Category: English

On the Fourth of July—the day we were supposed to get married at City Hall—my girlfriend vanished. No calls. No texts. Just dead silence. It wasn’t until late that night, scrolling through social media, that I saw the post she had forgotten to hide from me. “From twenty to twenty-eight, our youth finally finds its forever.” Attached were two photos. One was a stamped, official marriage certificate. The other was a wedding portrait where she was leaning into a stranger’s shoulder, her smile bright, radiant, and completely unfiltered—the kind of laugh she used to save only for me when we were younger. With trembling hands, I tapped open the comments. Before I could even type a question, I saw a comment from Tyler, my best friend. “Congratulations to these two old souls. Finally overcame everything to be together! ~” My chest tightened. I dialed Tyler’s number, my fingers shaking. Silence hung heavily over the line before he finally admitted the truth. “Yeah, Jack. They’ve been together for eight years. Everyone in our circle knew.” “We weren’t trying to hurt you. We were just worried you’d overreact and make a scene. It would have been ugly.” “Jude and Ashley… they just fit better, you know? It hasn’t been easy for them to get to this point. We’re all friends here, Jack. Just… try to be the bigger man.” The tears that fell were cold, but they burned a hole straight through my chest. Twelve years. I had been with Ashley for twelve years. And for eight of them, she was in love with another man. Everyone knew. And everyone had agreed to keep me in the dark. … Like a masochist, I kept scrolling through the comments. It wasn’t just Tyler. So many of our mutual friends had left congratulations. “Jude is the absolute best. If you ever break his heart, Ash, I’m coming for you first!” That was Lauren, Ashley’s best friend. Just last week, she’d hugged me and called me the best brother-in-law a girl could ask for. “Married to the love of her life! So happy for you, Ashley! Drinks on me tonight!” My college roommate. “Let’s celebrate, guys, but remember to keep this on the down-low for my sister and Jude’s sake. Don’t let you-know-who find out.” Sam, Ashley’s younger brother. A few years ago, when his startup was failing, he borrowed eighty thousand dollars from me, claiming I was the only brother-in-law he’d ever accept. “Of course! We would never let the dragon ruin the Prince and Princess’s happily ever after!” Cody, the new intern at Ashley’s firm. He was clumsy and constantly on the verge of being fired, until I stepped in, mentored him, and saved his job. I tilted my head back against the wall, desperately trying to force the tears back. I was the “dragon.” I was the “you-know-who.” A punchline in their encrypted group chats, the obstacle to a fairytale. The feed refreshed, and Ashley’s post suddenly vanished. A second later, my phone rang. It was her. “I’m so sorry, Jack. There was a massive server crash at the office today, and I’ve been buried in crisis meetings. I haven’t even looked at my phone.” “Things are going to be crazy for a while. Let’s put the courthouse appointment on hold, okay?” “By the way… did you see anything interesting on social media today?” Her voice was tight—a clumsy, nervous probe. I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I tried calling you, but I’ve been at the hospital with Mom all day. I haven’t had time to look at my phone.” “Go back to work,” I said quietly. “The marriage license… we’ll talk about it when you’re free.” My mother’s health had been failing for years. Last year, she was diagnosed with late-stage stomach cancer. The oncologist told us that, with luck, we might have three years. Her only remaining wish was to see me marry Ashley before my thirtieth birthday. Today was that birthday. She was lying in her hospital bed, eager to see the marriage certificate. And I couldn’t give it to her. Because Ashley was already another man’s wife. I slumped against the hospital corridor wall, running a hand through my hair. The tears blurred the screen of my phone. I wiped it clean and noted the location of their celebration party, which I had memorized from one of the comments before Ashley deleted the post. The Gilded Spoon, Room 302. When I pushed open the heavy door to the private room, a shower of glittery confetti rained over me. Through the shimmering air, I saw Ashley wrapped in Jude’s arms, kissing him so deeply she looked breathless. Our friends were there, phones raised, capturing the romantic moment. Then I stepped in, and the illusion shattered. The room went dead silent. Gasps echoed. People looked away, unable to meet my eyes. Jude looked at Ashley, then at me. “Hey babe, is he a friend of yours? Everyone looks a bit tense.” “Jude, he’s—” Ashley stammers. “I’m Ashley’s boyfriend,” I interrupted, staring directly at Jude. “I know you two have been together for eight years. But she and I have been together for twelve.” “If you don’t believe me, I can show you the videos.” I unlocked my phone and pulled up the albums. Twelve years of history, laid bare. The first video: High school graduation. Ashley, speaking as the class representative, looked out at the crowd and said into the microphone, “My dream isn’t just Harvard. It’s Jack Davis.” The second: College quad. We were holding hands, and she pulled out a set of car keys, her cheeks flushed. “I know how hard it is for you to take the bus to the hospital to see your mom every day. Take this. It’s a cheap used car, but I promise I’ll buy you a better one someday.” It was a three-thousand-dollar beat-up sedan, but it was every penny she’d saved from her part-time jobs. The third: A cramped studio apartment. A tipsy Ashley clung to me, demanding I record her. “I swear to God, Jack, I’m going to make sure we have a good life. I’m never marrying anyone but you.” The fourth: Her company’s IPO celebration. The room was packed with our friends, chanting, “When are you guys finally getting hitched, Jack?” Ashley looked at the camera, her eyes full of devotion. “The house is being renovated. We’re going to City Hall on Jack’s thirtieth birthday.” Today was my thirtieth birthday. The day we promised to bind our lives together. And she spent it marrying someone else. The last video ended. The silence in the VIP room was deafening. These people—my best friend, my close companions—they were the witnesses of our love story, and they were also its betrayers. Jude’s face turned pale, his fists clenching as his eyes reddened. Ashley stepped in front of him, shielding him like a martyr, looking at me with desperate resolve. “Jack, stop. That’s enough.” “It’s my fault. All of it. I couldn’t let go of what we had, but I fell hopelessly in love with Jude. You’re innocent, and so is he. If you want to blame someone, blame me. Leave him out of this.” Jude shifted behind her, subtly twisting the new wedding band on his finger, projecting the quiet confidence of a legal husband. “Look, man, anyone would be devastated in your shoes. I get it,” Jude said. “But Ashley and I are married now. She’s my wife. Whatever lies ahead, we face it together. Ashley is a good, kind soul. If you want financial compensation, just name your price. We will do what we can.” Financial compensation? Twelve years of my life, reduced to a check? Before I could speak, Tyler cleared his throat and stepped forward. “Come on, Jack. Let it go. Ashley and Jude didn’t plan this. Love is messy. You can’t just claim priority because you were there first. I’m telling you this as your best friend—walk away with your dignity and take the settlement. If you make a scene, who’s ever going to want to marry you?” I looked at Tyler, stunned. My throat felt like it was filled with lead. Then came Sam, Ashley’s brother, and the others. “Jack, you’re a good guy, but Jude is great too. I wish both of you could be my brother-in-law, but my sister had to choose. She loves him more. I’m sorry.” “Jack, it’s obvious she loves Jude to her core. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have married him. Let her go.” Ashley and Jude stood closely pressed together, with the rest of our friends forming a human wall behind them. I was on the outside. The fight left me. I felt like a sponge wrung dry. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the worn, scratched key to that old used car. I placed it gently on the table. I had driven that car for ten years, never replacing it even when we could afford better. Now, I was returning it. Along with twelve years of youth, love, and friendship. “Fine,” I said quietly. “I’m out.” “Jack!” Ashley called after me, her voice sharp with sudden panic. I didn’t pause. I didn’t look back. I took a cab to the hospital. Mom looked unexpectedly lively today, a flush of color in her cheeks. She handed me a peeled apple, her eyes bright. “Jack, how did the wedding photos go? Show me the certificate!” My throat tightened, a bitter sting rising in my nose. I didn’t know how to tell her. I couldn’t bear to break her heart. Just as I gathered the courage to speak, the door opened. Ashley walked in. She sat on the edge of the bed and began massaging Mom’s legs, just as she had done for years, offering a warm, soft smile. “Jack thought the photos didn’t turn out well, Mom. We sent them back to the studio for touch-ups. We’re going back to City Hall in a few days. I’ll make sure you’re the first to see the certificate.” Hearing Ashley call her “Mom” instead of “Mrs. Davis” brought tears of joy to my mother’s eyes. She didn’t notice the cold tension between us. I grabbed Ashley’s arm and pulled her out into the hallway. “I walked away,” I hissed, my voice low but furious. “What more do you want from me?” She wrapped her arms around my waist, familiar and warm, sighing against my chest. “Jack, twelve years. Do you really want to throw all of that away?” “You’re another man’s wife,” I said, tearing myself from her grip. “I don’t play the part of the side-piece.” I turned to leave, but she blocked my path, throwing herself into my arms with a desperate, surprising strength. “During college, when I was saving up to buy you that car, I worked at a coffee shop. That’s where I met Jude,” she sobbed, holding onto me. “I was so timid back then, always getting bullied by customers. He protected me. One night, a client slipped something into my drink at a company event. Jude got me out of there, but by the time we reached the hotel, the drug was too strong… we couldn’t stop ourselves.” “I tried to end it. But I couldn’t bear to hurt him. For eight years, Jude stayed in the shadows, never demanding anything, never complaining. I owed him. I had to give him the marriage license to make up for it.” The realization hit me like a physical blow. Eight years. It wasn’t just a number. While I was smiling over the keys to a cheap car, she was in a hotel bed with him. While I was cooking her favorite dinner in our tiny apartment, waiting for her to come home, she was eating with him. A thousand moments of pure, naive happiness, built on a foundation of betrayal. “You were in danger, and you didn’t call your boyfriend? You called a stranger?” “Enough! I don’t care about your origin story. Get out of my sight!” I raised my hand, fueled by a sudden, blinding rage. Ashley flinches, closing her eyes, expecting the strike. But my strength evaporated. I let my hand drop, feeling nothing but a profound, exhausting emptiness. Ashley clung to me tighter. “I gave the legal paper to Jude, Jack. But everything else—my love, my money, my time, my devotion to your mother—nothing changes. It’s all still yours.” “In fact, there’s a new experimental treatment trial in Europe for advanced stomach cancer. Let’s take her there together, okay?” I closed my eyes. Ashley had been good to me over the years. If Jude hadn’t existed, I would have called myself the luckiest man alive. My career had stalled because I spent so much time caring for my mother, but Ashley never cared that she made more than me. She bought me whatever I wanted, took me wherever I wanted to go, and spent nights with doctors discussing my mother’s treatment. She paid the medical bills. I couldn’t leave her. Not yet. Not until my mother was safe. Life fell into a hollow routine. I stayed in the townhouse we had bought together, working by day and staying at the hospital by night. Ashley was busy with her new husband and rarely called. Her absence felt like a reprieve. One evening, I bought a bag of steamed dumplings—my mother’s favorite—and walked into her room. But she wasn’t alone. Two young men were sitting by her bedside. My heart dropped. “Tyler? What are you doing here? And why is he here?” My mother smiled warmly. “Jack, Tyler brought his friend over to keep me company. Such a sweet, polite boy, Jude is. It’s a shame his wife is running around on him with some lowlife. Don’t worry, Jude, people who cheat always get what’s coming to them.” Jude stood up, smoothing his jacket. He looked at me with a cold, cruel smirk, then turned back to my mother. “You’re absolutely right, Mrs. Davis. Cheaters always get what’s coming to them.” “So, when does your son get his? Actually, he already did. It’s just that the universe decided to punish you instead. Late-stage stomach cancer… I’d say that’s a fair trade.” My mother’s face drained of color. She trembled, clutching her chest. “What… what are you talking about?” Tyler stepped forward, throwing two booklets onto her lap. “He’s saying your son is a homewrecker, Mrs. Davis. Ashley and Jude are legally married. Jack knows this, but he’s still living in her house, using her money to pay for your treatment. That’s marital property. Jude has every right to claw it back!” My mother stared at the date on the marriage certificate. July fourth. My thirtieth birthday. A dark, violent cough racked her chest, and she spat blood onto the white sheets. “Mom!” I screamed, lunging for the emergency call button, but Tyler and Jude grabbed my arms, pinning me back. “Your mother said it herself,” Jude whispered in my ear. “Homewreckers deserve to suffer. If she doesn’t die today, you’ll never learn to stay away from my wife.” “Let her go. Ashley’s money doesn’t grow on trees. Why should she waste it on a dying old woman and her leech of a son?” I looked at Tyler, begging him. “Tyler, please. She’s dying. Help me.” Tyler only scoffed. “We’re not brothers, Jack. Jude is my brother. You’ve always had to be better than me, haven’t you? Smarter, better-looking, with a gorgeous girlfriend. I hated your pity. This is your karma.” I was pinned to the floor, watching my mother struggle for breath. The heart monitor beside her beeped frantically, then slowed, before flattening into a long, continuous, terrifying tone. She was gone. A primal scream tore from my throat. I broke free, grabbed the small paring knife on the bedside table—the one she used for my apples—and lunged at them. “I’ll kill you both!” Suddenly, the door flew open. Ashley stepped in, catching only the tail end of the chaos. “Jack, are you insane?!” she screamed, throwing herself in front of Jude to shield him. I tried to pull back, twisting my wrist at the last fraction of a second to avoid her chest. The blade sank deep into my own shoulder, warm blood splattering across Ashley’s face. She caught me as I fall, her screams echoing down the sterile corridor. “Jack!”

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

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

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “505122”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

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

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

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

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

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I was staying at my mother’s place for the Thanksgiving weekend when I checked the time and called my husband before bed. The moment the call connected, a breathless, sweet-coated coo vibrated through the speaker: “Meow… that’s the magic spot!” My chest tightened. A sudden, cold impulse took over. I kept my voice light, almost playful. “Who’s that with you?” He laughed it off, a forced, airy sound. “Nobody… just a little kitten that wandered in. Cute little thing…” My stomach sank. A kitten? A kitten with a thick, sugary Southern drawl? Besides, he was severely allergic to cat dander—he couldn’t even walk past a pet store without breaking into hives. “Since she’s so cute,” I said quietly, “you should keep her.” I hung up. I opened my travel app and canceled my morning flight back. This marriage—this hollow, nauseating sham—was over. I declared it done, unilaterally, starting tonight. … My phone screen lit up. A notification from our home security app popped up on the screen. “Motion detected in the living room.” I tapped it. The feed lagged for two seconds, then cleared. Zachary was sitting on the sofa. Standing directly in front of him was a young girl. She was wearing a headband with plush pink cat ears. She looked up at him and giggled. “Zach, did I just blow my cover?” I gripped the phone tightly, my knuckles turning white. In the next second, Zachary looked directly at the camera lens. He stood up. The camera feed shuddered. Then, it went black. A systemic alert flashed across my screen: “Device disabled by administrator.” I stared at those words for a long, quiet minute. My mother knocked gently on my bedroom door. “Charlotte, sweetie, want some of the stuffing I just baked?” I took a breath. “In a minute, Mom.” On the desk sat a handmade autumn spice sachet. My mother had slipped it into my bag that afternoon, telling me to give it to Zachary—something cozy to bring him comfort and keep the dust mites away. I picked it up and pushed it deep into the back of the drawer. My phone buzzed again. It was a text from Zachary. “Bad signal.” “Don’t overthink things.” “That was Lacey, the new intern in our project group. She stayed late working on the pitch deck with the team and just dropped off some files on her way home.” Our house was on the south side of the city. Zachary’s office was on the west end. That was one hell of a detour. Another text came through: “It wasn’t safe for a young girl to Uber alone at night, so I let her catch her breath for a bit.” “I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning.” I didn’t reply. Then came a call. I stared at the caller ID. “My Zach.” I had saved it like that before our wedding. Back then, he had teased me for being so sentimental, making me promise I would never change it, even if we had a fight. I reached out and declined the call. Then I opened my contacts list and changed the name to “Zachary.” My phone vibrated once more. It was a picture message from an unknown number. In the photo, Lacey was sitting at our dining table. On the placemat were two plates of sweet potato pie. Beside her hand was my personal silver fork—the one etched with a delicate gardenia on the handle. Below the photo was a single line of text: “Hey there, Zach said you don’t like sweet pumpkin pie. No one’s using this seat, right?” I stared at the fork in the photo. I logged into my cloud drive, downloaded the security footage from right before the camera went black, and named the file: “Thanksgiving Night.” Then I uploaded it to a private, secure folder. Zachary sent another text. “Don’t be childish. I’ll explain everything when I see you tomorrow.” At 12:03 AM, a system notification popped up from our shared family photo album. “Zachary uploaded a new photo.” I tapped it. In the photo, Lacey was cradling the cat-ear headband to her cheek, her eyes crinkled into crescents. The caption read: “Thanksgiving kitten. Pure magic.” The album was named “Our Home.” The next morning. My mother set a hot bowl of oatmeal in front of me and asked, “What time is he getting here?” I kept my eyes on my spoon. “He’s busy.” At 8:20 AM, Zachary sent his location. He was parked downstairs. “Come on down.” I grabbed my coat and purse. My mother offered to walk me down, but I stopped her. “No need, Mom. I’ll be back soon.” Downstairs, Zachary was leaning against the driver’s side door. He managed a small smile when he saw me, reaching out to take my bag. “Didn’t sleep well?” I stepped sideways, avoiding his touch. “I’m fine.” His hand remained suspended in the air. “Charlotte, last night was a complete misunderstanding,” he said, his voice soft, placating. “Lacey just graduated. She was working on the proposal until ten. I saw her sitting alone in the office and drove her back to grab some files.” I just looked at him, saying nothing. “She’s young and doesn’t always know where the line is. Don’t take it out on her.” I asked, “How did she get my phone number?” Zachary paused. “It’s in the company directory.” “How did she get into our shared family album?” A crease formed between his eyebrows. “She was helping me upload client presentation files and had logged into my account on her phone. She must have clicked the wrong album by mistake.” “And the living room camera?” This time, he didn’t answer right away. I noticed a small sticker on the passenger door frame. It was a cartoon cat paw. Pink. It wasn’t something I had bought. Zachary reached out, peeled the sticker off, and crumpled it into his palm. “She was just messing around,” he murmured. “I knew it would bother you, which is why I turned off the camera last night. I wasn’t trying to hide anything from you—I just didn’t want you to see it and feel uncomfortable.” I let out a soft, dry laugh. So that was his logic. If a painful truth was kept out of sight, it ceased to exist. He opened the passenger side door for me. But as I went to step in, I saw a white canvas tote bag resting on the leather seat. Hanging from the strap was a matching cat-ear keychain. Zachary quickly picked it up and tossed it into the back. “She left it behind.” I stood outside the car, refusing to move. “I drove her home late last night,” he explained. “I forgot it was still here.” I looked at him. “You drove her home?” “Yeah.” The interior of the car smelled faintly of a sweet, cotton-candy perfume. It wasn’t mine. I sat down, and as I reached for the seatbelt buckle, my fingers brushed against a short strand of blonde hair snagged in the latch. I pulled it out and folded it neatly inside a tissue. Zachary watched me, his throat clearing nervously. “Charlotte.” “I know this whole thing has made you unhappy. I canceled my morning meetings so I could take you out for brunch, and then we can head back to the house.” “No need.” I tucked the tissue containing the hair into the side pocket of my purse. His fingers tapped irritably against the steering wheel. “What are you doing?” “It’s dirty.” He didn’t say another word. Halfway down the road, his phone began to ring. The dashboard display read: “Kitten Lacey.” Zachary immediately tapped the decline button. Three seconds later, it rang again. He glanced at me. “I’ll put it on speaker.” He accepted the call. “Zach, did I leave my office keycard in your car? And my flash drive is missing too—the client needs to see the final proposal by ten.” Zachary frowned. “Don’t panic. I’ll look for it.” Lacey paused on the other end. “Is Charlotte with you? Did I cause trouble again? Charlotte, I’m so, so sorry. I really didn’t know those were your cutlery, or that I shouldn’t post to that album. Zach never told me, he usually just lets me use whatever I want.” “He usually just lets me use whatever.” I looked down at the ring on my left hand. Engraved on the inside of the band was a tiny inscription: “Only Yours.” Zachary had chosen that himself. But now, his accounts, his albums, his car, his home—they were all open for someone else to “use whatever.” Zachary hung up. “She just doesn’t know how to express herself properly.” I stared out the window. “No, I think she expresses herself perfectly.” Zachary executed a U-turn, heading back toward the office. “Let’s find her flash drive first,” he said. “We can’t afford to lose this client. Wait for me in the lounge for thirty minutes. Once I handle this, I’m all yours.” I turned my head to look at him. “Zachary.” His hands tightened on the wheel. “Yeah?” “Do you know what today is?” He blinked, caught off guard. “The Sunday of Thanksgiving weekend.” I nodded slowly. “Right.” He didn’t remember. Today was our third wedding anniversary. When we walked into the office, the receptionist gave me a warm smile. “Good morning, Mrs. Grayson.” Lacey came running out of the main conference room. She was holding a ceramic travel mug—my travel mug. “Charlotte! You’re here too,” she said, quickly trying to shield the mug behind her back. Zachary spoke in a quiet, authoritative tone. “Go prepare for the client presentation.” Lacey nodded. “Zach, am I sitting next to you during the meeting?” “Yes,” Zachary replied. “It’s easier to coordinate the slides.” The glass doors of the conference room swung shut. Standing in the hallway, I could see the table placements through the glass. Right next to the head seat was a card labeled “Lacey”. And the nameplate that read “Charlotte Grayson” had been swept to the very bottom of a stack of reference binders, leaving only the letters “Char” peeking out. I sat in the lounge. Twenty minutes passed, and Zachary didn’t return. On the coffee table lay the printed project proposal. The cover page featured the exact structural framework I had stayed up three nights straight helping him rewrite last month. Under the title, the author block read: “Zachary Grayson.” “Lacey.” My name was nowhere to be found. I flipped to the very last page. In the acknowledgments, it read: “Special thanks to Lacey for her invaluable creative vision.” When I had originally brainstormed that exact creative angle, Zachary had wrapped his arms around me from behind, whispering, “How does that beautiful brain of yours work? You just saved my life.” Now, that lifesaver belonged to someone else’s byline. The door clicked open. Zachary walked in, carrying a paper cup of warm water. “Why are your hands so cold?” he asked, grasping my fingertips. His forehead creased. He lowered his voice. “Charlotte, I didn’t handle things well this morning. Once the client leaves, I’m taking you out to a real dinner. I didn’t forget our anniversary.” He pulled a small velvet box from his coat pocket. “I was planning on giving this to you tonight.” He flipped the lid open. Inside lay a brooch. It was a sterling silver kitten, its tail curved into a delicate crescent moon. Zachary’s expression shifted slightly as he registered my cold stare. “It’s not what you think. This was the only piece left in the designer’s holiday collection, and I thought it would suit you.” I stared at the silver cat. The sound of that “meow” from last night felt like a physical needle pricking my skin. Zachary snapped the box shut. “I’ll swap it for something else.” “Swap it.” It wasn’t that he was oblivious. It was just that if he had the time to swap it, he would. If he didn’t, he expected me to accept it anyway. From the hallway, Lacey’s voice drifted in. “Zach, the client is asking for you.” Zachary called back, “Tell them I’ll be there in five minutes.” Lacey spoke softly through the half-open door. “But Mr. Davenport said my draft has a lot of soul. He wants me to walk them through it. I’m afraid I’ll mess it up if you aren’t standing next to me.” Zachary closed his eyes for a brief, exhausting second. When he opened them, he looked at me. “Charlotte, I have to go in. This account is critical.” I nodded. “Go.” He let out a breath of relief. “Don’t leave. Wait for me.” The door shut. I took out my phone and logged into his company’s internal shared network. My credentials were still active; because I had built the initial architecture for this project, my account was still registered as an external consultant. I downloaded every single version history of the proposal. In version one, my name was listed as the sole creator. Starting from version two, Lacey was added. Then, my annotations were systematically deleted. Finally, the byline was changed. I exported every single document log, step by step. Then I prepared to log off. A prompt popped up on the screen: “Are you sure you want to unbind your external consultant profile from Zachary Grayson’s team?” From the conference room across the hall, applause broke out. Through the glass wall, I saw Lacey standing proudly in front of the projection screen, bowing with a bright smile. Zachary sat right beside her. He leaned in as she spoke, nodding and murmuring something in her ear. Whenever I used to give presentations, he would sit by my side just like that. He would gently squeeze my hand under the table, reminding me to breathe, to take my time. Now, that hand rested right next to Lacey’s laptop. As the meeting wrapped up, Mr. Davenport walked out of the room, clapping Zachary on the shoulder. “Lacey did an exceptional job, Zach. The kid has real instinct. Is your wife here today?” Zachary’s eyes found me in the lounge. I stood up. Before he could speak, Lacey walked over, a polite smile plastered on her face. “Mr. Davenport, this is Charlotte. She doesn’t actually work with the firm. She just helps Zach manage his personal affairs.” Zachary’s face drained of color. He opened his mouth. “No, that’s not… she actually…” But Mr. Davenport’s phone began to ring. The explanation died in Zachary’s throat. Lacey turned to him. “Zach, Mr. Davenport has a flight to catch. Shouldn’t we escort him down to his car?” Zachary looked back at me, torn. Mr. Davenport was already walking toward the elevators. Lacey gathered her laptop and followed him, calling back over her shoulder, “Zach, come on.” Zachary shoved the small velvet box into my hands. “Charlotte, wait for me.” I looked down at the silver cat brooch. The sharp edge of the velvet box dug into my palm. I set the box down on the lounge table. I tapped my phone screen. “Confirm unbind.” The system warned: “This action cannot be undone. You will lose all access to team files. Confirm?” I tapped “Confirm”. At that exact moment, a text message slipped onto my screen from an unknown number. “Charlotte, Zach almost ignored the client just to stay with you. Please don’t be mad at him. You’re still the only one in his heart.” I took a screenshot of the text, added it to the “Thanksgiving Night” folder, and walked out of the office. The receptionist called after me. “Mrs. Grayson, you forgot your brooch!” I didn’t turn around. The attorney slid the paperwork across the desk toward me. “Everything is in order, Charlotte,” Jared said, adjusting his glasses. “We can file the divorce petition unilaterally. There will be a mandatory mediation period. Your husband won’t be served immediately; it will take some time for the court to process the paperwork and send out the official notice.” I nodded. “That’s fine.” I signed my name on the dotted line. As Jared began verifying the evidence list, my phone vibrated on the desk. Zachary’s name flashed across the screen. Jared looked up. “Do you need a moment?” “No.” I flipped the phone face down. Zachary called a second time. Then a third. Finally, a string of text messages came through. “Charlotte, where did you go?” “I came back to the lounge and you were gone.” “I returned the brooch. I managed to get the ginkgo leaf one from the designer you liked—they had one left in stock.” “Come home for dinner tonight. I booked a table at our favorite restaurant to make up for our anniversary.” “Make up.” He used that phrase so often. As if as long as he was willing to “make up” for things, I was obligated to stand in place and wait for him. Jared gathered the folders. “Please sign this authorization form as well. Going forward, the court will contact my office directly.” I signed. Then I slid an emergency contact update sheet toward him. “Could you please witness this change for me as well?” Jared glanced at the form. “Medical emergency contact?” “Yes.” The line had previously read “Zachary Grayson”. I drew a clean line through his name and wrote my mother’s instead. My phone lit up again. This time, it was Zachary’s mother, Martha. “Charlotte, sweetie, come over for dinner tonight. Lacey is coming over too. Poor girl is all alone in the city for the holidays, it’s so sad. You’re the older, mature one—you should look out for her.” I remained silent. Martha chuckled over the line. “Zach told me you two had a little lovers’ spat. What marriage doesn’t have its bumps? Lacey is such a sweetheart. She’s in the kitchen right now helping me prep the Thanksgiving stuffing.” I spoke quietly. “Martha, I won’t be coming tonight.” The line went dead silent for a beat. “Why did you call me Martha?” I looked at the court filing receipt on the desk. “Force of habit.” Her tone cooled significantly. “Charlotte, Zachary has a stressful job. Don’t be so childish. It’s natural for a successful man to have young girls looking up to him. As long as he knows where home is, that’s what matters.” “I hope you enjoy your dinner,” I said, and hung up. I opened my contacts and changed her name from “Mom” to “Martha Grayson”. Then I opened our shared family settings on my phone. I went to permissions. I turned off shared photo albums, calendar syncing, health data sharing, and shared payment authorizations. The very last option was “Remove Family Member”. The prompt read: “Once removed, this user will no longer be able to view your location, calendar events, or medical ID.” I tapped “Remove”. When I walked out of the law office, Zachary’s car was idling by the curb. He rolled down the window. “Charlotte.” He got out of the car and walked up to me. “Why are you here? Is this really all because of last night?” He softened his voice, stepping closer. “I admit, I didn’t handle things perfectly. But surely we haven’t reached this point?” I looked down at his hand. The gold band was still on his ring finger. Mine was still on mine, too. But the words “Only Yours” engraved inside felt like a cruel joke. “Charlotte, let’s not make a scene,” he pleaded softly. “Let’s just go home and talk.” I met his eyes. “There’s someone waiting for you at home to make Thanksgiving stuffing.” He froze. His phone began to buzz in his pocket. It was Lacey. Zachary quickly pressed the side button to silence it. “I’ll tell her to leave right now.” But the phone lit up again. This time, it was Martha. Zachary answered. He listened for a mere three seconds before his face turned pale. “Mom, calm down. Don’t worry.” He turned back to me, his eyes pleading. “Lacey cut her hand in the kitchen. I need to run back and check on her. I’ll come find you the second I’m done.” He pressed a paper bag into my hands. “The ginkgo leaf brooch. The one you always wanted.” My grip was loose, and the bag slipped through my fingers, hitting the pavement with a soft thud. Zachary bent down to pick it up. I took a step back. “Zachary.” He looked up at me from the ground. “Don’t bother coming back,” I said. He frowned, standing up. “Charlotte, stop talking out of anger.” I stood on the steps of the law office, watching his car merge back into the heavy holiday traffic. Five minutes later, my attorney sent over the electronic confirmation. “Filing complete: Charlotte Welles v. Zachary Grayson. Divorce proceedings initiated.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “505109”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

For over a year, I’d been hooking my coworkers up with gourmet lunch boxes from my father’s high-end restaurant, The Miramar. It was a premium two-protein, two-side combo that normally retailed for eighteen dollars. I charged them only ten. Everyone was thrilled with the arrangement. Until Garrett, our new intern, arrived and looked at my lunch program as if he’d uncovered a heinous crime. “Ten bucks for a two-and-two combo? Are you kidding me? That’s highway robbery,” Garrett announced to the open office, his voice dripping with righteous indignation. “I can get this made for five. If you’re pocketing five bucks a pop, and you do a hundred boxes a day, that’s five hundred dollars. My god, that’s a hundred and eighty thousand a year. You’re literally buying a new car off our backs. This is insane!” Chelsea tried to defend me. “Actually, Garrett, it’s a pretty great deal. Anything decent outside costs at least eighteen. Tyler is basically charging us cost price.” “Plus, The Miramar is a massive chain,” another coworker added. “It’s impossible to get a reservation there, let alone takeout. They literally set up a custom lunch line just for our office. It’s not even open to the public.” Garrett scoffed, shaking his head as if we were all incredibly naive. “Cost price is ten dollars? Are you kidding? Pork is dirt cheap right now. Even if you packed the box full, it wouldn’t cost ten bucks. And that ‘exclusive, not-for-takeout’ line? It’s a total marketing gimmick. My uncle runs a restaurant. I know exactly how this industry works.” He leaned against a cubicle wall, crossing his arms. “If you guys trust me, I can get you the exact same setup—pure cost, two proteins, two sides—for five bucks.” He looked around, holding his hands up in mock humility. “I’m just trying to help out. I don’t want a single penny. I just can’t stand watching someone treat their own colleagues like cash cows.” One by one, hands started shooting up around the room. For the first time in a year, I felt a wave of pure relief wash over me. This thankless chore—one that was costing my family a hundred thousand dollars a year in losses—was finally someone else’s problem. 1 Today’s lunch had just arrived. It was our signature two-protein, two-side lunch box. Today’s main was slow-braised short ribs—five thick pieces of tender, marbled meat—alongside a whole, herb-roasted chicken quarter. For the sides, there was an organic tomato-paste pasta and a sesame-marinated chicken salad. It came with a side of house-pickled relish and a bottle of fresh-pressed seasonal fruit juice. This was the exclusive lunch program my father’s culinary team prepared daily for my office. For a year, the standard had never dropped. It normally retailed for eighteen dollars, but I charged my colleagues only ten. “Tyler, these short ribs are unbelievable. Is your chef Michelin-starred?” “The chicken is huge, I can barely finish it. The flavor is incredible.” “The tomato are so refreshing. The dressing is perfect.” “I live for this fruit juice. You can actually taste the real fruit pulp. You can’t buy this anywhere.” These were the compliments I heard every single day. But today, Garrett shattered the peace. “What? You pay ten bucks for this? You guys are getting ripped off. The actual cost is five dollars max!” He pointed a finger at me, looking like a savior of the working class. “Tyler, man, we’re coworkers. Taking advantage of us like this is just dirty.” My fork paused mid-air above my bowl of plain pasta. Five dollars? The organic tomatoes and chicken alone cost more than that. Was he planning to serve them synthetic meat? Chelsea spoke up. “It’s not expensive, Garrett. A lunch like this would easily be eighteen to twenty dollars anywhere else, and the quality wouldn’t touch this. Honestly, I can’t even finish mine.” “The Miramar is a top-tier national chain,” another colleague chimed in. “It’s clean, it’s reliable, and we know we’re eating high-quality food.” Garrett smirked. “Reliable? Those ribs are clearly cheap, frozen imports. Probably sitting in a commercial freezer for six months. That’s how you get food poisoning.” “And the chicken? Classic 45-day factory-farmed birds pumped full of hormones. Eat enough of that and your endocrine system is toast. My uncle’s in the business, I see this stuff all the time. Restaurant margins are insane because they use garbage.” He lowered his voice, looking around conspiratorially. “I’m not trying to stir the pot, but if the food is really so great, how come Tyler doesn’t eat it? The kitchen makes him a completely separate meal. Doesn’t that seem a little suspicious?” The room went dead silent. People stopped chewing. The delicious lunches suddenly looked like toxic waste. Courtney gagged slightly, pushing her plate away. She glared at me. “Tyler, do you want to explain this?” “We get that you want to make a buck, but you shouldn’t be feeding us dangerous, low-grade food just to line your pockets.” The murmurs of agreement rippled through the office like wildfire. “Seriously, if you wanted to make a profit, just tell us. Charge us fifteen or eighteen. But don’t lie about it being ‘at cost’ while feeding us garbage that could make us sick.” “Tyler, is your conscience really okay with this?” I stared at them, speechless. What profit? My family’s brand had been built over decades on a strict “never frozen” policy. We didn’t even use standard commercial meats. The short ribs were locally sourced, organic beef, and the chickens were free-range, organic-certified. The ten dollars I charged didn’t even cover the raw ingredients. Labor, utilities, packaging, and delivery were entirely absorbed by my father’s flagship kitchen. My dad had run the numbers last month. We were losing nearly a hundred thousand dollars a year on this little favor—essentially the cost of a brand-new luxury car, gone, just so my coworkers could eat well. Garrett covered his mouth, feigning regret. “Oh man, my bad. I shouldn’t have said anything. I didn’t mean to ruin your side hustle.” “It’s just… I grew up in this business. I used to do the books for my uncle’s diner. A lunch box like this costs five dollars to make, max. If you guys want to save some cash, I can talk to him. He’ll do it for five dollars, completely at cost.” Courtney’s eyes lit up. “Garrett, seriously? Five bucks for two meats and two sides?” “Of course. We’re a team here. Why would I lie to you? Think of the money you’ll save for coffee or drinks.” The excitement in the room was palpable. “Count me in! Put me down for the whole month.” “Me too! I’m in.” They crowded around Garrett’s desk, clamoring to sign up. Courtney walked past my cubicle, giving me a smug, tight-lipped smile. “Tyler, you see how it is. No one wants to pay your bloated prices anymore. You should probably refund everyone’s pre-payments.” Without saying a word, I pulled up my Venmo and transferred every single dollar of their remaining lunch balances back to them. Then, I called my dad. “Dad, shut down the office lunch service. We don’t need to deliver here anymore.” On the other end of the line, I heard my dad let out a massive sigh of relief. “Thank God. We can finally stop hemorrhaging money.” 2 I hung up and went back to my plain noodles. I didn’t eat the lunch boxes, but it wasn’t because the food was bad. I had major gastrointestinal surgery last year and was still on an incredibly strict, bland diet. No oil, no spice, no heavy seasoning. For the past twelve months, my daily fuel was plain millet porridge and simple handmade wheat noodles in clear broth. As the Venmo notifications chimed on my coworkers’ phones, the complaints started. “Well, we got this month’s refund, but what about the past year?” someone grumbled. “That’s an extra hundred and fifty a month we overpaid. Over eighteen hundred dollars a year. That’s a couple of luxury bags right there.” “One-fifty a person, times twenty people… that’s three grand a month he was skimming. More than his actual salary! He was literally using our hard-earned money as his personal allowance.” “No wonder he wears designer clothes and those nice watches. We paid for them.” I didn’t bother explaining. No one would ever believe that a millionaire’s son was working a mid-level logistics job for “experience,” let alone that his family was losing a hundred grand a year to feed them. They would just see any defense as a guilty cover-up. I took my last bite of noodles, sealed the plastic container, tied it in a bag, and walked to the trash can. The loud thud of the container hitting the bottom of the bin cut right through their murmuring. Every eye in the room locked onto me. I saw disgust, disdain, and a heavy dose of self-righteous fury. I looked back at them, keeping my voice cool and even. “If you truly believe I’ve defrauded you, feel free to file a report with the Better Business Bureau. If you have concerns about the food quality, contact the Department of Health. The Miramar is happy to cooperate with any official inspection.” With that, I turned and walked out. Chelsea hurried out after me, watching my expression closely. “Tyler, are you okay?” I shook my head. “I’m fine. Honestly.” “They’re just jumping to conclusions. I know you weren’t ripping us off.” I offered her a small smile. “Thanks, Chelsea. But really, I’m okay.” Losing this burden was actually a dream come true. A year ago, Courtney had tasted a bento box my dad’s chef had prepared for me. She begged me to bring her one, offering to pay. At first, it was just her. Then a couple of others joined. Soon, it grew to the entire department. Every day, I had to coordinate menus, taking down everyone’s hyper-specific dietary needs and preferences. Hank had severe type 2 diabetes; his meals had to be completely sugar-free. Janice hated cilantro. Greg was severely allergic to shellfish. Bobby couldn’t handle even a hint of spice. I had to meticulously label and double-check every single order. For a year, not a single person had gotten sick. My dad used to tease me: “Your coworkers are treated like royalty, Tyler. You’ve never paid this much attention to my diet.” I had poured my energy, my time, and my family’s money into keeping them happy, only to be branded a criminal. When I got back to my desk, Garrett sidled over, wearing a look of performative guilt. “Hey, Tyler, man. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to steal your thunder or anything. I was just trying to do right by the team.” He leaned in, lowering his voice. “Everyone says you’re a super chill guy. You aren’t mad at me, right?” Mad? Why would I be mad? He had just saved my family a hundred grand. I wanted to buy the guy a drink. “No,” I said, keeping my face blank. “Not mad.” He grinned, throwing an arm around my shoulder with unearned familiarity. “I knew you were a team player! Hey, since you already have everyone’s dietary restrictions and preferences written down, do you mind forwarding me that spreadsheet? Save me the trouble of making a new one.” “Oh, and one more thing. Since you won’t be needing that heated delivery van anymore, do you think I could borrow it? It seems like a waste to let it just sit there.” I stared at him, genuinely stunned by the sheer audacity. That van was a specialized, medical-grade heated food transport vehicle with built-in UV sanitization, purchased specifically for this daily run. And this kid—who had just accused me of poisoning our coworkers for profit—had the nerve to ask to borrow it? My chest tightened with a sudden, sharp spike of anger. I looked at his smug, innocent face, pulled his arm off my shoulder, and uttered two words: “No way.” His smile vanished instantly. “Wow, Tyler. Seriously? It’s just a van. You aren’t even using it anymore. What’s the big deal?” A few coworkers immediately chimed in. “Honestly, Tyler, that’s so petty. You made so much money off us, you probably bought that van with our cash anyway. The least you can do is let Garrett use it.” “We’re all trying to get by, Tyler. Don’t hold a grudge just because Garrett found a better deal for us. It makes you look really small-minded.” “Yeah, it’s just a vehicle. You’re hoarding it out of spite because he exposed your little racket.” The words stung, sharp as needles. A year of labor. A year of bespoke, gourmet meals tailored to their health needs. A massive financial loss for my family. And this was the thanks I got. I looked at them, my gaze turning icy. “The van belongs to the restaurant group. If you want to lease it, contact their corporate office. I don’t have the authority to lend it out.” “And let me make this very clear: I have never made a single cent off any of you. If you want to sue me or report me, go right ahead. I welcome it.” “But if I hear one more slanderous word about my character, I won’t hesitate to involve my family’s legal team.” 3 The office fell quiet for a moment. Garrett flushed red, muttering something under his breath before slinking away. Ten minutes later, my phone buzzed with a text from him. [Tyler, this spreadsheet is insane. Hank needs sugar-free? Janice can’t have cilantro? Bobby needs zero spice? It’s all cooked in one big pot, how am I supposed to separate all this?] [Are you sure you didn’t just make these up to make it look hard?] He was implying I was sabotaging him. As if our kitchen hadn’t spent a year meticulously prepping individual portions. I texted back: [Ask them yourself.] At five-thirty, I clocked out. For the first time in a year, I didn’t have to stay late to verify menu adjustments or call the head chef to remind him about Hank’s low-glycemic meals. I drove home with the windows down, feeling lighter than air. Just as I poured myself a glass of water at home, my phone rang. It was Janice, the HR manager. “Tyler, I heard about what happened today. Garrett’s a bit blunt, but you shouldn’t take it personally. He’s just looking out for the team.” “The thing is, we’ve gotten really used to The Miramar’s food. If you can match Garrett’s five-dollar price, we’d be happy to keep ordering from you.” “We won’t make a big deal about whatever margins you were making before. Just have the kitchen use the same high-quality ingredients, and we’ll keep supporting your family’s business. We don’t want to make things difficult for you.” I nearly laughed out loud. The sheer entitlement was breathtaking. She was acting as if she were doing me a favor by offering to let us lose even more money. “No, thank you,” I said flatly. My family had money. If I wanted to feed them for free, we could afford it. But these ungrateful parasites didn’t deserve a single crumb. Janice paused, her tone turning sharp. “Fine. I gave you a chance to make things right. Don’t come crying to me when you regret it.” “I won’t.” I hung up and actually laughed. The hot potato had officially been passed. 4 The next day, Garrett’s lunch delivery arrived thirty minutes late. The office was practically growling with hunger. But when they opened the containers, the room went quiet. The “short ribs” were mostly bare, gristly bone with tiny shreds of meat. The chicken drumsticks were dry, shriveled, and tiny. Chelsea tried to take a bite of hers, but it was so tough she had to yank it with her teeth and chew endlessly before finally giving up. The vegetables were a limp, yellowish mush, and the rice was gray and dry, smelling like it had been sitting in a damp cellar for years. I glanced over from my desk. The food was swimming in a strange, reddish oil that had an unpleasant, chemical sheen. Someone muttered, “Why do these ribs taste so weird? They’re totally bland, and they smell… kind of fishy?” “This chicken is like leather. I can’t even chew it.” “The rice is yellow. Why does it taste bitter?” Everyone turned their eyes to Garrett. Garrett was busy stuffing a relatively decent-looking piece of meat into his mouth. “Tastes fine to me,” he said, talking around his food. “This is organic, pasture-raised pork. It’s not that soft, commercial stuff. It’s leaner, which means it’s packed with nutrients.” “And the chicken is free-range. That’s why it’s firm. It’s real muscle, not fat.” “The rice doesn’t have that fake shine because it’s completely natural and unprocessed. Most commercial rice is coated in synthetic wax to make it look pretty, which is incredibly toxic. Honestly, why do you think some people only eat noodles instead of rice?” I quietly enjoyed the fresh, homemade wheat noodles my mom had packed for me, ignoring his pathetic attempt at shade. Chelsea defended me. “Stop taking shots at Tyler. He’s not even in the lunch program anymore. He brought his own food because he likes noodles. It has nothing to do with the rice.” Garrett smirked, looking around as if he’d just won an argument. “Sure, Chelsea. Or maybe he knows he got caught. The Miramar probably threw in those free noodles as part of his kickback. Otherwise, why is he still getting food from them?” Courtney looked at Chelsea with a knowing, nasty smile. “Honestly, Chelsea, you keep defending Tyler so hard. Do you have a crush on him or something?” “Seriously,” another coworker chimed in. “Lying just to defend a guy who ripped us off? Have some self-respect. Garrett’s lunch is perfectly fine. It’s way cheaper, and we aren’t getting scammed.” Chelsea’s face turned bright red with embarrassment and anger. Frustrated and unable to find the words to argue, she slammed her chopsticks down and walked out of the breakroom.

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The Memorial Day holiday was just around the corner, and our firm was scrambling to prepare for a roster of high-profile clients. In the middle of the open-plan office, the newly hired intern, Austin, leaned over his desk. He secretly pulled out his phone, whispering into a trendy AI application: “Book the largest private dining suite at The Zenith for tomorrow night. Twelve guests.” Watching him from my desk across the room, a faint, bitter smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. In my previous life, I had always believed that relying on a virtual assistant for high-stakes reservations was reckless. To ensure nothing went wrong, I had spent sleepless nights running back and forth to the hotel, making dozens of frantic calls, and pulling every favor in my network. That was the only reason I had managed to secure a table at The Zenith—the most exclusive restaurant in the city—on a chaotic holiday weekend. But when the CEO praised me in front of the entire company, Austin felt utterly humiliated. Unable to handle the blow to his fragile ego, he stormed out of the building in a blind rage and was struck by a speeding car, dying instantly. My colleagues pretended to mourn, whispering about how thin-skinned he had been. But on the seventh day after his death, they lured me back to the office under the guise of an urgent meeting. They drugged my coffee and filmed my torment. “If you hadn’t been so desperate to steal the spotlight, Austin wouldn’t be dead!” “You just couldn’t stand that he was younger and more attractive, could you? You were terrified he’d take your job! You sick, twisted bastard!” “He already had the room booked through the app! You just had to show off and claim he did it wrong!” “You love the spotlight so much? Let’s make sure everyone sees you now!” The psychological torture, the viral videos, the absolute ruin of my reputation—it was too much. The moment I woke up from the trauma, I jumped from the office building. But now, the clock had wound back. Austin stood up from his desk, his chest puffed out, announcing loudly to the room: “All set! Twelve people, tomorrow night, the Grand Suite at The Zenith.” This time, I was the first one to clap. … Austin blinked, momentarily startled by my sudden enthusiasm. But his confusion quickly melted into a smug, victorious grin. “Wyatt, buddy, times change. The world is automated now. I know you’re getting up there in years, but hey, at least you can appreciate efficiency.” The office erupted into giggles and snide remarks. “God, gotta love Gen Z. They just say it like it is.” “Austin’s not just honest; he’s fast. Way faster than our senior manager, Wyatt.” “Seriously. Every year Wyatt takes weeks, begging and pleading for a reservation, and this kid does it in sixty seconds.” “Makes you wonder if Wyatt was just dragging his feet to make himself look indispensable, doesn’t it?” “Ten years of booking tables and he thinks he’s a marketing genius.” I took a slow sip of my lukewarm coffee, letting their words wash over me without a fight. The Zenith was the pinnacle of luxury in our city. Getting a table there on a normal Tuesday required a miracle, let alone during a major holiday. More importantly, Helena Lancaster, the matriarch of the Lancaster Group, was notoriously old-school. She valued protocol, respect, and above all, sincerity. She once terminated a multi-million-dollar partnership simply because a junior associate handed her a brand of sparkling water she didn’t drink. In her eyes, details were the ultimate measure of respect. Because of her reputation, everyone in the office avoided this account like the plague. It was a career-ending minefield. For the past five years, I was the one who began currying favor months in advance. I knocked on doors, waited outside the restaurant until closing, and pulled strings with general managers just to secure that one table. And it had worked. Helena had smiled across the table and said, “Your firm understands dedication. I won’t forget this.” Since then, the Lancaster contracts had renewed effortlessly, their value multiplying year after year. A one-hundred-million-dollar deal was riding on tomorrow’s dinner. And Austin believed a line of text to a free app could secure that? Seeing my silence, Valerie, our department director, looked slightly uneasy. “Wyatt, you’ve handled this every year. Are you sure we’re good to leave this to Austin?” I looked at her. A heavy, familiar knot tightened in my chest. Valerie had been my mentor, the one who guided me up the corporate ladder. Yet in my past life, she was the ringleader who pinned Austin’s death on me, the one who suggested they record my humiliation. And it wasn’t until my final moments that I realized the sick, twisted nature of her connection to the young intern. Before I could speak, Austin shot up from his chair, his face flushed with defensive pride. “Valerie! Just because Wyatt is your favorite doesn’t mean you have to play favorites! I booked this through official channels.” He thrust his phone screen in front of her face. “See? PocketPal confirmed it. It said they contacted The Zenith’s executive suite. Due to the high profile of our guests, they’re preparing their highest tier of service.” “And look—PocketPal even has a guarantee. If the booking fails, they pay out a thirty-million-dollar breach-of-contract penalty! What is there to worry about?” In my previous life, this absurd thirty-million-dollar guarantee was exactly what made me realize the booking was a scam. It was a laughable, algorithmic illusion. But this time, I only smiled. I wanted to see who he would collect that thirty million from when the hundred-million-dollar account went up in flames. Seeing my silent smile, Austin’s temper flared. He pointed a finger at my face. “Valerie, look at him! He’s sneering! You only doubt me because you want to keep throwing all the credit to Wyatt!” Valerie saw the tears welling in the young man’s eyes, and her protective instincts flared. She glared at me with sharp accusation. “Wyatt, that’s enough. I only asked for your input out of courtesy. Don’t get ahead of yourself. This company needs fresh blood, people like Austin who actually embrace the future.” “Since Austin has secured the reservation, the entire Lancaster account is now his responsibility. You will assist him. Whatever he needs, you execute. No questions asked. Understood?” I let out a soft, incredulous laugh. “Valerie, you’re asking a senior director with ten years of tenure to assist an intern who started three weeks ago? If the board hears about this, what do you think they’ll say?” I closed my laptop with a quiet snap. “But fine. Since you’ve handed the reigns to Austin, I won’t interfere.” The room went dead silent. By the time Valerie realized what I had said, I was already at the door. “Wyatt!” her voice shrieked after me, sharp and frantic. “What is your attitude? How dare you threaten me with the board! And so what if you’re a director? A real leader puts the work first!” I paused, glancing back with a cold smirk. “Austin booked the table, didn’t he? If the hard part is done, what do you need me for?” Without another word, I walked out and returned to my office. I sat at my desk, my eyes drifting to the framed photograph of my mother resting on the corner. The reality of my second chance finally began to settle in, heavy and sweet. In my past life, when those horrific videos leaked online, my mother had thrown herself in front of the relentless wave of reporters and internet vigilantes. “My son isn’t like this! Stop filming him! He was forced—he’s terrified! Please, stop!” she had sobbed, her fragile frame shaking. “I know my son!” But Valerie had shoved her aside with cold, calculated cruelty. “Ma’am, I know exactly what kind of man your son is. I’ve seen him creeping around after hours. He brought his dirty affairs right into our office. He’s a stain on this firm, and I am officially firing him.” The crowd had surged forward. My mother had stumbled, clutching her chest as she collapsed to the pavement. I remembered screaming from the back of the crowd, “Stop! Please! Someone call an ambulance! She has a heart condition!” But Valerie had only scoffed. “Oh, please. What a pathetic stunt for sympathy. Like mother, like son.” My mother had tried to stand, tried to crawl back to protect me, only to be kicked back down by the mob. Her lips turned blue, her final words barely a whisper as she gripped my sleeve: “Wyatt… I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you…” The phantom pain of that memory pierced my chest. I pulled the frame close, holding it against my heart. This time, I wouldn’t lift a finger to save Austin or Valerie. Let them burn. As long as my mother was safe, nothing else mattered. I put the photo back and opened my laptop. Outside, the meeting had adjourned. People filtered past my glass walls, throwing mocking glances inside. “Look at him. Does he really think we can’t function without him?” “It’s hilarious. He’s probably terrified Austin is going to take his office.” “Ten years of riding on his high horse, and a rookie leaves him in the dust.” They gathered around Austin, raising their voices so I could hear every word. “Congrats, Austin! Valerie said you’re the star of the show. Once the Lancaster dinner is wrapped, you’re getting promoted straight to team lead!” “In this place, it takes normal people three years to move up a single rung. You did it in weeks. Unbelievable!” Austin scoffed playfully. “Oh, come on, guys. It’s not that deep. Just a couple of taps on a screen.” Then, he strolled into my office, his hands casually shoved into his pockets. “Hey, Wyatt. When do you think you can pack up and clear out?” I looked up, stunned. “Clear out?” He feigned a gasp, covering his mouth in mock apology. “Oh, shoot. I forgot to mention. Valerie said since the Lancaster account is our top priority, and since I’ll need to coordinate with her constantly, she’s assigning this office to me. I mean, since you aren’t really contributing to this project, it doesn’t make sense for you to monopolize the private suite, right?” I almost laughed out loud. Ten years of sweat and blood earned me this small windowed office, and this kid thought he could just inherit it after three weeks? Before I could speak, my colleagues crowded in behind him. “Austin, you’re too polite. Why are you even asking him?” “Valerie gave the order. If he doesn’t like it, we can just throw his stuff in the hall.” “Yeah, Valerie’s got your back. He can’t do trash to you.” They began grabbing the organizers and papers from my desk. I watched them, a profound, hollow exhaustion settling over me. For the longest time, I had wondered why they hated me so much. I was their peer. I had worked late nights beside them. What had I done to deserve their venom? It was only in my final moments in my past life, bleeding on the asphalt, that I heard them whispering over my broken body: “We started at the same time. Why does he get to be two levels higher than us?” “Exactly. All he does is book that stupid restaurant every year. Big deal.” “Who knows what he had to do to get those tables? Slinking around the hotel at midnight… probably sold his soul, or his body.” It wasn’t hatred. It was raw, ugly jealousy. But jealousy of what? My performance metrics had been number one in the department for a decade. People came and went, but my team stayed stable, pulling in massive quarterly bonuses because my hard work shielded them from the layoffs. They didn’t see the shield. They only saw the shadow it cast. My silence emboldened them. They began clearing my desk with aggressive, sweeping motions. With a cold smirk, Austin grabbed the framed photo of my mother and tossed it carelessly into the trash can. “I have a bit of a germ phobia, Wyatt. You don’t mind, do you?” A switch flipped in my brain. I lunged forward, shoving him back hard. I bent down and snatched the photo from the trash. “Austin! Touch my things again, and I will personally see to it that you pack your boxes today!” The sudden ferocity in my voice stunned them. They glanced at each other, uneasy. “Pack his boxes?!” Valerie’s voice cut through the crowd. She stepped into the office, her eyes flashing. “Wyatt, while the CEO is away, I am the voice of authority in this office. If anyone is packing their boxes, it’s the person who refuses to follow my lead!” Just then, my phone buzzed on the desk. I went to silence it, but my finger slid across the screen, accidentally hitting the speakerphone. A polite, refined female voice filled the room: “Hello, Mr. Mercer. This is the VIP guest relations manager at The Zenith. I wanted to follow up on your inquiry from two weeks ago regarding the Horizon Suite, Room 808, for the Memorial Day holiday?” I had forgotten. I had initiated this booking weeks ago. It was our eighth anniversary partnering with the Lancaster Group, which was why I had insisted on their most exclusive suite. But now… I smiled, looking directly at Valerie and Austin. “Actually, we’ve made other arrangements. We won’t be needing the room.” The manager sounded surprised. “Are you sure, Mr. Mercer? This is the absolute last private suite available for the entire holiday weekend.” “I’m sure,” I replied smoothly. “Thank you for your time.” I ended the call. Austin let out a loud, mocking laugh. “The last suite? Please. When I used PocketPal, it said there were plenty of rooms left.” “Wyatt, do you really think staging a fake phone call is going to make Valerie hand this project back to you?” He smirked, opening his AI app again. Speaking into the microphone, he said, “PocketPal, upgrade my reservation at The Zenith to Suite 999. The largest one.” The app chimed instantly, displaying a text bubble: [Of course! I have upgraded your booking to the Zenith Luxury Suite 999 for tomorrow night at 7:00 PM. Rest easy! Just give them my name, PocketPal, when you arrive!] I remained silent. The Zenith’s highest tier of luxury ended at Suite 808. There was no Suite 999. The AI was hallucinating, feeding him the empty reassurances it was programmed to generate. But Valerie’s eyes lit up. “See? This is what real efficiency looks like! Austin, you’re a miracle worker.” “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure Gordon hears all about this at the dinner. That team lead position is yours.” She turned to the onlookers, waving her hand dismissively. “What are you waiting for? Pack Wyatt’s things. Move him to the cubicle under the stairs.” “And if he won’t move, drag him.” A few colleagues chuckled, their eyes dripping with malice. Before they could lay a finger on me, I grabbed my mother’s photo, snatched my laptop and a few essential files, and walked out without looking back. They could have the office. They’d be begging me to take it back soon enough. For the next few days, Valerie and Austin locked themselves in my old office, ostensibly coordinating the Lancaster dinner. The rest of the team spent their time buying Austin coffees and singing his praises. I ignored the noise, quietly focusing on my own tasks and preparing for the storm. On the evening of the dinner, our team arrived early at the grand entrance of The Zenith. Our CEO, Gordon Croft, spotted me and immediately asked, “Wyatt, is everything in order?” Before I could answer, Valerie pushed Austin forward, beaming. “Gordon! Wyatt didn’t handle the arrangements this year—Austin did!” “He secured the most exclusive suite in the house. Mrs. Lancaster is going to be thrilled.” “We even brought the new hundred-million-dollar contract. If the dinner goes as planned, she’ll sign it tonight! It was all Austin’s idea. The boy is a genius.” Gordon blinked, a brief shadow of doubt crossing his face, but he didn’t say anything. Just then, the Lancaster Group’s town car pulled up. Gordon rushed forward to open the door, leaving Valerie and Austin behind. Austin leaned in close to me, whispering, “Wyatt, I heard it took you two years of grunt work just to get invited to a dinner with the Lancaster Group.” He sighed with mock pity. “Man, that’s tragic.” I looked at him, my expression deadpan. “Austin, I’d start thinking about how you’re going to survive the next ten minutes if I were you.” “What?” He snapped, his voice rising. “Wyatt, do you honestly think your ten years of tenure mean anything? Valerie promised me your job is mine. Just wait. With her backing me, you’re history.” He hurried after Gordon. Helena Lancaster stepped out of the vehicle. She spotted me immediately and smiled warmly. “Wyatt. Reliable as always. I assume the arrangements tonight are up to your usual impeccable standards?” Before I could reply, Valerie and Austin shoved their way into the space. “Mrs. Lancaster, hello!” “Actually, the booking tonight was handled by our brilliant new associate, Austin! Wyatt had nothing to do with it.” Valerie threw a patronizing glance in my direction. “You’ll have to forgive Wyatt, Mrs. Lancaster. He’s been getting a bit forgetful lately. Thankfully, Austin stepped up so we didn’t miss a beat.” Helena’s smile vanished instantly. “I value Wyatt’s strategic capabilities. Reservation logistics are administrative details, are she not?” Austin’s face flushed crimson. “No, Mrs. Lancaster, I…” Gordon, sensing the sudden chill, quickly gestured toward the lobby. “Mrs. Lancaster, let’s head inside and discuss over dinner.” Austin eagerly nodded, jogging ahead to lead the party. “Right this way! Mrs. Lancaster, you are our guest of honor. The Zenith promised me they would pull out all the stops. We’ll head straight to—” Suddenly, three hosts in pristine suits stepped forward, politely blocking the entrance.

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