Category: English

At three in the morning, a bizarre “freeloader notice” popped up in our building’s HOA group chat. [Due to my elderly mother’s advanced age, and to provide her with a comfortable retirement environment, I am officially issuing a freeloader notice to all neighbors. The requirements are as follows:] [First, you must provide the master bedroom. You will pay me a $100 daily allowance for her care, and all meals must be cooked to a Michelin-star standard. No exceptions!] [Second, my mother needs absolute silence when she sleeps. Any households with children or pets must send them away immediately to avoid noise!] [Third, each stay will last exactly one week. If my mother experiences any physical discomfort or illness during her stay, you will bear full legal and financial responsibility!] I took one look at the message and figured the guy had a few screws loose. I ignored it. The very next day, he tagged me directly in the group: [Apt 602! Why didn’t you reply “received”? You ungrateful bitch! Fine, we’ll start by moving into YOUR place!] But what he didn’t know was that I’m a certified psycho. By messing with me, he just kicked a steel plate. 1 First thing in the morning, someone started violently pounding on my front door. “Open up! Open the door, you little tramp!” “How dare you ignore my messages? Do you know who I am? Do you have any respect for the rules?!” “If you don’t roll out here right now, I’m going to smash this door into splinters!” I rubbed my eyes in annoyance, my fists instinctively clenching. The last person who woke me up from a good sleep got his leg broken on the spot. But I had just managed to escape from my family, so I needed to keep a low profile. I peeked through the peephole. It was the guy who lived across the hall in Apt 603, standing there with his old mother. He was short, incredibly fat, and his face was so bloated with grease that his eyes were reduced to tiny slits. How could someone looking like that have the audacity to parade around so arrogantly? His skin was thicker than a brick wall. I clicked my tongue, shook my head, and yelled through the door: “Yeah, I didn’t reply to your text. So what?” That sent 603 into an absolute frenzy. He started slamming his shoulder against the door. “You stupid bitch! You dare provoke me?!” Seeing his unhinged mental state, I casually grabbed a heavy meat cleaver from the kitchen before swinging the front door open. “Can I help you?” The fat guy from 603 looked up, ready to curse me out, but the moment he saw the glint of the cleaver, he swallowed his words. I curled my lip and flicked a shiny quarter right off his bald head. “What’s the matter? You’re reduced to begging at my doorstep now? Take the money and get lost!” “Keep the change. Think of it as a tip.” Feeling deeply insulted, 603 pointed a stubby finger at my face. “Don’t push your luck, you little whore. My mom is moving into your apartment today!” “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll let her in right now! Otherwise, I’ll make you pay!” I touched my own cheek and batted my eyelashes innocently. “Really? But I’m already so pretty. How are you going to make me pay?” “Unlike you. You barely have three hairs on that shiny dome, but you’ve got more fat than a prize-winning pig. You were practically born to be exceptionally ugly!” 2 603 was half-dead from anger. He opened his mouth to snap back, but his mother shoved him aside. The old bat had a sharp, mean-spirited face. She looked me up and down with pure disdain. “A little brat like you doesn’t deserve to live in such a nice apartment. Aren’t you afraid of bad karma?” “Me moving in is doing you a favor! I’ll cleanse this place of its bad juju. You should be thanking me on your knees!” Saying that, the mother and son exchanged a look and tried to aggressively shove their way past me into my apartment. I didn’t even bother lifting my eyelids. I just stuck my leg out. They tripped and faceplanted hard into the hardwood floor. Only then did I calmly clap back. “If you want to cleanse bad juju, why don’t you go live in a coffin? You only have a few years left anyway.” I reached down and poked the bald guy’s head. “And you. How did your mom give birth to such a useless loser?” “You can’t even afford to take care of your own mother. Why don’t you go jump off a bridge?” “If I had a son like you, I would have shoved you right back where you came from to save myself the embarrassment!” The mother and son were so stunned by my verbal barrage that they couldn’t even scramble to their feet. Without giving them a chance, I ruthlessly kicked them both out into the hallway and slammed the door shut. 603 stomped his feet furiously in the hall, leaving one final threat: “You just wait!” I went back to my living room and kicked my feet up. I’ll wait. Let’s see what kind of circus act he tries next. Right then, I got a friend request on WhatsApp. It was the girl who lived downstairs in Apt 503. I accepted it, and she immediately sent a massive block of text: [I heard the whole commotion! You are amazing!] [But honestly, I advise you to just swallow your pride and let it go. Don’t provoke him anymore. It’s just for one week.] [He is the tyrant of this building! Anyone who disobeys him ends up miserable!] Reading her message, I actually started getting excited. [Miserable? How miserable?] 3 It turned out Todd from 603 was notoriously relentless. Not only was he totally unreasonable, but he was a massive cheapskate. During the holidays, he would drag his mother door-to-door demanding cash gifts. If anyone refused, he would literally defecate on their doormat. If someone didn’t give enough money, he would leave funeral wreaths at their door and blast depressing funeral music in the middle of the night. A few neighbors had ignored his group chat messages in the past, so he threw dead rats and rotting cockroaches through their windows. He had everyone so terrified they couldn’t sleep peacefully, terrified of missing his texts. No wonder a dozen people replied “Received!” at 3 AM like it was a royal decree. [Why didn’t you guys just call the cops? That’s straight-up harassment!] I asked. Jessica from 503 replied with a shrugging emoji: [Calling the cops doesn’t work. His mom is super old, so the police just tell us to be understanding and mediate.] [Eventually, people just couldn’t take it anymore and moved out. Three families moved out this month alone.] He had already squeezed the older tenants dry. Seeing new blood move in, he came up with this “freeloader” scheme to exploit us. Jessica tried her best to persuade me: [Seriously, just keep the peace. You can’t beat him.] I rubbed my chin, my grin widening. Jessica was a sweet, single girl living alone; she obviously couldn’t handle a thug like him. But I was different. I wasn’t exactly a “normal” person either. Now I had the perfect excuse to let my true nature run wild. My slender fingers typed out a quick reply: [Building tyrant, huh? Don’t worry. I’ll make him my bitch.] 4 The moment I stepped out of my apartment the next morning, I was hit by the overwhelming stench of urine and a massive pile of human feces right on my doormat. I went back inside and checked my Ring camera. Sure enough, it was the bald loser from 603. He had sneaked over in the middle of the night to take a dump, looking incredibly smug about it. Honestly, his strategy was brain-dead. He lived directly across the hall from me. Friendly fire was practically guaranteed. I didn’t say a word. I just silently grabbed my mop. Todd and his mother popped out of their apartment, thinking I was coming out to clean it up. They pointed and laughed. “How’s that? The smell of piss and shit isn’t so nice, is it?” “If you had just behaved and let my mom move in, this wouldn’t have happened.” “Let me tell you, this is just the beginning. Watch your back!” I completely ignored them. I shoved past the two of them and sprinted down the stairs. Todd and his mother exchanged a confused look. Not knowing what I was doing, they stupidly followed me down. I ran straight to the public dog park dumpster, aggressively plunging my mop into the deepest, nastiest sludge I could find. Trembling with excitement, I hoisted the dripping mop over my shoulder and marched back. Before Todd could even react, I slammed the mop directly into his face. He opened his mouth to scream, and I aggressively jammed the mop head right between his lips, twisting it like a blender. In an instant, Todd’s mouth and nose were packed with literal crap. His mother shrieked in horror. “Oh my god, my precious baby boy! What are you doing?!” “Stop it right now, you psycho!” I casually pulled the mop back and aimed it at the old bat, flashing a sweet, friendly smile. “Don’t worry, there’s plenty to go around.” “A mop dipped in crap turns me into John Wick!” 5 With that, I shoved the mop right into the old hag’s face. She was slightly smarter than her son; she knew to keep her mouth clamped shut. So, I just used the mop like a giant basting brush and painted her entire body with it. Todd, his own face covered in feces, actually gagged at the smell of his own mother and ran away holding his nose. Seeing him run, I leaped forward like an acrobat and slapped the soaking wet mop head right on top of his bald dome. He instantly threw up. Between dry heaves, he gasped, “You… you are so f*cking disgusting…” “I’m done fighting you… just stop! Blergh!” Only then did I pull my mop back. I crossed my arms and sneered. “This is just the beginning. You have until noon to scrub my doormat spotless.” “Otherwise, I can’t guarantee what I’ll do next!” The mother and son, both dyed a disgusting shade of brown, exchanged a bitter, defeated look. But knowing I possessed a literal biological weapon, they tucked their tails and scurried back to their apartment. When I went back out later, the mess in front of my door was completely gone. I figured they’d lay low for a while, so I went back inside to relax. But then I heard a commotion coming from downstairs. “I already told you, my mom is staying at your place today! Do you not understand English?!” “It’s dangerous for a girl to live all alone, isn’t it?” “If you don’t let my mom stay, who knows? A creep might sneak into your apartment in the middle of the night. Things happen.” Todd smiled like a greasy pervert, getting aggressively handsy with Jessica from 503. Terrified by his threats, Jessica pinched her nose at his stench and tried to compromise, pulling three crisp hundred-dollar bills out of her purse. The old lady’s eyes lit up the moment she saw the cash. Just as she reached out to grab it… I grabbed my mop and stomped down the stairs. “What’s this? Bullying the weak again?” “Do you want me to show you what happens when I dip this mop in piss? I’ll go full Hulk mode!” Seeing my mop, the mother and son immediately backed off. Muttering curses under their breath, they turned around and slinked back to their floor. Jessica grabbed my hand, thanking me profusely. She warned me to be careful, saying Todd was not the type to let things go. But I wasn’t worried. Let them come. I had an entire arsenal of crazy left to unleash. 6 Sure enough, the second I opened my door the next morning, Todd and his mother were back at it. Without me even touching her, the old bat threw herself onto the hallway floor and started rolling around, throwing a massive tantrum. She clutched her chest, wailing dramatically: “Oh lord! My heart! My heart is giving out! My stomach hurts, my arms hurt!” “Is anyone going to help me?! Ow!” “This young brat is abusing the elderly! I’m dying! Son, call the cops and have her arrested!” They were putting on a coordinated show. It was a classic extortion scam. Todd shot a sleazy, conspiratorial wink at his mom, then glared at me arrogantly. “My mom has a fragile heart. You made her so angry she’s having a cardiac episode.” “What are you going to do about this?” “Do I call the cops and have you locked up, or do you want to pay us off and settle this privately?” I rubbed my fingers together and flashed him a bright smile. “Oh no, we can’t just settle this privately!” “It just so happens I know a little CPR. Let me cure your mother right now!” Before he could react, I shoulder-checked him out of the way and mounted the old lady on the floor. I balled my fists and started relentlessly hammering her chest. The old bat screamed in genuine agony. She suddenly looked full of life—completely different from her fake groaning a second ago. Thanks to my miraculous healing hands, she was now squealing like a slaughtered pig. “Son! Son, save me! I’m dying, I can’t take it!” “Get this crazy bitch off me!” I smiled like an absolute psychopath and slapped the old hag across the face. “I haven’t cured you yet! Stop screaming, I’m administering emergency first aid!” Todd didn’t even rush to save his mother. Instead, he pulled out his phone and started recording me. He threatened me from behind the camera: “You’re assaulting my mother in broad daylight! I’m going to ruin your life online!” “I gave you a chance, but you didn’t take it. Get ready to be famous!” With that, he uploaded the video straight to TikTok and Twitter. His caption read: [SHOCKING! Woman violently assaults elderly grandmother in public! A total collapse of human morality!] I rolled my eyes. His caption was so incredibly basic. So, I pulled out my phone and uploaded the security footage of him taking a dump on my doormat. My caption read: [SHOCKING! Thirty-year-old bald incel defecates in public hallway! A total collapse of human morality!] Let’s see who gets famous first!

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During the holiday break, I brought my boyfriend home to meet my parents. My dad is a retired detective. Throughout dinner, he kept serving my boyfriend food and pouring him drinks, being incredibly courteous. The moment my boyfriend left, Dad slammed his chopsticks down on the table. “Ethan’s right leg can’t support his weight properly when he walks. That’s clearly an old gunshot wound. What kind of man are you dating?” I explained, “Ethan served in the military for two years. It’s normal to have some old injuries.” Dad scoffed. “Two years in the military? The calluses on that kid’s left hand, between his thumb and index finger—those come from handling a gun for at least five years!” “Two years versus five years—that’s almost triple the difference. If he has nothing to hide, why would he understate it?” I stood there, frozen. Dad had already picked up the phone. “Hey, Jack, I need you to run a background check on someone for me.” Three days later, I found out my boyfriend was a wanted fugitive.

“Ethan, right? Have a seat, have a seat.” As soon as we walked through the door, Dad greeted him with a smile. Ethan sat down and set his gifts on the table, extremely polite in his manner. Mom went into the kitchen to continue cooking while Dad started chatting with him. “Claire mentioned you run your own company?” “Yes, I sell security equipment. It’s a small company, just getting started.” “Mainly surveillance systems and access control, supplying office buildings and residential complexes.” Dad nodded and asked, “Military background? I can tell from your posture.” Ethan smiled. “I served two years, been out for a while now.” “Which unit?” “Northeast region, regular infantry.” I sat there listening, thinking the atmosphere was pretty good. Dad rarely showed this much warmth to a stranger. Ethan was charming, complimenting every dish, which made Mom beam with delight. Dad poured him a glass of whiskey. “Come on, have a drink.” “Sir, I really can’t hold my liquor.” “Don’t be shy. You’re family now—I can’t let you leave here sober, can I?” Ethan couldn’t refuse and took a sip. Dad kept serving him food and drinks, asking questions left and right, acting like a truly dutiful future father-in-law. I felt pretty happy about it. Halfway through the meal, Mom said we were running low on ribs and needed to buy more, asking me to come along. I said okay. Once we got in the elevator, Mom was still smiling. The moment the elevator doors closed, her expression changed completely. “Claire.” “Tell me the truth. What does Ethan really do?” I was stunned. “Didn’t he already say? Security equipment.” “He’s not just in security. Your dad just texted me.” “He said Ethan’s right leg can’t support his weight properly when he walks. That’s clearly an old gunshot wound. What kind of man are you dating?” I explained, “Ethan served in the military for two years. It’s normal to have some old injuries.” Mom scoffed. “Two years in the military? Your dad says the calluses on that kid’s left hand, between his thumb and index finger, show he’s been handling guns for at least five years!” My mind went blank. Ethan had been my boyfriend for eight months. He was always gentle and considerate around me, never lost his temper, never even raised his voice. How could there be something wrong with him? Mom pulled me out of the elevator and we stood downstairs for a moment. “When you started dating him, did you ever see his ID?” I thought back. “I did. Once when he was buying train tickets, I glanced at it, but I didn’t memorize the number.” “What state did his ID say he was from?” “Wisconsin.” “Has he ever taken you back to his hometown?” I shook my head. “Have you met his friends?” I shook my head again. Mom took a deep breath. “Alright, let’s go back. Don’t let him notice anything.”

After dinner, Ethan helped Mom clear the dishes. Mom said it wasn’t necessary, but he insisted, carrying plates into the kitchen. Dad took this opportunity to call me into his study. He closed the door, and his expression completely changed. “How did you meet him?” he asked directly. “At a friend’s gathering. He was the one who added me on SnapChat,” I said. “He pursued you?” “Yeah.” “For how long?” “About a month. He picked me up from work every day, took me out on weekends. He was really attentive.” Dad didn’t respond, sitting down at his desk. “Dad, aren’t you overthinking this?” I ventured carefully, “Isn’t it normal for someone who served in the military to have calluses? A leg injury could have come from training exercises in the service.” “When he walks, his right leg rotates outward,” Dad interrupted me. “Do you know what kind of injury causes that posture?” I shook my head. “A bullet wound to the hip joint or thigh, with the bullet lodged in the bone. After it’s removed, walking looks like that. This isn’t a training injury—training injuries don’t change your gait.” “I’ve been a detective my whole life. I’m not wrong about this.” I opened my mouth but didn’t know what to say. “Also, there’s a patch of noticeably hard skin on Ethan’s left hand, between his thumb and index finger.” “That comes from holding a gun long-term. A regular soldier serving two years wouldn’t develop that. The thickness of those calluses takes at least five years.” “Two years versus five years—that’s almost triple the difference. Why would he understate it?” I couldn’t answer. Dad picked up the phone on his desk and dialed a number. “Hello, Jack, this is Robert Mitchell. I need you to run a background check on someone… Yes, I need it today. Ethan, from Wisconsin.” After hanging up, Dad looked at me. “Tonight, have him stay at a hotel, not here at home. Until we know for sure, I don’t want him coming through that door.” When I came out of the study, Ethan was sitting on the couch watching TV. Seeing me emerge, Ethan patted the seat next to him. “Come sit. This show’s pretty interesting.” I walked over and sat down. He naturally put his arm around my shoulders. “What did your dad want to talk about?” he asked casually. “Nothing much, just asking about your company.” I looked at the man in front of me, and everything seemed normal. But also not normal. “I’ll book you a hotel for tonight. We don’t have a spare room.” He glanced at me. “Okay.” He didn’t ask any questions. We’d been dating for eight months, and he’d never argued with me, never refused anything I asked. Now that I thought about it. Who could be that perfect? At one in the morning, I couldn’t sleep. I suddenly remembered something. We’d been together for eight months, and he’d never let me visit his company. Every time I offered to pick him up, he’d say, “I’m working late today, don’t come. I’ll come to you.” Where was his company, really? The next morning, Dad was up before me. “Jack found out a few things.” “First, the identity ‘Ethan’ does exist, but the address registration was transferred from Wisconsin to here three years ago. The original records before the transfer can’t be found.” “Second, the security company he says he runs—he’s not the registered owner. It’s registered to a woman named Rebecca Hayes. What’s his relationship to her? Don’t know.” “Third, and most importantly.” “The photo on his ID matches someone in the fugitive database with ninety-one percent accuracy.” My heart felt like someone had seized it. “What fugitive?” “In 2017, there was a gun-related incident in the Southwest. The suspect fled and hasn’t been apprehended since.” “DNA and fingerprints were recovered from the scene, but the identity was never confirmed.” I sat on the couch, my whole body cold. “Dad, are you sure?” “Ninety-one percent match isn’t one hundred percent, so I haven’t drawn a final conclusion yet.” He looked at me, his eyes serious. “Today, you’re going to ask him out. Find a way to get his fingerprints.” Dad pulled out a pair of transparent gloves and a glass from a drawer. “Get him to drink water. Don’t wash the glass. Bring it back to me. Jack has connections to compare it against the fingerprint database.” I stared at the glass, my hands trembling.

The next morning, Ethan texted me saying he wanted to check out downtown. We went to a mall in the city center, browsed for a while, then I suggested getting coffee. When I was ordering, my hands kept shaking. When I came back with the tray, Ethan was looking at his phone. Seeing me approach, he immediately put it down. “Careful, it’s hot.” He took his cup. I noticed how he held it. Thumb and middle finger gripping the sides, the other three fingers suspended in air. My heart sank. Dad had mentioned that experienced shooters habitually keep their index finger suspended independently, ready to pull a trigger. We sat for over an hour, making small talk. He kept talking about getting married in the future, buying a house, having kids—so earnestly. If this had been before yesterday, I would have felt happy. But now, I just felt a chill down my spine. When we parted ways, Ethan asked, “What did your parents think of me? Did I do anything wrong?” “They liked you. Don’t overthink it.” “That’s good.” He touched my head. “Next weekend I’ll pick you up and we’ll go look at houses.” “Okay.” He turned and walked into the subway station. I clutched the glass I’d secretly hidden in my bag. When I got home, Dad was waiting in the living room. I handed him the glass. He put on gloves and held the glass under the lamp to examine it. On the glass surface were three clear fingerprints. “That’s enough,” Dad said. He placed the glass in an evidence bag, took photos, and sent them to Jack. “Fingerprint comparison takes time. Fastest result is tonight.” I said, “Dad, if he really is a fugitive…” “What do you want to say?” “I want to say, he was good to me…” “Good to you?” Dad finished my sentence. “Claire, people capable of those kinds of things are a hundred times better at treating you well than ordinary people.” “Because they know that only by completely fooling you will you never question who they really are.” At five in the afternoon, Jack called. Dad answered, listened for a few moments, and his expression changed. “Okay, I understand.” He hung up and looked at me. “It’s a match.” “The fingerprints recovered from the 2017 Southwest gun incident scene are identical to Ethan’s.” “So he…” “His current identity is fake. No one knows his real name. The suspect from that case only had a codename: Scorpion.” Scorpion. The man I’d been dating for eight months had the codename Scorpion. Dad stood up and walked to the window. “Jack already reported it. Following protocol, tonight or tomorrow, someone will come take him in.” “What should I do now?” “I’ll call him,” Dad said. “Tell him I want to take him out for a meal, have a proper talk.” “He’s your boyfriend right now. He won’t refuse.” I looked at my dad. This fifty-nine-year-old man, standing straight as a tree. Mom came out of the kitchen, still wearing her apron. “You two need to stop.” Her voice trembled slightly, but her expression was steady. “As a mother, I don’t want to get involved in this. But there’s one thing.” She looked at me. “You’ve been dating him for eight months. Has he ever done anything inappropriate to you?” I thought about it. No. Not once. He always stopped at the right moment, always respected my wishes, always stopped before I felt uncomfortable. Now that I thought about it. He knew he couldn’t leave any evidence. Dad glanced at me and picked up the phone, dialing Ethan’s number. “Hello, Ethan, I’d like to take you out for dinner, tonight if you’re available?” Something was said on the other end. Dad laughed. “Drink with you? I’ve never been afraid of anyone.” After a few more words, he hung up. “He’ll be here at seven.” The clock on the wall pointed to six-forty. I stood on the balcony looking down. On the street below, people came and went. That black sedan—when did it park there? I didn’t know. But the front end was pointed directly at the building entrance. Two people sat inside. I couldn’t see their faces. Jack’s people were already here. At five minutes to seven, the doorbell rang. Dad went to answer it. I stood at the end of the hallway and saw Ethan standing at the door, holding two more bags. He’d changed into a dark jacket, his hair fixed with gel, looking particularly sharp. “Sir, I brought you some good liquor.” Dad smiled and took the bags, stepping aside to let him in. As Ethan was changing his shoes, his movement paused. He’d seen those two figures on the balcony. His smile was different from all his previous smiles. “Claire, are you and your dad hiding something from me?” Cold sweat covered my back.

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Holden and I were in an arranged marriage. In these five years, he never even touched my hand. I was sick of this marriage in name only. So I deliberately staged a fake affair. I took some suggestive photos and sent them to Holden from a burner number. [Mr. Sterling, your husband tastes good.] [I’ve liked Silas for a long time. Why don’t you divorce him and let me have him?] Holden was the proudest man I knew, with a severe obsession with cleanliness, and he couldn’t stand betrayal. I thought after seeing those photos, he’d furiously hand me divorce papers. But I never expected Holden to ask me, eyes bloodshot with rage: “That bastard—who is he?” The photos were taken at carefully chosen angles. My collar hung loose, deliberately exposing my collarbone, and I’d pinched several suggestive red marks on my neck myself. Even the slight tilt of my face looked like I was nestled in someone’s embrace. The photos didn’t show anyone else’s face—just a blurred wrist resting vaguely on my shoulder, suggestive enough, yet calculated to cut deep. Finally, using that newly registered anonymous number, I sent the photos to Holden. [Mr. Sterling, your husband tastes good.] [I’ve liked Silas for a long time. Why don’t you divorce him and let me have him?] The moment I pressed send, I actually felt relieved. Then I muted my phone and went to the bathroom, washing my face for a long time. When I looked up at the mirror, I found myself smiling. It was a smile of liberation. I was certain Holden would divorce me. After all, someone as proud as Holden couldn’t possibly tolerate such humiliation. I even started planning my post-divorce life. I’d already picked out a house on the west side of the city with a ginkgo tree in the yard. My phone screen lit up again soon—a message from Holden. To my regular number. I dried my hands and opened the message in front of the mirror. In the chat box were two words, as cold as always. [Where are you.] I snorted. He was so cold to me, so I didn’t need to be warm to him either. I replied just as coldly with two words. [Home.] My message sank like a stone into the ocean. After that, I got no further response from Holden. When the villa door opened, I was sitting on the living room sofa, toweling my dripping hair, still steaming from the bathroom. Holden stood in the entryway for a few seconds, then walked toward the study. His footsteps paused for an instant as they passed in front of me. I thought he was going to say something to me, but he just glanced at me coolly before looking away. Then the footsteps resumed, the study door opened and closed again. I stared at Holden’s retreating back disappearing through the study door, my heart pounding. Holden didn’t ask me anything. He didn’t mention the photos. He didn’t mention the text message. The confrontation I’d planned, the interrogation, even him furiously demanding a divorce on the spot—none of it happened. Holden acted like every other ordinary evening, coming home from work and shutting himself in the study. I froze. This wasn’t how it should be. Wasn’t Holden supposed to angrily question me? Wasn’t he supposed to throw those photos of my affair in my face? I suddenly felt disappointed. I’d so carefully staged this betrayal, yet he didn’t care at all. Or was he waiting for me to speak first? My mind was in chaos when my newly registered burner phone received a text from Holden. [I don’t care what trash heap you crawled out of, stay away from Silas.] [You’d better pray I don’t find you, or wherever you touched him, I’ll destroy that part of you!] My whole body froze on the sofa, all the warmth draining from me in an instant.

Holden’s response caught me off guard. I gritted my teeth and, determined to force him into divorce, typed out two more lines on the anonymous number. [Mr. Sterling, Silas has told me many times he doesn’t love you.] [You don’t love him either. It’s just a business marriage between you two. Wouldn’t it be better to set each other free?] After I sent the message, there was no response for a long time. The villa was so quiet I could only hear the ticking of the wall clock. I sat on the sofa until my whole body went stiff. It wasn’t until late at night that I dragged my heavy feet back to the bedroom. I don’t know how much time passed before the mattress beside me sank slightly. Holden lay down next to me. He didn’t turn on the light. In the darkness there was only steady breathing, slowly drawing closer to me. I kept my eyes closed, pretending to sleep, but my heart was about to burst. Holden didn’t do what he usually did—just lie down and stay still. But I could feel his gaze falling on my face, on my neck, lingering for a long time without moving away. The air thickened bit by bit. Holden’s gaze seemed to pierce right through me. Suddenly, a hand with a cool temperature touched my neck very lightly. The moment his fingertip brushed those red marks I’d pinched onto myself, Holden’s movement stopped abruptly. I stayed rigid, pretending to be asleep, but my ears were already burning. Then Holden moved his hand away and leaned down close to me, his scent enveloping me. The next second, his lips landed extremely lightly on those red marks on my neck. Holden’s lips touched my skin only briefly, yet they were scorching hot. In the darkness he murmured to himself, his tone dripping with murderous intent. “Whoever dared to leave marks on you.” “I’ll cut off his hands.” My back went rigid instantly. I didn’t dare let my breathing pattern falter. My marriage with Holden was a complete business arrangement. For five years we’d shared the same bed with different dreams. In outsiders’ eyes, I was the glamorous partner of Holden Sterling. But only I knew our marriage was as empty as a blank sheet of paper. I was sick of his extreme coldness toward me these five years, sick of playing the loving couple in public while being strangers in private. I didn’t want to be bound by this marriage in name only anymore. I had to make him thoroughly disgusted with me. So the next day, I sent him even more suggestive photos. I deliberately chose more provocative angles. The neckline pulled even lower. I lay on my side on the bed, the blanket barely covering my waist and abdomen, with bruises I’d pinched onto my sides. I made my eyes deliberately hazy, as if I’d just experienced intimacy. No one else, no props—just my expression and those self-inflicted bruises were enough to let imaginations run wild. I expressionlessly pressed send. The anonymous number’s message shot toward Holden once again. [Silas was very good today too.] [Mr. Sterling, it doesn’t matter if you don’t divorce. I can be his lover.] After sending it, I tossed my phone aside and sat in the living room, but my heart was pounding uncontrollably.

Less than a minute after I sent the message, my phone screen lit up. Holden’s reply practically crashed in. [Send one more and see what happens.] [You’re in the city, aren’t you?] [This is my final warning. Stay away from Silas.] Holden had connections throughout the city. It wasn’t surprising he could trace this burner phone’s IP address. I needed to successfully divorce him before Holden found the owner of this phone. My fingers flew across the keyboard as I replied. [Silas says he doesn’t want to live like a grass widow with you anymore.] [Every time we’re together, Silas says he can’t live without me now.] [Mr. Sterling, are you impotent?] I waited a long time, but Holden didn’t reply again. Not until two in the morning, when the bedroom door was pushed open. Holden’s footsteps were stumbling, heavy, and completely erratic. A thick smell of alcohol rushed into the room with him, like someone had knocked over an entire bottle of liquor, the fumes spreading rapidly. Holden had never come home this drunk before. He still didn’t turn on the light. Only the moon pushed a small patch of light through the curtain gap. I faced away from him, gripping the corner of the blanket. Soon, the mattress beside me sank down. Holden pulled up my pajama top, his fingers trembling slightly. When he saw the bruises on my sides clearly, he completely lost control. The next second, his scalding breath heavy with alcohol pressed down. Holden suddenly flipped me over, his palm cupping the small of my back with force great enough to embed me into his very bones. Before I could struggle, he lowered his head and kissed fiercely on those red marks I’d pinched onto my neck. Then he kissed my lips hard. Not a gentle touch, but a kiss filled with madness and fury. His voice was hoarse and broken. “Silas, how could you let someone else touch you…” My chest tightened. All the grievances and resentment rushed to my head in an instant. I could no longer pretend to sleep. I pushed hard against his shoulders. “Holden, let go of me!” “What are you doing!” But not only did he not let go, he pinned my wrists above my head, immobilizing all my movements. I was kissed breathless by Holden, tears falling uncontrollably. Taking advantage of Holden pausing for breath, I turned my head away, my voice trembling as I spoke to him. “Holden, I had an affair.” I bit out those words viciously, tears falling with my ragged breathing. “I’ve been with someone else.” “I’ve already fallen in love with someone else.” “Aren’t you a germaphobe? Aren’t you the proudest person?” “Then let go of me now! Divorce me!” With each sentence I spoke, the violence radiating from Holden intensified. He didn’t fly into a rage, didn’t push me away. Instead, he held me even tighter, so tight I could barely breathe. He pressed his forehead against mine, those always-cold eyes red and frightening in the darkness. “I won’t divorce you.” “Silas, but I can let you compare whether your lover or I am better.”

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When the impoverished campus beauty confessed to my buddy for the tenth time, he pointed at me: “Mason’s poor too. You two would be a perfect match.” She looked at me. Her lifeless eyes suddenly lit up. Ten years later, she soared to success. The first thing she did was thank me for my decade of companionship. Everyone knew she loved me to the bone. Until she saw my buddy at a banquet, forcing a smile as he poured drinks for others. Turns out, his rich heiress wife had gone bankrupt and committed suicide. She handed me divorce papers: “If you weren’t occupying this position, he could have come to me.” We had our first fight in ten years. She froze my bank accounts. I’d rather die than sign the divorce papers. Until Dad was critically ill, and she wouldn’t pay a single cent. I watched helplessly as Dad died. Mom shoved me to the ground, sobbing: “Why did you fight with her! If you hadn’t fought, your dad would’ve been cured! The one who shouldn’t have died is dead, and the one who should be dead is still alive!” My sister stared at me with red eyes too. My five-year-old son tugged at my sleeve, crying: “Where’s Grandpa? Where is he? Why didn’t Daddy save Grandpa?” That night, she looked at me mockingly: “How much longer are you going to cling to this position?” I handed her the signed papers. I won’t cling anymore. I’m going to find Dad. **1** When I pushed the signed papers in front of her, she froze. “So obedient this time?” “Yes.” She leaned closer to me. “What are you plotting? Might as well say it.” “I’m going to find my dad.” Lila Shaw smiled. “What, transferring your uncle to another hospital?” I froze. I looked at her in some surprise. “Your uncle’s condition can only be treated at the hospital I recommended. If you go find him, where are you transferring him to?” She… didn’t know Dad was already dead. A bitter smile flashed across my face. “That’s none of your concern.” With that, I stood up and dragged over the suitcase I’d packed long ago. I didn’t have much. One suitcase couldn’t even be filled. After fighting with her for so long, almost everything I owned of value had been sold. But it still wasn’t enough to cover Dad’s surgery costs. Maybe Mom was right. I was the one who killed him. I should go atone for it. I opened the door. Suddenly, my shoulder was grabbed. She pinned me against the wall by the throat. “Playing hard to get?” Lila Shaw looked at me: “You refused to sign before no matter what. Now you’re so obedient. “What are you planning to do to Ethan once you walk out that door?” Always like this. She always assumed the worst of me. Before, I would smash things around the house to remind her that I was her husband of nearly ten years. But now, I actually laughed: “Strangle me then. Perfect—widowhood will automatically dissolve our marriage.” Her hand recoiled as if burned. She looked at me in disbelief for a moment. Seeing I had no intention of dodging. She spat out “psycho.” And turned to leave. I found a rental apartment. I’d saved up a lot of sleeping pills. Finish them all, and I could leave quietly. I looked at the gray, bare branches outside the window. Smiled a little. Opened the pill bottle. A huge crash. My hand shook. The bottle fell to the ground, pills scattered everywhere. Lila Shaw gripped my arm tightly. A cold smile on her lips: “So that’s why you signed the papers so obediently—you wanted to kill Ethan! “Someone! Take him away!” Before I could explain, I was forcibly dragged away. The car stopped in an empty lot in the suburbs. I was pulled out. Thrown in front of Ethan White. His arms and legs were covered in wounds. He looked at me with red eyes: “Mason Turner, I may have fallen on hard times, but I still have morals! “I never thought of destroying your family. Why did you have me kidnapped and humiliated? “If Lila hadn’t arrived in time, those animals you hired would’ve killed me by now!” Looking at those people I didn’t recognize at all, I said coldly: “I didn’t.” “Still denying it?” Lila Shaw gripped my chin. “These people all confessed you hired them. What, could Ethan have staged this himself?” Ethan White quickly exchanged a glance with those thugs. They suddenly burst into tears: “Sir! Are you really going to deny knowing us!” “Yeah, sir! You said you’d take responsibility if anything happened!” “You said Mr. White was selling himself, that we didn’t need to worry about consequences! If we’d known he was someone Ms. Shaw cared about, we wouldn’t have dared even with a hundred times the courage!” Ethan White’s eyes reddened, as if he’d suffered the greatest humiliation. Lila Shaw’s hand gripping my chin nearly crushed my bones: “Keep being stubborn, and you can forget about your father’s medical expenses forever!” I looked at her with red eyes. Suddenly smiled: “Father? He’s already gone! What medical expenses?” Lila Shaw’s pupils contracted sharply. The next second, a slap landed hard on my face: “Now you’ll say anything just to be contrary!” Ethan White suddenly spoke: “Mason, even though you and Lila have some conflicts, she’s never taken it out on your uncle. Even I, an outsider, know that Lila has a special medical account for your uncle. She deposits hundreds of thousands every month.” **2** I froze. Looked up at Lila Shaw. Her expression was ice-cold, same as always. How could someone like this possibly give Dad hundreds of thousands in medical expenses every month? If that were true, how could Dad have died! They’re all lying to me. Using a fictitious account to threaten me into divorce. All lying to me… Lila Shaw said coldly: “Even now, you still refuse to admit it?” I took a deep breath. “What do you want me to do?” “Kneel down and apologize to him.” “Hey, that’s not necess—we used to be broth—” Before Ethan White could stop me, I’d already knelt down and kowtowed respectfully: “I’m sorry.” Lila Shaw looked at me in disbelief. I stood up. Dusted off my knees: “If there’s nothing else, I’ll be going.” The pills scattered on the rental floor—I haven’t taken them yet. “Stop.” A knife was placed on the table. Lila Shaw said coldly: “Ethan suffered so much because of you. An apology isn’t enough.” I turned around. She sneered: “However many cuts he took, you take the same.” Ethan White covered the scrape on his arm and frowned. “Fine.” Perfect. No other way to die anyway. I picked up the knife. Stabbed it hard toward my own heart. “Mason Turner!” A hand gripped the hand holding my knife with all its strength. Lila Shaw fought desperately against my force. I stared at her. The knife tip moved two inches closer to my heart. “Mason Turner!!” I gripped the knife handle. She gripped my hand. But couldn’t overcome my strength. “If you want your child thrown into an orphanage, go ahead and stab that knife in now!” I froze. “Mason Turner, I won’t raise that bastard.” I opened my mouth. Blood trickled from the corner of my mouth. “You…” She interrupted me: “If you really want to die, take that bastard with you. “Looking at that face so much like yours makes me sick!” Right… Lila Shaw hates me. So little Beau… she’d hate him too… If I die, no one will really take care of Beau. Maybe Lila Shaw would even get people to bully him… The knife was yanked out abruptly. I coughed up blood, staggered, and was caught by her. Before losing consciousness, I heard her shouting sternly: “Ambulance! Call an ambulance!” When I woke again, I was lying in a VIP hospital room. Lila Shaw looked at me with a cold smile: “Your methods are getting more sophisticated. “Even threatening death is performed so realistically.” I looked at her. She gave a mocking smile. “Ethan was right. You really should be an actor.” She left. I lay alone in the bed. Staring at the white ceiling. Covering my heart. That afternoon, I knocked on my sister’s door. Dad’s portrait still sat on the table. Seeing it was me, she moved to close the door immediately. I stuck a hand in the gap. “Stella, I’m here to ask you for something.” My sister turned her head away, refusing to look at me. I entered the room. She sat on the sofa and lit a cigarette. She didn’t smoke or drink. After Dad died, she started both. “I’m sorry, Stella. I should have listened to you from the start.” She exhaled a smoke ring. Said nothing. “I shouldn’t have been unwilling to give up those ten years. I shouldn’t have fought with you and Mom over Lila Shaw. I should have listened to you from the beginning and given Lila Shaw’s husband position to Ethan White. “I’m sorry…” My sister laughed coldly: “Is sorry useful? Can sorry bring Dad back?” I choked up. She looked at me: “It’s because you were always single-mindedly jealous that Mom died!” She spat out the last few words through gritted teeth: “How did I end up with a brother like you!” I lowered my head, trembling as I spoke: “But Stella… I’m begging you, take care of Beau.” She froze. “Lila Shaw won’t take care of him. She’ll soon have children with someone else. “I’m not asking you to treat him like your own child. “At least don’t let him be bullied.” My sister stared at me, then suddenly laughed coldly: “What, playing the guilt card?” I said nothing. “Having a father like you is Beau’s born misfortune.” “Stella, I’m begging you.” “Get out.” “Stella…” “Get out!” An ashtray smashed at my feet: “Get out! Don’t dirty Dad’s eyes by being here!” I turned around. Dad’s portrait was on the table. Looking at me kindly with a smile. I knelt down. Kowtowed deeply. Turned around. Knelt before my sister again and kowtowed: “Stella, I’m begging you.” Without waiting for her shocked look, I turned and strode away. **3** Walking out the door, already in the car. My sister’s voice came from the doorway: “Don’t ever come back! Die wherever you want to die! Don’t say you’re my brother! The Turner family doesn’t have a brother like you!” I gripped the steering wheel, my eyes uncontrollably stinging. It doesn’t matter if I get scolded. I know. In the end, Stella won’t abandon Beau. I started the car. And drove away. The sleeping pills sat quietly on the table. I lay on the bed in the rental apartment. Set up a timed message for the landlord. To be sent after twenty-four hours. Asking him to help me contact the funeral home. Selling my last few luxury items could get me over two hundred thousand. Not enough for Dad’s surgery. But enough to compensate the landlord for his losses. After doing all this, I fed the pills to myself. The door was suddenly kicked open. My throat was grabbed. I involuntarily threw up. My chin was gripped by Lila Shaw. Her eyes were red: “What did you do! What did you and your father do to Ethan!!” Lila Shaw had never lost control like this. Even in the past when we fought endlessly over divorce papers. She’d just give me a cold smile and say: “Fine, then we’ll drag this out. Let’s see who can outlast whom.” I’d never seen her so furious. Still confused, Ethan White appeared at the door. The performance costume he’d been wearing was now replaced by haute couture. But it was torn and tattered. Blood at the corner of his mouth. He rushed up like a madman. Punched me hard in the face: “How can you be so vicious! “Won’t you and your father be satisfied until you’ve destroyed me!” I looked at him blankly. His chest heaved violently: “I told you, I have morals. I would never destroy your marriage with Lila! “We were brothers once. How could you be so depraved as to have your father send me a message, trick me into going to the hospital to see him. “Then have a bunch of animals treat me like a dog and take pictures of me!” I laughed. As expected. Framing me again. But I’m so tired. Too tired to explain. Ethan White gritted his teeth, trembling: “If Lila hadn’t found me, those photos would be all over the internet by now!” “What a coincidence.” I didn’t even lift my eyelids: “Every time I supposedly frame you, Lila Shaw shows up right on time.” He froze. I smiled and looked up: “Just like you arranged it all in advance.” “Bang!” A hand shoved me hard. The back of my head hit the wall. Lila Shaw furiously threw a stack of photos in my face: “You’re saying Ethan used this method to humiliate himself just to compete with you!” In the photos, Ethan White’s face was covered in injuries, his eyes panicked. Countless hands forcing him to look at the camera. His eyes full of humiliation and tears. At first glance, it was indeed very pitiful. But looking closer, the angles and composition of these photos were too refined. Like someone had written a script in advance. Under the blanket, my hand gripped the sleeping pills I hadn’t finished. I sneered: “Not bad photography. Could be used as artistic portraits.” “You!” Ethan White was stunned. I looked at Lila Shaw: “What exactly do you want, Ms. Shaw? “Beat me up or put me in prison? Either way, hurry up. I still have things to do.” Lila Shaw’s fists trembled slightly. “That would be too easy on you.” A dozen burly men walked in from the door. “Naturally, we should give you a taste of your own medicine!” I froze. Cameras were set up in no time. Lila Shaw gave cold instructions at the door: “However you bullied Ethan, do the same to him! However you photographed Ethan, photograph him the same way!” With that, the door was closed. Before I could make a sound. My mouth was covered. **4** Ethan White’s photos were carefully designed. But my photos were truly humiliating. In no time, a hundred photos were taken. My face was covered in punch marks, blood at the corner of my mouth. Lying on the bed, eyes vacant. Lila Shaw checked those photos. Took away the negatives. Revealed a mocking expression. She came to my bedside and leaned down: “Tell me, if your father saw you doing this kind of work on the side, would he just drop dead on the spot?” I stared at the ceiling, saying nothing. She sneered. Stood up. Called her subordinate: “Prepare the car. We’re going to the hospital to see the old man.” “Yes!” She walked away. From under the blanket, my hand came out. The sleeping pills—I could finally take them. Dad, I’m coming to apologize to you. I’m sorry. Please don’t hate me. At that moment, Lila Shaw was going downstairs. Her subordinate called again: “Ms. Shaw! This is bad! The hospital says the old man passed away a month ago!” “What did you say?” Lila Shaw frowned. Suddenly thought of something. Turned around in panic. “Mason Turner! You’re pulling this trick again!” She burst through the door. Sleeping pills scattered on the floor. I lay on blood-soaked sheets, eyes already closed. “Mason Turner!!” “Mason!” Lila Shaw rushed over. Blood still trickled from the corner of my mouth. She looked at the scattered pills on the floor. Her eyes turned red: “Mason! Don’t scare me! What are you trying to do!” I felt my hand being gripped tightly. Lila Shaw’s voice trembled slightly: “Mason, I wasn’t really going to send out your photos. I was just trying to scare you! You wouldn’t take your photos public, would you? “Those photos are all destroyed. I never intended to show them to your uncle either! Please, don’t die, please…” But I couldn’t respond anymore. Slowly closed my eyes. Lila Shaw watched as I was pushed into the emergency room. She stood there listlessly. Still clutching my phone. The phone was stopped on my message draft page. She looked down. The screen still had blood on it. Asking the landlord to help contact a funeral home? All luxury items as compensation to the landlord? What is this… Lila Shaw’s hands trembled slightly. Mason… had already thought about suicide this early?! No, wait… Remembering the subordinate’s phone call, she immediately called back: “Go check what’s really going on with the old man!” Soon, she saw the empty hospital room. Her eyes turned red. “When the old man passed, we tried to contact you, but you never answered. In the end, it was the gentleman who claimed the body.” She never answered? Lila Shaw thought she’d heard wrong. Took out her phone. There were no calls from the hospital at all! “Impossible. We called! Check your call history if you don’t believe us!” “No need.” Lila Shaw’s voice turned cold. Her phone password was set by Ethan White. If someone tampered with the call history, it could only be him… She went to Ethan White’s residence. As soon as she opened the door, Ethan White rushed to hug her: “Lila! I was just about to find you! “Just now I saw someone lurking around my place again, similar to those people last time. Is Mason trying to hurt me again?” Lila Shaw looked at him coldly. Said nothing. “Lila?” Ethan White slowly released her. “Done with the act?” “Lila, I don’t know what you’re talking about?” “Why is there no record of the hospital’s call?” Ethan White’s breath caught. “I… I don’t know.” “Still lying!” She suddenly grabbed Ethan White by the throat: “The medical account I set up for the old man—why is there no balance! “Why every month when I transfer money, do you simultaneously have an extra sum of assets in your name! “Whose pocket did the money really go into!”

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My roommate Sophie loves borrowing things from me. Today it’s dance shoes, tomorrow it’s knee pads. But ever since she started borrowing from me, my body has gotten stiffer day by day. I can’t do splits anymore, I lose my balance during turns, and my knees buckle when I land jumps. Meanwhile, she’s gone from being a transfer student who couldn’t even pass basic technique to becoming Mrs. Foster’s handpicked candidate for the arts program entrance exam. Mrs. Foster grows more disappointed in me each day while valuing Sophie more and more. She constantly compares the two of us, and I’m always the one getting sighs and head shakes. Even my boyfriend Ethan has started looking down on me, getting closer and closer to her. After yet another skills assessment where I ranked dead last while Sophie came in first in the whole class, I stumbled upon Ethan in the stairwell with his arm around her waist. I rushed forward to confront them, only to hear words that turned my blood to ice. “Her talent is all mine now. Just one more borrowing and she’ll be completely useless. Then we can be together forever.” So that’s the truth. I confronted them, and Sophie and Ethan pushed me down the stairs together. They told everyone I’d jumped because I couldn’t handle my failing grades. I died wrongfully. When I opened my eyes again, I found myself back on the day Sophie first borrowed my dance shoes. You love borrowing things? Then I’ll make sure you get what you deserve.

I hadn’t even recovered from the shock of being reborn when I saw Sophie holding a pair of my pointe shoes. In my past life, it all started with these shoes—the first step toward my destruction. Without thinking, I snatched the shoes from Sophie’s hands. “I can’t lend you these shoes.” Sophie froze, not expecting this reaction from me. I’d always been generous—if other students forgot knee pads or resistance bands, I’d always help out. She tugged at her ponytail, and her eyes immediately turned red as she looked at me with wounded expression. “Emma, you’re usually so generous. Is it because I’m a transfer student that you look down on me? You won’t even lend me a pair of dance shoes?” That’s when Ethan appeared, looking at me accusingly. “Emma, how can you discriminate against Sophie just because she transferred in halfway? You won’t even lend her dance shoes?” The other students in the practice room heard the commotion and gathered around, sizing us up. Lily stood beside me with her arms crossed, glanced at Sophie, and said nothing. Jessica poked her head out of the dressing room, touching her earring with an expression that said she was enjoying the drama. “Emma’s usually pretty cool about stuff like this. There must be some misunderstanding, right?” “Yeah, last week when Sophie forgot her water bottle, Emma was the one who gave her hers.” “Yesterday morning I saw Emma bringing Sophie breakfast.” Hearing these words, Sophie’s face flushed with embarrassment, and tears began streaming down her face. She just kept crying, unable to say a word. Ethan stepped forward and grabbed the pointe shoes from my hand. “They’re just shoes. You’re being so petty, Emma.” He shoved the shoes into Sophie’s hands. “Sophie, just take them and wear them.” Sophie held the shoes and looked at me with an exaggerated show of reluctance. “Emma, can I please just borrow these shoes for two days?” I didn’t agree right away. My tone was flat when I spoke. “These pointe shoes were custom handmade for me by my grandmother’s special order from Master Bennett. Everything from the materials to the last was made according to my foot shape. The labor alone cost thirty thousand dollars.” As soon as I finished speaking, the practice room went silent for two seconds. Jessica instinctively pulled out her phone to check prices, scrolled twice, then put it down. A girl in the front row clicked her tongue. “Thirty thousand dollar pointe shoes? That’s more than my living expenses for an entire year.” Another girl beside her muttered quietly. “She really knows how to pick them. Goes straight for the most expensive pair.” Sophie’s fingers unconsciously picked at the shoe’s surface, her face turning red and white by turns. “I didn’t know these shoes were so expensive. If you think I’m not worthy of borrowing such expensive shoes, then I’ll give them back. But could you maybe—” Before she could finish, I snatched the shoes back. I knew she wanted to borrow something else, so I cut her off directly. “Sorry, I don’t have any extra dance shoes to lend you today. There are so many other students in the class—why don’t you ask them?” She stood there stunned, my words blocking her. Ethan’s expression darkened, and just as he was about to speak, I interrupted him again. “Ethan, since you care so much about Sophie, you have at least three spare pairs of shoes in your locker. Why can’t you lend her one?” “Or does Sophie only want to borrow my shoes?” Panic flashed across Sophie’s face. She tugged at her ponytail and quickly shook her head. “It’s not like that. I just thought since we’re roommates, I’d ask you first.” I nodded. “I know. That’s why I want to ask you a question too.” My gaze fell on the ankle support visible at Sophie’s ankle. It was a custom piece with a silver clasp, engraved with a small “E.” That was the birthday gift I’d given Ethan last month. “Ethan, since you treasure the things I give you so much, why is the ankle support I gave you on Sophie’s foot?”

Sophie looked down at her ankle and tried to pull her pants down to cover it, but it was too late. Her words came tumbling out faster. “I, it’s just that, no, Ethan just felt bad that I didn’t have good ankle support, so he lent me his to protect my feet. It’s not what you think.” Lily beside me stretched lazily and spoke in a conversational tone. “Well, I don’t have good ankle support either. How come nobody feels bad for me?” Jessica, who’d been watching from the sidelines, chimed in. “The ankle support I’m wearing is two-year-old hand-me-down, and I haven’t seen anyone giving me the good stuff with names engraved on it.” Ethan’s face couldn’t take it anymore. He glared at me angrily. “That’s enough, Emma. Are you deliberately targeting her just because I’ve been taking care of Sophie a bit more? I only care about her as a classmate. Don’t let your jealousy hurt innocent people.” Even now he’s still blaming me. It was the same in my past life—everything was always my fault. “Which eye saw me targeting Sophie? If anything, you’re the one who can lend out ankle support with my name on it but can’t spare a pair of shoes. They’re both things I gave you—how come you’re playing favorites?” My words left him opening and closing his mouth, his fists clenched, unsure whether to keep them raised or drop them. Ethan tugged at his collar and forced out a smile. “Stop making a scene. You’re not yourself today. Go back and get some rest.” Just then, I heard a voice. It was like it came from far away, with a metallic mechanical quality. “Host, we just completed binding today. If you accept items from Ethan, from this day forward you can only borrow his fate.” Sophie’s expression changed drastically. She pushed away Ethan’s hand. “I don’t want to borrow your things. I just remembered I have a spare pair of shoes in my bag.” She turned and ran toward the dressing room. That voice—was it the system Sophie had bound with in my past life? I could actually hear it speaking. I lowered my head and pretended to organize my shoe bag while my mind raced. So there was such a rule. No wonder in my past life Sophie only targeted me. Later when other classmates voluntarily offered her things, she wasn’t happy about it. Turns out she could only bind to one target. I remember in my past life she said more than once how she envied me—said I had a good family, good talent, a handsome boyfriend, and teachers who liked me. She even said how nice it would be if she could be me. Turns out she really meant to become me. Lily came over and whispered. “Did you take the wrong medicine today? How come you’re suddenly so tough?” I didn’t answer because that metallic voice spoke again. “Host, the binding window is only forty-eight hours. If she won’t lend to you, you can choose to bind someone else. But I must inform you—only by binding someone whose fate is better than yours can you borrow their good fortune. If you bind someone whose fate is worse than yours, their bad fortune will transfer to you.” “I don’t want anyone else’s fate. I only want Emma’s.” Sophie said this quietly in the dressing room. Through the thin wall, I heard it crystal clear. Not heard her voice—heard the system repeating her choice. So she only had forty-eight hours. Tomorrow, she would definitely come looking to borrow from me again. What should I do? I couldn’t keep avoiding her forever. I grabbed my shoe bag and walked out of the practice room, my mind turning over one thought again and again. The system said if she bound to someone whose fate was worse than hers, the bad fortune would transfer to Sophie. In other words, as long as what I lent her didn’t belong to me but to someone whose fate was worse than hers, what Sophie would borrow wouldn’t be good fortune but someone else’s misfortune. The problem was, where would I find this “person with worse fate”?

I walked to the school gate where a girl in a school uniform blocked my path. She was holding a cardboard box with a printed photo taped to it. The photo showed a girl with a ponytail wearing dance clothes, smiling brightly. “Excuse me, Rachel from the dance team at Clearwater High next door was in a serious car accident. She’s completely paralyzed now and can only lie in bed. We’re raising donations for her. Could you contribute?” I stared at the girl’s face in the photo. “What’s her current condition?” The girl’s eyes reddened. “The doctor said her spinal damage is too severe. She won’t be able to stand for the rest of her life. She’s only sixteen. Her fundamentals used to be the best on our team. Now forget dancing—she can’t even get out of bed.” “We’re fundraising just to help her be more comfortable in the hospital.” I said nothing and pulled out my phone to scan the QR code on the box, making a transfer. The girl looked at the amount and froze for a full five seconds. “You… you donated twenty thousand?” “Which hospital is she in?” “City Central Hospital, Rehabilitation Building, third floor.” I made note of the address. I bought a basket of fruit and took a cab to the hospital. When I pushed open the hospital room door, Rachel was propped against the raised head of her bed reading an old textbook. From the neck down she was covered with a thin blanket, and the outline beneath it was frighteningly thin. She saw me enter and blinked. “Who are you here to see?” “You.” I placed the fruit on her bedside table. “My name’s Emma. I’m from the same city, studying dance at Greenwood Arts High. I heard about what happened to you, so I wanted to come see you.” Rachel tried to sit up straighter. I quickly stepped forward to adjust her bed. “Thank you. You dance too?” “Yeah.” She stared at me for a few seconds, then suddenly smiled. That smile was identical to the one in the photo, but her cheeks had hollowed out significantly. “I used to dance too. Not anymore. The teacher says it nicely—calls it ‘temporary recovery.’ Really it means I never have to come back.” I glanced at the cabinet in the corner of the room. Old things were piled on top—yellowed resistance bands, worn knee pads, and a pair of old pointe shoes with a name written in marker on the surface. Rachel. “Are these all things you used before?” “Yeah. My mom wanted to throw them out but I wouldn’t let her. They don’t mean anything really, just keeping them for memories.” I opened the bag of new dance supplies I’d bought from the school store and placed a complete set of brand-new stationery, workbooks, and wireless earbuds on her bedside table. “These are for you. Don’t just lie around in the hospital doing nothing. Listen to some lessons, read some books.” Rachel looked a bit embarrassed. “This is too expensive.” “Keep them.” I pointed to the cabinet in the corner. “You won’t use those old things anymore. I’ll help you get rid of them so you don’t have to keep feeling sad looking at them.” She hesitated, then nodded. “That’s probably for the best. Seeing them there hurts every time. Go ahead and throw them away for me.” I stuffed all of Rachel’s old dance shoes, old resistance bands, and old knee pads into my backpack. Walking out of the hospital entrance, I pulled out those old pointe shoes to look at them. The soles were worn thin, the satin surface had sweat stains, and the ribbons showed curved creases from being tied in dead knots and untied. These were shoes worn by a girl who would never stand again. Sophie, this is the fate I’ve prepared for you. Early the next morning, as soon as I entered the practice room, Sophie caught up and grabbed my arm. “Emma, I’m sorry about yesterday. I already returned the ankle support to Ethan. Please don’t be mad anymore, okay?” “Mm.” Seeing my cold tone, she quickly changed her expression and rubbed her hands together awkwardly. “I forgot my dance shoes in the dorm today and there’s no time to go back before fundamentals class. Could you lend me a pair?” Afraid I’d refuse, she sped up, adding urgently. “I don’t need your expensive ones. I’ll wear whatever you give me. Old ones are fine, worn-out ones are fine.” I didn’t refuse. I pulled out the old pointe shoes I’d taken from Rachel’s hospital room yesterday and handed them to her. “Here. You don’t need to return them.” Sophie hadn’t expected me to be so agreeable today. All her prepared words stuck in her throat. She stared at the old shoes for two seconds—the surface was somewhat worn, but the size was about right for her. I made to take them back. “If you think they’re too old, forget it.” She snatched them away and clutched them to her chest. “I don’t mind. I just didn’t expect you to be so generous. Thank you, Emma.” Lily in the back row heard this and leaned back with her arms crossed, tilting her head at Sophie. “What do you mean ‘didn’t expect’? When has Emma not been generous? But you—yesterday people caught you wearing her boyfriend’s ankle support, and today you have the nerve to come borrow shoes?” Sophie’s face flushed. She waved her hands frantically. “That’s not what I meant. Lily, don’t misunderstand. She didn’t lend me shoes yesterday, so I thought she wouldn’t today either. I’m actually really grateful to Emma.” Ethan saw me lend out the shoes and walked over, tugging at his collar, his face showing a kind of restrained excitement. He couldn’t resist a sarcastic jab. “They’re just old shoes. Was it really necessary to make such a big fuss yesterday?” I rolled my eyes at him.

The class bell rang. Mrs. Foster walked into the practice room, took attendance, then had everyone go to the barre for warm-ups. Sophie changed into those old dance shoes and stood in her position. That metallic voice rang out accordingly. “Congratulations, Host. Borrowing successful. This system has begun executing the fate transfer program. The target subject’s advantages will gradually transfer to the Host, while the target subject will gradually have their luck drained until they become worthless.” Sophie lowered her head, the corners of her mouth curling up slightly. She thought she was about to possess my life. In my past life, after she borrowed my things, I started feeling unwell that same day and got the simplest questions wrong in class. Today I paid special attention to my body. Leg stretches, leg lifts, floor work. I carefully felt each movement. No discomfort at all. On the contrary, during PE class when Sophie was running, her foot suddenly went soft and her knee hit the track. When the PE teacher helped her up, her right leg visibly trembled. After returning from the nurse’s office, Sophie sat at her seat, stealing glances at me. “Emma, do you feel unwell today?” This was a test. I yawned and slumped on my desk, pretending to lack energy. “You noticed. I don’t know what’s wrong today. My body feels especially stiff. This morning when I was stretching, it felt like my bones were about to break.” A hint of smugness crept into the corners of her mouth as she made a show of consoling me. “You must be exhausted from rehearsing so much lately. You’ll feel better if you sleep early tonight.” I hummed in agreement and continued slumping. During afternoon fundamentals class, I deliberately messed up a simple turn and was corrected on the spot by Mrs. Foster. She frowned and tapped the barre. “Emma, you’ve been in terrible form lately. You can’t even stabilize a second position turn. How are you going to participate in next month’s assessment?” I kept my head down and said nothing. From the corner of my eye, I saw Sophie’s shoulders relax as she picked at her nail polish, unable to hide her smile. She thought everything was going according to plan. After school that evening, Sophie stopped me again. “Emma, my resistance band is worn out. It almost snapped during practice. Could you lend me one?” “Sure.” I pulled out Rachel’s old resistance band from my backpack and handed it over. “Here. You don’t need to return it.” I grabbed my backpack and walked out. Just as I left the practice room door, I heard something heavy hit the floor behind me. I turned around. Sophie had fallen flat on the floor, her right leg curled up, her face pressed against the ground. She’d fallen as if her knee had suddenly lost all strength. Two nearby students rushed to help her up. Sophie’s face was deathly pale, her right hand clutching the resistance band she’d just received. “I’m fine. Just missed a step.” She stood up forcefully, waving and smiling. But I saw that when she stood up, her right leg shook three times before stabilizing. She didn’t know whose fate she’d borrowed. She thought she was stealing my talent. In reality, she was stealing Rachel’s fate. The fate of a girl who would spend the rest of her life in a wheelchair. Sophie’s leg was getting worse. The next day during fundamentals class, Mrs. Foster had each group come up one by one to do center practice combinations. Small jumps, medium jumps, grand jumps in sequence. Sophie was in the second group. The first four eight-counts went fine, but when she got to the grand jump, her right foot pushed off and her body flew into the air. The instant she landed, her landing leg suddenly buckled. She barely kept from falling, but the whole movement was crooked like someone had shoved her from the side. Mrs. Foster frowned and tapped the floor with her teaching stick. “Sophie, your grand jump landing was unstable. What’s been going on with you lately? Last week in the second group, your landings were the cleanest.” Sophie stood there as her right leg involuntarily trembled. She had to press her heel hard into the floor to stop it. “Mrs. Foster, I think it’s because I bumped my knee yesterday and it hasn’t fully recovered yet.” Mrs. Foster nodded without pressing further and turned her gaze to me. “Emma, your turn.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “401716”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster

I decided it was time to give her a masterclass in consequences, mostly because her sheer entitlement had finally crossed the line from annoying to pathological. For the entire past month, she had hitched a ride in my car every single morning. At the end of the month, she sent me a Venmo for exactly fifteen dollars. Her justification was delivered with a perfectly straight face: her morning sickness was so severe, she simply couldn’t stomach the smell of the subway crowds, and she was hoping to keep carpooling next month. In her mind, my commute passed right by her apartment complex, and taking the detour cost me “barely two minutes.” She had even whipped out her calculator to do the exact math on my gas mileage. According to her, the one-mile detour, factoring in my car’s MPG and the current price of premium unleaded, cost me about fifty cents a day. So, she figured, giving me a dollar a day meant she was overpaying. The extra fifty cents was supposed to be my tip to buy myself a coffee. A win-win, she called it. I had stared at that $15 Venmo notification, my thumb hovering over the screen, unable to process the sheer audacity. She wasn’t done. She added that since I was driving to the office anyway, having an extra body in the passenger seat didn’t burn any more gas. Then came the kicker: she offered to bump it up to two dollars a day, but only if I could swing by the drive-thru and grab her an iced oat milk latte while I waited by her curb. The latte was four dollars, but she said since I had to sit at the red light anyway, picking it up was no extra skin off my nose. I had thrown my phone onto my nightstand, the glass clattering against the wood. Right then and there, I decided to take the highway. The next morning, I left half an hour early and took the route from the opposite direction. Yet, the second I stepped off the elevator and walked to my cubicle, she was there, waiting to block my path. She demanded to know if I was aware she had been standing out in the biting wind by my apartment gate for twenty minutes. Then, with the casual flick of her wrist, she announced that her Uber XL had cost her twenty-eight dollars, and since I hadn’t given her 24 hours’ notice of my route change, I needed to reimburse her. She actually shoved the Uber receipt right into my face. … 1 My name is Nina. I’ve been in the Project Management department for three years. My car payment is $680 a month, my performance bonus is currently being held hostage by my manager, and the Team Lead promotion I’ve been killing myself for is still hanging in the balance. At 9:07 AM, Chelsea’s phone screen, displaying her $28 Uber receipt, was practically grazing my nose. “Twenty-eight,” she said, tapping her manicured nail against the glass. “Venmo or Zelle, Nina?” I unclipped my ID lanyard from my neck, dropped it onto my desk, and calmly pushed her hand away. “You take an Uber, and you expect me to expense it?” She brought the phone right back up. Her eyes went glassy, instantly brimming with manufactured tears. Her free hand moved to rest delicately over her flat stomach. When she spoke, her voice had dropped an octave, thin and trembling. “I stood by your gate for twenty minutes. The wind was freezing. And you know I’m pregnant.” She sniffled, casting a wide, pathetic glance around the open-plan office. “If you had just sent a text last night, I wouldn’t have stood out there freezing for nothing.” The clacking of keyboards around us slowed to a halt. Beth swiveled her chair around, still chewing on the plastic straw of her iced coffee. “What’s going on?” Chelsea held her phone a little higher, a martyr on display. “It’s nothing, really. Nina just didn’t pick me up today, so I had to call a last-minute Uber.” She laced the word nothing with a heavy dose of victimhood. “I’m not forcing her to pay me back or anything, but twenty-eight dollars is a lot just because someone forgot to text.” Beth gave me a look. “Nina, you didn’t give her a ride today?” I pushed my mouse aside. The metallic chill of my car keys pressed into my palm, grounding me. “Why exactly am I obligated to give her a ride?” Chelsea’s bottom lip jutted out. “Because you’ve been driving me for a month, Nina.” “That was just me trying to be polite before you wore out your welcome.” The office went dead silent. The printer in the corner jammed, spitting out a harsh, rhythmic clack-clack-clack. Chelsea’s fragile facade cracked, revealing a flash of indignation. “Nina, that’s incredibly harsh. I’m pregnant. I physically cannot handle the smell of stale sweat and cheap breakfast sandwiches on the subway. Riding with you is literally just one extra turn.” “One extra turn?” I pulled out my phone, opening the Venmo app, and held the screen up for her. “Fifteen dollars. You think fifteen dollars buys you a private chauffeur for a month?” She took a step closer, defensive now. “I did the math on the gas! Your car gets what, twenty-five miles to the gallon? My place is a mile out of the way. That’s maybe fifty cents of gas a day. I gave you a dollar. I overpaid you.” “And the coffee you demanded I buy?” “The coffee is four dollars! If I give you five, the extra dollar is your tip for waiting. You’re just sitting in the car anyway!” I locked my phone and looked up, meeting her eyes dead on. “Chelsea. I am not your driver.” The tears spilled over instantly. Perfect, symmetrical drops. “I knew it. I knew you hated pregnant women.” Heads popped up over the cubicle dividers like meerkats. Beth rushed to play peacekeeper. “Come on, guys. We all work together. It wouldn’t kill you to just swing by and pick her up, Nina.” I hooked my finger through my keyring and tossed the keys onto Beth’s desk. They landed with a heavy clatter. “Great. You pick her up tomorrow. She lives ten miles in the opposite direction from you. I’ll even Venmo you the fifteen bucks to cover the gas.” The straw slipped from Beth’s lips. “I… I live way out in the North Suburbs.” “Then mind your own business.” 2 Chelsea clutched her stomach, her voice rising in pitch. “Nina, if you have a problem with me, take it out on me! Don’t drag other people into this. It’s not like I’m not paying you. How am I supposed to work in this kind of toxic environment?” I stood up. My chair scraped against the industrial carpet, a loud, grating sound. “Aren’t you already working?” She stared at me. Her chest heaved once, twice. Then, suddenly, she bent over, gripping the edge of Beth’s desk as if her legs had given out. “Ugh—” She yanked Beth’s wastebasket toward her and began to dry-heave loudly. A small crowd materialized instantly. Beth rubbed her back, while the guy from IT frantically shoved a box of Kleenex into her hand. Beth shot me a vicious glare. “Could you just back off? Look at what you’re doing to her.” I reached over, picked my keys back up, and dropped them into my purse. “What am I doing to her? I didn’t get her pregnant.” The sharp, rapid click of leather loafers echoed down the aisle. Greg, our department manager, emerged from his glass-walled office, a manila folder tucked under his arm. “What the hell is going on out here?” Chelsea lifted her head. Her eyes were bloodshot, a crumpled tissue pressed delicately against her nose. Her voice was a whisper, fragile as spun glass. “Greg, it’s… it’s fine. Nina just didn’t wait for me this morning, and I was out in the cold wind for a while. I think I just caught a chill. My stomach is in knots.” Greg’s gaze snapped to me. “Nina. My office. Now.” The second the heavy glass door clicked shut, he tossed the folder onto his desk. “What is your problem?” I stood in front of his desk, refusing to take a seat. “It’s my car. I drive who I want to drive.” He drummed his knuckles against the mahogany. “Chelsea is in a delicate condition. What does it cost you to show a little grace?” “Does grace include reimbursing her Uber rides?” “Don’t get smart with me.” He pushed his ergonomic chair back and leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Do you know who her husband is? He’s a VP at Apex Logistics. The guys who signed that massive contract with us last quarter. We’re currently negotiating a budget expansion with them. We brought her into this department to keep relations smooth. If she gets stressed and it gets back to him, can you shoulder that fallout?” I unzipped my tote bag. I pulled out a thick stack of printed receipts—the $150 detailing bill, parking stubs, toll logs—and dropped them onto his desk. “She used my car for a month and paid me fifteen dollars. Last week, she spilled a sticky oat milk latte all over my door panel. Detailing cost me a hundred and fifty. Yesterday, she dragged mud onto my passenger seat and left footprint smudges on the upholstery. If you’re so committed to team morale, here’s the itemized invoice. Are you writing the check, Greg?” He didn’t even glance at the receipts. “Nina. You are up for the Team Lead position. The number one thing I am looking for is a team player. Right now, you’re failing that test.” “Being a team player means being her unpaid chauffeur?” “She is pregnant.” “Does being pregnant mean she gets to hijack my property?” Greg’s face darkened. “Watch your tone. You’re young. Taking a little hit for the team builds character.” I slid the receipts back into my bag. “Then you build some character.” He slammed his hand on the desk. “Nina!” Outside the glass, shadows shifted. The blinds were open, and I could see the tops of heads bobbing near the cubicles, pretending not to watch. Greg swallowed his temper, forcing his voice into a tight, controlled hiss. “I am telling you to check your attitude. Starting tomorrow, you will resume picking her up. Furthermore, the first draft for the Apex proposal is due this afternoon. She’s clearly unwell, so you will pick up her slack.” I glanced at the clock on his wall. 9:21 AM. “So, I’m the driver, the ghostwriter, and the scapegoat?” “It’s called stepping up.” “Stepping up to be a doormat?” He leaned back, lacing his fingers together over his stomach. “If that’s how you want to frame it, fine. But remember, you aren’t the only candidate for Team Lead. If you can’t handle the heat, I can easily pass the torch to someone who can.” I grabbed my bag. “Fine.” He thought I was yielding. He offered a tight, patronizing smile and nodded toward the door. “Make sure this doesn’t happen tomorrow.” When I pulled the door open, the cluster of heads immediately scattered. Chelsea was sitting back at her desk, taking tiny sips of hot water from a paper cup, leaving a faint rim of pink lip gloss on the edge. Seeing me emerge, she made a show of rubbing her belly and offered me a pale, fragile smile. “Nina, I hope Greg didn’t come down too hard on you. You know what, let’s just forget about the Uber money. I’ll just take the loss.” I stopped in front of her desk, looking down at her. “Do you know what drivers hate the most?” She blinked, her sweet mask slipping for a fraction of a second. “What?” “Pests that dart out into the road when you least expect it.” The blood drained from her face. 3 I turned on my heel and walked back to my desk. The hum of my computer booting up felt like the only sane sound in the room. At 10:30 AM, I was elbow-deep in a spreadsheet when Chelsea drifted over, a thermal lunch bag dangling from her wrist. “Nina, I’m really craving that spicy Thai place downtown for lunch.” I didn’t look away from my monitors. “Cafeteria is on the second floor.” “I can’t stomach the smell of the grease down there.” “Then starve.” She carefully placed the thermal bag next to my keyboard. “My husband said you drive too aggressively. I got dizzy the second I got in your car yesterday. Tomorrow morning, you need to take that air freshener out of your vents. It’s too chemical. Pregnant women shouldn’t breathe that stuff.” My fingers stopped typing. I waited two full beats before I reached out and shoved the thermal bag right back toward her. “When did I ever agree to drive you tomorrow?” “Greg already talked to you, didn’t he?” She pointed a manicured finger toward the manager’s office. “Don’t make this difficult for yourself, Nina.” “Difficult for me?” She leaned in, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, a cruel little smile playing on her lips. “You’re terrified of losing that Team Lead spot, aren’t you?” She enunciated the next words with agonizing slowness. “If you’re scared, learn to be obedient.” I stared at her, letting the silence stretch until it became suffocating. Unfazed, she pulled a slip of paper from her folder and dropped it onto my desk. “Oh, and run an errand for me at lunch. Go to the pharmacy down the street and pick this up. It’s my hormone prescription. You have a car, it’ll be quick.” I pinched the corner of the paper. It was a poorly photocopied prescription slip, blurry around the edges. “Quick?” “Yeah. You’re going out for lunch anyway, right?” I folded the paper precisely in half, and then in half again, and tucked it into the breast pocket of her cardigan. “You’re pregnant, Chelsea. You’re not royalty.” Her face crumpled. She clutched the slip, spun around, and stormed off. Halfway down the aisle, she froze, grabbing the partition of the nearest cubicle. “Ugh—” The trash can was practically thrown at her this time. The office erupted into motion. She bent double, her shoulders shaking violently. Beth patted her back, shooting daggers at me over Chelsea’s trembling shoulders. “Nina, do you have to antagonize her?” I shoved my AirPods into my ears and clicked back to my spreadsheet. At 12:05 PM, I grabbed my keys to head down to the parking garage. I needed to grab my sunglasses. As I stepped out of the elevator into level B2, I saw it from fifty feet away: my passenger side door was wide open. Chelsea was sitting sideways in the passenger seat of my car, her feet resting on the door jamb, leaning over the center console, rummaging through my glove compartment. I stopped dead in my tracks. She heard my heels click against the concrete, turned, and froze. But only for a second. She quickly recovered her poise, holding up my expensive Le Labo car diffuser. “This smell is way too overpowering,” she announced. “I’m doing you a favor and taking it out.” I closed the distance in five strides and grabbed the door, yanking it open to its widest limit with a loud clack. “Why the hell are you in my car?” “You left it unlocked.” She lifted her chin, pointing toward the center console. “I was just looking for a tissue, but your car is a complete mess.” My eyes dropped to the seat. Beneath her dangling feet, a sticky puddle of spilled iced coffee was pooling on my floor mat. Shoved into the door pocket was a half-empty plastic cup, condensation dripping down its sides, a straw bent awkwardly against the plastic. “Who told you that you could bring that trash into my car?” “I was going to leave it on my desk, but Beth said I should just bring it down here to save time.” “Beth told you to shove a leaking cup of coffee into my door panel?” She rolled her eyes, an exaggerated, teenage sigh. “Nina, seriously, can you stop being so petty? It’s just a coffee.” I reached past her, grabbed the sweating cup, and chucked it into the concrete trash bin against the concrete pillar. It landed with a hollow thud. “Get out.” “I’m already sitting down! Just drive me to the Women’s Clinic down the street so I can pick up some bloodwork.” “Get. Out.” She unbuckled the seatbelt with agonizing slowness. As she swung her legs out, she deliberately dragged the muddy heel of her boot across the fabric of the passenger seat, leaving two dark, ugly streaks. “You have such a nasty temper,” she sneered. “No wonder you don’t have a man to take care of you.” I grabbed the handle of the door. “Walk.” The moment her boots hit the concrete, I slammed the door shut with enough force to make her flinch backward. “Tomorrow morning. 7:30. At the gate,” she called out, a mocking lilt in her voice. At 2:00 PM, the auto detailing guy sent me photos on my phone. The floor mats, the door panel, the seat fabric—the stains were worse under the shop lights. “Deep clean, extraction, and odor removal. $150. Gave you the returning customer discount,” he texted. I looked across the office. Chelsea was sitting at her desk, delicately eating pre-cut melon from a Tupperware container, taking tiny, bird-like sips of a yogurt drink. 4 I screenshotted the detailing bill, enlarged the image, and walked over to her desk. “You ruined the upholstery. Pay up.” She barely glanced at the screen. “$150?” “Yes.” She pulled out her phone, her thumbs tapping lazily across the screen. “Done.” I looked at my lock screen. A Venmo notification. $3.00. Note: Emotional compensation. I turned my phone around, making sure the people in the adjacent cubicles could clearly see the screen. “Did everyone catch that? Three dollars.” Chelsea took a slow sip of her yogurt. “Cleaning your car is your own responsibility, Nina. I just sat in the passenger seat. I gave you three dollars to be nice. You should be thanking me.” “Thanking you for what, exactly?” “For even speaking to you.” She set the yogurt down and dramatically pressed both hands to her lower belly. “I am carrying a child. Why are you screaming at me? If your hostility causes complications with my pregnancy, are you prepared to pay for that?” A soft voice from the neighboring pod murmured, “Let it go, Nina. Don’t make a scene.” I let out a harsh, dry laugh. “Keep your three dollars. But hear me now: you are never setting foot in my car again.” She smiled, a sickly sweet upward curve of her lips. “You don’t make those decisions, Nina. You answer to Greg.” That evening, I stayed late. The office had mostly emptied out; half the overhead lights were dark, and the night crew was pushing vacuums down the hall. When I finally got down to the parking garage and walked up to my car, I noticed something draped over the passenger seat. It was a silvery-gray, heavy fabric. An EMF radiation protection blanket. Stuck to the window was a neon pink Post-it note. Nina, leave this in the car. Pregnant women can’t be exposed to the electronics in your dashboard. Also, make sure the oat milk latte tomorrow is HOT, not iced. — Chelsea. I peeled the sticky note off the glass, crushed it into a tight ball, and shoved it into my pocket. The next morning, at exactly 6:57 AM, my phone buzzed on my nightstand. Chelsea. I hit decline. It buzzed again. Decline. On the third ring, I switched the phone to Do Not Disturb and tossed it aside. At 7:21 AM, I merged onto the highway, taking the long way around the city. At 9:03 AM, the exact same theater production played out by my cubicle. She held out a fresh Uber receipt—thirty-five dollars this time—her face a mask of tragic suffering. “Do you have any idea how long I stood by the gate?” “I assume exactly as long as you stood there yesterday.” “Yesterday was yesterday! Today is today!” She shoved the screen closer to my face. “If you weren’t going to pick me up, the least you could do is tell me.” “Since when do I report my whereabouts to you?” “Since you implicitly agreed to be my ride for the last month!” “Since I implicitly allowed you to walk all over me, you mean?” Her bottom lip trembled. Right on cue, the waterworks began. “I know exactly what this is. You’re jealous of me.” “Jealous of what, exactly?” “Jealous that I have a husband who adores me. Jealous that I’m starting a family. Jealous that someone actually cares if I get home safe.” I laughed out loud. It echoed in the quiet office. “If he adores you so much, why isn’t he driving you?” The soft, pitiful mask tore, revealing the nasty truth underneath. “My husband is a very busy man.” “And I’m not?” “You’re single. You go home to an empty apartment. You have nothing better to do.” The office went still. Even the rhythmic clicking of Beth’s stapler stopped in mid-air. I slowly pushed my coffee mug to the side, clearing a space on my desk. I leaned forward, resting my hands flat against the laminate wood. “Chelsea. Say that one more time.” She clearly hadn’t expected to say the quiet part out loud, her eyes darting nervously for a second before she doubled down, lifting her chin. “Am I wrong? You live alone. Your car is empty. Why is it such a tragedy for you to just do a favor for a mother-to-be?” I picked up the heavy, spiral-bound project proposal from my desk and tapped it slowly against my palm. “Your husband’s car has an empty passenger seat too. How about I have him drive me home every night? Is that cool with you?” Her eyes turned to ice. “You wish you were in his league.” I slammed the heavy proposal down onto the desk. The smack made half the room jump. “If someone like you is in his league, why wouldn’t I be?” Absolute silence descended on the floor.

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I woke up back in that room, facing the one person I had spent my entire previous life trying to please. My sister, Mary, sat across from me. Her eyes—usually bright and sharp with an effortless, predatory confidence—were currently clouded with a headache. she rubbed her temples, her gaze landing on me with a heavy, unmistakable flicker of annoyance. She slid a black credit card across the polished mahogany desk. Her voice was flat, Brookline-steeled, and utterly non-negotiable. “There’s five million in there. Consider it back pay for the years you spent… away.” Before I could speak, she added that she had already closed on a condo for me in the Seaport District. She wanted me moved out by sunset. “You know how Theo is,” she said, referring to the “fake” brother, the boy who had been swapped with me at birth and raised in the lap of luxury while I withered in the foster system. “He’s sensitive. Every time he sees you, his blood pressure spikes. He was back in the ER last night because of the ‘stress’ of your presence.” She paused, a rare shadow of discomfort flickering across her face, before she doubled down. “If there’s anything else you need—within reason—I’ll see to it. But after today, Julia… don’t come back here. This house isn’t your home.” In my first life, I had pushed that card back. I had begged for her love instead of her money, terrified that accepting the payout meant losing my only blood relative forever. I had spent the next three years working double shifts at a local bottling plant, saving every penny to buy her a birthday gift she didn’t want. I died on the way to deliver it, struck by a drunk driver while clutching a wrapped box of overpriced scarves. My ghost had lingered long enough to hear her reaction to my death. She hadn’t cried. She had sighed, a sound of profound relief, and said: “Finally, the debt is settled. I can actually breathe again.” The “family bond” I had nearly killed myself to preserve had been nothing more than a lead weight around her neck. This time, there was no lump in my throat. No stinging in my eyes. I reached out, my fingers steady as I tucked the card into my pocket. I looked her dead in the eye and spoke clearly. “Thank you.” Then, I leaned forward. “But let’s be real, Mary. My ‘presence’ is worth more than five million to you. Make it fifteen million, and I’ll sign a total severance agreement. You’ll never see my face, hear my voice, or deal with my existence ever again.” 1. “What did you just say?” Mary stared at me as if I had suddenly sprouted a second head. The polished, untouchable Mary Blake was actually reeling. I remained a statue of calm. “Ten million more. In exchange, I vanish. No more awkward holiday dinner invites you don’t want to send. No more Theo ending up in the hospital because he’s ‘intimidated’ by the rightful heir. Fifteen million to buy Theo a lifetime of peace and health. That’s a bargain, isn’t it?” The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Mary searched my face for a joke, a tremor, a sign of the desperate boy I used to be. She found nothing. “A bargain?” she repeated, her voice dripping with sudden vitriol. “Are you really that shallow, Julia? You’d sell your birthright and your sister for a check? You’re willing to put a price tag on our blood?” I nodded. I was absolutely willing. In my last life, fifteen million wasn’t just a number; it was an impossibility. It was a sum I couldn’t have earned in ten lifetimes of breaking my back on a factory floor. In this life, I knew the truth: affection is fleeting, but capital is leverage. “Fifteen million,” I repeated. “And you get exactly what you want.” Mary’s chest heaved with a sharp, angry breath. I could see the disgust rolling off her in waves—disgust that someone with her DNA could be so transactional, so low. “Fine,” she spat. “Fifteen million. Sign the voluntary severance and the non-disclosure. The wire will hit your account before you hit the front door.” I took the pen. In a firm, practiced hand, I signed Julia Blake for the very last time. As I walked out of the estate, clutching the card that now held my freedom, I felt Mary’s gaze burning into my back from the second-story study window. “Mr. Blake,” the driver said, holding the door of the Lincoln open. “Ms. Blake instructed me to take you to your new residence.” In my previous life, I had seen these small gestures—the car, the condo—as signs of her secret blooming affection. I had been a moth to her flickering, polite flame. But I knew better now. This wasn’t love. It was just corporate manners. To her, Theo was her brother. I was just a PR disaster she was managing. I looked at the driver and gave him a polite, distant smile. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.” I pulled out my phone and pulled up a ride-share app. If I was cutting ties, I was cutting them clean. I didn’t need her car, her driver, or her “consideration.” I didn’t need a single crumb from her table ever again. 2. Three days later, in a quiet, sun-drenched corner of a downtown cafe. “It’s official, Julia. The contracts are signed. You are now a significant shareholder in Ascendant Tech.” The fifteen million hadn’t stayed in the bank for long. I knew exactly where the world was going, and I knew who was going to lead it. I sat across from Leo Henderson, the CEO of what was currently a struggling startup. I now held a fifteen percent stake in his company. Leo shook my hand, his grip slightly Trembling with excitement. “I can’t thank you enough for the leap of faith. This capital… it’s going to change everything. We won’t let you down.” I nodded, knowing he was right. Ascendant Tech would eventually become the global leader in autonomous drone logistics—a Fortune 500 titan. My fifteen million was the seed that would grow into a forest worth billions. “I’d love to take you to dinner,” Leo suggested earnestly. “Walk you through our three-year roadmap in detail?” I shook my head. “I appreciate it, Leo, but no. I trust you. You’re the expert; I’m just the guy who saw the potential. My only job is to stay out of your way.” I paused, checking my watch. “Besides, I have a class to get to.” Leo blinked. “A class?” “Yeah. An executive finance intensive. Learning how to read the patterns, calculate the real risks.” I smiled, a genuine one this time. “I have a lot of lost time to make up for.” I left the cafe and headed straight to a glass-fronted office building a few blocks away. The seminar was on the twelfth floor. When I walked in, the room was already half-full. I scanned the rows for a seat, but my peripheral vision snagged on a face that made my pulse skip a beat. Theo. He was surrounded by a small clique of guys, all leaning in as he spoke, laughing at something he’d said. Just like before, he was the sun, and everyone else was a planet trapped in his orbit. I didn’t acknowledge him. I headed for the back row, but as I passed his desk, he looked up. Our eyes met. He froze for a second, then his lips curled into that familiar, condescending smirk. “Julia? What are you doing here?” He didn’t lower his voice. The guys around him went quiet, sensing blood in the water. “This isn’t exactly a cheap course. Mary gives you a little pocket change, and you go and blow it on a seat at the big kids’ table?” I didn’t answer. I kept moving. He scoffed, turning back to his friends. “It’s tragic, really. Some people think having a little cash suddenly gives them a pedigree. You can take the boy out of the warehouse, I guess…” He let out a short, sharp laugh. “But honestly, Julia, this is all theory. Without an empire to back you up, you’re just memorizing definitions. It’s not like me—Mary’s already given me a seat on the investment board at Blake Holdings. I’m just here for the certificate.” One of the sycophants chimed in. “Must be nice having a sister who actually trusts you with the family business.” “It is,” Theo said, his eyes flicking toward me to ensure the barb landed. “Trust is earned. And some people just aren’t worth the investment. Take that researcher who came to Mary last week—Dr. Keller, I think. She was practically begging for five million to save her project. She looked like a stray dog. Mary tore her proposal apart, and the woman just sat there and took it, smiling through the insults just for a chance at a check. Higher education doesn’t buy you dignity, apparently.” I stopped. I turned around slowly. Five million? Dr. Keller? Nadia Keller. It had to be. I remembered that name from my previous life. Mary had mentioned her years later with a rare, bitter regret. Nadia Keller had been the one who got away—the woman Mary had insulted and dismissed, who went on to revolutionize biotech and became someone Mary couldn’t even get an appointment with. Right now, she was looking for five million. In six years, that investment would be worth fifty billion. 3. Theo saw me staring and mistook my silence for defeat. He chuckled. “What’s the matter, Julia? Reality finally sinking in? You need more than a bank account to play this game. You need vision.” He closed his textbook, leaning back with an air of mock charity. “Tell you what. I know Mary bought you that condo. It’s too big for you anyway. Sell it to me for five million, and I’ll give you some real-world advice on what to do with the cash.” He was smiling, but his eyes were predatory. He didn’t want the condo; he just wanted to strip away every last tie I had to Mary. He wanted me back in the gutter where he felt I belonged. “Deal,” I said. Theo blinked, clearly caught off guard by how fast I’d folded. But then he grinned, triumphant. “Smart move. Send me your routing number.” My phone buzzed minutes later. Five million arrived. I looked at the confirmation screen. As I started to put my phone away, Theo burst out laughing. “You idiot!” he crowed to the room. “I told you he had no vision. Do you even know the zoning laws for that area, Julia? That property is going to appreciate by twenty percent by next year. It’ll be worth six million easy.” He shook his head, looking at his friends. “A twenty percent return on a guaranteed asset, and he just hands it over. This is why some people are born to be poor.” The room erupted in muffled snickers. I just looked at him, my expression unreadable. I knew the house would go up in value. I also knew that the real estate bubble in that specific sector was going to pop eighteen months from now, leaving those condos underwater for a decade. But more importantly, I had five million dollars in liquid cash. And I knew exactly where Nadia Keller was. The bell rang for the start of class. The room settled. A middle-aged man in a sharp suit walked in, flicking through a PowerPoint at breakneck speed. I tuned everything else out. I opened my notebook and began to write. I’ll admit, a lot of it was over my head. IRR, valuation modeling—it felt like a foreign language. But I recorded every word. I circled what I didn’t know. I didn’t look up once. When the two-hour session ended, I had six pages of dense notes. As I packed my bag, I saw her standing by the door. Nadia Keller. 4. “Theo, I was hoping for another five minutes regarding the proposal I sent to your sister.” She caught him as he was leaving, her voice respectful but tinged with a desperate edge. She looked exhausted, her coat a little frayed at the sleeves, clutching a folder of data. “The latest metrics are game-changing. If Mary could just see the revised projections—” Theo didn’t even look at the folder. He swiped it out of her hand, and the papers scattered across the floor, sliding under the feet of passing students. “Enough,” Theo snapped, brushing phantom dust off his sleeve. “My sister was very clear. Your project has zero market viability. Are you slow, or just stubborn?” Nadia froze, her hand still reaching for the empty air. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. Theo looked her up and down with a sneer. “A PhD who can’t pay her rent shouldn’t be dreaming of empires. Go find a job in a lab somewhere and stop wasting our time.” He started to walk away, then paused, looking back over his shoulder. “And don’t come back. You’re depressing the room.” The people around him laughed. Nadia stood there, the light dying in her eyes as she looked at her scattered papers. I stepped forward, past the laughing crowd, and knelt down. I began picking up the pages. “Dr. Keller?” I said. She looked at me, her face a mask of weary confusion. “Yes?” “My name is Julia,” I said, standing up and handing her the folder. “I heard you’re looking for five million.” Nadia hesitated, her brow furrowing. She was used to being mocked; she was looking for the punchline. “I am. Why?” I pulled out the card Theo had just filled with five million dollars. I held it out to her. “I’ll give it to you. On one condition.” She didn’t take it. If anything, she looked more suspicious. “What condition?” “That I get right of first refusal on every project you develop for the next ten years.” I looked her in the eye. “I don’t understand the chemistry, Dr. Keller. But I understand people. And I believe in you.” Nadia was silent for a long time. She searched my face, looking for the catch, the cruelty. But she was a drowning woman, and I was the only one offering a hand. I suggested we grab a quick bite downstairs to discuss the paperwork. Over a cheap sandwich, I realized she was even more brilliant than the rumors suggested. Every word out of her mouth was a masterclass in logic. By the time we finished, the contract was drafted on a legal pad. I handed her the card. She held it as if it were made of glass. “Julia… I won’t make you regret this.” “I know you won’t.” I watched her walk away, her posture straighter than it had been an hour ago. I felt a profound sense of relief. I turned back toward the elevators to grab my bag from the classroom. And that’s when I saw Mary. She was standing in the hallway, her face pale with a cold, simmering fury. I wondered how long she’d been standing there. She marched toward me, her heels clicking like gunfire on the tile. Slap. The force of it cracked across my cheek, echoing in the quiet hallway.

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My body had been hijacked by my best friend for three years. She’d “borrowed” it to get close to the untouchable, ice-cold Martin Duke. The very second she successfully completed her mission and handed the reins back to me, I snapped into consciousness. My heart was hammering against my ribs, and my hand was clamped around a pair of razor-sharp fabric shears. The blades were centimeters away from Martin’s five-hundred-dollar silk tie. I was completely disoriented, a surge of inexplicable rage boiling in my gut. My first instinct wasn’t to pull away—it was to snip. To ruin something of his, just because I could. Ding. A cold, mechanical warning echoed in my mind. [Warning: The Specialist has exited the host. Control has been returned to the original soul. Character Profile: Lexie Harrington—High-maintenance, volatile, impulsive.] The System’s voice was like a bucket of ice water. It warned me that for three years, Martin had been brainwashed by my friend’s “Saintly Wife” persona. He had grown accustomed to a woman who was soft, yielding, and impossibly patient. He would never tolerate the “real” me—the bratty heiress who used to treat him like dirt. [If you damage his property or break character, you will trigger the ‘Exile’ ending immediately.] My wrist jerked. I forced the impulse down, the metal blades grazing the expensive fabric. Instead of shredding the tie, I neatly nipped a tiny, loose thread at the collar of his bespoke shirt. “There was a loose thread,” I said, my voice trembling as I struggled to find that “gentle” pitch my friend had used. I kept my head down, but I could feel Martin’s gaze. He was looming over me, his shadow swallowing me whole. His eyes weren’t on the tie; they were fixed on my vibrating fingertips. The suffocating, gloomy aura he usually carried seemed to evaporate. In its place was a heat so intense it felt predatory. “Tell me, Lexie,” he said, his voice low, almost playful. “Is three years of playing the ‘Perfect Housewife’ finally starting to grate on you? Is the little monster finally coming out to play?” 1 I froze. Before I could find a witty retort, the System shrieked again. [Warning! Warning!] [Host soul reintegration detected. Mission progress is at risk of total collapse.] I wanted to scream. I wanted to tear this glitchy System out of my brain. I was Lexie Harrington. This was my body. That “best friend” of mine had used my face to play Martha Stewart for three years, and now she just gets to vanish, leaving me to clean up the wreckage of a life I didn’t even build? [Host, remain calm,] the System hissed. [Martin Duke has been ‘healed’ by the Specialist’s gentle nature. He loathes the entitled, arrogant girl you used to be. If you slip up, he’ll throw you to the wolves.] [Remember the Harrington bankruptcy? Remember the debts? Martin can make you disappear from New York high society with a single phone call.] I swallowed hard, my temples throbbing. Martin was different now. He was no longer the silent, stoic bodyguard my father had hired—the man I used to mock and punish. He was a titan of industry, a man who held the keys to my survival. If he realized the “gentle” Lexie was gone, he might actually kill me. Just as I was about to spiral into a panic attack, I heard soft footsteps at the door. A small boy stood there, wearing a miniature three-piece suit. He was holding a leather-bound book—Dostoevsky, in the original Russian. He looked like a carbon copy of Martin. Cold. Arrogant. With eyes far too old for a six-year-old. My breath hitched. This was my son, Oliver. Before I was “ousted” from my own body, he was just a colicky infant who blew bubbles and cried. Now, he was a little stranger. Looking at his soft but stiffly set face, a lump formed in my throat. I wanted to scoop him up and squeeze him until he complained. But Oliver just walked over, his expression unreadable, and shoved the heavy book toward me. “Translate the second chapter for me,” he said. His tone was a test. “Exactly like you usually do. Don’t miss a single nuance.” [Warning: Your son is suspicious. The Specialist was a linguistic genius. You, Lexie, used to fail remedial French.] I gritted my teeth, forcing a saintly, maternal smile that felt like it was cracking my face in half. “Of course, darling. Why don’t Mommy make us some herbal tea first? We can read together.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Martin’s entire body go rigid. He stayed in that position for ten minutes—motionless, his brow furrowed, staring at me with a look of profound, agonizing disbelief. The heat in his eyes died out, replaced by a flat, dead despair. Had I failed already? Martin didn’t wait for the tea. He reached out and swept the teacup off the table. It shattered against the Persian rug, the liquid soaking into the hem of my dress. Without a word, his face a mask of icy fury, he turned and strode toward the dining room. Oliver didn’t even look at me. He followed his father like a silent shadow. 2 I watched their retreating backs, feeling like a stranger in my own house. Incredible. I come back to my own life, and I’m the outsider. My mind drifted back eight years. Martin Duke wasn’t a titan then. He was a “stray” my father had pulled out of an underground fight club. He was covered in scars, silent, and debt-ridden. My father paid his tab, and Martin became my personal shadow. And I? I was the Upper East Side’s most spoiled brat. I hated his silence. I hated that he looked like a statue that couldn’t feel pain. I made it my mission to break him. I remember a blizzard in the Hamptons. I’d taken my new custom necklace and tossed it into the outdoor pool. “Get it, Martin,” I’d commanded, wrapped in a thousand-dollar fur coat, watching him dive into the slushy, freezing water. When he climbed out, his skin was blue, his body shaking. He handed me the necklace with such care, his fingers making sure not to touch my skin. I’d reached out to graze his hand, and he’d recoiled as if I were fire. “What’s wrong? Am I beneath you?” I’d snapped. Martin had lowered his gaze, his voice a gravelly whisper. “The water is cold, Miss Harrington. I don’t want you to get wet.” I didn’t understand the look in his eyes then. I only noticed the way his trousers were pulled taut against his thigh. I thought he was hiding something from the pool, some stolen coin. I reached out to search him. When my palm brushed against the scorching, hard silhouette of his desire, my brain felt like it exploded. “You… you pervert!” I was mortified. I grabbed a billiards cue and swung it at his back. Martin didn’t dodge. He didn’t even grunt. He just let out a low, shuddering breath as the wood snapped against his spine. “I’m sorry, Miss Harrington,” he’d whispered. I’d lost it. I kicked him, my heels leaving bloody crescents on his shins. He didn’t flinch. But his ears were crimson, and his body was bowed in a way that looked terrifyingly like… devotion. I hid from him for a week after that. The other staff said Martin was finally free of me. But I was the only one who saw him that rainy night, kneeling under my balcony for hours. He’d told me, Miss Harrington, please don’t discard me. Back then, he was obsessed with the “villain” version of me. Now, he couldn’t even stand to look at the tea I’d brewed. The grandfather clock in the hall ticked like a countdown. I followed them into the dining room, my heart a mess of tangled emotions. In three years, the man who had knelt in the mud was now the man the whole city feared. If not for that face, I wouldn’t have recognized him. [See?] the System mocked. [Martin’s tenderness is reserved for the ‘good’ Lexie. If you kicked him now, he’d make sure you never walked again.] I clenched my jaw. Never walk again? He used to say that to me in bed, but it meant something very different back then. I took a breath and tried to channel my friend’s memory. She was a living saint. She spoke in whispers, wore nothing but virginal white silk, and probably knitted sweaters for the homeless. I wanted to vomit. But for the sake of my penthouse and my bank account, I would perform. I was Lexie Harrington; if I wanted to act, I could win an Oscar. I went upstairs to change. When I pushed open the master bedroom door, I stopped. The room was pristine. It was also empty. There wasn’t a single trace of Martin living here. [Oh, I forgot to mention,] the System said. 3 [Martin has slept in the guest wing for three years.] [He felt his ‘old self’ was too primal, too crude. He didn’t want to stain the purity of the new you. He’s been waiting for you to ‘truly’ open your heart.] My stomach dropped. Separate rooms? He used to be an insatiable beast. I remembered the ruined lingerie, the way he’d grip my waist and demand I tell him I loved him over and over. He’d repressed all of that for a fake? [He thinks that’s what ‘true love’ is,] the System added. [A tragedy, really. You’re back, and his devotion is wasted on a soul that isn’t here anymore.] I looked in the mirror at my pale, beautiful face. Lexie Harrington, you lost to a ghost of yourself. I put on a plain white silk slip dress. When I walked into the dining room, the father and son were already eating. The clink of silverware was the only sound. “Morning, Martin. Morning, Oliver,” I said, pitching my voice soft and sweet. Martin’s hand stopped mid-cut on his steak. He didn’t look up. Oliver buried his face in his bowl. I picked up a piece of sea bass and placed it on Martin’s plate. “This is your favorite. Eat up.” I smiled until my cheeks ached. [Ding! Virtue Points +1. Character suspicion: Low.] But the air in the room felt like lead. Martin and Oliver were expressionless. I felt like a hired maid trying to force my way into a family photo. “Martin?” I tried again, my voice trembling slightly. Martin suddenly shoved his plate away. The fish slid off and landed on the white tablecloth, leaving an ugly grease stain. “I’m not hungry,” he said, his voice like shards of ice. Was that… disgust in his eyes? Oliver mirrored him instantly, pushing his bowl away. “No thank you. I’m full too.” You little brat. I remember when I used to change your diapers—you weren’t this smug then. My temper flared. I was Lexie Harrington. I didn’t do “cold shoulders.” I wanted to flip the table. I wanted to scream. But I thought of the debt. I thought of the “Exile” ending. “I think I’ll go to the garden for some air,” I said, my eyes welling up with fake tears. My acting was superb. Martin gave a curt, emotionless “Mhm.” I turned and walked away, my steps heavy. Just as I reached the corner of the hallway, I heard a massive crash. Clatter! Smash! I spun around. Martin was standing by the table. He had reached out and swept every single piece of china I had touched—along with the fish—onto the floor. He stared at the wreckage with a coldness that made my skin crawl. Is that how you treat a wife you “love”? I hid around the corner, my heart thumping. Martin didn’t even look at the mess. He grabbed his black cashmere coat and walked toward the door. Oliver followed, clutching a riding helmet. They were going riding. It was their weekend ritual. I remembered how Martin used to force me onto a horse. He’d sit behind me, his arms locked around my waist, his chin on my shoulder. Don’t look at the other men, Lexie. Look at me. I’d hated his control then. Now, he didn’t even bother to tell me where he was going. 4 If I could just show him a spark of the old me… would it break the ice? I ran to the foyer, blocking the door. “Martin, let me come with you.” I stared into his eyes, trying to look hopeful. Martin finally looked at me. His gaze lingered for three seconds—cold, dismissive, as if I were a piece of clutter. Then, he simply stepped around me. Oliver slipped past like I was a plague. The heavy oak door slammed shut. The roar of the engine faded into the distance. I stood there, my nails digging into my palms. Total humiliation. [Give it up, Host,] the System chirped. [The ‘Gentle Lexie’ stayed home and knitted. She never made demands. You’re going to get caught.] “Shut up!” I hissed. Why did he hate me so much now? I was the one who made him go crazy. I was the one he knelt for. I paced the villa, fuming. Everything felt too quiet, too soft. I needed to find something real. In my frustration, I pushed open a door at the end of the basement hall. I realized too late I had entered Martin’s “No-Go Zone.” His private vault. The air was cool, smelling of old cedar and expensive tobacco. I walked deeper, expecting business secrets. What I saw stopped my heart. The room was a one-to-one replica of my old walk-in closet at the Harrington estate. The rug pattern, the crystal chandelier, even the way the hangers were spaced. Inside the glass cases weren’t bespoke suits. They were my old clothes. The loud, vibrant red dresses I used to wear three years ago. On a pedestal sat a worn red silk scarf. It was a piece of trash I’d used to wipe off lipstick and thrown away years ago. Martin had cleaned it and locked it away like a holy relic. [Ding! Deep Affection Clue detected!] the System sounded almost excited. [See? He kept your ‘impure’ past locked away so it wouldn’t tarnish the saint you’ve become. He truly loves the ‘new’ you so much that the ‘old’ you is a nightmare he keeps buried.] My heart felt like it had been hit by a sledgehammer. Was that it? He loved the fake so much that he had to bury the real me in a basement like a shameful secret? I looked at the center of the room. There was a riding crop, stained with old blood. It was the one I’d used on him when I was in a foul mood. He’d kept that too. Memories flooded back. Martin kneeling at my feet, his back a map of welts, kissing my ankles. His eyes were dark, almost manic. More, Miss Harrington. Harder. I thought he was insane then. Now, I realized that was the only time I truly had him. I stopped in front of a framed, torn piece of paper. It was a doodle I’d made of him once—I’d drawn him as a pig with a scowl. It was hideous. But someone had painstakingly taped the pieces back together. My eyes blurred. Martin, why do you have this? To remember your shame, or because you miss me? “Who gave you permission to be in here?” A voice, devoid of all warmth, came from behind me. Before I could turn, a large, calloused hand clamped onto the back of my neck. The grip was terrifyingly strong. I was forced to look up, straight into Martin’s dark, predatory eyes. He didn’t look like a CEO anymore. He looked like a beast whose lair had been violated. The murderous intent in his gaze was suffocating. “You’ve tainted this place. You could die a hundred times and it wouldn’t be enough to pay for it.”

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Elaine’s name was tangled up with another stranger again. She always told me she was a “special case,” a broken thing, warning me not to fall too deep. But the more she pushed, the tighter the noose of my obsession grew. Those men circling her like vultures? They just craved the porcelain perfection of her skin. They didn’t understand the darkness beneath it. Only I knew the true nature of her touch-starvation, the way her skin practically screamed for contact, and only I held the cure. She would murmur sweet, soothing things while draped across my chest, all while her phone buzzed on the nightstand with thirsty notifications from men she kept on a lead. I knew exactly what those bastards wanted. After all, that’s exactly how I got close to her. “Elaine, it’s never your fault,” I’d whisper into her hair. “It’s them. The ones who try to take what’s mine.” What else could I do? Aside from pinning her to the silk sheets and reclaiming her body over and over until the world outside vanished, I had to take action. To keep her, I had to prune the weeds in her garden. I had to make sure anyone who tried to steal her simply… disappeared. … Elaine’s Instagram updated. In the photo, she was tucked away in a dimly lit corner of a boutique café with a man. They were close—shoulders brushing, a casual intimacy that made my blood boil. The caption read: Finally met a true connoisseur of the classics. A soulmate found too late. A true connoisseur? I stared at the words until they blurred, my grip tightening on my phone. She was saying I didn’t understand her world. And she was right. I couldn’t stand the obscure, pretentious French novels she translated; those tongue-twisting names and endless, flowery metaphors just gave me a migraine. I grabbed my keys. “Dr. Cross, you have a neurosurgery scheduled for two,” my assistant called out. “Reschedule it.” “But the patient is already—” “I said, reschedule it.” She went quiet. She’d been my head nurse for five years; she knew that tone meant the ice was thin. I dialed a number as I pulled out of the hospital parking lot. “Ben, I need a name.” I forwarded the photo. “Everything. Education, marital status, career, every skeleton in his closet. I want it by the time I park.” There was a beat of silence on the other end. “Dr. Cross… is this about your wife again?” “Don’t waste my time.” I hung up and swallowed a pill to steady my nerves. Elaine claimed she was the sick one, but I knew better. I’d always been wired wrong. When I was a kid, a boy tried to pet my dog. I bit his finger so hard I nearly took it off. In middle school, when a bully tried to take my lunch money, I broke his nose and didn’t stop swinging until they pulled me off. Later, when they jumped me behind the gym, leaving me gasping in the dirt, Elaine was the one who found me. She was so small then, her voice trembling, but she stood her ground. “I’ve already called the cops! Get lost or you’re all going to juvie!” From that moment on, she was the only light in my gray world. I told myself then: She’s mine. No one touches her. Ben’s text came through. A dossier on the “connoisseur.” As it turned out, he was just another hypocrite in a tweed jacket. I felt a cold smile spread across my face. I knew exactly how his mind worked. Three years ago, I used the same playbook to move in on her. Back then, her boyfriend was a guy named Derek. It took me exactly three months to show Elaine his “other side.” A few leaked records of unpaid wages to his staff, some grainy security footage of him flirting at a dive bar, and a handful of carefully curated chat logs with an ex. Half of it was real; the other half was my own handiwork. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that she left him, and I caught her. Now, I wouldn’t let anyone else play the same game. When I reached the café, Elaine was gone. But the man was still there, sitting amid the ghost-scent of her perfume, two half-finished lattes between them. I sat down across from him. “Adrian Cross. Elaine’s husband.” His face went through a fascinating transformation: surprise, then panic, then the wretched embarrassment of a man caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Mr. Cross, Elaine and I were just… discussing her latest translation.” “Arthur Whitlock. Forty-two. Senior Editor at Hudson Press,” I interrupted, reading from the screen. “Married. Wife is a tenured professor. Separated for two years, currently embroiled in a nasty divorce. Last year, you were investigated for ‘professional misconduct’ involving a junior writer. The board hushed it up. Your son is fifteen, goes to St. Jude’s.” Whitlock’s face drained of color. “Those are… those are rumors.” “Doesn’t matter if they’re true,” I said, leaning back, watching him from a height he couldn’t reach. “What matters is whether Elaine would still call you a ‘soulmate’ once she sees the police reports. Or whether your wife’s lawyer would find this little afternoon tryst useful for the custody hearing.” His lips trembled. I watched him like a wolf watches a deer caught in a snare. “Do you block her number, or do I?” Whitlock let out a shaky breath, pulled out his phone, and blocked her right in front of me. I stood up and patted his shoulder. “Smart man.” That went well. No blood, just a clean excision. When I got home, Elaine was curled up on the sofa. She was wearing one of my white button-downs, lost in a French hardcover I couldn’t read. She looked devastatingly soft. I pulled her up and tucked her into my chest. “That Editor, Whitlock. You like him?” Her body stiffened for a microsecond before melting against me. “We just have a lot to talk about, Adrian. It’s not about ‘liking’ him.” I tightened my grip, burying my face in the crook of her neck. “I don’t understand literature.” She let out a soft, melodic giggle as my stubble tickled her. “You don’t need to understand books. You just need to understand me.” But what did I actually understand? I knew she had seven different smiles—three were real, four were performances. I knew she stayed up until 3 AM video chatting with “fans” and “colleagues.” I knew she never gave me her passcode, even though she volunteered her daily itinerary like a loyal soldier. The more I knew, the more she felt like a ghost I was trying to cage. “Adrian,” she whispered. “Did you go see him today?” My hand paused on her waist. “Before he blocked me, he sent a text. He said, ‘Your husband is a terrifying man.’ Did you threaten him?” I didn’t bother denying it. “You always do this. Every single time.” She poked my chest, her tone like a mother scolding a naughty child. “Do you honestly think every man in the world is a villain except for you?” “Aren’t they?” I caught her finger and kissed the tip of it. She laughed, though there was a sharp edge to it. “You’re going to drive away every friend I have, Adrian. Eventually, I won’t have anyone left to talk to.” “You have me. That’s enough.” She started to say something, then stopped. Her eyes softened with a look I couldn’t quite decode. “You know, you’re actually scary.” “Are you scared?” She smiled. “No. Because the scarier you are, the more it proves you love me.” I kissed her then. Deep, desperate, trying to bruise her soul with my own. I loved her—God, I loved her until it hurt. She responded, her fingers tangling in my hair, her breathing hitching. “I love you, Adrian.” Her skin-hunger was flaring up. I held her tighter, anchoring her to the earth. “I love you too.” Later that night, after she fell asleep, I sat up and watched her. Her brow was furrowed, chasing some nightmare. Her phone lit up on the nightstand. A message from her best friend, Jade: The illustrator you wanted to meet is coming to town next week. He’s excited to see you. I stared at the glowing screen. My pupils contracted. There was always someone else. I set the phone down and looked at Elaine. A sharp, familiar pain flared in my chest—the feeling of being stabbed in the back, only to realize the person holding the knife is the one you’re protecting. “Elaine,” I whispered. She didn’t wake. “What is it you really want?” There was no answer. A week later, she told me she had a business meeting. “I’m meeting an illustrator. For the new book cover.” She was smiling at her screen again, that distant, dreamy look I hated. “Man or woman?” She paused. “A man.” She looked up, sensing the shift in the room. “Adrian, please. Don’t go making trouble again.” “I’m just asking.” “That’s what you said last time, and then my editor vanished.” “He was a creep, Elaine. I checked.” Her expression flickered—a flash of frustration—before she sighed and cupped my face. “Can you please stop running background checks on everyone I breathe near? It feels like you don’t trust me.” I pulled her into my arms. “I trust you. I don’t trust them. I’m a man; I know how they think.” “And what am I thinking?” she asked, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Do you know?” I looked into her eyes. They were like deep pools—clear on the surface, but with treacherous currents underneath. I wanted to say I knew her. I couldn’t. There was always a layer of frosted glass between us. When I didn’t answer, she smirked. “I’m thinking about when my big, tough husband is going to learn to stop being so jealous.” She tilted her head, running a hand through her hair—a nervous habit she had when she was lying. My heart tightened, but I let it go. This was our dance. After work, I drove to the restaurant to pick her up. Through the glass window, I saw her. She was talking to a younger man—Xavier, the illustrator. He had his hand on the small of her back. Elaine didn’t pull away. She was looking at him with an expression that was pure sunshine, her eyes crinkling in a way they only did when she was truly happy. I slammed my fist against the steering wheel and drove off. I knew if I stayed, I’d kill him right there in the street. Ten minutes of heavy breathing later, I called Ben. “I need another check.” “Again?” Ben sounded exhausted. “That’s four this month, boss.” “Xavier Vance. No—Xavier… whatever his name is. The ‘hot new illustrator’ who just moved back from London. Now.” I hung up. I closed my eyes and all I could see was her smiling at him. That wasn’t a “business” smile. That was the look of a woman who was hungry for something I wasn’t giving her. The file hit my inbox. Xavier Thorne—damn it, Xavier Sterling… no, Xavier Ward. Single. 26. Rising star. Award-winning. No criminal record. No scandals. Clean as a whistle. I gritted my teeth. Elaine texted: Are you coming to pick me up? I typed and deleted three responses before settling on: On my way. When I pulled up, they were standing under the streetlamp. He was saying something that made her duck her head and blush. I honked the horn—a sharp, jarring blast. Elaine waved. “My husband’s here,” she said, emphasizing the word husband like she was trying to remind herself. Xavier looked at the car, gave a polite but cold nod, and stepped back. I floored it as soon as she closed the door. She grabbed the handle as we lurched forward. “Adrian, slow down!” “Did you have a good time?” My voice was terrifyingly calm. “It was fine. Xavier is talented, I think the cover—” “He touched you. His hand was on your waist.” The car went silent. Elaine’s face shifted from shock to a weary kind of resignation. “He was helping me adjust my dress, Adrian. It’s a zipper issue.” She sighed. “Can you stop losing your mind every time a man comes within five feet of me?” Losing my mind. Yeah. I was. I pulled over into a dark alley and turned to her. “Elaine, is the way you smile at me the same way you smile at them?” She blinked, then a slow, playful grin spread across her lips. “Are you jealous again? You look so handsome when you’re jealous.” She reached out to touch my face, but I flinched away. “I’m asking you a serious question.” “And I’m giving you a serious answer.” She reached out again, her fingers tracing my throat, her eyes dark with a sudden, heavy desire. I grabbed her wrist and pulled her across the center console onto my lap. She straddled me, wrapping her arms around my neck. I gripped her waist, my voice hoarse. “Tell me you love me.” “I love you.” “Again.” “I love you.” “Again!” “I love you, Adrian. I love you.” She was panting, her eyes wet, her cheeks flushed—vulnerable and exquisite. I searched her face for a crack, a lie, a hint of the “performance.” But everything felt real. She was here. She was mine. I buried my face in her chest, breathing her in. The scent of roses, the warmth of her skin, and… a faint hint of something else. A man’s cologne. Xavier’s scent. That tiny, lingering trace of another man was like a needle driven into my heart. “You’re mine, Elaine.” She didn’t answer. She just tightened her arms around my back and held on. I didn’t want to go to the charity gala. It was just a room full of rich vultures congratulating themselves on their “social responsibility.” But Elaine was an invited author. If she went, I went. Our table was a mix of CEOs and socialites. Sitting next to Elaine was a man in his fifties named Maxwell. He was a bloated, oily man with a smile that made my skin crawl. “Elaine, such a pleasure,” he said, holding her hand a second too long. “I’m Maxwell from Apex Media. I’ve read your work. Exquisite. It would make a fantastic film.” Elaine gave him a polite, practiced smile and had to pull her hand away three times before he let go. “You’re too kind.” “Are you free tonight? I have a suite upstairs; we could discuss some… options.” “She’s busy,” I said, stepping up behind her chair. Maxwell looked me up and down, unimpressed. “And you are?” “Her husband.” He smirked and spent the rest of the night acting like I was invisible. He toasted Elaine directly, leaning in so close he was practically breathing her air. When I went to the restroom, I came back to see his hand resting heavily on her bare shoulder. Her skin. He was touching her skin. Blood rushed to my head, a deafening roar in my ears. But I saw Elaine look at me and shake her head slightly. Don’t. Maxwell kept talking. “Elaine, you’re far too beautiful to be working. If you were mine, I’d keep you tucked away in a mansion, pampered every single day…” “Maxwell,” I interrupted, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. “Does your wife know how much you care about other people’s wives?” The table went quiet. “Or are you planning to ‘discuss options’ in that suite with the same professionalism you used during your last embezzlement scandal?” Maxwell’s face turned a violent shade of purple. “Who do you think you are?” “Head of Neurosurgery at Cross Medical. Heir to the Cross estate.” I stood up, looming over him. “You had a physical at my hospital last year. Fatty liver, high blood pressure, elevated uric acid. I suggest you stop drinking and stop talking before you have a stroke right here on the shrimp cocktail.” Maxwell lost it. He grabbed his wine glass and slammed it onto the table. Red wine sprayed everywhere, soaking the front of Elaine’s dress. “Ah!” she cried, stumbling back. The last thread of my control snapped. I grabbed a glass bottle from the table and shattered it against the side of Maxwell’s head. Red wine and blood mingled as they ran down his face. He screamed, clutching his head, but I didn’t stop. I lunged across the table, my fist connecting with his nose in a spray of gore. “Adrian, stop!” Elaine screamed. People were pulling at me, shouting, but I was in a tunnel. All I could hear was the sound of my own heart. He touched her. He ruined her dress. He wasn’t fit to breathe her air. I kept swinging until security finally tackled me. My knuckles were split, blood dripping onto the white tablecloth. “Adrian, you’ve lost it!” Elaine was pale, her eyes wide with something I couldn’t name. I looked at her and laughed, a jagged, ugly sound. “He touched you. He’s lucky he’s still breathing.” The police came. As I sat in the back of the cruiser, I looked through the window. Elaine was standing under the hotel awning, watching me go with an unreadable expression. I spent the night in a cell until the family lawyers arrived. The moment I walked out of the precinct, I checked my phone. Elaine had posted a new photo. It was her and Xavier. The caption: The best partner I could ask for. My vision blurred with tears of pure rage. I had gone to jail for her, and she was out taking selfies with another man? I drove home like a maniac. There was a pair of men’s shoes in the foyer. Not mine. I stormed into the house. The living room was empty. The bedroom door was ajar. The bed was a mess—sheets tangled, pillows tossed aside, deep creases in the fabric as if two people had been struggling, or… My blood turned to ice. She brought someone home. While I was in a cell. She slept with— I tore the room apart, looking for them. I checked the closets, the balcony, the bathroom. Nothing. Then, my eyes landed on Elaine’s nightstand. A locked diary. She’d never let me see it. I’d never tried. But today, I didn’t care about boundaries. I smashed the lock with a heavy book and flipped to the first page.

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Thirty-seven bodies were crammed into the glass-walled conference room. Somewhere in the back, someone was quietly wiping away tears. Greg Stanton, our CEO, was smiling. He leaned back, one ankle crossed over his knee, idly twirling a customized metal pen between his fingers. “This company has kept a roof over your heads for eight years. I’d say I’ve been more than fair,” he said. The severance package was exactly one month’s salary. My share came out to $4,500. Eight years of my youth, my sweat, and my sleepless nights, reduced to a single, heavily taxed direct deposit. I didn’t say a word. My mind was already drifting away from the stuffy room, descending to the bottom drawer of my desk down the hall, where a thick manila envelope lay hidden. Inside that envelope were seven official United States Patent and Trademark Office certificates. On every single one, under the line for “Inventor,” was my name. 1. A muffled sob finally broke the heavy silence in the conference room. It was Jason, a junior engineer from my department. He’d just gotten married last year, and his wife was four months pregnant. “Greg, is there any way we could get just two more months? My wife is due soon, and—” “The company accounts are bled dry, Jason.” Greg dropped his metal pen onto the mahogany table with a sharp clatter. “You think I wanted it to end up like this?” Nobody spoke. Brenda—wait, let’s call her Diane—from HR began passing out the severance agreements. One copy per person. Standard printer paper, single-sided. “Sign the bottom line, take it to accounting, and your final checks will be processed by the end of the month.” I took the sheet of paper and skimmed the text. Severance Compensation: $4,500. Non-Compete Clause: 24 months. Non-Disclosure Agreement: In perpetuity. Two years of being locked out of my own industry. A lifetime of keeping the company’s dirty laundry a secret. Forty-five hundred dollars to buy the next two years of my career, and the rest of my life’s silence. Dave, a senior tech sitting beside me, leaned in, his voice barely a whisper. “Penny, look at this non-compete. Is this even legal?” “It’s not,” I said softly. “Are you going to sign it?” I didn’t answer. The room gradually emptied out. People lingered in the hallways, frantically scrolling through their contacts, while others squatted in the fluorescent-lit stairwell to chain-smoke. I walked back to my cubicle and started packing. Eight years didn’t amount to much physical evidence. A chipped ceramic coffee mug, a stack of worn legal pads, and that heavy manila envelope buried at the bottom of my filing cabinet. Tom Wright, our former lead engineer, had handed me that envelope right before he retired. I slipped it carefully into my leather tote bag. As I stood up, I caught the muffled sound of Greg’s voice drifting from the end of the corridor. The door to his corner office hadn’t fully latched. “…Apex Industries is breathing down my neck. Tell them we’re on track to sign the paperwork next week…” He let out a low, satisfied chuckle. “Don’t worry about it. The core tech is entirely intact. Every single patent is accounted for. We’ll bundle them as a package deal and transfer the rights…” I froze. Bundle them. Core tech. He was selling the patents. The company was belly-up. He was tossing thirty-seven loyal employees out onto the street with pocket change, but behind closed doors, he was selling the patents. Those seven patents. Every single one was born from nights I spent under flickering lab lights, fueled by cold coffee, charting data until my vision blurred. I stood stock-still in the hallway, my hand resting on the leather of my bag, feeling the rigid outline of the envelope inside. Then, I heard him say a number. “Twenty-eight million.” My severance was forty-five hundred dollars. He was selling my life’s work for twenty-eight million. 2. When I first started at Nova-Tech Materials eight years ago, our “headquarters” was a drafty, converted warehouse on the edge of town. Three cramped rooms, six employees, and not a single piece of decent diagnostic equipment in sight. During my interview, Greg had slapped the wobbly folding table with the flat of his hand. “Penny, you’ve got a master’s in materials science. Coming to work for a startup like this is a massive leap of faith. But let me paint a picture for you—we’ll be taking this public in three years. We’re going to the moon.” I bought it. I started at $42,000 a year. No 401(k) match, terrible health insurance, and zero overtime pay. But I had my own lab space—even if it was just the warehouse’s old breakroom outfitted with ventilation hoods. Tom Wright was the veteran engineer back then. He was in his mid-fifties, his hair already going silver, a man of few words and calloused hands. On my very first day, he walked me through the rusted equipment, ending the tour by pointing a grease-stained finger at a dusty desktop computer in the corner. “The USPTO patent application templates are saved on the local drive. I cleaned up the formatting for you.” “Tom, doesn’t the company file those under a corporate account?” I asked. He looked at me, his eyes sharp and unreadable beneath his bushy brows. “You file them yourself. You put your own name on them.” “But shouldn’t the company—” “The company takes care of the company,” Tom interrupted, his voice dropping an octave. “Your work? You take care of your work.” I didn’t fully grasp what he meant, but I followed his instructions. When the approval for my very first patent came through in the mail, I rode a high for twenty-four hours straight. I marched straight into Greg’s office with the certificate. “Greg, the patent for the new lithium-ion separator process just cleared!” He barely glanced at it before tossing it carelessly onto his crowded desk. “Great. Draft up a presentation. We’ve got clients flying in tomorrow, and we need to pitch it to them.” The next morning, the person standing in front of the projection screen pitching my patent to the clients was Jess Monroe. She was wearing a sharp new blazer, clicking through a beautifully designed PowerPoint. In the bottom right corner of every single slide, the watermark read: Jess Monroe — Director of Technology. I sat in the very back row. A client raised his hand and asked a highly specific question about the thermal tolerance parameters. Jess froze. For two agonizing seconds, she just blinked at the screen. “Well… the exact granular data for that metric is something I’ll have my tech, Penny, forward to you later this afternoon.” After the clients left, I saw Greg throw a heavy arm around Jess’s shoulders in the lobby. “Killed it today, Jess. You’re going places.” He didn’t even look in my direction. I retreated to the lab. Tom was methodically wiping down a centrifuge. “You saw?” he asked, not looking up from his rag. “Tom, I’m terrible at public speaking anyway. If she wants to do the dog-and-pony show, that’s fine—” “Whether it’s fine or not isn’t the point,” he said, straightening his back to look me dead in the eye. “But you remember this, Penny: anyone can type their name on a PowerPoint slide. Nobody can erase your name from a federal patent certificate.” That night, I stayed at the office until eleven. I took the original, embossed certificate for my first patent, slipped it into a plastic sleeve, and locked it in the deepest drawer of my desk. Over the next eight years, I applied for every new patent myself. I navigated the bureaucracy, paid the filing fees out of my own meager checking account, collected the certificates, and locked them away. Seven patents in total. Eight years of my life. The company ballooned from six employees to thirty-seven. We moved out of the drafty warehouse and into a sleek corporate park. Revenue exploded from zero to forty million dollars a year. Every single dime of that growth was built on the foundation of my seven patents. At the annual company holiday parties, the “Innovator of the Year” award invariably went to Jess. She would stand on the stage in a stunning dress, smiling graciously while the room clapped. I always sat at a corner table in the back, staring down at my lukewarm catered chicken. When the food went entirely cold, I would push it around with my fork, quietly close the lid, and slip out the back door. 3. During my fourth year, Nova-Tech went on a hiring spree. That’s when Jason joined us. He was a fresh undergrad, four years younger than me, practically humming with nervous energy. One day, over terrible cafeteria sandwiches, he leaned across the table. “Hey Penny, how long have you been here?” “Four years.” “If you don’t mind me asking… what’s your salary like?” I hesitated. “What are they starting you at?” “Eighty-five thousand,” he said brightly. “Greg told me that’s the industry baseline now. I figure since you’ve been here since the dark ages, you guys must be clearing well into the six figures, right?” I didn’t answer. My salary was $54,000. It hadn’t gone up a single cent since a tiny bump my second year. That afternoon, I knocked on Greg’s door. “Greg, I’d like to schedule a time to discuss my compensation.” He leaned back in his plush leather chair, crossing his ankles on the edge of his desk. “What’s on your mind?” “I’ve been here four years. My salary is stagnant at fifty-four thousand. The new junior hires are starting at eighty-five—” “Well, you can’t compare apples to oranges, Penny,” he interrupted smoothly. “You’re the one training them, right? If the kids you’re mentoring are pulling in eighty-five, that just proves how valuable your leadership is. You should be proud.” “But my own salary—” “Penny, you’re an engineer. Why are you suddenly so obsessed with the money? You’re not out there grinding in sales. You aren’t the one bringing in the massive accounts that keep the lights on.” I opened my mouth to argue, but the words died in my throat. He waved a hand dismissively. “Look, cash flow is tight right now. Let’s circle back to this next year when the quarterlies look better.” Next year. He’d been saying next year since my second anniversary. For the next four years, I never brought up a raise again. By year six, Jess was promoted to VP of Technology. She was making $150,000 a year. She managed a team of ten people—seven of whom spent their entire workweek developing applications based exclusively on my patents. Jess didn’t know the first thing about materials science, but she knew how to manage up. She knew how to dazzle a boardroom. Whenever VIP clients came for a tour, I was the one in the lab performing the chemical demonstrations. Jess was the one in the boardroom taking the credit over catered sushi. One afternoon, Dave couldn’t take it anymore. After a particularly grating client meeting, he pulled me into the stairwell. “Penny, how does this not make you sick? Don’t you care?” “Being mad doesn’t pay the rent, Dave.” “So you’re just going to roll over and take it?” I looked at him, the harsh fluorescent light buzzing above us, and said nothing. I took it. It wasn’t that I wasn’t angry. It was just that nobody cared about the anger of the girl in the back row. At the end of my seventh year, Tom Wright packed up his desk. The afternoon of his retirement, he called me into the empty lab. He pulled a thick, heavy manila envelope from his locker, secured tightly with rubber bands. “This is for you. Hold onto it.” “What is it?” “You’ll know when you need it.” He patted my shoulder, his hand heavy and warm. “Penny, the worst thing for a brilliant mind isn’t the long hours. It’s doing all the grueling, back-breaking work, only to hand someone else the crown without realizing it.” And with that, Tom walked out of the building for the last time. I shoved the envelope into the bottom of my drawer, right next to the seven plastic-sleeved patent certificates. That night, I worked until eleven again. The entire building was dark except for the third-floor lab. Bill, the night security guard, nearly jumped out of his skin when his flashlight caught me running diagnostics. “Jesus, Penny, you’re still here?” “Wrapping up now, Bill.” “You tech folks don’t know when to quit.” He ambled away. I powered down the spectrometers, backed up the raw data onto my encrypted thumb drive, turned off the overheads, and locked the door behind me. Two of the streetlights in the corporate park’s parking lot had burned out. I walked through the dark patch, the autumn wind whipping my hair across my face. Inside my bag was Tom’s envelope. I had never opened it. Tonight, it was time. 4. When I got home to my apartment, I broke the rubber bands and opened the envelope. It was much thicker than I had realized. Inside were seven distinct, color-coded folders—one for each of my patents. Every folder contained a meticulous paper trail: duplicates of the original application, the USPTO grant notices, the credit card receipts for the filing fees, and a calendar of maintenance fee deadlines. Everything was arranged chronologically. In the top right corner of every single page, there was a neat number written in pencil. I knew Tom’s handwriting anywhere. Sharp, blocky, and deliberate. When did he do this? I flipped to the earliest folder. The date written on the inside cover was from a year before his retirement. He had spent an entire year meticulously auditing eight years of my intellectual property. At the very back of the last folder, there was a single piece of standard printer paper. It was a spreadsheet titled: Analysis of Patent Ownership – Penny Mercer.

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