Category: English

My childhood best friend, Ethan, broke up with his girlfriend again and came straight to my place. Afterward, he casually grabbed his clothes and pulled them on, his face suddenly darkening. “Chloe, whose shirt is this?” I tiredly opened my eyes and glanced over. “My boyfriend’s.” “Oh, I forgot to mention. Don’t come over anymore. My boyfriend gets jealous.” 1 Ethan froze for a second, then stared at me with a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Playing this game again?” My sleepiness vanished as I realized Ethan had completely misunderstood. He thought I was making up a boyfriend just to test if he would get jealous over me. I wanted to argue, but then I remembered that I had actually pulled that stupid stunt in the past. Ethan pulled off the shirt, tossed it into the trash can, picked his own shirt off the floor, and put it on. Before leaving, he let out a mocking scoff. “Chloe, next time, why don’t you bring this ‘boyfriend’ out so I can meet him?” He deliberately emphasized the word boyfriend. Not even twenty-four hours later, Ethan and his girlfriend were back together. In the VIP booth of the club, Ethan and his girlfriend were practically glued to each other. I had been dragged here at the last minute by some mutual friends. The moment I walked through the door, I met Ethan’s pitch-black eyes. A second later, his gaze shifted, looking past me toward the empty space behind my back. The corners of his lips curled up in an amused, playful smirk. It was as if he was asking: Where’s the boyfriend? I pretended I didn’t see his mocking stare. The drinking games started quickly. In the first round, Ethan lost. But the “punishment” was basically a reward. Ethan and his girlfriend had to make out passionately in front of everyone for a full ten minutes. It was enough to make everyone in the room thirsty and restless. “Ethan, man, save it for the bedroom! Stop rubbing it in our faces.” “Seriously, give the single people a break…” The two of them were so lost in each other they couldn’t even hear the crowd. When they finally pulled apart, the woman’s eyes were hazy, her lips slightly swollen and glistening. My gaze drifted upward, meeting the man’s perfectly clear, sober dark eyes. It was as if he wasn’t the one who had just been passionately making out. I instantly felt a flush of embarrassment, like a peeping tom caught in the act, and quickly looked away. As the game neared its end, the empty beer bottle spun and landed pointing directly at me. The punishment: Choose any guy in the room to kiss. I hesitated, unable to make a choice while everyone whistled and urged me on. Ethan’s confident voice cut through the noise. “Chloe, if you want to pick me, just say it. What’s there to be embarrassed about…” But the exact moment the words left his mouth, I turned and chose another guy sitting next to me. Instantly, the color drained from Ethan’s face. He let out a cold, sharp “Hah,” as if condemning my lack of appreciation for his offer. The atmosphere froze for a split second before the cheering resumed. Just as my lips touched the other guy’s, a loud crash of shattering glass echoed through the room, followed by a woman’s panicked voice. “Ethan, your hand is bleeding…” The guy and I quickly pulled apart. While everyone’s attention was focused on Ethan, I discreetly pulled the thin piece of clear plastic wrap from my lips. When I looked over, Ethan was staring at me with a freezing, deadly glare. He was probably blaming me for not picking him, making him lose face in front of the group. I quietly looked away. When the party broke up and we were leaving. I was standing on the curb waiting for an Uber when Ethan’s car pulled up right in front of me. His girlfriend, Mia, leaned out the window. “Chloe, we’re heading the same way. Hop in, we’ll give you a ride…” Before Mia could even finish her sentence, she was coldly cut off by the expressionless man behind the wheel. “It’s out of our way.” The sports car peeled off with a loud screech, kicking up a cloud of dust in my face. 2 That night. I had just finished showering and was getting ready for bed when I heard the front door unlock. Just as I was about to go check, my bedroom door was pushed open. The next second, I was pinned against the door, a familiar scent overwhelming my senses. My lips were kissed roughly, almost bitten, as if he was venting some deep rage. I shoved and struggled, finally biting down hard on the person’s lip. The man pulled back with a hiss of pain, panting heavily. “Chloe, you’re just trying to piss me off, aren’t you?! Kissing another guy right in front of my face.” “Ethan, you aren’t my dad. What gives you the right to control me?” Ethan’s voice went ice-cold. “Chloe, say that one more time.” “I’ll say it as many times as I want. You’re just my—” Before I could finish the sentence, my lips were brutally sealed again. Later, I don’t know how, but it turned into: “Be a good girl. Call me Daddy.” I bit my lip, absolutely refusing to satisfy his twisted bedroom power trip. “No—” Suddenly, the man’s lips curled into a smirk. The next second, he drove himself downward heavily. Caught completely off guard, I couldn’t stop a sharp scream from escaping my lips. If I didn’t say it, he was determined to make me surrender, relentlessly tormenting me. “Be a good girl. Say it.” …… By the end, my eyes were squeezed shut and I couldn’t even speak. In my dizzy, exhausted haze, I felt Ethan get out of bed, pour a glass of water, and help me drink it. Afterward, he pinched my cheek and threatened me: “Are you ever going to kiss another guy again?” I had absolutely no idea what he was saying and fell into a deep, heavy sleep. Early the next morning, I was woken up by frantic, aggressive pounding on my front door. I threw on a thin cardigan and walked out. The moment I unlocked the door, the person outside shoved her way in, looking furious. “Was Ethan here last night?” The woman’s eyes locked onto my neck, her expression changing drastically. She lunged forward and forcefully yanked my cardigan open. Before I could even react, a burning, stinging pain exploded across my cheek. “Chloe, are you a fucking whore?! You know perfectly well that Ethan is my boyfriend! Why do you keep throwing yourself at him?!” My exposed skin was covered in a dense map of hickeys left by the man last night. Mia looked at me like she wanted to eat me alive. She raised her hand to deliver another slap. But her wrist was caught by the man who had, at some point, walked out of my bedroom. “Mia, are you out of your fucking mind?” “You were the one who dumped me last night. What’s the point of running over here to throw a tantrum now?” “Ethan, you always told me you just saw her as a little sister! What is this then?! Is sleeping with her incest?!” “You two are—you’re fucking disgusting!” Mia shoved Ethan away and ran out, sobbing hysterically. Ethan didn’t make a single move to chase after her. Instead, he looked down at my red, swollen cheek. “Does it hurt a lot? Don’t take what she said to heart…” I gently pushed his hand away. “Ethan, leave. Don’t come back here anymore.” The man’s hand froze in mid-air, his temper flaring up again. “Chloe, that is enough. How much longer are you going to be mad? I literally broke up with her for you. Isn’t that enough?” “So what exactly is our relationship now?” My question made him pause. Then, he softened his tone. “Can’t we just be like we were before? Whether I have a girlfriend or not, it won’t change our relationship.” “Ethan, we are done.” I turned my head away. Ethan stared at me for a moment, then left without another word. Except for the fact that he slammed my front door so hard the walls shook. 3 The next day at noon. I texted Ethan, telling him to sign for a package. I had boxed up every single thing he had ever left at my place and shipped it to him. A few minutes later, my phone rang. “Chloe, what the hell is the meaning of this?” His voice was gritted through his teeth, heavy with nasal congestion, like he had caught a bad cold. “I’m moving.” “Chloe, you’ve really pissed me off this time.” “If I ever speak to you again, I’m a fucking dog!” He abruptly hung up. Right before the line went dead, I heard the sound of something shattering violently against the floor. The phone rang again. This time, it was my mom. “Sweetie, Arthur is already on his way to pick you up. Are you ready?” Arthur Hayes is the son of my mom’s best friend, and the man I’m currently dating. My mom, terrified that I was wasting my youth waiting around for Ethan, constantly texted me photos of Arthur—pictures that looked suspiciously like they were taken secretly. She couldn’t go three sentences without bringing up Arthur, talking about how handsome and successful he was. I couldn’t deny that the guy in the photos was an absolute ten, honestly even better-looking than Ethan. But who knew how heavily photoshopped they were? Seeing my skepticism, my mom immediately initiated a FaceTime call. Before I could hit decline, the other side answered, and a polite, deep voice offered a greeting. I was completely captivated by that low, magnetic voice. I couldn’t help but sneak a peek at the man on the screen. I was completely stunned. He was even better looking in real life than in the photos. He had a strong brow bone, eyes so dark you couldn’t see the bottom, with a slight, elegant tilt at the corners, and a perfectly straight nose. The faint smile on his thin lips softened his otherwise aloof and unapproachable aura. In that split second, I could hear my own heart pounding loudly in my chest. Is it possible that my only real type is just “ridiculously handsome”? It wasn’t until my mom nudged me with her elbow that I snapped back to reality. “Sweetie, what are you doing? I’ve called your name three times. Say hi to Arthur!” “Did you forget? You totally kissed him when you were little! You even said you were going to marry Arthur when you grew up and move into his house.” Through a series of fortunate events, we had our first official date. Then a second… until I honestly lost count of how many times we’d seen each other. It wasn’t until Arthur recently went on an overseas business trip… And Ethan showed up at my door after fighting with his girlfriend again, that I realized how long it had been since I’d even thought about Ethan. But at the time, my hormones were a mess, and I’d been single for a while. Faced with a man I used to have feelings for—and someone I had great physical chemistry with—showing up at my door, I made the mistake every woman makes at least once. Now, Arthur was back in the States. And I had drawn a permanent, hard line with Ethan. Everything was perfect. But I never in a million years expected to run into Ethan at the restaurant where we were having dinner. The man who swore he was a dog if he ever spoke to me again shamelessly pulled up a chair and sat right next to me, acting like he owned the place. He deliberately leaned in close and whispered: “Aren’t you going to introduce me to… this older gentleman?” “My boyfriend, Arthur Hayes.” I introduced Ethan to Arthur: “Just an acquaintance.” I shifted away to create some distance, but Ethan leaned in again, forcing himself into the narrative. “She means we grew up together. Childhood sweethearts.” I immediately shot back: “But we aren’t close.” Arthur offered a faint smile, his gaze landing softly on my face. “What a coincidence. I actually held Chloe when she was a newborn.” Instantly, Arthur flipped the script. “I assume Mr. Wright was probably just a toddler in diapers back then, too.” After a few rounds of verbal sparring, Ethan’s face cycled through shades of green and white. The other man calmly sipped his tea, acting nonchalant as he asked: “Chloe, is this green tea?” I nodded. Arthur smiled, seemingly in a great mood, and complimented it: “This really is… excellent tea.” (Note: “Green tea” is slang for someone who acts innocent but is actually manipulative and trying to steal someone’s partner). Ethan finally couldn’t take the humiliation anymore. He slammed his cup down and stormed off. Halfway through the meal, I went to the restroom. I had been slightly worried that Ethan might blurt out something completely inappropriate and ruin the dinner. But it seemed that worry was unfounded. However, the second I stepped out of the restroom, someone violently grabbed my wrist and yanked me into an alcove. Before I could even process what was happening, Ethan started hurling mocking insults at me. “Heh. Boyfriend?” “Chloe? Only a creepy old man would use a pet name like that so casually.” “Held you when you were a baby? Please.” “He might look like he has his shit together, but he only knows how to prey on naive, brainless girls like you.” “Your mom must be going blind in her old age to set you up with an old guy like that.” I frowned. “He’s only six years older than me. How does that make him an old man?” “A three-year age gap is a generational divide. What could you two possibly have in common?” “That doesn’t matter. My mom says older men know how to treat a woman right.” “Older men can’t get it up.” Every time I said a sentence, he let out a cold, sarcastic snort, acting like a bitter heckler. “Chloe, do you honestly think I’m going to believe you just found some random guy to play your boyfriend? Blocking my number? Throwing out all my stuff? Do you know what that proves? The harder you try to push me away, the more it proves that you—can’t let me go!” After finishing his delusional rant, the man leaned close to my ear as he was leaving and whispered: “But I am curious. What do you think would happen if he found out about what we did?” “And we’re not close? Chloe, tell me, which part of your body am I not intimately familiar with?” “Are we not close in bed?” My face flushed bright red. I glared fiercely at this utterly shameless bastard. Seeing my reaction, Ethan finally looked satisfied and smiled. He walked away with a noticeable bounce in his step, even offering a friendly nod to a stranger walking past. His back looked like a proud, arrogant peacock. 4 A few days later, Ethan somehow managed to get Arthur’s phone number. He invited him out for drinks behind my back. By the time I rushed to the bar, Arthur was already surrounded by a group of guys, acting incredibly friendly, having drank God knows how much. Soon after, they started playing a drinking game. The loser had to answer a truth question. After a few rounds, Ethan got annoyed that there were too many people. He told everyone else to get lost and insisted on playing one-on-one with Arthur. In the first round, Ethan won. “How many women have you slept with?” I glared at Ethan. He pretended not to see me. Assuming Arthur might be hesitant to answer, he offered a fake-helpful suggestion: “If Mr. Hayes isn’t comfortable answering, we can skip it. Or maybe I can ask a different—” Arthur answered immediately: “Chloe is my first girlfriend.” I don’t know if it was my imagination, but when this usually mature, composed man said those words, a brief flash of shyness crossed his face, and his ears actually turned a bit red. Ethan clearly didn’t believe him. “There’s no point in lying, man.” I was also a little skeptical. Arthur explained that he had spent his twenties entirely focused on his education. During grad school, he and some friends launched a tech startup. He literally never had the time to consider a personal life, which was why he had been single until now. Ethan let out a harsh “Heh,” and started the next round. “Does Mr. Hayes really like Chloe?” “Yes.” “And does Chloe like you?” “She is my girlfriend. If she stops liking me in the future, it will absolutely be because I failed to be a good enough partner to her.” …… After a few more rounds, Ethan got frustrated again and changed the rules to just straight drinking. The group of guys started relentlessly pouring shots. Or to be more accurate, they all teamed up to aggressively try and drink Arthur under the table. Arthur didn’t refuse a single glass, tossing them back smoothly. Ethan picked up another glass and raised it toward Arthur. I grabbed Arthur’s glass and hissed at Ethan in a low voice: “Are you crazy? He’s already had way too much.” “I’ll drink this one for him, and then we’re leaving.” Ethan’s voice was dripping with cold, bitter sarcasm: “It hasn’t even been a week, and you’re already desperately protecting him?” “Did you forget your own name?” Arthur gently took the glass from my hand. “Chloe, it’s fine. I’ll drink it.” “You guys grew up together. I don’t want to ruin your friendship over me.” I watched him drain the glass with deep concern. I didn’t notice the way Ethan was staring at Arthur, grinding his back teeth so hard they could shatter. It was a look that screamed murder. After finishing the drink, Arthur suddenly grabbed his stomach, looking like he was in immense pain. The veins on the back of his hand bulged. I quickly asked him: “Arthur, what’s wrong?” “I’m fine.” “We’re done drinking. We’re going home.” Terrified that something serious was wrong with Arthur, I helped him stand up to leave. As we reached the door, Ethan marched over, practically radiating dark, violent energy. I instinctively stepped in front of Arthur to shield him. “Ethan, what the hell do you want now?” Ethan stopped in his tracks. A flash of genuine hurt crossed his eyes before he swept a freezing glare over me. Finally, he leaned in and whispered something into Arthur’s ear that I couldn’t hear. Then, he stood there and watched us leave. The voices behind us slowly faded away. “Ethan, is Chloe really dating that older guy?” “No way. Everyone knows Chloe has been in love with Ethan since they were kids.” “This is definitely just a girl playing games. She’s not doing this for the first time. She just wants to make Ethan jealous.” “But what if she actually falls for that guy?” “Wanna bet on it?” “I’ll put my money on Ethan, obviously.” “But that guy doesn’t look like a downgrade from Ethan. What if he actually wins…”

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My mother said I was a starving ghost reincarnated, so she forced me to wear an anti-gluttony shock collar. On my sister’s birthday, my mother bought her a cake, and I said I wanted a piece too. My mother grabbed the remote and activated the collar, sending a jolt of electricity through me. “You even want to steal your sister’s cake? Have you no shame?!” My sister hated the fatty parts of meat, so she threw them on the floor. When I secretly picked a piece up to eat, I was caught. My mother activated the collar again. “Trying to steal your sister’s meat? You really are a starving ghost reincarnated!” When my stomach ulcer flared up from hunger and I tried to grab a piece of chocolate, my mother shoved me away violently. “This is your sister’s New Year’s gift, and you’re trying to steal this too?!” She gently picked up my sister, saying she was taking her out to celebrate the New Year. When she shoved me, my head slammed against the table. Suddenly, my stomach didn’t seem to hurt as much anymore. It felt like I would never have to feel hungry again. 1 I hunched over, clutching my stomach, dense beads of cold sweat breaking out across my forehead. The burning agony in my stomach made it impossible to sit or stand still. It felt as if a pair of invisible hands were squeezing my insides, making even breathing difficult. I stumbled out of my room, my vision blurred as I searched for food. Anything would do, as long as it filled my stomach. That’s when I saw a beautifully wrapped box sitting on the dining table. I rushed toward it. It was a box of exquisite chocolates, the kind I had never tasted before. My mouth watered instantly. I swallowed hard and reached out a trembling hand. Just one piece. If I just eat one piece, no one will notice, right? But the moment my fingers brushed the packaging, a hand violently shoved me away. I didn’t have time to react, nor did I have the strength to. I crashed to the floor. Losing my footing, the side of my head slammed heavily against the sharp corner of the table. Something warm began flowing down the side of my face. I touched it with trembling fingers. It was blood. Bright red blood, dripping down, drop by drop. My mother didn’t care at all. She frowned, looking at me with pure disgust. “This is a New Year’s gift for your sister, and you’re trying to steal it from her?! You selfish little brat!” The burning in my stomach seemed to intensify. My lips pale, I clutched my abdomen, completely devoid of the strength to argue back. And I knew deep down that even if I did argue, she wouldn’t listen. “Mom… I’m so hungry…” I used the last ounce of my strength to force those words out. Instead of answering, my mother pulled the collar’s remote from her pocket and slammed her thumb onto the activation button. Before I could even brace myself, a powerful surge of electricity ripped through my entire body. I writhed on the floor, howling in agony. Every inch of me was screaming in pain. “Try stealing food again, I dare you! Hungry? You stole all your sister’s nutrients when you were in my womb, and now you want to steal her chocolate?! You make me sick!” My lips moved silently, trying to say, No, that’s not true. It wasn’t like that. But my jaw was locked tight; I couldn’t even open my mouth. Hearing the commotion, my sister walked out of her bedroom. She was wearing a delicate, beautiful little dress and bright, shiny boots. Anyone could see she was a hothouse flower, pampered and protected. Like a porcelain doll. I was so jealous… That’s what I thought to myself. But my sister didn’t even spare me a passing glance. She smiled sweetly and took my mother’s hand. “Mommy, I’m all ready.” My mother’s furious demeanor vanished instantly. She stroked my sister’s hair with absolute adoration. “Okay. My daughter looks so pretty. Come on, Mommy’s taking you out to see the New Year’s fireworks.” With that, my mother took my sister’s little hand and picked her up. Only then did my sister act as if she had just noticed me, gasping in feigned surprise: “Mommy, look! Chloe’s head is bleeding! It looks really bad.” My mother didn’t even turn around. “She’s faking it. Ignore her. Serves her right for trying to steal your chocolate.” 2 Mom… I’m not faking… I wanted so desperately to say it out loud, but the violent dizziness from the blow to my head rendered me mute. My sister stuck her tongue out at me, looking playful and mischievous. “It’s your own fault, Chloe! Why did you try to steal my chocolate? Mommy bought that just for me, and I haven’t even had a piece yet!” I looked at my sister, whose face was a mirror image of my own, feeling a desolate chill wash over my heart. Why? Why did we look exactly the same, yet our lives were worlds apart? I had wanted to ask my mother that question countless times, but I never dared. Now, I didn’t even have the strength to ask. Suddenly, my mother seemed to remember something and looked back at me. My eyes lit up instantly. She must have noticed something was wrong. She must still love me. But before the joy could even fully form in my chest, reality slapped me hard in the face. My mother yanked me up off the floor and violently shoved me into the cramped, windowless storage closet. “Disgusting. You got blood all over the floor!” My head hurt so much, my neck hurt, my whole body hurt… But all I could do was watch helplessly as my mother carried my sister out the front door. And then, she locked the closet door from the outside. I was sealed in total darkness. I blinked, and blood seeped into my eyes. It stung sharply, and liquid kept streaming out, feeling like tears. But I couldn’t even cry out loud anymore. My parents divorced when my sister and I were very young. My dad originally wanted to take me with him, but my mom argued that my sister and I were a unit. She claimed that without me, my sister’s childhood would be incomplete. She insisted that biological sisters needed to stay together. My dad couldn’t fight her on it and eventually had to give up. I was so happy back then. I thought my mom had finally truly seen me. But it was all just a fantasy. Every ounce of suffering in my life came from her. My mom constantly drilled it into my head that because I stole all the nutrients in the womb, my sister was born weak and sickly. She told me I owed my sister. From then on, I gave up every good thing I ever had to my sister. But my sister was like an insatiable black hole. If she was even slightly unhappy, I would either be screamed at by my mom or beaten black and blue. And every time, my sister would flash that harmless, innocent smile and tell me not to make Mom angry. The collar around my neck still sent sporadic jolts of residual electricity through me. I could only lie on the floor, groaning in pain. When did I start wearing this collar? It was on our birthday. My mom had bought a beautiful, expensive cake. It sat quietly on the dining table, and both my sister and I were drooling over it. But I didn’t dare sneak a bite. My sister, however, blatantly walked up and scooped out a massive chunk with her bare hand. She smacked her lips right in front of me, her eyes full of satisfaction. My mouth watered constantly. I wanted a piece so badly. After she finished, she washed her hands and acted like nothing happened. When my mom finished cleaning up in the kitchen and walked out… The first thing she saw was the mangled, half-eaten cake. Her piercing gaze shot straight to me. She didn’t even ask a single question. She just walked into her bedroom, brought out something that looked like a dog collar, and without a word of explanation, locked it around my neck. 3 I stared at her in terror, but I didn’t dare resist. The next second, she hit the activation button, and a brutal shock of electricity tore through my neck. Caught completely off guard, I burst into hysterical sobs. But my mom just slapped me hard across the mouth. “I bought this cake for your sister! And you dare steal it?! Why are you such a glutton?! Have you no shame?!” And my sister just stood behind her the entire time, watching it happen quietly. Not saying a word in my defense. I prayed so hard in that moment that she would tell the truth. So that I wouldn’t have to hurt this much anymore… But she didn’t. She just blinked at me, her eyes wide with feigned innocence. Tears smeared across my face, my voice shaking as I told my mom, “It wasn’t me.” Hearing that only made my mom angrier. She cranked the intensity setting even higher. I thrashed wildly on the floor, convulsing, unable to form a complete sentence. The electricity pulsed for a long time. By the end, I was on the verge of losing consciousness. “You still dare to lie?! If it wasn’t you, who else could it be?! Are you trying to blame your sister?! I didn’t realize you were such a liar! You’re both my children, why are you so rotten?! From now on, you keep this anti-gluttony collar on. If you ever try to steal food again, I’ll shock you to death!” Right before I passed out, all I saw was my mother’s face, contorted with rage. Since that day, I had a collar around my neck. I wore it like a dog for years. But why? Why were we both her children… Yet she loved my sister so much more? My heart ached. I just wanted my mother’s love, too. Every memory from the past few years flashed through my mind. Sensing the creeping approach of death, I scrambled up in a panic. No, I don’t want to die yet. I haven’t even celebrated the New Year with Mom yet. No, I can’t. I used every last ounce of my strength to drag myself to the door. But no matter how hard I pushed or pulled, the locked door wouldn’t budge. By the end, my hands were covered in blood. Several of my fingernails had snapped off, leaving long, bloody streaks across the hard wood of the door. Mom is going to be so mad when she sees this… I collapsed weakly onto the floor. Suddenly, I remembered something. I looked up at the ceiling, at the small device emitting a faint, dark red glow. A tiny spark of hope flared in my chest. I stumbled over to stand directly beneath the security camera and looked up. Speaking into the lens, I said, “Mom, can you see me? I hurt so much… my stomach hurts so badly… I’m so hungry. I really wasn’t lying… I haven’t eaten in days…” “Please, believe me… Chloe didn’t lie to you… I’m sorry, Mom. I’m so tired. Am I going to die? It’s such a shame… I never got to become your favorite, perfect little girl… If there’s a next life, Mom, could you please love me a little bit more?” As I spoke, the tears started falling again. The sheer injustice of it all overshadowed the physical pain. “I really didn’t want to steal my sister’s things. That time on our birthday… I really wasn’t the one who ate the cake… But you didn’t believe me… It must be because I’m usually bad and don’t listen to you. I’m sorry, Mom…” My head grew heavier and heavier, my consciousness slipping away. But the physical pain was slowly fading. Memories of the past flickered through my mind like a movie reel. All those painful moments. My body didn’t seem to hurt anymore. 4 I floated in mid-air, quietly looking down at the lifeless corpse below. So, I was dead? I actually died. I wished I could say a few more words to my mom. I wondered when she would remember to check the camera footage. Would she see it? See my final words. How would she react? Would she feel even a little bit sad that I died? I couldn’t feel the pain anymore. Watching the brilliant fireworks bursting outside the tiny, high window, and hearing the distant, overlapping shouts of “Happy New Year!” from the streets below… I couldn’t help but drift outside. I never expected that regaining my freedom would happen like this. I floated high above the city, watching all the different fireworks—things I had never been allowed to see before. Even I felt a little bit of the holiday spirit. Eventually, the crowds dispersed, and I started to feel a little tired. Suddenly, a thought struck me: I just wandered off. Will Mom be mad when she gets back and realizes I’m not there? Startled by the thought, I immediately floated back. Sure enough, my mom and sister were already home. My sister was cradled in my mom’s arms, laughing joyfully. I reached out to grab my mom’s hand, only to watch my fingers pass right through hers. Right. I’m dead. I can never hold my mom’s hand again. I can never touch her again. At that realization, the tears started falling again. “Mommy, I want sweet and sour ribs!” my sister’s sweet voice rang out. My mom affectionately tapped her nose. “Okay. Mommy will make you whatever you want.” Listening to my sister list off a whole menu of dishes, my mouth actually started to water. But I would never feel hunger again. My mom went to the kitchen to cook, and my sister sat quietly on the sofa, eating the box of chocolates I never even got to touch before I died. Soon, my mom brought the food out to the dining table. “Mommy, shouldn’t we call Chloe?” my sister asked innocently, looking up. I looked at my mom expectantly too. My mom rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry about her. She loves stealing food so much, who knows what kind of feast she sneaked while we were gone.” My heart instantly turned to ice. But I really didn’t steal anything. I didn’t have a single penny to my name. I hadn’t eaten a single bite of food in three days. Hearing that, my sister just smiled innocently and started eating with my mom. After they finished dinner, I still hadn’t made a sound. My mom finally frowned and decided to open the closet door to check. My heart leapt into my throat again. She pulled the door open, her angry gaze landing on me. “You’re old enough to know better, and you’re still sleeping on the floor? Are you waiting for me to coddle you? Keep dreaming!” She spat on me without an ounce of pity. But I didn’t react. I just lay face down on the floor. The blood on my head had dried into a grotesque, dark crust. “You think a little blood is a big deal?! You think leaving it uncleaned will make me feel sorry for you?! Do you think I don’t know you fell on purpose just to put on a show for me?! If you ask me, you’re just being dramatic! You’re a teenager, not a toddler. I have no obligation to humor you!” Listening to her icy words, it felt like someone was taking a sharp knife to the softest part of my heart, slicing it over and over again. Why? Why won’t you just step a little closer and look at me, Mom? If you did, you’d realize I stopped breathing a long time ago. When I still didn’t respond, her anger boiled over. She grabbed a ceramic teapot off the nearby table and hurled it at me. It shattered into pieces against my body. “If you want to play dead, then you can play dead forever! You think you’re so tough now! You don’t even listen when I talk to you. Fine, then you can starve! And to think I was actually going to let you eat something! Ungrateful brat!” With that, she slammed the door shut and locked it again. That was the closest she came to realizing I was dead. I was clearly dead, yet my heart ached so terribly. Even if she did realize I was dead, she probably wouldn’t care, right? After all, she hated me so much. Why was I always such a burden? “Mommy, why isn’t Chloe coming out?” my sister’s innocent voice echoed from outside.

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After I beat his mistress into a vegetative state, my husband coldly tossed their illegitimate son at me. “Chloe, you can either raise this child to atone for your sins, or you can go rot in a prison cell for the rest of your life.” I took the screaming, crying infant from his arms and nodded without changing my expression. Everyone in Manhattan high society laughed at me, saying I deserved to be treated like a glorified nanny for my husband’s mistress. Until New Year’s Eve, exactly five years later. I went to the hospital to deliver my standard, obligatory apology to the comatose Mia, just like I did every year. But as I stood outside the VIP suite, I heard my husband, Liam, groan softly from inside the room. “Mia… why are you so tight today?” Mia, who had supposedly been a vegetable for five years, whined coquettishly. “What’s wrong? Are you in a rush to go spend New Year’s Eve with Chloe, or are you just terrified she’s going to catch you in my bed?” Liam gripped her waist fiercely, his tone dripping with absolute indulgence. “Relax, you jealous little thing. My body and my heart belong entirely to you.” The sounds of explicit, unfiltered intimacy echoed through the heavy door of the luxury hospital room. I stood in the hallway, took a deep breath, and felt an immense, overwhelming sense of relief. We had been married for six years, and Liam still didn’t love me. But thankfully… Our five-year agreement was officially over. It was time for me to go find the man I actually loved. …… Honestly, I wasn’t entirely surprised to find out Mia was faking her coma. After all, the “weapon” I used to put her in that state five years ago… was a feather pillow. On my drive back to the estate, Liam called me. “I’m staying at the hospital to ring in the New Year with Mia. Make sure you take good care of Leo tonight.” Today was our sixth wedding anniversary. It was also the sixth year of his infidelity. And Leo was Mia’s son. He was turning six this year. Leo. Liam even named the kid after the constellation he and Mia used to stargaze at together. He was constantly pining for her. Truthfully, I was pregnant once, too. But when I was eight months along, Mia insisted on taking me for a test drive in her new sports car. She purposely slammed the gas pedal and drove us straight into a tree. I needed eight stitches in my leg. My baby didn’t survive. At the time, Liam dropped to his knees in front of me and swore on his life that he would never speak to Mia again. But on the exact day of my baby’s funeral, they were back in bed together. Liam tried to comfort me with empty words. “Chloe, we lost this one, but we can always have another.” But the one who ended up having another child was Mia. She hid her pregnancy from everyone, secretly gave birth to Leo, and prepared to use the child to usurp my position as the legal wife. Liam’s mother was furious at his sheer stupidity. Gritting her teeth, she forced me into a five-year contract. As long as I helped the Sterling family save face and avoid a catastrophic public scandal, she promised to grant me one single, unconditional request at the end of the five years. Listening to Liam endlessly barking orders at me over the phone, I smiled and played along. “Mhm. I’ll make sure Leo goes to bed early.” For some reason, the man on the other end of the line suddenly went silent. Then, he let out a harsh, mocking scoff. “Don’t think playing the perfect, submissive wife is going to make me forgive you!” “When you beat Mia into a coma, did you ever stop to think that karma would come for you?!” “Leo gets bullied at his private school every single day because the other kids call him motherless! This is entirely your fault!” Faced with Liam’s vicious reprimand… Normally, I would immediately swallow my pride, agree with him, and apologize. But our five-year contract was up. I was completely done playing my part in his delusional theatrical production. I replied with a light, almost cheerful tone. “Yeah, you know what? If I could do it all over again, I really wish I hadn’t used a pillow to hit Mia. A cinderblock would have been much better.” Before Liam could even process what I said, I hung up the phone. Looking at the birthday and New Year’s texts pouring in from my former colleagues… I was in a fantastic mood. I spun the wedding ring on my left ring finger—the one engraved with a tiny ‘A’—and walked into a bakery to buy myself a small cake before heading home. I unlocked the front door and stepped inside. Just as I put my foot down, an agonizing, piercing pain shot through the sole of my foot. I screamed. The cake slipped from my hands, smashing into pieces on the hardwood floor. Enduring the blinding pain, I lifted my bleeding foot. I realized that Leo had hidden a handful of metal thumbtacks inside my house slippers. The five-year-old boy was hiding in the corner, clapping his hands and laughing hysterically. “Hahaha! Serves you right, you evil witch! Just you wait, one day I’m going to smash your head in and get revenge for my mommy!” His high-pitched, childish voice was dripping with pure, concentrated hatred. When I first took this boy from Liam’s hands… I knew the child was innocent in all of this, so I raised him personally, with my own two hands. Leo had a weak immune system. He was constantly catching colds and fevers. Every single time, I was the one sitting by his bed, staying awake all night to take care of him. When he got a little older, I taught him how to speak, how to read, and spent every day playing with him. No matter how badly he misbehaved, I never raised my voice at him. But when Leo finally learned how to speak in full sentences, the very first thing he said to me was— “No matter how hard you pretend, you will never be my real mommy!” After bandaging my foot, Leo quietly snuck up behind me, his hands hidden behind his back. Before I could even turn around, he suddenly pulled out a raw egg and smashed it violently against my back. My years of endless tolerance and spoiling… Had only fueled this child’s absolute, sociopathic entitlement. His loud, mocking laughter echoed in my ears. “Die, you evil witch! Ha…” Before the little monster could even finish his laugh. I snatched the second egg from his hand and smashed it directly, forcefully against his forehead! Chapter 2 The egg cracked, the slimy yolk and whites smearing all over his face. Leo’s eyes widened in absolute shock. He froze, completely paralyzed. I stared him down, my voice cold and hard as iron. “Now that you know how much it hurts, you are never allowed to hit people again. I’ve tried to teach you this a hundred times.” The exact second Leo started wailing at the top of his lungs… Liam’s furious, explosive roar echoed from the foyer. “No wonder Leo fucking hates you! The second I’m not home, this is how you abuse my son?!” Over the years, Leo had constantly complained and made up lies about me to Liam. Liam genuinely believed that if he could just find a reason to kick me out of the Sterling estate, Mia would miraculously wake up from her coma. But he had absolutely no idea. In Mia’s mind, torturing me mentally was far more important than raising her own son. Faced with Liam’s furious interrogation… I was eerily, perfectly calm. Ignoring the venomous glares from both father and son, I turned around and pulled a wet wipe from the dispenser. Leo instinctively leaned his little, egg-covered face toward me. He actually assumed I was going to clean him up. Instead, I completely ignored him and methodically wiped the egg yolk off my own clothes. The shock in his eyes… Actually looked a little bit like genuine grievance. Liam saw the heavy bandages wrapped around my foot. He knew perfectly well it was Leo’s doing, but he didn’t ask a single question. Only after I finished cleaning myself did I slowly look up. “Mr. Sterling. Since you’re so worried about him, why don’t you have his actual mother come here and educate him herself?” That single sentence… Instantly ignited the man’s explosive rage. He grabbed the smashed cake box from the floor and hurled it violently onto the dining table. “Chloe, you have absolutely no right to be jealous of Mia!” “I told you a long time ago. The legal title is yours, but my love belongs entirely to her!” It seemed he actually did know it was my birthday today. Except, written in sloppy, uneven icing across the ruined cake were the words: Happy New Year, Mia. Jealous? Hearing those words, I almost laughed out loud. If it wasn’t for the fact that I desperately needed to access the Sterling family’s private corporate vault to retrieve a crucial piece of evidence… I wouldn’t even look twice at a filthy, cheating piece of trash like Liam. Years ago, I had tried absolutely everything to get into that vault. But to my utter dismay… The biometric lock on the Sterling family vault was permanently coded to only grant access to the legal Lady of the House. At a corporate gala, I—the top engine design engineer for the Sterling family’s Formula 1 racing team—was hand-picked by Mrs. Sterling to be her daughter-in-law. On the day of our wedding. In front of hundreds of elite guests. Liam took the diamond wedding band… and slipped it directly onto Mia’s finger. I was publicly humiliated, instantly becoming the laughingstock of the entire city. But facing the shocked, pitying stares of the crowd… I didn’t panic. I simply reached into my purse and pulled out a different wedding band—one engraved with a tiny ‘A’. I slipped it onto my own finger. The guests exchanged bewildered glances. They couldn’t believe how calm and magnanimous I was being. But no one could have possibly guessed the truth. That ‘A’ didn’t stand for Liam’s middle name, Alexander. It stood for Arthur. I was finally wearing the wedding ring that my Arthur had personally designed for me. Before I could even say a word. Liam scooped his son up and stormed toward the door, throwing one last insult over his shoulder. “I don’t care how well you play the part of the gentle, submissive wife. I will never, ever fall in love with a greedy, gold-digging opportunist like you!” Looking at the lavish New Year’s Eve dinner I had cooked, I suddenly lost my appetite entirely. I walked into the guest bedroom. I pulled out my phone and dialed Liam’s mother. “Mrs. Sterling. The five years are up. It’s time for you to give me access to the vault.” Mrs. Sterling let out a cold, cynical laugh through the speaker. “Fine. But according to our agreement, you are only allowed to remove one single item from that vault.” She paused, her voice softening into something that almost sounded like a sigh. “Chloe. If you weren’t so desperately obsessed with money, you truly would have made a far better daughter-in-law than that cheap flower girl.” I smiled, but I didn’t argue with her. I went to the Sterling ancestral estate. Surrounded by mountains of gold, diamonds, and priceless antiques… I picked up a tiny, insignificant-looking metal seal. Mrs. Sterling stared at me in absolute disbelief. “You… you’re actually only taking that piece of scrap metal?” “Do you have any idea that literally any other item in this room could guarantee you a life of unimaginable luxury?!” It was true. The Sterling family’s wealth was astronomical. But she didn’t know. The tiny, lead engine seal in my hand… Held the key to proving my fiancé’s innocence and restoring his dignity on the professional racing circuit. To me, that piece of metal was the true priceless treasure. Before leaving the estate, I handed Mrs. Sterling a signed divorce agreement. “Mrs. Sterling, my flight leaves early tomorrow morning. Before I go, please make sure Liam signs this.” Chapter 3 Mrs. Sterling fell silent for a long moment, then spoke with a heavy, muffled tone. “Fine. You and Liam are officially done. But as for that flower girl… I need you to go and put her in her place for me.” She slid her iPad across the table to me. The screen was plastered with breaking news alerts announcing Mia’s miraculous awakening. It was massive. It was everywhere. On the live broadcast feed. Liam had rented out the grand ballroom of the Plaza Hotel to celebrate Mia waking up. The three of them—Liam, Mia, and Leo—looked like the absolute picture of a warm, perfect family. The media was eating it up. They claimed it was the CEO’s unwavering love that brought Mia back from the brink of death. They were calling it a medical miracle. It was a narrative that was moving millions to tears online. And naturally, I—the “attempted murderer”—was dragged right back into the spotlight. The live chat was flooded with brutal, vitriolic attacks against me. “Chloe is a shameless, psychotic shrew! All she cares about is extorting money from the Sterling family! She’s nowhere near as sweet and understanding as the ‘mistress’!” “I can’t even imagine how much suffering Mia endured in that house as a former flower shop girl. If their roles were reversed, let’s see if Chloe would still act so arrogant!” “I hope the CEO divorces that violent bitch immediately and brings his true love home where she belongs!” When I walked into the grand ballroom, Mia was the first to spot me. She practically skipped over and linked her arm through mine. “Sister! I was just thinking, since we’re going to be seeing a lot of each other from now on, why don’t we use tonight to bury the hatchet and make peace?” Her face was glowing with health. She didn’t look like someone who had just woken up from a five-year coma. But no one in the room dared to question the narrative. Someone in the crowd snickered loudly. “Chloe, look at how forgiving and magnanimous Mia is being. If you have any sense at all, you’ll pack your bags and get the hell out.” Amidst the mocking laughter of the elite crowd. Mia leaned in and lowered her voice to a venomous whisper in my ear. “See that? Even though I was ‘asleep’ for five years, I still hold vastly more power in this room than you, the legal wife.” “You… from now on, you’re going to be nothing more than a highly-qualified nanny for me and my son…” I didn’t even flinch. I just smiled back at her. “Your son? Are you absolutely certain Leo is actually Liam’s biological child?” The color instantly drained from Mia’s face, leaving her chalk-white. I turned my head, staring dead into her eyes, my voice dripping with profound implication. “Liam might be willing to play along with your fake coma and your pathetic victim act… but do you really think the internet will?” “Oh, wait, I almost forgot. Miss Mia wasn’t just selling flowers back in the day… she was selling a lot of other things, wasn’t she?” The arrogant, triumphant expression on Mia’s face shattered into a million pieces. The thing she hated most in the entire world was people bringing up her time as an escort. Because years ago, her parents had sold her to an elderly sugar daddy in the countryside to pay off their debts. The humiliation of her past surged violently to the surface. Mia suddenly threw her body backward, slamming herself heavily against the sharp edge of a banquet table. A glass of red wine tipped over, instantly staining her white designer gown like a fresh blood splatter. From the angle of the crowd, it looked exactly as if I had violently shoved her. Leo immediately charged forward, throwing his little body in front of her like an angry lion cub. “You evil witch! Don’t you dare bully my mommy!” Hearing the commotion, Liam rushed over. “What happened?!” Mia immediately used the tablecloth to cover her chest, her voice trembling, her eyes brimming with fragile tears. “It’s nothing, it’s nothing…” Seeing her covered in red wine and looking absolutely miserable, Liam spun around and glared furiously at me. “She just got out of the hospital, and this is how you treat her?!” Mia immediately slipped into her soft, pitiful victim persona. “It has nothing to do with my sister… I was just clumsy and fell…” Leo, his eyes red and teary, chimed in perfectly on cue. “Daddy, the bad witch said I’m a bastard! She said I don’t deserve to be your son…” Facing Liam’s explosive, murderous glare. I knew any attempt to explain myself was completely useless. The past five years had proven that fact over and over again. The more I tolerated them, the more psychotic and arrogant they became. So, I raised my head, met Liam’s furious stare head-on, and spoke with absolute, freezing calm. “First of all, I didn’t push her.” “Secondly, I came here today to inform you that I am officially resigning from the position of your personal punching bag.” The moment the words left my mouth. Mia suddenly opened her hand, revealing a palm covered in dark red blood. Before I could even process what was happening. SMACK! Liam, entirely consumed by blind rage, delivered a brutal, full-force slap across my face. “You don’t get to decide when you quit! I told you, the moment Mia woke up, you were going to personally apologize to her on your knees!” “Chloe, if you want to keep your title as Mrs. Sterling, drop to your knees right now, in front of everyone! If you do, I might consider the sacrifices you’ve made for this family and…” Before he could finish his sentence. I raised my hand and slapped him back with everything I had. I wiped the trickle of blood from the corner of my mouth, straightened my spine, and let out a chilling sneer. “Liam Sterling. Who the hell actually wants to be Mrs. Sterling?” Chapter 4 Liam’s fury skyrocketed to astronomical heights. The submissive, obedient, passive woman he had controlled for five years had seemingly vanished into thin air. Mia’s eyes were completely red. She looked at me timidly and whispered: “Sister, playing hard to get isn’t going to work on Liam…” “I know you look down on me, but Liam and I are truly, deeply in love. I’m begging you, please just step aside and let us be together, okay?” I was far too exhausted to watch her perform her cheap soap opera routine. Just as I turned to leave, I caught a glimpse of a shiny, metallic object near Liam’s feet. I instinctively reached into the pocket where I had secured the engine seal. It was completely empty. I immediately changed direction, walking straight toward him. But right as I stepped forward… The massive crystal chandelier suspended directly above Liam’s head suddenly detached from the ceiling without any warning! Acting on pure, unfiltered adrenaline, I lunged forward, diving for the metal seal near Liam’s expensive leather shoes. CRASH! The massive chandelier smashed into a thousand pieces on the marble floor, just inches away from Liam and me. I clutched the seal tightly in my fist, but razor-sharp shards of crystal had sliced deep into my cheek, leaving several bleeding gashes. Liam was completely unharmed. Our eyes met. He stared at me in absolute, utter shock. It took him several seconds to force a few words through his tightly clenched jaw. “Are you fucking insane? Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?” “You just said you didn’t care about being Mrs. Sterling, but now you’re literally throwing your life away to save me?” “Chloe… if you would just stop pushing me away and admit how you really feel… I could love you the exact same way I love Mia…” Before he could finish his delusional, narcissistic monologue, I simply turned on my heel and walked out of the ballroom. I never expected Liam to personally drive me to the emergency room. Before the doctor even finished stitching my cheek, his phone had rung a dozen times. It was Mia. But he didn’t answer a single one. Catching a glimpse of the wedding ring on my left hand, Liam looked as if he wanted to say something, but swallowed it back. Finally, he forced out a stiff, awkward sentence. “Chloe, the diamond on that ring is too small. Tomorrow, I’ll take you to Harry Winston and buy you a new one.” I was looking down at my phone, confirming my flight itinerary. I replied casually: “Aren’t you going to answer your phone?” The man frowned slightly, instinctively walking over to the window and answering the call. But the voice blaring through the speaker wasn’t Mia’s. It was Leo’s, crying hysterically, completely out of breath. I couldn’t hear exactly what the little terror said, but Liam suddenly charged across the room and clamped his hands violently around my throat. “Chloe! Are you out of your fucking mind?!” Twenty minutes later, Liam dragged me out of his sports car at an abandoned industrial warehouse on the edge of the city. Kneeling by the entrance were several men, their faces beaten to a bloody pulp by the Sterling family security team. And lying on the concrete floor, looking like a discarded rag doll, was Mia. Her clothes were torn, and her eyes were blank and vacant. But the exact second she saw me, she struggled to her feet and screamed at me hysterically: “Chloe, are you satisfied now?! You made my son watch me get assaulted?!” “He’s just a little boy! If you have a problem, take it out on me! If my son suffers any lasting trauma from this, I swear to God I will kill you!” Leo was clinging tightly to Liam’s leg, sobbing brokenly. “Daddy… daddy… those bad men said the evil witch paid them to kidnap me and sell me.” “They said… they said that as long as Mommy was dirty and ruined… no one would ever fight the evil witch for Daddy…” Liam was shaking with pure, volcanic rage. “Chloe. So the only reason you lured me to the hospital… was so you could send men to destroy Mia and my son?!” “You can’t have a child of your own, so you decided to destroy someone else’s?!” Based on the physical evidence at the scene, it was glaringly obvious that Mia hadn’t actually been assaulted. I couldn’t even be bothered to explain myself. I turned around to walk away. But the man’s voice echoed behind me, colder and more terrifying than the winter wind. “This time… you brought this on yourself!” A sharp, agonizing pain slammed into the back of my knees. Forced to my knees on the concrete, two massive bodyguards pinned my shoulders down, forcing my body lower and lower. They slammed my forehead brutally against the freezing, filthy concrete floor. Over and over again. Agonizing pain instantly exploded through my skull and radiated through my entire body. Blood rapidly began to pool on the concrete beneath me. Seeing my face contorted in agony, Liam’s rage seemed to slowly dissipate, replaced by a dark, complex, deeply conflicted expression. But just as he was about to order the guards to stop, Mia suddenly threw her arms around him, crying and screaming hysterically. “Arthur, I’m filthy now! I’m ruined! I don’t deserve you anymore! I don’t want to live…” She violently thrashed, trying to throw herself headfirst into the cinderblock wall. Seeing this, the little monster immediately copied her, attempting to slam his own head into the wall. “If Mommy dies, Leo doesn’t want to live either!” Liam panicked, instantly wrapping his arms tightly around both of them, his face filled with agonizing heartbreak. While I lay broken in a pool of my own blood, gasping for air. He didn’t spare me a single backward glance. After securing Mia and Leo safely in his SUV, Liam turned to his security detail and issued a cold, merciless order. “Lock her in here for three days. Let her sit in the dark and reflect on what she did.” The moment his taillights disappeared… The men who had been kneeling on the ground suddenly stood up and began advancing toward me like a pack of starving wolves. “Mrs. Sterling… we heard the CEO hasn’t touched you in five years. You must be absolutely starving, right? Come on… let the boys feed you…” The moment one of them reached out and violently ripped the collar of my blouse… The heavy, rusted steel doors of the warehouse were completely obliterated! A modified, matte-black rally car crashed through the corrugated metal, tires screaming against the concrete! The heavy front bumper slammed directly into the greasy thug standing over me, launching him a dozen feet into the air. Through the harsh, blinding glare of the headlights, a familiar, towering silhouette stepped out of the driver’s side door, walking steadily toward me. “Don’t be afraid. I’m here.”

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The countdown to the concert was at exactly sixty minutes, and the internet was hyper-fixated on a single headline—the kind that moves markets and breaks hearts: [EXCLUSIVE: Pop Sensation Valerie Cross Set to Propose to Manager Dominic Hart Tonight—A Decade of Romance Culminates in the Public Proposal of the Century!] This proposal wasn’t just a personal milestone; it was the crown jewel of our firm’s PR strategy for the fiscal year. It was supposed to be the finish line of my ten-year marathon with Valerie. But instead of prepping for my cue, I was standing in the shadows of the backstage service stairwell. There, I watched Valerie—radiant in a custom-designed Vera Wang bridal gown—locked in a desperate, hungry embrace with the boy she’d spent the last year keeping in the shadows. “Dominic, let me explain…” “Explain?” I let out a sharp, jagged laugh. “Explain why you’re back here cheating on me an hour before we’re scheduled to broadcast our engagement to millions of people?” I looked at her, the woman I’d built from nothing. “The cameras are live. Tens of thousands of fans are in their seats. Every major outlet in the country is waiting for you to make us official.” I slammed the velvet ring box onto the metal railing between us. “After the final encore tonight, you have two choices. You walk out there and propose to me as planned, or you watch your entire career go up in flames before the house lights even come up.” Her jaw tightened, her knuckles turning white as she gripped her bouquet. Finally, she snatched the box, her voice a low, venomous hiss. “Fine.” The moment arrived. The spotlights converged on me in the VIP section, blinding and white. Valerie stood center stage, draped in silk and lace, and slowly pulled the ring from the box. The stadium fell into a deafening silence. But instead of looking at me, she turned. Her gaze swept past me, landing on a pale, trembling man sitting three rows back—Lucien Pierce, the “soulmate” from her past she’d never quite let go of. “Dominic,” she said into the microphone, her voice echoing through the rafters. “Thank you for lifting me up to the stars. But tonight… tonight I need to follow my heart back to the moon.” The crowd erupted in a confused, violent roar. I sat there, the ultimate prop in her televised betrayal. As she stepped off the stage and walked toward him, I didn’t feel anger. I felt the cold, quiet snap of something vital inside me finally dying. … “Dominic,” my assistant, Parker, whispered, his voice thick with exhaustion as he handed me the tablet. “You… you should probably see this.” The screen was a digital carnage of headlines. Tonight was supposed to be the ultimate ROI—a fusion of business and brand. I had invested over a hundred million dollars, coordinated with dozens of global luxury brands, and leveraged every connection I had. The moment Valerie Cross proposed to her long-time architect and partner, our joint market value would have been astronomical. The trap was set. The world was watching. But now, the image of Valerie and Lucien Pierce kissing on the arena floor was being zoomed in on and analyzed by every tabloid on the planet. The caption read: [Pop Royalty Defies Corporate Control for True Love]. Meanwhile, the footage of me—the stunned, jilted manager walking out into the night—had already been turned into a thousand mocking memes. Our company’s stock had vaporized thirty million dollars in value before the West Coast even woke up. I scrolled through it all, page after page, my face a mask of calm. Finally, I hit Valerie’s latest personal statement, posted just minutes ago. In it, she thanked her fans for their “courageous support.” She thanked the universe for “the truth.” And then, she redefined me and the company as a “painful chapter of professional obligation” that she was finally closing. She claimed she would “pay any price for freedom.” Freedom. I looked at that word and felt a sudden, sharp bark of laughter escape my throat. “Tell PR not to respond. No statements, no denials,” I said, leaning back. “And tell the legal team to prepare the heavy artillery. I want the most aggressive breach-of-contract clauses triggered by sunrise.” Parker blinked, stunned. “Dominic, shouldn’t we try to get ahead of the narrative? The public sentiment is… it’s ugly. They’re painting you as the villain.” “Clarify?” I stood up and walked to the window, pointing at Valerie’s glowing, tearful face on a billboard across the street. “You don’t clarify things with a liar, Parker. You audit them.” I rubbed my temples and sank into the leather sofa. The last five years blurred past my eyes like a film reel. I remembered her five years ago—clutching a battered acoustic guitar, singing folk songs in a dive bar in the East Village to a crowd of three people. I was the only one who heard the potential in her voice. I was the one who signed her, built a boutique agency around her, and bet everything I owned on her. Back then, we had nothing. To save on overhead, we slept on thin mattresses on the floor of a twelve-hundred-square-foot office, eating cold takeout and talking about a future that felt a million miles away. She used to say, “Dominic, when I make it, the first thing I’m going to do is marry you.” I’d just laugh and say, “When you make it, the first thing you’re going to do is pay back the company’s startup loan.” She’d call me a corporate shark, but her eyes would be full of a soft, desperate longing. To get her a ten-minute opening slot at Coachella that first year, I drank myself into a stomach ulcer at a donor gala, ending up in the ER at 3:00 AM. When she arrived at the hospital, her eyes were red from crying. She held my hand and whispered, “Dominic, I’m never going to let anyone hurt you like this again.” I believed her. I thought we were a single entity—us against the world. I poured my life’s blood into her. I taught her how to hold a camera’s gaze, how to manipulate a room of journalists, how to craft the “approachable but untouchable” persona that her fans worshipped. She was a fast learner. She was perfect. As she rose, we moved into the glass-and-steel penthouse offices Midtown. The boutique agency became a conglomerate. But the foundation of us was shifting under the weight of the gold records. She started complaining about my “need for control.” She claimed my tour schedules were too tight, that I was stifling her “creative soul.” She began to crave something she called “purity.” That’s when Lucien Pierce appeared—a former classmate from her conservatory days. He became the face of that “purity.” I tried to talk to her about it once, a month before the concert. “Valerie, we’re partners—in business and in life. I need to know if there’s anything threatening the foundation of this company,” I had said, my tone professional but my heart hammering. She sat across from me, scrolling through her phone, her voice airy and dismissive. “You’re overthinking it. Lucien is just a friend. Someone who actually understands music, not just metrics.” “I’m the one responsible for your music,” I reminded her. She snapped her head up, her eyes flashing with a resentment I hadn’t seen before. “That’s different! That’s commercial! It’s a product, Dominic! That’s all you see! You don’t see me!” “With Lucien, I feel like a human being, not just a commodity in your portfolio.” That was the first time I realized she wasn’t the girl from the East Village anymore. She was a product I had perfected—and now, the product wanted to fire its creator. I chose to stay quiet then. I told myself it was just the pressure of the tour. I thought that once the ring was on her finger and the world saw us as a power couple, the “purity” of Lucien Pierce would fade into the background. I was wrong. I had treated her like a controlled variable in an equation, forgetting that the most volatile element in any business is human betrayal. The office door swung open without a knock. Valerie walked in, dressed in all black, oversized sunglasses hiding her eyes. Lucien followed a half-step behind her, looking like a lost puppy in a designer coat. “Sir,” Parker said, standing up quickly to block them. “Out,” I said, my voice as flat as a dead heart. Parker gave me a worried look but retreated, closing the heavy oak door behind him. “Why are you here?” I asked. Valerie pulled off her glasses. Her eyes were bloodshot, but her face was eerily calm. “I’m here to discuss the exit,” she said, dropping a thick envelope on my desk. She sat on the sofa across from me and pulled Lucien down next to her. “I want an amicable split. For the sake of the company, and for you. Let’s just end this cleanly.” “An amicable split?” I repeated the words like they were a foreign language. “Valerie, you orchestrated a public execution of my reputation and my company’s stock last night. You call that ‘clean’?” “You didn’t just ruin a proposal. You torched a hundred-million-dollar rollout. You were the lead asset of this firm’s Q4 projections, and you know that better than anyone.” She let out a sharp, mocking scoff, leaning back with an air of unearned defiance. “Business, business, business. That’s all that goes on in that head of yours. I’m done! I am not your ATM!” Lucien tried to find his voice. “Mr. Hart, don’t blame Valerie… it’s my fault. We’re in love, truly—” “Shut up,” I snapped, my eyes cutting to him like a blade. “The adults are talking.” Lucien went pale and subsided. Valerie exploded. She stood up, leaning over my desk, her face inches from mine. “Dominic, enough! You’ve always acted like you’re so much better than everyone! Who do you think you are? My savior?” “Every day with you felt like I was suffocating in a vacuum. You sold your apartment, you drank yourself into a hospital—you didn’t do that for me! You did it for your ambition! For your investment! I was just your most successful trade!” She hit every nerve, her words dripping with a cruelty she’d been saving up for years. “So, the five years we spent together… that was just an investment? Sleeping on the floor, eating ramen—that was a trade? Staying up all night in that ER waiting room—was that just me protecting my margins?” I looked up at her, waiting for a flicker of the woman I knew. She faltered for a second, her eyes darting away. Then she hardened. “Consider it… paid in full,” she said. A slow, ugly smirk spread across her face. “Oh, and there’s something else you should know.” She reached out and draped an arm over Lucien’s shoulder, her hand sliding down to rest tenderly against her flat stomach. “I’m pregnant. I have to do what’s right for him. For our family.” Pregnant. The last thread of logic, the last piece of me that wanted to be reasonable, snapped. It turned out I hadn’t just been building a career; I had been financing the nursery for another man’s child. That afternoon, I sat in my darkened office, watching the live stream on the wall. Valerie’s press conference started right on time. She looked thinner, her makeup designed to make her look fragile, exhausted, and “authentic.” Her eyes were expertly rimmed with red. Lucien sat beside her, his head down, playing the role of the sensitive, innocent artist. “First, I want to apologize to everyone who has supported me,” Valerie began, her voice cracking into a perfectly rehearsed rasp. She spoke about her “pure love for music,” about how she had been “swallowed by the corporate machine,” and about her “suffering in silence.” She described Lucien’s arrival as a “light in a dark, cold world.” She didn’t mention a single thing I had done for her. I was simply “the former management,” “the corporate cage,” “the architect of her misery.” I was the fiancé she was fleeing, not the man who had saved her career. “I admit, Mr. Hart is a brilliant businessman. He brought me to where I am today, and for that, I am grateful,” she said, before the knife came out. “But he controlled my work, my friends, even my thoughts. Every word I spoke, every dress I wore—it was all his design. I was just his creation. A puppet without a soul.” Lucien wiped a tear away and choked out into the mic, “It’s not Dominic’s fault… I shouldn’t have come back… Valerie, I’m so sorry…” The flashes from the cameras were a blizzard of white. The journalists were feral. The live chat on the stream was a bloodbath. [She’s been through so much! We won’t let him hurt you anymore!] [Heartbreaking. Imagine living under that kind of pressure.] [Dominic Hart is a monster. Cancel him. Burn the agency down.] [Support her independence! Real music is back!] Finally, Valerie announced she was forming her own independent label and severing all ties with my firm. “I’m going to do music my way now. It will be hard, but I have Lucien. And I have our baby.” “That’s enough for me.” The press conference ended, and the internet exploded. I was officially the most hated man in America. The office phones were ringing off the hook. Several of my junior artists were already having their lawyers send over “inquiries” about their contracts, terrified of being associated with a “predatory mogul.” When the walls start to crumble, everyone looks for the exit. I looked at her beautiful, lying face on the screen. The pain was gone now. In its place was a cold, crystalline hatred. I wiped a single stray tear from my cheek and buzzed Parker. “Get the legal team. Every core partner. My office in five minutes.” Parker looked at me, his eyes full of pity. “Dominic…” I gave him a smile that didn’t reach my eyes—a sharp, lethal grin. “Tell them to bring the ‘Black Box’ files. I don’t want a defense.” “I want her destroyed.”

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“Say it! What color is this?” My mother’s palm cracked across my cheek, leaving a stinging heat in its wake. I stared at the palette in front of me—a blurred, muddy mess of grays and shadows—and my lips trembled. I couldn’t find the words because I couldn’t find the light. “Your father is a world-class painter,” she hissed, her voice trembling with a jagged edge of hysteria. “How could his child be colorblind? I’ve taught you this a thousand times. Why can’t you see it?” She gripped my upper arm, her fingers digging into my skin like talons. She was unraveling right in front of me. “If you don’t find red today, you aren’t my daughter anymore!” The heavy oak door of the studio slammed shut, the deadbolt clicking into place. I knelt there on the hardwood floor, paralyzed. My eyes drifted from the sketch of roses on the easel—waiting for a life they would never receive—to the X-Acto knife resting on the side table. My mother had told me once that the color of life, the color of human blood, was red. I didn’t hesitate. I picked up the blade and drew it across my wrist. As the warmth sprayed across my face and splattered onto the canvas, a strange, floaty sense of relief washed over me. I finally smiled. Look, Mom… I found the red. 1. The phantom heat of the slap still lingered on my skin. The bite of the blade was sharper, colder, a new kind of agony that bloomed across my wrist. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the frantic humming of my heart. I have to find it. I have to find the red. I stared at the little squares of pigment. In my world, color didn’t exist in hues; it existed in gradients of gray and silver. I couldn’t tell where the fire ended and the forest began. When the hot blood hit my face, I didn’t stop to wonder why there was so much of it. Instead, I reached out, dipping my fingers into the wetness, comparing it to the paints. “You useless girl. How many times do I have to show you?” My mother’s voice echoed in the cramped space, a ghost of a thousand previous lessons. I could see her throwing the color swatches at me, her face contorted. “Willa, do you want the whole world to know? Do you want them to know you aren’t your father’s child?” That truth was an arrow that had pierced my heart years ago, the shaft broken off, leaving the tip to fester in my chest until it became part of my DNA. I was the fruit of a nightmare. On their wedding night, amidst the drunken chaos of the reception, my father—Thomas—had been locked out of the bridal suite by a group of “pranksters.” In the dark, someone else had slipped in. My mother, Lydia, had spent her life pretending I was a miracle, rather than a mistake. Whenever we went out, people would lean over my stroller and coo. “Who does she look like? Not much of her dad, I think. She’s all you, Lydia.” My mother’s smile would always freeze, a porcelain mask cracking at the edges. She lived every day on a razor’s edge, waiting for the world to see the lie. And then, I had painted a rose green. “You’re supposed to love art,” she would mutter, pacing the studio, her steps quickening with her heartbeat. “Thomas says you have his hands. He says you’re going to be a master. How can you be colorblind? He doesn’t carry that gene! Speak to me, Willa! Why can’t you see it? Do you want to destroy this family? Do you want to destroy me?” Her screams vibrated in my ears, a symphony of resentment. I ignored the growing pool of dark liquid beneath me. I was running out of time. If I didn’t find the red, they would leave me behind. In my panic, I knocked over the palette. The paints ran together, merging into a dull, soulless gray. Just like my life. Acting on a dark, primal impulse, I smeared the blood from my wrist onto the canvas. Lydia always said blood was red. I remembered the time she’d slapped me so hard my lip split. She’d pressed her thumb into the wound, her eyes burning with a terrifying intensity. “Do you see? This is red. Do you understand now?” I picked up the knife again and carved deeper, following the line I’d already made. The world began to blur. The edges of the room softened, turning into a hazy, silver mist. The pain felt far away now, like a sound heard underwater. I looked at the rose on the canvas, now drenched in my own essence. A twisted sense of satisfaction filled the hollow spaces of my soul. I did it, Mom. I’m not a failure. I’m an artist. I’m his daughter. Can you forgive me now? 2. My body felt impossibly light. Suddenly, the gray veil lifted. It was as if someone had turned the saturation dial on the universe all the way up. Colors exploded everywhere—violent, beautiful, and overwhelming. I saw my painting, a macabre masterpiece of crimson. I saw the girl on the floor—my body—tangled in a pool of brilliant, terrifying scarlet. My first thought wasn’t horror. It was joy. So, this is red. I finally understood. I wanted to run out and tell her. I wanted to show her that I finally saw what she saw. But then I saw Lydia. She was standing outside the studio, turning the key in the lock from the outside. “Willa, you stay in there until you can tell the difference,” she called out, her voice cold. “I’m not letting you out until you learn.” It was a familiar routine. Whenever Thomas was away at a gallery opening or a teaching seminar, Lydia turned into a jailer. She would lay out the swatches and her voice would start soft, deceptive. “Willa, honey, you aren’t colorblind. You’re just not trying. Let’s look again.” She would coax me, and I would reach out, my heart hammering against my ribs. I would stare at the gray cards and try to read her face. If her lips tilted up, I was close. If her eyes narrowed, I was failing. “Tell me. Which one is this?” Her voice would flatten—the calm before the hurricane. “I… I think…” I would reach for a different card, but she would grab my hand, her nails digging in. “Don’t you know?” she’d whisper. “This is the color of that dress your father bought you. Your favorite dress. What color is it, Willa?” I couldn’t answer. Before the tears could fall, her rage would erupt. “You useless, ungrateful brat! I’ve spent years on you! Why can’t you just be blind? If you were blind, it would be easier! I wish I’d never had you!” I learned to survive. I started making tiny, microscopic pinpricks on the back of the swatches to mark them. When her mood collapsed, I would find my mark and say the word “yellow” or “blue” with feigned confidence. She would let out a sharp breath, her posture softening. She would pull me into a tight, suffocating hug. “I knew it. My Willa is a genius. Just like your father. He’s so proud of you. We can’t let him down, okay?” “Okay,” I would whisper, the lie sticking in my throat. But as the color palettes grew more complex—moving from twenty-four shades to forty-eight, then to professional pigments—I couldn’t keep up with the marks. I started failing again. “If I come back and see one more mistake, you’re done,” she said today, walking away without a backward glance. I followed her—or rather, my spirit did. She was going to pick up Thomas. His fame had skyrocketed over the last few years. He was the darling of the contemporary art scene, and today was the opening of his solo exhibition downtown. When Lydia arrived, he was in the middle of an interview with a sleek woman in a power suit. “Yes, I have a daughter,” Thomas was saying, his smile warm and genuine. “She’s incredibly talented. She has my eyes for detail. She’s my greatest pride.” The sun caught his face, making him look like a hero from a storybook. Beside him, Lydia froze. She clutched the fabric of her skirt so hard her knuckles turned white. She was terrified. Thomas finished the interview and walked toward her. “Lydia? Where’s Willa? Why didn’t you bring her?” Lydia blinked, her eyes wet with unshed tears. “Thomas… I think we should send her away. To that boarding school in Switzerland. For her art.” 3. Lydia looked like she was in physical pain. Her brow was furrowed with a grief so deep it looked like hatred. Thomas looked confused. “What? Why so suddenly?” “I’m just… I’m scared, Thomas. Scared she won’t live up to your legacy here. She’s so shy, so stifled. She needs to see the world. She needs to grow.” She forced a brittle smile. “And if she’s away… we won’t be so busy. Your mother is always saying we need a son. To carry on the name properly.” I felt a cold shiver pass through my soul. She was giving up on me. She wanted me gone so she could start over—so she could give Thomas a child that was actually his. “What are you talking about?” Thomas asked, rubbing her shoulders gently. “Willa is enough. Forget what my mother says. Our daughter is too young to be sent across the ocean. When she’s older, if she wants to go, we can talk about it. But not now.” His voice was so kind, so full of love. And that was the problem. The better he was, the more we suffered under the weight of the lie. “You’re a curse,” Lydia used to scream at me in the middle of the night. “Why do you have to be colorblind? If you were normal, we could forget. You can’t let him find out! He loves you too much—you can’t fail him!” The guilt had been my constant companion, a heavy stone I carried in my pockets until I finally sank. Lydia wanted to solve the problem by erasing me. And honestly? It seemed like a good plan. If I disappeared, the bomb would be defused. Everyone could be happy. Why are you saying no, Dad? I’m nothing like you. I can’t even pick out a tube of paint. How can I be your pride? Then it hit me. I was already dead. The bomb had already gone off. I watched Thomas lead Lydia toward a bistro for an early dinner. I felt strangely light. I drifted between them, pretending for a moment that we were a normal family of three out for a walk. “I’ll have the waiter pack up some of those salted caramel cupcakes,” Thomas said. “Willa loves those.” Lydia’s smile faltered. While Thomas was looking at the menu, she pulled out her phone and sent a text. My ghost watched the screen. Your father is coming home soon. Is that painting finished? Send me a photo. If you got the colors wrong again, I’m done with you. She was terrified of him seeing my mistakes. When I was younger, I used to love showing him my “abstract” work. Once, I showed him a landscape where I’d accidentally used a bright crimson for the moon. “Why is the moon red, Willa?” he had asked, curious. My skin had crawled. I felt Lydia’s gaze on the back of my neck—sharp, predatory, freezing the marrow in my bones. I’d lied instantly. “Because I ran out of yellow, Daddy.” He laughed it off. But that night, Lydia had dragged me to the kitchen. She forced a piece of bitter orange peel into my mouth. “Remember this taste? This is yellow,” she hissed, her face inches from mine. “Do I have to keep doing this? Are you ever going to learn?” I remembered. I remembered the bitterness. I remembered the gray world and the way I had to memorize the position of the paints on the tray. I remembered never mentioning colors in front of my father again. 4. After dinner, Thomas bought a small cake from a bakery on the corner. “Next time, you have to bring her,” he said, swinging Lydia’s hand. “She hasn’t even seen the new gallery layout.” Lydia slowed down, her voice sounding like it was being squeezed out of her lungs. She checked her phone. No reply from me. Still can’t get it right? she typed. Fine. No more art. I don’t have a daughter anymore. The words were sharp, fueled by a decade of repressed panic. “You keep saying she’s talented,” Lydia said, her voice trembling. “I don’t see it. You see her coloring… it’s like she doesn’t even think. She picks colors that make no sense—” They were walking through a quiet alleyway now, the shadows stretching long and blue against the brick. “I should have waited to have kids,” Lydia whispered. “I didn’t know it would be… like this.” She was a string pulled too tight, finally snapping. Thomas usually played the peacemaker. “Honey, you’re being a ‘Tiger Mom.’ It’s okay if she’s not perfect. She’s a kid.” He didn’t know the shadow she carried. He didn’t know she was drowning in a deep, dark well of her own making. “Please,” Lydia sobbed, stopping in her tracks. “Just send her away. I can’t do it anymore. I can’t teach her. She’s… she’s broken.” Her voice was raw, desperate. She began listing my “faults” like a prosecutor—how I was moody, how I was lazy, how I couldn’t communicate. She was trying to make me unlovable so that when she sent me away, it wouldn’t feel like a crime. “I’m going crazy, Thomas! I can’t be in the same house as her!” I’m sorry, Mom. I’m so sorry. I wanted to reach out and hold her. I wanted to tell her it was over. I was dead. The “stain” on her life had been bleached white. She could be clean now. But Thomas moved first. He pulled her into his arms, crushing her against his chest. “I know,” he whispered. “Lydia, I know everything.” Lydia went rigid. “I know Willa is colorblind. It doesn’t matter. She’s my daughter. I’ll help her.” The world seemed to stop spinning. Lydia’s eyes were wide, fixed on nothing. I stood there, a ghost in the wind, frozen. He knew? “I’m sorry,” Thomas said, his voice thick with tears. “I thought if I pretended not to know, it would make it easier for you. I thought if I played along with the ‘genius’ narrative, you’d feel less pressure. It was my fault. I let you carry this alone.” He stroked her hair, ignoring her stunned silence. “Whatever happened that night… I don’t care. I love you. And I love our daughter. Let’s just go home. Let’s talk about this as a family.” Lydia was like a doll with its strings cut. He led her to the car, and she sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window at the passing streetlights. Thomas looked at her through the rearview mirror, his face a mask of guilt and resolve. I sat in the back seat, watching them. It’s going to be okay, I thought. They’re going to be okay. If I were still alive, we could have been a real family. Thomas pulled into the driveway and helped Lydia out of the car. “She’s probably in the studio,” he said, grabbing the cake and the cupcakes. “I’ll go give her these.” He walked toward the studio, his stride confident and light—until his shoe stepped into something wet and dark that was seeping out from under the door.

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I was the daughter they had lost eighteen years ago, finally stepping back into a world of wealth I didn’t recognize. But the moment I crossed the threshold of the Holloway estate, the girl who had been living my life—the girl they kept—threw herself into my parents’ arms, sobbing. “Dad, Mom, please… I can’t do this. I can’t call her my sister.” She looked at me, her eyes brimming with a practiced, liquid terror. “She’s the one. The transfer student who started those rumors about me at school. She’s the reason I’ve been so depressed!” My mother pulled her closer, stroking her hair with frantic, heart-aching devotion. My father, meanwhile, looked at me with a face carved from granite, his eyes flickering with a cold, sharp disappointment. “I thought a few years of being lost would have made you humble,” he spat, his voice trembling with rage. “Instead, you’ve come back rot-filled and cruel. You’ve brought your filth into this house.” He didn’t even wait for me to respond. He turned to the security detail standing by the door. “Get her out of here. The Holloway family has no room for a bully who preys on her own flesh and blood.” I stood there, frozen. My mind was a whirlwind of confusion, and my hands began to move—a frantic, blurred dance of American Sign Language, my fingers flying as if I were trying to weave a spell to stop time. I started rumors about her? But I’m mute! … I stood in the foyer, the tips of my fingers still stinging from the biting winter air outside. Cassidy was hysterical in my parents’ arms, her breath coming in jagged, shallow gasps. She buried her face in my mother’s neck, her shoulders shaking so violently I almost believed her. When she finally looked up, her eyes were rimmed with a perfect, tragic red. “Dad, Mom, you don’t know what she did,” Cassidy whispered, her voice cracking. “After the midterms—when I took second in the state—she told everyone I cheated. She told the whole school that Dad bribed the board. She even told people I was sleeping with the department head just to get my Ivy League recommendation…” With every word, my mother’s grip on her tightened. My father’s brow furrowed into a deeper, more permanent scowl. I opened my mouth, a reflex I still couldn’t shake, but only a thin, wheezing breath escaped. I hadn’t been able to speak for as long as I could remember. The doctors called it organic vocal cord damage—a physical silence I’d worn like a second skin. Paper, pens, and my hands were my only bridges to the world. I lifted my hands to sign ‘That’s not true,’ but before I could finish the first gesture, Dominic, my brother, lunged toward me. He was the only son, the golden boy of the Holloway legacy. From the moment I’d arrived, he had looked at Cassidy with a protective tenderness and at me as if I were something he’d found on the bottom of his shoe. “Willa, how long are you going to keep up this act?” he demanded, towering over me. His voice was thick with loathing. “You’ve driven Cassidy to the edge of a breakdown, and now you’re standing there, playing the victim with your hands?” I froze. My fingers hung uselessly in the air. “Dominic, please, don’t be mean to her…” Cassidy tugged at his sleeve, her voice soft as silk but sharp as a razor. “Maybe she just wanted to belong. Maybe she thought if she took me down, there’d be more room for her. I don’t hate her. I really don’t…” “You are far too kind for your own good!” My mother snapped, her gaze shifting to me, turning into ice. “Willa, we brought you back to give you a family, not to let you terrorize the one we already have. Can’t you leave those gutter tactics back in the slums where you found them?” My father, Harrison, let out a heavy, guttural huff. He tapped his knuckles against the mahogany hall table, the sound like a gavel. “A daughter of mine—even one lost to the wind—should have some shred of dignity. You? You’ve barely walked through the door and you’re already dragging our name through the mud. You are an embarrassment to the Holloway bloodline.” Behind them, the household staff whispered in the shadows, their eyes gleaming with judgment. “I heard she was a wild animal in the country. No wonder she’s so malicious.” “Miss Cassidy is an angel. How could anyone hurt her?” “Look at her hands go. It’s probably a show. She’s probably faking it for sympathy.” The words felt like needles under my fingernails. I took a deep breath, forcing my heart to slow down. I reached for the side pocket of my backpack. I had my notebook there. I could write it down. I could explain that I didn’t even know who Cassidy was until three days ago. But as my hand touched the zipper, Dominic grabbed my wrist. His grip was bruising, his knuckles white. “What are you reaching for now? Another lie?” I struggled, trying to pull away, my other hand diving into the bag until I felt the familiar texture of the white paper. I pulled out a stack of pages, desperate to show them— Dominic ripped them out of my hand. With two violent motions, he shredded the paper, the white scraps fluttering through the air like a mockery of snow. A fragment landed in my hair. I stared at him, the last spark of hope inside me finally guttering out into the cold. Cassidy let out a well-timed sob, burying her head even deeper. “Dominic, stop. She’s just…” “She’s a parasite!” Dominic shouted, his eyes burning. “She’s pushed you to the brink, and you’re still defending her? Someone this twisted doesn’t deserve the Holloway name!” Harrison’s face went dark. He gestured to the head of security, his voice devoid of any warmth. “Throw her out. We have no daughter by this name.” I spent the night curled on a cot in a low-rent motel on the edge of the city. The next morning, before the first bell even rang at the private academy they had enrolled me in, I was summoned to the principal’s office. When I pushed the door open, Cassidy was already there, sitting in a velvet-backed chair across from the principal. Her shoulders were shaking, a lace handkerchief clutched in her hand. Her eyes were swollen like bruised peaches. When she saw me, she flinched—a perfect, subtle movement of terror—and retreated behind the principal’s shadow. “Willa Holloway,” the principal said, his voice as cold as the morgue. “Sit down.” I stayed by the door. Cassidy began to weep softly. “Sir, please don’t be hard on her. Yesterday, in the hallway, she cornered me. She called me a stray, a cuckoo in the nest. She said she’d make sure I never graduated. I… I’m just so scared to be alone with her.” Every word was a lie, whispered with the precision of a stage actress. The principal’s face hardened. He picked up the desk phone and dialed. “I’ve already called your parents. They’re on their way.” It didn’t take long. The door swung open, and Harrison and Beatrice walked in. My father’s face was a mask of iron; my mother went straight to Cassidy, taking her hand with a look of pure agony. “What happened now?” Harrison demanded. “Did she lay a hand on her?” The principal adjusted his glasses. “According to Cassidy, Willa has engaged in repeated verbal harassment and character assassination. She has threatened Cassidy’s future at this institution. This school has a zero-tolerance policy for such behavior.” Harrison turned to me, his disappointment a physical weight in the room. “Is there no end to the shame you’ll bring us? Are you determined to destroy everything we’ve built?” I opened my mouth. Only that hollow, whistling sound came out. I lifted my hands, my fingers starting the sign for ‘I didn’t do it,’ but my father’s hand moved faster. Crack. The slap echoed in the small office. My head snapped to the side, my ear ringing, my cheek blossoming into a searing heat. I stared at him, stunned. The tears finally broke, spilling over. “And now you cry?” Harrison’s voice was thick with disgust. “You do something this vile and you have the nerve to cry? You’re pathetic. You think if you play the victim, we’ll forget what you are?” Cassidy let out another sob, pressing her face into my mother’s coat. “Dad, Mom, please don’t yell at her. It’s okay. I can handle it.” My mother glared at me. “You were born with a common soul, Willa. You’re just like the people who raised you. All you know how to do is hurt things that are beautiful.” The office door hadn’t been closed all the way. I could see the silhouettes of other students in the hall, their whispers leaking through the crack. “So she really did it…” “She looks so quiet, but she’s a total psycho.” “I heard her parents don’t even want her. No wonder she’s so bitter.” I took a shuddering breath, trying to regain my balance. I raised my hands again, slowly, deliberately signing: I. DID. NOT. I didn’t even get through the third word. The principal waved a hand dismissively, his face twisted in annoyance. “Willa, stop with the dramatics. If you have something to say, speak. Don’t sit there playing charades to get attention. It’s insulting to everyone’s intelligence.” I froze. My fingers felt like lead. Even my silence—the only thing I truly owned—was just another “tactic” to them. Suddenly, the door pushed open a little wider. A girl from my homeroom stood there, her voice barely a whisper. “Sir… she’s not playing charades. That’s sign language.” The room went silent. The girl kept her head down, her fingers fidgeting with her sweater, but she found the courage to continue. “My uncle works at a school for the deaf. I learned a little bit over the summer. She just said ‘I didn’t do it.’ And… I don’t think she can talk. At all.” The air in the room turned to ice. The girl’s face was beet-red, but she repeated it: “She hasn’t said a word since she got here. Everyone knows that. She’s not faking being mute.” The principal cleared his throat, his voice skeptical. “Are you sure? This isn’t a time for jokes, Chloe.” “ASL signs are specific,” the girl said, her voice gaining strength. “I’m sure. She’s been trying to tell you the whole time.” Silence descended. My parents’ expressions shifted. My mother looked at me, her lips parting, a flicker of something that looked almost like guilt crossing her face. But then, Cassidy let out a sharp, jagged cry. She wiped her eyes, her voice trembling. “Willa… if you were going to lie, you didn’t have to pay someone to act with you. You didn’t have to pretend to be disabled just to get out of trouble.” That cry was a scalpel. It sliced right through my mother’s burgeoning guilt. Harrison’s face went from pale to a livid purple. He turned on me, his rage revitalized. “You are unbelievable! You’ve reached a new low, Willa. To fake a disability? To hire a classmate to lie for you? You are truly, fundamentally broken.” I reached into my pocket, trembling, and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. It was my medical certificate—the diagnosis from the clinic. I tried to hand it to him. Harrison snatched it. Before he even looked at it, he tore it into shreds, just like Dominic had done the night before. I watched the pieces fall. The tears wouldn’t stop now. “Keep acting!” Harrison roared. “I’m done with this. If you love playing the troubled child so much, I’ll give you a real reason to be troubled. I’m calling the academy for wayward youth. We’ll see how long you stay mute when you’re working ten hours a day in the fields of a reform camp!” My mother stepped back, clutching Cassidy, her eyes full of scorn. “We were wrong about you, Willa. We thought we were bringing home a lost child, but we brought home a monster. You’ve disappointed us for the last time.” Cassidy leaned into her, the corner of her mouth twitching into a smirk that no one else saw. “Dad, Mom, don’t be so hard on her. Maybe she’s just confused. She didn’t mean it…” “She meant every bit of it!” Harrison snarled. “She’s rotten to the core. I’m calling the transport service now.” The principal stood by, looking uncomfortable but saying nothing. He waved the other girl away. “Go back to class, Chloe. We’ll handle this.” The girl looked at me—a long, pained look of pure sympathy—and then she was gone. I stood there, surrounded by the confetti of my own medical records, and I actually found myself smiling. A small, broken smile. I realized then that the truth didn’t matter. In this room, my existence was nothing more than a performance they had already reviewed and hated. I knelt down, slowly, and began to pick up the scraps of paper. A sharp edge sliced my finger, drawing a bead of red. I didn’t feel it. Compared to the vacuum in my chest, the cut was nothing. The sound of a heavy vehicle pulling up to the school entrance vibrated through the floorboards. Two men in charcoal-grey tactical uniforms entered the office. They had the flat, dead eyes of men who dealt with “problem kids” for a living. Harrison stepped forward to greet them. “Gentlemen. This is the girl. She’s disturbed, manipulative, and needs a serious dose of discipline. Take her.” One of the men looked at me, a cold, hard grin touching his lips. “Don’t worry, Mr. Holloway. We’ve seen her type before. We’ll have her straightened out in no time.” Cassidy watched from my mother’s arms, her eyes dancing with triumph. “Good luck, Willa,” she whispered, the words a silent taunt. The man walked over to me. He loomed over me, blocking out the light. “So, you’re the one? Playing mute to get your way?” I didn’t move. My fingers were cold. “Nothing to say? Still playing the game?” He didn’t wait. He kicked my leg, his boot catching me right behind the knee. I collapsed. My knees hit the hardwood floor with a sickening thud. The pain was a white-hot flash behind my eyes. “Still stubborn?” He grabbed me by the hair, forcing my head back. “I said, speak!” He backhanded me. The force of it sent my head spinning, the world tilting on its axis. My ear rang with a deafening hum, and the coppery taste of blood filled my mouth. I was shaking, my entire body convulsing with fear and pain, but I clamped my teeth shut. I wouldn’t give them a sound. But the pain was too much. A sharp, involuntary wheeze escaped my throat—a series of clicking, broken vowels that sounded like a dying bird. “She spoke! See? I told you she was faking!” Cassidy’s voice was a shrill, delighted scream. “I knew it! She’s a liar! She’s been lying to all of us!” My parents’ faces curdled with a fresh wave of loathing. Harrison pointed a shaking finger at me. “You fraud! I can’t believe you’re my blood! You are a stain on this family!” The principal shook his head. “Willa, I am truly disappointed. To go to such lengths to avoid accountability…” The officer grabbed my arm to drag me up, but then— The office door didn’t just open. It was slammed against the wall with enough force to crack the plaster. Everything stopped. A man in a crisp, midnight-blue military dress uniform stood in the doorway. The silver stars on his shoulders caught the fluorescent light, cold and blinding. He was tall, built like a mountain, radiating a sense of absolute, crushing authority. His eyes swept the room, landing finally on me. The murderous rage in his gaze softened into a heartbreaking tenderness that felt like a physical embrace. His voice was low, vibrating with a lethal, quiet power. “My daughter cannot speak,” he said, his eyes scanning the room like a predator. “And yet, you’ve spent the morning trying to break her for it?”

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I was ironing my husband’s dress shirts when a crumpled slip of paper tumbled out of his pocket. It was a paystub. I smoothed it out, my eyes scanning down the rows of deductions and additions until I hit the seventh line. Death Benefit — Spouse Deceased — $8,000.00. Spouse. Deceased. I read those two words three times. Mark only had one spouse: me. But I was alive. My heart was thumping a steady, frantic rhythm against my ribs, and my fingers were still curled around the warm cotton of his sleeve. I stood there on the balcony, the afternoon breeze catching the shirt, inflating it until it looked like a hollow, boneless man dancing in the wind. A memory surfaced—last month at the pharmacy. I’d tried to pick up some flu meds, and the pharmacist told me my insurance card had been declined. “System error,” she’d guessed. I’d believed her. Now, looking at that slip of paper, the chill in my bones told me the system wasn’t broken at all. 01 I turned the paystub over and over until the edges began to fray. The print was neat, clinical. Base salary: $6,800. Seniority bonus: $1,200. Travel allowance: $300. I’d seen these numbers a thousand times. Mark usually tossed his paystubs on the nightstand without a second thought. But this one was different. This one had been folded three times and tucked into the hidden inner pocket of his blazer. Line 7: Death Benefit (Spouse) — $8,000.00. Line 8: Widower’s Special Stipend — $2,000.00/month. I stared at the word “Widower” until it lost all meaning. It meant his wife was dead. I set the iron down, tucked the paystub into my purse, and retrieved a spare key hidden under the shoe rack—the key to his home office. Mark had started locking that door late last year. He claimed he was handling sensitive corporate contracts and didn’t want the “clutter” of our domestic life leaking in. I hadn’t questioned it. The lock turned with a heavy click. The desk was immaculate. A laptop, a stack of trade journals, and a single manila envelope. I opened it. The first page was an application form bearing the logo of the infrastructure firm where Mark worked. Employee Spouse Death Benefit & Survivor Stipend Application. Applicant: Mark Sterling. Relationship to Deceased: Husband. Name of Deceased: Claire Sterling. Social Security Number: My number. Every digit was correct. Date of Death: March 17, 2025. Cause of Death: Illness. I flipped to the next page. It was a formal Death Certificate. My name. My SSN. Our home address. In the box for “Cause of Death,” four words were typed in cold, black ink: Sudden Cardiac Arrest. The certifying facility was listed as “St. Jude’s Memorial Hospital.” I’d lived in this city for five years. I had never heard of a St. Jude’s Memorial. My fingertips went numb. I took photos of everything—every page, front and back, even the adhesive tape on the envelope. Then, I meticulously replaced everything, aligning the creases of the manila folder exactly as I’d found them. I locked the door and slid the key back under the shoe rack. I sat on the sofa, staring at the half-empty glass of orange juice Mark had left on the coffee table this morning. He leaves for work every morning at 6:50 AM. He walks through the door at 6:30 PM sharp. The first thing he does is kick off his loafers. The second thing he does is ask me, “What’s for dinner, babe?” What’s for dinner. He asks me what I’m cooking while he eats the food I bought with my “dead” hands, all while cashing a “Widower’s Stipend” at the office. In his world, I’ve been dead for a hundred and twenty-seven days. 02 The next morning, I took half a day off from my accounting firm. My first stop was the Social Security Administration. I slid my ID into the self-service kiosk. A red box flashed on the screen. Account Terminated: March 2025. Reason: Death of Beneficiary. Deceased. I checked my health insurance portal next. Same red text. Same date. Same reason. I stood in front of the kiosk, a line of eight people forming behind me. An elderly man leaned over my shoulder. “Everything okay, sweetheart? Maybe you typed a digit wrong?” “No,” I whispered, my voice sounding like it belonged to someone else. “It’s not wrong.” I exited the screen and tucked my ID away. One thought hammered at my brain: Mark wasn’t just scamming his company for a few thousand dollars. With that forged certificate, he had effectively “murdered” me within the entire social system. My 401k contributions? Wiped. My health savings account? Frozen. My existence as a citizen? Terminated. I, Claire Sterling, was a ghost in the machine. I didn’t go back to work. Instead, I went to the local police precinct. The officer at the window glanced at my ID, then at my face. “Your ID is active in the DMV database,” he said, frowning. “It’s not flagged as deceased here.” “Then why does Social Security say I’m dead?” The officer tapped a few keys, his brow furrowing. “Your civil status is ‘Active,’ but your federal benefits records have been updated with a death filing… Have you talked to the SSA?” “They told me I need a formal revocation of the death certificate to restore my status. But I didn’t file that certificate.” The officer put down his pen. “Are you telling me someone filed a fraudulent death certificate in your name?” “Yes.” “Do you know who?” I hesitated for a heartbeat. “Yes. My husband.” The look in his eyes shifted. It wasn’t pity; it was the weary cynicism of a man who had seen too many domestic horrors. He slid a report form through the slot. “You can file a report. Forgery of a government document is a felony. Do you want to press charges now?” I stared at the paper for ten seconds. Then, I folded it and put it in my bag. “I need to think.” The officer started to say something, then simply handed me his card. “Whenever you’re ready.” As I walked out of the station, my phone buzzed. It was 1:23 PM. A text from Mark. Hey babe, you feel like tacos or grilled salmon tonight? I stared at the screen. A man collecting a widower’s stipend was asking his “late” wife what she wanted for dinner. I typed two words back. Whatever’s easy. 03 At dinner, Mark moved a piece of salmon onto my plate. “Eat up. You’ve looked a little pale lately. You need the Omega-3s.” I chewed the fish, my mind racing through the last few months, flipping through memories like a ledger. The first clue: The insurance card. Last month at the pharmacy, the clerk had said, “Maybe check with your provider, honey.” I’d assumed it was a glitch and paid cash. The second clue: My phone. Two months ago, Mark told me my number had been “compromised” in a data breach. He took my phone for thirty minutes to “install a security lock.” Now I realized he wasn’t locking it—he was rerouting my Social Security and insurance alerts to his own number. I never saw the notifications that I’d been declared dead. The third clue: Mark’s colleagues. Two weeks ago, I’d dropped by his office to surprise him for lunch. I ran into Gary, one of his department heads, in the hall. “Hey, Gary! Long time no see,” I’d said, smiling. Gary’s face didn’t register a smile. It registered pure, unadulterated terror. He turned pale, his lip trembled, and he practically ran in the opposite direction without a word. I thought he was just having a bad day. Now I knew. In that office, Gary hadn’t seen a colleague’s wife. He’d seen a ghost. “Where are you, Claire?” Mark’s voice snapped me back. “Just tired,” I said, setting down my fork. “Mark, how’s the firm doing this year? Any talk of layoffs?” “Doing fine. Same old grind.” He took a big bite of rice. “Why do you ask?” “Just curious. I haven’t seen your paystub in a while. Did that cost-of-living raise ever kick in?” His hand paused. It was subtle—less than half a second—but his knuckles whitened. “Nah. Still the same base. Paystubs are boring, babe. Nothing changes.” “Right,” I said, looking down at my plate. I did the math in my head. Death benefit: $8,000 lump sum. Survivor stipend: $2,000 a month for 36 months. Total: $72,000. $80,000. That was the price of my life. He’d been cashing it for four months already. $16,000 in the pocket. To get that money, he’d erased my five years of social security contributions and my entire medical history. Mark stood up to clear the table. As he passed behind me, he grazed the back of my head with his hand, a gesture that used to feel like affection. “I’m leaving early tomorrow for a site visit. Get some extra sleep.” “Okay.” I listened to him in the kitchen, the sound of the faucet running. Mark never volunteered to do the dishes. He was doing them tonight. Maybe because he felt guilty. Or maybe because the $8,000 check had finally cleared and he was in a celebratory mood. I didn’t know. But I knew one thing—a sane man doesn’t fake a death certificate just for eighty grand. There had to be something else. 04 For the next three days, I played the part. I made breakfast at 6:30, left for work at 7:20, bought groceries at 6:00, and had dinner ready by 7:00. Mark would walk in, change his shoes, and ask what was for dinner. I’d tell him it was pasta or stir-fry. Everything was “normal.” But every day during my lunch break, I used my office computer to dig. I’m an accountant; I have a nose for paper trails. On Monday, I checked our property records. We’d bought our suburban house three years ago. I’d put down $200,000 of the down payment; he’d put down $100,000. Both our names were on the deed. Except, when I pulled the digital records at the County Recorder’s office, I found a title change filed two months ago. The house was now in Mark’s name only. Reason for Transfer: Death of Co-owner. Sole ownership vested in surviving spouse. My hand froze on the mouse for a full thirty seconds. It wasn’t just the $80,000. He was stealing the house. The equity was worth at least $600,000. On Tuesday, I dug into his finances. I knew his phone passcode—he thought I didn’t, but the glass coffee table reflected his thumb movements every night. 1-9-7-8-6-3. His Venmo and banking apps told the real story. Every month, there were four or five transfers to accounts with generic names like “Loan Servicing” or “Private Recovery.” The amounts ranged from $3,000 to $10,000. One month, he’d sent out $37,000. I tracked the IDs. They weren’t banks. They were offshore gambling sites and high-interest private lenders. I went back six months. Mark had burned through nearly $230,000. His salary was barely $7,000 a month. Where was the money coming from? I checked his savings. $41.55. Then I saw a linked account I didn’t recognize—a regional bank in Nevada. The balance was zero, but a transfer of $35,000 had gone out three days ago. A $230,000 debt. A $7,000 income. Suddenly, the death certificate made perfect sense. The $80,000 in benefits, the $600,000 in home equity—he wasn’t just scamming his company. He was using my “death” to pay off his life.

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For three years, I played the part of the perfect, devoted partner to Sebastian Adams. We shared a bed, shared our secrets, and lived a life that looked like love in every way—except for one. He refused to acknowledge me in public. To the world, I didn’t exist. Then, the System—the cosmic glitch that had been guiding my “mission” to win him over—suddenly piped up with a casual, “Oops.” “My bad, June. Totally botched the data. The girl Sebastian was supposed to fall for is Jane, not June. Different spelling, different girl. Honest mistake!” I looked down at the cashmere scarf I had spent weeks knitting for his birthday, then looked at my phone. I sent a single text: We’re done. I didn’t expect a reply. Sebastian usually took six hours to ignore me. But an hour later, at our high school reunion, he cornered me in a private lounge, his breath hot against my ear, his teeth grazing my lip as he snarled, “You call this ‘not knowing each other’? Hmm?” … I was three years deep into the “Sebastian Adams Project” when the System informed me it had committed the ultimate clerical error. “I misheard the name, okay? I thought it said June. It definitely said Jane,” the voice buzzed in my head, sounding entirely too breezy for someone who had just wasted three years of my life. “Jane is showing up at the reunion tomorrow. So, June, you can officially clock out. You don’t need to try with Sebastian anymore. Let Jane take over from here.” I stood in my kitchen for a long time, the silence of the apartment pressing against my eardrums. “Okay,” I finally whispered. It was for the best. Sebastian never loved me anyway. This messy, nameless thing we had was a house of cards waiting for a breeze. The System’s confession was just the wind. I had just finished the last row of the scarf when the “Oops” happened. It was supposed to be his big birthday surprise. My phone screen still showed the last text I’d sent him: Hey, Seb. Guess what I made for your birthday this year? You’re going to love it. The message sat there, unread. A stone dropped into the middle of the Atlantic. Sebastian never gave me the courtesy of a quick reply. He was far too busy being the brilliant, untouchable architect of his own ego. “Look, don’t take it personally,” the System continued its chatter. “You and Jane have such similar names, and you both went to the same prep school. I just saw ‘Zhou’ on the file and ran with it. Honestly, it’s a good thing you never actually got him to commit. If you’d succeeded and then found out it was the wrong guy… well, I’d be out of a job.” It paused, then added with a hint of a sneer, “I’m not saying you’re bad, June. It’s just… Jane’s profile says she’s a literal genius, a former model, the kind of woman men actually want to show off. This ‘Love Optimization System’ usually picks people with actual chemistry. When it’s the wrong person, well, you can’t force a spark where there’s just… damp wood.” “I get it,” I said, my voice steady. “You don’t have to explain.” Everything finally clicked. That’s why, despite the intimacy we shared behind closed doors, he never introduced me as his girlfriend. That’s why no matter how much of my soul I poured into him, I remained a ghost in his life. Sebastian hated “simple” things. He hated mediocrity. And to him, I was the human equivalent of a participation trophy. I decided to go to his place one last time to pack up the bits of my life scattered across his penthouse. Jane was arriving tomorrow, and I refused to be the pathetic squatter in the middle of their destined romance. I didn’t expect Jane to already be on his radar. Standing outside the iron gate of his terrace, I saw him. Sebastian was sitting in a rattan chair, a sketchpad on his lap, his phone on speaker. Jane’s voice, melodic and bright, drifted through the air. “So, are you excited to see me tomorrow, Seb?” “Mmm,” Sebastian hummed, that long, drawling tone he used when he was intrigued. “It’s been a while. I’m looking forward to the whole group being back together.” “Oh, stop. Don’t act like I’m just ‘one of the group.’ I’ve got a birthday present for you, but you have to earn it. Think you’re smart enough for a little game?” “What kind of game?” “A riddle. A complex, beautiful logic puzzle I designed just for you. If you solve it by the end of the reunion dinner, I’ll tell you a secret. Don’t be late, genius.” I heard Sebastian chuckle. A real, genuine sound. He put down his charcoal pencil and picked up the phone. “Consider me challenged.” Sebastian never answered my calls when he was sketching. Never. Even though I knew the truth now, seeing the effortless way she captured his attention made my throat tight. I turned and walked away before he could see me. My phone buzzed. A text from Sebastian. Finally. Two words, cold as a mid-winter morning: Sounds boring. He was right. I was boring. My birthday present was a handmade scarf—an act of “cheap labor,” as he’d probably call it. I couldn’t give him logic puzzles or intellectual thrills. I didn’t even understand the math he lived by. I walked home slowly, the weight of a decade-long crush finally starting to dissolve. I had loved him since high school. Back then, I was just “Specs”—the quiet girl with the thick frames who sat in the back of the AP classes. Our families were old friends, but in Sebastian’s orbit, I was invisible. The only reason he even knew my name was because I used to hand-deliver love letters to him from other girls. He’d take them with a smirk and say, “Still playing messenger? You’re such a ditz, June.” Ditz. That was his label for me. I did it just to have five seconds of his time. I never expected a miracle until that summer after freshman year of college when the System appeared. It told me we were “meant to be” and that I just needed to “optimize the romance” to win a massive payout and a happily ever after. Meant to be. That phrase had been my fuel for three years. When he broke his leg playing pickup basketball, I used the System’s prompt as an excuse to show up at his door. “Here to nurse me back to health?” he’d asked, leaning against the doorframe, eyes tracing my face with a lazy, mocking light. “What’s the catch? What do you want in exchange?” I looked him in the eye. “I want you.” He laughed. “You really are a glutton for punishment, aren’t you?” But he let me in. That summer was an endless cycle of me running errands in the heat, cooking for him, and being his shadow. One day, the AC died. He couldn’t climb the ladder with his cast, so I did it. I slipped, fell right into his lap, and we tumbled onto the hardwood floor. It was July. We were barely wearing anything. I felt his body react, my face flaming as I tried to pull away, but he pinned my wrists above my head. “I thought you said you wanted me,” he whispered, his dark eyes fixed on my trembling lips. “Why are you backing down now?” “I…” “If you want it,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, “then let’s see if you can handle it.” We “handled it” for three years. But “girlfriend” was a title he guarded like a state secret. “Is a label really that important?” he’d say whenever I worked up the courage to ask. “You have me. You’re in my bed. Why ruin it with some clingy, suburban expectation of a ‘relationship’?” I didn’t have the words to argue with him. I just convinced myself the System couldn’t be wrong. He was just “afraid of commitment.” He’d come around. But now, the System was telling me the whole foundation was a lie. I got home, sat on my sofa for four hours in the dark, and finally picked up my phone. We’re done. Don’t contact me again. The next day, I arrived early at the reunion. Sebastian wasn’t there yet, but Jane was. She was the sun, and everyone else was a planet trapped in her gravity. “Oh look, Specs is here!” someone shouted. In our class, there were two J-names. Jane was “Jane.” I was “Specs.” Even now, years after I’d traded the glasses for contacts and started dressing better, the nickname stuck. Jane turned to me, her eyes doing a quick, clinical scan of my outfit. “Oh, guys, don’t call her that. She’s not wearing glasses anymore. Let’s be grown-ups.” She smiled, the kind of perfect, practiced smile of a woman who knew she was the lead actress in every room. I remembered it was her who started the nickname in the first place, back in tenth grade, because she “couldn’t keep us straight.” “True,” a guy named Nathan piped up. “June looks great without them. Actually, she looks incredible.” “June, you got a boyfriend? Or are you still—” “Nathan, Chris,” Jane interrupted smoothly, “weren’t you asking me about my MBA program? I’ve got a few minutes before the main event starts.” The guys drifted back to her instantly. I moved to the edge of the room. “I’m late. My apologies.” The voice was cool, cultured, and sent a familiar shiver down my spine. Sebastian had arrived. The room practically vibrated with the collective need to impress him. “Sebastian! The man of the hour!” I stepped further back into the shadows. “Seb, sit here!” Jane said, patting the empty chair beside her. Sebastian’s gaze flickered around the room, landing on me for a fraction of a second. “What’s the topic of conversation? You all look very intense.” “We were just saying how much ‘Specs’ has glowed up,” one of the guys joked. “Her?” Sebastian tossed his blazer onto a chair near me, his eyes raking over me with total indifference. I didn’t look at him. The second he sat down, I grabbed my clutch and walked to the furthest table in the back of the room. Sebastian’s expression darkened instantly. “When did you lose your eyesight, Chris?” Sebastian’s voice carried across the room, followed by a burst of cruel laughter. The “inner circle” huddled around him and Jane. My table was practically empty, save for a few people who had never been part of the elite crowd. “I’m so over this,” a girl named Lindsay muttered next to me. “It’s been years and they still act like there’s a hierarchy. The ‘Gifted and Talented’ kids are still just a bunch of snobs.” “Who cares?” someone else said. “Let them have their little cult. We’ll have our own fun.” “Actually,” Lindsay said, looking at the guy next to me, “Nathan’s doing better than all of them. He won that tech innovation award last year and started his own robotics firm. Right, Nathan?” I looked at the man sitting beside me. “You’re Nathan? You lost… a lot of weight.” In high school, he’d been the “Big Nate” to my “Specs.” Another casualty of the social ladder. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking a bit shy. “Yeah. Spent that summer after senior year in the gym and the lab. It’s good to see you, June.” He had become genuinely handsome—rugged, grounded, and kind. He was a “boss” now, but he didn’t carry the arrogance Sebastian did. He raised his glass. “To the back table. We might not have been the top of the curve, but we’re doing okay. How about after this, I take everyone here for a real drink? My treat.” “Hell yeah! Nathan’s the man!” I caught the infectious energy and laughed along. Suddenly, a piece of glazed salmon appeared on my plate. Nathan cleared his throat. “I remember you used to wait in the long line for the salmon on Fridays in the cafeteria.” I blinked. “You remember that?” His face went slightly pink. “I was usually standing three people behind you.” “That’s… wow. So, tell me about these robots. Are we talking AI takeover or the ones that do the TikTok dances?” Nathan grinned. “If you want them to dance, I can make them dance.” “June! Specs!” The shout came from the main table. It was one of Sebastian’s friends. “Sebastian’s being tight-lipped as usual, but your families are close. You have to know the tea.” I looked over. Sebastian was leaning in close to Jane, whispering something that made her giggle into her hand. “What tea?” I asked flatly. “Does he have a girlfriend or what? We’ve all been trying to figure out who the mystery woman is.” Sebastian didn’t even look up, but I could see his jaw tighten. “I wouldn’t know,” I said, my voice devoid of emotion. “We aren’t close.” The movement at the main table stopped. Sebastian looked up, his eyes like two black holes, fixed on me. I didn’t blink. I turned back to Nathan and cracked a joke. I was laughing so hard I accidentally bit into a hidden habanero pepper. I started coughing violently. “Whoa, you okay?” Nathan was instantly on his feet, handing me a glass of water. “I’m fine, just… spicy,” I wheezed, my face turning beet red. “I’m going to the restroom.” I splashed cold water on my face in the bathroom, trying to get my heart rate down. As I walked back, passing an empty hallway, a hand shot out and yanked me into a dark alcove. “You call this ‘not close’? Hmm?” His teeth clamped down on my bottom lip—hard. The pain snapped me into focus. I shoved him with everything I had. “Are you insane?” He stumbled back, caught off guard by the force. His face was a mask of cold fury. “I should be asking you that, June. What the hell has been wrong with you since yesterday? What kind of game are you playing?” I wiped my mouth, my lip stinging. “No game. I meant what I said in the text.” “We’re done.” “Hah.” He let out a sharp, mocking breath. He shoved a bottle of yogurt into my hands. “I saw you coughing and went to the bar to get you this. This is how you thank me?” I looked down at the cold bottle. “If you’re mad at me, fine. But don’t go eating peppers like an idiot just to get attention. You know you have a sensitive stomach. Are you trying to make me jealous by flirting with Nathan? Is this your new strategy to force me into a ‘public’ relationship?” I stared at him, genuinely bewildered. “What are you even talking about?” “Am I wrong? You send a breakup text, then show up here and act like I’m a stranger. You’re trying to squeeze a commitment out of me by showing me how ‘in demand’ you are. It’s pathetic, June.” Suddenly, I felt a wave of exhaustion so heavy it felt like lead. “And if it were?” I asked, looking him dead in the eye. “If everything you said was true—that I did all this just to be your ‘official’ girlfriend—would you do it? Would you walk out there right now and tell everyone we’ve been together for three years?” The silence was deafening. He didn’t say a word. I shoved the yogurt back against his chest. “What was I to you these last three years, Sebastian? You knew I loved you, so you let me hang around like a stray dog. You enjoyed the ego boost of having me beg for scraps of your time. Did it make you feel powerful?” His brows knitted together. “We had an arrangement. It was mutual. Don’t act like you’re some victim. I told you from day one: I don’t do ‘clinging’.” “Right. It was mutual when I thought you cared. Now I don’t care, and I want out. It’s that simple.” He grabbed my arm, his grip tightening. “Say that again. I dare you.” “Are you deaf?” I snapped. “I’m done with you.” He stared at me for a long beat, then a slow, cruel smirk spread across his face. “Fine.” He threw my arm back. “We’re done. But don’t you dare come crawling back when you realize how small your life is without me.”

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The balance on our joint savings account was zero. One hundred thousand dollars—the down payment for our future, the safety net I’d spent three years weaving—had vanished. I stood at the bank teller’s window, the air-conditioning feeling like ice against my skin, as she calmly informed me that my husband had moved the funds himself. When I confronted him at home, he didn’t even look up from his phone. “Lydia’s son needs a heart transplant, Natalie,” he said, his voice airy, as if he were discussing the weather. “I transferred it to her. What? Are you really going to make a scene over something like this?” I thought of the medical report in my bag. The biopsy results. My world tilted. “But my mother is sick, Derek! It’s cancer!” Derek froze for a second, then a cruel, jagged laugh escaped him. “Oh, so your mother has cancer? Well, thank God I gave that money to Lydia first. If I’d left it to you, you’d have flushed it down the toilet trying to save a lost cause. Talk about throwing good money after bad.” He shrugged, heading toward the bedroom. “She’s old. If there’s no money for treatment, she dies. That’s life.” I looked at the trash can in the kitchen. I reached into my bag, pulled out the medical report—the one that actually belonged to his mother, Martha—and let it flutter into the garbage. Fine. If the money is gone, it’s gone. But someone’s mother is about to die, and it isn’t mine. … The health checks had come back that morning. My mother was fine. I was fine. It was Martha, my mother-in-law, who had early-stage lung cancer. Despite the way she treated me—the constant barbs about my weight, my “masculine” focus on my career, and my inability to get pregnant—my heart had initially ached for her. Derek had lost his father young. I knew Martha was his only anchor, or so I thought. I’d planned to spend the evening going over treatment options with him, figuring out how to reallocate our savings to save her life. Then I saw the $0.00 balance at the ATM. I stumbled back into the house to find Derek packing a suitcase. He looked frantic, his eyes darting to the door. I saw a flash of crimson lace inside the bag—a silk nightgown. For a split second, I thought it was a gift for me. A peace offering. I realize now how pathetic that hope was. It was for someone else. “Where is the hundred thousand, Derek?” I asked, my voice trembling. He arched an eyebrow, giving me that same dismissive look. “I told you. Lydia’s kid. It’s a life-saving surgery. Don’t be so provincial.” “Lydia again!” The name tasted like poison. “How much have you ‘lent’ her since we got married? She’s never paid back a dime. She treats you like her personal handyman and ATM. You’re over there at midnight fixing her lightbulbs while I’m sitting here alone. Who lives like this?” Derek’s face turned a bruised purple. “Shut your mouth! It’s an act of mercy. Maybe if I do some good in the world, God will finally see fit to give you a child. You’ve been a dry well for three years, Natalie. I haven’t divorced you yet, have I? Consider that money a donation for your own karma. And I didn’t ‘lend’ it. I gave it to her. She doesn’t owe us anything.” He tried to push past me. I grabbed his arm, desperate, and he swung back, his palm cracking against my skin. The sting was immediate, hot and sharp. “But Derek,” I whispered, tears finally spilling over. “The cancer. Mom is sick.” He laughed again, that same horrifying sound. “Right, your mom. Like I said, glad the money is gone. Saving her would be like feeding a dead dog. Let her go. It’ll save us the headache.” He whistled a jaunty tune, his suitcase wheels clicking against the hardwood floor as he walked out the door. I wiped my eyes, went to the kitchen, and made sure the medical report was buried deep under the coffee grounds in the trash. The money was gone. But so was his mother’s time. Martha came home later that evening, smelling of cheap perfume and the casino. When she saw there was no dinner on the table, she started in on me immediately. “What, are you trying to starve me? You’re more like a man than a wife, always ‘working,’ always ‘busy.’ No wonder my son is miserable. Any other woman would have a hot meal ready. Derek truly cursed his luck the day he met you.” I didn’t argue. I’ve always been a “silent crier”—the kind of person whose throat tightens until they can’t speak. I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of my tears. Everything in this life—the house, the car Derek drove, the savings he’d just stolen—had come from my promotions, my late nights, my grit. And yet, I was the failure. I ordered takeout. Szechuan—extra spicy, heavy on the oil and the peppers. The aroma filled the house. Martha’s anger vanished the moment she smelled the food. “Oh, did you finally get a bonus? About time you contributed something useful.” She grabbed the containers and took them to her room, gorging herself. I heard her coughing from the spice, but she didn’t stop. The doctor had been very specific: a bland, low-sodium diet was crucial for her condition. I sat in the dark living room, scrolling through my phone. A message from a college friend popped up. “Saw Derek’s Instagram story! You guys look so happy. So jealous of that weekend getaway!” I couldn’t see the post. Derek had blocked me from his stories weeks ago. He wasn’t on a business trip. He was at a boutique hotel with Lydia. I messaged my friend back: “I’m at home working. That isn’t me.” The silence that followed was deafening. I was buried in a spreadsheet an hour later when the front door slammed open. Derek was back, and he looked like he wanted to kill someone. “Natalie! You petty, spiteful bitch!” he screamed, looming over my desk. “You reported me to HR? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” He was shaking with rage, his finger inches from my nose. “Call my boss right now. Tell them it was a mistake. Tell them you were jealous and made it up, or I’m fired! You’re going to fix this!” I stared at him, confused for a second, before the pieces clicked. My college friend worked in his firm’s marketing department. She must have mentioned his “romantic getaway” to someone who knew he wasn’t there with his wife. I looked at his disheveled hair, the faint scent of another woman’s lotion clinging to him, and felt nothing but cold iron in my chest. “You did this to yourself, Derek. Actions have consequences.” He didn’t speak. He grabbed my laptop and slammed it onto the floor. The screen shattered into a spiderweb of dead pixels. “I’m talking to you! You’re going to call him! If I lose this job, we’re done! Everything is over!” He pulled out his phone, dialing his supervisor. “Sir? Yeah, my wife is right here. She wants to clear up the misunderstanding. Hold on.” He thrust the phone at me. I didn’t take it. I swiped my hand, knocking the phone to the floor. “Hello? Hello?” the voice on the line crackled. Derek scrambled for the phone, stammering apologies into the receiver before hanging up. He turned on me like a cornered animal. His hands flew to my throat, squeezing. “I am so sick of you!” he hissed, his eyes bloodshot. “You think because you make more money, you’re better than me? You’re lucky you’re a woman, Natalie. You just have to smile at a client, let some CEO touch your leg, and the deal is closed. If you were a man, you’d be a nobody. You’d be nothing.” I gasped for air, my hands clawing at his wrists. This was the man I’d supported. This was the man whose ego I’d carefully inflated for three years while he bled me dry. “I want… a divorce!” I choked out. “Divorce!” He threw me back against the chair, a sneer curling his lip. “Fine. I’ve been waiting for this. I’m done with your icy, professional bullshit anyway.” Martha finally emerged from her room, having watched the whole thing from the shadows. She feigned a half-hearted attempt to calm him down, whispering in his ear. “Mom! Who cares if she makes money?” Derek yelled. “So what if she gets half the assets? I’m done!” Martha patted his arm, her eyes darting to me. “Oh, honey, don’t be rash. Think about the income…” That was Martha. Always looking at the ledger. She didn’t love me; she loved the lifestyle my salary provided. Derek straightened his shirt, looking at me with pure venom. “You know what, Mom? Let her go. This woman—this ‘alpha female’—her mother is dying of cancer. All that money she makes? It’s going into a black hole of chemo and hospital beds. We need to get out before she drags us down with her.” Martha froze. The color drained from her face, replaced by a sharp, calculating gleam. “Cancer? Oh, God. It’s a bottomless pit. We can’t be tied to that!” She turned to me, her voice shrill. “Natalie, if you want to stay married, you have to cut your parents off. We aren’t letting your mother’s illness ruin our quality of life!” I stood up, my voice steady for the first time in years. “I want a divorce.” They looked at each other, grinning like they’d just won the lottery. We spent the next hour carving up our lives. I didn’t care how tedious it was. I wanted every cent accounted for. “The SUV is worth thirty thousand. You put in five, I put in twenty-five.” “The house—the down payment was all mine…” Derek snapped. “Does this make you feel powerful, Natalie? Look at yourself. You’re thirty-two and divorced. You’re damaged goods. Nobody wants a woman like you. You think your career makes you special? You’re a failure as a wife, a failure as a woman.” He leaned in, his voice a cruel whisper. “Enjoy your dying mother and your empty house. You’re going to rot alone. Good luck with the funeral.” I looked him dead in the eye. “Every mother gets what’s coming to her, Derek.” We signed the papers. I started packing my things. My parents were already on their way to pick me up, their voices thick with concern over the video call when they saw my bruised neck. But before they arrived, the doorbell rang. It was Lydia. She was holding a small boy’s hand. The boy was running around, full of energy, showing absolutely no signs of someone who had supposedly just undergone major heart surgery. “Grandma!” he chirped, running to Martha. Martha beamed, pulling him into a hug. “My beautiful grandson! Lydia, you have such good hips—I knew you’d be a breeder!” Derek didn’t even try to hide it anymore. He took Lydia’s hand. “This is your home now,” he told her. “No more running. No more hiding. You’re safe here.” Lydia’s eyes shone with a predatory triumph. she threw her arms around him and kissed him deeply. “I’m so lucky to have you, Derek.” It was nauseating. As I dragged my suitcase toward the door, Lydia stepped in my way, blocking me. “I’m just making sure you don’t ‘accidentally’ pack anything that belongs to my husband.” “Move, Lydia. My makeup is mine.” She put her hands on her hips, her sweet facade dropping. “Derek bought that for you. Since you’re leaving, it stays. It’s mine now.” She reached for my bag. I didn’t pull away. I let the bag drop, and when she tried to grab my vanity case, I let it shatter on the floor. I picked up a jagged shard of glass, holding it low. “Try me,” I whispered. “I have nothing left to lose. Do you?” Derek moved toward me, reaching for a heavy floor lamp to swing. But the door flew open. My father and my cousin—a guy built like a linebacker—stepped in. Derek folded instantly, shrinking back behind the sofa. Martha, however, was emboldened by her own ignorance. She started screaming, throwing herself on the floor. “Go ahead! Hit an old woman! I’ll sue you for everything! I’m a helpless old lady!” My cousin looked down at her with pure disgust. “Shouldn’t you be at a hospital, lady? Or are you waiting to drop dead right here?” Martha paused her theatrics, looking at my mother. “Oh, don’t you look smug? Has Natalie told you yet? You have cancer! You’re a walking corpse!” My mother calmly pulled her phone from her pocket and turned the screen around. It was a digital copy of the lab results. “Martha,” she said softly. “Look at the name on the report. You are the one with cancer.” Martha scrambled to look. Her face went from white to a sickly grey. She staggered back, her breath hitching. “No. No, that’s impossible. I feel fine. I’m healthy!” Derek’s panic flared and then vanished, replaced by his usual arrogance. “Mom, don’t listen to them. It’s a fake! They’re just trying to scare us so I won’t leave her. Natalie is desperate.” He really was a special kind of stupid. If he’d paid attention for a single second, he would have noticed his mother’s weight loss, her constant complaints of abdominal pain. But he only saw what he wanted to see. Martha’s color returned. She straightened her hair, encouraged by Lydia’s whispered reassurances. “That’s right! You’re the one who’s sick! I’ll outlive all of you!” She pointed a trembling finger at the door. “Get out! All of you! If you touch me, I’m calling the cops!” I held my father back. I didn’t want them getting a police record over these people. I looked at Martha—her face twisted in a mask of triumph and terminal illness. I walked up to her and, with every ounce of resentment I’d built up over three years, I slapped her across the face.

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I funded Cameron’s life for five years. The first thing he did after making it big was kick me to the curb. “You’re an orphan, Norah. You paid a few semesters of tuition, and you think that gives you the right to leverage my future?” His cruelty was casual, almost bored. “If you want me to marry you that badly, fine. I’m getting married in a month. If you have the guts to crash the wedding, I’ll marry you then.” My heart didn’t break; it simply went cold. I turned around and accepted the arranged marriage my late parents had set up for me years ago. The irony was sharp: my wedding date was the same as Cameron’s. I had just arrived at the hotel in the bridal car when I was dragged out. Cameron was there, flanked by his groomsmen, looking at me with pure disdain. “I was joking, you psycho. You actually came to crash the wedding? Are you that desperate to be with me?” He pulled out his phone to livestream, humiliating me as the ‘other woman,’ and accused me of stealing a signet ring belonging to the heir of the Huntington dynasty. But the moment I took the arm of the Huntington heir and walked into the ballroom, Cameron stopped laughing. …… 01 I was dragged out of the limousine, a mess of white silk and tulle. My veil was torn, my ankle throbbing where I’d twisted it. Cameron looked down at me, a sneer curling his lip. “Norah, I made a joke to mess with your head. You actually showed up in a gown? How pathetic is that?” “Do you have no shame? You literally cannot live without a man?” The rich prep-school boys surrounding him laughed, their voices loud and jagged. “An orphan thinking she can marry into the Huntington circle? Honey, find a mirror.” “She’s pretty, though,” one of them drawled, his eyes raking over me. “Since you’re not getting into the family, why don’t you hang out with us? We’ll make sure you’re taken care of.” They doubled over laughing, their gazes feeling like slime against my skin. Humiliation and rage warred in my chest. I glared at Cameron. “What is this, Cameron?” “Don’t play dumb.” Cameron scoffed, looking at me like I was something stuck to his shoe. “I was having fun with you. You still haven’t figured that out?” “Normal people walk away when they get dumped. I didn’t realize your skin was this thick. You actually wore a wedding dress to ambush me.” “You paid a few bills back in the day, and you think you can hold that over me forever?” “You spent fifty grand on me? Fine. Today I’ll pay you back double. Just stop dreaming about marrying me. You aren’t worthy.” Cameron pulled a stack of hundred-dollar bills from his jacket and slammed them into my face. The crisp edges of the new bills sliced my cheek. I felt a sting, then the warmth of blood. I gasped, tears springing to my eyes from the sharp pain. I stared at Cameron. He used to be gentle. He used to be kind. How did he turn into this monster? I wiped the tears and blood from my cheek. My voice was ice. “Who would want to marry an ingrate like you? I’m not here to crash your wedding. I’m here to marry my husband.” “We just happen to be at the same hotel.” “Hahaha! If you’re going to lie, at least make it believable!” one of the trust-fund boys howled, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. “The Sovereign Hotel is for the elite. Who could a nobody like you possibly be marrying here?” Another guy stepped closer, his grin oily. “I get it. Twenty-eight years old, panic setting in. Tell you what—forget Cameron. My dad’s single.” “Marry my dad, become my stepmom. Pop out three sons in three years, and if they’re boys, the Lee family will cut you a check. Hahahaha!” The mockery buzzed in my ears like static. My hands were freezing. I looked at Cameron, who was just watching them, letting it happen. Cameron was my neighbor. His mother died when he was five, and my parents, pitying him, took him in. When my parents died in a car crash, it was just the two of us against the world. In high school, when local thugs targeted me because I had no family to protect me, Cameron fought three of them at once. He ended up in the hospital, nearly expelled, but he made them swear never to touch me again. I remember asking him, through tears, if it was worth it. He had looked at me with such intensity. “It’s worth it, Norah. I won’t let anyone bully you. I love you. Wait for me. I promise I’ll give you a good life.” Seven years. One stint abroad. That was all it took for his heart to rot. “From the day you broke up with me, we were done,” I said, my voice trembling with suppressed fury. I scanned the faces of the men mocking me. “I’m remembering every insult today. Once the ceremony is over, my husband will settle the score.” “Ooh, scary. Who gave you the confidence?” “Your imaginary husband?” One of the groomsmen stepped forward, his hand reaching out to grab the bodice of my dress. “Why don’t you marry me instead? I’m Cameron’s buddy. I can give you some ‘justice’ right now.” He winked, lewd and disgusting. “Get the hell away from her!” Harper, my best friend and maid of honor, came sprinting from the back of the stalled motorcade. She didn’t hesitate—she delivered a flying kick that sent the groper sprawling. “You people have a death wish,” she screamed. “My best friend is marrying Dominic Huntington. You treat her like this, and you’re dead men walking!” Cameron froze for a split second, then threw his head back and laughed. He laughed so hard he choked. “You aren’t even good enough for me, and you think you’re marrying my uncle? The Dominic Huntington?” “Especially after I’ve already had you?” “There’s a limit to daydreaming, Norah!” 02 “Dominic Huntington is untouchable. Even our fathers are terrified of him. And you claim you’re marrying him?” “A toad lusting after a swan. Delusional.” The ridicule intensified. “The ceremony is starting soon. What are you boys doing out here?” Blair, Cameron’s bride, walked out. She saw me in a gown that was visibly more expensive than hers, and a flash of jealousy cut through her poised expression. “Just watching a clown, babe. She claims my uncle is going to marry her. Ha!” Cameron said. “Failed to crash our wedding, so now she’s hallucinating.” Cameron wiped his tears of laughter, wrapping an arm around Blair’s waist while shooting me a look of pure disgust. Blair looked at me with faux pity. “Miss He, I didn’t think Cameron would make such a harsh joke, but really…” “It’s not right of him. I apologize on his behalf.” Cameron scoffed. “It was just a joke. She’s the one with the twisted mind who actually showed up.” “She deserves the humiliation.” The groomsmen chimed in like a Greek chorus of idiots. “Exactly, Blair. She’s a gold digger. She knows Cameron is a Huntington now and won’t let go. No shame.” I looked at Blair. She was the daughter of the Xu family—rich, elegant, appropriate. They met on campus, matched in status. For Cameron, an illegitimate son needing legitimacy, she was the perfect asset. My eyes drifted to her hair. A vintage emerald comb glinted in the sunlight. That was my family’s heirloom. I had given it to Cameron as a promise of our future. I never expected to see it on her. Swallowing the acid in my throat, I spoke calmly. “Miss Xu, the hairpiece you are wearing was my engagement gift to him. Since we are nothing to each other now, please return it.” Blair’s expression stuttered. She smiled, a sugary, poisonous thing, and pulled the comb from her hair. “Miss He, I know you helped Cameron, but you can’t force love.” “He chose me. Please, have some self-respect and leave.” She held the comb out. I reached for it, but before my fingers could graze the metal, she let go. Crack. The emerald comb hit the pavement and shattered. I stared at the fragments, my vision blurring. That heirloom had survived a hundred years in the He family. Now, it was dust. “Babe, she almost ruined your wedding, and you’re just letting her go? You’re too nice,” one guy jeered. “She needs a lesson. Otherwise, with her thick skin, she’ll just come back to harass Cameron.” Cameron smoothed Blair’s hair, his eyes cold as he looked at me. “You guys are right. She needs a lesson to kill the fantasy once and for all.” Two of the men circled me. One shoved me hard. My ankle gave way, and I collapsed onto the asphalt, a heap of bruised white satin. The grief for the heirloom and the shame of the moment fused into a white-hot anger. I scrambled up and slapped the nearest guy across the face. “Are you deaf? I told you, I am marrying Dominic Huntington today!” The man I slapped touched his cheek, his eyes turning dark and dangerous. He swung back, a heavy hand striking my face. Stars exploded in my vision. “Still acting? Still pretending?” “The Huntington heir is marrying a woman from a dynasty family, an arrangement made at birth. You’re a nobody orphan. You dare impersonate her?” “If you’re so tough, call Dominic Huntington out here to save you!” Blair chimed in, her voice dripping with fake concern. “Boys, that’s enough. Miss He is clearly upset. It’s normal to invent a savior when you feel small.” “Just make her leave. Don’t let her ruin our day.” “She hasn’t learned her lesson yet. She can’t leave!” The guy I slapped grabbed my arm, his eyes scanning my dress with malicious intent. “This dress… where did you steal it from? It looks more expensive than the bride’s.” Cameron frowned, stepping closer. “Today is Blair’s day. You wearing something this flashy… you’re trying to humiliate her.” “Strip it off her. I won’t allow anyone to outshine my wife today.” Blair looked at Cameron with adoring eyes, visibly touched, before feigning hesitation. “Stripping a girl in public? That’s too cruel, Cam.” “Just kick her out.” “No. I need her to understand her place. Or she’ll never stop stalking me.” Cameron looked at me with pure loathing. I stared into his eyes, feeling a strange detachment. I couldn’t believe this was the boy I raised. I gave up college to work double shifts for his tuition. And now, because of a coincidence of venue, he wanted to destroy me. Thirteen years of history, erased. “Hey beautiful, let’s get you out of that.” 03 Two of the men lunged, grabbing handfuls of my bodice. “Get off me!” I screamed, kicking and clawing. Harper threw herself into the fray, pulling at them. “Let her go!” But two women in heels were no match for a group of gym-rat men. Within seconds, the delicate lace of my bodice ripped. The sound was sickening. The fabric gave way, exposing my bra. Cameron’s friend held up his phone, broadcasting live. “Look at this, folks! This is what happens to homewreckers!” “She knew my bro was getting married and showed up in a wedding dress to spite him. Now she’s stripped. Karma, right?” Harper desperately tried to cover me with the tattered remnants of the silk. She was screaming, her voice cracking. “You are humiliating Dominic Huntington’s wife! You think you’re going to survive this?” “Get lost! Don’t touch my friend!” “Still bluffing? If you were Dominic’s bride, he’d be here, wouldn’t he?” They twisted my arms behind my back, forcing my face toward the phone camera. “Get a good look. This is the face of a stalker.” Comments flooded the screen: [Die, homewrecker!] [Shameless!] [Throw her in the river!] My face burned with shame and fury. “I am Dominic’s wife! You will die for this!” In the struggle, a pendant tucked into my bra swung loose. It was a heavy, dark green jade signet ring on a gold chain. “That’s the family seal!” I shouted. “The Huntington signet ring! Does this not prove who I am?” The man holding me froze. He looked at the ring, his face draining of color. It was unmistakable. Dominic never took it off—until he gave it to me. It was the symbol of absolute authority in the Huntington family. Cameron saw it. He marched over and yanked the chain from my neck, snapping the clasp. “Let me go,” I hissed. “Or you’re dead.” Cameron stared at the ring, his eyes shifting. Then, a cold, calculating sneer appeared. “You came to the ancestral house with me once. I can’t believe you had the audacity to steal my uncle’s ring.” My eyes widened. The lies flowed out of him so easily. “You liar! Dominic gave that to me!” I only found out a year ago. My father and Dominic’s father were best friends. They made a pact. After Cameron dumped me, Dominic found me. He offered the marriage. I accepted partly because I was broken, partly for revenge—to become Cameron’s aunt. But I never expected Cameron to accuse me of theft. “Since you have no shame,” Cameron said, his voice rushing, “you don’t need the rest of that dress.” He signaled the man holding me. The guy laughed nervously but complied. “We’re losing daylight, Cam! Go get married. I’ll handle this trash.” “I promise to give her a ‘wedding’ she won’t forget.” He started dragging me toward the side alley. Harper was fighting, I was screaming, scratching at the pavement. Just as the darkness of despair began to close in, a voice thundered across the driveway. Low, terrifying, and authoritative. “STOP. Take your hands off my wife.”

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