Category: English

I handle hundreds of death certificates every month. I’ve never seen one this fake. With red-rimmed eyes, Chloe Bennett handed the piece of paper to Dr. Liam Sterling. “Dr. Sterling, before my mom passed… her only wish was to see me marry you.” She was sobbing, her body trembling, clutching a handwritten letter in her other hand. Liam took it, his brows furrowing in deep concern. I stood right behind him, my gaze landing on that death certificate. Thirty seconds. That was all I needed. The immediate cause of death was listed simply as “Sudden Cardiac Arrest,” with no underlying conditions noted beneath it. The certifying physician’s signature was entirely too perfect—neat block letters, as if it had been carefully traced over a template. The date of death: three months ago. I’ve worked as a mortician at the city funeral home for six years. I remember every single body that passed through my hands during that specific week three months ago. She wasn’t one of them. Free Chapters Chapter 1 I handle hundreds of death certificates every month. I’ve never seen one this fake. With red-rimmed eyes, Chloe Bennett handed the piece of paper to Dr. Liam Sterling. “Dr. Sterling, before my mom passed… her only wish was to see me marry you.” She was sobbing, her body trembling, clutching a handwritten letter in her other hand. Liam took it, his brows furrowing in deep concern. I stood right behind him, my gaze landing on that death certificate. Thirty seconds. That was all I needed. The immediate cause of death was listed simply as “Sudden Cardiac Arrest,” with no underlying conditions noted beneath it. The certifying physician’s signature was entirely too perfect—neat block letters, as if it had been carefully traced over a template. The date of death: three months ago. I’ve worked as a mortician at the city funeral home for six years. I remember every single body that passed through my hands during that specific week three months ago. She wasn’t one of them. 01 Liam read through the handwritten final letter three times. The paper was yellowed, the handwriting shaky and uneven. It was signed “Sarah Bennett” at the bottom, complete with a messy smudge of an ink thumbprint. “Chloe, your mom… when exactly did she pass?” Liam asked softly. Chloe covered her face. “Three months ago. Sudden heart attack. The paramedics couldn’t bring her back.” “Her last few days, she just kept saying your name over and over.” “Said you were the best doctor she’d ever met, the kindest man.” Liam was silent for a long time. He turned to look at me, his eyes slightly misted over. “Harper, Chloe is…” “I saw.” My voice was flat. Liam pulled me into the hallway, lowering his voice. “How do you think we should help her?” “Help her with what?” “Her mom just died. She’s alone in this city, and you know she doesn’t have any other family here.” “I’m asking you how you see that death certificate,” I said coldly. Liam paused, confused. “What do you mean?” “The causal chain is incomplete,” I said. “According to CDC guidelines, ‘Sudden Cardiac Arrest’ is a mechanism of death, not a cause. You have to note the underlying disease—whether it was coronary artery disease, cardiomyopathy, or arrhythmia. A real doctor wouldn’t just write three words and call it a day.” “You’re a… mortician. You actually understand that side of medicine?” That didn’t come from Liam. Chloe had somehow followed us out, standing at the corner of the hallway, tears still clinging to her lashes. But the way she was looking at me now was very different from how she looked when she was crying seconds ago. “Ms. Avery, my mom passed away at the county hospital back in my hometown.” “A small-town clinic might not have the same strict standards as the big city hospitals you’re used to.” Liam nodded immediately. “Right. Rural hospitals do sometimes have inconsistencies in their paperwork. Harper, don’t be so rigid.” I looked at him. He didn’t even know that the format for the United States Standard Certificate of Death is mandated nationwide. Even in small-town hospitals. “And what about the certifying doctor’s signature?” “What about the signature?” “It’s too neat,” I said. “I’ve seen thousands of doctors’ signatures. Not one of them uses perfect block letters.” Chloe’s jaw tightened for a fraction of a second. It was a tiny flinch, but I saw it. “Ms. Avery, do you really think every doctor in the world is exactly like the ones you deal with at the funeral home?” She wiped her tears, her voice trembling with aggrieved insult. “My mother just died, and you’re here questioning her death certificate… Do you have any idea what this means to me?” Liam’s expression shifted. Not toward Chloe. Toward me. “Harper, the girl just lost her mother. Is this really necessary?” “You deal with dead bodies every day. Have you become completely numb to this?” I tightened my grip on my purse strap. Occupational hazard. Numb. Cold-blooded. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard it. “I just think there are inconsistencies.” “What inconsistencies?” Liam’s tone carried a hint of impatience. “A grieving girl brings a final letter from her mother, looking for some support from a colleague, and you immediately jump on her paperwork?” “If your mom had just passed, and someone treated you like this, how would you feel?” Right on cue, Chloe let out a few more silent tears. Liam gently patted her shoulder. “Chloe, don’t listen to her. It’s just her job talking. She didn’t mean anything by it.” I stood in the hallway, leaning against the wall. The harsh fluorescent lights seemed exceptionally bright. The way he patted her shoulder was so natural. Natural as if he had practiced it many times. 02 When we got home that night, Liam did something unprecedented: he didn’t wash his hands first. The very first thing he always did when he came home from the hospital was wash his hands. Three scrubs with soap, one full minute under running water. A six-year habit from being a surgical resident, ironclad. But that day, he sat directly on the sofa, staring at his phone screen. “Chloe posted a photo of her mom in the department group chat.” He handed me the phone. A portrait of an older woman, taken in a backyard somewhere in the suburbs. She was wearing a thick flannel jacket, smiling warmly. Under the photo, Chloe had written: “Mom, I’m going to work hard to live a good life. Don’t worry about me.” The group chat exploded. Colleagues left messages of consolation, sending virtual hugs and typing “Rest in Peace” and “So sorry for your loss.” “See,” Liam said. “She really is heartbroken.” I didn’t respond. I was looking at the background of the photo. There was a pumpkin vine in the yard, and hanging from it were tiny, unripe green pumpkins. Green pumpkins. She claimed her mother passed three months ago. That would be September. Pumpkins are fully orange and ready for harvest in September. Green, unripe pumpkins belong to the peak of summer—July or August. Unless that photo wasn’t taken in September. Unless that photo was taken when her mother was still very much alive in the middle of summer. “Liam.” “Yeah?” “There are unripe green pumpkins in that photo.” “…And your point?” “Three months ago was September.” He looked at me for several seconds. “Harper, can you please stop analyzing living people like you’re performing an autopsy?” “Maybe it was taken earlier in the year? Maybe it’s a weirdly late-blooming vine?” “Do you really have to pick a grieving girl apart? What are you trying to gain from this?” He stood up and walked into the bathroom. I heard the harsh spray of the shower start. I sat on the sofa, zooming in on the photo. The growing season for pumpkins is undeniable. The latest this “final photo” could have been taken was August. But Chloe insisted her mom died in September. When this “memorial photo” was taken, her mom was doing just fine. I didn’t bring this up to Liam again. Some words are a warning when said once. When said twice, they are nagging. When said three times, they become an unreasonable persecution complex. 03 Over the next week, the atmosphere in the department shifted. Chloe’s “tragedy” had spread throughout the entire hospital wing. Everyone knew that Nurse Bennett’s mother had left a final wish for her daughter to marry Dr. Sterling. “It’s so incredibly sad, like a movie.” “Dr. Sterling is such a good guy, always supporting Nurse Bennett.” “Doesn’t Dr. Sterling have a girlfriend? The one who… works at the funeral home?” The person who said that last part lowered their voice significantly. But no matter how low the voice was, the disgust in the pause couldn’t be hidden. On Wednesday at lunch, I went to the hospital cafeteria to find Liam for lunch. He wasn’t there. I called his phone. It rang six times before he picked up. “Where are you?” “Uh… in the cafeteria, with some colleagues.” The background noise was chaotic, with the sound of clattering trays and women’s laughter. “I’m in the cafeteria too. I don’t see you.” The other end went silent for two seconds. “Sorry, I’m actually grabbing a bite at the deli down the street. Chloe… she hasn’t been able to eat anything, so I wanted to get her something decent.” The cafeteria had everything the deli had. “Liam, directly telling the truth isn’t that hard.” I hung up. My fingers were ice cold. Not because he was eating lunch with Chloe Bennett. But because he had lied. As a surgeon, he had dissected countless grand lies on the operating table—patients who swore they hadn’t been drinking but had a BAC over the limit, family members who denied any allergies but had irregular liver enzymes. He knew better than anyone the cost of a lie. And yet, he lied anyway. For a “colleague who just lost her mother.” At 2:00 PM, Chloe Bennett sent me a text. “Ms. Avery, thank you for your understanding. Dr. Sterling is just showing collegial concern. Please don’t overthink it.” Followed by a smiley face emoji. I took a screenshot of that message. Not because I was angry. But because that message revealed one thing—Liam had told her about my dissatisfaction. He chose to explain himself to her, rather than apologize to me. When we got home that night, Liam brought a bouquet of white chrysanthemums. “Chloe said she wanted to visit her mother’s grave. I promised I’d drive her back to her hometown this weekend.” “Where’s she from?” “Oakhaven. A small town a few hours north.” I put down my fork. “Which funeral home handled her mother’s cremation?” “Harper!” Liam slammed his fork down onto the table. “Her mother has already been cremated, and you’re still pushing to know where?” “Do you have an ounce of empathy in you?” “Are you so cold from dealing with dead bodies all day that you’re like this to living people, too?” His voice was loud. So loud that the water droplets on the window panes seemed to shudder. I didn’t argue back. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to. It was that I suddenly felt very, very tired. I’ve been in this industry for six years. In the first year, no one at friend gatherings wanted to sit next to me. In the second year, my blind dates turned around the second they heard “funeral home.” In the third year, my landlord raised the rent after finding out my profession. Liam Sterling appeared in the fourth year. He said he didn’t care. He said that a doctor and a mortician are just two ends of the same life cycle. He made it sound so beautiful. So beautiful that I believed him for three years. Until today. I cleared the dishes into the sink and turned on the faucet. The sound of the rushing water drowned everything else out. 04 Saturday morning at 6:00 AM, Liam left the apartment. He said he was picking Chloe up, and they were going to drive up to Oakhaven together. “I’ll go with her to visit the grave, and we’ll be back by tonight.” When he left, I was on the balcony watering my plants. A potted asparagus fern I’d kept alive for two years, its leaves a vibrant, glossy green. The sound of the front door closing was very soft. As soft as his current attitude toward our relationship. At 10:00 AM, I made a phone call to my mentor, Brenda. Brenda had been in the business eight years longer than me. She now worked at the State Department of Vital Statistics, overseeing the state’s Electronic Death Registration System (EDRS). “Brenda, can you run a name for me?” “Who?” “Sarah Bennett. Resident of Oakhaven County. I don’t have her Social Security Number. Date of death would be roughly three months ago, around September.” “Why? Suspect foul play?” “Suspect she’s not dead.” Brenda paused, then let out a sharp laugh. “Alright. Give me a minute.” Forty minutes later, Brenda called back. “Checked it. There isn’t a single death certificate registered for a Sarah Bennett in the entire state system for the last six months.” “None?” “None. No death registration, no transport logs, no cremation permits, and no burial transit permits.” “I even checked the Oakhaven County Coroner’s logs specifically. They handled 37 bodies in September. Sarah Bennett wasn’t one of them.” My hand holding the phone was completely steady. But my heart skipped a beat. “Brenda, can you check one more thing for me?” “Her Social Security benefits status.” “I can’t pull that on my end, you’ll have to figure that out yourself.” “But there’s a foolproof way to know—Social Security retirement benefits are linked directly to their bank. When someone dies, the family or the funeral director reports it to the SSA to stop the payments.” “If her retirement checks are still being disbursed…” “It means the Social Security Administration never received a death certificate.” “It means that as far as the federal government is concerned, this woman is still alive.” I thanked her and hung up the phone. The sun outside the window was incredibly bright. The shadows of the fern leaves fell across the hardwood floor in fine, delicate lines. I brewed a cup of tea, sat down at my desk, and opened the funeral director’s portal for the SSA’s Death Master File. Some things didn’t require Liam to believe me. I could verify them myself.

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The day my cousin reported me to the IRS, the whole family applauded him. My aunt sent a voice text to the family group chat: “Brian did the right thing! It’s time we find out just how much dirty money Chloe has really been making!” A row of thumbs-up emojis followed below. My mom didn’t hit “like,” but she didn’t say anything to defend me, either. I stared at the chat, then put my phone face down on the table. I opened my laptop and typed a quick message to my accountant: “Sarah, that audit report we discussed? Let’s finalize it now. I’m going to need it.” Chapter 1 My name is Chloe Vance. I’m thirty-two years old. I own a food trading company specializing in sourcing regional specialty goods for online distribution. It’s not a massive empire. But I employ twelve people, and I consistently pay around half a million dollars in taxes every year. In our modest suburban town, I’m doing pretty well for myself. But within my family, my business was never worth mentioning. The only one worth talking about was my cousin. Brian Walsh. My aunt Brenda’s only son. Three years older than me. Growing up, every good thing in our family revolved around him. During Christmas, my grandma would slip us cash. Fifty bucks for me and my sister. Two hundred for Brian. “Brian’s a boy,” Grandma would say. “He’s going to carry the family name.” In school, I ranked third in the entire district. No one mentioned it at Sunday dinner. Brian barely scraped through a two-year community college program, and my aunt threw a massive party for the whole family. “Our Brian is a college man now!” My mom sat there, smiling and nodding. “Yes, Brian is really making something of himself.” I kept my head down and ate, saying nothing. Things like this happened too often for me to find them strange. In our family, Brian was the sun. The rest of us were just background noise. After college, I didn’t take a dime from my parents. I worked three jobs in the city for three years, saved up fifteen thousand dollars, came back home, and started my first online store. I went from packing boxes by myself to registering a corporation, renting a warehouse, and hiring staff. In five years, I built it up to three million in annual revenue. No one helped me. No one invested in me. My parents didn’t even really know what my company actually did. But they did know one thing—I was making money. And once I was making money, I was useful. “Chloe, your cousin wants to start a business. You should lend him some cash.” That was the first time my mom ever proactively called me to talk about money. “How much?” “Fifty thousand.” I was silent for five seconds. “Mom, fifty thousand is not a small amount of money.” “We’re family. Your cousin isn’t going to stiff you. Your aunt said he’d pay it back in six months.” I didn’t say anything. “You make so much every month; fifty thousand shouldn’t be a big deal to you, right?” That last sentence is what made me agree. Not because fifty thousand wasn’t a big deal. But because my mom had never “needed” me like that before. Fifty thousand. Transferred. No promissory note. Because my mom said, “Why write a note? It ruins the family dynamic.” That was two years ago. He hasn’t paid back a single cent. I brought it up once. My aunt snapped over the phone, “Brian just started his business; cash flow is tight. You’re a big CEO. Pressing family for this kind of money? How embarrassing would it be if people found out?” I never brought it up again. But I remembered it. Every year, my accountant, Sarah, does a full internal audit. Sarah was my college roommate, a certified public accountant with her own firm now. She has handled my books since the day I incorporated. “Chloe, your tax compliance is tighter than many major corporations,” she tells me every year. “I don’t dare let it be otherwise,” I’d laugh. “I’m a small business owner. I can’t afford an audit.” That phrase eventually became my ace in the hole. What I didn’t know was that I would be forced to play that ace very soon. Chapter 2 My cousin’s “entrepreneurial journey” lasted eighteen months. He opened a bubble tea shop. Closed in three months. Then he started a food truck. Closed in five. Later, he claimed he wanted to get into e-commerce. “Learning from Chloe! If she can do it, so can I!” My aunt slammed her hand on the table at Sunday dinner when she said that, her face full of pride. I just smiled and didn’t reply. I didn’t want to discourage him. But e-commerce isn’t something you can do just by reading a couple of articles online. Brian’s e-commerce venture failed, too. He put thirty thousand dollars into it. Lost it. All of it. My aunt came to me again. “Chloe, you have to help Brian.” “Aunt Brenda, he still hasn’t paid back the fifty thousand from last time.” My aunt’s expression shifted. “You child, how can you talk like that? Is your cousin a stranger?” “He’s not a stranger, but fifty thousand dollars is fifty thousand dollars.” My aunt looked at my mom. My mom coughed. “Chloe, don’t speak to your aunt that way.” I kept quiet. That dinner was very silent. On the drive back, my mom finally spoke. “Your cousin is still your aunt’s son, after all. Whether you help or not is one thing, but you can’t have that kind of attitude.” “Mom, fifty thousand wasn’t repaid.” “We’ll talk about money later. You made your aunt lose face. How are relatives supposed to interact after that?” I gripped the steering wheel, saying nothing. In our family, “face” was more important than fifty thousand dollars. My aunt’s pride was more important than my money. A few months later, the family dynamic began to shift. I don’t know who started it, but the relatives began whispering behind my back. “Chloe made some money, and she’s changed.” “Won’t even help her own cousin. Too cold-blooded.” “I heard her company is doing pretty well. What’s the harm in helping a little?” These words reached my ears through my aunt Sarah—my dad’s younger sister, the only one who actually treated me with genuine kindness. “Chloe, don’t take it to heart,” Aunt Sarah said over the phone. “But be careful. Your cousin… he’s saying some nasty things lately.” “What’s he saying?” Aunt Sarah hesitated. “He’s saying your company’s books are dirty. Claiming you’re guilty of tax fraud.” I was stunned. “He says he has proof.” “What proof?” “I’m not sure. But he’s said it in front of several relatives.” I hung up. I sat in my office, staring out the window. My cousin had been this way since we were kids. If he couldn’t have something, he wanted to destroy it. I called my accountant. “Sarah, I need you to do a full internal tax audit for me. Check everything.” “What’s wrong?” “Someone might be trying to screw me over.” Sarah was silent for two seconds. “Okay. I’ll start this week.” After hanging up, I did one more thing. I had my company’s IT guy restrict the access permissions for the security cameras in the main office and the accounting room. Now, I was the only one who could view them. My gut told me my cousin wouldn’t just stop at talking. Chapter 3 The family Easter dinner was hosted by my aunt Brenda. Over thirty people, three large tables. I arrived last. The moment I walked in, my aunt’s smile was forced. “Chloe’s here.” “Hi, Aunt Brenda.” “Busy, I assume? Being the big CEO and all.” She said it with a nasty edge, but everyone in the room laughed. I recognized that laugh. A little bit of brown-nosed brown-nosing, a little bit of jealousy, a little bit of schadenfreude. I found a seat and sat down. Brian was sitting at the main table, drinking, his voice loud. “Let me tell you, what’s the most important thing in business?” No one answered. “Connections! Without connections, you can’t do anything!” He glanced at me. “Some people just get lucky and ride a wave. But luck doesn’t last forever.” I kept my head down and ate. My aunt chimed in. “Exactly. Could Chloe have built her business without our family’s connections? The year she came back, who helped her get her first batch of customers?” I put down my fork. “Aunt Brenda, I found my first batch of customers on my own by sourcing suppliers online. No one introduced me to anyone.” The table went silent for a second. My aunt’s face twisted. “What I meant was—” “Aunt Brenda, I know what you meant.” I smiled. “But facts are facts. My customer list is right there; you can ask them yourself.” No one said anything. Brian picked up his glass and snorted. “Fine, fine. My dear cousin is successful, and the rest of us are losers, alright?” I ignored him. But I noticed one thing. Brian’s phone screen lit up. A text notification popped up. I caught four words. “Materials received.” I couldn’t see the sender’s name. But my heart did a little flip. What materials? Chapter 4 The week after Easter. I was at the office, taking inventory of orders. My phone rang. An unknown number. “Hello, is this Ms. Chloe Vance?” “Yes.” “This is Agent Miller from the IRS. We received a report regarding your company that needs verification. Would you be available for a meeting?” My hand stopped. “What is the nature of the report?” “Allegations that your company has evaded approximately fifty thousand dollars in taxes.” Fifty thousand. Not a penny more, not a penny less. Fifty thousand. “Certainly. When would you like to come in?” “The day after tomorrow, in the morning.” “Sounds good. I’ll have all the documents ready.” I hung up the phone and leaned back against my chair. It was here. It really was here. I opened the family group text. I scrolled up a bit. My aunt had sent a message yesterday: “Some people are being dishonest in business lately. It’s only a matter of time before they get caught.” Four likes below. I took a screenshot. Then I opened my security system and pulled up the footage from the week before Easter. The picture was crystal clear. The Tuesday before Easter, 8:30 PM. My cousin used the spare key my uncle gave him to enter the office. He didn’t know I had upgraded the cameras. He opened the filing cabinet in the accounting room. He rummaged through it for fifteen minutes. He took three documents. Sales contracts. Purchase invoices. Partial bank statements. Then he left the same way he came in. I watched the security footage. I watched it three times. Fifty thousand lent and never repaid. Talking trash behind my back. Stealing company documents. Reporting me for tax evasion. Okay. Good. Very good. I picked up the phone and called Sarah. “Is the audit report finalized?” “It’s done. Total compliance. You paid three million and twelve thousand in taxes last year, which is actually an overpayment of forty-six hundred dollars—the overpayment was due to a return in the third quarter that wasn’t adjusted in time.” “An overpayment of forty-six hundred?” “Yes. The IRS actually owes you money.” I laughed. “Sarah, print out two extra copies of that report.” “What for?” “A gift.”

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My thin sweater was soaked through minutes ago. My knees were pressed against the freezing concrete, and a biting numbness crawled from the cracks in the pavement straight into my marrow. I gripped my phone so hard my knuckles turned a ghostly white. “Dean, please… my mother is hemorrhaging. The doctors say I have to sign the papers now, but they need the deposit, and you have the card—” My voice was shredded by the howling wind, barely a melody of desperation. There was a long, heavy silence on the other end. Then came his sharp, impatient snap. “Elena, can’t you grow up for once? Valerie just had an acute allergic reaction. She’s in the ER, and she has no one but me!” “But my mother is dying!” I finally screamed, the sound tearing from my throat. The screech of brakes suddenly sliced through the curtain of rain, followed instantly by the sickening crunch of metal on bone. I felt a massive, violent force slam into my back. My body took flight, weightless and broken, like a kite with a severed string. Before my consciousness sank into the black, I saw a car—Dean’s car—speeding past. In the passenger seat, Valerie’s pale face was pressed against the window. For a fleeting second, I thought I saw a ghost of a smile dancing on her lips. 1. I woke up three days later. The sharp, sterile sting of antiseptic made me cough violently, every hack feeling like a knife in my chest. Sunlight was streaming across the linoleum floor, but it couldn’t touch the winter in my heart. I tried to move my fingers. A white-hot flash of pain shot through my left arm—it was encased in a thick, heavy cast, a literal weight anchoring me to the bed. “You’re awake?” A nurse walked in, her voice softening with pity. “You’re lucky. Just a fractured arm and some deep lacerations.” “My mother…” I croaked, my throat feeling like it was full of glass. The nurse’s small smile vanished. “I’m so sorry. Your mother… she didn’t make it through the night. She passed yesterday.” Passed. The word hit me like a physical blow. I sat there, jaw slack, but no sound came out. Instead, the tears came first, hot and silent, soaking into the thin hospital pillow. My throat felt constricted, as if an invisible hand were squeezing the life out of me. The door swung open, and Dean walked in. He was wearing a crisp, tailored suit, his hair perfectly styled. He looked untouched—as if the storm, my mother’s death, and the moment I was sent flying through the air had happened in a different universe. “If you’re awake, get up,” he said, his brow furrowed in a cold scowl. “Valerie is still recovering, and I need to get back to her.” I slowly looked up at him. I knew my eyes must have been a roadmap of broken red veins. I looked at this man—the man I had loved for five years—and he felt like a complete stranger. “Dean,” I whispered, my voice sounding like sandpaper. “My mom is gone.” He paused for a fraction of a second, but his mask of indifference didn’t slip. “I heard. Handle the arrangements yourself. I don’t have time.” He stopped, then added as if stating a mundane fact, “And don’t expect Valerie at the funeral. She’s allergic to lilies and pollen. It’s not a good environment for her.” In that moment, my heart didn’t just break; it fossilized. I looked at him and started to laugh. It was a jagged, desperate sound that echoed off the sterile walls until it turned into something haunting. “Dean,” I said, the laughter dying as my eyes went hollow. “I want a divorce.” He froze, then let out a sharp, mocking huff. “What game is this? Threatening me with a divorce? It won’t work, Elena.” “I’m not threatening you.” My voice was terrifyingly calm. “From this day on, whether you or Valerie live or die is none of my business.” He looked into my empty eyes, and for a moment, his Adam’s apple bobbed. A flicker of panic crossed his face, but he crushed it instantly. “Fine. You want it? You got it.” He turned on his heel and slammed the door, leaving without a backward glance. the moment the latch clicked, I curled into a ball, and the sob I had been strangling finally shattered my chest. The woman in the next bed handed me a box of tissues with a heavy sigh. “Honey, let him go. He’s not worth the air you breathe.” I took the tissues, my vision a blurred mess of salt and grief. My entire world was spinning, collapsing into dust. 2. The funeral was small. I used the last of my savings to hire a modest service. I didn’t call any friends or family. I just stood there in a black dress, my left arm still in a sling, holding an umbrella with my one good hand as I watched the urn being lowered into the earth. The rain started again—a light drizzle this time, but it carried a bone-deep chill. I stood by the headstone until my clothes were damp, then slowly turned away. Every step in my heels through the mud felt like walking on broken glass. When I returned to the house we had shared, the “home” that never felt like mine, it was already half-empty. Dean’s things were gone. He had moved out with clinical efficiency, as if he had never lived there at all. On the coffee table sat the signed divorce papers, weighted down by a set of car keys. Hanging from the keychain was a small, hand-stitched leather charm I’d made for him years ago. The edges were frayed and faded to a dull grey. I didn’t touch them. I went straight to the bedroom and pulled a dusty trunk from the back of the closet. Inside were my old art supplies from before the marriage. The easel was covered in a thick layer of dust; the tubes of oil paint were rusted shut. I ran my fingers over a well-worn sable brush, remembering how my mother used to say, “Elena, when you hold a brush, your eyes catch the stars.” I sank to the floor, surrounded by these mummified dreams, and cried again. The five years I’d spent with Dean had been a slow execution, a thousand tiny cuts stripping away my pride and my soul. In our first year, I spent all day making a complex Coq au Vin for his birthday. I sat by the candlelight until the sauce congealed and the fire in the hearth turned to ash. He came home at 2:00 AM smelling of expensive bourbon, his tie loose, saying Valerie was feeling depressed and needed a drink. “She lost her parents young, Elena. She’s sensitive. Be the bigger person,” he’d said, not even glancing at the cold feast on the table before disappearing into his study for the night. I sat there and ate the cold, salty chicken in the dark until dawn. In the second year, I was rushed to the hospital with a ruptured appendix. When I called him, he said he was at a gallery opening with Valerie. “She finally has the courage to show her work. Just have the nurse help you with the consent forms.” I lay on the gurney, the last thing I heard before the anesthesia took me was the nurses whispering about the husband who couldn’t be bothered to show up. In the third year, our anniversary. He’d made a reservation, but his phone rang just as we were leaving. “Valerie twisted her ankle. I have to take her to urgent care.” He grabbed his coat and left, never noticing the velvet box I was hiding behind my back—a pair of custom cufflinks I’d saved three months of salary for, engraved with his initials. I went to the restaurant alone, ordered his favorite steak, and sat across from an empty chair for two hours. In the fourth year, my mother had her first stroke. I spent my days at the hospital and my nights cooking for him, but he came home later and later. “Valerie is prepping for a solo show. She’s spiraling. I need to be there.” One night, I called him at 3:00 AM. Valerie answered, her voice syrupy and sweet: “Elena, Dom is asleep. He’s just so exhausted…” I hung up and watched the soup I’d kept warm on the stove turn to sludge. And in the fifth year—just last month—Valerie decided she wanted a cat. Dean threw away the rare orchids my mother had given me because “cats have sensitivities.” Those orchids were the only thing my mother had left from her own wedding. I spent the night clutching the wilted stems, while in the next room, I heard him over FaceTime, tenderly asking Valerie if she preferred a Persian or a Ragdoll. “Mom,” I choked out, wiping the dust off my easel. “I’m going to paint again.” As I packed, I found the first necklace Dean had ever bought me. He’d knelt on one knee and promised me the moon. Now, two of the crystals were missing, and the chain was tarnished. I tossed it into the trash without a second thought. It was just a piece of rotting history. 3. A week after moving into a small studio apartment, my phone buzzed with an unknown number. I stared at the screen for a long time. In the last five years, the only people who called me were Dean or the utility companies. “Is this Elena Vance?” a warm, cultured male voice asked. “Speaking. Who is this?” “This is Julian Henderson, Director of the City Museum of Fine Arts. I came across your old application for an exhibition grant. I was struck by the portfolio you attached. I’d love to discuss a potential showcase.” I froze. I had almost forgotten that application. It was a relic from my life before Dean, a dream my mother had nurtured. After I married him, I’d locked my brushes away to be a “supportive wife.” I’d sent that application three years ago on a whim during a particularly lonely night. “Are you free tomorrow at ten?” Mr. Henderson asked. “Yes,” I breathed. “I’ll be there.” I hung up and looked at the canvas on my balcony—a half-finished piece titled After the Rain. It was a street scene, water pooling on cobblestones, reflecting a bruised, grey sky. For the first time in years, a tiny spark of hope flickered in my chest. I called my best friend, Sarah. When I told her about the gallery, she practically screamed through the phone. “Elena, I knew it! You were a prodigy! You won awards before that man sucked the life out of you!” I laughed with her, but my eyes were wet. How had I let myself forget who I was? 4. The next day, I wore a simple cornflower blue dress, carefully shielding my cast as I walked into the museum. Mr. Henderson was a man with silver hair and a kind, perceptive smile. As he walked me through the halls, he couldn’t stop praising my work. “There’s a raw honesty in your pieces, Elena. Especially the one titled The Wait. You’ve captured the architecture of loneliness perfectly.” The Wait was a piece I’d painted in secret—a woman sitting in a cavernous living room, staring at a table of cold food, while the world outside was pitch black. It was the autobiography of my marriage. “Thank you for the opportunity,” I said, my palms damp. “You earned it,” he said, gesturing to a man standing nearby. “I’d like you to meet Sebastian Thorne. He’s our primary benefactor and a great lover of the arts.” A man in a camel-colored overcoat turned toward me. He was striking, with a quiet, scholarly elegance and eyes that felt as warm as spring sunlight. “It’s a pleasure, Ms. Vance. I’m Sebastian.” “Nice to meet you,” I said, shaking his hand. His grip was firm and dry—unlike Dean’s hands, which always felt strangely cold. “I was particularly moved by your Rainy Night,” Sebastian said, his voice sincere. “The brushwork on the raindrops… it feels like they’re trying to tell a story.” It had been so long since someone looked at my work—at me—with that much focus. With Dean, my art was “cute hobbyism.” He used to say, “Women doing art is fine, but don’t let it distract you from the house.” A wave of warmth rose in my chest. I looked down. “I just paint what I feel.” “Authenticity is the only thing that lasts,” Sebastian smiled. “I’m looking forward to your show.” Over the next few weeks, Sebastian became a regular fixture at my studio. He wasn’t demanding like Dean; he would just sit quietly in the corner with a book, occasionally bringing me a thermos of warm tea. Once, when I was painting late into the night, I looked up to find him washing my paint-stained brushes. He was doing it clumsily but with immense care, soap bubbles clinging to his expensive sleeves like tiny clouds. “Sebastian, you don’t have to do that,” I said, feeling flustered. He wiped his hands and laughed. “You just focus on the canvas. And please, call me Seb.” The studio window faced an old oak tree. Every time Seb visited, he brought a small bouquet—sometimes daisies, sometimes jasmine. Never anything flashy, just fresh and fragrant. He told me, “Art needs light, but it also needs a little color.” I realized he wasn’t just talking about the room. He was talking about the light returning to my soul. 5. Two weeks before the opening, I was at a high-end grocery store picking up supplies when I ran into Dean and Valerie. The produce aisle was crowded. Valerie was draped in Dean’s black cashmere overcoat, leaning into him as they picked out strawberries. I recognized the coat—I’d bought it for his birthday last year. He’d called it “too old-fashioned” and never wore it once. When Valerie saw me, her eyes lit up with a predatory gleam. She raised her voice just enough for the surrounding shoppers to hear. “Dom, look at these berries! Aren’t they exactly like the ones Elena said she was allergic to?” Dean followed her gaze. His brow instantly knit into a scowl. “What are you doing here?” I tried to push my cart past them, but he stepped in my way. “How’s the arm?” He looked at the faint scarring on my left limb, his tone harsh, as if he were inspecting a piece of lost property that had been returned damaged. “None of your business,” I said, my voice cold. “Elena,” Valerie said, suddenly grabbing my arm. Her nails dug into my skin. “I’m so sorry about… you know, the hospital. I didn’t mean to keep Dom away from your mom. I really couldn’t breathe that day…” Her voice trembled with fake tears, drawing looks from the people around us. Dean immediately pulled her behind him, shielding her like a precious treasure. He glared at me. “Elena, Valerie’s health is fragile. Don’t you dare start with her.” The blood rushed to my head. Seeing him play the knight in shining armor for a woman who was clearly weaponizing her “frailty” made the last five years feel like a cruel joke. “Dean,” I said, every word a frozen shard. “Are you actually blind, or just stupid?” His face went pale, then flushed a deep, angry red. Valerie peeked from behind his shoulder, a tiny, triumphant smirk playing on her lips. She looked like a cat that had finally caught the canary. That night, I locked myself in the studio and didn’t sleep. For the first time, Dean’s face appeared on my canvas—distorted by the rain, positioned next to Valerie’s poisonous smile. I layered the paint on, thick and heavy, like scabs over a wound that refused to heal. When Seb brought me breakfast at dawn, he stood before the painting in silence for a long time. Then, he said softly, “It’s over now.” He didn’t ask what happened. He just made me a cup of honey tea. I wiped my tears and picked up the brush again. He was right. It was over. I wouldn’t let them stain my canvas ever again. The day before the opening, my phone lit up. A text from Dean: Regretting it yet? I stared at those three words. He was testing me—waiting for me to crawl back, convinced I couldn’t survive without his shadow. I replied: I’ve never felt better. Goodbye, Dean. I turned the phone off. Tomorrow was a new beginning.

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The apocalypse didn’t arrive with a bang. It arrived with a suffocating, unnatural heat that turned the sky the color of a bruised plum. My husband, Max, is a “regressor.” Or at least, he thinks he is. He woke up before dawn today, gasping for air, clutching his chest as if he’d just felt his own heart stop. He looked at me with eyes full of a frantic, ugly greed and told me the world was ending. He told me to go out and spend every cent we had on supplies. “Jade, the car is packed to the roof. Can you come out and help me move this stuff?” I called out to him from the driveway. The heat index was already hitting a hundred and forty degrees. The air felt like breathing liquid lead. … I had spent the morning at the wholesale club with our daughter, Hope. We bought everything: canned protein, gallons of water, medical kits, batteries. The SUV was sagging under the weight of it all. When I called Max for help, his voice over the line was a jagged edge of impatience and mockery. “It’s just a few boxes, Jade. Stop being so pathetic,” he snapped. “The world is falling apart today. The temperature is only going to climb, and resources are going to vanish. If you don’t want to die on the pavement, get that shit inside now!” Hearing those familiar, biting words, I didn’t cry. I smiled. I looked at Hope, who was clutching her stuffed rabbit, her face flushed red from the heat. Together, we didn’t move the supplies into our house. We moved them into the villa next door—the one I had secretly bought a month ago. “Mommy,” Hope whispered, “we only left a little bit for Daddy. Won’t he be mad?” I stroked her damp hair, my heart aching with a fierce, protective love. “No, baby. Because that’s all Daddy needs for himself.” I tucked her into the reinforced safety of the new house and told her not to come out, no matter what. Then, I took the meager scraps I’d set aside and brought them to Max. Max thought he had the ultimate advantage. He thought he was the only one who had lived through the end once before. He had no idea that I was a regressor, too. In my previous life, when the frost and the monsters came, Max didn’t protect us. He brought his mistress, Chloe, into our home. They barricaded themselves in, stole the supplies I had nearly died to collect, and threw me out into the street. I died screaming, watching through the glass as the shadows tore me apart, piece by piece. Even after death, my soul lingered, a silent, grieving ghost. I saw them. I saw Max lock our daughter in a dark crawl space under the stairs so he could satisfy his lust with Chloe on our sofa without being disturbed. I watched them celebrate their survival with my wine, only to die in agony when the “apocalypse” took a turn they didn’t expect. And Hope… my sweet, brave girl. She starved to death in that dark hole, her last breaths spent whispering for me to come home. She died thinking I had abandoned her. The rage of a thousand lifetimes burned in my spirit. When I opened my eyes again and saw the familiar floral wallpaper of our bedroom, I realized I had been sent back. I had returned one month before the collapse. A full thirty days before Max “awakened.” This time, I wasn’t just a wife or a victim. I was the architect of his ruin. I found the deed to our villa. It was my pre-marital property, a gift from my parents. I listed it on a private platform for an emergency sale. To keep Max from noticing, I stipulated in the contract that the official handover wouldn’t happen until after the date the “apocalypse” was supposed to end. Then, I took every cent of our savings and bought the house next door. I hired three construction crews, paying them triple to work through the night. I reinforced the walls with steel, installed a military-grade filtration system, and turned it into a fortress. Every dollar I spent was masked as “lifestyle expenses.” I wiped my phone daily. When Max finally “woke up” and told me the end was nigh, I played the part of the dutiful, panicked wife. I “spent” the last of our liquid cash exactly as he ordered. Max rummaged through the few bags I brought him, his face darkening with fury. “That’s it? Are you transitionally stupid? Do you want us all to starve?” He snatched my phone, pulling up my banking apps. When he saw the zeros in every account, his eyes rolled back in frustration. “Where is the money, Jade? You’re hiding it, aren’t you? You’re holding out on me!” I shrunk back, trembling, letting him toss the house. He found nothing. Chloe, his “secretary,” was already there, perched on our expensive rug. She saw the predatory lending apps I’d conveniently left on the home screen and purred, leaning into Max’s side. “Max, honey, why use your own money at this point? Just borrow. Borrow as much as you can. Once the world ends, debt is just a four-letter word that doesn’t matter anymore.” Max’s eyes lit up. He grabbed his phone and started clicking. Chloe had been Max’s shadow for years. Every “business trip” was just a cover for their trysts. She was all sugar and sighs, the kind of woman who knew exactly how to make a man feel like a king while she bled him dry. Max lived for it. The moment Max “realized” the end was coming, his first instinct wasn’t to secure his daughter. It was to call Chloe. “Jade, it’s going to be a hard road ahead,” he told me with a straight face. “I’m bringing Chloe here to help. You wouldn’t want to be selfish, would you?” In the last life, I had screamed. I had fought. Max had beaten me until my ribs cracked, then tied me to the gate outside for three hours to “get used to the cold” while the first wave of monsters circled. I had been forced to agree. Once Chloe moved in, I became the help. Hope became her personal footstool. But if I threw them out then, Max would have killed me. I had to endure. And in the end, he still locked me out to watch the “show” of me being eaten. I remember his face as I died. It wasn’t even hateful. It was indifferent. Cold. This time, I didn’t stop Chloe from moving in. She was a catalyst. She was the one who would whisper in his ear, pushing him to commit more crimes, to dig his own grave deeper. I wanted to watch them fall. They spent the day frantically messaging friends for “emergency loans,” maxing out every credit card, and eventually moving on to the dark-web lenders—the kind of people who don’t care about the apocalypse because they are the apocalypse. I watched them, silent and invisible. Because I knew something Max didn’t. In my time as a ghost, I learned the truth. This “apocalypse” wasn’t the end of the world. It was a three-day atmospheric anomaly caused by a passing celestial event. In seventy-two hours, the sun would stabilize. The monsters—hallucinations caused by toxic spores in the air—would dissipate. Order would be restored. And the debt collectors would come knocking. The heat was unbearable. Max refused to leave the air conditioning. He handed me the “borrowed” cash and told me to go get more supplies, while he ordered a five-course feast from a high-end steakhouse that was still doing deliveries. While I was “shopping,” a courier arrived at the villa. Lobsters, wagyu beef, vintage wine. Fifty thousand dollars on a single meal. “Once the world ends, this money is just toilet paper,” Max boasted to Chloe, waving his hand like a titan of industry. “Let’s live like gods while we can!” I watched them through the hidden cameras I’d installed, a cold smile touching my lips. I didn’t leave them with nothing. I bought exactly three days’ worth of basic rice, beans, and water. Enough so they wouldn’t die of hunger before the law returned. I spent the rest of his “loan” money on a non-refundable deposit for a million-dollar armored survival vehicle, scheduled for delivery in exactly three days. I could already see the look on his face when the truck arrived just as the police did. When I got back, Max greeted me with a stinging slap across the face. “Where the hell have you been? You were gone for hours and you come back with this?” He pointed at the modest grocery bags. “You’re skimming, aren’t you?” I dropped to my knees, playing the broken woman. I pulled out the receipt for the armored truck. “Max, I thought… I thought we needed a way to get out safely. For you and Chloe. It’s a fortress on wheels.” His anger vanished, replaced by a smug, oily grin. He grabbed the receipt, pulled Chloe onto his lap, and squeezed her. “See, baby? I told you she was useful for something. In two days, I’m taking you out for a joyride through the wasteland.” Chloe looked at me, her eyes filled with the same venom I remembered from the night I died. Max’s gaze turned sharp and predatory. “Now that the logistics are handled,” Max whispered, “you aren’t really necessary anymore, are you, Jade?” “Honey, our supplies are so limited,” he continued, his voice mock-sympathetic. “There’s barely enough for me and Chloe. You understand, right? Someone has to make a sacrifice.” Night fell like a heavy shroud. Outside, the “monsters”—the spore-driven hallucinations—began to wail. Thump. Thump-thump. The sound of something heavy hitting the porch. “MOMMY! HELP ME!” Hope’s scream shattered the silence. I lunged for the window. There, in the middle of the yard, was a wooden stake. My daughter—who should have been safe in the house next door—was tied to it, her face pale with terror. The hallucinations were swarming the fence. To anyone breathing the air, they looked like rotting corpses with jagged teeth. I tried to bolt for the door, but Max grabbed me by the hair, slamming me against the glass. He held my head there, forcing me to watch. “Don’t be so dramatic, Jade,” he hissed. “I’ve never actually seen what they do to kids. Consider this a scientific observation.” I fought, I screamed, I begged. Chloe stepped up and backhanded me. “Shut up. It’s just an experiment. You’re so sensitive.” I knew this was her idea. Max was cruel, but Chloe was sadistic. She grabbed my chin, forcing my eyes open. “Look, Jade. Watch closely. We don’t know how strong those things are. Your daughter is the perfect test subject. Maybe they don’t even like the taste of children. Maybe she’ll be fine.” The rage finally broke the dam. I didn’t beg anymore. I twisted my head and bit down on Chloe’s finger with everything I had. She shrieked, clawing at my face. Max let go of me in the chaos, and I bolted for the kitchen. I had planned to play the long game, but they had touched my child. In the last life, Max had locked Hope in the dark while he played house with Chloe. She had died apologizing for being a “bad girl” because she thought her crying was why I was locked out. I wouldn’t let her die again. Not for them. Max charged into the kitchen, his face purple with rage. I grabbed a heavy blender and smashed it into his temple. He staggered, blood blooming across his skin. CRASH. The front gate gave way. “Oh, look,” Chloe laughed, oblivious to the blood. “The show is starting. I wonder if they’ll start with her feet or her throat?” I grabbed a butcher knife, my vision tunneling. “Max, I will kill you. I will carve you into pieces.” “You’re crazy!” Max yelled, backing away as I slashed at him, catching his leg. Outside, Hope’s screams reached a fever pitch. The hallucinations were pressing against the stake. My heart was shattering. Then, Max did something that froze my blood. He kicked open the cellar door. “Look, you bitch! Look at what I have!” The cellar was overflowing. Crates of water, mountain-dried food, medical supplies. It was the entire hoard I had hidden in the house next door. My mind reeled. How? I had locked that house. I had the only key. “Did you really think you were the only one who could play this game?” Max laughed. “I’ll tell you why I have your stuff. It’s because I—” I didn’t wait to hear the rest. I gripped the knife and charged out the front door, into the toxic air. Max and Chloe slammed the door behind me, locking the deadbolts. A mother’s strength isn’t a metaphor. It’s a physical force. I cut through the “monsters”—which were nothing but panicked stray dogs and shadows in the mist—and reached my daughter. I hacked through the ropes, gathered her into my arms, and ran. When we reached the house next door, I was covered in scratches and sweat. The storage room was empty, save for a few cases of water I had hidden in a false wall. I patched my wounds, my hands shaking. I looked out the top floor window. On the roof of our old villa, Max was standing with a megaphone. He held up two fingers, a hideous grin on his face. “Jade! You didn’t think I’d let you win, did you? I’ve lived this twice! I’m a double-regressor! And here’s the best part… the apocalypse isn’t ending in three days this time. It’s forever!”

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My husband, a man who had never known a sick day in his life, was suddenly dying. His grip on my hand was iron-tight, desperate. “When Lila goes, I go too. She’s my soulmate, Nora. You know that. She’s the only thing that ever mattered.” The realization hit me like a physical blow. He wasn’t just dying; he was giving up. He was choosing to follow his dead ex-girlfriend—his “one that got away”—into the grave. Our children were still young. His company’s finances were in shambles. Yet, to him, none of that held a candle to the memory of Lila recent passing. ” In the next life,” he rasped, his eyes losing focus, “I’ll make it up to you. I’m sorry. I failed you.” Cole Prescott took his last breath before his assistant even dared to step into the room. The report, when it came, was the final insult. Cole had liquidated his personal assets. Everything—every cent—had been placed in a trust for Lila’s children. There was nothing left for us. I stared at Cole’s lifeless body on the hospital bed. I looked at the legs under the sheet—legs that had been crushed and paralyzed saving my life years ago—and I couldn’t find a single word to say. His assistant shifted uncomfortably, clutching a file. “Mrs. Prescott… there’s something else. For a long time, your biological parents were looking for you.” My head snapped up. “Ms. Lila intercepted the communications. Mr. Prescott… well, he knew. He let her hide the letters. When your parents passed away, we handled the arrangements. Their house was filled with nothing but photos of you and missing person flyers.” I stared at him, the room spinning. A coppery taste of blood flooded my mouth. The betrayal wasn’t just financial; it was existential. When I opened my eyes again, the sterile white of the hospital was gone. I was back in the smell of bleach and boiled cabbage. The group home. A handsome teenage boy walked in, practically dragging his wealthy parents behind him. He pointed a finger straight at me, his face glowing with excitement. “Her,” he said. “We have to adopt her.” I looked at his familiar, youthful face, and felt nothing but a glacial cold spreading through my chest. Cole Prescott. I didn’t care if this was a second chance. In this life, I wanted absolutely nothing to do with him. 1 “Mom, Dad, if you’re going to give me a sister, it has to be her!” The moment I heard the desperation in his voice, I knew. Cole had come back, too. I thought about his dying promise—I’ll make it up to you. I arched a brow. Well, give the devil his due; he was trying to keep his word. In my past life, I had been ambitious. I was starving, bullied, and desperate to escape the poverty of the state system. I wanted a golden ticket. I had schemed and clawed my way into the Prescotts’ line of sight. I had been so close. But the day before the papers were signed, Cole had walked in holding Lila’s hand. Lila had cried crocodile tears, accusing me of bullying her. She told them I was manipulative, that I seduced the male staff, that I was a pathological liar. And Cole? He believed every word. That day, my American Dream shattered. As Cole led Lila away to her new life of luxury, he turned to the other kids and staff, his voice dripping with disdain: “Nora Bennett is bad news. She’s a curse. Do yourselves a favor and stay away from her.” From that moment on, I fell from purgatory into hell. I endured five more years of abuse in that system. Meanwhile, Lila became the Prescott princess, adored and spoiled. But now, here was Cole, standing in front of me, his eyes pleading. “This time,” he whispered, low enough that only I could hear, “you’re going to be my sister. I’m going to take care of you. You won’t ever have to be jealous of anyone again.” I understood. He was grieving the Nora of the past. Somewhere down the line, in our previous life, he must have found out Lila had lied. He had spent decades regretting that he left me to rot in this place for five years. Mr. and Mrs. Prescott smiled at me. Just like before, there was an instant connection. They liked me. But I didn’t want his charity. I didn’t want his guilt. I opened my mouth to tell them to go to hell. Suddenly, a young girl burst into the room, sobbing hysterically. Her dress was torn, and blood trickled from a shallow cut on her arm. “Lila!” Cole gasped. “Are you… are you okay?” Lila glanced at me, eyes sharp with suspicion, before throwing herself at the Prescotts’ feet. “Please! Are you here to save me? Please take me! I don’t want to die! I’m scared!” She was copying me. In the old timeline, the Director of the home was a monster. I had staged a scene like this to save myself. But Lila? She had never been his target. She was always safe. In the past, seeing her act this way broke me. I had screamed, grabbed her, demanded the truth—which only made the Prescotts think I was unhinged. But now? Cole knew she was lying. He knew she was acting. Yet, looking at her small, trembling form, he couldn’t help it. The old instinct to protect her kicked in. “Who hurt you?” Cole demanded. “I won’t let them get away with it.” Lila couldn’t risk the truth. If she didn’t get adopted, she’d be stuck here with a Director she had just falsely accused. I blinked, stepping forward with a calm I didn’t feel. “It was the Director,” I said, my voice steady. “He likes the pretty ones. And Lila is the prettiest girl here.” “What?” Mr. Prescott’s hands curled into fists. “That animal.” “Oh, you poor thing.” Mrs. Prescott looked heartbroken. Cole stood there, lips pressed into a thin line. I knew him better than I knew myself. I could see the gears turning. He was wavering. “Mom, Dad,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. “We have to take Lila.” “Mr. and Mrs. Prescott, you should adopt Lila.” We spoke at the exact same time. 2 “Nora…?” Cole looked at me, stunned. He remembered the old Nora—the one who would have begged, screamed, and fought to get out of this hellhole. But I ignored his complicated, guilt-ridden gaze. I turned to his parents, projecting the image of a mature, thoughtful child. “Mr. and Mrs. Prescott, honestly? I’ve always wanted to know what it feels like to be an only child. I don’t think I’d do well sharing parents. So, thank you, but please take her.” The Prescotts looked surprised, a shadow of regret crossing their faces, but they nodded. When Lila realized she had won, she sidled up to me while the adults were signing papers. She tilted her chin up, a smirk playing on her lips. “I told you, Nora. You can never beat me. I’m going to be a rich girl now.” She leaned closer. “And you? You can rot here. Blame yourself for being too stupid to call out my lie.” She skipped away, triumphant. From the shadows, Cole emerged. He looked like he’d been slapped. He hadn’t realized that even back then, Lila wasn’t the innocent angel he thought she was. Hearing her cruelty firsthand had shaken him. He looked at me, eyes wet, silently begging for comfort. He wanted me to tell him it was okay. I looked right through him and turned to walk away. “Nora, wait,” he stammered, grabbing my arm. “I… Lila is just young. She’s scared. She’ll change.” “Sure,” I said, forcing a smile. “Whatever you say.” “Nora!” Panic edged into his voice. He started digging through his pockets, pulling out a wad of cash. “Take this. Please. I owe you this. Listen, give me two weeks… no, five days. Three days! I’ll come back for you. I’ll find a way to get you out.” “I don’t need it.” “Nora, I promise! Just wait for me!” He didn’t leave because I rejected him; he left because Lila tripped and scraped her knee near the car, screaming in pain. I watched him run to her. Predictable. Thank God I had killed the part of me that loved him long ago. Lila was smart. Before she left, she must have whispered something to the Director. Because this time, the Director didn’t just ignore me. He came for me. Three days passed. Five days. A month. Cole never came. But I didn’t wait. I let the Director break my arm—a calculated sacrifice—so I could hide a camera in his office. I got the footage. I called the police. I called the press. As the police dragged the Director away in handcuffs, his “favorites”—five older boys who were practically his sons—cornered me in the yard. “It was you, wasn’t it, Nora? You traitor.” “We’re going to starve because of you.” “Get her! Kill the snitch!” I curled into a ball, protecting my already broken arm and my head. I had anticipated this. Pain was just the price of freedom. One of the boys picked up a brick, aiming for my skull. Suddenly, a shadow lunged in front of me. The brick connected with a sickening thud. “Argh!” Cole collapsed onto the dirt, blood pouring from his head. 3 “Cole!” My eyes widened. “Are you okay?” Blood streamed down his face, blinding him in one eye. He wiped it away with a trembling hand, looking fragile but smiling like a maniac. “I did it,” he wheezed. “This time, I saved you. Nora, I made it in time.” In the past, his sacrifice would have melted me. But now? The worry vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by a cold void. I remembered the winter in our past life. Our child—our baby—was sick. Because of one of Lila’s fabricated emergencies, Cole had abandoned us in a cabin in the middle of a snowstorm to go to her. He left us without firewood. Without transport. I watched my child freeze to death. I wandered the woods for three days like a zombie carrying a small, cold body. When I was rescued, I broke. I went mad with grief. I tried to destroy Lila. But Cole? He protected her. He always protected her. We spent decades tearing each other apart. Eventually, he lost his legs saving me from a car accident I caused in a blind rage. The proud, golden boy became a cripple. Guilt had forced me to stay. I agreed to call a truce. And how did he use that truce? He sat in his wheelchair, pale and weak, and begged me: “Nora, please. Let Lila go. Do it for my legs.” That was the moment my soul finally left the building. “Fine,” I had said, weeping silently. “I promise.” Now, back in the present, Cole was gripping my hand, desperate for validation. “Nora, I told you I’d protect you.” Before I could answer, I was shoved hard from the side. Smack! Lila slapped me across the face, screaming. “You jinx! Get away from my brother! He’s my brother!” She scrambled to help Cole up. “Lila, stop,” Cole groaned. “Apologize to Nora. Now.” Lila immediately burst into tears. It was her trump card. Cole crumbled. He hated seeing her cry. He softened immediately, shushing her. I dusted off my clothes, ignoring the triumphant glint in Lila’s teary eyes. I turned to leave. “Stop right there!” Lila barked, her spoiled princess persona slipping out. “Who said you could leave? Stay away from us. You’re bad luck.” “Lila!” Cole stepped in front of her as I turned back, shielding her with his body. He always did that. He assumed I was the threat. He always forgot that I was the one standing alone, while she had an army. I looked at him and rattled off a string of names and numbers. Lila looked confused. “What is that? Gibberish?” But Cole went pale. Those were the dates and account numbers marking the beginning of the Prescott family’s financial ruin. In the last life, I had saved his family’s company. It took me years to find the mole and the bad investments. “Nora, you…” “Thanks for taking the brick,” I said flatly. “But we’re even now. I don’t owe you anything, Cole. Stay away from me.” Cole stood there, mouth open, looking like I’d just ripped his heart out. He couldn’t process it. He couldn’t understand why the Nora who had loved him across time and space now looked at him like he was a stranger. 4 The government took over the facility. The living conditions improved overnight. The Director went to prison five years earlier than in the original timeline. I had saved myself—and everyone else—five years of torture. The other kids, sensing the shift in power, started circling me, trying to get on my good side. The Director’s cronies became the pariahs. I watched it happen with satisfaction. I always believed in karma. A month later, Cole rushed to find me. He looked disheveled. He told me Lila had been “sick” and he’d been too busy nursing her to visit. He hung his head, apologizing profusely. It was his signature move: abandon me for her, then offer me crumbs of affection later. Like dangling a carrot in front of a donkey. “Nora, good news. I found a private school for you, and a family willing to foster you.” “No thank you,” I said, polite and distant. The state had already arranged for us to attend the local public high school. Unfortunately, fate has a sick sense of humor. I ended up in the same homeroom as Lila. It took less than three days for the rumors to start. The whole grade was whispering that I had “seduced the forty-year-old Director.” Boys snapped my bra straps in the halls. Girls looked at me like I was contagious. They started calling me “The Community Bike.” I knew this was Lila. I checked the calendar. My biological parents—the Westcotts—should be landing soon. Emboldened by the imminent arrival of my cavalry, I didn’t hold back. During a break, Lila smashed a pencil case into the back of my head. “Hey, Community Bike!” she shrieked. “Nice new shirt. Which man did you sleep with to get that one?” Laughter rippled through the classroom. “Yeah, slut.” “Disgusting.” I stood up slowly. I walked over to Lila’s desk. She smirked, waiting for me to cry. Instead, I grabbed a handful of her hair and slammed her face into the mop bucket sitting by the cleaning cart. “Agh! Let go! Let go of me!” “Your mouth is filthy,” I snarled, holding her down. “I figure you need to rinse it out.” “Lila, we both came from the same gutter. The Director wanted you first. I protected you. And this is how you repay me? You ungrateful little parasite.” “No… blub… no!” Every time she opened her mouth to scream, grey water rushed in. I raised my voice, addressing the room. I started listing facts. I listed the specific lies she’d told about the other girls. I revealed how she’d bullied the previous teacher into quitting. The class went silent. The laughter died. People started exchanging looks. The dots were connecting. “Nora! Get your hands off her!” A body slammed into me from behind. I lost my balance and hit the floor hard. My left arm—the one barely healed—cracked. I gasped, white-hot pain blinding me. Cole stood over me, helping a sputtering, wet Lila to her feet. When he saw me clutching my arm, his face crumpled with regret. “Brother!” Lila sobbed, clinging to him. “Make her leave! Get her expelled! She’s crazy!” “Okay,” Cole whispered, stroking her hair. “I promise. I’ll handle it.” I let out a dry, bitter laugh. “There it is. You never change, Cole. You’re pathetic.” Cole couldn’t meet my eyes. “Nora, you started it. Violence isn’t the answer. I’ll… I’ll make it up to you later.” “You won’t have to,” I said. Suddenly, the homeroom teacher burst in, beaming, completely oblivious to the tension. “Nora! Nora Bennett! Your parents are here! Your biological parents! They’re taking you to Europe!”

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I was just trying to watch a movie. That was it. But the kid behind me wouldn’t quit. He kept kicking the back of my seat, a rhythmic, dull thud that was slowly driving a wedge into my sanity. Then came the smell—stale cheese and sweat—as he propped his bare foot right next to my ear. I snapped. I turned around, my voice tight. “Hey, keep your feet down and sit still.” He didn’t listen. Instead, he grinned, a feral little look in his eyes, and jammed a needle into the side of my neck. It wasn’t a poke. It was a stab. 1 Sharp, white-hot pain flared instantly. I slapped a hand to my neck and pulled it away slick with warm blood. Behind him, his mother just giggled. “Oh, relax,” she said, waving a hand dismissively. “He’s just playing with my sewing needle. Boys will be boys. It’s not like it’s poisoned or anything. Don’t be such a drama queen.” That did it. I threw my bucket of popcorn to the floor, ripped out my phone, and blasted the flashlight right into the kid’s face. “Listen to me!” I screamed, my voice tearing through the theater’s darkness. “That kid is holding a high-risk, medical-grade needle! It’s used! It’s filthy! That is HIV-positive blood!” The beam of my flashlight caught the needle in the kid’s hand. A single drop of blood hung from the tip. “Holy sh*t! HIV?” someone yelled. “Run! Don’t let him touch you!” Panic is contagious. In seconds, the theater erupted. People vaulted over seats, screaming, scrambling away from the epicenter of the infection. The room descended into absolute chaos. The woman’s smile vanished, replaced by a look of sheer, defensive fury. “What the hell are you saying? HIV?” She stood up, screeching. “You’re cursing my son! I’ll rip your face off!” I took a step back, my phone camera already rolling, locked onto the kid who was now looking confused, still clutching the weapon. “Stay back!” I yelled, addressing the crowd. “Nobody knows if they have more needles! Call 911! Now!” “This is assault with a deadly weapon! They are spreading a biohazard!” “Block the doors! Don’t let them leave!” My hysteria was calculated, and it worked. The fear of contagion is primal. Several large men immediately moved to block the exits, their faces grim. “Yeah, nobody’s going anywhere!” “That is sick! Stabbing people with AIDS needles? You people are monsters!” Suddenly, the house lights flooded on, bathing us all in a harsh, exposing glare. The woman finally realized the gravity of the situation. She saw the rage and terror in the eyes surrounding her and snatched her son into a protective hug. “What are you doing? You’re bullying a mother and child!” she shrieked, though her voice wavered. “It’s not AIDS! It’s… it’s red ink! It’s just red ink!” I stared at her. I looked at her with the cold, dead eyes of someone who has already imagined their own funeral. “Red ink?” I stepped forward. “Okay. Then tell your son to stab himself with it.” The theater went silent. “If he sticks that needle into his own arm right now, I will get on my knees and beg for your forgiveness.” The woman choked. She looked at the jagged, bloody needle, then instinctively shoved her son behind her back. “Why should I? You aren’t touching my son! You’re crazy!” Adrenaline began to crash, replaced by a wave of dizziness. My knees felt weak. Behind the woman’s screeching defenses, the kid finally realized he wasn’t in charge anymore. “Mommy! They’re being mean to me!” he wailed. He threw the needle down. The bloody instrument skittered across the concrete floor, rolling twice before coming to a stop in the middle of the aisle. The crowd recoiled as if the object were radioactive. No one dared to breathe near it. “Don’t cry, baby, don’t cry,” the woman cooed, glaring at me with venomous hatred. “You piece of trash! Scaring a child like that? It’s a tiny scratch! You’re blowing this way out of proportion!” “You want to call the cops? Fine! Call them! I’ll sue you for defamation! I’ll sue you for every penny you have!” She was still posturing. Still pretending she held the cards. 2 But against the tidal wave of public panic, her entitlement meant nothing. It only fueled the fire. “Shut up, lady! Your kid stabbed someone!” “That’s a biohazard! That kills people!” “I saw it! He was kicking the seat and then he attacked her. That kid is a psychopath!” The theater manager burst in, flanked by security guards, sweating profusely. “What is going on? Everyone, please, remain calm!” I kept my hand over the wound on my neck and walked straight up to the manager. I pulled my hand away to show him the blood. “That child used that needle to puncture my carotid artery area. I have reason to believe it is medical waste carrying a high-risk virus,” I said, my voice trembling but my logic razor-sharp. “I am demanding you lock down this theater. Detain them.” “Call the police. Call an ambulance. And get the CDC involved.” The manager looked at the needle on the floor, then at the blood on my neck. All color drained from his face. He knew that if this was mishandled, his theater—and his career—was over. “Cover that object! Don’t touch it!” he barked at security. “And keep those two here. Nobody leaves.” Realizing she was trapped, the woman, Vanessa, dropped to the floor in a full-blown tantrum. “Help! Security is assaulting us!” she screamed, kicking her legs. “Is there no law in this country? You’re bullying a woman and a child! Do you know who my husband is?” “My husband is Conrad Hughes! You touch me and he’ll destroy you!” Conrad Hughes. The manager flinched. The name clearly rang a bell. But the crowd didn’t care about local celebrities. “I don’t care if your husband is the President!” someone shouted. “Attempted murder is attempted murder!” “Record her! Put this on TikTok! Expose them!” Dozens of phones were aimed at her like weapons. Flashes popped. Vanessa panicked, trying to shield her face and swat at the cameras. “Stop filming! You don’t have my permission! Put the phones down!” It was anarchy. I stood off to the side, the burning sensation in my neck spreading. The phantom feeling of a virus coursing through my veins made me shudder. But I had to hold it together. I focused on the needle. It wasn’t a sewing needle. It wasn’t even a standard syringe. The gauge was thick, and the barrel had specific blue graduation lines. It looked industrial. Or experimental. I was a bio-major back in college. I knew lab equipment. That device didn’t belong in a sewing kit. It belonged in a bio-waste bin. She was lying. And judging by the sweat on her brow, she was terrified. Ten minutes later, the sirens wailed outside. Police officers pushed through the crowd. An older officer, Detective Miller, took charge. “Who called it in? What’s the situation?” I stepped forward and gave my statement, keeping it clinical. Miller put on gloves and crouched over the needle. He sealed it in an evidence bag, examining the residue inside the barrel. His brow furrowed. “This isn’t a sewing needle,” Miller said, his voice carrying through the quiet room. “This is a large-bore biopsy or aspiration needle. Veterinary or… specialized use.” His words hit Vanessa like a physical blow. Her “sewing needle” defense evaporated instantly. “Veterinary?” She stammered, sweat beading on her forehead. “No! I… I bought it at a flea market! For crafts!” 3 Her eyes darted around the room. She was crumbling. “We’ll check the prints and run a tox screen on the residue,” Miller said dryly. “Ma’am, you’re coming with us.” Two officers hoisted her up. “I’m not going! You can’t arrest me! My son is a minor!” she shrieked. The kid, Jaxon, seeing his mother restrained, finally broke down into genuine, snot-nosed sobbing. The malicious bravado was gone. I followed the police out. As I passed them, I stopped. I leaned in close to Vanessa, my voice a whisper only she could hear. “Pray,” I said. “Pray that it’s just red ink.” “Because if there is anything in that needle, I will make sure your family rots in a cell.” She looked up at me, eyes filled with pure venom. “You just wait. Conrad is coming. When he gets here, you’ll be begging me to settle.” I forced a smile that felt more like a grimace. “Settle? Lady, if that needle is clean, I’ll eat it. But if it’s dirty? God himself couldn’t save you.” I walked out into the daylight. The sun was blinding, but I felt freezing cold. Bone deep. The ambulance was waiting. As the paramedics cleaned the wound, the smell of antiseptic cleared my head, but my mind was stuck on the needle. Those blue lines. That dark red residue. And the name. Conrad Hughes. If I remembered correctly, he was the CEO of Mercy Hill Medical Group. The biggest private healthcare conglomerate in the state. A hospital tycoon. His son walks around with a specialized puncture needle. His wife acts like she owns the law. This wasn’t just a bratty kid. What was in that needle? A terrifying thought began to take shape in the back of my mind. Maybe I hadn’t just been exposed to a disease. Maybe I had stumbled into something much darker. Something that went deeper than a prick on the neck. The air in the interrogation room at the precinct was thick enough to choke on. I had a bandage on my neck and a preliminary lab report in my hand. I was on PEP—post-exposure prophylaxis. The doctors said the critical window was 72 hours. These 72 hours were my lifeline. Vanessa was sitting opposite me, legs crossed, checking her nails. The kid, Jaxon, was slurping a juice box the cops had given him, staring at me with that same dead-eyed defiance. “Alright, let’s cut the act,” Vanessa said, dropping her Hermès bag onto the metal table with a heavy thud. “You want money. Just say it. Five grand? Is that enough?” “Take the check, sign the NDA and the waiver, and we’re done.” She pulled out a checkbook, her pen hovering, looking at me like I was something she’d scraped off her shoe. I didn’t blink. I just crinkled the medical report in my fist. “Too low? Fine. Ten grand.” “Don’t be greedy, sweetie. That’s probably more than you make in a year serving coffee or whatever you do.” “Take it, buy yourself some vitamins, and stop pretending you’re dying.” She scribbled a number, ripped the check out, and flicked it across the table. 4 The check fluttered through the air and landed on my shoe. I didn’t move. I just stared at the piece of paper. “I don’t want your money,” I said, my voice raspy. “I want the truth. Where did that needle come from? And what was inside it?” Vanessa’s face twitched, masking fear with aggression. “None of your business! I told you, it’s a toy! We found it!” “The cops haven’t found anything yet, so who do you think you are?” “I’m warning you. Don’t push your luck. When my husband gets here, that ten grand is off the table.” As if on cue, the door swung open. A man in a bespoke suit strode in, bringing a cold gust of air with him. He was flanked by two sharp-eyed lawyers carrying briefcases. Conrad Hughes. He radiated power and arrogance. He had the heavy, fleshy face of a man who hasn’t heard the word “no” in decades. “Honey! You’re finally here!” Vanessa immediately switched into victim mode, crying fake tears. “This person is bullying us! They want to put Jaxon in jail! Do something!” Conrad patted her shoulder, his eyes sweeping the room before landing on me. He looked at me with the detached boredom of a man inspecting a pest. “You must be the victim.” He walked over, towering over me. “Listen, kid. Accidents happen. Boys play rough.” “I’ll cover your medical bills. And I’ll add twenty thousand for your ’emotional distress.’” “This ends now.” It wasn’t an offer. It was a command. One of the lawyers immediately slid a settlement agreement across the table. “Sign here. It’s in everyone’s best interest.” Conrad lit a cigarette, completely ignoring the “No Smoking” sign on the wall. The young officer in the corner opened his mouth to object, but Conrad shot him a look that silenced him instantly. Money talks. And here, it was screaming. I looked at this family. The entitlement. The cruelty. The absolute certainty that they could buy their way out of physical assault. The rage inside me burned hotter than the infection fear. “And if I don’t sign?” I looked up, meeting Conrad’s gaze. He paused, smoke curling from his lips. He seemed genuinely surprised I was speaking. He leaned in, exhaling the smoke right into my face. “You don’t sign?” He smiled. A shark’s smile. “Kid, do you know who I am? I run Mercy Hill. I own half the city council.” “I can make sure you never work in this town again. I can make sure you get evicted by the end of the week.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “The police won’t find anything on that needle. Even if they do, it’s just medical waste. A misdemeanor.” “I pay you off, maybe spend an hour in holding. But if you refuse… I promise you, you will regret it for the rest of your miserable life.” A naked threat. He didn’t care if the needle was toxic. He only cared about the inconvenience. To him, my life was a rounding error. My fingernails dug into my palms until they bled. The pain kept me focused. “Big words, Dr. Hughes.” I stood up, picked up the twenty-thousand-dollar check, and ripped it into confetti. I threw the pieces in his face. “Keep the money. Use it to buy your son a conscience. Or a lawyer for the murder trial.” “I don’t believe you own the whole world. And I don’t believe that needle is just trash.” Conrad’s face turned a violent shade of purple. He raised his hand as if to backhand me. “You ungrateful little—” Knock. Knock. The door opened again. A forensic technician in a white coat walked in, holding a report. He looked pale. Terrified, even. “Detective Miller,” the tech said, his voice shaking. “We identified the substance in the needle.”

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I am the daughter of the most feared crime lord in the city. Today, at my wedding, I was supposed to finally step out of the shadows and claim my birthright. Instead, my brother told me there was a hit out on me. He said I couldn’t be exposed. My fiancé, playing the part of the concerned lover, stripped me of my custom Vera Wang gown and draped it over my personal assistant, Ivy. My head of security, the man sworn to take a bullet for me, took the Calloway family signet ring from my finger. I trusted them. God, I trusted them with my life. But when the wedding march began, I watched from the wings. I saw Ivy, wearing my dress, with one arm looped through my fiancé’s, while her other hand lingered intimately against the waist of my brother, then my bodyguard. When I stormed out to demand answers, Ivy just smiled—a toxic, victorious little smirk—and ordered them to break my limbs. They threw me into a basement cage. I died screaming in the jaws of starving dogs. My last thought was a vow: You can have the fiancé. But you are not worthy of the crown. … I snapped back to reality just as Ivy let out a shriek. My fist had already connected with her jaw. My fiancé, Preston, stared at me, eyes wide with shock and rage. He backhanded me across the face. “Serena! Who gave you the right to touch Ivy?” My brother, Harrison, looked at Ivy with tears in his eyes, his face twisted in performative anguish. He lunged at me. “You dare strike the future head of the Dominion at her own wedding? By the Code, you will pay for this!” Roman, my head of security, didn’t hesitate. He moved to grapple me, using the techniques I’d paid for him to learn. But he was sloppy. I sidestepped, kicking him square in the chest. He flew backward, crashing into a table, coughing up blood, his eyes filled with disbelief. “Serena… you… you actually hurt me?” I dusted off my cocktail dress—the plain thing they’d forced me into—and dragged a gold Chiavari chair to the center of the stage. I sat down, crossing my legs, looking down at them like the insects they were. “So, you all remember my name is Serena?” I asked, my voice amplified by the silence of the room. “Then have you forgotten that I, Serena Calloway, am the only daughter of Victoria Calloway? The sole heir to the Dominion?” I leaned forward. “And the actual bride at this wedding.” The crowd erupted. Whispers turned into shouts. “What’s going on? If she’s the bride, who is that on the floor?” The guests looked at Ivy, who was still spitting blood. I let out a cold, sharp laugh. In my past life, I pitied Ivy. She played the orphan card so well. My brother Harrison convinced me to take her in, to give her a job as my assistant. It didn’t take long for her to charm the three men closest to me with her doe-eyed innocence. When my mother was hospitalized after an assassination attempt, I was ready to take the reins. But these three… they played on my fears. They told me the Dominion had too many enemies. They said I’d end up like Mom. They convinced me to let Ivy—renamed ‘Ivy Calloway’ for the day—act as a decoy bride to draw out the assassins. I agreed. And on my wedding night, I found them all in bed together. When I confronted them, they threw me into the fighting pits, letting me serve as a punching bag for Ivy until they fed me to the dogs. The phantom pain of tearing flesh flared in my mind. I didn’t hesitate. I walked over and stomped hard on Ivy’s ribs. Crack. “I’m asking you,” I hissed. “Who are you? And who am I?” Ivy screamed, a high-pitched, wailing sound, reaching out desperately for Preston. “Baby, get this psycho out of here! Harrison, save me!” Preston flinched at my aura—I was radiating pure murder—but Ivy’s cry steeled his resolve. He stepped between us, arms spread wide. “Serena, having the Calloway blood means nothing! I can prove Ivy is the true successor!” Harrison was on his knees, cradling Ivy, glaring at me with a hatred that chilled my blood. “Stop this madness! We did this for your own good! Kneel and apologize to Ivy, and maybe I won’t enforce the full weight of the Code against you!” Roman, my bodyguard, wiped the blood from his mouth and pulled a collapsible baton from his jacket. “Forget going back. Kneel now. You’re just a servant acting out. I’ll discipline you myself right here.” I looked at the three men I had loved, protected, and elevated. My hands clenched until the knuckles turned white. “Since you’ve all decided to pledge allegiance to the help,” I said, my voice deadly calm, “don’t blame me for what happens next.” I grabbed Ivy by the back of her stolen dress, lifted her up, and hurled her off the stage into the crowd. “Apologies for the scene,” I announced to the stunned room. “The wedding is canceled. Consider this my coronation.” The guests were paralyzed. “I heard the Dominion had internal strife, but isn’t Serena the only heir? That’s undisputed, right?” “Yeah, but the invitation said Ivy Calloway. Everyone knows Victoria’s daughter is the heir. Who the hell is Serena to crash this?” “She just assaulted the boss. She’s dead meat.” My ex-fiancé and his cohorts heard the murmurs and seemed to regain their confidence. “Serena! What is wrong with you? Get down here!” Preston shouted. “I am Ivy’s husband, Preston. I can testify that Ivy is the star of this wedding and the heir to the Dominion!” “I am Harrison Calloway, the eldest son,” my brother bellowed. “I watched Ivy grow up. I know who my sister is!” “I’m Roman, head of security,” Roman added, standing shoulder to shoulder with them. “Ivy is the heir. I don’t even know who this Serena woman is.” They stood in a wall of testosterone and suits, protecting Ivy, glaring at me. The crowd laughed. “This Serena girl has lost her mind. The Calloway men are handsome, sure, but you can’t just claim them.” “Exactly. The family keeps a low profile, but we know the lineup: Harrison is the son, Preston is the groom, Roman is the muscle. If they say she’s a nobody, she’s a nobody.” “On your knees, Serena! Apologize!” I lifted my chin, looking past the wall of traitors to the entrance, where a man was rushing in. “Arthur,” I called out. “You’ve been my mother’s right hand for twenty years. Surely you recognize her daughter?” The room turned to look. “That’s Arthur Doyle. Victoria’s… companion. Why is he here?” “With this chaos? Victoria is on her deathbed; someone had to come restore order.” Arthur didn’t say a word. He stormed down the aisle, his hard-soled shoes clacking on the marble. He helped Ivy up first, dusting her off with tender care, before turning his cold eyes to me. “You insolent brat. Who gave a servant the courage to strike Ivy?” He gestured to the security team. “Tie her up. I’m taking her back to the estate. The Boss will deal with her personally.” My heart hammered against my ribs. In my last life, I knew the three men were seduced by Ivy. But I didn’t know Arthur—my mother’s most trusted confidant—was in on it too. At his command, the guards rushed me. I stood my ground. I didn’t need weapons. I used the Calloway Combat Style—a brutal, efficient martial art passed down only through the bloodline. I dismantled the first wave of guards in seconds. As the men groaned on the floor, the crowd shifted. “That fighting style… that’s Calloway CQC. Only the direct line is taught that.” “If she’s just a servant, how does she know the moves?” I stared at the men, waiting for the truth to sink in. But then, Ivy, battered and bruising, pulled herself up onto the stage. She took a breath and performed a sequence of the Calloway form. It was sloppy, breathless, but recognizable. While the crowd went silent, Ivy wiped blood from her lip and shouted, “Serena! I pitied your background. I let you hold my water bottle while I trained. And this is how you repay me? By stealing my moves?” I looked at my brother, Harrison, with pure venom. Aside from Mom, only he and I knew that form. He had taught the family secret to an outsider. It was a violation of everything we stood for. “How dare you,” I whispered, grabbing Harrison by the lapels. Harrison didn’t flinch. He looked at Ivy. Ivy reached into her bodice and pulled out an object, holding it high. A heavy, ancient jade seal. “The Dominion Seal was passed to me by Mother herself,” Ivy declared. “Serena, your little play is over.” The sight of the seal silenced the room. “Victoria really must be gone… she gave up the Seal.” “Serena, they have the witness and the evidence. You’re just the help. Get out!” I ground my teeth so hard I tasted iron. In my past life, I hadn’t fought back. I hadn’t realized they had already hollowed out the empire behind my back while Mom lay dying. Rage, hot and blinding, flooded my veins. I lunged for the seal. Roman moved. The pretense was gone. He signaled his personal elite guard, and they swarmed me. I was good. But I was flesh and bone, and there were too many of them. A baton struck the back of my skull. My vision blurred. The world tilted. Roman sneered, planting a kick in my chest that sent me flying off the stage. I hit the floor hard. Ivy, sensing victory, strutted over and raised her heel, aiming to stomp on my face. I caught her foot. I punched upward, driving my fist into the arch of her foot. Ivy, having no real balance or skill, toppled over screaming. Arthur, my mother’s lover, lost his composure. “You little animal! Still fighting? Break her hands!” Roman pulled a switchblade. He had two men pin my right arm to the floor. “Serena,” Roman said, his voice void of the warmth it used to hold. “Today, I’m not just breaking your hands. I’m severing your tendons. You’re going to the pits, a cripple, to be walked on by Ivy for the rest of your miserable life.” Pain exploded in my arm. I saw guests turning away, unable to watch. I spat blood into Roman’s face. “Kill me if you have the guts! Because when my mother gets here, you’re all dead men!” Harrison looked panicked for a split second, glancing at Arthur. Arthur leaned down, whispering in my ear with a voice like dry leaves. “Let me tell you the truth, little girl. Your mother isn’t waking up.” “Stop dreaming of a savior. The Dominion, the money, even your fiancé… they all belong to Ivy now.” He smiled, a cruel twisting of lips. My stomach dropped. That’s why no one came for me last time. They had already murdered my mother. Seeing the horror on my face, the men laughed. I used their distraction. I bucked my hips, throwing off the guard, and lunged at Arthur. My teeth clamped onto his ear. I ripped my head back, tearing a chunk of flesh free. Arthur shrieked. Ivy screamed in sympathy. Harrison grabbed a wine bottle and smashed it over my head. “Are you crazy?! How dare you hurt him!” My head swam, buzzing with concussive force. But through the haze, a question formed. Harrison had always hated Arthur. He called him a gigolo, a usurper standing in our dead father’s place. Why was he protecting him now? Why was he so desperate? Preston was rushing around, dabbing at Arthur’s bleeding head with a napkin. Roman had the knife at my throat. “I’m sorry, Serena,” Roman said. “I didn’t want to kill you. But you keep hurting the people I care about.” I was broken, bleeding, outnumbered. Up in the VIP balcony, someone covered their eyes, waiting for the execution. “ENOUGH!” The voice cracked through the air like a whip. “How did Serena’s wedding turn into a slaughterhouse? Stand down!” My vision cleared enough to see the figure at the door. Tears pricked my eyes. It was Aunt Jo. Josephine Calloway. My mother’s sister, my martial arts master, the woman who raised me alongside Mom. “Aunt Jo…” She marched toward me. When she saw my mangled arm, her face twisted in fury. “You animals! Who did this to her?” Everyone looked at Roman. Roman swallowed hard, stepping forward to take Aunt Jo’s hand. “Aunt Jo, it’s a misunderstanding. Please, calm down, we can explain—” Jo backhanded him so hard he flew into a waiter’s tray. “You did this?” she roared. “You grew up with her! She treated you like family! How could you?” The men went pale. Preston stepped forward, trembling. “Aunt Jo, please. Serena… she had a psychotic break. She attacked Arthur. We had to restrain her.” At the name Arthur, Jo froze. She turned slowly to look at the man clutching the side of his bleeding head. Arthur glared at her, his eyes full of accusation. “Don’t you see I’m bleeding? What are you waiting for? That little bitch tried to kill me!” I blinked, confused. Aunt Jo was a spinster, married to the martial arts. She had no men in her life. Why did Arthur speak to her with such familiarity? Such entitlement? “Aunt Jo!” I screamed. “It’s a lie! It’s a coup! They’re trying to put Ivy on the throne! You have to help me!” Jo’s face went dark. She didn’t look at me. She looked at Arthur, pain and guilt warring in her eyes. “Fine,” she whispered. “I owe you this.” She turned to me. The warmth was gone. “Serena, you are out of control. Daring to ruin Ivy’s wedding? Trying to confuse the Calloway bloodline? Your crimes are unforgivable.” She waved her hand. “Take her away.” The tension in the room broke. The conspirators sighed in relief. I sat there, frozen, unable to process the betrayal. I could understand the others. They were weak, greedy men. But Aunt Jo? My own flesh and blood? The woman who taught me to throw a punch?

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Seven years with Harrison Cole. Seven years that dissolved into nothingness like sugar in hot tea. After the engagement was broken, a routine trip to the hospital handed me a shock: I was three months pregnant. Harrison slammed the medical report onto my desk, his face a mask of glacial indifference. “Ambitious, aren’t we? Trying to trap me with a baby to secure your spot?” I stared at the paperwork, the black ink blurring slightly. I told him the truth: the child wasn’t his. He didn’t believe me. In his world, everyone wanted a piece of him. He insisted on dragging me to the hospital himself, in front of everyone, to force a termination. In a surge of adrenaline and fury, I slapped him across the face. The sound was sharp, shocking the room into silence. With trembling hands, I reached into my bag and pulled out my marriage license. I set it down calmly, though my heart was hammering against my ribs. “Look closely, Harrison. I’m married.” I met his gaze, my voice steady. “I don’t make the same mistake twice.” 1. My morning sickness was brutal in those early months. The car ride was jerky, Harrison driving with an aggressive, jagged rhythm that made my stomach lurch. By the time he pulled over, I was dry heaving, clutching my chest. When I finally caught my breath and looked up, I searched for a shred of empathy in his eyes. I found none. Just a cold, detached scrutiny. He stared at my abdomen with open hostility, as if he wanted to reach inside and tear the life out of me. Seven years. We had grown up together, loved together, and yet here we were—strangers fueled by mutual resentment. A bitter taste, distinct from the bile, spread through my chest. I exhaled slowly, trying to anchor myself. “The baby belongs to my husband,” I said, my voice quiet but firm. “I’m married, Harrison. You don’t need to worry about me clinging to you like a ghost.” I had been raised in the Cole estate, a ward of the family, practically his shadow since childhood. When we crossed the line from friends to lovers at eighteen, fueled by whiskey and youth, I stayed by his side as the dutiful fiancée. But six months ago, she arrived. Layla. The new visionary designer at the firm. Harrison stopped coming home. On our anniversary, he stood me up. Fueled by a mix of worry and rage, I stormed into his office only to find them wrapped in each other’s arms. That night, he didn’t even try to lie. “I never loved you, Cecilia,” he said. “Not for a single moment.” The words were surgical, precise. They cut straight to the bone. We had survived so much together. Seven years of history, erased in a sentence. I was pathetic then. I couldn’t accept it. I clung to him, desperate to find proof that he was lying, that somewhere underneath the ice was the boy who used to hold my hand. I waited outside his office building like a stalker. I used his grandfather’s illness as an excuse to lure him back to the estate. I even snuck into his office disguised as a courier. When I first found out I was pregnant, I was delusional enough to be ecstatic. I told him, “I’m pregnant,” thinking it would fix us. He thought I had bribed a doctor, faking a pregnancy to block his happiness with Layla. Heartbroken and distracted, I was knocked down in the street later that day. I lay in the rain for two hours, and the miscarriage that followed washed away the last of my hope. That was the turning point. I woke up. I agreed to annul the engagement. I took the three million dollar settlement, left the Cole estate, and married my current husband. Looking back, throwing myself against a brick wall until I shattered seems humiliating. It was a chaotic, desperate time. But it’s over now. The basement parking garage was colder than the office upstairs. I shivered and offered Harrison a faint, weary smile. “Relax. I’m not lying to you this time.” “I really am married. Grandfather actually introduced us.” The Coles were complicated, but they valued loyalty. Even though Harrison and I were done, his grandfather, Arthur Cole, had always treated me like blood. He knew I had always dreamed of Zurich, that I had only stayed in the States for Harrison. So, he pulled strings, finding suitable matches for me in Switzerland. I sifted through hundreds of profiles until I found him. My husband. Once I finished this final project, I would be on a plane to Zurich to start a quiet, new life with him. 2. The frost in Harrison’s eyes deepened. As the sole heir to the Cole dynasty, cynicism was his default setting. He didn’t trust me. Why would he? For my entire life, my identity had been ‘The Girl Who Loves Harrison.’ In elementary school, he was the golden boy leading the pledge of allegiance. I loved the way the sun caught his hair. In middle school, he led the basketball team to a state championship, shattering the stereotype that prep school kids were soft. By high school, he was untouchable. Athletic, brilliant, devastatingly handsome. He had every girl in the school in his orbit. Including me. I used to wake up in the middle of the night, giggling at the ceiling, overwhelmed by the thought that this spectacular creature was my future husband. I loved him so much that when he crossed the line that drunken night when we were eighteen, I didn’t push him away. For years, I projected my own feelings onto him, assuming the love was reciprocal. I never realized he saw me as an obligation—a burden his family had strapped to his back. The day I caught him with Layla, he finally exploded. “Cecilia, your parents died saving mine. That’s a tragedy. But why does their sacrifice mean I have to sacrifice myhappiness to pay the debt?” He silenced me. He was right. Why should he? I understood him, but God, it hurt. He had resented our arrangement for years but never said a word. I had been so busy loving him, so busy curating a perfect life for him, that I was deaf to his silence. I realized recently that love doesn’t actually conquer all. Layla just gave him the courage to finally rebel. I had built my confidence, my entire personality, on the foundation of being Harrison’s future wife. When that foundation cracked, I crumbled. I wasn’t Cinderella. After the breakup, I packed my life into boxes overnight and vanished from the estate. I avoided every restaurant, every street, every park we had ever shared. The only tether left was this job—his company invested in the design firm, and I couldn’t hand off the project mid-stream. I just had to endure until the launch. Then, Zurich. I knew my place now. Before the breakup, I had the standing to make a scene. Now? We were familiar strangers. I was a married woman. I had no interest in sabotaging his romance with Miss Layla. “Holden Cross. Sounds… plain.” Harrison was reading the name off the marriage certificate. His voice still had that low, magnetic timbre that used to send shivers down my spine. I used to beg him to read to me with that voice. He rarely did. “Yes. He’s a good man. Humble. Gentle.” Holden was a researcher at a university. He was the antithesis of Harrison. But he loved me. He gave me the kind of quiet, steady devotion Harrison was incapable of. 3. Harrison’s laugh was dark, devoid of humor. “Cecilia, you know how this works. In my eyes, your word is worth nothing.” I let out a dry, self-deprecating chuckle. “I know you don’t love me, Harrison. Why would I waste energy trying to trap you with a baby now? This child belongs to me and my husband. Period.” The air in the garage felt heavy, pressing against my lungs. My lips felt numb. Finally, Harrison spoke. “Tomorrow. We go to the hospital. Amniocentesis. If the DNA proves it’s not mine, I’ll apologize.” It was a concession. The most I would get from him. I nodded and turned toward the elevator. Upstairs, a delivery arrived—ginger tea, ordered by Holden. A sticky note on the cup read: Extra sugar, just how you like it. Warmth bloomed in my chest. I submitted the final project files and walked straight to HR to hand in my resignation. Long-distance marriages are fragile. I needed to be in Zurich. During those three months of madness when I stalked Harrison, I learned everything about him and Layla. They weren’t new. She had been with him during his five years abroad. Back then, their future was hazy. Harrison had a fiancée back home; Layla wasn’t sure about returning to the States. Now, he was blowing up his life to be with her. That’s not a fling. That’s conviction. The next morning at the hospital, Harrison was already there, looking sharp in charcoal wool. Layla stood next to him, a splash of vibrant red in a sterile hallway. I didn’t mind that she had “won.” I just disliked her method—chasing a man she knew was engaged. She looped her arm through his and beamed at me. “Cecilia! You finally made it. We’ve been waiting forever.” I checked my watch. The second hand ticked onto the twelve. 9:00 AM exactly. “The appointment is at nine, Layla. Don’t paint me as late when I’m precise.” Her smile faltered. She looked up at Harrison, eyes wide and pleading. Usually, he would jump to her defense. Today, he was strangely quiet. “Enough. Let’s get the test done,” he said. Layla pouted, shooting daggers at me, but I didn’t engage. I walked into the testing suite. The expedited results would take three days. The next day, after sorting my visa, I went to the Cole estate to say goodbye to Grandfather Arthur. Harrison was there. He frowned, physically blocking the doorway. ” The results aren’t back. You’re in a rush to spin your narrative to the old man?” I almost laughed. “I thought you might have started to believe me. Clearly, I overestimated you.” “You’re a pathological liar, Cecilia. I have no reason to trust you.” Even now, his distrust stung. Like a phantom limb pain—the relationship was gone, but the nerve endings were still raw. “Blocking the door won’t work,” I said, my voice hardening. “I am seeing Grandfather today.” Arthur Cole was the only father figure I had left. I wasn’t leaving the country without a proper goodbye. Harrison didn’t budge. He signaled the housekeeper to take the gift bags from my hands. “I’ll give these to him. You don’t see him until I see that paper.” I didn’t want to cause a scene in the house that raised me. As the housekeeper retreated, I hissed, “I told you, the baby isn’t yours!” “Prove it.” His eyes were obsidian, unreadable and terrifying. He pulled a folded paper from his pocket—the ultrasound from two days ago. He shook it at me. “Fourteen weeks, Cecilia! A fourteen-week fetus. You’ve been married for two months. Tell me, if this child isn’t mine, whose is it?” 4. His voice detonated in my head. I froze, the math paralyzing me for a second. “So,” I whispered, “you still think I’m trying to ruin your life?” “Aren’t you?” Harrison stepped closer, the temperature around him dropping. “I wanted to handle this civilly. I was prepared to compensate you. But you… you just don’t know when to quit.” He looked at me like I was a stranger he’d found trespassing. “We’ve known each other for twenty years, Cecilia. I don’t want to hurt you. Why can’t you just be good? Why can’t we end this quietly?” My chest heaved, tears blurring my vision. “It’s. Not. Yours.” “Harrison, I stopped wanting anything from you a long time ago. Especially your children.” The silence stretched, tense and brittle. He twisted the signet ring on his finger, then ripped the ultrasound photo into confetti, letting the pieces drift to the floor. “I gave you a chance to come clean. But you had the audacity to come here, to Grandfather, looking for a shield.” He grabbed my wrist. “Forget the report. We’re dealing with this now.” Harrison was a man who moved mountains when he decided to. I realized with a jolt of terror that he wasn’t asking. My pupils dilated.

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My husband had been missing for a month. I was so sick with worry that I lost our baby. But just hours after waking up from the D&C surgery, the cramping still twisting like barbed wire in my stomach, I opened Reddit. A thread had gone viral: What do you do when you meet the love of your life when you have absolutely nothing to offer them? The top answer read like a victory lap. “I couldn’t bear to drag her down with me, so I let her go chase her dreams. But I couldn’t stand the thought of losing her entirely, so I married her childhood best friend—a girl who was used to roughing it—to keep me company while I built my empire.” “Now, my golden girl is back. I can finally give her the world she deserves.” “Honestly, I kept hoping my wife would catch me so I’d have an easy out for a divorce. But she’s so clueless. I left my mistress’s lipstick in her car, gave her a promotional freebie necklace… I even vanished for a month on a ‘business trip,’ and she didn’t suspect a thing.” Lipstick. A freebie necklace. Missing for a month. The words blurred. My fingers went numb against the screen. “Thank God she came back to me,” the poster continued. “I almost thought I’d have to spend the rest of my life with the Toad.” A high-pitched ringing pierced my ears. The Toad. It was the cruel nickname my childhood bullies had given me. My blood turned to ice. I prayed to a God I barely believed in that this was just some sick, twisted coincidence. Until I read the final lines. “I pretended to go on a dangerous business trip to an earthquake zone and went off the grid for a month. In reality, I was taking my first love on our honeymoon.” “Just got a text from my wife saying she’s in the hospital. Whatever. Taking my soulmate to that exact same hospital tonight for her prenatal checkup. Maybe we’ll bump into her. Wish me luck.” I was violently shaking. Instinctively, I raised my head. There, at the end of the corridor, just outside the maternity ward. Connor. The husband who had been unreachable for a month. He was dressed in a sharp, tailored suit, his arm wrapped protectively around a petite, laughing woman. He turned his head casually. Across the sterile, fluorescent-lit hallway, our eyes met. … 1 A flicker of panic crossed Connor’s face, but it vanished instantly, replaced by a chilling, dead-eyed calm. I knew exactly what he was waiting for. He was waiting for me to lunge at them, to scream, to make a scene so he could finally demand the divorce he so desperately wanted. I sat frozen in my wheelchair. I was shaking so hard I couldn’t force a single sound past my throat. “Connor?” Blair nestled deeper into his chest, her voice sickeningly sweet. “Come on, slowpoke. Do you think the ultrasound will show who the baby looks like yet?” Connor didn’t look at me again. He tightened his grip on her waist, guiding her toward the obstetrics wing as if she were made of spun glass. “Hopefully,” he murmured, “the baby gets your eyes, and my nose.” The phantom pain from my freshly emptied womb twisted so sharply I gasped. Exactly one month ago, he had said those exact same words to me. It was the day he insisted on flying out to the epicenter of the earthquake in Chile. “Natalie, if we can just secure this lithium contract, we’ll finally have a real foothold in San Francisco,” he had told me, cupping my face. “I think I’m ready for a baby. I want them to have your eyes and my nose. I’m going to give you both the best life in the world.” Two weeks after he left, I took a test. I was pregnant. But his phone went straight to voicemail. Frantic, terrified that he was trapped under rubble, I boarded a flight to South America to find him. I was caught in a massive aftershock. A falling piece of masonry struck my abdomen. The doctors called his emergency contact number dozens of times. He never picked up. And now I knew why. While I was bleeding out his child in a foreign country, he was busy making one with my childhood best friend. I pulled the hospital blanket over my head and sobbed until I was choking on my own breath. Suddenly, the blanket was yanked down. Connor stood by my bed, looking down at me with mild detachment. “Natalie. Why are you admitted?” My throat felt like it was lined with shattered glass. “Why did you cheat on me? And out of all the people in the world… why Blair?” His brow furrowed. His tone immediately shifted into a warning. “Don’t refer to her as the other woman.” The sheer, breathtaking audacity of it forced a ragged, hysterical laugh out of my chest. “She’s not? Then what am I?” He didn’t answer the question. Instead, he pulled up a chair and told me a story. A very long, romanticized tragedy about him and Blair—high school sweethearts, star-crossed lovers torn apart by ambition and circumstance. “I’m a bastard. I know that,” he said smoothly. He reached for a cigarette, remembered he was in a hospital, and dropped his hand. “I only married you because you were Blair’s best friend. I thought you’d keep me close to her. But honestly, you were a pretty terrible friend. You didn’t even know where she was living or what she was doing. So, I don’t really feel like I owe you anything.” He let the silence stretch, letting his cruelty sink into my bones. “If you really think about it, Natalie… you’re the third person in our relationship.” I bit down on my lower lip until I tasted copper. Blinded by grief, I grabbed the water pitcher from my nightstand and hurled it at him. He didn’t even flinch. He just let it shatter against the wall behind him. “Natalie, we’ve been married for seven years. I still care about you. You can ask for whatever you want in the settlement. But…” His eyes hardened, turning to obsidian. “Do not go near Blair. I won’t have you upsetting her.” The dam broke. I grabbed my glass, my phone, anything I could reach, screaming at the top of my lungs. “Get out! Get the hell out of here!” He left without a fight. On his way out, he even politely asked a nurse to come in and check my IV. “Alright,” he called over his shoulder. “Focus on recovering first. We’ll talk when you’re not so emotional.” I lay in that narrow bed, violently shivering. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face from seven years ago. The way his cheeks flushed when he handed me that cheap bouquet of daisies, telling me how much he loved me. His eyes had been so bright. So earnest. How could a person fake that kind of light? I stayed in the hospital for three more days in a narcotic haze. He never came back. When I was finally discharged, the house was empty. But the very next morning, my phone buzzed. It was Blair. “Nat! I’m back in the States! Let’s get lunch. I have a huge surprise for you!” A sick, masochistic curiosity clawed at my chest. I went. As soon as I sat down, Blair grabbed my hand—the same hand that had just signed my own baby’s cremation papers—and pressed it against her slightly rounded belly. “I’m three months along!” she squealed, her smile radiant and entirely devoid of guilt. “We were long-distance through college, so you never got to meet my boyfriend. But now that we’re back together and it’s permanent, I just had to have my absolute best friend give us her blessing.” 2 Best friend? A bitter, fractured smile touched my lips. When we were five, her father used to hit her. I would sneak out to give her my lunch money and my favorite stuffed animals to comfort her. And in return? When puberty hit and my face broke out in severe cystic acne, she was the one who started calling me “The Toad” behind my back. She cemented an insecurity so deep it crippled my entire adolescence. “He’s honestly so amazing to me, Nat. Even when we were technically broken up, he still took care of me while I was studying in Paris.” Blair pushed up her cashmere sleeve, revealing a faint, barely-there pink line on her wrist. “I literally just slipped while cutting an apple. It was a tiny scratch. But he freaked out, flew all the way to France, and checked me into the most expensive private clinic in the city. He even bought this absurdly expensive crushed-pearl ointment for the scarring.” She laughed, a light, tinkling sound. “It was just a scratch, but he dropped thirty grand on it like it was nothing.” I stared at the microscopic scar, the room tilting on its axis. I remembered the early days of Connor’s startup. We were drowning in debt. I worked night and day, courting clients, living on instant coffee. Once, running on three hours of sleep with a 104-degree fever, I missed a step and shattered my tibia. The pain was blinding. I was in the back of an ambulance when I called him. He sounded stressed. “Funds are tight, Nat. I’m scrambling to make payroll. What’s going on?” I hadn’t wanted to be a burden. I swallowed my agony and whispered, “Nothing. Just a little slip. Don’t work too late.” I opted for the cheapest surgical steel plate available. To this day, my leg throbs whenever it rains. Blair rested her chin in her hands, practically glowing. “And last year, when some senior researcher stole my credit on a paper? I just complained to him over the phone. He flew out the next day and donated a million dollars to the lab just to secure my name on the final publication.” She rolled her eyes playfully. “Men are so dramatic. Who throws away that kind of money over lab politics?” My nails bit so deeply into my palms they drew blood. Last year, my Nana—my sweet, dementia-addled Nana—wandered out of her care home and was struck by a drunk driver. The ER doctors demanded an immediate $10,000 deposit, and the surgery was going to cost another $25,000. I emptied every savings account I had. I was short. Frantic, I tried to pull from our joint company account, only to find it frozen. The funds had been drained. My parents died when I was ten. Nana was the only family I had left in the world. I called Connor, screaming, begging. He sounded so convincingly panicked. “Nat, baby, breathe. I’m overseas trying to fix a massive supply chain issue. I will wire the money. I promise, I will save Nana.” I sat in that waiting room for three hours. I waited through her crashing on the table. I waited as I signed away the deed to my childhood home to the loan sharks. His money never came. When he finally flew back, he held me in the hallway, his eyes red-rimmed. “Nat, I’m so sorry. I bet everything on a new product line and the supplier went under. I couldn’t get the cash. I failed you.” Nana survived, barely. I had been so relieved she was alive that I actually comforted him. “It’s okay,” I had whispered, holding him as he cried. “I have a little left over from the mortgage. Use it to save the company.” He had looked at me with such a strange, complex expression, pulling me tight against his chest. “Natalie, I swear to God, I’m going to give you the best of everything one day.” Now I understood that look. He was probably marveling at how incredibly, pathetically stupid I was. All the blood drained from my face. Blair suddenly clapped a hand over her mouth, looking contrite. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I’m not trying to rub it in your face! It’s just… we were apart for seven years, and knowing he never stopped loving me for a single second… it’s just overwhelming, you know?” We had been together for seven years. Every nerve ending in my body was screaming. I was seconds away from tearing the restaurant apart with my bare hands, but then the door to the private dining room opened. Connor walked in. He froze when he saw me, shooting me a lethal, warning glare. Blair hooked her arm through mine, insisting we order. I sat there like a corpse, paralyzed by the sheer sociopathy of it all, until she excused herself to the restroom. The second the door shut, Connor leaned over and pressed the back of his hand to my forehead. “You look terrible. Are you still recovering from last week? I can get you a private doctor.” I violently slapped his hand away. Hot, humiliating tears spilled over my eyelashes. “Don’t touch me! Keep your fake fucking sympathy to yourself! You two have been sleeping together for seven years behind my back. Are you getting off on this? Watching me sit here like a moron?” Connor sighed, a heavy, long-suffering sound, and reached out, pulling me into a forceful embrace. “I know I’m a piece of shit. But if you’re already depressed, why did you come here just to torture yourself? Love isn’t rational, Nat. You just need to accept it.” “Stop crying,” he murmured against my hair. “Whatever you want in the divorce, it’s yours. It’s been seven years. Seeing you cry like this actually makes me feel bad.” I thrashed against him, trying to push him away, just as the dining room door swung open. Blair stood there, tears streaming down her face. She stormed across the room and slapped me across the cheek with everything she had. “We’ve been friends for twenty years, and you’re trying to seduce my boyfriend?! You cheap, homewrecking slut!” Her diamond ring tore a long, bleeding gash down my cheek. The commotion drew a crowd. Diners from the main floor were peering in, phones already out. I was shaking with a rage so pure it felt like electricity. I raised my hand to hit her back. “We’ve been married for seven years! You’re the homewrecker!” But before my hand could make contact, a violent force shoved me backward. I hit the floor hard. The back of my skull slammed against the mahogany wainscoting. Black spots exploded in my vision, accompanied by a nauseating wave of pain. Blair ran out of the room, sobbing hysterically. Connor looked down at me, his hand twitching like he wanted to help me up, but panic won out. He turned and sprinted after her. “Blair! Wait, she’s lying!” I lay slumped on the floor, the blood from my cheek dripping onto my collar. The crowd closed in. The murmurs grew louder. The flashes from their camera phones blinded me. Connor was the newest golden boy of the Silicon Valley tech scene. Blair was the gorgeous, Ivy League-educated researcher returning triumphantly from abroad. It didn’t take a genius to predict the fallout. By morning, the footage of our fight, coupled with the trending hashtag #WhoIsTheRealHomewrecker, was the number one story on Twitter and TikTok. The internet was a warzone, but then Connor dropped the nuke. He released an official PR statement on his company letterhead. “Blair and I have been deeply in love for a decade. There was no infidelity. There was no ‘other woman’. I simply tried to look out for one of my partner’s childhood friends, who was going through a hard time. I never expected my kindness to be weaponized and misunderstood…” 3 My brain short-circuited. The sheer volume of hatred directed at me was deafening. Blair posted her own tearful video. She stared into the camera, looking heartbroken, saying she never expected her best friend to try and steal her man while she was out of the country. In a matter of hours, my phone became a weapon of mass destruction. The notifications blurred together into a river of vitriol. “She tried to steal her best friend’s man? Gross. Talk about biting the hand that feeds you.” “Keep your friends close and the sluts further away, am I right?” “If you’re so desperate for a man, just go walk the streets!” The dull ache of my empty uterus throbbed in time with my pulse. My bones felt like they were made of lead. I gripped my phone, desperately trying to compile a timeline, screenshots, photos—anything to prove the last seven years of my life actually happened. To prove my innocence. That was when Connor walked through the front door. My voice was trembling so badly I barely recognized it. “Connor, we were together for seven years!” He looked away, pinching the bridge of his nose in irritation. “I already told you I’m a bastard. But Blair is the love of my life. Of course I’m going to protect her over you.” He paused, his tone shifting to that of a disappointed father scolding a toddler. “Natalie, if you ever loved me, just compromise this one last time. Just admit you developed a crush on me and misunderstood our friendship. Blair is pregnant. She can’t handle the stress of a scandal. Besides, you were bullied your whole life. You’re used to people calling you names. You can handle this.” Smack. I slapped him across the face as hard as I could. Through the blur of my tears, I was suddenly thrust back into the past. The Toad. That nickname had clung to me like a shadow. My acne eventually cleared, but the psychological scars never did. When I started my first corporate job, I still wore a medical mask most of the time, terrified to let people see my face. The year I met Connor, he had looked at me—truly looked at me—and his eyes were full of nothing but adoration. “Nat, you don’t even know,” he had whispered the night he proposed. “You are the most breathtakingly beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. I will never, ever let anyone make you feel small again.” I had thought, He’s so good. I’m so lucky. My stomach violently heaved. I turned away, dry-heaving into the sink. “Connor, I know you want out. Fine. I’ll give you the divorce. I won’t ask for a dime. Just go online, tell the truth, clear my name, and I’ll disappear. You can have each other.” I wiped my mouth with the back of a trembling hand. “But if you don’t, I will.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. He muttered a quiet, “I’m sorry.” “We can talk about the divorce later,” he said softly. Then, he made a phone call. Within minutes, three burly men in suits entered the house. They systematically turned the place upside down. Before I could react, one of them wrenched my phone out of my grip. He was stripping me of my only way to defend myself. I stared at the man standing in my kitchen, a man who felt like a total stranger. “Connor,” I whispered. “You are repulsive.” A flicker of something complicated crossed his eyes, but he quickly masked it. “You don’t look well. I’m having a nutritionist sent over. Take the next two days to cool off and think about what I said. Nat, I’m only giving you two days.” The front door slammed. The deadbolt clicked into place. I was locked in. Seven years of marriage, obliterated in an instant. I raged. I cried. I held onto my last shred of dignity like a life raft. But two days came and went, and Connor didn’t return. Instead, one of his private security guards unlocked the door. “Mr. Shen had your grandmother transferred from her care facility this morning.” A bomb went off in my skull. I lunged for the door, screaming, but the men easily shoved me back inside. I dropped to my knees. I threw away every ounce of pride I had left and begged them, sobbing, to let me go. They stared at me like I was a piece of furniture. “Mr. Shen gave strict orders. You aren’t to leave the premises.” I sprinted to the kitchen, smashed a glass against the counter, and pressed the jagged edge hard against my own throat. The guards panicked. One of them immediately dialed Connor and put him on speaker. “Why did you take her?!” I screamed, the glass digging into my skin. “You know what that car accident did to her brain! She doesn’t understand what’s happening! Please, Connor, I’m begging you, send her back!” The background noise on his end was deafening—the hum of a massive crowd, the popping of camera flashes. Connor was silent for a long time. “I didn’t have a choice, Nat. You wouldn’t play ball. I need her to say a few words to the press to clear this up.” It felt like someone had taken a baseball bat to my skull. I knew exactly what he was doing. “Connor, please,” I begged, my voice cracking. “She’s not lucid. She can’t handle a crowd like that. You can’t do this to her!” When Connor’s startup was on the verge of bankruptcy, it was my Nana—my sweet, confused Nana—who had quietly sold her vintage gold locket, our only family heirloom, to give him the cash to make payroll. “Connor, if you put her on that stage, I swear to God I will kill myself!” 4 There was a heavy pause on the line before he replied, his voice devoid of warmth. “Relax, Natalie. I’m keeping an eye on her. She’ll be fine.” The line went dead. Every wire in my brain snapped. I tore through the house, smashing everything in sight. I threw myself against the windows. Glass shattered, slicing deep into my forearms and my neck. Blood poured down my skin, soaking into my clothes, coating my hands. In a blind, feral rage, I turned the bloody glass shard on the guards. The sheer lunacy in my eyes made them step back. I bolted out the door, my legs trembling so violently I could barely stand, and flagged down a car. By the time I shoved my way into the hotel ballroom where the press conference was being held, I froze. Connor was on stage, down on one knee in front of a massive media presence, proposing to Blair. The pink diamond in his hand had to be worth millions. It looked nothing like the four-hundred-dollar sterling silver band he had let me pick out seven years ago. “Nat, I promise, one day I’ll buy you the biggest diamond in the world,” he had said with tears in his eyes. I had worn that cheap ring like a badge of honor for seven years. Now, he could effortlessly buy the most expensive jewel in the room. But what we had built was cheap. It would always be cheap. I ignored the agonizing pain in my chest and scanned the blindingly bright room for my grandmother. I couldn’t find her. Not until the proposal ended, and the crowd erupted into applause. Connor stood up, took the microphone, and gestured to the wings. Staff members wheeled my Nana onto the brightly lit stage. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Connor announced smoothly. “This is the biological grandmother of the other woman involved in this unfortunate rumor. We felt it would be most persuasive if she cleared the air herself.” My heart stopped beating. My fragile, tiny grandmother stared out at the sea of flashing lights, her legs visibly shaking. She had clearly been drilled on exactly what to say, and she began reciting the words mechanically, her voice trembling. “I… I failed to raise my granddaughter right… It was her fault… She tried to ruin their beautiful relationship…” Watching the only person who had ever truly loved me being paraded out like a circus animal to parrot her own granddaughter’s destruction… It felt like a giant hand had reached into my chest and crushed my organs. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t stand. But suddenly, Nana blinked. The confusion cleared from her milky eyes, replaced by a fierce, maternal panic. She gripped the microphone stand and wailed. “No! My Natty is a good girl! She’s married to him! She didn’t ruin anything!” The ballroom erupted. Journalists, smelling blood in the water, surged forward like a pack of wolves, shoving microphones and cameras right into my grandmother’s face. Connor’s face contorted in panic. He lunged forward, grabbing Nana’s arm, trying to force her back to the script. “Nana, you’re confused, tell them you misspoke—” Between Connor’s harsh reprimands, the aggressively shouting reporters, and the blinding strobes, the stage devolved into pure chaos. The sensory overload shattered whatever fragile grip Nana had left on reality. She began to scream, thrashing wildly. A dark stain spread across her trousers as she lost control of her bladder in sheer terror. She turned and tried to run. But the press wouldn’t let her. They formed a human wall, pushing closer, desperate for the shot. I fought my way through the thick crowd, screaming until my vocal cords tore. “Leave her alone! Stop! Please!” But my voice was drowned out by the mob. And then—a sickening, hollow thud echoed over the sound system. The room went dead silent. The crowd parted. Nana lay at the bottom of the stage stairs. Her head was resting at an unnatural angle. A thick, dark pool of blood was already spreading rapidly from beneath her white hair. I dropped to my knees beside her. I placed trembling fingers against her neck. Nothing. The world went completely, terrifyingly quiet. I couldn’t hear the gasps, the shouting, the sirens. Someone called 911. Paramedics rushed in. I followed the stretcher out of the hotel like a wind-up toy, moving without feeling. Connor ran after me, his face the color of ash. “Nat…” I turned and looked at him. I felt nothing. Absolutely nothing. “Connor,” I said, my voice dead. “You’ve been wanting that divorce, right?” “You’ve got it.”

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This was the third time I’d been “welcomed” back into the Mercer empire, and frankly, I was over it. The fire in my gut had burned out, replaced by a cold, practical numbness. When Brianna “tripped” and tumbled down the grand marble staircase, I didn’t wait for the inevitable trial. Before the echoes of her staged sob could even fade, I stepped forward and held out my metaphorical wrists. “I did it. I pushed her. Go ahead, ground me, send me away—whatever makes you feel better.” The silence that followed was thick with the family’s collective disappointment. I heard the familiar whispers: If only Brianna were the one related to us by blood. I didn’t flinch. I just turned on my heel and walked away. I was done fighting. I was done screaming into the void of their favoritism. But the strange thing about the Mercers was that as soon as I stopped caring, they started acting like I was the one hurting them. “Why are you acting like a stranger in your own home?” my mother asked, her eyes rimmed with theatrical red. My oldest brother, Harrison, tightened his jaw, his brow furrowed in that classic ‘stern CEO’ look. “Is this some new tactic to make us feel guilty, Madeline?” Then there was Tyler, the brother who hated me most. He let out a sharp, jagged laugh. “What’s the angle this time, Maddie? What are you plotting?” I wasn’t plotting anything. In the six months since they’d “found” me, I’d been kicked out twice. I’d tasted the bitterness of the gutter and the exhaustion of back-breaking labor. I’d learned my lesson. Why beg for scraps of love from people who didn’t have any to give? Instead, I was going to squeeze this lifestyle for every drop it was worth. The elite education, the high-end tutors, the networking. As for the “Mercer family love”? It wasn’t even worth the price of the air they used to talk about it. 1 This was the third time I’d moved back into the Mercer estate. I had officially entered my “I don’t give a damn” era. When Brianna fell, I intercepted the accusations before they could even leave their mouths. “Yeah, I did it. My fault. Sentence me already.” Harrison, the first one to burst out of his study, froze. He looked at me, then back at the stairs. “Why would I punish you for that? You were on the first floor. Brianna was on the second. You weren’t even near her.” I blinked. Right. I’d spent too long back with my foster parents—the Millers. Life there was a relentless cycle of waking up before dawn, scrubbing floors until midnight, and narrowly escaping being sold off to some local creep after they tried to force me to drop out of school. When you live in survival mode for that long, your reflexes get a little… twitchy. “Oh,” I said, my voice flat and polite. “Muscle memory, I guess. My bad.” Harrison stared at me, speechless. He didn’t launch into his usual lecture about ‘decorum’ or ‘sisterly bonds.’ I figured I’d ruined his rhythm by confessing too fast, so I tried to be helpful. “Do you want to start the lecture over? I can go stand in the corner if it helps the process.” His frown deepened, his lips thinning into a hard line, but he stayed silent. When it became clear he wasn’t going to say anything, I shrugged and turned to leave. That’s when Tyler made his grand entrance. He looked at me, then at Brianna clutching her ankle, and his temper hit boiling point instantly. “Madeline! You’ve been back for five minutes and you’re already bullying her?” He marched toward me, pointing a finger in my face. “Haven’t you learned a damn thing? You want to be tossed out on the street again? Is that it?” I felt the blood drain from my face—a lingering ghost of the old fear. I looked at Harrison, but he averted his eyes, refusing to explain that I hadn’t been near the stairs. Our mother rushed past me, ignoring my existence entirely to scoop Brianna into her arms. I felt a ghost of a smile touch my lips. “You’re right,” I said, my voice devoid of emotion. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have been standing near the light. I probably cast a shadow that dazzled her eyes and made the poor, precious girl lose her footing.” Tyler choked on his next insult. “What is wrong with your attitude!” “Go to your room and think about what you’ve done!” My father’s roar echoed from the landing above. “Understood,” I said. No arguing. No crying. No pleading my case. Every time I’d tried to defend myself in the past, it only ended in more pain. My mother looked up, startled by my lack of drama. She looked like she wanted to say something, but Brianna let out a soft, melodic whimper. “Oh, my sweet girl,” Mom cooed, turning back to her. “Where does it hurt? Let Mommy see… Honestly, Madeline, why must you always be so lurking? You know how sensitive Brianna is.” There it was. If people love you, they find reasons to justify your existence. If they don’t, even your silence is a provocation. I didn’t stay to watch the rest of the performance. I went to my room, shut the door, and turned the lock. I lay on my bed, staring at the intricate crown molding on the ceiling. Outside, I could hear the muffled sounds of laughter and pampered concern. I didn’t fit here. I never would. Not when I was screaming for attention, and certainly not now that I was fading into the background. I sat up, wiped a stray thought from my mind, and pulled out my SAT prep books. If you can’t join the circle, stop trying to break the door down. While they were playing ‘Happy Family’ downstairs, I was going to out-study, out-work, and out-hustle every single one of them. You guys enjoy the party; I’m busy building an exit strategy. 2 The first time I stepped into the Mercer mansion, I felt like a glitch in a high-definition movie. I was wearing scuffed sneakers and a faded hoodie, my heart hammering against my ribs. Across from me stood Brianna, draped in soft pink silk, flanked by Harrison and Tyler like she was a royal being guarded by her knights. They didn’t look at me with joy. Especially Tyler. He stepped in front of Brianna, his eyes narrowing as if I were a common thief coming to snatch his favorite toy. Back then, I couldn’t wrap my head around it. I was the one with their blood in my veins. I was the sister they had lost. Brianna was the one who had lived my life, stolen my years of comfort. But no one saw it that way. Brianna was “perfect.” She played the cello, excelled at ballet, and had the kind of effortless grace that only comes from never having been hungry. Who wouldn’t prefer the polished diamond over the jagged rock? Dinner was always a highlight reel of her achievements. “Brianna won first chair!” “Brianna was invited to the debutante planning committee!” “Brianna placed in the top of her class! She’s so gifted.” No one looked at the ugly duckling at the end of the table. Even my mother, who had been so emotional when the DNA test first came back, fell into the rhythm of Brianna-first. She’d serve Brianna’s favorite dishes. She’d laugh at Brianna’s jokes. When they went shopping on Fifth Avenue, she’d gravitate toward colors that suited Brianna’s complexion, not mine. I realized quickly that I couldn’t compete with Brianna’s “charm.” I didn’t have the training or the pedigree. All I had was my brain. So, I studied. I survived on three hours of sleep, adapting to the grueling standards of their private prep school. When finals came, I placed in the top ten. It wasn’t the number one spot I used to hold back in the rural district, but in this cutthroat environment, it was a miracle. Finally, I had something better than Brianna. I remember clutching my report card, my palms sweating. I imagined the pride in my parents’ eyes. I imagined Tyler finally acknowledging that I belonged. But there was no praise. Only an interrogation. It started with a “well-meaning” comment from Brianna: “Madeline is so amazing. Everyone said that physics exam was impossible, and she barely spent a month in our curriculum. It’s almost… unbelievable. People are saying she must have had the answers beforehand.” They didn’t even hesitate. They couldn’t believe the “rural girl” could outsmart their golden child. My father slapped me. My mother pulled Brianna away as if my “dishonesty” were contagious. “Madeline, you can fail,” she whispered, looking heartbroken. “But a Mercer does not cheat.” That was the first time they sent me back to the Millers. For “lack of character.” The second time I was brought back, I learned to keep my mouth shut. Until the night of the Charity Gala. Brianna accused me of stealing a diamond tennis bracelet. I’d seen the trap coming and caught it on my phone—proof that she had slipped it into my bag herself. I thought I’d won. I thought I’d shown them the truth. Instead, my father dragged me into his study. His first words weren’t an apology. They were: “Do you have any idea how much embarrassment you caused this family tonight?” I stared at him, stunned. “Even if Brianna made a mistake, you should have handled it privately. You didn’t have to humiliate her in front of our guests,” he said, rubbing his temples. “But she lied… she tried to frame me…” I stammered. My mother slapped me then. “Madeline, why must you always try to tear her down?” They didn’t look at me with guilt. They looked at me with exhaustion. So, I was exiled a second time. For “not being a team player.” For “failing to see the big picture.” 3 The next morning, I stepped out of the house with my backpack slung over one shoulder. Harrison’s sleek black Audi was idling in the driveway. He and Tyler were already inside. A second later, Brianna darted past me, her hair perfectly curled, and hopped into the back seat. I stopped. Usually, Harrison only drove Brianna. I was supposed to wait for the family driver to take me in the SUV. But Harrison didn’t pull away. I could feel his gaze on me through the tinted glass. I adjusted my bag and stared at the pavement, pretending I didn’t notice. “Harrison, come on! I’m going to be late for rehearsal!” Brianna’s voice drifted out through the cracked window. Harrison grunted, then called out: “Are you getting in or not?” I looked up, meeting his eyes in the side mirror. I glanced at Brianna, who was pouting, and shook my head. “No thanks. I’ll wait for the driver.” When I’d first come back this time, I’d tried to ride with them. That night, Brianna had broken out in a “stress rash,” claiming the car felt “unclean.” The look my parents gave me was enough. They thought I was literally ‘dirty.’ Harrison paused. “Get in. The driver is off today.” I froze. Off? No one told me. I caught sight of Tyler and Brianna in the car, stifling smirks. They’d known. They’d wanted me to stand out here like an idiot waiting for a car that wasn’t coming. The familiar sting of exclusion hit me, but I pushed it down. I was over it. “Actually, I think I’ll take the bus. I could use the walk,” I said with a polite smile. Harrison’s brow furrowed. From the passenger seat, Tyler sneered. “Let her go, Harrison. She’s used to roughing it. Why bother with someone who’d rather be a martyr?” “Hurry up, Harry! I have a solo today!” Brianna whined. Harrison shifted into gear and pulled away. “You shouldn’t waste your breath on someone so ungrateful,” I heard Tyler’s voice fading as the car sped down the long driveway. I caught a snippet of his laugh: “Walking to the bus stop? That’s a three-mile hike down the hill. Let the peasant sweat, haha…” I rolled my eyes. I walked straight to the garage and pulled out the beat-up mountain bike I’d brought back from the Millers. I wasn’t a martyr. I just wasn’t a fool. When I reached the school gates, I hesitated for a second. The elite atmosphere of St. Jude’s Academy always felt like a suffocating cloud of old money. “Well, if it isn’t the ghost of Mercer past!” I didn’t even have to turn around. Nate, the youngest son of the local tech mogul, was leaning against a locker, a smirk playing on his lips. “I heard you got shipped off again. What happened? Did you forget which fork to use?” Beside him, Sophie—the daughter of a jewelry tycoon—shoved him hard. “Shut it, Nate. You’re such a prick.” Sophie was the closest thing I had to a friend. She was blunt, wealthy, and didn’t give a damn about social hierarchies. “Maddie, seriously,” she whispered, leaning in. “Just move into my guest house. My mom has been wanting a second daughter who actually has a brain. That ‘Stepford Sister’ of yours is driving everyone insane.” I laughed, but didn’t commit. “Hey, Maddie! You still taking commissions? I’ve got three essays and a lab report. Name your price.” A rounder guy, Becca, squeezed through the crowd, her eyes practically sparkling. Her family owned a massive restaurant franchise. This was a school for the one percent—kids who were brilliant at networking but hated the actual grunt work of being a student. For them, homework was a chore. For me, it was a revenue stream. The teachers knew I did it. As long as I wasn’t literally taking their exams for them, they turned a blind eye because my work was better than the kids could ever produce. “I’m back in business,” I said, nodding. A small crowd gathered. Some were genuinely curious where I’d been; others were placing bets on how long I’d stay this time. Becca shooed them away. It was funny, really. These spoiled, arrogant rich kids were infinitely more straightforward than my own family. You knew exactly where you stood with them. Becca was especially good to me. When my lunch card was empty and I tried to hide in the library to drink water and suppress the hunger, she’d drag me to the cafeteria and order enough food for five people. One day, I asked her why she bothered. She’d rubbed her chin thoughtfully and said, “I don’t know. Maybe I just have a hero complex? Or maybe you just look like a stray kitten that needs a sandwich.” She grinned. “Besides, my goal in life is to make sure none of my friends are thinner than me. It’s a branding thing.” It was a ridiculous answer. It was perfect. It almost made me cry. 4 For the next week, the “driver” situation didn’t change. The Mercers seemed to have collectively forgotten I needed a way to get to school. I didn’t remind them. I enjoyed the bike ride; it gave me time to clear the mental cobwebs. The only downside was Tyler. Harrison was busy with the firm, so Tyler had taken over driving Brianna. Whenever he saw me on the road, he’d floor the accelerator, intentionally blowing a cloud of exhaust in my face. “Move it, peasant! You’re blocking the view!” he’d yell, while Brianna giggled in the passenger seat. One afternoon, I’d had enough. As Tyler’s SUV slowed down to make the turn into our estate, he leaned out to shout another insult. I didn’t even look at him. As he passed, I uncapped my water bottle and launched the entire contents through his open window. “MADELINE, YOU LITTLE—” I squeezed the rest of the bottle into the car for good measure. The screech of his brakes and Brianna’s high-pitched scream echoed down the road. It was the most satisfying sound I’d heard all year. When I finally reached the house, Brianna was waiting by the front door. She looked smug. “You’re going to get kicked out again, Maddie. Number three? Or is it four? I’ve lost count. You really are a glitch in the system, aren’t you?” I stopped and looked at her, my expression ice-cold. “What are you talking about?” She just laughed and skipped inside. I frowned, noticing Harrison’s car in the driveway. He was leaning against the hood, watching me. “Madeline,” he called out. I looked away, heading for the side entrance. I could feel his mood shifting—the air around him turning heavy and dark. I tried to walk past him, but he stepped into my path. “Don’t give me that look. This family doesn’t owe you anything,” he said, his voice low. “If anything, you owe us for every second of luxury you’ve wasted.” I stopped. “Is that what you wanted to tell me? Or are you just rehearsing for the next time you discard me?” I didn’t wait for an answer. I brushed past him and opened the front door. SLAP. The blow was so sudden my head snapped to the side. My ears rang. The metallic taste of blood bloomed in my mouth. “Down on your knees! Now!” my father bellowed. I slowly turned my head, my vision blurred. The whole family was there. Brianna was wearing a tiny, triumphant smile. Tyler looked like he was watching a premiere of his favorite movie. My mother was silent, her eyes fixed on the floor. “What did I do?” I asked, my voice trembling but even. My father grabbed a glass of water from the side table and hurled it at my feet. Shards of glass grazed my ankle. “You have the nerve to ask? You’re still pretending?” “Dad, you know how she is,” Tyler added, fueling the fire. “She’s a stone. You could throw her in the ocean and she’d never soften. Just get rid of her. She’s a parasite. She’ll never be one of us.” Brianna stepped forward, playing the peacemaker. “Dad, maybe she just doesn’t know better? Growing up in that… environment… she probably has habits she can’t break. Don’t be too hard on her.” Her words were gasoline on the flames. My father’s face was purple with rage. But before he could scream again, there was a loud THUD. I had dropped to my knees. Straight and stiff, right onto the hard marble floor.

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