Category: English

On my birthday, my boyfriend bought me a cheap pack of grocery-store cupcakes and a single wax candle. He told me birthday cakes were nothing but a capitalist marketing trap, a distraction from our real goal: saving every penny for a down payment on a house. I was hurt, but I swallowed my disappointment and agreed. Then, on the evening of my birthday, my best friend breezed through our front door. She bypassed the empty chair and squeezed herself right onto the sofa between us, wrapping her arms around mine and preening. “Oh my god, Dylan is literally the most amazing guy,” Sally cooed, resting her head on his shoulder. “He just put down eight thousand dollars to secure the lease on my new apartment downtown. I got to sleep in until nine this morning. It was absolute heaven!” My mouth went dry. To make it to my office on time, I had to wake up at five in the morning, ride an electric scooter for twenty minutes in the freezing cold, and transfer through three different subway lines. I did it because Dylan insisted that living this far out in the Boston suburbs was the only way to save two thousand a year on rent. Buzz. I looked down at the screen of my phone. [Card ending in 8744: Wire transfer of $400,000 to Sally completed. Remaining balance: $400,000.] Dylan had just transferred the savings we had built together over ten years—our future home—directly to my best friend. I looked up, my chest tightening. Dylan was casually peeling a shrimp, dropping the pink meat directly into Sally’s bowl. His voice was entirely conversational. “Oh, that. It’s to help fund her grad school. We can always buy a house later, Alice. Sally won’t have an income while she’s getting her master’s degree. Actually, I was thinking you might want to chip in a bit, too?” I looked down at my faded, worn-out flannel pajamas. Ten years of devotion, of sacrificing my own comfort, suddenly felt like a joke. “Sure,” I said, my voice completely flat. “I’ll go to the bank right now and pull out everything left in the account.” I would empty the account, and in doing so, I would erase him from my future. 1 “See? I told you Alice is reasonable. She’d never make a fuss over something like this. You owe me twenty bucks,” Dylan said, looking at Sally with an affectionate, indulgent smile. He reached out and playfully pinched her nose. Sally pouted, pretending to be annoyed, and grabbed his shoulder, giving it a playful, teasing bite. “Fine, fine. I admit I underestimated Alice,” Sally said, though her eyes remained locked on him. “I just know how badly she wanted that house.” She turned to me, her voice dripping with sweet concern. “I didn’t hurt him too bad, did I, Alice? I know how protective you get over your man.” They both looked at me, expecting the usual flash of anger. But I simply kept eating my dinner, chewing slowly. Seeing that I wasn’t reacting, the smug satisfaction on Dylan’s face faltered. A shadow of disappointment crossed his eyes, and he cleared his throat. “I’m glad you’re finally learning to be mature, Alice,” he said, adjusting his collar. “I was worried you’d make a scene like you did last time. It’s nice to see you’re finally growing up.” The “last time” he was referring to was our college reunion. During a game of Truth or Dare, he and Sally had been dared to kiss through a thin plastic card. I had stood up, furious, calling out the complete lack of boundaries. Dylan had shut me down in front of everyone, calling me dramatic, insecure, and a psycho. I had cried until my eyes were swollen, and in the end, I was the one who begged for his forgiveness. But sitting here now, I realized I felt nothing. No anger, no jealousy. The food in front of me was far more interesting than he was. Before I could answer, Sally gasped. She shifted in her seat, accidentally knocking her elbow against the small ceramic figurine on the edge of the table. It fell. The small porcelain boy and girl, sculpted to look like they were embracing, snapped cleanly in two on the hardwood floor. Dylan’s hands shot out to steady Sally, his eyes wide with concern. He didn’t even look at the floor. “Are you okay?” he asked her, before turning a defensive glare toward me. “Alice, don’t get mad. It was an accident. I’ll buy you another one.” That figurine was the very first gift Dylan had ever given me, back when we first made our relationship official. “No need,” I said quietly. “Once something breaks, it breaks.” If I didn’t want the man anymore, why would I care about a piece of painted clay? Dylan opened his mouth to say something, but Sally let out a soft groan, rubbing her lower back. “Oh, my back is so stiff from moving boxes all day.” Without a second thought, Dylan turned his back on me and began gently massaging her shoulders. I wiped my mouth with a napkin, stood up, and slipped into my coat. “Enjoy your dinner. I’m going to the bank.” As I stepped into the hallway to put on my boots, Dylan’s hesitant voice drifted over. “Hey… we haven’t even blown out the candle yet. Make a wish before you go.” I didn’t look back. There was no birthday cake. Just cheap, dry cupcakes and a single candle bought from a convenience store. He had claimed real cakes were a capitalist trap, yet every year on Sally’s birthday, he spent hundreds of dollars ordering custom, multi-tiered artisanal creations from the best bakeries in the city. I shut the door behind me. The bitter, freezing winter air hit my face, making my eyes water. As I walked past the dumpster at the end of the block, I pulled the silver ring off my left hand. It was a cheap, ten-dollar ring he’d bought off Amazon years ago, but I had treated it like a priceless heirloom. I tossed it into the trash. I took a cab to the bank and arrived just minutes before the lobby closed. I withdrew every single cent of my portion of our shared savings, opened a brand-new private account, and deposited the money there. When I was done, I drove to the Prudential Center. I walked straight into a luxury French boutique patisserie, bought the most expensive, beautifully frosted champagne-berry cake in the display, and took myself to a bustling hot pot restaurant downtown. When the staff gathered around my table with a glowing sign, singing “Happy Birthday,” I didn’t feel embarrassed. I smiled, blew out the sparkler, and carved out the largest, sweetest slice for myself. By the time I got back to the apartment, my phone was buzzing with a FaceTime call from Dylan. “Hey,” he said, the camera shaking as he walked around Sally’s apartment. “Sally mentioned seeing some sketchy guy loitering near her building earlier. She’s terrified to be alone, so I’m going to crash on her couch tonight to make sure she’s safe.” Sally popped into the frame, her arms looped casually around his neck. She gave a playful wink. “Alice, you’re my savior! Let me borrow your boyfriend for just one night to protect a damsel in distress!” She knew I had never been able to say no to her. We had been best friends for seven years. Dylan adjusted his camera, briefly looking at my screen. “Make sure you lock the deadbolt. Don’t fall asleep with the stove on.” Sally patted his cheek. “Oh, don’t worry about her. Our Alice is the toughest girl I know.” But I wasn’t tough. When we first moved to this isolated suburb, I had been followed home from the subway station twice. I had called Dylan, sobbing and hyperventilating in the dark. He had told me I was overreacting, that I was just trying to create drama. Eventually, I bought pepper spray and a small taser to carry in my purse, convincing myself that he was just a typical, unobservant guy who didn’t know how to handle fear. He wasn’t incapable of worry. He was just incapable of worrying about me. I swallowed the sudden, sharp lump in my throat and forced a polite smile. “You’re right. I’m tough. Enjoy your night.” Before they could respond, I hung up. I walked to the closet and began gathering every single gift Dylan had ever given me. A five-dollar red string bracelet from a street vendor. A plastic phone case he got for free with a promotion. A pair of cheap, knockoff wireless earbuds. He had always told me I was a “sensible girl” who didn’t care about material luxuries, that we needed to save for our future. Yet for Sally’s birthdays, he bought Van Cleef & Arpels bracelets, luxury La Mer skincare sets, and the newest, most expensive iPhone. When I had confronted him about it, he had cupped my face and looked at me with puppy-dog eyes. “Babe, I only buy her those things to make you look good. If your boyfriend is generous to your best friend, it makes you look high-class. Since I spent so much of my personal cash on her, maybe you could help me out with rent this month?” I threw every single one of his cheap trinkets into a heavy black trash bag. Then, I dialed my father’s number. “Dad,” I said when he picked up. “The family matchmaking setup you mentioned… I’m ready to come back to New York and meet him.” 2 The next morning, while waiting for the train, a local lifestyle video popped up on my feed. It was a candid clip filmed inside the Louis Vuitton boutique downtown. The caption read: “Obsessed with this couple! Look at how he looks at her. Where do I find a guy like this?” In the video, Dylan was draped over Sally, carefully adjusting the strap of a luxury handbag on her shoulder, his face glowing with a sweet, adoring smile. While I was sitting alone in a restaurant celebrating my birthday, he was playing the doting boyfriend in a designer boutique. I watched the video three times. Then, I liked it. When I arrived at the office, I walked straight to my manager’s desk and handed in my two weeks’ notice. My work bestie walked over to my desk later, holding two mugs of tea. “Alice, what’s going on? Why are you leaving so suddenly? Yesterday you were literally talking about saving up to buy Dylan that new MacBook for his office.” I looked at the screen of my computer, where the video of Dylan and Sally was still paused. I smiled, but the warmth didn’t reach my eyes. “He’s someone else’s boyfriend now. He doesn’t need my gifts.” An hour before my shift ended, my phone rang. It was Dylan. “Is something wrong with you today?” he asked, his tone laced with irritation. “No. Why?” “You haven’t texted me once. No updates, no phone calls. Nothing.” I let out a soft, dry laugh. I hadn’t even realized. For the first time in ten years, I hadn’t spent my day wondering what he was doing or if he was safe. In the past, if he had stayed overnight at another woman’s house, I would have spent the entire day calling him, crying and demanding reassurance. “Did you need something?” I asked. There was a long silence on the other end. “Don’t take the subway,” Dylan said, sounding uncharacteristically awkward. “I’ll drive down and pick you up after work.” Ever since he bought his car, he had insisted I keep a low profile at work by taking public transit. He rarely offered to drive me, though he frequently went “out of his way” to pick up Sally. “Okay,” I replied. When I opened the passenger door and got in, Dylan didn’t even look up. He was staring at his phone, typing rapidly, a soft smile tugging at his lips. My dad called. I picked up immediately. “Everything is set, Dad. My resignation is processing. I’ll be back in New York next week.” I hung up, and Dylan finally tossed his phone into the cup holder. “What’s happening next week?” “Nothing.” I reached down to adjust my seat and brushed against something soft. I pulled out a pair of pink lace underwear from the crevice of the passenger seat. Dylan’s face went pale. He snatched them out of my hand, stuffing them into the glove box with a clumsy, panicked laugh. “Sally… you know how she is. She’s so disorganized. She must have dropped them when we were moving her things.” I simply nodded, turning my gaze to the window. He nervously turned on the radio. An indie-pop song—one of Sally’s favorites—filled the car. He skipped it, but the next song was by the same artist. And the next. “Don’t worry about it,” I said, my voice empty of emotion. “Just leave it.” Dylan’s hand froze over the dashboard. The nervous smile on his face slowly dissolved. “Alice, you’re acting weird. You usually hate this kind of music.” Before I could answer, his phone rang. He answered it on the car’s Bluetooth speaker. “Dylan…” Sally’s voice whimpered through the speakers. “My cramps are getting really bad. I don’t think I can walk to the pharmacy.” Dylan cut the call, pulled over to the side of the road, and looked at me with an apologetic, pleading expression. “Alice, can you hop out here and take the train? I need to go get her some medicine. You know how fragile she gets during her cycle. You care about her, right?” I sat quietly for a moment, staring into his eyes. “Dylan. Do you even remember whose boyfriend you are?” His face instantly flushed with anger, his eyes narrowing. “What does that have to do with anything? Why do you always have to be so incredibly selfish, Alice? She’s your best friend!” He reached over and unlocked the passenger door. “Get out. I don’t want her waiting in pain because of your jealousy.” I didn’t say another word. I grabbed my purse, stepped out into the cold, and watched the taillights of his car disappear into the evening traffic. By the time Dylan got home, it was past ten. He walked into the kitchen with a sheepish, placating smile, holding out a small bakery box. “Don’t be mad, babe. Look what I brought you.” Inside was a slice of salted caramel peanut cake. Sally’s absolute favorite. I didn’t touch it. “I’m severely allergic to peanuts, Dylan.” His face drained of color. “Oh… God, Alice, I’m sorry. I forgot…” This was the man who, during our first year of dating, used to painstakingly pick every single stray peanut out of my takeout food. Now, he couldn’t even remember the allergy that could send me to the ICU. To cover his guilt, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, elegantly wrapped gift box. “Here. Sally and I picked this out for you. Consider it a belated birthday gift.” I opened the box. A silk Louis Vuitton scarf lay inside. I pulled out my phone, unlocked it, and showed him the TikTok video I had liked earlier. His expression went from embarrassed to defensive in a fraction of a second. “Sally is starting her graduate program. She needed a professional bag to make a good impression! Why do you always have to compare yourself to her? If you don’t want the scarf, then don’t take it!” He slammed the box onto the counter, marched into the bathroom, and slammed the door so hard the glass rattled. A few minutes later, his phone buzzed on the kitchen island. I looked down. [Sally: Is it okay that we gave Alice the free promo scarf? I felt a little bad, but I really, really loved the bag.] [Dylan: Don’t worry about it. A designer logo is a designer logo. It’s more than enough for her.] I didn’t feel the tears fall, but I felt the cold trail they left on my cheeks. Later that night, Dylan climbed into bed and wrapped his arms around me from behind, burying his face in my hair. This was his routine—his way of apologizing without ever having to say the words. In the past, I would have softened instantly, turning around to hold him. But tonight, his touch made my skin crawl. I gently but firmly pulled his arms off me and rolled to the far edge of the mattress. He went stiff. After a long, tense silence, he grabbed his pillow and walked out to the living room. Our sofa was small and stiff. In the past, I would have lain awake, consumed by guilt, before finally going out to pull him back to bed. But tonight, I closed my eyes and fell into a deep, uninterrupted sleep. 3 When Dylan woke up the next morning, I was already in the living room, packing my books into cardboard boxes. He rubbed his eyes, looking around the messy apartment. “Where’s breakfast?” Dylan had a sensitive stomach and got severe acid reflux if he didn’t eat right away. No matter how badly we fought, I had always woken up early to make him a warm meal. “I already ate,” I said, tape-sealing a box. “If you’re hungry, make something yourself.” He stared at me, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and wounded pride, but I didn’t look back. Ping. Our shared group chat lit up. [Sally: Oh my god, look at this new brunch place downtown! It’s so aesthetic. We should all go this afternoon!] Dylan glanced at me, his fingers flying across his screen as he typed his reply. [Dylan: Let’s just go the two of us. Alice is clearly too busy with her packing projects.] Usually, the fear of leaving them alone would have driven me crazy. I would have dropped everything, begged him to let me come, and the fight would have ended in a fragile compromise. But now, I simply picked up my phone. [Alice: Yeah, I’m busy. Have fun, guys.] Dylan lingered by the front door for a long time, adjusting his coat, waiting for me to say something. When I kept my back turned, he let out a frustrated sigh and slammed the door behind him. By three in the afternoon, my hands were dusty, and the apartment was mostly bare. I checked my social media. Dylan, who hadn’t posted a photo since college, had uploaded a picture of him and Sally sitting close together at a candlelit table, holding up their drinks. I knew exactly what he was doing. He was waiting for me to call him, furious and crying, so he could play the reasonable partner and graciously invite me to join them. But I felt nothing but exhaustion. I locked my phone and went back to packing. Dylan didn’t come home that night. The next afternoon, he called me, his voice sharp and demanding. “Did you wire the money to Sally’s account yet?” “No,” I said calmly. “And I’m not going to.” There was a heavy pause on the line before he let out a condescending chuckle. “Come on, Alice. I know you’re just doing this to get my attention. It’s classic you.” He paused, his voice softening into a patronizing hum. “How about this? I’ll take you to see that movie you wanted to watch tonight. After the movie, you can transfer the money to Sally. Deal?” I sighed, realizing how useless it was to argue with someone who refused to hear me. “Sure. Let’s meet at the theater.” A proper breakup deserved to be done in person. When I arrived, Dylan was waiting near the ticket booth holding a bucket of popcorn. He reached out to take my hand, but I slipped my hands into my pockets, stepping past him. The movie started, but I couldn’t focus. The onscreen drama felt incredibly trivial compared to the quiet, heavy reality of my own life. Dylan kept shifting in his seat, checking his phone under his jacket. Finally, he leaned over. “I have to step out for a quick call. I’ll be right back.” He never came back. When the lights came up, I walked out of the theater and into the bustling plaza outside the mall. And there they were. Sally and Dylan, standing close under the streetlights, laughing as they shared a single waffle cone. Sally’s hand was resting casually on his hip. I felt a strange sense of relief. It was like watching a movie I already knew the ending to. When they spotted me, Sally’s smile froze. She quickly pulled her hand away from Dylan’s waist and jogged over to me, grabbing my wrists. “Alice! I swear I just wanted to try a bite of his ice cream! You’re not actually mad, are you?” I pulled my hands back, looking at her with a disgust that had been building for years. “If you think that’s normal, go ahead. But I don’t share food with other women’s boyfriends.” I took a deep breath, my voice steady despite the cold. “Dylan, we’re over. Sally, we’re done.” 4 I turned to walk away, but Dylan lunged forward, grabbing my shoulder and spinning me back. “Are you serious right now? Stop being so incredibly childish! You can’t just throw around words like ‘breakup’ every time you get jealous!” “Sally literally just explained it to you!” he yelled, his face contorting. “It’s just ice cream!” As we struggled, a delivery scooter suddenly whipped around the blind corner of the plaza, speeding directly toward us. Instinctively, Dylan’s arms shot out—not to grab me, but to pull Sally tightly against his chest, shielding her with his body. In the process, his elbow shoved me hard. My heel caught on the uneven pavement, and I crashed violently onto the concrete. I sat there, the palms of my hands scraped and stinging, staring up at the man I had loved for a decade. Even though I had already decided to leave, watching his back as he shielded another woman still sent a sharp, physical pain straight through my chest. Sally pushed Dylan away, her face filled with horror as she looked at me. “Dylan! What the hell did you push her for?” She scrambled down to my level, her worry genuine. “Alice, are you okay? Oh my god, you’re bleeding.” “What are you standing there for?” Sally snapped at Dylan. “Help me get her to the hospital!” Dylan hesitated, looking down at his watch. “But… doesn’t your manager need that report submitted by midnight?” I looked at him, and the last lingering ember of my love finally went cold. I wiped the tears from my face, stood up on my own, and flagged down a passing taxi. I went to the urgent care clinic alone, got my scrapes bandaged, and took a cab to a hotel. The next morning, Dylan was waiting outside my office building. “Alice, let me drive you to work. Let’s talk.” “There’s nothing to talk about. We broke up.” Dylan let out a frustrated laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Over a bite of ice cream? Over an accident where I tried to keep everyone safe? You’re completely fine, Alice! Look at you, you don’t even have a scratch. Stop playing these ridiculous mind games. My patience has a limit.” I looked at him, feeling nothing but pity. “I’m not playing games, Dylan. It’s over.” He stared at me, searching my face, before letting out a smug, knowing chuckle. “Right. This is your new tactic, isn’t it? Playing hard to get.” He checked his watch. “Sally and I have a five-day business trip to Portland. Use this time to calm down and think about your attitude. When I get back, wire the money to Sally, and I’ll bring you something nice.” Before I could correct him, his phone rang with Sally’s ringtone. He answered it, muttered a quick “I’m on my way,” and hurried off toward his car. Over the next five days, I quietly packed up the rest of my life in Boston. During that time, I received two sets of daily notifications. The first was a constant stream of texts from Dylan, detailing what he ate, what he saw, and how much he missed me. The second was from Sally’s “Close Friends” Instagram stories, which she had specifically allowed me to see. It was a curated gallery of her and Dylan: holding hands on the beach, sharing room service in their hotel, laughing over drinks. I liked every single one of her stories, took screenshots of them, and forwarded the entire gallery to Dylan’s chat. Then, I blocked them both. On the morning of my flight to New York, my phone rang. It was Dylan’s mother. “Alice,” she said, her voice dripping with disapproval. “I think it’s highly inappropriate for a girl from your background to be living rent-free in my son’s condominium when you aren’t even engaged yet.” My blood ran cold. “Your son’s condominium?” “Yes. Dylan bought that place years ago with our family’s help. I hope you aren’t taking advantage of his kindness.” I hung up, my hands trembling. I pulled up my banking app, screenshotting every single monthly rent payment I had sent to Dylan’s personal account over the past three years—rent he told me went to a “strict, greedy landlord.” I forwarded the screenshots to his mother, along with a simple message: “I’ve paid exactly half of your son’s mortgage every single month. Feel free to ask him where that money went.” I blocked her number, switched my phone to airplane mode, and watched the Boston skyline fade into the winter clouds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “542316”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Our company was preparing for the annual Kids’ Charity Art Gala when my colleague, Sarah, approached me with red, puffy eyes. “My daughter Lily has leukemia,” she choked out, clutching my sleeve. “Can we please put her painting right in the center of the exhibition hall? Just to give her one last beautiful memory. I’m begging you.” My heart softened back then. I swapped her painting into the prime spot. I had no idea the painting was plagiarized straight from the internet. The original artist showed up at our office to sue us. When the scandal broke, Sarah immediately threw me under the bus in front of everyone. “It was Chloe who insisted on putting it there! I tried to stop her!” Without even investigating, the CEO fired me on the spot. Just as I was packing up my things to leave, a massive chandelier fell from the ceiling and crushed me to death. When I opened my eyes again, Sarah was clutching my hand once more, sobbing. “This is my baby’s last wish…” I pushed her away immediately and handed her a document. “Sign this disclaimer. It states that your daughter’s artwork is 100% original. If there’s any plagiarism, you take full legal and financial responsibility.”

“Chloe, what is the meaning of this?” Her voice trembled. “My daughter Lily is only seven. She stayed up all night painting this. How could she possibly plagiarize?” I didn’t say a word. I just pushed the paper closer to her. “You are insulting my child!” Her voice went up an octave. “She’s just a little girl! Whose work could she even copy?” Looking at her hysterical face, I felt absolutely nothing. “This is standard company procedure.” Sarah bit her lip, and tears began to pool in her eyes. “I just wanted to make my dying child happy. Her chemotherapy is so painful…” She gasped for air, sobbing dramatically. “Do you really have to push me this far?” In my past life, I was completely fooled by this act. I thought I was doing a good deed, but it ended up costing me my life. I pulled the paper back. “If you don’t want to sign, that’s fine. We’ll just display her painting according to the original submission queue.” She froze. “What did you say?” “Company policy states that all exhibited works must have a signed originality waiver,” I said coldly. “If you don’t sign, your painting goes to the back of the line.” Sarah’s face completely darkened. She wiped her tears, her voice rising even louder. “Chloe, do you have a single drop of empathy in you?” I didn’t answer. “My child has leukemia! As an adult, how can you be so heartless?” She pointed a finger right at my nose. “Are you even human?” “It’s the policy.” “Policy?” She let out a harsh laugh. “Even the law has room for humanity! Is our company policy stricter than the actual law?” Just as I was about to speak, I heard footsteps behind me. “What’s going on here?” Victoria, the Director of the Art Gala, walked over holding a cup of Starbucks. “I could hear you guys screaming from down the hall.” Sarah’s eyes turned red instantly. She threw herself toward Victoria and grabbed her hand. “Victoria, you have to help me!” Her voice cracked with fresh tears. “My little girl has leukemia. She just wanted a good spot for her painting to have one last moment of joy. But Chloe is forcing me to sign some legal waiver, claiming she’s worried about plagiarism… My baby is only seven! Who could she possibly copy?” Victoria frowned and looked at me. “Chloe, this is really poor form on your part.” “Victoria, that’s not what—” “The child is sick. Just give her a break,” Victoria interrupted me, waving her hand dismissively. “We host this gala as an employee benefit anyway. Why are you being such a stickler?” Sarah nodded vigorously on the side, her eyes watery and pitiful. I took a deep breath. “Victoria, did you already forget what happened to Mark from Sales last week? He helped someone bypass the check and display a painting. It turned out to be plagiarized. The company had to pay a $15,000 fine, and Mark was fired on the spot.” Victoria’s hand froze over her coffee cup. “I was there,” I continued, looking coldly at Sarah. “The employee blamed Mark entirely to save her own skin. So now, no unsigned artwork goes in the center spot. Period. Unless they sign the liability waiver.” Sarah’s face went pale for a second, then flushed red with anger. “My Lily absolutely did not copy!” she shrieked. “She painted our family cat! It is 100% original!” “Then why is it so hard to sign the paper?” “Why should I?” she glared at me. “You just don’t trust me! You don’t trust a mother of a dying child!” Victoria looked at me, clearly thinking I was being cold-hearted. Sarah’s tears spilled over again as she choked out, “I just want people to see her art. What if… what if she isn’t here tomorrow…” She covered her face, her shoulders shaking violently. Victoria sighed. “Chloe, it’s a minor thing. Why are you making such a big deal out of it?” “Victoria, I’m just following the rules,” I said, cutting her off. “No signature, no center spot. That rule came directly from the CEO.” Sarah snapped her head up. Her face was covered in tears, but her eyes were filled with pure venom. “Chloe, you’re just jealous of me, aren’t you?”

I blinked. “Jealous of you?” “Jealous that I have a daughter!” She spat the words at me. “You’re in your thirties, single, with no boyfriend, and absolutely miserable. You hate seeing other people happy!” Victoria’s gaze shifted, looking at me with sudden suspicion. Sarah got even bolder. “I’ve seen people like you before. You pretend to care about the rules, but deep down, you’re just bitter! You don’t understand the sacred bond of motherhood, so you try to ruin it for the rest of us.” She wiped her tears and sneered. “And you’re jealous of my work performance too. I ranked higher than you in the last quarterly review, didn’t I? You’ve been bitter about it ever since! Is that why you’re taking it out on my kid’s painting?” She got more and more self-righteous as she spoke. “I’ll say it right here, right now: my daughter’s painting is 100% original! If you don’t believe me, it’s only because your mind is twisted and dark!” I looked at her, slowly folding the document and putting it back in my pocket. “Fine.” Sarah’s eyes lit up, thinking I had backed down. I patted my pocket. “No signature, no center spot. I’ll find another painting for the main display. Yours will go at the very end of the line, based on submission time.” Sarah’s face turned completely black. Victoria slammed her coffee cup onto the desk. “Chloe! That is enough!” I turned to look at her. Victoria’s face was stern, her tone much harsher than before. “The rules are dead, but people are alive. A sick child’s last wish, and you’re really going to block it over a piece of paper?” I remained unfazed. “I’m doing this for the company to avoid unnecessary legal risks.” She pointed a finger at me. “The kid has leukemia! Even if she did copy a little, so what? Who would have the heart to sue a dying child?” Sarah nodded like a bobblehead, her tears flowing right on cue. Victoria looked at me with pure disappointment. “Go put Sarah’s daughter’s painting in the center spot right now. If anything happens, I’ll take full responsibility.” Hearing the Director’s words, I still stood my ground. “What?” she frowned. “My words mean nothing to you now?” “Victoria, I won’t hang that painting.” “I am the Director of this project. If I say we hang it, we hang it!” Her voice turned icy. “Are you going to do it or not?” Sarah crossed her arms, a smug smirk playing on the corner of her lips. I took a deep breath. “No.” Victoria’s face completely darkened. “Fine, Chloe. You think you’re so irreplaceable?” She sneered. “You think this gala can’t run without you?” She turned to Sarah. “Come on, Sarah. I’ll hang it for you myself.” Sarah’s eyes gleamed. She quickly followed Victoria. After taking a few steps, she turned back to give me a smug, mocking look that clearly said: “Who do you think you are?” I pulled out my phone and took a quick picture of their retreating backs. When they were physically hanging the painting, I took another one. By 5:00 PM, the exhibition setup was complete. I took a walk around the hall. Right in the center hung Lily’s painting. It was a cartoon kitten. The brushstrokes were so smooth and professional that there was no way a seven-year-old could have painted it. I took a photo of it. Then, I took a photo of the final setup approval form—the one Victoria had personally signed.

The next morning, the Kids’ Charity Art Gala officially opened. A large crowd quickly gathered around the painting in the center. “Oh my god, did a seven-year-old really paint this?” “This is incredible. The composition, the colors…” “This kid is a prodigy!” Sarah stood nearby, smiling from ear to ear, though she pretended to be humble. “Oh, it’s nothing, really. She was just playing around.” A colleague walked over to me. “Chloe, did you select this painting? You have an amazing eye.” I smiled faintly. “No, I didn’t select it. Director Victoria personally approved it.” The colleague looked at me in surprise but didn’t ask further. At 4:00 PM, it was time for the awards ceremony. The host held the microphone, his voice filled with excitement. “And the winner of the Best Artwork Award goes to—Lily Zhang for her piece, “My Little Kitten”!” Lily was Sarah’s daughter. The crowd erupted into applause. Sarah walked onto the stage under everyone’s envious gazes, her eyes glistening with tears. The host handed her the trophy. “Sarah, would you like to say a few words?” Sarah took the mic, her voice cracking. “Thank you to the company, thank you to Victoria, and thank you to everyone who loves my daughter’s art. My daughter has leukemia. She… she couldn’t make it here today. I am accepting this award on her behalf.” The crowd went dead silent for a second, and then the applause grew even louder. The Vice President, Richard, personally walked up to the stage. He handed her a giant prize check and the latest digital drawing iPad. “Sarah, we are so moved by your daughter’s strength. The company has decided to grant an extra medical fund for her treatment,” Richard said, shaking her hand. “Work hard, and know that the company always has your back.” Sarah sobbed openly. “Thank you so much… thank you…” The photographer snapped several pictures of them. Richard turned to the crowd. “Our company has always been a family. We help those in need. This is our social responsibility as an enterprise.” Cheering and applause filled the room. “The company is so wholesome.” “Sarah is amazing. A single mom working so hard.” “That manager Chloe tried to block her painting earlier. So heartless.” I watched them with a cold expression. “Laugh all you want now. The harder you laugh today, the harder you’ll cry when the original artist shows up.” The day after the gala ended, Victoria and I went to Richard’s office to report on the event. Richard leaned back in his chair, praising her. “The gala went great. Especially that story about the sick child. It brought excellent PR for the company.” Victoria smiled and waved her hand. “Oh, it’s what anyone would do. I just felt so bad for the kid.” Then, her tone shifted as she glanced at me. “Unlike some people who have absolutely no empathy! She fought me tooth and nail to keep that kid’s painting out of the center spot. I had to push through a lot of pressure to approve it.” Richard’s eyes fell on me. “Chloe, what’s this about?” “Company policy requires all participants to sign an originality waiver,” I explained calmly. “Sarah refused to sign, so I refused to give her the prime spot.” “Rules are rules, but we must make exceptions for special cases,” Victoria sneered. “The kid is dying, and you’re gatekeeping a charity event? If the public found out, we’d look terrible!” I looked at Richard. “Do you remember what happened to Mark last week? The company lost $15,000 because of plagiarism. I was just doing my job to protect the company from legal liabilities.” Victoria scoffed. “The gala is already over. What liability? If it weren’t for me, the company would be labeled as heartless by now!” Richard nodded, looking displeased with me. “Chloe, you need to be flexible. Don’t be so rigid.” I didn’t argue back. Richard waved his hand. “Victoria handled this beautifully. Expect a bonus next month. Chloe, you need to learn from her.” I nodded with a fake smile. Victoria beamed. As we walked out of the office, she purposely bumped her shoulder against mine. “See that?” she whispered. “You need a brain to play in the big leagues.”

Sarah cornered me in the breakroom. She was holding a mug of coffee, leaning against the doorframe, looking me up and down. “Well, well. Manager Chloe, drinking coffee all by yourself?” I ignored her and kept filling my cup. She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “I looked up that iPad last night. It’s worth over two grand. Plus the cash prize, I walked away with three thousand dollars. So, thanks. If you hadn’t tried to stop me, Victoria probably wouldn’t have pushed so hard to give me the award.” I screwed the cap onto my bottle. “It has nothing to do with me.” She laughed mockingly. “The more you tried to stop it, the more Victoria wanted to help me. Aren’t you just an idiot? You tried to fight me, and look what happened.” I looked at her like she was a clown. “Are you done?” She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Do you know why your life is such a mess? You’re in your thirties, single, with no boyfriend, and absolutely miserable. You’re rigid at work and lonely in life. You’re just jealous. Jealous that I have a genius daughter, and jealous that my review scores were better than yours.” I let out a cold laugh. “Sarah, your daughter has leukemia, and you’re using her illness to scam money out of the company. You don’t deserve to be a mother.” Her face twisted, her smug expression vanishing instantly. “What did you say?” “I said, you traded your kid’s illness for cash, and you’re actually proud of it. If you really cared about your daughter, you wouldn’t be showing off a stolen painting.” Her face went bright red, her lips trembling. “How dare you say it’s stolen! Do you have proof?” I grabbed my cup and walked past her. “Watch your back.” She chased after me, screaming, “Chloe! Stop right there!” I kept walking. She began to scream at the top of her lungs in the middle of the hallway. “Everyone, come look at this! Chloe is so jealous of my daughter’s talent that she tried to block her painting, and now she’s accusing me of plagiarism! She even demanded I give her half of the prize money! When I said no, she threatened me!” The colleagues in the hallway stopped and turned. Sarah’s eyes welled with tears instantly. “Do you know how hard it is to be a single mom? My baby is going through chemo, and she actually demanded a cut of the money, saying ‘everyone gets a share’…” Whispers broke out. “Oh my god, is Chloe really like that?” “I heard she tried to block the painting earlier…” “Maybe being single for too long made her mental.” I turned around and looked at her. Sarah was crying hysterically now. “Chloe, I know you’re single and childless, and your life is bitter! But you can’t bully us like this! My daughter’s painting is the only thing keeping me going… and you say she copied it… are you trying to drive me to suicide?” The surrounding stares felt like daggers—filled with pity for her, disgust for me, and excitement for the drama. I watched her finish her performance, then said calmly, “Since I’m such a horrible person, I’ll just resign.” Sarah froze. She didn’t expect me to say that. The onlookers shook their heads, enjoying the show. I walked away with my cup. The next morning, I had just finished typing up my resignation letter when someone came looking for me. Five minutes later, a young woman with a ponytail walked into my office. She wore a backpack and held an iPad, her expression grim. “Hi, I’m Emma.” She pushed her iPad screen in front of my face. “This painting, displayed under the name of Lily Zhang, is my artwork from three years ago.” I stood up and smiled. Without a second of hesitation, I said, “Let me take you to the CEO.” We walked to Mr. Carter’s office. The door was half-open. Inside, Richard’s laughter drifted out: “We should give Victoria the Manager of the Year award for this gala…” I knocked on the door. “Come in.” I pushed the door open and let Emma in first. “Mr. Carter, this is the original artist of the painting “My Little Kitten”. She’s here to claim copyright infringement.”

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