Category: English

When an A-list actor adjusted my microphone, he unconsciously kissed my hair. We both froze. Because this was a reality show about divorce. And we were from two different former couples. 01 After my divorce from Ethan Vance, everyone assumed I would cling to him. He had publicly announced our marriage at the peak of his career. After tying the knot, he successfully transitioned from a teen idol to a serious actor. When he finally won his first major award, people still brought me up. “What gives her the right? She’s so lucky.” I was the one who asked for the divorce. But it was what he had been waiting for all along. While he was playing house on set with Chloe Sterling, his co-star in his new drama—wearing his jackets, using his phone case… I was still at home, flipping through the calendar, waiting for him. Time and again, he hung up my calls, using work as an excuse. Until one day, I ran into Chloe in first class. She greeted me warmly, a bright smile on her face. “Did you know?” she whispered in my ear. “I bought this ticket using his credit card.” She did it on purpose. Trying to force me into a divorce. I gave her exactly what she wanted. I went home and packed my bags in half an hour. I don’t want something that someone else has already dirtied. Thank god we didn’t have kids. Ethan leaned against the doorframe, watching me. His reaction was flat. He only asked one question: “What else do you want?” “Your phone.” He paused for a second, but then handed it straight to me. During the years he loved me most—when I stayed by his side from D-list obscurity to A-list stardom—I was always his only pinned contact. Now, I had been replaced. I was relegated to “Do Not Disturb.” An uncontested divorce. He gave me everything he earned over those years, asking only that I let him go as quickly as possible. He told me he truly loved Chloe. After signing the non-disclosure agreement, I thought we would never speak again. Until he called me one last time. “Let’s meet up.” It was the first month after our divorce. “We can’t let my fans know I cheated. The new drama is about to air.” I arrived early. In the break room, I overheard Ethan’s manager trying to persuade him. “Even after a divorce, you’re still an A-list actor. And her? Just an absolute nobody waiting to be laughed at. “She’s definitely not over it. “Just trick her. Tell her you want to go on a divorce reality show with her. “Make her think there’s a chance to win you back, and she’ll do everything to please you. “Then, we’ll edit the show to make the audience find her annoying, and you can maintain your ‘devoted ex-husband’ persona.” The manager nudged him. “Are you even listening?” Ethan had his legs propped up on a low table, lazily playing a game on his phone. He gave a noncommittal “Yeah.” “Trust me, you crook your finger, and she’ll come running back like a dog, grateful for the attention.” In the meeting room. Ethan was playing with his phone with one hand. He only said a few words. And I agreed. “I’ll do the show.” He stared into my eyes, pausing for a moment. “Are you really… that desperate for me?” He was too confident, too easy to fool. I lowered my eyelashes. “Yes. “Ethan, is there still a chance for us?” His gaze turned cold. He looked away and said softly, “Depends on your behavior.” “But,” he added, “the script for this show isn’t what you think.” This divorce reality show. It was scheduled to air while his new drama with Chloe was broadcasting. To drum up publicity for their on-screen romance. The theme of the show was “Seeing Marital Problems by Changing Lifestyles.” Chloe would be sharing a room with him. And I would be sharing a room with Chloe’s ex-husband. That guy, Carter Hayes, who skyrocketed to fame at nineteen with a single drama, won a grand slam of awards, and then abruptly retired to get married. Ethan was just the guy who picked up the scraps Carter left behind. He became famous because his face looked seventy percent like Carter’s. Rumor had it that Chloe and Carter lived apart after getting married. That she loved him, but couldn’t have him. 02 A hot spring resort. Two rooms, separated by a single wall. The show was broadcast live. There was an observation room on set and live comments from the audience online. [Ethan Vance and Chloe Sterling on a divorce show, sharing a room? They’re playing hard!!!] [Their chemistry is insane! So perfect together.] [Told you Ethan and his wife had no feelings left. No one likes the one holding them back.] [I’ve been waiting for them to divorce for so long!] [Was he blind? He loved her so much back then…] The staff strapped heart rate monitors on Ethan and Chloe. “If your heart rate reaches 70, you can leave the room.” [They’ll break that in seconds, right?] To everyone’s surprise, both of their heart rates stalled at 68. They had done everything together off-camera. They were too familiar with each other, afraid of slipping up and showing it. So they ended up acting overly cautious on the show. [Chloe is so polite, she doesn’t even dare get too close.] [Ethan, stop holding back! We support you!] Chloe sat by the door. Ethan stood on the balcony for some fresh air. From a certain angle, he could see into my room. Carter hadn’t arrived yet. I was sitting alone on the edge of the bed, wearing my heart rate monitor. Someone knocked on the door. It was a tall, slender man. A baseball cap hid half his face, and his damp bangs were dusted with mist from the hot springs. It was drizzling outside. He carried the crisp, cold scent of a foggy midnight. [MY FIRST LOVE IS BACK!!!] [How should I put this, Ethan… comparison is the thief of joy.] [Let’s not pit them against each other.] “You have to put this on.” I handed the other heart rate monitor to Carter. Ethan always hated it when people said he looked like Carter. In our first year of marriage, we were taking a walk on the street late at night. I froze, staring at a massive luxury billboard featuring Carter. Ethan pulled a beanie over my head, blocking my view, and muttered sourly: “I knew you liked this type of face.” And now. In the other room, Ethan was on the balcony. Watching clearly. Watching Carter walk into the room and close the door behind him. Putting on the monitor. Ethan didn’t care. He had known since that night that the man he could never catch up to, the man he was insanely jealous of—Carter—was only married to Chloe out of a contractual obligation. Carter didn’t even like Chloe. Naturally, it was even more impossible for him to like someone as incredibly ordinary and divorced as me, someone Ethan himself looked down on. Ethan scoffed lightly, completely unbothered. Yet, he scrutinized my reaction without missing a single detail. “Hello, I’m Audrey Miller.” My heart rate was resting at 50 as I held out my hand to Carter. “Hello, I’m Carter Hayes.” He took my hand. A few seconds later, a sharp, piercing beep came from the monitor. Carter’s heart rate had skyrocketed, breaking the limit. But the man himself was calmer than anyone else. He said, “The monitor is broken.” I said, “Oh.” 03 They changed the monitor, and sure enough, it was normal. After a few cooperative games, Ethan and Chloe’s heart rates surpassed 70, and they left their room early. But on my end. Carter’s heart rate remained stubbornly stuck at 25. Pathetically low. “If it never goes over,” I asked the staff, “do we have to spend the night in the room?” Carter heard that. His shoulders were broad, his back straight. He was wearing a thin black hoodie, his gaze empty and distant. The staff replied, “It counts as a failed mission. You can come out in an hour.” Carter and I were the last to come out. [That was such a fail.] [Zero chemistry between those two.] [Take her away, can we please not show her? I only want to watch Chloe and Ethan.] The live comments were dismal until the broadcast ended. Post-interviews were held in the various rooms. Cameramen, lighting crew, people everywhere. Ethan stood in a corner, watching Chloe getting interviewed, his gaze accidentally sweeping over me. “Excited?” He asked me out of nowhere. “Did you think for even a second that Carter might actually be interested in you?” I ignored him and tried to leave. But he blocked me. “What to do, Audrey,” he put his hands in his pockets and tilted his head to look at me. “I’m starting to feel that divorcing you was the best decision I ever made.” Someone walked past, and Ethan straightened up. Back to his gentle, affectionate, yet broken persona. As if I was the one who had hurt him the most. After Chloe finished her interview, she walked up to me under everyone’s gaze and grabbed my hand. “Audrey,” she had a worn red string tied around her wrist, “you really need to cherish Ethan. He truly loves you.” That red string. I had seen it before. For our anniversary last year, Ethan was tailed by a stalker fan and got into a minor car accident. He was fine. I dragged him up a mountain to pray at a temple, closing my eyes and filling my heart with prayers for his safety. When I opened my eyes, I saw him buying that red string. I thought he was going to give it to me. But he said he bought it for himself, to put my mind at ease. And now, it was on Chloe’s wrist. “Stop being unreasonable,” Chloe was still talking for the cameras. “I want you two to be happy more than anyone.” I didn’t say a single word. Ethan didn’t know. And Chloe didn’t know either. Actually, there was another, hidden reason I agreed to participate in this show, a reason I couldn’t tell anyone. When I closed my eyes that day at the temple, it wasn’t Ethan in my heart. 04 The reality show was filmed on weekends. The concept was “Weekend Spouses.” During the weekdays. I picked up my old career, wanting to return to my previous entertainment agency as a talent manager. “Carter and Chloe are divorced.” My former boss told me. “He signed a ten-year contract with Chloe’s dad’s company, and now he can finally terminate it. “He’s restructuring his studio, and I recommended you to him.” Following the address he gave me, I saw Carter at a photo studio. His profile was backlit, his features sharp and rebellious. It was indeed a face made for the silver screen. He was even harder to approach than I imagined. I waited outside for a long time. Until his assistant ran out and told me. “I’m sorry, Ms. Miller. We probably can’t meet today.” On the way back, my car broke down. At 11 PM, in the middle of nowhere, and it was raining. I held an umbrella, waiting for the tow truck. Watching the cars drive past from afar, like phantoms moving through the night. Not a single one was coming to pick me up. Headlights flashed in front of me. The window of a black SUV rolled down, and Carter’s assistant said to me: “Ms. Miller, get in the car first.” Carter sat in the very back, a baseball cap pulled over his eyes, fast asleep. His breathing was shallow, his long legs slightly bent. The space was a bit cramped for him. There was a lot of clutter in the car, and two suit jackets were hanging by the window. A crisp scent of pine. The smell of his hand when he shook mine that day. “Ms. Miller, I’m going to buy a bottle of water at the gas station up ahead. Do you want anything?” the assistant asked me quietly. “Just call me Audrey. I’ll go with you.” “Ah,” he waved his hand and got out of the car. “I’ll go. I’ll be right back.” The door closed, leaving only Carter and me in the car. No one else. And no cameras. The headlights flickered slightly; the interior of the car was dim. Even though there was a row of seats between us, his breathing felt as close as if it were right in my ear. I stared out the window at the blue glow of a convenience store not far away, where the assistant was wandering near a shelf. I remembered once, while grocery shopping, I saw a billboard with Chloe on it. “She’s so pretty.” I said to Ethan back then. His reaction was flat. “She’s alright.” I didn’t know. That “alright” was the reason he stopped coming home, time and time again. Later, I found out from others that Chloe was his first love. They broke up when he couldn’t catch a break in his career. He never forgot her. But back then, in the grocery store, he smoothly changed the subject and asked me: “Baby, did you ever date anyone before me?” “No.” At least, that’s what I told him, and what I told the world. In the car, someone was kicking my calf. The long leg stretching from the back seat wasn’t an accident. It was deliberate, mischievous, childish, and rhythmic. I pulled my leg back out of his reach. I didn’t speak, nor did I turn around. I maintained my previous posture, as if nothing had happened. “Audrey Miller.” He spoke up, perhaps just waking up, carrying a trace of reckless, youthful energy: “Long time no see.” It had been so many years. Why did he still like calling my full name like that? Just like in that cramped, hot, and humid rented apartment… Drowning again and again… In his gentle yet unrestrained, uncontrolled hands. 05 After that day, Carter and I had no further contact. Until the new weekend arrived. The live broadcasts for the show operated on a rotation system. This weekend, we were supposed to switch back to our original couples. “Director.” Chloe sounded incredibly understanding, looking like she was thinking only of the show. “The audience loves Ethan and me together. If you switch us back now, you’ll get backlash.” The director thought for a few seconds: “But—” “Ethan,” Chloe turned around, “what do you think?” Right in front of me, she asked Ethan: “Who do you choose tonight?” She had been waiting for this moment for a long time. The more something is kept in the dark, the more it craves to be chosen in front of everyone. Ethan understood her intentions. He deliberately let his gaze sweep over my face, then leaned back in his chair. “Is that even a choice? “The audience doesn’t want to see her.” Chloe got the answer she wanted and looked at me again. “Audrey, you won’t mind, will you? “But, you’ve been a housewife for so long, you don’t have much work experience, so you probably don’t know this… the audience’s preference is the most important thing. You should think of the bigger picture…” “Okay.” My tone was crisp. Hearing this, Ethan looked up at me. They all thought I was going to throw a fit. That way, they could edit my reaction into the bonus episodes to highlight Chloe’s thoughtfulness and understanding. They didn’t expect me to be so agreeable. Chloe, having finally memorized her lines for the morning, had nowhere to use them. After a long pause, she managed to squeeze out: “That’s good. No backing out now.” I said: “Let’s keep it like this from now on.” Her smile stiffened. Then, breaking into a smile, she tucked her hair behind her ear and whispered: “Are you trying to make Ethan jealous? “Who doesn’t know you came on this show to win him back? “What a shame, not only is he not jealous, but you can only watch helplessly as he walks into my room.” Over there, the production team called out. They decided to stick with last week’s setup. Before leaving, Ethan asked Chloe a question with a teasing undertone: “Aren’t you afraid of her being in the same room as Carter?” At the mention of that name, Chloe’s reaction was a bit exaggerated. She acted as if she had heard the funniest joke in the world. “I’ve never seen him like anyone. “Her? “You could lock them together for a year, and he still wouldn’t look twice at her.” The two exchanged glances and shared a knowing smile. Ethan purposely took off his coat and draped it over Chloe right in front of me. “Audrey, if you want to win me back, these little tricks aren’t going to cut it.” He wanted to provoke me. Make me break down and go crazy in public, so he could logically play the victim. Ethan and Chloe were taken to a luxurious mansion. That was the reward for the couple with the highest heart rate from last week. Chloe posted a picture of a candlelit dinner on Instagram. The comments were flooded with people shipping them. I saw all of this on my phone while riding in the production team’s van. The van was heading toward the older part of the city. [If their heart rates don’t go up today, they’ll be eliminated, right?] [They wouldn’t eliminate Carter. He’s too big of a star. They’ll probably just swap his partner.] [This is boring. Why would Carter even agree to a show like this?] [The weirder it gets, the more I ship it. I have a feeling something is going to happen.] [The person above is delusional!!! If something actually happens, I’ll do a handstand and eat shit!!!] I put my phone away and asked the staff: “Where are Carter and I staying tonight?” “Your heart rates were the lowest, so you have to accept the punishment. Tonight you’re staying in…” The van stopped. He lifted his chin, pointing at the old residential building in front of me. “There,” he said. “A cheap rental apartment.” We got out. There was only one camera inside the vehicle filming me. It was far away, only capturing my back. It couldn’t pick up audio. I stood at the door. My mind went blank for a few seconds. I took out my phone and called my former boss, who also happened to be my long-suffering best friend. “Carter said ‘long time no see’ to me.” Right now, I desperately needed her to pour a bucket of cold water on me. “So what? “What else is he supposed to say besides that?” My best friend responded exactly as I expected. “To put it bluntly, everyone has an ex. “He has so many options, why would he choose a divorced woman like you? “Just because of the few months you relied on each other? Be honest, that was the absolute lowest point of his life. Who would be nostalgic for that?” She was right. I hung up the phone. I turned the doorknob. Carter was on a ladder, fixing a ceiling light. As he reached up, his movements casually revealed the flex of his lean muscles and smooth lines. Just like back then. Except now he wore a bandage wrapped around his waist from doing wirework on a movie set. The old tungsten bulb flickered in his hands. Going out, then coming back on. It was too familiar. So much so that I stood in the doorway, unable to step inside for a long time. “Time to eat.” He saw me. Simple words, devoid of extra emotion. It made my unease seem exceptionally strange. I was the one overthinking it. To him, this show was probably just a safe PR move to wrap up his marriage. Outside, it was snowing. Tall, with sharp features, he stood by the counter preparing a hot pot with one hand. He radiated a very domestic, “husband material” vibe. I took a picture of his back and posted it on Instagram. Considered it fulfilling the production team’s task. After we ate, he didn’t let me wash the dishes. He moved swiftly, washed his hands, and then, inexplicably and automatically, started making the bed for me. There was only one bed. He said he would sleep on the floor. “The injury on your waist, do you need to change the bandages?” I asked him. “I can do it myself,” he said. When I finished my shower and came out of the bathroom, a thin quilt was already laid out on the floor. He was pulling a long roll of bandages out of his suitcase. I instinctively looked away and picked up my phone. Ethan had sent me a voice message. My hands were wet, and I accidentally played it on speaker. Ethan had seen my Instagram post. “Are you even used to eating hot pot? “Last time at home, you said you wanted a cake from that one bakery. I bought it for you on my way.” That cake was the one I said I wanted for my birthday last year. He never bought it for me. After waiting all this time, him buying it now was only to solidify his “devoted” persona for the show. I looked at my phone. The overhead light was blocked by Carter. “Can you help me?” In his hands was the roll of bandages. Didn’t he just say he could do it himself? Changing the dressing, wrapping the bandage. My arms weren’t long enough; I had to loosely encircle him with both arms. In this rental apartment in the north. The heating was inadequate, and the smell of snow mixed with rain seeped through the cracks of the old building. It was clearly very cold. But he and I maintained our distance. My fingertips only touched the bandage. His face could only turn to look elsewhere. Unlike that year, in that rental apartment in the south. Stiflingly hot and dark. It was clearly very hot. Yet, time and time again, as if there were no tomorrow, we possessively claimed each other. Click. The tungsten light flickered on. He and I stood beneath the light at this moment. In the year we were so poor and destitute we had no hope, we couldn’t even bear to replace a single lightbulb. We just made do. That old tungsten bulb was repaired over and over again. It would always flicker in the middle of the night. At the time, an eighteen-year-old Carter told me: “Every time it flickers, it means I’m thinking of you.” Tonight. At an age where we lacked for nothing. The tungsten light flickered countless times. I looked up and said to Carter, “Did you not fix it properly just now?” He froze, looking down straight into my eyes. “Yeah. “I did it on purpose.” I asked him, “Why?” “If I fixed it, you wouldn’t hear it flicker.” I was stunned. He took the bandage from my hand and swiftly, expertly wrapped it around himself with his other hand. “Audrey Miller.” He called my name. “Hmm?” “Do you prefer hot pot, or cake?” One must always answer questions about food honestly. “Hot pot.”

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My fiancé chased his kept canary all the way to New York. Coincidentally, I was in New York, too. The young girl dropped to her knees in front of me, crying a river of tears. She told me that true love is the only truth. Truth? What a coincidence. I happened to have a few pieces of “truth” right in my hands. 01 My fiancé back in the States made a fool of himself again. To chase down his runaway canary, he locked down an entire private airport. It was a small airfield, and it was late at night. The Vance family’s PR team quickly squashed any media leaks before they could spread. Unfortunately for him, he was still too late. The canary flew to New York one step ahead of him. I originally couldn’t have cared less. Cleaning up his mistresses was Preston Vance’s own problem. But when a stunningly beautiful Asian girl dropped to her knees in front of me, crying a river of picture-perfect tears, it naturally drew the stares of passersby. I stood at the top of the steps, frowning as I looked her up and down: “What was your name again? ‘Miss Innocent’ or something?” The girl froze, her tears hesitating on her lashes. She offered a stiff rebuttal: “It’s Aria.” I had a vague impression of this mistress who had been with Preston the longest. But that didn’t mean she was worth remembering. Over the years, I knew Preston constantly surrounded himself with women because he resented our arranged engagement. But causing a scene right to my face. She was the first. My expression gradually shifted to impatience: “What do you want from me?” She really was a professional actress. The paused tears immediately started flowing again, dropping like broken strings of pearls. “Ms. Sterling, Preston loves me. Please, I’m begging you, let him go. Stop clinging to him.” I raised an eyebrow. Clinging? I let out a cold laugh, looking down at her: “Ms. Montgomery, is that something a homewrecker should really be saying out loud?” “Preston and I knew each other long before you came along! You’re the real third wheel here!” Her face twisted in sudden anger, and she lunged up the steps, trying to grab me. My bodyguards, naturally quick on their feet, intercepted her immediately. In the chaos, she twisted her ankle and tumbled down the concrete steps. Gasps erupted from the crowd. In the surging sea of people, I could see the flashes of paparazzi cameras hiding in the shadows. The company I held a controlling stake in was about to go public on the US stock market, and I couldn’t afford any scandals right now. I scanned the area, and right on cue, I saw Preston wearing a black trench coat, shoving his way through the crowd. He had lost all of his usual aristocratic composure. His dark eyes were filled with panic and heartache. He took off his coat and draped it over Aria’s exposed long legs. Then he pinched her chin, and kissed her fiercely. His eyes were burning with an intense, undeniable possessiveness. The man’s voice was hoarse and restrained: “Run again, and I’ll break your legs.” Aria tilted her chin up stubbornly: “If I can’t have all of you, I’d rather die.” After their intense public display, they turned to look at me in perfect unison. Preston’s dark eyes were furious: “Serena Sterling, didn’t I warn you not to mess with Aria? “You actually dared to push her. Who gave you the nerve?” My eyebrow twitched violently. Who was messing with who here? With her backer present, Aria looked triumphant: “Sister, you’re a bit older, so maybe you don’t understand. In today’s society, the woman who isn’t loved is the real mistress. “True love is the only truth.” Her tone was incredibly provocative. What a perfect, dramatic scene straight out of a billionaire romance novel. The glass windows nearby reflected my face. With my long, straight black hair and cold, indifferent expression, I really did look like the evil second female lead trying to tear the star-crossed lovers apart. Beautiful, rich, and completely wicked. But I wasn’t an idiot. And real life wasn’t a movie. I smiled at her: “Truth? “What a coincidence. I happen to hold a few pieces of ‘truth’ right in my hands.” The sharp, metallic clicks of guns cocking echoed from behind me. I ground my teeth. How dare they threaten me on American soil? Did these two morons forget that it’s perfectly legal to carry firearms here? Aria shrank into Preston’s arms like a terrified rabbit, looking pathetic. But no matter how tough Preston liked to talk, he wasn’t going to argue with a bullet. “Preston, when you said you wanted to play around, I let it slide. But if you try to put your dirty laundry on the table, don’t blame me for flipping the table over.” I narrowed my eyes at him, my tone utterly merciless. He had been preparing to scoop Aria up and leave. Hearing my words, he let out a cold scoff: “Serena, do you honestly still think you’re the untouchable sole heiress of the Sterling family? “Stop hiding out overseas and daydreaming. Next time we meet, you might have already been kicked off the board.” The fact that the Sterling family had an illegitimate son was no longer a secret. It was currently the biggest gossip back in Chicago high society, and had even made the front page of the local financial journals. Preston left under the escort of his own bodyguards. My assistant stood by my side, her expression grim: “Ms. Sterling, the domestic headquarters just suspended all joint projects with us.” I squinted into the distance: “Prepare to fly back to the States.” Preston, did you really think that bastard could beat me? You backed the wrong side. 02 The Sterling and Vance families practically built their empires on the same boat decades ago. The Sterlings spent decades in heavy manufacturing. The Vances rode the wave of the economic boom. One manufactured, one exported. Together, they carved out an empire. But later, the Sterling family transitioned from factories to a massive corporate conglomerate, developing its own global brands. Our reliance on the Vance family grew smaller and smaller. But my engagement to Preston was settled by my grandmother’s generation. The old lady was born in the post-war era. She was iron-willed, decisive, and had a thunderous personality. In her youth, she was a legendary female entrepreneur and the absolute authority of the Sterling family. Beatrice Sterling’s word was the absolute law in the Sterling family. Even after her death, no one dared to disobey her. Beatrice was steadfast her entire life, changing her own decision only once when I was eight years old. She changed the name of the company from Sterling Global to Serena Global. That day, she was as strict as ever, staring at me with her eagle-like eyes. She said seriously, word by word: “Serena, remember this. From now on, the ‘Serena’ in Serena Global is your name. “You must ensure that this empire always belongs to the Sterlings.” Upon returning to the States, I went straight home. The mansion felt a bit emptier than it had when I left the country two years ago. My mother sat elegantly on the sofa, wearing gold-rimmed glasses, reading the newspaper. I poured myself a cup of tea and asked casually: “Did you clean everything out?” “Yes. The trash man and his trash belongings have all been thrown out.” I frowned: “You didn’t let him take half the assets, did you?” My mother looked up at me. “Do you think your mother signed a prenup for nothing?” Then she let out a long sigh: “Ah, back then I was so resentful. But now it proves your grandmother was an excellent judge of character. You are much more steady than I am.” I smiled helplessly: “Did you hit them?” My mother’s expression was somewhat proud: “Robert Cole, that little homewrecker, and their bastard son. I slapped all three of them.” I gave her a thumbs-up. “Next Wednesday is the Sinclair family’s golden anniversary gala. Go in my place.” She suddenly turned dead serious: “We absolutely cannot lose that partnership with the Sinclairs.” I swirled the tea in my cup, speaking lazily: “Of course.” 03 The Sinclairs were an incredibly deep-rooted family in Chicago. The elder Sinclairs were generous, low-key, and had vast connections. So it wasn’t surprising to see Preston at the golden anniversary gala. And standing right beside him was Aria. The radiant woman looked over at me, raising her red wine glass from afar and shooting me a provocative smile. I could barely make out her mouthed words: “I’m the winner, loser.” I was slightly displeased. After all, the Vance family and I hadn’t formally broken off the engagement yet. Preston blatantly bringing his mistress to a major high-society gala was a direct slap to my face. People around us were already waiting to see me become a laughingstock. Harper Sinclair appeared beside me, flashing a triumphant grin: “How is it, babe? I personally invited Aria here.” I pinched her cheek: “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” “How could I bear to kill you? I’m obviously giving you a chance to vent.” She blinked her cunning eyes: “Do you know why Aria is acting so arrogant right now?” I replied calmly: “It’s nothing more than her thinking she’s secured her spot on the Vance family ship, and the Vances are backing my dad’s illegitimate son.” Robert Cole had put on a brilliant act all these years. My mother’s health had always been poor. For years, he was the one managing the corporate affairs. Not only did he hide an illegitimate son older than me from everyone, but he also made the outside world believe he held the real power in Serena Global, even quietly placing his bastard son in the Vice President seat of a subsidiary. Preston was currently chatting happily with that illegitimate son, Jackson Cole. The people around them were subtly trying to suck up and join their circle. In contrast, my side was empty. No one dared to approach me. I had only been out of the country for two years, and these people had already forgotten who owned the Sterling name. Harper’s face suddenly turned cold: “Today, I’m going to show these people who really deserves to sit at the table.” She set down her wine glass and walked toward the center of the banquet with a bright smile: “Tonight, I specially invited Ms. Aria Montgomery to celebrate my grandparents’ golden anniversary. I heard that before Ms. Montgomery got into acting, she graduated from Juilliard. Why don’t you grace us with a dance?” Aria’s face instantly froze. Asking a guest to perform for the room was tantamount to public humiliation. Harper asked coldly: “What’s wrong? Is Ms. Montgomery unwilling? Or do you think our Sinclair family isn’t worthy?” The elder Sinclairs looked over as well. This caused Preston, who was about to step in, to halt his movements. Gritting her teeth, Aria performed a short routine. Because she hadn’t practiced in so long, she nearly tripped and fell several times in the middle of it. Harper walked up and patted her shoulder: “Asking you to dance was doing you a favor. Too bad your skills are so awful it ruined the mood.” Aria’s eyes turned red with anger, and she ran out crying. As she passed me, she didn’t forget to drop a harsh threat: “Serena Sterling, I’m not going to let you get away with this. Your days of being happy are numbered.” And from beginning to end, I didn’t even grant her a single direct glance. Harper returned to my side, fishing for credit: “How was that? Satisfying?” I nodded honestly. “So… about that European market expansion project?” Her eyes sparkled. I smiled fondly: “It was always yours. But are you sure you can keep your brother in check?” “Relax. You’ve been abroad for two years, do you think I was just sitting around? When Grandpa called Mason home to handle this project, that idiot was probably still panting in some random woman’s bed. He made Grandpa so mad he almost ended up in the hospital, which let me swoop in and steal the deal. “If Mason is useless, the Sinclairs will naturally have someone else step up for him.” The woman’s face was painted with inevitable ambition. I looked across the room at Preston, who was clinking glasses with Mason while absentmindedly glancing toward the exit, and I let out a mocking laugh. My fiancé… your taste is consistently terrible. 04 Shortly after the banquet ended, a video of a drunk Preston kissing Aria was sent to my phone. The exclusive private VIP lounge was mostly empty. They were surrounded by just a handful of Preston’s rich, trust-fund frat brothers. The lighting was dim and hazy. Aria’s eyes were still slightly red, making the seductive look in her eyes even more pitiful. “Preston, who do you really like? Serena or me?” Preston lay back on the black leather sofa, his collar undone, his arm wrapped around the woman’s slender waist as he narrowed his eyes: “Who the hell is Serena Sterling? Does she even deserve to be compared to you?” With that, they started making out as if no one else was in the room. Was this a direct warning right to my face? Who gave these trust-fund idiots the nerve? My gaze landed on the table in front of Preston. Printed on it was a logo I was intimately familiar with. I made a phone call: “Kill the main breaker for the entire lounge. And lock the doors.” The manager on the other end answered nervously: “Ms. Sterling, there are still VIPs inside. Mr. Vance is still here.” “If he wasn’t there, why would I tell you to cut the power?” The manager shut his mouth. “If he dares to come smash up the place tomorrow, call the police immediately, and contact the corporate legal department.” I heard that Preston and his little mistress spent the entire night playing a real-life “escape room.” When he finally saw the lounge’s logo and realized what had happened, he was so furious he kicked the doors several times. Preston hated me even more after that. He called me the very next day to drop a threat: “Serena Sterling, you just wait. The entire Sterling family is going to pay the price for your stupidity.” 05 Speaking of which, Preston and I did try legitimately dating for two months. On the day of our engagement, he was so happy he almost forgot himself. Even every time he saw me, there was a bit more tenderness in his eyes. Of course, it wasn’t because he loved me so much. But because he felt like he had finally won once. Preston and I were born in the same year. When we were born, the Sterling and Vance families were still in their honeymoon phase. But as the sole son and daughter of both families, we inevitably got compared. From who walked first, to who talked first, to our grades, and extracurriculars, both families were secretly competing. And I completely crushed him every time. I was even better at throwing a punch than he was. But Preston’s parents had a surprisingly great attitude about it. Every time they saw me, they still liked me very much. Until one time in the courtyard, when no one else was around. Mrs. Vance held my hand, smiling warmly: “My future daughter-in-law is so capable. You’ll definitely be able to help Preston run the company well in the future.” After she said that, she let out a faux-sympathetic sigh: “It’s just a pity your mother’s health was poor since childhood. She had a girl and couldn’t have any more.” It was only then that I realized that the Vance family’s ultimate trump card was simply the fact that their family heir had male anatomy. This was a concept my brain, born into the Sterling family, couldn’t comprehend. After all, my mother had aborted two male fetuses just for my sake. When Preston grew up, he naturally inherited his parents’ ideology. He wanted a bird in a cage, a submissive housewife. He believed that in a marriage, a wife was naturally supposed to submit. So he was happy to marry me. He could only win in marriage, and he only needed to win in marriage. Unfortunately, by the second month after our engagement, he couldn’t control himself. At a yacht party, he was kissing a girl on each arm. I only used one slap to make him see reality clearly. Then I had someone throw him into the ocean. I remember that day was Christmas. The seawater was freezing, the winter night bitterly cold. He was in the hospital for a full week. Preston’s parents came to our door to cause a scene. My mother refused to even see them. She only asked me one sentence: “As long as you want, the engagement can be canceled at any time.” I laughed lightly and comforted her: “As long as I want, I have ten thousand ways to make them actively cancel the engagement. “But not right now.” The Vance family was no longer suitable as an ally, but their foundation was still there. “But don’t worry, Mom. This kind of man is not entering the Sterling family’s door.” And since then, Preston completely hated me. Now that the conflict had intensified again, I figured it was time for the Vance family to make their move. 06 The public opinion attacks against Serena Global came faster than I imagined. Firing the first shot was the video of me pushing Aria down the steps in New York. Aria was a rising star; she had plenty of fans willing to charge the front lines for her. In less than a day, it pushed me to the top trending spots on all major social media platforms. Under every related video, there were long essays detailing the epic romance between the billionaire heir and the beautiful starlet, from childhood sweethearts to star-crossed lovers. The so-called “childhood sweethearts” was nothing more than Aria’s childhood dance troupe performing at the Vance estate. A blurry video where you couldn’t even clearly see eyes, noses, or mouths was dug up as “proof,” paired with emotional background music, making it look almost real. As for the descriptions of me, they claimed I was morally bankrupt. Soon, the news of my US-controlled company preparing to go public was also pushed into the spotlight. Financial media and bloggers intentionally or unintentionally hinted that the Sterling family was suspected of transferring assets offshore. The Sterling family was branded as unpatriotic. The stock plummeted for three days. I scrolled through the vicious comments on a stock trading app, calmly sipping my tea. At the other end of the table, the wealthy wives sat close together, occasionally covering their mouths to laugh at something Aria said to amuse them. This was a gathering hosted by Mrs. Davis. I never liked these types of gatherings that revolved around cheating husbands, kids studying abroad, comparing whose husband came home for dinner more often, and who had hidden more secret funds. But my mother wasn’t feeling well, so I could only take her place. One wife, egged on by the others, came over with malicious intent: “Oh, Serena, I heard the Sterling family stock dropped quite a bit. If you’re short on funds, don’t hide it in your heart. Tell us, maybe everyone can help you think of a solution.” I set down my teacup and smiled faintly: “It’s true that the Sterling family stock market evaporated tens of billions these past few days. I just wonder if Mrs. Davis’s secret slush fund is enough to cover it?” Mrs. Davis’s face was completely embarrassed. The other wives, who didn’t know much about the stock market, were all startled. Another woman spoke up: “Is your Sterling family going to go bankrupt? What about my husband’s contract with you guys?” “Mrs. King, please relax. Your husband was just doing a three-way battle at a hotel recently. He’s not worried, so you shouldn’t be either.” Mrs. King’s face turned black as well: “Young girls nowadays are just so sharp-tongued and impulsive. Not like my son studying in the US. He’s mature and steady, just waiting to graduate from Harvard and come back to take over the family business.” I spun the teacup, speaking with a faint smile: “Your son is indeed a handsome young man. And his boyfriend is quite dashing as well. The last time I saw them in New York, I was kind enough to remind them that HIV is still quite serious in the States.” Mrs. Wright clutched her heart and frantically started dialing her phone. Aria let out a cold laugh: “What’s the use of only being good with your mouth? You’re offending so many powerful wives. Are you complaining that the Sterling family isn’t dying fast enough? “Serena Sterling, Preston is mine now, and the Sterling family is finished. I really want to see what you’ll use to prop up your stupidity and arrogance when you lose everything you used to rely on.” Preston walked into the courtyard wearing a black coat. He lovingly took Aria’s outstretched hand and put it into his pocket. He completely ignored my existence as his fiancée. Was it just because of catching him cheating a few years ago and slapping him a few times? He was holding a grudge for this long? I thought to myself, completely unbothered. While keeping my eyes on the notification sent to my phone. In fifteen days, Serena Global would hold an emergency board of directors meeting.

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My phone buzzed on the nightstand, the screen lighting up with a notification from my banking app. I was in the middle of packing, surrounded by half-taped cardboard boxes and the lingering scent of dust. I was finally moving out, heading to a small studio I’d rented on the edge of the city. I swiped the notification open. My heart didn’t just skip a beat; it seemed to stop entirely. A transfer of exactly $100,000 had been debited from my savings account ending in 3692. My current balance: $0.38. That money was my life. It was four years of grueling academic scholarships, competition prize money, and every cent I’d scraped together from three different part-time jobs. Now, it was gone. I stared at the screen for three long seconds. I closed the app, refreshed it, and logged back in. The number remained the same. “Naomi? Where’s your card? I need to borrow it for a sec.” Kaylee’s voice drifted in from the living room, breezy and entitled, as if she were asking for a stick of gum. When I didn’t answer, she raised her voice. “Naomi? You there? Where’d you put the card?” I gripped the phone so hard my knuckles turned white. I didn’t say a word. My heart was racing, a frantic drumming in my chest, but then, slowly, a cold, sharp clarity washed over me. 1. I didn’t confront Kaylee that night. When she asked for the card again, I simply told her I had an errand to run and left. She didn’t even look up from her phone; she just waved a hand, dismissing me like a servant. We had been roommates for four years, and this had always been the dynamic. I was the “boring” one, the one who lived in the library, while she was the social butterfly who treated my things as her own. I had let it happen. I had called it friendship. My new place was a cramped studio in a run-down part of town. After paying the security deposit and the first three months’ rent, I should have had over ninety thousand dollars left—enough to cover my first year of law school and my living expenses. Now, I had thirty-eight cents. The next evening, my new landlord knocked on the door. I was sitting on a packing crate, eating a bowl of instant noodles. It was my third meal of the same thing. “Naomi, about the rent for next month…” “Mrs. Gable, could you give me forty-eight hours?” I set my chopsticks down, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m waiting for a wire transfer to clear.” She looked at my meager meal, then at the empty apartment, and sighed. “Fine. Two days. But after that, I have to charge a late fee.” The door clicked shut. I went back to my noodles. They were tasteless, but they filled the hole in my stomach. Later that night, lying on a thin mattress on the floor, I began scrolling through my text history with Kaylee. It spanned four years, a digital trail of small erosions. “Naomi, can I borrow fifty? I’ll Venmo you next month.” “Hey, grab me a salad on your way back? I’ll pay you later!” “Naomi, things are a little tight this month. Can that two thousand wait?” I scrolled and scrolled, the fog in my brain lifting. Freshman year: $3,000 borrowed, one year later she paid back $2,000, saying, “Let’s just call the rest even since I bought you all those drinks at that one party.” Sophomore year: $5,000 for a “professional development” course she never took. She paid back $3,000. “I’ll get the rest to you once we’re working.” Junior and senior year: a thousand here, five hundred there. I opened a note on my phone and started a spreadsheet. The final number: $18,300. She had never once initiated a repayment. Every cent I’d gotten back had been like pulling teeth, and every time, there was a new excuse, a new drama that made her the victim. “I thought we were sisters,” I whispered to the dark ceiling. I felt like the punchline to a very long, very cruel joke. On the third day, I went to the university’s financial aid office to check my scholarship disbursement records. “Naomi Vance, right?” The clerk tapped at her keyboard. “Your merit scholarship was disbursed last month. You requested an early release of funds. Don’t you remember?” “Early release?” “Yes. Right here.” She turned the monitor toward me. “You signed for it in person.” I looked at the digital signature. It was a clever imitation, but I knew it wasn’t mine. The strokes were too soft, the tail of the ‘V’ too flared. I’d practiced calligraphy for a decade; my signature was precise, sharp. This was a doodle. I didn’t argue. “Could I get a copy of that request form?” I asked. The clerk gave me a strange look. “A copy? What for?” “For my tax records,” I lied smoothly. She shrugged and printed it out. I folded the paper carefully and tucked it into my bag. As I walked out into the bright afternoon sun, a memory surfaced. Last winter, we were sitting in our old dorm, sharing a bottle of wine. Kaylee was complaining about forgetting her banking PINs. She’d asked me how I remembered mine. “I just use my birthday,” I’d said. “Simple. Hard to forget.” She’d laughed, a soft, musical sound. “That’s way too easy, Naomi. Someone could rob you blind.” I hadn’t thought anything of it then. Now, I realized the look in her eyes hadn’t been concern. It had been an observation. 2. At 7:00 PM, I sent Kaylee a text. “Kaylee, something’s wrong with my scholarship fund. Do you know anything about it?” Five minutes later, she replied: “Huh? What do you mean? How would I know?” “The school said someone requested an early payout. The signature on the form isn’t mine.” My phone immediately rang. “Naomi, what the hell are you implying?” Kaylee’s voice was an octave higher than usual, sharp with indignation. “Are you actually accusing me of something?” I stayed silent. “We’ve been best friends for four years! And now you’re treating me like a criminal over some bank error?” “I never said it was you, Kaylee.” “Then why are you asking me? Your tone is disgusting. I’m honestly heartbroken, Naomi. Does four years of friendship really mean so little to you compared to a hundred grand?” She hung up. I looked at the “Call Ended” screen and let out a dry, hollow laugh. I hadn’t mentioned the amount. I hadn’t told anyone exactly how much was in that account. How did she know it was a hundred grand? The next morning, I opened Instagram. Kaylee had posted a story. It was a black background with white text, the classic “vague-post” of a victim. “It’s crazy how some people let paranoia ruin everything. Four years of being there for someone, and they turn on you the second things get weird. I guess you never really know people. Just glad I see the truth now.” The comments were already piling up from our mutual friends. “What happened, babe? Who’s bothering you?” “Some people are just small-minded, Kaylee. Don’t let them get to you.” “Ignore the haters. You’re too good for that drama.” I saw familiar names in the likes. Even Phoebe, who I’d helped pass her Bar Prep, had commented a heart emoji. I put the phone down. I didn’t respond. Two days later, in our old college group chat, Tyler—my boyfriend of two years—posted a photo. It was a picture of him and Kaylee. They were standing close, her head on his shoulder, and on her finger was a diamond that caught the light like a miniature sun. Tyler’s caption read: “She said yes. To forever with my soulmate.” I stared at the photo until the image burned into my retinas. Tyler and I had started dating sophomore year. We’d been long-distance for the last year while he moved to New York for an internship and I stayed back to finish my degree and prep for law school. In that year, we’d FaceTime’d maybe ten times. He was always “exhausted” or “swamped with work.” I’d been the one to call, the one to send care packages, the one to fly out to see him. I thought he was just building a career for us. Now I realized he’d been busy, alright. He’d been building a life with my best friend. The group chat exploded. “Tyler! Engaged?! Congrats!” “Wait, Kaylee? When did this happen?!” “OMG so happy for you guys! Power couple!” I quietly left the group. That night, Tyler called me. 3. “Hey, Naomi.” Tyler’s voice was tentative, lacking its usual bravado. “So… I’m guessing you saw the news.” “I did.” “Look, with Kaylee… it’s just one of those things. You can’t help who you fall for. Don’t be bitter, okay?” I said nothing. “I wanted to tell you sooner, but there was never a good time. And honestly, Naomi, you’re so focused on your books all the time. There’s no spark. With Kaylee, it’s just… easy. It was inevitable.” “Inevitable,” I repeated. The word felt like lead in my mouth. “Exactly. So don’t blame me. It’s about chemistry. Besides being a straight-A student, what else is there? Kaylee is warm, she’s fun. She actually knows how to live.” I listened to him talk, and I felt a strange, chilling peace. “I understand.” “That’s it?” He sounded disappointed, like he’d been bracing for a screaming match. “You’re not going to yell?” “What would be the point, Tyler?” “Right. Well… no hard feelings. Let’s be adults about this. We can still be friends down the road.” I hung up. Friends? My boyfriend of two years was engaged to my roommate of four. And they called it “inevitable.” I lay back on my mattress and began to piece the last year together. The times Tyler was “too busy” to talk, he’d been on the phone with Kaylee. The times he “forgot” my birthday but sent Kaylee a massive floral arrangement for her “half-birthday” because she was feeling down. The weekly FaceTimes they had while I was in the library, sometimes talking for hours. I had been so blind, lost in the “quiet moments” of my own loyalty, while they were laughing at me in the dark. The next day, Kaylee posted a new photo. A close-up of the ring. It was a three-carat oval cut, Platinum band. The caption: “Thank you to my incredible fiancé for the $100,000 engagement gift. The best decision of my life was saying yes to you.” One hundred thousand. I looked at the date of the post: April 15th. My scholarship funds had been drained on March 20th. I knew Tyler’s job. He was a junior developer at a mid-sized firm. He made $80,000 a year and lived in an expensive apartment in Brooklyn. There was no way he had $100,000 in cash for a ring. And I knew Kaylee’s family. Her parents were working-class people who had struggled just to pay her tuition. Where did the money come from? The answer was screaming at me. I took a screenshot. The date, the amount, the caption. Everything aligned. That money was my sweat and blood. Four years of sleep deprivation, of missing parties to study, of working through holidays. And now, it was a sparkling trophy on the finger of the woman who had spent four years pretending to love me. It was her “gift” from the man who had spent two years pretending to be mine. 4. I couldn’t sleep that night. Not because I was angry, but because I was calculating. I had known Kaylee for four years. I’d held her hair back when she was sick. I’d lent her money when she was short on rent. I thought we were a team. In reality, I was just her ATM with a heartbeat. At 2:00 AM, I got up and opened my laptop. I was a top-tier law student. Rank #1 in my class, winner of the National Mock Trial, and I’d passed the MPRE with a near-perfect score. I already had an offer from Stonebridge & Associates, one of the most prestigious firms in the country. I’d never bragged to Kaylee about these things. I didn’t think I needed to. To her, I was just “the girl who studies law.” She didn’t realize my specialty was white-collar crime and forensic accounting. I opened a new document and began organizing my “Case.” First: The forged signature on the scholarship form. I could hire a handwriting expert to verify the discrepancy. Second: The bank statements. The timestamp of the $100k transfer from my account matched the timeline of Tyler’s “sudden” ability to buy a ring. Third: The social media evidence. Her own words—the “hundred thousand dollar gift.” Fourth: The four-year ledger of unpaid loans. I had every Venmo request she’d ignored, every text where she promised to pay me back. $18,300 in small-scale theft. By sunrise, I had a comprehensive evidence binder. My phone rang. It was my mom. “Naomi, honey, I saw Kaylee’s post…” Her voice was cautious. “Isn’t that the boy you were seeing?” “Yeah, Mom. Was.” “Are you… are you okay?” “I’m fine.” Mom hesitated. “Kaylee actually called me. She said you’ve been acting erratic, accusing her of stealing? Naomi, honey, are you sure? Kaylee always seemed like such a sweet girl. Maybe it’s just a misunderstanding?” I felt a wave of exhaustion hit me. “Mom, do you trust her or me?” “I trust you, of course! But these are serious accusations. Without proof, it could really hurt her reputation. You don’t want to be that person.” I smiled to myself, a cold, hard expression. “I know, Mom. I’ll handle it.” I hung up and looked out the window. The sun was fully up now, casting long shadows across the city. That afternoon, I received a digital invitation in my inbox. A flurry of red and gold. “Dearest Naomi: We would be honored to have you join us for the engagement party of Kaylee Miller and Tyler Bennett. You’ve been such a huge part of our journey—we need you there to witness our happiness! Date: May 1st. Location: The Grand Carlyle Hotel.” Kaylee even tagged me in the group chat she’d made for the party: “Naomi, you HAVE to come. You’re my bestie, I couldn’t do this without you!~” I stared at the message for a long time. Then, I typed three words: “I’ll be there.” And added: “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” 5. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I put the phone down and took a deep breath. May 1st. Twelve days away. Twelve days was more than enough time to burn a bridge properly. That afternoon, I went to Stonebridge & Associates. Even though my start date was months away, my mentor, Isabel, had always told me her door was open. Isabel was thirty-five, a partner in the criminal defense department, and a shark in a Chanel suit. She was exactly who I wanted to be. “Naomi? I thought you were taking the month off to move,” Isabel said, looking up from a stack of depositions. “Isabel, I need your professional opinion.” I laid it all out. The scholarship, the forgery, the roommate, the boyfriend. Isabel listened in silence for several minutes. When I finished, she looked at the folder I’d brought. “You have the evidence?” I handed it over. The forged form, the bank logs, the screenshots. Isabel flipped through the pages, her brow furrowing. “The handwriting is a dead giveaway. Any expert could tear that apart in ten minutes.” She looked up at me. “What’s the play, Naomi?” “I want to file a police report.” “You can. But you know as well as I do that once you trigger the legal system, there’s no going back. This is felony-level grand larceny and fraud.” I nodded. “I know.” Isabel looked at the papers again, then leaned back in her chair. “Your uncle works at the local news station, doesn’t he? Lead producer for the investigative unit?” “He does.” “Good.” Isabel handed the folder back. “File the report. Once it’s logged, if they don’t cooperate, we look into media pressure. Economic fraud plus identity theft—this isn’t just a spat between roommates. It’s a criminal case.” I took the folder. “Thanks, Isabel.” She smiled at me, a sharp, appreciative glint in her eyes. “Naomi, you’re the calmest intern I’ve ever seen. Most girls your age would be in tears right now.” “Do tears pay the rent?” “No,” Isabel said, patting my shoulder. “They don’t. Go get them. Call me if you need a reference for the D.A.” As I left the office, the city lights were flickering on. My phone buzzed. It was Kaylee. “Naomi? Are you really coming to the party?” Her voice was smaller now, missing the aggressive edge from before. “I said I would.” “Listen… about the money stuff. You’re not going to make a scene, are you? It would really ruin the night.” “What money stuff, Kaylee?” “You know… you saying I took your money. Just don’t bring it up. It’s my big night.” I gripped my phone, a small, cold smile playing on my lips. “Kaylee, when did I ever say you stole my money?” “Well, you said—” “I just asked if you knew what happened. You were the one who said our friendship was worth more than a hundred grand.” The line went quiet. “I never told anyone the amount was a hundred grand,” I said softly. “So, how did you know?”

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After Gavin changed the keypad code to our apartment, he sent me the new one via text. It took two tries for the lock to click, the heavy door finally swinging open. The moment I stepped inside, the air felt wrong. The crisp, woody scent of the home I’d built had been smothered by a cloying, synthetic gardenia—a fabric softener I never used. In the laundry room, the dryer had finished its cycle. I pulled the clothes out. There was one of his work shirts, and then there was a floral sunshirt, size small. I wear a large. I folded the clothes neatly and set them on the arm of the sofa, my eyes drifting to the trash can in the kitchen. Inside were two takeout containers from a high-end bistro and two empty boba cups. One was marked Regular Sugar; the other, 30% Sweet. Gavin knew I only drank mine unsweetened. Neither of those drinks belonged to me. I didn’t fly into a rage. I simply sat on the sofa and waited. Thirty minutes later, the door hummed. Gavin walked in, freezing for a split second when he saw me. He kicked off his shoes, his voice casual, almost rehearsed. “You’re home early.” I pointed to the dress on the sofa. “Who did you do laundry for?” “A colleague,” he said, not looking at me. “Someone spilled wine on her at the mixer.” “A colleague who wears a small, likes her drinks a quarter-sweet, and uses gardenia-scented Downy?” I pressed. He didn’t answer. I grabbed my bag and walked to the door. “I’m only using this new code once,” I said, my voice steady despite the roar in my ears. “Change it again. And don’t bother sending me the next one.” 1 “It’s too late. I’ll come get you in the morning.” The text flashed on my phone at 1:47 AM. I was at my studio, the only light coming from the spotlight over my compounding table. The base notes of sandalwood and cedarwood clung to me—cold, clean, sharp. Nothing like gardenias. A second message followed immediately: “Macy just had too much to drink and ruined her dress. She just came over to shower and change. Don’t let your mind go to the darkest place possible, Diana.” Macy. He’d given her a name. At the apartment, she was a “colleague.” Now, she was Macy. I didn’t reply. Instead, I twisted open a bottle of bitter orange essential oil and inhaled. The scent was a grounding wire for my racing heart. A scent profile like that gardenia softener doesn’t just “happen” after one shower. Those molecules bond to fibers; you have to use it for two or three weeks straight for it to linger like that. I’d spent eight years training as a perfumer. My nose was far more honest than his mouth. I typed back: “She’s a size small, she uses gardenia softener, and she drinks 30% sweet boba. All three of these things appeared in your life during the two weeks you changed the locks. Gavin, I don’t own gardenia softener.” The “typing…” bubble flickered six times. Finally, a voice note. I tapped play. Two seconds of silence, then a long, weary sigh. “Work has been hell with the new product launch. She’s been helping me with the distributors, staying late to handle the logistics. She’s just been… looking after things for a bit. It’s temporary. It won’t happen again.” Looking after things. Changing his detergent. Ordering his tea. Washing her floral dresses in his machine. He called it a convenience. I recorded a reply, my voice sounding flatter than I expected. “So, you’re admitting it?” “Admitting what?” He was faster at typing than speaking. “Diana, can you stop obsessing over the details? Maybe I handled the boundaries poorly, but you can’t throw away three years of ‘us’ over a bottle of laundry soap.” Three years. He had the nerve to bring up the time. Three years ago, when he wanted to start his fragrance house, he had exactly six thousand dollars in his bank account. I sold three of my private formulas—the ones my mother left me in her estate—to raise the hundred thousand he needed for seed money. Those formulas were my inheritance, my soul. On a folding table in our old studio, he’d signed a napkin with a shaky hand: You own half this company, and the door code will always be your birthday. Always. Back then, it was always. Now, it was “it won’t happen again.” I typed: “Three years. You mean the three years where I provided the capital and the intellectual property?” “There you go, keeping score again,” he shot back instantly. “I’m trying to talk about feelings, and you’re talking about money. This is exactly your problem.” My problem. I stared at those words until they blurred. I turned off my phone and flipped it face down on the stainless steel table. As dawn broke, I went back to the apartment to get the rest of my things. I opened the fridge and stopped, my hand hovering in the cold air. The shelf was lined with boba cups. All of them “30% Sweet.” Small, round sticky notes were attached to the sides with bubbly handwriting and little smiley faces. Special sweetness for Mr. CEO! Keep up the hard work! —M. Macy. She had nicknamed herself in my fridge. I took them out, one by one. Eight cups. I moved to the closet. My coats and sweaters were still there, but in the bottom drawer, there was a new pink organizer. A keychain with a little bear hung from the zipper. Inside were two pairs of leggings, folded neatly. Size small. In the bathroom, a pink ceramic mug sat on the counter. It said: SMALL BUT MIGHTY. I took my toothbrush. I left her mug where it was. Finally, I opened my jewelry box. The engagement ring sat in the top velvet slot. A one-carat diamond Gavin said he bought with his first “real profit.” But the formula for that order had been mine. In the end, I had bought that ring for myself. I walked back to the kitchen. In the trash, the eight boba cups were beginning to sweat, the brown liquid leaking out. I dropped the ring into the bin. It sank to the bottom, wedged between a plastic lid and a sticky note that said M. My phone buzzed. Gavin: “Are you coming home today? Let’s talk in person. Don’t just sit there overthinking.” I grabbed my suitcase and took one last look at the place. Twelve hundred square feet, south-facing, a lease I’d negotiated, a space I’d curated. Now, it smelled like someone else’s life. I sent one final text: “The fridge is cleared out. The trash is full. Don’t forget to take it out.” 2 “We need to talk about your equity. In person.” A week later, Gavin sent the message along with a pin for a high-end Italian restaurant downtown. My friend Rebecca was fuming on the other end of the line. “Don’t go. He’s definitely up to something.” “I have to sign the buyout papers eventually,” I said. “Dragging it out doesn’t help me.” “Then I’m coming with you.” “No. If there are people there, he’ll use it as an excuse to dodge the real conversation.” When I pulled up to the restaurant, I saw his suit first. A dark charcoal bespoke piece with subtle pinstripes. I’d given it to him for his birthday two years ago. He’d told me then that the cut was too traditional and had never worn it once. He was wearing it today. Buttons done up to the top, a perfect Windsor knot in his tie. He stood up to pull out my chair. “Sit. I ordered the steamed clams you like.” “I’m here for the papers, Gavin.” “Eat first,” he said, pushing the menu toward me. “You’ve been staying at the studio, haven’t you? The water heater there is broken. How are you even showering?” “Does that have anything to do with my shares?” He stiffened, then pulled a folder from his briefcase. “I’m willing to settle the buyout, but the company valuation is currently in a transition phase. We have to wait until after the Series C funding—” “Gavin.” I cut him off because I saw her. She was walking through the front door in a floral sunshirt, size small, her waist so thin it looked fragile. The scent hit me before she even reached the table—gardenia. Not the real, heady flower, but the cheap, synthetic gardenia aldehyde used in industrial soaps. Cloying, flat, and sickly sweet. Macy. The moment she “noticed” us, her expression shifted with practiced ease—first surprise, then embarrassment, then a smile that was 80% sweet and 20% innocent. “Oh, Gavin! You’re here? What a coincidence.” And then, she sat down. She pulled out the chair next to Gavin as if it were her assigned seat. “Hi, Diana,” she said, nodding at me. Her smile was calibrated to the millimeter. I put my fork down and said nothing. She turned to Gavin immediately. “Gavin, your stomach has been acting up lately, you shouldn’t have anything spicy. Let me order you something lighter.” She reached for the menu, her arm brushing his sleeve. It was a natural movement, one performed a hundred times before. Gavin didn’t flinch. “You don’t mind me being a busybody, do you, Diana?” she asked, her eyes wide and performatively thoughtful. “After the last company party, Gavin was in so much pain. I just can’t stand to see him suffer.” The last company party. The last time his stomach hurt. She knew the schedule of his physical ailments better than I did now. “I don’t mind,” I said, signaling the waiter. “In fact, get him the spicy arrabbiata. Extra chili flakes.” Macy blinked. “Diana, really, he can’t—” “He used to get sick after every gala,” I said, my voice level. “I was the one who stayed up making ginger tea to settle his stomach. You know his stomach is sensitive, but do you know why it’s ruined? Do you know about the three years of stress and whiskey it took to build the company you’re currently sitting on?” She had no answer for that. Gavin frowned, his voice dropping an octave. “Diana, is this necessary? She’s just a kid. Don’t take it out on her.” A kid. The size small dresses, the boba, the gardenia softener, the “Special Sweetness” notes, the pink mug in my bathroom. To him, it was just three words: She’s a kid. “The papers, Gavin,” I said, bringing the focus back. “Like I said, after the Series C funding—” “How long?” “Three to six months.” “I need a date.” He pulled the folder back toward his side of the table. “What’s the rush? It’s not like we’re getting a divorce. Just… take some time to cool off. Go away for a bit, get some perspective, and when you’re ready, we can move past this.” Cool off. He thought I was negotiating my heart. I was negotiating my exit. Macy spoke up then, her voice soft and airy. “Diana, Gavin has been under so much pressure. I’ve been overseeing the entire R&D line for the new launch. We’re in the lab until midnight every night. If it makes you feel better, I can keep my distance from him from now on.” It was a brilliant move. A public concession, a show of weakness, and a subtle reminder that she was the one with him “until midnight” every night. I stood up. Gavin clamped his hand over the folder. “Are you going to sign?” “You wore that suit today because you thought wearing something I gave you would make me soft,” I said, picking up my bag. “You took something you ignored for two years, polished it up, and used it as a tool for an emergency. It’s exactly what you did to me.” His fingers tightened on the table. Beside him, Macy looked down, stirring her coffee, her shoulders hunched as if she were the victim of a great cruelty. As I walked out of the restaurant, I heard her voice behind me, clear through the closing glass door. “Gavin, does she hate me? Maybe I shouldn’t have come.” “It’s not you,” Gavin replied. “She’s always been like this. High-strung.” She’s always been like this. 3 “Diana? Are you here for your things?” The receptionist, Sarah, sounded nervous. Her eyes kept darting toward the main office area. “Yes. Just picking up my personal files.” Gavin’s company was located in a sleek glass building in the tech corridor. I was the one who had picked the space. I was the one who negotiated the lease down. I bought the plants in the lobby. I designed the scent diffusion system in the hallways. But today, when the elevator doors opened, I smelled gardenias. The scent stones in the corridor had been replaced. I didn’t stop. I walked straight into Gavin’s office. The door was ajar. His desk looked the same, but the bottom drawer where I kept my most precious items—a leather-bound A5 notebook, cognac-colored, with worn edges—was open. My mother’s recipe book. The complete compositions for thirty-seven perfumes. Every note, every trial, every raw material ratio. It was the only thing she’d left me. The drawer was empty. The book was gone. I turned around and looked at the workstation directly facing Gavin’s office. The desk was covered in pink organizers and a laptop with a glittery shell. My mother’s notebook was sitting there. It was being used as a coaster for a greasy takeout box and a half-finished boba tea. There was a massive brown ring on the leather cover. I flipped it open. Oil and milk tea had soaked through the parchment, blurring my mother’s elegant script. On page seventeen—the formula for an Osmanthus Absolute that existed nowhere else in the world—the pages were stuck together. She was using my mother’s legacy as a placemat. “Oh, hey, Diana.” Macy appeared, holding two more boba teas. She saw me standing at her desk and slowed her pace. “Gavin asked me to organize that,” she said, her tone suggesting this was the most natural thing in the world. “Some of those formulas need to be digitized for the company’s core assets.” “This is my private property.” “But Gavin said these formulas belong to the firm—” I reached for the book. She jerked back, her chair wheels skidding. In the scramble, her elbow hit the boba cup. Freshly brewed hot tea. The scalding liquid splashed directly onto my outstretched right hand. The pain was immediate—a searing, white-hot iron pressed against my skin. My hand swelled instantly, turning a violent red before the blisters began to rise, clear and bubbling over my knuckles. My right hand. My dominant hand. The hand I used to grind resins, to dip test strips, to feel the weight of a pipette. My livelihood. Macy let out a shrill scream, but she wasn’t looking at my hand. She was looking at her leggings. Gavin came charging out of his office. He ran right past me. He went straight to Macy, kneeling down to check her legs. “Are you okay? Did it burn you? Let me see.” Then he looked up at me, his brow furrowed in annoyance as if I were the one causing trouble. “You know she’s clumsy, Diana. Why are you fighting her over a damn notebook?” A damn notebook. I clutched the tea-soaked leather book with my right hand. The blisters broke under the pressure, the clear fluid mixing with the brown tea stains. “Gavin,” I said, my voice shaking. “The hundred thousand dollars you used to start this company? That ‘damn notebook’ paid for it.” The look on his face finally fractured. “Don’t bother with the door code,” I whispered. “Everything about you feels filthy to me now.” I walked out, clutching the book to my chest. In the elevator, my hand started to shake uncontrollably. The pain had moved past searing into a rhythmic, nauseating throb. Sarah, the receptionist, ran out and handed me a bottle of cold water. She looked at my hand and winced. “Diana… do you want me to call an Uber? You need a hospital.” “Call me one for St. Jude’s.” “Okay.” She hesitated, then whispered, “Diana… Macy took that book herself. Gavin didn’t ask her to. She’s been taking photos of the pages and sending them to outside suppliers all week.” My grip on the notebook tightened. The pain didn’t matter anymore. “Thank you, Sarah.” She nodded, her eyes welling with tears. As the car pulled up, I looked back at the third-floor window. The lights were still on. “Let’s go,” I told the driver. 4 “Second-degree burns. Some deep partial-thickness areas.” The doctor snapped off his gloves and looked at me. “What do you do for a living?” “I’m a perfumer.” He paused, the motion of throwing the gloves away slowing down. “The deep burns on the knuckles might leave scarring. We need to monitor for infection. We can’t rule out a skin graft later if the mobility is compromised.” “Will I be able to use my fingers?” “It’s hard to say. If the scar tissue contracts, your range of motion will be limited.” Rebecca burst into the exam room just as they were wrapping my hand in gauze. “Diana! Are you insane? Why didn’t you call me? Your hand—” “I need you to do a few things for me.” She stopped mid-rant, her eyes red. “First, block Gavin everywhere. Phone, email, socials. Everything.” “Done.” “Second, find me a flight to Oregon. Tomorrow morning.” “You’re leaving?” “There’s a botanical estate in the Willamette Valley. I’ve been talking to the owner about a private R&D residency. I need to go.” “Wait, your hand is like this and you’re—” “Rebecca.” She went quiet. I looked down at the thick white cocoon of gauze. Beneath it was a ruin of broken skin and shattered dreams. A perfumer’s hand. “Buy the ticket,” I said. “The earliest one.” She didn’t argue. She pulled out her phone and started tapping. Blocking, deleting, clearing the history. Then, she stopped. “Diana… you need to see this.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “439660”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I still can’t believe I’m losing my mind over a mediocre, thirty-something man in my office. Derek is married. He has a stay-at-home wife who has made raising their children and managing his existence her sole, holy crusade. Every day at 5:00 PM, he clocks out and walks into a life he doesn’t have to orchestrate. Dinner is hot. The bath is drawn. His version of fatherhood consists of tossing a toddler in the air for fifteen minutes before claiming exhaustion. He hasn’t touched a sponge or scheduled a pediatrician appointment in his life. He lives with the blissful, unburdened ignorance of a college freshman. Then there’s me. I finish a grueling fourteen-hour day and unlock the door to my three-thousand-square-foot luxury penthouse. It’s breathtaking. It’s architectural perfection. And it is completely, suffocatingly empty. I actually love children. Biologically, logistically, having a child wouldn’t be impossible—I’d just need to carve out a year. But I am at the absolute precipice of my career. I’m terrified that stepping back to give birth will derail my trajectory, so I stay frozen. Derek and I are gunning for the same promotion. If this were a fair, one-on-one fight? I’d obliterate him. But it’s not fair. I’m not competing against Derek; I’m competing against Derek and the invisible infrastructure of his wife. We both work a grueling day, but he goes home to recharge in a sanctuary built entirely for his comfort, while I go home to an echo chamber. Thinking about it makes my blood boil. I realized something fundamental: I don’t need a husband. I need a wife. Just imagine it. If I had someone managing my life the way Derek’s wife manages his… God, I would be unstoppable. 1 Fueled by caffeine and spite, I immediately registered with Elite Connections, the most exclusive matchmaking agency in the city. My consultant, Diane, was thrilled with my profile. Within days, she had a lineup of weekend dates. I showed up to the boutique coffee shop looking flawless—a silk slip dress, a sharp blazer, and my favorite stilettos. Whether I found a match or not, I was going to exude absolute, weaponized confidence. Diane had vetted them “according to my standards.” Candidate One sat down, looked me up and down like a used car, and sneered. “When we’re together, I don’t want my woman dressing so… flashy. You’ll need to tone that down.” I practically felt my eyes roll into the back of my skull. Bold of you to assume we’re getting together, considering I don’t date men who dress like substitute math teachers. Candidate Two had clearly put effort into his appearance. His eyes lit up when he saw me. “When we get married, you won’t even have to work. I’ll take care of you.” I plastered on a painfully polite smile. “And what is your annual salary?” He puffed out his chest. “I make sixty thousand a year. Full benefits, 401k match. It’s a great setup. You can quit, stay home with the kids, and I’ll give you five hundred dollars a month as a personal allowance.” My smile splintered. I looked down at my two-thousand-dollar Jimmy Choos and seriously considered taking one off and embedding the heel in his forehead. 2 Candidate Three looked the part of a finance bro. We actually had a decent rapport, speaking the same corporate language. Finally, we pivoted to the future. A calculated glint flashed behind his designer frames. “I assume, Jocelyn, that as a modern woman, you’re open to modern financial arrangements?” “I’m listening.” “Would you be open to going fifty-fifty on all household expenses?” Split the bills? Wait, I get a domestic partner without taking on his financial burden? I nodded enthusiastically. He smiled, leaning in. “And cohabitation before marriage?” A trial run without the legal mess? I kept nodding. “Great,” he said. “My mother always says that women these days have so many fertility issues. Would you be open to having a child before we officially sign the marriage certificate, just to be sure?” My jaw twitched. The polite facade evaporated. “Tell you what,” I said, voice dropping to a deadly calm. “Would you be open to adopting? Would you be open to quitting your job, staying home full-time, and managing my household? Don’t worry, I can match whatever salary you’re making right now.” His face flushed a violent, blotchy red. “I make a hundred and fifty grand a year! You want me to be a house-husband? Scrub floors? And you won’t even give me a biological kid?” He scoffed, eyeing me with sudden disgust. “You might be gorgeous, but if you’re not going to breed, what use are you to me?” It took every ounce of my Wall Street restraint not to laugh in his face. A hundred and fifty grand? I thought. Honey, I make five times that on a bad year. He stormed off. I sat there, lazily stirring my iced latte, waiting for Candidate Four. He arrived. Visually, he passed. I decided to skip the dance and cut straight to the chase. “I will give you a five-thousand-dollar monthly allowance—pure disposable income—with all living expenses covered by me. In exchange, you stay home full-time and manage the household. Can you handle that?” His eyes went wide like saucers. “Yes! Absolutely. I hate working anyway; I’m a total homebody. I don’t really know how to clean, though. Oh, and when we get together, my parents are going to move in with us.” My smile shattered into a million pieces. He was still talking. “We don’t own a place, so we’ll have to live at yours. Do you rent or own?” I was looking for a partner, not a parasite. A stay-at-home husband who doesn’t do chores? What is the point of that? 3 After Number Four left, I slumped back against the velvet booth, staring blankly at the ceiling. Why was it so impossibly hard to find a wife? Diane slid into the seat across from me, looking apologetic. “Jocelyn, you’re asking a man to stay home, do the housework, and you’re not offering him a biological child. What kind of man is going to accept that? Maybe you need to lower your expectations. Compromise on something.” I stared at her. I was the one with the money. Why should I compromise? “Upgrade my membership,” I said flatly. “Put me in the Diamond tier.” A bigger pool meant better fish. Diane’s face instantly lit up with the promise of a commission, and she stood up to leave. Suddenly, from the booth just behind the half-wall next to me, a woman’s sharp, condescending voice cut through the café chatter. “You deliver food for a living. How exactly do you plan to support me? This manicure alone cost me two hundred bucks—how many deliveries do you have to make just to pay for my nails? And I heard you have a kid. Is it yours? Because I am not playing stepmom.” A man’s voice answered. It was a beautiful voice—low, quiet, and incredibly melodic. “I can give you my entire paycheck. I just need someone to play the role of a mother for Theo. Just until he’s a little older and doesn’t need that maternal figure as desperately. We can sign a prenuptial agreement. We can divorce after.” The woman scoffed loudly. “You want me to waste my best years for whatever pennies you scrape together? That wouldn’t even cover my shopping habit.” The sharp clack of her heels echoed as she stormed toward the exit. My curiosity was piqued. I stood up, walked around the partition, and looked at the source of that beautiful voice. When I saw him, I swear, my cold, corporate heart skipped a beat. An angel? 4 He was sitting in the booth, looking down at his hands. His hair fell effortlessly across his forehead, casting shadows over ridiculously long eyelashes. A straight nose, soft lips, and a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. He was wearing a simple, inexpensive linen shirt, but it was immaculately pressed. Not a single wrinkle. Sensing my unapologetic stare, the young man looked up. His eyes were a stunning, translucent amber. They looked like they were catching the light from within. I didn’t hesitate. I slid directly into the seat across from him. “Jocelyn Pierce. Twenty-seven. High-level finance. What do you think of me?” He blinked, stunned, before the implication landed. A faint, gorgeous flush crept up his neck. “I’m Rowan,” he said, his voice dropping so low I had to lean in. “Rowan Gallagher. Twenty-two. And right now… I’m a delivery driver.” “Twenty-two?” I arched an eyebrow. “Fresh out of college?” He nodded. I tapped my manicured nails against the table, the gears in my head turning. A younger man. My friends always joked about the sheer, unbridled stamina of a man in his early twenties. I had spent my twenties ruthlessly climbing the corporate ladder; I had zero romantic history. But honestly? As long as he could run a house, I didn’t care if he was younger. “Can you clean?” I asked. “Can you do laundry? Cook?” Rowan looked utterly confused, but he slowly nodded. My heart soared. Was the universe actually handing me exactly what I wanted? But I remembered the horrible woman mentioning a child. I needed to clear that up. I don’t do messy entanglements or baby-mama drama. 5 “You have a child?” I asked, keeping my tone neutral. Rowan bit his lower lip. He nodded, then shook his head. “Is that a yes or a no?” “He’s not biologically mine,” Rowan said softly, his amber eyes dropping to the table. “He’s my sister’s. She and her husband… they passed away.” The profound grief in his voice hit me like a physical blow. God, I had just stomped right onto a landmine. “I’m so sorry.” “How old is the baby? You’re raising him on your own?” I asked, my curiosity softening into something closer to empathy. He nodded again. “He’s two.” Two years old. Past the newborn nightmare phase, able to communicate, peak cute-stage. Child acquired. Check. I leaned back, flashing him my most practiced, devastating smile, and ran a hand through my hair. “Would you be opposed to an older woman?” Rowan’s face went violently, beautifully red. I leaned forward, dropping into negotiation mode. “I’ll give you a five-thousand-dollar monthly cash allowance, with all household and living expenses on a separate card. All you have to do is manage the house and take care of the boy.” Rowan swallowed hard, his voice barely a whisper. “I… I couldn’t do that.” “Why not? Are you making five grand a month on a bike in the heat? You could make that from the comfort of a luxury apartment, without having to brave the weather.” He dropped his head, his hands gripping the edge of the table. “I’m… I’m not an escort. I don’t want a sugar mommy—” I burst out laughing, the sound ringing through the quiet café. “Who said anything about buying an escort? I’m legitimately looking for a hus—” I caught myself. The word wife had almost slipped out. “A husband,” I corrected smoothly. God, I really just wanted a wife. 6 At the word “husband,” the tips of Rowan’s ears turned crimson. I couldn’t help but tease him. “You were just pitching a marriage of convenience to that awful woman. Why so shy now?” He peeked up at me through his lashes, then quickly looked away. “It… it’s different. I was just trying to find Theo a mother figure. A contract marriage. But you…” He glanced at me again, the blush spreading to his pale cheeks. My god. Were all recent college grads this devastatingly sweet? Diane, having noticed my extended absence, trotted over to our booth, a customer-service smile plastered on her face. “Jocelyn! About that Diamond tier upgrade—” I waved a hand dismissively. “Cancel it. And don’t worry about refunding my initial fee.” The candidates she brought me were trash, but if she hadn’t set up the appointments, I wouldn’t have been in this café to find my angel. Consider the fee a finder’s tip. Diane’s smile froze when I canceled the upgrade, but the promise of keeping the non-refundable deposit thawed it quickly. She looked between me and Rowan. “Well… I wish you both a lifetime of happiness!” She practically sprinted away, probably terrified I’d ask for my money back. I turned my attention back to the boy across from me. “Let’s be absolutely clear,” I said, my tone shifting to purely professional. “You move into my place. You stay home full-time and raise the boy. Are you absolutely sure you can handle that?” Rowan looked into my eyes, held my gaze for a fraction of a second, then lowered his lashes and nodded. Gorgeous, domestic husband acquired. Check. 7 Looking at his flushed face, I decided the first order of business was a full medical workup. I needed a healthy partner. Since it was getting late, I took Rowan to a high-end restaurant nearby. After ordering, I noticed the seafood spread and added a plate of chilled jumbo shrimp. While we waited for the food, we laid out our histories. I learned that his parents had died when he was young, and his older sister had practically raised him. Shortly after he graduated college, his sister and brother-in-law were killed in a car accident, leaving him alone with a toddler. He was juggling food delivery gigs just to keep food in the baby’s mouth. Listening to him, my chest tightened. It felt like the universe had a sick sense of humor when it came to good people. I gave him the abbreviated version of my life: former Wall Street shark, currently a senior executive at a major financial firm. When the food arrived, it was plated like modern art. I did what any millennial woman would do—took aesthetic photos of every dish and posted them to my Instagram story. Almost immediately, my phone started buzzing with notifications from colleagues and friends. I absentmindedly fired off a few replies. Rowan sat perfectly still, waiting for me to finish. The longer I looked at him, the more pleased I felt. I picked up my fork and placed a piece of fish on his plate. “Don’t be polite. Eat.” “Thank you, Jocelyn,” he murmured, his face pinking again. I rested my chin on my hand, watching him. He ate the food I gave him, then cast a quick, hesitant glance at my long, manicured nails. Slowly, he put on a pair of plastic gloves from the table caddy and reached for the shrimp. He peeled them methodically. When he was done, a neat row of pristine, pink shrimp sat perfectly arranged on a small plate. He pushed the plate across the table toward me. The subtext was loud and clear. I couldn’t hide my smile. “For me?” He nodded, gesturing slightly toward my hands. “Your nails. I didn’t want you to ruin them.” Oh, wow. We weren’t even married yet, and I was already reaping the benefits of a wife. I didn’t hesitate. I speared a shrimp with my fork, dragged it through the cocktail sauce, and ate it. It tasted like absolute victory. 8 After lunch, I drove Rowan straight to a premier private clinic. He looked utterly bewildered. I kept my face blank, entirely composed. “Corporate life is stressful. I’m getting a routine physical to make sure I’m holding up. Figured you should get one too.” I quietly slipped a comprehensive reproductive and sexual health screening into his package and marked it as a priority. When he emerged from the examination rooms hours later, his face, ears, and neck were burning bright red. I pulled out my phone. “Give me your number. I’ll text you when the results come in.” He fumbled with his phone, clearly flustered, and we exchanged contacts. “Is there anywhere you want to go right now?” I asked. He shook his head, looking hesitant. Did I intimidate him that much? I sighed, softening my voice. “Rowan, just say what’s on your mind. We’re going to be family soon.” He looked at me, his amber eyes earnest. “Theo is the only family I have left. He has to live with me. But I promise, I won’t play favorites. I’ll take care of your children exactly the way I take care of Theo.” Wait. What? My kids? Looking at the absolute sincerity in his eyes, I was momentarily speechless. A laugh bubbled up in my throat. “My… children?” He bit his lip. “This morning… you said my job would be staying home and taking care of the kids…” The realization hit me. He thought I was a single mother hiring him to raise my secret offspring. “Oh my god.” I threw my head back and laughed until my ribs ached. When I finally caught my breath, I stepped into his space, went up on my tiptoes, and gently pinched his cheek. “I don’t have any kids, Rowan. When I said ‘take care of the child,’ I meant yours.” God, he was tall. Over six-two, easily. And his skin was incredibly soft. He stared down at me, looking even more profoundly confused. It was too cute. I pinched his cheek again. “I don’t plan on having biological children,” I explained softly. “You bringing Theo into the mix is perfect. It saves me the trouble of adopting. Your only job is to raise him well.” I grabbed his wrist and pulled him toward my Porsche. “Send me your address. Let’s go meet the kid.” 9 As we navigated toward his neighborhood, Rowan shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat. “The streets get really narrow up ahead. You won’t be able to park this.” I had to pull the Porsche to the curb a few blocks away. Stepping out into the neighborhood, I immediately understood his hesitation. It was… gritty. I felt an absurd flash of a savior complex—like I was Richard Gere in Pretty Woman, but with a much worse zip code. But looking at the beautiful, gentle man walking beside me, I firmly shut that thought down. A husband without a ring was just a boyfriend, and I wasn’t here to do charity; I was here to secure my future. We dodged overflowing dumpsters and stopped in front of a crumbling apartment building. My heels echoed sharply in the concrete stairwell, the sound grating on my nerves by the third flight. By the time we hit the sixth floor, I was genuinely out of breath. Rowan unlocked the door. The apartment was tiny—the entire place was probably smaller than my living room. But the moment I stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted. It was a classic two-bedroom, but it was incredibly warm. Spotless. Everything had its place. I glanced at the shoe rack, looking for guest slippers. Rowan noticed. “You don’t need to take off your shoes,” he said quickly. I stepped into the living room. The walls were decorated with inexpensive but beautifully composed prints. Toys were neatly corralled in a woven basket. I mentally checked another box. He really did know how to keep a house. “Where’s the baby?” I asked. “I left him with the neighbor across the hall when I went to the café. Let me go grab him.” He slipped out the door. I barely had time to take a sip of the water he’d poured me before he was back, carrying a toddler on his hip. I stood up and leaned in. Theo was soft and pale, with massive, dark eyes like polished obsidian. I let out an internal sigh of relief. He was a beautiful baby. Those big eyes stared at me with pure, unadulterated curiosity. He was so cute I had the sudden, violent urge to squish his cheeks. Breathe, Jocelyn, I told myself. Wait for the medical results. Once the ink on the marriage license is dry, this kid is officially yours. I had seen the baby. It was time to go. Rowan carried Theo downstairs to walk me to my car. Standing by the Porsche, I reached into my console, pulled out a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills I kept for emergencies, and tucked it into Theo’s little hands. “I didn’t have time to stop for a gift. Buy him some toys.” Rowan’s eyes widened in panic. “Jocelyn, no, I can’t take this.” He tried to hand it back, but I smoothly ducked into the driver’s seat. I liked spending money on my things. I rolled the window down halfway. “Wait for my text.” I pulled away without giving him a chance to argue. Glancing in the rearview mirror, I watched Rowan standing on the curb, holding the baby. The thought that soon, someone would be standing at the door seeing me off every morning… God, it felt amazing. 10 I walked into my three-thousand-square-foot penthouse. The silence was deafening. It was cold, vast, and utterly devoid of life. No one asking about my day. No hot shower running. No dinner on the stove. I sighed, dropping my keys on the counter. I thought of Rowan, and a spark of hope flared in my chest. Stay healthy, kid, I thought to the universe. I need a healthy wife. I looked around. My blazer was slung carelessly over the back of the sofa. A stained coffee mug sat on the glass coffee table. My shoes were kicked off in two entirely different time zones. I collapsed onto the sofa, wincing when the hardware of a forgotten handbag dug into my spine. I wanted to cry. I absolutely loathed housework. I used to employ a housekeeper, Martha. At first, she was great. But as she got comfortable, the matriarchal entitlement crept in. She started making passive-aggressive comments. Girls shouldn’t spend money so recklessly. It doesn’t matter how much a woman makes, she just needs a good husband. It’s such a waste for a single girl to live in a place this big. I tolerated it because she kept the house spotless and left me hot meals. Then, one evening, I came home to find a strange man sitting on my custom Italian leather sofa. Martha smiled proudly. “This is my nephew. He’s single. A woman your age, Jocelyn, if you don’t settle down soon, you’ll be stuck with divorced men. My nephew doesn’t mind that you’re a bit older. Older women know how to take care of a man.” I didn’t even yell. I just walked into my bedroom, called the agency, and had her removed from my property within the hour. After that, the parade of housekeepers all followed the same arc: they started fine, then eventually tried to mother me or critique my lifestyle. I was paying them a premium; why did I feel like I was hiring a mother-in-law? I stopped using full-time help, relying on a weekly cleaning service just to keep the place sanitary. Thinking about it exhausted me. I sat up and pulled up a delivery app to see what sad, lukewarm meal I was going to eat for dinner. 11 Monday morning. Business as usual. The moment I walked into the bullpen, Derek Larsen intercepted me, holding out a pink bakery box. “Jocelyn, try one of my wife’s homemade cupcakes. The VP already had two. Said they were fantastic.” Derek. My sworn nemesis. The firm was currently debating who would lead our newest, highest-stakes acquisition project—me or Derek. The mention of his wife’s domestic perfection was a calculated strike. I felt that familiar, ugly spike of jealousy. I took the box with a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “Thanks, Derek. When I get the lead on the new project, I’ll be sure to treat you to dinner.” Derek’s smile stiffened. “Don’t count your chickens, Jocelyn.” The air between us practically crackled with hostility. I gave a dismissive little hum and walked past him. I didn’t have time to participate in a staring contest with a man who peaked in high school; I had pitch decks to review. Back in my office, my assistant, Chloe—wait, no, let’s call her Sarah. No, Sarah’s banned too. My assistant, Emily, walked in with a stack of folders. “Ms. Pierce, these need your signature.” I pointed to the edge of my desk. “Leave them.” I pushed the pink bakery box toward her. “Take this to the breakroom. Let the interns have it.” I wasn’t about to eat anything Derek Larsen handed me. I blazed through the documents, signing where needed, kicking back the ones with sloppy formatting. When I finally looked up at the clock, it was 10:55 AM. Two emails pinged in my inbox. The clinic results. I opened mine first. Perfect health. All those 5:00 AM Pilates classes were paying off. I opened Rowan’s. I scoured the PDF, checking every single metric, right down to the STI panel. He was in perfect, pristine health. A thrill shot through me. He was healthy. It was time to bring him home. My era of coming home to a hot meal and a warm house was officially beginning. 12 I FaceTimed Rowan. It rang for a long time before he finally answered. “Jocelyn?” I stared at the screen. He was wearing a bright neon delivery helmet, his face flushed and glistening with sweat. My chest tightened. “Are you out on a delivery right now?” He nodded, a bead of sweat rolling down his jawline. Oh my god. My internal monologue was screaming. It’s been one day and my beautiful angel is out here suffering in the trenches. “Where’s Theo?” Rowan angled the camera down. Theo was strapped into a makeshift child seat on the front of the electric bike. His little cheeks were flushed dark red from the heat, though his dark eyes were still bright. Silence hung between us. Two beautiful, miserable souls baking in the sun. “Drop your location,” I ordered. “I’m coming to get you. Find some shade.” God, I was getting soft in my old age. My maternal instinct was apparently highly susceptible to pretty faces. When I pulled the Porsche up to the GPS pin, the two of them were huddled under a meager tree, looking like a tragic Dickens illustration. I rolled down the window. “Get in.” Rowan hesitated, looking at his electric bike. “I can just ride behind you—” “Get in the car, Rowan. I’ll pay someone to come pick up the bike later.” He didn’t argue. He clutched Theo to his chest and slid into the leather passenger seat. We weren’t going to the courthouse looking like this. I threw the car into drive and headed straight for the nearest Ritz-Carlton. 13 I glanced over at him as we pulled into the valet line. “Do you have your ID on you?” Rowan looked up at the towering luxury hotel, his throat bobbing. “Is this… is this really okay?” I caught the deep, frantic blush rising up his neck and instantly realized what he was thinking. I barked a laugh. “What exactly is going through your head? I booked a room so you two can take a shower. We’re going to City Hall this afternoon to get married.” Rowan realized his mistake, and the blush violently overtook his entire face. He buried his chin into Theo’s hair, mortified. I couldn’t stop smiling. He was so incredibly pure. Up in the suite, Rowan disappeared into the marble bathroom to shower, leaving me alone with the toddler. We stared at each other. Theo was sitting on the plush carpet. I glanced toward the bathroom door, then reached out a finger and gently poked his soft, chubby cheek. Theo tilted his head, looking at me with profound confusion. God, he is so cute. I couldn’t help myself. I leaned in and planted a loud kiss right on his cheek. Theo’s eyes went wide as saucers, and he slapped his little hands over the spot I’d kissed. Even cuter. I scooped him up into my lap and peppered his face with kisses. I tried to soften my voice so I didn’t sound like a corporate shark about to eat a seal. “What’s your name, baby?” Theo went completely rigid in my arms, terrified to move. I sighed internally. Was my aura that intimidating? I was just about to put him down when a tiny, bird-like voice chirped against my collarbone. “Theo.” I looked down. He was peering up at me through his lashes. The moment we made eye contact, he shoved his face back into my chest. A shy kid? My heart completely melted. I hoisted him up so we were face to face. I looked into those massive, dark eyes, then buried my face in his neck and took a deep breath. He smelled like baby lotion and sunshine. 14 Right in the middle of my aggressive baby-snuggling, the bathroom door clicked open. Rowan stepped out. He was wearing the hotel’s plush, deep-V bathrobe, aggressively towel-drying his hair. Every step he took offered a distracting glimpse of a pale, heavily muscled chest. Damn it, I thought. Why is it only noon? I set Theo down on the sofa, stood up, and crossed the room. I reached out, grabbed the lapels of his robe, and yanked them firmly together—allowing my hands to linger just a second longer than necessary. He was definitely in shape. “Careful. Don’t catch a cold. We have important paperwork to sign this afternoon,” I said, trying desperately to sound authoritative. The sliver of exposed skin at his throat flushed pink. My eyes were having a field day. I looked up at his face. His cheeks were flushed from the steam, and his amber eyes looked wet and luminous. Who could possibly resist this? I couldn’t. I reached up, framed his face with my hands, and kissed him. Right on the lips. Forgive my lack of willpower. He was going to be my husband in three hours anyway; I was just taking an advance. Remembering there was a toddler in the room, I pulled back before I did something completely unhinged, like drag him into the king-sized bed. The doorbell rang. Room service had arrived, along with the bellhop carrying the clothes I’d had a concierge go out and buy. Rowan, his face practically glowing red, practically sprinted back into the bathroom to change. I set up Theo’s food on the coffee table. When Rowan emerged, the seductive bathrobe was gone, replaced by crisp dark denim and a perfectly fitted white button-down. He looked like the poster boy for ivy-league youth. I thought of Derek Larsen again. Derek liked to act like he was still a hotshot frat boy, but at thirty-five, it was just sad. A guy in his thirties pretending to be a kid is tragic; an actual twenty-two-year-old is a masterpiece. Thinking about Derek annoyed me, but looking back at my beautiful, young fiancé instantly fixed my mood. After lunch, we took an Uber straight to the courthouse. When the three of us walked out an hour later, it was official. We were a legally binding family unit. I had a wife. And a kid. Check and mate. 15 That afternoon, we moved their meager belongings from the rundown apartment into my penthouse. Rowan stood in the massive, echoing foyer, holding Theo, looking completely overwhelmed. I grabbed his arm and pulled him inside. “This is your home now. Don’t act like a guest.” Remembering our agreement, I pulled a sleek black debit card from my wallet and handed it to him. “Your five grand allowance will hit this on the first of every month.” Then I pulled out my Amex Platinum. “This is for the household. Groceries, clothes, whatever you need. Don’t check the price tags.” Rowan stared at the plastic like it was radioactive. I wanted to stay and ease him into it, but my phone started buzzing violently. The office. They were calling an emergency meeting. I had to go. A true mogul doesn’t let domestic bliss delay a hostile takeover. I patted Rowan’s shoulder. “Take the afternoon to get acquainted with the layout. I have to go secure the bag.” I arrived at the office just in time. The boardroom was packed. The agenda: deciding who would lead the $400 million merger project. The board openly analyzed Derek and me. “Derek’s home life is stable,” one VP noted. “He has no domestic distractions. He can dedicate one hundred percent of his mental bandwidth to the merger.” “But Jocelyn’s pedigree is flawless,” another countered. “Ivy League, Wall Street background. Her track record here is brutal but effective.” It came down to a vote. A dead tie. The CEO held the tiebreaker, and I could see his eyes drifting toward Derek. I cleared my throat, the sound cutting through the tension. “Richard. Give me the project. If I miss the Q3 targets, I will submit my resignation. You won’t even have to fire me. Does Derek want to match that wager?” The entire room pivoted to look at Derek. Derek’s face went rigid. Of course he couldn’t take that bet. His entire family survived on his paycheck; he couldn’t risk his mortgage on a game of corporate chicken. The CEO saw Derek’s hesitation. The energy shifted immediately. I got the project. Was I terrified of betting my job? A little. But a headhunter had offered me a VP role at a rival firm three days ago. I knew my worth. When you have a parachute, you can afford to jump. I took my core team out to a high-end steakhouse to celebrate the win. 16 Dinner transitioned into drinks at an upscale lounge. Fortunately, I inherited my father’s iron liver. I wouldn’t say I never got drunk, but I could put away neat scotch while my colleagues were slurring their words. I called a luxury town car to take me home. When I unlocked my front door, I genuinely thought the alcohol had hit me, because the glare coming off the hardwood floors nearly blinded me. I backed up and checked the unit number. Yes. My apartment. I stepped inside. The floors looked like glass. In the entryway closet, my scattered stilettos were meticulously aligned. My handbags were displayed on the upper shelves, organized by size and color gradient. I stood frozen in the foyer for a solid ten seconds, convinced I had broken into a model home. Before today, coming home meant stepping into a cold, chaotic void. Tonight, it was brilliantly lit, immaculate, and smelled faintly of expensive citrus and cedar. I swapped my heels for slippers and walked further in. The living room was transformed. The cashmere throw on the sofa was folded with military precision. The decorative pillows were arranged symmetrically. The towering stack of industry magazines th

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The sneeze caught me off guard, sharp and involuntary, just as I sat down for dinner. My husband, Gary, a prestigious professor of ophthalmology, had always treated me with a clinical sort of indifference. But tonight, he paused, his chopsticks hovering in mid-air. Without looking up, he said in a flat, measured tone that we were getting rid of the plants on the balcony. He wouldn’t keep them anymore, he said, because my allergies were clearly acting up again. His grad student, sitting across from us, let out a soft gasp of admiration. “Professor, you’re such a romantic,” he chirped. “I know how much those orchids mean to you. You’ve spent ten years nursing them.” Instead of warmth, a cold leaden weight settled in my chest. Gary loved those flowers more than anything. On our wedding night five years ago, my pollen allergy had flared so badly I broke out in hives. I had sobbed, begging him to move the pots outside. He had looked at me with nothing but irritation, snapping that I was being “dramatic” and “jealous of a plant.” Three years ago, when I was pregnant and suffering from a sudden onset of seizures, his colleague in OB-GYN warned him that the heavy fragrance in our apartment might be aggravating my condition. Gary had merely sneered. He questioned the “genetics” of a child who couldn’t handle a little pollen, suggesting the baby wasn’t “fit” to be his. The baby didn’t make it. Just as he’d predicted, in the cruelest way possible. And now, because of one tiny sneeze, he was voluntarily giving up his decade-long passion? This sudden, belated tenderness felt wrong. My eyes darted nervously toward the floor-to-ceiling windows of the balcony. There, on the glass, I saw it: two sets of overlapping handprints. One set was small, dainty, and distinctly not mine. Right then, the student—who had been scrolling through his phone—spoke up in surprise. “Wait, Paige just posted. She’s having a massive allergy flare-up too.” The world seemed to tilt. Paige was Gary’s star pupil, the girl he’d mentored with obsessive focus. She was also the woman he had emotionally drifted toward three years ago. Blood rushed to my head, then turned to ice. After dinner, I didn’t say a word. I watched from the window as Gary walked his student to the car. As soon as the taillights faded, I dialed my best friend, Jordan, a ruthless divorce attorney. My voice was eerily calm. “Get the post-nuptial agreement out of the safe. The one he signed three years ago—the ‘at-fault’ clause for the house and assets.” “Clara?” Jordan’s voice sharpened. “What happened?” “I’m done, Jordan. I’m leaving him.” 1. “Did he cheat again?” Jordan asked, her voice dropping an octave. I stared at the congealing grease in my soup bowl. I couldn’t help but let out a jagged, bitter laugh. “Yeah. But you have to give him credit for loyalty. It’s still Paige.” The line went silent for a beat. Then, Jordan erupted. “That absolute piece of trash! If Paige hadn’t mismanaged your medication three years ago, you wouldn’t have lost a six-month-old—” She stopped herself. She knew the territory was too raw. During the six months after I lost the baby, I tried to end it three times. The first time was pills. The second was the bridge. The third was a blade in the bathroom. The first two times, Gary thought I was “performing for attention.” It wasn’t until the third time, when he kicked down the locked bathroom door and slipped in the red pool on the floor, that he finally felt something like terror. To keep me alive, the man who was usually a pillar of cold, intellectual pride knelt by my hospital bed, his eyes bloodshot and desperate. “Clara, I was wrong. Please don’t leave me alone…” Gary was an orphan. He had grown up at my parents’ dinner table since middle school. I was the only family he had left. After that night, he deleted Paige from everything. He signed that agreement—forfeiting everything if he ever strayed again—and swore he would spend his life making it up to me. It’s only been three years. I guess even geniuses like Gary can’t help but return to their old habits. “Do you have proof?” Jordan asked, pulling me back to the present. I looked at the hanging ivy plant by the bedroom door. Tucked inside was a tiny, high-def camera Gary had installed himself three years ago. He told me it was so he could check the app and make sure I was “safe” while he was at the hospital. He’d stopped mentioning the camera after a month, claiming he’d switched phones and lost the login. It turned out his “concern” for my safety had an expiration date. I went to the drawer and pulled out his old phone, the one he kept meticulously charged. He told me it was full of “precious memories of us” that he couldn’t bear to delete. I had believed him. Until now. I tried the old passcode—our anniversary. Incorrect. My heart hammered against my ribs. I felt like I was being strangled. I took a deep breath, my fingers trembling, and punched in four digits: 0907. The day he first met Paige three years ago. Unlocked. The bitterness at the back of my throat was a physical weight I couldn’t swallow. I forced myself to tap on the gallery. 10,875 photos. 319 videos. 1,025 screenshots of texts. All of them—every single one—of Paige. As for me, his wife? There was one photo. A scanned copy of our marriage license. In the thumbnail next to it, I looked sallow, my hair greasy, dark circles under my eyes from seventy-two hours of overtime. I looked like a ghost of a woman. Next to Gary’s polished, handsome face, we looked like strangers from different worlds. I found a screenshot of a text Paige had sent him: “Gosh… Professor, do you honestly not have nightmares waking up to that face every day?” Gary’s reply was a single word: “Yes.” I stared at that word until it blurred. Yes. He forgot that the reason I was working myself to death back then was to save up for the down payment on a house closer to the hospital, so he wouldn’t have to commute while he was on call. Every sacrifice I made was a brick in a wall he was now using to bury me. I opened the camera app, but my finger froze. He had never even logged in. A cold realization washed over me. I stood on a chair and tore down the “security camera” he had placed there to watch over me for three years. It was a dummy. A plastic shell. Empty. 2. A sharp, throbbing pain spiked in my temples. I did something I’d never done—I raised my hand and slapped my own face, hard. “Clara… you stupid, pathetic fool.” Just then, his old phone pinged with a WhatsApp notification. Paige: “Thanks for the allergy meds, Professor! I’m feeling so much better already~” Paige: “You must be exhausted with those surgeries. Don’t forget our three-year anniversary on December 20th. I have a surprise for you~” December 20th? I had to grab the dresser to keep from collapsing. Three years ago, on December 19th, I went to the ER with an eye infection. Paige, the intern on duty, “accidentally” prescribed me a medication strictly forbidden for pregnant women. I spent the 20th hemorrhaging in a surgery suite, nearly dying as I lost my son. And that was the day my husband of ten years decided to start an affair with the girl who killed our child? How dare you, Gary? Before my rage could boil over, a voice memo from Gary to Paige popped up: “As long as I can get you into that PhD program in Zurich, no amount of surgery is too much. My biggest regret is that I can’t marry you. Using every resource I have to lift you up to the world stage is the only dream I have left.” To lift her up. The fury in my veins felt like it was turning into ash. The front door opened. Gary walked in, carrying a small container of sliced mangoes from the market downstairs. He saw me holding his old phone. A tiny flicker of a frown crossed his face, but he quickly smoothed it into his usual mask of calm. I stared at him, my eyes burning with unshed tears. He acted as if nothing was wrong, setting the fruit on the table. “You said you wanted these yesterday.” He turned to wash his hands. I followed him, my voice cracking. “Gary. Are you going to explain this?” At the sink, he didn’t even look up. “Explain?” He let out a soft, dry chuckle. “There’s nothing to explain. You’ve seen it. She’s the love of my life.” His profile was caught in the shadows, looking sharp and utterly heartless. “You made a scene and forced the hospital to fire her back then, ruining her career. Sending her abroad now is my way of apologizing for you. It’s penance. If you want to remain ‘Mrs. Ward,’ then stay quiet. Do you understand?” The old Clara would have screamed. She would have broken plates. But I felt like a machine that had been switched off. I looked at this man I had loved for two decades—the boy I’d shared my lunch with, the man I’d built a life for. He looked at me with nothing but amused contempt. He wasn’t hiding it anymore. He was cheating, he was proud of it, and he assumed his “stupid, soft-hearted” wife would just take it. I looked at the fruit on the table. “How much were those mangoes?” Gary blinked, seemingly relieved that I was “backing down.” His tone softened. “Five dollars.” I started to laugh. A low, jagged sound that shook my whole body. I had seen the photos in the hidden album. A $10,000 Cartier ring. A $40,000 Hermès bag. A condo worth nearly a million dollars titled in Paige’s name only. And the $400,000 he’d tucked away in a European account for her “living expenses” in Zurich. He had drained our joint life savings to “lift up” his mistress. “Gary, do you remember what you said the day you proposed?” I asked quietly as he walked toward his study. He paused for a second, then sighed with utter boredom. “I don’t remember.” Slam. The door shut between us. 3. Gary slept in the study that night. I spent the hours in a daze, talking to Jordan until the sun came up. Gary hadn’t always been this cold. Back in our small hometown, he was the local prodigy—brilliant, handsome, from a wealthy family. Until his parents died in a horrific car crash and greedy relatives picked the estate clean. At eleven, he was discarded like trash. I was the one who found him, shivering and hungry in an alleyway, and brought him home. My parents had been the Wards’ driver and housekeeper for years. Out of a sense of old loyalty, they took him in. For the next twenty years, my parents treated him like a son. He and I were inseparable. He was cold to everyone else, but he had a soft spot for me. In high school, people made bets on whether a genius like him could ever love a “mediocre” girl like me. He won a track meet that year, and instead of celebrating with the cool kids, he pushed through the crowd and collapsed onto me, his heart racing against mine. I can still smell the scent of mint on his jersey. “It’s a good thing,” he whispered for everyone to hear, “that I happen to love a ‘mediocre’ girl named Clara.” The dream shifted. The minty scent of the boy turned into the expensive cologne of the man. At twenty-eight, he finally proposed in front of our families and his prestigious colleagues. He held a simple band and looked at me with a fire in his eyes that I thought would never die. “For twenty years, you were my reason to live. Clara, I swear, I will spend the rest of my life making you the happiest woman in the world. Marry me. I will love you forever.” … “I stopped loving Clara a long time ago. But right now is the critical window for your fellowship. I need the marriage to keep her stable, otherwise, a community college dropout like her will never stop hounding you…” I stood outside Gary’s clinic, listening to him coo at Paige inside. My heart, which had ached all night, suddenly went numb. A community college dropout? I felt a ghost of a smile on my lips. He knew damn well the only reason I didn’t finish my degree was because I’d taken a knife wound to the hand protecting him from a group of thugs. I couldn’t write fast enough to finish my exams after that. When someone stops loving you, even your breathing is an offense. A nurse at the reception desk saw me standing there. “Ma’am, you’re in the wrong place. Prenatal check-ups are at the end of the hall to the right.” Her voice startled the two inside. Paige turned pale. Gary’s eyes dropped to my stomach, and a flicker of something—was it excitement?—crossed his face. “Are you pregnant again?” The question acted like a match to a powder keg for Paige. She burst into tears, her voice trembling as she looked at Gary. “You said you haven’t touched her in three years! You promised you were waiting for me! You liar!” She turned and bolted down the hall. Gary didn’t even look at me. He shoved me aside to chase after her. I tripped, my ankle twisting sharply as I hit the floor. As the pain flared, all I could think about was the year after the miscarriage. He had flown across the country to find the best holistic doctors to “restore” my health. He would hold the cup of medicine to my lips and whisper, “The doctor says your body is too fragile. We have to wait three years before we try again. No intimacy, honey. I just want you to heal.” If he hadn’t come home drunk after his department’s gala last month and forced himself on me, I might never have known. His “devotion” was just a tactic to keep his mistress happy. My heart was dead wood. I pulled myself up and limped away. … Gary called me a week later. His voice was low, raspy with exhaustion. “Paige can’t handle it. she’s trying to break up with me. She’s threatening to turn down the Zurich offer just to spite me.” 4. I sat in a coffee shop, my knuckles white as I gripped the phone. “And?” Silence. Then, “Get an abortion. I promise, we can have another child later. When the timing is right.” I fought back a shudder. “You know what the doctor said, Gary. If I lose another one, I might never—” “Paige’s future is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I won’t let anyone stand in her way.” He hung up. I felt the blood drain from my face. A second later, Jordan arrived and dropped a folder on the table like a lead weight. “Gary took out a private loan three months ago. He used your parents’ bistro as collateral to fund Paige’s offshore account.” The world went black for a moment. He knew that bistro was my parents’ life’s work. They’d run it for thirty years. I reached for my phone to scream at him, but my mother’s name flashed on the screen. She was hysterical. “Clara? There are men here… debt collectors. They say Gary put a lien on the restaurant? What’s happening? Oh god—Arthur! Arthur, look at me! Clara, your father’s having a heart attack—” … “We got him here in time. He’s stable for now.” The surgeon’s words allowed me to breathe, but only for a second. Gary walked down the hospital corridor, his white coat billowing. He looked at my tear-streaked face with a chilling, mocking indifference. “If you had just cooperated earlier, your father wouldn’t be in surgery.” I stared at him, horrified. “You did this on purpose. You knew his heart was weak—” “You refused to listen.” Gary shrugged. Because his mistress was throwing a tantrum, he was willing to let my father die. “You animal!” I slapped him across the face, a visceral, ringing blow. “When you were fourteen and your relatives nearly beat you to death for ‘stealing’ money you didn’t take, my father took the blows for you! He broke his arm protecting you!” “When you were fifteen and needed a transfusion, we all lined up! My father gave so much he couldn’t stand up for two days!” “When you were seventeen—” “Enough!” Gary roared, his eyes flashing with pure loathing. “Don’t act like your family is so noble. You only took me in because you knew I’d be someone one day. It was an investment!” The rage left me as quickly as it had come. It was replaced by a hollow, final disappointment. I wiped my eyes. “Fine. I’ll do it. The baby is gone.” Gary looked surprised by my sudden compliance. He hesitated. “I can give you a few days to prepare mentally. I know you’re attached—” “No need.” I held up my phone, my voice empty. “I’ve already checked in. The procedure is in thirty minutes.” I expected him to be pleased. Instead, his face went livid. “You’re that eager to kill my child?” I didn’t answer. I followed the nurse into the surgical wing. Two hours later, I was back in a recovery room. Gary appeared, now dressed in a suit. Seeing my pale face, a rare flicker of guilt crossed his eyes. “…Did it hurt?” he asked softly. I turned my head away, silent. His phone rang. It was Paige. Her voice was a high-pitched whine. “Gary, hurry up! We’re going to be late for the dinner with Professor Abernathy! It’s not like it’s her first miscarriage, why are you hovering—” For the first time, Gary hung up on her without a word. “She’s just a girl, Clara. Don’t take it to heart,” he said, the old gaslighting habit returning. “I’m not leaving you alone because I want to. I spent months convincing Professor Abernathy to write her recommendation for Zurich. Without it, she’s stuck.” He paused, looking at me as if I owed him something. “Try to understand. She’s given me three years of her life without a title. I owe her. Your family did a lot for me, but I’m not ungrateful. Once she’s settled in Germany, we’ll have a fresh start. We’ll have another baby.” I looked at him and smiled. It was the most honest smile I’d given him in years. “Okay.” He left, satisfied. The moment he was gone, Jordan walked in. She nodded to me. “Everything is ready. The evidence of the affair, the financial fraud, the professional misconduct reports.” I reached into the drawer of the nightstand and handed her a small, heavy wooden box. “Six months ago, you handled the divorce for Professor Abernathy’s daughter. You said he hates cheaters more than anything.” I looked at the door Gary had just walked through. “This is the gift I prepared for Gary’s dinner. Make sure the Professor gets it.”

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It was at the dinner table that I initiated a conversation with Daniel for the very last time. It was an entirely unremarkable evening. I simply wanted to ask if we could take our daughter to the park that weekend. The words had barely left my mouth when, without so much as lifting his eyes, he tapped his fork lightly against the edge of his plate. A sharp, dismissive clink. I opened my mouth, fully prepared to repeat the question, when six-year-old Mia suddenly set her own fork down. She looked up at me, her small face painfully solemn, like a miniature adult brokering a peace treaty. “Mommy, don’t call Daddy anymore.” And then, the quiet follow-up: “He doesn’t want to talk to you.” My hand froze suspended in mid-air. It felt as though a cold, rusted blade had just been driven straight through my ribs. Daniel’s fork paused for a fraction of a second, but then he went right back to pushing his food around his plate, his head bowed, pretending he hadn’t heard a thing. I stared into my daughter’s large, clear eyes, and the realization hit me with terrifying clarity. This exhausting, desperate chase I’d been running for ten years… it was nothing but a one-woman play. She was only six years old. Six. And she had already learned how to read the emotional dead space in the room on her father’s behalf. I stood up, picked up Mia’s plate, and kept my voice soft. “Come on, baby. Let’s go eat in the living room.” 01 After Mia finished her dinner, I gave her a bath, read her two bedtime stories, and sat in the dim light until her breathing grew heavy and even. When I finally walked into the master bedroom, Daniel was propped up against the headboard, scrolling through his phone. The harsh blue light from the screen washed over his face. He didn’t even blink at the sound of the door. The old me—the me from yesterday—would have sat on the edge of the mattress, tentatively touching the duvet. I would have said, Daniel, can we talk? He would have replied, About what. Then I would have poured out a frantic, desperate monologue, to which he would offer a flat Mm, roll over, and go to sleep. And then, I would have spent the next two hours staring at his broad back, letting my tears soak quietly into the pillowcase. But tonight, I didn’t sit on the bed. I grabbed a spare blanket from the closet and walked down the hall to the home office. I’d bought the daybed for the office last year, rationalizing that if we ever had a massive blowout, one of us could sleep in here to cool off. But I quickly learned that Daniel and I couldn’t have blowouts. Fighting requires two people. He never stepped into the ring. I lay on the narrow mattress, staring up at the shadowed ceiling. My phone lit up on the nightstand. A text from my mom: Did my girls have a good day? I typed out: It’s fine. Backspace. Delete. I typed: Doing great, Mom. Send. For the last ten years, my response to my mother had always been, Doing great. My texts to Daniel, however, were always paragraphs. Massive blocks of blue text. He wouldn’t reply. So I would send another paragraph. Still nothing. Then I’d call him. When it went straight to voicemail, I’d wait by the front door until he got home from work, ambushing him the second the lock clicked. My friends told me I was being too needy. He told me I was suffocating him. And honestly? I’d started to think I was clinically insane. Chasing a ghost for a decade—God, the sheer humiliation of it. But tonight, Mia’s little voice had struck something deep inside me, like a mallet hitting a brass bell. Gong. Something shattered. It wasn’t my heart. My heart had broken years ago. It was the thick, stubborn shell of my own delusion. It cracked wide open. I slept incredibly well that night. No dreams. No silent sobbing. No waking up at 3:00 AM to check if he’d finally texted back. The next morning, when my alarm went off, I actually lay there stunned for a full second. I hadn’t realized it was possible to fall asleep without waiting for a reply. It was Wednesday. Normally, every single weekday morning, I would wake up early to make Daniel a hot breakfast and arrange it perfectly on the kitchen island. He never said thank you. Occasionally he ate it, but usually, he just grabbed a tumbler of black coffee and walked out the door. Today, I only made oatmeal for Mia. Then I crouched down to braid her hair. When Daniel walked into the kitchen, his eyes flicked toward the island. There was only Mia’s little bunny bowl and her pink plastic spoon. He didn’t say a word. He just opened the fridge, grabbed a protein shake, picked up his briefcase, and left. The sound of the front door clicking shut was identical to the sound it had made every day for the last two thousand days. But for the first time, I didn’t chase him down the hallway shouting, Drive safe! Mia tilted her head back to look at me. “Mommy, you didn’t say bye to Daddy today.” I smiled, gently pinching her cheek. “Did you say bye to Daddy, sweetie?” She shook her head. “Daddy walks too fast.” Yeah. He did. He always walked so fast. And I had spent ten years running, and I had never once managed to catch up. 02 Daniel and I met in college. He wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous, but he was clean-cut, quiet, and possessed a focused intensity when he ran track that I found incredibly magnetic. Every girl in the liberal arts department knew that Gemma was desperately chasing Daniel. My methods were embarrassingly clumsy. I brought him coffee every morning. When he said he didn’t need it, I lied and said it was a buy-one-get-one-free deal. When his study group ran late, I waited outside the library in the freezing wind, holding his favorite Americano. He’d tell me, Stop waiting for me, it’s too cold out. I’d smile, shivering. It’s fine, I wasn’t doing anything anyway. During the winter of our senior year, he finally agreed to go out with me. I sat on the floor of my crappy off-campus apartment and cried for an hour. Happy tears. It was only later, much later, that I slowly realized he hadn’t said yes because I’d won his heart. He’d said yes because it was easy, and there wasn’t anyone better around. His mother said it once. I heard it with my own ears. “Daniel has always been like this. He doesn’t take initiative. You chased him so relentlessly, so he just went along with it.” She said it so casually, like she was commenting on the weather. I was standing just outside the kitchen, holding a platter of sliced fruit, my knuckles turning white as my grip tightened on the ceramic edge. The first year of our marriage was okay. He was quiet, but he’d at least walk with me through the neighborhood on weekends. If I wanted to see a movie, he’d complain about the parking, but he’d still go. The tipping point was when Mia was born. While I was drowning in postpartum depression, navigating newborn care utterly alone, he was suddenly buried in overtime, business trips, and client dinners. There was always a pristine excuse for him not to be home. Once, pushed to the brink of a breakdown during a 3:00 AM feeding, I called him. He sighed into the receiver and said, “Doesn’t Mia have you?” I begged him to come home early just once. He snapped, “Could you not do this right now? I’m exhausted too.” This. Needing him was doing this. Wanting to talk to him was doing this. Hoping for a text back was doing this. Over time, I developed a mental translation feature. When he said, “Stop being dramatic,” my brain translated it to: Your emotions are an inconvenience. When he said, “What is there to talk about?” it translated to: Your feelings don’t matter. When he said, “Look at how other guys’ wives behave,” it meant: You are not enough. When Mia was three, I finally broke down crying in the middle of the living room. Daniel walked out of the bedroom, stopped, and looked at me. “What’s wrong now?” I looked up at him through blurred vision. “Can you just… can you just hold me?” He let out a long, heavy exhale, turned around, and walked back into the bedroom. Click. The door shut. That was the first time I realized that the space between us wasn’t just a wooden door. It was a barren, uncrossable wasteland. But I didn’t stop. I kept chasing. Kept texting. Kept waiting. I honestly believed that if I just tried a little harder, sacrificed a little more, he would eventually turn around and look at me. Ten years. I chased him for an entire decade. I chased him until I no longer recognized the woman looking back at me in the mirror. In college, I was top of my class in the graphic design program. My senior portfolio won awards. My professor handed me a guaranteed job offer at a top-tier creative agency in Chicago. I didn’t take it. Because Daniel got a corporate job in this city. I told myself that staying together was the most important thing. Then Mia came along, and I quit my entry-level design job to be a stay-at-home mom. Daniel had shrugged and said, “It makes sense for you to stay home. Saves us money on daycare.” That Chicago agency went on to become an industry powerhouse. Every now and then, I’d see their award-winning campaigns pop up on my LinkedIn feed. I would stare at the screen for a long, long time. Then I’d lock my phone and go back to washing baby bottles. 03 The change happened in microscopic increments. During the first week of not chasing Daniel, my skin felt itchy. Muscle memory is a terrifying thing. My hand would automatically reach for my phone to open iMessage, desperate to see if he’d texted back. And then I’d remember—I hadn’t sent him anything. If you don’t send anything, there is nothing to wait for. It was a deeply disorienting sensation. Like a sprinter who had been running full-tilt for ten years suddenly slamming on the brakes; the momentum makes you feel like you’re still lunging forward, even though your feet have stopped moving. On day three, I made a decision. On my way home from grocery shopping, I didn’t take the usual route. I turned down a street I hadn’t driven down in years. At the end of the block sat a boutique fitness studio, its warm, orange lighting spilling out onto the pavement. I stood outside the glass doors for thirty seconds. Then I pushed them open. The girl at the front desk, all Lululemon and bright smiles, asked if I wanted a trial class. “I’ll take the annual membership.” Twelve hundred dollars. My hand didn’t even tremble as I tapped my credit card. It was the first time in ten years I had spent a significant amount of money entirely on myself. And more importantly, I didn’t text Daniel to say, Hey, I joined a gym. In the past, any purchase over fifty bucks required a full report. And his reaction was always the exact same: Mm. Whatever makes you happy. Whatever makes you happy. Translation: I literally do not care. So, I stopped reporting. On day five, I dug a dusty gray canvas tote out from the back of my closet. Inside were my old college sketchbooks, design drafts, and that ancient offer letter from the Chicago agency. The offer was long dead, but the sketches were still there. When I flipped open the first page, the smell of graphite and aged paper hit my nose, sharp and familiar. Mia poked her head over my arm. “Did you draw that, Mommy? It’s so pretty!” “I did. Mommy used to draw all the time.” “Used to? You don’t know how anymore?” I looked down at her earnest, upturned face. “I still know how. It’s just been a long time.” That night, after Mia was asleep, I wiped down the dining table, laid out fresh paper, and started sketching a logo. I was rusty. The lines lacked their old confident snap. But as I laid down the final stroke, I felt something inside my chest loosen. Like a rusted pipe that had been blocked for years finally letting a single drop of water through. During those first two weeks, Daniel didn’t notice a damn thing. I stopped texting. He didn’t ask, Why haven’t you texted me? I stopped calling. He didn’t ask, Why haven’t you called? I stopped waiting by the door. He walked in, took off his shoes, ate dinner, scrolled on his phone, and went to bed. Business as usual. It was staggering to realize just how small my footprint in his life actually was. I had essentially evaporated, and he hadn’t even blinked. A year ago, that realization would have destroyed me. Now? I just thought—Good. If my surrender had absolutely zero impact on his daily life, then what was the point of the last ten years? There was no point. It was entirely meaningless. Accepting that truth hurt worse than any time he’d ever hung up the phone on me. But once the agonizing pain washed over me, what was left in its wake was a strange, terrifying lightness. My friend Paige asked me out for dinner. She was the only person from my college days I still kept in touch with. We sat down at a bustling Italian place, and before we even looked at the menus, she leaned across the table. “You look different. Lighter.” “Do I?” “Yeah. Usually, the very first sentence out of your mouth is, ‘He’s ignoring me again.’ You haven’t mentioned him once.” I offered a small smile. “I stopped chasing him.” Paige froze, her hand hovering over the bread basket. “Say that again?” “I’m done. I’m not chasing Daniel anymore.” She slowly set the bread down and stared at me in absolute silence for five full seconds. Then, right there in the middle of the crowded restaurant, Paige started clapping. She clapped loudly, three times, making the table next to us turn and stare. “Gemma, that is the most lucid thing I have heard you say in a decade.” I felt my cheeks flush, and a sudden, sharp sting hit the back of my eyes. But I forced the tears down. My crying quota for this man had been utterly depleted. 04 In the third week, my mother-in-law arrived. Daniel’s mother visited two or three times a year, usually staying for a week. She wasn’t a monster, but she possessed a masterful ability to deliver devastatingly critical remarks wrapped in the most casual, breezy tones. On her first night, she stood in the center of the living room, her eyes doing a slow sweep. “Gemma, honey, have you been letting the housework slip? You used to keep this place looking like a magazine spread.” It was true. Before every single one of her visits, I would spend three days doing a manic deep-clean. I’d polish the kitchen counters until they gleamed, color-coordinate the hand towels, and painstakingly sort all of Mia’s toys into labeled bins. This time, I hadn’t touched a thing. It wasn’t a calculated rebellion. I had simply gone to the gym after picking up Mia, and then I’d spent the evening sketching. There simply wasn’t time. “I’ve been busy lately,” I said evenly. My mother-in-law didn’t respond to me. Instead, I saw her shoot a loaded look at Daniel. I knew that look intimately. Translation: Look at your wife. She’s completely letting herself go. Surprisingly, Daniel spoke up. “Mom, leave it alone. The house is fine.” She offered a tight smile. “I didn’t say anything.” The next afternoon, while Daniel was out picking up takeout, she cornered me in the kitchen. “Gemma, is there some sort of friction between you and Daniel lately?” “No.” “Then why aren’t you speaking to him? You used to follow him around the house just to chat.” I kept my rhythm steady, chopping bell peppers. “Mom, you were the one who told me I was too clingy. You said men need their space.” Her forced smile fractured for a second. “I meant that for your own good. In a marriage, it’s not a good look for a woman to be so desperate. You need to have some dignity.” I scooped the diced peppers into a bowl. “Well, look at me now. I’m practically radiating dignity.” She stared at me, her eyes narrowing. “Why are you being so passive-aggressive?” “I’m really not, Mom.” I rinsed the knife under the tap. “I’m just learning to give him space.” Her jaw tightened, but she didn’t push it further. As I turned my back to dry the knife, I heard her mutter under her breath. “You’re becoming incredibly difficult.” Years ago, hearing that word would have sent me into a panic spiral. I would have spent the rest of the week agonizing over what I’d done wrong, bending over backward to appease her. Today, it just made me want to laugh. Difficult. What she really meant was: I can’t control you anymore. She only stayed for five days. Before she left, she pulled Daniel out onto the patio and spoke to him in hushed, urgent tones for fifteen minutes. I was on the living room rug, coloring with Mia. I couldn’t hear the words, but when Daniel walked back inside, his face was unreadable. Heavy. He stood next to where I was sitting on the floor. He hovered there, like he wanted to say something. I didn’t look up. He stood there for fifteen seconds, then walked away. But that night, he actually approached me. “Are you… mad at me lately?” I was sitting at the desk in the study, sketching. I didn’t stop my pen. “No.” “Then why aren’t you talking to me?” My pen paused. What a fascinating question. I had chased him for ten years, drowning him in words, and he had treated me like a mosquito buzzing in his ear. Now that I’d been quiet for three weeks, he was the one seeking me out. “It’s not that I’m giving you the silent treatment,” I said, putting the pen back to the paper. “I just realized I don’t really have anything left to say.” He went entirely rigid. It was a line he knew very well. Over the last decade, he had fed those exact words to me no less than a hundred times. I think the realization hit him, because the color drained from his face. But he didn’t apologize. He didn’t push. He just turned around and walked out. It was the exact same exit he had made a thousand times before. Except this time, I wasn’t the one left standing in the wreckage. 05 A full month passed. Daniel started exhibiting bizarre little behaviors. Things I had never seen before. Like putting his dirty dish in the sink after dinner. For ten years, he’d left it on the table for me to clear, walking away the second he finished his last bite. Like murmuring, “I’m heading out,” before he left for work. He had never announced his departures before. Like staying home on Saturday instead of going to play golf with his buddies. He just sat on the living room sofa, occasionally casting glances toward the closed door of the study. I was in the study, working. I had recently picked up a few freelance design gigs online. A local artisan bakery had hired me to rebrand their logo. The pay was terrible. Eight hundred dollars. But it was the very first dollar I had earned in six years. When the Venmo notification popped up on my phone, I sat at the desk and stared at the green numbers for a long, long time. Eight hundred dollars. It barely covered a month of Mia’s after-school care. But it was mine. It was entirely, indisputably mine. I didn’t have to report it to anyone, and I didn’t have to explain how I’d earned it. I locked my screen and started on the next draft. That Saturday afternoon, Daniel finally pushed open the door to the study. He pulled up a chair and sat next to me, watching the screen. It was the first time in six years he had voluntarily entered this room while I was in it. “What are you working on?” “A logo design.” “For who?” “A client.” “What kind of client?” I kept my hand steady on the mouse. “A bakery.” Silence stretched between us. Thick and awkward. “When did you start taking on freelance work?” “Last month.” More silence. I could practically feel the words backing up in his throat. He wanted to say something, but he had no idea how to cross the bridge. In the old days, I would have thrown him a lifeline. I would have recognized his discomfort and rushed to fix it. Is something wrong? It’s okay, you can tell me. I wasn’t throwing lifelines anymore. Let him drown in the silence. Eventually, he stood up. “Right. Okay.” He walked out. When the door clicked shut, I heard the television turn on in the living room. The volume was barely a whisper. Usually, when he watched sports, the TV was loud enough to shake the floorboards. Today, he had it turned down to an absolute murmur. Like he was terrified of disturbing someone. Mia had been changing too. She used to tip-toe around the house, speaking in hushed tones. She knew Mommy was always on the verge of tears, and Daddy was always irritated. She was six, but she navigated the house with the hyper-vigilance of a weary, forty-something crisis negotiator. Reading moods, smoothing things over. That was my greatest sin. That was the thing I felt most guilty for. But now that I wasn’t obsessing over Daniel, my emotional baseline had flatlined into a calm, steady hum. And Mia’s laughter was returning. Last week, she took a crayon and drew a jagged purple bunny right on the corner of one of my printed sketches. “Mommy, I’m helping you draw!” “It’s beautiful, baby. The best part of the page.” She erupted into a fit of giggles, bright and clear as a wind chime. I watched her profile as she colored. She had never felt safe enough to laugh that loudly in this house. When the weight of that realization crashed down on me, my throat burned. But I didn’t cry. Not because I was trying to be strong, but because I refused to let her see her mother crying over this house anymore. She had seen enough tears to last a lifetime. It stopped today.

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A sudden, jarring fracture in reality propelled me five years into the future. In my memory, Dwight and I were just starting to plan our wedding. I remember the weight of the silk, the way the lace scratched my collarbone as I stepped out of the fitting room, my heart hammering against my ribs. I expected to see that look—the one where his breath hitches, where he looks at me like I’m the only light in a dark room. Instead, he just smiled. It was a practiced, hollow thing. He told me I looked beautiful in the gown, but his next words gutted me: he wouldn’t be the one standing at the end of the aisle. I stood there, paralyzed, my mind spinning. I didn’t understand. Then he told me he had already signed the papers. He was legally married to someone else. I had spent three years chasing him—the untouchable “Ice King” of our university. He was the brilliant, distant architect of his own world, and I had slowly, painfully carved a place for myself in it. Behind that cold exterior, he had been a man who would pull me into a frantic kiss in the rain, who would swallow his pride and beg hospital administrators for help when my mother got sick. Or at least, he used to be. … The news hit me like a physical blow. I felt the blood drain from my face, leaving me cold in the middle of the boutique. Dwight leaned down, his fingers steady as he adjusted the train of my dress. He spoke about his infidelity with the same clinical detachment he used for business contracts. “I met a girl. She’s young, impulsive—one of those girls who loves too hard and threatens to break her own heart if she doesn’t get her way.” He let out a soft, dry chuckle. “She made it clear she wouldn’t survive if I didn’t marry her.” He looked up at me, his eyes searching mine. “I couldn’t just let her destroy herself. You’re not that cruel, are you? You’d understand.” My voice shook, barely a whisper. “Dwight, if this is a joke, it’s not funny. It’s not April Fools’. Stop it.” His smile faded, replaced by a terrifyingly soft expression. He leaned in and kissed my forehead. “Joanna, I’m serious.” I stared at him. The face was the same—the sharp jaw, the eyes that haunted my dreams—but the soul behind them felt like a stranger’s. I felt a chill settle into my bones. He stroked my cheek, his voice a soothing hum. “She has the certificate, the legal status. But my heart? That belongs to you. You’re still the woman I love. You’re the only ‘Mrs. Sterling’ that matters in this house.” “Except for the wedding,” I whispered, the words tasting like ash. “And the legal right to your name.” He shrugged. “I can give you everything else. Luxury, devotion, a life most people dream of. Does a piece of paper really change what we have?” Everything I had spent years building—the future I had survived for—felt like a grotesque parody. Last night—or what felt like last night to me—he had been holding me, whispering that he would make something of himself, that he would give me the world. I opened my eyes to a world where he was indeed the powerful CEO he promised to be. He just wasn’t mine anymore. I took a ragged breath, the corset of the dress feeling like it was crushing my lungs. “If you’re married to her, then we’re done. I’m leaving.” Dwight’s face darkened instantly. The mask of the doting lover slipped. “Joanna, don’t be childish. You’re not a girl anymore; don’t act like one. Why pick a fight over a child who means nothing?” He stepped closer, his shadow looming over me. “I’ve spent five years making sure you never had to lift a finger. You’re a hothouse flower now. Where would you go? Who would take care of you?” A needle of sharp, hot pain pierced my chest. I couldn’t wrap my head around it. How did the boy who would have moved mountains for me turn into this—a man who saw me as a pet? I forced a laugh, tilting my chin up with the last shred of my dignity. “I don’t need a keeper, Dwight. I’ll survive just fine on my own.” He stared at me for a moment, as if seeing a ghost. Then he reached out and pinched my cheek, a patronizing gesture. “Stop the drama. When I get bored of her—and I will—I’ll divorce her and marry you properly. Okay?” I stepped back, breaking his touch. “I said, it’s over.” His eyes turned cold. “Fine. It’s over. But tell me—how are you going to cover your mother’s medical bills? It’s sixty thousand a month for her care. Do you have that kind of cash lying around?” I froze. He saw the flicker of panic in my eyes and smiled, satisfied. He patted my hair. “Go back to the house, Joanna. You’re my partner, not some mistress you need to compete with. Take a cab to the hospital after you change. Go see her. She’s been asking for you.” He checked his watch, dismissive. “I have to go. Talia is stubborn; she won’t eat dinner unless I’m there to coax her.” I watched him walk away, his silhouette sharp and confident against the afternoon sun. I stood there, a bride in a dress that no longer meant anything, until the shop assistant’s awkward cough snapped me back to reality. I stripped off the lace and silk and ran for the hospital. Five years ago, my mother needed a specialist—a surgeon whose waitlist was miles long. Back then, Dwight was just a student with a brilliant mind and zero clout. He had slept in the hospital lobby for a week, pestering every resident and intern until he finally got her chart into the right hands. He saved her life. Now, that life was a bargaining chip. When I entered her room, the woman in the bed looked like a shadow of herself. She was gaunt, her skin like parchment. When she saw me, her clouded eyes brightened. She reached out with a trembling hand. “Mom,” I whispered, pressing her palm to my face. “I’m here.” She smiled weakly. “My good girl. Where’s Dwight? You mentioned the wedding… did the dress fit?” The tears started then, hot and uncontrollable. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t tell her that her hero was a monster. “It’s beautiful, Mom. He loved it. He says I look like an angel.” She nodded, her eyes drifting shut. “Your father is waiting for me, Joanna. I’m not afraid to go. I just didn’t want to leave you alone. But seeing you two… I can rest now.” I couldn’t breathe. I made a frantic excuse and stumbled out of the room, my heart a lead weight in my chest. I went back to the house—our house—only to be met with the sound of laughter and intimacy echoing through the hall. “Do you like it when I feed you, baby?” “I love it. I want you to do everything for me.” The voice was high, flirtatious. My stomach did a slow, sickening roll. I leaned against the wall, dry-heaving, the bile rising in my throat. I wanted to scream, to tear the door off its hinges, but then I thought of my mother—fragile as a dried leaf in that hospital bed. I stayed frozen. When the silence finally fell, I keyed in the code. The air in the living room was heavy, smelling of expensive perfume and sex. I felt like I was walking into a crime scene. A girl—Talia—yelped, clutching a silk throw over her bare shoulders as she huddled into Dwight’s side on the sofa. Dwight didn’t even look guilty. He just sighed, pulling a blanket over both of them. “You should have called before coming back from the hospital. I would have picked you up.” I didn’t speak. If I opened my mouth, I was going to lose it. Talia peeked out from the blanket, her eyes wide and faux-innocent. “Dwight? You said this was our home. Why is she still here? Is she going to… watch us?” She emphasized the word “watch” with a jagged edge of malice. Dwight didn’t answer her immediately. She kicked him playfully under the blanket. “I don’t like it! Make her leave!” I looked around the room. Every piece of furniture, every painting, was exactly as I had described it to him years ago on the night of our graduation. This was supposed to be our sanctuary. “Fine,” Dwight said, his voice flat. He looked at me as if I were a piece of furniture that no longer fit the decor. “Joanna, move out. The lake house is bigger anyway. You’ll like the garden.” I didn’t fight. I didn’t beg. “Fine. I’ll go.” Maybe it was the lack of resistance, but Dwight looked surprised. He stood up, pulling on his pants, and walked over to me. “You always complained about not having enough room for your plants. The lake house has a greenhouse. I’ll come by tonight.” I looked at the scratches on his chest, the marks of another woman’s nails. I stepped back. “Whatever she wants. I don’t care.” He smiled, reaching out to ruffle my hair. “Good girl.” At seven that night, my phone buzzed. “Talia has a fever,” Dwight said, his voice clipped. “I’m staying at the clinic with her. Come to the hospital; I’ll walk you to your mom’s room.” I hesitated, but I thought of the look on my mother’s face earlier. I went. But when I got to the ward, Dwight wasn’t there. Only Talia was, standing by my mother’s bed. Her hand was hovering over the oxygen intake. My heart nearly stopped. I lunged forward, grabbing her wrist and twisting it away. Before I could think, my hand flew out and cracked across her face. Talia’s “innocent girl” mask shattered. Her face twisted into something ugly, something predatory. “You pathetic old bitch,” she hissed, clutching her red cheek. “You think you can just hang onto my husband? You’re a parasite. Sixty thousand a month to keep a corpse warm? That’s my money. That’s marital property.” She leaned in, her voice a poisonous whisper. “Stay in this room every second if you want. But the moment you leave, I’m ending this.” I was shaking with a rage so pure it felt like fire. I raised my hand again, but she suddenly collapsed toward the door, sobbing. “Dwight! She hit me! She just attacked me!” Dwight was there in an instant, catching her. His eyes, when they landed on me, were ice. “Apologize to her. Now.” I laughed, a jagged, broken sound. “She tried to kill my mother. I should have done more than slap her. If she touches that equipment again, I’ll kill her myself.” Talia’s tears flowed harder. “I didn’t! I was just curious who was in here… I didn’t touch anything!” Dwight’s jaw tightened. “Joanna. Apologize.” “I have nothing to apologize for. Check the cameras! If I’m lying, may God strike me down right here!” Talia tugged at his shirt. “Dwight, I swear on my life I didn’t do anything. My face hurts so much…” “I believe you,” he said softly to her. “Let’s get you to a doctor. I promise you, she’ll be the one begging for forgiveness soon.” He threw a final, chilling look over his shoulder. “I’ll be in the next room, Joanna. I’m waiting.” They left. “Joanna?” a weak voice called from the bed. I turned. My mother was awake, her eyes wide with a terrifying clarity. “Did that girl… did she call him her husband?” I tried to swallow the lump in my throat. I tried to smile. “No, Mom. She’s just a… a nurse he hired. She’s being let go. Don’t worry about it.” “I’m sick, Joanna. I’m not blind.” She looked at me with heartbreaking pity. “It’s over, isn’t it? He’s with someone else.” I couldn’t speak. The silence filled the room like water in a sinking ship. Suddenly, three nurses burst in. “Room three. Payments have been halted, and the discharge papers were signed by the primary guarantor. We need the equipment for an incoming patient. Please clear the room immediately.” The world tilted. I knew that look he gave me. This was the “consequence.” He was using my mother’s literal breath to break me. My mother seemed to understand. She reached out, squeezing my hand one last time. “It’s okay, Joanna. I’m ready. Don’t let him do this to you.” “No! I won’t let you die!” I ran to the billing department, my lungs burning. I pulled out every card I had. Declined. Declined. Frozen. In a panic, I ran to Talia’s room. I fell to my knees. I let my forehead hit the cold linoleum. “I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have hit you! Please, just tell him to turn the machines back on!” I screamed, the words blurring together. “Dwight, I apologized! Don’t kill her! Please!” Dwight sat there, calmly feeding Talia a spoonful of soup. He looked at her. “Do you forgive her? Or should she stay there a while longer?” I sobbed, my head throbbing, blood trickling from where I’d hit the floor. Talia just watched me, a small, cruel smile playing on her lips. Just as I felt the darkness closing in, a commotion broke out in the hall. “What a waste… should we take her to the morgue or call the funeral home directly?” “Her daughter was just at the desk… she was too late.” The thread snapped. I scrambled to my feet, my legs like jelly. A young nurse caught me as I stumbled out of the room. “Where were you?” she asked, her voice soft with pity. “You missed her. She left this for you.” She handed me a crumpled scrap of paper. My mother’s shaky handwriting: Joanna, I didn’t want to be your burden anymore. Live your life. The orderlies pushed the gurney out. The white sheet was pulled over a face I had loved my entire life. The world went black. When I opened my eyes again, I was standing in the middle of the University Quad. It was spring. The air smelled of cut grass and cheap coffee. Dwight—twenty-one-year-old Dwight—was standing in front of me, looking younger, softer, his eyes full of a light that hadn’t yet been extinguished by greed. “Joanna,” he said, his voice bright. “I… I accept. I want to be with you too.” I looked at the bouquet of roses in my hand. I looked at the man who would eventually murder my mother for the sake of his ego. I threw the flowers directly into his face. “Get lost, Dwight. Don’t ever speak to me again. You make me sick.”

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On the day of my wedding, my mother showed up uninvited. She walked right up to my fiancé, leaned in, and whispered something into his ear. It was the exact same thing she had done years ago—the whisper that had ended my father’s life. It was my dad’s birthday. He had his eyes squeezed shut, making a wish over the flickering candles of his cake, when my mother leaned in and murmured something only he could hear. My father, a man who was utterly terrified of dying, opened his eyes, stood up, and immediately threw himself off our second-story balcony. After his funeral, the whole town became obsessed with what she had said. True-crime junkies and miserable housewives alike speculated wildly; one bored socialite even offered a million dollars to buy the phrase that could make a man kill himself. But my mother kept her mouth shut. She never leaked a single syllable. 1 After Dad died, my mother became a grotesque kind of local celebrity. Everyone knew Thomas was a hypochondriac. He was a man who treasured his own life above all else. For him to suddenly hurl himself over a railing meant that whatever my mother whispered had to be unspeakably horrific. People flocked to our house, desperate to buy the secret. When that didn’t work, the police stepped in. But even under intense interrogation, my mother just stared at her hands, completely silent. Eventually, she was convicted of involuntary manslaughter—reckless endangerment resulting in suicide—and sentenced to three years in a state penitentiary. Once the dust settled on my father’s estate, I drove up to the prison to see her. The question was a physical weight in my chest. “Mom, what did you say to him?” I begged, pressing my hand against the thick plexiglass. “Why did he do it?” On the other side, her face was a mask of cold indifference. “He didn’t want to live anymore. What does that have to do with me?” Looking at her chillingly calm expression, a sharp pain radiated through my ribs. “Dad used to go to the ER if he got a papercut because he was terrified of a blood infection,” I choked out, the bitterness coating my tongue. “His birthday wish every year was to live to a hundred so he could hold his grandchildren. You tell me why a man like that would just end it.” I wasn’t just grieving; I was completely unmoored. My dad had a heart of gold, and as far as I knew, their marriage had been peaceful. Loving, even. Why would she deliberately trigger his death? What could possibly possess her to say those words? Faced with my sobbing, my mother just looked at me—a long, inscrutable gaze that seemed to pierce right through me. “Stop asking,” she said flatly. “Knowing too much won’t do you any good.” 2 With that, she stood up and signaled the guard to end the visitation. I drove back to the house alone. The space that used to ring with laughter and the smell of Sunday dinners was now just a tomb housing my father’s black-and-white memorial portrait. The ache in my chest deepened with every room I walked into, and the mystery gnawed at my sanity. I went into their master bedroom, desperate for a breadcrumb, a clue, anything. In the closet, their clothes were meticulously folded. Dad wore almost exclusively white shirts because Mom once mentioned offhandedly that he looked handsome in white. In the vanity drawer, there were velvet boxes of gold jewelry—pieces he had bought her over the decades just because she loved the way gold caught the light. In his bedside table, I found her daily medications, neatly organized in a pillbox he used to fill for her every Sunday. The longer I looked, the less sense it made. This room was a shrine to domestic devotion. He loved us so much. Why did she shatter our entire universe with her own two hands? I needed answers, but after that day, my mother refused to see me. She put me on her restricted list. Her cold, absolute rejection broke whatever was left of my spirit. I packed a suitcase, left that house of ghosts, and moved in with my long-time boyfriend, Kieran. During the darkest, most hollow years of my life, Kieran was the anchor keeping me from floating off into the abyss. He was infinitely gentle, making space for my trauma, cooking my meals when I couldn’t get out of bed, and loving me with a fierce, unconditional patience. Three years later, we set a date. A week before the wedding, Kieran sat on the edge of the bed and took my hands. “Gemma,” he said softly. “Your mom was released last month. It’s our wedding… are you really not going to invite her? Is the anger still that heavy?” I stiffened, pulling my hands back slightly. “I just don’t understand it, Kieran. He was a good man. Why did she have to kill him?” Kieran didn’t miss a beat. “What if it was a misunderstanding? Think about it—is it really possible for a string of words to make someone take their own life? Maybe his death traumatized her so badly that her silence is just a trauma response. A defense mechanism.” He reached out again, thumbing the center of my palm. “Whatever happened, she’s your mother. A wedding is a huge milestone. She’s the only family you have left in the world. Imagine how devastated she’d be to know her only daughter got married and didn’t even send an invite.” That was Kieran. Always looking for the grace in people, always acting as the sun to my shadows. He had spent three years teaching me how to step out of the dark and feel the warmth again. Hearing him frame it that way, a tight, painful knot in my throat began to loosen. After a long silence, I finally nodded. I mailed the invitation. 3 The next day, under a canopy of white roses, our wedding was in full swing. Kieran had spared no expense to make me feel cherished. The venue was packed with laughing friends and clinking champagne glasses. And my mother was there. I hadn’t seen her in years. She looked brittle. The deep lines around her eyes and the stark white streaks in her hair made her look like she had aged a decade. She sat with an emotionless expression, her eyes simply tracking Kieran and me as we moved around the room. Maybe it was the years apart, but looking at her, I felt a heavy, impenetrable darkness in her eyes that I couldn’t translate. When the time came for toasts, the bandleader warmly invited my mother to the microphone. Kieran, beaming, took the mic first. “Helen, thank you so much for being here today,” he said, his voice thick with genuine emotion. “I promise you, I will spend the rest of my life cherishing Gemma. I’ll never let her feel a moment of sorrow.” The crowd “awwed.” The bandleader smiled and handed the mic toward my mother. “As the mother of the bride, do you have any words for your daughter today?” My mother didn’t take the microphone. Her voice was terrifyingly calm as it carried over the quiet room. “No.” She stepped closer to Kieran. “I only have one thing to say to my son-in-law.” Before anyone could react, she leaned into Kieran’s ear and whispered a few faint syllables. I watched Kieran’s face. The bright, loving smile dissolved instantly. His pupils blew wide. The blood drained from his face, leaving him a sickening, ashen gray. He looked at me—a look of absolute, unadulterated primal terror. Then, he turned and sprinted toward the floor-to-ceiling balcony doors. “Kieran! Stop!” I screamed, dropping my bouquet. He didn’t even look back. It was as if he was being chased by demons. He hit the double doors, burst onto the terrace, and without a fraction of hesitation, vaulted himself over the stone railing. CRACK. The sickening thud from the courtyard below echoed through the silent ballroom, followed instantly by a chorus of blood-curdling screams. It happened in the blink of an eye. By the time my brain registered the horror, Kieran was already lying on the cobblestones below, his limbs bent at impossible angles, a dark pool spreading beneath him. Motionless. 4 Kieran was dead. Dead at our wedding. Dead because of a whisper. The guests stampeded toward the terrace, looking down in horrified disbelief. Kieran’s mother collapsed onto the polished hardwood, screaming his name, tearing at her own hair in grief. I stood frozen. It felt like a grenade had gone off in my chest. I couldn’t breathe. My legs gave out. The man who, just five minutes ago, had promised to love me for the rest of his life was now a mangled corpse. My reality was splintering. And then, I saw my mother. She was casually walking toward the exit, calmly tucking a stray lock of gray hair behind her ear, completely untouched by the absolute carnage unfolding around her. Seeing her apathy, Kieran’s father saw red. He lunged forward, pointing a trembling finger at her face. “What the hell did you say to my boy?!” he roared. “Why did he jump?!” The shock in the room curdled into violent outrage. Kieran’s groomsmen and relatives closed in on her. “You sick, twisted bitch! It’s his wedding day! Why are you doing this?!” “We knew about your husband! We knew you were poison, but Kieran begged us to give you a chance! He told us not to judge you, to treat you like family! He defended you, and you murdered him! Are you even human?!” “You belong in a psych ward for the rest of your miserable life!” Spit flew. Voices cracked. But my mother just stood in the center of the mob, her face as still as a frozen lake. “He chose to jump,” she said, her voice eerily light. “What does that have to do with me?” It was the detachment that broke Kieran’s mother. She scrambled up from the floor, lunged at my mother, and grabbed her by the collar of her silk blouse, weeping hysterically. “You murderer! Give me my son back! He was a good boy! He never hurt anyone! He worshipped your daughter!” She sobbed so hard she was choking. “He told us to be so gentle with her. All he wanted was to buy a house, have kids, and grow old with her. He loved life! He wouldn’t just jump! Tell me what you did to him!” Kieran’s mother was usually the sweetest, softest woman I knew. Seeing her fractured like this felt like taking a blade to my own throat. I didn’t try to pull her off my mom. I just looked at the woman who gave birth to me, my chest heaving with a sorrow so deep it felt like it was drowning me. “Why?” I whispered, my voice breaking. “Wasn’t killing Dad enough? Why did you have to take Kieran, too?” We used to be happy. Dad loved me. We were a family. And with one breath, she destroyed it. Then Kieran found me. He built a home for me out of the rubble. He showed me what warmth felt like again. And just as I was about to step into the light, she struck a match and burned my second chance to the ground. My hatred for her in that moment was an absolute, blinding force. My mother looked at me. For a split second, a microscopic tremor crossed her face. “Even you think that of me?” “I just want to know what you said to them,” I cried, the tears finally spilling over. I remembered it so vividly. Dad had given me that exact same look right before he jumped. That wide-eyed, apocalyptic terror. What combination of words could possibly compel two grounded, life-loving men to hurl themselves into the void? The crowd was practically vibrating with rage now. “First your husband, now your son-in-law! You don’t deserve to breathe the same air as us!” “You’re not leaving this room until you tell us what you said! Speak!” Surrounded by furious, grieving people, my mother calmly pried Kieran’s mother’s hands off her collar. She smoothed out the wrinkles in her silk shirt, looked slowly around the room, and let out a chillingly hollow laugh. “I dare to say it,” she challenged, her voice dropping an octave. “But do any of you dare to listen?” The ballroom went dead silent. The screaming stopped. People physically took a step back, exchanging terrified glances. It was a kill phrase. Two men had heard it, and two men had chosen instant death over living another second with those words in their heads. Human curiosity is a powerful thing, but self-preservation is stronger. No one made a sound. Except me. I stepped through the crowd. “I dare.” Because of those words, the father who adored me and the man who was going to spend his life with me were both dead. I needed to know why. Even if it killed me, I didn’t care anymore. My mother’s eyes locked onto mine, dark and fathomless. “Are you absolutely sure?” I nodded, my jaw set. “Tell me.” A flicker of something—sorrow? resignation?—passed through her eyes. She stepped into my space, leaned her face against mine, and whispered the words into my ear…

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Three years ago, the wedding that was supposed to be the highlight of the New York social season became my public execution. My ex, Quentin, didn’t just leave me at the altar; he replaced me. In front of eight hundred guests, he announced a change of plans, a change of brides, and a total erasure of my dignity. I shattered that day. For a long time, the only thing I lived with was a crippling, suffocating depression that felt like drowning in slow motion. Then came Gideon. He stepped into my life like a sunrise in a dark room. With a patience that felt holy, he stitched the pieces of my soul back together. He swore on everything he held dear that he would be my anchor, my sanctuary, my forever. I actually believed him. I believed I had finally found a way out of the wreckage. Until today—sixty minutes before our vows were set to begin. Gideon walked into the bridal suite, but he wasn’t carrying flowers. He was holding a bridesmaid’s dress. His face was a mask of cold indifference as he dropped the fabric onto the vanity and told me to put it on. I gripped the lace of my white gown, my knuckles turning white. I couldn’t process the words. My brain kept stuttering, trying to find a reason, a joke, anything. He looked at my stunned face and let out a short, jagged laugh. It was a sound I’d never heard from him before—it lacked any trace of the man who had held me while I cried. He told me, quite casually, that he’d forgotten to mention a small detail: the bride had changed. He had a “kept woman”—a girl he called his little songbird. Apparently, she had been demanding a title, a place in the sun. So, he decided to give her my wedding. Gideon had the audacity to offer me a hollow comfort. He said the legal marriage certificate would still bear my name; the ceremony, the dress, the public “I do”—that was just a performance for her. A gift. The door pushed open before I could even scream. Callie strolled in. She moved with a slow, predatory grace. Half of her face was stunning, like a masterpiece, but the other half… it was a nightmare of melted wax and distorted features. It was a haunting, visceral sight. Without a word, she reached out and ripped the silk from my shoulders, tearing the wedding dress right off my body until I was standing there in nothing but my slip. She looked at me with a twisted, triumphant smile and called me “sister.” The word felt like a slap. That’s when the realization hit me like a physical blow. I knew her. She was the woman Quentin had married after he left me. Gideon didn’t even flinch. He wrapped his arm around Callie’s waist and kissed her right there, in the middle of my ruined dreams. He looked proud. He looked satisfied. Callie leaned into him, her eyes locked on mine with pure malice. She whispered that my ex, Quentin, certainly had good taste—that she was “exquisite” in bed, a fact Quentin had clearly appreciated. Her words were a serrated blade, sawing through the last of my heart. I had been betrayed before, but I never thought I’d be led to the same slaughterhouse by a different man. The hope, the trust, the healing—it was all a lie. The abyss I had fought so hard to climb out of opened its mouth and swallowed me whole. … “What’s the point of being a beauty queen if you can’t even keep a husband?” “Seriously, is this Callie girl some kind of sorceress? She looks like that, yet she’s stolen two husbands from the most beautiful woman in the city? I need her to start a masterclass.” “Men are all the same. Callie must be thrilled—from mistress to wife, and she gets to make the ‘rightful’ bride play bridesmaid twice!” The whispers drifted through the air, sharp and poisonous. I dug my fingernails into my palms until I felt the warm slickness of blood, but the physical pain was a dull thud compared to the screaming in my head. An hour ago, I was the woman of the hour. Now, just like three years ago, my carefully planned life was nothing but a dowry for Callie. On the stage, they were exchanging rings. I wanted to run. I wanted to scream until my lungs gave out. But Gideon’s voice—that beautiful, demonic voice—was still vibrating in my ears. “If you walk out that door, your sister’s ventilator stops tonight. Daisy won’t make it to sunrise.” When he saw the color drain from my face, he had the nerve to lean in. He kissed me with the same mouth he’d just used on Callie. “Don’t look like that, Izzy,” he’d whispered. “Once I’m bored with her, things will go back to how they were. Your ex only lasted three months with her before he was done. Just hold on a little longer…” He watched my reaction, his eyes searching for my pain. When he saw my eyes turn bloodshot with unshed tears, he laughed—a bright, joyous sound. “Yes! That’s it! That’s the exact face you made three years ago when Quentin replaced you at the altar!” Callie stood beside him, looking down at me from the height of her stolen pedestal. “Pathetic,” she mouthed. I didn’t look at her. My heart felt like it was being flayed alive. “Why?” I gasped, my fingers catching the fabric of his lapel. “Why, Gideon? Why are you doing this?” He smiled, a cruel, handsome tilt of his lips. “Why? Why do you always need a reason? I fell for you at first sight—you didn’t ask why then. Now I’ve got a taste for someone else, and you’re obsessed with the ‘why’ of it?” “Fine. You want a reason? She’s better in bed. She makes me feel things you can’t. Is that enough for you?” My hands began to shake uncontrollably. It had been a year since my last major episode, but the tremors were back—the physical manifestation of a soul breaking apart. Gideon’s eyes flickered with a momentary panic. He reached into his pocket and pulled out my medication, trying to force a pill into my mouth. Even while he was destroying me, he carried my meds. He acted as if he still couldn’t stand to see me hurt. I had been so afraid of marriage. It took every ounce of my strength to say yes to him, to believe that love wasn’t a trap. How could he turn his heart off like a faucet? And how could he choose her—the one person who had already gutted me once before? I couldn’t hold it back anymore. I broke. The sobs tore out of me, jagged and ugly. Gideon was the first to notice the tears. His face shifted from concern to a sneering contempt. “Isabel, you’re still so incredibly stupid.” “You lose a man and all you know how to do is cry. But unfortunately for you, there’s no ‘second me’ coming to save you this time.” As if on cue, the doors burst open and the paparazzi swarmed in like vultures. The flashes were blinding, the shutter clicks sounding like gunfire. The questions were relentless, honed to draw blood. “Miss Thorne, can you explain why the invitations had your name, but you’re standing here in a bridesmaid’s dress?” “How does it feel to be dumped at the altar for the second time? Do you think you’re just cursed?” “We heard you struggle with clinical depression. You’re shaking—is this a nervous breakdown on live TV?” “How does it feel to lose two men to a woman like Callie?” I clenched my fists, my gaze burning into Gideon. He leaned in and mouthed two words: “Quentin. Accident.” The blood turned to ice in my veins. Three years ago, when Quentin announced Callie as his bride, I had lost my mind. I had screamed. I had slapped him in front of everyone. The price for that slap was my family’s car being run off the road that night. My parents died instantly. My sister, Daisy, survived by a miracle, but she hadn’t opened her eyes since. Quentin had whispered it to me at the funeral: “If you’d just been a good girl, they’d still be alive.” Callie had laughed in my face: “Who cares if you’re the ‘it-girl’? You’re just a discarded toy. You can’t beat me.” Gideon was reminding me of the cost of rebellion. He was holding my sister’s life over my head. I took a shuddering breath, my teeth gritted so hard I thought they might shatter. I turned to the cameras, my voice trembling but audible. “I… I have no comment. I just wish Mr. and Mrs. Vance a very happy life together.” Gideon smiled, satisfied. With that one sentence, I became the headline. I was the national laughingstock. The girl who didn’t just lose—she thanked them for it. That night, Gideon brought both of us back to the penthouse. Callie had been his “bird in a cage” for a year, but this was her first time stepping into the home I had built. I had spent a month decorating the master suite for our wedding night. She took one look at it and claimed it. She looped her arms around Gideon’s neck, her eyes fixed on me. “Gideon, honey… I’m your wife now. That means everything here is mine, right?” Gideon looked at her distorted face with a terrifyingly tender smile. “Everything.” “What about her?” Callie pointed a manicured finger at me. I felt my heart hammering against my ribs, a trapped bird in a cage of bone. Gideon leaned down and playfully nipped her nose. “Do whatever you want with her.” I turned to run. I didn’t care about the consequences; I just needed to be out of that house. But Gideon’s low, melodic voice drifted down the hall. “Are you forgetting Daisy? You really want to run?” I froze. Daisy was all I had left. My parents were gone because of me. I couldn’t let her blood be on my hands too. I turned back. Seeing Callie’s face in the dim light of the hallway sent a fresh jolt of horror through me. No matter how many times I saw it—the way the skin on the left side of her face sagged and puckered—the primal fear remained. Callie caught my expression. Her smile vanished, replaced by a cold, sharp fury. “You’re afraid of my face, aren’t you?” My scalp tingled with dread. She had been bullied for that face her entire life. She was hyper-sensitive to every flinch, every look of pity or disgust. I could see the murderous intent in her eyes. “No… no, I’m not…” “Aren’t you?” Callie laughed, a sound like dry leaves skittering on a grave. “Gideon, I don’t like her. Let’s just kill her. Let’s get rid of her for good.” She said it with the sweetness of a child asking for candy. I remembered then what Quentin had told me—that the “accident” that killed my parents had been Callie’s idea. Why were men so drawn to this kind of darkness? Why did they choose her over me? Gideon’s expression flickered with a brief, sharp annoyance. “Callie, don’t forget your place.” “Isabel is still the woman I publicly claimed. She has a certain… value. You? You’re still the thing that stays in the shadows.” Callie’s face twisted with resentment. I looked at Gideon, a tiny spark of hope igniting in my chest. Maybe he still cared. Maybe this was some sick test. But then he crushed it. “You can do anything you want to her,” he said, his voice cold as a winter morning. “Just don’t kill her.” That was the moment I finally died. Callie let out a jagged, manic laugh. She grabbed a steak knife from the side table. She pinned me against the wall, her nails digging into my cheeks, and pressed the cold, sharp edge of the blade against my skin. She didn’t even push hard, but I felt the stinging line of heat as the skin parted. I was paralyzed. “Please… not my face…” My face was the only thing I had left of my mother. I looked so much like her. It was my only connection to the life I had lost. But Callie was beyond reason. Her words were venom, dripping into my wounds. “I hate this pretty little face of yours.” “Why do you get to be the one everyone loves? Why do people look at you with stars in their eyes while they look at me like I’m a monster? You’re the ‘Belle of the Hamptons,’ right? Let’s see how they like you when you look just like me.” “No! Gideon! Please! You know… you know what this face means to me!” I was sobbing so hard I could barely speak. I looked at Gideon, pleading with my eyes. He had told me a thousand times that my face was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He knew I used it to see my mother’s ghost in the mirror. He watched. He didn’t blink. He didn’t move. He wasn’t just indifferent; he was enjoying the spectacle. I realized then that he didn’t love me. He didn’t even love Callie. He loved the power of breaking things. The instinct to survive—or perhaps just the pure terror—gave me a sudden burst of strength. I shoved Callie away. She tripped, the knife slipping from her hand, and as she fell, the blade caught the “good” side of her face, slicing a deep, ragged line across her cheek. She let out a blood-curdling scream. I didn’t wait. I bolted for the door, my throat dry and burning. But the bodyguards were already there. They blocked the exit, their faces like stone. Behind me, Gideon’s voice was slow, almost bored. “Izzy, I really didn’t want to ruin that face. I liked looking at it.” He walked toward me, his steps heavy and deliberate. He grabbed my jaw, forcing me to look at Callie, who was clutching her bleeding face and howling. “But you broke my favorite toy’s face. She’s very sensitive about her looks, Izzy. I’m afraid I can’t protect you anymore.” Callie’s screams turned into a manic, guttural sound. Gideon handed her back the knife. No matter how much I begged, no matter how much I screamed, he remained unmoved. He held me down. He literally held me down while Callie took her revenge. The blade cut into me, again and again. The sensation of skin being carved away was a white-hot agony that transcled pain. Everything in my vision turned a thick, sticky red. Through the haze, I heard Gideon whispering in my ear. “It’s okay, Izzy. I’ll still love you even when you’re ugly. Not like Quentin. He only loved the surface. I love the broken things.” Darkness began to pull at the edges of my consciousness. I drifted into a memory. Two years ago. Gideon had taken me to my final therapy session. The doctor told me I could stop the meds. Gideon had been so happy; he’d kissed my forehead and promised me a surprise. While I waited for him, I ran into Quentin. I was happy then. I had light in my eyes. Quentin saw it and told me he regretted everything. He tried to touch me, tried to pull me into his car. Gideon saw us. He didn’t see me rejecting Quentin; he saw me “glowing” because of him. He convinced himself that I was still in love with the man who had destroyed me. I had tried to explain for months, but he just went silent. I woke up to the sound of rhythmic thumping and moaning from the next room. “Gideon… do you like the black lace or the white?” “I like it all…” The sound of his voice through the wall was a spike through my heart. My body began to shake—the tremors were so violent I thought my bones might snap. Gideon. You saved me from the darkness, only to become the monster waiting in it. I listened to them for hours. Every sound was a fresh cut. Finally, the room next door went quiet. I heard the click of a lighter, and then Gideon walked into my room. He knew I was a light sleeper. When we first moved in, he had the entire place carpeted and padded so I wouldn’t wake up. He turned the house into a sanctuary of silence. Now, he used the sounds of his betrayal to wake me. “Does it hurt?” he asked. The tremors were so bad I couldn’t move. He sat on the edge of my bed and traced the bandages on the ruined half of my face as if he were touching silk. “I won’t ever leave you,” he whispered. “I just wanted you to feel the pain. If it hurts enough, you’ll never be able to forget me, will you?” “When this is all over, it’ll just be us. Forever.” I stared at him, my voice a broken rasp. “What are you talking about? I told you… I don’t love Quentin. I haven’t thought about him in years.” Gideon’s laugh was a hollow, self-deprecating thing. “Is that so? But Izzy… you don’t know, do you? Every night for the last three years, you’ve called out his name in your sleep. Every. Single. Night.” His eyes were bloodshot, manic. So this was it? All this horror because of a name I muttered in my nightmares? Or did he just want to own my trauma? I shook my head, tears leaking from my one good eye. “Gideon, please, you have to believe me… I was having nightmares… I was dreaming about the accident…” “I don’t believe you,” he said, his voice flat. He pulled out a phone and showed me a screen. It was a live feed of Daisy’s hospital room. “See this button?” he whispered. “One tap, and the oxygen flow to her ventilator stops. Don’t hate me, Izzy. I just can’t have you remembering him anymore. I have to be the only one left.” “No… no, please!” I screamed. I couldn’t lose her. I couldn’t be the reason she died. As his thumb hovered over the screen, something in me snapped. The pain in my body vanished, replaced by a surge of pure, adrenaline-fueled desperation. I threw myself at him.

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