Category: English

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

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

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

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

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “542315”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

In the sixth year of Oliver’s rise to principal architect, I packed up my own drafting table, resigned from my firm, and quietly stepped into the role of his stay-at-home wife. During his most brutal stretches, I lived by his blueprint schedules. I delivered warm meals directly to his office every single day, just to ensure he didn’t forget to eat. I asked him once—only once. “Could you take me to see the glass pavilion? The one with the stargazing dome you designed? Just this once.” Without looking up from his drawings, he said, “It’s an active construction site, Celine. Not a tourist attraction.” I told him okay. And I never brought it up again. Until the night insomnia kept me awake, and I found the encrypted folder on his tablet. Inside were more than forty photographs, all captured from the interior of the glass pavilion. They documented every shift of light: dawn breaks, golden hours, starlight, and rainbows cutting through storm clouds. Every single photo had been sent to the same contact, saved under the name of a single daisy emoji. The most recent upload was from three days ago—a clear night sky with the moon reflected perfectly on the glass dome. His caption read: “The sky is beautiful tonight. Next time you’re here, stand right on the central axis. That’s the best angle.” The reply was a single starry-eyed emoji: “Counting down the days until my vacation.” I put the tablet back exactly where it belonged. I didn’t change the passcode. I didn’t delete the photos. When dawn broke, I brewed a pot of coffee as I always did, and drank a cup in absolute silence. Then I opened my laptop, drafted the divorce papers, and booked a one-way ticket to Zurich. Seven years. I was finally done scheduling my life around his construction milestones. If there was no room for me under his glass dome, I would go find a bigger sky of my own. … “Why are you up so early?” Oliver adjusted his tie as he walked out of the bedroom, his brow slightly furrowed. I leaned against the kitchen island, holding my mug, watching him fasten the custom-made cufflinks I had gifted him years ago. “I couldn’t sleep. Just having some coffee.” He walked over to the counter, casually picked up the other cup of hot milk I had poured, and took a sip. “Did you stay up late watching those mindless reality shows again?” “No.” “Celine, your routine is getting messy lately.” He glanced at his watch, his tone carrying its usual trace of quiet condescension. “I’m heading out to the site in the next city today. I’ll be gone for four days.” “Okay.” He seemed slightly caught off guard by how quietly I accepted this. Normally, when he traveled for work, I would spend the previous evening packing his suitcase—nestling his stomach medication, melatonin, and lumbar support cushion between his clothes. I would remind him a dozen times to text me the moment his flight landed or when he checked into his hotel. Today, I did nothing. I just sat at the island, watching him. “Where did you put my stomach pills?” he asked, rummaging through his briefcase. “Second drawer of the media console. Grab them yourself.” His hands paused. He turned to look at me, squinting. “What is wrong with you today? You can’t even walk a few steps to grab them?” “I’m just tired.” He let out a heavy sigh, walked over to the console, snatched the medication, and shoved it into his pocket. “You spend all day at home, Celine. I have no idea what you could possibly be tired of.” Before I could answer, his phone buzzed on the marble counter. A notification popped up on the lock screen. The sender was “flower icon.” “Oliver, it’s freezing in the valley today. Don’t forget to pack a heavy coat.” Oliver picked up the phone. The glow of the screen caught the slight, soft curve of his lips. He quickly typed a reply with one hand, completely forgetting to finish zipping his briefcase. “A colleague?” I asked, staring at the little daisy icon. He locked his screen and slipped the phone into his pocket. “Yeah. Lydia. She’s joining us on this trip to oversee the interior installations.” “I thought she was assigned to conceptual design at headquarters.” “There were some last-minute adjustments on-site. She’s helping me supervise.” His response was seamless, delivered with the practiced ease of someone who didn’t even need to invent an excuse. I watched his tall, confident frame and thought of the forty photos hidden in that encrypted folder. Every single one of them had been captured by his own hand, a private gallery of the glass pavilion. He had never shared a single frame of it with me, yet he had offered it all to Lydia without reservation. “Oliver.” “What?” He was already at the foyer, slipping into his shoes. “Do you know what next Wednesday is?” He didn’t pause his movements. “Next Wednesday? We have the bidding presentation for the lakeside development. Why?” “Nothing.” Next Wednesday was our seventh wedding anniversary. Seven years ago, on that exact date, he had landed his very first major commission. He had spun me around our cramped, drafty rental apartment, laughing until he was breathless, promising that one day he would design the most beautiful house in the world for me—one that could hold all the stars. He had forgotten. “I’m leaving. I’ll text you when I arrive.” He pushed the door open. “Oliver.” I called out one last time. His hand lingered on the doorknob, his impatience visibly flaring. “What now, Celine? The driver is waiting downstairs.” “Your briefcase is unzipped.” He glanced down, pulled the zipper shut with a quick jerk, and sighed. “Right. You’re acting incredibly strange today.” The door clicked shut. The apartment fell back into a dead, heavy silence. I walked over to my laptop, opened the document, and signed my name at the bottom of the printed divorce agreement. Then I opened my travel app and confirmed the one-way ticket to Zurich, scheduled for seven days from now. Seven days. More than enough time to erase seven years of my existence from this space. My phone rang. It was my best friend, Phoebe. “Is the resignation officially processed? Have you spoken to the director at the institute?” “Yes,” I replied. “I’ll be reporting to the lab next week.” “Once you make this choice, you can’t look back,” Phoebe said, her voice softening. “What about Oliver? When are you going to tell him?” “The day I leave.” There was a long silence on the other end of the line. “Celine… seven years of your life. The design career you put on hold just to support his dreams. You’re really just going to walk away like this? Without a fight?” “I don’t want it anymore.” I looked at the cold glass of milk sitting untouched on the counter. “Phoebe, have you ever seen the stars he photographs for other people?” “What?” “They’re breathtaking. Even the glare on the glass dome looks incredibly soft. It’s just a shame they weren’t meant for me.” In the afternoon, I took the elevator down to the building’s management office. I requested to have my fingerprint and facial recognition profile completely removed from the penthouse security system. The concierge, a warm-hearted older woman, watched me sign the release form with a puzzled look. “Mrs. Woodward, why are you removing your access? Won’t that make coming and going terribly difficult?” “I won’t be coming back,” I said with a quiet smile. Back upstairs, I dragged two large packing boxes out of the storage closet and began sorting through my life. This place was massive—a three-thousand-square-foot luxury penthouse overlooking the river, purchased entirely in cash. Oliver had bought it to “thank me” for staying by his side through the lean, grueling early years of his career. I had genuinely believed it was our home. But as I began packing, I realized how little of myself actually existed here. In the massive walk-in closet, my clothes occupied barely two small racks. The rest of the space was filled with his custom-tailored suits, cashmere overcoats, and designer athletic gear. I folded my everyday sweaters and jeans into a single suitcase. The expensive, stiff evening gowns he had bought for me—the ones that never quite fit my style but looked great on his arm at galas—I left hanging, untouched. On the bedside table sat a miniature architectural model. It was a replica of his first international award-winning design. I lifted it gently. Tucked beneath the base was a small photograph. It was a picture of us from four years ago. He had just launched his own independent studio, his eyes bright with ambition and hunger. I carefully pulled the photograph out, walked over to the bin, and let it drop inside. I set the model back down, exactly where it had been. At dusk, my phone vibrated. It was a text from Oliver. “Arrived. Just got to the hotel.” Normally, I would have replied instantly. I would have asked if the flight was turbulent, if the construction site was dusty, if he needed me to call his room to make sure he took his medication. Today, I typed a single word: “Okay.” Half an hour later, another message came through. “There’s a high-end duty-free shop near the hotel. Do you want me to pick up that designer handbag you wanted?” I was in the bathroom, packing my skincare products into a travel case. I didn’t look up as I typed: “No need.” “Weren’t you constantly talking about getting that limited-edition piece?” I looked at my reflection in the vanity mirror. “No need,” I wrote back. “I don’t care for it anymore.” There was no further reply. Perhaps he assumed I was simply being difficult, or perhaps he was simply too occupied with someone else. I opened Instagram and checked Lydia’s profile. Her latest post had been uploaded ten minutes ago. It was a shot of the riverfront at night, two steaming cups of coffee resting on a wooden railing. Resting near one of the cups was a man’s hand, his index finger marked by a very faint, thin scar. It was a scar Oliver had gotten years ago from a utility knife while building a model. I had spent a week meticulously changing his bandages and keeping the wound clean. Lydia’s caption read: “The wind off the river is freezing, but the coffee is warm. Business trips are always better when you have someone to take care of you.” A few of their mutual colleagues from the firm had already liked the post. One comment read: “Is Oliver paying for the coffee? You’re so spoiled, Lydia!” Lydia had replied with a simple blushing emoji. I closed the app, my thumb steady. The sharp, stabbing ache that usually flared in my chest was gone. It had been replaced by a dull, hollow numbness. For seven years, I had behaved like a blind woman, starving myself while surviving on the beautiful promises he drew up for me. Oliver wasn’t incapable of thoughtfulness. He wasn’t missing a romantic bone in his body. He was simply saving all of his warmth, all of his small gestures, for someone else. A few days later, Oliver returned from his trip. At seven in the evening, the front door clicked open. He stepped into the foyer carrying a beautifully wrapped gift box. I sat quietly on the sofa, watching him kick off his shoes. “You didn’t make dinner?” He glanced toward the pristine, empty kitchen. “I already ate.” His brows knitted together instantly. “I’ve been traveling and working on-site for four straight days, and I can’t even get a hot meal when I walk through the door?” “You can always order delivery.” He slammed the gift box down onto the coffee table. “Celine, what exactly is your problem lately? What are you throwing a tantrum over?” “I’m not throwing a tantrum.” “Then why the radio silence? You barely texted me, and you wouldn’t even tell me what you wanted from the shops.” I looked down at the elegant gift box on the table. “Is that for me?” He hesitated, his gaze drifting away for a fraction of a second. “This… a colleague asked me to bring this back for them. I’ll take you to the mall tomorrow to make up for it.” A colleague. “Did Lydia ask you to bring it back?” I looked him directly in the eyes. His expression darkened instantly. “Did you go through my phone?” “Her social media accounts are entirely public, Oliver.” He let out a breath, his posture instantly shifting back to defensive indignation. “She did me a massive favor on-site, so I picked up a small thank-you gift. Is that really a crime? Why do you have to be so incredibly petty?” “I didn’t say anything.” “Your entire freezing attitude says everything!” He ripped off his tie with a frustrated yank. “She’s my colleague. We work together every single day. Is it really so wrong for me to look out for her?” “You look out for her beautifully.” I stood up, having absolutely no desire to argue. “Celine!” he called out after me. “I am exhausted. Can you please just grow up? Don’t make me come home to this silent treatment after a grueling week.” “Grow up.” I had been the grown-up for seven years. I swallowed the dry lump in my throat, turned my back to him, and walked into the guest bedroom. “I’m sleeping in here tonight. Get some rest.” Over the next two days, I systematically dismantled my presence in the apartment. The towering Bird of Paradise plant in the living room—the one I had spent months nurturing—I gifted to the lovely neighbor down the hall. The solid oak drafting easel on the balcony—the one I had spent weeks researching—I sold to a secondhand buyer who came to haul it away. Oliver didn’t notice a single missing item. To him, my quietness was simply a welcome relief. He seemed pleased that I was finally “behaving.” “See? Isn’t it much better when we aren’t fighting?” he remarked on Friday morning, eating the store-bought frozen ravioli I had quickly boiled for him. “It’s Lydia’s birthday tonight. A few of us from the studio are getting dinner. I want you to come along.” My hand paused on the counter I was wiping. “Why would I go?” “You’re always complaining that I keep my professional life separate from you. Today is a casual gathering, so it’s the perfect time for you to meet the team.” His tone carried the weight of a generous peace offering. Years ago, I had practically begged him to let me be a part of his world, to introduce me to his colleagues. He had always brushed me off: “They’re all designers, Celine. You won’t understand the jargon. You’ll just be bored.” Now, he was finally extending an invitation—only because it was Lydia’s birthday. “Okay,” I said quietly. “I’ll go.” I wanted to see, with my own eyes, exactly what place Lydia held in his world. At eight that evening, we arrived at a dimly lit French bistro. When the door to the private dining room opened, about seven people were already seated around the long table. Lydia sat at the head, radiant in a white silk slip dress. Resting against her collarbone was a delicate diamond necklace—the exact one I had seen inside the gift box on our coffee table two days ago. “Oliver! Celine’s here too!” Lydia stood up immediately, her face lighting up with a warm, welcoming smile. “It’s so wonderful to finally meet you, Celine. Oliver talks about you all the time.” She reached out, intending to clasp my hand in hers. I stepped back slightly, adjusting my purse. “Happy birthday,” I said, my voice even. An awkward beat of silence rippled through the room. Oliver took my elbow, guiding me to a seat, and whispered a sharp warning in my ear: “Don’t ruin this night with your attitude.” Throughout the dinner, the conversation revolved entirely around their current projects—difficult clients, supply chain delays, and design revisions. I didn’t participate, nor did I care to. “But seriously, Oliver’s vision for the lakeside project is absolute genius,” a junior designer said, raising his wine glass. “Lydia knows it better than anyone. She’s the only one who can look at Oliver’s rough sketches and instantly know exactly what he wants.” Lydia giggled, pressing her hand to her cheek. “Well, Oliver is a force of nature. Remember that storm during our site survey last month? The rain was so heavy I could barely see my own feet, and I was absolutely terrified. Then I got a text from Oliver saying, “‘I’m right here, don’t worry.’” I swear, my heart just stopped. I felt completely safe.” The table erupted into lighthearted teasing. “Oh, “‘I’m right here, don’t worry!’” How romantic!” Oliver laughed along with them, offering no correction, his eyes softening as he looked at her. I took a slow sip of my water. It was lukewarm and slightly bitter with lemon. The storm. I remembered that site survey. Because of the severe weather, he had been entirely unreachable for over five hours. I had paced our living room floor, sick with worry, dialing his number ten times without an answer. When he finally replied, it was a curt text: “I’m working. Stop suffocating me.” It turned out he had been busy comforting Lydia. “Celine, how do you handle him?” Lydia suddenly turned the spotlight on me, her expression a mix of mock concern and sweetness. “Oliver has such a sensitive stomach, and yesterday he skipped breakfast entirely to finish a layout. It practically breaks our hearts at the office to see him neglect himself like that.” The underlying accusation was loud and clear. The table fell silent, everyone waiting for my response. “He’s a grown man,” I said, putting my glass down. “He knows how to use a delivery app.” Lydia’s smile faltered, her eyes instantly brimming with tears. “Celine… I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just worried about his health…” “Celine, that is enough.” Oliver slammed his fork onto his plate, his face turning a deep, angry crimson. “Everyone is trying to have a good time. Do you absolutely have to be so bitter and humiliate her?” “Did I say anything humiliating?” I looked at him, completely unbothered. “She was simply reminding you to take care of your husband! What is wrong with your attitude?” I stood up, picking up my coat and handbag. “Since you have such a devoted team keeping track of your stomach, Oliver, you clearly don’t need my concern anymore.” “Celine! If you walk out of this room tonight, don’t bother coming back!” he roared behind me. I pushed the heavy door open and walked out without a single glance back. The cool night air of the street hit my face, and I took a deep, cleansing breath. For seven long years, I had shrunk myself to preserve his pride. I was finally done stepping on my own dignity to keep him elevated. Back at the penthouse, I packed my remaining books into the last cardboard box. All that was left was to wait for Wednesday. Oliver didn’t come home that night. He didn’t return until noon the next day. As he walked past me, the distinct scent of a subtle, woodsy perfume drifted through the air. It was the signature scent Lydia wore. He tossed his keys onto the console and glared at me. “Are you done throwing your little tantrum?” I was sealing the final cardboard box with packing tape, not even looking up. “Are you deaf?” He kicked the box gently. “Why are you packing up all this junk?” “Just clearing out things we don’t need.” He let out a dry, mocking laugh. “Celine, this silent treatment is getting pathetic. Do you honestly think if you ignore me for a few days, I’m going to come begging for your forgiveness?” I stood up straight, brushing the dust from my hands. “I don’t expect you to do anything.” “Then what is all of this? Lydia cried for nearly an hour last night because of what you said. You owe her an apology.” “I am not apologizing.” “You are being completely irrational!” He ran a hand through his hair in frustration and sat down on the sofa. “I don’t have the energy for this. Next Wednesday, I’m flying to Iceland for the aurora architecture summit. If you can admit you’re being ridiculous, I’ll transfer the guest pass I reserved for Lydia to you. I’ll take you to see the northern lights.” I froze. The northern lights. Five years ago, when the doctors found a nodule on my thyroid, I had been absolutely terrified despite it being benign. He had held my hand in the hospital bed and promised, “‘As soon as you’re recovered, I’m taking you to Iceland. We’ll stay in a hotel I designed and watch the aurora together.’” He had kept that promise waiting for five long years. And now, he was offering it to me as a charitable concession—a hand-me-down pass that had been intended for Lydia all along. “Give the pass to Lydia,” I said, my voice so quiet it was almost a whisper. “What?” “I said, give it to her. I don’t want it.” Oliver surged to his feet, his face turning dangerously pale. “Celine, don’t test my patience. I am handing you an olive branch. If you want to throw it back in my face, fine. But don’t you dare come crying to me when you regret it.” “I won’t.” In a fit of rage, he swept his hand across the side table, shattering a crystal highball glass onto the hardwood floor. A sharp shard flew up, slicing a thin line across my lower leg. A bead of blood welled up instantly. He didn’t even look down. He stormed out of the apartment, slamming the heavy front door so hard the walls vibrated. I looked down at the small red line on my skin, pulled a tissue from my pocket, and wiped it away. It didn’t hurt. It truly didn’t hurt anymore. Wednesday arrived. Our seventh anniversary. It was also the day my divorce petition was finalized, and the day I was scheduled to leave this city behind. I rolled my single suitcase out of the penthouse and called an Uber to the airport. My flight to Zurich was scheduled for three in the afternoon. As I sat in the boarding lounge, watching the jets taxi across the tarmac, I realized Oliver’s flight to Reykjavik had departed at two. He was likely settling into his first-class seat by now. I opened my phone one last time, wanting to take a final look at his social media to put a definitive end to these seven years. A new post popped up on my feed. It wasn’t Oliver’s. It was Lydia’s. It was a selfie taken in a first-class cabin. She was leaning her head gently against Oliver’s shoulder, her face flushed with happiness. Her caption: “He told me that the northern lights are meant to be shared with the person who truly understands his designs.” I stared at the screen, a dry laugh catching in my throat. He had never intended to give that pass to me. The offer had been a manipulative lie, a desperate attempt to keep me quiet and compliant while he enjoyed his romantic getaway with her. The overhead speakers crackled to life, announcing the final boarding call for my flight to Zurich. I tapped the screen, held down his contact, and deleted Oliver’s number. The cabin doors sealed shut. The plane taxied, accelerated, and soared into the sky, cutting through the heavy gray clouds. As Oliver chased his northern lights with his darling protege, I looked out at the vast, open ocean of clouds beneath me. For the first time in seven years, I was completely free.

My daughter was severely allergic to shellfish. Ever since she was a baby, I had meticulously managed every single thing that went into her mouth. Before I left for my trip, I pleaded with my husband, Greg, reminding him a dozen times never to let our daughter eat seafood. He brushed me off with a careless, “I got it, Meredith.” But the moment I touched down, I was met with a nightmare. My three-year-old daughter, Lucy, had suffered anaphylactic shock and suffocated after eating a seafood-infused egg dish. As the doctors failed to revive her and declared her dead, Greg was standing on the glittering stage of the Magnolia Gala, presenting the Best Supporting Actress trophy to his ultimate muse, Scarlett. Holding the microphone, he looked at her with an adoration he had never shown me. “You will always be the brightest star in my sky, Scarlett. The lead role in my films will always belong to you.” When the news broke, my parents collapsed from grief. But I didn’t shed another tear. I wiped my face, letting a cold, hollow laugh slip past my lips. “A fraudulent starlet and a hack director. I hope they rot in each other’s arms forever.” … 1 The red light of the ICU flickered, then went dark. The heavy double doors swung open, and a doctor pushed out a gurney carrying a cold, silent body. Looking down at Lucy’s pale, lifeless face—her sweet little features frozen in a permanent sleep—my hands shook violently as I pulled the white sheet over her head. My knees gave out. I collapsed onto the sterile hospital floor, my chest so tight with agony that I couldn’t even draw enough breath to scream. On the hallway television mounted above the waiting area, the Magnolia Gala was broadcasting live. There was Greg, smiling warmly, gallantly holding up the train of Scarlett’s designer gown as she glided up the stairs. We had been married for seven years. Every single time Scarlett was nominated for an award, Greg made sure he was the one presenting it to her. Even when I used to beg him to stay home, fabricating every excuse I could think of just to keep him by my side, it never mattered. He always chose her. And of course, tonight was no exception. But with Lucy gone, something inside me died too. Whatever he did next, wherever he went, I no longer cared. My parents fainted from the sheer shock of it, leaving me to handle the arrangements entirely on my own. For three days, I dragged my numb body between the hospital and the funeral home. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Lucy’s angelic smile, her soft laughter echoing in my mind. By the time I finally returned home, it was the third afternoon. The moment I pushed the front door open, I was blinded by the flash of camera lenses. A crowd of reporters was crammed into our living room. Scarlett sat on our velvet sofa, her arm casually slipped through Greg’s. They were laughing and whispering, looking every bit the picture-perfect, adoring couple. When Greg noticed me, a flicker of awkwardness crossed his face. But as he took in my sunken eyes and disheveled, exhausted state, his expression quickly hardened into a scowl. “Meredith,” he snapped, his voice dripping with authority. “Look at yourself. You look like a mess. Go upstairs right now.” The disgust in his tone was bare and humiliating, as if my very presence was an embarrassment to him. Scarlett, sensing the cameras, softly called an end to the interview. She smoothed down her haute couture gown and walked toward me with a sweet, patronizing smile. “Meredith, I’m so sorry to barge in like this,” she said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “I’m flying to Paris tomorrow for the red carpet, and Greg was sweet enough to let the press do a quick home shoot here before I go.” She tilted her head, assessing my face. “But look at you. Your skin is so dull, and those crow’s feet are really showing. If the paparazzi catch you looking like this, it’ll look terrible for Greg. Why don’t you go get some rest?” She spoke with the easy confidence of the lady of the house, successfully relegating me to the status of an unwelcome guest. My gaze fell to the trophy in her manicured hand—a Magnolia Award for Best Supporting Actress. For a cheap, meaningless award, Greg had left our three-year-old daughter home alone. I had called him dozens of times, sobbing into the receiver, only to be met with an automated voicemail telling me his phone was turned off. Because of Scarlett, Lucy never got to see her father one last time. I remembered her tiny, bruised lips parting as she wept in the hospital bed, asking me over and over, “Is Daddy here yet?” And I had lied to her, telling her Daddy was on his way, praying desperately that death would spare my baby girl. But he never came. A wave of profound nausea hit me. Looking at the two of them made me physically sick. A couple of cheap, parasitic industry players. Let them lock themselves away in their own filth. I didn’t turn to go upstairs. Instead, I stood my ground, my voice flat and icy. “Greg, I want a divorce.” 2 I was entirely done with him. Ten years together, seven years of marriage—every sweet memory, every promise we had made—had disintegrated into ash the moment Lucy died. But Greg didn’t take me seriously. He assumed I was just throwing another jealous tantrum over Scarlett. “Meredith, there are reporters here,” he hissed, lowering his voice. “You used to be an actress too. Can’t you learn a little grace and poise from Scarlett?” “I invited her here for a quick press feature as a favor. Is it really necessary for you to be this petty?” “Petty.” To Greg, I was always the petty, dramatic wife who couldn’t handle herself. Whenever Scarlett was involved, I lost my mind. But he never bothered to ask why. Why was I like this? Because on our wedding day, a single phone call from Scarlett had lured him away, leaving me to face a room full of whispering guests alone. Because he kept a secret archive of photos from every movie Scarlett had ever made, publicly calling her his “creative muse.” Because Scarlett was the girl he had loved first, the gold standard he measured everyone else against. No matter how loving and supportive I was, no matter that I had given him a child, sacrificed my own career to cook his meals, and kept the porch light burning for him every night—there was a corner of his heart that always belonged to her. It was a space I could never conquer. And now, I was done trying. I looked at Greg’s rising anger and said coldly, “I’m serious. I want a divorce. I don’t want to look at you for another second.” Without waiting for his response, I turned and walked upstairs. Perhaps because my coldness was so out of character compared to the doting, compliant wife he was used to, Greg actually followed me up. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t warn you about the shoot beforehand,” he said, trying to soften his tone. “I won’t do it again.” He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Tell you what—doesn’t Lucy want to go to Disneyland? Once this press cycle wraps up, I’ll take both of you. How does that sound?” A bitter laugh escaped my throat. The man I had shared a bed with for seven years felt like an utter stranger. It was almost time for our daughter’s seven-day memorial. If he had called her preschool even once, or stepped foot in this house over the last three days, he would have known. But he hadn’t. His mind had been entirely occupied by his golden girl. I cast a freezing look at him. “Go spend time with your muse. Don’t waste your energy on us.” I reached out to shut the bedroom door. Greg froze. He knew how deeply I loved him. In all our years of marriage, I had never looked at him with such utter disdain. He stepped forward, wanting to push the door open to demand an explanation. But right then, Scarlett’s voice drifted up from the foyer. “Greg, babe? I think I might be overstaying my welcome. I’ll head out. Next time, I’ll just take Lucy to that seafood spot she loves so much.” Instantly, the blood in my veins turned to liquid fire. I threw the door open, flew down the stairs, snatched a heavy ceramic vase off the entryway table, and smashed it directly into Scarlett’s smiling face. 3 Scarlett screamed, clutching her bleeding forehead as she collapsed onto the hardwood floor. My eyes were wild with rage. Just as I raised my hands to strike her again, Greg threw his arms around me from behind, pinning me back. “Meredith! Have you lost your goddamn mind?!” he roared. I didn’t even look at him. My whole body shook as I stared down at Scarlett. “You took Lucy to a seafood restaurant?” I demanded, my voice cracking. Scarlett looked up at me, tears streaming down her face, playing the perfect victim. “Meredith, I was just trying to build a relationship with her. Greg told me she loved seafood, so I took her. I didn’t mean any harm!” I whipped my head around to face Greg. “You knew about this?” He grimaced, waving a hand dismissively. “It was just a dinner. Are you seriously going to ruin a friendship over a petty fit of jealousy?” The world seemed to fracture around me. “A petty fit of jealousy.” I had gone to London to attend a dear friend’s funeral. Before I stepped foot out the door, I had looked him in the eye and begged him, reminding him that Lucy had a deadly allergy to shellfish. Greg had nodded and promised, his tone lazy and distracted. At the time, I convinced myself that even if he didn’t care about me, Lucy was his own flesh and blood. He wouldn’t let anything happen to her. It was only three days. I wanted them to have some father-daughter bonding time since he was always so absent. But still, I hadn’t been fully at ease. I had written a bright neon reminder on a sticky note and slapped it right onto the refrigerator door. Driven by a sudden, frantic panic, I violently broke free from Greg’s grip and ran into the kitchen. The sink was piled high with dirty takeout containers and dusty dishes. The cutting board on the counter was covered in a thin layer of grime. It was obvious the kitchen hadn’t been used since the day I left. And on the refrigerator door, the neon sticky note was completely gone. My mind went entirely blank. I clutched my head and sank to the floor. Greg marched into the kitchen, grabbing me by the arm and pulling me up so hard I nearly tripped. “Meredith, what is wrong with you? You assault Scarlett and then just walk away?” Scarlett limped in behind him, whimpering loudly. “Greg, my head is throbbing. I have to walk a red carpet tomorrow! How am I supposed to go out looking like this?” Greg’s fury boiled over. His grip on my upper arm tightened until I felt my bones groan under the pressure. “You are going to apologize to Scarlett right now, or so help me God, you will regret it!” I looked at him, my expression going entirely blank, a cold smile touching my lips. “I have nothing to apologize for. She does.” Greg’s face darkened dangerously. “Meredith, do not test my patience.” In his mind, Greg had forgotten who I actually was. I was a woman of fierce pride and stubborn resolve. When I first started in the industry, I fought tooth and nail for every role, and when I chose to retire for love, I did it without a single backward glance. I had loved him fiercely, unconditionally. We had both climbed up from the bottom of the industry, sharing the laughter, the tears, and the exhausting grind. But by the time I hit thirty, the daily routine of serving him, of keeping his house, had slowly eroded my sense of self. I had shrunk myself to fit into his shadow, making compromises just to keep him happy. I had sacrificed so much that I lost who I was, and he had learned to take it all for granted. But that woman was dead now. I stared directly into Greg’s eyes, silent and unyielding. His jaw clenched. Seeing the stand-off, Scarlett stepped in, wrapping her arms around his waist and sobbing dramatically. “Greg, I have never been so insulted in my life! If you’re just going to let her treat me like this, then we are done. I never want to see you again!” Greg looked at her tears, then turned back to me. A dark, dangerous storm brewed in his eyes. “Meredith, I am giving you one last chance. Apologize to Scarlett.” His voice was a low, freezing threat. I looked at this man. The man I had loved for ten years, the man I had given my youth and my soul to. Tears finally blurred my vision. I began to laugh, a broken, hysterical sound. “Greg, marrying you is the single greatest regret of my entire life.” My refusal to submit pushed him over the edge. With Scarlett’s weeping ringing in his ears, Greg lost his mind. He grabbed me by the throat, pinning me against the wall, and delivered two hard, stinging slaps across my face. He didn’t hold back. My head spun instantly. A loud, high-pitched ringing filled my ears, drowning out all sound. He grabbed me by the hair, forcing my face toward the vanity mirror in the hallway. My cheeks were already swelling, bright red handprints blooming against my pale skin. A thin trickle of blood dripped from the corner of my mouth. I looked absolutely broken. Greg’s voice hissed in my ear like a poisonous snake. “Look at yourself, Meredith. Look at how ugly and malicious you’ve become. Striking Scarlett… this is exactly what you deserve.” “Apologize! Or I swear to God, you will no longer be my wife!” 4 “You think I care about that?” The words left my mouth before I could stop them. Greg sneered, looking down at me with utter contempt. “Meredith, please. I know you. You can try this reverse psychology once or twice, but it gets old.” “You don’t have a job. If you divorce me, you’ll end up on the street. And don’t forget, I will easily take custody of Lucy. Don’t come crawling back to me crying when you lose her.” A terrible, hollow laugh bubbled up in my chest. Our daughter was already a pile of ashes in a columbarium. And he was still using her to threaten me. It was tragically pathetic. Years ago, when he wanted to focus on directing his breakout film and couldn’t handle domestic life, I had discovered I was pregnant. I chose to step away from my rising acting career to support his dreams, ensuring his path to fame was clear. And yet, the devotion I had poured into our life had turned into the very hand that slapped me across the face. But the pain had finally woken me up. I would pay whatever price I had to for my past stupidity. Even if I had to tear my own skin off, I was leaving him. I looked at him, my voice completely flat. “Let’s divorce, Greg. Take whatever you want. I’ll leave with nothing.” Greg still thought I was playing games. He let out a dry laugh. “Oh, really? So you’re just going to abandon the daughter you supposedly cherish? Look at you. You don’t even look like a mother right now.” Scarlett immediately clung tighter to his arm, chiming in. “Greg, some women just aren’t built to be mothers. Meredith is clearly unstable. Why don’t we let Lucy come live with us for a while? We had such a wonderful time at dinner. I absolutely adore her.” My vision went red. “Shut up, you bitch! Don’t you dare speak her name!” I lunged forward, clawing at Scarlett’s hair. Greg instantly threw his body in front of her, looking at me with deep, disgusted disappointment. “Scarlett is right. In the state you’re in, you are completely unfit to raise our daughter.” Just then, the front door burst open. Greg’s assistant ran in, breathless and trembling, his face white as a sheet. “Greg… we have a major problem…” Greg frowned, raising a hand to cut him off. “Get my divorce lawyer on the phone. Tell him to prep the papers. Get the best one in the city; money is no object.” “And another thing—go to the preschool and pick up Lucy. Take her to my mother’s place for the night.” Greg looked down at me, his eyes mocking, waiting to see the terror and regret paint itself across my face. But I only stared back at him in dead silence. The assistant looked between us, swallowed hard, and spoke in a cracking, terrified whisper. “Greg… Lucy passed away from an allergic reaction. It happened the night of the Magnolia Awards. I just got the official confirmation from the hospital…”

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The day the renovations on our future home were finally finished, I walked into the master bedroom and realized the magnolia painting on the wall was gone. In its place hung a painting of sunflowers. When I asked Fion about it, he shrugged it off. “Felicity liked this one better. She had them swap it out.” “It’s not like you care about this kind of stuff anyway.” But that magnolia painting had been painted for me by my mother, right before she died. I stared at the empty space on the wall, silent for a long moment. Fion, assuming I was on the verge of tears, sighed with irritation. “Don’t make a federal case out of a painting, Monica.” “Felicity was just trying to help with the design. She has better taste than you do, honestly.” Later, I would find out it wasn’t just the painting. The walk-in closet shelves had been adjusted to match Felicity’s height. The kitchen cabinets were painted in the creamy off-white she preferred. Even the bedside reading lamps had been swapped out because she mentioned the original ones were “too bright to fall asleep to.” I had thought this was going to be our home. But it turned out I was just the guest who was being allowed to move in. As I slipped the keys into my bag, Fion’s brow furrowed. “What are you trying to pull now?” I shook my head. Outside, the magnolias in the yard were in full bloom. But I suddenly remembered that when petals fall, they do so in complete silence. Just like the way I was letting him go. …… As I zipped my purse, Fion’s hand shot out, his fingers clamping around my wrist. His fingertips were cold against my skin, but his voice carried that familiar, patronizing warmth he used when coaxing a difficult child. “Monica, we’re in the home stretch of the remodel. If you start throwing a fit now, the contractors will have to redo everything. It’s just not worth it.” I looked up at the vibrant, demanding sunflowers. “I’m not asking anyone to redo anything.” Fion relaxed his grip slightly, apparently pleased with my compliance. “Good. Felicity actually stopped by earlier today to check on things. She said having this piece here would make the bedroom feel brighter.” I offered a quiet, empty smile. “How thoughtful of her.” “Well, she understands these things,” Fion said, already distracted, tapping rapidly on his phone screen. “Unlike you, always holding onto the past.” The past. My mother’s last painting had become nothing more than a relic he could throw away without a second thought. The interior designer standing nearby looked deeply uncomfortable. Clutching his tablet, he asked in a quiet voice, “Mr. Copeland, should we still order the champagne-colored bedding Miss Felicity selected?” Fion didn’t look up from his screen. “Yeah. She’s a light sleeper. Don’t go with anything too heavy.” The designer blinked, casting a quick, uneasy glance my way. Fion caught himself, a slight crease forming between his brows, though his face quickly smoothed over. “I just mean she tested the lighting for us,” he added, his voice defensive. “Her feedback was practical. Don’t overthink it.” I nodded. “I won’t.” He seemed slightly thrown by my lack of reaction, his eyes searching my face. “You’re being weird today.” Instead of answering, I walked past him into the dressing room. The built-in shelves had been lowered. The hanging rods had been adjusted to perfectly fit the floor-length maxi dresses Felicity always wore. I had told him months ago that I had a lot of heavy winter coats and needed at least one tall cabinet. Fion had scoffed, saying our house wasn’t a storage unit and that I shouldn’t make our master bedroom look like a rental. Yet, with a single passing comment from Felicity about her dresses, the closet had been reshaped in her image. I pulled open one of the jewelry drawers. Resting inside was a small, cream-colored ceramic deer. It wasn’t mine. Fion stepped in behind me. Seeing the figurine, his expression tightened for a fraction of a second before he casually picked it up and set it aside. “Felicity must have left that here. I’ll have her pick it up.” I asked, “How often has she been here?” “It’s a remodel, Monica. Of course she’s been here,” Fion’s tone sharpened. “You’ve been busy with work. I asked her to keep an eye on things to save you the trouble.” “Does she have a key?” Fion slipped his phone into his pocket and let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Monica, do you always have to make everything sound so ugly? She’s helping us, not breaking in.” I looked him in the eye. “I only asked if she had a key.” Right then, the front door clicked open. Felicity walked in carrying a bakery box, moving through the space with the effortless familiarity of someone returning to her own kitchen. “Fion, I grabbed those chestnut tarts you love. And I brought a little something for Monica, too.” She caught sight of me, her bright smile never wavering. “Oh, am I interrupting?” Fion naturally took the bakery bag from her hand. “Not at all. Monica was just saying how much she appreciates your help.” Felicity’s eyes crinkled. “Oh, Monica, don’t mention it! A future home is such a big deal. I just wanted to make sure everything was perfect for you guys.” I looked down at her feet. She was wearing a pair of soft-soled house slippers. There was only one new pair of slippers in the entryway shoe rack—pale yellow, a size smaller than mine. Fion followed my gaze. A flash of irritation crossed his face. “They’re just slippers, Monica. She’s over here a lot, so we kept a pair here to save her the hassle of changing every time.” Felicity bit her lower lip delicately. “Maybe I should take them home. I don’t want Monica to feel uncomfortable.” “Don’t be ridiculous,” Fion intervened, making the decision for her. “She’s not that petty.” I reached into my purse, pulled out my set of house keys, and set them quietly on the console table by the door. “You should keep these here, then.” Fion stared at the brass keys, his face darkening. “What is that supposed to mean?” “You two need them more than I do,” I said. He stared at me, trying to gauge if I was genuinely angry or if this was just a ploy to make him beg. Felicity spoke up first. “Monica, please don’t misunderstand. Fion and I grew up together. We have so many old habits that are hard to break, but we really are just friends.” Fion chimed in instantly. “You see? Don’t make her feel so uncomfortable that she’s afraid to even help us.” I picked up my purse. “Okay.” Fion’s hand clamped onto my wrist again, harder this time. “I’ll have the driver take you home. I have a dinner meeting tonight, so do me a favor and don’t call my mother to complain about this nonsense.” I looked up at him. “What are you afraid I’ll tell her?” “I’m afraid you’ll exaggerate,” he muttered, lowering his voice. “Our wedding is in three months. Let’s not make things awkward for both of our families.” Three months. We had been engaged for two years. The day we finally set the date, I had circled it on my calendar three times in bright red ink. And now, every corner of the house we were supposed to build our life in carried Felicity’s signature. As the designer gathered his things to leave, he brushed past me. His tablet screen lit up. Across the top of the open project file, a line of bold text caught my eye: “Project: Felicity’s Residence Style Replica.” When I got into the elevator, those words were still burned into my mind. Fion ran out after me just as the doors were sliding shut. He jammed his hand between them, forcing them open. He was practically vibrating with suppressed anger. “Monica, are you really throwing a tantrum over a line of text on a draft?” I stared at his gold cufflinks. “So you saw it?” “So what if I did?” He stepped into the elevator and hit the button for the lobby. “Felicity’s old apartment had incredible aesthetics. It’s completely normal for a designer to use it as a reference.” “Our future home,” I said softly, “is a replica of her old apartment?” Fion rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Do you have to be this exhausting? I bought the place, and I paid for the remodel. Is it such a crime that I want to live in a style that’s actually comfortable?” My pale reflection stared back at me from the polished metal doors. “No,” I whispered. “It isn’t.” If anything, my quietness only annoyed him more. “Monica, when you get like this—this silent, stubborn act—it’s worse than an actual fight.” The elevator doors chimed open at the lobby. Felicity’s voice trailed after us as she hurried to catch up. “Fion, don’t be hard on her. This is all my fault.” She was holding the ceramic deer, offering it to me like a peace offering. “Here, take this. Consider it an apology. I used to love this piece, and Fion said it would look beautiful by the master bedroom window.” Fion’s eyes softened as he looked at the figurine. And suddenly, a memory flashed through my mind. On my birthday three years ago, Fion had given me a delicate magnolia brooch. “It reminded me of you,” he had told me back then. “Quiet, elegant, completely unpretentious.” But after Felicity returned from abroad, that brooch mysteriously vanished, never to be seen again. “If you love it so much, you should keep it,” I said, refusing to reach for it. Felicity’s hand froze mid-air. Fion snatched the deer from her, his voice turning cold. “She’s trying to be nice, Monica. Take it. Stop making a scene.” “I don’t want someone else’s hand-me-downs,” I said. Felicity flinched, all the color draining from her face. Fion’s entire demeanor shifted. “Monica. Apologize. Now.” Workers were moving in and out of the lobby, and the designer was only a few feet away. A few curious glances drifted toward us. “For what?” I asked. “For being cruel.” Fion gripped my shoulder. It wasn’t painful, but it was firm enough to lock me in place. “Felicity went out of her way to help you, and you’re treating her with nothing but passive-aggressive spite.” Felicity lowered her head. “It’s fine, Fion. I don’t want to make things harder for Monica.” But Fion didn’t let go. “I’ve spoiled her, and now she doesn’t even have basic manners.” I looked down at the little ceramic deer. One of its ears was chipped, repaired so carefully that only a faint seam in the glaze remained. Felicity let out a soft, self-deprecating sigh. “To be honest, Fion actually gave this to me years ago. I just thought it would fit nicely in your new home.” Fion frowned. “Felicity.” She quickly bit her lip, looking sheepish. “Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” A cold laugh bubbled up in my chest. So she wasn’t trying to give me her old junk. She was bringing Fion’s old gifts to her, to place them in the bedroom I was supposed to share with him. As if eager to shut down any further questions, Fion shoved the ceramic deer into my hands. “Just take it. It’s a piece of clay, Monica. Drop it.” The sharp ceramic edge dug into my palm. My hands were numb, and my grip slipped. The figurine tumbled to the polished concrete floor, shattering into two clean halves. Felicity gasped. Fion’s face went entirely dark. “Monica!” I knelt down to gather the broken pieces. A sharp edge sliced into my index finger, and a bead of dark red blood welled up. Fion saw it. His hand twitched as if to reach for me, but instead, he turned to shield Felicity. “Don’t look at it. Be careful not to step on the shards.” Felicity hid behind his shoulder. “Monica, I know you don’t like me. But you didn’t have to do that.” I held the sharp fragments in my palm. “How much was it? I’ll write you a check.” Fion stared down at my bleeding hand, his voice dropping an octave. “This isn’t about money.” “Then what is it about?” I asked. He didn’t answer. The designer stepped forward cautiously, offering a pocket pack of tissues. “Miss Monica, maybe you should wrap that up first.” Fion took the tissues, but before he could hand them to me, his phone buzzed in his palm. He checked the screen and answered immediately. “Yes, Aunt Sharon? No, Felicity is right here with me. Don’t worry.” Felicity leaned closer to listen, her expression instantly softening. The voice on the other end was loud enough to carry through the quiet lobby. “Fion, dear! How is the new house coming along? Now that I’m back in town, I simply must be the first one to see it!” I squeezed the broken ceramic pieces in my fist, looking up at Fion. He hesitated for a single second. Then, he spoke smoothly: “It’s almost ready. I’ll bring her over soon.” So, it was “their” new house. I didn’t ask Fion who Aunt Sharon was. And he didn’t offer to explain. The next afternoon, Fion’s mother, Helena, invited me to a bridal boutique for a dress fitting. When I arrived, Felicity was already there, lounging on the velvet sofa with a delicate white lace bridal shawl draped over her shoulders. Helena smiled warmly, waving me over. “Monica, darling, come in! Felicity has such an eye for these things—she’s already pulled a few gorgeous options for you.” I looked at the rack of gowns. Every single one of them had an empire waist, a short train, and exceptionally narrow shoulder lines. “These aren’t really my style,” I said. Helena’s smile faltered. “Well, dear, when it comes to weddings, it’s always best to listen to those with experience. Felicity has helped plan several high-profile weddings. She knows what works.” Felicity stood up, lifting a simple, sleek gown from the rack. “This one is stunning. Fion would love you in this.” I looked at her. “It’s my wedding. Why should I dress solely for his preferences?” Helena’s teacup paused halfway to her lips. “Monica, marriage is about compromise. Fion is under a lot of pressure at work. The least you can do is try to accommodate him.” Felicity added softly, “Fion has always preferred a very clean, understated aesthetic. If you wear something too dramatic, he’ll probably find it distracting.” The consultant carried the dresses into the fitting room, but I remained standing where I was. Helena finally sighed, her patience wearing thin. “Honestly, Monica, I don’t know why you’ve become so difficult lately. First it was the painting, then the decor, and now the dress. Must you make an issue out of everything?” I looked at her. “Did you know they took down my mother’s painting?” Helena paused. “Felicity mentioned it. She said the original piece was a bit dated. It didn’t really fit the mood of a modern home.” I nodded slowly. “My mother painted that.” The air in the boutique turned icy. Felicity’s eyes immediately welled with tears. “Monica, oh my god, I had no idea. If I had known, I swear I would have never suggested moving it.” Helena’s voice softened slightly, though she remained defensive. “Well, that was obviously a misunderstanding. But Fion was only trying to make the house look its best. You can’t hold a simple mistake against him forever.” Suddenly, a wave of profound exhaustion washed over me. They all knew I was being hurt. They just cared more about keeping Felicity from feeling uncomfortable. When Fion pushed open the boutique door a few minutes later, Helena looked at him like he was a savior. “Fion, thank goodness. Monica is refusing to even try on the dresses Felicity picked out.” Fion glanced briefly at the rack. “Felicity chose these?” Felicity nodded. “I was just trying to help.” “Then pick one of these,” Fion said, walking over to me. He reached out, gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind my shoulder. “Monica, let’s not keep everyone waiting.” I looked up into his eyes. “What if I don’t want to wear any of them?” His hand froze. His voice was low, laced with a quiet warning. “The wedding isn’t just about you.” I let out a soft, dry laugh. “The house isn’t mine. The dress isn’t mine. Whose wedding is this, Fion?” Fion’s eyes narrowed. “There are people watching. Stop acting out.” Felicity murmured, “Monica, please don’t be upset. Fion just wants the day to go smoothly.” Without another word, I turned and walked into the fitting room. As the consultant zipped me up, my phone buzzed in my bag. It was a text from the designer. “Miss Monica, I wanted to follow up on the magnolia painting you asked about. I managed to track it down.” “Mr. Copeland’s assistant said we didn’t need to keep the original frame because Miss Felicity didn’t like how weathered it looked. They had it sent to a storage facility.” Below the message was an attached photo. In the dusty corner of a commercial warehouse, my mother’s magnolia painting was propped carelessly against a concrete wall. The canvas was badly creased along the top, and the edges were coated in gray dust. I stared at the image, a cold, dead weight settling deep in my chest. The consultant asked gently, “Is the bodice too tight, Miss Monica?” “A little,” I whispered. When I stepped out, Fion’s eyes swept over me. He looked satisfied, his shoulders relaxing. “That one looks fine.” Beside him, Felicity went completely still, her fingers tightening around her lace shawl. Helena smiled wistfully. “You know, if Felicity had gotten her wedding years ago, I imagine she would have looked exactly like this.” Fion’s expression shifted instantly. “Mom.” Helena caught her mistake, quickly hiding behind her teacup. “Oh, just a silly observation.” I looked at myself in the triple-mirror. I stood there, wearing a dress handpicked by Felicity, standing next to Fion like a cheap cutout pasted over an old photograph. As I turned, I noticed a leather binder peeking out from a gap in the fitting room door. I bent down to pick it up. On the cover, a printed label read: “Wedding Program Draft.” “Bride’s Aesthetic Preferences: Felicity.” I set the folder down, my fingers lingering on the cool leather for a beat. Fion walked over. “What are you looking at?” I looked up at him. “Why does the wedding program reference Felicity?” He glanced at the binder, his face remaining entirely expressionless. “The planning agency got lazy. They reused a template from a package she worked on before. I’ll have them fix it.” Felicity chimed in immediately, her voice frantic. “I sent them some inspiration files earlier to help out. They must have gotten confused. Monica, please don’t be mad.” I looked at Fion. “Is it just a confusion?” The last thread of his patience snapped. “What else would it be, Monica? Are you really at the point where seeing her name makes you think the whole world is plotting against you?” I didn’t ask another question. That afternoon, I drove out to the warehouse alone. It took the manager nearly an hour to find the painting. “Mr. Copeland’s assistant said they didn’t want it anymore,” he apologized as he handed it over. “We didn’t want to throw it away, so we just kept it back here.” The canvas had a deep crease running right through the stems, and the area near my mother’s signature was slightly scuffed. I sat in my car, using a soft cloth to gently wipe away the dust. My phone buzzed. It was a text from Fion. “Aunt Sharon is coming over to the house for dinner tonight. Be there. And don’t ruin the mood.” I replied with a single word: “Okay.” The dinner was set up in the newly finished house. When I arrived, the dining table had already been laid out directly beneath the giant sunflower painting. Felicity was clinging to an elderly woman’s arm, laughing sweetly. Aunt Sharon looked at Fion, her eyes shining with pride. “Fion, sweetheart, this place is magnificent. It feels just as warm and cozy as Felicity’s old apartment.” Fion didn’t correct her. I paused in the entryway, my hands freezing as I took off my coat. Felicity noticed me first, her laughter dying down to a polite, strained smile. “Oh, Monica. You’re here.” Aunt Sharon blinked. “And who is this?” Fion hesitated before speaking. “Aunt Sharon, this is Monica.” He didn’t say “my fiancée.” Aunt Sharon’s eyes darted between the three of us. She quickly recovered her bright smile. “Ah, a friend! Come in, dear, sit down.” Fion leaned in close, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “She’s got a weak heart, Monica. She can’t handle stress. Don’t say anything stupid.” I looked at him. “What qualifies as stupid?” “Don’t mention the wedding,” he muttered. “Don’t mention our relationship. I’ll explain everything to you after she leaves.” I let out a soft, incredulous laugh. “Fion, you invited me here to act like a stranger in my own home?” “It’s just one dinner,” he hissed. Felicity stepped over, her eyes full of performative guilt. “Monica, I’m so sorry. Aunt Sharon practically raised Fion and me. She’s always assumed we would end up together, and we’re just terrified the truth might hurt her.” “So I’m the one who has to play along to spare her feelings?” I asked. Fion nodded immediately, relieved. “I knew you’d understand.” At the table, Aunt Sharon kept piling food onto Felicity’s plate. “Felicity’s loved this dish since she was a little girl. You remember that, don’t you, Fion?” Fion expertly deboned a piece of fish and placed it in Felicity’s bowl. “Of course I do.” Aunt Sharon beamed, clapping her hands. “You always did know how to take care of her. Seeing you two together like this makes my heart so happy.” Felicity blushed, casting a fleeting, nervous glance at me. “Aunt Sharon, please.” Fion took a sip of water, offering no correction. I sat at the very edge of the table. The dim yellow light of the bedside lamp they’d moved to the living room cast a dreary shadow over the food. Suddenly, Aunt Sharon turned to me. “So, dear, do you have a boyfriend?” The table fell dead silent. Fion looked up, his eyes practically screaming a warning at me. I set my fork down quietly. “I used to.” Fion’s jaw tightened. Aunt Sharon, oblivious to the tension, smiled. “And now?” I looked directly at Fion. “Not for much longer.”

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Ever since I was a child, I’ve had a knack for putting labels on people. Not just ordinary labels, but the kind of dramatic, psychological diagnoses that completely shift the room’s gravity. When the boy next door told me he wanted to “escape to see the world,” I casually let it slip to his parents that he was harboring severe, self-destructive tendencies. They locked him in his room for a week and sent him straight to intensive family counseling. In middle school, when a teacher banished me to the back corner of the classroom because my family didn’t participate in the annual “teacher appreciation fund,” I filed a formal complaint with the school board, accusing him of enforcing a socio-economic caste system. He was quietly reassigned by the end of the semester. So, when I was finally brought back to my biological family, and the fake heiress, Delilah, stood in the living room crying her eyes out, sob-whispering about how she would pack her bags and “make room for me,” I knew exactly what to do. I reached into my bag, pulled out my newly minted clinical psychologist license, and laid it gently on the coffee table. “She has a pathological lack of self-worth,” I murmured, my voice dripping with professional concern. “It’s a serious defensive coping mechanism. She needs immediate clinical intervention.” Delilah waved her hands frantically, tears smudging her mascara. “No, that’s not it! I just… I feel like because I took what was yours for so long, you must hate me.” I turned to our parents, letting out a heavy, clinical sigh. “You see? Classic Oppositional Defiant Disorder. We need to book an admitting evaluation immediately.” Delilah’s face went entirely pale. “I’m not being oppositional!” I shook my head slowly, looking at her with pity. “The denial is deep. She’s already exhibiting cognitive dissociation and memory lapses to protect her ego.” My parents, terrified by my professional diagnosis, instantly whipped out their phones to look up specialists. Delilah dissolved into loud, hysterical sobs, prompting her fiercely protective older brother, Brandon, to step in. He shoved me back roughly by the shoulder. “Shut your mouth! If you try to curse Delilah again, I will personally throw you back onto the street where we found you.” I gently rubbed my shoulder, my expression turning grave. “A classic case of intermittent explosive disorder with deep-seated violent tendencies at such a young age. This household has some severe systemic dysfunction.” … Brandon was so incensed by my calm clinical jargon that he looked ready to cry. He lunged forward, his hand raised to slap me. But over the years of growing up in the rougher parts of the city, I’d dodged enough swings to anticipate his trajectory. With a swift, fluid sidestep, I spun and delivered a stinging backhand right across his cheek. Brandon stumbled back, cupping his face, his eyes wide with utter shock. “You… you actually hit me…” “Of course I hit you. Do I need to schedule an appointment to put you in your place?” Before Brandon could recover his breath to yell at me, I took the initiative, gasping in mock horror. “Oh, Brandon, my dear brother! You saw that coming—why didn’t you dodge? Is it possible you have deep-seated masochistic tendencies?” I turned to my parents, who were standing there in stunned silence, and nodded gravely. “This confirms it. Mom, Dad, does he usually suffer from severe irritability and emotional volatility?” Before my mother could rush to comfort her son, she hesitated, absorbed by my professional tone, and nodded slowly. “Well… yes. Brandon has always had a very short fuse. If we push him on anything, he completely loses patience.” I clapped my hands together triumphantly. “Exactly! It’s a classic textbook case of masochistic behavioral compensation. He deliberately provokes people, seeking physical retaliation to achieve emotional release. He suppresses his rage until he can force someone to strike him. It’s the only way his nervous system knows how to regulate itself.” In reality, he was just a spoiled brat with a massive ego, but “masochistic compensation” sounded so much more clinical. The moment the words left my mouth, Dad’s gaze shifted from shock to deep disgust. “Get the security detail in here! Send this boy to the private clinic immediately! He is an absolute embarrassment to this family!” Brandon’s face contorted with panic. He looked desperately at Mom. “Mom! Help me!” Mom’s heart softened, and she took a step forward to defend her golden boy. But before she could speak, I leaned in and whispered softly in her ear. “Mom, be careful. His constant fixation on your approval… it points to a very severe, unresolved Oedipus complex. If you coddle him now, you’re only reinforcing his unhealthy psychological attachment to you.” Mom recoiled as if stung, her face pale. She took three hasty steps backward. “Quick! Get Brandon out of here! Call the clinic’s transport team now!” Brandon screamed and thrashed as our private security guards dragged him out the front door, looking less like a high-society heir and more like a toddler throwing a tantrum at a grocery store. Looking at Delilah’s pale, trembling face, I gently patted Mom’s hand to comfort her. “I can’t believe how much you and Dad have endured while I was gone. Don’t worry. Now that I’m back, I will personally handle the psychological healing of this family.” My parents looked at me with tears in their eyes, filled with profound gratitude. “Thank God you’re a licensed psychologist, Cassidy. If it weren’t for you, we would have never known how sick they both were!” Brandon spent a few days undergoing intensive observation and behavioral therapy at an exclusive private clinic. When he finally returned, the look in his eyes was pure venom. But things didn’t stay quiet for long. During Sunday lunch, Delilah couldn’t resist putting on another performance. I had asked the chef to prepare a rich seafood bouillabaisse for lunch. Halfway through the meal, Delilah suddenly gasped, pointing at her neck where a faint pink rash was starting to bloom. “Why is there seafood on the table?” she cried out, her voice trembling. “Mom, I’m breaking out! I’m so itchy!” Mom panicked instantly, calling out to the housekeeper to fetch the medication. Delilah scratched at the few barely visible red spots on her arm, looking at me with tear-filled eyes. “Cassidy, why are you doing this to me? I told everyone I have a severe shellfish allergy! Why was there seafood in my broth? Do you have any idea that this could actually kill me?” I stared at her, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. If you knew you were allergic, why did you willingly take a spoonful of soup that smelled strongly of lobster and shrimp? Did you think your allergy would take a holiday? Mom hurriedly handed Delilah her medication, giving me a pointed, disapproving look. Ever since Delilah’s allergy had been diagnosed years ago, shellfish had been completely banned from the household menu. Before Mom could vocalize her frustration, I jumped up from my seat, rushing over to wrap Delilah in a tight, protective embrace. “Oh, sweetheart, I am so incredibly sorry! It’s entirely my fault. Mom and Dad never mentioned your allergy to me—they must have just wanted to make me feel welcome by letting me order my favorite food. Please, don’t blame them!” Delilah shook her head, slipping out of my embrace and sinking to her knees on the dining room floor, weeping beautifully. “Cassidy, if you want me gone, just say the word. But please… I don’t want to die.” With a theatrical roar, Brandon slammed his hands onto the table, flipping a tureen of bouillabaisse. The rich, red broth splashed everywhere, staining the white Persian rug. “Cassidy, what the hell is wrong with you? Getting me locked up in a clinic wasn’t enough? Now you’re trying to murder Delilah?” I raised my hands in a defensive gesture, looking entirely innocent. “I’m not trying to cause trouble! But Delilah, are you sure you aren’t exhibiting symptoms of Histrionic Personality Disorder? Just because you have an allergy, does it mean the entire family is forbidden from eating seafood forever? Why can’t you simply decline the dish instead of enforcing a household ban? Or… do you secretly believe Mom and Dad are favoring me, their biological daughter, and you’re using this to manipulate everyone and punish them for your status as the adopted one?” Having such a massive psychological label slapped on her caught Delilah completely off guard. She stammered, her words tumbling out twice as fast. “No! No, that’s not true! Mom and Dad chose not to eat seafood on their own to support me!” I rubbed my chin, appearing to analyze her statement deeply. “Ah. So what you’re saying is that Mom and Dad are just being overly dramatic? Creating artificial hardships to play the role of perfect, self-sacrificing parents? You’re suggesting they are emotionally martyring themselves just to guilt-trip you and maintain psychological control? Oh my god… Dad, I had no idea you were such a master of emotional manipulation!” Dad’s face darkened instantly, looking as though he had just stepped in something foul. He stared coldly at Delilah. “Delilah… is that really how you view our care for you?” Delilah burst into fresh, frantic tears, while Brandon looked ready to tear me limb from limb. “Stop twisting things! Delilah is literally breaking out in hives, and you’re standing there debating semantics! Do you even have a shred of humanity left in you?” Anyone else might have fallen into the trap of trying to defend themselves. Fortunately for me, my clinical style leans heavily toward aggressive reframing. “Brandon, how can you say that about Delilah?” I gasped, looking deeply offended on her behalf. “Are you implying that she is deliberately exaggerating her physical symptoms to play the victim, exploit our sympathy, and avoid taking responsibility for her own dietary choices? I refuse to believe Delilah is that manipulative!” Brandon’s finger shook as he pointed at me, his face turning an angry shade of crimson. “Are you out of your mind?!” “I am so, so sorry,” I offered quickly, taking a step back to pacify him. “I didn’t mean to trigger your intermittent explosive episodes again. Perhaps the behavioral therapy at the clinic was cut short? If your symptoms are regressing, we might need to recommend a more intensive course of neuro-stimulation therapy.” The mention of the clinic’s therapeutic methods made Brandon visibly flinch. He let go of Delilah and took a step back, looking thoroughly terrified. “Enough!” Dad slammed his fist on the table, cutting through the chaos. “A simple lunch turned into this absolute circus! Delilah, I am deeply disappointed in you. Even after we brought Cassidy home, we never once considered sending you away. I had no idea you harbored such resentment and viewed our parenting as a form of control.” The lunch ended in a tense, silent disaster. As Brandon and Delilah left the dining room, the venomous glares they threw my way sent a small chill down my spine. I knew they wouldn’t let this slide; the real storm was yet to come. Following my official introduction to high society, invitation cards for various upscale parties began piling up on my vanity like a small mountain. I sorted through them carefully until I found the invitation from Tiffany Reynold. “This is the one,” I murmured. Just the night before, while passing by Delilah’s bedroom, I had overheard Brandon plotting his revenge. “Our entire social circle only recognizes you, Delilah,” he had told her smugly. “To everyone else, she’s just some uncultured stray from the backwoods. I’ve set up a few things for tomorrow’s party. We’re going to ruin her.” I had smiled to myself. Did they really not understand how fragile elite social circles actually are? The moment I arrived at the Reynold family’s estate, before I could even find a seat, a full glass of Cabernet Sauvignon was “accidentally” splashed directly onto the bodice of my white chiffon gown. The fabric became instantly translucent, drawing amused whispers and stares from the surrounding guests, who were clearly waiting for me to break down. “Brandon said we could treat this country girl however we wanted today,” someone whispered nearby. “The show is just getting started.” I remained perfectly calm, offering only a polite, unfazed smile. “Here, use this. They’re always like this, don’t let them get to you. Let me help you clean up.” A petite, innocent-looking girl stepped forward, offering me a soft hand towel with an expression of deep concern. I took the towel, holding it over my chest, and followed her out toward the quiet pool area behind the villa. I looked at her with a face full of vulnerable gratitude. “Thank you so much. If you hadn’t stepped in, I think I would have burst into tears.” The girl—Tiffany—flashed a brilliant, reassuring smile. Seeing how easily I had trusted her, a look of smug satisfaction flickered in her eyes. “Why don’t you take off the damp outer layer so you can dry it off properly? I’ll stand guard and block the view for you.” Pretending to be completely oblivious, I nodded in realization. “You’re so right. Let me do that.” As I unzipped the side of my dress, Tiffany quietly slipped behind me, her hands reaching out to shove me into the deep end of the pool. But before she could apply any pressure, I spun around and firmly gripped her wrists mid-air. Tiffany’s face went pale, though she tried desperately to maintain her composure. “What… what are you doing?” I squeezed her hands gently, looking at her with wide, admiring eyes. “You are literally my savior. I haven’t even asked for your name yet.” Frustrated, she wrenched her hands free. “It’s Tiffany. Are you going to clean up or not? My time is limited. If you’re going to stall, I’m leaving.” I let out a soft, sharp gasp, my brow furrowing with sudden concern. “You’re Tiffany? But you’re so incredibly sweet… Why would Delilah say those horrible things about you? Actually, never mind… I shouldn’t say anything.” Tiffany’s eyes widened instantly. She grabbed my arm with surprising strength. “What do you mean? Finish your sentence! What has Delilah been saying about me behind my back?” I shrank back slightly, looking intimidated. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. I’m sure it was just a misunderstanding.” Tiffany’s face flushed red with anger as she gripped my shoulders. “Tell me! Did that little hypocrite talk trash about me?” “I’m sure she didn’t mean it maliciously,” I stammered nervously. “She… she just mentioned that you weren’t particularly attractive and that you were desperately throwing yourself at Brandon. She called you a pathetic, desperate clinger and said our family would never accept someone like you.” Tiffany’s temper flared instantly. “I knew it! I knew that fake bitch looked down on me! Let me tell you something, Cassidy—they set this whole thing up to humiliate you today. There’s a bet going on inside. The stake is a brand-new Ferrari, and whoever pushes you into the pool first wins!” She pointed toward the dark water. “And that’s not all. They’ve set up waterproof cameras in the pool to capture you soaking wet and exposed!” Meanwhile, back inside the villa, Delilah had grown impatient waiting for Tiffany to report back. She walked out to the pool deck, muttering under her breath, “Is Tiffany completely useless? Why hasn’t she texted me yet?” As soon as she neared the edge of the water, I stepped out from the shadows and delivered a swift, firm kick directly to her backside, sending her flying into the deep end. Before she could scream for help, a young man who had been waiting in the dark water to “catch” me lunged forward, wrapping his arms around her and muffling her face to keep the prank quiet. “Help… mmmph…” Within ten minutes, word had spread through the villa that the prank had been executed. The wealthy heirs and socialites poured out onto the dark patio, eager to witness my humiliation. The pool area was unlit, but the sound of heavy splashing and muffled gasps echoed clearly in the dark. “It worked! Turn on the floodlights!” someone yelled eagerly. “I want to see the look on her face! She must look like a drowned rat!” The powerful stadium-grade floodlights around the pool snapped on all at once, illuminating the water in a brilliant, harsh glow. The laughter died instantly, replaced by a chorus of shocked gasps and screams. “Delilah! Oh my god, it’s Delilah!”

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I paid three thousand dollars to board my cat at an ultra-exclusive pet resort. They promised a private suite, twenty-four-hour cloud camera access, and high-definition video updates three times a day. On the eighth night of my business trip, I was scrolling through live streams when I saw her. She had been shaved. She was wearing a tight breeding collar, locked in a metal crate with a massive male cat. The streamer was grinning at the camera. “This blue bicolor queen has immaculate genetics,” he said. “Drop your deposits now if you want to lock in a kitten from the next litter.” I stared at the screen, my blood turning to ice as I looked at the tiny, crescent-moon birthmark inside her left ear. It wasn’t a resemblance. It was Mochi, my companion of five years. … Before leaving for Tokyo on business, I had spent weeks vetting boarding facilities. I didn’t dare leave her at a standard pet shop. Mochi was five years old, a blue bicolor Ragdoll, skittish, and unspayed. It wasn’t a choice; two years ago, she had been diagnosed with a mild heart murmur. Dr. Fletcher had written it clearly in her chart: “Breeding not recommended. Avoid severe stressors. Avoid close contact with unfamiliar cats.” So, I eventually chose Verdant Pines Pet Oasis. Three thousand dollars for fifteen days. The price was staggering, but their marketing was flawless. A private room for every cat, climate-controlled, with independent HEPA ventilation, daily UV sterilization, and a round-the-clock live feed. You got three video updates a day and a dedicated handler assigned to your pet. The contract was explicit: “Under no circumstances, without the owner’s written consent, shall the pet be co-mingled, transferred, shaved, used for commercial purposes, streamed, bred, or handed over to a third party.” On the day I dropped Mochi off, the owner, Maxwell Crawford, met me personally. “Mr. Gallagher, you’ve selected our Platinum Boarding Package. Every step of her care is logged. How much she eats, her hydration, her litter box habits, her emotional state—all of it will be sent to you daily.” The handler assigned to Mochi was Cody Jenkins, a quiet young man in his early twenties. He knelt beside the carrier, whispering gently through the mesh grate. “Don’t worry, sweet girl. I’m going to take this slow. I won’t force you out.” I handed over Mochi’s medical records, vaccine certificates, microchip registration, and Dr. Fletcher’s diagnosis. “She has a heart murmur,” I emphasized. “She cannot be bred, she cannot be stressed, and she must not be near other cats. Call me before you do anything.” Maxwell flipped through the file in front of me, circling “Breeding not recommended” with a red pen. “Rest assured, Mr. Gallagher. We run a luxury resort, not a backyard mill. You’re paying for peace of mind.” His words had brought me a wave of relief. The suites were indeed impressive. Clean glass doors, climbing structures, a cozy heated bed, a fountain, and a dedicated camera on the wall. A small digital screen outside displayed the temperature, humidity, and pet profile. When Mochi first went inside, she squeezed into a tiny fabric tent, only showing half her face to look at me. Cody didn’t force her out; he simply placed her water and wet food close to the opening. Maxwell opened a tablet to show me the live feed. The picture was crystal clear. “You can check on her anytime during your trip, Mr. Gallagher,” Maxwell said. “And we will send our own updates so you never have to worry.” For the first five days, they delivered on every promise. At 8:30 AM, Cody would send a video. “Mochi ate about two-thirds of her breakfast. She seems to be adjusting well.” At 1:00 PM, a second clip. “Getting some sun. She stepped out of her tent today.” At 9:00 PM, the last one. “Played with the feather wand for a couple of minutes. Normal litter box use.” In the videos, her suite was spotless, the water bowl was full, and her blankets were neat. Sometimes Cody would add, “She’s a bit sleepy today, so I let her rest.” I was working grueling hours in Tokyo, returning to my hotel exhausted enough to collapse immediately. But seeing those daily videos of Mochi kept me grounded. I even told a colleague, “It’s expensive, but the professionalism is worth it.” Then came the eighth night. I couldn’t sleep. It was past 1:00 AM when I was mindlessly scrolling through short videos on my phone. The algorithm pushed a live stream to my feed. “Lumina Champions Breeding – Late Night Session.” I was about to swipe away. Then the camera zoomed in on a heavy metal display cage. Inside, a blue bicolor Ragdoll was cowering in the corner. She wore a bright pink collar, and a patch of fur on the side of her neck had been shaved raw. Right next to her, separated only by a thin wire mesh, lay a massive male cat. The streamer’s voice was gratingly cheerful. “This female is our star tonight, folks. Perfect facial symmetry, deep blue eyes, excellent coat density. It’s her first breeding match. You can put down a deposit to reserve her kittens now.” The chat was moving rapidly. “She’s gorgeous. Those kittens are going to be expensive.” “Why is she hiding like that?” “How much is the deposit?” “She looks absolutely terrified.” I stared at the screen, my fingers freezing over the glass. Inside that cat’s left ear was a faint, crescent-shaped birthmark. The tip of her tail had an irregular ring of white fur. And when she tense up, her front left paw curled slightly inward. These were details only I would know. I hit the screen record button. Then I quickly toggled over to the Verdant Pines cloud app. The screen read: “Camera Offline for Scheduled Maintenance.” Almost simultaneously, a text from Cody popped up with a video clip. “Mr. Gallagher, Mochi just woke up. She’s doing great today!” I opened it. In the clip, Mochi was curled up in her bed, her room quiet and bathed in soft light. But when I zoomed in on the background, I saw the small desk calendar resting beside her water dish. The date on the calendar was from four days ago. I stared at the numbers on the screen as a cold sweat broke out across my back. The daily peace of mind they had been sending me was nothing but a library of pre-recorded clips. My actual cat was miles away, trapped in a live-streaming cage, being marketed as breeding stock. 2 I called Maxwell Crawford. The first call went unanswered. On the second try, he picked up, his voice heavy with sleep. “Mr. Gallagher? Is everything alright at this hour?” I sent him the screenshot from the live stream. “This is Mochi.” The line went quiet for a few seconds. I heard him shift in bed. Then Maxwell let out a soft, patronizing chuckle. “Mr. Gallagher, I think you’re just missing her. Blue bicolors look incredibly similar. Please don’t worry yourself over nothing.” “The crescent mark in her left ear, the white ring on her tail, the way she curls her front left paw when she’s frightened. It’s all there,” I said, my voice shaking with restrained anger. “We do have partner catteries that run promotional streams, but those are their own breeding queens. They are kept completely separate from our boarding area.” “Then show me Mochi right now. Start a video call.” “At this hour? The cats are asleep. Waking her up suddenly will cause unnecessary stress.” “Go pick her up, hold her next to a phone showing the current time, and record a ten-second clip.” “The handlers have all gone home for the night.” “Scan her microchip.” He paused. “Our scanner is actually out for calibration today.” The hotel room in Tokyo was dead silent. I could hear my own breathing, cold and calculated. “Maxwell, you promised twenty-four-hour visibility, three updates a day, and dedicated care. Now I’m asking to see the cat I paid three thousand dollars to board, and you’re telling me the cameras are offline, the scanner is broken, the staff is gone, and she can’t be disturbed?” His tone cooled, the professional warmth evaporating. “Mr. Gallagher, you are being highly emotional. Your cat is perfectly safe. We can discuss this in the morning.” “I’m booking the next flight back.” Silence. “That really isn’t necessary.” I hung up. The earliest flight I could get was at 4:00 AM. As I packed my bags, my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I kept the live stream open on my iPad. The streamer, Troy, reached his hand into the cage to nudge Mochi’s chin up. She shrank back, her ears flattening against her head, a low, guttural growl escaping her throat. Troy just laughed. “This little lady is just shy. She’ll warm up soon. If you want to reserve a kitten, type ‘1’ in the chat.” I recorded every second of it until the stream finally went dark. By the time my flight landed, it was 10:00 AM. I dragged my suitcase out of the terminal and hailed a cab straight to Verdant Pines. The digital display in their lobby was still looping their slick advertisement: “Luxury boarding. A home away from home for your beloved pet.” But as I stepped past the threshold, I saw that the hallway usually reserved for boarding clients was cluttered. Heavy studio lights, colored backdrops, temporary wire cages, and plastic carriers blockaded the corridor. Several cats were crying from inside the cages, their mews sharp and distressed. A man stepped out of a side door, a half-burned cigarette dangling from his lip. He looked at my suitcase and shrugged. “You here to view the queens or place a deposit on a litter?” “I’m here to pick up my cat,” I said. The man’s expression hardened. He spun on his heel, trying to shut the door behind him, but I threw my weight against it. “Get out of my way,” I said. He scowled. “Who the hell are you?” “Mochi’s owner.” Rapid footsteps sounded from the stairs, and Maxwell hurried down. He was still impeccably dressed, his hair perfectly coiffed, but the warm, reassuring look he had worn on drop-off day was entirely gone. “Mr. Gallagher. You’re back early.” “Where is Mochi?” I demanded. “Mochi had a minor stress response last night,” Maxwell said smoothly. “As a precaution, we had her transferred to our partner clinic for observation.” “Which clinic?” “It’s just down the road.” “Give me the name of the clinic.” He hesitated, his mouth opening slightly before closing. I turned my gaze to the man with the cigarette. A laminated badge hung from his pocket: “Brock Larson, Breeding Consultant.” “The male cat in the stream last night,” I said, pointing at Brock. “Was that yours?” Brock stubbed out his cigarette on the doorframe and let out a cold laugh. “Don’t come in here throwing accusations, pal. All these purebreds look alike. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Cody stepped out from the back office. When he saw me, his face drained of color, and the tablet in his hand slipped, nearly clattering to the floor. I looked directly at him. “The video you sent me yesterday. Why was the calendar on the desk dated four days ago?” Cody opened his mouth, his eyes darting frantically to Maxwell. Maxwell cut in quickly. “A simple filing error. The handlers take multiple clips throughout the day. It was an honest mistake.” “An honest mistake that involved sending me four-day-old footage to hide the fact that my cat wasn’t even in her room?” Maxwell’s brow furrowed. “Mr. Gallagher, I suggest you watch your tone.” I pulled out my phone. “Let’s see if the police like your explanation.” Brock sneered. “Calling the cops over a cat? Go ahead, try it.” I dialed 911 right in front of them. 3 Once the police officers arrived, Maxwell’s demeanor shifted instantly into cooperative professionalism. “Officers, we run a registered, high-end boarding service here,” Maxwell said, spreading his hands. “This client is simply having a misunderstanding. The cat in the stream belongs to one of our breeding partners. He’s just incredibly anxious and confused her with his own pet.” I laid out my documentation on the lobby table, piece by piece. I showed them the contract containing the explicit “no breeding, no co-mingling” clauses. I played the screen recording of the live stream. I showed them the screenshot of Cody’s update with the outdated calendar. The responding officer, Officer Davis, reviewed the materials carefully. He turned to Maxwell. “Where is the cat right now?” “At our partner veterinary clinic under observation,” Maxwell replied. “Name of the clinic?” “My staff handled the transport. I’ll need to confirm the name with them.” Officer Davis stared at him, unimpressed. “You’re the manager of this facility. A client’s pet is hospitalized under your care, and you don’t know where she was taken?” Maxwell’s jaw tightened. Brock chimed in. “Officer, this isn’t a big deal. Cats get stressed. This guy doesn’t understand the industry.” “My cat is microchipped,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “Scan her, and we’ll know exactly who she is.” Maxwell immediately interjected. “She’s not on the premises.” “When can you have her back here for verification?” Officer Davis asked. Maxwell bit his lip. “Tomorrow morning.” “Give me an exact time.” “Ten o’clock.” Officer Davis made Maxwell sign a formal statement on the incident report. As I packed up my documents to leave, Maxwell leaned in and spoke in a low, tight voice. “Mr. Gallagher, making a scene like this is going to hurt our business. We could have handled this quietly.” I looked him in the eye. “When I brought her here, what did you tell me? That I was paying for peace of mind. Instead, you gave me forged videos, offline cameras, a fake hospital, and a breeding cage.” The polite mask finally slipped from his face. “Don’t burn your bridges. There is still room to negotiate here.” I didn’t answer. I walked out, got into my car, and backed up every video, screenshot, and call recording to my secure cloud drive. Then I called Dr. Fletcher. When Mochi’s vet heard what had happened, his voice turned sharp and serious. “She has a heart murmur. I wrote specifically that she shouldn’t be bred. The moment you get her back, bring her straight to my clinic. We need a full cardiac workup, blood panels, hydration levels, physical trauma checks, and we need to start monitoring her for pregnancy.” “What if they actually bred her?” “Just get her back first, Thomas. Don’t go in there alone to fight them. Keep gathering evidence.” The next morning, at 9:50 AM, I walked back into Verdant Pines. Maxwell was nowhere to be seen. Cody stood behind the desk, trembling. “Mr. Crawford is in a meeting,” he murmured. I called Maxwell’s cell. It rang for a long time before he answered. “Mr. Gallagher, Mochi is still highly stressed. Today is not a good day to move her.” “The police report states she was to be returned here by ten.” “We are doing what is best for the animal. If we force a highly stressed cat to travel and she suffers a cardiac event, who is going to take responsibility for that?” “Give me the name of the hospital.” “I’m not at liberty to disclose that under our partner privacy agreement.” I let out a cold laugh. “She was never at a hospital, was she?” The line went dead. Ten minutes later, Maxwell walked down from the second floor. He didn’t look at me as he slid a printed invoice across the counter. “If you want to take your cat, we need to settle the outstanding balance first.” I looked down at the sheet. “Stress Management Care: $1,200” “Emergency Transport Fees: $500” “Dedicated Medical Monitoring: $800” “Stream Cancellation Damages: $4,500” “Brand Reputation Maintenance Fee: $8,000” “Total Due: $15,000” I looked up at him, incredulous. “You took my cat without my consent, put her on a commercial stream, and now you’re billing me for your lost streaming revenue?” Maxwell sat down on the lobby sofa, crossing his legs with a chilling composure. “First of all, there is no proof the cat on stream was Mochi. Second, your police report and threats of public complaints caused our streaming partner to halt their broadcast. Actions have consequences, Mr. Gallagher. You are an adult; you must take responsibility for the financial damage you’ve caused.” Brock was leaning against the doorframe, smirking. “You want your cat back? Then pay up. Stop throwing around the word ‘police’ like it scares anyone.” In that moment, I realized exactly what they were doing. They weren’t panicking. They assumed I was just a frantic pet owner who had rushed back from a business trip, desperate to get his cat back, and that I would eventually break under the pressure and pay them to make it go away. I didn’t argue. I took a clear picture of the invoice, recorded the “System Offline” notice on their wall, and took a voice memo of them refusing to provide the hospital details. Then, I turned around and walked out. Sitting in my car, I used a burner account to request access to Troy’s private online breeding community. The screening question was: “Which queen’s litter are you interested in?” I typed: “The blue bicolor from last night.” Within minutes, I was approved. The pinned announcement in the chat group read: “The blue bicolor queen from last night was a massive hit. Bookings for her upcoming litter are officially open. $800 deposit to reserve, final price based on coat quality at birth.” I scrolled up through the chat history. Someone had posted: “Is the queen yours? No ownership issues, right?” Brock had replied with a voice note. I clicked it. “Don’t worry about it, it’s shop inventory. The owner is out of the country; he won’t find out. Even if he does, we’ll just tell him all Ragdolls look the same.” Troy had followed up: “She’s too perfect to let sit in a boarding room. Just don’t post clear photos of her face online yet; we’re still wrapping things up with the owner.” Cody’s account was in the group, too. He had messaged: “I’ll keep sending him the older clips. That should buy us another two days.” I stared at my phone screen, my hands ice-cold. They hadn’t just used Mochi. They had planned this from the very beginning, knowing exactly who she belonged to. That evening, a friend connected me with a litigation lawyer, Attorney Callahan. Callahan listened to my story and gave me direct advice. “Stop calling them. Don’t argue. We need to send a formal legal notice immediately. This establishes that they have no authorization. If they continue to stream her, move her, or demand money, they are doing so with full knowledge of their illegality.” I drafted the notice with his guidance: “Mochi is my legally registered property. Her microchip number, vaccination logs, purchase contract, insurance policy, and medical records are fully documented.” “Our boarding contract strictly prohibits co-mingling, transfer, shaving, streaming, commercial display, breeding, or third-party transfer.” “I have never authorized any breeding, recording, streaming, or pre-sales of her offspring.” “I demand the immediate cessation of all commercial use of Mochi and her immediate return. You are required to preserve all camera footage, care logs, transport records, streaming data, and financial transactions. Continued concealment, transfer, or commercial exploitation of my property will result in full legal prosecution.” I sent the document to Maxwell, Cody, Brock, Troy, and the resort’s official email. Five minutes later, Maxwell texted back: “Do not threaten us.” Brock’s reply was faster: “You think a piece of paper scares anyone?” At 11:00 PM that night, Troy’s live stream went active again. This time, the camera was angled to obscure most of the cat’s face, and her collar had been changed to blue. But as she shrank back from the light, the faint crescent mark inside her left ear was clear for a split second. Worse, a handwritten sign was taped to the front of her cage: “Mated. Pending Observation.”

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My mother is the most celebrated starry-sky painter in the City Art Coalition. On my sister’s tenth birthday, she spent all day on a ladder, painting a massive galaxy mural across her bedroom wall. My sister pointed to the brightest star and said, “Mom, write my name on that one.” Mom smiled and repainted it three times until it was perfect. I handed her the sketchbook I’d saved up for six months to buy, begging her to draw a little cat on the first page. She didn’t even look at it. She just pushed the pencil back to me. “Use the copier,” she said. “It looks exactly the same.” Later, her new exhibition opened. The theme was “The Universe I Gave to My Two Daughters”. On the promotional poster, my sister stood in front of the galaxy wall, her dress swirling like a cloud. I stood in the corner of the gallery, my name tag reading: “Volunteer”. A reporter asked her, “Did your eldest daughter inherit your artistic talent too?” Mom hesitated for a fraction of a second, then smiled. “She’s more practical. She handles the logistics.” My sister, holding a bouquet, chimed in, “Yeah, Isabel is really strong at carrying the heavy frames!” I looked down at the blank sketchbook in my hands. It wasn’t that she didn’t know how to draw a little cat. It was just that she had never once thought of painting me into her world. … 1 “Isabel, the reporters want a family photo. Can you hold our coats for a second?” Daphne shoved a heavy bouquet of champagne roses into my arms. The sharp edge of the wrapping paper scraped against my wrist. “Sure.” I held the flowers and took a couple of steps back, retreating into the shadows where the camera flash couldn’t reach. My dad adjusted his silk tie and wrapped an arm around my mom’s shoulders. Daphne stood between them, her white tulle dress blooming like a cloud. “Click.” The camera captured the moment. The photographer glanced at the preview screen and smiled. “Ms. Croft, you have such a beautiful family. The genetics are incredible. Your youngest definitely inherited your artistic grace.” “A family of three.” I stood two yards away, a plastic volunteer badge hanging around my neck. On it, my name was scrawled in black Sharpie: “Volunteer”. My mom adjusted her gold-rimmed glasses, her voice calm and elegant. “Art requires innate talent. Daphne indeed has that rare spark.” She paused, her gaze bypassing the photographer to land on me. “Isabel is more practical. She managed all the logistics and setup for this exhibition.” The photographer blinked, only just realizing I was also a member of the family. “Oh, the oldest daughter is here too! Want to step in for a quick photo?” “No need,” my dad said, checking his watch. “We’re on a tight schedule. Daphne’s been standing for four hours; her energy levels are depleted. We need to get her some carbs.” He turned to me. “Isabel, stay behind and coordinate the teardown and closing procedures with the gallery manager. This is a great opportunity to build your project management skills.” “The teardown will take at least two hours,” I said, looking at him. “It’s already eight p.m.” “Then you’ll need to work efficiently,” he replied, his tone as detached as a manager instructing an underling. Daphne walked over, tugging on my mom’s sleeve. “Mom, I want to go to that dry-aged steakhouse on Grand Avenue. If we’re late, we’ll lose our reservation.” “Alright, let’s go now,” my mom said, patting her hand. I looked at my mother. “Mom, Grand Avenue is twelve miles from here. By the time I finish cleaning up, the subway will have stopped running.” “You can take an Uber.” “My account ran dry last week.” My mom frowned. “Isabel, I’ve always taught you the importance of financial planning. Your monthly allowance is fixed. If you overspend, you must bear the consequences. That is basic adult responsibility.” She didn’t mention “why” my allowance was gone. She didn’t mention that two days ago, Daphne had set her heart on a rare, discontinued set of Winsor & Newton watercolors. Three hundred dollars. Half of my monthly budget. Daphne had whined that she was out of allowance and begged me to pay for it first, promising to pay me back. “Go ahead and finish up, Isabel,” Daphne said, giving me a quick wink. “I’ll Venmo you the Uber fare later.” She never did. And I never brought it up. Because I knew my parents wouldn’t care about such trivialities anyway. In their highly intellectual, rational world, only the weak or the extraordinarily gifted deserved attention. And as the “older sister,” I was default-programmed to be the one who sacrificed. At eleven p.m., I finally made it home on the night bus. When I pushed the front door open, the living room lights were still on. On the coffee table sat three empty takeout boxes from an upscale New American bistro. Next to them was an empty, elegant pastry box from a boutique bakery. Daphne hated strawberries. Those gourmet strawberry shortcakes had been my favorite. My mom was sitting on the sofa, scrolling through the exhibition’s feedback metrics on her iPad. She didn’t look up when the door opened. “There’s some leftover clam chowder in the kitchen. Microwave it for two minutes. It won’t lose its nutritional value.” I paused in the middle of taking off my shoes. “Are there no strawberry shortcakes left?” “Daphne wanted to try them,” my mom said, swiping the screen. “She took one bite, found it too sweet, so Richard finished it. It’s just a pastry. You can buy yourself one tomorrow.” “Just a pastry.” I walked over to the coffee table and picked up the empty box. “It was a seasonal limited-edition from the bakery on Grand. They only make twenty a day.” My mom finally looked up, her gaze behind her gold-rimmed glasses sharp and analytical. “Isabel, don’t waste your emotional energy on low-value sunk costs. You are an independent individual. If you’re going to compare and compete over a pastry, your artistic vision will never rise above mediocrity.” “Artistic vision.” She always used professional jargon to dress up her blatant favoritism. My dad walked out of his study, holding a thermos. “Why aren’t you getting ready for bed? Tomorrow morning, you need to go to the art supply warehouse to pick up Daphne’s custom canvases. Double-check the weight and texture; she’s very particular about her materials.” “I have to submit my entry form for the Regional Youth Biennial tomorrow,” I said, looking at him. “You can submit it in the afternoon,” my dad said, taking a sip of water. “Daphne’s canvases are for next month’s Statewide Invitational. Her timeline is a higher priority. We must allocate resources rationally.” I didn’t argue. I walked to the pantry and opened it. Four boxes of organic strawberries sat in the fridge, prepped for Daphne’s morning fruit bowls. My single box of cheap dollar-store mac and cheese had been squeezed into the deepest, coldest corner of the pantry, the box crushed. I put a pot of water on the stove. The water boiled, bubbling away, as I dumped the dry macaroni in. My phone buzzed. It was a text from my thesis advisor. “Isabel, the competition for the Biennial’s preliminary round is incredibly fierce. Your mother is the Vice President of the Fine Arts Association—did you manage to get that letter of recommendation from her?” My grip on the utensils tightened. Last month, my mom had promised me. She said as long as my work met her professional standards, she would write it. I had pulled fourteen consecutive all-nighters to finish that painting. I turned off the stove and strained the mushy, overcooked macaroni into a bowl. Holding the bowl, I walked over to my mother. “Mom, about my painting, “Midnight Rain”… when can you give me the recommendation letter?” My mom’s finger hovered over her iPad. She put the tablet down, clasped her hands over her knees, and delivered her verdict in a detached, objective tone. “Isabel, I re-evaluated your piece.” “Your composition is too rigid. It lacks soul. It doesn’t resonate.” “So, I cannot write the letter.” 2 “You can’t write it?” I asked. “No,” my mom said, entirely unapologetic. “An association recommendation carries my professional reputation. I cannot compromise my academic standards just because you are my daughter. That would violate my professional ethics.” “Professional ethics.” Those two words felt like a mountain crushing the air out of my lungs. My dad walked over, patting her shoulder. “Your mother is right. There is no room for sentimentality in academia. Isabel, you need to learn to accept your own mediocrity. Not everyone is meant for the top of the pyramid.” I looked at the bowl of bland, overcooked pasta. I had completely lost my appetite. “But last month, you wrote a recommendation letter for Daphne’s finger-painting.” I raised my eyes, staring directly into my mother’s. “The perspective in that piece wasn’t even technically correct.” My mom’s expression chilled. “Daphne is only ten.” “She is ten, which is why her work is full of untamed vitality. It has the raw energy of Fauvism. If you don’t understand that, don’t use your rigid, exam-oriented mindset to judge her.” Ten. At ten years old, “vitality” could excuse any technical failure. But at twenty, the piece I had poured my soul into was dismissed as merely “rigid.” The bedroom door clicked open. Daphne walked out, rubbing her eyes, dragging a pink plush bunny behind her. “Mom, I can’t sleep. The stars on my galaxy wall aren’t bright enough.” My mom stood up instantly, the coldness on her face melting into pure warmth. “Not bright enough? But sweetheart, I used the best glow-in-the-dark pigment. Come on, let’s go take a look.” She didn’t give me a single glance as she followed Daphne into the bedroom. My dad checked his watch. “It’s twelve-thirty. Clean up the kitchen when you’re done. Daphne is sensitive to food odors.” He turned and went back into his study. I was left alone in the living room. I walked over to the trash can and scraped the contents of my bowl into the garbage. Back in my room, I pulled open my desk drawer. Inside was that sketchbook. The first page was still blank. I had saved my allowance for six months when I was ten to buy it. I had wanted her to draw a little cat. She told me to use a copier. I flipped to the very last page. Tucked inside was a thick stack of receipts. The three-hundred-dollar watercolor receipt. A fifteen-hundred-dollar custom canvas preorder invoice. Four hundred dollars in gallery tickets. All of it paid out of my meager savings and part-time job earnings, advanced for Daphne’s needs. In this house, my money was a communal resource. Daphne’s desires were the highest command. The next morning. I didn’t go to the art warehouse to pick up her canvases. Instead, I went straight to the Biennial registration office. The coordinator flipped through my file. “Isabel Holloway, right? Your piece “Midnight Rain” passed the first round of reviews. But since you’re still a student and don’t have an institutional sponsor, you need to pay a three-hundred-dollar exhibition deposit.” “Sure, let me pay by card.” I opened my banking app. Balance: $8.65. I froze. Last night, I had exactly three hundred and ten dollars. I clicked on the transaction history. At 1:00 AM, an automatic transfer of three hundred dollars had cleared. Recipient: “Summit Art Camp”. It was the authorized family card my dad had linked to my account, which was normally used to cover my school fees. But yesterday, he had changed the settings to prioritize withdrawals from my account. My fingers grew cold as I stood at the counter. I dialed my dad’s number. It rang five times before he picked up. “What is it? I’m in a meeting,” he said quickly. “Dad, three hundred dollars was withdrawn from my account last night for the Summit Art Camp.” “Oh, that,” he said dismissively. “Daphne is going to Europe for a study program next month, and her registration fee was slightly short. I checked your account, saw you had exactly three hundred, so I transferred it over.” “That was my exhibition deposit.” “It’s just the Youth Biennial, Isabel. You won’t place anyway. Going there is just making up the numbers. The return on investment is too low.” There wasn’t even a hint of apology in his voice. “Dad, today is the deadline.” “Isabel,” his voice dropped, taking on a stern edge. “Don’t be difficult. Daphne’s trip to Europe will broaden her international perspective. It’s the most efficient use of our resources. Your three hundred dollars would have just sat there.” “That was my money. I earned it working a month of formatting layouts for my advisor.” “This family has supported you for twenty years, and you’re nickel-and-diming me now?” My dad’s logic was always ironclad. “I’ll transfer it back to you next month when my stipend clears. Don’t let a small amount of money disrupt family harmony.” The line went dead. The dial tone buzzed in my ear. The coordinator nudged me gently. “Miss, are you going to pay? There are people waiting behind you.” I looked at the $8.65 left in my account. “I’m sorry,” I said, stepping back. “I won’t be submitting.” 3 I walked out of the Fine Arts Association building. The morning sun was so bright it made my eyes water. I had spent six months preparing “Midnight Rain”. To capture the reflection of neon lights in the puddles on a rainy night, I had stood on street corners in the downpour for a week straight. And now, it would remain rolled up, stuffed inside a cardboard tube. When I got home, it was three in the afternoon. The house was empty. I pushed open my bedroom door, and the pungent smell of turpentine hit me like a wall. I froze. My bookshelf had been shoved into the corner. My easel was folded up and packed away. In its place were several massive art supply crates and mountains of high-end pigments. Daphne’s easel stood proudly in front of my window, occupying the best light in the room. Splashes of wet paint dotted the hardwood floor. I took a deep breath. I walked back into the living room, picked up my phone, and called my mother. “What happened to my room?” “Oh, you saw?” my mom’s voice was even, accompanied by the faint sound of jazz playing in a café. “Daphne said her room was too dark, and it was stifling her inspiration. Your room has the best southern exposure.” “So?” “So I had the housekeepers move her supplies in. Your things have been packed up and moved to the basement.” The basement. “Are my paintings down there too?” “Yes,” she said. “They’re just practice pieces anyway. They won’t get ruined down there. You need to learn to share space.” “That is my bedroom.” “Your father and I pay the mortgage on this house. As someone who hasn’t financially contributed, you have the right to use the space, not to dictate it.” She always did this. Using cold, legalistic language to draw lines between us. “Daphne has her Statewide Invitational coming up. She needs the best possible environment,” my mom added. “As her older sister, yielding some physical space is a negligible cost.” “Understood.” I hung up. No screaming, no crying. Because I knew it was useless. I walked down to the basement and pushed open the creaking, rusty door. There were no lights. Only a tiny high window letting in a sliver of gray light. My books, my clothes, my paintings—all piled like trash on top of a plastic tarp. I turned on my phone flashlight and knelt to search through the clutter. At the very bottom, I found “Midnight Rain”. The cap to the protective tube was missing. The edges of the heavy paper had warped from the basement dampness. I carefully pulled it out and unrolled it. Right in the center of the canvas was a distinct, muddy footprint. Size five. Daphne’s shoe size. I stared at the footprint for a long time. Inside me, the fragile vessel that had spent years trying to rationalize their behavior finally shattered with a clean, sharp crack. It wasn’t that they were just objective and rational. It was that favoritism could be as concrete and physical as a muddy shoe print. At seven p.m., they came home. Daphne was clutching a luxury shopping bag, beaming. “Isabel! Look at the dress Mom bought me! I’m going to wear it to the opening next week.” She pulled out the dress, holding it up against herself. White silk. It probably cost thousands. Meanwhile, my three-hundred-dollar deposit had been taken because my “return on investment” was too low. “Do you like it?” she asked, batting her eyelashes. “It’s beautiful,” I replied quietly. My dad walked in, taking off his coat. “Isabel, Daphne’s exhibition opens next Friday. You’ll be attending as family. You’ll also need to handle the press and media coordination that day. It’s a great opportunity for you to practice.” “Next Friday,” I said, looking at him. “Yes, is there a problem?” Next Friday was my final thesis defense. If I missed it, I wouldn’t graduate. “I have my graduation defense that day.” “You can request an extension,” my dad said dismissively. “Daphne’s exhibition is her first major milestone. As part of this family, you cannot be absent.” “If I delay my defense, I’ll miss this year’s recruitment cycle.” “Then look for a job next year,” my mom chimed in, walking over with a glass of water. “There’s no rush for you to find work. Focus on managing family affairs first. That is your core competency.” “Core competency.” Being my sister’s assistant had become my core competency. “What if I don’t go?” I asked. My mom stopped in her tracks. She turned to me, her gaze heavy and intimidating. “Isabel, do not try to use rebellion to seek attention. This kind of low-level emotional manipulation doesn’t work in this house.” She set her glass down. “I’ve told you before, we are a rational family. If you do not contribute, do not expect to receive.” I looked at them. I looked at Daphne, hiding behind my mother’s arm, a smug little smirk playing on her lips. “Okay,” I nodded. “I’ll go.” 4 Friday morning. I didn’t go to Daphne’s gallery opening. I put on my cleanest white button-down, grabbed my portfolio, and walked out the door. My defense was scheduled for ten a.m. But at nine-thirty, my advisor called. “Isabel, we have a bureaucratic issue. Because of your previous absences, university policy requires a parent or guardian to sign off, confirming that your absences were due to a family emergency, in order for you to defend today.” I froze. My previous absences were because my mother had undergone minor surgery. My dad was on a business trip, and Daphne claimed she couldn’t miss school. So I had been forced to stay at the hospital for two weeks straight as her sole caregiver. “Professor, let me contact them right away.” I hung up and stood in the quiet hallway, dialing my mother’s number. This was the very last time I would ever ask them for help. It rang for a long time before she finally answered. In the background, I could hear chatter and classical music. “What is it? The opening ceremony starts in ten minutes, and the reporters are waiting,” my mom said, her voice sharp with impatience. “Mom, there’s a problem with my graduation defense. I need you or Dad to come sign a form proving my absences were because I was caring for you in the hospital.” “Right now?” “Yes, it has to be signed before ten.” There was a silence on the line. “Isabel, are you deliberately testing my time management skills? Or is this some petty attempt to punish us for not prioritizing your defense?” “It’s not punishment. It’s a strict university rule,” I said, taking a deep breath to steady my shaking hands. “It will only take ten minutes. The campus is only three miles from the gallery.” “A three-mile drive plus parking will take at least twenty minutes. It would completely disrupt Daphne’s opening schedule,” my mom said with cool, analytical detachment. “The cost is simply too high.” “If you don’t come, I won’t graduate.” “Then graduate next year,” she refused without a second thought. “An extra year to find yourself isn’t necessarily a bad thing.” “Mom, I missed those classes to take care of you.” “Did I demand that of you? That was your moral duty as a daughter. Don’t use morality to blackmail me.” My dad’s voice floated over from her end. “Who is that?” “Isabel. She wants me to go to her school right now to sign some paper.” “Ridiculous,” my dad’s voice came through clearly. “Daphne is about to give her speech. How can we leave? Tell her to handle it herself. She relies on us far too much.” I held the phone, listening to them back each other up. “Is sister mad at Mom because of me?” Daphne’s soft, innocent voice piped up. “If she really needs you, Mom, you should go. I can face the reporters alone, even though I’m really scared.” “What is there to be scared of? Mom is staying right here,” my mom soothed her, her voice turning incredibly tender. Then, she spoke back into the receiver, cold as ice. “Did you hear that? Daphne needs me. You’re an adult, Isabel. Clean up your own mess.” The line went dead. I stood at the end of the university hallway. The morning sun flooded through the window, but the air felt entirely stagnant, suffocating me. I looked at the “Call Ended” screen. Strangely, all the exhaustion that had weighed on me for years suddenly vanished. The desperate obsession to prove my worth, to claw my way into their hearts, popped like a balloon pricked by a needle. In an instant, there was nothing left. I opened my advisor’s text thread. “Professor, my parents can’t make it.” “Then your defense…” “I’m withdrawing.” I sent the message. I turned away from the defense room and walked out of the building. I took the subway back to the apartment. Not to pack my things, but to purge them. I placed the bank card they used to send my monthly allowance on the coffee table. Beneath it, I slid my house keys. Finally, I took the sketchbook—the one with the galaxy painted three times, its first page still empty—and threw it into the trash can. I stood in the entryway with a single rolling suitcase. I realized then that leaving someone forever doesn’t require a dramatic, screaming fight. It just takes a quiet accumulation of disappointments, until the very last crack is filled. The door clicked shut behind me. I didn’t look back.

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