Category: English

When I opened my eyes, I was thrust straight into the climax of a toxic alpha-male fantasy. He was standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, a lit cigar clamped between his teeth, pointing a manicured finger at the illuminated world map on the mahogany wall. “Finance,” he barked, his voice dripping with that manufactured baritone of a man who watched too many Wall Street movies. “I want a hostile takeover of this multinational conglomerate by noon. Money… is no object.” I blinked against the glaring morning light. I looked down at the iPad in my hands, pulling up the master corporate account ledger. Current available balance: $34.50. A laugh ripped out of my throat—a harsh, entirely unladylike snort that echoed in the cavernous penthouse office. “Money isn’t the object?” I asked, my voice cutting through the heavy silence. “The object is that we have no money. Even that pre-embargo Cuban you’re smoking to look intimidating? I put that on my personal American Express yesterday.” God, what a nightmare. I had somehow woken up trapped in the body of a punching-bag Chief Financial Officer in a trashy, male-gazey corporate romance novel. The plot was infuriatingly predictable: the arrogant billionaire protagonist, desperate to impress the doe-eyed female lead, casually orders his CFO to mobilize three billion dollars in ten minutes to destroy a rival company. In the original story, the CFO couldn’t produce the money, was fired for “incompetence,” blacklisted from the entire financial sector, and eventually died of exhaustion working minimum-wage delivery jobs. It was the kind of toxic narrative that made me want to get my stomach pumped. 01 “That’s impossible! My company is valued at a billion dollars! How could we possibly only have thirty-four dollars?” “Valuation is valuation. Cash flow is cash flow,” I said, my tone as flat and cold as the marble desk between us. “Preston,” I continued, leaning back in my ergonomic chair. “Last week, to celebrate Madison’s birthday, you rented out every digital billboard in Times Square. That was four million dollars.” “The week before that, you decided to take Madison to see the penguins in Antarctica. The non-refundable deposit on the Gulfstream G650 was seven million.” “And before that, you said you were feeling ‘existentially unfulfilled’ and blew twenty-five million at the roulette tables in Vegas.” With every line item I listed, Preston Harrington’s perfectly tanned face darkened by a shade. “Shut up! That’s pocket change! I am the CEO. What’s the problem with spending a little money?” Humiliated and furious, he brought the cigar to his lips, a desperate attempt to regain his dominant posture. I gave him a dead-eyed stare. “That box of cigars was nine hundred dollars.” Preston’s hand froze. He offered a disdainful sneer. “What? You want a puff? I don’t mind throwing you a bone.” I calmly pulled my phone from my blazer pocket, opened the Amex app, pulled up the itemized receipt, and slid it across the desk until it bumped against his knuckles. “No. What I mean is, you forced me to put it on my personal card last night because the corporate card was declined. Since the company account currently holds the exact price of a cheap lunch for two, I need you to reimburse me that nine hundred dollars. Today is my billing cycle cutoff, and I refuse to let my credit score take a hit because you wanted to play mob boss.” “Natalie! You—!” Preston hurled the cigar onto the floor, the expensive tobacco instantly crumbling into a messy, pathetic heap on the Persian rug. “You dare nickel-and-dime me? You want reimbursement for this garbage? I can see you don’t want to work here anymore! Get out! Pack your desk and get the hell out of my building!” Ah, there it was. The classic line. I didn’t move a muscle. Instead, I reached into my leather briefcase, pulled out a thick, beautifully bound copy of my executive employment contract, and slammed it onto the desk. The crack of the heavy paper hitting the wood was deafening, far more impactful than his little temper tantrum. “You can fire me,” I said, my voice dropping into a register of absolute calm. “I am the CFO. I’ve been here three years. My base salary is six hundred thousand a year.” I tapped the contract with a manicured fingernail. “According to the termination clauses we negotiated, along with state labor laws regarding wrongful termination without cause, you owe me my full severance package, unvested stock options, unused PTO, and overtime. Let’s round it down to be generous. Four million, five hundred thousand dollars.” I opened my palm and held it out toward him. “Cut the check, and I’ll walk out that door right now.” “Short me a single penny, and I will file a lawsuit so fast your head will spin. And while I’m at it, I’ll file an injunction to freeze your personal assets. Including that matte black Ferrari downstairs that you haven’t even registered yet.” Preston froze. He was an arrogant trust-fund baby, and his brain wasn’t exactly firing on all cylinders, but even he understood the words ‘freeze the Ferrari.’ “What the hell is wrongful termination? I own this entire company! I can tell whoever I want to get lost! The law? In this building, I am the law!” It was then that Madison finally seemed to realize what was happening. She peeked out from behind Preston’s broad shoulders, her large, doe-like eyes brimming with perfectly calibrated, shimmering tears. “Miss Natalie, how can you talk to Preston about money right now? It’s so… tacky.” She placed a delicate, trembling hand on his chest. “We’re all here because we believe in a dream. Preston is just a little stressed. Can’t you just apologize and soften up a bit?” I rolled my eyes so hard I thought I might permanently damage my optic nerves. “A dream? My dream is getting paid my contractual salary to not deal with this circus.” I leveled a glare at her. “And don’t call me ‘Miss Natalie’ like we’re sisters. My mother only had one child, and she certainly didn’t give birth to a manipulative little pick-me girl.” “You…” Madison’s lower lip quivered. She swayed, looking like a frail Victorian woman about to swoon. Preston looked absolutely heartbroken for her. He pointed a shaking finger toward the heavy oak doors and roared, “Security! Security! Get this greedy, money-grubbing bitch out of my sight!” The heavy doors swung open. Davis, the head of security, marched in, flanked by two burly guards. Preston pointed at me. “Her! Throw her out!” Davis puffed out his chest and took a step toward me. I didn’t flinch. I just took a slow, deliberate sip from my coffee. “Davis,” I said smoothly. “Payroll is two weeks behind. If I get physically removed from this building today, there’s no authorized signatory left in the finance department. That means your paychecks are permanently stalled.” I paused, letting the silence stretch out in the room. “Oh, and as everyone here just heard, the corporate account has exactly thirty-four dollars in it. If you boys want to see your rent money this month, I suggest you think very carefully about whose orders you follow.” Davis’s expression shifted instantly. The aggressive set of his shoulders dropped. He slowly turned around, facing Preston, and gave a stiff, formal nod. “Mr. Harrington. As long as the CFO is still officially employed here, we cannot lay hands on her. It’s against corporate policy.” Without waiting for a response, Davis turned on his heel and marched his men right back out, quietly and politely clicking the door shut behind them. Preston looked like a blood vessel was about to burst in his forehead. In a blind rage, he grabbed the heavy crystal ashtray off his desk, rearing his arm back to hurl it at my head. I immediately raised my phone, the camera already recording. “Throw it,” I said softly. “The moment that leaves your hand, it’s aggravated assault. Plus, you’ll be destroying company property. That’s a Baccarat crystal ashtray. Four thousand dollars. Corporate asset.” His arm hung suspended in the air. He was paralyzed—too proud to back down, too terrified of the consequences to throw it. Finally, desperate to maintain his alpha-male facade in front of the whimpering Madison, he slammed the ashtray back down, yanked open a drawer, and violently scribbled onto a piece of company letterhead. “Here! An IOU for four point five million! Payable in seven days! Now, can you get the hell out?” I plucked the paper from his fingers. I checked the date, the signature, and the corporate seal. I gave the paper a satisfying flick. “I’ll accept the promissory note, Preston. But I’m not going anywhere.” “Are you playing me?” he snarled. “No. I’m protecting my investment.” I stood up, slowly smoothing out an invisible wrinkle in my tailored blazer. “Given the extreme volatility of this company’s financial situation, and to prevent you from liquidating assets or fleeing the country before my check clears, I will be anchoring myself to the CFO’s desk. I will monitor every single cent that flows in and out of this building.” I looked down at him, my expression blank. “Meeting adjourned.” 02 For the sake of my four-and-a-half million dollars, I became the most dedicated employee in the history of Harrington Enterprises. I literally pulled a chair up to the door of the finance department. Every single reimbursement request had to physically pass through my hands. Early the next morning, Madison ran out of the finance corridor in tears, sprinting straight to Preston’s office. Five minutes later, Preston stormed over to my desk, a stack of crumpled receipts in his fist. He slammed them down right in front of my keyboard. “Natalie! You’re deliberately trying to mess with us, aren’t you? Why the hell did you deny Madison’s expense reports?” I took my time. I slowly leaned forward, picked up the receipts, and smoothed them out. I didn’t raise my voice, but I made sure it carried across the open-plan office where dozens of employees were suddenly pretending not to listen. I began to read them aloud. “Five Hermes Himalayan Birkin bags. Unit price: One hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Memo line: Office Supplies.” “Three Bulgari Serpenti diamond necklaces. Unit price: Ninety thousand dollars. Memo line: Occupational Safety Gear.” I held up the receipt for the Birkins, waving it lightly in the air between us. “Preston. Are you planning on sending our mid-level sales reps door-to-door carrying limited-edition Hermes? Or did you want the cleaning staff wearing Bulgari diamonds while they scrub the toilets?” “Are you seriously classifying this as office supplies? When the IRS audits us, how exactly do you want me to spin this fairy tale to the federal government?” A muffled snicker echoed from the cubicles behind us. Preston had skin thicker than a rhinoceros. He just jutted his chin out, looking entirely justified. “I am the CEO. If I say it’s office supplies, it’s office supplies! Who the hell does the IRS think they are? Tell the director of the agency to come see me personally!” “The director of the IRS is probably a little busy to meet with you,” I said, the amusement draining from my voice, leaving only cold, hard reality. “But the federal investigators from the Criminal Investigation division will be thrilled to make your acquaintance.” I slapped the receipts back onto the desk. “This is called corporate fraud. With an amount exceeding a million dollars, the mandatory minimum is three years in federal lockup. Maximum is ten.” “If you want to spend the next decade making license plates in an orange jumpsuit, be my guest. But leave me out of it. I am not signing off on this.” Madison appeared behind him, sniffling into a tissue. “Miss Natalie, how could you say such awful things about Preston?” she cried, her voice pitching up into that cloying, breathless register. “This is all for the company’s image! When I carry a nice designer bag to client meetings, people respect Harrington Enterprises more! How is that not an office supply?” “Client meetings?” I looked her up and down. “Madison, the only ‘business’ you successfully negotiated last month was booking two AMC movie tickets for you and Preston.” “For that kind of business, a reusable grocery tote would be a flex.” Madison let out a loud, theatrical sob, buried her face in her hands, and ran away. Preston’s heart bled for her. He pointed a furious finger at my face. “Fine! You won’t approve it? I have my own money! I’ll authorize the transfer myself!” He yanked out his phone, his thumbs flying aggressively across the screen to initiate a wire transfer. I casually glanced over at the account number on his screen and offered a helpful, quiet warning. “Preston, that’s the restricted capital injection account. You might have override access, but those funds were strictly earmarked by the board of investors for the new tech acquisition. You use that to buy your secretary a purse, and you’re crossing the line into gross embezzlement.” “Shut your mouth! This is my family’s company! I’ll spend the money however I damn well please!” “I’m going to have to report this financial risk to your father.” At the mention of ‘your father,’ Preston’s thumb actually twitched. But the arrogance quickly seeped back into his posture. “My father is skiing in Gstaad. He doesn’t give a shit about this trivial administrative garbage! Stop trying to act like you have power over me! Transfer successful!” He shoved the screen in my face. “Let’s see what you can do about it now!” The phone chimed with a crisp ding. The funds had cleared. Preston looked at me with triumphant, childish glee. I just nodded, my face completely impassive. I sat back down at my computer, opened my email client, and attached the audio recording of our conversation I’d just taken on my Apple Watch. I added the screenshots of the transfer logs, and the scanned copies of the absurd Hermes receipts. I bundled it all into a zipped folder titled: Preston Harrington Liability Documentation. Recipient: Arthur Harrington, Chairman of the Board. BCC: Natalie (Personal Email). Dear Chairman Harrington, Please find attached documentation regarding a direct override of restricted funds initiated by CEO Preston Harrington today. Given the severe nature of the unauthorized expenditure and the associated federal tax and criminal liabilities, I am formally logging this incident. Furthermore, the CEO explicitly bypassed finance department approval protocols to execute this transfer. This is an official notice of record. I clicked ‘Send.’ As long as the paper trail was faster than the crime, the fallout would never touch me. 03 The third day brought a catastrophe that made the handbags look like child’s play. Desperate to prove he was a visionary leader who didn’t need my oversight, Preston secretly opened negotiations with our biggest rival, Mercer Holdings. Mercer sent over a drafted contract. When I finally managed to get my hands on a copy and read it, my vision actually blurred. I had to grip the edge of my desk to keep from passing out. There were more hidden landmines in this single document than in an active war zone. The penalty for breach of contract was ten times the total agreement value. And the delivery deadline for the manufacturing order? Tomorrow. They might as well have printed “WE ARE GOING TO BANKRUPT YOU” in bold red letters across the header. I burst through the heavy glass doors of the boardroom just as Preston was raising the company’s official corporate seal to stamp the signature page. “Stop! Do not sign that!” I lunged forward, slamming my hand down over his wrist. “Delivery by tomorrow? Unless you have a time machine, it is physically impossible to manufacture that volume! The liquidated damages are three hundred million dollars! You could sell your own organs on the black market and it wouldn’t cover the interest!” Preston shoved me away so hard I stumbled back, my shoulder hitting the oak paneling of the wall. “You lack vision, Natalie! Rules don’t apply to me when I’m operating at this level of dominance!” “I sign this, and I’ll have the factory floor run twenty-four hours straight. If the workers can’t keep up, I’ll fire them all and ruin their lives! Let’s see who dares to slack off!” “The factory workers haven’t been paid since last quarter,” I stated, the cold truth dropping like a lead weight in the room. “The only things guarding the manufacturing plant right now are three stray dogs.” “Shut up! If you don’t want to work here, quit! Stop standing in the way of my empire!” Madison, hovering near the espresso machine, looked at him with starry-eyed devotion. “Preston looks so incredibly masculine when he signs contracts,” she breathed. “Is this that ruthless billionaire charm I’ve read about?” High on her adulation, Preston practically vibrated with ego. He raised his pen again, ready to sign his life away. I let out a long, heavy exhale. I reached inside my blazer and pulled out a different document, placing it gently on the table next to the Mercer contract. “Since you’ve made up your mind, Preston,” I said, my voice shockingly gentle, “before you sign that corporate death warrant, do me a favor and sign this one first.” He glared at it. “What the hell is this?” “Transfer of Fiduciary and Legal Liability.” I uncapped my own Montblanc pen and offered it to him, my expression a picture of pure sincerity. “You’ve been complaining that I’m too controlling, that you want absolute, unquestioned authority over this enterprise, right?” “If you sign this, you become the sole legal guarantor and fiduciary of the company. From this moment on, whatever contracts you sign, whatever funds you transfer, my signature is no longer required. My oversight is removed. You answer to no one. You are the absolute king.” It was my carefully crafted ‘Golden Parachute of Plausible Deniability.’ Once he became the sole legal representative, when the company inevitably defaulted and the FBI came knocking, he would be the primary target. As a mere W-2 employee and CFO, I would be legally insulated. Preston’s eyes lit up with arrogant delight. “Really? You can’t micromanage me anymore?” “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. You will be the one and only master of your domain.”

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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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Traffic was at a complete standstill on the highway. I clutched the cooler bag and ran. Suddenly, two police officers stopped me. “Someone reported you for transporting contraband.” I froze. I glanced back and spotted Maya, the intern, covering her mouth as she laughed. “That’s her! There are drugs in that box!” I quickly explained, “It’s insulin in this box!” “The patient has diabetic ketoacidosis. The ambulance is stuck in traffic. He needs his injection immediately!” The officers checked and were about to let me go. Maya suddenly shouted: “She’s lying! Insulin is code for drugs! She’s trafficking!” “If you don’t believe me, smash it open and look!” Watching Maya’s triumphant expression, my entire body went cold. If I couldn’t get the insulin to the Mayor within ten minutes, his life would be in danger. No one could bear that consequence. “You can’t smash it!” I shouted desperately. There had been an accident on the highway. The ambulance transporting the Mayor was stuck in traffic. I received a call from the Mayor’s secretary and immediately left the hospital with the insulin. I was the Mayor’s personal physician. Since he took office, I’d performed all his surgeries, major and minor. The Mayor’s secretary had just called me. The Mayor’s entire body was ice cold, and he was losing consciousness. If he didn’t receive his insulin injection within ten minutes, the consequences would be unthinkable! The seconds flew by. Nine minutes left! “Whether it’s drugs or not, we’ll know after we test it,” one officer said. I shook my head desperately, clutching the insulin tightly. “No, the patient can’t wait! I’m begging you!” The Mayor’s secretary had warned me that the Mayor’s condition must remain confidential. So I had to prove my identity and get there as fast as possible. Two hundred meters from the ambulance. Nine minutes left. The officers brought me to their car. I stared hard at Maya. “Before we left, you clearly saw me get the medication from the storage room. All the paperwork was in order.” “Why would you lie? Why are you framing me!” “A life is at stake! Can you handle the responsibility?” Maya was scrolling through short videos on her phone, giggling constantly. Hearing my question, she sighed. “Why are you yelling at me?” “I was just bored and wanted to make a joke.” “How was I supposed to know they’d take it seriously?” At her words, the officers’ expressions changed immediately. They sternly warned Maya: “Maliciously wasting police resources and spreading false information—we can arrest you for this!” Maya snorted, her face full of indifference. “Why are you giving me attitude?” “My dad is the Mayor’s secretary. Keep glaring at me like that and I’ll have you all fired!” She crossed her arms, acting like none of this concerned her. I stared at the time on my watch, my heart in my throat. “Two hundred meters ahead, there’s an ambulance.” “My patient is in there! He’s waiting for me to save his life!” “We can’t delay any longer! You can escort me there to verify everything!” My eyes were red as I pleaded with the officers in the most humble way possible. Right now, I didn’t care about dignity. I had to save the Mayor as quickly as possible! The officers looked hesitant and immediately went to report to their captain. I frantically searched through my phone. Finally, I found my digital medical license and employment verification. The police captain reviewed everything, confirmed my identity, and was about to let me leave. Maya suddenly covered her mouth and laughed. “Officers, let me tell you a story.”

All eyes turned to Maya. She cleared her throat and spoke slowly: “Have you guys seen Breaking Bad? She’s exactly like that.” Maya took a deep breath, acting mysterious: “She makes and sells illegal substances in the hospital basement. I saw it with my own eyes!” “Maya! That’s slander!” I was shaking with rage. Maya was an intern, a nepotism hire. At first, she couldn’t even find a vein to draw blood. I taught her step by step, putting in so much effort. And this is how she repays me? The officers pressed me down hard. Click—they handcuffed me. “Take it for testing immediately!” The insulin pen I’d been desperately protecting was confiscated. I shouted at the top of my lungs. “Please believe me!” “Take me to that ambulance and the truth will come out!” I started crying from desperation. Only eight minutes left! If something happened to the Mayor, no one could handle the consequences! The captain glanced at me and stopped the testing personnel. He told an officer nearby, “Go investigate up ahead.” He helped me up, about to get out of the car. Maya suddenly screamed: “Don’t go over there! Everyone in that vehicle might be her accomplices! They have guns!” “If you let her go, it’ll be dangerous!” The atmosphere immediately became tense. I heard the sound of guns being loaded. In an instant, I was staring down multiple gun barrels. I was so angry my chest felt tight. I bit my lip until it bled, tasting blood in my mouth. “Maya! What do you gain from smearing me like this and hurting me!” Maya laughed until tears came out. She moved next to me and whispered: “Because I need to vent.” “Last time during surgery, I just forgot a gauze sponge in that kid’s stomach, and you criticized me in front of the entire department.” “No one’s ever dared talk to me like that! I lost all my dignity.” I clenched my fists. Maya wasn’t even qualified to perform surgery independently. But the hospital director still let her do it, despite my objections. If I hadn’t checked before closing, that gauze would’ve stayed in that child’s stomach! “You almost killed a child! And you have the nerve to say this?” “Maya! Do you have a heart? You don’t deserve to be a doctor!” Maya spat in my face. She took out her phone to record me, but the captain knocked it out of her hand. “So you’re making this up? Maliciously providing false information?” He questioned Maya coldly. “I was just speculating. I didn’t say I knew everything for sure.” “You guys can’t even take a joke.” “This is so boring.” Maya opened a mobile game, turned the volume to maximum, her face full of indifference. The captain sternly rebuked her: “Second warning!” “One more time and I’m taking you in!” My phone vibrated. A document came through. From Anderson, the Mayor’s secretary—Maya’s father. Worried I might run into trouble, he’d given me the highest clearance. Along with the document came a text message: [The Mayor’s condition is critical! Get here within five minutes!]

I immediately showed the document to the captain. The Mayor’s situation was critical. I couldn’t keep this secret anymore! The captain glanced at it once and his face went pale. He unlocked my handcuffs and prepared to escort me. “Wait!” Maya suddenly pulled up several photos. “Sorry! I lied!” “I’m reporting Christa for organ trafficking!” “Here’s the evidence! She’s trying to flee!” All AI-generated screenshots. They showed me in the hospital’s organ storage facility, trafficking organs with accomplices. Then she pointed at the document: “She’s so bold! She even dared to forge documents!” “She’s trying to run!” “Just control her and you can bust the whole ring!” The captain stared at the screenshots Maya provided. He sternly warned her: “Organ trafficking is a serious crime. If prosecuted, it carries severe legal penalties.” “But if you’re making false accusations again, you’re the one getting arrested!” Maya held her head high, self-righteous: “Why would I be afraid! I’m just reporting!” “Besides, my dad’s the Mayor’s secretary. You can’t arrest me!” I looked at Maya in complete despair, unable to control my emotions anymore. “Maya, are you insane? My patient really is the Mayor!” “His condition can’t wait!” “If something happens to the Mayor, your dad is finished too!” Smack— A sharp slap struck my face. Maya jabbed her finger at my nose. “You evil woman, how dare you curse my dad!” Then she said through gritted teeth: “I’m calling my dad right now!” Maya dialed her father’s number. Several calls went unanswered. She frowned. On the sixth attempt, Anderson picked up. “Maya, I’m in a meeting with the Mayor right now. Talk later.” Maya clapped her hands, laughed out loud, even started humming happily. “You said the Mayor was in danger, but he’s clearly in a meeting with my dad.” “See? You’re cursing the Mayor. Your intentions are evil!” “You should investigate her thoroughly. She might be a spy!” Listening to Maya’s extreme accusations, the captain’s brow furrowed. He called the officers he’d sent to investigate via radio. No response. Then Anderson’s phone rang. I quickly put it on speaker: [Dr. Christa, why aren’t you here yet!] [The Mayor has lost consciousness!] [We’ve tried every emergency measure! Nothing’s working! We’re waiting for your insulin!] [What are you doing! If something happens to the Mayor, you’re going to prison!] Anderson hung up in agitation. He’d given me an ultimatum. Four minutes left. If I could get there and give the Mayor his injection, he’d survive! If I couldn’t make it, everything was over! Everyone was finished!

I broke down crying. “I’m not lying! He really can’t wait!” “You can escort me there under guard!” “The Mayor really is in that ambulance!” The captain quickly helped me up, uncertainty in his eyes. Although the Mayor’s secretary had said the Mayor was in a meeting, what if? After all, someone at the Mayor’s level maintained strict secrecy about everything. If something really went wrong, no one could handle the responsibility. I desperately pointed at the watch face, constantly emphasizing the time to the captain. “She’s tricking you!” Maya grabbed me. “That’s not even my dad’s phone number!” She pulled up her call history to confront me. Arrogantly pointing at Anderson’s private number. “Christa, you liar! How dare you impersonate my dad!” “My dad won’t let you get away with this!” I explained in a trembling voice. Anderson contacted her using his private number. When he called me, it was from the Mayor’s office dedicated line. There was no conflict. “That was clearly Anderson’s voice on the phone. How do you explain that!” I stared hard into Maya’s eyes. Maya was instantly speechless. She anxiously scratched her head. “Please, just escort me there!” “I’ll take full responsibility for any problems!” “If I’m proven guilty, I’ll serve my sentence!” Less than three minutes left! I begged the captain almost desperately. After thinking for several seconds, he nodded. Just as the captain was taking me out of the car, Maya suddenly blocked my path, talking non-stop: “She used a voice changer! That wasn’t my dad on the other end! It’s her lover!” “You don’t know—she loves using voice changers for online relationships!” “She’s really good at it!” “Check her phone!” She desperately pulled at me, refusing to let me leave. Insisting the captain check my phone. “Christa, you’re not getting away today.” “You want to save the person in that ambulance up ahead, I know.” “Must be your family member, right?” “You embarrassed me, so I’m going to make your family member suffer!” Maya leaned close to my ear and smiled maliciously. So she’d known all along I was trying to save someone. So she’d been deliberately blocking me this whole time! Just to get revenge for me criticizing her in public! All my emotions exploded at that moment. I shoved her hard. Maya fell heavily to the ground, wailing. I had no time to deal with her. Clutching the cooler bag, I ran desperately toward the ambulance ahead. The captain followed right behind me. Less than a minute and a half left! Soon I’d be able to save the Mayor! The officer the captain had sent ran over to meet me. The ambulance door opened immediately. Anderson, the Mayor’s secretary, pulled me into the vehicle. Under everyone’s watchful eyes, I opened the cooler and froze instantly. The insulin had vanished. In its place were two lollipops! Maya’s call came through. “Christa, I accidentally put lollipops in there.” “Is the person in the ambulance still alive?” “No worries, my dad will handle it.” Anderson’s face went pale. As Maya laughed, the Mayor took his last breath. The heart monitor flatlined. A deathly silence spread through the vehicle.

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For twenty years, my family never acknowledged my existence. But today they all came. The living room was packed. My dad, my mom, my brother Marcus, Dad’s sister Aunt Lesley, Dad’s brother Uncle John, and several relatives whose names I couldn’t recall. My mom wore a black dress, her eyes red-rimmed, clutching a tissue in her hand. When she saw me come in, she stood up, her lips trembling. “Chloe…” Twenty years. This was the first time she’d called my name so tenderly. I looked at her and said nothing. The lawyer opened his folder. Everyone was waiting for the will Grandma had left me. When I was six, I was sent to live with Grandma. Not the “going to Grandma’s for vacation” kind of visit. I stood at Grandma’s doorstep with a cloth bag containing two changes of clothes and a pair of canvas shoes, watching my mom’s back grow smaller and smaller in the distance. I didn’t cry. A six-year-old doesn’t really understand what “being abandoned” means. I only remember that when my mom left, she was holding Marcus’s hand. Marcus was four that year, wearing a new red winter coat. He held a candied apple on a stick. He glanced back at me once, then turned his head and continued licking his candied apple. My mom never looked back. Grandma stood behind me. After a long time, she sighed. “Come on, let’s go inside.” She took my hand. “Grandma will make you some spaghetti.” Grandma asked me, “Do you miss Mommy?” I said, “Yes.” Grandma said nothing and ladled half a bowl of noodles for me. Later I learned that before my mom dropped me off, she’d said something to Grandma. “Mom, I’m leaving Chloe with you. We really can’t afford to raise two kids.” Can’t afford two kids—so why was I the one who had to leave, and not Marcus? I spent twenty years thinking about that question. The answer was actually quite simple. Marcus was a son. I wasn’t. Grandma’s house was in town. Three tiled rooms with an apple tree planted in the yard. Not big, but clean. Grandma was sixty-two then, still in good health. Every morning she’d get up at five, go to the farmers’ market to buy groceries, come back to make me breakfast, then take me to school. In the afternoon she’d wait for me at the school gate, rain or shine. In summer she’d fan me with a palm-leaf fan. In winter she’d fill a hot water bottle for me. When I had a fever, she’d carry me to the clinic and stay with me in the hallway at three in the morning while I got an IV drip. Everything my mom should have done, Grandma did instead. But I knew Grandma wasn’t Mom. Because every time the school asked me to fill in parent information and I wrote “Grandma,” the teacher would give me an extra look. “Where are your parents?” “Somewhere else.” “Why don’t you live with them?” I didn’t know how to answer. Later I learned a standard response. “My parents are busy with work.” Busy with work. So busy they hadn’t come to see me more than a handful of times in twenty years. I remember when I was seven, the school organized a drawing contest for Christmas. The theme was “My Home.” The other kids drew their mom, dad, and themselves—a family of three, holding hands. I drew Grandma and me. Two people. One apple tree. The teacher looked at it for a long time and said, “This is really good.” She didn’t say “Why are there only two people in your home?” but I saw her eyes turn red. I kept that drawing for a long time. Later it got lost when I moved.

On New Year’s Eve when I was seven, I thought I could go home. Grandma made a phone call. I stood beside her and heard my mom on the other end say, “Don’t come back this year. There’s not much space at home. Marcus just got a new bed, and there’s nowhere for her to sleep.” Nowhere to sleep. Marcus had a new bed. I didn’t even have an old one. Grandma hung up and patted my head. “This year you’ll stay with Grandma. Grandma will make your favorite food.” I ate until my stomach hurt. Grandma smiled. “Eat slowly. No one’s going to take it from you.” Later I learned that during that same New Year, my parents had set up two tables at home, one table full of my brother’s favorite dishes. Family photos were sent to Aunt Lesley’s house and Uncle John’s house. In the photos were my dad, my mom, and Marcus. Not me. Aunt Lesley later told others, “The Scott family just has one son. They treasure him.” Someone asked, “Don’t they have a daughter too?” Aunt Lesley said, “Oh, that one. She’s out in the countryside. The old lady’s taking care of her.” “That one.” She was talking about me. I wasn’t “Chloe.” I was “that one.” In this family’s narrative, I didn’t even deserve a name. When I was nine, Grandma took me to the city to see a doctor. On the way, we stopped by my parents’ house. I stood at the door and saw Marcus’s room—an entire wall of toys, a new computer on the desk, and on the nightstand, a photo of Marcus with my parents at an amusement park. Hanging in the living room was a family portrait. Dad, Mom, Marcus. Three people. I counted twice. Three people. Marcus ran out, looked at me, and frowned. “Mom, who is she?” He didn’t recognize me. My mom poked her head out from the kitchen and glanced at me. “She’s from Grandma’s house. Her name is Chloe.” “From Grandma’s house.” Not “your sister.” Marcus said “Oh,” turned around, and went back to his room to play video games. He didn’t say a second word to me the entire time. On the way home that day, Grandma didn’t say anything. When we were almost there, she suddenly stopped. “Chloe.” “Yeah?” She crouched down and looked into my eyes. “Remember this. You’re my Chloe. If no one else wants you, I want you.” Her eyes were red. “As long as I’m alive, I’ll take care of you.” I nodded. That year I was nine, and I learned something. Some people are family. Some people are just strangers who happen to share your blood.

When I was twelve, I ranked first in the entire town on my exams. Grandma called my mom to tell her. The phone was on speaker. I was right there and heard everything clearly. “Ruth, Chloe got first place in the whole town!” There was silence on the other end for two seconds. “Oh. Got it.” “Chloe wants to go to the top-rated middle school in the city. The tuition—” “Mom, we’re tight on money right now. Marcus has to start his extracurriculars next semester, plus tutoring fees.” Grandma said nothing more and hung up. That same year, Marcus ranked 138th in his grade. My parents enrolled him in three tutoring programs. Twenty-four thousand dollars a year. I ranked first in the entire town. Not a penny spent on tutoring for me. I went to a public middle school. Marcus went to a private school in the city. Later I found out that Grandma had been sending my parents three thousand dollars every month for twelve years. The note on each transfer said “Chloe’s tuition.” Three thousand times twelve months, times twelve years. Four hundred and thirty-two thousand dollars. Not a penny of it reached me. The summer I was fifteen, Grandma took me to get glasses. On the bus, we ran into Aunt Lesley. She looked me up and down and said to Grandma, “Mom, Chloe’s gotten so big.” Then she lowered her voice. “What’s going on with Scott? He said Chloe would stay with you for two years, and it’s been almost ten now.” Grandma didn’t respond. Aunt Lesley continued, “Don’t spoil Chloe too much either. She’s a girl, you know. Good enough is fine. When she gets married later—” “Lesley.” I spoke up. She froze and looked at me. “I’m not someone who’s just ‘good enough.’” I looked at her. “From now on, please call me by my name. Chloe.” Aunt Lesley’s face stiffened. Grandma patted my hand without saying anything, but I saw a slight smile at the corner of her mouth. When I was eighteen, I took the SAT. I ranked 23rd in the entire city. Got into a top private school. Law major. Grandma was so happy she couldn’t sleep all night. The next morning, she called my mom first thing. “Ruth! Chloe got in! A private university!” Silence again on the other end. “Mom… that’s great.” “About the tuition—” “Mom, Marcus is getting his driver’s license this year too, and we—” “I’ll pay.” Grandma said. Her voice was calm. “I’ll pay Chloe’s tuition.” After hanging up, Grandma sat in the yard, looking at the apple tree. For a long time. Then I walked over. “Grandma, I can apply for financial aid. You don’t have to—” “No need.” She looked at me. “I can afford it.” She smiled. “The thing I’m most proud of in this life is raising you.” I couldn’t hold it back. That was the first time in twenty years I cried in front of Grandma. That same fall, Marcus failed his college entrance exam. He retook it for a year and got into a community college. My parents spent eighteen thousand dollars to buy him a car to “celebrate him getting into college.” One car, eighteen thousand dollars. My four years of tuition plus living expenses—Grandma spent a total of seventy thousand dollars. My parents didn’t contribute a single cent. But what they told relatives was, “We worry about both our kids equally.”

During my four years of college, I spent every winter and summer break at Grandma’s house. Not because I didn’t want to go to my parents’ house. Because no one asked me to come back. One year during fall break, I tried calling my mom. “Can I come home and stay for a couple days this fall break?” There was a pause on the other end. “Chloe… the house is being renovated right now. There’s dust everywhere. You should go to Grandma’s instead.” Renovations. Later I saw a post Marcus made on Twitter. On the day of fall break, the three of them took a family photo in the newly renovated living room. New sofa, new TV, new curtains. Marcus’s caption read, “New house feels amazing.” In the comments, my mom replied, “As long as you like it.” As long as Marcus liked it. A new home for three people. No place for me. After college graduation, I stayed in the state. A law firm. Internship salary of thirty-five hundred a month. I never asked my family for money, because I knew even if I asked, they wouldn’t give it. And also because from the age of six, I knew one thing—rely on yourself. In this life, aside from Grandma, I could only rely on myself. My third year working, I got a permanent position. Salary of twelve thousand a month. Fourth year, I got promoted. Eighteen thousand. Fifth year, I was handling cases independently. During those five years, my mom called me four times. First time: “Chloe, Marcus is looking for a job. Can you help ask around in the city?” Second time: “Chloe, Marcus has a girlfriend. They’re buying a house but they’re short on money—” Third time: “Chloe, Marcus—” Fourth time: “Chloe, Marcus—” Every single time was about Marcus. Not once did she say, “Chloe, how have you been lately?” Did I give them money? Yes. The first time I lent them twenty thousand. They said they’d pay it back in six months. Three years later, they’d never mentioned it again. The second time they asked for another thirty thousand. This time they didn’t even say “borrow.” My mom’s exact words were “transfer thirty thousand to Marcus.” Transfer. Not borrow. Transfer. As if my money was naturally meant to be spent on Marcus. Fifty thousand dollars total. To this day, not a penny paid back. But I didn’t care about that fifty thousand. What I cared about was this— When they needed money from me, I was “family.” When they didn’t need money from me, I was “that one from Grandma’s house.” I’m twenty-six now. Twenty years. I stopped expecting them to call me their daughter a long time ago. Until Grandma got sick. Last October, Grandma was diagnosed with late-stage stomach cancer. When the call came, my hands were shaking. I requested extended leave and rushed back to town. Grandma had lost a lot of weight. Her hair was completely white. Lying in the hospital bed, she saw me come in and smiled. “Chloe’s here.” “I’m here.” I held her hand. So thin. I could feel her bones. “I’m going to take care of you.” Grandma shook her head. “No need. Your work—” “Work isn’t important.” I looked at her. “You’re important.” Grandma’s eyes turned red. She didn’t say anything. She just squeezed my hand tight. For the next forty-seven days, I stayed at the hospital. During the day I fed her, bathed her, accompanied her to tests. At night I slept on the folding bed next to hers. Forty-seven days. Scott came twice. The first time he stayed half an hour, took a phone call in the hallway, and left. The second time he brought a bag of fruit, set it down, and left. Ruth came once. Sat for fifteen minutes, looked at the IV line, looked out the window, said to Grandma “Take care of yourself,” and left. Marcus never came. Not once. Forty-seven days. Just me. Once the attending physician pulled me aside and asked, “Where are your grandmother’s other relatives?” I said, “Just me.” He looked at me. “You are…?” “Granddaughter.” He was silent for a moment. “Her other children should come visit too.” I smiled. “They’re busy.” During Grandma’s last week in the hospital, she could barely speak anymore. One night, she suddenly grabbed my hand. “Chloe.” “Grandma, I’m here.” “In my closet… there’s a metal box.” Her voice was very soft. “There are some things inside… take them.” “Grandma—” “Take them.” She looked at me. “They should be yours.” She said one more thing. Her voice was very soft, but I heard it clearly. “Chloe, the person I’ve wronged most in this life is you. You shouldn’t have had to suffer through all that.” Ten days later, Grandma passed away. Three days after Grandma died, I opened that metal box. Inside were three things.

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To help her lover tip off criminals, my reporter wife secretly planted a tracking device on me, causing a covert mission to fail. Over a dozen of my comrades lost their lives, and I was thrown into prison for ten years on suspicion of leaking classified information. After my release, I pushed open the front door to find streamers and noise flooding toward me. Jennifer stood at the center in a designer suit, her posture as elegant as ever. The officiant enthusiastically pushed me toward the center of the living room: “Mr. Robert, Jennifer wanted to surprise you today by holding the wedding ceremony you two never completed!” She gazed at me deeply, her fingertips trembling slightly. “Robert, I’ve been waiting for you all these ten years…” I stared at her coldly until the anticipation in her eyes gradually filled with unease, then I spoke flatly. “A husband with a criminal record probably doesn’t deserve you.” Jennifer’s body shook violently, the color draining from her face instantly. The day I went to prison, she used those exact words to force me to sign the divorce papers. Dead silence filled the living room. “Robert! If you hadn’t gone to prison back then, would Jennifer have needed to divorce you to protect herself?” My sister Mia stepped in front of Jennifer, glaring at me fiercely. “She didn’t look down on you, and she’s still willing to wait for a废人 like you—you should be grateful!” I smirked but didn’t respond. Ten years in prison taught me that the most powerful response is silence. Seeing I had no reaction, the relatives joined in, chattering away with their persuasion. My brother chimed in from the side: “Have you forgotten that you leaked information and got over a dozen people killed!” “Jennifer has been compensating those families for the past ten years—otherwise you would’ve died in prison long ago!” Leaked information? Got my comrades killed? I almost laughed out loud. The night before the operation ten years ago, Jennifer had unusually pressed me about the mission location and timing. I strictly refused, citing discipline. Before bed, she took out a necklace and put it around my neck, choking up as she said: “Wear this. May it keep you safe and bring you home.” But I didn’t know then that the necklace concealed a tracking device! At the time, Jennifer’s ex-lover Anthony was being held hostage by criminals while investigating a dangerous drug trafficking case. To save him, Jennifer chose to betray me and my comrades. Just as we were about to close the net, Jennifer burst in with people! Gunfire erupted, and my comrades fell before my eyes one after another. Before the investigation began, she knelt and grabbed my hand, pressing it to her belly as she pleaded: “Robert, I’m carrying our child. I can’t have anything happen to me…” Looking at her belly that hadn’t yet started showing, I took the blame. But the day the verdict came down, she pushed divorce papers in front of me and said coldly: “I had a miscarriage. I can’t let his life begin at a prison visiting window.” “A husband with a criminal record would destroy my career. Let’s divorce.” The pen tip hovered over the signature line, trembling for a full three minutes. Ten years of hell began with that stroke. In prison, being blamed for my comrades’ deaths made me a public enemy. Beatings, freezing cold, contaminated food—all routine. And the permanent disabilities I’ll carry for life. An inmate thug punctured my left lung, which still aches to this day. My right hand was shattered and remains permanently twisted and deformed. “Ha…” I finally couldn’t help but laugh bitterly. Jennifer’s face grew even paler. Her gaze swept over my disabled right hand and my labored breathing from lung pain, and something complex flashed in her eyes—hard to detect. Like guilt, or perhaps irritation. She took a deep breath and spoke gently to the still-chattering relatives: “Everyone, please stop. Robert just got out—he probably needs time to adjust.” “During this time, I’ll stay with him and show him my love.” Sure enough, the relatives immediately changed their tune, sighing one after another: “Jennifer is such a rare, good woman!” “Robert, knowing Jennifer is a blessing you earned over three lifetimes!” Jennifer was too skilled at this performance—retreating to advance, playing the wronged yet devoted woman. Suddenly, her phone rang. After listening for just a few sentences, her expression changed dramatically. She grabbed Mia and rushed out without looking back. The relatives in the living room exchanged glances, then found various excuses to leave one by one.

After standing in the living room for a moment, I turned and walked toward the master bedroom. The closet door was half-open, with men’s shirts hanging inside. In the bathroom, there were two sets of toiletries and a razor. Her claim of “waiting ten years for you” was apparently a joke. I turned and left, flagging down a car on the street to head to the city hospital. Ten years in prison had already wrecked my body—I had to get checked. I accidentally ended up on the floor where the nephrology department was located. At the end of the hallway outside a patient room, I stopped. The door was ajar, and Mia’s suppressed sobbing came from inside. “Jennifer, Anthony surviving this acute rejection episode is God’s blessing! But the kidney transplant can’t be delayed any longer.” “I know! I know!” Jennifer’s voice was broken. “Anthony, just hold on a little longer…” Through the gap in the door, I saw Anthony lying in the hospital bed. Mia said anxiously: “I’ll go ask the doctor if there are any other options…” Jennifer sobbed uncontrollably, trembling as she kissed Anthony’s fingers. “Anthony, Robert got out of prison. He has healthy kidneys—he can definitely save you!” In the bed, Anthony shook his head, his voice barely a whisper: “Jennifer, back then I was obsessed with getting the scoop and went into that drug den for fame. They injected me with drugs and ruined my kidneys. If you hadn’t tipped them off to save me, Robert wouldn’t have had to…” Outside the door, the blood in my veins seemed to freeze instantly. These two people destroyed my life and now brazenly enjoyed everything I had. “Anthony, don’t think like that!” She soothed him in a low voice. “What we did back then was to get firsthand truth and let more people see it!” “It’s Robert who was incompetent and couldn’t protect his comrades. His imprisonment is deserved—he brought it on himself!” Her words were like poison-tipped ice picks, chiseling away at my already riddled heart. Then she continued, self-righteous: “Protecting people and saving lives—isn’t that a soldier’s duty?” “Right now, you’re a civilian waiting to be saved, so Robert should fulfill his obligation.” A chill spread from the deepest part of my heart, rapidly freezing my limbs. I felt like a complete and utter joke. Inside the room, Jennifer’s voice continued. “I’ll remarry Robert as soon as possible…” Her voice lowered, taking on a vicious edge. “A spouse’s signature—no one can stop that! Once he donates his kidney to you, I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to him, living a good life together…” So that was the entire reason for her grand insistence on remarrying. I could no longer hold myself up and staggered backward, my heel hitting a trash can. “Clang!” “Who’s out there?” Jennifer’s suspicious voice called from inside. I let out a bitter laugh and quickly walked away.

I used the five hundred dollars I’d saved in prison to rent a single room in the slums that never saw sunlight. My criminal record barred me from all decent jobs, so I could only haul cargo at a warehouse in the suburbs. I started before dawn. My right hand was useless, so I relied entirely on my back and waist. After unloading each truck, my damaged lung felt like it would explode. Jennifer’s calls came like death warrants, ringing constantly. I watched her name flash on the screen, going from initial sharp pain to eventual numbness. I declined, blocked her. She’d call from a different number, and I’d block that too. The cycle repeated endlessly. I never opened the text messages she sent either. Mia’s messages came one after another too. First accusing me of betraying Jennifer’s devotion, then softening her tone to ask if I could do compatibility testing for Anthony. Mia remained completely blind to my ten years of suffering and my injuries. Watching those messages felt like slow torture with a dull blade. Finally, I dragged her number into the blacklist too. I thought if I hid like a rat in the gutter, they’d eventually leave me alone. But I was wrong. Today, I arrived at the loading dock early as usual, waiting for work assignments. The boss walked over with a dark expression and viciously threw crumpled bills in my face. “Take your dirty money and get lost right now!” I froze, staring at him in confusion. “What are you looking at? Murderer! Bastard who won’t even save a dying man!” The boss spat on the ground, undisguised disgust in his eyes. The other workers all looked over, their gazes strange, whispering among themselves. A coworker I was somewhat familiar with shoved his phone in my face, righteous indignation burning. “Playing dumb? Your brother is waiting for your kidney to save his life, and you won’t give it! Are you even human?” “Bah! And you call yourself a soldier—you heartless bastard!” On the phone screen, the social news headline was a bolded, glaring title: [Soldier Refuses to Save Dying Man—Critically Ill Brother’s Life Hangs by a Thread] Below were two photos: one showing Anthony in a hospital bed covered in tubes in close-up. The other was actually me from years ago in military uniform with medals on my chest after receiving an award. [Article by: Jennifer] The comments were already flooded with insults. My heart felt like it was being squeezed tight—I couldn’t breathe. She actually fabricated lies to manipulate public opinion, putting me on a moral execution pyre. I didn’t defend myself. I had no strength to defend myself. I bent down, hands trembling as I picked up the four hundred dollars scattered on the ground. Step by step, I walked back to my rental. As soon as I reached the alley entrance, I sensed something was wrong. Several people carrying cameras were blocking my rental door, peering around. My heart sank, and I instinctively turned to leave. “Hey! There! That’s Robert!” At that shout, the group swarmed like sharks smelling blood. Long lenses and short cameras surrounded me completely, blinding flashlights making it impossible to open my eyes. “Mr. Robert! We heard you were in prison for getting your comrades killed?” “What do you know about Anthony’s condition?” “Jennifer says you agreed to remarry but then backed out—was it to avoid donating your kidney?” Each question was sharper and more malicious than the last. I kept my head down, shielding my face with my arm, trying to push through. “No comment! Let me through!” “Robert, do you feel guilty?” “Anthony is only thirty-five years old—can you bear to watch him die?” “Do you think having a prison record means you can abandon all responsibility, even basic humanity?” I was like a cornered clown with nowhere to hide, completely disheveled and wounded. The gathering crowd pointed and whispered. Not a single person dared approach.

Just then, the sound of a car engine came from outside the crowd. The car door opened, and Jennifer and Mia stepped out. The reporters immediately turned their cameras toward them. In front of the cameras, Jennifer instantly put on a worried expression, choking up: “Robert, we were married once. As long as you’re willing to donate a kidney to save Anthony, I’ll give you a million dollars and a house!” “Why make yourself so miserable?” Mia chimed in from the side, tears falling on cue. “Robert, please save Anthony! He’s your brother! Can you really watch him die?” My eyes turned bloodshot, each word dripping with blood and hatred. “I’m going to request a retrial of that case! I’ll make all of you pay!” I stared at them, enunciating each word: “Want my kidney? Dream on!” The worry on Jennifer’s face froze instantly, revealing a flash of anger. She stepped forward, hissing through clenched teeth: “Robert, you’re forcing my hand.” She pulled out her phone and quickly sent a message. Within minutes, chaotic footsteps and noise came from the distance. A group of grief-stricken people pushed through the crowd and instantly surrounded me. They were the parents, wives, and children of the comrades who died ten years ago. They were older now, haggard. But the hatred in their eyes was even more bone-deep than in court all those years ago. “Robert! You murderer! Executioner!” “If Jennifer and Anthony hadn’t been secretly helping us all these years, giving us money, finding us jobs, helping the kids with school—we would’ve waited at the prison gates and stabbed you the moment you got out!” “You killed my son, my husband, my father! You should’ve paid with your life long ago! Donating a kidney to save someone now is giving you a chance to atone!” “Right! Donate! You have to! Otherwise we’ll drag you to the hospital today!” Spit and curses wove into a net, trapping me in the center. Jennifer had fed them with favors and hatred, turning them into the sharpest blades. “I’m innocent!” I shouted with all my strength. “Jennifer planted a tracking device on me! She tipped them off to save Anthony—that’s why the mission was exposed…” “He’s gone crazy!” Mia pointed at me, saying with feigned distress to the crowd: “Ten years in prison drove him insane—he’s talking nonsense! Don’t you all know what kind of person Jennifer is?” “Still trying to slander good people on death’s door!” “Trying to shirk responsibility! No way!” Watching the deceived crowd, the sneering Jennifer, and Mia who didn’t care if I lived or died, I trembled uncontrollably. Jennifer pushed through the crowd and stood before me again, looking down at me like she was granting charity. “Robert, I’ll ask you one last time. Will you donate your kidney or not?” I raised my tear-filled eyes to look at this woman who had destroyed everything I had, speaking one word at a time: “The greatest regret of my life was falling in love with you.” Jennifer froze, standing still. “Beat him! Beat this heartless bastard to death!” Someone shouted, and the crowd erupted! I curled up to protect my vital organs, but fists and feet rained down from all directions. Ribs made dull thuds, knees buckled in pain, sticks lashed across my back. Mia tried to step forward but was blocked by the enraged crowd and turned her face away. In the chaos, I heard someone say quietly: “Jennifer said not to hit the kidneys—we still need those…” That sentence was colder than any fist, freezing my heart and lungs solid. I spat blood, roaring as I shoved one person aside and crawled toward the road! “Stop him!” “Don’t let him get away!” I dragged my nearly broken body onto the traffic lane! Ear-splitting brake sounds erupted all at once! “Robert! What are you doing! Come back!” Jennifer’s panicked scream came from behind. I gave her a bleak but liberated smile and leaned backward. “Jennifer, in every life…” “I will never forgive you.” Jennifer shook her head, her voice carrying unprecedented panic: “No! I don’t need you to donate anymore! Come back…” Bang!! A massive impact sounded.

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