Category: English

The lab results were crumpled behind my back, the sharp edges of the paper digging into my palm until it pulsed with a dull ache. Under the flickering glow of the dining room chandelier, I watched my son. He was picking at his dinner with a cold, practiced indifference that mirrored his father’s. I couldn’t help myself; the secret in my hand was too heavy. I asked him, my voice barely a whisper, if he’d ever wanted a little sister. He paused, his fork hovering mid-air. His lashes cast long, dark shadows over his cheekbones. Without looking up, he shook his head. “I already have a sister,” he said quietly. I started to laugh, ready to tease him about childhood imaginings, but the sound died in my throat. Beside him, my husband—the man I had built a life with for fifteen years—set his cutlery down with a clinical click. His tone was as flat as if he were checking the weather. He told me he’d been seeing a younger woman. He told me she was pregnant. The amniotic fluid test results had come back yesterday. It was a girl. “She’s young, she’s healthy. The baby will be bright,” Wyatt said, looking at me with eyes that held no more warmth than a frozen lake. “I’m keeping this child, Margot. I have to.” It felt as though an invisible hand had reached into my chest and squeezed. Every breath I took felt like inhaling shattered glass. I realized then that the “little girl” I had been dreaming of, the one currently forming inside me, had already been replaced. I was a spectator in someone else’s success story. … “Why?” I forced the word out through the bile rising in my throat. I couldn’t reconcile the man sitting across from me with the husband who had supposedly adored me for over a decade. Wyatt didn’t blink. He didn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. “Six months ago. A party, too much to drink, a mistake with a girl. I tried to pay her off, Margot. I really did. But she’s… persistent. And fertile, apparently.” A small, involuntary smirk touched the corners of his mouth. “Parker found out it was a girl. He’s the one who begged me to let her keep it. You should have seen him that day. I haven’t seen him that happy in years.” The pride in Wyatt’s voice made my blood run cold. I turned to my son, expecting to see a shred of guilt. There was none. “I want a sister,” Parker said, his voice terrifyingly mature. “It doesn’t matter who the mother is.” The first tear escaped, hot and bitter. I felt like I was looking at two strangers wearing the faces of the people I loved most. Wyatt sighed, pulling a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and sliding it toward me across the mahogany table. “Is this really necessary? Look at the circles we run in, Margot. Half the men at the club have a second family. I thought you were more sophisticated than this.” “Don’t worry,” he added, as if granting a mercy. “Once the baby is born, I’ll set the girl up in Europe. Your position, your status—none of that changes.” I pushed the handkerchief away. I put my head down and let the sob break. Yesterday, I was the woman everyone envied. The wife of a tech mogul with a spotless reputation. The mother of a prodigy. Today, the floor had dropped out from under me. I rubbed my eyes, desperate to wake up from this fever dream. Wyatt reached out, catching my chin, wiping a tear away with his thumb. “Stop the dramatics. No one knows about this except a few close friends. You’ll always be Mrs. Wyatt Scott. I promise, okay?” The name hit me like a physical blow. I suddenly went cold. My hand instinctively hovered over my stomach, thinking of the life inside me. What a cruel joke. When Wyatt tried to pull me into a forced embrace, I shoved him back with a strength that surprised us both. “Get away from me! You’re filthy. Don’t you dare touch me.” He stepped back, holding his hands up in a mocking gesture of surrender. “Fine. I won’t touch you. Maybe Parker can talk some sense into you.” I stood up so abruptly the chair screeched against the hardwood. In one blind motion, I swept the dinner service off the table. China shattered. Wine spilled like blood across the white linen. “I want a divorce,” I choked out. “And I will never, ever raise that woman’s brat.” The silence that followed was absolute. Wyatt’s eyes turned predatory, the mask of the “good husband” finally slipping. Parker looked at me with pure, unadulterated disappointment. “If you want to leave, Mom, leave. I’m staying with Dad.” “And just so you know,” the boy added, his voice ice-cold, “if you walk out that door today, Jessie will be my new mother tomorrow.” The strength left my legs. I gripped the edge of the sideboard. “What did you just say?” Jessie. She was a student at the university where I taught. A girl who had come to my office months ago, announcing she was dropping out because she’d “hit the jackpot” with a wealthy older man. I had tried to mentor her, told her she was throwing her future away for a paycheck. She had looked at me with such pity. “Trust me, Professor. My man has enough money to support ten of me. I’m set for life.” I had felt sorry for her then. I didn’t realize she was talking about my life. “Why?” I whispered. “Of all the girls in this city, why my student?” Wyatt rubbed his temples. “It wasn’t intentional. I was at the hotel, I went into the wrong suite… by the time I realized who she was, it had already happened.” He looked at me then, a dark, hungry light in his eyes. “But I don’t regret it. Eighteen-year-olds have a certain… vitality that you lost a long time ago, Margot.” My brain felt like it was exploding. I grabbed the nearest heavy object—a crystal decanter—and hurled it at him. Then a glass. Then a plate. I screamed until my throat was raw, throwing everything within reach until I collapsed, gasping for air. Wyatt hadn’t even moved to dodge. “Feel better now?” he asked, stepping over the glass shards. He reached out to help me up. “Go to hell!” I screamed. I grabbed a broken shard of a teacup and brandished it like a knife. My hand was bleeding where the porcelain had sliced my palm. Wyatt’s expression hardened. He lunged forward, grabbing my wrist in a vice grip, ignoring my struggle as he began to wrap the wound with a napkin. “Since the secret is out,” he said, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly calm register, “Jessie is moving in. Tonight.” “She’s young, she’s inexperienced. You’ve done this before. You’re going to help her through the pregnancy.” I stared at him, certain he had lost his mind. “You… what?” He twisted his wedding band, then reached up to pinch my cheek, a gesture that felt like a threat. “Be a good girl, Margot. Jessie will be here in an hour. I’ve already called your department head and told them you’re taking a sabbatical. You’ll have plenty of time to look after her.” I couldn’t hold it back anymore. I let out a jagged, hysterical laugh. “You’re sick. You want your wife to be a servant to your mistress? You’re delusional, Wyatt.” He leaned in, pressing a finger to my lips. “Shh. Keep your voice down. You wouldn’t want your mother to hear about this, would you? She’s still in the cardiac ward, Margot. The doctors say she can’t handle any sudden stress.” The blood drained from my face. My mother. Wyatt had been a nobody when I met him. My mother was the only one who believed in him, even giving him the seed money for his first startup. She loved him like a son. “If you don’t behave,” Wyatt whispered, his smile never wavering, “I can’t guarantee that a ‘leak’ won’t make its way to her hospital room. Think about it.” He checked his Patek Philippe. “Jessie will be here in five minutes. You have that long to get yourself together.” I slumped against the wall, my fist clenched until the knuckles turned white, before finally, helplessly, letting go. I nodded. Wyatt kissed my forehead as if rewarding a pet. Then he turned and walked toward the door to greet her. Parker pushed past me, shoulder-checking me aside. The boy who usually acted like a forty-year-old executive was suddenly buzzing with excitement, his eyes fixed on the front door. I sank to the floor, the lab result for my own pregnancy still hidden in the waistband of my skirt. The front door opened. My eyes locked with Jessie’s. Her belly was just beginning to show under a tight silk dress. She didn’t look like a scared student anymore. She looked like a conqueror. “Professor,” she cooed, her eyes dancing with malice. “I’m so looking forward to learning from you.” I stayed silent. Parker stepped forward, his voice demanding. “Mom, move your stuff out of the master suite. Jessie needs the space, and you’re old anyway. You can sleep in the guest wing.” “Fine,” I said, my voice dead. If my husband and son were gone, what did a bedroom matter? Wyatt blinked, seemingly surprised by my compliance. He remembered the woman I used to be—the one who fought for every inch of her territory. I turned to walk away, but Wyatt caught my arm. “Not so fast. Since you’re being so accommodating, why don’t you finish clearing out the room now? Jessie needs to settle in.” Jessie moved closer, hooking her arm through mine in a mock-intimacy that made my skin crawl. “Thank you, Professor. I really want the baby to be close to you. Maybe your ‘wisdom’ will rub off on her. Oh—and make sure you get the dust under the bed. I have terrible allergies.” She was treating me like a maid. And Wyatt and Parker just watched. I wrenched my arm away. “There are twenty housekeepers on payroll. Let them do it.” “Margot,” Wyatt’s voice was a warning bell. “Don’t test me. You can leave, but remember your mother. If you won’t do it, maybe we should bring her here so she can help?” The threat hit its mark. I turned and walked into the master bedroom. I started pulling my clothes from the closet, my hands shaking. Parker followed me in. He didn’t help. Instead, he started grabbing my perfume bottles, my jewelry boxes, my silk scarves, and throwing them out into the hallway. Glass shattered. Precious things I’d collected for decades were ruined in seconds. “You’re too slow, Mom,” he said, his face a mask of indifference. “Besides, this stuff is all old. It belongs in the trash.” Wyatt appeared in the doorway, looking at the mess. He actually had the nerve to look pitying. “Look, Margot, I’ll make it up to you. I’ll buy those beachfront villas in Malibu you liked and put them in your name. Just… take a break. Stay in the guest wing for a while.” The hypocrisy was suffocating. I finished clearing the bare essentials and walked out without a word. But thirty minutes later, a scream pierced the air from the master suite. Two of Wyatt’s security guards intercepted me in the hall and forced me back toward the room. There, on the Egyptian cotton sheets, a long sewing needle glinted in the light. Jessie was hysterical, buried in Wyatt’s chest. “Wyatt, I’m so scared! I felt it prick me. What if it hit the baby? What if she’s hurt?” Wyatt looked at me, his face contorted with disgust. “Margot, how could you be so petty? So cruel?” “I thought you were a professional. A teacher. Have you no dignity? I told you Jessie wasn’t a threat to your status, but you just couldn’t help yourself, could you? You put a needle in her bed? You wanted to kill the baby?” I stared at the needle. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Parker, who had been standing in the corner, suddenly lunged. Before I could react, he grabbed my right hand. A sharp, searing heat exploded in my wrist. He had driven the needle into my arm. My hand went numb instantly. Parker wasn’t done; he swung his small fists at my stomach, his face red with rage. “Bad Mommy! Evil Mommy! You tried to hurt the baby, so I’m hurting you!” The physical pain was nothing compared to the sound of his voice. I had spent years worrying that Parker was too stoic, too much like his father. I had prayed for him to show emotion, to cry, to laugh, to be a child. And now he was, for the first time in his life—and it was directed at me, in defense of a stranger. I looked up at Wyatt. “Do you really believe I did this?” Wyatt didn’t answer. Jessie let out another theatrical wail. “Wyatt, my stomach hurts. Something is wrong. If I lose this baby, I don’t want to live!” Wyatt scooped her up, his eyes narrowing as he looked at me one last time. “This was your fault, Margot. You brought this on yourself. Parker was just defending his sister.” He looked at the blood dripping from my wrist. “It’s a scratch. Fix it yourself.” “And don’t worry about your mother. I’ve sent a private surgical team to her floor. They’re monitoring her 24/7. As long as you stay in line, she stays alive.” He carried Jessie out of the room. A sharp, cramping pain bloomed in my lower abdomen. I gasped, reaching out a hand to Parker, hoping for a flicker of the son I used to know. But Parker shoved my hand away with a look of pure loathing and ran after his father. I fell, my stomach slamming against the sharp edge of the coffee table. I felt a warm, terrifying rush of fluid between my legs. Panic, primal and raw, took over. I used the last of my strength to scream. “Parker! Stop! Please! There’s a baby—your real sister—please, help me!” Parker stopped in the doorway. He turned back, a cruel, mocking sneer on his face. “You’re such a liar, Mom. Dad said you’re too old and dried up to have kids. You’re just jealous because Jessie can do what you can’t.” “My sister is in Jessie’s belly. Stop pretending, it’s pathetic.” The pain intensified, a dull roar in my ears. I tried to speak, but he was already gone. In the end, it was a sympathetic maid who found me and called an ambulance. When I woke up, the fluorescent lights of the hospital were blinding. A doctor stood at the foot of my bed, his face a mask of practiced sympathy. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Scott. You were too far along for the trauma you sustained. We couldn’t save the pregnancy.” “Don’t lose hope,” he added gently. “You’re still young enough to try again.” I touched my stomach. It was flat. Empty. Surprisingly, I didn’t feel like crying. The grief was there, but it was overshadowed by a cold, dead certainty. There would be no “next time.” Not with Wyatt. Not ever. I slept for a few more hours, drifting in a morphine haze. When I finally reached for my phone to call a lawyer, it rang in my hand. It was the emergency room downstairs. “Mrs. Scott? Your mother’s condition has plummeted. You need to come down. Now. To say goodbye.” The world tilted. I ripped the IV out of my arm, ignored the blood spraying from my vein, and ran. I reached the ICU unit, breathless and shaking. My mother was lying on a gurney in the hallway. Alone. There was only one intern standing over her. “Where is everyone?” I grabbed the nurse’s arm. “Where is the surgical team? Where are the specialists?” The intern looked down, avoiding my eyes. “Mr. Scott… he called them away. He said his wife was having an emergency on the upper floor and he needed the entire cardiac and trauma team up there immediately.” My heart stopped. Wyatt had pulled the doctors to attend to Jessie’s “fainting spell.” I dialed Wyatt’s number. It took ten tries before he picked up. But it was Parker who answered. “What do you want, Mom? Why are you calling?” “Put your father on,” I hissed, my voice trembling. “Dad’s busy. He’s holding Jessie’s hand while she gets her ultrasound. Stop being a stalker.” He hung up. My mother’s breathing was becoming a series of ragged, wet gasps. I called Wyatt’s personal assistant. I begged. I screamed into the phone. “Margot, what is it now?” Wyatt’s voice finally came through, sounding bored. “Wyatt, please. My mother is dying. She needs the surgeons. Please, send them back down. I’m begging you—I’ll do anything.” There was a pause. Then, a dry, cruel chuckle. “Still with the theatrics? My team is already here, Margot. Stop trying to steal the spotlight from Jessie. It’s transparent.” “No, Wyatt, please—she’s literally dying—” “Then let her die,” he snapped. “I’m done with your lies.” The line went dead. I stood there, paralyzed, as the monitor behind me flatlined into a long, continuous drone. I watched them pull the white sheet over my mother’s face. I didn’t have any tears left. Hours later, my phone buzzed. A text from Wyatt. How’s your mother? The team said she was stable. Don’t worry, I’ve got the best meds being flown in from Germany. Tonight is Parker’s birthday dinner. Be there at seven. He wants that specific chocolate cake you make. Don’t be late. “Okay,” I whispered to the empty room. I went back to the OB/GYN wing. I asked the nurse for the remains of the child I’d lost. I placed the small, clinical container inside a beautiful, silk-lined gift box. Then I called a courier. I handed him my black Amex. “Deliver this to Wyatt Scott. Personally. In front of everyone.” At the gala dinner, Jessie was draped in diamonds, preening for the cameras. Parker was looking around, his eyes searching the crowd. “Where’s Mom? Is she still throwing a tantrum?” Wyatt checked his watch, his jaw tight. “She’ll be here. She knows better than to miss this.” The courier arrived then. Wyatt smirked, assuming it was a peace offering. He took the box, his ego preening. “See? She can’t stay away. A cake is a bit much, but I suppose I’ll forgive her this once—” He opened the box. His face went from smug to a ghostly, translucent white in less than a second.

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I’m a transfer student. I worked so hard for so long just to get into my childhood crush’s Honors class. But when I finally transferred over, I realized he already had a very pretty desk mate. She smiled at me gently and said, “Ethan still needs to tutor me. I can’t give up this seat for you, sweetie.” Ethan’s eyes landed on her, a look of unmistakable joy on his face. I froze in place, my face burning. I had no choice but to find an empty seat somewhere else, not daring to speak to him again. But later, Ethan cornered me, looking completely lost and panicked: “Tutoring? Why didn’t you come to me…?” 1 Everyone’s eyes in the classroom focused on me. Her tone was so soft and sweet. “Sweetie, cutting in line isn’t nice. Ethan still needs to tutor me.” In an instant, whispers erupted across the room. “She just transferred and already wants to steal someone’s seat? This new girl is so arrogant.” “Isn’t that Ethan’s childhood friend? I used to see her waiting for him at the door every day.” “That still doesn’t mean she can just barge in and demand a seat!” “She was top of the Regular class, so she thinks she owns the place now.” It wasn’t like that… I wanted to explain, but my throat felt completely blocked. I didn’t even know where to start telling them that Ethan and I had agreed on this a long time ago. I worked so hard to test into the Honors class just so we could sit together. He told me he had already arranged our seats. My palms began to sweat as I gripped my backpack straps. I looked at Ethan, pleading for help. Hoping he would speak up and explain that I wasn’t acting like this… But he turned his face away and looked at that girl. His eyes were smiling. “Yeah, I’m tutoring you.” The classroom fell silent for a split second. I don’t know who started it, but someone let out a scoff. Then, the entire room erupted into laughter and mocking giggles. I blushed, completely at a loss. My mind went entirely blank. I didn’t understand. Didn’t he say… once I tested into the Honors class, we would work hard together…? 2 The bell rang. All the students obediently took their seats. Ethan looked at me and casually pointed to the back. “Just find a spot back there for now.” I took a deep breath. Enduring the burning sensation on my face, I walked to the back. Behind me, I heard that girl’s lowered voice, “Ethan, your childhood friend looks a little upset.” “It’s fine. Class is starting, just focus on the lecture.” “Oh.” Her voice was tiny. I couldn’t see her. But I could imagine her adorably innocent expression. I don’t remember how I walked the rest of the way, just that I stiffly sat down in the only empty seat in the last row. There was someone next to me. He seemed to hear the noise. He lifted his eyelids, gave me a single glance, and then buried his head back into his arms. For the entire class period… I was in a daze. I couldn’t absorb a single word the Honors teacher was saying. Until class ended. Ethan stood up from his seat at the front and walked over, placing a notebook on my desk. “Honors class notes. “I didn’t expect you to actually pass the exam. Look over these first and try to teach yourself.” The cover of the notebook was pink. It was the same one I had given him at the start of the school year, filled with pages of meticulous writing. For some reason, a wave of grievance surged in my chest, and my eyes grew red. Ethan paused, startled. “What, are you that touched?” The girl sitting behind him suddenly stood up, clutching her forehead looking frustrated. “Ethan, I still didn’t catch what you were explaining earlier!” He looked back at her. The notebook I had just accepted was immediately snatched back from my hands. “Wait a bit. Let Chloe copy them first.” He took the notes and walked away. I couldn’t hold back my tears anymore; they fell on their own. The next moment. A pack of tissues was tossed onto my lap from out of nowhere. My new desk mate, who had been sleeping all class, suddenly looked up, his cold eyes laced with annoyance. “Don’t cry next to me.” He startled me. I frantically grabbed a tissue and wiped my tears away. But my eyes uncontrollably locked onto the boy and girl sitting in the front, heads bent together as they went over a math problem. My eyes stung fiercely. The unfamiliarity of a new environment. The crushing of my expectations and the coldness of my new classmates. All of it rushed into my brain at once, fighting for space. I tried to push it down. But the harder I pushed, the more I felt like I couldn’t breathe. My new desk mate looked visibly irritated. He simply pulled his hoodie off, draped it over his head, and went back to sleep on his desk. 3 The bell rang again. The teacher walked in with his lesson plans. Class began. I don’t know if the Honors class paced itself too fast, but I struggled to keep up this period, finding everything obscure and incredibly difficult. My desk mate woke up. He looked at me with an indifferent gaze. Then he suddenly spoke, “You copied that wrong.” My heart skipped a beat, and I looked at him blankly. He forcefully grabbed my pen and quickly jotted down the calculation steps for the major problem on the board. My eyes understood it. But my brain didn’t. I just stared, bewildered. He frowned. “Is the Honors class really this easy to get into?” He lowered his voice again, resting his head back down. “The standard is seriously dropping.” It wasn’t until I went to the restroom that I learned his name. Caleb Wright. The girls from the Honors class were whispering in the bathroom. “The transfer student ended up sitting with Caleb Wright.” “Isn’t that perfect? The one who bought his way in and the one who barely scraped by. They’re a match made in heaven.” Followed by snickering. I don’t know where my courage came from. I burst out of the bathroom stall. I couldn’t catch them; I only saw the backs of two girls turning the corner. 4 The academic pressure in the Honors class was intense. Every student was grinding to get into a top-tier college. When the evening study hall for the Honors class finally ended… My old class had already been dismissed for hours. I packed my backpack, intending to wait and walk out with Ethan. After a brief moment of hesitation, most of the class had already emptied out. Ethan stood up and finally walked toward me. But Chloe called out to him. Her pale cheeks were slightly flushed, looking almost embarrassed. “Ethan, I still don’t get how to apply the formula for this problem…” Ethan stopped in his tracks. He looked at her, then looked at me, torn. “It’s getting really late…” I couldn’t help but remind him. Chloe bit her lip. “Yeah, it’s so late. No one is coming to pick me up today…” Ethan immediately frowned. He shot me an apologetic look. “You should head back first. I’m going to help Chloe study.” He turned back to her. Chloe gave me a look—whether intentional or not, I couldn’t tell. Then, she asked tentatively, “Could you maybe walk me home after…?” In that moment. My heart felt like it leaped into my throat. Then I heard him say, “Sure.” My heart instantly went dead silent. My blank gaze met Chloe’s eyes. The corners of her lips curled up. And she gave me a small smile. 5 I had never left the school campus after nine o’clock. It was completely pitch black out. Only the lights from the Honors building were still on. But the further I walked, the further away the light source became. I quickened my pace. But in the shadows, I thought I saw a figure moving ahead. My heart hammered in my chest. I stopped, but the figure kept getting closer. Instinctively, I pulled out my phone and dialed my speed dial. The screen emitted a faint glow in the dark night. Ring… It connected! But the very next second, the call was hung up. I froze. Dumbfounded, I forgot my fear. Until the figure walked right up to me, and I let out a yelp. Before I could even scream. The person spoke. “With a coward’s guts like that, why even transfer to the Honors class?” I looked up, stunned, meeting Caleb’s eyes. He said he hated weaklings. He told me that if I couldn’t even handle the late hours of the Honors class, I should have quit while I was ahead. He said, in this world, nobody is born obligated to help you. With that, he turned and walked away. Leaving me behind in the dark. I don’t know how much time passed. Faintly, from the direction of the school building, I heard a girl’s silvery laughter. I heard Ethan’s promise. He said, “Chloe, I’ve got your studying covered from now on.” She sounded so delicate and fragile. “But what about your childhood friend? She worked so hard to get into the Honors class. Are you just going to ignore her?” Ethan’s voice paused. “I honestly didn’t expect her to actually pass the test…” The night breeze carried their conversation further and further away. Behind me, not a single trace of light remained. I gripped my phone tightly and sprinted forward. No one is going to help me. Then I’ll walk by myself! 6 I don’t remember how I ran home. I only remember bawling my eyes out once I got there. I couldn’t even articulate why I was crying. When I woke up, my eyes were swollen like peaches. When I went downstairs, I unexpectedly saw Ethan waiting there. He had his hands in his pockets. “What happened to your eyes? “Did transferring classes make you cry?” Just like always, he reached out to pat my head. “I was busy last night when you called. Did you need something?” I dodged his hand. “Nothing. Pocket dial.” Ethan froze. He looked at his hand, then studied me for a moment. “What’s wrong, Mia?” “Nothing.” He suddenly grabbed my arm, looking at me with a complex expression. “What is it? Are you mad?” I turned back, feigning confusion. “No? I just need to get to school.” Ethan followed me. He watched me the whole way, looking like he wanted to say something but swallowing it back. I knew why he was surprised. Ethan and I were the textbook definition of childhood best friends. His dad passed away when he was very young. Back in elementary school, when Mrs. Carter had to work overtime and couldn’t make it home, he was left alone, starving. He would just stare eagerly at my house across the hall. I noticed him and brought over a huge bowl of ribs my mom had cooked. He ate with such relish. He scarfed down two huge bowls. So I brought him two more. After he finished, his eyes sparkled as he looked at me. “Mia, you’re the best. “I want to stay with you forever!” In middle school, some pubescent boys bullied me. They snipped off the braids I had grown out for years. He went absolutely feral and fought the kid single-handedly. Even though he was losing the fight, he viciously yelled at the guy, “Mia is mine! If you bully her, I’ll kill you!” That’s why he loved patting my hair when greeting me. He was terrified someone would cut it again. And I… I had never once dodged his hand before.

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Five years ago, on my birthday, I walked in on my ex-boyfriend and his former flame. My world shattered in that bedroom, but amidst the wreckage of that public humiliation, I met Simon. He had been betrayed too. We were two broken souls who found a twisted kind of symmetry in our pain. People called us a fairytale—the two “jilted lovers” who found a second chance. Eventually, we married. I never imagined that history wouldn’t just repeat itself; it would come back for blood. The day it happened, I had just finished performing a delicate reconstructive surgery on my best friend, Daisy. She was still drifting in the hazy, post-anesthetic fog of the recovery room. I leaned down, whispering instructions in her ear. I told her she had to be careful—no intimacy for at least two weeks. I told her she needed to make sure her boyfriend showed some restraint. The words had barely left my lips when Simon, who had been waiting in the corner of the room, spoke up. His voice was laced with a chilling, restless edge. “Two weeks?” he asked, his tone bored yet sharp. “I don’t think I can wait that long.” I froze. The surgical forceps in my hand began to vibrate against my palm. I couldn’t breathe. He didn’t look at me. He looked at Daisy, his lips curling into a dark, playful smirk as if he were lost in a private, filthy memory. “You have no idea, do you? Every time I was with her, I made sure to call you.” “I’d let her make just enough noise, hoping you’d hear. But you were always too oblivious, Claire. You never caught on.” He paused, a low chuckle escaping his throat. “Take last week, for instance. Your birthday. Remember how she called you crying, saying she was too sick to come to your dinner? I was pinning her to the mattress while she was on the phone with you. I didn’t stop for a second.” “She was so scared you’d recognize her voice that she bit her lip until it bled. And there you were, like a pathetic little saint, whispering comfort into the receiver.” Each word was a shards of glass driven straight into my chest. My blood turned to ice. The man who had rescued me from betrayal five years ago was the one holding the knife this time. Simon, my husband. … I stood there, paralyzed, the sterile air of the hospital room suddenly suffocating. My throat felt like it was filled with dry sand. “Why?” I managed to choke out. My eyes were burning, the heat of the betrayal finally reaching the surface. Simon didn’t even have the grace to look guilty. He actually took a moment to think about it, as if he were weighing a business decision. “I guess because she’s actually willing to please me,” he said casually. “Unlike you. All you do is hover and obsess. You’re paranoid, Claire. You act like a mental patient, constantly looking for ghosts of affairs that weren’t even there… until they were.” “Sometimes, when you push a man away with your baggage, he eventually decides he doesn’t want to come back.” With that one sentence, he shoved me into the abyss. Ever since I caught my ex five years ago, I had struggled with trust. It was my shadow. I would spiral over a stray hair on Simon’s coat or a scent of perfume I didn’t recognize. But every single night, Simon would hold me through my panic attacks. He would look me in the eye with such fierce conviction and swear: “Even if the whole world fails you, Claire, I will never be the reason you cry.” I believed him. I built my entire life on that belief. The reality hit me like a physical blow to the face. “Who started it?” I asked, my voice trembling. Simon hummed thoughtfully. “I did.” “Every time I look at you, I think about the fact that you carried another man’s child in your womb. It makes my skin crawl. That’s why I’ve been slipping birth control into your vitamins for years. I couldn’t stomach the thought of you having my baby after that.” He looked at the sleeping woman on the bed. “Daisy was the perfect choice to give me what you couldn’t.” My heart didn’t just break; it disintegrated. For years, I’d been torturing myself with fertility treatments, thinking my body was failing me because of the complications from my past abortion. I thought I was broken. I didn’t realize I was being poisoned by the man I loved. Daisy stirred, the anesthesia making her moan softly. She murmured, “Simon… baby…” and shifted restlessly. Simon immediately pushed past me, his hand reaching out to stroke her hair with a tenderness he hadn’t shown me in months. I remembered when Daisy first started “dating” this mysterious new guy. She’d bragged to me about how many times they went at it in a single night, the positions, the intensity. I had been happy for her. I’d offered to do this surgery for her for free, as a “bestie” gift, joking about her “sexual wellness.” The irony was a sickening, metallic taste in my mouth. Five years ago, when I was cheated on, Daisy had been the first one there. She’d slapped my ex across the face. “You ever hurt my girl again, I’ll kill you,” she’d screamed. She was my rock. My sister. It was all a lie. A long, orchestrated performance. I walked out of that room. I called my psychiatrist and told them I was done with the expensive prescriptions. Then, I called my lawyer. “I need a divorce. Get the papers ready today.” My colleague from the psych department stopped me in the hallway, her face full of concern. “Claire, you’re in a crisis state. If you stop your meds now, you won’t be able to handle the fallout.” I forced a hollow laugh. “I’ve realized something. I don’t want to be cured anymore.” I went to the pharmacy, bought a bottle of chronic sleep aids, and locked myself in the hospital bathroom. I sobbed until I couldn’t breathe, the pills burning as I swallowed them dry, clutching the porcelain of the toilet to keep from collapsing. My phone buzzed. A text from Daisy. The surgery worked wonders, babe! My guy and I just did it six times! It’s a little sore, but he’s so gentle I forgot the pain. Next time, help me with the ‘restoration’ project? He says he wants to feel like it’s the first time again. The words on the screen blurred. My head felt like it was exploding. When I tried to buy painkillers at the pharmacy counter, the clerk told me my card was declined. Frozen. I checked my feed. Daisy had posted a picture of a designer handbag. My amazing man gave me the keys to the kingdom. Financial freedom feels so good! I laughed at the absurdity of it. I walked home, my body heavy, my feet barely moving. When I opened the door to our penthouse, I found the floor littered with lace lingerie and used condoms. “You…” Simon was sitting on the sofa, a glass of scotch in one hand and a vivid red scratch on his bare chest. “You should really call before you come home, Claire. It’s awkward for everyone if you just barge in.” I stared at the mess. My mind flashed back to five years ago. My bedroom. My ex. The same scene. It was a loop I couldn’t escape. The trauma surged through me like a tidal wave. I grabbed the heavy crystal lamp from the side table and hurled it at him with every ounce of my remaining strength. “You son of a bitch, Simon!” The lamp caught him on the forehead, drawing a thin line of blood. His eyes darkened with rage. “You knew what you were getting into when you married me!” he spat. “Daisy is everything you aren’t. She’s fun. She’s open. She knows how to actually be a woman in bed.” “And here’s the kicker—the doctor called. Daisy’s pregnant. She gave me a child in months, something you couldn’t do in five years. You have no right to be angry.” My soul felt like it was being shredded. The entire hospital knew how much I’d struggled to conceive. The rumors that I was “barren” because of my past were the talk of the breakroom. Simon would rather give a child to my best friend than to me. I pulled the divorce papers from my bag and dropped them on the coffee table. “Sign it. We’re done.” Simon blinked, then a cold sneer crossed his face. “Don’t be dramatic. You’re a plain girl with a messy past, Claire. Without the ‘Mrs. Simon Mitch’ title, you’re nothing.” I didn’t blink. I handed him the pen. He stared at me for a long beat, then snatched the pen and scrawled his name. “Fine. I’ll wait for the day you come crawling back, begging for a second chance.” Simon left. He didn’t look back. He spent the next week taking Daisy to prenatal appointments at my hospital. The work group chats were brutal. Five years and she couldn’t get pregnant? I’d leave her too. I heard she had so many abortions back in the day she scarred her uterus. She probably tricked him into marrying her. I ignored it all. I packed my life into two suitcases while the world gossiped. I fell into a feverish sleep, haunted by nightmares, until a call from the Chief of Surgery woke me. “Claire, get to the hospital. Now. Daisy’s surgery? There’s a complication. A big one.” When I arrived, Simon was waiting in the lobby. He didn’t say a word—he just stepped forward and backhanded me so hard I hit the floor. “You sabotaged her!” he roared, his face contorted with hate. “Her incision is severely infected. You did this on purpose!” The taste of copper filled my mouth. I wiped the blood from my lip. “I didn’t.” Daisy came limping out of the exam room, draped in a hospital gown, weeping. “Claire, I trusted you. I let you operate on me because I thought you were my friend. Did you do this because of Simon? I’m going to be disfigured… I’ll never be able to show my face…” I knew she was lying. I could see the overacting. I stepped toward her to check the wound myself, but she suddenly gasped and threw herself backward, hitting the floor with a sickening thud. “My baby! My stomach!” Simon’s face went pale. He lunged for her, pulling up her gown. The crowd gasped. Blood was everywhere. Simon looked at me, and for the first time, I saw true, unadulterated disgust. “She was your best friend. How could you be this cruel?” I stood there, and then, I started to laugh. It was a jagged, broken sound. “Best friend? She doesn’t even know the meaning of the word.” Daisy whimpered, clinging to him. “I was going to let you be the godmother, Claire… I was going to let you be part of his life… how could you?” Simon turned to his security detail. “Break her fingers,” he said, his voice a low, terrifying whisper. “I want to make sure she never touches a scalpel again.” I fought, I screamed, I begged. “I didn’t do it! Simon, stop!” He didn’t stop. He turned his back. A heavy boot stepped on my wrist. Then, the sound of a bone snapping. CRACK. My scream echoed through the sterile hallways of the hospital where I had saved hundreds of lives. CRACK. CRACK. One by one, they broke the fingers of my right hand. The pain was blinding, a white-hot sun exploding in my brain. Simon covered Daisy’s eyes, whispering that it was “too gruesome” for her to see, as if I was the one being offensive. I collapsed into a heap of agony, my voice gone, my career dead. The Chief of Surgery walked over and dropped a termination letter on my chest. “We don’t employ monsters, Claire. Get your things and get out.” I lay there on the cold tile, gasping for air. “Get her to a room,” Simon muttered, his voice shaking slightly. “Patch her up.” That night, Simon sent me a meal. My favorites. I didn’t touch a bite. I stared at the ceiling until the sun came up. On the day I was discharged, my mother called. She was hysterical. “Claire, the restaurant… they’re destroying the restaurant!” I rushed there, my hand in a heavy cast. My mother’s small bistro—the place she’d spent thirty years building—was a wreck. Simon was there. He threw his phone at me. It was a local news alert: SHOCKING: Private photos of patient leaked by disgruntled surgeon. Allegations of STDs and malpractice. The post included photos of Daisy’s surgery and a forged medical report claiming she had a contagious outbreak. “Your parents leaked these,” Simon said, his voice like dry ice. “Don’t bother denying it. You used them to get back at Daisy. I was willing to let the surgery thing go, but this? You’re trying to destroy her life.” “I didn’t…” I whispered. Suddenly, a bucket of red paint was splashed over my head. A mob of “activists”—Daisy’s followers—swarmed the shop. “Murderer! Malpractice!” “You have no ethics! You’re a monster!” They called for a boycott of my mother’s restaurant. They threw chairs, smashed the windows, and tore the sign from the door. My mother collapsed. Her heart couldn’t take it. She hit the floor, her eyes rolling back. Simon sat in his car, watching through the tinted glass, unmoved. I crawled to his door, begging like a dog. “Please… make them stop… she’s dying…” Simon rolled down the window. He looked at the red paint dripping off my face with pure revulsion. “You’re the ‘Mrs. Mitch.’ Have some dignity. Stop embarrassing me.” He drove away. The tires of his Bentley rolled over my ankle. Snap. I didn’t even scream this time. The pain was just another layer of the void. I looked back. My mother was pinned under a heavy commercial refrigerator that had been knocked over. She wasn’t moving. I tried to reach her, but the mob blocked me, phones out, livestreaming my misery. “Look at the ‘doctor’ now! Justice for Daisy!” I clawed at the door until my fingernails ripped off, leaving bloody trails on the wood. I watched through the glass as my mother took her last breath. My heart didn’t break. It died. The crowd didn’t care. “Apologize to Daisy!” they chanted. I knelt on the pavement, my expression blank. I reached into my bag and pulled out the entire bottle of sleeping pills. In front of the cameras, in front of the world, I swallowed them all. “Oh, look at her acting! Fake pills for a fake suicide!” someone yelled. I kept swallowing until the bottle was empty. The world began to tilt. The voices grew distant. “Wait… she’s actually turning blue. Call an ambulance!” But as the last pill went down, the darkness finally, mercifully, swallowed me whole. Three hours later, Simon Mitch scrolled past a trending notification. His heart stopped as he read the headline: WIFE OF TECH MOGUL COMMITS SUICIDE ON LIVESTREAM; PRONOUNCED DEAD ON ARRIVAL.

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Married for three years, Vance Sterling had never once touched me. Wearing a sheer lace nightgown, I faked hickeys on my skin and sent him a picture of my sleeping face, taken from a “third-party” perspective. “Bro, she smells incredible. Hurry up and divorce her so I can have her, alright?” I guessed that Vance, receiving this anonymous text, would be disgusted and furious, throwing me—his wife who was merely a stand-in for my sister—away like trash. I thought that, this time, I could finally divorce him. 1 My older sister was vacationing in Europe, celebrating her third wedding anniversary. When she asked what I wanted as a souvenir, I asked for an unregistered, prepaid foreign SIM card. Pinching the tiny SIM card between my fingers, I stood in the middle of the empty hotel room and let out an exhausted breath. Then, I slipped into the sheer, lace nightgown I had bought specifically for this plan. Standing in front of the mirror, I pinched the skin on my collarbone and neck, forging a trail of suggestive hickeys. The bruises were scattered and vivid, looking exactly as if a man, completely consumed by desire, had ruthlessly and forcefully claimed me. I even tore one of the delicate lace straps of the nightgown, making it look like it had been ripped by a “man’s” rough hands. Finally, I looked in the mirror and intentionally smudged my red lipstick. I sat on the bed and ruffled the other side of the sheets, creating the undeniable impression that someone else had been sleeping there. Then, I closed my eyes, feigning a deep slumber. I set the camera on a tripod, angled perfectly to mimic another person’s point of view, and set the timer. Three, two, one. In the photo, the woman looked as though she had just experienced an intense, passionate encounter, falling into an unguarded, exhausted sleep. I stared at the picture for a long time. My mind couldn’t help but drift to Vance Sterling’s infamous reputation in the corporate world. A smiling tiger. A ruthless capitalist who swallowed his enemies whole and spat out their bones. But the version of him I knew best was simply the man with the eternally cold, emotionless face. He was breathtakingly handsome, but all of his affection had been reserved solely for my sister. I was prepared for the worst. Even if Vance had absolutely no feelings for me, the male ego could rarely tolerate a wife’s betrayal. He would very likely retaliate against me. But ultimately, he would be overwhelmed by disgust and anger. He would discard me and sign the divorce papers. As long as I could get a divorce, that was all that mattered. I closed my eyes and hit send. On the screen, the text message carried a deliberately arrogant, taunting tone: “Bro, she smells incredible. Hurry up and divorce her so I can have her, alright?” Attached was the photo. Message Sent. 2 Less than two seconds later. I received a reply. Vance: “Who is this?” I took my time changing back into my regular clothes. With a somewhat malicious sense of satisfaction, I intentionally dragged out my response time. Was he exploding with rage right now? Was he dying to track down this anonymous guy and skin him alive? Vance Sterling, the golden boy, the man who had been utterly flawless and in complete control his entire life, was finally having his emotions hijacked by someone else. And by me, of all people—the girl he had always kept firmly under his thumb. Three years of suffocation and misery finally yielded a tiny sliver of vindication today. By the time I finished changing, Vance had sent two more messages. “Don’t try to use some cheap deepfake. State your purpose.” “I suggest you come clean on your own. If you do, I might leave you in one piece.” I let out a cold laugh and typed back. “Mr. Sterling, why don’t you just ask your wife if it’s a deepfake?” “The hickeys on my baby’s neck aren’t going to fade anytime soon (＾ｖ＾).” The reason I dared to be so brazen was that I knew Vance was currently overseas, negotiating a massive acquisition. He wouldn’t be back for at least half a month. Suddenly, my actual cell phone started ringing. I jumped in shock. The caller ID flashed aggressively on the screen. It was Vance. I pursed my lips, staring at the phone in dead silence until the call went to voicemail. But almost immediately, the screen lit up again. Vance was calling back, relentless. I realized then that this time, he was genuinely furious. My heart hammered against my ribs. I felt like I was walking on a tightrope, playing an incredibly dangerous game of Russian roulette. I switched back to the burner phone and sent: “Mr. Sterling, stop calling her. We went at it five times. Your wife is exhausted and sleeping.” The phone calls instantly stopped. My actual phone fell into a deathly silence. I sent one last message from the burner SIM: “I didn’t mean to break your marriage up, Mr. Sterling. But your wife and I are truly in love. Be the bigger man, finalize the divorce, and let me have her. Otherwise, word’s going to get out that your wife is making a cuck out of you, and your reputation will be dragged through the mud.” Vance never replied again. Feeling a lingering sense of dread, I threw the torn lace nightgown into the hotel trash can, checked out, and took a cab back to our mansion. The maids were casually vacuuming and dusting. Everything was perfectly normal. The house was so peaceful it was as if nothing had happened at all. I washed up and went to sleep. Early the next morning, as the sky was just beginning to turn a pale gray, I was jolted awake by the deafening roar of a car engine and the harsh screech of tires braking violently outside my window. Before I could even process the panic, three sharp knocks hammered against my bedroom door. “Harper, open the door.” The voice was dark and icy. The tone was restrained to the absolute limit, exposing only the faintest tremor of frantic anxiety beneath the surface. I was instantly, entirely awake. It felt like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over my head, freezing me to the bone. It was Vance. 3 I was in total disarray. How could he be back?! To him, I was nothing more than an insignificant, disposable stand-in! The knocking sounded again. Exactly three taps. The epitome of forced self-control. He spoke a little faster this time: “Harper, I want to see you.” I sat up in bed. Don’t panic. Don’t give yourself away. I took a deep breath, rubbed my eyes, and feigned a groggy, sleep-heavy voice. “Vance, I… I need to use the restroom, and I’m going to take a shower. Give me a minute.” I sprinted into the master bathroom, turned on the showerhead, and stared in horror at the fake hickeys on my neck. I had made them by suctioning the mouth of a glass bottle against my skin yesterday. To make them look real, I had gone hard. Forget about them fading overnight—even heavy foundation wouldn’t be able to completely hide them! But I couldn’t just leave them totally exposed. Because someone who was actually cheating would instinctively try to lie and cover them up. Vance was sharp as a tack. If I was going to put on a show, I had to play the part perfectly. I wet my hair to make it look like I had just stepped out of the shower and threw on a black, long-sleeved turtleneck dress that covered me completely. For the half-hickey that peeked out above the collar, I carefully covered it with a bandage. I looked in the mirror and practiced my expression—a flawless mix of guilty panic and forced composure. This should be disgusting enough. Vance would undoubtedly be repulsed, demand a divorce without hesitation, and tell me to get out of his sight. I unlocked the bedroom door. Vance was sitting on the sofa in the adjoining sitting room, his brows furrowed deeply, his eyes closed. He looked pale. A faint shadow of stubble dusted his jawline. He had forgotten his watch, and his tailored suit jacket was missing its cufflinks. One hand was gripping his phone like a vice, while the other rested on the armrest. Across his knuckles were four deep, bloody cuts. It looked as if he had punched a wall. More than once. But he seemed completely oblivious to it. He hadn’t even bothered to bandage them. “Vance, why are you back so soon?” Vance opened his eyes and looked at me. His pupils were so dark they looked like endless abysses. He pushed himself off the sofa. The man who had been frantically knocking just moments ago now walked toward me with agonizing slowness. I instinctively took a step back, but Vance caught my arm and pulled me right back to him. He lowered his gaze to my neck, his pupils shrinking a fraction of an inch. I forced a stiff smile. “Did something happen with the acquisition?” He didn’t answer. He simply raised his cold hand, pressing his index and middle fingers lightly against the edge of the bandage on my neck. It felt like, at any second, he was going to rip it off brutally, tearing away all my lies, before exploding in humiliated fury and shredding our hypocritical marriage contract. I began to tremble, squeezing my eyes shut, waiting for the execution. But his fingers just rested gently against the bandage. Vance asked calmly, “How did you get this?” I intentionally averted my eyes. “I… I accidentally scraped it on the edge of a book.” “A book…” Vance blinked, moving in slow motion. “What were you doing last night?” His fingertips slipped just slightly past the collar of my dress. If he pulled down just a centimeter more, he would see the trail of bruises hidden beneath the fabric. I swallowed hard. “I went out to the salon to get a hair treatment last night.” Vance’s breathing grew heavy. He stared at me expressionlessly. In that split second, I had the terrifying illusion that he was going to devour me alive. His fingers hooked into my collar. Feeling the pull, I stumbled forward, almost falling against his chest. I hastily threw my hands up, bracing them against his torso to keep my distance. His large hand wrapped around my lower back, gripping me like an iron band. He tightened his hold millimeter by millimeter, as if using the physical pressure to vent his suppressed, boiling rage. I was no match for his strength. Even my arms, bracing against him, were beginning to give out. Vance leaned in, closing the distance inch by inch. “M-Mr. Sterling, don’t.” I stammered, my voice shaking. I didn’t know what he was planning to do, but my instincts were screaming that I was in danger. My mind went completely blank. My voice quivered as I blindly begged for mercy. Three seconds passed. Incredibly, he slowly withdrew his hand from my collar, clenching it into a tight fist. His face turned rigid, his jaw set in stone. Only then did I process the words that had just tumbled out of my mouth— “I’m scared. Don’t touch me. Please.” “I’m going to assign two bodyguards to you. Whenever you leave the house, they will follow you to ensure your safety,” Vance announced flatly. Then, without hesitation, he turned on his heel and walked out. It wasn’t until I heard the familiar roar of his engine fading down the driveway that I snapped out of my daze. He wasn’t going to investigate?! How was that even possible?! 4 I was put under strict surveillance. I barely had a window of opportunity to pull out the burner phone. Whatever Vance had been doing overseas, he had somehow managed to wrap up a multi-week business trip in just five days and rushed straight back. A few days after his return, the surveillance on me finally loosened slightly. I seized the chance, grabbed the burner phone, and sent a text. “Bro, you’re a sore loser. If she cheated, just divorce her. Why lock your wife up?” Vance replied almost instantly: “She didn’t cheat. I trust her. Harper is not the kind of person who would do something like that.” I stared blankly at the screen. What did that mean? It was true that I had resorted to this stupid fake-affair plan because I couldn’t actually bring myself to cheat on him. But how did Vance know what kind of person I was? He had always, always been incredibly cold and distant toward me. Throwing caution to the wind, I typed furiously, adding fuel to the fire: “Mr. Sterling, you don’t know your wife better than I do.” “She has three little moles. One on her ribs, one by her belly button, and another on… Every time I trace a line connecting them with my finger, it drives her crazy. She shivers uncontrollably.” “But you’re her husband. You’ve been married for three years, so you must have known that already, right?” That last sentence was weaponized irony, because in three years of marriage, Vance had never once touched me. Smash! Just as the message delivered, a deafening crash echoed from upstairs. The sound came from Vance’s home office. I flinched, my heart leaping into my throat, and frantically hid the burner phone under my mattress. The smashing sounds echoed a few more times. Then, I heard Vance’s heavy footsteps descending the stairs. Sounding utterly exhausted, he instructed the butler, “Have someone clean up the office. Order a replacement for the computer.” The footsteps drew closer to my door. I was shaking with terror, half-convinced that I was the next thing he was going to smash to pieces. Like an ostrich hiding its head in the sand, I dove under my duvet and pretended to be dead asleep. My bedroom door lock had mysteriously broken the day he returned. Vance turned the handle quietly. Seeing the room pitch-black, he didn’t say a word. In the dead silence, his ragged, heavy breathing and his erratic heartbeat were incredibly loud. It made me wonder if he could hear my heart pounding out of my chest, too. He walked closer. Closer. I squeezed my eyes shut. Vance didn’t shake me awake. He didn’t fly into a murderous rage and strangle me for an explanation. He just stood by my bed. Even with my eyes closed, I could feel an intense, piercing, burning gaze practically nailing itself to my stomach, as if he was agonizing over whether to pull the blankets back and check. Don’t shake. Keep your breathing steady. Keep acting! I remained perfectly still. Suddenly, the mattress dipped beside me. Vance slowly lay down next to me on top of the covers. That freezing yet scalding gaze remained glued to my body. I gritted my teeth. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I was going to light this powder keg once and for all! Acting as if I was lost in a sweet dream, I groggily rolled over and nuzzled my head right into his chest. Vance froze. That fierce, searing gaze suddenly softened. “Hubby…” I mumbled in my sleep. Vance went completely rigid. Refusing to back down, I wrapped both my arms around his waist and used the sweetest, most sickeningly affectionate voice I could muster. “Hubby, hold me.” I fully expected him to explode. I thought he might actually slap me awake. Because I had never called him “hubby” before. He would know, without a shadow of a doubt, that the person I was calling out to in my “dream” was someone else. But instead— He glared down at me in the dark, gripping my arm so tightly he was shaking with rage. Yet the second I let out a soft whimper of pain, he forced himself to loosen his grip. Vance cupped the back of my head and pulled me even tighter against his chest. He pressed a kiss into my hair. Then, he began stroking my back, from top to bottom, with a clumsy but gentle, soothing rhythm. In a low, gravelly voice, he whispered, “Yeah. Hubby’s got you.” I completely froze. This bizarre, eerie calmness of his was absolute madness. Vance Sterling was a brilliantly strategic, calculating man. The second he received that first text, he should have deduced I was having an affair. To prevent a public scandal, he should have had his lawyers draft divorce papers immediately and kicked me out with nothing. Yet, time and time again, he denied it. He aggressively, insanely, stubbornly refused to believe I had slept with another man. And now, he was literally brainwashing himself, stealing words of affection meant for another man and hoarding them for himself. What on earth was he doing? Thinking I had drifted into a deeper sleep after my murmuring stopped, Vance soundlessly lifted the duvet. He pressed his finger against my ribcage, right where the mole was, and slowly traced a line downward. Just a light, cool touch of his fingertip. It was so sudden, and so fast, that before I could even process what was happening, my body violently recoiled, shivering out of control. I had completely made that text up! I had no idea that someone actually tracing those moles would send a jolt of electricity straight through my spine! I trembled pathetically, completely unable to keep up the “deep sleep” act. I immediately tried to roll away and escape. Vance stopped tracing. Instead, he wrapped both his arms around me, pulling me flush against his body, forcing me to face him. His grip was ironclad, unyielding, locking us together so tightly I could feel the frantic, powerful thud of his heart against my own ribs. Chaotic. Frantic. Powerful. He whispered softly into the dark, “You are mine. I am yours.” He had completely lost his mind. He had abandoned all his cold logic, all his rational risk-benefit analysis, and turned into an absolute beast. Barbaric, direct, and uncompromisingly possessive. It was as if he had dragged me back to his den, and now, I belonged nowhere else. He objectified me, and he objectified himself. We were no longer humans with fragile skin and sensitive souls. We were two lifeless padlocks. Click. Locked together. And he could stubbornly believe it: I was his, and he was mine. He really had lost his mind. I opened my eyes in the darkness, trapped between his burning chest and his arms, staring complicatedly at Vance’s sleeping face. Eventually, my eyelids grew heavy, and I fell asleep. In my dreams, I was back three years ago, crying and begging Vance to let me go. He just watched me coldly. Until I screamed, “I don’t owe you anything! You have no right to lock me up!” He had stepped back, stayed silent for a full minute, and finally looked up. “You do owe me. Your sister eloped and broke our engagement. So you will pay me back with the rest of your life. I am never letting you go.” I had collapsed on the floor, touching my face—a face so similar to my sister’s—finally realizing the truth. He refused to let me go because he was using me as a substitute for her. That was how I spent the last three years. Suffocating and miserable. When I opened my eyes the next morning, Vance was already gone. The sheets beside me were smooth and cold, as if no one had ever been there.

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One year ago, a cruel, calculated game tore twenty years of history to shreds. My supposed best friend, Melanie, hit a “Royal Flush” during a high-stakes poker night at the club. With a predatory smile, she pointed at the three men my father had hand-picked as my potential suitors and demanded they ghost me for an entire year. She called it a “litmus test for true love,” a way to see which of them was truly worthy of my hand. I had been standing in the shadows that night, my heart racing, fully expecting them to laugh in her face. Instead, they exchanged a single, chilling look and agreed in unison. Even when my father threatened to strip them of their positions in our firm, they remained cold. They told him—and me—that it was for my own good, that if I couldn’t handle a little “test,” I didn’t deserve to be a Blackwood bride. In that moment, watching them trample my dignity in the name of love, something inside me died. Fast forward to today. Those same three men are standing on my doorstep, brandishing their documents like trophies, their faces masked in a nauseating, entitled arrogance. They told me the “probation period” was over. They were here to offer me the “charity” of choosing one of them to marry. Looking at their smug, victorious expressions, I couldn’t help it. I laughed. I didn’t just chuckle; I let out a sharp, jagged sound that cut through the morning air. I stepped aside, ignoring the papers they tried to shove into my hands. My voice was as flat as a dead calm sea. “Excuse me. I have an appointment with my OB-GYN for a prenatal checkup.” … “Drop the act, Norah. You haven’t even had a man in your bed for a year. What prenatal checkup?” Hudson stepped closer, invading my space just like he used to. He leaned down, his voice a low, teasing rasp against my ear. “Though, I have to say, you’ve put on a little weight this year.” He let his gaze wander over me with a possessive heat. “It suits you. You look… riper. More womanly.” His chest brushed my back, his thumb ghosting over the skin of my neck. A wave of genuine nausea rolled through me, but it wasn’t the baby. It was him. I shoved him away with everything I had. “Don’t touch me, Hudson. Get back.” I instinctively shielded my stomach, my other hand trembling as I pointed toward the street. Hudson stumbled back, looking genuinely shocked. Behind him, Blake and Tatum both frowned, their brows knitting together in synchronized annoyance. Hudson adjusted his glasses, his tone shifting back to that of a rational adult explaining something to a difficult child. “The separation was necessary, Norah. It was meant to teach us all how to value you. The test is over. We’ve grown. We know how to love you better now.” The other two chimed in like a well-rehearsed choir. “He’s right. We thought about you every single day,” Blake added, his voice dripping with faux-sincerity. “We had to prove ourselves out there,” Tatum said. “It was hard, but it was all so we could stand beside you as equals, not just as your father’s proteges.” I looked at these three men—men my father had raised, mentored, and treated like sons—and felt a profound sense of desolation. Hudson had been my favorite once. He was the one who, years ago, would drive across three states in a blizzard just to bring me my favorite dessert when I was sad. When I was sick in high school, he stayed up all night outside my door, refusing to sleep until my fever broke. Blake was the intuitive one; he always knew what I was thinking before I even spoke. Tatum was the quiet powerhouse, the one who kept the family business running like a Swiss watch. He once looked me in the eye and promised that even if we never married, he would protect me until his last breath. But after that night at the club, they vanished. They didn’t just leave; they gutted us. They took my father’s proprietary trade secrets and used them to prop up Melanie’s startup. They leaked confidential files to prove they “didn’t need the family name,” nearly bankrupting us in the process. This past year, the company has been a sinking ship in a hurricane. My father’s heart gave out under the stress, landing him in the ICU for months. I was the one who stood on the deck alone. I was the one who kept the lights on. Hudson, seeing my silence, pressed forward again. His shadow fell over me, his warm breath fanning across my face. “That pregnancy comment… it’s just a move to get under our skin, right?” He glanced at my hand, still protective over my belly, and let out a dry chuckle. “If you really want a baby that badly, come to the courthouse with me now. I promise I’ll… satisfy that craving tonight.” I felt a smirk tug at the corner of my mouth as I looked up at him. “You really think you’re the last man on earth, don’t you, Hudson? You think if I’m carrying a child, it has to be yours?” His smile curdled. A flash of genuine rage flickered in his eyes. “Norah. Watch your mouth.” I met his gaze, my expression icy and provocative. “I’m saying you have a wildly inflated sense of self-importance.” He lunged forward, his fingers clamping onto my chin like a vice. “We’ve explained this a dozen times! It was a test! We’re back now, aren’t we?” I wrenched my face away from his grip. “A year is a long time, Hudson. It was long enough for me to fire every mole in the company. Long enough to prune my social circle of every ‘friend’ who betrayed me.” I paused, letting the silence hang. “And it was more than enough time to find a better man for my bed.” “You—!” Hudson’s fist clenched, his veins bulging. He looked ready to explode, and I instinctively took a half-step back, shielding my abdomen. “Are you insane, Norah?” he hissed. “Do you have any idea why we did what we did? We went out there to build empires! We did it so people would know we weren’t just some pampered house-pets living off your father’s charity! We did it so we could claim you as men who earned you!” The tension was a physical weight between us, but it was shattered by the shrill ring of Hudson’s phone. He checked the screen and instantly let go of me. He hit speaker. Melanie’s voice came through, a high-pitched, hysterical wail. “Hudson? Blake? Is anyone there? Please, help me! I was at the casino… I won big against some guys, but they’re refusing to pay. They’re cornering me… they’re trying to pull me into a back room… they’re trying to touch me… Please!” The three men turned pale. The transformation was instantaneous. “Melanie, stay calm. Don’t let them touch you. We’re coming!” Melanie sobbed out a location, and the three of them turned toward the curb as if pulled by a single string. Before he dove into the car, Hudson shot a look back at me. “Melanie is fragile, Norah. Her safety—her dignity—is on the line. I have to go.” “We’ll finish this when we get back,” Tatum added. “Then we’ll decide which one of us is taking you to the courthouse.” I watched their taillights disappear, my hand resting on the slight curve of my stomach. My heart felt like a hollowed-out cavern. I remembered a night six months ago. My father was still in the hospital. To save the company, I was forced to attend a dinner with a group of predatory investors. They had plied me with drinks, their hands wandering where they didn’t belong. I had locked myself in the restroom, shaking, listening to them pound on the door, laughing, telling me to “be a good girl” and come back out. My dress was torn at the shoulder, my mascara was a ruined mess. In that moment of pure terror, I had called them. Tatum didn’t pick up. Blake blocked my number after the third ring. On the twentieth try, Hudson finally answered. In the background, I could hear Melanie’s melodic, carefree laughter. I didn’t care about the pride then. I just sobbed into the phone. “Hudson, please… help me. I’m at the Pierre… these men, they won’t let me leave… I’m scared…” Hudson’s voice had been like shards of dry ice. “Norah, don’t use ‘safety’ as a cheap trick to lure me home. It’s pathetic. We gave Melanie our word that we wouldn’t see you for a year, and we intend to keep it. Stop embarrassing yourself.” He hung up. Just as the door was about to give way, just as a greasy hand reached for me, a shadow had fallen over the room. A tall, powerful man had stepped in, draped his heavy cashmere coat over my shoulders, and carried me out of that nightmare. He was coming home tomorrow. ——– The driver dropped me off at the private wing of the hospital. I walked in alone, only to find the last four people on earth I wanted to see clogging the hallway. Melanie was slumped in a chair, looking “faint,” draped artfully across Hudson’s lap. Blake was arguing with a nurse about a prescription, and Tatum was carefully blowing on a cup of hot tea for her. Melanie spotted me instantly. She shrank into Hudson’s chest, then looked at me with a look that was pure, unadulterated venom masked by a pout. “Norah? Oh my god, what a coincidence. Are you here for a checkup too?” She touched her forehead, playing the victim. “I was so traumatized by those men at the casino. Hudson and the boys were so worried, they insisted on a full physical. But Norah… what are you doing in the Maternity wing? None of the boys have been with you all year.” She let out a gasp that was entirely too loud. “You didn’t… you didn’t get yourself knocked up by some random guy, did you? Are you trying to trap one of my boys into being a step-daddy for a mistake?” Blake walked over, clutching a slip of paper, his lip curling in a sneer. “Really, Norah? Melanie is literally shaking from an assault, and you’re here playing some disgusting pregnancy angle?” I stopped in my tracks, looking at the three of them. “Melanie,” I said, my voice cold and clear. “The child in my womb, regardless of who the father is, is the sole heir to the Blackwood estate. But what about you?” I let my eyes scan the three men surrounding her. “You spent a whole year ‘winning’ them. You tore my life apart to get them. And yet, after all that, not one of them has actually put a ring on your finger, have they?” I leaned in slightly. “Let’s call it what it is. You’re not a girlfriend. You’re just their collective hobby.” Melanie’s fake fragility vanished. Her face twisted. “How dare you! Hudson, did you hear what she said? She’s so cruel! No wonder you guys left her.” She turned her watery eyes back to me. “Even if they love me, it’s because you’re a bitter, cold woman. In a relationship, the one who isn’t loved is the real intruder.” I laughed, a sharp, dry sound. “Are you really bragging about being a three-for-one special, Melanie? Do you need me to draw up a shift schedule for you? It must be exhausting keeping all three of them ‘satisfied’.” Melanie’s face went scarlet. Hudson stood up abruptly, nearly dumping her on the floor. “Norah, shut your mouth!” He began wiping Melanie’s tears with his thumb, glaring at me. “She almost lost her dignity today, and you’re standing here insulting her! If you don’t apologize to her right now, none of us will ever marry you. Consider your ‘test’ failed.” Blake’s eyes were like daggers. “You’re a disappointment, Norah. Melanie took care of us this year while you were busy being a ‘boss.’ We finally saw how fake you are. You’re just a spoiled heiress using your father’s name to bully people. You don’t have a fraction of Melanie’s heart.” Tatum handed the tea to Melanie, his voice thick with disdain. “Norah, if this pregnancy thing is a joke, it’s in poor taste. But the way you spoke to her… apologize. Now.” They crowded around her, a wall of masculine aggression. I felt a pang in my throat, but I just smoothed my hand over my stomach. “If you think she’s such a saint,” I said, my voice steady, “then marry her. All three of you.” I turned to leave, but Hudson’s voice barked out behind me. “Norah, get back here! Who do you think you’re—” My phone buzzed in my pocket. Headline: [Baby, landing at 7 PM tomorrow. Be home soon.] Hudson grabbed my wrist just as a doctor stepped out of an exam room. The doctor looked at the chart and then at me. “Ms. Blackwood? Your results are in.” The doctor smiled professionally. “Everything looks perfect. You’re in excellent health for the second trimester. The baby is thriving.” Before I could speak, the rage on Hudson, Blake, and Tatum’s faces vanished, replaced by a bizarre, sickening sort of pride. “Norah… you were actually preparing your body? In secret?” Hudson stepped closer, his grip on my wrist loosening into a caress. His voice turned sickeningly sweet. “I knew it. I knew that even after a year apart, you were doing this for us. You were getting ready to start our family.” Blake actually smiled. “So that’s why you’re acting so tough. You wanted to see which one of us would be the best father, didn’t you? Trying to secure the ‘Blackwood’ future before you picked a husband?” As their attention shifted to me, Melanie’s face curdled. She gripped the armrests of her chair, her voice wobbling with fresh tears. “Norah… so you were ‘nesting’ this whole time? I… I didn’t mean to take them away from you today. It’s just… those men at the casino… one of them kicked me because I was trying to protect the gift I bought for you. It hurts so much… I think I’m dying…” The men’s eyes snapped back to Melanie. Seeing her “frail” state, Hudson’s anger redirected toward me. “Melanie, stop. You’re too good for this world. Even now, you’re thinking about a gift for her?” Blake’s face hardened. “Norah, don’t think that because you’re carrying a child for one of us that you get a free pass. You still owe her an apology.” Melanie sobbed, then looked up at me with a look of feigned sisterly concern. “Norah, I know you want the ring and the status, but you’ve hurt these boys. Just bow your head, say you’re sorry, and I’ll convince them to forgive you. For the sake of the baby.” She sniffled. “I’ll help you. I’ll tell them you didn’t mean it. Just apologize.” Hudson stood there, looking like he was granting me a royal pardon. “Norah, if you want to fix this and move forward with the wedding, do what she says. Apologize.” I looked at these three men—the men my father built from nothing. Once, they were my world. Now, they just smelled like rot. I let out a soft, mocking hum. “Do you three actually believe you’re that special? That I’d spend a year pining for you, preparing my body to bear your ‘legacy’?” I looked them up and down with visceral disgust. “I’m taking care of myself for the sake of my child. As for you three…” I let my gaze linger on Melanie. “You should stay with her. Honestly. A ‘Green Tea’ girl and three backstabbing lapdogs? It’s a perfect genetic match. Just don’t let the offspring out into polite society.” Hudson exploded, reaching for my collar. “Norah, you bitch—!” I stepped back, easily dodging him. “Melanie, you love picking through the trash, don’t you? Well, here’s your haul. Keep them.” I didn’t look back as I stepped into the elevator. The next afternoon, I put on my best silk gown. Tonight was the gala at the Pierre, celebrating the return of the head of the Blackwood-Vane conglomerate. Every major player in the city would be there. I arrived thirty minutes early. As I stepped into the ballroom, I ran straight into the quartet of nightmares. Hudson, Blake, and Tatum were surrounding Melanie like a palace guard. When they saw me, their faces darkened. “Norah? You’ve got to be kidding me.” Hudson’s eyes were full of loathing. “You actually scammed an invite to a Blackwood-Vane event just to follow us?” Blake let out a harsh laugh. “The company is circling the drain, and you’re here trying to gold-dig? Did you realize we weren’t going to cave yesterday, so now you’re looking for a new target?” I ignored them and walked toward the lounge area. My morning sickness was hitting late today, a sharp wave of nausea rolling through my gut. I reached for a table to steady myself and gagged. Melanie’s eyes went wide. She let out a piercing, theatrical shriek. “Oh my god! Norah! Are you… are you actually sick?” The sound drew the attention of the surrounding elite. “You really are pregnant!” Melanie cried out, her voice carrying across the room. Hudson stormed over, grabbing my arm with bruising force. “You make me sick, Norah. That stunt at the hospital wasn’t an act? You were actually trying to find a fall-guy?” “You’ve got some nerve,” Blake spat. “We were gone for a year, and you spent that time jumping into bed with god-knows-who? And now you want to pin the ‘bastard’ on one of us?” Tatum waved over a security guard. “Get her out of here. This is a high-profile event. We don’t need a woman with this kind of… reputation… ruining the evening.” Melanie played the peacemaker again, her voice dripping with fake pity. “Boys, don’t be too hard on her. She’s desperate. Her father is failing, her company is gone… she just wanted to find a rich father for her mistake. It’s sad, really.” The whispers started. “Is that the Blackwood girl? Pregnant and looking for a victim?” “How scandalous. And she tried to trap those poor men?” The security guard reached for my shoulder. Hudson gave me a rough shove toward the door. “Get out. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.” I stumbled, the nausea making my head spin, and I nearly hit the floor. Suddenly, the heavy double doors of the ballroom swung open. Twenty suited security personnel flooded in, forming a silent, impenetrable corridor. The room went dead silent. A deep, velvet voice cut through the air like a blade. “Who told you that child was a mistake?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “446506”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I lay in the sterile white of the hospital room, my chest tightly bound after a quadruple bypass. The anesthesia still lingered in my blood, pulling me toward sleep, but the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor kept me anchored. My wife of forty years, Diane, sat by the edge of the bed. Her movements were as practiced and gentle as ever as she tucked the thin hospital blanket around my shoulders. Then, she spoke. And her words became a blade of ice, cleanly slicing open the heart the surgeons had just stitched back together. “By our tenth anniversary, I had already strayed.” Her voice was terrifyingly calm. The kind of voice you use to discuss the weather, or a grocery list. My younger brother, Simon—the boy I practically raised, the man who was still unmarried, the one who had stood outside these very operating doors with red-rimmed eyes, praying for my survival—flashed through my mind. “You were always so exhausted from work, and you slept like the dead. You never noticed,” Diane continued, not a single tremor of guilt in her steady gaze. “After we started sleeping in separate bedrooms, Simon and I spent almost every night together. Right down the hall. Under our roof.” She told me that years ago, before we were family, Simon had been a student in one of her university seminars. Their connection was illicit, undeniable, but impossible to make public. “Simon couldn’t bear to see you overwhelmed,” she said softly. “You were taking care of my father after his stroke, raising our daughter, keeping the house afloat. Simon swallowed his own pride, his own desires, for decades. He didn’t want to break your heart. That’s why we kept you in the dark.” She looked down at me. Her eyes were completely, devastatingly at peace. My newly repaired heart felt as though an invisible, iron fist was crushing it. The pain radiating through my ribs made it nearly impossible to breathe. I forced the words past the sandpaper in my throat. “Why… why tell me now?” Diane let out a soft, long-suffering sigh. “You’ve had the title of my husband, the head of this household, for forty years. But Simon has lived in the shadows. He’s had no name, no rightful place. I simply cannot bear to let him suffer that injustice any longer.” Without a second glance at my face, which I knew must be ashen, she reached into her leather tote bag. She pulled out a manila folder, extracted a stack of divorce papers, and laid them on my tray table. “Sign them.” It wasn’t a request. “Simon and I are both retiring from the university this year. With whatever time we have left, I want to properly make it up to him.” … I stared at the thick stack of paper. Her elegant, looping signature was already waiting on the bottom line. I couldn’t process it. Through the agonizing throb in my sternum, I whispered, “How… how could you both betray me like this?” Just yesterday, before the anesthesia took me under, they had both been hovering over this very bed, playing the parts of the devoted wife and the terrified, loving brother. Diane reached out and covered my cold, trembling fingers with her warm hand. “I know it’s a shock. Believe me, Robert, I considered taking this secret to my grave.” She paused, her eyes growing distant. “But last month… when you were changing my father’s adult diaper, and you collapsed from the first heart attack. All I could think about was Simon.” The blood in my veins turned to freon. I stared at her, horrified. “I was dying on the floor… and you were worrying about him?” That hadn’t been my first cardiac event, but it had been the widow-maker. The paramedics had said another two minutes, and I would have been zipped in a bag. Diane nodded, her voice softening with a tender, sickening ache that was entirely meant for my brother. “I was terrified that if Simon ever collapsed like that, I wouldn’t have the legal or moral right to hold his hand in the ambulance. I wouldn’t have the right to care for him openly. When I was dialing 911 for you, my entire mind was consumed with how I had to make things right for him.” She glanced toward the glass window of my hospital room. A look of undisguised, reverent adoration washed over her features. I followed her gaze. Standing in the hallway was my flesh and blood. Simon. He was nodding earnestly as he spoke to a nurse, jotting down my post-op dietary restrictions in a little leather notebook. He looked so deeply concerned. So perfectly, flawlessly fake. It made my stomach heave. Diane pulled her eyes back to my exhausted, lined face. A flicker of something resembling pity crossed her features. “Robert, I know you worked yourself to the bone caring for my father and raising Brittany. But I gave you the respectability of a marriage. I gave you my name. Now that my father has passed, and Brittany is grown and married… just let us go. Let Simon and me be together.” It had taken us ten years of marriage before Diane finally got pregnant with Brittany. We hadn’t even finished painting the nursery when her father was hit by a drunk driver, leaving him paralyzed from the neck down. Because Diane was on the tenure track and her career was paramount, I stepped back. I became the nurse, the maid, the father. I lost track of the meals I skipped. I conditioned myself to ignore the stench of bedsores and soiled sheets, sacrificing my prime years to keep her family intact. And all the while, as I scrubbed her father’s waste from the floorboards, my wife was down the hall, offering her body to comfort my brother’s “loneliness.” I had dragged us through the darkest, hardest years. And now that the heavy lifting was done, now that I had outlived my usefulness, she wanted me to step aside? A sharp, stabbing pain shot through the center of my chest. I gasped, clutching my hospital gown, struggling for air. Diane’s face tightened. She leaned over, rubbing my shoulder. “Simon doesn’t know I’m asking for the divorce today. Please, Robert, don’t have another episode. You’ll only upset him.” Even as I suffocated, her only concern was my brother’s feelings. Adrenaline and pure, unadulterated rage flooded my system. With a burst of strength I didn’t know I had, I shoved her away. “You want to make it up to Simon?” I wheezed. “Who makes it up to me? Who gives me back my goddamn life?” Hearing the commotion, Simon burst through the door, his face a mask of perfectly tailored panic. “Rob, what’s wrong? I’ll get a doctor—” He stopped dead in his tracks, the words dying in his throat as he met my eyes. He saw the pure, venomous hatred radiating from them. Years ago, Diane had convinced me that after childbirth, a woman’s libido permanently shifted. She said sleeping in separate rooms would give us both better rest. I believed her. I never once suspected that her drive hadn’t disappeared—it had simply been redirected to the bedroom next door. Looking at Simon now, I saw it. Though he was in his fifties, he looked thirty-five. He hadn’t aged, because he had never carried a heavy burden a day in his life. He hadn’t spent thirty years orbiting a paralyzed man, a demanding wife, and a needy child. I was so exhausted, so beaten down by domestic labor, that I hadn’t even noticed the two of them fucking under my own roof. “Tell me, Simon,” I spat, my voice dripping with acid. “Did it feel good? Fucking your brother’s wife while I was busy keeping this family alive?” Simon’s eyes went wide with manufactured horror. “Rob! I’m your brother! How could you accuse me of something so vile?” He looked at Diane, playing the bewildered, falsely accused victim to perfection. But Diane let out a long breath and stood up, reaching out to lace her fingers through his. “Simon, it’s over. I told him everything.” She looked at him with an adoring gaze. “We don’t have to hide in the shadows anymore. If you want a real wedding, I’ll divorce him tomorrow and marry you.” “Are you insane?” Simon yanked his hand away, his voice breaking into a theatrical sob. “My brother just had his chest sawed open!” He threw himself across my bed, weeping loudly, before his eyes landed on the divorce papers. He snatched them up and violently ripped them in half. “Rob, please, you have to listen to me! It’s not what you think with Diane! I swear to God, I would never break up your family!” His tears were so real, so flawlessly executed. It only made me want to vomit. Looking back, their performance over the decades deserved an Academy Award. When our mother died, her last wish was for me to look after Simon, who was six years my junior. Years later, when Simon had returned from a sabbatical in Europe “heartbroken” by a woman who had dumped him, he swore he would never marry. He fell into a deep depression. It was Diane who suggested we move him into our guest room so he wouldn’t be alone. She had been so attentive to me then. I had been foolish enough to be moved to tears, thinking I had married an angel willing to take in my broken brother. I remembered times when Simon would barely nod at Diane in the hallway. I used to pull him aside and say, ‘Simon, she’s your sister-in-law now. You don’t have to be so cold to her.’ He had hugged me then, looking me dead in the eye. ‘Boundaries, Rob. Keeping a respectful distance from your wife is the highest form of respect I can show you.’ For decades, they never shared an inside joke in front of me. Never brushed shoulders. Who could have known? While I was passing out from exhaustion after changing catheters and rocking a screaming infant, the two of them were tangling the sheets together in the dark. Simon was still on his knees by the bed, clutching my hospital gown, weeping. I mustered every ounce of my remaining strength and kicked him away. “Get out. Both of you. Get the hell out of my sight.” I gritted my teeth. “And I’m not signing a goddamn thing. I won’t give you the satisfaction.” The effort drained me. I sagged back into the pillows, gasping. Simon lost his balance and fell backward onto the linoleum. Diane immediately rushed to him, pulling his head to her chest, glaring at me like I was a monster. “Robert! I gave you the respect of this marriage! I let Simon suffer the indignity of being a secret for thirty years! What more could you possibly want?” “He sacrificed so much for you!” she yelled. “He stayed late at the university every day just so you wouldn’t feel suspicious at home. He put you first, and you dare treat him like this?” Simon buried his face in her cashmere sweater, his shoulders shaking. The perfect picture of the tortured martyr. I was trembling so violently the bed frame rattled. “The respect of this marriage?” I choked out. “You mean being a live-in janitor for your father’s shit and piss? You mean raising a daughter by myself so you had free time to whore around with my brother?” “I worked myself into a heart attack, and you act like I owe you? Diane, do you have a soul?” Diane flinched. For a fraction of a second, a complicated emotion—maybe guilt, maybe just annoyance—flickered across her face. Before she could speak, Simon let out a harrowing wail. “Rob, it’s all my fault! I never should have let my feelings for Diane cross the line! If my dying will fix this, if it’ll make you forgive her, then I’ll end it right now!” He scrambled to his feet and lunged for the third-floor hospital window. Diane screamed, grabbing him around the waist, pulling him back in a desperate panic. When she turned back to me, her eyes were filled with pure, unadulterated loathing. “I just wanted to give the man I love his rightful place, and you are trying to drive him to suicide.” She sneered, her voice dropping to a vicious whisper. “You are so coarse, Robert. You’re nothing compared to him. Thank God I reported you to the ethics committee back then. Giving your university position to Simon was the best thing I ever did.” Simon gasped, throwing his hand over her mouth. “Diane, stop! He can’t handle this right now—” It felt as though a lightning bolt had struck the center of my skull. I couldn’t breathe. The room spun wildly. “What… what did you say?” Diane yanked Simon’s hand away, fully consumed by her own self-righteous fury. “I said, the anonymous letter to the dean? The fabricated evidence of grant fraud that got you blacklisted from academia? I orchestrated all of it.” A metallic, coppery taste flooded my mouth. My stomach contracted violently. I leaned over the bedrail, vomiting a mouthful of dark blood onto the pristine white floor, before the world went entirely black. It took them two days to stabilize me again. When I finally opened my eyes, Diane was sitting by the bed, her eyes bloodshot. Seeing me awake, she let out a long, shaky exhale. “Robert. We’re getting too old for this kind of drama.” Her tone was softer now, practiced and reasonable. “I admit, I’ve wronged you in the past. If we divorce, I’m willing to leave you with the house and the savings. If you refuse to divorce, Simon and I… we won’t hold it against you.” “Our grandson needs you to help take care of him. If we blow this up, it’s going to destroy Brittany’s life. Be the bigger person, Robert. Look at the big picture.” I had just walked back from the edge of death twice in one week. Even knowing the monster she truly was, an overwhelming, crushing sorrow pressed down on my chest. I grieved for the bright, ambitious young man I used to be. I grieved for the best years of my life, burned on the altar of a family that saw me only as a utility. I blinked away the heavy burn in my eyes. My voice was a hollow rasp. “You loved him so much… that you destroyed my career? My entire life?” Before Diane got pregnant with Brittany, I had been an associate professor of history. I was brilliant. I was on the fast track to tenure. If I hadn’t been anonymously accused of embezzling grant money and subsequently fired in disgrace, I never would have been forced to stay home. I wouldn’t have spent thirty years scrubbing bedpans. I would have stood at a podium, discussing the fall of empires, retiring with the same dignity and pension as my brother. Diane’s face contorted into a mask of tragic necessity. “Robert, my hands were tied.” “I had just found out I was pregnant. My father had his stroke. And Simon… Simon had just returned from Europe, profoundly depressed. He was suicidal. The only way to save his life was to clear the path for him to take your tenure-track spot. It gave him purpose again.” “And you… well, it just made sense for you to be home to take care of me and my dad.” Watching her spin this delusion—acting like she was a tragic heroine who made a heartbreaking sacrifice for the greater good—broke something inside my brain. I started to laugh. A wet, broken, hysterical laugh, tears streaming down my face. I remembered the day I got fired. It completely eclipsed the joy of learning I was going to be a father. I sat in our living room in the dark for 24 hours, refusing to eat. Diane had held me, crying perfectly manufactured tears, promising she made enough money to support us both. She told me if I gave up on life, she would starve herself alongside me. I loved her so deeply then. I couldn’t bear to let her or our unborn baby suffer, so I swallowed my pride, put on an apron, and became a housewife. But after Brittany was born, the silence in our house grew. Diane would leave for campus before Simon even woke up. She would return hours after he did. Only now did I realize it was a choreographed schedule. My laughter died. My eyes felt like two dead, empty stones as I stared at the ceiling. “You didn’t hide it to protect my feelings,” I whispered. “You hid it because you didn’t want Simon to have to clean your father’s shit. You didn’t want the reality of life to ruin your little romance. You wanted to play out a tragic, poetic love affair, and you needed a live-in mule to clean up the mess.” Diane shot up from her plastic chair. “For God’s sake, Robert, you’re an educated man. Stop speaking so vulgarly.” She looked at me with profound disgust, grabbed her bag, and stormed out of the room. She didn’t come back. Over the next few days, Simon tried to visit twice, but I threw my water pitcher at the door until the nurses chased him away. On the day of my discharge, Brittany, who had just returned from a business trip, came to pick me up. In the passenger seat of her SUV, I told her everything. About the affair. About how her mother ruined my career. She drove in utter silence. But the moment she pulled into the driveway of her house, she put the car in park and sighed, heavily and with deep irritation. “Dad. You’ve monopolized Mom for your entire life. She and Uncle Simon were in love, but they couldn’t be together.” She looked at me like I was a stubborn toddler. “They just want to make up for lost time now. You’re both old. Can’t you just let it go and stop throwing tantrums?” I stared at the girl I had bottle-fed. The girl I had stayed up with through every fever, every heartbreak. “So…” I breathed out. “You knew? About them?” Brittany frowned, annoyed. “I’ve known since I was eight.” I sat in the silence of her leather-scented car. And then, the tears finally came. “They wanted to be together?” I choked out, my voice cracking. “Then why didn’t they ‘be together’ when your grandfather was paralyzed and screaming in the night? Why didn’t they ‘be together’ when you were screaming with colic?” My hands shook as I pulled out my phone and opened Simon’s Facebook page. I shoved the screen toward her. It was an album of him on trips to Napa, to Paris, standing next to a woman whose face was always conveniently cropped out. But I recognized Diane’s jewelry. I recognized her hands. “I gave up my life! I burned my youth for them!” I screamed, the dashboard rattling with the force of it. “I just want some justice, and you’re telling me I’m throwing a tantrum? Are you even my daughter?” I yelled the last words out of sheer desperation. But they hit a nerve. Brittany’s face flushed dark red. She snapped. “No! I’m not!” I froze. The air left my lungs. Suddenly, the passenger door was yanked open. Simon stood there in the driveway. He reached in and slapped Brittany hard across the cheek. “Brittany, shut your mouth!” he hissed. Brittany touched her red cheek, her eyes blazing. “I won’t shut up! You’re my biological father, and I wasn’t even allowed to call you ‘Dad’!” She looked back at me, twisting the knife. “I didn’t even know until the day of my wedding. I didn’t believe Mom at first, so I made them do two separate DNA tests.” As if desperate to prove it to me, she unbuckled her seatbelt, ran into her house, and came back out waving a crinkled envelope. The lab results. A high-pitched ringing started in my ears. My body began to tremble, shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. “So…” I whispered into the void. “I don’t even have a child. I leave this earth with nothing.” Simon dropped to his knees on the concrete driveway, sobbing loudly. “Rob, I swear we didn’t mean to hurt you! You did have a daughter! She…” Brittany cut him off, her voice cold. “Before Mom got pregnant with me, she had your baby.” “She was accepted for a ten-month fellowship in Oxford. She didn’t tell you she was pregnant before she left. Because she felt so guilty that Uncle Simon would never marry anyone else, she promised she would give him a child, to raise as her own. So when she gave birth to your baby in England… she sent her away to a private foster home. You never even knew she existed.” A memory, buried under three decades of dust, broke through the surface. In our eighth year of marriage, Diane won a prestigious fellowship. I was still teaching then. I supported her fiercely, taking on extra classes to help fund her stay. Simon had gone to Europe around the same time. Ten months later, they both returned. Diane looked the same. But Simon was a broken man, claiming a woman had shattered his heart, threatening suicide daily. Diane had begged me to let him move in. Then he vowed celibacy. I had been so busy covering my own shifts and caring for her ailing father, I never looked deeper. I had raised my brother’s bastard child, while my own flesh and blood… I leaned out of the car, staring at Simon through blurred, psychotic vision. “Where is my daughter?” Simon’s eyes were swollen. He choked on his words. “When she was five… the foster family lost her. She was abducted. The police said… they said she died of a high fever somewhere on the road.” A tidal wave of pure, unadulterated agony crashed over me. I let out a feral, guttural roar and threw myself out of the car, aiming straight for his throat. “I’ll kill you! I’ll fucking kill you!” But before my hands could wrap around his neck, something hard cracked against the back of my skull. I fell onto the pavement, the world spinning. Diane stood over me, her designer handbag clutched in her hand like a weapon. “Are you having another psychotic break?” she sneered. Through the tearing pain in my chest and the blood pooling in my hair, I looked up at the woman I had loved. “Give me back my daughter,” I sobbed, my spirit entirely broken. “Give her back!” Diane scoffed. “Your daughter is standing right there. What more do you want? Honestly, Robert, instead of bullying Simon, why don’t you make yourself useful and figure out how to help Brittany with the baby?” The absolute, devastating cruelty of it all was too much. I lay on the concrete and wept. Deep, ugly, howling sobs. Diane looked down at me in disgust. She took Simon’s arm, gently pulling him up from the driveway, and led him toward her car. Brittany stood on her porch, crossing her arms, looking thoroughly exhausted by me. “Dad, what is the point of dwelling on ancient history? If you’re going to act this unstable, I’m certainly not letting you babysit my son.” She turned on her heel and went inside, locking the door behind her. I lay there on the cold cement, unable to draw a full breath. My wife never loved me. My brother stole my life. The daughter I raised belonged to them. My real daughter died a terrifying, lonely death in the dark. My entire existence had been a punchline. Slowly, agonizingly, I pushed myself off the ground. My eyes were completely hollow. I dragged myself down the street, toward the towering bridge that spanned the highway just outside the neighborhood. I climbed over the railing. The concrete below rushed past in a blur of speed and noise. All I had to do was lean forward. But just as gravity began to take me, a pair of strong, young hands clamped onto my forearms like iron. “Don’t jump.” A young woman’s voice, fierce and steady, rang in my ear. “Don’t you dare jump. Every single person who broke you today… I am going to destroy them.” … Back at our suburban estate, after soothing Simon’s frayed nerves and leaving him at Brittany’s house, a deep, unsettling anxiety clawed at Diane’s stomach. She drove home quickly. But when she pushed open the wooden front door, the sight that greeted her made her heart stop dead in her chest.

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While cooking, my mother-in-law accidentally set the grease pan on fire. I frantically told her not to add water, but she had already thrown a large bowl of water into the blazing pan. With a massive boom, flames shot into the sky. I watched as a wall of fire rushed at me. In the blink of an eye, I lost my vision, feeling nothing but a lethal, agonizing heat engulfing my entire body! I dropped to the floor and rolled around frantically to put out the flames, screaming and crying for my mother-in-law to save me. But the fire had already caught the kitchen curtains. My mother-in-law was terrified out of her mind. Instead of helping me, she ran into her bedroom, grabbed her lockbox of cash and bank cards, and bolted out the front door, screaming, “Fire! Help!” as she ran. Because of her actions, the critical window to put out the fire was missed. I passed out from the excruciating pain of being burned alive. When I woke up, I was already being resuscitated in the hospital. Though I barely clung to life, I learned from the hospital staff that a neighbor had originally called an ambulance to take me to the major city hospital, which had a Level 1 Trauma and Burn Center. But while my life hung by a thread, my mother-in-law had literally physically blocked the ambulance from leaving. She claimed big hospitals were just scams that would drain an ordinary family’s life savings! She insisted on sending me to the small community hospital because my sister-in-law, Sarah, worked there as a nurse. She said sending me to a hospital where we had “connections” would prevent us from getting ripped off. She threw a massive, screaming tantrum until the paramedics, with no other choice, took me to the underfunded community hospital. The doctors told me I had suffered massive third-degree burns across my entire body. To treat me, they had to rip off my bandages and aggressively scrub my body with surgical steel wool. They had to scrape off the dead skin and necrotic flesh, brushing it away along with the blood, just so new skin could grow. The entire process was done without anesthesia. Lying in that hospital bed, tortured by the steel wool, the soul-tearing pain was something I simply could not bear. I shrieked in agony, howling like an animal headed for the slaughterhouse, but the doctor’s hands couldn’t stop. Stroke after stroke, the steel wool scraped my flesh off. And my husband, Mark, along with my mother-in-law, just stood outside watching it all. When it was finally over, I lay on the bed, barely breathing. Mark came in. He sat beside me and said he wanted to discuss something with me. Lowering his voice, he whispered, “Next time, could you try to scream a little quieter? Mom already feels incredibly guilty. Hearing you scream so miserably had her shaking outside. Don’t make the old lady depressed. She’s so ridden with guilt she can’t even eat.” I lay powerless on the bed, my eyes beneath the bandages staring dead at my husband. I was destroyed. I had suffered horrific, massive burns, yet his biggest concern was that his mommy didn’t have a good appetite. I muttered, “Did you even consider me?” He sighed and said, “I know she was in the wrong this time, but it already happened. What do you want her to do? She really feels guilty and remorseful.” Choking back tears, I said I needed to contact my parents. But Mark refused. He said we should wait until I was discharged to tell my side of the family, to save everyone the worry. They confiscated my phone. I had no way of asking the hospital staff to contact my parents because the nurse assigned to care for me was my sister-in-law, Sarah. Lying there, all I could do was cry. The tears seeped into my raw wounds, causing a stinging pain that made my whole body tremble. By the time I had recovered enough to sit up, the whole extended family came to visit. The kids were roughhousing in the hospital room. My mother-in-law yelled at them to stop, saying that if they broke hospital equipment, we couldn’t afford to pay for it. Not a single person was worried about whether I was permanently disfigured. When my bandages were finally removed, Mark’s nephew, Tommy, screamed dramatically, “Whoa! A monster!” The hospital room fell dead silent. A child’s simple words completely ripped my heart to shreds. I frantically snatched the hand mirror from Sarah’s grasp and looked at my own face. In that instant, my heart turned to ash. I was ruined. My entire face looked like a twisted monster. My niece, Lily, burst into terrified tears beside me, too scared to even look at me. Tommy, however, thought it was hilarious. He kept pushing Lily toward me. The closer she got to me, the more terrified she became, crying louder and louder. Every sob felt like a knife plunging straight into my heart! Tommy shoved her right up to my bedside and gleefully shouted, “The monster is gonna get you!” I completely broke. I raised the mirror and hurled it at him as hard as I could, screaming, “Get the hell out!” The mirror struck Tommy in the face. The glass shattered on impact, slicing a gash across his cheek. The moment he saw all the blood, he immediately started bawling. I roared at him, “Your face is ugly now too! Now you can be a monster!” My screaming only made him cry even harder. Sarah panicked. Seeing her precious son hurt, her heart ached. She lunged at me, grabbed me by the hair, and shrieked, “Why are you picking a fight with a child?! He doesn’t know any better!” The doctor quickly intervened, “It’s a minor cut! Everyone calm down. Take the boy to the ER to get the wound cleaned. Someone is on duty.” My mother-in-law hurriedly scooped Tommy into her arms, her heart breaking for him as she cooed, “Your aunt is evil! We won’t play with her anymore! Grandma will take you to the ER!” I was devastated. I was the one who had been horribly disfigured, yet not a single person in this room cared about me in the slightest. Mark looked at me with a newfound horror in his eyes. He asked the doctor, “Is there any way for her to recover from this?” The doctor answered honestly, “She will need multiple reconstructive and cosmetic surgeries. Our hospital isn’t equipped for that. I recommend transferring her to the city hospital; their dermatology and plastics department is top-notch, and they have an affiliated cosmetic surgery center.” My mother-in-law had been about to walk out with Tommy, but upon hearing this, she immediately whipped her head around and asked, “How much will that cost?” The doctor shook his head. “I don’t know. I’ve never performed those procedures, so I wouldn’t dare give an estimate.” My mother-in-law pressed, “Just give us a rough ballpark.” The doctor thought for a moment before finally saying, “It will easily cost hundreds of thousands of dollars.” My mother-in-law gasped in shock. Mark looked like he wanted to say something, but his mother shot him a fierce glare. She quickly set Tommy down, grabbed Mark’s arm, and yanked him out of the room. I didn’t even need to guess. I knew exactly what they were going to do—discuss how to avoid paying for my treatment. Seeing her son left unattended, Sarah picked up the wailing Tommy. She shot me a venomous glare and spat, “Being pitiful isn’t an excuse to throw a tantrum! Don’t take your anger out on my kid! If my son is left with a scar, I’ll kill you!” As she carried him out, she pulled out her phone to complain to my brother-in-law, David: “Honey! Get to the hospital right now! Forget about work! Your son’s face was just ruined by that crazy bitch!” I had no energy to care about Sarah. I didn’t dare look in the mirror again. I couldn’t believe that monster was me! I cried and asked the doctor, “If I was going to turn out like this, why did you even save me?! I’d be better off dead!” The doctor sighed and tried to comfort me. “There’s still a chance. Medical technology is incredibly advanced now. The sooner you start reconstructive treatment, the better the results. Delaying it will only make things complicated.” I lowered my head and buried my face in the blankets, sobbing. The doctor, at a loss for words, quietly stepped out of the room. Left on my bed was a smartphone. It was Mark’s. He had left it behind when his mother dragged him out. I picked it up and unlocked it. I knew his passcode. I opened the web browser, wanting to look up the approximate cost of burn reconstruction. But when I saw his recent search history, I froze. From bottom to top, the search history read… “Photos of fire disfigurement.” “How much does burn reconstructive surgery cost?” “What to do if wife becomes extremely ugly.” “Can a husband lose everything in a divorce if he cheats?” “How to ask for a divorce without making the other person hate you.” Looking at that search history, I just felt utterly pathetic. While I was lying in a hospital bed, enduring the agony of having my flesh scrubbed raw with steel wool, he had already decided to betray me. I immediately opened his messaging app and texted my parents, telling them I was in a massive emergency, to drop everything, gather as many people as they could, and get to the hospital immediately. I explicitly told them not to reply. A little while later, Mark finally stormed back into the room, fuming. Hearing his footsteps, I quickly deleted the message history and tossed the phone aside. He walked in, sat down beside me, and said coldly, “Do you have any idea what you did? Because of your impulsive tantrum, my nephew needs stitches! He’s only eight years old!” I looked up at him. “And?” I asked. He looked appalled. “You hurt a little kid, and this is your attitude? I know you’re having a hard time, but is it the kid’s fault you got burned?” I said, “Let’s get a divorce.” He froze. “What did you just say?” he asked. “I said, let’s get a divorce. I know you’re not going to pay for my treatment. We’ll divorce, split our assets fifty-fifty, and I’ll use my half to pay for my surgeries.” He stared at me blankly and swallowed hard. “Are you insane?” “Do I look insane to you?” I countered. My mother-in-law suddenly burst into the room, highly agitated. “Yes! You are completely insane! Look at the hideous monster you’ve become, and you actually think you’re getting half the assets in a divorce?! Let me tell you right now, no man will ever look twice at you! You want a divorce? Fine! But you won’t get a single red cent!” Her words made me clench my fists. I roared, “And whose fault is it that I look like this?! It’s yours!” She didn’t understand. If I was truly insane, I would have slaughtered every single one of them like livestock by now! I had already made up my mind. I was going to divorce him, take my rightful half of the assets, and then sue them into the ground for my medical bills! My life was not going to be ruined just because of them! My mother-in-law yelled, “I already apologized! What more do you want?! Do you have any idea how much money we’ve already spent on your hospital stay? And then you smashed a mirror into my grandson’s face! You ungrateful, heartless bitch!” I gritted my teeth and spat, “That’s not a child. That’s a little feral animal.” Furious, my mother-in-law screamed, “You dare call my grandson an animal?! I’ll rip your mouth right off your face!” She lunged right at me. She knew my burns hadn’t fully healed, and she deliberately aimed to claw at my face! In an instant, she had scratched my face into a bloody, mangled mess! I refused to back down. I wildly slapped her across the face, screaming, “I’m not just divorcing him, I’m suing you! I’m going to bankrupt you!” Hearing this made her even more unhinged. She shrieked, “Go ahead and sue me! You filthy bitch, even if you win, I won’t give you a single penny! I’m an old woman, I don’t care if I have to declare bankruptcy and they ruin my credit!” I was confined to a hospital bed, barely recovering from a near-death experience. There was no way I could overpower her in a physical fight! In a moment of desperation, I grabbed the glass vase from the bedside table and swung it squarely at her head! Suddenly, a hand clamped down on my wrist. I looked up to see David, my brother-in-law, who had just arrived. David looked at me with ice in his eyes. “You hit my son, and now you’re trying to hit my mother? You really have lost your mind.” He snatched the vase from my hand and shot a disgusted look at Mark. “Look at the kind of wife you married.” I glared at them with pure hatred. In that moment, I prayed with everything I had that my family would get here quickly. Seeing her eldest son step in to help, my mother-in-law spat maliciously, “This cheap slut says she’s going to sue me. Fine, let her try! I’ll transfer the deed of my house over to you today. I’ll have zero assets to my name, and we’ll see what the courts can do to me then!” Mark panicked. “Mom, why are you giving the house entirely to David? Don’t I get a share?” His mother snapped, “If I give it to you, this bitch will just take half of it in the divorce!” David said coldly, “Mom is giving the house to me. Do you have a problem with that?” Mark didn’t dare argue with his older brother. Instead, he shot me a venomous look and said bitterly, “Are you happy now? I just lost my inheritance. Is this what you wanted?” Right then, David grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked me up. He growled, “Mom, honestly, I have no intention of letting this bitch make it to a courtroom. Whether she sues you or files for divorce, our family’s assets are going to take a massive hit.” “So what are you saying…?” my mother-in-law asked. David replied, “Let’s just kill her.” He pointed at the window and said casually, “There are no cameras in this room. We throw her out the window. We tell the cops she couldn’t handle being disfigured, so she threw herself out to commit suicide, and we couldn’t grab her in time. What can the police possibly do to us?” A violent chill ran down my spine. My body started shaking uncontrollably. I knew David wasn’t just trying to scare me. He was completely serious! Mark hesitated. “Will the cops really not find out?” David sneered. “As long as she’s dead, how could they? She realized she was a monster, got hysterical, attacked my kid, screamed and cried, and then jumped out the window. Open and shut case.” As he spoke, David walked over to the window and cranked it wide open. The cold air immediately rushed in, covering my skin in goosebumps. Terrified, I scrambled toward the door, instinctively opening my mouth to scream for help. But David was incredibly fast. In two strides, he was on me, driving a brutal punch right into my stomach! I grabbed my stomach in agony, curling up like a shrimp. The intense pain made me violently nauseous. For the first time in my life, I learned that when you’re hit hard enough, the pain is so absolute that you can’t even force a scream out of your throat. David didn’t waste a second. He grabbed my hospital gown and started dragging me toward the open window. I tried to scream again in sheer terror, but he delivered a vicious kick to my stomach. All the air was knocked out of my lungs. The pain made me dry heave, leaving me completely unable to make a sound. In that moment, I looked at my husband. He was just standing there like an idiot, too scared to join in. He seemed to be weighing his options, until David lost his patience and roared, “What the hell are you waiting for?!” Mark gritted his teeth and looked at me. “Don’t blame me. Blame yourself for being too greedy. You wanted half my assets and you wanted to sue us into bankruptcy!” He finally made up his mind, stepping in to help his brother by grabbing my ankles. I thrashed and kicked like a maniac, but the combined strength of two grown men was too much. In the blink of an eye, they hurled me bodily out the window! I finally managed to scream, but I was already airborne. The terrifying sensation of freefall consumed me. The wind roared in my ears. I looked down in sheer panic, watching the concrete pavement rush up to meet me. Flailing my arms and legs wildly in the air, I suddenly felt a violent, agonizing yank on my right leg. The bone-shattering pain was so severe I nearly blacked out! Clenching my teeth, I looked up. The hospital had installed heavy iron guardrails around the exterior AC units. Because of my frantic flailing, my right leg had slipped perfectly between the iron bars. The sheer force of my falling weight against the iron bars had instantly snapped my leg in half. My fractured bone had pierced through my flesh and was jutting out. Even though my leg was completely broken, the snapped lower half was wedged tightly between the bars, arresting my fall. It had saved my life! This was the seventh floor! If I had hit the ground, I would be dead on impact! But it hurt! Dear God, it hurt so much! Hanging upside down in mid-air, I unleashed a hysterical, agonizing scream! I had never felt pain like this in my entire life. I had to stare directly at my own splintered bone protruding from my skin! I don’t know how far my screams echoed, but multiple windows across the hospital facade popped open. When people saw me dangling there, they were utterly horrified. David and Mark, peering down from the window above, went pale. David gasped in horror, “Dammit, she’s not dead!” The two of them panicked and scrambled back into the room to hide. Meanwhile, the onlookers at the other windows frantically yelled down to the ground, trying to rally help. I could do nothing but hang there, crying in sheer agony. I desperately wanted to reach up and touch my leg to see if I still had any feeling in it, but the sight of my protruding bone filled me with paralyzing terror! I couldn’t believe this was my leg. I was already permanently disfigured, and now I had to endure this hell? What crime had I ever committed to deserve God punishing me like this?! Right then, the window directly next to me slid open. I thought it was a Good Samaritan trying to pull me in. But the moment the window opened, I was stunned. The person leaning out was my mother-in-law! She glared at me with murderous intent, hissing, “Why won’t you just die?! You’re going to ruin my sons’ lives!” Suddenly, she grabbed a long mop handle from inside the room. Gripping it tightly, she aggressively jabbed at my broken leg, trying to dislodge it from the iron bars so I would plummet to my death! She gritted her teeth and snarled, “I’m old and useless anyway! If I kill you, I’ll gladly go to prison. That way, my family won’t have to pay you all that money!” I was pushed to the absolute edge of sanity. I forced my body to crunch upward, reaching out my hands to block the mop handle. My leg was snapped in half—every tiny movement sent blinding, drill-like pain through my nervous system!

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Under the blinding glare of the chandelier, the tension in the auction house was thick enough to choke on. The royal nineteenth-century bridal diadem—a masterpiece of gold filigree and sapphires that I had spent the last three years painstakingly restoring with my own hands—was sold. Lennon Caldwell had just won it with an astronomical, record-breaking bid. But the real shock didn’t come from the price tag. It came when he turned around and casually placed that historically profound, breathtakingly irreplaceable artifact onto the perfectly coiffed head of Hollywood’s newest It-girl. The room erupted into a cacophony of gasps. Dozens of camera lenses instantly pivoted, zooming in on my face. Every reporter in the room was holding their breath, waiting to see how the “long-term fiancée” would unravel. Lennon glanced over at me. His eyes held that familiar, careless arrogance—a quiet disdain he didn’t even bother to hide anymore. “The diadem is a symbol of good fortune,” he said, his voice entirely too light for the weight of the moment. “I’m just letting Gia borrow it for the evening to calm her nerves. I’ll have my assistant send a brand-new set of diamonds to your apartment tomorrow.” “Don’t bother.” The absolute stillness in my own voice surprised even me. Lennon’s brow furrowed. He clearly thought I was throwing a tantrum. “Don’t be childish, Camille. Gia just won her first major acting award. She needs this kind of press right now.” A small, quiet smile escaped my lips. I didn’t say another word. I simply turned on my heel and walked out, leaving the suffocating humiliation of that ballroom behind me. He would never know. He would never know that the sapphire diadem was the bridal crown I had spent thousands of hours repairing for myself, meant to be worn on the day I married him. But since it had been tainted, I no longer had any use for it. 1 Footsteps clicked against the marble behind me. It was Gia. “Is she mad at me?” her voice drifted down the corridor, dripping with manufactured innocence. “Should I go take the shiny stones off and give them back?” Lennon’s reply was a cold drawl. “Ignore her. She’s just spoiled.” Stepping out of the gala, the Manhattan night air hit me with a biting chill. Lennon didn’t know the truth about the diadem. He didn’t know it wasn’t just a museum piece; it was my dowry. I had spent three years hunched beneath magnifying lamps, mending every fractured wire, re-setting every loose stone, dreaming of the moment I would walk down the aisle toward him. Back at my restoration studio, Lennon’s assistant quietly entered and set a velvet tray on my workbench. The diadem lay inside, looking pitifully abandoned. Two delicate strands of antique gold wire were snapped. A flawless sapphire was missing. The intricate enamel work was chipped. Lennon strolled in a few minutes later, loosening the collar of his tailored tuxedo. “Have it fixed by tomorrow morning.” I sat on my stool, staring at the wreckage of gold and jewels. I didn’t move a muscle. Lennon walked over and pinched my chin, forcing my face up. “What are you spacing out for? A little repair job is nothing for those hands of yours. It needs to be at the Global Heritage Exhibition by the day after tomorrow. This is about the Caldwell family’s reputation. Don’t be ungrateful.” I turned my face sharply, breaking his grip. “I can’t fix it. It’s ruined.” His expression darkened. “Camille. Do not test my patience. Gia had a little accident and bumped it. As the future Mrs. Caldwell, it is your absolute duty to clean up her messes.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a cheap velvet box, and tossed it onto the workbench. “Take it. It’s a thank-you gift from Gia. A limited-edition designer hair clip. Don’t ever say I don’t treat you well.” The box popped open on impact. Inside sat a gaudy, rhinestone-encrusted pink bow. It was the same clip Gia had been wearing on the red carpet earlier tonight. A single strand of her blonde hair was still tangled in the clasp. I took a slow, trembling breath. I reached toward the velvet tray to pick up the diadem. In my distraction, the jagged edge of snapped gold wire sliced deep into my index finger. A bead of dark red blood welled up instantly, dropping heavily onto the antique gold. Lennon swore under his breath and snatched the diadem away, inspecting the metal. “Why are you so clumsy? Do you have any idea how much this artifact is worth if you stain it?” He pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket and frantically buffed the blood off the gold. He never once looked at my bleeding hand. The studio door pushed open, and Gia slipped inside, immediately wrapping her arms around Lennon’s bicep. “Don’t be mad at her, Lennon,” she pouted. “She’s probably just jealous that I got to wear it. It must be so hard for her to see me in something so pretty.” Lennon set the cleaned diadem back onto the tray. “Did you hear that? Learn a little grace from Gia. Fix it, and send it straight to the exhibition gallery. Don’t hold up Gia’s dress rehearsal tomorrow.” With that, he wrapped his arm around Gia’s waist and led her out the door. I stood rooted to the floor, watching their silhouettes disappear into the hallway. Slowly, I reached out, picked up the rhinestone clip and the velvet box, and dropped them both into the trash can. I walked into the back room of my studio. The space was filled with the quiet ghosts of a wedding that would never happen. Hanging on a velvet mannequin was an antique, Edwardian silk-chiffon bridal gown I had spent three years meticulously re-beading by hand. On the table sat half-finished custom wedding favors. I pulled out my phone and scrolled to an international number I had saved but never dared to call. He answered on the first ring. “Camille?” I closed my eyes. The silence in the room felt heavy, suffocating. “That proposal,” I whispered. “My answer is yes.” There was a heartbeat of silence on the other end, followed by the deep, steady intake of breath, and then a voice thick with quiet triumph. Just as I hung up, my phone buzzed with an audio message from Lennon. “Get the repairs done and get to sleep. We’re going to City Hall on Monday to sign the marriage license. I refuse to have my bride looking like a corpse with dark circles under her eyes. Don’t embarrass the family.” I stared at the transcribed text on the screen for three seconds. Then, I deleted the entire conversation thread. 2 The next morning, the studio door swung open. Lennon walked in with Gia clinging to his side. I was bent over the workbench, carefully fusing a microscopic gold filament. I didn’t look up. Gia began wandering around my pristine studio, picking up and dropping my delicate restoration tools like they were toys. “Why is everything in here so… dusty?” she whined, pinching her nose. “It smells like an old basement.” She drifted over to the vintage mannequin. She reached a manicured hand toward the fragile Edwardian lace. It was spun from decades-old silk—incredibly delicate, irreplaceable. I slammed my tools down. “Don’t touch that!” Startled, Gia yanked her hand back. Her elbow caught the edge of a heavy tin of industrial gilding solvent resting on the high table next to the gown. The tin tipped. A thick, toxic amber liquid splashed violently across the immaculate white silk. The chemicals soaked instantly into the antique threads. The intricate beadwork I had spent thousands of hours sewing melted into a hardened, ruined stain. Instinct overrode logic. I lunged forward to push her away and save the fabric. But before my fingers even grazed Gia’s shoulder, a massive force shoved me backward. Lennon had stepped between us, shoving me violently against the mahogany workbench. The sharp corner of the table dug ruthlessly into my lower back. I collapsed against the wood, curling in on myself as a cold sweat broke out across my forehead. The pain was blinding. “Are you insane?!” Lennon roared. “It’s just a ragged old dress! If it’s ruined, it’s ruined! How dare you lay a hand on Gia? Do you have any idea how much her body is insured for?” Gia shrank into Lennon’s chest, pointing a trembling finger down at the toe of her designer heels, where a single drop of solvent had landed. “Lennon… my limited-edition shoes got dirty…” Lennon glanced down. Without a second thought, he reached over, grabbed the delicate hem of my ruined Edwardian bridal gown, and ripped it off the mannequin. “Here, let me wipe it off.” He balled up the gown—the dress I had poured my soul into, the dress I had bled over for three years—and knelt on the floor, using it as a rag to scrub Gia’s shoes. I clutched my back, breathless, watching my life’s work get dragged across the dusty floor. In Lennon’s hands, my sacred, irreplaceable history was nothing but a dirty towel. Once the shoe was clean, Lennon casually tossed the soiled, crumpled heap of vintage silk into the corner. He dusted off his hands. He turned to look at me, still gasping by the table, and pulled a sleek black Amex from his wallet, slapping it onto the bench. “Enough of the dramatics. Go buy yourself a custom Vera Wang or whatever it is you want. Nobody wears vintage garbage like that anymore anyway. You’d be a laughingstock.” Gia looped her arm through his. “Exactly. That old thing was so tacky. You have such amazing taste, Lennon. Can we leave now? The fumes in here are giving me a headache.” Lennon nodded. He didn’t spare me a single glance as he escorted her out of the room. No one asked if I was hurt. No one apologized. The studio fell into a deathly, ringing silence. I gripped the edge of the table and forced myself to stand. My legs shook as I walked over to the corner and picked up the gown. It was stiff with chemicals, stained brown, coated in floor dirt. I picked up my heavy fabric shears. Snip. Snip. I cut the gown into shreds. I threw the pieces into the metal fire-safe bin by the door, struck a match, and dropped it in. The flames caught quickly, devouring the silk, reducing the lace to black ash. I stood there, watching the fire hollow out the fabric, when my phone vibrated. A text from Lennon. “Gia is shaken up. I’m staying at her place tonight. Use the time to reflect on your behavior. Stop acting like such a bitter, petty woman.” 3 Three days before we were supposed to sign our marriage license, the Caldwell family hosted a highly publicized charity gala. Lennon’s PR team made it clear that my attendance was mandatory—it was meant to build hype for the upcoming society wedding. I arrived at the ballroom doors wearing a severe, unadorned black slip dress, my face entirely free of makeup. When Lennon spotted me, his jaw tightened. He marched over and hissed in my ear. “We are celebrating tonight. Why the hell are you dressed for a funeral? Go upstairs and change into something bright. Stop trying to embarrass me.” I met his gaze, my eyes completely hollow. “The only other dress I had was the one you used to polish your girlfriend’s shoes. This is all that’s left.” Lennon was momentarily speechless. Before he could formulate an excuse, Gia bounded over, poured into a siren-red couture gown. “Lennon, do I look okay in this?” she beamed. Lennon’s irritation vanished. He flashed his media-ready smile, wrapping his arm securely around her waist as he turned to the approaching investors. “Everyone, this is Gia. She’s our charity ambassador for the evening, and the new face of Caldwell Fine Jewelry.” He led her through the glittering crowd, soaking up the flattery, completely forgetting I existed. Then, the auction began. Gia’s eyes locked onto a piece on the velvet display stand. It was a vintage 1920s Art Deco pearl-and-diamond hair comb. The pearls were luminous, aged to a perfect creamy luster. It was my late mother’s heirloom. It had been lost to creditors years ago after her death. “Lennon, look at that comb. It’s absolutely stunning. I want it,” Gia purred, shaking his arm. Lennon didn’t hesitate. He raised his paddle. “Five million.” No one in the room dared to bid against the CEO of Caldwell Enterprises. The gavel slammed down. The comb was delivered directly to his table. I stepped forward immediately, my hand outstretched. “That was my mother’s comb. Please. Let me have it.” Lennon casually sidestepped my hand. With a slick, practiced motion, he slid the antique comb into the side of Gia’s blonde updo. He took a step back, admiring his work. “Flawless,” he murmured. “Beautiful jewels for a beautiful girl.” I held my hand out again, my voice trembling. “Give it back to me.” Lennon grabbed my wrist. His grip was bruisingly tight. He leaned in, his breath hot against my ear. “I told you to stop being petty. She’s just wearing it for the night. You’ll get it back when we go home. I bought it to boost our philanthropic image. Stop acting like the whole world owes you a massive debt.” On stage, the auctioneer’s voice boomed through the speakers. “And now, for our next lot! A magnificent fifteenth-century Venetian gold chalice, miraculously restored by the world-renowned antiquities expert, Miss Camille Dubois! Bidding starts at eight million dollars!” Lennon released my wrist and let out a derisive scoff. “Who would pay eight million for a glued-together piece of trash? The only reason anyone bids on her little arts and crafts is because she has my last name attached to her.” A man in the front row of the VIP section casually raised his paddle. “Fifty million.” The entire ballroom went dead silent. The man who stood up was dressed in a bespoke charcoal-grey suit that screamed quiet, unfathomable wealth. It was Gideon Roth, the notoriously elusive billionaire art collector who had just returned from Europe. Lennon froze, his sneer faltering into a plastic smile as Gideon took the microphone. Gideon’s dark, piercing gaze bypassed Lennon entirely and landed squarely on me. “Miss Dubois’s craftsmanship is nothing short of divine,” Gideon’s voice was a low, magnetic baritone. “She is an artist who breathes second life into history. Fifty million is merely a starting point.” A wave of murmurs rippled through the elite crowd. Every eye turned to me. Lennon’s smile looked painful. He raised his voice, attempting to reclaim the narrative. “Mr. Roth is too kind. My fiancée’s little hobby is just patching up broken garbage. It’s hardly worthy of this kind of stage.” Standing just behind Lennon, I let out a soft, genuine laugh. I looked at the back of Lennon’s neck and spoke, my voice carrying clearly. “Mr. Caldwell is right. I am an expert in fixing broken garbage. It’s just a shame that some things are rotten all the way down to the core. Those things can never be fixed.” Lennon whipped around, genuine shock flashing in his eyes before it hardened into pure fury. He glanced around at the cameras, swallowed his rage, and reached out, patronizingly patting the top of my head. “Always so defensive,” he chuckled tightly. “Gia is staying over at the penthouse tonight. Make sure the guest room is ready. And be a good host.” I didn’t flinch. I just let his hand fall. Three days left. 4 The night before we were scheduled to sign the marriage papers, Gia moved into our penthouse. Lennon stood in the doorway of the master bedroom, pointing inside. “You’re sleeping in the guest room tonight. Gia has trouble sleeping in strange places, and this custom mattress is the only firmness that works for her spine. You’re the host; make some sacrifices for our guest.” That custom mattress was the one I had spent months researching and importing from Sweden to accommodate the chronic lower back pain Lennon suffered from. I didn’t argue. I just turned and walked down the hall. “Where are you going?” he called out. “The study. I have paperwork.” “Good. Be productive. Behave yourself, and I’ll buy you something nice after we sign the papers tomorrow.” I walked into the study and locked the heavy oak door behind me. I opened my laptop, connected to the printer, and printed out a single document. Then, I opened the wall safe. I took out my bank cards, the property deeds in my name, and every single piece of expensive jewelry I had accumulated over the last eight years. I dragged a large cardboard box out from the closet and unceremoniously dumped everything inside. I taped it shut and slapped a shipping label on the top. The delivery address was the National Women’s Charity Foundation. Deep into the night, the muffled sounds of Gia’s giggles drifted through the walls from the master suite. I sat on the floor of the study. From my pocket, I pulled out a cubic zirconia replica ring—a cheap, flawless fake. I set it dead in the center of the mahogany desk. I had sold the real diamond engagement ring months ago to buy better restoration equipment. He had never even noticed. The next morning, Lennon emerged from the master bedroom. He walked into the kitchen and slid a plate toward me. “Eat up. Then head to the museum. Today is your big debut. Don’t humiliate me.” I looked down. It was the leftover half of Gia’s breakfast delivery. Gia didn’t eat carbs, so Lennon was tossing the bread to me. Years ago, if we shared a single piece of toast, he used to meticulously cut the crusts off just the way I liked before giving me the larger half. “I’m going to announce our engagement officially at the exhibition today,” Lennon said, adjusting his Tom Ford tie in the hallway mirror. “I’m giving you the ultimate validation. You must be thrilled.” I picked up the half-eaten sandwich and dropped it into the trash can by my feet. Lennon paused, his hands freezing on his tie. “Camille. What is your problem?” I stood up, pulling a paper towel from the dispenser to wipe my hands. “No problem at all. In fact, I’ve prepared a massive surprise for you today, Lennon. I guarantee it will be an event you will never, ever forget.” He blinked, surprised, and then a smug grin spread across his face. “I knew you’d come around. Finally learning how to be a proper partner. Alright. I’m looking forward to it.” As we headed for the door, Gia squeezed past me in the entryway. The sharp stiletto heel of her shoe stepped squarely onto the toe of my pristine white pump. She left a dark, scuffed footprint right across the leather. “Oh! My gosh, Camille, I’m so sorry, I didn’t even see you standing there,” Gia gasped, covering her mouth in mock horror. Lennon barely glanced down. He sighed impatiently. “Out with the old, in with the new. Change into some flats anyway; you’re going to be working backstage all day. Heels are completely inappropriate for staff.” I stared at the ruined white shoe. Slowly, I slipped it off and laced up a pair of nondescript running sneakers. As I walked out, I pulled the penthouse key off my ring and dropped it silently down the storm drain by the curb. I headed for the Met. 5 The Global Heritage Exhibition was a media spectacle. Hundreds of journalists and live-streamers crowded the grand hall. Lennon had leveraged the full weight of Caldwell Enterprises to sponsor the event. He wanted to parade the antique diadem, and his future wife, in front of the world to drive up the company’s stock prices. In the backstage dressing room, Lennon knelt on the floor, adjusting the hem of my vintage silk gown. He looked up at my reflection in the vanity mirror. “Go out there, Camille. Tonight, the spotlight is entirely yours. Once you finish your presentation on the diadem, I’ll be waiting right in the front row.” His voice dropped into a smooth, practiced cadence. “I am going to give you a proposal that will make every woman on earth sick with envy.” Gia stood in the corner, her eyes red-rimmed and furious. “Lennon, I want to go on stage too! I helped bring publicity to the diadem!” Lennon held up a hand, silencing her. “Stop it. Tonight is Camille’s moment. This is about Caldwell’s legacy. You sit in the audience and behave. Do not cause a scene.” I looked at myself in the mirror. The pale, luminous silk draped elegantly over my frame. Around my left wrist, partially hidden by the sleeve, was a slender crimson silk cord—a quiet gift from Gideon Roth. “Okay,” I smiled softly at the mirror. Seeing my smile, the tension drained from Lennon’s shoulders. He looked incredibly satisfied. Moments later, I stood center stage. The spotlight isolated me in a pool of brilliant white. Beside me, secured beneath bulletproof glass, the sapphire diadem gleamed. I leaned into the microphone. The cavernous hall fell utterly silent. “This diadem has survived centuries,” my voice echoed, steady and clear. “It has been buried in dust, its gold fractured, its jewels lost to time. To restore it is not merely to bend metal or glue stones. It is an act of returning its dignity.” I looked down into the front row of the VIP section. Lennon was staring up at me, a proud, possessive smirk on his face. “But antiques have a soul,” I continued. “If placed in the wrong hands, even the most priceless jewel becomes worthless gravel. The true duty of a restorer is to ensure the artifact is returned to someone who truly understands its worth, someone who will protect it. In my profession, we call this ‘repatriation.’ In life, we call it ‘cutting our losses.’” Applause broke out across the room. Lennon was clapping the loudest, his chest puffed out, utterly oblivious to the double meaning. I turned my gaze to the glass case. “The diadem is now whole. Its fractured past is history. And in the spirit of this sacred moment of renewal, I would like to announce a very personal piece of news.” Down in the VIP row, Lennon practically vibrated with excitement. He adjusted his collar, reached into his breast pocket to pull out a massive velvet box, and slid one foot into the aisle, preparing to mount the stairs. I raised my left hand, the crimson thread stark against my pale skin. I looked past Lennon, addressing the microphone. “On this night of new beginnings… I would like to ask my fiancé—” “Will you come up here and place my true engagement ring on my finger?”

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Three years ago, I became a “thirst-trap” streamer—a digital plaything for the bored and the wealthy—all for the sake of my sister’s medical bills. It all started on the day I moved into my college dorm. That night, the girl next door, the one I had loved in secret for a decade, lured me into her bed. I thought it was the start of my life; instead, it was the end of it. By the next morning, I was branded a predator. My most intimate, private photos were plastered across every billboard and social media feed in the city. The university expelled me. My reputation was incinerated. When my sister, Jane, found out, she slapped her. But she—Callista—didn’t flinch. She didn’t show a shred of remorse. “Now you know what it feels like to watch someone you love be destroyed, don’t you, Jane?” Callista had said, her voice like ice. “Your debt will be paid by your brother.” She walked away without looking back, leaving my sister coughing up blood in a fit of rage and leaving me with a heart that had finally stopped beating while I was still alive. I never thought I’d see her again. But today, three years later, her name flickered across my screen in the middle of a live stream. … The viewer count hit 2,337. The chat was a blurred frenzy of emojis and demands. I adjusted my camera, pulling my waistband down just low enough to tease the edge of my pelvic bone, and began to move rhythmically, mechanically. I was a puppet, and the internet held the strings. “This guy is the hardest working thirst-trapper on the app. Ten hours a day, easy.” “He looks young. Is he a college kid?” “College? You’re new here. This kid’s been doing this for three years. He’s a pro.” I ignored the lurkers who just wanted a free show and kept my eyes on the gift notifications in the corner. C. Free sent a Porsche x1. A new account. Not a regular. The name sent a phantom shiver down my spine for a split second, but the sight of the Porsche—a five-hundred-dollar tip—snapped me back to reality. It wasn’t a fortune, but it wasn’t pocket change for a first-timer either. This was someone with deep pockets. I leaned into the camera, softening my gaze, letting my voice drop into that breathless, intimate register that drove the tips higher. “Thank you for the Porsche, C. Free. What would you like to see me do, sweetheart?” [Take off the shirt.] The command was blunt. I flashed a practiced, dimpled smile and began unbuttoning my dress shirt. I let it snag on my shoulders before letting it slide down, revealing the sheer, black mesh tank top underneath. Every muscle was highlighted by the ring light. “Is that better, darling?” The chat exploded. C. Free sent a Private Jet. One thousand dollars. [The mesh, too. Take it off.] Direct. Cold. I laughed, hooking my fingers into the delicate black fabric and, with a sudden, violent tug, I ripped it down the center. The fabric gave way, exposing my chest and abs, pale and defined like marble. The comment section turned into a cesspool of filth. The viewer count surged past three thousand. C. Free sent a Golden Cathedral. Five thousand dollars. The most expensive gift on the platform. [Pants. Underwear. Everything. Take it off.] I froze for two seconds. The screen was a chaotic mess of text. “Is he chickening out? Don’t take the money and run!” “He’s done it before. He’s got a reputation for following through.” Six thousand five hundred dollars total. The platform would take half, leaving me with over three grand. That was two weeks of Jane’s medication. I forced the smile back onto my face. I reached for my belt, my fingers grazing the denim as I unzipped it. I slid my hands under the waistband of my boxers— [Wait.] My hands stopped. C. Free: You really will do anything, won’t you? C. Free: Remy, how did you become so pathetic? So cheap? Before I could breathe, the account logged off. It was her. Callista. I let out a dry, self-deprecating laugh. Cheap? Pathetic? I didn’t know the difference anymore. When she leaked those photos three years ago, did she think I was cheap then? Or was this just her finishing what she started? As I sat there, stunned, ten Porsches flashed across the screen. My “Top Fan,” a woman who went by Lonesome Bloom, had entered the chat. “So your name is Remy. What a beautiful name.” “Are you short on cash lately, Remy?” “I’m at a private party tonight. Come keep me company. Usual rates apply.” A private booking. Offline work. It was a routine I knew by heart. After three years in this gutter, there wasn’t a line I hadn’t crossed. These “parties” were usually just a polite way of saying I was being hired as a high-end escort or a trophy for these women to show off—and eventually, pass around. I put on my “innocent boy” persona, whispering into the mic, “Message me privately, Miss Bloom. You’re making me blush.” Then, amidst a chorus of mockery from the chat, I cut the feed. I tightened the black leather choker around my neck before pushing open the door to the VIP lounge. Inside, I saw Lonesome Bloom—or rather, Mrs. Gable, a woman I’d “accompanied” several times. She was currently hovering over the woman in the center of the room, pouring her a drink with an almost frantic subservience. My heart stopped for a beat. Callista. The girl who used to pinch my cheeks when we were kids was gone. In her place was a woman draped in an obsidian silk gown that probably cost more than my apartment. She didn’t even look up. “Gable, where did you find this piece of fresh meat?” Mrs. Gable practically pushed me toward her. “He’s a huge streamer! Thousands of people watch him every night. It cost me a fortune just to get him here. What do you think, Callista? Is he your type?” Callista finally raised her head. Her eyes pinned me to the spot, sharp and predatory. “Oh, a big star, is he?” Her voice was dripping with sarcasm. “I’ve seen his show. You can get him to drop his pants for three thousand dollars. Hardly what I’d call high-class.” The room erupted in laughter. I kept my head down, my fists clenched so hard my nails drew blood. When did she become this person? Where was the girl who used to sneak me candy? The girl who took me to see the stars and covered my eyes with her warm palms, telling me they’d look brighter if I waited? The girl who had whispered against my lips, “Remy, we’re going to be together forever.” Why was she the one who posted my ruin on every public screen in the city the next morning? Mrs. Gable, sensing Callista’s disdain, tried to pull me away. “If she’s not interested, I’ll find someone else—” “No, let him stay,” Callista said, swirling her red wine. Her face was a mask of indifference. “I have a fiancé now. He’s handsome, cultured, and most importantly… he’s clean.” She looked at me then, and everyone in the room felt the venom. The socialites whispered. They knew Callista—the “Ice Queen of the West Coast”—had a history with this gutter-boy. I stood there, glued to Mrs. Gable’s side, drinking whatever she poured me, glass after glass of stinging gold. Finally, Callista had enough. She stood up and walked toward me. The scent of her perfume—a cold, sharp floral she never used to wear—filled my lungs. “Three years, and you don’t even recognize me, Mr. King?” she asked, tilting her head. “Or have you slept with so many women you’ve lost track?” The room went silent. She reached out, her long fingers gripping my chin, forcing me to look up. “Callista, please…” I tried to pull away, but her grip tightened. “Are you really that desperate for money?” She pulled a checkbook from her clutch and slid a slip of paper into my waistband. “Is Jane dead? Is that why she lets you sell yourself like this?” The paper was cold against my skin. Before it could slide out, I pressed my hand over it. “Thank you for the tip, Miss Callista,” I said, flashing my most professional, charming smile. I pulled the check out, folded it slowly, and tucked it between my teeth. The atmosphere turned suffocating. Mrs. Gable was sweating; the others wouldn’t even breathe. Callista’s disgust was palpable. “You’ve certainly mastered the trade,” she sneered. She sat back down in the shadows. “Since you love money so much, Mrs. Gable, why don’t we give the ladies a real show?” Mrs. Gable stammered, “What do you mean?” Callista lit a thin cigarette, the flame dancing in her eyes. “Doesn’t he have a price list on his stream? Tonight, the rules are the same. For every woman in this room he services, I’ll pay him ten thousand dollars.” She blew a cloud of smoke toward me. “Let’s see how much you’re really worth, Remy.” The silence broke into a ravenous frenzy. The women’s eyes roamed over me like wolves. Ten thousand. Ten thousand could buy the electric wheelchair my mother needed after my father broke her legs for trying to protect me. Ten thousand could buy Jane another year of life. I swallowed the last of my drink, my voice trembling but certain. “Ten thousand? Is that a guarantee, Miss Callista? Paid tonight?” Her hand tightened around her wine glass until I thought it would shatter. She hadn’t expected me to say yes. “Tonight,” she spat. “Then I’m all yours.” I stood up and, right in front of her, I unbuckled my belt. The lights were dim. I felt the sweat-slicked hands on my shoulders, the smell of expensive gin and tobacco clogging my throat. Someone’s hand moved over my stomach. Someone else reached for my zipper. I closed my eyes and counted. Ten thousand. Twenty thousand. Callista sat there the whole time. She didn’t move. She just watched the circus from the shadows, her eyes shifting from disgust to a raw, burning fury. An hour later, the room was empty. The women had left, satisfied and giggling. The floor was littered with broken glass and crumpled napkins. I was collapsed on the carpet, my clothes torn, one shoe missing. My skin was a roadmap of red marks and bite wounds. I looked like a bag of trash ready for the curb. But my hand was clamped tight around a stack of cash and checks. Callista was the only one left. She walked over to me, looking down at my broken form. “You really are a piece of work, Remy.” She raised her heel and ground it into my hand—the one trying to pull my pants back up to cover myself. “Stop pretending you have shame. You lost that a long time ago. When I posted those photos three years ago, I actually felt a flicker of guilt. I thought maybe I had gone too far.” She laughed, a harsh, jagged sound. “What a waste of regret. A pathetic, hollow thing like you doesn’t deserve a second thought.” She removed her foot and tossed one final bill onto my face. “Take your blood money and get out.” The door slammed shut. I was alone. I picked up every bill, one by one. One hundred thousand dollars. I reached into my bag and pulled out a fresh black shirt—a habit I’d picked up in this line of work. I stood before the mirror, straightening my collar, hiding the marks on my neck with a scarf. I looked at the cash. One hundred thousand. It smelled like smoke and cheap perfume, but it was heavy. It was life. Thinking of the way Callista looked at me, my body began to shake. I sat on the floor and finally, I let myself scream. I cried until my throat was raw. You call me cheap, Callista. But if I weren’t cheap, how would we survive? I wiped my face, stuffed the money into my bag, and walked out. The hospital always smelled like bleach and slow death. I pushed open the door to Jane’s room. She was leaning against the window, her breathing labored even without the ventilator. “Remy? You’re off work early.” Her voice was a ghost of what it used to be. I kept my head down, pouring her a glass of water. “Yeah. Slow night.” She didn’t know the truth. I told her I was a “trainee” at a talent agency, that the pay was high because I was a “rising star.” She took the glass, her hands shaking so violently she could barely hold it. The woman who was once a piano prodigy couldn’t even hold a cup of water. Her hands had started shaking the day my photos were leaked. The stress, the shame, the rage—it had triggered a chronic heart condition. Our savings vanished into the ICU. My father, a gambling addict, blamed me for losing our meal ticket. “You little freak! Your filth is all over the city and you have the nerve to show your face?” He had swung a lead pipe at me. My mother had thrown herself over my body. One crack, and her leg was gone forever. He ran away, leaving me with a paralyzed mother and a dying sister. The sound of a glass shattering broke my reverie. Jane had dropped the cup. It hit the floor along with a framed photo she kept by her bed. I picked it up. The glass was cracked, but the boy’s smile was still bright. Jane scrambled to pick it up, her fingers bleeding from the shards. She clutched it to her chest. The boy in the photo was Caspian—Callista’s younger brother. He was Jane’s first love. Her “White Moonlight.” The boy who stayed in the light while we fell into the dark. Jane grabbed my head and began to sob. “Remy… it’s all my fault. I couldn’t protect Caspian, and I couldn’t protect you!” Her tears were scalding against my neck. I held her, feeling my heart being flayed inch by inch. “It’s okay, Jane. It’s over. I’m fine. Look at me—I have a great job. Everyone loves me. I’m going to be a star.” She wiped her eyes, her face softening. She stroked my forehead. “I was so scared I was dragging you down. But if you’re happy, Remy… then I can rest.” I gave her my best “rising star” smile. “I love my work, Jane.” At that moment, the door burst open. “Is the money you made at the party not enough, Remy?” Callista’s voice cut through the room like a blade. “Are you trying to pick up clients in a hospital now, too?”

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I loved him for exactly ten years. When I saw yet another girl walk into his bedroom, I took a hard drag of my cigarette, dropped it on the floor, crushed it out, and barged right in. They were pressed tightly together, kissing like there was no tomorrow. The girl was visibly startled, shrinking into his chest like a frightened little bird. I grabbed her clothes, threw them at her, and lunged for her hair. “Get out!” “Get out!” I said it to the girl. He said it to me. With bloodshot eyes, I started unbuttoning my own shirt. Whatever she had, I had too. Why was I the only one who wasn’t good enough? He grabbed my hands, pinning them down. “Stop throwing a tantrum.” “Who’s throwing a tantrum?! How many times have you even met her!” The girl’s face went completely pale. His handsome brows furrowed tightly together. “Chloe, I see you as a sister.” It was always the same sentence. Ethan, can’t you come up with something new? I was shaking with anger. I even let out a bitter laugh. “Sister? Do you want to go get a DNA test? We have no blood relation! What the hell do you mean, sister? Who the fuck wants to be your sister!” Ethan’s face turned as dark as thunder. “What exactly are you trying to do?” I stared dead into his eyes, enunciating every single word. “What am I trying to do? Don’t you already know?” He didn’t say a word. Like picking up a stray kitten, he grabbed me by the collar of my shirt and literally tossed me out of the room. The second the door slammed shut, the tears started falling. I screamed at the top of my lungs, “Ethan! I’m never going to bother you again! Don’t you fucking regret this!” Of course he wouldn’t regret it. Because every time we fought, I would say the exact same thing, and then I would eventually crawl right back to him. It was like the boy who cried wolf. He wasn’t scared at all. He wasn’t afraid that I would actually leave him. I had nowhere else to go. No family, no home. I only had Ethan. He was all I had. How could I possibly leave? Damn it. I’m so pathetic. My hand moved on its own, opening our text thread. I scrolled all the way up, re-reading our message history. Honestly… He treated me really well. He protected me, cared for me, and was always giving me money. Sigh. If I have to be a sister, then fine, I’ll be a sister. I should just go back. At least I’d get to see him every day. My finger slipped, accidentally tapping on his profile picture. … His Instagram story had updated. It was a selfie of that girl. With only two words as the caption: My girlfriend. Fuck. They were Instagram official. Go back? Go back my ass. I checked my bank app. Okay, I still had a little over three thousand dollars. Steeling my resolve, I blocked Ethan’s number and all his socials. This time, I was dead serious. It wasn’t as hard as I thought. I found a job pretty quickly. It was at a local diner—free meals and a small room out back included. Except the manager’s greasy eyes were always wandering over my body. Except the guys buying coffee were always “accidentally” brushing my hands. Except the other waitresses were always subtly calling me a slut behind my back. Except… I missed him. Just a tiny, tiny bit. Everything else was fine. See? I had plenty of charm. Lots of people liked me. Why wouldn’t he? But he just didn’t. Sigh. I missed him again. I frustratedly yanked at my own hair, feeling like I was going crazy. “Hey, newbie!” Someone smacked my shoulder. It was one of the other waitresses, Ashley. “Table four needs you.” I raised an eyebrow. “Why don’t you go?” She scoffed. “I just painted my nails. They aren’t dry yet.” She shoved her hands in my face. Ten pastel-pink, glittery acrylics. Tsk. Pretty. I grabbed a coarse paper towel, ignored her screeching, pinched her hand, and swiped hard across her wet nails. “There. Now they’re dry.” I turned and walked to the restroom. When I came out, the manager was blocking my way. Pushing out his pig-like belly, he pointed a stubby finger at my nose and yelled, “Ever since I hired you, you’ve been nothing but trouble! Bullying your coworkers!” “Excuse me?” “Don’t think I didn’t see you ruin Ashley’s nails. We have security cameras. If you don’t confess, I’ll fire you right now with no pay!” I raised an eyebrow and leaned against the wall. “So, what do you want?” “Ahem. Ashley is taking the rest of the day off for emotional distress. Your wages for the week will go to her.” I immediately burst out laughing. “And if I say no?” His face flushed a bright, angry red. He stuttered, “Of course, if you’re willing to… be with me, you have nothing to worry about. From now on, in this diner, I’m the boss, and you’ll be my number two. Nobody will dare say a word to you.” He reached out to put his arm around my shoulder. I smacked his hand away, speaking lightly. “Is the water in your brain used to water the giant tree of audacity growing in your heart?” “What?” I rolled my eyes hard. “I feel like insulting someone today, but I really don’t want to waste it on you.” “What the hell does that mean?” Watching the fat jiggle on his face made my stomach churn. I untied my apron and threw it right at his head. “It means you’re fired.” Yeah, his height was just about perfect for that. “You… you… you’re insulting me!!!” “I just told you, I wanted to insult someone, but I didn’t want it to be you. Do you not speak English?” I pulled out my phone and pulled up my Venmo QR code. “Pay me what you owe me.” He ripped the apron off his head, completely losing his temper, and cursed, “You little bitch, you still want your paycheck? Keep dreaming!” I rolled up my sleeves, fully prepared to beat him to a pulp. Suddenly, a very pleasant male voice interrupted: “According to federal and state labor laws, wages must be paid regularly to the employee. You cannot unlawfully withhold or refuse to issue a final paycheck… What you just did is a labor violation.” I looked up. It was a tall, handsome guy, though a bit on the skinny side. “Oh, I see! You brought backup!” The fat manager lunged forward and shoved the guy, almost knocking him to the floor. … Wow, he is weak. Are you sure you’re here to help? I grabbed the manager by the collar, practically hoisted his entire body up, slammed him against the wall, spat on the floor, and looked at him with a deadpan expression. “I said, pay me.” Then I kneed him hard in the stomach. He gasped in pain and started screaming bloody murder. I snorted, tossed him to the floor, and kicked him a couple more times for good measure. “Relax, I’m not going to murder you. Just roughing you up a bit.” In the end, of course, he paid me. Just as I was about to walk out, someone tugged at my sleeve. Thinking it was the manager again, I spun around ready to throw hands. But when I saw the face, I stopped. It was the guy who had just recited the labor laws. “Chloe…” Damn. He was just as handsome as Ethan. Wait. Did he know my name??? The man sitting across from me lowered his gaze, took a sip of his tea, and looked perfectly calm. But his flushed ears completely betrayed his inner emotions, proving he wasn’t nearly as composed as he looked. I mimicked him, looking down and taking a sip of my tea. Ugh. “Chloe, what do you think?” “Huh? Oh, the tea tastes awful.” “…” His name was Liam. He was speaking to me in the gentlest, most soothing tone. He had clean, elegant features and incredibly kind eyes. “I just opened my own law firm. If you’re willing, you can come work for me.” “Earlier… I figured you might be in need of a job.” I nodded. I did need one, but… “A law firm? Do I have to read a lot of books?” He let out a soft laugh, his eyes crinkling into crescent moons. “No, you can just do what you’re good at.” I scratched my head, racking my brain for half a minute before blurting out: “Maybe… possibly… perhaps… I could… help you collect debts?” “…” “…” We just stared at each other in total confusion. “A-choo!” My sneeze broke the silence. It was freezing outside. He immediately took off his coat and draped it over my shoulders. I thanked him and didn’t refuse. Are you kidding me? I had no parents, and now I didn’t even have Ethan. If I got sick, who was going to take care of me? Ethan… I still had a lot of clothes at his place. It was time to go get them. Sigh. If only I was rich, I could just buy whatever I wanted. I lowered my head. “Um… I don’t really have a place to stay.” Liam looked at me, his gaze suddenly filled with something I couldn’t quite read. He made a quick phone call. Then he told me he had just rented an apartment for me, right above his firm. That fast??? Then he drove me to Target to buy bedsheets and blankets. Then to the grocery store for a mountain of daily essentials. Then pots, pans, and plates. Finally, he took me out for hot pot. I… Besides Ethan, no one in this world had ever been this good to me. I secretly wiped away a tear, making sure he didn’t see. On the ninth day after leaving, I finally went back. To get my clothes. Terrified of running into Ethan, I purposely chose 10:00 AM. Normally, he was out at the garage or getting breakfast at this time. Just as I was frantically shoving clothes into a duffel bag… Click. The front door unlocked. I dove straight into the walk-in closet and pulled the door shut. Ugh. I wanted to slap myself. Why the hell was I hiding? Walking out now would be a million times more awkward. “Chloe?” That painfully familiar voice. “Stop hiding. Come out.” Was he bluffing? Did I look that stupid? I held my breath until my face turned purple. Suddenly, a blinding light hit my eyes. I threw my hands up to block it. “Tsk.” Ethan had opened the closet door. He stood in front of me, wearing a black leather jacket. Looking at his sharp, chiseled face and the tiny scar near the corner of his eye, I felt a sudden wave of dizziness. It felt like I had gone back in time, to years ago. It felt like a lifetime away. “Where have you been these past few days?” He reached out and pulled me back to reality. “None of your business.” I slapped his hand away and used the closet shelf to pull myself up. He didn’t push it. He just sat on the edge of the bed, lit a cigarette, and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “When you’re done throwing your tantrum, come home.” Furious, I snatched the cigarette from his hand, threw it on the floor, and ground it into the hardwood with my boot. “I am an adult. I’m not throwing a tantrum.” Then I let out a cold laugh. “Besides, what home? I don’t have a home.” His face instantly turned completely livid. “Chloe!!” I turned my head away, grabbed my duffel bag, and marched toward the door. He grabbed me hard by the wrist. “Where do you think you’re going?” I thrashed wildly, trying to push him off. “I fucking told you, it’s none of your business!” He was furious. Every muscle in his body was trembling. He raised his arm, looking like he was about to hit me. My eyes went entirely red. I pointed aggressively at my own head and screamed. “Do it! Hit me! Hit me right here! You’re a coward if you don’t! Hit me! Do it right now!” His eyes were as red as a rabbit’s. Breathing heavily, he paced around the room like a caged animal. “Fine! You’re so grown up now! So independent! Your wings are so strong you won’t even listen to me anymore! Who the fuck taught you to be like this?!” I tilted my chin up and stared him down, stubbornly spitting out a single word: “You!!!” That shut him up completely. He pointed a shaking finger at my nose but couldn’t force a single word out. I glared at him and grabbed my bag again. He finally backed down, his gaze turning dark and heavy. “I’ve told you a million times, the feelings between us aren’t romantic.” “I know what you mean. You just don’t like me.” Damn it, my heart hurt so much. We had this exact same fight like clockwork, almost once a month. I really was cheap and stupid. Ethan’s voice went hoarse, trying to coax me. “You’re still young. You can’t tell the difference between—” I puffed my chest out defensively. “I’m not young!” “…” Sigh. Besides cheap and stupid, I was also shameless. I had tried every trick in the book. I had dragged my own pride through the mud, but it didn’t matter. He just refused to love me. Ethan reached out and patted my head. “You just don’t want someone else to take me away. But the truth is, you don’t actually have romantic feelings for me.” My hair practically stood on end. “Bullshit! Do you think I’m mentally handicapped?!” “Close enough.” “…” I really wanted to punch him. Without looking back, I dragged my bag to the front door. His voice came out cold behind me. “If you walk out that door, don’t ever come back.” My footsteps faltered, my throat tightening up. “You have a girlfriend now. It’s not appropriate for me to live here.” “She won’t mind. You’re my sister.” Like a lit stick of dynamite, I whipped around and exploded. “I’m not your fucking sister!!!” It was past 8:00 PM when I finally got back to my new apartment. I had just gotten out of the shower and was towel-drying my hair when I got a text from Liam. “Chloe, are you back? Do you want to come down and get something to eat?” I typed out “Yes” and hit send. But then he immediately unsent his previous message. Was he playing games with me? I just called him directly. His voice was incredibly gentle. “I was afraid of bothering you. It’s late, so it probably isn’t appropriate to ask you out right now.” I was confused.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “446539”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel