Category: English

During a reality show, my phone’s lock screen was exposed. It was a picture of Manhattan’s most elusive, old-money billionaire heir. The internet immediately tore me apart, accusing me of clout-chasing. My rival starlet sneered, “Delusional fangirls are honestly terrifying.” That very night, the billionaire heir created an official X (Twitter) account just to post: [She uses a picture of her own man as her wallpaper. Delusional? Are you out of your fing minds?]* 1 I am a trending actress in Hollywood. To build up some hype, I joined a highly popular, live-streamed reality TV show. The very first game required us to call our top pinned contact and invite them to dinner. If they refused, we failed the challenge. I pinched my phone, looking troubled as I racked my brain. Chloe Sterling strolled over to my side, a sweet smile plastered on her face. “What are you thinking about, Serena? Are you afraid of failing?” She was a big deal in the industry. We shared the exact same career trajectory when we blew up, making us undeniable rivals. Right now, though she was smiling, her eyes held a hidden, mocking glint. I glanced at her and stayed quiet. Given the time difference in Europe, my top pinned contact was definitely dead asleep right now. Even if I got lucky and woke him up, expecting him to cross the Atlantic just to eat dinner with me seemed pretty unrealistic. Seeing me ignore her, Chloe looked a bit annoyed. “Serena, why aren’t you saying anything?” The live chat was already coming for me: [This Serena Blake is so rude. Chloe is trying to interact with her and give her screen time, and she’s just giving her a resting bitch face?] [She’s probably pinning some guy who strung her along. She’s terrified of the embarrassment when he rejects her, lol.] [So annoying! Chloe is beautiful and sweet, don’t pay attention to this trashy girl.] I snapped back to reality and met her fixed stare. “Sorry, I zoned out.” She smirked at me provocatively, urging, “Then hurry up and start.” I had no choice but to slowly unlock my phone, revealing my top pinned contact. I never had the habit of setting long nicknames. My pinned contact was simply the letter “F”. Live chat: [Who is that? F? Doesn’t even have a full name? Probably some random nobody.] [Agreed. This girl doesn’t even have any friends in the industry. She’s struggling so hard.] I hit the audio call button. The dial tone echoed from the speaker. Once, twice… The ringing filled the room, but no one picked up. Chloe covered her mouth, giggling. “Are you not close with this person? Why aren’t they answering?” He was definitely fast asleep. I didn’t bother explaining. I just lowered my eyes, fully prepared for the call to automatically disconnect. Chloe looked like she was enjoying a show. “If you can’t even reach your top contact, we should just announce that you…” Before she could finish her sentence, the ringing abruptly stopped. The call connected. A lazy, incredibly magnetic, deep voice came through the speaker. It was thick with the raspy tone of someone who had just woken up. “Hello? “What’s wrong, baby?” 2 Chloe froze. The live chat instantly went ballistic. [Holy sh*t! This voice is lethal! I’m pregnant!] [Hold off on the pregnancy, didn’t you hear him call her baby?!] [Omg omg omg, if I dated a guy online with this voice, I’d let him scam me out of my life savings!] [Just asking quietly… is this Serena’s boyfriend?] I hadn’t expected to actually wake him up. I always thought he kept his phone off when he slept. But right now, I couldn’t care less about that. I just wanted this segment to be over. “Do you want to get dinner together tonight?” He clearly paused. “Tonight? “Your tonight?” Chloe looked confused. “Who is this guy? Why does he have to specify ‘your tonight’?” Her fans echoed: [Lmao, looks like she found herself a long-distance loser boyfriend.] I ignored her and continued, “Yeah.” The person on the other end didn’t hesitate for a second, his voice gradually clearing up. “Alright. I’ll have the jet prepped now.” I was stunned. “You’re really coming?” There was a rustling sound through the speaker, like he was getting out of bed. Then came his teasing voice. “It’s rare for you to take the initiative. Even if I have to cross the ocean, I’m going.” Live chat: [Wait, what?! Cross the ocean? He’s flying internationally just for dinner??] [No wonder he asked about ‘tonight’, he’s definitely in a different time zone right now!] [Who is Mr. F?! The bar is on the floor and he just raised it to the sky!!] Chloe’s face looked a bit ugly. She seemed displeased that I had stolen the spotlight. She gritted her teeth and raised her hand. “I’ll go next.” The host immediately passed the mic to her. She aggressively tapped into her pinned contacts. The name was boldly displayed: “Felix T.” Just as she hoped, the chat started spamming. [Felix T.? Is that the Felix I’m thinking of?] [Is there even a second one? It has to be Felix Thorne! The heir to the Thorne Empire, a true Wall Street heavyweight!] [Omg, I heard even tech CEOs can’t get a meeting with Felix Thorne. Is Chloe really that close to him?] [Lol, compared to Felix Thorne, that random Mr. F is a literal nobody.] [Hahaha, Serena definitely thought she was about to go viral, but she didn’t expect Chloe’s connections to be this insane!] Chloe feigned modesty. “Oh stop, don’t say that. Felix doesn’t like being too high-profile.” She turned, gave me a triumphant smile, and pressed the call button. I watched her quietly. I was actually a little curious about what was going to happen next. Almost immediately, a notification popped up on her screen— [You are not friends with this user. Call cannot be completed.] 3 Chloe’s face instantly turned green. She awkwardly tried a few more times, but the result was the same. She could only mutter to herself, “Huh? Felix must have accidentally deleted me. I totally forgot, he mentioned he was going to clear out his contacts…” The host quickly tried to save her face. “It’s fine, it’s fine! You can just pick someone else.” Next to her, I silently closed out of my messaging app. What I didn’t realize was that my phone was still being mirrored to the studio screen. My lock screen wallpaper flashed brightly for everyone to see. It was a man in a bespoke suit, looking straight ahead. His long, elegant fingers gripped a steering wheel, and a sleek, black luxury watch rested on his wrist. I quickly locked my phone. But the damage was done. The live chat absolutely exploded. [Holy sht! Felix Thorne! That’s Felix Thorne!] [I’m getting a nosebleed. How have I never seen this picture before?! He is so hot, is he trying to kill me?!] [Wait, this btch’s wallpaper is Felix Thorne? And she deliberately flashed it for us to see right now?] [Yeah, what is she trying to prove? Trying to chase clout on a live stream, excuse me?!] [Uh, what if she just genuinely likes him?] [That makes it even funnier! Does she not look in the mirror? Dreaming of marrying into a billionaire family? Especially someone on Felix Thorne’s level. I’m laughing my head off.] The other celebrity guests on set widened their eyes, covering their mouths and whispering. Chloe shot me a look and rolled her eyes. The host immediately asked if she was okay. Chloe gently touched her cheek, looking delicate. “It’s nothing. I just suddenly realized… delusional fangirls are honestly terrifying.” Live chat: [Oh yeah! Isn’t Chloe really good friends with Felix? Someone tell Felix there’s a stalker fangirl here using him for clout!] [Too bad Felix Thorne doesn’t care about the entertainment industry. Otherwise, I’d love to see Serena get blacklisted, hahaha.] Everyone on set caught Chloe’s implied insult. They all turned to look at me in unison. I didn’t say a word. I just pocketed my phone and stared at the production crew to cut my screen feed. Because it was a live broadcast, this tiny incident snowballed instantly. Someone clipped that segment and posted it on X. The caption read: [Chloe is such a straightforward queen, love her! Delusional trash needs to get out of Hollywood!!] The hashtag started trending, and a massive wave of netizens voiced their support: [Tsk tsk, my girl Chloe is a boss! I felt secondhand embarrassment for Serena through the screen.] [She probably didn’t expect Chloe to be so blunt. Look at her deadpan face, her clout-chasing failed and she’s big mad.] [Vomiting. I never understood how she got famous anyway. Cancel her already.] Chloe kept scrolling on her phone and somehow clicked into the trending hashtag. A screen full of insults directed at me was mirrored onto the main studio screen for everyone to read. She froze for a second, then looked at me in a complete panic. “Oh my gosh! How did this happen?! I’m just too outspoken, I never thought people would say all this! Serena, you aren’t mad at me, right?” I was the one getting dragged, yet she looked like the victim. Someone nearby immediately put an arm around her. “Chloe, we know you have a good heart. This is totally normal in Hollywood, it has nothing to do with you.” Chloe looked innocently into the camera. “I just think as public figures, we should watch our behavior and not do anything inappropriate.” The surrounding crew threw me looks of pure disdain. Feeling their judgmental stares, I was speechless. I just didn’t get it. If these people cared so much about Felix Thorne, couldn’t they recognize his voice? The “F” I just called… was him. And that picture? I took it on a whim when he came to pick me up from work one day. Is it illegal to use a picture I took of my own husband as my lock screen? 4 We had been secretly married for three years, and Felix had protected me flawlessly. No one had ever dug up our relationship, and I was perfectly happy with that freedom. But Chloe’s constant insinuations about being close to Felix felt incredibly bizarre. I had never heard of Felix being in contact with any Hollywood starlet other than me. How did she even get his contact info? Chloe was still acting wronged. The host pivoted to comfort her. “Don’t be sad, Chloe! We’re still recording, you can make another call!” She wiped away non-existent tears, scrolled through her list, and found someone named Preston Vance. “Okay! Can I call Felix’s absolute best friend?” The host nodded frantically. “Of course!” As Chloe dialed, she explained to the camera, “Preston is the heir to Vance Industries. He grew up with Felix, they’re practically brothers!” Live chat: [My girl Chloe is so professional. She was so wronged, but she immediately jumped back into work mode!] [Upvote! But who is Preston Vance? Never heard of him.] [Checking in, I just Googled him. His family runs a massive construction empire. Filthy rich!] [Anyone who is best bros with Felix Thorne is definitely a big deal. If Chloe is this close to all of them, she must be a real high-society princess!] [Omg, our Chloe is gorgeous AND comes from a crazy background! That’s my queen!] Amidst the envious gazes of the room, I slowly furrowed my brows. Preston Vance? Felix’s best friend? How come I had never heard of this guy? If I remembered correctly, Vance Construction was merely a sub-contractor for one of Thorne Enterprises’ subsidiaries. Preston Vance probably hadn’t even met Felix in person. How were they best friends? I was genuinely baffled, and I couldn’t help but ask, “Are you absolutely sure this guy is Felix Thorne’s good friend?” Chloe’s expression instantly changed. “What do you mean by that? Serena, if you have a problem with me, say it to my face, but you shouldn’t question me like this!” I looked her dead in the eye. “I just think that bragging on a live stream might be hard to walk back later.” She lost her media training for a second and glared at me. “Why don’t you look in the mirror? What right do you have to accuse me of bragging? Preston and Felix are incredibly close. When you’re ruined, don’t come begging me for help!” Looking at Chloe’s supreme confidence, I was both confused and fascinated. Where was she getting this audacity? The chat debated: [Is Serena Blake mentally ill? She can’t access high-society circles, so she gets jealous and accuses others of lying? How dark is her soul?] [Knowing Chloe’s background is so insane, I really want to know who Mr. F is. He was so obedient on the phone, is he just some boy-toy model Serena paid for? No wonder she’s having a meltdown comparing herself to Chloe!] [Lmao, it’s probably someone she’s ashamed to show. With Chloe’s powerful friends, Serena is about to be humiliated on all fronts!] Someone next to us chimed in, “Chloe, ignore the jealous hater. Make your call!” Chloe glared at me, then acted all sweet and flirty once the call connected, quickly completing the challenge. Everyone praised the Vance heir for treating her so well. She just smiled, looking shy and modest. Director Davis seemed to have a sudden stroke of genius. He pulled Chloe aside, practically fawning over her. “Chloe, since you have plans with Mr. Vance, why don’t we invite him to the studio for dinner? Let our little show bask in some of that billionaire aura! “I’ve been trying to get an interview with Felix Thorne for ages, but he never looks twice at our productions. It’s been my biggest regret…” Chloe immediately understood the assignment and patted the director’s shoulder aggressively. “Oh, Director Davis, say no more! I’ll send Preston the location right now. He and Felix are practically family. Getting him an interview? It’s just a matter of saying the word!” A matter of saying the word? Felix absolutely despised fluff interviews meant only to farm engagement. Did she really not consider the consequences of talking this big?

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Everyone knows that Manhattan’s most untouchable billionaire heir has a beloved dog. How much does he love it? When a popular Hollywood “It” girl’s perfume irritated the dog enough to make it sneeze, she was instantly blacklisted from the industry. That was, until I kicked his dog. Everyone thought I was completely ruined. No one knew that the dog was my breakup gift to the heir. First thing in the morning, the hashtag #HarperKicksDog shot to the top of the trending page. It started with a video shot by a bystander. In the clip, a woman kicked a Golden Retriever, sending the massive dog tumbling into a shallow ditch. The Golden Retriever dramatically collapsed at the bottom of the ditch, eyes squeezed shut, all four paws stiff in the air, looking absolutely dead. [Oh my god, animal abuse! That poor dog!] [This isn’t just abuse; she practically killed it! She needs to be in jail.] [You can tell just by looking at her that she’s a terrible person. Dox her!] At that point, the traction wasn’t huge. Until someone recognized the woman in the video was me. I am the entertainment industry’s most notorious “love-to-hate” actress. Normally, I get dragged into the trending topics just for sneezing. Let alone kicking a dog. In a flash, the hashtag skyrocketed to the number one spot on the entertainment charts. Haters flooded in, teaming up with outraged locals to hurl a tsunami of abuse at me. It escalated to the point where they were photoshopping gore and black-and-white memorial photos of me, cursing me to die. Soon enough, other celebrities jumped into the fray. Namely, my industry rival, Vanessa Blake. Vanessa was the current rising “It” girl. And she built that status by stepping on me. We had filmed a rustic farm-life reality show together, where she was edited to look hardworking and sweet, while I was portrayed as lazy and gluttonous. Vanessa posted a tweet: [Spreading love starts with me.] She attached a photo of herself volunteering at an animal rescue. It was a blatant jab at me. Sure enough, her fans flooded the replies, praising her for being beautiful inside and out—unlike some people with mean faces and toxic hearts. It sparked another massive wave of hate directed at me. Even as things reached this point, my manager was completely unfazed. It wasn’t that she considered me disposable. In fact, I was her only client and her biggest cash cow. She was calm because I got dragged online all the time. To her, this just meant another wave of free publicity. “As long as the Golden Retriever is fine, let them yell for a bit. We’ll post a cute selfie of you with the dog later, explain it was a misunderstanding, and this whole thing will blow over.” My manager had the entire PR strategy mapped out. She calmly sat beside me, snacking on sunflower seeds. That is, until someone on the internet discovered that this wasn’t just any dog. It was the beloved pet of the ultimate Manhattan billionaire heir. [Holy crap! That’s the Heir’s dog! Harper Evans is completely finished!] [Do you guys know how obsessed he is with that dog? An A-list starlet got blacklisted just because her perfume made that dog sneeze!] [Harper didn’t just irritate the dog; she literally kicked it. Being blacklisted is going to be the least of her worries.] [Tsk, karma always catches up. Grab your popcorn, let’s watch this toxic witch get destroyed.] My manager was no longer unfazed. She looked like the sky was falling. She immediately whipped around, dragged a suitcase out of the closet, and started frantically packing her things. “Maggie, what are you doing?” I asked curiously. “Packing so I can skip town! You think I’m going to sit here and wait for the apocalypse?” “Isn’t that an overreaction? All I did was kick that stupid mutt once.” Here is what actually happened: I was on location shooting promo photos yesterday. That stupid dog came out of nowhere and wouldn’t stop sticking to me. I didn’t want to see the person who owned it, so I nudged it away with my foot. I didn’t use any force at all. It dramatically threw itself into the ditch and played dead. It was just acting spoiled—that was its favorite trick. Because in the past, whenever it pulled that stunt, I would forgive it no matter what trouble it had caused. Too bad I wasn’t going to pamper it anymore. So, before it could react, I quickly slipped away. “Stupid mutt?! Are you actually calling the New York billionaire heir’s beloved pet a ‘stupid mutt’?!” Maggie looked like she was about to tear her hair out. Suddenly, her phone rang. She answered it with trembling hands. When she finally lowered the phone, all the color had drained from her face. “It’s over. We can’t run. The Heir is at our door.” Maggie had just received an offer for a reality show called Celebrity Kitchen. It was an A-list, top-tier variety show broadcasted entirely via live stream, boasting massive ratings. The guests they invited were usually Oscar winners and Grammy-level pop divas. Even though my name generated a lot of traffic, it was mostly trashy tabloid fame; I had no real prestigious work. I could never naturally land a resource this good. Normally, Maggie would have been over the moon. But now, she looked like she was attending a funeral. Because the biggest financial backer behind this show was none other than the Manhattan billionaire heir, Kingston Astor. This invitation felt exactly like walking into an execution. “Harper, reading between the lines… they made it clear that if you refuse, you’ll never book another job in this town again.” Maggie looked conflicted. “If you don’t go, you’re blacklisted. If you do go, he might make your life a living hell. Honestly, maybe you should just retire from showbiz?” I felt equally conflicted. I didn’t want to have anything to do with Kingston. But based on what I knew about him, his pride was carved into his bones. He seemed cold and difficult to approach, but he was a man of his word. Even though we had a bit of a dispute over the dog’s custody when we broke up, we generally parted on decent terms. Once the breakup was final, he wasn’t the type to stalk or exact petty revenge. So, inviting me to this show might have had nothing to do with him at all. Maybe the producers just wanted to exploit my current viral infamy for ratings? After all, my bad reputation was generating massive numbers. “Maggie, how much does the show pay?” She gave me a number. My eyes lit up. As expected of an A-list show, they threw cash around like water! To buy a giant mansion and retire early… I gritted my teeth. “Maggie, we’re taking the gig.” I officially announced my participation in Celebrity Kitchen. The internet was entirely filled with people gloating over my impending doom. [Isn’t the investor for Celebrity Kitchen the billionaire heir? He made a brief cameo in a video before. He’s incredibly hot. I must have replayed those few seconds a hundred times.] [Haha, seriously gorgeous. Plus, his dad is a Wall Street tycoon, his mom is a legendary director, his sister is an Oscar winner, and his older brother is a tech mogul. The ultimate heir.] [He might be hot, but his personality is supposedly ruthless, and he’s wildly protective of his own. Especially that dog. Remember the trending hashtag #ManRushesGoldenRetrieverToVetInTheRain? That man was the heir.] [Hahaha, Harper Evans is so dead. He invited her to Celebrity Kitchen just to torture her on live television, right?] [I was planning to go throw trash at her house, but since the billionaire heir is handling it, I’ll just sit back and enjoy the show.] Shortly after, Vanessa Blake also announced she was joining Celebrity Kitchen. Maggie rolled her eyes. “Is she a piece of gum on our shoe? We can’t shake her.” Vanessa’s fans, however, were ecstatic. Most of them were fiercely protective “mom” fans. And their ultimate dream son-in-law was the billionaire heir. Kingston had the looks, the pedigree, the competence—he was top-tier in every category. In their eyes, he was barely worthy of their perfect, fairy-like daughter. Furthermore, they had actually managed to dig up some “clues.” Once, the luxury SUV that picked Vanessa up from set belonged to Kingston. Not only that, but she had posted a photo of a Golden Retriever’s back on her Instagram. The dog looked remarkably like Kingston’s. Being allowed to walk his beloved dog obviously meant she had an intimate relationship with him. All signs pointed to the billionaire heir being the mysterious man backing their precious Vanessa! [Did the Heir personally invite her on the show?] [No way, no way! Is the Heir finally getting impatient and ready to go public?!] [He’s probably been dying to go public so he can openly dote on her. But because our girl wants to focus on her career, she made him keep it a secret. The Heir finally snapped, pulled her into his arms, and said: “Woman, I can’t hide you anymore.”] [Ahhh that narrative is so good, keep it coming!] Vanessa’s fanbase was partying like it was New Year’s Eve. And naturally, they didn’t forget to trample all over me in the process. [I heard a certain someone was also invited. The Heir and our girl are going to tag-team destroy her.] [Can’t wait to watch them beat the drowning dog.] [Hey, don’t insult dogs. That woman doesn’t even deserve the comparison.] Before long, Celebrity Kitchen began broadcasting. Maggie dropped me off at the live stream location. The show had strict rules: no managers and no assistants allowed on set. So Maggie had to say a tearful goodbye at the front gates. “If the producers try to torture you, just endure it for the sake of avoiding the breach-of-contract penalty.” She paused, then added, “But if it gets truly unbearable, I’ll sell my kidney to pay your buyout fee.” I felt a mix of exasperation and genuine warmth. I reached out and gave her a tight hug. “Don’t worry, Maggie. I’ll be fine.” The shooting location for this season was an expansive, rustic farmhouse estate in the Hudson Valley, full of vintage charm. After saying goodbye to Maggie, I walked in. There were five guests in total. Vanessa and I were the new additions. The other three were Oscar-winning actor Harrison Reed, pop diva Serena Cole, and the current teen heartthrob Liam Pierce. When I arrived, Vanessa, Serena, and Liam were already there. Vanessa had said something that made Serena giggle uncontrollably, and the way Liam looked at Vanessa was painfully tender. The moment I stepped inside, the atmosphere instantly froze. Liam and Vanessa in particular looked at me with open hostility. My chaotic fans had previously shipped me and Liam, editing romantic fan-cams of us. Liam, however, felt I was leeching off his popularity. Whenever we shared a stage, he stayed as far away from me as physically possible. He had even publicly expressed his disdain for me. Simultaneously, he was a massive simp for Vanessa. Sadly for him, Vanessa didn’t give him the time of day. I greeted Serena politely. Liam acted like he was terrified I would speak to him and immediately scurried to Vanessa’s other side. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. Who wants to talk to you anyway, you narcissist? Shortly after, the Oscar-winning actor arrived. “Sorry to keep everyone waiting! But I’m not the last one here. We have a mystery guest!” Harrison wasn’t just a guest; he effectively acted as the host, guiding the flow of the show. “Our guest is a big deal. He’s the youngest billionaire on the Forbes list… and this is his first ever reality show appearance…” Harrison knew exactly how to hype up the crowd, rattling off a string of impressive titles. At this point, both the guests and the viewers watching the live stream had their suspicions. Vanessa’s fans had completely taken over the live chat. [No way, no way! Is it really him? I thought he’d just make a cameo, but he’s actually a guest!] [He definitely came for Vanessa. Ah, he loves her so much, I totally approve of this marriage.] Harrison dragged out the suspense before finally dropping the name. “Let’s give a warm welcome to our mystery guest, Kingston Astor!” Honestly, the moment Harrison mentioned a mystery guest, I had a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. I kept a calm poker face, but inside I was panicking. No way, no way. Is Kingston actually participating in this show? Doesn’t that mean we’re going to be staring at each other all day? How awkward is it to be stuck with your ex? What the hell is he thinking? I held onto a sliver of hope, praying to every deity that it wasn’t him. Until Harrison said the name, and that tall, striking figure stepped onto the set. My last shred of hope shattered. Objectively, Kingston was breathtaking. He stood six-foot-two, with broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and incredibly long legs. Because his grandmother was European, he had a stunning mixed-heritage bone structure with deep-set features and pale amber eyes. Add to that his aura of cold, untouchable old money. Just standing there, he made the trendy teen heartthrob Liam look like a valet parking attendant. And he didn’t come alone. In his hand, he held the leash of a massive Golden Retriever. The Golden Retriever was bouncing out of its skin, barking enthusiastically in our direction. If Kingston hadn’t been gripping the leash so tightly, the dog would have charged right at us. Kingston swept his gaze toward our group, his deep eyes unreadable. Simultaneously, the live chat exploded. [Oh my god! The Heir brought his beloved dog to the show!] [He is SO hot. That face, that body, he’s basically a god. I’m drooling.] Vanessa’s fans chimed in right on cue: [Hey, wipe your mouths, the Heir belongs to our girl.] [Wait, bringing the dog to the show… he’s letting the dog exact its own revenge!] [Looks like the Heir is legitimately furious. Look at that Golden Retriever barking at them, it must despise that toxic witch. Grab your popcorn, the show is about to start!] When Kingston appeared, whether it was due to his freezing aura or the wildly barking dog, no one spoke. The silence was deafening. “What an adorable dog! Can I pet him?” Vanessa finally broke the ice. [Hehe, our girl’s acting is so good. She’s obviously walked the dog before, but she’s pretending this is their first meeting.] [She’s definitely super close with the Golden Retriever. Watch it pounce on her the second she gets close.] [Oh man, is their secret romance about to be exposed?!] [Bold theory: The Heir did this on purpose. This man is so calculating.] [Manipulative mastermind boyfriend, hehe, I love this dynamic.] Vanessa walked toward Kingston, looking at the Golden Retriever with overflowing affection, and reached out a hand to pet it. I watched with cold indifference. I had to admit, Vanessa was a spectacular actress. Previously, when we filmed the farm-life show, the host family owned a dog. Vanessa absolutely despised it and threw a tantrum until the dog was banished to a locked vegetable garden. I used to sneak it leftover bones. When the show aired, the editing team twisted the narrative entirely. They made it look like I was the diva who demanded the dog be locked up, and framed Vanessa as the sweet angel sneaking it food. However, this stupid dog was just as neurotic and elitist as its owner. Furthermore, it was highly intelligent—practically psychic. It knew exactly who actually liked it and who didn’t. Vanessa was about to kick a steel plate… Sure enough, the stupid dog violently leaped backward. Its canine face practically spelled out the words: Don’t touch me, peasant. Then, it furiously kicked its hind legs, launching a fistful of dirt straight into Vanessa’s face. The set fell dead silent.

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My little brother is the most hated rising star on the internet. When we joined a family reality show together, he was walking on eggshells, while I roasted everyone in sight—I would have kicked a passing dog just on principle. My brother: “Sis, keep a low profile, I’m begging you.” The fans: “This is so satisfying! Keep roasting them, we love to see it!” 01 I had just returned from studying abroad when my younger brother, Hayes, took a gig on a family reality show. He invited our mom. She took a sip of her coffee and said coldly, “No. I can’t afford that kind of humiliation.” He invited our dad. Dad didn’t even look up from his stack of corporate files. “For five million an episode, I’ll consider it.” Hayes: “…” So, he could only turn his pleading eyes toward me. I waved a hand dismissively. “It’s just a reality show. I’ll go with you.” My mom looked at me like she wanted to say something, but held back. Hayes was so moved he practically cried. He hugged me tight. “Sis, you’re the absolute best. I’m so grateful for you.” I patted his head modestly. “Hayes is a big deal now. Having a superstar brother is my pride and joy.” Hayes looked a little embarrassed. “Sis, maybe you should check the internet first?” I had rushed back to the States so fast I hadn’t caught up on local news. Hearing him say that, I pulled out my phone and opened Twitter with a smile. Then, my smile froze. He was “popular,” alright—but not in a good way. Ever since he debuted two years ago, the internet had been flooded with non-stop hate. His singing and dancing were mediocre at best, yet he had debuted near the top of an idol survival show. People accused him of “crying” his way to a debut spot, and someone had even edited his dance compilation to look like a “geriatric physical therapy” video. In that exact moment, I severely regretted saying he was my “pride and joy.” And soon enough, Hayes would severely regret saying he was “grateful” for me. 02 The show, Dearest Family, was shooting at a luxury resort. It was a seven-day live-streamed event. From the moment we stepped onto the property, camera drones buzzed overhead. When Hayes and I arrived at the foot of the hill, another pair of guests was already there. The guy was around twenty-five, tall with a slight tan, accompanied by a girl in casual clothes. They were whispering to each other, and the girl looked visibly annoyed. Seeing us, she tilted her chin up and let out a cold scoff. Hayes leaned in and whispered in my ear. “That’s Carter Vance. He ranked twelfth and got eliminated in the survival show two years ago. The internet says I stole his debut spot.” I instantly understood. The producers were just trying to stir up drama for the ratings. As we walked over, Carter lowered his eyes and greeted us meekly, looking like a bullied victim. Hayes was so traumatized by the online hate that he was practically walking on thin ice. He reached out to shake hands with a painfully eager, people-pleasing smile. But even then, the live-stream chat was going rabid: “Carter is so pitiful. He actually has to shoot a show with the guy who stole his spot.” “Seeing Hayes’ fake, pretentious face makes me sick.” “Carter is too nice for initiating the greeting. Hayes has zero social awareness.” “If it wasn’t for his face, Hayes would have nothing on Carter!” I stood to the side, staring blankly at Carter until he flashed me a friendly smile. “You must be Hayes’ sister, right? I’m Carter Vance, and this is my little sister, Riley. She won the National Youth Dance Championship last year.” Right on cue, Riley smugly lifted her chin and looked at me with disdain. “Oh, Hayes actually has a sister?” Carter chimed in softly, “Hayes doesn’t like mentioning his family in public. It’s normal you didn’t know.” Riley’s sneer deepened. “Makes sense. For someone who debuted purely on his looks, his family probably isn’t very presentable anyway.” 03 The Vance siblings were coming out swinging from second one. I didn’t know if the producers put them up to it, but the chat was eating it up. “True, I’ve never found any background info on Hayes online.” “Some influencers analyzed that his family must be poor, otherwise he wouldn’t have used the ‘pity card’ to debut and make a quick buck.” My brows furrowed slightly. Seeing this, Hayes quickly grabbed my hand. “Sis, endure it. Please. Fan outrage is terrifying.” While we waited for the other guests, Carter and Riley rattled off like a machine gun. “The Youth Dance Championship—do you even know what that is? Ah, I forgot you probably never studied dance. You definitely wouldn’t know.” “Winning a national title is okay, I guess, but my real goal is to win an international competition within five years.” The chat showered them with praise: “Expected nothing less from Carter. Even his sister is outstanding.” “A dance champion! Compared to a certain someone who debuted high and knows nothing, the irony is thick.” “His sister isn’t even saying anything. Guess that whole family is just empty pretty faces.” As Riley got more and more carried away, I suddenly turned to my brother. “Go get me a bottle of water.” Hayes nodded obediently and trotted off to find a staff member. Watching him disappear, I finally turned my deadpan gaze back to them. “Carter? Your sister is a dance champion, but what about you? What titles or honors do you have?” I looked at the mocking man, pulled out my phone, and opened a search bar. “All the info I can find on you online is that you placed twelfth on a reality show. If you had any actual achievements, considering how much you love showing off, the PR articles would be flying everywhere by now, wouldn’t they?” Carter: “…” I turned to Riley. “National Dance Champion? Which competition? Which category? What scale? As far as I know, there are no less than twenty youth dance competitions in the US every year, and a dozen of them are worth even less than your brother’s twelfth-place finish.” Riley: “…” 04 Their faces turned from red to a very ugly shade of green. I calmly looked away. Sigh. I should hold back a little. No need to bully the kids too hard. I was ready to call a truce, but they weren’t letting it go. Riley’s eyes widened in defiance. “My brother is just low-key! Everyone knows he was better than Hayes on Idol Maker!” “Oh.” She choked, then took a deep breath. “Last year, I won the Dance Revolution championship. That’s a hell of a lot better than you and your talentless brother.” Dance Revolution. The name rang a bell. My nine-year-old niece had won it three years in a row. But last year, she thought the judging system was flawed and rejected the organizers’ invitation to return. Listening to Riley’s arrogance, I frowned. With the drone hovering above and the crew standing nearby, I walked over, pointed at Riley, and asked the staff, “She’s making personal attacks. Does production not care?” The crew member made a hand gesture. “This is a live broadcast. The directors can’t interfere during filming.” I had an epiphany. “So, you don’t care about insults?” “According to the rules, we can’t step in.” “Understood.” My simple questions sparked massive outrage in the chat. “What is she doing? Tattling? Is she in elementary school? Disgusting!” “Exactly like Hayes!” “I admit Riley is a bit arrogant, but at least she has talent. Does this woman only know how to run to the teachers?” “Production obviously wants drama. Tattling is useless. She looks like a clown.” “She only knows how to play these pathetic tricks behind people’s backs. Riley is much more straightforward.” 05 By the time I returned to the group, two more sets of guests had arrived. Riley was still dramatically recounting her glorious competition days. I listened for a moment, then spoke up. “Dance Revolution, huh? That rings a bell.” Everyone instinctively looked at me. Riley’s smile stiffened, but she raised an eyebrow smugly. “I’m impressive, aren’t I?” I smiled faintly. “They invited me, but I didn’t go.” “Why?” “Because I was overseas at the Golden Swan International Cup.” She was completely playing into my hands. Her eyes went wide in disbelief. “What place did you get?” The Golden Swan International Cup was one of the most prestigious, heavyweight dance competitions in the world. The chat went wild: “She’s bluffing, right? Does she even know how big the Golden Swan is?” “The competitors are the elites from every country. If she’s that good, how could Hayes be so untalented?” I raised my eyes and, under everyone’s expectant gazes, said completely deadpan: “Oh, I was a judge.” Riley: “…” The silence lasted for a full ten seconds. Then Riley shrieked, “You’re lying! You’re only in your early twenties! That’s impossible!” I tilted my head. “The Golden Swan is divided into twelve regional tracks. I was just a judge for one of them, not the grand finals.” Remembering something, I looked over at Carter, who was staring blankly. I let out a dry laugh. “Twelve tracks. That’s so funny. Just like your ranking.” Carter: “…” Riley was practically jumping in anger. “Impossible! You’re definitely lying.” I looked at her like she was an idiot. “The judges’ roster is public online. Oh, right—my name is Blair Sterling.” 06 At first, the audience reacted just like Riley—complete disbelief, fiercely accusing me of bragging. That was until someone posted a screenshot of the official judges’ roster from the Golden Swan website. In the screenshot, under the five judges for the sixth track, the name “Blair Sterling” was unmistakably there. “Holy shit, Blair Sterling really is a judge.” “My god, just competing is incredible, but she’s actually a judge?! How good is she?!” “She might be awesome, but Hayes still has zero talent. The fact that he stole Carter’s spot remains. His sister’s talent doesn’t change that.” “Exactly, don’t get it twisted. Even if Blair is a god, Hayes should still get out of the entertainment industry.” “Am I the only one who thinks Blair’s comebacks are brutal? Lmao, look at Carter’s face, he looks sick.” “…” The conversation ended when Hayes ran back happily with a bottle of water and handed it to me. I took it naturally and opened it. “What took you so long?” “They were short-handed setting up the venue, so I helped out a bit.” “Oh. Well, everyone’s here. Let’s go.” Hearing that, Hayes finally looked up and smiled at the others. Then, he shuffled closer to me and asked, thinking he was whispering, “Sis, why does the vibe feel so weird? What did you guys talk about while I was gone?” Carter and Riley’s venomous glares immediately locked onto me. I stayed completely composed and tilted my head. “Huh? Weird vibe? Not at all, we’re getting along fabulously.”

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On All Souls’ Day, my parents went home to sweep the graves. I was home alone and starving. I couldn’t resist eating a piece of bread from the offering plate. That afternoon, I started feeling nauseous. The next day, I was vomiting so hard I could barely stand. My best friend took me to the hospital for a checkup. When I saw the ultrasound results showing an early intrauterine pregnancy, I was completely stunned. I didn’t even have a boyfriend! Whose child was in my belly? I wanted to abort the baby, but my parents stopped me. They didn’t scold me or even ask whose child it was. They just took care of me attentively. Until the day of delivery, when I was delirious from pain. Before I could even look at the child, my father poured boiling water on my cervix while my mother strangled me tightly with a hemp rope. They looked at me with venomous eyes and said, “You got knocked up like a stray dog without even knowing who did it. Having a daughter like you is such a disgrace!” I fought back desperately, but it was useless. When I opened my eyes again, I had been reborn to the day of the checkup. This time I was going to find out the truth about my pregnancy!

After finishing the examination, the doctor handed me the report. It showed “early intrauterine pregnancy.” Exactly the same result as my previous life. Seeing me in a daze, the doctor seemed impatient. “Go home and think about it. Whether you want it or not, decide quickly.” My best friend Emily quickly pulled me out of the examination room, asking as we walked. “Think carefully—did you actually do it with anyone…” “No!” I interrupted her. “I’m with you every day. Have you ever seen me talk more than a sentence to any guy?” Emily fell silent. My mind was a complete mess. I clearly hadn’t crossed any lines with anyone of the opposite sex. How could I be pregnant? I just ate a piece of bread. Could there be something wrong with the bread? My thoughts grew more chaotic. I took a deep breath. No matter what the truth was, I absolutely would not keep this child. “Emily, I’m heading home first. You be safe going back too.” Emily wanted to say something, but I didn’t give her the chance. I walked straight toward the exit. Only after making sure she couldn’t see me did I turn around and head to the obstetrics and gynecology surgery department. In my last life, I was too obedient, too weak. When they told me to give birth, I gave birth. When they told me to raise it, I raised it. I died without ever knowing what was inside my belly. Not this life. No matter how this child got here, no matter what they were planning, I was getting rid of it first! There was a long line outside the operating room. I sat in the corner, clutching that ultrasound report. After waiting forty minutes, my turn finally came. The female doctor looked me up and down, her face showing mockery. “Abortion? Another case of getting pregnant before marriage, right?” Seeing that I didn’t speak, she rolled her eyes directly. “I’ve seen plenty of irresponsible young people like you. At least you’re here to get an abortion, which proves your brain still works. Otherwise, with a mother like you, how miserable would that child be?” Her words made my face burn. I tried to explain. But she waved her hand to cut me off, very impatiently. “Alright, alright, hurry up and take off your clothes and lie down. I’m very busy.” I awkwardly unbuttoned my pants. The female doctor was about to change into her surgical gown when she suddenly remembered something. “Wait, you haven’t shown me the ultrasound report yet, right?” “Not yet.” I quickly handed the report over. Looking at the operating table right in front of me, the heavy burden in my heart lightened considerably. Once the surgery was done, I probably wouldn’t die again. The female doctor took the report, and the impatient expression on her face instantly became serious. The person who had just been urging me to get the surgery suddenly did a complete one-eighty. Her face darkened, looking at me as if I were a monster, her tone hostile: “I can’t do this surgery. Get out!” Both the assistant beside her and I were completely confused, not knowing what had happened. The assistant patted my shoulder to comfort me. She was about to speak up for me when, after seeing the report, she started cursing at me directly. “Get out now! You bitch, someone like you should go to the eighteenth level of hell!”

I was thrown out. The operating room door slammed shut heavily, and my heart sank to the bottom. What the hell was going on? I looked at the ultrasound report in my hand over and over, but couldn’t see anything unusual. Suddenly a hand grabbed me. It was Emily. “What are you doing?” I stumbled to steady myself as she dragged me outside. She didn’t say anything. I was dragged all the way out of the hospital entrance, and only under a streetlight did she let go. I took two steps back, panting. “Are you fucking crazy?” Emily stood opposite me, her eyes red-rimmed. She stared at me, taking a long time before forcing out a sentence. “You can’t abort it.” I was stunned. “This child came out of nowhere.” “I don’t even know how it got inside me. You think I should give birth to it?” Emily took my hand, her eyes full of worry. “Your body isn’t good to begin with. If you abort this child, what if you can’t get pregnant in the future?” I looked into her eyes and shrugged. “Being alone is pretty good. Besides, I’ll have you to keep me company when I’m old.” Emily immediately broke into a smile through her tears. “But don’t be impulsive. Wait until things are clear before aborting. It’s not too late.” I observed her reaction calmly. She really was concerned about me. My heart warmed. “You go home first,” I said. “I want to be alone for a while.” “But you…” she said hesitantly. “I won’t do it again. It’s too late today. I’ll go home and think about it first.” Emily looked at me, her eyes still red. “Then I’ll take you home.” “No need. I want to clear my head alone.” She hesitated for a few seconds, then let go of my hand. “Then message me when you get home.” I nodded in agreement. She turned and walked toward the other side of the street. After a few steps, she looked back at me. I stood in place without moving, waving at her. She finally disappeared around the corner. I waited five minutes. Then I turned around, hailed a taxi, and went straight to the nearest private clinic—24-hour abortion services. The abortion fee at the small clinic wasn’t cheap. I gritted my teeth and paid. The receptionist led me into a small examination room. A middle-aged male doctor sat inside. Seeing that I was dressed lightly, he thoughtfully handed me a jacket. “Are you an adult, young lady? Do your parents know?” I was a bit nervous. “I’m an adult. They don’t know.” The male doctor was stunned for a moment, then showed a kind smile. “Okay, don’t be afraid. My place may be small but it’s very legitimate. Don’t worry.” He had a very approachable appearance, and most of my nervousness dissipated. He poured me a glass of water and handed it to me. “Don’t feel ashamed. Pregnancy is normal, abortion is normal too. It doesn’t mean anything.” I looked at him gratefully. “Thank you, doctor!” The male doctor smiled. “No need to thank me. Let me see your ultrasound report.” Thinking of what happened earlier, I hesitated a bit. But the surgery had to be done. Steeling myself, I handed him the report. The male doctor glanced at the report. His smiling gaze instantly became terrifyingly sinister, as if he wanted to rush over and devour me. “I can’t do this surgery! Go die!” He splashed the half-finished water in my face, roaring in a sinister voice. “Get out! You filthy bitch, get out now!”

I was thrown out again. I clutched the report, nearly on the verge of collapse. What the hell was going on? Why wouldn’t anyone perform the surgery for me? What was wrong with this report? Whose child was in my belly? One mystery after another was driving me insane. But I couldn’t break down. I had to find out the truth! I wiped away my tears and started thinking about my next plan. Since hospitals wouldn’t perform the surgery, I’d just do a medical abortion. Where should I do it? I definitely couldn’t go home. That’s where I died in my last life. My phone vibrated. A message from Emily: Are you home? I looked at those three words and hesitated for a few seconds. I had no one else now, only her. I called her. “Hello?” Her voice was a bit hoarse, like she’d been asleep and was woken up. “Emily, can I sleep at your place?” I asked. There was a pause on the other end. “Where are you? I’ll come get you.” Forty minutes later, I was lying on the couch in her living room. Emily poured me a glass of hot water and sat next to me watching. “What’s really going on?” she asked. “Didn’t you say you were going home to think?” I looked at the cup in my hands without speaking. She didn’t rush me, just sat there. After a long silence, I spoke. “This child can’t possibly exist.” Emily looked at me. “I don’t even know where it came from,” I said. “I’ve never had a boyfriend, never did anything like that with anyone. I haven’t even had my first kiss.” She opened her mouth but didn’t speak. My mind went back to that bread on All Souls’ Day. “On All Souls’ Day, my parents went back to their hometown to sweep graves. I was home alone. I got hungry and ate a piece of bread from the offering table.” I looked at Emily. “That afternoon after eating it, I started feeling nauseous. The next day I was vomiting.” She froze. “You mean…” “I haven’t had sex, don’t have a boyfriend. The only possibility is that bread,” I said. “I got pregnant after eating it.” Emily stared at me, not speaking for a long time. Then she laughed. “How is that possible?” she said. “Getting pregnant from eating something? You think this is a myth?” “I know it sounds ridiculous, but I can’t think of anything else,” I sighed. “Then think about this,” she leaned forward. “The night after you ate the bread, after you fell asleep, did you feel sore all over when you woke up the next day?” I was stunned. “No.” “Are you sure?” “I’m sure. I just woke up normally.” “Then is it possible…” her voice lowered, “that someone came in?” I understood her implication. “Impossible,” I shook my head. “My house is on the seventh floor, the door lock was fine. And even if someone came in, how could I have felt nothing at all?” Emily stopped talking. After a moment of silence, I took a deep breath and said: “Emily, I don’t have any money right now. Can you lend me some? I need to take pills to abort the child.” She was stunned for a moment, then nodded. “What’s this talk of lending between us? Just use it. But won’t a medical abortion be risky? I’m worried about your body…” I shook my head: “The pregnancy is still early, medical abortion isn’t that dangerous.” Emily breathed a sigh of relief: “Then I’m relieved. But can you buy the abortion pills outside?” I sighed: “Probably not.” She frowned in thought for a moment, then her eyes lit up. “I’ve got an idea.” Emily picked up her phone and made a call. A few minutes later, she looked excited. “Done! The medicine will be delivered soon. A good friend of mine is a doctor—he prescribed it.” I hugged her gratefully. “Emily, thank you. Without you I wouldn’t know what to do.” My anxious heart settled down. At least I had a friend by my side who believed in me unconditionally. Half an hour later, the medicine arrived. Emily was afraid I’d make a mistake, so she had me rest while she busily prepared the medication herself. After preparing the medicine, she pushed me to take a shower, saying it was a necessary procedure. I happened to feel uncomfortable anyway, so I didn’t refuse and let her help me take off my jacket. The ultrasound report fell out of my pocket. Before I could pick it up, Emily had already grabbed it. “Oh, I haven’t looked at your report yet.” I tried to snatch it back, but she dodged. Emily held the report and looked at me with a smile. “Don’t be so stingy. The baby’s going to be aborted anyway—can’t you let me, the godmother, take a look?” With that, her gaze shifted to the report. Her sweet smile instantly vanished completely, replaced by a terrifying expression I’d never seen on her face before. Emily stared at me, her tone full of deep disgust and loathing. “The child can’t be aborted!” After saying this, she frantically dumped the prepared medicine into the trash can. I couldn’t care about her change in behavior. Everything stemmed from the thing in my belly. Tonight this child had to die! I lunged at her and grabbed the trash can. “Emily, what’s going on? What’s wrong with the report?” I asked while dodging. But Emily didn’t answer me, just chased after me like a mad dog. I was cornered. Her eyes were bloodshot, as if she wanted to kill me. I pressed against the wall, my mind in chaos. Just then, the doorbell rang.

It was my parents. Emily finally calmed down and opened the door. My mother stood at the entrance, my father behind her. Both their faces looked grim, but when they saw me, they forced smiles. “What are you doing here, Heather?” My mother walked in. “You sent a message saying you were sleeping at your friend’s place. We were so worried.” I leaned against the wall without moving. Everything that happened today was too bizarre. “It was too late so I didn’t go back,” I explained. My mother nodded, her gaze falling on what Emily was holding. That ultrasound report. She motioned for Emily to hand it to her. My mother took it and looked down at it. My father leaned over. The room was quiet for a few seconds. There was no change like I’d expected. They were just calm, like in my previous life. My mother looked up, her face wearing a smile. “It’s fine.” She put down the report and sat beside me. “If you’re pregnant, just give birth. Mom will help you raise it.” I looked at her. “You’ve had poor health since you were little,” she continued. “Abortion is too hard on the body. Keep this child—our family can afford to raise it.” Exactly the same as my previous life. Not a single word different. “Dad, Mom,” I spoke. “Aren’t you going to ask whose child this is?” They froze. My mother and father exchanged glances. Then my mother smiled again: “If you knew whose it was, you wouldn’t be hiding it like this. It’s okay, no matter whose it is, it’s our family’s child.” My father nodded beside her. I stared at their faces. In my previous life, I was convinced this way too. They said it was okay, said they’d help me raise it, said not to worry. I believed them, and then I died. This life I wouldn’t believe them again. “No,” I stood up. My mother froze. “What do you mean no?” “This child can’t be kept,” I said. “I have to abort it.” My mother’s face changed. “What are you talking about?” “I’m not talking nonsense,” I took a step back and grabbed the abortion pills from the trash, shoving them in my mouth. “This child’s origins are unknown. I don’t want it.” My father took a step forward: “Listen to your parents…” “I won’t listen!” Emily rushed over from the side, grabbed my arm, and kicked the trash can away. The remaining pills scattered all over the floor. “You can’t abort the child!” I shook her off. “Why not? Every single one of you won’t let me abort it, but do you know how this child got here? I don’t even know myself. Having it in my belly disgusts me!” No one spoke. I looked at the three of them. They all stared at me. Those eyes—exactly the same. I backed toward the side, backing up to the dining table and grabbing a fruit knife. Even though I knew from my previous life that my parents wanted me dead, at least not right now. I still wanted to gamble. Gamble with my life. “Let me abort it,” I pointed the knife at myself. “If you don’t let me abort it, I’ll die.” My mother screamed. “You’re crazy!” “I am crazy!” I shouted. “Let me abort it!” Emily rushed forward. I didn’t react in time. The next second, her hand was already around my throat. Her strength was frighteningly strong. She pinned me against the wall. My back hit it painfully, and the knife in my hand fell to the floor. “You fucking dare to die?” Her face was only four inches from mine. “You can die, but the child must live!” I struggled desperately, my nails clawing at her hand. My father and mother stood to the side, motionless. I suddenly understood. They were working together. From the very beginning. I was running out of breath, my vision starting to go black. Just then, my hand dropped and touched something. Then my eyes widened in disbelief. I knew—I finally knew whose child this was!

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I went diving with my boyfriend during vacation. Underwater, his classmate Keira yanked off my mask. After barely making it back to shore alive, I immediately called the police and had her arrested. My boyfriend watched everything I did and nodded silently. “Keira really needed to be taught a lesson.” But a year later on the same date, I was kidnapped and taken to a deserted island. Slaps rained down on my face. “You love tattling to the police, don’t you? Go ahead, report me! You owe me this! You owe me!” The voice was familiar yet crazed—it was Keira, my boyfriend’s classmate who had just been released from prison. My face burned with stinging pain, but my boyfriend beside me remained unmoved. He even handed Keira a glass of hot water. “Don’t be scared. Once Keira vents her anger, it’ll be fine. We owe her this.” But he didn’t know—I was pregnant. And if my phone lost signal for more than 18 hours, it would automatically send my satellite location to my three brothers. 0 Tears welled in my eyes as I looked at Zachary with desperate hope. “Save me, please.” The usually proud me was begging him. It moved Zachary, but after glancing at Keira and looking back at me, his eyes held only apology. “I…” I’m carrying our child—but before I could finish, he cut me off. “Miranda, we owe Keira this.” Zachary kissed away the tears at the corners of my eyes, gently blowing on my reddened, swollen face. “Don’t worry, Keira knows her limits.” On the other side, watching Zachary kiss me only enraged Keira further. She grabbed the rope binding me and dragged me to the shore, kicking at the back of my knees. But my pride as a Holmes daughter wouldn’t let me kneel. “Let me go!” I kept shouting, but it was useless—this was an isolated island. “Shout all you want! I’m taking you diving. You love diving, don’t you?” She grabbed my hair and yanked hard. My scalp screamed with pain. “If you hadn’t gone diving, how would I have ‘accidentally’ removed your mask? It’s all your fault!” So it was about last year’s diving incident. But that was clearly deliberate—how could a woman in her twenties do that by accident? I twisted my body, struggling violently, which only made her pull my hair harder. “Stop moving!” Keira suddenly shoved my head underwater for dozens of seconds. Watching me choke and struggle, she revealed a maniacal smile. “I just love Zachary, that’s all. He rejected me, so I wanted to punish you a little. Why did you have to be so aggressive? Why did you have me arrested? What’s wrong with loving someone?” At this, Keira’s rage peaked, and she kicked me in the stomach. That one kick nearly caused a miscarriage. The intense pain made me cry out: “Help… save my baby!” Keira panicked too. Just then, footsteps sounded from the nearby bushes. It was Zachary, returning with the medical kit. Seeing me lying on the ground screaming, his pupils constricted. He slid to his knees beside me, trembling hands lifting me up. “Zachary, she’s pregnant? I think I kicked her and she’s bleeding. Do you feel sorry for her?” Keira ran to Zachary’s side, watching him anxiously. Zachary’s face looked terrible. Seeing this, Keira broke down crying. “What about me? What about the harm I suffered in prison? You knew I liked you!” Zachary struggled to tear his gaze from me, releasing his hold and laying me back down. He turned and embraced Keira, patting her soothingly. “I know, Keira, I know. But I only love Miranda.” He sighed again, his eyes overflowing with heartache as he looked at me. “This… this is what we owe you.” Zachary retrieved surgical tools from the medical kit that he always carried. In the dusty air, he walked toward me step by step. I wanted to push him away, but I had no strength left. I could only watch helplessly as Zachary’s hands moved. The anesthesia was administered. I lost consciousness. Zachary, is this what you meant by protecting me? When I woke again, I felt the connection with my child severed. I screamed in anguish: “What gives you the right? That was my child! What right did you have to decide his life or death alone?” Just two days ago, I’d ordered so many cute baby clothes online, imagining my baby calling me “Mommy.” 0

Zachary was the city’s renowned surgical prodigy. Patients he’d saved would come to the hospital to praise his skills. When I wanted to become a travel blogger, my family disagreed. After fighting with my eldest brother, I got into a car accident. It was Zachary who saved me. He decisively performed surgery on me right in the ambulance, saving my leg. He later became my attending physician. Back then, he was gentle as jade, yet his cheeks would flush slightly whenever he looked at me, and he’d bring me breakfast every day. Because of his shyness, even after I was discharged, he never worked up the courage to ask for my contact information. The next time I ended up in the hospital was for appendicitis. Zachary had prepared several surgical plans, explaining the risks of each one to me. Later, I passed by his office and overheard his conversation with a colleague. “Miranda Holmes’s surgery was already assigned to me. Why did you suddenly take it over? I’ve done thousands of these minor procedures, okay?” But Zachary told his colleague word by word: “I want Miranda Holmes’s surgery. Nothing can go wrong!” That was the moment my heart began beating for Zachary. And now? He moved me to a picnic blanket and performed an abortion on me outdoors, completely disregarding cross-specialty surgery protocols and environmental hygiene issues. That night, I lay in the tent with tears streaming down my face. Zachary was at a loss, wiping away my tears again and again. “Miranda, Miranda, don’t cry. We’ll have another child. I’ll stay with you tonight. Don’t be afraid—there are no wild animals on this island.” He kept pecking kisses on my face, each one bringing damp warmth, trying to dissolve my sadness. But how could the pain of losing a child disappear with just a few kisses? I suppressed the nausea churning in my stomach and didn’t move. Before the lights were even off, screams and sobs came from the tent next door. “Don’t come near me! Stay away!” Zachary looked at me with difficulty, hesitating. After a final scream erupted from the neighboring tent, he suddenly stood up and left. “Miranda, wait for me. I’ll be back.” After the moon shyly hid itself away, a fierce sound suddenly burst from next door: “Zachary, be gentle!” “Keep it down. Miranda’s asleep. This is the last time. I only love Miranda.” “Zachary, love me again, love me once more! You owe me this…” Keira whimpered and moaned. I don’t know what she did, but Zachary let out a muffled groan. “Fine, one last time. This is the last time!” Then came a series of explosive sounds, as if celebrating my miscarriage. Endless “last times.” I didn’t know whether to cry for my lost child or my lost love. I lay in the tent, my whole body in pain. I tried curling up to ease it, but it was useless. I crawled out of the tent bit by bit. Just a few more hours, and I could go home. But I felt so sorry for my unborn child. I would make them pay. Early the next morning, when Zachary emerged from her tent, I was sitting at the entrance of mine watching the sunrise. Seeing me, his face filled with panic. “Miranda, Keira was too scared last night, so I slept with her. Don’t worry—I only love you.” Zachary took off his jacket and draped it over me, looking concerned about me catching cold. Keira didn’t wake up until noon. She yanked the jacket off me and tossed it to Zachary, saying, “Zachary, I’m hungry. Let’s have barbecue. But we don’t have anything to start a fire with. What should we do?” “I know! We’ll use her clothes to start the fire!” Keira asked and answered her own question, then pointed at my skirt, about to step forward and take it off. This time, Zachary stood firmly in front of me. “No! Miranda just had an abortion yesterday!” “Why not? In prison, they used my clothes to start fires. Why can’t we use hers?” Keira knelt on the ground, muttering repeatedly: “When they stripped my clothes to start fires and made me bark like a dog, where were you? Why do you always help her? Who’s going to help me?” “I want my dad back!” Hearing this, Zachary felt another stab to his heart. Keira’s father was his lifesaver. To protect Zachary from an angry patient, he’d been stabbed through the heart and couldn’t be saved. From then on, Zachary had always taken care of Keira. He softened again. 0

Zachary turned to look at me. “Miranda, I’m sorry. I’ll only use your t-shirt. I’ll leave the skirt so you won’t catch cold.” I backed away in disbelief. After resting all night, I’d recovered some strength. I pushed him away hard and tried to run, but within a few steps, Keira grabbed my hair. “Don’t run! You owe me this!” Keira tore my t-shirt to shreds. The pieces fell to the ground. “Ah!” As the only daughter of the Holmes family, I had never suffered such humiliation. I swung my hand to slap her, but Zachary caught my raised arm. “Miranda, Keira’s still young.” Still young at over twenty? Keira was only five years younger than me. But I didn’t dare argue back. On this island, only Zachary had any surface-level affection for me. If I fell out with him, I didn’t dare imagine what would happen. I could only endure. Keira looked at the shredded clothes on the ground, her eyes suddenly brightening. She wove all the fabric scraps together into a long whip, then casually struck me across the face with it. “Bad dog!” Zachary was so close to me. He didn’t help me avoid the danger I faced, yet earlier he’d reflexively protected Keira. Though I’d decided last night I would never love him again, my heart still felt like it was being stabbed with needles. “Keira, what are you doing?” Zachary’s stern rebuke only made Keira more manic. “I’m making her be my dog! That’s what I did in prison too. If Dad were here, he’d help me.” She turned and retrieved a frisbee from the tent, threw it far away, then cracked the whip at me. “Go fetch it!” Zachary was still immersed in guilt over “if Dad were here, he’d help me,” indifferent to my situation. He even turned and said, “I’ll go make food.” Then he walked away without looking back. Keira’s whip kept striking my body, but my pride as a Holmes daughter wouldn’t allow me to submit. Seeing I still wouldn’t move, she bent down and whispered, “Miranda Holmes, if you play my dog this time, I’ll let you go.” Looking at her deranged expression, my anger reached its peak. “Keira, I can do it, but are you sure you can handle the Holmes family’s retaliation?” I stared directly into her eyes, my gaze filled with killing intent. She was startled, then burst out laughing. “The Holmes family? Everyone knows Holmes Group only has three sons. There’s no daughter! Now crawl!” When she said the last sentence, her eyes were vicious, and she struck me with another whip using all her strength. My body screamed with pain. I took a deep breath and knelt down on all fours. Keira jumped for joy, saying to me: “Good dog, go fetch!” I crawled toward the frisbee step by step. Every movement pulled at my body painfully. Keira followed behind me and whipped me again. “Bad dog! I told you to pick it up in your mouth!” I took a deep breath, picked up the frisbee with my teeth, and crawled toward Keira. When I reached her, she proudly patted my head. She bent down, revealing marks from last night’s battle, and whispered in my ear: “Good girl, so good. I’ll reward you with some good news!” “You don’t know this, but I didn’t suffer any injuries in prison. The women’s prison I stayed in—how could there be men to get me pregnant? It was just day after day of moral education lectures that gave me a headache.” “And my dad—that time when he blocked the knife during the medical dispute, I was the one who pushed him forward. I couldn’t let my beloved Zachary get hurt.” “Oh, and Zachary—last night’s Zachary was so passionate. You haven’t been satisfying him, have you? He wanted me again and again.” “Oops, I said too much. Good dog, you’ll keep my secret, won’t you?” Zachary in the distance didn’t hear what Keira said. He was still cooking with a guilty expression. Keira suddenly smiled, raised the whip, and struck herself with it. She screamed, and Zachary dropped what he was holding and ran over. But Zachary’s first glance wasn’t at her—it was at me, lying on the ground covered in sand. He wanted to come forward and brush the sand off me, but Keira collapsed weakly into his arms, her eyes brimming with tears. “Zachary, she hit me! Maybe she wants to play with you. Throw a frisbee and see if she’ll fetch it.” Zachary touched the whip mark on Keira’s arm, closed his eyes, and casually threw the frisbee dozens of meters away. I closed my eyes in despair… Suddenly, a roar came from the sky—the sound of a helicopter!

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I’ve recently acquired the neighbor from hell. She owns a plant—a rare, spindly thing she claims absorbs “cosmic energy”—and it has become the focal point of the entire building’s misery. It started when she decided the electromagnetic radiation from my electronics was poisoning her precious “Aether Lily.” She demanded I kill my power twenty-four hours a day. No lights, no TV, and absolutely no Wi-Fi. I tried the rational route. I explained that I work remotely, that the internet is my livelihood, and that there is zero scientific evidence that a router affects plant biology. I told her if she was that worried, she should line her own walls with lead. She didn’t take it well. “Is the internet more important than a life?” she shrieked. “If my Lily withers, you’ll be paying for it. I’ll sue you for crimes against nature!” When communication broke down, her behavior went from eccentric to unhinged. She started patrolling the hallway with a handheld EMF detector. Then, while I was away on a business trip, she actually picked my lock. She broke into my home and drowned my router, my TV, my MacBook, and even my phone chargers in a bucket of water. She called it “radiant purification.” I was ready to call the police and press every charge in the book, but then I saw a post on a local rental forum that felt like a gift from the universe. A self-described “Signal Architect” was looking for a new place. Apparently, he’d been evicted from his last complex for boosting his Wi-Fi signal to such a degree that it interfered with the local radio station. He was desperate for a landlord who would let him blast high-frequency signals all day, every day. I called him immediately. With people like her, you don’t win by being reasonable. You win by finding someone even crazier. I was going to give her a neighbor who spoke her language—the language of total signal saturation. 1 The pounding on my door was frantic, rhythmic, and loud enough to rattle the frame. Then came Agnes’s shrill voice, cutting through the wood like a jigsaw. “Lydia! I know you’re in there! Your radiation levels are spiking again! My Aether Lily is dropping leaves!” I pulled the door open. Agnes stood there, her face a mask of pinched, self-righteous fury. She was cradling that bizarre, variegated plant against her chest like a sickly infant. This was the third time tonight. “Agnes,” I said, my voice tight. “It’s ten p.m.” “And? Does wellness have an expiration date?” She shoved the plant toward my face. It looked like a common hosta that had been through a blender, but she’d reportedly paid five figures for it at some ‘holistic auction.’ She claimed it purified the local magnetic field and cured everything from insomnia to gout. To protect it, Agnes had turned her own apartment into a Faraday cage and expected the rest of us to join her in the Stone Age. The other neighbors on our floor had already fled, breaking their leases just to escape her. Now, it was just the two of us left in this wing of the building. “I’ve told you,” I said, trying to maintain a shred of patience. “Wi-Fi signals don’t harm plants. I have a deadline. I’m not turning off the router.” “Science is a lie told by corporations!” she screamed. “You’re selfish! You’re murdering a living soul! Do you have any idea what this plant is worth?” I didn’t have the energy for a debate. I started to close the door, but she jammed her foot in the crack, waving her EMF meter around like a holy relic. The device let out a sharp, jagged beep. “Aha! Dangerously high! You’re a killer, Lydia! A killer!” I shoved the door shut, locked the deadbolt, and put on my noise-canceling headphones. I could still hear her muffled cursing, but I blocked it out, focusing on the blue light of my screen. 2 The next morning, I found a makeshift “shield” made of tinfoil taped to my front door. It fell off the moment I opened it. I crumpled it into a ball and tossed it into the trash without a second thought. Over the next week, Agnes escalated. She put superglue in my locks. She found the utility closet and snipped my fiber-optic line in the middle of the night. I called the police, but when they arrived, Agnes turned into a tragic figure. She clutched the plant and wept big, fat crocodile tears. “Officer, she’s the aggressor! Her radiation is poisoning my Lily! Look at the yellowing on the edges—that’s electronic rot!” She pointed to a leaf that was naturally yellow. The cops, clearly out of their depth with a “neighbor dispute,” gave her a warning and told us to work it out. I had the locks changed and the cable guy out to repair the line, thinking that would be the end of it. Then, my firm sent me to Chicago for a week-long conference. I was barely at the airport when I got a call from the building manager. “Lydia? We have a leak coming from your unit. It’s soaking through the floor into the apartment below.” My heart dropped. I authorized them to enter with a locksmith. Thirty minutes later, the manager sent me a video. My living room was a graveyard. My router, my 65-inch OLED TV, my PC tower, my laptop—even my electric toothbrush—were submerged in a massive plastic utility tub filled with water. The water had overflowed, warping the hardwood floors. Agnes was standing right there in the frame, clutching a set of prayer beads, chanting under her breath. “Purify. I am purifying the source,” she muttered. In the video, the manager shouted, “Agnes, what the hell are you doing?” She looked at the camera with the serene, terrifying gaze of a martyr. “I’m saving her. These devices are demons. They create karmic debt. I’m doing her a favor.” I was shaking so hard I nearly dropped my phone. I booked the first flight back. By the time I walked through my door, the police had already taken Agnes down to the station for a statement. My home was a wreck. The floors were buckled, and every piece of technology I owned was a “cold, dead corpse” at the bottom of a bucket. The next day, at the precinct, Agnes remained unrepentant. “I was doing a good deed! She should be thanking me! If I hadn’t stepped in, she would’ve developed radiation sickness by Christmas!” She even tried to counter-sue, claiming my “high-frequency environment” had caused her mental distress and “nutritional deficits” in her plant. Because there were no cameras inside my unit, she claimed I’d left the door unlocked and she’d entered to “investigate a smell of ozone” to save me. With no witnesses, the police chalked it up to a messy civil dispute. She was ordered to pay me three thousand dollars for property damage. Three thousand. My PC build alone cost more than that. I watched her walk out of the station, cradling her “Aether Lily” with a smug, triumphant grin. You can’t reason with a fanatic. But you can overwhelm them. I sat on my ruined floor, scrolling through my phone until I found the post again. Title: I boosted my Wi-Fi so hard I got evicted. Looking for a new HQ where I can run high-gain antennas 24/7. Rent is no object. The user was “Signal_Junkie_99.” I sent him a DM immediately. 3 Me: I saw your post. I have a three-bedroom. You can blast whatever signal you want. In fact, the stronger, the better. He replied instantly. Is this a setup? Are you a fed? I gave him the cliff notes version of the Agnes saga. I told him I had a neighbor who was “allergic” to technology and I wanted a tenant who could provide a “counter-frequency” to her nonsense. Say no more, he replied. I’m a specialist in signal saturation. You give me a room, and I’ll turn that floor into a 5G fortress. Your neighbor won’t know what hit her. “Can you meet today?” I asked. I’m in the parking lot of a motel with my van. I can be there in twenty minutes. His name was Arlo. He was in his early twenties, tall, lanky, and wearing a T-shirt that said ‘DOES NOT PLAY WELL WITH ANALOG.’ He looked like he hadn’t seen the sun in a month, but his eyes lit up when he saw the “Aether Lily” charms and hex signs Agnes had started hanging in the hallway. “Interesting decor,” Arlo said, pushing up his glasses. “Artistic expression,” I replied, opening the door. He stepped inside and winced at the water damage. “Rough. But the bones are good. I can work with this. I’ll take the two smaller bedrooms—one for sleep, one for the ‘Array.’” “Electricity and high-speed fiber are on me,” I said. “I only have one rule.” “Shoot.” “Keep the signal at max. Twenty-four-seven. And I want the antennas pointed directly at that wall.” I gestured toward Agnes’s unit. Arlo grinned. It was a sharp, tech-savvy smirk. “Understood. Operation ‘Static Storm’ is a go.” 4 Arlo moved in like a whirlwind. He hauled up crates of servers, tangled nests of Category 6 cables, and several high-gain directional antennas that looked like something stolen from NASA. He set up his “Command Center” in the bedroom sharing a wall with Agnes. Within hours, the room was bathed in the blue glow of LED fans and the low, industrial hum of cooling systems. “Lydia, check this out.” Arlo handed me a professional-grade signal meter. The needle didn’t just move; it slammed against the right side of the gauge. “This is just ‘Idling’ mode,” Arlo whispered. “Once I spin up the ‘Storm Matrix,’ the density will be ten times this.” “Perfect,” I said. That night, as I was drifting off, a blood-curdling scream erupted from next door. It was Agnes. It sounded like she’d seen a ghost. Then came the thumping—she was throwing herself against the shared wall. “WHO IS IT? WHO IS DOING THIS? MY LILY! MY LILY IS VIBRATING!” I pulled my duvet up, listening to the chaos next door with a sense of profound peace. Arlo poked his head out of his room and gave me a thumbs-up. “Phase one complete. The neighbor is ‘sensor-aware.’ Moving to phase two.” The next morning, Agnes was waiting at my door. She had massive dark circles under her eyes, and her hair looked like a bird’s nest. She held her EMF detector, but the needle was spinning in frantic, useless circles. “It’s you! I know it’s you!” she shrieked, her finger trembling as she pointed at me. “What did you do? The air tastes like metal! My detector is broken!” I leaned against the doorframe, sipping my coffee. “Oh? Maybe it’s just the new router. It’s a high-performance model.” “Router? No router does this!” She tried to push past me. “Agnes, trespassing is a crime. Remember the police talk?” Arlo stepped out behind me, yawning. He was in a wrinkled t-shirt and boxers, looking every bit the unbothered gamer. Agnes stared at him with pure disgust. “Who is this? You brought a man into this nest of filth? No wonder the energy is so foul!” Arlo adjusted his glasses. “Ma’am, first off, I’m a legal tenant. Second, electromagnetic waves don’t care about your morals. And third, that device in your hand is a glorified random-number generator. It has the processing power of a toaster.” Agnes sputtered. “You… you liar! Who are you?” “I’m a systems engineer,” Arlo said flatly. “If you’d like to discuss Maxwell’s equations or the inverse-square law of signal degradation, I’m free at noon. Otherwise, you’re blocking the airflow to my vents.” Agnes let out a frustrated wail, clutched her plant, and fled back into her unit. 5 Agnes went quiet for two days. During that time, Arlo finalized the “Storm Matrix.” Three massive directional antennas were mounted inside the window, aimed like cannons at the wall separating our units. “We just need a catalyst,” Arlo said, tapping away at his keyboard. “Something to push her over the edge.” The catalyst arrived on the third day. Agnes had hired help. A man in flowing linen robes, carrying a wooden compass and smelling of heavy incense, began pacing the hallway. An “Energy Consultant.” He stopped in front of my door, and his compass needle started spinning like a top. “Darkness!” the man gasped. “The malignant force is coming from this void!” Agnes nodded fervently. “I knew it! They’re using black tech to kill my Lily!” “Fear not,” the ‘Consultant’ said, waving a bundle of sage. “I shall cast a ‘Solar Seal’ to lock this evil away.” Arlo and I watched through the peephole. Arlo started laughing. “Oh, he wants to play magic? Let’s give him a soundtrack.” Arlo hit a button on his phone. Suddenly, a hidden Bluetooth speaker I’d placed near the door began to blare a deep, distorted, bass-heavy chant—something that sounded like a robotic exorcism. “REBOOTING SYSTEM… PURGING ANALOG INTERFERENCE… DATA IS ETERNAL… BIOLOGICALS ARE OBSOLETE…” The Consultant jumped nearly a foot in the air. His face went pale. “What… what kind of spirit is that?” Arlo switched the audio. A booming, synthesized voice echoed in the hallway: “I SEE YOU, FRAUD. YOUR SAGE HAS NO POWER OVER THE GRID. LEAVE NOW OR BE UPLOADED.” The Consultant didn’t wait. He dropped his sage, nearly tripped over his robes, and sprinted for the elevator. Agnes stood there, jaw-dropping, as her “expert” abandoned her. 6 Agnes didn’t give up, but she did get weirder. She bought rolls of industrial tinfoil and began wallpapering her entire apartment. She even covered her windows, effectively turning her home into a giant baked potato. Arlo was unimpressed. “She’s building a crude Faraday cage. But her seals are terrible. It’s actually reflecting the signals back into her own living room, magnifying the effect. She’s microwaving herself.” He was right. Agnes looked worse every day—gaunt, twitchy, and exhausted. Then came the “cleansing fires.” She started burning clumps of dried herbs in the hallway to “neutralize the magnetic rot.” The smoke was thick and acrid, triggering coughs from anyone who walked by. The building manager warned her three times, but Agnes just screamed about her “right to breathe clean energy.” One night, the smoke got so bad it started seeping under my door. Arlo looked at the haze and then at me. “Lydia, how do you feel about a little forced ‘purification’?” “What do you have in mind?” “She loves smoke. Let’s give her the full experience.” Arlo did something to the building’s smart-relay system—nothing permanent, just a “stress test.” At 2:00 AM, the smoke density in the hallway hit a specific threshold. Suddenly, the fire alarms for the entire floor erupted. The shrill, piercing shrieks were accompanied by the building’s overhead sprinkler system. Agnes burst out of her apartment, instantly soaked to the bone. Neighbors from the other wings came running out in their pajamas, seeing the hallway filled with herb-smoke and a dripping, hysterical Agnes. “You lunatic! You almost set the building on fire!” a neighbor from 4B yelled. The fire department arrived ten minutes later. They found the charred remains of her “cleansing herbs” and the water damage she’d caused. Agnes was hauled away by the police for “reckless endangerment” and “violation of fire codes.” She was held for five days. It was the most peaceful five days of my life. Arlo used the time to upgrade his setup to “Cyber-Fortress 2.0.” “Lydia, I’ve been running some diagnostics on the side,” Arlo said one afternoon, looking uncharacteristically serious. “On what?” “On Agnes’s apartment. While she was gone, the signal interference dropped, but I noticed something strange. There’s a massive power draw coming from her unit. And a very specific, high-frequency electromagnetic hum.” “You think she’s got some weird health machine in there?” “No,” Arlo said, peering at a spectrum analyzer. “Whatever is in there, it’s drawing more juice than a commercial refrigerator. And it’s been running 24/7 for months.” I had a sinking feeling. Agnes wasn’t just a crazy plant lady. She was hiding something.

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My housekeeper is pregnant. I found out for sure last night when she served me a lukewarm tray of pre-packaged microwave lasagna for dinner. I’m not a snob, but I pay for a certain level of service. Just as I opened my mouth to say something, she beat me to the punch with a heavy sigh. “Ms. Davenport, don’t start with the nitpicking. I’m the one who needs ‘priority protection’ right now. Stress isn’t good for the baby.” I slowly lowered my fork, forcing the irritation back down my throat. Rhonda is thirty-five, and this is her first pregnancy. At her age, it’s considered high-risk. I told myself to be the bigger person. Conveniently, our contract was up at the end of the week. I decided right then to cut ties. I settled her final wages on the spot, adding a generous bonus, and told her she should focus on her health and the baby. I expected a thank you. Instead, she took the check, tucked it into her pocket, and immediately whipped out a piece of paper. It was a floor plan of my house—my private sanctuary—marked up with red ink. “Since you have so many guest rooms going to waste, I’ve already mapped everything out,” she said, pointing at the blueprint with a proprietary air. “This south-facing room on the second floor has the best natural light. That’ll be my son’s nursery. The grand piano in the foyer has to go; I need that space for a play area and a sensory room. And obviously, I can’t be expected to cook anymore. You’ll need to hire a second live-in maid to look after me while I’m on bed rest.” I actually laughed. It was so absurd I thought it was a prank. She wasn’t looking for a job; she was looking for a free luxury retirement home. 1 “My mother is flying in next week to help with the birth,” Rhonda continued, oblivious to my stunned silence. “She’s a light sleeper, so you’ll need to vacate the primary suite. You can make do on the sofa in the den for a few days.” She walked toward the stairs as if she already owned the place. “Oh, and those pink silk sheets? They have to go. My mother finds pink ‘tacky.’ We’ll need something more grounded. Charcoal or navy.” I grabbed a linen napkin and slowly wiped my hands, a cold smile spreading across my face. “I pay five million dollars for a villa with six bedrooms, and you’re telling me I’m not even ‘eligible’ to sleep in one of them?” She didn’t even flinch. She looked at me like I was the one being difficult. “Are you deaf or just slow? Didn’t you hear a word I said?” “I have a vision for this house, Celia. There simply isn’t room for you to be taking up the best suite. You young professionals have no sense of planning. I’ve organized this entire estate for maximum efficiency. All you have to do is follow my lead.” Planning? She had “planned” to colonize my home without asking the woman who signed her checks. I didn’t want to argue. I was terrified that if I got into a shouting match, she’d claim I caused a miscarriage and sue me for every cent I possessed. I reached into my desk and pulled out the termination papers. “The contract is over, Rhonda. Your final payment has cleared. The door is right there. Go home and prepare for your baby in your own house.” The dismissal was as clear as I could make it, but she acted like I was speaking a foreign language. “Speaking of the door, I’m glad you brought that up,” she said, her eyes gleaming with a strange, manic light. “That single-entry front door is bad for the house’s energy. It’s stifling. I’ve already called a contractor to install a set of arched double doors. It signifies ‘abundance’ and ‘harmony’ for my son. It’s a fifty-thousand-dollar upgrade. Don’t forget to wire the deposit.” I tapped my knuckles on the mahogany table, trying to snap her out of her delusion. “Rhonda. Listen to me. I am not changing my doors. More importantly, this is my house. You are fired. You have been paid. You need to leave. Now.” My voice was ice. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Rhonda froze for a second, then slammed her hand onto the table. “Celia Davenport, who do you think you are? I have slaved away in this house for a year! I’ve put in the sweat equity! I just want a stable environment for my son to grow up in, and a place for my mother to grow old, and you—with all your money—can’t find it in your heart to be human?” “This is my home!” I snapped. “Is it?” she countered, her voice rising to a screech. “You’re never even here! You work fourteen-hour days. I am here twenty-four hours a day. I’m the one who breathes life into these walls. By every emotional metric that matters, this house belongs to me.” I was beyond angry; I was fascinated by the sheer scale of her psychosis. She looked around the foyer with a terrifying sense of pride. “See that chandelier? I polish every crystal three times a week. Those marble tiles? I get on my knees every morning for them…” My skin crawled. She wasn’t joking. She had mentally moved in long ago. I didn’t want a physical confrontation with a pregnant woman. I picked up my phone to call the estate’s private security. “This is Unit 11. I have a trespasser who—” Before I could finish, she lunged. She snatched the phone from my hand and hurled it against the marble floor. She didn’t stop there. She stomped on it with her heel until the screen was a web of shattered glass. “Calling the guards? At this hour? Do you have any idea how rude that is to the neighbors?” “You crazy—!” I moved to push past her to get to the landline. Rhonda immediately clutched her stomach, her face falling into an expression of practiced innocence. “I’m pregnant, Celia. Don’t you dare touch me.” I froze. My pulse was thrumming in my temples. She stroked her belly, looking down as if talking to a person. “It’s okay, little one. We have to stay away from people with ‘unstable emotions.’ We’re going to be civilized. Unlike some people who disturb the whole neighborhood in the middle of the night. People might not say it to her face, but they’re laughing at her behind her back.” “The only person laughing is me,” I said, my voice trembling with suppressed rage. “I pay fifty thousand dollars a year in HOA fees so that those guards do exactly what I tell them to do. Just like I paid you thirty thousand a month to keep this place clean. That was your job. But the job is over. I don’t want to hurt you, but you need to pack your things and get out.” 2 “What?” Rhonda’s voice hit a glass-shattering register. “Why do the security guards make fifty thousand while I only make thirty? You’re biased! You prefer men! You’re a disgrace to women everywhere, and you don’t deserve a house this beautiful!” “Rhonda, leave. Now.” “What happened to ‘women supporting women’?” she sneered. “I am a vulnerable pregnant mother, and you’re throwing me onto the street? Fine. I’ve changed my mind. The floor plan stays, but you don’t even get the sofa anymore. You’re evicted.” I was past the point of rational thought. I wanted to scream. I wanted to call the agency that sent her and demand to know if they’d recruited her from a psych ward. She picked up a pen from the console table and started scribbling on her “plan” again, muttering to herself. “This room for the boy… the master for me… I’ll have to have her designer clothes tailored to my size… the stuff in the basement can be sold on eBay…” She was partitioning my life, right down to the last silk scarf. I couldn’t take another second of it. I snatched the paper from her hands and ripped it into shreds, the sound of tearing paper echoing in the high-ceilinged room. She stared at the confetti on the floor, her eyes wide with shock. Before she could utter another syllable, I swung. Slap. The sound was sharp, final. “To hell with your plan!” I hissed. She touched her cheek, looking at me as if I’d just committed a war crime. “You hit me? I’m a Gold-Star Professional Housekeeper! My face is the brand of this industry!” “If you don’t leave, I’m going to kick you out myself, baby or no baby!” Just then, the front door heavy-thumped. The head of estate security arrived with two other guards. “Sorry, Ms. Davenport. We had a disturbance at the main gate. Is everything alright?” I rubbed my temples, feeling a migraine blooming behind my eyes. “This woman is trespassing. Please escort her off the property. She’s pregnant, so be careful, but get her out.” “What are you doing? Don’t touch me!” Rhonda shrieked as the guards stepped forward. She thrust her belly out like a shield, literally trying to ram it into the lead guard. “This is a miracle baby! If any of you so much as scratches my son, I’ll have your badges! I’ll have your lives!” The guards hesitated, stepping back instinctively. You don’t want to be the guy who wrestled a pregnant woman on a doorbell camera. Seeing their hesitation, Rhonda threw herself onto the floor, wailing and rolling around like a child having a tantrum. “Oh, the cruelty! I just wanted a good life for my child! Why is the world so cold?” “Ms. Davenport, we… we aren’t sure how to handle this without risking an injury,” the lead guard said, looking at me helplessly. “Rhonda, I’m calling the police,” I warned. “Call them! Let the whole world know how selfish you are! Let them see the ‘Girl Boss’ who hates mothers!” I borrowed the guard’s phone, but before I could dial 911, Rhonda’s own phone buzzed in her pocket. She answered it instantly. “Hello? Yes… okay. I’ll be right there.” She stood up with surprising agility, dusting off her skirt. She gave me one last, venomous look. “This is my house, Celia. I’ll be back for what’s mine.” I watched her go, then turned to the security lead. “Don’t ever let her past the gate again. Under any circumstances.” I spent the rest of the night packing her remaining belongings into trash bags and setting them by the curb. I activated an old backup phone, transferred my SIM card, and tried to get some sleep. When I woke up, the backup phone was nearly frozen. Over ninety missed calls and a flood of messages—mostly from Rhonda. Celia, you had the guards lock my mother out last night, didn’t you? She’s an old woman in a strange city. If something happens to her, it’s on your soul. Stop playing dead. This is my house. How can you sleep so soundly in my bed? My phone rang again. It was her. “Celia? Are you blind? I sent you a dozen messages. I haven’t slept a wink, so why should you? My mother and I are at the front gate. You come down here right now and let us in. And have those pink sheets changed before we get there. My mother is nauseous just thinking about them.” She hung up before I could respond. I heard her muffled voice through the receiver just before the click: “Don’t worry, Mom. She’ll be here in three seconds. I have her wrapped around my finger.” I didn’t rush. I took a long, hot shower, listened to a podcast, and did my makeup with meticulous care. I didn’t drive out of my gates until 10:00 AM. From a distance, I could see the chaos. Rhonda and an older woman were in a physical tug-of-war with the gate guards. Rhonda was leading with her stomach again, using it like a battering ram. As my SUV approached, the guards stood their ground, some saluting me, others holding Rhonda back as she screamed blue murder. The mother was quieter, hiding behind Rhonda, her eyes narrowed as she watched my car. I had a million-dollar contract to sign today. I didn’t have time for this. I eased onto the gas, preparing to drive past, when a figure suddenly bolted in front of my car. I slammed on the brakes. My seatbelt locked, jerking me back against the leather seat. My heart was hammered against my ribs. “My back! Oh, my God, my back!” “Mom! Mom, are you okay?” Rhonda screamed, pounding on my hood. “You bitch! Are you blind? You almost killed her!” The security team rushed over. I sat in the car for a moment, shaking, before I called an ambulance and the police. This wasn’t going to end until blood—or a convincing fake of it—was spilled. 3 Rhonda was cradling her mother on the pavement, wailing like a professional mourner. The security lead looked at me with an exhausted expression as I stepped out of the car. “Ms. Davenport, she’s fine. Your car didn’t get within six feet of her. She just laid down.” “Oh, so now you’re a doctor?” Rhonda hissed at him. “She’s paying you fifty grand a month to lie for her, isn’t she? You’re all in it together! You want her to kill my mother so there’s no one left to witness her crimes!” I looked at the front of my car. Not a scratch. Not a speck of dust disturbed. Rhonda lunged at me the moment I was within reach, grabbing my silk lapels. “Are you happy? You want to be a murderer now?” “Your mother is very much alive, Rhonda,” I said, peeling her fingers off my suit. “She’s fragile! If anything happens to her, I’m done! My son is done!” I looked at the old woman on the ground. She was grimacing, but it looked more like a foul mood than a broken bone. “The only reason she’s in pain,” I noted, “is because you dropped her too hard when you were trying to make it look like a collision.” I turned to the guard. “Are the cameras working?” “Crystal clear,” he said, nodding toward the high-definition domes mounted on the gate. “Five different angles, 360-degree coverage. We have the whole ‘performance’ on tape.” Rhonda’s face turned a mottled purple. “Oh, I see. A setup. You pre-installed cameras and bribed the guards just so you could run over an old woman and get away with it!” The security guard sighed. “Ma’am, these cameras have been here since the neighborhood was built. They’re for the safety of the residents, not for your personal conspiracy theories.” Rhonda looked him up and down with utter contempt. “You’re just a rent-a-cop. How much did she pay you? Fifty thousand? I’ll give you sixty. Right now. If you get on your knees and bark like a dog for me.” The guard’s face went white with fury, but he kept his mouth shut. “Rhonda,” I said, my voice low and dangerous. “Everything you’re doing is being recorded. Attempted fraud, harassment, defamation. You’re pregnant. Do you really want a criminal record? Think about your son’s future. Think about his chances of getting into a good school or a government job if his mother is a convicted felon.” The mention of her son’s future seemed to trigger something in the mother. She started howling again. “My leg! I can’t feel my leg! Rhonda, where are you? I’m going blind! Is the baby okay?” Rhonda dropped to her knees, letting the old woman feel her belly. “We’re here, Mom. We’re okay. Some people just can’t stand to see us happy!” The police and the ambulance arrived in a synchronized blur of sirens. The paramedics did a quick assessment of the mother. “Ma’am, you’re fine,” the paramedic said, looking bored. “The ground is cold, though. You should stand up.” “Impossible!” Rhonda barked. “She was thrown six feet! What hospital are you with? I’m filing a formal complaint!” Another paramedic checked her over. “There’s no bruising, no swelling, no signs of trauma. She’s perfectly healthy.” “You’re actors!” Rhonda screamed. “Celia hired you! Did she give you fifty thousand too? I’ll give you seventy! Bring the most expensive equipment out of that van right now!” The paramedics exchanged a look of pure “not paid enough for this.” I walked over to the police officers and gave them a summary of the past twenty-four hours. They followed the security guard to the booth to review the footage. On the screen, it was undeniable. The mother had waited until my car was almost at a full stop, then sprinted forward and gently lowered herself onto the asphalt. It was the most pathetic attempt at insurance fraud I’d ever seen. And it was captured in 4K. “Ms. Davenport, it’s clear,” the officer said, stepping back out. “This was a staged incident. Ma’am, you could be charged for this, but we’ll let it go with a warning this time. Don’t let it happen again.” The officers were turning to leave when Rhonda blocked their path. “You can’t leave! The issue isn’t resolved!” she yelled. “Did you even ask why my mother did that? It’s because she wasn’t trying to hit my mother—she was trying to hit me!” The mother hobbled over to the cops, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. “I’ll tell the truth. Celia Davenport is a homewrecker. My daughter isn’t married because she’s been having an affair with Celia’s husband. That baby? That’s his!” Rhonda then pulled a crumpled document from her bag and slapped it against the police cruiser’s hood. “This is the deed to the house. Celia Davenport is squatting in my home.”

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At my mother’s birthday dinner, I did the one thing no one expected. I set up the projector, connected my laptop, and hit play. For the next ten minutes, the room was filled with years of secretly recorded audio clips and a scrolling list of bank transfers. My relatives sat in a stunned, suffocating silence. My mother’s face went from a celebratory flush to a sickly, ashen gray. I leaned in, flashing her a bright, empty smile. I told her that this “tribute” to her parenting was my final gift to her—something for the whole family to savor. The irony was, this all started because she’d had the nerve to tell me that the seventy thousand dollars sitting in my savings account wasn’t mine. To her, it was a “Family Fund” meant to buy my younger brother a new BMW. Back then, I had simply nodded, playing the part of the dutiful daughter. But inside, I was already counting down the days until tonight. … 1 The day began like any other, with a rare, suspiciously sweet phone call from my mother, Diane, inviting me over for dinner. An hour later, I was sitting at the scarred oak table in her cramped kitchen, listening to her dictate exactly how she planned to spend every cent of my hard-earned money. “Casey, honey, Kyle found this gorgeous BMW M3 he’s obsessed with,” she said, sliding a plate of overcooked roast beef toward my brother without looking at me. “You’ve got that seventy thousand saved up. I need you to wire it over to him tonight.” Kyle, my brother—five years younger and ten times more entitled—didn’t even look up from his phone. His mouth was full of food as he chimed in. “Make sure it’s the full amount, Case. I’m not doing a loan; the interest rates are a total scam right now. You can figure out the rest later. Oh, and see if you can pull some extra from your 401k for the taxes and insurance, okay?” My knuckles turned white as I gripped my fork. “Mom, that money is my life savings. I’ve been working sixty-hour weeks for years to finally put a down payment on a place of my own.” “A place of your own?” Diane finally looked at me, her lip curling in a dismissive sneer. “What does a single woman need a house for? You’re just going to get married eventually, and then all that equity goes to some stranger’s family. It’s a waste.” She leaned forward, her voice softening into that manipulative purr she used when she wanted something. “Think of the big picture. This car will help Kyle’s image. He’s trying to get into high-end real estate; he needs to look the part. When he makes his first million, don’t you think he’ll take care of his big sister?” “Totally, Case,” Kyle added, wiping his greasy hands on his napkin—and then, seemingly by accident, brushing them against my silk sleeve. “Once I hit it big, I’ll buy you a mansion.” A cold, hard knot formed in my chest. “Real estate? Kyle, you’ve had four jobs since graduation, and you haven’t kept one for more than three months. Why does a guy who sleeps until noon need a seventy-thousand-dollar car to ‘look the part’?” “Casey!” Diane slammed her hand on the table. “Watch your tone! Kyle is your brother. Just because he hasn’t found his footing yet doesn’t mean he won’t be successful. If his own sister won’t back him, who will? Do you want to see this family name disappear into nothing?” “Is his old Honda suddenly not working?” My voice was trembling. “That piece of junk?” Kyle scoffed. “My friends are all driving European imports. I’m the only one showing up in a clunker. It’s embarrassing. Honestly, it’s like you don’t want me to succeed.” His wife, Tiffany, who had been quietly scrolling through her phone, finally chimed in with a saccharine poison. “Casey, look at it this way. Kyle is the head of this family’s future. If he does well, we all do well. Why sit on that cash while it loses value to inflation? Investing in Kyle is the smartest move you could make.” I looked at their faces—hungry, greedy, and utterly devoid of empathy. They weren’t asking. They were notifying me. They were telling me to hand over the years of missed vacations, the skipped meals, and the late-night shifts so they could pour it all into a bottomless pit of entitlement. “Do you have any idea how much we sacrificed to raise you?” Diane started, pivoting to her favorite weapon: the guilt trip. “We put clothes on your back, food in your mouth, sent you to college… and now that you have a little success, you’re too selfish to help your own blood?” “You’re a leech, Case,” Kyle muttered. “You don’t care about anyone but yourself.” “Is that what you want?” I asked, my voice cracking with a desperation I didn’t know I still possessed. “Do I have to give up everything until I have nothing left to give before you’re satisfied? Do I have to die for you to be happy?” Diane let out a sharp, jagged laugh that set my teeth on edge. “Die? Casey, if you died tomorrow, the least you could do is make sure that money went to your brother’s car.” That was it. The final thread snapped. The last flickering hope I held for a mother’s love was extinguished by a blast of icy reality. I looked at them and felt a sudden, bizarre sense of clarity. These people weren’t my family. They were predators. After a few seconds of dead silence, I lowered my head. When I looked up again, I forced a calm, almost eerie smile onto my face. “Fine,” I said, my voice as flat as a heart monitor’s drone. “I’ll buy the car.” The table went quiet. Even Tiffany looked up, surprised. They hadn’t expected me to cave so quickly. Diane’s face cleared instantly, a fake warmth radiating from her. “Oh, honey! I knew you’d see reason. That’s my good girl.” Kyle grinned, pumping his fist. “Yes! Case, you’re the best. Seriously. I’ve got your back from now on.” I watched them celebrate, watched them laugh as if Diane hadn’t just told me she’d value my corpse only for its net worth. Somewhere deep inside, the girl who wanted to be loved finally stopped breathing. 2 I returned to my tiny, one-bedroom apartment—the one with the leaky faucet and the $1,200 rent—and locked the door. For the first time all day, I could breathe. I sat in front of my laptop, the blue light illuminating my pale face. I logged into the backend of my blog. Most people knew me only as “The Echo,” an anonymous account with over three million followers. It was my only sanctuary. Thousands of people sent me their secrets, their traumas, and their stories of injustice. I was the one who offered them comfort through my writing. The irony was nauseating. In the real world, I was a doormat. Online, I was a pillar of strength for the broken-hearted. I scrolled through the messages. “Echo, my parents took my graduation money to pay for my brother’s wedding. I can’t even afford my insulin.” “My boss keeps telling me I’m worthless and that I’ll never find another job. I feel trapped.” I felt every word. My family was just a microcosm of a much larger, systemic rot. A dark, frantic idea began to take root in my mind. If they wanted to squeeze the life out of me, if they wanted to treat me like a resource instead of a human being, then I would show them exactly what a resource could do when it was depleted. I didn’t post a scathing rant immediately. That would be too easy. They’d just play the victim and call me ungrateful. No, I needed to be surgical. I opened our family group chat and played the role of the compliant daughter. “Mom, I’ll start the transfer tomorrow. Since it’s a large amount, I have to clear some things with the bank and take a morning off work. It might take a few days.” “Kyle, send me the exact specs and the dealership info. I want to make sure everything is perfect.” The chat exploded with heart emojis. Diane: “Thank God! I knew you were a sweetheart, Casey!” Kyle: “You’re a legend, Case! I’ll go to the dealership with you when the funds clear!” Tiffany: “@Kyle: Love you babe! @Casey: Thanks, sis!” I watched the screen, nauseated by their hypocrisy. I screenshotted every message, every fake “I love you,” and saved them to a secure folder. Then, I began the real work. I pulled the footage from the hidden camera I’d installed in my mom’s kitchen months ago after I suspected Kyle was stealing cash from her purse. I went through years of Venmo history and bank statements. Rent for Kyle – $1,500. Kyle’s new iPhone – $1,200. Mom’s ‘medical bills’ (which were actually Tiffany’s designer bags) – $3,000. Every cent was a piece of my soul they’d carved away. At the same time, “The Echo” started a new series. I posted a prompt: “When was the exact moment you realized your family didn’t love you—they just loved what you could do for them?” Within hours, the comment section was a sea of blood and tears. I curated the most heartbreaking stories, the ones that mirrored my own. I also reached out to a journalist who had been pestering me for an interview for months. I sent an anonymous tip: “I have proof of a systemic case of familial financial abuse and emotional extortion. It involves high-level evidence: recordings, transcripts, and financial records. Are you interested?” The reply was instantaneous. “Absolutely. Your identity will be 100% protected.” Everything was moving. I felt a cold, sharp thrill. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t the victim. I was the architect. Two days later, Kyle called. The “gratitude” was gone, replaced by his usual impatient whine. “Case, where’s the money? The sales guy at the BMW dealership has called me twice. Can you hurry it up? Some of us have lives, you know.” I leaned back in my chair, staring at the progress bar of a video I was rendering. “Almost there, Kyle. Banks are slow with five-figure wires. Just hang tight.” 3 My mother insisted on a big dinner for her 60th birthday at a high-end steakhouse in the city. She wanted all the relatives there to witness her “triumph.” The private room was packed. My aunts and uncles were draped over Diane and Kyle, their voices thick with practiced flattery. “Diane, you’re so lucky!” Aunt Martha gushed. “Kyle is doing so well, buying a BMW? He’s really the star of the family.” “And Casey is such a good sister,” another uncle added. “Giving up seventy thousand dollars just like that? That’s real family loyalty.” Diane beamed, her vanity on full display. “Oh, you know how it is. The kids are just so successful. Casey’s just doing her part. It’s what we do for each other.” Kyle was strutting around the room like he’d already won the lottery, his chest puffed out, enjoying the attention he hadn’t earned. Tiffany was clinging to his arm, making sure everyone heard her say, “Kyle promised the first ride is for Mom. She’s worked so hard; she deserves a little luxury.” I sat in the corner, a ghost at my own execution, picking at a salad. Finally, an aunt turned to me. “So, Casey, now that your savings are going to your brother, what about you? Any plans for a house? Or a husband?” Diane jumped in before I could breathe. “Oh, Casey? She’s got her books and her little job. She’s too picky anyway. Besides, a woman should use her money to support the men in her family. Who else is going to protect her when she’s old?” The words felt like needles under my skin. But I just took a sip of water and felt the weight of the digital recorder in my pocket. Kyle stumbled over, clearly a few drinks in, and slapped my shoulder. “Don’t worry, Case! When I’m a millionaire, I’ll give you a nice little allowance for your wedding. If you ever find a guy who can stand you! Haha!” Tiffany smirked. “So, Case, the car… the money is all set, right? You aren’t just talking big to impress the family, are you?” I put my glass down and looked her straight in the eyes. I gave her a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “Don’t worry, Tiffany. You’ll get exactly what’s coming to you. All of you will.” She blinked, confused by my tone, and drifted away. The atmosphere reached a fever pitch. It was time for the cake. A massive, three-tier cake was wheeled in. Diane stood up, basking in the candlelight. She made a show of making a wish, then blew out the candles to a round of applause. “Casey, honey,” she said, her voice projecting to the back of the room. “Since everyone is here, why don’t you give Kyle his gift? Let everyone share in the joy.” Every eye in the room turned to me. Some were curious, some were envious, a few looked pitying. Kyle and Tiffany were practically vibrating with greed. I stood up slowly. Instead of a check or a bank card, I pulled a sleek black USB drive from my purse. The room had a projector and a screen—Diane had intended to use it for a slideshow of her “glory days.” I walked over to the laptop, my movements steady. “Mom, don’t worry,” I said, my voice eerily polite. “The money is ready. But before we get to that, I wanted to show everyone a little tribute I put together. A look at how ‘harmonious’ this family really is.” I plugged the drive in. Kyle frowned. “Case, what are you doing? Just give me the card.” Diane’s smile faltered. “Casey, don’t be dramatic. Just sit down.” I ignored them. I clicked on the folder labeled Birthday Surprise and hit play.

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I returned from a three-day business trip just as the weekend was winding down, only to be greeted by a disaster. The moment I stepped into the foyer, I smelled it—dampness and standing water. The bathroom was a lake; the floor drain was completely backed up. To make matters worse, the sink was just as bad. The water sat there, stagnant and gray, refusing to budge even an inch. At the time, I figured it was just Lydia’s hair. She has long, thick chestnut waves that tend to find their way into every crevice of our lives. I called a 24-hour plumber and settled in to wait. While I waited, I mindlessly scrolled through a local community forum on my phone. A trending thread caught my eye, the kind of clickbait that usually makes me roll my eyes. The title read: “How do you guys dispose of used ‘wrappers’ so the spouse never finds out?” One comment was pinned at the top with hundreds of upvotes: “Whatever you do, don’t use the trash. Too risky. Take it from me: flush them or shove them straight down the drains.” The original poster had replied underneath: “Pro tip: Just do it in the shower or on the vanity. It’s a rush, and cleanup is built-in. I’ve been doing it for a year under my wife’s nose. She hasn’t suspected a thing.” I frowned, a flicker of disgust crossing my mind. People are pathetic, I thought. Probably just some keyboard warrior making up stories for digital clout. Right then, the plumber gave a triumphant grunt. He pulled a disgusting, tangled mass from the pipes and tossed it into his bucket. He looked up at me with a lopsided, knowing grin. “Man, you young guys really go for it, huh? Once or twice is one thing, but this kind of volume? You’re asking for a flood.” I looked down at the bucket. It wasn’t hair. It was a mountain of used latex. My entire body went cold. The air left my lungs, leaving me standing in my own designer bathroom, paralyzed. 1 I stared at the contents of that bucket, a dull roar building in my ears. It wasn’t possible. Lydia was the embodiment of grace. She was a respected professor at the university, gentle, soft-spoken, and endlessly attentive to me. I’m the CEO of a private equity firm; my life is a relentless cycle of high-stakes meetings and late-night red-eyes. She was my anchor. She had even gone as far as restructuring her entire teaching syllabus, moving all her lectures to the mornings and early afternoons just so she could be home to have a hot meal waiting for me when I got back. I’d offered to hire a live-in chef a dozen times. She always shook her head, her eyes crinkling with that sweet smile. “A chef makes food, Pierce. I make a home. I want you to taste how much I love you in every bite.” How could someone who loved me like that do this? It has to be the neighbors, I told myself, my mind scrambling for any shred of logic. A plumbing crossover. A backflow from the unit upstairs. I forced my heart to slow down. I forced my voice to remain steady. The plumber didn’t notice the world ending inside me. “I’m gonna crank the hot water, give the lines a good flush. If it holds, we’re golden,” he said. He turned the shower on full blast. Thick, heavy steam began to fill the cramped space, blurring the edges of the room. As the heat hit the glass partition of the shower, the condensation began to form a white, opaque film. And as the mist thickened, shapes began to emerge on the glass. Handprints. Several sets, overlapping in the center of the door. They were positioned at a height that suggested someone leaning forward, braced against the glass. There were large prints and smaller ones. The contrast was undeniable. Man and woman. The steam continued to swirl, drifting over to the massive vanity mirror. As it clouded over, more prints appeared. Slid marks, frantic grips, palms pressed flat against the silvered surface. I stared at them, and the words from the forum post echoed in my head like a death knell. “Directly on the bathroom vanity… it’s a rush… a year and she hasn’t suspected a thing.” I had never once pressed Lydia against that mirror. In fact, she was always the “shy” one. Prided herself on it. In the bedroom, she’d blush if I was too vocal, or turn off the lights if I lingered too long on her body. The idea of her doing anything in a bathroom—let alone with this kind of primal urgency—was foreign to the woman I thought I married. “All clear,” the plumber said, oblivious. “Water’s draining like a charm.” I moved like a ghost, pulling out my phone and scanning the QR code on his invoice to pay. I barely felt my thumb press the screen. He picked up his bucket and the heavy trash bag he’d filled with the ‘debris.’ He paused at the door, giving me a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Listen, kid. A word of advice? Stop using the drains. It’s a hell of a lot cheaper to just take out the trash.” “I’ll take that bag down to the dumpster for you on my way out,” he added. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. What could I say? Thank you, but those aren’t mine? Sir, I think my wife is a stranger? The shame was a physical weight. I simply nodded. I stood in the center of our empty, pristine living room and felt a wave of nausea so strong I had to lean against the wall. A few minutes later, the front door clicked open. Lydia walked in, breathless, a fine sheen of perspiration on her forehead as if she’d been running. “Pierce? I thought you weren’t back until tomorrow morning! Why are you here so early?” She kicked off her heels and moved toward me, already reaching out to straighten my collar. Her touch was as gentle as it always was. “Have you eaten?” she asked, her voice a soothing melody. “I’ve got some sea bass and asparagus in the fridge. I’ll whip up that lemon-butter sauce you love. Give me ten minutes.” She turned toward the bathroom. “Let me just wash up first. I won’t be a second, darling.” I stayed frozen, watching her silhouette disappear into the room where the handprints were likely still fading from the glass. Nothing had changed. Her smile, her tenderness, her devotion—it was all identical to a thousand other nights. And yet, everything was different. She looked like my wife, but she felt like a haunting. Then, a thought struck me. Before my trip, Lydia told me she had to stay late at the university every day to run remedial sessions for students who had failed their midterms. She said she wouldn’t be out until 5:00 PM. I glanced at my watch. 4:00 PM. She wasn’t just early; she didn’t seem surprised that I was home. My driver had dropped me off; my car wasn’t in the driveway. How did she know I was here? 2 Lydia was a whirlwind of domestic bliss in the kitchen. I could hear the rhythmic thwack of the knife against the cutting board. She was humming a light, airy tune. It was a scene from a movie about a perfect marriage. But I was seeing the flickering of the film. I walked to the kitchen and leaned against the doorframe, trying to keep my voice casual. “So, how did you know I was home? Psychic intuition?” Her hand paused for a fraction of a second before she turned to me with a radiant smile. “Something like that.” “It’s the last day of the long weekend,” she continued, effortless. “The students were all itching to get out of there. I wrapped up early and as I was walking to the car, I just had this feeling. I thought, ‘What if the universe wants to surprise me and brings Pierce home early?’ I guess I was right.” Her tone was so earnest, so sweet. It made my skin crawl. I retreated to the living room and pulled out my phone, finding a contact for a man named Trevor. He was the Dean of Faculty at Lydia’s university. I’d helped him secure a major endowment for their new research wing last year. Hey Trevor, quick question. Did the university schedule mandatory remedial sessions for the long weekend? His reply came back almost instantly. Yeah, we did. Why? Did someone complain about the holiday hours? I felt a brief, pathetic surge of relief. Maybe I was crazy. Maybe the plumber was wrong. Can you do me a favor and send over Lydia’s schedule for the weekend? Just want to see when she’s free for a surprise dinner. My phone buzzed again seconds later. Lydia’s schedule? Pierce, you must be confused. Lydia didn’t sign up for the remedial sessions. She’s had the whole five days off. I assumed she was with you. I stared at the screen until the words blurred. The blood in my veins felt like ice water. Just then, Lydia emerged from the kitchen, carrying a plate of perfectly seared sea bass. The aroma was incredible, filling the room. She set the table and waved a hand in front of my face. “Earth to Pierce? Come on, eat while it’s hot. This is your favorite.” “Aren’t you eating?” I asked, my voice sounding like it belonged to someone else. A faint, flickering blush touched her cheeks. She looked away, adjusting a napkin. “Oh, one of my TAs brought in some gourmet cupcakes earlier. I had way too many. I’m stuffed. You go ahead.” I ate. Or rather, I swallowed. The food tasted like ash and broken glass. That night, lying in bed, she propped herself up with a book, looking like the picture of serenity. I lay beside her, my heart hammering against my ribs. I couldn’t stop myself. I opened that forum again. With trembling fingers, I found the thread and posted an anonymous reply to that top comment. Aren’t you afraid the husband will find out? Minutes later, my phone vibrated. Afraid? Honestly, bro, the risk is half the fun. My ‘playmate’ is actually a professor. You have no idea how hard it was to turn her from a shy, ‘lights-off’ housewife into someone who craves every kinky trick in the book. Took me a solid year of training. Her husband was away today, so we hit the local park for a thrill twice. We were going to go back to her place—her vanity mirror is legendary—but she got an alert on her phone. She has a GPS tracker on his car. He was back early, so we had to cut it short. Close call. I gripped the phone so hard I thought the screen would shatter. Every word was a jagged blade. I remembered the blush on her face when she said she wasn’t hungry. The “cupcakes.” I felt a surge of bile. I rolled over, away from her. Lydia noticed. She put her book down, her voice dripping with concern. “Pierce? Honey, what’s wrong? You look pale. Are you sick?” I turned back and stared directly into her eyes, searching for a crack, a tremor, a hint of the monster hiding behind the mask. There was nothing but clear, blue concern. “Lydia,” I said, my voice raspy. “Is there… anything you want to tell me?” She blinked, confused. “Actually, yes.” 3 My heart stopped. I sat up, waiting for the confession, for the world to finally shatter so I could start breathing again. “What is it?” She let out a soft, melodic laugh and reached out, cupping my cheek. “I want you to take a vacation. A real one. No phones, no firm.” Her thumb traced the dark circles under my eyes. “You’re working yourself into a grave, Pierce. It hurts me to see you like this.” I felt a sickening mix of grief and rage. How? How could she say those things while her skin was likely still buzzing from another man’s touch? I don’t know what possessed me. Maybe it was the jealousy, or the need to see her break. I leaned in close. “Lydia, it’s been a while since we… really connected. I saw a post today. Someone said that doing it in front of a bathroom mirror is incredible. What do you think?” The change was instantaneous. The warmth vanished from her face, replaced by a cold, sharp mask of disgust. She recoiled as if I’d slapped her. “Pierce! What on earth has gotten into you?” Her voice was sharp, dripping with condescension. “You know how I feel about that kind of thing. I’ve had a grueling day, and you come home and talk to me like I’m some… some pornographic fantasy? It’s degrading.” She grabbed my pillow and shoved it into my chest. “Go sleep in the guest room. I don’t even want to look at you right now. You’re being disgusting.” In the seven years I’d known her, she had never spoken to me like that. I didn’t argue. I didn’t defend myself. I just took the pillow and walked out. I felt hollow. The exhaustion finally hit me—a bone-deep weariness that surpassed physical tired. I spent the night in the study, the darkness a suffocating blanket. I smoked cigarette after cigarette, watching the smoke curl in the moonlight, replaying our life together. I remembered the girl in the white sundress I met in the university library. The girl with the hauntingly sad eyes who seemed to carry the weight of a secret tragedy. People always said she was the lucky one—the girl from a broken home who married a millionaire. But I felt like the lucky one. She was the only person who didn’t want me for my bank account. She took care of me. When I came home drunk and defeated after a failed merger, she was there with tea and silence. I felt like I owed her everything. I thought I had saved her from her sadness. If she loved someone else… if she just told me… I would have let her go. Not because I’m weak, but because I loved the person I thought she was. But I couldn’t ask. I couldn’t bear to hear the words. As the sun began to peek over the horizon, I made a choice. I called a contact in cyber-security—a guy who specialized in “discreet” digital footprints. I gave him the forum details and the IP info. I was a coward. I couldn’t face her, so I chased a ghost. An hour later, the text came back. Target: Caden Vance. Senior Psychology major, St. Jude’s University. I didn’t even wait for her to wake up. I saw the note she’d left on the kitchen island next to a fresh pot of coffee: “Let’s not fight. xx” The sight of it made me want to scream. I drove straight to the university. I waited outside the Psychology building until the morning lecture ended. I stopped a student coming out. “Excuse me. Is Caden Vance in this class?” The kid nodded. “Yeah, that’s Caden. You looking for him?” “Where is he?” “Oh, Professor Sterling kept him behind. Something about a group project PPT they need to finish.” Professor Sterling. Lydia. The hallway emptied out. Silence settled over the linoleum floors. I walked toward her classroom, my footsteps heavy. Then I heard it. The muffled, unmistakable sounds of a woman’s moan and the rhythmic thud of a desk hitting a wall. My brain felt like it was exploding. I didn’t think. I didn’t plan. I kicked the door with everything I had. The door slammed against the wall with a deafening crack. The scene inside was my own personal hell. Lydia was on the edge of her desk, her blouse unbuttoned, her hair a wild mess. A young man was positioned between her legs. She looked at me, her eyes glazed, her face flushing a deep, guilty crimson. I expected to feel rage, but as they scrambled apart, Lydia threw herself in front of the boy. She was shaking, her face ghostly white. “Please, Pierce! Go away! Let’s talk at home… please!” “Get out of the way,” I growled, my vision tunneling. “I’m going to kill him.” “No!” she screamed, tears streaming down her face. “Just go! Please!” I didn’t understand. Why was she protecting him like this? Why wouldn’t she even let me see his face? I shoved her aside. I wanted to see the man who had destroyed my life. But the moment I saw him, the world stopped turning.

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When I opened my eyes, the world snapped back into focus with a sharp, terrifying clarity. I was sitting in the same velvet-lined booth at the bistro, across from the man I thought was my future and the cousin I thought was my conscience. Carly didn’t even wait for the appetizers to arrive before she leaned in, her voice a staged whisper. “Nicole, don’t walk away from this guy. Run. He’s a predator. He’s going to lure you into some hellhole and sell you off.” Carly had always been our family’s golden child, gifted with an uncanny, almost supernatural ability to detect a lie the second it left someone’s lips. She was a “human lie detector,” a consultant for the DA’s office, the girl who could never be fooled. Because of that, I had lived my life by her word. In my previous life—or what I remembered as my previous life—she told me my wealthy, venture-capitalist boyfriend was a monster, so I dumped him in a fit of panic. Later, she told me the high-six-figure executive offer I’d landed at a Fortune 500 tech firm was actually a front for a money-laundering scheme. I turned it down without a second thought. Then came the call. Kidnappers. They claimed they had my parents and demanded five million dollars. Carly sat me down, looked me in the eye, and told me they were bluffing. She said it was a scam, that my parents were fine. I believed her. I told the “kidnappers” to go to hell. The next day, my parents—who had narrowly escaped a brutal ordeal—didn’t come home to hug me. They came home to disown me. They called me a cold-blooded sociopath and threw me out onto the street. I had wandered, broken and confused, trying to find Carly to ask her why. Instead, I saw her stepping out of that very same tech firm I’d turned down, draped in designer silk, leaning into the arms of the “predator” ex-boyfriend I’d abandoned. The shock had paralyzed me. I’d lunged toward her, screaming for the truth, only to be leveled by a speeding truck. 1 The echo of her words made my skin crawl. I looked up, staring at the two people across from me. Am I actually back? Brett, my boyfriend, was midway through explaining his family’s real estate empire, just like he had before. In the first version of this day, Carly had cut him off after the first sentence, claiming the vintage Porsche he’d driven to lunch was a rental and that his “empire” was built on sand. Back then, I’d turned cold immediately. I’d ignored his pleas and demanded to see his registration. When he fumbled for an answer, I took his hesitation as guilt. I ended it right there. I remember the look on his face. “Nicole, you’re really going to throw away three years because of one sentence from her?” I hadn’t blinked. I’d kicked him out of my life. It wasn’t until the moments before my “death” that I learned the truth: Brett was exactly who he said he was—the youngest son of the city’s most influential developer. Carly had systematically dismantled my life to pave her own way. But this time? I wasn’t playing her game. I was lost in the fog of memory until Brett squeezed my hand, looking concerned. “Nicole? You okay? Look, I know I’m not great with paperwork—I don’t keep receipts for cars—but I promise, I’m being straight with you.” Carly scoffed, her mouth opening to deliver the killing blow. I beat her to it. I smiled, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, and placed a piece of sea bass on Brett’s plate. “Don’t worry about it, honey. I believe you.” In that flash of memory before the truck hit me, I remembered seeing Brett’s face on a Forbes “30 Under 30” billboard. He wasn’t just rich; he was the rising star of the Chicago business world. Carly’s brow furrowed. She looked genuinely baffled. The cousin who always listened, the girl who followed her lead like a shadow, had just ignored her “gift.” “Nicole,” Carly said, her voice dropping an octave, thick with faux-urgency. “He’s a trafficker. Why aren’t you listening? He’s going to take you somewhere dark and you’ll never come back.” I looked at her, and for the first time, I saw the cracks in the performance. If I hadn’t seen her smug grin in the moments before my death, I would have fallen for this worried-sister routine again. I let my expression harden. “Carly, stop it. I know exactly who Brett is. If you say one more word against him, we’re going to have a serious problem.” It was the first time I’d ever pushed back. She looked stunned, then insulted. “Fine,” she snapped, grabbing her clutch. “I’ve warned you. When you’re rotting in a basement, don’t say I didn’t try to save you.” She stormed out. I felt a surge of relief, focusing all my attention on Brett, piling his plate with food, determined to hold onto this version of my life. Brett looked moved, his eyes shining. “Thank you for trusting me, Nico. Really. Look, I want you to meet my parents tomorrow. My dad’s been asking about you.” I agreed instantly. Meeting the “King of Chicago Real Estate” was a dream I’d let Carly destroy once. Not again. After lunch, Brett stepped away to the restroom. I went to the bar to settle the tab, but as I turned the corner toward the back hallway, I heard his voice. Low. Cold. “The bait’s taken. I’m bringing her in tomorrow. Tell the buyer to have the cash ready; this one’s a beauty. He’s going to love her.” 2 I pressed my back against the cold tile of the wall, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. What the hell did he just say? Moments ago, he was talking about Sunday dinner with his parents. Now he was talking about “bait” and “buyers.” Was Carly actually… right? I took several jagged breaths, my mind racing. I needed a second opinion. I slipped out of the restaurant, snapped a covert photo of Brett through the window, and sent it to a contact I’d made through my volunteer work—a man who knew the underbelly of the city. Within minutes, my phone vibrated. “Where is he? Are you with him? Send me your location now.” The text was followed by a call. “Nicole, get away from him. We’ve been hunting this guy’s parents for years. He’s not just a bystander; he’s the scout for one of the most sophisticated human trafficking rings in the Midwest.” My hand shook so violently I nearly dropped the phone. I was seconds away from being “brought in.” But how? In my memory—that “past life”—Brett was a billionaire’s son. A philanthropist. Why was he a monster in this reality? My head felt like it was splitting in two, the “memories” and the “now” clashing with violent intensity. A notification popped up in the family group chat. My parents had just received a formal offer letter for me from a top-tier consulting firm. Before I could even process it, Carly called. Her voice was stiff, still nursing her bruised ego. “Nicole, look. Whether you’re mad at me or not, I have to tell you—that job offer? It’s a scam. I called a contact. The minute you walk into that office, you’re sign-off on legal liabilities you’ll never get out of. It’s a boiler room operation. If you take that job, your career is dead.” It was the exact same warning from my “previous life.” Last time, I believed her and stayed unemployed for a year while she took the job and became a millionaire. This time, I should have ignored her. But after the Brett situation, I was paralyzed. I didn’t want to lose a dream job, but I couldn’t risk walking into a trap. “Carly,” I said, my voice trembling. “Come with me tomorrow. To the office. Help me check it out.” I figured if she was lying to keep the job for herself, she’d make an excuse. But she agreed immediately. She even suggested we call the police to do a sweep. She sounded… righteous. Excited, even. The next morning, we arrived at the corporate plaza. In my memory, this company had been a titan of industry, featured on the news for its innovation. I’d seen Carly on TV as their Managing Director, looking like a queen. But when we walked through the glass doors, the reality was a nightmare. The sprawling “open-plan office” was a mess of stained carpets and flickering lights. Dozens of people sat at cramped desks, looking malnourished and terrified, headsets practically glued to their ears. It was a literal digital sweatshop. I stood there, frozen. How? Why was everything Carly “detected” as a lie suddenly coming true? If she had lied to me in the “past,” then why was the billionaire now a predator, and the Fortune 500 company now a scam? 3 Carly shoved me toward the door as the police moved in to raid the place. Her face was full of genuine concern, but for a split second, it flickered—merging with the memory of the smug, triumphant woman who had watched me die. I forced myself to breathe. A detective I recognized from the Brett investigation—Officer Rossi—walked up to us. He nodded at me before turning to Carly. “We got the confirmation on the photo you sent, Carly. Good catch. If you hadn’t flagged his face against the interstate trafficking database yesterday, we wouldn’t have linked him to the ring so fast.” He looked at me. “You’re lucky to have her. Carly’s intuition has closed more cases for us than a dozen veteran detectives. You shouldn’t have doubted her.” Carly crossed her arms, huffing. “She didn’t believe me about the boyfriend. Said she’d cut me off.” Rossi shook his head. “Well, you know better now. Trust the gift.” My mind was a kaleidoscope of confusion. In this timeline, Carly was a hero. But the memories of her betrayal were so visceral I could still feel the phantom pain of the truck hitting my ribs. I decided then: I wouldn’t trust her. I wouldn’t trust anyone. I would only trust the patterns. Three days later, my parents left for their annual retreat in the Berkshires. In my “memory,” this was when the nightmare truly began. I’d lost contact with them for forty-eight hours. Then, the call came. The phone on the coffee table began to ring. It was a number I knew by heart. My breath hitched. “We have your parents,” a distorted voice growled. “Five million dollars by tomorrow morning. Central Park, the boathouse. If you call the cops, they’re dead.” The line went dead. My hands were so cold they felt numb. I had cancelled their trip. I had checked their flight cancellations. How were they still missing? How was the script still playing out exactly like the “memory,” even when I changed the inputs? I didn’t have time to think. I didn’t know if I was in a nightmare or a reality. I only knew I couldn’t lose them again. 4 Even with my parents’ successful business, five million was a staggering amount of liquid cash to find in twenty-four hours. In the “memory,” I’d started the process of liquidating our family’s holdings and selling our house immediately. Carly was there, just like before. She grabbed my wrists, her eyes wide. “Nicole, stop! Don’t do this.” “I heard the call, Nico. My gut is screaming at me—this is a hoax. They aren’t kidnapped. It’s a sophisticated phishing scam. They probably just jammed their signals. Don’t throw away the family legacy for a lie!” I stared at her. The “memory” and the “now” were screaming at each other in my brain. Why did she lie last time? Why was she so insistent this time? Was it possible my parents weren’t kidnapped? “I’m calling the police,” I whispered. “No!” Carly’s voice was too sharp, too high. She caught herself, softening her tone. “Nicole, if you call the cops over a prank, the embarrassment alone will ruin your dad’s reputation. Just wait. They’ll call from the hotel soon.” I frowned. Her reaction was wrong. It was too desperate. Was she trying to stop me from saving them, just like before, so she could swoop in and play the grieving “adopted” daughter? “I’m reporting it,” I said, reaching for my phone. Before I could dial, a text came through. I opened it and felt the world tilt. It was a photo. My parents, bound and gagged in a dark, concrete room, their faces pale and bruised. The message underneath was simple: One word to the cops and we send them back in pieces. I lost it. The “gifted” cousin was wrong. They were in danger. “You said they weren’t kidnapped!” I screamed, shoving the phone in her face. Carly’s breath hitched. She looked at the photo, her voice wavering. “Nico… that’s… that’s a deepfake. It has to be. Don’t believe it.” I looked at her, and all I felt was ice. “I am done listening to you.” I spent the next twelve hours in a fever dream of wire transfers, predatory bridge loans, and signing away the title to our lake house. I scraped together every cent. The next morning, I ignored Carly’s protests and dropped the bag at the designated spot. I went home and sat in the dark, waiting. As the sun began to set, I heard the front door open. My parents walked in, laughing, carrying bags from a boutique in Lennox. They weren’t traumatized. They weren’t bruised. They looked like they’d just had the best vacation of their lives. The realization hit me like a physical blow. They were never kidnapped. Carly was right. But as my father looked at me—realizing I had liquidated his entire life’s work for a “hoax”—his face turned a shade of purple I’d never seen. He didn’t hug me. He slapped me so hard I fell against the wall. The fog in my brain finally began to clear. I saw the truth through the stinging pain. I knew exactly what was happening.

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