Category: English

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

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

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

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

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The ER doctor’s voice was a jagged serration against the rhythmic, wet hum of the machines, screaming for someone—anyone—to sign the consent forms. I couldn’t answer. I was a knot of agony, my body convulsing on the thin hospital mattress, every nerve ending screaming in a language only pain understands. My mother stood at the foot of the bed, her face a mask of polished marble. She didn’t look at the doctors. Instead, she took the “Critical Condition” notice, looked at it for a beat, and then slowly, methodically, tore it into pieces. The confetti of my life drifted to the linoleum floor. She reached out and grabbed my younger sister, Daisy, by the shoulder, pulling her toward the glass doors of the trauma bay. “Look at her, Daisy. Take a good look,” she whispered, her voice sickeningly tender, the way one might talk to a child at a museum. “This is what happens when you try to run. This is the price of rebellion. Your sister is just providing you with a demonstration.” I stared at her, the copper taste of blood filling my mouth. I swallowed it down, a final, bitter gulp. Mom, I thought, the words trapped behind a shattered jaw, in the next life, I refuse to be your lightning rod. I refuse to be the warning you use to keep Daisy in a cage. Three years ago, I had crawled through the bowels of hell to get back here. I had dragged my broken, discarded body across borders just to see home again. Back then, when Daisy had mentioned wanting to travel, Mom had crushed sedatives into my tea and watched with a steady hand as the traffickers hauled my limp body onto a shipping container. She’d stood on the docks, holding Daisy’s hand, pointing at the receding horizon. “Remember,” she’d told her. “The world outside is full of monsters that eat girls like you.” Even before that, when Daisy got scammed by some boy online, Mom used my social security number to take out predatory loans to cover the debt. When the collectors came and smashed our windows, she’d watched me shaking in the corner and sneered at Daisy, “See? That’s what happens when you trust men.” Mom always said I was the scout. The one who walked into the fire so Daisy would know it was hot. … The siren of the ambulance was a dying animal’s shriek in the midnight damp of the pier. I was on the gurney, my throat a mess of bloody froth. My legs had been snapped by the cartel enforcers on the boat—bone shards jutting through the skin like white flags of surrender. The pain was a living thing. It was so loud I didn’t even have the strength to shiver. The back doors of the rig swung open with a metallic crash. Evelyn rushed in, pulling a trembling Daisy behind her. “Oh, good God. Look at this mess,” Evelyn said, staring at my gray, sunken face. She actually let out a short, sharp laugh. She grabbed Daisy by the scruff of the neck, forcing her head down until she was inches from my face. “Do you see it now?” Evelyn hissed. “This is the ‘true love’ you were willing to die for? You wanted to run off and meet that boy from the internet? Your sister went out there for you. She scouted the path. She spent three years in that gutter so you wouldn’t have to, and look at the state of her!” Daisy screamed, clawing at her own eyes, trying to recoil. “Mom! Stop! Please! There’s so much blood!” Evelyn’s grip tightened. “Scared? Good. You should be. You thought that man loved you? Love is what got your sister sold. Love is why she was beaten every single day.” The paramedic, a woman with tired eyes, finally had enough. She shoved Evelyn back. “Back off! She’s in hypovolemic shock! Her blood pressure is bottoming out at fifty! We need to move!” Evelyn stumbled, her expression instantly darkening. She watched the nurse prep a syringe of epinephrine and suddenly reached out, snatching it from the tray. “What is that? How much does that shot cost?” The nurse looked like she’d been slapped. “Are you insane? Give that back! She’s dying!” “She’s tougher than she looks,” Evelyn said coldly, slamming the syringe down onto a metal kit. “She survived three years on a godforsaken boat; she can survive five minutes without a needle. This ambulance ride is already costing me a fortune. Driver! Stop the van! We aren’t going to the University Hospital!” The driver slammed on the brakes, nearly sending us all flying. “Ma’am, what the hell are you talking about? She needs a Level 1 Trauma Center!” “Take her to the clinic on 4th. It’s cheaper,” Evelyn demanded, her voice flat and reasonable. The nurse was shaking. “A clinic? They don’t have an OR! She has two broken ribs puncturing her lungs, a ruptured spleen—if we don’t get her to surgery, she’s a corpse!” “Then that’s the price of her own stupidity!” Evelyn reached out and yanked the leads of the EKG monitor off my chest. She leaned over me, her eyes twin pools of ice. “Jade, you were the one who ran off with those animals. You think you can come back and drain our savings? I’m telling you now, I’m not paying to fix what you broke.” I lay in a pool of my own warmth, my tears mixing with the blood. She was the one who crushed the pills into my milk. She was the one who called the broker at the docks and watched the container door lock me into the dark. For three years in that compound, I was whipped, I was drowned in a cage, I was treated like livestock. The only thing that kept me breathing was the thought of coming home. And I had made it. Only to be used as a prop in a horror story for my sister. I forced my fingers to move, hooking them into the fabric of Evelyn’s sleeve. “Save… me… Mom… please…” I didn’t want to die. I was only twenty-three. Evelyn looked down at my bloody hand with nothing but disgust. She peeled my fingers back, one by one, then raised her hand and delivered a stinging slap across my pale, sweat-slicked cheek. CRACK. “Save you? You’re the girl who went looking for trouble. Why should I waste a dime on a used-up thing like you?” Daisy was hysterical now. “Mom, she’s bleeding out! Please let them help her!” Evelyn turned and slapped Daisy, too. “Shut up! You pity her? She is the living proof of what happens when you don’t listen to me! Look at her! Look at the gore! Take all that romantic shit in your head and flush it, or you’ll be the one on the table next!” The nurse used the distraction to snatch the leads back, pressing her hand over my chest. “Driver! Ignore this lunatic! Go to City General Emergency! Now! I’ll take the heat!” The sirens wailed again as the ambulance tore through the night. Evelyn fell back into her seat. She didn’t fight for the equipment anymore. She just watched me with the detached curiosity of someone looking at a broken appliance. “Fine. Go to the big hospital. Let’s see how they handle a life as worthless as yours.” The rig screeched to a halt at the ER bay. The gurney was whisked inside. Doctors were shouting, a blur of blue scrubs and bright lights. “Get two units of O-neg! Call Thoracic! Where’s the family? I need a signature! Any allergies? Medical history?” Evelyn sauntered in behind them, Daisy huddled in her shadow. “She’s a sturdy girl,” Evelyn said, crossing her arms. The admitting resident rushed over with a clipboard. “I need you to sign these! Now! And I need her ID so we can get her into the system and pull blood! Hurry!” Evelyn didn’t move. She patted her designer handbag, her tone conversational. “I left in such a rush. I don’t have her ID.” Daisy froze, tugging at Evelyn’s coat. “Mom… I saw you take Jade’s ID out of the drawer and put it in your bag right before we left…” Evelyn reached out and pinched Daisy’s arm, hard. Daisy let out a sharp cry, tears springing to her eyes. “Be quiet,” Evelyn hissed. “I said I don’t have it.” The doctor was sweating. “Without an ID, we can’t process the blood request! Her BP is too low to read! Every second we waste is a minute of her life!” “I can’t manifest a card out of thin air. Stop yelling at me,” Evelyn said, rolling her eyes. In the trauma bay, a nurse had already cut away my blood-soaked clothes. “Heart rate’s down to forty! She’s hemorrhaging! Prepare for central line access!” Hearing this, Evelyn took a step forward, leaning against the doorframe of the trauma bay. She shouted at the nurses over the din. “Hey! Make sure you’re wearing double gloves! Don’t let her blood touch you!” The nurse looked up, confused. “Why?” Evelyn smirked, pointing at me. “She’s been living in the gutters across the border for three years. Who knows what kind of filth she’s picked up? HIV, Hepatitis, Syphilis—you better run a full panel before you start cutting. My family won’t be held liable if you get infected!” The room went dead silent for a heartbeat. The medical staff paled. In an ER, the fear of an undisclosed needle-stick or blood-borne pathogen is real. Protocols dictate that if a high-risk infection is suspected, the staff has to switch to full-body protective gear, and blood samples have to be sent for expedited screening. Even “expedited” meant twenty minutes. Twenty minutes I didn’t have. The lead doctor’s face turned grim. He looked at Evelyn. “Are you stating for the record that the patient is high-risk for infectious diseases?” “Would I lie about that?” Evelyn shrugged. “She’s been sleeping in God knows whose bed for three years. Do what you have to do.” I lay on the cold table, listening to her words. The pain in my chest finally eclipsed the pain in my bones. “I… didn’t…” I tried to scream it. I tried to tell them that even when they shocked me into unconsciousness with cattle prods, even when they broke my legs, I never let them touch me like that. I was clean. But my throat was a well of blood. No sound came out. The doctor gritted his teeth and turned to his team. “Full PPE! Everyone! Get the infectious disease protocol started! Use plasma expanders to keep her pressure up while we wait for the screen! We move as fast as we can, but nobody gets stuck!” The surgery was put on hold. Those four words were my death sentence. The nurses backed away to gown up. Seconds bled into minutes, and every second drained the last of the warmth from my veins. Evelyn turned back to Daisy, pointing through the glass of the trauma bay. “Daisy, look at that.” “The moment a girl takes the wrong path, the moment she lets men touch her, even the doctors are afraid to save her.” “Everyone thinks she’s dirty. Everyone is disgusted by her.” Daisy watched as the tubes were snaked into my body, watching as my blood stained the sterile white sheets. She was shaking like a leaf, her spirit finally breaking. “I get it, Mom… I won’t go… I’ll stay home… I’ll never talk to them again…” Evelyn patted her head, satisfied. “That’s my good girl. Your sister’s pathetic life finally has a little value.” Through the glass, I saw that smile. She was using my dying gasps to extinguish the last spark of Daisy’s will. The doors burst open. The doctor ran out, clutching a few sheets of paper, his voice cracking. “The screens are negative! She’s clean! But we’ve lost twenty minutes! She’s in multi-organ failure—we have to take the spleen now! Sign the papers! Pay the deposit so we can move!” Evelyn glanced at the results and sniffed. “So she’s clean. You ‘experts’ sure took your time for nothing.” The doctor’s eyes were bloodshot. He slammed the “Notice of Critical Condition” in front of her. “Shut up and sign! And pay!” Evelyn looked at the paper but didn’t pick up the pen. Just then, her phone buzzed. It was a video call from my father, Bob. Evelyn answered. My father’s panicked voice boomed from the speaker. “Evelyn! Where are you? The police called—they said Jade was found at the pier! Is she okay? Tell me she’s okay!” Evelyn casually turned the camera toward me, showing my mangled body on the table. “There she is. Barely a breath left.” On the screen, my father’s face went white. He looked like he was about to vomit. “Jade! Oh my God, my baby! Doctor! Please, save her!” The doctor yelled at the phone, “The family won’t provide ID or payment! We can’t proceed!” Bob lost it, screaming at Evelyn. “Give them the ID! Now! Use my emergency card! Just save her!” Evelyn rolled her eyes and moved the phone away. “Stop shouting. I told you, I can’t find her ID. And I didn’t bring enough cash. Besides, even if they save her, she’ll be a cripple. Why waste the money?” My father’s hand slammed against a desk on the other side of the screen. “Evelyn, you lying bitch! I saw you put Jade’s ID in the hidden pocket of your bag yesterday! I watched you do it!” “Give it to them! Give it to them right now!” The lie was stripped bare. Evelyn’s face stiffened. The medical staff in the hallway looked at her with pure, unadulterated loathing. A nurse stepped forward, snatched Evelyn’s bag, and ripped open the hidden zipper. There it was. My ID, tucked away like a secret. “You had it the whole time! You let her lie here and die!” The nurse’s eyes were wet with rage as she sprinted toward the registration desk. Evelyn, robbed of her bag, finally snapped. She screamed at the phone. “Bob, shut up! You’re never home! You didn’t see Daisy falling for that little punk online! She was going to buy a ticket tomorrow! Do you care? No!” “I had to show her! I had to make sure she understood!” “I’m doing this for our family! Jade’s life was already ruined! Daisy still has a chance!” She turned and pointed at me. “She deserves this! She was always the difficult one! I’m using her to teach our daughter how to be a woman!” My father broke down on the screen, sobbing. “You monster… she’s your own flesh and blood. You sold her to those people… and now you’re killing her.” I lay on the table, and the world began to go black. So my father knew. He knew my mother had sold me, and he had done nothing. The monitor let out a long, piercing wail. Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeep— The green line went flat. The doctor screamed, “Code Blue! Start compressions! Epinephrine, now! Charge to two hundred!” My consciousness began to drift, floating up, leaving the battered shell of my body behind. I watched from the ceiling as they jumped on my chest, sweat pouring off their faces. I watched as the nurse eventually stopped, her eyes red, and pulled the white sheet over my head. The doors opened. The doctor walked out, his shoulders slumped. He looked at Evelyn. “She’s gone. Sign the time of death and get her out of here.” Evelyn blinked. She looked at the paper, then past the doctor to the shape under the white sheet. She didn’t cry. Instead, she grabbed Daisy’s hand and shoved her forward. “Daisy. Look.” “When you’re dead, they just cover you with a rag. That’s what happens to girls who chase boys online.” “She gave her life to warn you. If you ever try to contact a man behind my back again, this is your future.” Daisy collapsed to the floor, her mind finally snapping. She curled into a ball, screaming. “I won’t! I’ll be good! I’ll do whatever you want! Just make it stop!” Evelyn nodded, satisfied. She looked at the doctor and waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, stop with the dramatics. She’s fine. She’s just playing dead to scare her sister. If I go in there and give her a good smack, she’ll get up.” The doctor stared at her, his voice trembling. “Are you even human? She’s dead. You delayed us for fifty minutes. Her spleen ruptured. She died of hypovolemic shock.” “Incompetent,” Evelyn hissed. She shoved the doctor aside and marched into the room. She walked straight to the bed and ripped the sheet off my face. “Jade, enough! Get up!” “You’ve been pulling this stunt since you were five. Stop wasting the hospital’s time. We’re going home.” She reached out and pinched my cheek, hard. There was no warmth. Only a cold, heavy stillness. My skin was the color of ash. My eyes were half-open, pupils fixed and dilated. Evelyn’s fingers faltered. She dug her nails into my skin. I didn’t flinch. “Jade?” Her voice went thin. She grabbed my shoulders and began to shake me violently. “I said get up! Listen to me! Get up!” My head lolled to the side, swaying limply with her movements. Total, hollow silence. Evelyn recoiled, stumbling back against a crash cart. “No… that’s not right…” “I timed it… she survived three years of hell… how could she die from twenty minutes in a hospital?” The nurse walked in and slammed the death certificate into her chest. “She’s dead. And you’re the one who killed her.”

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I huddled beneath the hospital bed, the metallic tang of old floor cleaner stinging my nose. I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper, desperate to stifle the hitch in my breath. Then, it happened. That cold, synthetic voice—the one that sounded like my father’s but lacked every ounce of his warmth—echoed in the hollows of my mind. [System: Affection levels of target confirmed as irrecoverable. Application for “Death-Escape” protocol approved. Countdown to departure: Forty-eight hours.] I knew exactly who the “target” was. Today was supposed to be a celebration. My father, Adrian, was finally getting the heavy cast removed from his leg. He had shattered it a year ago, throwing himself in front of a runaway SUV to save my mother, Debby. He’d traded his mobility for her life. But as we were leaving the clinic, Felix—my mother’s personal assistant, a man who trailed after her like a perfumed shadow—let out a staged, sharp gasp of terror. Debby didn’t even look back. She reflexively shoved Adrian’s reaching hand away, her entire body pivoting to shield Felix instead. Adrian, still unsteady on his crutches, stood no chance. The shove sent him spiraling. He tumbled down the marble staircase, the sickening thud of his body against stone echoing through the lobby. Beside me, my seven-year-old twin brother, Noah, didn’t cry. He clapped. “Yes! Now Felix can be my new dad!” Adrian lay in a blooming pool of red, his face the color of ash. He didn’t scream. He didn’t beg her to come back or ask why. He just stared at the blood spreading across the floor—his spleen had ruptured, though we didn’t know it yet—with eyes that had gone utterly vacant. I saw the flicker of panic in my mother’s eyes, but it was quickly buried under the weight of her habitual arrogance. “Felix’s PTSD can’t handle these scenes, Adrian,” she snapped, her voice ice-cold. “How long are you going to keep up this pathetic act? If you hadn’t lied about being my ‘savior’ all those years ago just to marry into the family, Felix wouldn’t be this broken. You even had the nerve to slow-poison his supplements.” She adjusted her coat, looking down at her dying husband. “Consider this a lesson. Don’t you dare call the police. Call your own damn ambulance.” Adrian just closed his eyes, a ragged, exhausted “Okay” fluttering from his lips. Now, it’s the second day. Felix is in the VIP suite next door, wearing the custom-made watch Adrian had gifted my mother for their anniversary, boasting to the nurses. My mother is there too, cooing over that manipulative snake, asking if he needs more water, more pillows. I watch from the shadows, my heart a block of dry ice. I know something she doesn’t. Soon, she won’t even have the right to beg for his forgiveness on her knees. … Debby cast a bored, disparaging look at the hospital bed. “Adrian, drop the ‘dead fish’ act. Who are you trying to impress?” “Felix was kind enough to come visit you, even after you ruined his health with those toxins. And you just lie there like you’re waiting for a funeral?” My father didn’t answer. He just slowly drifted his eyes shut. The white sheets beneath his cast were already beginning to bloom with a dark, rusted crimson. “Mom, let’s go. It smells like a locker room in here.” Noah, my own flesh and blood, ran in holding his nose. He punctuated his entrance by kicking the frame of Adrian’s bed. The dull clang made my father flinch in visible agony. “Felix is the cool dad! This guy is just a liar!” Noah yelled, pointing a finger at the man who had spent every night of Noah’s life tucking him in. Debby smoothed Noah’s hair with a doting smile. “Be a good boy, Noah. Go pull the cord on that call button. We don’t want him ringing the nurses and bothering Felix while he’s trying to nap.” Noah cheered, scrambled onto the nightstand, and ripped the emergency cord from the wall with a triumphant jerk. My father’s eyes snapped open then. He looked at the son he had nearly died to protect in that car wreck. The love that usually lived in his gaze had been replaced by a flat, terrifying stillness. “What are you looking at? Stare at me again and I’ll have Mom kick you out!” Noah made a hideous face. Debby let out a sharp, mocking laugh, ushering Felix toward the door. “Tell the nursing station no one enters this room. When he’s ready to apologize for his behavior, then—and only then—can he have his pain meds.” Felix leaned his weight onto Debby’s shoulder, his voice a soft, melodic whine. “Debby, isn’t this a bit much? He did just fall down the stairs.” “Fall? The doctors said he probably tripped on purpose to guilt-trip me,” Debby scoffed. The heavy door clicked shut. The room fell into a suffocating darkness. I crawled out from under the bed, scrambling to the bedside. “Dad…” I whispered his name, my entire body shaking with a sob I couldn’t release. Adrian reached out a trembling hand, stroking my hair with fingers that felt like ice. “Don’t cry, Grace. Daddy’s okay.” But he wasn’t. The mattress was soaked. Blood was beginning to drip, rhythmic and heavy, onto the linoleum floor. “Dad, I’ll get the doctor. I’ll beg Mom, I’ll tell her—” I turned to run, but his grip, surprisingly strong, caught my wrist. “Don’t go to her.” He stared at the closed door, his voice raspy. “They don’t deserve you.” [Warning: Host’s vital signs are dropping rapidly. System suggests immediate intervention to stop the bleeding.] Refuse intervention. Continue countdown, my father replied in the silence of his mind. Outside, I heard Felix’s theatrical cough. “Debby, do you think he’s okay in there? That blood looked… intense.” “He’s fine. He’s a grown man; he can handle a little scratch without playing dead.” Debby’s voice drifted away, full of disdain. “Come on, let’s take Noah for steak. You need the protein.” “Yay! Lobster mac and cheese!” Noah’s voice faded down the hall. I picked up my father’s blood-stained phone, my thumbs trembling as I dialed three digits. When the operator picked up, I fought through the knot in my throat. “911? I need to report an attempted murder. Central Hospital, VIP Wing, top floor.” I hung up and climbed into the bed, wrapping my arms around my father’s cooling body, trying to hold the life inside him. Minutes felt like hours. Finally, the sound of frantic footsteps echoed in the hallway. I heard a nurse’s panicked protest. “Officer, this is a private suite! You can’t just—” “Move aside! We received a report of a violent crime in progress.” A stern male voice cut through the air. The door handle rattled violently. “Police! Open up!” Two officers burst in. When they saw the sheer volume of blood on the floor and my father’s waxen face, their expressions shifted to pure shock. “Get a crash cart in here! Patient is in hypovolemic shock!” the lead officer barked into his radio. I lunged forward, grabbing the officer’s tactical trousers. “My mom pushed him. She told the doctors to stay away. She broke the call button so he couldn’t ask for help!” The officer knelt, his eyes wide as he took in my blood-covered hands. Just then, Debby arrived, her security detail flanking her like a small army. Felix hovered behind her, looking like a startled deer. “Who gave you permission to invade my husband’s room?” Debby demanded, pointing a manicured finger at the cops. The officer stood up, his hand resting on his belt. “We’re investigating an attempted murder, Ms. Saxon. We need you to step back.” Debby looked at the dying man on the bed and let out a sharp, hysterical laugh. “Murder? He’s clearly still breathing. Officer, this is a domestic dispute. My husband has severe bipolar disorder; he self-mutilates to manipulate me.” I screamed, throwing myself at her legs, pounding my fists against her expensive slacks. “Liar! You pushed him because of that bad man!” Debby shoved me away with a sneer. “Grace, one more word and I’m sending you to a boarding school in the middle of nowhere.” The officer began to protest, but Debby’s phone chimed. She listened for a few seconds, then handed the device to the officer. “It’s your Commissioner.” The officer’s face went tight as he listened. Within minutes, a swarm of Saxon Group lawyers and private medical consultants flooded the room, physically cordoning off the police. A lawyer handed over a thick folder. “Officer, these are Mr. Saxon’s psychiatric evaluations. He suffers from paranoid delusions and persecutory mania. This is a private family matter. We decline any police intervention.” The officer looked at me, then at my father, and sighed with a look of defeated pity. “Ms. Saxon, domestic abuse is still a crime. Watch yourself.” They left. The room went silent again, colder than before. Debby walked to the bed, grabbed my father’s collar, and hauled him upward. “Adrian, you’ve grown some teeth, haven’t you? Teaching your daughter to call the cops?” “Let him go!” I bit her wrist. She cried out and backhanded me. The force sent me spinning to the floor, my ears ringing with a deafening buzz. “Grace…” My father finally reacted, struggling to move his shattered leg. Debby laughed, pulling a legal document from her clutch and slapping it against his chest. “Since you want to play games, let’s finish this. Sign the divorce papers. You leave with nothing. I keep Grace. And you sign this confession.” Adrian’s hands shook as he picked up the second paper. I, Adrian Saxon, admit to poisoning Felix Vance out of jealousy and faking my injuries to extort my wife. “In your dreams,” my father wheezed, tearing the paper in half. Debby’s eyes darkened. She ground her heel directly into the fracture site of his broken leg. “You think you’re in a position to negotiate?” Felix stepped forward, showing his phone screen. “Adrian, look at the news.” The top headline read: Gold-Digging Husband Traps Tech Mogul: The Truth Behind the Saxon Marriage. A leaked, edited video showed Adrian “tripping” himself down the stairs. The comments were a vitriolic swarm of hate. “Everyone hates you, Adrian,” Felix whispered. “If you don’t sign and record an apology, Saxon Group stock will tank. And Debby gets very angry when she loses money.” Debby pressed harder on his leg. Adrian’s body convulsed in silent agony. “Sign it. Or I send Grace to a facility tomorrow, and you will never see her again.” My father froze. He looked at Debby, and I watched the last ember of hope in his eyes turn to gray ash. “Fine,” he whispered. “I’ll sign.” He scrawled his name. Debby snatched the papers, looking satisfied. “See? That wasn’t so hard.” She turned to her guards. “Lock the door. No food. No water. No one enters until I say so.” The lock turned. I crawled to him, sobbing into his chest. “Dad, I’m sorry. I’m so useless…” He stroked my face, his eyes suddenly piercingly clear. “Grace, remember their faces today. One day, you’ll take it all back. With interest.” [Countdown: Twenty-four hours.] Time bled away. No water, no food. My father’s fever climbed, then plummeted. His breath became a stuttering rhythm of gasps. I held him, trying to pour my own warmth into his skin. [Countdown: Six hours.] The door burst open again. Debby stormed in, her face flushed red, followed by a team of surgeons. “Get him up!” she barked. The doctors grabbed him, dragging him from the bed. “What are you doing? Leave him alone!” I tried to push them, but Debby grabbed my collar and threw me into a chair. “Adrian, stop faking. Felix just had a massive internal hemorrhage. He needs a transfusion. He’s O-negative, you’re O-negative. We’re taking it now.” My father opened his eyes. “My leg is shattered… I’m bleeding internally… and you want to drain my blood for him?” “A little blood won’t kill you!” Debby snapped. “If you hadn’t poisoned him, he wouldn’t be in this state!” One of the doctors hesitated. “Ms. Saxon, the patient is already in shock. A large draw could be fatal.” “I said draw it!” Debby smashed a glass IV stand against the wall. “I’ll take the responsibility! If anything happens to Felix, I’ll ruin all of you!” They didn’t hesitate again. They strapped him down and shoved a thick needle into his bruised vein. “No! Please stop!” I lunged forward and bit Debby’s arm again. “Get off me, you little brat!” She kicked me in the stomach. I flew backward, hitting a metal cabinet. The impact knocked the wind out of me, and I spat out a mouthful of blood. “Grace!” my father screamed, throwing the doctors off for a split second. Debby grabbed his hair, pinning his head against the bed frame. “Move again, Adrian, and I’ll kill her right now. I swear to God.” He went still. He looked at the blood on my lips, then slowly turned his arm back to the doctor. “Take it. Take it all.” One bag. Two. Three. My father’s skin turned the color of a tombstone. His body began to twitch. His pupils dilated until his eyes were almost entirely black. “Ms. Saxon, we have to stop. He’s going into cardiac arrest!” Debby looked at the four full bags of blood and shrugged. “He’s tougher than he looks.” She grabbed the bags and walked out without a backward glance. I crawled to him, checking his breath. It was a ghost of a sensation. Noah stood in the doorway, clutching a toy robot. He looked at the blood on the floor and clapped his hands. “Good! Take more! Felix needs it to be healthy! The bad man deserves to be empty!” I stared at my brother’s face. I burned it into my memory, alongside Debby and Felix. [Warning! Host’s vitals have reached the limit. Death-Escape protocol initiating.] [Countdown: One hour.] Adrian lay his head in my lap, a tragic, broken smile on his lips. “Grace… survive…” The door opened one last time. This time, Debby looked even more frantic. Felix was behind her in a wheelchair, looking remarkably healthy for someone who just had a “hemorrhage.” “Debby, I’m scared. The doctor said my kidneys are failing now,” Felix sobbed into her hip. “Don’t worry, baby. I’m here.” She looked up at my father on the floor. “Adrian, Felix needs a kidney. You’re a match. You’re giving him yours.” My father couldn’t even lift his head. A wet, rattling sound came from his throat. “Debby… you’re insane. You’ve drained me dry… now you want my organs?” “You ruined his! It’s only fair you replace them!” she yelled. “You have two! You won’t die from losing one. Stop being so dramatic.” The surgeon wiped sweat from his brow. “Ms. Saxon, in his current state… he will 100% die on the table.” Debby hesitated for a second. Then, Noah pointed a finger at me. “Mom! Grace has two kidneys! Use hers! She’s young, she’s healthy! If she gives one to Felix, he can play with me forever!” I looked at my twin brother. He was seven. How could a seven-year-old be this monstrous? Felix’s eyes lit up, then he feigned hesitation. “Oh, I couldn’t… she’s just a child.” “It’s fine!” Debby grabbed my arm, hauling me up. “Doctor, prep her for a match. Now!” “Let me go! You monster!” I fought, biting her hand until it bled. She didn’t let go. “Guards, take her to the OR!” As the men moved toward me, my father—the man who supposedly couldn’t move—lunged. He grabbed a tray of surgical tools, a scalpel clutched in his fist. “LEAVE HER ALONE!” he roared, a sound from the depths of hell. He held the blade to his own throat. The skin parted, a thin line of red appearing. “Adrian! Stop this!” Debby flinched back, releasing me. I scrambled into the corner. My father stood up, swaying, forcing them back with the sheer madness in his eyes. “You want a kidney, Debby? You want blood?” He started to laugh—a desperate, jagged sound. He backed away toward the massive floor-to-ceiling window at the end of the suite. Behind him was a fourteen-story drop. “Adrian, be reasonable! Drop the knife!” Debby’s voice finally held a tremor of real fear. “I won’t touch Grace, I promise.” He reached the glass. He looked at the woman he had loved for a decade. “I don’t believe you anymore, Debby.” He swung the heavy IV stand, smashing it into the glass. It shattered into a thousand diamonds. The wind roared in, whipping his blood-soaked hair. [Countdown finished. System destruction sequence engaged.] He looked at me one last time. It was a look of infinite sorrow and finality. “Debby, I give you my life. But my daughter’s life… stays hers.” He stepped backward into the abyss.

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I was the quintessential bad girl. I spent five years chasing Carter Sterling, the flawless golden boy everyone admired. He was aloof, arrogant, and constantly looked down on me. “You smell like smoke. It’s disgusting.” I would just shamelessly wrap my arms around his neck, bite his lip, and pass the nicotine lozenge from my mouth into his. After dating for a year, I hand-crafted a pair of custom rings. I ran off to find him, ecstatic, only to overhear someone asking what he thought of the Dupont heiress. His eyes were indifferent: “Not bad. Pretty obedient.” My breath caught in my throat. Then, I heard them ask what he thought of me. “Too wild. She’s not marriage material. I like good girls.” I was wild. She was good. I figured, since the answer was out, it was time to let go. 1 When Carter got home, he saw me chewing on a mint. He frowned. “Smoking again?” Usually, when I saw that look on his face, I would’ve already thrown myself at him, hanging off his shoulders and kissing him over and over, forcing the man who seemed as cold as the winter moon to flush with desire. Then, I’d smile and ask, “Can you taste the smoke?” His eyes would darken, his thumb subconsciously rubbing my waist, but his face would remain stern. “It’s the middle of the day. Stop messing around!” “Can’t you have a little decency as a woman?” When facing the guy I’d loved for seven years, what did I know about decency? I would just loop my finger around his tie and give it a gentle tug. “Baby, why don’t we go to the bedroom so you can teach me?” A faint blush would quietly creep up the tips of Carter’s ears, brighter than the lipstick smudged on the corner of his mouth. His voice would grow husky, though he’d still try to sound proper. “Teach you what?” I would give a wicked smile, my red lips curving as I pulled him step by step into the bedroom. But this time, I didn’t have the energy. I swallowed the crushed mint and walked right past him. His Adam’s apple bobbed. His gaze was dark and unreadable, as if he was expecting something. I chased him for five years and we had been together for one. I had seen disappointment, disgust, and impatience in his eyes. When it came to me, the only things missing were love and anticipation. He only agreed to be my boyfriend because, when his startup company was first getting off the ground and he was cornered by debt collectors, I called up my guys from the bar to bail him out. Using a mix of threats and cash, I threw down a hundred grand to settle his debts. At the time, he looked at me with distant, detached eyes. “What do you want?” I rested my chin on my hand, my eyes carefully tracing his features. He had lost some of the boyish charm from seven years ago. I smiled, looking as captivating as I could. “I like you. Be my boyfriend.” It was my twentieth confession. He was silent for a long time. Just when I thought he was going to reject me again, a soft “Yeah” broke the silence. I was instantly overjoyed, practically jumping up to kiss him on the cheek. My friends from the bar all cheered, hyping us up and chanting for a real kiss on the lips. My face felt hot. I looked at Carter. But his icy, frostbitten expression was like a bucket of cold water. He didn’t like me. He looked down on me. But I thought it didn’t matter. Time would change everything. I was so stupid. I suddenly laughed. Carter tugged at his collar with his long, articulate fingers, looking impatient. “What are you acting crazy for now?” “I don’t have any contact with Chloe Dupont anymore. If you keep throwing these baseless tantrums, then let’s just break up.” Over the past year, he had threatened to break up with me countless times. If you smoke again, we break up. If you drink, we break up. If you dye your hair, we break up. To keep him, I willingly shut down my bar, kicked the habits he deemed trashy, and tried my best to learn how to act like a refined, high-society lady. After all, my wildness was originally born because of him anyway. But this time, I was just tired. “Okay, Carter. Let’s break up.” 2 A flicker of turbulence flashed through Carter’s indifferent eyes. Then, he lazily pulled out his phone and tossed it on the table. “Spit it out. Who do you want me to delete this time? Who do you want me to fire?” Once, I made him fire an assistant who “accidentally” spilled coffee on him just to touch his chest, and I made him delete the Dupont heiress who was constantly making eyes at him. Back then, he looked at me with pure exhaustion. “It’s like explaining color to a blind person.” I panicked. Carter wasn’t born into extreme wealth, but he became a rising star in the business world through his sheer intellect and Ivy League degrees. And me? I dropped out of a garbage community college. We were worlds apart. People around us constantly dropped hints, telling me to let Carter go so he could step into a broader world. And that “broader world” was Chloe, the Dupont heiress. Carter and I hadn’t been together that long, and I didn’t want to break up. So, when I caught them on a date. Sitting in the high-end, exclusive restaurant I had wanted to go to for ages but could never get a reservation for. I didn’t even dare to go up and expose them. I didn’t dare question him. Late that night, Carter came home. I kept my tone casual. “What were you up to? You’re home so late.” Carter took off his jacket, answering carelessly. “Had dinner with an important client.” My heart trembled. My eyes instantly welled up with tears, and I turned my back to him, refusing to speak. He quietly walked up behind me and suddenly wrapped his arms around me. “It’s just that the liaison I was meeting with happened to be a woman, the Dupont heiress. Just out of basic courtesy, I drove her home, so it got a little late.” His tone was deep and gentle. Carter rested his chin in the crook of my neck, his hot breath hitting my skin. Even though it wasn’t an overtly romantic gesture. I still couldn’t stop myself from blushing. “Oh? So who’s prettier? The Dupont heiress or me?” It was just meant to be a flirty question, but it made Carter think for a long time before he finally answered. “You guys have different styles. You can’t just objectively say who is prettier.” His attitude snapped back to his usual serious demeanor, his tone turning cold. “You shouldn’t ask questions like that. Saying anyone is unattractive is just demeaning.” I was stunned by the lecture and pulled myself out of his embrace. “But saying I’m pretty doesn’t mean you’re saying Miss Dupont is ugly. Why would it be demeaning? It’s not like Miss Dupont is going to hear our private conversation, right?” He pressed his lips together and stared at me, his eyes dark. I felt incredibly wronged. From the day we got together until now, he had never once complimented me, nor had he shown any real affection. I just wanted a little bit of favoritism. A tiny bit of proof. But he just stood up in silence and walked upstairs without a moment’s hesitation. I got mad too. I wrapped myself in a blanket and slept on the living room couch all night. For the entire night, I didn’t sleep a wink, and Carter never came downstairs. He just left me down there, completely alone. 3 The only reason I stopped being mad at Carter was that he bought an SUV. He knew I loved driving heavy-duty trucks, but after getting together with him, I stopped going off-roading in the countryside and sold my old rig. My anger vanished into thin air. I made a pot of soup, walked into his office, and said excitedly: “Baby, I made chicken soup. Let’s eat together.” Carter rejected it immediately. “I can’t. I have a lunch meeting.” I frowned. “Alright, then have some when you get home tonight.” “Carter, that Thai place on West Street is actually pretty good,” a woman said as she suddenly pushed the door open. She looked a little surprised to see me. “And who is this?” “My girlfriend,” Carter stood up, then turned to me. “This is Miss Dupont.” Chloe Dupont stepped forward, incredibly poised and natural, and shook my hand. “I always wondered what kind of amazing woman could tie Carter down. I finally get to meet you today.” I just smiled and stayed quiet. Carter put his hands in his pockets. “Tara, head back first. Miss Dupont and I have business this afternoon.” But Chloe took the initiative to invite me. “Oh, don’t be like that! It’s nothing serious, just grabbing lunch. Let Miss Evans come with us.” “Alright then,” Carter agreed. Turns out, the “lunch meeting” was just a meal between the two of them. The way Carter agreed made me acutely aware of the difference in his attitude. He was never that accommodating with me. On the way to the restaurant, they walked side by side, chatting animatedly. Every time I tried to interject. Chloe would miraculously find a topic Carter was deeply interested in and talk right over me. Gradually, I fell behind, putting distance between us. At the restaurant, Carter pulled out Chloe’s chair for her first, paused, and then pulled out mine. I could see it clearly. I was only enjoying Carter’s gentlemanly behavior by riding on Chloe’s coattails. The waiter handed the menu to Carter. Carter raised a hand to stop him. “Give it to the ladies.” The waiter looked enlightened and handed it to Chloe. “My apologies. The girlfriend should order first.” As soon as those words hung in the air, everyone froze for a second. Anyone with eyes could see that they looked like the perfect match. And neither of them bothered to explain the misunderstanding to the waiter. We finished the meal in suffocating silence. As we were leaving, Chloe grabbed my hand. “Miss Evans, please don’t mind what happened. You’re Carter’s real girlfriend.” I pulled my hand away. “I know.” Carter frowned. Chloe playfully stuck her tongue out, turning to look at Carter. “Carter, I hope your girl doesn’t put you in the doghouse tonight!” Carter’s brow relaxed. “Don’t joke like that. Tara isn’t that petty.” I finally got a compliment from him, so why didn’t I feel happy? Watching the picture-perfect harmony between the two of them. I felt like a complete third wheel. 4 After that meeting with Chloe. The Chloe that he described as “obedient” and “proper” started appearing between us with increasing frequency. Consequently, my alone time with Carter dwindled to almost nothing. We started fighting all the time. After another nasty argument over me demanding he fire an assistant, we barely saw each other for almost a month. Carter finally took the initiative and offered to take me on a vacation. I wanted to make up too, so I naturally agreed. But it was ruined by a single phone call. Under the dim light, Carter’s profile looked exceptionally handsome. After hanging up, he kissed my lips, sweeping away the peppermint lozenge I had gotten addicted to. Just as I was about to kiss back, he pushed me away. “Chloe says she’s coming to Miami too. We’ll hang out together when we get there.” When did “Miss Dupont” turn into “Chloe”? My face fell. “Again? You’re running a business, not selling your soul to her.” Carter withdrew his arms from around me, his tone hardening. “Don’t speak so crassly.” “If something was actually going on between me and her, do you think I’d be contacting her right in front of your face?” They seemed entirely transparent. Carter reported to me every single time he was alone with Chloe. But can the things you see—and the things you don’t—really be explained away so easily? I rolled over and turned my back to him. Carter sighed, turned off the lamp, and hugged me from behind. “The Dupont Group is currently assessing whether our company is worth investing in. Chloe just moved back from abroad and doesn’t have any friends here. She just sees me as an older brother.” “I merely treat her like an investor. I’m just being respectful. I don’t have any other intentions.” “I don’t want to fight anymore. Can we just have a good trip?” His body temperature was naturally high. Leaning against him felt warm and comforting, just like the heat radiating from his palm when he saved me seven years ago. I understood how hard it was for him to build his startup, so it made sense that he treated Chloe differently. After all, having the backing of the Dupont family was a massive temptation for any ordinary company. I temporarily choked down my anger, but by the very next day, it flared right back up. Chloe basically took my place for the entire trip. One minute it was Carter, I need water, the next she couldn’t open a bottle cap, and then she was cold and needed a towel. I couldn’t lay on my beach chair anymore. I bluntly said I was getting in the water. Carter said he’d come with me. Chloe, who had been lounging perfectly fine, immediately jumped up and said she wanted to join. I ignored her and headed straight to the cabana to change into my swimsuit. Chloe and I finished changing and walked out at the same time. Carter’s eyes landed on me first, then quickly shifted to her. She excitedly twirled in her sundress. “Carter, does it look good?” But before she could spin even a few times, Carter stepped in and stopped her. Chloe instantly put on a pitiful, pouting face. Carter sighed helplessly, his explanation laced with comfort. “It’s dangerous to spin like that. You need to be careful.” His tone was gentle and totally doting. Standing under the blazing sun, I suddenly felt freezing cold. I turned to leave. Chloe obediently said “Oh,” straightened her knee-length skirt, and then casually glanced over at me. “Ah, is Tara wearing that…? Isn’t that a bit dangerous?” I stopped in my tracks, just about to snap back at her. But Carter beat me to it, his tone lazy and detached. “That’s just how she is.” “She’s not like you.” I froze. I didn’t understand what he meant by that. By the time I snapped out of it, their two silhouettes had already dove into the ocean. The blinding sun hung high in the sky. Every ray of light felt like a red-hot steel needle, piercing my eyes until they ached. I trudged gloomily toward the shoreline. I saw Carter abruptly let go of the arm he was using to support Chloe. He turned and waved at me: “Tara, come teach Chloe how to play in the water.” It felt like he was desperately trying to overcompensate and explain something. But why be so nervous in the first place? I watched them for a few seconds, calmed my breathing, and slowly waded over. Seeing me approach, Carter visibly put more distance between himself and Chloe. “It’s much better if Tara teaches me! Carter is too clumsy.” Chloe smiled sweetly, grabbing my arm with fake affection. My face was completely blank. I just started giving her instructions on how to float, telling her to relax her body. She tried lifting her feet off the ground a few times but kept failing. Carter looked like he wanted to say something, but ultimately walked out of the water and headed back to the beach. Miraculously, the second Carter was gone, Chloe successfully floated. Her expression instantly went cold, and she yanked her arm back without warning. “Thanks, Tara.” My hands hovered awkwardly over the water. “You’re not used to it yet. Let me hold onto you.” Chloe gave me a sideways glance, a sneer curling her lips. “Cut the act. A street rat who’s been hustling since she was a teenager definitely knows what she’s doing.” “Clinging to a guy who’s completely out of your league… isn’t it exhausting?” “Tara, you really have a high tolerance for humiliation.” My brow furrowed tightly. My hands, hidden beneath the water, clenched into fists so hard they hurt. Suddenly, a massive wave crashed into us without warning. Caught off guard, Chloe and I both tumbled under the water. I quickly stabilized myself and started treading water. “Chloe!” A roar echoed from the shore. I whipped my head around and saw Chloe being dragged out by the receding wave. It scared the hell out of me. I immediately adjusted my angle and started swimming toward her. But I was violently yanked back by a brutal force. “Don’t you go near her!” Carter’s eyes were bloodshot and bulging. It was a pure, hostile warning. Because of his sudden, violent pull, I was caught entirely off guard and swallowed huge mouthfuls of seawater. The bitter, stinging saltwater felt like tiny, jagged knives. It left my throat burning in agony. But compared to the physical pain, it was the freezing chill spreading from the very bottom of my heart that made me grit my teeth. This time, I saw it with absolute clarity. From the very beginning, Carter’s concern for Chloe was on an entirely different level.

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Three years ago, an accident took my life. Or rather, it should have. Instead, a soul from another world hijacked my body to perform some ridiculous “favorability mission.” She failed. Miserably. It took every ounce of my will to bargain with the new System overseer to claw my way back. I traded everything for a single chance to reclaim what was mine. The System’s mechanical voice echoed in the hollows of my mind: [Host, you must successfully conquer the target, Zack Blackwood, within 30 days.] Then came the cold ultimatum: [Failure to complete the mission within the allotted time will result in permanent erasure.] I tightened my fists, glaring at the translucent blue interface only I could see. “This is a joke,” I hissed, my voice rasping. “That interloper spent three years turning my body into a two-hundred-pound disaster. Forget Zack Blackwood—at this point, a blind man wouldn’t look at me twice, let alone an elite CEO.” The System seemed to falter, a momentary glitch in its processing. [Well…] it paused, searching for a logical out. [Perhaps Zack Blackwood prefers a… more substantial presence?] … I let out a harsh, dry laugh as I faced the full-length mirror. My thighs were like pillars. My midsection looked like I was wearing a permanent life buoy. Two hundred pounds of soft, neglected weight. That brain-dead transmigrator had abandoned my company, ignored my legacy, and spent every waking hour playing the part of Zack’s pathetic, groveling lapdog. When she realized her “mission” was going nowhere, she gave up entirely, drowning her sorrows in grease and sugar. She had taken my supermodel frame—the body I had spent years honing with Pilates and discipline—and turned it into a mountain of grease. Looking at the mirror, seeing that I barely fit in the frame, I felt a wave of existential dread. “No more sugar. No more carbs,” I muttered. “I’m welding myself to the treadmill.” [That is wise, Host. This System will assist in your weight loss. After all, conventional data suggests men prefer a leaner aesthetic. It will aid the mission.] “Shut up,” I snapped. I started the treadmill, the belt groaning under the unfamiliar weight. As I felt the first beads of sweat break across my skin and the agonizing tremor of my muscles, I gritted my teeth. “Whether I ‘conquer’ him or not, I refuse to spend another second trapped in this version of myself. And another thing—why did that idiot get three years while I only get thirty days? Is your software refurbished or just cheap?” The System bristled. [Host! This unit has been ranked number one in the Central Bureau for three consecutive months!] I suspected it was lying, but I didn’t have the energy to argue. I hadn’t even finished five miles when my secretary’s name flashed on my phone. A crisis at the office. I showered quickly and moved to the walk-in closet. The moment I slid the doors open, I nearly had a stroke. Neon pink lace dresses. Tight, leopard-print spandex leggings. What kind of deranged, tacky aesthetic had that girl been sporting? Resisting the urge to set the entire wardrobe on fire, I settled for an oversized black tracksuit—the only thing that didn’t make me look like a burst sausage—and headed straight for the company. In the back of the car, I scrolled through the archived chats. Every single message was a masterclass in desperation. [Zack, are you tired at work? Did you eat lunch?] [Zack, it’s okay if you don’t reply. I’ll always be right here waiting for you.] It wasn’t just the words. She had attached “cutesy” selfies to every single text. I felt a surge of nausea so violent I had to look away. At least she had stopped the photos after she’d put on the weight, or I might have thrown the phone out the window. When I stepped into the Rossi & Co. headquarters, the lobby went silent. The staff looked at me with a mix of pity and suppressed laughter. For three years, that waste of space hadn’t set foot in the building. She’d forgotten where the entrance was, let alone how to read a balance sheet. The fact that the company hadn’t folded was a testament to the sheer grit of my senior VPs. I ignored the stares and threw open the boardroom doors. One look at the disastrous financial reports and the veins in my forehead began to throb. I spent the morning like a hurricane, firing two executives who had been cooking the books within the first hour. By noon, the whispers of ridicule in the halls had shifted back into the terrified, reverent silence I remembered. The System chimed in, opportunistic as ever. [Host! Reclaiming the company is fine, but Zack Blackwood is the priority! You have 27 days left before total erasure.] [First Sub-Mission: Straighten Zack’s tie. Reward: One ‘Metabolic-Accelerant’ pill.] “That’s it? That’s the mission?” I asked, skeptical. [Host, do not be deceived. The previous occupant failed this simple task for three years straight.] I paused, surprised. [Zack Blackwood is notoriously untouchable. Despite being married to the previous occupant for three years, he never allowed her within three feet of his person. Their marriage has been entirely in name only.] A strange, sharp spark of satisfaction flickered in my chest. So, my old protege had kept his standards high. Good for him. “Fine. I’ll take the mission.” [Excellent! Let us go find him immediately!] the System chirped. “Not yet. I have a company to stabilize first.” Conquering Zack was a matter of survival, but I wasn’t like the girl who came before me. I wasn’t going to set my empire on fire just to warm a man’s hands. The System went quiet, sounding distinctly disappointed. I worked until nine in the evening before finally heading back to the villa. To my surprise, the lights in the living room were on. I stopped in the doorway, taking in the man sitting on the sofa. His charcoal-gray suit was impeccable, draped over a frame that had grown broader and more imposing in my absence. Three years hadn’t aged him; they had simply polished him into something lethal and expensive. The moment he heard me, he stood up. For a split second, I saw a flicker—a shimmering ghost of a look in his eyes—before he masked it. “You went to the office today,” he said. His voice was like a low cello note, vibrating with something that sounded suspiciously like a tremor. I didn’t answer. I walked straight up to him. I reached out and grabbed the lapels of his jacket, pulling him slightly forward as I smoothed the silk of his tie. Zack froze. He didn’t pull away, but he went rigid, his breath hitching in his throat. The System began to scream in my head. [WAHHH!! Host, you did it! Mission accomplished in one move!] [But be careful! Records show the target prefers gentle, domestic women. Don’t break character!] I took a deep breath, swallowing the sharp, sarcastic retort that was already on the tip of my tongue. For the sake of my life, I could play nice. Just for a moment. I forced a smile—one I hoped looked soft but probably looked like I was baring my teeth—and pitched my voice into a breathy, feminine lilt. “Zac, darling… I just wanted to see how things were going at the firm.” The silence that followed was so thick it felt like the air had turned to lead. The light in Zack’s eyes vanished instantly. He looked at me with a cold, piercing detachment, seasoned with a heavy dose of disappointment. “Don’t do things that don’t suit you,” he said, his voice flat. He stepped back, breaking my hold and creating a vast, chilly distance between us. “I have work at the office. I won’t be back tonight.” He turned on his heel and walked out without a second glance. I stood in the middle of the room, fuming, while the System wailed. [What happened?! It was going so well! Why did his face turn like that?] I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt. “Because you told me to act like a ‘gentle’ idiot. He was probably repulsed.” I collapsed onto the sofa, the plush velvet straining under me. Memories of the old Zack surfaced unbidden. In high school, he hadn’t been this untouchable titan. He had been the “bastard son” of the Blackwood family, the one his half-brothers used to kick into the dirt behind the gym. I had picked him up because he had a face that belonged in a museum and eyes that looked like they could burn the world down if someone gave him a match. I made him mine. I made him my shadow. Back then, I was the only one allowed to bully him. I remembered making him walk across the city in a blizzard just to get me a specific brand of hot chocolate. I remembered making him kneel in front of the entire student body to tie my loose shoelaces. He had been a silent, loyal dog, never once flinching, never once complaining. Who would have thought that after graduation, his brothers would meet their ends in a “tragic accident”? He had been plucked from the shadows and made the sole heir to the Blackwood fortune. And when my parents died, and I needed a strategic alliance to save the company, I chose him. Now the tables had turned. I was the one who had to play nice? The thought made my blood boil. I swallowed the Metabolic pill the System awarded me and headed for the treadmill. The next morning, the scale showed a ten-pound drop. The System’s tech was apparently more reliable than its romantic advice. I was still a “substantial presence,” but I could breathe a little easier. I went back to the office and spent the day tearing through the restructuring. The System, unable to help itself, popped up again. [Second Sub-Mission: Deliver a ‘Meal of Love’ to Zack Blackwood. Reward: One ‘Metabolic-Accelerant’ pill.] “Busy. I have a board meeting.” I had three days to complete the mission. I decided to let Zack stew for two. In those forty-eight hours, fueled by a murderous workout regime and the lingering effects of the System’s pill, I dropped another twenty pounds. By the third day, the System’s countdown was driving me insane. [Life span: 27 days! Deliver the food NOW or face the consequences!!!] “Fine! Stop nagging.” I picked up a high-end takeout container from the most exclusive bistro in the city—the kind where you need a three-month reservation—and headed to the Blackwood Building. Even thirty pounds down, I felt like a tank moving through the sleek, minimalist lobby. I could hear the whispers as I passed. “She’s here again? God, give it a rest.” “Two hundred pounds of desperation in a tracksuit. If I were Mr. Blackwood, I’d lose my appetite too…” I stopped. My gaze swept over the cluster of receptionists like a cold blade. I looked them dead in the eye. “Is Blackwood Industries paying you to provide a lunch-hour commentary, or are you just naturally this unprofessional?” They turned pale, scurrying back to their monitors. I wasn’t in the mood to swallow insults today. [Host! Calm down! They don’t matter! Remember: Be gentle when you see Zack!] “I know!” I hissed. I shoved open the door to the penthouse office. Zack was behind a desk that probably cost more than a suburban house. He didn’t even look up at first. “What do you want?” Cold. Harder than the System’s voice. I set the bag on his desk, forcing a pleasant expression. “Zack, I brought you lunch.” Zack’s eyes flicked to the bag. His face darkened instantly. With a sudden, violent motion, he swept his arm across the desk. CRASH. The expensive meal hit the trash can with a wet thud. “I hate that place,” he said. His voice wasn’t just cold now; it was lethal. I stood there, my hands curling into fists. You ungrateful little… Back in school, I was the one who made sure he ate. He used to eat the scraps I gave him in the corner with tears in his eyes. Now he was too good for the best bistro in the city? [AHHH! Host! I told you to cook it yourself!] the System shrieked. [The previous occupant’s cooking was terrible, but he never threw it away! Look at what you’ve done!] I don’t cook, I snapped back internally. That bistro had been my favorite place. Back in the day, I used to make Zack stand in line for an hour to get me their signature tartare. Looking at the trash can, it clicked. He didn’t hate the restaurant. He hated that I was bringing him something the real me loved. He thought it was a sick joke. “Stop this,” Zack said, looking up at me, his eyes full of warning. “We agreed to a marriage of convenience. Stay on your side of the line.” [Host! Say something sweet! Fix it!] Sweet? There isn’t a sweet bone in Diana Rossi’s body. “A marriage of convenience, right.” I let out a sharp, jagged laugh, suppressing the weird ache in my chest. “I was just checking the ‘Dutiful Wife’ box on my way to a real meeting. Don’t flatter yourself, Mr. Blackwood.” I turned and slammed the door behind me. [You’re insane! You can’t talk to him like that!] the System wailed. [No man likes a woman with a temper like yours! You’re going to fail!] “Shut up and give me my reward.” [But you made him angry—] “The mission was to deliver the meal. I delivered it. Give. Me. The. Pill.” I swallowed the second pill. Between that and the grueling hours at the gym, I lost another twenty pounds over the next two days. My face was starting to emerge from the puffiness—the sharp line of my jaw, the high set of my cheekbones. I was still “big,” but I was starting to look like a version of myself again. [New Mission: Create a grand birthday surprise for the target!] I rolled my eyes. A birthday surprise? I’d never thrown a party for anyone but myself. I delegated the entire thing to the house staff. That evening, the villa was transformed into something out of a Pinterest nightmare. Balloons, flowers, a three-tier cake. I even found his bedroom covered in rose petals. It was the first time I’d stepped into his private suite. On his nightstand sat a framed photo. I froze. It was a photo of me from high school. I didn’t even know it existed—it was a candid shot, taken from a distance. I glanced at a half-open drawer and saw a flash of color. A deep burgundy silk ribbon. My favorite hair tie from years ago. I pulled the drawer open fully. My breath caught. Next to the ribbon was a stack of photos. All of them were me. Me sleeping on a desk in senior year. Me laughing on the university track. Me, me, me. He had been stalking me for years. I moved to the closet. One side was filled with his suits. The other side? It was filled with my old clothes. The ones from before the accident. A strange, heavy emotion settled in my throat. I dialed his number. “You need to come home. Now.” There was a five-second silence. Then, a clipped, “Fine.” I couldn’t fit into those old clothes yet, so I just took my old silk ribbon. I needed to confront him about the photos. But ten o’clock came and went. The food grew cold. The candles on the cake melted into stubs. Not a soul came through the door. [Don’t be sad, Host. He’s probably just stuck in a meeting. Call him again?] the System whispered. “Waste of my time,” I snapped. I tore off the restrictive floral dress I’d forced myself into. I put on my gym gear—a sports bra and leggings—and tied my hair up high with that burgundy ribbon. If he wasn’t coming, I wasn’t going to waste the night. I still had three miles to run. I ignored the System’s nagging, put on my noise-canceling headphones, and cranked the treadmill to a sprint. I let myself drown in the music and the burn of my muscles. Suddenly, a hand yanked my hair from behind. The ribbon was torn away. My hair tumbled down. At that speed, I lost my balance instantly. I gasped, stumbling back, waiting for the impact of the floor. It never came. I slammed into a solid, warm chest. Zack caught me, but he didn’t hold me. The second I was stable, he shoved me away like I was radioactive. I staggered, catching my breath, ready to tear his head off. But when I looked up, I saw his eyes. They were bloodshot. His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. He was clutching the burgundy ribbon in a white-knuckled grip. “I warned you,” he hissed, his voice trembling with fury. “Stay. Out. Of. My. Room.” In that moment, every ounce of “playing nice” evaporated. Everything the System told me about being gentle went out the window. I have spent my entire life as the sun that everyone else revolved around. No one—no one—shouts at me. No one lays a hand on me. And especially not the boy who used to follow me around like a shadow. My body moved faster than my brain. I lunged forward and snatched the ribbon back out of his hand. I shoved my finger into his chest. “Zack Blackwood! Who the hell do you think you’re talking to? This is my house! This is my ribbon! You have no right to tell me which room I can or cannot enter!” Zack stood frozen, stunned. “You…” I wasn’t finished. I was tired, I was hungry, and I was done being pushed around. I hauled off and kicked him—hard—right in the shin. “OW!” His six-foot-two frame buckled. He groaned, doubled over, his face turning a ghostly shade of pale. Oh. Oops. I might have aimed a little… high. Zack looked up at me, his eyes watery and red. I couldn’t tell if it was from the pain or something else.

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Seven years. That’s how long it took for time to slip through my fingers. The voice memo from my girlfriend, Bianca, played through the phone’s speaker, her tone thick with a lazy, satisfied exhaustion. She was complaining that the “workout” last night had left her lower back aching and her legs weak. She told me to be gentler next time. My face remained entirely devoid of emotion. I swiped left, deleting the audio. Then, my thumb moved on muscle memory. I opened the Temu app and ordered her a three-pack of clearance cotton underwear for $4.99, free shipping included. 1 Bianca always told me that startup life was a brutal grind, that we needed to practice extreme minimalism and curb our material desires. It was the reason she gave for moving into the guest bedroom, and the reason she had me fronting the rent for our apartment. To support her vision, I juggled three jobs. Even when I was burning up with a fever, I just swallowed cheap ibuprofen and powered through my shifts. Until today. She had gone to take a shower and left her phone unlocked on the bathroom counter. That was when I found the sugar baby spreadsheet. It was a masterclass in accounting, detailing the exact maintenance costs of the men she was keeping. One hundred and ten thousand dollars. In a single month. I scrolled through their group chat. They called me the “free live-in maid.” They laughed about how she bled me dry to fund their five-star dinners and weekend getaways. I didn’t feel a spike of rage. I didn’t see red. With an eerie, floating calmness, I simply gathered the three pairs of cheap underwear I had just bought, along with her packed luggage, and shoved them all into the trash can. When Bianca pushed the door open and saw her burner phone sitting squarely on my desk, her face froze. It lasted exactly one second. Then, the mask of habitual, defensive annoyance slipped right back into place. “Who told you to go through my phone?” Her voice was sharp with reprimand as she lunged forward to snatch the device. I turned my body, letting her hand grasp empty air, and stared back at her with eyes like dead winter. “Aren’t you going to explain?” I asked, my voice terrifyingly soft. “Why a ‘Tristan’ from the assistant pool is sending you voice memos like that?” Bianca let out an exaggerated sigh, running a hand through her damp hair, instantly pivoting to the exhausted, misunderstood entrepreneur. “Joel, can you stop being so damn paranoid? That’s for a client. It’s a corporate escort service arrangement.” “He sent it to the wrong chat by mistake. Do you have any idea what I do out there? I spend my days kissing the rings of venture capitalists, begging for seed money, killing myself so we can have a future.” “And you? You sit at home, work a few gigs, and suddenly you think you’re the king of the castle, running interrogations on me.” Her volume steadily climbed, a desperate attempt to drown her own guilt in righteous indignation. I felt a sharp, stabbing cramp in my stomach—the physical toll of back-to-back all-nighters—as I looked at the woman I had loved for seven years. Seven years. She said the startup was bleeding cash, that we had to sacrifice, pouring every dime into her company’s R&D. To lift the burden off her shoulders, I had quit my stable agency job for three grueling freelance hustles. I covered the rent, the utilities, the groceries. Everything. When my fever spiked to 102 degrees, I didn’t even dare to go to urgent care because of the copay. I just rode it out in sweats and shivers. And her? She claimed the pressure of being a CEO required “independent breathing space,” using it as an excuse to sleep in a separate room for an entire year. I didn’t let her gaslight me. My voice was steady. “If it was sent to the wrong chat, why are you shaking?” Bianca blinked, completely thrown off by my total lack of hysteria. Her eyes darted over my shoulder, landing on my open laptop screen. It was still sitting on the order confirmation page for the clearance underwear. She marched over. When she registered what she was looking at, her features twisted into something ugly and dark. “What the hell is this?” “You bought me five-dollar clearance rack panties? Are you trying to humiliate me, Joel?” She pointed at the screen, her voice shrill, bouncing off the thin apartment walls. “I am a CEO. I sit across the table from investors worth hundreds of millions of dollars every single day.” “You expect me to wear these cheap rags to pitch a ten-million-dollar Series A? Do you know absolutely nothing about maintaining an image?” I looked at her face—contorted by a bizarre, misplaced entitlement—and felt a laugh catch in my throat. It was just so incredibly absurd. “Last month’s rent was paid because I pulled three consecutive all-nighters doing simultaneous translation for an overseas tech conference,” I said, my voice dropping an octave. “That haute couture dress you’re wearing right now? I maxed out my credit card to buy it for you.” “And you’re standing in my apartment, lecturing me about your image?” I took a step forward, holding her gaze until she was forced to look away. “I thought every penny was going toward ‘curbing our material desires’?” “I literally cover your Uber Eats orders. How is a five-dollar pair of underwear beneath you?” Bianca choked on her words, a dull red creeping up her neck. She ground her teeth, visibly swallowing her temper, and shifted to her most effective weapon: emotional blackmail. “Joel, you were never like this,” she murmured, her voice softening into a wounded purr. “You used to be so patient. So understanding. I know you’re burned out lately.” “Just let me close this funding round. I swear, the minute the ink dries, I’m buying us a gorgeous house. We’ll get married. A huge wedding, just like we talked about.” She closed the distance between us, reaching out to wrap her arms around my waist. I stepped back. The physical revulsion was so strong it was almost violently magnetic. I couldn’t bear the thought of her skin touching mine. At that exact moment, the phone lying face-down on the desk vibrated. The screen lit up. Another message from Tristan. Boss, I really, really want that limited-edition Daytona. Please? The blood drained from Bianca’s face. She snatched the phone, turning her back to me as her thumbs flew across the screen. “One of the partners is hounding me about the project timeline. I have to put out a fire.” “Just… stop picking fights, okay? Go make dinner. I’m starving.” 2 She didn’t look back. She practically sprinted to her separate bedroom and I heard the heavy, metallic click of the deadbolt sliding into place. I stood alone in the living room, staring at the closed door. There was no screaming match. No falling to my knees in tears. I just felt nauseous. A deep, bone-deep, biological rejection of the space I was standing in. The woman who had built her life alongside mine had, somewhere along the way, been replaced by a stranger whose breath smelled of lies. Pressing a hand against my aching stomach, I turned and walked into the kitchen. I didn’t start chopping vegetables for her dinner. I poured myself a glass of room-temperature water. Through the thin drywall, I could hear the muffled cadence of her voice on a phone call. Even distorted, I recognized the desperate, cloying tone of her apologies, the eager-to-please lilt. It was a voice she had never, ever used with me. I drank the water and set the glass down on the granite counter with a quiet clink. Seven years. It was over. The autopsy was finished; all that was left was to bury it. Bianca stayed locked in her room for half an hour. When she emerged, she had pasted on a serene, affectionate smile. She hovered around the kitchen for a bit, eventually setting a bowl of watery instant ramen down on the table in front of me. “Joel, honey, I was out of line earlier.” “I’ve just been under so much pressure. The VC guys are aggressively trying to lower our valuation, and it’s keeping me awake every single night.” She sat across from me, her eyes heavy with manufactured exhaustion, laced with a practiced pleading. “Consider this bowl of noodles my peace offering, okay?” “Your stomach is acting up again. Eat it while it’s hot.” I looked down at the bowl. Broth and noodles. Not even an egg cracked into it. This was the grand extent of her compensation. I picked up the chopsticks, lifted a few strands of noodles, but didn’t put them in my mouth. My voice was a flatline. “When you say you’re under pressure… is listening to Tristan’s voice memos how you relieve it?” The smile shattered on her face. She let out a heavy sigh and reached across the table to cover my hand. I pulled mine away before she could make contact. “Joel, do you really have to be this relentless?” “I already explained, it was a misunderstanding. If you’re going to suffocate me with this toxic paranoia every single day, I don’t know how I can do this.” It was her classic pivot. The moment I asked a legitimate question, she flipped the board, making me the villain, making me feel like I was the one poisoning the water of our relationship. The old Joel would have spiraled into an anxious pit of self-doubt, analyzing his own behavior. Tonight, the new Joel just found her incredibly, pathetically transparent. I set the chopsticks down and met her eyes, my expression utterly blank. “Fine. I’m done arguing. I ate the noodles. You can go back to building your empire now.” Bianca let out a breath she’d been holding, clearly believing she had won. She was just opening her mouth to launch back into her startup manifesto when the phone on the table violently vibrated. Not the burner. Her main iPhone. The caller ID was a string of digits. No name attached. Bianca glanced at the screen, and I watched the muscles in her neck tighten. She hit the red decline button without a second thought. Two seconds later, it rang again. The relentless, blaring marimba ringtone echoed off the kitchen tiles, deafening in the quiet room. I watched her, a detached observer at a train wreck. “Why aren’t you answering that?” She forced a tight laugh, holding down the power button to shut the phone off entirely. “Spam callers. So annoying.” But the beads of sweat breaking out along her hairline told a different story. A minute later, the burner phone pinged. An incoming WhatsApp audio call. Bianca shot up from her chair like she’d been electrocuted, grabbing her blazer off the back of the sofa. “One of the investors just pulled together a last-minute dinner. Urgent strategy pivot.” “I have to go. Right now.” She didn’t even bother pulling her heels on all the way, practically crushing the backs of the leather as she bolted out the front door. The door slammed shut, rattling in its frame. I sat at the table, staring at the swollen, soggy mass of ramen, and let out a dry, hollow chuckle. I stood up, cleared the table, and went to move the leather tote bag she had dumped carelessly on the couch. As I lifted it, a crumpled piece of thermal receipt paper slipped out of the side pocket and fluttered to the floor. I picked it up and smoothed it out. It was a point-of-sale receipt from a luxury boutique on Fifth Avenue. 3 The item: A men’s watch. The price: $12,000. The timestamp: 2:15 PM, today. At 2:15 PM today, she had texted me complaining that she was locked in a boardroom with investors and hadn’t even had time to chew a protein bar for lunch. I pulled out my phone, snapped a crystal-clear photo of the receipt, folded it back up, and tucked it perfectly into the pocket of her bag. I didn’t scream. My eyes didn’t sting with tears. My brain had never felt sharper. The fog of the last seven years had burned away, leaving a blinding, clinical clarity in its wake. Our entire history was nothing but a punchline. I wanted to know exactly how deep the rot went. I sat at my desk and booted up my laptop, logging into the shared Google Drive we had set up years ago. I had never once snooped. I believed in boundaries. I believed in her. Looking back, that trust was nothing short of suicidal. The drive was cluttered with folders. I bypassed the ones labeled Pitch Decks, Q3 Financials, and Meeting Minutes. I dug until I found a hidden, password-protected subfolder titled Overhead. I guessed the password on the first try. It was the date she incorporated her LLC. Inside was a graveyard of electronic invoices and Zelle screenshots. Confirmations for corner suites at the Ritz-Carlton. Receipts for omakase dinners. And page after page of massive cash transfers. Every single recipient name belonged to a young man. I stared at the numbers glowing on the screen, and my hands started to shake. Not from heartbreak. From an all-consuming, white-hot rage. I had agonized over adding a $3 avocado to my grocery basket to save her money. Meanwhile, she was taking the cash I bled for, the money I traded my sleep and health for, and throwing it at college boys. This wasn’t just infidelity. This was systematic, parasitic financial abuse. I took a slow, deep breath, selected every single file, and downloaded the entire archive directly onto my encrypted external hard drive. For the next few days, I played the part of the oblivious, supportive boyfriend. I woke up early to brew her coffee. I paid the Wi-Fi bill on time. Believing she had successfully pacified me, Bianca grew reckless. She started coming home at 3 AM, or not coming home at all. The excuse was always the same: late-night client entertainment, networking drinks, sealing the deal. I followed the digital breadcrumbs she left behind and found the lease agreement for a Porsche 911 in her name. Monthly lease payment: $8,000. My monthly grocery allowance from her: $100. One night, she walked into the apartment reeking of expensive cologne and stale cigarette smoke. I was sitting in the dark on the couch, watching her struggle to unzip her dress. “Where were you today?” I asked. She froze, her eyes darting away from mine. “I told you this morning. I was playing 18 holes with Richard Caldwell. God, networking is exhausting.” She kicked off her shoes and headed for the bathroom. “Do you need to rent an $8,000 Porsche to play golf?” The words hung in the air. She stopped dead in her tracks, rooted to the center of the living room rug. Slowly, Bianca turned around. Her face was a mask of pure, venomous fury. “Are you auditing me, Joel?” She closed the distance between us, jabbing a manicured finger at my chest. “I leased that car to project success! Do you think these venture capitalists are idiots?” “If I don’t look like I already have money, who the hell is going to write me a check?” Her voice echoed off the walls, pitching higher, leaning into the performance of a deeply wronged martyr. “I am working myself into an early grave for our future.” “And instead of having my back, you’re sneaking around like a rat, digging through my finances.” “You disappoint me, Joel. You really do.” And then came the history lesson. The classic redirection playbook. “Have you conveniently forgotten who slept in the uncomfortable plastic chair at the hospital for three days when you had your surgery two years ago?” “Have you forgotten who supported you for six months when you got laid off from the agency?” “Do you have a single shred of gratitude in your body?” I sat there, perfectly still, watching spit fly from her lips as she performed her outrage. When I had my surgery, yes, she was in the room. She spent those three days sitting in the corner, playing Candy Crush on her iPad, and didn’t so much as pour me a cup of ice chips. When I lost my job, I lived exclusively off my own savings. Her version of “supporting me” consisted of bringing home lukewarm, half-off takeout from the deli downstairs on her way home from work. I let her finish. Then, I cut through the noise with a flat, even tone. “Since you’re out there hustling so hard… you can cover the rent from now on.” 4 Bianca’s jaw practically hit the floor. She hadn’t expected me to touch the money. Her eyes widened in genuine disbelief. “Excuse me? What are you saying? You’re nickel-and-diming me now?” “You lease a Porsche,” I replied smoothly. “Surely a couple thousand for rent is pocket change for a CEO like you.” I stood up, towering over her, holding her gaze. She hit the impenetrable wall of my stare, and her aggressive posture deflated. The fire went out, replaced by a panicked backpedaling. “Joel, please, don’t throw a tantrum over this.” “The company accounts are locked tight right now. Once the liquidity frees up, I will reimburse you for every single cent, I promise.” She slapped on that sickly-sweet, placating smile, trying to smooth over the crack in the ice. I didn’t say another word. I walked past her, went into the guest bedroom, and locked the door. The next morning, I woke up to an Instagram DM request. It was a photo. A young guy, barely out of his twenties, sitting in the passenger seat of a Porsche. Resting casually on his steering wheel hand was the $12,000 watch. The caption was a masterclass in provocation. Sugar mama privileges hit different. In the background of the shot, I could clearly see the custom leather car freshener I had bought Bianca for her birthday last month. I clicked on the profile. It belonged to Zane, the new “marketing intern” at her company. I stared at the glowing screen for a long time. Then, I laughed. A cold, hard sound in the empty room. Bianca thought she was a criminal mastermind, moving her pieces seamlessly across the board. She had no idea that her little toys were getting restless in the dark. They were eager to mark their territory, desperate to push the boring, live-in boyfriend out of the picture. But I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of a screaming match. I wanted them to have front-row seats when their glamorous, deep-pocketed sugar mama was stripped down to absolute zero overnight. I took a screenshot of the DM and dropped it into my encrypted hard drive with the rest of the arsenal. I had everything I needed. It was time to pull the trigger. That weekend, Bianca came home shockingly early. She walked through the door carrying a sleek bakery box, her face plastered with an eager, fawning smile. “Joel! Happy seven-year anniversary.” “Look, I went all the way across town and waited in line for that dark chocolate truffle cake you love.” She set the expensive box in the center of the dining table, frantically trying to engineer a moment of domestic bliss. I stared at the intricate ribbons on the box. I felt absolutely nothing. Seven years. A monumental block of my life, traded for a mountain of cheap lies. “Thanks,” I said. My voice was utterly dead. Bianca faltered, clearly unsettled by the ice in my tone. She rubbed her hands together awkwardly. “I’m gonna jump in the shower, I smell like the subway. Let’s cut the cake when I get out, okay?” She practically fled into the bathroom, in such a rush she didn’t even grab a change of clothes. The shower turned on. I walked slowly toward the bathroom door and looked at the vanity just outside it. Her main iPhone was sitting right there by the sink. The screen was still illuminated. In her haste to play the loving girlfriend, she had been texting someone and forgot to lock it. I didn’t even have to guess a passcode. I picked it up. The messaging app was open. Pinned at the very top was a group chat titled Core Operations. There were six members. Besides Bianca, the other five avatars were all selfies of young, attractive guys. Zane was in there. So was Tristan. I scrolled up lightly. The conversation was jarringly explicit. Ten minutes ago, Bianca had dropped a massive Apple Cash payment into the group with the caption: Happy weekend, boys. Play nice. Zane had instantly claimed his share, replying: Thanks baby. You coming over tonight? Tristan chimed in right beneath him: Hey, you’re playing favorites, Boss. You spent all day yesterday with Zane, it’s my turn today. 5 Bianca’s reply: Down boys. The schedule is pinned in the files. Everyone plays by the rules. I tapped the pinned file. It was a Google Sheet labeled Q3 Logistics. It was a meticulously color-coded calendar. Monday through Friday, it detailed exactly which bed she was sleeping in. Weekends were blocked out in gray: Home base. Maintenance duty. — Meaning, come back to the apartment to keep me docile. The spreadsheet included columns for their preferred luxury brands, dietary restrictions, and their fixed monthly stipends. The combined total was bleeding $110,000 out of her accounts every thirty days. And there, in a little notes column next to my name, was a single phrase: Free maid / ATM. The chat history was a graveyard of insults directed at me. There was a voice memo from Zane. I held the phone to my ear. “Can’t believe the idiot still thinks you’re broke and grinding for VC money. He bought you dollar-store underwear? What a pathetic loser.” Tristan’s text followed: Just keep him on a leash. A free maid is a free maid. Once your series B clears, we’ll kick him to the curb. And Bianca’s final message in the thread: Don’t worry about him. He’s incredibly naive. He’ll never leave me. I stared at the blue and gray bubbles. The familiar nausea rolled through my stomach, heavy and dark. No tears. No heartbreak. Just a freezing, arctic rage. This was the woman I had given my twenties to. This was the “entrepreneurial dream” I had sacrificed my own career to fund. I walked away from the vanity, phone in hand. I stepped into the living room, picked up the new underwear she had bought to replace the ones I threw away, grabbed the designer coat draped over the chair, and shoved all of it into the kitchen trash. Then, using her unlocked phone, I took screenshots of the Core Operations chat. Every voice memo transcription, every Apple Cash drop, the entire color-coded schedule. I attached the screenshots, along with the PDF of the luxury receipts from the hidden Dropbox folder. I selected all contacts. Her angel investors. Her VC partners. Her suppliers. Her parents. Her aunts and uncles. BCC: All. Send. I watched the little blue bar shoot across the top of the screen. Delivered. I walked into the bathroom, dropped her iPhone directly into the toilet bowl, and pressed the flush lever. I walked back to my bedroom, pulled my duffel bag from the closet, and shoved my essentials inside. Laptop, documents, three changes of clothes. I locked my bedroom door from the inside. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, I pulled out my own phone, navigated to the SEC whistleblower portal, and the local authorities’ white-collar crime division website. I uploaded the raw files of her fraudulent expense reports, the diverted corporate funds used for her escorts, and the forged invoices. Submission Successful. I leaned my head back against the wall and let out a long, slow exhale. Enjoy the weekend, Bianca. It’s your last one.

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I spent five years training Oliver into a docile, obedient boyfriend. Yet, on his twenty-third birthday, he still leaped into action to save a beautiful girl in a wheelchair. I finally believed it: no matter what I did, I couldn’t stop him from meeting the true “female lead” and falling in love with her. So, I broke up with him. I even told our mutual friends: “Oliver? He’s just an ungrateful stray dog. Whoever pets him, he follows.” Rumor had it. When Oliver heard those words, he bought a plane ticket out of the country that very day and completely dropped off the grid. Three years later, on a random night. I was pinned against my front door by a violent, unhinged man. He handed me a switchblade, grabbed my right hand, and guided it toward the leather choker around his neck. “Hazel, I am your dog. Yours alone.” “If you don’t want me, then kill me.” 1 I had a crush on Oliver for exactly ten years. But just yesterday, I had an awakening. I realized I was just cannon fodder in a romance novel. And Oliver’s destined soulmate wasn’t me. Just as I was agonizing over whether to bury this decade-long love deep in my heart forever… Oliver used our college graduation party as an excuse to publicly confess his feelings to me. I was ecstatic, but I didn’t dare say yes right away. Because I knew the truth. By the end of the novel, the male lead would only end up with the female lead. Even if I accepted his confession now. I would inevitably be dumped later. I was terrified of heartbreak, and even more terrified of ending up like my character in the original book—abandoned by Oliver in the pouring rain. So. I didn’t reach out to take the roses he offered. “Oliver, I don’t think we’re a good match.” “My tastes are a bit unconventional. You probably wouldn’t be able to handle it.” Oliver immediately insisted: “I can handle anything.” I took a deep breath, curling my lips into a wicked, playful smile: “I’m extremely dominant. I want a future boyfriend who is gentle, unconditionally obedient, and willing to be my dog.” “Bark for me.” Amidst the roaring crowd, Oliver dropped to one knee in front of me and gently hooked his finger around mine. “Master, take me home.” “Please?” 2 The scene from that day spread through our entire social circle like wildfire. Oliver’s iconic “willing to be a dog for love” moment was recorded by a classmate, posted on TikTok, and blew up. It hit a million likes overnight. It drew in countless people who actually knew Oliver. [Holy crap, I know Oliver. He’s our varsity basketball captain. Handsome, straight-A student, 6’2″, and old money. How the hell did he end up barking like a dog?!] [Bro, who’s more pathetic than me? Oliver was my crush. I simped for him forever and got rejected. Now I know: simps don’t like other simps.] [Manifesting this exact kind of boyfriend. Just once before I die, please.] [Can you guys drop the details on what exactly he does as a ‘dog’ behind closed doors?] … Everyone cheered for our relationship. But I was the only one with a lingering sense of dread. I was counting down the days every single second. According to the original plotline… How many days were left until Zoe made her appearance? Over the course of five years, I trained Oliver into an incredibly obedient and attentive boyfriend. Oliver even created a couple’s account for us to vlog our ridiculously sweet daily lives. In just a few short years, it grew into an empire with tens of millions of followers. Even the internet unanimously approved: [OP, you know the internet usually tells everyone to break up, right? But your boyfriend is too perfect. If you ever dump him, pass him to me.] [I have sensitive skin, can I also get this exact brand of boyfriend?] [Girl, how did you manage to bag the best guy in the world? Drop the link, I’m ordering ten.] [After doom-scrolling through so many toxic relationship videos, seeing OP and her boyfriend literally cured my depression.] I finally breathed a sigh of relief. I figured… Even if Zoe showed up eventually, it shouldn’t cause any real damage. But on Oliver’s twenty-third birthday, the inevitable accident happened anyway. 3 Oliver had just closed his eyes to make a wish over his birthday candles. Suddenly, he bolted out the door like a madman, sprinting straight toward the steep incline across from the cafe. On the hill, a girl’s wheelchair had lost control and was rolling backward at terrifying speed. Just as the wheelchair was about to tip over, in the absolute nick of time… Oliver threw himself forward, using his own body to catch Zoe. Zoe fell into his arms, completely unharmed. But Oliver’s forehead hit a stone in the planter, and blood started streaming down his face. Watching the entire scene unfold, I literally forgot how to breathe. Oliver is a cold person by nature. He doesn’t toss spare change to the homeless, he doesn’t help girls open water bottles, he doesn’t help the elderly cross the street, and he certainly doesn’t give up his seat on the subway. For such a selfish, indifferent guy to suddenly turn into a hero… My heart, which had been hanging by a thread for five years, finally died. I ran out the side door of the cafe like I was fleeing for my life. I wandered aimlessly down the busy city streets. The pale sky suddenly dropped a few scattered raindrops. In that moment. I finally believed that no matter what I did, I couldn’t stop the universe from forcing Oliver and the female lead to meet and fall in love. So what were these past five years? Just a long, pathetic joke in Oliver’s life. Oliver finally realized I was gone and sent a text: [Hazel, where did you go?] I typed out a massive paragraph, deleted it, typed more, and eventually whittled it down to a single sentence: [Let’s break up. I’ve wanted to for a long time.] I felt that even if I told him the truth about the novel, it wouldn’t matter. Maybe at first, he would swear up and down that he would never change his mind. But as time went on… The scales in his heart were fated to tip toward Zoe. Just like in the original book. Today, Zoe was supposed to be in a run-down neighborhood on the outskirts of the city, miles away from here. And Oliver was supposed to meet her there. See? Even though I kept Oliver far away from that neighborhood… Zoe still appeared. They were the destined pair. I was just an insignificant glitch in the matrix. The next day, when I saw Zoe getting added to a group chat that Oliver and I were both in by one of our mutual friends… I wasn’t even surprised. She was the female lead, after all. She was meant to slowly infiltrate his life. My friends would probably all become her friends in the end. 4 Oliver, completely blindsided by the sudden breakup, was frantic. He texted me: [Hazel, listen to me. I swear to God I have no idea why I suddenly ran out there to save that girl today.] [I didn’t even see her at first, do you believe me?] […Hazel, please reply. I’m begging you.] I sat by the bay window, leaving my phone on the cushion, letting the screen light up and go dark over and over again. The phone was on silent, vibrations off. No calls would make a sound. Just like that. I sat there and watched the pouring rain all night. The next morning, I put on flawless, sharp makeup and went to work like usual. My coworker Becca was a mutual friend of Oliver and me. She had somehow heard through the grapevine that Oliver and I were fighting, and she tried to play peacemaker: “Hazel, what’s going on with you and Oliver? Is it really over that wheelchair girl?” “She’s just a random stranger. Oliver was probably just acting on instinct.” “If you break up with him over this, you’re punishing him for the rest of his life just for doing one good deed.” I smiled faintly: “You don’t understand him.” “Oliver? He’s just an ungrateful stray dog. Whoever pets him, he follows.” “I set my terms. I said I wanted a boyfriend who was obedient and submissive. If he can’t follow my rules, he’s out.” Honestly, when I said those harsh words… My heart was breaking more than anyone else’s. But I had already tried my best. It didn’t work. So be it. I might as well clean up the mess and salvage what was left of my pride. That way, years from now, when he and Zoe were lying in bed talking about me, my memory would at least be cold, aloof, and untouchable. 5 I got home from work. And saw a new string of texts from Oliver. He was confronting me about what I had said to Becca: [So, Hazel, in your eyes, I’m just a dog you throw away the second you get bored, and then you have the nerve to call me an ungrateful stray?] [How did I never know you were this kind of person!] I replied instantly: [Well, now you know.] [I really am that despicable.] Oliver shot back: [I want to fucking bite you to death, Hazel.] [I refuse to break up. Get back together with me. Right now.] I responded with a swift, merciless ‘Block’. Starting the very next day, Oliver completely vanished from my world. It wasn’t until two weeks later that I found out the truth. Rumor had it, the night I blocked Oliver, he bought the earliest flight out of the country the next morning. Becca said Oliver had asked her to pass on a message. “What did he say?” I asked, flipping through some files, feigning total indifference without even looking up. “He said he hates you to death.” “He left the TikTok account to you. You can rebrand it and monetize it however you want, and you can delete all the old videos. He said he doesn’t care anymore…” After finishing, Becca tried to comfort me: “Hazel, how did things blow up this badly between you two?” “I really feel like he just said all that out of anger. Don’t take it to heart. Once you calm down, just snap your fingers and he’ll be crawling back to apologize…” “No.” I shook my head, cutting her off: “We are really, truly over.” On the outside, I was a picture of perfect calm. But those words echoed violently in my head. From the moment I got to work until the second I went to sleep, they haunted me. I sat paralyzed on my sofa, staring blankly into space for hours. It wasn’t until the washing machine finished its cycle and beeped that the trance broke. And two streams of scalding tears finally rolled down my cheeks. Goodbye forever, Oliver. Just hate me. Never forgive me. 6 One night, three years later. I dragged my exhausted body, on the verge of fainting, and finally made it to my front door. My boss was a tyrant. He knew my period cramps were making me want to die, but he absolutely refused to let me take a half-day off. To make it worse, he intentionally scheduled a “last-minute meeting” right at clock-out, torturing me for two extra hours. Maybe I was already delirious. I dug through my purse for an eternity but couldn’t find my keys. I also completely failed to notice the long, dark shadow looming over my head. Before I knew it, I was violently slammed against my own front door. I jumped out of my skin, stammering in terror: “M-Mr. Mugger, let’s talk this out.” “I have an infectious disease, so assaulting me is a bad idea. How about you just rob me? I have 67 bucks in my Venmo, I can send it to you right now. Do you have a QR code? If it’s not enough, I can try to scrape some more together.” “Heh.” The violent, brooding man let out a dark, mocking scoff. He lowered his gaze and pulled down his face mask. I hadn’t seen him in three years. I don’t know what country Oliver had been living in. But he looked incredibly dark, melancholic, and dangerously unhinged. I strained to look up at him. He was so tall. He towered over me by more than a full head. “Oliver, could you duck down a bit? My neck hurts.” Oliver froze for a second, but obediently lowered his head. I pushed my luck and asked: “What do you want from me?” “I just need you to do me a favor.” Oliver pulled a folding pocketknife from his jacket and handed it to me. Then, he wrapped his large hand tightly around my right hand, slowly guiding the blade toward the leather choker around his neck. “I spent three years figuring it out.” “Hazel, I am your dog. Yours alone.” “If you don’t want me, then kill me.”

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