Category: English

My “Lawyer-on-Call” livestreams had become an accidental sensation. One evening, a caller joined the queue, her voice heavily distorted by a digital modulator. “Attorney Valentine,” she began, the robotic pitch masking her age. “I’m seeing a man—an ‘uncle,’ though we aren’t related by blood. Is there anything in the law that says we can’t be together?” I pushed down a sudden, inexplicable prickle of unease. “Legally? No. If there’s no biological tie and both are consenting adults, it’s not a crime.” “Then I have nothing to worry about,” she said, her tone visibly lighter even through the filter. “He’s getting married next Saturday. I’m planning to confess everything to him at the altar.” I fell silent for a few seconds, the ethics of the situation clashing with my professional detachment. “Sweetheart, if he’s marrying someone else, it means he’s made his choice. Don’t do this to yourself. Don’t throw away your dignity for a man who’s already at the finish line with someone else.” To my surprise, she let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “He’s afraid of the dark, Attorney Valentine. Did you know that? Even if he has to slip his fiancée a sedative in her milk, he still comes to my room to hold me until I fall asleep. Tell me… is that not love?” I froze. The air in my study suddenly felt too thin. As I scrambled for a response—some piece of advice to pull this girl back from the edge—the heavy oak door to my study pushed open. My fiancé, Garrett, walked in. He was carrying a glass of warm milk, a soft, practiced smile on his face. … Looking at that swaying glass of white liquid, my brain let out a high-pitched ring. I snapped my head up to look at Garrett. The girl on the stream said her “uncle” put sedatives in the milk. Coincidentally, Garrett had a niece. I forced myself to remain still, my eyes darting toward the monitor. The girl had disconnected, leaving behind a chaotic waterfall of comments that confirmed this wasn’t a fever dream. Poor fiancée… for the love of God, don’t drink the milk. This ‘uncle’ and ‘niece’ are monsters. Using someone’s health as a tool for their affair? There’s a special place in hell. I checked—the girl’s using a burner account. This was a targeted strike on Brooke’s stream. I took a jagged breath and clicked the “End Stream” button. “Everything okay?” Garrett asked, stepping closer. “You look pale. Too many hours on the screen?” He leaned down and pressed a dry, cool kiss to my forehead. “I’m sorry, Brooke. Maisie was being impulsive. It’s her fault you lost your position at the firm, and now you’re forced to hustle on these streams just to keep your reputation alive.” A month ago, Maisie had thrown a tantrum because Garrett and I went to a charity gala without her. In retaliation, she filed a formal, anonymous complaint with the State Bar, accusing me of bribing a federal prosecutor. I was suspended pending an investigation. Though I was eventually cleared, the stain on my “Golden Girl” reputation was indelible. I was forced to resign to save the firm’s face. “You don’t have to work this hard, you know,” Garrett murmured, brushing a stray hair from my face. “I can take care of you. After the wedding, you can just focus on the house. We’ll have three boys, and they’ll grow up happy with Maisie right there to help us. Like one big family.” “Here,” he said, pressing the glass against my lips. “Drink this. You need to sleep. Stop overthinking.” I swallowed hard, the cold rim of the glass clinking against my teeth. The girl’s voice echoed in the silence of my mind: He’s taking the milk to her now. It’s got the pills in it. It felt like a conspiracy theory, a glitch in the Matrix. But the hair on my arms stood up. I faked a heavy cough and pushed his hand away. “I’m not thirsty right now. I’ll drink it in a minute.” Garrett’s expression instantly soured. His features, usually so handsome and refined, twisted into something sharp and unrecognizable. “Are you still holding a grudge against Maisie?” He grabbed my wrist, his grip tight enough to leave a ghost of a bruise. “Do you have any idea how much guilt that girl is carrying? She can’t sleep because of what happened at the firm! She’s just a kid, Brooke. The pressure is killing her. To be honest, she’s the one who warmed this for you. She said if you drink it, it means you’ve finally forgiven her. Otherwise—” “Garrett, let go. You’re hurting me.” I struggled, but his hand was like a lead shackle. “Auntie Brooke… do you really hate me that much?” I hadn’t heard her come in. Maisie stood in the doorway, wearing a white silk nightgown that looked more like a slip. Her eyes were rimmed with red. Without warning, she crossed the room and dropped to her knees in front of my chair. I was stunned into silence. Garrett immediately let go of me to scoop Maisie up, pulling her into his chest. He turned on me, his voice trembling with a terrifying kind of righteous anger. “Brooke, are you trying to destroy this family?” “I’ve told you a thousand times—Maisie’s father died in my arms in the Sandbox. He was my brother-in-arms. He left her to me. It is my sacred duty to protect her for the rest of her life! In this house, her well-being comes first!” My heart felt like it was being crushed by a giant’s hand. My voice came out as a fragile whisper. “Does her ‘well-being’ include lying to the Bar? Does it include ruining my career because of a missed dinner?” When she found out I was pregnant two years ago—during her finals week—the two of them sat me down and shamed me. They told me I was “undisciplined,” that my timing was “selfish” and “disgusting.” The stress became a physical weight. I miscarried three days later. I had endured it all for Garrett. I had swallowed the bitterness because I believed in his “heroism.” But he didn’t care about my sacrifice. “You’re a grown woman arguing semantics with a twenty-year-old?” Garrett hissed. “You can find another job. But if you break her spirit, that’s forever!” “Garrett,” Maisie sobbed, clutching his shirt. “It’s my fault. Please don’t fight. If Brooke can’t stand the sight of me, I’ll just… I’ll just end it! I don’t want to live in a world where I’m a burden!” She broke from his arms and ran toward the floor-to-ceiling window. Garrett lunged for her. In his haste, he shoved me aside. I hit the edge of the mahogany desk, a sharp pain exploding in my temple as a knot began to form. Maisie struggled in his arms, her cries growing louder. “She won’t drink the milk! She hates me! I just want to go be with my dad in heaven!” My head was spinning, my vision blurring. Through the fog, I heard Garrett’s barking command: “Brooke! Drink it! Now! Show her you forgive her or so help me—” “You know what she means to me! If you drive her to the edge, you’re driving me there too!” Watching them—the “grieving” veteran and his “broken” ward—I felt a sudden, profound exhaustion. The fight left me. I stood up unsteadily, picked up the glass, and downed the milk in three long gulps. When the glass hit the table empty, I caught a glimpse of Maisie’s face over Garrett’s shoulder. She wasn’t crying anymore. She was wearing a tiny, predatory smile. My gut screamed at me. Something was wrong. I waited until they left the room, then stumbled into the bathroom. I didn’t hesitate. I shoved two fingers down my throat and forced everything back up until my stomach was empty and my throat burned. At 3:00 AM, I heard the faint floorboards creak in the hallway. “Garrett? Are you still coming?” My heart stopped. Garrett’s voice was a low, firm murmur. “Of course. You’ve been afraid of the dark since you were five. I’m not letting your father down tonight.” A moment later, my bedroom door eased open. Garrett crept in, checking on me. “Shh, she’s out cold,” he whispered to someone in the hall. Maisie stepped into the room, giggling softly. “I told you. She’s not waking up for a long time.” She walked over to my closet and pulled it open with a flourish. “God, Brooke is such a closeted flirt. Look at all this lace. She won’t mind if I borrow something, will she?” Garrett looked nervous. “Maisie, don’t. If she finds out, she’ll blow up. You know her temper.” Maisie ignored him, sliding a sheer negligee over her shoulders. “Let her. I’ll put it back before she even stirs. I want her clothes, Garrett… and I want her man, too.” She jumped onto Garrett’s back, whispering into his ear, “Actually, I prefer sleeping with nothing on. Is that okay, Uncle?” Garrett’s ears turned bright red. He glanced one last time at my “sleeping” form, his face a mask of conflict and desire, before carrying her out and closing the door. The moment the latch clicked, a single, hot tear tracked down my temple. It was her. The girl on the livestream. It had been Maisie all along. I didn’t sleep a wink. At 6:00 AM, Garrett slid back into bed beside me, radiating the scent of Maisie’s floral perfume. He kissed the corner of my mouth. “I love you, Brooke.” The bile rose in my throat. I nearly vomited on him right then and there. At 8:00 AM, I walked downstairs, the dark circles under my eyes heavy enough to feel. Maisie was in the kitchen, glowing with energy, stirring a pot of steel-cut oats. “Brooke! I heard you love honey and cinnamon oats. I got up at six just to make them for you. I felt so bad about the firm… I wanted to do something nice.” Her voice was a sugary poison. I felt a violent shiver run down my spine. “I’m not hungry.” I reached out to gently move her hand away from the bowl she was offering. The next second, the bowl hit the floor with a ceramic crash. Maisie let out a theatrical shriek. “It’s hot! Brooke, why would you push me?!” Garrett, half-dressed, came flying down the stairs. “Brooke! What is wrong with you? I leave the room for five minutes and you’re bullying her?” He grabbed Maisie’s hand and thrust it under the cold tap. “It’s okay, Maisie. I’ve got you.” “Don’t be mad at her, Garrett,” Maisie whimpered, leaning her head on his shoulder. “It’s my fault. I’m just… so sore and exhausted from last night. I was clumsy. My legs felt like jelly.” Garrett’s face flushed deep crimson. “If you’re that tired, you shouldn’t be standing. Come here.” He swept her up into a bridal carry. As they reached the stairs, they didn’t even bother to lower their voices. “Garrett, you’re so mean to her. What if she doesn’t marry you next week?” Garrett let out a ragged breath. “Please. She wouldn’t dare.” “We’ve been together seven years. She’s obsessed with me. She has nowhere else to go.” I watched them go, my eyes finally dampening. Seven years ago, he was my mountain guide on a trek through the Grand Tetons. We got caught in an avalanche. In that moment, he defied every human instinct for self-preservation and threw his body over mine. When he woke up in the hospital, the first thing he said was, “You’re mine. I’ll keep you safe forever.” I had been so swept away that I walked away from a pre-arranged family merger, a life of high-society security, just to be with him. Seven years later, the rugged guide was the CEO of a luxury travel empire. We had everything now. But his heart had rotted along the way. If Maisie was more important than me, then it was time I looked for my own version of “forever.” I pulled out my phone and dialed the wedding planner. “About the ceremony next Saturday,” I said, my voice cold and clear. “Change the venue. All of it.” “And… we’re going to need a different groom.” The night before the wedding, I went live one last time. The viewer count exploded—over a hundred thousand people in minutes. My stomach dropped. Something was wrong. The comments were a blur of vitriol: Look at the trending news, Brooke. You’re a fraud. I opened a news app. My name was at the top of the social media scandal board. SHOCKING: FAMOUS ‘VIRTUE’ LAWYER BROOKE VALENTINE REVEALED AS SERIAL BRIBERY OFFENDER. SECRET ABORTION FOR HIGH-PROFILE CLIENT EXPOSED. An hour before my stream, an account claiming to be my “former assistant” had posted a massive thread. It accused me of systemic bribery during my time at the firm. Even worse, it posted a photo of me from two years ago—masked, looking haggard and broken, sitting outside an OB-GYN clinic. The comments were merciless: No wonder her win rate was so high. She was buying judges. Preaches about the law and justice, but she’s just a high-end fixer. Who knows if she paid with money or her body? Probably both. I stood up, phone in hand, and kicked open the door to Garrett’s study. “It wasn’t her,” Garrett said before I could even speak. “Maisie is twenty. She doesn’t have the resources or the malice for a hit job like this. You probably pissed off the wrong person at the firm and they’re coming for blood.” I shoved the phone in his face. “Look at the account handle. This person joined my livestream yesterday. Look at the clip.” I played the recording. The distorted voice was clear: Is it legally problematic if I’m seeing an ‘uncle’—not by blood, obviously? Garrett’s brow furrowed as the clip played. The realization was right there, written in his eyes. But he shook his head, hardening his expression. “You’re so obsessed with winning, Brooke. It’s pathetic.” “You’re actually framing a young girl just to save your own skin? You don’t know Maisie. She’s gentle. She’s kind. She would never drug someone. But you—” He stood up, looking at me with pure disdain. “You’re a criminal defense lawyer. You know every dirty trick in the book. You’ve probably been planning this ‘scandal’ for months just to make her look like a villain.” I stood there, paralyzed. A sharp, acidic burn rose in my throat. “You think I would destroy my own career? My own reputation? Just to spite her?” I tried to breathe, but the air felt like shards of glass. He hadn’t just broken my heart; he was trying to erase my soul. My phone buzzed. It was the wedding coordinator. “Brooke, we’ve seen the news. About tomorrow… is the ceremony still on?” I looked Garrett dead in the eye. “Yes. Everything is proceeding as planned.” Garrett leaned back in his chair and chuckled. “You really are desperate to marry me, aren’t you? Too bad.” He dragged out the words. “You’ve spent so much time attacking my Maisie that you deserve a lesson. Don’t expect me to show up on time tomorrow. Maybe I won’t show up at all.” A smirk touched my lips. “Suit yourself.” On my way out, I passed Maisie in the hall. She raised an eyebrow, her face full of triumph. “Oh, Auntie. Going out to try and fix the ‘leaks’? Honestly, you should just admit it. The internet has a short memory. In a few months, everyone will forget you ever existed.” “And by then, you’ll have no job, no money, and no name. You’ll just be a housewife, totally dependent on Garrett. I wonder how long his ‘protection’ lasts for a loser like you.” I didn’t give her the satisfaction of a response. I walked out the front door. The wedding was in ten hours. … “Garrett, are you really not going?” Maisie stood before a mirror, her eyes gleaming as she adjusted Garrett’s silk tie. He was already in his tuxedo. “Let her wait.” Garrett pinched her nose playfully. “She went out of her way to frame you. I can’t just forgive that. I’m going to let her sweat. Let her realize who actually holds the power in this relationship.” Maisie wrapped her arms around his waist. “Garrett… after you’re married, will you still love me best?” “Always. I promised your father.” “Then… why can’t you just marry me?” She looked up at him, her lips parted. Garrett stiffened slightly, then gently pushed her back. “Maisie, don’t be silly. You’re family. I sleep in your room because you’re scared, that’s all. It’s… different.” He checked the gold watch on his wrist and picked up a bouquet of white roses. “Okay. It’s been two hours. That’s enough of a lesson. Let’s go.” When they arrived at the cathedral, Garrett stepped into the foyer and stopped dead. The place was empty. He grabbed a wandering janitor by the shoulder. “Where is everyone? Where’s the Valentine-Miller wedding?” The man looked at him like he was insane. “Mister, you’ve got the wrong day or the wrong place. This hall wasn’t booked for today. It’s empty.” Garrett felt the blood drain from his face. He had booked this venue six months ago. He had paid the deposit himself. How could it be empty? He dialed my number frantically. Busy signal. Over and over. In a fit of rage, he hurled his phone against the marble floor, shattering it into pieces. Seeing his meltdown, the janitor pointed upward. “Maybe try the rooftop garden? There’s a huge wedding happening up there. Started a while ago. Looks real fancy.” I had always been the one with the money. I had planned every detail of this day. Garrett felt a surge of relief. She moved it to the rooftop. Of course. She wanted a better view. He sprinted up the stairs. Halfway up, he collided with me. I was in my full Vera Wang gown, radiant and composed. The moment he saw me, he exploded. “Brooke! What the hell is wrong with you? Changing the venue without telling me? Do you have any idea how many people are waiting?” I didn’t say a word. I didn’t have to. From behind me, Callum walked forward and swept me into his arms.

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My wife had barely boarded her international flight when my phone vibrated with a banking notification. Incoming Transfer: $1,000,000.00. The sheer volume of the number was jarring enough, but it was the attached memo that slid into my ribs like a blade of ice. “This is my final compensation to you. From here on out, we go our separate ways. I’m moving overseas with her to start over.” My hand began to shake, the phone suddenly heavy and foreign in my grip. This wasn’t Norah. My Norah was grounded, relentlessly loyal. Even if her heart had somehow wandered, she was the kind of woman who would sit me down at our kitchen table, look me dead in the eye, and break me with the honest truth. Before I could even process the shock, the doorbell rang. A courier dropped an anonymous package on my porch and vanished. The moment I tore through the brown paper, the air evacuated my lungs. Inside was a stack of glossy photographs. My wife. And another woman. I recognized the stranger. Her name was Val. In the pictures, they were tangled together, Norah’s face lit up with a brilliant, breathless smile I hadn’t seen in years. But it was the very last photo that made the blood freeze in my veins. The background wasn’t a restaurant or a hotel room. It was the distinct, curved interior of an airplane cabin. A horrific, suffocating realization violently forced its way into my mind. I didn’t think. I just grabbed my phone and dialed 911. “I need to report a crime,” I gasped out, the words tasting like ash. “There’s a body on American Airlines Flight 3218.” The dispatcher’s voice was sharp, urgent, demanding the identity of the victim. A sob ripped its way up my throat, impossible to suppress. “It’s my wife. Norah.” … 1 Norah and I had been married for ten years. To our friends, we were the blueprint. The couple everyone envied. She used to lay with her head on my chest and talk about our future. How, even if we never had kids, we would grow old together, checking into a swanky retirement home, holding hands until the very end. But tonight, that beautiful, quiet illusion of a forever-love had been brutally shattered. Norah had packed for a last-minute business trip. The second her plane was in the air, she wired me a million dollars and left me a digital goodbye. In her message, she confessed to a seven-year betrayal. [Seven years ago, I fell in love with someone else. In that exact moment, I knew I was going to spend the rest of my life with them.] [I am so sorry, Theo. But I can’t fight who I am anymore.] She was giving me her entire life savings as a parting gift, a severance package for a decade of marriage. The message was absolute. Cold. Final. The moment she crossed international airspace, she and her lover were going to get married abroad. She left me no room to beg. No room to fight for her. Ten years of breathing the same air, and seventy percent of it had been built on a lie. I sat in the dead-silent living room. My heart was hammering against my sternum like a trapped bird, but my eyes were bone-dry. She had timed it perfectly. The flight was already in the air. She was gone, leaving me alone with a suffocating, toxic rage. The anger boiled over. I surged to my feet, marched into our bedroom, and ripped our massive, custom-framed wedding portrait off the wall. It hit the hardwood floor with a deafening crash, glass spiderwebbing over our smiling faces. I flicked open my lighter. The flame danced, inches away from the torn canvas of the photo, when the frantic pounding on the front door interrupted me. By the time I yanked the door open, the porch was empty. Just the anonymous package sitting innocently on the welcome mat. A memory flashed. Last year, Norah had pulled the exact same stunt. I had opened a mysterious box on the porch, and she had jumped out from behind the rhododendron bush, wrapping her arms around my neck with a bouquet of hydrangeas. “Happy ninth anniversary, husband!” For a split second, looking at this new box, a desperate, pathetic hope flared in my chest. Was this a prank? Did she remember today was our ten-year anniversary? Was she hiding in the shadows right now? With trembling fingers, I tore the package open. But there were no flowers. Only evidence. A handsome, sharp-jawed woman, pressing against my wife in a dozen different, intimate poses. Browsing boutiques. Sharing a candlelit dinner. Tangled up in the back seat of the SUV we shared… The photos slipped through my fingers, revealing the final Polaroid. The two of them, cheeks pressed together in the first-class cabin. Written in black marker across the bottom: [Norah & Val. Forever.] In the photo, Val’s eyes were locked dead on the camera. Smirking right at me. A victor’s gloat. It was designed to humiliate me. To provoke me. But as I stared at the harsh lighting of that airplane cabin, my rage suddenly evaporated, replaced by a cold, primal terror. Fighting the panic rising in my throat, I called the police. “I need to report a concealed corpse on Flight 3218!” I shouted into the receiver. “The victim… is my wife.” 2 The police drilled me for details, and I answered every question with rapid-fire precision. But when they asked for concrete proof, I choked. Silence stretched over the line. Every ticking second meant the plane was getting closer to the border. The dispatcher’s tone turned severe. They warned me that forcing a commercial international flight to turn around carried devastating federal consequences. If this was a hoax, the fines alone would exceed a million dollars. I could face serious prison time for inciting a panic and grounding a multi-million dollar route. I pressed my hand against my chest, feeling my erratic heartbeat. For one agonizing second, doubt crept in. If I was wrong—if I was just a paranoid, jealous husband—my life would be over. I’d be bankrupt and behind bars. But I looked down at the Polaroid again. Something about it… the lighting, the stiffness in Norah’s shoulders. The doubt vanished. My voice trembled, but it was forged in steel. “I am fully prepared to accept the consequences. Ground the plane. I need the truth.” While the police mobilized, I grabbed Norah’s work briefcase and bolted for my car, speeding toward the airport. Time was bleeding out. At every red light, I frantically dug through her files. My gut was screaming at me. This sudden “business trip” had to be connected to the massive expose she had been obsessed with. Norah was the senior investigative editor at The Tribune. For months, she had been quietly reopening a cold case—a string of grotesque serial murders from a decade ago. This trip was supposed to be a covert meeting with the sole surviving witness. Everything in her notes looked perfectly normal. I flipped through pages of rigid schedules and meticulously documented interviews. Norah was a creature of absolute habit. Her timeline left zero room for a secret, seven-year, globe-trotting affair. Even without physical proof, the idea that she had been lying to me hurt. It hurt like hell. I tossed the files onto the passenger seat, closed my eyes, and let out a ragged sigh. Suddenly, a dog darted into the street. I slammed on the brakes. I jolted forward, the seatbelt biting into my collarbone. The briefcase tumbled off the seat, spilling papers all over the floorboards. As I scrambled to gather the mess, my fingers brushed against the false bottom of her leather portfolio. A small, yellow sticky note fluttered out. It was Norah’s handwriting. Frantic. Rushed. [Flight pushed back a day. She has to be on this plane!] Every hair on the back of my neck stood up. The air in the car turned to ice. I ignored the blaring horns of the traffic jam at the airport entrance, abandoned my car at the curb, and sprinted through the sliding glass doors toward the international arrivals gate. The PA system chimed. The police had successfully forced the airline to return. I sat in the holding area, gripping Norah’s files so hard my knuckles were white. Every passing minute was a physical torture. I wiped my sweating palms on my jeans, my eyes locked on the secure exit doors. Finally, just as the sun began to dip below the terminal windows, the announcement echoed: “Flight 3218 has arrived at the gate.” I shot out of my chair, pressing myself against the glass partition. As the passengers were escorted out by federal agents, I spotted Detective Vargas leading the pack. I shoved my way forward, practically begging her. “Detective Vargas! Please, you have to investigate my wife’s murder!” I shoved the files toward her. “This is the cold case she was working on. It has to be connected!” Vargas didn’t even look at the papers. She pushed my hands away and pointed toward the back of the passenger line. “Mr. Davis,” she said, her voice dripping with exhaustion and disgust. “Your wife is right there, at the end of the line.” “And as for you,” she continued, “do you have any idea what you’ve just done? You grounded an international flight, terrified 113 passengers, and wasted federal resources. Do you have a lawyer?” I whipped my head around. My eyes locked onto the woman at the back of the line. She was wearing Norah’s beige trench coat. Her hair was styled just like Norah’s. And her fingers were intertwined with Val’s. My voice came out as a hollow, weightless whisper. “That’s impossible. That’s not my wife.” Because the passenger manifest for this flight… was 114. 3 Where was the missing passenger? That question clawed at my brain, expanding into a dark, bottomless abyss of terror. Seeing Detective Vargas turn to walk away, I grabbed her sleeve, desperate. “Please! Check the headcount again! Someone is missing!” Vargas yanked her arm free, her patience completely exhausted. “We did check, Mr. Davis. One passenger canceled at the absolute last second. The actual onboard count was 113. It matches perfectly.” She stepped closer, her tone lowering into a legal threat. “I don’t care about your messy divorce. But you don’t get to use the federal government to stage a domestic dispute. You’re looking at a million dollars in airline restitution, and I will personally see to it that you’re charged.” Her words hit me like a bucket of ice water. I was cornered. If I couldn’t prove the woman standing ten feet away wasn’t my wife, I was going to prison. I forced myself to breathe. To focus. I looked at the woman in the trench coat. She wore Norah’s wire-rimmed glasses. She stood with Norah’s stiff, slightly awkward posture. When a TSA agent asked her a question, she nervously pushed the bridge of her glasses up with her index finger—an exact mirror of Norah’s tic. The only difference was the way she clung to Val’s hand. I took a step forward, staring relentlessly into “Norah’s” face, hunting for the seams of the lie. Suddenly, my view was blocked. Val stepped between us, puffing out his chest with a nasty, mocking smile. “Hey, buddy. You should be begging the cops for a plea deal right now, not staring at my fiancée.” He crossed his arms, oozing arrogance. Behind him, the woman with Norah’s gentle eyes looked at me. But her gaze was a void. Pure, unadulterated ice. It took me a second to process. Val. The “handsome woman” from the photos was standing in front of me presenting as a man. The gender-bending disguise was deliberate, meant to confuse and disorient. I looked Val up and down, and a dark, hysterical laugh bubbled out of my chest. “You aren’t Val,” I said. “And she isn’t my wife.” Val’s jaw clenched. He lunged forward, raising a fist. I didn’t flinch. I just glanced over his shoulder at the armed federal air marshals. Val froze, lowering his hand but pointing a harsh finger at my chest. “You’re a real piece of work, Theo. Keep talking crazy. Let’s see how confident you are when the feds hand you that million-dollar invoice.” My fingernails dug crescent moons into my palms. Just then, the forensics team descended the jet bridge, shaking their heads at Vargas. Four officers, plus a K-9 unit. They found nothing. No body. No blood. Nothing. The narrative was cementing: I was just a psychotic, jealous husband who called in a bomb threat-level hoax to catch his wife cheating. Vargas glared at me. The passengers, realizing why their flight had been grounded, turned venomous. “Are you kidding me?! This psycho ruined our trip because he’s insecure?!” “I have a thirty-million-dollar merger waiting in London! I’m suing this lunatic!” The collective hatred of the room pressed down on me like a physical weight. I couldn’t breathe. Then, an electric jolt of realization hit me. The fake Norah hadn’t spoken a single word yet. If I could just get her to talk, I could prove it. I knew the cadence of my wife’s voice, the rhythm of her breathing. My heart hammering against my ribs, I shoved past Val and stood right in front of her. “Norah—” My voice cracked, the grief suddenly swelling in my throat. She cut me off. The voice was pitched perfectly, but the tone was dripping in a haughty, arrogant cruelty my wife had never possessed. “Theo, I didn’t want to do this here. The reason I wouldn’t have children with you all these years… is because Val and I already have a son. He’s six.” She tilted her head, enjoying the knife twist. “You wanted to force my hand? Fine. Are you satisfied now?” The sheer audacity of the lie hit me like a physical blow. I started to laugh. I couldn’t help it. It was a broken, breathy sound. I reached up to wipe my face and realized my cheeks were soaked with tears. “Is that why you wired me a million dollars?” I asked softly. “As a… divorce settlement?” I expected her to maintain that flawless, arrogant mask. But for a fraction of a second, the muscles around her eyes tightened. A micro-hesitation. “…Yes.” In that single, quiet moment, a strange, terrible peace washed over me. The tears were still falling, but the panic was gone. If she was the one who wired the money, she wouldn’t have hesitated. She didn’t know what I was talking about. My wife was still on that plane. 4 Seeing the ground crew preparing to tow the plane to the hangar, I sprinted toward Vargas, practically throwing myself in her path. “Detective Vargas, I need you to weigh the aircraft! Please!” It was a theoretical forensic tactic Norah had explained to me years ago over dinner, while researching cartel smuggling routes. Vargas recoiled, her face flushed with anger. “Mr. Davis, this is a federal tarmac, not your personal theater! Step back!” The crowd groaned, the whispers turning into vicious insults. “If I had a husband acting like this, I’d fake my own death too.” “Arrest him already! He’s unhinged.” But I didn’t care. I looked wildly around and locked eyes with the forensic lead, Dr. Rossi. “Dr. Rossi! Check the gross takeoff weight versus the landing weight minus fuel burn!” Rossi paused. She looked at me, then turned to Vargas. “Actually… that’s a highly specific metric. It’s worth a check.” Reluctantly, the plane was towed onto the load cells. I stood in the terminal, my shirt plastered to my back with cold sweat. The adrenaline was making my vision blur. Minutes felt like hours. Finally, a technician jogged over, holding a tablet. “The aircraft is heavy,” he said, looking bewildered. “Factoring in fuel consumption… the plane is exactly 140 pounds heavier than it should be.” The weight of an adult human being. A deadly silence fell over the gate. Vargas’s annoyance vanished, replaced by the sharp, terrifying focus of a homicide detective. She grabbed the K-9 leash and marched back down the jet bridge herself. Dr. Rossi motioned for me to follow her toward the imposter. “We’re running biometric scans on-site,” she told the woman. They brought out the mobile scanners. Facial recognition. Retinal scans. Fingerprints. The machine beeped. Green light. Green light. Green light. It was a perfect biometric match. My stomach plummeted into an endless freefall. The crowd, which had gone quiet, immediately reignited. “See? He’s making it up!” “Maybe the ‘body’ on the plane is just him threatening her! Lock him up!” The conspiracy theories mutated in real-time. Suddenly, I wasn’t just a sad husband; I was a dangerous predator. The passengers backed away from me. Dr. Rossi remained clinical. She pulled out the final piece of equipment—a next-gen EEG polygraph headset. The woman sat down calmly and let Rossi attach the nodes to her temples. Rossi asked the baseline questions. Name. DOB. Purpose of travel. The woman answered flawlessly. The monitor held steady in the green. Then, Rossi asked about the million-dollar transfer. Again, I saw that micro-fraction of a pause. “I felt a moral obligation as his wife to provide for him.” I stared at the monitor, praying for a spike. The system processed the brainwaves… and flashed a steady, quiet green. The collective glare of the terminal felt like a physical heat. It was over. I looked crazy. The fake Norah stood up, smoothing her trench coat with delicate fingers. Val wrapped an arm around her, sneering at me. “The only one who needs a lie detector is you, man. If you hadn’t pulled this psycho stunt, my fiancée and I would be halfway to the Maldives.” The passengers started shouting at the airline staff, demanding my immediate arrest. I ground my teeth together, tasting copper. “Hook me up,” I told Dr. Rossi. I sat in the chair. The nodes were cold against my skin. The crowd watched, waiting for me to fail. I breathed through the panic, answering every question with cold, hard truth. The machine glowed green. Dr. Rossi’s face paled. If the woman wasn’t lying, and I wasn’t lying… what was the truth? Rossi pulled out the Polaroid of the two women. “Mr. Davis, why did this specific photo lead you to the conclusion that your wife was murdered, rather than just having an affair?” I closed my eyes. I reached into my bag and pulled out a battered, leather-bound notebook from seven years ago. I leaned in and whispered a single sentence into Dr. Rossi’s ear. The moment the machine registered my truth in brilliant green, Dr. Rossi bolted upright and pointed directly at the couple holding hands by the gate. “Arrest them right now! Nobody moves!”

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My husband, Alexander Vance, had recently taken in a not-so-obedient young woman. He spoiled her so much that she forgot her place and actually came to cause trouble right in front of me. The young woman’s eyes were bright, and she stubbornly refused to call me Mrs. Vance. “Miss Sterling, in love, the one who isn’t loved is the real third wheel.” I smiled, reached out a slender finger, and forcefully yanked the pearl earring from her ear. Drops of blood instantly bloomed on her earlobe. Behind us, Alexander appeared, his jaw tight. Chloe just stood there with red eyes: “Mr. Vance, please don’t be angry. Miss Sterling probably didn’t mean it.” Alexander just took my hand, blowing on it gently: “Abby, does your hand hurt?” Chloe stared at him in disbelief as a large tear rolled down her cheek. And I just offered a faint smile. 1 Chloe was taken away by Alexander’s secretary. She seemed to have a thousand things to say, probably not understanding how the man who had been somewhat gentle with her yesterday could turn like this today. Alexander’s affection for me wasn’t entirely fake. He noticed a faint, barely visible mark on my finger and kissed it repeatedly. “Abby, a woman like that isn’t worth dirtying your own hands,” he said, a hint of disapproval in his dark eyes. I looked at Alexander, my expression normal. I wasn’t surprised by his actions. We were childhood sweethearts, growing up together. By nature, he wasn’t a particularly docile person, yet he was always tolerant and considerate of me. In prominent, old-money families like ours, rotting marriages are everywhere. But he was the one I had actively chosen. Even when we got married, my best friend, Serena, was endlessly envious. After all, when people reach a certain status, they view basic moral constraints with cold indifference. Alexander was genuine toward me. Serena said that in elite families, fidelity is often viewed as a weakness. When wealth expands to a certain level, expecting a man to remain forever faithful is truly rare. For many arranged marriages between powerful families, maintaining a facade of peace is already an achievement. But Serena had seen how Alexander served me food, seen how he unknowingly smiled just at the mention of me. He truly cared for me. But his care wasn’t one hundred percent. In his position, not having beautiful women swarming around him would be abnormal. The few “understanding companions” Alexander occasionally kept were nothing in Serena’s eyes. It was just too common. It seems that when corruption becomes the norm, innocence becomes the anomaly. 2 Dinner was cooked by Alexander. For a young, successful man like him to be willing to cook was truly rare. Even my usually picky mother was full of praise. They all seemed to envy me for having the vast majority of Alexander’s love and his complete tolerance. I only had to frown, and Alexander could make whatever I disliked disappear forever. He carefully cut my steak for me, and I lowered my eyes, taking small, slow bites. His phone kept lighting up. I instinctively reached for it, and he, thinking I wanted the wine from his glass, thoughtfully handed it to me. When he saw I was reaching for his phone, he just smiled, picked up a napkin to wipe his hands, and then handed the phone to me. “Wife, it’s rare for you to check up on me.” The smile in his eyes was genuine. Alexander never really hid his “understanding companions” from me. It was probably because the men around him behaved far worse than he did. He gave his wife total respect, consideration, and always put me first. Moreover, even my own parents each had their own separate lives outside. I knew for a fact they had several illegitimate children. My mother didn’t have a son, so she chose a relatively decent illegitimate son to inherit the family business. He respected my mother and was quite protective of me, his sister. In old-money families, fidelity is a joke. No matter how gentle the surface appears, the bones are rotten. I unlocked the phone. I couldn’t find Chloe anymore. I understood; after offending me, Alexander wouldn’t let her off easily. Scrolling further down, I saw Mia. She had been by Alexander’s side for a while now. I had heard of her—a submissive, obedient type. When she saw me, she acted like a frightened quail. She kept her head as low as possible. Alexander was very satisfied with her tactfulness, so she was getting good resources now. A few days ago, I even saw her at a jewelry exhibition. I attended as Mrs. Vance. Alexander sat to my right, and Mia, wearing a diamond necklace, sat opposite us, essentially displaying that necklace to me. I glanced at it a couple of times, and Alexander bought it. Mia thanked me softly. She was very tactful, didn’t stay long, and certainly didn’t flaunt her status in my face. That night, Alexander even sensed my displeasure and whispered in my ear, “Don’t like her? I’ll swap her for someone else right away.” The affection in his eyes was real. Whatever I disliked, he could discard. I smiled, my eyes curving. “Alexander, aren’t you being a bit too sensitive?” Ever since we were little, I called him by his full name. When we were young, I would sit behind him on his bike, the wind blowing his shirt like a sail, and I would press my cheek against his back. It smelled like sunshine. It was the fluttering of a young heart. It was the budding of love. Alexander patted my hand. The lighting was dim, but his tone was sweet: “Abby, I often think about the path we’ve walked together.” I didn’t say a word, just stared silently into the distance. 3 That night, Alexander didn’t sleep beside me. He said he had business at the company. I properly straightened his clothes and watched him leave. Not long after, Serena called: “Hey, I think I saw your Alexander. He’s with my bastard husband. I heard they ordered quite a few escorts, but don’t worry, your Alexander doesn’t play that wild; it’s usually just one-on-one.” In the dark, I turned on the lamp: “And how many male models did you order?” Serena burst out laughing: “I used to invite you out, but you’re an outlier. You hate this stuff and don’t understand the fun of it. Abby, you need to broaden your horizons. It’s better when husbands and wives play together. If one stays strictly faithful, it just leads to frustration.” I remained silent. Her voice continued: “Abby, I know what you want. But you have to realize, when you reach a certain level, women swarm these men, and they’re surrounded by flattery and sycophants. It’s too hard to stay clean.” “I haven’t stayed clean,” I said quietly. Serena let out a sound of surprise, sounding very interested: “You’re keeping someone too? Who is it? Tell me.” I was just about to speak when I heard the sound of the front door unlocking. I smiled and hung up the phone abruptly. 4 I stood at the landing of the stairs, looking toward the door. Elias, dressed in simple, clean clothes, familiarly turned on the light, took off his shoes, and walked inside. The young man had gentle features. Seeing me, he offered a shy smile and made a gesture with his hands. I met Elias on a rainy day, right after I found out Alexander was seeing someone else. I was sitting on the bench at a bus stop, the rain mixing with my tears, dripping down continuously. When you love someone, you use all your strength, leading to possessiveness. Suddenly hearing about his infidelity, no matter how good your temper usually is, jealousy spreads through your entire body. But I had seen too much of this. My friends, relatives, and parents had all set very bad examples for me. When they talked about these things, they didn’t even take it to heart. For a long time, I felt like I was the freak. Even Serena, who understood me best, looked at my depressed state with sheer bewilderment: “Abby, the Vance family is valued at over thirty billion, and Alexander is the standout among them. With a status like that, it’s unrealistic for him not to have a few women hovering around.” Everyone told me to relax, that Alexander was just lacking in fidelity, and that it was a harmless flaw. But I suppressed my pain, not daring to show it, because I had seen how pathetic my mother looked. Vases shattered all over the floor; the torment made my usually gentle mother somewhat unhinged. Later, she frequently sought comfort outside too. At first, it was out of revenge, but later, it became an addiction. With a look of lust in her eyes, she told me that when you can’t fight it, you just have to go with the flow. Elias, holding an umbrella, appeared in front of me. The young man was very tall, his knuckles smooth like jade. When he smiled, dimples appeared on his cheeks. I looked up and told him to get lost. But he seemed not to hear me. He just tried to hand the umbrella to me. I poured all my unvented anger into the most vicious words directed at this stranger, but Elias only looked at me with a calm face. His eyes were as vast and accepting as the ocean. After a long while, he looked down at his phone and typed a sentence: [I’m sorry, I sent my hearing aids in for repair today. I can’t hear what you’re saying.] He smiled, his eyes curving like crescent moons. The words got stuck in my throat, unable to go up or down. I felt ashamed. I had actually vented my anger on such a gentle boy. We met again in a university lecture hall. I was invited as a successful alumna to speak about the ups and downs of life. During the ribbon-cutting ceremony, I saw him. As an outstanding student, he took a photo with me. Surprisingly, when I received that photo from my assistant, the boy’s features were gentle, radiant like stars and the moon. I don’t know what I was thinking, but I had my assistant send him a pair of high-end hearing aids. 5 While I was lost in thought, Elias, wearing a backpack, tapped on my car window. My assistant looked displeased, but I told her to shut up. The young man smiled and handed the expensive hearing aids back to me: “Hello, this belongs to you.” He looked at me calmly, and in that moment, I suddenly realized he had already forgotten that I was the pathetic woman in the heavy rain that day. After that, I frequently appeared near Elias. At first, I didn’t plan to do anything. It was probably just because people this pure rarely appeared around me. Maybe when money reaches a certain amount, life becomes truly boring, and you want to find some amusement. During that time, Alexander found his second “understanding companion”—a girl who dared to love and hate, bright and sunny. He was probably just enjoying the novelty of it and was so caught up in his pleasure that I rarely saw him. He even slipped up in front of me several times. I suppressed my anger, eating and watching TV in silence. Alexander would pat my hair: “But Abby, the path we’ve walked together is ultimately different.” Of course, I understood the meaning of those words, and I knew he meant it sincerely. After all, my relationship with him was indeed different. I never doubted his sincerity toward me. We were from equally matched families, both proud. In a secluded grassy field, I had spontaneously kicked off my heels and danced under the moonlight. He good-naturedly held my shoes, his eyes filled with nothing but my image. At our grand wedding, he said he would love me forever, but he didn’t say he would only love me forever. 6 Elias was reserved and strictly followed the rules. Before I even realized it, I suddenly noticed he had developed feelings for me. Because every time I spoke to him, the tips of his ears would turn bright red. Sometimes I couldn’t help but laugh and asked if he wanted to listen to me play the piano. At that time, the cherry blossoms were in full bloom. On the tree-lined campus path, students walked in twos and threes. I walked a long way with him. The hill behind the school was next to the train tracks, and cargo trains always passed by. That day, under the setting sun, the light flowed across his cheeks. Behind us was the deafening roar of the train. Elias touched my hand, seemingly afraid I would be startled by the noise. He reached out and covered my ears. His fingertips were warm. Right at that moment, the boy opened his lips and said a sentence. I asked him what he said, but he didn’t make a sound. Later, sitting in the car as it drove toward the residential enclave, I rested my hand against my forehead and suddenly smiled. Actually, after knowing Elias for a while, I had learned sign language and lip-reading. If I wasn’t mistaken, what Elias said then was, “I like you.” The boy’s love was earnest, but I felt despicable. He didn’t even know I was already married. Someone like him, bright and clean as the moon, could never understand the unspoken games played within elite families. 7 For a long time, Elias knew I suffered from insomnia at night, so he would take a cab to my house to read me stories. I didn’t cross any physical boundaries with him. Sometimes I even felt a bit self-destructive. I didn’t erase Alexander’s presence from the house, but interestingly enough, Alexander’s footprint in this house wasn’t that significant anyway. He was probably having too much fun outside, and later, while I maintained a calm facade, I had already distanced myself emotionally. Just like today, Elias read me a fairy tale as usual. I was raised by nannies when I was little. My parents’ love was there, but it didn’t feel deep. The classmates at my international school started competing with each other at age eight. My overly premature entry into adult life meant I wasn’t really exposed to fairy tales. I blinked and asked Elias: “So, the huntsman wanted to kill Snow White, but in the end, he let her go. Would Snow White forgive the huntsman?” He was used to answering my questions every day, so he wasn’t surprised. Without a moment’s hesitation, he answered directly: “She would.” “Why?” I asked him back. “If I were Snow White, I would never forgive. The person who wanted to kill me should burn in hell forever, never seeing the light of day.” “But why shouldn’t someone who realizes their mistake and turns back be forgiven?” he said from half a meter away. I don’t know what I was thinking in that moment. Since birth, I had never really cared about anything involving money. People around me flattered me, sought my favor; I had my own circle. Some people behaved recklessly, wildly, and even played some very intense games. Although I didn’t participate, I had seen so much of it that for a long time, I was used to it. I suddenly stood up, tilted my head, and kissed Elias on the cheek. His snow-white skin instantly turned beet red. His eyes shone with unshed tears as he blinked his large eyes: “Abby… Abby…” My chest filled with a warm sensation: “Elias, do you like me?” Even the boy’s neck turned bright red. 8 I didn’t expect Alexander to rush back. At that moment, I was wearing a loose sweater, reading a book under the lamp. He first scanned the room. Finding no one else, he relaxed and walked over to me. He casually took off his watch, his voice gentle: “Sorry, Abby. I didn’t tell you the truth. I was actually with Henry today.” Henry was Serena’s husband. I didn’t like him very much. Simply because Serena once had someone she was interested in, but it was an arranged marriage, and personal feelings were the least important factor. Henry had dealt with that man, and the man’s outcome wasn’t great; he fled abroad. When he left, he stubbornly asked Henry to treat Serena well, saying Serena was the best girl in the world and needed to be protected completely. That man never blamed Serena, nor did he blame Henry. When he left, he only took a book Serena had given him. Later, Serena didn’t have a very good life. Henry was arrogant and rebellious. Marrying her, aside from business needs, was also about showing her who was boss. Henry’s humiliation never made Serena cry. But I saw her in her vulnerable moments. On the day the man left, she hid in her room alone, looking up at the sky. The corners of her eyes were red. It seemed that character flaws weren’t a big deal among the men in their circle. Even if Alexander knew I was cold toward Henry, he wouldn’t say it to my face, but internally he felt Henry did nothing wrong. Many things, once they become commonplace, are taken for granted. I flipped through the fairy tale book and smiled faintly: “It’s okay. It’s just business.” Alexander reached out to touch my forehead, but pulled back because he was cold and smelled of perfume. “I’ll go take a shower first.” The smile was still on my face as he turned around. But when I saw the half-peeled orange on the cabinet, a sudden chill hit me. A massive shadow loomed over me, and I looked up. Alexander’s face looked normal; I couldn’t tell if he was happy or angry. “Abby, I remember there were no oranges in the house when I left. Did you tell someone to go out and buy them?” Even though he knew I didn’t like oranges, which was why they never appeared in the house, he still considerately gave me an excuse. I only needed to play along, and on the surface, we would probably go back to our old routine. “Alexander, when Serena called me, you heard it, didn’t you?” I put down the book and looked straight at his face. “That’s why you came back so suddenly.” Serena probably thought my comment about “not staying clean” was just a joke, because she couldn’t imagine someone as rigid as me keeping someone on the side. But Alexander knew I wasn’t the type to make that kind of joke. So he left the party, braving the wind and rain to come back. Hearing my words, Alexander’s eyes darkened, looking like spilled ink. 9 He casually tossed the orange onto the floor, his back exuding a chilling aura. I propped my head on my hand and pulled the blanket over me. Thunder rumbled, and lightning flashed. It made both our faces look a bit pale. After a long time, Alexander turned back around. He had reined in all his emotions and silently opened his cigarette case, asking if I minded. He rarely touched these things because he had incredible self-control and despised such crutches. Outside, the rain poured down. I nodded. He lit a cigarette, put it in his mouth, took a deep drag that burned half the cigarette, and finally calmed the suffocating anger in his chest. He asked me when I started seeing someone else. I answered truthfully. Alexander frowned deeply. After a while, he took a deep breath: “Abby, I thought you wouldn’t.” Why was Alexander so certain I wouldn’t play these high-society games? It was because I had once stumbled upon my mother cheating. The people in our families always seemed bound by interests; love was just icing on the cake, something dispensable. But my mother was different. She seemed to truly love my father. Many people teased her for being a hopeless romantic, and it was my mother who made me feel that love was sacred. But in the end, even my mother was blinded by this flashy world. She told me: “Fidelity is the least important thing, because we live in the center of a vortex.” But my mother’s courage back then remained etched in my heart. I thought someone always had to do what they believed was right. Alexander knew me too well. He knew I loved him. I was different from everyone else—nicely put, I was principled; bluntly put, I was stubborn. So, the fact that I had someone on the side caught him completely off guard. 10 But Alexander was still Alexander. He reached out and placed his hand over mine, feeling my pulse: “Abby, when are you going to let me meet this person? Let me vet him for you.” I pretended not to hear the probe in his words—whether the person I was keeping was true love or just to stave off loneliness. If it was the latter, he might breathe a sigh of relief. He probably hoped I would say those words voluntarily. After all, I had said long ago that we were childhood sweethearts, comrades, the two people who understood each other best in this world. Alexander wasn’t stupid. During those years when his family was unstable, I stayed completely devoted to him. My love for him was unquestionable, a pure sincerity unmatched by any of his later confidantes. I had long said that on the path Alexander and I walked in our youth, there would be no latecomers. What they saw was CEO Vance, the successful man. But once, he was just a young boy whose ears turned red over a declaration of love. “Alexander, you don’t need to test me. Let’s get a divorce.” I finally managed to say these words smoothly. It took me a full five years to reach this day. Alexander will probably never know how pathetic and heartbroken I was when his first “understanding companion” appeared. The girl’s smile was bright, Alexander was indulgent and doting, his brow relaxed in a way I had never seen. Novelty is always lethal. Probably out of despair, I fell severely ill, lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to an IV. I listened to the nurses gossiping. They talked about how romantic Alexander was, buying 8,888 roses just to make a woman smile. They seemed to forget the existence of Mrs. Vance, as if in a tabloid scandal, the latecomer is always the pitiful one. Alexander was so caught up in his pleasure then, completely lacking his later calm indifference, that he failed to notice my abnormal state several times. I was proud by nature and absolutely refused to show weakness. But that night, my tears soaked the blanket. I felt a suffocating tightness in my chest that was agonizing and despairing. For a moment, I even thought I would die. So I called Alexander. It was a girl who answered, telling me Alexander was in the shower. She asked what Mrs. Vance needed. Probably because the illness was tormenting me, my attitude was very poor. I ordered her to give the phone to Alexander. The girl didn’t listen; she just cried. Alexander coaxed her and asked who was on the phone. When she told him, Alexander took the phone in silence. At that moment, I actually still held a glimmer of hope. Love really tortures the heart. I could feel my heart being lifted high. But he only told me: “Abby, you can’t be like Serena.” Serena and Henry’s situation was very ugly at the time, causing Henry a lot of grief. Serena couldn’t touch Henry, so she went after the women around him. During that time, whoever messed with Henry was unlucky. Everyone in the circle knew about it, and Henry lost a lot of face. Instantly, I felt my heart being grabbed by someone, carelessly tossed from a high building, shattering into pieces. At night, the tears that flowed to my lips were bitter. Probably realizing his words were too harsh, he softened his voice and asked me: “Abby, are you afraid of the dark?” The girl beside him let out a soft laugh and whined coquettishly. I hid the phone under my pillow. I didn’t say another word. For the first time, I truly realized that Alexander was a good childhood friend, a good strategist. But I made a fatal mistake. I thought our shallow affection could defy the family’s face and unspoken rules. That night, I wasn’t uncomfortable for long. The nurses soon noticed something was wrong with me, and after a frantic rescue, I barely kept my life. A few days later, Alexander messaged and called me, saying he drank too much that night and took out his frustration over Henry’s complaints on me. At that time, I looked down at the IV in my hand, leaned against the soft pillow, and watched the leaves slowly falling outside the window. “Alexander, I am Abby Sterling, the eldest daughter of the Sterling family. I know deeply that the bond between us isn’t just you and me. It’s billion-dollar collaborations, it’s a century of friendship.” I replied submissively. Alexander didn’t say a word. He took a deep breath: “Abby, you seem to have grown up.” I didn’t speak again.

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I was at the boutique that morning, standing before the three-way mirror for the final fitting of my wedding suit. It was a piece I had spent months designing, a labor of love for the day I’d finally marry the woman who had been my entire world for a decade. The bell above the door chimed, and a young man sauntered in. One of the floor assistants leaned toward me, whispering that this customer had already rejected ninety-nine different suits in the last three months. Apparently, he was impossibly high-maintenance, backed by a wealthy, doting fiancée who didn’t mind paying for his endless revisions. As the assistant grumbled about the guy’s pickiness, the man suddenly stopped in his tracks. He pointed directly at me—or rather, at the suit I was wearing. “I want that one,” he said, his voice ringing with the casual entitlement of someone who had never been told ‘no.’ The assistant politely explained that the suit was a bespoke, one-of-a-kind piece belonging to a private client. It wasn’t for sale. Without a word, the man pulled out his phone and made a quick call. Minutes later, the store manager came rushing out, breathless and pale. He informed me that the man’s fiancée had just purchased the entire boutique. They were “insisting” that I hand over my suit to him. “Absolutely not,” I said, my voice steady despite the spike of adrenaline. “I designed this for my own wedding. It’s not a commodity.” The assistant who had been helping me earlier nudged my shoulder, whispering urgently, “Adrian, be careful. That’s the fiancé of Diana Beaumont. You don’t want to be on her bad side. Playing nice could open a lot of doors for your career.” The name Diana Beaumont hit me like a physical blow. My heart skipped a beat, then began to thud painfully against my ribs. If he was Diana Beaumont’s fiancé… then who the hell was I? … He saw the shock written across my face and mistook it for awe. A smug, practiced smile spread across his lips—the look of a man who knew he held all the cards. “You’re a designer, right?” he said, nodding toward my reflection. “Think of it this way: if I wear your work to my wedding, your name will be everywhere by Monday morning. It’s a career-maker.” I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I forced myself to swallow the bile rising in my throat and looked at the manager. “Let me see his contract,” I said, my voice sounding like it belonged to a stranger. The manager hesitated, but after a sharp look from the young man, he handed over the tablet. I scrolled to the final page, my fingers trembling. There, at the bottom, was the signature I’d seen a thousand times. Diana Beaumont. Her elegant, looping script was unmistakable. It was the same handwriting that had filled the margins of my college notebooks. The same hand that had signed our engagement party invitations just months ago. Now, it was here, tethered to a man named Parker. The world turned cold, a sharp, crystalline frost settling into my bones. The reality was as absurd as it was undeniable. My fiancée, Diana, was living a double life. She wasn’t just cheating; she was planning a whole other forever. I felt my knees weaken. I reached for a glass of water on a nearby side table, forcing myself to take a slow sip. I studied Parker. He looked to be in his early twenties, radiating a restless, boyish energy. There was a haunting similarity in the set of his eyes and the curve of his jaw to my own. The realization didn’t bring comfort. It made me feel sick. He was a younger, shinier version of the man I used to be. “Fine,” I said, setting the glass down. “He can have the suit.” Parker grinned, unsurprised. He turned to head toward the dressing rooms, but I reached out and caught his sleeve. “This suit has a very specific silhouette,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “Let me style your hair for you. It needs the right look to really work.” Parker’s private suite was a testament to excess—plush velvet sofas, a fully stocked bar, and rows upon rows of designer labels. He noticed my gaze lingering on the racks. “My fiancée’s doing,” Parker said with a casual shrug. “She says since I spend half my life in here picking out clothes, I might as well be comfortable.” I forced a thin smile. “She sounds very devoted.” Parker arched a brow and sighed, though his smirk betrayed his pride. “She loves throwing money at me, yeah. But she’s always ‘too busy’ to actually show up for the fittings.” The assistant, who had followed us in to help with the pins, chimed in. “Oh, don’t say that, Mr. Parker! Miss Beaumont was here for almost every other session. She must be truly swamped at the office today to miss this one.” Parker beamed at the compliment. “True. She hates being away from me. I’m sure she’s miserable in whatever board meeting she’s stuck in.” The words felt like shards of glass in my chest. I remembered how Diana had been so “checked out” during our own wedding planning. When I asked her about the venue, she’d just say, “Whatever you want, Adrian.” When I booked the photographer for our engagement shoot, she stood us up three times. I had told myself she was just stressed with the merger. I told myself she was doing it all for our future. It wasn’t that she didn’t have the time. She just didn’t have the heart for me. I picked up a curling iron and began to work on Parker’s hair. “So,” Parker asked, looking at me through the mirror. “Was that suit for a client? The staff said it was a ‘not-for-sale’ piece.” I paused, the heat of the iron radiating against my palm. “No,” I said softly. “It was meant for my own wedding.” Parker blinked, looking genuinely sheepish for a fleeting second. “Oh. Man, I’m sorry. That’s… awkward.” He said he was sorry, but there was no move to give the suit back. He tilted his head, his eyes bright and pleading like a spoiled puppy. “It’s just—I’m so incredibly picky, you know? And this is the first thing that’s felt right. You’re clearly talented, though. I’m sure you can whip up something even better for yourself. You’ve got this!” I managed a nod. “It’s fine. I’m in no rush.” As I worked, Parker’s phone buzzed on the vanity. He couldn’t reach it because of the styling, so he hit the speakerphone. “Hey, babe,” he chirped. “Parker, how’s the fitting going?” The voice was a warm honey-pour I knew by heart. It was the voice that used to whisper “Wake up, Adrian,” into my ear every morning when we first moved in together. Back then, she was like a child, full of light, tickling me until we both collapsed into breathless laughter on the floor. I turned my head away, blinking back the sudden sting in my eyes. I had almost forgotten what she sounded like when she was being gentle. She hadn’t used that tone with me in years. “I’m getting my hair done, actually,” Parker said, grinning at the phone. “This suit is perfect, Diana. It’s going to look amazing next to your dress. It’s such a shame you’re not here to see it.” “I know, honey,” Diana soothed. “I’m buried in the board meeting. I’ll make it up to you, okay? I promise.” Parker pouted. “But this might be the last time I try it on. Don’t you want to see us together before the big day?” A soft sigh came through the line—the sound of her giving in. “Alright, you win. I’ll head over as soon as we wrap up. I can never say no to you.” I let out a silent, bitter laugh. Last night, I had begged Diana to come with me to pick up the suit. I told her it was a big moment for me. She had looked at me with cold, judgmental eyes. “Adrian, stop being so needy. I have work.” Then she had walked away without a second glance. Apparently, her schedule was flexible after all. I just wasn’t the one worth bending it for. Parker hung up, looking victorious. The assistant sighed wistfully. “You two are just goals, Mr. Parker. Truly.” Parker laughed, then looked at me. “So, man, when’s your big day?” I froze, the question hanging in the air like a guillotine. Before I could answer, a rival designer from the shop—a guy who had always hated my “artistic” approach—walked in with a tray of accessories. He’d caught the tail end of the conversation. “He’s been working on that suit for months,” the guy sneered, looking at me with pure schadenfreude. “But we’ve never even seen this ‘fiancée’ of his. Honestly, we were starting to wonder if she even existed.” He turned to Parker, his face instantly transforming into a mask of sycophancy. “Now, you, Mr. Parker—you’re the lucky one. A woman like Miss Beaumont? She clearly can’t breathe without you.” I looked down, unable to find a retort. It was true. Diana hadn’t even set a date with me yet. Every time I brought it up, she found a reason to delay. I had been planning a wedding for a ghost. Parker frowned, seemingly coming to my defense, though his voice held a note of condescending pity. “Really? She hasn’t been helping? That’s a red flag, brother. You should watch out for that.” I played along, my heart a lead weight in my chest. “Maybe you’re right. I should rethink things. What about you? When are you two tying the knot?” Parker thought for a second. “The big ceremony is later this year, but we actually already made it official.” My breath hitched. “Official?” Parker nodded proudly. “Yeah, we eloped at City Hall on May 20th. I insisted on the date—5/20 sounds like ‘I love you’ in the old tradition, right? She was supposed to be on a business trip, but I talked her into it.” May 20th. My thirtieth birthday. I had waited up for her until 2:00 AM that night. She had texted me saying she was stuck at a conference three states away, exhausted and alone. I had felt guilty for even wanting her there. And all the while, she was signing a marriage license with a boy who shared my eyes. We had been together since we were eighteen. For a decade, she was the girl who couldn’t wait to turn twenty-one just so we could legally elope. Then, as her career took off, she became the woman who was “too busy for paperwork.” She had cried when I proposed. We were under a canopy of fireworks, and she had clung to me, sobbing “Yes, yes, forever.” I realized then that “forever” was just a word she recycled for whoever was currently holding her interest. Parker went into the dressing room to change into the final look. I followed him in to help with the delicate tailoring of the jacket. “Hey,” Parker whispered, leaning in close. “Could you guys let out the waist on the wedding dress a little? Just a preemptive strike?” I blinked. “The dress?” Parker smirked, a secret shining in his eyes. “She thinks she’s surprising me, but I know she’s pregnant. I don’t want to ruin her surprise, but I know she’ll be showing by the time we do the big reception. Can you make sure the designers know? Keep it on the down-low, though.” The world went silent. A cold, crushing weight settled onto my lungs. Pregnant. Diana—the woman who had told me for years that she was “strictly child-free”—was carrying a child. She had told me she was afraid of the pain, afraid of losing her career, afraid of being “trapped” by motherhood. I had respected her choice. I had defended her when her family pressured us. I had made my peace with a life that was just the two of us. And now, she was having a baby with him. I mumbled something incoherent and bolted out of the dressing room. I leaned against the door in the hallway, my chest heaving. The cruelty of it was breathtaking. Maybe she didn’t tell him because she planned on “handling” it. Or maybe, she just didn’t want a life with me. Parker’s phone rang on the sofa again. It was Diana. “Adrian!” Parker yelled from inside the room. “Can you grab that? My hands are full!” I stared at the phone. A dark, jagged urge took root in my mind. I wanted to see her world burn the way mine just had. I picked up. “Hello?” There was a pause. She didn’t recognize my voice through the digital filter of the phone. “Who is this?” “I’m an assistant at the boutique,” I said, my voice flat. “Mr. Parker is in the dressing room. Can I take a message?” She didn’t suspect a thing. “Oh, fine. Just tell him I ordered some afternoon tea to be sent over. Make sure he eats; he gets migraines if his blood sugar drops.” The tenderness in her voice was nauseating. It was a ghost of the woman I used to love. “Of course,” I said. “And one more thing,” Diana added, her voice dropping an octave. “Regarding the dress I ordered… tell the lead designer to adjust the waist. Make it larger.” My grip tightened on the phone. “Is there a specific reason for the change?” There was a long silence. Then, softly: “I’m pregnant. But please, don’t tell Parker. I want to surprise him. Just make sure the designer handles it.” I hung up and slowly sank to the floor, burying my face in my hands. It wasn’t that she didn’t want children. She just didn’t want my children. Ten years. I had given her a decade of my life, and I was nothing more than a placeholder. Parker stepped out of the room, looking radiant in the suit I had built for myself. It fit him perfectly. We really did have the same taste—in clothes, and in women. The staff hovered around him, showering him with praise. Parker lived for it. He snapped a selfie and sent it to Diana. “Babe, look at this. I’m a masterpiece, right?” Her reply came instantly: “Stunning. You were born to wear that.” I watched him, a boy vibrating with a happiness I once owned. I remembered when I first started in design. I had no formal training, just a sketchbook and a dream. Everyone told me I’d fail. Except Diana. She was my fiercest advocate. Back then, there was a vintage gown in a window downtown that I used to stare at. I loved the craftsmanship, but I was a broke student and buying a wedding dress seemed like a jinx. I never told her. I just looked. The next day, it was sitting in my bedroom. I remembered the way she looked at me then—with a fierce, unwavering devotion. “Adrian, if you love it, it’s yours. Whatever you want to do, I’m behind you. Always.” She had loved me once. I knew she had. But time is a slow, silent thief. Parker was preening in front of the mirror when his assistant suggested a pop of color—a brooch, perhaps. “You’re right,” Parker said, snapping his fingers. “I almost forgot. I just picked up that piece from the auction house today.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a velvet jewelry box. He pinned a shimmering object to his lapel and turned to me. “What do you think? My fiancée won this at an estate auction for me. Goes great with the suit, right?” My heart stopped. I stared at the brooch. I moved closer, my eyes wide, my breath hitching in my throat. It couldn’t be. But it was. It was a vintage emerald and gold piece—my mother’s only heirloom. An antique that had been in my family for generations. Years ago, when the Beaumont firm was on the verge of bankruptcy, Diana had been desperate. I couldn’t stand to see her lose everything. I had sold that brooch—the only thing I had left of my mother—to inject capital into her company. It was the seed money that saved her empire. I had spent my life feeling guilty for losing it. Diana knew how much it meant to me. She had promised me, a thousand times, that she would find it and bring it home. She had found it. And she had given it to Parker. I felt the blood drain from my face, replaced by a searing, white-hot rage. My nails bit into my palms until I drew blood. How dare she? How dare she use my mother’s legacy to buy the affection of a boy she was using to replace me? The door to the lounge swung open. A familiar silhouette stepped in, bathed in the soft glow of the boutique lighting. “Parker, honey? Are you ready to go home?” I turned slowly.

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I was driving when the radio host casually dropped the bombshell about the rumored romance between Craig Ellsworth and Daphne. He frantically reached over to kill the volume, tripping over his own words as he rushed to explain. I just gave a careless shrug, telling him I knew it was all tabloid trash. When he kept rambling, practically begging for absolution, I laughed and teased that I’d even help him cover it up in front of his parents. The words had barely left my mouth when he slammed his foot on the brake. All the color drained from his face. It reminded me of that night not so long ago, when he had grabbed his ex-girlfriend by the arm and dragged her into a hotel room right in front of me. He had sneered at me then, his voice dripping with venom, saying that since I was so paranoid, he might as well give me a show. The breathless, muffled moans that had filtered through the phone receiver later that night shattered the very last remnant of whatever we used to be. From that moment on, I never shed another tear of jealousy. I never picked another fight. 1. The moment Craig Ellsworth took Daphne to that hotel room, our marriage effectively flatlined. So, when I heard their names strung together once again, praised by internet strangers as a match made in heaven, the breakdown I expected never came. Daphne was a prominent influencer. She had built a massive following on TikTok and Instagram by romanticizing her life as a Stanford graduate living her best life. A month ago, Craig made a cameo on her feed. It was an Instagram Story—just a two-second live photo. You could catch a fleeting blur of Craig’s distinct profile in the background. But more glaringly, sitting right there on the nightstand, was a box of Trojan condoms. The internet works fast. Within hours, sleuths had identified the mystery man as the elusive CEO of Vanguard Holdings. The screenshot went viral, climbing the trending charts on Twitter and TikTok. Her comment section was flooded: [Daphne!! Give us the tea, are you in a relationship?!] [Wait, isn’t that the CEO of Vanguard?] [Omg, the guy in the back is insanely hot. They look so good together.] Reading those comments, I had stood frozen in the middle of our living room. That unmistakable little gold-foil box practically screamed what was happening between them. A bone-deep chill washed over me. When Craig came home that night, I had waited for an explanation. He brushed it off with a handful of dismissive words. “It’s just a misunderstanding.” When I didn’t react, he added, “I’ve already had my PR team kill the story.” But after that, Daphne’s name became an inescapable phantom in my life. I heard the nurses gossiping about it during my shifts at the hospital. The algorithm, cruel and precise, constantly pushed her latest posts to my feed. The rumors of her and Craig only grew louder. The whole world, it seemed, was heavily invested in guessing the nature of their relationship. 2. The following weekend, Craig went on a “business trip.” I had made plans with a girlfriend for a spa weekend in the Hamptons. And there, lounging at the luxury resort, I saw them. Craig and Daphne. She was wearing a string bikini, her flawless figure on full display, with an oversized, expensive men’s suit jacket draped over her shoulders. Craig was right beside her. His dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to the forearms, tailored trousers hugging his long legs. He looked utterly relaxed, completely in his element. Walking side-by-side, they were the picture-perfect couple. Craig leaned in slightly, tilting his head to catch whatever she was saying. I couldn’t hear the words, but they both broke into a synchronized, intimate smile. Later, Daphne went into the cabana to change. She emerged in a sheer white slip dress, but she kept his jacket firmly draped around her. I watched them disappear into the same private suite. Without thinking, I followed. Driven by some masochistic ghost, I pushed the heavy oak door open. My mouth moved faster than my brain. The accusation tore out of me: “Craig, you’re sleeping with Daphne, aren’t you?” Then, I froze. The suite wasn’t empty. A room full of executives and associates turned in unison to stare at me. Craig looked at me. His eyes were perfectly hollow. Glacial. He looked away, his jaw tight, and spoke barely above a whisper. “Get the door, please.” I forgot how to breathe. His utter dismissal was a public execution. The sheer humiliation radiated through my bones. The spa weekend was ruined. I made a hollow excuse to my friend and fled the resort. Craig didn’t come home until late that evening. Part of me felt awful for crashing his meeting, but beneath the guilt was a violent, uncontrollable swell of hurt. The bitterness rose in my throat, choking me. I couldn’t hold it back. “Craig, are you cheating on me?” I demanded. “What exactly is your relationship with her?” He gave me a sideways glance, his demeanor entirely detached. “Jodie. What exactly do you want our relationship to be?” he asked, his voice dripping with condescension. “Barging in like that in front of a dozen people—did you even for a second consider how you were affecting her reputation?” My mind went entirely blank. My stomach dropped through the floor. His coldness was a surgical blade, slipping perfectly between my ribs. Craig cast one last disgusted look at me, then turned his back and vanished into the darkness of the house. 3. The cold war began. Craig started taking back-to-back business trips. The final, fatal blow happened at a boutique hotel in Manhattan, a property owned by Vanguard. I saw them in the lobby. Daphne and Craig. I watched them step into the private elevator reserved for the penthouse suites. I followed them up. “Craig.” They both stopped in the dimly lit corridor and turned to face me. I looked at my husband. “Is this your ‘business trip’? Booking a suite with your ex-girlfriend?” Craig let out a dark, breathless laugh. “Fine,” he said. “You’re so convinced I’m cheating on you?” He stepped closer, his shadow swallowing mine. “Do you want me to give you a show?” Before I could process the threat, his hand wrapped tightly around Daphne’s arm, pulling her toward the door of the suite. His eyes, pitch-black and fathomless, locked onto mine. “What? Aren’t you going to follow us in and see exactly what we do?” The door slammed shut in my face. The sound echoed down the empty hallway like a gunshot. My eyes burned. My throat constricted so tightly I couldn’t draw air, let alone speak. By the time I stumbled back into the elevator, my phone buzzed in my hand. An unknown number. I answered. No one spoke. There was only the quiet, rhythmic sound of a woman panting. Breathless. Ecstatic. I stood in the descending elevator for a long, long time. That unmistakable sound of intimacy confirmed everything. Craig and Daphne were crossing every line. A sharp ache pierced the bridge of my nose. Craig and I were finished. It was over. I hailed a cab outside the hotel. Sitting in the back seat, watching the city lights blur, I found myself scrolling through Daphne’s old digital footprint. The internet had dug up her old VSCO and Finsta accounts from high school and college. They had mapped out her entire romantic timeline with Craig. They were high school sweethearts. They went to Columbia University together, studying in different departments. Looking at her old posts, I saw a version of Craig I had never met. The Craig on her feed remembered her menstrual cycle and packed Advil for her. He patiently followed her to every trendy pop-up cafe in the city, holding her bags. He bought a professional camera and learned photography just so he could take the perfect candid shots of her. He took her to Disneyland. To the Hamptons. Her old feed was saturated in the blinding, sickeningly sweet pink of young love. Every word she wrote dripped with the security of a girl who knew she was adored. [He literally spent a month learning how to edit photos just for me.] [He tracks my period better than I do. I swear he loves me more than I love myself.] Under that post, an old comment read: [Omg Daphne, I’m a freshman from your high school! Everyone at Columbia still talks about you and Craig. You guys are literal goals. Forever endgame!] And Craig, using his own account, had replied to that freshman: [Thank you. I’m going to hold onto her for a long time.] Now, the old Columbia University Reddit threads were ablaze again, brought back to life by the recent rumors. [Craig and Daphne were the golden couple on campus. They only broke up because she left for Stanford, right?] [So this is the ultimate reunion? The one that got away?] [I have a wild theory. Daphne’s family isn’t exactly loaded. Stanford out-of-state tuition is insane. What if Craig footed the bill? That makes it even more romantic—the billionaire CEO grinding in NY to support his girl on the West Coast.] Craig flew out to California religiously every year. Daphne’s alma mater was in California. My hands shook violently against the illuminated screen. I didn’t dare think about it any deeper. 4. Ten minutes after I got home, the front door unlocked. Craig walked in. His suit was immaculate. Not a single hair out of place. He looked entirely undisturbed. My eyes were still red and swollen. I refused to look at him. He walked over and grabbed my wrist. “Nothing happened between us,” he said, his voice an attempt at soothing. “Earlier tonight… I was just angry. I was trying to provoke you.” He was explaining. But it was too late. The damage was in my marrow now. I gave a small, hollow nod. “Okay. I understand.” I didn’t speak another word to him for the rest of the night. The next morning, I felt entirely hollowed out, so I took a cab to the hospital. When my shift ended, the thought of going back to that house felt suffocating. Diane, an attending physician on my floor, had a night shift but desperately needed to attend her daughter’s parent-teacher conference. I offered to cover for her. The ER was a war zone that night. We had multiple trauma arrivals. By the time I finally scrubbed out of surgery, my phone screen was lit up with over a dozen missed calls. Diane rushed back into the breakroom, out of breath. “Jo, thank you so much,” she sighed, dumping her bag on the chair. “I heard you guys got slammed and you had to scrub in. I am so sorry. I brought you an iced matcha.” I didn’t bother being polite. I took the drink gratefully. “Thanks, Diane. I’m gonna head out now.” She smiled warmly. “I owe you one.” It was almost midnight when I walked out of the hospital sliding doors. Since I had cabbed to work, I ordered an Uber home. Only after I settled into the back seat did I actually check my phone. Every single missed call was from Craig. He had texted too: [Where are you?] [I’m in the hospital parking garage. I’m waiting for you.] I stared at the screen as the car merged onto the avenue. [Don’t bother.] [I’m already on my way home.] Shortly after I unlocked the front door, I heard his car pull into the driveway. Something fundamental had shifted inside me since that night at the hotel. Seeing him suddenly walk through the door left me feeling nothing but awkwardness. We stood in the foyer, staring at each other. The air was thick and strange. His dark eyes were fixed heavily on me. I looked away. Every time I looked at him now, I saw Daphne. I saw him dragging her into that room. I heard the breathless panting vibrating against my ear. I saw the ghost of their decade-long romance filling every corner of my house. I used to carry the weight of this marriage entirely on my own. I would come home and tell him about the weird patients in the ER, what I ate for lunch, desperately trying to spark a conversation. But now? Now I realized we had absolutely nothing to say to each other. The silence in the room was deafening. It reminded me of another one of Daphne’s old diary entries: [God, he talks so much. I’m literally falling asleep and he’s still dragging me into a conversation about his finance models.] My chest seized up tight. Craig’s deep voice shattered the quiet. “Weren’t you on the day shift? Why are you back so late?” I could feel the weight of his gaze tracking my every movement. I kept my back to him, walking over to the kitchen island to pour a glass of water. “Yeah.” I didn’t explain. I didn’t have the energy to. He didn’t deserve the details of my life anymore. When I turned around, he was standing right behind me. His lips parted, like he was trying to find the right words. I beat him to it, and he swallowed whatever he was about to say. “I’m going to take a shower.” When I stepped out of the bathroom, he was standing right outside the door. I jumped, startled. Catching his eye unexpectedly, I just gave a stiff nod and walked past him. Lying in the dark, my mind raced. Just sharing a mattress with him made my skin crawl. 5. Craig was an early riser. By the time I dragged myself out of bed, he had already showered and dressed in a crisp suit. Breakfast was laid out on the dining table. Craig sat there, his expression unreadable, reading the news on his tablet. Looking at the spread, my mind drifted again. I thought of Daphne’s tweet: [Told him I was craving a breakfast sandwich last night. Woke up to him in the kitchen making me the perfect BLT.] [His cooking is actually getting scary good.] A comment underneath: [You’re so lucky, girl.] Daphne’s reply: [Haha, hoping you find your own happily ever after!] “Jodie.” His voice snapped me back to the present. “Eat.” I blinked, checking the time on the microwave clock. “You go ahead. I’m running late.” A heavy hand clamped down on my forearm. Craig looked up at me through his lashes, his dark eyes intense and unyielding. “You have time. I’ll drive you.” I sat down, forcing myself to swallow a few bites of toast. “My grandmother wants us at the estate for dinner tonight,” he said smoothly. “I’ll pick you up from the hospital when you get off.” I nodded mechanically. “Fine.” When I stood up to leave, Craig rose with me. His tone left no room for argument. “I’m driving you.” I rejected him without a second thought. “No need.” I saw his brow twitch, a minute furrow of irritation, but I didn’t care. I grabbed my bag and walked out the door. 6. I grabbed lunch with Diane in the hospital cafeteria. Between bites of a terrible salad, she brought up the upcoming medical exchange program in Asheville, North Carolina. She let out a heavy sigh. “Man, my kid is applying to college this year. There is no way I can disappear for three months.” “Honestly, anyone with a family here is gonna pass on it,” she continued. “And the newlyweds? No chance they’re packing up for the South.” I looked up at her. “Diane, if you’re not taking it… I will.” She paused, fork halfway to her mouth. “Jo, are you serious?” I nodded firmly. “Yeah. I really want to use this opportunity to learn.” As soon as my tray was clear, I marched straight to the department head’s office and put my name on the list. Right as my shift was ending, my phone rang. Craig. I picked up, putting it on speaker as I organized my desk. His deep, velvet voice filled the small room. Diane and a few other nurses happened to be walking by. They stopped, leaning against the doorframe with knowing, teasing smiles. “Ooh, Jo. Is that the boyfriend?” I forced a laugh and shook my head. “No.” Through the speaker, Craig said, “I’m down in your parking garage.” “Okay, I’ll be right there.” The underground garage was dimly lit. He was leaning against his black G-Wagon, a tall, imposing silhouette. I walked toward him. To my horror, Diane was also heading to her car in the same aisle. She spotted us and walked over, her eyebrows raised in absolute delight. “Jo! Is this the boyfriend?” she beamed. “Not bad to look at, I gotta say.” My brain short-circuited. I spun a lie out of thin air. “No, no. He’s my cousin.” Craig slowly turned his head to look at me. His eyes darkened dangerously. Diane bought it immediately, her scandalous interest fading into polite nods. “Ah, gotcha. See you tomorrow!” I slid into the passenger seat. The leather felt suffocating. Craig got in, his jaw clenched tight. He turned to me, the engine idling. “Why did you say that?” I looked straight ahead, my voice completely devoid of emotion. “I don’t want my coworkers getting the wrong idea.” Craig flinched slightly. A deep frown etched into his forehead. “The wrong idea?” He put the car in drive and pulled out of the garage. The radio was on, tuned to a pop-culture SiriusXM channel. A bubbly host was mid-sentence. “…Vanguard CEO Craig Ellsworth and influencer Daphne were spotted at a luxury Hamptons resort recently. Daphne was wearing a tiny bikini, draped in Craig’s suit jacket. Let me tell you, the sexual tension in those photos is off the charts…” Craig slammed his hand against the console, killing the radio instantly. He exhaled sharply. “You were there that day. You know there were other investors present.” I stared out the window at the passing traffic. “I know,” I said lightly. Craig tried again. “Nothing happened between us.” A small, cynical smile touched my lips. I assumed he was just doing damage control so I wouldn’t rat him out to his family tonight. “Relax,” I said. “Your secret is safe with me. I won’t say a word to your grandmother.” Craig slammed his foot on the brake. The SUV lurched forward violently before skidding to a halt. The blood drained completely from his face. He stared at me, a violent storm of emotions swirling in his eyes.

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The emergency room door was left slightly ajar, and Ted’s voice cut through the sterile hallway, reaching me loud and clear. He was telling the doctor that Daphne was a violinist. That her hands were her livelihood, that they absolutely could not be damaged. He demanded they treat her first. At that exact moment, I had just been pulled from the twisted metal of our car by the firefighters. My left wrist was slick with my own blood, a gash on my temple was steadily weeping down the side of my face, and a massive, ugly bruise was blooming across my thigh. By the time the ambulance arrived, the pain had escalated into a dull, terrifying numbness. My knees had been pinned in the crumpled gap of the passenger seat, the seatbelt biting into my collarbone so hard I couldn’t move. Half my body had lost all sensation. I remember the torrential rain hammering against the shattered windshield, the freezing wind howling through the broken glass. And I remember watching, helpless and pinned, as Ted kicked his door open, scooped up a bleeding Daphne, and disappeared into the storm with her. He moved like a man possessed. He never once looked back. “Daphne!” In the chaotic second the car was struck and the metal buckled inward, I didn’t even hear my own scream. I only heard my husband screaming another woman’s name. Right then, in the freezing wreckage, I simply stopped struggling. I finally understood. I could live a hundred lifetimes, and I would never win against the ghost of his first love. … “How is this woman related to you, sir?” the doctor asked. Ted hesitated. The silence lasted exactly two seconds. “Just treat them both.” That sentence was the perfect summary of what he had given me for the past three years. He never rejected me. He never truly acknowledged me. He never blatantly picked a side, but he never, not once, stood firmly in my corner. Lying on the narrow hospital bed, staring at the fluorescent ceiling panels, I suddenly let out a laugh. The nurse bandaging my head paused, her voice gentle. “Does it hurt?” “I’m okay,” I whispered. The truth was, the pain was blinding. Black spots danced at the edges of my vision. But compared to the physical agony, what hurt far worse was the realization that I wasn’t surprised. Not even a little. Because this wasn’t the first time. And it wouldn’t be the last. When Ted finally pushed open the door to my cubicle, I had just finished getting stitches. His shoulders were still soaked from the rain. There was blood on the cuffs of his expensive dress shirt, and I didn’t know if it was Daphne’s or mine. “How bad is it?” he asked. I looked at him, my voice eerily calm. “Ted, I want a divorce.” He froze. He clearly hadn’t expected me to drop that word, not here, not now. His brow furrowed, and his tone slipped into that familiar, restrained impatience. “Nancy, you’re running high on adrenaline right now. We’ll talk about this when you’ve calmed down.” “I am perfectly calm.” “Today was an accident.” “You’re right,” I nodded slowly. “The crash was an accident. But every single time you choose her over me, Ted—that is a choice.” His eyes darkened, his jaw ticking. “Do you really have to throw a tantrum right now?” I actually wanted to laugh again. A tantrum. To him, me asking for a divorce was just another hysterical female tantrum. We had been married for three years. Three years of staying up until dawn to help him draft proposals when his tech startup was bleeding money. Three years of wrangling his board of directors, drinking on his behalf at endless corporate dinners to secure funding, cleaning up his messes, and playing the perfectly poised, soft-spoken wife to the world. Everyone in our circle always said the same thing: Ted might be a little cold, but he takes good care of Nancy. He gave me black credit cards. He gave me a penthouse. He gave me a title. He gave me everything except his heart. Because every instinct, every subconscious reaction he had, belonged to someone else. Daphne. His untouchable golden girl. His first love. The dream he had never been able to wake up from. I used to be so painfully naive. I thought that if I poured enough warmth, enough devotion into him, I could eventually thaw the ice around his heart. It took me three years to realize the heart wasn’t frozen. It just didn’t belong to me. That night in the hospital, Ted didn’t argue with me anymore. He stood by the bed in silence for a long time before finally saying, “My grandmother’s birthday is next week. We’ll talk after that.” Classic Ted. Every time I backed him into a corner for an answer, he gave me a raincheck. I closed my eyes. “Fine.” Maybe it was how quickly I agreed, but he lingered, looking at me a second longer than usual. But I was already done explaining myself. The next morning, I discharged myself from the hospital. Ted had gone to check on Daphne. He sent me a brief text. Gideon is going to drive you home. Remember to take your meds. It read like instructions left for an assistant dealing with a minor inconvenience. Not a husband. Not a lover. Walking into our apartment, I really looked at the place for the first time in three years. Ted had bought this penthouse. He had chosen the interior design. Slate gray, stark white, matte black. It was beautiful, but it was as sterile as a luxury hotel lobby. The flowers on the kitchen island were white roses. Daphne’s favorite. The crystal wine glasses in the cabinet were a niche French brand. The exact ones Daphne had posted on her Instagram a year ago. The vintage record player in the study? The same brand Daphne used to obsess over in college. Even the low-fat yogurt permanently stocked in the fridge was Daphne’s preferred flavor. I am lactose intolerant. One bite gives me agonizing stomach cramps. It wasn’t that I hadn’t noticed these little breadcrumbs over the past three years. I just chose to play blind. Because acknowledging them meant admitting that I was living inside someone else’s lingering love story. That I was just a squatter in my own marriage. Even though I was the one wearing the ring. As I packed my bags, I pulled open a nightstand drawer and found an old, brushed silver lighter. In the bottom corner, deeply engraved, was a tiny letter “D.” A gift from Daphne. I had asked him about it once, shortly after we got married. He had come home drunk, and as I was helping him out of his coat, it fell from his pocket. “You still have this?” I had asked. He only gave me three words. “Forgot to toss it.” And yet, here it was, years later. Some things don’t get thrown away because they are much more than objects. I put the lighter back in the drawer and slid it shut. Then I began clearing out my life. My clothes, my books, my skincare, my files. I erased every trace that I had ever breathed the air in this apartment. When Gideon, Ted’s executive assistant, showed up to help, he stood in the doorway, totally bewildered. “Mrs. Crystal… what is all this?” “I’m moving out.” He opened his mouth to argue, then wisely shut it. Anyone who worked closely with Ted knew that while I appeared soft-spoken, once I made a decision, God himself couldn’t change my mind. Gideon stood awkwardly for a long time before muttering, “Mr. Crystal didn’t mean anything by it yesterday, you know.” “Didn’t mean what?” “With the crash… Ms. Daphne’s injuries just looked more severe in the moment…” I didn’t stop folding my sweaters. “Gideon, you’ve worked for him a long time. Do you honestly believe I’m only upset about yesterday?” Gideon fell silent. Because he knew. It wasn’t just yesterday. It was never just yesterday. The first time was three months after our wedding. It was my birthday. Ted had promised to take me out to dinner. I sat in an absurdly expensive, dimly lit restaurant for two hours. I stayed until the busboys were wiping down the tables and I was the only patron left sitting by the window. When he finally called, his voice was hushed. “Daphne ran into some trouble in Paris. I’m dealing with it. I’ll make it up to you.” I had gripped the phone, my voice trembling. “What about my birthday?” Silence on the line. Then: “We’ll celebrate tomorrow.” The second time, my fever had spiked to 103 degrees. He was supposed to be in Chicago on a business trip. I didn’t want to bother him, so I drove myself to urgent care for an IV drip. Sitting alone in the clinic at 2:00 AM, I opened Instagram. Daphne had posted a story. The location tag was the exact same hotel Ted was staying at in Chicago. The photo was just two coffee cups, but in the corner of the frame was a man’s wrist. The watch on that wrist was the Patek Philippe I had bought him for our anniversary. He came home the next day, bringing me medicine and a tasteful gift, his explanation airtight. “Ran into her in the lobby. She was having a panic attack, so I sat with her for a bit to talk her down.” I didn’t call him on his lie. Because I was still lying to myself. I was still foolishly believing that one day, he would wake up and realize who was actually building a life with him. The third time was last year, when his grandmother was hospitalized. The doctors needed a family member to sign the consent forms for surgery. His phone went straight to voicemail for hours. I ran around the hospital alone, dealing with insurance, doctors, and nurses, absolutely frantic, until 2:00 AM. When he finally walked into the waiting room, I thought he had rushed back out of fear for his grandmother. Instead, his first words were: “Daphne has a big recital tomorrow. She was spiraling tonight, so I drove her up to her friend’s cabin to get away from the noise. I didn’t have service.” His grandmother had looked at me from her hospital bed and let out a long, heavy sigh. I still remember the look in her eyes. It was a mix of pity and absolute clarity. She saw the truth then. I was just the only one who refused to see it. I taped up the last box of books. My phone buzzed. It was Daphne. I stared at the name glowing on the screen, then answered. Her voice was just as soft and melodic as always, carrying a hint of a delicate, post-traumatic rasp. “Nancy? Could we meet up?” My first instinct was to hang up. But then I thought, no. Some things needed to be said out loud, once and for all. “Text me the address.” I met Daphne at an upscale cafe a few blocks from the hospital. She was wearing a cream-colored cashmere sweater dress. Her face was fashionably pale, and a tiny, pristine gauze pad was taped to her forehead. She looked like a bruised porcelain doll. As soon as I sat down, she spoke. “I’m so sorry about yesterday.” “You don’t need to apologize to me.” She traced the rim of her latte, offering a small, self-deprecating smile. “I actually didn’t even want to move back to the States. Ted was the one who insisted I come back to recover.” I raised an eyebrow, staring right at her. If she noticed my frigid demeanor, she ignored it. Her tone remained impossibly gentle, almost aggressively harmless. “Please don’t misunderstand us, Nancy. There is truly nothing going on. It’s just… we’ve known each other for so long. It’s natural for him to feel a little protective of me.” It was a masterclass in manipulation. It wasn’t a direct insult, but it was far more humiliating than one. I kept my eyes locked on hers. “Did you ask me here just to tell me that?” She finally looked up, a flicker of mock-sympathy in her eyes. “Nancy, I know you hate me. But there are some things in life you just can’t change, no matter how much you dislike them.” “Such as?” “Such as the fact that he cares about me.” She let that hang in the air for a second before delivering the final blow. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?” In that exact moment, the fight completely drained out of me. Because she was right. I did know. I knew better than anyone that the softest, most fiercely guarded part of Ted’s heart was never meant for me. I had just spent three years operating under the delusion that if I was just a little more perfect, a little more understanding, a little more patient, he would eventually turn around and see me. I waited three years. I waited until I was sitting in a crushed car next to his golden girl. I waited until he left me in the bleeding dark. I was finally done waiting. I picked up my black coffee, took a sip, and looked at her with total calm. “You can relax, Daphne.” She blinked, confused. “I’m done competing with you.” For a fraction of a second, her perfectly curated expression slipped into rigid shock. I smiled. “And it’s not because you won. It’s because I don’t want him anymore.” I stood up and walked out without looking back. Stepping out of the cafe, the autumn wind stung the fresh stitches on my temple. But inside, I felt unimaginably, euphorically light. Walking away didn’t mean I lost. It just meant I refused to bleed to death for a man who would only ever see me as second best. That night, I checked into a boutique hotel downtown. By the time Ted got back to the apartment, half the place was empty. My phone rang. I answered it. “Where are you?” “I moved out.” “Nancy.” His voice dropped an octave, the warning tone he used in boardrooms. “I told you, we will discuss this after my grandmother’s birthday.” “And I told you, fine.” “Then what the hell is this?” “It means that until then, we’re sleeping in separate zip codes. It saves us both a headache.” A heavy silence fell over the line. “Are you really going to push this?” I stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of my hotel room, watching the headlights blur into rivers of gold on the street below. “Ted, do you honestly still think I’m just throwing a tantrum?” He didn’t answer. I let out a soft breath of a laugh. “I guess I can’t blame you. You’re used to it. You’re used to me acting out and then quietly cleaning up the mess anyway.” “That’s not what I think.” “It’s exactly how you act.” I hung up before he could string together another excuse. The next morning, I went into the office. I was the Director of Corporate Communications for Crystal Technologies. I was one of the founding executives who had been with Ted since the garage days. When I handed my resignation letter to the VP of HR, he practically fell out of his Herman Miller chair. “Nancy… are you absolutely sure about this? Should we take a few days to—” “I’m sure.” “Does Mr. Crystal know?” “He’s about to.” I walked out of HR and nearly bumped into Gideon in the hallway. He looked panicked. “Mrs. Crystal, Ted is in a board meeting—” “Perfect timing. Tell him to check his email when he gets out.” When I went back to my office to pack my desk, my two junior managers were practically in tears. “Nancy, are you seriously leaving us?” “Yeah.” “What are we supposed to do?” I dropped a stack of PR strategies into my cardboard box, not missing a beat. “Keep doing your jobs. This company won’t collapse just because I’m not here.” One of the girls sniffled. “But without you, Mr. Crystal is going to lose his mind.” My hands paused over the box. A slow smile spread across my face. “Then let him.” I think that was the first time in my adult life I ever prioritized my own peace over his stability. It felt intoxicating. Less than ten minutes after the company-wide email went out, my phone rang. “Are you in the building?” Ted demanded. “Yes.” “My office. Now.” “If you have a work question, you can ask it over the phone.” “Nancy.” The suppressed fury in his voice was vibrating through the speaker. “Do not make me say it again.” The old me would have caved instantly. But today, I just adjusted my phone against my ear and said, “I’m busy packing up my desk. I don’t have the time.” Click. Three minutes later, he materialized in the doorway of my office. He was a tall, imposing figure in a bespoke suit, and the second he stepped in, the entire floor went dead silent. Every head in the bullpen swiveled toward my glass walls. I didn’t look up. I kept sorting my files. Ted stepped inside and closed the door. His eyes locked onto the printed resignation form on my desk. His jaw clenched tight enough to snap bone. “Is this a joke to you?” “Do I look like I’m joking?” He stared at me, the anger barely contained. “You are the head of PR. Do you have any idea what kind of market panic it will cause if you walk out the door right now?” I finally looked up at him. “Are we having a professional conversation right now, Ted? Or a marital one?” His lips thinned into a hard line. I stood up and handed him my signed handover checklist. “If this is about work, my contract requires a three-month transition period. You have me until then. If this is about our marriage, we can go straight to the courthouse the morning after your grandmother’s party.” You could have heard a pin drop in that office. He probably never imagined that I—the woman who spent years protecting his ego and our public image—would pull the trigger so ruthlessly in the middle of corporate headquarters. He never expected the woman who always left him a way out to barricade the door. It took him a long time to find his voice. “Are you really doing this?” “I’m just sorry it took me this long to do it.” After that day, Ted and I entered a bizarre, suffocating cold war. He didn’t bring up the divorce again, and he stopped trying to block my resignation. But suddenly, he was everywhere. When I went to drop off tea for his grandmother, he was sitting in her parlor. When I went to the hospital to get my stitches removed, the elevator doors opened, and he was standing there. When I took a client out for drinks, the waitress came over and told me the gentleman at the bar had already covered the tab. Even the concierge at my hotel whispered to me, “Ms. Crystal, a gentleman has been calling every night for three days to ask if you’ve checked out.” It was insulting. When I slept next to him every night, I was invisible. Now that I was walking out the door, he suddenly knew how to pay attention. Too little. Too late. Grandma Estelle’s birthday dinner at the estate was a massive affair. The sprawling living room was packed with aunts, uncles, and cousins. The champagne was flowing, and everyone naturally assumed Ted and I would arrive together. But I walked through the double doors alone. The collective shift in the room’s energy was immediate. The glances turned sharp and speculative. “Nancy, sweetheart, where’s Ted?” an aunt asked. “He’s on his way.” The words had barely left my mouth when the front doors opened behind me. Ted walked in. And walking right beside him, looking like a vision, was Daphne. The entire room went dead silent for two agonizing seconds. I stood holding a glass of sparkling water, and in that moment, I realized I didn’t even have the energy to be angry anymore. This was who he was. Just when you thought about letting your guard down, he found the perfect, surgical way to plunge the knife back in. Daphne was wearing a sweeping champagne-colored gown, her hair pinned up elegantly. She looked fragile, artistic, and completely out of place at a private family dinner—yet she stood next to my husband as if she owned him. Ted spotted me, and his footsteps faltered. Even he seemed to realize the catastrophic optics of what he had just done. But the older relatives were already sizing Daphne up. One of his uncles frowned. “Ted, who is this?” Daphne opened her mouth, her voice trembling slightly, but I cut her off with a bright, razor-sharp smile. “She’s a friend.” A friend. A friend he brought to his wife’s family dinner. A friend he chose to pull from a burning car while his wife bled in the backseat. What a lovely, versatile word. Ted’s face darkened. “Nancy.” “Did I say something wrong?” I looked right into his eyes, my smile not reaching my own. “If she’s not a friend, what is she? Family?” The air in the room practically crystalized. No one dared to breathe. The tension broke only when Grandma Estelle emerged from the hallway, leaning heavily on her silver-tipped cane. “Nancy. Come here.” I walked over and gently took her arm. She patted my hand, her sharp eyes lingering on the faint, pink scar near my temple. Then she looked at Ted, and her expression turned to absolute ice. “In my study. Now.” She was talking to Ted. Before the heavy oak doors of the study clicked shut behind them, I caught a glimpse of Daphne standing alone in the center of the lavish room, looking pale and humiliated. I just felt bored. Half an hour later, Ted walked out of the study. He looked like he had been put in front of a firing squad. The housekeeper came out and told me Estelle wanted to see me. The old woman was sitting in a velvet armchair, looking exhausted. She patted the ottoman next to her. “Sit, child.” When I sat down, she reached into her pocket and pressed a heavy, velvet box into my palm. Inside was an antique emerald ring, framed in crushed diamonds. It was the Crystal family heirloom. I stared at it, horrified. “Nana, I can’t take this.” “It’s yours.” “I can’t.” “And why not?” She looked at me, her voice quiet but carrying the weight of a judge’s gavel. “You’ve been married to that boy for three years. You’ve swallowed more poison than you’ve had champagne. If I don’t give this to you, who on earth deserves it?” My throat tightened. Estelle sighed. “I already took a strip off that idiot’s hide. Nancy, I’m not going to sit here and make excuses for my grandson. If you are too tired to carry this marriage anymore, I won’t stand in your way.” Tears prickled the back of my eyes. In three years, the only person in this family who had ever truly seen my worth, who had ever truly protected me, was his grandmother. She squeezed my hands tightly. “But I need you to remember one thing, Nancy. It is not because you weren’t good enough. It’s because he doesn’t deserve you.” I kept my head bowed. I couldn’t speak. The rest of the birthday dinner tasted like ash. Halfway through the meal, Daphne excused herself to the powder room. Ted immediately stood up and followed her. If this were last year, my stomach would have been in knots. I would have agonized over what they were whispering about in the hallway. I would have wondered if he was holding her, comforting her. But tonight, I just quietly picked up a piece of sea bass and put it on Estelle’s plate. Estelle watched me for a moment. “You’re really done, aren’t you?” I paused, then smiled softly. “Yeah. Pretty much.” Estelle let out a grim huff of laughter. “About damn time.” I almost choked on my wine. By the time I left the estate, a light drizzle had started falling. I had just reached the bottom of the front steps when Ted caught my arm. “I’ll drive you.” “I have a cab coming.” “Nancy, we need to talk.” I looked at him. “Shouldn’t you be driving Daphne home?” A muscle feathered in his jaw. “She already left.” “Got it.” I tried to step around him, but his grip tightened on my wrist. His fingers pressed directly into the deep, bruised laceration from the airbag. I hissed, sucking in a sharp breath of pain. He dropped my arm instantly as if I had burned him, staring at my wrist in horror. “God. I’m sorry.” What a novelty. Ted Crystal, apologizing to me. Unfortunately, I had outgrown the need for his apologies. “You don’t need to do this, Ted.” I took a step back, the gravel crunching under my heels. “What do you want to talk about? Do you want to explain how bringing her to Nana’s birthday was just ‘helping a friend’? Or do you want to break down the logistics of why pulling her out of the wreckage first made tactical sense?” “Does every single word out of your mouth have to be an attack?” “Is the truth attacking you?” I smiled dryly. “Because none of it is a lie.” He stared at me, his Adam’s apple bobbing sharply, swallowing down some heavy, unnamed emotion. Finally, his voice cracked. “She came tonight because Nana used to be fond of her. She just wanted to pay her respects.” I nodded slowly. “And?” “I didn’t do it to humiliate you.” “But you did.” The silence that followed was absolute. The only sound was the rain hitting the pavement. I looked at him, feeling a sudden, bone-deep exhaustion. “Ted, stop explaining. Every time you hurt me, you tell me you didn’t mean to. But the bleeding is always the same.” “I used to think you were just emotionally stunted. That you didn’t know how to love someone. But I realize now that’s not true. You know exactly how to love. You just don’t want to put me first.” “So let’s just call it. We’re done.” I turned and climbed into the back of my waiting Uber. As we pulled away, I looked in the rearview mirror. Ted was standing alone in the rain. He didn’t chase the car. A few days later, my notice period officially ended. On my last day, my old team threw a small farewell party in the breakroom. It was just the core group, the people who had survived the startup trenches with me. One of the senior developers had a few too many IPAs. He got red in the face and pointed a plastic cup at me. “Nancy, I’m telling you, without you here, the boss is gonna lose half his soul.” I tapped my plastic cup against his and smiled. “That sounds like a ‘him’ problem.” When I walked out of the lobby with my final box of belongings, Declan was leaning against the hood of his matte-black Porsche. Declan was a partner at a massive, cutthroat PR agency in the city, and a rival I had battled in boardrooms for years. He’d been trying to poach me for eighteen months. “Finally escaped Alcatraz?” He spun his keys around his index finger. “I thought you were going to die behind a desk at Crystal Tech.” “I almost did.” “And now?” “Now, I’m going to figure out what I actually want.” Declan studied my face for two seconds before a slow, wicked grin spread across his face. “Welcome to the dark side.” A week later, I accepted an offer as VP of Crisis Management at Declan’s firm. The day the press release went out, the corporate grapevine caught fire. Some people gossiped that Ted and I had an explosive fallout. Some said I was smart to jump ship. And a few veterans whispered that letting me walk away was the most catastrophic miscalculation Ted Crystal had ever made in his career. When I read that last rumor, I smirked. At least someone in this city had some sense. It was two weeks after I moved out that Ted finally cracked and came to my hotel. I had been working late, drafting a campaign launch. When I stepped off the elevator at 9:00 PM, I found him standing outside my room. He was in a tailored suit, but he looked wrecked. The dark circles under his eyes made him look like he hadn’t slept in a week. I walked past him, slid my keycard into the door, and pushed it open. I didn’t invite him in. “Can I help you?” He stared at me. “You look thin.” Coming from him, the concern was so utterly absurd I almost laughed out loud. “And?” “Nancy, please. Stop this. Come home.” My hand tightened around the doorknob. “Whose home?” “Our home.” “That was never my home,” I looked him dead in the eye. “That was a museum dedicated to your memories of her.” His frown deepened. “I know I’ve been neglecting you lately. I admit that. But divorce isn’t a game. You shouldn’t throw our marriage away just because you’re angry—” “Ted.” I cut him off. “Do you really, truly believe I’m doing this out of spite?” He went quiet. I held his gaze. My voice was dangerously quiet, dropping every word like a stone into a glass lake. “The day of the crash. When I was trapped in that seat, bleeding, and I watched you carry her away… I had an epiphany.” “I spent three years bending over backwards for you. I sold my soul for your company, I drank your clients under the table, I played the perfect wife for your family. But the second it was life or death, your body moved toward her.” “In that moment, I wasn’t angry. I woke up.” “I finally realized that no matter how much I bled for you, no matter how perfect I was, I was never going to win against her.” “And since the game is rigged, I’m done playing.” I watched the words hit him. He actually flinched. It was the look of a man who suddenly realized the ground beneath him was gone. He realized I wasn’t negotiating. I wasn’t punishing him. I wasn’t waiting for flowers or an apology. I was just gone. Watching the color drain from his face, I felt a morbid sense of amusement. So, Ted Crystal knows how to panic. Too bad it didn’t move me at all. “Have a good night,” I said. “Don’t come back here.” I went to shut the door, but he slammed his hand against the wood, holding it open. “Nancy, what do you want me to do? Tell me what to do.” I looked at his hand. This was the first time in three years he had ever asked me what he should do. Usually, I was the one swallowing my pride, adjusting to his orbit, fixing the cracks. Now he wanted a map. But I had burned it. “It’s simple,” I said. “Sign the papers.” The tendons in his hand stood out in stark relief. It took him a long time to speak, his voice thick and wrecked. “Anything but that.” A tiny tremor went through my chest. Not from pity. From irony. “That’s funny,” I smiled thinly. “Because ‘anything but that’ is what you gave me for three years. You’re an expert at it.” I pushed his hand back and slammed the door. The hallway outside remained perfectly silent. It was silent for so long I thought he had left. But when I finally peeked through the peephole, he was still standing there. Standing perfectly still, staring at the closed door, like a man who had arrived years too late to realize the woman inside was never coming back out. I walked away and didn’t look again. For the next month, I didn’t ask anyone about Ted. I didn’t care. Until his company blew up in a spectacular PR disaster.

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When the rest of the world woke up with memories of the apocalypse, I became the only outlier. My parents, who had always loved me more than anything in the world, didn’t hesitate to liquidate every single asset we owned, handing every last cent over to the Global Defense Coalition. Even my boss, a man so notoriously cheap he’d squeeze a dime until it bled, suddenly open-sourced all of our company’s highly classified proprietary tech. He went on national television and said we had to carry the weight of this alongside the rest of humanity. It was as if someone had pressed a massive, invisible “Unite” button on the entire planet. Everyone was violently, desperately preparing for a coming catastrophe. Everyone except me. I had absolutely no idea what was going on. I was a stranger in my own reality. The exact moment my parents realized I didn’t possess these “reborn” memories, the look in their eyes completely fractured. It was a gaze so complex and utterly terrifying that it made my pulse hammer in my throat, yet I couldn’t put a name to the emotion behind it. From that day forward, my life went dead silent. They never spoke another word to me. Just like that, I was thoroughly and completely abandoned by the entire human race. 1. Brrrring. My alarm jolted me awake. April 3, 2026. The morning sun was pouring through the blinds, bright and completely ordinary. I was just reaching out to swipe off the alarm when a text popped up from my boyfriend, Gavin: “Jo, I messed up. I’m so sorry. I can’t live without you! Please, just give me one more chance? For the next three years, I swear I won’t leave your side for a single second!” I stared at the screen, entirely dumbfounded. Why on earth was Gavin sending me something like this? We were still deeply in the honeymoon phase. We hadn’t even had a fight, let alone broken up! Before my brain could even process his text, an audio message from my mom chimed in: “Joanna, your father and I are on our way to your apartment right now. We’re going to be together, sweetheart. All of us. We are never, ever being separated again!” Hearing the hysterical, sobbing crack in my mother’s voice only deepened my confusion. What the hell had happened overnight? It wasn’t just my parents and my boyfriend acting like they’d lost their minds. My company’s Slack channel was exploding. “I’m drafting an itinerary to backpack across the globe. Who’s coming with me?” “I’m in! I’ve been a corporate slave my whole life and I haven’t even seen the Pacific Ocean. I’m actually going to live this time!” “A vacation? Are you kidding me? You selfish cowards, the world is on the brink and you’re only thinking about yourselves…” Two distinct factions were ripping into each other in the general chat. I sat up in bed, eyes wide, totally paralyzed by the sheer absurdity of it. Our company policy explicitly forbade non-work-related chatter in the main channels. If anyone so much as posted a meme, our tyrannical boss, Mr. Wallace, would usually swoop in and dock their bonuses. Why were my coworkers acting so recklessly? And was Wallace just sleeping in? Why hadn’t he intervened? Through the fog of my confusion, the doorbell rang. My parents were here. I practically sprinted to the door, desperate to ask them what was going on. But before I could even get a word out, my mother lunged forward, wrapping me in a suffocating embrace, weeping so hard her whole body shook. My dad, a man who treated emotional vulnerability like a physical allergy, had eyes that were bloodshot and brimming with tears. “Joanna, listen to me. We’re selling the house. We’re giving the funds to the federal emergency mandate, and we’re moving into this apartment with you.” “This way, we can do our part for the survival effort, and we get to stay together!” I physically recoiled, the words tearing out of me: “Dad, are you insane?” “If you missed me, you could have just come to visit! Why would you sell the house? What about your retirement?” The second those words left my mouth, my mother’s sobbing stopped. Instantly. Her expression morphed with a whiplash-inducing speed. She looked at me with a bizarre, almost panicked scrutiny. The warmth drained from my father’s face, leaving behind something cold and hardened. “Joanna, what are you talking about?” “You’re the most educated person in this family. You’ve always been the rational one. You know perfectly well that right now, humanity has to stand united. We have to give everything we have to the state. Otherwise, none of us are going to live to see retirement.” “How could you say something so selfish?” I felt like the floor was tilting. None of this made any sense. “Dad, I literally don’t understand a word you’re saying!” I cried. “Are we at war? Did the country get attacked? Even if we are, the government doesn’t need the money from our suburban three-bedroom!” In the next heartbeat, the look in my parents’ eyes shifted from confusion into something else. Something resembling pure, unadulterated dread. When they spoke, their voices were hoarse, trembling with a probing terror. “Joanna…” “Do you really… not remember anything?” 2. Their deeply unsettling reaction was making my skin crawl. “What am I supposed to remember?!” I demanded, throwing my hands up. “I’m going to be late for work. Just tell me what’s going on, stop with the cryptic nonsense!” My dad stumbled backward. Two full steps. My mom desperately tried to reach out to me, to say something, but my dad grabbed her arm and yanked her back. “Are you out of your mind? You can’t talk to her!” “You’re the one who’s out of your mind, she’s our daughter! She just hasn’t fully acclimated to the Return yet, her memories just haven’t—” My mom shoved him away and fiercely grabbed both of my hands. “Jo, sweetheart, did you forget? We are all Returners. Three years from now, the end of the world happens. We all died. But we’ve been given a second chance. We’ve been sent back.” “Our only chance at survival is to pool every single resource we have and face this together!” I stared at her. A beat of total silence passed before a sharp, incredulous laugh punched its way out of my chest. “Did you guys really drive all the way over here at eight in the morning to pull this ridiculous prank on me?” I glanced at my phone. 8:50 AM. If I didn’t leave right now, I was actually going to be late. And Wallace never hesitated to dock pay for tardiness. “Look, I have to go to work. Whatever this is, we can talk about it tonight.” I didn’t believe a single word of their sci-fi doomsday pitch. I sidestepped them and hurried out the door. They didn’t try to stop me. As I walked down the hall, I could faintly hear my mother’s gut-wrenching wails echoing from inside my apartment. “Why did it have to be this way? God, why did it have to be our little girl?” Her grief grated on my nerves. Part of me suspected this was some elaborate, manipulative theatrical performance to get me to agree to them selling the house. They had brought up liquidating their assets to play the stock market before. I had vehemently talked them down, terrified they would lose their entire nest egg. Were they trying this angle again? But I wasn’t a child. What was the point of using such an absurd, unbelievable lie? “Jo!” Gavin’s voice shattered my racing thoughts. He was standing by the entrance of my apartment complex, frantically waving at me from a distance. “I already quit my job, Jo! Every single second I have left is going to be devoted to you. We are never spending a minute apart!” Looking at Gavin’s red-rimmed eyes and the desperate, manic devotion swimming in them, I suddenly remembered the text he had sent me. He had said he wouldn’t leave my side for the next three years. My parents had just said the world ends in three years. Was Gavin playing along with this “Returner” prank too? No. I froze in my tracks, my eyes locking onto his. “Gavin, did my parents put you up to this? Did they tell you they want to sell the house, and you’re helping them gaslight me?” Gavin blinked, genuine bewilderment washing over his face. I knew his expressions well enough to know he wasn’t acting. Ping— His phone buzzed. From where I stood, I could see my father’s contact photo pop up on his lock screen, though I couldn’t read the text. I took a step toward him. “What did my dad just text you?” Gavin didn’t answer. A second ago, he had looked like a man violently, desperately in love with me. Now, his eyes widened in sheer, abject horror. He pointed a trembling finger at me, stumbling backward as if I were holding a loaded gun. “You… you…” “You’re not one of us!” He let out a strangled, guttural noise and turned on his heel, sprinting away without once looking back. I tried texting him. Message Not Delivered. You have been blocked. I tried calling him. Straight to voicemail. I opened my phone, intending to reach out to one of Gavin’s friends, only to be met with something far more terrifying. My social media feeds. Almost everyone I knew, as if part of some massive, synchronized cult, had posted screenshots of digital receipts. They were entirely liquidating their bank accounts, their stocks, their properties, and transferring the funds to a newly formed Global Defense Coalition. 3. I clicked on a link from one of the screenshots. It took me to an official, government-backed portal. It was real. The site was clunky, clearly rushed into existence overnight, but it had a public ledger. You could type in a donor’s name and see exactly what they had surrendered. I typed in my father’s name. They had done it. They had actually surrendered their life savings and the deed to the house. It wasn’t a scheme to play the stock market. They weren’t lying. A shard of ice slid down my spine. At that exact moment, I saw my parents rushing out of my apartment building. “Are you really from the future?!” I yelled, running toward them. But the moment they saw me, it was like they were looking at a ghost. They violently flinched, veering away to avoid coming anywhere near me. They scrambled into their car. I threw myself in front of the hood, desperate for an answer. My father didn’t even hesitate. He slammed his foot on the gas. I barely threw myself out of the way in time, scraping my knees on the asphalt. They hadn’t even tapped the brakes. They didn’t care if they killed me. I sat on the pavement, the world spinning out of focus. Why? Why had the people who loved me most—my parents, the man I was going to marry—suddenly severed all ties with me? Just because they were “Returners” and I wasn’t? Brrrring— My phone rang, pulling me out of my shock. It was my boss, Wallace. His voice was frantic, breathless. “Where the hell are you? Have you looked at the time?” “Get to the office right now. We need you to finalize the upload of all our proprietary algorithms to the Global Crisis Database…” White noise roared in my ears. Wallace worshipped money. Making him lose a dollar was like drawing blood. Our new algorithm was projected to double our quarterly revenue, and he was just giving it away to an open-source global database? There was only one logical conclusion left. The world really was ending. Half an hour later, scrolling through the news on my commute, I confirmed it. The entire globe was mobilizing to face a crisis three years away. I scoured comment sections, forums, and subreddits. Not a single person was questioning the concept of waking up with future memories. That meant it was everyone. Every single human being on Earth was a Returner. Except me. Because I wasn’t a Returner, my boyfriend and my parents were terrified of me. They cut me off to survive. But the logic didn’t track. Even if I didn’t have memories of the apocalypse, I was just one woman. How could one ordinary person possibly threaten the survival of the world? There had to be another reason they were so afraid of me. When I got to the office, I played it safe. I didn’t breathe a word about my memory gap. I pretended to be one of them. I sat down with the engineering team and seamlessly helped them upload our life’s work to the public domain. At lunch, everyone gathered in the breakroom. The air was thick with a strange, manic energy. A few people were talking about blowing their savings to live out their wildest fantasies, trying to make up for regrets they carried from their “previous” deaths. But the vast majority had already enlisted in the colossal, global engineering projects being drafted to prepare for the end. When there was a lull in the conversation, I took a calculated risk. I mimicked the exact look of visceral terror I had seen on my mother’s face that morning. “Did you guys hear?” I whispered, keeping my voice shaky. “I… I ran into someone today. A guy. He didn’t remember. He wasn’t a Returner.” The words hung in the air. Instantly, the entire breakroom went dead silent. The blood drained from my coworkers’ faces. The atmosphere became so heavy and suffocating it was hard to breathe. 4. I knew it. Their reaction confirmed my deepest suspicion: there was something monstrously wrong with not being a Returner. I kept my mouth shut, waiting for them to start whispering, waiting to glean some scrap of information. The office gossip, a guy who usually never stopped talking, broke the silence with a trembling voice. “Are… are there really people who didn’t return?” “Because if there are, that means—” “Shut up!” The tech lead, Diane, cut him off with a voice like cracked ice. She stood up slowly, her finger raising to point directly at my chest. “Did you all hear exactly what she just said?” Diane asked, her eyes boring into mine. “She said she met a Returner…” She paused, her voice dropping to a terrifying hiss. “She said she met a person who didn’t remember.” I didn’t understand why the singular phrasing was an issue, but the effect was immediate. It was as if a spell had been broken. Every single person in the room lunged out of their chairs, scrambling backward, putting as much physical distance between us as the breakroom allowed. I realized I had made a fatal error. I forced a nervous laugh, trying to do damage control. “Guys, what’s going on? Are you misunderstanding me? I’m not the one who—” “Then answer me this,” Diane interrupted, her tone lethal. “What was the specific catalyst that wiped out human civilization in our previous timeline?” I froze. My mind raced, but I had nothing. The internet forums had confirmed an impending apocalypse, but nowhere—not a single post, not a single article—had mentioned how the world ended. Were they deliberately censoring the cause of the apocalypse? Was the entire planet actively conspiring to keep this information from me? But… why? I was just an ordinary woman. What could possibly make me so dangerous? My silence was all the answer they needed. Without another word, my coworkers turned and practically fled the room. No matter what I screamed after them, not a single person looked back. Ten minutes later, the alert that I was a “Non-Returner” was pushed to every digital device on the planet. I was systematically erased from society. My landlord dragged my belongings onto the sidewalk. Every grocery store, restaurant, and hotel refused to process my cards or let me through their doors. I was banned from every public space. In fact, I was strictly forbidden from being anywhere near another human being. A squad of heavily armed, tactical military personnel was assigned to tail me. Their only job was to corral me away from population centers. I was forced to scavenge through dumpsters in the dead of night just to find scraps to eat. I was thrust into an existence of pure, unadulterated isolation, drowning in a sea of confusion and loneliness that felt worse than death. “Why?!” “I don’t have the memories, I get it! But I am willing to give everything for the future of humanity, including my life!” “If I am a threat to you, then just put a bullet in my head right now!” I stood in an empty, desolate lot, screaming at the squad of soldiers watching me through their scopes from a hundred yards away. “Why are you doing this to me? Why torture me? Why did you make my parents abandon me?!” They didn’t answer. They never did. A full year passed. I hadn’t exchanged a single word with another human being in 365 days. From my forced exile in the wilderness, I watched massive, monolithic space elevators pierce the clouds, built to harvest resources from other planets. I watched as armadas of interstellar warships blotted out the sun. And down in the dirt, there was just me. A fragile woman made of flesh and bone, someone who could be taken out by a single stray bullet. What made me worthy of this global quarantine? My sanity began to fracture. Late one night, I snuck back toward the edge of the city limits to rummage through the industrial trash bins. But this time, I wasn’t hoping to find food. And I had finally stopped harboring the delusion that my parents might sneak out to save me out of familial love. I was utterly, totally broken. I dug through the refuse until I found a jagged, heavy shard of shattered glass. Without a second thought, I drove it deep into the side of my neck. I thought I was finally buying my freedom. But the soldiers guarding me wouldn’t even let me die. They swarmed me with terrifying speed, applying advanced, futuristic trauma care. When I woke up, the wound was entirely sealed, and I had been dumped further out into an uninhabited wasteland. But something had shifted inside me. I was no longer drowning in despair. The fear was gone. I looked up at the sky, obscured by the shadows of a thousand battleships, and let out a dry, raspy laugh. “I know why you’re all so afraid of me.”

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I had never liked my boyfriend’s older brother. From the very first moment we met, he made no effort to hide his disdain, mocking my “pedestrian” background with a razor-sharp tongue. I swallowed my pride and endured his coldness, purely for the sake of the man I loved. I never expected a freak accident to hurl me ten years into the future. When I opened my eyes, a small boy—no older than five—approached me with a shy, tentative look in his eyes. He asked if I would come to his kindergarten’s “Family Field Day” tomorrow. Looking at that tiny face, which was a spitting image of my boyfriend, my heart melted instantly. I nodded before I could even think. Excited, he grabbed my hand and led me toward the hallway to “find Daddy.” As we rounded the corner, we collided with a familiar, towering figure: Everett, my boyfriend’s brother. Before I could stammer out an apology, the boy’s voice rang out with pure joy: “Daddy! Mommy finally said yes!” I froze. My mind went completely blank. 1 Everett reached out to steady me, his hand lingering on my arm for a fraction of a second before he pulled back. He looked down at the boy with a cool, measured expression. “Charlie, it’s past your bedtime.” Charlie let go of my hand reluctantly, his eyes filled with a mix of lingering excitement and hesitation. But under Everett’s habitually commanding gaze, he had no choice but to retreat. He trudged obediently back toward his bedroom. I watched the whole scene, my brain still stuck in a massive system failure. Daddy? He called Everett Daddy? And I’m the Mommy? I was a sunny, carefree twenty-year-old college student when I went to sleep. How did I wake up as a married woman with a child? And how, in God’s name, was the husband Everett? This made zero sense. He was my boyfriend’s brother. How did the next ten years involve me ending up in some twisted, forbidden romance with my own brother-in-law? And where the hell was my actual boyfriend? Everett watched Charlie disappear into his room before turning his gaze toward me. He studied me for a few beats, his eyes unreadable. “Are you not going to sleep? It’s late.” My ability to think had flatlined. I just followed his lead, my voice cracking slightly. “Sleep. Right. Going now. Immediately.” I looked up at him, and for a moment, I felt a strange sense of vertigo. The Everett standing before me was vastly different from the man I remembered. By my count, he should only be thirty-five now. So why was his hair so heavily streaked with silver? I felt a prickle of dark humor in my chest. I guess corporate life really does a number on you. Still, my old instincts kicked in. I couldn’t stand the weight of his stare, so I turned and hurried back into the bedroom I had just come from. I could feel his eyes on my back the entire way—a heavy, intense physical presence. God help me. Someone needs to explain why ten-year-older me married Everett and produced a five-year-old son. Before I could spiral further, Everett appeared in the doorway. He held out a small white pill. “Vitamins,” he said, his voice flat and concise. Suspicion flared in my gut. Vitamins? Then why not just give me the bottle? We stood in a tense standoff for what felt like an eternity. Finally, Everett let out a sigh so faint I almost missed it. He looked down, pulling the pill back. His movements were practiced, weary—like a man who was intimately familiar with being rejected. “If you won’t take it, just leave it be.” He didn’t push. He just told me to get some rest and walked away. After he left, I felt more lost than ever. Was our marriage this strained? Did we even sleep in the same room? But then a thought hit me: if I actually had to share a bed with Everett, I’d probably have nightmares for the rest of my life. 2 That wasn’t hyperbole. Everett had genuinely traumatized me in the past. The first time we met was at Beckett’s—my boyfriend’s—birthday gala. As Beckett’s girlfriend, I was at the top of my game: charming, well-dressed, and perfectly capable of handling a room. But the moment Everett saw me, he winced as if he’d smelled something foul. “Which backwater bargain bin did you crawl out of?” he’d asked. I was stunned. Ugly? Low-class? To be fair, I was neither. I was a dean’s list student with a scholarship and a face that could stop traffic. Everett had to be legally blind to say that with a straight face. If it had been anyone else, I would have torn him apart. But Everett was the head of the family empire, the eldest son, and a man known in the business world as a “cold-blooded reaper.” I gritted my teeth and forced a smile. “Hello, Everett. I’m Beckett’s girlfriend.” His expression didn’t shift an inch. He didn’t even give me a second glance. Instead, he looked at Beckett with a mocking tilt of his head. “Beckett, since when did your standards for ‘company’ drop this low?” Beckett looked mortified, trying to smooth things over. “Everett, come on. Isla is great. Once you get to know her…” “No need,” Everett cut him off, his gaze already drifting away. “I’ve delivered the gift. Enjoy your party.” He didn’t even stay to wish his brother a happy birthday. He just walked out, treating his own brother like a piece of insignificant furniture. Later, I learned that his initial greeting was just the appetizer. Everett’s tongue was a weapon designed to make people question their entire existence. Because of that, every time I crossed paths with him back then, I’d break into a cold sweat. I spent years worrying about whether he would approve of me if Beckett and I ever got engaged. I never imagined I’d skip the engagement, skip the wedding, and wake up married to the Reaper himself. I tossed and turned, my mind a frantic loop of these memories until I finally drifted into a fitful sleep. Somewhere in the haze between dreams and reality, I felt a presence. Someone was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching me for a long, long time. Then, a hand touched my hair. It was a stroke so light, so impossibly tender, it felt like a ghost. Who…? 3 I woke up to the feeling of someone staring at me. Sunlight was streaming through the curtains. Charlie was standing there, his little yellow duck backpack already on, his eyes wide and blinking. “Mommy! It’s time to go!” Go where? It took me three seconds to remember the Family Field Day. Right. I scrambled out of bed to get ready. Charlie followed me like a little shadow. Everywhere I went, he was there, his eyes glued to me as if he were terrified I might vanish if he blinked. I couldn’t help it. I leaned down and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Charlie froze like a tiny, confused penguin. A deep crimson flush crept up his chubby cheeks instantly. He nearly jumped. “You… you kissed me!” I frowned, a knot forming in my stomach. What did that mean? Had the “ten-year-older me” been so cold that I didn’t even kiss my own son? That seemed impossibly cruel. Before I could dwell on it, Everett walked in. He was already dressed. I stared at him for a second. Seeing him out of his tailored power suits was jarring. In his athletic gear, he looked… younger. Almost approachable. Then my eyes caught the streaks of white in his hair again, and the thought vanished. No. Still old. Still Everett. Everett glanced at us—at the way Charlie was hovering near me—and his eyes softened for a fleeting second. “The event starts at nine-thirty.” I immediately let go of Charlie and hurried to get myself together. I might not have experience being a mom, but I knew how to look the part. I wanted Charlie to be proud of me. I picked out an outfit that felt like “me”—or at least, the twenty-year-old version of me. When I stepped out of the dressing room, Charlie started cheering, turning into a one-man hype machine. Everett, however, just stood there. He looked me up and down, his body stiff. Beyond the shock in his eyes, there was something else. A flicker of… nostalgia? 4 On the drive to the school, I stared out the window. Charlie was chirping away in the back seat. Is this what ten years later looks like? Everything felt remarkably the same. Technology hadn’t made some giant leap into the future. Even the scenery felt strangely familiar. Before I could process it, we arrived. Charlie was vibrating with excitement, dragging me inside. Whenever we passed one of his little friends, he would wrap his arms around my leg. “This is my mommy! See? I told you she was the prettiest!” I laughed, but then a cold realization hit me. Was this the first time ‘I’ had ever shown up at his school? Why else would he say something like that? I looked toward Everett, who was walking on my left. Our eyes met. I wanted to ask him something—anything—but he immediately looked away. Classic. Whether it was ten years ago or ten years from now, Everett was still the most frustrating man on the planet. The kindergarten field day was packed with activities. But when I saw the equipment, my smile faltered. Crap. I was wearing a skirt. I had prioritized “looking pretty” over “being functional.” Everett spoke up, his voice level. “You stay in the stands and rest. I’ll handle the events.” Charlie was equally supportive. “Yeah, Mommy! Don’t worry, I’m gonna win a medal for you!” I gave them a weak smile and headed for the bleachers. By ten o’clock, the sun was starting to bite. I squinted, watching the father-son duo in the distance. Maybe it was the sunlight softening his harsh edges, but Everett didn’t look so terrifying anymore. He looked… human. Watching him with Charlie was actually quite beautiful. The genes were strong. They looked so much alike. And yet, there was a nagging feeling in the back of my mind. Charlie reminded me of Beckett, too. The thought of Beckett hit me like a physical blow. Where was he? Why was he gone? And why, since I woke up, had I not been able to find my phone? Had phones evolved into some kind of brain-link tech I didn’t know about? The cloud of suspicion in my mind began to grow. Suddenly, a warm voice spoke beside me. “You must be Charlie’s mother.” 5 It was the school’s principal. She sat down in the empty seat next to me and started chatting as if we were old friends. Apparently, the Blackwood Group—Everett’s company—was the primary donor for the school. I tried to mimic the way I’d seen my own mother talk to teachers, nodding and smiling. But the more she talked, the more unsettled I became. What did she mean by, “I know your work keeps you busy”? Why was she saying I should “try to be more involved in the school community”? And why was she gently suggesting that, as a mother, I needed to “spend more quality time” with my child? I was reeling. What the hell had I been doing for the last ten years? According to the principal, I sounded like an absentee parent. I said a dazed goodbye to her and watched Everett and Charlie compete in the races. Everything about this “time travel” was wrong. Why was Charlie so surprised when I kissed him? Why did I have no phone, no social life, no job? Why weren’t there any wedding photos on the walls of our house? The points were starting to connect, forming a dark, jagged shape. The cheers of the other parents felt distant, like they were happening behind a thick pane of glass. I didn’t belong here. When Charlie eventually ran up to me, beaming, I just nodded blankly. “Mommy, was I great?” “Yes, baby. So great.” Everett ended our day early and drove us home. Charlie didn’t seem upset by the early exit; in fact, he seemed used to it. He just kept watching me with an expression that broke my heart—pure, unadulterated worry. When we got back, I went straight to the bedroom. Everett followed me, but I blocked the door. “I just need to rest. Alone.” Everett stayed silent for a moment, his eyes searching my pale face. Finally, he gave a heavy nod. “Fine.” 6 The second the door was locked, I started tearing the room apart. It was a huge suite. Searching just one corner took me thirty minutes, and I found nothing. No clues. No identity. Frustrated, I went into the walk-in closet to change. My eyes were drawn to the very bottom drawer of the jewelry cabinet. It was tucked away, almost hidden. Driven by a strange, magnetic pull, I knelt down and pulled it open. Inside was a weathered, yellowing journal. I recognized it instantly. It was the style of notebook I’d been using since I was eighteen. I felt like I was standing at the threshold of a dark secret. My hands shook as I opened it. The damage was extensive; it looked like someone had tried to rip it to shreds. Nearly every page was missing a corner or a chunk of text. I read through the entries from when I was eighteen to twenty. It was full of the typical “girl in love” musings. I winced at my own younger self—God, I was so dramatic. I flipped faster. I wanted to see when things changed. Apparently, Beckett and I had stayed together for a long time. I desperately wanted to know what caused the breakup. But suddenly, the entries stopped. The dates ended right around my twenty-first birthday. I felt a wave of disappointment. Why didn’t I keep writing? Why was I so careless with this? I prepared to close the book and give up. But then, a scrap of paper—a torn corner from a later page—slipped out from the binding. There were only a few words. But they were written in my handwriting, frantic and jagged. [RUN!] [GET AWAY FROM HIM!] [HE IS A MONSTER!] My scalp went numb. Him? Did I mean Everett? Did he force the breakup? Did he force me into this marriage? It all started to click. The isolation. The lack of a phone. The silver hair. The “vitamins.” He had done something. He had taken my life and locked me in this golden cage. But ten years ago, he hated me. Why would he…? I couldn’t breathe. My head throbbed with a blinding pain. My hands were shaking so hard I could barely hold the notebook. I stood up, clutching my chest, tears of sheer terror pricking my eyes. I have to get out. I have to divorce him. I have to run. As I turned to the door, a shadow blocked the light. I froze. Everett’s voice drifted from the doorway, low and dangerous. “Isla. What are you doing?”

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The day the SAT scores came out, I sent a message to my online crush. “I didn’t get into Harvard. Goodbye.” Then, I turned around, enrolled at MIT, and blocked him. Fast forward to my freshman year practical lab, the substitute T.A. called me out in front of everyone. “Come up here and solve this problem. I’ve taught you this before.” Me: “…” Are you kidding me?! Why is the online crush who wanted me to go to Harvard standing in front of me at MIT?! 01 After choosing my academic track in high school, my grades plummeted drastically. I was terrified I wouldn’t get into MIT. Out of desperation, I flirted with a guy online whose username was “Harvard Reject.” I asked him to help me study. He was gentle, considerate, and understanding. “Don’t worry. With me here, I guarantee you’ll get into Harvard.” I was flattered but slightly panicked. “No, no, no, not Harvard.” Actually, I was thinking: MIT is perfectly fine. “Tsk, what kind of talk is that, little girl? You can doubt your own IQ, but you can’t despise my abilities.” Me: “…” Yes, yes, yes. I really didn’t dare despise him. Because “Harvard Bro” really knew his stuff. Under his tutoring, my grades not only shot up quickly but also stayed consistently high. On my second mock exam, I scored an incredibly high 1560 on the SATs. I excitedly shared the news with him. Harvard Bro was very calm. “Yeah, that score should be enough for Harvard.” It was definitely enough, but I didn’t want to go to Harvard. I had always wanted to go to MIT. But during the year he tutored me, I clearly felt that Harvard Bro had a special obsession with Harvard. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have kept the username “Harvard Reject” for over a year. If I didn’t go to Harvard, would he be disappointed? Looking at the message he sent, I decided to test the waters. “What if I don’t get into Harvard?” “Don’t worry, you’ll definitely get in.” Hmm… He probably thought I was just nervous before the real exam and was comforting me. Just like that, I never mentioned my MIT dream to Harvard Bro. The day before the SATs, he sent a message telling me to do my best. He said he would be busy with his senior thesis for a while and asked me to message him once I got my scores. 02 The scores came out in late June. I got a 1580. Hmm… I could go to Harvard, and I could go to MIT. While I was agonizing over which one to choose, my mom got a call from the MIT admissions office at three in the morning. So, she decisively chose MIT for me… Goodbye, Harvard. Of course, I was happy to choose the school I had always wanted to go to. But whenever I thought of Harvard Bro, who had tutored me, I felt a bit anxious. He kept telling me to aim for Harvard, and now that I had chosen MIT… It felt like I had betrayed him. Just as I was agonizing over how to reply, his message came through first. “Scores are out, right? How did you do?” Look at this gentle greeting. The guilt in my heart deepened. I hardened my heart, gritted my teeth, and sent a message back. “I didn’t do well. I can’t go to Harvard.” “…” He fell silent. Before he could send a second message, I sent another: “I’m sorry. Goodbye.” Then, I decisively blocked him and went offline. 03 After that, I lost contact with Harvard Bro. Even though it was just a fleeting online connection, when I passed by the Harvard gates at the start of my freshman year… I couldn’t help but stop. My friend, Chloe, asked me what was wrong. She saw a trace of regret and longing in my dazed eyes. I sighed: “Once, I was this close to going to Harvard.” “…” She was speechless and dragged me toward the library to grab seats. “To be honest, every MIT student who passes by here says that. Hurry up, or there won’t be any seats left.” Me: “…” What an authentically refreshing, unpretentious humblebrag… Sure enough, there were no seats left in the library. Chloe let out a wail: “Are these people demons? They got into MIT and they’re still grinding this hard?!” At a glance, every seat was taken. There were a few seats left in the discussion area. But after hearing a cacophony of different languages and voices… We decided the “silence is golden” reading area was far more precious. “Hey, I see a spot! Over there!” Chloe excitedly slapped my arm. She immediately ran over to negotiate with the people sitting there. A few seconds later, she waved at me. “Audrey, come quick! There’s a spot here.” I walked over just in time to hear their conversation: “No problem. You guys are freshmen?” “Yeah.” Chloe smiled, her voice impossibly sweet. I quietly sat down and noticed the seat opposite me was empty, but there was a book on it. “You should definitely call me a senior, but I’m quite a few years older than you. I’m a grad student now.” “Wow, awesome!” While I was wondering if someone was sitting opposite me, Chloe had already exchanged numbers with the guy. After everyone settled down, it got quiet again. I looked down at my book. A little while later, the light in front of me dimmed. A figure pulled out the chair opposite me and sat down. Then came a quiet conversation: “The professor dragged you to the office again?” “Yeah, there was an error in the data, had to recalculate it.” The first voice belonged to the senior who gave us the seats. The second voice was unfamiliar, but exceptionally nice to listen to. I sneakily looked up. A young man wearing glasses was sitting across from me. He had high cheekbones, deep and intense eyes, and long, thick eyelashes. His eyes were incredibly beautiful, almost like they were drawn in a comic book. He seemed to notice my gaze. He looked up. The moment our eyes met, I saw his face clearly. He was so good-looking that my breath caught. But this comic-book-perfect guy just gave me a flat glance. Then, upon seeing the textbook in front of me, he raised an eyebrow. He sounded surprised: “Polymer Materials and Engineering? Is that your major?” Huh? He actually spoke to me. I nodded. I took AP sciences in high school, and thanks to Harvard Bro, my grades were always good. So when I got to MIT, I chose this major directly. I don’t know if it was my imagination, but the man opposite me curled the corner of his lips: “Not bad.” I was puzzled when the senior next to him friendly added: “What a coincidence, that’s our major too.” Ah, that was a coincidence. A direct senior in my program. “Hi, nice to meet you.” I greeted him politely. The man just gave an “Mhm,” his attitude seemingly turning cold again. “Don’t mind him, that’s just how he is.” I smiled and didn’t take it to heart. 04 My major is a bit complicated. The homework is plentiful and difficult. It was another weekend. Chloe and I were stuck in our dorm room, getting a headache over a physical chemistry problem. Finally, Chloe let out a wail. “I really can’t do this anymore. Just kill me! Why is it so hard?! No matter how many times I calculate it, it’s wrong.” Looking at the few hairs she had pulled out of her head, I felt a bit bad for her. But we were helpless. College coursework was more than just a little harder than high school. “Should we go ask someone else?” “Ask who?” Chloe’s question stumped me. The professor… I was a bit too intimidated to ask. Classmates? Chloe, sitting right next to me, was the state science valedictorian. While I was agonizing over this, a person popped into my head. Harvard Bro. If Harvard Bro were here, this problem would probably be a piece of cake for him. But I had deleted him! If I had known that college homework would be this torturous, I wouldn’t have acted so impulsively back then. Just then, Chloe, who was lying there like a corpse, suddenly sat bolt upright. “I thought of someone.” “Who?” “The senior we met at the library last time. Didn’t I get his number? He’s in the same major, he definitely knows.” Chloe was a woman of action. She grabbed her phone and sent a text. A minute later, she excitedly grabbed me and started heading for the door. “Let’s go, let’s go. He agreed. We’re going to find him right now.” 05 Chloe dragged me to the research lab building. “They’re doing an experiment, we have to wait a bit.” Not long after, several people trickled out of the lab. Then, the senior who gave us his number—the one who gave us his seat—also came out. His name was Ryan, and when he saw us, he invited us in. “Is it okay to go into the lab?” “The people doing the experiment are inside; out here is a meeting area, it’s fine.” Chloe nodded a few times and pulled me to sit in an empty seat. Ryan sat across from Chloe, and I listened from the side. A senior is a senior; his skills were no joke. It wasn’t long before Chloe nodded in sudden realization. I was just about to ask something when the lab door was pushed open. The person who walked in stared at the three of us. “Hey, Liam, you’re back?” The person who came in was exactly the handsome guy with glasses who sat opposite me at the library last time. So his name was Liam. Liam’s gaze swept over Chloe and me. Ryan explained: “Oh, these are the freshmen we met at the library last time. They had a few questions they couldn’t solve, so they came to ask.” “Mhm.” Still that cold, aloof attitude. Chloe and I exchanged a look. Chloe pulled me up. “Well, um, thank you so much, Ryan. We’ll get going now.” “No problem, anytime. Oh, by the way, our lab is short two assistants. Are you guys interested?” Ryan suddenly asked. Chloe and I both froze. Then I acutely sensed Liam frown. Obviously, this guy was not thrilled about the idea. I was just about to decline. But Chloe said: “Sure! Um, Audrey, go ahead, get his number, we’ll be in touch.” Wait, why did I have to get his number? Didn’t she already have Ryan’s? While I was wondering this, Chloe pushed me forward, winking furiously. I was riding a tiger and couldn’t get off. I walked over to Ryan and Liam with a dry laugh. Ryan was straightforward and cheerfully exchanged numbers. Then it was Liam’s turn. I could see he looked ready to refuse. Sure enough, when I stood in front of him, he glanced at me. The words of refusal were just about to leave his lips when he looked down at my profile QR code and froze. “This is your account?” He suddenly frowned and looked up at me. “Ah… yes. Is there a problem?” “What’s your name?” “Audrey Miller.” “…” As soon as I said it, Ryan next to him burst out laughing. Liam looked completely speechless. I felt a bit awkward: “You can just call me Audrey.” “Where are you from?” “Hey, Liam, are you doing a background check?” Before I could answer, Ryan spoke up. And received a glare from Liam. Then Liam continued to stare at me: “Answer.” “B-Boston.” I shivered; I had to answer. But answering seemed to make things worse. Because after hearing my answer, the guy doing the “background check” suddenly let out a laugh. Then he looked me up and down. That look… how should I describe it? It was like looking at a captured prey. It made my hair stand on end. I felt like Liam was hostile toward me. Even though he had a smile on his face, it didn’t reach his eyes. It was the kind of smile that was purely superficial. “Did pretty well on your SATs to get into MIT, huh.” That sounded weird. I didn’t quite process it at the moment and just nodded dumbly. “I-it was okay.” Liam smiled again. As if out of anger. But this time he took out his phone and scanned my QR code. “Fine. Come to the lab tomorrow after class.” Huh? Forget me, even Ryan was stunned. “Weren’t you just… unwilling?” He was forced to swallow his words before he could finish. 06 Because we joined Liam’s lab, Chloe and I didn’t join any other clubs. Just one lab was exhausting enough. Ryan had applied to their advisor for Chloe and me to have assistant positions. Twice a week, two hours at a time. Every time it ended, Chloe would let out a groan of exhaustion. But I was even more pitiful. Before I could even agree with her, a message popped up on my phone. “Liam asked me to go back to the lab again. There’s a calculation error in some data.” I got up. Chloe looked at me with pity. “Audrey, did you do something to offend Liam?” “No, I only met him for the first time.” “Then why is he working you to the bone every day?” When I entered the lab, I was assigned to shadow Liam. Chloe shadowed Ryan. After finishing our first day of experiments, Chloe expressed her condolences for my life as an assistant. “I heard from Ryan that Liam is an academic maniac. Audrey, you’re so pitiful.” During this time, I had a deep understanding of that statement. When Liam did experiments, he truly went without sleep or food. I went back to the lab building. Liam was the only one left in the lab. He was wearing a white lab coat and safety goggles. The whiteboard next to him was densely covered with calculated experimental data. “Liam.” Liam didn’t even look at me, just pointed to the whiteboard next to it. “The stuff I just sent you. Recalculate it.” “Oh.” The experimental data calculation was massive and repetitive. Once I started calculating, I lost track of time. “Done?” “Almost.” I answered honestly. Liam glanced at the clock on the wall. “What part don’t you understand?” “Here.” I pointed to a spot. Liam walked over and took the whiteboard marker from my hand. “Watch.” This immediate, no-nonsense tutoring style inexplicably reminded me of Harvard Bro. Liam put down the whiteboard marker. “Understand?” “I… I think so.” “Okay, it’s late, go back first. We’ll continue tomorrow.” Liam turned and said to me. “I’ll recalculate it one more time before I leave.” Liam, who was taking off his lab coat, paused. “Experiments are important, but your health is the most important. Go back and rest first, you’ll have a clearer mind to learn tomorrow. We’re done for today.” He hung up his lab coat and added: “I’m the only one with a key. Are you going to make me stay here with you?” “Ah, no, it’s fine.” Only a few key personnel had keys to the lab. I didn’t dare take a key, and I certainly didn’t dare make Liam stay with me. 07 We left the lab building. He said he would walk me directly back to my dorm. Unable to refuse, I followed silently. The whole walk was incredibly awkward. I felt I should find a topic to break the silence. “Um, thank you.” “It was nothing.” “…” There was no way to continue this conversation. I tried a few other topics, but Liam shut them all down. I think Chloe was right. Liam probably only had experiments in his brain. When I got back to the dorm, I complained to Chloe. Chloe considered it for a moment and said: “Could it be that you’re just bad at finding topics to talk about?” “Really? I thought the topics I picked were pretty good.” “But your conversation was so awkward. Are you like this with other guys too?” Other guys? I thought back. Besides my high school classmates, The only other guy was Harvard Bro. Even though we only talked online and never met in person, Our conversations flowed very smoothly. Especially Harvard Bro, he never let a conversation die. Comparing them, I suddenly missed Harvard Bro even more. I sighed. I wonder how Harvard Bro is doing now? I had originally planned to meet up with him and thank him in person after the SATs. If I added him back now… Once the thought popped up, it grew wildly like weeds. I agonized over it for days. Finally, I convinced myself: Logically and emotionally, I owed him an apology and a thank you. So, I unhesitatingly clicked on that familiar profile, And sent a friend request. 08 But after waiting for half the day, there was no acceptance. I felt deflated. He was probably still angry and didn’t want to accept my friend request. In a bad mood, I slouched through the entire morning. But just after classes ended in the afternoon, I actually had a new message in my notifications. “The other party has accepted your friend request.” Harvard Bro! I sat up straight in excitement and couldn’t wait to send the first message. “Harvard Bro! Long time no see!” “…” Looking at those ellipses, it felt so familiar. I was just about to type a long paragraph expressing my gratitude and how much I missed him, When a message from him popped up. “Why did you delete me?” “…” Oh man, I was planning to gradually lead into this topic, I didn’t expect him to cut straight to the chase. Fortunately, there was a screen between us, so he couldn’t see my embarrassment. I guiltily typed out a few words: “I was too embarrassed to face you.” “You got into MIT and you’re too embarrassed to face me?” “You knew about that?” “…” He fell silent again. I remembered I had posted a picture of my MIT freshman orientation on Instagram. He probably saw it. At this point, I could only apologize with the utmost sincerity. I explained my guilt and regret over the past few months. And casually mentioned that I had always wanted to go to MIT. It’s just that he kept motivating me with “Harvard, Harvard.” I was afraid of disappointing him, which was why I lied about not doing well on the test at the very beginning. I sent a flurry of messages. He didn’t reply again. I thought he was angry again. Ten minutes later, his message came through. “I was doing an experiment.” “Yeah, MIT is pretty good too.” Oh, so Harvard Bro wasn’t angry. The tension in my heart instantly lifted. It seemed I had found the relaxed feeling of chatting with him again. “Doing an experiment? Harvard Bro, are you still in school?” “Yeah, doing a joint Master’s/Ph.D. program.” “Wow! That’s awesome, what’s your major?” “Materials Engineering.” Huh?! Isn’t that the same major as me?! I was instantly thrilled. My eyes lit up: “That’s my major too! Harvard Bro, we really have a connection.” “…” He stopped talking again. But it didn’t matter. The rock that had been weighing on my heart was finally lifted. 09 After making up with Harvard Bro, my mood improved significantly. Even when Liam dragged me to do experiments until nine at night, I didn’t complain. Chloe was shocked and wondered if I had been assimilated by Liam. And ever since I found out Harvard Bro and I were in the same major, I asked him immediately whenever I didn’t understand something. It felt like being back to when he was tutoring me for my senior year. That night, I was chatting with Harvard Bro as usual. There was a step in today’s experimental data that I didn’t understand. I could only write it down and ask Harvard Bro when I got back. After Harvard Bro answered my questions, he asked me, puzzled: “Why didn’t you say something while you were doing the experiment earlier?” Me: “I was afraid the senior mentoring me would think I’m stupid.” “…” Once I started, I couldn’t help but complain. Being Liam’s assistant wasn’t bad, per se. After all, I was indeed learning a lot. But one thing was… his brain just worked too fast. Before I could even figure out how the previous step formed, he had already jumped to the conclusion. Maybe to him, those steps were simple and could be skipped. But to me… I honestly couldn’t keep up. “I suspect his brain is a computer. He doesn’t even have to think; his head is just full of programming.” I sent the message. Harvard Bro didn’t reply again. He was probably doing an experiment again. The next day I went to the lab. I arrived early; the lab wasn’t open yet. I waited for a bit and saw Liam arriving late. “Hi, Liam.” I greeted him. He glanced at me and gave an “Mhm.” When the experiment was over and I was packing my things, Liam suddenly called out to me: “Audrey.” “What?” “Is there anything you didn’t understand about today’s experiment?” Huh? I looked at Liam in surprise. He was wearing a white lab coat, his safety goggles resting over his own glasses. Seeing me look at him, Liam actually coughed. His expression seemed a bit unnatural. “I said, is there anything you didn’t understand about today’s experiment?” “Oh, yeah, yeah, I do.” I immediately pulled out my little notebook, ready to be a diligent student. Liam answered my questions one by one. In the end, he actually said: “If you don’t understand anything in the future, just come directly to me.” “Okay, sure. Thank you.” Liam gave an “Mhm” and left the lab. When I got back to the dorm, I couldn’t wait to message Harvard Bro. “Harvard Bro, the sun must have risen in the west today! The senior I shadow for experiments actually asked me if there was anything I didn’t understand after we finished.” “And?” “Harvard Bro, you are truly my lucky star.” I sent several emojis in a row. No reply from his end. But I was used to it. 10 The following days were busy and fulfilling. As Chloe and I spent more time as assistants, we got familiar with the seniors in the lab. Occasionally, we would all go out for meals together. “Audrey, Chloe, are you free tonight? Everyone’s getting together for dinner.” “Sure!” “Okay.” I only realized after I agreed that Liam was still beside me calculating data. Come to think of it, In the two months I’ve been his assistant, I rarely see Liam eat with everyone else. “Liam, are you going to the dinner tonight?” Liam looked up at me. His eyes were truly beautiful. It’s a pity they were too cold when he looked at people. I never really dared to talk to him. If his attitude hadn’t changed recently, I really wouldn’t have dared to ask that. Just when I thought Liam wouldn’t agree, He actually took off his safety goggles. “Sure.” He agreed?! I was surprised and shocked. Everyone chatted happily at the dinner that night. I took out my phone and habitually sent a message to Harvard Bro. “Harvard Bro, I’m out at a dinner with the seniors from the lab today.” After sending the message, I waited for his reply. I looked up and saw Liam sitting across from me. Even though we were all here for dinner, he was quietly sitting there like an outsider. Liam had his head down, seemingly playing with his phone. I don’t know why, but he actually looked up at me. That sudden glance… Made my heart race in panic. Fortunately, my phone chimed. Harvard Bro replied. He asked: “And then?” “No ‘and then,’ just letting you know.” “…” Hmm… This conversation topic was a bit boring. I was just preparing to find a new topic. When someone at the table called my name. “Audrey, don’t just play on your phone, join the conversation.” “Huh? Oh, okay.” I looked up blankly. Liam had also put down his phone when I was called out. But he looked like he was in a better mood than before. There was actually a faint smile on his face. I was puzzled. Playing on his phone made him that happy? I was forced to join the conversation. Someone asked me: “Hey, Audrey, do you have a boyfriend?” Huh? As soon as those words were spoken, the whole table looked at me. Being suddenly stared at, I wanted the ground to swallow me whole. How should I answer? Was someone trying to set me up? My heart only had room for studying, not love! Suddenly, a flash of inspiration hit me, And I blurted out: “I do.” As soon as the words fell, the table went quiet. Chloe stared at me wide-eyed. “When did you get a boyfriend? How did I not know?” I gave a dry laugh: “Hahaha, I like to keep a low profile.” I suddenly felt a sharp gaze land on me. I looked up, And it was actually Liam. Why was he glaring at me?

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “438312”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Three months ago, the day I discovered Pierce’s infidelity, I quietly packed my things and moved into the guest room. I didn’t confront him. I didn’t scream. I waited until the System notified me that all evidence of his betrayal had been collected. Only then did I step back into our master suite. The door was ajar. Inside, Pierce was on speakerphone, his voice filled with a warmth he hadn’t shown me in years. On the other end, three voices—voices I knew intimately—were joking around. My three ex-husbands. “So, Pierce,” one of them teased with a familiar lilt, “did you give her the divorce papers yet? Lacy made it clear—no tag-alongs allowed at her bachelorette party. If you want an invite, you come alone.” Pierce chuckled, a cold, sharp sound. “Don’t worry. I’m about to force her to sign.” He looked up then, spotting me in the doorway. His expression shifted instantly from amusement to a mask of icy indifference as he hung up. “Since you heard everything,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, “let’s just end it. You were always just damaged goods, Jacqueline. A relic tossed aside by your exes. You should be grateful I let you play the part of my wife for as long as I did.” I looked at him, feeling the hollow ache in my chest settle into something hard and crystalline. In the quiet theater of my mind, I reached out and pressed the System’s ‘Punishment’ key. I didn’t argue. I didn’t cry. I simply smiled. … 1 Pierce’s face flushed a deep, angry crimson. He stood up, jabbed a finger toward my face, and snarled. “Jacqueline, have you finally lost your mind? Are you going insane?” “Those three men kicked you to the curb years ago. Do you honestly think they’d ever want you back? If I hadn’t been charitable enough to marry you, you’d be nothing but a used-up socialite nobody would touch with a ten-foot pole!” I watched his desperate bravado, the way his veins thrummed with malice. In my mind, the System issued a crisp, mechanical ding. [Punishment Protocol Initiated. Pain Sensitivity increased by 10%. Luck Depletion: 10%.] Suddenly, Pierce went pale. He gasped, clutching his chest as he stumbled back against the vanity. His breath came in ragged hitches. “Did you… did you poison me?” he wheezed, his eyes darting around in a panic. I didn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer. I turned on my heel and went to the guest room to grab my suitcase. As I reached the foyer, the electronic lock chimed. The door swung open, and a wave of cloying, sugary perfume flooded the hallway. “Pierce, honey? I brought those artisanal honey-glazed chestnuts you love from the Upper East Side.” Lacy walked in, looking like a portrait of innocence in a white eyelet lace dress. She froze when she saw me with my luggage, her hand flying to her mouth in a choreographed gesture of shock. “Jacqueline? Are you… leaving?” Her eyes pooled with sudden, practiced tears. “Is this because I called Pierce yesterday? Please, don’t be mad at him. I was just so scared staying at the hotel by myself. I needed someone to talk to.” She trembled, ducking behind Pierce as if I were a physical threat. Despite the pain in his chest, Pierce pulled her into his arms, shielding her with a protective glare. “Jacqueline, enough! Lacy is fragile. Stop trying to intimidate her.” I let out a short, sharp laugh. It felt like glass breaking. “Fragile? It takes a lot of nerve to sleep with another woman’s husband. Doesn’t seem very ‘fragile’ to me.” Lacy’s tears began to spill over. “Jacqueline, how can you be so cruel? Pierce and I… it’s pure. We’re soulmates. You can’t let your three failed marriages turn you into someone this bitter.” A ripple of mocking laughter came from the hallway. “Lacy’s right, Jacqueline. You really need to work on that temper.” Three tall, well-dressed men filed into the penthouse: Beckett, Colton, and Jude. My past, standing in my present. Beckett tossed his Ferrari keys onto the marble console, his eyes sweeping over my suitcase with disdain. “What, the runaway bride act again? You did this when you divorced me, too. It’s getting a bit cliché, don’t you think?” Colton walked over to Lacy, patting her head before turning to me with a sigh. “Jacqueline, be an adult for once. Pierce works his tail off to provide this lifestyle for you. So what if he has a muse on the side?” Jude leaned against the doorframe, flicking a designer lighter open and shut. “You think you’re still the untouchable heiress of the Mercer estate? You’re a three-time divorcée. You should be thanking God anyone was willing to take the hand-me-downs.” Seeing the four of them standing together, a united front to protect their ‘golden girl,’ I felt a surge of pure, unadulterated nausea. Years ago, Beckett had begged me for a tactical marriage to secure his family’s inheritance. Colton had knelt in the pouring rain, pleading for my help to dodge a disastrous merger. Jude had been at death’s door, needing my signature and my resources to survive a medical scandal. Every single time, I had helped them. Every single time, when the crisis passed, I had walked away with nothing, leaving them the space to thrive. And now, they stood here, using the very status I helped them build to grind me into the dirt for a girl like Lacy. I looked at Pierce. “You called them here?” Pierce held Lacy tighter, his chin lifted. “Lacy said today was a day for celebration, a fresh start for all of us. She wanted you to see the reality of things so you’d stop using the threat of divorce as a weapon. You walk out that door today, Jacqueline, and you are dead to this circle. Don’t think for a second you’ll be allowed back in.” I gripped the handle of my suitcase, my spine as straight as a blade. “Don’t worry,” I said, my voice steady and cold. “This place is so filthy I wouldn’t stay if you paid me.” I shouldered past Jude, walking out into the hallway without a backward glance. Behind me, I heard Lacy’s voice, sweet and venomous. “Oh dear, Jacqueline is so sensitive. She didn’t even say goodbye to the boys.” “Let her go,” Beckett scoffed. “She’ll be back in three days, crawling and crying for Pierce to take her back.” “Exactly,” Colton chimed in. “A woman like her can’t survive five minutes without a man’s bank account.” I stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the lobby. In the silence of the car, the System’s voice echoed in my mind. [Host, revenge sequence initiated. Shall we proceed with full-scale Luck Depletion?] “Full power,” I whispered. If these four wolves wanted to hunt in a pack, they could starve in one, too. 2 Leaving that penthouse was like finally exhaling after holding my breath for three years. I didn’t go to a hotel. I drove straight to the glass-walled triplex overlooking Central Park. It was my grandfather’s private legacy, a property Pierce didn’t even know existed. He’d spent our entire marriage convinced I’d poured my last cent into his startup, believing I was nothing more than a dependent trophy wife. I’d just stepped out of the shower when my phone buzzed on the vanity. A message from Colton. A photo. In the picture, Lacy was perched on the velvet sofa in the penthouse, wearing a birthday tiara. Pierce, Beckett, Colton, and Jude were gathered around her, their faces soft with adoration. On the table sat the custom-ordered fondant cake I had designed months ago. The caption read: [Be smart. Come back and apologize to Lacy. It’s her birthday—don’t be the one to ruin it.] I stared at the screen for a second, then blocked his number. I followed suit with the other three, purging them from my digital life with a few taps. The next morning, I arrived at Pierce’s corporate headquarters with my lead attorney in tow. This company wouldn’t exist if I hadn’t leveraged my family’s old connections to secure its first round of Series A funding. I pushed open the door to the executive suite. Pierce was hunched over his desk, his hair a mess as he glared at a series of red spreadsheets on his monitor. He looked up, stunned to see me, before a smirk touched his lips. “So, one night in a cheap hotel was enough to bring you to your senses?” “I knew you couldn’t stay away,” he continued, leaning back. “Tell you what. Go buy Lacy that Hermès bag she wanted as a peace offering, and I’ll pretend yesterday never happened.” I dropped the divorce decree onto his mahogany desk with a dull thud. “Sign it.” Pierce glanced at the header, his face darkening. “Jacqueline, drop the act. You’re not scaring me with this. I pay for your clothes, your food, your soul. Without me, you’re a literal vagrant.” I sat down in the chair opposite him, tapping the desk. “Pierce, did you really forget whose money started this ’empire’? Or whose name opened the doors for those ‘exclusive’ contracts you’re currently losing?” His expression faltered, but he blustered through it. “So what? The company is in my name. The accounts are mine. You want a divorce? Fine. You leave with nothing. Not a single cent.” I nodded to my lawyer. Mr. Simon stepped forward, sliding a leather-bound folder onto the desk. “Actually, Mr. Prescott, per the initial investment covenant, Mrs. Blackwood—soon to be Ms. Mercer—retains a sixty percent equity stake held in a private trust. In the event of a legal separation involving infidelity, she has the right to call in all debts and liquidate her shares immediately.” Pierce lunged for the papers, his eyes scanning the clauses. The veins in his neck bulged. “Jacqueline, you… you set me up?” “It’s called an exit strategy, Pierce,” I said coldly. “You have three days to secure the buy-out funds, or I’ll see you in court for a forced liquidation.” I stood up to leave, but the door swung open. Lacy walked in carrying a boutique lunch bag. Seeing me, she immediately switched into her ‘victim’ persona. “Jacqueline! Are you here to see Pierce? Please, don’t pressure him. He’s been so stressed about the firm lately.” She touched her eyes, which were conveniently brimming with tears. “If it’s about money… I can give you my savings. I don’t want to be the reason you’re struggling.” Pierce pulled her behind him, roaring at me. “Do you see this, Jacqueline? Lacy is thinking about you while you’re trying to bleed me dry! You’re nothing but a vampire!” I couldn’t help it. I laughed—a genuine, amused sound. “Lacy, keep your little ‘savings.’ You’ll need them to buy your own coffee once Pierce is back in a cubicle.” Lacy’s face went white. Pierce raised his hand, his face contorted with rage, ready to strike. His wrist was caught mid-air by a hand with long, elegant fingers. Beckett stood in the doorway, his brow furrowed. He shoved Pierce’s hand down and looked at me with a mix of disappointment and irritation. “Jacqueline, that’s enough. Lacy was trying to be kind. Why must you be so incredibly toxic?” I shook out my own wrist, though he hadn’t touched me. “Mr. CEO is quite the regular here lately. Don’t you have a company of your own to run, Beckett? Or are you hoping to pick up the scraps of this one when it crashes?” Beckett stiffened. “I’m here to discuss a partnership. And to check on Lacy.” I didn’t bother responding. I walked past them, my lawyer following close behind. As I hit the elevator bank, the System chimed again. [Luck Depletion Active: Pierce’s Midtown Development Project just hit a massive safety violation. Stop-work order issued.] I felt a ghost of a smile pull at my lips. 3 Over the next seventy-two hours, Pierce’s world didn’t just crumble—it imploded. The Midtown project was a disaster. The bank froze his lines of credit. His partners, smelling blood in the water, began pulling out one by one. Meanwhile, I sat in my floor-to-ceiling windowed living room, sipping a vintage Bordeaux and watching the ticker on my tablet. Prescott Holdings was bleeding out in real-time. My phone rang. An unknown number. I’d changed my SIM, but somehow Jude had found it. “Jacqueline, what the hell are you doing?” Jude’s voice was thick with suppressed fury. “Are you behind the short-selling of Pierce’s stock? Stop this childish vendetta.” I took a slow sip of my wine. “If he can’t manage his own risk, Jude, that’s hardly my problem.” Jude scoffed. “Don’t play coy. Nobody else would be this ruthless. Drop the lawsuits, Jacqueline. Don’t force our hand. You think you’re still the Mercer girl? The three of us can make sure you never work in this city again.” “And how would you do that, Jude?” I asked. “The last time I checked, you were the one begging for my signature on your medical release forms so you wouldn’t die a ward of the state. Have you forgotten how to be humble?” There was a sharp silence on the other end, followed by a snarl. “That was years ago! Don’t you dare throw the past in my face! Lacy is devastated by all this stress. You will stop this, and you will publicly apologize to her for the slander.” I hung up. The delusion was almost fascinating. Did they really think they were the protagonists of this story? That evening, a courier delivered a heavy, gold-embossed envelope. An invitation to an exclusive solo art exhibition for Lacy. It was being held at the Starry Night Gallery—the most prestigious venue in the city. Inside was a handwritten note: [Jacqueline, tomorrow is my big night. Pierce and the guys will all be there. I hope you can come so we can finally put this misunderstanding behind us. Love, Lacy.] I looked at the note and laughed. Put the ‘misunderstanding’ behind us? More like ‘publicly humiliate me with a show of force.’ The System spoke up. [Host, malice levels detected from the target are peaking. Suggest attending the event for a ‘Face-Slap’ bonus. Rewards: Double Revenge Points.] “Oh, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I tossed the invitation into the fireplace. The next night, I stepped out of a black town car in front of the gallery. I was wearing a vintage black velvet gown that hugged every curve, my hair swept up to reveal a throat that felt far too bare. My makeup was lethal—sharp wings and a blood-red lip. The gallery was packed with the city’s elite. Lacy, in a custom blush silk gown, stood in the center of the room like a princess, flanked by her four knights. The room went silent as I walked in. Heads turned. Whispers rippled through the air like a cold wind. Lacy’s eyes lit up. She hurried toward me, her skirt swishing. “Jacqueline! You actually came!” She reached out to grab my hand in a display of faux-sisterhood. I pivoted slightly, letting her hand grasp empty air. Her smile faltered, her eyes immediately welling up. Pierce was there in a heartbeat, stepping between us. “Jacqueline, what is wrong with you? Lacy went out of her way to invite you, and you can’t even be civil?” Beckett walked over, swirling a glass of scotch, his eyes raking over my dress. “Dressed like that… are you here to sabotage her, or are you just desperate for our attention again?” Colton chuckled darkly. “She’s run out of moves, Beckett. This is a cry for help.” A few people in the crowd tittered. I ignored them, looking instead at the ‘art’ on the walls. “This is the exhibition?” I asked, loud enough for the nearby guests to hear. “The colors are muddy, the composition is amateur, and the technique is… well, I’ve seen better work in a middle school hallway. Your taste, gentlemen, has plummeted.” Lacy’s face turned a blotchy red. “Jacqueline! You can hate me, but don’t insult my art!” Jude slammed his drink down on a nearby pedestal. The glass shattered, sent shards flying. “Jacqueline, you’re here to cause trouble. Apologize to Lacy. Now.” 4 The atmosphere was suffocating. Every eye in the room was on me, waiting for the fall. Pierce stepped closer, looming over me with a dark, triumphant look. “I’m giving you one last chance, Jacqueline. Get on your knees and apologize to Lacy. Right here, in front of everyone.” I looked at him, truly looked at him, and realized I felt nothing but a mild sense of pity. “Pierce, you’ve lost your mind. Me? Kneel for her? She couldn’t handle the weight of my shadow, let alone my respect.” Lacy retreated into Colton’s arms, sobbing. “Pierce, please, just let it go. Jacqueline has always looked down on me. I don’t want to be the reason your marriage is ruined…” Colton glared at me. “Look at how kind she is! And look at you—you’ve turned into a bitter, vengeful hag!” Beckett stepped forward then, pulling a small velvet box from his pocket. He flipped it open. Inside was a glowing emerald necklace. My breath hitched. It was my grandfather’s—the only thing I had left of him. I’d left it in the wall safe at the penthouse in my haste to leave. Beckett saw my reaction and smirked. “Want it back? I had a locksmith open that pathetic little safe of yours.” “Give it to me, Beckett,” I said, my voice trembling with suppressed rage. “Sure,” he said, holding the necklace over a trash bin. “As soon as you give Lacy the three head-bows she deserves for your bullying. Otherwise, I’ll drop this into the disposal and watch it get ground into dust.” I stared at the emerald, my nails digging into my palms. “Beckett, don’t you dare.” Jude sneered. “Who’s going to stop us? You have nothing left. No status, no husband, no friends. Get on your knees.” The crowd began to whisper. “Poor Jacqueline… she’s really fallen.” “She probably deserved it. You don’t get four men to hate you that much for no reason.” “Just apologize and get it over with, honey. Why keep up the act?” Pierce reached out, his hand moving to shove my shoulder downward. “I said, kneel!” His hand never reached me. The gallery doors were kicked open with a thunderous bang that made everyone jump. Two rows of men in black suits flooded the room, creating a human corridor. Then, a man walked in—tall, commanding, with a presence that seemed to suck the oxygen out of the room. He was in a charcoal-grey bespoke suit, his eyes like flint. Callum Blackwood. The King of the Manhattan elite. A man who didn’t just own companies; he owned the people who ran them. The room fell into a deathly silence. Callum walked straight to me. He saw Pierce’s hand hovering near my shoulder. Without a word, he delivered a backhand so sharp and powerful it sent Pierce sprawling across the floor. The sound of the slap echoed like a gunshot. Callum took a silk handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his hand with clinical precision, and dropped the cloth onto Pierce’s bleeding face. He then turned, pulled me firmly into his side, and let his voice ring out through the gallery. “Who gave you trash the right to lay a finger on my fiancée?”

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