folded it up, and the little girl grabbed the paper crane and happily ran back to the play area. Tristan frowned. “It’s literally a cheap piece of paper. I don’t get why she likes it so much.” I shook my head. “It has nothing to do with money. When you love something, even the cheapest thing in the world is a treasure.” He probably didn’t expect that kind of answer from me. He gave me a look. “Buying stuff?” “Yeah, looking for a TV.” “You helped me out. Come on, I’ll pick one out for you.” Him picking it out meant he was paying. I instantly lit up. “Thank you so much!” “Yeah…” He bought me a really nice TV. Tristan and I were familiar with each other, but we were definitely miles away from being a real couple. Maybe just friends, or acquaintances with benefits. I was a junior now, twenty-one years old. I cooked myself a simple holiday dinner for one and watched the New Year’s Eve fireworks explode outside my window. The streets were filled with teenagers running around with sparklers. I grabbed the sparklers I bought, blended into the crowd, and walked down to the river to watch the show. Back in the foster home, whenever New Year’s Eve came around, we’d eat dinner early and get sent straight to bed. None of us could sleep. We’d wait for midnight. When the fireworks started going off outside, all of us kids would crowd around the tiny window to watch. First, one kid would start crying, and soon, the whole room was in tears. We were so considerate—we never cried out loud. We just stared out the window with tears streaming down our faces. We didn’t want to upset the social workers who took care of us, but man, we missed the idea of a real family. Tonight, watching the fireworks, I started crying again. Surrounded by a roaring, happy crowd, staring up at the bright sky, I laughed and wiped my tears at the same time. Someone tugged at my jacket. I looked down. It was Tristan’s little sister, Lily. She was holding a stuffed animal, her eyes wide and bright. “Origami crane lady!” “Where’s your brother, sweetie?” I asked, picking her up. “Over there.” I looked where she was pointing and saw the group. It was the same crew from the hiking trip, with Tristan standing right in the center. They bought massive, gorgeous fireworks that painted the night sky red. Their celebration was loud and spectacular, and I was lucky enough to stand at the edge and watch. I put Lily down, made sure she ran back to them safely, and then backed away into the shadows and went home. The next morning, New Year’s Day, I slept in until someone knocked on my door around noon. It was Tristan. He handed Lily over to me. “She insisted on coming to wish you a Happy New Year. Wouldn’t shut up about it.” “…” “Happy New Year, Riley!” I definitely didn’t expect anyone to visit me for the holidays. I dug around frantically until I found a decorative envelope and stubbornly stuffed a twenty-dollar bill in it for her. Before they even left, there was another knock on the door. Busy morning. I opened the door and was immediately tackled in a bear hug. “Riley! Did you miss me?! I missed you so much!” The young guy hugged me so tight he was basically hanging off me. I fought for my life to push him away. “Noah, let go of me…” “No way…” “Ahem… we have company…” Noah finally let go. He looked at Tristan holding a little girl in my living room, processed the scene, and stared at me in pure horror. “Riley, please don’t tell me you sold out to become some rich guy’s stepmom?” “?” Are you out of your mind? Do I look like that kind of person? “Do I look that old?” Tristan was the one who broke the silence. Noah secretly rolled his eyes and whispered to me, “Who is this guy? Giving orders like he’s your dad.” “Wow…” “He’s my friend, Tristan. This is his sister, Lily. And this is my brother from another mother, Noah.” Noah pouted. “Why do I have to be your brother? Can’t I be your boy toy?” “No. I don’t date younger guys.” “Tch. Tastes can change. Whatever, I’ll take the hit, you can call me ‘babe’—wait, Riley, don’t walk away! What’s for lunch? I was on a Greyhound bus all night, I’m starving…” “Go sit at the table. Three minutes. The microwave is going, I’ll bring it to you.” “No, you always burn your hands on those plates. I’ll get it.” “You’re gonna burn your hands too.” “That’s different, it’s my hands.” “Get out! Get out! I bought oven mitts.” Tristan stood by the kitchen watching us bicker for a moment before finally picking up his sister and leaving. After eating, Noah happily crashed in my bedroom. I hadn’t bought a guest mattress yet, so my room was the only one set up. I honestly didn’t expect Noah to show up. Our colleges were on opposite sides of the country. Just getting here required three transfers, and holiday tickets were impossible to find. Whenever we called, he always said he couldn’t make it. Even when I called him yesterday, he said everything was sold out. But on New Year’s Day, there he was. I hadn’t seen him in three years. He had changed so much—gotten so much taller—but the second I saw him, he was still exactly the same kid I knew. A lot of big box stores were open on New Year’s Day. I went out and dropped nearly two grand on a high-end mattress, a luxury comforter, and hypoallergenic sheets. My wallet was screaming in pain, but Noah’s bedding had to be top-tier. He had incredibly sensitive skin and severe allergies. I still remember his first day at the foster home; they put him in the bed next to mine and told me to keep an eye on him. By midnight, he was covered in hives. I woke up, saw his swollen face, panicked, and carried him outside. The clinic doctor said he was allergic to the cheap detergent on the blankets and had almost gone into anaphylactic shock. After that, Noah had his own special blankets that nobody else was allowed to touch. I was the only exception, because he was just a kid and didn’t know how to do laundry yet. Ever since the night I rushed him to the clinic, he clung to me. He was allergic to everything, but somehow, he wasn’t allergic to me. He was like superglue, always trying to stick himself to my side. When he was a little kid, it was easy to carry him around. Now, he was six-foot-two. Hanging off me was just a liability. Noah finally woke up around 8 PM. Still half-asleep, he stumbled out to find me, and instinctively tried to hug me again. I shoved him away, and he finally snapped out of it. “Evening, Riley.” “Go heat up your dinner. Use the oven mitts. Your room is set up down the hall.” “Riley, do you wanna check my suitcase?” “Huh?” “I brought you a present.” Suspicious, I unzipped his bag. It wasn’t big, but sitting perfectly inside was a massive bouquet of roses. “Happy New Year, Riley!” I stared at the flowers. “Happy New Year.” “There’s a debit card hidden in the bouquet. The pin is your birthday…” “Noah.” “Yeah?” “You don’t need to do this.” “You have to take it. Maybe this means nothing to you, but it means everything to me. Not just because I love you, but because I want to actually provide for you. Even if you end up marrying someone else one day, or decide to live completely alone, you can’t reject this. If you won’t let me be your husband, I’ll be your safety net. “Riley, the reason I never visited all these years… I was broke. I didn’t have the right to say any of this without capital. I was too ashamed to see you. But today, I finally can. It’s been years. I missed you so damn much.” “Get out of here! Go eat your food and take your dramatic flowers to your room.” “No, I’m hungry. Don’t cry, you’re ruining the moment.” “Who’s crying? I just have overactive tear ducts! I cry easily, that’s all…” Noah stayed with me for a while. I took him shopping for some new clothes. Most of his clothes had to be specifically tailored from organic cotton. Not to flex, but because his immune system was practically aristocratic. Compared to anyone else, this kid was the real high-maintenance diva. It was the seventh time this month I bumped into Tristan while running errands. At this point, it was basically routine. He looked at me, his face much darker than usual. Noah couldn’t stand him. The second he saw Tristan, he started roasting him. “Does he know how to do anything besides scowl? Riley, how much money do you owe him? Honestly, I’ll sell a kidney to pay him back. Looking at his miserable face every day is a health hazard.” “Shut up. He gave me a condo. The one we’re living in.” “Huh? Just that? We could pool our cash and afford that. Just give it back to him!” “You shut up! I earned this condo. I had to go to a camping trip with his rich brat friends and ended up walking down a pitch-black mountain all night by myself. This is my hazard pay.” “Riley, that’s messed up. Just wait. The startup I launched with my buddies is actually taking off. Once I make real money, I’ll buy you ten condos. Go to grad school! I’ll move out here to be with you. If my friends ask why I moved, I’ll tell them I’m a sugar daddy for a grad student. Sounds amazing.” “Get out…” Tristan watched us whispering with our heads practically glued together, his brow furrowing deeper. “Why do you two need to stand so close to talk?” Noah muttered under his breath, “Talking trash about you.” But then he looked up and flashed a brilliant, fake smile. “Tristan, man! I’m heading out soon, so I need you to look after Riley for me. She gets spooked easily. Things like leaving her to walk down a pitch-black mountain by herself… let’s try to avoid that in the future. She’s just a girl, she was terrified…” Tristan froze. “When did I ever make her…” He stopped mid-sentence and locked eyes with me. I immediately looked at the floor. I didn’t tell him, wasn’t me.

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