Category: English

On the night of our seventh anniversary, Chelsea ladled a bowl of savory chicken broth for me, then slid a contract across the polished marble kitchen island. “I know you’ve always wanted your own gallery,” she said, her voice smooth, almost casual. “It opens next month.” I stared at her, my heart leaping with a sudden, breathless hope. She offered me a faint, amused smile. “Actually, Jesse, there’s something I haven’t been entirely honest about. That million-dollar debt from years ago? It was never real. I’m the sole heiress to the Whitmore estate. The struggle, the tight budgets—it was a test my family insisted on. And you passed beautifully.” But in the very next breath, she dropped a bomb so casually I almost missed it. “But there’s a catch. The role of the Whitmore son-in-law has to go to Oliver.” “The night you were locked away in your studio finishing those commission drafts… we had a few too many drinks. Things got out of hand. I’m pregnant with his child.” “I know you two are like brothers. When the baby is born, we want you to be the godfather.” “Everything else stays the same. He gets the Whitmore name on paper, but my heart belongs to you, Jesse. It always will.” A sudden, violent chill swept through me. My fingers slipped into the pocket of my heavy wool coat, which I hadn’t even had the chance to take off. Inside was a folded piece of paper—the neurologist’s diagnosis. The permanent, irreversible nerve damage in my right hand. “I know this is a lot to take in,” Chelsea continued, her tone as even as if she were discussing tomorrow’s weather forecast. “But we can’t delay this.” “Oliver’s heart condition is fragile. The news of the pregnancy put so much stress on him; he’s been having severe palpitations and blacking out. He can’t be left alone right now. You’ve always been the sensible one, Jesse. Go focus on setting up the gallery for a few weeks. Once his health stabilizes, I’ll make it up to you.” I looked down at the steaming broth. Suddenly, the last seven years of my life felt like a cruel, elaborate punchline. Ever since I helped Chelsea launch her startup, sleepless nights had become my default state. In those early days, we survived on low-budget, fast-turnaround freelance gigs that came with endless demands. … 1 I couldn’t count how many nights I had worked until dawn, my fingers cramping so badly I couldn’t grip the stylus, crying silently on the cold hardwood floor of my cramped studio surrounded by rejected drafts. After drying my face, I’d dial the clients to apologize and beg for another chance. Even when the repetitive strain turned into chronic tendinitis, I never uttered a single word of complaint. Back then, Chelsea would wrap my throbbing wrist in a warm compress, looking at me with soft, tear-filled eyes, whispering that things would get better. I looked at her now, my voice sounding like gravel. “If that million-dollar debt was a lie… what did you feel during those seven years? Watching me sketch for fourteen hours a day? Watching me refuse to buy a single new winter coat? Watching me drink myself to a bleeding ulcer just to secure a small investment for your company? What did you feel, Chelsea?” Chelsea went quiet for a moment, then reached across the table to cover my hand with hers. “Sweetheart, I know you feel cheated. But your background… my family would never have accepted it without a fight. I’ve been fighting for us.” “What happened with Oliver was a mistake. He’s sick, he was vulnerable, and he came on to me. We’d both been drinking. But I don’t love him, Jesse. You are the only man I love.” “As for Oliver… once the baby is born, I’ll arrange a trust fund and send him abroad to get the best cardiac care. We’ll raise the baby together. We’ll tell everyone it’s ours, and you will always be my real husband.” She spoke with such absolute earnestness that I realized she actually believed her own lies. But the ache in my right hand was intensifying now, a sharp, throbbing line of pain that seemed to find its way directly to my chest. “Do your parents know?” I asked, shifting the subject. I didn’t miss the sudden flicker of guilt in her eyes. “They… they insisted that the first grandchild of the Whitmore line cannot be born out of wedlock. They want me and Oliver to go back to the estate together. To make things official.” I wanted to laugh. It was almost funny. For seven years, I wasn’t even allowed to know where her family home was. I wasn’t worthy of their threshold. Now, thanks to Oliver, I finally had an invitation. Chelsea noticed my expression hardening, and her voice softened even further, taking on a coaxing, maternal tone. “Sweetheart, I know it hurts. But it’s already done. Think about it—Oliver is your best friend. His child is practically your child. What difference does it make?” She opened her mouth to say more, but her phone buzzed loudly on the counter. “Your chest is hurting again? Oliver, don’t take any pills yet. I’m on my way.” She grabbed her car keys from the hook, murmuring frantic reassurances into the receiver. Slipping into her flats by the door, she looked back at me. “I need to check on him, Jesse. We’ll talk when I get back. Drink the broth, okay? Don’t let yourself get hungry.” My fingers tightened around the diagnosis sheet in my pocket. I took a slow, trembling breath. “Chelsea. What if I told you my hand is ruined? That I can never paint again?” She paused, her hand hovering over the phone’s microphone. “Jesse, you’re not the type to make jokes like that. Stop acting out.” The door clicked shut behind her. I pulled the neurologist’s report out of my pocket, unfolding the crisp paper and flattening it on the dining table. It lay right beside the gallery transfer deed. I sat there in the silence of the empty house, watching the steam slowly rise from the bowl of broth until it grew cold and still. Outside, the pale, gray dawn of a Boston morning began to bleed through the window, illuminating the dust motes in the air. I picked up the bowl, took a single sip, and forced myself to swallow. Chelsea had always been an excellent cook. During those brutal, all-night drawing sessions, she would always bring me a hot bowl of soup. But this time, the taste made my stomach turn. A sudden wave of intense nausea hit me. I pushed the bowl away, rushed to the bathroom, and emptied my stomach until there was nothing left. I didn’t see Chelsea for the rest of the night. The next morning, her personal assistant knocked on the door, handing me a sleek black American Express card and a brass key. “Mr. Dalton,” the assistant said politely, “Ms. Whitmore asked me to deliver this. It’s a black card with no spending limit. Also, the penthouse on the East Side has been fully prepared. She wants you to rest there for the time being.” I stared at the plastic card, a dry, bitter laugh escaping my throat. Back in college, I had worked myself to the bone, taking on every miserable freelance gig just to fund Chelsea’s startup. I had tolerated every demanding, toxic client imaginable, sacrificing my physical and mental health just to keep her business afloat. And yet, with a single reveal of her true identity, she could produce a black card and a multi-million-dollar penthouse without blinking. In a sick way, I supposed I had Oliver to thank. Without his betrayal, I might never have witnessed the sheer scale of the Whitmore fortune. But the humor died quickly. I tossed the card and the key onto the table, pulled out my phone, and called Oliver. “Send me the address,” I said. Silence stretched over the line for a few seconds before he softly, hesitantly gave me the address to his luxury high-rise in Back Bay. A cold smirk touched my lips. I hung up and called an Uber. Chelsea was the one who opened the door. She was wearing a cozy knit lounge set, holding a warm mug of honey water. She froze when she saw me. “Jesse? What are you doing here?” “I came to see Oliver.” The penthouse was massive, bathed in natural light. The living room was centered around a plush, off-white sectional—Oliver’s favorite style—and a vase of fresh lilies sat on the glass coffee table. Oliver was curled up on the sofa, wrapped in a heavy cashmere throw. His face was pale, his lips nearly bloodless. When his eyes met mine, he instinctively shrank back, looking toward Chelsea for protection. “Jesse,” he whispered. I walked right past Chelsea and sat on the armchair opposite him. Chelsea followed, setting the warm mug in front of Oliver before sitting down closely beside him. She casually draped her arm along the back of the sofa behind his shoulders—a deeply practiced, protective gesture. I looked at Oliver. “Where does it hurt?” He stared down at his interlaced fingers, his voice barely audible. “My heart was racing last night. Chelsea insisted I stay here and rest.” He looked up, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. He looked exactly like he used to back in college when he got caught copying my art history assignments. “I only came here for one thing, Oliver. I want the truth. Do you love her?” Chelsea tried to interject. “Jesse, let’s discuss this back at our place.” “I’m asking him,” I said, not breaking eye contact with Oliver. “Could you stay out of it?” Chelsea’s face tightened at my sharp tone. She opened her mouth to argue, but Oliver gently tugged at her sleeve. “Chelsea, please. Let me talk to Jesse alone.” Chelsea hesitated, looking between the two of us, before finally sighing and stepping out onto the balcony. Oliver’s eyes brimmed with red. “Jesse, I know I’ve ruined everything. I know what I did to you is unforgivable. But the day the doctor told me my heart was failing… Chelsea was the only one there. She pulled strings to get me in to see the best specialist. She told me, ‘Jesse has a deadline today and couldn’t make it, so I’m here instead.’ She paid my deposit. She looked at me with so much pity. Jesse, in that moment, I realized that even if I only have one day left on this earth, I want to spend it with her.” I looked at him, feeling a dull, aching laceration in my chest. This was a brother I had shared ten years of my life with. I knew him well enough to recognize that his vulnerability, his desperation, was entirely real. But what about me? To raise the money for his heart transplant, I had pulled endless double shifts taking on extra freelance illustrations. For Chelsea, I had turned down a prestigious, fully-funded residency in Paris. Every spare ounce of my energy, my time, and my health had been poured into the two of them. Even the day of Oliver’s surgery, I had slipped down a flight of concrete stairs in a torrential downpour while running to grab a lucky charm he’d asked for, nearly shattering my right wrist. And yet, my best friend had climbed into bed with my fiancée. “Loving someone isn’t a crime, Oliver,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “But using your illness to trap my fiancée, knowing exactly what she meant to me, is. Playing the victim while you two secretly carried on behind my back is.” His lips trembled. “Jesse, you love her too, but you don’t understand the terror of knowing your own heart could stop at any second. I was drowning. I just wanted a lifeline. I couldn’t sleep, thinking about dying alone. I just wanted someone to lean on…” “So because you needed a lifeline, I’m supposed to just hand over my fiancée?” My throat was parched, the words tasting like ash. He looked up, his tears still wet on his cheeks, but his gaze had shifted. The guilt was still there, but beneath it lay a simmering resentment, a bitter sense of entitlement. “Jesse, do you have any idea what Chelsea told me about you? She said you were too intense. She said you were so consumed by your work and your drive that she felt like she was suffocating around you. She said she only felt truly needed when she was with me.” He wiped his eyes, his breathing growing ragged as he leaned forward and grabbed my shoulder. “Do you know what it felt like for me? To be her dirty little secret? A shadow hidden in the dark, thrown a scrap of pity whenever she felt like it, while you got to be her fiancé in the light?” I sat there, ignoring the sharp twinges of pain firing down my right arm, and simply stared at him. So that was it. In his mind, he was the victim. He truly believed we had wronged him. There was nothing left to say. Looking at him, I realized with a chilling certainty that the boy I had grown up with was gone. I stood up to leave, but he lunged forward, grabbing my sleeve and sobbing hysterically. “Jesse! You neglected her for years for your art! You never gave her the warmth she needed—why couldn’t you let me do it? The Whitmores have more money than they know what to do with, and she’s carrying my child. I can finally get the medical care I need without worrying about dying in debt! I just want to live! You’ve always been better than me at everything, Jesse. You’ve always let me win. Can’t you just let me have this one thing?” I reached down and pried his fingers off my arm, one by one. “You’re out of your mind, Oliver.” Panic flared in his eyes. He scrambled to his feet to block my path, but his balance gave way. He stumbled, crashing heavily into the glass coffee table. The glass shattered with a deafening crack. He collapsed among the shards, clutching his chest, gasping in agony. The balcony door flew open. Chelsea charged into the room like a tempest, violently shoving me aside as I stood there in shock. She knelt beside Oliver, cradling him with a frantic, desperate tenderness, then looked up at me, her eyes burning with pure disgust. “Jesse, how could you? You’re a monster!” Oliver’s eyes fluttered, looking at me with a weak, pleading gaze. “Jesse… I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have…” “Oliver, stop,” Chelsea snapped, her voice breaking with worry as she helped him up. “You don’t owe him an apology. He’s the one who should be begging for forgiveness.” She escorted him toward the exit, pausing at the threshold to look back at me. Her expression was cold, hard, and utterly devoid of the warmth we had shared for seven years. “Jesse Dalton, pack your things and go back to that dead-end town you came from. If I ever catch you near Oliver again, I will personally ensure you never get another art commission in this industry. I’ll ruin you.” My father stood in the center of the room, looking frantically between me and the hallway. Finally, he gave me a look of deep disappointment. “Stop being selfish, Jesse,” he whispered, before turning on his heel to chase after them. Their footsteps faded down the corridor, along with Oliver’s ragged, shallow breathing, leaving nothing but the hum of the hospital monitors. A dry laugh escaped my throat. I reached over, ripped the IV out of my left arm, and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. My right hand throbbed with a sickening, white-hot intensity, but I pressed my shoulder against the wall and slowly dragged myself down to the reception desk. I paid my bill using my own meager savings, leaving me with almost nothing. Then, I placed the black Amex card on the counter. “Return this to Chelsea Whitmore,” I told the receptionist. I walked out of the hospital doors and bought a one-way ticket on the first Greyhound bus out of Boston. I didn’t pack. I didn’t look back.

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Being married to a woman who couldn’t speak was, surprisingly, the most harmonious relationship of my life. But after five years of trying, and failing, to have a baby, the silence between us had grown suffocating. I finally snapped. “For God’s sake, Cecilia, give me something to work with here. Are you even trying?” That was the exact moment the Ticker appeared. Lately, in moments of high emotional stress, my mind had started projecting a bizarre, magical-realism phenomenon—a translucent, scrolling feed of text in my field of vision, like a live comment section ruthlessly judging my life. [Does the placeholder husband really have the nerve to blame her? Bro, you have low sperm motility. It’s a miracle if she ever gets pregnant.] [Hasn’t the female lead cooperated enough for five years? If she were with a guy who actually had functioning swimmers, she’d be pregnant on the first try.] [Don’t worry. The real male lead, Felix, just got back. They reunited at the Davis gala yesterday.] [The divorce papers she drafted are already sitting in her study drawer. Time for the side-character husband to step down.] Before I could even process the scrolling text, Cecilia lifted her hands. Her fingers moved in the elegant, fluid sign language we had perfected over the years: “Do you want to try again?” My chest hollowed out. I bypassed our bed, walked straight down the hall into her study, and yanked open the top drawer of her mahogany desk. The pristine stack of legal documents stared back at me. I returned to the bedroom, the papers heavy in my hand. “You want to divorce me?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. … 1 “…” Cecilia looked at the divorce agreement, her expression unreadable. She picked up her phone, her manicured thumbs flying across the screen, and held it up to me. “Wesley, do you love me?” I stared at the glowing pixels, completely thrown. Cecilia Davis and I were set up by her grandfather. We had zero emotional foundation going into this. Whether we loved each other had never seemed to matter. And yet, for five years, we had worked. Five years ago, a severe trauma left her with psychosomatic mutism. The doctors said her vocal cords were fine, but her mind had locked the door to her voice. We learned to communicate in the quiet spaces—a brush of shoulders, a shared glance, the silent cadence of sign language. It wasn’t a grand, sweeping romance, but our souls seemed to click into place. “Does it matter?” I deflected, my voice hardening. “You know as well as I do that our marriage was a transaction. We both got what we needed.” The light in Cecilia’s eyes instantly died. The heat that had been building between us just moments ago evaporated, leaving a chilling void. She turned without a sound and walked into the master bathroom, the click of the lock echoing in the large room. The Ticker rolled past my vision: [Of course it matters.] [What Cecilia wants is a partner who actually loves her.] [He doesn’t love her, but he’s perfectly happy to monopolize her time and her body.] [Unlike Felix. Felix’s love for her has always been open, proud, and unapologetic.] [Felix Harrington comes from real money. He’s her equal. If Cecilia hadn’t lost her voice five years ago, and if Felix hadn’t gone to Milan to study fashion, a regular guy like Wes Callahan would never have married into the Davis empire.] [Now that Felix is back, she’s naturally going to find an excuse to divorce Wes.] [LMAO, Wes still actually thinks he can get her pregnant.] [Isn’t he just after the Davis trust fund and her flawless genetics?] [Too bad he’s been shooting blanks for five years. Not a single successful pregnancy.] [All that effort for nothing.] Suddenly, a wave of profound exhaustion washed over me. For the past five years, to optimize our chances of conceiving, I had lived like a monk. Strict sleep schedules, grueling workouts, militant diets. Yes, Cecilia came from a dynastic East Coast family. Yes, she was breathtakingly beautiful. But my desire for a child had absolutely nothing to do with Davis money. I was a marine biologist specializing in deep-water extremophiles. By nature, I was a cave diver—one of the most lethal extreme sports on the planet. Five years ago, I suffered severe nitrogen narcosis—the “martini effect”—during a deep-cave expedition. I nearly died. After that, I transitioned to a desk-heavy research role, drastically cutting down my dives. But the call of the water never left me. The dark, flooded veins of the earth still pulled at me like a magnet. When we got married, I desperately wanted a child. I wanted an anchor. I knew that if I had a son or a daughter tying me to the surface, I would finally have the strength to let go of my dangerous obsession with the deep. Just as the Ticker said. Five years of militant effort, and nothing. I had spent half a decade quietly assuming the issue lay with Cecilia’s stress levels. I never imagined that I was the broken one. The prolonged exposure to immense deep-water pressure over my career must have compromised me. Five years ago, Richard Davis, the patriarch of the family, orchestrated our meeting. I always assumed Cecilia only picked me because she had lost her voice and was settling for someone safe, someone who wouldn’t demand a spotlight. Now, her “one who got away” was back. There was no reason for me to drag this out. Taking a pen from the nightstand, I flipped to the last page and signed my name on the thick, textured paper. When Cecilia finally emerged from the bathroom, enveloped in a cloud of steam, I handed the documents back to her. “It’s signed,” I said, my tone aggressively neutral. “I’ll pack my things and move out tomorrow.” Cecilia stared at my jagged signature. Her eyes, usually a cool, crystalline blue, flushed red at the rims. She typed on her phone: “Have you thought this through?” I nodded. “Yeah. I have.” The reason I was cutting the cord so cleanly wasn’t born of spite. It was born of self-preservation. Because lately, I had realized something terrifying: I was starting to fall in love with my wife. But Cecilia was emotionally impenetrable. Cool, composed, and impossibly guarded. If she was holding onto the ghost of a first love, the most dignified thing I could do was exit the stage before my heart was entirely collateral damage. The Ticker mocked me: [Oh, please. Your little crush is nothing compared to what Felix feels.] [And so what if you’re catching feelings? Cecilia doesn’t like you.] [She and Felix have been waiting for each other all these years.] [Stepping aside is the only smart thing you’ve done.] Cecilia’s fingers tightened around the thick paper, her knuckles turning white. She walked back into the study and shoved the papers back into the drawer, slamming it shut. I went to the liquor cabinet, pulled out a bottle of rye I had been aging for years, and poured a heavy measure. I downed it in one burning swallow. The alcohol seared my throat, but it didn’t burn away the memories of the last five years. Before we got the marriage license, I had laid all my cards on the table. I told her about my ex-girlfriend, Nicole Foster. Nicole was a fellow cave diver, my partner in the water and in life for four years. During the dive where I got narced and nearly died, Nicole’s air supply was running critical. Instead of trying to haul my delirious body out, she cut the line. She left me in the dark and swam for the surface alone. I was saved by a nameless, faceless stranger—another diver who dragged me to an underwater decompression habitat. I spent two weeks in a hospital bed. The day I was discharged, I broke up with Nicole. It took me two years to even consider dating again, which led to the blind date with Cecilia. I could talk about Nicole with the clinical detachment of a scientist discussing an old specimen. It meant I was over her. But Cecilia? She had never once mentioned her romantic history. The things we bury deepest, the names we refuse to speak—those are the ones we can never truly forget. Felix Harrington. I knew the name. He was a rising star in bespoke menswear. When Cecilia and I got married, he was working in Milan for a legacy Italian fashion house. The suit I wore to marry Cecilia was from that exact brand. Just a few days ago, I had seen a feature on him in “GQ”. He had returned to New York to launch his own eponymous label. The interviewer had asked, “Felix, why leave the prestige of Milan to start from scratch in the States?” He had offered a devastatingly handsome, melancholic smile. “My first love is here.” “I came back to build my brand, yes. But more importantly, I want to wear a suit of my own design when I marry the woman I’ve always loved.” “So, we can expect wedding bells soon?” the interviewer teased. “That’s up to her,” Felix replied smoothly. “But I’m ready.” “Any plans for a family?” “We both love kids. I think we’ll aim for three.” The Ticker had said Felix wouldn’t have my “issues.” One try, and she’d be pregnant. A sharp, acidic ache bloomed in the center of my chest. Later that night, I pretended to be asleep when Cecilia finally came to bed. In the liminal space between waking and dreaming, I felt her slip under the covers and press her body against my back, just as she always did. I felt the soft, hesitant press of her lips against my shoulder blade, then the nape of my neck. She found the small mole resting just above my collarbone and kissed it with a desperate, lingering reverence. Her touch was scorching. A complete betrayal of the ice queen she played during the day.

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My brother’s new girlfriend was supposed to be so sweet to me. When my parents had to go out of town on business, she volunteered to stay and take care of me. But the moment they left, she saw me crawling on the carpet with my pacifier, playing with my blocks, and she walked over and kicked my tower over. “You’re twenty-two years old,” she sneered. “What are you doing play-acting like a toddler?” “You’re just some charity case, some childhood tagalong they adopted because they felt sorry for you. You think you can just cling to the Bradford family forever?” She grabbed my hair, pulling me down, and shoved my face into the freezing water. I thrashed wildly, desperate for air. “Still acting? Jack is working late tonight, and there’s no one else in this house. Today, I’m going to cure you of this ‘baby act’ once and for all!” I looked up at her, utterly lost, water dripping down my chin. What baby act? When we were children, a heavy cabinet fell on us. I pushed Jack out of the way, and my head was crushed. My brain stopped growing. My mind stayed forever locked at three years old. I really am a baby. … 1 “Amber, Michelle isn’t pretending.” My face was dripping wet as Amber held me pinned against the edge of the bathroom sink. The freezing water crept down my collar, making me shiver violently. “Don’t call me Amber,” she sneered, pinching my cheek. “Do you know what bugs me most about you, Michelle? You’re a grown woman. You’re twenty-two, and you play-act like you don’t understand a single word of English.” “Jack falls for this pathetic act. I don’t.” My face hurt. I whimpered, “But Jack says… Jack says Michelle is his baby.” “Shut up!” “Slap.” My ear rang, a sharp, white-hot sting radiating across my cheek. I covered my face, squeezing my eyes shut to keep from crying out loud. Mom always said to be a good girl when we had guests. But Amber was scary. Scarier than thunder. She picked up my pacifier from the floor. “You actually put this disgusting thing in your mouth?” Panic flared in my chest. “Don’t throw it away! Jack bought it for me.” “Jack bought it?” Her face twisted, darkening with a sudden, ugly rage. “He doesn’t even pay that much attention to me.” Right in front of my eyes, she tossed the strawberry-flavored pacifier into the toilet and flushed. The water roared, swallowing it down. It was gone. I fell to my knees, sobbing at the edge of the toilet. “My pacifier! My strawberry pacifier!” I clutched my wet plush bunny, Barnaby, shaking with heavy, ragged breaths. “It’s okay, Barnaby. You’re still here. You’ll stay with Michelle.” Amber’s shadow loomed over me. I flinched, hiding Barnaby behind my back. “No.” She smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. “The more you love something, the more I want to break it. I’m going to make sure you realize exactly who runs this house now.” She pulled a pair of silver shears out of the drawer. I shook my head, terror paralyzing my legs. “Please, no. Amber, don’t cut Barnaby.” She crouched down, her voice suddenly dropping into a sweet, coaxing purr. “Then admit it. Admit you’re faking. Say you’re staying with Jack on purpose.” The words were too big. I didn’t understand. I could only shake my head, tears blurring my vision. “Michelle isn’t faking. Jack is my brother.” The sweetness vanished instantly. “You really are a little actress, aren’t you?” “Snip.” Barnaby’s long, floppy ear fell to the floor. I screamed, throwing myself forward. “Barnaby hurts! Barnaby hurts!” “Snip.” His little head tumbled off, and white stuffing exploded across the bathroom tiles like snow. I fell to my hands and knees, desperately trying to scoop the loose cotton back into my arms. “Mom will fix it. Mom can sew him back together…” Amber’s boot came down hard, crushing Barnaby’s hollow body into the wet tile. “Your mother hates you too.” I froze, a piece of white fluff clutched in my fist. “Do you really think their business trip was a coincidence? They wanted to get away from you. They’re sick of you.” “Your brother is busy with work, and your parents have their own lives. Who would want to spend every single day babysitting a useless, brain-dead retard?” I knew that word. “Retard.” The kids at the park used to whisper it when they thought I wasn’t listening. Jack would always pick me up back then, glaring at them, whispering in my ear that they were wrong. He’d say Michelle wasn’t dumb; she was just a little baby who was taking her time to grow up. I bit my lip, my voice trembling. “Liar.” Amber unlocked her phone and waved it in front of my face. The screen showed a photo of her standing next to Jack. She looked beautiful, smiling wide. “See this? I’m his girlfriend. I’m going to marry him and move in here. What are you?” “I’m his sister,” I whispered. “An adopted sister with zero blood relation. It’s disgusting.” She dragged me out of the bathroom by my arm. My knee slammed against the wooden doorframe, a sharp, throbbing ache radiating through my leg. I curled inward, trying to shield myself. In the living room, the castle of blocks I had spent all morning building was scattered everywhere. She kicked a blue wooden block out of the way and aimed her phone camera at me. “Come on, let’s show everyone. Let’s see how well the great, wealthy Bradford family’s little parasite can act.” I hated cameras. Jack told me never to let strangers take pictures of me. I threw my hands over my face. “No! Don’t take pictures!” She grabbed my wrists, forcing my hands down, shoving the lens inches from my face. “What’s there to be scared of? Aren’t you a cute little baby? Babies love photos. Smile!” I broke down, sobbing hysterically. “Jack! I want Jack!” At the mention of his name, her face darkened into pure malice. “You think he’s coming? Let me tell you something, Michelle. Jack isn’t coming home tonight. Your parents aren’t coming home either.” “There’s nobody here but me.” I shook my head, gasping for air. “Mr. Walter is here.” Mr. Walter made me warm milk every afternoon. He always helped me find my little yellow duck hairpins when they slipped behind the cushions of the couch. Amber’s laugh was sharp and triumphant. “I sent that old man to the warehouse across town to pick up some old boxes. He won’t be back for hours.” She grabbed the collar of my pink onesie, her voice dropping to a cold, venomous whisper. “Today, I’m going to strip this stupid baby act right off you. Piece by piece.” She shoved me back into my bedroom. My room was my safe place. It had my strawberry nightlight, my soft pillows, and the glowing plastic stars Jack had taped to the ceiling so I wouldn’t be scared. But the second Amber stepped inside, she flipped the light switch, plunging the room into darkness. “No!” I lunged forward, wrapping my arms around her leg. “Don’t! Michelle is scared of the dark. Turn on the light, please, turn it on!” She looked down at me, her eyes freezing cold. “A twenty-two-year-old afraid of the dark. Who’d believe that?” She reached for my pink plastic cup on the nightstand—the one Mom had filled with warm water before she left. I reached out, my fingers stretching. “My cup…” “Thirsty?” She turned it upside down, pouring the water directly onto the carpet. “Lick it up. You love crawling around on the floor anyway, don’t you? Just like a dog.” I didn’t understand why she was being so mean. I only crawled because my legs were weak. The doctor in the white coat had explained to my parents that after my head got hurt, my muscles didn’t always listen to my brain. Jack didn’t want me to fall and hurt myself, so he bought thick, soft carpets and told me it was okay to crawl. Amber crouched down, her face inches from mine. “Is this how you get him to feel sorry for you? ‘Oh, poor little Michelle, she’s so helpless, she can’t survive without me.’ Every time he says that, it makes me want to vomit.” “Jack loves Michelle,” I whispered, tears spilling over my cheeks. “He does it out of pity. Guilt,” she spat. “But don’t worry. I’m going to free him from you.” She reached for the small, hand-knitted blanket on my bed. I crawled forward, desperate, shielding it with my body. “No, please! Mom worked on that for so long!” Amber didn’t grab the blanket. Instead, she picked up my pink toy smart-watch from the nightstand and thrust it toward me. “Fine. Call your mother.” “You say they love you? Let’s see if they’ll come back to save you.” My eyes lit up. I scrambled to tap the screen, pressing the button with Mom’s smiling picture. “Ring… Ring…” No answer. I tried Dad’s picture. It rang and rang, but the screen just went black. Amber stood over me, her arms crossed, a mocking sneer on her lips. “See? They don’t want you. They’re ignoring you.” “No!” I sobbed, shaking my head. “They’re on an airplane. Mom said they can’t talk on the phone when they’re in the sky.” She snatched the watch from my hand. “They lied to you because they wanted to run away! They’re never coming back!” “Give it back!” I cried, reaching for it. “Jack said I can always call!” With a cruel flick of her wrist, she tossed the watch into my fish tank. There was a soft “plop”, a brief bubble of light, and then the screen died in the water. “You’re bad,” I whimpered. “You’re a bad girl.” Her face contorted. “What did you just say?” I shrank back, terrified. “Bad…” She grabbed me by my wrists and dragged me toward the closet. The heavy wooden doors stood open, revealing a pitch-black cavern. The sight of it broke something inside me. I screamed, thrashing wildly. “No! Not in there! Michelle is scared!” I clawed at the wooden doorframe, my fingernails scraping against the paint until they bent back, white-hot pain shooting up my fingers. But I wouldn’t let go. She pried my fingers off one by one, her grip like iron, and shoved me into the dark closet. “Good. Maybe a little darkness will teach you to stay away from Jack.” “Slam.” The door shut, swallowing me whole. I collapsed into the pile of clothes, crying and pounding my little fists against the wood. “Amber! Please! Open the door! Michelle will be good… Michelle is sorry…” Her muffled, irritated voice filtered through the wood. “You can come out when you admit you’re a liar.” I buried my face in the soft sweaters, choking on the stuffy, warm air. After what felt like forever, the distant, sweet sound of the doorbell chimed. “Ding-dong.” It had to be Mr. Walter! I gathered all the strength in my small body and banged on the door. “Mr. Walter! Help me! Michelle is in here!” Heavy footsteps approached my room. I heard the door open, and then Mr. Walter’s voice, thick with worry. “Miss Amber? I felt uneasy on the drive over. Jack explicitly told me not to leave Michelle alone for too long. Where is she?” I screamed as loud as I could. “Mr. Walter! I’m here! In the closet!” But the closet was deep, and the heavy oak doors muffled my voice into nothing but a faint rustle. “She’s sleeping,” Amber said, her voice smooth and airy. “She wore herself out playing.” “I would like to check on her,” Mr. Walter insisted, his tone firm. Silence stretched for a long, agonizing moment. I held my breath, a tiny spark of hope fluttering in my chest. Then, Amber’s voice turned icy. “Walter, I am Jack’s girlfriend. He trusted me to look after Michelle. If you’re insisting on inspecting the room, are you implying I’m going to hurt her?” “Of course not, miss,” Mr. Walter hesitated, his voice wavering. “Then go back to your duties,” she said sharply. “The old toys in the suburban storage locker are still waiting. Michelle wanted them. If she wakes up and they aren’t here, she’ll have a tantrum. Are you going to take responsibility for that?” Mr. Walter sighed quietly. “I… I will go back and finish loading them.” His footsteps faded away. I pressed my forehead against the cold wood of the door, tears soaking into my collar. Amber opened the closet door. The sudden light burned my eyes. She stood there, looking down at me with a cruel smirk. “Did you hear that? Nobody is coming to save you.” When she finally let me out, my legs were so weak they couldn’t support my weight. I collapsed onto the carpet. She crouched down, tapping my cheek with two fingers. “Don’t look at me like that. I’ve been extremely patient. If it weren’t for Jack, I would have thrown you out on the street hours ago.” I curled into a ball, shivering. “I want Jack…” “Is that the only word you know?” She rolled her eyes, her phone buzzing in her hand. She turned around and walked out of the room to answer it. I remembered the little red emergency phone in my nightstand drawer. Jack had given it to me. He said if I ever needed him, all I had to do was press the heart button. My knees were scraped, and my legs felt like they were being pricked by a thousand hot needles, but I didn’t care. I dragged myself across the carpet toward the bed. Jack would save me. I pulled open the drawer, my trembling hand finding the plastic phone. I squeezed the heart button. “Ring… Ring…” It picked up on the second ring. “Michelle? Is everything okay?” Jack’s voice was breathless, panicked. My eyes flooded with fresh tears. “Jack…” Suddenly, the phone was ripped from my hand. Amber stood over me, her face twisted in a dark, terrifying scowl. “You little rat. You’re trying to get me in trouble?” I lunged forward, grabbing her ankle. “Give it back! I want Jack!” Over the speaker, Jack’s voice went dead cold. “Amber? Why is Michelle crying?” Amber hit the speakerphone button, her voice instantly transforming into a sweet, melodic purr. “Jack, honey! She just had a bad dream. I’m putting her back to sleep right now.” “Let me talk to her.” I reached out, sobbing. “Jack!” Amber kicked her leg back, knocking me to the floor. The impact sent a sharp pain through my chest, and I gasped for air. She talked to the phone, her voice smooth. “You know what the therapist said, Jack. The more you baby her when she has these tantrums, the more dependent she becomes. You’re enabling her.” Jack’s voice crackled, dark and dangerous. “The doctor never said to let her cry like that! Give the phone to Michelle. Now!” Amber’s jaw clenched. She stared down at me, then abruptly swiped her finger across the screen, cutting him off. She threw the phone onto the floor, picked up a heavy ceramic vase from the dresser, and smashed it down on the plastic device again and again until it was nothing but crushed plastic and wires. I crawled over the shards of ceramic, trying to save the pieces, my fingertips stinging as they cut open against the sharp edges. “No… Jack won’t be able to find me…” Amber grabbed my wrists, pulling me up, her eyes wide with a manic, boiling hatred. “I hope he never finds you! Do you want to know what I hate most about you?” “You don’t have to do anything. All you have to do is squeeze out a single tear, and Jack drops everything to run to you!” “I’m his girlfriend! I’m the one who’s supposed to be his future!” I shook my head, sobbing. “Jack loves Michelle. Jack loves Amber too…” “Stop pretending!” She threw me back down. “You use this brain-dead act so nobody can ever hold you accountable. The Bradfords adopting you was the worst mistake they ever made.” “They are sick of you. They hate you. They begged me to teach you how to behave.” “No!” I choked, struggling to breathe. “Mom and Dad love me! You’re lying…” She reached down, her fingernails pinching the tender skin of my inner arm, twisting it hard. I screamed from the blinding pain. “Michelle isn’t lying! I’m not!” “Tell me you’ll stay away from Jack.” “Jack is my brother!” Amber’s hand flew to my ear, pulling it back until I shrieked. “Let me tell you a secret, Michelle. Jack loves me now. He’s sick and tired of carrying around a brainless anchor.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a long, silver sewing needle. “I’m going to make sure you remember this. I’m going to teach you that calling his name won’t save you anymore.” She drove the needle deep into my forearm. “Ah!” My entire body spasmed. “Don’t you ever call him your brother again! You manipulative little bitch, using a fake baby routine to get pity. Just die!” She kept screaming, her face unrecognizable, plunging the needle into my arms over and over. “Michelle isn’t… it hurts… Jack, it hurts…” I rolled on the floor, thrashing, desperate to crawl away, but my limbs wouldn’t obey. She grabbed my collar and dragged me down the hallway. I saw the door at the very end, and my whole body froze. Years ago, behind that door, it had been so dark. Something heavy had fallen. There was screaming, and crying, and blood. I grabbed the metal banister with both hands, locking my fingers. “No! Not there! Michelle won’t go!” Amber pried at my fingers. “Perfect. A little dark basement is exactly where bad girls learn to be quiet!” She kicked the basement door open. The darkness inside felt like a monster opening its mouth to swallow me. “Get in!” I pulled back, weeping. “No! Amber, please! Michelle will be good! I won’t look for Jack anymore!” Amber paused, a cruel, mocking smile spreading across her lips. “Then say it. Say Jack isn’t your brother.” I stared at her, tears dripping from my chin. “But… Jack is my brother.” “Then rot.” The smile vanished. She raised her foot and stomped hard on my fingers. My grip broke. My body tumbled down the wooden stairs, hitting one step, then another, rolling down into the dark. My forehead slammed against the concrete floor at the bottom. Something warm and thick began to trickle down my face, sticking my eyelashes together. Above me, the heavy wooden door slammed shut. The basement fell into absolute, suffocating darkness. I curled into a tight ball in the corner, my voice a tiny, broken whisper. “Jack…” No one answered. “Mom…” Only the cold silence of the concrete. My head throbbed, my arm burned, and my stomach twisted with hunger. My throat felt like it was on fire. After a long time, I heard light footsteps above the ceiling. I dragged myself to the bottom of the stairs, tapping weakly on the bottom step. “Amber… Michelle is hungry…” A faint, mocking laugh came through the floorboards. “I just finished the strawberry cake Jack ordered for me.” Every time Jack worked late, he brought me a slice of strawberry cake. I swallowed hard, my mouth watering. “Can Michelle have a bite? Just a tiny bite?” “No. Do you want to know what Jack told me before he left?” I pressed my ear against the gap under the door. “What did Jack say?” “He said you’re too much of a burden. He said he wants to get married and have a real family, and he can’t spend his whole life playing nursemaid to a vegetable.” I banged my head against the door, crying out. “Jack wouldn’t say that! Jack promised Mom he would always take care of Michelle!” “You don’t believe me?” A recording of Jack’s voice crackled from her phone outside the door. “…Is she crying? Amber, just keep her quiet, I’m stuck here…” The words didn’t make sense, but I heard “keep her quiet.” Amber’s voice cut back in. “Hear that? He told me to keep you quiet. He’s not coming for you.” My heart felt like it had been dropped into a bucket of ice. “Jack is busy…” “Stop making excuses, Michelle,” she sneered, her voice dripping with triumph. “You’re not a baby. You’re just a nuisance nobody wants.” I stopped talking. Nuisances didn’t get strawberry cake. Nuisances weren’t allowed to call for their brothers. The basement was freezing. I wrapped my arms around my knees, softly humming the lullaby Mom used to sing to me. Halfway through, loud, frantic banging echoed from the top of the stairs. “Miss Michelle? Are you in there?” It was Mr. Walter! His voice sounded terrified. I scrambled up the steps, throwing my weight against the door. “Mr. Walter! Michelle is here!” The sound of keys jingling echoed from the other side. “Don’t worry, Miss Michelle. Walter is here. I’m opening the door right now.” The key slid into the brass lock. “Click.” The latch moved. But a split second later, Amber’s voice shrieked through the hall. “Walter! What do you think you’re doing?” Mr. Walter’s voice trembled with rage. “Miss Amber, why did you lock Miss Michelle in the basement?” “She ran down there herself!” Amber yelled back. “If you open that door now and she runs out in a manic state, are you going to be responsible for whatever she breaks?” Mr. Walter kept turning the key. “I don’t care! Miss Michelle cannot be kept in the dark!” Amber let out a sharp, ugly laugh. “Walter, your son works in the logistics department at Bradford Enterprises, doesn’t he?” “If you interfere with my business today, I will make sure he is blacklisted from every firm in the city by tomorrow morning.” “I’m going to count to three. Walk away, and pretend you saw nothing.” The sound of the keys stopped. The silence outside was heavy and terrifying. Panic seized me. I pounded on the door with both hands, slamming my forehead against the wood. “Mr. Walter, don’t go! Please let Michelle out!” Outside, Mr. Walter’s voice was barely a whisper. “Hold on, Miss Michelle… just a little longer. Someone will come.” His slow, heavy footsteps drifted away. Mr. Walter was gone. Nobody was coming. My arms lost their strength. I couldn’t bang on the door anymore, and I didn’t have the breath to sing. It was so dark, and the shadows were turning into monsters. I don’t know how much time passed. Suddenly, the screech of tires echoed from the driveway, followed by the sound of heavy, desperate running. Amber’s voice rose in a high, panicked squeal. “Jack? What are you doing here?” An instant later— “CRASH!” The basement door was kicked open, splintering against the wall. A blinding, beautiful flood of light poured down the stairs, making my eyes sting. In the center of the light, a familiar silhouette came crashing down the steps. He was running so fast, stumbling, as if he believed that if he didn’t reach me in that exact second, I would disappear forever. His voice was cracked, raw, and completely broken. “Michelle!”

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On the first Saturday of June, during the annual children’s festival in town, I received a phone call from my future daughter. I smiled into the receiver and asked her, “Sweetheart, are Mommy and Daddy still happy together?” “Of course!” the little voice chirped proudly. “Daddy and Mommy have the best relationship. They never, ever fight. Daddy says Mommy is the absolute love of his life!” I felt a warm blush creep up my neck. I couldn’t believe Toby had said those things in front of a child. Basking in the warmth of her words, I pressed on. “And do you have Mommy’s last name, Winslow, or Daddy’s last name, Garrison?” The girl fell silent for a beat, sounding genuinely confused. “I have Daddy’s last name, Garrison. But my mommy’s last name is Hastings. Her name is Summer Hastings.” I froze. Summer Hastings. My best friend of fifteen years. The very same Summer who, just yesterday, had gotten into a screaming match with Toby over how he treated me—a fight so explosive they had physically locked horns and ended up in the emergency room. 1 My throat tightened, and my hand began to tremble so violently I could barely hold the phone. How was this possible? Summer and I had been inseparable since we were childhood neighbors. She was loud, fiercely protective, and entirely transparent. If there was one thing she couldn’t stand, it was Toby. She called him a pretentious snob who took my devotion for granted. Every time they were in the same room, sparks flew. They clashed so bitterly that Toby and I had nearly broken up multiple times over his relentless complaints about her. The sweet little voice on the line pulled me back from the ledge. “Ma’am? You still haven’t told me when Daddy is coming home to take me to the carnival.” I swallowed the sharp ache in my throat, forcing my voice to remain gentle. “Sweetheart, how old are you?” “I’m six!” Six… If this phone call was real, and the timeline lined up, then right now, Summer was already carrying her. “Clatter.” The phone slipped from my numb fingers, clattering onto the hardwood floor. A cold shiver rippled across my skin. Yesterday, when we went shopping, I noticed Summer’s dress size had jumped from a medium to a large. I had playfully teased her about gaining weight, completely missing the sudden, panicked flash in her eyes. No. It couldn’t be. “Sweetheart—” I scrambled to pick up the phone, desperate to ask more, when a man’s voice drifted through the receiver in the background. “Joy, who are you talking to?” It was a voice I knew intimately. The voice of the man who had slept beside me for the last four years. “Joy.” It was the name I had chosen only two days ago. That night, I had caught Toby flipping through a baby name book. I had teased him, asking why he was looking at names when we weren’t even married yet. He had only looked down, smiled quietly, and said there was no rush. No rush. Because the baby was never meant to be mine. “Ma’am, I sent you a friend request on social media. Let’s talk more later!” the little girl said. “I have to go to the festival now!” The line went dead. I immediately hailed a cab and rode to the hospital in a daze. Passing the nurse’s station, I spotted Toby’s assistant, who had told me Toby had flown to Seattle the night before on urgent business. Yet, there Toby was, standing outside a private room in the maternity ward. I crept quietly down the hall, stopping just outside the cracked door. Inside, Toby was gently pulling Summer into his arms, his face etched with tenderness. “I’m so sorry you have to go through this, Summer. Having to fake these fights just to protect your pregnancy and keep Serena off our scent.” “Once I secure the new contract from Winslow Enterprises, I’ll finally break things off with her,” Toby murmured, kissing her forehead. “I will cherish you and our baby for the rest of my life.” My fingernails dug into my palms, drawing blood as I fought back the tears threatening to spill over. Summer sighed, leaning into his chest. “I hate doing this to her. Serena is my best friend, and the last thing I want is to break her heart. But we have to think about our future. Once you get on track with those new investors you met, introduce a few of them to Serena. It’ll be our way of making it up to her.” My throat felt like it was coated in crushed glass. I couldn’t even manage a sob. The investors Toby had been socializing with lately were all wealthy, cynical men in their late fifties, several of them multiple divorcees. They wanted to set me up with them as “compensation.” I walked slowly into the stairwell, wiped the tears from my face, and dialed my father. “Dad,” I said, my voice tight. “The contracts Winslow Enterprises was planning to hand over to Garrison Holdings—cancel them. All of them.” “And about the overseas branch in Los Angeles? I’ve changed my mind. I’ll take the position. I want to leave next week.” There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Then, my father sighed heavily. “Serena, did you and Toby have another fight?” “I never wanted to give him those projects in the first place. You knelt outside my study for three days and nights, begging me to help his company. Serena, you can’t keep throwing tantrums and using our family business as a bargaining chip in your relationship.” I sat down on the cold concrete step, my fingers brushing against the faint, faded bruises on my knees from that three-day vigil. When I pressed down, it still throbbed with a dull, aching pain. “Dad, I’m serious this time,” I whispered. “I’m boarding the flight next week. I’m done being foolish.” Even my father knew how much I treasured Toby. How could Summer, who had stood by me through everything, not know? That evening, shortly after I returned to the apartment, my phone buzzed. It was the same number. A text notification popped up, displaying a friend request from an account with a bright, bubbly profile picture. An ugly mix of resentment and curiosity coiled in my chest. I wanted to know where it had all gone wrong. I accepted the request. The little girl, Joy, was incredibly talkative, immediately sending a barrage of cute emojis. I stared at the screen, my heart pounding as I typed out a message. “Joy, do you know how your mommy and daddy fell in love?” A long voice note arrived almost instantly, her voice dripping with pride. “Of course! I know their whole love story. Daddy tells me how they fell in love every single night when he tucks me in.” I looked up blankly at the framed photo sitting on the coffee table. It was the very first photo Toby and I had ever taken together. I had chased Toby for three years, from high school through college. At our high school graduation, Summer had playfully shoved me next to him, winking as she urged me to get close for a photo. Toby had initially recoiled, quietly brushing off his sleeve where my shoulder had brushed his. Summer, annoyed by his attitude, had dragged him back and insisted we take a photo together. When she sent me the final image, she had cropped herself out. I was so ecstatic that I stayed awake all night, setting it as my wallpaper—a wallpaper I hadn’t changed in four years. “Joy, I’d love to hear the story. Will you tell me?” “Okay!” came the cheerful reply. “Daddy says he fell in love with Mommy the very moment he saw her at their high school graduation. He says it was love at first sight. They still have their graduation picture framed right next to their bed!” A second later, a photo message popped up. I tapped to expand the image. It was our graduation photo. But the girl standing in the middle—me—had been completely photoshopped out. Beside that frame sat their wedding portrait. It was a moody, gothic-inspired theme. Just two days ago, I had shown Toby a similar concept, telling him how much I loved the dramatic, classic look. He hadn’t even looked up from his tablet, merely shaking his head. “Too dark,” he had said dismissively. “It looks like a funeral. Pick something else.” Over the past year, I had proposed over a hundred wedding concepts. Every single one had been shot down. It turned out the style was never the issue. The person was. Joy continued to babble happily, describing how hard Toby had pursued Summer from graduation through college. In her telling, it was a flawless, fairy-tale romance. And I, the woman who had spent seven years of her life loving him, was nothing more than an invisible intruder. A wave of nausea hit me, so violent that I dropped the phone onto the carpet. As I scrambled to pick it up, my finger accidentally brushed the screen, answering an incoming video call from her. Joy froze when my face appeared on her screen. She looked startled, shrinking back slightly. I held the phone up, keeping my voice as gentle as possible. “Joy? What’s wrong, sweetie?” She let out a small breath, her shoulders relaxing. “Oh, it’s you, Ma’am.” She paused, then added innocently, “You’re actually so pretty when you aren’t being crazy.” A wire snapped in my brain. “What did you say?” Joy scratched her head, looking genuinely puzzled. “Every time I saw you before, you were always screaming and crying. It was really scary. You used to grab Daddy and tell him you were going to kill him to make him pay for your father’s life.” “Mommy told me to stay far away from you because you were dangerous.” A bone-chilling cold swept through me. I bit my lower lip so hard I tasted copper. What did Toby do to my father in that future? Suppressing the tremor in my voice, I forced a smile. “Oh, sweetheart, that was just a game Daddy and I were playing.” I was desperate to ask more, to unravel the horror of what lay ahead, when Toby’s voice suddenly echoed from the hallway. “Serena? Who are you talking to?” Panicked, I immediately disconnected the call. I didn’t answer him. Toby, assuming I was still giving him the silent treatment over our fight from the day before, walked into the living room and set a small jar of organic lavender honey on the table beside me. “I drove all the way to that specialty market in Seattle to get this for you. Stop being mad,” he said, shedding his jacket. “I heard it’s great for your skin.” I stared at the jar, a bitter taste rising in my mouth. Earlier at the hospital, I had seen Summer holding ten jars of the exact same honey, her face glowing with delight. ““Oh, Toby, I only mentioned it once. I can’t believe you actually flew to Seattle just to get these for me!”” The jar he brought me was a tiny, pathetic sample size. We had been together for four years. He remembered a passing whim of Summer’s, but he couldn’t remember that I had a severe honey allergy. My eyes burned. I picked up the jar and tossed it directly into the trash can. “Toby, let’s break up.” Toby’s hands froze on his jacket zipper. A familiar look of irritation clouded his face. “Serena, can you please stop making a scene over nothing?” he snapped. “I have enough stress at the office. I don’t have the time or energy to play mind games and guess why you’re throwing a tantrum every single day.” “Why can’t you be more like Summer? She’s mature, easygoing, and reasonable.” When people are frustrated, the truth slips out. He caught himself, momentarily startled by his own words, before letting out a sharp sigh. It was the first time he had ever praised Summer to my face. For years, they had supposedly despised each other, which was precisely why I had never questioned the tiny, nagging discrepancies in his behavior. Regaining his composure, Toby knelt in front of me, reaching out to pat my head in that familiar, patronizing way. “Alright, Serena. I’m sorry. I apologize, okay?” he coaxed. “Just hang in there. Once we secure the Winslow contract next week, I’ll take you on a nice, long vacation to clear your head.” He wasn’t sorry. He was just terrified of losing the contract. I didn’t argue. That night, I quietly moved my things into the guest room and packed my suitcases, preparing for my departure the following week. In the middle of the night, a sharp, familiar pain flared in my stomach. I groaned, holding my abdomen as I stumbled out to the kitchen to grab a glass of water and my prescription pain relievers. The stomach ulcers were an old souvenir from Toby’s early startup days. Back then, he had to drink heavily to secure clients. I had accompanied him to every dinner, drinking in his place to protect his health. Over time, my own stomach paid the price. I remembered one night, a year ago, when the pain was so excruciating I couldn’t even stand up to reach the nightstand. I had begged Toby to get my medication. He hadn’t even opened his eyes. “Just bear with it,” he had mumbled into his pillow. “I have a pitch presentation tomorrow. I need my sleep.” I had curled into a ball, sweating and shaking, enduring the agonizing pain alone until morning. By the time I was rushed to the ER the next day, I was semi-conscious. The apartment was dark, save for the faint glow of the streetlights outside. Near the entryway, Toby’s shoes were kicked aside haphazardly, as if he had left in a rush. With sleep out of reach, I brought up my phone and opened social media. There, at the top of my feed, was a post from Summer. ““Craving midnight snacks, and a sweet soul delivered. Lucky me~”” The attached photo showed a lavish spread of food from various diners across the city—some from the far north, others from the south. I buried my face in my knees, letting out a hollow laugh. If a man cares, he doesn’t need to be taught. If he doesn’t, no amount of teaching will ever be enough. By Tuesday afternoon, all my luggage had been shipped out. I sat on the empty sofa, staring at the bare walls, feeling completely drained. I had sent several messages to Joy, but none of them went through. Finally, around three in the afternoon, a video call request flashed on my screen. I answered immediately. But as the camera connected, the background behind her made my breath catch. It was a spacious, high-ceilinged office decorated with mahogany and leather. It was my father’s office. My mother had passed away when I was very young, and my father had raised me alone. Fearing I would be lonely at home, he had spent my childhood keeping me by his side in this very room. “Joy, why are you at Winslow Enterprises?” Joy tilted the camera, panning around the room. “What do you mean, Ma’am? This is my daddy’s office.” “And the company isn’t called Winslow anymore. Winslow Enterprises went under a long time ago.” My chest tightened, a cold dread seizing my heart. “Joy… you’re a smart girl. Can you tell me what happened to the old owner? The man who used to sit in that chair?” Eager to show off, she leaned close to the screen. “Oh, Daddy told me about him! The grandpa who owned the company gave all his projects to Daddy.” “But then the grandpa made a big mistake and broke the law. The police locked him up, and he died in prison shortly after.” My blood ran cold. My father was a man of absolute integrity. He would never bend his moral compass for profit, let alone commit a crime. “And then?” My voice was barely a whisper. “Then the company became Daddy’s!” Joy smiled. “Don’t you remember, Ma’am? You used to come down to the lobby all the time, screaming at Daddy to give your father’s life back.” A hot tear slipped down my cheek, splashing onto the glass screen. My father had never liked Toby. He had warned me repeatedly that Toby was too calculating, too ambitious. He had even resorted to locking me in my room to keep us apart. But in my blind devotion, I had climbed out of a third-story window, shattering my leg in the fall. Seeing my broken body, my father had finally yielded, heartbroken. I had never imagined that my foolish love would eventually cost my father his life. I took a cab straight to my father’s house. When I walked into the dining room, he was sitting alone at the long table, a few quiet dishes laid out before him. The sight of his solitary figure made my throat ache. I walked closer and realized every single dish on the table was one of my favorites—all of them sweet, rich comfort foods. My father looked up, his face instantly lighting up with warmth when he saw me. “Serena! You’re home!” “Sarah,” he called out to the housekeeper, his voice brimming with excitement, “make a few more of the dishes Serena likes!” I sat down, a profound sense of guilt washing over me. “Dad, why didn’t you have them make something you like? You hate sweet food.” My father rubbed his hands together, offering a gentle, almost apologetic smile. “Well, I always hope you’ll walk through the door, but I never know when you’ll have time for your old dad. So, I have them prepare your favorites every day. That way, no matter what day you decide to visit, your favorite meal is waiting for you.” I buried my face in my bowl, tears streaming into my food, salty and bitter. He had waited like this. Day after day, week after week. “Dad,” I choked out, “from now on, I’m going to listen to you. I won’t be foolish anymore.” My father looked at me softly, piling food onto my plate until it was overflowing. Before I left, I warned him repeatedly to be extremely cautious around Toby and to keep a close eye on the company’s internal audits. I returned to the apartment one last time to retrieve my passport and travel documents. As I reached the front door, I found a moving truck parked outside, and workers were hauling boxes inside. The moment Summer saw me, she rushed forward, wrapping her arms around me. “Serena! Oh my god, I’ve missed you so much!” Behind her, Toby kept a protective hand hovering near her waist, his eyes wide with anxiety. Meeting my gaze, he quickly drew his hand back, clearing his throat. “I was just… making sure she didn’t knock you over. You know how clumsy she is.” Summer laughed, punching his shoulder playfully. Then she turned to me, hooking her arm through mine. “Great news, Serena! I’m moving in with you guys! That way, if Toby ever tries to treat you badly, I’ll be right here to kick his butt!” Toby rolled his eyes with fond amusement. “We’ll see who kicks whose butt. Someone’s going to end up back in the hospital if they aren’t careful.” They began their usual banter. But this time, I didn’t step in to play peacemaker. Watching them laugh together, the last remaining embers of my affection for them died out. I gently slipped my arm out of Summer’s grasp, walked past them to collect my documents from the desk, and returned to the doorway. My voice was flat, devoid of any emotion. “No need. You two can have the apartment.” I turned to leave. Summer grabbed my sleeve, her face falling. “No, Serena, wait! Don’t be mad. If you don’t want me here, I won’t move in. Please don’t be like this.” As I pulled away, Toby stepped forward and abruptly shoved me back. He pulled Summer behind him, glaring at me with utter annoyance. “Let her go, Summer. She’s a grown woman and she’s still throwing these pathetic tantrums. If you want to leave so badly, Serena, then don’t bother coming back.” With that, he slammed the door in my face. I stared at the heavy wood door, the last trace of warmth in my chest evaporating into the cool hallway air. I certainly wouldn’t be back. Tomorrow, I would be on a flight to Los Angeles. It was only a pity that I wouldn’t be in the room to witness his face when the bidding fell through.

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After a drunken night with my best friend’s older brother, I became his secret girlfriend. By our eighth year of keeping things in the dark, my parents finally laid down the law and arranged a blind date for me. “Logan,” I whispered, tracing the collar of his shirt. “My parents gave me an ultimatum. I have to get married this year.” He paused, his fingers freezing on my waist for a fraction of a second before he pressed a soft kiss to my forehead. It was the same old refrain: “Just wait a little longer.” But then I opened Instagram and saw a post from our new intern, Brianna. It was a photo of her and Logan holding up a marriage certificate at city hall. Her caption read: “CEO secured.” The piece of paper I had spent eight years begging for, she had secured in three months. Swallowing the bitter lump in my throat, I double-tapped the screen. I left a comment: “Congratulations. Wishing you two a long and happy life together.” Then, I picked up the phone and told my mother I would agree to the wedding date she had set. 1 My phone vibrated almost instantly. For the first time in eight years, Logan’s voice sounded panicked. “Chelsea, don’t overthink this. It was just a stupid game of truth or dare at a bar. I only signed those papers with Brianna because I lost a bet…” I cut him off. “Logan, I’m getting married.” The line went quiet for a beat. When he spoke again, his panic had dissolved into his usual patronizing irritation, accompanied by a girl’s giggling in the background. “Here we go again,” he sighed. “Is that all you think about? The company’s cash flow is on the brink of collapse, Chelsea. Can you please not do this right now?” I stood on my balcony, the cool evening wind stinging my cheeks. My voice was entirely flat. “I’m not doing anything. I’m actually getting married.” He let out a dry, dismissive laugh, as if I’d just told a terrible joke. “Right. With who? You don’t even have a guy in your contacts who isn’t a client. Who are you marrying? The air?” I opened my mouth to say Henry’s name, but he was already rushing off. “Look, I have to take another call. The marriage certificate was just a joke. Don’t be dramatic.” The call clicked shut, replaced by the empty drone of the dial tone. I stared at the dark screen, my fingertips numb. Eight years, and his only response to my grief was always “don’t be dramatic”. The next morning, I walked into the office carrying two boxes of expensive European wedding chocolates. The bullpen was buzzing. Brianna was at the center of a crowded circle, her cheeks flushed a bright, performative pink. “Brianna, seriously, you’re a genius! Logan is usually so cold, how did you lock him down in three months?” one of the junior coordinators squealed. “We have to call you the boss’s wife now. Don’t forget about us when you’re running the place!” Brianna covered her face, her giggles pitched perfectly to carry across the entire floor. “Oh stop, it’s not what you think! It really was just a silly bet we lost. Please don’t spread it around.” I wanted to laugh. She had posted it to a public Instagram account with hundreds of followers, and now she was playing the modest victim. She caught sight of me standing by the door with the boxes of chocolates. She clicked toward me in her brand-new designer heels. “Chelsea! Did Logan ask you to pick up the wedding favors for us? Thank you so much! You’re the best mentor ever.” Before I could speak, she snatched the boxes out of my hands, ripped open the gold foil packaging, and began handing them out to the staff. “Everyone, try some! Logan had these imported especially for us!” The bullpen erupted into appreciative murmurs, praising how romantic and thoughtful the boss was. Right on cue, the elevator doors slid open and Logan stepped out. The crowd immediately started chanting, “Thanks for the chocolates, Boss!” Brianna looked up at him, her eyes wide and adoring. Logan froze for a second, looking confused, but then his lips curved into an easy smile. “Of course. Glad you guys like them.” “The chocolates are mine,” I said. My voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the room like a blade. The bullpen fell into a sudden, suffocating silence. Dozens of eyes locked onto me. Logan’s expression darkened instantly, a flash of panic darting through his eyes. “Chelsea, this is a professional environment. Don’t start making a scene.” “I’m not making a scene,” I said, holding his gaze. “I brought those in to share. I’m getting married next Saturday.” His face turned thunderous. He took three large strides toward me, grabbing my wrist and lowering his voice to a harsh whisper. “Are you really going to push me like this?” From the corner of the room, one of Brianna’s friends snickered. “Chelsea, we’ve never even seen you on a date. Who are you marrying? Are you just losing your mind because Brianna got Logan and you didn’t?” Brianna’s eyes welled with tears on cue. She bit her lip and whispered, “Chelsea… I know you used to have feelings for Logan, but he never saw you that way. He told all of us months ago that the rumors about you two were just gossip. He said you were just a dedicated employee.” The atmosphere shifted. Suddenly, the looks directed at me weren’t just curious—they were disgusted. I was the pathetic, desperate older woman trying to steal her intern’s husband. I looked at Logan. He looked away, staring out the window, refusing to say a single word to defend me. Eight years. Eight years of drinking client after client under the table to secure his contracts, eight years of pulling his company back from the edge of bankruptcy, eight years of letting him keep me a secret. And now, he wouldn’t even offer me the basic dignity of the truth. “Honestly, Chelsea, Logan and Brianna are married now,” someone else chimed in, emboldened by Logan’s silence. “Continuing to harass him makes you the other woman. That’s going to ruin our reputation with clients?” “Yeah. Trying to steal your own intern’s husband? That’s low.” I looked at the faces of these junior associates—people I had personally trained, whose careers I had built. A wave of confusion and hurt washed over me. I had planned on giving them invitations. I realized now how foolish that was. My fingers tightened around my phone. I raised my chin and looked at the crowd. “Since we’re on the subject, let me introduce you to my fiancé.” I reached to open my photo gallery to show them the picture of Henry and me. Suddenly, a cold hand clamped around my wrist. Logan snatched the phone out of my hand, his face white with fury. “Everyone back to work! Now!” he roared. He dragged me by the arm toward his office. Behind us, I could hear the hushed, comforting whispers surrounding Brianna, and the heavy weight of their judgmental glares burning into my back. The moment we stepped inside his office, he slammed the door shut and ran a hand through his hair, pacing like a caged animal. “I told you, the certificate was a joke! Why do you have to drag everyone into this and make us look ridiculous?” “If it’s just a joke,” I said, my voice dead and cold, “then why didn’t you correct them? Why did you stand there and let them call me a homewrecker?” He faltered for a second, but his defensiveness quickly returned. “Brianna is sensitive, Chelsea. I couldn’t just humiliate her in front of the entire office.” “But you can humiliate me,” I thought. “You can let them trample all over my life.” I reached out and snatched my phone back from his grip, turning toward the door. As my hand touched the brass handle, I paused. I didn’t look back. “You and Brianna are welcome to come to the wedding next Saturday.” As soon as I stepped into the dim, cool air of the parking garage, my phone rang. It was the executive headhunter who had been calling me for months. “Chelsea, regarding the Marketing Director position at the public firm we discussed—they’re willing to bump the starting offer by another twenty percent. Will you please reconsider?” The number she named was at the absolute ceiling of the industry standard. “I accept,” I said, my voice steady. “And I’ll be bringing a ten-million-dollar account with me. I expect the commission structure to reflect that.” On the other end, the headhunter gasped, her excitement vibrating through the speaker. “Oh, absolutely! Leave it to me. I will have the contract drafted immediately!” I hung up and sat in my car, staring at the steering wheel. I opened my messages and scrolled to Henry’s name. “Hold off on signing the contract with Logan’s firm,” I texted him. “Wait for my word.” Logan had said the company was struggling, that I was just “adding to his problems.” But for eight years, I was the one who kept the lights on. This contract with Henry’s firm, Miles Group, was something I had practically begged Henry for. I had taken him to dinner three times, swallowing my pride, to secure the deal that would save Logan’s company from ruin. I started the engine and pulled out of the garage. As the city skyline blurred past my window, it felt like a metaphor for the last eight years of my life—passing by in a flash, leaving nothing but dust behind. I still remembered the first time I saw Logan. He was standing under the oak trees outside my sophomore dorm, waiting to help his sister, Georgia—my best friend—move out for summer break. He was wearing a sharp linen suit, and when he smiled, a tiny freckle near his temple crinkled. I had fallen for him in a single heartbeat. After our college graduation party, after too many drinks, we crossed a line. It felt like destiny. I immediately joined his startup, starting at the very bottom as a low-paid associate. In the beginning, he said we couldn’t go public because he didn’t want people thinking I got my job through nepotism. So, I waited. Once I earned the title of top account executive purely on merit, he said he was worried it would complicate my friendship with Georgia. So, I waited again. I always believed that eventually, he would give me a place in the light. Until I saw that marriage certificate on Brianna’s feed. That was my wake-up call. It wasn’t that Logan didn’t want to get married. He just didn’t want to marry me. I drove back to the apartment we had shared for the last five years. It would take a few days to finalize my resignation, but I couldn’t spend another night in that space. I dragged my suitcases out of the closet. His designer suits and crisp shirts occupied more than half of the wardrobe. I used to tease him about how rigid his style was, suggesting he wear casual hoodies on weekends. He had always dismissed me, saying a CEO needed to look serious. But now, hanging in the most prominent spot of the closet, were three brand-new streetwear hoodies. He wasn’t incapable of change. He just hadn’t wanted to change for me. I began folding my sweaters into the suitcase. Behind me, the front door clicked open. Logan walked in, his brow furrowing as he took in the open luggage on the bed. “Chelsea, there is literally nothing going on between Brianna and me. Can you please stop this childish behavior?” He walked over, reaching for my hand. “The marriage license was a mistake. I’m going down to city hall this afternoon to file for an annulment. Once we sign the Miles Group contract and things stabilize, we can go public. I promise. Okay?” I opened my mouth to say “we’re done”, but he cut me off, scanning the room. “By the way, where did you put the keys to the Maplewood townhouse?” “In the bottom drawer of the nightstand,” I said, a cold chill settling over me. “Are you selling it to cover the cash flow gap?” He blinked, then laughed off the question. “Why would I sell it? It’s just sitting empty anyway. Brianna’s lease is up, so I told her she could stay there for a bit.” A physical ache bloomed in my chest. He had bought that Maplewood townhouse for my birthday last year, whispering that it would be our future home when we finally got married. And now, he was handing the keys to another woman. Oblivious to the way the color had drained from my face, he continued, “Also, once you finalize the Miles contract, transfer the account to Brianna. Her probationary period is almost up, and this deal will secure her permanent position. Don’t worry, I’ll still credit you for the commission.” Before I could speak, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, and his posture softened instantly. “Hey… yeah, I’ll text you the address. Just have the movers head straight there…” He walked out of the room while speaking, never once looking back at me. The front door clicked shut. I stood in the middle of our silent apartment and let out a soft, bitter laugh. Eight years of my life, my youth, my absolute devotion—and to him, it was worth less than a girl who had been at the company for twelve weeks. I walked out of the apartment with my suitcase, never looking back. I drove straight to my parents’ house. Ever since I had agreed to marry Henry, my mother hadn’t stopped smiling. She opened the door before I could even ring the bell, immediately taking my bag. “I always knew Henry was the one,” she beamed. “We watched that boy grow up. He’s family, Chelsea. Your father and I can finally rest easy knowing you’re with him.” Henry and I had known each other since we were in diapers. Our mothers were best friends, always joking when we were kids that we’d end up married. If I hadn’t met Logan in college, Henry and I probably would have walked down the aisle years ago. I had always known, deep down, how he felt about me. When Logan’s firm began to drown in debt, I was the one who went to Henry, begging him to throw Logan a lifeline with a massive corporate partnership. Henry had stayed silent for a long time, looking at me with a sadness I didn’t understand then, before finally nodding and agreeing. Remembering that now made me feel incredibly foolish. After dinner, I locked myself in my dad’s study to organize my handover files. My phone buzzed on the mahogany desk. It was a text from Logan: “I’ll be home late. Don’t wait up.” I stared at the screen, then deleted his contact and cleared the chat history. By the time I finished, it was past ten. I lay in my old bed, mindlessly scrolling through my Instagram feed. The very first post was from Brianna, uploaded thirty minutes prior. The background was unmistakable: the living room of the Maplewood townhouse. Logan was there, his arms slung around his friends as they played drinking games. Empty bottles littered the kitchen island. Her caption: “He kept calling me his “sweet little sister” in front of his friends tonight. Does he think I’m too young for him?” The comments were flooded with heart emojis and teasing remarks about how much Logan clearly adored her. I stared at the photo for a long, quiet moment, then closed the app. I didn’t cry. I didn’t even feel angry. The eight years of love I had harbored for him had already burned to ash the moment he let his employees call me a mistress. A text popped up from Henry: “Are you free tomorrow? The bridal boutique called. Your dress is ready for the final fitting. Want to go together?” I typed back: “I’d love to.” The next morning, Henry arrived early. My mother practically pushed me out the door, pressing a box of homemade lemon tarts into his hands. Once we were on the highway, I felt a pang of guilt. “Henry, about the contract with Miles Group… I need you to hold off on signing it with Logan’s firm. I’m moving to a new company, and I want to bring that account with me as my signing leverage.” He glanced at me, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You could always just come work for me.” “I think it’s best we keep church and state separate,” I teased. When we arrived at the boutique, the consultant welcomed us with a warm smile, holding a breathtaking silk gown. “Mr. Miles insisted we adjust the tailoring three times to make sure the fit was absolutely perfect. You’re going to look stunning, Chelsea.” I stood in front of the three-way mirror in the heavy satin gown, completely breathless. Years ago, whenever Logan and I passed a bridal shop and I lingered at the window, he would pull me away, promising that one day he would hire a world-class designer to make me a one-of-a-kind gown. “Don’t rush me,” he’d say. I waited eight years for that promise, only to end up wearing a masterpiece that Henry had quietly commissioned for me. “Should we take a photo for your family?” Henry asked, stepping up behind me. His voice was soft, his eyes shining in the mirror’s reflection. I nodded and handed my phone to the consultant. “Could you take one of us, please?” Henry’s breath hitched, but then his smile spread wide. He stepped closer, wrapping his arms gently around my waist. The photo was beautiful—the lighting caught the silk of the dress perfectly. I uploaded it to Instagram and Facebook, writing: “Next Saturday at The Crestmont Hotel. We’d love for you to celebrate our wedding with us.” Within seconds, my phone began to vibrate wildly. “Oh my god, is that Henry Miles? Chelsea, since when?!” one former colleague commented. “And some people actually had the nerve to say she was desperate for Logan? Henry is ten times the man Logan will ever be!” As I scrolled through the notifications, Logan’s name flashed across the screen.

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That was the third time Caroline forgot my birthday. I didn’t make a scene. Instead, I quietly cooked my favorite meal and bought an expensive ice cream cake I’d normally skip, treating it as a solitary celebration of a day nobody else seemed to care about. But when I came out of the shower, ready to finally sit down and enjoy it, I found the dinner I had spent three hours preparing packed away into Tupperware containers. The ice cream cake sitting next to them was a crushed, unrecognizable mess. Caroline finally noticed me standing there. Without looking up, she said, “Elliot hasn’t eaten all day and his blood sugar is crashing. I’m taking some food over to his place. Don’t wait up.” I watched her back as she walked out. In that exact moment, I knew. I was done waiting for her. 1 Caroline had barely left when the landlord, Mr. Henderson, knocked on the door. He glanced inside, looking confused. “Hey, Logan. Your lease is up at the end of the month. Are you guys renewing or moving? I need to know so I can list the place.” Last month, I had asked Caroline about our plans. I wanted to know if we should renew or look for a new place. At the time, she was staring at her phone, typing back to Elliot, completely absorbed. When she finally looked up, her face carried that familiar, thinly veiled irritation. “Whatever you want. You decide.” Recalling that, I looked at Mr. Henderson and said, “We’re not renewing. We’ll be out by the end of the month.” “As for the security deposit, you can send it back to Caroline. No need to split it.” When we first moved in, she had paid the deposit and the first month’s rent. It was only fair she got it back. The landlord looked bewildered. “But you two are getting married, aren’t you? Why keep the finances so separate? It’s the same thing whether I give it to you or her.” I offered a faint smile and said nothing. Satisfied with my answer, he turned to leave, but stopped to add, “Just make sure you clear everything out before you go. Don’t leave a mess for the next tenant.” I nodded. “Will do.” Today was the twenty-eighth. I had exactly three days left. I pulled out my phone and messaged the broker who had helped me find this place. He replied almost instantly: “Still looking for a three-bedroom? Any specific requirements?” “Just a two-bedroom. It’s only for me.” There was a long silence on the other end. Then, a simple text: “Did you two break up?” Seeing those words in print sent a strange chill through me. When Caroline and I first started dating, the idea of breaking up never even crossed my mind. I used to spend hours daydreaming about our future. Now, I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d pictured a life with her. I didn’t answer. The broker sent another text: “Do you need movers? I know a reliable local company.” “Yes, please.” “When’s the move?” “Three days from now.” Just in time for the lease to end. And just in time to cut Caroline out of my life completely. After finalizing the details, I hung up and started packing my things into boxes. Then, my phone buzzed. It was Caroline. “Elliot says the food you made is amazing, but his stomach is acting up. Can you whip up a light, clear soup and bring it over?” Before I could say a word, she added, “No onions. He hates the smell.” I stared at the wall for a long moment. “Caroline,” I said, my voice quiet. “Do you know what today is?” We had been together for five years. She had celebrated my birthday with me exactly twice. The first time, she took me to Disneyland. At midnight, beneath the exploding fireworks, she gave me a designer watch and told me she loved me. The second time, I was away on a business trip. She took time off work and flew out to surprise me with a homemade cake. That day, she whispered something sweeter than any icing: “Logan, no matter where you are, if you need me, I’ll be there.” But by our third year, she forgot. She forgot because my birthday, May 30th, happened to be the anniversary of the day she and Elliot met. As expected, there was no hesitation on her end. “It’s the anniversary of the day Elliot and I met. Why?” Having confirmed exactly what I expected, I hung up on her for the first time in five years. I didn’t feel panicked. I didn’t feel hurt. Inside, I was as still as deep water. I looked at the melting ice cream cake on the counter. The sweet, frozen layers were turning into a sticky, shapeless pool. Just like our relationship—once seemingly solid, now slowly eroding into nothing. I set my phone face down and went back to packing. The next afternoon, Caroline came home. There was a faint trace of guilt in her eyes, her posture softer than usual. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, walking over to me. “I forgot yesterday was your birthday. I know you’ve been wanting a new car to commute to work, so I went ahead and picked one out today. Consider it your birthday present.” I opened my mouth, but before I could speak, she rushed on: “Actually, Elliot was the one who reminded me. You should thank him next time you see him. He helped pick it out. He said you’d absolutely love it.” So, she hadn’t remembered on her own. It took someone else pointing it out. And even the gift meant to apologize to me was chosen by another man. While I was expected to smile, say it’s fine, and accept whatever scraps they threw my way. Caroline pulled out her phone, scrolling through her photos. “Look, Elliot picked white. It suits you…” As she swiped to the next photo, my eyes locked onto the screen. It was a selfie of Elliot. He was sitting in the driver’s seat of the new car, flashing a peace sign at the camera. Noticing my silence, Caroline quickly explained, “Oh, Elliot loves taking selfies. His phone died, so he used mine to snap a few.” I didn’t say anything. I just gently took the phone from her hand and swiped backward. There were three hundred and twenty-three photos in her camera roll. One hundred and twenty of them were of Elliot. Exactly three were of the car. And that’s when it hit me. Caroline had always claimed she hated taking photos. She hated clutter on her phone. We didn’t have a single photo together. She didn’t even have my contact saved in her phonebook. It was as if I was a ghost in her life. When I had asked her about it years ago, she had laughed and hugged me. “I have your number memorized, Logan. I could recite it in my sleep. Why would I need to save it?” Yet, Elliot was saved in her contacts as Elliot Bear. On every messaging app and social platform, he was pinned to the very top. I kept scrolling silently. Caroline didn’t stop me. She just leaned against the counter, a teasing smile playing on her lips. “Are you auditing my phone now? Go ahead. See if you can find any scandalous texts…” Before she could finish, a notification popped up from Elliot Bear: “Caroline! You can’t be biased! You got Logan a car, what about me? Where’s mine? Get on it, boss!” The moment I saw the message, the energy drained out of me. I handed the phone back to her. Caroline took it, her expression shifting slightly. I got up from the couch, catching a glimpse of her screen as she typed her reply: “Company cash flow is a bit tight right now. I owe you one.” Elliot didn’t like that. He spam-sent dozens of whining, begging emojis. A flash of hesitation crossed Caroline’s face. She looked up at me. “Logan… your office isn’t that far from here, right? What if we let Elliot have this car first? I’ll get you another one next time.” It was the exact same hesitation she’d had last month. We had planned a movie night. We were standing right outside the theater when Elliot called. He wanted her to go swimming with him. She had looked at me with that same apologetic, yet determined expression. “Logan, do you mind if we skip the movie tonight? I’ll make it up to you next time.” Faced with a choice between me and Elliot, she chose him. Every single time. “Sure,” I said, my voice completely flat. “Whatever you want.” The tension in her shoulders melted away instantly. She let out a soft, relieved sigh. “I knew you’d understand. Elliot is such a handful sometimes. It’s exhausting.” She made it sound like a complaint, but her tone was dripping with fond indulgence. She didn’t realize that my “understanding” wasn’t maturity. It was apathy. I just didn’t care anymore. “Oh, by the way,” she said, pocketing her phone. “Elliot said a new hot pot place opened downtown. He wants to buy us dinner. Let’s go.” I was about to refuse, but she added quickly, “He said if we don’t go, he’s just going to bring the ingredients over and cook here.” I hated the lingering smell of hot pot in the apartment. More than that, I hated the faint scent of jasmine cologne on him—the exact same scent Caroline wore. So, I found myself sitting across from them at a wooden table in the restaurant. The waiter came over to take our order. “Just a mild broth—” Caroline started. “Split pot. Spicy on one side,” I interrupted. She stared at me, surprised. “Since when do you eat spicy food?” I didn’t eat spicy food because she preferred bland meals. I had spent five years changing my palate to match hers. “I’ve always liked it,” I said, looking down at the menu. “You just never noticed.” I ordered the dishes I actually liked, adding a matcha shaved ice for dessert. Seeing this, Elliot immediately pointed to the menu. “Oh! I want the mango shaved ice!” Caroline frowned, slapping his hand away playfully. “Did you forget your stomach issues from last month? No cold things for you.” She crossed the dessert off the list and ordered him a warm sweet corn juice instead. Elliot didn’t look annoyed at all. He just grinned, leaning in. “So what if my stomach hurts? Your hand is better than any medicine anyway. What do I have to fear when you’re here?” I remember when I used to get sick. Caroline had run through a downpour to buy me medicine. When I was curled in pain, her eyes had filled with tears. She had pressed her warm hand against my cold stomach, her voice trembling. “I wish I could take the pain for you, Logan. I hate seeing you suffer.” Back then, I had felt the same way Elliot did. With her by my side, I could survive anything. But ever since Elliot moved to the city, those warm hands belonged to someone else. Watching them banter back and forth, completely lost in their own world, I felt like a ghost haunting my own life. Just then, a waiter placed a dessert drink with two straws between them. “Compliments of the house,” the waiter smiled. “Today is our owners’ tenth anniversary. We’re giving out free sharing drinks to all the couples dining with us tonight.” Elliot took it happily, taking a sip. “Wow, this is amazing! Caroline, try some.” He offered her the straw he had just used. Without a second thought, Caroline leaned down and took a sip from the same straw. “Not bad,” she agreed. A sharp, physical ache bloomed in my chest. I had prepared myself for their intimacy. I thought seeing it wouldn’t hurt anymore. But when it happened right in front of me, it still felt like a needle driving straight into my heart. “Hey, Logan,” Elliot said, offering a bright, innocent smile. “Caroline and I have been like this since we were kids. We share everything. You don’t mind, right?” He looked like a harmless boy, but I didn’t miss the sharp glint of triumph in his eyes. “Of course not,” I replied, meeting his gaze evenly. “She told me she views you as a little brother. Why would I mind?” The smile on Elliot’s face froze. “Yeah,” he said, his voice tightening. “If there were anything else between us, she wouldn’t be with you, right?” The first time Caroline told me Elliot was “just a brother” was two months after he arrived. It was raining heavily, and he called saying he was terrified of thunderstorms and needed her to come over. I had blocked the door, stopping her as she tried to leave. “You’re a grown woman, and he’s a grown man. It’s inappropriate. Don’t go.” I hated storms too. Whenever it thundered, I used to hold her tight to feel safe. But that night, amidst the howling wind, she pushed me aside without hesitation. The warmth in her eyes had vanished, replaced by an icy distance. “I view Elliot as a brother, Logan. Only dirty minds see dirty things. Stop making a scene. He needs me.” The second time was when my gastritis flared up. She had promised to take me to the clinic. But on the way, Elliot called, saying he had sprained his ankle walking down the stairs. She immediately told the driver to turn around. She didn’t see the cold sweat dripping down my face. She didn’t hear my voice shaking from the pain. When I finally whispered, “Is he your boyfriend or am I?” she snapped. “What are you talking about? Elliot is my brother! He’s alone in this city. How can I just ignore him? Stop being so paranoid!” Back at the restaurant table, Caroline didn’t correct him. She simply began picking the chili peppers out of his dipping sauce. I barely tasted my food. Elliot, however, ate heartily under her careful attention. The next day, the broker found me a perfect place. It was fully furnished and ready for immediate move-in. On the day our lease expired, I scheduled the movers. When the landlord saw that I was only packing my own belongings, he sent a text to Caroline: “The lease has officially ended today. Please ensure all belongings are cleared out. Thank you.” I calculated my share of the rent for the days we had stayed this month, and sent it to Caroline via Venmo. Once my boxes were loaded, I climbed into the front seat of the moving truck. As we drove through the intersection outside our neighborhood, my phone rang. It was Caroline. I ignored it. A second later, a voice message came through. Her voice was sharp with panic. “Logan, why aren’t you answering? Didn’t we agree to renew for another year and then talk to the landlord about buying the place? Why is he telling me to move out?”

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The lights went out right in the middle of our engagement party. In the sudden pitch-black, I stepped backward, right onto the jagged edge of a shattered champagne flute. A sharp, hot pain sliced through my ankle, and I felt the wet warmth of blood pooling instantly against my shoe. Amid the chorus of startled gasps echoing through the ballroom, my first instinct was to call out his name. “Wayne!” He heard me. I saw the silhouette of his shoulders stiffen in the dimness, but instead of turning toward me, he swept right past, pushing through the crowd toward Sadie Wells, who was standing near the stage. When the dim amber glow of the emergency lights flickered on, the first thing I saw was Wayne holding Sadie tightly against his chest, shielding her from the room. “Are you okay?” he whispered, his voice thick with a panic he had never shown for me. “Did it scare you?” The master of ceremonies stood frozen on the stage, holding his microphone. He cleared his throat, leaning down to whisper, “Mr. Reynolds, Ms. Aldridge is bleeding over there.” Only then did Wayne look back. He saw the dark stain spreading around my foot. His brow furrowed, but only for a fraction of a second. “Sadie has severe claustrophobia, Mona,” he said, his tone flat and defensive. “Do you really have to pick right now to compete for attention?” At that moment, the entire ballroom fell dead silent. Wayne Reynolds was famous in our industry for being cold and unapproachable. He was a man of steel and silence—except when it came to Sadie. They had grown up together, and if she so much as mentioned being afraid of the dark, he would walk out of a multi-million-dollar board meeting to fly to her side. Meanwhile, I had been engaged to him for three years. I had spent those years managing his mother’s grueling post-stroke physical therapy, and I had even turned down a prestigious design fellowship in Copenhagen just to stay by his side and support his firm. He always told me, “You’re strong, Mona. You’re the stable one. You don’t need hand-holding like Sadie does.” It wasn’t until tonight that the truth finally clicked. “Stable” was just his shorthand for someone who could take a hit and didn’t need to be comforted afterward. “Fiancée” was just the title he gave to the person he felt safest sacrificing. … Sadie sobbed, gently pushing at his chest. “Wayne, go. Go check on Mona.” Instead of moving, Wayne kept his eyes locked on me, his expression tightening with impatience. “Don’t start with the attitude, Mona. There are too many eyes on us today. Just play nice.” I looked down at my white satin heels, now ruined and stained with dark, heavy red. Slowly, I reached down and slid the engagement ring off my finger. “Wayne,” I said, my voice remarkably steady. “For once, I’m not going to play nice.” When the diamond hit the polished floor with a sharp, metallic clink, Wayne’s face turned absolutely rigid. “Mona Aldridge,” he hissed. “Have you had your little tantrum yet?” I didn’t answer. I bent down, unbuckled my shoes, and picked them up in one hand. The blood from my ankle was tracing a slow path down my calf, cutting a vivid line across the pristine white hem of my dress. Behind him, Sadie’s shoulders shook as she wept. “Mona, I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.” Wayne instantly pulled her closer, his hand resting supportively on her back. “You have nothing to apologize for.” When he looked back at me, his eyes held nothing but a cold, warning glare. “We have family and major clients sitting in this room. Are you seriously going to humiliate everyone over this?” A quiet, humorless laugh escaped my throat. So, my injury was just an inconvenience. My pain was an embarrassment, a sign that I lacked grace and discretion. At the main table, my parents looked sick. My mother made a move to get up, her face pale with worry, but my father gently held her arm, keeping her back. I caught my father’s eye and shook my head, silently pleading with him to stay where he was. Then, I turned to the coordinator. “The engagement party is over. Cancel it.” A collective gasp swept through the room. Wayne’s mother scrambled to her feet, her voice tight with panic. “Mona, sweetheart, let’s talk about this. Don’t do anything rash!” I didn’t look at her. Holding my shoes, I began the long, limping walk toward the exit. Behind me, Wayne’s voice cut through the murmurs, low and dangerous. “Walk out that door, Mona, and there’s no turning back.” I paused for a second, but I didn’t turn around. “I won’t be the one turning back.” But the person who chased me out into the cool night air wasn’t Wayne. It was Sadie. She ran after me, holding up the skirt of her delicate dress, panting as she caught up to me on the sidewalk. “Mona, please! You’re completely misunderstanding. When the lights went out, I got so terrified. I didn’t mean to grab onto Wayne.” I stopped and looked at her. “You didn’t mean to grab him. And I suppose the sudden change in the hotel’s lighting schedule was someone else’s idea too?” Sadie’s face went entirely white. I had only been bluffing, trying to see if she had any hand in the abrupt blackout, but the sudden panic in her eyes confirmed my worst fears. It felt like a physical blow to my chest. She quickly cast her eyes downward, her voice dropping into a soft, fragile whisper. “I only wanted to give you a surprise. The hotel staff told me they could set up a romantic, dimmed light show before the toasts. I had no idea the system would short-circuit.” Before I could reply, the glass doors of the venue swung open, and Wayne stepped out. Without a word, he slipped his charcoal suit jacket off and draped it over Sadie’s bare shoulders. “It’s freezing out here. Go back inside.” Sadie clutched the lapels of his jacket, looking up at me with wide, fearful eyes. “Wayne… does Mona hate me now?” Wayne didn’t look at me as he spoke. “She’s not in her right mind right now.” Hearing those words, the throbbing pain in my ankle suddenly didn’t seem so bad. It was entirely numb. I hailed a cab and drove straight to my design studio. My business partner, Gwen Kelly, was still at her desk, working late. When she saw me push the door open, she jumped, nearly spilling her lukewarm coffee all over her keyboard. “Mona? What the hell happened? Weren’t you supposed to be getting engaged tonight?” I tossed my clutch onto the desk. “It’s off.” Gwen rushed over, dropping to her knees to inspect my leg, and let out a string of curses. Without letting me argue, she dragged me straight to the nearest 24-hour clinic. The doctor spent twenty minutes picking a tiny shard of glass out of my flesh, put in two neat stitches, and warned me to keep it dry for at least a week. By the time we got back to the office, my phone finally lit up. It was a text from Wayne: Sadie is still severely shaken up. I’m driving her home. Go get your ankle looked at. Gwen read over my shoulder and let out a harsh, angry laugh. “Who the hell was he supposed to be marrying tonight?” I didn’t reply. When the nurse had pressed the alcohol swab to my open wound earlier, the pain had been so sharp I’d nearly bitten through my lip. But looking at the screen, I felt absolutely nothing. Half an hour later, Wayne walked into the studio. He pushed the door open, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion, looking for all the world like I was the one who had spent the night making his life difficult. He walked over to my desk and reached out, his hand automatically moving toward my hair in a gesture that used to feel comforting. “Does it still hurt?” I tilted my head, deliberately evading his touch. His hand hovered in the empty air for a second before he slowly let it drop. “Mona. Stop being childish.” I looked up, meeting his eyes. “Did you look into it?” “Look into what?” “The power outage.” Wayne pinched the bridge of his nose. “It was just faulty hotel wiring. I’ll have someone from the operations team follow up with them tomorrow.” I stared at him. “Sadie told me she personally authorized a change in the lighting schedule.” He went quiet for a beat. “She wanted to give you a surprise.” I let out a soft laugh. “So her ‘surprise’ turns into a disaster, I end up with stitches, and she gets to play the innocent victim.” “Do you always have to target Sadie?” Wayne’s voice took on a sharp, defensive edge. “She already feels sick to her stomach about what happened.” A heavy weight settled deep in my chest. After a long silence, I spoke. “Wayne, the engagement is off. We’re done.” He looked at me as if I were a difficult child throwing a tantrum. “Just because I ran to her first tonight?” “No,” I said, making sure he heard every single syllable. “Because you choose her first. Every single time.” The room fell quiet. Then, my phone rang. It was my dad. I pressed the receiver to my ear. His voice sounded thick, gravelly with unshed emotion. “Sweetheart, come home. Mom made some soup.” Hot tears finally stung the backs of my eyes. “Dad.” “Yeah, baby?” “Wayne doesn’t need to come over anymore.” There was a brief pause on the line. Then my father spoke, his voice firm and steady: “Good. He isn’t welcome in our home anyway.” When I got to my parents’ house, my mother sat on the edge of the sofa, carefully re-wrapping my bandage. Her hands were shaking so much she dropped the medical tape twice. “How did it cut you this deep?” she whispered. “Just a broken glass,” I murmured. She didn’t pry. She just leaned down and gently blew on the stitches to soothe the sting. At the kitchen table, my dad kept piling food onto my plate, while my mom sat opposite me, her eyes rimmed with red. I laid my fork down. “Dad, Mom… I’m not getting married.” My mother’s tears finally spilled over. My father looked at me, his expression grave. “Are you sure about this, Mona?” “I am.” He slid the bowl of warm soup closer to me. “Then we don’t do it.” I blinked, momentarily speechless. His voice softened, though it remained incredibly heavy. “We didn’t raise you for twenty-seven years just to watch you learn how to suffer in silence in someone else’s house.” A tear slipped from my cheek, landing directly in my bowl. In reality, I should have seen this coming a long time ago. Three years ago, when Wayne’s firm was on the brink of bankruptcy, I was the one who walked through muddy, half-constructed job sites with him, shaking hands with contractors. When his mother suffered a stroke, I was the one who spent every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon guiding her through her rehabilitation exercises. The day I received my acceptance letter for the Copenhagen fellowship, Wayne had held me tight at the airport gate, whispering, “Wait for me, Mona. Just until the firm is stable, and then I’ll pack your bags and take you to Europe myself.” But once the firm stabilized, Sadie returned from her years abroad. She decided she wanted to be an interior design influencer. Wayne immediately handed over our newly finished model homes for her photo shoots, redirected our prime business inquiries to her inbox, and even had me stay up past midnight to edit her scripts. I had asked him once, “Don’t you think Sadie is getting a little too involved in our personal and professional space?” He hadn’t even looked up from his tablet. “Grow up, Mona. She just got back to the States. She doesn’t have anyone else to rely on.” So, I grew up. I became mature, stable, and accommodating—so accommodating that I forgot that I was allowed to bleed too. The next morning, I walked into the office and printed two formal documents. The first was a withdrawal from our personal residential design project—the house that was supposed to be our home. The second was a formal resignation from the South Side Hotel development team. Gwen saw the papers on my desk and placed a fresh coffee next to them. “Are you really walking away?” “Yes.” “Can you actually let it go?” I picked up my pen and signed my name at the bottom of the sheets. “Even if it hurts, it’s time to give myself back to myself.” At noon, the cafeteria was packed. I had barely sat down with my lunch when Sadie slid into the seat opposite me. Her eyes were puffy, and her skin looked dull, as if she had spent the entire night crying. “Mona, how is your ankle?” I didn’t look up from my salad. She pushed a small carton of Greek yogurt toward me. “Wayne told me you love this brand.” I stared at the plastic container. For years, I had fooled myself into thinking Wayne kept track of my preferences. But the stark reality was that while he knew Sadie’s precise dairy-free milk order by heart, he constantly forgot that I was severely lactose intolerant. Sadie bit her lower lip nervously. “Last night… Wayne only stayed at my place because we had to pull an all-nighter restructuring the South Side proposal.” I looked up, my eyes narrowing. “At your place?” She caught herself, her hands fluttering in frantic explanation. “Oh, no! It’s not what you think. I was just too terrified to be alone after the blackout, so Wayne stayed out in the living room to keep me company.” She paused, adding in a tiny, fragile voice, “He was actually incredibly worried about you.” Heavy footsteps echoed behind us, and Wayne dropped a small box of pills onto my table. “Antibiotics. Make sure you take them with food.” Sadie looked up at him, her expression instantly softening. “See? I told you Mona wouldn’t stay mad at us.” Wayne glanced down at me, his jaw set. “She’s just being stubborn.” Sadie let out a delicate, airy laugh. “I actually bet Wayne last night that you would be crying by this morning.” Wayne shrugged. “You lost.” He looked directly at me, his voice dry. “Mona’s grown quite a backbone lately. She’s even brave enough to throw a scene at her own engagement party.” Listening to them exchange their casual banter, a wave of profound nausea washed over me. My injury, my humiliation, the ring I had publicly stripped from my finger—to them, it was all just a harmless joke to be laughed off over lunch. I set my fork down. “Wayne.” He looked at me, expecting my usual quiet compliance. “We’re done,” I said, my voice cutting through the ambient noise of the cafeteria. “It’s over.” The surrounding tables went dead quiet. Sadie’s eyes welled with tears instantly. “Mona… is this because of me?” “Don’t bother explaining to her,” Wayne snapped, cutting her off. He glared at me, his face darkening with anger. “Mona, have you had your little tantrum yet?” I picked up my tray. “I have. Which is why we’re finished.” By mid-afternoon, the entire office was buzzing with the news that the engagement was off. Gwen slipped into my cubicle, leaning over the partition. “Sadie was just doing a livestream from the model home, and a client’s wife completely lost her temper and called her a homewrecker right on camera.” My hand froze over my drawing tablet. “And?” “Sadie ended up tripping over a tripod as she scrambled to turn off the feed. Wayne practically carried her out of the building to take her to the emergency room.” Gwen rolled her eyes. “You would have thought she broke both her legs the way he was hovering.” I stared at the screen, silent. “Did she hurt her hands?” Gwen stared at me. “Mona, are you seriously still worried about her after everything?” I didn’t say anything. Sadie’s livelihood depended on her social media channels; if she had injured her hands, it would seriously impact her design work. Despite everything, I found myself walking into the clinic near the office. The door to her private room was slightly ajar. Sadie was sitting up on the gurney, a small patch of gauze taped over her knee. Wayne was leaning over her bedside table, twisting open a fresh bottle of water for her. He froze when he saw me standing in the doorway. Sadie spoke first, her voice weak. “Mona… you came.” I walked in. “How bad is it?” She shook her head. “Just a scraped knee, really.” Before I could even breathe a sigh of relief, Wayne’s voice sliced through the room. “Are you satisfied now?” I blinked. “What?” He set the water bottle down with a sharp click. “If you hadn’t insisted on making a massive scene about canceling the engagement, Sadie wouldn’t have been so distracted during her livestream today.” “And if she hadn’t been distracted, she wouldn’t have tripped and fallen. Do you see the chain reaction you caused?” It took me several seconds to fully process the words coming out of his mouth. “Wayne… you actually think this is my fault?” “Whose else would it be?” he said coldly. “You knew how fragile she is, and yet you had to broadcast our personal issues so the entire company was gossiping about it.” Sadie reached out, grabbing the sleeve of his shirt. “Wayne, stop. Please don’t do this.” He ignored her, keeping his furious gaze locked on me. “I used to respect you, Mona, because you actually understood boundaries. You were mature.” “And now?” “Now, you’re so consumed by petty jealousy that you’re willing to humiliate everyone around you just to make a point.” A cold, tingling sensation spread through my limbs. “So, she gets called out by a client’s wife, and I’m to blame. She trips over her own equipment, and that’s my fault too?” Wayne’s brow furrowed. “Do you have to be so incredibly sarcastic?” “I’m just helping you finish your thought.” Sadie’s tears began to stream down her face. “Mona, I’m so sorry. I swear I never wanted to come between you two.” It was always the same routine. The second she started to cry, Wayne acted as though the entire world needed to stop spinning to accommodate her. Myself included. I took a slow step backward, toward the door. “Wayne, I’m going to say this one last time.” “Our engagement is off. Our professional partnership is officially terminated.” “From this moment on, whoever you choose to protect is none of my business.” His expression turned icy. “Mona, don’t force me to make things ugly for you in public.” I smiled, though it felt hollow. “Don’t worry. I’m never giving you the chance again.” As I turned to walk down the corridor, Sadie’s soft, trembling voice drifted out of the room. “Wayne… do you think Mona is never going to speak to me again?” And Wayne’s reply, quiet but confident: “She’s just throwing a fit. Give her a couple of days to cool off, and she’ll come around.” I kept walking, my footsteps even. Of course I would cool off. Once a heart goes completely cold, it never burns for you again. Over the next two weeks, Wayne didn’t call or text me once. But the office grapevine was relentless. Every day brought a new detail about him and Sadie. People said he was personally chauffeuring her to all her video shoots. They whispered that he had personally selected Sadie to be the face of the promotional campaign for the South Side Hotel project. Some even claimed that Sadie’s media consultancy fees had tripled overnight. Gwen practically slammed her coffee mug onto my desk. “She literally tripped her way right into the most prestigious contract of the year!” I kept my head down, refining my layout drawings. “Let her have it.” “Doesn’t it kill you?” My pen paused on the paper. “It hurts,” I admitted quietly. “But I’m not going back.” Later that afternoon, Sadie walked into the design department. She was wearing a flowing white linen dress, her eyes artistically rimmed with pink. “Mona,” she murmured. I didn’t look up from my screen. “Ms. Wells. Is there something you need?” She flinched. “You… you’ve never called me that before.” “My judgment used to be poor.” Around us, the clicking of keyboards slowed down. My colleagues were pretending to work, but every ear in the room was strained to listen. Sadie bit her lip. “Wayne’s stomach ulcer has been acting up terribly because of the stress. Can you please stop being so stubborn and just talk to him?” I finally looked up, meeting her gaze dead-on. “If his ulcer is acting up, you should drive him to a clinic. You shouldn’t be coming to me.” Her tears flowed right on cue. “I’m only trying to build a bridge for you two. Mona, you’ve been together for so many years. Is it really worth throwing all of that away over me?” I leaned back in my chair, staring at her. “Sadie, stop acting like you’re some innocent bystander.” “You knew exactly who he would choose, which is why your tears always seem to fall at the perfect moment.” Her face went entirely pale. “That’s not true…” “Sadie. Let’s go.” Wayne’s voice cut through the room. He walked over, his eyes fixed on me like twin chips of ice. “Don’t disrupt her work.” Sadie bowed her head meekly and fell in lockstep behind him as he turned away. Looking at them, a sudden wave of dark amusement washed over me. I was the one who had been wounded, both physically and emotionally. But in Wayne’s eyes, Sadie was the only one who ever suffered. That evening was the final presentation for the South Side Hotel development. As the lead architect and designer, I was responsible for presenting the entire blueprint package. But ten minutes before the board meeting started, Wayne pulled me aside in the hallway. “Sadie is going to deliver the opening presentation,” he said. My brow furrowed. “She doesn’t know the structural data.” “She’s the face of the marketing partnership. She needs the exposure.” “Wayne, this is a final board approval meeting, not one of her social media streams.” His expression darkened. “Mona, do not bring your personal vendettas into our professional obligations.” I almost laughed out loud. The meeting commenced, and Sadie took the podium. Her voice was noticeably tight, trembling slightly as she went through the slides. She managed to get through the first half of the deck without incident. But then, the lead client representative leaned forward, interrupting her. “Regarding the family-friendly wing, which class of fire-rated paneling did you specify for the walls?” Sadie panicked, shuffling through her notes frantically. “We… we specified standard wood veneer finish.” My heart stopped. That area required Class A fire-resistant gypsum and fire-retardant treated wood. It was a non-negotiable safety code for child-centric spaces. I immediately stood up. “My apologies, I’d like to clarify that point—” “Sit down, Mona,” Wayne commanded, his voice cold and sharp. I froze in place. The client representative’s face turned incredibly grim. “Standard wood veneer?” “Is Reynolds Development seriously treating child safety as a joke?” After the disastrous presentation concluded, the boardroom cleared out, leaving only the three of us. Wayne shut the heavy double doors, turned to me, and spoke his first words: “Mona, how did you let a mistake like that slip into the design package?” I looked at him, utterly dumbfounded. “Sadie read the wrong specifications.” “You were responsible for compiling the briefing documents.” “I gave her the correct, verified package. She chose to read from her old notes.” Sadie’s tears began to fall again. “Wayne, I’m so sorry. I got so incredibly nervous up there…” Wayne didn’t even glance at her. His eyes remained fixed on me. “You knew this was her first time presenting to a board of this scale. Why didn’t you run through the deck with her beforehand?” A cold sensation settled deep in my bones. “So… you want me to take the blame for this?” He slid a typed document across the conference table. “Sign it.” I looked at the header: Internal Incident Report: Lead Designer Mona Aldridge oversight in document preparation, resulting in incorrect project specifications delivered during presentation. I looked up. “Why?” Wayne’s voice was flat, matter-of-fact. “Sadie’s marketing contract went live today. If she takes the fall for a major safety compliance error now, her brand is ruined.” “And what about my career?” He hesitated for a fraction of a second. “You’re different.” “How am I different, Wayne?” “You’re my fiancée.” I stared at him, and the very last spark of warmth I held for him went completely dark. I finally understood. A fiancée wasn’t someone to be protected. She was just the most convenient shield.

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Ever since my mother lost my baby brother to a late-term miscarriage, and my father chose to spend his nights comforting his former classmate in her quiet suburban townhouse, I had been cutting him out of our family photos. The school called my mother one afternoon. My teacher had overheard me telling my desk mate that my father was gone, that I wanted his father instead. My mother froze over the receiver. When she finally spoke, her voice was a hollow whisper. “Yes,” she told the teacher. “He passed away early.” During the school’s father-daughter field day, my mother watched from the sidelines as I handed a crumpled ten-dollar bill to Mr. Higgins, the school security guard, asking him to play my dad for just one afternoon. She didn’t scold me. Instead, she quietly slipped a two-hundred-dollar bill into his palm so he would stay and walk me through the parent-teacher conference afterward. Whenever a father’s presence was required, my mother simply let me buy one. Then, my father suddenly realized he hadn’t heard from us in a long time. He canceled all his meetings and showed up to pick me up from school, only to be turned away by a frowning teacher who didn’t recognize him. Confused, he came home. The moment he stepped through the door, he heard me speaking to Mr. Henderson, our building superintendent. “My dad died,” I was saying. “Do you want to be my new dad?” 1 The living room wall was covered in framed photographs of my childhood victories, but the man standing beside my mother and me in every single one was a stranger. “Nydia, who the hell is this man standing next to you?” My father’s voice was so cold it felt like ice against my skin. His eyes were burning holes into the frame. I didn’t understand why he was so angry. I stood there, shifting on my feet, desperately trying to think of an explanation. Mr. Henderson wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Kiddo, what are you talking about? Your dad is standing right here!” He offered a tense, awkward smile and hurried out of the apartment. My father’s mouth twitched with rage. He was holding a bakery box, completely unaware that the cake inside had slipped and smashed against the hardwood floor. “I’ve only been gone for two months, and you’ve already told everyone I’m dead?” His chest heaved. “Is this how you raise our daughter, Nydia?” Terrified, I rushed forward to shield my mother. “No one taught me! Don’t blame Mommy. I said it myself!” His face went entirely dark. He reached up to tear the frames off the wall, ready to smash them, but his hand froze when he read the gold lettering on the certificates. His grip slackened, and he looked at me with a complicated, unreadable expression. I held my breath, waiting for the storm. He didn’t know that two months ago, when he “died” to us in Cassandra’s townhouse, my mother had already paid several men to stand in his place for my competitions. Hearing the noise, my mother emerged from the bedroom. In just two months, she had withered away. Her eyes were hollow, her steps unsteady, her clothes hanging off a frame that looked like nothing but fragile glass. But she didn’t scream. She didn’t cry or threaten him with a knife, demanding he choose between her and his mentor’s daughter. She just stared at him with an icy, absolute indifference. The anger in my father’s eyes sputtered out, replaced by a sudden, guilty swallow. He reached into his leather bag and pulled out a sleek, expensive camera, holding it out to her like a peace offering. “Nydia, look. It’s the new model you’ve wanted forever. And I know you want to get back into your photography, so I went ahead and submitted your old portfolio to the international gallery showcase.” My mother looked at the box. Her face remained a perfect, flat slate. There was no joy, no rush of relief. I recognized that camera. It was the one she had kept in her online shopping cart for two years. To save money for our household expenses, she had never bought it. When she finally brought herself to ask him for it, he had brushed her off, time and time again. He didn’t know that his gift was already outdated. She had saved up and bought the latest release herself. Sensing her coldness, my father’s brow furrowed. He sighed, gently taking her hand and placing the camera in her palm, his voice softening into that old, patronizing warmth. “Alright, sweetheart. It’s my fault. I know you’ve been fragile since the miscarriage, and I shouldn’t have raised my voice. But I promise you, Cassandra’s situation is almost sorted out. Just give me a little more time…” Time. I clenched my small fists, my heart aching for my mother. For two months, he had been a liar. He had made that exact promise fifty-two times, and not once had he kept it. My mother had waited for him until she lost the baby, until her clinical depression spiraled into self-harm. She had waited until she was covered in scars, and still, he had not come home. Instead, he had always snapped at her: “Nydia, I told you, she’s my late mentor’s daughter. We’re practically family. Why do you have to make everything a scene?” Suddenly, his phone blared. He answered it quickly, and the speakerphone carried the shrill, terrified wail of a little girl. “Daddy! Come back quick! Mommy’s head is so hot, and she’s lying on the floor and won’t get up!” Then came Cassandra’s weak, breathless voice in the background: “Why did you call him, Zoe? We can’t keep bothering him…” My blood boiled. I wanted to scream. He isn’t your daddy! He’s my daddy! But my father’s eyes instantly welled with tears. His voice trembled. “Cassie, what are you saying? I want you to bother me for the rest of my life.” He tossed the camera carelessly onto the bed. “Nydia, Cassie’s exhausted. I have to go check on them. I’ll come back and explain later.” He ran out the door, his keys jangling in his frantic grip. My mother and I stood in the silence, staring at the empty doorway. We both knew he wouldn’t be back tonight. My mother picked up the camera. She turned it on and scrolled through the internal storage. There, saved on the memory card, were dozens of photos of my father, Cassandra, and Zoe. I saw the dates. On the day my mother was in the hospital losing my baby brother, my father was riding the Ferris wheel with them. On the night my mother’s depression peaked and she was admitted for severe hemorrhaging, my father was holding Zoe up to watch the New Year’s Eve fireworks. A sharp pain pierced my chest. I began to cry. My father had plenty of time. He just chose never to give it to us. My mother was shaking violently. She pulled me into her arms, her voice raspy but entirely resolute. “Maisie, your father is dead. Right?” I nodded quickly, clutching her shirt. Something shifted in her eyes. She picked up the expensive camera and hurled it against the brick wall with all her might. It shattered into a hundred plastic teeth. I knew then that whatever was left of her heart had shattered right along with it. That night, before I fell asleep, I heard her on the phone with a man. “I’ll take the transfer to the London studio,” she said. “I’ll be there in a week.” In my half-asleep haze, I remembered that before she married my father, my mother had been a globally renowned photographer. Collectors and celebrities used to bid fortunes just to secure a print of her work. But she had surrendered her legacy for him, hiding away in New York, working a miserable, low-paying job where she was constantly mistreated. I smiled into my pillow. In seven days, the brilliant, shining version of my mother would finally be back. Five days before our departure. I came home from school to a chaotic mess. My father, who hadn’t stepped foot in the apartment for two days, was busy throwing my trophies and certificates into a large cardboard shipping box. Even the princess dresses my mother had saved up to buy me, along with my limited-edition dolls, were being ruthlessly shoved inside. My mind went blank. I looked at my mother, terror rising in my chest. Her face was pale, her knuckles white as she gripped the doorframe. “Alex, are you even human?” she whispered, her voice trembling. “You haven’t checked on Maisie in two days, and the moment you walk through the door, you start stealing her things for those two?” My father didn’t even look up. He picked up one of my spelling bee trophies, examining it casually. “Nydia, I didn’t want to do this, but you posted that photo on social media. It triggered Cassandra and Zoe. Zoe’s been depressed ever since. Maisie has so much. What’s wrong with letting a fatherless child have some of her things?” My mother let out a dry, bitter laugh, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “Only a filthy mind sees filth everywhere. I never bragged. Maisie and I earned those trophies. When you’re busy being a savior to another man’s wife and daughter, do you ever stop to think about your own?” My father scoffed. My mother took a deep breath, as if she had finally seen through him completely. She took out her phone and sent a message to the journalist who had been begging to interview us. “Hi, Susan. I accept the ‘Champion Mothers’ feature. Tomorrow night at seven. 302 Bayside Lane.” “Nydia! What do you think you’re doing?” My father lunged forward, snatching the phone from her hand. My mother looked down at him, her eyes dead. “If they want the trophies, they have to earn them. If they can survive a live press interview, they can keep them.” My father’s jaw clenched. “Do you have to make everything so ugly? What happened to the woman I married? You used to be so elegant, so understanding.” He ordered the movers to take the final box. Before he stepped out, he looked at her with deep disappointment. “They’re just toys, Nydia. I’ll bring them back when Zoe is done with them. Delete that interview request.” My chest felt heavy as I stared at my shoes. My mother stepped forward. “Don’t you dare walk out that door with—” “Mommy,” I interrupted quietly. I looked at my father and shook my head. “It’s okay. I don’t want them anymore. Let her have them.” A flash of relief washed over my father’s face. He smiled and reached down to pat my head. “That’s my good girl. Always so sensible.” After he left, I looked around the empty room. I went to my piggy bank, fished out a ten-dollar bill, and walked down the hall to the apartment of the college student who lived upstairs. “Sam,” I said when he opened the door, holding out the bill. “Can you be my dad for tonight? It’s my mommy’s birthday.” Sam’s voice cracked. “Did Alex…” “He’s dead,” my mother and I said in unison. Understanding softened his face, and he quietly followed us back to our apartment. We blew out the candles on the small cake, and as I started to sing happy birthday, my mother’s phone buzzed. Her hand shook as she opened the notification. I peeked over her shoulder. My blood ran cold. Cassandra had posted a new photo. The caption read: “I love breaking things. He never gets angry; he just smiles and hands me another.” Underneath was a picture of my hard-won trophies, smashed into pieces on her living room floor. Beside them, my beloved dolls had been defaced with black marker, painted to look like ugly clowns. Ding. A notification from the bank app popped up. My father had sent my mother a transfer of five thousand dollars. Then, a voice note: “Nydia, there was an accident with the trophies. Just take the cash and buy Maisie some new ones.” Tears hot and heavy blurred my vision. But Daddy, money can’t buy back the love we had for you. My mother squeezed her eyes shut. She took a screenshot of the post, of the bank transfer, and sent a voice note to our family lawyer. “Mr. Fletcher, I’m sending over the financial records and the evidence of Alex’s infidelity. Let’s get the divorce filed immediately.” My mother never replied to my father’s transfer. Instead, his calls came flooding in, one after another. “Nydia, it’s your birthday. I’m sorry I forgot.” “Why aren’t you accepting the money? Why do you have to be so difficult?” “Are you happy now? The reporters showed up at Cassandra’s place and made a scene. Is this what you wanted?” My mother read the texts silently. For the first time, she didn’t cry. She simply tapped his profile and hit block. Goodbye, Alex. You will never hear from her again. Three days before our departure. There was a community father-daughter sports day at the local park. My father had promised me over and over that he would show up. I sat on the wooden bench, clutching my mother’s hand, waiting. Five minutes passed. Then thirty. My mother’s phone rang. It was him. “There’s an emergency at the firm. I have to go in. I’ll make it up to Maisie next time.” Before he could finish, my mother hung up and blocked the temporary number he was calling from. I tried to force a smile to comfort her, but then, a familiar laughter echoed from the other side of the field. “You’re the best, Daddy Alex! We’re going to win!” My mind went entirely blank. I turned around. There was my father, lifting Zoe into the air, his face glowing with a bright, proud smile. I looked at my mother, lost. “I thought Daddy had to go to work.” My mother stood up, her face tight with rage, ready to confront him. I grabbed her hand, pulling her back. “Mommy, no. The race is starting.” We returned to our lane. It was a relay race. If I could run the first two hundred meters and hand the baton to my mother, we could win. The grand prize was a family vacation package—something we had dreamed of. Hope flared in my chest. At the sound of the starting gun, I ran with everything I had. Fifty meters… one hundred… one hundred and ninety… Sweat stung my eyes, but I reached out, desperate to hand the baton to my mother. Suddenly, a violent force shoved me from behind. I crashed onto the gravel path, my knees scraping raw. Blood seeped through my leggings. I gasped, tears springing to my eyes. Beside me, Zoe let out a piercing scream. “Why did you push me! Daddy, it hurts!” She lay on the ground, wailing at the top of her lungs. My mother flew toward me, wrapping her arms around me to protect me. But my father and Cassandra were already there, their faces twisted with anger. “Maisie! Why did you push Zoe?” my father roared. “I didn’t!” I screamed through my tears. Zoe pointed a trembling finger at me. “She did! She did it on purpose, Daddy!” My chest tightened so hard I could barely breathe. My mother stood up, her voice like a blade. “Check the cameras. If you don’t believe my daughter, let the footage speak for itself.” But my father didn’t care. He swept Zoe into his arms, glaring at us. “Cameras? You’ve raised her to be so manipulative, Nydia. Watching the tape will only humiliate her.” They rushed off toward the first-aid station. My face went pale, and I reached up to touch my mother’s cheek. “Mommy, it doesn’t hurt…” And then, everything went black. When I woke up in the medical tent, the speakers outside were blaring. “Congratulations to Zoe for winning the relay!” I stared at the ceiling, tears silent against my skin. I had been so much faster. Why did she win? Did my father pull strings for her again? My mother, her face set in a dark mask, stood up and marched straight toward Cassandra. “Oh, Nydia,” Cassandra purred, a cruel little smile playing on her lips. “You didn’t have to come over to congratulate us.” She leaned in, whispering so only my mother could hear. “Honestly, thank you. If it weren’t for Alex helping us, we’d be nothing. Technically, you guys were faster, but Alex just has such a soft heart… he can’t stand to see us cry.” Slap. My mother’s hand connected with Cassandra’s face, hard. She grabbed Cassandra by the hair, dragging her backward. “I told you to stay the hell away from my daughter!” Cassandra’s shrieks brought my father running. “Nydia! Have you lost your mind? Just because you lost a race, you’re attacking her?” My mother’s eyes were bloodshot. “Yes! I want you both to burn in hell!” My father slammed into her, shoving her away. My mother hit the ground, her hands flying to her throat as she gasped for air. Her panic attack. Her clinical depression was clawing its way out. Terrified, I scrambled to my feet, limping heavily as I reached into my pocket for her rescue medication. “Mommy!” But before I could reach her, someone’s foot tripped me. I went flying, the pills scattering across the dirt. Zoe stood over them, a malicious grin on her face, and brought her sneaker down hard, crushing the tablets into dust. “No!” The scream tore from my throat, raw and agonizing. Those pills were her lifeline. Without them, she could suffocate in minutes. As I crawled to save the remaining powder, Cassandra screamed. “Maisie, don’t push Zoe!” My father didn’t even hesitate. He shoved me back. Behind me was the deep, stone-lined ornamental lake. Before I could fall, my mother lunged forward, throwing her body in front of mine. Splash. The cold water swallowed her. She couldn’t swim. She thrashed, her face turning blue. I threw myself at my father’s legs, sobbing hysterically. “Daddy! Mommy can’t swim! She has depression! Please save her!” My father’s eyes widened. He took a step toward the water. But Cassandra wailed, “Alex! Zoe’s fainted! Help her!” My father froze. His heels pivoted. He picked up Zoe and ran, shouting over his shoulder to his assistant to pull Nydia out. I watched him run away, my heart tearing in two. Daddy, did you really just abandon us? At the hospital, after my mother was stabilized, I pulled another ten-dollar bill from my pocket and handed it to the orderly. “Sir, can you play my dad for today? Just to look after my mommy?” The man looked at me, heartbroken. “Sweetheart, where is your dad?” My voice was quiet, dead. “My dad is dead.” He died the moment he walked away from my drowning mother. One day before our departure. My mother packed our suitcases and finalized our visas. My father came to the hospital every day. Whenever he saw the orderly helping us, his brow would knit into an angry scowl. “Maisie has a father, Nydia. Are you that desperate for a man’s attention?” Neither of us answered him. The orderly eventually kicked him out. He brought jewelry, designer clothes, and expensive toys. We quietly donated every single item to the pediatric oncology ward next door. He had no idea. Five hours before our flight. My mother took me to the amusement park. It was the one place I had begged to go, but her illness had always kept us home. “I’m so sorry I kept putting this off, sweetie,” she whispered, kissing my temple. I grinned, showing all my teeth. Suddenly, my smart watch buzzed. It was a text from my father. “Maisie, tell Mommy I’ve sent Cassandra and Zoe out of the country. I’m taking you both out tonight to make up for your birthdays.” My chest tightened. But then I looked across the plaza. There was my father, holding shopping bags, laughing as Cassandra clung to his arm. I didn’t tell my mother. I tapped the screen and blocked his number. Another lie. As we queued for the Ferris wheel, sirens suddenly began to wail across the park. A chaotic scream ripped through the crowd. Four massive, rabid guard dogs had broken loose and were charging toward the visitors. My mother grabbed my hand, trying to pull me toward the exit, but the stampede of panicked people tore us apart. “Maisie!” Fear anchored my feet to the ground. My legs felt like lead. Suddenly, my father’s voice boomed over the noise. “Maisie! Come here! Run to Daddy!” My eyes welled with tears. I started to run toward him. But Cassandra’s voice shrieked, “Alex! Zoe is trapped over there! Save her!” My father looked at me, then at Zoe in the distance. My mother’s voice was hoarse from screaming. “Alex! Save Maisie! Someone else is going for Zoe!” My father’s eyes darted back and forth. Finally, he looked at me. “Maisie, just wait there!” Wait. Always wait. He turned his back on me and sprinted toward Zoe, scooping her up as he fled. The four snarling dogs closed the circle around me. The last spark of love I had for him died in that moment. As they lunged, my mother charged through the crowd like a wild animal, brandishing a heavy wooden stake. She threw herself over me. The dogs tore into her legs. Blood soaked my clothes, but she looked down at me, smiling through the agony. “Don’t be scared, baby. Mommy’s here.” I sobbed, shaking uncontrollably. Just as the dogs lunged again, a team of security guards rushed in with tranquilizer rifles and subdued them. At the hospital, after the rabies shots were administered and her wounds were bound, my mother gripped her passport with bloodless knuckles. “Maisie, let’s go. I can’t breathe in this city for another second.” As the plane lifted off into the clouds, I had only one thought. Goodbye, Alex. You will never find us again.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “502717”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Mona walked out on our wedding. She did it to run to her ex-boyfriend—the same man who had abandoned her five years ago when she was on the verge of being permanently paralyzed. A collective gasp rippled through the chapel, the whispers rising like dry leaves. I gripped her wrist, fighting to keep my expression from crumbling in front of our guests. “Please,” I whispered, my voice thick with a desperation I hated. “Not now. Don’t leave.” Her eyes flickered with a brief, agonizing conflict. Then, finger by finger, she pried my hand off her wrist. She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Wright. I have to go. I need to know why he left so ruthlessly back then.” Without a backward glance, Mona walked down the aisle, leaving behind a chorus of stunned whispers. Behind me, my mother—who had a severe, fragile heart condition—began to tremble violently. Before I could even process the humiliation of being left at the altar, she collapsed onto the floor. “Mom!” The world splintered around me. Somehow, through the panic and the blinding tears, I managed to get her into the ambulance. Sitting outside the emergency room, my phone buzzed in my trembling hands. Two notifications lit up the screen. The first was from Jerry: “I told you. The moment I came back, Mona would never choose you. You lose again.” The second was from Mona: “Give me thirty days. Let’s take a break for just thirty days, and then I promise I will love only you with all my heart.” I stared at the screen, my eyes as dead as a winter sea. A bitter, self-deprecating laugh escaped my throat. This time, I wasn’t going to let myself lose. … The red light of the emergency room stayed lit for three hours. My mother had undergone bypass surgery two years ago. She had warned me, softly but firmly, that Mona was not the kind of woman who could ever truly belong to me. But I had been stubborn. I had clung to the belief that Mona loved me with the same quiet, desperate devotion I had for her. Now, every single one of those sweet, deluded assumptions felt like a violent slap to my face. I could barely breathe. My father paced beside me, frantic and hollow-eyed. “Wright, what if she doesn’t make it? What if…” “She will,” I interrupted him, though the words were meant more to comfort myself than him. “Mom is strong. She’ll make it.” But my voice cracked. I had never been this terrified in my entire life. Then, my phone vibrated again. Another text from Jerry—this time, a video. It was filmed inside a dim hotel suite. Mona was there, still flushed and disheveled from running out on our wedding, standing in front of him. “Why did you come back?” she demanded. Jerry didn’t answer. He just watched her. She was the one who lost control first, her eyes brimming with angry tears. “You walked away without a single word, and now you think you can just breeze back in and ruin my life? Who gave you the right to be this selfish, Jerry?” I walked down to the empty stairwell, seeking a quiet corner to watch the rest. The woman on the screen—this unraveled, raw version of Mona—felt like an absolute stranger. My friends had warned me more than once that Mona was too cold, too detached with me. But I had always brushed it off. “She’s a high-powered CEO,” I’d say, defending her. “She’s built to keep her emotions under lock and key. That’s just who she is.” But sitting in that cold stairwell, the illusion shattered. She was capable of losing her mind. She could cry, she could shake, she could beg. It was just that none of those raw, primal feelings were meant for me. They were reserved entirely for Jerry. I closed my eyes, forcing down the physical ache in my chest, and pressed play again. In the video, Jerry didn’t offer an explanation. He just stood there, letting her vent, knowing he held all the cards. Mona’s anger lasted only a moment before dissolving into a bitter, helpless laugh. All her resentment crumbled in an instant. She stepped forward and threw her arms around him. “As long as you’re back…” she whispered. Jerry wrapped his arms around her waist, his eyes locking with the camera lens. He smirked—a look of pure, triumphant malice. The video cut to black. I let out a soft, hollow laugh. Outside, a sudden roll of thunder shook the hospital windows as rain began to pour. So that’s what she looked like when she loved someone. Five years together, and I had never once seen that expression on her face. I wiped my face and walked back to the waiting room just as the heavy double doors swung open. I rushed to the surgeon, my throat tight. “Doctor, my mother… how is she?” “She’s stable. The worst is over,” the doctor said, removing his mask. “But you must keep her calm. Her heart cannot handle any more severe shocks.” I nodded, every muscle in my body coiled tight. “It won’t happen again. Thank you, Doctor.” My father collapsed into a chair, weeping with relief, as my mother was wheeled out. Looking at her pale, thin face, I wanted to strike myself. Why had it taken me this long to finally wake up? Shortly after we moved my mother into a private room, a specialist knocked on the door. “Mr. Simon? I’m the hypertension specialist sent by Ms. Kingsley. How is the patient doing?” At that exact moment, my phone buzzed. A text from Mona: “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize your mother would react so strongly. I’ve sent a top hypertension specialist to the hospital. She’ll be fine.” My hand shook so hard the phone nearly slipped from my fingers. It was laughable. Five years. We had been together for five years, and she didn’t even know what kind of heart disease my mother had. I took a deep, steadying breath, keeping my voice level. “We don’t need your services. Please leave.” After settling my parents, I walked down to the ground floor to pick up some of my mother’s routine prescriptions. Passing the gastroenterology clinic, I stopped dead. Through the crack in the door, I saw Mona and Jerry. She was holding his hand, her face etched with deep, frantic worry. The doctor was taking notes. “Describe his symptoms.” Before Jerry could even open his mouth, Mona blurted out the answers. “His stomach has always been sensitive. He never eats warm food when he should, and his immune system is incredibly weak. We’ve tried holistic remedies, but nothing seems to stick.” My feet felt like they were encased in concrete. Every word she spoke—detailing Jerry’s health with clinical, intimate precision—was a needle driving straight into my chest. She couldn’t remember my mother’s cardiac history, but she had memorized the digestive quirks of an ex-boyfriend she hadn’t seen in half a decade. I pulled out my phone, dialed my lawyer’s number, and kept my voice whisper-quiet. “Draft a divorce agreement. Send it to my email.” Then, I walked into an adjacent examination room. “I need to schedule an urgent endoscopy,” I told the physician on duty. “My stomach pain has been unbearable.” The doctor looked up, her brow furrowing as she recognized me. “Wait, I remember you. We caught your early-stage gastric ulcer last month. Why hasn’t there been any follow-up? It’s gotten incredibly severe.” A dull ache flared in my chest. A month ago, while Mona was away on a business trip, I had started experiencing sharp abdominal pains. The biopsy came back showing an early-stage ulcer. I hadn’t told her because I wanted to wait until after the wedding—I thought I’d tell her when we were finally in a quiet, happy place. I never could have guessed that Jerry would return, or that she would leave me standing at the altar like a fool. I was still wearing my tuxedo trousers, wrinkling under the hospital lights, looking thoroughly pathetic. “I just neglected it,” I said quietly. “Please, just schedule the test.” The doctor sighed, typing into her computer. “Fine. Tomorrow morning at nine, Exam Room One. Just check in at the front desk.” I thanked her and walked back to my mother’s room. I pulled out my phone. Our mutual friend group chat was buzzing with activity. Mona had just added Jerry back into the group. “Welcome back, Jerry! I knew you two would find your way back to each other,” one friend wrote. “Exactly. You two always belonged together anyway,” another chimed in. “Uh… guys? Wright is still in this chat, remember?” There was a sudden, heavy silence. I smiled bitterly. These people had only tolerated me because of Mona; they had never actually respected me. A second later, a system notification flashed across the screen: “You have been removed from the group by Mona Kingsley.” My lips went dry and pale. A direct message from Mona popped up immediately: “I’ll add you back in thirty days. Be good.” I stared at those words for a long moment, then closed the app without replying. Once my medical tests were done tomorrow, there would be nothing left to bind us. Two days later, my mother woke up, and my tests were completed. I returned to Kingsley Enterprises to submit my resignation. I had barely sat down at my desk in the executive suite when the elevator doors slid open. Mona and Jerry walked out together. She stopped in front of my desk, adjusting her blazer. “Is your mother’s blood pressure under control?” I clenched my fists beneath the desk, keeping my voice dripping with cold sarcasm. “She’s doing perfectly, Ms. Kingsley. Thanks to your expert recommendation.” Mona’s brows knit together. She hated this sharp, cynical version of me. She was used to a Wright who hung on her every word, eager to please. Shifting her gaze away in annoyance, she turned to Jerry. Her expression softened instantly into something almost worshipful. “You’ll start as my chief personal assistant here in the executive suite,” she told him. “Once you’re familiar with our operations, I’ll move you to project management.” Jerry glanced at me, a smug smile playing on his lips. “Sounds great. I’m still a bit rusty, Mona. Maybe Wright can show me the ropes?” I looked up, the anger burning in my throat. “I decline.” Jerry didn’t flinch. He just quietly waited for Mona to handle it. Sure enough, her cold, authoritative voice cut through the room. “You don’t have a choice, Wright. This is a business, not a playground. Your personal preferences don’t dictate my decisions.” She didn’t wait for my response. She grabbed Jerry’s hand and led him into her private office. My hands and feet grew cold. Outside, the morning sun vanished behind a sudden flurry of snow, and a draft from the window made me shiver. I sank back into my chair, hyper-aware of the quiet snickers from the other assistants. By afternoon, I had finished drafting my formal resignation letter. Before I could print it, Mona called me into her office. Her face was dark with fury as she threw a thick folder at my feet. “Wright, is this job a joke to you? You put down three hundred million for a thirty-million-dollar bid! The entire legal team is scrambling to clean up your mess!” I knelt to pick up the papers, my heart hammering. I scanned the numbers. “This is impossible,” I said, my voice rising. “I audited this draft five times. The numbers were perfect.” Then, my eyes drifted to Jerry, who was standing by the window. The subtle, pleased curve of his mouth made my blood run cold. “It was you,” I whispered. It made perfect sense. His sudden eagerness to learn this morning, sitting right next to me for hours—finding out my computer password would have been child’s play for him. “Wright!” Mona snapped, her voice shaking the glass walls. “Are you seriously trying to shift the blame?” I closed my eyes and took a slow breath to steady myself. “Let’s check the security feed. Jerry probably didn’t realize that the little decorative clock on my desk has a built-in camera.” Jerry’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. I caught it. Mona remained silent, her lips pressed into a thin line. Her hesitation was like a physical blow to my chest. Without waiting for her permission, I grabbed Jerry by the sleeve and dragged him out into the main bullpen, where dozens of employees were already whispering. “Wright, stop—” Mona called out behind us, but I ignored her. I pulled up the camera feed on the main presentation screen for everyone to see. The footage was clear. At 12:23 PM, while the rest of the floor was out for lunch, Jerry had sat at my desk. Every keystroke, every deliberate modification to the bid contract was recorded in high definition. Mona’s face drained of color. Whispers broke out among the staff. “It was Jerry? Why would he do that?” “Are you blind? He’s her ex. It’s a classic power move to get rid of the fiancé. Let’s see who Mona protects.” “My money is on Jerry. You rookies don’t know how crazy she was about him back in the day.” I kept my back straight, refusing to show how much their words stung, or how much Mona’s heavy, agonizing silence was tearing me apart. Jerry looked at me, a cold, mocking smile returning to his face. He turned to Mona, completely devoid of remorse. “It was me,” he said casually. “I changed the files to frame Wright. You can fire me if you want.” He stepped closer to her, holding her gaze. “Are you going to fire me, Mona?” My chest tightened. “She has to,” I thought. The proof was undeniable, and he had admitted to corporate sabotage. There was no way she could justify keeping him. I held my breath, waiting. After a long, agonizing pause, Mona looked away from Jerry and addressed the crowd. “The matter is closed. I will personally cover any financial losses incurred by this mistake.” Jerry’s smirk widened as he cast a pitying glance my way. A collective murmur of disbelief swept through the office. It felt like a physical strike to my face. “On what grounds?” My voice shook, but I couldn’t stop myself from asking. Mona looked at me, her expression incredibly defensive. “Jerry is my boyfriend now. He made a lapse in judgment, and as his partner, I am taking responsibility for his mistakes.” A hollow laugh escaped me. “Your boyfriend? Mona, did you forget we have a signed marriage license? He’s a homewrecker—” “Wright!” she snapped, her eyes freezing me in place. “He is not.” I looked down at the polished floor, the last of my hopes crumbling away. Jerry’s confidence hadn’t come from his own cleverness; it had come from Mona’s unconditional protection. I didn’t want to fight anymore. “Fine,” I whispered. “He isn’t.” She ordered everyone back to work, then ushered me into her office and closed the door. She reached out, wrapping her arms around me, her tone softening. “I’m sorry, Wright. I didn’t mean to snap. But I told you—just give me thirty days. After that, I am entirely yours.” My fingernails dug into my palms, the pain grounding me. I forced a faint smile. “Okay. I believe you. By the way, I have a few routine documents that need your signature.” I slipped my resignation letter and the divorce papers into a stack of standard corporate contracts and handed them to her. The abrupt shift in topic caught her off guard, but seeing my calm demeanor, she let out a sigh of relief. Without reading a single page, she signed her name at the bottom of each sheet. Back at my desk, I scanned and sent the signed divorce agreement to my lawyer, then walked down to HR to hand in my resignation. I sat through the remaining hours of the day in silence. When dusk fell, I took one last look at the office where I had spent five years of my life, left my ID badge on the desk, and walked out. In the parking garage, Jerry was leaning against my car. I tried to walk past him, but he stepped in my way. “See? I told you,” he sneered. “The moment I come back, you’re out. If you have any self-respect left, Wright, sign the papers and walk away. Why cling to a woman who doesn’t love you?” I stopped, looking at him with quiet contempt. “Is that so? Too bad that until the legalities are finalized, you’re nothing but a cheap affair.” “Why you—” He lost his temper and swung, his fist connecting heavily with my jaw. “You bastard!” “Jerry!” Mona’s voice echoed through the concrete structure. She hurried over, her eyes lingering on my swelling cheek for a brief moment. I waited for her to scream at him, to demand why he had just assaulted her fiancé. Instead, she turned to me. “I’m sorry, Wright. I apologize on Jerry’s behalf. To make it up to you, I’ll make sure our wedding in thirty days is the grandest event this city has ever seen.” Jerry smiled, casually draping an arm around her shoulder. My whole body went numb. My eyes burned with unshed tears. Before I could say a word, she led him away toward her car. The garage fell silent. I stood there alone, my jaw throbbing. Finally, the truth settled in. Mona didn’t care about Jerry’s flaws, his manipulation, or how he had abandoned her in the past. She knew exactly what he was doing, and she chose to protect him anyway. Because she loved him. Jerry was right. I had lost completely. My first defeat had been three years ago. Jerry had texted me out of the blue, claiming that Mona kept a photo of him in her wallet that she let no one touch. I hadn’t believed him until I checked her wallet late one night. When I threw the photo away, Mona screamed at me—the first time she had ever raised her voice in our relationship. The second defeat was a year ago. Jerry had messaged me saying that every May sixth, the anniversary of his mother’s passing, Mona would spend the day with his family in his place. That day had also been my father’s sixtieth birthday. I had begged her, practically on my knees, to cut ties with Jerry’s family and come home with me. But Mona had simply brushed my hand away and walked out the door without a second glance. The third defeat was at our wedding, when she abandoned me without a backward glance. And now, this was the fourth. I got into my car and was about to start the engine when my father’s name flashed on the dashboard screen. When I answered, his ragged, hysterical crying filled the car. “Wright… your mother… she’s…” The world seemed to stop spinning. Panic seized my throat, and my hands shook violently as I sped back to the hospital. But when I reached the room, all I found was a bed draped in a white sheet. My knees gave out. I stumbled forward, sinking to the floor, my hands reaching out to touch her cold forehead. “Mom?” My voice cracked, tears blinding me. “Mom! What happened? She was fine yesterday! Why?” My father was collapsed in a chair nearby, weeping uncontrollably. “Some man sent her a text… he sent her a video showing you being humiliated at the office. He told her you were completely abandoned and that she should convince you to let go…” I closed my eyes, a name burning in my mind. “Jerry.” Mona appeared in the doorway of the hospital room, looking deeply uncomfortable. She tried to wrap her arms around my trembling, grief-stricken body. “I’m so sorry, Wright. Jerry didn’t mean to… he was just so scared of losing me that he acted rashly…” I shoved her away with everything I had left. I looked at her, my throat tight with disgust and despair. “Mona… how did I ever love someone as rotten as you?” I pointed at the door. “Get out. Get the hell out!” Her face went pale, and she let out a long, weary sigh. “I will make this up to you, Wright. The wedding preparations are still under way. In thirty days, I’ll send Jerry away and we can start fresh. Just take this time to calm down.” She turned and left. When I opened my eyes, the sorrow was gone, replaced by a cold, quiet hatred. The next morning, my father and I quietly buried my mother. Then, we booked one-way tickets to Los Angeles. But before I boarded the plane, I made one phone call. I reached out to the coordinator at the luxury estate where Mona was planning our rescheduled wedding. I transferred fifteen thousand dollars to his account, requesting that he deliver three specific wedding gifts to Mona on our supposed big day. Three surprises she would remember for the rest of her life.

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The preschool dressing room was absolute chaos, a frantic blur of pint-sized performers running around in bright, stiff costumes. “Todd, take your suit off. Let Sammy wear it.” My mother’s voice was clipped, her fingers already reaching behind my back to tug at the Velcro strap. I instinctively clutched my chest. The miniature blue cadet uniform was special. My dad had taken me to a local tailor shop to get it custom-fitted, measuring my shoulders and inseam with a yellow tape measure. I had waited two long weeks for it to be finished. “Dad bought this for me,” I said, taking a step back, my heel hitting a pile of plastic props. “Sammy doesn’t have a mom, Todd. His dad can’t afford a costume like this. He’s the lead soloist today, and you need to be the bigger person.” Without waiting for me to answer, she lunged forward and grabbed my shoulder. “Rrrrrip.” The Velcro gave way with a sharp, ugly tear. The uniform slid down my arms, leaving me in just my undershirt. The draft from the air conditioning hit my bare skin, raising goosebumps. Nearby, three other kids stopped playing to stare at me. I swallowed hard, trying to keep my chest from heaving. I looked up at her, my vision blurring slightly, and said, “Mom, I don’t want the suit anymore. Why don’t you go be someone else’s mom?” 1 My mother’s hand froze in midair. She looked at the crisp blue cadet suit in her hands, then down at me. “Todd, that is incredibly rude.” She turned away, sliding the uniform onto Sammy’s shoulders. She pulled his sleeves down, adjusted his collar, and placed the matching pilot cap on his head, gently patting the brim. “Mr. Sullivan has a hard enough time raising Sammy on his own,” she murmured, more to herself than to me. “We’re fortunate. We should help where we can.” Sammy spun around in front of the vanity mirror, admiring himself. He was a little chubbier than me, and the waist of the trousers looked tight, the fabric straining. My mother knelt down, loosening the adjustable tabs at his hips. “Look at you,” she said, her voice softening into a warm, adoring tone I hadn’t heard in weeks. “You look like the handsomest little pilot in the world.” “Thank you, Ms. Davis,” Sammy chirped, his voice sweet and clear. Gary Sullivan walked over, his eyes shining with gratitude as he looked at my mother. “Rebecca, I honestly don’t know how to thank you. If it weren’t for you, I don’t know what Sammy would have done today.” My mother stood up, waving her hand dismissively. “Oh, Gary, don’t worry about it. We’re neighbors. Todd can wear anything on stage. He doesn’t mind.” The coordinator’s voice boomed over the intercom, calling the kids to the wings. My mother scanned the clothing racks quickly, pulled down an oversized white backup t-shirt from the choir surplus, and tossed it to me. “Put this on. Quickly. You’re going to be late.” The shirt was massive. The neckline slid halfway down my collarbone, and the sleeves completely swallowed my hands. I slowly worked my fingers out of the cuffs and tucked the massive hem into my waistband, trying to make it look intentional. When the lights went up, I was standing in the back row of the choir, tucked away in the far corner. Every other child around me wore tailored little blazers or matching dresses. Sammy was front and center. The stage lights caught him perfectly, making the thirty-six polished brass buttons on my cadet uniform gleam like tiny stars. I looked out into the darkened auditorium and found my mother. She was standing near the stage, holding her DSLR camera, her finger constantly clicking the shutter, capturing every angle of Sammy’s solo. During the second song, we were supposed to sway side to side. The boy next to me took a step and accidentally trod on the hem of my oversized shirt, which had escaped my waistband. I lost my balance and tumbled sideways, scraping my palm hard against the splintered stage floor. It stung—a sharp, hot burn as a patch of skin peeled away. But I forced myself not to cry. I scrambled back up, tucked my shirt in again, and kept singing. My mother never saw it. She was too busy recording a video of Sammy’s high note. When the show ended, we all went back to the classroom to wait for our parents. My dad finally arrived, running through the door, his face flushed. He’d had a crucial board meeting but had promised to meet me the second the curtain fell. He knelt in front of me, his eyes instantly locking onto the ridiculous white shirt. “Todd, where’s your cadet suit?” Then he saw my hand—the raw, red scrape on my palm. His brow furrowed deeply, his jaw tightening. I pointed toward the far side of the classroom. My mother was sitting at a desk, pouring water from a thermos for Sammy. Gary was standing right next to her, holding her trench coat over his arm. Sammy was still wearing my blue uniform. “Sammy has it,” I said quietly. “Mom took it off me.” The warmth drained from my dad’s face. He stood up, took my uninjured hand, and walked straight toward them. “Rebecca, what the hell is this?” Several nearby parents paused their conversations, turning to look. The smile on my mother’s face stiffened. She snatched her coat back from Gary and lowered her voice to a harsh whisper. “David, don’t start a scene here. Sammy was the soloist. He needed to look presentable.” “So you stripped your own son to dress someone else’s kid?” My dad stepped closer, lifting my scraped hand so she could see it. “Todd was tripping over a shirt three sizes too big because of you. He fell on stage and tore up his hand. Did you even notice?” My mother glanced at my palm, her expression barely wavering. “Kids fall down, David. It’s a scratch. If Sammy had gone on stage in his old clothes, the other kids would have made fun of him. Todd is mature. He understands.” “I don’t understand,” I said. My mother blinked, momentarily speechless. “I don’t understand,” I repeated, looking her in the eye. “You ripped the Velcro off my back. It hurt, and it made me sad.” Gary stepped forward, looking intensely uncomfortable, rubbing the back of his neck. “David, please don’t blame Rebecca. It’s my fault. I’m a screw-up who couldn’t even get his kid a decent outfit. Sammy, take it off right now. Give it back to Todd.” Gary reached for Sammy’s zipper, but Sammy immediately wrapped his arms around my mother’s leg, hiding his face. “Ms. Davis, I don’t want to. I love this suit.” My mother instinctively shielded Sammy behind her. “It’s just a piece of fabric, David. Are you really going to hold a grudge against a motherless child? I’ll buy Todd an identical one tomorrow.” “You can’t,” I said. “The tailor said those brass buttons were the last ones he had.” My dad let go of my hand and took a slow, deep breath. “Rebecca, you rob your own son just to play the saint for an audience. You make me sick.” Without waiting for her reply, he turned and led me out of the school. “David!” she called after us, her voice echoing down the hallway. “When are you going to grow up? You don’t have a single drop of empathy in you!” My dad didn’t look back. In the passenger seat of his car, I pulled the seatbelt across my chest. My dad pulled a sanitizing wipe from the glove box and gently dabbed at the dirt in my scraped palm. “Does it hurt, buddy?” “No,” I lied, shaking my head. I looked out the window. My mother was walking out of the school gates, flanked by Gary and Sammy. She unlocked her car, and Gary and Sammy climbed into the passenger seats as if it were the most natural thing in the world. This wasn’t the first time she had given my things away. Last month, my dad had waited in line with me for two hours to get a limited-edition dinosaur balloon at the street fair. We had barely walked a block when we ran into my mother and Sammy. Sammy pointed at the balloon, and my mother simply took the string out of my hand and handed it to him, telling me I was a month older and needed to be a good big brother. But I didn’t have a brother. The week before that, she had promised to take me to the adventure park to ride the giant rainbow slide. But at the entrance, Gary called to say Sammy had a fever and was crying for her. My mother left me in the park’s sandbox, telling me to play by myself. I sat in that sand for three hours. Eventually, a park security guard had to call my dad. By the time my dad left work and rushed over to get me, I had fallen asleep in the corner of the sandbox, my hair full of dirt. “Dad,” I said, turning to him. “Yeah, buddy?” “I don’t want anything Mom buys me anymore. I only want the things you get me.” My dad’s hand stopped moving. He leaned over and wrapped his arms around me, holding me tight against his chest. “Okay, Todd. From now on, whatever you want, Dad will get it for you.” Three days later, my mother brought home a massive cardboard box. Inside was a limited-edition Lego castle set. I was sitting on the living room rug, working on a puzzle, and didn’t look up when she walked in. She knelt beside me, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “Todd, are you still mad at Mommy?” I slotted a blue puzzle piece into place, keeping my mouth shut. “I didn’t think things through last time. Tell you what—tomorrow is the weekend. Just the three of us. No one else. We’ll go to the Westside Adventure Park and ride those double go-karts you’ve been begging to try. How does that sound?” The double go-karts required an adult to drive with a kid. My dad had been working late on a massive project and couldn’t take me, and I had begged my mother for weeks, but she had always claimed she was too busy with work. I stopped touching the puzzle and looked at her. “Just the three of us?” “Mommy promises.” She held up three fingers. “Tomorrow morning at nine. Just you, me, and Dad. We’ll drive out to the park.” I glanced at my dad, who was standing by the kitchen door, holding a glass of water. His face was expressionless, his eyes cool. He didn’t say a word. “Okay,” I agreed softly. My mother smiled, reaching out to ruffle my hair. “That’s my good boy.” The next morning, I was up by eight, fully dressed in my sneakers and athletic gear. My dad had cleared his morning schedule and put on a casual pullover to join us. But when we walked down to the parking garage, my mother’s SUV was already running, and the front passenger seat wasn’t empty. Gary Sullivan rolled down his window, looking slightly embarrassed as he nodded at my dad. The back window slid down, and Sammy leaned out, clutching a giant rainbow lollipop. “Hi, Todd! Good morning!” I stood frozen beside the car door. My dad’s hand lingered on the door handle. He slowly turned his head to look at my mother through the driver’s side window. She offered a bright, easy smile. “David, Gary’s water main burst this morning, and the landlord has plumbers working in their apartment all day. Sammy was going stir-crazy with all the noise, so I thought it’d be nice to bring them along.” She pushed her door open, stepped out, and opened the back door for me. “Todd, sweetie, get in. You and Sammy can sit together in the back and share some snacks.” I stared into her eyes. “You said yesterday it would only be the three of us.” She knelt down to meet my gaze, her voice perfectly patient. “Todd, plans change. Sammy’s apartment is a total mess right now, and he was really scared by the plumbers. I know you’re a sweet, generous boy. Having a friend along will make it more fun, won’t it?” She always did this. She used this incredibly gentle, reasonable voice to hand my happiness over to someone else. “The go-karts only have two seats,” I pointed out. “Mommy can buy two tickets,” she said, squeezing my shoulder. “I’ll take Sammy for a spin first, and then I’ll take you right after. Deal?” “No.” I pulled my shoulder away from her touch, taking a step back. “I don’t want to go anymore. Let’s go home.” Her smile faltered, but she kept her voice level. “Todd, it’s a beautiful day. Don’t throw a tantrum. I kept my promise, didn’t I? I’m taking you to the park.” “You didn’t keep it,” I said, shaking my head. “You said just us. There are other people in the car. You lied.” I grabbed my dad’s hand. “Dad, let’s go home.” My dad squeezed my fingers tightly. He gave my mother a cold, hard look. “Go ahead without us, Rebecca. Todd and I are staying behind.” My mother stood up, her brow knitting into a sharp line. “David, don’t encourage his bad behavior. Gary and Sammy are already in the car. If you refuse to go now, do you know how uncomfortable you’re making them feel?” Gary quickly opened his door and stepped out. “Rebecca, maybe we should just head back. We don’t want to ruin your family day.” “Don’t be silly, Gary. Your place is completely unlivable right now.” My mother put a hand on Gary’s arm, pushing him gently back toward the car, before turning her sharp eyes back to me. “Todd, stop being difficult. Get in the car.” I looked down at the gravel beneath my sneakers. “Mom, just take Sammy. He doesn’t have a mom, so you can just be his. I don’t want the go-karts anymore. And I don’t want you.” My dad didn’t take me home that morning. Instead, he walked me out of the neighborhood, hailed a cab, and took me to a pottery studio downtown. “Todd, you can mold whatever you want today. Dad’s right here with you.” I sunk my hands into the cool, wet clay, shaping a clumsy little cat and then a lopsided car. I didn’t cry or throw a fit, but when we went to get lunch, I could only manage a few bites of my food. By three in the afternoon, my neck started to itch. I scratched at it, feeling a cluster of raised, bumpy welts under my collar. My dad noticed me scratching, pulled my collar down to look, and his face turned pale. I’ve had a severe seafood allergy since I was a baby—the kind that triggers intense, sudden hives. Something in the broth at the restaurant must have been cross-contaminated. Within minutes, the red, swollen hives spread down my arms and onto my face. I was shaking from the intense itching. My dad scooped me up and ran out of the mall. “Don’t scratch, Todd. Dad’s getting you to the hospital.” The pediatric ER was a nightmare of weekend crowds. When my dad rushed me to the triage desk, the screen showed over forty people ahead of us. He pulled out his phone and dialed my mother. The first call went straight to voicemail. The second rang for a long time before she finally answered. “Rebecca, Todd is having a severe allergic reaction and the ER is packed. You know the chief of pediatrics here, don’t you? Call Dr. Henderson and see if he can fit us in immediately! We’re on our way up to the clinic.” The background on her end was noisy—the loud, mechanical roar of the amusement park rides. “Hives? Is it really that bad?” her voice sounded distant, competing with the noise. “He’s covered from head to toe, Rebecca! He’s clawing at his skin! Call Henderson now!” “Okay, okay, I get it. I’ll text him. Take Todd straight to Room 3 on the second floor. I’ll meet you there.” My dad carried me up the stairs to the outpatient wing. Outside Room 3, about a dozen anxious parents were waiting. My dad gave the nurse our name, and she checked her tablet. “Yes, Mrs. Davis called ahead. Dr. Henderson said you can go in as soon as the current patient leaves.” My dad let out a ragged sigh of relief, sitting down on a vinyl bench and holding me close. I was miserable, my fingernails digged into my arms, leaving angry red tracks. My dad gently pinned my hands down, blowing cool air onto my skin to soothe the burn. The heavy wooden door of Room 3 clicked open, and a family walked out. But before my dad could stand up, a small group came rushing down the hallway. It was my mother. She was leading the way, with Gary close behind, holding Sammy in his arms. My mother marched straight to the clinic door. My dad stepped forward. “Rebecca, thank god. Get Todd in there, he’s miserable.” My mother looked at me, then put a hand on my dad’s chest, blocking him. “David, wait a second.” She turned, ushering Gary and Sammy forward. “Dr. Henderson, could you take a look at Sammy first?” she called into the room. “He had some ice cream at the park and he’s been vomiting and having diarrhea. He’s running a fever, and I’m terrified it’s acute gastroenteritis.” My dad stood frozen, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Rebecca, are you out of your mind? Todd is covered in hives and can barely breathe from the itching, and you’re letting Sammy go first?” My mother turned around, her voice remaining smooth, measured, and entirely reasonable. “David, keep your head. Hives are just an itchy skin irritation; it’s not life-threatening. Sammy is different. He’s throwing up and feverish. Small children dehydrate so quickly. If we wait, he could end up on an IV.” She pushed Gary into the examination room. “Dr. Henderson, please, look at him first.” Gary glanced back at us over his shoulder, his face a mask of awkward apology. “David, I’m so sorry, Sammy’s really in bad shape…” The door clicked shut in our faces. I sat back down on the bench, staring at the sterile white door. Strangely, the itching on my neck didn’t seem as bad anymore. A cold, heavy weight was settling deep in my chest, pushing everything else out. Beside me, my dad was trembling with a quiet, terrifying rage. Finally, he pulled out his phone and dialed a number. “Rae,” he said, his voice deadly quiet. “Where are you right now?” Five minutes later, a tall figure in a cream-colored trench coat came rushing down the hallway.

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