Category: English

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.”

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I was sick and hospitalized, and my boyfriend was running himself ragged taking care of me. The older woman in the neighboring hospital bed quietly asked me when the two of us were getting married. I just smiled, shook my head, and didn’t say a word. He had no idea that I saw his phone. I saw that he had linked his gaming account as an “in-game couple” with a girl saved as CeeCee. I saw it last night, right when he forgot to lock his screen before turning around to pour me a glass of water. 1 The day I was discharged from the hospital, the city was blanketed in its heaviest snowfall of the year. Caleb took off his scarf and wrapped it snugly around my neck, laughing and calling me a silly little goose. I opened my mouth to speak, but tears just welled up in my eyes. He crouched down, taking my hands in his, and looked up at me with those eyes full of stars, asking what was wrong. I stared back at him. I just couldn’t wrap my head around it. How could someone cheat on me, yet still treat me with such incredible tenderness? 2 Caleb’s Instagram grid was completely filled with pictures of me. Because I had severe sinus allergies, he not only quit smoking cold turkey, but he also refused to let any of his frat brothers or coworkers light up around me. Whenever he came home late from grabbing drinks with the guys, he would wait out in the freezing apartment hallway for ten minutes just to air out, all because I couldn’t stand the smell of alcohol. He remembered every food I loved and every brand of skincare I used. He even tracked the dates of my period more accurately than I did. Last month, when I went on a ski trip to Aspen with my friends, he couldn’t make it because of a massive work deadline. He stayed on the phone with me for half an hour, nagging me to be safe on the slopes. My friends laughed, teasing that his eyes only had room for me, that Professor Vance was hopelessly obsessed with his girlfriend. But this exact same man was on a multiplayer game, paired up with a girl I didn’t even know. Their “couple status” was currently at 147 days. 3 I was craving a spicy Cajun seafood boil, spicy buffalo wings—anything with a massive kick of heat. Caleb coaxed and pleaded with me until I gave in, and he ended up making me a warm bowl of homemade chicken noodle soup instead. I sat at the kitchen island, watching his broad shoulders as he busied himself by the stove. Suddenly, I asked him. “Caleb, that game you’re always playing on your phone… can you teach me how to play?” He froze for just a fraction of a second, then turned around and smiled, ruffling my hair. “Sure thing, babe. Since when did you care about video games?” I really didn’t know the first thing about gaming. The complicated interface gave me a headache. But more importantly, I noticed Caleb had logged into a burner account to play with me. When we lost our first match, I tossed his phone onto the sofa. He wasn’t even mad. “Wanna do something else?” he asked. He had finished cleaning up the kitchen and wrapped his arms around me from behind on the couch. His breath brushed against my ear, his soft hair carrying the fresh scent of his body wash. But my body reacted on instinct, and I pushed him away. He raised an eyebrow in surprise, but still just gently rubbed my stomach and told me to get some rest. 4 The next morning, I didn’t wake Caleb up. I just got dressed and went straight to the office. He sent me two texts around noon. “You just got out of the hospital, don’t eat anything greasy. I ordered you some warm soup from Panera, be a good girl and eat it all.” “Were you in a bad mood yesterday? Let’s go catch a movie after you get off work.” “…” I locked my screen, a dull ache twisting in my stomach. Caleb finished his afternoon lectures right on time and drove to my office to pick me up. I didn’t say a word as he held my hand and led me into the theater. The movie was incredibly dull. Halfway through, Caleb’s phone kept buzzing in his pocket. Suddenly, he leaned over and whispered that there was an emergency at the university he had to deal with immediately. I nodded and said that was fine, I’d just catch an Uber home after the credits rolled. But he probably never expected that I would slip out of the theater right behind him. Luckily, he was on foot. If he had driven, I never would have been able to keep up. His destination was close by—a local urgent care clinic just two blocks down. Caleb was tall and striking, easy to spot even in a crowded waiting room. Because of that, I had a perfectly clear view when a young girl sprinted out of an exam room and threw her arms around his neck. Caleb let her hold him, his hands resting casually in his jacket pockets. He didn’t hug her back. But he didn’t push her away, either. 5 I got home much later than Caleb did. He was sitting at the dining table, tilting his head as he watched me walk in. I had no intention of explaining where I’d been. As I walked past him, he reached out and caught my wrist. “Why have you been so down these past few days, hmm?” He kissed the spot behind my ear, trailing down to my neck. But the moment I thought of how that girl had practically wrapped herself around him, a violent shudder ran through me, and I shoved his chest. “Go take a shower.” I avoided his gaze, and he didn’t seem too suspicious. Before grabbing his towel, he affectionately ruffled my hair. Caleb had always kept his guard down around me. Look, he didn’t even lock his phone. This time, I dug deeper into his apps. Yesterday, he had played games with me using his main social media login, but it was undeniably his alternate gaming account. After messing around with his settings, I found a hidden encrypted messaging app buried in a locked folder. Logged in on that app was a completely different persona. … The contact list was sparse. Just a few of his frat brothers. But pinned to the very top of his messages was a chat with someone named CeeCee. As I opened it, CeeCee happened to send a brand-new text. “My cramps hurt so bad, I feel awful. When are you finally going to break up with that woman?” “…” I scrolled up. They had talked so much. So much that it felt like they exchanged more words in a single day than Caleb and I did in an entire month. A month ago, when I was in Aspen with my friends, Caleb said he was swamped with grading papers and stayed on the phone with me to make sure I was safe. But that very same day was this CeeCee’s birthday. The two of them had gone to the exact same local animal rescue cafe that Caleb and I went to on our first anniversary. Someone had even taken a Polaroid of them. The girl was smiling radiantly, holding a golden retriever puppy, while Caleb looked down at her with pure, unadulterated affection. My hands and feet turned to ice. I kept reading. Caleb sent her paragraphs upon paragraphs. He would whine to her about how exhausting his department meetings were. He would play video games with her and affectionately mock her for being a “total noob.” He even took photos of the new succulent on his office desk just to share it with her. All those times he told me he was working late? They were almost all dates with this girl. As I stared at the screen, I slowly clutched my stomach and sank to the floor. I had just gotten surgery for severe gastric ulcers, and the intense stress made the searing pain flare up all over again. To make matters worse, I was so absorbed in the texts that I didn’t even notice the sound of the shower turning off. The bathroom door clicked open right behind me. … “What’s wrong? Does your stomach hurt again? Do we need to go to the ER?” The man swept me up from the floor from behind, the crisp scent of his body wash flooding my senses. His warm palm pressed firmly against my abdomen, and for a fleeting second, it actually seemed to soothe my pain. I lowered my eyes, staring at his phone, which I had flipped face-down onto the table in the nick of time. The very last message I saw was from Caleb to that girl: “I lost my feelings for her a long time ago. You’re the one I like now.” 6 Growing up, my mom loved showing affection through food. Because of that, I developed a habit of binge-eating whenever I felt overwhelmed. Especially during the high-pressure years of high school, my weight ballooned by over thirty pounds. Most teenage girls are hypersensitive about their appearance, and I was no exception. But the more anxious I got, the more I ate. The social circles for girls in my class were a weird mix of superficial harmony and brutal exclusion. I was constantly marginalized because of my size. I wore oversized hoodies, lagged behind in gym class, and never dared to wear a sundress. Nobody wanted to be friends with me, except… Caleb. I met him during our freshman orientation assembly. He was the golden boy speaking for the guys; I was the top-scoring nerd speaking for the girls. But compared to my one fleeting moment in the spotlight, he was as radiant as the summer sun. Top grades, insanely handsome, constantly surrounded by friends. Girls flocked to him like moths to a flame. But as fate would have it, we ended up in the same SAT prep classes, and our similarly high test scores meant the teachers were always comparing us. Over time, we just clicked. I knew exactly what the guys in our grade whispered about me behind my back. They called me fat, joked that no man would ever want me, and erupted into cruel, echoing laughter. They said the most disgusting things. But Caleb… he never once looked at me with that kind of revulsion in his eyes. When did I fall for him? It was probably a humid summer night after prep class. He slung his backpack over one shoulder, took the empty seat next to me, bringing the summer heat with him. His eyes crinkled, his smile incredibly bright and clean. “Just checked the practice scores. You beat me by one point again.” “You’re too smart. Mind lending me that brain of yours?” … Caleb never knew that I peeked at his college application list, spent hours calculating my odds, and made countless silent wishes. In the end, we got into the same prestigious university. At a graduation party, a wealthy, gorgeous girl confessed her feelings to him in front of everyone. I sat in the back of the crowd, quietly listening to everyone cheer them on. I truly thought Caleb would date her. But he didn’t. He politely turned her down. … As the party wound down, I was sitting alone in the furthest corner of a booth. Years of isolation made me terrible at socializing; my default instinct was always to hide. But he could always find me. That night, Caleb sat next to me, resting his chin on his hand, his eyes slightly narrowed. I knew he was staring at me, but I was too terrified to meet his gaze. After a long silence, his voice—light and teasing—broke the quiet. “I like you.” “Wanna give us a try?”

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1 I, Chloe Sterling, was the internet’s most hated rising star. Right as my career was supposed to be taking off, I was booked on a massive celebrity reality-talk show alongside another Gen Z “It Girl” from my agency. During the segment, the topic shifted to industry connections. To manufacture some viral drama, the host challenged the guests to call a friend—in or out of the industry—and ask to borrow money on speakerphone. The amount? Exactly $100,000. In this economy, asking for a hundred grand out of the blue is an incredibly sensitive issue. Plus, the person on the other end wouldn’t know they were on live television. Anything could happen. We were all public figures. The producers were purely looking out for their own ratings, completely disregarding whether this might ruin a guest’s career. Just as I was hesitating, Harper Quinn flashed a sickly-sweet smile. “Chloe, you look a little pale. Do you not have anyone you can call?” She looked at me with undisguised contempt. Harper was, for all intents and purposes, my ultimate rival. We were signed by the agency around the same time, which meant we constantly competed for the same roles and brand deals. Because of her innocent, “girl-next-door” aesthetic, her first lead role blew up globally. Her status skyrocketed. Meanwhile, since my debut, I had only managed to land lukewarm supporting roles. I guess I partly blamed myself; I wasn’t hyper-ambitious and felt perfectly content with where I was. But I never expected that even after hitting the A-list, Harper still wouldn’t let me breathe. She had to fight me for everything. I glanced at Harper in her flashy, haute-couture gown. Her smile felt like daggers. “Don’t worry about me, Harper.” Choked by my immediate pushback, Harper didn’t get angry. Instead, she smirked, leaning in to whisper so only my mic would pick it up: “Keep faking it. Let’s see how long you can hold this front.” I lowered my eyes and stayed silent. 2 The livestream chat was already exploding. [Omg, Chloe is so arrogant. Harper was just checking on her!] [Harper is way more famous than her anyway. Why does Chloe always look so bitter?] [Our girl Harper is too nice. If it were me, I would’ve slapped her.] [No wonder she’s a D-list flop. People like Chloe are the poison of Hollywood.] Before the game began, the crew mirrored our phones onto the giant studio screen. Eager to watch me make a fool of myself, Harper volunteered to go first. I didn’t object. The host beamed. “Alright, let’s get started!” Looking incredibly smug, Harper pulled out her phone and opened her iMessage. Right at the top of her pinned chats was the name: Liam Sterling. Oh, wow. That was my older brother. The studio audience instantly lost their minds. [Wait, Liam Sterling?! Like, THE Liam Sterling?] [For anyone who lives under a rock: Liam Sterling is Hollywood’s most eligible bachelor. Insanely talented, literally won back-to-back Oscars for Best Actor.] [He is drop-dead gorgeous and so sweet in person! I met him at LAX once, totally breathtaking.] [How does Harper know Liam?! And he’s pinned in her texts? They must be super close!] [Are they secretly dating?!] [Twitter sleuths, get to work NOW!!] The studio atmosphere reached a fever pitch. Seeing that her stunt had worked perfectly, Harper feigned a shy, blushing smile. “Is it okay if I call Liam?” Liam? My mouth twitched as the studio audience screamed their approval. Having an A-lister of that magnitude featured on the show was a producer’s wet dream. The host eagerly urged her on. Amidst the deafening cheers, Harper dialed Liam’s number. It rang for a long time. Harper’s face tightened with nervous anticipation. Ring… Ring… Ring… And then, the call disconnected. Sent straight to voicemail. The studio went dead silent. Harper’s face darkened instantly, but she quickly forced a stiff smile. “Liam is probably on set right now. He must have missed it.” I smiled, looking completely innocent. “Really? Because that sounded exactly like you got sent to voicemail.” “You…” “Why would Liam ever decline my call?” she snapped defensively. I just chuckled, threw my hands up, and gave a helpless shrug. [Chloe is such a bitch. She literally cannot stand seeing other women win.] [Exactly. Liam is a busy man, missing a call is completely normal.] [Ignore her, she’s just jealous that Harper even has Liam’s number.] [I mean… it did ring three times and then abruptly stop. That literally means he declined it. Are you guys blind?] Occasionally, a viewer would drop some truth in the chat. But they were immediately drowned out by the flood of toxic stans. Everyone knew Harper’s fanbase was rabid and allergic to criticism. 3 Unable to let the embarrassment slide, Harper dialed Liam’s number again. This time, it was declined even faster. A second later, an iMessage from Liam popped up on the giant screen: [Harper, are you done?] [How much longer do you expect me to tolerate you?] The audience gasped. Harper’s face drained of all color. She frantically tried to do damage control. “No, wait, it’s not what it looks like. Liam might just be having a stressful day today! I know him so well—he hates being interrupted when he’s deeply in character on set. Let’s just be understanding and try someone else!” Clearly, the studio fans desperately wanted to believe her. Someone from the bleachers even yelled, “It’s okay, Harper! We understand!” I scoffed internally. If nothing else, Harper’s fans were blindly loyal. Looking deeply moved, Harper stared lovingly at her fans. Then, she backed out of her texts and dialed another number from her contacts. It didn’t have a saved name, but I recognized the digits instantly. That was… my dad’s private cell. Harper hit the call button, looking even more terrified than she had when calling my brother. Almost immediately, the automated carrier voice echoed through the studio: [We’re sorry, the number you have reached is unavailable…] Refusing to give up, she hung up and dialed again. Same automated voice. The audience began whispering. Harper was biting her lip so hard it was turning white. I knew my dad. His tech empire spanned the globe; he literally never missed an important call. The fact that it went straight to an automated message meant one thing: Harper’s number was blocked. The director looked completely panicked. He had assumed Harper’s segment would be a massive ratings booster. Nobody expected it to be this humiliating. But no matter how embarrassing it got, her delusional fanbase refused to turn on her. [It’s fine! The other person is probably just in a meeting.] [Don’t cry, Harper! You tried your best!] [Seeing her looking so sad breaks my heart.] [Lmao, look at Chloe’s face. She is eating this up. What a psycho.] [She literally has ‘mean girl’ written all over her face.] [It’s her turn next. Let’s see how badly she embarrasses herself.] The host forced a laugh to smooth things over and moved the segment along. Harper blinked at me, her eyes dripping with fake sympathy. “It’s okay if you can’t borrow the money, Chloe! Knowing your… reputation in the industry, we totally understand.” God, she was a piece of work. I opened my phone, pulled up my contacts, and dialed the contact saved as “Brother.” 4 Harper covered her mouth with a manicured hand and giggled. “‘Brother’? Is he actually related to you? I’ve seen this a million times. Girls like you meet a rich guy in the hills and suddenly start calling him ‘Brother’ or ‘Daddy.’ Who knows what kind of relationship you guys actually have behind closed doors.” I frowned, glaring at her. Among female celebrities, spreading implicit rumors about someone’s sex life was the lowest of the low. Harper was entirely dropping her innocent facade. [Holy shit, Harper went there.] [Industry insiders probably know the tea. Chloe is probably a high-end escort or something.] [Harper never speaks like this in public. Chloe must be genuinely vile behind the scenes.] I ignored the chat and waited for the call to connect. Within seconds, it was picked up. A deep, lazy, incredibly affectionate voice echoed through the studio speakers: “Hey, Chloe. What’s up?” In a split second, Harper’s face turned ghostly white. The live chat completely short-circuited: [Wait… tell me that isn’t Liam Sterling’s voice.] [Am I hallucinating?!] [Omg, I’ve been a hardcore Liam fan for five years. That is 100% his voice.] [AHHHHH! Liam picked up Chloe’s call?! AND HE CALLED HER CHLOE IN THAT TONE?!] [I’m shipping them so hard right now. This is wild.] I spoke directly into the phone: “Hey, can I borrow $100,000?” My brother let out a low, rumbling chuckle. “What’s wrong? Did my little troublemaker burn through her allowance again?” “Yup!” Even though he couldn’t see me, I nodded happily. His magnetic voice poured through the speakers again. “I just wired $200,000 to your account. Let me know if you need more. I can’t have my favorite girl going broke, can I?” The call ended. A second later, a notification dropped onto the giant screen: [Chase Bank Alert: Incoming Wire Transfer of $200,000.00 successful.] Harper looked like she was going to pass out. The chat was having an absolute meltdown: [HE CALLED HER ‘LITTLE TROUBLEMAKER’ AND ‘FAVORITE GIRL’!!!] [Are they actually siblings?! We need a DNA test immediately!] [My gossip radar is going crazy. Someone call TMZ!] [He is so charming. A man talking like that could ruin my life and I’d thank him.] I locked my phone, turned to Harper, and gave her a sharp, predatory smile. “Sorry about that. My brother Liam usually declines calls from people he doesn’t know.”

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1 In the third year of my marriage to Carter Sterling, he set up a young, pretty college girl in an apartment downtown. Her name was Chloe Jenkins. She had a sweet, innocent look—exactly Carter’s type. Carter had been keeping her around for over six months. Other than me, she was the woman who had stayed by his side the longest. My friends warned me to be careful. They all said that this time, Carter might actually be falling in love. The first time I met Chloe was on my birthday. My nose had been bleeding since the morning. I went to the hospital for a checkup, and the doctor told me I would probably only live until next spring. I nodded gently and whispered, “That’s okay.” I wasn’t afraid of dying, but I was a little afraid of the pain. I heard there was a very expensive experimental painkiller that could make my remaining days a bit more comfortable. The money in my bank account wasn’t enough, so I went to Carter’s company to find him. It just so happened that Chloe was there, too. She had just graduated and was working as Carter’s personal secretary. Carter was in a meeting, so I sat in the waiting area. Chloe kept staring at me, whispering to her colleagues nearby: “Is that the boss’s wife? She’s so ugly. She looks dried up, like she’s about to drop dead.” “Everyone says I look like her. How do I look like her? I’m way prettier.” The polished glass wall reflected my image. I wore no makeup and was swallowed up by a bulky, unflattering winter coat. It was true. I wasn’t pretty, and I was about to drop dead. A colleague pulled Chloe’s sleeve and whispered back, “She just isn’t dressed up. If she put on makeup, ten of you combined couldn’t compare to her.” “Also, don’t let the boss’s favoritism get to your head. Don’t provoke her.” “You don’t know how much the boss loves her. If you upset her, he will literally end you.” 2 Hearing that Carter loved me deeply, Chloe pouted in defiance and rolled her eyes at me. She brought me a cup of tea, asking in a sickly-sweet voice, “Emma, how could the boss bear to make you wait so long?” “It’s so weird. Usually, whenever I come to find him, no matter how busy he is, he drops everything to keep me company. He tells me I’m the most important person to him.” “I thought he was this considerate with all his women…” She smiled, her eyes curving into sweet crescents. When she smiled, she really did look like a younger me. I thought about it. Carter really did treat Chloe differently. He had countless mistresses. He used them as tools to spite me, bringing a different woman home every night, testing my reaction over and over again. But Carter never kept them around long. A day or two, maybe a couple of weeks at most, and he would get bored. Only Chloe. Carter kept her properly on the outside—taking her to dinners, shopping, the movies. They were like any ordinary, loving couple. Carter gave her money, and he gave her affection. I looked at Chloe and smiled softly, asking her in a gentle voice, “If you’re so important, how can Carter bear to keep you hidden away as a dirty little secret?” “You should talk some sense into him. Tell him to divorce me sooner so he can marry you.” Chloe’s face drained of color. Humiliated and furious, she lowered her voice and hissed, “The one who isn’t loved is the real third wheel! You are the one who doesn’t belong!” “You’re just riding on the fact that you met Mr. Sterling a few years before I did. But look at you now—you’re old and ugly. What do you have left to fight me with?” Her colleague, probably terrified that I would snap, hurried over to grab her arm and pull her away. Honestly, I didn’t mind. I had made a promise to myself a long time ago: I wouldn’t get angry over Carter, and I wouldn’t cry over him either. And I certainly wouldn’t lower myself to fight other women out of jealousy for him. He wasn’t worth it. 3 Chloe was yanked back, lost her footing, and crashed to the floor. The ceramic teacup shattered, slicing a deep gash into her palm. Blood spilled across the tiles. Through the glass walls of the conference room, Carter saw the injured Chloe. With everyone watching, he slammed his files down, pushed open the doors, and strode over, pulling Chloe into his arms. He snarled coldly, “Who the hell hurt her?” The well-meaning colleague stumbled backward, her face ashen with terror. I sneered. “I did it. And she deserved it.” Chloe glared at me through her tears, crying out, “Yes, I deserve it! It’s my fault for falling in love with a married man. It’s my fault people call me a homewrecker and a mistress!” “But Mr. Sterling, as long as you love me, I’ll stay by your side for the rest of my life. No one can tear us apart.” She cried so beautifully. Even spouting such ridiculous nonsense, she looked brave and resolute. Carter chuckled, his anger melting. He reached up to wipe her tears, coaxing her, “Be good. Look at you, crying like a little stray cat.” He truly treated her differently. I lowered my eyes, too tired to keep watching, and simply said to Carter, “For my birthday this year, I want fifty thousand dollars.” It was funny, really. We were husband and wife, but we didn’t even have each other saved in our phones. Unless I needed money, I never reached out to him. Before we got married, we had a deal: he wanted my body, and I wanted his money. Carter always hated me for being a gold digger. But in the past, whenever I asked, no matter the amount, he would give it to me—usually more than I requested. But this time, he looked at me and smiled. A freezing, cruel smile. He said slowly, “You can have the money.” “But, Emma. Lower your noble head and apologize to Chloe first.” Carter was using fifty grand to buy my dignity, all to buy Chloe an apology. It was the first time he had ever used his money to humiliate me for another woman. I slowly clenched my fists and gave a faint smile. Suppressing the sudden, agonizing pain flaring up in my chest, I turned and walked away. I didn’t want the money anymore. I suddenly felt very curious. Carter… If one day you found out that this money could have kept me alive just a little longer, if you knew how much pain I suffered before I died… What kind of face would you make? 4 I went home alone, curling up in agony under the covers, sweating through my clothes from the pain. I took some sleeping pills, lying to myself. If I fall asleep, it won’t hurt anymore. In a hazy delirium, I had a dream. I dreamt of the year I was twenty. Carter was dirt poor, but he loved me so, so much. It was my birthday. We walked past a bakery and saw a couple sitting by the glass window. The girl was holding a delicate slice of white velvet cake. It looked exquisite, delicious, and incredibly expensive. I remember it was snowing heavily. I scooped up a handful of snow, smiled at Carter, and asked, “Carter, look at this snow. Doesn’t it look like a slice of cake?” Carter clenched his jaw and pulled me into a tight hug, hiding his red, tear-filled eyes from me. Three days later, he appeared outside my dorm building holding a massive, entire white velvet cake. A whole cake cost fifty dollars. Standing on the freezing, wind-swept streets handing out three thousand flyers only earned him twenty. I looked at the frostbite on his fingers and burst into pathetic, ugly sobs. I tilted my head back and yelled at him, “Carter Sterling! Your hands are meant for reading books and writing papers! You can’t just ruin them just to make me smile!” I told him I wasn’t worthy of such an expensive cake… Carter frowned and instantly shut me down. He said, “Emma, you are the best girl in the world. You deserve every beautiful thing this world has to offer.” That day, I ate the entire cake through my tears. So much time has passed, I can’t even remember how it tasted anymore. All I know is that since that day, I’ve never had a cake that tasted better. I slept for a long time. Groggily, I heard my phone ringing. I answered it, and heard Carter’s voice calling my name: “Emma.” I smiled weakly, my voice sweet as I called back, “Carter, it’s snowing heavily. I want to eat cake.” Without waiting for his reply, I rolled over and sank back into a deep sleep. 5 I slept until the middle of the night before I woke up starving. I went to the living room to find food, only to realize Carter had actually come home. He had bought Chloe a massive penthouse. They lived there together. Chloe cooked for him, made him laugh, and waited for him to come home. Carter was living a great life. He hadn’t been back to this house in a very long time. He leaned lazily against the floor-to-ceiling window, a cigarette between his lips, staring fixedly at me. I kept my eyes down, walking past him, but he grabbed my arm. He frowned, his voice soft. “Why have you lost so much weight?” His tone was gentle. It almost sounded like he still loved me. I froze for a second, then violently yanked my arm away, snapping, “Carter, are you out of your mind?” He looked down at his empty palm, the warmth bleeding out of his face. When I reached the dining table, I saw a large cake resting on it, covered in unlit candles. Only then did I realize that the phone call hadn’t been a dream. I said I wanted cake, so Carter went out and bought one. What was this? A peace offering? But I was dying. I had stopped needing cake—and stopped needing Carter—a long time ago. I grabbed the cake and shoved it straight into the trash can. Carter ground his teeth, grabbed me, and slammed me against the wall. He cursed viciously, “Emma, are you fucking playing with me?” I smiled and admitted it. “Yes, Carter. I’m playing with you. So what?” “I say I want a cake, and you go run and buy a cake. Why are you still as pathetic as you used to be?” I deliberately drove the knife into his heart. I watched Carter’s expression freeze into absolute absolute ice. He crushed his cigarette out, dragged me into the bedroom, and threw me onto the bed. Carter was driven mad by anger. Like a beast losing control, he roughly tore at my nightgown. I was terrified. I balled my fists and hit him. “Carter, you bastard! Don’t touch me! You disgust me!” He pinned my legs down so I couldn’t struggle, lowered his head, and bit down hard on my neck. The pain brought tears to my eyes. He pressed his lips against my ear and growled, “Emma, would it kill you to just give in for once?” “Do you have any idea how many years I’ve waited for you to just be soft with me?” “Do you know how happy I was when you told me you wanted cake?” “And then you treat me like a fucking joke?” He lifted his head, staring at me with bloodshot eyes. I fought back my tears and glared right back. In the dimly lit room, neither of us spoke. Neither of us was willing to surrender. Carter leaned down, getting closer and closer. Just as his lips were about to brush mine, his phone suddenly rang. It was Chloe. Carter paused, but eventually picked it up. I could hear Chloe crying through the speaker. “Mr. Sterling, are you really abandoning me for Emma? You clearly told me you loved me.” “I’m at a bar right now. I drank too much, and some guy is harassing me…” “I’m so scared. Please come take me home, please?” Carter didn’t say a word to her. He just stared at me, a cold smile forming on his lips. He softly ordered me, “Emma. Beg me.” “Beg me to stay. Just ask, and I won’t leave.” He must have forgotten. A long time ago, I had thrown away my pride and begged him too. “Carter, can we just sit down and talk calmly?” “Can we stop fighting?” “Can we just love each other?” “Can you please just be good to me?” That day, Carter stared at me with cold indifference, smiled, and said, “Emma, you aren’t worth it.” Those words had been embedded in my heart ever since. Until today, when I finally got to return them. I grabbed his collar, looking him in the eye, and enunciated every word: “Carter. You aren’t worth it.” Carter went silent for a moment. Then, he let out a self-deprecating laugh. He brought the phone back to his ear and told Chloe, “Wait for me. I’m coming to get you.” Without looking at me again, he got up, slammed the door, and left. 6 The next day, photos of Carter getting into a physical brawl with another man over Chloe spread through the Manhattan elite circles. It was the first time his affairs with other women had caused such a public spectacle. Paparazzi swarmed the front of my house. When I tried to leave, they surrounded me, firing off questions. Carter’s company had grown exponentially over the years, giving him massive influence on Wall Street. Young, obscenely wealthy, and handsome, he was practically a celebrity online. A young female reporter shoved a recorder in my face. “Mrs. Sterling, do you have any comments regarding Mr. Sterling and Chloe Jenkins?” I kept walking, not even looking back as I countered, “One is a man committing adultery, and the other is a homewrecker who knows exactly what she’s doing. What exactly do you want me to say?” The girl chased after me. “But I heard that when Mr. Sterling was at his poorest, you dumped him for money!” “Then, when he made it big, you emotionally manipulated him and used underhanded tactics to force him to marry you…” “Now that Mr. Sterling has found true love, he and Chloe are a perfect match. You’re the one stubbornly clinging to the title of Mrs. Sterling and calling others homewreckers.” “Don’t you think you’re the one being a bully?” I stopped in my tracks, turned with a cold smile, and snatched the press badge hanging around her neck. She was an intern. Tucked behind her press pass was a student ID from Easton University. I looked at her calmly. “You’re Chloe’s friend, aren’t you?” “Back then, Carter used every ruthless tactic in the book to force me to marry him. Do you really think I wanted this?” “Everyone in our circle knows the truth. You really didn’t know? Or did you just come here to throw mud at me to help your little sorority sister climb the ranks?” Her expression faltered. Panicked, she snatched her badge back and defended herself self-righteously: “Yes, Chloe is my friend, but I’m a journalist! Everything I say is objective and fair.” “If you really didn’t want to marry Mr. Sterling, then why won’t you divorce him now that he loves someone else?” I smiled and opened my mouth to reply, but suddenly, my nose started bleeding again. I looked a mess. Someone in the crowd laughed. “Mrs. Sterling talks a big game about not caring and being forced into marriage, but she’s so stressed out she’s giving herself nosebleeds!” I reached up with a fingertip and wiped the blood from my lip. Calmly, I said, “I’m not stressed. I’m just sick. I’m dying, so I get nosebleeds a lot lately.” The crowd suddenly fell dead silent. Nobody was laughing anymore. Only that girl kept going. “Cut the act. You get a little nosebleed and suddenly you’re playing the terminal illness card for pity.” “I am so sick of women like you. Pulling the ‘I’m dying’ stunt just to fight over a man. You’re a disgrace to women everywhere.” She flipped her ponytail and marched off. Watching her back, I realized she was just as repulsive as Chloe.

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I told my best friend that her boyfriend already had five wives back in Africa. She sneered at me with pure disdain. “I know you’re just jealous of me. So what? Are any of them as brilliant or beautiful as I am?” The next thing I knew, she brought him along to corner and threaten me. Still, I couldn’t bear to see her life ruined, so I told her parents everything. Her parents couldn’t thank me enough. They immediately locked her in her room to save her from herself. It wasn’t until her boyfriend flew back to Africa with another girl that her parents finally let her out. But instead of taking responsibility, her parents wept and blamed me for everything, telling her it was all my doing. Consumed by a burning rage, she secretly poisoned my drink and murdered me. Then, she smeared my name across every social media platform, spreading disgusting, explicit rumors about me. My mother, consumed by grief and fury, rushed to her house to demand justice—only to be mocked and literally provoked to a fatal heart attack by her parents. When I opened my eyes again, I was back to the exact day she was bragging about becoming a tribal queen. This time, without me standing in her way, I’m going to sit back and watch her claim her “royal” crown. Chapter 1 “Audrey! He proposed! He said if I go back to Africa with him, he’ll make me his tribal queen!” I opened my eyes. My best friend, Tiffany Vance, was rolling around on my dorm bed, ecstatically waving a photo of her boyfriend. “What do you think if I drop out of the Stanford Master’s track and just go with him? His family is insanely rich and powerful anyway.” In my past life, an upperclassman in my sorority had already warned me about this guy. He was a lazy, shiftless freeloader who already had five wives back home. So when Tiffany said she wanted to throw away her education to follow him, I did everything in my power to stop her. But she just sneered with utter contempt. “So what? Are any of them as brilliant or beautiful as I am?” I shook my head, pulled out my phone, and showed her a real, documented news report. I told her about an American girl years ago who was tricked into a remote village by a con artist, had her passport burned, and endured unspeakable torture. Tiffany let out a cold laugh, completely unbothered. “That’s just because she was incompetent and couldn’t hold onto a man’s heart. My babe is right—you’re just green with envy! “Ugh, I was actually planning to invite you over to enjoy the luxury life once I became queen. Now? You don’t deserve it.” With that, she blocked my number, unfriended me on Instagram, and stormed out without looking back. That evening, when I went out to grab takeout, Tiffany and her boyfriend cornered me on a quiet campus path. “Babe, she’s the one who said you’re a piece of trash. I had a massive fight with her for you, look, I even blocked her everywhere!” Her boyfriend gave her a satisfied kiss on the forehead, then turned to me, his face morphing into a terrifying, menacing scowl. In thick, heavily accented English, he growled: “I’m warning you, stay the hell away from my girl. If I catch you near her again, I’ll beat you to a pulp.” I stumbled backward in fear—not just because of his hideous, violent expression, but because a rancid, overpowering stench was radiating from him, making my eyes water. It smelled like he hadn’t showered in months. Tiffany was much shorter than him, her head barely reaching his armpit. Standing right there in the epicenter of that sour, putrid body odor… I couldn’t even begin to imagine the horror. After delivering their warning, they aggressively started making out right in front of me. The scene was too foul to witness. I bolted. Even though Tiffany cut ties with me, I still couldn’t bear to watch her jump into an abyss. I called her parents. “Mr. and Mrs. Vance, Tiffany is dating a guy at our school with a terrifying reputation. Please, you need to talk some sense into her!” Hearing this, her parents thanked me profusely. They drove to campus that very night, dragged Tiffany back home, and locked her securely in her room. During the weeks Tiffany was grounded, her boyfriend quickly found a new target, and the two of them happily jetted off to Africa together. When Tiffany was finally let out, she threatened to cut off her family completely. Terrified of losing her, her parents wept and pinned all the blame on me: “It was all your friend Audrey’s idea! She kept whispering in our ears that your boyfriend was a dangerous criminal, forcing us to lock you up. If you want to hate someone, hate her!” Nursing a murderous grudge, Tiffany returned to campus. The moment I wasn’t looking, she slipped poison into my water flask, killing me. After I died, she deepfaked my photos and leaked them across Reddit and GreekRank, fabricating disgusting, explicit lies about my personal life. My mother, broken-hearted and furious, stormed into their house to demand justice, but Tiffany’s parents relentlessly mocked and berated her until she suffered a fatal heart attack right on their doorstep. This time, without me standing in her way, I want to see if she can successfully wear that crown. Chapter 2 “Whatever you decide, babe, I’m backing you up a hundred percent. “Your boyfriend sounds like an absolute emperor over there. If you go, wouldn’t that make you the ultimate Queen?” I playfully bent my knee in a mock curtsy. “All hail Her Royal Highness!” This sent Tiffany’s vanity through the roof. She laughed triumphantly for a good minute before narrowing her eyes, scanning me up and down. “Audrey, why don’t you come with me? I can totally hook you up with one of his brothers. “I’ll be the Queen, and you can be a Princess. Deal?” Ah. I wondered why Tiffany, who usually kept secrets from me, suddenly ran over to ask for my opinion. Turns out she was terrified of going alone and wanted a sidekick to drag along. I intentionally snatched her boyfriend’s photo, putting on a face of absolute adoration. “Oh my god, can you share his contact info? I heard guys over there can marry multiple wives anyway. We’re sisters—it doesn’t matter which one of us gets to be the queen, right?” Tiffany’s face instantly dropped. She snatched the photo back, stuffing it into her pocket, and snapped, “Hands off your best friend’s man. Don’t you have any morals?” Suppressing my intense disgust, I linked my arm through hers and pouted playfully. “I just want to stay close to you! Once you’re a tribal queen, how am I supposed to see you whenever I want?” Tiffany bared her teeth in a smug, wide grin. “True. Fine, I won’t hold it against you!” Right on cue, her phone rang. It was her boyfriend, demanding she meet him at a motel. Hanging up, Tiffany leaned in mysteriously and whispered that before leaving for Africa, she needed to “create a powerful anchor” to lock her boyfriend down, ensuring her royal status was secure. Enduring the nauseating wave of her odor, I walked her to the campus gates and waved goodbye. If she didn’t leave right then, I was going to throw up my dinner from last night. Spending so much time with him had clearly ruined Tiffany’s own hygiene. From that day on, Tiffany completely stopped showing up to classes. Our academic advisor was furious and left dozens of voicemails for her parents. She was an only child, and her parents doted on her blindly. The moment the advisor hung up, they drove straight to campus and cornered me right at the entrance of my dorm building. Since I was Tiffany’s only real friend on campus, I was always their first point of contact for any emergency. In my past life, I was more than happy to help them. I never expected them to repay my kindness with cold-blooded betrayal. The moment Tiffany’s mother saw me, she dropped to her knees, grabbing my hands and weeping dramatically. “Audrey, please! Ask yourself, haven’t I always treated you like my own daughter? You can’t just stand by and watch our Tiffany ruin herself!” With that, she whipped out a stack of crisp hundred-dollar bills from her purse and shoved them into my hands, sobbing. “You don’t even have to ask, I will gladly pay you. Just tell us where she is!” Students were constantly drifting past the dorm entrance. They were instantly fooled by her pathetic, weeping performance and began turning on me. “Wow, talk about a gold digger. Extorting her best friend’s grieving parents? Gross.” “Right? I heard she got a full ride for a Master’s track. Clearly, her morals are completely bankrupt. We should report this to the Dean tomorrow—maybe they’ll revoke her spot and open it up for someone else.” “Disgusting. I’m recording this and posting it on TikTok so everyone can see what a monster she is. Don’t let her ruin anyone else.” I rubbed my temples. Dealing with this family of manipulative grifters was exhausting. I dialed 911 right then and there, turned on the speakerphone, and handed it directly to Tiffany’s mother. “Mrs. Vance, I haven’t seen Tiffany in days either. For her safety, let’s let the police handle it immediately.” Her mother’s face stiffened awkwardly. She knew exactly what kind of trashy things her daughter was up to and desperately wanted to avoid getting law enforcement involved. Seeing her hesitate, the crowd of students chimed in to encourage her. “Don’t be scared, ma’am! We’ve got your back!” “Yeah, there are so many fake friends these days. Who knows if this girl did something to your daughter!” “Exactly, don’t waste time! Tell the dispatcher everything!” Chapter 3 Left with no choice, Tiffany’s mother stammered through an explanation of the situation to the dispatcher. Within a short while, the police traced her phone ping to a sketchy, hourly-rate motel down the highway. They dispersed the crowd to protect the “victim’s” privacy. But of course, some drama-obsessed students secretly followed them, opening a live broadcast on their phones. I made sure to stay far away. If Tiffany saw me there, she would find a way to blame me for the humiliation. Instead, I watched the livestream safely from my dorm room. As the viewer count exploded, it seemed like half the university was tuned in. On screen, Tiffany’s mother looked green. She was terrified of two possibilities: either her daughter was there voluntarily doing something shameful, or she was actually kidnapped. Either way, with this much publicity, her daughter’s reputation was going to be utterly trashed. She tried to call off the investigation and tell the officers to leave, but the police, fearing a dangerous suspect might be inside, insisted on verifying Tiffany’s safety before clearing the scene. Soon, the officers kicked the motel room door open, with Tiffany’s parents trailing right behind them. An absolutely grotesque, unspeakable scene filled the screen. The livestream chat went completely wild, comments flying at hyper-speed: [Ew, what the hell! I need bleach for my eyes!] [College kids these days are wilding out, omg!] Just as the chat was reaching a fever pitch, the stream was abruptly banned. Someone immediately created a burner account to restart the stream for clout. In the video, Tiffany’s parents’ faces drained of color, turning a ghostly white before flushing a deep, violent crimson. The police interrogated them repeatedly, but Tiffany kept screaming that everything was completely consensual, making her dad look like he wanted to slap her into next week. Once the police confirmed it was just a massive, trashy misunderstanding, they washed their hands of it and left. Then came the main event. Since her parents doted on their precious daughter too much to lay a finger on her, they directed a hundred percent of their fury toward her boyfriend. Tiffany’s dad let out a feral roar, raising a fist to smash it directly into the guy’s face. But before the fist could connect, her dad let out a pathetic shriek and went flying across the room, crashing into the wall. The boyfriend cracked his knuckles and snapped his fingers in a mocking, arrogant gesture. Instead of checking on her bruised father, Tiffany stood by the bed, clapping her hands and squealing with delight. “Babe, you are incredible! That was so alpha! God, I love you so much!” Fueled by her worship, the boyfriend grew even more arrogant, pounding his chest like a gorilla and flexing his muscles. Tiffany’s mother wanted to help her husband up, but one threatening glare from the boyfriend froze her in her tracks. She collapsed into a corner, slapping her own chest and wailing hysterically. “It’s all because of that miserable bitch, Audrey! I see it clearly now—she’s intentionally trying to tear our family apart! “Tiffany, you can’t let her blind you! Your father has a terrible heart condition! Go find that Audrey girl and beat her to death!” Hearing my name, Tiffany’s expression shifted drastically. Then, her eyes darted around as a twisted idea formed, and she dragged her boyfriend out the door. Shoot. They were coming for me. This family was more relentless than a curse. I quickly started throwing things into a bag, intending to go home and lay low. But then I stopped. Tiffany knew my home address. If she couldn’t find me at school, she would terrorize my mother. There was no running away from this. I walked out and found a highly public, heavily crowded quad on campus, sitting down calmly to await her arrival. Chapter 4 Tiffany marched up, dragging her boyfriend behind her. But to my utter surprise, she looked… thrilled? Baring her teeth in a massive grin, she slid into the seat right next to me, gripping my arm tightly. “Audrey, you are an absolute genius! I was so worried my parents would stand in our way, but look at them now! They won’t dare say a single word against us!” I forced a stiff, awkward smile. She leaned down, whispering directly into my ear, “Hehe, and this actually proved to my babe that my love for him is stronger than my bond with my own parents. He’s going to worship me even more now.” I was genuinely horrified by her psychological gymnastics, but I kept nodding in mock agreement. Two days later, Tiffany’s parents had the audacity to text me as if nothing had happened, asking me to help them trick Tiffany into coming home. I blocked their numbers instantly. They didn’t dare show their faces on campus anymore, utterly terrified of getting thrashed by her boyfriend again. In the weeks that followed, her parents went completely silent. Tiffany disappeared from campus for over two months; word was her parents had filed for an extended medical leave of absence for her. According to a sorority senior, the boyfriend couldn’t get ahold of Tiffany, so he simply moved on and found a new girl to hook up with. No wonder my left eyelid had been twitching lately. The timeline was realigning itself with my past life. I immediately tracked down the boyfriend’s new target. I laid out his entire history, telling her exactly how many girls he was juggling at once. Fortunately, this girl actually had a brain; she dumped him on the spot and even bought me a Starbucks drink to thank me. I couldn’t help but feel a wave of irony. The only one who treated that human garbage like a priceless treasure was Tiffany. After getting dumped, the boyfriend’s reputation on campus was entirely ruined. Desperate, he turned his sights back to his easiest mark: Tiffany. He somehow dug up her home address and began harassing her family, showing up at their house every single day to cause a scene. And just like that, Tiffany’s locked-down heart began to throb with wild romance once more. Her parents sneaked onto campus during a window when the boyfriend wasn’t around, cornering me right outside my dorm room again. With tears and snot streaming down her face, Tiffany’s mother dropped to her knees, attempting to guilt-trip me into submission. “Audrey, please! Tiffany is on a hunger strike at home! Her body is going to give out! You’re her best friend, you have to do something! If all else fails… why don’t you try to seduce that man away from her? “Honestly, this is your fault too. If you had stopped her aggressively from the very beginning, she wouldn’t be this deeply infatuated! You need to atone for what you did!” I snapped. I couldn’t swallow this garbage for one more second. “Are you insane, lady? Did I force them into that motel room? You can’t even control your own daughter, and you expect a total outsider to manage her life?” Ever since the motel livestream incident, most of the building knew about the Vance family drama. Several girls with a strong sense of justice immediately stepped up to back me up. “Seriously, fix your own trashy family instead of harassing other people. Get psychological help.” “Where is the resident advisor? Why do we keep letting these delusional strangers into our hall? It’s ruining the vibe.” Tiffany’s mother opened her mouth to screech back, but her husband quickly leaned down, whispering something urgent in her ear. Flustered, the two of them shuffled away like beaten dogs. I thought they had finally given up, but over the weekend, while walking down a quiet path on my way home, someone blindsided me from behind. Everything went black. When I regained consciousness, I found myself tied to a chair inside Tiffany’s house. She was currently throwing a tantrum, smashing decor against the walls. Seeing me wake up, her parents rushed over with oily smiles, untying my hands. “Audrey, sweetie, we know you’re a good girl. We were truly desperate, or we would never have resorted to this. Please, just talk some sense into Tiffany.” I recoiled, pulling my hands away. But then a thought struck me: if I defied them openly right now, there was no telling what desperate, violent things this unhinged family would do to me. I forced a compliant smile and nodded. Still paranoid, Tiffany’s mother confiscated my phone before unlocking the door to Tiffany’s bedroom, shoving me inside, and immediately locking it behind me. The moment Tiffany saw me, she dropped the expensive collectible figurine she was about to smash and threw her arms around me. “Audrey! What took you so long? Is my babe losing his mind out there? “My psycho parents took my phone, so I can’t text him. You have to message him for me! I’m terrified he’ll do something tragic if he thinks I abandoned him!” Suddenly, Tiffany cut herself off, doubling over and dry-heaving violently into a trash can. Though I had never witnessed it in person before, I had seen it enough on TV to know instantly—she was pregnant. Tiffany and I locked eyes, and I knew she realized that I knew. I knocked loudly on the bedroom door, calling out to her parents that Tiffany had finally calmed down and was craving the specialized wontons from the diner downtown. Her parents exchanged a thrilled look. Her dad whipped out a fifty-dollar bill, hesitated, and reluctantly handed it to me. “Audrey, thank you for the trouble. Keep whatever change is left as a tip!” The moment I left the house, I noticed her mother tailing me from a distance. I intentionally slipped through the back door of the busy diner, sprinted to a nearby pharmacy, bought a digital pregnancy test, and hid it securely inside my sports bra. When I returned, her parents patted me down thoroughly, even checking the plastic takeout bags multiple times. Once they were satisfied I hadn’t smuggled a phone, they let me back into the room. A few minutes later, I stared at the digital display in Tiffany’s hand showing a clear, undeniable PREGNANT. I fell into deep thought.

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The doctor slid the paperwork across the desk, his index finger tapping against the bottom line. “Joyce, the results of the baby’s DNA test came back.” He paused, the silence in the sterile room suddenly deafening. “They don’t… they don’t match your husband. They don’t match Davis.” My eyes dropped to the letters printed in stark black ink. Probability of Paternity: 0%. Excluded. Three years. Five rounds of IVF. Eighty-five thousand dollars out of pocket. Over a hundred needles plunging into my bruised stomach. And you’re sitting here telling me this baby isn’t his? I looked up at the doctor, the corners of my mouth stretching into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Run it again.” 1. The first round of IVF was three summers ago. My mother-in-law, Barbara, insisted on driving me to the clinic. “Oh, Jo, honey, your body is so delicate right now. Let me take care of you,” she had cooed, looping her arm through mine. “Davis is swamped at the firm. This is what mothers are for.” At the time, I’d actually felt a lump in my throat. I was touched. We’d been trying for two years. Barbara was desperate for a grandchild; I was just desperate. When the initial fertility workup came back, the doctors told us I was perfectly healthy. The issue was Davis’s sperm motility. It was severely low. The specialist recommended IVF. For the first egg retrieval, I endured fourteen straight days of hormone stimulation shots. My abdomen swelled until it felt like a water balloon about to burst. I had to lean against the wall just to walk to the bathroom. Barbara was there for all of it. Hovering, pouring me organic bone broth, fluffing my pillows with more frantic energy than my own mother. “I just want what’s best for this family,” she would say, a mantra she wore like a shield. “Once you two finally give me a grandbaby, my life will be complete.” The day of the egg retrieval, I lay on the surgical table, shivering in a thin paper gown, sweating through the pain. Barbara was in the waiting room. Davis was stuck in a conference call. Fourteen days after the embryo transfer, they drew my blood. Negative. My hCG levels were at 0.8. I sobbed into my pillow until the sun came up. Barbara showed up the next morning, hauling a massive container of homemade stew. “It’s okay, sweetie. We try again. We aren’t hurting for the money.” The second round was three months later. They retrieved twelve eggs. Five fertilized. We transferred two embryos. Fourteen days later. Blood test. Negative again. Barbara’s smile was noticeably tighter this time, the edges brittle, though she still patted my hand. “You’re probably just too high-strung, Jo. You need to relax next time.” For the third round, I switched clinics. Barbara casually mentioned an old college friend of hers who was the Chief of Reproductive Endocrinology at Mercy Women’s Clinic. She said she could pull some strings. “Dr. Wallace is the absolute best in the state. Leave it to me.” For that third cycle, Barbara practically shadowed my every move. The stims, the monitoring ultrasounds, the retrieval, the sperm collection, the transfer. She said she was just worried I’d be exhausted driving across town by myself. I remember the day of the third sperm collection with crystal clarity. Davis took a half-day off work. He went into the clinic to leave his sample. When he walked out of the back room, Barbara happened to be walking down the corridor toward us. “All set?” she asked. “All set,” Davis nodded, looking uncomfortable. Barbara smiled, a bright, satisfied thing. “Great. I’m just going to pop my head in and say hello to Dr. Wallace.” She turned and walked down the hall toward the lab area. I didn’t think anything of it. I thought she was just going to say hello to an old friend. After that third transfer, I finally saw the two pink lines. The blood test confirmed it: an hCG of 1,200. I sat in my car in the clinic parking lot, clutching the printout, and cried for thirty minutes straight. Barbara was even more hysterical than I was. She called Davis on speakerphone right then and there. “Davis! You’re going to be a father!” There was a stunned silence on the other end of the line, followed by a breathless, shaky laugh. That was the happiest day of my life in three years. During my pregnancy, Barbara practically moved into our guest room. She cooked three meals a day. She wouldn’t let me lift a laundry basket. She came to every single OB-GYN appointment. “I just want what’s best for this family,” she would repeat. “Once she gets here, you won’t have to worry about a thing.” Ten months later, my daughter was born. Six pounds, four ounces. When the labor and delivery nurse placed that screaming, warm weight onto my chest, the tears blinded me. Five rounds of IVF. Three years. Eighty-five thousand dollars. Over a hundred needles. It was worth it. Was it? The day Mia turned one month old, the pediatrician’s office called. They said there was an irregularity in a routine lab panel and asked us to come in. I assumed it was a standard newborn screening. Maybe a mild iron deficiency. I didn’t know it was a paternity test. Because Mia’s blood type was a biological impossibility based on mine and Davis’s, the hospital protocol required a DNA cross-check. The results were final. She was my biological daughter. But she was not Davis’s. After the doctor broke the news, I sat on a bench in the hospital corridor for two hours. There was only one thought rattling around the empty cavern of my skull: How is that even possible? 2. I didn’t tell a soul. Davis didn’t know. Barbara certainly didn’t know. I zipped the manila folder into the hidden lining of my tote bag. Every night, long after the house had settled into the dark, rhythmic breathing of sleep, I would take it out and stare at it under the glow of my phone flashlight. Probability of paternity: 0%. Excluded. I must have stared at those words a hundred times. It was an IVF baby. They took Davis’s sperm. They took my egg. How could it not be his? I began to dissect the timeline in my head, pulling at the threads. Round one: fail. Round two: fail. Round three: changed clinics, success. Round three was at Mercy Women’s. The clinic Barbara recommended. Dr. Wallace. I called in sick to work, telling Davis I needed to go back to the clinic for a postpartum check-up. Instead, I drove to medical records. Under HIPAA, I had a legal right to my entire IVF file, so long as I had my ID and signed the release forms. The clerk behind the glass window slid a thick, heavy envelope toward me. “Mrs. Jo, this contains all records from September 2021 through June 2022.” I found a quiet corner in the cafeteria, bought a black coffee I didn’t drink, and flipped through the pages. Stimulation charts. Egg retrieval logs. Sperm collection logs. Embryo grading reports. Transfer consent forms… Every page required signatures. My signature. Davis’s signature. And then— I froze on the “Semen Sample Custody and Consent” form. Under the section marked Sample Verification Proxy, there was a signature. It wasn’t Davis’s. It wasn’t mine. It was Barbara’s. Barbara Joans. I recognized the aggressive, sweeping loop of her ‘B’. I quickly flipped ahead. Embryo Transfer Consent. Proxy Signatory: Barbara Joans. I had never signed a proxy authorization form. Davis had never signed one either. Why was my mother-in-law’s name on my medical custody forms? My hands were shaking so badly I dropped my phone twice before I managed to take photos of the pages. I marched up to the third-floor fertility clinic and found the main nurses’ station. “Excuse me, is there a way to contact a nurse who was on rotation here back in March of 2022?” The charge nurse typed something into her system. “Let me check the old schedules… hold on.” She scrolled. “We had an intern named Emily working here then. She’s fully licensed now, transferred down to Maternity last year.” “Is she in the building today?” “Should be.” I took the elevator down to Maternity. Emily was at a medication cart, prepping syringes. When she saw me, she blinked, recognition flashing across her face. “You’re…?” “Joyce. I was an IVF patient up on the third floor in March 2022.” The blood drained from her face. “I need to ask you about protocol,” I said, keeping my voice terrifyingly flat. “Specifically, the chain of custody for the sperm collection.” She immediately looked down, avoiding my eyes. “I… you’d have to talk to the attending physician about that.” “I don’t want to talk to him. I’m talking to you.” She stood there in agonizing silence, her knuckles white as she gripped a vial of saline. “Joyce, I…” “What happened that day, Emily?” Her eyes darted nervously down the hallway. “I’ll contact you when my shift ends.” She shoved a ripped piece of paper into my hand with a cell phone number scribbled on it, grabbed her cart, and practically ran in the other direction. At 9:00 PM, I sent a text to the number. “It’s Jo.” Ten agonizing minutes passed before the typing bubble appeared. “I know what you’re trying to figure out.” “Then tell me.” “…” The typing bubble danced on my screen for a long, long time. Then, the message vanished. A second later, a new text popped up: “I can’t talk about this. Please don’t contact me again.” And then, my messages turned green. She had blocked me. 3. Being blocked didn’t stop me. The next day, I was back at the hospital. I didn’t bother looking for Emily. I went straight back to Medical Records. I pulled up the photos of the signatures on my phone. Barbara signing as a proxy. By hospital policy, a proxy signature requires a notarized or legally binding authorization form signed by the patient. I never signed one. Davis never signed one. So how the hell did her signature get accepted? I demanded to speak to the Medical Records manager. “Hi, I need to view the original patient proxy authorization form for this March 2022 file.” The manager clicked through his database. “Authorization form… hm. There’s no scanned copy of a proxy form attached to this file.” “What does that mean?” “It means the physical copy might still be upstairs with the department, but it was never digitized into the central system.” I marched back to the third floor. I cornered the clinic’s administrative lead. “Paper authorization forms from three years ago are shredded,” she told me with practiced apathy. “We only keep the digital scans.” “It’s not in the digital system.” “Then it probably never got scanned.” “If it never got scanned, how was a third party allowed to sign the chain of custody for a biological sample?” The admin stopped typing. She looked at me, realizing exactly what kind of liability I was pointing at. I knew exactly what I had just stumbled upon. A massive procedural breach. Or— There never was an authorization form. Barbara signing that document was a gross violation of medical protocol. And there was only one person with the authority to wave a violation like that through. Dr. Alan Wallace. I didn’t storm his office. I pivoted. I needed a different angle. I went home and put on the performance of a lifetime. For the next week, I played the role of a woman who had let the paranoia go. “You know, maybe the hospital just mixed up the paperwork,” I said casually over Sunday dinner. “I don’t even want to stress about it anymore. Mia is perfect, and that’s all that matters.” I watched Barbara’s shoulders physically drop two inches. “Oh, thank god,” she sighed, placing a hand over her heart. “Exactly, sweetie. The baby is healthy and beautiful. That’s the most important thing.” Davis remained completely oblivious. He’d noticed I’d been quiet and asked me about it twice, but I just blamed it on postpartum exhaustion. He bought it without a second thought. Was he truly that blind? Or was he acting, too? I couldn’t let myself go down that rabbit hole. Not yet. A week later, Emily reached out to me from a different number. “Joyce. I saw your Facebook post.” I had posted a picture of Mia with the caption: Leaving the past behind. Focusing on our beautiful future. “I think it’s really good that you’re dropping it,” she sent in a voice memo. She sounded incredibly relieved. “This whole thing… it involves too many people.” “I am dropping it,” I typed back. “I’m just trying to make peace with it. Just out of morbid curiosity, though.” “What?” “You said it involves too many people. Who exactly are we talking about?” Silence. But she didn’t block me this time. “…I can only tell you one thing.” “Tell me.” “March 8th, 2022. The day of the sperm collection. Someone went into the embryology lab.” “Who?” “You probably already know.” “Say it.” She typed for a long time. Finally, the text pushed through. “Your mother-in-law.” I stared at those three words until the letters blurred together. Five full minutes. “And?” “And… the next day, the sample identification number was altered.” “What does that mean?” “It means it was swapped. I was just an intern back then. I thought it was weird, but I was terrified to speak up. I didn’t realize until later—” A pause. “Your husband’s sample. It was switched out.” My breath hitched. The phone trembled in my palm. “Switched with whose?” “I don’t know.” “Did Dr. Wallace know?” “…” “He knew, didn’t he?” Emily’s final message came through: “Joyce, that’s all I can safely say. Your mother-in-law was in Dr. Wallace’s private office with him for a long time that morning. I have no idea what they talked about.” I immediately screenshot the entire conversation. Backed it up to my cloud. Emailed it to my private address. Davis’s sperm was swapped. Barbara was in the lab. Dr. Wallace orchestrated it. I closed my eyes, leaning my head back against the cold bathroom tiles. I just want what’s best for this family. Her voice echoed in my skull like a poison. Of course she wanted what was best for the family. It was just that her definition of “best” never included me. 4. I needed hard evidence. A text thread with a terrified former intern wouldn’t hold up in court. It was hearsay. I needed a paper trail. Security footage. Bank statements. Or a confession from Wallace himself. Could I even get security footage from three years ago? I called the hospital’s IT and Security department, posing as a frantic wife. “Hi, I need to request security footage from March 2022 for an ongoing medical dispute.” The guy on the line sighed. “Ma’am, footage from three years ago? You have to go through the legal department. Subpoena, hospital board approval, the whole nine yards.” “How long does that take?” “Standard processing? Thirty to sixty days.” I didn’t have thirty days. Barbara was already getting suspicious again. Just yesterday, she caught me staring blankly out the window and asked, “Jo, is something bothering you? You know you can tell me anything. We’re family.” Family. I nearly choked on the word. I pivoted again. I called an old friend from college who worked in corporate cybersecurity. “If I need hospital security footage from three years ago, is it gone?” “Mainframes usually overwrite every 90 days,” he said. “But if the hospital uses a third-party cloud backup, the archives might still exist. You’d need someone on the inside to pull it, though.” I immediately thought of Emily. She was too scared. Who else was there? I looked up the staff directory for the reproductive endocrinology clinic from 2022. Dr. Wallace. Three attending physicians. Five nurses. Two lab techs. The techs. The only people with physical access to the cryo-tanks and samples were the doctors and the techs. Not the nurses. I found the names of the two techs on duty that month. One had moved out of state. The other, Jessica, was still working there. I spent two days playing private investigator on Jessica’s social media.

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An accident eighteen years ago derailed two lives, snapping my fate and another girl’s onto the entirely wrong tracks. It wasn’t until the day Lindsay—the counterfeit daughter who had comfortably occupied my life for eighteen years—stormed into that palatial estate with two cold, clinical DNA reports that the tracks finally realigned. She slammed the papers down onto the pristine marble coffee table, her voice vibrating with a resentment that had clearly been festering for years. “Jodie,” she said, pointing a manicured finger at me before turning her furious gaze to the couple on the velvet sofa. “She is your real daughter. There isn’t a single drop of shared blood between you and me.” Saying the words seemed to lift an invisible weight off her shoulders, though her tone remained steeped in wealthy, bored irritation. “So, I assume I can finally do whatever the hell I want now? Like heli-jumping in the Alps? You don’t have the right to ground me anymore.” The parents—the Davenports—sat frozen. Their faces were a portrait of absolute devastation, entirely incapable of processing the bomb that had just been dropped into their immaculate living room. Lindsay rolled her eyes at their stunned silence. Irritated, she grabbed my arm and shoved me forward, right into their line of sight. “We were switched at birth. It’s a literal fact,” she enunciated, as if speaking to toddlers. “Therefore, I am not your kid. Don’t ever try to use the ‘parent’ card to control me again. Are we clear?” 1 When Lindsay first tracked me down, I was standing on the roof of a massive fulfillment center, trying to catch a breeze. July in Houston was a suffocating, wet blanket. I had just clocked out of a brutal twelve-hour night shift. I was haggard, coated in a fine layer of industrial dust, and standing face-to-face with a group of girls who looked like they had just stepped out of a Vogue editorial. We were two entirely different species. “She’s your parents’ actual kid? God, she looks tragic.” The blonde standing next to Lindsay wrinkled her nose, eyeing my steel-toed boots. “Are you sure there wasn’t a mistake? Your mom is gorgeous. There’s no way she gave birth to… that.” “Exactly. Only someone who looks like you belongs in the Davenport family, Linda,” another girl chimed in. Unlike her friends, Lindsay seemed deeply satisfied by how pathetic I looked. She stepped up to me, tilting her chin up. “We were switched at the hospital,” she said, her voice dripping with the casual condescension of someone tossing spare change to a beggar. “You are my parents’ biological child.” She wore a look of utter disdain, but to me, her words were a sledgehammer shattering the dark, suffocating walls of my world. Letting the light in. Lindsay had already introduced herself and her family’s background. Her parents controlled Davenport Industries, a logistics and real estate empire worth billions. If she was telling the truth… I was the true heir to a billion-dollar dynasty. I furrowed my brow, genuinely struggling to comprehend it. The odds of this happening were worse than winning the Powerball. And more importantly—why was Lindsay here telling me this, instead of my biological parents? In every movie I’d ever seen, the fake heiress would kill to keep the real one hidden in the slums forever. Reading the suspicion on my face, Lindsay let out a sharp laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself. Just because you came out of my mother’s body doesn’t mean you’re suddenly a Davenport. They adore me. They’re never going to stop loving me.” She crossed her arms, her designer bag catching the harsh industrial lights. “Honestly, if you can distract them and get them off my back, I should be thanking you.” She paused, looking me up and down with renewed disgust. “Then again… look at you.” Her friends erupted into peals of laughter. The sound of old money, of girls who had never known a day of real hunger. I lowered my head. And there, hidden in the shadows where none of them could see, the corners of my mouth slowly curled upward. During the long drive to River Oaks in the back of a chauffeured Escalade, Lindsay and her friends didn’t stop talking. They moved seamlessly from complaining about their pedicurists to debating the merits of a limited-edition Birkin, and finally to a new Porsche model. I sat quietly in the corner, absorbing every single word. Archiving it. This was the vernacular of my new life; it would all be strictly relevant to me soon. Eventually, the conversation shifted to men. I tuned that out. I closed my eyes and let the exhaustion take over. When I woke up, the topic had shifted to a planned skydiving trip in Switzerland. And through their careless chatter, the missing pieces of the puzzle finally clicked into place. 2 There were two kids in the Davenport family. Lindsay, and an older brother. As the youngest, Lindsay was spoiled rotten. From the way her friends talked, she had wanted for nothing—sports cars, penthouses, yacht parties. If Lindsay pointed at it, Richard and Cathy Davenport bought it. But a life with zero friction had left Lindsay chronically bored. She had developed a dangerous addiction to adrenaline: street racing, backcountry snowboarding, base jumping. Anything to feel a pulse. Recently, she and her friends had booked a private jet for an extreme skydiving and heli-skiing trip in the Swiss Alps. But Cathy Davenport had finally put her foot down. She absolutely forbade it, allegedly snapping during a heated argument: If you want to jump out of a plane, you can do it when you’re no longer my daughter. It was just the desperate hyperbole of a terrified mother. But Lindsay took it literally. She secretly commissioned a DNA test, planning to forge the results just to mess with her mother. But when the lab results came back, the joke was on her. She truly wasn’t a Davenport. So, she went hunting for the real daughter. And she found me. Noticing I was awake, the blonde poked my shoulder. “Hey, ugly duckling. Do you even know how to snowboard?” I shook my head. I had lived in South Texas my whole life. I had never even seen real snow. My answer earned another chorus of mocking laughter. “Look at her. The only ice she’s ever seen is from a gas station cooler,” the blonde said, turning to Lindsay with exaggerated pity. “Linda, I am so embarrassed for you and your parents. Having her walking around your house is going to be social suicide.” Lindsay shot me a withering glare, as if my mere existence was already ruining her reputation. This time, I didn’t pretend to be cowed. I simply turned my head and looked out the tinted window. My reflection stared back at me. The cheap, dark blue uniform made my posture look slumped. Sweat-dampened baby hairs were plastered to my forehead. Thanks to years of graveyard shifts and terrible food, my jawline was dotted with stress breakouts. Plain. Exhausted. Invisible. Lindsay and her friends were right. I was an ugly duckling. But I owed them a massive debt of gratitude. Because thanks to them, this ugly duckling was about to reclaim her pond. 3 The Escalade glided through the iron gates of an ultra-exclusive enclave, finally stopping in front of the most imposing estate on the street. I couldn’t stop my eyes from darting around. Even though I had mentally prepared myself, the sheer, sprawling opulence of the place left me momentarily breathless. Lindsay scoffed at my deer-in-the-headlights expression. “Listen to me, trash,” she hissed, suddenly grabbing my arm. “When you see my mother, you call her ‘Ma’am.’ Not ‘Mom.’ I don’t care if you have their DNA. You don’t get to just waltz in and become a Davenport.” She let go, smoothing her pristine jacket. “And if she still refuses to let me go to Switzerland, you are going to get on your knees and beg her for me. Got it?” She rolled her eyes toward the upper floor. “I don’t even know if my brother is home. He’s a total germaphobe. He’s going to lose his mind when he sees how filthy you are. God, a guy as immaculate as him having a biological sister who looks like a dumpster diver… it’s humiliating.” I walked quietly behind her. I didn’t argue. I didn’t defend myself. Because I knew if I opened my mouth right then, I would have burst into hysterical laughter. The house was cavernous. We walked through what felt like endless hallways before reaching the main living area. It wasn’t the gaudy, gold-plated mansion I had seen on reality TV. It was all understated elegance—neutral tones, museum-quality art, and terrifyingly expensive minimalism. A man in a sharp polo and slacks was sitting on the white linen sofa. Seeing him, Lindsay dropped her vicious persona and bounded over like an oversized puppy. “Dad! Why are you home so early?” Richard Davenport shifted his weight, looking at Lindsay with a gaze so full of unconditional adoration it made my chest ache. “Because of you, sweetheart. Your mother told me to clear my afternoon so we could spend it with you.” Lindsay’s eyes lit up. “Wait. Does that mean she’s letting me go to the Alps?” “Don’t even dream about it.” Before Richard could answer, a woman’s voice drifted down from the sweeping staircase behind me. “Lindsay, as long as I am breathing, you are not jumping out of a perfectly good airplane.” I whipped around. And there she was. The woman who shared the exact same bone structure, the same slope of the nose, as the face I saw in the mirror every day. She was walking down the stairs, carrying a silver tray. When she saw me standing awkwardly in the foyer, her severe expression softened into polite warmth. She offered me a gentle smile. “You must be one of Lindsay’s friends. Please, sit down.” Inside the pockets of my uniform, my hands balled into tight fists. She looked like me, but she didn’t. She possessed a radiant, effortless beauty that only decades of wealth and peace could buy. Time had only left the faintest, elegant traces at the corners of her eyes. Dressed in a crisp silk blouse and tailored trousers, she looked formidable and breathtaking. She set the tray on the coffee table, and I realized it held a beautifully decorated, homemade cake. Lindsay pouted, her arms crossing defensively. “You literally said it yourself! You said if you weren’t my mom, I could go.” Richard’s face hardened. He immediately intervened. “Lindsay, enough. Your mother cancelled three board meetings just to come home and bake that for you. Stop acting like a spoiled brat.” Lindsay wasn’t having it. “I didn’t ask her to bake me anything!” Despite the disrespect, Cathy didn’t raise her voice. She simply looked at her daughter. “If I freeze your Amex, maybe you’ll remember how to speak to us.” That was the spark that ignited the powder keg. Lindsay sprang up from the sofa. With a vicious sweep of her arm, she shoved the tray. The cake tumbled off the marble table, hitting the rug with a sickening splat. “Keep your stupid money!” Lindsay screamed. “You aren’t even my real mother! You have no right to tell me what to do!” 4 A graveyard silence descended on the living room. Vanilla frosting smeared across the Persian rug, the sickeningly sweet smell filling the tense air. Lindsay dug into her designer tote, pulled out the manila envelope, and slammed the DNA report onto the table. “We were switched at the hospital when I was born. She is your biological daughter.” Lindsay pointed squarely at me. “So, I’m going to Switzerland. Are we done here?” Richard and Cathy stared at her, the words bouncing off them like a foreign language. They couldn’t process it. Infuriated by their lack of reaction, Lindsay grabbed my shoulder and shoved me right in front of Cathy. “Eighteen years ago. We were switched. I am not yours. You don’t own me. Do you understand now?” I stumbled, suddenly finding myself mere inches from Cathy Davenport. Our eyes locked. She stared at me for a long, agonizing moment. Then, her trembling hand reached for the paper on the table. It was just a few sheets of paper, but her fingers slipped twice before she could grasp it. Finally, Richard had to physically support her by the waist as he picked up the report himself. The silence returned, broken only by the sharp rustle of pages turning. “Lindsay, if this is some kind of sick joke—” Richard started, his voice cracking. Lindsay cut him off. “Where the hell would I find someone who looks exactly like her? Are you seriously telling me you can’t recognize your own flesh and blood?” She grabbed her bag. “Anyway, take your time with the tearful reunion. If I don’t leave now, I’m going to miss my flight.” She jogged toward the front door, pausing just long enough to shout back, “Oh, and Dad? Make sure she doesn’t freeze my cards!” Lindsay practically skipped out of the house. Richard instinctively took a step to chase her, but Cathy gripped his forearm with bruising force. Ever since she had read the final line of that report, her eyes hadn’t left my face. She took a ragged, shuddering breath. “Richard. Call our security firm. I want the hospital archives pulled. I want the surveillance footage. I want the name of every doctor, nurse, janitor, and security guard on my floor eighteen years ago. I want to know exactly what happened.” “Cathy, what about Lindsay…” “Leave her. Make the call.” Richard let out a heavy sigh. He turned toward the door, pausing to look at me as if he wanted to say something, but ultimately walked out to the patio in silence. Cathy forced the corners of her mouth to turn up, offering me a fragile, devastating smile. “What… what is your name, sweetheart?” Under the weight of her gaze, I spoke my first words to her. “Jodie Tucker.” Out on the patio, Richard whipped around so fast he nearly dropped his phone. Cathy’s knees gave out. She collapsed onto the sofa, her hands flying to her mouth. She swallowed hard, her voice coming out as a strangled whisper. “You’re… you’re Jodie Tucker?”

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