Category: English

The bouquet didn’t just land in my hands; it collided with my chest, a soft, fragrant thud amidst the chaos of the reception. Every pair of eyes in the ballroom pivoted to Gary. It was a reflex, a collective expectation built over the eight years we’d been together. The chanting started almost immediately, fueled by champagne and sentimentality. “Marry her! Marry her!” “You’re up, buddy! Put a ring on it!” The crowd surged, pushing Gary toward me. I stood there, clutching the white roses, my face flushing with a heat that felt like hope. I waited for the smile, the drop to one knee, the words I’m finally ready. Instead, Gary reached out. His expression was terrifyingly calm as he plucked the bouquet from my grip. He turned and handed it to the bridesmaid standing next to him. “She caught it first,” he said, his voice smooth, reasonable, and loud enough to silence the front row. He turned back to me, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Be a good girl. We’ll get the next one.” The spotlight swung away, chasing the flowers. I watched the bridesmaid—a twenty-two-year-old girl named Paige—giggle, feigning shock and shyness. I forced a smile. It felt like cracked plaster on my face. Gary didn’t know there wouldn’t be a next time. My wedding was next week. … Becca’s face went dark instantly. She looked ready to commit a felony. I caught her wrist just as she raised her hand. She whipped around, her eyes rimmed with red, tears threatening to spill. “That bitch did it on purpose, Nora! I told every single bridesmaid to back off. That bouquet was meant for you…” “Becca,” I whispered, squeezing her hand. “The wedding isn’t over. Don’t ruin your night.” The room’s attention had already drifted. They were looking at Paige, the girl holding my flowers. She cradled them like a prize, casting a dewy-eyed glance at Gary, who had already retreated to the safety of the sidelines. The MC, a seasoned pro, cracked a few jokes to salvage the awkwardness, and the music swelled. Becca let out a frustrated huff, glaring daggers at Gary’s back before turning to finish her duties. For the rest of the reception, I sat at the head table, the maid of honor exposed to a hundred pitying glances. Gary sat three tables away with his finance buddies, laughing, a drink in hand. Paige sat next to him. She wasn’t supposed to be a bridesmaid. The groom had added a groomsman last minute, and Gary had suggested Paige—his executive assistant—fill the slot. He took her everywhere lately. “Mentorship,” he called it. Apparently, that mentorship extended to my best friend’s wedding. During the toasts, Becca dragged her new husband over to our table. She hugged me so hard I could barely breathe, whispering venomously into my ear: “That girl has been throwing herself at Gary for six months. I had someone look into her. She’s a shark, Nora. And Gary…” “Becca,” I rubbed her back, cutting her off. “You are the most beautiful bride I have ever seen. Let’s focus on that.” She gritted her teeth but nodded. When the venue finally cleared out, Gary strolled over. “Ready to head back?” He reached for my purse naturally, his other arm moving to drape over my shoulders. I stepped sideways, letting his arm fall through empty air. “You’ve been drinking. I called an Uber.” He didn’t seem to notice the rejection. “Smart. Okay.” The car ride was quiet. The city lights blurred against the window, mirroring the exhaustion in my reflection. My makeup was perfect, but my eyes looked dead. “About earlier,” Gary said, breaking the silence. “Paige technically touched the flowers first. She’s young, probably just wanted to feel part of the magic.” He paused. “Don’t overthink it.” I stared at the passing neon signs. “I’m not.” He waited, then finally looked up from his phone. He scooted closer. “You’re mad.” “We said ‘next time,’ right?” His fingers brushed the nape of my neck, a familiar, possessive gesture he used to soothe me like a temperamental pet. “Our wedding is going to blow Becca’s out of the water. You can have as many bouquets as you want, okay?” A familiar acid rose in my throat. It was always like this. A gentle tone, a vague promise of “someday,” and the expectation that I would just… settle. “Gary,” I said, watching his reflection in the dark glass. “Yeah?” “Becca and I made a pact when we were seven,” I said, my voice steady. “Whoever got married first, the other one had to get married within a week. We were supposed to wear the dresses we made for each other. We were supposed to witness it together.” The air in the car went still. His hand stopped moving on my neck. “You’re holding onto a childhood game?” He chuckled, but the sound lacked warmth. His hand resumed its motion, lazily now. “Plans change, Nora. Venues, vendors, logistics—that stuff takes a year to prep. We’ll plan it properly. Why the rush?” He didn’t explain why he couldn’t just say I’ll marry you in front of our friends. He just skipped straight to the logistics of a hypothetical event. I remembered a month ago, when Becca dragged me to the fitting room to show me the bridesmaid dress she’d designed. Pale champagne silk with tiny pearls at the waist. Becca had cried when I put it on. “You look stunning, Nora. I made this for you. Just wait until I design your wedding dress. It’s going to be a masterpiece.” Gary had been there, buried in his emails. He’d glanced up for half a second. “Nice,” he’d said, before diving back into his phone. At the time, I felt happy for Becca, but a cold wind had blown through the center of my chest. Eight years, and I was still just the audience. The car pulled up to our building. Gary unbuckled. He leaned in, assuming the fight was over, expecting a kiss. I put my hand on his chest, stopping him. He froze. “I’m tired, Gary.” He stared at me for a beat, then patted my shoulder. “Being a maid of honor is exhausting. Go get some sleep. Paige just texted—she can’t get a ride from the venue. It’s not safe for her to be alone out there. I’m going to loop back and drop her off.” “Okay,” I said. He didn’t move. He was waiting for the script. He was waiting for me to say, Be careful, or to whine, Do you have to? Instead, I opened the door and got out. I walked into the lobby without looking back. Upstairs, I collapsed onto the sofa. It took me an hour to summon the energy to walk down the hall. I paused outside the “Spare Room.” When we bought this place four years ago, it was the “Nursery.” Now, it was a storage unit for dead dreams. I went inside. From the dusty crib, I pulled out a heavy box. Handwritten letters, ticket stubs, photo booth strips—the archaeology of a relationship. At the bottom was a photo from college graduation. He was giving me a piggyback ride under a cherry blossom tree. On the back, in his messy scrawl: I’ve got your back forever. Promise. The dim light of the living room made the ink look gray. A silent mockery. I heard his car pull into the garage below. I didn’t move. I listened to the elevator, the key in the lock, the muffled footsteps. “Still up?” He stood in the doorway. I didn’t turn around. I was kneeling on the floor. “Yeah.” “Cleaning house?” He asked, his tone light. “Getting nostalgic?” “Did you get her home?” I asked quietly. He paused. “Yeah. She lives way out in Queens. Hard to get a cab.” “Okay.” I placed the photo back in the box and closed the lid. “Come on, let’s go to bed,” he said, reaching out a hand to help me up. I stood up on my own, ignoring his hand. My legs were numb. I stumbled slightly. “Gary.” “Hmm?” He stopped halfway to the bedroom. “I want to break up.” He froze, then laughed. He loosened his tie, shaking his head. “Still on about the bouquet? Don’t be petty, Nora.” He used that tone again—the one for a tantrum-throwing toddler. “Fine. I’ll buy you a massive arrangement tomorrow. Five hundred roses. Happy? Now go wash your face, I have a board meeting at 8 a.m.” He turned his back on me and walked toward the bathroom. “I’m getting married,” I said to his back. “In less than a week.” His hand, reaching for the bathroom door handle, stopped. Slowly, he turned around. The mask of tolerant amusement finally slipped. “Nora, stop it.” He rubbed his temples. “Marriage is a legal contract, not something you do to win an argument.” “October 28th,” I said. “The venue is booked. The dress is ready.” He let out a cold, sharp laugh. “Did Becca put you up to this? Just because she rushed into things doesn’t mean the whole world has to be impulsive.” “Gary,” I cut him off. “The invitations go out tomorrow.” A muscle in his jaw jumped. “Do you think this works on me? This just makes you look childish, Nora. I am in the middle of the most important quarter of my career. I don’t have time for your drama to derail my focus.” “You just want to be a bride that badly?” His words hit like stones. Once, they would have made me panic, made me apologize, made me beg for him to understand. Now? I felt nothing but a vast, cool silence. His attention had always been the most expensive thing on the menu. He saved it for investors. He saved it for his “promising” assistant. The late-night texts, the birthday surprises, the “business trips” that included spa days… There was never any budget left for me. I looked him in the eye and nodded. “Yeah. All my friends are married. I want to have a family.” I walked past him into the bedroom. On the nightstand sat a bridal magazine from six months ago. The headline screamed: The 3-Month Countdown: A Bride’s Guide. I had bought it excitedly. He had seen it, said “What’s the rush?” and I had never opened it again. Lying in the dark, my phone buzzed. A text from Becca. You up? I can’t sleep. I’m so angry thinking about that girl’s face. What is WRONG with Gary? What was wrong? Nothing. Or everything. Some flowers just don’t bloom, no matter how long you water them. Becca typed again: Remember our pact? One week apart. Who knew your guy would be such a block of wood? You catch the bouquet and he still doesn’t get it? It’s been eight years, not eight weeks! Whatever. I give you a pass this time. You can break the pact. My fingers hovered over the screen. I typed: Babe, when have I ever broken a promise to you? Gary moved into the corporate apartment near his office the next day. He claimed my “wedding hysteria” was suffocating him and he needed peace to work. Good. It gave me the space to breathe. I handled everything in silence. I listed our condo—the one we bought together but was solely in my name because his credit was tied up in the business back then—on a real estate app. The afternoon I handed the keys to the agent, I was clearing out the last of the junk mail when I found a project file Gary needed. I hesitated, then decided to drop it off. The door to his corporate apartment was closed, but I could hear laughter inside. I raised my hand to knock, but a familiar female voice floated through the wood. “Gary, stop, I feel terrible! I didn’t mean to catch the bouquet. Now everyone in the Slack channel is making jokes. They’re asking if we’re…” “You have to clarify it in the group chat, or I’ll never be able to show my face in the breakroom again!” My hand froze in mid-air. Before Gary could answer, one of his frat-boy business partners laughed. “Come on, Paige. Do you really want him to clarify it, or are you fishing to hear him say something else?” Laughter followed. Flirty, knowing laughter. “Stop teasing her,” Gary’s voice cut in. It was warm. Indulgent. “Don’t worry about it, Paige. People talk. They’ll forget in a week.” They’ll forget in a week. The memory hit me like a physical blow. Two years ago, I went to his office to drop off lunch. He had hugged me, forgetting where we were. A junior analyst saw us. Within an hour, Gary had sent a company-wide memo regarding “professional conduct” and clarifying that visitors should not be mistaken for partners. He told everyone not to misunderstand. I had understood then. I stopped visiting. My fingertips went cold. He didn’t hate office romance. He hated being seen with me. A woman who offered no strategic value to his empire. Another voice inside the apartment spoke up. “Speaking of… Gary, how did you handle the Nora situation? I actually got a digital invite this morning. Is she serious?” Silence. Then Gary chuckled. It was a dry, hollow sound. “Let her have her moment. I spoil her too much usually. She needs to learn that throwing a tantrum doesn’t get results.” “Damn,” someone laughed. “So you’re really not going?” Gary didn’t answer, which was answer enough. Then, a hesitant voice: “Gary, are you sure about playing chicken? You guys have been together forever. We’ve all been waiting for that wedding…” The voice dropped lower. “Unless… you have other plans? Maybe… a certain Ms. Paige?” “Mr. Reynolds!” Paige squealed, her voice dripping with artificial shock. “Don’t make jokes like that! Gary knows… he knows what he’s doing.” She said the last part softly, intimately. Gary didn’t correct them. A low ripple of laughter went through the room. “Honestly,” another guy said, “Gary’s a saint. Eight years? I would have bailed ages ago. Nora’s great, but what does she actually bring to the table? Paige here is sharp, she’s in the trenches with us…” “Oh, stop it!” Paige giggled. The motion-sensor light in the hallway clicked off, plunging me into darkness. I placed the file on the doormat and nudged it until it slid halfway under the door. Then I turned around and walked away.

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Kate cried. Not the happy kind of crying. When I handed her the pregnancy test, she froze for a solid three seconds. Then the tears just started falling. “Kate?” She didn’t say a word. She just grabbed a tissue, wiped her eyes, and turned her back to me. I thought she was overwhelmed with joy for me. Mark and I had been married for eight years. We’d been trying for a baby forever. Finally, it had happened. But the way she was crying felt wrong. Her hands were shaking. When she left, she stood in the doorway for a long time, her lips parting as if to speak, but she swallowed the words and walked away. The next day, she came back. She was holding a manila envelope. Inside was a divorce settlement agreement. Blank. “Sarah,” she looked at me, her eyes rimmed with red. “This baby… I need you to think really hard before you keep it.” 1. I thought my sister had lost her mind. “Kate, what the hell is this?” I shoved the envelope back across the coffee table. A blank divorce agreement. Why would she bring this into my house? “You and Mark are good, right?” She didn’t answer my question. She just countered with one of her own. “Of course we’re good.” “Is he working late a lot recently?” “Yeah. He just got promoted to Project Director. The hours come with the territory.” “How late?” “Eleven, midnight. Sometimes later.” “When he’s working late, and you call him, does he answer?” I paused. “Sometimes he doesn’t. The signal is trash in his office garage. He told me.” Kate set her coffee mug down. Her hand was still trembling. “Sarah… have you ever checked his phone?” “Checked his phone?” I actually laughed. “Kate, I’m not that kind of wife. Marriage is about trust—” “Check it.” She cut me off. Her voice was quiet, but it had the weight of iron. “Just once. Tonight. Wait until he’s asleep, and just look.” I studied her face. She wasn’t joking. There were deep purple bruises of exhaustion under her eyes, and her lips were chapped, like she hadn’t slept in days. “Kate, what is going on? Can you just tell me?” She opened her mouth. Then closed it. “I can’t just tell you,” she said. “Because you won’t believe me. You’ll just think I’m trying to drive a wedge between you.” “You’re my sister—” “I’m your sister, which is exactly why you won’t believe it.” She stood up. “You’ll think I’m jealous because you married well. You’ll think that because I’m divorced, I can’t stand seeing you happy.” That stung. Kate divorced three years ago. Her ex-husband cheated, left her high and dry, and she’s been raising her daughter alone ever since. “Kate, I have never thought that—” “I know.” She picked up her purse. “That’s why I’m not telling you. You have to see it for yourself.” She walked to the door and stopped. “Sarah.” “Yeah?” “No matter what you find, remember one thing—you are not alone.” The door clicked shut. I stood in the living room, still clutching that manila envelope. It was light. But suddenly, it felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. Mark came home late that night. Eleven-forty. He brought a gust of cold Chicago wind in with him. He saw me still sitting on the couch and offered a tired smile. “Still up?” “Waiting for you.” “Babe, don’t be silly. You’re pregnant. You need your rest.” He placed his phone on the entryway console table—his habit. Phone down, shoes off. I used to think it was discipline—disconnecting from work to be present with me. Tonight, I stared at that phone and it looked less like a device and more like a locked box. He went to shower. The sound of water running filled the apartment. I sat on the couch, staring at the console table. Kate’s voice echoed in my ear: Check it. Just once. I didn’t move. The water stopped. He came out, toweling off his hair, and saw me still sitting there. “What’s wrong? You look zoned out.” “Nothing.” “Come to bed. I’ll drive you to your appointment tomorrow.” “Okay.” I followed him into the bedroom. Lay down. Lights out. His breathing evened out quickly. I lay there, eyes wide open, staring at the dark ceiling. The phone was in the hallway. His breathing was heavy, rhythmic. I didn’t move. Not because I was scared. But because I didn’t want to know. If that box was empty, I was paranoid for nothing. If it wasn’t— I closed my eyes. But sleep wouldn’t come. 2:00 AM. I got up to use the bathroom. Passing the hallway console, I stopped. The phone sat there, face down. I picked it up. The passcode was my birthday. He’d never changed it. He loves me, I told myself as I punched in the six digits. It unlocked. iMessage. Three pinned conversations. First was me. Saved as “Wife.” Second was his mom. Saved as “Mom.” Third— The contact name was just an emoji. A house. No name. Just a little house. I tapped it. The latest message was from tonight, 9:17 PM. A photo. It was a little boy, maybe two years old, wearing dinosaur pajamas, lying on a bed, grinning. Below it, a caption: Son is waiting for you. He refuses to sleep. 2. I put the phone back on the console. Face down, exactly how it was. I went back to the bedroom and lay down. Mark rolled over, draping a heavy arm across my waist. “Mmm… you cold?” “No.” His hand was warm. I stared at the ceiling in the dark, frozen. That little boy in the dinosaur pajamas. Big eyes. Single eyelids. Mark has single eyelids. I didn’t sleep all night. The next morning, Mark got up and made breakfast. Scrambled eggs and toast. He bustled around the kitchen in his apron, looking back to smile at me. “Want some bacon? Gotta keep the protein up for the baby.” “Sure.” I sat at the dining table, watching his back. I had watched this back for eight years. Eight years ago, he was making forty grand a year, and I was making sixty. Our first apartment was a fourth-floor walk-up with no AC. Every day after work, he’d carry the groceries up the stairs for me, then run back down to park the car. Five trips sometimes. Later, when we bought a place, we didn’t have enough for the down payment. I borrowed eight grand from my mom, five from a college friend, and drained my entire 401k savings. He said, “Sarah, when I make it big, I’ll pay you back double.” Then he switched jobs. Salary bumped up. Switched again. Another bump. From forty grand to eighty, to one-fifty, to two hundred… now he was pulling in nearly four hundred thousand. When the money started coming in, he said, “Don’t worry about the bills anymore. I’ll handle the finances.” I thought he was taking care of me. He took over the household accounts. He transferred me a set allowance for groceries and bills every month, and told me he was investing the rest. “Once we save enough, we’ll get a real house. Something in the suburbs.” I believed him. For eight years, I managed the household, paid the mortgage, and sent his mother money every month. He said the rest was in savings. In “growth funds.” I never asked to see the numbers. Because I trusted him. I thought about last winter. November. Our anniversary. I took a half-day off work. Went to the market at 3 PM. Bought the expensive short ribs he loves, fresh herbs, a bottle of wine. I bought flowers, too. I rarely bought flowers—waste of money—but seven years felt like a milestone. By six, dinner was ready. Four courses. The flowers were in a water glass because I didn’t own a vase. Seven o’clock. He wasn’t home. Eight o’clock. I called. Straight to voicemail. Nine o’clock. A text: Meeting ran late. Don’t wait up. I took the flowers out of the glass. I needed the glass to drink water. He came home at eleven. “Did you eat?” “Yeah, we ordered takeout at the office.” The food on the table was cold. Congealed fat settled on top of the ribs. “It’s fine,” I said. “I’ll put it in Tupperware.” He didn’t notice the flowers. He didn’t remember what day it was. I heated up the ribs and ate them alone at the counter. Now I wonder—when he didn’t answer at 9 PM that night… where was he? Who was he with? Was a toddler in dinosaur pajamas calling him Daddy? Breakfast landed in front of me. Scrambled eggs, bacon, perfectly buttered toast. “Eat up while it’s hot.” He sat opposite me, beaming. I looked down at the plate. “Mark.” “Yeah?” “What time did you get in last night?” “Eleven-ish? I told you, we’re pushing hard on this project launch.” “Right.” I took a bite of toast. It felt like dry wall in my throat. He got up to clean the kitchen. I heard the faucet running. When I finished, I rinsed my plate. He was putting on his coat, checking his watch. “Gonna be late again tonight, babe. Don’t wait up.” “Okay.” The door closed. I sat back on the couch. I pulled out my phone and texted Kate. Kate, you were right. She replied in three seconds. Like she had been staring at the screen. What did you see? I didn’t reply. I didn’t know how to type it out. I sat there for a long time. Then I got up and gathered his laundry from last night. As I was checking the pockets of his jacket, a receipt fell out. Nordstrom, Kids Department. Total: $128.00. Item: Patagonia Fleece, Blue, Size 4T. Size 4T. That fits a two or three-year-old. 3. Kate came over. This time, she didn’t beat around the bush. She brought a clear plastic binder packed thick with documents. “This is everything I’ve collected over the last six months.” She dropped the binder on the coffee table. I didn’t touch it yet. “Six months?” “Yes. Six months ago, I saw his car in the parking garage at the mall. There was a woman in the passenger seat. And a car seat in the back.” I stared at her. “You saw that, and you didn’t tell me?” “I wasn’t sure—” “You weren’t sure, so you investigated him for half a year while I played house?” She didn’t speak. “Kate,” I said her name sharply. “Six months. You let me live a lie for six months.” Tears spilled onto her cheeks. “I was scared you couldn’t handle it. You had just found out about the fibroids, you hadn’t even had the surgery yet—” “So you decided for me?” “No—” “How are you any different from him?” I asked. It was cruel. I knew it was. She wasn’t Mark. But in that moment, the betrayal felt universal. Six months. I slept in the same bed as that man, cooked his meals, washed his clothes, and got pregnant with his child—while my sister watched me play the fool. Kate looked down, crying silently. I sat opposite her, dry-eyed. “Give me the binder.” She slid it across. I opened it. Page one: A photo. Grainy, taken from a distance in a parking lot. Mark’s Tesla. A woman with long hair in the front seat. The silhouette of a car seat in the back. Page two: An address. The Aston Apartments, East Side. Unit 1402. “I followed him,” Kate said. “Twice. Both times he went there. Once he stayed the whole night. Once was a Lesleyday afternoon, stayed for four hours.” Page three: Property records. Unit 1402 Owner: Emily Lesley. Date of Purchase: Two years and three months ago. “Your husband paid for it,” Kate said. “But her name is on the deed.” I flipped the page. Bank transfer screenshots. Mark Smith -> Emily Lesley. 8th of every month. $3,000. Memo: Monthly. Six screenshots. Six months. Three grand times six is eighteen thousand. That’s just the six months Kate tracked. What if it’s been two years? Three thousand times twenty-four… Seventy-two thousand dollars. I did a quick mental calculation of my household budget. Mark transferred me $800 a month for groceries. He sent his mom $400. I paid the mortgage, $1,800 a month. My salary was decent, but after the mortgage and bills, I was usually in the red. I dipped into my own savings, my yearly bonus, my overtime pay to cover the gap. And he was sending that woman three thousand dollars a month. I closed the binder. “Kate.” “Yeah.” “Thank you for getting this.” “Sarah—” “But I don’t want to talk about you hiding this right now.” She opened her mouth to speak. “We’ll talk about that after I deal with Mark.” I picked up the binder and stood up. “You should go, Kate. He’ll be home by seven.” Kate lingered at the door. “If you need anything, call me.” “I will.” The door closed. I sat alone in the dimming living room. The water glass she hadn’t touched was still on the table. Outside, the sky turned purple, then black. There was leftover rice in the fridge. I walked into the kitchen, grabbed two eggs. Made fried rice. Ate it alone. Washed the bowl. Wiped the table. Then I sat on the couch and waited for Mark. 7:20 PM. The lock clicked. “Babe, I’m home! Early today.” He beamed as he kicked off his shoes. “Oh, you cooked? Smells good.” “Fried rice. Yours is in the pan.” “Awesome.” He headed for the kitchen. I watched his back. That back I’d looked at for eight years. For the first time, it looked like a stranger’s. 4. For the next three days, I did nothing. I went to work. Came home. Cooked dinner. Talked to Mark. But I started watching his phone. Details I used to ignore now pricked like needles. He always went to the balcony to take calls. His auto-lock settings changed from 30 seconds to immediate. He took his phone into the bathroom when he showered—he never used to do that. On the third night, he worked late again. Midnight. When he crawled into bed, I smelled detergent on him. Not our detergent. We use Tide. He smelled like lavender Downy. “Working this late?” “Yeah, grinding on the proposal.” “You work so hard.” “As long as you appreciate it, babe.” He kissed my forehead. The smell of lavender suffocated me. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t speak. On the fourth day, I called in sick. I drove to The Aston. It’s a nice complex. Forty minutes from our place. Modern, good landscaping. The kind of place young professionals live. Unit 1402. I stood outside looking up. The blinds on the 14th floor were pink. Clothes were drying on the balcony—a man’s white dress shirt, a woman’s sundress, and tiny, colorful children’s clothes. It looked like a home. Another home. I sat in the bakery across the street for two hours. At 10:30, a woman came out pushing a stroller. Long hair, beige trench coat, sunglasses. A little boy sat in the stroller. Dinosaur hat. The kid from the photo. She pushed him to the small park next to the complex. Sat on a bench. The kid toddled around, tripped, and started wailing. She scooped him up, bounced him twice. He stopped crying and wrapped his arms around her neck. She pulled out her phone and snapped a picture. I knew exactly who was receiving that picture. At noon, I got back in my car. I sat there for a long time. Then I opened Mark’s banking app—the password was his mom’s birthday. He made me memorize it years ago when he set it up. He didn’t know I still remembered it. Credit card statements. I scrolled down, line by line. Cartier: $12,000. Date: Three months ago. I never received any jewelry. Luxury Post-Partum Center: $8,500. Date: Two years ago, May. Two years ago in May. I was on a business trip. Gone for two weeks in Seattle. Mark texted me: Take care of yourself, wifey. Miss you. He was spending that month helping another woman recover from birth. Gymboree: Annual Fee $2,200. Payer: Mark Smith. Kindred Photography: $600. Carter’s: Multiple charges. I closed the app. My hands were on the steering wheel. They were shaking uncontrollably. I took a deep breath. I pulled out my phone. I looked at the photos from Kate’s binder. Kate only tracked six months of transfers. But the banking app went back three years. Three years. $3,000 a month to Emily Lesley. That’s $108,000 just in cash transfers. Plus the jewelry, the luxury care center, the preschool, the clothes, the daily expenses. I did the math. Over $250,000. And my savings for the last three years? I opened my own banking app. Balance: $4,217.65. Eight years of marriage. That was all I had. I bought a coffee at the bakery. Held it in my hands. Didn’t drink it. Sat until it was cold. Then I dumped it in the trash and drove home. On the way, I made a call. “Kate.” “Sarah? What’s wrong?” “Page three. The condo at The Aston. Did you pull the full deed history?” “I did. 900 square feet. Bought March 2022. All cash. Purchase price 320,000. He bought her a condo in cash.” “Sarah—” “Plus the monthly transfers and expenses. Three years. He’s spent at least half a million dollars on them.” Kate stayed silent. “I’ve been married eight years. I have four thousand dollars.” “Sarah, listen to me—” “Kate, does your file have her ID info?” “Yes. Emily Lesley. Born 1994. She went to the same college as Mark.” College alum. Mark told me he never dated anyone seriously in college. “The kid. Date of birth?” “January 2023.” January 2023. I counted back. Conception would have been around April 2022. April 2022. That month, Mark and I were actively trying. I was taking prenatal vitamins. He told me: Don’t stress, babe. Let nature take its course. Nature took its course. We tried for two years. Nothing. She got pregnant. “Kate.” “Yeah.” “There’s something I don’t get.” “What?” “I tried for two years. We went to the fertility clinic. The doctor said I was fine. He said Mark was fine. But it never happened.” On the other end of the line, the silence stretched out. Heavy. “When you get home,” Kate said, her voice dropping to a whisper, “go check the nightstand. Or wherever you keep your water.” 5. I didn’t go straight to the water. Kate’s implication was too dark. I needed to confirm it myself. That night, Mark worked late again. Eleven PM. I went into his home office. Third drawer down. He always said it was for old tax documents and warranties. I dug for five minutes. Inside an envelope labeled “Receipts,” tucked way in the back, I found a blister pack. Small white pills. Aluminum foil backing. I held it under the desk lamp. Ethinyl Estradiol / Drospirenone. Birth control pills. More than half the pack was gone. Seventeen pills missing. These weren’t mine. I wasn’t on the pill. This pack was in his desk. And every day, the water I drank… he poured it. Every morning, he woke up before me, filled a glass of water, and set it on my nightstand. “Babe, hydrate before you get up.” He’d been doing it for two years. I thought he was thoughtful. I sat in his office chair, holding that blister pack. I stared at it for a long time. I didn’t cry. I just felt cold. Bone-deep cold. I took out my phone and snapped a photo. Then I put the pills back exactly where they were. Envelope back. Drawer closed. I went to the bathroom. Turned on the faucet. Let the water run. I scrubbed my face. Looked up at myself in the mirror. Thirty-one years old. Fine lines appearing around my eyes. He said: You work so hard, honey. He said: Get some rest, babe. He said: When we save enough, we’ll get that dream house. He said all of that while crushing a contraceptive pill into my water glass every single morning. Ensuring I stayed barren for two years. Because the woman across town had already given him a son. He didn’t need two. I turned off the tap. Dried my face. Walked out to the living room. I opened my laptop. Opened Excel. Eight years of accounts. I calculated every penny. Mortgage: $1,800 a month. Eight years is $172,800. The first three years I paid it alone. Later he said he’d handle it, but the auto-pay never changed. It still came out of my account. Down payment: My loans and savings, total $60,000. Household: He sent $800, but actual costs were $1,500. I covered the gap. Eight years. That’s nearly $70,000. Support for his parents: $400 a month. Nearly $40,000. My bonuses: Every year, used to pay off debts, cover vacations, buy gifts for his family. Total. I ran the sum three times. $420,000. In eight years, I poured over four hundred grand into this marriage. And in three years, he spent over five hundred grand on her. My eight years. Her three years. I opened Kate’s binder to the property page. The Aston. $320,000. Cash. Our condo? I paid the down payment, and we still owe the bank $200,000. He gave his mistress a paid-off home. He gave me a mortgage. I closed the laptop. Picked up my phone. “Kate.” “I’m here.” “Find me a divorce lawyer. The sharkiest one you know.” “Already did. Mr. Sterling. Tomorrow, 3 PM.” She’d been ready for six months. “Thanks.” “Sarah… are you still mad at me?” “Yes.” “…” “But I’m going to destroy Mark first.”

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The day the poor scholarship student ran for Student Body President, my childhood friend made sure everyone voted for me instead. Even though I wasn’t running. He didn’t do it for me. He did it because he got a sick thrill out of crushing the spirit of the pretty girl on financial aid, calling it a “lesson in reality.” Later, he would hospitalize the guys who bullied that same scholarship student. But then, the boy who had been my shadow since birth—the one who supposedly cared for me—leaned back in his chair, swirling his drink, and announced to the entire room, “Selene isn’t expensive. Fifty for a quickie, five hundred for the night.” I froze. Then, quietly, I transferred all my classes to the morning block to avoid him. On the rainy night my mother’s condition went critical, I swallowed my pride and asked him for money. He waited until his cigarette burned down to the filter before flicking the ash near my hand. “Selene,” he said, his voice void of warmth. “I don’t owe you a damn thing.” After he walked away, the top student in our year stepped out of the shadows and held an umbrella over my head. “Would you be willing to come to London with me?” I nodded. 1 On the first day of the semester, Piper stood at the podium, her cheeks flushed with hope as she delivered her speech for president. But when the votes were projected on the screen, her face went ghost white. There were thirty people in the seminar. Selene received twenty-nine votes. Beside me, Roman Carter watched Piper’s devastation with the focus of a predator. He started a slow, mocking clap. “Surprise, Selene,” he drawled, his voice dripping with faux affection. Piper looked like she was going to be sick. Her eyes filled with tears, shifting to glare at me with pure, unadulterated jealousy. I sighed, a silent exhale that vanished in the room’s tension. The girl who won by a landslide was me. I hadn’t even put my name on the ballot. And the guy next to me? Technically, he was my childhood friend. Realistically? I was the daughter of the help who used to live in his guest house. That dynamic shattered the summer after middle school. My father was driving Mrs. Carter—Roman’s pregnant mother—and my own mother when the car crashed. My mother was the sole survivor, but she never woke up. She’s been in a vegetative state ever since. From that day on, the Carters threw me out. My relationship with Roman curdled into something dark. Even though the police report cited brake failure—an accident—Roman never looked at me the same way again. The rumors at school were vicious. They said I was a jinx. A curse. The girl who killed Mrs. Carter and Roman’s unborn brother. Roman loved watching me take the heat. By some twisted fate, we ended up at the same university, in the same major. On the first day, he had taken my bag with practiced intimacy, whispering in my ear, “Been a while. I missed you.” During introductions, he jerked his chin in my direction. “Selene.” Everyone turned. The sunlight hit my profile, and for a second, it looked like a scene from a romance novel. Then Roman smiled. It was a cruel, jagged thing. “Her dad’s dead. Her mom’s a vegetable.” The room erupted in gasps. People awkwardly looked away, shuffling their feet. The professor eventually forced Roman to sit down. When it was my turn, I just gave my name. Roman was bored out of his mind until Piper showed up. Piper was the scholarship kid with a chip on her shoulder. She hated the Greek system, hated old money, and wasn’t afraid to say it. But when she spoke, her eyes lingered on Roman a little too long. Roman scoffed, winding a lock of my hair around his finger. “Don’t get too close to people with brain damage, Selene.” I had a feeling he was the one who would get close. And honestly? Good. 2 I was right. First, he humiliated Piper in the election. Then, in a bout of ironic courtship, he started working shifts with her at the diner to “experience the struggle.” When guys harassed her, he sent them to the ER. I kept my head down. I studied. I worked three jobs. I did people’s homework for cash. I thought our lives were finally diverging into parallel lines. Then I walked into the lecture hall and heard a recording blasting over the speakers. “Selene, you look desperate for cash. How much are you selling it for?” “Fifty for a quickie, five hundred for the night.” It was my voice. People screamed. Some laughed. Roman stood in the center of the room, looking like a king in his court. “I told you,” he announced, his tone light, conversational. “She’s cheap. Fifty or five hundred.” The room buzzed with noise. Disgusting, predatory looks crawled over my skin. I froze. The audio was doctored. In high school, I did people’s homework. The question had been about essay prices. I had answered honestly. Now, it was being played to the entire student body as a solicitation for sex. Piper threw herself into Roman’s arms, looking scandalized. “Why would you play that, Roman?” He ruffled her hair. “She stole your spot in the competition. She needed to be taken down a peg.” I sat down in silence. I pulled out my phone, found the old transaction logs—labeled distinctly as “Essay Editing” and “Math Tutoring”—and uploaded the screenshots to the class group chat. Then, I logged into the portal and transferred every single class I shared with them. They could play at being adults. They could find their entertainment in destroying people. I couldn’t. I had to pay back the Hale family a thousand dollars every month for my mother’s medical bills. I didn’t have the luxury of time for their games. Seeing no reaction from me, Roman cornered me after my new class. He sat on the desk in front of me, swinging his legs. “I was just helping you drum up business, Selene,” he said, a lazy smile on his lips. “Don’t I get a thank you?” I looked at him. Cruel. Arrogant. Broken. The sunny, polite boy from the estate was dead. He died in that crash, too. And the optimistic, confident Selene died with him. I lowered my eyes. My voice was dry. “Thank you.” His face darkened. His jaw ticked. “Don’t thank me.” Roman found out about the class transfer quickly. He brought Piper into the coffee shop where I worked. Piper “accidentally” tripped, sending a scalding latte all over my apron and arm. The skin turned angry red instantly. She frowned, stepping back. “Do you even know how to serve coffee? You splashed my dress! You couldn’t afford to replace this if you worked here for a hundred years!” I had crouched down to clean up the mess, but I paused. I looked up at her. She was wearing the season’s latest designer gear. Roman’s money, obviously. There was barely a drop on her hem. I stood up. “Call the police, then. The security cameras captured everything.” Including the way she had shoved her hand out to tip the cup. She choked, grabbing Roman’s hand. “Baby, the dress you bought me is ruined.” Roman glanced at her, then patted her head dismissively. “I’ll buy you another one.” Piper smirked. “Let’s go.” She hummed a tune as she linked arms with him, leaving me with a puddle of coffee and a burning arm. I stood in silence for a moment, then grabbed the mop. Later, a delivery driver dropped off a tube of burn cream with a note: Switch your classes back. I threw it in the trash. Two weeks later, final group projects were assigned. Every time I made eye contact with a classmate, they looked away. A girl I had tutored once whispered to me, “Someone told us not to team up with you. If we do, we’re blacklisted.” The professor sighed. “Selene, per the syllabus, groups must be two or three students.” I stared at my laptop screen. A text popped up from Roman. Come back. At that exact moment, a chair scraped against the floor next to me. It was Atlas Hale. The top student. The impossible standard. “Want to be partners?” he asked. 3 I exhaled, a sound I hadn’t realized I was holding in. It seemed like every time I hit a wall, Atlas Hale was there to open a door. The last time was the summer after high school. I was sitting in the parlor of the Hale estate, terrified, waiting to beg his grandfather for a loan. Atlas had walked in first. I had jumped to my feet. He smiled, a gentle expression that reached his eyes. “Don’t be nervous. I’m Atlas. Grandfather is… eccentric.” I knew who he was. Everyone did. National Go champion. Heir to the Hale empire. “I’m Selene,” I managed, clutching the hem of my cheap shirt. He poured me tea. “You’re early. Grandfather was up all night gaming, he won’t be up for a while.” “I can wait,” I whispered. “Play a game with me?” he asked. I blinked. “Go?” He pulled out a board. “Five-in-a-row. I heard you were unbeatable in middle school.” We played all morning. His presence had a grounding effect, calming the storm in my chest. It was the same now. “Can we wait to submit the form?” I asked him quietly. If we didn’t submit it yet, Roman wouldn’t know. If Roman knew, he would go nuclear. Atlas nodded. “Whatever you need.” After a beat, he added, “If you need help with anything else, tell me.” On the deadline day for the project, I got fired from the coffee shop. The manager was vague, mumbling something about “complaints from influential customers.” I stood outside the shop, the rain soaking through my thin jacket. I didn’t know where to go. The rain was silent, but my mind was screaming. I went to the hospital. My mother lay there, still and silent. She had aged so much. The Carters always said Mrs. Carter was going out for a spa day. Why did she take my mother? My phone buzzed. Roman. Come to The Lounge. I’ll give you a grand. I typed back: Transfer it first. The Lounge was an upscale bar near campus. The smell of expensive scotch and designer perfume couldn’t mask the rot underneath. Roman waved me over. “Here.” I sat next to him. The leather was still warm from someone else. I tried to stand, but his hand clamped down on my shoulder. “Why didn’t you come to me?” He leaned in, his lips brushing my ear. “If you don’t come back to my section, who’s going to partner with you?” “Is Professor Zhou going to let you fail?” I said nothing. He bit my earlobe hard. “Selene, why the hell won’t you speak?” “How can you be so calm?” “How can you pretend nothing happened?” “My dad is dead!” “Your mother is a vegetable!” I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper. Piper came back from the restroom and froze when she saw me in her seat. She stormed over, grabbed a drink, and threw it in my face. “Get up! That’s my spot.” I was almost grateful for the interruption. “Okay.” I said one word, blood mixing with the alcohol on my lips. As I stood up, someone tapped Roman on the shoulder. A guy looked at me, confused. “Dude, she’s partnered with Atlas Hale.” 4 There was no time to react. Roman yanked me back down onto the sofa. His hand wrapped around my throat, squeezing. “How did you get to Atlas?” “Did you sleep with him? Was he good?” “Fifty or five hundred, Selene?” I clawed at his arm. Black spots danced in my vision. Blood from my bitten cheek leaked out, dripping onto his hand. Roman released me as if burned. He caught me as I slumped forward, his grip shifting from violence to a desperate embrace. His voice sounded wrecked. “Talk to me, Selene.” “Ignore me again, and I won’t let go next time.” I couldn’t speak. I wanted to vomit. But I didn’t have the energy. I smelled like vodka, rain, and blood. I must have been repulsive. Roman buried his face in my damp, cold neck. “I only have you, Moon.” “Don’t leave me.” I closed my eyes, resigning myself to the darkness. The whole table was terrified. Especially the guy who dropped the news about Atlas. He looked ready to bolt. Piper was the only one with nerves of steel. “Roman,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “You still have me.” Roman didn’t hear her. He only saw me. The next day, he transferred me five thousand dollars. The incident at the bar was swept under the rug. The only thing that changed was that he forced his way into my life again. He insisted I join him and Piper for the big semester project. He paid for my time. I couldn’t refuse the money. Which meant I had to bring Atlas along. We met at a different café. The manager practically bowed when we walked in. Roman saw Atlas and smirked. “How’s the old man holding up?” Atlas nodded calmly. “He’s well. Your father brought your brother by to visit him recently.” Roman’s face went rigid. The “brother” was the illegitimate son his father brought home freshman year—a kid only a few months younger than Roman. Proof that Mr. and Mrs. Carter’s “perfect marriage” was a lie long before the accident. Atlas knew exactly where to aim. He glanced at me. “It’s crowded here. Let’s go to the back.” I nodded quickly. Roman looked like he wanted to kill someone. Once seated, Atlas pulled out some blueprints. “Can you model these for me? Five grand per model. Cash on delivery.” I looked at the papers. They were prototypes for Hale Industries. Confidential ones. He was handing me money. It was charity, wrapped in work. “Thank you,” I said. Mom’s condition had worsened. I needed every cent. He smiled. “I’m not doing you a favor. You’re the best modeler in the department.” I managed a weak smile. 5 Rumors started flying that Atlas and I were together. Some said the Hales gave me a huge sum of money—a dowry, they joked. Atlas didn’t care about the gossip. Maybe because he was leaving. He was going to London for a semester exchange in the fall. Roman remained volatile. He liked to summon me to the bar, just to have me sit there while he drank and stared at me. One night, he was wasted. He leaned heavily on my shoulder. “Do you know why your dad died?” I had heard this rhetorical question a thousand times. But his next words stopped my heart. “He was drunk. He deserved it.” “But my mom? Why did my mom have to die with him?” I shoved him away. Hard. I slapped him across the face. The sound cut through the music. “Don’t you dare lie about my father,” I said, shaking. “He never drove drunk. Never.” Roman’s head snapped to the side. He laughed, a wet, sloppy sound. “He drank! Are you stupid? A driver with twenty years of experience just ‘loses control’? The autopsy found alcohol! Your dad killed a car full of people!” He was pointing a crooked finger at me. “The report proved it!” Piper appeared out of nowhere, grabbing Roman’s arm, screaming at me. “Your dad is a murderer!” The accusation rang in my ears. Dizziness swamped me. Years ago, the crash was ruled an accident. Brake failure. I had never seen the autopsy report. But Dad… he wouldn’t. By the next morning, the whole campus was buzzing with the “truth.” They looked at me with disgust. They looked at Roman with pity. In high school, I was a jinx. Now, I was the daughter of a murderer. I walked through the day like a ghost. It rained all day. When the hospital called, thunder was shaking the windows. Acute intracranial pressure. She needed immediate surgery. One hundred thousand dollars. High risk. Low success rate. Do you want to proceed? Every word was a hammer blow to my chest. “Miss Selene? Miss Selene?” I looked down at my shoes. I couldn’t cry. I was too empty. “Give me one day.” I found Roman at The Lounge. When I walked in, his friends jeered. “Hey look, it’s Fifty.” “Fifty is too cheap. Let’s say five hundred. I like to take it slow.” “If I were her, I’d have jumped off a bridge by now.” I didn’t hear them. I walked straight to Roman, bent my knees, and knelt on the sticky floor. “Lend me a hundred grand. Please.” His hand paused halfway to his mouth. He looked down at me through the smoke. “Is your mom dying, too?” I didn’t answer. Ash from his cigarette fell onto my arm. It burned a small, grey circle into my skin. I didn’t flinch. Finally, the cigarette burned down to his fingers. He stood up. “Selene. I don’t owe you anything.” He walked away. I collapsed on the floor. When I left, the rain was still pouring. I walked into the storm, letting it soak me to the bone. Steps approached rapidly from behind. An umbrella appeared over my head. A warm jacket was draped over my shoulders. “Selene,” Atlas said. “Grandfather says he’ll cover your mother’s treatment.” “Don’t be scared.” I looked up. Finally, the tears came. Atlas wiped them away with his thumb. “The medical facilities in London are better. We can transfer her there.” He paused. “Will you come to London with me?” “UAL. The best design program in the world.” “Grandfather insists. He says he wants to hire you for Hale Corp immediately after graduation to exploit your talent.” I stared at him for a long time. Then I nodded. He pulled me into a hug. It was warm. Safe. With Atlas’s help, the application was instant. We didn’t tell anyone. In the last month of freshman year, we flew to London.

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It started with an electric bill. That was how I found out my father had a second family. Mom had asked me to log into Dad’s utility account because the notification said the bill was overdue. I punched in the password, expecting the usual boring interface. I froze. There were two account numbers linked to the profile. The first was ours: Unit 2, Building 7, Oakwood Gardens. The second address was one I’d never seen before: Unit 1801, Tower 3, The Vancroft. The account nickname consisted of just one word: Home. I stared at the screen for ten seconds, the blue light burning into my retinas. My house was Oakwood Gardens. So, if this other place was Home—which family lived there? I didn’t tell Mom. Not yet. I took a screenshot, logged out, and opened Google Maps. The Vancroft. Located in the Riverside District. Average listing price: $1.2 million. 1. I didn’t go home after work that day. I called an Uber and headed straight for Riverside. The Vancroft was “new money” written in glass and steel. There was a fountain out front and a crystal chandelier in the lobby that looked like it cost more than my car. It was a universe away from the walk-up condo built in 2003 where I grew up. I stood outside the entrance for ten minutes, watching the revolving doors spin. When a delivery driver buzzed in, I slipped through the gate behind him. Elevator to the 18th floor. Unit 1801. There were two pairs of slippers on the welcome mat outside the door. One pair of men’s leather loafers, size 11. My dad’s size. One pair of women’s slides. Pink, with a little satin bow on top. My mother wouldn’t be caught dead in pink. I stood there, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I didn’t knock. I crouched down and looked at the gap beneath the door. The doormat was brand new. It read: HOME SWEET HOME. My mother didn’t speak a word of English beyond “Hello” and “Thank you.” I pulled out my phone, snapped a picture, and went back downstairs. I found a bench in the complex’s landscaped garden and sat. 6:30 PM. If people lived here, they’d be coming home soon. I waited forty minutes. At 7:10 PM, a woman walked in with a boy. She looked to be in her late forties, hair done in perfect, expensive beach waves, wearing a beige trench coat and carrying shopping bags from Nordstrom. The boy looked about eighteen or nineteen, backpack slung over one shoulder. They fobbed into the building. I watched the elevator indicator lights. It stopped on the 18th floor. Three minutes later, the windows of Unit 1801 glowed to life. Warm, yellow light. It looked cozy. It looked like a family. I sat in the cold, staring at that window. My phone buzzed. It was Dad. “Harper, honey, I’ve got a client dinner tonight. Won’t be home for supper.” I looked up at the light on the 18th floor. “Okay.” I hung up. Twenty minutes later, a black Audi A6 pulled into the driveway. License plate 7792. My dad’s car. He got out, carrying a white cake box. Magnolia Bakery. He walked into the building. The elevator rose. Another light flicked on in Unit 1801. I sat on the bench. The wind was biting, cutting through my jacket. My dad’s “client dinner” was on the 18th floor. I suddenly remembered last month, on Mom’s birthday. Dad said he had a board meeting and didn’t get home until 10:00 PM. There was no cake. He had said, “You’re fifty years old, Susan. Why do you need a birthday party? You’re not a child.” I pulled out my phone and opened the banking app. I had access to Dad’s personal account; I handled his taxes sometimes. I scrolled down. Every month on the 15th, there was a fixed transfer. $3,000. Recipient: Vanessa. Memo: Household. I scrolled back. January. $3,000. December. $3,000. November. $3,000. I kept scrolling. And scrolling. My fingers started to go numb. The transfers went back to 2005. Every single month. Not one missed payment. 2005. I was six years old. I did the math in my head. 20 years. $3,000 times 12, times 20. $720,000. And that was just the monthly allowance. My hand was shaking. Not from the cold. I closed the app. I stood up and took one last look at the window on the 18th floor. The warm, yellow light. A family of three. I turned around and walked away. On the ride home, Mom texted me. “Harper, I saved some dinner for you. Corn chowder and ribs. Come home soon, it’s getting cold.” I stared at the message. For a long time. Then I typed: “Okay. Almost there.” 2. When I got home, Mom was at the sink, washing dishes. Her apron was old, the fabric worn thin near the waist where she had patched a hole with mismatched thread. The stew was on the table, covered with a plate to keep the heat in. “Late night?” Mom wiped her hands on a towel as she turned around. “Overtime,” I lied. I sat down to eat. The meat was falling off the bone, the corn sweet and soft—just the way she knew I liked it. As I ate, a hot pressure built up behind my eyes. “What’s wrong?” Mom asked, pausing. “Nothing. The ribs are good.” Mom smiled. The skin around her eyes crinkled. “Eat up, then. There’s more in the pot.” She turned back to the sink. I heard the rush of the faucet. My mother’s hands were perpetually red and chapped from water and soap. In the winter, her knuckles cracked and bled, covered in Band-Aids. She wasn’t always like this. I’d seen the old photos. Twenty-five years old, working at the bank, crisp white blouse, a bob cut that framed her face perfectly, a smile that lit up the room. She was a head teller back then. Top performance in her branch. Then she got pregnant with me. Dad had said, “Stay home and take care of the baby. I’ll take care of you.” So Mom quit. She was twenty-eight. When she resigned, her branch manager had said, “Susan, are you sure? You have a real future here. It’s a waste to leave.” Mom had said, “The baby is more important.” What she didn’t know—what I had only recently pieced together—was that after she quit, her position was filled by a woman named Vanessa. Mom resigned the same year Dad’s construction supply business was just getting off the ground. Where did the capital come from? Mom’s inheritance. $50,000. Back in 2004, that was everything my grandparents had saved. Mom said, “Robert, take it. When the company gets big, just pay me back.” Dad said, “Don’t worry. I’ll never let you down.” The company did get big. It went from a $50,000 startup to a multi-million dollar operation. And Mom? Mom stayed home. She raised the kid, cooked the meals. Washed the clothes, mopped the floors. Twenty years. Three hundred and sixty-five days a year. No weekends, no holidays, no year-end bonuses. After I went to college, Mom had a little more time. She told Dad she wanted to buy a new winter coat. Her old one was eight years old, the cuffs frayed. Dad said, “Money’s tight right now. We need to be frugal.” Mom said, “Oh. Okay then.” She wore that coat for another year. My first year working, I used my Christmas bonus to buy her a high-end down parka. Mom was happy for a week. She tried it on five times. Every time, she’d fold it carefully and put it back in the box, saying, “It’s too nice. I don’t want to ruin it.” Sitting at the kitchen table now, I thought about that coat. I thought about the woman at The Vancroft. The beige trench coat. The Nordstrom bags. The beach waves. My dad bought those for her. My mom wore an eight-year-old coat. My dad gave Vanessa a $3,000 monthly “allowance.” I squeezed my eyes shut. After dinner, I went to my room. Locked the door. Opened my laptop. I’m a CPA. Auditing is what I do. It’s who I am. I logged into Dad’s business accounts. He hadn’t changed the password since the dawn of time. I started digging. And God, did I find things. Beyond the monthly $3,000 transfers, there was so much more. 2008. Transfer: $100,000. Memo: Property Purchase. 2012. Transfer: $60,000. Memo: Renovation. 2015. Transfer: $45,000. Memo: Vehicle. 2018. Transfer: $30,000. Memo: Tuition. 2019. $30,000. Tuition. 2020. $30,000. 2021. $30,000. 2022. $30,000. 2023. $30,000. Six years of tuition. What kind of school costs $30k a year? Private prep school. I looked up the rates for Riverside Academy. $28,500 plus fees. I remembered something else. My senior year of high school, I wanted to take an SAT prep course. It was $500. Mom asked Dad. Dad said, “She’s already a senior. Why bother now? It’s a waste of money.” I didn’t take the course. I got into a state school. My $500 class was a waste. But another kid’s $30,000 tuition was paid without blinking an eye. I took a deep breath. I kept digging. That night, I exported ten years of transaction history. I flagged every suspicious line item until 3:00 AM. I calculated the total. 20 years. Transfers to Vanessa, plus the condo down payment, the renovation, the car, the tuition. Total: $2.4 million. And that was just the paper trail I could find. Conservatively? $2.5 million. I stared at the number on the screen. $2.5 million. Mom’s inheritance was $50,000. Dad built his life on that $50,000. And then he took $2.5 million to support another woman. Another home. I closed the laptop. I lay on my bed. There was a water stain on the ceiling. The roof leaked last year. Dad said, “Contractors are rip-offs. Let’s wait on it.” We waited a year. I bet the ceiling at The Vancroft didn’t have any stains. 3. The next day was Saturday. I didn’t go into the office. I investigated Vanessa. Her social security number was on the bank transfer logs. I asked a college friend to run a background check. He worked in data security. Vanessa. 48 years old. Local. Former employee of First City Bank. Hired: 2004. 2004. The same year. The year Mom quit. I grabbed my phone and dug out digital scans of Mom’s old photo albums. I found a group shot. Mom standing behind a bank counter with her team. On the far right, a tall woman with long hair, smiling broadly. On the back of the physical photo, Mom had written: 1999. Me, Vanessa, and Joan. The Dream Team. Vanessa. Vanessa. My mother’s colleague. But she was more than that. I went through Mom’s WeChat contacts (she used it to talk to relatives). No Vanessa. But I found a contact named “Big Sis V.” The last message was from 2004. Mom: “V, I’ve put in my notice. Take care of yourself.” Vanessa: “Don’t worry. You just focus on the baby. I’ve got things covered here at the bank.” She had things covered. She covered the bank. She covered my dad, too. I stared at that message for a long time. In 2004, Mom resigned. In 2004, Vanessa took Mom’s job. In 2005, Dad started sending Vanessa money. Mom gave up her seat at the table, and she gave it to her. Vanessa didn’t just take the job. She took my mother’s husband. I kept looking. I pulled the property deeds. The Vancroft, Tower 3, Unit 1801. Owner: Vanessa. Purchased: 2008. Down payment: $100,000. The mortgage payments? My dad paid them for ten years. Paid off in full in 2019. Current value: approx $1.2 million. There was also a car. 2015 Cadillac XT5. Bought for $45,000. Registered to Vanessa. I thought about Mom taking the bus to the grocery store. Dad said, “You don’t work, Susan. Why do you need a car? Gas is expensive.” Mom said, “You’re right.” I looked up Vanessa’s son. Tyler Su. 19 years old. Born: 2006. I was born in 1999. He was seven years younger than me. Which meant— When I was six, Vanessa was pregnant. When I was seven, she gave birth. The boy had my dad’s last name. Su. A fire started burning in my chest. What was I doing when I was six? I was sitting at the table, waiting for Daddy to come home for dinner. Mom would say, “Daddy’s busy at work, sweetie. You eat first.” What was Daddy busy with? He was busy having a baby with Vanessa. In that moment, everything clicked. When I was little, Dad was never home. I thought it was “client meetings.” In high school, he was gone even more. I thought it was “business trips.” Since college, I rarely came home, but when I did, he was gone. Mom said, “Your father works so hard.” He worked hard for twenty years. Hard at managing a second life. I put down the phone. Through it all, Mom knew nothing. She thought her husband was building an empire for us. She thought her sacrifice had meaning. She thought her $50,000 inheritance had bought a future for her family. She didn’t know it had turned into $2.5 million for another woman. She didn’t know the woman who took her job took her life. I picked up my phone. I wanted to call Mom. My finger hovered over her name. I put it down. Now wasn’t the time to show my cards. I had to do something first. 4. For the next three days, I kept digging. I knew there had to be more. I logged into Dad’s email. Password: his birthday + last four digits of his cell. He really thought we were too stupid to look. There was a folder named “ADMIN.” Mostly boring invoices. But at the bottom, three emails caught my eye. Sender: Baker & McKenzie Law Group. “Mr. Su, per your request, the draft of the divorce agreement is attached. Please review.” Date: Two months ago. I opened the attachment. Divorce Settlement Agreement. Plaintiff: Robert Su. Defendant: Susan Lin. Asset Distribution: a. Oakwood Gardens property transfers to Defendant. b. 100% of Company Equity remains with Plaintiff. C. Savings in respective personal accounts remain separate. d. Other assets to be negotiated. Oakwood Gardens. Bought in 2003. Worth maybe $400,000 now on a good day. It was an old building. And the company? I checked the financials for Su Construction Supplies, LLC. Annual revenue $3 million. Net profit roughly $500,000. Conservative valuation? At least $2 million. So, Dad wanted to give Mom the decaying $400k apartment. And keep the multi-million dollar business for himself. Plus his savings, his investments. Mom would get less than 15% of the total assets. This was his definition of “I’ll never let you down.” I opened the second email. “Mr. Su, regarding the equity transfer. To transfer 30% of shares to Tyler Su, we need the following documents…” He was giving the company to Vanessa’s son. Tyler. The 19-year-old. I was his biological daughter. In twenty-six years, he hadn’t given me a single share. But he was handing the legacy to the boy born on the side. I scrolled down. Third email. It was from Vanessa to my dad. Informal. “Robert, you need to speed up the divorce. Tyler is applying for schools abroad next year, we need the tuition liquid. If you can’t handle Susan, I’ll find someone to talk to her.” My dad replied: “Don’t worry. Done by year-end. She’s easy to deal with.” She’s easy to deal with. Yeah. Mom was easy. For twenty years, her answer to everything was “Okay,” “Sure,” “Whatever you think is best.” Vanessa said, “I’ll find someone to talk to her.” Who? Who the hell was she going to send to intimidate my mother? The audacity. I took screenshots. Every email. Every attachment. Then I checked one last thing. Tyler Su’s transcript. Riverside Academy.

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My mom was a university professor. She always said the biggest regret of her life was marrying my dad—a man who’d blown up as a livestream shopping host. “So materialistic. So tacky.” Eventually, they divorced. In my last life, I chose my mom—the one who seemed above it all, who didn’t care about money. What a mistake. I bought a new dress? “Wasteful.” I wanted to grab dinner with friends on the weekend? She slapped me across the face. When my period came and I wanted decent tampons, I got screamed at. “You’re just like your father—obsessed with money! You’re such a disappointment!” Later, my uncle’s investment failed and he drowned in debt. When he tried to sell me to an underground matchmaking ring for bride money, I begged my mom through tears to save me. She just frowned. “You won’t even help your own uncle? You’re as selfish as your father!” In the end, my uncle sold me to some fifty-year-old bachelor in the mountains. I died falling off a cliff trying to escape. When I opened my eyes again, I was back at the moment of their divorce—the moment they asked me to choose.

“So what if I used your money? My brother needs startup capital for his business. I gave him fifty thousand dollars. What’s the problem?” “Money, money, money—that’s all you care about. You spend your days playing a clown on livestream. Have you no shame?” “Being an influencer isn’t impressive! You have zero depth. No wonder your follower count keeps dropping!” “Let’s get divorced. I have nothing left to say to you.” Mom was tearing into Dad. Dad gripped his phone, knuckles white. He’d been live streaming until 3 AM last night to clear his inventory. His eyes were bloodshot. His voice came out hoarse: “Fine, we’ll divorce. But that fifty thousand was my college fund for Emma. You need to get it back.” Mom acted like she’d heard something absurd. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Then they both turned to look at me. “Emma, you’re old enough now. After we divorce, you decide who you want to live with.” Mom tossed the question at me like it weighed nothing. But Dad’s eyes were red-rimmed as he gently touched my head. “This is Dad’s fault. I’m sorry you had to see this. It has nothing to do with you.” Watching this scene—identical to my last life—my heart pounded like a drum. Mom sat primly in a chair surrounded by stacks of old books, her expression arrogant. Dad anxiously ran his fingers through his hair, dry and brittle from too much dyeing. In my last life, I thought Mom was calm, wise, cultured. So I chose her without hesitation. But after living with her for two years, I understood: Dad’s anxiety and frustration? She caused it. She constantly belittled him. And her brother? He endlessly demanded money from Dad. Remembering what happened in my previous life, I threw myself at Dad and grabbed his arm. “Dad, I’m staying with you.” Dad froze. His eyes instantly grew redder. Mom just raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into a knowing, contemptuous smile. “Of course. She inherited your inferior genes. Shallow, just like you.” Dad immediately covered my ears with his hands. The gesture was clumsy but careful. “Since Emma’s staying with me, please return that fifty thousand as soon as possible. I’ll have a lawyer handle the rest of the assets.” I pulled Dad’s hands down and looked up at Mom. “Someone as above-it-all as you—someone who treats money like dirt—surely doesn’t care about a little cash, right? After all, you have your dignity.” Mom’s indifferent expression froze for a second before she recovered her haughty composure. “Fine. I’ll leave with nothing. This house reeks of greed anyway. I should have left long ago.” She stood, took only a few thick books from the shelf, packed them in a faded cloth bag, and took nothing else. Before leaving, she glanced at me—like she was looking at a fallen soul. “I hope you don’t lose yourself in the pursuit of money.” I smiled. Lose myself? I hoped that when her brother squeezed every last drop of value from her, she wouldn’t regret today’s choice.

In my last life, I chose Mom. Dad left heartbroken, taking almost nothing—just his livestream equipment and a few clothes. That fifty thousand? Mom transferred it to my uncle that same day. My uncle opened a “café”—fancy décor, eighty-eight dollars for a cup of coffee. It went bankrupt in two months. After it closed, my uncle’s family naturally moved into our place—the run-down house near Mom’s university. At first, they just made Mom give up the master bedroom because my uncle’s wife, Patricia, was pregnant and needed quiet. Then they made me go to the grocery store after school every day, then come home and cook. I was preparing for my SATs at the time, trying to get into a good college. I was busy. So I refused to do their chores. But Mom said: “Family helps each other. Don’t be cold like your father.” Gradually, buying new clothes became “wasteful.” Wanting to eat at a restaurant with friends became “consumerism.” I couldn’t even buy decent tampons during my period. Seeing I had zero autonomy, my uncle’s family let their son take over my desk. When I tried to get my desk back to do homework, Mom said: “Why are you acting just like your father!” In that moment, I felt frozen to the bone. I wasn’t spending recklessly. I just wanted basic study conditions and a shred of dignity. But in her mouth, that made me selfish. Meanwhile, my uncle blew through our money, failed at every investment, and ended up buried in debt. When he hit rock bottom, he listened to some shady broker and tried to “marry” me off to some rich old man in a remote rural area. I knelt before Mom, crying until I couldn’t breathe. She just frowned: “Your uncle has no other options. If you can help him, that’s your value.” In the end, I was tied up and stuffed into a van, sold into the mountains. The night I tried to escape, it was pouring rain. The road was slippery. I missed my footing and fell off the cliff. — Dad really was an influencer—the insanely lucky kind. He used to be an ordinary office worker. After getting laid off, he tried making funny short videos. Somehow, a “immersive supermarket free sample tasting” video went viral. Then he started livestream selling and made some money. Mom was an associate professor of English Literature. Deep down, she looked down on Dad’s job—thought he was playing a clown on screen. Embarrassing. After Dad made money, the first thing he wanted was to move out of our old house. Mom refused. Dad wanted to sign me up for a good dance class. Mom objected—she said the costumes were too sexy, that it was dancing to please men. I knew Dad was under a lot of pressure with his livestreams. The industry was cutthroat. He never went to college, so he had to rack his brain to entertain his followers just to keep them. But competition was fierce, and his numbers really were declining. After Mom left, I went to clean her room. The irony. On her desk sat a luxury fountain pen—several thousand dollars for just one. Her closet held several dresses made of expensive fabric. In her vanity drawer: unopened high-end perfume. She was the one who loved luxury goods, yet she constantly called Dad tacky and me vain. This time, without Dad’s financial support, I wanted to see how she’d maintain that elegance and superiority. Just as I was thinking this, someone pounded loudly on my door. I went downstairs. My uncle had already barged in, pointing at Dad’s face and cursing. “That fifty thousand was a gift from my sister! She already wrote up a gift agreement! Now, right when my café just went under—my hardest time—you want the money back? Are you even human?” “Your daughter doesn’t need fifty thousand for college! What’s the point of her reading so many books? She’s just going to get married anyway!” His shameless attitude—exactly the same as my last life. The difference was, this time, Dad stood straight in front of me.

Dad wasn’t tall, but standing in front of me now, he was like a wall. He shouted at my uncle: “Your business failed—what does that have to do with me? That money was for my daughter’s education. I’m divorcing your sister. I have no obligation to help you anymore.” At the word “divorce,” a calculating gleam flashed in my uncle’s eyes. “Divorce? Grace never mentioned that to me. If you’re getting divorced, you’ll have to split assets, right? This house, the car, the savings… my sister gets at least half!” Dad laughed in disbelief. I stepped forward with a smile. “Uncle, didn’t you check with Mom before coming? She said she won’t take a single penny after the divorce. Mom’s a professor. She doesn’t care about money.” My uncle’s eyes went wide. “What? Has Grace lost her mind?!” Dad pushed my uncle toward the door: “You want money? Tell Grace to come talk to me herself.” I smirked. I wanted to see if Mom could stay so proud when facing her greedy brother. We waited two days. Nothing from Mom. But things on Dad’s end got worse. His livestream numbers kept dropping. Several brand partners wanted to terminate their contracts. Between the penalties and his previous investments, he was deep in debt. He couldn’t sleep at night. He’d stand on the balcony chain-smoking, jumping every time his phone rang. It hurt to watch. I spoke up: “Dad, let’s get that fifty thousand back. We can pay off some of the debt.” Dad shook his head, voice hoarse: “That was for you… Dad’s useless.” “Dad,” I looked him in the eye, “I believe in you. You built everything from nothing before. You can do it again. Let’s get through this first. For college, I can earn scholarships or work part-time.” Dad’s eyes reddened. He rubbed my head hard. “I thought… you’d be embarrassed by me. That you’d leave with your mom.” “Silly girl.” In my last life with Mom, I didn’t lack much materially, but my heart died. This life with Dad might be hard for now, but my heart was warm. “Dad, we need to get that money fast. Someone like Uncle will just throw it away.” With my insistence, Dad finally sent Mom a formal message demanding the fifty thousand back. Mom replied with one line: “How vulgar.” Then she blocked him. Looks like we’d need another approach. I had Dad pull the transfer records and my uncle’s so-called gift agreement. Full of holes, as expected. Mom had only verbally agreed. The transfer was labeled loan.The gift document my uncle typed up didn’t even have a fingerprint. We consulted a lawyer. He said we could absolutely sue to recover the money. Dad hesitated—”They’re still family”—but I had the lawyer send a formal demand letter immediately. The effect was instant. The next day, my uncle showed up downstairs, furious, but too scared to come up. He just stood there cursing at the street. “David! Are you even human? Suing your own brother-in-law over some money?” “My sister really hit rock bottom marrying you! And your ungrateful daughter is a totally a bitch.” Dad wanted to go down and confront him. I held him back, grabbed my phone, opened the camera, and walked to the balcony. “Uncle, got the lawyer’s letter? That fifty thousand was for my education—we have the transfer records to prove it. Either pay up, or we’ll see you in court. If you keep yelling and disturbing the neighbors, I’ll call the cops for noise disturbance.” “You— you…” My uncle pointed at me, his finger shaking, but no words came out. After a long moment, he finally snapped, “Just you wait!” Then he turned and hurried out, looking completely humiliated. Dad looked at me with a complicated expression—surprise and guilt mixed together. “Emma, you shouldn’t have to deal with this…” “Dad, we’re family.” I linked my arm through his. “We’ll get through this together.”

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My husband and I were praised as the model arranged marriage couple in our circle—until I developed postpartum depression. I fled the nursery, trying to escape my son’s relentless crying. Wandering aimlessly through the house, my footsteps stopped outside the study. At some point, a password lock had been installed on the study door. Instinctively, I raised my hand and entered my husband’s birthday, then our son’s. Neither worked. My nerves tingled with a strange excitement as I prepared to enter my own birthday. But my hand trembled, and I pressed 0817 instead of 0517—that was my sister’s birthday. I stiffly pushed open the door that had opened by chance. The next moment, I froze in place. In the center of the study sat a portrait identical to my husband’s face—a memorial portrait. The nameplate clearly bore my husband’s name: Quinn Harper. For a moment, my mind went completely blank. I didn’t know whether to be angry that my husband used my sister’s birthday as his password. Or whether to be angry that my husband kept his own portrait and memorial tablet in his study. A terrible thought flashed through my mind, but I immediately suppressed it. I knew Quinn had a twin brother named Kieran, but he had died in a car accident at eighteen. I had never met either brother before marriage because I had lived abroad with my grandparents as a child. I only returned home after graduating from college. Just days after returning, the Harper family came with the engagement token, and my parents readily agreed to the marriage. No one asked what I wanted—except Quinn, who walked up to me. “Are you willing to marry me? If you’re not, you can refuse.” In that moment, I fell for this fiancé I was meeting for the first time. Ours was a business alliance. Even though I liked him, I was willing to maintain a respectful distance. I respected his space and never entered his study without permission. But he had locked it. This was blatant distrust and defensiveness. Realizing this, my already fragile rationality completely shattered. I raised my head and surveyed this study I had never set foot in before. The study wasn’t cleaned by the housekeeper, yet it was spotlessly clean. He, who never cared about his surroundings, had arranged flowers and plants here, kept goldfish. A notorious workaholic, yet the study had an entire wall of collectible figures and the latest gaming console. In this study, there was a man I had never known. He wasn’t dull and boring—he had romance and passion for life. Footsteps sounded behind me, followed by an explosive shout. “What are you doing? Who gave you permission to enter my study?” I turned around. My husband’s eyes burned with rage, his fury turning them bloodshot. This was the first time he had lost his temper with me, yet I felt no fear. I almost wanted to laugh. In three years of marriage, this was the first time I’d seen such vivid expression on his face. The man who had always been restrained and controlled, even during intimate moments—his mask shattered when I opened his study. Seeing I didn’t answer, my husband walked over to pull me away. His large hand clamped around my arm, using no restraint. The pain made me furrow my brow. I used all my strength to shake off his hand, stubbornly staying in place. My gaze fell on the photo in the center of the study, and on the tablet bearing my husband’s name. “Are you Quinn or Kieran?” I asked calmly. The atmosphere instantly became tense. I should have stared intently at his expression to catch any lies. But in that moment, I didn’t dare turn around. Silence spread through the air, stretching time, tormenting me. “I’m Quinn.” He answered in a voice that sounded like surrender. I sensed something, but I didn’t want to dig deeper. I turned back to face Quinn again, asking him to give me a reason to explain the memorial tablet. “I was in that car accident with Kieran, but I was the one who survived.” “All these years, I’ve carried guilt, so I made this tablet. I wish it had been me who died instead.” His flat tone made it sound like he was discussing the weather, yet I heard the bone-deep self-torture. My heart seized with sudden pain. I couldn’t control the sympathy I felt for this man before me. But my questions weren’t finished. “Why did you use Aria’s birthday as the password?” I hoped desperately that he would give me a reason I could accept, like he had with the tablet. Whatever he said, I could accept it. I would choose to believe. But he didn’t. His tightly pressed lips were like the door to his heart, closed to me. The baby’s cries rang out. My tears also burst forth.

I took my still-crying son back to my mother’s house. Quinn watched us leave without movement or words. Though the Hayes house was my parents’ home, I felt incredibly out of place there. Counting the days, I had lived at the Hayes house for less time than I’d lived at the Harper house. Seeing me suddenly return, everyone in the Hayes family seemed at a loss. In the past, I certainly would have had the sense to leave. But the son in my arms was still whimpering, rain poured outside, and I needed a safe harbor. I hadn’t grown up with my parents. When my grandparents sent me back, they said, “Your parents will treat you well. They’ll love you like we do.” I believed them, so I shamelessly stayed. And the first person in this house to reach out to me was my sister, Aria Hayes. “Aria, come in quickly. I’ll find you some clothes. Go take a hot shower first.” Until my sister pulled me upstairs, my parents standing to the side never said a word. At dinner, they finally seemed to remember to ask why I’d come home. I couldn’t explain. Whether it was the memorial tablet or the password, neither was appropriate to mention to them. I could only respond dryly, “Quinn and I had a fight.” Mr. Hayes’s face darkened. He put down his fork. “Friction between husband and wife is normal. Running back to your parents’ house over every little thing isn’t appropriate.” Mrs. Hayes nodded beside him. “We know Quinn. He’s not an unreasonable person. As a wife, you need to be more accommodating. Family harmony is most important.” The already unpalatable meal became even more tasteless. I simply put down my bowl and fork, looking at my parents who were criticizing me. “This is my first time coming home because of a fight. Where does ‘every little thing’ come from?” “Quinn’s not unreasonable, so does that mean I am? Why should I have to accommodate everything just because I’m the wife?” Hearing my rebuttal, my parents froze in shock. Since returning home, I had always been obedient and well-behaved around them. Over time, even I had forgotten that abroad, I had been bold, unrestrained, and free-spirited. Aria looked at me, then at our parents, smiling as she smoothed things over. “Don’t you know what kind of person Aria is? She must have been wronged to come back. We should back her up.” Aria’s words calmed our parents down. Mom looked at me with some guilt. Before she could speak, I stood up. “I’m going to check on the baby.” In the rare quiet of the room, I stared blankly at my son’s sleeping face. My mind was crammed with chaotic thoughts, pressing down until I couldn’t breathe. The door lock clicked. Aria walked in. She carried a blanket and pillow, sitting beside me. “Aria, can we sleep together tonight?” Though my conflict with Quinn involved Aria, I didn’t want it to affect our sisterly relationship. “Of course.” With my permission, Aria was as happy as a child. We lay side by side in bed when an inappropriate question suddenly escaped my lips. “Aria, what kind of person do you think Quinn is?” She seemed surprised but still answered. “Someone excellent in every way.” It was high praise. An even more inappropriate question burst out. “If someone like that loved you, would you accept him?” She fell silent. Just when I thought she wouldn’t answer, I heard her response. “No.” Rationality returned. I said nothing more. The breathing beside me gradually became even. I still had no desire to sleep. So when her phone vibrated, I heard the sound and glanced over. [It’s getting cold. Cover yourself with the blanket at night.] I couldn’t be more familiar with that contact name, yet such detailed care felt utterly foreign to me.

My mother-in-law, Rachel Harper, heard I had taken the baby back to my parents’ house and called to check on me. “Claire, did Quinn bully you? Did he hurt you? Tell me, and I’ll back you up” The unconditional support I didn’t get from my own mother, my mother-in-law gave me. But similarly, my conflict with Quinn wasn’t appropriate to tell her. I couldn’t find a suitable answer, so I stayed silent. Rachel seemed to have endless patience with me. “It’s okay. If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine. I’ll have Quinn come apologize to you.” She asked about the baby’s condition before hanging up. Perhaps Rachel pressed him hard, because Quinn came to the Hayes house that very evening. My parents received him warmly. Though I didn’t like it, I understood. The Hayes family’s alliance with the Harper family was truly the Hayes marrying up. At the dinner table, Quinn acted like a dutiful husband, taking care of me. My parents nodded approvingly. But I noticed with sharp sensitivity that he kept rotating the lazy Susan. After observing for a while, I finally understood his purpose. Aria loved shrimp. Every time Quinn rotated the lazy Susan, it was to position the shrimp in front of her. I looked down at the various foods in my bowl, my lips curling into a bitter smile. Quinn seemed to be caring for me, but he didn’t even know what I liked or disliked eating. Yet he precisely understood Aria’s preferences and was willing to care for her so discreetly. This meal once again became impossible for me to swallow. I got up and left the table. As I went upstairs, my parents were apologizing to Quinn for my rudeness. Quinn agreed to stay the night. My sister moved back to her own room. I deliberately avoided thinking about why he was willing to stay. Closing the door, we each did our own things without communication. When sleeping, we automatically maintained a clear boundary between us. In the middle of the night, I heard my son crying and got up, covering my aching head. The space beside me was already empty. When I reached over, not even a trace of warmth remained. After feeding and soothing the baby back to sleep, I put on a jacket and left the room. I finally found Quinn on the third-floor balcony—but he wasn’t alone. Standing beside him was Aria. The deep night was quiet enough that their low voices reached my ears clearly. “Aria has been wronged. Even though she won’t say it, I know she’s unhappy.” “I heard the Hayes family is arranging a match for you. What do you think?” The two of them talked past each other in conversation that was absurd yet natural. “You know she has postpartum depression. Why don’t you care more about her?” “As long as you say you’re unwilling, I guarantee no one can force you into an arranged marriage.” A moment of silence. The two faced each other, more like a confrontation. I stood in the shadows, watching this scene, feeling only absurdity. When Quinn couldn’t hold back any longer and closed the distance, pulling Aria into his embrace, I fled in humiliation. The next day, I took my son and returned to the Harper house with Quinn. When leaving, Aria expressed concern and reluctance as always. But this time, I avoided the hand she tried to hold. Back at the Harper house, I discovered the study had a new password lock. Quinn came home later and later. He no longer shared my room or communicated with me. Every day when he came home, he would glance at the baby, then lock himself in the study. His presence in this house was almost nonexistent. My marriage felt like just a dream. But life remained tedious, and the baby still cried. Then at a certain moment, without any trigger, I exploded. I grabbed a hammer and smashed the study’s password lock like a madwoman. In that moment, I couldn’t hear my son’s cries—only a devil whispering in my ear. “Smash it. Smash this damned life to pieces”

I charged into the study like a bandit, brazenly invading Quinn’s territory. On the bookshelf was a photo album, its cover worn from frequent handling. Inside were all photos of Aria. I looked toward the rocking chair by the study’s floor-to-ceiling window, as if seeing Quinn sitting there every night, obsessively flipping through the album. In the first layer of the right-hand drawer of the desk was a diary. It recorded Quinn’s daily life and moods—none of which involved me. Tears had long blurred my vision, but like a greedy prospector, I hoped to find treasure about myself on the next page. Until I turned to the day I first burst into the study. That day’s entry had only one sentence. [If only I had been the one to die. If only she were your wife.] I was absolutely certain this “she” referred to me. Good news: I finally found myself in his diary. Bad news: In his diary, I had lost him. In this moment, I could no longer deceive myself. The guesses I deliberately avoided, the clues I intentionally ignored—they now struck me with vengeful force. Rachel said Quinn loved astronomy most, but when I gave him a telescope, his expression was flat. The dignified, steady Harper Corporation CEO had a study full of collectible figures and every type of gaming console. I still remembered when I agreed to the marriage contract, Quinn had pulled his lips into a smile. Looking back now on that day’s smile, it hid regret and helplessness. I walked to the portrait in the center of the study, carefully examining that face so similar to Quinn’s. He had a mole at the corner of his eye—but Quinn’s eye corner also had one. I took out my phone and sent Rachel a message. She replied quickly. “Kieran didn’t have a mole at his eye corner. Claire, why are you suddenly asking me this?” I used my last shred of rationality to construct a white lie. “I found an old photo of the two brothers at home. Just curious.” I picked up the portrait and walked to the rocking chair by the window, studying the person in the photo under the sunlight. Soon, Quinn got word from the housekeeper and rushed home. The study had been torn apart by me. I thought he would be even more furious than last time. Unexpectedly, he only instructed the housekeeper to take care of the baby, then silently walked to my side and crouched down. I turned my head, my gaze falling on the corner of his right eye. A brown dot, perfectly shaped, evenly colored. It fit all the characteristics of a tattooed beauty mark. My heart felt pierced by an invisible arrow. As blood gushed out, tears burst forth like a breached dam. Complex emotions flashed through Quinn’s—no, Kieran’s—eyes, including reluctance. He didn’t question or explain. Everything seemed understood without words. But his silent admission, without any defense, felt like an unfair trial. The oppressive atmosphere tortured me like cruel punishment. I could no longer hold on and fainted. When I woke again, I was lying in bed with an IV drip in my hand. No one was in the room. The sunlight was bright, yet I felt no warmth. I pulled out the needle and walked barefoot on the floor, feeling coldness rise from my feet through my body. I walked to the nursery. My son was sleeping, the housekeeper resting wearily beside the bed. As if sensing my approach, my son suddenly opened his eyes. He looked at me and broke into a smile. In that moment, I felt like I was seeing an angel smiling at me. Looking at my son’s smile, I made a decision. I went out and came back with a document. When Kieran came home, I stopped him. “Kieran.” This was our first exchange in a week. Then I said the second sentence. “Let’s get divorced.”

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My sister’s birthday fell on a National Day of Mourning. I bought a big cake and came home to celebrate with her. She made a wish to become a famous journalist like me. I joked that saying wishes out loud makes them not come true. The next second, my mother shoved my face into the cake. “How can you curse your sister like that?” I knew there was no point arguing with my mother, who always favored my sister, so I stood up to wash my face. But my sister grabbed my arm. ” Madison, Mom’s just joking. Getting some cake on your face on a birthday is good luck!” My mother scolded me for making a big deal out of nothing. My boyfriend also urged me to sit down and eat. But I was about to go live for the moment of silence! The phone rang. My sister quickly answered the video call. Millions of viewers in the livestream saw me with a face full of pink frosting. I got cyberbullied for “disrespecting the deceased.” When I walked out of the TV station, I was killed by a bereaved family member who ran me over with their car. The day after my death, I watched my sister, who had just graduated from college, walk into the TV station. “Hello everyone, I’m Jessica. I will absolutely uphold journalistic ethics!” Starting over, I stood at the front door with the cake and my boyfriend.

“Madison!” The door flew open and Jessica threw herself at me, giving me a solid hug. She wore the light pink dress I’d just bought her last week. Her makeup was perfectly natural, making her look innocent and pure. “Happy birthday.” I shivered and pushed her away. “Madison, are you in a bad mood?” Jessica’s mouth turned down. The smell of braised pork filled the house. The dining table was already set, with a space in the center reserved for the cake. “Madison, I’ve been waiting for you all day.” Jessica’s tone carried a hint of grievance. “Mom said you had to work overtime. I thought you’d forgotten my birthday.” “How… how could I? Sorry, I’ve been really tired lately!” I smiled stiffly while apologizing and looked around the living room. Everything was exactly as I remembered— The walls were covered with various artistic photos of Jessica from childhood to now. My photos consisted of only a tiny family portrait in the corner, taken when I was in middle school. My mother’s favoritism was never hidden. After Jessica was born, my mother suffered severe postpartum depression and almost strangled the baby in her crib. Although she recovered, she always felt she owed her younger daughter, so she compensated with double the affection. “Madison, guess what I’m wishing for?” Jessica, her face lighting up again, leaned close to my ear. I turned to look at her and suddenly remembered what she’d said before cutting the cake in my past life— “I hope to become a famous journalist like my sister!” Back then, I’d joked, “Saying your wish out loud means it won’t come true.” Then the next second, my mother had shoved my face into the cake. “How can you curse your sister like that?” Now, Jessica’s eyes sparkled as she looked at me, waiting for my answer. “Sorry, I can’t guess.” In the dining room, Nathan had already helped set out the plates and cutlery. My mother turned off the TV, and the room suddenly became quiet. “Make a wish! Make a wish!” Nathan laughed and cheered. Jessica put her palms together and closed her eyes. A few seconds later, she opened her eyes, took a deep breath, and blew out the candles. “What did you wish for?” my mother asked indulgently. Jessica glanced at me, then smiled and said: “I hope—to become an outstanding journalist like my sister!” Here it comes. Word for word, just like my past life. The smile on my mother’s face faded a bit. She glanced at me, her eyes full of expectation. Expectation that I would say something. Expecting me to encourage my sister as usual. To say “You can definitely do it,” or “You’re much better than me.” Nathan was also watching me. The room suddenly became terrifyingly quiet. I picked up the knife, cut the first slice of cake, and handed it to her. “Then work hard.” “Madison…” Jessica froze, then her voice became somewhat aggrieved. “Do you think I can’t do it?” My mother’s face immediately darkened. She slammed her cutlery down on the table with a bang.

“Madison, can’t you speak properly? Jessica is your sister. Can’t you encourage her more?” “I am encouraging her.” I looked up, my expression innocent. “I told her to work hard. Isn’t that encouragement?” The atmosphere was tense. Nathan quickly tried to smooth things over: “Alright, alright, it’s Jessica’s birthday today. Let’s not talk about this. Come on, let’s eat. The food smells amazing.” The meal was very quiet, with only the soft sound of cutlery hitting plates. I kept my head down eating while counting the time in my mind. Seven thirty-five. “I need to take a call.” I picked up my phone and walked toward the balcony. “You have work this late?” My mother muttered behind me. On the balcony, I opened my phone’s front camera and adjusted the angle to make sure I could see the glass door behind me through the screen. Seven forty. The glass door was gently pushed open, and a figure quietly walked in. It was Jessica. She was holding the plastic base of the cake box with the remaining half of the cake on it. She tiptoed in like a cat, approaching. I stared at my phone screen, calculating the distance. Three steps. Two steps. One step. Just before her hand touched my shoulder, I suddenly turned around and swung my hand— “Ah!” The entire cake smashed onto Jessica’s face! Pink frosting, strawberry sauce, chocolate chips—all over her face, her hair, her dress, everywhere. She froze completely. “Wah wah wah, Madison—I just wanted to play a joke—” Tears streamed down Jessica’s face. “Jessica!” My mother screamed and rushed over. Nathan followed. “Madison! What are you doing!” My mother pushed me aside and frantically wiped the frosting off Jessica’s face. I immediately stepped back two paces, leaning against the railing with my hand clutching my chest. My breathing was rapid, my face pale. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” My voice trembled. “I didn’t mean to… I’ve been followed recently. When someone approaches me from behind, it’s a reflex…” “What do you mean, followed?” Nathan frowned. “An… an interviewee’s family member.” I spoke incoherently. “He said my report was inaccurate and ruined his family business… He’s been following me for days. Yesterday he cornered me downstairs… I just felt someone behind me. I was terrified. I really…” I covered my face, my shoulders starting to shake. Actually, I was hiding my face to suppress my laughter. “Why didn’t you say so earlier?” My mother’s voice softened a bit but still carried anger. “But you still shouldn’t treat your sister like this. Look, you ruined her new dress!” “I’m sorry… I’m sorry, Jessica…” I squeezed out a few tears and cried while reaching for Jessica’s hand. “I’ll buy you a new one, ten new ones… I really didn’t mean it. I was so scared…” She was still crying, but the sobs were quieter. Then the phone rang. I looked up at Jessica. Her face was still covered in frosting, and my mother was frantically wiping it off. Nathan stood to the side, his brow furrowed. After hanging up the call, I said with a crying voice: “The station notified me. I have to go online now… I’m sorry, Mom. I’m sorry, Jessica. I’ll explain everything to you later…”

I rushed into the bathroom and locked the door. Seven fifty. The livestream started. I and several other colleagues bowed our heads in silence before the camera. Three minutes. Complete silence. Eight o’clock. The livestream ended. When I came out of the bathroom, the atmosphere in the living room was heavy. Jessica had cleaned herself up and changed clothes, but her eyes were still red. She sat on the sofa without a word. My mother was grimly cleaning up the mess on the dining table, the plates clanking loudly. Nathan was smoking on the balcony, his silhouette radiating irritation. “Mom, Jessica, I’m really sorry about earlier.” I walked over with my head down. “I’ve been under too much stress lately. That person who’s been following me…” “Enough!” My mother interrupted me, throwing the dishcloth into the sink. “Today is Jessica’s birthday! What’s the point of you constantly talking about your work?” “Mom, don’t be like this!” Jessica looked up and forced a smile. “Madison didn’t mean it. She said someone’s been following her. Madison, are you okay? Should you report it to the police?” “I already reported it, but it didn’t help.” I sat down next to her and held her hand. “Did I scare you? I’ll take you to buy a new dress tomorrow. And the cake—I’ll order a new one…” “No need.” Jessica withdrew her hand, her smile fading. “I’m a bit tired. I want to sleep early.” She stood up and went back to her room. My mother glanced at me: “You should go to bed early too. You look terrible. I can’t handle it if something happens to you.” Nathan stubbed out his cigarette and came in. “I’ll drive you home.” “No need. I want to spend time with Jessica.” He looked at me for a few seconds and nodded. “Alright then. Call me if you need anything.” After he left, the house became completely quiet. My mother finished cleaning the kitchen and returned to her room. I was left alone in the living room. In my past life on this day, I was cyberbullied because of the livestream incident. Three days later, I was fired by the TV station. As I walked out of the TV station, I was killed by a bereaved family member who ran me over with their car. The day after my death, Jessica, a new graduate with no experience, became one of the TV station’s star journalists. My phone vibrated. It was a message from Nathan: “I’m home. Don’t overthink. Get some sleep.” I didn’t reply. Another message: “About Jessica, I’ll go smooth things over with her tomorrow. Young girls love to throw tantrums.” I looked at this message and suddenly smiled. How did I not notice this in my past life? That familiar, matter-of-fact tone, as if Jessica were someone important to him. “No need. I’ll handle it.” After returning home, I replied with those words. Then I opened my contacts and found a number. “Officer Miller, this is Madison. There’s something I’d like to ask for your help with.” “Ms. Walsh? What do you need investigated? If I can help, I absolutely will!” “Thank you. I’d like you to investigate someone for me…” After hanging up, I opened my social media feed. Jessica had posted half an hour ago: “Another year older. Going to become even more amazing” The photo showed the table full of dishes my mother made. In the corner, you could see half of Nathan’s hand. A mutual friend commented below: “Wow, your brother-in-law came over for dinner again?” Jessica replied with a shy emoji. A few days later, near the end of the workday, my phone rang. It was my mother. “Madison, come home early today. Jessica has something to announce.” “What is it?” “You’ll know when you get here. It’s good news.” My mother’s tone was cheerful.

I hung up and looked at the photo on my computer screen. Nathan’s hand rested on Jessica’s shoulder in an intimate gesture. Good news? That evening when I got home and opened the door, I smelled the aroma of food. Jessica was wearing an apron helping my mother in the kitchen. Nathan sat on the sofa watching TV. “Madison, you’re home!” Jessica poked her head out of the kitchen, her smile sweet. “Dinner’s almost ready!” My mother brought out the last dish, her face beaming with unconcealed joy. “Come, everyone sit down. We’re celebrating today.” “Celebrating what?” I put down my bag. Jessica untied her apron, her cheeks slightly flushed: “Madison, I found a job.” My heart sank, but I smiled on the surface: “Really? What job?” “TV station, news department, journalist position.” She looked at me excitedly. “Same department as you.” “Same department?” I repeated it. “Nathan helped recommend me.” My mother beamed and gave Nathan a piece of pork rib. “Thanks to him, Jessica got such a great opportunity. Madison, you’ll have to take good care of your sister at work from now on.” Nathan smiled modestly. “Don’t say that. It’s mainly because Jessica is outstanding herself. She did well in the interview.” “But someone still needs to give her the opportunity.” Jessica looked at him with admiring eyes. I picked up my cutlery and took some greens: “When did this happen? How come I didn’t hear the station was hiring?” “It’s a special recruitment.” Nathan said. “The station has been reforming recently and wants to bring in fresh blood. I mentioned Jessica to Director Hayes, and he thought it was a good idea, so he gave her a chance.” Director Hayes. Head of the news department. An old classmate of Nathan’s father. “Jessica has no experience. Won’t going straight into the news department be too much pressure?” I slowly chewed the greens. “Should she start as an intern first?” Jessica’s smile faded. My mother immediately glared. “With you guiding her, what pressure could there be? Didn’t you also start at the TV station right after graduating from college?” “Back then, I went through campus recruitment, passed five rounds of written tests and interviews.” “Jessica also interviewed.” Nathan started smoothing things over again. “And with you as her sister, how could she not learn? Madison, don’t be so strict.” I looked at the three of them. My mother with her “don’t be difficult” face. Jessica looking aggrieved. Nathan with his “I’m helping you” face. “Fine.” I suddenly smiled. “Then welcome aboard. I’ll take you to process your onboarding tomorrow.” Jessica’s eyes lit up again. “Thank you, Madison!” “But,” I added, “The news department is highly competitive with many rules. Since you’re coming in through special recruitment, many people will be watching you. Perform well. Don’t embarrass your recommender.” I was saying this to Jessica, but also to Nathan. His smile didn’t change: “Naturally.” On Jessica’s first day, she brought gifts for everyone in the news department. Designer lipstick for the female colleagues, phones for the male colleagues. An expensive watch for the director. “Just a small token. I hope everyone will take care of me.” She smiled innocently. The colleagues naturally all said nice things. A few female colleagues who were already jealous of me pulled her aside asking questions, comparing us in their words. “Jessica has a much better personality than Madison. Madison always has that cold face, like someone owes her money.” “Yeah, Madison is much more likable.” Jessica looked embarrassed. “My sister is just professional. I still have a lot to learn from her.” I sat at my workstation organizing today’s interview outline, pretending not to hear. During lunch break, the director called me into his office. “Madison, now that your sister is here, you as her older sister should help guide her more.” Director Hayes was a bit overweight and his eyes narrowed into slits when he smiled. “She has no experience. Please look after her more.” “I will,” I said. “Also, about next month’s exclusive interview, it was originally scheduled for you. But Nathan told me he wants to give Jessica a chance to practice. What do you think…” “Then give it to her.” I readily agreed. Director Hayes was a bit surprised. “You agree?” “Newcomers need opportunities, don’t they?”

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At the banquet, my husband’s subordinate, hoping to win his favor, brought out ninety-nine women who looked just like me. “Your wife can’t have children. But these women are all fertile. Have them give birth, and let her raise the kids.” Landon Cross pulled me into his arms, his tone firm. “Yvonne is the only one I love. I will never touch another woman.” After that, I threw countless resources his way and got blood on my hands, helping him to become a billionaire. Until the seventh year, a voluptuous, fair-skinned woman showed up at my door with seven children. I recognized this woman, Chloe. She was one of those ninety-nine women from years ago, the one who looked most like me. Right in front of me, she smugly lifted her shirt and nursed her youngest child. “Seven whole years, I’ve given birth to seven boys. Landon says the company’s stock price keeps rising because I gave birth to lucky babies who brought fortune to the company.” “How could a barren hen like you deserve to be his wife?” I lit a cigarette, looked her up and down, then sent her to the black market.

By the time Landon arrived at the black market, Chloe was already worth thirty million. Her highly fertile body had caught the eye of many wealthy merchants. “I heard women like her are the most fun.” “I’m going to buy her and make her a breeding machine. Maybe my company’s stock price will rise too because of lucky babies.” These words reached Landon’s ears. His expression grew darker and darker. I merely sneered mockingly. The Cross family business grew because of the Lowell family’s investment and my ruthless methods. How could it possibly be due to a few so-called “lucky babies”? Chloe hung from the auction stage, frightening. The moment she saw Landon, her delicate ankles kicked wildly in the air. “Honey, save me! I still have our baby in my belly.” Anxiety flooded Landon’s eyes. Under everyone’s watchful gaze, he knelt on one knee beside my feet, his voice trembling. “Yvonne, please let her go. Or at least wait until she gives birth, then you can deal with her however you want.” I looked at Landon as if looking at a stranger. He had only knelt twice in his life. The first time was at my father’s hospital bed. He knelt and swore he would never betray me. My father passed away with a smile, and I became Mrs. Cross. The second time was now. Mr. Landon Cross, who appeared so lofty in front of others, begging. “It’s a girl.” “We lost a daughter once. Just think of it as our daughter being reincarnated into Chloe’s belly.” I nearly went insane. “How dare Chloe even compare!” That daughter was a child I had longed for in the first year of our marriage, after going through countless treatments. But when I was three months pregnant, Landon was kidnapped by a rival gang. I didn’t have time to wait for my men to arrive. I went alone to rescue him. But no matter how skilled I was, I couldn’t fight off that many vicious men. Those three hours were living hell. Our daughter, when removed, was already formed enough to show human features. A butterfly knife flew from my sleeve, slashing across Landon’s cheek, leaving a bloody mark. Landon seemed not to feel the pain. He shook his head helplessly. “If you’ve let off steam, stop making a scene. You’re five years older than me, why are you still acting like a child?” Seeing Landon injured, Chloe screamed frantically, ignoring that she was still hanging there. “Yvonne Lowell! My husband finds it disgusting every time he touches you…” Landon’s eyes flashed with warning, and his subordinate immediately stepped onto the auction stage and gagged Chloe. A metallic sweetness rose in my throat. My voice turned hoarse. “So, you find me disgusting.” I unconsciously touched my lower abdomen. My second child with Landon was still sleeping peacefully inside. Landon desperately tried to explain, but I felt so tired. I waved my hand. “This farce should end.” The auctioneer’s gavel fell. The wealthy merchant who won Chloe trembled with his entire body of fat as he carried her into a room. Landon’s eyes turned bloodshot. He pulled out a handgun. Bang. Bang. Bang. Three bullet holes appeared at my feet. “I’ve said everything nicely, yet you’re still so heartless. I’ll say this one last time-let Chloe go, or the next shot won’t be aimed at the floor.” I looked at him calmly, not even my eyelashes trembling. “Mr. Cross, be my guest.” If Landon dared to shoot, he would be riddled with bullets on Lowell family territory. He glared at me fiercely, then like an enraged lion, led his men charging toward Chloe. Moments later, the wealthy merchant, covered in bullet wounds, was thrown out. As Landon carried Chloe past me, his gaze was icy cold. “Thank God! Chloe’s daughter is fine. Otherwise, I wouldn’t let you off so easily.” Watching his retreating figure, I called the hospital. This child had congenital abnormalities. The doctor said there was a risk of miscarriage at any time. Now it seemed there was no need to force myself to keep it. How could such a man deserve to be a father?

I had my lawyer draft a divorce agreement. Landon would leave the marriage with nothing. Not a penny of what he’d earned over these years. I took the divorce agreement to Landon’s office. On the way, I received a call from my assistant. “Mrs. Cross, something terrible has happened! Mr. Cross brought a construction team. He says he’s going to dig up your first child’s body. He wants a priest to perform an exorcism.” After hanging up, my hands were shaking. Once, Landon and I built a cemetery for our deceased daughter, Nina, wanting to give her a sheltered home underground. Now we had become a bitter couple, but why should adult grudges involve innocent children? When I arrived at the cemetery, Nina’s coffin had been carelessly thrown on the ground. Several priests stood around, praying. I spotted Landon immediately. He was holding Chloe, tucking her messy hair behind her ear. At first glance, they looked exactly like Landon and me seven years ago. Suppressing the rage in my heart, I clutched Nina’s coffin to my chest. The priests suddenly stopped chanting and pointed at the coffin in my arms, shouting sternly. “It’s this evil spirit that has prevented Mrs. Cross from having children for years!” Chloe nestled in Landon’s arms, adding fuel to the fire. “The master is right!” Landon frowned but didn’t stop them. The priest then splashed holy water at me, instantly soaking my white clothes. But fortunately, I protected Nina’s coffin well. It didn’t get wet. I wiped the water droplets from my face and looked at Landon. He avoided my gaze, saying only in a deep voice, “I’m doing this for your own good.” I found everything absurdly ridiculous. I pulled out the divorce agreement from my document bag and threw it directly in Landon’s face. “Sign it.” Landon looked as if he’d heard something unbelievable. “You’re actually willing to divorce me? We once had a child together. We’re already inseparable. “When Chloe’s daughter is born, I’ll have her call you mom, to make up for the child we lost…” I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, they were cold and desolate. “Landon, of all your mistakes, you should never have kept using our child to provoke me.” I waved my hand. The Lowell family bodyguards behind me immediately understood. They restrained Chloe. Those burly men kicked her belly with every strike. Chloe screamed. Soon blood appeared. Landon’s eyes turned blood-red. He snatched the divorce agreement, signed his name without even looking, scrawling rapidly. “Let her go!” I clapped my hands together and laughed gleefully. I wondered if this penniless man could afford to raise his seven children after the divorce.

Landon took Chloe to the hospital. When I ran into Landon, he had just come from the direction of the operating room, his eyes bloodshot. “What are you doing here? Did you come to see if Chloe is dead? Or to watch me suffer?” I was here for a surgical checkup. I didn’t bother arguing with him and tried to walk around him. He grabbed my wrist, his grip so strong it nearly crushed my bones. “Chloe’s baby couldn’t be saved. It was a fully formed female fetus. You killed my daughter for the second time!” “Let go.” My stomach churned violently. The child in my belly, perhaps knowing its birth wasn’t welcomed, kept making me sick. Seeing me like this, Landon’s eyes reddened. “You hate my touch that much? I haven’t even said you disgust me, so why do you find me revolting?” Sharp, dull pain riddled my heart. Landon really knew me-knew exactly how to stab me where it hurt most. At that moment, a doctor approached with a report. “Mr. Cross, here are the genetic test results…” Landon rudely interrupted him. He pointed sharply at my face and loudly proclaimed to the doctor and everyone around. “No need to confirm! This venomous woman can’t have children herself, so she had someone kick Chloe’s four-month-old daughter to death! She’s a murderer!” The surrounding crowd instantly erupted. “Can’t have her own, so she won’t let others have theirs either.” “No wonder her husband doesn’t want her…” A flash of satisfaction crossed Landon’s eyes. He lowered his voice, his tone cruel. “Yvonne, kneel down in front of everyone and apologize to Chloe. Otherwise, I don’t mind making things even more humiliating for you.” Landon pulled out his phone and showed me a video. These videos-Landon had kept them all along. Those terrible, disgusting memories flooded back into my mind. I crouched down, hugging myself tightly, my whole body convulsing. “Yvonne, Yvonne, don’t scare me…” My body felt light. I fell into a familiar embrace. When I opened my eyes again, I saw Landon sitting by my hospital bed, looking somewhat exhausted. Seeing me awake, his eyes reddened. “You fool, I just wanted you to soften up a bit. How could I really do that…” I smiled bleakly, finding it all meaningless. “Landon, we’ve loved each other for so many years, yet we’ve become bitter enemies. You deserve full credit for that.” The hospital room door opened. Chloe walked in holding a stuffed rabbit, her eyes red. “Honey, I just had a dream. I dreamed our daughter came to me, asking why I didn’t protect her…” Landon stood up, put his arm around Chloe’s waist, and walked out while comforting her. As he left, he paused. “That divorce agreement-I signed it in a moment of panic. I’m treating it as invalid. “What happened earlier was my fault, but I also hope you can apologize to Chloe for hurting her child.” Chloe curled up in Landon’s arms, smirking at me provocatively. I grabbed a vase and hurled it at Chloe. Landon’s reaction was almost instinctive. He shielded Chloe completely in his arms. Landon turned back slowly, looking at me with eyes full of ice. “Yvonne, I’m very disappointed in you.” The perfect couple left hand in hand. I lay in the hospital bed, looking at Chloe’s genetic test report, almost laughing out loud.

Before news of the divorce spread, Landon couldn’t wait to parade around with Chloe. We met again at an auction. I wanted to buy a jade bracelet. “Thirty million.” I raised my paddle. The price was already very high, and competitors in the room fell silent. From the VIP section across from me, Chloe whispered in Landon’s ear. When her eyes glanced toward me, they carried undisguised provocation. Landon’s lips curved into a smile. He gestured to the auctioneer. The entire venue instantly erupted. “Mr. Cross bids the highest price!” This meant that no matter how much I bid, he would outbid me, just to make his beauty smile. In the end, he purchased the jade bracelet at an absurd sky-high price and personally placed it on Chloe’s wrist. Chloe stroked the jade on her wrist, lifted her chin at me, her voice sickeningly sweet. “Honey, this jade really suits me. Some people-when they’re old, they’re just old. Nothing looks good on them.” Landon beside her not only didn’t stop her but indulgently tightened his arm around her waist. Chloe, arm in arm with him, left like a victor. She handed me a red invitation, her smile glaring. “Miss Lowell, in three days, Landon and I are getting married. You absolutely must come witness our happiness!” I accepted it, my fingers casually flicking the invitation. “Sure.” Turning around, I made a phone call, my tone calm. “You won that bet from seven years ago. When my marital status changes to ‘widowed,’ come marry me.” I had wanted to part ways amicably with Landon, but he kept indulging Chloe’s provocations. He seemed to have forgotten-I always seek revenge. I never swallow my anger. Three days later, I arrived at the wedding as promised. The wedding was extremely lavish. Chloe’s seven children served as flower children. The venue was packed with guests, but the atmosphere was strange. Landon remarrying after betraying his wife-these social elites didn’t want to wade into this mess. It was only because I had my assistant send out invitations widely that they felt compelled to come. The moment I stepped into the banquet hall, the noise stopped abruptly. All eyes focused on me. Seeing me, Chloe’s eyes flashed with cold light. Then she clapped her hands. “Let’s show everyone something interesting!” The large screen at the wedding lit up. It was a video of me being abused by Landon’s rival gang years ago. My body was covered in blood and filthy fluids, like a broken doll. In the video, I screamed shrilly, “Kill me! Kill me!” Those men cackled with laughter. “Mr. Cross didn’t tell us to kill you. He wants to keep you alive and record this video. That’s the only way he can really control you.” Countless midnight dreams, I would dream of this scene. Back then, I didn’t believe those events were orchestrated by Landon. I thought my memory was confused. But that day in the hospital, I saw on Landon’s phone the video that should have been destroyed. Only then did I realize with horror that the man I had loved for so many years had always been a demon. When the video ended, the entire venue fell deathly silent. Only Landon frantically questioned Chloe. “Who gave you permission to show this video? Yvonne will have a breakdown!” For the first time, Chloe saw such a terrifying Landon. She shook her head in panic. “I didn’t know…” Under everyone’s gaze, I walked step by step toward Landon. I tossed him a wooden box and sneered mockingly. “Congratulations on your wedding, Mr. Cross.” Landon’s face turned deathly pale. After seeing what was in the box, his eyes nearly split with rage.

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After my miscarriage, my abdomen felt like it had been crushed by a truck. My husband William walked in wearing his white coat. He pulled off his gloves while coldly informing me: “It’s good this baby’s gone. Now we can remove part of your uterus and transplant it to Juliet.” I thought I’d misheard. I weakly asked: “What did you say? Who’s Juliet?” His eyes held no warmth, as if looking at an organ container: “My first love. She has congenital underdeveloped uterus and can’t be a mother. You have a good constitution. We won’t be having children anyway, so you might as well help her out.” I struggled to sit up, disbelief filling my eyes: “William, I’m your wife! You want me to give my organs to your old flame?” He pressed down on my shoulder, his tone brooking no argument: “This is the medically optimal solution. It’s also your chance to atone.” “Atone? What did I do wrong?” He looked down at me from above, adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses: “You’ve occupied the position that should have been hers for five years. That’s your mistake. I’ve already signed the surgical consent form for you. If you don’t cooperate, I’ll stop your father’s medication tomorrow.” I lay on the cold operating table, staring at the blinding surgical light overhead. So in his heart, I wasn’t even a person. Just a spare parts warehouse.

After William said this, he threw the surgical informed consent form directly in my face. The sharp edge of the paper cut across my cheek, stinging painfully. The pen tip nearly blinded my eye. I ignored the pain on my face and desperately grabbed the hem of his white coat. “William, are you insane? I just had a miscarriage! That was our child!” “Doing a transplant surgery now—do you want me to die on the operating table?” William slapped my hand away in disgust, as if brushing off something dirty. “You won’t die. I’m the lead surgeon. I know what I’m doing.” “Besides, that embryo wasn’t viable anyway. It’s better that it’s gone.” “Juliet can’t wait any longer. Her birthday is next month. This is my gift to her.” A gift? Using my organs to please his first love? I trembled all over, whether from anger or cold, I couldn’t tell. “I won’t sign! I’ll call the police! This is intentional harm!” William let out a cold laugh, the look of someone superior regarding an ant. “Call the police? I’m your legal husband and your attending physician.” “I have the right to decide your treatment plan.” “And by the way, did you forget? Your father is still lying in the ICU.” At the mention of my father, I fell silent like a chicken with its throat squeezed. William was satisfied with my reaction. He unhurriedly pulled out his phone. “Your father’s medical expenses are twelve thousand dollars a day. It’s only through my connections that he’s in the special care ward.” “With just one phone call, he’ll be thrown into the hallway tonight.” “Want to try it?” I bit through my lip. The taste of blood spread through my mouth. Five years ago, I was a prodigy at medical school. He was a poor boy living on financial aid. To support him through his doctoral studies, I gave up graduate school to sell insurance and wait tables. I worked three jobs a day. My hands were corroded by dish soap. Back then, he carried me on his back through the snow when I had a fever, swearing he’d protect me for life. Now, wearing the designer shirt I bought him, he wanted to take me apart and give me away. “William, did a dog eat your conscience?”

“I supported your education, supported your whole family. Is this how you repay me?” William’s face darkened, as if I’d touched a nerve. “Shut up! That was all your wishful thinking, your self-indulgent delusion!” “If you hadn’t desperately clung to me, Juliet and I would have been married long ago!” “You’re just a burden. Besides cooking and washing clothes, what else can you do?” “Juliet is different. She’s George’s daughter. She can advance my career.” “Giving her your uterus is the greatest value you’ll have in this life.” Just then, the hospital room door was pushed open. A nurse came in with a medication cart. Seeing the tense atmosphere, she didn’t dare speak. William resumed his sanctimonious appearance. “Change the dressing for bed 3. Also prepare her for surgery. First case tomorrow morning.” The nurse hesitated: “Dr. William, bed 3 just had a D&C procedure. Her vital signs…” “Do as I say!” William barked. The nurse flinched and quickly nodded. William pulled back my blanket in front of the outsider. Without any respect, as if examining a piece of pork. “Recovery looks fine. Won’t affect the extraction.” Extraction. Was I a package? The overwhelming humiliation made me want to scream, but I couldn’t make a sound. Because I saw a wheelchair had stopped at the doorway. A woman sat in it, smiling at me. That was Juliet. I’d only seen her photo in the inner fold of William’s wallet. It was an old photo from many years ago. The girl in the photo looked as pure as a white flower. The current Juliet wore a hospital gown. Though sitting in a wheelchair, her complexion was rosy. She even looked healthier than me, who had just miscarried. The moment William saw her, he changed his expression completely, becoming tender enough to melt. “Juliet, why did you come? There are bacteria here. Don’t get infected.” Juliet coyly extended her hand, letting William help her. “William, I was worried about Lena. Lena just lost her baby. She must be devastated. I wanted to see her.” She had William push the wheelchair to my bedside. I smelled her expensive perfume—the one William had bought with my card last week. Juliet grabbed my hand. Tears came instantly. “Lena, I’m sorry. It’s all my fault. My body is useless.” “I just want to give William a child so badly.” “Since you can’t have one, just let me borrow your uterus. You don’t need it anymore anyway.” Borrow? Could such a thing be borrowed? I looked at her fake face, nausea churning in my stomach. “Get out! Don’t touch me!” I used all my strength to shake off her hand. Juliet fell backward deliberately, collapsing to the floor with a cry. “Oh! That hurts!” “Juliet!” William rushed over to lift her up, then turned and slapped me across the face. “Smack!” The slap was brutal. It hit me so hard that my post-surgical abdomen cramped violently. My vision went black. “Lena! You vicious woman! Juliet came to see you out of kindness, and you pushed her!” I covered my face, my ears ringing. “She’s faking… William, are you blind? She’s not even sick!” I hadn’t used any force in that shake. And her pulse was strong and powerful, her palm warm. She wasn’t someone with congenital disease at all. I studied medicine. I still had that much judgment. William didn’t listen at all. He carefully lifted Juliet back into the wheelchair. “If anything happens to Juliet, I’ll take your life!”

Juliet curled up in William’s arms, sobbing: “William, don’t blame Lena. She’s probably just too jealous of me.” “After all, I’m the one you’re going to marry. She’s just a transition.” William tenderly wiped away her tears. “What transition? She’s just a housekeeper.” Then he took out his phone and, right in front of me, called my father’s attending physician on speakerphone. “Hello, this is William.” “Stop the ventilator for half an hour.” The doctor’s hesitant voice came through: “William, this… the patient can’t survive without the ventilator. Half an hour will be fatal.” William looked at me, a cruel smile playing on his lips. “Do as I say. If anything happens, I’ll take responsibility. Or rather, this is the family’s request.” The call ended. Less than a minute later, the alarm from the monitoring equipment in my father’s room echoed down the hallway. It was a countdown to death. “No! William, you bastard!” I broke down crying. Ignoring the severe pain in my abdomen, I knelt on the bed and kowtowed to him. “Please! Don’t hurt my father! I’ll sign! I’ll sign!” “I’ll give you whatever you want! Please don’t stop his medication!” Dignity? In the face of a loved one’s life, dignity was worthless. William was satisfied with my submission. He hung up and ordered the oxygen restored. Then he patted my face from above, like patting an obedient dog. “Wouldn’t this have been easier from the start?” “Eight o’clock tomorrow morning in the OR. Make sure you’re clean.” “I don’t like dirty things.” Juliet covered her mouth and laughed: “Lena is so understanding. Thank you for your sacrifice.” They left. Leaving me alone in the darkness, listening to my father’s weak heartbeat from the end of the hallway. In that moment, the Lena in my heart died. I kept my eyes open all night until dawn. Like a movie playing in my mind, all the moments from these five years. To save money to buy him medical textbooks, I bought the cheapest sanitary pads. When he published his first paper, I was happier than him. I treated everyone in the lab to dinner. Back then he said: “Lena, when I become a renowned doctor, the first thing I’ll do is cure Dad.” Turns out, it was all a lie. From the beginning, I was the “drawback” after he weighed the pros and cons. Six o’clock the next morning. William brought a group of medical interns for rounds. He was high-spirited, his gold-rimmed glasses reflecting cold light, showing no trace of last night’s ferocity. “Everyone, today we’ll discuss a special case.” He pointed at me, as if introducing an object. “Patient Lena, habitual miscarriage due to uterine malformation. She has a strong desire to donate.” “We will perform a highly difficult partial uterine transplant surgery.” “The recipient is a young woman with congenital uterine underdevelopment.” The interns took notes, pens scratching away. Someone muttered quietly: “This is a living donor transplant. Did it pass ethical review?” William glanced coolly at that person. “Family signatures are complete. The patient herself strongly requested to atone… oh no, to contribute.” He deliberately misspoke, causing whispers among those around. Those gazes fell on me. Probing, contemptuous, and pitying. As if I were a soulless medical specimen, a piece of meat awaiting slaughter. I gripped the bedsheet tightly, my nails breaking into my flesh. “William, you’re lying!”

I shouted with a hoarse voice. “I’m not willing! You forced me! You were going to kill my father!” The scene fell deathly silent. The interns looked at each other, their pens stopped. William’s expression didn’t change. He even shook his head with a hint of regret. He pulled out a paper from the medical chart. “After the miscarriage, the patient developed severe delusional disorder. She’s emotionally unstable and aggressive.” “This is the psychiatric evaluation report from last night.” He displayed the forged report for everyone to see. “She constantly imagines someone is trying to harm her father. In fact, her father is already brain dead. We’ve just been maintaining him.” Public opinion reversed instantly. Everyone looked at me like I was insane. “So she’s crazy. No wonder.” “William really has it tough, having to care for a crazy wife.” “So pitiful. She doesn’t even know she miscarried.” I opened my mouth wide, wanting to explain, but found words so powerless. In this world of authority constructed by white coats, I was just a madwoman. William waved his hand: “The patient is agitated. Administer a sedative.” Two male orderlies rushed up and pinned me down, one on each side. A cold needle pierced my neck. “Let me go… William… may you die a horrible death…” The medication took effect quickly. My vision began to blur, my tongue grew thick. In my daze, I saw Juliet standing at the door. She wasn’t in the wheelchair—she stood perfectly straight. She mouthed words to me: “Idiot.” Then, while the interns were leaving, she slipped in. She pinched my IV tube with her sharp nails until the tube was flattened. “Lena, actually I’m not sick at all.” She whispered in my ear, like a serpent’s hiss. “My uterus is perfectly fine. I just don’t want to give birth myself. Afraid of pain, afraid of ruining my figure.” “William said your uterus is well-maintained. Perfect for me to use.” “He also said you reek of cooking oil and have disgusted him for a long time.” “Only I am his muse.” My whole body was limp, unable to move, but I didn’t close my eyes. I bit through the tip of my tongue. The sharp pain kept me barely conscious. Blood flowed down from the corner of my mouth. Juliet, William. As long as I don’t die, I will skin you alive and pull out your tendons. All the suffering I’ve endured—I’ll return it to you a thousandfold! The sedative dosage wasn’t enough. Or rather, hatred gave me drug resistance. During the nurses’ shift change, using my former medical knowledge, I pulled out the needle. Blood droplets splattered on the floor like red plum blossoms. I stole an intern’s white coat, put on a mask, and stumbled out of the room. I had to take my father away. Even if I died on the road, I couldn’t let him fall into the hands of this pair of dogs. My father’s ICU was upstairs. I held onto the wall, shuffling step by step. Each step felt like a knife twisting in my lower body. Finally, I reached that familiar door. My hand had just touched the doorknob when I heard voices inside. “William, do we really need to keep Lena’s father around?” It was Juliet’s voice. “The ventilator is so noisy. It’s giving me a headache.” Then came William’s voice, cold as ice. “Originally we could drag it out a few more days to control Lena.” “But since the surgery is happening anyway, this old thing is useless now.” “Plus, his little pension isn’t even enough to cover the special care fees.”

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At the airport security checkpoint, the security officer asked the routine question: “Are you carrying any prohibited items?” I was about to shake my head when my assistant beside me raised her hand with an innocent expression on her face. “Do blades count? She’s got dozens of them in her suitcase!” As soon as the words left her mouth, the entire area fell deathly silent. The security officer pressed her radio, and security personnel instantly surrounded us like an iron wall. I broke out in a nervous sweat. “I’m a doctor! I’m going to the neighboring state for emergency surgery. My suitcase only contains medical instruments. I have the permits!” “Open it.” The security officer’s face remained expressionless. Inside the bag were neatly arranged surgical scalpels, hemostatic clamps, and a change of clothes. While pointing out each item, I turned back and urged, “Did you bring the medical records?” My assistant Bella kept her head down, her voice like a mosquito’s hum. “I… I brought them.” “What’s this bottle?” The security officer suddenly pointed at a shadow on the screen. Before I could react, Bella spoke up with an innocent expression, shouting loudly: “I already told you gasoline can’t be brought on the plane. Why won’t you listen? Are you planning to blow up the plane or something?” The air froze once again. The security officer’s eyes shifted from suspicion to vigilance. “Please follow us both to the interrogation room.” Hearing this, my mind went blank with a buzzing sound. The patient on the operating table had already been anesthetized, but the lead surgeon was being treated as a suspect at the airport because of her assistant’s loose lips. At this moment, there were eighteen minutes until the boarding gate closed.

“Officer, this is a misunderstanding!” My voice cracked with urgency as my hands gripped the handle of my suitcase desperately. “I’m Chloe, the chief physician at Hope Hospital. There’s a critically ill seven-year-old child waiting for me to save their life!” “There’s absolutely no gasoline in my bag. She’s lying!” Several special police officers had already surrounded us. Although the dark muzzles of their guns weren’t raised, the sense of oppression was suffocating. “Whether it’s a lie or not, anything involving flammable and explosive materials or terrorist statements must be investigated.” The security team leader’s face was cold as he snatched away my boarding pass. “Take them away!” Two female security officers twisted my arms behind my back and forcibly pushed me toward the sealed interrogation room. Looking back, Bella was leisurely following behind. I was so angry my blood felt like it was flowing backward. “Bella! Do you know what you’re doing?!” “That child has massive bleeding in the chest cavity. Every minute of delay could cost them their life!” Bella rolled her eyes and examined her freshly done manicure. “Chloe, aren’t you being a bit overdramatic?” “I was just trying to lighten the mood. How was I supposed to know these people can’t take a joke?” She pointed at the security officer with a grieved expression. “Besides, who told you to check so strictly? I casually mention gasoline and you believe it? No sense of humor at all.” The security team leader’s face turned iron-blue. “Sense of humor?” “Miss, claiming to carry gasoline and blades at an airport constitutes fabricating false terrorist information. That’s a crime!” Bella scoffed. “Stop trying to scare me. My relative is a leader at the Health Bureau. You dare arrest me?” “Let us go quickly, or I’ll file a complaint against you for violent law enforcement!” Her reckless attitude completely enraged the police. The interrogation room door slammed shut. I glanced at the electronic clock on the wall. Ten minutes until takeoff. If I didn’t get on now, it would be too late!

I dropped to my knees with a thud. “Officers, the liquid in the bag is just alcohol. I accept the penalty! Confiscate the alcohol, lock me up afterward if you want!” “But can you please let me board the plane first? I’m a doctor. The neighboring state hospital urgently needs me for surgery. They’re already calling me!” “If you don’t let me board, it’ll be too late!!” The police officer’s eyes changed. He immediately picked up his radio. “Command center, verify the suspect’s identity. If this is a misunderstanding, requesting assistance…” Hearing this, Bella sat in a chair to the side, crossed her legs, and laughed outright. “Officer, let me tell you the truth. She’s not going to the neighboring state for any emergency surgery. She’s fleeing to escape punishment.” The officer’s hand tightened on the radio, his eyes instantly becoming sharp. “Fleeing? Explain yourself!” Bella’s face showed mockery. “Chloe just killed someone on the operating table yesterday. The family members are causing a scene at the hospital right now.” “The hospital issued a notice this morning—suspended pending investigation, medical license to be revoked.” “She’s afraid of going to jail, so she made up an excuse to run away to another place and lay low.” After speaking, she covered her mouth with exaggerated surprise as she looked at me. “Chloe, I didn’t want to expose you. After all, we’ve been colleagues. Several friends even specifically asked me to represent them in seeing you off this time.” “But you can’t use these kind officers’ goodwill as a tool.” As she finished, the security team leader’s face instantly turned as black as the bottom of a pot. “Is what she said true?” Of course Bella was lying. And it was the kind of outrageous lie that could destroy a doctor’s entire career! I stared hard at Bella’s face, trembling with rage. “Bella, I’ve always treated you well—helped you publish papers, shielded you from complaints. Why are you trying to destroy me like this?!” The smile vanished from Bella’s face instantly. She suddenly leaned close to me, grinding her teeth as she spoke in a low voice. “Treated me well?” “Chloe, stop pretending to be a saint!” “Last week when that rich kid from the VIP ward added me on Twitter, why did you confiscate my phone in front of the head nurse?” “And you called me out at the morning meeting, saying I dressed provocatively and didn’t meet medical staff standards?” “You made me lose face, made me unable to hold my head up in front of those interns!” She grew more agitated as she spoke, the malice in her eyes almost overflowing. “You’re the director, so what? You’re an expert, big deal?” “Today I’m going to make sure you can’t leave!” So the reason was this absurd. Simply because I stopped her from flirting with a patient’s family member in a sterile ward, simply because I wanted to maintain departmental discipline. She was willing to sacrifice a seven-year-old child’s life at this critical moment! I laughed bitterly, about to retort. The security team leader’s sharp shout interrupted our confrontation. He had obviously been influenced by Bella’s words, looking at me with eyes full of scrutiny. “Enough! If this involves medical malpractice and fleeing, the situation has changed.” “Confiscate her bag, detain her first, and notify the district police station and Health Bureau to pick her up.” Two female officers immediately stepped forward, gripping my shoulders from left and right. At that moment, the clock on the wall jumped forward. Six minutes left. The boarding gate was about to close! I was losing my mind. Because once the gate closed, even if I could prove my innocence, I wouldn’t make this flight—the only one available. And that child couldn’t wait for the next flight! “I’m not lying! I didn’t kill anyone!” I struggled desperately. “I have evidence! I have proof!” “Let me get my phone! Please let me get my phone!” The security team leader frowned, seemingly impatient with my resistance. “Settle down! You’ll get your chance to talk at the police station!” “There’s no time! It’s a life at stake!” Tears and mucus covered my face. I had completely lost the dignity of a chief physician. “I need my phone! Let me look at my phone! Just one look!” “If it’s fake, you can shoot me right here!”

Perhaps the desperation in my eyes was too real. The young officer who had been observing me grabbed the team leader’s arm. “Team leader, let her.” “What if… what if it’s true?” The team leader was silent for two seconds, then snorted coldly and let go. “Watch her. Don’t let her delete anything.” With trembling hands, I pulled my phone from my pocket. As soon as the screen lit up, countless red notifications popped up. All from the director of the neighboring state’s Central Hospital. I frantically opened the conversation and held the phone screen up to the officers. “Look… please look!” “This is the Twitter account of the neighboring state Central Hospital director!” “This is the child’s medical record!” “These are real-time surveillance screenshots from their operating room!” I cried while scrolling through the screen, my voice breaking. The officer frowned, half-believing as he took the phone and randomly clicked on the most recent long voice message. The next second, an elderly voice came through. “Chloe! The child’s heart rate has dropped to 40! Blood pressure can’t be measured!” “There’s too much pleural effusion compressing the heart. We have to open the chest!” “But no one dares to do this surgery except you! The blood vessels are too thin. One tremor and it’s a massive hemorrhage!” “All the hospital’s experts are here watching, all waiting for you alone!” “Chloe! I’m begging you! Please hurry!” In the background, you could hear a nurse’s anxious shouts: “Epinephrine injection complete! Heart rate still dropping!” The voice message stopped. The entire interrogation room once again fell into dead silence. But this time, it wasn’t from suspicion. The security team leader’s expression changed. He instinctively looked at the clock on the wall. Four minutes left. My eyes were red as I stared hard into the officer’s eyes. “Officer, this isn’t a recording. This was sent twenty minutes ago.” “I’m not acting either. I’m begging you… let me go…” The security team leader, who had been so firm just moments ago, moved his lips as if wanting to say something. The suspicion in his eyes looking at me was rapidly fading. However, just as I thought I could leave smoothly, Bella’s shrill voice rang out again. “Pfft.” She covered her mouth, laughing so hard she could barely stand. “Chloe, you really went all out with this performance.” “Where did you hire this actor? The director? That old guy’s voice imitation is pretty good.” “You even prepared background audio? Must have spent quite a bit of money.” She leisurely walked up to the officer, pointing at my phone with utter disdain. “These days, fraud software is so advanced.” “You can buy a bunch of these voice generators online for a hundred bucks.” “The background audio is just downloaded material from the internet.” “If she was really so urgent, why didn’t she show this earlier? Why wait until now?” “She obviously just made this up on the spot, trying to fool you!” “Besides, if the surgery was really this urgent, that hospital would have sent a helicopter by now. They wouldn’t make her take a commercial flight, would they?” “The logic doesn’t even make sense. Only laypeople would fall for this.” Bella became more pleased with herself as she spoke. She turned to look at me, her eyes full of provocation. “Chloe, to avoid responsibility for medical malpractice, you’d even fake a critical condition notice.” “Do you have any medical ethics left?” “You’re the scum of the medical profession!” The security team leader, who had just been about to let go, became uncertain again because of these words. He was getting annoyed and ordered directly: “Continue interrogating both of them! Hurry up and verify Chloe’s real identity!”

In the interrogation room, I stared hard at that exquisitely made-up face before me. Bella was someone the director had forced on me—someone with family connections. Normally, I tolerated her slacking off during work and just clocking in and out. When she handed me the wrong clamp in the operating room or wrote incorrect medical records, I covered for her too. But I never imagined her humanity could be extinguished to this degree! Originally, the hospital had planned to send a helicopter for this surgery, but somehow Bella had said something to the director, and the hospital changed it to having me take a commercial flight. “Bella, that’s a human life!” “You studied medicine too. Did a dog eat your conscience?!” “What exactly are you trying to do!” Bella sneered and took out her compact to touch up her makeup. “I’m just here to build my resume. In a couple years I’ll be promoted to deputy director.” “Who’s like you, stupidly risking your life? Now look—you can’t make the flight, right? Perfect. If I go back now, I can still make it to my date with my senior.” “Shopping and dating? Just because of this?” I forced these words out through clenched teeth. Bella nodded matter-of-factly and took out a mirror to check her eyeliner. “What else! Some dead kid who’s nothing to me, compared to my lifelong happiness—I know which matters more.” She even winked at me. “Chloe, you should actually thank me.” “After all, that surgery only had a 20% success rate. Dying on the table and then having to write a review—so unlucky.” I was about to retort angrily when I heard a loud “bang” as the interrogation room door was thrown open. The person who entered was the criminal police captain. He turned to look at me, his tone somewhat gentler. “Chloe, we’ve verified your identity. You are a national special subsidy expert, and you do have filing records for carrying surgical instruments.” A glimmer of hope lit in my eyes. “Can I leave now?” The captain glanced at the clock on the wall, his eyes showing some reluctance. “The tower just notified us that the flight to the neighboring state took off three minutes ago.” Hearing this news, my legs gave out and I collapsed into a chair. Bella picked up her phone, brushed off the dust, her tone light. “Chloe, now you can give up, right? Come on, let’s go. I’ll treat you to a spa to cool down your temper.” I ignored her. At the same time, my phone rang. It was a video call request from the intensive care unit at the neighboring state hospital. With trembling hands, I answered. On the screen was a panicked face. “Chloe! Chloe, where are you?!” The director on the other end was covered in sweat, his eyes bloodshot. My eyes reddened too. I wanted to apologize, to say I couldn’t make the flight, to say I was sorry. But the words stuck in my throat. I couldn’t get them out. But the other end continued speaking. The camera shifted to focus on the operating table. The director roared furiously: “Chloe! You clearly said you could make it here for the surgery! Do you know that because of your delay, this child just had a massive hemorrhage and died!” My head buzzed. My mouth hung open, my face covered in tears. Five hundred miles, no plane—how could I get there?! Just then, Bella beside me suddenly spoke up: “So noisy! It’s just a dead kid! Is it worth dragging the whole hospital into mourning! People die on operating tables every day!” The director looked at Bella furiously. “Shut up! What are you to say such things!” “This child was the long-lost grandson of a military region commander!” “This time, everyone involved in this surgery won’t escape consequences!”

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