Category: English

When the billionaire found me, my adoptive parents were in the middle of a drunken rage, lashing out at me with a belt. I didn’t run. I didn’t cry. I looked at the man in the expensive suit with eyes that were three parts innocent and seven parts hollow. I looked exactly like a broken porcelain doll. I knew the truth: I was a replacement. Or rather, I was the original they had lost. In my past life, I told them the truth immediately. I begged for their love. In return, I was framed, my reputation ruined, and I was eventually burned alive in a “tragic” gas explosion. This time, I decided to play the role of the girl who knew nothing. I would become the perfect, tragic daughter of the Sterling empire. “My foster parents only hit me because they loved my brother more,” I whispered. “If you love your ‘other’ daughter more than me, what will happen to me?” “I just can’t take any more hits.” Three sentences. That was all it took to push the billionaire’s guilt to the breaking point. I smiled inwardly. The stage was set. Now, the real show begins. 1 When my biological parents found me, I was in the middle of a “lesson.” My foster mother had pulled a metal poker from the fireplace. It was glowing orange-red. She was swinging it toward my back, screaming about some chores I hadn’t finished. In the air, I could almost smell the faint, sickening scent of charred skin. That was the exact moment the Sterlings burst through the door. “Stop! How dare you lay a hand on my daughter!” My foster mother was far gone in her rage. She didn’t stop. My biological mother, desperate to intervene, took a hit to her arm while trying to shield me. She let out a sharp cry, her eyes instantly welling with tears. I watched them, my expression completely blank. Does it hurt? I’m sure it did. But it didn’t hurt nearly as much as being burned alive in a basement while my family watched from the lawn. 2 My biological mother and I were both rushed to the hospital. By the time we arrived, my biological father—a man whose face was on the cover of every business magazine—and his two children had arrived. The hospital bed was surrounded by people. “Mom, how could that woman be so vicious? What did she use to hit you?” I didn’t need to open my eyes to know who was speaking. That was my “big brother,” Caleb. In my last life, he was one of the people who helped pour the gasoline. “Mom, does it hurt? If I had known, I would have gone with you. I would have protected you.” That was Brooke. She was sobbing, sounding as if she were the one who had lost a mother. Brooke was the Sterling’s “foundling” daughter. The girl they adopted to replace me. Actually, she was the biological daughter of my abusive foster parents. All the beatings I took for eighteen years? They were meant for her. I shifted slightly. A sharp, stinging pain radiated from my back, making me gasp. The sound was loud in the quiet VIP suite. The family finally remembered I was there. My biological mother looked over, her expression awkward. “Avery… are you okay?” I wasn’t okay. But I wouldn’t die. Not yet. I looked down, a self-deprecating smile touching my lips. “I’m used to it. But you… your skin is so delicate. That burn must be excruciating.” I made sure to emphasize the word “excruciating.” My biological father finally walked to my bedside to check my injuries. I didn’t hide. I let the gown slip just enough to show the horrific patchwork of scars on my back. 3 The moment they saw the damage, a collective gasp filled the room. Brooke turned away, hiding her face in Caleb’s chest as if she couldn’t bear the sight. “Oh my God,” Caleb whispered. “How can a human being have a back like that?” He acted like a protective older brother, covering Brooke’s eyes so she wouldn’t be “traumatized.” Is it really that scary? I couldn’t see it, but I knew. It was a map of every mistake my foster father made while drunk, and every bad mood my foster mother had. My mother ignored her own burn. she practically threw herself at my side. Warm tears fell onto the back of my neck, sliding into the raw wounds and making them sting. “Avery, come home with us. We’re never going back to those monsters. They aren’t human. How could they do this to you?” My father looked shaken. “Come home. We’ll get you the best doctors. We’ll make you whole again.” I let my eyes fill with a desperate, fragile hope. I stared at them for a long moment, then slowly shook my head. “My foster parents only hit me because they loved my brother more,” I whispered. “If you love Brooke more than me, what will happen to me?” “I just can’t take any more hits.” The room went silent. The guilt radiating from my parents was palpable. I lowered my gaze, hiding the cold glint in my eyes. In my last life, I was submissive. I was a “good girl.” And I died like a dog. This life? I’m going to make Brooke feel every single thing I went through. 4 Despite their pleas, I didn’t go home with them immediately. I knew that something given too easily is never cherished. I retreated to my tiny, cramped studio apartment. It was barely two hundred square feet, but it was mine. The only problem was reaching my back to apply the ointment. It didn’t matter. I was used to sleeping on my stomach. Just as I was drifting off, my phone rang. It was my biological father. I knew exactly why he was calling. I let the phone ring seven or eight times before answering with a voice thick with feigned sleep. “Avery, we’ve already retained a team of lawyers. We’re filing criminal charges against those people. We need you to come in tomorrow to give a statement.” I yawned silently. A lawsuit. Typical. But… I wouldn’t allow it. If they were behind bars, how would Brooke experience the “quality of life” I had endured? “Sue my parents? I… I don’t think I can.” “A child without a mother is like a blade of grass in the wind. They hit me, yes, but at least I had a home.” “I don’t want to lose my family.” “Avery…” There was a long, heavy silence on the other end. “If that’s all, I’m going to hang up. Please don’t bring this up again. I don’t want to be an orphan.” Click. If I guessed correctly, that billionaire couple wouldn’t be getting a wink of sleep tonight. But what did that have to do with me? In my last life, they weren’t the ones who lit the match, but they were the ones who handed Brooke the gasoline. 5 The next morning, at 7:00 AM sharp, my biological parents were at my door. Their eyes were bloodshot. They looked at me with pure desperation. “Avery, please. Come home.” “You silly girl, what were you saying last night? We are your family. We are your blood! You will never be an orphan as long as we breathe.” To show their sincerity, they brought two maids and three massive suitcases full of designer clothes. But my apartment was too small. With all of them inside, you couldn’t even turn around without bumping into someone. My eyes welled with tears. I looked at them like a kicked puppy. “Really?” “Will you… will you love Brooke more? She’s been with you for twenty years.” My parents shook their heads in unison, their faces firm. In my last life, I didn’t know how to fight. I let Brooke’s “sweetness” win them over. They lectured me. They scolded me. Eventually, they loathed me. This time, I’m making sure they stay on my side forever. 6 Coming home this time was much more lucrative than before. My father called a family meeting. In front of everyone, he produced two black credit cards and a deed to a property in the city. “Avery, you’ve suffered too much.” “There is ten million dollars in this account for your ‘pocket money.’” “This penthouse is in your name. You can move in whenever you want. We are never going back to that tiny apartment again.” I acted panicked. “This is too much… I… I’m not worth this.” The more I refused, the more distressed they became. They practically forced the cards into my hand. “Avery, take it. This is yours. Eventually, we will transfer your share of the company stock as well…” I bit my lip. “Then… thank you, Dad. Thank you, Mom.” Hearing those words, the two of them were moved to tears again. I joined them, letting my own tears fall. It was a picture of domestic bliss. But Brooke wasn’t happy. She sat on the edge of the velvet sofa, her knuckles white as she gripped her skirt. She was staring at me with a gaze that could kill. I flashed her a tiny, secret smile and slid over to sit next to her. I handed her one of the cards. “Brooke, let me share half with you. I’ve been through a lot of trauma, and sometimes my emotions might get a little… out of control. You won’t be mad at me, right?” The keyword: out of control. My parents didn’t catch the threat. They only saw a sister being “generous.” My father spoke up. “Avery is right. She’s been through hell because of those monsters.” “From now on, nobody is allowed to bully Avery!” Brooke forced a smile but didn’t speak. Caleb’s brow was furrowed, his gaze on me cold and suspicious. I didn’t care. I’m smart. I’ll wait. Once these “fake” siblings reach their breaking point, that’s when I’ll really start my rampage. 7 My mother wanted to show me around the estate, but Brooke cut in. “Mom, I know the house best. Let me show Avery around.” “You should go rest. You usually take your nap at this time. I already put your warm milk on your nightstand.” I smiled. Milk on the nightstand? I lived here for years in my last life. I knew for a fact my mother didn’t have a “milk before bed” habit. Brooke was marking her territory. She was showing me she knew our mother’s “habits” better than I did. My mother blinked, a bit surprised, but she looked touched. She patted Brooke’s hand. “Thank you, Brooke. I am quite exhausted today.” “You’re such a thoughtful girl. I’m so lucky to have you…” Before she could finish, I spoke up, my voice full of longing. “Mom… is the milk sweet?” “Back at my other house, only my brother was allowed to have milk.” I licked my lips. It worked. My mother’s hand dropped from Brooke’s. Her eyes turned red again. “Brooke, go… go warm a glass for Avery too. Bring it to her room.” I shook my head obediently. “No, Mom. I’ll go learn how to do it. I’ll warm a glass for Brooke. I’m the big sister. I should take care of her.” Three minutes later, under our mother’s watchful eye, Brooke was forced to choke down a glass of warm milk she clearly didn’t want. I looked down, hiding my smile. Drink it. The more you drink, the easier it is for my plan to work. I looked up, my expression innocent. “Mom, from now on, I’ll warm the milk for you and Brooke every day.” Brooke looked like she wanted to scream, but my mother just stroked my hair and smiled weakly. “Okay.” Brooke’s face turned ugly for a split second. She glared at me. Angry already? I almost laughed. In my last life, I never had this kind of intimacy with my parents. I was timid and small. I just wanted peace. In less than a week, I had fallen into every one of Brooke’s traps. My parents tried to defend me at first. But after Brooke framed me over and over, they looked at me with nothing but disappointment. Then came the fire. The mansion burned. It was only because of their “pity” that they sifted through the ashes and found a few pieces of my bones. We’re even now. I don’t love these parents, but I don’t quite hate them either. But Caleb? He was the one who made sure the doors were locked from the outside. 8 Without the siblings’ interference, my relationship with my parents was actually quite stable. My mother, trying to make up for eighteen years of lost time, insisted on tucking me in every night. This seemed to drive Brooke insane. That night, Brooke called my mother, sobbing. “Mom, I feel so sick. I think I have a fever.” “Mom, can you come stay with me? Like you used to when I was little…” My mother’s brow furrowed. She didn’t even put on her slippers before running to Brooke’s room. I followed at a leisurely pace. This was Brooke’s show, after all. She was performing for me. If I didn’t show up, who would appreciate her acting? By the time I got there, Caleb was already in Brooke’s room. The family doctor was packing his bag. “Mrs. Sterling, Brooke is just suffering from ’emotional stress.’ She’s probably been overworking herself lately. That’s why the fever hit her so suddenly.” I let out a soft chuckle. Overworking herself? More like she was fuming because I’ve been hogging our mother’s attention. Brooke’s face was flushed red, her eyes watery and pathetic. My parents were devastated. They hovered at her bedside. “Brooke, why are you so stressed? What’s bothering you?” “Are you in a lot of pain?” Brooke’s voice was weak, sounding as if she were about to draw her last breath. “Mom, I’m fine. Go take care of Avery.” Classic. She used this same trick in my last life. And just as expected, Caleb shot me a cold, venomous look. “Brooke was always perfectly healthy. She never got fevers. How ‘coincidental’ that the moment you show up, she falls ill.” I leaned against the doorframe, listening. This was nothing. In my last life, Caleb accused me of stealing Brooke’s necklace and nearly broke my hand “interrogating” me. My father barked, “Watch your tone with your sister!” A simple scolding. Meaningless. I took a step back. “It’s okay. Mom should stay with Brooke.” My mother looked torn, but she also looked relieved. I turned to go back to my room. “But Mom, you should probably keep your distance. The flu has been going around lately.” My parents looked confused. Caleb growled, “Why are you so dramatic?” I turned back and explained seriously, “The doctor said I’m malnourished and my immune system is weak. He told me to avoid ‘sources of infection’ whenever possible.” To prove my point, I shook my sleeve. The pajamas were the smallest size available, but they still hung off my skeletal frame. My parents’ eyes filled with pity. Caleb gritted his teeth. “You’re just trying to compete with her!” “I’m sick too. Is it wrong to want my own mother?” I said softly. “If I’m in the way, I’ll just go. Each daughter can just go back to her own mother.” 9 Brooke’s eyes flickered when she heard that. I knew that was her greatest fear. She had tasted the high life. Who would ever want to go back to being beaten in a trailer park? Caleb took two long strides toward me, using his height to loom over me. “You’re so vicious. You just want an excuse to kick Brooke out, don’t you?” I took a half-step back. Remembering my last life, my gaze toward Caleb turned icy. “Vicious? If life were fair, she would be the one with the scars on her back, not me.” Caleb’s jaw tightened. He pointed at me, looking at our parents. “Is this the daughter you fought so hard to find?” “She comes back and immediately starts trying to push Brooke out. She’s just like those monsters who raised her—pure trash!” I laughed out loud. I am vicious. When did I ever claim to be a saint? But Brooke and I are two of a kind. I just wondered which would win: the nature of my bloodline, or the nurture of her upbringing. In the end, my mother chose me. She followed me back to my room. She tucked me in, but her face was full of worry. “If you want to go to her, just go. I’m fine.” “No, honey. Mom is staying here with you…” I gave her a sweet, fake smile and closed my eyes. I needed my rest. Knowing Brooke, tomorrow was going to be an even bigger headache.

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On my twentieth birthday, my supposed best friend gave me a bottle of perfume. She was notoriously cheap, so seeing her hand over a designer bottle with a price tag that required a payment plan took me by surprise. I was just about to spritz it on my wrists when a stream of glowing, scrolling text suddenly materialized in the air before my eyes, like a glitch in the universe. The floating text said this was a magic perfume. It said my best friend wanted to use it to swap bodies with me, to steal my life, and to get her hands on my incredibly wealthy boyfriend. I read the words hovering in the air. Then, I turned the nozzle toward myself and sprayed it. Hard. Three times. Another line of text drifted past my vision, warning me that according to the “rules,” all it took was another spray of the perfume to swap us back. No big deal, the text noted. Is that right? I thought. I immediately pivoted on my heel, walked into the bathroom, unscrewed the cap, and dumped the rest of the expensive liquid straight down the toilet. I flushed twice for good measure. 1. Earlier that day, my best friend, Tara Foster, had been standing outside my off-campus apartment, clutching a gift bag. We had gotten into a screaming match a few days prior, and the ice hadn’t thawed. My dad had been rushed to the hospital for an emergency appendectomy, and my family had called me three or four times demanding I go see him. I didn’t go. Not once. When Tara found out, she cornered me in front of everyone at our university’s art studio. She pointed her finger right in my face and called me an ungrateful bitch. She said if she had parents like mine, she’d give them the world. She called me cold-blooded. Spoiled. It had been a month since we last spoke. I genuinely didn’t expect her to remember my birthday, let alone show up to keep me company. In an instant, the bad blood seemed to evaporate. I dragged her to the most expensive omakase spot downtown, ordering all the premium sashimi she always drooled over but could never justify buying. Across the table, she slid a gift box stamped with a high-end designer logo toward me. Her voice was uncharacteristically tight. “Happy birthday, Mia. This… this is for you.” I opened it. It was a perfume I had owned before. The scent was cloying, sickly sweet—definitely not my vibe—but the price tag was absurd. My heart softened. For a girl who counted every penny, she must have skipped lunches for months to afford this. Tara came from a single-parent household. Her dad died in a car crash when she was in high school, and her mom had taken every cent of the settlement money and given it to Tara’s older brother, David, to study at Cornell. Her mom worked as a cashier at a grocery store, a tough life that made her hardened and bitter. Tara complained constantly that her mother would fight a vendor over a bruised apple and that she only had eyes for her golden-boy son, leaving Tara to fend for herself. I saw how hard her life was. I really did. “This is too much. You should return it,” I said, pushing the box back. “Just get me a card or something. I love whatever you get me.” She slammed her hand over mine, her tone suddenly frantic. “No! I bought it specifically for you. Try it. Just put it on, I swear you’ll love it.” As I hesitated, a line of glowing text floated across my line of sight: [Oh my god, is this another bleeding-heart protagonist? Getting sold out and still thanking the person doing it…] Excuse me? While I sat frozen, Tara aggressively tore the cellophane off the box, yanked the bottle out, and shoved it into my palm. A bizarre, manic excitement danced in her eyes. “Can’t return it now! Try it on!” Was I imagining things? She was looking at me the way a starving dog looks at a bone. And why was she so violently insistent that I use this exact perfume? Thinking back to that floating text, my thumb hovered over the atomizer. It froze. More text materialized: [No, no, no, don’t do it! It’s a body-swap perfume! She wants to steal your trust fund life and sleep with your billionaire boyfriend…] I knew Tara had a thing for my boyfriend, Norton. Norton was the textbook definition of an East Coast elite catch. Handsome, ridiculously wealthy, and lavish with his gifts. My closets were practically bursting with designer bags he’d bought me. When he saw I was running out of space, he leased me a luxury penthouse downtown, casually mentioning it was “better for storage.” On the day I moved in, Tara stood in the center of the marble foyer, her voice dripping with acid. “God, Mia. You have the best life.” A few days later, Norton and I got into a massive fight. Without even asking what happened, Tara took his side. She called me dramatic. She loudly proclaimed that if she were his girlfriend, she would never treat him like that, and that I didn’t know how lucky I was. Well then… let her have my luck. I pressed the nozzle down. Once. Twice. Three times. The corners of Tara’s mouth twitched upward into a grotesque, triumphant smile. Her breathing hitched with excitement. [Ahhh! The evil best friend won! Oh my god, the MC is about to get dragged into the trenches…] Another line drifted past: [Chill out! Didn’t you read the lore? She just has to spray it again later and they swap back. It’s fine…] Ah. I see. Thanks for the tip. I made an excuse to use the restaurant bathroom, poured the entire bottle into the toilet, and flushed my old life away. 2. When I woke up, I was staring at a popcorn ceiling. I was lying in a cramped, twin-sized bed. The room was tiny and cluttered. Sketchbooks were piled haphazardly on a chipped desk; an easel and cheap acrylic paints littered the floor. I instinctively raised my hand to rub my eyes. What came into focus was a pair of slender but heavily calloused hands. The skin was a healthy, sun-baked olive, and there was a distinct, reddish birthmark on the index finger. Tara’s hands. My heart hammered against my ribs. I threw the covers off and lunged for the cheap mirror pinned to the back of the door. The girl staring back at me had a warm, olive complexion, though her hair was dry and brittle from an obvious lack of nutrition. She was painfully thin, but her eyes—they were striking. Brilliant and alive. I… I was Tara Foster. Staring at my new reflection, a genuine, bubbling laugh escaped my throat. I smiled, revealing a pair of slightly crooked, cute front teeth. The glowing text flashed in the mirror: [Poor MC. She can never go back. Trapped in a life of poverty forever…] [She’s literally an idiot. Even if she didn’t like the scent, why did she pour it down the toilet?!] [Exactly. She’s gonna be crying herself to sleep when reality hits.] A cheap, older-model smartphone chimed on the nightstand. I picked up Tara’s phone. There was a text message from “Mia Smith”—my old name, my old phone. Don’t even try it, the text read. No one is going to believe you about a soul swap. If you dare open your mouth and spout some crazy bullshit, I’ll use the Smith family’s connections to have you committed to a psych ward. I read it, tapped the screen, deleted the thread, and blocked the number. The text feed in the air went wild: [Holy shit! This girl is 100 pounds, and 90 pounds of it is pure spite!] [Am I the only one who thinks she’s being way too calm?] [She’s probably in shock! Dropping from heaven straight to hell would break anyone’s brain…] Hell? I just crawled my way out of it. The phone chimed again. A text from “Mom.” This would be Tara’s mother. No. As of today, my mother. The message was simple: Tara, there’s whole-wheat bread and low-fat milk in the fridge. Make sure you eat before class. I read online that whole wheat doesn’t make you gain weight, so please don’t secretly starve yourself again. The nagging was laced with a deep, tangible anxiety. It didn’t sound at all like the “toxic, son-obsessed monster” Tara had always complained about. I opened the bedroom door and took in the apartment. It was an older walk-up building. The paint on the walls was chipping in places, and the furniture looked like it was from a thrift store a decade ago, but the place was spotless. Not a speck of dust. Out on the tiny balcony, several potted pothos plants thrived. The morning sun spilled through the glass doors, painting the worn carpet in a wash of gold. It was incredibly warm. It felt like a home. I walked over to the humming refrigerator, opened it, and found exactly what the text promised. I ate my breakfast in absolute contentment, packed up Tara’s art supplies, and headed out. At this moment, I was profoundly grateful that when I paid my own tuition for the university’s private sketching seminar last week, I had casually paid Tara’s fee too. At least I had a solid semester of art classes secured. The floating text buzzed: [She’s heading to the studio! She’s definitely going to corner the fake friend and demand her body back…] [Too late for that. Who wouldn’t want to keep that supermodel body and rich life?] Um… thanks for the compliment, I guess. As I walked down the street toward campus, a cherry-red Ferrari tore down the asphalt. A second later, the tires screeched, and the car aggressively swerved to block my path. “What the hell are you doing here?!” a voice snapped. It was a voice I knew intimately, yet it sounded entirely foreign. I turned my head and was instantly blinded by the girl in the driver’s seat. It was a delicate, heart-shaped face. Features sculpted to absolute perfection. Sleek, meticulously styled raven-black hair. It was a stunning face. But paired with the heavy, garish makeup smeared across it, it looked incredibly cheap. It was my face. 3. This was the first time I had ever looked at myself from an outsider’s perspective. I had to admit, the face was breathtaking, even if the eyes staring back at me were currently burning with malice. I took a few seconds to silently appreciate my own bone structure, then pulled my gaze away, expression totally blank, and kept walking. Tara wasn’t going to let it go. She put the Ferrari in drive and crept along the curb, keeping pace with me. She rolled down the passenger window, her voice dripping with gloating venom. “Mia Smith, your life really was a joke of privilege. A Ferrari just for turning twenty? Well, guess what? It’s all mine now. Oh, and your parents? They called me like four times yesterday. So worried about me. Wired me a ton of cash, terrified I might suffer even the slightest inconvenience…” The feed: [Ugh! The MC messed up so bad. Without the perfume, she can never go back.] [Thank god Tara doesn’t know she flushed it. She’s clearly a little scared Mia knows a loophole to swap back. If she knew the truth, she’d destroy Mia…] I ignored her completely and kept walking until I reached the art building. Tara and I had met in a summer prep class for this very program five years ago, back in high school. I was naturally quiet. I liked peace. She was a live wire. After every class, she’d gravitate toward me, talking my ear off, dragging me to lunch, to the mall, to the movies. Sometimes female friendship is just that simple. You do the holy trinity of hanging out—eating, shopping, watching movies—and suddenly you’re “best friends.” But I always knew she was difficult. I would buy her beautiful dresses, and she would leave them crumpled in a corner, claiming I was flaunting my wealth to humiliate her. I’d treat her to Michelin-starred dinners, and she’d accuse me of trying to make her fat so I’d look better by comparison. I knew that until the dust fully settled, she wouldn’t leave me alone. Luckily, Norton arrived. And he brought a wildly ostentatious spectacle with him. His household staff rolled up in a catering van. They hauled out designer bistro tables, fine china, and massive floral arrangements, spending half an hour transforming the overgrown, neglected courtyard outside the art studio into a high-end Parisian café. Professional pastry chefs and baristas set up stations. The smell of fresh espresso and butter croissants filled the air. My classmates poured out of the studio, their eyes wide with envy, swarming “Mia” with breathless compliments. “Oh my god, Mia, your boyfriend is insane!” “He is literally perfect. Rich, obsessed with you… I’m so jealous!” “You guys are like royalty. You belong together.” Every fawning comment acted like oxygen to Tara’s ego. She laughed, tossing her hair, leaning into Norton’s side with practiced, coy shyness. “I really am the luckiest girl in the world.” I stood on the fringe of the crowd. I wasn’t about to miss out on free food. I grabbed a slice of tiramisu and an iced coconut milk latte. Halfway through my cake, I felt a heavy gaze pinning me down. I looked up. Norton was staring directly at me through the crowd. Was I overthinking it? Why did the look in his eyes feel so… strange? The text feed exploded: [Did the male lead figure it out?!] [Yes! Go MC, go! Tell him you’re the real Mia! Omg I’m dying of anxiety…] 4. Tara seemed to notice Norton’s distraction. The smug smile froze on her face. She immediately put on an act of sisterly affection and marched over to me. Dropping her voice to a vicious hiss, she warned, “Back the hell off, Tara. Stay away from Norton. He’s my boyfriend now…” I ignored her, finished my latte, and turned to head home. I hadn’t taken two steps before Norton’s arm shot out, blocking my path. His expression was glacial. The doting, perfect boyfriend from two minutes ago had vanished entirely. The feed: [Oh my god! The male lead is coming through! He totally knows! True love sees the soul, not the face…] [I’m crying. The MC flushed the perfume because she trusted he would recognize her spirit…] My stomach dropped. Wait. Did he actually figure it out? “Tara,” Norton said, his voice dripping with disgust. “I’ve told you a hundred times. I don’t want you. I only love Mia. Stop sending me those pathetic, desperate texts. Your little schemes are as repulsive as you are.” He kept talking, tearing her down with a barrage of insults. I stood there, completely stunned. I had no idea Tara had been secretly messaging Norton. It suddenly made sense why Norton would casually drop hints, telling me not to get too close to her, saying she had ulterior motives. Right on cue, “Mia” rushed over. Her eyes were red, her voice thick with fake tears. “Tara… I am so disappointed in you. I considered you my sister. I can’t believe you were trying to steal my boyfriend behind my back. How could you do this to me?” The courtyard erupted. The murmurs turned into a loud, vicious chorus. “Wow, I can’t believe Tara is like that! Mia paid her tuition, bought her clothes, fed her, and she tries to steal her man?” “Seriously! Talk about biting the hand that feeds you. She’s so basic-looking, too. The audacity!” “What a literal parasite.” The feed: [Wait, isn’t this supposed to be a satisfying revenge plot? The MC is getting slaughtered out here…] [Why won’t she just open her mouth?! Speak! Tell him you’re Mia! He’ll protect you!] I looked at the circus unfolding in front of me. A dry, humorless chuckle escaped my lips. I decided to just play along with her script. “My bad. Sent those to the wrong number. Sorry for the drama, won’t happen again.” I just wanted to get away from them. I needed to be as far from this toxic wasteland as possible. They weren’t worth a second of my time. I hitched my bag onto my shoulder and started walking away. As I turned, I saw “Mia” holding up a white dress. She looked thrilled, throwing her arms around Norton’s neck, kissing him deeply in front of everyone. A white dress. My breath caught in my throat. The blood in my veins turned to ice. A violent wave of nausea hit my stomach, rising up my throat. I couldn’t hold it back. I dropped to my knees by the brick wall and violently threw up everything I had just eaten. Trembling, I braced my hand against the rough brick and slowly pulled myself up. I just needed to go home. Behind me, Tara’s exaggerated, theatrical laugh echoed across the courtyard. “I love you so much! Norton, how does a man as perfect as you exist? I feel so lucky. This is literally heaven…” Yeah, right. You just checked into hell. 5. I pushed open the door to the apartment, and the rich, savory smell of home-cooked food washed over me. I followed the scent to the tiny kitchen. A young man with thick, black-rimmed glasses was standing at the stove, stirring a pan. David. I had seen photos of him before. Tara used to scroll through her camera roll and point him out, sneering about her “deadbeat, cold-blooded” older brother. The feed flickered: [Wait, isn’t he supposed to be studying in the US? Why is he back?] [Flights are so expensive. Typical deadbeat son, blowing his dead dad’s money and abandoning his mom and sister.] Tara had complained about him relentlessly. She said she and her mom lived in poverty, saving every dime to send him to the States. She claimed he was ungrateful, that he treated them like burdens, that he was always irritated on the phone and never once asked how they were doing. I had always pictured a lazy, entitled frat bro draining his family dry. But the David standing in front of me was entirely different. He wasn’t particularly handsome, but he had a grounded, quiet strength about him. He moved around the kitchen with the practiced ease of someone who had cooked for himself for years—not someone pampered and spoiled. He heard my footsteps and glanced over his shoulder. The stern lines of his face softened instantly. “You’re back. Go wash your hands. I made your favorite, tomato beef stew.” “Okay.” I was starving after throwing up. This was perfect. “Mom is still at the grocery store. I packed some up for her for later, so we can eat now,” David said, carrying the dishes to a small folding table. It was a simple, humble meal. Beef stew, sautéed greens, and a bowl of egg drop soup. As we ate, we made idle conversation. I couldn’t help but ask why he was back in the country. David set his chopsticks down, his tone perfectly even. “I’m finishing up my Master’s at Cornell. I flew back because a major biotech firm here flew me out for an interview for a director-level position. Base salary is a million a year, plus equity. I just got the offer this morning. Once I officially graduate, I’m moving back to start.” “Pfft—” I choked, spitting rice into my napkin, coughing violently. “You… you’re that smart? Cornell? A million a year?” “I’m a bio-engineer, Tara. Did you hit your head?” He gave me a look. “But… what about your tuition?” “I’m on a full-ride fellowship. They pay for my tuition and give me a living stipend. Mom was paranoid I’d run into an emergency abroad, so she forced me to take Dad’s settlement money. Honestly, it wasn’t even that much. Twenty grand. I haven’t touched a single cent of it. It’s sitting in a high-yield account. It’s for Mom’s retirement, and for you, if you ever get into trouble.” Wait. An Ivy League education cost easily eighty grand a year. Tara had sworn he took millions from a wrongful death suit and blew it on partying. Twenty grand. A full-ride scholarship. A million-dollar salary out of the gate. He wasn’t a deadbeat; he was a literal prodigy. This was a golden ticket, and I was going to hold onto it with both hands. I looked him dead in the eye, my voice entirely sincere. “David. You are my favorite brother in the world.” “I’m your only brother,” he said drily, scooping a massive spoonful of beef into my bowl. “How have you been? I know you’ve been doing the art thing, but is that what you really want? Do you have other plans?” I put my chopsticks down. A heavy silence fell over me. When I applied to college, I had secretly sent my portfolio to a prestigious art institute. But my parents—the Smiths—had used their connections to hack into the portal and change my major to English Literature. They told me: “A girl should just be a teacher. It’s respectable. It gives you time to manage a household. You need to focus on taking care of Norton so you can marry into his family…” “I want to be a makeup artist,” I said quietly. “I want to help people feel beautiful.” David didn’t say a word. He reached into his messenger bag, pulled out a thick envelope, and slid it across the table. “Do it. Go enroll in a cosmetology school. Getting a trade is a smart move. If you need more money, tell me. Whatever you want to do, I’ve got your back.” My nose stung. The room blurred as tears welled in my eyes. David panicked, awkwardly grabbing a napkin to wipe my face. “You’ve really grown up. A year ago, if Mom or I tried to give you advice, you would have thrown a chair and locked yourself in your room. We were terrified to talk to you. From now on, whatever happens, you tell me. I’m here.” “Thanks, David,” I sniffled, obediently gathering the empty bowls to help him wash up. Just as we finished, the doorbell rang. I opened it to find a striking guy standing in the hallway. He was wearing a crisp white button-down. His smile was polite, his demeanor effortless. “Hi. I’m Wesley, David’s friend from grad school. I’m here to give him a ride to the airport.” Hearing his voice, David dragged his suitcase to the door and nodded at Wesley. “Let’s go.” Before stepping out, David turned back to me. “Take care of yourself. Take care of Mom. Call me if anything happens. If you need cash, tell me. Don’t let anyone walk all over you.” I nodded fiercely, my eyes burning again. The feed: [Oh my god, a protective older brother! I want one!] [Don’t be shallow. A little chump change isn’t going to win the MC over. Her real brother, Blake, is actual old money. On her 18th birthday, he rented out a whole five-star resort for her…] My 18th birthday. A phantom weight slammed into my chest, suffocating me. That night… was the absolute worst nightmare of my entire life. The feed kept scrolling: [Exactly. The MC took a massive L here. I can’t even imagine how much fun the fake friend is having right now. Literally winning at life…] Is she? She’s not going to be smiling for long.

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On the day of our family gathering, the naive, innocent-looking female protagonist arrived at the Sterling estate, clutching a DNA paternity test. She declared she was the true heiress and demanded I be thrown out. But what she didn’t know was that a powerful, old-money family never casually abandons the heir they’ve spent years grooming for an outsider who just showed up out of nowhere. 1. When Serena showed up at the door with the DNA report, the Sterlings were having their monthly family gathering. Tearfully, she accused me of being a cuckoo in the nest, claiming she was the real daughter of the Sterling family and I was just an imposter who had stolen her place. Everyone was silent. The atmosphere was nothing like the warm, tearful reunion she had clearly imagined. “This is the proof. I really am the Sterling family’s daughter,” Serena said, a hint of panic creeping into her voice. She placed the DNA report on the coffee table, but no one reached for it. Grandpa, the highly respected patriarch of the family, didn’t say a word. Naturally, none of the other Sterlings spoke up either. Finally, just as she was about to crack under the oppressive silence, Grandpa deigned to glance at the document on the table and nodded slightly. Only then did the others begin to speak. “Serena, is it? It’s good you’re back.” Serena’s feigned expression of being moved froze on her face. This development was completely different from what she had anticipated. No one asked about the hardships she had suffered while living outside the family. There was no comfort, not even any extra pleasantries. And certainly no mention of disposing of me, the imposter heiress. 2. “Grandpa, she’s the one who stole my identity and caused me to live out there, suffering all those hardships!” Serena stood up abruptly, pointing at me with a hateful glare. That was the confidence being a biological Sterling gave her. Grandpa didn’t respond; he didn’t even bother to lift his eyes. The rest of the Sterling family certainly wasn’t going to chime in and agree. Serena hadn’t seemed to realize how isolated she was. Even her biological parents just looked at her with detached indifference, showing neither joy nor sorrow. “Take Miss Serena away,” my older brother suddenly spoke up beside me. He clearly had no interest in watching this boring farce play out. Soon, someone stepped forward to escort her out. “Why! She’s the one who should be leaving this place!” Hearing no response, Serena was incredulous. It was only then she realized that not a single person was speaking up for her. Her gaze swept around the room. Everyone was calm and composed, exuding an aristocratic grace completely different from hers, even me—the fake heiress. She wanted to say more, but a light, chilling glance from me silenced her. A girl raised in wealth and privilege is fundamentally different from her. Moreover, for this scene today, she had deliberately made herself look particularly disheveled. Her intention was to make her blood relatives pity her, but standing here now, she just looked incredibly out of place. I watched the rapidly changing expressions on her face, guessing her inner thoughts. Suddenly, I felt a nudge on my arm. It was Lucas, the one who had just ordered Serena to be taken away. 3. I turned to look at him. “She’s an idiot. Don’t let it bother you.” His expression was cold, as if he weren’t talking about his own biological sister. “Of course not.” I had enough confidence to say those words. The Sterling family wouldn’t abandon me—the heir they had spent years grooming—for a biological daughter who appeared halfway through. “Maya, come with me.” Grandpa stood up from the sofa, pushing away the person trying to help him, and turned to look at me. “Yes, Grandpa,” I nodded, stepping forward to assist him. That night, the lights in the study stayed on for a long time. Everyone knew that the family’s hierarchy wouldn’t be undergoing any major changes. Serena’s appearance didn’t cause much of a ripple. Although the Sterlings acknowledged her identity, it had no impact on me whatsoever. I remained the most highly regarded heir of the Sterling family, the golden child. However, she did have some tricks up her sleeve. The Sterlings are generally very emotionally detached, valuing profit and usefulness above all else. Emotions are just a leisure activity to them. Yet, since her return, she frequently managed to bring a smile to Mrs. Sterling’s face. Acting sweet and spoiled in front of family members—she was certainly much better at making people like her than I was. It seemed that after the initial conflict on her first day back, she behaved very properly. Because of her docility, the Sterling family treated her much more kindly. Until one early morning, a commotion in the stairwell woke everyone up. The girl in the white dress lay on the broken pieces of a vase at the bottom of the stairs, looking in pain, blood seeping from beneath her. I stood at the top of the stairs, looking down at her expressionlessly… 4. “Mom, it hurts so much.” She didn’t immediately try to frame me. Instead, she looked at the people rushing out at the noise, teary-eyed and pitiful. Only then did everyone snap back to reality and hurriedly call for a doctor. “A setup?” Lucas stood beside me, yawning, and asked with a raised eyebrow. The scene just now would seem suspicious to anyone. I pressed my lips together, watching Serena lying there covered in injuries, and shook my head. At least she hadn’t directly framed me or condemned me. She just “accidentally” fell down the stairs as I walked past. There are security cameras here; she wouldn’t be stupid enough to say I pushed her. “What’s going on? How is it this serious?” Mrs. Sterling, Eleanor, rushed to her side, frowning. She didn’t know where to start—there were broken vase pieces everywhere, some embedded in Serena’s skin, and blood was staining the carpet. Serena’s face was growing paler by the second. Eleanor didn’t know where she was hurt or how serious it was, so she didn’t dare move her before the doctor arrived. But Serena didn’t care. Now was the best time to elicit sympathy. She struggled to lift her hand to grasp Eleanor’s hem. Eleanor frowned slightly, almost imperceptibly. “Mom…” “Don’t speak. The doctor will be here in a minute,” Eleanor stopped her, forcing Serena to swallow her unspoken words. “Should we go take a look?” Lucas, who had been watching, suggested. I nodded. “Don’t come over!” “Don’t come over.” Two simultaneous voices rang out. One from Serena, the other from Eleanor. Serena’s tone was agitated, clearly showing her extreme wariness of me. My footsteps halted. Lucas, however, walked over fearlessly. “Tsk, I’m over here now. What’s the problem?” He bent down slightly, his mocking gaze meeting Serena’s eyes. Finally, just as Serena was about to break, the ambulance arrived. 5. “Be careful of the glass shards. Wait for the housekeeper to clean it up before you come down.” Before Eleanor left, she suddenly turned and added this. It felt like an explanation for why she had stopped me earlier. I was a little stunned, unsure of how to react. Despite being mother and daughter for so many years, there hadn’t really been much warmth between us. I was raised by Grandpa, personally trained as his heir. The Sterlings were always emotionally distant; we only gathered for routine family dinners or major decisions. I rarely spent time with them, and there was no deep emotional bond. Our interactions were mostly just polite formalities. “What’s wrong? Are you dumbfounded?” Lucas bumped my shoulder, leaning over. “You’re very loud,” I said, looking up at him, my tone extremely serious. The smile froze on Lucas’s face, and he coughed awkwardly. He composed himself, then suddenly patted my shoulder, acting very mature: “Maya, this family is going to have to rely on you from now on.” I shot him a slightly disgusted look but didn’t contradict him. 6. After Serena got hurt, Eleanor stayed at the hospital to take care of her. It was only then that the rest of the Sterling family began to feel the reality of the situation. The Sterling family had an extra biological daughter, and she clearly wasn’t here with good intentions. The accidental injury, although inconclusive, raised a question: regardless of whether I hurt Serena out of jealousy, or she framed me out of resentment, it was clear we couldn’t get along. How would the Sterling family balance the relationship between the adopted daughter and the biological daughter? Although my position seemed unchanged for now, when it came to bloodlines versus capability, who could truly guess the intentions of those in power? For a time, there was a lot of hidden tension. Some were waiting for an opportunity, anticipating a major conflict. 7. “What are you doing here?” Serena sat up in her hospital bed, scoffing dismissively as she saw me walk in alone. I pulled up a chair and sat down, completely unfazed by her cold reception. “You must be feeling pretty proud of yourself, stealing everything that was mine, and still having the nerve to show your face here,” she said, her eyes filled with malice. “I didn’t steal anything from anyone. At least what I have now, I’ve earned,” I said, meeting her gaze. She was incredibly dismissive. “Earned? The identity of a Sterling daughter? The position of the heir? Maya, have you no shame?! Those things belong to me! You have no Sterling blood in you, how can you claim you earned them?!” She grabbed an apple from the bedside table and threw it at me. I dodged it, stood up, and looked at her for a long time. “You will always owe me! I will never let you have it easy, Maya!” Her face was contorted with intense bitterness. 8. The atmosphere was tense. Suddenly, there was a noise at the door; someone had arrived. Serena’s demeanor changed instantly. Her aggrieved, cautious voice filled the room: “Sister, I just wanted an apple. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked you to help me.” Eleanor pushed the door open just then. She glanced at Serena, who was biting her lip with tears in her eyes, then at the apple on the floor, and finally turned her gaze to me. “Your grandfather is looking for you. You should go back,” Eleanor said calmly, acting as if she hadn’t heard Serena. “Okay,” I nodded, turning to leave. Serena tightened her grip on the blanket, struggling to maintain her composure. “What else would you like to eat?” Before I left, I heard Eleanor’s soft, gentle inquiry. 9. In the Sterling estate’s garden, Serena was happily swinging on the swing set. Ever since she was discharged from the hospital, she had undergone a massive shift, at least in front of others, hiding her hostility toward me. I watched her through the window, an aura of freedom about her, and felt a pang of inexplicable envy. “Maya, it’s your turn.” With the click of a piece on the board, Grandpa’s deep voice sounded from across the table. I looked at the chessboard before me; my hand holding the white piece hovered, unable to make a move. There was nowhere to place it. It was a dead end. “Grandpa, I’ve lost,” I said, my voice hoarse. Under his gaze, all my emotions were laid bare. “Maya, you are different from the others. You should have known that from the day I took you in.” My mind wasn’t in the game, and he lost interest in starting another round. “…” I remained silent, offering no response. “The heir I choose will only ever be you. You carry the honor of the entire Sterling family.” He delivered this statement casually, settling the uncertain future. “But I don’t have Sterling blood, as you well know.” I looked up, confusion and bewilderment in my expression. Although I always answered confidently when facing others’ doubts, that deep-seated insecurity had always been suppressed at the very bottom of my heart. “I used to think bloodlines were the most important thing too. But Maya, I found out I was wrong.” He was looking right at me, yet his gaze felt distant, as if he were recalling something through me. The conversation ended there. Grandpa had long since left, but I sat there for a long time. At the time, I didn’t understand why he said that. 10. Actually, I had known for a long time that I wasn’t a Sterling. Or rather, Grandpa knew before I did. He told me himself when I was still too young to understand. He even took me to meet my biological parents and the little girl who was swapped with me—Serena. Unlike a typical baby swap scenario, my biological parents were also from a wealthy, established family, and they doted on Serena. To me, the biological daughter who suddenly appeared out of nowhere, they seemed a bit awkward. Aside from the biological connection, we were practically strangers. Love is built through time spent together. They favored the girl they had watched grow up, the one they saw every day. I didn’t know what kind of deal Grandpa made with them. My identity and Serena’s weren’t swapped back. But this secret was only known to Grandpa and me. No one else in the Sterling family knew. Back then, Grandpa frequently took me to visit the other family in secret. When I was young, Serena and I knew each other. Whenever I was with her, Grandpa would always watch us with a complex, hard-to-read expression. Until one time, I overheard him murmuring “Unfit for great things” while looking at Serena in the distance. I think I knew why Grandpa chose me. It was because I was smarter and more valuable, capable of becoming the qualified assistant he was grooming. I stayed smart because my biological parents didn’t choose me, and I couldn’t afford to lose Grandpa too. Later, Grandpa fell seriously ill. We didn’t go to that other family’s house for a long time. The next time I heard about them was from the rest of the Sterling family. 11. “The other company collapsed. Fate is truly unpredictable.” At a family gathering, they were discussing the fate of that other family. The parents had died in a sudden accident, and the opportunistic predators swarmed in. The empire crumbled overnight. I stood up abruptly from my seat, startling them. However, meeting Grandpa’s authoritative gaze, I swallowed the words I was about to say. I went to their funeral. They were my biological parents, yet I attended as a guest to pay my respects. “Grandpa, I don’t have a mom and dad anymore,” I said, staring blankly at the black-and-white photos, using a title I hadn’t been permitted to use. “You still have Grandpa.” He patted my head, his expression more affectionate than usual. I looked at him numbly, feeling an emptiness inside. Serena disappeared after the funeral. Grandpa changed his mind and didn’t bring her back to the Sterling family. He never brought up this biological granddaughter who was wandering the world again. Until many years later, a strange girl showed up at our door with a DNA report. This time, she seemed to have a completely different personality. 12. “Sister, look at the swing I just built!” I had just walked downstairs when Serena ran over, her face brimming with joy. Before she could take my arm, Lucas suddenly appeared. He blocked her path and sneered, “Do you have a split personality?” The sarcasm was ruthless. “No, I don’t. I just want to play with my sister.” Serena paled slightly. She was a little afraid of Lucas. “Our family doesn’t buy that act, understand? “If you have a problem with Maya, be upfront about it. Put it out in the open, and I can respect that. Stop playing these little games in the dark, pretending to be loving sisters. You’re not that close.” Lucas didn’t necessarily hate Serena; it was just his personality. He had always despised people who were devious and manipulative. The Sterling family had already acknowledged Serena’s bloodline. If she had maintained her firm stance from when she first returned and openly opposed me, he wouldn’t have taken sides later on. But she was always so fickle—one minute full of suspicion and deep resentment, the next, incredibly docile and sisterly. “I didn’t…” Her eyes suddenly turned red, and tears fell like pearls off a broken string. “You!” Seeing her cry on command, Lucas was about to say more but I tugged his arm to stop him. “What’s going on with you two?” It was Eleanor’s voice. 13. It turned out a maid had noticed the tension. Fearing she wouldn’t be able to explain if the young master and misses got into a fight, she had called Eleanor over. “N-nothing,” Serena said, wiping the tears from her cheeks. Her eyes were slightly red, and she offered a faint smile. She looked so carefully fragile it made your heart ache. “Lucas, behave yourself,” Eleanor said, rubbing her temples. They were all her children, whether biological or adopted. She didn’t demand they get along perfectly. But she also didn’t want to see a minor spat every three days and a major blowout every five. “I am behaving. Mom, don’t be biased. If she doesn’t get in my face, I won’t go looking for trouble with her,” Lucas said dismissively. “Alright, that’s enough. If you don’t get along, try to avoid each other. Serena, pack your things this afternoon; we’re leaving.” Eleanor came up with the best solution. They didn’t always live at the main estate; it was only because of the recent succession of events that they had stayed longer than usual. “Mom, do you not want me anymore? I’ll be good. I’m sorry, Sister. I won’t bother you anymore.” Serena misinterpreted her meaning, thinking this was an eviction. A flash of irritation crossed her eyes, but her face looked incredibly pitiful, terrified of being abandoned by her family. 14. “That’s not what I meant. We don’t usually live at the main estate. If you want to stay here, Maya can come back with us.” Eleanor frowned, observing her reaction. In the end, Serena left with Eleanor. Grandpa clearly didn’t value this granddaughter, and her staying wouldn’t change much. On the other hand, the rest of the Sterling family’s stance wasn’t as firm. Shortly after Serena went back with Eleanor, the news that the Sterling heir was an imposter, a cuckoo in the nest, began to circulate among the elite circles. Those who believed it hid in the shadows, waiting to see me fail, while those who didn’t treated it as a joke. At Grandpa’s birthday banquet, guests gathered in droves. The usually haughty heiresses gathered together to gossip about the true and fake heiress drama. “What? Is it true? Maya is just a stray bird?” “She’s always so arrogant. Turns out she’s a fake. That’s hilarious.” “You couldn’t tell before. She hid it well. Her methods must be ruthless. My parents were always praising her, and now her true colors are about to be exposed.” “I heard the real heiress suffered a lot wandering out there, but the Sterlings are refusing to acknowledge her to protect Maya.” “No way! Who would choose an outsider over their own blood to hand the family business to? Is old man Sterling losing his mind?” “You have to admit, Maya is capable. Even if you’re not biologically related, your parents would probably be willing to leave the business to you.” … That last sentence cut through the malicious speculations. A capable adopted daughter is far more reliable than a useless trust-fund baby. Moreover, this adopted daughter had been raised by his side since childhood. Aside from blood, there was no difference between her and a biological child. 15. The crowd’s expressions stiffened upon hearing this. Indeed, even for an only child, if they had no capability, parents wouldn’t hand over their hard-earned empire for them to ruin. “Julian, you’re engaged to the Sterling family’s biological daughter. It doesn’t look good for you to be defending Maya like this,” someone sneered at him, clearly displeased. “Mind your own business.” Julian gently swirled the red wine in his glass, his demeanor lazy, barely sparing them a glance. I leaned against the railing, watching the scene unfold. Whether it was slander, mockery, or defense, none of it stirred any emotion in me. “So here you are,” a familiar voice chimed in. Serena was dressed like a princess today, beautiful and innocent. Her dress had been custom-made by Eleanor herself. So, standing before me, she once again possessed the superiority of being the favored one. “That’s the heir of the Vance family, right? Do you like him? But I heard… he’s supposed to be my fiancé.” She glanced in Julian’s direction. She spoke with feigned distress. “Serena, you don’t need to come here and provoke me. What’s yours is yours; I can’t take it. What’s mine is mine, and the same applies to you.” I was long accustomed to her sudden shifts in demeanor. “Tsk, I hope you still have this much confidence when everyone abandons you.” She scoffed and turned away. When I looked back, I caught Julian’s eye from afar. He gave a slight smirk and raised his glass to me. I calmly looked away.

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Here we are again. Tim is asking for a divorce. The excuse this time? His newest little pet is throwing a tantrum for a ring and a title. She’s young, he tells me, his tone practically bleeding with faux sympathy. Too fragile to be kept in the shadows. He strokes my arm, soothing me with promises that as soon as he gets bored of her, we’ll remarry. I just need to be a good girl and sign the papers. He says it with the casual ease of a man asking me to pick up dry cleaning, completely untroubled, as if dismantling our marriage is just a minor administrative hiccup. I put on my best performance, my voice trembling just the right amount as I ask if he truly means it this time. He barely glances at me. “I never lie, Cora.” He follows it up with a smug, self-assured smirk, reminding me that no one else has ever lasted more than six months by his side. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it. I carefully scan the divorce settlement, letting my eyes drop to the very bottom of the page, tracing the delightfully long string of zeros next to my name. The heavy, suffocating knot in my chest finally unravels. This is the one-hundredth time my husband has asked me for a divorce. For the previous ninety-nine times, he put on grand, theatrical shows to appease whatever little sugar baby he was keeping in a gilded cage. And every single time the ink dried on the final decree, the alimony hit my offshore accounts with the precision of a Swiss watch. What Tim doesn’t know is that my greatest, most paralyzing fear is that one day, he might stop being so impulsive. 1 Tim stepped out of the en-suite, aggressively towel-drying his damp hair. “Cora, don’t forget. We need to file the papers with the city clerk tomorrow morning.” I stood by the doorframe, the freshly signed separation agreement clutched to my chest. He opened his mouth to add something, but his phone buzzed. “…Relax, babe. I won’t even touch her. You know you’re the only one I want…” His voice dropped an octave, dripping with a sickening kind of intimacy. “Little brat. I’ll deal with you later…” I thoughtfully pulled the bathroom door shut to give him privacy and wandered out onto the balcony of the Hamptons estate. The night was thick and dark. Out here, the silence of the sprawling, isolated grounds felt almost melancholic. A few minutes later, Tim emerged, car keys jingling in his hand. He caught sight of my desolate silhouette against the moonlight, and his footsteps faltered. For a second, I thought he might actually possess the patience to comfort me. “Can’t bear to let me go?” he murmured, coming up behind me. “I know, I know. But this one… she’s a headache. Be good for me, Cora. This is the last time. I swear it. The absolute last time.” My eyes went wide in the dark. A cold sweat broke out along my spine. The last time? What does he mean, the last time? No, no, no. Please, keep your terrible habits. I quickly molded my face into an expression of pathetic dependency, turning to look up at him. “You’re so good to me, Tim.” My voice broke perfectly. “I never want you to be unhappy. I’d do anything for you.” He leaned down, his eyes searching mine. “I love you, Cora. We promised each other forever. These girls? They’re just playtime. You are the real Mrs. Vanderbilt. You always will be.” He straightened up, his gaze sweeping over the oceanfront property. “Standard protocol. This house is yours now.” My hands began to tremble. Truly tremble. He paused midway through buttoning his tailored coat, reaching out to pat my cheek. “Do whatever you want with it. Just don’t be sad.” His thumb brushed my cheekbone. “Be at City Hall on time tomorrow.” The front door clicked shut. He was gone. I collapsed onto the plush velvet sofa, all the feigned weakness draining from my bones as I looked around the magnificent estate with deep, unadulterated satisfaction. During our previous ninety-nine divorces, I had liquidated every single property he had ever signed over to me. The first time he found out I had sold our actual marital home, he was furious. He demanded to know why. I remember looking at him with trembling lips and eyes swimming in fabricated agony. “Tim, you don’t understand. Every time I looked at those walls, I just saw the moment you told me you were leaving me. I… I couldn’t breathe in there…” I had let the sentence hang, choking on an imaginary sob. He had pulled me into his arms, the guilt in his eyes entirely genuine. “I get it. Shh, don’t say another word, Cora. It was too painful.” From that day on, every time we inevitably reconciled and moved into a new place, he made sure the deed was solely in my name. When the divorce cycle repeated, the house was mine to do with as I pleased. For the first ninety-eight times, I played it safe. I never chose properties that were too obscenely expensive, terrified he might see through my facade and decide not to remarry me. But this Hamptons estate? He picked this one himself. It was easily worth nine figures. I didn’t even wait for the sun to rise. I called my luxury real estate brokers immediately. When they arrived, they took one look at me and smiled. We were old friends by now. Regulars. They weren’t just familiar with me; they knew Tim’s habits inside out. After all, I used them to sell the properties, and whenever Tim wanted to buy a new one to woo me back, he used them too, purely for convenience. They moved through the house with practiced efficiency, snapping photos, recording video walkthroughs, and taking inventory of the designer furniture. I sat curled up on the sofa, clutching my phone to my chest, my eyes rubbed raw and red. Tim called one of the brokers. “How is she? Is she crying?” He did this every time. Whenever he initiated a divorce, he obsessively checked in with the people around me, needing to know if I was falling apart. As if it proved the depth of his love. “Mrs. Vanderbilt is…” The broker caught herself, likely responding to whatever correction he barked on the other end. “Yes, Mr. Vanderbilt. Miss Su looks entirely devastated. Her eyes are so red.” I had been reading a particularly tragic romance novel on my phone for the last hour. The female lead’s misery was practically infectious. The broker hung up and looked at me with genuine pity. “He is such a toxic bastard.” I gave a pathetic little sniffle. “No, you don’t understand him. Deep down, he has a good heart.” The team of women looked at me like I was a hopeless, brainwashed relic. But business was business. As they packed up their lighting equipment, the lead broker winked. “Next time you need to buy, you know who to call. Loyalty discount. Twenty percent off the commission.” I didn’t say a word. They didn’t know. There wasn’t going to be a next time. 2 Tim and I had barely stepped out of the courthouse in downtown Manhattan when my phone began to ring. It was Margot, his adopted sister. She had harbored a borderline obsessive crush on him since childhood. The moment I answered, her voice was a sharp, interrogating whip. “Cora. Did you actually sign the papers? Tell me it’s real this time.” Margot had been waiting like a vulture in the wings for ninety-nine divorces, desperate to claim him. But Tim was the kind of man who would flirt with a passing shadow, yet he flat-out refused to look at his adopted sister that way. It drove her absolutely insane. I held the phone a few inches from my ear to save my eardrums. “We just filed the petition. The cooling-off period is a month. We get the final decree after that. Margot, have I ever lied to you?” If we were being entirely honest, Margot was essentially my third-biggest financial backer. Every time Tim and I reconciled, she would track me down, slam a terrifyingly large check on the table, and demand I leave him. And every time, I nodded, took the money, and agreed. “Who is that?” Tim demanded, his eyes narrowing. Usually, the second the paperwork was filed, Tim was already in his sports car, peeling away to his newest conquest. But today, he seemed oddly reluctant. We were supposed to file yesterday, but he dragged his feet for three days until I finally had to gently nag him into coming. “It’s Margot.” His face instantly relaxed. “She’s just a spoiled kid throwing a tantrum. Don’t let her get to you, babe.” Whenever Margot crossed a line, Tim always expected me to be the bigger person. I nodded, offering him a frail, tragic smile. “I know, Tim. I know she’s just acting out.” My compliance instantly irritated him. “You do know she’s in love with me, right? Does that seriously not make you jealous?” I let the tears well up in my eyes, letting them hover right on the brim without falling. My chin quivered. “How can you say that to me? It’s not that I’m not jealous. It’s that… I have no choice.” I looked utterly, profoundly broken. A flash of genuine pain crossed Tim’s features. He reached out, his thumb brushing my jaw. “Shh, babe, I’m sorry. I know. It’s the last time. Once I get this out of my system, I’m coming right back to you. No more drama, okay?” I nodded helplessly. What else could I do? He opened his mouth to say something more, but his phone rang. He answered it, his expression hardening into annoyance, before walking back over to me. “The little birds are getting restless. I’ve got to go. Call an Uber, alright?” That’s right. This time, he didn’t just have one sugar baby. He had a pair. Sisters. He didn’t even wait for my response before turning on his heel and striding toward his waiting driver. I let out a long, shuddering breath. Thank god. 3 The truth is, the very first time I found out Tim was cheating on me—the first time he demanded a divorce so he could marry his mistress—I fought it. I fought hard. Tim was the one who chased me. He didn’t care that I was an orphan with nothing to my name. He didn’t care that I didn’t come from a legacy family. He spent four years of college pursuing me relentlessly. After graduation, to prove he wanted to marry me, he knelt outside his mother’s study in their Upper East Side townhouse for three entire days. Eventually, his mother called me in for a meeting. She didn’t mince words. “The Vanderbilt men,” she said, her voice like chilled glass, “are incapable of fidelity. It is a genetic rot. He has his father’s exact temperament. I am not refusing this marriage to protect him. I am doing it to protect you.” Her gaze drifted to the antique, centuries-old molding of the study. Her tone grew heavy with the ghosts of the women who came before us. “Girl… I do not want to watch another flower wither away inside the walls of this house.” She was sincere. But I was young, and I was so incredibly stupid. I thought my love was the exception. How could Tim be like them? This was the boy who would wake up at dawn just to bring me hot coffee in bed. The man who abandoned multi-million-dollar board meetings just to sit with me because I had a mild fever. Young girls are so easily snared by those fleeting moments of intense, cinematic devotion. We mistake grand gestures for a safe harbor, and by the time we realize we’re drowning, we’re too far from the shore. I wasn’t lying to the realtors earlier. That first divorce destroyed me. Standing in the middle of the penthouse we had decorated together, my heart felt like it was being ripped through my ribcage. I knew, even then, that even if it was just a phase, even if we eventually found our way back to each other, the betrayal had carved a canyon in my chest. It was a wound that would never fully close. One touch, and I would bleed out all over again. You can’t just tie a severed string back together and pretend the knot isn’t there. But knowing the truth doesn’t make leaving any easier. I couldn’t let go. On the night he proposed to his first mistress, I snapped. I took a blade to my wrists in our marble bathroom. Watching the crimson pool on the pristine white tiles, a sudden, pathetic wave of desperation hit me. I just wanted a crumb of affection from the man who had discarded me. I reached for my phone with bloody fingers and dialed his number. It rang and rang and rang before he finally picked up. “Cora. Didn’t I tell you not to contact me until the papers are finalized?” His voice was thick with annoyance. “Stop causing scenes. Just be a good girl. I’ll come find you when the novelty wears off.” “Don’t make me angry, Cora, or I really will leave you for good.” “Tim… I…” My voice was a ragged, wet whisper. I wanted to beg him not to leave me behind. I wanted him to come home. He caught the terrifying weakness in my breath. He paused. Then, his voice dropped to a glacial sneer. “What now? Faking an illness to guilt-trip me? Stop being so damn pathetic, Cora.” The line went dead. I lay there, the cold seeping into my bones, and in that agonizing silence, something inside me crystallized. I didn’t want to die. I wasn’t the one who broke our vows. I wasn’t the one who threw away our life. Why the hell should I be the one bleeding out on a bathroom floor? I managed to dial 911. When I woke up in the stark, sterile hospital room, the space beside my bed was empty and cold. That was the moment my love for Tim Vanderbilt finally died. I decided, right then and there, that I would leave him and never, ever look back. But that was also the moment it happened. As I hovered in that liminal space between life and death, a voice—cold, mechanical, and entirely divorced from reality—echoed in my skull. It called itself the 100-Divorce Protocol. It laid out a cosmic, inescapable bargain: Survive, but only if I completed one hundred divorces from Tim. If I failed, if I walked away before the quota was met, the death I had just escaped would reclaim me. I tried to refuse. I had just accepted death, hadn’t I? Why should I be afraid? “Because the death I give you will not be a quiet fading,” the voice had whispered in my mind. “It will be violent. It will be agonizing. And there will be nothing left of your beauty.” It knew my vanity. I could accept dying. I couldn’t accept being butchered. So, I made the deal. 4 I stood on the steps of the courthouse, raising a hand to shield my eyes from the glaring afternoon sun. “Get in.” Margot’s perfectly contoured face appeared from the rolled-down window of a sleek black Maybach. She never trusted me. Every time I came to file the papers, she had to see it with her own eyes. I didn’t argue. I slid into the rich leather interior. “Where am I staying this time?” She rolled her eyes, her lips pressing into a thin line of disgust. She didn’t even want to waste her breath on me. I understood. The pure, unadulterated arrogance of a legacy heiress. This was the ninety-ninth time. Margot was always paranoid that I would refuse to leave the marital home, so the moment I stepped out of City Hall with her brother, she would have a team of movers pack up my life and dump it into whatever condo she had purchased for me as a parting gift. “If you really have nowhere to go, I guess you’d just keep clinging to my brother,” she scoffed. “Giving you a condo is just charity.” “Drop the starving-artist act. I know exactly what kind of parasite you are,” she sneered, looking out the window. “All that ‘I don’t care about the money’ nonsense. You’re just playing the long game. Reeling him in for the big payout. Too bad my idiot brother is entirely blind to it.” Honestly? Margot was incredibly perceptive. I wasn’t playing the starving artist. Every time Tim and I got back together, I quietly listed the condo she had “gifted” me, sold it to the highest bidder, and wired the cash straight to my offshore accounts. But today, Margot didn’t take me straight to the new apartment. She directed her driver to Fifth Avenue. “This one. That one. And this entire rack. Wrap it all up.” She stood half a head taller than me, her eyes raking over my outfit with unfiltered disdain. To play the perfect, devoted “trad-wife,” my wardrobe consisted entirely of soft pastels, modest hemlines, and sensible flats. Low-profile. Submissive. Economical. Under the envious, wide-eyed stares of the luxury boutique staff, I watched a mountain of garment bags pile up. Next, she dragged me to an ultra-exclusive med-spa and salon, ordering a top-to-bottom overhaul. When it was over, I found myself staring at a stranger in the full-length mirror. I was entirely captivated by my own reflection. A champagne silk slip dress draped perfectly over my curves, the asymmetrical neckline highlighting my collarbones. A heavy collar of pink and blue sapphires rested against my skin, paired with a matching, brilliantly cut sapphire bracelet on my wrist. I looked lethal. Radiant and breathtakingly expensive. I swallowed hard, pushing down the intoxicating surge of vanity, and gently touched the cold stones. I looked at Margot nervously. “You aren’t going to make me give these back after I wear them, are you?” Margot inhaled deeply, looking at me like I was a peasant who had just crawled out of a sewer. “Who the hell would want to wear jewelry you’ve sweated on? If I put it on you, it’s yours. Shut up and stop being so embarrassing.” …Her temper really was atrocious. But god, I loved her. 5 Margot dragged me to an invite-only jewelry auction. I quickly pieced together the situation: This was the premier social event of the season. Tim had originally promised to be Margot’s escort, but those two little birds of his had kept him tied up in bed, forcing him to cancel on his sister. Margot was furious. She wanted blood. She wanted to force his new toys into a room with his “devastated” ex-wife and watch the fireworks. We arrived fashionably late. The moment we stepped into the gilded ballroom, the air shifted. A hundred pairs of eyes locked onto me. Shock. Pity. Predatory intrigue. In the past, whenever news leaked that Tim had initiated a divorce, I vanished. I became a ghost, refusing to be seen in the same zip code as him. The socialites in the room couldn’t hide their ravenous excitement. The quiet, long-suffering Mrs. Vanderbilt is finally going to bare her teeth. Tim heard the murmurs. He was seated in the VIP front row. He turned his head, and his eyes landed on me. His broad shoulders went rigid. A dark, stormy shadow crossed his face, his brows knitting together in a heavy scowl. The sheer weight of his stare was suffocating. I played my part perfectly. I shrank under his gaze, lowering my eyes, looking utterly miserable and out of place as I meekly followed Margot to our seats. “Um, Margot… I don’t have the kind of money for—” She didn’t even look at me. Her eyes were laser-focused on Tim, who was currently whispering sweet nothings to his two little accessories in the front row. “Shut up.” I clamped my mouth shut. Hey, don’t blame me when the bill comes due. I knew exactly what I was doing. She was using me as a human shield to humiliate the new girls. Right on cue, the older of the two sisters gasped at a pair of flawless emerald drop earrings displayed on the stage. Tim raised his paddle. Margot glanced sideways at me. “You want them?” Before I could even open my mouth, she nodded to herself. “You want them.” She raised her paddle. The room erupted into hushed, electrified whispers. “Oh, this is going to be good.” “Tim has been so brazen lately. Didn’t they say his wife was a doormat who never fought back?” “What is going on? And why did he bring Margot?” “You idiot, Margot brought her to use her as a weapon against the mistresses.” “I mean, Tim really crossed the line this time. Buying them penthouses is one thing, but didn’t he basically propose in public? That’s a slap in the face to his actual wife.” “No woman could tolerate that.” “Please. What can she do? She’ll throw a little fit, and then she’ll go right back to wagging her tail for him. She’s pathetic.” “Quiet, the bidding is starting.”

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Standing on that familiar street corner for the third time, the fog finally lifted. The marriage contract—that piece of paper I’d treated like a holy relic—was worthless. Ewan was right about that. But what he never understood was that those four words of his, tossed out like spare change, had cost me two separate lifetimes of youth. The same “chance” encounters. The same blurred lines and late-night invitations. I was foolish enough to say yes twice. He used to praise me for being “sensible,” for my “grace,” and my “boundless patience.” Then he’d turn around and use those very virtues as a blade to gut every promise he ever made. “A title is just a piece of paper,” he told me—twice. And both times, I walked away with nothing, not even a fake identity to cling to. I realized too late that some forms of tenderness aren’t a sanctuary; they’re just the knife you sharpen for your own throat. 1 By the third time I “accidentally” ran into Ewan, I was nearly thirty. In the eyes of the world, that’s the age where you’re supposed to stop being reckless. You’re supposed to have figured out that fire burns. And yet, there I was, thirty years old, standing on the edge of the Pacific, watching the tide come in. It wasn’t raining. The sun was mild, filtered through a haze of gray clouds, but I still held my umbrella up like a shield. Ewan stood beside me, draped in a cashmere overcoat that cost more than most people’s cars. “So, you actually came,” he said. I didn’t answer. I just watched the water. The setting sun hit the waves, turning the ocean into a sheet of hammered gold, shimmering and restless. A breeze kicked up, and I caught his scent. Spring Embers. It was the fragrance I had custom-blended for him years ago. I hadn’t expected him to still be wearing it. I felt a ghost of a tremor in my hands as he continued, “Does this mean what I think it means?” Does it? I didn’t know. I just remembered two years ago, when I’d burned our world down in a fit of rage and left him for the second time. Ewan had just caught my wrist, his expression maddeningly calm, and tucked a stray hair behind my ear with a smile. “When the regret hits you, go back to where we first met,” he’d whispered. “I’ll be there to pick you up.” Back then, I thought that was love. I thought it was his way of saying he’d always wait for me. Now, I saw the truth. He didn’t care why I screamed, and he didn’t care why I left. He just wanted to witness my eventual surrender. He was addicted to the sight of me regretting my independence because he was certain I couldn’t survive without him. When I didn’t offer an answer, he didn’t push. He never did. He just said, “Walk with me.” He didn’t wait for a reply. He just started walking. I watched his silhouette for a moment, then looked at the sun dipping below the horizon. Then, I followed. I did regret leaving. But not for the reasons he thought. I regretted leaving because, when I walked away, I hadn’t taken a single cent of what he owed me. 2 I went back to him. Still no ring, no title, no “Mrs.” At first, the novelty of the reunion gave him a high. He took me everywhere. He introduced me to his inner circle as “the one he was going to spend his life with.” Everyone laughed. I laughed, too. Later that night, I stepped out to use the restroom, and as I walked back toward the private lounge, I heard the muffled voices of his friends through the heavy oak door. “So, is the king finally retiring his jersey? I don’t buy it,” someone joked. Ewan let out a sharp, dismissive laugh. “Give me a break. I’ve cycled through enough of them to know that Jo is just… easier. She’s intuitive. She’s smart. She knows what I need before I even have to say it.” There was a pause, the sound of a lighter clicking. “If I actually have to get married one day, she’s the logical choice. Even if her little tantrums are getting a bit exhausting.” See? There’s no such thing as a reformed playboy. There’s just a tired runner looking for a place to sit down. The room went quiet for a beat before another friend spoke up. “I’ll put money on it. Ewan won’t last a month this time.” Suddenly, the room turned into a sportsbook. One month. One week. Six months. Ewan told them all to go to hell, but he didn’t stop them. He even threw a stack of bills on the table himself. “One year,” he declared. I felt a laugh bubbling up in my chest. I couldn’t help it. The door opened, and a server nearly bumped into me. “Oh! Ma’am, are you going in?” The room went dead silent. I pushed the door open and scanned the faces of the men sitting there. They were looking at me with that pathetic kind of pity, waiting for the explosion, waiting for me to scream at Ewan and make a scene. Instead, I walked straight to the table. I took the black card Ewan had given me as a “welcome home” gift and tossed it onto the pile of cash. “I’ll bet two weeks,” I said. A playboy might never change his spots, but a dog will always return to his vomit. It’s the law of nature. The shock in the room was palpable. Ewan sat there, his face darkening into a mask of cold confusion. I leaned down and pressed a light kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Don’t look so serious, darling,” I whispered. “We’re all just having a bit of fun, aren’t we?” His brow furrowed. I knew exactly why he was unsettled. I was using his own lines on him. Whenever I used to get upset about the rotating cast of women in his life, he’d kiss me just like that and tell me not to be so sensitive—that it was all just a joke. Now, I had learned the script. It’s hard work making a living off a man like him, and it’s even harder to swallow the pride that comes with it. But as long as the lights are off and the checks clear, you can learn to tolerate almost anything. Ewan wasn’t happy, though. That night, he wrapped his arms around me from behind in the dark. “You don’t believe a word I say anymore, do you? Jo, this time… it’s real.” I didn’t tell him if I believed him or not. I just turned in his arms and kissed him again. “I know.” There are a lot of ways to “spend a life” with someone. Being a quiet ghost in his bed was just one of them. 3 I lost the bet. Ewan lasted two weeks. He actually lasted six months. For half a year, he was a saint. No late nights, no mysterious “business dinners,” no perfume on his collar that wasn’t mine. People started whispering that the lion had finally been tamed. They told me I was lucky, that I’d hit the jackpot by catching him at the right time. Lucky? I didn’t think so. Sure enough, in the seventh month, Ewan came back from a business trip with a girl in tow. A recent college grad. “This is Penny. She’s a new intern. Find a place for her,” he said, avoiding my eyes as he spoke. I looked at her. She was young, vibrant, and had that specific look in her eyes—the look of someone who thinks she’s the first person to ever discover fire. I saw my own ghost in her. “Which department, Ewan?” I asked. He finally looked at me. We stared at each other for a long, heavy moment. The silence grew so awkward that even Penny started to fidget. “Wherever you think is best,” Ewan snapped, then turned and walked away. Wherever I think? Right. I turned to Penny. She was beaming at me with that dangerous kind of innocence. “He told me he wanted me to work directly under him,” she said. I nodded. Her fate was already decided. Why he felt the need to go through the charade of asking me was almost funny. 4 I gave the King what he wanted. I placed the intern right in his shadow. That evening, when he got home, he pulled me into a hug. “Are you jealous?” I looked down at the pot of soup I was stirring, shaking my head slowly. “No.” And I meant it. I’d seen this movie before. I knew the ending. But Ewan didn’t like my composure. He wanted the fire. He wanted the fight. “Don’t be jealous,” he murmured, trying to soothe me. “There’s nothing going on. I just saw potential in her at the branch office and brought her back. You know I have a weakness for talent. Don’t make things difficult for her just to spite me, okay?” I listened to him, and the irony was almost too much to bear. This wasn’t a comfort; it was a warning. But I couldn’t blame him for being cautious. I had a history, after all. I’d once made life a living hell for an assistant I thought was crossing the line. I understood his fear. I turned around, draped my arms around his neck, and kissed the tip of his nose. “I won’t. I promise.” Ewan didn’t say anything. He just stared at me, a flicker of something—uncertainty, maybe—crossing his eyes. I ignored it and smoothed his lapels. “Dinner’s almost ready. Go wash up.” He didn’t move immediately. He stood in the kitchen doorway for a minute or two, watching me with a look of deep suspicion. It was as if he was searching for the “old” me, the one who would have shattered the soup tureen over his head. When he finally left, I caught my reflection in the dark kitchen window. I was smiling perfectly. Ewan didn’t realize that the bet—the one about when he’d get bored of me—had never actually ended. But this time, I wasn’t betting on him failing. I was betting on him staying. When you can’t get love, you might as well get equity. He kept telling me there was nothing with Penny, but soon he was leaving me behind to take her on trips and to gala dinners. He gave her the best team, personally coached her on her first deals. Anything she wanted, Ewan handed to her on a silver platter. Including a major contract I had spent two weeks of overtime securing. In his office, Ewan stood with his back to me. “The Henderson account is ready for signing, right?” “Yes,” I said. “Package the files. Give them to Penny to handle the closing.” “Penny is an assistant,” I said, glancing at her. She was standing by his desk, giving me that wide-eyed, “innocent” smile. “Since when do assistants close six-figure deals?” Ewan still wouldn’t look at me. “That’s not your concern. Just get the files to her. Now.” He paused, finally turning around. “Jo, you’re a senior lead. Mentoring new talent is part of your—” I cut him off with a soft nod. “Fine. The files are ready. She can come to my office and pick them up.” Now it was Ewan’s turn to be stunned. He looked at me, searching for the crack in the armor. “Is that it?” I smiled. “What else would there be?” He looked away, muttering, “Nothing.” As I left the office, Penny scurried after me. Once we were out of his earshot, she skipped up to walk beside me. “I’m so sorry, Jo. Truly. Ewan says I need the ‘experience,’ and he insisted I take this client. I really didn’t have a choice.” She was practically glowing. I kept my voice polite. “It’s fine.” She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a sugary whisper. “You’re actually dying inside, aren’t you?” I stopped walking and looked at her. The innocence was gone. Her face was twisted into a smirk. “Why do you keep up the act, Jo? Everyone knows how you got to where you are. We’re the same, you and I. But you should probably face facts: you can’t compete with me. I’m young. You’re… well, you’re past your expiration date.” If thirty was expired, Ewan belonged in a museum. I laughed softly. “You’re right. I can’t compete with a girl who has to steal her wins because she doesn’t have the talent to earn them. Good luck, you useless little brat.” The color drained from her face. When she snatched the files from my hand, the smugness was gone. I wasn’t angry. Stealing a contract is easy. Managing a client like Henderson? That takes actual skill. Sure enough, forty-eight hours later, the explosion happened. Henderson pulled the account and issued a formal statement: they would never work with Ewan’s firm again. Penny was hysterical in Ewan’s office. “I… I didn’t know he was so sensitive about the materials! I was just trying to save the company money! I didn’t think he’d care about a minor substitution… Jo’s files didn’t say anything about it!” She had tried to swap out high-grade raw materials for cheap alternatives to pad the margins. In the world of luxury manufacturing, that’s the ultimate sin. And she had the nerve to call it “saving money.” I watched her cry and had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing. “The notes were in the file, Penny,” I said calmly. “Page ten, point six. ‘Never substitute grade.’ Should I have used a highlighter? Or maybe a larger font?” Penny wailed harder. Youth is a weapon, and tears are its ammunition. Ewan immediately stepped in front of her, shielding her from me. “That’s enough!” he barked. “Snide remarks aren’t helping anyone right now!” He looked at me with a coldness that would have frozen my blood a year ago. “I don’t care how you do it, Jo. Fix this. Get Henderson back.” In the old days, I would have thrown my badge at him. Now, I just nodded. “Understood.” 5 Ewan didn’t get home until 9:00 PM that night. He handed me a small velvet box. Inside was a pair of diamond studs. It was his version of an olive branch—and a warning. It was him telling me to take the bribe and shut up. I took them, glanced at them, and set the box on the entryway table. “You don’t like them?” he asked, his voice tight. I gave him a bored smile. “They’re fine.” Ewan frowned. “Then why aren’t you wearing them?” “Oh, I don’t really wear ‘bonus’ gifts.” “They aren’t a bonus—” I pulled out my phone and pulled up a text thread from Penny. I held it out so he could see. “Penny told me they were a ‘gift with purchase,’” I said. “She said I was so ‘affordable’ that I only deserved the freebies.” The screen showed a photo Penny had sent me of a high-end necklace Ewan had bought her. The caption read: Ewan bought me this, and he got something for you too, Jo! But it’s just the free gift they give to big spenders. He told me you’re so cheap, you wouldn’t know the difference anyway. Ewan’s face went pale, then a mottled red. He opened his mouth to defend himself, then closed it. He looked at me, his voice a low rasp. “And you’re not angry?” I looked up at him, tilting my head. “Why would I be? You’re both right. I am cheap. I mean, look at me. I came back to you for absolutely nothing. I’d say that’s a pretty low price tag.” “Stop smiling!” Ewan suddenly roared, his composure snapping. “How can you sit there and smile while people call you cheap?” My smile didn’t waver. “Why shouldn’t I? You’re the one who started saying it first.” Ewan had no comeback for that. He stared at me for a long beat, then turned around and slammed the door as he walked out. Really, I don’t know what he was so worked up about. I wasn’t even mad. 6 Ewan didn’t come home for days. His phone stayed silent. No texts, no “where are you” calls. In the past, if he vanished for twenty-four hours, I would have blown up his phone. This time, I didn’t send a single message. I went about my life as if he didn’t exist.

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In the highest echelons of New York’s elite, he was known as the untouchable young master. After a single night of absurd mistakes, he, a man famous for his strict adherence to propriety, took the initiative to propose marriage and take responsibility. But he didn’t love me. After we married, no matter how hard I tried, he kept me at arm’s length. He was as cold and detached as a monk. Until a woman appeared who perfectly matched all his criteria for a partner. He became completely captivated by her, losing sleep over her. It turned out he wasn’t devoid of human desires and emotions after all. He just didn’t have them for me. 1 At 1:00 AM, Julian Sterling came home. He seemed surprised that I was still awake. “I told you, you don’t need to wait up for me.” “But I want to,” I smiled and leaned against him. “It’s only natural for a wife to wait for her husband to come home.” He paused in the middle of taking off his watch. “Suit yourself.” The living room was lit by only a single small lamp. In the dim light, the man’s features were so perfect he hardly looked human. Every time I looked at him closely, my heart swelled with a heavy sigh. “I missed you a lot today—” My words were cut off. Julian frowned and looked at me. “What are you wearing?” I said, “It’s a new nightgown. Do you like it?” “Don’t do this kind of thing again.” He turned and walked toward the guest bedroom. “Julian,” I called out to stop him. “Today is my birthday. Can’t you just spend some time with me?” He paused. “Happy birthday. I’m pretty tired today. We’ll talk later.” He walked into the room and locked the door behind him. Leaving me standing alone in the living room in a semi-transparent nightgown, feeling like an absolute fool. We had been married for six months, and Julian had consistently kept me at arm’s length. No matter how I tried to seduce him, he remained entirely unmoved. Like a monk devoid of all worldly desires. The media always said Julian Sterling was different from the other playboy heirs. The Sterling family was notoriously strict, raising the most principled and proper young master in New York high society. But I had seen his other side. The crazy, unhinged side. Having seen it once, I was desperate to see it again. But Julian’s actions told me that that night was nothing more than an accident. My phone buzzed. It was a message from my best friend, Chloe. “Have you seen Twitter?… If you haven’t, promise me you won’t get mad.” What happened? I logged onto Twitter, and a glaring headline immediately caught my eye. #JulianSterlingLateNightRendezvousWithBeauty Oh, I knew this beauty. She was Julian’s new secretary. 2 The comment section was a flood of people enjoying the drama. [Congratulations to Mr. Sterling on finding true love!] [Bring the divorce papers! Hurry up and divorce that manipulative bitch Scarlett Hayes!!] [Scarlett Hayes even posted a PDA tweet today. Bet her face stings now.] [Is there anyone left who doesn’t know how Scarlett Hayes set up a one-night stand to force a marriage?…] So, Julian was with his new secretary tonight. I had seen that girl before. Twenty-two years old, fresh out of college. Very young, very pretty, and full of vibrant energy. Most importantly, she perfectly matched Julian’s criteria for a partner. They met at a college recruiting event. Julian had gone to give a speech personally, and that girl, full of nerve, was the first to raise her hand to ask a question. After the event, Julian specifically pulled her resume and stared at it for a long time. To everyone’s surprise, this girl went straight into the position of Executive Secretary. It’s worth noting that Julian’s secretarial team wielded immense power. Even the HR department had no authority over them; only he could appoint them personally. Following the clues provided by netizens, I found the girl’s social media account. An hour ago, she posted an update. [Can’t hold my liquor well, thanks to my kind boss for driving me home, hehe.] In the photo, she was sitting in the passenger seat, capturing Julian’s hand resting on the steering wheel. 3 Early the next morning. As soon as Julian walked out of his room, he saw me. “Do you have a shoot today?” “No.” “Then why are you up so early?” “What were you doing last night?” “The executive office had a team-building dinner.” “A team-building dinner for a group of people, or a team-building dinner for two?” “What do you mean?” I pulled up the trending topic and threw my phone at him. Julian glanced at it and said dismissively, “The media takes things out of context. There were six people at that dinner.” “Is that so? Should I believe you?” “Scarlett, don’t be unreasonable. You know better than anyone how the media twists things.” He was right. After all, looking across the entire entertainment industry right now, there probably wasn’t an actress more hated than me. The media played a huge role in that. But those were two entirely different things. I cut straight to the point: “Do you like her? That secretary fresh out of college.” “No.” Faced with my direct question, Julian remained as calm and composed as ever. “Furthermore, I also don’t appreciate your wild accusations. If you have too much free time, I’ll have your agency book you more jobs.” He spoke as if addressing a subordinate. Not a wife. I said, “I remember your ideal type. Under 5’7″, long straight black hair, a clean aura, energetic and smiley. She fits every single one.” And I fit none of them. I was known for being cold, glamorous, and sharp. Julian was getting annoyed. “Are you done? If you’re done, I’m going to the office.” “Fine, go. Today I will tell the media that Lily Carter is a homewrecker who sleeps with married men—” Julian stopped dead in his tracks. When he looked back at me, there was actual anger in his eyes. “Lily Carter is only twenty-two. She’s just a kid. Are you really trying to ruin her life with rumors?” God knows how long it had been since I last saw Julian angry. The wrath of a king for a beauty—it’s just a shame the beauty wasn’t me. I said, “Julian, do you even remember how old I am? “Yesterday, I just turned twenty-five. “I am only three years older than her. “When I was being dragged through the mud by the entire internet, did your heart ever ache for me?” 4 My feelings for Julian started when I was eighteen. I grew up in a single-parent household. During my senior year of high school, my mom fell severely ill. I didn’t go to college. After graduation, I went to work at a high-end club to raise money for her medical bills. I worked a legitimate job—strictly serving drinks, nothing else. But because of my looks, I occasionally faced verbal harassment from male customers. The manager always said the customer is god. If I didn’t want to get fired, I just had to endure it. One day, I ran into a particularly difficult customer. “How old are you, little girl? Oh, eighteen? So young. You’re a waitress here? Aside from serving drinks, do you offer any other services?” A group of men burst into sleazy laughter. “You don’t? Stop pretending. Your uncle here isn’t just rich, I’m very capable too. Come home with me tonight and you’ll see. I guarantee I’ll make you feel so good you’ll be screaming.” It was disgusting. He wanted to continue harassing me, but before he could finish his sentence, a glass of liquor suddenly rained down from above, soaking him completely. “Who the fuck—” Seeing the man who threw it, the customer froze. “Mr… Mr. Sterling, what is the meaning of this?” “Apologize to her.” 5 That was the first time I heard Julian’s voice. Cool and crisp, like pearls snapping off a string and falling onto a porcelain plate. He was there to negotiate a business deal. I figured if it weren’t for work, he would never set foot in a place like this. Because he was completely incongruous with his surroundings. Julian carried no scent of smoke or alcohol on him. He was as cold and untouchable as a deity. After the man slinked away in shame, Julian told me, “People like that aren’t fit to do business with me.” “Thank you, sir.” “You don’t have to endure it either. Next time, remember to fight back and protect yourself.” “I’ll lose my job.” He looked down at me. “Are you in desperate need of money?” “Yes. My mom is sick and needs money for medical bills.” “What about school?” I shook my head. “Where would I get the money to study?” “Understood.” Unexpectedly, Julian didn’t show a trace of pity. That was good. I didn’t like people pitying me. He handed me a business card with a number on it. “This is my subordinate’s contact info. You can reach out to him. Our company has a charity program to help impoverished students. As long as your situation is verified, you can apply for a grant.” He paused, then said his final sentence. “If you have the chance, you must study.” Later, I really did receive the grant. After paying for my mom’s medical bills, there was a little left over. I repeated my senior year and successfully got into a good university. It was only then that I learned he was the famous Julian Sterling. The Sterling family was a behemoth in the entertainment industry, frighteningly wealthy. And Julian was the sole heir. During my sophomore year of college, I met him for the second time. I mustered up my courage and walked up to him. “Mr. Sterling, thank you.” He looked confused. “And you are?” He didn’t remember me. The lighting that night had been dim, and he hadn’t really looked at me closely anyway. Helping me was just a casual effort on his part. But it didn’t matter. I would work hard. Sooner or later, I would stand right beside him. A year later, I became a signed actress under Julian’s agency. I was finally able to confidently extend my hand to him. “Mr. Sterling, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” He would never know how many years I worked just for that one day. I didn’t harbor any extravagant hopes for the future; just this was enough to satisfy me. But six months ago, an accident happened that completely altered our relationship. —Julian and I had a wildly absurd one-night stand. 6 Regarding that night, I only remember the hazy outlines. The agency was hosting a gala, and many VIP guests attended. I drank too much, and so did Julian. My hotel room was 606. I am certain the room I walked into was 606. But Julian was lying inside. I can’t even remember how we started kissing. I was completely intoxicated, and so was he. There were many rumors about Julian in the outside world. He kept women at a distance, was strictly disciplined, and some even speculated about his sexual orientation. Others said he had some sort of hidden condition. But that night, I experienced firsthand that it was all fake! When Julian lost control, it was fatal. … Early the next morning, someone rang the doorbell. My legs were still weak as I went to open it. Because of the hangover, my mind was still foggy, and I thought it was housekeeping. In reality, it was a swarm of reporters. Countless cameras were pointed right at me. While I stood there in shock, Julian walked over too. “Who is it?” He entered the frame before he even had time to fully put on his shirt. 7 The scandal between Julian and me exploded. The Sterling family was incredibly strict and would never allow something this scandalous to happen. Julian found me and proposed marriage. I, of course, agreed immediately. The happiness came so suddenly it completely clouded my judgment. It made me ignore the scrutinizing and cold detachment in his eyes at that moment. He asked me, “Wasn’t the room number 909?” I said, “No, it was 606. You misread it.” He remained silent for a moment, then spat out three words: “As you wish.” It wasn’t until after we were married that I understood the deep meaning behind those three words. It turned out that after that night, Julian went to the hospital for a checkup. They found traces of drugs in his system. The kind of illicit drug that makes a person lose their reason and become controlled by desire. While illegal, it wasn’t exactly rare in certain circles. Who drugged him? At the same time, that morning, I had opened the door for the reporters. Who called the reporters? How did they manage to gather right outside that specific door so perfectly? Everything seemed flawlessly orchestrated. And I was the prime suspect. Julian originally never intended to solve this with marriage. But ruining the family’s reputation and causing the stock to plummet made the elders in his family furious. He had no choice but to take responsibility for the incident. I tried to defend myself. I said “It wasn’t me” countless times. But the coincidences were too perfect. Julian said it was very hard for him to believe me. During these six months of marriage, we slept in separate rooms. If he accidentally brushed my hand, he would pull away as if he’d been electrocuted. I didn’t give up. I believed that one day, he would let go of his misunderstandings and the walls between us. But it seems I won’t be able to wait for that day. Because of Lily Carter’s appearance. 8 I had seen Julian scrutinizing her resume word by word. As if he was trying to catch up on her past between the lines. He was so gentle, but not toward me. After fighting with Julian, I packed my things and left the house. We gave each other the silent treatment for days, and he never reached out. A week later, I went to film a talk show. Julian came too, bringing his new secretary. We hadn’t seen each other in days, and when he saw me, he only offered a distant nod from afar. Completely aloof. Lily stayed close to his side, curious about everything, constantly asking him questions. I remembered Julian hated stupid people at work. But right now, facing Lily, he was incredibly patient, answering every single question. After a while, he walked over to me. “Scarlett,” he said. “I gave you the status you wanted. Don’t drag innocent people into this.” “We haven’t seen each other in a week, and this is what you want to say?” “Just a reminder.” I smiled. “So even now, Mr. Sterling, you still think I drugged you and called the reporters?” “Otherwise what?” I didn’t say anything else, nor did I need to. Disappointment flooded my heart and brain, snapping me completely awake. Julian treated his little secretary wonderfully. Even though she hadn’t passed her probation period yet, he let her take his place to show her face on the program. She was very talkative, bursting with energy. Until the host asked her about me. “Lily, you’ve only been at the company for a short while, and now you’re on a show with the boss’s wife. Are you nervous?” Lily glanced at me and said, “What’s there to be nervous about? I know there are some nasty rumors out there, saying Scarlett used to work as a hostess at a club, and that she’s super manipulative and stuff. But I want to say, Scarlett is actually a very nice person, you shouldn’t be prejudiced against her!” The entire studio went dead silent. She basically just broadcasted all my darkest rumors on live television! Even the seasoned host was struck speechless by the sheer awkwardness of the moment. The host had no choice but to awkwardly change the subject. “Ahem, moving on, let’s ask Scarlett. Do you have any major plans coming up? Give your fans watching at home a little teaser.” “I actually do.” I smiled calmly— “I. Am. Getting. A. Divorce.” I enunciated every word clearly, loud and clear. Off-stage, Julian’s head snapped up violently. His eyes were wide with shock and utter disbelief. 9 Inside the studio, it was quieter than it had ever been. The host looked like she wanted to die. This was probably the most excruciating moment of her entire professional career. “Why… why would you make such a decision…” “You should ask Miss Carter that.” I tossed the ball back to Lily. The young girl was caught completely off guard. Did she think she was the only one who knew how to play passive-aggressive mind games? Sorry, but I prefer the direct approach. “I’m sure everyone has seen the recent news. My husband is acting ambiguously with his subordinate. Let me ask you, why would I keep a husband like that around for the holidays?” I faced the camera, a smile curling my lips. “I don’t like fighting other women over men. I have a lot of things to do, I have movies to film, shows to record. Even without love, I can still live a brilliant life. “As for men, if they don’t behave, just swap them out.” The moment the words left my mouth, Julian seemed to finally snap out of it and forcefully demanded the cameras stop rolling. He dragged me backstage. “Scarlett, what nonsense are you spouting?” “I’m not spouting nonsense.” I pried his fingers open, one by one. It was hilarious. The man who usually dodged my touch was now refusing to let go. “Julian, listen carefully. “Starting today, I, Scarlett Hayes, am officially asking you for a divorce.” It was as if all the blood had been drained from Julian’s body. He turned deathly pale. “You’re just picking a fight with me, right? You think if you bring up divorce, I’ll have to grovel.” He nodded to himself. “Fine, I’ll grovel. I ignored you for a few days, I was wrong, and I apologize. As for everything that happened on the show just now, I’ll have PR handle it. I won’t let higher-ups say a single harsh word to you. If you don’t like Lily, I’ll transfer her out of the executive office—” “That’s not necessary.” I cut him off. “Wake up. I’m not throwing a tantrum.” I pulled a piece of paper from my pocket. It was a fully prepared divorce agreement. “Take a look. If you don’t have any objections, sign it right now.” 10 The show was broadcast live. Even though it was cut off midway, everything I said was broadcasted loud and clear. I instantly became the number one trending topic. Surprisingly, the comment section was very supportive. [I’m totally on Scarlett’s side for this. That Lily whatever-her-name-is, the way she speaks is so passive-aggressive and manipulative. Disgusting.] [I’ve been wanting to say this for days. Regardless of how Scarlett got her position, she is the legal, rightful wife right now. Those people praising the mistress as ‘true love’—what kind of garbage morals do you have?] [Supporting the wifey getting a divorce! Throw the whole man away.] [Off-topic, but Scarlett’s face card is insane. Watching the live stream today, I was stunned by her beauty… Is Julian blind?] There were also people discussing exactly what Lily’s deal was. Because the day after the scandal broke, Julian, while fighting with me, swiftly issued a clarifying statement. The executives who attended the dinner that night also posted group photos. The rumors were immediately dispelled. But my interview seemed to re-confirm their ambiguous relationship. Would someone as strictly disciplined and rigid as Julian really cheat? Speculation ran wild on the internet. Soon, the company’s disciplinary actions were announced. Because of her inappropriate remarks, Lily Carter was severely reprimanded and transferred to another department. Everyone said this was Julian’s way of trying to win me back. But was it really? I understood Julian’s temper too well. If any other employee had made a mistake like that, they wouldn’t just be transferred; they would be fired immediately. Lily was merely “transferred.” It proved he was still protecting her. 11 Thinking back to the day of the recording, when I pulled out the divorce papers. Julian refused to sign. I couldn’t guess what he was thinking either. I decided to send a text to rush him. “Mr. Sterling, once you’ve filled out the divorce agreement, please send it to me so we can pick a date to finalize the paperwork.” Julian called me directly. “Letty, haven’t you caused enough of a scene?” Letty was my childhood nickname. When I was little and my speech was still clumsy, I used to mispronounce “Scarlett” as “Scary-Letty”, so my mom gave me the nickname Letty. Julian had always known this nickname. But this was the first time he ever used it. “I am very firm on the divorce. Please hurry up, Mr. Sterling. Don’t delay me from finding my next partner.” “Next partner?” Julian practically laughed in anger. “The status and resources you dreamed of, I gave them all to you. Who else are you looking for? Letty, you are my first, and you will be my last. I’ve never been good at sweet-talking girls, but I can guarantee that as long as you want it, the position of Mrs. Sterling is yours forever. No one can take it away!” I said, “But what I dreamed of was never those things.” Julian seemed to freeze. “Even now, you still don’t know what I truly wanted… But it doesn’t matter. I don’t want it anymore.” With that, I hung up. My best friend, Chloe, also worked at the agency. She told me Julian had been radiating a very dark aura the past few days and was constantly spacing out during meetings. Chloe said, “Everyone is whispering privately, saying you can’t bear to leave Mr. Sterling and that you’ll come crawling back sooner or later. It seems… Mr. Sterling believes it too.” No wonder. Since I asked for a divorce, Julian had been contacting me proactively every day. But for the last three days, he had gone back to being aloof and cold. So he was waiting for me to yield and beg. Then I’d just have to give him exactly what he wanted. That Friday, I voluntarily showed up at the company. When Julian saw me, his eyes lit up. “Letty, have you thought it through?” “I have.” I slammed a stack of documents onto his desk. “I don’t just want a divorce. I also want to terminate my contract.” 12 I had signed a five-year contract with the agency. This year marked exactly the fifth year. I chose not to renew. Julian looked at me in disbelief. He asked through gritted teeth, “Are you sure about this?” “Yes.” “Have you already found a new agency?” I didn’t know which new agency he was talking about. But I still replied with a “Yes.” My attitude infuriated him. He hesitated no longer, picking up his pen and signing both documents. Except, he pressed so hard he nearly tore through the paper. With the divorce agreement signed, the rest of the process was very simple. The day I got my divorce certificate, I felt incredibly relieved. This one-sided love I had clung to for seven years was finally over. I was admiring the red booklet when I heard Julian say: “Remember, today is the day you gave up everything the Sterling family has to offer.” “Oh, don’t worry. I won’t regret it.” “I hope so.” His tone was as cold as ice, but when he looked up, I noticed. The rims of his eyes were red. 13 Whether his eyes were red or not had nothing to do with me anymore. I threw myself into my new life without stopping to breathe. Of course, saying I wasn’t sad at all would be a lie. After all, I had liked him so much, tried so hard to get close to him. But waking up only takes a single moment. My sadness was only because I felt I hadn’t valued my own worth. The Sterling family had sponsored me once, but considering the money I made for them over the years, I had more than repaid that debt. A few days later, Chloe told me she had quit too. “Letty, if you’re leaving, I’m leaving. Men are unreliable. Your best friend is here for you!” I was so touched I almost cried. Chloe had worked behind the scenes for years and was highly capable. We decided to set up our own independent studio. Setting up a studio takes time. In the meantime, I participated in a variety show recording. It was a nostalgic, sentimental talk show. The guests had to bring a few old items and reminisce about the past. After agonizing over it, I decided to bring my old backpack. It was the backpack I carried during the year I repeated my senior year. It held a lot of memories. On the day of filming, Julian showed up. It wasn’t that surprising. I had accepted this job while still under my old agency, and besides me, a rookie groomed by his company was also on the show. Julian liked to oversee things personally and had come to smooth things over with the production crew. He stood behind the camera crew, his eyes fixed on me. I just acted like I didn’t see him. Halfway through filming, it was my turn to present. I opened my backpack and pulled things out one by one. “This is a gel pen. You know how senior year is—doing endless practice tests, I’d go through a pen every two or three days. “Oh, and this. The Princeton Review SAT prep book. I’m sure everyone has done these? I call it a nightmare. “This is my mistake notebook. I have piles of notebooks just like this.” “And this—” I suddenly stopped. The last item was a yellowed, slightly worn diary. It used to be my most loyal listener. During the hardest and most exhausting times of senior year, writing in my diary was my only way to de-stress. My long silence sparked the curiosity of the guest sitting next to me. “Are there secrets in this thick notebook? You have to play by the rules, no hiding things!” She took my diary and flipped it open. [September 2016. The teacher said the intensity of the repeat class is very high, and many students can’t handle it. But I have to endure it, because I need to go see Julian Sterling.] She froze. The entire studio fell silent. 14 [November 2016. The monthly exams are over. My grades were bad. I feel terrible. But Julian said I absolutely must study. Let me go do a few more practice problems.] [December 2016. Saw an article about Julian. I cut it out. He’s so amazing, I need to work even harder.] [February 2017. In New York for my acting audition. It snowed. I sat downstairs at Julian’s company for a while, then got up and went to the exam. After I got up, the snow covered the bench where I sat, as if I had never been there at all.] [June 2017. Tomorrow is the SATs. Julian, wait for me!] [June 2017. I got accepted!!! I’m so happy! I left a comment under Julian’s post, but he probably doesn’t read his comments.] [August 2017. Let me dream a little. If, I’m just saying if, I can actually be with Julian in the future, I will definitely tell him every single day right in his ear that I like him!] … The paper was mottled, every stroke and line revealing the most sincere secrets of a young girl’s heart. All the guests looked at me. I explained briefly about my one-sided encounter with Julian when I was eighteen. Then I smiled and said, “Having a crush on someone when you’re young is just like that, you know.” A female guest sighed. “Then after you married Mr. Sterling, did you really tell him how you felt every single day?” “I really did. “I told him every single day that I liked him, it’s just—” It’s just that he thought my confession was just fake affection aimed at securing my status. It’s just that, after hearing it, he would reply coldly: “Are you trying to convince yourself of that lie too?” I lowered my eyes. All the past events, everything we went through, had finally dissolved into relief. I opened my lips and smiled softly: “It’s just that, he never believed it.” Behind the stage lights. Julian stared at me in absolute disbelief.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “436705”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The shadows were lengthening across my desk when the phone rang. The name flashing on the screen made my stomach drop into a cold, hard knot. It was my husband, Brady. His voice was a jagged mess of sobs and static. He told me he’d hit someone with the car. He was hysterical, babbling, begging me to take the blame—to tell the police I was the one behind the wheel. “Don’t move. I’m coming,” I whispered. I grabbed my bag and bolted, the confused shouts of my coworkers fading behind me as I hit the elevator. “Elva, have you lost your mind? You’re looking at prison time!” Mrs. Gable, the senior accountant from the next cubicle, caught up to me in the lobby. Her grip was so tight her nails bit into my skin. I gently pried her fingers away, a strange, hollow smile on my face as I checked my phone. “He’s my husband. If I don’t help him, who will?” Outside the police tape, the world was a blur of flashing blues and reds. My parents were there, looking smaller and more fragile than I remembered. My father’s eyes were bloodshot, his voice cracking as he reached for me. “My girl, my foolish girl, go home! Let me tell them it was me. I’ll go to jail for him!” I squeezed their hands and stepped past them. I heard my mother gasp, felt her collapse onto the pavement as the sirens wailed into the twilight, but I didn’t turn back. I couldn’t. When the cold steel of the handcuffs snapped around my wrists, I looked up. Brady was standing by a patrol car in the distance. He wasn’t alone. Lydia, the “childhood friend” he’d always called his little sister, was tucked into his side, her hand resting on his arm. A few months later, the judge’s voice echoed through the courtroom: twenty years. As the bailiff led me toward the holding cell, the happy couple finally approached the railing. “Elva, sign this.” Lydia slid a manila folder toward me. Her manicured red nail traced the line for Divorce Decree: Total Forfeiture of Assets. “A convicted felon doesn’t deserve to be Brady’s wife.” Our daughter, Daisy, hid behind Brady’s legs. She peeked out, her face twisted with a practiced sort of disgust. “Mommy is a bad person. I don’t want a mommy like her.” I looked at my reflection in the plexiglass—gaunt, pale, unrecognizable—and I started to laugh. It was a dry, jagged sound. With my cuffed hands, I scrawled my name on the bottom line. Later, a guard told me that when my parents walked out of that courthouse, their hair had turned white. … When I first arrived at the scene of the accident, the air smelled like burnt rubber and copper. I’d shoved a trembling, incoherent Brady out of the driver’s seat and climbed in myself. I called 911, and the police arrived minutes later. The perimeter was secured with yellow tape. An ambulance screamed to a halt. The victim, a delivery driver, lay in a pool of dark red on the asphalt. He was unconscious, his body broken in ways that made my chest ache. They rushed him to the ER, but the silence he left behind was deafening. Under the hot lights of the interrogation room, I took every hit. My father had slapped me ten times in the hallway of the precinct, his face a mask of fury and grief. My mother had suffered a minor heart attack right there on the linoleum floor. The police moved me to holding. I was questioned for four hours straight. My attorney, Zavier, arrived in the middle of the night with three of my coworkers. They were ready to testify that I was at the office when the crash happened. I looked them in the eye and shut them down. “Is there footage?” I asked. There wasn’t. The security system had “glitched.” Zavier turned purple with rage, pacing the room and calling me a delusional martyr, a woman who had traded her brain for a wedding ring. The next morning, the news broke: the driver had died. A few hours later, I was led to the visitation room. My parents looked like they had aged a decade in a single night. When they heard I’d confessed to vehicular manslaughter—a sentence that could carry twenty years—my father pointed a shaking finger at me. “I didn’t raise a daughter with no backbone! Do you have any idea what twenty years means? Your life is over, Elva! Finished!” I sat there, silent. My mother’s hands trembled as she reached through the gap in the partition to straighten my collar. “Elva, honey, we know it wasn’t you. Just tell the truth. Zavier can fix this.” I shook my head. “Mom, it was me.” My father let out a long, ragged sigh. “You’ve given that man everything. You work ten-hour days, you run the house, you handle Daisy’s schooling, while he sits on the couch playing video games. He doesn’t even respect us. He berates you for taking us shopping! You’ve loved him until you disappeared. But this? You can’t take the fall for this.” “He’s right,” my mother whispered. “There’s no one else here, baby. If he’s threatening you, if there’s a reason… tell us.” Looking at their white hair and sunken eyes, my heart felt like it was being squeezed by pliers. But I hardened myself. I gave them a few empty platitudes and changed the subject. “Mom, the fifty thousand dollars I asked you to withdraw—did you give it to the victim’s wife?” The man Brady killed was a gig worker. He had nothing. Just a wife and a young son in a cramped apartment. “I did,” Mom said, wiping her eyes. “I gave it to her personally, just like you asked.” Before she could say more, the door swung open. Brady walked in, Lydia trailing behind him like a shadow. Behind them was Zavier, looking exhausted. “What are you doing here?” my father spat, stepping toward Brady. Brady flinched, taking a half-step back. “Dad, stop! Not here,” I called out. Seeing my father restrained, Lydia smirked. “I just wanted to check on Elva. I had to thank her for taking such good care of Brady. I mean, taking the rap for a fatal accident? That’s some ‘wife of the year’ energy right there.” Brady offered a weak, greasy smile. He leaned in, lowering his voice. “Elva, thank you. I won’t forget this. I promise.” A cold sneer rippled through my soul, but I kept my face soft, adoring. “Of course, honey. You’re my husband. I’d do anything for you.” My father looked like he wanted to vomit. “This isn’t love, Elva! It’s a lobotomy!” He pointed at Brady and Lydia’s hands, which were inches apart. “Look at him! He’s already moved on!” “Dad,” I said calmly, “they grew up together. They’re close. I trust Brady. He’d never do anything to hurt our marriage. Right, Brady?” Brady’s expression flickered—guilt, maybe, or just surprise—before he nodded quickly. “Exactly. Elva gets me. Lydia and I are… we’re just family.” Lydia didn’t pull her hand away. My mother couldn’t take it anymore. “Even if she’s naive enough to believe you, have you no shame? You’re a married man. Act like it.” Brady finally stepped away from Lydia, but the smirk stayed in his eyes. He looked at my mother. “Hey, she’s the one who insisted on doing this. I tried to stop her, really, but she’s just so crazy about me.” Then his face shifted, becoming sharp and suspicious. “Wait. Mom, you aren’t wearing a wire, are you? Because that won’t hold up in court.” I laughed softly. “Relax, Brady. I’m going to prison. We aren’t recording you.” He visibly exhaled. My mother saw my eight-year-old daughter, Daisy, standing by the door. “Daisy, come here, sweetie. Come to Grandma. Don’t stay near that man.” Daisy looked at me, her small face twisted with a chilling amount of contempt. “No. I’m not going over there. She’s a murderer. And you’re a murderer’s mother. You’re not my grandma anymore.” My mother clutched her chest. Dad quickly fumbled for her nitro pills, glaring at the little girl. “We spoiled you, Daisy. Your mother worked herself to the bone for you! How can you be so heartless?” Daisy literally spat on the floor. “I don’t want ‘murderer’ relatives. Gross.” She had always been our “little sunshine” at home. My parents had doted on her. Seeing the mask fall off felt like watching a horror movie. That’s when Lydia tossed a document onto the table. “Elva, if you really love him, sign this. It’s a clean break. You’re going away for a long time. What are Brady and Daisy supposed to do? If you’re going to take responsibility, go all the way. Leave the house and the savings to the people who actually have a future.” There it was. The real reason for the visit. My father exploded. “Brady! I thought you came here to support her, but you’re just here for the vultures’ share!” Brady flushed, but he stood his ground. “Dad, Lydia’s right. Elva’s going to be behind bars. Why should the money sit in a frozen account? Do you want Daisy to starve?” Daisy screamed at me, “You’re a bad person! You killed someone! You don’t deserve to be my mom. If you don’t sign it, you’re just hurting Daddy!” My mother was sobbing now. “Daisy, your mother didn’t kill anyone! She’s doing this for your father!” “If she didn’t do it, why did she say she did?” Daisy shouted. “She’s a killer! That delivery guy had a son. He’s nine! Poor kid!” Then she grabbed Lydia’s hand, her face lighting up with a terrifying brilliance. “Lydia is going to be my new mommy anyway!” Lydia scooped her up, looking triumphant. “That’s right, sweetie. You can just call me Mom from now on.” “Mommy!” Daisy cooed. “Sign it,” Brady said, looking back at me. “I’ll come visit you. I promise. Just make sure the girl is taken care of.” I knew he’d never step foot in a prison visitor’s room. But I picked up the pen anyway. With my hands still heavy in chains, I signed away my life, my home, and every cent I owned. My father wept openly. “Why, Elva? There are good men in this world. Why give everything to a monster?” I looked at him with a gaze that was far too peaceful for the circumstances. “Dad, you don’t understand. This is what devotion looks like.” Beside me, Zavier the lawyer couldn’t help himself. “Mrs. Quinn, with all due respect, even a person signing a death warrant would have asked for better terms than this.” A small crowd of people had gathered by the open door of the room—officers, other visitors, rubberneckers. They started laughing. “She’s a special kind of stupid,” one woman whispered loudly. “Getting cleaned out by a guy who brought his mistress to the precinct.” “It’s pathetic,” another added. “He’s clearly going to take the house and move the other woman in by dinner time. Does she have a brain deficiency?” “Maybe he has dirt on her?” someone wondered. My parents looked up, hoping for a lifeline, but Zavier shook his head. “As far as I know, Elva has a clean record and a history of charitable donations. There is no dirt. She’s just… giving it away.” The room went quiet for a beat. “Is she broke? Maybe she’s hiding debt?” “On the contrary,” Zavier sighed. “She’s debt-free. She just signed over a five-hundred-thousand-dollar home and half a million in personal savings.” The laughter returned, harsher this time. “What a joke. She’s a disgrace to women everywhere.” Brady and Lydia exchanged a look of pure greed. They were satisfied. A moment later, the guards came to transport me. As I was led away, I heard Daisy clapping her small hands. “Yay! The killer is going to jail!” I was processed into the county correctional facility. As the heavy door of the cell groaned shut, I looked at the three grey walls and the tiny, barred slit of a window. I took a deep breath. For the first time in years, I felt like I could breathe. Nobody knew the truth. I wasn’t a martyr, and I certainly wasn’t “wife of the year.” I didn’t like prison. But I had a very, very good reason for being here. The next day. My mother came to visit. “Elva… Brady moved her into the house yesterday. And that BMW 5-series we bought you for your anniversary? Lydia’s been driving it all over town, showing off.”

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My online girlfriend was a total fraud. Just the day before we were supposed to meet, she’d asked me with this fragile, nervous hitch in her voice, “Logan, my family… we don’t have much. Are you going to think less of me because of that?” I looked at the balance in my savings account—a string of numbers that felt like a fortune to me—and told her with all the confidence of a man who thought he was a king, “Don’t even worry about it, baby. Money isn’t an issue for me. I’ve got us covered.” Fast forward to the big day. I was standing there, leaning against my blue Citibike, when she pulled up in a custom Maserati Levante. My entire body went rigid. I couldn’t have squeezed out a single word if my life depended on it. She climbed out of the car, saw me and my rental bike, and froze. The silence between us was deafening. After three seconds of pure, unadulterated shock, we both spoke at the same time. “This is what you call being ‘poor’?” I choked out. “This is what you call being ‘rich’?” she demanded. 1. We ended up calling the cops on each other. The officer looked back and forth between us, rubbing his temples. “Okay, let’s start over. Who defrauded whom?” “She faked being poor to manipulate my emotions!” I shouted. “He faked being a millionaire to toy with my heart!” she shot back. The duty officer stared at our bank statements for a long beat. He looked at me first. “You think you’re rich because you have thirty-eight thousand dollars in savings?” I bristled. “Yeah! Is there a problem with that?” Then he turned to her. “And you… you think you’re poor with eight hundred million in your trust?” She answered with total, unshakeable sincerity. “Yeah. I mean… look at the economy?” The officer let out a bark of laughter, slapping his thigh as he turned to his partner. “Man, you hearing this? These two have the most unique definitions of poverty and wealth I’ve ever seen.” We both flushed deep red, glaring at each other across the station. I was wearing my best slim-fit blazer, a mid-range designer watch, and polished loafers—I looked like I was here to sign a tech merger. She was in an oversized pink hoodie, cargo pants, and beat-up sneakers—looking like she was headed to a skate park. The cops eventually told us to settle it like adults. She crossed her arms, her face a mask of ice. “Settle what? He lied about his net worth. I thought we were at least in the same social circle, but he showed up on a rental bike.” My temper flared. “You have the nerve to say that? You told me you were struggling! To protect your ego, I didn’t even put gel in my hair today so I wouldn’t look too ‘unattainable.’ And then you roll up in a Maserati!” “You gave me hope for something real!” she argued. “You’re the one who needs to take responsibility for this mess!” “Oh, please. You’re so rich it’s blinding, and you want to play the victim? Maybe I should sue you for emotional distress!” The officer tried to pull us back to reality. He looked at her. “Why did you pretend to be poor?” She stayed defiant. “I am poor!” We both rolled our eyes at her. She finally shrunk back a little. “Fine. My mom always said never to flaunt it. She said people would only ever want me for the money.” The officer turned to me. “And you? Why the big-shot act?” I straightened my blazer. “I am doing well!” They both rolled their eyes at me this time. “Okay, fine,” I muttered. “I didn’t want people to think I was a loser.” The room went quiet. The officer sighed, a hollow sound. “I get it. You were both so terrified of being used for what you had that you both ended up with nothing.” His partner whispered under his breath, “No wonder they met online. Two weirdos, one wavelength. They’re actually perfect for each other.” 2. The “settlement” was a forced truce. By the time we walked out of that station, the resentment was thick enough to choke on. We broke up right there on the sidewalk. When I got home, I did what any sane, heartbroken man does: I Googled her. Michelle Samantha: Second heiress to the Samantha Empire, venture capitalist, CEO of X-Tech. The list of her achievements was staggering, ending with a very pointed: Status: Single. Fury and humiliation washed over me. In a fit of rage, I blocked her. Phone, Instagram, LinkedIn—everything. I spent the night tossing and turning, my mind a chaotic loop of “Eight hundred million. Eight hundred million.” I had spent three months genuinely worrying about her. I usually never spend more than twenty bucks on DoorDash, but for her, I’d once splurged on a twenty-one-dollar artisan pasta and left a note for the kitchen: “No cilantro, please—just put some extra love in there.” The chef had actually called me at midnight to ask what “love” tasted like. Michelle had told me she’d never had such “wonderful, homey food” before. I thought she was so broke she was living on ramen. Turns out, to someone like her, a twenty-one-dollar pasta is “homey.” She’d probably never even seen a grocery store from the inside. I tried to tell myself she was just a ghost, a glitch in the matrix. But every time the sun went down, my brain would whisper: Eight-hundred-million-dollar girlfriend. You had an eight-hundred-million-dollar girlfriend. It drove me insane. Not because of the girl, but because of the number. Why couldn’t I be the one with the trust fund? 3. I decided to bury myself in work. Three months later, I was promoted to Project Lead. Not because the company realized I was a genius, but because our department had shrunk to three people, and the other two quit. With a mountain of work on my desk, my boss practically begged me into his office. “Logan, my boy, I’ve always seen that spark in you… a true visionary…” Translation: The title changed, but the paycheck didn’t. On Monday, the Creative Director slammed his hand on the conference table. “The project we’ve been chasing for six months? We finally got a foot in the door. This is our chance to show the Samantha Group what we’re made of!” The office erupted in cheers. I was the only one still stuck in my “eight hundred million” fever dream. “Logan,” the Director said, snapping his fingers in front of my face. “Your previous project has a lot of overlap with this one. Come to the meeting this afternoon. Just sit by me and take notes.” “Sure, whatever,” I muttered, half-awake. It wasn’t until I sat down in the boardroom that reality hit me like a freight train. The woman sitting across from us was sharp, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, her hair perfectly coiffed. She was stunning. Exactly my type. Wait. Oh, god. No. My internal monologue turned into a chorus of screaming banshees. It was her. My eight-hundred-million-dollar ex. My scalp went numb; my limbs turned to stone. I ducked my head immediately, pretending to be fascinated by a stack of blank A4 paper. “Logan?” The Director nudged me with his elbow, causing my pen to clatter to the floor. As I bent down to grab it, my line of sight hit Michelle’s heels. Designer. Polished. They looked expensive. They looked like they cost more than my car. I straightened up and locked eyes with her. Her expression shifted from shock to amusement in a heartbeat. Crap. She saw me. I looked back down, flipping through papers so fast they sounded like a deck of cards. “Do you have Parkinson’s?” the Director whispered, leaning in. I lost my filter. My voice came out way louder than intended. “I’m just… a little overwhelmed by how beautiful our client is.” The silence that followed was absolute. Michelle’s face froze, a visible flush creeping up her neck. She took a sip of her tea, set it down, and then took another sip. Her hand went to the silk scarf at her throat, adjusting it nervously. The Director looked like he wanted to murder me, but he forced a smile to save the meeting. “Ms. Samantha, please excuse Logan. He’s our Project Lead, but he’s young. If he’s overstepped, I apologize on his behalf.” I offered a weak, “I’m a professional” smile. Michelle set her cup down, her eyes scanning me with a predatory sort of playfulness. She tilted her head. “It’s fine,” she said softly. “I understand.” You don’t understand anything! I screamed internally. “Young people,” she added, twisting the knife, “often have… unpredictable thought processes.” My smile felt like it was carved out of wood. She was definitely mocking me. The Director wiped sweat from his brow. “Exactly! Some young people… certain ones… are very… unconventional thinkers.” Seeing Michelle didn’t object, he decided to double down on throwing me under the bus. “Logan is usually so diligent. It’s just that he’s… reactive to beauty.” He paused, then added, “Actually, it’s rare for him. We had a gorgeous intern last month, and he didn’t even blink. I thought he’d gone monk on us, but he just said, ‘Is she pretty? I think she’s mid.’” I never said that! Michelle’s expression remained calm, but her eyes sharpened. “Is that so? I wonder how many women have actually managed to meet Mr. Wilder’s standards.” A cold draft seemed to blow through the room. I shivered. The Director went quiet, and I didn’t dare speak. Michelle continued as if she were analyzing a spreadsheet. “I imagine he’s the type to call a woman ‘baby’ constantly, right? Someone who chats about things he’d be too embarrassed to admit in public?” My face went from red to purple. I suddenly remembered the three months of messages I’d sent her—the kind of stuff that makes you want to fake your own death. “Baby, I miss you. Don’t you want to be in my arms right now?” “Baby, did you wear those matching pajamas I bought you? Send a picture so I can drool over you.” I couldn’t breathe. The shame was physical. 4. The Director looked at her, then at me, his eyes lighting up with a sudden, terrifying realization. “Logan… have you and Ms. Samantha met before?” “What makes you think that?” I snapped at Michelle, my face still burning. Michelle glared back. “No misunderstanding. I was just curious. Does Mr. Wilder usually call his business partners ‘baby’?” She wasn’t stopping. “Or does he buy pajamas for his contractors? Does he ask them if they’re free for a late-night ‘private viewing’?” I felt like I was being boiled alive. I couldn’t say a word. I just gripped my pen until my knuckles turned white. The Director’s eyes darted between us. He let out a nervous, knowing chuckle. “Well, you know… kids these days…” Michelle picked up her tea, her gaze darkening. “And then there’s the reliability issue. Some men promise to show you ‘something special’ at midnight, and then they fall asleep while you’re sitting there waiting.” The Director nearly dropped his cup. He looked at me with newfound respect—and horror. “And when they want to apologize,” she continued, her eyes locked on mine, “they offer ‘private photos.’ I’m still not quite sure what that entails.” The Director choked on his water, coughing into a napkin. He looked at me as if to say, What exactly did you do to this billionaire? “Then, to make up for it, they send an eight-dollar Venmo for coffee and ask to see your abs. Apparently, his rate is one dollar per muscle?” The Director was speechless now. I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole. Michelle stared at me, her voice dropping to a cool, detached tone. “Tell me, what kind of man does that? And then, instead of apologizing like a man, he just… cuts all ties. Cowardly, don’t you think?” I couldn’t look at her. She let out a short, self-deprecating laugh. “Pathetic, really.” The Director, sensing the meeting was about to go up in flames, tried to pivot back to the pitch. Michelle flipped through our proposal carelessly and pushed it back across the table. “I’m not impressed. If your firm can’t produce something better than this, the Samantha Group won’t be moving forward.” With that, she stood up and walked out. 5. The door clicked shut. The silence in the boardroom was absolute for exactly three seconds. The Director slowly turned to me. “Logan,” he said, his voice trembling with a mix of awe and terror. “Be honest with me. Did you dump Michelle Samantha?” My hand shook. “I… it wasn’t…” I thought back to the police station. I remembered the feeling of my ego shattering as that Maserati sped away. “Yeah,” I whispered. “I guess I did.” I had broken up with her right after the cops let us go. I shouted, “We’re done, you liar!” and she had just stood there, her face turning pale before she slammed the car door and left me in a cloud of expensive exhaust. I gave the Director a truncated version of the story. His mouth formed a perfect ‘O.’ “So, let me get this straight,” he said. “You thought you were the rich guy taking care of a ‘poor’ girl. Then you found out she’s a billionaire while you’re on a rental bike, your pride couldn’t take the hit, so you threw a tantrum and dumped her?” “Can you… not summarize it so accurately?” “Holy shit,” the Director whispered. “You actually did it.” I hid my face in my hands. He looked at me with a strange, manic glint in his eyes. “Logan, my boy… you have balls of steel. To try and ‘sponsor’ a girl on a thirty-eight-thousand-dollar salary? If I had half your confidence, I’d be on my eighth marriage by now.” “She wasn’t a ‘job’…” “You called her ‘baby’! You bought her pajamas! You tried to buy a look at her abs for eight bucks!” I had no defense. Suddenly, he gripped my shoulders. “Logan, the future of this company is in your hands.” “What is that supposed to mean?” “Think about it! She’s clearly still pissed, which means she still cares. If you can just… get back in her good graces…” “No. Absolutely not.” “I’m not saying you have to marry her. Just… temporarily…” “No way.” Seeing I wasn’t budging, he shifted into ‘corrupt businessman’ mode. “Logan, if you land this contract, I’ll give you a three-thousand-dollar monthly raise. Effective immediately.” My eyes widened. “Fine. I’ll do it.” 6. I spent the rest of the day trying to figure out how to “fix” a relationship with a woman who had more money than some small countries. The Director kept hovering. “Don’t just sit there. You have her number, right? Unblock her and ask for her ‘input’ on the proposal.” I figured he had a point. I pulled her out of my blocked list, but instead of using my personal cell, I used the company’s official business account to send a friend request on the messaging app. The Director face-palmed. He opened his mouth to say something, but just sighed and walked away. I sent the request. Nothing. I sent it again. And again. By the eighth time, my phone started buzzing. Unknown number. I declined. It rang again. I declined. It rang a third time. I snapped. “Hello? Who is this?” The voice on the other end was much angrier than mine. “Logan Wilder, what the hell is wrong with you?” That voice. I’d know it anywhere. “Michelle?” “Why are you adding me from a business account?” she hissed. “I… I wanted to keep it professional,” I stammered. “Church and state, you know?” Silence for three seconds. Then, a cold, sharp laugh. “Professional? What company sends eight consecutive friend requests to a CEO? You think this is a game?” I rubbed the bridge of my nose. I’d forgotten I wasn’t her boyfriend anymore. “Logan, do you think I’m just some pushover?” “No! Look… I’ll add you on my personal account, okay?” “Don’t bother!” she snapped. “I don’t take back exes. I have standards.” “I’m being serious here, Michelle.” “Your ‘seriousness’ has a very short shelf life,” she retorted. “But fine. Since you want to be ‘professional,’ let’s do this by the book.” I felt a spark of hope. “Okay. I’m listening.” “First,” she said, her voice dropping into a business-like monotone, “I waited until midnight to see that ‘special something’ you promised months ago. I want an explanation. In writing.” “…” “Second, about those ‘private photos.’ I want a full disclosure of your intent.” “…” “Third, the abs. We need to establish a formal inspection standard if you’re going to be making valuations.” “…” “Once those three points are addressed and implemented, we can discuss the contract. Clear?” I swallowed hard. “Michelle, is this really ‘professional’?” “Absolutely,” she said firmly. “I’m just clearing up outstanding liabilities from a previous engagement.” The line went dead.

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At a college reunion, Caleb Thorne’s ex-girlfriend “accidentally” spilled red wine all over my new dress. She panicked, apologizing profusely: “I’m so sorry, I’ll pay for it.” “My wife’s dress is a vintage collector’s item from last year’s auction. The hammer price was one million dollars.” Caleb smiled, his reply light and airy. 1 Serena immediately collapsed onto the floor, her face draining of all color. “Holy shit, a million dollars for a dress. Mr. Thorne is a baller. I bet some people are regretting their life choices right now.” “Didn’t she marry some rich kid back then? Does she really not have a million bucks?” “More like a broke kid. Honestly, she probably couldn’t scrape that together even if she sold herself.” The crowd erupted into exaggerated, cruel laughter. I looked at her with complicated feelings—the ex who had abandoned Caleb all those years ago. She happened to look up, and our eyes met. Her eyes were a swirling mess of profound humiliation and bitter resentment. Just moments ago, in the restroom, she had cornered me. With a slow, arrogant smirk, she said: “Believe it or not, if I wanted to, I could snap my fingers and he’d come crawling back to me like an obedient dog.” And now, just to get close to Caleb, she intentionally spilled wine on me, creating this exact scenario. Honestly, I wasn’t surprised by her behavior. After all, Caleb was currently the darling of financial magazines, a tech billionaire with a net worth in the ten figures. If Serena hadn’t married someone else back then, she would be Mrs. Thorne today. It was just that her words in the restroom made me feel a little defensive on Caleb’s behalf. Caleb took off his suit jacket and draped it over my shoulders. He looked down at Serena, his gaze cold and imposing. “If you’re having financial difficulties, perhaps you could ask your imprisoned ex-husband for a loan.” She clenched her fists, her lips trembling with stubborn pride. “I’ll pay you back.” Caleb just laughed. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” “Serena, you really haven’t changed a bit.” His tone was completely indifferent, yet it made me feel strangely disoriented. I had been with Caleb since he had nothing. I had fought by his side as he built his empire from the ground up. I had seen him at his absolute lowest, and I had seen him at his most triumphant. But I had never seen him act like this—humiliating a woman so viciously, so publicly. As a result, the crowd’s laughter grew even louder and more unrestrained. I was the only one who noticed that, although he appeared to be mocking her, his eyes never actually left her face. 2 In the five years we’d been together, Caleb rarely spoke about his past. That was, until a month ago. We went back to his hometown to retrieve some things, and I accidentally found a worn-out wallet in his closet. Inside was a photo of a woman. She had a bright, beautiful smile. Caleb was usually so composed, but that day, he zoned out for a long time. A deep, melancholic shadow settled in his eyes. I fought back the sour feeling in my chest and asked, trying to sound casual, “Your ex?” “Yeah.” I watched him tear the photo to pieces, his face completely blank, and throw it into the trash can. A cold, irritable feeling spread through my chest. I left immediately. That was our first cold war in five years. That night, after I showered, Caleb hugged me from behind and sighed softly. “Back when I was just starting the company and things were at their absolute worst, she took our core technology and defected to a rival company. She ended up becoming the owner’s wife.” “On the day of her wedding, my mother went to find her and got into a car accident on the way. She barely survived. The very next day, Serena left the country with her new husband.” “Chloe, I truly hated her back then.” … I stared silently at his calm expression in the bathroom mirror. What Caleb didn’t know was that later that day, I had gone back to the room. I saw him digging through the trash can, picking out the torn pieces of Serena’s photo. His eyes were red as he meticulously, painstakingly glued them back together. 3 The reunion was winding down. Someone suddenly yelled out: “We’re all old classmates! We should help each other out in times of need. Why don’t we start a GoFundMe for Serena!” The moment those words hung in the air, Serena’s face changed completely. She looked up at Caleb with a helpless, desperate gaze. And the hand Caleb had wrapped around mine suddenly tightened, squeezing so hard it felt like he might crush my fingers. “Caleb…” It wasn’t until I gasped out his name that he snapped back to reality and let go of my hand. I looked at the deep red marks left on my skin, feeling like I had just been plunged into a freezing lake. A chill spread through my entire body. The guy who started the commotion laughed, sneaking glances at Caleb’s reaction. Seeing that Caleb had no intention of stopping him, he quickly started the “bidding.” “Five bucks!” “Come on, this is the former campus queen we’re talking about! The dream girl of half the guys here! Be a little more generous! I pledge twenty!” … One by one, people started throwing out numbers. The atmosphere became raucous and chaotic. It was as if they were treating Serena like an item up for auction, or a piece of meat on a chopping block. Serena’s face was as pale as paper, her eyes red and swollen, but she didn’t say a single word. Caleb stared silently at her dead, defeated expression. By the end, when the crowd jokingly handed Serena the hundred-odd dollars in loose change they had “raised,” she just stared blankly and said, “Thank you.” The crowd was in disbelief. “She actually took it?” “Hahaha. From the proud, untouchable goddess to acting like a literal beggar.” Serena ignored them completely. Holding the crumpled bills in her hands, she walked up to Caleb. Her posture was so low she was practically groveling in the dust. “Here is a hundred dollars. Mr. Thorne, could you please give me a little more time for the rest?” Her humble, broken demeanor was a stark contrast to the radiant, proud girl I had seen in the photograph. A sudden, heavy silence fell over the crowd. People exchanged awkward glances. “…Did we take that a little too far?” “She is still a woman, after all…” Caleb didn’t speak. He just kept staring at her. My chest suddenly ached with a dull, throbbing pain. It was so easy to see through the coldness in his eyes to the underlying frustration. He wanted Serena to fall into the mud; he wanted to trample her dignity underfoot. But when the moment actually arrived, when she lost her pride and accepted the charity with such numb resignation, it made him uncomfortable. Was it discomfort, or was it heartache? 4 In that brief moment of distraction, someone suddenly screamed at us in horror: “Watch out! The chandelier is falling!” I instinctively looked up. The massive chandelier above us was swaying precariously, looking like it would detach at any second. —And the three of us were standing directly underneath it. “Caleb—” I reached out to grab him, but before I could, I saw Caleb lunge toward Serena, shielding her body with his as they dove out of the way. My brain went numb with a deafening ringing sound. Then, someone grabbed my wrist and yanked me hard. I stumbled and fell in the opposite direction. A split second later, the chandelier crashed to the floor with a terrifying explosion of sound. Shards of glass and crystal sprayed everywhere. A sharp, blunt pain shot up my lower leg. A thin, deep gash had been sliced into the skin near my ankle by a flying shard, and blood was seeping out. But I felt like I couldn’t even process the pain. I just sat on the floor, staring blankly at the two people holding each other a few feet away. Whispers erupted all around us. The moonlight filtering through the windows, combined with the subtle, knowing glances of the crowd, washed over me like a freezing frost. It wasn’t until the man who saved me asked with concern, “Mrs. Thorne, are you alright?” I saw Caleb’s body violently stiffen. He shoved Serena away instantly and rushed over to me, grabbing my ankle to carefully inspect the wound. His deep voice was laced with intense remorse and apology. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were right behind me.” Serena walked over as well. Her voice was very soft, carrying a strange, complex emotion. “Thank you for saving me just now.” Caleb didn’t acknowledge her. He just stared at me intently. “Chloe, I really didn’t know you were under the chandelier too.” I silently pulled my leg out of his grasp. Caleb watched me for a moment, then simply scooped me up into his arms and started walking toward the exit. I struggled slightly, but his grip on my waist was ironclad. His voice was terrifyingly low. “Don’t move.” “Caleb…” Serena chased after us. Caleb’s face was stone cold, his tone indicating he had no desire to speak with her any further. “Three months. The one million must be wired to my wife’s account.” But Serena suddenly smiled. She shot me a provocative look. “Thank you for the extension. I will make sure to pay you back within the designated timeframe.” 5 As soon as we got home, Caleb semi-forcibly cleaned and bandaged my wound. Then, he locked the bedroom door, cupped my jaw, and kissed me. The resentment that had been building up in my chest all night suddenly exploded. I fought with everything I had to push him away. “Cancel the wedding next Saturday. We’re breaking up.” Caleb restrained me with one hand. “Why?” My mind was flooded with what his old classmates had whispered after the accident: “You know what they say. When disaster strikes, your first reaction is always the most honest. Caleb chose to save Serena first. Does it really need to be spelled out any clearer?” Exactly. The coldness and cruel words were just revenge. The instinctive, protective dive was subconscious love. It felt like a thousand needles were piercing my heart, a dense, suffocating pain spreading through my veins. I asked Caleb, “You still love her, don’t you?” “You chose to save her first. Because compared to me, you care about her more.” “I saw it last time. I saw you meticulously glue her photo back together.” “Since you never forgot her, why did you even bother getting together with me?” “I didn’t.” He stared at me, his brows slightly furrowed, his tone absolute. “She betrayed me back then, and my mother’s mental decline was indirectly her fault. I have hated her every single second of every day since.” “The moment the accident happened, whether it was her standing next to me, or any other classmate, my instinct would have been to save them.” “Hating her is one thing; a life-or-death situation is another.” “But I truly didn’t know you were behind me. If I had known, I never would have let you get hurt.” “I gave her a three-month extension because I saw someone pull out their phone and start recording.” “As for the photo… the doctor called me that day and said revisiting past memories might stimulate my mother’s brain activity. I wanted to use that photo to try and help her.” Caleb took my hands. “Chloe, you know me, don’t you?” When I didn’t say anything, he let out a helpless sigh and slowly kissed me. “Chloe, the person I love now is you.” His tone was so candid, hiding absolutely nothing. “Don’t ever say things like ‘breaking up’ out of anger again, Chloe. It hurts me too.” In the dim light, Caleb was wearing a tailored black shirt. A few buttons were undone, revealing a glimpse of his collarbone. His eyes were pitch black, without a trace of distraction. He gently rubbed my flushed earlobe and asked in a low voice, “Can we?” The AC in the room was set very low, but I was sweating profusely. The atmosphere was perfect. Bang. The bedroom door was suddenly shoved open. “Caleb…” A gasp cut through the air, yanking me out of my hazy, confused thoughts. I instinctively looked over. Serena stood in the doorway, her face pale as a ghost, staring blankly at us. I sat up almost immediately, scrambling to pull the blanket over my body, feeling deeply ashamed. It was absurd. I was Caleb’s fiancée, yet under Serena’s accusing stare, I felt like the other woman caught in an affair. 6 When we were all fully dressed and standing in the living room, Caleb glared at Serena. “What are you doing here?” Serena stared back at him, biting her lip, her eyes filled with intense disbelief and hurt: “I walked into the wrong room. I’m sorry.” “Get out,” he ordered coldly. Mia, Caleb’s younger sister, rushed over and pulled Serena behind her, shielding her. “Caleb, I brought Serena here. There are people harassing her at her apartment for debts. I was afraid she wasn’t safe, so I brought her here to stay for a while.” Caleb’s face turned icy. “Mia, do you have any idea what you’re doing?” Mia’s eyes darted away defensively. “This is my home too. Do I not even have the right to take in a friend?” “Serena, don’t worry. Starting today, you’re staying here. Nobody can kick you out.” “In my heart, you’re my only sister-in-law.” Saying that, she shot me a defiant, challenging look. I found the whole situation laughable. The frustration that had been building inside me flared up again. I ignored her entirely and looked directly at Serena. “You’re afraid of debt collectors showing up at your door, but did you forget you owe me a million dollars too?” “Or did you come here today specifically to pay me back?” I pulled up the QR code on my banking app. “Alright then. Pay up right now.” “That’s enough.” Mia swatted my hand away. My phone hit the floor with a loud crack. Mia turned to Caleb, her expression complicated. “Caleb, I know you hate Serena, but there’s a reason for everything.” “Do you even know what happened back then—” Serena, as if finally snapping out of a daze, violently grabbed Mia’s arm. Her eyes were red and pleading. “Don’t say it.” For a moment, no one spoke. Until Caleb suddenly broke the silence. “Back then, what?” 7 But before Mia could say anything, Serena suddenly fainted. “Caleb! Serena’s hypoglycemia is acting up. Just let her stay here tonight.” I couldn’t read Caleb’s expression. He just frowned. He didn’t agree, but he didn’t refuse either. In the end, I just gave a self-deprecating laugh, turned around, and walked away. Half an hour later, Caleb finally came back to the bedroom. He grabbed my hand as I packed my suitcase. “What are you doing?” “Since there’s a new lady of the house here, I’m making room.” “Chloe, I explained this. Serena and I are absolutely impossible—” I cut him off. “But you wavered just now, didn’t you?” “If she really had a compelling reason back then, can you guarantee you won’t be affected by her?” Caleb, however, remained firm. “Even if she had a reason, her abandoning me for someone else is a fact. My mother becoming like this because of her is a fact.” “The damage is already done. She has no right to beg for my forgiveness.” “Serena just woke up. I told her she has to leave first thing tomorrow morning. Mia, too.” “This is our home. If she can’t accept you as her sister-in-law, she can pack up and leave with Serena.” “I’m sorry, honey.” Caleb knelt down. His slightly cool fingertips gently, tenderly wiped away my tears. “Making you sad and insecure… that’s my fault.” … In the middle of the night, I was startled awake by a clap of thunder. I groggily rolled over and realized the spot next to me was empty. Caleb was gone. I practically searched the entire house but couldn’t find him. I called him several times, but he didn’t answer. The rain was pouring down outside. I sat on the sofa like an idiot, staring blankly ahead. Suddenly, I remembered one place I hadn’t checked. I ran to the guest room where Serena was staying. From inside, I could hear a woman’s faint, muffled groans. My brain exploded. I shakily tried the handle, only to find the door was locked from the outside. “My brother and Serena are in there.” “I slipped them both something in their drinks, and I locked the door.” Mia padded over in her slippers. “They missed out on so many years. I’m just trying to secure my brother’s happiness and correct a terrible mistake.” My blood boiled instantly. “Mia, if anything actually happens in there, I will call the cops.” I frantically searched for the spare key and finally heard a click. The moment the door opened, my heart was lodged in my throat. 8 I didn’t know whether to be relieved or devastated. The scene before me wasn’t the graphic nightmare I had imagined— Serena was curled up under the covers, one wrist tied to the headboard with a sheet. Her face was flushed dark red, her hair completely disheveled. “Caleb, you… you don’t have to save me. I know you haven’t forgiven me yet. I don’t want you to do something you’ll regret.” She looked like she was in excruciating agony. Her tearful expression was undeniably pitiful, inspiring a strong urge to protect her. Caleb stood with his back to the door, rigid and straight beside the bed. I couldn’t see his face. “Caleb.” When he heard my voice and turned around, he froze for a second. I ran to his side and saw that he was fully dressed and seemed completely normal. Trembling, I asked, “Are you okay?” Caleb shook his head. As if remembering something, he stared at me, earnestly trying to explain: “Mia tricked me into coming in here, and then locked me in with Serena. But I didn’t drink the spiked wine. Nothing happened between us.” So, Serena was the only one who had been drugged. My mind was a chaotic mess. Just as I was about to speak, someone grabbed my arm violently. “This is all your fault. If it wasn’t for you, they would have made up a long time ago—” Mia lunged at me, trying to hit me. I had reached my absolute limit. I backhanded her hard across the face. “Are you out of your damn mind?” Mia looked at me in disbelief and immediately turned to Caleb to complain. “Caleb, she hit me! I’m your biological sister!” Seeing that Caleb only stared at her coldly, a flash of panic crossed Mia’s eyes. “Chloe, my brother doesn’t even love you! How can you be so shameless, clinging to him and refusing to let go?!” I laughed out of sheer fury. “You drugged your own brother and the ex-girlfriend who almost killed your mother, locked them in a room together, and you think I’m the shameless one?” Mia’s eyes darted nervously. “Serena didn’t mean to do that! She…” “Enough.” Caleb suddenly spoke. His expression and tone were absolute ice. “No matter what her reason is, I never want to hear it.” Mia went pale. “Caleb, you’re going to regret this.” Caleb remained unmoved. “Chloe and I are getting married next Saturday. It would be best if you didn’t attend. You are not welcome.” Finally, an ambulance came and took Serena away. As she was leaving, she said in a very quiet voice, “Caleb, whether you believe it or not, I never wanted to hurt you back then.” Caleb held my hand. His face showed not a single trace of emotion. 9 I told Caleb I needed more time to think about the wedding. He didn’t refuse forcefully. He just looked at me earnestly and said, “Chloe, no matter what happens, promise me you’ll never leave me.” I muted everyone’s messages and went on a solo trip to clear my head. I never expected a sudden earthquake to strike the area. And I certainly never expected Caleb to ignore the danger of aftershocks and rush all the way there to find me. I wasn’t really hurt, but he was. A falling sign hit his arm, and he needed six stitches. Seeing me on the verge of tears, he endured the pain and tried to comfort me. “Good thing it was my arm. If it hit my face, I wouldn’t look as handsome on our wedding day.” He said it like a joke, but his expression when mentioning the wedding was incredibly serious and resolute. I looked at him for a long time, then took a deep breath. “Then you better heal fast, or you’ll be wearing a sling on our wedding day.” He froze. His eyes lit up. The light in them was entirely for me. “Okay.” … As the wedding date approached, I was overwhelmed with preparations. On the day I went to try on my dress, Serena called me. “I knew Mia spiked the drink that night. I drank it on purpose.” She went on a long rant, finally threatening that if I didn’t give Caleb back to her, she would kill herself. I honestly thought she was clinically insane. I replied coldly, “Then go die.” After that, she never called me again. Until the day of the wedding, someone sent me an anonymous text: “Care to make a bet? You won’t get married today.” The confident tone felt like a simple statement of fact. It was obvious it was from Serena. An inexplicable wave of irritation washed over me. It wasn’t just because of the text. It was because I realized Caleb was acting very strange today. “…Groom, do you take this woman?” When the officiant asked for the fourth time, I saw Caleb finally snap out of his distracted daze. After another blank silence, he muttered softly, “I do.” I felt a little dizzy. Was he regretting this? Caleb’s phone suddenly rang, loud and intrusive. His expression shifted slightly. He seemed to know who it was, but he didn’t answer. The phone kept ringing relentlessly. He finally just turned it off. The wedding proceeded to the montage of our sweet memories. But the photos and music we had prepared inexplicably vanished, and a familiar face suddenly filled the giant screen. Mia. A sudden, terrible premonition hit me. The next second, Mia’s panicked voice echoed through the entire venue. “Caleb, Serena is missing.” The crowd gasped in shock. “Who’s Serena?” “Ugh, Mr. Thorne’s ex-girlfriend.” I saw Caleb visibly freeze. Mia seemed to be walking and running at the same time, her voice slightly breathless. “Earlier today, she was acting really weird. She said she had to get your wedding present ready, and then she just vanished.” “Caleb, I know I promised Serena I wouldn’t tell, but I really can’t keep it a secret anymore today.” “You weren’t answering your phone, so this was the only way I could let you know the truth.” Caleb stopped breathing, his expression growing tense. “She never betrayed you. She didn’t steal the core technology; another employee in your company did. She deliberately took the blame for it.” “Because—” “Serena was diagnosed with leukemia back then.” Caleb stood paralyzed, glued to the floor. “Her ex-husband threatened her. If she didn’t marry him, he was going to completely destroy your company.” “She didn’t live in luxury for those five years. She was abroad getting treatment the entire time.” Caleb looked like he’d been struck by lightning. His face was a portrait of pure, unadulterated shock. “Caleb, she really sacrificed so much for you. That venomous snake Chloe is completely unworthy of you.” “Do you know what she said to Serena?” A burst of static, and Mia hit play on a voice recorder. My cold, malicious voice echoed from the speakers— “Then go die.” Caleb snapped his head around and stared at me. He had never looked at me with such sharp, suspicious, accusing eyes. “I see Serena.” “She’s… on the roof.” “Caleb…” Mia’s voice trembled. “She’s going to jump!” Caleb looked like he could barely stand. “Caleb, that audio recording—” I grabbed his arm, desperately trying to explain myself. Caleb violently shoved me off. I stumbled, completely caught off guard, and crashed heavily onto the floor. “Caleb…” He only looked back at me once. His eyes were a chaotic mess of emotions. Then, without a second glance, he walked away. Ignoring the pitying, mocking stares of everyone in the room, I stood up, gathered my massive dress, and chased after him. A muffled clap of thunder rolled across the sky. The bright, sunny day had suddenly turned into a torrential downpour. I stumbled and slipped, following Caleb all the way to the roof of the hotel. Just in time to see him and Serena locked in a desperate struggle. In the pouring rain, Serena kept fighting to break free, while Caleb, his eyes bloodshot, hugged her fiercely from behind. They were both soaking wet. “Aren’t you supposed to be getting married?! Why did you come find me?!” “In your heart, I’m just a gold-digging villain!” “Caleb, since you hate me so much, I’ll just die right here in front of you—” Before she could finish screaming, Caleb forcefully spun her around, buried one hand in her hair, and kissed her with crushing intensity.

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I couldn’t help but smirk. On the very night Judy Bell secured her first Best Actress nomination—a feat built entirely on the back of my sweat and influence—she stood before a swarm of reporters and accused me of being a tyrant. Into the glowing lens of the cameras, she wept about how “the machine” had stifled her soul, how she had been forced into a hyper-sexualized brand, and how every stitch of clothing she wore was a calculated move by a cold, corporate hand. My hand. She declared to the world that tonight, she was finally breaking her chains. She was going to prove that an artist could shine without the shadow of “big industry money” looming over them. The media ate it up. They hailed her as a brave revolutionary, a woman of integrity standing up to the big, bad wolf of Hollywood. I didn’t argue. I simply picked up my phone, dialed the chairperson of the awards committee, and gave them a simple instruction: “Change of plans for tonight. Give the trophy to someone who actually knows how to follow a script.” 1 I discovered Judy when she was eighteen. I found her at a back-alley industry party in a town that thrives on devouring girls like her. She was terrified, dressed in next to nothing, surrounded by a circle of aging vultures who were planning which hotel room she’d be delivered to after the appetizers were finished. When my assistant first briefed me on her, I felt a rare pang of genuine pity. She came from a broken home in a Rust Belt town where daughters were liabilities and sons were kings. Her parents were degenerate gamblers who had racked up debts that would take three lifetimes to pay off. To keep them afloat, she’d been coerced into filming some “private” content—the kind of videos that stay on the internet forever. Once you step into that swamp, there is usually no way out. In a moment of uncharacteristic softness, I stepped in. I bought out her “debts,” scrubbed the internet of her past, and spent years meticulously crafting her image. I hired the best acting coaches to sharpen her raw talent and, piece by piece, I put the clothes back on her that the world had tried so hard to tear off. Now, she thought her wings were strong enough to claw at the person who gave them to her. “The agency gave me my start, yes,” she told a reporter, her voice trembling with practiced emotion. “But I’m tired of being a puppet. I’m tired of the forced ‘sexy’ image and the mandatory dinners with investors. I want the world to know I can make it on my own. My talent is my only currency!” It was a stirring performance. She was poised, articulate, and utterly unafraid of the camera—skills I had spent thousands of dollars teaching her. Because I had shielded her for so long, she actually had a decent reputation in the industry. The fans immediately rallied behind her, screaming about “toxic management” and “corporate greed.” I sat in the back of my Maybach, watching her be escorted into the theater by a phalanx of security guards. I let out a dry laugh. My assistant, Sarah, glanced at me nervously. “Ms. Rossi, she’s probably just trying to generate buzz for the win. It’s a competitive year. Maybe she felt she had to play the victim to get the votes?” “Buzz is one thing; betrayal is another,” I said, my voice cold. “Four of the five nominees in that category are from my agency. It didn’t matter who won—until now. She’s developed an ego she hasn’t earned. She’s not renewing her contract, is she?” Sarah shook her head. “She signaled that she wants to go indie.” “Fine,” I said. “Let’s give her exactly what she wants. Freedom.” Sarah looked stunned. As the head of Apex Talent Group, I’ve spent twenty years navigating the shark-infested waters of this industry. My clients don’t just get rich; they become icons. I’ve treated them like my own children, poured my life into their careers. When actors wanted to retire and live a quiet life, I let them go with grace and a golden parachute. We stayed friends. Judy Bell was the first one to ever try to burn the house down on her way out. Everyone in that room knew that when she spoke of “the machine,” she meant me—Antonia Rossi, the most powerful woman in the business. I watched the hashtags trend. #FreeJudy. #DownWithApex. I smiled and turned to Sarah. “Start the audit. Every cent we’ve spent on her development over the last decade—I want a line-itemized bill. If she wants to be independent, she can start by paying her debts. And tell the PR team to kill her victory spreads. We’re backing Sofia Rossi for the win tonight.” “But Sofia was the dark horse,” Sarah whispered. “Not anymore.” I picked up my phone and made one more call. “Mr. Sterling, there’s been a change in the weather. Stick to the backup plan. Let’s go to a pure popular vote for the final tally. Let the ‘people’ decide.” Judy, let’s see how that “talent” holds up when I’m not the one holding the scale. The car pulled up to the red carpet. I smoothed my gown, stepped out, and was immediately blinded by the flashbulbs. I walked past the shouting reporters without a word, my heels clicking like a countdown on the marble floor. Once inside the VIP lounge, I had barely taken my seat when I saw Judy marching toward me. She looked defiant, her chin tilted at that perfect angle I’d taught her for “strong female lead” roles. “Ms. Rossi.” I leaned back in my chair, giving her a curt nod. My silence was louder than a scream. 2 Judy faltered for a second, then steeled herself. “Don’t hate me, Antonia. I just want to walk my own path. I can’t let you control my every move anymore.” I nodded slowly. The other studio heads around me were already snickering behind their champagne flutes. “You’ve certainly made a splash tonight, Judy,” the CEO of Paramount Pictures remarked. “Found a new home already? Who’s picking up your tab?” Judy glanced at me, her eyes darting nervously before she regained her bravado. “Actually, no. I’m taking a hiatus. I’m going to be my own boss.” “How brave,” I said. My lack of rage seemed to unsettle her. She wanted a fight; she wanted to be the martyr. “I’m serious, Antonia. From now on, my wardrobe, my scripts, my life—none of it is up for negotiation with the agency.” “Message received,” I said, checking my watch. “Is there anything else? The show is starting.” She bit her lip, frustrated that I wasn’t pleading with her. “I don’t need the ‘handouts’ or the ‘curated’ roles anymore. I’m going to prove that I can get the prestige projects on my own. I want to be like you—a power player.” I looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time in months. In ten years, she had grown into a stunning woman, but she had developed a fatal delusion: she believed she was the chef, when in reality, she was just the finest ingredient in my kitchen. In this town, a “pretty girl with talent” is a commodity. You don’t sit at the table just because you’ve been standing in the room for a long time. I smiled and waved a hand. Sarah appeared instantly. “Ms. Bell’s seat is in the back of the house, I believe. Please show her the way.” Judy’s face flushed. “You’ll see. I’m going to be the biggest thing in this industry.” As she walked away, the man sitting next to me—a cynical old producer named Lou—laughed. “Ambitious girl. Too bad she’s got a paper-thin soul. She doesn’t realize she’s only a star because you keep the sun shining on her.” “You made a mistake with that one, Antonia,” another added. I took a sip of my drink. “She chose her path. Let her walk it until her feet bleed. I’ve already made my ROI on her. If any of you want to sign her tomorrow, be my guest.” They all laughed in unison. “A girl who bites the hand? No thanks. The market is too crowded for ego without leverage.” The ceremony began. I watched the notifications on my phone. The contracts were being drafted. Since she wasn’t renewing, every deal we had in the pipeline for her was being rerouted to other talent. If she wanted to be “free,” she could start with a completely empty calendar. The awards rolled out—Best Screenplay, Best Score, Best Supporting Actress. Apex clients were sweeping. The room kept turning to me with congratulatory nods. “Another banner year for Apex, Antonia!” “We do our best,” I replied, my eyes finding Judy in the back rows. She was sitting tall, waiting for her moment. Finally, it was time for the Best Actress presentation. Judy was asked to come up to the stage early to present a youth achievement award—a small courtesy I’d arranged weeks ago. As she stood there, the host, a man named Jordan Kent, decided to stir the pot. 3 “I have to ask,” Jordan said, grinning at the camera, “Judy, earlier tonight you mentioned going solo. Are we witnessing the birth of a new indie queen? And Antonia, how does it feel to lose your brightest star?” The theater went silent. Everyone loves a public execution. I smiled graciously from the front row. “I support her completely. Judy has been with us for a long time, and we’ve had a wonderful run. If she feels it’s time to fly solo, Apex will facilitate a smooth exit. We’re all friends here. It’s a small town.” Judy’s expression darkened. She hadn’t expected me to announce the “divorce” so publicly and so casually. It made her look like she was being fired rather than quitting. “That’s right,” Judy forced a smile. “My contract is up, and I’m launching my own production banner. I hope everyone here will support my new journey.” “And will there be future collaborations between you two?” Jordan pressed. I felt a cold laugh bubbling in my chest. Collaborations? She wanted to leave the house but keep the credit card? “Antonia’s agency controls half the prestige scripts in the city,” Jordan continued, “I’m sure Judy will still be looking to you for those A-list projects.” I leaned into the microphone near my seat. “We’ll see where the road leads. Judy is a… professional. If the right project comes along, we’re always open to talent.” Judy’s eyes were a storm of complex emotions. “Of course. I’m looking forward to working on more original scripts,” she added, a subtle dig at the franchise work I’d steered her toward. I caught Jordan Kent’s eye—the host. He looked away quickly. That one look told me everything. He was in on it. He’d probably been promised a role in whatever “indie” project she thought she was starting. The awards moved to the main event. Jordan announced that for the first time, the Best Actor and Actress winners would be decided by a live weighted vote, including the front-row board members. Judy’s poise slipped. She looked at me, panic flaring in her eyes. I gave her a reassuring, maternal smile. She relaxed slightly and checked her phone. A second later, my phone buzzed. Judy: Antonia, I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you first. I just had to do this for myself. About the contract… we can talk. Me: I understand. Good luck tonight. I hope all your dreams come true. She was obsessed with this trophy. She thought that because she was “my girl,” I would pull the final strings to ensure her “Triple Crown” legacy. In the wings, I could see her personal assistant already typing out victory tweets. The buzz was deafening. Her fan clubs were losing their minds online. But her rivals weren’t staying quiet. “Is she serious? The show isn’t even over and she’s celebrating? Talk about bad luck,” one rival fan base posted. “Judy Bell is acting like she bought the vote. It’s a public/board split tonight. She’s too cocky.” The tension in the room was thick. The big screen showed the live tally. It was neck-and-neck between Judy and Sofia Rossi. The clock ticked down to the final second. They were tied. “And now,” Jordan Kent announced, his voice booming, “the tie-breaking votes from our four industry titans in the front row!” The first three votes came in: one for Sofia, two abstentions. Every camera in the building pivoted to me. Judy stood on the edge of the stage, her hair perfectly tousled, a look of hungry anticipation on her face. I took the mic, my voice steady and resonant. “My vote goes to… Sofia Rossi.” On the giant screen, Judy’s smile didn’t just fade—it curdled. The camera stayed on her for a brutal five seconds as the realization hit her like a physical blow. She was frozen, a statue of pure, unadulterated shock.

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