Category: English

The day before our wedding, my fiancé, Ted, suddenly insisted we get a comprehensive pre-marital health screening. At first, I thought he was just being protective, deeply invested in our health and our future together. I agreed without a second thought, touched by his apparent care. But the moment the results came back, the nurse’s expression shifted. Her eyes scanned my face with a sudden, icy judgment. “Miss Cooper,” she began, her voice carrying across the quiet room as she looked at the mutual disclosure waiver we had both signed. “Based on the medical history in our network, I am obligated to inform your partner that you have previously given birth to three children at this hospital.” I froze. The air left my lungs in a sharp gasp. “What? That’s impossible. I’ve barely even been in any serious relationships before Ted. How could I have children?” I stepped forward, my hands trembling as I reached for the counter to defend myself, but before I could speak, Ted’s hand cut through the air. The violent crack of his palm against my cheek echoed through the sterile clinic corridor. “Damn you, Becca! My family put up a fifty-thousand-dollar wedding contribution for us, and you’ve been hiding three goddamn kids behind my back?!” No matter how frantically I tried to explain, the nurse adamantly insisted their database was infallible. Blind with rage and a suffocating sense of betrayal, I pulled out my phone and dialed 911. “Yes, hello? I’d like to report a crime. I’ve apparently lost three children.” … The nurse stood behind the desk, holding my medical report. She deliberately raised her voice, ensuring her words carried down the hallway. “Miss Cooper, did your fiancé have any prior knowledge of your three previous deliveries?” Before I could even process the question, she looked up, her gaze landing squarely on Ted. “Mr. Ross, according to our central database, your fiancée has been admitted to our maternity ward for childbirth on three separate occasions.” She paused, a thin, patronizing smile playing on her lips. “And just so you are fully aware, a different man signed the partner consent forms each time.” The moment the words left her mouth, Ted’s hand slipped away from mine. “What did you just say?” He turned slowly, his eyes wide with a mixture of disgust and cold calculation. “Becca, you actually had three kids with other men? And you lied to me about everything?” The waiting room erupted into a flurry of whispers. “Unbelievable. She looks so sweet and innocent,” a middle-aged woman murmured to her husband, shaking her head. “You think you know someone. This is why you don’t skip the pre-wedding checks.” “Exactly. Thank God they did this today. Imagine marrying her and finding out you’re raising someone else’s baggage.” The whispers swelled around me like rising water. I felt sick, my chest heaving as I yelled back at the crowd. “It’s a mistake! Your system is wrong! I’ve never even been pregnant, let alone—” “Miss Cooper, please,” the nurse cut me off, handing over the printed report with a look of practiced exhaustion. “I’ve seen plenty of patients like you. The moment something inconvenient pops up on a screening, they immediately blame our technology.” A hysterical laugh escaped my throat. “Fine. If your system is so perfect, show me the names on those consent forms. Tell me who signed them. Give me the proof so I can understand what the hell is happening.” Without looking up, she tapped her pen impatiently against the desk. “I’m sorry, but patient privacy laws restrict me from sharing third-party identification without a formal court order.” My hands clenched into tight fists. “You just announced to my fiancé and a room full of strangers that I had three kids! How was that not a violation of my privacy? But the moment I ask for the information that could clear my name, you hide behind regulations?” I took a step closer, my voice cracking. “How am I supposed to explain this? If I can’t clear this up today, my entire life is over!” The nurse finally raised her eyes, letting out a soft, dismissive sneer. “Explain it? Miss Cooper, whatever choices you made in your past are your own business. The clinical data doesn’t lie. How you handle your personal affairs is up to you.” She turned her attention back to the monitor. “Next in line, please.” I stood there, staring at the white paper in my hands. Our wedding was tomorrow. The blush-pink bridesmaids’ dresses were hanging in my closet. The reservation for the oceanfront venue was paid in full. The caterers were set, and the invitations had been sent to over two hundred friends and family members. And now, a single line of corrupted data on a clinic report had pulled the rug out from under my life. No one in that room believed me. Not even Ted. To them, I was just another dishonest woman caught in a web of her own making. I turned slowly to face the man I was supposed to marry. My voice was barely a whisper, pleading for a shred of the trust we had built over the last three years. “Ted… you know me. You can’t honestly believe this.” He looked at me, his eyes cold, before darting his gaze away. “Believe you? Becca, look at the paper. It’s a certified medical report from a major hospital network. Why would they lie?” The sheer coldness in his voice sent a shiver straight down my spine. Before I could respond, he grabbed my wrist, pulling me roughly down the corridor into a quiet alcove near the emergency exit. For a fraction of a second, I thought I saw a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. “We need to negotiate, Becca,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, demanding murmur. “Negotiate what?” “Our arrangement. Specifically, the wedding fund and the deed to your condo.” My heart did a slow, painful flip. A dark, sickening realization began to take shape in my mind. “What are you talking about, Ted?” He let out a dry chuckle, leaning in close so his breath brushed my ear. “It’s simple, Becca. Call your parents right now. Tell them we’re returning the fifty-thousand-dollar wedding gift they insisted on keeping in your name. And then, you’re going to transfer the title of that downtown condo your mother bought you into my name.” He reached out, tapping my cheek—the same cheek he had just struck—with an agonizingly patronizing familiarity. “Do that, and I’ll keep this whole three-kid situation quiet. We can still walk down the aisle tomorrow, and I’ll play the part of the forgiving husband. After all, taking on a woman with that kind of history… a man deserves some hazard pay for his dignity, don’t you think?” I stared at him, completely paralyzed. “Ted… do you hear yourself? You’re extorting me.” Suddenly, he shoved me back, stepping out of the alcove and returning to the crowded hallway. In an instant, his face morphed into an expression of profound, agonizing heartbreak. “Becca, please!” he yelled, his voice carrying effortlessly across the waiting room. “I just told you I’m willing to look past your history and marry you anyway! Why are you still fighting me on this? No wonder you wouldn’t let us move in together or take things further before the wedding. You were just terrified I’d see the stretch marks!” I couldn’t believe my ears. Less than an hour ago, this man had been holding my hand, telling me how eager he was to start our lives together. Now, he was standing in a public clinic, eagerly painting a target on my back to destroy my reputation. “How can you say that?” My voice shook with a toxic mixture of grief and rage. “What have I ever taken from you, Ted? My mother bought our condo in cash. My father bought the car as my wedding present. My family paid for the entire engagement dinner!” “Shut up!” Ted’s face turned a violent, angry purple. He stepped forward and struck me again. “Slap.” The force of his palm knocked me slightly off balance. My cheek burned, a deep crimson stain blooming against my pale skin. “We offered fifty thousand dollars as a gesture of goodwill, treating you like absolute royalty, and you were out there getting knocked up by three different guys!” Ted sneered, turning to the crowd for validation. “Who even knows where your family got the money for that condo? Was it from one of your secret sugar daddies?” The waiting room murmured in agreement. “My god, he really is the victim here,” someone whispered. “She probably wanted a respectable guy to clean up her mess and play the family man.” “The proof is right there on the paper. There’s no arguing with science.” I held my burning face, staring at him. “We have been together for three years. You know exactly who I am. Do you honestly, in your heart, believe I’ve had three children?” Ted hesitated for a split second, a brief flicker of panic crossing his features before he recovered his arrogant smirk. “Who knows? I don’t follow you around twenty-four hours a day. For all I know, you were running off to other states to handle your business.” Realizing that appealing to his humanity was useless, I turned back to the nurse, holding up the medical report so everyone in the room could see it. “Look at the clinical details,” I demanded, pointing to the gynecological evaluation section. “Item twenty-one. The pelvic and cervical assessment clearly notes a nulliparous status. No anatomical signs of vaginal childbirth, no cervical dilation history. It literally states I have never carried a pregnancy to term. How do you explain that discrepancy?” The nurse didn’t even blink. “Miss Cooper, cosmetic and reconstructive surgeries are incredibly advanced these days. Vaginal rejuvenation and cervical reconstruction are common procedures for women who want to erase their obstetric history. Our local system wouldn’t have records of out-of-state cosmetic clinics.” A cold sweat broke out across my forehead. “So when your database says I have three kids, it’s absolute truth. But when your own clinical exam proves I’ve never given birth, you claim I paid for reconstructive surgery? You have an excuse for everything, don’t you?” The nurse offered a cold, detached shrug. “I am simply interpreting the records and the medical possibilities, Miss Cooper. Your personal choices are not our responsibility.” I took a deep, steadying breath, forcing the trembling out of my voice. “The reality is that you are accusing a woman who has never even had a sexual relationship of giving birth to three children.” “Please keep your voice down, Miss Cooper. Our database does not make mistakes.” “That’s enough!” Ted stepped between us, acting the part of the long-suffering partner. “Becca, just answer me. Are we getting married tomorrow or not?” I stared at him, the last traces of my affection turning to ash. “Are you threatening me?” Ted turned to the onlookers, letting out a bitter laugh. “Listen to her! The evidence is right there, the nurse confirmed it, and she’s still playing the victim. A reputable hospital network isn’t going to invent three children out of thin air.” The patients waiting in line, thoroughly annoyed by the delay, began to chime in. “Seriously, lady, just go home and sort it out. We’ve been waiting for our appointments for an hour.” “If your fiancé is willing to overlook this, you should be on your knees thanking him, not arguing.” I felt a tear slip down my hot cheek. I had lived a quiet, honest life, raised by parents who loved me, and I had never experienced this kind of public humiliation. No one in this room wanted the truth; they wanted a spectacle. And the man I had trusted with my future was holding the matches. I looked back at the nurse. “If you are claiming I delivered three babies here, this hospital must have the corresponding birth certificates and social security registration records. Show them to me.” The nurse’s fingers twitched slightly on her keyboard, but she quickly masked her unease with a hard stare. “I am a floor nurse. My administrative access is limited. I cannot pull archive files.” She leaned forward slightly. “Instead of fighting with me, you should be figuring out how to make things right with your fiancé.” I let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Make things right? I did nothing wrong. But you…” “Becca, stop it!” Ted interrupted, grabbing my shoulder. “She’s a medical professional doing her job. Why would she lie? You’re embarrassing both of us.” I wrenched myself away from his grip, my eyes hardening. “Ted, you are my fiancé. Instead of demanding a retest or standing by me, you are actively trying to destroy me. Why is that?” Ted’s patience finally snapped. “Fine! Keep acting proud, Becca. Let’s make this simple: either you sign the condo over to me by tonight, or…” He leaned in, his eyes dark with malice. “…I will make sure every single guest invited to our wedding tomorrow receives a copy of this maternity report.” It was a blatant, calculated shake-down. From the very beginning, he didn’t care about the fake medical records. He cared about the million-dollar downtown property my mother had gifted me. The nurse tapped her desk again, her voice dripping with irritation. “Miss Cooper, you are disrupting the clinic. Please move along.” “No,” I said, my voice ringing out clearly. I looked at her, then at Ted. “You said your access is limited, right? Then get someone down here who has the authority to pull the files.” Before she could answer, I reached past her and pressed the call button on the desk phone, dialing the department extension listed on the wall directory. “This is room four,” I said clearly into the speaker. “We have a severe discrepancy regarding patient records and a potential case of identity fraud. We need a department head immediately.” The nurse’s face paled slightly as she snatched the receiver back, but the damage was done. Within two minutes, a middle-aged woman wearing a white coat and a badge identifying her as Dr. Weaver, the Clinical Director, walked into the room. “What seems to be the problem here?” I opened my mouth to speak, but the nurse quickly intercepted. “Dr. Weaver, this patient is disputing our database records. I’ve explained our protocols to her, but she’s refusing to leave and is actively disrupting the clinic schedule.” Ted stepped forward, putting on his best polite-citizen act. “I’m incredibly sorry, Doctor. We didn’t mean to cause a scene. My fiancée is just… having a hard time accepting the results of her screening.” Dr. Weaver frowned, looking over the printout. She sat down at the terminal, typing in her administrative password. “Miss Cooper, I’ve reviewed the file,” Dr. Weaver said, her tone professional but unyielding. “The database does indeed show three separate live births registered under your social security number at this facility. Each discharge form was signed by a different presenting partner.” I took a slow breath. “Dr. Weaver, I have never been pregnant. I want you to pull the detailed birth records and the registration logs for those three children right now.” She sighed, giving me a patronizing look. “Miss Cooper, pulling archive files from the state registry database requires a formal request and administrative processing.” “How long does that take?” “Typically, up to three business days.” The trap was perfect. “Our wedding is tomorrow,” I said, my voice cold. “And you want me to wait three days while my fiancé uses this lie to blackmail me?” Dr. Weaver’s expression hardened. “Miss Cooper, please control your tone. I understand this is stressful, but we have strict protocols. Making a scene will not change our administrative timeline.” I let out a bitter laugh. “Protocols? Your protocol is using a corrupted file to destroy a woman’s life and calling it science?” “If you continue to be combative, I will have security escort you out,” Dr. Weaver warned, her patience wearing thin. Ted grabbed my arm, pulling me back. “Becca, stop it! Just accept it and let’s go. You’re making a fool of yourself!” The crowd in the hallway muttered in agreement, their faces filled with judgment. To them, I was a liar caught in a corner. But I wasn’t going to play their game. I looked at Dr. Weaver, then at the nurse, and finally at Ted. My voice was entirely calm now. “So, both of you are absolutely certain that according to your official records, I gave birth to three children who are currently legally registered under my name?” Dr. Weaver nodded slowly. “That is what the system indicates.” “And you have no record of where those children currently are, or who took custody of them after discharge?” Dr. Weaver hesitated, a faint shadow of doubt crossing her face, but she nodded anyway. “We only handle the delivery records.” “Perfect,” I said. I didn’t argue. I didn’t cry. I simply pulled my phone from my bag, unlocked it, and dialed 911 right in front of them. “Yes, hello? I’d like to report a major crime. According to the medical records at Mercy General, I have given birth to three children at this facility, and they are currently missing. I believe they have been illegally taken or trafficked. I need officers dispatched immediately to investigate a case of child abduction.”

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Two months before the wedding, I went to inspect our new house and realized the layout had been changed. A new, empty room had been added. It was twice the size of my bedroom, and to make space for it, they had completely knocked down my gaming room. I was baffled. When Leah came home, I looked at her, frowning. “Why did you add an extra room to the blueprint without telling me?” She hesitated, then offered a breezy, careless smile. “Your buddy has no one in Chicago. He’s living in that cramped, miserable studio. Since we’re buying a place, what’s wrong with giving him a space of his own here?” Ah, there it was again. That casual, dismissive tone. What’s wrong with…”Right after I bought a modest car, Leah went behind my back and bought Chase an even more expensive one. Her excuse? “He’s a corporate slave working overtime every night. When he gets off, the trains aren’t even running. It’s so inconvenient. Since I’m practically his family, what’s wrong with buying him a car?” Even my wedding ring—the rare, custom band I had driven across three states to secure—wasn’t safe. The very next day, I saw Chase flaunting the exact same ring on his Instagram. When I got angry, Leah just gave a faint, patronizing smile. “You’re getting married, and he’s still single, moping around all day. I wanted him to feel included. What’s wrong with buying him a ring so he knows we care?” Now, facing the exact same excuse, I didn’t hesitate. I pulled out my phone and messaged the realtor to list the house. If she cared about Chase that much, then calling off this wedding… well, what’s wrong with that? 1 “Are you sure you want to sell this place, Drew? And at half the market value?” The realtor sounded incredulous. After all, a property in this neighborhood was highly coveted; no one would sell it this cheap. Especially since it was fully furnished, completely renovated, and move-in ready. “I’m sure,” I replied without a second thought. I had poured my soul into this house. From the layout to the design, I did it all—from the exact shade of paint on the walls to the choice of furniture. Leah had never cared, always brushing me off with a careless, “Do whatever you want.” But it wasn’t until today, during the final walkthrough, that I realized my months of hard work had been remodeled to accommodate another man. To make room for Chase, she had shrunk my bedroom by half and completely demolished the gaming room I had spent weeks planning. If that was the case, this house didn’t need to exist. “Who are you texting?” Leah leaned in to peer at my screen, but I locked my phone before she could see. “The contractors.” “Oh. Well, make sure you tell them Chase’s bedroom needs warm white paint. And get him a high-end dehumidifier. Summer is coming, and he gets miserable in the humidity.” She said it so naturally, as if taking care of him was as vital as breathing. But when it came to me, she had never cared. I suffer from severe eczema. Every humid summer, it flares up, leaving my skin raw, red, and incredibly itchy. I had begged Leah dozens of times to buy a dehumidifier, but she had always rolled her eyes. “Those things are just a marketing scam. It’s a waste of money. The humid season only lasts a few weeks anyway; you can just tough it out.” Pulling myself out of the memory, a bitter, self-deprecating smile touched my lips. “Sure,” I said. At dinner, Chase let himself in, familiar with the keypad code as always. He sat down in his usual chair and took the personalized set of silverware Leah handed him. “What are you standing there for? Scoop some rice for Chase,” Leah nudged me, her voice sharp with impatience. I don’t know when it started, but eating in my own home had begun to feel like working a service job. I had to serve Chase first, and I had to make sure there wasn’t a speck of oil on his plate, or else his neat-freak tendencies would flare up and he’d scowl in disapproval. And Leah would immediately unleash a torrent of criticism on me. “You can’t even wash a plate properly. Is there anything you can do right?” In the past, I tolerated it because he was supposed to be my best friend. Even when Leah only cooked dishes he liked, completely forgetting my severe seafood allergy. Even when Leah raised her glass to drink with him, wrapping a tipsy arm around his shoulders while he accepted it gladly, completely ignoring how it made me feel. I used to just smile it off, keeping my grievances quiet. But now, I was suddenly done tolerating it. I scooped my own food, sat down, and reached for a side dish. Chase froze, his empty bowl still hovering in the air. Leah’s brow furrowed, her voice rising in anger. “Drew, what the hell is wrong with you? Chase hasn’t even been served yet, and you’re already eating?” My grip tightened on my fork. I looked up, staring right at her. “Is he my father or my king? Why am I expected to wait on him hand and foot every single time? Leah, your favoritism is getting embarrassing.” 2 She blinked, caught off guard. Then, she let out a soft laugh, looking at me like I was a toddler throwing a tantrum. “He’s your best friend. Are you seriously jealous of him?” she said, reaching over to ruffle my hair. “I only treat him like family because he’s close to you. I’m just looking out for him.” Then, just like she had a thousand times before, she murmured, “Come on, stop being dramatic.” When Chase’s parents were pressuring him to settle down and he asked Leah to pretend to be his girlfriend for a week back in his hometown, I objected. She pulled her hand from mine and said, Come on, stop being dramatic.”When Chase got lost on a hiking trail in the mountains, she abandoned me on the side of the highway, determined to drive back to find him. I had clung to the car door, pleading with her, only to receive a cold, hard look. Chase is in actual danger right now. I have to go. Stop being dramatic.”The memory faded. I looked down at the shrimp she had just casually dropped onto my plate, losing whatever little appetite I had left. “I’m not hungry.” “Drew, what is your problem now?” The brief warmth in her eyes vanished instantly, replaced by sheer annoyance. It wasn’t until Chase gently tugged at her sleeve and reminded her that I was allergic to seafood that a flicker of guilt finally crossed her face. “Oh… let me make you something else then,” she offered. “Don’t bother.” I stood up and went straight to my room, not sparing either of them another glance. As the door clicked shut, Chase’s voice drifted through the hallway. “Is Drew mad? Maybe I should go talk to him.” “Don’t worry about him,” Leah sighed. “He’s just moody. Let’s finish dinner.” A moment later, the sound of laughter drifted from the living room. They were watching a comedy special, talking over it with a comfortable, lively intimacy. Yet when it was just Leah and me at home, she would snatch the remote and shut off whatever I was watching. “Stop rotting your brain with this garbage. You’re slow enough as it is.” I sat down on the carpet, letting out a long, heavy breath. I pulled out my phone. One by one, I began canceling the wedding invitations, the suit rental, and the venue. “Drew, I’m going to drive Chase home,” Leah’s voice called out, muffled by the bedroom door. Before I could even answer, the front door slammed shut. It was pouring outside—the kind of weather Leah absolutely despised. Once, when I was stranded at a mall during a torrential downpour, I called her to ask for a ride. She had been thoroughly annoyed. The rain will die down soon. I’m finally getting some rest at home, do you really have to ruin my day?”But whenever Chase dined at our place, rain or shine, she insisted on driving him back herself. She’d even run through the rain with him, laughing like teenagers as they took shelter under a tree, sharing a private world. My mind drifted back to our college days, to a storm we got caught in. She had pulled me against her chest, cupping her hands over my head to shield me from the rain, swearing she’d protect me from the elements for the rest of our lives. But somewhere along the way, those protective hands had found someone else to shield. Leah didn’t come back until midnight. She crept into the bedroom, trying not to wake me. She lay down beside me, her back turned. The bright glow of her phone screen was impossible to miss in the dark. I rolled over slightly and caught a glimpse of the text from Chase. Leah, the office gave me two movie tickets for tomorrow. Do you want to go with me?”Then, as if to cover his tracks, he quickly added: Drew probably wouldn’t like this kind of movie anyway.”Leah’s thumbs hovered over the screen, hesitating. But tomorrow is Drew’s birthday. I promised I’d spend it with him…”Before she could hit send, Chase’s next text popped up. Haha, it’s totally fine! If you’re busy, I can just go alone!”No, it’s fine. I’ll go with you.”She could never bear to let Chase feel disappointed. And so, out of the three of us, I was always the one left behind. 3 The next morning, Leah actually stayed home instead of rushing out to work early. She set breakfast on the table and pulled out a chair for me. “Drew, breakfast is ready,” she smiled, but her eyes held that familiar, guilty sweetness. It was always the same routine. Before she abandoned me, she had to play the doting fiancée. “Hey, so they just called me in for an emergency shift tonight. I don’t think I can make it back for your birthday dinner.” “How about we make it up to you this weekend? I’ll buy you whatever you want.” Whatever I want. Which meant she hadn’t planned a single thing. Not even a cheap grocery-store bouquet. She couldn’t even bother to go through the motions. Yet for Chase’s birthday, she had been more excited than I was. She spent weeks scouting the perfect restaurant, badgering me to find out what was on his wishlist. When I expressed my frustration, she brushed it off. “I’m your fiancée, Drew. I can’t look bad in front of your best friend! Besides, if I treat him well, he won’t be whispering in your ear telling you to dump me every time we have a fight!” Back then, I had no choice but to lie to myself. Maybe she really just wants to be nice to the people I love.”Maybe she’s just trying to secure our future by keeping my friends close.”But I was done being blind. I met her gaze, my voice flat. “Okay. No worries.” She smiled in relief and kissed my forehead. “I knew it. You’re always so understanding, Drew.” Once the door closed behind her, I began packing. Halfway through, my phone buzzed with a FaceTime call from my mother. “Happy birthday, sweetie!” she beamed. “Look at this—your dad got up at dawn to make his slow-cooked pot roast. I kept telling him you’re a grown man with your own home now, that you wouldn’t be coming back for your birthday. But you know how he is. He wouldn’t listen.” Through the screen, I watched my father bustling around the kitchen, and the tears I’d been holding back finally spilled over. My mother froze, her smile fading into instant worry. “Drew? Oh honey, what’s wrong? Is someone hurting you? Where’s Leah? Doesn’t she usually take the day off for your birthday?” I choked on a sob, wiping my face, my eyes burning. “Mom,” I whispered. “I’m not getting married.” “I want to come home. I want to spend the holidays with you guys.” My mother went dead silent for a moment. But she didn’t pry. She just spoke in that soft, steady voice that always made me feel safe. “Drew, whatever happened, your father and I are right here. If you’re not happy there, come home. We’re waiting for you.” When the call ended, the room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. Only the sound of my ragged breathing echoed off the walls. By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, I had finally cried myself out. The house felt too stifling, so I walked down to the riverfront, stopping by a bakery to buy a small, solitary slice of cake. I sat on a park bench, just lighting the candle, when two familiar figures walked into my line of sight. They had just stepped out of the movie theater, laughing and debating where to grab dinner. Suddenly, a kid running past bumped into Chase. He stumbled forward, and Leah instantly caught him, pulling him flush against her chest. They stood there, locked in each other’s arms, their faces flushing red. Neither of them made a move to break the embrace, as if trying to stretch out the sudden, quiet spark between them. Then, Chase’s eyes flicked over, and he froze. “Dr… Drew?” Leah turned slowly, her expression turning blank as our eyes met. 4 I didn’t say a word. I quietly boxed up my cake, stood up, and turned to walk away. I hadn’t even taken a few steps before Leah caught up, grabbing my arm. “Drew, it’s not what you think. He was falling, and I just caught him…” “Caught him, or held onto him?” I looked at her, my voice devoid of emotion. She flinched, opening her mouth to speak, but I cut her off. “You really do care about him, don’t you? You’re always so attuned to his every move. Last month, when we went for a walk in the park, you were so glued to your phone you didn’t even notice when I slipped on the wet moss and fell.” Leah’s face drained of color as the memory resurfaced. “My knee was scraped raw. I was in so much pain I couldn’t even make a sound. You walked ten yards ahead before you finally realized I wasn’t next to you.” “I was handling an urgent work email!” Leah pleaded, her eyes wide with desperation. I smiled bitterly, turning my gaze to Chase, who was hovering a few steps behind her. “And what about now? You lied to me, said you had to work overtime, just to spend the day alone with him. Leah, do you ever tell me the truth anymore?” She had no answer. She just looked down, silent. “Drew, don’t blame Leah. I’m the one who asked her out,” Chase stepped forward, his face a mask of remorse. “My office gave me the tickets, and I thought it’d be a waste not to go. Plus, I knew you didn’t care for racing movies.” I let out a cold, sharp laugh, stripping away his polite pretense. “I don’t like racing?” “Chase, senior year of high school, you wanted to see the Formula 1 screening so badly that I helped you sneak out past curfew. Freshman year of college, I rented out a private theater for three of your favorite racing movies just to celebrate your birthday. Now you’re telling me you didn’t invite me because I don’t like racing, so you invited my fiancée instead? Don’t make me laugh.” Chase’s mouth opened and closed, utterly speechless. His eyes welled with tears. “Drew, please don’t be mad,” he choked out. “I really didn’t think it through. I won’t ever contact Leah again. I’ll stay out of your lives. I’m so sorry… it’s all my fault…” The moment his tears began to fall, Leah’s brief flicker of guilt vanished. “Drew, he apologized. What more do you want?” she snapped. “It was just a movie. Do you really have to be this petty?” Just a movie.”Her instinct to shield him, to defend him, to put his feelings above mine—it was all the proof I needed. Her heart had already drifted. Suddenly, I felt an overwhelming weariness. Eight years of history, and I didn’t even have the energy to argue. “Okay.” “I won’t be petty anymore. I’m done.” Leah blinked, caught off guard by how quickly I backed down. She seemed to sense that something had shifted, but mostly, she just looked relieved that the fight was over. “Good. Let’s just put this behind us,” she said. “Chase hasn’t eaten all day. I’m going to grab dinner with him. Do you want to come?” It was a purely performative invite. “No. You guys go ahead.” “Alright. Go home and get some rest. Stay safe.” She was already turning to leave, but then she paused, as if remembering something. “By the way, the bridal shop called. They said you returned your wedding suit. Did you change your mind about the style?” “No. I called off the wedding.” “Whatever, just handle it. All suits look the same anyway,” she murmured, not really listening, and walked off. I watched her retreating back and let out a quiet smile. “Okay.” Back at the apartment, I grabbed my pre-packed suitcases and ordered a ride to the train station. Later that evening, Leah returned home earlier than usual. The apartment was pitch black. She called out my name, but only silence answered. Assuming I was just out at another tailor to exchange the suit, she tossed her keys on the counter, sank onto the couch, and dialed the bridal shop. “Hi, is Drew there exchanging his suit? Which one did he end up picking?” “Actually, ma’am, Mr. Luther cancelled the order,” the clerk replied, sounding confused. “He told us the wedding is off.”

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In preschool, the teacher asked the kids to draw their “Family Tree.” While the other children drew three thick branches, Lucy drew only two. “Where is your daddy?” the teacher asked. Lucy pointed to the very bottom of the page, where the roots met the dirt. “My daddy is buried in the mud. He never comes home, so he’s basically dead.” Later, the teacher pulled a sketchbook from her backpack. It was filled with pages of tally marks. “Every time Daddy promises to come home but doesn’t, I draw a line,” Lucy had explained. Twelve groups of tallies. Sixty times. The teacher told me she had already contacted a child psychologist. I told her it wasn’t necessary. I knew Lucy didn’t have a psychological disorder. She was just too smart. Smart enough to realize that grieving a death is easier than waiting forever. … “Lucy told the other kids in class that her father is dead,” the teacher told me during a private parent-teacher meeting after school. “I’ve had complaints from other parents. Their children are having nightmares. She told them that dead people don’t come back, so being dead is actually better than being alive.” I sat in the small, plastic classroom chair and offered no explanation. After leaving the preschool, I sat in my car for a long time. A small Disney charm hung from the steering wheel. Denis had promised to take Lucy to get it last weekend, but he canceled. He’d promised the weekend before that, too. In the end, I was the one who bought it for her. When we got home, Lucy was drawing. She was sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table, crayons scattered around her. She was drawing a little girl standing next to a woman. “What are you drawing, sweetie?” “Mommy and me.” “Where’s Daddy?” “Daddy is at work.” She didn’t look up, focusing on coloring the woman’s dress bright red. “Mommy looks pretty in red.” I bought that red dress last year. The day I brought it home, Denis glanced at it, murmured a distracted “Looks nice,” and went right back to texting on his phone. Denis came home late that evening. Lucy was still drawing, and he leaned over her shoulder to look. She immediately covered the page with her hands. “Let Daddy see.” “You’re not my daddy.” He froze. “The teacher wanted us to draw our daddies today, but I don’t know what you look like. I couldn’t draw you.” He pulled out his phone, scrolling through his camera roll. “How about Daddy prints out some pictures for you? Then you can see me every day.” “Pictures are just pictures. They aren’t real.” “Lucy, Daddy’s just been really busy with work.” “Are you too busy to ever see me?” “There are very important things Daddy has to handle himself.” “Am I not important?” He knelt down, reaching out to hug her. Lucy took a step back. “You smell like someone else’s perfume. It’s not Mommy’s. I hate it.” His face fell. “Lucy, go to your room for a minute.” Lucy looked at me, hugged her sketchbook tightly, and walked away. The living room fell silent, leaving only the two of us. “Flora, don’t listen to a kid’s nonsense,” he said. “Is she wrong? Is that perfume Christine’s? She buys your shirts, she schedules your life, she travels with you. What’s a little perfume compared to all that?” “If that’s how you want to see it, I can’t stop you.” He grabbed his jacket, offered no further explanation, and walked out the door to have a cigarette. At 1:00 AM, after Denis fell asleep, I went through his phone. The password was still my birthday. There were no explicit texts, no obvious flirtations—nothing I could point to as definitive proof. But the absolute cleanliness of it was what felt wrong. He had three pinned chats: a client, his business partner, and Christine. I was not pinned. Scrolling up, the gap between his messages to Christine never exceeded two hours. The longest gap in his texts to me was five days. During those five days, he had replied to Christine thirty-seven times. He hadn’t thought of me once. “1:00 AM.” “Christine: Draft finalized. Sent to your inbox.” “Denis: Thanks for the hard work. Get some sleep.” “7:00 AM.” “Christine: It’s freezing today. Bundle up.” “Denis: You too.” I opened our own chat log. The most recent message from him was: “Won’t be home for dinner.” The one before that: “Out of town for three days.” Only cold, transactional updates over the last five days. I scrolled further back, all the way to six months ago. That was when Lucy first started preschool and cried every day for a week. I had texted him, begging him to come home early to comfort her. He had only replied: “Hang in there. I’ll try.” He didn’t even bother to vary his dismissive phrases. The next morning, the first thing Lucy did when she woke up was open her sketchbook. She picked up a pencil and drew a single line on the thirteenth page. “Mommy, that’s sixty-one.” That weekend, he said he had to go into the office. I made some soup and drove down to his office building. The receptionist recognized me. “Denis is still in a meeting.” I waited for thirty minutes. The conference room doors opened, and Christine walked out first. She smiled warmly when she saw me. “Flora! Denis’s going to be a little longer.” She poured me a glass of water. “His stomach has been acting up lately, and he keeps skipping lunch. He’s drinking way too much coffee. You should really talk to him about it.” I looked at her, my voice flat. “I will.” She turned and walked away, leaving me sitting there, my entire body stiff. I didn’t know his stomach was hurting. She did. I didn’t know he was skipping lunch. She did. I didn’t know he was drinking too much coffee. She did. Everything she mentioned was something Denis had never told me. When he finally came out of the meeting and saw me, his brow furrowed. “What are you doing here?” “I brought you some soup.” “Just put it in the fridge. I have a lunch meeting with a client.” “You can’t even have lunch with me anymore?” “It was a last-minute invite. I couldn’t say no.” “You promised Lucy you’d spend today with her.” “We’ll do it another day. I promise.” “Which day, Denis?” He paused, seemingly annoyed by my persistence. “What is wrong with you today?” Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed his coat and left. I sat there, staring at the unopened thermos. Christine came out of her office. Seeing me still sitting there, she smiled gently. “Flora, did Denis leave already? Let me put that soup in the breakroom fridge for you.” “Don’t worry about it.” In the elevator, I ran into one of his male employees. He glanced at me, then at the thermos. “Bringing Denis lunch?” I nodded. “He and Christine have been pulling crazy hours lately. Thanks for being so understanding. He’s under a lot of pressure. Thank god Christine’s there to help lighten the load. She’s amazing. Handles everything for him so seamlessly.” The elevator doors slid open. I walked out in silence. When he came home that night and took off his suit jacket, I noticed he was wearing a brand-new dress shirt. One I had never seen before. “When did you get that?” “Bought it last week.” I didn’t press further. I waited until he went to take a shower. This time, I opened his online shopping history. The shirt had been ordered by Christine. The shipping address was the office. The purchase date was last Wednesday at 3:00 PM. In the delivery notes, she had written: “Denis’s size is 16/34. The collar gets dirty easily, so please send two extra just in case.” When he walked out of the bathroom, I didn’t hesitate. “Christine bought your shirt.” He froze, towel in hand. “She just helped me pick one out.” “She picks out your shirts, books your trips, buys Lucy’s birthday presents. What else does she do for you, Denis?” This time, his impatience flared. “Do you have to make everything sound so ugly? Christine is just my assistant. Stop projecting your insecurities onto her.” “I’m just asking. What else does she do for you?” He didn’t answer. He threw on his pajamas and climbed into bed, turning his back to me. “I’m exhausted. Can we not do this tonight?” I turned off the light. But neither of us slept. He tossed and turned every few minutes. I lay there, thinking about the early days of our marriage. He used to bring me gifts from every business trip. He would hug me and kiss me the second he walked through the door. He used to drag me to the mall to help him pick out his shirts, asking me which colors looked best on him. Now, someone else did that. Someone else knew his exact measurements, knew how easily his collars got dirty, knew his favorite fabrics. Someone else knew his daily meals and habits. And I hadn’t even noticed. I hadn’t even been given the chance. The next morning, Lucy asked me: “Mommy, did you go to Daddy’s office yesterday? Did he ask about me?” I couldn’t bring myself to answer. Lucy looked back down at her drawing. “It’s okay, Mommy. I’m used to it.” Lucy missed him, so she used my phone to FaceTime him. It rang for a long time before someone finally picked up. But it was Christine’s face on the screen. “Hi, sweetie! Your daddy is in a meeting right now. I’ll have him call you back as soon as he’s done, okay?” Lucy stared at the screen for a few seconds. “Don’t worry about it, Christine. I just wanted to see if he changed his phone number.” Christine’s expression stiffened. Lucy hung up and handed the phone back to me. “Mommy, why does that lady always answer Daddy’s phone?” “Because they work together. They’re very busy.” “Then when is Daddy not busy?” I had no answer. “When you love someone, you answer their calls,” Lucy said softly. “He doesn’t answer because he doesn’t love us. Mommy, I’m a big girl now. I understand.” That Friday afternoon was the preschool parent-teacher conference. Denis had promised he would try his best to make it. I waited at the school, hoping. Eventually, a text came: “Last-minute contract signing. Can’t make it.” So, once again, I went alone. The classroom was packed with parents. When Lucy saw me walk in by myself, her face didn’t even change. The teacher had the children go up to the front to talk about their fathers. The other kids talked about what their daddies did for work, or where their daddies took them to play. When it was Lucy’s turn, she stepped up and took the microphone. “My dad is very busy. He’s never home.” “What does your daddy do?” the teacher prompted gently. Lucy thought for a moment. “He makes phone calls. That’s his job. He only knows how to call people.” A few parents welcomed this with a chuckle. “He makes a lot of calls every day, but he never calls me.” The laughter in the room died instantly. “How about Lucy tells us about her mommy instead?” the teacher intervened quickly. “My mommy is the best mommy in the whole world. She stays with me and takes care of me all by herself. She never says she’s tired, but I know she is, because I hear her crying in her room at night.” The classroom was dead silent. I sat in the very back row, tears slipping down my face. Lucy finished, bowed politely, and walked off the stage. When she reached my seat, she reached out and took my hand. “I’m done, Mommy.” On Friday, Denis said he would pick Lucy up from school. When Lucy walked out of the school gates and saw him, she hesitated before walking over. “Hi, Mr. Denis.” He knelt down to her level. “I’m Daddy, sweetie.” “No, you’re just a stranger who visits sometimes.” “Daddy is home now.” Lucy didn’t reply. She just gripped my hand. “Mommy, let’s go.” As we walked past him, Lucy paused. “Mr. Denis, you don’t need to pick me up anymore. I’m used to walking home with Mommy.” He stood there, frozen. When we got home, Lucy was doing her homework. I went into her room with some sliced fruit and saw her sentence-building assignment. The prompt was to write a sentence using “even though… but…” She had written: “Even though Daddy came home, he is not my daddy.” And: “Even though Mommy doesn’t say it, I know she is sad.” I stared at the page, set the fruit down, and quietly walked out. That night, Denis came home, his brow furrowed in anger as he looked at me. “Flora, who taught Lucy to say those things to me?” “Why didn’t you show up to the parent-teacher conference today?” I countered. “The contract signing was crucial. If we lost it, the company would have been in serious trouble.” “These conferences only happen twice a year.” “I know, but—” “There is no ‘but.’ You always choose something else.” “Do you think I want to? I’m working myself to the bone to make money for this family!” “This family doesn’t need you to work yourself to death. Lucy needs a father. A father who shows up to school, who picks her up, who stays with her when she’s sick.” “I know that!” “You know it, but you don’t do it.” He slammed his fist on the counter and stood up. “Are you ever going to drop this?” He stormed into the study and slammed the door behind him. Lucy’s bedroom door was cracked open. She didn’t come out. The next morning, Lucy opened her sketchbook and drew another line on the new page. “Mommy, that’s sixty-two.” She closed the book and looked up at me. “He always says he’ll change, but he never does, does he?” A week before Lucy’s sixth birthday, I reminded Denis. “I’ll be there. I promise,” he said. But the day before her birthday, I received a text: “Emergency in Seattle. Can’t make it back in time.” I stared at the screen for a long time. I typed out several responses, then deleted them all. In the end, I sent nothing. When Lucy came home from preschool, she asked, “Mommy, is Daddy coming home tomorrow?” “No, sweetie.” She went to the fridge, got a cup of yogurt, poked a straw through the foil, and set it on the coffee table. “This is my cake.” She closed her eyes and made a wish over the yogurt. “Next year, I won’t ask if Daddy is coming home.” My heart ached so sharply it felt like a physical weight. On her birthday, a package arrived. The return address listed Christine’s name. Lucy took one look at it and shoved it back into the box. “Daddy didn’t buy this. He made that lady buy it. Mommy, can you return it?” A bitter taste filled my mouth. The next morning, Lucy woke up and went straight to the package. She found a piece of paper, wrote “RETURN TO SENDER” in messy letters, and taped it to the box. “Mommy, can you mail this back? And tell Christine she doesn’t need to buy me things anymore.” “Lucy, that’s not very polite.” “She was impolite first. She took my daddy.” I knelt down and looked her in the eyes. “Lucy, nobody took Daddy away.” Lucy thought about this for a second. “Then I shouldn’t forgive him even more. He walked away on his own.” That night, after Lucy fell asleep, I sat by her bedside. Her eyelashes were still damp with tears. My phone buzzed. It was a text from him. “Flora, I know it’s Lucy’s birthday, I…” The message cut off there. He never sent a follow-up. In the middle of the night, Lucy woke up with a raging fever. The thermometer read 104 degrees. I called Denis over a dozen times. When he finally answered, the background was dead silent. “What’s wrong?” “Lucy has a fever. It’s 104.” “I’m out of town. Take her to the ER.” And then he hung up. I rushed Lucy to the emergency room, clutching her tight. Registering, paying, waiting for blood work. Lucy whimpered when they drew her blood, but she didn’t cry. I held her close on the cold plastic chairs of the waiting room. With her eyes closed, she murmured, “Daddy…” At 2:00 AM, the results came back: a viral infection. She needed an IV. When the nurse pricked her arm with the needle, Lucy finally broke down crying. Across the hallway, another father was holding his little girl. The girl was also on an IV, and her dad was gently rubbing her back, whispering sweet things to comfort her. Lucy watched them, saying nothing. We stayed in the ER until 4:00 AM. My phone lit up. “Denis: How is she? I’m taking the earliest flight back tomorrow morning.” By the time he got home the next day, Lucy’s fever had broken, though she was still pale. He pushed the door open, holding a bag of fruit. “Lucy, Daddy’s home.” Lucy looked at him and said nothing. He knelt down, reaching out to hug her. Lucy shrank back. “Daddy, can you please not come back? Every time you do, I don’t need you anymore anyway.” His hands hovered in mid-air. Then he stood up and looked at me. “Come out here with me.” We stood in the hallway outside her room. “Her fever was 104 last night. Where were you?” “I told you, I was out of town on business.” “Business? Or spending time with Christine?” His face darkened. “Do you really have to start this right now?” “You weren’t here when our daughter was sick. Now that you’re back, I’m not even allowed to ask?” “I didn’t come home to fight with you.” He looked at me with cold, distant eyes. “Flora, you’ve changed.” A dull ache bloomed in my chest. I let out a dry, hollow laugh. “While you were gone, Lucy had high fevers three times. Every single time, I was alone. She threw up in the middle of the night, and I was cleaning it up until dawn. She fell off the bed and needed stitches on her forehead; I was the one who had to sign the consent forms outside the operating room alone. She got pushed on the playground and scraped her knees; the school called, and I was the one who went to get her.” I threw the empty medication packaging into the trash. “Our daughter is six years old, Denis. How many times have you actually been to the hospital with her?” His brow furrowed, and just as he was about to speak, his phone rang. He shot me a look, turned his back, and answered. Through the quiet hallway, a panicked voice bled through the speaker. “Did you handle it? Did she find out?” A chill ran down my spine, freezing me to the core. He hung up the phone and turned to me, his expression suddenly panicked. “Something came up at the office. I have to go.” “Maybe we should get a div—” I began. But he didn’t let me finish. “We’ll talk when I get back.” He practically sprinted out the door. Lucy came padding out of her room on bare feet, asking if Daddy had left again. He had been in such a rush he’d left his jacket on the sofa. And in my head, Christine’s words from the phone call kept looping: ““I thought you said she would never find out.”” I walked into the study, opened my laptop, and typed four words into the search bar. The next day, when Denis came home, his eyes fell on the paperwork resting on the coffee table. The color drained from his face.

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My boss, Howard, was notoriously cheap, but he was also incredibly vain. It was a volatile combination. When he walked into the bullpen on a Tuesday morning and announced, “Why does Mother’s Day get all the hype while Father’s Day gets ignored? I’ve decided to take every single employee’s dad out for a lavish dinner,” I knew my week was ruined. Sure enough, every venue I suggested over the next few days was either “too trashy” or “too expensive.” He wanted five-star prestige on a fast-food budget. By the time I printed out my hundred-and-fifth venue proposal, Amber, our newly hired purchasing assistant, snatched the folder right out of my hands. She rolled her eyes so hard I thought they’d get stuck in her head. “Fiona,” she said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetner, “for an executive assistant, you really don’t know how to budget. Do you think Howard’s money grows on trees?” I crossed my arms, fighting the urge to grit my teeth. “If you’re so brilliant, Amber, what’s your grand plan?” That was exactly what she was waiting for. She smirked, practically preening in front of the entire office. “I have a connection. All-you-can-eat high-end seafood. A private tasting menu at an exclusive spot. And it only costs this much per person.” She held up two fingers. Howard’s eyebrows knitted together. “Two hundred?” Amber tilted her chin up proudly. “A full seafood tasting menu. Twenty dollars a head. All-you-can-eat.” … The fleshy muscles of Howard’s face twitched. I could practically see the gears turning in his head; he was utterly transfixed by the price tag. But his paranoia kicked in. “It’s not some sketchy food truck, is it?” Amber held her head high. “A premier, white-tablecloth establishment.” “Is the seafood actually fresh?” Howard pressed, leaning over his desk. Amber wagged her index finger with practiced confidence. “We get the exact same plates as their regular VIP clientele. Fresh off the boat. It’s an exclusive, back-door arrangement I set up.” Howard practically leaped out of his leather chair, rubbing his hands together with a greedy, manic glee. “Why didn’t I know we had this kind of talent in the department?” Amber flushed, looking demure, though she didn’t miss the chance to throw me under the bus. “Well, Fiona’s always locked down the corporate dining arrangements. I never really had a position where I could show what I could do.” My jaw tightened. I took a slow, deep breath to keep from snapping. Howard glared at me, the ghost of past corporate credit card bills clearly flashing before his eyes. He turned his gaze to me, cold and accusatory. “Fiona, I won’t look too closely at your past bookings, but going forward, all corporate events go through Amber.” My hands balled into fists in my pockets. “Look closely at my past bookings?” He was heavily implying I’d been taking kickbacks. It was insulting. Every single dinner, every single client lunch I’d booked had been scraped down to the absolute lowest budget he’d approve, negotiated through sheer persistence on my part. If I hadn’t fought tooth and nail to keep us within a respectable price range, he would have been laughed out of every restaurant in the city. I swallowed my urge to warn him. If he wanted to step off a cliff, I’d gladly step aside. “Of course,” I said, offering a tight, pleasant smile. “I’m sure Amber will do a wonderful job. I’d be happy to hand it over.” I wanted nothing more than to hand off this toxic, thankless task anyway. Amber beamed, her ego inflating by the second. “Don’t worry, Howard. I’ve got the connections. Leave it all to me.” Howard patted her shoulder, looking at her as if she were a long-lost daughter. “We need to give our younger generation more opportunities. Too many people in this company think their seniority gives them a free pass to gatekeep and take advantage.” The words felt like a slap, but I kept my smile perfectly plastered on my face. Let the fool have his moment. I couldn’t wait to see what kind of five-star establishment offered a twenty-dollar seafood tasting menu. When Amber and I stepped out of the office, her smug, self-satisfied grin was impossible to ignore. “I’m so sorry, Fiona,” she whispered, leaning in close. “I didn’t mean to steal your job. I just hope Howard isn’t too disappointed in you. It really wasn’t personal.” I didn’t even bother giving her a glance. I turned on my heel and walked back to my desk. But Amber wasn’t the type to let things go. A few days later, she marched over to my cubicle, flanked by a small army of our colleagues. The first words out of their mouths made me think I was hallucinating from exhaustion. “Fiona, we need you to refund us,” Courtney, Amber’s closest sycophant, demanded. I blinked, taking off my blue-light glasses. “Refund you for what?” I quickly scanned my memory, certain Howard hadn’t authorized any employee payouts recently. Before I could say more, Courtney stepped forward, pointing a manicured finger directly in my face. “We trusted you! Whenever we did group dinners, we let you organize them. You charged us eighty dollars a head! And here’s Amber, getting us into a luxury venue for twenty. You should be ashamed of yourself for stealing from us!” My face went cold. “Courtney, watch your mouth.” Someone in the back, sensing the sudden drop in temperature, pulled at Courtney’s sleeve. “Maybe there’s a misunderstanding…” “What misunderstanding?” Courtney scoffed, crossing her arms. “She was clearly skimming off the top. Stealing from the company is one thing, but ripping off your own coworkers? That’s just pathetic.” I stood up slowly, tapping Courtney’s hand away from my face. “You want to talk about evidence, Courtney? I keep every single receipt and invoice from our dinners. If you want to throw around accusations of embezzlement, I’ll happily let my lawyer handle it. We can go to court for defamation.” Courtney’s bravado faltered. She swallowed hard, casting a panicked glance at Amber. Amber quickly stepped in, waving her hands placatingly. “Oh, come on, let’s not get defensive. I only got that price because I’m close with the restaurant’s management. Fiona just doesn’t have those kinds of high-level connections, that’s all. It’s not her fault.” One of the designers immediately chimed in, eager to flatter. “Wait, high-level? Is the restaurant owned by your family?” Amber didn’t deny it, nor did she confirm it. She just lowered her eyes, blushing coyly. “Oh, please don’t ask. My family wants me to keep a low profile while I learn the business.” Instantly, the atmosphere shifted. The crowd looked at Amber as if she were an undercover heiress, a girl from “old money” playing at being a commoner. Meanwhile, they looked at me like I was a parasite. “Some people just shouldn’t take on roles they aren’t qualified for,” Rhonda muttered. Rhonda was a senior sales rep who always managed to pack away three boxes of leftovers at every company event. “If you can’t get us a discount, don’t play coordinator and waste our money.” “Exactly. She probably did it for the kickbacks.” “Well, how else do you think she affords those designer bags?” I tapped my desk loudly with a pen, my voice cutting through their murmurs like ice. “If you have proof of any wrongdoing, take it to HR. Otherwise, get back to work.” They slowly dispersed, throwing dirty looks over their shoulders. I sat back down, staring at the screen. The sting of their betrayal was sharp, but it brought a strange, cold clarity. I had spent years helping these people, picking out restaurants that met their dietary restrictions, fighting with vendors to get them free drinks, and even covering their shares when they “forgot” to Venmo me. And this was what it got me. I opened a blank document, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. I didn’t want to be in this swamp anymore. I typed out my resignation letter, one precise word at a time. Just as I was about to hit send, a notification popped up. Amber had posted in the company group chat. The chat erupted instantly. “Amber: The venue for our Father’s Day dinner is confirmed: The Gilded Peony.” She posted the address and a link to the website. The office went dead silent for three seconds before everyone started screaming. “Courtney: Are you serious?! The Gilded Peony is the most famous luxury seafood restaurant in the city! My mom’s birthday dinner there cost us over fifteen hundred dollars!” Howard, who spent half his day browsing golf forums, immediately chimed in. “Howard: Is it really twenty dollars a head?” “Amber: Guaranteed, Howard. I’ve spoken with my contact. As soon as we arrive, they’ll run the special rate.” “Howard: What about the menu? We need to make sure they aren’t cutting corners.” Before Amber could reply, Courtney jumped in. “Courtney: Howard, a tasting menu doesn’t have a set menu! That’s the whole point of omakase. They serve whatever is freshest that day!” “Howard: Right, right. My mistake. This is a fantastic perk for our team. Amber, you’ve done an incredible job.” I stared at the screen, a dry laugh escaping my throat. I couldn’t resist throwing a wet blanket over their parade. “Fiona: The Gilded Peony is a traditional, high-end French-Asian fusion restaurant. They don’t offer ‘omakase’ or any form of unlimited tasting menus.” A plate of roasted asparagus there cost forty dollars. The idea of a twenty-dollar all-you-can-eat seafood menu was so utterly absurd that a child could see through it. But these people were blinded by their own greed. The group chat went quiet. A minute later, Amber replied. “Amber: Well, of course the public doesn’t know about it. It’s an off-menu, VIP-only privilege. My contact arranged it specifically for us.” Immediately, a flood of thumbs-up emojis and flattering comments drowned out my message. They called Amber a saint, a savior, a true leader. Howard was so thrilled by the prospect of saving thousands of dollars while looking like a philanthropist that his greed grew wings. “Howard: Amber, can we add more people? I’d love to invite our top suppliers and clients. At twenty dollars a head, it’s a steal.” He didn’t even realize how pathetic he sounded, practically begging an entry-level assistant for permission. “Amber: The more the merrier! Just give me the head count.” By the end of the day, Howard had invited extended family, golf buddies, suppliers, and clients. The guest list swelled to one hundred and fifty people. Fifteen tables. “Howard: Are you sure this isn’t too much trouble for your family’s restaurant?” “Amber: Not at all. Honestly, the more people we have, the better.” I shut down my laptop. I couldn’t wait for Father’s Day. When I walked into Howard’s office to hand in my resignation, his reaction was exactly as petty as I expected. He signed it without looking up, throwing a sneer my way. “You’ve been here five years, Fiona,” he said, tossing his pen onto the desk. “But honestly, what have you actually contributed? Your salary is way above the market rate, yet you’ve brought in less value than Amber has in her first month.” The anger flared in my chest, hot and sharp, but I forced my hands to remain steady at my sides. “Howard, my performance reviews are on file,” I said, my voice quiet and even. “Every contract I’ve managed has been flawless. If my work were truly that subpar, a man as budget-conscious as you wouldn’t have kept me on for five years, let alone given me raises.” His face flushed a deep, ugly purple. He pointed a finger at me, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “I have work to finish,” I said, turning toward the door. “Have a good afternoon.” That afternoon, Howard pinned a message to the top of the company chat. First, Amber was promoted to Executive Assistant. Second, any employee who had submitted their resignation would be excluded from the Father’s Day banquet. I was the only one who had resigned. The chat flooded with cheers. “Courtney: Amber deserves it! Finally, someone with real class in that seat.” “Rhonda: Support the boss! Leeches who quit shouldn’t get to enjoy our company perks anyway.” I stood up, walked over to Courtney and Rhonda’s desks, and pulled up my Venmo QR code on my phone. “You still owe me for the last three group lunches,” I said, my voice carrying across the quiet room. “Pay up.” Their faces turned bright red. Courtney sputtered, “I—I don’t have my card linked right now—” “I’ll wait,” I said. “I also posted the itemized receipts in the group chat, just so everyone can see the exact math.” Reluctantly, they scanned the code and sent the money. I walked out of the office that evening with my head held high. I had already called The Gilded Peony. I had asked to confirm a reservation for a party of one hundred and fifty under our company name. The hostess had paused, checked her system, and told me there was no such booking. So, where on earth was Amber planning to put fifteen tables of hungry people? “”” Father’s Day arrived, hot and bright. I decided to treat my parents to a nice lunch at The Gilded Peony. We arrived early. I checked the elegant, gold-trimmed reservation board in the lobby. There was no mention of our company. Every private dining room was booked under names like “The Vanderbilt Gala” or “Dr. Henderson.” The main dining room downstairs was pristine, with white tablecloths and heavy crystal. A hostess with sharp, drooping eyes led my parents and me up the spiral staircase to the second-floor mezzanine. “I’m sorry,” she said when I glanced at the empty tables downstairs. “Those tables are reserved.” I counted them. Exactly fifteen tables. But they weren’t grouped together; they were scattered randomly across the floor, mixed in with other dining parties, and there were no company signs on any of them. We took our seats. Ten minutes later, I saw Howard, Amber, and a massive crowd of one hundred and fifty people stream through the front doors. My fork nearly slipped from my fingers. They actually made it? Did Amber actually have a connection? Howard looked around the grand dining room, his chest puffed out, but his smile faltered when he saw the setup. “Amber,” I heard him call out, his voice carrying up to the mezzanine. “Why are we in the main room? Why aren’t we in a private hall? And why are our tables scattered like this?” Amber quickly stepped in, her tone smooth. “They’re incredibly busy today, Howard. This was the only way they could accommodate a party of our size on short notice. It’s a miracle we got in at all.” Howard’s tension dissolved. “Right, right. Of course. It’s all Fiona’s fault for leaving us in a bind.” The surrounding colleagues murmured their agreement. Once everyone was seated, Howard’s son, Tyler—a bloated, obnoxious twelve-year-old who wore a designer belt that was stretched to its limit—began banging his spoon against the crystal water glass. “Dad! I want lobster! I want the big crab!” “Amber,” Howard said, waving a hand. “Let’s get some food out here. Everyone’s hungry.” Rhonda agreed, rubbing her stomach. “Yes, my dad and I skipped breakfast just for this!” Amber’s sweet demeanor suddenly vanished. She turned on them, her eyes flashing with irritation. “Are you guys starving or something? Stop rushing me!” The table went silent. They were too intimidated by her supposed “heiress” status to talk back. Thirty minutes passed. Our appetizers arrived—beautifully plated oysters and tuna tartare. Downstairs, however, the fifteen tables remained completely empty. No water, no bread, no menus. Howard was sweating through his suit jacket. He kept looking around, his eyes darting to the other tables where wealthy families were enjoying their meals. Finally, Amber stood up. Howard and the others let out a collective sigh of relief, assuming she was finally going to the kitchen to demand their food. But what she did next was something none of us could have ever anticipated.

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I had broken up with Dani six times, and every single time, it was because of Christian. To fund the lavish lifestyle of that bankrupt rich kid, she would constantly sneak out behind my back to run illegal canyon races, literally risking her life to bring home cash. Every time I finally lost my mind and ended things, she would end up on her knees in front of me, her eyes bloodshot, sobbing and swearing that it was the absolute last time. But then I’d look at her bruises, her cuts, and the sheer exhaustion etched into her face, and my chest would ache. I’d soften. I always softened. Today was supposed to be the day. The day our parents were meeting to finalize our wedding date. I sat in the private dining room of the restaurant, enduring the pitying, increasingly tense looks from my relatives, waiting from noon until the sun went down. Dani never showed up. It wasn’t until ten at night that my phone finally rang. It was Becca, one of her friends from the racing scene. “Dani crashed,” Becca gasped, her voice frantic over the line. “She was running a canyon race and her car flipped. They’re wheeling her into the ER right now. You need to come—” I cut her off. My voice was incredibly cold, even to my own ears. “It was for Christian again, wasn’t it?” Becca stammered, trying to find the words. “Christian… he fell in love with this limited-edition watch, and…” The background noise on her end was pure chaos—the sterile beep of hospital monitors, hurried footsteps, and Christian’s muffled, theatrical sobbing as he cried out Dani’s name. A heavy, suffocating wave of exhaustion washed over me. This endless tug-of-war, the constant breaking up and making up with absolutely no boundaries—it felt like a slow death by a thousand cuts. A sentence with no end. I closed my eyes and spoke into the receiver, my voice flat, entirely hollowed out. “I’m not coming.” “Tell her we’re done. For good.” … My mother looked at me, letting out a long, aching sigh. “It’s for the best, Wyatt,” she said gently, her hand resting on my shoulder. “We don’t care about the embarrassment of a canceled dinner. It’s better than you spending the rest of your life living in constant terror.” I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded. “Thanks, Mom. You and Dad go on home. Don’t worry about me. I just have a few things left to clear up.” After watching my parents leave, I sat alone in the cavernous, empty dining room. The screen of my phone lit up. It was a short video from Christian. In the frame, Dani was lying in a hospital bed. Her forehead was wrapped in thick white gauze, her face ghostly pale, looking battered and fragile. She forced a weak, reassuring smile and reached out to brush away tears from someone standing just out of frame. “Why are you crying?” she whispered, her voice raspy. “When have I ever promised you something and not delivered?” The video cut off abruptly. Immediately after, a text came through from Christian: “Dani is awake. She won the watch for me. Don’t be mad at her, Wyatt, and don’t worry!” I didn’t reply. I locked the screen, slid the phone into my pocket, and left. Half an hour later, I was back at the apartment Dani and I rented together. I pulled my suitcase out from under the bed and began packing. When I slid open the bottom drawer of the wardrobe, my hands froze. Tucked away in the back was a cheap, plastic racing trophy. It was from the very first illegal street race Dani had ever won. Staring at the tacky gold paint, my mind drifted. I found myself pulled back into the shadows of two years ago. That was the first time she had lied to me, racing down the treacherous, barrier-free mountain passes of the Angeles Crest. When I found out, the sheer terror of what could have happened broke me. I packed my bags and told her we were over. It had rained heavily that night. Dani, battered and bruised from a near-miss on the asphalt, stood outside my apartment door in the pouring rain. She refused to leave, no matter how much I yelled or begged her to go. I kept my expression icy, telling her I would never forgive her. She panicked, her eyes wild with desperation, until her body simply gave out and she collapsed, unconscious, right at my feet. I remembered how my entire body had violently shaken as I dropped to my knees, cradling her limp form, sobbing so hard I couldn’t breathe. I truly believed I was losing the love of my life. That terrifying, suffocating fear made me surrender. I forgave her. And that surrender paved the way for the second time, the third time… and every time after. “Buzzz. Buzzz.” The violent vibration of my phone jarred me back to the present. It was Dani. “Wyatt,” she said, her voice sounding a bit tight but trying to sound cheerful. “Did I scare you? I’m totally fine. Just a cracked rib and some scratches, seriously.” “Becca completely overreacted. The doctor said I can head home as soon as the final scans come back. I’m so sorry about today. Your parents must be furious, right?” “Yeah,” I murmured quietly. Hearing that I wasn’t screaming or crying like I usually did, she let out a visible breath over the line. “Listen… I wanted to ask you something,” she continued, her tone shifting to that careful, bargaining register she used when she knew she was pushing a boundary. “About the wedding… do you think we could push it back? Just by a year or two?” She paused, choosing her words deliberately. “Christian was just in the room. He was telling me about his old friends from before the bankruptcy—they all just got these new sports cars, and he’s feeling really left out. He wants one so badly.” “So… I ended up wire-transferring him the money from our joint account. The savings we had put aside for the house down payment.” When I didn’t reply, her voice softened into a cajoling, pleading purr. “Come on, Wyatt. You know how much his family did for me when I was growing up. I’ve always promised to look out for him like a little brother. Now that they’ve lost everything, I’m the only one he has left to turn to…” She rambled on and on, wrapping her betrayal in the noble fabric of obligation and loyalty. If this had been a year ago, I would have been screaming, my voice cracking as I asked her the same agonizing questions: “What about me? What about my life, my youth, my dignity?” But now? I didn’t even have the energy to argue. The fire had completely died out, leaving nothing but cold ash. “Do whatever you want,” I said softly. On the other end, Dani’s voice flared with instant, poorly concealed relief. “Wyatt, I knew you’d understand. You’re the best. When you were quiet just now, I thought you were going to threaten to leave me again. You scared the hell out of me.” I let out a dry, silent laugh. “No. I won’t ever fight with you about this again.” “I mean it, Wyatt,” she said, her tone suddenly turning solemn and intense. “Believe me, this was the absolute last time I’ll ever race. I’ll never let you feel second-best again. We might have to wait a little longer to get married, but I swear, when we do, it’s going to be the most beautiful wedding this city has ever seen…” I listened in silence. Over the past five years, she had made some version of this speech dozens of times. The first time, it had moved me to tears. Now, my chest felt like an abandoned well—no matter how loud she shouted down into it, there was no echo. Right in the middle of her grand, sweeping promises of our beautiful future, the sharp creak of a door opening cut through the line. Then came Christian’s high, excited voice: “Dani! Becca just drove the new car over! It’s parked right downstairs, and oh my god, it is stunning! Come on, you have to come down and look at it with me!” Dani’s heartfelt confession to me vanished instantly. Her voice softened into that familiar, indulgent tone she reserved only for him. “You little devil, I just got stitched up… Alright, alright, let me grab a jacket. Stop pulling my arm, slow down.” I didn’t wait to hear the rest. I hung up. It had hadn’t always been this way. When Dani and I first started dating, Christian didn’t exist in my world. But two years ago, when the family business collapsed, Christian was forced to return from his expensive boarding school overseas. It was only then that I learned the truth: Dani was an orphan, and Christian’s family had funded her education and upbringing. To Dani, Christian wasn’t just a spoiled kid. He was the living legacy of a debt she felt she had to pay back with her very life. It was a debt that stood between us like an insurmountable mountain, ensuring our relationship was a tragedy from the start. I took a deep breath, picked up my phone, and dialed my college mentor. “Professor Campbell? The research spot you mentioned—the one at the Arctic observation station in Iceland. Is it still open?” Professor Campbell’s voice sharpened with gravity. “It is, Wyatt. But let me be entirely clear: this is a highly classified, deep-field assignment. Once you’re on-site, you cannot return to the States for at least three years. Are you absolutely sure you want to take this?” “I am,” I said, my voice completely steady. “I want it.” There was a long pause on the other end. “I thought you turned it down because of your girlfriend? Didn’t you two break up over this before?” “We did,” I murmured, a sudden, sharp ache blooming behind my eyes. “But we’re over now. Officially.” The moment I walked out of our apartment building dragging my suitcase, a pair of blinding high beams cut through the darkness. A brand-new, blood-red sports car was idling curbside. The window rolled down, revealing Christian. He looked at my suitcase, his lips curling into a smug, knowing smirk. “What’s this? Running away in the middle of the night?” I managed a polite, empty smile. “If I don’t leave, how are you going to move in?” Christian pushed the door open and stepped out onto the pavement. “Please, don’t act like I’m the homewrecker here. It’s pathetic. Dani wants to spend her money on me. It’s her choice. What am I supposed to do, say no?” He stepped closer, his smile sharpening. “Honestly, Wyatt, I almost feel bad for you. Do you want to know a secret?” “Dani got drunk once and told me the truth. She said if I hadn’t been the golden heir of the family that took her in—if she hadn’t felt so beneath me back then—she never would have settled for someone like you. You were always just the second-best option.” “So don’t act like you’re the prize. If I actually wanted her, you wouldn’t even have stood a chance.” The midnight wind swept down the street, making me shiver. But as I listened to him, I didn’t feel the sting of heartbreak. I only felt a profound, almost comical sense of absurdity. Five years of my life, wasted on this. “Then I genuinely wish you both a long and happy life together,” I said softly. “You deserve each other.” My lack of anger caught him off guard. His smug expression faltered, replaced by the ugly, petulant look of a spoiled child who hadn’t gotten the reaction he wanted. As I turned to walk away, he reached out and grabbed the strap of my suitcase. “Wait. Who said you could leave?” “Dani is still in the hospital. I don’t do sickrooms or caretaking. You need to go there and look after her.” I looked down at his hand on my bag. “Let go.” Instead of releasing it, Christian yanked his phone out and immediately dialed Dani on FaceTime. “Dani…” he whined into the camera, his voice instantly cracking into a sob. “Did I make Wyatt mad again?” “I just wanted to show him the new car, but he’s packed all his bags and he’s leaving. He refuses to go to the hospital to see you. I tried to stop him, but he’s being so mean…” On the screen, Dani looked exhausted, the white gauze stark against her pale skin. Hearing Christian’s tears, she didn’t ask why I was standing on a dark street corner with all my belongings. She didn’t ask if I was okay. She just pinched the bridge of her nose, her voice tight with irritation. “Wyatt, what are you doing now? We literally just talked about this on the phone. Stop taking things out on Christian. Just get over here to the hospital.” I stood there in the cold, ready to hang up and walk away forever, when my mentor’s words echoed in my mind: “The security clearance for the Iceland project is incredibly strict. I need your physical passport and ID on my desk by nine tomorrow morning to initiate the paperwork.” And all of my official documents were in Dani’s possession. Because today was supposed to be the day we got our marriage license, I had handed her my passport and ID packet the night before. She had tucked them into her leather backpack—the very same bag currently sitting on the nightstand in her hospital room. I looked at Dani’s face on the screen. “Fine,” I said. “I’m coming to the hospital.” Half an hour later, I stepped off the elevator on the third floor of the surgical wing. As I reached her room and went to push the door open, the sound of Becca’s voice stopped me cold. “Dani, don’t you think you’ve gone too far this time?” “That was the down payment for your house. You gave every single cent of it to Christian for a sports car? And you stood up Wyatt’s family for an entire day. Aren’t you terrified he’s actually going to walk away this time? He has been nothing but devoted to you for five years. We all see how much he loves you.” My hand hovered inches from the handle. Inside, there was a long, heavy silence before Dani spoke, her voice brimming with absolute certainty. “He won’t leave. We’ve been together for five years. You don’t just throw away a love like that.” “You know Wyatt. He has a soft heart. Every time we fight, all I have to do is apologize, and he comes running back. Once I get discharged in a couple of days, I’ll buy him a nice gift, say I’m sorry, and this will all blow over.” Becca let out a weary sigh. “But Dani, what you do for Christian… it’s too much. What kind of man is going to sit by and watch his partner endlessly sacrifice herself for someone else? What are you actually doing here?” Dani’s tone sharpened, turning defensive. “They are two completely different things. Christian’s family lost everything. They have nothing. I promised his parents I would look after him, and I don’t break my promises. It’s a debt I owe them, and I have to pay it.” She paused, her voice softening slightly. “Wyatt is reasonable. He’s mature. Once we’re married, I’ll make it up to him. I’ll love him twice as hard, buy him whatever he wants. But I am never turning my back on Christian. Wyatt will just have to get used to it.” “Hey! Why are you just standing out here?” Christian’s loud, petulant voice suddenly rang out from behind me in the hallway. The conversation inside died instantly. Dani’s head snapped toward the door. The moment she saw me standing there, every ounce of color drained from her face. “Wyatt… how long have you been standing there? Let me explain—” “Don’t bother,” I interrupted, my voice perfectly flat. “I’ve heard some version of that speech for years, Dani. I’m sick of it.” Dani reached out blindly from her bed. “Wyatt, please, stop acting like this. Becca and I were just talking. And I told you, this was the last time. From now on, I—” I let out a bitter laugh. “The last time? How many ‘last times’ have we had, Dani?” “You’ve been lying to me from the start. You never had any intention of letting him go. You just wanted to keep pushing me, testing my limits, until I was worn down enough to accept this sick, twisted dynamic.” Her mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. A sudden, fierce burn flared behind my eyelids. “Every single time you went out to race on those unlit, unguarded mountain roads, I couldn’t close my eyes. Not for a second.” “I sat there staring at my phone, absolutely paralyzed by the fear that the next call would be a paramedic telling me your car had gone over a cliff. Did you ever think about me? Just once? Did you ever care that I was waiting for you to come home?” Dani’s desperation made her voice pitch higher. “I’m a professional, Wyatt! I know my limits! I’m good at what I do, and I’ve always come back. Look at me, I’m fine!” I let out a soft, hollow laugh. “Fine? Let me ask you something, Dani.” “Even if we got married—even if we had children—the moment Christian snapped his fingers and wanted something else, you’d still sneak out in the middle of the night to risk your life for him, wouldn’t you?” Dani looked away, staring down at her hospital blanket, silent. I looked away from her. “Give me my documents. They’re in your black bag on the nightstand.” She blinked, startled. “Why do you want your bag? Wyatt, what are you doing?” “Just give it to me.” Sensing the absolute finality in my voice, Becca quickly reached over, grabbed the leather backpack, and handed it to me. I zipped it open, checked that my passport and ID envelope were safely inside, and turned on my heel. At exactly nine o’clock the next morning, I stood in Professor Campbell’s office. He looked at me over his glasses as I placed my documents on his desk. “Are you absolutely sure, Wyatt? Once we submit these and initiate the government clearance, there’s no turning back.” “I’m sure,” I said, my voice completely steady. “I won’t regret it.” … Three days later. Dani pushed open the apartment door, a large bandage still covering her forehead. She was carrying a garment bag containing a bespoke designer suit she’d ordered for me. A high-end peace offering to smooth things over, just like she always did. “Wyatt, I’m home!” she called out, trying to sound bright. “I got you that—” The apartment was dead quiet. Frowning, she kicked off her shoes and walked into the bedroom. “Are you still giving me the silent treatment? Come on, I came straight home from the hospital to see you…” Her voice died in her throat the moment she opened the wardrobe doors.

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The office was in the middle of a sudden crisis when I texted my fiancée, Natalie, asking her to pick up my parents from the Amtrak station. It was their first time visiting the city. Half an hour later, she sent back a single character: “K.” A faint shadow of unease crept into my chest, but I brushed it off. It wasn’t until I got off work and walked into an empty, silent apartment that the anxiety flared. Driven by a terrible instinct, I grabbed my keys and rushed toward the station. The late afternoon heat was suffocating, hovering near a hundred degrees. Sixty pounds of fresh peaches from my father’s orchard lay bruised and scattered across the concrete. My father was slumped on the edge of a concrete planter, pale and slick with sweat, suffering from severe heatstroke. My mother was kneeling beside him, using a plastic bottle cap to drip water onto his cracked, dry lips. Natalie had never showed up. Instead, she had sent my father a text: “I’m caught up in something. Use a chatbot to look up the bus route.” But my father was using an ancient, battered flip phone. He had been holding that chipped, plastic brick to his ear, his voice trembling as he asked the automated operator over and over: “How do I get to my son’s house? Please, ma’am, just tell me the way.” When they saw me, my parents forced small, tearful smiles. My mother pulled anxiously at the hem of her faded cotton shirt. “Don’t go blaming your fiancée, Peter. It’s our fault. We’re just old and don’t understand these fancy gadgets. We’re nothing but a nuisance.” My hands shook as I unlocked my phone. On my feed, a new post from Natalie’s childhood friend, Ryan, stared back at me. In the photo, Natalie was carefully helping Ryan’s parents into a luxury motorhome. “Just mentioned my mom gets car sick, and Natalie literally took the afternoon off and rented an RV to pick them up from the airport. Sweeter than a real daughter.” I knelt down on the baking concrete and gripped my father’s trembling hand. On his scratched phone screen, the call log to Natalie was still glowing. Forty-three outgoing calls. Every single one of them declined. I swallowed the bitter lump in my throat, my voice terrifyingly calm. “Dad, the AI didn’t do anything wrong.” “It’s the person. She’s rotten to the core.” 1 My father’s IV drip ran until nine that night. He lay in the observation bed of the emergency room, his face a sallow, waxen yellow, his dry lips twitching slightly. “Peter, this must be costing a fortune,” he whispered, his hand shaking as he reached for the small, zippered pocket sewn into the waistband of his trousers. “I brought cash. Let me pay.” I gently pressed his hand down, my throat feeling as though it had been scraped with sandpaper. “It’s not much, Dad. I already took care of it.” In truth, Natalie’s credit card was in my wallet, but I had instinctively used my own personal debit card. From the moment she declined that forty-third call at the train station, I knew I never wanted to owe her another cent. By the time I brought my parents back to our apartment, Natalie was already there. She was dressed in silk loungewear, reclining on the sofa with her noise-canceling headphones in. Hearing the door open, she glanced up. Her eyes lingered for a fraction of a second on my parents’ wrinkled, sweat-stained clothes. “Oh, you’re finally here. It’s pretty hot out, isn’t it?” Her voice was polite, smooth, and entirely devoid of warmth. She pointed toward the foyer shoe rack. “The house slippers are on the second shelf. Mary, Robert, those boots have mud on the soles. Would you mind putting them in a plastic bag before you set them down? That entryway rug is pure wool, and it’s incredibly difficult to clean.” My mother, who had been about to step out of her shoes, froze. She looked down at my father’s mud-flecked work boots, panicked, and took two steps backward, retreating entirely into the cold, concrete hallway outside the apartment. “Oh, of course, dear. I understand,” my mother stammered. Kneeling in the hallway, she pulled the boots off my father’s feet herself. She used the clean underside of her own shirt to wipe the dust from the soles before she dared to bring them inside. My father stood in the foyer, rubbing his calloused hands together. From a battered canvas tote bag, he carefully pulled out a heavy glass jar, sealed tight. “Natalie, this is raw honey from my own hives back home. Peter mentioned you do a lot of corporate training and your throat gets dry. This is good for the lungs.” He held the jar out with both hands, offering it like a prized possession. Natalie took off her headphones, but she didn’t reach for the jar. Instead, she offered a thin, professional smile. “Thank you, Robert, but I only drink black coffee. No sugar.” She paused, adjusting her posture. “Besides, private, raw honey like this is highly risky. The levels of botulinum and heavy metals can easily exceed safety standards. If I get food poisoning, it’ll ruin my schedule tomorrow. You should keep it for yourselves.” My father’s hands hovered in midair. A shadow of deep humiliation and utter helplessness flickered across his cloudy eyes. Slowly, he drew his hands back, tucking the jar into the deepest corner of his bag. His voice was barely a whisper. “Oh, I see… I’m sorry. I don’t know much about science. I didn’t mean to cause trouble.” Natalie put her headphones back in, her eyes returning to her tablet. “It’s fine. Just use your phone to search things up when you’re not sure. Peter, take them to get washed up. They have that… Amtrak smell on them.” Her tone was incredibly casual. I stared at her profile, my fists clenching so hard my nails bit into my palms. A few minutes later, Natalie’s phone rang. She pulled her headphones out instantly, hitting the speakerphone button. Her voice underwent an immediate transformation, becoming soft, patient, and incredibly warm. “Mr. Curtis! Yes, that smart cervical massager was from me.” “You can’t find the power switch? No worries, I’ll walk you through it.” “Do you feel the raised metal button on the left side? Yes, hold it down for three seconds. Then push it up once for the lowest setting.” On the other end of the line, Ryan’s father laughed, complaining gently. “Oh, you young people and your high-tech gadgets. My old bones can barely keep up. I’m putting you to so much trouble, Natalie.” Natalie let out a soft, melodic laugh. There wasn’t a trace of impatience in her voice. “Mr. Curtis, please don’t say that.” “If our elders don’t know how to use something, it’s our job to guide them through it. It’s the least we can do.” I stood in the shadow of the hallway. I watched my father, who was terrified of stepping on the wool rug, pressing his back against the wall as he shuffled sideways toward the guest room. It’s our job to guide them through it. Then what was it, I wondered, when she told my father to ask a chatbot this afternoon? 2 The next day was Saturday. I had planned to take my father to a local clinic to get his heart checked after the heatstroke. But as I stepped out of the guest room, I saw Natalie standing in the living room, holding a small, black smart speaker. She plugged it into the outlet right outside my parents’ bedroom door and turned to face them. “Mary, Robert, I’m usually very busy with work, and Peter has his own projects. You won’t know how to operate any of the smart appliances in this house.” She tapped the top of the black cylinder. “So I’ve set up this digital assistant for you. If you want to turn on the TV, run the washing machine, or if you don’t know how long to microwave something, just talk to it.” “It’s much smarter than a human. It won’t get annoyed, no matter how many times you ask.” My mother’s eyes lit up, filled with a quiet reverence for the city’s technology. “Oh, my. Such a clever little box. Thank you so much, Natalie. We promise we won’t get in your way.” Natalie nodded, satisfied, and checked her watch. “I have to head out for a meeting. I probably won’t be back for dinner, so please help yourselves.” The moment the front door clicked shut, I saw a notification light up on her phone, which was synced to our shared tablet on the counter. It was a text from Ryan. “Natalie, my mom really wants to try that private farm-to-table bistro downtown, but I heard bookings are backlogged by a month.” Natalie’s reply had been instant: “Already taken care of. I used a favor with the clinic director to get us a private dining room. I’ll pick you all up at eleven.” I stood frozen in the quiet living room, feeling the blood in my veins turn to ice. I had mentioned that exact bistro to Natalie a month ago. I told her my parents were coming and that I wanted them to experience a nice, authentic meal in the city. At the time, Natalie hadn’t even looked up from her laptop. “Places like that are all about the aesthetic and markup,” she had said coldly. “Your parents are used to simple food. They won’t appreciate the difference. It’s just throwing money away.” At eleven that night, I got up to get a glass of water. Passing the guest room, I noticed the door was cracked open. The room was pitch black. In the dim light spill from the hallway, I saw my father kneeling on the carpet in front of the smart speaker. On his nose rested his reading glasses—the pair with the broken arm, held together by yellowing Scotch tape. In his hands was the washing machine manual Natalie had tossed to him earlier. Earlier that evening, my mother had accidentally splashed some soup on the sofa cushion. She wanted to wash it immediately, but she couldn’t figure out how to open the smart washer door. My father leaned close to the speaker, his voice hushed, strained with a thick, nervous rural accent. “Um… Alexa? How do I… how do I open the door for the… wash?” The speaker pulsed with a cold, blue light, its mechanical voice flat and metallic: “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that. Please speak clearly in a quiet environment.” Sweat beaded on my father’s forehead. He cleared his throat, trying desperately to enunciate. “Alexa! The washing… machine. How to… open?” The speaker pulsed again. “Searching for: How to open a washing business. Here are the top results…” My father stared at the glowing blue ring. Slowly, his shoulders slumped. He sat back on his heels, staring helplessly at the plastic cylinder. Then, he raised his rough, calloused hand and struck himself hard across the face. The slap was a dull, heavy sound in the quiet of the night. “Stupid,” my father whispered, his voice cracking with a sob. “So stupid… even a machine looks down on you.” He buried his face in his hands. “How is Peter ever going to hold his head up in front of her family with a father like me?” I stood outside the door, biting down on the back of my hand until it bled, tears streaming down my face, terrified of making a single sound. This was the “high-tech” solution Natalie was so proud of. It was a mirror, reflecting her quiet arrogance and my parents’ crushing humility, leaving them with nowhere to hide. 3 On Sunday afternoon, we had uninvited guests. Without giving me any warning, Natalie walked in the door carrying Ryan’s mother’s designer handbag, followed by Ryan and his parents. “Mr. Curtis wanted to see the river view,” Natalie said, kicking off her heels. “My apartment has the best view in the building.” Ryan held his father’s arm, speaking in a soft, pampered tone. “Natalie, I hope we aren’t interrupting you and Peter. My mom’s knees have been acting up because of the damp weather, so we’re moving a bit slow.” I walked out of the kitchen holding a plate of sliced fruit, meeting Natalie’s gaze. She looked at the plate, her brow furrowing slightly. “Peter, go to my study and get that German cold-laser therapy device out of the drawer. Let Mr. Curtis use it.” I hesitated. “That’s for my dad,” I said quietly. I had bought that device just yesterday. After his heatstroke, my father had been complaining of deep soreness in his lower back and legs. I had paid nearly fifteen hundred dollars to have a friend import it from Europe, and I hadn’t even opened the box yet. Natalie’s expression instantly hardened, turning cold and impatient. “Your father’s pain is from years of manual labor. It’s chronic joint damage; a delicate therapy device like that won’t do anything for him. Mr. Curtis has acute stiffness. It’s completely different.” She lowered her voice, her tone sharp. “And let’s not forget, when we bought this place, Mr. Curtis pulled some strings to get us the developer’s discount. Consider this returning a favor. Go get it.” She spoke with absolute conviction, weighing every human interaction like a transaction on a balance sheet. My father, who had been coming in from the balcony with a basket of laundry, overheard us. A flash of panic crossed his face. He quickly set the laundry down on a chair and hurried over. “Peter! I don’t need that thing,” my father said, offering a pleading, placating smile to Ryan’s father. He bowed slightly, presenting his hands. “Brother Curtis, you use it. My body is tough as nails. A fancy machine like that is wasted on me anyway.” Ryan’s father reached out, taking the box with two fingers, giving a curt, dismissive nod. “Thanks.” Natalie immediately knelt down on the rug to unbox it. She sat on her heels, carefully applying the therapy patches to Mr. Curtis’s knees, adjusting the settings with immense care. “Is the intensity okay, Mr. Curtis? Let me know if it’s too warm.” “It’s perfect, Natalie. You’re such a thoughtful girl,” Ryan’s mother beamed. My father stood nearby, rubbing his hands against his trousers, looking entirely out of place. To break the awkward silence, he turned toward the kitchen to grab a cloth. “I’ll… I’ll wipe down the coffee table for you all. You go ahead and chat.” “Robert,” Natalie said suddenly, stopping him in his tracks. She didn’t look up from the remote control in her hand. “That table is engineered quartz. You can’t use a wet dishcloth on it; it leaves water spots. If you’re bored, you can rest in the guest room. The Roomba is about to start anyway.” My father’s hand, holding the cloth, froze in midair. He stood there like a child who had done something wrong, slowly tucking the cloth behind his back. With his head bowed, he edged along the wall and slipped back into the guest room. As the door clicked shut, I heard Natalie whisper to Ryan: “Older folks always want to feel useful, but honestly, they just slow everything down.” The paring knife in my hand hit the kitchen counter with a sharp clatter. I took a deep, shuddering breath, turned, and walked into the guest room. 4 The next morning, early. The sound of violent coughing echoed from the bathroom. I pushed the door open to find my father leaning over the sink, staring at a bright splatter of blood. The severe heatstroke from Friday had pushed his fragile cardiovascular system to its absolute limit. “Peter… don’t tell Natalie,” he gasped, clutching his chest. His first instinct, even now, was the fear of being a burden to her. My hands shook as I pulled out my phone and messaged Natalie: “My dad is coughing up blood. Can you ask Dr. Lawrence if we can get him into the emergency cardiac unit?” She replied instantly. I tapped the message, only to find a block of standard, AI-generated text. “Based on your description, hemoptysis may indicate severe cardiovascular pathology. It is recommended to visit the nearest tertiary hospital. You can schedule an appointment via the hospital portal. The steps are as follows: Step 1, download the app…” Looking at that cold, automated response, something inside me went entirely dark. I closed the chat, rented a car, and rushed my father to Mercy General Hospital. The emergency room physician looked over his scans, his face grim. “He needs an immediate coronary angioplasty. Our cardiology department is excellent, but Dr. Lawrence is the only specialist available this week who can handle a high-risk case like this.” The doctor sighed. “Dr. Lawrence’s schedule is booked through next month. Your father can’t wait that long. You need to find a way to get him a priority slot.” Dr. Lawrence was Natalie’s former university mentor. They were incredibly close; she visited him every holiday. With the medical charts in my hand, I dialed Natalie’s number. It rang for a long time before she picked up. “Natalie, my dad needs emergency surgery. Can you call Dr. Lawrence? The doctor says we can’t wait.” My voice was tight, pleading. There was a pause on the line. “Peter, aren’t you making a mountain out of a molehill? I sent you the scheduling steps.” “Older people have heart issues all the time. He just needs some medication and rest.” “The doctor said he needs surgery! He’s throwing up blood!” I shouted, my voice cracking. Natalie sighed, her tone dripping with annoyance. “Stop yelling. Dr. Lawrence’s emergency priority slot for this week is already taken.” My body went rigid, the blood freezing in my veins. “Taken? By whom?” “Ryan’s uncle,” Natalie said, her voice entirely matter-of-fact. “His uncle runs an international logistics firm. His time is literally money. He was experiencing some mild arrhythmia yesterday, so I gave the slot to him.” I gripped the phone so hard my knuckles turned white. “An arrhythmia gets a priority slot, but my father is coughing up blood in an ER? He is waiting for a life-saving surgery!” “Peter!” Natalie’s voice turned ice-cold. “Can you stop trying to guilt-trip me? Resources have to be allocated where they actually matter. Ryan’s uncle can secure a major corporate sponsorship for my promotion next quarter. What can your father do for me?” “He’s an old man from the country. Even if he gets this surgery, what social value does he actually bring to the table? He’s just going to consume more resources.” The hospital corridor was loud, crowded with moving stretchers, but a chill crept up my spine, paralyzing me. My mouth opened, but I found I had nothing left to say to her. “Why aren’t you saying anything?” Perhaps sensing she had gone too far, Natalie softened her tone slightly. “Look, I’ll send you a link. It’s a portal with a real-time cancellation tracker. Have your father monitor it; maybe he can snag a slot with another doctor. This is the era of digital medicine. He needs to learn to adapt.” The line went dead. A second later, a text banner appeared with the link she had promised. At that moment, the final, fragile thread holding me to her snapped. That afternoon, after making sure my parents were settled in the ward, I went back to the apartment. Natalie wasn’t there. I pulled my largest suitcase from the closet and began packing my things, along with the few belongings my parents had brought. There wasn’t much to pack. When I was done, I walked into the living room. I slid the engagement ring off my finger and set it gently on the glass surface of the coffee table. Then, I walked out, closing the door quietly behind me. No slamming. No noise.

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This was the eighteenth time Virginia had brought her latest distraction home, demanding I paint them in the heat of their intimacy. Everyone in the room expected a scene. They wanted tears, broken glass, a husband driven mad by humiliation. Instead, I sat before the canvas, listening to their hushed, breathless giggles, and finished the piece without a single tremor in my hand. Wyatt, one of Virginia’s sycophants, let out a dry, mocking chuckle. “Come on, Virginia. Your husband has the patience of a saint. Most men would have thrown us out by now.” Virginia casually buttoned her silk shirt, her lip curling into a familiar, lazy sneer. “With what authority? The Cross family empire is dead. I paid off his family’s debts. Even his late mother’s studio is registered under my name.” She glanced at me, her eyes cold. “Without me, Allen is nothing.” I set my brush down and offered my standard invoice. “A custom bedroom scene. Three hundred thousand dollars.” Virginia didn’t blink. She slid a check across the table, followed by a thick envelope of divorce papers. “Christian is sensitive,” she said, her voice smooth and devoid of warmth. “He hates hiding. He feels cheapened by this arrangement. I need you to step aside for a while. Once he feels secure, I’ll find a place for you again. As my kept man, of course.” The room held its breath, waiting for the crack in my armor. I simply picked up the pen and signed my name on the dotted line. The smugness vanished from Virginia’s face. “Are you serious?” I capped the pen and met her gaze. “Completely. You and Christian deserve each other. I’m done playing my part in this twisted little game.” … Virginia’s fingers hovered over the signed papers, frozen. She stared at me, searching my face for the usual signs of desperation. When she realized I wasn’t bluffing, she let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Fine. But remember, Allen—you leave with nothing. Not a single thing from The Arbors belongs to you.” “Fine by me,” I said. This place had never been a home. It was a gilded cage, and every luxury she threw my way was just another link in the chain. My indifference irritated her. Just as she opened her mouth to snap at me, Wyatt chimed in with a smirk. “Nice strategy, Allen. Usually, Christian throws a tantrum and Virginia runs back to him. Now you’re trying the reverse psychology trick. Let’s see how long she lets you pretend to be strong.” The flicker of doubt in Virginia’s eyes hardened back into cold arrogance. “You’re a bit too old for these games, Allen. Christian is young; I tolerate his whims. But you trying to threaten me with divorce? It’s pathetic.” She grabbed my chin, forcing me to meet her icy glare. “Look at yourself. You aren’t the golden boy of the Cross family anymore. Without me, how do you even survive?” I didn’t pull away. I kept my voice flat. “I still have my hands. I can paint.” “Paint?” She scoffed, as if I’d said something hilarious. “Everyone in our circle knows you belong to me. Who do you think would dare buy a canvas from Virginia King’s discarded husband?” I was tired of this. Tired of her endless resentment. She hated me because I had broken her heart years ago when she was penniless, telling her I couldn’t marry someone with nothing to her name. She never knew the truth. She only knew how to make me bleed for it now that she was on top. “I signed,” I said, looking past her. “Give me the keys and the deed to my mother’s studio.” “You want the keys?” Virginia smiled, a vicious, slow curl of her lips. “Christian wants a portrait. Of us, and the child we’re expecting. Paint it to his liking, and the studio is yours.” The room went dead silent. Christian leaned against her, a delicate, fragile thing. “Virginia, please, don’t pressure Allen. He just signed the divorce papers. He must be hurting.” He gently stroked her lower belly. “And you shouldn’t stress yourself. Think of the baby.” “The baby.” My chest tightened. Virginia caught the subtle shift in my posture and smiled triumphantly. “Surprised? Christian is different from you, Allen. He actually wants to give me a family. You never could.” She pulled him down onto the sofa. “Paint,” she commanded. The lights were dimmed slightly, focusing on them. I stood before the easel, forced to capture their domestic bliss. The room filled with whispered mockeries from her friends. “The ex painting the new husband and the unborn child… Virginia really knows how to win.” I blocked out the noise, focusing entirely on the canvas. Until Virginia ordered the servants to bring out a canvas covered in a white sheet. When she pulled the cloth away, my heart stopped. It was my mother’s portrait. Her final self-portrait before she died. Virginia handed me a palette knife. “Christian loves the composition of this piece. Scrap her face off. Paint his in its place.” A suffocating silence fell over the room. “That’s brutal, Virginia,” someone whispered, suppressed laughter in their voice. “Making him desecrate his own mother’s memory? Pure evil.” Christian bit his lip, playing the saint. “Virginia, please, don’t. Allen will hate me.” “He wouldn’t dare,” Virginia said, her eyes locked on mine. “Do it, Allen. And you get your keys.” I looked at my mother’s gentle eyes on the canvas. It was the only piece of her I had left. But Virginia wanted to destroy it, to destroy “me”. I took the palette knife. My hand shook, but I forced it steady. The first stroke of thick, white paint smeared across my mother’s cheek. I systematically erased her eyes, her nose, her smile, replacing them with Christian’s sharp, delicate features. When it was done, I set the knife down. “Are you satisfied, Ms. King?” Virginia stared at the canvas, a strange, burning anger flashing in her eyes. She hadn’t expected me to actually do it. Without a word, she snatched a manila envelope from her assistant and hurled it at my face. The sharp corner cut my cheek, and the envelope hit the floor, spilling the keys and deeds. “Take it and get out,” she hissed. “Let’s see what your art is worth when you’re begging on the streets.” I knelt, gathered the papers, and stood up. “Allen,” she called out as I reached the door. “If you walk out today, don’t ever think of crawling back. Even if you beg on your knees, I won’t take you back.” I smiled faintly. “I won’t.” This time, I was leaving for good. I didn’t leave immediately. I went to the small storage room at the end of the hall where my mother’s remaining things were kept. This place was barely a room—just a dusty closet Virginia didn’t use. In our three years of marriage, I never had a proper bedroom. I slept on the sofa or in the studio. I packed her sketchbooks into a worn leather suitcase. At the bottom was a small tin box containing remnants of my youth with Virginia. A sticky note from when she got her first minor investment lay inside: “Allen, when I’m rich, I’ll buy you the biggest studio in the world. You’ll only ever paint what you love.” I had believed her. That’s why, when my family went bankrupt, I chose to bear the hatred and leave, rather than drag her down with me. I had sold my own award-winning paintings anonymously, mortgaged my mother’s studio, and funneled every dime into her failing startup. My mother, seeing me drive myself to ruin, fell ill from the stress and passed away a year later. When Virginia became powerful and demanded I marry her, I felt a toxic mix of joy and deep, suffocating guilt. How could I deserve happiness when my mother died because of my sacrifices? I took the sticky note, lit it with a match, and watched it turn to ash. I went downstairs. Rain was pouring outside. Two security guards blocked the exit. “Mr. Cross, Ms. King ordered that nothing from this estate leaves with you.” “These are my personal belongings,” I said. “Allen,” Christian’s voice drifted down the stairs. He was wearing a crisp white shirt, Virginia right beside him. “If they’re yours, you shouldn’t mind a quick search.” I looked at Virginia. “You gave me the keys. The rest is just my mother’s old sketchbooks.” “We’ll see about that,” she said, her voice devoid of any warmth. I gripped the handle of my suitcase. “Virginia, do you really have to do this?” “Why should I believe anything you say?” she sneered. “You promised you’d never leave me when things got tough. Yet you ran away the moment my world started to crumble.” She gestured to the guards. They ripped the suitcase from my hands and threw it onto the marble floor. The zipper burst, spilling my clothes and my mother’s sketchbooks everywhere. I lunged forward to grab her main sketchbook, but a guard pinned my arm. The blue-bound book slid across the polished floor, stopping right at Christian’s feet. He picked it up, flipping through the pages. “Oh, Virginia, these drawings are beautiful. Can I keep them?” Panic flared in my chest. “Don’t touch that!” I yelled, breaking free and shoving him back. Christian squealed in theatrical terror, his hand slipping. The sketchbook flew out of his grasp, landing face-down in the muddy puddles of the driveway. My mind went entirely blank. My mother’s last hand-drawn sketches. I ran out into the rain to retrieve it, but Christian’s leather shoe stepped firmly onto the cover, grinding it into the wet gravel. “Oops,” he whispered, looking down at me. “Don’t look at me like that, Allen. You’re scaring me.” Virginia rushed out, pulling Christian behind her. “It’s just an old book! I’ll buy you a dozen more!” “You can’t buy this, Virginia!” I screamed, my voice cracking. “Don’t you dare raise your voice at me!” she snapped. I knelt to pull the book from under Christian’s shoe. Suddenly, Christian let out a sharp cry. “Virginia, he pushed me—” Before I could react, Virginia grabbed my right wrist with terrifying force, twisting it. “Have you lost your mind, Allen?!” The pain was blinding, but I refused to let go of the wet sketchbook. “Let go!” Instead of letting go, she shoved me backward. I lost my footing on the wet tiles, my shoulder smashing into a glass display cabinet on the porch. The glass shattered. Instinctively, I put my right hand down to brace my fall. A jagged piece of thick glass sliced deep into my wrist, severing muscle and nerve. Agony exploded up my arm, and bright red blood began to gush onto the white stone. The world went completely silent. The anger on Virginia’s face froze. She stared at my right hand, her face turning pale as she watched the blood pool around us. She reached out, her hands trembling. “Allen…” I looked at her, my vision blurring. “Are you satisfied now?” My hand was numb, cold, and heavy. I knew, with absolute certainty, that I would never hold a paintbrush again. Twenty years of practice, of pouring my soul into canvases, ended in a splash of rain and blood. Virginia took a step toward me, but Christian suddenly gasped, clutching his head. “Virginia… my head… I feel dizzy…” Virginia turned back immediately. Christian was leaning against the doorframe, tears streaming down his face. “Allen lunged at me… I was so scared… I know he didn’t mean to, but…” He collapsed into her arms. The brief panic in Virginia’s eyes hardened back into disgust as she looked at me. “You’d even hurt a pregnant, defenseless person to get back at me?” I lay in the mud, shivering from pain and shock. “I didn’t touch him.” “Enough,” she said coldly. “You think mutilating yourself will make me feel guilty? Stop acting, Allen.” She turned to her assistant. “Get him out of here. Send him to Stonehaven Psychiatric Facility. Let them teach him some discipline.” She carried Christian to her car without looking back. The guards dragged me through the gravel. The pain in my wrist made me black out before they even threw me into the back of the transport van. I woke up in a sterile room. A male nurse approached my bed with a syringe. I saw my chart hanging nearby. A bright red sticker read: “ALLERGIC WARNING: DO NOT ADMINISTER.” I thrashed, trying to escape, but Christian’s voice drifted from the hallway. “Allen always has trouble staying quiet. Give him the shot. It’ll keep him peaceful.” Guards pinned me down. The cold needle pierced my skin. Within seconds, my lungs seized. I couldn’t breathe. My throat closed up, and the harsh fluorescent lights began to spin into darkness. I reached out with my right hand, but the fingers refused to move. Three days later, Virginia arrived at Stonehaven. Wyatt looked uneasy. “Virginia, was sending him here a bit too much? He’s still your husband.” Virginia scoffed. “My people watched him. Nobody would dare lay a hand on him. It’s just a lesson.” But the facility director stood before her, pale and sweating. “Ms. King… Mr. Cross had a severe anaphylactic reaction three nights ago. We tried to resuscitate him, but… he’s dead.”

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On the day of our engagement party, Gwen got married. Just not to me. She did it in a fantasy MMO, in front of thousands of digital spectators, while virtual fireworks exploded across her screen for five straight minutes. My mother stood beside her, slightly bent over, waiting for those same five minutes. Gwen casually slid off her noise-canceling headphones. “Sorry, Mrs. Mitchell. Did you say something? I didn’t catch that.” My mother forced a small, apologetic smile. “Gwen, sweetie, I was looking at the catering invoice. It says we only have four tables reserved for Devon’s side of the family. Is that a mistake? I thought we agreed on ten?” Gwen didn’t even look up from her screen. “Are you saying I made a mistake?” My mother’s face went pale. She waved her hands in a flurry of panic. “No, no! Of course not. It must be my Southern drawl—I probably mumbled and got it all twisted. I’m so sorry.” Only after Gwen finished typing out a thank-you to her virtual wedding guests did she offer a solution. “If we’re short on tables, then just tell your family to invite fewer people.” My throat tightened. Ten minutes ago, the venue manager had sent me a text that was still glowing on my screen: “Mr. Mitchell, I am so sorry. Ms. Foster gave us strict instructions. Toby Ward’s sister is returning to town, and she needs the extra ballroom space to host her welcome-back party.” In the corner of the living room, my mother’s eyes brimmed with tears as she unlocked her phone to start texting our relatives in Charleston. I reached over and gently pressed my hand over hers. “Mom, don’t. If she wants fewer of us there, let’s make it easy for her. None of us are going.” She had married Toby in the digital world. In the real world, I was about to give her exactly what she wanted. … My mom’s eyes grew redder as she patted the back of my hand. “I know how hard things are for you two,” she whispered. She thought I was just throwing a temper tantrum. Eager to smooth things over, she told me she’d make my favorite Southern comfort dish tonight—spicy blackened catfish with homemade green tomato relish—and left for the local market with her canvas tote bag. I unlocked my phone and sent a message to our family group chat: “The wedding is off. Don’t worry about booking flights or hotels anymore. Thank you all.” After hitting send, I opened my chat with Gwen, tapped her profile, and removed her from my pinned chats. Hands slid around my waist from behind. Gwen rested her chin in the crook of my shoulder. “Why the long face, Devon? Is your cold still acting up?” Last Wednesday, during a torrential downpour, she had taken my car to pick up Toby from work because he didn’t have an umbrella. I had been left stranded at a bus stop for two hours in the freezing rain. By the time I checked myself into the ER with a 103-degree fever to get an IV drip, she was sitting in a darkened theater, sharing popcorn with Toby. I unwrapped her hands from my waist and took a step back. “That was quite the grand wedding you had in the game.” Gwen’s brow immediately furrowed. “Toby isn’t good at the game. He keeps getting targeted by high-level players. Getting ‘married’ in-game just makes it easier for me to carry him through the high-level dungeons.” She sighed, sounding thoroughly exasperated. “Devon, I know the difference between fantasy and reality. It’s literally just lines of code. Are you really going to start a fight over some pixels?” Years ago, when I begged her to play that exact game with me, she wouldn’t even bother setting up an account, calling it a childish waste of time. Now, for Toby, she had grinded all the way to max level. “When I asked you to play with me, you said it was childish.” A flicker of guilt crossed her face, but she quickly masked it. “Come on, that was years ago. People change. Tell you what—next time I’m helping Toby farm, you can tag along.” I shook my head. “No thanks. I already uninstalled it.” Her shoulders relaxed, as if she had just escaped a tedious chore. “By the way, when is your mother heading back to Charleston?” Gwen had complained that the engagement prep was too tedious, which was the only reason I brought my mother up to Chicago to help. My mom had been here for exactly two days. She was so terrified of making a mess in this sleek, minimalist penthouse that she barely sat on the edges of the sofas. And now Gwen couldn’t wait to throw her out? She reached out to ruffle my hair, a gesture she used when she wanted to placate me. “Toby’s sister is being released from prison tomorrow.” She said it so casually. “She has nowhere to go. I need you to have your mom pack up so we can clear out the guest room for her.” The blood rushed to my ears, drowning out the ambient hum of the apartment with a deafening ring. My voice shook. “You’re kicking my mother out to make room for Tabitha Ward?” “Devon…” “Do you even remember why she went to prison, Gwen? She stole my high school transcripts and sabotaged my Ivy League enrollment! Because of her, my admissions offer was revoked, and I ended up trapped at a sketchy, unaccredited diploma mill!” Gwen frowned, her tone hardening into irritation. “She paid her debt to society. She spent three years in prison, Devon. What more do you want from her?” “She ruined my entire life!” I choked out, the pain ripping through my chest. “And her life is ruined too,” Gwen cut in. The words hit me like a physical blow. The warmth drained from my face. Gwen sighed, stepping forward to pull me into a tight embrace. She stroked my back with slow, practiced movements, as if soothing a stray cat that had bared its claws. “Because you insisted on pressing charges, Toby had to carry the weight of his entire family alone. These past few years have been incredibly hard on him. You didn’t just lock up Tabitha; you shattered their entire household.” She kissed the top of my head. “Be good, Devon. Stop making a scene over nothing.” I held onto a desperate shred of reality. “This is my home.” Her voice turned ice-cold. “It’s my penthouse, Devon.” The last flickering ember of hope inside me died right then. I swallowed the bitter lump in my throat and forced a faint, lifeless smile. “Fine.” I pulled back. “I bought my mom a train ticket back home for three days from now. She’ll be gone.” Gwen blinked, momentarily taken aback by how easily I’d surrendered. She leaned in to press a kiss to my forehead. “I know this has been stressful for you. Once the wedding is over, I’ll take you to Bali. You’ve always wanted to go there.” She was wrong. The one who had always dreamed of Bali was Toby. I had already booked the tickets. Two of them. One for my mother, and one for me. Around noon, my mother returned with her groceries. She whipped up a fragrant, spicy blackened catfish, then reached deep into her suitcase to pull out a sealed glass jar, a conspiratorial grin on her face. “Devon, look what I brought all the way from Charleston!” The moment she unscrewed the lid, the sharp, pungent aroma of homemade pickled green tomatoes and okra filled the air. It was a Southern staple from my childhood, the perfect, tangy side dish to cut through the heat of the fish. “You always know exactly what I need, Mom,” I said, a genuine smile breaking across my face as I reached for a fork. Gwen emerged from the kitchen holding a mug of artisanal pour-over coffee. The moment the scent hit her nose, her brow contorted into a tight, disgusted knot. “Ugh, what is that awful smell?” She covered her nose and mouth with her hand, her expression sour. “Throw that out. Now.” My mother’s hand froze mid-air. The warmth on her face crumbled into raw embarrassment. She hurriedly screwed the lid back on, looking like a child who had just broken a valuable vase. “Oh, Gwen, sweetie… Devon told me you’ve been exhausted with work. These pickled tomatoes are supposed to help boost your appetite. I packed them in a double-sealed jar so they wouldn’t leak on the trip…” I didn’t wait. I jabbed a fork into the jar, pulled out a slice of pickled tomato, and popped it in my mouth. “I think it smells amazing.” Gwen’s face darkened completely. “Devon Mitchell, are you actively trying to push my buttons today?” Back in college, when we first started dating, she had eaten half a jar of these exact pickles that my mother had mailed us. She had smiled, her eyes bright, and told me it was the most comforting, soulful thing she’d ever tasted. But then, a year ago, Toby had wrinkled his nose at a jar and offhandedly muttered, “Ugh, smells like trailer-park trash.” Since that day, Gwen had never touched another pickled tomato. In fact, she acted as though the mere scent disgusted her. She loved what Toby loved; she despised what Toby despised. She had mastered the art of aligning her tastes with his. I tightened the lid and pulled the jar protectively behind my back. “If the smell bothers you, you’re welcome to stay in your office.” Gwen let out a dry, harsh laugh, turned on her heel, and slammed her office door shut. My mother’s eyes brimmed with tears. She gently tugged at my sleeve. “Devon, please don’t fight with her because of me. You have to spend the rest of your life with this girl. I don’t want her holding a grudge against you because of some silly pickles.” My throat burned with a sudden, sharp ache. I turned and squeezed her calloused, worn hand. “Mom, this has nothing to do with you. And I’m not marrying her.” She stared at me, stunned. I looked back at her with absolute, unwavering certainty. Realizing I meant every word, she pulled me into her arms, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed. “Oh, my sweet boy… you’ve been hurting so much, and I didn’t even see it. It’s okay. We won’t marry her. We don’t need her. You and I can make a good life back home.” Gwen didn’t come to bed until well past midnight. I lay under the covers, pretending to be asleep. The shower was running, and through the frosted glass of the master bath, I could hear her laughing—a soft, intimate sound reserved only for one person. She was on a speaker call with Toby. “You want to see my abs?” she teased over the sound of rushing water. “If I show you now, what’s next? You going to want to touch them too?” A pause, then she chuckled. “Don’t worry, I’ve taken care of everything for your sister. A reward? What kind of reward are you giving me?” The line went quiet for a moment. She cleared her throat, her voice dropping to a slightly flustered register. “Alright, that’s enough. Don’t you dare show that photo to anyone else.” My stomach violently churned. I gripped the edge of the blanket until my knuckles turned white. Gwen stepped out of the bathroom, her cheeks flushed, smelling of jasmine and hot steam. She slid under the covers and immediately reached for the buttons of my pajama shirt. It was her usual pattern: get worked up by Toby’s flirting, then come to my bed to relieve the tension. “Don’t touch me,” I snapped, a wave of revulsion washing over me as I shoved her away. “Are you still throwing a tantrum?” she asked, sighing. As I pushed her, her silk robe parted slightly. There, etched into the pale skin just beneath her left collarbone, was a fresh tattoo. A black hawk with spread wings. It was the exact same design that Tabitha Ward had tattooed on her arm. I stared at the dark ink, my voice trembling with cold rage. “You got a tattoo of that?” Gwen glanced down, casually pulling her collar closed as if it were nothing. “Toby has had terrible nightmares these past few years because his sister was locked up. I got the tattoo to help soothe his anxiety. It’s not like I tattooed his name on my body, Devon. Why are you making a big deal out of this?” She had permanently branded herself with the mark of the woman who destroyed my future, placing it right over her heart. All to soothe Toby’s “anxiety.” Without a word, I threw off the duvet and stood up. “Devon!” she called out behind me, but I didn’t stop. I walked into the study, shut the door, and spent the night on the small leather sofa. When I woke up the next morning and opened the door, the guest room was completely empty. My mother’s canvas tote bag, her old suitcase—everything was gone. Gwen was standing by the entryway, slipping off her designer heels. “Where is my mother?” I asked, my voice hoarse. “I booked her an early train and sent her on her way,” Gwen said smoothly. “Toby and his sister are arriving soon. I didn’t want any awkward run-ins to ruin the mood.” She had kicked my mother out while I was asleep. And my mom, terrified of causing a scene or making things harder for me, hadn’t made a single sound. She had just quietly packed her things and slipped away in the dark. My hands shook as I dialed my mother’s number. “Devon, sweetie! I’m at the hotel near the station,” her voice came through the line, forced and bright. “It’s beautiful here, really. Don’t you worry about me.” My eyes stung with hot tears. Only after verifying she was safe did I let out a trembling breath and hang up. The moment the call ended, the doorbell rang. It was Toby, and standing right beside him was Tabitha. “Gwen!” Toby beamed, stepping inside and kicking off his sneakers as if he owned the place. Gwen instantly closed the laptop on the dining table and went to greet them. The laptop screen was still glowing with the files of a high-stakes multi-million-dollar merger she had claimed was so urgent that “the world could end and she couldn’t afford a single distraction.” But now, with Toby here, she abandoned it without a second thought. I remembered the night I lay shivering on this very sofa, burning with a fever, begging her to take me to the emergency room. She hadn’t even looked up from her screen. “Let me finish this email first,” she had said. That email took three hours. “Come on in, Tabitha! This is the room Gwen set up for you,” Toby said proudly, pointing toward the guest room my mother had just been forced to vacate. Tabitha’s eyes slowly swept over me, her gaze slimy and patronizing. “Devon Mitchell. Long time no see.” Swallowing a surge of nausea, I took a step back. Toby strolled over, wrapping his arm familiarly around Gwen’s. He looked at me with an insufferable air of magnanimity. “Hey, Devon. My sister told me she’s willing to let bygones be bygones. She’s a bigger person than most, and she forgives you for putting her away. Now that we’re all living under one roof, we’re basically family.” My hands clenches into tight fists, my nails biting so hard into my palms that they nearly drew blood. “She falsified my transcripts and got me kicked out of Columbia! How dare she talk about forgiving me!” “Devon!” Gwen’s voice cut through the air, sharp and heavy with disappointment. “That was years ago. You have a stable, comfortable job now, don’t you? Why do you have to keep dragging up the past?” She shook her head. “You need to move forward. Stop being so petty.” My vision blurred. Seven years ago, on the day we finally uncovered the truth, Gwen had been the one with tear-filled eyes. She had slapped Tabitha across the face, held my shaking body close, and sworn that she would spend the rest of her life making things up to me, protecting me from ever feeling that kind of pain again. Now, she was standing shoulder-to-shoulder with my abuser, lecturing me on grace. I lowered my gaze, staring down at my shoes. “Right,” I whispered. “You’re right. I need to move forward.” That afternoon, I quietly rescheduled my flight to Charleston for the next day. At nine the next morning, I walked into the offices of Tidal Ventures with my printed resignation letter tucked neatly inside my bag. When I first graduated from that unaccredited, joke of a college, my resume was a black mark. Every prestigious firm shut its doors in my face. I had spent countless nights in a cramped, moldy studio apartment, crying until I physically retched from the sheer despair of a stolen future. Back then, Gwen had held me tight, wiping away my tears. “If none of these corporate bastards will hire you,” she had whispered, “then I’ll build a company just for you.” And she did. Tidal Ventures grew from a tiny startup into a private equity giant. To protect her reputation and avoid any whispers of nepotism, I had refused a high-level entry role. I started at the very bottom, working eighty-hour weeks, slowly grinding my way up to Chief of Staff. My entire youth, my blood, and my tears were poured into these foundations. But before I could even hand in my resignation, HR called me. I was being let go. The very company built on the promise of my salvation was throwing me out like garbage. I pushed open the door to my office. Toby was sitting in my ergonomic chair, casually sipping coffee from my favorite black ceramic mug. I turned to look at Gwen, who was standing by the window. My voice shook. “You gave him my job?” Gwen adjusted the silver cufflinks of her blazer, her face completely indifferent. “Toby was getting lonely sitting around the penthouse all day. Having him here gives him something to do, and keeping him close makes it easier for me to look after him.” “And what about me?” I asked. “You can stay home and focus on the wedding plans,” she said, as if she were doing me a favor. “You need a break anyway. Toby has had a rough life, and with his sister just getting out of prison, he has no safety net. Giving up your seat to him is the least you can do. Consider it a way to make amends.” Toby spun my expensive pen between his fingers, a smug, gloating smirk playing on his lips. “Yeah, Devon. After all, my sister spent three years in prison because of you, even though she didn’t really do anything wrong. She only altered your college records back then because of me, so I could—” He froze, abruptly cutting himself off and slapping a hand over his mouth. Every drop of warmth drained from my body. “What did you just say?” Gwen let out a heavy sigh, looking almost relieved. “Alright, since it’s out in the open, there’s no point in hiding it anymore.” She looked me straight in the eye. “I’ve always known, Devon. Tabitha didn’t act alone. Toby was the one who begged her to sabotage your transcripts.” “Why?” My voice was barely a whisper. “Because he was terrified of losing me,” Gwen said, her voice soft with pity. “He was scared that if you got into Columbia with me, you’d be too perfect, too successful, and he’d be left behind. He was just insecure, Devon.” She wasn’t just letting them steal my past; she was romanticizing the theft. “But since we’re being completely honest,” Gwen continued, her tone chillingly casual, “there’s one more thing you should know.” “The night your mother arrived in Chicago and had that severe asthma attack… Toby was the one who swapped her inhaler with a dummy cartridge.” My lungs seized. I couldn’t breathe. I remembered that night vividly. My mother had collapsed on the hardwood floor, her face turning a terrifying shade of blue. If the paramedics had arrived even five minutes later, she would have died. And Gwen had stood outside the ICU, her arms crossed, murmuring coldly, “People from the South are tough, Devon. She’s fine. Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill.” “But in the end, she was fine,” Gwen said now, dismissing the horror with a wave of her hand. “She only spent a couple of days in the hospital.” She knew. She knew Toby had stolen my future, and she knew he had nearly murdered my mother. Yet she still shielded him, excused him, and loved him through it all. Something inside me didn’t just break; it ground down into dust. I let out a dry, hollow laugh. “Gwen… do you honestly think my mother’s life and my own are that worthless to you?” She frowned, stepping forward to wrap her arms around me, but I flinched away. “Devon, don’t be like this,” she pleaded. “I know Toby can be selfish and reckless. I know he makes terrible mistakes, but deep down, he’s just a broken kid who didn’t know how to handle his fear.” She reached for my hands. “But I will make it up to you. I promise. Once we’re married, I’ll give you anything you want. Whatever you want to buy, wherever you want to go, we’ll do it.” She smiled softly, trying to coax me back into submission. “Be reasonable, sweetheart. Go home and get ready for the wedding. Let me take care of the rest.” Her promises were like rubber checks from a bankrupt bank, and I was done waiting in line to cash them. I didn’t even have the energy to cry. The anger was gone, replaced by a cold, vast emptiness. I nodded slowly. “Okay. I’ll go home.” She smiled, reaching up to gently ruffle my hair. “That’s my boy. I’ll have the driver take you.” “No,” I said, stepping back. “I’ll take a cab.” At 3:00 PM, I sat on a cold plastic chair at O’Hare International Airport. I pulled out my phone and sent one last text to Toby: “You can have her. The groom’s spot is yours.” My mother sat beside me, her worn hands clutching mine. Her eyes were filled with quiet anxiety. “Devon… are you sure about this? Ten years is a long time. You two were supposed to get married next week.” I smiled gently, reaching over to tuck a loose strand of gray hair behind her ear. “Mom, I just want to go home.” The tears spilled over her lashes, and she nodded fiercely, squeezing my hand. “Okay. Let’s go home. We don’t need their fancy high life. We’ll go back to Charleston, and I’ll make you the best blackened catfish you’ve ever had.” I took her hand, stood up, and walked down the boarding bridge without looking back.

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

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On the very last day of the Columbia University Early Admission deadline, I discovered that Dante—the boy I had grown up with—had given my hard-earned recommendation letter slot to Bianca. When I finally tracked him down, he was leaning casually against the polished side of his sports car. He flicked a stray ash from his expensive cigar, his expression entirely indifferent. “Bianca’s family is going through a rough patch,” he said, exhaling a thin stream of gray smoke into the freezing air. “If she doesn’t get into a good university, she’ll have to start working right away.” He looked at me, his eyes devoid of any guilt. “Your grades are excellent. Even if you have to take the SATs and apply normally, you’ll still get into Columbia on your own.” My face went completely pale. I stood there, unable to squeeze a single word past the tight knot in my throat. Seeing my silence and the sheer hostility radiating from me, Dante frowned. He pulled open his designer leather wallet, drew out a sleek black card, and held it out to me. “Look, I’ll fully cover your tuition for all four years of college,” he said, his voice laced with impatience. “Think of it as me buying this slot from you. Is that enough?” I stared at the black card glinting between his fingers. A heavy, suffocating silence stretched between us. The recommendation letter I had nearly died to secure was nothing more than a piece of cheap charity to him, something he could put a price tag on whenever it suited him. I didn’t take the card. I simply turned on my heel and walked away. Above us, the sky finally opened up, pouring down a cold, biting rain. “What kind of tantrum are you throwing now, Siena?” Dante’s voice sliced through the downpour, instantly turning icy. “Don’t you spend all your time scrounging for scraps and fixing junk at the repair shop just for a bit of cash? I’m offering you real money, so stop acting so damn high and mighty!” My footsteps faltered for a fraction of a second. I slowly turned my head back, looking at his face, which was now blurred by the thick sheets of rain and fog. More than ten years of treasured affection, of shared secrets and promises, rotted completely away in that single, agonizing second. A faint, empty smile touched my lips. “Sure,” I whispered, the rain washing the sound away. “Think whatever you want.” … By the time I dragged myself back to the grease-stained repair shop, my phone was already vibrating in my pocket. It was my best friend, Jenny. “Siena! Have you seen the admission list yet?” Jenny’s voice was frantic, practically screeching through the speaker. “How is Bianca’s name on there? Is this Dante’s doing? It has to be!” Listening to her panic, a bitter, hollow laugh escaped my chest. “I already went to see him.” “And? What did that bastard say?” “He said he bought the slot from me.” The line went dead silent. It took a long, painful minute before Jenny finally spoke again, her voice shaking with rage. “He is an absolute piece of trash.” I didn’t answer. I couldn’t find the energy to agree. “What are you doing right now?” she asked, her tone softening with worry. “Working on a car.” “Stop fixing cars! You need to go to City Hall right now and make a scene! That recommendation letter belongs to you! Have you forgotten how much hell you went through just to get the Congressman’s signature?” I shook my head slowly, though she couldn’t see me, and picked up a heavy metal wrench. “It’s useless, Jenny.” “How is it useless? The Congressman promised it to you!” “If Dante’s family could swap my name out once,” I said, my voice deadpan, “they can easily do it a second time.” Another heavy silence fell over the call. Finally, Jenny sighed, her voice laced with pity. “I just saw Bianca’s Instagram post. Dante booked the most expensive hotel rooftop in the city to celebrate her admission.” “I see.” “Siena, you—” “I have to go, Jenny. A customer just pulled in.” I cut the call before she could say another word. Outside, a sleek sedan rolled slowly up to the entrance of the garage. I wiped my damp face with the back of my sleeve, stepped out into the damp air, and knelt down to inspect the worn tread of the tires.

The next day, I went to school to finalize some administrative paperwork and register for the upcoming SAT. As I walked down the crowded hallway, I ran straight into Dante and Bianca. Bianca’s slender arm was wrapped tightly around Dante’s. The moment she spotted me, she gasped softly and shrank back, hiding herself behind his broad shoulders. “Dan, I’m scared…” she whimpered, her voice trembling. Dante immediately stepped forward, blocking my path. His brow furrowed into a deep, defensive scowl. “Siena, don’t go scaring her.” I didn’t look at him. I simply tried to step to the side and walk past. Before I could take a step, his hand shot out, clamping around my wrist with bruising force. “What is wrong with your attitude? Bianca didn’t do anything to hurt you. She had no choice in this! Do you really have to make a scene and make everyone look bad?” I ripped my arm out of his grasp with all the strength I had. “Get out of my way.” My voice was sharp and cold, instantly drawing the attention of the students lingering by their lockers. A tear slipped down Bianca’s cheek, catching the fluorescent light of the hallway. “Siena, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. If you’re still angry… you can hit me. Just please don’t be mad at Dan.” She took a fragile step toward me, bowing her head as if waiting for a blow, presenting herself as the ultimate victim. Dante’s eyes flared with anger. He snatched her back into his embrace, glaring down at me. “Look at what you’re doing to her! Siena, I never realized your heart could be this venomous.” Muffled whispers began to ripple through the surrounding crowd. “Is that her? The girl from the dirty auto repair shop?” “Yeah, I heard the Congressman originally promised her the recommendation, but Bianca got it instead.” “Serves her right. Look at her face—it’s like a block of ice. Who would ever like a girl like that?” “Bianca is so much sweeter. If I were Dante, I’d help Bianca too.” I tuned out the murmurs, keeping my eyes locked on Dante’s cold, dark gaze. “I’ll say it one last time. Get out of my way.” Instead of moving, Dante sneered and shoved me hard. “You’re going to apologize to Bianca right now!” The sudden force caught me off guard. I stumbled backward, my shoulders slamming violently against the hard brick wall of the hallway. A sharp, throbbing ache flared across my back. I slowly lifted my head, staring at him. Dante stared back, his eyes completely empty of the warmth he used to reserve only for me. We had grown up together, sharing every secret, every scrap of food we could find. When he was twelve, his family had exiled him from the glittering high society of Manhattan to this run-down, impoverished town in New Jersey, and on his very first day, he had gotten into a brutal fight with the local street kids. I was the one who had rushed in, brandishing a heavy metal wrench, scaring off the older bullies who were beating him bloody. From that day on, he became my shadow, following me everywhere. He used to complain about the grease and oil covering my clothes, but whenever other kids tried to mock me because I couldn’t hear them, he would fly into a rage and beat them until they begged for mercy. I remember him wiping the dirt from his knuckles, looking at me with fierce determination: “Siena, from now on, I’m the one protecting you.” “Siena, even if your right ear can’t hear a thing, I’ll be your other ear for the rest of our lives.” “As soon as we turn eighteen, we’re getting the hell out of this dump.” Now, he was the one shoving me against a wall, all for another girl. Bianca buried her face in his chest, sobbing loudly. “Dan, please, let’s just go. It’s all my fault anyway.” Dante stroked her hair, his voice softening into a gentle, soothing tone I hadn’t heard in months. “It has nothing to do with you.” He shot me one last warning look, his eyes cold and menacing. Then, he guided her down the hallway, keeping his arm securely around her waist. I stood against the brick wall for a long time before I managed to straighten my spine and force my legs to move forward. On my way to the guidance counselor’s office, I passed the large bulletin board in the main lobby. The school had already posted the photos of the students who had secured early Ivy League admissions. Bianca’s portrait was placed right in the dead center. Beneath her smiling photo, a neat paragraph detailed her achievements: “An outstanding student of exceptional character and academic merit, rising above poverty through sheer resilience.” A dry, mocking chuckle slipped from my throat. The memory of returning to the repair shop on the night of her celebration flashed vividly in my mind. My father had been waiting for me, his breath reeking of cheap whiskey, his eyes wild and bloodshot. “Where’s the cash?” he had demanded, stepping into my path. When I tried to ignore him, his hand shot out, grabbing a fistful of my hair and slamming my head against the wooden partition. “I’m talking to you, you deaf bitch! Are you completely deaf now?” My right ear was completely useless, and his roaring voice made my left ear ring with a painful, high-pitched buzz. “I don’t have any money,” I choked out. “No money? I heard that rich boy Dante has plenty of it! You follow him around like a stray dog, so why haven’t you begged him for some?” He backhanded me across the face, the force of the blow sending me crashing to the floor. “You’re hiding it from me, aren’t you? Trying to lie to your own father!” He began tearing through my pockets, his dirty hands ripping at my jacket. I gathered my strength and shoved him away. Infuriated, he kicked me hard in the stomach, sending me curling into a tight ball on the cold concrete. “You little piece of trash!” he spat, towering over me. “I should have left you to rot. Just like your dead mother—nothing but a worthless, cheap bitch!” He reached for a heavy iron tire iron, raising it high above his head. Just as he was about to swing it down, the door flew open, and Dante burst into the garage. Dante had kicked my father across the room with terrifying fury, rushing to pull me up from the floor and frantically checking my face for injuries. “Where does it hurt? Where did he hit you?” I could only shake my head, my body trembling uncontrollably. Dante had stripped off his expensive jacket and wrapped it snugly around my shoulders. “Don’t cry, Siena. I’m here. Nobody is going to hurt you again.” That night, he didn’t return to his family’s mansion. He stayed in the dusty shop, sleeping on our lumpy, broken-down sofa just to keep watch over me. The next morning, he called in his family’s lawyers and had my father thrown into a holding cell. He had looked me in the eyes and said, “Siena, I’ll take care of you from now on.” Back then, I truly believed he would be my harbor for the rest of my life. I didn’t realize that promises of protection could dissolve so easily, leaving nothing but a bitter aftertaste.

During our school’s final SAT practice exam, I scored a near-perfect 1520. Dante scored a miserable 900. He crumpled his score sheet into a tight ball and tossed it carelessly into the recycling bin. “Whatever. It’s not like I actually need the SATs anyway,” he muttered. Bianca was standing right beside him, her eyes shining with pure adoration: “Dan, you’re still so amazing.” Dante laughed, leaning down to pinch her cheek: “Of course! I just have to go back to Manhattan and take over my family’s business. Standardized tests are for normal people.” I walked past their lockers, keeping my gaze fixed straight ahead. “Siena,” Dante called out, his voice sharp. I stopped, but I didn’t turn around. “Are you seriously still throwing a fit over that recommendation letter?” I remained silent, my shoulders tense. “I know you feel slighted,” he said, stepping around to face me. “But you’ve seen Bianca’s situation. She needs this opportunity way more than you do.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a softer, almost pleading register: “Just take the card I gave you. The PIN is your birthday. Whatever you need for college—tuition, rent, books—just charge it to me.” He honestly believed that money could wash away any sin. He thought a handful of plastic and a bank account could erase my humiliation and replace the future he had stolen from me. “I don’t want your money,” I said, my voice flat. “There you go again,” Dante snapped, his patience evaporating instantly. “When are you going to drop this pathetic, useless pride of yours? How much do you even make working at that grease trap of a shop for a whole month? What I’m offering you is more than you’ll ever see in your entire life!” Bianca stepped forward, tugging gently on the sleeve of his jacket. “Dan, don’t be so harsh on Sie,” she whispered, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “She’s just… she’s just not used to having someone help her.” She looked at me, her eyes filled with a patronizing pity: “Siena, I know you must hate me. But I really was out of options. My stepmother… she’s a monster. She would have kicked me out.” Her eyes brimmed with tears on cue, her lip trembling. I watched her flawless performance. Over the course of our senior year, I had watched this exact same play unfold a hundred times. She was always the helpless, suffering victim in front of Dante. And I was always cast as the cruel, unfeeling villain. “Dan already said he’ll make it up to you,” Bianca continued, her tone taking on the self-important air of a lady handing out scraps. “Whatever you want, just tell us. We’ll take care of it.” A cold, sharp laugh finally slipped from my throat. It was the first time I had smiled in days. Dante stared at me, visibly taken aback. “What are you laughing at?” “I’m laughing because the two of you are such a perfect match,” I said, looking from his face to hers. “A cheap bitch and a loyal dog. I hope you stay together forever.” Before he could react, I turned and walked away. “Siena! Get back here!” Dante’s furious roar echoed down the hallway, but I didn’t spare him a single glance. That night, Jenny sent me a screenshot over text. It was a photo of Dante and Bianca at a high-end lounge downtown. Dante was holding a microphone, singing under the dim neon lights, while Bianca snuggled against his chest, her face glowing with happiness. In the background, their wealthy friends were holding up a massive, custom-made banner. “Congratulations to our girl Bianca on her Columbia admission! Wishing Dan and Bianca a lifetime of love!” Jenny’s text arrived a second later: “Siena, don’t look at it. He isn’t worth your tears.” I clicked my phone screen off and threw it onto the mattress. I pulled a stack of SAT practice books toward me, opened to a blank section of advanced calculus, and began solving the equations one by one. Only when my mind was entirely consumed by numbers and formulas could I drown out the hollow ache in my chest.

A week before the official SAT administration, school went on study leave. While the other students were out partying or cramming at high-end prep centers, I was still stuck in the auto shop, grease under my fingernails. On a humid Tuesday afternoon, the roar of a high-performance engine shattered the quiet street. Dante’s customized Aston Martin pulled up right in front of the garage doors, the bass from his stereo rattling the dusty windows. He climbed out, leaning casually against the driver’s side door, and waved a hand toward me. “Siena, get over here.” I didn’t lift my head from the engine bay I was working on. His footsteps drew closer, his shadow falling over my workspace. “I’m talking to you. Are you deaf in both ears now?” He reached out to grab my hand, but when he saw the thick black grease coating my skin, he quickly pulled his fingers back in disgust. “Go wash up. You’re coming with me.” “Where?” I asked, my voice dry. “Bianca wants to go to the beach. I’m taking the yacht out. You’re coming along.” I wiped my brow with my shoulder, keeping my back straight. “I’m not going.” “Still throwing a tantrum?” Dante let out a sharp, irritated breath. “I went out of my way to drive down here and invite you myself. Don’t be ungrateful.” “I said, I’m not going.” “Why the hell not?” “I need to study.” “Study?” Dante laughed, the sound dripping with genuine amusement. “Are you kidding me? You don’t need to study. You could probably get a 1500 with your eyes closed.” He paused, his expression softening just a fraction. “Just come. Think of it as a break. Bianca said she wants to make things right with you.” “I have nothing to make right with her.” Dante’s remaining patience snapped. “Siena, I am asking you one last time. Are you coming or not?” “No.” He stared at me for several tense seconds, a dark, mocking grin slowly spreading across his face. “Fine. You want to play the stubborn martyr? Go ahead.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a thick band of crisp hundred-dollar bills, and threw them directly at my feet. The green notes scattered across the grease-stained concrete floor, drifting into the puddles of dirty oil. “That’s your monthly salary. I already paid your boss off for your time. Take the cash and get out of my sight. Stop acting like an eyesore.” I stared at the money lying in the dirt, my hands clenched into tight fists. “Not enough?” He pulled out another stack, tossing it down like confetti. “Is this enough to buy your miserable pride?” Uncle Mark, the elderly owner of the shop, rushed out from the back office when he heard the shouting. “Master Dante, what is going on here? Let’s all calm down and talk.” Dante didn’t even spare Mark a glance. His eyes remained locked on mine. “Pick it up.” I didn’t move an inch. The passenger door of the Aston Martin opened, and Bianca stepped out. She hurried over to Dante’s side, clutching his arm with a worried expression. “Dan, please don’t do this. You’re going to scare Siena.” She knelt down on the dirty concrete, her expensive designer skirt dragging in the dust, and began picking up the scattered bills one by one. “Siena, please don’t be mad at Dan,” she pleaded, looking up at me with tear-filled eyes. “He only did this because he wanted us to hang out.” She stood up and tried to press the crumpled, dirty money into my hand. “Please, Siena. Just come with us. I don’t want your relationship with Dan to ruin because of me.” I looked at her tear-stained face, then shifted my gaze to Dante. Dante stood tall, his jaw set, showing absolutely no remorse. In his mind, this was an act of high charity. He believed he owned the right to dictate my life, my choices, and my dignity, simply because he had the means to pay for them. I turned my back on them and walked straight into the dark backroom of the shop. Behind me, Dante’s sneering voice carried clearly through the open door: “Look at her. Always the same disgusting temper. Give her an inch and she takes a mile!” A moment later, the Aston Martin’s engine roared to life, tires screeching as they sped away. Uncle Mark walked into the backroom, letting out a long, heavy sigh. “Siena, child… don’t take it to heart. Master Dante has always had a short fuse.” He picked up the remaining bills they had left on the counter and gently pressed them into my hand. “Take it. Your family… you need the money, Siena.” I gripped the stack of cash. The paper notes still smelled faintly of Bianca’s sweet, artificial perfume. I walked over to the rusted metal sink, turned the faucet on high, and began scrubbing my hands with harsh industrial soap. I washed them over and over, scrubbing until my skin turned raw and bright red, but the smell of that cheap perfume refused to wash away. That night, my father returned to the shop. He snatched the money from my drawer and smashed half the tools in the garage in a drunken rage. I didn’t hesitate. I dialed 911. The police came and dragged him away in handcuffs once again. Before they shoved him into the back of the cruiser, he spat in my direction, his face twisted in venomous rage. “You ungrateful little bitch! Calling the cops on your own father! You’ll burn in hell for this!” I watched the red and blue lights fade into the damp night, my chest completely hollow. So this was what it felt like to be completely, utterly alone.

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