Category: English

“Valerie Miller, 231 pounds. Severely obese.” The red digital numbers on the scale burned my eyes. I looked down at my collarbones, so hollowed out they looked like caves. And my legs. They were like thin twigs. Today was the final round of the International Supermodel Search. My entire career was on the line. “There’s a mistake. I only weigh 92 pounds.” The head judge, Robert Croft, sneered and shut my file. “The machine doesn’t lie, Valerie. You’re disqualified.” Beside him, Chloe Sinclair—the nepotism baby of the industry—covered her mouth and giggled. She was clearly two sizes larger than me, yet her recorded weight on the screen was perfect. “And don’t think you can just walk away,” Robert added, his voice cold. “Your breach of contract fine is five million dollars. Payable immediately.” Every camera on the stage, from telephoto lenses to livestream rigs, slammed into my face. I shoved the security guard aside and lunged straight toward the main live camera. “Five million dollars, right? Open your damn eyes and look at this!” In front of millions of live viewers worldwide, I ripped down the zipper of my skin-tight evening gown, exposing my skeletal torso and every single rib beneath my skin. “Does this look like two hundred and thirty pounds to you?!” 0

“Get her off the stage!” Robert roared. Two security guards grabbed me by my upper arms. “Don’t touch me!” I screamed. “The entire country is watching. Touch me, and see what happens to this network!” I gripped the metal frame of the tripod with all my strength. Robert flicked a quick look at the control booth. *Click.* The live feed went completely black. “Signal terminated,” a technician’s voice announced over the intercom, flat and indifferent, as if reporting the weather. Robert slowly adjusted his cuffs and walked over to me. His voice was dropped so low only those within a few feet could hear. “Valerie, your little stunt just disrupted a major international broadcast. Our digital scales are calibrated by global authorities. There is no technical error.” “Global authorities?” I stared down at my wrists. The bone was so prominent you could count every tendon. “Then explain to me how someone whose wrist is thinner than a plastic water bottle weighs over two hundred pounds?” He didn’t answer. He turned to the guards. “Take her out the back. Don’t let the paparazzi get a single shot.” Chloe stepped up from the wings. Her makeup was flawless, though her custom gown was visibly strained at the seams of her waist. She walked over holding a glass of water, her face filled with mock sympathy. “Valerie, honey, take a sip. What you just did… honestly, it broke my heart to watch.” I stared at the glass in her hand. “Chloe, what was your official weight today?” “One hundred and seventeen pounds,” she blinked innocishly. “You saw the board.” One hundred and seventeen. In a dress that was practically screaming at the seams. And me, showing a cage of ribs in a saggy dress, at two hundred and thirty-one. “If you’re one-seventeen and I’m two-thirty, then I must have swallowed an entire extra copy of you. Where is she, Chloe? Point her out.” Her smile stiffened for a fraction of a second. “You’re just hysterical, Valerie. I get the pressure is high, but this isn’t healthy…” She turned to Robert, her voice trembling with fake concern. “Mr. Croft, does Valerie need medical attention? I’m really worried she might… hurt herself.” Robert nodded gravely. “I’ve already called the specialists. The committee will handle her mental and physical well-being, but her run in this competition ends today.” “There is nothing wrong with my mind! The only thing broken is your damn scale!” The guards began dragging me down the backstage corridor. Robert didn’t look at me again. He whispered something to his assistant, who nodded and rushed toward the equipment area on the side of the stage. The digital scale was still there. The screen had already been cleared from 231.00 to 0.00. They were erasing the data. “Are you wiping the logs?!” I yelled. No one answered. The guards threw me into a dressing room and locked the door from the outside. My phone was gone—it had dropped during the struggle on stage. A single fluorescent lightbulb overhead flickered, buzzing like an angry hornet. Ten minutes later, the lock clicked. A woman in a white lab coat walked in. She looked to be in her late forties, her ID badge reading: *Dr. Abigail Vance, Licensed Clinical Psychologist.* Behind her was a man carrying a video camera, the red recording light already blinking. “What is the camera for?” I demanded. “Valerie, I’m the mental health consultant hired by the committee.” Dr. Vance pulled up a chair and sat opposite me, her smile calculated and cold. “Given your violent outbursts on stage, we need to conduct a brief psychiatric evaluation.” “Exposing my ribs to prove I don’t weigh two hundred pounds is a ‘violent outburst’?” She opened her notepad, her eyes scanning my hollow collarbones with absolute detachment. “You stripped off your clothing without authorization, which constitutes public indecency and disturbing the peace. Furthermore, looking at your extreme physical state, you show classic signs of severe anorexia nervosa and body dysmorphic disorder. Simply put, your perception of your own weight is completely detached from reality.” I got it. They wanted to paint me as a lunatic. A crazy girl who thought she was thin but was actually obese. “So you’re telling me that I think I’m ninety pounds, but I’m actually two-thirty?” “I’m not diagnosing you yet,” her pen scribbled quickly on the pad. “But your violent denial of objective data, combined with public exposure, aligns with several clinical criteria.” I stared at the blinking red light on the camera. I didn’t need to guess how they would edit this footage. “If this ‘evaluation’ is over, I want my phone. I need to make a call.” “Your device is being held by the committee for safekeeping,” Dr. Vance said, closing her notepad as she stood up. “For your own safety, of course.” The door clicked shut and locked again. In the four mirrors of the dressing room, my reflection stared back—sunken cheeks, arms like sticks. Two hundred and thirty-one pounds. My ass. Muffled footsteps stopped outside the door. It was Chloe. She was on the phone. Her voice was low, but the cheap dressing room door did nothing to block the sound. “Dad, it’s done. The live stream was cut in time. Barely anyone saw… Yes, I’m keeping an eye on Robert.” She paused. “Did your people pull the chip from the scale yet? …Good. Swap it with the backup. Don’t worry, Dad. Who’s going to audit a scale for some third-tier nobody?” She chuckled softly, and her footsteps faded away. The chip. There was a chip inside that scale. I leaned my back against the locked door and closed my eyes. “Your father sure runs a tight ship, Chloe.” 0

“Valerie, have you seen the internet today?” My agent, Gillian Hayes, spoke through the keyhole of the locked dressing room. It was the next morning. The committee wouldn’t let me leave, claiming they had to wait for the official psychiatric evaluation report. I had spent the entire night curled up on the small sofa. “What video? They took my phone.” The lock turned, and Gillian walked in. Her face was pale. She handed me her phone. On the screen was a short video uploaded by an account called *Concerned for Models’ Health*. It already had over 200,000 views. It was the footage of Dr. Vance evaluating me—heavily edited. The clip of me saying, “I only weigh 92 pounds” played on a loop, followed by a voiceover: *Prominent psychologist warns that the contestant suffers from severe body dysmorphia, leading to a dangerous delusion regarding her body weight.* The top pinned comment read: *Poor Valerie. I hope she gets the professional help she needs.* 120,000 likes. “Who posted this?” “We don’t know,” Gillian sighed, avoiding my gaze. “But the account is registered under Sinclair Media Group.” Chloe’s father’s company. “Gillian, look at this. They cut out everything I said to defend myself. They only kept my denial of the scale’s weight, framed by a doctor’s diagnosis—” “I know,” Gillian interrupted. “But the agency has already made a decision.” She looked at me, her eyes filled with pity and fear. “Valerie, the agency is suspending your contract.” “Suspending it?” “Robert Croft sent a formal letter to our board this morning. He cited your ‘extreme behavioral instability’ and suggested we review your professionalism. The legal department went into panic mode.” I gripped her phone so hard my knuckles turned white. “Gillian, I tore my dress because the scale was rigged. I heard Chloe on the phone last night—” “Do you have proof?” My mouth opened, but no words came out. I didn’t. No phone, no recording. I was the only one who heard that call. “Valerie, I want to believe you. But belief doesn’t win lawsuits. The agency needs hard evidence.” Gillian sighed, pulling a document from her bag and placing it on the table. “This is a notice of intent to sue for breach of contract. If you can’t provide solid proof of the committee’s wrongdoing within seven days, the agency will terminate your contract and sue you for your development debt.” “How much?” “One hundred and fifty thousand dollars.” My hands began to shake. After Gillian left, the door was locked again. About an hour later, a random staff member opened the door and tossed my phone onto the table without a word. “The committee says you’re free to go. Use the back exit.” I grabbed the phone and lit up the screen. Forty-seven missed calls. Thirty of them were from my mother. I dialed her back immediately. She picked up on the first ring. “Valerie? Are you okay? I saw the videos on Instagram—” “Mom, I’m fine. The videos are fake, they’re edited.” “But the news says you’re sick… Tell me the truth, honey. Are you not eating again? Are you okay?” “Mom, I am not sick. The competition is rigged. They messed with the scale—” “Valerie,” my mother’s voice suddenly dropped to a whisper. “Someone called the house earlier.” My body went rigid. “Who?” “She didn’t give a name. She said she was your colleague. She said you were having a mental breakdown and that I needed to commit you to a hospital. She also said…” My mother choked up. “What else, Mom?” “She said if you keep making a scene, the committee will sue. She said you’ll go to prison, and they’ll seize the money you used to pay for my medical treatments.” The blood rushed to my ears. “Mom, she’s lying. What hospital are you in right now?” “The… Serenity Care Facility. The place Sinclair Group owns. The one you transferred me to last month because of their great physical therapy program.” Sinclair Group. Chloe’s father’s facility. My mother was in a building owned by the man trying to destroy me. “Valerie? Are you there?” “Mom, listen to me. Don’t worry. I’m going to fix this.” “What is happening, Valerie? I can’t walk well, but I can—” “Mom, listen.” I took a deep breath, forcing my voice to sound steady. “If anyone comes to ask you about me over the next few days, do not say a word. Do not sign anything. Do you understand me?” “But the nurse just came in with a form—” “What form?!” “She said it was a family consent form for your psychiatric evaluation… I haven’t signed it yet. Something felt off.” My hand was trembling so hard I could barely hold the phone. “Do not sign it. It’s not a consent form, Mom. It’s the paperwork they need to legally lock me up in a mental institution.” Silence stretched over the line. “Valerie… what are these people trying to do to you?” I looked at my reflection in the dressing room mirrors—skeletal, pale, makeup smeared. “They want to convince the world I’m crazy, Mom.” Right after I hung up, an Instagram notification popped up. Chloe had just posted a new video. She was sitting under soft, flattering lighting, her eyes slightly red, her voice dripping with sweet sorrow. “Valerie and I may be competitors, but I’ve always respected her. Seeing her break down like this breaks my heart. Please, everyone, stop attacking her. She’s just sick. I’ve already reached out to the best psychiatric team in the country, and I’ll personally cover all her medical expenses. Valerie, no matter how you feel about me, I just want you to get better.” In the bottom right corner, the like count was climbing by thousands every second. The top comment: *Chloe is a literal angel. I’m crying.* I slammed the phone onto the sofa. “Chloe, you are a walking, talking vending machine of fake tears.” 0

“Valerie, your lease is now being managed by Sinclair Realty.” My landlord, Mrs. Higgins, sounded a hundred times more polite than usual. A fake, terrifying kind of polite. “What do you mean managed by them? I pay my rent directly to you every month. Since when does Sinclair Realty have anything to do with my apartment?” “Well… they acquired our building’s management team recently. They claim you have three months of unpaid building maintenance fees.” “Three months? I’ve lived here for a year and a half. I have never missed a single payment!” “Valerie, I’m sorry… they sent a legal notice, and my hands are tied. Maybe you should take it up with their management?” “Take what up? Just tell me the truth. Did someone pay you to kick me out?” The line went dead. I stood outside my apartment building, with nothing but my phone and the jacket I wore yesterday. My evening gown was still backstage, likely confiscated as “evidence.” My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: *Valerie, your breach of contract fine has been adjusted to $8 million due to the severe reputational damage you have caused to the organizers. The committee reserves the right to pursue further legal action.* Eight million. From five million to eight million. I swiped the message away and searched my name on Instagram. Trending topic: *Valerie Miller Weight Fraud.* I clicked it. The top post was a new video. It showed a girl in loose sportswear, viewed from behind, looking quite chubby, stuffing her face at an all-you-can-eat buffet. The camera panned quickly to her profile—the face looked eighty percent like mine. But it wasn’t me. I never went to buffets. My stomach had shrunk so much from stress that I could barely finish half a bowl of soup. But the internet didn’t care about facts. *“So she really is over two hundred pounds? She must be a secret binge-eater.”* *“She looked thin when she ripped her dress, but body dysmorphia makes people do crazy things.”* *“I feel so bad for Chloe. She’s being targeted by a crazy person.”* Deepfake. They actually deepfaked a video of me eating. I tried to log into my own Instagram account to post a statement, but the screen flashed: *Incorrect Password.* I tried three times. All incorrect. They had hacked my account. I went to a local internet cafe to submit an account recovery request. The system required me to upload a photo of my ID and a selfie holding it. I did it. Five minutes later, a red warning popped up: *This account has been permanently suspended for spreading misinformation.* The reporting party: *The Digital Integrity Alliance.* I looked up the registry of that organization. The registered owner’s name: *Richard Sinclair.* Chloe’s father. I walked to three different news outlets. At the first one, the receptionist waved me off the moment she heard my name. “We don’t do personal disputes. Get a lawyer.” At the second, a junior editor actually listened to me for ten minutes, but then asked one question. “Do you have proof?” “I heard Chloe on the phone saying they removed the chip from the scale—” “Heard conversations aren’t legally admissible evidence. Do you have a recording?” “No. They took my phone.” The editor closed his notebook. “Did you secure the scale?” “They swapped it out.” “Valerie, I believe you, but everything you have is just hearsay. If we publish this, they’ll sue us for defamation, and we will lose.” The third outlet didn’t even let me past the lobby. The security guard stood in my way. “Mr. Sinclair called ahead. We know who you are. Leave.” Mr. Sinclair. Even the security guards at random news stations called him “Mr. Sinclair.” I sat on the curb, clutching my locked-out phone. An incoming call popped up. Caller ID: *Los Angeles.* I answered. “Valerie Miller? This is Arthur Pendelton from the legal department at Sinclair Media Group.” “Speak.” “Regarding your recent slanderous claims online—” “My account is suspended! What claims could I possibly be making?” “We have logs of private messages you sent to various influencers before your suspension, containing defamatory statements about Chloe Sinclair and Robert Croft.” “You hacked my private messages too?” “That data was legally provided by the platform under terms of service violations. Valerie, I am here to inform you of two things: First, if you continue to spread these lies, we will file a formal defamation lawsuit. Second—” He paused. “Given your current mental state, Chloe Sinclair has filed an emergency petition for an involuntary psychiatric evaluation. If approved, you will be escorted to a designated medical facility for a thirty-day mandatory observation period.” My scalp went numb. “You’re trying to throw me in an asylum?” “It’s a luxury care facility, Valerie. It’s for your own good.” I slammed the phone down. The sun was setting, casting my shadow on the pavement—thin as a wire. A wire they claimed weighed 231 pounds. The phone rang again. My mother. “Valerie! Two men just came into my room. They said they’re transferring me to a ‘high-security ward.’ They told me you signed the papers—” “Mom, I didn’t sign anything! Don’t let them take you. I’m coming!” “Valerie, I’m scared—” I stood up, my knees buckling. I had to grab the lamppost to keep from falling. An eight-million-dollar lawsuit, a hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar agency debt, my social media blocked, my apartment seized, the media bribed, and my mother threatened. And I had absolutely nothing. My screen lit up with a text from an unknown number. It was only one line: *“Valerie, I recorded the entire live stream before they cut the feed. Do you want it?”* 0

“Who is this?” I stared at the text and called the number back immediately. It rang three times before a voice answered. “It doesn’t matter who I am. I saw you rip your dress open on the live stream. I started screen-recording before they could cut the feed. The whole thing, from the moment you stepped on the scale to the blackout. Four minutes and seventeen seconds.” The voice was male, young, and fast-talking. “Why did you record it?” “Because I saw the exact same thing happen two years ago.” My heart skipped a beat. “What do you mean?” “The 2022 East Coast Supermodel Search. A girl named Becca Rivers. Her weight data was altered too. She wasn’t as fierce as you; she didn’t dare rip her dress open on live TV. She tried to go through official channels. The result—” He stopped. “What happened to her?” “Her complaint was rejected. The committee produced certified calibration reports, and Becca’s accusation was turned into a defamation lawsuit. She was blacklisted from the entire industry. Three months later, she jumped from the fourteenth floor of her apartment building.” My grip on the phone tightened. “Was Becca in the same competition as Chloe?” “Yes. Chloe won that year. Becca was the only one who publicly questioned the data, and she was completely destroyed for it.” The cold night air hit my face, sending a shiver down my spine. “What can your video prove?” “It proves that your body shape before you stepped on that scale had absolutely nothing to do with two hundred and thirty pounds. In that four-minute-and-seventeen-second video, your bones, your ribs, your collarbones are all on display. No sane person would believe that number.” “That’s not enough.” “I know. But you just need to get the video seen. Public outrage will do the rest.” “They’ve flooded the internet with deepfakes and fake medical evaluations. My accounts are blocked. I don’t even have a platform to post a tweet—” “I have a platform.” His voice suddenly dropped. “But before that, Valerie—you need to survive tonight.” “What do you mean?” “The court just signed the 72-hour psychiatric hold order. The officers are on their way to serve it to you tonight. Where are you?” I gave him the street name. “You’re three blocks away from Serenity Care. Your mom is there, right?” He went quiet for two seconds. “They won’t come for you first. They’re going to use your mother.” It felt like someone had pushed me off a cliff. I lunged into the street, waving down a cab. “I can’t explain everything now. Get your mom out of there. I’ll meet you at the south gate of the hospital. I’m driving a gray van.” Who was this guy? Was he trustworthy? I didn’t have time to think. The only thing that mattered was that Richard Sinclair’s people were about to move my mother to a locked ward. Once she was in there, I would lose all legal rights to see her. Fifteen minutes later, I burst into the lobby of Serenity Care. The elevators were too slow, so I ran up the stairs—seven flights. My knees were shaking by the time I reached the top. Room 708 was wide open. The bed was empty. The sheets were tossed aside, and my mother’s slippers were still under the bed. “Mom!” I ran into the hallway, looking left and right. The nurse’s station was abandoned. At the far end of the hall was a heavy glass door with a digital keypad. A sign on it read: *Intensive Care & Psychiatric Hold Unit—Restricted Access.* Through the glass, I saw my mother. She was in her wheelchair, her back to me. A male orderly in green scrubs was pushing her deeper into the ward. “Mom!” I pounded on the glass door. The sound echoed down the corridor. My mother turned her head and saw me. Her lips moved, but I couldn’t hear her through the thick glass. I slammed my finger onto the intercom button. “Hello? This is restricted access. State your name.” “That is my mother! Who authorized you to move her in there?!” “We have a signed consent form from her legal guardian, Valerie Miller.” “I never signed anything!” “Our system shows an electronic signature submitted today at 3:00 PM. If you have questions, please contact our legal team.” I pulled out my phone—at 3:00 PM, I was on the curb talking to that stranger. I hadn’t signed a single thing. They had forged my digital signature. Through the glass, my mother was being pushed further and further away. “Mom! Mom!” I slammed my fist against the glass. Once, twice—on the third strike, a crack spiderwebbed across the pane, and blood began to seep from my knuckles. The click of high heels echoed from behind me. “Valerie, sweetheart, are you here to see your mom?” Chloe stood at the other end of the hall, holding a bouquet of lilies, her smile sweet and toxic. Behind her stood two men in dark suits. They didn’t look like hospital staff. “Her old room was so basic, so I asked the director to move her to the VIP psychiatric wing. It has 24-hour private care. She’ll be much more comfortable there.” “You forged my signature to lock my mother in a secure ward, and you call that comfortable?” “Oh, Valerie, look at you getting hysterical again.” Chloe sighed, turning to the men behind her. “Mr. Pendelton, please show Valerie the court order.” One of the men stepped forward, handing me a document stamped with a red court seal. “Ms. Miller, this is a court-ordered involuntary psychiatric evaluation. Under state law, your immediate family has requested this assessment.” “My family? My mother is locked behind that door! When did she request this?” “Signed and dated at 3:15 PM today.” “She didn’t even know what she was signing!” Chloe tilted her head slightly, positioning herself perfectly so the security camera above would capture her most innocent profile. “Calm down, Valerie. Your mom signed it willingly. We have video proof. Your behavior right now… honestly, it’s making me really worry about you.” She glanced at the men. “If Valerie refuses to cooperate with the court order, do we need to call the police to assist?” I took a step back, my spine pressing against the cold, cracked glass door. At the end of the hall, two security guards were walking toward me, their walkie-talkies buzzing. To my left was a locked ward; to my right was a wall of security guards. I was trapped. Chloe’s eyes welled with beautiful, perfectly timed tears. “Don’t be scared, Valerie. It’s just an evaluation. If you’re not sick, you’ll be out in thirty days.” Thirty days. In thirty days, they could announce to the world that I was mentally incompetent. They would strip me of every ounce of credibility. Behind my back, my fingers brushed against the crack in the glass. The sharp edge sliced my finger, a sudden, stinging pain. My phone was still in my pocket. Before running up here, I had done one thing—something the stranger on the phone had instructed me to do. *“Keep your voice memo recording active,”* he had said. *“Let it run in your pocket. It automatically uploads to my cloud.”* “There’s no need to call the police,” I said. I pulled my hand from the glass, wiped the blood on my coat, and looked Chloe dead in the eye. “Chloe, when you were on the phone outside my dressing room, you told your dad to swap the chip in the scale with the backup. Did you think I forgot?” Chloe’s pupils contracted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Yes, you do.” I took a step forward. “You also said—’Who’s going to audit a scale for some third-tier nobody?’” The hallway went dead silent for three seconds. Chloe’s smile didn’t waver, but her left hand began to tremble. “See? This is exactly why you need that evaluation, Valerie. You’re hallucinating.” She turned to the lawyer, her voice firm. “Let’s go. Call security to escort her.” “Understood.” The two guards grabbed my arms. The phone in my pocket remained silent, recording every second. I knew there was no point in arguing here. I couldn’t win this fight in this hallway. But a small smile tugged at the corner of my lips—the first real smile I’ve had in days. “Chloe, do you know what cloud storage is?” Her footsteps faltered. “It means—even if you smash my phone right now, everything we’ve said is already saved online.”

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My boyfriend’s “pure and innocent” childhood friend came to my OB-GYN clinic, and I found she was infected with three different STDs. My boyfriend didn’t believe me. In a fit of rage, he splashed hot coffee right in my face. “Do you have any idea how pure Lily is? She’s never even held a guy’s hand! If you’re going to make up lies to slander her, at least make them believable!” That night, he turned my hospital ID photo into a meme with the caption “Psycho Doc” and blasted it across all our professional SnapChat groups. I was forced to resign. I was stalked, and my door was defaced with red paint. Until one night, someone locked my garage door from the outside and let car exhaust fill the space. Before my consciousness faded, my phone screen lit up. It was a text from him: “If you had just disappeared sooner, Lily and I would’ve been together by now.” But when I opened my eyes again, I was back in my clinic. She was sitting right across from me, smiling like a sweet, innocent angel. This time, I calmly slid the paper over. “Here’s your report. See for yourself.” Since he believed she was so pure, then let her be pure. After all, I wasn’t the one getting infected. 0

“Dr. Vance, are my test results ready?” Lily Adams sat across from me, nervously twisting the hem of her dress. I looked at the lab report in my hand. The red bold letters were blinding. Secondary syphilis, gonorrhea, and genital warts. To contract these three STDs at the same time, she must have had an incredibly wild sex life. In my past life, for the sake of her and Ethan’s health, I had taken this report out to the waiting room to explain the situation to Ethan Cole. What I got in return was a cup of scalding coffee to my face, six months of relentless cyberbullying, and a suffocating death in a locked garage. This time, I took a deep breath and slid the lab report directly in front of Lily. “Ms. Adams, see for yourself.” Lily picked up the paper with a confused look. In an instant, her face drained of all color. “This is impossible!” “How could I have these dirty diseases? Your hospital’s equipment must be broken!” I leaned back in my chair and said seriously, “These numbers don’t lie.” “And looking at your current symptoms, if you don’t start treatment immediately, you might lose your fertility.” Lily’s tears spilled over instantly. She leaped up, rushed to my desk, and grabbed my hand. “Chloe, please help me! Ethan and you are the only people I know in this city.” “I swear, I must have caught this from a public swimming pool a few days ago. You have to believe me!” Looking at her tearful, pathetic act, I wanted to laugh. Getting three STDs from a public pool? Who was she trying to fool? “It doesn’t matter if I believe you or not. What matters is the treatment.” I glanced at the cracked-open door of the clinic. “Ethan is waiting for you outside. Should I call him in and explain the situation to him in detail?” “No!” Lily screamed, frantically covering the lab report. “Chloe, I beg of you, please don’t tell Ethan!” “He’s always thought of me as a pure, clean girl. If he finds out I have this, he will definitely leave me.” She fell to her knees in front of me, crying like a victim. “As long as you don’t say anything, I’ll do whatever you want!” I looked down at her. I hadn’t realized in my past life how desperately she would go to keep up her innocent facade in front of Ethan. “You’re an adult. You have the right to patient confidentiality,” I said, calmly pulling my hand away. “Since you don’t want him to know, then we won’t tell him.” Lily sighed in relief, nodding and thanking me repeatedly. She frantically stuffed the real lab report into her designer handbag. “But… how should I explain this to Ethan in a minute?” I opened my computer and pulled up a blank template. Three minutes later, I printed out a fake report showing all negative results. “If he asks, tell him everything is normal.” Lily took the “pure and clean” report. A flash of gratitude crossed her eyes, quickly replaced by a smug smirk. She was probably mocking my stupidity, thinking I had given in to my romantic rival so easily. The door was suddenly shoved open. Ethan Cole storm in. He didn’t even look at me; he went straight to Lily. “Lily, how are you? Are you feeling sick anywhere?” He gently helped Lily up, his voice filled with self-reproach. “I told you we shouldn’t have come here. This doctor has always hated you. She definitely didn’t give you a good attitude.” Lily immediately leaned into his chest, weakly raising the fake report. “Ethan, don’t blame Chloe. She said I’m perfectly fine.” Only then did Ethan deign to look at me, his eyes full of undisguised suspicion. “Chloe, did you actually check her thoroughly?” I looked up and politely met his gaze. “The report is completely normal. Congratulations.” Since he firmly believed she was pure, let them enjoy their “pure” intimacy. I wasn’t the one getting dirty anyway. Ethan let out a cold snort and wrapped his arm tightly around Lily’s shoulders. “At least you know your place.” “Let’s go home, Lily. I’ll make your favorite steamed fish tonight.” Lily looked back at me, a look of smug triumph in her eyes. I sat in my chair, quietly watching their figures fade away. The real show was just getting started. 0

After work, I didn’t go to the grocery store to buy the seafood Ethan liked, as I usually did. Instead, I went straight back to the apartment we co-owned. As soon as I pushed the door open, Lily’s giggles echoed from the living room. She was wearing a silk pajama set I had just bought, lounging on the sofa, opening her mouth to eat grapes Ethan was hand-feeding her. Seeing me walk in, Ethan’s face immediately darkened. “Why are you just getting back? You didn’t even make dinner. Are you trying to starve Lily?” He slammed the fruit plate onto the coffee table. “She’s a guest! Do you have any decency as the lady of this house?” My hands paused as I took off my shoes. The lady of this house? He had probably given that title to Lily in his heart a long time ago. “I’m a doctor, not your full-time maid.” I walked straight to the sofa and looked at Lily. “Besides, Ms. Adams doesn’t look like she should be eating cold, raw fruit right now.” Lily’s face froze, and she instinctively pulled down the hem of the pajamas. She glanced at me guiltily, then bit her lip, her eyes turning red. “Ethan, does Chloe not like me wearing her clothes?” “I’ll take them off right now. I’m so sorry…” She made a move to stand up, but Ethan held her down. “Don’t you dare! I told you to wear them!” Ethan spun around and glared at me like I was his worst enemy. “Chloe, don’t be so ungrateful. It’s just a pajama set. Do you have to be so incredibly petty?” “Lily is fragile. Would letting her borrow your clothes kill you?” I watched him throw a tantrum over another woman. In my past life, these words would have broken my heart, and I would have rushed into the kitchen to cook and appease him. But now, looking at them just made me sick. “Since she’s worn it, she can keep it.” I turned toward my bedroom. “I find it dirty.” I wasn’t just talking about the clothes. I was talking about her. Lily clearly understood my hidden meaning. Her body trembled, her fingers digging deep into the sofa cushions. She knew she carried three STDs, so the word “dirty” hit her like a physical blow. Ethan was completely enraged. He took three quick steps, grabbing my wrist tightly. “What did you just say? Who’s dirty?” “Do you want me to slap you?!” He raised his hand high. I stared back at him without flinching, my eyes as calm as a stagnant pool of water. “Go ahead, Ethan. Try it.” “If that hand lands on me, I will call the police tomorrow. And I’ll send the ledger of all the kickbacks you’ve taken to your boss.” Ethan’s hand froze in midair, his face turning an ugly shade of green. He looked at me in disbelief, as if he couldn’t believe I would threaten him like this. “Are you crazy? We’ve been together for three years, and you’re threatening me over this petty crap?” I yanked my hand back with force. “Three years is just a lesson learned. Let’s call it a mistake.” “I’m moving out tonight. I’ll have my lawyer handle the division of this apartment. You’d better prepare yourself.” With that, I walked into the bedroom and locked the door behind me. Outside, Ethan’s furious curses and Lily’s fake, comforting whispers drifted through the door. “Ethan, it’s all my fault. I’ll move out tomorrow…” “Don’t leave! If she wants to throw a fit, let her! Let’s see where she can actually go!” I pulled out my suitcase and began packing my valuables and documents. Halfway through, my phone vibrated. It was an informal hospital SnapChat group. Someone had posted a blurry photo of a female patient wearing a mask, taking medication at the pharmacy window. [Isn’t this the woman who visited Dr. Vance’s clinic this afternoon? Why is she sneakily picking up long-acting penicillin?] [Look how sketchy she’s being. Ten to one, she’s got *that* disease.] I looked at the screen, a cold smile forming on my lips. Terrified of Ethan finding out, Lily hadn’t gone to a specialist. Instead, she was trying to quietly suppress the disease with antibiotics. But syphilis and genital warts weren’t things you could just wave away with a few pills. She was playing with fire. I stuffed a few everyday clothes into the suitcase and opened the door. In the living room, Ethan was holding Lily, comforting her. Hearing the door open, he turned and saw my suitcase. A flash of panic crossed his eyes, quickly masked by anger. “Chloe, look at you, acting all tough. Moving out in the middle of the night?” He stood up, blocking my path. “I’m telling you, once you walk out that door, don’t you ever think about coming back!” I stopped and looked at his pathetic, blustering face. “Fine.” I walked right past him without a second thought. At the door, I glanced back at Lily, who was huddled on the sofa. “Ms. Adams.” Lily snapped her head up, her eyes filled with sheer terror, afraid I would spill her secret. I gave her a sweet smile. “Remember to take your meds on time. Ignoring your illness will only lead to bigger problems.” Ignoring Ethan’s furious shouting, I stepped out into the night and never looked back. 0

I moved into a long-term rental apartment near the hospital. Three days later, I contacted a real estate agent and handed over all the records showing I paid the vast majority of the down payment to my lawyer. That apartment had to be sold immediately. I wouldn’t leave Ethan a single dime. While at work, I pulled up Lily’s medical records from that day. She had only picked up one course of antibiotics and some topical creams. That dosage wouldn’t cure her; it wouldn’t even manage the pain. What I found even more amusing was that she had used Ethan’s credit card on the hospital’s payment system. In other words, Lily was spending Ethan’s money to buy STD medications every single day. And that idiot Ethan probably thought she was just buying some supplements. During my afternoon rounds, my phone rang. It was Ethan. He had been calling me every day. His tone had shifted from furious insults to a softer, pleading demeanor. I walked to the end of the hall and picked up. “Chloe, where are you?” His voice sounded incredibly exhausted. “You’ve been throwing this tantrum for days. Isn’t it time to cool off? Come home tonight. Lily said she wants to cook dinner to apologize to you.” I stared at the traffic outside the window, my voice flat. “Ethan, you should have received my lawyer’s letter. I’m not throwing a tantrum.” “If you don’t sign the property division agreement, I’ll see you in court.” There was a silence on the other end, followed by a sudden roar. “Chloe, are you fucking kidding me?!” “Just because Lily is staying here for a few days, you want to sell the apartment? Does our three-year relationship mean absolutely nothing to you?!” He panted heavily, trying to suppress his rage. “Lily suddenly got a massive rash all over her body yesterday. She’s running a fever so bad her face is pale.” “She refuses to go to the hospital because she’s terrified you’ll give her attitude again.” “As a doctor, can you put your petty jealousy aside for once and come take a look at her?” Hearing this, I almost burst out laughing. A massive rash? That was a textbook secondary syphilis rash. Combined with her drug abuse, her immune system was utterly collapsing. Lily didn’t dare go to a real hospital because she knew she would be exposed instantly. “If she won’t come to the hospital, how can I treat her?” I replied coldly. “I don’t have time for house calls. If she’s that sick, she needs to see a doctor properly.” “You—” Ethan choked on his words, completely powerless. “Fine, Chloe. You’re heartless.” “I’ll take her to a private clinic myself. We don’t need your fake sympathy!” He slammed the phone down. Looking at the dark screen, I put his number on do-not-disturb. A private clinic? Perfect. Those shady, uncertified private clinics loved using heavy steroids to temporarily suppress visible symptoms. It would only make Lily’s condition deteriorate faster. After work, I stopped by the real estate agency. The agent told me there were several interested buyers, but because Ethan lived there and refused to open the door, they couldn’t do any showings. “Dr. Vance, if the co-owner refuses to cooperate, it’s going to be very hard to sell this place at market value.” I tapped my fingers on the desk, an idea forming in my mind. “Bring the buyers tomorrow afternoon,” I said, handing a spare key to the agent. “He won’t be home then. There’s only a female guest staying there. Just ignore her.” The next afternoon. Using the excuse of picking up the rest of my belongings, I went back to the apartment early. As I approached the door, before I could even pull out my key, a series of breathless, gasping sounds echoed from inside. “Ethan… gentler… what if Chloe suddenly comes back…” Lily’s sweet, whiny voice drifted through the thin door. “Don’t mention that buzzkill of a woman,” Ethan panted, his voice dripping with lust. “She’s practically frigid anyway.” “You’re much better, my sweet Lily. Let me show you how much I love you.” I stood outside, my hand holding the key without a single tremble. In my past life, they had hooked up behind my back, and I had stupidly confronted them, only to be turned into the villain. This time, I felt that even getting angry was a waste of energy. I pulled out my phone, turned on the voice recorder, and quietly leaned against the wall for ten minutes. Right on cue, I heard the elevator ding. The agent walked out with a middle-aged couple. “Oh, Dr. Vance, you’re here! Great, great,” the agent greeted me warmly. I made a shushing gesture, then turned the key and opened the door. *Click.* The door swung open. The living room was a disaster zone, clothes scattered everywhere. The two bodies tangled on the sofa froze instantly, as if struck by lightning. “Ah—!” Lily let out a blood-curdling shriek, frantically grabbing clothes from the floor to cover herself. In that split second, I clearly saw the dense, red rashes covering her back and thighs. They looked like rotting spots on decaying meat, making the heavy air in the room turn nauseatingly repulsive. Ethan, completely naked, scrambled to grab his pants, his face filled with sheer panic. The couple behind me gasped, covering their mouths in horror. “This… this is the apartment you wanted to show us?” The woman stepped back in absolute disgust. “This is filthy! It’s bad luck. We’re leaving!” With that, she dragged her husband away. The agent stood there, completely dumbfounded and mortified. I walked in, pulled a sanitizing wipe from my bag, and slowly wiped my hands. “Ethan.” I thoroughly enjoyed his pathetic state. “Didn’t you say she was so pure she’d never even held a guy’s hand?” “What’s this? Did you two fall in love while treating her illness?” Ethan’s face turned the color of a bruised plum. 0

He frantically buckled his belt while trying to shield the shivering Lily with his body. “Chloe! Are you out of your mind?! Bringing strangers here to mock me?” He pointed a finger at me, roaring in embarrassment and anger. “My name is on this deed too! I can do whatever the hell I want here!” I tossed the dirty wipe into the trash, my eyes cold with disgust. “Sure, what you do in a trash pile is your business.” I looked at him coldly. “But I should remind you to pay attention to your hygiene.” “After all, some dirty things can never be washed off once you catch them.” Lily heard this sentence, and she suddenly lifted her head, her eyes filled with absolute panic and guilt. She looked deathly pale, holding onto Ethan’s arm so tightly that her nails almost dug into his flesh. “Ethan… don’t fight with her… let her go…” She was shivering violently, absolutely terrified that I would reveal her three STDs in front of Ethan. Looking at her act like a cornered animal, a wave of satisfaction washed over me. This was exactly what I wanted. Not exposing her directly meant she would live in constant, agonizing fear of being found out. She would do anything, lie to any extent, just to keep this secret. “Ethan, if you don’t pack up and get out of this apartment by tomorrow, I’ll send the recording of this little show and a detailed description to your company’s HR department.” With that threat, I turned and walked away. The next day, Ethan indeed packed his bags and slunk out with Lily. I finalized the apartment sale at lightning speed. The day I received the full payment, I treated my entire department to a lavish seafood dinner. My life went back to normal. Aside from surgeries and consultations, I focused entirely on upgrading my professional skills. Two weeks later. My peaceful days were shattered by a sudden commotion. Just as I was about to clock out, screaming and crying echoed from the hospital hallway. “Get Chloe out here! Tell her to get her ass out here!” The voice was painfully familiar. It was Ethan. I pushed open my office door and saw Ethan acting like a rabid dog, grabbing a nurse on duty by her collar. Lily sat in a wheelchair nearby, wearing a hat and mask, completely bundled up. But on her exposed neck and the backs of her hands, I could see massive, weeping, ulcerated red sores. It was ten times worse than two weeks ago. Clearly, the steroids from the private clinic had backfired, causing the infection to explode across her entire body. The moment Ethan saw me, his eyes turned bloodshot. He pushed the nurse aside and lunged at me. “Chloe, you evil bitch! I’ll kill you!” “Security! Hold him down!” Several male doctors and security guards rushed over, slamming Ethan hard against the cold tiled floor. With his face pressed against the floor, Ethan thrashed wildly, screaming at the top of his lungs. “What did you prescribe Lily?!” “She was fine! Ever since she used that vaginal wash you prescribed, she started rotting!” “You’re not just a petty bitch, you’re a hack doctor! I’m reporting you to the medical board!” Standing a few feet away, I raised an eyebrow in amusement. Wow, what a creative way to shift the blame. I turned to look at Lily, who was hiding her head in the wheelchair. “Ms. Adams, did I ever prescribe you a vaginal wash?” I asked calmly. “All my prescriptions are logged in the hospital database. Should we go pull them up right now?” Lily panicked, clutching the armrests of her wheelchair. “I… I don’t know…” her voice shook, thick with tears. “Maybe I remembered wrong… Ethan, let’s go, I don’t want to get treated anymore…” “Go? We can’t go!” Even pinned down by security, Ethan desperately defended his “pure” white moonlight. “Lily, don’t be afraid! This woman is just abusing her power as an attending physician to bully you!” “I’m going to make sure everyone in this hospital sees her true colors today!” More and more patients and visitors gathered, whispering among themselves. In my past life, under such public pressure, I would have panicked and tried to explain myself. But now, I knew exactly how to deal with them. “Ethan, you keep saying she ended up like this because of my prescription.” I walked over to him in my high heels. “But do you even know what disease she actually has?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “467145”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster

Immediately after my rebirth, I signed the contract to livestream eating Carolina Reapers on the Mexican border. In my past life, my husband’s childhood friend, Chloe, used a supernatural sensory-swap system to force her taste buds onto mine. She deliberately ate raw aloe skins and drank pure wormwood extract on her daily livestreams to build a “resilient, struggling-girl-next-door” persona. Meanwhile, back home, I would be drinking warm honey water but experiencing a bitterness so intense it caused stomach spasms and made me throw up blood. I begged her to stop, but Chloe just looked at me with wide, innocent eyes. “Amelia, I know you want Ethan’s attention, but you don’t have to fake it so dramatically!” Ethan’s voice back then had been filled with utter disgust. “You’re too spoiled, Amelia. You sit at home all day doing nothing, yet you can’t stand to see Chloe working so hard to pay off her debts.” Chloe’s “bitter detox” streams went viral for a month, and the internet crowned her the most inspirational girl of the year. Meanwhile, I died in our bedroom of a ruptured gallbladder, literally starved and bitter to death. My body wasn’t even found until weeks later. Since you love sharing tastes so much, Chloe, let’s see how you like the feeling of liquid fire burning through your stomach. 0

“Amelia, the contract for the extreme pepper tasting in Mexico has been sent to your email. Do you want to sign it now?” My agent Sarah’s voice over the phone was filled with hesitation. The Carolina Reaper. Its heat index exceeds 1.5 million SHU. Just touching its juice can blister your skin. A normal person would be in tears just smelling it, let alone eating it. I stared at the bolded waiver clause on the screen. *The signee assumes all responsibility for any physical injuries caused during the tasting.* I tapped “Confirm.” Departure in three days. The lingering taste of pure bile was still in my mouth—the result of the raw dandelion greens Chloe had started chewing on this morning. In my past life, on this exact day, I was still completely in the dark, thinking I had contracted some bizarre disease. I had run to three different hospitals and done full-body scans, only for all the results to come back perfectly normal. On the drive back, Ethan had glanced at me with nothing but annoyance, telling me to “stop making a scene over nothing.” My phone screen lit up. It was a Snapchat message from Chloe. “Amelia! I’m starting my ‘extreme bitter challenge’ livestream today. Will you come and show some love? 😘❤️” In my last life, I actually went. I left a bunch of supportive comments. Then I took a sip of plain water at home and gagged from the intense bitterness. I didn’t reply. I tossed the phone onto the sofa. The front door clicked open. Ethan walked in, holding two cups of boba. “Hey babe, I got you your favorite mango pomelo sago.” He smiled warmly, his eyes curving into two handsome crescents. I used to fall for that smile every single time. Now, it just made me sick. I took the drink and took a sip. The moment the sweet liquid hit my tongue, it turned into an overwhelming, toxic bitterness. It tasted like someone had emptied a bottle of concentrated liquid medicine down my throat. My stomach spasmed violently. But I kept my face completely blank and set the cup down. Compared to the agony of dying from bitterness in my past life, this was nothing. “Why aren’t you drinking?” Ethan leaned in, his voice dripping with concern. “Don’t want it.” “Are you feeling sick again? I told you, stop staring at your phone so much. The blue light is messing with your head.” His care was flawless. Every word was perfectly placed. So perfectly placed it felt rehearsed. I looked at him and said flatly, “I signed a contract. I’m going to Mexico in three days.” Ethan froze. “What are you going to Mexico for?” “A livestream. Eating hot peppers.” The smile on his face cracked. “Are you kidding me? You can’t even handle medium salsa at Chipotle. What kind of peppers are you going to eat?” “Carolina Reapers.” He slammed his boba cup onto the table, splashing liquid everywhere. “Amelia, have you lost your mind?” He never called me by my full name unless he was genuinely angry. I tilted my head. “Didn’t you say I was too spoiled? I’m just building some resilience.” Ethan took a deep breath, trying to suppress his anger. “Are you throwing a tantrum? Just because of what I said the other day?” “No.” “Then stay home and stop making trouble. Chloe is under a lot of pressure right now. She’s drowning in debt and relying entirely on her streams to survive. Don’t add to the drama.” I almost laughed out loud. Add to the drama? In my past life, I stayed quiet. I couldn’t eat a single bite of food. My mouth was full of ulcers, and my tongue was so swollen I couldn’t speak. He called me dramatic. Chloe said I was putting on a show. In the end, I quietly died in my bed, and nobody even came to collect my body. “Ethan, have you ever thought about something?” I stared into his eyes, pronouncing every word clearly. “What if every bit of bitterness Chloe is supposedly eating… is actually being felt by me instead?” The room went dead silent for three seconds. Then, Ethan let out a soft, pitying laugh, as if looking at a lunatic. “Babe, is the stress getting to you? Maybe I should book you an appointment with a therapist.” Right then, my phone rang. It was a FaceTime call from Chloe. Ethan glanced at the screen, swiped to answer, and his voice instantly softened by three octaves. “Hey, Chloe. What’s up?” “Ethan! My first stream went so well! I ate three raw aloe leaves, and the chat was calling me so brave!” On the screen, Chloe was smiling brightly, green aloe slime still smudged on her lips. Meanwhile, the back of my throat was completely numb, and a wave of nausea washed over me from the phantom bitterness. Ethan didn’t even look at me. “That’s amazing, Chloe. I knew you could do it.” Chloe’s eyes shifted past Ethan’s shoulder, landing on me. “Oh, Amelia is there too! Amelia, you look so pale. Are you sick? You really need to take care of yourself.” Her tone was sickeningly sweet, but her eyes were dripping with triumph. I curled my lips at the screen. “I’m fine. It’s probably just the smell of your raw aloe. It’s so strong I can smell it right through the screen.” Chloe’s smile stiffened for a fraction of a second. But she recovered quickly. “Amelia, you’re always so funny.” She hung up. Ethan turned around, his brows furrowed in deep annoyance. “What was that about? Chloe is literally working herself to the bone to pay off her debts. Why do you have to be so passive-aggressive?” “I didn’t mean anything by it.” I stood up and walked toward the bedroom. As I passed him, I paused. “By the way, I’m not changing my mind about Mexico. If you try to stop me, I’ll pack my bags and move out today.” The gentle facade on Ethan’s face finally shattered. He clenched his phone so hard his knuckles turned white. “Amelia, you’ve changed.” I shut the bedroom door. Through the thin wood, I heard him make a call. “Chloe… Amelia says she’s going to Mexico to eat Carolina Reapers… Yeah, the super hot ones… What should I do?” I couldn’t hear Chloe’s reply clearly, but I knew her tone all too well. In my last life, she had used that exact same tone to tell Ethan: “Ethan, Amelia is just too high-maintenance. Don’t baby her.” The hallway fell silent. Then, Ethan’s footsteps faded away. I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The bitter taste in my mouth finally faded slightly. The email confirmation for my flight and contract lay quietly in my inbox. Three days. I only had to endure three more days. 0

The next morning, I was woken up by the doorbell. I opened it to find Chloe standing there, holding a large paper bag. “Amelia! I made you some organic dandelion and mint cleansing tea. It’s great for reducing inflammation.” She was wearing a floral sundress, her makeup flawless. She looked like the perfect, sweet family friend. I didn’t reach for the bag. “How do you know my door code?” Chloe tilted her head, her smile unchanging. “Ethan gave it to me. He said you weren’t feeling well and asked me to check on you.” Without waiting for an invitation, she pushed past me, walking straight into the kitchen to grab a mug. She moved around the space like she owned it. “Here, try it. I made sure not to put any sweetener in it.” She handed me a steaming mug. I looked down. The pale yellow liquid had a few mint leaves floating on top. She had done this in my past life too. Except back then, she brought a matcha detox shake. I had taken one sip, and the moment the liquid touched my tongue, a bitterness so foul it felt like pure poison flooded my throat. I spent the entire night throwing up until my stomach acid turned yellow. I pushed the mug back. “I’m not drinking that.” Chloe’s smile faltered. “Amelia, don’t be like that. I spent two hours brewing this.” “I’m not being any way. I just don’t want you wasting your time.” I leaned against the counter, my gaze cold and steady. “After all, you have a livestream later, don’t you? What’s on the menu today? Pure wormwood extract? Or goldenseal powder?” Chloe’s fingers tightened around the mug. “Amelia… how did you know I was going to use goldenseal today?” “Just a guess.” She stared at me for a few seconds. The warmth in her eyes vanished, replaced by a cold calculation, before she quickly put her mask back on. “You’re so weird today, Amelia. I don’t eat stuff like that. I just do normal green juices.” “Right. Have fun with that.” I took the mug from her hand, walked over to the sink, and poured the hot tea straight down the drain. Behind me, Chloe gasped, her manicured nails digging into her palms. “Amelia… do you have a problem with me?” “No.” “Then why did you just pour out the tea I worked so hard to make for you?” Her voice began to tremble with tears. This trick worked on Ethan every single time. I turned around. Her eyes were already red, her lip trembling, her chin tilted up in the perfect picture of an innocent victim. “Save it, Chloe. Ethan isn’t here. Your little performance is wasted on me.” Her face went instantly cold, the mask slipping off entirely. But in less than a second, she was weeping again. “Amelia, I don’t know what I did wrong… Did I misunderstand something?” The sound of keys jangled at the door. Ethan walked in. The first thing he saw was Chloe crying in the kitchen, and the empty mug sitting in the sink. His face darkened instantly. “Amelia, what did you do?” Chloe wiped her eyes right on cue. “Ethan, it’s fine! Amelia probably just didn’t like the tea… My cooking is terrible anyway. It’s my fault.” Ethan rushed to Chloe’s side, throwing an arm around her shoulders. “Chloe spent her entire morning making this for you, and this is how you treat her?” “I said I didn’t want it.” “If you didn’t want it, you could have just said so! Why did you have to dump it right in front of her? Do you have any idea how hurtful that is?” Looking at him shielding Chloe so protectively, I found it hilarious. In my past life, when I was curled up on the bathroom floor clutching my stomach in agony, he was busy sending virtual roses in Chloe’s livestream chat. “Ethan, you get this mad over a dumped cup of tea. But do you have any idea that my mouth has tasted like pure battery acid since yesterday?” “Here we go again.” He let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “Amelia, can you stop making everything about yourself? Chloe eating healthy has nothing to do with you. If your mouth tastes bad, go see a doctor. Stop trying to blame her.” Chloe kept her head down, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed quietly. Ethan’s heart practically broke for her. “Come on, Chloe. Let’s go. We don’t need to deal with her nonsense.” He began guiding Chloe out of the apartment. As he passed me, he stopped. “If you’re still going to Mexico, then we have nothing left to talk about.” The door slammed shut. Standing in the empty living room, a fresh wave of intense bitterness flooded my mouth. It was worse than before. Chloe must have started eating the goldenseal powder. I walked into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. My tongue was covered in tiny, painful red blisters. In my past life, these didn’t appear until the third day. She was ramping up the dosage. My phone buzzed with an Instagram notification. Chloe’s livestream was live. The title read: *”Trying the Extreme Goldenseal Powder Challenge. Doing whatever it takes to pay off my brother’s medical bills.”* The comment section was overflowing with sympathy. *”Oh my god, that stuff is notoriously bitter! Chloe, you didn’t even flinch!”* *”This is a real independent woman. Unlike some people who just sit at home playing the rich housewife.”* *”Keep going, Chloe! Sending you all my love and super chats!”* I locked my phone screen. I dragged my suitcase out of the closet, unzipped it, and began throwing my clothes inside. Three days was too long. I changed my flight. I was leaving tomorrow. 0

By 2:00 AM, the bitterness in my mouth was so unbearable I couldn’t sleep. Chloe had started a late-night stream. This time, she was drinking concentrated wormwood tea. The chat was filled with crying emojis. Meanwhile, I lay in bed, feeling as if a gallon of black ink had been poured down my throat, burning its way from my esophagus to my vocal cords. My phone lit up. It was a text from Ethan. “I’ll take you out for sushi tomorrow to make it up to you. Just don’t go to Mexico, okay?” I didn’t reply. A second text popped up immediately. “Chloe said she didn’t mean to make you feel bad. She’s been crying all night. Can’t you just be the bigger person?” I flipped my phone face down under my pillow. The next morning, as I dragged my suitcase toward the front door, Ethan blocked the hallway. He was in his sweatpants, his hair messy, looking like he hadn’t slept at all. “Are you really doing this?” “Yes.” “Amelia, I’m telling you, you can’t handle spicy food. Last time you had jalapeños on your pizza, your lips were swollen for two days. Have you forgotten?” “That was then.” I tried to step around him to grab my shoes. He grabbed the handle of my suitcase. “Why do you have to be so stubborn? Do you ever think about my feelings?” “Your feelings?” I looked up at him, finding the words absolutely pathetic. “Ethan, did you ever think about mine? When I told you my mouth tasted like poison, you said I was faking. When I told you my stomach was killing me, you told me to stop being dramatic. Now I’m leaving, and you want to talk about *your* feelings?” He choked on his words, his grip on my suitcase loosening slightly before tightening again. “I only said those things because I care about you! Why can’t you see that?” The doorbell rang. Ethan opened it. Chloe stood outside, her eyes red and puffy as if she’d been crying for hours. “Ethan… is Amelia leaving because of me? It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have brought that tea… I’m so sorry…” She looked ready to burst into tears again. Ethan immediately pulled her into the apartment, patting her back gently. “It’s not your fault, Chloe. She’s just being stubborn.” Over Ethan’s shoulder, Chloe looked at me. Her eyes were watery and pathetic, but deep inside them, I saw that familiar, icy smirk. It was the exact same look she gave me in my past life. When I was on my knees begging her to stop streaming, she had looked down at me with that exact same smug smile. Then, she had turned to Ethan and wept beautifully. “Amelia, please don’t go. I won’t come around anymore, I promise… I shouldn’t have intruded…” Ethan turned to me, his eyes blazing with fury. “Amelia, are you happy now? Chloe has no family. I’m the only person she can rely on. Why are you so heartless?” I yanked my suitcase handle out of his grip. “Ethan, remember every single word you said today.” “When you finally taste the bitterness Chloe has in store for you, don’t come crying to me.” His face flushed red with anger. “Are you threatening me?” “No. I’m warning you.” I rolled my suitcase out the door. Just as the elevator doors were closing, I heard Chloe’s voice drift from the apartment. “Ethan… do you think Amelia is having a mental breakdown? Maybe we should get her some help…” Ethan’s reply was muffled. “She’s probably just losing her mind.” As the elevator descended, I looked down at my phone. Chloe’s Instagram follower count had just hit 50k. Her stream title was now: *”Kicked out by my friend’s wife, trying not to cry too loud.”* The video showed her sitting on a park bench, holding a cup of herbal tea, wiping away tears as she drank. The chat went wild. *”I feel so bad for Chloe. That wife is a literal monster.”* *”Some people get to live in luxury and still hate to see others work hard.”* *”We love you, Chloe! Don’t let her get to you!”* Suddenly, another wave of intense, sharp bitterness surged in my mouth. It was stronger than yesterday, as if someone had dumped pure bile powder onto my tongue. My stomach contracted violently, and I had to lean against my suitcase for support. Not enough. This pain wasn’t enough. I needed something far more brutal to send right back to her. My phone rang. It was the coordinator for my contract. “Amelia, we’ve confirmed your flight for 3:00 PM today. Once you land, a driver will take you to the base. The Carolina Reapers were just harvested from the farm. They are incredibly fresh.” “Perfect.” I stood up straight, wiping a trace of bitter spit from the corner of my mouth. “Please prepare extra. I don’t want to run out.” There was a brief silence on the other end. “…Amelia, normal people can’t even touch these things. Are you sure?” “I’m sure.” I hung up and ordered an Uber straight to the airport. Ten minutes before boarding, Ethan’s name flashed on my screen. “Amelia, if you get on that plane, we are getting a divorce.” I looked at the boarding countdown, put the phone to my ear, and said: “Draft the divorce papers. I’ll sign them. But before you do, you might want to ask Chloe one thing—who exactly is her taste-swap system bound to?” The line went quiet for a long moment. Then, a scoff. “You really have lost your mind. Taste swap? System? Amelia, go get your brain checked.” The boarding announcement chimed. I stood up and walked toward the gate. “Just wait and see.” 0

I landed in Mexico just as dusk was falling. My local guide, Marcus, was a lean, dark-skinned man. “Amelia, the Carolina Reaper is no joke. Local farmers here use it as a pesticide. They spray it on crops to keep pests away. Are you really going to eat this live?” “Yes, really.” He looked at me like I was walking to my execution. We drove for over three hours into the mountains. The streaming setup was simple—a rustic wooden table inside a metal-roofed shed, with several sealed plastic containers laid out. Marcus put on heavy-duty gloves and opened one of the boxes. An invisible wave of pure, pungent heat hit my face. Tears instantly welled in my eyes. But my tongue didn’t taste spicy. It still tasted bitter. Chloe was still streaming. Marcus scrambled back two steps. “Just smelling it is brutal. Are you absolutely sure…” “Set up the phone. We go live in ten minutes.” He hesitated but did as he was told. The moment the stream started, viewers began trickling in out of curiosity. It was a brand-new account with zero followers, so no one knew who I was. The title was simple: *”Eating Raw Carolina Reapers Live.”* I put on gloves, reached into the container, and pulled out a small, wrinkled, deep-red pepper. It was tiny, barely the size of my thumb. Marcus was frantically shaking his head behind the camera. I took a bite. For the first three seconds, I felt nothing. On the fourth second, the gates of hell swung wide open. It wasn’t just spicy. It was fire. It felt like someone had pressed a red-hot iron plate directly onto my tongue, searing its way down my throat, through my esophagus, and straight into my stomach. My entire body doubled over. Tears and sweat poured down my face instantly. But on my tongue… The bitterness was gone. The bitter taste from Chloe was being rapidly, violently obliterated by the sheer heat. The system swapped our senses. If I tasted heat, she would taste it too. And this was the most extreme heat on the planet. The chat exploded. *”Holy crap, is she actually eating it?”* *”A Carolina Reaper?? Is she trying to die??”* *”She’s crying but she’s still chewing. This girl is insane.”* I forced myself to swallow the first pepper. My stomach felt like a grenade had detonated inside it. But the bitter taste that had tortured me for days was entirely gone. Replaced by a pure, all-consuming burn. It felt amazing. My phone began vibrating frantically. It wasn’t notifications from my stream. It was Snapchat calls from Chloe. One after another, missed calls piling up. I picked up a second pepper and smiled at the camera. “Alright guys, round two.” The moment I bit down, my phone finally connected. I hadn’t picked it up—Marcus’s hand had slipped and swiped the screen while trying to mute it. Chloe’s blood-curdling shriek pierced through the speaker. “AAHHH! Amelia, you lunatic! What are you eating?!” “My mouth! My mouth is on fire! Help me, Ethan! Ethan, help me!” The viewers on my stream heard everything. The chat was suddenly flooded with question marks. *”Who is that? Why is she screaming?”* *”Wait, she said her mouth is on fire? The streamer eats the pepper, and some other girl’s mouth burns? What kind of black magic is this?”* Chloe’s screaming continued in the background. Then, Ethan’s panicked voice cut through. “Chloe! Chloe, what’s wrong? Why are your lips swelling up?!” “It’s Amelia! She’s eating something! Ethan, make her stop! Please!” Ethan’s voice turned into a roar of pure fury. “Amelia! Stop this right now! You’re hurting Chloe!” II chewed the Carolina Reaper, my tongue so numb from pain that I could barely feel it anymore. But Chloe could. This time, the one suffering was no longer me.

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Ten years after I vanished, my husband bought me like trash. I didn’t know it was him yet. I only knew the Vallis had finally decided I was worth more sold than dead. The Madam dragged me down a back hall of The Velvet Underground, her red nails pinching my chin. “Listen carefully,” she said. “You serve the man in the VIP room tonight, and if you survive, you walk out free.” Free. The word hit harder than any fist. For ten years, I had lived under the Valli family. Basements, locked rooms, knives, cameras, men who laughed when I begged them to kill me. I had lost pieces of myself one by one, one kidney, half my hearing, most of my face, until there was almost nothing left. But I had kept one thing. Dante. Don Moretti. My husband. The man I stayed behind to save. The man who promised he would come back for me. I used to repeat his name when they hurt me. I used to bite my tongue and tell myself: He’s looking. He’s coming. Dante would burn the world down for me. Then the Madam opened a heavy red door and shoved me inside. The VIP room stank of cigars, liquor, and money. Men sat around a long black table. Guns showed under their jackets. Women in glittering dresses leaned against them. A man in a black suit and a gold lion mask sat at the center. My breath stopped. Even with half his face hidden, I knew him. I knew his shoulders, the ring on his right hand, and the scar across his wrist from the night I saved him. Dante. I took one step forward before my knees almost gave out. He did not stand and reach for me. He barely looked up. The Madam bowed her head. “Don Moretti, fresh company for the evening.” A few men laughed. Dante lifted his glass. His eyes moved over me for half a second. With disgust. He took a stack of cash from the table and threw it at my feet. “Sit in the corner,” he said. “Stay quiet.” I stared at the money scattered over my shoes. A man beside him grinned. “Don Moretti, you’re too generous. She looks like she came out of a grave.” More laughter. Dante did not laugh. That gave me hope for one stupid second. Then he said, “I don’t touch goods the Valli family already ruined.” The words hurt worse than a slap. I swayed where I stood. Ruined. Goods. That was what I was to him now. Not Elena Moretti, not his wife, not the woman who stayed behind with a gun to her head so he could escape. Just damaged merchandise. The Madam dug her nails into my arm. “Move.” I stumbled toward the corner. Every step felt wrong. I wanted to scream his name, rip off that mask, and make him see me. But my voice was broken, my face ruined, my body too thin, my hair cut short and uneven. Would he know me? Would he care? I sat on the edge of a low couch, hands locked in my lap. The men went back to talking. They talked money routes, dock workers, a shipment through Brooklyn, and a judge who needed pressure. Dante listened, and every man at the table waited for his answer. I kept staring at his wrist. The scar was still there. That scar came from me. Ten years ago, Lorenzo Valli had swung a blade at Dante’s throat. I blocked it with a metal chair. Dante still got cut. I stayed behind so he could run. He held my face that night and said, “El, no matter what happens, you are my wife. My only love. I will find you.” I believed him. A server placed a glass in front of me. I did not touch it. Dante’s eyes flicked toward me again. “Drink if you want. Cry if you want. Just don’t make noise.” The men laughed harder. I lowered my head. I was the joke. Then Dante reached for his glass, and his sleeve shifted. The scar flashed under the gold light. I moved before I could stop myself. I crossed the room and grabbed his arm. Guns came out at once, every weapon in the room aimed at my head. Dante went still. His eyes locked on mine through the mask. For one second, I saw something sharp and scared. My lips trembled. “Dante,” I whispered. “Is it you?” His fingers tightened around the glass. Before he could answer, the VIP door slammed open so hard it hit the wall. A woman’s voice cut through the room. “Who the hell is touching my husband?” —

The woman wearing my face called Dante her husband. I turned toward the door, still holding his wrist. She stood there in a red silk dress, with my old hair, my old mouth, and the tiny beauty mark under my left eye. My hand slipped from Dante’s arm. The woman crossed the room fast and slapped me so hard I hit the carpet. My ear rang. Before I could lift my head, she slapped me again. Her ring had sharp little points around the band. One of them tore into my cheek. Blood ran down my jaw. “You cheap bitch,” she snapped. “Who told you to touch my husband?” I looked past her at Dante. Say something. Tell her I am Elena. Tell her I am your wife. Dante stood. For one stupid second, I had hope. Then he stepped over me and pulled her into his arms. “Bianca,” he said. “Enough.” Bianca. So that was her name. She pressed herself against him and pointed at me. “She had her hands all over you.” “She’s nothing,” Dante said. Nothing. I had survived ten years on his name and he erased me in one word. Bianca forced tears. “Then why was she beside you?” Dante’s hand settled on her waist, gentle and familiar. That touch used to be mine. “I came here for business,” he said. “The girls in this place don’t interest me.” Bianca pouted. “Really?” Dante looked down at me. No warmth. “Really,” he said. “I don’t touch Valli trash.” A few men laughed. One of them leaned toward another and whispered, “The Doll is jealous tonight.” The other man muttered, “Careful. Don Moretti still loses his mind when anyone mentions Elena.” Elena. My name. They knew my name. They knew Dante had a wife. They knew I was missing. And yet he stood there with a woman built from my stolen face. I pushed myself onto my knees. My cheek throbbed. Blood dripped onto the carpet. “Dante,” I whispered. His jaw tightened. He heard me. I knew he had heard me. Bianca turned slowly. “What did you call him?” I tried to crawl toward him. “Dante, please. It’s me.” Her heel came down on my wrist. Pain shot up my arm. “You don’t get to say his name,” she said. “You don’t get to look at him.” She slapped me again. This time I stayed upright. I would not fall for her. I would not give her the pleasure. “Look at me,” I begged him. “Please.” Dante picked up his glass. He didn’t deny it. “I was being polite before,” he said. “Don’t mistake that for interest.” My vision blurred. “You women hear a man’s name and think it gives you power,” he went on. “It doesn’t.” Bianca smiled. She bent close to my face. Her perfume made my stomach turn. “You heard him,” she said. “Crawl back to whatever basement they found you in.” Dante did not stop her. He did not look at the blood on my face and ask why I knew his scar. He turned away from me and set his glass down. Then the VIP door opened again. Every guard near the entrance straightened. An older man walked in with silver hair, a gray suit, and a smile I had feared for ten years. Lorenzo Valli. The man who took me. The man Dante was supposed to kill. Lorenzo opened his arms. “Don Moretti,” he said. And Dante smiled back. —

Dante shook hands with the man who destroyed me. Lorenzo Valli stood ten feet away from me, clean and smiling, while my blood dried on the carpet. For a second, I was back on concrete, in chains, with Dante bleeding on the floor while Lorenzo held a gun to my head. “Run,” I had screamed at Dante then. “Go!” He had refused at first. Then I had lied. I told him I hated him. I told him I would rather die than watch him get weak for me. He believed me enough to leave. Or maybe he wanted to. I never knew. But I stayed. Lorenzo kept me. And now Dante welcomed him. “My apologies,” Lorenzo said. “The docks are a mess tonight.” Dante released his hand. “Brooklyn always is.” Lorenzo laughed. “That is why you need my people on the ground.” Dante nodded toward the table. “Sit.” My stomach turned. Sit? That was all? No gun. No blood. Dante walked back to his seat and Bianca slid beside him, smug and safe. Lorenzo sat across from them. His eyes moved over me once. Then stopped. For the first time all night, he stopped smiling. He recognized me. I saw it. His fingers twitched against the armrest. Dante noticed. “What?” Dante asked. Lorenzo looked away fast. “Nothing. Bad work by the club. You should demand better quality.” Bianca wrinkled her nose. “I said the same thing.” Dante did not even glance at me. “She’s leaving soon,” he said. Lorenzo’s smile returned. “Good.” My hands shook. He knew. Lorenzo Valli knew I was Elena Moretti. And he said nothing because Dante did not care enough to look twice. A man in a navy suit opened a folder on the table. Maps. Numbers. Names. Dante leaned forward. “Two docks,” he said. “Red Hook and Sunset Park. Your trucks move at night. My men clear the checkpoints. We split the clean cash sixty-forty.” Lorenzo lifted a brow. “Fifty-fifty.” Dante smiled. “You came to me.” “Because your judge is useful,” Lorenzo said. “Not because I need permission.” Dante’s eyes hardened. For a second, I thought one of them might pull a gun. Then Lorenzo raised both hands. “Sixty-forty, then.” Bianca stroked Dante’s sleeve. “See? Everyone behaves when you ask nicely.” Dante kissed her knuckles. I went numb. That mouth had once promised me forever. Now he was making deals with the man who sold me piece by piece. Lorenzo took a drink. “And the past?” Dante’s fingers tightened around his glass. I held my breath. Dante stared at Lorenzo for a long moment. Then he said, “The past is expensive. But everything has a price.” Lorenzo nodded slowly. “Ten years ago was messy.” Dante leaned back. “Ten years ago was a small accident.” A small accident. People kept talking around me, but I stopped hearing them for a few seconds. My body had been sold. My kidney had been cut out. And my face had been ruined. I had begged for death in locked rooms. And to Dante, it was a small accident. Bianca laughed softly. “Men are so dramatic about old grudges.” Dante looked at her with that same gentle patience he once saved for me. “You’re right,” he said. “Tonight is about business.” I lowered my head. Something inside me went quiet. I was not weak anymore. I was done. The Dante I loved had died long ago. Maybe he had never existed. Maybe I had made him better in my head because the truth hurt too much. Lorenzo signed the papers. Dante signed after him. Their men shook hands. Money moved. Territory shifted. My life became one more thing they ignored. Then Lorenzo stood and looked at me again. This time, his smile was calm. “Is this one included?” he asked. Bianca tilted her head. “What do you want with her?” Lorenzo shrugged. “Loose ends make noise.” Dante glanced at me at last. For one heartbeat, I waited. Then he said, “Do whatever you want. Just not in my suite.” The Madam grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the door. I did not fight. I only looked back once. Dante had already turned away. And when the door shut behind me, Lorenzo’s men were already waiting in the hall, and one of them had a knife. —

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On my birthday, my nearsighted boyfriend didn’t wear his glasses and accidentally slipped the engagement ring onto my best friend’s finger. Summer gasped, her hand freezing in mid-air as she made a show of trying to slide it off. But before she could, Christian spoke up. “It’s fine. Caroline doesn’t mind.” Summer let out a bright, easy laugh. “Honestly, Christian, only you could pull a stunt like this on such a big night.” I watched them giggle and banter, the warmth of the restaurant fading into a cold, sharp clarity. It was in that quiet moment that I finally decided to bow out of our little trio. For the five years we had been together, Christian’s favorite refrain was always that I didn’t mind. When the front passenger seat of his car went from being my exclusive spot to Summer’s because of her “severe motion sickness,” he told me I didn’t mind. When he took the project proposal I had stayed up for three nights straight to organize and put Summer’s name on the cover page, he told me I didn’t mind. And now, even when the ring meant for me was slipped onto another woman’s hand, his excuse remained unchanged. That single phrase had become his ultimate shield, a free pass to indulge his blatant favoritism toward Summer without ever having to feel guilty. Later, at the dinner table, our friends started chanting for me to make a wish. But Christian spoke first, his smile soft and affectionate. “I’ll make it for us. I wish that the three of us never, ever change.” The breeze from the open window blew out the candles on my cake, and with them, the very last embers of my love for him. For my new year, I closed my eyes and made a silent plea to whatever forces were listening: Let me never cross paths with Christian again for the rest of my life. … The dinner party ended in a heavy, awkward silence. Christian was the first to stand, reaching over to pick up Summer’s bright pink trench coat as naturally as if it were his own. I stood near the exit of the private dining room, watching him meticulously straighten her collar, smoothing out the fabric with practiced ease. He finally turned his gaze to me. “Caroline, Summer had a bit too much to drink tonight. I’m going to drive her home first.” He offered a patronizing smile. “Take an Uber back, okay? Be a good girl.” He reached out to pat my head, but I took a step back, letting his hand hang in the empty air. The atmosphere in the room turned instantly rigid. Our friends quickly chimed in, urging me not to make a big deal out of it. They began piling my birthday gifts into my arms all at once. Unable to hold them all, several packages slipped from my grip, scattering across the carpeted floor. Summer leaned into Christian, wrapping her arm tightly around his elbow. She blinked at me with a look of theatrical remorse. “Caroline, Christian is just looking out for me. You aren’t mad at me, are you?” I forced the corners of my mouth upward, keeping my voice level. “Of course not. Go ahead.” They walked out side-by-side, leaving me alone to kneel on the floor, gathering my dropped presents one by one. When I finally unlocked the door to our quiet, empty apartment and took off my coat, I realized my keys were missing their keychain. It was a small, hand-stitched leather piece I had crafted myself, embossed with the date of our anniversary. I remembered how Christian had tried to help me with the final thick stitches, his fingers getting so badly pricked by the heavy leather needle that they were dotted with tiny scabs. At the time, he had held my hands and promised, “I’ll never lose this, Caroline. Not in this lifetime.” But at dinner tonight, Summer had mentioned how much she loved it. Christian had simply smiled at me and said, “Caroline, Summer is always losing her keys. Let her use this one for a bit, and I’ll make you a brand-new one later.” I sat on the edge of the sofa, staring into the dark living room as memories of our years together played on a loop in my head. At 2:00 AM, the front door finally clicked open. Christian walked in, slipping his arms around me from behind. The distinct, heavy scent of gardenia perfume—Summer’s signature—clung to his clothes. He pulled a small box of cold medicine from his pocket and set it on the coffee table. “I heard you cough a couple of times during dinner. I stopped by a pharmacy on the way back to grab this for you.” The box was sealed, but the adhesive tape on the side had been torn halfway open. I looked at it, my voice flat. “Thanks. I already took something.” Christian’s phone buzzed in his pocket. The screen lit up on the table, displaying a text from Summer: Just got in. Thanks for tonight, Christian. Goodnight. His long fingers flew across the screen as he typed a rapid reply, a tender, soft smile gracing his lips. I studied his profile in the dim light. “Christian, do you really think the way you and Summer act is appropriate?” “One of them is my boyfriend, and the other is my best friend. Yet you two seem to have an endless amount of private things to talk about.” His expression tightened. He leaned down, pressing a brief kiss to my forehead. “Caroline, don’t start overthinking again.” “You’re the one I love. Is your period coming up? You always get so sensitive when your hormones kick in.” Seeing his complete indifference, the urge to argue or demand an explanation died instantly inside me. That night, I opened my laptop, pulled up the relocation and transfer agreement for the Germany branch, and signed my name in the signature block. The next morning, Christian insisted on driving me to work. I habitually pulled down the passenger-side visor to check my hair, only to find a brand-new, lighted vanity mirror installed there. Christian cleared his throat quickly, glancing at me from the driver’s seat. “Summer insisted on putting that in. I told her no, but she…” I snapped the visor shut with a sharp clack and looked out the window. I had heard versions of this excuse a thousand times. It was a tired script, entirely incapable of hiding his absolute favoritism. The moment the car pulled up to my office building, Summer was already waiting by the entrance. She held a cup of coffee, which she handed to Christian through the open window with practiced familiarity. “Your iced Americano, Christian. Oh, and about the contract details for the Westside project this morning…” The two of them fell into step, walking side-by-side into the lobby, their voices fading as they discussed project timelines. It wasn’t until they reached the elevator bank that Summer suddenly realized I had been left behind. She jogged back toward me, wrapping her arm through mine. “Caroline, I am so, so sorry! The project details are just so urgent today, I completely lost track of things.” Christian stood by the open elevator doors, his gaze resting on me with cool composure. “It’s fine. Caroline doesn’t mind things like this.” I looked down at Summer’s hand clutching my arm, then looked up at Christian, offering him a peaceful, empty smile. “Right. I don’t mind.” The department meeting began promptly at ten. The spacious conference room was packed with department heads and executives. Summer stood at the front of the room, presenting the project proposal I had spent weeks preparing, speaking with supreme confidence. My mind drifted back to two nights ago, when Christian had knelt by my knees, gripping my hands tightly with eyes full of desperate pleading. “Caroline, Summer just joined the department. She desperately needs this project to prove herself and secure her position.” “Let her have this proposal. You two have been friends for over a decade. You can’t just watch her fail.” He seemed to have entirely forgotten that I, too, needed this exact project to secure my own promotion. Looking at her on the stage, a suffocating weight pressed down on my chest. I stood up, planning to step out into the hallway to get some air. Christian followed me out almost immediately, pressing a company credit card into my hand. “Caroline, if you walk out now, everyone in there is going to think you and Summer are having a falling out.” “Why don’t you head downstairs and grab coffee for the team? I forwarded the department’s order list to your phone.” I let out a soft, dry laugh. “Sure.” The moment the elevator doors closed, I let the tears fall freely. During my first year at the company, I was treated like an glorified intern. My daily routine consisted of copying files, fetching lunch orders, and running down the street for coffee. When Christian found out back then, he had marched straight into my manager’s office, furious. “Caroline’s title is Project Specialist. She was hired to do actual work, not to be your personal courier.” I walked to the coffee shop on the corner under the glaring midday sun, carrying back three cardboard trays loaded with drinks. The receptionist helped me carry some of the cups into the breakroom, leaning in with a curious whisper. “Hey, Caroline, are Christian and Summer dating? They look so perfect together. Total power couple vibes.” I shook my head slowly. “I don’t know.” Her eyes widened in surprise. “Really? But the three of you are always together.” Christian and I had been together for seven years, yet at work, I existed like a shadow kept in the dark. Even when he had defended me years ago, he had never publicly acknowledged our relationship. In contrast, the rumors about him and Summer over the past two years had become common knowledge. I carried the tray of coffees back to the conference room, stopping when I saw the door was cracked open. Through the glass, I could see Summer playfully hitting Christian’s shoulder. Christian caught her by the wrist, laughing as their coworkers watched with knowing, teasing smiles. The moment I stepped inside, Christian let go of her wrist, though the warmth in his eyes remained. “Caroline, great news! Summer’s proposal was approved unanimously! Her promotion is basically a done deal now!” I didn’t say a word, placing the coffee cups in front of everyone one by one. When I handed Summer hers, her hand slipped halfway through the transfer. The cup tipped, and scalding hot coffee poured directly over the back of my hand. The skin turned a violent, angry red instantly, a fierce burning sensation ripping through my nerves. I gasped, flinching back from the pain. Christian’s face paled. He grabbed my wrist to look at the burn, his brows furrowing deeply. But before he could speak, Summer’s eyes welled with tears, her lower lip trembling. “I’m so sorry, Caroline. I didn’t mean to. I just… I haven’t been sleeping well lately, and I got so dizzy for a second.” Hearing that, the worry in Christian’s eyes shifted entirely to her. He still held my hand, but his words were directed at comforting Summer. “It’s okay, don’t blame yourself.” “Caroline is tough. She’ll be fine.” The raw, stinging heat on my skin was nothing compared to the cold ache settling deep in my chest. I pulled my hand out of his grip with a sharp tug, taking two steps back. “I’m going to take some sick leave and go to the clinic.” Christian started to say he would come with me, but Summer gently intervened. “Christian, you have that budget meeting this afternoon. You can’t miss it.” “How about I accompany Caroline instead?” I shook my head, walking past them. “No need.” I took a taxi to the hospital alone. The doctor was clinical and thorough, popping the blisters and disinfecting the raw skin. The pain made my vision blur. “This is a deep second-degree burn,” the doctor warned, wrapping my hand in sterile gauze. “If you don’t take care of it, it will scar. Keep it dry and away from water for the next few days.” As I sat in the waiting room, my phone vibrated with a social media notification. Summer had just posted an update. It was a photo of a limited-edition designer handbag sitting on her desk. The caption read: Thank you to a very special someone for the promotion gift! Absolutely obsessed! I had pointed out that exact bag to Christian months ago in a boutique window. He had told me it was a worldwide waiting list and completely impossible to get. It wasn’t impossible. I just wasn’t the person he wanted to buy it for. A few minutes later, a notification popped up on my phone. Christian had sent me five thousand dollars via Zelle, followed by a text: Don’t be mad, sweetie. Today was my fault. Use this to buy yourself a nice bag, and wait for me to get home tonight. I looked at the message, a self-deprecating laugh slipping from my lips, and hit ‘Decline Payment.’ Just then, an email from my university professor popped up in my inbox, confirming my selection. I typed out a quick reply: I accept the relocation to the Munich project team. Ready for the one-year closed-door assignment. The apartment was quiet when Christian came home. He sat beside me on the sofa, gently holding my bandaged hand, silent for a long time. His eyes grew red as he stared at the white gauze. “I’m so sorry, Caroline. I didn’t think it was this bad.” “I really didn’t mean for this to happen. I just thought…” I watched him, offering no reaction. “Things have been so crazy at the office lately, and the Vice President position is finally opening up. The pressure is eating me alive.” He squeezed my fingers gently. “Once I secure the promotion, we’ll get married. I promise.” I looked at his face, and for a fleeting second, the man before me overlapped with the eighteen-year-old boy who had stood beneath the podium at the State Chemistry Olympiad. Back then, we were fierce rivals. Our names always sat side-by-side at the top of the leaderboard, trading first and second place back and forth. We challenged each other, argued until we were blue in the face, and eventually became inseparable partners. Summer had despised him back then. “Caroline, why do you hang out with him? He’s so hyper-competitive. All he cares about is being number one.” Knowing how much her opinion mattered to me, Christian had organized a grand, public confession in front of the entire school to win my heart—and eventually, Summer’s approval. At eighteen, Christian’s love was fierce, bright, and loud. He was willing to stand against the world for me, his devotion burning like the summer sun. But somewhere along the way, he and Summer had grown closer, and I had been pushed to the cold periphery of my own life. I gently pulled my hand out of his grasp. “Christian, do you remember what you told me when we were eighteen?” “You said if you ever stopped loving me, you would tell me directly.” His body went rigid. He pulled me into a tight, desperate embrace, resting his chin on the top of my head. “Don’t talk like that, Caroline.” “Summer and I are just colleagues. She’s new, and she’s struggling with the learning curve, so I’m helping her out. The only reason we even hang out outside of work is because of you. You’re our bridge. We would never cross the line.” The words felt like ice, freezing the last bit of warmth left in my chest. The atmosphere at the office the next morning was tense. One of my junior team members had formally reported Summer to HR for plagiarizing my proposal. The entire department sat in a suffocating silence as the HR director reviewed the files. My colleagues kept glancing at me, their eyes filled with quiet, protective support. Summer’s face was completely drained of color. But Christian stood up without a single trace of hesitation. “Caroline copied Summer’s files out of curiosity a few days ago. That’s why the draft was found on her local drive.” “They’ve already resolved this privately. There was no plagiarism.” The room remained dead silent. Every eye turned to me. Christian stepped closer to my chair, keeping his voice incredibly low, meant only for my ears. “Caroline, just take the hit on this one. If you do, we’ll get married next month. I’ll make it up to you.” I looked at him, the corners of my lips lifting into a faint, empty smile. I grabbed a blank sheet of paper from my notebook, grabbed a pen, and wrote three words in bold letters: Letter of Resignation. “Mr. Director,” I said, sliding the paper across the desk. “I’m resigning. I’m done.” The room froze. A few people cleared their throats nervously, while others began quietly gathering their files, slipping out of the room in small groups. Summer walked over to me, her eyes red and swimming with tears. “Caroline, I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to ruin things for you.” The tears spilled down her cheeks, a picture-perfect display of vulnerability. I simply smiled. Fifteen years of friendship, ending in a farce. Christian rubbed his temples, his voice heavy with exhaustion. “Caroline, there’s absolutely no need to resign over a misunderstanding.” I pushed the letter closer to him. “I’m not throwing a tantrum. I’ll complete my hand-off over the next two days.” “I’m tired of being here. I need a change of scenery.” He frowned, studying my face for a long moment before letting out a long sigh. “Fine. Take some time off. I’ll book you a trip to Iceland. Go clear your head.” I went back to my desk without a word and started packing my things into a cardboard box. The only thing I left behind was the framed photo at the corner of my desk—a picture of the three of us laughing on our college graduation day. A chime sounded from my phone. It was an email confirmation for the Iceland tour Christian had booked. I deleted it without reading. By the time I dragged my suitcase out of the apartment we had shared for three years, he still hadn’t come home. Sitting in the bustling departure terminal of the airport, my phone began to ring. It was Christian. I hesitated, wondering how I would explain why I wasn’t on a flight to Reykjavik. Ultimately, I decided to give our five years together a clean, dignified ending. The moment I pressed accept, his frustrated voice came through the line. “Caroline, that plagiarism accusation still managed to freeze Summer’s promotion.” “Can you write a formal statement? Just say you accidentally copied her files. It doesn’t have to be complicated.” I said nothing. He paused, then continued, his tone softening. “It’s just a little bit of office gossip, Caroline. Once I get the Vice President position, I’ll bring you back and promote you myself. No one will dare say a word to you then.” “And once you’re Vice President,” I asked quietly, “what roles do Summer and I get?” There was a brief silence on the other end. “Summer will get the Manager position. And you…” He lowered his voice, adopting a soothing, placating tone. “A Director role. That’s a huge step up.” I couldn’t even remember when it had started—this unspoken rule that the best things in life always had to be saved for Summer. When we shared a watermelon, the sweet center had to go to Summer. And now, the higher career path belonged to her too. I didn’t wait for him to finish his empty promises. I hung up the phone and immediately blocked both his number and Summer’s. As the boarding announcement echoed through the terminal, my phone lit up with a message from an old contact—our wedding planner. Caroline! Congratulations! Christian contacted us today to finalize the venue deposit and lock in the vintage estate package you loved… A dull, familiar ache throbbed in my chest. The dream wedding I had wanted for years had turned into nothing more than leverage to force me into taking the fall for plagiarism. I typed out a quick reply: Please cancel the booking. The wedding is off. I won’t be marrying him. I picked up my carry-on, joined the queue of passengers, and boarded the flight to Germany. Our messy, crowded story ended right there.

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At the wedding photo shoot, a server brought over a tray of drinks. Ryan Mitch naturally took the iced Americano from Aubrey Adams’s hand, replacing it with a warm herbal tea. Aubrey glared at him. “Ryan Mitch, what is this? It’s scorching hot, and you’re giving me this?” He chuckled, pinching her cheek. “Your period’s due soon. Didn’t you keep track?” They bickered and playfully shoved each other in the studio, a chaotic tangle. The photographer shouted “Groom, look at the camera!” for the third time, but Ryan was crouched on the floor, re-tying Aubrey’s shoelace which had come undone. Aubrey yelled over to me, “Aubrey, look at him! He has to manage even my shoes! Is your boyfriend secretly crushing on me?” Ryan chimed in without looking up, “Yeah, crushing on the silly way you cried when I beat you up as a kid.” This was the sixty-seventh time. Suddenly, I found it utterly meaningless. I pulled out my phone and sent a text: “Derek, I want to go home.” … “You, playing on your phone, don’t ruin the mood. Go wait over there.” The photographer impatiently lowered his camera, clearly annoyed that I was obstructing his artistic vision. Ryan’s brow furrowed with a flicker of displeasure. “Aubrey, come on, babe. Let me get a few shots with Autumn first, then we’ll take yours.” He pulled me aside. His grip was firm, and burdened by the heavy wedding gown, I nearly stumbled, bumping into the makeup artist behind me. The makeup artist, a perceptive woman, let her gaze sweep over the three of us. When her eyes settled on me again, they held an unspoken understanding. That look felt like it could burn through me. I instantly flushed with shame, awkwardly looking away. “Mind if I borrow this? These roses will match Autumn’s dress perfectly.” Ryan suddenly plucked the bouquet from my hands. But I was the bride. I was the star of today’s wedding photoshoot. I’d waited six months for this specific studio slot, choosing my favorite natural outdoor style. But Autumn had insisted on coming along to “help me choose,” claiming it was too plain. So, on the spot, she’d convinced us to switch to her preferred vintage oil painting style. Looking at the new set, Ryan nodded in satisfaction. “Autumn and I haven’t really had a proper photoshoot together. This is a great chance to get a few shots.” Autumn tilted her head, giggling. “Aubrey, I’m totally riding your coattails! Don’t worry, I’ll be your most loyal bridesmaid.” Ryan personally picked out a gown for her—one with a fuller skirt and more intricate detailing. The studio was filled with the constant click-click of the camera. “Yes, exactly, groom’s arm around her waist.” “Perfect, get closer, groom, kiss the bride’s forehead.” The photographer directed them, snapping photos. “Don’t be shy, groom, kiss the bride directly on the lips.” Autumn burst out laughing. “Hahahaha, I’m not his bride! I wouldn’t have him. I’m going to be his dad!” “You little brat, you want a spanking, don’t you?” The photographer rapidly pressed the shutter, capturing their most natural interactions. “Excellent, what a delightful pair! A very lively and playful set of photos.” By the time they finished, darkness had fallen. The studio staff were already packing up. Autumn grabbed my hand, looking anxious. “Oh no, Aubrey hasn’t had her photos yet! If we miss today, we’ll have to wait another six months.” Ryan playfully tapped her on the head, mimicking her tone. “Oh no? Tough luck!” “Stop joking, I’m genuinely worried.” Autumn pouted, cheeks puffed out. “It’s fine. We already took plenty. We can just Photoshop your face onto Aubrey’s. Besides, I don’t even want to be in a picture with you.” “You—!” Autumn actually considered his suggestion, then her gaze drifted to my belly. “That’s not a bad idea. Aubrey’s pregnant; her figure’s bound to be a bit different.” She turned back to me, her voice softening. “Aubrey, honey, I’m so sorry I stole your thunder today. But don’t worry, on your wedding day, I promise to show up with greasy hair and no makeup. I’ll be the perfect background!” Silently, I pulled my arm from her tight grasp. I said calmly, “There won’t be a next time.” Autumn quickly nodded, agreeing. But they misunderstood. I meant, there wouldn’t be a next wedding. After checking out, Ryan, as he had countless times before, slung Autumn’s bag over his shoulder. A Patrick Star keychain hung from it – a prize we’d won from a crane game when the three of us went out last time. I’d spotted it immediately and gone through hell to win it. But Ryan had said, “Today is Autumn’s and my ten-year-and-one-day anniversary. Let her have it.” The keychain, still warm from my touch, was snatched away. In the two years we’d been together, he always found countless excuses for me to yield. Before, I hadn’t seen it, even appreciating their deep friendship. But now, I no longer wanted to play along. When we reached the car, I reached for the passenger door. But Autumn, like an eel, slipped in first. The backseat was already crammed with the two newly purchased wedding gowns and various accessories. Ryan fastened her seatbelt, saying, “Autumn’s on her period; she’s exhausted after shooting all day. I’ll drop her off first.” He glanced at me. “You can take a taxi, or grab a rental scooter to get home.” A wave of injustice surged through me, and I blurted out, “I’m pregnant, too.” Ryan froze, then slammed the car door shut with a sharp thud. His face darkened. “The baby isn’t even born, and you’re using him to manipulate me?” He scoffed. “Is being pregnant some rare miracle? Even roaches get pregnant. Don’t flatter yourself.” I gaped, unable to believe those words came from his mouth. He left me with a terse “Go reflect on yourself,” and sped off, exhaust fumes spitting in my face. Tears streamed down, whether from the fumes or the sheer anger, I couldn’t tell. I clutched my stomach. “Baby, see? Don’t come. Get a do-over, choose a dad who actually loves you.” The photo studio was in the suburbs. I couldn’t hail a cab, and even the shared bikes on the roadside were broken. It was completely dark now, and animal cries echoed from the roadside woods, where some neglected graves lay hidden. I fought down my fear, forcing myself to walk, but I was wearing the high heels from the photoshoot. Blisters on my feet burst, blood tracing winding paths onto the ground. Just as despair threatened to swallow me whole, blinding headlights flashed in the distance. A car roared closer. “Aubrey Adams.” I heard my name called and looked up. Ryan’s stern face filled the car window. “Just this once.” “Huh?” “We were almost home, but Autumn was worried about you and insisted we come back to get you. Get your act together, you won’t always be so lucky.” His tone dripped with condescension. Autumn playfully tugged Ryan’s ear, warning him, “Ryan, you jerk, don’t you dare be mean to Aubrey! If you scare her away, who’s going to be your wife?” Ryan chuckled, teasing, “Then you can be my wife.” “Pffft! No way, don’t even think about it! Even if you were the last man on Earth, I wouldn’t want you, humph.” The two of them continued their playful banter, oblivious. I, however, silently opened the back door and squeezed myself between the wedding gowns. The throbbing in my feet finally subsided. As for them, let them do whatever they wanted; I’d just watch the show. My reflection stared back from the car window. I remembered when I first met Ryan. Back then, his eyes were only for me. He’d shed tears of concern if I cut my hand cooking for him, holding my hand and promising, “Aubrey, I’ll cherish you my whole life. I’ll make sure you have a good life.” He was touched when I helped him get an internal referral to a major tech firm, saying, “I’ll work hard and earn money to give you a good life.” He said it so sincerely, and I believed him. The car pulled into our apartment complex. As I opened the door, Autumn, familiar as always, flopped onto the living room sofa, propping her feet on the coffee table as if she were home. Ryan followed, closing the door, his voice nonchalant. “Autumn lost her key, so she’s staying with us tonight.” I said nothing, walking directly to the master bedroom, wanting to change into my loungewear. But the door suddenly swung open. Ryan walked in, pulling Autumn behind him. My hands reflexively went to my chest; my bra was halfway unhooked. The scene made my scalp tingle with mortification. “Hehe, Aubrey, why are you shy? What you have, I have too!” Autumn giggled, tilting her head. Ryan also chuckled. “Once you’re changed, come out.” My head was full of question marks. “Go where?” “You’re sleeping in the guest room tonight. Autumn’s lucky direction today is south, and our guest bed is the only one facing south.” Autumn clasped her hands together, bowing to me. “Aubrey, please, please! Don’t worry, Ryan and I won’t do anything, promise! If there were anything between us, you wouldn’t even be in the picture. We’re just pure, platonic buddies.” A bitter ache swelled in my chest, but I quickly suppressed it. Forget it. I didn’t want this man anymore, anyway. He could do whatever he liked. The guest bed was hard, and the blankets smelled faintly of mothballs, but I was so exhausted that I fell asleep the moment my head hit the pillow. In the middle of the night, I was suddenly jolted awake by the sound of muffled moans and heavy breathing. I got up and walked to the hallway; the master bedroom door was ajar. Under the soft, yellow nightlight, Autumn sat wearing Ryan’s shirt, one shoulder bared. Ryan was shirtless, and they sat facing each other. “Call me ‘Husband.’” “Get lost! No way I’m calling you that!” Ryan reached out and tickled Autumn. She couldn’t take it anymore and quickly begged, “Husband~” “Who’s in your heart?” “Husband…” “So soft and sweet, I want to give you my life.” My stomach churned with nausea. Unable to hold it in, I threw up. “Aubrey? Why are you awake in the middle of the night, eavesdropping?” Rage surged through me, and I couldn’t hold back anymore. “If you two like to cheat, just lock yourselves away together! Don’t come out and ruin other people’s lives! You shouldn’t have bothered me in the first place!” “Why are you saying such awful things? Who’s cheating? Autumn and I are just playing a game.” Ryan walked towards me barefoot. Autumn, looking flustered, also got up. The hem of Ryan’s shirt barely covered her thighs, and the wide neckline revealed an intimate red mark on her neck. “Aubrey, it’s not what you think! It’s not dirty! Aren’t you two getting married? Ryan thought ‘wife’ sounded awkward, so he was practicing on me.” Practicing? How could they even say that? While I was stunned, Ryan leaned in and gave me a comforting kiss on the lips. “Stop making a fuss, Aubrey.” The sticky sensation and familiar peach scent made my nausea worse. That lip balm was a gift I’d given Autumn last week. Now it was on Ryan’s lips. Everything became painfully clear. Autumn also tried to reach for my hand. I recoiled, disgusted, quickly shaking her off. Autumn suddenly cried out, “Ouch!” Her lower back hit the nightstand with a dull thud. “Autumn!” Ryan rushed to her, and when he turned back to me, his eyes had completely changed. “What are you doing?! Autumn privately told me you didn’t like her, but I didn’t believe it. Now you’re laying hands on her right in front of me?” I almost laughed from sheer indignation. “You two are the shameless ones! He’s cheating before the wedding, and she’s knowingly playing the other woman! You two deserve each other – a scumbag and a hussy!” My words were harsh. Their faces visibly flushed with anger. But then they exchanged a look and suddenly laughed. A chilling, unsettling laugh. Ryan slowly pulled a small red booklet from the nightstand drawer. His voice was light and natural. “Aubrey, actually, you’re the real mistress.” He held up the booklet. “See? It’s got the official seal. Autumn is my wife.” I froze, staring at the marriage certificate in disbelief. The date was from last month. Autumn quickly scrambled up, explaining, “Aubrey, don’t misunderstand! It was really just a misunderstanding! It’s all because this jerk lost a bet with me, so he used my ID to register, and who knew the civil affairs office would process it so fast…” She quickly added, “Divorce requires a one-month cooling-off period. It’ll be back to normal next month, really.” Autumn stuck out her tongue sheepishly. So, this was why Ryan kept delaying our marriage. I had brought it up eight times, and each time, Ryan had an excuse. Either he forgot his ID, or his household registration was back in his hometown. The last time, he said the current month wasn’t auspicious and we should pick a date next month. And I had actually believed him. “You two are disgusting.” My voice was a low growl. “Ryan Mitch, since you two are married, then you and I have nothing to do with each other anymore. We’re officially breaking up!” Ryan froze for two seconds, then burst out laughing. “What kind of temper tantrum is that? You’ve dated me for three years, lost one baby, and you’re carrying another. If you leave me, what man out there would want you?” I stared at him, suddenly realizing how utterly rotten this man was. “Don’t worry, this baby will be gone soon too.” His laughter instantly froze. “You wouldn’t dare! That’s my flesh and blood!” I had already pulled open the master bedroom door and walked out. I found the nearest hotel and checked in. Thankfully, my brother answered my call and said he would pick me up tomorrow. The next day, I went to the office to hand in my resignation. Finally, I was going to say goodbye to all these rotten people and rotten things. My mood was unusually light. My boss, Mr. Davies, seeing my cheerfulness, asked, “Getting married? So happy?” “No, not getting married. That’s why I’m happy.” Mr. Davies’s smile faltered. He lowered his head, scanned my resignation letter, and his expression turned serious. “What’s wrong? You’re doing so well; I was even planning to promote you to project manager for this new product launch. We have an important event coming up later, and the CEO of Starlight Corporation will be there. I was going to have you join to gain some experience and exposure.” I didn’t say anything. The CEO of Starlight Corporation was my older brother, Derek, a fact no one in the company knew. I had always written “parents deceased” on my resume to avoid trouble. Seeing my resolute attitude, Mr. Davies sighed. “Alright, I’ll approve your resignation. But you still need to attend the launch event later, just to finish your last shift properly.” I nodded. As soon as I returned to my desk, Ryan burst in. “Aubrey, it’s Autumn’s first time at such a big event. Can you help her with her dress and keep her company?” The venue was already quite full. Autumn wore a champagne-colored evening gown, and when she saw me enter, a small smirk touched her lips. Someone nearby whispered, “That’s her, right? I heard she got dumped, and she’s lost two babies.” “Serves her right. Got used by a man, still clinging on. Who told her to be so careless?” “Shhh, keep your voice down…” Autumn walked over to me, lowering her voice. “Aubrey, just behave yourself today. There are important clients here; don’t make a scene.” I shook off her hand and turned to leave. She suddenly took a step forward, and her dress snagged on the corner of a table. Rip! The champagne satin split into a long tear. “Aubrey Adams!” Autumn shrieked, bursting into tears on the spot. “You did that on purpose! You ruined my dress! You just want to humiliate me!” She wailed, “How am I supposed to handle such an important event now?!” Everyone turned to look. Seeing the scene, Ryan, without asking any questions, raised his hand and slapped me hard across the face. Smack! The sound was sharp and loud. “I warned you once already! This is on you!” he snarled. “Cut out your little games; this isn’t the place for your drama!” I was sent sprawling to the ground, my cheek burning, my ears ringing. The next second, a sudden, sharp pain tore through my lower abdomen, and a warm gush of liquid flowed between my legs. It was a sign of bleeding. My voice trembled. “It hurts so much. Please help me, I’m losing the baby…” A flicker of panic crossed Ryan’s eyes, and he instinctively leaned down to help me up. But Autumn shrieked, “She’s faking! She’s totally faking! She’s probably just on her period, putting on a show! She had enough strength to push me just now!” Ryan, predictably, stopped, a look of disgust on his face. Cold sweat broke out all over me from the pain. My vision blurred, and I felt on the verge of passing out. Autumn’s hangers-on started clamoring. “Still faking it! Come on, everyone, strip this bitch naked and see how she’s lying!” “Yeah! An eye for an eye!” “Ugh, I hate people who play dirty tricks like this! She’s definitely jealous that Autumn gets to host this event.” I felt like I was dying from the pain, my vision going black in waves. Just then, Mr. Davies’s voice boomed from behind the crowd. “What is all this commotion?! The launch event is about to begin!” Everyone turned. Mr. Davies’s secretary jogged over, her voice tight with panic. “Mr. Davies, the CEO of Starlight Corporation has arrived. But he said he’s here to find his sister.”

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Ever since they took my right leg, winter has felt like a physical enemy. The cold settles directly into my bone, a dull, aching reminder of what I lost. Because of this, every winter Adam would clear his schedule completely, turning down every board meeting and corporate retreat just to take me to a tropical island where the warmth could soothe my body. On the nights when the phantom limb pain grew so intense that I shook violently under the sheets, he would kneel by the bedside until dawn, pressing his lips to my jagged, ugly scar over and over, whispering promises that I was safe. Everyone in our social circle raved about how devoted Adam was, how incredibly loyal he remained to a woman who was no longer whole. And for a long time, I considered myself lucky. I had lost a leg, but in return, I had found a love that was absolute and tender. After all, three years ago, it was his childhood sweetheart who had snatched away my rescue rope on that freezing, snow-covered mountain in the Swiss Alps, leaving me to fall and ultimately forcing the surgeons to saw off my leg. Adam had held me and wept for a whole night in that sterile hospital room. The very next day, he cut off all credit lines to her family’s business, ruthlessly driving them into bankruptcy. After that, no one in New York’s high society dared to cross me. Until our fifth annual winter getaway. I woke up in the middle of the night, startled by a sudden, violent thunderstorm, and reached out only to find his side of the bed cold and empty. Propping myself up on my crutches, I quietly made my way out of our master suite. Through the crack of the half-open door of the adjacent guest room, I saw her—Scarlett. The girl who was supposed to be ruined and living on the streets. Adam was holding her close to his chest, stroking her hair with a tenderness that made my stomach turn. “Don’t be scared,” he murmured softly. “It’s just a little thunder.” Scarlett pouted, hitting his chest playfully. “You spend every single day with that pathetic cripple. I’m sick of hiding in the shadows!” Adam leaned down, gently kissing the tears from her cheeks. “Be good, sweetheart. Just bear with it a little longer. I’m staying with you tonight.” … Scarlett snuggled deeper into Adam’s chest, her manicured fingers toying with the buttons of his silk pajama shirt. Her voice was dripping with disgust. “Doesn’t it make you sick? Going to her room every single night just to kiss that ugly, severed stump?” Outside, the torrential rain lashed against the floor-to-ceiling windows, the deafening roar drowning out the sound of my ragged breathing. I should have turned around. I should have walked away. But my remaining foot felt as though it had been nailed to the floorboards. Adam let out a soft, low chuckle. “Charlotte is like a piece of shattered porcelain right now,” he said, his voice entirely devoid of the warmth he usually reserved for me. “If I don’t handle her with kid gloves, how else am I supposed to keep her quiet and compliant in that wheelchair?” Scarlett pouted. “But how much longer do you have to keep up this act?” “The Kingsley Foundation is going public next month. She’s our golden poster girl; we can’t afford a scandal before the IPO.” “But you’re dosing her with such heavy sedatives every single day. What if you kill her?” Adam’s voice remained cold and detached. “The doctor said it won’t kill her. It just ensures she sleeps soundly and stays out of the way.” I bit down hard on the back of my hand, my teeth sinking deep into my flesh. The metallic taste of blood quickly filled my mouth, but I didn’t let a single sound escape. Vitamins. That’s what he had called them. Two little white pills every night to “boost my immunity.” He had looked at me with such gentle eyes, cupping my cheek like I was a fragile child. “Be a good girl, Charlotte. Take these, and the pain will go away.” Three years ago, when I first woke up from the amputation surgery and saw the horrifying emptiness beneath my hospital gown, I had lost my mind. I threw tantrums, screaming, shattering every piece of medical equipment and glass within my reach. When Adam pushed the door open, I was holding a heavy ceramic lamp, ready to hurl it against the wall. Without a second thought, he fell to his knees right onto the sea of jagged glass. Blood immediately seeped through his trousers, dyeing his knees crimson, yet he seemed completely oblivious to the pain. He pulled me down into a fierce, desperate embrace, kissing my forehead over and over, his voice cracking. “Charlotte, from now on, I will be your right leg. I will never let you suffer again.” I had cried until my body went limp, collapsing into his arms, believing with every fiber of my being that no matter what storms lay ahead, this man would protect me. How pathetic. A wave of violent nausea surged up from my stomach. I slowly released my hand from my mouth, leaving a deep, purple ring of bruised teeth marks on my skin. Inside the room, Scarlett’s whiny voice drifted out again. “Then don’t leave tonight. She took her pills; she won’t wake up anyway.” Adam didn’t answer, but the rustle of sheets and Scarlett’s low, satisfied giggles spoke volumes. Outside, another clap of thunder shook the villa. I summoned every ounce of strength to steady the crutches under my arms, dragging my remaining leg as I retreated silently back into the pitch-black master bedroom. That night, I stared blankly at the ceiling, my eyes wide open. I listened to the muffled, agonizing sounds drifting from the next room until the first light of dawn broke through the clouds. In the morning, the storm still raged outside. The bedroom door clicked open quietly, and Adam walked in carrying a glass of warm water, his eyes filled with that same tender devotion I had trusted for years. “Morning, Charlotte. Are you awake?” He walked over, gently helping me sit up and placing a plush pillow behind my back. Then, he tapped two white pills from a bottle and held them out to my lips. “It rained hard last night. Your leg must be aching. Take your vitamins, sweetheart.” I stared at the two pills, motionless. A look of deep concern softened Adam’s features. “Come on, be good. The specialist prescribed these new vitamins specifically to help with the joint pain. You’ll feel much better once you take them.” I didn’t refuse. I opened my mouth, let him place the pills under my tongue, and took a sip of the water he held to my lips. “Good girl,” he murmured, smiling as he ran a hand through my hair. He turned around to pull open the heavy blackout curtains. The split second his back was turned, I tilted my head and spat the partially dissolved pills into my palm, curling my fingers into a tight fist. He paused halfway through drawing the curtains, as if sensing a shift in the air. “Charlotte? You’re unusually quiet today.” Adam turned around, his sharp gaze locking onto my face. Before I could react, he stepped forward, cupping his hand under my chin and forcing my face up. “Did you swallow them?” His eyes drilled into my lips. “Open up. Let me see.” My heart skipped a violent beat. Forcing my facial muscles to relax, I obediently opened my mouth, showing him a completely empty tongue. Adam stared intensely for two agonizing seconds before the suspicion in his eyes melted away. He let go of my chin, his thumb brushing my cheek with practiced affection. “Rest a little more. I’ll bring you some breakfast.” The moment the door clicked shut, I unfurled my sweaty palm. The chemical pills had already begun to turn chalky and melt against my skin. I popped open the small locket hanging around my neck, scraped the damp residue inside, and snapped it shut. When the storm finally cleared, the island was bathed in brilliant sunshine. Adam insisted the weather was too beautiful to waste and wheeled me down to the beach for some fresh air. The salty breeze whipped across my face, and as I watched the waves crash against the shore, my chest felt like a barren, frozen wasteland. “Thirsty? Let me grab you some fresh juice,” Adam said, positioning my wheelchair under the shade of a large umbrella before walking off toward the beachside bar. A few minutes later, a server in a crisp hotel uniform approached with a silver tray. She placed a tall glass on the small table next to me. “Your juice, Miss Kingsley.” At the sound of her voice, my entire body froze. I looked up. Scarlett was staring down at me, a smug, venomous smile playing on her lips. Adam, walking back from the bar, caught sight of her and his expression instantly darkened. He stormed over, stepping between us to shield me, and hissed in a low, furious whisper, “Who allowed you out here?” “What is she doing here?” I asked, my voice flat and icy. Scarlett’s reaction was seamless. Instantly, her eyes welled up with tears, sobbing softly. “Charlotte, please, I beg of you, just let me go!” She wept so pitifully that nearby resort guests began turning their heads to whisper. “Because of one word from you three years ago, my family lost everything! I’ve been stuck on this island scrubbing floors and serving tables just to survive. I know I made a mistake, but why won’t you let me live?” Every word was perfectly engineered to paint me as a cruel, vindictive heiress driving a poor, repentant girl to ruin. My body began to shake violently—a trauma response I couldn’t control. Adam noticed immediately. He dropped to one knee in front of my wheelchair, placing a comforting hand on my lap with just the right amount of pressure, exactly as he had done a thousand times over the last five years. “Charlotte,” he murmured quietly. “Take a deep breath. It’s okay. I’m right here.” I couldn’t speak. I could only stare at Scarlett. In my mind, the pristine beach dissolved, replaced by the howling winds of the Swiss Alps three years ago. The blizzard had been blinding. I was dangling over a precipice, my fingers turning blue as I desperately clawed at a slippery rock. Scarlett was standing right above me. She had looked down at me with a cold, malicious grin. Then, she raised her heavy snow boot and slammed it onto my frozen fingers. “Go to hell, Charlotte Kingsley.” For years, I had woken up in a cold sweat, haunted by that cruel sneer. Every time, Adam would pull me against his chest, kissing my hair, whispering, “It’s over, my love. It’s in the past. She paid for what she did.” So this was the price she paid. He had hidden her right under his nose, keeping her pampered and protected. A sudden, hot fury surged through my veins. I violently pushed Adam aside, forced myself up on my one good leg, and swung my arm, slapping Scarlett across the face with everything I had. The force of the blow snapped her head to the side. A trickle of blood appeared at the corner of her lip as she stared at me in absolute shock. The entire beach area fell dead silent. The fake tenderness in Adam’s eyes vanished in an instant. He stepped forward, pushing me back down into the wheelchair with a heavy hand, his brow furrowed in deep annoyance. “Have you lost your mind?” I looked up at him, my voice trembling. “I’m the one making a scene?” Adam let out a long sigh, his face a mask of disappointment. “She has suffered enough, Charlotte. She paid her dues. Look at yourself—bitter, cruel, vindictive. Don’t let your hatred turn you into an ugly, unrecognizable monster.” I stared at his handsome, hypocritical face. Three years ago, he swore on his life that he would make Scarlett suffer. Today, he was lecturing me for being monstrous. I didn’t argue. I silently brushed his hand off my shoulder, grabbed the wheels, and spun my chair around, pushing myself back toward the resort. Behind me, Scarlett’s whimpering voice carried over the sound of the ocean. “Adam, it hurts so bad…” followed by his quiet, soothing reply: “I know, baby. Let’s get you some ice.” I didn’t look back. I only felt that the warm tropical sun had never felt so freezing. By nightfall, a severe hurricane made landfall on the island. Howling winds slammed the rain against the glass panes, cutting off all ferry services and internet connection to the mainland. At two in the morning, I rolled off the bed, crashing hard onto the floor. Without the heavy sedatives in my system, a brutal wave of withdrawal symptoms coupled with phantom limb pain hit me all at once. The phantom stump of my right leg throbbed with a burning, white-hot agony that left me trembling. Cold sweat soaked through my silk nightgown. Desperate for a drink of water to soothe my parched throat, I reached for the glass pitcher on the nightstand, but my hands were shaking so violently that I knocked it to the floor. It shattered into a thousand pieces. Jagged shards sliced deep into my palms as I tried to crawl, blood pooling on the polished hardwood floor. Right then, the door swung open. Adam and Scarlett stood side-by-side in the doorway. They were wearing matching silk pajamas, their coordinated outfits looking like a cruel mockery in the dim light of the stormy night. Scarlett’s eyes lit up when she saw the bloody mess. She quickly hurried over, putting on a show. “Oh my goodness, Charlotte! What happened? Let me help you up!” She knelt down beside me, her voice dripping with mock concern. Seeing this, Adam turned and went back to the living room to find the first-aid kit. The absolute second his back was turned, the mask slipped. Scarlett reached out and grabbed the sensitive, scarred stump of my right leg, driving her sharp acrylic nails deep into the tender flesh. “You were so tough this afternoon, weren’t you?” she whispered in my ear, her voice venomous. “Look at you now, groveling on the floor. You’re nothing but a pathetic, crippled dog.” Pure survival instinct took over. I lashed out, shoving her away with all my remaining strength. “Get off me!” Scarlett let out a dramatic, piercing shriek and threw herself backward, landing directly in the pile of broken glass. Shards sliced into her forearm, and blood began to seep through her sleeve. Clutching her bleeding arm, she looked toward the door with tear-rimmed eyes. “Adam! It hurts so much…” Adam rushed back in with the medical kit. He didn’t even glance in my direction. He immediately dropped down, pulled Scarlett into his arms, and carefully inspected her bleeding arm with frantic worry. Once he was certain her wounds were shallow, he finally whipped his head around to glare at me. “I let it slide this afternoon because I thought you were just overwhelmed,” he spat, his voice trembling with a cold, controlled rage. “But she was trying to help you, and you pull a vicious stunt like this? Charlotte, when is your madness going to end?” Scarlett whimpered, trembling against his chest. “Adam, I’m terrified of her… What if she tries to hurt me again?” Adam’s gaze drifted down, landing coldly on my right leg. He released Scarlett and stepped toward me. “For your own safety—and everyone else’s—you need to calm down,” he said flatly. He reached down toward the harness of my prosthetic leg. My eyes went wide with sheer terror. I clawed at his hands, trying to shield my leg. “Adam! No! What are you doing? Let go of me!” Click. He stripped away my prosthetic leg without a shred of mercy. It was my last piece of dignity, and now he was tearing it away from me. I bit my lip until I tasted blood, my voice hoarse. “As soon as this storm passes, I’m going home.” Adam let out a soft, mocking laugh. “Go home? Charlotte, the accounts for your foundation were frozen yesterday. Tell me, who is left in your family to come and save you? You can’t even make it past that door on your own. Just be good and stay put.” With that, he wrapped an arm around Scarlett and walked out, locking the heavy bedroom door from the outside. Slumped on the floor amidst the bloody shards of glass, I stared at the closed door. After a long, deafening silence, a low laugh escaped my throat. I laughed until tears streamed down my face. I was an only child. When I was ten, feeling desperately lonely, I begged my parents to adopt an older brother for me. To make me happy, they brought home twelve-year-old Adam. He became the cherished eldest son of the Kingsley family, and eventually, the person I leaned on for everything. When my parents died in a tragic car accident and I lost my leg, the senior board members who held power in our family company were systematically ousted by Adam under various pretexts. “Charlotte, they’re greedy vultures trying to take advantage of you,” he had whispered, comforting me. “I’m only doing this to protect your inheritance.” How blind I had been. I couldn’t see the insatiable, predatory ambition hiding behind his protective facade. My family was gone, yes. But so what? I was still alive. And as long as I breathed, there was a way. By the next morning, the hurricane had weakened into a tropical depression. An urgent public relations crisis had apparently broken out at the corporate headquarters in New York, forcing Adam to head to the resort’s business center early to handle it. The lock on my door clicked open, and Scarlett strolled in. She walked over to the nightstand and lazily kicked over the fresh glass of water that had been kept just out of my reach. The water spilled across the floor. “Thirsty?” she sneered, looking down her nose at me. “Why don’t you lick it off the floor like the dog you are?” I didn’t give her the satisfaction of a reaction. I just stared at her, cold and unblinking. Scarlett took a step closer, letting out a sharp laugh. “You still think you’re the high-and-mighty Charlotte Kingsley, don’t you?” “Charlotte… do you still believe I was the one who caused your amputation?” My eyes narrowed, my posture instantly stiffening. Delighted by my sudden shock, her smile grew wider. “I was dangling halfway off that cliff myself. Where on earth would I have found the leverage to kick you off?” She leaned in close, whispering each syllable right into my ear. “It was Adam. He had someone partially cut your backup safety rope before we even started the climb.” My pupils dilated in sheer horror. “What a pathetic little heiress you are.” Scarlett smirked, savoring every second of my silent devastation. “Your parents’ fatal crash, your missing leg—it was all engineered by the loving big brother you trusted so blindly. You practically invited the devil into your home and let him destroy your entire family.” “You’re lying,” I choked out, my voice cracking. No matter how much Adam might have secretly resented me, my parents had given him a life of luxury and loved him as their own son. How could any human being be so cold-blooded? “If you want to drive a wedge between us, at least come up with a believable lie,” I sneered back, trying to steady my racing heart. “Believe what you want.” Scarlett shrugged, standing up and humming a light tune as she turned to leave. She was too blinded by her own smugness. She didn’t notice that during her dramatic display, a spare burner phone had slipped from her pocket. The moment she turned her back, I quietly swept it under the edge of my blanket. Late that night, another downpour began lashing the villa. When Adam opened the door, I was already tucked beneath the sheets. I kept my eyes closed, forcing my trembling body to lie perfectly still, feigning the deep, drug-induced sleep he expected. He walked to the edge of the bed and gently tucked the covers around me. A moment later, he quieted his footsteps and stepped out onto the covered balcony. He left the sliding glass door open just a crack. Through the whistling wind and rain, I could hear him speaking to his assistant on the phone. “I don’t care how much money that bastard in London wants! Keep his mouth shut!” Adam’s voice was stripped of its usual warmth, sounding sharp and venomous. The assistant on the other end must have voiced a concern, because Adam let out a cold, sharp laugh. “Greedy bastard.” “Remind him that he was the one who physically cut Charlotte’s rope on that mountain. I only funded it; his hands did the deed. If this gets out, I have a dozen ways to salvage my reputation. He won’t survive it. Tell him to think very carefully about his next move.” The call ended, leaving nothing but the sound of the storm outside. Inside the dark bedroom, I pressed both hands over my mouth, sobbing soundlessly as tears flooded my face. It was true. Every horrifying word of it. The man who had wept over my hospital bed, the man who swore to be my right leg, was the very monster who had orchestrated my fall. I had spent three years living inside a beautifully constructed lie, playing the grateful, fragile fool. But as the wave of grief washed over me, a strange, crystalline clarity settled in its place. Masked by a loud crack of thunder, I pulled Scarlett’s burner phone from beneath the mattress. My fingers shook violently, but my mind was perfectly steady as I dialed a number from memory. The call connected on the second ring, and a man’s anxious voice filled the receiver. “Charlotte? The island has been off the grid for days—are you okay? Did Adam—” “Gideon,” I interrupted, my voice flat and remarkably calm. “I need you to find the lead rescue officer from the Swiss expedition, a man named Officer Keller. Find him, and get me the forensic report on the cut safety rope.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “542299”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My sister Lynn was a hurricane of a human being. From the moment she could walk, she tore through life leaving wreckage in her wake, and from the moment I was old enough to understand, I was the one who swept up the ash. I did it because of the clock. It was a digital hum beneath the skin of my left wrist, a glowing red countdown that only I could see. [Days remaining until family demise: 193] A voice in my head—a system I believed in with the desperate, naive faith of a child—told me that every time I took the fall for Lynn’s transgressions, the clock would extend. If I took the blame ninety-nine times, the curse would lift forever. My family would live. So, I took the fall. I took it until my high school expelled me. I took it until my friends stopped calling. I took it until the judges in the county courthouse looked at me with the weary, disgusted eyes reserved for hopeless, repeat offenders. For the ninety-ninth time, I took the fall for her and spent two years in a state penitentiary. The day the heavy steel gates slid open and I walked free, the countdown on my wrist finally blinked down to zero. I thought it was worth it. I thought I had bought their lives. But when I finally reached our front door, my hand froze over the brass handle. Through the thin wood, I heard my parents talking inside. “Erica’s coming home today,” my mother sighed. “At least Lynn finally learned her lesson. She’s been so quiet since the trial, too scared to cause any more trouble.” “Yeah,” my father’s voice was dry, dismissive. “It wasn’t easy, but seeing her older sister go behind bars did the trick. She fell right into line. But listen—make sure you delete all the message logs on your phone.” “Of course.” “If she ever finds out that ‘countdown’ was just a little app my nephew Kyle coded over a weekend…” My father scoffed, waving his hand. “Relax. I deactivated the server this morning. The app is dead. She’ll never know.” I stood frozen in the dim hallway, the blood in my veins turning to ice. The grand, holy sacrifice I thought I was making to save my family—it was nothing but a sick, carefully orchestrated lie. In that single, quiet moment, my heart turned to ash. But then, the dead skin on my wrist flared back to life. ——– 1 “Erica? What are you doing, just standing out here?” Lynn threw the heavy door open, chewing a piece of mint gum as she looked me up and down. I looked down at my left wrist. The numbers that had hit zero were back, glowing a vicious, violent red. [Deception shattered. Host selected for dimensional extraction. Time remaining in this world: 72:00:00] I blinked, hoping it was a hallucination. It wasn’t. The clock kept ticking. I wasn’t a savior. I was just a guest with an expiration date. I raised my head to look at Lynn’s flawless, contoured face. There wasn’t a single trace of guilt on it. She didn’t care that I had just given up two years of my youth so she could keep hers. “Just got here,” I said quietly. Inside the living room, my parents—who had been whispering about deleting evidence moments before—instantly plastered wide, welcoming smiles on their faces. My father rubbed his hands together, his eyes darting away from mine. “Erica! You’re back! Why didn’t you knock? How long have you been standing out there?” He was fishing, trying to see if I’d heard. “Just got off the elevator.” I didn’t expose them. What was the point? I only had seventy-two hours left before I could leave this farce behind forever. Hearing my answer, my father’s shoulders visibly sagged with relief. He stepped forward, reaching out to take the faded canvas duffel bag slung over my shoulder. Lynn immediately took a sharp step back, pinching her nose shut. “Ugh, Dad, don’t touch that bag. It smells like the state pen. It’s bad luck.” My father’s hand hovered in the air before he awkwardly pulled it back. “Right… well, Erica, we should probably just throw those old things away. I’ll take it down to the dumpster later.” “My ID and my release papers are in there,” I said, my voice flat. My mother rushed over to smooth things over, pushing me gently into the entryway. “Oh, we’ll just grab those out first! Toss the rest of the clothes, sweetie. I’ll take you shopping tomorrow for a whole new wardrobe.” I stood barefoot on the polished hardwood of the foyer. The shoe rack was overflowing with designer sneakers and expensive heels, but there wasn’t a single pair of slippers for me. “Where are my shoes?” I asked. My mother hesitated, casting a guilty glance at Lynn. Lynn rolled her eyes. “Your old shoes have been sitting there for two years, Erica. They were covered in dust and bacteria. I threw them out last month to make room for my limited-edition platforms. Besides, the floor has underfloor heating. You won’t die walking barefoot for a bit. Why are you acting so high maintenance?” My mother let out a nervous chuckle. “She’s right, Erica, the heat is on. It’s warm. I’ll buy you some new slippers tomorrow.” I didn’t say a word. I just walked barefoot into the living room. The dining table was piled high with food. There were braised short ribs, which used to be my favorite, and garlic butter shrimp, which were Lynn’s. I pulled out a chair to sit down, but Lynn let out a sharp shriek. “Erica, stop! You haven’t even showered yet! You’re so dirty—how can you just sit on the dining chairs? That’s custom upholstery. Do you have any idea how much it costs to clean?” My hand froze on the back of the chair. I looked at my father. In the old days, whenever Lynn threw one of her tantrums, he would at least make a show of scolding her. But today, he just cleared his throat and avoided my eyes. “Erica… your sister is a big social media influencer now, she has hundreds of thousands of followers. She has to keep the apartment looking nice. Just go take a quick shower first. Wash off… you know, the bad luck.” I nodded slowly, pulling my hand back. I turned toward the bathroom. In the bottom corner of my vision, the red numbers pulsed. [71:45:12] When I finished showering and walked out, they were already eating. At my place, there was a single paper plate and a set of cheap, flimsy plastic takeout cutlery. Lynn was using her silver fork to pick at a short rib. “Mom, these ribs are so dry. Gross.” She spat the half-chewed meat back onto her plate. My mother immediately began fussing over her, ladling soup into her bowl. “I’ll watch the heat next time, sweetie. Drink some soup. You work so hard on your livestreams every day, you need to keep your strength up.” I walked over and sat down. I picked up the plastic fork. A sharp plastic burr on the handle dug into my palm, but I didn’t care. I picked up a piece of broccoli and ate it. My father looked at me, a brief flicker of shame passing over his face. “Erica, we ran out of clean plates. And since you just got out, we thought disposable might be safer for your immune system.” “It’s fine,” I said, swallowing the tasteless food. It didn’t matter. I didn’t belong in this house anyway. After dinner, I walked toward my old bedroom. But before my hand could touch the doorknob, Lynn dighted in front of me, blocking the path. “What do you think you’re doing?” she asked, her eyes narrowing. “Going to sleep.” “This isn’t your room anymore,” Lynn sneered, pushing the door open. Inside, the room had been completely transformed into a professional streaming studio. There were pink ring lights, acoustic panels on the walls, and shelves overflowing with high-end cosmetics. My bed, my desk, my childhood journals—everything was gone. “Where is my stuff?” I turned to my mother. My mother rubbed her hands nervously against her apron, stepping forward. “Erica… money was tight while you were… away. Lynn had to start streaming to support us. Her old room was too small, so I let her use yours. Your old things… I sold them. Or threw them out.” Even my journals. Ten years of silent endurance, of taking the fall, of my foolish pride in believing I was saving my family. All of it had been treated as garbage. I nodded. “Where do I sleep, then?” My father pointed to the utility closet at the end of the hall. “I cleaned it out and set up a cot for you. Just for a few nights, Erica. Once things look up, I’ll rent you a nice studio apartment nearby.” I didn’t argue. I dragged my feet to the utility closet. It was packed with cardboard Amazon boxes and Lynn’s discarded trash. The air was thick with the scent of mildew. I lay down on the squeaking, metal cot, staring up at the dark ceiling. The countdown on my wrist glowed like a fresh wound. [70:12:05] Through the thin drywall, I could hear Lynn’s high-pitched, fake-sweet voice starting her livestream. “Hey guys! Welcome back! Today we’re doing a huge giveaway, so make sure you hit that follow button in the top left corner…” I closed my eyes and turned over. Less than three days. Just a little longer, and it would all be over. Suddenly, the closet door was kicked open. Lynn stood there, her phone held high, the camera lens pointed directly at my face. “Look, guys! This is my ex-con sister, fresh out of the state pen today. Let this be a warning to all of you—never end up like her!” 2 The bright flash of her phone camera blinded me. On the screen of Lynn’s phone, the live chat was scrolling at a dizzying speed. Words like “trash,” “disgusting,” and “why is she even in your house” flashed across the display. I instinctively reached for the thin, yellowed blanket to cover my face. But Lynn lunged forward and ripped it away with surprising force. “Oh, don’t hide now! You weren’t this shy when you were committing crimes, were you?” “Guys, you have no idea how embarrassing she is. Two years ago, she stole proprietary data from her own fiancé’s startup and sold it. Got herself two years in the state penitentiary.” I stared at her perfectly contoured face, my stomach turning. When she was thirteen, she had shattered our neighbor’s priceless Victorian Meissen vase. That was the day the countdown first appeared on my wrist. My father, with tears streaming down his face, had begged me to take the blame, telling me the clock meant we would all die unless I paid the debt. I took the beating from the neighbor. When she was eighteen, she was drag-racing without a license and broke a pedestrian’s leg. She had cried and begged me on her knees. I took the fall, losing my Ivy League scholarship in the process. And when she was twenty-two—two years ago—she had stolen the source code from my fiancé Wyatt’s tech startup just so she could buy a limited-edition Birkin on the black market. When Wyatt called the police, the countdown on my wrist showed it was the last time. I truly believed that if I took this final hit, my family would be safe forever. So I stood in that courtroom, looked Wyatt in the eye, and told him I had done it out of jealousy. Wyatt broke our engagement on the spot, looking at me as if I were a parasite. And now, the real thief was broadcasting my “shame” to the world for clout. “Lynn, stop it. Let your sister rest,” my father said, walking into the hallway. But his hand didn’t move to block the camera. He actually took a step back, making sure his face stayed out of the frame. “Dad, shut up! My stream has over a hundred thousand viewers right now!” Lynn’s face was flushed with excitement. She shoved the phone closer to my face. “Come on, Erica, say something to the chat. When you were working the laundry lines in prison, did you ever feel a single shred of remorse for the lives you ruined?” I stared into the lens, silent. My eyes drifted to a gold username hovering at the top of the chat. Top Donor: [Wyatt_W] It was Wyatt’s account. A prominent gold message rolled across the screen. [Ask her if she’s already looking for her next target to leech off of.] Lynn squealed with laughter when she saw it. “Oh my gosh, Wyatt, always straight to the point!” “Hear that, Erica? Wyatt wants to know if you’re already hunting for your next victim. Though looking like a cheap ex-con, I doubt anyone would touch you with a ten-foot pole.” I stared at the familiar username. My heart felt completely flat. “I don’t know any Wyatt. I’m going to sleep.” I turned my back to her. Lynn grabbed my shoulder, trying to yank me back. “Stop acting so high and mighty! Wyatt is my top donor. If he tells you to speak, you speak!” Just then, my mother walked in carrying a plate of sliced fruit. Instead of stopping Lynn, she smiled and popped a grape into Lynn’s mouth. “Have some fruit, sweetie. Don’t strain your voice.” Then she looked at me, her expression hardening into a frown. “Erica, your sister works so hard to keep a roof over our heads. Just cooperate. That gentleman bought her so many gifts; would it kill you to say hello? Did they teach you no manners in prison?” I slowly sat up, my eyes sweeping over their faces. My father’s evasion. My mother’s enabling. Lynn’s malice. [48:21:03] The clock had jumped down again. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll cooperate.” I looked directly into the camera lens, my voice dead calm. “I’m Erica Hale. I just got out of prison. I’m not looking for a target, and I’m not looking to leech off anyone. I only hope that the thief who actually stole the code gets what’s coming to them.” Lynn’s face faltered for a fraction of a second, a flash of panic crossing her eyes. But she quickly recovered, laughing it off. “See, guys? Still unrepentant! A total sociopath!” [Wyatt_W] sent two massive virtual gifts that flashed across the screen. Then, another gold message appeared: [Make her get on her knees and apologize. I’ll send ten more.] Lynn’s eyes practically turned into dollar signs. Ten of those gifts were worth ten thousand dollars. She shoved her phone into its desk stand and marched over to me. “Erica! Get on your knees and apologize to Wyatt! You ruined his life’s work. It’s the least you can do.” My father frowned slightly. “Lynn, she just got home. Making her kneel…” “Dad! That’s ten grand! Do you know how many months I have to stream to make that much? Besides, she’s the one who committed the crime. What’s wrong with a little humility?” My father went silent. He looked at me, a brief flash of guilt drowned by greed. “Erica… just do it. It’s only a knee. You’ve been to prison; this is nothing. Do it for the family.” 3 My mother chimed in, pulling a crumpled envelope from her pocket and shoving it into my hand. “Erica, I know it’s hard. Take this, buy yourself a nice sweater tomorrow. Just do what your father says. We’re relying on your sister now.” I squeezed the envelope. It was thin. Maybe fifty dollars. Fifty dollars for my final shred of dignity. I didn’t cry. The tears had been wrung out of me on the concrete floor of my cell long ago. [24:05:11] Only twenty-four hours left. “Okay,” I said. I pushed my mother’s hand away, stepped in front of the camera, and dropped straight onto the cold tile floor. The underfloor heating wasn’t even on. The cold seeped into my kneecaps, a sharp, biting pain that went straight to my bones. Lynn screamed into her mic. “Wyatt! She’s on her knees! Where are my gifts?” The screen exploded with flashy digital animations, obscuring my pale face. Wyatt requested a voice connection. His voice, which used to whisper sweet things to me, was cold and mocking. “Erica Hale. Look at you, begging like a dog. Pathetic.” “When you destroyed my life’s work, you were so proud. Now you’re crawling on the floor.” I looked at the grout lines on the tile. “I’m sorry,” I said, flatly. “I’m sorry I stole the data. I’m sorry I ruined your hard work.” I took the blame. Just like the ninety-nine times before. Wyatt sounded irritated by my lack of emotion. “You think an apology fixes it? Do you have any idea what that project meant to me? People like you shouldn’t even exist.” Lynn fake-cried next to me. “Wyatt, don’t let her ruin your night. She’s always been cold like this. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure she never bothers you again.” Wyatt hung up. The chat cheered. Lynn checked her streaming dashboard, humming a tune. “Alright, get up. You’re blocking the shot.” She kicked my foot lightly. I used the wall to pull myself up, my knees completely numb. My father tried to reach out to help me, but I flinched away from his hand and limped back to the utility closet. Behind me, my mother sighed. “She’s so bitter. Prison changed her.” “Whatever, we got the money,” my father said, sounding pleased. Late that night, they ordered a massive steak dinner to celebrate Lynn’s earnings. Nobody invited me. I sat on the cot, watching the clock tick down in the moonlight. [12:30:45] Almost there. In the dead of night, I heard rustling. I opened the door. My father was carrying my cheap canvas duffel bag toward the front door. “Dad, what are you doing?” He jumped, dropping the bag. “Erica, you’re awake?” He rubbed his neck. “Lynn has some VIP guests coming tomorrow. She said this bag smells like prison and wanted me to throw it out.” I walked over, zipped open the bag, and took out my ID and release papers. Then I handed him the empty bag. “Throw it away.” My father looked stunned. “Erica… don’t hate me. Your sister is the breadwinner now. We have to keep her happy.” “I don’t hate you,” I said. Why would I hate strangers? Back in the closet, I cleaned up my final traces. There was barely anything to clean; they had already thrown out my childhood. I took the fifty dollars from the envelope and slid it under the thin pillow of the cot. I put my few worn shirts into a plastic grocery bag. As dawn broke, the red numbers pulsed. [03:15:22] I opened the small window to let the fresh air in, clearing the moldy scent. Outside, Lynn was already yelling. “Mom! Where’s my Chanel coat? Why isn’t it steamed yet?” “Coming, sweetie! Don’t scream, you’ll ruin your voice!” I walked out of the closet. 4 In the living room, Lynn was admiring herself in the mirror in her Chanel coat. She saw me with the plastic bag and frowned. “What are you doing with that trash? Don’t get the floors dirty.” I changed into my old sneakers. “Just taking out the trash.” My father popped his head out of the kitchen with a spatula. “Going downstairs, Erica? Take the compost bag with you.” He pointed to a smelly bag of food waste by the door. I picked it up and walked out. The morning air was crisp and damp. I tossed the compost into the bin. Then, I took my plastic bag of old clothes to a secluded corner of the courtyard. I pulled out a cheap plastic lighter—something I had traded for instant noodles in prison. I had originally wanted to burn my prison uniform in front of my parents as a symbol of starting over. Now, I had a better use for it. I emptied the bag. Cheap T-shirts from my youth, tight discount sneakers, hand-me-down sweaters from Lynn. The physical remnants of their “love.” I flicked the lighter. The synthetic fabrics catch fire quickly, black smoke billowing into the cold air. I watched it burn. [00:45:10] Less than an hour. When I got back, the apartment was in chaos. Lynn was screaming at her designer purse on the sofa. “Who touched my bag? There’s a black smudge on it!” She saw me enter. “Was it you? You touched it!” I showed her my clean hands. “I didn’t.” “Who else could it be? You’re the only outsider here! Once a thief, always a thief!” She grabbed my collar. My father tried to intervene. “Lynn, calm down.” “Dad, this is a limited edition! It costs fifteen thousand! She can’t afford this!” My mother looked at me with deep suspicion. “Erica, did you accidentally brush against it? Just apologize and I’ll clean it.” I laughed softly. “Outsider.” Yes, I had always been an outsider. “I didn’t touch it.” I pulled her hand off my collar. “Liar!” Lynn pulled out her phone. “I’m calling the police. Let’s see if they’ll send you right back!” My father tried to stop her. “Don’t, it’ll ruin your reputation.” “I don’t care! She needs to go back to the pen!” She dialed 911. “Yes, I want to report a theft. We have an ex-con in the house, she’s stealing and trying to set fires.” I stood still, watching the clock. [00:10:05] Ten minutes. The police arrived quickly. Two officers looked at the mess. “Who called?” Lynn played the victim, sobbing. “Officers, it’s her. She just got out of prison. She vandalized my bag, and she was burning things downstairs. She’s a threat to society!” The cops look at my parents. “Is this true?” My father avoided their gaze, muttering. My mother sighed. “Officer, my oldest daughter has some… mental issues from her time inside. Please don’t mind her.” They wouldn’t even say a word to defend me. They threw me to the wolves again. The cop asked my name. “Erica Hale.” “Did you burn things downstairs?” “I was clearing out my own trash.” My voice was serene. “I didn’t touch her bag. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I’m just… leaving.” “Leaving? Where to?” I looked at my wrist. Single digits. [00:00:05] I smiled gently at my parents and Lynn. Four. “Somewhere you can’t reach me.” Three. Lynn rolled her eyes. “Oh, drama queen. Where are you gonna go with no money?” Two. A wave of dizziness hit me. The world blurs. One. [Countdown complete. Extraction sequence initiated.] [00:00:00] The last thing I heard before the darkness swallowed me was the dull thud of my body hitting the floor.

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The day I was accepted into Juilliard as their top-ranked cellist, the Donald family finally claimed me as their own. My biological mother, Beatrice, held me in a weeping embrace, whispering promises that all those years of neglect would be made up to me. My father, Richard, bought me a brand-new Maserati and enrolled me in the city’s most exclusive driving academy, promising he would personally drive me to campus on my first day of classes. But the night before my final road test, Damian—their precious, adopted golden boy—took my Maserati for a joyride. He hit a pedestrian and left them to die in the rain. My older sister, Doris, gripped my hands so tightly her nails dug into my skin. Her voice was a hushed, desperate whisper. “Adrian, please. Just take the fall for Damian. He’s had a weak heart since he was a child. He won’t survive a prison cell.” Beatrice fell to her knees in front of me, sobbing. “You’ve practiced the cello for thirteen years. When you get out, you can always audition again. But Damian is different. If he goes to prison, he’ll die.” Richard pushed the pre-drafted confession toward me, promising that the Donalds had the connections to get me out in six months. And Scarlett, my girlfriend, personally ripped the memory card out of the dashcam, smashed it under her heel, and wiped the tears from my face. “Adrian, I’ll wait for you.” On the day I was escorted into the state penitentiary, Damian wore the custom Italian wool performance suit Beatrice had bought for my debut. He boarded a first-class flight to a prestigious European conservatory to continue his studies. Standing right beside him at the terminal, sending him off, was Scarlett. Because of the hit-and-run and the charge of leaving the scene of a fatal accident, I was sentenced to seven years. I served every single day of it. It was dusk when I finished detailing the last Porsche Cayenne at the shop. I wiped down the hood and handed the keys back to the owner. Scarlett was standing just outside the wash bay, holding the hand of a five-year-old boy. She stared at me for several long seconds before she finally spoke. “Adrian. Why didn’t you ever come look for me? Are you still punishing us?” I tapped the laminated Venmo QR code taped to the counter, keeping my eyes downward. “Eighty dollars. Venmo or cash.” … “Scarlett, that’s eighty dollars. Do you want to scan the code, or are you paying cash?” Scarlett didn’t move. She stood just beyond the edge of the dirty, soapy runoff pooling on the concrete. Her designer coat was immaculate, looking entirely out of place in the grime of the garage. The little boy stared with wide, curious eyes at the high-pressure hose in my hand. Scarlett’s gaze, however, remained fixed on my cheap, oversized waterproof boots and the stained apron tied around my waist. “Adrian, you shouldn’t have let yourself fall this low,” she said, her voice carrying a soft, patronizing edge. “Even if you’re angry, you shouldn’t ruin your own future just to spite us.” I turned off the valve on the water tank. The sudden silence in the bay was heavy, save for the steady drip of muddy water. “Venmo or cash?” I repeated. The boy suddenly broke free from Scarlett’s grip. Pointing at an old, weathered wooden cello bow resting inside a glass display case behind my counter, he squealed, “Look! A toy!” and reached for it. I lunged forward to block his hand. The sudden movement caught the old fracture in my wrist, and a sharp, white-hot pain shot up my forearm. My fingers gave out. The bow slipped from my grasp, clattering loudly against the concrete. Scarlett pulled the boy back, her eyes dropping to my exposed wrist. The scar was thick and jagged, cutting horizontally across the bone, glaringly white under the fluorescent lights. Her face paled. “What happened to your hand?” I pulled my sleeve down, hiding the scar, and bent to pick up the bow. “None of your business.” Scarlett’s brow furrowed, her tone softening into that familiar, pleading register. “Adrian, stop this. The Donalds said you’d only be in there for six months. You ran away and hid for seven years, turning yourself into… this. Who are you trying to punish?” She sighed, stepping closer. “Do you have any idea how sick Beatrice got because of your childish disappearance? She cried herself to sleep every night.” I stopped wiping the counter. “Six months.” I had spent seven agonizing years behind steel bars. Seven years of absolute hell, and to them, it was just me “throwing a childish tantrum.” I grabbed a dry rag and wiped the remaining water off the glass case. “I wasn’t hiding. I’ve been right here, washing cars.” Scarlett’s expression hardened. “Damian hasn’t had it easy either, Adrian. He’s lived with the guilt of what happened. He can barely sleep at night. Just come back with me. Whatever misunderstandings we have, we can sit down and talk them through.” She reached out, her fingers aiming for my sleeve. I took a step back, letting the counter remain a physical barrier between us. “If the car is clean, pay the bill and leave. Don’t hold up my line.” A chime on my phone signaled the transaction had gone through. I slung the dry rag over my shoulder. “Thank you, Scarlett. Have a good evening.” Ten minutes later, a sleek Audi sedan pulled up to the curb. The door slammed shut, and Doris Donald stepped out, her high heels clicking sharply against the wet pavement. She marched into the bay, her eyes sweeping over the cheap neon sign before landing on my face. “Adrian Pierce,” she said, using the surname of the woman who had actually raised me. “Mother is in the hospital. How long do you plan on keeping up this ridiculous act?” She didn’t ask how I was. She didn’t ask how I had survived. Her eyes merely lingered on my rubber boots and grease-stained apron, her lips curling in disgust. “A son of the Donald family washing cars in a place like this? You are dragging our name through the mud. Pack your things. You’re coming home to apologize to Mother.” I threw the wet rag into the dirty water bucket, splashing a few dark drops onto her designer trousers. “You have the wrong person, Ms. Donald. My name is Adrian Pierce. I don’t belong to your family.” The vein in Doris’s temple throbbed. “Damian already apologized for what happened back then. And you only served six months. The family compensated you handsomely. Why did you vanish the moment you got out? Do you have any idea how long we’ve been looking for you?” “Looking for me?” A wave of nausea hit me so hard I had to grip the edge of the counter. This city wasn’t that big. They didn’t even know how long I had actually spent in prison, yet they had the audacity to claim they had been searching for me for seven years. The only person who had ever truly looked for me was Martha Pierce, my adoptive mother. Scarlett sighed, stepping in to smooth things over. “Adrian, Doris is just worried. Beatrice was admitted to the hospital again yesterday. No matter how much resentment you hold, you should at least go see her.” Doris pulled out her phone, dialed a video call, and thrust the screen in front of my face. On the screen, Beatrice lay in a sterile hospital bed, her face pale and drawn. The moment she saw my face through the camera, her eyes welled with tears. “Adrian… do I have to get down on my knees and beg you to come home?” She clutched her chest, her shoulders shaking. “Do you know how many nightmares I’ve had about you? I know we made you suffer back then, but how could you be so heartless as to cut us off for seven years?” I stared at her perfectly preserved, expensive skin. Seven years ago, when she knelt in front of me begging me to take Damian’s place, she had cried the exact same way. “Adrian, say something,” Scarlett urged from the side. “Don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be.” I lifted my eyes to meet theirs. “What do you want me to say? That I should be grateful? That taking the fall for Damian was a privilege granted to me by the great Donald family?” Doris’s face darkened. “Don’t take that sarcastic tone with me.” I let out a soft, dry laugh. “But you love it when I’m agreeable, don’t you? Didn’t I play that part perfectly before?” I remembered the night of my welcoming gala. Richard had insisted I play the cello in front of all their high-society friends. He wanted to show off his brilliant, newly recovered biological son. I had spent the entire week practicing until my fingertips were raw and calloused, wearing the custom suit Beatrice had bought for me. I wanted so badly to make them proud. But right before I was scheduled to go on, I realized my cello strings had been tampered with, and my sheet music was missing. Damian had walked into the tuning room, a bright, innocent smile on his face. “Adrian,” he had whispered, leaning close. “Did you really think that just because you share their blood, any of this would actually belong to you?” There had been no time to argue. I had to go out and play from memory. Halfway through the piece, the C-string snapped with a sharp crack, slicing deep into my index finger. Blood dripped onto the white wood of the cello and my pristine sleeve. I forced myself to finish, enduring the burning pain. But when I went backstage to find Damian, he was already on the floor, clutching his chest, sobbing hysterically. “I’m sorry, Adrian,” Damian had wept, looking smaller than ever. “I just wanted to help tune your cello. Please don’t hate me for stealing your spotlight.” Beatrice had rushed past me, pushing me aside to scream for a doctor. Doris had pointed a finger at my chest. “You’ve only been back for a week and you’re already bullying him? You know he has a heart condition!” Scarlett had seen my bleeding hand, yet she had gently pressed her hand onto my shoulder, whispering, “Adrian, Damian is fragile. Just let it go. Apologize.” That was the night I learned that in the face of Damian’s tears, the truth was entirely irrelevant. Nobody cared about my severed cello string. Nobody cared that my hand was bleeding. They only cared that Damian was crying. Later, I overheard Damian throwing a tantrum at the maid in the hallway. “As long as he is in this house, I will always feel like an outsider. I won’t let him have anything.” When I pushed the door open to confront him, he shrieked, took a step back, and threw himself down the stairs. Doris had rushed up, and without looking at the security cameras or asking a single question, she slapped me across the face. “How can you be so vicious? He’s sick!” That night, Scarlett had come to my room to tell me that Damian was simply insecure, and that I needed to be the bigger person. “Adrian,” Scarlett said, pulling me out of the memory. Her patience was clearly wearing thin. “You pushed Damian to the brink back then. He had to sneak out of the country just to escape your hostility.” She looked at me as if I were a petulant child. “Stop holding onto the past to torture everyone else.” Scarlett truly believed Damian had been driven away by me. She had no idea that the person driven to the edge of the cliff was the one standing right in front of her. During my first month in prison, another inmate had shattered my wrist with a heavy metal mess-hall spoon. The guards had written it off as a typical cafeteria brawl, and I was thrown into solitary confinement for three days. Before the heavy steel door slammed shut, the inmate had leaned in close, whispering in my ear: “Adrian, keep your mouth shut. Young Mr. Donald paid to make sure you’re taken care of.” Now, the scar on my wrist was a permanent reminder that I would never play the cello again. Doris saw my silence and assumed I was wavering. “If you come home and apologize, the family will overlook your dramatic disappearance.” “Overlook it?” I looked down at the dirty water pooling around my boots, suddenly feeling an overwhelming exhaustion. They didn’t want to know the truth. They just wanted the convenient lie. The night of the accident had been pouring rain. Damian had taken my Maserati without permission. At three in the morning, he had come shivering into the house, covered in mud, sobbing that he had hit someone. Richard’s first instinct hadn’t been to call an ambulance. He had locked the front gates and ordered the household staff to stay silent. Doris had squeezed my wrist so hard I thought she would break it. “Adrian, you’re stronger than Damian. You have to take this for him.” Beatrice had wept on the floor, clutching my knees. And Richard had pushed the written confession toward me. “The family has resources, Adrian. We’ve retained the best defense attorneys. Six months at most, and I promise I’ll bring you home.” I had screamed that I was terrified, that my road test was the next morning, that my classes at Juilliard started the following month. But Damian had collapsed onto the sofa, clutching his chest, gasping for air. The entire family rushed to surround him, leaving me standing alone in the cold hallway. Scarlett had pulled me to the far end of the corridor. She took my hands, her eyes filled with a terrifyingly beautiful pity. “Adrian, I’ll wait for you. It’s only six months. I’ll help you rebuild everything when you get out.” I had clutched her sleeve like a drowning person grabbing a raft. “The dashcam… there’s a memory card in the car. It proves I wasn’t driving!” Scarlett had remained silent for a long, agonizing minute. The lights in the hallway had flickered off, leaving us in darkness. When she spoke, her voice was barely a whisper. “That card… it will destroy Damian.” I watched her walk out to the driveway, pull the memory card from the device, and grind it into the gravel with a heavy stone. The plastic fragments scattered at my feet. She had reached up to wipe my tears, whispering, “I love you. But this is the only way to save him.” I had been so naive. I actually believed six months would pass quickly, and that they would keep their promise to bring me home. On the day the transport van took me away, the sky was a mocking, brilliant blue. Through the grated window, I saw Damian boarding a car for the airport, wearing the performance suit meant for my debut. He was leaving for Europe’s finest conservatory. Scarlett stood by the vehicle, opening the door for him. I pulled myself out of the memories, looking at Doris and Scarlett. “Are you finished?” I asked quietly. “If you are, get out. You’re tracking mud into my bay.” I turned, pulled off my heavy apron, and walked into the small breakroom at the back of the shop. Under my cot was a dusty, battered cardboard box. It was the only thing Martha Pierce had left behind, delivered to me by a social worker shortly after she passed away. I knelt on the floor and slowly peeled back the yellowed packing tape. Inside lay a single handwritten letter, a worn leather journal filled with addresses and notes, and a faded receipt from an auto repair shop. I opened the letter. “Adrian, my sweet boy. I never believed for a second that you would hit someone and run. You couldn’t even bear to step on an insect when you were small; there is no way you would leave a human being to die.” The letter explained that after I was locked away, Martha had spent every single day trying to find the truth. She had walked the stretch of road where the accident occurred, visited the hospital, and questioned local mechanics. She had even gone to the Donald estate, begging for a copy of my trial records. The Donalds’ security had thrown her out, warning her that if she kept causing trouble, it would ruin my chances of early parole. She didn’t know the law, and she had no power, so she used the only tool she had: writing down every tiny discrepancy she could find. I folded the letter carefully, pressing it against my chest. A single tear slipped down my cheek, landing on the old scar on my wrist. Over the next two days, whenever my shift ended, I followed the addresses in Martha’s journal, trying to piece together the shattered remnants of that night. Just a single thread would do. On the third day, trouble came to the shop. A rusty cargo van screeched to a halt outside the bay, and several people wearing surgical masks leaped out. The woman leading them held up a giant, blown-up printout of an old newspaper article—the one featuring my mugshot from seven years ago. “Look at this monster!” her voice shrieked, instantly drawing a crowd of onlookers from the street. “This person is a convicted killer! She hit my husband, left him to die in the street, and only served six months before she got out!” “My husband is dead! My children grew up without a father!” she screamed, her voice cracking with manufactured rage. “How can this person work here like nothing happened?” People began pulling out their phones, recording the scene. A bucket of dirty, stagnant water was thrown from the crowd, splashing heavily against my shoulder. The foul-smelling liquid seeped beneath my collar. A man dressed in a black athletic hoodie walked through the gathering crowd, stopping right in front of me. He wore a mask, but I recognized his eyes instantly. Damian. He leaned in close, his voice dropping to a whisper meant only for me. “Adrian, you should have stayed buried. Look at you. You really think you have the right to show your face around the Donalds again?” I stared at his retreating back as he slipped away into the crowd, my fingertips turning cold. The chaos continued to escalate until Maeve, the shop owner, rushed out from the back office and thrust herself between me and the crowd. She blocked the cameras and the debris with her own body, pulling out her phone to dial 911. “If you have a legal dispute, take it to the police!” Maeve yelled. “Anyone else throws something, and you’re getting cited for harassment!” The woman with the megaphone hesitated, but kept shouting, “She’s a murderer! She killed my husband!” I gripped my wet sleeve, looking directly at the woman. “What was your husband’s name?” The woman blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “What color clothes was he wearing that night?” I asked, my voice steady. “Which hospital was he taken to? Who did he speak to before he died? Do you know any of those details?” She took a half-step back, her eyes darting nervously. At the edge of the crowd, Doris’s Audi pulled to a stop. Scarlett was the first to get out, jogged over, and frowned when she saw the stains on my shirt. I stepped away before she could touch me. Her hand remained suspended in the air, a flash of embarrassment crossing her face. “Adrian, just apologize to them,” Scarlett whispered. “The family of the victim has a right to be angry. You shouldn’t provoke them. If this goes viral, it will ruin you—and it will look terrible for the Donalds.” I looked at her, and a dry, humorless laugh escaped my throat. Seven years ago, she told me Damian was too fragile for prison and that I had to understand. Seven years later, she was telling me to bow my head to a screaming crowd to protect the Donald reputation. She always had someone more important to protect. And I was always the one who had to suffer in silence. Beatrice arrived next, leaning heavily on Doris’s arm, her eyes red and swollen from crying. “Adrian, if you just come home, the Donald PR team will handle all of this,” Beatrice pleaded. “I promise you, no one will ever bring up your past again.” I turned to look at her. “Handle it? Like you handled the dashcam seven years ago? Like you handled my appeal? Like you handled me?” Beatrice’s face drained of color. Doris stepped forward, her voice dropping to a cold, warning whisper. “Adrian, don’t let your petty resentment destroy the peace our family and Damian have built.” “Doris,” I said quietly, my voice carrying over the crowd. “Damian told you I only spent six months in prison, didn’t he?” Doris froze. Scarlett’s brow furrowed, a flicker of confusion crossing her eyes. “What do you mean?” I didn’t answer. I walked into the back office, reached into the bottom drawer of my desk, and pulled out a thick manila folder. In the distance, police sirens wailed, growing louder until two officers parked at the curb. The crowd parted to let them through. “Who called?” one of the officers asked. I raised my hand. “I did. We have a crowd inciting a public disturbance, and I suspect someone has paid these individuals to harass me.” The woman with the megaphone yelled, “Officer, this person is a hit-and-run driver! She killed my husband!” I stepped forward and laid my manila folder on the hood of the police cruiser. Resting right on top was a certified certificate of release from the state penitentiary, stating that I had completed a full seven-year sentence. The black ink was stark against the official state seal. Scarlett leaned in to read the document, the color completely draining from her face. Doris stared at the words “Seven Years Served”, her lips parting, but no sound came out. “Officer,” I said, looking directly at the policeman. “I want to file a formal request to reopen the investigation into the fatal hit-and-run from seven years ago.” I pointed to the files in the folder. “I was framed. And I finally have the proof.”

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In the circles I used to run in, there was an unwritten rule: if you’re playing the part of another woman, the most important thing you can do is stay in your lane. But by the time I fully understood that, Glenn’s termination agreement was already sitting on the glass coffee table. “She’s coming back from Paris next month. You need to move out,” Glenn said, his voice smooth and entirely devoid of heat. “Find a nice, normal guy from a decent family. Settle down. Build a real life.” When he spoke, my fingers were caught in the silk of his necktie, adjusting the knot. It was the deep charcoal one he always wore to his most important board meetings. My fingertips went rigid against the fabric. I forced my hands to finish the knot, stepped back, and offered a quiet, pleasant nod. “Okay.” My name is Una. For three years, I had belonged to Glenn Elvis. I was the bird he kept in a gilded cage—a high-rise penthouse overlooking the Hudson River. To put it bluntly, I was a dirty secret. A placeholder. When Roxie, a seasoned fixer in the city’s high-society underbelly, first brought me to him, she gave me a blunt warning: “In this line of work, you take the money, you do the job, and you keep your mouth shut. Don’t ever make the mistake of thinking you’re the main character. When he gets bored, take your payout and walk away. That’s when your real life begins.” But I broke the cardinal rule anyway. I crossed the line, and now I was being swept out like morning trash. All because I had dared to ask for more. … I had begged him to call off his arranged family marriage. I had begged him to actually look at me. “To be honest, Una, I’m going to miss you,” Glenn said as I smoothed the lapels of his suit jacket. “You’re the only one I’ve kept around this long. You never used to care about titles or marriage licenses.” I hung his coat up in the closet, turning back to him with a practiced, flawless smile. Glenn had no idea that I had only run into his world to escape my own. I had hidden my real identity—the runaway daughter of the Cleveland logistics empire—and fled to the city with nothing. When I was at my absolute lowest, unable to scrape together rent for a damp basement room, Glenn had been the one to step in and pay my debts. At the time, I thought it was salvation. So, I willingly folded up my pride and tucked it away. Over the next three years, I memorized every detail of his life. I knew the exact temperature he wanted the water for his morning Americano, which pressure points to massage on his temples when his stomach flared up during late-night corporate dinners, and, above all, how much he despised tearful, dramatic women. The first lesson of being a perfect substitute: the more low-maintenance you are, the more indispensable you become. Roxie’s advice had worked. I had molded myself into his perfect, quiet dream. On my twenty-fifth birthday, Glenn did something unprecedented—he stayed the entire night. In the heat of the dark, his hands traced the curve of my jaw, but his eyes were vacant, staring through me at a ghost. “As long as you’re good, Una, there will always be a room for you here.” I was good for three years. Right up until today, when he didn’t even glance at the dinner I’d spent three hours preparing, and casually handed down my sentence. “Leave tomorrow. I’ve already had accounting wire the severance to your account. It’s more than enough to ensure you live comfortably for the rest of your life,” Glenn said, clipping the end of a cigar. His tone was as casual as if he were discussing a minor stock divestment. “Okay,” I said, my voice steady. “If you hadn’t gotten greedy and asked for things beyond your station, we could have kept going. Was it worth it, Una?” I looked at him, letting the quiet stretch out between us. I didn’t answer. Substitute Lesson Two: Always be ready to be discarded. Never make a scene. “What are you going to do next?” he asked, almost as an afterthought. I let my mind wander. Years ago, when I was traveling and learning the art of mixology, I spent a week in Reykjavik. I remembered how clean the air felt, how the northern lights painted the sky in shades of green and violet. “Travel a bit,” I said softly. “And then find something to keep me busy.” Before Glenn, I was a rising star in the craft cocktail scene. But when we met, he made it clear he didn’t like me working in late-night lounges, showing myself off to strangers. He told me I didn’t need to worry about money anymore. Others my age spent their youth pouring their passion into shakers behind mahogany bars; I spent mine locked in a penthouse. When I finally cut ties with the nightlife scene back then, it had been a messy, public exit. Though Glenn used his influence to quiet the rumors, my professional reputation was effectively ruined. “If you ever find yourself in a tight spot, call me,” Glenn added. “I’ll do what I can to help.” “How?” I wanted to ask. “By keeping me as a shadow in another luxury apartment?” Instead, I turned away and silently began packing my suitcases. That night, Glenn slept deeply beside me. I lay awake in the guest room, watching the headlights of Manhattan drift across the ceiling, counting down the hours. “Miss Cleveland, Mr. Elvis left this for you. There is fifty million in the account. The PIN is your birthday.” The housekeeper handed me the black debit card the next morning, her eyes carrying a thin, poorly hidden layer of pity. Three years of my life, stripped of my identity, valued at fifty million dollars. To my father, that sum was pocket change—a rounding error on a minor shipping lane. I dragged my suitcase straight to JFK and bought a one-way ticket to Iceland. The dream of seeing the northern lights was finally mine to chase. The service in first class was impeccable. The flight attendant offered me champagne with a sweet, effortless smile. Everyone was fighting their own quiet wars just to survive, to reach some version of a better life. I stared out the window at the endless gray ocean of clouds, feeling entirely hollowed out. When I reached into my bag for an eye mask, my wrist gave out—a lingering ache from a strain years ago—and the heavy leather tote slipped from the overhead bin. I braced for the impact, but a hand caught it mid-air. The fingers were long, elegant, and perfectly steady. That was the first time I met Beckett Stafford. Beckett was the kind of man who carried power in his marrow. He was refined, quiet, with a delicate strand of dark, polished sandalwood prayer beads wrapped around his left wrist. The faint scent of expensive cedarwood and rain clung to him. He was deeply imposing, yet carried an air of immense, quiet danger. “When you find a high-tier man, grab him. Youth is a short lease,” Roxie’s voice echoed in my head, a relic of a life I wanted to leave behind. “Are you hurt?” he asked, looking down at me. I blinked, pulling myself back to reality, and offered a polite, distant smile. “No. Thank you.” Even after three years in hiding, my eye for high society hadn’t failed me. His simple black overcoat had no visible branding, but the drape of the cashmere screamed bespoke luxury. His watch was a custom piece that most collectors could only dream of seeing. He was old money. The kind of top-tier elite that wealthy women ruined themselves trying to catch. I thanked him politely and returned to my seat. But when we landed, he caught up with me at baggage claim. He noticed the vintage, hand-carved silver cocktail strainer keychain hanging from my bag, and used it to strike up a remarkably natural conversation. By the time we reached the terminal doors, we had exchanged numbers. “Do you have any idea who that was?” my friend whispered, spitting out a plume of cigarette smoke when she picked me up from the airport. “That’s Beckett Stafford. The Wall Street kingmaker. He practically controls the flow of private equity in New York. If you can get into his orbit, Una, you’re set for life. You could walk through Manhattan like you own it.” The winds in Iceland were freezing, but fate has a strange way of repeating itself. We ran into each other again at the Black Sand Beach in Vik, and shared a mug of spiced mulled wine in a small wooden tavern to escape the storm. The next day, a package arrived at my hotel. It was a custom, handmade leather mixology set, complete with hand-blown glassware. Attached was a note in precise, elegant handwriting: “Your hands are incredibly steady. You belong behind a bar.” That night, under a sky lit by the emerald glow of the aurora, I looked at his profile, his cheeks slightly reddened by the icy wind. He turned to me, his dark eyes reflecting the green light. He told me he was drawn to me. He asked if we could try dating. I looked at him and said, “No.” A flash of genuine surprise crossed Beckett’s features. Clearly, he wasn’t used to hearing that word. I pulled my coat tighter around myself. “I want a man whose eyes are entirely on me. A man who would risk everything for me. I don’t want to be a temporary distraction for a powerful man.” With that, I turned and walked back to the warmth of the hotel. Substitute Lesson Three: Don’t play games with men you can’t afford to lose. I was done being a kept woman. I was exhausted. My heart had been reduced to a barren wasteland trying to please Glenn. If a man couldn’t give me his whole heart, I preferred he didn’t touch it at all. But I underestimated Beckett’s persistence. For the rest of our week in Iceland, he remained by my side, perfectly respectful, keeping a comfortable distance. When we returned to New York, I used Glenn’s severance money and my own savings to lease a space in Soho. I was going to open my own high-end craft cocktail lounge. During those months of construction, I kept my replies to Beckett’s texts brief and polite. Substitute Lesson Four: Never let a man think you’re an easy catch. He sent me updates about his day, photos of stray cats he saw on his way to the office, even complex market analyses of the hospitality sector. I only replied when the conversation turned to local supply chains or the cats. It wasn’t until our first month of operations, when we urgently needed a round of angel investment to stay afloat, that the truth came out. When the lead investor walked through the doors of my lounge, I realized Beckett’s venture firm was the sole backer. “I tried to let it go, but I don’t want to lose you, Una,” he said, standing in the empty bar. “Give me a chance to show you. I’ll prove this isn’t a game to me.” He was entirely sincere, stripping away all the arrogance of his status. The Stafford family was an empire, and Beckett had survived its cutthroat politics to reach the top. Yet, here he was, willing to bow his head to me. Substitute Lesson Five: Never fall for the client. Once you do, you lose. But this time, I lost completely. I agreed to date him because he gave me something Glenn never had: respect. He stayed up late with me, analyzing spreadsheets and liquor licenses. He taught me how to navigate the city’s complex distribution networks, and how to deal with difficult suppliers. On weekends, this titan of Wall Street would shed his bespoke suits to sit with me at a metal table in a cramped Chinatown alley, eating cheap noodles. I ate without a shred of elegance, while he coughed from the chili oil. When I laughed so hard my ribs ached, he just watched me with a soft, helpless warmth. “You have a beautiful laugh, Una,” he murmured, his thumb brushing my cheek. “Promise me you’ll only laugh like that for me.” My eyes stung, and I had to fight to keep the tears back. “Once the lounge’s cash flow stabilizes, let’s go back to Iceland,” he said, holding my hand. “Let’s finish watching those lights.” Under the yellow glow of the streetlamp, I nodded. Beckett was a perfect partner—emotionally grounded, completely transparent. Six months later, he proposed. “I don’t care what the papers say, or how much my family fights it,” he said, kneeling on the floor of my closed bar. “I want you to be my wife.” He held out a cluster of deep red roses. His hand was slightly scratched from the thorns, a tiny bead of blood forming on his knuckle. His eyes were filled with a terrifying vulnerability. “I don’t want to live with regrets. Una, marry me.” I took the roses. He leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to my forehead. A forehead kiss—the kind of touch reserved for someone you hold sacred. In three years, I had never let Glenn touch his lips to my forehead. I was getting married. I was finally leaving the shadows to step into the light. But because of the sheer weight of the Stafford name, our engagement was a massive piece of news. It meant meeting his family. I prepared myself for the worst. In Glenn’s circle, I was known as the kept girl who sold her youth for a penthouse. Even though I had built my own business, in the eyes of the elite, I was still damaged goods. But Beckett’s family was surprisingly welcoming, especially after they learned I ran a highly successful, upscale lounge. His mother was a woman of immense grace. Though she came from old money, she carried no visible snobbery. Before visiting the Stafford estate in Connecticut, I had researched her thoroughly. I knew she loved classic opera, so we talked about the Met. I knew she had a delicate stomach, so I prepared a light, traditional French-Asian fusion dinner that left her delighted. Beckett watched from the side, mock-jealous, complaining that I had completely stolen his mother’s affection. “Since you’ve chosen this girl, you better drop that stubborn attitude of yours. Don’t you dare make Una unhappy,” his father said from the head of the table, his voice stern but approving. I kept my head down respectfully, giving Beckett a sly wink under the table. He let out a quiet, genuine laugh. For the first time in my life, I realized I was allowed to be cherished. The sting in my eyes became too much to contain, and a single tear slipped down, landing on the lapel of my coat. It was a beautiful, custom-tailored coat Beckett had bought for me. I had never felt so safe in my own skin. Beckett was the greatest gift the universe had ever handed me. But the universe has a cruel way of giving you a taste of heaven right before dragging you back to hell. “Slinging drinks for Wall Street royalty now, are we, Una? Quite a step up. I suppose that means we can finally settle our old accounts.” I froze as I walked into the alley behind my lounge. Standing near the dumpster, a greedy, jagged grin on his face, was Clay. Clay was a parasite from my early days in the nightlife scene. He was a bartender I had personally reported to the police for slipping date-rape drugs into women’s glasses, which had gotten him fired and blacklisted. “What do you want?” I whispered, my voice flat with dread. I didn’t know how a rat like him had managed to find me. “Five million,” Clay said, blowing a stream of cheap cigar smoke into the cold air. His eyes slid down my body with a filthy familiarity. “That’s the price for keeping all those bedroom photos and videos from your time with Glenn Elvis off the internet. I wonder… if the Stafford family gets a look at their future daughter-in-law begging like a dog at another man’s feet, will they still let you through the front gates?” My body went entirely numb. The air felt thick, like water filling my lungs. Running away from my family and meeting Glenn was the darkest stain on my soul. I couldn’t lose Beckett. I couldn’t. After a long, agonizing silence, I took out my phone and transferred the five million dollars to his account. This was my penance, wasn’t it? People like me, no matter how hard we try to clean ourselves, are always stained by the mud we crawled through. Even when we walk in the sunlight, we are terrified of someone peeling back our skin to reveal the rot underneath. I wanted to marry Beckett as quickly as possible. I foolishly believed that once the ring was on my finger, the past would lose its grip on me. “A used-up toy like you actually thinks she can be the next Mrs. Stafford? Dream on, sweetheart,” Clay sneered, pocketing his phone before disappearing into the dark. I stood in the freezing wind, my hands trembling. His words felt like glass in my throat. I needed to see Beckett. I needed to look into his eyes and know we were still real. But when I arrived at the private club where Beckett often held his business dinners, I froze. In the lobby, a woman was gripping his lapels, her face tight with anger. I knew her. Olivia Lancaster. The heiress to the Lancaster investment dynasty. Her family and the Staffords controlled half the financial sector. I turned to run, but before I could take a step, two large men in dark suits blocked my path, their heavy hands clamping down on my shoulders. My collarbone throbbed under the pressure. “Beckett, are you out of your mind?” Olivia screamed, her voice echoing off the marble walls. “You’re going to break our engagement for this cheap, run-around garbage? Our families’ assets are already legally bound! You’re destroying everything!” I struggled against the guards, but the grip on my arms only tightened. It hurt. It hurt so much. But the pain in my chest was worse, a slow, tearing sensation. I had thought that by leaving Glenn, I could start fresh. I thought that under Beckett’s protection, I could finally just be Una Cleveland. But I was just a homewrecker again. No wonder Clay had laughed at me. But why hadn’t Beckett told me about Olivia? Ah. Because I was the one who had rushed in, blind and desperate for love. I had forgotten who I was dealing with. “Get your hands off her! Don’t touch her!” Beckett roared, shoving Olivia back. His eyes were wild, bloodshot with a panic and desperation I had never seen on him. My heart broke at the sight of him. I had stepped into a world of wealth and power that didn’t belong to me, disrupting lives that were already mapped out. “Beckett, wake up!” Olivia sneered, pointing a manicured finger at me. “She’s filthy. She was Glenn Elvis’s kept dog for three years. You’re picking up another man’s discarded trash. Aren’t you disgusted?” The guards let go of my shoulders, and I stumbled backward, turning to run out into the freezing night. Beckett tried to follow, but Olivia’s security detail swarmed him, pinning him to the marble floor.

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