Category: English

For five years, I lived my life suffocating beneath the weight of a cruel, whispered moniker: The Jinxed Prince. The origin of that title was inextricably tied to my birthday. My fiancée, Corinne, died on my birthday. Exactly one year later, my best friend, Wesley, also died on my birthday. When they were alive, they loved to tease me, calling me their “Prince” because of my charmed, wealthy upbringing. So, when they were gone, the country club gossips and society columns all whispered the same thing: The Prince cursed the people he loved most to death. I lost count of the nights I lay awake, crushed by a guilt so absolute it felt like physical violence. I tormented myself with the same question: If I had just refused to celebrate my birthday, would they still be here? I believed that lie right up until the afternoon I went to a local private academy to handle transfer paperwork for my little cousin. That was when I saw a silhouette that made the blood freeze in my veins. The angle of her profile was entirely, undeniably Corinne. My feet moved before my brain could process the impossibility of it. I chased the ghost out to the courtyard, only to find her crouching on the pavement, sternly reprimanding a little boy. “Mia Winchester, did you get into another fight with your classmates? If you keep this up, no dessert for a week!” Her voice carried that exact, familiar edge of authority. “Corinne! You’re a bad mommy! He started it!” The little girl stubbornly stuck her tongue out. Corinne? Mia Winchester? I stood paralyzed on the manicured lawn. The world spun completely off its axis. They weren’t dead. They were alive. They were together. They had a child. “Uncle Troy, what are you looking at?” my cousin’s voice suddenly piped up from beside me. Hearing the noise, Corinne turned her head. Her eyes locked directly onto mine. … 1 I remained rooted to the spot, a tempest of contradictory emotions raging in my chest. I didn’t know if I was supposed to be weeping with joy that my “curse” hadn’t actually killed them, or if I was supposed to be shattering over the realization that they had colluded to betray me in the most horrific, agonizing way imaginable. Why? Corinne and I had grown up side by side. When we turned twenty, she had legally changed her middle name to “Prologue” just to prove a point when she confessed her feelings to me. “Everything in my life before you was just a prologue,” she had whispered, pressing her forehead against mine. “Our past is the title page, Troy. But spending the rest of my life with you? That’s the actual novel.” The day before my birthday—the day before she supposedly died—she had kissed my knuckles and sworn, “My Prince, I will never let a single drop of rain fall on you as long as I live.” Yet, she was the one who brought the hurricane. At what exact moment did her heart pivot away from me? I couldn’t fathom it. The sharp trill of the school bell shattered the silence. The kids scrambled back toward the brick building. I stood there, painfully out of place, utterly lost. Corinne walked toward me. There was no panic in her eyes, no frantic shame of a woman caught in a monstrous lie. Instead, she possessed a chilling, familiar ease. “Prince. You figured it out sooner than I anticipated.” A bitter ache bloomed in my ribs. Was my devastating discovery just an entertaining miscalculation to her? I raised my eyes to meet hers, drawing a long, trembling breath. “When did it start?” She tilted her head, pantomiming thoughtful reflection, offering me a look of helpless regret. “Maybe it was the day you got into that fight to protect him. I looked at Wesley, the boy needing protection, and suddenly found a different kind of charm in that.” She sighed softly. “Or maybe it was graduation day. The way his faded, overworn button-down clung to his shoulders… it drew me in.” Corinne lowered her lashes, speaking with the infuriatingly calm candor of a wise elder explaining a hard truth to a child. “Troy, no one can predict what the heart will crave in the very next second. Just like how I used to despise arrogant trust-fund boys, yet I fell in love with you anyway.” Ruthless efficiency and brutal directness—those had always been Corinne’s specialties. I swallowed the bile and the heartbreak rising in my throat. “Why didn’t you just tell me? Why fake your deaths? Why hide?” She looked at me as if the answer was painfully obvious. “Because I know you, Troy. Back then, you hadn’t learned how to weigh the scales. You didn’t know how to balance the value of love against the value of family legacy. If we had been honest, the fallout would have destroyed both our families and ruined Wesley.” “But now,” she continued smoothly, “now you’ve learned. Otherwise, you’d be dragging me to the tabloids right now instead of standing here quietly.” A flawless, surgical calculation. She even understood how to weaponize my restraint. She was right about one thing: I wasn’t going to cause a scene. But it wasn’t because I had mastered the art of weighing my options. It was because I was dying. I had barely six months left. I only wanted to spend my remaining time doing things that actually mattered. After walking away from the school, I sat in a dimly lit coffee shop for hours, staring into a lukewarm mug, trying to figure out how to tell my parents about my terminal diagnosis. By the time the sky bruised into twilight, I finally dragged myself to the front door of my family estate. Just as I reached for the handle, a child’s bright laughter drifted from the living room. I frowned in confusion, freezing when I heard my mother’s voice. “Wesley, sweetheart, take the kid and head out in five minutes. Troy texted that he’s on his way home.” A pause. Then my father’s heavy sigh. “You two really went too far with that stunt five years ago. Troy has been utterly miserable. I know he isn’t our biological son, but I raised him. It breaks my heart to see him like this.” “Let’s just spend the rest of our lives making it up to him,” my father added wearily. Then, Wesley’s voice—soft, deferential, sickeningly gentle. “Mom, Dad, it’s my fault. I’ll sit him down and explain everything to him soon.” In a span of thirty seconds, the entire landscape of my reality clicked into a horrifying, brilliant clarity. It explained why my mother always insisted I bring Wesley over for dinner in college. Why she always looked like she was on the verge of tears whenever she saw him, slipping cash into his coat pockets. Why I would occasionally find stray toy cars hidden under the sofa cushions. … Wesley was their biological son. The classic, tragic tale of babies switched at birth. And they had known about the fake deaths all along. A violent shiver seized my entire body. They had watched me wither away. They had watched me drown in soul-crushing guilt for five years, and they had said absolutely nothing. Well, I thought, a numb, hysterical calm washing over me. This is for the best. I don’t have to worry about destroying them when I die. And they don’t have to exhaust themselves lying to me anymore. Standing there on the cold marble porch, I pulled out my phone, opened my text thread with my oncologist, and typed a single sentence: I am officially declining the chemotherapy. 2 Suddenly, the brass doorknob began to turn. Panic seized me. I couldn’t face them. Not yet. I spun around and bolted down the driveway, running until the air burned in my lungs. I collapsed on a wooden bench in a deserted community park, buried my face in my hands, and finally let the dam break. I sobbed until I was gasping for air. Night descended, wrapping the world in shadows. There was truly no one left on this earth who loved me. Eventually, I massaged my numb legs and forced myself to walk back to the sprawling estate that no longer belonged to me. When I walked in, the tension in the room was palpable. My parents exchanged loaded glances until my father finally cleared his throat. “Troy, sit down. There’s… there’s something you need to know. Wesley didn’t pass away.” They watched my face with agonizing scrutiny. “He and Corinne are married. They have a daughter.” When I didn’t scream, when I merely sat in a suffocating silence, my mother’s tone suddenly sharpened with defensive aggression. “Now, don’t you dare blame Wesley for this. You two were switched at birth. He absorbed all the suffering of a broken, impoverished home that was meant for you. Even though he took Corinne, you still got to live your entire life as the wealthy heir of the Winchester family!” Was I supposed to be grateful? Then why did it feel like my chest had been carved out with a rusted spoon? I wasn’t allowed to blame them. I wasn’t allowed to harbor resentment. Throwing a tantrum was a privilege reserved for those who were actually loved. I didn’t qualify. So, I simply gave a slow, minute nod. They looked startled, clearly unprepared for my hollow compliance. “Your niece’s preschool is quite a commute from their apartment. We’re having them move in with us for now,” my mother said. I recognized the tone. It wasn’t a discussion. It was an eviction notice wrapped in politeness. That very night, Corinne and Wesley moved in. The house vibrated with a sickening, festive energy. The grand hallways were suddenly choked with their belongings. In the kitchen, my mother was bustling around the stove. The softness in her eyes was a tenderness I had never, not once, been on the receiving end of. She kept murmuring, “Take it slow, Wesley honey. Rest if you’re tired. Let Mom handle this. You never got to be pampered growing up, and it breaks my heart.” Corinne was lounging on the velvet sofa. She caught sight of me lingering near the foyer out of the corner of her eye. “Why are you just standing there?” she asked, her tone entirely too casual. “Come sit.” I didn’t move. In the house I had called home for twenty-six years, I had instantly been reduced to an awkward, unwanted houseguest. Dinner was a sprawling feast of every single dish Wesley loved. My mother constantly reached across the table to pile food onto Wesley’s plate, then affectionately ruffled Mia’s hair. “Eat up, sweetie. Your daddy never got to taste anything this good when he was little.” Every word felt like a deliberate, pointed needle aimed straight at my throat. Mia poked at her mashed potatoes, then suddenly looked up at me with wide, innocent eyes. “Uncle Troy, why aren’t you eating? Do you not like us?” The clinking of silverware stopped. The silence at the dining table was deafening. Every pair of eyes locked onto me. Wesley set his fork down, playing the role of the benevolent peacemaker. “Mia, don’t say that. Uncle Troy just isn’t feeling hungry.” Before I could force a single syllable out, my mother erupted. “Troy, I honestly thought you had finally grown up today. That’s why I let them move in. But I see exactly what you’re doing. Sitting there with a sour look on your face—who is that supposed to punish?” She slammed her palm on the table. “I am begging you, stop causing drama. Just for once. Can you do that?” My knuckles turned stark white around my fork. A sharp, suffocating pain seized my chest. I shook my head frantically, trying to speak, but the next second, a violent coughing fit overtook me. My father sighed heavily, looking at me with exhausted disapproval. “Troy, if you don’t like the food, your mother can make you something else.” I forced the corners of my mouth up into a grotesque facsimile of a smile, scooped a spoonful of dry rice into my mouth, and chewed. It tasted like sawdust. “No. It’s fine.” Across the table, Corinne watched me. For a fraction of a second, a flicker of genuine distress crossed her eyes. Dinner ended in a suffocating quiet. I realized, with absolute certainty, that I didn’t belong here anymore. I retreated to my bedroom, locking the door before I allowed the mask of indifference to slip. Sliding down the heavy oak door until I hit the floor, I pulled my knees to my chest and wept, the physical pain in my chest radiating outward in vicious, pulsing waves. My phone buzzed. A text from my oncologist. [Mr. Winchester, have you thought this through? Without chemotherapy, your time is incredibly short. If you agree to treatment, we can buy you at least another six months.] I stared at the glowing letters for a long time. My thumb hovered over the keyboard before I typed: [Thank you, Doctor. But I’m leaving the city.] A soft knock rapped against the wood. I scrubbed my face dry and opened the door. It was Corinne. She stood there holding a small porcelain plate of lemon ricotta ravioli. Her voice was uncharacteristically soft. “You barely touched your dinner. I made your favorite.” I didn’t reach for the plate. My voice was utterly flat. “I don’t like it anymore.” I went to shut the door, but she stuck her arm out, catching my wrist. The sudden movement knocked my phone from my hand. It clattered to the floor, the screen still bright. She glanced down, her eyes catching the text. Her pupils contracted violently. “You’re leaving?” I snatched the phone off the rug. She had only seen the second half of the message. She looked at me, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Is it because of me?” I took a half-step back, putting emotional and physical distance between us. “No. I just want a change of scenery.” She opened her mouth to argue, but I shut the door in her face. 3 The next morning, I began packing away my life. I found an old cedar box in the back of my closet. Inside was a stack of polaroids of Corinne and me, and the silver pendant she had given me the day she confessed her love. It was a tiny, elegantly engraved letter P for Prologue. Back then, her eyes had held nothing but me. Back then, my parents had actually loved me. A sour, burning sensation clawed at my throat. I dumped the contents of the box into a black trash bag. It was time to throw it all away. Stepping out into the hallway, I nearly tripped over Mia. She was sitting on the carpet, building a tower out of wooden blocks. She looked up, tilting her head. “Uncle Troy, what are you throwing away?” I crouched down and gently ruffled her hair. The contrast between my icy fingertips and her warm skin gave me a jarring sense of vertigo. “Nothing important. Just useless junk.” She blinked, staring intently at my hollow, pale cheeks. “Uncle Troy, do you hate me and Mommy?” Looking at a face that was a miniature replica of the woman who broke me, my heart inevitably softened. “No, Mia. You’re wonderful.” “Then why do you always look so sad?” She grabbed my cold hand, her little brow furrowed in genuine distress. “Mommy told me you used to be a Prince. She said Princes are supposed to be happy all the time. Grandma said you were the most spoiled boy in the world, that you had everything, and that you were the luckiest person ever.” Prince. It had been so long since anyone used that word with anything other than venom. Now, it was just a grotesque mockery. Everyone thinks you lived a charmed life, Troy. Nobody wanted to see the blood on the crown. My eyes stung with hot tears. I turned my head away, not wanting the child to see me cry. At that exact moment, Corinne and Wesley walked up the stairs. Seeing me kneeling close to Mia, a flash of surprise crossed Corinne’s face. But Wesley panicked. He rushed forward, likely terrified I was poisoning the kid against him. He snatched Mia up into his arms, his voice dripping with exaggerated concern. “Mia, don’t bother your uncle. He has a delicate constitution. We shouldn’t tire him out.” He leaned into the words delicate constitution, weaponizing them to remind Corinne of the narrative they had built—that I was just playing the frail, dramatic victim for attention. Mia looked over Wesley’s shoulder at me, her little voice trembling with pity. “Mommy, Uncle Troy is crying. His hands are freezing.” Corinne’s gaze snapped to my face. Seeing my red-rimmed eyes, she froze. Without asking, she reached out and snatched the trash bag from my grip. The polaroids and the silver P pendant spilled out near the rim. A chaotic storm of emotions swirled in her dark eyes. “You’re throwing these away?” she asked, her voice cracking. “Yeah.” I nodded, my voice dead. “There’s no point keeping them.” Her fingers tightened around the plastic until her knuckles went white. She looked furious, but also utterly gutted. “Troy, how can you bear to just toss it all?” I raised an eyebrow, letting the exhaustion and mockery bleed into my eyes. “Corinne, the past is the past. I have to move on with my own life. Why wouldn’t I bear it?” “Your life?” she laughed, a brittle, ugly sound. “Is this what your life is now? Rotting away in self-pity? Do you have any idea how pathetic you look right now? How much you worry me?” Wasn’t she the architect of this exact rot? I didn’t argue. I just looked at her, letting the last flickering embers of the boy who loved her die out completely in my eyes. Wesley tugged at Corinne’s sleeve, his voice a masterclass in gentle manipulation. “Cor, leave him be. Troy has been handed everything on a silver platter his whole life. It’s perfectly normal that he’s throwing a tantrum now that he has to share the house.” He offered me a martyr’s smile. “I don’t mind, Troy. As long as I finally have my real family, I can endure anything.” I didn’t have the energy to fight a ghost. I turned and walked toward the stairs. Corinne suddenly chased after me. She grabbed my wrist and shoved me against the hallway wall, her eyes blazing with a desperate guilt. “Troy, why are you letting yourself turn into this walking corpse?!” I shoved her back. My strength was humiliatingly weak. “Corinne, what I do with my life has absolutely nothing to do with you anymore.” The moment the words left my mouth, something wet and warm slid down my upper lip. Blood. It poured from my nose, thick and unyielding. Corinne gasped, her anger instantly morphing into raw panic. “Are you sick?!” I violently shook my head, scrubbing the blood away with my sleeve to hide the volume. “No. Just taking too many iron supplements. Stress.” She opened her mouth, but before she could press further, Wesley sprinted out of Mia’s room, his voice shrill with manufactured terror. “Cor! Come quick! Mia is having an allergic reaction! I don’t know what to do!” Corinne looked torn, glancing from my bloody face to Wesley, before maternal instinct won out. She sprinted back into the bedroom. Once she was out of sight, I slumped against the wallpaper and pressed my hand over my mouth, coughing violently. When I pulled my hand away, my palm was painted a blinding, horrific crimson. After I dumped the trash bag in the outside bins, I drove myself to the hospital to get a refill on my heavy painkillers. My doctor sat across from me, his eyes pleading. “Mr. Winchester, please reconsider the chemo.” I offered him a weary smile. “Chemo buys me six months of agonizing pain. I’ve spent the last five years living through pure hell. When I die, I just want it to be easy.” He stared at me, helpless, and finally stopped arguing. I ended up staying overnight in a hospital bed, too exhausted to drive back. When I finally returned to the estate the next morning, the atmosphere in the living room was toxic. My parents, Wesley, and Corinne were sitting on the sofas, their faces set in stone. “Troy. How could you do something so vile?” my mother screamed, her eyes bloodshot. Did they find out about the cancer? Did they know I declined treatment? I walked forward, genuine confusion masking my face. “What happened?” Corinne stood up, her face a mask of absolute freezing fury. “Mia nearly died yesterday from a peanut allergy.” She took a step toward me. “You know perfectly well that Wesley is deathly allergic to peanuts. And you deliberately put peanut butter in the snacks in the pantry.” I looked over at Wesley. He refused to meet my eyes, staring intently at the rug. I was genuinely stunned by the depths of his depravity. To frame me, he was willing to risk his own daughter’s life. “I never touched any peanut butter.” My dry, factual denial was the match in the powder barrel. My mother lunged forward and slapped me across the face with everything she had. The sharp crack echoed off the vaulted ceilings. The force of the blow sent my weakened, emaciated body crashing to the hardwood floor. My vision swam with black spots, and I had to clench my jaw to swallow down the coppery taste of blood rising in my throat. My father instinctively stepped forward to help me up, but my mother yanked him back. “Don’t touch him! We spoiled him rotten. He’s malicious enough to try and kill a child, but too much of a coward to own up to it!” Tears hot and fast splattered against the varnished wood beneath me as my mother delivered the final, fatal blow. “If I had known this was the monster you’d become, I would have left you at the orphanage where you belonged.” She stormed out of the room. My father hesitated, then chased after her. I lay there for a long time. Eventually, Wesley crouched down beside me, his voice a sickening purr of fake empathy. “Troy, Mia is still unconscious. But it’s okay. I know you didn’t mean to hurt her.” Corinne scooped Wesley up by the arm, her voice softening as she looked at his fake, red-rimmed eyes. “Wesley, you stayed awake at her bedside all night. Go upstairs and get some sleep.” After they disappeared up the stairs, I dragged my broken body off the floor. My hands shook violently as I pulled a bottle of painkillers from my coat pocket and swallowed two dry. “What pills are those?” Corinne’s voice echoed from the top of the landing. She had come back down. I didn’t answer. She rushed down the stairs, grabbing my wrist. Her fingers wrapped entirely around it. A look of profound shock washed over her features. “Troy… how did you get so thin?” She quickly swallowed down the instinctual concern, replacing it with righteous anger. “Mia is an innocent child. No matter how much you hate me, how much you blame me for leaving you—take it out on me. Not her.” I’m innocent too, I thought. Why doesn’t anyone see that? “I don’t hate you,” I whispered to the empty air between us. “And I would never hurt a child.” I pulled my arm free, walked up to my room, packed a single duffel bag, and prepared to leave the only home I had ever known forever. 4 When I opened the front door, my mother was standing on the porch, her eyes puffy from crying. Seeing the duffel bag slung over my bony shoulder, she froze. “Where do you think you’re going?” she demanded, instinctively defensive. Then, doubling down on her pride, she yelled, “Fine! Leave! And don’t bother coming back until you’re ready to get on your knees and apologize!” I left the estate and checked myself into the cheapest hospital ward I could find. The money I had in my personal account was barely enough to cover a one-month stay. Day by day, the calendar pages turned. My hair began to fall out in clumps on the cheap pillowcases. I dragged myself through every public park in the city, just watching people live. One afternoon, my phone rang. It was Corinne. “Troy,” her voice sounded strained. “Are you doing okay out there? Your parents are worried sick. Just come home. Tomorrow is your birthday. Let’s celebrate it together as a family.” I caught my reflection in the dark window of my hospital room. I was a skeleton wrapped in translucent skin. “Just take good care of them,” I replied, my voice steady and hollow. “I’m not coming back.” That night, the moment I laid down, a blinding, excruciating pain erupted from deep within my bones. I blindly reached out to the bedside table to grab the bottle of painkillers. But my fingers had lost all their strength. The plastic bottle slipped from my grasp, hitting the linoleum floor with a loud clatter. White pills scattered everywhere like snow. A thick, metallic sweetness surged up my windpipe. I clamped both hands over my mouth, but the blood was unstoppable. It leaked through my fingers, splashing onto the stark white hospital sheets in blooming, violent red roses. At least I don’t have to celebrate another birthday, I thought. My vision began to pixelate, fading to gray, then to black, until the very last trace of breath quietly slipped from my lungs.

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My boyfriend was having vigorous sex with my best friend on the bed. I hid under the bed, secretly recording everything. Suddenly, my friend’s moans turned into screams. The bed began shaking violently, and blood poured onto the floor like a waterfall. Then, her bloody head rolled down, her wide-open eyes staring straight at me. I was scared out of my wits. “What’s happening? My boyfriend just killed someone?” I came here today to catch them cheating. I never expected to witness a murder scene. On the bed, my boyfriend was laughing eerily. The sound of the knife stabbing into flesh was still clearly audible. I covered my mouth forcefully, making myself stay silent. Tears streamed down my face. “Why would he kill someone?” A few minutes later, my boyfriend Xander stopped moving. He seemed tired from all the stabbing. He lay on the blood-soaked bed and lit a cigarette. Just then, my phone’s SnapChat notification suddenly went off. My heart sank. I clutched my phone desperately. But he seemed to hear the vibration. “Hmm?” He made a puzzled sound. I felt the bed move. He seemed to be lifting the covers, searching for the source of the sound. I almost cried out. I frantically switched my phone to silent mode. The second I pressed silent, Xander’s call came through. “Ring… ring…” The hollow ringtone lasted about a minute. When I didn’t answer, he hung up and sent me a voice message on SnapChat. “Babe, are you asleep? I’m working late tonight, so I won’t come home to sleep.” After that, I saw his feet slip into slippers and step onto the floor. The floor was covered with my friend’s blood. As Xander walked, he left a trail of bloody footprints. He seemed to be searching for something in the room. Suddenly, he coughed violently twice. I flinched, so tense I forgot to breathe. My friend Lily’s bloody head was right in front of me, staring at me. Blood was still spurting from her severed neck, her face frozen in shock and terror. Xander walked around naked in circles, but didn’t seem to find anything. He went to the kitchen, got a cleaver, and walked back to the bed. His large feet were right in front of me. Then he began dismembering the body, chopping down with the knife like he was cutting vegetables. By accident, he kicked Lily’s head. The bloody head rolled under the bed, almost face to face with me. I covered my mouth tightly, trembling all over. The overwhelming smell of blood made me want to vomit. But somehow I found the courage to push her head outward. Just as Xander was walking forward, he kicked Lily’s head like a soccer ball, sending it flying. Xander froze and stopped what he was doing. The cleaver in his hand kept dripping blood. I prayed silently in my mind: “Don’t look under the bed. Don’t look under the bed.” Xander stood still for a few seconds, then walked forward to pick up the head. I breathed a sigh of relief. It seemed he hadn’t discovered me yet. My brain raced, thinking about how to escape. My friend’s apartment was on the tenth floor. Jumping out the window definitely wasn’t an option. It seemed I could only escape after Xander finished disposing of the body and left. But could I last that long? Blood kept spreading under the bed. I twisted my body and moved further in to avoid the blood that was about to reach my mouth. Xander returned to the bed and chopped for a while. Suddenly, Lily’s hand fell to the floor. My heart almost stopped. If he bent down to pick it up, he would definitely see me. Xander hesitated, then slowly bent down to reach for the hand. I closed my eyes in fear, covering my mouth to keep myself from screaming, praying to heaven for a miracle. The next second, there was a knock at the door.

Xander’s movements froze instantly. He stayed in that bent position for a long time without moving. “Knock, knock, knock.” The knocking came again, followed by loud shouting from outside: “I’m back. Open the door!” I recognized that voice. It was Lily’s boyfriend, Harrison. Xander hesitated for a moment, coughed twice, then straightened up and moved toward the door. He put on clean clothes, held the knife behind his back, and stopped at the door. My heart twisted into a knot. If Harrison came in and fought with Xander, maybe I could escape in the chaos. Thinking this, I moved my body closer to the edge of the bed, ready to run at any moment. Xander hesitated for a while, then opened the door. “Why isn’t it done yet?” Harrison sounded slightly angry. My heart sank. Harrison actually knew about their affair. From the looks of it, the two of them had already planned this together. Xander smoked his cigarette without saying anything. Only then did Harrison notice the blood on Xander’s body and the nauseating smell of blood in the air. His face turned pale. “What did you do?” Xander smiled eerily. “Isn’t it obvious?” “You killed her?” Harrison was stunned. He rushed forward and grabbed Xander by the collar. “You said we were just playing around. Why did you kill her?” “I thought you didn’t care whether she lived or died.” Xander looked completely calm, as if killing someone was a perfectly ordinary thing for him. Harrison collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath. Xander’s eyes were cold, but his lips curved into a smile. “Help me dispose of her. If the police find out, you won’t escape either.” Harrison got angry too and shouted: “Bullshit! You’re the one who killed her. I don’t know anything. Don’t drag me into this.” Xander suddenly attacked, grabbed him by the collar, and put the knife to his throat. “Let me rephrase that. Help me dispose of her, or I’ll kill you right now.” Harrison finally got scared. His lips trembled and he couldn’t speak. He just nodded forcefully. Xander let go of him and tilted his head slightly, signaling him to start. Harrison walked trembling to the bed. Even though he was mentally prepared, when he saw the horrible state of Lily’s body, he still threw up. “Useless.” Xander watched him coldly, picked up two thighs, and turned to go into the kitchen. I crouched under the bed, watching Harrison chop up the body while vomiting. Suddenly, one of Lily’s severed limbs fell to the floor. Harrison bent down and suddenly froze. He saw me hiding under the bed. My eyes trembled. I held up one finger and made a shushing gesture. Harrison instinctively looked toward the kitchen without saying anything. His mouth moved slightly. I could read what he said. “Run. Call the police.” I shuddered and nodded heavily. Xander was still chopping forcefully in the kitchen, completely unaware of what was happening on my side. I slowly crawled out from under the bed and walked barefoot across the blood-covered floor. I moved slowly toward the door. The bed was only a few dozen steps from the door, but to me now, it felt like crossing an endless distance. As I walked, I kept my eyes on the kitchen, afraid Xander would suddenly turn around and see me. Perhaps because the sound of Xander chopping was too loud, and Harrison deliberately made noise, I successfully escaped out the door. In the hallway, a cold wind blew past, making me shiver. Only then did I realize my clothes were completely soaked with sweat. I could wring water out of them. I wanted to run, but my legs went weak and I collapsed to the floor. I don’t know if it was my imagination, but I felt the doorknob behind me move slightly. The intense desire to survive triggered my greatest strength. I crawled and scrambled upstairs. Lily and I lived in the same building. She was on the tenth floor, I was on the eighteenth. When I bought my apartment, Lily advised me not to buy the eighteenth floor because it was unlucky. But I wasn’t superstitious. The eighteenth floor was also very cheap, so I bought it anyway. I ran from the eleventh floor to the eighteenth floor in one breath. When I reached my door, I fumbled to unlock the smart lock, rushed inside, and finally felt a bit safer. I slapped myself hard to confirm that everything I just saw wasn’t a nightmare. In my memory, Xander was a gentle-natured man, a standard good guy who would rather suffer himself than let others suffer. I really couldn’t connect him with a psychotic murderer. And from his behavior, this was very likely not the first person he’d killed.

A few days ago, I noticed something was wrong with him. I found a strand of pink hair on his clothes. This hair color was rare, and Lily had just dyed her hair this color recently. At first, I didn’t want to believe it. Xander loved me very much. The only times I’d seen him angry were all because of me. Although Lily was promiscuous and had bad character, Xander’s quiet, taciturn type wasn’t her taste. I really didn’t want to believe the two of them would get together. But soon, reality dealt me a harsh blow. While Xander was sleeping, I secretly checked his phone. At first, I didn’t find anything wrong, but soon I discovered his phone had a second space. In that space, not only was it full of pornographic apps and images, there was also an account specifically for contacting Lily. Those images were extremely horrifying and graphic. They were all pictures of girls being violently abused, covered in injuries. There were even some severed limbs and bodies cut in half. All those girls had blonde hair. I also had blonde hair. I never imagined that beneath his gentle exterior, his sexual preferences were so disgusting. Besides that, there were chat records with Lily. “Honey, come to my place tomorrow. I’ll be waiting.” “Don’t worry. I can give you an experience Harrison can’t.” Below that was a nude photo. Xander had replied with a suggestive emoji. I was furious and tears streamed down my face. I really never thought my best friend would seduce my boyfriend. So today I deliberately got off work early and hid under the bed to catch them in the act. But I never expected Xander would directly kill Lily. Why did he kill Lily? Lily’s boyfriend clearly knew about their relationship. Why didn’t he stop it? My mind was in complete chaos. I helplessly pulled at my hair. After the brief moment of shock, I suddenly came to my senses. The urgent matter was to call the police, otherwise Harrison would be in danger too. I picked up my phone with trembling hands. The phone case was already stained red with blood. “Hello? How can I help you?” The call connected. A gentle female voice came from the other end. I was overjoyed and was about to speak. Almost at the same time, the smart lock at the door made an unlocking sound. “Beep. Fingerprint verified. Unlocked!” I instantly froze in place, my face full of terror. “Hello?” I hung up immediately. Xander was already standing in front of me. “Babe, you’re still awake? Who were you just calling?” “No one. Nothing.” My face was pale and I trembled all over. He had already changed into clean clothes. Still that refined face, looking at me gently. He was completely different from the person at the murder scene. “Babe, why is there blood on you?” Only then did he notice the blood on my clothes. He looked slightly surprised. I bit my teeth hard to keep myself from crying out. “I fell off my bike.” He stared at me with a complex expression. “So you were the one who escaped just now.” I felt like I’d been struck by lightning. My body went weak and I almost collapsed to the floor. Xander stepped forward and caught me. “Sorry, babe. I scared you.” His face turned slightly red. He actually showed a guilty expression like a child. “Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you.” I struggled free forcefully and stepped back several paces. “Why did you kill someone?” He looked at me calmly. “Babe, as your best friend, she actually took the initiative to seduce me. Doesn’t she deserve to die?” I was stunned. “Just because of that? You killed her?” He nodded and tried to put his arm around my shoulder again, but I dodged away. He had to give up. “As your best friend, she hurt you like this. I couldn’t tolerate it. She had to die.” I stared at him. This face was so familiar, yet so strange. His reason was really absurd and laughable. “Hypocrite. Then why did you still sleep with her?” He stopped talking and just lowered his head. “I’m sorry, babe. But you have to believe me. I really did this for your own good.” I suddenly thought of something and stared at him wide-eyed. “What about Harrison?” “Dead.” “No. I have to call the police.” I looked panicked. I grabbed my phone to call the police, but Xander snatched it away. A flash of ferocity crossed his eyes. I trembled all over and stepped back two paces, afraid he would go crazy and kill me too. Fortunately, that murderous look only flashed for a moment. He gripped both my shoulders with his hands and looked at me sincerely. “Babe, just pretend you didn’t see anything today. I’ll handle everything.” “Can we just keep living like we did before?” I trembled and nodded. No matter what, I could only pretend to be obedient now if I wanted any hope of escape. Seeing that I’d forgiven him, Xander looked very happy. He coughed twice, hugged me tightly, then took out a necklace from his pocket and put it around my neck. “Babe, tomorrow is our wedding anniversary. This is my gift to you. I was going to give it to you tomorrow.” He smiled at me. I looked down and touched the necklace, trembling slightly. “Babe, I won’t let anyone who wants to hurt you get away with it.” I didn’t speak. Instead, I glanced at the kettle nearby. He let go of me with a gentle expression on his face. “Look at you, covered in that animal’s blood. Go wash up.” I murmured softly in agreement. When he wasn’t paying attention, I grabbed the kettle from the table and smashed it against his head. He let out a muffled groan and stumbled back two steps. Blood immediately flowed from his head, his eyes full of surprise. I didn’t look back. I opened the door and ran as fast as I could. Xander sighed and wiped the blood from his head. “Why? Why won’t you just listen?”

After escaping out the door, I knew I couldn’t run far before Xander caught me. Then I might truly be in mortal danger. I ran to the seventeenth floor and knocked on the door of apartment 1703. An university professor lived in 1703. His last name was Foster. I didn’t know his first name. I always called him Professor Foster. This man had only recently moved in. He was in his thirties with a refined temperament. I had a good impression of him. “Professor Foster! Professor Foster! Are you home? Xander is trying to kill me!” I pounded on the door forcefully, shouting in terror. Footsteps came from the stairwell. I knew Xander had caught up. There was still no movement from inside the room. I began crying softly in fear. “Babe, come home with me. This is your last chance.” Xander’s grim face emerged from the darkness like a demon crawling out of hell, approaching me step by step. Just when I was about to despair, the door opened. A pair of hands pulled me into the room and slammed the door shut. The tension of surviving a disaster made my chest feel tight. A pair of hands wrapped around my shoulders. With Professor Foster’s comfort, I slowly calmed down. As if I’d found support, I hugged him tightly and cried out loud. Professor Foster’s body clearly stiffened. I could feel his breathing quicken. After a moment of hesitation, he hugged me back. After crying for about five minutes, I gradually calmed down and let go of him somewhat embarrassedly. “I’m sorry, Professor Foster. I…” Professor Foster adjusted his glasses and interrupted my apology. When he saw the blood on my clothes, he was clearly stunned for a moment, but quickly returned to normal. “Miss Emma, what happened? Did you fight with Xander?” I looked terrified and shook my head. “Xander is a murderer. He killed my best friend and her boyfriend. I think he wants to kill me now.” Professor Foster listened in stunned amazement and thought for a moment. “You’re not joking?” “I’m not joking. It’s true. I saw it with my own eyes.” I frantically searched my pockets, wanting to call the police. Only then did I realize my phone was still in Xander’s hands. “Professor Foster, call the police quickly. If he gets in here, it’ll be over.” Professor Foster nodded, stood up, and dialed 911, telling the police about the current situation. After hanging up, he leaned against the table and stared at me with a strange expression. I was about to say something when violent knocking came from outside the door. “Babe, stop this. Come home with me.” Xander’s voice came from outside. “Xander, I’ve already called the police. Go turn yourself in.” I replied trembling. Xander was silent for a moment, then pounded on the door forcefully. With the sound of gradually receding footsteps, he seemed to have left. I breathed a sigh of relief and nearly collapsed onto the sofa. Professor Foster was still staring at me. That look was very strange, full of suspicion and doubt. “Emma, calm down. What exactly happened?” I told Professor Foster everything that happened today in detail. His expression shifted between light and dark, gradually becoming serious. “Emma, do you know about the West District Predator?” I froze for a moment. My eyes changed slightly. I slowly nodded. “The West District Predator is a serial rapist and murderer who brutally raped and killed five women over six years.” “This person has extremely strong anti-investigation awareness. I once had the privilege of participating in a special team tracking him… I know a lot of inside information.” After speaking, he lowered his head. “Without exception, all the girls the West District Predator targeted had blonde hair. This killer seems to have a special preference for blonde girls.” “And you happen to have blonde hair too. Plus those photos you found on Xander’s phone…” An unusual light flashed in Professor Foster’s eyes. “I’m certain that Xander is the West District Predator who committed those serial rape and murder cases!” I was stunned. For a moment, I couldn’t believe it. I’d been married to Xander for four years. During those four years, he’d always treated me well and never lost his temper with me. Could it be that I’d been his kept prey all along? No wonder he was so practiced when killing Lily. I sat on the floor, painfully pulling at my hair. If I hadn’t discovered this today, in a while I would have ended up like those other girls. Professor Foster sighed and patted my shoulder. “Don’t be afraid. You’re still safe for now. I’ve called the police. They’ll be here soon.” I looked at him blankly and nodded. Professor Foster boiled water and made me a cup of tea. The tea was exceptionally fragrant and refreshing. It also eased my fearful and anxious heart a little. “Professor Foster, thank you.” I looked at him and smiled gently. He seemed a bit shy. He coughed lightly, his cheeks turning slightly red. “It’s nothing. I couldn’t just leave you to die.” After drinking the tea, I checked the time. It had been almost an hour since we called the police. Why hadn’t the police arrived yet? Professor Foster saw my confusion and comforted me: “Don’t worry. The police should be here soon.” He stood up with a slight smile. “You’ve been through so much. You must be exhausted. Get some sleep first.” I hesitated, but I was indeed mentally exhausted, so I agreed. He walked to the closet to get me a blanket. How strange. He clearly lived alone, so why did he have a pink blanket? Fatigue washed over me. I yawned deeply, and my eyelids began to droop. Suddenly there was a loud noise. I was startled and looked in that direction. It turned out Professor Foster had accidentally knocked over a box while getting the blanket. I walked over, wanting to help him pick it up. “No need. I’ll do it myself.” Professor Foster’s voice rose two octaves. He bent down to try to stop me. But I had already opened the box. My eyes widened instantly.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “398145”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster

I chose to stay with Virginia for the sake of our daughter. I told myself a complete home was worth the sacrifice of my dignity. The first time she was caught in a hotel raid with eight hired escorts, I didn’t file for divorce. Instead, I gave her an ultimatum: she had to go to the clinic every single day for a full battery of STI screenings. She was in the wrong, and she knew it. For a while, she was compliant, quietly enduring the humiliation of the exams and the endless blood draws. But a month later, she was caught again. Same scenario, different room. I was shaking, my vision blurring with a red haze of fury as I confronted her. “How many times, Virginia? How many times have you done this behind my back? Do you even care about me? Do you care about our daughter?” She didn’t cry. She didn’t apologize. She slapped me, the crack of her hand against my cheek echoing in our pristine living room. “I’m sick of this!” she screamed. “The daily checkups, the ‘precautions’—you’re just giving me a hall pass to sleep around as long as I’m clean, aren’t you? You think you’re so much better than me? I didn’t judge you for your past, for all the people you’ve been with!” “What are you talking about?” I rasped. “And here’s the kicker,” she sneered, her eyes gleaming with malice. “Annie isn’t even yours. You really thought you were a father just because she calls you ‘Daddy’?” Looking at the pure hatred in her gaze, I was speechless. I had stayed for the child. Now, for that same child’s sake, I had to find a way to leave. … In the background of the police station, a rival of Virginia’s who had also been picked up in the raid started laughing. “You two are a perfect match,” she cackled. “Both of you are trash. Why bother acting holier-than-thou? Your wife is getting poked by needles every day, and you? Well, I heard your history is even longer than the guys she’s paying.” Virginia lunged at her, landing a heavy blow. “Shut up! Just shut the hell up!” I stood there, paralyzed, as tears tracked down my face. My mind drifted back to three years ago. Six months into our marriage, I was kidnapped by Virginia’s business rivals. They kept me for three days and nights—beating me, humiliating me—and they filmed it all. By the time Virginia arrived, the videos had already been leaked online. I wanted to die. I was a shell of a man, haunted by the shadows of that basement. But Virginia stayed. She stayed by my side twenty-four hours a day. She found a thousand little ways to make me smile again. “Toby,” she had whispered, holding me while I shook. “It’s over. I’m here. No one will ever hurt you again. I promise.” Two months later, she found out she was three months pregnant. She wept with joy, calling the baby a “miracle from God” to help us heal. “This baby fought so hard to reach you,” she told me. “Don’t let her down, okay?” I poured myself into being a father. I took the classes, I read the books. I accepted everything. Even during her difficult pregnancy, Virginia was my rock. We had a girl. We named her Annie—a name that meant grace, a promise of peace. For three years, I thought we were building a life. But reality was a jagged blade. The day she was caught, I had been in the suite next door, setting up Annie’s third birthday party. When the police kicked in the door, I didn’t see a party. I saw a mountain of discarded clothes and nine people tangled together on a king-sized bed. “My husband probably had more people than this at once,” I heard her say, her voice slurred with expensive bourbon. “I bet he felt like he was flying.” When she sobered up and saw me, she broke down. She claimed she had been set up by a competitor. She reminded me of the time she had defended me against the world. “I married a man, not a concept of purity!” she had yelled back then. “Anyone who says a word against my husband is dead to me!” Three years. That was all it took for the “savior” to become the tormentor. A scream brought me back to the present. Virginia was still swinging, her knuckles bloody. “You don’t get to talk about my husband!” She turned to me, the feral light in her eyes softening instantly. She stepped in front of me, shielding me from the chaos. “I’m sorry, Toby. I’ve been under so much pressure lately. Let’s just… let’s go home and talk.” I looked at her, my heart a cold, dead weight. “I’ll have my lawyer send over the divorce papers. Let’s just end this quickly.” Her brow furrowed, blood droplets from her scuffle making her look like a monster. “You’re being this cold? It was just a slip of the tongue. Does everything I’ve done for you mean nothing now?” I didn’t answer. I turned to the officer at the desk. “I’m not posting her bail. Follow your usual procedure.” I walked out without looking back. Annie was waiting at home with the nanny. Her innocent eyes searched the room as I walked in. “Where’s Mommy?” I scooped her up, fighting the urge to sob. I was the one who woke up for the 2 AM feedings. I was the one who changed every diaper, who knew exactly how she liked her milk. I couldn’t wrap my head around the idea that she wasn’t mine. I loved her with a ferocity that transcended biology. Later that night, the sound of an engine cut through the silence. Virginia stumbled in, looking exhausted. Annie flew into her arms. Virginia’s face transformed instantly into a mask of maternal warmth, spinning the girl around until she giggled. After Annie was tucked in, Virginia sat at her laptop, dealing with the fallout of the raid. A glass of warm milk sat on her nightstand, just like always. “Go to sleep, Toby,” she said without looking up. “For Annie’s sake, you need to calm down.” I didn’t sleep. I stared at the ceiling, lost in a labyrinth of my own life. Three days later was the wedding of Chase, Virginia’s younger foster brother. Annie was supposed to be the flower girl. Chase and I had always been close; I didn’t want to take my anger at Virginia out on him. When we arrived, Chase scooped Annie up. “There’s my favorite girl! You ready for your big walk?” Annie beamed, kissing his cheek. “I love you, Uncle Chase!” The joy in the room felt like a physical assault on my chest. Could I really take Annie away from this family? Chase pulled me into a photo. “The VIP guest! I wouldn’t be here without you, man.” Years ago, he had been taken by the same kidnappers. I had negotiated his release by offering myself up as the primary target. For three years, he had treated me like a hero, bringing me gifts and checking in on me constantly. I forced a smile, trying to bury the pain. The ceremony went perfectly. I spent the reception filming Annie dancing. But when I turned around to grab a drink, she was gone. I searched the halls of the hotel, heading toward the quiet storage wing. I heard a phone ringing behind a heavy oak door—Virginia’s ringtone. I reached for the handle, but stopped when I heard the heavy, rhythmic sound of breathing. “Virginia, are you seriously going to watch me marry her? What about us? What about our eight years?” It was Chase’s voice. I froze, my hand hovering over the cold metal. Then came the sounds—the unmistakable sounds of a betrayal I hadn’t even imagined. After an eternity, Virginia’s voice drifted through the door, lazy and satisfied. “You’re part of the family, Chase. We could never be public. This is how it has to be.” “So I just have to watch you go home to him?” Chase sounded desperate. “Why? Why did you even let me call those guys to take him? You should have just let him disappear! Then you wouldn’t have to deal with a ‘used’ husband every day.” “Hush.” “Annie is our child, Virginia. Our daughter…” “Enough!” Virginia snapped. I heard the rustle of clothes. “I’ve indulged you enough. I’m sacrificing my reputation to keep you close. Don’t push it.” My knees gave out. I hit the door with a dull thud. Eight years. I had only known Virginia for seven. The nightmare that had haunted my sleep for three years—the kidnapping, the torture—had been orchestrated by the two people I trusted most. The door swung open. The air in the hallway felt like ice. Virginia reached out to steady me. “Toby? Are you okay? I was just helping Chase find some supplies…” I looked past her at Chase. His suit was disheveled, his satisfaction turning into a sneer as he realized I’d heard everything. “Is it fun?” I whispered. “Watching your husband get broken while you were in the next room?” Since the secret was out, Chase dropped the act. “While you were being pinned down by those guys, Toby, Virginia was in the next room with me. We were having the time of our lives.” He stepped closer, his voice dripping with venom. “We’ve been together every day since you got back. Virginia even got ‘caught’ in those raids just to throw you off the scent of us. She’d rather be seen as a slut than let you know she belongs to me.” My head throbbed. My stomach turned. Virginia glared at him, then tried to grab my arm. “Toby, he’s just talking. That was in the past. I’m done with him. I promise. Those kidnappers? They’ve been dealt with. Let’s just go home to Annie. We can go back to how things were.” “Don’t touch me,” I choked out, shoving her away. I collapsed against the wall, dry-heaving. Behind me, they started arguing, but their voices were white noise. Seven years. Seven years of a lie. During those three days of hell, I had pictured Virginia’s face to keep myself sane. I had survived for her. And she was in the next room? Was she worried about me? Or was she too busy with Chase? When I was sobbing in the delivery room, terrified for her and the baby, was she wondering what to name Chase’s child? How could someone be so perfect at playing both sides? To love me so loudly while destroying me so quietly? Annie ran up the hall, calling for me. I picked her up, my movements mechanical. I walked past Virginia without a word. “Annie,” I whispered. “From now on, it’s just you and Daddy.” “Don’t cry, Daddy,” she said, her tiny hands wiping my face. “Annie wants Daddy.” I stumbled out of the hotel. If neither of us was wanted here, I would take us both away. That night, Chase showed up at our house. He had changed out of his tuxedo into a casual shirt, left unbuttoned enough to show the fresh bite marks on his chest. The nausea returned. I sent Annie to her room immediately. “You’re being petty, Toby,” Chase said, mocking my pale face. “Annie is my flesh and blood. You can’t take her.” He leaned against the doorframe. “And just so you know, Virginia is pregnant again. Mine, obviously. My kids will inherit the whole estate. Because you? You can’t even have kids anymore. Those guys in the basement made sure of that, didn’t they?” The pride in his voice snapped something inside me. I swung a fist, connecting with his jaw. The impact sent a jolt of pain through my arm, leaving me unsteady. “Get out!” I screamed. He rubbed his jaw, laughing. “Truth hurts? You can hit me all you want, but Annie is mine.” Annie crept out of her room, clutching her teddy bear. “Uncle Chase, you aren’t my daddy.” I grabbed Chase by the collar, trying to drag him toward the door. He gripped the frame, his sneer widening. “If you really loved that kid, you wouldn’t have let her be born. She’s just a tool, Toby. Virginia used her to keep you in line. She doesn’t even like the kid. She told me every time she looks at Annie, she wants to gag because the girl reminds her of the life she has to live with you.” I froze. A sacrifice. I was just a sacrifice for Chase’s petty jealousy. “You want to know why she let me kidnap you?” Chase whispered. “Because you had a cold, and she stayed home to take care of you instead of meeting me. I was thirty minutes late for my fix, so I decided to break her favorite toy.” The world tilted. I was a toy. An ant for him to crush because he was bored. My heart hammered against my ribs. Chase traced a circle over my chest. “Virginia only loves me. She had the doctors ‘fix’ you while you were under for your recovery surgery so you’d never leave a ‘stain’ on her bloodline.” My pupils blown, I didn’t think. I reacted. I lunged, my hands finding his throat. I shook with a rage so violent I didn’t recognize myself. “You monster! How could you hurt Annie? Go to hell!” Annie started screaming. Chase, even while gasping for air, managed a twisted smile. “Look at you… a terrifying father…” I saw Annie’s face—the sheer terror in her eyes—and my grip loosened. At that moment, the front door slammed. Virginia was back. Seeing the scene, she didn’t ask questions. She lunged and shoved me aside with a strength born of panic. My head hit the corner of the marble foyer table. Everything went white. Blood began to warm the side of my face. Annie was hysterical, but Virginia didn’t look at her. She only had eyes for Chase. “Toby! If you ever touch him again, I swear to God, I’ll destroy you!” She helped Chase to the car. She didn’t look back at us once. I pulled a trembling Annie into my lap. “Daddy’s here. It’s okay…” “Daddy… does Mommy and Uncle Chase hate us?” My heart felt like it had been pierced by a thousand needles. She was three. She wasn’t supposed to understand the weight of hatred yet. “Daddy, I don’t want Mommy anymore.” She buried her face in my chest. I stayed with her until she fell asleep, my resolve hardening. I had to get her out. I pulled out the divorce papers I’d drafted and placed them on the nightstand. On top of them, I laid the silver protective charm Virginia had given me three years ago. She had told me it would keep my nightmares away. Today, I’d seen an identical one on Chase’s wrist. The luggage I was packing literally split at the seams as I tried to close it. It felt like a metaphor for our life—polished on the outside, rotting and bursting within. I sat by Annie’s bed, waiting for dawn so we could leave. But the front door burst open again. Virginia charged into the room, her eyes bloodshot with rage. Before I could stand, she kicked me squarely in the chest. I collapsed against the wall, gasping for air. Annie woke up, pulling the covers over her head, shivering. “Annie…” I wheezed, trying to reach for her. Virginia grabbed the girl by the arm, hauling her up like a doll. “You’re a father, Toby! Why can’t you be decent to Chase? Without him, you wouldn’t even have a kid! He came here to apologize and you nearly killed him! He’s in the hospital with a fever from the stress!” Annie was sobbing, screaming for her mother to let go. “Shut up!” Virginia roared. “You little brat. You’re Chase’s blood, and you’re still trying to run away with this loser?” I couldn’t believe my ears. Virginia had been cold lately, but she had never been cruel to Annie. Now, she was venting her vitriol on her own child. “Virginia! You’re insane! Let her go!” I lunged for her. She held Annie out over the second-floor railing. “Move another inch and I’ll drop her.” I froze. My heart stopped. “Don’t. Please. Virginia, I’ll do anything. Just put her down.” I fell to my knees, sobbing, begging. She watched me for a long moment, then a slow, twisted smile spread across her face. “Chase wants her to pay for what you did.” “What?” “Chase is in a bad way, Toby. He’s on a ventilator! I’m going to make sure you feel exactly what he’s feeling.” She dragged Annie into the master bathroom. She turned on the taps, filling the deep soaking tub. “Mommy, I’m sorry…” Annie pleaded. Virginia ignored her. She shoved Annie’s head under the water. Annie’s little hands thrashed against the surface. “Da—Daddy!” I grabbed Virginia’s arms, screaming, pulling with everything I had, but she was possessed by a manic strength. She wouldn’t budge. Annie’s muffled cries were getting weaker. I tried to reach for the drain, but Virginia threw me onto the tile. “Now you know how Chase feels!” she screamed. “Watch! Watch what happens because of you!” The floor was slick. I slipped, my head hitting the ceramic floor with a sickening crack. My vision went dark. I could only see Annie’s small arm go still. “No… give her back…” I reached out, my fingers brushing the cold air. Virginia didn’t stop. She dragged me back into the bedroom. “You want your kid? Fine. But since you think I’m so ‘dirty,’ let’s see how you handle it.” She ripped my shirt open. “You survived three days of it before. I bet you’re craving it.” She snapped her fingers. The door opened, and several men walked in. I recognized them. They were the men from the video. One of them set up a tripod with a phone. “You don’t like me? Then enjoy the gift I brought back for you.” I tried to scream, but only a raspy “ah” came out. The sound of belts unbuckling triggered a primal, paralyzing terror. Greasy hands touched my skin. I felt a violent spasm in my stomach. I tried to crawl away, but Virginia used a belt to pin my hands behind my back. “Don’t move, Toby. Or you’ll never see Annie again.” My body went limp. The fight left me. She patted my cheek, whispering in my ear. “Enjoy your present.” The door began to close. Memories flashed through my mind like a dying film reel. Our first kiss on the Ferris wheel. Our wedding day. Her voice begging me not to give up on life. I didn’t want it. None of it. I gritted my teeth and felt for the scissors I’d hidden under my pillow earlier while packing. A scream of pure terror erupted in the room. At that exact moment, Virginia’s phone rang. It was the hospital. She listened for five seconds before turning pale and sprinting back into the room.

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I’m a vampire. Recently, I’ve been frequenting a mansion to feed on a comatose man’s blood. Since he can’t speak, no one knows I’m drinking his blood. Three months passed. One day, as I was feeding from his neck, I heard a voice above my head say, “Could you stop targeting just one side?” 0 I’m a vampire. I don’t like drinking those pre-packaged blood bags. I prefer to drink hot, fresh blood straight from the human body. Hot, with that metallic taste—if you savor it carefully, there’s even a sweet aftertaste. Baby loves it. But getting caught drinking human blood has pretty serious consequences, so I set my sights on a comatose young man in a mansion. The coma patient’s name is Ethan Sinclair. He’s young, good-looking, and most importantly, he’s in a coma with no awareness. When I drink his blood, he won’t panic and scream, and he won’t throw garlic at me. Even better, occasionally I can suck out tiny blood clots. They’re chewy, bouncy, soft, and have a nice texture—like the pearls in bubble tea. Hehe. I just love holding this comatose young man late at night, burying my head in his neck and drinking contentedly. Though he’s comatose, his body is warm. A cold-blooded creature like me loves pressing my hands and feet against his warm body. So cozy. It’s not hard to see—I really like him. I often see his mother crying, saying if she dies someday, who will take care of him. I’d be clinging to the wall outside his window, raising my hand high, thinking: Me! I’ll take care of him! I’ll carry him back to my coffin and take care of him just like I take care of the young poplar trees beside my grave. Hehe. But I’m a vampire with a conscience. To prevent leaving marks from constantly biting Ethan Sinclair, every time I finish drinking his blood, I drip a drop of my blood on his wound. His wound heals instantly. Besides that, I also researched in the human knowledge database how to care for coma patients. The knowledge database says that to prevent bedsores in coma patients, you need to turn them frequently. So I hold Ethan Sinclair and flip him from left to right, then from right to left. The database says some coma patients can sense the outside world, they just can’t express it. So if conditions permit, you should frequently let them experience the beauty of the external world—things like sunlight, breeze, floral scents… Seeing the word “sunlight,” I experienced phantom pain for ten seconds. Also, I’m allergic to pollen. It’s pretty bizarre for a vampire—or rather, a Chinese jiangshi—to be allergic to pollen, but my existence itself is bizarre, so I don’t dwell on it too much. So I can only carry him on my back at night, jump out the window, and leap to the tallest tree in a quiet nature reserve. The night wind whooshes around us. I turn my head to Ethan Sinclair, draped over my shoulder, and say, “I treat you well, right? You have to repay me. From now on, only I can drink your blood. If other vampires try to drink your blood, you need to clench your anus really hard. That way your blood vessels will constrict, they’ll have a hard time sucking, and they won’t drink your blood.” “Okay?” Ethan Sinclair doesn’t respond. Me: “Then I’ll take that as a yes.” The knowledge database also says you need to frequently help coma patients exercise their bodies, or they’ll develop blood clots. Well, I can skip that one. With my abilities, I Grahamarantee I can suck them all out in one go. 0

The two caregivers looking after Ethan Sinclair wanted to resign. Mrs. Sinclair said, “Is it the salary? I can give you a raise!” Caregiver Mary clutched her head and said, “No, no, ma’am. Fifty thousand a month is already plenty. It’s just… it’s just that for some reason, every night we suddenly black out like someone knocked us unconscious, and when we wake up it’s already daytime!” Caregiver Linda trembled all over and said, “Yes, ma’am! We would never lie! Your family is so prominent, you should have someone come check the house! There might be… something unclean in the house!” After the two caregivers left, Mrs. Sinclair said to her assistant with a pale face, “Go find a capable priest or psychic.” “Yes, ma’am.” “And find eight more caregivers. Four for day shifts, four for night shifts.” “Yes, ma’am.” Back in my coffin, I rummaged through my wardrobe and pulled out a caregiver’s uniform. I took out a notebook and picked up a brush to write my resume. Lily Baker Age: 28 Education: Middle school dropout Work experience: Three months as a caregiver. Personality: Optimistic, kind, knows how to repay kindness, brave. The next day, I took my drafted resume and intercepted an elementary school student. I traded a gold hairpin for her help typing up my resume. The kid glanced at me, pulled her backpack to the front, took out pen and paper, wrote it up smoothly, tore off the page neatly and stuffed it into my hand, then patted my arm: “Do your best! Every trade produces its master!” Then she turned and left. I chased after her with the gold hairpin, but the kid held her head high and said, “A small favor, not worth mentioning!” Then she walked away coolly, without even leaving me a glance. 0

At the food stall where the assistant eats, I held the phone and sighed, “Sigh, after the young man at my last job woke up, his family let me go. I wanted to rest for a month before continuing work.” “Well, it’s because his ancestors accumulated merit that the coma patient woke up. It doesn’t have much to do with me.” “But I should thank them for letting me accumulate experience caring for coma patients.” “Mm, I bought a ticket home for the day after tomorrow.” The assistant sitting nearby listened with brightening eyes. When I mentioned buying tickets, the assistant patted my shoulder: “Miss, there’s a caregiving job with a monthly salary of eighty thousand dollars. Would you consider it?” —— That night, I followed the assistant and walked openly into the mansion. Because I told the assistant I’m allergic to sunlight, I could only work at night. After the assistant reported to Mrs. Sinclair, she said she’d take me back for a trial first. In the mansion’s spacious European-style living room, Mrs. Sinclair sat upright on the sofa looking at me, smiling: “So young and already working as a caregiver?” I nodded: “My family is poor. I dropped out of middle school and started working.” Mrs. Sinclair: “I saw your resume. You’re very suitable. Can you start today? Three-day trial period, and if you pass we’ll sign a long-term contract. We’ll also pay for insurance and benefits.” As I was debating whether to tell her I don’t need insurance and benefits, Mrs. Sinclair said, “Oh, don’t worry. Even if you don’t pass the trial, it’s still 4,000 dollars per day.” No need to complicate things. I agreed immediately: “Okay, thank you, ma’am!” On my first day, the other seven caregivers hadn’t been found yet. When I pushed open Ethan Sinclair’s bedroom door, large swaths of moonlight poured in through his floor-to-ceiling windows. The gentle moonlight bathed him, making him look like Sleeping Beauty from a fairy tale waiting for a prince’s kiss to wake him. Mrs. Sinclair stood by Ethan Sinclair’s bed, looking at her beloved son with tender expression: “Before my son got sick, he was a sunny, kind, good child. His father and I were too busy with business to take care of him, but he worked hard and got into the best medical school. Undergraduate, master’s, PhD, plus residency—a full thirteen years. He was so busy studying and working he didn’t even get a girlfriend.” Mrs. Sinclair turned to look at me. She was smiling: “Do you know what happened later that made my son end up like this?” I shook my head, though my intuition told me it must be a very tragic story. Mrs. Sinclair’s expression was calm: “A young woman who had suffered domestic abuse asked my son to perform an abortion procedure for her. The surgery was successful. When my son was explaining post-operative precautions to the family and returning to his office, he was pushed down the stairs by that woman’s husband.” Mrs. Sinclair said softly, “If there had been even the slightest error in the surgery, it would have been what my son deserved. But all the evaluations said there was nothing wrong with the procedure. After my son started working, he basically lived at the hospital, donating most of his salary to the hospital’s relief fund. He wore those Crocs year-round, just putting cotton covers over them in winter. I often told him there was no need to suffer like that—our family didn’t need that small doctor’s salary. But my son just smiled and said, ‘But I took an oath, Mom!’” The muscles in Mrs. Sinclair’s face trembled uncontrollably as she forcibly suppressed her emotions to keep from becoming hysterical: “My poor child, you pitied others, but who will pity you!” Mrs. Sinclair cried. A woman who could build such a successful business and care for her comatose son so well that he only looked asleep—how could she not know better than to share too much with a stranger? It was just that she was in too much pain. Her heart had been ripped out, and she could only ease her pain through telling her story. The assistant stepped forward, handed Mrs. Sinclair tissues, and gently patted her shoulder to comfort her. After a while, Mrs. Sinclair finally composed herself again and looked up. She held my hand and said earnestly, “I’m sorry, Lily, for making you witness that. I’m entrusting my son to you.” Me: “Don’t worry, ma’am. I’ll take good care of Ethan.” That night when I drank Ethan Sinclair’s blood, for the first time I tasted bitterness. This is one of my abilities—the blood of people with different emotions has different flavors to me. When happy, blood is sweet. When sad, blood is bitter. When angry, blood is spicy. When afraid, blood tastes like wasabi… This was also why I loved drinking Ethan Sinclair’s blood. Other people’s blood was either explosively spicy or unbearably wasabi-flavored. Rarely was there someone like Ethan Sinclair with such pure, original-flavored blood. Hot, with that metallic taste—if you savor it carefully, there’s even a sweet aftertaste. Baby loves it. Ethan Sinclair, who usually had no emotional fluctuations, why did he taste bitter today? I gently withdrew my fangs and said to Ethan Sinclair, “Ethan Sinclair, don’t be sad. I’ll take good care of you and help take care of your mother too.” I affectionately sniffed the wound on his neck: “Want me to kill that bad Grahamy for you?” “For us vampires, killing someone is just a matter of one bite.” Ethan Sinclair’s blood was still bitter. Me: “Are you determined to cosplay bitter coffee tonight?” My humor didn’t get the laugh it deserved. The bitterness flowing from Ethan Sinclair’s blood vessels just lightened a bit. I stuck out my tonGrahame and gently licked the wound on his neck: “Not bad. It tastes like bitter coffee with a spoonful of sugar added. Hehe, this Chinese jiangshi finally got to drink American coffee.” I slipped my hand around Ethan’s waist: “In a couple days, the cherry blossom grove by my grave will bloom. I’ll take you to see it, okay?” “Okay, thank you, baby.” I lowered my voice, imitating a man’s deep voice. I looked up at Ethan Sinclair’s profile, wondering what his voice sounded like. “Ethan Sinclair, is your voice as pleasant as your blood?” In the silent deep night, no one answered me. 0

I’m a vampire. I’ve been alive for a very, very long time. I’m not threatened by birth, aging, illness, or death. I’m not bound by morality or law. I have no pursuit of fame or fortune. I wander through the world for only one thing—a mouthful of fresh blood. A mouthful of delicious fresh blood. Tempted by a coma patient’s beauty and fresh blood, I came to his side and became his caregiver. The Sinclair family’s compensation for caregivers was very generous. By normal standards, I wouldn’t even pass the interview, but Mrs. Sinclair still kept me. Because Mrs. Sinclair said that from the first moment she saw me, she could feel I was special. I had a certain quality about me, as if I were a messenger sent by God. Mrs. Sinclair is a Christian. I wonder what Mrs. Sinclair would think if she knew I was a vampire. Would she feel that calling me Satan’s colleaGrahame would be more appropriate than God’s messenger? Anyway, in short, I signed a long-term contract with the Sinclair family. My ultimate goal was to hold Ethan Sinclair and live a carefree life. To establish a firm foothold, I could say I made up for lack of talent with hard work. During the day I studied nursing knowledge by lamplight, and at night I watched Ethan Sinclair without blinking, rushing over at the first sign he needed to relieve himself or needed hydration. I never delayed turning him or giving him massages. A month passed. The rumors about the Sinclair house being haunted gradually faded, but in the caregiver circles around the Sinclair family, they all cursed me as a scab. Susan, who worked the night shift with me, never let me see her pupils—she just rolled her eyes whenever she saw me. She’d been in this line of work for fifteen years, so naturally she was very experienced. After seeing that I just loved to work hard and never complained to Mrs. Sinclair about her sleeping on night shifts, snoring, stealing Ethan Sinclair’s high-end bedding and nutritional supplements… she was finally willing to look at me with her pupils. One night around 3 AM, she woke up on the chair choking on her own drool. When she saw me turning Ethan Sinclair, she rubbed her eyes, sat up and said, “No need to be so diligent. No one comes to check at night. You can sleep a bit. Look at your dark circles—you look like a vampire.” When I was still human, my skin was pale. After becoming non-human, my skin had no color at all, yet my lips were blood red. When I turned my head, I could rotate at a constant speed without limits, and my eyes could stay open without blinking. I looked at her eerily and smiled bleakly: “You found me out.” At 3 AM, Susan was indeed frightened. She gripped the chair and straightened up, her face deathly pale: “You…” “Hehe.” I laughed once, stopped scaring her, and turned back to exercise Ethan Sinclair’s legs: “My mom always says that about me too. Says I’m a vampire. If she hadn’t given birth to me, my three younger brothers could have drunk more milk, grown taller and stronger and smarter, and wouldn’t be like now—not one of them can find a wife. So I should earn more money for my brothers to help them get married.” I rambled off the top of my head, and Susan actually believed it. She let out a long breath, then came over and patted my shoulder: “Poor areas are like that… Anyway, sis was just teasing you earlier. Don’t take it to heart!” I nodded and smiled sincerely and cheerfully: “Don’t worry, Susan! I know you’re a good person!” “Oh my…” Susan, praised by me, seemed a bit flustered: “You go rest a bit. I’ll take care of Ethan.” Yeah right. In a while you’ll be sleeping on his bed and I’ll have to move you off. “It’s okay, Susan. I slept during the day. I’m not sleepy.” Susan’s butt didn’t even leave the chair: “Alright then! Sis won’t be polite with you! You sleep the day after tomorrow. I mainly have to watch my grandson tomorrow.” Of course, the day after tomorrow she still snored like there was a three-wheeled motorcycle in the room that wouldn’t start up in winter. The funny thing was it seemed to affect Ethan Sinclair’s sleep. He had faint dark circles under his eyes too, and his blood wasn’t as sweet when I drank it—it was slightly spicy. My taste is pretty mild. I don’t like spicy food. So the next night, Mrs. Sinclair, who had insomnia from drinking coffee, appeared at Ethan Sinclair’s door. Susan was fired on the spot.

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For twenty years, my husband and I lived the perfect, childfree life. Until the afternoon my doctor confirmed I had entered menopause, and he slid a photograph of a teenage boy across our marble kitchen island. “We don’t have kids,” Simon said, his tone meticulously casual, like he was suggesting a new restaurant for dinner. “What if we adopt?” I picked up the glossy print. The boy staring back at me had Simon’s exact jawline, the same arrogant tilt to his hazel eyes. It was like looking at a ghost of the man I had married. “Is this your bastard?” I asked, a cold, sharp laugh escaping my lips. I didn’t need him to answer; the truth was written all over the boy’s face. I leaned forward, my voice dropping to a whisper. “When you signed the prenup and moved into my penthouse twenty years ago, was this the long game?” Seeing that I had instantly dismantled his performance, Simon let the charming-husband mask slip. “Mercer Holdings needs an heir, Carol. The board is getting anxious,” he stated, his voice hardening into something unrecognizable. “Instead of leaving your legacy to some distant cousin, my own flesh and blood is a safer bet.” He leaned back, his eyes dragging over my figure with a slow, deliberate cruelty. “Besides,” he sneered, “it’s not like a woman your age can produce one now.” In the quiet that followed, a profound, terrifying clarity washed over me. Two decades of breakfast in bed, of him rubbing my shoulders after long board meetings, of whispered promises in the dark—it had all been a beautifully choreographed stage play. His goal had never been me. It had always been the Mercer empire. He thought his plan was airtight. He thought my biological clock was his ultimate weapon. If you can have a secret son, I thought, the ice in my veins crystallizing into a quiet thrill, what makes you think I can’t? 1. “Aren’t you worried I’ll take this little revelation straight to the board?” I asked, tilting my head. “They might be desperate for a succession plan, but they aren’t fools. What do you think happens to you when I tell them?” Simon arched an eyebrow, entirely unbothered. “The board?” he echoed softly. “You mean Richard Kingsley, who I just played golf with on Tuesday? Or David from acquisitions, who brings his kids to my box seats at the Knicks games?” He shook his head, a patronizing smile playing on his lips. “Carol, you really underestimate me.” A cold knot formed in my stomach. I unlocked my phone, scrolling through my messages. My last exchange with Richard was over a month ago. David hadn’t initiated a conversation with me since the holidays. Sitting across from him in our sunlit kitchen, I realized I was looking at a complete stranger. Twenty years ago, I married Simon fresh out of his MBA program. He was brilliant, witty, and entirely devoted to me. When I took the reins of Mercer Holdings, he was the one who suggested we remain childfree—he didn’t want me to sacrifice my body or my ambitions. He stepped in to handle the grueling, unglamorous operational side of the business so I could focus on the vision. He was the man who never missed a dinner, who sent flowers to my office on random Tuesdays. For two decades, he had boiled the frog so slowly I hadn’t even noticed the water getting hot. He had systematically woven himself into the fabric of my company, neutralizing my allies and building his own base, just waiting for my biological clock to run out. If I raised a fuss now, the narrative was already written. The board would see a hysterical, aging wife throwing a tantrum, while Simon would play the pragmatic, deeply concerned husband just trying to secure the company’s future. Simon knew this. He stood up, rounding the island to stand close to me. “Carol, my son will be your son. He’ll respect you. He’ll care for you,” he murmured, the fake sweetness back in his voice. “When we’re old, wouldn’t you rather have a boy we know running the empire, rather than a stranger who doesn’t give a damn about the Mercer name?” I narrowed my eyes, letting out a sharp breath of amusement. “You’ve played a hell of a game, Simon,” I said softly. “But you’re out of your mind if you think I’ll ever let this happen.” My refusal didn’t anger him. He just looked at me with profound pity. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, turning toward the door. “Unless you can miraculously reverse menopause and birth a son tomorrow, you can’t outlast mine.” He walked out, the very picture of a man who had already won. He had calculated every variable, assuming I was backed into a corner. But his fatal flaw was his own arrogance. He had a secret child. Why on earth did he assume he was the only one capable of keeping secrets? 2. I picked up my phone and dialed my mother’s private number. She answered on the second ring. “Mom. How’s Connor?” “He’s perfectly fine, darling,” she said, her tone crisp and efficient. “He’s currently dismantling your father at chess in the conservatory. Why the sudden check-in? Has something happened?” I smiled faintly, looking out at the Manhattan skyline. “No. I’ve just been thinking. Connor is my son. Keeping him hidden all these years… it’s beginning to feel unfair to him.” In the upper echelons of New York’s old money, there are unspoken rules. For a family like the Mercers, whose wealth stretches back generations, bloodline is everything. It’s an insurance policy. When wealthy heirs mess around and produce illegitimate children, the families often turn a blind eye, secretly providing for them. It ensures the bloodline survives, and prevents outsiders from using the children as leverage. If the child proves brilliant, they are brought into the fold. If they are unremarkable, they are given a quiet trust fund and kept out of sight. I was no exception. Before I met Simon, in my early twenties, I had a brief, reckless affair. It resulted in a pregnancy. But I was about to inherit the company. I didn’t have the time or the desire to play house with a man I barely tolerated, so I handled it the old-money way. I paid the father to disappear, and I left the baby at our sprawling estate in the Hudson Valley to be raised by my parents. It cost the family practically nothing, and it gave me the ultimate safety net. When Simon had used his cheap romance to convince me to be childfree, he thought he was playing me. He had no idea I had already secured the Mercer legacy. I just hated the physical toll of pregnancy, so I had happily let him believe it was his idea. My mother, possessing the sharp instincts of a woman who had survived fifty years in high society, immediately caught the shift in my tone. “Why bring this up now?” she asked, her voice dropping an octave. “Did Simon cross a line? We only let that boy marry you because he made you smile. If he’s making you miserable, Carol, you do not have to tolerate it.” A warmth spread through my chest. The quiet, ruthless loyalty of my family was my true armor. “I’m going to introduce Connor to the board next week at the shareholder summit,” I said. “Keep it quiet until then.” She didn’t ask why. She simply agreed and hung up. A few days later, I drove out to the estate and brought Connor back to the city with me. When the young man saw me in the foyer, his eyes lit up. “Mom!” His voice was warm, easy. I reached out and squeezed his shoulder. Though I hadn’t been a conventional mother—trading school plays for weekend visits and summer holidays—the Mercer family’s strict but deeply loving upbringing had molded him beautifully. At twenty-three, Connor was brilliant, grounded, and intimately bonded to me. “Today’s your official first day at the corporate office,” I told him in the car. “Did those executive bootcamps I put you through actually teach you anything?” Connor grinned, adjusting his tie. “Test me. I won’t let you down.” I grilled him on our current quarter acquisitions on the ride down, and his answers were flawless. I felt a surge of profound pride. But the moment we stepped into the executive lobby, Simon intercepted us, practically dragging a sullen teenage boy by the arm. “Tyler, come on,” Simon hissed. “Say hi to your mother.” The boy—Tyler—looked me up and down, his lip curling in visible disgust. “Mom?” he muttered, rolling his eyes. “You’re kidding, right? She looks ancient. My real mom is way hotter.” I stopped dead in my tracks, letting out a glacial laugh. I took a deliberate step back, refusing to engage with the delusion. “Excuse me? Who are you?” I asked, my voice echoing in the marble lobby. “We share no blood. Mercer Holdings isn’t a charity for strays.” Tyler’s face flushed a violent red. He jutted his chin out, looking exactly like a cornered rat. “My dad says this whole building is going to be mine anyway,” the kid snapped. “Don’t act so high and mighty. You’re just a barren old woman. Someday you’ll be begging me to take care of you.” He was draped in designer clothes, but the crass, calculating look in his eyes couldn’t be hidden by expensive fabric. He was exactly like Simon. Cheap underneath it all. Before I could tear the kid apart, a quiet, distinct laugh echoed beside me. Connor, who had been standing silently at my shoulder, shook his head. His voice was smooth and deadly. “Where did you find this street trash? Is he hallucinating?” Tyler sputtered, completely outclassed, struggling to find a comeback. But Connor’s laugh had drawn Simon’s attention. Simon frowned, his gaze landing heavily on the tall, striking young man beside me. Then, Simon’s eyes darted back to my face. “Who is he?” Simon demanded. 3. Simon’s gaze ping-ponged between me and Connor. The young man beside me stood with an effortless, aristocratic posture. If you looked closely, the sharp lines of his cheekbones and the dark, calculating depths of his eyes were a perfect mirror of my own at that age. Simon’s pupils dilated. A flicker of genuine unease crossed his face. “Carol,” he said, his voice tight. “Who is this? Why does he look like you?” I met his gaze dead-on, a slow, mocking smile curving my lips. I let the silence stretch, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an immediate answer. Simon’s expression hardened as he scrambled to rationalize it. “I get it,” he said, his confidence returning in a rush. “You panicked because I have a son, so you went out and found some kid who vaguely resembles you to play the part of an heir. Right?” He took a step forward, a sneer creeping into his voice. “Did you really think you could just copy my idea and adopt a prop? Carol, stop dreaming. The board is never going to accept some random kid off the street.” Just as the words left his mouth, Richard Kingsley, the silver-haired titan of our board, stepped out of the elevators. Richard’s eyes bypassed me entirely and landed on Tyler. His face broke into a warm, grandfatherly smile. He walked over and clapped the teenager on the shoulder. “Good to see you, Tyler. Looking sharper every day,” Richard beamed. The sickeningly familiar dynamic made it glaringly obvious that Simon had been parading this kid around the country club for months. When Richard finally turned to me, the warmth vanished, replaced by a stiff, obligatory nod. Emboldened by Richard’s presence, Simon puffed out his chest. He threw an arm around Tyler’s shoulders, raising his voice so the passing executives could hear. “Actually, since we’re all here,” Simon announced. “Tyler is the boy I’ve adopted. He is the future of Mercer Holdings. I’m bringing him into the executive suite to learn the ropes. I’ll be slotting him into the vacant Assistant Director role, just to get his feet wet.” My executive secretary, who had just walked up with my morning coffee, went pale and shot me a panicked look. I took my coffee from her, my voice perfectly level. “That position is filled.” Simon blinked, genuinely thrown. “Filled? Since when? I didn’t approve that.” Simon had the board’s ear, but he didn’t have the actual operational power. If he did, he wouldn’t be trying to backdoor his bastard into the company. I looked at him with absolute calm. “I have appointed Connor as the new Assistant Director.” Simon whipped his head toward my son. “You’re giving a C-suite track position to him? He’s a nobody! You can’t just hand an outsider a role like that on his first day!” I let out a soft sound of disgust, my eyes dragging over Tyler’s slouching posture. “I gave it to him because Connor graduated summa cum laude from Wharton and has managed three international portfolios during his internships. His resume is impeccable.” I stepped closer to Simon, my voice dropping like a hammer. “What exactly does Tyler have? He can’t even string a coherent sentence together. He belongs in a remedial classroom, not my boardroom.” The barrage of facts left Simon momentarily speechless. Tyler, humiliated in front of the lobby, completely lost his temper. He pointed a shaking finger at my face. “You’re just playing favorites!” the kid yelled, spit flying from his lips. “You think you’re so great? You only got this company because your daddy gave it to you!” I closed my eyes for a fraction of a second, mourning the death of decorum. Before I could speak, David, our VP of Acquisitions, stepped out of the crowd. His face was thunderous. “When Ms. Mercer took over this company, she started on the floor,” David barked, glaring at Tyler. “She worked eighty-hour weeks, secured our biggest European contracts, and built this division with her bare hands. We all witnessed it.” He looked at Simon with profound distaste. “Control your boy, Simon. Mouths like that don’t last long here.” Tyler shrank back, his face turning a blotchy purple. Simon looked as though he had swallowed glass, but he couldn’t formulate a defense against the company’s oldest veteran. Even Richard remained uncomfortably silent. Simon ground his jaw, forcing a strained smile for the onlookers. “Tyler is a Mercer now. He will learn to start from the bottom,” Simon declared, trying to salvage his dignity. He turned his dead eyes to me. “But the succession press conference is in two days. The board will make it very clear who the legitimate heir is.” The lobby erupted into hushed, frantic whispers. Didn’t the Mercers agree to be childfree? Where did an heir come from? An adopted kid gets the empire? That Tyler kid is set for life. Simon gave me one last, intensely smug look before walking away. He honestly believed I was medically incapable of producing a biological child. He thought his bastard was going to walk away with my family’s legacy. He had calculated every single angle. Except me. I couldn’t wait for the press conference. 4. The night before the press conference, the gates of the Hudson Valley estate buzzed open. Simon strolled through the front doors, his posture radiating an arrogance I had never seen in him before. Whenever Simon visited my parents’ home in the past, he was the picture of the subservient son-in-law. He poured their tea, laughed at my father’s jokes, and never spoke out of turn. Tonight, he walked straight into the main drawing room, dropped onto the velvet sofa, and crossed his legs like he owned the deed to the house. “Tell the chef to hurry up,” he snapped at our head housekeeper. “I have places to be. Let’s not waste time.” My mother walked out of the adjoining library, completely ignoring his existence, and set a tray of grapes on the table. My father sat by the fire, studying a chessboard, acting as if Simon was invisible. I picked a grape from the vine, chewing it slowly before I spoke. “Cut the act, Simon. Say what you came to say and get out.” Simon’s jaw ticked at the collective disrespect, but a sickeningly gracious smile soon spread across his face. “Carol, out of respect for the twenty years we’ve spent together, I’m going to offer you a way out,” he said smoothly. “Once Tyler is officially named heir, I’ll ensure you receive a ten-thousand-dollar monthly stipend. You’ll be comfortable for the rest of your life.” I let out a harsh bark of laughter, not even bothering to reply. He pressed on, his eyes glittering. “But there’s a condition. You have to bring Tyler’s biological mother into this house. She needs to be given a proper title. She is the mother of the future CEO, after all. She can’t be kept in the shadows.” I slowly placed my glass down on the coaster, lifting my gaze to meet his. “Simon, you’ve lived on my dime for two decades, and you still don’t understand where you are?” I asked, my voice deadly quiet. “Do you think you’re some medieval king? You want to bring your cheap mistress into my family’s home?” The patronizing smile vanished from his face, replaced by a vicious snarl. “Don’t push your luck, Carol. You think you have a choice?” he spat. “You have no children. By the company bylaws, the board dictates the succession if the bloodline ends. They want Tyler. You can’t stop this.” I looked at his absolute certainty, and a genuine smile broke across my face. “What if I do have a child?” Simon burst into laughter, throwing his head back against the velvet cushions. “Carol, we’ve been married twenty years. I have had eyes on you every single day. Between the office and this house, you have no life. When exactly would you have squeezed in a pregnancy?” I was bored of him. I waved a hand at the security detail standing by the door. “Throw him out.” As the guards grabbed his arms, I called out to him softly. “You’ll find out tomorrow, Simon.” The next morning, the grand ballroom of the Pierre Hotel was packed with financial journalists and the entirety of Mercer Holdings’ board of directors. Simon stood at the podium in a bespoke Tom Ford suit, gripping Tyler’s shoulder, looking like a man who had conquered the world. “Thank you all for being here today,” Simon said into the microphone, his voice booming with fake humility. “As many of you know, my wife and I have been married for twenty years, and we have not been blessed with children.” He paused dramatically. “But Mercer Holdings is a legacy that spans generations. It requires a future. After extensive discussions with the board, we have decided to formally adopt Tyler as our son, and the sole heir to the Mercer empire.” Down in the front row, several board members clapped politely. “We’ve vetted the boy,” Richard Kingsley said to a reporter nearby, his voice carrying. “He’s rough around the edges, but he’s a blank slate. Since Carol has no biological heirs, the board has unanimously agreed to back Tyler.” The room was bathed in the warm, golden glow of a successful corporate transition. I stood up slowly from my chair in the front row. I took a microphone from an usher. “I do not agree.” The ballroom plunged into absolute, suffocating silence. Simon didn’t flinch. He just smiled at me, dripping with condescension. “Sweetheart, do you have a direct blood heir to present?” he asked, his voice echoing in the quiet room. “Because if you don’t, the board bylaws mandate that they choose the successor. It’s just business.” A cold, razor-sharp smile touched my lips. I signaled my assistant, who began distributing sleek black folders to every board member and journalist in the room. “A direct blood heir?” I murmured into the mic. “Whoever said I didn’t have one?”

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The moment that black Bentley Continental GT pulled into the clinic’s private circular drive, my breath hitched. I knew that car. I knew the silhouette behind the tinted glass. But more importantly, I knew the girl who stepped out of the passenger seat. This was the fifteenth time this young woman had come to my private surgical suite for a hymenoplasty. When the procedure was over and the sedative was wearing off, she gripped my hand with a frantic, trembling strength. Her voice was thin, reedy with anxiety. She asked me if this many “restorations” would make it harder for her to have children later. As her surgeon, I kept my tone professional, bordering on gentle. I warned her about the risks—the scar tissue, the potential for chronic infection, the adhesions. I told her that if she wanted a family, she should consider a more stable lifestyle. She let out a sharp, mocking laugh. She didn’t look like a girl in pain; she looked like a girl who knew exactly what she was worth. She toyed with the limited-edition Cartier Love bracelet on her wrist, the diamonds catching the clinical overhead lights. “He’s my benefactor, Dr. Lane,” she said, her eyes bright with a cruel sort of triumph. “Not my husband. My life might not be ‘respectable’ by your standards, but he treats me like a queen. Better than a queen.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “He hasn’t touched his wife since he started seeing me. He told me that when she had their kid, she almost bled out on the table. Now her stomach is covered in these hideous, purple stretch marks—like giant centipedes crawling under her skin. He says looking at her makes him nauseous.” I felt a cold shiver trace the line of my spine. I forced a polite, pitying smile, thinking she was just another girl blinded by designer bags and wire transfers. I was so wrong. … I didn’t even stop to change out of my scrubs. I stripped off my surgical gown and ran. My hand instinctively went to my abdomen, pressing against the fabric of my shirt. The hemorrhaging. The silver-white tracks of skin that refused to fade. The “centipedes.” I had every single postpartum complication the textbooks described. I remembered Chris—my Chris—kneeling by my hospital bed after the birth, his eyes rimmed with red, tracing those same scars with a touch so light it felt like a prayer. “Diana, I’m so sorry,” he had whispered. “I hate that you had to go through this. These are the marks of how much we love each other.” But lately, the house had grown quiet. He stayed late at the office. He looked at me with a detached, clinical coldness. I thought I just hadn’t recovered well enough. I spent thousands on treatments, supplements, and workouts. I tried to initiate intimacy, hoping another child might bridge the widening canyon between us. Every time, he would pull away with a gentle, patronizing smile. “Honey, you’re still healing. I’m not going to be selfish.” I thought it was devotion. I thought he was protecting me. Now I knew the truth. He wasn’t protecting me; he was repulsed by me. I was the old model, dented and scarred, while he was out there leasing something shiny and “new.” I flagged a cab and followed the Bentley. It pulled up to the valet stand of the St. Regis. I didn’t think. I didn’t plan. I pulled up our digital marriage certificate on my phone and practically bullied the front desk clerk into giving me the room number. My fingertips were shaking so hard I could barely press the button for the penthouse floor. When I pounded on the door, Chris opened it. The flash of panic in his eyes lasted only a second before it hardened into a mask of irritation. “Diana? What the hell are you doing here?” The bathroom door clicked open. Kinsley stepped out, wearing a sheer lace bodysuit that left nothing to the imagination. She slid her arm through his, leaning her head on his shoulder with a kittenish pout. “Boss? I’m all changed. Do you like this one?” The blood roared in my ears, a deafening tidal wave. I lunged forward, snapping my phone camera open, the flash strobing against the plush hotel walls. “Look at this! Everyone should see the great Christopher Lane, the ‘Family Man of the Year’! This is how you spend your board meetings, isn’t it?” Chris lunged, snatching the phone from my hand and slamming it onto the marble floor. The sound of the screen shattering felt like a gunshot. “Enough!” he bellowed. He pulled Kinsley into his side, shielding her, his eyes glaring at me with a terrifying, icy hatred. “Diana, you’ve lost your damn mind. Are you done making a scene?” My eyes burned, the words catching in a throat tight with dry sobs. “Why? Chris, I nearly died for you. I built that company with you. I stayed up nights while you were starting out. Why her? Why this?” He pushed me—not hard, but enough to send me stumbling. My hip caught the sharp edge of the mahogany desk. The pain was sharp, but it was nothing compared to the hollow ache in my chest. I looked at him and couldn’t find the man I had married. The man who held me after my miscarriage five years ago, crying and saying he couldn’t lose me. The man who stood before my parents and swore to be my rock. “Why?” He let out a sharp, jagged laugh. “Because she’s twenty-three. Because she’s beautiful. Because looking at your scars and your ‘battle wounds’ makes me want to vomit, Diana. I’m bored. I’m done.” He turned his back on me, ushering Kinsley toward the door. I slumped to the floor, my legs giving out. It was then that I noticed the bright, terrifying smear of crimson on the white carpet beneath me. “Chris,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “I’m done with you, too. And the baby… the baby is done with you, too.” He probably forgot. A month ago, after a drunken gala, we had one night where the walls came down. One night that “stuck.” But this baby wasn’t going to make it. By the time the ambulance got me to the hospital, I was in the middle of a threatened miscarriage. I needed an emergency D&C. A young nurse, her face etched with pity, dialed Chris’s number. I could hear his voice through the receiver—sharp, mocking, echoing in the cold prep room. “Diana, give it a rest. Do you really think I’m that stupid? A ‘miscarriage’ play? That’s pathetic, even for you.” “Sir, this is the hospital—” the nurse started. “She’s a doctor! She knows exactly what to say to get attention. I’m not signing anything. Tell her to stop the theatrics.” The line went dead. The silence of the dial tone was colder than the surgical lights. I closed my eyes, hot tears leaking into my hair, and signed the consent forms with a hand that wouldn’t stop shaking. I’m allergic to most common anesthetics; I’ve had adverse reactions since I was a kid. This surgery… I had to do it awake, with only a local block. I had to feel the loss, physically and spiritually. My body gave up that night. The baby was gone. A few hours later, my phone—which a nurse had helped me recover—chirped with a notification from a burner account. I opened the video link. It was a live stream from a private estate. Chris was throwing a birthday bash for Kinsley. A seven-figure extravaganza. Fireworks were painting the night sky in shades of gold and violet. A line of luxury cars stretched down the mountain road. And there was Kinsley, tucked under his arm, laughing like a girl who had just won the lottery. A single tear tracked down my temple. I turned the phone off. While I was bleeding out on a cold table, he was celebrating the birth of the woman who replaced me. In ten years, I had never had a “proper” birthday party. I told him we should save. I told him I didn’t need the flash. I thought we were building a future. I thought he was just forgetful, a “typical guy.” I realized then that he wasn’t forgetful. He just didn’t care. I stayed in the hospital for a week. Chris never called. He never came. On the day I was discharged, the clinic called. They told me I was needed for a follow-up. I assumed it was a routine patient. I walked into my office, and the sight nearly made me faint. Kinsley was sitting in my swivel chair. Chris was leaning against my desk, his tie loosened. Their clothes were rumpled, and their necks were covered in the unmistakable, bruised marks of a long night. “What are you doing? This is a medical facility, not a motel,” I snapped, my voice trembling. Kinsley gave a performative little jump, smoothing her hair with a smirk. “Don’t be so dramatic, Dr. Lane. I’m here for my follow-up. My ‘restoration.’” She looked at Chris, then back to me. “Chris says the last one wasn’t quite… tight enough. He said it felt a bit loose compared to the time before. So, we’re back to fix it. Only the best for him, right?” A wave of physical nausea hit me. I pointed to the door, my entire body vibrating with rage. “I don’t operate on homewreckers. Get out. Now.” Kinsley’s bottom lip wobbled. She folded into Chris’s arms, whimpering. “Forget it, Chris. Let’s just go. She’s clearly still bitter… it’s my fault for coming here…” Chris’s face turned to stone. He looked at me with a disgust so profound it felt like a physical blow. “Diana, where is your professionalism? Your ‘Hippocratic Oath’?” His voice rose, cutting through the air. “All that talk about ‘treating every patient with dignity’? Was that all just bullshit for the medical board?” I stared at the man I had loved for a decade. He wanted me to use my surgical skills to “repair” his mistress for his own pleasure. “I won’t do it, Chris. I’m not touching her.” Chris stepped forward, his fingers bruising the skin of my wrist as he squeezed. “You will do this surgery. Today.” “No.” “Then think about your father,” he hissed, his voice dropping into a dark, predatory register. “His heart is failing, Diana. The experimental trial drug he’s on? My company holds the patent. I pay for the supply. Without me, he doesn’t last a month. You want to be a martyr? Fine. But you’ll be burying your dad by Christmas.” The air left my lungs. He had found the one thing I couldn’t sacrifice. “Fine,” I whispered. “I’ll do it.” “Good.” “But you sign this first.” I pulled the divorce papers from my bag. He didn’t even read them. He scribbled his name with a flourish of cold indifference. Kinsley was prepped. At Chris’s insistence, he stayed in the room, holding her hand, whispering sweet nothings while I prepped the site. I began the sutures. The first stitch. I remembered a small, cramped apartment in our twenties. I was doubled over with period cramps, and Chris had walked three miles in a torrential downpour to get me a heating pad and chocolate. That night felt like it would last forever. It felt like safety. The second stitch. The night he proposed under the Fourth of July fireworks. He yelled at the top of his lungs, “Diana Miller, I’m going to love you until the stars go dark!” The third stitch. Our wedding day. He stood at the altar, eyes wet, telling the whole world he was the luckiest man alive because he got to marry his best friend. The final stitch. I accidentally pricked my own palm with the needle. As a bead of bright red blood blossomed on my glove, I started to laugh. A quiet, broken sound. It was over. Chris, we are finally over. I walked out of the O.R., drained of everything but ghosts. But I hadn’t even made it to the locker room before Chris shoved me back against the wall. He was vibrating with fury, his eyes bloodshot. “What did you do to her? Diana! She’s screaming in pain!” I struggled against his grip on my neck. “I’m a surgeon, Chris. I did the procedure. I don’t sabotage my own work.” “You’re a vengeful bitch!” he screamed, throwing me aside like trash. “If anything happens to her, I will make you pay a thousand times over.” His phone buzzed. He looked at the screen, and the rage instantly dissolved into a sickening, panicked tenderness. He sprinted away toward her recovery room. I didn’t realize how quickly his “payment” would come. As I walked out of the hospital’s main entrance, a swarm of reporters surged toward me. Microphones were shoved into my face, the flashes of cameras blinding me. “Dr. Lane, is it true you used your position to intentionally mutilate a patient out of spite?” “We have reports that your ex-husband has remarried and you’ve been stalking his new wife. How does it feel to go from ‘Wife of the Year’ to a common harasser?” Then, a voice louder and sharper than the rest: “Your ex-husband just released a statement saying you were the victim of a gang assault five years ago! He claims your mental state is too unstable for surgery. Do you think you should still be allowed to hold a scalpel?” The world stopped. The sound of the city faded into a high-pitched ringing. My phone began to vibrate incessantly in my pocket. Push notifications, DMs, emails—all of them containing the photos. The photos from five years ago. Images of me at my lowest, broken and bruised in a dark alleyway, a nightmare I had tried to bury under years of therapy and silence. Chris was the one who had found me that night. He was the one who held me while I shook. He was the one who swore he had deleted every trace of the police evidence photos so I wouldn’t have to see them. “Don’t worry, Di,” he had promised. “I’ll protect you. No one will ever hurt you with this.” And now, he had given them to the world to save his own reputation. I pushed through the crowd, stumbling, falling, getting back up. I finally got into my car and dialed his number. “Chris, why? Why would you destroy me like this? What do you gain?” “Just a little lesson, Diana,” he said, his tone light, almost bored. “Kinsley is a sweet girl. She doesn’t want your title. If you just learn to keep your head down and stay in your lane, maybe the news cycle will move on.” He paused, his voice dripping with faux-generosity. “Besides, it’s all true, isn’t it? I just pulled back the curtain. Think of it as me helping you be ‘authentic’.” I started to laugh. A jagged, hysterical sound. I had loved a monster for ten years. Then, my mother called. “Diana? Is it true? Oh god, Diana… your father saw the news. His heart… he collapsed. Where is the medicine? Chris usually brings it… Diana, he’s not breathing right!” The world shattered. The medicine. Chris had it. I called Chris back, screaming, begging, stripping away every ounce of my dignity. “Chris, please! My dad had a heart attack. He needs the trial meds. I’ll apologize to Kinsley. I’ll get on my knees. Just send the medicine!” “Stop the drama, Diana,” he sighed. “I’m at a bakery picking up a cake for Kinsley. I don’t have time for your fake emergencies.” “It’s not fake! He’s dying, Chris! It’s a human life!” He hung up. When I tried again, his phone was off. I raced across the city, my hands white on the steering wheel, praying for a miracle. My phone lit up again. It was my mother. “Mom! Hang on! I’m coming, I’m finding him, Dad’s going to be okay—” The silence on the other end was heavy. Suffocating. Then, my mother’s voice came through, hollow and dead. “Don’t bother, Diana. Your father… your father is gone.” The phone slipped from my hand. I pulled the car over and stared at the white-and-red sign for the emergency room. A moment later, Chris called back. His voice was bright. “Cake’s done. Send me the address and I’ll drop the meds off. And Diana? Make sure that apology letter is well-written.” I looked at the cold, fluorescent lights of the hospital morgue entrance. “Don’t bother,” I said, my voice as flat as a grave. “My father is dead. You killed him.”

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I had spent five years helping Gavin build his empire from the dirt up. I was there when he had nothing, and I was there now, as he finally started to taste the heights of success. That afternoon, I was locked in a heated argument with a parking attendant, my face flushed with humiliation as I fought to save five measly dollars on the fee. Then, Gavin spoke. His voice was casual, almost light, but it hit me like a physical blow. He told me he’d just bought my best friend a three-million-dollar supercar. I froze, the world tilting on its axis. I was sure I had misheard him. I couldn’t find my voice, my throat constricting until it ached. He didn’t give me a second to process it. He pointed at the very spot where we stood and kept going. He told me the car had been parked right here yesterday. He had this look on his face—a sort of dazed, lingering satisfaction—as he described how thrilled she’d been. He told me she was so desperate for him that they’d gone at it seven times, right there in the car, until he ran out of protection and just gave her everything. He even brought up the phone call I’d made yesterday, asking him to come home for dinner. I’d asked him what that high-pitched sound in the background was—I thought I’d heard a cat. He chuckled then. He told me it wasn’t a cat. It was my best friend, Lydia, screaming because he was being too rough with her. She sounded like a cat in heat, he said. My voice shook as I asked him the only question that mattered: If he had the money, why… why did he treat me like this? He seemed to have expected the question. A mocking smile touched his lips as he used that old nickname. “Silley Jennifer,” he said. He told me it was because my “good friend” was just too expensive to keep. He actually blamed my struggle to save money on her, suggesting that if she were more frugal, I wouldn’t have to worry about a few dollars for parking. Then, he looked me up and down with a localized disgust I had never seen before. He told me to stop giving pedicures to those lecherous old men at the strip mall spa. And then, the knockout blow: Lydia was pregnant with his child. Finally, in a tone that suggested it was only natural, he said that since I’d spent so much time getting certifications to serve people, I might as well serve her. … I was a ghost. I don’t remember the walk home. When I opened the door, the ceiling was leaking again. The grease-caked exhaust fan hummed with a rhythmic, dying screech. The smell of mildew from the bathroom hung heavy in the air. Under the weak yellow glow of the single bulb, I stared at the place I had called home for five years. I was lost. All I could hear was the roar of Gavin’s Maybach as he drove away, leaving me with one final sentence. “Actually, it only took me a year to make it.” And Lydia. My best friend. Around that same time, she’d told me she’d finally found “the one.” That meant for four years—over fourteen hundred days—my husband and my best friend had been together behind my back. They had watched me live in this damp, dark basement. They had watched me scramble for wilted vegetables at the end of the market day. They had watched me scavenge for recyclables in the trash bins of the neighborhood until dawn. They watched me like I was a fool, handing over every cent I painstakingly saved to “help Gavin with his startup.” I had listened to him tell me he’d failed, time and time after time, and I had held him, my heart aching for his struggle. But Gavin was rich. He’d been rich for a long time. And all his money had gone to Lydia. I called him over and over, desperate for an answer. Desperate to ask why. But he was patient; he declined every call. Then, he blocked me. The man who once lost sleep if he missed a single text from me had blocked me without a flicker of hesitation. Less than ten minutes later, he appeared on Lydia’s Instagram. Now that the truth was out, he didn’t even bother to hide it. He hadn’t even taken off our wedding ring, yet there he was at a high-end auction house. In Lydia’s story, he bid twenty million on a sapphire necklace for her. Only yesterday, he’d pretended to be riddled with guilt because he “didn’t have enough” to buy me a cup of coffee. Looking at that silhouette—the man spending a fortune on another woman—my tears finally broke. I sat in the dark and sobled until my chest burned. When Gavin finally came home, he was still wearing the designer suit from the auction. He looked like the golden boy he had been before his family’s business collapsed—untouchable and elite. I traced the frayed sleeve of my worn-out sweater, instinctively hiding my rough, calloused hands behind my back. Gavin set a container of truffles cream soup on the table. “Lydia couldn’t finish it. I brought it back so it wouldn’t go to waste.” He looked at me with pure contempt. “You hate waste, don’t you?” I looked at the logo on the bag. It was from The Gilded Cage, my favorite restaurant since I was a girl. When we first started dating, Gavin took me there all the time. Later, when we were struggling, I would cry in bed because I missed the taste of their food so much. Gavin used to hold me and promise, “Jennifer, when we make it, I’ll take you there every day.” He’d said it a thousand times, but he never took me. By the time life had ground me down to a nub, I no longer had the energy to dream about a three-hundred-dollar bowl of soup. And now he had brought it home. The leftovers of his mistress. The scraps of my best friend. I grabbed the vase off the table and hurled it at him. It shattered into a thousand pieces. But even as the shards flew, my heart twinged. For a split second, I felt a pang of regret for breaking a three-dollar vase. For five years, that thought had dominated my life. A chipped bowl. A few extra minutes in a hot shower. The cost of medicine when I had a fever and tried to “tough it out.” I realized then that I was traumatized by poverty. For Gavin, for survival, I had turned myself into a bitter, penny-pinching shrew. I started to laugh, a wild, jagged sound. But the tears wouldn’t stop. I looked into Gavin’s eyes and asked him again. “Why?” He just stepped back toward the door, as if being in this dilapidated home was beneath him. He studied me, then smiled. “You mean, why did I keep it from you?” He tilted his head, his tone conversational. “No real reason. I just thought that when you were killing yourself to save money for me, you loved me the most. If we had the money, you’d go back to being that spoiled little princess. You wouldn’t revolve around me anymore.” “Lydia’s different,” he continued. “She didn’t grow up like you. She treats me like her entire world.” The blood in my veins turned to ice. Outside, the rain began to pour, and the leak in the ceiling worsened. Suddenly, a phantom pain flared in my leg. I clutched the stump of my missing limb. I had become an expert at managing the pain over the years, but now, it felt like Gavin’s words were needles driven into my bone, vibrating through my soul. The cheap, poorly made prosthetic had rubbed my skin raw and bloody. I looked at the blood on my palms, and for a moment, the world blurred. I was back three years ago. I had gone out at 2:00 AM to deliver food for a thirty-dollar tip. On the way back, a truck had crushed my leg. When the doctor said they had to amputate, Gavin and Lydia had held my blood-stained body and wept like children. “Jennifer, you’ll never dance again,” they had sobbed. I had been the top student at the National Dance Academy. My life was over. And all that time, Gavin was already rich. He had watched me struggle in poverty, watched me lose a leg for the sake of a few dollars. My “best friend” had cried until she couldn’t breathe in the hallway, only to go around the corner and sleep with my husband. Afterward, she’d walk into my hospital room with swollen lips, pretending to comfort me while bragging about how “clingy” Gavin was being. I had been such a fool. I didn’t see the glances they exchanged. I didn’t see the electricity between them. I dug my nails into the scabs on my leg, unaware of the pain. Gavin sighed, picked me up, and carried me into the elevator. The elevator went to the penthouse. It was a different world. A sprawling, sun-drenched living room. A terrace filled with the scent of fresh flowers. Exquisite decor, high-end smart tech. It was everything I had ever dreamed of for us. Gavin dropped me on the bed. “I bought this for Lydia to use when she’s tired from shopping. She’s not here often. You stay here for now.” His phone rang, and he hurried to the balcony. I stared at his back, doing the math in my head. The same man. He let me live in a five-hundred-dollar basement while giving Lydia a ten-million-dollar penthouse as a “resting spot.” While I fought for every penny at the bottom of the world, they were up here with wine and flowers, living the dream. Gavin lit a cigar, a tender smile on his face as he looked at the woman on his screen. I tried to stand up, fell, and scrambled across the floor like an animal. He paused, saw me, and looked away as if I were invisible. He kept laughing at whatever she was saying. Ten minutes and five “goodbyes” later, he hung up and walked back in. He saw the blood on the floor and frowned. “Lydia’s a clean freak.” Then he saw my mangled, bloody stump. He looked away. “Whatever. I’ll have the maid clean it.” He hauled me up. Then, he looked at his blood-stained sleeve, peeled off his jacket, and tossed it into the trash. My eyes followed the jacket. It was a custom Italian suit. At least ten thousand dollars. Ten thousand. How many years of groceries was that? Gavin noticed my expression and let out a cold laugh. “Jennifer, don’t blame me for keeping it a secret. Look at you. You don’t fit in my world anymore. This circle wouldn’t accept a wife who gives pedicures for a living.” I laughed too, a dry, hollow sound. “So it’s only natural that you’d have me—your ‘unpresentable’ wife—wait on your pregnant mistress?” His face hardened. “Jennifer, she’s pregnant.” I looked down. “Pregnant?” I whispered. “I was pregnant once, too.” Four years ago. A crucial dinner for Gavin’s business. He was allergic to alcohol but had to drink. I was so worried about him that I stepped in and took his drinks for him. I drank all night, vomiting between rounds. By morning, he was passed out at home. I had taken our last few dollars and staggered to a clinic for what I thought was stomach pain. The doctor told me it wasn’t a stomach ache. It was a miscarriage. I had called Gavin, crying, only to hear him sigh and say, “I’m sorry, Jennifer. The investor still said no.” I had swallowed my tears and comforted him. “It’s okay. I believe in you.” Now I knew. That night, he did get the investment. And the person he shared the victory with wasn’t me. A crack of thunder drowned out my voice. Gavin leaned in. “What did you say?” But he didn’t wait for an answer. Something occurred to him, and he grabbed his keys. “Lydia’s terrified of thunderstorms. I have to go to her.” I watched him go without a backward glance. I let out a choked laugh. Lydia wasn’t the only one afraid of thunder. I used to be terrified of it. Back then, Gavin would stay by my side all night. He used to check the weather reports weeks in advance so he could fly me to a sunny island to avoid the storms. But now, he was racing to be with someone else. He stopped at the door and turned back with a warning. “Having you take care of Lydia was my idea. She doesn’t know I’ve come clean to you. She’s emotionally unstable because of the pregnancy, so just play along. I’ll pay you ten times your usual rate.” Then, he was gone. Three minutes later, a text from Lydia popped up. “Jennifer, Gavin told me you were fighting with someone over five dollars for parking again? I told you, I’m doing well now. You helped me so much when we were kids. Why won’t you let me help you for once?” I stared at her “caring” words. Her chat background was an old, grainy photo of us as teenagers. I remembered how poor Lydia’s family had been. My mom used to prepare an extra set of everything for her—clothes, school supplies. When she couldn’t afford tuition, I gave her all my savings. When she failed her art school auditions, I spent every spare moment of my freshman year practicing with her. When she was eighteen and her gambling-addicted father tried to sell her off, I begged my parents for fifteen thousand dollars to buy her freedom. I had treated her like a sister. I never would have imagined that all that love would be traded for a knife in the back. I didn’t reply. I forced myself up. I limped through the penthouse and found the deeds to three properties in Lydia’s name. I found 121 photos of her and Gavin together. Eighteen of them were wedding photos. I was still waiting for a wedding that would never come. I found 78 receipts for luxury goods. 43 designer bags. Millions of dollars—enough to buy a dozen high-end prosthetics. And a drawer full of lingerie and protection. Three wrappers were sitting in the trash. I took my cracked phone and photographed every single thing. Then, with a calm I didn’t know I possessed, I sent them to Lydia. “How exactly are you helping me? With the money you got from being my husband’s whore?” She didn’t reply. But as I expected, Gavin came back. He didn’t yell. He didn’t curse. He just quietly fitted me with a brand-new prosthetic. I touched it. It was top-of-the-line—thirty thousand dollars. I’d seen it in a window once; to me, it had been an impossible dream. On that same day, Lydia had posted a photo of a thirty-thousand-dollar bag. And I, like an idiot, had been happy for her. Gavin finished his work and handed me a set of divorce papers. “She’s having contractions because of you.” His eyes were dark with a simmering rage. I smirked, taking the pen. “Oh? Did I hurt your precious little heart? But which part of what I said wasn’t true?” He knit his brows, looking at me with nothing but annoyance. The eyes that used to be full of love were now full of disgust. Even though I was already numb, my heart still stung. Gavin slammed a stack of photos onto the bed. His voice was flat, but every word felt like a slow execution. “Sign the papers. Tomorrow is Lydia’s birthday. I’m proposing to her at the party. As her ‘best friend,’ I expect you to be there.” I looked at the photos. They were of me, stripped bare, from years ago. The memories of that night flooded back, making me feel physically ill. I started to shake. I looked at him, disbelieving. “You said… you said you destroyed these. You swore no one would ever know what happened to me on graduation night.” His eyes remained cold. “Don’t blame me. You wouldn’t play nice.” When he brought me to the gala, Lydia dropped her champagne glass and ran to me, tears streaming down her face. “Jennifer, let me explain!” I looked at Gavin, and like a puppet on a string, I spoke. “It’s not your fault. Gavin and I are divorced now. I came to give you my blessing.” Lydia beamed. she threw her arms around me in a fake embrace. But in my ear, she whispered with venomous triumph: “I finally won, Jennifer. Do you have any idea how much I hated you? You and your rich parents, handing out charity like I was a stray dog? It was exhausting.” “By the way,” she hissed, “I was the one who hired those men on graduation night. Gavin was so disgusted by you after that. You have no idea.” The blood rushed to my head. I swung my hand and slapped Lydia as hard as I could. The next second, I was shoved to the floor. Lydia screamed, clutching her stomach. “My baby! My baby!” Gavin panicked, scooping her up and calling for the house doctor. Lydia moaned in “pain,” looking at me with tearful eyes. “Jennifer, we’re in love. You can hate me, but why would you hurt my baby?” Gavin’s face was like stone. He grabbed my chin. “Jennifer, I gave you a chance. It seems you need a lesson.” He signaled to a guard. My heart dropped. I grabbed his hand, begging. “No! Please!” He saw my tears and hesitated for a fraction of a second. But when Lydia let out a louder wail, he turned cold. “You slapped her once. You’ll slap yourself a hundred times as an apology. Otherwise, I can’t guarantee your parents won’t see those photos by morning.” I turned toward Lydia, numb, and knelt on the floor. The sound of my own hand hitting my face echoed through the ballroom. Guests whispered, asking who I was. Gavin’s response was clipped. “The maid.” At his words, the room turned on me. Someone, wanting to suck up to Gavin, poured a glass of wine over my head. Then came the scraps of food, the cake, and finally, lit cigarettes. Gavin watched it all. He didn’t move a muscle. When my face was swollen and bleeding, I looked at him. “Is it enough?” He didn’t say anything. He signaled for someone to carry me out. But as I was leaving, every screen in the room—and every guest’s phone—suddenly chimed. A video started playing. It was me, years ago, screaming and pleading in the dark. “No! Don’t touch me! Please!” The room went silent, then exploded into whispers. People looked at me like I was a freak, a piece of trash. My mother burst through the doors, her face white. “Jennifer… how could you be so reckless? Do you know your father came all this way to see you, only to see that? He’s gone, Jennifer. The shock killed him!” The world snapped into focus. I looked at my mother. “Mom… I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I’ll go to him. I’ll make it right.” I turned and ran—crawled—toward the roof. When I reached the edge and stepped off, Gavin’s voice screamed from behind me. “No!” He lunged for me, but his hands only caught the expensive prosthetic leg. It slid right off. My old phone, seven years old and cracked, fell at his feet. As it hit the ground, a recording began to play. Lydia’s voice, clear and sharp in the night air: “I was the one who hired those men…”

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In the cramped confines of my studio apartment, I was rubbing my stiff knuckles, trying to soothe the chronic ache of a long day’s work, when my phone buzzed. A high-priority notification from the concierge app flashed across the screen. A five-hundred-dollar booking. On-site massage therapy at a luxury estate in the Heights. I didn’t hesitate; I swiped to accept it before anyone else could. When I arrived at the address—a sprawling glass-and-steel mansion tucked behind a wall of manicured hedges—the door was opened by a girl who looked like she’d stepped off a yacht. Her skin was porcelain, glowing with the kind of health only money can buy. Yet, as the domestic staff hurried past her, they all addressed her as “Mrs. Stephen.” I couldn’t help but make small talk as I set up my table. “You have beautiful skin,” I remarked, keeping my voice professional yet warm. “You hardly look old enough to be married.” She beamed, a touch of youthful vanity in her eyes. “Oh, stop. I’m already twenty-six…” Twenty-six. She was a year older than me. She ushered me inside with an eager energy, then pulled out her phone to make a call. Her tone was playful, like a child seeking a gold star. “Honey, I was so productive today! I found a premier therapist for only five hundred dollars. Aren’t I the best little saver?” She bit her lip, looking pleased with herself. “And she came right to the house! You have to come home and tell me how proud you are.” A warm, resonant male voice filtered through the speaker. “You’re the best, sweetheart. Especially in bed. I’m heading back now to show you exactly how much I appreciate it.” My hands, which had been reaching for my massage oils, froze. I knew that voice. I knew every inflection, every low vibration of it. It was the voice of the man I had spent my entire life savings to protect. The man I thought was rotting in a cell for a crime he committed to save me. My husband, Patrick Stephen. It had been five years since the night he was supposedly hauled off to prison. Five years of me working three jobs, barely eating, trying to scrape together enough for a legal appeal that never seemed to come. … She smiled at me, looking a little bashful. “My husband… he has a bit of a mouth on him. Please don’t mind him. I’m pregnant, so it’s not like we’re actually doing anything strenuous.” She placed a hand on her stomach, her expression softening into something genuinely sweet. “He’s just talk. In reality, he treats me like I’m made of glass. He doesn’t let me lift a finger. He just wants me to eat and sleep, terrified I’ll so much as trip over a rug.” My fingers felt like ice. “Here, let me show you our maternity shoot,” she said, pulling her phone back out. I took the device, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I looked down. In the photo, a man in a crisp white linen shirt had his arm draped possessively around her shoulders. He was looking at her with a faint, tender smile. The world seemed to tilt on its axis. It was him. Patrick. The man who was supposed to be behind bars was standing in a sun-drenched garden, cradling another woman. “Ma’am? Are you alright?” she asked, her brow furrowing. I blinked, handing the phone back with trembling fingers. “I’m fine. I just… I just remembered something I forgot to do.” She didn’t push. She just laughed. “Your reviews online are incredible! Patrick’s had such a bad back lately. Would you mind staying a bit longer to work on him too?” My heart skipped a beat. Before I could find my voice, the heavy front door groaned open. A shadow fell across the room as a man stepped inside. He looked at her, his eyes melting with an affection I hadn’t seen in half a decade. “My back is fine, baby. You just focus on taking care of yourself.” She gave him a playful shove. “I’m doing this for you! The therapist is already here waiting.” Patrick followed her gaze toward the bed. He saw me. The smile on his face didn’t just fade; it turned to stone. “What are you doing here?” He was across the room in three strides, his fingers clamping like iron around my wrist. He didn’t wait for an answer. He began dragging me toward the door. “Get out.” He shoved me into the hallway, then turned back to his wife, his voice instantly shifting back to that nauseatingly gentle tone. “Sweetheart, why are you letting just anyone into the house? This woman… she’s not who she says she is. You’re pregnant. You have to be more careful.” The wife pouted, nodding obediently. The door slammed in my face. I stood there, paralyzed, until Patrick stepped out a side door a moment later to confront me. “What do you want?” he hissed, his face contorted in a sneer. “She’s pregnant. She can’t handle stress. If anything happens to that baby because of you, I will ruin you.” I opened my mouth to scream, to cry, to demand the five years of my life back, but a small figure suddenly darted from the shadows of the hallway behind me. It was my daughter, Daisy. She lunged forward, throwing her arms around Patrick’s leg. “Daddy?” she whispered, her little face illuminated by a heartbreaking hope. “Daddy, I missed you! You look just like the man in Mommy’s wedding picture!” Patrick looked down. Slowly, deliberately, he reached down and pried her small fingers off his pants, one by one. He pushed her away as if she were a stray dog. Daisy froze. Tears welled in her eyes, but she was too terrified to let them fall. I scooped her into my arms, holding her so tight I could feel her heart racing. I looked Patrick in the eye. “Do you have any idea what the last five years have been like?” my voice cracked. “I worked until I went into labor at seven months. I never had a day of rest. I waited for you! And you’re out here… playing house?” Patrick’s expression flickered for a fraction of a second, but it was quickly replaced by a cold, corporate mask. “I never asked you to wait. What happened between us was a lifetime ago.” “A lifetime? You went to prison for me! Or so I thought.” “I was young and reckless,” he said, dismissively. “My family had cut me off. That ‘incident’ was a detour. I’ve moved on. I’m back where I belong now, and I have a life that doesn’t include you.” “The kidnapping five years ago…” I whispered, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. “It was a setup, wasn’t it? You didn’t kill that man to protect me. It was all a play to disappear.” “It’s in the past,” he said. “The details are irrelevant.” He pulled a black credit card from his wallet and tossed it at my feet. “There’s enough on there to settle you and the girl. If it’s not enough, I can arrange more. I only want one thing.” His voice turned deadly quiet. “Stay away from her. She’s fragile. She’s delicate. And that child she’s carrying is the only thing that matters.” “And what about your daughter?” I choked out. “Does she just not have a father anymore?” Patrick opened his mouth to speak, but the front door swung open again. The wife stood there. She looked like she had been listening for a while. Her eyes were red. “Patrick? Who is this woman? Whose child is that?” Patrick’s face went pale. “Honey, let me explain—” But she didn’t stay to listen. Her eyes rolled back, and she collapsed onto the marble floor. “No!” Patrick screamed, rushing to her side. He gathered her up, his voice frantic. He turned back to me, his eyes burning with a sudden, sharpened hatred. “Diana, if anything happens to her, I will make sure you never see the sun again!” He rushed her to the hospital. He didn’t reappear until four in the morning, standing at the door of my dilapidated apartment. “She went into preterm labor,” he said, his eyes bloodshot, his voice raspy. “The baby is in critical condition.” He looked at me, but there was no apology in his eyes. Only a cold, calculating desperation. “I don’t care why you showed up. I don’t care about the past. I’m sorry for whatever you think I owe you.” Suddenly, he reached down and scooped Daisy up. Daisy startled, shrinking back, but he held her with a grip that left no room for escape. “Want to come live in a big house with Daddy, princess?” Daisy blinked, her tiny hand reaching out to touch his face. “I… I have a daddy? For real?” Patrick nodded. “For real. I’m going to take care of you now.” Then he turned to me. “I will give her everything. The best schools, the best clothes, a life you could never dream of. But just her.” He looked at me with utter contempt. “You? You’re going to take a flight. Anywhere you want. I’ll fund it. You start over, far away from here. You stay away from my wife.” I was stunned. “You want me to just… leave my daughter with you?” Patrick’s gaze shifted. He couldn’t look me in the eye. “Our son is sick. He’s a preemie. His organs aren’t fully developed. He’s going to need blood, maybe marrow. He has a very rare blood type—the same one you and Daisy have.” The air left my lungs. “You want to take my daughter… to use her as a spare parts bin for her son?” Patrick narrowed his eyes. “It’s a precaution. To ensure the Stephen heir survives.” “A precaution?!” I lunged forward, ripping Daisy from his arms and shielding her behind my back. “Over my dead body! She is my daughter. I raised her alone. I bled for her. You don’t get to just take her!” Patrick’s face darkened. “My son is the future of the Stephen empire,” he said, his voice like whetted stone. “He will not die. If Daisy stays with me, she has a future. If she stays with you, what does she have? She’ll grow up to be a servant, just like you.” “She is a human being!” I screamed. “She isn’t a tool!” “Think about it, Diana,” he stepped closer, his shadow engulfing me. “Are you keeping her for her sake, or for your own selfish pride? You’re drowning. Don’t pull her down with you.” His words were like a dull knife, sawing at my heart. I looked at this man—this stranger wearing my husband’s face—and felt a suffocating grief. If it hadn’t been for his “sacrifice” five years ago, I wouldn’t be drowning. I remembered being seven months pregnant, kidnapped by men who claimed Patrick owed them money. I remembered him fighting them off, the flash of a blade, the body hitting the floor. I had cried for him. I had spent every penny on lawyers. I had worked on my feet until they bled just to send him “commissary” money that he apparently never needed. It was all a lie. “You are never touching her,” I hissed. Patrick’s phone rang. He checked the screen, his expression shifting to pure panic. “Fine. We’re done talking.” He didn’t argue. He simply lunged. “Daisy, sweetheart, let’s go get some ice cream, okay?” His voice turned sickeningly sweet. Daisy was confused by the sudden change, looking between us with wide, tearful eyes. “Mommy?” I tried to push him back, but he was stronger. He shoved me aside with a violent force, snatching Daisy up. She began to wail, kicking her legs, but he ignored her. I scrambled to my feet, chasing him down the stairs, but I tripped, my knee slamming into the concrete. Pain flared, hot and blinding. I watched his taillights vanish into the night. I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. I flagged a taxi, screaming at the driver to follow him to the hospital. When I arrived at the Pediatric ICU, it was chaos. Patrick was in the middle of a heated argument with his wife. She was in a hospital gown, pale and trembling, but her voice was sharp with venom. “Patrick! I don’t care if he dies! I won’t have our son saved by that brat’s blood! Get her out of here!” “Sweetheart, be reasonable! We’re running out of time!” He was pleading with her, his hands on her waist. “You lied to me!” she shrieked. “You said you were done with her! Now you bring her bastard into my sight?” Patrick leaned in and kissed her forcefully, silencing her. “Trust me, baby. It’s just a procedure. It means nothing.” She calmed down, sobbing into his chest. And there, in the corner of the waiting room, was Daisy. She was huddled in a chair, looking smaller than I’d ever seen her. When she saw me, her face lit up, but a security guard stepped in my way. Patrick looked at me, his eyes cold. “The doctors are coming. We’re doing the draw, and then I’ll send her back to you. It’s one pint of blood, Diana. Stop being dramatic.” I looked at my daughter, trembling in that oversized chair, and the dam finally broke. “Five years, Patrick. I gave you everything. And now you’re taking the literal blood out of our daughter’s veins for a woman who hates her? Do you even have a soul?” Patrick just checked his watch. “I’m done discussing the past.” A team of nurses approached with a cart of equipment. “We’re ready, Mr. Stephen.” The security guards moved in. They pinned Daisy down. She began to scream—a high, thin sound that pierced through the sterile hallway. I lost my mind. I broke past the first guard, lunging toward the nearest hospital bed. I grabbed the oxygen line connected to the wife’s son’s monitor. “Let her go, Patrick! Let her go or I swear to God I’ll end this right now!” Patrick’s face went white. “Diana, you’ve lost it!” The wife shrieked, throwing herself at me. “You crazy bitch! You’re trying to kill my baby!” We collided, a blur of hair and fingernails. In the struggle, the IV needle in her arm tore loose, spraying blood across her white gown. “Isabella!” Patrick roared. He threw me off her with such force that I hit the wall. “Pin her down!” he barked at the guards. They grabbed my arms, twisting them behind my back until I screamed. I was forced to watch. I watched the needle go into Daisy’s tiny arm. I watched the dark red blood begin to fill the bag. Daisy’s screams grew weaker. Her face turned the color of ash. “Patrick, please!” I sobbed, my voice breaking. “Stop it! She’s too small! Please!” He didn’t even look at me. “Keep going until we have enough,” he told the doctor. One bag. Then another. Daisy’s eyes fluttered. Her head lolled to the side. “Daisy! Daisy!” I fought the restraints, but they tied me to a chair, the plastic zip-ties cutting into my wrists. I was a spectator to my own daughter’s slow fading. Finally, the doctor stopped. He hurried into the ICU with the blood. Patrick followed him, his face full of frantic concern for his son. He never once looked back at the unconscious girl in the corner. I bit through the skin of my lip, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth. I thrashed against the ties until I felt the bone in my wrist groan. Daisy opened her eyes one last time. She crawled toward me, a slow, agonizing movement across the linoleum. I pulled her into my lap, sobbing so hard I couldn’t breathe. She curled into my chest, her body feeling impossibly light. “Mommy…” she whispered, her voice a ghost of a sound. “Don’t cry…” Her head fell against my shoulder. The small, frantic heartbeat I had felt through her ribs simply… stopped. “Daisy!” A scream tore from my throat, a sound so primal it felt like it was shredding my vocal cords. A cold, absolute rage settled over me. I threw my weight against the side table, knocking a glass vase to the floor. It shattered into a thousand diamonds. I reached down, ignoring the glass slicing my palms, and used a shard to saw through the zip-ties. I gathered her cold body into my arms. She was still warm, but the spark was gone. I didn’t cry anymore. My eyes were dry and burning. Patrick. Isabella. You owe me a life. And I am going to collect. I pulled out my phone with shaking hands and dialed the tip line for the city’s largest news outlet. “I have a story for you,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “The heir to the Stephen fortune, Patrick Stephen, is a bigamist and a murderer. He just killed his own daughter to save his mistress’s son. I have the evidence. And I’m going to burn his world down.”

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I opened my eyes, my chest heaving as if I’d just clawed my way out of a grave. The harsh fluorescent lights of the office blinded me for a second, but as my vision cleared, the terrifying realization set in. I was back. I had returned to that day—the exact afternoon my husband’s foster sister proposed taking the entire staff on a company-funded luxury retreat to Cabo San Lucas. My pulse pounded against my eardrums. Deep in my company’s accounting software, a catastrophic error lurked: our corporate accounts were about to be frozen by the IRS for an overlooked payroll tax filing. Honestly, it wasn’t something that usually kept me up at night; it was a bureaucratic hiccup, easily fixed with a phone call and a wire transfer. But her? His sweet, tragic foster sister? When she found out about the impending freeze in my past life, she had panicked like a rat on a sinking ship. The memories of my past life crashed over me, suffocating and visceral. Under the guise of a “summer morale-boosting retreat,” she had maxed out my corporate cards and drained every drop of liquid cash we had. Because of her, our supply chain shattered. We defaulted. I was left drowning in tens of millions of dollars in debt. When I had confronted her, desperate and begging for the money back, she had simply leaned into my husband’s chest, a coy, dismissive smile on her lips. “Come on, Tori. I only spent a couple million. How could a company this size go bankrupt over that? Stop trying to scare me.” And my husband—the man I had abandoned my family for—had roared in my face. “The company’s money belongs to both of us, Tori! I gave Lara permission to use it. Who the hell do you think you are to micromanage her?” I had tried to call the police. Instead, they drugged me. They sold me to a cartel black site across the border. My final memories were a blur of unimaginable agony, cold surgical steel, and the profound, echoing darkness of dying with my eyes wide open, stripped of my organs and my dignity. The most chilling part? When the news of my disappearance leaked, my employees hadn’t shed a single tear. They had applauded. They called me a greedy corporate overlord who finally got what she deserved. 1 “You guys have been killing yourselves with overtime lately! So, to celebrate the end of the quarter, Jonathan and I agreed—I’m taking everyone to Cabo! All expenses paid!” The open-plan office erupted into deafening cheers. Lara stood dead center, practically glowing beneath the adoration of the staff. Through the glass walls of my private office, I stared at the scene. The thrumming of my own heartbeat confirmed it. I was really back. This was my second chance. Before I could even steady my trembling hands, the door swung open. Jonathan walked in, trailing Lara, and wrapped a warm, familiar arm around my shoulders. “Tori, babe, you look exhausted,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to my temple. “Let’s go on vacation, just us and the team. To reward everyone for their hard work, Lara is treating them. We were hoping to put the flights on your Amex Platinum so we can rack up the miles and get the corporate rate.” Looking at Jonathan’s handsome, hypocritical face, a wave of pure nausea hit me. In the life before this, once Lara got her hands on my Amex, she had systematically siphoned our operating capital. When the cash flow stopped, our projects died overnight. When I had demanded answers, she had shrunk into Jonathan’s arms like a frightened bird. “Tori, I barely spent a fraction of Jonathan’s money. You’re just trying to scare me!” And Jonathan had looked at me with cold suspicion, accusing me of embezzling the funds myself. “It’s just a trip to Cabo, Tori. How much could it possibly cost? Did you blow the company’s money on a bad investment and decide to pin it on Lara?” I wanted to call the cops. They locked me in the basement instead. Lara had even brought in a vagrant off the street to violate me, recording it on her phone with a giggling, manic delight before shipping me off to be butchered. Remembering the profound humiliation of my past life, I wanted to tear them apart with my bare hands. While I was frozen in the memory, Jonathan reached across my desk, sliding open my drawer to grab the heavy metal Amex card. He handed it toward Lara. My instincts took over. I slammed my hand down on his wrist. “Put the card down.” Jonathan blinked, his charming smile faltering. “Tori? What’s the problem? We need to book the flights now or we lose the group rate. Don’t ruin the vibe.” His eyes darkened subtly. Seeing the shift, Lara stepped forward, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “Everyone’s been working so hard, Tori. We’re just trying to take care of your team. You own this massive company, but you’re refusing to shell out for a simple team-building trip? Honestly… it almost makes it look like you’re hiding assets.” Listening to them play off each other, a dark, hollow laugh escaped my lips. “That’s funny. Through the glass just now, I heard you tell the entire floor that you were paying for everything. So why are you reaching for my company card?” Lara’s lower lip trembled. Instantly, tears pooled in her wide, innocent eyes. The sight of her crying shattered Jonathan’s composure. He shoved my hand away, wrapping both of his arms protectively around Lara’s shoulders. “Lara has the biggest heart in this room. She’s the only one who actually cares that the staff is burning out,” Jonathan snapped, his voice hard. “Don’t push me, Tori. Half this company is mine. You don’t get to act like a dictator.” I sat back in my leather chair, watching her play the victim. After what she did to me in the dark, the word ‘heart’ coming from her vicinity made me want to vomit. 2 When I refused to budge, Jonathan stormed out, slamming the glass door so hard it rattled in its frame. I slumped into my chair, an icy calm settling over my bones. By the time five o’clock rolled around, the usually buzzing office was dead quiet. The moment I stepped out of my suite, the small clusters of gossiping employees instantly scattered. David, the senior developer who had been with me since we were working out of a garage, stood up. He wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Boss, word is you’re blocking the company trip?” I raised an eyebrow. I had merely refused to let Lara use my corporate Amex, but somehow, the narrative had spun into me canceling their vacation entirely. I cut my gaze to Lara. She shrank back slightly, offering a weak, defensive murmur. “I… Jonathan and I were just trying to boost morale. We just want what’s best for the company.” The rest of the staff glared at me. The hostility in the room was a living, breathing thing. I squared my shoulders. “I have no problem with you all going to Cabo.” Right on cue, Jonathan emerged from his office. “Great. Then hand the Amex to Lara so she can book the tickets.” Thinking I had caved, Lara took an eager step forward, reaching out for the metal card in my hand. I closed my fist around it, my voice dropping to a quiet, lethal register. “I don’t hand my corporate cards to people with hidden agendas.” Jonathan exploded. “Why are you being such a bitch?” he shouted, the word echoing off the concrete walls. “Lara is trying to do something nice for this company, and you’re accusing her of having an agenda? Apologize to her. Now.” In the old days, whenever he used that tone, I would shrink. I would apologize to keep the peace. I loved him too much to lose him. But now? I wished nothing but the worst for this parasitic pair. “If I’m such a bitch, let’s get a divorce,” I said, the words slipping out with terrifying ease. “Since Lara is exactly what you want, I wish you both a lifetime of happiness.” Jonathan’s face drained of color. He clearly hadn’t expected me to push back, let alone drop the D-word in front of the whole floor. Lara’s eyes widened, shimmering with perfectly timed tears. “Tori, please, don’t say that. Jonathan and I just grew up in the system together, we’re just siblings. Please don’t be mad. I even booked the honeymoon suite for the two of you!” The staff couldn’t hold back anymore. “Jesus, Tori, be the bigger person. Lara is trying to do something nice for your marriage,” one of the junior designers scoffed. “Every time we do ‘team building,’ it’s bowling in the suburbs. It sucks,” another muttered. “We bleed for this company, and you can’t even stomach sending us to Mexico? You really are a corporate tyrant.” The voices layered over one another, a chorus of resentment entirely on Lara’s side. I looked at these people and felt a profound, chilling emptiness. Aside from federal holidays, I personally paid out of pocket for our monthly off-sites and weekly catered lunches. And I was the tyrant. Seeing me cornered, a flicker of pure, malicious triumph crossed Lara’s face. She fanned the flames. “Well, since Tori won’t allow it, I’ll just cancel the resort. I guess we’ll just get back to being wage slaves, grinding to make her richer!” That was the breaking point. The simmering frustration in the room boiled over. A hotheaded account manager snatched up his half-full iced coffee and hurled it at my face. Someone else slammed a stack of heavy pitch decks against my chest. The crowd surged forward, shoving me. My heels slipped on the polished concrete floor, and I crashed down hard, my knee taking the brunt of the impact. The fury I had been keeping locked away tore out of me. “Who the hell said I was canceling the trip?!” I screamed, my voice raw and echoing. “I said she is not using my company card!” The movement stopped. They looked at each other, confused. “What’s wrong with using the corporate card? It gets the rewards points,” David muttered. He pulled out his own wallet and slid a silver company card across the nearest desk toward Lara. “Here. Use mine. The limit isn’t infinite like the boss’s, but it’s enough for Cabo.” Lara’s triumphant smile froze. Reluctantly, she picked up the card. I took a deep, shuddering breath, my nails digging so hard into my palms they drew blood. 3 The next morning, I arrived at work to find my office door unlocked. My heart skipped a beat. I rushed to my desk, yanking open the drawers. Everything looked untouched, but my paranoia was entirely justified. I pulled up the security feed on my phone. Sure enough, an hour after I had left yesterday, Jonathan and Lara had crept into my office. I watched them tear through my desk, searching frantically for something. But they found nothing. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Thank God I had taken the most sensitive financial documents—and the Amex—home with me last night. Just as I was locking my phone, a text flashed across the screen. From the IRS. Notice: Due to insufficient tax remittances, corporate accounts will be subject to an immediate freeze pending resolution. It hit me. A few weeks ago, during an aggressive expansion phase, cash flow had been tight. Accounting had flagged a delayed payroll tax payment. Because I was juggling a dozen fires, I had told them I’d handle it by the end of the month and then completely forgot about it. I reached for the phone to call my CFO, but my hand stopped mid-air. A dark, brilliant realization washed over me. If the corporate accounts were frozen, any card attached to them—including David’s—would be dead plastic. I exhaled slowly, a grim smile touching my lips. I set the phone down. That night, I finally slept soundly. But at 2:00 AM, my phone rang. It was my older sister, Caroline. She was sobbing. She told me our mother, who was in Cabo closing a real estate deal, had suffered a massive stroke and was rushed to the hospital. The world dropped out from under me. I threw clothes into a carry-on and booked the first redeye to Mexico. When I finally sprinted through the Cabo airport terminal, exhausted and terrified, I nearly collided with a loud, laughing group. Jonathan. Lara. And my entire office staff. Jonathan spotted me, his smile morphing into a sneer. “Thought you wanted to save the company a few bucks, Tori? What, did you change your mind and tag along?” He crossed his arms. “Tell you what. Apologize to Lara in front of everyone right now, and we’ll let you hang out with us.” My stomach churned with disgust. I slapped his hand away. “I have to get to the hospital. My mom is in surgery.” Furious at being dismissed in front of his audience, Jonathan kicked my carry-on bag, sending it skidding across the polished floor. “Don’t push your luck, Tori!” he barked. “You followed us all the way here, so drop the attitude. Say you’re sorry, and we’ll pretend you weren’t a total bitch yesterday.” I saw red. I stepped into his space and slapped him hard across the face. The sharp crack silenced the group. “Get out of my way,” I hissed. “My mother is dying. I don’t have time for your childish games.” Jonathan’s eyes flashed with real menace. He opened his mouth, but Lara quickly stepped in front of him, pointing a trembling finger at me in mock horror. “Tori! Your parents live in New York! I can’t believe you would lie about your own mother having a stroke just to follow us and ruin our trip!” Jonathan’s shock shifted instantly into deep, abiding disgust. “You don’t even try to make your lies believable anymore, do you? God, you are so deeply unwell. It’s pathetic.” Lara tilted her head, a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth while her eyes stayed wide. “Honestly, Tori. Even if you were desperate for our attention, cursing your own mother’s health? That’s really sick.” 4 The sheer audacity of it snapped whatever restraint I had left. I backhanded her across the face. Lara grabbed her cheek, her eyes wide with manufactured shock. A second later, she burst into loud, theatrical sobs. “Tori, I’m sorry! Please don’t hit me! I promise I won’t ever touch your money again!” Her wailing drew the attention of the surrounding travelers, and immediately, my coworkers rallied to her defense, forming a wall between us. “What is wrong with you?!” David yelled. “If you didn’t want us here, just say it! Why are you physically attacking her?” “You’re a psycho! You just see us as garbage to step on!” Lara hid behind David, weeping into her hands, playing the battered victim to perfection. The mob mentality took over. The staff pressed in on me, their anger escalating into something ugly and physical. Outnumbered and overwhelmed, I backed away, retreating until I was backed into the glittering entrance of a high-end designer boutique in the luxury terminal. Someone shoved my shoulder hard. I lost my balance, crashing into a velvet display pedestal. A heavy, crystal centerpiece hit the marble floor and shattered. Jonathan stood at the edge of the crowd, watching me scramble amidst the broken glass, his eyes cold and unfeeling. “Someone like her needs to learn a lesson,” he said, his voice carrying over the commotion. The malice in his tone terrified me. I kicked off my heels and tried to push through the crowd to run. But they boxed me in. One of the account managers actually grabbed a heavy designer handbag off a nearby shelf and hurled it at me. “Hey! Stop!” The boutique manager sprinted over, his face flushed with panic. “Security! You are destroying our merchandise! You are legally responsible for all of this!” Lara stepped forward, wiping her nonexistent tears, looking utterly unfazed. “Relax,” she said, pulling a silver card from her Chanel bag. “We can afford to buy everything she broke. Ring it up.” The manager, sweating profusely, called his staff over to tally the damages. The smashed crystal, the scuffed leather goods, the disrupted displays. “The damages come to roughly one point five million US dollars,” the manager said stiffly. Jonathan didn’t even blink. He looked at Lara with the casual arrogance of a billionaire. “Swipe it, Lara.” Lara smiled smugly. She handed over David’s corporate card. The manager ran it through the terminal. A moment of silence passed. Then, the machine let out a sharp, flat beep. “Card declined. Insufficient funds.”

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When Margot pulled me out of the precinct for the fifth time, I didn’t even bother buttoning my shirt correctly. She slammed a manila folder against my chest, her face a mask of practiced disgust. “For God’s sake, Gideon! Can’t you keep it in your pants? Five arrests for solicitation in six months. Do you have any idea what this is doing to the firm’s reputation?” She gestured toward the man standing a few paces behind her. “And don’t you dare blame Damian this time. He was with me the entire night. You can’t claim he’s out playing dress-up as his ‘evil twin’ anymore.” Damian. My mirror image. My identical twin brother. He stood there with his arms crossed, watching me with a look of feigned pity that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Margot waited for me to start the usual routine—the desperate pleas, the claims of being drugged or framed, the begging for her to believe the man she had married ten years ago. But this time, I just looked at her. I felt a strange, airy lightness in my chest, like a string had finally snapped. “Let’s get a divorce,” I said. My voice was steady, devoid of the usual tremor. Margot let out a sharp, condescending laugh. She didn’t even look surprised; she just looked bored. “Fine. If that’s the play you’re making today, Gideon, go for it. See how long you last without my bank account.” She turned on her heel and walked toward her car, Damian trailing behind her like a loyal shadow. I watched them go, but I didn’t follow. I hailed my own cab and gave the driver an address in the opposite direction. Margot didn’t know that my mind was finally giving up. The trauma of these past six months had triggered something the doctors called dissociative amnesia. My brain was systematically deleting her. By next month, she would be a stranger. And eventually, so would our daughter. 1. As the city lights blurred outside the taxi window, I drifted into a fitful sleep. My dreams were a jagged montage of the last half-year, a highlight reel of my own destruction. The first time the police took me in, I thought the world had ended. I sat in that interrogation room, staring at the grainy surveillance footage of a man with my face, my walk, and my clothes entering a seedy motel. “It’s not me,” I had stammered, my heart hammering against my ribs. “It’s Damian. He’s hated me since we were kids. He’s obsessed with ruining me.” I saw the way the man in the video looked directly at the camera—a subtle, predatory smirk. It was a taunt. A signature. But Margot had been cold as ice. “Damian is sensitive. He’s shy. He can barely talk to a woman without blushing, Gideon. You, on the other hand, have always been the ‘charmer.’ Stop projecting your filth onto your brother.” I had undergone polygraphs, paid for private psychiatrists, and begged for her to see the truth. She chose to believe the brother-in-law who had crawled back into our lives a year ago after being “estranged” for a decade. As punishment for my “lies,” she took our daughter, Piper, and disappeared for a month. No calls. No address. When they returned, Piper stopped calling me Daddy. The second time, I tried to prove my devotion through blood. I knelt on our kitchen floor and opened my veins, a desperate, pathetic attempt to show her I’d rather die than be the man she thought I was. She didn’t cry. She just looked at the mess on the marble and called an ambulance with the same tone she used to order takeout. She bailed me out, but only because the scandal of a suicide attempt was worse than the arrest. The third time, I lost it. I went to the family estate to confront Damian, only for Margot to slap me so hard my vision blurred. “You commit these crimes and then come here to drag him through the mud? He has your face, Gideon. He shouldn’t have to pay for your sins!” That was the day she moved Piper’s legal guardianship into Damian’s name. She told our daughter to call him “Papa D.” To keep from losing them entirely, I became a ghost in my own home. I stayed within the walls of the estate, never leaving, thinking I was safe. And yet, the police came again. With “ironclad” evidence. I started to doubt my own reality. I saw specialists, underwent grueling tests for Dissociative Identity Disorder, convinced I had a monster living inside me. Four arrests later, I had lost my wife, my child, and my sanity. By the fifth time the cuffs clicked shut, I just held out my hands. I was done. I wanted the cell. I wanted the quiet of a prison where they couldn’t reach me. I looked at Margot in the station lobby. “Believe whatever you want. You’re blind anyway.” She sneered. “I hope you keep that tough-guy act up, Gideon. It’s the most interesting thing about you lately.” Damian touched her arm gently. “Margot, don’t be angry. Gideon doesn’t mean to throw his life away. He’s just… he’s always been popular with women. I think he just couldn’t handle being a one-woman man.” I looked at Damian and felt a cold ripple of nausea. Every single time I was arrested, he was there to “support” Margot, conveniently providing the “missing” evidence to the police. “I guess the whole marriage, the vasectomy, the ‘devoted husband’ act… it was all just a long con, wasn’t it?” Margot said, her voice dripping with venom. I didn’t argue. There was no point. She, like my parents before her, saw Damian as a precious, fragile thing. My mother always blamed me for “stealing” Damian’s nutrients in the womb because he was born smaller. My childhood was a cycle of his hand-me-downs and his leftovers. He was the golden boy; I was the thief. Until I met Margot in college. She had been my sun. She was the only person who saw my anxiety, who handled my childhood scars with grace. She gave me the courage to step out of Damian’s shadow. I didn’t have words to thank her, so I gave her my life. I learned to cook every meal she liked; I stopped eating spicy food for ten years because she hated the smell. I worked eighteen-hour days to help her build her firm. When she got pregnant, I treated her like glass. When Piper was born, I got the vasectomy immediately because I couldn’t bear to see Margot go through that pain again. The woman who pulled me out of the abyss was now the one pushing me back in. I went back to the house one last time to pack. When I opened the front door, a bucket of ice-cold water drenched me from head to toe. Piper stood there, the empty bucket in her hands, her face twisted in a sneer that looked far too old for a seven-year-old. “You’ve been playing with trashy women all day. I thought you needed to cool off.” I wiped the water from my eyes, shivering. “Who taught you to do that?” My mother stepped out from the shadows of the hallway, pulling Piper into her arms. “Is she wrong? If you had any dignity left, Gideon, you’d leave now before the sixth arrest.” “You know, don’t you?” I whispered, staring at my mother. “You know Damian is doing this.” 2. She didn’t answer. Instead, Piper lunged forward and rammed her head into my stomach. “Don’t you talk bad about Papa D!” The pain was a dull thud, but the ache in my heart was sharper. I tried to walk past them to go upstairs, but Piper blocked the way. “You’re divorcing Mommy,” she spat. “You don’t belong in Mommy’s house.” Mommy’s house? I had paid for three-quarters of this mortgage. I had picked out every piece of furniture. “Move, Piper,” I said, my voice low. “Or I will show you that even ‘trashy’ fathers deserve respect.” She rolled her eyes. “Respect? You’ve been a house-pet for ten years. You haven’t made a dime since Mommy took over the firm. Why should I respect a loser who spends all our money on hookers?” Her words were a serrated blade. Ten years of sacrifice, and to my own daughter, I was just a leech. She looked me up and down with pure disdain. “You’re old, you’re ugly, and you’re a cheat. I’m embarrassed to tell people you’re my dad. And that scar on your arm? It’s disgusting.” She pointed at the jagged, discolored flesh on my forearm. I got that scar three years ago when she knocked a pot of boiling oil off the stove. I had shoved her out of the way and taken the brunt of it. It was a permanent reminder of the day I saved her life. A surge of white-hot fury hit me. I grabbed her hand and gave her a sharp smack across the palm. Piper shrieked. My mother screamed and shoved me, sending me stumbling back against the stairs. My head cracked against the banister, and for a second, the world went gray. My memory felt like a flickering candle in a windstorm. The front door opened. Margot walked in, taking in the scene. She didn’t ask what happened. She just walked over and kicked me while I was down. “Have you lost your mind? Laying a hand on a child?” I looked up at her, blinking back tears of physical and emotional pain. “I’m disciplining my daughter for being a brat. What’s your excuse? Letting her call her uncle ‘Daddy’? Is that the new parenting trend for the brain-dead?” “Your daughter?” Damian stepped forward, scooping Piper into his arms. He looked like a hero in a Hallmark movie. “Look at her, Gideon. Does she look like she belongs to you?” The three of them stood there—Damian, Margot, and Piper. A perfect family portrait. It should have destroyed me. Instead, I just felt… empty. “Oh, so you’re the tough guy now? The big disciplinarian?” Margot mocked. “What’s next? Going to audition for a soap opera?” I stood up slowly, leaning on the railing. “Legally, the divorce isn’t final. I have every right to be here. And until a judge says otherwise, I am her father. I’ll parent her however I see fit.” But I wasn’t there to fight. I was there for the money. In my desk was an envelope with five thousand dollars in cash—a wedding gift from my old mentor, Mrs. Higgins. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for a plane ticket to anywhere but here. I grabbed the envelope and headed for the door. Piper was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. “Think you can just run away after being mean? I’m going to show Mommy who you really are.” Before I could react, she lunged at me. She grabbed my damp shirt and started tearing at it with a strength fueled by pure malice. The envelope fell, and the cash scattered across the foyer floor. “Look!” Piper screamed. “He’s stealing Mommy’s money!” Damian’s eyes went red with fake hurt. “Gideon… I tried to hide this for you. Why are you still doing this?” Margot’s eyes narrowed. “Hide what?” “The loan sharks,” Damian sighed. “They called me last week. Gideon owes them a hundred and fifty thousand. Probably for his… habits. I paid it off so he wouldn’t get hurt, but I didn’t think he’d start stealing from the house.” “Damian, you lying son of a bitch!” I roared. Piper kicked me square in the shin. “Don’t you talk to him like that!” Margot looked at me with a soul-crushing disappointment. “How did you become this person, Gideon?” Piper shielded Damian as if I were a wild animal about to attack. “I wish I wasn’t your kid,” she whispered. “I wish Damian was my real dad.” “I give you ten thousand a month for ‘household expenses,’” Margot said. “And it’s still not enough for your whores? You have to take out loans?” I laughed. It was a dry, hacking sound. Damian handled the “household” accounts. My ten-thousand-dollar allowance usually ended up being a few hundred dollars in cash left on the dresser after he “processed” the bills. I had told Margot. She had called me paranoid. I knelt down to pick up my five thousand dollars. It was all I had left of a life that was already fading from my mind. “Gideon, look at me when I’m talking to you!” Margot grabbed my wrist. 3. “Why are you stealing?” she demanded. “I’m not,” I said, wrenching my arm away. “This was a gift from Mrs. Higgins. It’s mine.” “That old woman?” Margot sneered. “She lives on a pension. Where would she get five thousand dollars for a loser like you?” I shoved Margot back, hard. “Watch your mouth. You owe everything to her!” When Margot’s first startup failed years ago, we were being hunted by debt collectors. I had been beaten bloody in an alleyway protecting her. It was Mrs. Higgins—my college professor—who stepped in. She took the blows, ended up with fifteen stitches in her head, and sold her home of thirty years to pay off our debts. She had been the mother to us that neither of us ever had. Margot shrugged, indifferent. “She wanted to play the martyr. I just gave her the stage.” I stared at her, wondering when the woman I loved had been replaced by this monster. “Gideon,” Damian said, stepping closer with a predatory glint in his eyes. “Did you ever wonder why a ‘random teacher’ would sell her house for a student? Use your head.” Margot’s face went pale. She looked at me, her voice trembling with a new kind of rage. “Gideon… did you sleep with that old bitch? Was that the price?” The slap I gave her echoed through the house. “Margot!” I screamed. “You’re sleeping with your brother-in-law! Don’t you dare talk about her!” Margot rubbed her cheek, her eyes turning obsidian. She didn’t yell. She just pulled out her phone. “Bring Mrs. Higgins here. Now.” “Margot, no! Don’t you dare touch her!” My desperation only fed her fire. She grabbed me by the throat, shoving me toward the glass doors leading to the garden. “Am I not good enough for you, Gideon? Is that why you need the trash on the street and the old biddy in the classroom?” I couldn’t breathe. “I didn’t… Damian is lying!” “Still blaming Damian!” She dragged me out into the yard. In the distance, near the edge of the estate’s wooded perimeter, I saw a car. Two of Margot’s security team were dragging Mrs. Higgins out. Her clothes were disheveled, and her grandson was clinging to her coat, sobbing in terror. “Margot, stop! She’s an old woman! She saved us!” But Margot was beyond reason. She pinned me against a stone pillar with one hand and started clawing at my shirt with the other. “You can’t control yourself, right? You like it dirty? Let’s see how you perform in front of your ‘benefactor.’” I started to shake, the humiliation washing over me like acid. “Margot, we’re over. You’ve humiliated me enough. Don’t do this to her. Have you forgotten how to be human?” She froze for a second, then threw my torn shirt into the dirt. “Don’t act like a saint. It doesn’t suit a man who’s been caught in a motel five times.” Piper came running out, skip-hopping across the lawn. She stopped and spat on my shoes. “Mommy, he’s so gross. He’s not my daddy anymore.” She looked at Margot. “Papa D is going to be my real daddy soon, right?” Margot picked Piper up and kissed her forehead. “Of course, baby. You can have whatever daddy you want.” Piper looked at me, her chin held high. “Hear that? Mommy hates you. Just leave so Papa D can move in.” My heart didn’t break; it turned to ash. “Fine,” I whispered. “He’s your father now. I’m done with you.” I broke away from Margot’s grip and ran toward Mrs. Higgins. I had to get her away. I had to save the only person who had ever actually loved me. But then I saw her. She was standing on the edge of the unfinished balcony of the guest house being renovated—six stories up. She was holding her grandson, her eyes fixed on me. There was no hate in them. Only a quiet, devastating apology. 4. “No!” I screamed. She looked down at me and gave a small, sad nod. The boy in her arms was unnaturally still—he had stopped crying. My heart stopped. I ran toward the stairs, my lungs burning, but I was too late. There was a sickening, wet thud. Warm, metallic-smelling blood sprayed across my face and chest. I tried to scream, but only a broken wheeze came out. They say when you hit the absolute bottom of human sorrow, you lose the ability to cry. You just break. … Back at the main house, the housekeeper was waiting anxiously as Margot kicked off her heels. “Ma’am, Mr. Marshall has locked himself in the bedroom. He hasn’t eaten all day. He won’t let anyone in.” Margot sat down at the dining table, exhausted but still fueled by spite. “If he wants to starve, let him. He’ll come crawling out when his stomach wins over his ego.” The housekeeper hesitated. “Your assistant sent over some files. She said the property where the… incident happened… is the site for the new corporate bidding. She wants to know if you’re still moving forward with the acquisition, given the ‘casualty.’” Margot rubbed her temples. “What casualty? Is Gideon still paying people to pull stunts?” The housekeeper silently handed her a police report. It detailed the time and cause of death for Mrs. Higgins and her grandson. Margot didn’t even read it. She crumpled it and tossed it into the trash. “Unbelievable. Infidelity, debt, and now he’s got the staff lying for him? I’m going to end this right now.” She stormed upstairs and kicked the bedroom door open. “Gideon, get out here! We’re finishing this!” She stopped. The air left her lungs. The room was a graveyard.

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