Category: English

I was the most valued heir in my family. My parents were extremely strict in raising me. At two years old, I had just learned to walk when they made me practice my posture on a balance beam until my feet were swollen, red, and bleeding. At three, I practiced piano from dawn to dusk. Miss a single note and they wouldn’t give me food. All year round, I had to wear black long sleeves and long pants. Every night, I had to bathe in milk heated to 140 degrees Fahrenheit. My meals were always boiled vegetables and chicken breast. Even the length of my hair had to be precisely calculated. Any violation of these rules would result in severe beatings and scolding. In contrast, my twin sister Jennifer didn’t have to do anything. She could enjoy life to the fullest. When I was suffocating under the pressure and vented online, one comment caught my attention. “Do you know what a groomed companion is? Your family doesn’t seem to be raising an heir—it’s more like they’re grooming a mistress for some rich man.”

My heart jumped. I quickly asked what he meant. He explained at length: “A groomed companion is a product customized to satisfy a wealthy person’s preferences. He gives your parents money or other benefits, and they raise you according to his requirements to become exactly what he wants.” “When you come of age and meet his standards, you’ll become the rich man’s mistress.” I instinctively resisted accepting this, but thinking carefully, my sister and I were twins, yet our parents educated us completely differently. For example, Mom bought Jennifer all kinds of pretty clothes, but always made me dress like a nun. She said: “Claudia, this is for your own good. Your clothes are all silk—they guarantee your skin stays delicate and smooth.” Mom glanced at my sister with disdain. “Jennifer isn’t like you. She’s vulgar, she likes these flashy rough fabrics. She deserves the bumps they leave all over her skin.” I clutched the black clothes in my hands, not daring to make a sound. Actually, I also wanted to wear pretty clothes like a normal little girl. But whenever I brought it up, my parents would look severe. “Claudia, we’ve spent so much effort raising you, and you’re learning bad habits from others, only thinking about looking pretty. How disappointing!” In middle school, after gym class, I secretly went to the school store and bought a bottle of cold soda. When I got home, Dad found the empty bottle. He stormed to school, dragged me out of the classroom, and made me stand under the scorching sun as punishment for three hours. Students passing by pointed and whispered about me. I lowered my head in embarrassment, but Dad insisted I keep my neck straight. He gripped my back and made me recite loudly with him: “I promise never to drink any beverage except water again, or may I die a horrible death.” I bit my teeth in grievance, tears welling in my eyes. But Dad showed no mercy. “Say it!” Like a wooden puppet, I stood stiffly under the sun, making that vicious oath over and over. When school finally let out, Jennifer drank a big gulp of Coke in front of me, then poured the rest over my head. The brown liquid soaked my hair and ran into my mouth. She laughed mockingly: “Claudia, now that you’ve drunk a beverage, why aren’t you dead yet?” The ridicule and mockery around me crawled into my ears like poisonous snakes. I clenched my fists hard, letting my fingernails dig into my palms. Remembering every incident over the past eighteen years, my fingers flew across the keyboard. “Please, how can I confirm whether or not I’m a groomed companion?”

The reply came quickly: “Rich men who keep mistresses don’t want them too educated, and don’t want them exposed to the public.” “If you do these two things and your parents react strangely, it means they have ulterior motives and aren’t genuinely trying to help you.” From elementary school until now, Dad always insisted teachers seat me in the very back row of the classroom. I constantly squinted to see the board, and before long I became nearsighted. When I carefully told my parents about this, they refused to get me glasses or take me for laser surgery. Instead, they said: “If you really can’t see, you don’t have to go to school. I never wanted you poisoned by school education anyway. After the SAT, we’ll send you straight to Europe—that’s where you’ll learn real skills.” In the end, I insisted on attending school, so they didn’t process my withdrawal. Thinking of this, I walked into Dad’s study. He was in an unexpectedly good mood, looking up from his documents. “Claudia, what is it?” I asked: “You mentioned sending me abroad to study before. The SAT is in a month—have you found a school yet?” Dad was clearly stunned, as if he’d completely forgotten about it. Recovering, he forced a relaxed laugh. “Claudia, there’s no rush. Your SAT scores aren’t out yet, so it’s pointless for me to look now.” “Don’t worry. Once the scores come in, Dad will definitely find you a good school.” He enthusiastically ushered me out, but my heart felt cold. I’d decided to study abroad long ago. If Dad truly had plans for my future, he wouldn’t be this flustered when asked about studying abroad, much less completely clueless. They’d deliberately held me back academically for over a decade. If I did poorly on the SAT and couldn’t study abroad… An heir turned into a useless person would become everyone’s laughingstock. Having gotten my answer, I walked to school in a daze. While running on the track, I suddenly heard screaming ahead. Getting closer, I saw a classmate from class had fallen and broken open their head and arm. The homeroom teacher looked anxious. “Bob has hemophilia. The wound won’t stop bleeding. This is very critical.” Everyone wore shorts and short sleeves in summer—only I had more coverage. I immediately took out the small knife I carried and cut off both pant legs. “Tie them tight to stop the bleeding first. Stay here and wait for the school nurse.” My long pants became shorts, exposing two legs so pale they were almost blinding. Someone said in surprise: “Claudia, your legs are so beautiful. Why don’t you ever wear skirts?” I smiled awkwardly without answering. But immediately, she understood why. As soon as Bob was carried away, Mom rushed over. Without a word, she slapped me across the face. “Claudia Morrison, how can you be so shameless, so cheap? Do you need everyone to see your body to be satisfied?” Someone tried to explain: “Ma’am, Claudia only did it to save someone…” One slap wasn’t enough for Mom. She grabbed my hair and violently threw me to the ground. “Claudia, you’ve really grown bold, even teaching others to speak up for you. Who is she? Is she your friend? Didn’t I tell you not to make friends!” “You little slut, I’ll beat you to death today!” Mom first wrapped my legs tightly with her jacket, then slaps rained down like hail. Feeling my burning cheeks and the numbness spreading across my back, I was finally certain—my parents didn’t love me. Not at all. I could never be the Morrison family heir.

After my own mother called me cheap in front of my classmates, I covered my face and fled. Back home, my mind was in chaos. What benefits had my parents received to cruelly sell their own daughter? If I really was a groomed companion, who had reserved me? Was it one of Dad’s two friends, or some corporate CEO? Lost in thought, my head gradually grew heavy. I realized something was wrong—there was something in the water Dad had given me earlier! When I woke again, I found myself on a theater stage with all the Morrison family relatives sitting below. Mom held a white dress, smiling as she walked toward me. “Claudia, I was too impulsive at school yesterday. I apologize. If you’ll forgive me, put on this white dress and dance for everyone, okay?” I clutched my sleeve, looking up at the bright spotlight overhead, extremely uncomfortable. The relatives below looked at me like I was an exquisite commodity. “Claudia, your mother worked so hard raising you all these years. Just dance for everyone so we can see the results. Don’t embarrass your mother in front of all these people.” “That’s right. Claudia is the Morrison family heir. Your sister was sacrificed to achieve what you are today. Be generous about it, don’t be difficult.” Mom moved a high-definition camera in front of me, her smile eerily strange. The camera’s red light blinked in the dim seating area, particularly glaring. I felt like I was being dissected for everyone’s viewing pleasure, every inch of skin, every movement exposed with nowhere to hide. Under dozens of watching eyes, I panicked and tried to flee. “No, I won’t dance. I want to leave.” Mom reached out. Years of malnutrition made me easy prey—she caught me effortlessly. “Claudia, this camera is for recording your competition video. Why are you so resistant to it?” “Listen to Mom. Come back and put on this white dress.” Mom’s smile grew even warmer. To outsiders, she looked like a devoted mother planning for her daughter’s future. My scalp prickled with fear. “No, you’re lying. The video is clearly being recorded for that person. I won’t let you manipulate me!” The moment I finished speaking, Mom’s smile vanished and her expression turned cold. “Claudia, I’m warning you—Take care of yourself. If you don’t dance today, you’ll never leave this place!” She clapped her hands. Immediately, two rows of bodyguards rushed out from backstage, ready to drag me away and lock me up. I had no choice. Humiliated, I put on the custom-made tight white dress. Since childhood, my pants had never shown my ankles. But now this dress was so short it nearly exposed the lace on my safety shorts. I bit my teeth and struggled to stand on tiptoe, dancing before the camera. Mom harshly stopped the music. “Smile! Why do you look like a corpse!” The video finally finished. The relatives applauded half-heartedly with occasional compliments. But most of their comments were about my lotus-white legs. I fled the scene in shame and cried hard in my bedroom. My phone vibrated. The anonymous user had sent another message. “Girl, you’re turning eighteen this year, right? Your birthday is the delivery date. To cover their tracks, something will definitely happen. Be careful.” I stumbled out of bed and grabbed the calendar from my desk. A certain date was circled in red pen. My eighteenth birthday was tomorrow!

No, I couldn’t just sit and wait. I packed my documents, planning to escape from home. Looking down from the second floor, I saw bodyguards on patrol everywhere. My sister was leisurely eating watermelon and teasing them: “Are you all here to guard that sickly thing? Makes sense—she’s the Morrison family heir, precious as gold.” After her taunts, the bodyguards wouldn’t engage with her. I couldn’t find any opening. I opened my bedroom door to check the situation when Dad suddenly appeared from outside, right in front of me. “Claudia, where are you going this late?” His voice was deep, making my heart tighten. “Nowhere, just getting some fresh air.” His lips curved slightly in a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You can get fresh air on your room’s balcony just as well.” With no other options, I retreated back inside and reopened the post I’d made earlier to continue editing. “I’m Claudia of the Morrison family. My parents have imprisoned me and seem to have sinister intentions. Tomorrow I’ll livestream everything. If the situation looks wrong, please help me call the police!” I paid to boost the post. Comments immediately started refreshing. “Claudia? The Claudia who was designated heir at just 100 days old? Your parents treat you so well—what could possibly happen? Stop wasting our time.” I ignored the sarcastic comments and kept scrolling. “If you think you’re in danger, why not call the police now?” I quickly replied: “It won’t work. I don’t know what will happen tomorrow. Even if I report it now, they won’t admit anything.” The wealthy family secrets attracted many onlookers. Most came to watch the drama, hoping the livestream would proceed. “Girl, don’t worry. We’ve got your back.” After posting, I attached an inconspicuous camera to the skin on my wrist. I connected remote AI glasses to my phone’s livestream screen. To prevent being drugged unconscious again, I got fully dressed at midnight and started the livestream. Recording video on a phone could be destroyed, but people appearing in a livestream would be recorded for real. With so many witnesses, all criminal activity would have nowhere to hide. This time, I would find out who had reserved me as a groomed companion! Right after finishing these preparations, I grew drowsy and fell asleep again. When I woke, I was bound hand and foot in an abandoned warehouse, surrounded by three masked men in black. Among a flood of “Holy shit, something really happened, already called police” comments, I found the anonymous user’s comment. “Girl, this is a hero-saves-beauty setup. The kidnapping isn’t the goal—watch out for whoever comes to rescue you.” “He’ll use his position as your savior to make you repay him. In the eyes of the world, he’ll successfully turn you into a mistress who’s willing to throw herself at him.” My breathing quickened with the content of this comment. Listening to my drumming heartbeat, I waited quietly for that person to arrive. The kidnapper took a phone call, then raised his club to swing at my head. At the critical moment, the door burst open and a familiar face appeared. The person who had reserved me for eighteen years, who’d treated me like a commodity—it was actually him!

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I was rushed to the ER with excruciating abdominal pain. The diagnosis: appendicitis. The doctor was typing up my prescription when his hand suddenly froze. He looked up at me. “Why would you have an IUD inserted when you haven’t even had a child yet?” An IUD? That was impossible. I had an infertile constitution. I’d spent hundreds of thousands trying to conceive, enduring treatment after treatment. “Doctor, are you sure you’re reading that right?” The doctor turned the monitor toward me, tapping his pen on the shadow on the screen. “Look right here. How could you forget your own procedure?” I stared at the screen, my fingertips trembling uncontrollably. For seven years, my mother-in-law had blamed me for being unable to have children. I’d endured endless humiliation. But looking at that IUD that should never have been there… Turns out I wasn’t infertile. Someone just never wanted me to get pregnant! Staring at the shadow on the screen, my hand instinctively pressed against my lower abdomen. Seven years ago, when we were trying to conceive after marriage, I was diagnosed not only with an infertile constitution but also with small cysts. I’d looked at Harrison in panic then. He’d quietly comforted me. “Honey, don’t be scared. We’ll remove the cysts first. I’ll be with you every step of the way.” Over the next seven years, Harrison accompanied me to that hospital countless times. Snapping back to reality, I asked the doctor to remove the IUD during my surgery. After the procedure, I was lying in the hospital bed when Harrison called. “Honey, where are you? Why haven’t you been answering your phone?” “I’m at the hospital. I just had surgery.” I said quietly. Panic filled his voice on the other end. “The hospital? Which hospital?” Seeming to realize his overreaction, he changed his tone. “Honey, what surgery? Are you not feeling well?” I couldn’t quite describe what I was feeling. I answered briefly and hung up. Soon, the hospital room door swung open. Harrison rushed in. “You had appendicitis surgery? Why didn’t you go to the hospital where my uncle works? He could have looked after you.” He was talking while carefully observing my expression. I clutched the copper IUD in my hand, careful not to show anything unusual, and smiled at him. “It hurt too much. This hospital was closer.” My mother-in-law pushed through the door just then. Hearing my words, she immediately scolded loudly. “How much could appendicitis hurt? Can’t even handle that. How will you handle childbirth later?” “Oh wait, we don’t even know if you can have children.” “Mom, say less. Anna just had surgery. She’s not feeling well.” Harrison poured me a glass of water. After confirming I hadn’t discovered the IUD placement, he hurried to leave again. “Honey, the company’s been struggling lately. I need to get back to work. Mom will stay here to take care of you.” I nodded, watching his figure disappear behind the door. “I don’t have time to serve a barren hen like you.” My mother-in-law said mockingly before leaving as well. The hospital room fell quiet again. I let out a soft sigh. Three days later, I was discharged. During those three days, Harrison and my mother-in-law visited only a handful of times. It was the nurses who occasionally helped me out of pity. I didn’t go home. Instead, I went to the hospital where Harrison’s uncle worked—the hospital where I’d had my cyst surgery. After confirming his uncle was off today, I went to the medical records department. Soon, a nurse pulled up my file. I flipped through it page by page. Seven years of spending hundreds of thousands on medical tests, medications, and IVF treatments. Yet all that showed here were a few simple routine checkup reports. Flipping to the very first page, the record showed not a cyst removal surgery but a sterilization procedure! My hands shook uncontrollably. How ironic. Seven years of torment, seven years of guilt—all because someone had deliberately robbed me of my right to be a mother. I forced a bitter smile, but tears still fell. After a long moment, I wiped my tears and took out my phone to save the evidence. Then I suddenly noticed the family consent signature page was missing. I didn’t alert the hospital staff. I closed the file, thanked them, and left. Walking out of the hospital, I immediately called my classmate, Victor. After explaining the situation, he readily agreed and told me to wait. Soon, he called back. “Anna, I sent you the missing page on SnapChat.” “Thanks so much.” He paused before continuing. “Your husband deleted the records too thoroughly. Out of curiosity, I checked using his information.” “I found something. I sent it to you too. You…” “You need to prepare yourself mentally. Anna, if you need anything, you can always reach out to me.” “Okay…”

I walked to a bench by the roadside and sat down, opening SnapChat. The first image was the missing page. The signature on it belonged to Harrison. I knew this was coming, but it still hurt so much. Harrison’s patient, comforting voice seemed to echo in my ears. What had he been thinking then? Did he feel even a shred of sympathy for me? Or was he laughing at me? I opened the second photo—a birth certificate. My heart contracted painfully. I looked at the father’s name. Harrison! I compared the handwriting on both signatures. Identical. One signature had severed my chance at motherhood. The other had made him a father. Tears streamed down uncontrollably. Hatred surged through my chest. I sat outside for a long time before going home. My mother-in-law was watching TV on the couch. Seeing me return, she immediately ordered me to cook dinner. Because I couldn’t have children, I’d always felt guilty. I once cooked dinner even with a 104-degree fever. But this time, I refused. Seeing I wouldn’t obey, my mother-in-law immediately went to my father-in-law’s portrait and began crying. She wailed that I couldn’t give them children, leaving their family without an heir. She sobbed that Harrison wouldn’t listen to her and refused to divorce me. Over seven years, I’d heard this accusation over and over. Each time, I’d felt guilty while being grateful my husband hadn’t abandoned me. Now, watching her performance, I suddenly wondered—did she know she had a grandson out there? I must have stared too long and too intently. My mother-in-law couldn’t keep crying. She turned and called my husband instead. I ignored her and walked into the bedroom. After searching carefully, I couldn’t find any of my medical records from the checkups. I’d undergone IVF three times, all failures. Each time I wanted to see my medical records, Harrison would say he didn’t want to upset me and wouldn’t show them to me. I’d been so touched then. Now I realized it was all a joke. I closed my eyes and lay on the bed, completely drained. Before long, Harrison pushed the door open. He walked naturally to my side, trying to kiss my cheek. I turned my head away. He didn’t seem to mind. “Honey, feeling better? Come eat dinner first.” He reached out to pull me up. Looking at his outstretched hand, I had an impulse to reveal everything. But no—there were still things I hadn’t investigated. I couldn’t tip him off. I obediently took his hand and let him lead me out. After dinner, Harrison crouched in front of me, looking at me with deep affection. “Honey, you just had surgery. I didn’t want to bring this up, but the company really can’t hold on anymore.” “What’s wrong?” I played along. “A rival company cut off our supply chain. The bank pulled our loan. The company’s going bankrupt.” Before I could respond, my mother-in-law erupted in fury. “Why did the bank pull the loan? Because you can’t have children!” “Mom, this isn’t Anna’s fault.” He turned back to me. “The bank assessed that I have no heir, making it too risky. When problems arose, they immediately pulled the loan. Honey, this company is our life’s work. I don’t want it to go bankrupt.” Yes, this company was started with my father’s investment. As soon as he established the company, he immediately gave me eighty percent of the shares. That’s why I never doubted him all these years. “No heir? Then adopt one. People find solutions.” My mother-in-law’s booming voice rang out again. “Right, honey. Could we adopt a child from an orphanage? With a child, the bank will continue lending to us.” His gaze held pleading and pain. But I no longer believed him. “I’m tired.” I lowered my eyes. “Okay, honey, rest first. We’ll talk about this later. I’ll think of another way.”

These past few days, Harrison had been drowning his sorrows at home. Meanwhile, I’d been investigating the company’s finances. One day, Harrison didn’t drink. He left early in the morning. I received a message from the private investigator with evidence of him transferring company assets. I held the evidence, waiting for him to come home so we could negotiate the divorce. In the afternoon, Harrison returned. “Honey, I found a way to solve the company crisis!” His excited voice interrupted my unspoken divorce request. “I have a distant cousin who died in a car accident, leaving behind a widow and orphan. His wife, Zoe, can’t afford to raise the child and is willing to let us adopt him.” “Oh my, that’s perfect! The boy, Ryan, at least shares some blood relation with our family. This continues our family line.” My mother-in-law said happily beside him. Ryan? The name triggered a memory. “What’s your cousin’s wife’s name?” “Zoe Smith.” I smiled coldly. Zoe Smith—the mother’s name on that birth certificate. “Honey, what do you think? We adopt this child, hold a ceremony, and solve the company crisis first.” “If we have our own biological child later, the company will still go to our child.” “Sure.” I nodded. A ceremony sounded perfect. Lots of people, lots of excitement. I gripped the evidence in my hand. The day before the ceremony, Harrison brought home the widow and orphan. Zoe entered and immediately pulled the child down to kneel. “Quick, kneel to the lady. She’s taking you in. From now on, she’s your new mother.” “I won’t kneel! I don’t want a new mother!” Ryan screamed and lunged at me, scratching my arms until they bled. Harrison was busy helping Zoe up. “Anna, Zoe is giving you her child. Instead of being grateful, how can you let her kneel?” Zoe leaned weakly against Harrison. “It’s fine, Harrison. As long as you treat Ryan well.” Unable to dodge in time, I was pushed hard to the ground by Ryan. A crisp crack—the bracelet on my wrist shattered. This was my mother’s keepsake. My eyes reddened as I slapped him. Harrison immediately pulled Ryan behind him. “Anna! Have you lost your mind? You’re fighting with a child!” “He broke the bracelet my mother left me!” A flash of sympathy crossed his eyes, but it quickly disappeared. “It’s just a bracelet. I’ll buy you another one in a few days!” Harrison brushed it off with one sentence, then busied himself checking Ryan’s face. But he’d forgotten—when he proposed, he’d held that very bracelet and vowed to protect me for a lifetime in my mother’s place! At dinner, Ryan put all the good dishes in his own bowl and spat in mine. Harrison and my mother-in-law turned a blind eye. The family of four enjoyed themselves, making me look like a maid. After dinner, Harrison came to me with a document. “Honey, to enroll Ryan in school, we need proof of residence from that downtown property under your name.” “Sign here so he can start school soon.” I took the document and tried to flip through it. Harrison pressed down on my hand. “Honey, don’t you trust me? Just sign.” In the past, I never questioned what he did. But now… “Are you sure this document is just proof of residence for school enrollment?” Under the surveillance camera, I asked loudly. “Don’t worry, honey. When have I ever lied to you?” Watching his triumphant expression, I lowered my head and saved this surveillance footage to the cloud. That afternoon, when I logged in to check, the video had been completely deleted as expected. That evening, Ryan cried and insisted on sleeping with Harrison. Harrison looked at me apologetically. “Honey, Ryan’s still little. Could you sleep on the couch tonight? Just one night.” Before he finished speaking, I turned and left. That bed—I found it filthy. In the middle of the night, going to the bathroom, I heard moans from the guest room—Harrison and Zoe. “Honey, when can we be together openly?” “Soon. I’ve transferred most of the company assets. After the ceremony, once I get the house, I can divorce her.” Harrison laughed quietly. “My mom can’t wait either. She’s been dying to hold her grandson.” I clenched my fists. If that’s how it is, don’t blame me for being ruthless.

At the banquet hall, we got out of the car and walked inside. Ryan shoved me aside and grabbed Harrison’s hand. “I want to go in with Daddy and Mommy.” He smirked at me provocatively. Harrison just patted his head affectionately. “Honey, kids don’t know better. Don’t take it to heart. We’ll go in first.” I stood under the scorching sun, watching the backs of their family of three. It felt utterly absurd. Walking into the hall, some clueless people came forward with compliments. “Mr. Walker, is this your wife and child? What a beautiful couple, and such a smart kid.” Zoe smiled and thanked them. Harrison just smiled without speaking. My mother-in-law beamed with a kindness I’d never seen before. But when she turned and saw me, her smile immediately faded. “Why are you just standing there? You’re in the way. If you have nothing to do, go help serve the food.” I didn’t move. “Hurry up! Can’t even have kids and just causing trouble. If you won’t help, get out.” I gripped the evidence in my hand, silently telling myself to hold on a bit longer. Not everyone was here yet. The show needed a full audience. I silently carried dishes. Walking past Zoe, I was tripped. Scalding food spilled on me, but Zoe screamed first, clutching her wrist where a few drops of soup had splashed. “Harrison, it hurts so much.” Harrison rushed over, tenderly blowing on Zoe’s arm. “Anna, how can you be so careless?” “We’ll go rinse it off first.” He glanced at me and frowned. “You should go change too. The ceremony’s about to start. Try not to be so clumsy next time.” Ignoring the various stares around me, I endured the pain and walked to the bathroom. Hold on, just hold on. This pair of cheaters will go to hell. By the time I changed and came out, the ceremony had already begun. Harrison was giving a speech on stage. “Thank you all so much for coming to this ceremony. Due to my wife’s health issues, we haven’t been able to have children since our marriage.” People around looked at me sympathetically. I kept my head down. “Ryan’s arrival is a gift from heaven, our future support.” “Everything I have will be his inheritance.” Enthusiastic applause erupted. Someone brought a bouquet of red roses to the stage. Harrison accepted them, knelt on one knee, and presented them to Zoe. “Thank you so much for giving birth to this child. You’re welcome to visit him anytime. He’ll always recognize you.” Zoe smiled shyly and accepted the roses. The applause grew even louder. Watching their interaction on stage, I had the surreal feeling I was attending a wedding. Zoe glanced at the host, who turned to look at me. “Ms. Anna, how do you feel about getting a grown son for free?” Harrison followed the host’s gaze to me and said perfunctorily, “The auspicious time is almost here. Come up on stage.” I walked forward step by step. Harrison instructed from the side. “Zoe gave you a child. You need to repay her properly.” “Now that you have a child, you need to put him first in everything. You can’t be as willful as before.” “You’ve never raised a child, so you’ll need to learn from…” Hearing this, I laughed coldly, stepped forward, and snatched his microphone. Facing everyone below the stage, I enunciated each word: “Learn from her?” “I don’t think that’ll be necessary. I’ll have my own children in the future.” “But the reason I haven’t gotten pregnant in seven years—I think everyone here will be very interested in that!!”

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Dad Clara and mom Michael always gave me everything I wanted. They would always tell Nathan to go easy on me. When relatives called me a “walking bone marrow bank,” they’d shield me with their bodies, point at the door, and tell them to get lost. They’d hold me in their arms and tell me: “You and your brother are equally important to us. Don’t listen to anyone’s gossip.” Until I turned eight, I grew tired of the constant pain from bone marrow extractions. I refused to cooperate with them, to continue treatment for Nathan. For the first time, my always soft-spoken mother lost her temper with me. “If it weren’t for your brother’s serious illness, you would never have been born! You’ve taken away so much love that should have been his, and you won’t even give him this small compensation?” Michael didn’t say a word. He forcibly held me down on the bed. “Doctor, don’t worry about her. Just do the extraction!” I cried out in pain and struggled. Clara found me too noisy. After the needle was removed, she locked me in the sauna room and took Nathan to the hospital. But they didn’t notice—the sauna’s high temperature setting had been turned on. I pushed desperately at the door, but Clara had already locked it from the outside. Clara, Michael, I know I was wrong. I’m willing to help treat Nathan. Please don’t abandon me.

The temperature in the sauna room kept rising. I was soon drenched in sweat. I heard the front door close outside. Clara and Michael had already left with Nathan. I used all my strength to push at the sauna room door. Each time I pushed, the sharp pain in my lower back grew worse. But the door still wouldn’t open. Clara had locked it from the outside. The floor temperature had already blistered the soles of my feet. The pain brought tears to my eyes. The combination of heat and pain left me nearly collapsed. Suddenly, I heard sounds from outside again. Hope rekindled, I forgot about the heat. I ran to the door, standing on tiptoe to reach the window on the sauna room door. “Clara! Michael! Save me!” “It hurts so much! I know I was wrong!” I kept apologizing, banging on the glass. Hoping to get their attention. But what I heard was Clara and Michael’s muffled conversation. “This kid made me so angry I forgot to bring the documents. Now I have to make another trip.” “The bone marrow has such a short preservation time, and she’s still making trouble!” Michael sighed. He was about to say something when his eyes caught sight of the glass on the sauna room door. “Honey, I think Riley’s crying. Maybe we should let her out.” Only then did Clara turn around to look at me. I quickly tried to smile at Clara and Michael. My intention was to apologize to them. To act cute like I used to. Before, whenever I did something wrong, if I admitted my mistake and smiled and acted cute, they would always forgive me. But this time, for some reason, Clara got even angrier. She frowned and glared at me fiercely. Her volume suddenly shot up. “What’s that look? You call that crying?” “Look at her—completely unrepentant. She even has the nerve to smile!” I shook my head frantically. “Clara, that’s not it! I won’t do it again!” The heavy door swallowed my voice. They could only hear faint cries but couldn’t make out what I was saying. Clara walked toward me. My heart pounded with excitement. I thought she had finally forgiven me. Clara loves me after all. She was just too anxious earlier. It must be that! But Clara stopped about two meters from the door. She pointed at me and said to Michael: “This door is so soundproof, yet she’s still this loud. If we let her out and she disturbs the neighbors, should we come back or not?” “And if we take her along, what if she makes trouble during treatment?” Seeing Michael’s hesitation, feeling the temperature in the sauna room continuing to rise, I panicked. I reached for the metal handle on the door, trying to pull it open just a crack. So my apology could slip through the gap. The moment my hand touched it, a layer of skin was instantly scalded off. The pain made everything go black. I screamed until my throat was raw. But it only seemed to confirm what Clara had just said about me making noise. Michael looked at me, then at the documents in Clara’s hand. “Forget it. Treating Nathan is what matters. We’ll talk to her properly when we get back.” With that, Michael put his arm around Clara’s shoulders and they left together. The sound of the front door closing again extinguished my last glimmer of hope. I took off my clothes and placed them on the floor to separate my skin from contact with the ground. I curled up into a ball, hugging my knees. “This way it won’t hurt. If it doesn’t hurt, I won’t cry.” “As long as I’m quiet and well-behaved, when Clara and Michael come back and see me being good, they’ll let me out.” I murmured to myself. Even though every inch of my skin was burning with pain, I bit my teeth and didn’t make another sound. I don’t know how long passed before I completely lost consciousness.

I was awakened by Clara and Michael’s voices. When I opened my eyes, I saw Clara holding Nathan, gently placing him on the bed. Her eyes were full of heartache. “Look how pale his little face is. When will this ever end?” She carefully tucked in the corners of his blanket, patting him soothingly. “If only Riley understood… but now she won’t even do the bone marrow extraction to help Nathan…” Her eyes reddened, her voice choking with sobs. I ran to Clara’s side, hugged her leg, and looked up at her. “Clara, don’t cry. I’m willing.” “I won’t complain about the pain anymore.” But my hand passed straight through Clara’s body. She seemed unable to hear what I was saying either. Michael patted her shoulder. “It’s okay. Everything will be fine.” “Actually, Riley is usually very obedient. Let’s let her out and talk to her properly. Maybe she’ll understand our difficulties.” “I hope so. She’s not young anymore. She should be more sensible.” Michael walked toward the sauna room. I stood in front of him. But he walked right through me as if he couldn’t see me. I stood there stunned for a moment, looking at my nearly transparent hands. Finally understanding. It seemed I had already died. Michael peered through the glass into the sauna room. But because I was sitting behind the door, there was a blind spot in his line of sight. He didn’t see my figure. I, however, easily passed through the door. I saw the small corpse curled up behind the door, skin blistered all over from the heat. Michael turned to call Clara. “Honey, Riley’s not in the sauna room?” Clara paused, then got up and walked to the sauna room. “How is that possible? I locked it! She can’t get out!” She pushed the door. “It’s still locked. That child must be hiding in a corner sulking at us!” As she spoke, she knocked hard on the door several times. “Riley, if you come out now and apologize to us, we’ll forgive you and let you out. You’ll still be our good daughter.” “But if you keep sulking and throwing a tantrum, then you can stay in there! No dinner, no toys!” I apologized desperately. “Clara, I really know I was wrong. I’ll help Nathan with his treatment from now on.” Clara still couldn’t hear me. She and Michael stood there listening for my answer. Only silence responded to them. After a long while, seeing that I still wasn’t answering, Clara’s expression hardened. “Fine! You’ve got backbone! Keep it up!” “I really don’t understand where I went wrong as a parent. You used to be such a good child!” “I don’t want you anymore!” I stamped my feet anxiously. Clara, I already apologized! I want to keep being your good girl too. I want you to love me like you did before. Really. Tears rolled down my face and hit the carpet. They didn’t spread into water stains like they normally would. Watching Clara and Michael’s backs gradually fade into the distance, I cried even harder. This time, they wouldn’t comfort me like they used to. Clara was tough on the surface but soft underneath after all. That evening, she still made my favorite fried fish for dinner. Michael filled a bowl of rice, added some food, and was about to bring it to me in the sauna room. Clara didn’t stop him. She sat silently at the table picking out fish bones for Nathan. Michael took out the key to open the door and pushed it open a crack. “Riley, time to eat. We have your favorite fried fish today.”

The sauna’s temperature setting automatically shut off after reaching maximum heat. So after a full day of cooling, the scalding steam in the room had dissipated. Only some stuffiness remained. But Michael thought it was because the sauna room was an enclosed space, and with the door’s excellent seal, the air conditioning couldn’t get in. He didn’t think much of it. Getting no response from me, he turned on the light. “Riley, we need to—” Before he could finish, he realized that in the sauna room he could see from end to end, there was no sign of me. He panicked immediately. He went back to the living room to call Clara. “Honey, Riley’s really not in the sauna room!” Clara followed Michael and pushed open the sauna room door again. But like Michael, she only pushed it halfway. I circled around in front of them. “Clara, Michael, I’m right here! If you push the door a little more, you’ll touch my body!” “Or… or if you just look behind the door, you’ll find me!” I pointed it out to them. They had no reaction. Clara thought for a moment, then turned to Michael. “Aren’t there two keys to the sauna room?” Michael nodded. “I think so. You have one, I have one.” Clara asked again. “You’ve been using mine all day today. So where’s yours?” Michael searched all his pockets and briefcase. He found nothing. “Strange, where did it go?” While Michael was still puzzled, Clara looked like she had it all figured out. “What else could it be? Your precious daughter must have taken it!” “When we used to play hide and seek at home, she would often cheat by locking herself in a room. We indulged her—when we couldn’t open a door, we just wouldn’t search that room. She probably took it then.” “So all our kind words this afternoon fell on deaf ears. She had her own plan. She already took the key and opened the door, and didn’t forget to lock it again to make it look like she was still inside.” The more Clara talked, the angrier she got. She pointed at the sauna room door and asked Michael: “Can you believe how scheming she is! I really can’t deal with her anymore!” Michael tried to comfort her while going to my bedroom door and knocking. “Riley, we’re really getting angry!” He pushed open the door. Inside was still empty. Clara didn’t look into the room again. She turned and went downstairs. “Learning to run away from home at such a young age? She better never come back. It would be better if she died out there!” “I am completely disappointed in her right now!” I shook my head desperately. I really didn’t. This time, even Michael didn’t speak up for me. That evening, Clara told Nathan a story and put him to bed. Nathan asked Clara: “Mom, you’re telling me a story so early today. Don’t you need to put Riley to bed?” Knowing that Nathan still cared about me, my heart lifted with a little joy. Nathan is so good to me. I’ll definitely help him get better. Before I could think further, Clara’s words completely chilled my heart. “Don’t worry about her anymore! I’m acting like I don’t have that daughter.” She patiently and tenderly stayed with Nathan for a long time. It wasn’t until Nathan’s breathing became steady that she reached up to turn off the light. I wanted to stop Clara. I was most afraid of the dark, always feeling like something scary would emerge from the pitch-black night. I never dared to sleep with the lights off. But now I couldn’t touch the switch, and Clara couldn’t hear me. Clara always used to leave a light on for me in the living room. Today she didn’t. I could only curl myself into a trembling ball. I sat by Nathan’s bed, watching everything around me warily. I didn’t sleep all night. Early the next morning, Clara and Michael first took Nathan to school, then went to work. Everyone tacitly avoided mentioning me. As if it made no difference to this family whether I existed or not.

It wasn’t until nine o’clock that the teacher called Clara. “Mrs. Thompson, Riley didn’t come to class today. Is she sick?” Clara was so angry she slammed down her pen. She suppressed her emotions and apologized to the teacher. “I’m sorry, teacher. This child had a little conflict with us yesterday. I didn’t expect her to skip school out of spite today.” “I understand. I’ll find her and have her apologize to you.” After explaining to the teacher, she called Michael. “Your daughter is now skipping school!!” “Hurry up. You go to your mom’s house, I’ll go to mine. We have to bring her back today and set some rules for her!” “So irresponsible! Nathan’s medical bills, her food and clothes—how much does all that cost? If she makes us lose another day’s wages, I’ll dock her allowance for a year!” Then they split up to look for me at their parents’ houses. But no one was there. They also called the homes of several of my good friends. Everyone said they hadn’t seen me. In a flash, the whole day passed. Clara and Michael came up empty. On the way to pick up Nathan from school, Clara received a call from Michael. “Honey, I asked at Madison’s house too. There’s really no one left to ask.” “Do you think she might have been tricked by some creep… Should we call the police?” Clara opened her mouth. From the shape of her lips, she seemed about to say “okay.” Just then, Nathan walked out of the school. Clara swallowed her words and waved at Nathan. “Nathan, over here!” Nathan walked to Clara’s side and looked up at her. “Mom, I told my friends today that our house is so fun! We have a pool, a playroom, a home theater, and even a sauna room!” “They didn’t believe me. They said no one’s house has that many rooms. Mom, can I bring them over to see?” He pulled Clara’s hand and shook it. I was the one who taught him this trick. Clara froze for a moment. I wondered if she was thinking of me. Then she snapped back to attention at Nathan’s urging. She nodded at Nathan, then said to Michael on the phone: “I know. We’ll talk when you get back.” “The chance she was tricked is low. We’ve always taught her not to trust strangers.” “Nathan wants to bring his classmates home. He’s been taking time off constantly—it’s not easy for him to have friends. We can’t ruin this for him. Hurry home and tidy up the house, cut some fruit and have it ready. We need to treat the kids well.” Michael agreed and hung up. I wanted to stop Clara, afraid it would scare them. But I couldn’t do anything. Half an hour later, Clara brought Nathan and his classmates home. They saw the pool, played with the toys, and toured the home theater. Finally, everyone’s footsteps stopped at the sauna room door. One of the classmates spoke up. “I’ve never used a sauna before. Nathan, can we try it at your house?” As soon as this suggestion came out, the others chimed in. Nathan agreed without hesitation and pressed the heating button. Michael called them to eat fruit while Clara called the parents of the classmates. First to ask if their children could use the sauna, and second to tell them the kids might come home late so they shouldn’t worry. Everyone was busy with their own tasks. Nathan went to the sauna room to test the temperature. The moment he walked in and closed the door, he screamed.

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When Rosemary, who had a live streaming session scheduled, partied until 5 AM and submitted her third no-reason leave request of the week, I pressed the reject button without hesitation. Soon after, Rosemary dragged me online and incited a wave of cyberbullying. Netizens were attacking me, calling me a wage-slave simp for the capitalist overlords. Those seemingly kind colleagues also huddled together, whispering behind my back that I was annoying and hateful—the old witch who wouldn’t approve leave requests. Fine, everyone wants time off, right? Approved! I’ll approve every single leave request! But when I actually started approving all leave requests unconditionally, the company went bankrupt… When I saw Rosemary’s third no-reason leave request of the week, submitted at 5 AM, I pressed the reject button. I worked as an HR administrator at an MCN company, managing the streamers’ attendance and payroll. I was usually pretty easygoing. When colleagues had major or minor issues—headaches, fever, whatever—I basically never nitpicked about attendance. But this time, seeing Rosemary’s leave request, I was genuinely angry. Just then, Tommy from operations knocked on my office door. “Hazel, Rosemary has a brand live stream at 10 AM today, but she still hasn’t come to the office and I can’t reach her. Can you help me find out where she is?” Hearing Tommy’s words made my anger spike even higher. Without a word, right in front of Tommy, I dialed Rosemary’s number. The phone rang in the quiet office for a full two minutes, but no one answered. Not wanting to lose my temper in front of a colleague, I suppressed my anger and offered Tommy a solution. “She submitted a leave request this morning. I can’t reach her right now either. Go talk to the brand side and see if Hugo or Daisy are free to fill in as backup.” “Ah, it’s already been four days this week, and Rosemary’s only done one stream. How are we supposed to work like this…” Listening to Tommy’s complaints, I felt helpless too. “I’ll try contacting her again. The priority right now is implementing the backup plan—we absolutely cannot have any more slip-ups with this afternoon’s stream.” “Alright, Hazel. I’ll go prepare then.” Tommy closed the door and left. I dialed Rosemary’s number again. Once, twice, three times. By the eighth call, someone finally answered. “Hello? Who is this? It’s so early in the morning—can’t a person get some sleep!” Rosemary’s irritated voice came through, laced with the slurred tone of someone who’d been drinking all night and hadn’t sobered up yet. Combined with her 5 AM leave request, anyone could figure out she’d been partying and drinking all night and had probably just gotten home to sleep! “You have a brand live stream at 10 AM this morning. Get to the office now!” I suppressed my anger, trying to remind Rosemary of the work schedule arranged well in advance. But she actually said— “Do I look like I need the money from one stream? Stop looking for trouble!” Then, right before my widening eyes, she hung up.

When I called back, the phone was off—no one answered. I sat in my chair, staring at the rejected leave request on the work app interface, my head throbbing. I knew Rosemary came from a wealthy family. Maybe to her, a month’s base salary without streaming commissions was just pocket change. It probably couldn’t even cover the price of one of her designer bags. But still, this was a workplace. If everyone acted like her, taking three days off without reason during a five-day work week, how could the company possibly function! After rejecting the leave request, I marked Rosemary as absent without leave. Then I started dealing with the series of problems caused by her absence. Who would have thought that very afternoon, Rosemary stormed into the office. She burst through my office door and slammed her Hermès bag—the little house-shaped one I’d seen in magazines—onto my desk. “What’s the meaning of this, Hazel? Not approving my leave again and making things difficult for me? Marking me absent for no reason—what the hell are you trying to do!” I frowned, involuntarily covering my nose from the overwhelming smell of stale alcohol emanating from her. Then I opened the window for ventilation, turned on the air purifier, and pulled perfume from my drawer, spraying two pumps into the air. “What are you doing!” “Nothing much, just that the bad breath is pretty severe and the air smells terrible.” “You said I have bad breath! I…” Just as Rosemary was about to launch into a tirade, I cut her off. “This is your third no-reason leave request this week. If there were no issues, I wouldn’t say anything, but today there was a brand live stream that specifically requested you. Because you didn’t show up, the company had to substitute another streamer and pay hefty penalty fees. Just marking you absent and deducting $50 from your perfect attendance bonus—I think that’s already quite merciful.” “I just forgot! Why didn’t you remind me? If you’d reminded me in time, I wouldn’t have missed the stream, so this is all your fault!” Her self-righteous attitude made me laugh. “Am I your mother or your secretary? Are you paying my salary to remind you of everything? Those ten phone calls weren’t enough to wake you up?” “If you can do the job, do it. If not, submit your resignation now!” That evening when I got home, my phone pushed a “People You May Know” video recommendation. The video title was: “Leave Request Rejected and Marked Absent, Now I’m Stuck with Huge Penalty Fees.” And the person crying on camera was someone I knew all too well. It was Rosemary, who had just confronted me about being marked absent that afternoon. “Oh guys, you know I’m usually not in the best health…” “I really didn’t expect that when I’m not feeling well and want to take a day off, it would be rejected…” “HR marked me absent—that’s one thing, but she even made me pay hefty penalty fees and verbally abused me in the office…” “Luckily you know I have a habit of recording vlogs, so I happened to capture it all. See, guys, this is why work documentation is so important!” Then she played the “full confrontation” from my office that afternoon. Rosemary’s footage only showed me frowning and covering my nose, with subtitles reading “Workplace Bully Publicly Insults Employee.” She cut out all the dialogue where I reminded her about the live stream, leaving only the line “if you can’t do it, resign”on repeat. The sound of me pressing the perfume spray was amplified and labeled as “Deliberately Spraying Disinfectant to Insult Employee,” mixed with her tearful voice-over: “She called me stinking garbage…” The video quickly shot to the top of the local trending topics. Countless netizens passionately commented. 「A bloodsucking vampire in human form? So jealous seeing a female colleague with a Hermès bag that her cells are separating?」 「Suggest investigating this old witch’s employment history—definitely slept her way to the top」 「Already filed a real-name report with labor inspection, begging for the company address so I can send funeral wreaths」 「Feel so bad for Rosemary having to work with such a disgusting colleague!」 Watching the video play over and over, I was furious enough to laugh. First time learning that “work documentation” could be done this way.

The next morning, as soon as I arrived at the office, the boss called me into his office amid my colleagues’ strange looks. “Hazel, I saw the video Rosemary posted last night. The public opinion right now is really bad.” The boss looked troubled. I was an original employee he’d hired when he started the company, and I’d been with the company as it grew to its current size. Rosemary was currently the agency’s biggest streamer with the most followers and revenue. “It’s okay, Mr. Lee. I’m not…” I sympathized with the boss’s headache over the conflict between a veteran employee and his cash cow. I thought he was concerned about me as his long-time employee being wronged, but he cut me off mid-sentence. “Go apologize to Rosemary.” The boss stood up and patted my shoulder. “And don’t be so strict about attendance. It’s not like our company is about to go under and needs to dock employee wages over attendance. After you go back, adjust the attendance policy. Remember—prioritize employee care!” Back in my office, I clearly understood I was the only sacrificial pawn in this farce. After spacing out for a while, I stood up to get coffee from the break room. At the break room door, I clearly heard a discussion among three people inside. “Rosemary, you did the right thing! People who block leave requests like that deserve to be publicly criticized! Just because she didn’t approve my leave last time, my girlfriend fought with me and broke up!” That was Jerry from the team streaming group. But that time, there was an important work assignment and no one could be absent, which is why I didn’t approve the leave. Plus, during that period, Jerry had used up all his monthly time off trying to appease his long-distance girlfriend. “Right, Rosemary! I support you too! Once I requested sick leave and even brought hospital documents to get the leave verified, but she threw the documents in the trash and marked me absent! I’ve never seen anyone like that!” Another voice chimed in. This time it was Kiera from business development. But that time, she’d brought a badly Photoshopped fake hospital diagnosis for a perforated gastric ulcer, trying to fool me into approving sick leave. When she’d actually had surgery and been hospitalized before, not only did I approve her leave, but I also proactively offered to extend it a few days as employee care from the company. My hand froze mid-air, about to open the door. I suddenly felt that being conscientious and responsible about my work was such a thankless task. I opened my phone and sent a message to the headhunter who’d been trying to recruit me to a new startup. Then I opened my computer and started revising the new attendance policy. Since everyone wants time off so badly—fine, from now on I’ll approve all leave requests unconditionally.

“I’m here today to announce the new attendance policy we’ll be implementing starting next week.” At Friday afternoon’s summary meeting, I calmly walked up to the conference room podium and opened my prepared PowerPoint. I saw Rosemary below already had her phone out, either live streaming or recording video aimed at me. Jerry, Kiera, and other colleagues whose leave requests I’d previously rejected had excited gleams in their eyes. “In the spirit of humanitarianism and employee care, starting next week, all submitted leave requests will be unconditionally approved.” “Additionally, the monthly leave limit will be adjusted from three times to five times. We’re eliminating the monthly perfect attendance system, and all leave—whether personal, sick, or the 30 annual vacation days—will be treated equally as paid time off.” Thunderous applause erupted below. If everyone took the full five days of leave each month, combined with weekends, it would essentially give everyone an extra mini-vacation each month. Not to mention the existing 30 annual vacation days plus various national holidays. The boss looked at the smiling employees below and applauded approvingly as well. “Hazel, let’s drop the leave request issue, but what about you publicly insulting me last time?” Rosemary’s sarcastic voice cut through the entire office, even prompting some people to start jeering. “Exactly! Rosemary fought for everyone’s legitimate right to request leave. I’m voting for Rosemary!” “Rosemary only voiced what we working people are thinking. What right do you have to insult her in that video! Apologize to Rosemary!” Looking at those indignant faces below, I thought of the job-hopping approval I’d just received before the meeting. Under everyone’s astonished gazes, not only did I not look upset, but I actually smiled. “I’m sorry.” Cheers erupted below. On the phone screen next to my computer, Rosemary’s live stream was also flooded with netizens’ cheers. 「The old witch apologized to our Rosemary!」 「Congrats to our Rosemary for fighting and winning an apology from the unscrupulous company plus legitimate rights!」 「Rosemary is the most amazing little lamb!」 Within minutes of submitting my resignation, the boss messaged me. “Hazel, you don’t need to do this. It’s such a small matter—is it really worth resigning over?” “The company really needs talented people like you! You don’t need to resign just because I asked you to change the attendance policy. That would make me seem too unreasonable as a boss.” Reading the boss’s message at this moment, I only felt it was hypocritical and pathetic. As a hands-off manager, he probably couldn’t imagine what kind of upheaval the new attendance policy would cause. “No thanks, Mr. Lee. Thank you for nurturing me all these years. Let’s part on good terms!” The boss didn’t say anything more to retain me and directly approved my resignation. I decided to give myself a proper vacation during my last month before leaving, now that the new attendance policy was in place. Right then and there—the remaining 30 days of annual leave for the year? Taking them! The five remaining leave opportunities this month? Using them! That evening at home, I started packing and booked flights, hotels, and a tour group for a 30-day European trip. I even turned off my work phone completely. From today on, whether those colleagues showed up to work or not had nothing to do with me!

After my 30-day European trip ended, I completed the company’s exit procedures and seamlessly started at my new company. On my first day, I was shocked by the new company’s atmosphere. The receptionist at the entrance greeted me with a big smile, handed me a small desk plant, and stuffed some stress-relief squeeze toys into my hands. “Good morning, Hazel! Your office is all cleaned up. HR also prepared these super stress-relieving toys. Please, please go easy on attendance!” The office workstations were messy, but from those desks covered in reminder notes and notices, you could tell how detail-oriented the people sitting there were. Further in, at the content creator streaming rooms, people were already there early setting up and cleaning. It was completely different from the lifeless atmosphere at my previous company. Looking closer at the company’s existing attendance policy—flexible work hours. Though the attendance rules were strict, there were rewards and penalties balanced. It maximized the idea that employees should work hard during work hours, but after clocking out, they could do whatever they wanted, ideally keeping work and personal life separate! Thinking back to my last company where streamers and creators always needed to be coaxed and begged to come clock in, and where department employees were constantly trying to take leave and slack off—I felt my job-hopping decision was exceptionally correct. I thought after resigning, I’d have no more connection to my former company. Until Tommy, Rosemary’s operations manager, reached out to me. “Hazel, I miss you so much! Can you package me up and take me to your new company too?!” “What happened?” “Hazel, you don’t know—once that unconditional leave approval attendance policy started, the company turned into total chaos!” Then Tommy started venting about how Rosemary, who was already reluctant to come to work, became completely unreachable for half a month straight. Several previously negotiated collaborations fell through because of this, and other streamers started following her example. When called to ask why they weren’t coming in and why they were requesting leave— The answer was always: requesting leave is my inherent right. The attendance policy clearly allows paid time off. Making me come to the office is stripping my benefits and workplace abuse of workers! I nodded. These were all consequences I’d anticipated would happen. Attendance was meant to constrain both parties, but when the balance tipped to either side and equilibrium was broken, there was no point talking about development. Tommy was very capable personally and always had a serious attitude toward work. After getting approval from my new boss, I directly rescued her from that placeand brought her to work at the new company together. But these actions seemed to be the final straw that broke the camel’s back. The second week Tommy started at the new company, I saw another video from Rosemary. “Workplace Black Widow PUA!” “Former executive teams up with the ‘ungrateful wretch’ I raised to precisely target me after resignation!” “This workplace bullying move is absolutely ruthless!”

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I was right in the middle of steering a high-stakes international board meeting when my phone buzzed. It was my younger brother. When I answered, his voice was tight, trembling with a suffocating weight. “Cole… my study abroad spot. Someone took it.” I dropped everything and drove straight to his university campus. When I pushed open the door to the faculty office, I found Miles backed into a corner, the edges of his eyes rimmed with red. Standing in front of him, practically in his face, was a kid dressed like a walking billboard for streetwear brands, pointing a finger at my brother’s chest with absolute disdain. “You think you can compete with me?” the kid sneered. “I’m the heir to the Montgomery family. My mother just donated an entire science center to this school. What the hell are you?” Even the academic advisor standing off to the side was chiming in, his tone dripping with patronizing warning. “Mr. Sinclair, Chase is the son of one of our most vital benefactors. Just be smart about this. Don’t make things difficult for everyone.” I was half a second away from stepping in and tearing them both apart, but those words—the heir to the Montgomery family—froze the blood in my veins. The Montgomery family of Boston? Since when did my mother have a third son? Without missing a beat, I pulled out my phone and dialed my mother’s number. When she answered, I let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Mom,” I said, my voice dropping to a deadpan chill. “When exactly did you have another son behind Dad’s back?”

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Miles has a tongue like a serrated knife—sharp, jagged, and designed to leave a mark. When I first got my curtain bangs, he spent an agonizingly long time scrutinizing me. Finally, he let out a dry, hollow laugh. “Did you honestly think your face wasn’t round enough? You really had to frame it like that just to make sure you look more like a dinner plate?” I lost count of the times he reduced me to tears. But he was gorgeous, and he always seemed to show up exactly when I needed him. So, I did what women in love always do: I gaslit myself. I told myself he was just one of those men who didn’t know how to handle his own emotions. I told myself his cruelty was just a defense mechanism. Then came the university club mixer. A freshman named Piper accidentally knocked over a carafe of scalding tea, and it spilled directly onto Miles’s arm. If it had been me, he would have eviscerated me. He would have called me clumsy, useless, and a burden. … But as I watched, he only winced, glancing down at the angry red welt forming on his skin. When he looked up at Piper, his voice was… soft. Almost gentle. “Go to the infirmary and get some burn cream,” he said. “What are you waiting for?” That gentleness felt like a needle driven straight into my heart. He had never looked at me with anything but irritation. Yet here he was, waving off the girl who had actually hurt him, making sure she wasn’t too upset about it. It was the moment the floor fell out from under me. I realized then that he wasn’t “bad at expressing himself.” He was perfectly capable of tenderness; he just didn’t think I was worth the effort. The mixer ended in a blur of awkward silences. Back at our apartment, Miles sat on the sofa, brooding and silent. I fetched the first-aid kit, my hands trembling as I tried to treat the burn. His arm was a mess of angry red skin and rising blisters. “Can you please just be steady for once?” he snapped, his usual impatience flaring up. “You’re about to squeeze half that tube onto the floor.” My eyes stung with sudden heat. “Miles,” I whispered. “What?” “You were… different with Piper.” He let out a sharp, mocking bark of laughter. “Jade, are you seriously doing this right now? Don’t start with the crazy.” “I’m just saying—” “I’ve known her for five minutes. You’re my girlfriend. You’re actually comparing yourself to her?” He yanked his arm back, looking down at me with a cold, superior distance. “Stop overanalyzing everything. If you spent half as much time on your coursework as you do on these imaginary dramas, maybe you wouldn’t have been the one dragging your group’s grade down on the last modeling project.” My heart sank into my stomach. That project. I had stayed up all night with him because he wanted to watch the playoffs, and I was so exhausted the next day that I made a coding error. But in his narrative, the failure was entirely mine. Seeing my silence, his irritation curdled into boredom. “Whatever. I’m hungry. Go make dinner.” It wasn’t a request. It was an order. I walked into the kitchen like a ghost. When dinner was served, Miles took one bite and immediately set his fork down. “Too much salt.” I had tasted it. It was perfect. But if he said it was salty, it was salty. I reached for the plate to take it back and fix it, but he stopped me. “Forget it. I’ll just deal with it.” He ate with a distracted air, his phone lighting up every few seconds. I caught a glimpse of the screen. It was Piper. Piper: Hey, how’s the arm? I bought some ointment, I can bring it to you tomorrow? Piper: What do you like for breakfast? I’ll pick something up for you in the morning! Miles’s thumbs flew across the screen. His expression softened into something I had never seen before—a genuine, unforced kindness. Miles: Don’t worry about it. It’s just a scratch. Miles: I’m not picky. Whatever you get will be fine. I felt like I was being submerged in freezing salt water. After dinner, as I scrubbed the dishes, he leaned back on the sofa, texting her back and forth, occasionally letting out a low, soft chuckle. That sound hurt worse than any insult he had ever thrown at me. Late that night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. He wasn’t “incapable” of kindness. He just didn’t think I deserved it. The next day, we met up for our senior capstone project. This project was everything—it was our ticket to the international design competition. There were four of us in the group: Miles, me, a guy named Tyler, and… Piper. Miles had pulled her into the group at the last minute, claiming her modeling skills were top-tier. He took the lead, as he always did, delegating the tasks. I was in charge of data mining and initial analysis. Piper was responsible for the final 3D modeling. But with three days left until the deadline, Piper’s section was a void. Every time we pushed for an update, she had an excuse. “Oh, this data set is so complicated, I’m getting so confused!” “Miles, I’m struggling with this algorithm. Can you show me how to do it? Again?” She only ever asked Miles. And Miles always answered. He would drop his own work to sit with her for hours, patiently explaining things she should have known months ago. It was a level of patience I had only ever seen in my dreams. I posted the final data sets to our Slack channel and tagged Piper. She responded with a cute ‘thank you’ emoji. Piper: Got it, Jade! You’re a lifesaver! And then, silence. As the deadline loomed, the rest of the team started to panic. Only Piper remained unbothered. The night before the submission, she finally uploaded her model. When we opened the file, the entire group chat went dead. The core parameters were completely wrong. It wasn’t a model; it was a digital wreck. All our hard work was essentially garbage. Tyler finally lost it. @Piper: What the hell is this? Do you realize how important this project is? Piper immediately spammed the chat with crying emojis. Piper: I’m so, so sorry! It’s all my fault. I’ve been feeling so dizzy and sick lately, I must have just clicked the wrong thing… I swear I tried my best… Before she could even finish her apology, Miles jumped in. Miles: @Everyone. Give it a rest. He didn’t aim his fire at the person who failed. He aimed it at us. Miles: Piper has been sick. Did any of you even bother to ask how she was? Now that there’s a problem, you just want someone to blame? Miles: Jade, you’re her senior, and you’re my girlfriend. Couldn’t you have helped her carry the load? You gave her the data—didn’t it occur to you to double-check her work? I stared at my phone, my body shaking with a cold, sharp rage. This was it. The ultimate deflection. I took a deep breath and typed back: Now isn’t the time for a post-mortem. We need a fix. Miles: A fix? It’s due tomorrow morning. You couldn’t finish this in a week, let alone a night. His words were dripping with condescension. I didn’t reply. I logged out of Slack, pulled up the raw data, and opened the design software. My brain was firing on all cylinders, fueled by a sudden, crystalline clarity. If I couldn’t rely on anyone else, I would rely on myself. That night, I didn’t just rebuild the model. I rebuilt myself. Every insult, every “round face” comment, every moment I felt like a second-class citizen in my own life—I poured all of it into the work. By dawn, I had built something entirely new. Something better. I hit ‘Submit’ on the competition portal at 6:00 AM. Then, I collapsed over my desk, my strength completely spent. My phone buzzed. Miles: Stop wasting your time. I already emailed the professor to ask for an extension. I told him a team member was ill. Miles: Where are you? Just come home and sleep. I looked at the message and felt nothing but a dull, aching irony. I didn’t text back. I dragged my exhausted body back to the apartment. When I pushed the door open, I saw Miles and Piper on the sofa. She had red-rimmed eyes and was clutching a bowl of oatmeal. When she saw me, she stood up tentatively. “Jade… you’re back. I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault…” Miles stood up, his brow furrowed in a dark scowl. “Where have you been? You weren’t answering your phone.” It wasn’t a question of concern. It was an interrogation. “Jade, can you stop being so dramatic? I know you’re annoyed, but things happen. What is pouting going to achieve?” He gestured toward Piper. “She knows she messed up. She apologized. What more do you want?” He stood there, shielding the person who had nearly ruined our futures, while accusing me of being the difficult one. In that moment, the final thread snapped. I looked at him, my voice eerily calm. “Miles, we’re done. I’m breaking up with you.” The air in the room turned to ice. Miles’s mask of irritation froze, then cracked into total bewilderment. He looked like he genuinely thought he had misheard me. “What did you just say?” “I said we’re done. It’s over.” Piper gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, though I didn’t miss the predatory glint of triumph in her eyes. Miles stepped toward me, his voice a low, dangerous warning. “Jade, don’t do this. Not over a project. Are you seriously that petty?” Petty? Two years of my life, two years of swallowing his insults and managing his moods, and he thought this was about a “project.” “I’m not being petty,” I said, feeling a strange, light sensation in my chest. “I’m just tired. I’m tired of being your accessory. I’m tired of being the maid who gets yelled at. And I am definitely tired of watching you be ‘gentle’ with everyone except the woman who loves you.” I had finally poked a hole in his reality. His face darkened. “You need to watch what you’re saying. What do you mean ‘gentle’ with everyone else? Piper is a freshman. I’m her mentor. That’s it.” “Is it?” I let out a soft laugh. “Because you treat your ‘freshman’ better than your partner. She fails, and you blame me. She gets a cold, and you coddle her. I stay up all night fixing her mess, and you tell me I’m being dramatic. Miles, look me in the eye and tell me that’s normal.” He opened his mouth to argue, but his phone cut him off. He glanced at the screen, and his face immediately shifted. It was Piper’s roommate. “Hello?” He listened for a second, his expression turning to pure panic. “What? When? Okay, stay there. I’m coming.” He hung up and grabbed his jacket. “Piper fainted. Her roommate says she’s unresponsive.” He didn’t even look at me as he bolted for the door. He just threw one last cold sentence over his shoulder. “We’ll deal with your little tantrum when I get back.” The door slammed shut. I stood there in the silence of the foyer, looking at the empty space where he had been. That was Miles. Even at the funeral of our relationship, one fake “faint” from Piper was enough to make him run. Two years of my life had just become a punchline. The tears finally came then, but I didn’t let them stop me. I went into the bedroom, pulled out the suitcase I had tucked under the bed weeks ago—the one I had been too afraid to use—and started packing. I didn’t take much. Only the things that were truly mine. I left every gift he had ever given me. Including the Montblanc pen I used to treasure. I left it right in the middle of his desk. A period at the end of a very long, very bad sentence. By the time I left the apartment, the sun was fully up. I checked into a cheap motel near campus. Once I was settled, I did the one thing I should have done a year ago. I blocked him. Everywhere. I lay down on the lumpy mattress and felt a sensation I hadn’t felt in years. I felt light. That afternoon, my advisor called. “Jade, I need you in my office. Now.” I walked in to find Miles and Piper already there. Piper looked pale and fragile. Miles looked like he was vibrating with rage. Our advisor, Professor Harrison, was a stern man who didn’t suffer fools. He adjusted his glasses and looked at me. “Jade, what is the meaning of this?” He pointed to his computer. “I received an email from the competition board. We have a double submission. Two completely different models submitted within hours of each other. Miles tells me you took it upon yourself to modify the final design and upload it independently. Is that true?” Before I could speak, Piper’s voice came out in a tiny, pathetic squeak. “Professor, it’s my fault… I shouldn’t have accidentally sent Miles the rough draft… I think Jade was just so angry with me that she… she wanted to do her own version…” She was “apologizing” while effectively painting me as a rogue, vengeful teammate. Miles chimed in instantly. “Sir, Jade has been under a lot of stress lately. Her emotional state hasn’t been stable. We can handle this internally. Please, don’t report this to the dean.” They were a perfect duo, painting me as a hysterical woman who had sabotaged her team. Professor Harrison looked at me, his disappointment palpable. “Jade? Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

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One slip of the finger. That was all it took for fifteen billion dollars of the firm’s capital to vaporize in an instant, leaving us a hundred billion in debt to the exchange. I was literally calculating the terminal velocity of a human body dropping from a forty-fourth-floor window, wondering if it would be enough to end things instantly. That was when my sworn enemy kicked the door open, flanked by the entire legal team, and hurled a stack of glossy photographs right into my face. “During the most critical thirty minutes of the trading day, you—a Senior Trader at this firm—were busy sneaking off to sexually harass an intern!” he roared. “Look at these photos, Stratton. You’re going to rot in federal prison!” I stared down at the blurry, overexposed shots of a man’s back pressed against a girl in a corner. I could feel a hysterical, breathless laugh bubbling up in my throat, stinging my eyes. If I was supposedly busy committing sexual assault during that exact half-hour… then the hundred-billion-dollar fat-finger error that just blew up the firm wasn’t my problem anymore, was it? 1 On the massive curved monitor of my terminal, the red candlestick line plunged downward, stretching longer than my life expectancy. The entire market was ripping into a historic bull run! And I was trapped in a massive, catastrophic short. The account had completely blown out. The blood in my veins turned to ice water. I collapsed back into my ergonomic mesh chair, but I couldn’t feel it supporting my weight. I was in freefall. How had this happened? Thirty-six consecutive hours of hyper-focused screen time will do that to you. Your brain turns to static. Just seconds ago, in a micro-moment of exhaustion-induced vertigo, my finger had slipped on the mouse. Just a microscopic spasm of a muscle. A long position, mistakenly entered as a short. Shorting the market during an extreme, historic rally was like standing on the train tracks and trying to stop a freight train with your bare hands. I could only watch, paralyzed, as fifteen billion dollars bled out of the firm’s accounts, plunging violently past zero into a negative deficit. It became an astronomical number. A number I couldn’t pay back in this lifetime, or the next, or the next. No way to cancel the order. No way to reverse it. No chance for a remedy. My mind was a white, blinding void. Only one crystal-clear thought managed to cut through the static: It’s over. I hadn’t just destroyed the firm; I had chained myself to a debt that would crush a small nation. According to my employment contract, a catastrophic operational failure of this magnitude made me personally liable. My condo in Manhattan. My car. The modest suburban house my parents had worked their whole lives to pay off. The surgical fund I had painstakingly saved for my mother’s treatments… Everything would be seized, liquidated, and auctioned off. And it wouldn’t even make a dent. It would be a single drop of water tossed into a raging ocean. Three generations of my family, dragged down into the abyss because of my twitching finger. I was a sinner. A metallic, coppery taste rose in the back of my throat, but I didn’t even have the strength to cough. Over the years, I had generated tens of billions in pure profit for this firm. I was an industry myth. The guy they whispered about. The Wolf of Wall Street incarnate. But what did that matter? In the capital markets, it doesn’t matter how many times you win. One catastrophic failure is all it takes to condemn you to hell. I should leave a note, I thought. My legs felt like they had been filled with wet concrete as I dragged myself toward the floor-to-ceiling windows of the forty-fourth floor. If I threw myself against the reinforced glass hard enough, it would shatter. The pavement below would make it quick. Mom… I’m so sorry. But just as my hand pressed against the cool glass. Bang! The explosive sound of the heavy mahogany doors flying open made my eardrums ring. My rival, the Director of Trading, Bradley Hawthorne, stormed onto the floor. Behind him was a parade of suits from the legal and HR departments. “Miles!” He barked my name with a ferocious, unrestrained glee, slamming a thick stack of photographs directly against my chest. The sharp edge of the photo paper sliced across my cheekbone. A hot, stinging pain followed. I looked down, picking one of the photos off the carpet. In the grainy image, a man had a woman pinned against a wall in a shadowed alcove. The posture was aggressive, undeniable. “During the most critical thirty minutes of the trading day, you—a Senior Trader at this firm—were busy sneaking off to sexually harass an intern!” Bradley’s voice was sharp, practically vibrating with triumph. “Look at these photos, Stratton. You’re going to rot in federal prison!” I froze. Sexual harassment? A half-hour ago? Wasn’t that… the exact timeframe of my fat-finger mistake? I stared at the glossy paper in my hand, then slowly shifted my gaze to the catastrophic, blood-red deficit flashing on my monitors. A tidal wave of pure, unadulterated euphoria violently shattered through my despair. 2 “You’re done, Miles! Fired, effective immediately!” Bradley stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his tailored suit straining slightly over his stomach. “Pack your shit and get out! Scum like you don’t belong in the financial sector.” He turned to the head of Legal standing over his shoulder. “Call the NYPD right now. A predator like this needs to be locked away.” Before the words fully left his mouth, a petite figure pushed her way through the crowd of onlookers. It was the new intern, Paige. The same shy, wide-eyed girl I had protected at last month’s client dinner by quietly intercepting three shots of whiskey meant for her. Right now, her clothes were disheveled. She was clutching the collar of her silk blouse, where a button had conveniently popped off, sobbing inconsolably. “No, please… don’t call the police. Don’t make this a public spectacle. I still have to build a career in this city…” She gasped for air, looking up at me with eyes swimming with manufactured terror. “Miles… I respected you so much. How could you do something so disgusting to me?” The trading floor instantly erupted into a low, vicious murmur. “Animal.” “I can’t believe Miles is capable of that. And I actually looked up to the guy. What a joke.” “He’s a stain on this firm.” Bradley soaked in the atmosphere. He looked incredibly satisfied. He pulled two documents from his leather folder and slapped them down hard on my trading desk. One was a Notice of Termination of Employment Contract. The other was a Voluntary Confession and Letter of Repentance. “Sign it, Miles.” “Walk away with whatever shred of dignity you have left. If you sign, the firm will consider your past contributions and we’ll handle this internally without pressing criminal charges.” He leaned in closer, dropping his voice. “If you fight this, I’ll mail these photos directly to your sick mother’s hospital room. Let her see exactly what kind of monster she raised.” “I’ll make sure every hedge fund and bank in Manhattan knows that Miles Stratton is a predator who can’t keep it in his pants. You will never touch a Bloomberg terminal again as long as you live.” I lowered my eyes, reading the text of the confession letter. I, Miles Stratton, hereby admit that between the hours of 2:30 PM and 3:00 PM today, in the firm’s 44th-floor rest lounge, I engaged in inappropriate and non-consensual physical conduct with Paige… 2:30 PM to 3:00 PM. My catastrophic, firm-ending trade had executed precisely at 2:47 PM. 3 “I didn’t do this!” I jerked my head up. I forced my eyes to widen, letting them rim with red, pitching my voice into a raw, gravelly shout of a man who had been deeply and violently wronged. “During that entire window, I was locked onto my monitors! I was trading! I didn’t step away from this desk for a single second!” My furious, unhinged reaction was exactly what they wanted to see. The desperate flailing of a pathetic, cornered animal. Bradley predictably let out a contemptuous scoff. “Still lying? You don’t even have the spine to own up to your sickness.” He turned to the gathered crowd. “Let’s ask the floor. Did anyone see our star trader at his desk a half-hour ago?” His gaze slowly, deliberately swept over the room. The air turned solid. Nobody spoke. The junior analysts who had sprinted over from the bullpen—the kids I had personally mentored, the ones who swore they’d follow me to any firm I went to—all suddenly found their shoes incredibly interesting. Bradley’s eyes finally settled on Cameron. “You tell us, Cameron.” Cameron was my protégé. I had built him from the ground up. Three years ago, he was a fresh grad who didn’t even know how to read a basic candlestick chart. I taught him everything. When he blew a two-million-dollar hole in his portfolio his first year, I quietly used my own year-end bonus to cover the deficit so he wouldn’t get fired. As long as I’m here, I used to tell him, you have the safety net to make mistakes. Just learn from them. Now, the entire floor was staring at Cameron. It was his turn to make a choice. He took a slow, deep breath, lifted his chin, and looked me dead in the eye. His stare was glassy, completely devoid of the kid I used to know. “Yes. Half an hour ago, I personally saw Miles force Paige into the rest lounge. He locked the door behind them.” In that moment, an icy chill radiated through my chest. For three years, I had been warming a viper in my pocket. I remembered him when he first started, so timid he’d stutter when asking me a question. I remembered finding him crying in the stairwell after his first major loss. I had clapped a hand on his trembling shoulder, telling him that the market breaks everyone eventually, and what mattered was how you pieced yourself back together. I remembered when my mother was diagnosed, how he had run himself ragged bringing us dinners at the hospital, calling her “Auntie” with a warmth that felt so agonizingly real. All of it. An illusion. A performance. For the promise of a promotion, for a sliver of my year-end bonus pool, he was willing to shove me off a cliff and stomp on my fingers as I fell. 4 I looked at Cameron, my expression eerily calm as I pointed out the glaring flaw in his lie. “The lock on the lounge door has been broken since last week. Maintenance hasn’t fixed it yet.” “So how, exactly, did I lock it?” Cameron’s face twitched. He immediately broke eye contact, looking nervously at the floor. Paige lunged forward to fill the silence, her tears flowing right on cue. “He was too far away to see properly! The door was just pulled shut!” “I tried to run, but Miles grabbed my ankle…” She reached down and pulled up the hem of her tailored trousers, revealing a ring of red bruises around her pale ankle. It was definitely a handprint. Someone had gripped her hard. Bravo. Excellent production value. I gave a small, defeated nod, abandoning the detail of the door. Instead, I pointed a trembling finger at my computer tower. “My trading terminal has comprehensive operational logs. Every keystroke, every mouse click. It will prove unequivocally that I didn’t step away from this seat for a single second all afternoon!” It looked like I was playing my final trump card. In reality, it was bait. You want to prove I wasn’t at my desk, Bradley? I thought. Come on. Take the bait. Destroy the irrefutable evidence of my fat-finger error with your own two hands. Bradley looked at me like I had just told him a hilarious joke. “Logs? Miles, do you think we’re idiots?” Cameron, sensing the shift in momentum, immediately chimed in. “So what if there are keystrokes? With your status in this firm, you could have easily ordered a junior analyst to sit at your desk and click around for thirty minutes. Who would dare say no to you?” Paige nodded furiously. “Exactly! You were just threatening me with your power. Using your authority to force someone to build an alibi for you while you cornered me… that’s exactly the kind of manipulative thing you’d do!” I roared, thrashing wildly like a man who had lost his mind. “I didn’t order anyone to cover for me!” “Check it! I demand a forensic fingerprint analysis on that keyboard! My prints are the only ones on those keys!” I knew the psychology of a bully. The angrier I looked, the more I struggled, the more Bradley would believe he had struck my Achilles heel. Right on cue, a smug, vicious smile spread across Bradley’s face. He picked up the heavy Yeti tumbler full of ice water sitting on my desk. He tipped it over the mechanical keyboard. Water flooded the keys, seeping deep into the circuitry, soaking the mouse, and cascading onto the hard drive tower beneath the desk until the screens flickered and died. “No need to go through all that trouble, Miles,” Bradley purred. “Now… tell me. Where are these precious logs and fingerprints of yours?”

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I built my empire on stinky ramen. I’m the “Ramen Queen” of social media, a micro-celebrity known for slurping down bowls of pungent, spicy, fermented pork broth for millions of followers. My husband, on the other hand, is the apex predator of the Manhattan financial circuit. Before the wedding, we made a pact: church and state. He wouldn’t touch my business, and I wouldn’t interfere with his. In three years, he hasn’t so much as liked a single post of mine, let alone dropped a “gift” in my livestream. My frenemies love to whisper about us. They insist he’s secretly pulling strings for me behind the scenes, mocking our pairing as “Street Cart Ramens paired with 30-year Macallan.” One night, fed up with the snide remarks, I decided to lean into the joke. “Hey, Dominic,” I said, leaning against his mahogany desk. “Maybe you should actually pave a path for me. You know, make the rumors true?” Dominic looked up, a slow smirk spreading across his face. He removed his gold-rimmed glasses and pulled me into his lap, the scent of expensive sandalwood and cold hard cash clinging to him. “Our little internet star doesn’t need my help to build an empire,” he murmured. “If anything, the day I go bankrupt, I’ll be the one begging to be your cameraman for a paycheck.” We’d been together for five years, and I was still a sucker for that charm. With one effortless, half-joking comment, he managed to smooth out all the wrinkled insecurities in my heart. Until the day my follower count hit the one-million mark. A rival influencer bought a smear campaign against me. Suddenly, the top trending topic was “Stinky Ramen Slut and Her Secret Sugar Daddy.” The internet was tearing me apart. Only one person spoke up for me: Camille Rossi, a visionary indie director. But her defense of me backfired, sparking a new wave of rumors claiming she’d “slept her way through every venture capitalist in the city.” I was drowning in guilt until a verified corporate account dropped a bombshell comment on the trending thread. @CamilleRossi is my most vital partner. Her professional integrity is beyond reproach. Our legal department will be pursuing every account involved in this defamation. The handle looked familiar. Too familiar. I ended my livestream early and practically sprinted home. I pushed open the study door and found him there—the man who claimed to have no social media, the man who always told me to “just ignore the trolls.” Dominic was gripping his phone so hard the veins in his forearms were bulging. He was personally operating his conglomerate’s official account, waging war in the comments section to defend Camille. 1 I walked right up to Dominic, but he didn’t even notice me. His brow was furrowed, his eyes locked onto Camille’s latest post on his private phone. At that moment, his work phone on the desk lit up with a notification from his assistant: [Mr. Sterling, the situation regarding Miss Rossi has been handled.] [Should we deal with the trending hashtags regarding your wife as well?] My heart hammered against my ribs. I was suddenly, paralyzingly afraid of the answer. Before he could reach for the work phone, I backed out of the room and closed the door, my breath hitching. An hour passed. The “Sugar Daddy” hashtags about me were still climbing the charts, untouched. There was my answer. This was Dominic’s “consistent” attitude toward me. He always preached about “the truth speaking for itself,” telling me to stay above the fray of public insults. I had been naive enough to believe that to a titan of industry like him, internet drama was simply beneath his dignity. But now, every insulting post about Camille Rossi had vanished as if they never existed. I realized then that it wasn’t that he was “above it.” It wasn’t that he was always calm. It was just that I wasn’t the woman he was willing to go to war for. With a hollow ache in my chest, I went to the kitchen and cooked a bowl of my signature ramen, extra spicy, extra pungent. I ate them like a form of self-flagellation, scrolling through Camille’s Instagram—ten years of history she’d never deleted. It was a roadmap of my husband’s heart. I saw the Dominic I knew—the neat freak who winced if I kissed him after I’d brushed my teeth three times—holding a greasy takeout container for Camille, looking at her like she was the only thing in the world. I saw Camille standing on his rare, limited-edition vinyl records to reach a high shelf, and he was just laughing, taking a photo and captioning it “Adorable.” When I had once asked to listen to one of those records, he’d locked the cabinet with a cold, stony expression. I scrolled further back. He’d once walked out of a billion-dollar cross-border negotiation just to make it to Camille’s birthday dinner. Meanwhile, I had waited at the courthouse three separate times for him to show up for our marriage license. The first time was an “emergency meeting.” The second was an “unexpected business trip.” The third time he actually showed up, he spent the entire ceremony on a work call he refused to hang up. Seeing this version of Dominic—this reckless, passionate boy—made the bitterness I’d been swallowing for years overflow. I began to sob, the sound muffled by the documentary playing in the study. He was watching The Flavor Trail again. He’d invested in it years ago. Only now did I see the director’s credit at the end: Camille Rossi. The irony was a knife to the gut. Dominic and I had started because of this film. Five years ago, when I was a struggling vlogger, my raw, unpolished review of that documentary had caught his eye. He’d told me he saw “true soul” in my work. After we married, we watched it together often. Every time the credits rolled and the camera panned over the exhausted film crew, he would get this distant, longing look in his eyes. I had been vain enough to think that look was a reflection of his pride in me, a nod to our shared beginning. But I was wrong. He wasn’t reminiscing about how we met. He was staring at the screen, drowning in the memory of the woman he could never truly have. … I forced down a massive mouthful of spicy ramen, the chili oil burning my throat until tears streamed down my face. Hearing me choke, Dominic walked out of the study. He saw my red, swollen eyes and the oil smeared on my lips, and his brow twitched with a familiar irritation. He sighed, handing me a glass of lukewarm water. “If you can’t handle the heat, Jade, don’t force it.” His calm, condescending tone was the final straw. “Dominic,” I said, my voice thick. “I’m trending again. Everyone is calling me a whore. I’m tired of being the ‘Ramen Queen.’ I want to pivot. I want to go into production, to do something real. Can you help me?” 2 He looked at me with the cold, analytical gaze he usually reserved for a failing stock. “Your brand is too ‘street,’ Jade. It’s grounded in being relatable and a bit… unrefined. You can’t just jump into high-end production. The market is cold right now. Me helping you wouldn’t make a dent. Don’t be impulsive.” I let out a sharp, jagged laugh. I remembered Camille’s post from years ago. She’d complained about being tired, and Dominic had replied: Then stop. I’ll take care of you. Like a woman possessed, I heard myself ask: “If I actually lose my career because I don’t have your help, will you take care of me then?” His face darkened immediately. “Jade, adults are responsible for their own choices. What I’ve always admired about you is your independence.” Every word felt like a stone hitting my heart. The truth was, I didn’t even have the credentials to be his trophy wife. I was just an “independent” asset he didn’t want to be bothered by. “So what are we, Dominic?” I whispered, fighting back tears. He looked genuinely confused. “What do you mean? You’re my wife. You’re Mrs. Sterling. Isn’t that enough?” “It’s not.” I swiped my phone open and shoved Camille’s post in his face. “You can wipe the internet clean for her in a single night. You can dump millions into a documentary just to see her name in lights. You’ll even get into a digital fistfight for her!” My voice was shaking uncontrollably. “And me? Your wife? Am I not worth a single resource? Not even one word of public support?” He looked at the photo of Camille on the screen—her holding an award, looking radiant. He was silent for a few beats. When he spoke, the calm was gone, replaced by a sharp, business-like edge. “I do those things for her because she is worth the investment. Every dollar I put behind her yields a hundred-fold return in prestige and profit. Her talent, her vision—that is a premium asset.” His eyes snapped back to me, cold and dismissive. “And if I help you? What do I get? A percentage of the ‘donations’ from your livestream? Two dollars for every pack of ramen you sell through a link? That wouldn’t even cover the gas my driver uses to get me to work. Investment requires a return, Jade.” Finally, the mask of the “supportive husband” was ripped away. The truth left me pale and trembling. Dominic saw my shattered expression and sighed. He stepped forward and pulled me into his arms, his voice softening slightly. “Jade, don’t be like this. Let’s be rational. Tell me what you need, and we can—” His phone let out a sharp, demanding ring. He didn’t even look at the caller ID. “Who is it?” he snapped. A soft, feminine voice drifted through the speaker. “Dominic? It’s Maddie… I mean, Camille.” He stiffened. His instinct was to let go of me and head for the study, but seeing my red eyes, he hesitated, frozen in place. Camille’s voice continued, laced with a familiar, practiced dependence. “I’m at dinner with those investors you introduced me to. They’re being difficult about the new studio project. They won’t sign unless you’re here to vouch for me…” She paused, her voice dropping to a soft plea. “Can you come? They only listen to you.” 3 Dominic held the phone in one hand while the other continued to pat my back in a hollow gesture of comfort. After a moment of silence, he spoke into the receiver. “Tell them I’m in for two hundred million. Their portion is guaranteed. If there’s a profit, it’s theirs. If there’s a loss, I’ll cover it.” “Send me the address,” he added. “I’m on my way.” The world went silent. I gripped the hem of his expensive suit jacket with a desperate, manic strength. “Don’t go.” “Dominic, what happened to your principles? What happened to ‘Return on Investment’?” One second ago, I was “not worth the gas money.” The next, he was throwing two hundred million at Camille because she made one phone call. He was taking all the risk and giving others the reward, just to clear a path for her. The slap in the face was so violent I started laughing through my tears. Dominic’s face shifted into blatant impatience. “Camille just got back to the States. Starting over is hard for her. Helping her is a matter of loyalty. Jade, you’re my wife. Can’t you show a little grace?” “So, you won’t help your wife, but you’ll burn the world for her?” My voice was a ghost of itself. “She has it hard? Do you have any idea how hard I’ve worked?” I had built my brand from nothing. I had swallowed every insult, every spicy bite that burned my stomach, every lonely night while he worked. He knew none of it. He had never asked. “Dominic, if you go, we’re done. I’ll file for divorce.” He brushed my hand off his jacket as if I were a nagging child. “Stop being dramatic. I’ll have someone look into your hashtags. Get some sleep. I’m going.” The door clicked shut. I collapsed onto the floor. I had tried. I had bet the only thing I thought I had—our marriage—and I had lost. To Dominic, I was so insignificant that he didn’t even believe my threat was real. I sat there for a long time. My manager sent me a text: [Hey, I know you want to move behind the scenes. There’s an investor, Mr. Miller, who’s willing to talk tonight. He’s at the Grande.] Dominic wouldn’t build a road for me, so I’d have to walk through the mud myself. I washed my face, put on my fiercest heels, and left. At the hotel bar, Mr. Miller was already waiting. He was oily, his hand lingering too long on my waist as he guided me toward a private booth. I’d dealt with men like him before, but as I was scanning for an exit strategy, I saw a familiar figure at the end of the hallway. Dominic. He saw me being led away by Miller. His face darkened into a mask of pure contempt. Just then, Camille’s voice rang out. “Dominic! Why are you still out here? The board is waiting!” She spotted me and a flicker of surprise crossed her face, quickly replaced by a smirk. She tucked her arm through Dominic’s and began pulling him toward the ballroom. “Honestly,” I heard her whisper as they walked away, “I thought Jade was a hard-working, decent girl. That’s why I tried to defend her. I didn’t realize… this was how she ‘networked.’ I shouldn’t have gotten involved. It’s a bad look for both of us.” Dominic didn’t defend me. He let her lead him away. That was the moment the last spark of love in me died. Back in the booth, Miller and his cronies were pressuring me to drink. After three glasses, a strange, terrifying heat began to bloom in my chest. I realized something was wrong. They’d spiked the drink. I lunged out of the booth, stumbled into the hallway, and kicked open the door to the VIP lounge where I knew Dominic was. The drug was hitting me hard. I looked at the man at the head of the table—the man I’d shared a bed with for three years. “Dominic,” I rasped, “Please… they did something to me. I don’t feel right. Take me home.” The room went silent. Camille looked up, annoyed. “Miss Jade, I think you have the wrong room. This isn’t one of your… low-rent parties.” I looked at Dominic. He sat there like a king on a throne, cold and unmoved. The other investors at the table caught the vibe immediately. “Who let her in?” one of them laughed. “Is this some wannabe trying to ‘stumble’ into a high-stakes room?” Another chimed in. “Never seen her. Probably some social climber looking for a billionaire to save her.” I wanted to scream, I’m his wife! But Dominic got up and walked over to me. He looked at my flushed face, my trembling hands, and my disheveled hair. He didn’t even touch me. “When you decided to go looking for other ‘investors,’ did you not consider the consequences?” He stood tall, looking down at me with nothing but disgust. “You made this mess. Clean it up yourself. And don’t bring your filth near me again.” He turned around, put his hand on Camille’s shoulder, and walked out. The rejection felt like a bucket of ice water. I stood there, frozen, as Miller came up behind me and grabbed my arm, dragging me toward the elevators. Fear and the drug made me weak. I struggled, screaming at the silhouette disappearing down the hall. “Dominic! I was wrong! Help me! Please!” The footsteps stopped.

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I invited my classmates over to the estate for my birthday. I never expected my roommate to take one look at our family portrait and completely lose her mind. She tilted her chin up, a sudden, venomous arrogance twisting her features, and demanded that my mother and I get on our knees and beg for her forgiveness. At first, I just stared at her, thoroughly bewildered. I thought she was having some sort of psychotic break. I forced a polite laugh and suggested she step outside to catch her breath. Instead, her fury boiled over. She pointed a trembling finger right in my face, her voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. “Do you have any idea who you’re talking to? I am the legal heir. The fact that I’m even giving you the chance to grovel is a mercy.” She scoffed, her eyes wild. “I am my father’s true, legitimate daughter. You and your mother are nothing but his dirty little secret—the mistress and the bastard he keeps stashed away.” She took a step closer, her voice dropping to a vicious whisper. “If you don’t start showing me some respect, I’ll have my father cut you off entirely. I’ll have you both shipped overseas and sold to an escort ring to pay back what you owe my family.” My mother and I exchanged a long, silent look. The sheer absurdity of it hung in the air. Who could have possibly predicted this? My father—a man who had married into our family’s wealth, a man who barely had the spine to speak up at board meetings—actually had the audacity to keep a second family on the side? [Oh my god, this is basically a castle. I’ve never seen a house this gorgeous in my life.] [Seriously, thank god it’s Harper’s birthday, or we’d never get to see the inside of a place like this.] [You’ve always been so quiet about your background, Harper. I can’t believe you’re secretly the wealthiest girl on campus. Madison, looks like you’ve been dethroned as the resident rich girl. How does it feel?] … Hearing those whispers from our classmates earlier, Madison’s face had tightened into a sour mask. It took her several long, excruciating minutes to formulate a response, her tone dripping with condescension. “Well, no wonder Harper never hangs out with us on the weekends. She’s too busy making money.” The implication was heavy, nasty, and impossible to miss. I froze, the shock stealing the words from my throat, but my closest friend, Brianna, immediately rolled her eyes. “Madison, if you’re jealous, just say that. Don’t project your own twisted ideas onto her. Nobody makes this kind of money doing what you’re implying. Get over yourself—you’re not the only person in the world with a trust fund.” Madison ignored Brianna completely. She stalked toward me, a sneer playing on her lips. “Renting a historic estate like this couldn’t have been cheap, Harper. Bleeding yourself dry just to throw a birthday party? What, are you going to start begging us for loans the second the cake is cut?” The music seemed to stop. A heavy, suffocating awkwardness settled over the room. Heat crept up my neck, but I maintained my composure, offering a tight, polite smile. “You don’t need to worry about my finances, Madison. My mother bought this property, and every single cent…” Before I could finish, Madison cut in, her voice rising in a defensive pitch. “Oh, so your mom is the one out there working the corners, not you? Well, you shouldn’t let her carry the burden all by herself. You should really pitch in.” She shot a glaring look at Brianna. “And for the record, I just said she was making money. I never said it was illegal. It’s not my fault your mind goes straight to the gutter.” The air in the room practically turned to ice. Our classmates shifted uncomfortably, averting their eyes. Camilla, our class president, tried to break the tension with a nervous, overly bright laugh. She pointed toward the grand mahogany console table against the wall. “Oh, wow, is this a family portrait? Everyone, look at this! Harper’s parents are stunning.” Like a lifeline, the crowd gravitated toward the photograph. But Madison shoved her way through the group, snatching the heavy silver frame right out of Camilla’s hands. She only looked at it for a second. That was all it took. Her smug expression vanished, replaced by a ghastly, pale shock. Without a word of warning, Madison hurled the framed portrait right at my feet. The glass shattered, the sound cracking like a whip through the silent room. “These are your parents?” she demanded, her voice trembling. Even with my usually endless patience, the dam broke. “Madison, if you’re going to throw a tantrum, get out. It’s my birthday. You showed up uninvited, which was awkward enough, then you insult my mother, and now you’re destroying my property. What the hell is your problem?” But Madison looked even more enraged than I was. “How dare you raise your voice at me, you little bastard! Do you have no concept of your place? Do you not understand the difference between the legal family and the trash on the side?” I simply stared at her. Have you ever been so profoundly baffled that your brain just short-circuits into laughter? I let out a dry, breathless chuckle. My parents were legally married. What century was she living in, throwing around words like “bastard” and “legal heir” like we were in some medieval court? Taking my silence as submission, Madison’s arrogance swelled. “Let me spell it out for you. The man in this photograph is my father. My parents are legally married. So if you’re calling this man your dad, what does that make you? A dirty little secret.” She swept her gaze over the stunned crowd. “I always thought you looked familiar. Now I know why. You’re the trash my father created when he stepped out on my mother!” I bit the inside of my cheek hard, fighting the sudden, overwhelming urge to slap her across her perfectly contoured face. “Madison, stop this insane performance right now. I am not an affair baby. My parents have been legally married for twenty-two years. You need to apologize, right now, or I swear to God…” “Or what?” she interrupted, a cold, mocking laugh escaping her lips. “What is the mistress’s kid going to do to me? Unlike you, I actually have proof of who I am.” She whipped out her phone, her manicured thumb frantically swiping through her camera roll. She shoved the screen into my face. “Here. A photo of my birth certificate. Here’s a picture of my parents holding me in the hospital the day I was born. And here are our tax filings, showing all of us under one roof.” She jammed her finger against the screen. “Look at it! Look at his face and tell me that isn’t your father. Tell me Richard isn’t your father!” I looked down at the glowing screen, and the breath was knocked clean out of my lungs. The man holding a newborn Madison… was my father. He looked exactly like him. The exact same smile. The exact same crinkle around his eyes. Up until this exact second, I had been utterly convinced Madison was just having a psychotic, jealous meltdown. But staring at the digital evidence, my throat closed up. Could two strangers really look this identical? No. My father was an only child. He didn’t even have first cousins. And then I saw the signature on the birth document. The loops, the heavy slant of the ‘R’—it was his handwriting. There was no universe where this was a coincidence. There was only one terrifying, nauseating explanation: Madison was telling the truth about him being her father. Which meant the quiet, unassuming man who kissed my mother’s cheek every morning had been living a double life. He hadn’t just cheated; he had raised an entire second child. My emotional defenses crumbled. A quiet devastation washed over me. It was so incredibly hard to reconcile the cowardly, agreeable man I knew with a man brazen enough to pull off a decades-long betrayal. I was practically vibrating with rage. I wanted to pull out my phone, call him, and scream until my vocal cords snapped. Seeing the realization wash over my face, Madison practically glowed with triumph. “Well? Cat got your tongue? Is the man on my birth certificate your father or not?” She turned to our classmates, waving her phone like a trophy. “She was just acting high and mighty, pretending she had no idea! Ask yourself, Harper, why is your dad always ‘traveling for work’? Why is he never home?” She stepped into my space, her voice dripping with venom. “And why don’t you even share his last name? Why do you use your mother’s last name? Because you aren’t worthy of his name. Because you are the secret. Because you are nothing.” She paced back and forth, fueled by her own adrenaline. “You think I came here for a party? I’ve suspected my dad was seeing someone for months. I followed him a few times, but I always lost his car around this neighborhood. When you dropped your address in the group chat, I connected the dots. I came here to see if I could catch him! I never expected to find his little mistress’s nest.” She crossed her arms, looking at the crowd. “So, there you have it, everyone. Your perfect, straight-A student Harper? She’s just the byproduct of a homewrecker.” The silence in the room broke into a chorus of frantic, hushed whispers. Aside from Brianna and Camilla, who looked ready to fight, the rest of the girls were eating up the drama. [Oh my god, I can’t believe she’s an affair baby.] [Well, that explains the massive estate, right? Her mom must be a high-end mistress. Nobody buys a house like this through hard work.] [That is so vile. Harper and Madison are basically the exact same age. That means Harper’s mom deliberately got pregnant while Madison’s mom was expecting…] [Disgusting. The apple probably doesn’t fall far from the tree. Keep your boyfriends away from her, guys.] “What’s going on out here? I thought I heard glass breaking. Is everyone alright?” The soft, melodic voice cut through the toxic whispers. I turned. My mother, Caroline Montgomery, stood in the archway, a warm, elegant smile on her face. She looked flawless, her posture radiating the kind of effortless grace that only comes from generations of old money. Madison took one look at my mother and dragged her eyes up and down in absolute disgust. Then, with an exaggerated sigh, Madison threw herself onto the center sofa, crossing her legs and leaning back like she owned the place. “So, you’re the mistress,” Madison sneered. “I suggest you and your daughter get on the floor right now and beg for my forgiveness. If your attitude is submissive enough, I might just speak to my mother on your behalf. I might let you keep your pathetic little allowance.” Madison examined her nails, a cruel smile playing on her lips. “If you piss me off, I will call my father right now and have all your credit cards frozen. Don’t forget who you are. My mother is his legal wife. Every single dime you spend belongs to my family. You’re spending my mother’s marital assets.” She looked up, her eyes flashing with a dark, unhinged threat. “If you don’t fall in line, I will sue you for every penny you’ve stolen. And when you can’t pay it back, I will personally see to it that you’re both sold to an escort ring in Eastern Europe to work off your debt. Now, kneel.” My mother blinked, her smile faltering into an expression of genuine confusion. “I’m sorry, is this some sort of theatrical performance?” I quickly closed the distance between us, pulling my mother aside. In a hushed, trembling voice, I explained what Madison had just shown me. I watched the subtle shift in my mother’s eyes. The confusion faded, replaced by a cold, sharp, devastating clarity. She understood, just as I had, that my father had been keeping a second family. But my mother was a Montgomery. She had been groomed since birth to take over a corporate empire. Before she even married my father, her family’s lawyers had run background checks so extensive they knew his middle school grades. We both knew, with absolute certainty, that he had been unmarried when he met her. Madison’s ‘evidence’ of being the first family was a lie, or at least, a heavily manipulated delusion. We were both reeling from the betrayal of his infidelity, but we weren’t going to be intimidated by a teenager playing lord of the manor. My mother’s face smoothed over into an expression of polite, chilling calm. She turned back to my classmates, her voice steady and soothing. “There seems to be a profound misunderstanding here. Sometimes people bear striking resemblances to one another. But let me be perfectly clear: Harper’s father and I are legally married. There is no mistress situation here.” Because my mother carried herself with such undeniable authority and grace, her words instantly shifted the energy in the room. The girls who had just been whispering about us suddenly looked sheepish and began backpedaling. [Yeah, Madison, it’s probably just a coincidence. A photo isn’t solid proof. People have doppelgängers all the time.] [Look at Mrs. Montgomery. She screams old money. There is no way she’s a secret mistress. You need to chill out, Madison.] [Seriously, it’s Harper’s birthday. You crashed her party just to start a witch hunt. This is getting way too out of hand.] Seeing the crowd turn against her, Madison began to shake with rage. “Are you all completely brain-dead?! My father is the CEO of Vanguard Holdings! These two leeches are only acting like royalty because they are bleeding my father dry!” The classmates exchanged skeptical looks, unconvinced. This only fueled Madison’s hysteria. “You manipulative bitches. This is exactly how you brainwashed my dad, isn’t it? You play the elegant victims so he keeps buying you things!” I couldn’t take it anymore. I pointed a rigid finger toward the heavy oak front doors. “I have made myself clear. My father and your father are not the same person. Get the hell out of my house. You are not welcome here.” Instead of leaving, Madison marched over to the doorway and grabbed our housekeeper, Maria, by the arm as she walked past with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. “You! Tell them! What is the name of the man who lives in this house?” Maria looked terrified. She glanced between me and my mother, her voice trembling. “Um… Mr. Richard. Richard… um, Richard.” Madison threw her hands up in vindication. “See?! Still want to lie? You’re telling me they don’t just look identical, but they miraculously share the exact same name? You expect anyone to believe a coincidence like that?!” The truth was laid bare. There was no point in playing the ‘doppelgänger’ card anymore. I let out a long, exhausted sigh, feeling the weight of the night pressing down on my chest. “Fine,” I said, my voice dangerously quiet. “The man you call your father and my father are the same person. But my mother is not his mistress. They are legally married. Before they signed their marriage certificate, my family ran thorough background checks. He was a single man.” I took a step toward her, holding her furious gaze. “As for why I don’t share his last name? It’s because I took my mother’s name. Because she is a Montgomery. It’s not uncommon in our circle when the mother’s family holds the legacy. My mother isn’t the homewrecker, Madison. Yours is. I’m not the bastard. You are.” Madison kicked the mahogany console table, her face turning a mottled red. “I knew you would try to spin this and blame my mother! My parents are high school sweethearts! They have been together since they were teenagers! Your mother is the whore who sank her claws into him!” My mother’s brow furrowed in distaste. She turned to Maria and quietly asked her to fetch something from the study. A minute later, Maria returned, handing my mother a small, dark blue velvet folio. “Madison, was it?” My mother opened the folio, revealing her official marriage certificate. “This is my marriage license with Richard. You are welcome to inspect it.” Madison snatched the document. She ran her fingers over the raised gold seal, her eyes darting across the dates and signatures. For a fleeting second, doubt flickered in her eyes. The heavy, authentic parchment couldn’t be faked. But then, the delusion took over again. My mother spoke, her tone laced with a quiet, devastating sorrow. “I have always trusted Richard implicitly. I never could have imagined he was capable of maintaining a secret life, let alone fathering a child Harper’s age. But since you have brought this to my doorstep, I will tell you this: I am divorcing Richard immediately. I will—” “Save it!” Madison shouted, aggressively tapping her phone screen again. “I knew you people would pull something like this. You rely on your pretty faces to steal other women’s husbands, and when you get caught, you play the victim. A marriage certificate? Wow, you guys really planned ahead, forging government documents. If I hadn’t come prepared, you might have actually fooled me.” She shoved her phone back into my face. “Look! This is my parents’ marriage certificate! The date on mine is three years before yours! What do you have to say to that?” Before I could even process the image on her screen, the heavy oak doors of the estate swung wide open. A group of broad-shouldered men in dark suits marched into the foyer. They didn’t look like security; they looked like muscle. They looked dangerous. Madison didn’t even look at me. She turned to the men, her voice ringing with the absolute authority of a spoiled tyrant. “Throw them out. Get them out of my family’s house.” The energy in the room shifted violently. My classmates, who had been on my side moments ago, now looked at me with a mixture of pity and disgust. Madison had a certificate with an older date. In their eyes, I was officially the mistress’s daughter. Wow… no wonder she was always so secretive about her family. She was terrified of getting caught. [It’s crazy though. I’ve been to Madison’s house. It’s nice, but it’s nothing compared to this estate. Harper’s mom must be a legendary manipulator to get him to buy her this.] [Madison, be careful. It’s obvious your dad favors them over you if he bought them a mansion. Are you sure you want to kick them out? What if your dad gets furious with you?] That last comment was the match in the powder barrel. Madison’s eyes went completely feral. She pointed at me, screaming at the men in suits. “Trash this place! Smash everything! This is all bought with my family’s money, which means it belongs to me! If I want it destroyed, I’ll destroy it! You think my father is going to side with this bastard over me? Do it!” The hired muscle simply nodded. Without a second of hesitation, they began to tear the room apart. They swept their arms across the antique tables, sending Ming vases and crystal sculptures crashing to the marble floor. They kicked over chairs and ripped down the heavy silk drapes. My mother let out a gasp, instinctively lunging forward to stop them. I grabbed her arm, pulling her back hard. I shook my head, stepping in front of her to shield her from the flying debris. With trembling hands, I pulled out my phone, immediately texting the estate’s private security team, and then, my father. My mother lived in a world of civilized boardrooms and polite society; she didn’t understand the physical danger we were in. But I knew that if she stepped into the middle of that chaos, she could be seriously hurt. Everything in this room was just stuff. It could be replaced. Right now, our physical safety was the only thing that mattered.

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The day my husband declared bankruptcy was the same day I stumbled upon a certain livestream. She was a “lifestyle influencer”—the kind who flaunts a life bought with other people’s secrets. On screen, she swirled in a limited-edition couture gown, gesturing toward a floor-to-ceiling glass case filled with Hermès Birkins and Chanel flaps. “My Daddy is playing a game with me,” she cooed to her camera, her voice a sugary needle. “He’s pretending to be broke just to see if his wife will actually follow him into the trenches. He moved her into some rotted-out studio apartment in the slums.” She giggled, running a manicured nail over a row of leather. “Now, all these bags are mine. I can’t even wear them all. Maybe I’ll do a giveaway for my favorite followers.” My heart didn’t just skip; it stalled. My eyes were locked on the bag in her hand. It was a structured, architectural piece in midnight-blue calfskin. I knew that bag. I had one exactly like it. In fact, there was only one in the world. Because I had designed it myself. On the screen, a comment flashed: Does Daddy even love his wife? “Of course he does,” she smirked, leaning into the lens. “But so what? He says she’s expired. Her face is sagging, and everything else is… well, loose. He says top to bottom, she’s just old. He’s bored to tears.” I looked at the girl—her face bore a haunting, younger resemblance to mine—and then looked around the damp, peeling wallpaper of the studio apartment where I sat. I felt a chill settle into my marrow. “Sorry, babes, I have to hop off,” she whispered with a performative blush. “Daddy’s coming home. He told me to be showered and ready. He said he wants to go all night.” The stream cut to black. Almost instantly, a text vibrated in my hand. It was from Harrison. [I’m so sorry, babe. The creditors are hounding me. I might be stuck here until dawn trying to negotiate. Don’t wait up.] 1 I stared at the screen, a heavy silence descending on the room. So, Harrison was the “Daddy.” The bankruptcy? A meticulously crafted lie. I tapped on the influencer’s profile. She had just posted a new update: Pre-battle intimacy. It was a photo of a man’s back. He was shirtless, wearing nothing but a kitchen apron, standing over a stove. After ten years of sharing a bed, I could recognize the curve of Harrison’s shoulders in pitch darkness. The kitchen was familiar, too. It was our kitchen. My kitchen. For a decade, I was the one standing there, coaxing flavors out of cast iron while he worked late. Harrison hadn’t spent more than sixty seconds at that stove in years. Now, he was cooking for her. I sat back on the hard plastic chair. This “apartment” Harrison had brought me to didn’t even have a sofa. It had no Wi-Fi, no TV. It was a cage designed to keep me isolated while he played house in our mansion. I waited for the tears, for the cinematic rage. But all I felt was a strange, crystalline peace. Maybe I’d known all along. The bankruptcy had been too sudden, too quiet. No news reports, no legal notices—just Harrison’s frantic voice and a suitcase packed in the dark. For the past week, he only showed up in the mornings. He told me he was “hiding from collectors,” warned me never to leave the building for my own safety. I’m worried about you, Margot, he’d said, kissing my forehead. Now I realized he wasn’t worried about my safety. He was worried about his two worlds colliding. Fine. I accepted the reality with the cold efficiency of a ledger being balanced. I stood up, put on my coat, and laced my shoes. Harrison had lied to me about being broke. What he didn’t know was that I had never told him about the private offshore account I’d been building from my design royalties—a safety net large enough to keep me in silk and champagne for the rest of my life. 2 The next morning at 8:00 AM, Harrison’s texts started flooding in. Where are you? I didn’t answer. Ten minutes later, my phone shrieked. I let it ring four times before picking up. “Margot? Where are you? Why aren’t you answering me?” His voice was tight, vibrating with an anxiety he tried to mask as concern. I took a sharp breath, making sure it sounded labored. “I… I didn’t see the phone.” The line went quiet for a few beats. “Margot,” he said, his tone shifting to something suspicious, “what are you doing? Why is your breathing so heavy?” I let out a soft, airy laugh. “Running, Harrison. What else would I be doing?” “Running where? I’ll come pick you up.” “Central Park,” I lied effortlessly. He hung up without a word. I shrugged and took my time getting back to the dingy apartment. When I walked in, a grease-stained paper bag sat on the plastic table. Egg sandwiches and lukewarm coffee. The “broke man’s” breakfast. I didn’t touch it. I tossed the whole bag into the trash. For a week, he’d brought me the same cheap breakfast every morning, playing the part of the struggling provider. At first, I thought it was sweet. Now, the smell of the congealed eggs made me want to gag. The phone kept vibrating. Harrison, again and again. I set it to silent, walked into the cramped bathroom, and turned on the shower. I let the water drown out the world. When I stepped out, Harrison was standing in the middle of the room, holding my glowing phone. His face was a mask of thunder. “Margot, why the hell aren’t you picking up?” I rubbed a towel through my hair, giving him a vacant, dreamy smile. “Data plans aren’t cheap, Harrison. You told me we’re bankrupt. I’m just trying to save us money.” The lecture he had prepared died in his throat. He looked at me, his eyes searching for a crack in my armor, but I gave him nothing. Finally, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around me from behind. “I’m sorry, babe. I shouldn’t have snapped. I’m just stressed.” He pulled out his phone and, with a flourish of performative martyrdom, Venmoed me exactly fifteen dollars. “I made this doing some freelance consulting last night,” he lied, his breath smelling of the expensive espresso I knew he’d had at the house. “It’s all I have right now. Use it. Don’t worry about saving every penny.” Freelance? Is that what they called being a sugar daddy now? As he held me, his phone chimed. A text notification. He pulled away instantly, turning his back to me to check the screen. Within seconds, he was fumbling for his keys. “I have to go, Margot. The creditors again. They’re being aggressive.” I watched him. “Are they really, Harrison? Is it the debt collectors?” “Of course. I’d never lie to you.” He was already at the door, his hand on the knob. “Stay inside. Don’t go out. I’ll bring breakfast tomorrow.” He practically sprinted out. It didn’t look like a man running from debt; it looked like a man running to a prize. I pulled up the influencer’s—Lexie’s—page. New post: Daddy just sent his wife $15 for ‘groceries.’ I told him that wouldn’t fly with me. I wanted a million. In my account. Right now. The second photo was a screenshot of a wire transfer: $1,000,000.00. The third was a candid shot of Harrison’s profile, his head bowed as he typed on his phone. I laughed. I reached up to wipe my eyes, but they were perfectly dry. 3 Harrison returned the next morning. This time, it wasn’t a greasy paper bag. He brought a delicate container of lobster bisque and truffle-oil dumplings. I was about to take a bite when my phone pushed a notification. Lexie again: Last night I mentioned I was craving lobster. Daddy got up at 3 AM to hand-shell four lobsters himself. I couldn’t finish it all, so I told him to take the leftovers to the ‘old lady’ in the cellar. I stared at the dumplings. I dropped the chopsticks as if they were white-hot. “This is disgusting,” I whispered. Harrison, who was pouring tea, froze. “What did you say?” I turned my head slowly, meeting his eyes. “I read a story online yesterday. About a man who faked a total financial collapse just to move his wife of ten years into a dump so he could move his mistress into their mansion.” I tilted my head, my voice dripping with faux-innocence. “Can you imagine being that pathetic? That much of a coward? It’s sickening, don’t you think, Harrison?” Harrison’s eyelid gave a violent, uncontrollable twitch. He looked down, then back up, his face pale. “Yeah. Sickening.” I leaned in, my voice a sharp blade. “You wouldn’t ever lie to me like that, right?” “No!” he blurted out, his voice cracking. “I’d never lie to you, Margot. You have to believe me.” He saw the doubt in my eyes and doubled down, his face twisted into a mask of desperate sincerity. “If I’m lying to you, I hope I get hit by a car the second I walk out that door. I mean it. May God strike me down.” “Careful what you wish for,” I said, my lips curling into a sweet, sharp smile. “But okay. I believe you.” I didn’t touch the food. I walked straight into the bathroom. Harrison followed me to the door, his voice hesitant. “You’ve been showering every morning lately. Is it because of the running?” “Yeah,” I called out over the sound of the faucet. “The neighbor’s dog keeps jumping on me at the park. I smell like sweat and wet dog, and you know how much I hate that. I can’t stand the filth.” I don’t know if he believed me. I don’t think he was even listening. I could see him through the pinhole camera I’d installed the day before. He was huddled in the corner of the room, frantically texting his little toy. I have to stay tonight, he typed. She’s getting suspicious. I need to keep her handled. 4 That night, Harrison climbed into bed and pulled me against him. It was a suffocating, practiced intimacy. “I’m so sorry, Margot,” he whispered into my hair. “If I hadn’t lost everything, you wouldn’t be suffering in a place like this. I promise, I’ll get our life back.” I closed my eyes, picturing the text I’d seen on the monitor earlier. Harrison had told Lexie: I can’t stand lying next to this old woman. I swear I can smell the rot on her. Like an old person’s home. Lexie had replied: Poor baby. Just wait until she’s asleep, then go to the bathroom and FaceTime me. I’ll show you what a real woman looks like. No clothes allowed. I felt him wait. He waited for my breathing to turn deep and rhythmic. Once he was sure I was under, he slipped out of bed. The studio was so small that he didn’t even go to the bathroom; he just huddled in the far corner by the sink. I didn’t even need the camera to hear the muffled, pathetic sounds of his arousal as he whispered to a screen. It was pathetic. I hoped his prayer came true. I hoped he’d be hit by a bus by morning. But Harrison didn’t die. He didn’t even wait for morning. He slipped out in the middle of the night, leaving a note: [Creditors found me. Moving to another location. Stay safe.] On Lexie’s Instagram, there was a video of them in the back of his Maybach, his hands all over her, his face buried in her neck. I didn’t chase him. I didn’t scream. That would be messy. It would make me look like the “crazy, bitter wife” he probably told her I was. Instead, I sat at the small plastic table and methodically saved every screenshot of Lexie’s posts, every frame of the hidden camera footage. These weren’t just memories. They were my ammunition. 5 Harrison spent the next forty-eight hours with Lexie. He even grew bold enough to appear on her livestream, though he kept his face out of frame. They were flaunting their “forbidden love” for thousands of viewers. One commenter went rogue: This is trash. You’re a homewrecker and he’s a cheating loser. I feel sorry for his wife. Harrison didn’t block them. Instead, he started “raining” digital gifts on the stream, spending thousands of dollars in seconds to bury the comment. “You’re just jealous,” he typed into the chat, his hubris reaching a fever pitch. “Here’s some money so you can buy a life. Now shut up and let the adults play.” I sat in my dark studio, tapping the screen to collect the “red envelope” digital cash he was throwing around. Years ago, when Harrison and I first started out, he had defended me against online bullies with that same ferocity. He was still the same man—dominant, protective, aggressive. He just wasn’t doing it for me anymore. I sighed, clicking the last of the digital credits. The man I loved was dead. There was only this rotting shell left. Harrison finally showed up on Valentine’s Day morning. He brought the usual egg sandwiches. Meanwhile, Lexie’s story featured a five-course breakfast tray he’d prepared for her, complete with edible gold leaf and mimosas. A man who hadn’t boiled an egg for me in a decade was suddenly a Michelin-star chef for a twenty-two-year-old. I was tired. This farce was exhausting. “Come back tonight, Harrison,” I said, my voice flat. “I have something to tell you.” He promised he’d be there. 6 February 14th. Our tenth anniversary. I spent the afternoon cooking—the things I liked. I didn’t make his favorites. I made mine. I called him at 7 PM. He answered, sounding breathless. Before he could say a word, I heard a woman’s sharp, theatrical moan in the background. “I’m busy, Margot! I’ll be there soon!” He hung up. I sat down and ate my dinner alone. It was delicious. He finally rolled in at 10 PM, looking disheveled, the faint scent of a heavy, floral perfume clinging to his skin like a sin. “Margot, I’m so sorry. The meeting ran late.” He held out a plastic container. “I brought you dinner from that bistro you love. I happened to be meeting a client there, and I told him it was your favorite, so he insisted I take some home.” Another lie. He had spent the day with Lexie. They’d probably spent the afternoon in a hotel and the evening at a five-star restaurant. These weren’t “thoughtful leftovers.” They were the scraps of a meal he’d shared with his mistress. I didn’t tell him I’d already eaten. I just looked at him. “Sit down. We need to talk.” Harrison stayed by the door, looking trapped. “Babe, I really just came to check on you. I have to go back. The deal isn’t closed yet.” He looked at me with that practiced, puppy-dog sorrow. “I feel terrible about missing our anniversary. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” He turned to leave. That’s when I noticed he hadn’t even taken off his shoes. He wasn’t even pretending to stay. “You really can’t give me ten minutes?” I asked. “On our tenth anniversary?” Harrison hesitated. His gut told him to stay—that this was a pivotal moment. But his phone vibrated in his pocket. A text from Lexie, no doubt. The pull of the new was stronger than the debt of the old. “I’m sorry, Margot,” he said, and he closed the door. I waited sixty seconds. Then I followed him. His car was idling at the curb. As soon as he got in, Lexie—who had been waiting in the passenger seat—threw herself at him. She bit his lip, her voice loud enough to carry in the quiet street. “You’re two minutes late! Your punishment is you aren’t allowed to leave the bed tonight!” Harrison pinned her back against the seat, his voice thick with a heat I hadn’t heard in years. “I can start right now.” I stood in the shadows, my phone recording the whole encounter. I watched them drive away. I didn’t go back to the studio. I pulled out my phone and dialed a different number. “Pick me up,” I said. 7 The transition from Valentine’s Day to the end of the month was a blur of guilt-management for Harrison. He felt bad about missing the anniversary, so he decided he had to be with me for the upcoming holiday. It was a tradition—no matter how “broke” we were, we spent the big moments together. He was addicted to Lexie, but in his mind, she was a toy. I was the “foundation.” He thought he could keep the foundation in a cage and play with the toy in the sunlight. On the holiday morning, he drove to the studio, ready to play the part of the doting husband. He unlocked the door with a smile. “Margot, I’m home! Today we’re—” The words died. The room was cold. The bed was perfectly made. My clothes were still in the tiny closet, and the “leftovers” from the bistro were rotting on the table. But my favorite shoes were gone. He panicked. He dialed my number, his hand shaking. I picked up on the second ring. “Margot! Where are you? Why aren’t you at the apartment?” I didn’t answer him with words. I let the phone capture the sound—a low, masculine chuckle and the rhythmic creak of a headboard. Harrison’s entire body went cold. “Margot… what are you doing? Are you… are you running again?” A sharp gasp hit the microphone, followed by my voice, cool and steady. “Harrison, someone told me I was ‘expired.’ That I was old everywhere. I decided to get a second opinion.” I paused, letting the silence twist the knife. “It turns out, I’m fine. It was you. You’re short, you’re soft, and frankly, you’re underwhelming. Like a wilted sprout.” I hung up. Harrison’s world tilted. Before he could call back, a notification popped up on his feed. A post from a popular “Confessions” page: My sugar-sister said her husband was a ‘two-pump chump’ who faked bankruptcy. What should she do? Answer: Get yourself a golden retriever boy who can go all night! Attached was a photo of a young man with a chiseled chest, his face masked, and a woman in silk lingerie leaning against him. Even from the back, Harrison knew that woman. It was Margot. His “expired” wife.

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