Category: English

On my fourth IVF cycle, I finally got pregnant. Ethan was more excited than I was. Every day, he made me organic soups, tracked my blood pressure, and wouldn’t even let me walk down the stairs without holding my arm. I thought he had finally changed. But during my prenatal checkup, the lead OB-GYN asked me a question that made my blood run cold. “Mrs. Miller, you signed the embryo donor consent form, correct?” “Yes,” I replied. She hesitated. “Then… are you aware that this embryo’s paternal blood type does not match Ethan’s?” I didn’t understand. She put it in plain English. “The child you are carrying has a different biological father. It is highly unlikely to be your husband’s.” I thought the lab had made a mistake. But when I went home and confronted Ethan, he stayed silent for a long time. Then, he looked at me and said calmly: “The embryo belongs to a friend of mine. His wife is infertile, and I promised to help him.” “Your uterus has the best medical indicators. You had the highest success rate.” “Don’t worry. Once the baby is born, they will give us a massive payout. It’s enough for us to—” I didn’t let him finish. I stared at the ultrasound photo on the coffee table. The tiny, seven-week-old dot was still flickering with a heartbeat. This child should never have been created. But the one who deserved to disappear from this world was Ethan.

“Who is this friend?” I was clutching the ultrasound sheet so hard my nails almost ripped through the paper. Ethan looked at me. There was no guilt in his eyes. Only calculation. He was measuring my anger, deciding how much truth he needed to feed me to keep me quiet. “You’re too emotional right now, Chloe. Let’s talk tomorrow—” “I asked you a question.” After a few seconds of silence, he picked up his glass of water, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Adrian Vance.” Adrian Vance. The real estate mogul. He was on the Forbes list every single year. His wife was Victoria Vance, a mega-influencer with over twenty million followers on Instagram. Her brand was built on being “the ultimate, most elegant mom-to-be.” Wait. Victoria. “Three years ago… she was the one who set us up at that dinner party, wasn’t she?” He didn’t deny it. At that dinner, Victoria had smiled warmly, pushing me toward Ethan, saying, *“You two are a match made in heaven.”* “What is your relationship with her?” “We went to college together.” We had been married for three years, and he had never mentioned her once. I pushed myself up from the sofa and walked into the study. His laptop was closed but still running. On the desktop, there was a folder named *“The Project.”* He hadn’t even locked it with a password. He probably thought I was too stupid to do anything about it. The first file was my gynecological report. My name, ID, uterine position, endometrial thickness, ovarian reserve—every detail was annotated with handwritten notes. The creation date of the file was two months before we even met. The second file was an Excel spreadsheet. The title: *Candidate Evaluation Matrix.* Fourteen rows. Fourteen women. Age, height, weight, menstrual cycle, history of pregnancy. The last column was labeled: *Overall Score.* I was in row three. Score: 9.2. The highest on the sheet. Ethan leaned against the doorframe, watching me. His expression was like an adult watching a toddler open a toy. “You made a product catalog of women?” “It’s a screening sheet for the surrogate carrier,” he corrected me, his tone clinical. “Victoria has a uterine defect. She needed a carrier with the absolute best physical indicators. Standard agency surrogacy is too public and carries too many legal risks. I proposed a more secure option.” “By marrying me.” “Yes. Doing IVF under the guise of marriage is completely legal. No loopholes.” He smiled slightly as he said those words, as if he were presenting a beautiful business model. “So, where did I rank on this list?” “First.” “Oh. And the prize for first place was getting to marry you?” “You could look at it that way.” My nails dug deep into the leather of his office chair. My entire arm was shaking. “I’m terminating the pregnancy tomorrow.” Suddenly, his hand clamped down on my wrist like a steel cuff. In three years of marriage, he had never laid a finger on me. He had never needed violence; his psychological control was always enough. But now, he was panicking. “You can hate me, but you cannot touch this child. Victoria has waited five years. The first three attempts failed—” He stopped mid-sentence. “The first three?” Three times on the operating table. Three times bleeding. Three times staring at a single line on a pregnancy test. Every time, I thought it was my fault, that my body was broken. Every time, he had held me and said, *“It’s okay, honey. We’ll try again.”* “Were those first three times accidents, or was that planned too?” He let go of my wrist. Not out of mercy, but because he realized he had said too much. “Chloe, calm down.” “Answer me!” He took a step back, slipping into his corporate-presentation voice. “The embryo batches for the first three runs didn’t meet the standards. It was Victoria’s call. She only wanted the premium-grade embryos.” Quality control. She called my pain *quality control*. The agony of those three procedures, kneeling over the toilet vomiting until my stomach spasmed, the heartbreaking look on his face when I came out of the clinic—it was all an act. He was just helping her run a quality-assurance check on my body. “Let me remind you of one last thing,” his voice was quiet, but every word felt like a nail driving into my chest. “Your mother is living very comfortably at Meadowview. The $8,500 monthly care fee—did you really think I was paying that out of my own pocket?”

I was fully dressed before sunrise. As I was tying my sneakers, his voice drifted from the bedroom doorway. “Going somewhere?” “Getting groceries.” “There’s some pork chops in the fridge. I’ll make you stew for lunch.” His tone was exactly the same as yesterday. He was even sweeter, as if the spreadsheet of fourteen women and the three failed “quality checks” had never happened. I grabbed my bag and walked out. He didn’t stop me. But when I got downstairs, a white Porsche was idling at the curb. The window rolled down, revealing a face so heavily filtered it looked like airbrushed plastic. She smiled at me. “Chloe, right? Get in. Let’s get some breakfast.” Victoria. She was wearing a loose knit dress, her stomach showing a slight, perfect bump—the classic second-trimester look. Her twenty million followers watched that belly “grow” every single day on Instagram. “No.” “Your mother’s care bill for this month hasn’t been signed off yet,” she said, tapping her steering wheel. “Want to take a look at it in the car?” My feet froze. Three seconds later, I opened the passenger door and climbed in. She didn’t take me to a cafe. Instead, she drove into the underground garage of a commercial building and killed the engine. The car fell silent, save for the low hum of the AC. “Since this is our first official meeting, let me introduce myself,” she said, pulling a Chanel compact from her bag to touch up her lipstick. “I’m the client for this project.” “Project?” “Yes. The one in your belly,” she pointed at my stomach with her manicured, glittering nail. “Your body is the vessel. My husband provided the sperm, I provided the egg, and Ethan handles the logistics and daily maintenance. Clear division of labor. Everyone plays their part.” I wanted to laugh, but my jaw was too tight. “You call this a project?” “What else would you call it? Did you think you were in a romance novel?” She snapped her compact shut. “Don’t flatter yourself, Chloe. You’re just a container. A highly rated, high-functioning container.” She unlocked her phone and slid it in front of my face. It was a live camera feed of my living room. “You spent forty-three minutes in the study last night. You went through his laptop and found the matrix,” she said, her voice as flat as a weather report. “Your reaction was a bit slower than I expected. I thought you’d start questioning things after the second failed cycle.” “You put cameras in my house?” “It’s not your house. I bought that condo,” she tilted her head. “I had the cameras installed during the renovation. I check in every now and then to monitor your diet and sleep. After all, you are carrying my baby.” She swiped to her Instagram profile. Her latest post was from this morning—a mirror selfie of her holding her “pregnant” belly. The caption read: *“Week 19! Baby kicked today!”* Millions of likes. The comments were flooded with: *“You’re so glowing, Victoria!”* and *“The luckiest mom ever!”* “You’re not pregnant,” my voice shook. “That stomach is fake.” “Medical-grade silicone. Custom-made. It feels incredibly real,” she patted her stomach like it was a new Hermès bag. “Why would I actually ruin my body? Do you know how much money I make per live stream? If I ruin my figure, who pays my bills?” She restarted the engine. “I’ll drop you back. Be a good girl and stay put. I see every step you take.” I stared out the windshield, my hands gripping the seatbelt. “And if I refuse to cooperate?” She didn’t turn her head. “In your mother’s room at Meadowview, in the second drawer on the right, there’s a bottle of aspirin. High-dose blood thinners are very dangerous for the elderly. One extra milligram can change everything. You wouldn’t want an accident to happen to her, would you?” “Are you threatening—” “I’m helping you make the right choice.” She pulled up to the gate of my apartment complex and turned to look at me. “Just give me seven months, Chloe. Hand over the baby, take your payout, and your mom stays at Meadowview. We all win. Let’s keep it classy.” I opened the door and stepped out. “And what if I don’t want to be classy?” Her lips curved into a perfectly rehearsed smile. “Then you and your mother will lose everything.”

When I got back, Ethan was in the kitchen chopping vegetables, his apron tied immaculately. “Did you see Victoria?” He didn’t even ask *who* I met. He already knew. “Get her to leave me alone.” “I can’t. She’s the client.” “I don’t care what she is. Tell her to take the cameras out of my home.” He laid down his knife, wiped his hands, and pulled an envelope from the entryway drawer. “Your ID is in here.” I reached for it, but he pulled it back. “Chloe, you have two choices. Option one: follow the plan, deliver the baby, your mom’s bills are paid, and you walk away with a million dollars. Option two…” He slid the envelope into his pocket. “I have the embryo consent form with your signature. It’s real. Even if you sue me, you’re legally tied to this process. You’re an accomplice.” “That form had your name on it, not Adrian’s.” “The original copy has Adrian’s name. You didn’t even read it when you signed.” My mouth opened, but no sound came out. He was right. I had trusted him blindly. Every document he put in front of me, I had signed without reading past the first line. “I’ll hold onto your ID and cards for now. Just tell me what you need, and I’ll buy it for you.” “This is kidnapping.” “This is just domestic negotiation.” He went back to chopping vegetables. When he went down to throw out the trash in the afternoon, I picked up the landline in the living room. No dial tone. He had restricted the settings. It could only receive incoming calls. I took a deep breath, walked out of the apartment, and knocked on my neighbor’s door. Mrs. Davis opened it, gasping when she saw my pale face. “Chloe? Oh dear, you look terrible.” “Sarah, can I borrow your phone? Mine is broken.” She handed it to me. I quickly dialed Sienna’s number from memory. It rang twice. “Hello?” “Sienna, it’s me. I need—” The phone was ripped from my hand. Ethan was standing behind me, offering Mrs. Davis a polite, apologetic smile. “Sorry about this, Sarah. My wife’s hormones are all over the place because of the pregnancy. She’s a bit paranoid lately, thinks everyone is out to get her.” “Oh, pregnancy brain is no joke,” Mrs. Davis said sympathetically, looking at me with pity. “Get some rest, Chloe. Don’t stress.” The door shut. Ethan grabbed my wrist and dragged me back inside. Not painfully, but firm enough that I couldn’t break free. “Don’t try that again.” “You’re keeping me prisoner!” “I’m protecting you.” That afternoon, he drove me to a private clinic. Not the high-end hospital where I did my IVF, but a sketchy office tucked away at the end of an alley. In the exam room, a middle-aged man in gold-rimmed glasses flipped through my chart while hosting a FaceTime call. Victoria’s face appeared on his screen. “Dr. Carter, how are her stats?” Dr. Carter lifted his stethoscope from my belly, checking me like a machine off an assembly line. “Vitals are stable. But her stress levels are too high. High cortisol can affect placental function.” “What’s the fix?” “I recommend Clonazepam. One pill every night. Once her sleep improves, her mood will stabilize.” “Write the prescription,” Victoria ordered. I pushed Dr. Carter’s hand away. “You’re giving me heavy sedatives? I’m pregnant!” Dr. Carter didn’t even look up. “A low dose has manageable risks for the fetus.” Victoria’s voice came through the speaker, cold and monotone. “Just cooperate, Chloe. You need to sleep so my baby can grow.” The nurse walked over with a cup of water and a small white pill. “Drink up, Mrs. Miller. You’ll get a good night’s sleep.” Ethan watched me from the corner, silent. I took the pill and put it in my mouth. I took a sip of water. I pressed my tongue hard against the roof of my mouth, trapping the pill underneath, and swallowed only the water. “Good girl,” Ethan said, patting my head.

For three days, I hid the pill under my tongue and spat it down the toilet whenever they weren’t looking. Seeing me “docile” from the meds, Ethan happily reported to Victoria: “She’s stable. Dr. Carter’s prescription is working.” On the fourth day, a black SUV arrived to pick me up. “Victoria wants you at a private gathering to meet some friends,” the driver said. Ethan opened the car door for me, whispering, “Don’t say anything stupid.” The gathering was at a VIP lounge in a private club. Crystal chandeliers, floor-to-ceiling windows, and plates of high-end molecular gastronomy. Five women were seated around a long table, all dressed in designer outfits. Victoria sat at the head of the table. When she saw me, she got up and wrapped her arm around mine. “Everyone, let me introduce her,” she said, looking around the room. “This is our carrier. Her medical stats are perfect. I had to screen over a dozen candidates before finding her.” She patted my shoulder, like a breeder showing off a prize horse. The woman sitting closest to me reached out and touched my stomach. “Oh, Victoria, you have such good taste. Narrow waist, wide pelvis. She’s built for easy labor.” “How far along is she?” “Almost nine weeks,” Victoria answered for me. “The numbers are beautiful. Dr. Carter says she’s exceeding expectations.” They talked about me like I was a piece of fine art on display. They critiqued my skin, guessed my diet, and asked Victoria how much she was paying for a “vessel” like me. I sat there, gripping the edge of my chair, saying nothing. Halfway through, I excused myself to use the restroom. Just as I reached the door of the powder room, I heard Victoria’s voice coming from the adjacent lounge. She was on a call. The door was cracked open. “I had Dr. Carter manipulate the parameters for the first three runs. He kept the embryo viability under thirty percent. The implantation rate was practically zero.” My feet glued themselves to the tile floor. “Exactly. We only used the premium batch on the fourth try. I needed her to suffer a few failures first. It breaks their spirit, makes them desperate and grateful. When it finally succeeds, they think it’s a miracle… No, Adrian doesn’t know. He thinks we went through a legitimate agency in California.” I threw my hand over my mouth. Three times. Three years. The terror of being wheeled into the OR, the despair of seeing a single line, the nights I spent crying until I threw up in the bathtub—it was all a setup. It wasn’t because my body was broken. It was because she wanted me to suffer. She was testing my breaking point, breaking my spirit until she knew I was completely broken before she implanted the real embryo. Quality control. She wasn’t just controlling the embryo. She was controlling me. She was grinding my soul into dust until I was completely obedient. I backed away down the hallway and slid down the wall to the floor. I was shivering, my breath coming in ragged gasps. When I returned to the lounge, Victoria had already hung up. She noticed my pale face and squinted slightly, but her smile returned instantly. “You look pale, dear. Should I have the driver take you home?” I didn’t answer. My eyes fell on a dark blue designer coat hanging on the rack next to her. The initials *AV* were embroidered inside the collar. Adrian’s coat. This was a private club; Adrian probably came here often. A business card was sticking out of the pocket. As I walked past the rack, my fingers darted out. I slipped the card into my sleeve. That night, Ethan fell asleep early. His phone was charging on the nightstand, face down. I lay in the dark for a long time. Once his breathing became deep and heavy, I slipped out of bed. The card in my palm was sweaty and crumpled. It had Adrian’s private number on it. I grabbed Ethan’s phone. I pressed my thumb to the sensor—he had registered my print as a backup years ago and had forgotten to remove it. I opened Snapchat. I searched for Adrian’s name. Their last message was from three days ago. Ethan had sent: *“Everything is on track. Don’t worry.”* I quickly typed a message: *“Mr. Vance, this is Chloe, Ethan’s wife. Victoria is using my womb to carry your child without my consent. Please help me.”* Sent. Delete chat history. I put the phone back exactly as it was. I crawled back into bed, my heart hammering against my ribs. Ten minutes later, the screen lit up in the dark.

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I was born a walking polygraph. Whenever someone lies in front of me, they hiccup involuntarily. Lies that could fool the entire world are completely transparent to me. But because I knew too much of the truth, I ended up with zero friends. Then, Victoria Harrison, the matriarch of the ultra-wealthy Harrison family, tracked me down. She wanted me to marry her son, Ethan Harrison. Gripping my hands tightly, she pleaded: “Chloe, someone among the partners at Harrison Group is cooking the books. We’ve audited for two years and found nothing. Only you can pinpoint the liar with a single glance.” “If Ethan ever lets you down, you can divorce him anytime. The Harrison family will pay you $100,000 a month.” I figured since no one would ever truly open up to me anyway, I might as well put my curse to good use and get paid for it. So, I nodded. During our three years of marriage, I helped Ethan expose five high-level executives who were embezzling funds, recovering over $180 million in losses. The Harrison Group went from being plagued by internal crises to becoming an impenetrable fortress. I also moved from my modest suburban apartment into the sprawling Harrison Estate, where the hallways were so long you could ride a bicycle down them. On this particular day, I was cruising down the hallway on my bike when I overheard Ethan speaking with his partner inside the study. “Ethan, now that the bad debts are cleared, isn’t it time to get rid of that freak wife of yours?” “Give her eighty thousand dollars,” Ethan’s voice was cold. “Tell her the company is pivoting to overseas markets, and we no longer need her services domestically.” “What if she refuses to leave?” “She’s a girl with literally zero friends. Who would ever stand up for her?” Hearing this, I slammed on my brakes, walked up, and knocked on the study door. “Then let’s get divorced right now!” The arch-rival of the Harrison family was currently being pushed to the brink of bankruptcy by their own crooked partners and was desperately searching the world for a top-tier auditor. My services as a human polygraph would be way cheaper—and far more effective—than hiring the Big Four! 0

“Chloe, how long have you been standing out there?” Ethan’s voice held no surprise, only the annoyance of having his plans disrupted. Julian Beck—his dear partner—remained perfectly calm, lounging on the leather sofa with his legs crossed. “Well, you’re just in time, Chloe. Saves Ethan the trouble of bringing it up.” “No need to bring it up.” I leaned my bicycle against the doorframe. “Do you have the divorce papers ready? If not, I can wait for you to print them.” Ethan clearly hadn’t expected this reaction from me. He probably thought I would cry, demand answers, or even beg to stay. After all, in his own words—who else would take in a girl with zero friends? “Are you sure you’ve thought this through?” He walked over to his desk, sliding his hands into his pockets. Three years of marriage taught me exactly what that gesture meant: his decision was final, and the rest was just legal formality. “More than sure. But I do have one question—the eighty thousand, is that pre-tax or post-tax?” Julian let out a sharp chuckle. Ethan didn’t laugh. His gaze swept over my face as if he were cataloging a piece of office equipment about to be decommissioned. “Chloe, my lawyer will send you the agreement later today. But let’s be clear about one thing: you signed an NDA. You are not allowed to utter a single word about Harrison Group’s business secrets, including the audits you performed.” “Does that include who was cooking the books?” “It includes everything.” Wow. He was completely shutting my mouth. Just as I was about to reply, Julian stood up and adjusted his silver cufflinks. I had watched him make that gesture for three years—he always did it right before saying something venomous, like firing a starting pistol for himself. “Don’t feel too bad, Chloe. Last week, the company officially hired Dr. Valerie Stone. She has a Ph.D. in Criminal Psychology from Columbia University and specializes in micro-expression analysis. Actual science.” He put heavy emphasis on the word “science.” “From now on, Harrison Group’s risk assessment won’t have to rely on…” He paused. “…alternative medicine.” Alternative medicine. Three years ago, Ethan’s mother had practically knelt in my tiny rented room, crying and begging me to be the savior of the Harrison family. Three years later, I was dismissed as mere “alternative medicine.” As he uttered that word, Julian let out a hiccup. It was very faint, bubbling up from the depths of his throat. He didn’t even notice it. But I heard it. That hiccup meant he didn’t actually believe I was just “alternative medicine.” He knew my abilities were real. But he chose to drag me through the mud anyway. “Fine.” I picked up the pen from the desk, spent two minutes flipping to the last page of the NDA, and signed my name. As Ethan took the document, my phone buzzed. He had wired me eighty thousand dollars. The memo read: *Thank you for your hard work over the past three years.* No “thank you” in person. No “I’m sorry.” He didn’t even bother with the polite “overseas restructuring” excuse anymore. Stepping out of the study, the hallway felt just as long as ever. Halfway down, I saw two maids carrying cardboard boxes out of the side door, their movements practiced and swift. My things. They had started packing before I even knew. This wasn’t a sudden decision; it was a rehearsed play. They had probably practiced when to tell me and what expressions to use in front of a mirror. I had just caught them early. “Mrs. Harrison, your things are all here.” Two boxes. I had moved in with two boxes three years ago, and I was leaving with the exact same two. I carried the boxes out through the wrought-iron gates. The June evening breeze blew through the maple trees, carrying the scent of freshly cut grass. The gate clicked shut behind me. The sound of the latch sliding into place was soft, like a “goodbye” that was never meant to be spoken aloud. Sitting on the curb, I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my contacts. Only three names: Victoria Harrison, the butler, and the food delivery guy I’d used for three years. When Ethan said “she’s a girl with zero friends, who would ever stand up for her,” he hadn’t hiccuped. It was the absolute truth—and that was why it cut straight to the bone. Taking a deep breath, I pulled up a number I had kept in my favorites folder for a month: the direct line to the Sterling Group. On the document wall in Ethan’s study, there was a competitor analysis report labeled “Top Secret.” I had glanced at it while organizing the files. The Sterling Group was currently being bled dry by internal fraud and was on the verge of collapse. I dialed. It rang four times. “Hello, office of the CEO of Sterling Group.” “Transfer me to Asher Sterling. Tell him Ethan Harrison’s ex-wife is calling.” Five seconds later, the call went through. A man’s voice came over the line—deep, slightly gravelly, carrying the exhaustion of someone who hadn’t slept in days. “Chloe Vance?” He knew who I was. “Mr. Sterling, I heard you’re looking for someone to audit your books.” “You signed an NDA.” “I won’t be auditing the Harrison Group,” I said, holding the cardboard box tight against my knees. “I’ll be auditing yours.” Silence stretched over the line for two seconds. When Asher spoke again, his tone completely changed, like a match being struck in a pitch-black room. “Tomorrow morning, 9:00 AM, 32nd floor. Don’t be late.” 0

“So, you’re the walking polygraph?” Asher Sterling leaned against the edge of his desk, arms crossed, studying me. He was younger than I expected, probably twenty-eight or nine, with a sharp brow and a clean jawline. However, the dark circles under his eyes were so heavy that even concealer couldn’t fully hide them. His office was massive, but half of the three-wall bookshelves were empty, leaving only dust outlines where books used to be. Sold off. The Sterling Group was in even worse shape than I had imagined. “Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the chair across from him. I remained standing. “Test me first.” He raised an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t have called me if you weren’t desperate, but you still don’t trust me. That’s fine; nobody does at first. Say a few truths, then a few lies. See for yourself.” Asher stared at me for three seconds before slowly uncrossing his arms. “Fine. I had steak for dinner last night.” Silence. No hiccup. “Truth,” I said. He continued, “Sterling Group’s current financial health is perfectly fine. There are no fraudulent accounts.” *Hiccup.* A muffled sound escaped from deep within his throat. His composure cracked slightly, and his hand instinctively went to his throat. “That’s impossible. I never hiccup.” “You do in front of me.” He tried again. “Meeting you today was a last-minute decision.” No hiccup. “Truth,” I said, finally sitting down across from him. “Mr. Sterling, you can test me a hundred times. In my presence, there are only two options: truth or lie.” A long silence followed. His fingers tapped against the edge of the desk, as if he were weighing the odds. “Assuming I believe you. How do you plan to help me?” “How many partners do you have?” “Seven.” “Get them all into one room. I’ll ask them questions one by one. Whoever lies will hiccup. They’ll expose themselves on the spot.” “It’s that simple?” “It’s that simple.” He picked up the desk phone. “Toby, notify the seven partners. Financial review in the main conference room at 10:00 AM.” He hung up, then looked at me, hesitating slightly. “What’s your price?” “Let’s see the results first. You can make an offer when you’re satisfied.” At exactly 10:00 AM, the seven partners filed into the conference room. Once seated, some looked at me with curiosity, others with disdain or suspicion. A bald man sitting on the far left stared at me for a few seconds before turning to Asher. “Asher, who is this?” “Our external risk-control consultant, Chloe Vance.” The bald man scoffed. I opened the financial summary and flipped to the first page. “Everyone, I only have a few simple questions. Please answer honestly. First: Over the past twelve months, has anyone in this room authorized off-book expenditures?” The room went dead silent for a beat. A tall man spoke first. “No.” No hiccup. A woman with glasses followed. “No.” No hiccup. Then it was the bald man’s turn. “No.” *Hiccup.* It was a dull, heavy sound, like a fist hitting a drum. The entire room fell into an uncomfortable silence. The bald man rubbed his throat. “Sorry, swallowed some spit the wrong way.” I ignored him. “Second question: Have you shared Sterling Group’s financial data with any external parties?” “Of course not.” *Hiccup.* This one was louder than the first. The other six partners began exchanging uneasy glances. I pressed on. “Are you familiar with an offshore shell company called Adler Holdings?” The bald man—I glanced at his name tag, Marcus Brody—jerked backward in his chair, his lips parting, but no words came out. He didn’t dare speak. Because he knew that if he denied it, his own body would betray him. Asher took over, his voice cold as ice. “Marcus, you don’t have to answer. But our legal team will be stepping in this afternoon.” Marcus scraped his chair back violently against the floor. He stormed out of the conference room, slamming the door so hard the vibration traveled up through the soles of my shoes. The remaining six partners stared at me in unison. The weight of their gaze had shifted—they were no longer looking at an “external consultant.” They were looking at some sort of terrifyingly precise machine. I had seen that look before at the Harrison estate. *Freak.* They didn’t say it aloud, but the word was plastered all over their faces. After the meeting adjourned, Asher kept me behind. “Two minutes to catch a parasite.” The way he looked at me had changed as well. Before, he was testing me; now, he was evaluating me like a general calculating the blast radius of a new weapon. “Chloe, Ethan Harrison used you for three years, yet he only cleared out five people. Why?” “Because some people are smart enough to stay silent. They never tell direct lies in front of me; they only state indisputable facts. They hide behind the truth, and I can’t touch them.” He frowned. “I caught five people in the Harrison Group, but the sixth one… never discussed finances in my presence during those three years.” “Who?” I didn’t answer. The ink on my NDA wasn’t even dry yet. He didn’t press me. Suddenly, a frantic knock sounded on the door. Toby, the assistant, rushed in, looking pale. “Mr. Sterling, people from the Harrison Group are here. Julian Beck came in person, and he brought…” “A behavioral analysis consultant,” I finished the sentence for him. Toby looked at me in surprise. I stood up and adjusted my collar. “Her name is Dr. Valerie Stone, Columbia Ph.D. in Criminal Psychology. She is the Harrison family’s replacement for me.” Asher leaned forward slightly. “How did you know she’d come here?” “Because the Harrison family wants to block every single path left for me,” I said, my voice flat as I looked toward the door. “She’s not here to collaborate. She’s here to cut me off.” The door pushed open. Julian Beck walked in first, followed by a woman in a sharp black blazer and skirt. Her hair was pulled back in a neat low ponytail, her face pale, with a picture-perfect smile. When she saw me, her eyes widened slightly. “Chloe? Oh, what a coincidence to see you here.” 0

“What a surprise to run into you here, Chloe.” Valerie’s voice was sweet enough to be drizzled over waffles. As she walked in, her eyes swept across the conference room—a rapid, scanning observation that missed absolutely nothing. A true professional. Behind her, Julian adjusted his silver cufflinks, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather. “Mr. Sterling, let me introduce Dr. Valerie Stone, a top-tier expert in micro-expression analysis. Although the Harrison Group and the Sterling Group are competitors, we can still share resources when it comes to risk management.” Asher didn’t reply. He just glanced at me. I remained silent as well. Valerie, showing no stranger danger, stepped forward to shake Asher’s hand before turning her sweet smile toward me. “Chloe, I heard you just helped Mr. Sterling catch a bad apple. That’s so impressive.” As she said “so impressive,” she let out a tiny hiccup. It was incredibly soft, like a bubble popping at the surface of water. She didn’t seem to notice it. But I did. She didn’t find me impressive at all. “Julian,” Asher finally spoke, “you didn’t come all this way just to pitch a consultant, did you?” Julian smirked. “Not at all. It’s just that Dr. Stone is highly respected in the industry, and many of our peers rely on her services. We came today to offer Mr. Sterling a free demonstration.” He paused, his eyes shifting to me. “And, of course, to see how her methods compare to Chloe’s. We’ll let Mr. Sterling judge for himself which approach is more effective.” A comparison. A head-to-head test. He wanted to weigh me against Valerie right in front of Asher. Asher frowned. “That won’t be necessary—” “Mr. Sterling,” Valerie interrupted smoothly, her voice gentle yet firm, “I’ve been in this field for six years. My work relies on the peer-reviewed FACS coding system. It’s not…” She chose her next words carefully. “…based on unprovable personal instincts.” This statement didn’t cause her to hiccup. She genuinely believed it. She truly thought my ability was a scam. Asher looked at me. “Do you mind?” he asked. I shrugged. “Go ahead.” Valerie quickly set up the test. She had Toby arrange for three Sterling Group employees to sit in the observation room next door, separated from us by a one-way mirror. Valerie and I sat on our side, with a synchronized intercom system in front of us. “The rules are simple,” Valerie explained. “Each of the three employees will read a statement. One of them is lying. Chloe and I will separately determine who the liar is.” It seemed fair. Except for one crucial detail. The one-way mirror. They were in a completely different room. My ability only worked when people lied *directly in front of me*. In person. Not separated by a soundproof glass wall. My spine went stiff. Valerie had already pressed the intercom button. “Subject number one, please begin.” A voice came through the speaker. The first employee read a statement explaining the legitimacy of a certain expense report. I listened intently—no hiccup. But the problem was, I couldn’t tell if they were telling the truth, or if my ability was blocked by the glass. Subject two: no hiccup. Subject three: no hiccup. My hand gripped the pen tightly. In all my tests at the Harrison Group, no one had ever put a wall between me and my target. Never. Because everyone at the Harrison Group knew my rule: the interrogation must be face-to-face. Did Valerie not know this rule? No. I caught the faint glint of amusement in her eyes. She knew exactly what she was doing. “My assessment,” Valerie spoke first. “Subject two is lying. When describing the reimbursement amount, there was a 0.3-second micro-contraction in his right brow, and his lip corners pulled down by more than 40% compared to his baseline.” She sounded incredibly professional, her terminology flawless. Everyone turned their gaze to me. “Chloe, what’s your verdict?” I looked at the three people sitting in the adjacent room. They sat quietly behind the glass. “I need to see them face-to-face.” Valerie tilted her head slightly. “Face-to-face? What do you mean, Chloe? Didn’t you say you could spot a lie instantly?” “My ability requires close proximity—” “So it stops working the moment you’re not up close?” Julian’s voice cut in from behind, filled with barely suppressed laughter. “You see, Mr. Sterling? This is exactly what I meant by ‘unprovable personal instincts’.” Asher remained silent. But I noticed his fingers tapping lightly on the desk. He was doubting me. Valerie’s assessment was put to the test. Toby went next door to verify. The result: Subject two was indeed lying. He had been instructed to read a fabricated expense report. Valerie smiled. It was a soft, non-threatening smile, which only made it cut deeper. “Chloe, I mean no offense. It’s just that some methods require scientific validation, don’t you think?” As she said those words— *Hiccup.* Just one. Quick and quiet. She hiccuped on “mean no offense.” She absolutely meant offense. This entire test was a trap designed to humiliate me. But in that packed conference room, nobody cared about her hiccup. They only cared about the results: Valerie was right, and I had failed to answer. Julian stood up, slowly adjusting his cuffs. “Mr. Sterling, take your time to think about it. Harrison Group is ready to send Dr. Stone over whenever you’re ready to make the switch.” As he walked past me, he lowered his voice so only I could hear: “Your little hiccup trick is over, Chloe.” He didn’t hiccup on “is over.” He genuinely believed it. I stood alone in the emptying conference room as they filed out one by one. Asher didn’t leave immediately. He lingered by the door for a moment. “Chloe.” “Yeah.” “Why did you insist on a face-to-face meeting for that test?” “Because my ability is real,” I said, staring at the floor, my voice much quieter than I intended. “But it has rules. The person has to be right in front of me. Glass walls, video feeds, phone calls—none of it works.” Asher fell silent for a few seconds. “Then why didn’t you explain that from the very beginning?” “Because even if I did, no one would believe me.” I looked up at him. “Mr. Sterling, you’ve been searching for three years and found nothing. I caught a crook for you in two minutes. Wasn’t that enough?” His expression was unreadable. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but at least there was no disgust in his eyes. Before he could speak, Toby rushed back into the room, holding his phone, looking deeply concerned. “Mr. Sterling, Dr. Stone’s assistant just posted on Instagram.” Toby handed the phone over. It was Valerie’s verified Instagram account. Her profile picture was highly edited, and her bio read: *Behavioral Analyst / Criminal Psychologist.* Her latest post read: *“Did a risk-control demo at a major firm today. Ran into a lady who calls herself a ‘human polygraph.’ She claimed she could only detect lies face-to-face and completely failed behind a one-way mirror. Science respects all hypotheses, but repeatability and verification are the baselines of truth. I hope everyone remains rational regarding so-called ‘supernatural lie detection.’ ”* The comment section was already flooded with thousands of replies. *“Lmao, ‘human polygraph’? Just call yourself a fortune teller at this point.”* *“How does someone like this even get hired by a legit company?”* *“Ivy League micro-expression analysis vs. supernatural hiccups. You’d have to be brain-dead to believe the latter.”* I stared at the screen, tapping my fingers against the edge of my phone. Asher shifted his gaze from the screen back to my face. “Chloe, what do you want to do?” “Nothing,” I said, handing the phone back to Toby. “I’m just wondering who authorized her to post that.” “You think it was Julian?” “Valerie hiccuped when she said she ‘meant no offense’ earlier,” I said, looking into his eyes. “Mr. Sterling, aren’t you curious? Why is the Harrison family so desperate to make me disappear from this industry?”

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The day of our divorce, when I walked out with absolutely nothing, I asked my son, Julian, to drive me to my temporary rental apartment. On the way, he pulled over to buy a pack of cigarettes, but he forgot to disconnect his phone from the car’s Bluetooth. Suddenly, my ex-husband Richard’s voice echoed through the car speakers, dripping with smug satisfaction: “Julian, did your mother really sign over all the properties to you?” Immediately after, my son’s voice replied: “Of course. Wasn’t my acting perfect? The money and the houses are all yours now. Just don’t forget the sports car you promised me.” “Don’t worry. Once the title transfer is officially complete, we won’t have to keep acting for that crazy woman anymore.” I froze in the backseat, feeling as if ice water had been poured down my spine. Julian hurried back into the car. The moment he saw the Bluetooth screen active, panic flashed across his face. “Evelyn! You… you’re awake?” “…Yeah, I just closed my eyes for a second. What’s wrong?” I kept my voice incredibly soft. Julian stared at me through the rearview mirror for two long seconds. “Nothing. Just wanted to tell you we’re here.” He pulled the car to the curb and engaged the handbrake. Outside the window stood a dilapidated, old walk-up. The exterior tiles were cracked and falling apart, and bags of trash were piled up at the entrance. Sixth floor. No elevator. He grabbed my single suitcase from the trunk and walked ahead of me. As we reached the corner of the third floor, he suddenly turned around to warn me, “Careful with your steps, Evelyn. The brick here is loose.” What a dutiful son. What a great actor. He pushed the door open, and a musty, suffocating smell of decay rushed into my nose. The space was barely three hundred square feet. A single bed was pushed against the wall, its mattress stained with unwashable yellow rings. The faucet was leaking, dripping water one drop at a time, like a countdown timer. Julian set my suitcase on the floor, looked around the depressing room, and scratched his head. “The place is a bit rough, but it’s only temporary.” “Once the quitclaim deeds are processed and everything settles down, I’ll find you a better place.” *Once the deeds are processed.* He brought up those words again, his tone as casual as if he were talking about the weather. “Sure,” I said, sitting on the edge of the mattress and forcing a small smile. He let out a sigh of relief, muttered a few more words about buying me a new comforter later, and told me to just make do for now. Right before leaving, he hesitated at the doorway. “Evelyn, there’s one more thing I need to tell you.” “What is it?” “We need to go to the notary public tomorrow. Richard needs a signature on one last document. Just a formality.” “What document?” “An addendum to the property transfer. They need a signed Quitclaim Deed from you, waiving your rights as a joint tenant.” “Technically, the divorce agreement already covered it, but their title company won’t accept it without your direct signature.” He spoke so lightly, as if he were just asking me to pick up a package from the post office. “Okay. Just set the time, and I’ll be there.” He nodded and walked away. His footsteps echoed down the stairwell, fading further and further away until they were completely swallowed by the heavy thud of the building’s iron door. I sat alone on that strange bed, motionless. My phone screen lit up, dimmed, and lit up again. It wasn’t a call. It was a Snapchat notification. I opened it and saw a new message in a group chat. The group was named “The Clan”—our old family chat. I thought they would have kicked me out the moment the divorce papers were signed. But they didn’t. Maybe they just forgot. The message was from Richard. He wrote: “Julian, come home early tonight. Valerie made glazed ribs, your favorite.” Right below was a voice note. I tapped it, and a woman’s sweet, giggling voice played: “Julian, bring a carton of milk on your way back. Mama Valerie’s fridge is empty.” *Mama Valerie.* A woman in her early thirties, calling my twenty-four-year-old son “Julian,” and referring to herself as “Mama.” Valerie—Richard’s mistress. I stared at that voice note for a long time. Then, I scrolled up and saw an earlier message sent by Julian this afternoon—right before he dropped me off at this dump. He had written: “Don’t worry, Valerie. Evelyn didn’t hear a thing. Everything went exactly as planned.” Followed by a thumbs-up emoji. Right after sending that message, he had walked up the stairs, carried my suitcase, and told me to watch my step. Before leaving, he even promised to buy me a new comforter. My phone slipped from my hand, clattering onto the cold concrete floor. The screen cracked right down the middle. I heard myself laugh. A short, dry, hollow laugh. From downstairs, the neighbors started screaming at each other—a man cursing, a woman sobbing. The faucet kept dripping. One drop at a time. I sat there, staring into space. *Evelyn,* I thought, *you raised him for twenty-four years, and a stray dog would have shown more loyalty.* On the cracked screen, the progress bar of that voice note was still frozen at the end. Valerie’s voice seemed trapped in that fracture, smilingly calling him “Julian.” “Mama Valerie’s fridge is empty.”

“Ms. Evelyn, please sign here to confirm this relinquishment of joint tenancy.” The notary officer pushed a stack of documents toward me. I picked them up and flipped through. The first page was indeed a “Voluntary Quitclaim Deed of Real Estate,” listing three properties—the luxury condo on the Westside, the high-value school-district townhouse, and the commercial building by the riverfront. Every single one of them was bought with the money Richard and I had saved during our marriage. Every single one was registered under Julian’s name. During the divorce, I hadn’t fought for them because Julian had held my hand, looking into my eyes, and said: “Evelyn, trust me. Keep the properties in my name. It’s the only way to protect them from Richard. Otherwise, he’ll take everything from you.” Now that I recalled it, his eyes had been red, his voice trembling. What a brilliant performance. I flipped to the last page. The quitclaim deed required two copies—one for the notary records, and one for the “designated recipient.” Under the recipient column, it read: *Richard.* “Just sign it if everything looks good,” Julian said, sitting next to me. He had his legs crossed, tapping away on his phone. I didn’t move. He looked up. “Evelyn?” “This—” I pointed at the column. “Why is the recipient Richard? Didn’t you say keeping the properties under your name was the safest option?” Julian froze for a split second before quickly recovering. “Evelyn, this is not giving the properties to Richard. It’s just a procedural step. Don’t overthink it.” I stared at him. He couldn’t meet my gaze and looked out the window instead. Just then, the glass door of the office was pushed open. Richard walked in, accompanied by a woman. Valerie. She wore a chic beige cashmere coat. Around her neck hung a necklace—a jade pendant of deep, rich green. I recognized it instantly. It was my tenth-anniversary gift from Richard. He had told me he got it specially imported from Myanmar. One day, the necklace had gone missing. I searched the entire house but couldn’t find it. Richard told me I must have been careless and lost it myself. Now, it was resting on Valerie’s collarbone. “Oh, hi, Evelyn.” Valerie smiled at me, her voice carrying that same sugary tone—like pouring two cups of syrup into a jar of honey. Richard spared me a cold, emotionless glance, walking straight past me to ask the notary about the paperwork. He looked at me as if I were a stranger. Actually, he would treat a stranger with more respect. “Evelyn, you need to move on,” Valerie said, tilting her head as she pulled up a chair to sit directly across from me. “Richard wants an amicable split. Don’t make things difficult. Once you sign, everyone can move on with their lives.” She stroked the jade pendant, her fingers tracing the smooth green stone, pausing deliberately. “This jade is so beautiful, isn’t it? Richard truly has impeccable taste.” I stared at the jade, remaining silent. Beside me, Julian cleared his throat. “Evelyn, don’t keep the notary waiting. Just sign it.” “I know exactly what this document means once I sign it,” I said, pulling my hands back and leaning against the chair. “I’m not signing.” Julian’s face instantly hardened. He leaned in close, lowering his voice. “Evelyn, don’t be foolish. The properties are already in my name. Frankly, it doesn’t even matter if you sign or not.” “But if you don’t, you’re just making this ugly for everyone.” “Ugly?” I laughed. “Ugly for whom?” Richard walked over from the notary’s desk, hands stuffed in his pockets, looking down at me. I used to think this man was my partner for life. Right now, his eyes held nothing but impatience and a sliver of pity. That pity stung worse than outright hatred. “Evelyn, keep some dignity,” Richard spoke, his voice low but razor-sharp. “Look at yourself. You’re a forty-eight-year-old housewife with no income, no network, and absolutely zero leverage.” “Julian supporting you in your old age is a favor, not an obligation.” “He’s young. He needs to buy a car, build his career. By refusing to sign, are you trying to ruin your only son’s future?” My fingertips went numb. I gripped the strap of my purse tightly. Valerie chimed in right on cue: “Evelyn, Richard doesn’t mean any harm. He just wants Julian to have a good life. You’re his mother. Surely you have more grace than this?” Julian reached over, grabbing my hand. His grip was light, his expression pleading. “Evelyn, just do it for me.” I shoved his hand away. I stood up, pushing the documents back onto the desk. “I said, I’m not signing.” As I walked out of the office, Julian’s voice drifted from behind me. He probably thought I was out of earshot, so he didn’t bother to quiet down: “I couldn’t get her to do it. Richard, you handle her.” Richard’s voice was much calmer. “Don’t worry. A middle-aged woman with no money and no job? Give her two days in that dump, and she’ll come crawling back to sign it herself.” The sun was bright outside. But as it hit my face, it couldn’t warm me at all.

“Mom, open the door. It’s me.” I stood outside my mother’s security door, ringing the bell three times. Finally, the door swung open. My elderly mother, wrapped in a heavy cardigan, gasped when she saw me. She peeked behind me before opening the door just a crack. “What are you doing here?” “Mom, I got divorced.” “I know,” she said flatly. “Richard came by two days ago. He sat here all afternoon, brought me groceries and some expensive tea.” I froze. “What did he tell you?” My mother sighed, pulling me into the living room. The TV was on, the volume turned down low. On the coffee table sat two empty paper cups and a box of premium tea—Richard’s trademark gesture. “He said you’ve been going through menopause these past two years, that your temper has gotten terrible, and you’ve become completely paranoid. He said he couldn’t take it anymore, which is why he filed.” “He also said he was worried you might do something drastic, and asked me to talk some sense into you.” My jaw dropped. “Mom, he’s lying to you.” “Lying about what?” My mother frowned. “Richard sat right there and cried twice. A grown man crying like that—you think he was acting?” “He even told me about Julian. He said Julian is caught in the middle of your constant fighting, stressed out of his mind and unable to sleep at night.” “Evelyn, you’re almost fifty. You can’t be this stubborn. Richard said you’re refusing to sign some paperwork. Why are you making things so hard for your own kid?” “Mom!” My throat tightened. “Those properties are what Richard and I built together over twenty-five years! He manipulated Julian into getting me to sign them over to Julian’s name, and now he’s forcing Julian to transfer them to him—” “Enough!” My mother slammed the remote onto the coffee table. “Listen to yourself! Your son is lying? Richard is lying? Is everyone in the world evil except for you?” “When your father opposed your marriage to Richard back then, what did you say? You said he was a good man and told us not to worry.” “Now that you’re divorced, you’re claiming everyone is scamming you. Evelyn, have you ever stopped to look at yourself?” I sat on the sofa, completely speechless. By the time I walked out of my mother’s building, the sky was nearly pitch black. She hadn’t invited me to stay for dinner. Before I left, she shoved two hundred dollars into my hand, telling me to use it for now. Clutching the bills in the stairwell, I dialed Harriet’s number. It rang six or seven times before she picked up. “Evelyn?” Harriet’s voice sounded hesitant. “Harriet… I was wondering if I could borrow some money, just to get me through the month.” Silence stretched over the line for a few seconds. “Evelyn, let me be honest with you.” “Richard called my husband two days ago. He said you haven’t been mentally stable since the divorce, and asked us not to trigger you.” “He said you believe everyone is out to get you, even Julian.” What a masterclass from Richard. Before I could even open my mouth, he had already painted the perfect picture of me—a menopausal, hysterical, unstable woman. “Harriet, you believe him?” “I… Evelyn, it’s not that I believe him, I’m just worried about you. You need to rest. Let’s take things slow, okay?” “As for the money—don’t be mad—but Will said things are a bit tight for us right now, too.” I hung up. I didn’t say another word. My next stop was the bank. I brought my ID to check the savings account my father had set up for me before he passed. It wasn’t much—about eighty thousand dollars—kept in a long-term fixed deposit. The teller searched the system for a long time before looking up. “Ms. Evelyn, this account was reported lost and replaced last month. The entire balance has been wired out.” “What? Who authorized that?” “The registration form shows it was authorized by you in person.” “I never filed for a replacement.” The teller looked uncomfortable and showed me the transaction slip. On the signature line was my name. But the handwriting wasn’t mine. Richard was left-handed and could mimic almost anyone’s signature—it was his favorite parlor trick when he was younger. He used to perform it in front of me, laughing and saying he learned it in college to sign attendance sheets for his friends. I had thought it was funny back then. I stood in the busy bank lobby, clutching the transaction slip. Eighty thousand dollars. The very last thing my father had left me. I sent a Snapchat message to Julian, asking if he knew about this. He replied instantly: *Evelyn, stop overthinking things. I don’t know anything about the bank account. You should ask Richard.* He added a hugging emoji at the end. Staring at that smiling yellow face, I felt like it was mocking me. “Evelyn, you truly have nothing left.” This was the second time I said those words to myself.

“Ms. Evelyn, your rent is due today. Please transfer the payment when you can.” The landlord stood at my door, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, his eyes sweeping over the dismal little room behind me. “I’ll send it now.” I pulled out my phone and opened my banking app. Account balance: $0.00. I froze. There was supposed to be three thousand dollars in there—money Julian had “kept safe” for me during the divorce and supposedly returned for my living expenses. It was there yesterday. Today, it was gone. I opened the transaction history. At 2:12 AM, a wire transfer of three thousand dollars had been sent to Richard’s account. The reference line read: “Repayment of Loan.” I had never borrowed a single cent from him. Seeing me hesitate, the landlord’s face darkened. “Look, Evelyn, I’m not running a charity here. If you’re short on cash—” “Give me three days.” “Fine, three days. If I don’t see the money by then, you’ll have to find somewhere else to sleep.” The door slammed shut. I sat alone on the bed, burying my face in my knees. Then, my phone buzzed. It wasn’t a message, but an Instagram notification. Julian had posted. A nine-photo grid showing a gorgeously renovated living room, with a marble dining table overflowing with gourmet food. Richard sat at the head of the table, Valerie sat snugly beside him, and Julian stood proudly behind them. All three of them were beaming. The caption read: “First dinner in the new home. Surrounded by the people who love me.” The first comment was from Valerie: “My sweet boy is getting so good at taking photos! ❤️” Julian replied to her: “Stepmom Valerie makes the best food! 😋” Below were dozens of comments from their mutual friends. “The new house is stunning! Richard has amazing taste!” “What a beautiful family of three!” “Valerie is finally moved in, congratulations!” No one mentioned me. It was as if I had never existed. I scrolled through them one by one. When I reached the very last comment, my thumb froze. It was Harriet. She wrote: “Julian has grown up so well. Richard, you are truly blessed.” Harriet. My friend of thirty years. The one who, three days ago, had told me “I’m worried about you” and “you need to rest.” Now, she was happily leaving congratulatory messages on a family photo of Richard, Valerie, and my son. I closed the app. I didn’t move for a long time. Outside, a mother was shouting for her child to come home for dinner, her voice echoing down the street. The couple next door started screaming again, dishes smashing, tables slamming. The faucet kept dripping. One, two, three. Suddenly, a memory sparked in my mind. For Julian’s birthday last year, I bought him a new car—not a luxury vehicle, but a decent seventy-thousand-dollar sedan, paid in installments. On the day we picked it up, I was the one who installed his dashcam. I was also the one who registered the cloud storage account for it. He didn’t understand technology. I set the password, and it was linked to my phone number. With trembling fingers, I opened the dashcam app on my cracked screen. Log in—fingerprint scan—cloud playback. I dragged the timeline to this afternoon. Nothing. He had turned off the dashcam. I scrolled back to the day of the divorce—four days ago. The files were there. I tapped play. The footage was crystal clear. From Julian’s driver-seat perspective, I could see myself in the rearview mirror, fast asleep in the backseat. Then, he got out of the car to buy cigarettes. The Bluetooth was still connected. Richard’s voice boomed through the speakers: “Julian, did your mother really sign over all the properties to you?” Julian’s voice replied from the other end: “Of course. Was my acting perfect? The money and the houses are all yours now. Just don’t forget the sports car you promised me.” Richard laughed. “Don’t worry. Once the title transfer is officially complete, we won’t have to keep acting for that crazy woman anymore.” My breathing grew heavier, echoing in the musty air of the tiny rental. The recording kept playing. Richard said something else that I hadn’t heard clearly back then—probably because the Bluetooth signal had briefly cleared up: “Julian, there’s one more thing. Valerie said don’t cut her off completely just yet. There’s still one asset in her name—the title deed to your grandfather Arthur’s country estate. Once we get our hands on that, you can deal with your mother however you want.” Julian replied: “Don’t worry, Richard. She trusts me so much. She’ll do whatever I say.” I paused the video. The screen froze on my own face in the rearview mirror—eyes closed, with a peaceful, trusting smile on my lips. That woman actually believed her son was going to protect her. I saved the video, synced it to my email, and uploaded a backup copy to Google Drive. Then, I turned off my phone. I sat in the dark for a long, long time. Not until the mother’s shouts faded, and the neighbors’ fighting ceased, ddid I finally stand up and grab my keys. It was time to make them pay.

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The quarterly sales rankings were posted. I closed a $50 million commercial deal, ranking number one in the entire company. Yet, my name wasn’t on the “Employee of the Quarter” list. The person who got the title was Tyler, the nephew of our branch manager, Richard Sterling. Just last month, Tyler messed up the square footage on three different client contracts, almost landing us in a massive lawsuit. Richard called me into the breakroom. “Ethan, a good broker shouldn’t just focus on the money.” “That client was actually Tyler’s lead first. It’s only fair the commission goes to him.” Meanwhile, Tyler was casually sitting at my desk, taking pictures of my client roster with his phone. “Don’t sweat it, Ethan. Next time you close a big one, just leave some crumbs for me.” Richard slammed his hand on the table. “If you don’t like it, leave. We aren’t short of smooth talkers here.” I ripped off my ID badge and threw it onto the reception desk. “Fine. I quit.” Richard sneered behind me. “Without this firm, you won’t even be able to rent out a doghouse.” I walked out and dialed a number that had never once rung during my three years at this company. “Dad, I’ve finished auditing the East Coast branch’s books. I have three years of evidence right here. Tell the corporate audit team they can move in.” 0

“Ethan, you can leave, but you must hand over your client database.” The call was from Chloe in Admin, her voice tight with the awkwardness of being forced to play messenger. I had just stepped out of the office building. My ID badge was probably still sitting on the receptionist’s desk, and already, this call was chasing me down. “That database is the result of three years of my own hard work, client by client. It has nothing to do with the company.” Chloe was silent for two seconds before lowering her voice. “Ethan, these aren’t my words. Richard’s exact words were—if you don’t hand it over, they will sue you for leaking trade secrets.” I stood by the curb, watching my reflection in the glass facade of the skyscraper across the street. “Trade secrets? A list of public contacts?” “Ethan, I’m just the messenger. Please don’t make this hard for me.” The line went dead. I shoved my phone into my pocket. Before I could take two steps, it buzzed again. This time, it was a client. David Harrison, the developer behind the luxury waterfront estate project. “Ethan, what’s going on? Some kid named Tyler just called me, claiming he’s taking over your accounts. He wanted to go over our negotiated terms again?” I paused. “Mr. Harrison, I just resigned. It must be the company’s transition process.” “Transition?” David let out a dry laugh. “That kid couldn’t even tell me the total square footage of the project. The first thing out of his mouth was asking about my budget. I told him I only deal with you, and he said—” David hesitated. “What did he say?” “He said you were fired for gross misconduct and warned me not to contact you again.” I gripped my phone, my knuckles turning white. Fired. I resigned on my own terms, but in his mouth, it became a shameful termination. “Mr. Harrison, I’ll explain everything to you later.” “No need. I trust you, Ethan. But that kid’s attitude… what the hell is going on with your company?” I couldn’t answer, because I didn’t know how to explain the sheer audacity of it. After hanging up, two text messages popped up. One was from Mrs. Clara Bennet from the Lakefront project: *Ethan, did you quit? Someone texted me using your name, saying we need to resign our contract.* The other was from Marcus Sinclair, a VIP client I had nurtured for two years: *Ethan, someone claiming to be your colleague added me on Snapchat and immediately started spamming me with listings. What’s the deal here?* I read through them one by one, my fingers hovering over the screen. Not only did he steal my commission, but he also swiped my physical contact book and was hitting up my clients one by one. My phone buzzed again. It was a message from Richard, sent not privately, but to the entire department WhatsApp group. “Notice: Due to Ethan Vance’s sudden resignation under personal circumstances, all his client accounts are now transferred to Tyler Sterling. Please cooperate with the handover. If any clients contact Ethan, please redirect them to Tyler.” A string of “Understood” messages followed immediately. Tyler Sterling—the guy who literally put the wrong square footage on three contracts and almost got us sued. Right after, Tyler sent a voice note to the group. I tapped it. His arrogant, nasal voice leaked through the speaker, sounding like he had just rolled out of bed. “Thanks, team! From now on, Ethan’s clients are my clients. If you guys have any extra leads, throw them my way. Dinner’s on me at the end of the year!” He followed it with a smirking emoji. Nobody else said a word. But nobody protested, either. I left the group chat, standing on the sidewalk as my screen slowly went dark. Three years. From my very first cold call to a $50 million deal. For three years, I hadn’t taken a single day off. My phone was on 24/7. Even if a client called at 2 AM, I answered. Now, with a single group chat notification, it all belonged to Tyler. My phone rang again. My dad. “Did you pack up your files?” “Yes. Three years of commission records, inflated expense sheets, and contract discrepancies. I have everything.” Silence on the other end for two seconds. “The corporate audit team will arrive the day after tomorrow. Don’t go back to that office.” “Dad, they took all my clients.” My dad didn’t say anything at first. Then, he said something I didn’t expect. “Let them take them. The more they steal, the easier it will be to lock them up.”

“Ethan, you’ve been absent for seven days. Under Section 14 of your contract, the company has the right to demand liquidating damages for breach of contract.” The call was from HR. Sweet voice, razor-sharp attitude. I stared at my phone, wondering if I was dreaming. “I handed in my physical resignation letter to Richard last Friday. The front desk saw it, and Richard was right there.” “I just checked the system, and there’s no record of any resignation request. Furthermore, your attendance sheet shows you were absent Monday through Friday without any approved leave.” I froze. “Excuse me?” “Ethan, you have consecutive unexcused absences. Richard has already reported this to corporate headquarters. If you don’t cooperate, our legal team will proceed with a lawsuit.” I pulled the phone away and stared at the HR rep’s contact name. Falsifying attendance. They didn’t just steal my clients; they wanted to financially ruin me on my way out. “How much are these ‘damages’?” “Three months’ salary, plus the training and certification costs the company sponsored for you. A total of forty-two thousand dollars.” I laughed. “Tell Richard to call me himself.” The HR rep hesitated. “Mr. Sterling is very busy. He asked me to—” “Busy doing what? Busy helping his nephew take pictures of my client list?” The line went silent for three seconds, then clicked off. I tossed my phone onto the squeaky desk in my rented apartment. Outside the window was a dusty, gray street. Downstairs, a food truck was packing up, the smell of grease wafting up. My phone buzzed. It was a screenshot from Lily, my former cubicle neighbor. She had screenshotted the department chat. Tyler had posted: “Good riddance to Ethan. All his commissions are officially mine now! 🤪” A few people replied with thumbs-up emojis. Lily added a text message: *Ethan, this guy has absolutely no shame.* I stared at that stupid emoji for a long time. My phone buzzed again. David Harrison. “Ethan, that Tyler kid called me again. This time it’s even more ridiculous. He claimed you falsified contract data during your tenure and asked me to re-verify the terms. He even asked if we could cancel the deposit and sign a new one.” My temples began to throb. “Mr. Harrison, every single digit on the contract I signed with you is fully backed up. You don’t have to worry.” “I trust you, Ethan, but this guy is harassing me day and night. Is this how your firm does business?” “Mr. Harrison, I will handle this.” “How? You don’t even work there anymore,” David said, his voice laced with frustration. “Ethan, look, you should’ve cleaned up this mess before you left.” My mouth opened, but no sound came out. He was right. I had walked away, but the fallout was crashing down on my clients. Right after David, Marcus Sinclair called. “Ethan, your colleague sent me a new contract. The square footage is suddenly twenty percent higher than what we agreed on, which bumps the price up by six hundred thousand dollars. When I asked him about it, he said the original draft had ‘clerical errors’ and we needed to resign.” My grip tightened on the phone. Twenty percent higher. This was his signature move—padding the numbers to pocket the difference. He wasn’t incompetent; he was running a scam. “Mr. Sinclair, do not sign that contract. The original one is perfectly valid.” “I trust you, Ethan, but I need this sorted out. I don’t have time to play games with your firm.” “Mr. Sinclair, give me three days.” He was quiet for a moment. “Three days. Not a day more.” I hung up and pulled up the files on my laptop—every single transaction I had meticulously documented over the last three years. Every kickback, every altered contract price, and every fake invoice Richard had personally approved. I had known this branch was rotten since my first year. My phone rang. My dad. “The corporate audit team is confirmed. They will arrive the day after tomorrow. Until then, do not make a move.” “They’re falsifying my attendance to extort forty-two thousand dollars from me.” Silence on the line. “Let them sue. The more fake charges they file, the more evidence we have to bury them.” I leaned back, staring at the ceiling. Downstairs, the food truck honked its horn as it drove off. “Dad, his nephew is padding client contracts to steal money.” My dad’s voice dropped an octave, dripping with cold fury. “Document it. Document everything.”

“Hi Ethan, this is corporate customer service, agent ID 6847. We received a client complaint and need to verify some details with you.” The next morning, this call woke me up. “What’s the complaint?” “Mr. David Harrison from the Waterfront project called. He reported that Tyler Sterling from the East Coast branch has been repeatedly harassing him to alter signed contract terms. Mr. Harrison explicitly stated he only recognizes the contract signed by you and refuses any changes.” I sat on the edge of my bed, my bare feet touching the cold hardwood floor. “And how is corporate handling this?” The agent paused. “We notified the East Coast branch manager, Richard Sterling. His official response was that this is an internal adjustment. He said the client is just unfamiliar with the new broker and needs time to adjust.” Internal adjustment. Three months ago, when a client complained about a padded contract, Richard used the exact same excuse. “So you’re just closing Mr. Harrison’s complaint?” “The current directive is to let the branch manager handle it locally.” The branch manager was Richard. The fox was guarding the powerhouse. “Right. Got it.” I hung up and splashed cold water on my face. My phone buzzed again. Lily. “Ethan, we have a major problem.” “What happened?” “Tyler went through your cubicle this morning. He copied all your backup client files and even pried open your locked drawer to take your black notebook—the one where you keep all your client notes.” The towel in my hand slipped into the sink. That notebook was three years of my life. What kind of coffee each client liked, their kids’ birthdays, their preferred layouts, which days to avoid calling them—over a hundred clients, all detailed in my handwriting. “Who authorized him to break into my drawer?” “Richard did. He escorted Tyler himself, saying that since you abandoned your job, any personal belongings left behind became company property.” My knuckles popped as I clenched my fists. “Ethan, there’s more,” Lily’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Tyler is using your notes to call your clients. He saw the note on Mrs. Bennet’s file—the one saying ‘Daughter is taking the SATs next month, keep stress low, don’t talk about college prep’—and he literally laughed out loud in front of everyone.” “Laughed?” “He said, ‘Ethan actually wrote down client kids’ exam schedules? No wonder he couldn’t close real volume, focusing on useless garbage.’ Then he called Mrs. Bennet right there. The first thing he said was, ‘Mrs. Bennet, I hear your daughter is taking the SATs. Honestly, even if she fails, buying a premium property is better than any Ivy League degree anyway.’” I closed my eyes. Clara Bennet’s daughter was dealing with severe anxiety. Clara had told me multiple times how terrified she was for her daughter’s mental health. “What did Clara say?” “She slammed the phone down and immediately called corporate to file a complaint. Ethan, she was crying on the phone.” I stood in my cramped bathroom, the tap running loudly, but my mind was completely silent. “Ethan? You there?” “Yeah.” “When are you going to fix this? Everyone in the office is disgusted, but no one dares to speak up. Richard made it clear in yesterday’s meeting that anyone caught talking to you would be fired on the spot.” “Don’t take any risks, Lily. Delete my contact.” Silence for a few seconds. “Ethan, you’re the best broker I’ve ever met. You don’t deserve this.” The line went dead. I turned off the faucet. The face in the mirror looked exhausted, dark circles bruised under my eyes from lack of sleep. My phone lit up. It was a post on Tyler’s Instagram. A picture of him sitting at my old desk, his feet up, flipping through my black notebook. The caption: “Hitting the books. 📚” I stared at the photo for a full minute. Then, I opened a hidden folder on my computer. Inside was a digital copy of every single note I had ever made. They had only stolen paper; the real weapon was backed up in my cloud. My phone rang. My dad. “The corporate audit team is leaving this afternoon. They will arrive tomorrow morning. One last check—is the evidence complete?” “Yes. Kickbacks, padded contracts, fake invoices, and recorded client complaints. Three years’ worth, without a single gap.” A brief pause. “Are they still harassing the clients?” “Yes. They’re falsifying contracts as we speak, inflating the square footage to steal more money.” My dad’s voice was flat, but I could hear the dangerous edge to it. “Perfect. Fresh crimes are much easier to prosecute than old ones.” “Dad, they brought a client to tears today.” Five seconds of silence. “After tomorrow, nobody will be crying but them.”

“Ethan, this is your final notice. Transfer the forty-two thousand dollars in damages to the company account by 3:00 PM today, or our legal department will file a formal lawsuit.” HR called again first thing in the morning, her tone even colder this time. “Tell your legal team to pull up my resignation log first.” “I’ve told you, there is no resignation log. Richard confirmed you never submitted one.” “What about the lobby security footage? I threw my badge right in front of him.” A pause. “Ethan, I don’t manage security footage. If you have an objection, take it to labor arbitration. But as of now, you owe the company forty-two thousand dollars.” I let out a soft laugh. “Fine. Tell Richard to get ready.” I hung up and pulled up the video I had recorded on my phone when I threw my badge down. It was a habit I’d picked up after three years of working under a corrupt boss—always keep receipts. In the video, Richard was standing behind the reception desk, arms crossed, a smug sneer plastered on his face. The timestamp was clearly visible in the bottom right corner. I saved the video in three different places: two cloud backups and one in my email. My phone vibrated. Marcus Sinclair. “Ethan, the three days are up.” “Mr. Sinclair, tomorrow. By tomorrow afternoon, I will have a complete resolution for you.” “What is going on over there? Since you left, that Tyler kid has called me eight times in three days. Yesterday he sent another contract, and the square footage was inflated by another ten percent! I showed it to my attorney, and he asked if I was being scammed.” Another ten percent. First twenty, now ten more. “Mr. Sinclair, keep that contract safe. Do not delete it.” “Keep it? What are you planning, Ethan?” “You’ll see tomorrow, Mr. Sinclair.” He didn’t ask further and hung up. By noon, David Harrison called. “Ethan, is your corporate hotline a joke? I complained three times, and every single time, Richard Sterling was the one who called me back, saying they were ‘handling it.’ Nothing has been handled! This morning, Tyler called me again. Guess what he said?” “What?” “He said, ‘Mr. Harrison, Ethan Vance had a terrible reputation at the firm. The contracts he drafted were full of errors. Don’t worry, I’m here to clean up his mess. I’m much more reliable.’ He even added, ‘Ethan was just a brown-noser with zero actual talent.’” I gripped my phone, sitting on the edge of my bed, staring at a crack in the wall. “Thank you for telling me, Mr. Harrison.” “Ethan, I’ll be blunt. I trusted your firm because of you. Now that you’re gone, I see what kind of clowns run that place. If you move to another agency, let me know. You’ll have my business.” “Mr. Harrison, I might not need to change agencies.” “What do you mean?” “You’ll find out tomorrow.” I hung up, opened my laptop, and did a final check of the files. The kickback spreadsheet: Richard had used a shell consulting company to funnel $2.4 million in commissions over three years. Every transaction matched a bank statement belonging to an account under his wife’s name. The contract discrepancies: Out of seventeen contracts handled by Tyler, seven had inflated square footage, totaling $980,000 in excess charges. All of it had been funneled through a private intermediary account. The fake expense reports: Out of 162 invoices submitted as “client entertainment” over three years, 83 were completely fabricated. The companies listed on the receipts didn’t even exist. I packaged everything. My phone buzzed. It was a screenshot from Lily. She had changed her WhatsApp name to random characters to avoid detection. In the screenshot, Tyler had sent a voice note to the team chat. The automated transcript read: “Hey team, heads up! Richard is buying everyone afternoon tea today to celebrate our department hitting number one in quarterly sales! And a little early celebration for my upcoming Agent of the Year title, haha.” Quarterly sales number one. That was my $50 million deal. Lily added a text: *Ethan, they’re currently arguing over which bakery to order the cake from.* I stared at the screen and didn’t reply. At 4:00 PM, my dad called. “The audit team has arrived. Six corporate auditors. Their SUV is parked in your building’s underground garage.” “Do they know?” “No. They’re currently throwing a victory party in the conference room.” I took one last look at my screen. “Dad, let’s do it.” A brief pause. “Tomorrow morning at 9:00 AM, the audit team will walk directly into the office. You don’t need to be there.” “I”I want to be there,” I said. My dad was silent for a moment. “Fine.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “466446”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster

At the annual party of Brian’s pack, his “best friend” Vanessa leaned against him, smirking. “Emma, you’re not actually an orphan, are you?” My heart skipped a beat. How did she know? I had never told anyone about my past. Before I could even process this, she kept going. “What, cat got your tongue? I heard your mother was a homewrecker who forced her way into a rich family, and you’ve been living as a sugar baby ever since you turned eighteen. You only hooked up with Brian recently, right?” “I know this is our first time meeting, but I know all about your dirty little secrets.” I stared at her. She didn’t actually know me. Vanessa gasped, quickly covering her mouth as if she had accidentally let something slip. She looked at Brian and stuck her tongue out playfully. “Oh my gosh, Brian. I totally forgot that daughters of mistresses hate talking about their past. Please don’t be mad at me.” The smile froze on Brian’s face. Just a second ago, he was bragging to his pack members about how hopelessly in love with him I was. I swallowed my shock and forced myself to calm down. I had run away from home to escape an arranged political marriage with Sam Collins, the heir of the Shadowfang Pack. I lied about being an orphan because I didn’t want anyone to find out I was actually the daughter of Alpha Edward Sterling, the leader of the powerful Silvermoon Pack. Vanessa claimed my mother was a homewrecker. But my father, Alpha Edward, was famous across the entire werewolf realm for worshipping his wife. If Vanessa had actually investigated me, she would never have made up such a stupid lie. She didn’t know anything. She had only somehow found out I wasn’t an orphan, and she had pulled the rest of the story out of her ass. Realizing this, I relaxed. I looked at her face. The more I stared, the more familiar she looked. I felt like I had seen her somewhere before, but I couldn’t quite place it. Whatever. She was just bluffing. But the moment Vanessa finished speaking, the envious looks the pack members had been giving Brian turned into judging stares. One of the guys tried to laugh it off and save face. “Come on, Vanessa. You must have the wrong girl. Emma looks like she comes from a decent family. She’s not like that.” Vanessa didn’t back down. She just sighed dramatically. “Well, her mother was smart, wasn’t she? Selling her body to a rich Alpha just for the money.” “But honestly, I could never respect a girl like that.” I sneered inwardly. She really had no idea who she was messing with. If she knew I was the daughter of the Silvermoon Alpha, she wouldn’t dare utter a single syllable of this trash. If my father, Alpha Edward, heard this, the entire werewolf world would tremble. Brian’s face darkened. He looked at me, then at Vanessa, his brows furrowing. Seeing his hesitation, Vanessa shrunk further into Brian’s chest. “Brian, did I say something wrong? I’m sorry. I’m just too honest. I don’t know how to play mind games like other girls.” I clenched my fists, holding back the urge to slap her across the room. If I hit her here, she would play the victim card and make my life hell in his pack. Distracted by my anger, my hand tilted. A splash of red wine spilled from my glass, staining Vanessa’s white dress. She shrieked, looking incredibly offended. “Emma! Are you seriously getting physical just because I told the truth?” “I mean, keeping up such a perfect lie must be exhausting. I almost admire you for it.” Brian’s face turned icy cold. He grabbed some napkins from the table and began wiping Vanessa’s dress with extreme care. Then, he glared at me. “Vanessa is just brutally honest. She doesn’t know how to sugarcoat things. What is wrong with you?” “Apologize to Vanessa. Right now!” I almost laughed out loud. Vanessa had just dragged my mother’s name through the mud, and Brian had stood there doing nothing. Now, because of an accidental wine spill, he was losing his mind. Vanessa clung to Brian, her eyes pooling with tears. “It’s fine, Brian. Let’s just pretend I made a mistake. It was just a joke.” I stared at her, my voice dropping to a freezing register. “You said I’m not an orphan. Why don’t you tell everyone who my parents are then? What is my mother’s name?” Panic flashed in Vanessa’s eyes, but she quickly masked it with attitude. “I… how am I supposed to remember their names? Everyone in the high society packs knows your mother was a side chick!” My inner sneer grew deeper. Just as I thought. She couldn’t even name my mother. She was completely fabricating this. “Next time you make an accusation, bring receipts. I don’t find your jokes funny.” I said this to warn Brian. He shouldn’t believe her without proof. Brian hesitated. He slowly stopped wiping Vanessa’s dress and pulled his hand back. Vanessa’s body stiffened. She looked up at him, looking like a kicked puppy. “I’m sorry, Emma. I just heard it from someone else. I didn’t verify it.” I stared at her coldly. “Who did you hear it from? Call them. Let’s get them on FaceTime right now.” I expected her to choke on her words, but her expression suddenly turned into one of pity. “Emma, even if you did those things, you don’t have to deny it so aggressively. I wasn’t going to tell the whole pack anyway.” The surrounding pack members began whispering, throwing disgusted looks my way. A girl sitting next to Vanessa laughed mockingly. “I guess girls with loose morals always have it easy. Just spread your legs and you get a ticket to the top.” “Unlike Vanessa and me. We’re just simple girls looking for real love.” Brian was a man who cared about his pride more than anything. He had brought me to this annual party to show me off. Now that his pride was being dragged through the dirt, he slammed back a whole glass of whiskey. Across the table, a guy named Mike mocked him openly. “Well, Brian is a lucky guy. Other guys spend money on their girls. Brian gets a girl that the whole town has already paid for… haha…” “Shut up!” Brian snapped. He threw a hard punch, smashing Mike’s glasses right off his face. I felt absolutely no satisfaction. I knew he wasn’t defending my honor. He was just mad that his own ego was bruised. Before Mike could swing back, others jumped in to break it up. “Alright, alright! Don’t ruin the party. Let’s change the subject.”

With everyone’s eyes on them, Mike lowered his fists, swallowing his anger for now. Someone suggested a game: share the most loyal thing someone in the pack had done for you. The best story would win a bottle of rare liquor. The first few stories were typical pack stuff. An Alpha settling a border dispute, or an ally pack sending emergency supplies. When it was Vanessa’s turn, she looked at me with a triumphant smirk. “Early last month, I got too drunk at a business dinner. I called Brian in the middle of the night.” “He drove all the way back from his business trip just to take care of me the entire night…” “I only found out later that his girlfriend was trying to reach him that same night.” The table erupted in murmurs of admiration. “Brian really is a loyal guy.” “He always comes through when it matters!” Amidst the applause, my entire body went numb. Cold sweat broke out across my skin. That exact night, I had been attacked by rogue wolves on the edge of the pack’s territory. My phone had been smashed during the fight. The only number I had memorized was Brian’s. But when I finally managed to call him from a payphone, he had simply muttered that he was busy and hung up. I had almost died out there. The next day, Brian had literally gotten on his knees in front of me, slapping his own face. “Emma, I was just so stressed about planning our mating ceremony that I neglected the border patrol. I swear I didn’t know it was that serious.” I looked at Brian now. He avoided my gaze, his jaw clenched tight. The crowd started chanting for Vanessa and Brian to sing a song. Soon, the chant turned into, “Kiss her! Kiss her!” Vanessa blushed and pushed Brian playfully. Brian laughed, wrapped his arm around her waist, and pulled her in for a kiss on her forehead. The crowd cheered and whistled. I watched them, completely numb. The spotlight operator, following the crowd’s energy, suddenly swung the beam right onto me. The whispers started again. “She is gorgeous, though.” “Beauty is cheap. Who knows how many guys have been in there?” Vanessa raised her voice so everyone could hear. “Oh, don’t worry about Emma’s finances, guys. She has plenty of ‘generous friends’ supporting her.” She gave the room a knowing wink. A collective, dirty chuckle rippled through the men in the room. The way they looked at me made me feel like a piece of meat on display. I stared at Vanessa, my voice deadly quiet. “You should watch what comes out of your mouth. Some words carry a heavy price.” She rolled her eyes, pulled out her phone, and turned the screen toward the crowd. “I’m not lying. See for yourselves.” It was a photoshopped picture of me entering a high-end hotel room with several different men. Laughter and mocking comments flooded the hall like a wave. “She looks so innocent, but she’s actually wild!” “Brian, man, you’ve got a whole forest growing on your head!” I stood up to speak, but before I could, Brian rushed over and slapped me hard across the face. “Emma!” He snatched Vanessa’s phone, his eyes burning with absolute rage. “I saw the original file of this photo! It’s not photoshopped! You’ve been lying to me this whole time!” I didn’t say a word. I just slowly stood up straight, touching my burning cheek. I didn’t even want to explain myself anymore. My heart was completely dead. Now, I was calculating something much more practical. This slap was going to cost him everything. Vanessa quickly slid her hand onto Brian’s shoulder, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. “It’s okay, Brian. Girls get wild when they’re young. It’s normal to make mistakes.” “Unlike us. We only know how to stay loyal to one man.” I looked at Vanessa’s heavily contoured “no-makeup” look and sneered. Once I washed that fake face off, everyone would see what a monster she really was.

The crowd started chanting for them to sing again. I watched them walk up to the stage hand-in-hand, lost in thought. What bothered me the most was how Vanessa knew I wasn’t an orphan. I had never told anyone. Not even Brian. I pulled out my phone and sent a Snapchat message to my father. [Dad, look up a girl named Vanessa Lane. She’s in the Ironclaw Pack.] On stage, Brian dropped to one knee, singing Bruno Mars’s “Marry You” to Vanessa with fake adoration. I felt a pang of emptiness. When did this man, who once seemed so bright and heroic, become so pathetic? I had met Brian shortly after running away from home. To escape the political marriage my father arranged with Sam Collins, I had slipped out of the Silvermoon territory under the cover of night. I was young and naive. I thought I could survive on my own. But I underestimated the dangers of the neutral zones. On my third night, I was surrounded by a pack of feral rogue wolves in the middle of nowhere. Their glowing green eyes closed in on me through the dark, low growls vibrating in their chests. I fought with everything I had, but I was outnumbered. I was covered in deep gashes, the scent of my blood driving them into a frenzy. Just when I thought I was going to die, a dark shadow crashed into the pack. It was Brian. He had shifted into his half-wolf form, tearing open the throat of the nearest rogue and kicking another ten feet away. He stood in front of me, covered in blood, refusing to take a single step back. The rogues were finally intimidated by his sheer brutality and dragged their dead away into the shadows. He turned around. Under the moonlight, I saw his face. Young, handsome, covered in blood, but wearing a tired, gentle smile. “You’re safe now.” He brought me back to his pack’s town and got me medical help. When I woke up, he was sleeping by my bedside, his head resting near my hand. At that moment, I thought he was my savior sent from heaven. I lied and told him I was an orphan with nowhere to go. He didn’t doubt me. He took me in, found me a place to live, and showed me around. Back then, he was my hero. On the grassy hills behind the town, he confessed his love to me, promising he would only ever love me. But once we moved closer to the pack’s inner circle, Brian forgot his promises. During our dates, he would leave the movie theater at the climax just because Vanessa called. When he got drunk, he would mumble, “Let me drink for Vanessa, don’t pressure her.” His family dinners never included me, but Vanessa was always guest of honor. I suddenly felt completely disgusted by it all. I grabbed my purse to leave when my phone buzzed. It was a text from my dad. [Got her. Vanessa Lane, Ironclaw Pack.] [She is currently sleeping with at least six different men. One of them is someone you know—Alpha Marcus Harrison.] [Last month, she got sent to the hospital because of some rough play with those guys and caught an STD. Alpha Harrison begged me for hush money. He was trying to close a business deal with the Silvermoon Pack and didn’t want a scandal to ruin it. I paid the bill for him.] I stared at the screen, my breathing turning shallow. So that was it. Alpha Harrison’s hush money had come from my father. No wonder Alpha Harrison had looked so nervous earlier. He was terrified I would expose his dirty secrets and ruin his business. As for Vanessa, she had no idea who she was playing with. She had just gotten lucky, leeching off a few rich Alphas. Now she had her sights set on Brian, the heir of the Ironclaw Pack. And I was the obstacle she needed to clear. She had somehow found out I wasn’t an orphan and decided to use it as a weapon. The cheating and sugar baby rumors were entirely made up. After all, lies are free. As long as she could ruin my reputation, she won. My phone buzzed again. [Do you need me to send the Silvermoon warriors?] I replied: [No. I’ll handle this myself.] I locked my phone, a cold smile playing on my lips. Vanessa was completely done for.

The song on stage ended to a thunderous round of applause. Vanessa and Brian held hands, bowing to the crowd. When she walked down, she looked at me, pretending to be shocked. “Emma! You’re still here?” She blinked her big eyes, acting innocent. “Wow, your skin really is thick, isn’t it?” Brian frowned, stepping closer to her and creating distance between us. “Don’t call her Emma, Vanessa. We don’t know if she even deserves that name.” My heart was cold, but my face remained a mask of calm. Vanessa’s eyes flared with pure triumph. “True. A mating bond is a lifetime commitment. You can’t be marrying someone who might bring STDs into the pack lineage.” Brian’s face paled. “Vanessa, don’t say things like that.” Vanessa flinched as if frightened. “I’m sorry, Brian! I’m being too blunt again.” “I shouldn’t talk about other people’s dirty laundry.” The moment she said that, everyone sitting near me dragged their chairs away. They looked at me as if I were a walking plague. Brian’s knuckles turned white. His voice shook. “Where did you hear that?” “From Emma’s old flames, of course. They weren’t exactly careful when they were together.” Vanessa tapped her head as if remembering something. “Oh! One of them actually sent me a photo.” The moment Vanessa pulled up the photo—a picture of me in a suggestive pose with a man—I snapped a quick photo of her screen and sent it to my dad. Brian completely lost his mind. He lunged forward, grabbing me by the collar and yelling in my face. “Emma! You dirty b*tch! You refused to sleep with me before the mating ceremony, but you were out there getting dirty with other guys?!” “If I knew you were this cheap, I would have let those rogue wolves tear you apart three years ago!” The lack of oxygen made my head spin. I struggled to break his grip. Looking at this face that I had loved for three years, now twisted with ugly rage, I felt a deep ache in my chest. “Brian,” I choked out, “the only thing I lied about was my background. I never cheated on you! Vanessa is the one lying! She—” *SMASH!* A wine bottle shattered against the side of my head. It was one of the guys who had been kissing up to Vanessa. “You cheap wh*re! How dare you try to defame Vanessa? She is our pack’s princess!” I tried to defend myself, but two men pinned my arms behind my back. A girl from the pack stepped up, grabbing my chin and squeezing it painfully. “So, how much did this pretty face cost to maintain?” The guy next to her laughed dirtily. “Let’s see if the rest of her body is as fake as her face.” My vision blurred as I looked at Brian. I held on to a tiny, pathetic hope that he would step in and save me, just like he did years ago. But he just turned his face away coldly. My heart died completely. Just as the man’s hand was about to touch my shirt, a commotion broke out near the entrance. “Alpha Harrison is here!” Through the haze of blood and wine dripping down my face, I saw the crowd parting for Alpha Marcus Harrison. I couldn’t believe my luck. Brian grabbed my arm, dragging me toward the exit. “Emma, we are done! Get the hell out of my pack!” I ripped my arm out of his grip. “I’m leaving. But not before I ask one question.” “What else do you have to say?!” Brian hissed. Across the room, Alpha Harrison was raising his glass to the VIP table. I looked at Luna Elizabeth Harrison, who was smiling elegantly next to him. I pointed directly at Vanessa, my voice cutting through the noise of the hall. “Luna Elizabeth! Did you know that girl is your husband’s favorite side chick?” The entire hall fell into a dead, suffocating silence.

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My fifth year as Luna, and it was the first time my Alpha, Marcus, sat down to have breakfast with me alone. But a three-year-old boy was sitting right next to him. “Catherine’s husband passed away last month. She’s struggling to raise the boy alone. We grew up together, and I can’t just stand by. I’m bringing them to live here for a while.” The boy looked up. His features were almost identical to Marcus’s. I froze. Not because of his face, but because I couldn’t smell a thing. A three-year-old pup was sitting right in front of me, yet I couldn’t scent him. Even now, my wolf didn’t surge forward to rip Marcus’s throat out. #### I pushed down the tremor in my chest and sneered. “Grew up together? Her husband just died, and you’re already rushing to bring her into our home?” His face darkened. “She doesn’t want any status. She’ll just live here to help take care of the kid… You’re still the Luna, and you get an extra child. It’s a win-win.” I set my fork down and stared at the Alpha in front of me. Five years ago, when the Blood Ridge Pack declared war, the Shadow Fang Pack was almost wiped out. It was my father who led his warriors to push them back, rebuilt their territory, and established their supply lines. Without the Silver Creek Pack, the Shadow Fang Pack wouldn’t even exist today. “Marcus, I’m leaving. Take your woman and your kid, and get the hell out.” He picked up the boy, placed him in his chair, turned to me, and slid his hands into his pockets. “Luna Elena, you’ve been married into the Shadow Fang Pack for five years. Everything here is under my command.” His tone was flat, stating a fact that needed no debate. “I remember the favor your father did for us back then. But since you married in, those resources belong to Shadow Fang. If I say no, they have nothing to do with you anymore.” He pulled out a chair, sat down, and casually picked up a piece of toast, taking a bite. “What do you have to fight me with?” The three-year-old boy sat on the high chair, poking his yogurt cup with a spoon, glancing at me with every poke. His brow bone, the bridge of his nose, even the mole at the corner of his lip—he was a carbon copy of Marcus. “You think I didn’t come prepared?” “Prepared what? Calling your father’s messenger?” He smirked. “That guy bowed his head to me yesterday. In this territory, no one dares to defy my orders.” I just stared at him. He put the toast down, brushed the crumbs off his hands, and stood up. “Luna Elena, stop throwing a tantrum. Catherine is coming this afternoon. Help clean up the room next door.” He walked to the door to change his shoes. Bending down to tie his laces, he glanced back at the boy. “Liam, be good. Daddy will be home tonight.” Daddy. Not uncle. He wasn’t even trying to hide it anymore. After the door slammed shut, I stood by the window, watching Marcus’s car drive out of the gates. I lifted my arm and sniffed. Nothing. I couldn’t even smell my own scent anymore. I walked back to the kitchen and opened the deepest cabinet. Three months ago, Marcus started giving me a “nutritional supplement” every morning. He said it was formulated by the pack healer and was good for my body. I drank it every time, never thinking twice. But now, I was starting to wonder. Over the past few months, my wolf felt weaker and weaker. Every time I drank that stuff, my body felt sluggish in a way I couldn’t describe. I used to think it was just stress. Now, putting everything together, the answer was staring me in the face. I didn’t make a scene. I just took a clean vial from the cabinet, poured half of tomorrow morning’s “supplement” into it, screwed the cap tight, and hid it at the very bottom of my closet. Then, I went about my day like nothing had happened. Yesterday, I tried to send a messenger to contact my father, wanting him to send people to pick me up for a few days. Now, it seemed that messenger had already fallen into Marcus’s hands. Twelve minutes after the door closed, my phone rang. An unknown number. “Luna Elena, this is Catherine.” Her voice was soft and sweet, with a southern drawl. “Alpha Marcus said I should come over at three. Is the room ready?” “What else did he tell you?” “He said… you agreed to it.” “When did I ever say I agreed?” The line went quiet for two seconds. “Luna Elena, I really won’t take up much space. I’m just here to help with Liam and cook. You can just treat me as a free nanny…” “Who is the pinned contact on your Snapchat? What’s his nickname?” Her breath hitched. “I saw it this morning. Between eight and nine today, you sent him eight messages. The last one: ‘Honey, did she agree? I’m so nervous.’” “Elena…” “You also have another social media account called ‘Secrets of Happiness’ on TikTok, with 1.17 million followers. Three months ago, you posted a video. The background was a living room with warm lighting, a mahogany coffee table, and custom Italian drapes. You told the camera, ‘Everyone, this is the home my husband and I share.’” She fell silent. I continued, “That living room is mine. Those drapes were ordered by me from Milan. I brought that coffee table in.” She remained silent. “Are you still coming at three?” Her voice was small, but she didn’t back down. “Luna Elena, Alpha Marcus told me to come.” At three sharp, the doorbell rang. She wore a cream knit dress, her hair in a low ponytail, her skin ridiculously fair. When she smiled, two deep dimples appeared. “Hi, Luna Elena.” She bowed slightly, dragging two suitcases. The boy jumped off the couch and ran into her arms. “Mommy!” She picked him up, kissed his forehead, and looked at me. There wasn’t a shred of guilt in her eyes. She walked around the living room as if she owned the place. In her mind, maybe she did. “Luna Elena, where is the guest room? I can find it myself.” “That ring on your left hand.” Her smile froze. On her left ring finger was a sapphire ring. My engagement ring. Two years ago, Marcus said he took it for cleaning and never brought it back. She hid her hand behind her back. “Alpha Marcus gave it to me…” “I know he did.” I turned and went upstairs. Her voice trailed behind me, laced with a whiny, spoiled pout. “Luna Elena, I really am just here to help.” ####

“Don’t be so petty.” Victoria’s call came earlier than I expected. “Marcus told me. The boy’s father died last month. It’s hard for a single mother. As a woman, how can you lack such basic compassion?” “Victoria, that boy looks exactly like Marcus.” “So what if they look alike? It’s just a coincidence.” Her words came fast, like she’d been practicing them all night. “Marcus also told me. The girl is only staying for a few days. If you have to think the worst, is it because you haven’t produced a pup in five years of marriage and feel insecure?” As those words pierced through, my nails dug into my palms. “Victoria, do you know why I haven’t had a child in five years?” “If your health is poor, go get it treated. How many times do I have to tell you?” “Marcus had me taking medicine for six months, claiming it was to help me conceive. I took the prescription to get it checked. Long-term use of that drug causes permanent infertility.” The line went silent for two seconds. “Nonsense. My son treats you incredibly well. Are you just trying to tear this family apart?” She hung up. I put down my phone and pinched the bridge of my nose. Three months. Every single day. Marcus handed it to me himself, telling me it was a supplement. I trusted him for three months. I opened the bottom drawer of my nightstand and took out the vial from this morning, containing half a bottle of dark liquid. A few dried droplets clung to the bottom. At noon, Catherine came down from the guest room and cooked a full spread. Roasted pork ribs, garden salad, fruit salad. Liam sat at the dining table, holding his bowl, his face smeared with food. She sat next to him, wiping his face with a wet wipe. Seeing me come downstairs, she stood up. “Luna Elena, I scooped a bowl of soup for you.” The soup bowl was placed at the far end of the table. She was sitting in my usual seat. I didn’t touch the soup. That afternoon, when I went out to buy some medicine, I swiped the credit card Marcus gave me. “I’m sorry, ma’am, this card has been deactivated.” I switched to my personal debit card and entered the PIN. Insufficient funds. I opened my banking app. Three days ago, a transfer had been executed from my personal account. One point four million dollars, fully transferred to the Shadow Fang Pack’s escrow account. Authorized by: Marcus. Marcus had revoked my resource access. He froze my accounts. He didn’t need my consent; he only needed to issue an order. In the evening, Victoria arrived. In her seventies, wearing low-heeled leather shoes, she walked in carrying a bag of fruit. The moment she saw Catherine, she beamed. “Oh, look at you, so beautiful. Come, let me see Liam.” She held the boy, stroked his face, and kissed his forehead, her eyes crinkling into slits. “This nose is exactly like Marcus’s when he was a boy.” She knew. She knew everything. Victoria pulled a box from her bag and opened it. A moonstone bracelet, gorgeous. I recognized it. It was a family heirloom amulet my family gave me when I got married, valued at eight hundred thousand dollars. During our second year of marriage, Victoria asked to borrow it once and never returned it. She slid the bracelet onto Catherine’s wrist. “Here, this is for you. Thank you for working so hard with the baby.” Catherine feigned a polite refusal before accepting it perfectly. “Thank you.” She said it while smiling at me. Victoria sat on the couch, took a sip of the tea Catherine poured, and glanced at me. “Luna Elena, you’re thirty now. They say it’s hard for a female to conceive after thirty. Look how sweet Liam is. Just raise him as your own first, and we can talk about the rest later.” “Victoria, that amulet is mine.” “What’s yours is mine? Once you step through the gates of the Shadow Fang Pack, it belongs to the Pack.” She set her teacup down. “Luna Elena, if you really can’t get over this, let me make things clear. Marcus told me you want to leave.” She stared at me, her warm expression shifting into something cold. “You can enter the Shadow Fang Pack, but you don’t get to just walk out. The resources your father provided were a donation. Support can be cut off, but haven’t you learned your lesson? You don’t even have your wolf anymore. You’re no different from a cripple. How many days do you think you’d survive out there?” Catherine stood by the kitchen door holding Liam, keeping quiet. But she was smiling. Victoria stood up and brushed off non-existent dust from her skirt. “Think it over before you speak to me again. An Alpha like Marcus has countless she-wolves lining up to marry him. You should be counting your blessings.” ####

“Come to the main house for dinner tonight. Elder Luna invited a few people.” Marcus’s message arrived at four in the afternoon. When I arrived, seven or eight people were sitting in the living room. The core members of the Shadow Fang Pack, usually busy with their own tasks, were all gathered today. At the dinner table, my seat was gone. Catherine sat on Marcus’s right, with Liam on her lap. My usual chair had been pushed to the corner. “Luna Elena is here. Grab a chair for yourself,” Victoria said, not even looking up. Margaret spoke up, her eyes scanning Catherine and Liam, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “He really does look like you when you were little.” Marcus smiled, not denying it. Margaret turned to Catherine. “Long time no see.” “Yes, Margaret,” Catherine replied, smiling sweet and demure. Victoria piped up, her voice loud enough for everyone to hear. “Exactly. Some people have been here for five years without a single sign of a pup. Others come back, and in three months, the child is already running around.” At a table full of people, not a single soul spoke up for me. They cut their steaks, poured their wine, and occasionally exchanged knowing glances. No one looked at me. I stood there, holding a glass of water. “Luna Elena, don’t just stand there. Sit,” Marcus finally spoke, pointing to a small, temporary chair placed at the far end of the table. I didn’t sit. “Where is the messenger I sent to my father?” “We’re having dinner. Why bring that up now?” The table fell silent for a few seconds. “Luna Elena,” Victoria tapped her fork against the table. “Are you trying to make a scene in front of everyone?” “Is this what you call making a scene?” “You just have no sense of decorum,” Margaret put down her glass, her voice turning cold. “Marcus has been more than generous with you. You haven’t produced an heir in five years, and he hasn’t complained. In any other pack, you would have been rejected long ago.” I looked at Margaret. “So he brings his mistress and bastard home, and I’m supposed to bow down in gratitude?” Margaret’s face twisted. “How dare you speak like that?” “Am I not stating facts?” “Enough.” Marcus finally set his fork down. His voice wasn’t loud, but it instantly silenced the room. He looked at me, his eyes showing no anger, only a condescending patience. “Elena, you’re tired. Sit down and eat.” I didn’t sit. “Where is the messenger I sent to my father?” “I said, we don’t discuss this at the dinner table.” “What did you do to him?” The room fell dead silent for three seconds. Marcus stared at me, a trace of a smirk still lingering on his lips. “What do you think?” My heart sank. But I didn’t press further. I wouldn’t get answers now anyway. Catherine kept her head down, feeding Liam, keeping quiet and avoiding my gaze. But her phone screen lit up. I caught her sneakily typing a quick message: *”It’s handled.”* Who she sent it to, I couldn’t see clearly. But I clearly saw the nickname of the chat thread: *Baby’s Daddy.* At eleven PM, I sat alone in my bedroom. All my resource permissions were severed. My communication channels were blocked. The entire pack leadership stood by his side. From the room next door, the faint, sweet sound of Catherine cooing to her child drifted in. I pulled out my phone, stared at my father’s contact number, and put it back down. Not yet. But I snapped a picture of the half-filled vial of “supplement” and saved it in a secure folder only I could access. The day I walked out of here, this evidence would serve its purpose. ####

“Drink it.” The next morning, Marcus slammed a bowl of dark liquid in front of me. My sense of smell had mostly deteriorated, so I couldn’t tell what it was. But its color and texture were identical to the “supplement” I’d been given every morning for three months. Combined with my recent symptoms—loss of smell, inability to summon my wolf, and full-body sluggishness—the truth was glaringly obvious. Fine, black sediments rested at the bottom of the bowl. I looked up at him. He didn’t flinch. “Drink this, and I’ll let you leave here alive.” He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat opposite me. “You can live in the cabin near the border. Someone will deliver food and supplies to you every month. It’ll be enough to keep you alive.” Keep me alive. When the Blood Ridge Pack attacked years ago, it was my father who saved the entire Shadow Fang Pack. The post-war reconstruction, the supply lines, the warrior training—my father handled all of it. Marcus owed everything he had to the Silver Creek Pack. And he repaid me with wolfsbane. “And if I don’t?” He took a sip of his coffee. “If you don’t? You can still try to leave. But you won’t make it out of this territory. Your wolf will get weaker by the day, and within a month, you’ll be completely crippled. You won’t even be able to stand. How far do you think you’ll get?” He set his cup down and locked eyes with me. “Luna Elena, you overestimate yourself. What do you think you have? Your father’s name? That might work on other lands. But in my Pack, I make the rules.” Catherine walked out of the kitchen with plates. Fried eggs, toast, fresh orange juice. She placed a plate in front of Marcus, and another in front of Liam. There was nothing for me. “Alpha Marcus, have some breakfast.” She sat right next to him. At this table. In my seat. Victoria came downstairs, glancing at the bowl on the table. “Drink up, Luna Elena. The sooner you drink, the sooner you find peace. Look at you now—no money, no power, no allies. Why keep struggling? If you refuse, don’t blame me for being harsh. Strip away your father’s connections, and what do you actually have left?” Marcus leaned back, crossing his legs as he watched me. I knew that expression all too well. It was a confidence born from his very bones. He was certain I would drink it. Certain I had no leverage. Certain he had won this game. “Luna Elena, you don’t have to drink. But once you leave the Shadow Fang Pack, you are nothing.” He smirked as he said those words. Right then, my phone rang. The screen lit up—it was my father. I didn’t have time to answer. Because in the exact same second, Marcus’s phone rang too. Marcus frowned as he answered. The voice on the other end spoke only one sentence. I couldn’t hear what was said. But I watched his face. The color drained from it, layer by layer. He put his phone down and stared at me, his lips trembling, unable to make a sound. Victoria’s phone connected too, and someone was shouting on the other end. Her face instantly crumpled. “What do you mean all supply lines are severed? What do you mean their warriors have completely withdrawn?” Catherine stood there holding the child, her smile frozen, completely clueless about what was happening. I picked up my phone and answered. “Father.” My father’s voice on the other end was calm. “My daughter, it is done.”

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1 The day before move-in, my girlfriend told me she’d lost me in a game of Truth or Dare. Before I could even process what she meant, she added me to the “Class of 2028” Discord server—a massive digital shark tank for incoming freshmen. Within seconds, a new announcement pinged across the screen: [CHALLENGE UPDATED: Congrats to Audrey Quinn for winning herself a brand-new, 260-pound boyfriend!] Immediately following the text, a photo was dropped into the chat. It was me, circa sophomore year of high school. I was wearing an oversized, stained hoodie; my stomach was pressed against the desk, and my face was so round that my eyes were practically swallowed by my cheeks. The chat went nuclear. “Is that a boyfriend or a prize-winning hog?” one person typed, followed by a string of skull emojis. “I actually feel bad for Audrey. Imagine being the campus ‘It’ girl and having to play house with Shrek,” another chimed in. “Beauty and the Beast: Live Action. Except the Beast didn’t get the memo about the gym.” A betting pool was opened through a third-party app within minutes. People were wagering on whether I’d actually show my face at the freshman mixer tomorrow night. My girlfriend—well, my “online” girlfriend—slapped down fifty dollars on No. “Don’t hate the player, Miles,” she messaged me privately. “Sienna rolled a six. You were the stakes. It’s just a game.” Audrey Quinn—the girl who supposedly “won” me—remained silent. But Grant Harrison, the local golden boy whose profile was a curated gallery of Porsches and Swiss watches, tagged me directly. “Hey man, you’re coming tomorrow, right? Don’t leave a lady hanging.” I looked at the notifications scrolling past my eyes and felt a slow, cold smile spread across my face. Nobody knew. Nobody knew that over the past year, I’d dropped eighty pounds. That I’d traded the 2 a.m. gaming sessions for 5 a.m. HIIT workouts. That over the last two months, I’d been asked for my number in coffee shops and gyms more times than in the previous eighteen years of my life combined. I pulled up the betting app and dropped a hundred dollars on myself. Miles M. bets: I’ll be there. Then, in the main chat, I typed three words: “A bet’s a bet.” I stared at the Discord announcement for a full ten seconds. The messages were moving so fast it was a blur of mockery. “Sienna really played this perfectly. Shedding the dead weight and getting in good with Grant’s circle in one move.” “@AudreyQuinn, come on, give us a victory speech!” Another photo dropped. This one was from the high school field day. I was at my heaviest—two hundred and sixty pounds. My school shirt was straining at the buttons, and I was caught in the background of someone else’s shot, hunched over a bag of chips. The person who posted it was Sienna Reed. My girlfriend of eleven months. A minute ago, she’d been “soothing” me in our DMs. “Babe, it’s just a thing girls do. I temporarily lost you to Audrey. Just do the three ‘couple challenges’ tomorrow and it’s over. Don’t overthink it.” I didn’t reply. The chat was having a field day. “Does the venue have reinforced chairs?” someone asked. “Isn’t there a princess carry challenge? Can he even see his own knees, let alone lift her?” Sienna posted a face-palm emoji. “Guys, stop. You’re going to give him an anxiety attack.” It looked like she was defending me. In reality, she was just twisted the knife, making me look even more pathetic. We had met on a Discord server for competitive Valorant. When she couldn’t sleep, I stayed up until dawn talking her through her stress. When she failed her psych midterm, I spent a week straight organizing her notes. I’d even chosen this university because she told me, “Miles, let’s go to the same school. On move-in day, I want you to be the first person to hold me.” Now, I was just a chip she’d tossed onto the gambling table. Grant Harrison chimed in again: “Look, everyone, leave him alone. Being big isn’t a crime, as long as he’s a nice guy.” Grant was the quintessential rich kid. His Instagram was all yacht parties and private clubs. Lately, he’d been chasing Audrey Quinn, but the rumors said he was also getting very cozy with Sienna. They’d even changed their profile pictures to matching minimalist aesthetics. “Bro, you’re coming, right?” Grant tagged me again. “No one has any real malice. Don’t be insecure.” The chat flooded with “Grant has such good vibes” and “Total class act.” Sienna even reacted with a heart. I didn’t rush. I clicked the betting link again. Another hundred. On me. The chat froze for two seconds before a wall of question marks appeared. Sienna immediately messaged me. “Are you insane? Grant and Audrey are both going to be there. Why would you subject yourself to that?” I looked in the mirror. Six-foot-one. Broad shoulders, narrow waist. The features that had been buried under layers of soft tissue were now sharp—a defined jawline, high cheekbones, and eyes that no longer looked hidden. I’d spent twelve months in a private hell of calorie counting and heavy lifting. I wanted to save the surprise for the moment we finally met in person. But now? She didn’t deserve the surprise. She deserved the fallout. I closed her chat and replied in the Discord: “I’ll be there.” Sienna’s name lit up my phone immediately. I ignored it. She called three times, then sent a frantic voice note. “Miles, stop being a child! This is how the game works. I lost, you’re Audrey’s ‘boyfriend’ for the night, we do the three tasks, and we’re done. We’re all going to be in the same social circles. Don’t make this awkward for me.” I actually laughed. She’d traded me like a used car and was worried about her social standing. I opened the event file. The “Couple Challenges” were: 1. Feed each other cake in front of the group. 2. 3. A hand-holding photo posted to the main school Instagram page. 4. 5. The male partner must carry the female partner—princess style—for ten seconds. 6. The comments under the file were brutal. “Someone warn Audrey’s spinal cord.” “Can he even bend over?” “Maybe Audrey should just jump on him and hope for the best.” Audrey Quinn hadn’t said a word. Her profile picture was a grainy, artistic shot of her back facing a sunset. She was a mystery, but a highly coveted one. Grant Harrison was already acting like her gatekeeper. Whenever someone tagged her, he replied for her. “Audrey’s not big on group chats. Don’t pressure her about the tasks.” It was a possessive, familiar tone. And Sienna was right there, feeding into it. “Wow, Grant, you know Audrey so well,” she’d post, followed by a shy emoji. It was nauseating. She was flirting with Grant while keeping me on a leash as her emotional support dog. My best friend, Tyler, FaceTime-called me a second later. He was fuming. “Dude, is Sienna actually brain-dead? She ‘lost’ you in a game? What is this, a 90s teen movie?” “You saw the screenshots?” I asked. “The whole high school group chat has seen them! Sienna is the one who posted those old photos, Miles. The girl you called ‘the sweetest soul’ just threw you to the wolves.” I smiled. Tyler looked even more worried. “Why are you smiling? You’re going to go there and let them do this?” “I’m going,” I said, walking to my closet. “To do what? Pull a ‘The Nutty Professor’ reveal?” “Photos are easy to fake, Tyler. They’d just say I used AI or found a lookalike. No. I want them to see it. I want to see the exact moment the blood drains from Sienna’s face.” Tyler let out a low whistle. “Man, I almost feel bad for them. Almost.” The night of the mixer, I stayed in bed until noon. My phone was a graveyard of notifications. People were posting photos of reinforced double-wide chairs they’d “reserved” for me at the lounge. Sienna was still playing the martyr: “He’s not coming, guys. Stop picking on him.” Grant: “Hey, if he shows, he shows. Let’s all promise not to laugh, okay?” His “kindness” was the most insulting part of all. I got up, showered, and spent an hour on my hair. Tyler showed up at 4 p.m. with a garment bag. “Today, we’re going with ‘Lethal Elegance,’” he announced. He’d picked out a charcoal-black button-down, tailored slim. When I tucked it into my dark trousers and rolled the sleeves to my elbows, revealing the vascularity in my forearms, even Tyler went quiet for a second. “Jesus, Miles. If I were a girl, I’d be sliding into your DMs right now.” “Shut up.” “I’m serious. Grant Harrison is ‘Country Club Rich,’ but you look like you own the club and the country.” At 5:30, a video was posted to the Discord. The lounge was packed. In the center of the table was a massive sheet cake with red frosting that read: WELCOME, BIG CHUM! Laughter erupted in the background. A guy with a buzz cut pointed the camera at the cake. “Miles, buddy! If you don’t show up in ten minutes, we’re gonna have to eat your girlfriend without you!” Sienna was sitting on the velvet sofa, sipping a drink. She looked bored. “Told you. He’s a no-show. He didn’t even have the guts to FaceTime me this month. You think he’s gonna walk in here?” Grant was sitting right next to her. She leaned in to fix his collar, and he didn’t pull away. Then, Audrey Quinn walked into the frame. Grant stood up instantly, nearly knocking Sienna over. “Audrey! You’re here. I was going to pick you up.” Audrey barely glanced at him. The video cut there. I grabbed my keys. My heart was thumping, but it wasn’t the old heart—the one that fluttered with anxiety. This was a steady, rhythmic drum of anticipation. As I pulled up to the hotel lounge, a girl from my high school—someone who had once called me “The Human Shield” during dodgeball—passed me in the lobby. She did a double-take so hard she nearly tripped over her own heels. The lounge was on the third floor. I could hear the music and the raucous laughter through the heavy oak doors. “Ten!” the crowd started chanting. “Nine!” “Eight!” Sienna’s voice rose above the rest. “Just close the bets. He’s not coming. He’s probably at home with a tub of ice cream, crying into his Discord.” I reached for the handle. “Miles?” I turned. Standing in the hallway was a girl in a silk emerald dress. Her dark hair was swept up, her features striking and cold. Audrey Quinn. She looked at me, her eyes widening in genuine shock. “Are you…?” I gave her a small, sharp smile. “Audrey. Right on time.” Inside, the countdown hit zero. I pushed the doors open.

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1 I was three months into my battle with Stage IV gastric cancer when my wife, Jade, brought her “brother” into our home. Her reasoning was a textbook exercise in guilt-tripping: Weston Miller, her childhood best friend, had lost everything—his marriage, his savings to medical bills, and his home. He was an orphan with nowhere else to go. Because he had once saved both our lives in a freak accident years ago, I felt I couldn’t say no. I agreed to let him stay in our guest room. On his first day, he looked at my gaunt face and the mountain of prescription bottles on my nightstand, his eyes welling with tears. Jade pulled me into the bedroom, her voice a sharp, frantic whisper. “Stop talking about your treatment in front of him, Liam.” “What?” I asked, my hand trembling as I tried to button my shirt. “He lost his wife because he couldn’t afford his own medical bills. Do you have any idea how much it hurts him to see your ‘privilege’ of being able to fight this? Just have some empathy.” I froze, the fabric of my shirt cold against my skin. I simply nodded. A few days later, he spilled liquid soap all over the bathroom floor right as I was stepping out of the shower. I nearly cracked my skull open on the tile. When I asked Jade if she thought he’d done it on purpose, she just sighed, that weary, disappointed sound that had become the soundtrack of our marriage. “He’s clumsy, Liam. He’s been through a trauma. Don’t turn him into a villain just because you’re frustrated with being sick.” But then came the afternoon at the pool. He pushed me. He waited until I turned my head, and then his hand was firm against my shoulder blades, shoving me into the deep end. Then, he jumped in after me. I heard the splash, felt the cold water hit my lungs. Jade came running out of the house, screaming. I clawed at the surface, my eyes searching for hers, begging for a hand. But she moved past me. She swam right past my reaching fingers to grab him first. “He can’t swim!” she screamed at me as she hauled his coughing weight toward the ladder. “I have to get him up first! Liam, you’re a swimmer—I’ve already called 911!” I was a swimmer. But my calf had seized into a violent, agonizing knot. My body was failing me. I tried to shout, but the water rushed into my throat, heavy and metallic. My stomach flared with a white-hot pain, like a stone was dragging me down to the bottom. I heard the sirens in the distance, a faint, rhythmic wailing. But I wouldn’t need them. “He’s swallowed so much water! Quick, take him first!” Jade’s voice sounded like it was coming through a thick pane of glass. I wanted to tell her that I’d swallowed water, too. That my leg was a useless lead weight. That my stomach felt like it was exploding. But I couldn’t open my mouth. My consciousness was hovering in a strange, liminal space—neither in the water nor truly on the land. I looked down and saw myself lying on the pool tiles. My lips were a bruised purple, my skin the color of old parchment. I wasn’t moving. Jade was hunched over Weston, helping him toward the ambulance at the end of the driveway. He was draped over her shoulder, coughing violently, his fingers digging into her skin. She looked back at my body. Just once. Then she climbed into the back of the ambulance with him. I stood beside my own corpse, trying to reach down and touch my chest, but my hand passed straight through the bone. There was no sensation. No warmth. I listened for my heartbeat, but it grew slower, more distant, until it finally stopped altogether. The second ambulance arrived much later. The paramedics performed CPR for a long time. I watched, detached, as a voice crackled over the radio: “Male, drowning victim, cardiac arrest. Pupils fixed and dilated.” I stood there as they lifted me onto the gurney. When they pulled the white sheet over my face, I finally realized the truth. I was dead. I, a man dying of cancer, had finished the job in a suburban swimming pool. The hospital corridors were sterile and bright, smelling of industrial bleach. I drifted through the walls of the ER. Weston was already in a cubicle, tucked under a heated blanket. Jade was sitting by his side, holding his hand. His eyes were closed, his brow furrowed in a practiced expression of pain. A nurse brought a fresh blanket, and Jade took it, tucking it around his shoulders with a meticulous, tender focus. I recognized that movement. During my first month of chemo, when I’d spend half the night shivering and the other half vomiting, she used to tuck me in exactly like that. It was the same gesture. Weston stirred. He opened his eyes and rasped, “Jade?” She leaned in, her voice low and soothing. “I’m here. You’re okay. The doctor said you’re going to be fine.” “I was so scared…” Weston gripped her sleeve, his knuckles white. “I thought I was dying.” “You weren’t,” she whispered, reaching out to wipe a stray drop of water from his temple. “I got to you. You’re safe.” I stood at the foot of the bed, watching her fingers trail across his cheek. Just three days ago, those same fingers had touched my face, promising me that after my next round of treatment, we’d go to the coast to watch the sunset. “Jade, where’s Liam?” Weston asked suddenly. His voice held a note of hesitation, like he was testing the air. Jade paused. “I brought you in first. He… he’s a strong swimmer. He should be fine. He’s probably in another wing being checked out.” She glanced toward the door, a flicker of something—worry? guilt?—crossing her face. “I should go ask the desk.” Weston’s hand shot out, grabbing her wrist. “Don’t go.” He sat up, his breathing becoming shallow and panicked. “Jade, please don’t leave me. I’ve always been alone. You know that. My wife walked out on me when I got sick… are you going to throw me away, too?” Jade looked torn, her gaze darting toward the hallway and back to the man crying in the bed. Finally, she sat back down. “I’m not going anywhere. Lie down.” I watched her settle into the chair, and I wanted to laugh. Look at her, Liam, I thought. She stayed. Not for you. For him. Weston pressed his face into her palm, his breathing leveling out. Jade continued to wipe his face with a paper towel, stroke by stroke, infinitely patient. “You’re safe now,” she said. “Stop overthinking.” “Okay,” he whispered. “Will you stay? For good?” “I’m here.” I took a step back. Then another. I backed through the wall and into the hallway. At the other end of the emergency department, two orderlies were pushing a gurney covered in a white sheet. I heard a nurse murmur to a colleague, “The guy from the pool. Cancer patient. D.O.A.” The silhouette under the sheet was me. I followed the gurney. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, a rhythmic, blinding pulse. I tried to reach out and pull back the sheet, just to see my own face one last time. My hand passed through it. I couldn’t touch a thing. At the end of the hall, there was a small window. Outside, the sun was setting, the sky a bruised purple. I stood by the glass, but there was no reflection. No gaunt face, no hollow eyes. Nothing. Behind me, Jade’s voice drifted out from Weston’s room. “Don’t worry,” she was saying. “I’ve got you.” 2 Once Weston had drifted into a light sleep, Jade pulled her phone from her pocket. The screen was smudged with water. She wiped it on her damp jeans and opened our text thread. She typed: Liam, which hospital are they taking you to? Let me know when you’re admitted. I was standing two feet behind her. I watched the message bubble pop up: Sent. No one is going to answer you, Jade, I thought. I knelt down, trying to touch the screen, but my fingers went through the glass, through her hand, through the very air. Weston shifted in bed, catching her eye. “Messaging Liam?” Jade nodded. Weston was silent for a few seconds. Then, in a low, fragile voice, he said, “Jade, I’ve been wanting to tell you something… but I was afraid you wouldn’t believe me.” “What is it?” He bit his lip, looking down at the hospital blanket. “About the pool today… Liam didn’t fall. And I didn’t push him.” I snapped my head up, staring at him. Jade’s thumb hovered over the phone. “What do you mean?” Weston sat up, clutching the blanket to his chest, his eyes reddening. “He jumped.” The words felt like an explosion in my chest. No. That is a lie. “His mood has been so dark lately,” Weston continued, his voice dropping to a whisper. “He thinks I’m trying to take his place. He told me several times that I should just leave. He said I was using my history with you to leech off your kindness. He said you cared more about me than him.” He paused, a tear rolling down his cheek. “I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want you guys to fight because of me.” I screamed. I roared at the top of my lungs that he was a liar, that I had never said those things. But the sound died in my ghostly throat, swallowed by a silence that felt like lead. Jade’s expression shifted. It wasn’t anger. It was a weary, familiar kind of disappointment. She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. “He has been different lately,” she admitted. “That whole thing with the soap in the bathroom… he insisted I did it on purpose. I tried to explain, but he wouldn’t listen.” Weston wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I know he’s sick. I know the meds mess with his head. But today… he just jumped into the deep end and started thrashing. He was looking right at you when he screamed for help.” His voice broke. “Jade, I think I should move out. If I’m making him this miserable, if I’m the reason he’s doing this to himself… I’d rather be on the street. I’d rather just disappear than come between you two.” He punctuates the sentence by burying his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking. Jade reached out and gripped his arm. “Don’t you dare say that.” Her voice was firm, heavier than it had been all night. “You saved our lives once, Weston. We wouldn’t even be here without you. How can you say you’re the problem?” Weston shook his head. “But Liam hates me. He hates me being in his house.” “I’ll apologize for him,” Jade said. I froze. Those four words felt like a physical blow. “He’s lost his perspective because of the illness,” she continued, her voice softening as she patted his arm. “He’s become paranoid. Don’t take it to heart. He doesn’t mean it.” Yes, I do, I whispered, standing right beside her. I mean everything I never got to say. Jade checked her phone again. Another message: Liam, where are you? Answer me. Five minutes passed. No reply. Weston glanced at the screen. “Is he still giving you the silent treatment?” “He won’t even check in to say he’s okay,” Jade muttered, her jaw tightening. “If he’s really doing this just to spite me, after everything…” She didn’t finish the thought, but she flipped the phone face-down on the nightstand. She wasn’t going to call again. Weston closed his eyes and leaned back against the pillow. For a split second, a tiny, almost imperceptible smirk touched the corner of his mouth. Jade didn’t see it. But I did. Outside, the world turned to pitch black. I sank to the floor, leaning against the cold hospital wall, trying to pull my knees to my chest. My arms passed through my legs. I couldn’t even hold myself. 3 The next morning, the autumn sun cut through the hospital blinds in sharp, cruel slats of light. I was sitting outside Weston’s room when I saw Jade walking down the hall, carrying a plastic container of soup. I could smell it even as a spirit—chicken and wild rice. Since my diagnosis, my appetite had vanished. I couldn’t keep anything down, but that specific soup, made with extra ginger the way Jade learned to do it, was the only thing I could tolerate. She’d spent weeks perfecting the recipe so it didn’t taste “metallic” to me. She pushed open the door and set the container down in front of Weston. “Eat it while it’s hot. You didn’t have dinner.” Weston took a spoonful, then looked up at her. “Jade… this tastes exactly like the stuff you used to make for us back in the apartment.” The apartment. I remembered. Three years ago, before Weston got married, the three of us had shared a cramped two-bedroom in the city. Jade was just learning to cook, and Weston, always the “big brother,” would insist she make an extra pot for him. “Remember that?” Weston asked, setting the spoon down. “You’d be up at 6:00 AM making breakfast for me and Liam before we headed to work.” Jade offered a small, sad smile. “Liam used to tell me to sleep in. He didn’t want me to overwork myself. But I wanted to do it.” Weston paused. “He was so different back then. He was… a good guy.” Was. Past tense. I watched his face. He looked nostalgic, gentle—like he was mourning a friend who had been gone for years. I only died yesterday. He didn’t know I was dead, but he was already rewriting my history to make my absence more convenient. Jade’s expression clouded. She stirred the soup absentmindedly. “He changed. The cancer made him suspicious. He looked at everyone like they were the enemy.” “I let you move in because I thought it would make him happy. I thought having his best friend around would remind him of who he used to be. I never expected…” Weston reached out and squeezed her hand. “Don’t blame yourself. You’ve been a saint, Jade.” I stared at his fingers laced with hers. Three years ago, when Weston was picking out a suit for his wedding to Paige, I was the one who went with him. He’d turned around in the dressing room, asking if he looked okay. I’d told him he looked like a million bucks. He’d clapped me on the shoulder and said, “Liam, you’re the best brother a guy could ask for.” The “best brother” was currently dead in a refrigerated drawer down the hall, and his “best friend” was stroking his wife’s hand. Jade’s phone buzzed. It was my sister, Sloane. Jade put it on speaker. “Where is he?” Sloane’s voice was sharp with anxiety. “I’ve called him three times and he hasn’t picked up.” “I don’t know,” Jade said, flipping through her phone. “My phone got water-damaged last night. I’ve got a dozen missed calls.” “Where is he, Jade?” Jade sighed. “He hasn’t contacted me since he got out of the pool yesterday. I’ve sent messages. He’s ignoring me.” Sloane’s voice went up an octave. “What do you mean ‘got out of the pool’? He has Stage IV cancer, Jade! Why the hell was he in the pool?” “I didn’t ask him to get in,” Jade snapped, her own temper flaring. “He jumped in on his own.” I stood there, shaking my head. No. No, Sloane, he’s lying. Weston pushed me. I remembered the moment clearly. Weston had grabbed my arm, pointing toward the fence. “Liam, look, is that a hawk?” The moment I turned my head, his hand was a violent force against my back. But I couldn’t speak. “Liam would never just jump into a pool,” Sloane said, her voice dropping into a low, dangerous register. “Did you even check on him?” Weston suddenly spoke up, his voice trembling and innocent. “Sloane? It’s Weston. It’s all my fault.” He leaned toward the phone. “I think Liam is just upset because I’m staying here. He’s been telling me to move out for days. I know he doesn’t want me around, but I have nowhere else… I think he jumped in to make a point. I’m so sorry. If I’m causing this much trouble between you two, I’ll leave. I’ll go.” He choked back a sob. The line went silent for a long beat. Sloane had known Weston as long as we had. She’d always treated him like a younger brother. “Weston, don’t say that,” Sloane said finally, her voice weary. “Liam can be… difficult. Especially lately.” “I’ll go look for him.” The call ended. I stood in the center of the room, listening to my own sister call me “difficult.” Difficult. I was a man with a hole in his stomach who had been murdered by his best friend, while my wife saved the killer and left me to drown. That was “difficult.” Jade rubbed her temples. “She’s right. I need to find him.” Weston’s hand tightened on her wrist. “Jade… before you go, can you stay until they finish my lung scan? The doctor said there might be fluid. I’m terrified to be here alone.” He looked fragile, his eyes wide and red. Jade hesitated for two seconds, then nodded. “Okay. I’ll stay until the results are back.” Weston’s “tests” took the entire morning. In the afternoon, he claimed he was dizzy. By evening, he said he was having nightmares. Jade never left his side. I sat on the plastic chair in the hallway—or rather, I hovered just above it. Occasionally, the sound of a gurney being wheeled toward the morgue would echo through the empty corridor. I’m in there, I thought. And my wife was in the next room, feeding soup to another man. 4 Day three. Weston was discharged. Jade drove him home. There was a bouquet of flowers in the backseat—not for him, but because Weston had pointed them out at the hospital gift shop, saying how much he liked white daisies. Jade bought them instantly. She used to buy me flowers after every oncology appointment. If my blood work was stable, we’d stop by the florist and she’d let me pick. I always chose daisies. She remembered the habit. She just forgot who it belonged to. When they pulled into our driveway, Weston didn’t move. “Jade… what if Liam is inside? I’m afraid he’ll be angry if he sees me.” Jade turned off the engine and tried my number. Power off. It had been off since the pool because my phone was currently sitting in a puddle on the patio. “No answer,” she said. “He’s probably not even here.” “Maybe he went to Sloane’s?” Weston suggested. Jade texted Sloane. Two minutes later, the reply came: He hasn’t been here. I thought he was with you. Jade stared at the screen, a line of worry finally appearing between her brows. “It’s been three days.” She whispered it to herself, then dialed my number again. Nothing. Weston leaned in, his voice soft. “Maybe he just went away to clear his head? People with terminal illnesses… they get impulsive. Maybe he’s punishing you with the silence.” He didn’t say it outright, but the implication was clear: Liam is being manipulative. Liam is the one hurting you. Jade gripped her phone, her knuckles white. “I’ll try one more time.” Seven times. No answer. Weston reached over and covered her hand with his. “Stop. If he wanted to talk to you, he would have. He’s a grown man, Jade. You can’t force him to be reasonable. Maybe he just needs space. If you keep hounding him, he’ll just retreat further.” Jade looked at the call logs, then finally put the phone away. They went inside. I followed them, drifting into my own home. In the entryway, my slippers were still there—the navy blue ones with the little embroidered whales. Weston looked down at them as he took off his shoes. He reached down and touched the fabric. “Liam always liked stuff like this. Kind of childish, wasn’t he?” He put the slippers back and walked into the living room. My book was still on the coffee table, a bookmark halfway through, next to a stray bottle of painkillers. Weston picked up the book, flipping through the pages. “He didn’t even finish it.” Jade stood in the center of the room, her eyes scanning the remnants of my life. The slippers, the book, the chemo schedule taped to the fridge, the sticky note on the door reminding me of my next CT scan. My fingerprints were everywhere. And yet, I was standing three feet away from her, and she was blind to me. Weston sat on the sofa. “Jade, do you think… do you think something really happened?” “His phone is off. He’s not with his sister…” Jade’s face finally went pale. “I’m calling the police.” She reached for her phone. Weston stood up abruptly. “Wait.” He bit his lip, his eyes shimmering with tears. “If you call the cops, they’re going to ask about the pool, aren’t they? Are they going to think I did something? Jade, I didn’t push him. You believe me, right?” Jade looked at him, her expression unreadable for a moment. “I know it wasn’t you. But he’s been missing for three days. I have to call.” She dialed. I watched her give the dispatcher the details. Liam Mercer. 32 years old. Last seen three days ago at our home. He has Stage IV cancer. The dispatcher told her they would check the local hospitals and get back to her. Twenty minutes of suffocating silence followed. Jade sat on the sofa with her head in her hands. Weston sat beside her, silent for once. Then, her phone rang. It wasn’t the police. It was the county hospital. “Hello? Is this the family of Liam Mercer?” “I’m his wife.” There was a long, heavy pause on the other end. “Mrs. Mercer, your husband was brought into our ER by paramedics three days ago. He was a drowning victim. He went into cardiac arrest and… we were unable to revive him.” “Mr. Mercer was pronounced dead at 5:48 PM on Tuesday. We’ve been trying to reach his emergency contact, but your phone seemed to be out of service. We need you to come in and sign the release forms.”

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1 As a creator with forty million followers, I chose peak engagement hours to finally introduce Derek to the world. A single, unedited portrait of him was all it took to pull eight million likes in a matter of hours. My comment section blew up instantly, flooded with thousands asking if he was my boyfriend. I didn’t play coy. I answered with a simple, proud yes. Yet, barely twelve hours later, the tide violently turned. The affection evaporated, replaced by a wall of brutal, sneering vitriol. She’s live with him on her channel right now saying he doesn’t even know you. Embarrassing much? Check out Sadie’s page if you want to see what a real couple looks like. Imagine posting someone else’s man and claiming he’s yours. Clout-chasing bully. My stomach dropped. I sat frozen on my couch, tapping through the tagged handles until I landed on the profile. It belonged to a mid-tier lifestyle account with around three hundred thousand followers. The woman behind it was Sadie Jenkins—Derek’s lifelong “best friend.” I took a screenshot of her latest post and sent it to Derek, demanding an explanation. His response came with an airy, dismissive laugh. “Elena, relax. Sadie’s reach has been stalling for months. We’re just playing up a little fake-dating drama to give her engagement a boost.” “It’s really not a big deal,” he added, his voice completely casual. “Don’t take it to heart.” For three years, Derek had insisted he hated being in front of a camera. He claimed the entire digital landscape made him uncomfortable. When I finally convinced him to let me post that single photo, it had taken two weeks of relentless begging before he reluctantly gave in. And yet, there he was on Sadie’s grid—starring in over a dozen affectionate couple vlogs and co-hosting late-night streams. I listened to the hollow hum of the receiver, said nothing, and hung up. Then, I opened my profile and deleted the photo. If that was the game they wanted to play, I would simply step out of the frame. 2 Because Derek had explicitly denied knowing me on a public platform, my account hemorrhaged nearly a hundred and fifty thousand followers in under an hour. Sadie’s account, meanwhile, gained over a hundred thousand. With heavy eyelids, I reopened her page. She had posted a new photo just ten minutes prior. It was a candid shot of her and Derek. Neither of them was looking at the camera; they were locked in an intimate, laughing gaze, leaning so close their shoulders overlapped. A simple, unpolished picture, yet in ten minutes it had already racked up thousands of comments and tens of thousands of likes. I opened the comment section. Pinned at the very top was a comment from a freshly created profile. I didn’t even need to check the bio to know it was Derek’s. The comments underneath were a chorus of adoration, hailing them as soulmates. Then, someone dragged my name into the dirt. I still can’t believe a top-tier influencer literally tried to claim another girl’s boyfriend in the comments. Thoughts, @ElenaHayes? The comment gained traction rapidly, riding a wave of malicious upvotes. I typed out a four-word reply: Believe whatever you like. That single response unleashed an even darker torrent into my direct messages. This time, it wasn’t just mockery; it was violent threats, targeted harassment, and explicit wishes for my ruin. Internet sleuths began dissecting my older travel videos, twisting every line of voiceover script into evidence of a manipulative persona. By dinner, my inbox was flooded with emails from brand partners. Three major campaigns were canceled effective immediately. Worse, citing damage to their corporate reputation, two of the companies attached formal demands for liquidated damages. 3 When Derek came home that evening, he carried a bakery box containing a blueberry ice cream cake—my favorite. He walked into the kitchen, placing the box softly onto the marble island. “Still pouting?” His tone carried that familiar, patronizing weariness. “It’s just a clout-chasing strategy, Elena. It’s not like I’m actually sleeping with her.” Just a strategy. Whenever I had asked to soft-launch our relationship, he had complained about the hassle, claiming he refused to expose his private life to the internet. The single portrait I posted was the absolute limit of his compromise. Derek had never cared for social media. He had never even owned an active profile. And he certainly hadn’t stepped up to claim the photo I posted. “Don’t be dramatic,” Derek continued, utterly oblivious to the quiet collapse inside me. “Sadie’s channel has been dying. She came up with this concept to save her metrics. You know how close we are. It’s just content.” Of course I knew how close they were. They were childhood neighbors, raised in the same cul-de-sac, constantly tumbling through each other’s lives. Sadie wore the “one of the guys” label like a badge of honor, always insisting she looked down on him. When Derek and I first started dating seven years ago, she had snorted in my face, her voice dripping with exaggerated theatricality. “How on earth did you fall for him?” she had laughed, shaking her head. “Derek was still wetting the bed at six! And in high school, he had a wet dream and panicked so hard he thought he was dying!” “You should’ve seen his face the first time I wore a sundress—his ears turned bright red! Haha!” She only stopped when Derek finally snapped at her to shut up. That was their dynamic. I met Derek’s gaze. “Do you have any idea what my inbox looks like right now?” “My brand sponsors are pulling out because of the fallout,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “They’re suing me for breach of brand protection clauses.” Derek shrugged, utterly unbothered by the financial ruin knocking at my door. He let out a short, dismissive sigh. “How much is it? Just send me the bill, I’ll wire you the money.” “Derek, this isn’t about money.” I closed my eyes, a heavy, suffocating pressure settling deep in my chest. When I opened them again, the room felt darker. Seeing my expression, Derek’s patience snapped. “Then what do you actually want from me?” he said, his voice rising in irritation. “Sadie finally has some momentum. If I come out and clear things up right now, her account is done for.” “I promise you, as soon as her follower count stabilizes, we’ll set the record straight.” I looked at him, the words catching in my throat like dry cotton. I couldn’t swallow them down, nor could I force them out. He was terrified of damaging Sadie’s trajectory. But it hadn’t even crossed his mind that I was being incinerated in the process. Especially after I had risked my platform to finally claim him. Before I could speak, Derek’s phone chimed with an incoming FaceTime call. He raised a hand, signaling for me to stop whatever I was about to say, and swiped to answer. Sadie’s vibrant voice echoed through the speaker. “Derek! Are you free right now? My followers are dying for a live stream, and I’m almost at your building!” Derek shot a quick glance in my direction. On the screen, Sadie lifted an eyebrow, her smile playfully sharp. “Oh, is the lady of the house there? It’s just a routine stream, I’m sure she won’t mind, right?” “She doesn’t mind,” Derek answered for me without hesitation. “You know the door code. Just come on up.” As he tapped the screen to end the call, I looked at him directly. “How does she know our door code?” Derek didn’t look up. “Last month she was too tired to drive back to her apartment, so she crashed here for the night.” He paused, as if remembering something, and added a quiet warning: “When Sadie gets here, don’t give her an attitude. It’ll ruin the vibe on camera.” I stared at him, feeling a strange, hollow silence wash over me. I had nothing left to say. 4 While Sadie set up her ring light in the living room downstairs, I stayed locked in the primary bedroom, pulling up her stream on a burner account. The viewer count was already soaring past a hundred thousand, climbing by the second. On screen, Sadie was curled casually into Derek’s side on our sectional sofa, happily eating a slice of the blueberry ice cream cake he had brought home. When a comment flashed across the screen asking if they were officially dating, Sadie nudged Derek with her elbow in an easy, practiced gesture. “The chat wants to know,” she cooed, leaning into him. “Are we real, or what?” It looked entirely natural. Sadie had always claimed that because they grew up together, physical touch was second nature to them. She had told me repeatedly not to read into it—that I should just view her as one of Derek’s male buddies. Derek reached out, his fingers trailing lazily through her hair before resting on her shoulder. “Of course we’re real,” he smiled gently into the camera. “No faking here.” When the words left his mouth, Sadie scooped a piece of cake onto her fork and held it up to his lips. Derek didn’t hesitate. He opened his mouth and ate it. A cold knot tightened in my stomach. Derek hated sweets. In seven years, whenever I brought home desserts and offered him a bite, he always refused with a look of distaste. Eventually, after I asked enough times, he grew annoyed, and I stopped asking altogether. It turned out he didn’t hate sweets after all. The chat was scrolling so fast it was a blur, but several comments stood out, calling my name. What’s the deal with Elena Hayes then? Is she delusional, or is she a homewrecker trying to slide in? Derek caught the comment. “Elena Hayes?” he mused aloud, his tone casual. “What’s her deal…?” My breathing hitched. I braced myself, waiting to hear what seven years of shared history, shared dinners, and shared dreams meant to him in this moment. He let out a quiet chuckle. “There’s no deal. I don’t even know her.” A high-pitched, incredulous laugh escaped my chest in the quiet of the bedroom. Seven years. Reduced to I don’t even know her. Lmao! She posted that photo claiming he was her secret man and that he didn’t even have social media. This girl is a pathological liar. When people had tried to locate Derek’s online digital footprint after my upload, I had defended his privacy, telling my audience he didn’t use social media apps. It had been the truth. But now, it was framed as proof of my fraud. Derek offered no correction. He simply let the lie hang in the air. Sadie, acting the part of the gracious host, waved a hand toward the camera with a playful smile. “Let’s keep the chat positive, guys. No need to give free publicity to outside noise.” Derek looked down at her with fond indulgence, smoothing down a stray lock of her hair. “Right. What do you want to talk about instead?” Sadie’s eyes lit up with mischief. “How about the story of how we ended up together?” “Sure,” Derek agreed softly. I exited the app and tossed the phone onto the bed. Outside the bedroom door, the muffled chatter from the live stream echoed faintly through the hallway. Two hours later, Derek knocked on the bedroom door. He didn’t ask for my input; he simply delivered an ultimatum. “It’s getting late. Sadie’s going to stay in the guest room tonight.” He had already made up his mind. Coming into the room was merely a formality. Sadie popped out from behind his shoulder, resting her chin lightly on his arm as she smiled at me. “Hope you don’t mind, Elena. If it really makes you uncomfortable, I can try to call an Uber home right now.” Derek frowned immediately, turning to her. “It’s past midnight. It’s not safe for a girl to travel alone at this hour.” Sadie shot me a pointed glance. “Well, safety doesn’t matter if I’m making your girlfriend uncomfortable. I should probably just leave.” “You’re not going anywhere,” Derek said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You’re sleeping here.” “Well, if Elena…” She let her sentence drift off into a delicate, helpless pause. Derek turned back to me, his voice sharp. “Elena, come on—” “Do whatever you want,” I interrupted, my tone flat. “I don’t care.” Derek let out a visible sign of relief. “See? I told you she wouldn’t care.” “Thanks so much, Elena,” Sadie said, her eyes gleaming. “Don’t worry, I honestly just look at Derek like a brother. Nothing weird is ever gonna happen.” I turned away without a word. 5 Derek walked back into the master bedroom a few minutes later, grabbing a fresh set of clothes before heading toward the bathroom. “Derek,” I called out softly. He stopped, turning his head. I had already contacted a local real estate agent earlier that evening. This condo—the home we had chosen together, the place meant to be our marital home—was no longer something I wanted to keep. The agent had completed a fast evaluation over the phone and sent through a rough appraisal. “If you’re looking for an immediate liquidation,” the agent had warned me, “we’ll need to set the listing price about ten percent below market value to catch cash buyers. Are you okay with that hit?” I hadn’t hesitated for a second. “List it tomorrow. Sell it as fast as possible.” After ending the call with the agent, I noticed Sadie had posted another video. I clicked on it. This time, the camera wasn’t focused on Sadie. It was focused entirely on Derek. “Look who’s making lunch today, guys~” Sadie’s voiceover cooed behind the lens. “Let’s see if Mr. Handsome can actually cook.” The camera panned over Derek’s profile as he chopped vegetables at our kitchen island, his focus entirely on the stove. Derek hated being filmed, and he hated cooking even more. In seven years, I had never dared to point a lens at his face while he worked around the house. When we were too busy to cook, we ordered takeout. That was our routine for nearly a decade. Yet here he was, playing the dutiful, domestic partner for four million newfound followers. I didn’t finish the video. I closed the app. I switched over to my professional brand manager account. The interface lagged for a moment under the sheer volume of incoming notifications. Even without opening the direct messages, I knew the contents: violent threats, demands for my cancellation, and detailed insults about my character. In just three days, my follower count had plummeted by over three million. Originally, this account had been created to document my relationship with Derek. But Derek had refused, claiming he didn’t want his private life exposed online. So, I adapted. I pivoted to travel, history, and cultural storytelling. I spent years wandering through historic districts, researching architecture, and crafting narrative scripts until I built an audience that loved the world through my eyes. Perhaps that was where our cracks had begun. He resented how often I traveled for shoots, complaining that I was never anchored at home. So I had decided to take a sabbatical at the peak of my career, to stay home, to make time for him, and to finally introduce him to the world. And his response had been to launch a fake romance with Sadie. My phone vibrated in my palm. It was a text from Derek. Elena, I’m flying to Savannah with Sadie for a week-long vlog shoot. I’ll bring you back a souvenir when I’m home. Before I could type a reply, a voice memo popped up beneath his text. It wasn’t Derek’s voice. It was Sadie’s. Her laugh was bright and airy through the speaker: “Don’t worry, Elena! I’ll make sure to keep a close eye on your man so no other women try to slide into his DMs.” “Though, since this is a couple’s travel series, the brand booked us a suite with a single king bed. Hope you aren’t the jealous type! You know how it is—we’re basically brothers.” A dry, bitter laugh escaped my throat. I left the message unread. A second later, Derek’s call came through. The moment I pressed answer, his sharp, impatient voice filled my ear. “Didn’t you see my text? Why aren’t you replying?” He didn’t ask if I was okay. He didn’t ask what I was doing. His very first instinct was an accusation. I opened my mouth to speak, but the loud overhead chime of an airport boarding call echoed clearly through his end of the line. He hadn’t texted to inform me; he had texted as an afterthought while walking down the jet bridge. “Look, Sadie and I are boarding for Savannah right now,” he said rapidly, his voice clipped. “I know what I’m doing. Don’t overthink it. I’ll get you something nice at the airport on the way back. Gotta go.” “Derek,” I said, my voice steadying. “Let’s break up—” Click. The line went dead before I could finish the sentence, replaced by the hollow rhythm of a busy tone. 6 Because the condo was priced significantly below market value, a buyer stepped forward almost immediately. It was a young married couple, eager to secure a home in the district but previously priced out by the market. My listing was a perfect match for their budget. Once the purchase agreement was signed and escrow opened, I began packing. Five years of living in that apartment meant five years of accumulated life. It took three full days of heavy lifting and sorting to clear every trace of my existence from the rooms. I moved into a modest, single-bedroom apartment downtown that I owned outright. During those three days, Derek didn’t call or text once. Instead, his presence was announced through Sadie’s feed, which featured a new video of them at a luxury boutique hotel in Savannah. On screen, they looked every bit the devoted, hopelessly-in-love couple. Their interactions were seamless, affectionate, and drenched in domestic intimacy. If I hadn’t been his girlfriend for seven years, I might have rooted for them too. On my final night at the old apartment, I rendered and uploaded a new video to my channel. When I woke up the following morning, I checked my notification tab out of habit. The comment section under my new upload was an absolute battlefield. Are you serious right now? First you try to claim another girl’s fiancé, and now you’re straight-up plagiarizing her content line for line? Have some self-respect. I used to respect your work so much, but this is pathetic. Go check Sadie’s latest upload. It’s word-for-word the exact same script. Plagiarism? Every single word of my travel scripts was researched, drafted, and refined by me alone over late nights at my desk. The idea that I would copy anyone—let alone Sadie—was absurd. I opened Sadie’s profile and played her latest video. My hands turned ice cold. Every sentence, every historical reference, every subtle nuance of the voiceover was an exact replica of the draft sitting in my cloud drive. Even the background music—a niche, instrumental track I had spent hours searching for—was identical. The only person who had ever seen that script was Derek. I remembered the night I wrote it. I had sat beside him on the couch, showing him two different audio tracks, asking for his opinion on which mood fit the voiceover better. He had passed my work directly to Sadie. A shudder ran through my chest as my blood ran cold. I dialed Derek’s number immediately. When he picked up, I fought to keep my voice from trembling. “Why did you give my script to Sadie?” “Do you have any idea how many nights I stayed up writing that?” There was a long beat of silence on his end before Derek finally spoke, his voice completely nonchalant. “Sadie was short on content for her Savannah brand deal, so I sent it over to her.” He spoke as if he had lent her a paperclip. “It’s just a script, Elena. What’s the big deal? Just write another one.” Just write another one. As if creative labor was as trivial as breathing out air. A breathless, tearful laugh burst from my chest. “Derek, do you have any idea what people are calling me online right now?” He went quiet again. He knew. “Look,” Derek sighed softly, his voice dropping into a pacifying register. “I’ll make it up to you when I get back to Seattle, okay?” “Just… delete your video for now, Elena. Don’t make a scene. It’s bad for your image, and it’s bad for Sadie’s launch.” He was still protecting her. Even now, his first instinct was to shield Sadie from the backlash of his own theft. “Right,” I whispered. I didn’t yell. I didn’t argue. I simply ended the call. Then, I pulled out my old laptop, unlocked my backup hard drives, and began organizing my files.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “541762”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 On the eve of the engagement gala, the world I had known for twenty-three years shattered. I was not a Beaumont. I was a “placeholder.” And now that the real biological daughter had been found, my adoptive parents gave me two choices. I could leave with nothing and rot in the slums I supposedly came from. Or, I could lower my pride and stay—as the secret mistress to the man who was supposed to be my husband. “Evelyn, be reasonable,” my adoptive mother, Eleanor, said, smoothing her Chanel suit. “You don’t have a drop of Beaumont blood in you. Bennett is being incredibly generous by letting you stay on as Vivian’s… companion once they’re married. It’s more than you deserve.” They all sat there, looking at me as if I were a charity case that had overstayed its welcome. I looked across the marble coffee table at Bennett Harrison—my fiancé, the man I had loved for seven years. “You want me to be the side piece?” I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm. Bennett wouldn’t look me in the eye. He pushed a thick legal folder toward me. “Evelyn, I still care for you. But you don’t have the status to be Mrs. Harrison anymore. Besides, you’ve lived Vivian’s life for two decades. You owe her this.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a persuasive silk. “If you sign, I’ll provide for you. You’ll have the penthouse, the black card, the jewelry. Everything but the name.” I wanted to laugh. I wanted to slap the smugness off his face and walk out into the rain. But then, my phone buzzed in my lap. It was a text from a restricted number in Hong Kong. My biological father—Arthur King, the titan of King Global. “My dearest daughter, if you refuse to come home and claim your inheritance one more time, I will personally short-sell every asset the Beaumonts and Harrisons own until they are living in a cardboard box. Come home. The empire is waiting.” I stared at the screen. A slow, cold smile spread across my face. “Fine,” I said, looking up. “I’ll sign.” The tension in the room snapped like a dry twig. Eleanor and my adoptive father, George, let out synchronized sighs of relief. Vivian, the “real” daughter sitting next to Bennett, tightened her grip on his arm. Her eyes flashed with a predatory triumph. “Evelyn, I know this is hard,” Vivian cooed, “but we’re sisters now. I’ll make sure you’re taken care of.” Bennett’s chest puffed out. He looked relieved that I had finally “seen reason.” “You’ll see, Evelyn. This is the best possible outcome for you.” I looked at him, truly looked at him, and felt a wave of nausea. This man was a relic, a small-minded coward wrapped in an Italian suit. But I couldn’t blow my cover yet. My real father needed a little time to dismantle their lives, and I wanted a front-row seat to the carnage. I lowered my head, forcing my eyes to well up with fake, shimmering tears. “Okay. I’ll do it. As long as I can be near you, Bennett, I’ll do anything.” A flicker of ego danced in Bennett’s eyes. He loved the idea of me pining for him. “However…” I tapped the contract. “No public outings, no children, no interference with the ‘official’ marriage, and a fifty-million-dollar penalty if I leave early? This reads like a prison sentence. What’s the compensation?” Bennett frowned. “You get the West Side apartment and a ten-thousand-dollar monthly stipend.” I crossed my legs and let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Ten grand? Bennett, don’t be insulting. Are you hiring a mistress or a dog walker?” I held up a finger. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it by corporate standards. I want a full executive benefits package. Tier-one health insurance and a 401k match. That’s the baseline.” They stared at me like I’d grown a second head. I didn’t care. I was just getting started. “One hundred thousand a month, tax-free. That doesn’t include the ‘gift’ budget for bags or jewelry. A four-day work week. Triple pay on federal holidays.” Vivian gasped, her voice shrill. “Evelyn, have you lost your mind? You’re a mistress, not a CEO!” I shrugged, looking perfectly innocent. “You’re the ones who insisted I stay. If Bennett can’t afford the market rate for a high-end mistress, he should probably stop trying to play ‘big spender.’ It’s embarrassing.” Bennett’s face turned a mottled shade of purple. George Beaumont slammed his fist on the table. “Don’t push your luck! Bennett is being kind. This isn’t an opportunity for you to extort his family.” I turned my cold gaze to George. “A moment ago, you were telling me to ‘know my place.’ Now I’m talking business, and you want to talk about feelings? You can’t have it both ways. Either I’m family, or I’m a vendor. Pick one.” Bennett stood up abruptly. “Fine! I’ll pay it!” “Bennett!” Vivian shrieked, clutching his sleeve. “You can’t give her that much!” Bennett shook her off, his ego bruised. “I want to see if you’re still this arrogant once you’re living on my dime, Evelyn.” That night, my things were moved from the master suite to a cramped, windowless maid’s room on the first floor. I shut the door, curled up under the thin duvet, and pulled out my phone. I sent a message to the restricted number. “Don’t bother waiting. Start the liquidation. Hit them hard.” The next morning at the hotel where the engagement gala was being held, the air was thick with the scent of lilies and desperation. Bennett was in the dressing room, fuming over his wardrobe. When he saw me, he tossed a silk tie at my head. “Evelyn, fix this. Vivian doesn’t even know I hate charcoal patterns.” I caught the tie—a deep forest green—and looped it around his neck. “Green for an engagement?” he muttered, looking in the mirror. “It’s perfect,” I whispered, tightening the knot. “It suits the atmosphere today. Very… envious.” He didn’t catch the barb. He just nodded, satisfied. The door swung open, and Vivian stood there, her eyes instantly welling with tears when she saw me touching his collar. “Evelyn? Why are you hiding in here with him? Today is our day…” Bennett stepped away from me immediately. “She was just helping with the suit, Viv. Don’t overthink it.” I held up my hands and backed away. “Relax, Mrs. Harrison. I have professional ethics. My relationship with your husband-to-be is strictly financial now. No feelings involved.” Bennett’s jaw tightened, but before he could snap back, his phone rang. It was his father. As he listened, the blood drained from his face. “What? A hostile short-attack? From who?” He grabbed his jacket and bolted from the room without a word to Vivian. I watched his retreating back and smiled. My biological father moved fast. The gala was supposed to start in thirty minutes, but the VIP lounge was suddenly a war room. The Harrison Group’s stock was plummeting—down seven percent in the first ten minutes of trading. The Beaumonts weren’t spared either. Credit lines were being pulled; property valuations were being challenged by anonymous auditors. Out on the ballroom floor, the engagement was a disaster. Bennett spent the entire ceremony on his phone, missing the ring exchange twice. When he finally stepped up to the champagne tower, his hands were shaking so badly he knocked it over. A cascade of expensive Moët drenched Vivian’s seven-figure custom gown. I sat at the very back table, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing into my cake. Vivian stood there, dripping and humiliated, forcing a smile for the cameras. “Bennett is just so busy with work,” she chirped. “I don’t mind at all.” The gala ended early. The two families huddled in a private suite, the air thick with panic. George Beaumont paced the floor. “We can stabilize the stock, but we need the thirty-million-dollar bridge loan by the end of the month or we’re underwater.” A knock at the door interrupted him. A courier handed George a note. He read it, his eyes widening. “Victor Rossi says he’ll renew our lines of credit… on one condition. He wants one of our daughters to join him for a private dinner tonight.” The room went deathly silent. Victor Rossi was a predator. He was a billionaire with a reputation for ‘collecting’ women. He had tried to drug me at a gala three years ago; I had responded by shattering a wine glass over his hand. Vivian started sobbing. “Dad, no! I’m your real daughter! I just got back! He’s a monster, I’m terrified…” George and Eleanor rushed to her side, cooing and comforting her. Then, as if choreographed, every head in the room turned toward me. Bennett was the first to speak. “Evelyn, you’ve lived the high life on the Beaumont dime for twenty years. You owe them. Go in Vivian’s place. It’s just a dinner. I’ll be downstairs waiting for you.” I felt a cold chill run down my spine. “You’re pimping out your mistress on day one, Bennett? That’s a new low, even for you.” Bennett stepped closer, his voice a low hiss. “Don’t be dramatic. If the Harrisons fall, your ‘stipend’ goes with us. You won’t have a cent.” George and Eleanor joined in. “Honey, Victor used to have a crush on you. It’s just a thirty-million-dollar dinner. Do this for the family that raised you.” Vivian grabbed my sleeve, her face a mask of fake grief. “Please, Evelyn? Just this once? I don’t want to lose everything just when I finally got home.” I looked at these people—these vultures who were ready to sell me to a known abuser to save their stock portfolios. “No,” I said. I turned to walk out, but Bennett grabbed my wrist, his grip bruising. “Rossi isn’t going to kill you. You go in there, you have dinner, and I’ll pick you up in thirty minutes.” I looked at his hand on my arm. Four years ago, this same hand had punched a man for even looking at me the wrong way. He had told me then that his fiancée would never have to compromise for anything. Now, he was sliding a hotel room key into my palm. The betrayal felt like a dull blade sawing at my heart. “You really believe he won’t touch me?” Bennett looked away. “The company can’t fail, Evelyn. Do this for us. For what we used to have.” Eleanor snatched my phone out of my other hand. It was buzzing with calls from Hong Kong. My father was likely losing his mind. If he knew they were sending me to Rossi, he wouldn’t just short their stock—he’d burn the city to the ground. Eleanor saw the screen, looked annoyed by the noise, and held down the power button until it went black. “The Beaumonts gave you twenty years of luxury,” she said coldly. “It’s time to pay the bill. Guards, take her up.” Two of the Harrison security team grabbed my arms. I fought, I kicked, but it was useless. Bennett stood there and watched. “Don’t hurt her,” he muttered, though he didn’t move an inch to help. The suite door clicked shut behind me. Victor Rossi was draped across a velvet sofa, a half-empty bottle of Bordeaux on the table. When he saw me, a slow, predatory grin spread across his face. “Well, if it isn’t the ice queen. Last time we met, you were throwing glass. Now, you’re being delivered to my door like a gift.” I walked over to the table and sat down. “The world turns, Victor. Last time you were just a creep. Now you’re a creep with a checkbook.” His smile faltered. “There’s thirty million dollars on the line. I’d watch your tone if I were you.” He pushed an empty glass toward me. “Pour.” I didn’t move. “Still playing the Beaumont princess?” he mocked. “Word is, Bennett dumped you for the real deal. How does it feel, Evelyn? From the future Mrs. Harrison to the family’s sacrificial lamb?” I gripped the table, my nails digging into the wood. Then, I reached for the bottle and filled his glass. Victor laughed, thinking he’d finally broken me. “That’s better. You keep me happy tonight, and maybe I’ll toss a few crumbs to your pathetic ‘family.’” He reached out to touch my face. I stared him in the eyes and picked up the heavy crystal glass. “I should have used a bottle last time,” I said. I smashed the glass over his head. Shards exploded. Victor screamed, clutching his forehead as blood began to seep through his fingers. The guards outside burst in instantly. One of them grabbed me by the hair and threw me against the coffee table. My vision blurred. My dress tore, and I felt the sting of glass cutting into my palms and the soles of my feet as I tried to scramble away. “Evelyn!” I stumbled out into the hallway, nearly falling into Bennett’s arms. For a split second, a pathetic spark of hope flickered in me—that he would see me bleeding and be the man he used to be. Instead, he shoved me aside and rushed to Rossi. “Victor! My god, I am so sorry. We can still talk about the financing—” The last of my hope died right there on the patterned carpet. Suddenly, the hallway was blinded by flashes. Reporters—dozens of them—had appeared out of nowhere, cameras clicking. They captured Rossi bleeding, Bennett groveling, and me, disheveled and bruised. The Beaumonts arrived a second later, their faces twisted in horror. Victor Rossi was shaking with rage. “I’m not lending you a cent, Harrison!” He pointed a shaking finger at me. “Unless… unless she gets on her knees in front of the press tomorrow and admits she tried to seduce me. If she takes the fall for this scandal, maybe I’ll think about the loan.” “Otherwise,” he spat, “you all go bankrupt together.” George Beaumont didn’t even hesitate. “She’ll do it.” To ensure I wouldn’t run, they locked me in a windowless guest room overnight. They didn’t give me a bandage. They didn’t give me water. They just left me there to listen to them planning the press conference through the door. I sat in the dark, my wounds throbbing. I wasn’t listening to them, though. I was counting the minutes. My biological father had a rule: I had to check in every twenty-four hours. If I missed a window, his high-level security protocol went into effect. I looked at the door and whispered to the silence, “He’s coming. And he’s going to destroy you all.” The door unlocked at 10:00 AM. Bennett walked in with a fresh dress and a typed statement. “Sign this. It says you were jealous of Vivian, you tried to seduce Victor to get back at us, and you attacked him when he rejected you.” Bennett knelt in front of me, looking exhausted. “Once this is over, I’ll send you to Europe. I’ll keep paying the stipend. You’ll be fine.” “Bennett,” I whispered. “Do you know what would have happened if I hadn’t hit him?” His lip trembled. “But you’re okay. Nothing… truly happened.” The room went cold. “I see. Vivian’s reputation is a diamond. Mine is just collateral.” Before he could answer, Eleanor burst in and slapped me across the face. “Enough! Just sign the paper! You’ve used our money for twenty years—the least you can do is take one for the team so Vivian doesn’t have to grow up in a trailer park!” She grabbed my hand, forcing it toward the paper. My palms were still raw, and fresh blood smeared the legal document. I was shaking from the pain, but she held my fingers down like a vise. The press conference started at 11:00 sharp. Vivian was sobbing for the cameras. “I thought Evelyn just wanted to be near Bennett because she loved him… I never dreamed she’d go after Mr. Rossi like this…” The ‘Mistress Contract’ was leaked to the big screens. The room erupted. In one night, I had gone from a tragic “false heiress” to a desperate social climber and a predator. Victor Rossi sat on the stage, a bandage on his head, pushing a cup of tea toward me. “Kneel. Apologize for your lies.” Bennett held the microphone to my lips, his eyes pleading. “Evelyn, just do it for the cameras. Do you want to see everyone ruined?” I looked at the lens. I looked at the people who had raised me and the man I had loved. I remained silent. George Beaumont signaled the guards. One of them kicked me hard in the back of my knees. My legs gave out, but I caught the edge of the podium, refusing to bow. “Evelyn!” George hissed. “We fed you for twenty years! Kneel!” I looked George in the eye. “I’m not a Beaumont. Why should I care if you starve? I’d rather buy fireworks to celebrate your bankruptcy.” Bennett looked at me with a mix of pity and resolve. “I’m sorry, Evelyn. We have to survive.” The guards moved in, their heavy hands slamming onto my shoulders, forcing me down. The pain in my feet flared as they pressed me into the floor. I looked for help in the crowd, but I only saw disgust. Just as my strength was failing, the heavy double doors of the ballroom were blown off their hinges. Dozens of men in black suits flooded the room. The lead security detail scanned the room and spoke into a lapel mic. “Sir, we’ve found the Princess.”

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