Category: English

After eight years of loving Nate, my mother finally caved. She was ready to accept him—his commitment issues, his “phobia” of marriage, all of it. I was heading home with a fresh Chilean sea bass, his favorite, thinking about how I’d tell him the news. But as I reached the door, I heard his friend, Cooper, inside. “I thought you were dead-set against marriage, man,” Cooper said. “What changed? Why the sudden wedding?” My heart leaped. I thought he was going to surprise me. I thought he’d finally found the courage to give us a future. Then Nate spoke, his voice casual, almost bored. “I didn’t have a choice. She’s pregnant. For the sake of the kid, I have to give the girl a name. It’s the right thing to do.” I froze. The world tilted on its axis. The bag of groceries felt like lead in my hand. “Wait,” Cooper stammered. “You’re marrying the side piece? What about Jo? What are you going to do about Joanna?” Nate’s tone didn’t even flicker. “What do you mean, ‘do about her’? We keep things as they are. It’s not like I’m leaving her.” “And if she finds out? If she dumps you?” Nate let out a confident, low chuckle. “She won’t. I know Jo.” He paused, and I could almost picture the smug tilt of his head. “She wants a family so badly, yet she gave up the idea of marriage and kids just to stay with me. If she can handle that, she can handle anything. She’s not going anywhere.” So, he knew. He knew how much I longed for a wedding, for a home, for a life that wasn’t lived in the shadows of his trauma. A cold, sharp laugh bubbled up in my chest, though it didn’t reach my lips. He didn’t know me at all. To me, a dishonest man isn’t a partner; he’s just trash waiting to be tossed. 1 I walked in while they were still talking. Nate didn’t miss a beat. He smoothly pivoted the conversation to the NFL, his face a mask of effortless calm. When he saw me, he gave me that trademark look of practiced devotion. “Hey, babe. You’re back.” Cooper, on the other hand, couldn’t hide the guilt. His smile was forced, his eyes darting toward the floor in a cocktail of pity and shame. “I thought I heard something,” I said, my voice eerily steady. “Something about marriage? Who’s the lucky guy?” Eight years. You develop feelings for a stray cat in eight years, let alone a man you’ve shared a bed with every night. I was giving him one last chance. One final, desperate hope that he would be man enough to tell me the truth and end it. A flash of hesitation crossed his eyes before he stood up and walked over to wrap his arms around me. “Just an old friend from college,” Nate lied, pulling me into his chest. “Cooper was asking if I wanted to fly out for the wedding.” Cooper jumped in, desperate to help bury the lead. “Yeah, totally. The guy was a hardcore bachelor, too. No one saw it coming.” My heart went cold. Watching Nate lie to my face without even a hint of a blush, I realized there was no point in a grand breakup speech. He didn’t deserve my honesty. He didn’t deserve my vulnerability. I pulled away from his embrace, my skin crawling. He took it as shyness because Cooper was watching. He turned his attention to the groceries. “Did you get the sea bass?” “Jo treats you too well, man,” Cooper joked, though his voice sounded hollow. “She always hunts down the freshest catch because she knows you love it. Nate’s always bragging about your cooking, Jo. Says no one does it better.” I lifted the bag. “Actually, I bought this for my dad. He’s been craving it.” “Well, make it for me next time then,” Nate said, his tone entitled and sweet. I let a faint, bitter smile touch my lips. There wouldn’t be a next time. Nate, I’m never cooking for you again. “You’re the only one who takes care of me,” he said, slipping back into his usual routine of public affection. “If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t even know what good food tastes like.” He didn’t notice the emptiness in my eyes. He was used to saying these things—calling me the most important person in his life, his “anchor.” He’d said it so often it had become white noise. And it was true; before he met me, he didn’t eat fish. It was his greatest trigger, a food that carried the weight of a dark childhood. On our first date, I had ordered sea bass. I’ll never forget the sheer terror that washed over his face. Later, he told me why. When he was three, his mother remarried a man who treated Nate like an intruder. His stepfather would eat the meat of the fish and leave only the bones and spines for Nate. He’d been choked by them, poked by them, terrified by them. And his mother? She never protected him. She was too busy trying to keep her own head above water in that house. That house was the reason he claimed he was “broken,” the reason he said he couldn’t handle the “suffocation” of a marriage license. I was the one who healed him. Piece by piece, I fed him the best parts of the fish. I promised him, “I’ll cook for you for the rest of our lives. With me, you’ll always have the best cut.” That night, he cried in my arms like a child. He begged me, “Please stay with me forever. Don’t ever throw me away.” 2 For eight years, my love for him hadn’t wavered. But he was the one who had stopped cherishing it. I went into the bedroom, grabbed my ID and my bank cards, and headed for the door with the fish. “Call me when you’re heading back, I’ll pick you up,” Nate called out, not looking up from the TV. I paused. “Don’t bother. I’m not coming back tonight.” “Really? You’re going to leave me in a cold bed all by myself?” He pouted, playing the role of the lonely lover. He didn’t hear the finality in my voice. He thought it was just a weekend trip to my parents’. I looked at him, my heart in pieces, yet my voice remained calm. “For eight years, Nate, I’ve been a rebellious daughter to my parents because of you. It’s time I started listening to my mother.” He still didn’t get it. He just thought I was feeling guilty about not spending enough time with family. He walked over, stroking my hair with a patronizing tenderness. “You’re right. I shouldn’t be so selfish. Your parents need you. Why don’t you stay there for a few days? Take all the time you need.” “Goodbye,” I said. He smiled. “See you in a couple of days.” There is no ‘in a couple of days,’ Nate. You’re officially out of my life. I went to my parents’ house and cooked that fish for them instead. My father sighed as he ate. “If he’s really the only one for you, Joanna… then bring him over. We’ll make it work.” Initially, my dad liked Nate. But by the third year, when there was no talk of an engagement, he grew frustrated. That was when Nate revealed his “trauma.” He showed me stacks of therapy records, explaining how his childhood had left him with deep psychological scars. He had night terrors. He was genuinely afraid of the institution of marriage. I pities him. I thought as long as we loved each other, a piece of paper didn’t matter. In our fifth year, I got pregnant. With twins. I hoped that for the sake of the babies, he would finally overcome his fear. I wanted a family. A real one. But he broke down. He told me, “Jo, I’m sorry. I can’t be a father. A child wouldn’t be happy with me. Besides, childbirth is dangerous. My mother died giving birth to that man’s child… I can’t risk losing you.” He used his mother’s death to guilt me. He used his trauma as a shield. So, I had the abortion. I promised him we could be enough for each other—no marriage, no kids, just us. And yet now, another woman was pregnant, and he hadn’t hesitated for a second to marry her. He made me, and the children we never had, look like a total joke. “What does he like to eat? I’ll prepare something for tomorrow,” my mom added, her voice soft with resignation. They had shed so many tears over my refusal to leave him. “I don’t want him anymore,” I said quietly. “I’m done.” 3 My mother froze, the spatula mid-air. “Joanna… what did you say?” My father couldn’t hide the hope in his eyes. My throat tightened. I forced a smile through the lump in my chest. “I’m thirty years old. I’m not wasting another second on him. I want to start over.” My parents wept with joy. They thanked God that I had finally woken up. My mom insisted that the best way to move on was to find someone new, and within forty-eight hours, she had told every relative and friend that I was single. She started setting up blind dates. I didn’t really want to go, but I didn’t want to break her heart again, so I went through the motions. I was coming out of a mall with a guy my mom had set me up with when I ran into Nate. He was carrying bags from a maternity store. The moment he saw me with another man, his face darkened with possessiveness. He stepped toward us, marking his territory. “Hey, honey. Who’s this?” The blind date, sensing the tension, made a quick exit. Nate was fuming. “Is your mother setting you up again? You promised me you’d say no! What am I to you, Jo?” He knew the pressure I was under to get married. But he had never moved an inch to alleviate it. I looked at the maternity bags in his hand. “Who are those for?” “Don’t change the subject,” he snapped, then softened his tone when he saw me staring. “I told you, Mike’s wife is pregnant. It’s a gift for the baby shower. Now, why were you with that guy?” He still thought I was an idiot. He didn’t know that the previous night, I had received an anonymous package. Inside were photos of him and a girl named Piper holding their marriage certificate. There were ultrasounds, photos of them decorating a nursery, and shots of them looking like the perfect couple. The moment I left our apartment, he had gone and made it official with her. And Piper, eager to stake her claim, hadn’t waited long to let me know. She even included the date and location of their upcoming wedding. My blood boiled, but I kept my face neutral. I wanted to see how long he could keep up the act. “Nate, you know my parents are breathing down my neck. What if we just got married? Right now. Today.” The anger in his eyes turned to guilt. He tried his old trick—opening his arms to pull me in. “Babe, I’m so sorry. You know I love you more than anything. I’ll give you everything else—the money, the house, my heart—but that paper… I just can’t do it. I can’t get past the mental block. You know that.” I stepped back, avoiding his touch. My smile was cold. It was true. He had given me everything but the title. Five years ago, in a fit of “guilt” over the abortion, he had signed a legally binding agreement transferring his entire company to me as a gift. He was the CEO, but technically, he was my employee. He worked for a salary I approved. The house, the cars, the investments—they were all in my name. Even the “new” house he’d bought for Piper had been put under my name years ago during a tax restructuring he thought I wouldn’t notice. His phone buzzed. He glanced at it, and I saw that flicker of panic. It was Piper. “Work emergency,” he lied, backing away. “I have to go. We’ll talk later, okay?” As soon as he disappeared, I got a text from an unknown number. I didn’t want to make this ugly, but you clearly can’t take a hint. This is your final notice: get your stuff out of our house. We’re adults here, Joanna. Be graceful. If your things aren’t gone by tomorrow, they’re going in the trash. I stared at the screen and laughed. She was getting desperate. 4 I didn’t go back for my things the next day. Piper, apparently losing her patience, tracked me down at a cafe near my office. She didn’t look like a “mistress”; she looked like a girl who had won. She was young—maybe twenty-two, the same age I was when I first met Nate. She slid their marriage certificate across the table. “I think this gives me the right to ask you to clear out,” she said. Her voice was high, polished. “I haven’t thrown your stuff on the curb yet because I have class, Miss Miller. Don’t mistake my kindness for permission to keep clinging to my husband.” I looked her over. She was pretty in a generic way. There were faint love bites on her neck, partially hidden by a pink diamond necklace. I recognized that necklace. Nate had outbid three people for it at a charity auction last year. He told me it was an investment for “our” future. “You’re here because you’re too afraid to tell Nate you know about me, aren’t you?” I asked. She flinched, then doubled down. “I’m trying to let you keep a shred of dignity. You were with him for eight years and he never put a ring on it. Doesn’t that tell you everything you need to know?” She let out a mocking snort. “Why be the desperate ex?” I pushed the certificate back toward her. “I know when the wedding is, Piper. Don’t worry, I’ll be there to… congratulate you.” She panicked. “Don’t you dare. If you make a scene, you’ll be the one looking like a fool. Just leave gracefully. I don’t want you anywhere near my wedding. You’re bad luck.” I gave her a thin, sharp smile. “Then maybe you shouldn’t have a wedding.” Her eyes flashed with rage. “You really are a piece of work.” Then, her expression shifted. It was like watching a professional actress. She glanced toward the entrance of the cafe, then suddenly dropped to her knees at my feet. She grabbed my arm, tears welling up instantly. “I didn’t know about you!” she sobbed, loud enough for the other patrons to turn. “Please, we’re married now, and I’m pregnant. Please don’t take him away from me and my baby!” I groaned, reaching for my purse to leave. I didn’t have time for this melodrama. But as I tried to stand, she threw herself backward, hitting the floor with a muffled thud. “Ah! My stomach! Help! My baby!” She screamed in feigned agony. “Someone call my husband! 206-555-0198! Please!” The cafe erupted. People rushed over to her, shooting me looks of pure disgust. Since Nate’s office was only a block away, he arrived in less than five minutes, drenched in sweat and panic. He stopped dead when he saw me standing there. Piper reached out for him, trembling. “Nate! This woman… she told me she was your girlfriend. She told me to leave the house… when I said no, she pushed me! My stomach hurts so much…” Nate’s eyes were filled with terror. He scooped her up right in front of me. Guilt kept him from yelling at me, but he looked at me with a pleading desperation. “Jo, I’ll explain everything. I promise. I just have to get her to the hospital.” I stood there, cold as marble. “Nate, before you go, a quick reminder.” He paused, Piper moaning in his arms. “That black card in your wallet? It’s an authorized user card on my account. I just deactivated it. You might want to find another way to pay the hospital bill.” The color drained from his face. I turned my gaze to Piper. “And one more thing you should know. Nate signed over every cent of his assets to me years ago. The house you’re living in? Mine. The company he runs? Mine. He’s just an employee, and as of five minutes ago, he’s fired.” I looked back at Nate, whose expression was now one of pure horror. “Technically, he’s penniless. So, Piper? You’re the one who needs to get out of my house.” Piper’s face went ghost-white. The “pain” in her stomach seemed forgotten. “Nate?” I prompted, my voice low and dangerous. “Tell her. Is any of that a lie?”

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The guy I used to blow up dog shit with when we were kids got a new girlfriend. This new girlfriend called me a “Pick-Me.” She said I was just pretending to be “one of the guys” so I could steal her man, and that my entire childhood friend group was trash. I didn’t say a word. I just squeezed my girlfriend’s hand a little tighter. She froze. “You… you have a girlfriend?” 1 I, Harper, the unapologetic architect of the Great Dog Crap Explosion of 2005, had returned. My first day back in the States, after my parents forcibly repatriated me from Europe for college, happened to coincide with a welcome-home dinner thrown by my oldest friend, Connor. Connor was one of the kids I grew up in the dirt with. Our little cul-de-sac crew consisted of six people: four guys, two girls. I was one of the girls. The other girl, Natalie, is currently at Harvard, perpetually stressed and entirely too busy for our nonsense. She is the only respectable human being to emerge from our circle. The remaining four were the guys: Connor, Mack, Coop, and Miles. How did we all become friends? It’s incredibly simple. We grew up in the same suburban neighborhood. One sticky summer afternoon, after a torrential downpour, a massive puddle formed in the dirt lot at the end of our street. Some neighborhood dog had left a massive pile of shit right in the center of the depression. By the next afternoon, the sun had baked the water, rehydrating the turd until the entire puddle transformed into a bubbling, natural biological weapon. Mack, who was five at the time and an absolute idiot, pointed at the murky water and said, “It looks like a big bowl of soup.” Connor, four and a half and an even bigger idiot, asked, “Can we drink it?” I was five years and two months old. I answered his question with direct action. I grabbed a heavy tree branch, took aim, and slammed it right into the center of the hazard zone. Splat. Foul, brown water erupted into the air. We spent the rest of that golden afternoon chasing each other around the street, dipping sticks into the biohazard and launching it at one another until the entire neighborhood smelled like a landfill. Eventually, our respective mothers dragged us home by our collars. I got the lecture of a lifetime from my parents, my mother shouting, “Harper! Are you a young lady or a feral animal?!” I was a young lady. But I was a young lady who knew how to make a bomb out of dog crap. So, three years later, when I finally sat down at the table with Connor and the boys again, Mack’s very first sentence to me was: “Harper, do you still think about the soup?” “I do,” I deadpanned. “I also remember that you licked the water that splashed on your cheek and your mom had to take you to the clinic for three days of preventative rabies shots.” The private dining room erupted into laughter. This was our dynamic. We survived each other’s ugliest, loudest, most unpolished phases. We kept each other humble through mutually assured destruction. Anyone with a fragile ego would have been exiled from our circle back in kindergarten. Connor poured me a beer. “Harper, listen. My girlfriend is coming tonight. Do me a solid and maybe let’s not talk about feces?” I raised an eyebrow. “Oh? You locked someone down?” Mack leaned over, rolling his eyes. “Two months now. Treats her like she’s made of spun glass. He wouldn’t even let us meet her until today. We’re only getting the privilege because of you.” Coop twisted the knife. “Yeah, he said he had to introduce her to his ‘most important childhood friend.’ We were wondering who that was. Turns out, it’s you, Harper. The rest of us are basically dogs to him.” Connor kicked Coop under the table. “Can you guys just be normal for ten minutes?” I nodded solemnly. “Alright, alright. I’ll play the part. Perfect Southern belle. I got you.” Five minutes later, the door to the dining room opened. A girl walked in. White sundress, long flowing hair, wide doe eyes, and skin that looked like it had never seen a harsh ray of sunlight. The way her skirt swished when she walked made it look like she was floating on a cloud. Someone was floating right behind her. No, it wasn’t a person. It was Connor’s soul, tethered to her wrist. Connor stood up, wearing the kind of dopey, worthless grin that only belongs to a man who has entirely lost his mind. “Guys, let me introduce you. This is my girlfriend, Paige.” Paige. She kept her chin tucked, looking up at us through her lashes. The angle, the wide-eyed apprehension—she looked like a startled fawn that had just wandered onto a busy highway. “Hi everyone. I’m Paige.” Her voice was soft. Like cotton candy dissolving in hot water. Mack and the guys immediately dropped their degenerate personas, sitting up terrifyingly straight and doing their absolute best impressions of civilized society. I stood up too, ready to go through the standard American social pleasantries. But as Paige’s eyes scanned the room and landed on me, she faltered. She physically shrank back, hiding slightly behind Connor’s shoulder. Connor quickly stepped in. “Harper, tone it down, you’re scaring her. She’s shy.” Me? I hadn’t even opened my mouth. I just stood up. Alright then. I sat back down. Connor pulled out the chair next to me for her, making the introductions. “Paige, this is the Harper I told you about. We grew up together. Ride-or-die. She just got back from studying abroad.” Paige offered me a smile. It was so tight, so constrained, so… forced. I brushed it off. I reached into my jacket pocket. Crap. I’d been in such a rush to get here, I forgot to buy a welcome gift. I usually wouldn’t care, but meeting a friend’s new girlfriend empty-handed felt like bad form. I glanced down at my wrist. A diamond tennis bracelet. Cartier. I’d bought it for myself literally that morning. Without a second thought, I unclasped it and gently slid it across the table toward Paige. “Hey, I didn’t have time to prep a proper gift, but take this. Nice to meet you.” Paige froze, staring down at the glittering diamonds. Connor froze, too. The air in the room suddenly turned very heavy. Assuming she was grossed out because it was already worn, I scratched the back of my neck. “Look, if you mind that I had it on, just hold onto it for now and I’ll buy you a fresh one in a box tomorrow.” The moment the words left my mouth, Paige’s eyes welled with tears. What? She pushed the bracelet back toward me with trembling fingers. When she spoke, her voice was thick with a sob. “Harper, I know you’re Connor’s best friend… but you don’t have to do this.” Do what? I was genuinely baffled. “I think you’re misunderstanding me. I literally just forgot to bring a gift—” “It’s fine.” She cut me off, the tears now actively pooling. “I know. I know the kind of money your circle comes from. I know I don’t fit in with Connor’s world. But I’m not with him for his money. I work hard for what I have. I don’t need your charity.” I stared at her. Then I turned my head slowly to look at Connor. Connor grimaced, leaning in to whisper furiously in my ear. “Harper, Paige didn’t grow up with a lot. She’s fiercely independent and she hates feeling like a charity case. You tossing a Cartier bracelet at her makes her feel like you’re mocking her.” My brain short-circuited. Mocking? I tried to course-correct. “I swear I didn’t mean anything by it, I just thought—” “Harper.” Paige spoke up again. This time, she stood up. The tears were actively rolling down her cheeks now, but her spine was rigid, playing the part of the tragic, unyielding heroine to absolute perfection. “I know you meant well. But I might not have money, but I have my pride. I don’t want your handouts.” You could hear a pin drop in that dining room. Mack and the guys exchanged panicked glances. A familiar spark of temper flared hot in my chest. But I swallowed it down. I remembered the very last thing my mother said to me at the airport before shipping me back to the States: Harper, if you start drama the minute you land, I am donating your entire sneaker collection to Goodwill. I took a deep breath. Then another. I forced the most pleasant, customer-service smile I could muster onto my face. “Okay. You don’t want the bracelet. That’s fine. Give me your Venmo. Name a number. I’ll just send you the cash.” Paige went entirely pale. Connor went entirely dark. “Harper!” His voice snapped like a whip. I was officially out of patience. “What?! She doesn’t want the jewelry, so I offered cash. I’ve bought gifts for everyone else’s girlfriends in this room! Why is this so difficult?” “Paige isn’t that kind of girl!” “Then what kind of girl is she?” I threw my hands up. “I give her jewelry, she says I’m mocking her. I offer her cash, she says… I don’t even know what she’s saying! I’m literally just trying to say ‘welcome to the group,’ why is this a federal offense?” Mack hastily stood up to play peacekeeper. “Alright, alright, let’s dial it back. Harper didn’t mean anything by it, Paige. She’s just got no filter. She’s a blunt instrument. Don’t take it personally.” It was the wrong move. The second Mack tried to smooth things over, Paige’s crying escalated from a tragic weep to a full-on breakdown. She looked at Connor. Then at me. Then at Mack. Her lips trembled. “I see. I get it now. You guys grew up together. You’re the real circle.” “I’m nothing. I’m just an outsider.” She looked right at me, her chest heaving. “You didn’t have to do this, Harper. If you want me gone, just say it. You don’t have to use your money to make me feel small.” Excuse me? I used my money to make you feel small? Giving you diamonds was an insult? Venmoing you was an insult? What did she want me to do? Get down on one knee and pledge fealty? “Connor.” Paige turned to my childhood best friend, her voice breaking on his name. “I clearly don’t belong in your world. We should just break up.” With that, she turned on her heel and sprinted out of the restaurant. Connor looked at me. There was a lot in that look. Exhaustion, blame, and a little bit of… something else I couldn’t quite place. Then he ran out after her. The door clicked shut. Silence hung in the room for three agonizing seconds. Coop was the first to speak. “Bro. What the actual hell just happened?” Mack scratched his head. “Harper, you were… a little intense.” I sat back in my chair, staring at the glittering Cartier bracelet still sitting innocuously next to my plate. Miles, the slowest processor among us, finally spoke up, his words dragging out. “Hey… does that Paige girl seem a little… you know?” “A little what?” I asked. Miles searched for the word for a solid ten seconds before finally finding it. “Like… a professional victim?” The four of us exchanged looks. We sank into a deep, collective silence. After a minute, I asked the room, “Does Connor realize?” Mack shook his head. “If he did, he wouldn’t have chased her.” Coop sighed heavily. “It’s over. Connor’s an idiot. He’s going down with the ship.” I rolled my eyes. “Let him drown. He picked her. Now he gets to sleep in the bed he made.” What I didn’t know at the time was that Paige wasn’t just my best friend’s exhausting girlfriend. She was about to become the inescapable shadow of my college existence. To be precise, she was about to become my roommate. 2 Later that night, my phone buzzed with a text from Connor. [Connor]: Harper, don’t sweat what happened tonight. Paige is just really sensitive. I talked her down. We’re good. [Connor]: I’ll buy you dinner to make up for it. I texted back an “OK” emoji and left it at that. I’d known Connor for twenty years. I knew exactly how he operated. When he locked onto an idea, a team of wild horses couldn’t drag him away from it. In middle school, he liked a girl in the grade above us, chased her for three years, and she ended up dating the captain of the track team. In high school, he fell for another girl, chased her for two years, and she moved across the country for college. Now, there was Paige. Two months in. The absolute peak of the honeymoon phase delusion. Anything I said right now would be used against me. It was better to say nothing at all. But the universe has a remarkably twisted sense of humor. On the first day of the semester, I dragged my suitcase into the dorms, pushed open the door to Room 408, and saw someone sitting on the bed near the window. White dress. Long hair. Doe eyes. She looked up. I looked straight ahead. The air in the room instantly turned to concrete. The sweet smile froze on Paige’s face. The textbook in her hands slipped and hit the floor with a loud smack. “…Hi,” I said. “…Harper?” she whispered. I took a slow, deep breath, dragged my suitcase inside, and located my assigned bed. It was the top bunk. Directly above hers. Karma is a sick joke. Fine. I started unpacking. She stayed frozen on her bed. About five minutes of excruciating silence later, she finally spoke. “Harper… about what happened the other night. I misunderstood your intentions. I’m sorry.” I paused folding my shirts and looked down at her. She had her face tilted up toward me, eyes wide and glistening, the absolute picture of earnest, vulnerable apology. I gave a single nod. “Don’t worry about it. Water under the bridge.” She smiled. It was so sweet it made my teeth ache. “Thank you, Harper.” I smiled back, turned around, and kept unpacking. My internal monologue, however, was crystal clear: If I can’t beat her, I’m just going to avoid her like the plague. For the next two weeks, I executed this strategy flawlessly. When her alarm went off in the morning, I was already out the door. When she went to sleep at night, I was just walking in. Library, dining hall, the bleachers by the athletic fields—I didn’t care where I was, as long as it wasn’t Room 408. There were four of us in the suite. Besides Paige and me, there was Dakota, a golden retriever of a girl from the Midwest who loved everyone, and Lauren, a brutally silent premed student whose only form of communication was aggressively turning pages of her biology textbook. Dakota, true to her nature, hated tension. By the third day of classes, she cornered me. “Harper, do you have beef with Paige? Why are you always avoiding her?” I waved a hand dismissively. “No beef. I just have a heavy course load. I leave early and come back late so I don’t wake her up.” Dakota bought it. Paige, however, did not. She decided to go on the offensive. 3 During the second week of the semester, the humanities department hosted a mandatory storytelling showcase for freshmen. “The Moth” style. I had absolutely zero desire to participate, but my advisor mandated that every seminar class had to send two representatives. We drew straws. I lost. Paige had volunteered. On the day of the showcase, I walked up to the mic and delivered a wildly inappropriate five-minute stand-up routine about almost burning down a flat in London while trying to boil pasta. It was pure filler. When the results were posted, I ranked second to last. Paige ranked third. Walking back to the dorms, I was actually in a fantastic mood. Obligation fulfilled, no expectations to advance to the finals. I could go back to coasting. I pushed open the door to Room 408. Someone was sobbing. Dakota was sitting on the edge of Paige’s bed, rubbing her back. “Paige, please don’t cry… third place is incredible…” “But it’s not fair,” Paige sniffled, her voice trembling. “I prepared for weeks. I rewrote that speech a dozen times. I know I should have gotten first…” Dakota patted her shoulder sympathetically. “I know, but the judges are subjective. You still placed!” “It’s not that.” Paige lifted her tear-streaked face, looking at Dakota with tragic intensity. “Dakota… I need to tell you a secret. But you can’t tell anyone.” Dakota leaned in. “What is it?” Paige lowered her voice to a fragile whisper. “I have it on good authority that someone… stole my draft.” Dakota gasped. “Who?!” Paige didn’t answer. She just wept softly. I was standing perfectly still in the doorway, caught in the awkward limbo of whether to walk in or back out slowly. Paige suddenly looked up and locked eyes with me. She flinched, then violently ducked her head, shrinking into herself. It was the look. The specific, calculated look of a victim terrified of her abuser. My brain stuttered to a halt. She… she isn’t implying what I think she’s implying, is she? Dakota slowly turned around. The look she gave me was incredibly complicated. I crossed my arms. “Spit it out.” Paige shook her head frantically. “Harper, it’s nothing! I know it wasn’t you.” I exhaled, feeling the tension drain out of me, and stepped fully into the room. But before I even reached my desk, Paige whispered, “It was probably just a coincidence… great minds think alike, right?” I stopped dead in my tracks. Think alike? My speech was titled: How to Make Microwave Ramen Taste Like a Michelin Star Meal While Drunk. I hadn’t read Paige’s draft, but I had been sitting in the auditorium when she delivered it. I remembered her topic vividly. It was titled: The Unseen Struggles of First-Generation College Students. How, in God’s name, did those two concepts “think alike”? I turned slowly to look at her. She immediately curled her shoulders inward, casting her eyes down in terror, looking every bit the bullied innocent. Dakota was now staring at me like I was a villain in a Lifetime movie. I let out a harsh laugh. “…I got second to last.” Paige blinked, looking up. “What?” “I said, I ranked second to last. If I had stolen your brilliantly crafted emotional masterpiece, don’t you think I would have placed higher than the girl who talked about her cat for six minutes? I was second to last.” Paige froze. A slow, hot flush crept up her neck. Dakota blinked, the gears finally turning in her head. “Oh wait, yeah. Harper talked about ramen. Paige, your speech was about first-gen students. Those have literally nothing in common.” Paige looked down at her hands, her voice dropping to a microscopic whisper. “I was just… thinking out loud. I never said Harper stole it…” I rolled my eyes so hard I saw my own skull. I ignored her entirely, climbed up the ladder to my bunk, put on my noise-canceling headphones, and booted up my Switch.

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Ten years into the collapse. Daniel’s little protégée, Tinsley, had been throwing a tantrum because she wanted to celebrate “Queen’s Day” despite the rations being thin. Her selfishness led them straight into a swarm, and a stray crawler ripped into her forearm. In my past life, Daniel came to me, frantic, claiming he was the one who had been hurt. The moment I stepped through the door to help him, he pinned me down. Without a flicker of hesitation, he hacked off my arm. He didn’t miss a beat. He grafted my severed limb onto Tinsley to save her. And me? He gave me her infected, rotting stump, already black with the necrosis of the hollow-virus. “Cassie, you have the Mending gift,” he’d said, his voice as casual as if he were discussing the weather. “Even with the infection, you won’t die. But Tinsley… she isn’t strong like you.” He was right. I didn’t die. Instead, my powers began to wither, poisoned by the very limb I’d been forced to accept. They stripped me of my title as Colony Commander. Eventually, when I was no longer “useful,” they lashed me to the ramparts, slicing my veins open to let the scent of my blood lure the horde away from the gates. I died being torn apart, bone by bone. I opened my eyes. The phantom pain of the blade was still there, a searing heat against my skin. But when I looked down, my left hand was still there, fingers twitching against the rough fabric of my cot. Outside the door, a voice shouted—a voice I recognized with a sickening jolt. It was Beckett, one of the scouts I’d personally pulled from a pile of corpses years ago. In my last life, he was the one who held my legs down while the saw bit into my bone. “Commander! Daniel’s hurt bad! You need to come, now!” I slowly wiped the cold sweat from my palms. A dark, jagged smile touched my lips. “What’s the rush, Beckett?” I called out, my voice steady. “The colony has plenty of Medics. Find someone else.” … Thump. Thump. Thump. The knocking was violent now, sending plumes of dust dancing down from the doorframe. “Cassie! Please! He’s losing too much blood! He asked for you specifically!” I stared at the ceiling, the familiar cracks looking like a map of a life I had already failed. There was no stench of rotting flesh here. No agonizing heat of a thousand teeth tearing into my midsection. My arm hung heavy and whole at my side. In that other life, the moment I heard Daniel was hurt, I’d bolted out of bed, my heart in my throat. I’d run straight into the ambush he’d spent weeks perfecting. Daniel had stood just a few feet away, holding the very blade I’d forged for him from reclaimed steel. He didn’t look away when he swung it. “Don’t hate me for this, Cassie,” he’d whispered as I screamed. “Tinsley lost her arm trying to save me. You’re a Healer. Your tissue is the only thing that will take. You’ve survived bites before; you’re practically immortal. You’ll be fine.” He’d called the rotting stump he gave me a “gift”—a way to keep me from being a “cripple.” I had spent months pouring my dwindling energy into that dead limb, trying to keep the virus from reaching my heart. My skin turned the color of wet ash. My hair fell out in clumps. I’d applied for the colony’s restricted serum—the stuff that could kickstart a Healer’s marrow. Once. Twice. Three times. Denied. The Quartermaster wouldn’t even look me in the eye. “Resources are tight, Cassie. It has to go to the front lines.” It wasn’t until the very end that I learned the truth. The front lines weren’t starving for supplies. Daniel, using his new authority as Commander, had been funneling every vial of serum to Tinsley. He wanted to see if he could force her body to develop a “Gift” of her own. When I’d dragged my skeletal body to his office to confront him, he just sighed. “Tinsley is showing signs of awakening an Ability, Cassie. She needs the nourishment. You’ve always been the tough one. Just endure a little longer.” Endure. I had endured until I was a husk. And when the well ran dry, they tied me to the stone like a piece of livestock, letting my blood “serve the colony” one last time. I closed my eyes, and for a second, I was back on those ramparts. Tinsley was standing below me, looking up with a face full of manufactured pity. “Oh, Cassie,” she’d cooed. “You’re infected and powerless. You’re basically a ghost already. You were the Commander once—don’t you want to die a hero? Think of it as your final contribution.” My fist clenched until my nails drew blood. Suddenly, a strange sensation bloomed in my palm. It wasn’t the warm, golden hum of the Mending. It was cold. It felt like graveyard soil and sharpened iron. A flicker of grey light danced between my fingers, swallowing the gold. A second Gift. Something that hadn’t existed before the rebirth. “Commander? Cassie! Are you in there?!” Beckett’s voice was frantic now. “He’s dying! The Medics say if we wait any longer, there will be permanent damage!” Permanent damage. The lie was so bold, so practiced, it made my skin crawl. I remembered Beckett’s face from the meeting where they stripped me of my rank. “Cassie’s a woman, and a broken one at that,” he’d told the council. “Why should a literal invalid run our home? Daniel is the one keeping us alive.” He had knelt before me once, years ago, sobbing that he’d never forget my kindness. Apparently, memory is a luxury the apocalypse doesn’t afford. The knocking turned into a rhythmic pounding. “Cassie! Open the damn door!” I took a long, jagged breath, pushing the rage down until it was a cold stone in my gut. When I opened the door, my face was a mask of perfect, frantic concern. “Where is he? Lead the way.” Beckett’s shoulders slumped with visible relief. “Thank god. Follow me!” He led me toward the restricted wing, to a room with reinforced walls and a door that locked only from the outside. In my past life, I hadn’t noticed the trap. I had been too busy looking for bloodstains on the floor. As we reached the door, Beckett glanced at me over his shoulder, his eyes darting away quickly. He reached for the handle. I didn’t wait. I didn’t ask questions. I gathered that new, oily grey energy in my palm and shoved. My foot connected with the small of Beckett’s back, sending him stumbling into the room. I slammed the door and threw the heavy iron bolt. From inside, a sickening squelch echoed, followed by a scream that sounded like a pig in a slaughterhouse. “What the hell? Beckett?” “Where’s Cassie? She was supposed to be the one!” Daniel’s voice was a low, dangerous snarl. Silence followed, then a shaky whisper from one of the others. “Captain… it’s Beckett. He’s… he’s passed out from the shock.” I heard Daniel approach the door, but a female voice stopped him. It was the colony’s head surgeon. “Don’t open it! If we don’t graft an arm onto her now, the necrosis will hit her heart. We already did the amputation. We have to use what’s in the room.” “No! I don’t want a man’s arm!” Tinsley’s voice rose in a shrill, hysterical peak. “It’s disgusting! It won’t match! You promised me Cassie’s! You said hers was the only one that was pure!” “Tinsley, shut up and hold still,” Daniel snapped, though his tone softened. “It’s a temporary fix. I’ll… I’ll find you a better one later. I promise.” Later. I leaned my head against the cold metal of the door and laughed, a quiet, jagged sound. “Good luck with that, Daniel,” I whispered. “I don’t think your ‘later’ is going to look the way you planned.” I walked away. I expected them to lay low, to try and hide their failure. But I underestimated Daniel’s arrogance. An hour later, he kicked in the door to the medical ward where I was checking the supply crates. He lunged for me, his fingers bruising my arm as he wrenched me toward him. “You bitch,” he hissed. “Because of your little stunt, Tinsley had to take Beckett’s arm. She’s locked herself in her room, crying her eyes out! She won’t even look at me!” He began dragging me toward the exit. “You’re going to her room. You’re going to get on your knees and beg for her forgiveness. And then, you’re going to ‘voluntarily’ offer your arm for a second transplant. If you don’t, I swear to God, you will never see the sun again.” I wrenched my arm back. The coldness in my chest flared, a localized blizzard. “Beg? Her?” I spat the words like venom. “Tinsley is a parasite, Daniel. She’s a nothing. And you? You’re just the man who forgot who actually built this place.” The slap was so hard it sent me stumbling into a rack of glass vials. My cheek went numb instantly. Behind Daniel, a few of his loyalists stepped forward. “Give it a rest, Cassie,” one of them sneered. “You’re just a Healer. You hide behind the walls while we do the real work. Losing an arm won’t kill you. Quit being so dramatic.” “Seriously,” another added. “The colony only stands because of Daniel. He only kept you around out of some misplaced sense of loyalty. You’re a leech, Cassie. You don’t even compare to Tinsley.” “Go apologize. Maybe then we won’t vote to kick you out of the gates tonight.” I looked at their faces. I had shared my bread with these men. I had stayed up for seventy-two hours straight during the Great Blight, weaving my Mending energy through the infirmary until I coughed up blood, just to keep their fevers from breaking. I remembered the hike through the Dead Zone—two hundred miles on foot to bring back the winter supplies they were too afraid to scout for. I remembered the siege at the West Gate, where I stood alone in the breach because Daniel had “clutched his chest” and retreated to the command center. “He’s the one who keeps us alive?” I started to laugh. It was a dark, hysterical sound that echoed off the sterile walls. “Is that what he told you?” “That’s enough!” Daniel barked. A flicker of genuine panic crossed his eyes before being replaced by ice. “I know you’re bitter, Cassie, but don’t try to rewrite history. I’ve bled for this colony while you sat in your office playing Commander. You’re done.” I pushed past him, my hand hovering over the console on my wrist. I tapped a command, and several holographic displays flickered to life in the air. They were the faces of the colony’s founding members—the ones who had been there since Day One. “Arthur,” I said, addressing the oldest of them. “Tell them.” Arthur’s face was etched with a weary, hollow kind of shame. “Cassie… don’t make this harder. Daniel is the face of the Sanctuary. He’s the strength. You’re a woman, dear. Without him to protect you, you never would have lasted this long.” The world seemed to tilt. I remembered pulling Arthur out of a burning wreck. I remembered carrying him on my back across a field of glass. I looked at Daniel. He was watching me with a smug, predatory satisfaction. “See, Cassie? I told you. You think too much of yourself.” I turned to walk away, but a hand caught my hair. I was jerked backward, my knees slamming into the concrete with a sickening crack. “You aren’t going anywhere,” Daniel growled. He knelt down, gripping my chin so hard I felt my teeth grind together. The mask was gone. The “hero” was gone. There was only the beast underneath. “You wouldn’t give the arm up willingly? Fine. We’ll do it the hard way. Consider this a down payment for Tinsley’s trauma.” He stood back. A fist caught me in the temple. Then a boot to the stomach, knocking the air from my lungs in a spray of red mist. Someone grabbed me by the hair, hauling me up just to drive a knee into my ribs. I heard the distinct snap of bone. Blood pooled in my mouth, tasting of copper and failure. I pressed my face against the cold floor, peering through the shattered glass of the medicine vials. And then, I felt it. A vibration. Deep in the earth. A low, rhythmic thrumming that felt like a heartbeat. They’re here. I closed my eyes. The floor beneath us didn’t just crack; it exploded. A massive, slick tentacle, dripping with black bile and lined with obsidian thorns, burst through the concrete. It swung with the force of a wrecking ball, sending three of Daniel’s men flying into the far wall like ragdolls. Then came the second. And the third. From every corridor, the sound of the dead began to rise—not a moan, but a coordinated, guttural roar. “Monster!” “It’s a swarm! How did they get inside the perimeter?!” The room descended into chaos. Daniel’s face went white, but his eyes landed on me. “She’s a Gifted! Her blood is concentrated!” he screamed, his voice cracking. “Throw her to them! Use her as bait while we hit the emergency exit!” Rough hands grabbed me. A blade nicked my throat, and I felt the warm slide of blood down my collar. They threw me toward the breach in the floor. I hit the rubble, the stench of decay filling my senses. I looked up. Dozens of pale, milky eyes were fixed on me. Daniel was already halfway to the safety tunnel, a jagged, triumphant grin on his face as he watched the “leech” finally get consumed. I sat up slowly. I raised my hand. And I snapped my fingers. The dead stopped. As one, they turned their heads away from me and fixed their gaze on the man in the tunnel.

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To keep from being buried alive in the fallout of a dying dynasty, I decided to steal a child from a man who supposedly couldn’t even stand. To make sure the plan was foolproof, I doubled the dose of “Midnight Silk”—a cocktail of chemistry and desperation designed to make a man forget his own name. That night, the man who came to me was anything but the invalid the rumors described. He was a force of nature, primal and unrelenting, far more savage than any dying billionaire had a right to be. I told myself the drugs were just that good. I let my tears hit the pillow and endured every grueling hour until dawn. When the sun finally crept through the heavy velvet curtains, I pulled on a silk robe, my lower back aching with a dull, throbbing heat. I pushed open the double doors of the suite, ready to secure my future by announcing my “devotion” to the old man. Instead, I found a massacre. The marble floors were slick with it—a river of crimson reflecting the morning light. Bodies lay scattered like discarded dolls. And right in the center of the carnage stood the man I had spent the night with. He was holding a tactical blade that still dripped onto the expensive rug, his boot firmly planted on the throat of the man I was supposed to have seduced. He turned to look at me, his eyes bloodshot and dark with a lingering, predatory satisfaction. “So, Sadie,” he rasped, his voice a low, terrifying vibration. “Did you get what you wanted last night?” I was ruined. I hadn’t seduced the dying king. I had seduced the man who just murdered him. 1 The biggest mistake of my life wasn’t marrying into the Montgomery family. It was believing that a hit of “Midnight Silk” could buy me a way out. In this world, there was a dark, unspoken rule: when the Patriarch falls, the loose ends are cut. No heirs, no protection. And for a trophy wife like me—a girl with no pedigree and even less influence—I wasn’t just a loose end. I was a liability meant to be discarded. Harrison Montgomery was dying. He was a shell of a man, barely clinging to life in the east wing of the estate. The vultures were already circling. For someone like me, “discarded” usually meant a one-way trip to a shallow grave or a life-shattering scandal that would leave me on the streets. I wanted to live. So, I burned through my hidden savings to bribe the head of security. I needed him to steer Harrison into my suite for one last “reconciliation.” I prepped the room, lit the incense, and doubled the dose of the stimulant. I even downed half a bottle of expensive bourbon myself; if I had to sleep with a man who smelled like mothballs and impending death, I needed to be numb enough not to vomit. But I missed one crucial detail: the coup was scheduled for that very night. I was hiding behind the canopy curtains when I heard the heavy thud of boots and the metallic clatter of gear. My brain was a fog of bourbon and adrenaline. I thought it was Harrison, maybe wearing some kind of experimental medical brace to help him stay upright. The moment the doors swung open, I didn’t look at his face. I didn’t dare. I lunged. If I got pregnant tonight, it wouldn’t matter who sat on the throne tomorrow. A Montgomery heir was a golden ticket. The man froze. He smelled of cold rain, gunpowder, and the metallic tang of fresh blood—the scent of a man who had just finished a harvest. In my drunken haze, I convinced myself it was just a strange, expensive cologne. I didn’t just embrace him. I wrapped myself around him like a vine, dragging him toward the bed with a desperation that should have been a warning. His body was like granite. He was still holding something cold and hard in his hand—a weapon, surely—but I didn’t give him the chance to use it. I pressed my lips to his, forcing the drugged wine into his mouth. “I’ve been waiting for you, darling,” I whispered, reciting the lines of a loyal, grieving wife. I felt the killing intent in him falter for a split second. Then, the drug hit. That suppressed, violent energy was ignited by the chemical fire I’d sparked. He flipped me over, his hands gripping my waist with enough force to bruise. At the time, I only felt a surge of triumph: The rumors were wrong. The old man still has plenty of fight left in him! The night was a blur of survival. I thought I was performing a grim duty, a “calculated transaction.” Instead, it was a total eclipse. This man was a predator, ruthless and agonizingly thorough. He didn’t move like a man who needed help walking; he moved like a man who destroyed things for a living. Somewhere in the middle of the fever dream, I wondered if the “Midnight Silk” was some kind of fountain of youth. He seemed to be venting years of repressed rage, his movements bordering on destructive, yet he stopped himself from truly hurting me in moments of strange, terrifying restraint. In a moment of sheer, drug-induced stupidity, I actually panted into his ear, “You’ve been holding out on me, haven’t you? You’re quite the dark horse. If I’d known you were this… capable… I wouldn’t have used the double dose.” He stilled for a heartbeat. Then he redoubled his efforts, and I was lost again. I was a small boat in the middle of a hurricane, clinging to my only hope of survival. I don’t remember falling asleep. I only remember whispering that I was exhausted, crying into his neck. He let out a low, raspy chuckle—a sound so deep and resonant it couldn’t have come from Harrison’s frail chest. But I was too far gone to care about the logic of it. I just knew the seed was planted. My life was safe. Until I woke up the next morning and saw his face. 2 My head was pounding when I drifted back to consciousness. The man was standing by the window, his back to me as he pulled on his tactical shirt. Broad shoulders, a tapered waist, and a back marked with the red scratches I’d left there during the night. There was no way in hell this was a sixty-year-old man. My eyes drifted to the floor, where a combat blade lay discarded. The blood on the edge hadn’t fully dried; dark droplets were still seeping into my cream-colored rug with a rhythmic plink, plink, plink. The hangover vanished instantly, replaced by cold, paralyzing terror. I looked up just as he turned around. It was a face I recognized from the “Avoid at All Costs” briefings: Roman Blackwood. The “Butcher” of the corporate underworld, the mercenary kingpin who had been rumored to be planning a takeover for months. I hadn’t slept with the King. I had slept with the man who had just decapitated the kingdom. I scrambled off the bed, not even stopping to find a robe, and dropped to my knees, trembling so hard my teeth chattered. “You’re awake,” he said. His voice was sandpaper and velvet, a terrifyingly magnetic sound. He didn’t kill me immediately. Instead, he took his time tightening his belt, his eyes tracing the line of my bare shoulder with a look that was half-amused, half-starved. “You were quite… enthusiastic last night, Sadie.” This was it. The moment I died. My mind raced. If I admitted I mistook him for the old man, I was calling him a substitute. Dead. If I said I intended to sleep with him, I was a traitor and a whore. Dead. If I was going to die anyway, I might as well play the most dangerous hand in the deck. I took a sharp breath, looked up, and let the tears flow on command. I channeled every ounce of “doomed heroine” energy I had. “Roman! I… I’ve waited so long for this night!” His hand paused on his belt. He arched a dark eyebrow. “Oh?” I had to commit. I had to believe my own lie so hard it became his reality. “You have no idea. I’ve watched you from the sidelines for years. Marrying Harrison… it was a prison sentence. I was a captive in this house, but my heart? My heart has always belonged to you. I’ve been praying for the day you’d finally come and burn this place down.” He walked toward me, each step echoing like a heartbeat. He used the bloody tip of his scabbard to tilt my chin up. “You’ve been pining for me?” He let out a cold, cynical whistle. “Then why did you keep calling out for ‘the Master’ last night?” My heart skipped. Shit. I had used the formal title I usually used for Harrison. But I, Sadie Moore, have a face made of brass. “Because to me, you are the Master!” I cried, leaning into the blade. “In my heart, you’ve always been the one in charge. Harrison was just a ghost I had to endure until you arrived!” It was treasonous, but to a man who had just successfully staged a coup, it was exactly the kind of ego-stroke he needed. The murderous glint in Roman’s eyes softened—not into kindness, but into a dark, intrigued curiosity. “Pretty words,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “But you’re a hell of an actress, Sadie. You should be in Hollywood, not a billionaire’s bedroom.” “It’s not an act!” I reached under the pillow and pulled out a small, silk handkerchief I’d been embroidering. It was supposed to be a floral pattern, but my needlework was so atrocious that the ‘M’ for Montgomery looked more like a jagged ‘B’. I held it up with trembling hands. “Look! I made this for you! ‘B’ for Blackwood! I’ve been keeping it hidden for months, waiting for the right moment!” Roman took the scrap of silk, staring at the messy, distorted letter. “This is a ‘B’?” “It’s… it’s abstract!” I insisted. “It represents my chaotic, wild devotion to you!” Roman was silent. He had likely never encountered a woman this shameless in his entire life. Finally, he let out a low, jagged laugh. It was a terrifying sound, but it wasn’t the sound of a man about to kill me. “Since you’re so devoted to me…” He tossed the handkerchief back onto the bed and turned toward the door. “Put some clothes on. You’re coming with me to watch the board members surrender.” I collapsed onto the floor the moment he turned his back, my skin drenched in cold sweat. I was alive. But the road ahead was going to be a hell of a lot harder than dying. 3 The Grand Ballroom smelled like ozone and expensive scotch. The board of directors—the men who had treated me like a decorative houseplant for a year—were now huddled on the floor, terrified. And there I was, standing right at Roman’s side, feeling their stares burning into me like I was some kind of ghost. Harrison—or what was left of him—was seated in a chair in the center of the room, bound and broken. Roman sat on the marble desk, one arm draped possessively, almost bruisingly, around my waist. The intimacy of it made my skin crawl, but I leaned into him, playing the part of the devoted consort. “Harrison, do you recognize her?” Roman asked, his voice dripping with sadistic mockery. The old man looked up. When his eyes landed on me, they nearly bulged out of his head. “Sadie? You… you traitorous little bitch! How could you?” I felt a twinge of guilt, but it was quickly drowned out by self-preservation. If I showed a second of weakness, Roman would toss me to the wolves. I hardened my heart and pointed a finger right at my “husband.” “Shut up! I was never yours! I’ve always been Roman’s!” The room went dead silent. Even Roman shifted slightly, surprised by how far I was willing to go. “You useless old fossil,” I continued, the words pouring out like venom. “Did you really think I enjoyed our ‘quiet evenings’? You couldn’t hold a candle to a man like Roman. He’s a god; you’re just a relic.” “I was waiting for him! I was keeping myself ready for the man who actually knows how to lead!” The more I talked, the more I channeled all the frustration of the last year. Harrison started shaking, his face turning a dangerous shade of purple. He tried to speak, but he just sputtered, a thin line of foam appearing at the corner of his mouth before he slumped over, unconscious from the sheer shock. “A bit fragile, isn’t he?” I muttered, turning back to Roman with my best adoring smile. “How was that, darling?” Roman looked at me, his gaze deep and unreadable. My heart hammered against my ribs. Had I overplayed it? Did I look too much like a psychopath? Suddenly, he threw his head back and laughed. “Perfect! A ‘devoted’ heart indeed!” He pulled me flush against his side, announcing to the room, “From this moment on, Sadie stays with me. She’s my personal assistant, my shadow. She goes where I go.” I exhaled, but the relief was short-lived. “Personal assistant”? That meant being under his thumb twenty-four hours a day. This wasn’t a reward. This was Roman Blackwood keeping his favorite new toy on a very short leash.

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My mother is a textbook misogynist. Even though I’m her daughter—her only child—she’s hated me from the moment I took my first breath. To her, my existence wasn’t a miracle; it was an intrusion. I was beaten for wearing lip gloss, beaten for putting on a sundress, and beaten most severely if I ever dared to show affection toward my father. On the eve of my high school graduation, she did the unthinkable. She went to my school and spread a sickening lie: she told everyone I was a “homewrecker” who was seducing my own father. She pushed me until I had nowhere left to go but over the edge of a fifteen-story ledge. And as I fell, I knew one thing for certain: my mother was finally satisfied. 1 In the delivery room, the doctor beamed as she handed me over to my mother. “It’s a girl,” the doctor whispered, her voice full of warmth. “Look at that skin—she’s going to be a beauty when she grows up.” The color drained from my mother’s face, but not from exhaustion. It was pure, unadulterated rage. She lunged forward, grabbing the young doctor by her hair and swinging her palm across the woman’s face. The hallway echoed with her screams. “You bitch! You swapped him, didn’t you? Where is my son? I followed every old wives’ tale, took every supplement—I was supposed to have a boy!” It took a senior physician and a DNA test to finally quiet her, but the damage was done. When the results confirmed I was hers, she looked at me with eyes that dripped poison. It was only when my aunt called my father, Robert, and begged him to come to the hospital that the immediate violence stopped. My mother never forgave my aunt for that call. A few weeks later, once they were back in the quiet of our suburban home, my aunt came to check on me. My cries were weak, barely audible from the nursery. In the master bedroom, my father was sitting on the edge of the bed, carefully spooning warm broth into my mother’s mouth. “Robert, swear to me,” she whispered, her voice trembling with a desperate, sick kind of love. “Swear I’m the only woman you’ll ever love. You can’t love her just because she’s your daughter.” “I swear, Diane,” he replied softly. “You won’t hold her. You won’t kiss her. She’s just a guest here.” He promised. And in the years that followed, my father proved to be a man of his word. In all my memories, we never once touched. No hugs, no high-fives, no hand-holding. But even my father’s cold distance wasn’t enough to appease her. When I was seven, I walked three miles home from school only to be met with a backhanded strike that sent me reeling. She had found a photo of me on my father’s phone—a simple, blurry picture of me playing in the backyard. “You little tramp,” she hissed, shoving the phone into my face. “Who taught you to pose like that? You’re already trying to steal what’s mine!” I didn’t even know what she was talking about. I looked toward the hallway, hoping to see my father, hoping he’d step in. But the door stayed shut, and the beating continued. After that day, my father never took another photo of me. My mother’s triumphant, territorial smile is burned into my mind. When I was thirteen, I saved my allowance for six months to buy him a birthday gift—a simple navy blue sweater. I left it on his mahogany desk in the study, thinking it was a safe gesture. That night, the house felt like a tomb. I walked into the living room to find a pile of shredded blue wool on the floor. “Think you’re clever, don’t you?” Diane sneered. “I see right through you, you little slut!” She rained blows down on me until I was curled in a ball on the hardwood, gasping for air. The light was on in the study. My father was right there, behind the door. He never opened it. Diane spent her afternoons at the neighborhood coffee shop or the community pool, sighing to the other mothers: “It’s my cross to bear. My own daughter is a seductress. She won’t leave her father alone. It’s disgusting.” I became the ghost of the neighborhood. People whispered when I walked by. I learned to live in the silence. Until the woman moved in upstairs. Her name was Mrs. Miller. She was soft-spoken, kind, and always smelled like vanilla and rain. Whenever Diane locked me out of the house, Mrs. Miller would find me and slip me a granola bar or a juice box. She was the only light in my world. But God doesn’t let light stay in places like that for long. One afternoon, I was waiting on the porch for Diane to finish her bridge club. Mrs. Miller came down the stairs and noticed my lips were cracked and bleeding from the dry winter air. She reached into her purse and handed me a brand-new, tinted lip balm. “It’ll help, sweetheart,” she said with a sad smile. I had never used makeup. I didn’t realize it had a rosy tint. I applied it, feeling a tiny spark of joy, just as my mother’s car pulled into the driveway. The second she saw the color on my lips, her hand flew. 2 The blow sent me sprawling into the dirt. My vision blurred into a sea of static. My front tooth was loose, and the metallic tang of blood filled my mouth. She screamed insults so vile the neighbors came out onto their porches to watch, but no one stepped forward. To them, I was exactly what my mother said I was: a girl trying to steal her father’s heart. Mrs. Miller heard the commotion and rushed down. I tried to crawl away; I didn’t want her to see me like this. I didn’t want her to hear the filth Diane was spewing. But my mother grabbed me by the hair and dragged me toward her. “Was it you?” Diane shrieked at Mrs. Miller. “Did you give this to her? Are you helping her entice my husband? You’re both trash!” I hung my head, burning with a shame that wasn’t mine to carry. But Mrs. Miller didn’t flinch. She stepped between us, her eyes brimming with a mixture of pity and steel. “I gave it to her, Diane. She’s a child. How can you say those things about your own daughter?” Mrs. Miller’s thin frame was a shield, but Diane wasn’t a woman who cared about reason. My mother’s eyes went cold. I felt a chill run down my spine. Diane raised her hand again. Mrs. Miller didn’t move—she probably thought a neighbor wouldn’t actually strike her. But I knew better. I’d seen Diane’s rage break women before. The thought of Mrs. Miller’s kind face being bruised because of me was more than I could bear. Before the blow landed, I lunged forward. It was the first time I ever fought back. I threw my arms around my mother’s waist, trying to pin her arms. It only made the beating more frantic. In the chaos, my head slammed into the rusted iron railing of the porch. Everything went white. Blood began to pour down my face. The neighbors turned away, closing their doors one by one. Diane didn’t stop. She shoved Mrs. Miller to the ground. Through the fog in my brain, I heard the heavy click of the gate. My father was home. I tried to scream for him, but my voice was a broken rasp. He walked past us, his eyes fixed straight ahead. He opened the front door and stepped inside. He didn’t even hesitate. Mrs. Miller begged for me. She went from demanding justice to pleading for mercy. “I’ll go! I’ll move out! I’ll never speak to her again! Just please, stop hitting her!” I looked up and saw tears streaming down Mrs. Miller’s face. Diane finally stopped—either because she’d won or because her arm was tired. She tossed me aside like a bag of refuse and followed my father into the house. I never saw Mrs. Miller again. Before she left, she managed to leave a small box for me hidden in the bushes. A few items of clothing, some snacks, and a book. I hid them away, treats I never dared to use, talismans of a life I wasn’t allowed to have. As the years passed, Diane’s hatred matured. Every birthday I had was a countdown to her losing her grip on Robert. She began to look at me not as a daughter, but as a rival she needed to liquidate. The only thing that kept me going was school. And Zoey. Zoey was my best friend. She didn’t know the details of my home life, but she saw the bruises. Every morning, she would pull me into a hug in the hallway. “It’s going to be okay, Nancy. Just breathe,” she’d say. That one sentence, that one hug—it was my oxygen. I was a straight-A student. I worked harder than anyone else because I knew that a scholarship was my only ticket out of that hellhole. My guidance counselor, Mr. Harrison, believed in me. He’d pat my shoulder and tell me I had a brilliant future. Senior year arrived. Mr. Harrison pulled me aside after a mock exam. “Nancy, look at these scores. Keep this up, and you’re looking at a full ride to the state university. Maybe even Columbia.” I was in the top ten of my class. I was twenty days away from freedom. One afternoon, after a celebratory lunch with the honor society, I walked across the campus alone. I was so happy it felt like a fever dream. For the first time, I allowed myself to think about a dorm room, a locked door, and a life where no one called me a slut for existing. “Nancy, wait up!” Mr. Harrison called out. He caught up to me, sensing my uncharacteristic glow. “Don’t put too much pressure on yourself. The road is long, but you’re almost there.” I saw Zoey waving at me from the parking lot. The sun was hitting the trees, and for a second, the world looked beautiful. I thought, Maybe I can be like her. Maybe I can be normal. That night, I walked into the house. Diane was sitting in the living room, the TV off. My heart skipped a beat. The air felt heavy, charged with a familiar electricity. I tried to bolt for my room, but she was faster. She lunged, grabbing me by the hair and slamming me to the floor. 3 The impact knocked the wind out of me. My backpack, heavy with textbooks, dug into my spine. Diane kicked me twice before stalking over to the coffee table. She was trembling with a manic, jagged energy. “The junk removal guy found your little stash,” she hissed, throwing a handful of items at me. “Dresses! Lipsticks! You’ve been stealing from us to buy these things, haven’t you?” They were the things Mrs. Miller had left me. The lip balm was dried up, the snacks were long expired, and the sundress smelled of mildew from being hidden under the floorboards. “You’re just dying for him to see you in this, aren’t you? You want to take him from me!” She threw the dress at my face. I curled into a ball, clutching the moth-eaten fabric. Just a little longer, I whispered to myself. Just twenty days. Just survive twenty days. The pain was a dull roar. I could handle the pain. Hope was so close I could taste it. But the world had other plans. Two weeks before graduation, the school announced a mandatory parent-teacher night. I didn’t think much of it. My parents never showed up to anything. I figured I’d have the night to myself. But the next morning, Diane was gone before I woke up. She had left early, humming a tune I didn’t recognize. Anxiety gnawed at my stomach all day. When I saw her later that afternoon, sitting on the porch of a neighbor’s house, laughing and drinking tea, I felt a wave of relief. Maybe she was just having a good day. I had already lined up a summer job at a diner three towns over. The manager had promised me a spot in the staff dorms. I had it all mapped out. I was so lost in my daydream that I didn’t notice the way the other students were looking at me. Cruel smirks. Disgusted whispers. Zoey was standing by her locker. I walked up to her, but when I reached out, she flinched away. “Zoey? What’s wrong?” my voice was trembling. “My mom said…” Zoey’s eyes were full of a coldness I’d never seen. She couldn’t even finish the sentence. A boy from the football team finished it for her. “She said you’ve been sleeping with your own dad, Nancy. That you’re a freak.” The hallway erupted in laughter. It was like a physical wall of sound hitting me. “Hey, Nancy, I didn’t know you were into that!” “Is that how you got the straight As? Practicing at home?” My face went white. I threw my books at them, but they just laughed harder, dodging easily. “Whoa! The slut’s got a temper!” I felt the blood rushing to my head. I wanted to kill them. I wanted to die. Mr. Harrison appeared and ushered me into his office. He didn’t pat my shoulder this time. He looked at me with a profound, soul-crushing disappointment. “Nancy… your mother came by this morning. She was… distraught. She told me everything. I know you’re young, and sometimes boundaries get blurred in difficult homes, but—” The room started to spin. I finally understood why Diane had been humming. She hadn’t just beaten me; she had reached out and poisoned the only world I had left. I didn’t say a word. I tucked my chin into my collar and walked out of the school. The next few days were a living nightmare. Zoey stopped talking to me. The girls in the cafeteria moved their trays if I sat within ten feet of them. The boys were worse. They would block my way in the halls, whispering graphic things, telling me that since I was “doing it with my old man,” I might as well give them a turn. When I went to the office to collect my graded senior thesis—the culmination of four years of work—I found it in the trash can in the girls’ bathroom. It was soaked in soda and covered in slurs. I looked around the school, and I realized I didn’t have a single person left. Not one. When I got home that night, Diane was sitting at the kitchen table, a glass of wine in her hand. She gave me a slow, satisfied smile. This was her masterpiece. She had isolated me so completely that I was hers again. 4 The noise from the courtyard below pulled me back to the present. I was standing on the roof of the science building. It was senior skip day, but a lot of kids were hanging out by the fountain below. I could see their bright, youthful faces looking up at me. “Hey! Look! She’s actually going to do it!” a voice yelled. My notebooks, my carefully curated life, were all gone. I was tired. I was so incredibly tired of fighting a war I was born to lose. I just wanted to live. Why was that so much to ask? “Just jump already!” someone shouted. “People like you don’t belong here!” The cruelty of teenagers is a special kind of sharp. I didn’t look at them. I looked at the horizon, at the life I would never have. One boy, a kid I’d helped with his chemistry homework just a month ago, climbed up onto the ledge a few feet away. “Come on, Nancy. Give us a show before you go. Or better yet, come down and play. I bet you’re as good as your mom says.” He reached for my arm. I scrambled back, my heart hammering against my ribs. I hadn’t planned to jump—I just wanted to get away from them—but as I looked down, I realized there was nowhere else to go. The rumors were a snowball that had turned into an avalanche. There was no explaining this away. My mother’s word was law. “She’s the girl from the honor society, right? I heard she’s been sleeping around since she was twelve.” “Her mom said it. Why would a mother lie about that?” I stared at a girl in the crowd. She looked like Zoey. She was recording me on her phone. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just stepped off. The wind was a roar in my ears. Then, a sudden, bone-shattering crack. Everything went black. When I opened my eyes again, I wasn’t on the pavement. I was sitting in a recliner. My hand was clutching a TV remote. The screen was flickering with static, a news report playing about a local tragedy—a high school girl jumping to her death. I stood up and walked to the mirror in the hallway. I didn’t see Nancy. I saw a face lined with seventy years of life. White hair, clouded eyes, the scent of lavender and mothballs. I was Martha. My grandmother. My mother, Diane, had never been close to Martha. They saw each other maybe twice a year. Martha was the only person who had ever been kind to me in a quiet, distant way—a crisp twenty-dollar bill in a Christmas card, a soft pat on the head when Diane wasn’t looking. I checked the calendar on the wall. It had been exactly one day since I—Nancy—had died. The grief in my chest was gone, replaced by a cold, vibrating hum of rage. I grabbed a cane and began the slow, painful walk to my old house. It was only two blocks away, but in this body, it took me forty minutes. The front door was propped open. I heard Diane’s voice coming from the hallway. “Just take it all. The books, the clothes, everything in that back room. Just give me a flat rate for the lot.” I walked inside. A junk removal guy was bundling my life into heavy plastic bags. My honors society plaques, my favorite novels, the few clothes I owned—all being weighed like scrap metal. “What are you doing here?” Diane asked, looking up. She didn’t sound sad. She sounded annoyed. I looked at the bag containing my books and whispered, “Where is Nancy?” “Dead,” she said flatly.

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When I was thrown out of high school, someone else packed my bags and took my place at college. For three years, I was a ghost, buried alive on an assembly line at a Texas electronics plant, bleeding myself dry twelve hours a day just to keep a roof over my parents’ heads. That was my life. Right up until the police kicked the door down. You’re under arrest for a murder in an Oakmont University dorm room. I sat in the interrogation room, the metal cuffs biting into my wrists, and I actually laughed. I looked at the detectives, then laid out my phantom existence. “Officers, I don’t even have a high school diploma,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “For the last three years, I’ve been clocking twelve-hour shifts at a motherboard factory. This university you’re talking about? I couldn’t even tell you what state it’s in.” 1 Buzz—click—buzz. The fluorescent bulb in the interrogation room flickered, a rhythmic, maddening strobe that made my eyes heavy. But I didn’t dare sleep. Across the metal table sat three people—two men, one woman—each wearing an expression colder than the last. “Cole,” the lead detective, a heavy-set guy in his forties, slid a stack of glossy photographs across the table. “Do you recognize this man?” I looked down. It was a young guy, sprawled on his back in a widening pool of dark blood. His eyes were half-open, staring blankly at the ceiling. He was young. About my age. He was wearing a winter parka, and the background looked like the drab linoleum hallway of a college dorm. I felt nothing. Just the numb detachment of looking at a stranger. “Never seen him,” I said, shaking my head. “Never seen him?” The younger detective to my left scoffed, leaning in. “Look closer, kid. That’s your roommate, Daniel Porter. You’ve lived in Room 408 of Oakmont University’s North Hall for three years, and you’re sitting there telling us you don’t know him?” I froze. Oakmont University? I looked up, my eyes darting between the three of them, trying to bridge the massive canyon between their reality and mine. I had spent the last three years in a sprawling concrete plant in Texas, standing until my knees gave out, begging for a single day off. When the hell did I go to college? “Officer,” I said, fighting to keep the panic out of my throat. “You’ve got the wrong guy. I never went to college.” “Never went?” The younger cop slammed a thick manila folder onto the table. “Read it yourself. Here’s a copy of your acceptance letter. Here’s your academic transcript. Here’s your student ID. Cole Miller, male, Social Security ending in 4921, enrolled in Oakmont’s mechanical engineering program in September 2019. You’re telling me this isn’t you?” My hands trembled as I picked up the file. The acceptance letter boldly declared the name Cole Miller. There was a photo on the student ID, too. It was a young man who shared my coloring, maybe even the shape of my jaw, but the eyes were entirely wrong. It was the face of a boy who had never known what it meant to go hungry. It wasn’t me. I flipped to the back of the file. Tucked behind a forged health record was an old, standard-issue high school portrait. That face was mine. But I had never set foot on that campus. It felt like someone had taken a baseball bat to the back of my head. A high, thin ringing filled my ears. And suddenly, fragments of a memory I had spent three years burying clawed their way to the surface. Three years ago. The chill of the afternoon air. The heavy thud of the school doors locking behind me. Three years of swallowing my pride, of resigning myself to the dirt. I had never, not for one single second, imagined there was a second act to that day. “Officer,” I said, gently setting the file down and locking eyes with the lead detective. “I’m going to say this one more time. I did not go to college. I was expelled before I could even graduate high school. I’ve been working the line at an electronics plant ever since. I eat, sleep, and shit at that factory. I don’t know who this dead kid is, but I sure as hell didn’t kill him.” “Didn’t kill him?” The young cop shot up from his chair. “Time of death: December 17th, 7:30 PM. Location: Oakmont North Hall, Room 408. The victim took three stab wounds to the abdomen, one piercing the heart. We pulled your fingerprints from the room. We pulled your DNA. Are you still going to sit there and lie?” Fingerprints? DNA? I looked down at my hands. They were ruined. Three years of twisting screws and soldering wires had left them covered in thick, yellowish calluses, grease burns, and jagged little scars. Now, these people were telling me these hands had taken a life. “What do fingerprints and DNA prove?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. “If this guy stole my identity to get into school, of course the room is full of files with my fingerprints on them. But how could my DNA be at a crime scene I’ve never been to?” “Bullshit,” the young cop spat. “You think we didn’t do our homework? You enrolled in 2019. You lived in general housing freshman year, moved to 408 as a sophomore. Your roommate, your classmates, your academic advisor—they can all place you there.” “Then bring them here,” I challenged, the fire finally sparking in my chest. “Put me in a lineup. Let them look me in the eye and tell you if I’m the Cole Miller they spent three years with.” The younger cop opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. The lead detective finally leaned forward, interlacing his fingers. “Cole, playing hardball isn’t going to save you. We have a mountain of evidence. If you cooperate, if you confess, we can talk to the DA about manslaughter. You’re young. You’d do a few years, tops. But if you drag this out and we go for Murder One, your life is over.” I just stared at him. “Are you in trouble?” he pressed, his voice softening, attempting a sympathetic angle. “Is someone threatening you? You can tell us. We can protect you.” Looking at him, a strange, breathless bubble of hysteria rose in my chest. I started to smile. And then, I started to laugh. I laughed until hot, bitter tears spilled over my eyelashes. “Detective,” I said, turning my palms up to the harsh light, exposing the map of scars and thick, dead skin. “Do these look like the hands of a college boy? I don’t know where Oakmont University is. The only geography I know is the B3 assembly line at SunTech Electronics. Twelve hours a day. Standing. You’re not even allowed a stool.” “Listen, kid—” “For three years,” I cut him off, my voice echoing off the concrete walls. “I haven’t missed a single shift. I haven’t taken a single sick day. You said the murder happened December 17th at 7:30 PM? I was on the factory floor. My line manager can prove it. My coworkers can prove it. The biometric time clock can prove it.” The young cop moved to interrupt, but the lead detective held up a hand, silencing him. He stared at me for a long, quiet minute. “What’s the name of this factory?” “SunTech Electronics. The Austin campus.” He nodded slowly. He stood up, turning to the woman taking notes in the corner. “Put him in a holding cell. We’ll resume tomorrow.” As the uniformed officer hauled me up to my feet, I looked back over my shoulder. The lead detective was still watching me, and for the first time, the absolute certainty in his eyes was gone. 2 I didn’t start out on an assembly line. Three years ago, I was a senior at Belleville High, a rusty, dead-end town in the Midwest. I wasn’t a genius, but I held my own. My test scores were solid; I was tracking perfectly for a decent state college. My dad ruined his back hauling rebar on construction sites, and my mom spent her life up to her elbows in greasy dishwater at a local diner. Their entire universe revolved around one dream: getting me into college so I wouldn’t have to break my body for a paycheck like they did. But I was a stupid kid. My fatal flaw was that I couldn’t stay awake. Especially during seventh-period Calculus. The radiators in that old building ran way too hot, the teacher’s monotone voice was like a sedative, and my eyelids would turn to lead. I tried everything. I pinched my thighs until they bruised, rubbed peppermint oil under my eyes. Nothing worked. When the exhaustion hit, it was a tidal wave. One Tuesday afternoon, I went under. I slept so hard I didn’t even hear the final bell. When I finally blinked awake, the classroom was empty. Groggy, I slung my backpack over my shoulder and walked out into the hall, nearly colliding with the Vice Principal. Everyone called him “Bulldog” Benson. He was fifty-something, balding, with a face like a bulldog, and he lived to terrorize students for minor infractions. Tardiness, dress codes, sleeping in class. “Cole Miller,” he barked, grabbing my arm. “My office. Now.” I figured I was in for detention. Maybe a call home. But when I walked into the office, my homeroom teacher was there, shifting uncomfortably. Sitting across from them were two strangers: a wealthy-looking man in a tailored suit, and a boy about my age. The boy looked a little like me—same height, dark hair—but he had the soft, unblemished glow of a kid who had never worried about money. He was wearing a North Face jacket that cost more than my dad made in a week. “Cole,” my homeroom teacher said, pushing a sheet of paper across the desk, refusing to meet my eyes. “This is your notice of expulsion. Sign it.” The air rushed out of my lungs. “Expulsion? Mr. Harris, I fell asleep. It’s just a detention, isn’t it?” “Just a detention?” Bulldog Benson sneered. “How many times have you slept through class this semester, Miller? How many warnings? You think this school is a motel?” “I’ll fix it! I swear to God, I’ll never sleep in class again—” “Too late,” my teacher interrupted, his voice hollow. “The Principal has made his decision. With your attitude, giving you a college recommendation is a waste of a slot. Sign the paper. Clean out your locker. You’re off the premises immediately.” Panic, raw and blinding, seized me. I begged. I actually dropped to my knees in front of that desk. They finally let me call my mom. She sobbed through the receiver, begging Benson for mercy. He hung up on her mid-sentence. The two strangers in the corner just watched. They didn’t say a single word. Twenty minutes later, two security guards grabbed me by the arms and physically threw me out the back doors of the school. My textbooks and notebooks were tossed out after me, scattering across the wet pavement. I sat on the curb outside the school gates until midnight, waiting for the Principal to leave. I thought if I could just look him in the eye, I could change his mind. He slipped out a side exit. The guards threatened to call the cops if I didn’t leave. I tried to appeal to the school board, but I was just a broke kid from the wrong side of the tracks. The doors were shut. It was only much later that I put the pieces together. That afternoon, Richard Miller—the head of the City Zoning and Planning Board, a man with the kind of money that made problems disappear—was sitting in that office with his son, Connor. Connor Miller. The boy who watched me beg. Connor was failing out. He couldn’t get into a community college, let alone a university, and he couldn’t pass a military physical. His father needed a clean, unblemished academic record. Why me? Because of the name. Miller. We shared a last name, making the paperwork seamlessly easy to fudge. Because my dad was a broken construction worker and my mom washed dishes; we had no money for lawyers. Because I fell asleep in class, giving them the perfect excuse. And because my grades were good, but not so good that my sudden disappearance would raise red flags. Three days after I was thrown out like trash, Connor Miller took my Social Security number, my transcripts, and my identity, and walked into a testing center. And I? After lying in bed for three days staring at the ceiling, I packed a duffel bag, followed a neighbor down to Texas, and walked onto the factory floor. 3 The SunTech plant was an hour’s bus ride from Austin proper. It was its own dystopian city. A dozen sprawling concrete dormitories housing ten thousand workers. I was assigned to the B3 assembly line, building internal components for cell phone chargers. My entire existence shrank down to two wires. I had to solder two wires onto a green motherboard. It sounds easy, until you have to do it four thousand times a shift. Within a month, my hands didn’t belong to me anymore. Working the graveyard shift was an exercise in psychological torture. You’d be so bone-tired you were hallucinating, but if your hand slipped even a millimeter, the soldering iron would sear through your skin. Half the scars on my hands were from the iron. The other half from slipping screwdrivers. There were no chairs on the line. Twelve hours of standing. My legs swelled until my boots felt like vices. The soles of my feet turned to stone. If you needed to piss, you ran. We got exactly thirty minutes to shovel food into our mouths. The line never stopped. If it stalled for a second, the floor manager was screaming down your neck. His name was Davis. A massive, red-faced guy who liked to spit when he yelled. His favorite catchphrase was, “You wanna quit? There’s a thousand illegals at the gate begging for your spot!” I made about $2,400 a month. With mandatory overtime, sometimes $3,000. I kept a few hundred to survive and wired the rest to my mom. Every time she called, she cried, apologizing for failing me. I’d force a laugh and tell her it was fine, that college was just a scam to get a job anyway, and I was already making money. I told her once I got bumped up to line technician, the pay would double. But beneath the bravado, it was killing me. Sometimes, lying in my bunk in a room packed with eight snoring, grinding men, staring at the rusted springs of the mattress above me, the ‘what-ifs’ would creep in. What if I had just stayed awake that day? What if I hadn’t been expelled?

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My childhood best friend, Roman, has always been the internet’s favorite “Gentle God.” That was until I took off my hearing aids and a cascade of glowing digital comments suddenly began scrolling across my vision. [Lord, this man is such a good actor. Is he really taking advantage of the fact that our girl can’t hear?]
[The Oscar wasn’t a fluke. A saint in the streets, a total beast in the sheets—or at least in his head.]
[Run, honey! He’s literally planning to lock you away!] I stared at the floating text, my mind racing. Instead of panicking, I reached into my pocket and slid in a pair of high-end, near-invisible hearing aids I’d been testing. Then, I watched him. With the most tender, devastatingly handsome expression on his face, he leaned in and whispered: “If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to kiss you until you’re breathless, okay?” I nodded instinctively. In that heartbeat, the Gentle God’s mask shattered. And the comments? They went absolutely nuclear. 1 Late at night, the moment I removed my devices, the glowing words flickered into existence again. [Ugh, my poor baby. She really thinks this guy is some kind of selfless saint.]
[Can’t blame her. He’s an A-lister for a reason. His acting is textbook perfection.]
[He’s only this bold because he thinks she’s in a world of silence. This man is a red flag!]
[Roman, chill! Have some mercy!] I stared at the fading text, paralyzed. The comments were saying… Roman was playing me? That didn’t make sense. Roman had been the one constant in my life. He was the person who cared for me more than anyone else in the world. 2 Our families were old friends; Roman and I had been inseparable since we were in diapers. When we were kids, he used to follow me around, puffing out his chest and promising to be “my ears.” He had the patience of a saint. He would meticulously clean my cochlear implant and sit with me for hours, testing the signal over and over. Sometimes, when the equipment glitched, I’d have to rely on lip-reading. But Roman spoke fast—too fast for me to catch everything. I’d just shake my head, feeling stupid. He’d fix the device, tuck it gently back into place, and wait until the world rushed back in before speaking in that clear, melodic voice of his. “Better? Can you hear me now?” I’d nod and mutter a thank you. He’d usually look away then, clearing his throat awkwardly. My ears always felt a bit sensitive right after putting them back in, so once the static settled, I’d ask, “Roman, what were you saying just now?” His answer was always the same: “Nothing. Just nonsense. It’s probably better you didn’t hear it.” Our relationship hadn’t always been smooth sailing. In elementary school, I thought he was a nuisance—too bossy, too overprotective. Then came middle school, that brutal gauntlet of puberty. My classmates realized I was “different.” They figured out that if they pulled my devices, I became slow, vulnerable. I couldn’t hear their insults, but I could feel their cruelty. I became the “safe” target. Once, during P.E., someone intentionally slammed into me, knocking me down and ripping the processor from my head. Loner. Freak. Mute. I could see their mouths twisting into the shapes of those words. Without sound, the world was terrifyingly, suffocatingly quiet. I didn’t even notice Roman until he was standing behind me. Suddenly, the bullies’ faces went pale. They looked at something behind me with pure terror before scurrying away like rats. Warm hands covered my ears, and Roman carefully fitted my device back on. The sound of the wind flooded back, followed by his voice. “What did they say?” I asked, though I already knew. Roman stared at me for a long time before answering. “They were complimenting you. They said you’re the prettiest girl in school.” I rolled my eyes. “Roman, do I look like I’m five?” He just shrugged, his expression dead serious. “I’m not lying. Really.” After that day, no one touched me. Roman had spent his after-school hours “educating” the ringleaders one by one. My parents got the administration involved, too. From then on, the bullies didn’t just stop; they treated me like I was radioactive. 3 The first time Roman took my hearing aids off without warning was graduation day. The air was thick with the scent of cheap cologne and nervous energy. Everyone was using the chaos to confess their secret crushes. I was standing in the crowd, feeling a bit lost, when I saw a boy from my English class walking toward me, his face a bright, frantic red. Roman was faster. He reached out and plucked the devices from my ears. Silence crashed over me, and I flinched, pulling back. But when I looked up, I was caught in the depths of Roman’s dark eyes. He held the devices in his palm and signed to me: There was a petal caught in the casing.
I’ll get it out for you. I watched the English class boy walk away, his shoulders slumped in defeat. Only then did Roman hand my world back to me. “Don’t do that without asking,” I snapped, my heart still racing. “It scares me.” Roman looked down, his jaw tight. “I know. Sorry.” I glanced sideways, trying to find the boy. “Was someone looking for me?” Roman gave me a sharp, sour look. “You really want to know?” I shook my head. “Not really.” I mumbled, “If it was important, he’d say it again. If he didn’t, it probably didn’t matter.” Only then did Roman’s expression soften. “Exactly. It didn’t matter.” 4 Eventually, Roman entered the industry. With his family connections and raw talent, he was an A-lister by twenty-four, an Oscar in his hand and the world at his feet. He was constantly busy, flying between sets and premieres, but he always made time for me. Every time he came home, he brought the latest, most expensive hearing tech. “Try these?” He’d remove my old ones and slide the new ones in. “You mentioned the red ones were hurting your cartilage after a few hours, right?” During those seconds of silence, I’d watch his perfect lips move. I had no idea what he was saying. Then, the cold plastic would click into place. “Maisie, look at me. Can you hear me?” I’d look up at him and nod slowly. He’d smile—that soft, devastating smile that made millions of women scream—and twirl a lock of my hair around his finger. “You’re so busy,” I said once. “Why do you waste your energy on this?” Roman shook his head. “Whenever a new model comes out, I send your specs to the specialists. Maybe one day, they’ll find a permanent fix.” I looked down, a familiar pang of disappointment in my chest. “It’s not fixable, Roman. Don’t waste your money.” But he took my face in his hands, his grip firm, almost stubborn. “If it can’t be fixed, then I’ll buy you hearing aids for the rest of your life.” “Maisie, you’re stuck with me. You’ll always have to rely on me.” 5 I’d known Roman too long to believe those digital comments. How could someone act for twenty years? It wasn’t possible. But curiosity is a persistent itch. The next time Roman came over, I wore a pair of tiny, near-invisible hearing aids I’d bought myself. The room was quiet. I could hear the soft scuff-scuff of Roman cleaning the new equipment with a microfiber cloth. Then, his hands were on me, fitting the new devices. That’s when I realized: it wasn’t that the equipment was faulty. It was that Roman never turned them on immediately after putting them in. He intentionally created a “window of silence.” I was about to reach up and tell him they were off when his voice drifted through my hidden earpieces. It was exactly what the comments had warned me about. Roman was smiling at me—that sunny, gentle smile. But the words coming out of his mouth were cold enough to make me shiver. “Why are you being so restless today, Maisie?” His face was a mask of warmth, but his tone was dangerous. “So many little movements. Are you asking for trouble?” Thinking I was deaf to him, he let the mask slip for a fraction of a second. His features sharpened, revealing something dark, obsessive, and brooding. I’d known him nearly twenty years, and I’d never seen this man. Terrified, I swallowed hard. As he adjusted the fit, I instinctively shook my head. I wanted to see how far he’d go. A moment later, Roman leaned into my ear. “Maisie, if you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to kiss you until you’re breathless, okay, baby?” His eyes dragged across my lips, dark and hungry. My brain felt like it was short-circuiting. My breathing hitched. In a moment of pure, panicked reflex, I looked him right in the eye and gave a firm, slow nod. Roman froze. His pupils blown wide. I froze, too. The floating comments in front of my eyes went into a frenzy: [HOLY CRAP! SHE HEARD HIM! SHE NODDED!]
[ABORT MISSION! THE MASK IS GONE!]
[Look at his face! He’s going to lose it! Hahahaha!]

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Ten years into the collapse of the world, after surviving death more times than I could count, I finally found my long-lost best friend. She had managed to get herself a capable boyfriend—a man with real power—and they were practically attached at the hip. But that was also the exact moment I saw the floating text. [Oh thank god, the high-maintenance drama queen is finally getting killed off! She’s been clinging to the Male Lead forever and stalling the main romance. I’m so sick of her!] [Good riddance! She’s lazy and entitled. People like her don’t deserve to survive the apocalypse.] [Is anyone else still mad about the time she forced the Male Lead to go out at night just to find her a sheet mask? I wanted to punch the screen…] [And now that her redshirt best friend has shown up, the drama queen keeps fighting with the Male Lead over her. She almost got him killed. He’s completely out of patience with her.] [Can the Female Lead just show up already? I’m here for the apocalypse power couple!] The “drama queen” these bizarre, glowing comments were talking about was my best friend, Cassie. And according to them… Cassie was destined to be abandoned by her boyfriend, left behind to become nothing more than rations for the infected. But I couldn’t help but think they had gotten one crucial detail wrong. I was the number one ranked Awakened on the continent. It didn’t matter how high-maintenance my best friend was. I had enough power to maintain her. 1 I had been surrounded by a swarm of the dead, hovering on the precipice of my own end. To make matters worse, some girl had decided to take advantage of my bleeding out. She was going to cut the bio-core out of me and steal my abilities for herself. I played dead. The second the girl leaned in, her hand reaching for my chest, a blinding arc of lightning erupted from my palm. It took exactly one second. Then, she stopped breathing. I shoved her off, tossed her smoking corpse down the stairwell to distract the screeching infected, and dragged my battered body out the fire escape. … I ran for half a month before I finally reached another quarantine zone. My abilities were completely drained. My physical endurance had hit absolute zero. I collapsed in the dirt on the side of the road. Through the haze of unconsciousness, a familiar voice cut through the static in my brain. “Cole, look! There’s someone over there!” “Go help her. Please, Cole, you have to!” I know that voice… “Are you trying to get Cole killed, Cassie? We’re just scavenging the perimeter. There’s a swarm coming. If we don’t move right now, we’re all dead meat!” “Yeah, seriously Cassie, read the goddamn room before you throw a tantrum!” “Cole, you’re not actually going out there, are you? Man… that girl looks dead anyway.” The people with them were furious, their voices thick with contempt. Listening to the commotion, I fought the heavy pull of exhaustion and forced my eyes open. Because I had heard a name that anchored me to the earth. Cassie. My best friend. Scraping together the very last dregs of my strength, I rolled over and pushed myself up on my elbows, lifting my heavy head. Across the ruined overpass, a group of five or six people stared down at me, weapons drawn. The man at the front was built like a tank, radiating an oppressive, heavy energy. One look and you knew he was an Awakened. But I didn’t waste a single second looking at him. My eyes locked entirely on the woman shrinking against his side. Compared to the girl I used to know, she was darker from the sun. Thinner. But she wasn’t bleeding. She was alive. A tidal wave of absolute, terrifying joy crashed through my chest. I opened my mouth to call out to her, but the world tilted, and I slammed hard into the asphalt. My body had finally quit. Right before the dark took me, I heard her scream, her voice tearing at the seams. “Bella!!” 2 They saved me. By the time I woke up, the sun had set. Cassie had her arms locked around my neck, sobbing so hard she couldn’t catch her breath. “You’re alive, oh my god, you’re alive! You’re really here!” I patted her back, my throat tight. I was just about to tell her it was okay, when suddenly, those bizarre, glowing comments began to materialize in the air above us. I read them. Over and over again, the neon letters scrolling through the dark room, until the horrifying truth clicked into place. We were living inside a dystopian romance novel. Cassie was the character they loathed—the spoiled, toxic side-piece. Lazy, demanding, brainless. And my sudden appearance? I was just the catalyst. The doomed redshirt whose sole narrative purpose was to die and trigger Cassie’s inevitable, fatal downward spiral. According to the floating text, the Male Lead would only feel a twinge of guilt after Cassie was torn apart. It would leave a poetic little scar on his heart. A scar that the Female Lead was meant to heal. The comments were still rolling by. [I’m a sucker for a power couple. The Female Lead and Male Lead are endgame! He manipulates water, she controls lightning. When they team up, it’s game over for the zombies!] [Right?! And the angst is delicious. The Female Lead accidentally kills some random redshirt and gets PTSD, and then she and the Male Lead grow together and heal each other. It’s peak romance!] [Hurry up and introduce the Female Lead, author. I can’t stand another chapter of this whiny ex.] Lightning abilities? I furrowed my brow in the dark. Just like mine? 3 “Bella, why aren’t you saying anything?” Cassie noticed my rigid silence and reached out, pinching my cheek gently. “Are you scared?” I snapped out of it, focusing on her face. She was looking at me, smiling through her tears. It was the same bright, painfully earnest smile from a lifetime ago… My eyes stung. I reached up and pulled her tightly against my chest. “No,” I whispered into her hair. “I’m just… really happy.” … Cassie had flaws. I had always known that. Before the world ended, she came from old money. Her parents had wrapped her in velvet and treated her like royalty. So naturally, she was a perfectionist. She liked her meals plated perfectly, her dresses immaculate, and she expected the world to be her friend. In the beginning, I couldn’t stand her. Because I was a bitter, jagged thing, and I envied her. I envied her glowing skin, her sprawling house, her effortless existence. But one afternoon, she walked right up to my desk. I looked up, defensive and guarded, and she held out her hand. “Hi, I’m Cassie. Do you want to be friends? I think you’re incredibly cool.” Half an hour earlier, I had been forced to stand in the hallway for the entire period because I’d talked back to a teacher. She leaned in, lowering her voice like we were co-conspirators. “Actually, I hate Mr. Davis too.” I was too cynical to admit out loud that I agreed. I just sat there, staring at her. Cassie took my silence as a resounding yes. She clapped her hands together. “Perfect! We’re best friends now.” I thought she was too fragile. The kind of girl who would get a papercut and immediately well up with tears. I found her exhausting. If something had the slightest flaw, she tossed it. I thought she had absolutely no sense of boundaries, buzzing around my ear every single day with her endless chatter. I wasn’t an idiot. I knew girls like her didn’t keep girls like me around as real friends. Until the spring semester of eighth grade, when I got hit by a car. I was an orphan, bouncing between my aunt and uncle’s house. When the doctors told them I might never walk again, my relatives deliberated for a few days before deciding I was too much of a burden. They packed my bags for a rural group home. I had completely given up. I was entirely hollowed out. But the light that forced its way back into my dark little room wasn’t the sun. It was Cassie. She came to the hospital. She chattered endlessly by my bedside. And when visiting hours were over, she promised she’d be back the next day. She never broke that promise. For the next three months, she didn’t miss a single day. It wasn’t until much later that I found out she had emptied the trust fund her grandparents had set up for her, just to cover the surgical bills my aunt had refused to pay. She stood in the hospital hallway and screamed at my aunt and uncle. She told them I was a human being, and you don’t just throw human beings in the trash. She was so incredibly self-righteous… But lying in that bed, I realized that her entitlement and her stubborn perfectionism were actually sort of beautiful. 4 We became real friends. Honestly, if Cassie was high-maintenance and spoiled, my unconditional enabling was the root cause. People who knew us would always say, “Keep indulging her like that, Bella. What are you gonna do if she never finds a guy who can put up with her? Keep her as a pet for the rest of your life?” I’d be staring down at a college business plan, not even bothering to look up. “I wouldn’t mind.” Cassie would just laugh, clutching her stomach. “You guys really think you can drive a wedge between me and Bella? Keep dreaming!” … My startup was just getting off the ground, barely finding its footing, when the apocalypse tore the world apart. We got separated during the initial evacuation panic. I looked for her. I spent years turning over the ashes of dead cities looking for her. I never imagined that when I finally found her, ten years would have slipped through our fingers. And the glowing text hovering in the room was telling me that I was about to lose her permanently. 5 I watched the text scroll by, keeping my expression entirely blank. I slipped into the role of an exhausted, unawakened survivor, quietly integrating into their safe zone. And slowly, the reality of Cassie’s life came into sharp focus. She genuinely loved Cole, and for his part, Cole was willing to indulge her. He accommodated her moods. But her complete lack of survival skills and demanding nature rubbed everyone else in the compound the wrong way. I had no doubt in my mind: the second Cole got hurt, or the second he stopped loving her, Cassie would be thrown to the wolves. I was lost in thought when I heard her voice drifting from the hallway. “Cole, please, can’t you spare one extra ration for Bella? She’s practically skin and bones. She’s been out there starving all these years.” Her voice dropped to a plea. “You know I’ve been looking for her.” Cole sounded irritated, put upon. “We’ve already given her twice the standard allowance. If I show her more favoritism, the other guys are going to riot.” The comments flared up, practically vibrating with excitement. [Yes! Keep whining, drama queen. Dig your own grave.] [The Male Lead is getting so sick of her shit.] [I cannot wait for the chapter where she finally gets eaten!] [+1] [+1] My jaw clenched. I deliberately kicked a chair leg, making a loud scraping noise. Cole instantly went rigid, his hand dropping to his weapon as he peered into the room. Cassie’s face lit up. “Bella!” “Why are you out of bed?” She rushed over, looking me up and down. “Are you feeling better?” I forced a smile. “I’m fine.” Standing in the doorway, Cole gave me a flat, dead-eyed nod, then turned and walked away. He was arrogant. Ten years into the nightmare, men like him had stopped seeing the Unawakened as actual people. Even as his girlfriend’s best friend, to him, I was just dead weight. A useless mouth to feed. Once he was gone, Cassie squeezed my hand. “Don’t be mad at him. He’s just stressed. I’ll yell at him for you later.” She dragged me around the safe zone, pointing out the meager gardens and the reinforced walls. She told me about the last few years. What she’d seen. Who she’d lost. And then she asked about me, pressing for every detail. We sat on her cramped bed talking deep into the night, until she couldn’t keep her eyes open anymore. She slumped against my shoulder, breathing softly, fast asleep. The floating text was instantly mocking. [Does this high-maintenance brat not realize her only value is warming the Male Lead’s bed? Now she’s not even going back to his room? Just hanging out with the redshirt?] [She’s literally asking to be abandoned.] [I’m so ready for the Female Lead to make her grand entrance!] [Here, sharing some fanart of our badass Female Lead to cleanse your eyes from this boring friendship.] I stared at the empty space in the room, my eyes narrowing. Two illustrations popped up in the glowing chat. It was a sharp-featured girl with a tough, pragmatic look. But… she looked terribly familiar. 6 Right before I drifted off, I bolted upright in bed. I remembered where I had seen that face… Half a month ago. The girl who had tried to cut out my bio-core while I was bleeding out. The one I had fried to a crisp. That was the Female Lead? But I had already killed her… Before I could fully process the implication, a piercing siren shattered the silence of the night. Someone was sprinting through the halls, screaming at the top of their lungs: “Swarm! The dead are at the gates! All Awakened to the perimeter! Non-combatants to the bunkers!” Cassie jolted awake, instantly gripping my hand tight enough to cut off circulation. “Don’t be scared, Bella.” “Stay right behind me. We’ll find Cole. He’ll keep us safe.” She yanked my arm to pull me off the bed… but I didn’t move. Instead, I reversed our grip, my fingers wrapping firmly around her wrist. Cassie looked back at me, confused and trembling. I looked her dead in the eye. “You stay behind me. I’ll keep you safe.” She blinked, stunned. But there was no time to argue. She swallowed hard. “We need to get to the mineshaft.” The infected swarm was a tidal wave of rot. Some of the evolved ones could bypass the electric fences and infiltrate the compound itself. They were smart enough to hide in the shadows, meaning the Awakened would have to clear the zone street by street even after the main horde was repelled. During the chaos, the Unawakened were herded into an old subterranean mine. We ran through the dark compound, sprinting toward the heavy steel doors of the shaft. We were surrounded by people just like Cassie. Unawakened. Families clutching children, looking stressed but not completely terrified. This happened every few weeks. They had complete faith in their powerful leaders to handle it. But as I watched them, a cold knot formed in my stomach. These people were completely, dangerously dependent. I glanced at Cassie, my brow furrowing. I had been watching her and Cole closely over the last few days. Her “spoiled” behavior, her demands—they were all within the parameters Cole implicitly allowed. Some of it, he deliberately encouraged. He spoiled her in front of everyone. And by extension, he ensured the Unawakened in the camp got slightly better rations and treatment, pulling resources away from the Awakened fighters. His men resented it, but they didn’t aim their anger at Cole. They aimed it at Cassie. She was the scapegoat. And the Unawakened didn’t thank Cassie for the extra food. They thanked Cole. It made them fiercely loyal to him. It made them work the greenhouses until their hands bled, happily providing for the very man pulling the strings. Cole was weaponizing Cassie’s reputation to solidify his absolute control. Did… did she realize that? My grip on her wrist tightened. In that split second of distraction, the world exploded. Just as we reached the heavy doors of the bunker, a shadow peeled itself off the wall. An infected, rotting and fast, launched itself straight at Cassie’s throat. She froze, completely paralyzed by terror. I yanked her arm backward with brutal force, swapping our positions in a fraction of a second. “Bella!” Cassie shrieked, but before the sound even left her mouth, I had already driven a hunting knife upward, burying it straight through the creature’s eye socket and scrambling its brain. 7 Down in the damp, crowded mine, Cassie couldn’t stop staring at me. Her eyes were shining in the dark. It was getting ridiculous. “Stop looking at me like that,” I whispered. “I’ve been surviving out there by myself for ten years. You think I don’t know how to handle a knife?” Cassie threw her arms around me, burying her face in my shoulder. “You’re so brave. You’re so amazing, Bella… You must have suffered so much all these years.” My chest tightened. I reached up and stroked her hair. I still hadn’t revealed my abilities. I knew exactly how men like Cole operated. If he found out I was a top-tier Awakened, he wouldn’t let me leave without a war. And I needed to get Cassie out of here. Soon. Above us, the muffled sounds of gunfire and screaming echoed through the earth. Sitting in the dark, I watched the floating comments scrolling rapidly across the ceiling, my mind racing. [Wait, what is happening? The swarm is almost cleared, why hasn’t the Female Lead shown up yet?] [I’ve been waiting for the epic ‘badass girl saves the Male Lead’ scene for fifty chapters! Where the hell is she?] [Are you guys not looking at the drama queen’s POV? Her redshirt best friend didn’t die!] [What? If the best friend doesn’t die, the drama queen isn’t going to have her mental breakdown and fight with the Male Lead! The entire plot is ruined!] … Listening to their frantic digital chatter, the final puzzle piece fell into place. In the original timeline, the Female Lead managed to rip out my bio-core, leaving me a crippled, ordinary human. I barely made it to this camp, reunited with Cassie, and then died a pathetic death during this exact swarm. The Female Lead, now wielding my stolen lightning, would swoop in, save Cole from a fatal ambush, and get recruited into his inner circle. The perfect power couple is born. Meanwhile, my death would cause Cassie to spiral. She would blame Cole, throwing a massive tantrum and running off into the wasteland just to make him chase her. But Cole, fed up with her antics, wouldn’t go after her immediately. And by the time he did, there would be nothing left of her to find. The annoying side-piece is removed from the board. And me? Just a stepping stone. But now… [The story is completely off the rails! What is going on?] [HOLY SHIT! The author just posted an update. They said the narrative has collapsed, the characters have gained sentience, and they can’t control the story anymore!] [You’re burying the lede! The author confirmed the Female Lead is DEAD! SHE’S DEAD!] [I’m losing my mind. What kind of trash ending is this?] [Are you kidding? This is amazing. We’re in totally uncharted territory now. It’s like a blind box. I am strapped in for the ride!] My heart slammed against my ribs. I looked at Cassie, who was dozing off against my shoulder, exhausted by the adrenaline crash. If I was understanding this text correctly… Our fates weren’t set in stone anymore. We had already broken the mold.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “399230”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

After the earthquake, Dad went to sleep. I was curled into his chest, tucked beneath the shadow of a massive concrete slab. His body was slowly losing its heat, turning into a cooling hearth as I stayed huddled there, sucking on his finger and swallowing the sweet red tea he gave me. A voice crackled from the black screen of his phone. It was Mom. “Save the people with minor injuries and Parker first,” she said, her voice sharp and distant. “As for David—he’s tough as nails. He can wait a little longer. It won’t kill him.” It really was Mom. Dad told me she’d come for us soon. But why did she want him to wait? I looked at my sleeping father and whispered to the phone. “Mom, Dad’s asleep. He gave me lots of sweet tea to drink.” “The tea tastes a bit strange, but I’m not scared. Dad said you’d be here to hold me before the tea ran out.” The phone went silent. I went back to my tea. Then, I heard her voice again, loud and commanding, telling people to find “the baby.” I clapped my hands weakly. Mom was coming to get me. “Found him! Over here! There’s a kid alive!” … A blinding pillar of light stabbed into the darkness, making my eyes ache. I instinctively tried to burrow deeper into Dad’s arms, but he was stiff now, like a statue. “Dad, the sun’s up. Can we go home now?” I pushed against his chest. It wasn’t broad and warm anymore. A huge section of it had collapsed inward, and everything felt sticky. “Quick! Get the boy out first!” A pair of rough, heavy hands wrenched me away from him. “I’m not leaving! Dad’s still sleeping! I have to wait for him!” I screamed, my fingers locked onto a piece of his shirt. Riiiip. The fabric tore away in my hand. I was hauled into the arms of a man in an orange vest. My face was smeared with dark, dried red crust—the remains of the “sweet tea” Dad had fed me. “Jamie! My Jamie!” A figure came stumbling toward us. It was Mom. She was wearing an expensive designer suit, dusted with grime but otherwise intact. She snatched me from the rescuer and crushed me against her. “Thank God. You’re alive. You scared me to death…” She was crying. Her body was shaking. But then, I caught a scent. A crisp, stinging trail of men’s cologne. It was the scent Dad hated most—he called it the “bad man’s smell.” Every time he caught a whiff of it on her, he’d go quiet for hours. I struggled in her arms. “Mom, Dad’s still down there. He’s sleeping.” Mom’s body went rigid. She didn’t look at the ruins where Dad lay. Instead, she pressed my head hard against her shoulder, forcing me to look away. “Be a good boy, Jamie. Dad… Dad went somewhere very far away.” “No, he’s right there!” I got frantic, pointing at the black hole in the earth. “He gave me so much sweet tea. He said when I finished it, you’d be here.” Mom’s face turned deathly pale. She stared at the dark red scabs around my mouth, her lips trembling. The doctors and nurses around us fell into a heavy silence. One of the nurses covered her mouth, her eyes instantly brimming with tears. Only Mom looked away. Her eyes darted around, searching for an exit. What was she afraid of? Was it because of the black phone? Back then, her voice had come through the screen. She said Dad was tough. She said he wouldn’t die. I leaned into her ear and whispered, “Mom, why did we have to make Dad wait?” Mom jerked back and pushed me away as if I had burned her. Her eyes held no relief—only pure, unadulterated terror. The ambulance sirens wailed, a jagged sound against the quiet. I sat on the bench inside, still clutching that scrap of Dad’s shirt. Mom sat across from me, rubbing her hands incessantly. Her hands were clean, her nails painted a perfect, deep crimson. They looked nothing like Dad’s hands. His had been covered in mud and blood. “Jamie… back there… did you hear anything?” she asked tentatively, unable to meet my gaze. I licked my lips. I could still taste the rust. “I heard.” Mom flinched. “Heard… what?” “I heard you say to save Parker first.” The air in the ambulance turned to ice. The medic cleaning my face froze, his hand suspended in mid-air. He looked up at Mom, his eyes cold and judging. Mom forced a smile that looked more like a grimace. “You misheard, honey. The signal was bad. I was just… I was so worried.” “Was I?” I tilted my head. “But who’s Parker? Why is he more important than Dad?” Mom opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She turned to the window, pretending to wipe away tears. When we arrived at the hospital, a swarm of people surrounded us. Camera flashes popped like miniature lightning strikes, stinging my eyes. Suddenly, Mom transformed. She scooped me up and sobbed for the cameras. “Thank the Lord for giving me my son back! As long as Jamie is okay, I’d give up everything I own!” The reporters were dabbing their eyes, calling her a hero, a devoted mother. I rested my head on her shoulder, watching her face. She was howling, but there were no tears in her eyes. She looked like a clown on a TV screen. In the ward, I finally saw Parker. He was in a massive private suite, wearing a little designer suit and eating chocolate cake. He didn’t have a scratch on him. Not a single hair was out of place. Sitting by his bed was a man in a crisp white shirt. He was handsome, and he smelled exactly like Mom—that same sharp cologne. “Victoria, you’re here.” The man stood up. His eyes were red, making him look fragile and soulful. Mom set me down and rushed to him, taking his hands. “Harrison, how is Parker? Was he terrified?” I stood in the doorway, feeling like a ghost in someone else’s house. Parker saw me. He wrinkled his nose and pointed. “Dad, is that the dirty kid who drank blood? He smells gross.” Drinking blood. Dirty kid. I looked at the frosting on his lip, and my stomach growled. The man, Harrison, walked over and knelt in front of me. “This must be Jamie. You poor thing. Come let me give you a hug.” He reached out. On his wrist was a gold watch. It was identical to Dad’s. Dad told me Mom gave it to him for their tenth anniversary. Why was it on this man’s arm? A nameless fire ignited in my chest. Like a small, cornered animal, I lunged forward and sank my teeth into his wrist. “Gah!” Harrison screamed, lashing out with his arm. I was small, and the force sent me flying. I hit the foot of the bed hard. It hurt, but I didn’t cry. I just stared at him. “Jamie! Are you insane?” Mom rushed over, shoving me aside to cradle Harrison’s hand. “Harrison! Are you okay? Is it bleeding?” She turned on me, her eyes burning with venom. “Who taught you to be so feral? Apologize to him right now!” I stayed on the floor, feeling something warm trickle down my forehead. It was red, just like the “tea” Dad gave me. I looked at her and said quietly, “Mom, I’m bleeding too. Are you going to make me wait, too?” The room went silent. Mom’s face turned a bruised, ugly purple. Harrison’s eyes flickered, his expression shifting into something performatively kind. He ignored the bite mark and reached out to help me up. “Victoria, don’t blame the boy. He just lost his father. He’s traumatized.” He patted my shoulder. His grip was heavy, intended to hurt. “It’s okay, Jamie. It doesn’t hurt. I’ll buy you some candy.” I slapped his hand away. “I don’t want candy. I have the sweet tea Dad gave me.” Harrison’s face stiffened. Parker started wailing from the bed. “Mom, get this freak out of here! He stinks!” Mom took a deep breath and called for a nurse. “Take Jamie to the next room. Clean him up. And have them check his head. I think something’s wrong with his brain.” Check his head. She thought I was stupid. The nurse led me away. As she wiped my wound, I saw her quiet tears. “It’s okay, sweetie. I’ll be gentle.” I looked at her. “Is my dad really dead?” The nurse’s hand shook. She pulled me into a hug and sobbed. “Your father… he was a great man.” That evening, my grandparents arrived. My grandmother fainted the moment she saw me. My grandfather leaned on his cane, his hands trembling violently. He wanted to take me home, but Mom refused. “The doctor says his emotional state is unstable,” she said, blocking the door. “It’s better if he stays here for observation.” I knew why. She was afraid of what I’d say. She was afraid of the secret inside the black square. Late that night, the door creaked open. It was Sam, Dad’s best friend. Usually, he was all smiles, but today his eyes were dark. He walked to my bed and pulled something from his pocket. It was a phone with a shattered screen. Dad’s phone. “Jamie,” Sam whispered, as if afraid of being overheard. “They found this in the rubble. It still turns on.” I grabbed the phone and hugged it to my chest. It smelled like Dad. It was stained with his dried blood. Sam stroked my hair. “Jamie, do you want to help your dad?” I looked up at him. There was a flicker of fire in his eyes. “The funeral is in a few days. There will be a lot of people there. That man will be there too.” Sam pointed to a red triangle icon on the screen. “That day, if Mom gets up to speak, I want you to press this triangle. Can you do that for me?” I looked at the red triangle and nodded hard. “Yes.” It was a game. A game only Sam and I knew. I was going to let everyone hear what Mom really said that day. The day of the funeral, it rained. The sky was a dull, dirty gray. I was in a small black suit Nana bought me, a white carnation pinned to my lapel. The chapel was massive, filled with lilies. In the center hung a photo of Dad. He was smiling, his eyes bright like the sun. Mom stood at the front in a sharp black dress. She looked exhausted, her eyes sunken, her makeup failing to hide her fatigue. Everyone whispered about what a devoted widow she was, how she’d wasted away with grief. Harrison didn’t show, but Parker was there. He wore a black shirt and hid behind a pillar, making faces at me. He mouthed the words: You don’t have a dad anymore. I stared at him, my hand in my pocket, gripping the cold, shattered phone. The service began. The music was heavy and suffocating. Mom walked up to the podium, holding a few sheets of paper. She began her eulogy. “David, my love…” She choked up after the first sentence. The guests dabbed their eyes, moved by such “heartbreaking” love. “We were together for ten years. You were my rock, my heart. When the earthquake hit, I wished I could have died in your place.” “If I could turn back time, I would have been there with you, holding your hand so you wouldn’t have to face the dark alone.” She was sobbing now, her body swaying. Relatives rushed up to support her. “David, how could you be so cruel as to leave Jamie and me behind?” she cried out to his portrait, her fists thumping against her chest. I stood in the front row. Sam was right beside me. He knelt down, straightened my collar, and squeezed my hand. His palm was slick with sweat. “Ready, Jamie?” he whispered. I looked at Mom, putting on her grand performance. I looked at her tears and her trembling shoulders. I remembered the rubble. I remembered Dad’s body growing cold. I remembered him putting his finger in my mouth, smiling, telling me it didn’t hurt. I remembered her voice: “Let him wait a little longer.” A massive, hot surge of anger tore through my chest. I didn’t fully understand hate yet, but I knew I wanted to rip her performance to shreds. I broke away from Grandpa’s hand and walked toward the stage, clutching the broken phone. The crowd went silent, thinking I was just a grieving child reaching for my mother. Mom saw me, a flicker of panic crossing her eyes before she masked it. She knelt down, opening her arms. “Jamie, come to Mommy. We miss him so much, don’t we?” She wanted to hug me. She wanted to use me to finish her show. I stopped right in front of her. I didn’t go into her arms. I held up the black square—the phone stained with Dad’s blood. Mom’s pupils contracted. She recognized it. She reached out to grab it. “Jamie, that’s dirty. Give it to Mom—” The moment her fingertips brushed the glass, my thumb slammed down on the red triangle. The Bluetooth connection to the chapel’s massive sound system kicked in instantly.

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I took a private chef gig that paid an obscene four thousand dollars an hour. The client was a young girl, fresh-faced and flush with someone else’s cash. Her only requirement was that the meal had to look and taste like elevated, soulful home cooking. “My boyfriend teased me for not knowing my way around a kitchen. I absolutely have to prove him wrong!” she had chirped over the phone. “But honestly, I’m a disaster. I nearly set the kitchen on fire just trying to boil pasta. Thank God I’m spending his money, so it doesn’t hurt. You have to save me, Chef Harper!” My boyfriend, Carter, was a regular corporate drone. He worked brutal hours and had a notoriously sensitive stomach. Over the years, to help him heal his gut, I had meticulously studied and perfected gut-friendly, holistic recipes. When it came to cooking, I knew exactly what I was doing. I had just plated the first dish when the sound of the front door unlocking echoed through the penthouse. The girl spun around, panic flashing in her eyes as a man stepped into the foyer. “Hey! You’re home early, you didn’t even text me!” The man’s voice was dripping with a rich, lazy indulgence. “Little fool. I knew you’d try to cheat and hire a private chef. Caught you red-handed, didn’t I?” He chuckled, a sound that sent a phantom shiver down my spine. “Besides, I’m the CEO of Kensington Holdings. You really think I’d let my baby exhaust herself slaving away over a hot stove? Though… whatever she’s making smells incredible. Where did you find this chef?” Hearing that painfully familiar voice, my blood turned to ice. I turned around slowly. The man standing there, casually unbuttoning a bespoke Tom Ford suit jacket. It was my boyfriend of five years. The man who supposedly made barely two thousand dollars a month. Carter. … A drop of searing hot oil spat out from the pan, landing squarely on the back of my hand. I didn’t flinch. I felt as if I had been stripped of all nerve endings, just staring blankly at the two people in front of me. Mia pouted, leaning into him. “Sweet-talking me won’t save you. This chef costs four grand an hour. Say goodbye to your wallet!” Carter still hadn’t noticed me. He just reached out, tenderly smoothing a stray lock of hair behind Mia’s ear. “You underestimate your man, baby. I’m worth billions. What’s a few grand to me?” His thumb traced her jawline. “Even if she charged four million an hour, if it makes my Mia happy, it’s worth every damn penny.” Thoroughly placated, Mia tilted her chin up and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Smart answer. She just finished the first course. Want to taste it?” “Anything for you.” Carter turned toward the kitchen with a soft, lingering smile. The second his eyes met mine, the smile vanished. He froze, as if the air had been violently sucked from the room. Assuming he was just mesmerized by the aroma of the food, Mia beamed with pride. “I found a good one, right? Chef Harper makes the most incredible food. She’s even got a certified holistic nutrition diploma!” Six months ago, Carter had been rushed to the ER with acute gastroenteritis. His face had been pale and contorted in agony, yet he had weakly squeezed my hand, telling me not to worry. I had cried until my eyes were swollen shut. The very next day, I enrolled in an expensive culinary nutrition program. I spent months perfecting restorative broths and anti-inflammatory meals, blistering my hands on hot pots so badly that I still carried the faded white scars across my knuckles. Noticing Carter’s deathly silence, Mia shot me a curious look. “What is it? Do you two know each other?” Carter snapped back to reality. He blinked, then lightly tapped Mia on the forehead with a forced chuckle. “What are you talking about? She just… makes great food. Some of the executives at the firm have hired her before.” Mia burst into a bright, tinkling laugh. “Makes sense! You’re the CEO of Kensington. As if you’d be casually fraternizing with the help.” She waved a manicured hand toward the dining room. “Harper, you can bring the plates out to the table now.” Carter didn’t look at me again. He dismissed me with the chilling apathy one reserves for a nameless servant. There was a suffocating weight expanding in my chest, heavy and bruised. As I set the dishes on the table, muscle memory took over. Without thinking, I picked up a spoon and began carefully skimming the finely chopped cilantro off the top of the soup. By the time I realized what I was doing, Mia’s delighted voice sliced through the tension. “Wait, how did you know I hate cilantro?” I stiffened. Mia’s eyes lit up as she playfully swatted Carter’s arm. “I get it! You totally told her beforehand. No wonder you guys were acting so weird a minute ago!” She looked at Carter with an expression of helpless adoration. “My boyfriend knows I absolutely despise cilantro, so he always picks it out for me. He knows I can’t even stand the smell of it, so he refuses to eat it himself. The great CEO of Kensington Holdings, strictly instructing Michelin-starred chefs to hold the cilantro at his high-stakes business dinners!” A year ago, Carter—who had never been a picky eater—suddenly declared he could no longer tolerate cilantro. I had assumed his fragile stomach was acting up again. From that day on, I had been painstakingly careful to never let a single leaf touch his food. It had never been about his stomach. It was entirely about accommodating Mia’s palate. “Now all the guys in his inner circle tease him for being totally whipped!” Mia complained, though her face was radiant with victory. I stood rooted to the hardwood floor, the blood draining from my extremities until I felt nothing but a hollow, biting cold. Oblivious to my shattering reality, Mia took a bite and sighed in contentment. “This is genuinely amazing. Leave your card before you go. I’m definitely booking you again.” Carter’s brow darkened. His voice dropped to a low, warning timbre. “You’re just a hired cook. Don’t overstep your boundaries.” Hearing the blatant threat in his voice, a violent wave of indignation crashed over me. I had been with Carter for five years. Five years of building a life from the ground up. Why was I the one being treated like the dirty little secret? My chest heaved. I opened my mouth, the urge to rip the facade away and scream the truth tearing at my throat. But before a sound could escape, Carter pulled Mia flush against his chest. Over her shoulder, he glared at me. The sheer, venomous hostility in his eyes was so entirely foreign that it strangled the words right out of my mouth. Mia’s face was buried in his designer lapel. “Carter? What’s wrong?” The picture of them, so completely entwined, burned my eyes like acid. I choked out an excuse about an emergency, grabbed my bag, and practically fled the penthouse. The moment I hit the street, my phone buzzed. A text from Carter: [Wait for me at home tonight. We need to talk.] What was left to talk about? When we first started dating, I used to tease him. “Your last name is Kensington, and you just happen to work at Kensington Holdings? What are you, the secret billionaire heir?” I blamed my own blind devotion. I never read the financial Times. I never questioned him. I swallowed every lie he spoon-fed me because I loved him. Wikipedia could have told me that Carter Kensington was the sole heir to a massive corporate empire, a ruthless prodigy who held the keys to the kingdom before he hit thirty. But when I met him five years ago, waiting tables at a dingy downtown coffee shop, he played the part of the struggling entry-level guy to perfection. Looking back, the breadcrumbs were everywhere. He claimed his clothes were cheap vintage finds, yet the fabrics and tailoring put luxury brands to shame. He complained endlessly about his tyrannical boss exploiting his labor, yet his hands were manicured, soft, untouched by true exhaustion. I had lived on instant ramen and skipped meals for six months to save up for a mid-tier designer watch for his birthday. He had never worn it. Not once. When I asked him about it, he had pinched my cheek with a fond, apologetic smile. “My baby worked so hard for it. It’s too precious. I couldn’t bear to scratch it.” Now I understood. It wasn’t precious to him. It was a cheap, embarrassing piece of metal that didn’t belong on the wrist of a CEO. The tears finally broke, blurring the neon streetlights. I practically sobbed the entire walk back to our cramped apartment. Late that night, the rattle of a key turning in the lock echoed in the dark. Carter stepped in, taking in my tear-streaked face and the devastating silence. A flash of genuine pain crossed his features. He stepped forward, pulling my rigid body into his chest, and let out a long, heavy sigh. “Harper… don’t look at me like that.” “Mia is still in college. She’s just… innocent. Spontaneous.” “And you… lately, you’re just so consumed by work and money. You can’t even go out for our anniversary without using a discount code…” Lightning struck my spine. Six months ago, Carter had told me he got a small raise. Thrilled, I had scoured the internet and bought two Restaurant Week prix-fixe vouchers for a high-end steakhouse to celebrate. When I presented them to him, beaming with pride, his face had turned to stone. He had stormed out that night, leaving me sitting at the kitchen table alone. I had just scrolled through Mia’s Instagram an hour ago. Now I knew that on that exact night, he had been on a multi-million dollar yacht, throwing her an extravagant birthday bash. The price of a single bottle of champagne on that boat could have bought a hundred of my pathetic little dinner vouchers. A hysterical, broken laugh escaped my lips. He was keeping Mia like a hot-house orchid, showering her in gold, while standing by and watching the brutal grind of poverty strip me down to the bone—only to turn around and punish me for being “too obsessed with money”? A sudden, violent cramp seized my stomach. I doubled over, dry-heaving violently. Panic broke through his composed facade. He grabbed my shoulders. “Harper? What’s wrong? Are you sick?” “Don’t touch me!” I used every ounce of strength I had left to violently shove his hands away. I forced myself to stand tall, though my legs were trembling. The tears hung precariously on my lashes. “We are done. This is the end of us.” “Leave. And don’t ever come back.” Carter stared at me, his eyes wide and wounded. I turned my back on him. I couldn’t bear to look at his face for another second. A heavy silence lingered before he sighed, a sound laced with cold authority. “Harper, no matter what’s going through your head right now, I have never once considered leaving you.” “If you’re going to blow this out of proportion, then we both need some space to cool off.” The chill in his voice was absolute. I squeezed my eyes shut, letting the tears fall freely in the dark. Only when the heavy click of the front door shutting echoed through the apartment did the adrenaline fade. My knees buckled. I collapsed onto the cheap linoleum floor, clutching my stomach as the sharp, stabbing pain threatened to rip me in half. In the dead of night, my phone rang. Exhausted, hollowed out, I answered without checking the caller ID. “I told you to leave me alone. We are—” Mia’s voice, thick with tears, choked out from the speaker. “Chef Harper? I… I think my boyfriend is cheating on me. I don’t know what to do!” “He just left the apartment out of nowhere, and he hasn’t come back…” “What else could he be doing besides sneaking off to see some other woman? He used to tell me exactly where he was going!” I didn’t answer her. Honestly, I didn’t even know where to begin. What was I supposed to say? The billionaire who treats you like a princess is actually my boyfriend, the man I’ve been supporting for five years? Listening to her frantic, heartbroken sobbing, I simply pulled the phone away from my ear and pressed end. I didn’t sleep a wink. The next morning, running on fumes and sporting deep, bruised bags under my eyes, I left for my shift. When I dragged myself back to my apartment building that afternoon, Mia was sitting on the front steps. The second she saw me, she practically threw herself at me. “Harper! Please, can I stay with you?” I bit the inside of my cheek, feigning ignorance. “Doesn’t your boyfriend have a lot of money? Did you guys have a fight?” Mia’s eyes welled up with fresh tears. “He’s cheating on me. I refuse to spend another dime of his money!” “I’m still just a student. Honestly, the girls at school are so jealous of me, they hate me. I don’t have anywhere else to go…” She looked so pathetically small, crying her eyes out on the concrete. Despite everything, I couldn’t find the cruelty in me to turn her away into the streets. I silently unlocked my door and let her in. The atmosphere inside my shoebox apartment was suffocating. Mia sniffled, wiping her nose with a tissue. “Honestly? I don’t really think he’s cheating. I just have trust issues. I wanted to throw a little tantrum so he’d realize how much he needs me.” “Carter doesn’t know you, so he’d never think to look for me here.” There was a smug, self-satisfied lilt to her voice now. I stood by the kitchenette, entirely mute. Unbothered by my silence, Mia began snooping around my apartment with the casual entitlement of a tourist. “So, Harper… things between you and your guy must be pretty dead, huh?” I blinked, turning around to see her pointing at the open drawer of my nightstand. In it sat a box of premium ultra-thin condoms. She looked at me with a sly, knowing smirk. “If the spark was still there, this box wouldn’t be collecting dust.” A blush crept up her neck as she giggled. “My boyfriend is obsessed with me. He literally can’t keep his hands off me. I swear we run out of these every other week.” “It’s so funny, I love the mint ones too! I make him buy this exact brand every time.” A loud, piercing ring shattered my thoughts. My brain completely short-circuited. Ground down by the relentless exhaustion of working multiple jobs, my intimate moments with Carter had become rare over the past year. Two months ago, he came home late, and that exact box of mint condoms had fallen out of his coat pocket. I had blushed, touched that he had remembered my favorite scent, thinking he was trying to romance me again. He bought them to use with Mia. The humiliation was a bucket of ice water down my spine. Mia was still chattering away, completely oblivious to the massacre she was leaving in her wake. “Honestly, it doesn’t seem like your guy loves you that much anyway. Why else would he let you live in a dump like this?” “My boyfriend always says—where a man puts his money, that’s where his heart is. That’s why he insists on giving me the absolute best of everything.” Her naivety was the cruelest weapon of all. Every bright, chirpy syllable was a scalpel, filleting me alive. I forced a bitter, hollow smile. It wasn’t that Carter didn’t understand the value of money. He just absolutely refused to spend it on me. To hear the extent of his devotion to her—a devotion I had never tasted in five years—was a slow, agonizing execution. I couldn’t breathe. I bolted for the cramped bathroom, locking the door behind me. When I finally managed to splash cold water on my face and step back into the living room, Mia was holding my phone. She was staring at the screen, paralyzed. My heart slammed against my ribs. In my rush to escape, I hadn’t locked my screen. Mia’s voice was barely a whisper. “That’s crazy… your boyfriend’s name is Carter, too?” My hands went numb. Before I could string a sentence together, the front door violently rattled and swung open. “Harper, I bought that velvet cake you like from the bakery on 5th…” Carter froze in the doorway, the pink pastry box dropping from his hands as his eyes locked onto Mia, sitting on my faded sofa. “You absolute bastard!” Mia hurled my phone at the wall, slapped Carter squarely across the jaw, and ran out the door sobbing. Panic, absolute and unhinged, seized Carter’s face. He whipped his head toward me, his eyes blazing with a feral, terrifying rage I had never seen before. “I told you I wasn’t leaving you! Why the hell would you do this to Mia?!” “Did you honestly think cornering her like this would scare her away? You’re delusional! The more you try to hurt her, the more I’m going to protect her!” Desperate to catch Mia, he violently swatted away my hand as I tried to step forward to explain. The force of his swing knocked me into the entryway table. The heavy glass mason jar I kept there tipped over and crashed to the floor. Shards of thick glass exploded across the tiles, taking hundreds of coins down with them in a deafening metallic clatter. I didn’t even register the sharp sting of glass slicing into my ankle. I just stared blankly at the sea of dirty coins scattered across the floor. During my first few years in the city, I worked odd jobs that tipped in change. Carter had bought me that jar. He told me to drop my spare change in it every day. He used to hold me in this very entryway, laughing into my hair, promising that one day, this jar would pay the down payment on our brownstone. Eventually, he forgot the joke. But I never did. I kept feeding that jar. Sometimes I’d even go to the bodega just to break bills into coins. I truly believed that the moment the jar was full, Carter and I would finally have a home. Slowly, I sank to my knees. My fingers traced the cold metal. Pennies. Nickels. Dimes. Barely any quarters. It wasn’t a lot of money. But it was just enough to buy a one-way ticket out of this city. I don’t know what lies Carter spun to win Mia back that afternoon. But by that evening, a post was trending on Reddit and TikTok. Mia had weaponized her tears, posting a multi-part video exposing me as a homewrecker. She claimed I was a grifter who used my “private chef” gig to prey on wealthy clients and seduce their boyfriends. She sobbed gorgeously for the camera: “I just had a silly argument with my boyfriend, and I never thought I’d run into a predator like her! If my boyfriend didn’t love me so fiercely, she would have completely destroyed my life!” With calculated innocence, she leaked my phone number, my full name, and my apartment address. Within the hour, my phone was a brick of notifications, inundated with hundreds of grotesque, violent messages. A loud smash jolted me. I ran to the door. Someone had thrown a bucket of bright red paint against my door. The words “WHORE” and “HOMEWRECKER” were sprayed across the hallway walls. Trembling with blinding rage, I grabbed my coat, ready to march down to Kensington Holdings and drag Carter out by his collar. But the second I stepped out of the building, a heavy stone struck the side of my head. A blinding, agonizing pain erupted at my temple. As the pavement rushed up to meet me, the last thing I heard was a disgusted sneer: “Dirty homewrecking bitch! You deserve to die!” When I opened my eyes, the harsh fluorescent lights of a hospital room blinded me. A nurse adjusted my IV, her eyes full of pity. “Don’t lose hope, sweetheart. You’re young. You can always try for another baby.” I stared at the ceiling. Slowly, my hand drifted down to rest flat against my lower abdomen. The sudden cramps. The exhaustion. The nausea. It all slammed into focus. The physical pain was nothing compared to the monstrous, suffocating irony of it all. You killed your own child, Carter. Is this what you wanted? The next morning, I dragged my battered, hollowed-out body back to the apartment, only to find my landlord standing in front of my vandalized door, arms crossed. “Get your trash and get the hell out! I don’t rent to sluts who ruin other people’s families!” She refused to return my security deposit, tossing my duffel bag into the hallway. As I limped down the stairs with my meager belongings, she spat at my feet. “Disgusting.” My phone buzzed. It was Carter. His voice was a low, commanding hum. “Harper, I said I didn’t want to lose you. But you crossed a line with Mia. You had to learn your lesson.” “She’s calmed down now. You can come work at Kensington. I’ll set you up with an apartment. I really do want to take care of you, Harper.” A wave of pure, unadulterated nausea hit me so hard I had to lean against the brick wall to gag. I hung up the phone. He honestly believed I was broken. That I was a desperate, homeless stray with nowhere to turn but back to her master. He had no idea I was already walking away. I hailed a cab to O’Hare. In the backseat, I opened the drafts folder on my phone. Mia wasn’t the only one who knew how to use the internet. I had drafted a meticulously curated timeline. Receipts. Dates. Photos. The undeniable, forensic proof that Mia was the mistress. I hit publish. I turned off my phone, looking out the window at the city skyline I had bled into for seven years. Then, I walked into the terminal and boarded a one-way flight out of the country. Back in Chicago, a panicked executive assistant burst into the CEO’s office. “Mr. Kensington! Harper just posted a massive thread online with the entire timeline of your relationship!” “She brought the receipts, sir. Everyone knows Mia is the other woman!”

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