Category: English

My parents finally tracked me down in the fourth year of my exile. When they saw me, there were no warm embraces, no tears of relief. They didn’t ask if I’d spent my nights sleeping in shelters or if I’d gone days without a meal. They didn’t care about the hollows in my cheeks or the callouses on my hands. Instead, my father’s voice cut through the damp air of my tiny apartment like a blade. “Do you finally realize the gravity of what you did?” I didn’t hesitate. I dropped to my knees on the cold, cracked linoleum. The tears came instantly—ugly, desperate, and loud. I let them see my breaking point. “I’m sorry,” I sobbed, my forehead nearly touching the floor. “I was wrong. I shouldn’t have been jealous of Courtney. I shouldn’t have fought with her. I never should have tried to frame her. Please, just tell me what I have to do!” After they brought me back to that sprawling estate on the hill, I became exactly what they wanted. I was a shadow. I was silent. I didn’t ask for things, and I didn’t fight back. Even when Courtney went out of her way to provoke me, poking at the bruises of my past, I kept my mouth shut. My parents were thrilled. They told their friends I had finally “matured.” They were proud of the girl they had broken. But then came the day Courtney sold the company’s most sensitive trade secrets to our biggest competitor. Overnight, the Whitaker empire began to crumble into ash. My parents panicked. They turned to me, their eyes wide with a desperate, newfound need. This time, I just watched them. I didn’t say a word. I felt nothing but the cold, quiet satisfaction of a ghost watching a fire. 1 When my parents found me, I was crouched on the floor of a basement studio, counting nickels and dimes to see if I had enough for a sausage roll. My father, Robert, looked down at me with a gaze so complex it bordered on disgust. “Natalie, do you understand your mistake now?” I froze for a heartbeat. Then, I let myself collapse. I hit the floor hard, the sound echoing against the thin walls. I let the tears flow until my vision blurred. “I know,” I choked out. “I was a monster. I shouldn’t have competed for your love. I shouldn’t have lied about her, or screamed at her, or hit her… it’s all my fault. I’ll never do it again, I swear.” “I shouldn’t have talked back to you. I shouldn’t have run away. I’m so sorry.” “Dad, Mom… I just want to come home.” My mother, Diane, finally softened. Her eyes turned a watery red as she reached out to pull me up. “That’s enough. Get up, Natalie.” Robert sighed, the tension in his shoulders dropping an inch. “As long as you’ve learned your lesson. Let’s go.” I nodded obediently, following them to the sleek black SUV waiting outside. I was the picture of a broken, repentant daughter. Everything had shifted four years ago when Courtney appeared. Suddenly, the affection and the life that had been mine by right were handed to her on a silver platter. I had fought for my place. I had screamed until my throat was raw; I had begged on my knees. But Robert and Diane had only watched me with icy detachment, as if I were a stranger throwing a tantrum in a grocery store. The breaking point was the day my college acceptance letters arrived. I had been on track for an Ivy League—my grades were perfect. But when I logged into the portal, I found my entire application had been withdrawn and replaced with a late submission to a predatory, unaccredited trade school in the middle of nowhere. Courtney had done it. I knew it. When I confronted her, she just looked at me with those wide, tear-filled eyes. “Why would I do that, Natalie? You must have filled out the forms wrong. Why are you blaming me?” I had been so blinded by rage I reached for her, wanting to shake the truth out of her. My mother slammed me back against the wall before I could touch a hair on Courtney’s head. Diane looked at me like I was a rabid animal. “Ever since your sister came home, she has tried to include you, and this is how you thank her? By inventing these delusions? You are a selfish, ungrateful child.” I saw red. “I’m not lying! Look at the IP logs! Check the history!” “Check what?” Robert barked, his brow furrowed in deep irritation. “You’re just acting out because we’ve been giving Courtney the attention she deserves. You’re pathetic.” “You think I’d destroy my own future just to spite her?” I screamed, my heart breaking in real-time. Robert’s voice was like ice. “In a heartbeat. You can’t stand her. You’d burn the whole house down just to see her cough.” “You only love her!” I yelled. “You only believe her!” That was the end. Robert pointed to the door, his face purple with rage. “Ungrateful brat! I’ve spent eighteen years providing for you! If you hate this family so much, then get out! Get out and see how long you last without my money!” I left that night. I thought I was strong. I thought I could survive on spite alone. Reality gave me a brutal wake-up call. I didn’t survive—I barely drifted. For four years, I delivered food, scrubbed toilets, and handed out fliers in the rain. I was fired from every decent job because I lacked the stability or the degrees I should have had. I ended up in a moldy basement, unable to even pay for the community college courses I tried to take. Now, we were back at the estate. As I stepped out of the car, I saw Courtney. Her skin was porcelain, her hair a perfect silk curtain. She was wearing a white cocktail dress that made her look like a modern-day princess. Beside her, I felt like a stray dog. She smiled and moved forward, linking her arm through mine. “I knew you’d want the master suite, Natalie. I’ve already moved my things into the guest wing and aired it out for you.” “Let’s put the past behind us,” she whispered, her voice like honey. “Can we just be sisters now?” I remembered how this started. When Courtney first arrived, she wanted my room. She didn’t ask for it directly; she just sighed about how “dreamy” it was while my parents were listening. They spent weeks trying to convince me to switch. I refused, clinging to the only space that felt mine. Courtney didn’t argue. She just started acting terrified of me. Every time I entered a room, she would flinch. My parents saw it. They saw a victim and a bully. They had screamed at me in the living room. “She’s been through so much, and you can’t even give her a room? You’re giving it up today, whether you like it or not!” Back then, I was furious. I thought she was a thief. Now, looking at her, I realized how absurd I’d been. She was the biological daughter. I was the “adopted” replacement, an abandoned infant who had occupied her seat for twenty years. When the real heir returns, shouldn’t she get her room back? “No, Courtney,” I said, waving my hands frantically, my voice trembling with feigned nerves. “I… I prefer the smaller room. It feels safer. Really.” Courtney blinked, her eyes instantly shimmering with unshed tears. “Natalie, are you still mad at me? I was so young then… please don’t hate me.” The atmosphere shifted. My mother’s face darkened. “Look at your sister, Natalie. She’s trying so hard to welcome you, and you’re still being difficult?” Robert stepped closer, his shadow looming over me. “She doesn’t owe you anything. Take the room she prepared, or you can go back to that slum you crawled out of.” I nodded quickly, my head ducked. “I’ll take the room. Thank you, Courtney.” The tension broke. They were satisfied. They sent the housekeeper, Maria, to show me upstairs. 2 At dinner, the silence was heavy until Robert spoke up. “We’re hosting a gala this weekend. It’s time to officially announce Natalie’s return to the social circle.” I stole a glance at Courtney. She was staring into her soup, her knuckles white as she gripped her spoon. She wasn’t happy. “Actually, Dad,” I said softly, “we don’t need to do that. Courtney didn’t have a big gala when she arrived. It wouldn’t be fair to her.” Courtney looked up, her expression a mask of sudden sorrow. “Is that what you think? That I’m holding you back from your place in this family?” I panicked. “No! That’s not it at all—” Robert slammed his hand on the table. “Your sister didn’t have a gala because we were dealing with the transition! Now we want to do something nice for you, and you’re being ungrateful again?” Diane’s eyes were cold. “Four years away didn’t teach you any manners, did it? You’re still just as spoiled and entitled as the day you left.” Before I could defend myself, Courtney began to sob. “Don’t blame her, Mom. It’s my fault. I took away her status when I came back. It’s only natural she hates me.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, velvet box, sliding it across the table toward me. “I bought this for you. To welcome you home.” I looked at her, watching the performance. I felt a flicker of the old irritation, but I suppressed it. I took the box. “Thank you,” I said, my voice flat. She gave a fragile, watery smile. “I think I’ll go to my room now. I have a headache.” My parents watched her walk away with hearts in their eyes. The moment she was gone, the lecture began. “She spends her own money on a gift for you, and you treat her like she’s an inconvenience,” Diane hissed. “Look at the woman she’s become compared to you.” Robert let out a sharp, disgusted grunt. “A total lack of gratitude. You’re lucky we even let you back in this house.” I kept my head down. I didn’t say a word. “Aah—!” A piercing scream shattered the quiet from the second floor. It was Courtney. We scrambled up the stairs and burst into her room. Courtney was standing by her vanity, shaking violently. Her jewelry drawers were ripped open, and her necklaces and bracelets were strewn across the floor, snapped and mangled. “What happened?” Diane gasped, rushing to her side. Courtney’s voice was a jagged whisper. “I don’t know… I came in to change for bed, and everything… it was all destroyed.” Robert’s face turned a dangerous shade of red. He turned to Maria, who was hovering in the doorway. “Who was in here this afternoon?” Maria looked at me, her eyes filled with pity. “I… I saw Natalie go in earlier.” My heart hammered against my ribs. I had gone in. I’d found one of her designer earrings by the hallway sink and wanted to return it. “I was in there, but—” “I don’t care about the jewelry,” Courtney interrupted, her voice breaking. She picked up the shattered remains of a heavy jade-and-gold bracelet. “But this… this was the heirloom Grandma gave me. It’s the only thing I had that felt like I truly belonged. Natalie, why? Why would you break this?” She turned and ran toward the door, sobbing. Diane caught her, holding her tight, and then turned her fury on me. “What is wrong with you?” Diane screamed. “I didn’t do it,” I said, my own voice beginning to shake. “Who else would?” Robert roared. “You think she smashed her own grandmother’s heirloom just to make you look bad? You’re sick, Natalie. You’re truly sick.” The scene was a carbon copy of four years ago. Courtney’s tears were the only currency that mattered in this house. If she cried, I was the villain. Case closed. Robert pointed toward my room. “Get out of my sight. Go to your room and don’t come out until I say so!” I turned and walked away in silence. 3 Hours later, my door creaked open. Courtney slipped inside, a sharp, mocking grin replacing her tears. “Did you like your homecoming gift?” she asked, leaning against the doorframe. I looked at her. “You smashed that bracelet yourself just to frame me. Why?” She let out a soft, tinkling laugh. “Of course I did. I left the earring by the sink as bait. I knew you’d be ‘helpful’ enough to bring it back.” I frowned. “I’ve done everything you wanted since I got back. I’ve stayed out of your way. Why are you still doing this?” The smile vanished from her face, replaced by a cold, concentrated venom. “Out of my way? You should have stayed in the gutter where you belong.” “You think I didn’t know?” she spat, moving closer. “When your rent got lowered out of nowhere? When that neighbor ‘randomly’ took you to the ER when you had that fever? When you got that job lead right after being fired? You thought that was luck?” I froze. Those things had happened. I thought the universe had finally taken pity on me. “That was them,” she hissed. “Mom and Dad were secretly helping you the whole time. They couldn’t let their ‘other’ daughter starve.” Her voice rose to a shriek. “Where were they when my foster father was beating me? When I was eating scraps off the floor to survive? I am the real Whitaker! Why should I suffer for twenty years while you lived like a princess?” I looked at her twisted face and felt a strange surge of pity. My parents had given her everything since she returned—the status, the jewels, the unconditional belief. They would have given her their very souls if she asked. But it wasn’t enough for her. She was obsessed with the crumbs they had dropped for me. “You should leave,” I said, my voice steady. “I’m not going anywhere. I won’t let a lunatic like you win.” She stared at me, then laughed again. “Not going anywhere? Fine. Have it your way.” She reached out, grabbed a heavy ceramic vase from my nightstand, and slammed it against her own forehead. The sound was sickening. Crack. “Natalie, please! Stop! I’m sorry!” she screamed, dropping to the floor. Footsteps thundered down the hall. Diane burst in first, dropping to her knees to cradle Courtney’s bleeding head. “Courtney! Oh my god, what happened?” Courtney huddled into her, sobbing hysterically. “I don’t know what I said… I just wanted to talk… she just picked it up and hit me…” “Shut up!” Robert screamed at me before I could even draw breath. “Have you ever once been anything but a curse to this family?” “I wish we’d let you rot in the street,” he spat, his eyes filled with genuine loathing. “It would have saved us all the grief.” They didn’t look at me again. They scooped Courtney up and rushed her to the hospital, leaving me standing in the middle of my room, surrounded by shadows.

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It wasn’t until the very end of my life that the truth finally clicked: our world was nothing more than a cheap paperback, a “Golden Girl” trope designed to revolve around a single, blessed protagonist. My twin sister, with her porcelain skin and a demeanor as fragile as a crushed lily, was that girl. She was the one the universe was scripted to adore. In my first life, I nearly killed myself trying to be enough. I excelled in every field, hit every milestone, and clawed my way to the top—only to realize I was merely the scaffolding built to make her climb look more effortless. I was the foil, the “difficult” twin, the shadow that made her light seem blinding. But fate, in a rare moment of glitchy generosity, handed me a reset. I woke up back at the beginning. Literally. I opened my eyes in the dark, swaddled in the warm, rhythmic hum of my mother’s womb. And there she was. My sister. Even here, she was greedy, draining the nutrients that should have been shared, her silent malice echoing in the cramped space: “You’re just the disposable extra. You don’t deserve this. Everything beautiful in this world belongs to me.” I didn’t argue. I didn’t fight back—not yet. She took my silence for fear, a confirmation of her divine right to rule. The days bled into months until the pressure built and the light at the end of the tunnel beckoned. My sister, desperate to claim her title as the “First Born,” the elder, the leader, scrambled to get out first. That was when I summoned every ounce of strength in my underdeveloped limbs. I didn’t just move; I struck. I kicked her back with a force that sent a ripple through our mother’s body. The “Script” said she was the heroine. But the script never specified which of us had to be the big sister. She wanted the lead role? Fine. Let’s see who makes it to the stage first. 1. When I first opened my eyes, the world was a warm, viscous haze. A tiny, blurred silhouette floated in front of me, huddled over a cluster of placental nutrients like a scavenger. It took me exactly three seconds to process the impossible: I was back. Reincarnated. I was a fetus. Through the thick wall of our mother’s belly, a voice drifted in—soft, melodic, and achingly familiar. “Only three months until the due date,” my mother, Lydia, whispered. “The doctor says they both look perfectly healthy.” Three months. I stared at the tiny creature in front of me—my sister, Patricia. She must have felt my gaze because she shifted, her tiny, wrinkled face contorting into an expression of spite that no unborn child should be capable of. “What are you looking at, Jacqueline?” Her voice echoed in my mind, sharp and poisonous. “You actually thought dragging us both off that roof would end things? I’m going to make sure you suffer even more this time.” My heart—the tiny, thumping thing in my chest—constricted. So, she’d come back, too. It made sense. In our last life, the day my parents decided to commit me to a psychiatric ward because of Patricia’s whispered lies, I had grabbed her hand and stepped off the thirty-eighth-floor balcony. If I was going to hell, I wasn’t going alone. Only in those final seconds of freefall did the “System” reveal itself to me. I learned that we were characters in a “Sweetheart Narrative.” Patricia was the chosen one, the girl everyone was destined to love. And I, Jacqueline, was the “High-Achiever Foil.” I was written to be the cold, ambitious sister whose only purpose was to highlight Patricia’s kindness and effortless grace. In that life, I had burned myself out. I was a prodigy at ten, graduated from MIT at twenty, and built a billion-dollar tech firm by twenty-five. And for what? My parents called me “calculating” and “power-hungry,” lamenting that I lacked Patricia’s “innocent heart.” My friends claimed I was “too strong to need anyone,” while they flocked to protect “sweet, vulnerable Patricia.” Even the man I loved for three years left me for her, claiming she was the “little girl he needed to shield from the world.” In the end, Patricia framed me for leaking corporate secrets, and my own family stood in court to testify that I was a jealous sociopath. Why? Because she was the Protagonist. She was entitled to the fruits of my labor. I looked at Patricia’s smug, fetal face and bared my tiny, newly formed gums. Sorry, sister. I’ve been a “striver” my whole life. I don’t know how to lose. The world only cares about who comes out first. The “Elder Sister” gets the mantle of the heroine. It doesn’t have to be you. “What are you smiling at?” Patricia’s mental voice spiked with alarm. I didn’t answer. I let go of the umbilical cord I had been clutching. Before she could react, I planted my feet against the uterine wall and launched myself at her like a small, fleshy torpedo. “What are you—!” Her scream was cut off as my foot connected with her midsection. I used every bit of my strength to shove her aside. Before she could recover, I leaned in and bit down on her umbilical cord—the source of her stolen strength. “Ahhh!” The rush of nutrients was sweet—mine. I took it all. I felt my tiny frame grow stronger, more robust by the second. “You dare touch me?” Patricia lunged back, her “Fragile Girl” persona forgotten. Here, in the dark, the mask was off. We weren’t sisters; we were rivals in a zero-sum game. The womb was our first battlefield. She scratched at my face; I bit her hand. She kicked my stomach; I headbutted her. “Ow… it hurts… Charles, it hurts…” The muffled voice of our mother, Lydia, drifted in from the outside, sharp with pain. We both froze. “Call the doctor! Now!” Moments later, I heard the cold slide of a stethoscope against skin. The doctor’s voice was calm, almost amused. “Everything’s fine, Mrs. Webster. It looks like the little ones are just having a bit of a wrestling match. One of them is a bit rowdy, but they’re both fine.” I relaxed, but then I heard my mother’s voice—a sharp, unmistakable hiss of resentment. “It’s definitely the younger one causing trouble. She’s been a headache from the start.” 2. The younger one? I drifted in the amniotic fluid, my heart fluttering unevenly. How could she possibly tell? We were seven months along. We were barely more than lumps of clay with heartbeats. Even the most sophisticated imaging couldn’t assign a personality to us yet, but there she was, already labeling me as the “troublemaker.” Was the script already that deeply ingrained? When they returned from the hospital, I felt the warmth of a hand pressing against the skin outside. Lydia’s voice was a soft coo. “My sweet girl, you need to eat more. You’re the only one Mommy loves.” “The little one is just like before—stubborn, difficult, even in the womb.” Patricia, basking in that unearned affection, turned to me with a psychic sneer. “Hear that, Jacqueline? It doesn’t matter how hard you fight. It doesn’t matter how much you steal. I am the lead. The luck, the love, the destiny—it’s all mine by birthright.” “You worked yourself to death in the last life, and I still destroyed you. This time, I’m going to make sure you don’t even make it to the delivery room!” I looked at her blurred, arrogant face and grinned. Sister, you’re forgetting one thing. Right now, you’re just the “Protagonist-in-Waiting.” I turned away, ignoring her. It was time to start my training. If I was going to be a “striver,” I was going to be the most intense one this world had ever seen. My schedule was rigorous. Mornings: Fight Patricia. Build muscle, improve reflexes. If I won, I took the best position and the most nutrients. If I lost, I waited for her to sleep and then ambushed her. Afternoons: Position myself against the uterine wall to listen to the Mozart and audiobooks Lydia played for “the good twin.” Early cognitive development was key. Nights: Keep Patricia awake. Don’t let her rest. Stimulate my own growth while she withered. At first, Patricia fought back with fury. Then, it turned into passive resistance. Eventually, she just tried to hide. But there was nowhere to go in a space this small. Every time I caught her, I made sure she felt it. “Leave me alone!” Two months later, she was breaking. “Jacqueline, you psycho! You’ve taken everything! Look at me!” I smiled. I looked. Her umbilical cord was barely two-thirds the thickness of mine. I lunged again, biting down hard. “Help… help me…” I watched her with cold eyes. In the last life, she used that “pity me” look to steal my company, my projects, my parents’ love—my very life. This time, the debt was being paid in advance. “Ahhh—!” Suddenly, a blood-curdling scream echoed from the outside. “Doctor! Doctor, my stomach! Something’s wrong!” I let go immediately. The doctor arrived in a blur of motion. During the ultrasound, I hadn’t even moved off of Patricia yet. The cold gel hit the skin above us. The transducer slid slowly across. On the monitor, two fetuses appeared. One was large, active, pinning the other down. The one on the bottom was significantly smaller, her movements weak and lethargic. The doctor chuckled nervously. “Well, Mrs. Webster… it looks like your twins are having a real showdown in there.” Lydia stared at the screen. Her face didn’t soften with maternal concern. It twisted with a strange, venomous hatred. She blurted out, “How could she be so cruel to her sister?” The room went silent. The doctor blinked, adjusting his glasses. “Mrs. Webster, they haven’t been born yet. It’s impossible to know who is the ‘big sister’ and who is the ‘little sister’…” I stopped listening. Patricia was cackling in my head. “Hear that? It doesn’t matter how perfect you are. In Mom’s eyes, you’ll always be the villain. I’m the lead. You can’t win.” Then, she began her performance. She stopped struggling. She curled her body into a ball, shivering in the fluid. Then, she held her breath, forcing her heart rate on the monitor to drop… slow… slower… 3. Beep… Beep… Beep… The alarm on the heart rate monitor shrieked. “Oh no, the baby on the bottom! Her heart rate is crashing!” the nurse cried. “It’s her! The one on top is hurting her!” Lydia’s voice was thick with tears and rage. “Doctor, do something! You can’t let her kill her sister!” The doctor frowned. “Mrs. Webster, fetal interaction is normal. Please, try to stay calm—” “Normal? This is an assault!” Lydia was screaming now. I watched it all from the inside, detached. She was always like this. In the last life, I would stay up for three months straight to finish a project, only for Patricia to tear up in front of our father and say, “I feel like Jacqueline doesn’t want me to help,” and suddenly, she was the lead on the account. I spent five years building a company from scratch, and all it took was for her to “accidentally” leak core data and cry “I didn’t mean to” for our family to force me to forgive her. “Jacqueline, you have to be the bigger person.” “She’s fragile, you have to look out for her.” “How can you be so heartless? She’s your sister!” I looked at Patricia, still faking her distress. My tiny fists clenched. What is the creed of a striver? Never give up. Even if the whole world says you’re the villain, you prove them wrong. Even if the script says you’re the extra, you rip up the pages and write your own. “Jacqueline, I’m warning you,” Patricia hissed, sensing my resolve. “If you touch me again, I’ll make Mom kill you before you’re even born. The world doesn’t need an extra sister anyway. You should just be my stepping stone, like before. Maybe when I’m famous and loved, I’ll toss you a few scraps—” She didn’t finish. My fist slammed into her face. “Ugh!” She groaned in pain, but she didn’t retreat. Instead, she lunged forward, biting down on my umbilical cord with everything she had. I gasped, a surge of panic hitting me. “Didn’t expect that, did you? In the last life, I was too ‘pure’ to fight you. But this time… I want you dead, Jacqueline. I’m going to make sure you’re a stillborn!” Fury and hatred boiled over. I spun around, raising my leg to kick her— “Ahhh!” Outside, Lydia let out a scream so piercing it felt like it shattered the air. “It hurts! My stomach… Doctor, it’s happening! The babies are coming!” 4. Labor? Patricia and I both froze. We were two weeks early. “Quick! Get her to the delivery room!” the doctor shouted. “Breathe, Mrs. Webster. Don’t push yet, you aren’t fully dilated!” The chaos outside was a symphony of clattering wheels and frantic voices. I didn’t hesitate. While Patricia was still stunned, I turned and dove toward the birth canal with every ounce of strength I possessed. Flashbacks of my previous life burned through my mind. In a natural twin birth, the first one out is the “Elder.” The second is the “Younger.” In the last life, Patricia was the Elder. I was the after-thought. This time, whoever made it out first claimed the Narrative. “Jacqueline, what are you doing?” Patricia screamed. “Get back here! I’m the first-born! That’s my spot!” I ignored her, crawling forward. The amniotic fluid was draining, the pressure of the contractions squeezing me. I could see a faint light ahead—the outside world. Faster. Just a little faster. “I see a head!” the nurse shouted. “It’s the bigger one! Lots of hair!” The bigger one. Me. My two months of “womb-training” had paid off. I was significantly more developed than Patricia. “No—!” Lydia let out a primal, desperate roar. “The first one can’t be her! Patricia has to be the big sister!” I froze. Patricia heard it too. In that moment, she finally understood what I was doing. “You… you’re trying to steal my role…” “Jacqueline, you bitch! How dare you!” She lunged, grabbing my leg as I was halfway through the canal, and pulled with a terrifying strength born of desperation. “Come back! I’m the lead! I’m the one who’s supposed to be born first! You’re just a foil! You can’t take what’s mine!” I slipped back, losing ground. No… I gritted my teeth and kicked her hand with my free foot. Let go! “Never! I’d rather we both die in here!” “I am the protagonist of this world! You’re nothing! I killed you once, I’ll do it again!” “Mom! Mommy, help me!” she screamed in her heart. “Don’t let Jacqueline out first! Stop her! PLEASE!” Outside, Lydia seemed to hear the psychic plea. “Doctor… can we do a C-section?” her voice was weak but urgent. “I want… I want the smaller one out first… Yes, cut me open and take the little one out first…” The doctor sounded horrified. “Mrs. Webster, you’re already at eight centimeters. A C-section now is incredibly risky for you and the babies—” “I don’t care! The little one has to be the first-born!” “Ma’am, please, be reasonable—” “I am perfectly reasonable!” Lydia’s voice was a mix of tears and madness. “Doctor, I’m begging you… take the little one first. I’ll pay anything…” The depth of her favoritism was staggering. A mother’s bias so deep she would risk a major surgery just to ensure her “favorite” got the title. From the very beginning, I never had a fair chance. But so what? I turned my head and looked back at Patricia, who was still death-gripping my leg. She looked triumphant. See? her face seemed to say. Mom will always love me. The world will always bend for me. It doesn’t matter if you’re reborn. It doesn’t matter how hard you work. You can’t beat destiny. “Heh.” I looked at her and smiled. Before her eyes, I leaned down and bit her hand—hard. “Ahhh!” Her grip slackened for a millisecond. That was all I needed. I lunged toward the light. Head out. Shoulders out. “She’s here! She’s here!” the nurse cheered. But just as I was about to slide free— “I’m taking you with me, Jacqueline!” Patricia let out a final, desperate howl. She kicked upward, hard, against our mother’s uterus. The sudden pressure caused the birth canal to spasmingly contract, pinning me in place. And in that same second, using the recoil of her kick, Patricia shot forward like a cannonball, her head slamming into my hip as she tried to wedge herself past me. “They’re coming! They’re coming!” the doctor shouted. Then, his voice shifted into a tone of pure shock. “Wait—something’s wrong! They’re coming out together!” 5. We were both stuck, jammed side-by-side. “You won’t get away with this, Jacqueline! I’m the first!” “Try me.” I hissed through my teeth. Before the medical team could react, I used my last bit of leverage to kick Patricia square in the face. Her hand let go of my shoulder. With a final, agonizing surge, I threw my weight forward. “She’s out!” The nurse’s hands were warm and steady as she caught my wet, tiny body. The cold air hit my lungs, and I did the only thing I could. “WAAAAAAH!” My cry rang through the delivery room, loud and defiant. A split second later, the next contraction shoved Patricia out with a wet thud. “The second one is here! It’s twin girls!” The doctor sighed in relief, beginning the routine of clearing our airways. I lay in the nurse’s arms, forcing my blurry eyes to open. “Let me see them! Let me see my daughters!” The door to the delivery room burst open. A man in an expensive charcoal suit rushed in—my father, Charles Webster. Behind him was his father, Victor Webster. “Congratulations, Mr. Webster. Two beautiful girls.” The doctor placed us side-by-side in a bassinet next to Lydia. Charles and Victor gathered around. Then, they froze. Thanks to my “womb-training,” I was plump, healthy, with a thick head of hair. I was crying with the strength of a drill sergeant, my limbs flailing with vigor. Patricia, however, looked pitiful. She was tiny, her skin a sickly, wrinkled red. Her cry was a thin, wheezing sound, and she couldn’t even keep her eyes open. “This…” Charles looked from me to Patricia, his brow furrowing. “Why is there such a difference? Doctor, is the little one… okay?” “Don’t worry, Mr. Webster. The younger sister is just a bit underweight. She’ll need a few days in the NICU. But the elder sister is incredibly healthy. Her vitals are off the charts.” “The elder?” Victor, leaning on his mahogany cane, scanned us with sharp, calculating eyes. “This big one… she’s the first-born?” “By about three seconds, yes,” the nurse said cautiously. Victor stared at me for a long moment. Suddenly, he let out a booming laugh that shook the room. “Good! Now this is a Webster! Look at those lungs! Look at that grip! She’s got the fire in her!” He tapped my swaddle gently with his cane, his eyes gleaming with unhidden favor. “This little girl is going to be something special.” Then, he glanced at the shriveled Patricia. His smile vanished. “The other one… she looks weak. Since when do Websters look so fragile?” Charles nodded, his gaze shifting to me with newfound admiration. “You’re right, Dad. Look at her eyes—she’s not even afraid. But the little one…” He didn’t finish the sentence, but the disappointment was palpable. Everything had changed. I lay there, feeling Victor’s rough finger brush my cheek, hearing Charles’s praise. But I didn’t feel happy. Is this all “favor” was? Something so cheap it could be bought with a few extra pounds of baby fat and a louder cry? “Waaa… waaaaa!” In the next bassinet, Patricia finally seemed to realize what was happening. She began to wail, a desperate, heart-wrenching sound. “Why is she making that noise?” Charles’s frown deepened, his tone impatient. “Nurse, take her to the incubator. She’s giving me a headache.” “Yes, sir.” The nurse whisked Patricia away toward the NICU. Her cries grew more frantic as she left the room. I watched her go, then turned my eyes to Lydia. Her expression was a mess. Shock, confusion, struggle… and a tiny, flickering spark of affection I had never seen before. Her lips trembled. “My… my big girl…” She reached out, wanting to touch me. But halfway there, her hand began to shake violently. Her face contorted as if she were fighting an internal battle. The affection vanished, replaced by a deep, hollow look of resentment. “No… it wasn’t… Patricia was supposed to be…” she whispered, her voice trailing off into a broken mumble.

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Late one night, doubled over in agonizing stomach pain, I begged Liam to take me to the hospital. He told me to just endure it. “Chloe’s neighborhood lost power. She’s terrified being alone with the kid. I’m going to go check on them first.” He didn’t come home that night. The next morning, Chloe sent me a photo. In it, Liam was wearing a goofy SpongeBob apron, holding a spatula with a look of fond helplessness on his face. Chloe captioned it: [Liam is going to be such a good dad someday!] I, who had just lost my baby, was lying in a hospital bed. I replied: [He’s all yours!] 1 Valentine’s Day fell on a Saturday this year. Not celebrating felt like a disservice to ourselves. “Let’s catch a movie first, then grab dinner. What are you in the mood for? How about that new seafood buffet?” I was excitedly planning our evening. Liam, however, looked conflicted. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Chloe said Lily wants to go to the adventure park tomorrow. They’re having some themed event, and Chloe’s worried she can’t keep an eye on the kid by herself.” “Can’t she ask her parents to help? Or a friend? Does it have to be you?” I felt a surge of suffocating irritation building in my chest, and I couldn’t hold it back. Liam sighed. “Her parents are older, they don’t have the energy. Plus, tomorrow is Valentine’s Day, and a Saturday. Her friends all have their own plans.” “You realize it’s Valentine’s Day too, right?” Everyone else has plans, but you don’t? Liam frowned, his voice rising. “What’s the point of being petty over a kid? Does she even know what Valentine’s Day is?” My expression turned cold. I stood up, ready to leave. Liam panicked. He grabbed my arm. “Maya, please, stop making a scene. I don’t have a choice. You know I can’t say no when Chloe asks.” I felt exhausted to my core. “When does this end?” “When Lily is a little older, and Chloe has fully adapted. It’ll get better!” He said it with absolutely no conviction. I didn’t even know where to begin arguing. I could only compromise, again. “Forget it. We just won’t celebrate!” 2 On Valentine’s Day, my husband spent it with someone else. I couldn’t be angry, I couldn’t complain, I even had to send him off with a smile. They had a fantastic time, and even ate at the seafood buffet I had wanted to try. Meanwhile, I was stuck at home eating instant ramen. A fiery anger ignited in my chest. Without a second thought, I ordered the designer bag I had been eyeing for months but couldn’t bring myself to buy. I swiped Liam’s credit card. Not long after, Liam called. His voice held a hint of amusement. “Not mad anymore?” I said stiffly, “I was never mad to begin with.” “Right, right, my sweet girl is the most understanding. What did you have for lunch?” I looked at the ramen container and was about to answer. Chloe’s voice filtered through the phone. “Liam, my arms are dead. Carry Lily for a bit. You little chunk, did you gain weight again?” “Hmph, mommy is mean! Daddy, carry me!” That single word, “Daddy,” made my brain explode with a deafening ringing. “Liam…” “Maya, I gotta go, we’ll talk when I get back!” The line went dead. My heart twisted into a painful knot. Without thinking, I hit redial. No answer. I hung up and called again. Still no answer. On the fourth try, Chloe answered. “Maya? Is something wrong?” “Where is Liam? Put him on the phone!” Ignoring the icy tone in my voice, she continued gently, “Liam took Lily on the zipline. He can’t take the call right now. Is it urgent? I’ll tell him when they’re done!” Conversations like this always made me feel a bizarre sense of role reversal. It was as if she were Liam’s wife, and I was just an oblivious outsider intruding on their day. Chloe went on, “Don’t worry, Liam is doing great. We’re having a wonderful time. I’ll send you some pictures in a bit. It’s a holiday, you should experience it too…” Before she could finish, I hung up. I was afraid if I listened for another second, I would start screaming curses. 3 The Chloe I saw today felt like a complete stranger. Yet, from the moment this whole thing started until now, it had only been a year. How quickly things change. How entirely the world can flip upside down! Chloe’s late husband was named Mark. He and Liam grew up together. A year ago, he passed away. It was incredibly sudden, with zero warning signs. That day, like any other, Mark and Liam went to play basketball after work. Liam, remembering he promised to bring me my favorite roast duck, left early. Mark stayed, still full of energy. But just half an hour after Liam left, Mark suffered a fatal heart attack. This plunged Liam into a state of extreme guilt and self-loathing. “Just half a minute. If I had just stayed and fought for him for half a minute, maybe he wouldn’t have died!” Liam was a doctor. He believed he could have saved Mark. But he had chosen to leave early that day. The agony practically drowned him. I honestly couldn’t bear to see him like that. So, when Chloe didn’t know what to do about a clogged sink, I agreed to let Liam go help her. That was the first time. It was the third month after Mark’s death. 4 Chloe was true to her word. She sent me a zipped file of dozens of photos. Photos of Liam carrying Lily, holding Lily’s hand, peeling shrimp for Lily. In the pictures, Liam’s face was soft. His eyes were full of indulgence and adoration when he looked at Lily. I zoomed in on one specific photo. It was one of the few where Chloe was actually in the frame. She and Liam flanked Lily. All three wore blissful smiles. It didn’t look out of place at all. They truly looked like a family of three! Liam didn’t get home until 10 PM. Looking exhausted, he walked in and immediately said, “I’m so tired! Lily has endless energy. I’m wiped out, and she was still bouncing off the walls. Don’t let the fact that she’s a little girl fool you, she’s as wild as any boy! Oh, right, something hilarious happened today…” Liam eagerly recounted every moment with Lily, acting exactly like a proud father eager to show off his daughter. I just watched him in silence. After receiving no response for a long while, Liam finally realized something was wrong. “What is it? Are you angry?” I asked him, “Don’t you have anything else to say to me?” Liam frowned, his deep exhaustion unable to mask his irritation. If he had a thought bubble, it would probably say: What is it now? “If you have something to say, just say it!” My already sour mood darkened further. “Liam, why is Lily calling you ‘Daddy’?” Liam rubbed his temples in frustration. “She misses her dad. She asked if she could call me ‘Daddy’ just for today. Tell me, how was I supposed to say no to that?” No explanation. No comfort. No guilt. He threw the problem back at me, just like he had so many times before. Liam and I ended the night in a fight. I banished him to the guest bedroom. Halfway through the night, he tried to come in to talk, but I refused. Eventually, he lost his temper, his face turning cold as he turned and went back to the guest room. 5 When Mark was alive, he worshipped Chloe. Everyone knew he was entirely devoted to his wife. After they had their daughter, he became a doting father as well. Of course, Chloe had the capital to be spoiled. She was stunningly beautiful and highly educated. To be with Mark, she gave up a very promising career to become a stay-at-home mom. Mark used to say, “I have to spend the rest of my life making this up to her!” He meant it, and he did it. Just like that, he pampered Chloe until she was essentially helpless. Chloe didn’t know how to pay the utility bills. Liam taught her. But she complained, “It’s too complicated!” Liam sighed in resignation. “Fine, I’ll pay them for you from now on!” Chloe couldn’t cook, and once almost burned her kitchen down. Liam had to drop everything at work and rush over. Later, he started ordering takeout for her. “Can’t she order it herself?” “It takes two seconds. It’s not a big deal!” When a lightbulb burned out, Chloe had no idea what to do. “She can hire a handyman.” “She’s a single mother living alone. It’s not safe to let a strange man into the house.” Once, Liam and I were making out on the couch. Things were getting heated, and Chloe called. “Lily is throwing up! What do I do? Liam, please help me!” Without a second thought, Liam threw his clothes on and rushed out, not even taking a second to pull a blanket over me. Later, I found out Chloe had fed Lily incredibly spicy noodles. The young child was in so much pain she ended up in the ER. Chloe couldn’t handle taking her child out alone, whether it was for a fun outing or a hospital visit. Liam was always on call. He took on Mark’s responsibilities. This seemed to bring him a sense of peace. I knew he was trying to make amends. But his process of making amends was becoming increasingly agonizing for me. I felt like I was reaching my absolute limit. 6 I was going to sit down and talk to Liam. But when I woke up, he was already gone. Breakfast was on the table, packed neatly in a thermos. There was oatmeal, steamed buns, and eggs. Next to it was a sticky note: [Maya, I’m sorry. I was in a bad mood yesterday and shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. I know you’ve always been understanding and indulgent with me. Can you please give me a little more time?] After a long silence, I quietly ate the breakfast. Liam really was incredibly busy. When I called his phone, a nurse answered. She told me Liam had gone into surgery. He had one operation in the morning and two in the afternoon. There was zero chance he was getting off work on time. Since I wasn’t busy today, I decided to cook some food and bring it to him. It had been a long time since I brought Liam lunch. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to, but the conflicts between us had been piling up recently. When I arrived at his department, I said hello to the nurses. They stared at me with wide eyes, practically stuttering when they spoke. At first, I didn’t think much of it, but when I pushed open the door to Liam’s office, I finally understood. Turns out, they thought I was there to catch him in an affair. Inside, Chloe had her shoes off and was curled up in Liam’s desk chair. She was playing a game on her phone, with Liam’s coat draped over her legs. A small cake sat on the desk, half-eaten. How did I feel? Not really surprised, nor particularly shocked. Just… a heavy, sinking feeling in my chest that kept dropping lower and lower. “Maya, you’re here! Have a seat, make yourself at home. Want some cake? Liam bought it for me. He was worried I’d be hungry!” 7 “Chloe has been in a bad place lately. She gets caught up in her own head when she’s alone at home. She just wanted someone to keep her company while she ate. I couldn’t say no!” This was the explanation I got after waiting for an hour. I felt like I was losing sight of where Liam’s boundaries were. “Today you bring her to your office. Tomorrow, are you going to bring her to our house? The day after that, should we just give her half our bed?” Liam frowned deeply. “What nonsense are you spewing?” I sighed. Sometimes, the misery we endure is entirely self-inflicted. “This morning, you asked if I could give you a little more time. My answer is: Absolutely not!” With that, I stood up to leave. Liam grabbed my arm. “What do you mean?” “Liam, either you cut Chloe out of our lives, or I cut you out of mine. You choose!” His eyes blazed, glaring at me intensely. “Are you really forcing me to choose?” I gritted my teeth. “I’m forcing you? When you said you wanted to give them twenty thousand dollars, I agreed without blinking. Over the past six months, because of Chloe, I’ve basically been living a widow’s marriage. What more do you want from me? “Liam, I’ve endured enough. It’s time for you to make a choice!” “I don’t understand!” Liam growled. “Mark is gone. I just want to help him. Why is that so intolerable for you? Chloe and I have a completely platonic relationship. Why do you have to blow everything out of proportion?” I looked at Liam with pure disappointment. I never knew he could play dumb so flawlessly. “Let go of me!” Liam’s face was cold, and his grip on my arm tightened. A wave of nausea washed over me. “I said let go!” During my struggle, I finally turned my head and threw up. Liam frantically held me. “What’s wrong? Are you not feeling well?” I gasped for air, struggling through the discomfort, and said venomously, “I feel fine. It’s just the things coming out of your mouth that make me sick!” Liam’s hands tightened abruptly, gripping my shoulders until they ached. 8 Liam and I fell into a cold war. But he did seem to change. He continued to leave early and come home late. I didn’t know what he was doing at the hospital, but at home, at least, he didn’t run out in the middle of the night anymore, and there wasn’t a constant stream of phone calls. But I didn’t feel any better. It felt like a stone was pressing on my chest. Sometimes, it was so heavy I couldn’t even catch my breath. I didn’t know what was wrong with me. I never considered myself an overly sensitive person. If I was, I wouldn’t have indulged Liam time and time again. But Chloe had actually managed to push me to this breaking point. She definitely had a talent for it. One day, I was lying in bed, feeling overwhelmingly irritated. In a half-asleep haze, the bedroom door opened, and Liam walked in. A moment later, the mattress dipped beside me, and Liam wrapped his arms around me over the blanket. I opened my eyes. He buried his face in my back. Muffled, he said, “Stop being mad at me. I’ll change!” He promised he wouldn’t let Chloe come to his office anymore. He wouldn’t order food for her anymore. He wouldn’t go to her house alone anymore. If he absolutely had to go, he’d take me with him. He promised he would make Chloe fade out of our lives. So, when Chloe called again, saying a pipe had burst in her apartment and she didn’t know what to do, I went with Liam. Chloe answered the door quickly. She was soaking wet, wearing a fire-engine red silk slip dress. It clung to her body, making the outline of her chest painfully obvious. Before I could even react, she wrapped her arms around herself and started screaming. As if I were the strange man she needed to protect herself from. My face went cold. I grabbed Liam’s hand, turned, and walked away. “How many times has this happened?” “What do you mean?” “Her appearing half-naked in front of you. How many times has this happened?” Liam went silent. “I was just going over to help. Why do you have to make it sound so dirty?” So I’m the dirty one now. “Liam, let’s get a divorce!” “What?” “I suddenly realize you’re a little dirty. And I don’t even know when you got dirty. It’s too disgusting!” 9 Liam didn’t go back upstairs, but he did call building maintenance. See? It’s that easy! We drove home in silence. Liam said, “Maya, let’s talk!” I shook my head. I was too tired. A bone-deep exhaustion was washing over me. “Tomorrow!” I slept fitfully that night. In the middle of the night, I was awakened by a sharp, piercing pain in my stomach. It hurt so much. The pain had me breaking out in a cold sweat. “Liam. Liam!” I murmured his name, not even sure if I was saying it loud enough. Just then, Liam pushed the bedroom door open and walked in. Through the intense pain, I didn’t notice that Liam was already fully dressed. I grabbed his hand. “Liam, my stomach hurts. Take me to the hospital!” But Liam cut me off. “Your stomach hurts? Maya, just endure it for a bit. I’ll take you when I get back! Chloe’s neighborhood lost power. Lily is crying hysterically. She might be having a panic attack. I have to go check on them!” “Liam, take me to the hospital!” At that moment, I had no idea how serious my condition was. I just knew instinctively that I had to get to a hospital. But Liam pushed my hand away. “Be reasonable. Lily is Mark’s only child left in this world. Do you really have to compete with her?” With that, he left without looking back. He ignored my ghost-white face. He ignored my pleading. My heart plummeted into the abyss. “Ah!” I cried out in agony. I threw back the blanket. A pool of bright red. In the end, I called an Uber. The driver and his wife, ignoring the fact that I was staining their car seats, rushed me to the hospital. I miscarried. My first child, coming into existence silently, leaving silently. I asked the doctor why. The doctor comforted me. “This is your body making a decision for you. You aren’t in the right condition to carry a child right now. Your body is protecting you!” Oh. So that was it. The only one who could truly protect me… was me. I drifted in and out of a feverish sleep. Waking up occasionally, I mindlessly sent a text back to Chloe. When I opened my eyes again, Liam was standing by my bed. He looked haggard, his eyes bloodshot. I wasn’t surprised he was there. This was his hospital. Plenty of doctors knew me. Someone was bound to tell him. Liam grabbed my hand, trembling. “Maya, it’s okay. We can have another baby!” I coldly pulled my hand away. “Liam, let’s get a divorce!” His face twitched. “Maya, it’s my fault. I was wrong. I didn’t know. I didn’t know it was that serious. Maya, I’m begging you, give me one more chance!” “Liam, let’s get a divorce!” Liam refused to agree to the divorce. After I was discharged, he brought me home. He took meticulous care of me, even using his annual leave to do so. I calmly accepted his care. It was his child I lost. This was his obligation. Plus, he was a doctor. He knew exactly how to nurse someone back to health. It was during this recovery period that I discovered Liam actually knew how to cook. But he didn’t learn for me. And the first time he cooked wasn’t for me, either. He talked to me a lot. He begged for my forgiveness. He said he would change. He said he would never help Chloe again. He said he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me. But I had completely extinguished that fire. Human nature is funny. We refuse to admit defeat until the final straw crushes us. Why, when I clearly knew he would be like this, didn’t I leave earlier? Because there were feelings! How could I willingly walk away before those feelings were ground down to absolutely nothing? Now, there was nothing left. The only thing I had to say to Liam was: “Let’s get a divorce!” He was devastated. He was in agony. He was out of options. That was when Chloe came looking for me. She said she wanted to talk. So, taking advantage of the time Liam was out grocery shopping, I invited her into the apartment. Chloe had always been beautiful. A tweed designer dress, perfectly styled hair, immaculate makeup, even a fresh manicure. She said, “I’m so sorry you lost your baby!” I burst out laughing. “If you really mean that, I should probably call the cops!” Chloe’s face stiffened. “Just say what you came to say. You don’t have much time.” After a long silence, Chloe spoke. “Let me have Liam. I can’t survive without him. I’m not like you. You have a career, you’re capable. But I’ve lost touch with the professional world. I have a child. Only Liam can take care of us!” Honestly, I didn’t understand Chloe. She graduated from a top university. She used to work for a Fortune 500 company. Why had she reduced herself to a clinging vine? Of course, that wasn’t my problem. I looked her up and down. “I’ve already asked Liam for a divorce. He’s the one refusing. It seems if you want to attach yourself to him, you’ll have to try a little harder.” Chloe left. When Liam returned, I brought up the divorce again. He looked at me silently, pretending he didn’t hear a word. He turned and went into the kitchen. 10 Divorce isn’t an easy process. If we couldn’t reach a settlement, I’d have to file a lawsuit. But lawsuits are a hassle. Time-consuming, exhausting. Might as well wait for a third party to intervene. Thinking like this, I stopped rushing. Liam must have felt pushed to the brink. He, who had been guarding me 24/7, asked me for a day off. “Matt is having a housewarming party. He invited us. Do you want to go?” I turned the page of my book. “No!” “Then I’ll just go grab a bite and come right back!” “Mhm!” And I went back to my book. But after I finished the page, the man standing nearby still hadn’t moved. I looked up, confused. “Is there something else?” Liam looked pale. He forced a smile and shook his head. “Do you want anything to eat? I’ll bring it back for you!” “No need!” “Then I’m leaving. I’ll be back soon!” Once he left the apartment, I put the book down. I closed my eyes, exhausted, and sighed. I knew what Liam had been waiting for. He wanted me to nag him a little, to tell him what I used to tell him: don’t drink, drive carefully, come home early. But he hadn’t noticed that, after the countless times he left early and came home late for Chloe, I had stopped saying those things. At the time, it wasn’t that I was so ready to let go. Mostly, it was out of spite. If I don’t reach out to you, will you reach out to me? If I don’t call you, do you know I’m angry? If I act like I’m magnanimous and understanding, do you know I want you to see how petty I’m actually feeling? I would say, “It’s fine, go ahead!” Hoping he would say, “Never mind, I’ll stay home with you!” But Liam never gave me what I wanted, not even once. Disappointment. Sadness. Suffocation! He held my hand and walked forward, but his eyes were drawn to something else. I let go of his hand, trying to get his attention, but he didn’t even look back once. I watched him walk further and further away, disappearing into the crowd. Finally, having amassed enough disappointment, I turned to leave. Only then did he suddenly turn around and start looking for me. What is this called? A timing error in love? Am I sad? Very sad! But more than that, I feel a profound sense of loss! Liam came back very late. I heard him open the door, and I heard the door to the guest room open and close. I thought he had gone to his room. I went out to get a glass of water. But I saw Liam sitting quietly on the sofa. I froze. He looked up at me, immediately hiding the vulnerability on his face. He smiled and asked, “What is it? Are you hungry?” I said, “Thirsty!” I opened the fridge, about to grab a water, but Liam stood up. “Don’t drink cold water. I’ll boil some!” “Don’t bother!” “It’s okay. Very quick. Two minutes.” “No need!” “Really, it’s fine. Just wait…” “Liam!” I stopped him. “I’m not drinking it!” With that, I turned to go back to my room. Liam stumbled toward me, bumping into the table with a muffled groan. He grabbed my hand. “Maya, I don’t understand. Why did things get to this point?” Liam smelled strongly of alcohol. His voice was hoarse, his hands trembling. “Maya, am I really that unforgivable?” My nose stung. I looked up and sighed. “On the day… I miscarried. When you were at Chloe’s, making breakfast for her and Lily, Chloe told you that you’d be a great dad someday. Do you know what I was thinking in that moment? “I felt a wave of relief. Thank god I lost the baby!” A sob escaped Liam’s throat. Since the miscarriage, I had never talked to Liam about the baby. There was no way to talk about it. It was gone before we even knew it existed. Maybe it just felt we weren’t fit to be parents! “Liam, have you ever thought about what would have happened if I hadn’t lost the baby?” Liam remained silent. I continued, “I probably would have forgiven you. You didn’t commit a cardinal sin. You didn’t actively pursue another woman. Even though you cared for her, at the end of the day, you were just ‘helping out.’ Especially since we had a child on the way. I would have convinced myself that things would get better. “And that would have been the beginning of a bottomless abyss!” “No, it wouldn’t! No! We would have had a great life! A happy, beautiful life! It’s all my fault. It’s my mistake. Maya, it’s all my fault! I failed you, I failed the baby. It’s all my fault!” Liam insisted stubbornly. “Liam, if our baby had been born, and Chloe’s child and our child got sick at the exact same time, who would you take to the hospital first?” “I would definitely…” Liam desperately wanted to give me an answer. I cut him off. “You would take Chloe’s child. Because she doesn’t know how to do anything. She doesn’t know where to register, she doesn’t know where the pharmacy is. A hospital would confuse her completely. At first, you might feel guilty towards your own child, but you’d think, ‘This is my child. I have my whole life to make it up to them.’ “And slowly, even that initial guilt would fade. Everything would become an expected obligation. “You have a father. She doesn’t. Why can’t you just yield to her? “She’s already so pitiful. How can you compete with her? “You’re already so happy. Why do you have to be so selfish?” A child with a father would end up feeling like they didn’t have one at all. Just like me. I had a husband, but it felt like I didn’t. “I wouldn’t. How could I ever do that?” Liam shook his head helplessly, his words pale and hollow. I looked at him. “You wouldn’t? Then why have you constantly treated me exactly like that?” Liam looked completely defeated. “I’ll change. Maya, I’ll change!” I nodded. “I believe you. But I don’t dare take that bet!” How long would the memory of a miscarried child keep him on the straight and narrow? A month? Two months? A year? Half a year? He definitely would change. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t even be human. But Chloe is still there. Her child is still there. All the core issues are still there. Could he really harden his heart, ignore them completely, and never ask about them again? When that day comes, it’ll just be the start of another cycle! Compared to a sudden, miraculous epiphany, I’m much more confident he’d just repeat the same mistakes.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “436708”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The fire from two years ago was a monster that swallowed everything, leaving me to live in its charred ribs. It was a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from. When the firefighter’s voice cracked through the smoke, rasping that he could only carry one of us, my mother didn’t hesitate. She pointed straight at me, simply because I was closer to the door. At the time, I thought I was lucky. I thought it was love. It wasn’t until later, when she convinced herself the fire had been started by us—a botched attempt to rob the neighbors—that the “luck” turned into a life sentence. She would grab me by the hair, her voice a jagged blade. “Your sister was perfect! She was the bright one! She would never have stolen anything!” “It was you! You’re the thief! You’re the one who killed her!” From that day on, I became a ghost in my own home. I was the surplus daughter, the shadow that didn’t deserve to be fed or clothed. Every night, I was forced to kneel before my sister’s portrait, a silent penitent for a crime I didn’t commit. The day the class field trip fund went missing at school, my mother didn’t even ask if I’d done it. She just grabbed me, dragging me toward the door, screaming that she was going to make me bow and beg for forgiveness from every student in that building. Terrified, I tore myself from her grip and bolted into the street. I didn’t see the car. I only felt the impact that sent me flying. As I lay there, the world fading to gray, I dialed her number with trembling fingers. I begged her to save me. But all I heard from the other end was a cold, cruel snort. “Who are you trying to scam now? You stole your sister’s life two years ago. If you’re dying, it’s finally justice.” I died that night. Two years later, the sister everyone thought was ash walked back through the front door. She told the truth through her tears: she was the one who had been stealing that night. My mother broke. She dragged my sister to every house in the neighborhood, knocking on doors, sobbing the same words over and over: “My Maren wasn’t a thief. She really wasn’t…” 1 The impact tossed me ten feet. I hit the pavement with a sound like a bag of wet glass. Everything—every bone, every nerve—shattered. It was a rainy night. The streetlights were dim, casting sickly yellow puddles on the asphalt. The driver didn’t even get out. He rolled down his window, muttered something about a “stupid stray dog,” and sped off into the dark. The cold began to seep in, a deep, hollow chill. But I didn’t want to die. Not like this. I fumbled for my phone and called my mother. When she picked up, she didn’t even give me a chance to speak. “So, you steal the class fund and then run away? You think you’re so smart, don’t you?” “Mom,” I wheezed, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth. “I got hit… by a car. Please. Help me.” There was a pause. A few seconds of silence where I thought maybe, just maybe, she’d hear the rattle in my chest. Then, she laughed. “You’re a pathological liar, Maren. You’re just scared because you got caught. You stole your sister’s future, her entire life. Honestly? You should have died a long time ago.” The line went dead. The dial tone was the last thing I heard over the roar of the downpour. Suddenly, the fight left me. I couldn’t even bring myself to dial 911. What was the point? Two years ago, my sister Lacey and I were trapped in the upstairs bedroom while the house burned. The heat was an animal. The firefighter said he could only take one. My mother chose me because I was two feet closer to the hallway. Afterward, she told me, “Maren, you only have a heartbeat because your sister gave hers up for you.” When the investigators found the neighbor’s jewelry in our living room and saw the pry marks on their back door, the narrative was set. Everyone decided we had broken in, and the fire was a freak accident caused by our clumsiness. That was the day the beatings started. My mother would whip my back with a wooden yardstick until it snapped, forcing me to kneel before Lacey’s photo. “Your sister was an honors student! She was the good one! She wouldn’t steal!” “You’re the thief! You killed her! Why couldn’t it have been you?” I tried to explain. I tried to tell her I didn’t know anything about the jewelry. But she had already decided I was the villain. And maybe she was right. If she hadn’t picked me, Lacey would be the one breathing. Lacey would have been worth the oxygen. She was burned alive. I couldn’t even imagine that pain. So, I stopped talking. I let my mother use me as a punching bag for her grief. For two years, I lived on scraps. I wore rags. “Your sister died hungry,” she’d say, pulling the plate away. “So you stay hungry.” “Think about how cold she is in the ground. You don’t deserve that coat.” “You stole her life. You spend every second making up for it.” I spent seven hundred days atoning. And now, lying in a pool of my own blood in the rain, the debt was finally settled. She wouldn’t have to hit me anymore. She’d finally be satisfied. As my eyes drifted shut, a strange, light feeling washed over me. My last thought wasn’t of pain. It was a wish: I hope she saved Lacey instead. 2 Apparently, the universe wasn’t finished with me yet. My penance wasn’t over. I felt myself drift upward, hovering over the street. Below me, I saw the girl I used to be. She looked like a heap of discarded laundry, her limbs twisted at impossible angles, her face swollen beyond recognition. No wonder the driver thought I was a dog. I tried to feel sad, but a violent tug—like a hook in my navel—jerked me away. In the blink of an eye, I was back in our cramped living room. My mother was on the phone with my principal. “Mrs. Higgins, I am so sorry for the trouble,” she was saying, her voice thick with performative shame. “I know she took the money. I’ll make her write a three-thousand-word apology. I’ll make her confess in front of the whole school tomorrow.” “Diane, please,” Mrs. Higgins replied. “Security is still checking the tapes. We don’t have proof yet. Let’s not jump to conclusions.” My mother let out a sharp, jagged laugh. “I know my daughter. She’s been a thief since she was in diapers. She stole two hundred dollars from my purse just last month. She needs to learn a lesson she’ll never forget.” I shivered, even though I didn’t have a body. Even as a soul, she could still make me flinch. I remembered that two hundred dollars. She had screamed at me for hours, slapping me until my ears rang, demanding I tell her where I hid it. I cried until my throat was raw, until I couldn’t even whisper “I didn’t do it.” When I wouldn’t “confess,” she stripped me down to my underwear and dragged me out onto the sidewalk in broad daylight. “If you won’t admit you’re a thief, then everyone can see what a thief looks like,” she told the neighbors. People stared. Some laughed. I just curled into a ball on the concrete, trying to disappear into myself. Eventually, the lady from the HOA came over and wrapped a blanket around me. She looked at my mother and said, “Diane, didn’t you pay the gardener two hundred in cash on Tuesday? I saw you hand it to him.” My mother froze. She didn’t apologize. She didn’t hug me. She just threw my clothes at my head and grumbled, “If you didn’t take it, why didn’t you just say so clearly?” But I had. I had told her a hundred times. You just didn’t want to believe me, Mom. To you, I was a thief by birthright. A ghostly tear slipped down my cheek and landed on her forehead. She blinked, looking up at the ceiling, wondering if the roof was leaking. She wiped it away with a look of pure disgust. “You don’t understand, Mrs. Higgins,” she continued. “She’s the reason my oldest daughter is dead. She broke into a house and started a fire. She’s a criminal.” Lacey and I were twins. We were in the same grade. The principal knew the history. There was a long silence on the other end. “Diane… the past is the past. Maren is your only child now. She’s a good kid. I don’t believe she did this. I’ll call you when we have the facts.” The principal hung up before my mother could argue. It was a strange feeling—to be dead and finally have someone take my side. It felt like a warm light, but it was followed immediately by the bitter sting of iron. 3 After the call, the anger seemed to drain out of her, replaced by that haunting, soft madness she reserved for Lacey. She picked up the framed photo of my sister and began to dust it with a silk cloth. For two years, I hadn’t seen her look at me with anything but hatred. But for Lacey? She had all the tenderness in the world. She whispered to the photo. She hummed a lullaby. Could Lacey hear her? I didn’t know. All I knew was that it was 2:00 AM, her living daughter was missing, and she didn’t care. She probably thought I was hiding out, too ashamed of my “crime” to come home. Suddenly, a white-hot flash of pain shot through my leg. It felt like a serrated blade tearing through muscle. The tug happened again. I was back at the crash site. A stray dog had found me. It had torn a chunk out of my calf and was now sniffing at my chest. It began to claw at my clothes, shredding the old, tattered winter coat I was wearing. The yellowed stuffing flew out like dirty snow. That coat was two years old. It was thin, patched a dozen times, and the sleeves were three inches too short. I’d spent the whole winter shivering. A few days ago, I’d gathered the courage to ask for a new one. She’d backhanded me so hard I hit the wall. “How can you be so selfish? You think you’re cold? Think about Lacey in the ground. Is she warm? You’re a thief—if you want a coat so bad, go steal one!” Now, the dog had stripped the coat away entirely. It began to bite into my stomach. “Stop! Get away!” I screamed, kicking at the animal. But my foot passed right through its fur. I tried to grab its collar, but my hands were smoke. I was forced to watch as the dog desecrated what was left of me. I remembered my mother’s curse the day she found out Lacey was gone. “Maren! Why couldn’t it have been you? I hope you rot in a ditch!” Well, Mom. Your wish came true. Finally, a man approached. He had a heavy stick and chased the dog away. I felt a surge of relief. Someone would see me. They’d call the police. My mother would have to come for me. But the man didn’t reach for a phone. He knelt down, squinting at my broken body. A slow, horrific grin spread across his face. He was a drifter. Someone who lived in the cracks of society, someone with no light left in his soul. He began to drag me by my ankles toward the treeline. I knew what was coming. I panicked. “No! Leave me here! Please!” But I was just a whisper in the wind. The tug happened again. Back to my mother. I stood right in front of her, screaming into her face. “Mom! Please! Go to the woods by the highway! Help me!” She didn’t hear a thing. She just smiled to herself and pulled a brand-new, expensive down parka out of a shopping bag. It was soft pink with a cute logo on the chest. It was exactly what a girl my age would have dreamed of. My heart—the ghost of it—stilled for a second. Then it shattered. She walked to the backyard, put the coat in a metal fire pit, and lit a match. “Are you warm enough now, sweetie?” she whispered to the air, watching the flames lick the pink fabric. “I realized today you’ve probably grown. Your old clothes must be too small. Mommy is so sorry she didn’t notice sooner.” The fire roared, casting a warm, golden glow over the yard. But I had never felt so cold in my life. 4 The next afternoon, my mother went to the grocery store and bought a massive basket of fruit. She picked up two apples—they were on sale. But then she paused, put them back, and filled the basket with expensive, ripe mangoes. I am deathly allergic to mangoes. They were Lacey’s favorite. Mom, you really never forget, do you? She took the fruit to my classmates’ houses. Every time a door opened, she began her rehearsed apology. “I am so incredibly sorry. My daughter stole the class money. Please, take this as compensation. She’s always been like this—a thief. She even caused the fire that killed her sister.” She went house to house, spreading the poison. People looked confused, uncomfortable. But I understood. She wanted a jury. She wanted the whole world to join her in hating me, because if everyone hated me, then it wasn’t her fault that Lacey was dead. But it didn’t matter anymore. My body was currently being treated like garbage in a shallow grave in the woods. Rumors can’t hurt a corpse. The last house was the worst: Sarah’s house. Sarah was my desk mate. And after the fire, she was my primary tormentor. She led the “Thief” chants, scribbled slurs on my notebooks, and once cornered me in the bathroom to kick me until I bruised. I’d begged my mother to intervene once. She’d just looked at me with dead eyes. “Lacey was burned alive. You got a few bruises. Get over it.” One day, Sarah had held me down and tried to force hot sauce down my throat. I’d pushed her away, coughing and gagging. The school called our parents. Sarah lied through her teeth. “Maren is a thief! She stole my snack, so I was just teaching her a lesson!” “What did she steal?” the principal asked. “A mango!” Sarah blurted out. “I brought a mango for lunch and it was gone after gym. It had to be her.” My mother knew about my allergy. She knew a single bite of a mango would put me in the ER. One word from her would have exposed the lie. I looked at her, pleading. Tell them, Mom. Please. She didn’t even look at me. She just slapped me across the face. “I was wondering where that mango came from yesterday! How could I raise such a thief?” I was stunned. You knew, Mom. You knew. Why did you choose the bully over your own blood? The memory made my ghostly stomach churn. I remembered the feeling of the hot sauce—the burning in my throat, my lungs, my gut. I’d thought that was the worst pain imaginable. I was wrong. Being hated by the woman who gave you life is much, much worse. When she got home, the neighbor, Mrs. Gable, was waiting by the fence. She looked pale. “Diane, did you hear? They found a body in the woods by the bypass. The police are looking for the family.” She shuddered. “They say it’s gruesome. Hit by a car, ravaged by animals… and then some vagrant dragged it off. My God, imagine the poor child.” My mother nodded solemnly. “That is horrific. Some people are just monsters.” Mom, you finally think I’m a victim. Then Mrs. Gable frowned. “Wait, where’s your youngest? I haven’t seen her in two days. Is she okay?” My mother gave a dismissive little snort. “I wish it were her. After what she did to her sister, how does she even have the nerve to keep breathing? If that body in the woods is hers, after all that suffering… well, maybe she finally paid her sister back.” She talked about me like I was a piece of litter. Mrs. Gable looked horrified. “Diane, maybe you should call the station. Just to be sure.” “She’s too smart for that,” my mother said, turning toward the door. “She’s just hiding because she stole that money. Let her stay out there. When she gets hungry enough, she’ll come crawling back. And then? Then she’s really going to get it.” I let out a hollow, silent laugh. Mom, I’m never coming back. Suddenly, a black sedan pulled into the driveway. The door opened, and a girl stepped out. She looked so much like me—the same eyes, the same hair. My mother’s face twisted into a snarl. She marched toward the girl, hand raised to strike. “You little brat, you finally showed your—” She stopped. Her hand hovered in the air. Her entire body began to shake, and tears flooded her eyes. “Lacey? Is that… is that you?” “Lacey, my baby… you’re home. Tell me I’m not dreaming.” I watched as my sister—the girl who had been dead for two years—stepped into the light and hugged our mother.

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The air over the dining table felt suffocatingly thin, pulled taut like a wire about to snap. Sitting across from us were Warren and Daphne. Daphne was in her early thirties, with a distinct, striking beauty mark resting right at the outer corner of her left eye. The way she looked at my husband, Colin, carried a possessive weight that was impossible to misread. Her husband, Warren, spent the entire evening staring down at his plate, pushing his roasted vegetables around with his fork in utter silence. Colin swirled the cabernet in his glass, his tone casual, almost playful as he shattered the quiet. “Come on, honey. We swap with them for a month. Just a little lifestyle experiment.” When I didn’t immediately respond, he leaned in, adding, “Relax, Paige. It’s just a game. Warren and Daph have already agreed.” I set my fork down, a cold, sharp laugh echoing only in my head. Four people at this table, and three of them were holding their breath, waiting for me to nod. “I’ll think about it,” I said, keeping my voice as level as glass. It wasn’t that I was being open-minded. It was the quiet, gnawing intuition twisting in my gut. A few minutes ago, when Daphne was serving herself from the shared plates, her tongs had bypassed the cilantro with surgical precision. How does a “college buddy’s wife” know my husband’s obscure hatred for cilantro so intimately? The question circled in my mind, dark and heavy, but I kept my mouth shut. Instead, I looked at the three of them and offered a slow, deliberate smile. 01 Dinner dragged on for two excruciating hours. Daphne refilled Colin’s water glass three times. Each time, she filled it exactly to the three-quarter mark. No ice, just room temperature. That was Colin’s quirk. It had taken me a year of marriage to memorize his bizarre little preferences. She seemed to know them in her bones. Warren remained a ghost at the table, occasionally glancing up at his wife with eyes clouded by something complicated and defeated. After dinner, Colin walked them down to the lobby. I stood on our apartment balcony, looking down at the street. Right before getting into the passenger seat, Daphne turned back and murmured something to Colin. Colin laughed and nodded. His posture was entirely loose. It wasn’t the polite relaxation of a man chatting with his friend’s wife. It was the unspoken, gravity-free comfort that only exists between two people who know each other’s bodies. I closed the balcony door and loaded the wine glasses into the dishwasher. When Colin walked back in, he was practically glowing. “So? Daphne’s great, right?” “She’s lovely,” I echoed, keeping my back to him. “So, what do you think? Have you considered it?” “I told you. I’m thinking about it.” He stepped up behind me, wrapping his arms around my shoulders, pressing a kiss to my temple. I could feel him smiling against my skin. “Don’t overthink it, Paige. Everyone’s doing this kind of stuff now. It’s modern.” “What does Warren do for a living again?” I asked, slipping out of his embrace. “Construction materials. Runs a small firm.” “And he was the one who brought this up?” Colin hesitated. Just for a fraction of a second. “I brought it up first. Warren wasn’t super into it at the beginning, but Daph talked him into it.” I nodded, asking nothing more. Later, after a shower, I lay in the dark next to him. I picked up my phone and scrolled through Colin’s Instagram and Facebook. He had zero interaction with Daphne. Not a single tag, not a single like. I opened his contacts. There was no “Daphne” saved in his phone. It was clean. Too clean. Clinically sterile. You don’t meticulously erase the digital footprint of a completely platonic friend. I placed my phone face-down on the nightstand. Beside me, Colin was already asleep, his breathing a steady, even rhythm. I stared at the ceiling for a long time. In three years of marriage, he had never once mentioned a college friend named Daphne. Not once. The next morning, I took a half-day off work and drove to the County Clerk’s Office. I wasn’t there to file for divorce. I was there to pull our marriage records. I needed to know one thing: whether I was the only woman in Colin’s marital history. 02 The records department was quiet. I pulled a ticket and sat in the waiting area, mindlessly swiping on my phone. There were three people ahead of me. The second person finished at the counter and turned to leave. It was a woman in a beige trench coat. She had just been whispering to the clerk, who slid a thick stack of manila folders across the glass. As she shoved the papers into her leather tote, her eyes swept over the waiting area. When she walked past me, she suddenly stopped dead in her tracks. She looked down at the numbered ticket crushed in my fist. Then, she looked at my face. “Are you Paige?” I froze. “Who are you?” She didn’t answer directly. Instead, she asked a question that made the blood drain from my face. “Is your husband’s name Colin?” A chill crawled up the base of my spine. “How do you know that?” She sat down in the empty plastic chair right next to me, her bag resting on her lap. “Because three years ago, I was his wife.” Her name was Jill. She was thirty-two, four years older than me. Colin’s ex-wife. “How did you recognize me?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. Jill pointed to my hand. “The ring on your left finger.” I looked down at the plain platinum band. Colin had slipped it onto my finger the night he proposed. The wedding date was engraved on the inside. “It’s the exact same one,” Jill said softly. “Same designer, same minimalist cut. He even had my date engraved in the exact same spot.” My throat tightened. It felt like I was swallowing glass. “Why are you here today?” Jill met my eyes. Her gaze was steady, heavy with a grief I was only just beginning to understand. “I came to pull the archived copies of our divorce settlement. I left in such a rush back then, I didn’t keep all my paperwork. And I need it now.” “Why?” “Because I’m filing an appeal,” she said, her voice dropping an octave. “I am going to overturn the settlement that left me with absolutely nothing three years ago.” The heavy glass doors of the courthouse opened, letting in a biting draft of city wind. I pulled my jacket tighter around myself. “Do you have time right now?” Jill asked. “I do.” “Let’s go somewhere and sit down. There are things you need to hear, and you need to hear them today.” 03 We ended up at a small, dimly lit café across the street from the courthouse. Jill ordered a black coffee. I asked for hot water. She unlocked her phone and slid it across the wooden table. On the screen was a screenshot of a text thread. The date was five years ago. It was a text from Colin: Jill, I had a crazy thought. What if we swapped with Warren and his wife for a month? Just a lifestyle experiment. It could really spice things up for us. Word for word. The exact same pitch he had fed me last night. My hand began to shake around the warm ceramic mug. “He said this to you, five years ago.” “The exact same words. The exact same playbook,” Jill said. She swiped to the next screenshot. Another text from Colin: Daphne is incredibly sweet. You two should get drinks first, just to vibe. Daphne. It was Daphne, even five years ago. “What about Warren? Was he there too?” Jill nodded. “Warren is Daphne’s ex-boyfriend from college. They weren’t even married yet. Colin practically orchestrated their courthouse wedding just so he could propose this ‘swap’ idea to me.” “Did Warren and Daphne ever divorce?” “No. They maintain the legal marriage.” “Why?” Jill offered a fractured, bitter smile. “Because she needs a legal husband as a shield. As long as Daphne’s status is ‘married,’ Colin’s proposition is just a ‘harmless game between two married couples.’ It’s not an affair.” A loud ringing started in my ears, drowning out the ambient jazz playing in the café. “And? Did you agree to it?” Jill looked down at her coffee. “I did. God, I loved him so much back then. I believed every word out of his mouth.” “He told me it would bring us closer, told me it was a sophisticated thing European couples did to keep the spark alive.” She stirred her black coffee, though there was nothing in it to mix. “The second that month was over, Colin flipped a switch.” “He started looking at me with absolute disgust. He told me that if I was capable of sleeping with another man, it meant I was inherently dirty. That I had no self-respect.” “Every single time we argued, he used it against me.” “‘You let another man touch you. You’re filthy, and you know it.’ That’s what he’d say.” “For an entire year.” Jill’s voice remained incredibly steady, but the spoon was clinking against the inside of her mug faster and faster. “A year later, he filed for divorce. He told me that if I didn’t sign an uncontested divorce walking away with zero assets, he would tell my deeply religious parents exactly what I had done that month.” “I signed.” “Our house, the cars, our joint savings—he took it all. I walked away with the clothes in my suitcase.” I stared unblinkingly at my mug of hot water. The steam rising from it was starting to blur my vision. “So, what you’re saying is—” “Yes. It’s not a game, Paige,” Jill said, leaning across the table to hold my gaze. “It is a script.” “He uses the ‘swap’ to manufacture a moral failing.” “Then he uses that ‘stain’ on your character to emotionally break you until you surrender everything.” “He used this exact playbook to take everything I owned five years ago.” “And now, he’s setting the stage to do it to you.” The café hummed with normalcy. People laughing over lattes, laptops clicking. It was so profoundly normal that the reality of what I was hearing felt absurd. “What is his actual relationship with Daphne?” Jill set her spoon down. “They’ve been together since college. They supposedly broke up after graduation, but they never actually cut ties.” “She is the ghost haunting every single one of his marriages.” “You’re just wife number two.” “If you hadn’t run into me today—” She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t have to. If I hadn’t run into her today, I would have been the next Jill. 04 When we stepped out of the café, a light drizzle had started to fall over the city. Jill gave me her number and told me to call her the second I needed anything. I took an Uber back to our apartment. The entire ride, I scrolled frantically through the transaction history of my banking app. Colin and I shared a joint account. We each deposited four thousand dollars a month into it to cover the mortgage, utilities, and daily expenses. I had never scrutinized this account. I trusted him. Now, I was looking at every single line item. January. Outgoing: $4,500. Memo: Contractor balance. We hadn’t renovated a thing in the last two years. March. Outgoing: $2,800. Memo: Auto insurance. Our premium was barely twelve hundred a year. June. Outgoing: $5,200. Memo: Out-of-pocket medical. What kind of routine check-up costs five grand? Over the last six months alone, I found nearly twenty thousand dollars in unexplained hemorrhaging from our joint account. Every single transaction had a plausible-sounding memo. Not a single one held up to basic logic. When I unlocked the apartment, Colin wasn’t home from the office yet. I walked straight into his home office and went to the bottom drawer of his desk. He kept it locked. The passcode was his mother’s birthdate. Six digits. I had known it for years. Inside was a thick manila envelope. I pulled it out and slid out the stack of papers. It was a property deed and mortgage agreement. A newly built condo in the West Loop. 1,200 square feet. Total purchase price: $750,000. Buyer: Daphne. Payment method: Financed. Down payment: $150,000. Escrow transfer account— I stared at the routing and account numbers for a full ten seconds. It was an obscure secondary account linked directly to our joint checking. Colin had used our marital money to buy Daphne a house. A hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I meticulously slid the papers back into the envelope, placed it exactly where I found it in the drawer, closed it, and locked it. I left the room exactly as it was. Stepping out of the office, I paused in the hallway. Our framed wedding photo hung on the wall. In the picture, Colin had his arm wrapped tightly around my waist, flashing a brilliant, boyish smile. Now I knew exactly what was hiding underneath that smile. My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from Colin: Hey beautiful, what are you craving for dinner? I’ll pick it up on my way home. My thumbs hovered over the keyboard. I typed: Whatever you’re in the mood for. Then I opened a new chat thread and texted Jill. Jill. He bought Daphne a condo. Put $150k down using an account linked to our joint. Jill replied instantly. Exact same thing he did to me. Back then, it was $100k. Paige, whatever you do, do not spook him right now. I know, I replied. I locked my phone and went into the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water. When Colin walked through the door, I was casually wiping down the kitchen island. He walked in carrying two boxes of high-end sushi and a massive bouquet of stargaze lilies. “Early celebration. Our anniversary is next week,” he said, offering me the flowers with a charming grin. I took them, burying my nose in the petals. The scent of the lilies was overpowering. So strong it was almost suffocating. “Thank you.” Over dinner, he casually brought up the partner swap again. “Have you given it any more thought? Seriously, babe, it’s nothing crazy. It’s just like taking a little vacation.” “I’m still thinking about it.” “Don’t think too long, alright? Warren’s getting antsy on his end.” “Okay.” I picked up a piece of salmon sashimi and put it in my mouth. The raw, metallic taste of fish flooded my tongue, and my stomach violently lurched. I almost gagged. But I forced myself to swallow it. Starting today, there were going to be a lot of things I had to force myself to stomach. 05 Over the next week, I executed two tasks. First: The audit. I called my old college roommate, Brooke. She was a CPA at a major accounting firm, specializing in forensic audits. I exported the last three years of our joint account statements and emailed them to her. I didn’t give her the dramatic backstory; I just told her I needed to know exactly where my household money was bleeding out. Brooke called me the very next evening. “Paige, your husband is playing games.” “What kind of games?” “Over the last three years, a total of two hundred and forty thousand dollars has been siphoned from your joint account into an external account ending in 3379.” “Every transaction has a memo that looks innocent enough on the surface.” “But I cross-referenced the spending patterns. The actual costs don’t match his memos.” “For example, he claims $6,000 for ‘HOA fees.’ I pulled up your building’s records. Your annual HOA is only $2,400.” “Where did the other $3,600 go?” I gripped my phone, my nails biting into my palm. Two hundred and forty thousand dollars. Three years. “Can you find out who owns the 3379 account?” “Not without a subpoena. But if you can get me any breadcrumbs on the other side, I can draft a bulletproof forensic flow-of-funds report.” “Do it.” The second task: Meeting Jill. This time, we met at her apartment. Jill lived in a faded brick walk-up in Rogers Park. One bedroom, maybe five hundred square feet. There was a single pair of house slippers by the door. The walls were completely bare. On the small thrifted coffee table sat a neat stack of manila folders, clipped perfectly together. “This is everything I’ve managed to gather over the last three years,” Jill said, sliding the stack toward me. The top document was a copy of her divorce decree. “Look at this,” she said, pointing to a clause on page three. Party A waives all rights to marital property, including but not limited to the primary residence, vehicles, and joint savings. “The date of the signature is April 14th.” “Do you know where my head was at on that day?” Jill pulled out a second piece of paper. It was a psychiatric evaluation. “Severe clinical depression, accompanied by acute panic attacks. The attending physician recommended inpatient care.” “Date of diagnosis: April 12th.” “Two days before I signed.” “He deliberately waited until I was having a complete mental breakdown to put the pen in my hand.” I flipped to the next page. It was a transcribed log of an audio recording. Jill tapped her finger against a specific line. “This was him on the phone with his mother. She was on speaker, and I was lying in the next room.” The transcript read: Mom, relax. In the state she’s in right now, she’ll sign anything I put in front of her. If we push it, I can get the house transferred entirely to my name by Friday. I carefully set the paper down. “Jill… why did you sit on this evidence for so long?” Jill looked down at her hands. “Because it took me three years to remember how to breathe.” “For the first two years, I couldn’t even leave this apartment. I just locked myself in here and wasted away.” “It wasn’t until I started intensive trauma therapy last year that the fog started to lift.” “Once my head was clear, I started pulling the records. That’s when I saw the absolute precision of what he had done to me.” She looked up at me. Her eyes were rimmed red, but there were no tears. “Paige, I refuse to let him do to another woman what he did to me.” I carefully aligned the edges of her documents and slid them into my canvas tote bag. “He won’t.” “This time, his script ends here.”

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While scrolling through Twitter late one night, I stumbled across a girl’s post gushing about her sweet love story with her boyfriend. But as I read it, something felt terribly wrong. The guy she was describing in the post… why did he sound exactly like my boyfriend?! 01 Late at night, while scrolling through a popular relationship confession account on Twitter, I saw a girl’s submission about her romance. The post was dripping with sickeningly sweet details. She bragged about how her boyfriend, despite being broke, was incredibly considerate. He would rub her stomach when she had cramps, remember every single anniversary and holiday, and constantly cook different meals for her… The comments below were a chorus of people whining about how single they were, complaining about getting hit in the face with this “cold, hard dog food” (PDA). As I read, the corners of my mouth couldn’t help but curve up. Because my boyfriend, Ethan, was exactly like that. Even though he didn’t have much money, he was incredibly honest, kind, and driven. And he treated me incredibly well. But as I kept reading, a chilling sense of wrongness crept over me. Not only did the guy in the post share an uncanny personality resemblance with Ethan, but his height, weight, age, zodiac sign, and even his hometown were exactly the same. This was way too much of a coincidence, wasn’t it?! I turned my head to look at Ethan sleeping next to me, my heart sinking like a stone. It’s impossible, I comforted myself. Ethan would never cheat on me. But for some inexplicable reason, my chest tightened with panic. If I didn’t investigate this tonight, there was no way I was going to sleep. I carefully reached over and took Ethan’s phone. He never hid his passcode from me; he always let me look whenever I wanted. It was the same this time. I scoured every single app and couldn’t find a single suspicious thing. I let out a sigh of relief, silently cursing myself for being paranoid. How could there possibly be such a coincidence? Just as I was about to put the phone down and go back to sleep, I suddenly remembered that Ethan had borrowed my car yesterday. When I asked him why, he said he had to go to the office for some overtime… Driven by a ghost of a suspicion, I slipped out of bed, went to the bathroom, and pulled up the dashcam app on my phone. I never checked my dashcam footage. But the moment I opened the log, my heart stopped. All the previous footage had been completely wiped clean. The only recordings left were from yesterday. Only Ethan had access to my phone. If the footage was wiped, he was the only one who could have done it. But why would he need to delete the recordings?! I took a deep breath and opened the only remaining footage from yesterday. He had been exhausted today and passed out the second his head hit the pillow. He probably just hadn’t had the chance to delete today’s footage yet. I clicked on yesterday’s date. The fluorescent light in the bathroom was so bright it made my head spin. I stood there in dead silence, watching the progress bar slowly move forward. After a short while, the car pulled into a residential complex I didn’t recognize. Then, the car parked in front of an apartment building, and the sound of the car door shutting echoed through the speaker. No one spoke in the car, but almost immediately, the unmistakable sound of kissing filled the audio. Then, a woman laughed coquettishly and said: “When are you going to get the rest of the money?” I froze. That voice was so familiar. Wasn’t that my coworker, Rachel? Why was she in my car? Ethan’s voice rang out next: “Soon! I just hit her up for another $15,000 yesterday. Combined with the $10,000 from before, we’ve already got half of it. “I’ll make up another excuse in a few days. I’ll tell her the business went under and I lost everything, and ask her to give me more… Who knows, maybe your future husband can squeeze enough out of her to buy you a house too!” Ethan slapped Rachel affectionately, judging by the sound, and laughed: “We’ll buy you that house in Oakwood Estates you love so much!” Rachel scoffed playfully. “She’s so stupid and so obsessed with you, of course she’ll give it to you! “Chloe has the best background in our entire company. I heard her uncle is the director of the City Planning Bureau. You better not let this catch slip away!” Rachel’s tone then softened completely: “Hubby, you’ve really suffered for us. If my parents weren’t demanding a $50,000 dowry for my brother, you wouldn’t have had to go seduce her…” Ethan chuckled. “She just got lucky being born into money, right? What does a woman need all that cash for anyway? She might as well let us spend it! “I heard her dad is planning to buy her a house soon. God knows how much dirty money that old bastard has embezzled. When the time comes, I’ll convince her to put my name on the deed, and then it’ll all belong to us!” I was paralyzed. I stood rooted to the spot, staring blankly at my phone screen. Rachel was a coworker at my company. When I first joined, she found out I was single and very enthusiastically introduced Ethan to me. And I fell for him at first sight. We got together very quickly. My hands were trembling so violently I could barely hold the phone. A freezing chill swept through my entire body. Ethan and Rachel’s voices echoed in my head like a demonic chant. It turned out that beneath the skin of the honest, driven, and considerate man I thought I knew lay an entirely different, monstrous face. My supposed “love at first sight” was nothing more than a calculated approach designed to steal my family’s wealth. Ethan only got together with me to scam me out of my money, all to satisfy the exorbitant dowry Rachel’s family was demanding for her brother. This was absolute, complete bullshit! I collapsed onto the bathroom tiles, covering my burning, stinging eyes. Tears of pure, unadulterated humiliation streamed down my face. Ethan and I were already talking about marriage. I genuinely thought he was a gift from God, a man perfectly tailored for me. My parents had already started preparing my wedding fund. They were very satisfied with Ethan and planned to give me a $30,000 cash gift and buy him a car. But now… I stared at the ceiling, my brain a chaotic, spiraling mess. Just as I was paralyzed with shock and betrayal, the faint sound of footsteps came from outside the door. Ethan was up. I instantly swiped away the app and stood up to splash cold water on my face. Ethan pushed the door open, wrapping his arms around me from behind, his voice dripping with gentle concern. “Why are you up washing your face in the middle of the night?” I stared at him intently through the mirror. I used to think heaven had taken pity on me, sending me such a perfect man. I never imagined it was all an elaborate, malicious scam. These two disgusting grifters had set this vicious trap just to drain my bank accounts! And Rachel had the sheer, unmitigated audacity to go brag about it on Twitter! The handsome face I once thought was flawless now looked twisted and repulsive. I clenched my fists, a venomous hatred blooming in my chest. These two pieces of trash. I was going to make them pay for this! … “What’s wrong?” Ethan noticed my expression change, his face immediately shifting to concern. He pressed the back of his hand against my forehead, looking incredibly worried: “Do you have a fever?” It took every ounce of strength in my body to suppress the urge to turn around and slap the life out of him. I forced a strained smile. “I’m fine. It’s just too hot, I was sweating and felt gross.” “Let me feel, are you really that sweaty?” Ethan laughed, slipping his hand under my shirt. This absolute animal! Trying to steal my money and use my body! I gritted my teeth so hard my jaw ached. I grabbed his hand, brushing him off dismissively: “I don’t feel well.” “…Okay then,” he muttered, clearly disappointed. He pulled me out of the bathroom and back into bed. Ethan lay next to me and was asleep again in minutes. I, however, stared at the pitch-black ceiling, fury boiling in my veins. I wasn’t going to let them get away with this! 02 First thing the next morning, I requested a few days off work and stayed home specifically to investigate Rachel. Sure enough, after a few hours of digging, I finally found her Twitter account. Besides retweeting giveaways, her entire feed was dedicated to showing off her relationship. The timeline spanned years, proving they had been together for at least three years. Almost all the photos were of her and Ethan. Many of them were taken in hotel rooms. At a glance, I could tell they were cheap, rundown motels—worse than a Motel 6. Both Rachel and Ethan came from rural, struggling families. At first, I actually felt bad for Rachel. Whenever I bought something nice, I’d buy two and give her one. I even let her carpool with me on the way home from work. But my kindness had fed a monster! She actually set her sights on my family’s assets! The whole picture was crystal clear now. I took screenshots of every single tweet and saved them all to a hidden folder. I lay on my bed, my mind racing with plans. I wasn’t going to just let this go. Since they had the guts to target me, they had to pay the price! They want money, right? I’m going to make them vomit up every single cent they have! … According to their conversation on the dashcam, Ethan was going to ask me for money for the third time very soon. Before this, he always claimed he was starting a business. To support him, I gave him all my savings. I even stopped driving my car. Afraid he was working too hard running around for his “business,” I gave him my keys and started taking the subway to work. But while he claimed to be out hustling for his startup, he was actually driving my car to take Rachel out on dates! Rachel even had the shameless audacity to post pictures of my car on her Twitter, acting like it was hers! I suppressed the fury threatening to consume me and waited for Ethan to make his move. Sure enough, two days later, Ethan started acting dejected, moping around in front of me. He wouldn’t say anything first. He just kept sighing heavily in my presence, waiting for me to ask. I watched his performance with cold, detached eyes. After a while, he clearly started getting impatient, and his sighs grew louder and more dramatic. “What’s wrong?” I asked, pasting a look of deep concern on my face, deciding to play along with his little act. Ethan glanced at me, pretending to hesitate, before continuing his performance: “Forget it, it’s nothing.” I gave him an out: “What is it? Just tell me!” “Sigh. I wasn’t going to tell you, but a large shipment of my inventory got held up at customs. I don’t have the cash to order new stock right now. If this keeps up, I’m afraid my company is going to go under!” I sneered internally. Company? I had already run a background check. There was absolutely no company registered under his name. He didn’t even know how to lie properly. Blinded by love, I used to actually believe this garbage and transferred money to him time and time again. I feigned distress: “But I don’t have any money left either. That $15,000 I gave you last time was everything I had left…” I watched Ethan’s expression out of the corner of my eye. His face tightened slightly, but he quickly adjusted and nodded: “I know. As a man, I shouldn’t be asking you for money anyway. “I was just venting…” If this were any normal day, I would have already been frantically trying to find a solution for him. But today, I acted like I didn’t hear a thing and completely ignored his bait. Ethan watched me for a moment. When I didn’t take the bait, he pulled a makeup gift set out of a shopping bag and handed it to me. “Tomorrow’s Valentine’s Day! An early gift for you!” I took the set. One glance was all I needed to know it was a cheap counterfeit. Ethan had given me counterfeits before, but he always claimed he bought them through a personal shopper. I used to think he had just been scammed and felt too bad to tell him the truth. Thinking back on it now, he just didn’t want to spend money on me. He bought fakes on purpose! Tomorrow was Valentine’s Day. He was definitely planning to go out on a date with Rachel. I thought about it and decided to just hand him the perfect opportunity. “Thank you, baby. But it sucks that I have to go out of town on a business trip tomorrow and the day after. I won’t be able to spend it with you…” Ethan froze, quickly putting on a disappointed face: “Ah, that long… I’m going to miss my wife so much. Can you try to get out of it?” I looked him dead in the eyes and smiled: “Then should I just call in sick?” Ethan choked, his expression turning incredibly unnatural: “I was just kidding. Work comes first. I’ll just have to endure it.” My stomach churned with disgust, but I played the charade to the end: “I’ll be back the night after tomorrow. You have to come pick me up from the airport.” … That afternoon, I pretended to pack my bags. While Ethan was out of the apartment, I installed several hidden pinhole cameras around the place. To save money, Ethan would never pay for a hotel room. I bet he would use my “business trip” as the perfect excuse to bring Rachel back to my apartment. I grabbed my suitcase and went back to my parents’ house. I pulled out my phone and kept an eye on the dashcam feed. These two disgusting grifters definitely wouldn’t be able to wait until tomorrow. Sure enough, as soon as evening hit, the dashcam feed came alive. The car pulled into Rachel’s rundown, older apartment complex. When she got in the car, Ethan seemed to pull something out and hand it to her. “Wifey, early Happy Valentine’s Day!” Rachel let out a gasp: “La Mer?! This is super expensive! I saw Chloe using this at the office.” Then she playfully slapped him: “So what did you get her? La Mer too?” Ethan chuckled smugly. “Are you kidding? I got her a counterfeit set I bought off some guy on Facebook for a hundred bucks. That dumb bitch can’t even tell the difference.” Hearing that, a violent tremor wracked my heart. I had been using La Mer since high school. How could I possibly not know the difference between the real thing and a cheap fake? I only pretended to be thrilled because I knew Ethan’s financial situation was tough, and I wanted to protect his fragile ego. I never expected my genuine compassion to be so thoroughly trampled on by him. Rachel’s laugh was laced with pure malice: “Who knows, maybe the stuff she used before was fake too. I hope her face rots off!” … Exactly as I predicted, Ethan drove the car back to my apartment building. The moment Rachel walked through the door, she made a beeline for my vanity, opening every single one of my skincare products. “I heard this one is super expensive. Like three hundred dollars a bottle!” She aggressively scooped a massive glob out of my face cream jar and smeared it on her face: “She won’t notice I used it, right?” Ethan hugged her from behind, completely indulgent: “It’s fine. If she notices, I’ll just say I used it.” I felt a surge of pure rage shoot from the soles of my feet straight to the top of my skull! No wonder my skincare products were running out so insanely fast! Every time I asked Ethan, he claimed he was just curious and tried some. It turned out Rachel had been using them! I was so incredibly disgusted I sprinted to the bathroom and scrubbed my face raw. While I was washing my face, Rachel had put on one of my dresses and was posing in front of the mirror, wearing one of my designer bags. “Hubby, this bag is gorgeous. When are you going to buy me one?” Ethan’s face stiffened awkwardly: “That one’s pretty expensive… like four thousand dollars…” Rachel stroked my bag, her face twisted with greedy longing, begging him: “All my coworkers have bags like this. I’m the only one carrying a fake every day. They all look down on me…” She was talking absolute, unfiltered bullshit. Our office was so insanely busy everyone was running around like headless chickens. Who the hell had the time to care what kind of bag she was carrying? I often went to work carrying a canvas tote bag, and literally no one ever said a word. Hearing this, Ethan looked deeply conflicted. After a long while, he gritted his teeth and said: “If you like it, just take it. “She has so many bags, she probably won’t even remember. If she does notice it’s missing, I’ll just say I accidentally ruined it and threw it away.” Rachel’s eyes lit up. She leaned over and planted a massive kiss on Ethan’s cheek. “Hubby, you’re the best!” … Watching from the other side of the screen, I was so furious I wanted to crawl through the phone and stab these two scumbags to death! Using my skincare, stealing my bags. How fucking cheap can you get?! I took a deep breath, forcing my rage down as I watched them aggressively making out and rolling around on my bed. My dad had bought me that bed. The mattress alone cost over three thousand dollars. The silk sheets they were ruining cost eight hundred. I was extremely particular about my bedding. It had cost me almost an entire month’s salary at the time. And now, these two pieces of human garbage were rolling around on my expensive silk sheets, making nauseating, grotesque sounds. Ten minutes later, Rachel lay on Ethan’s arm, cuddling him and talking. “My parents said we need to get the dowry money together ASAP. My brother is waiting on it so he can marry his girlfriend.” Ethan rubbed his temples, sounding exhausted: “I know, but we need money, and that bitch refuses to give me any more. “Fuck, rich people are the worst. They all deserve to die!” Rachel traced circles on his chest, whispering poison: “Just PUA her! (Pick-Up Artist/Gaslight her) “Pick apart all her flaws, make her feel like she’s not good enough for you, and she’ll naturally want to please you. “Haven’t you seen the news? Girls who get PUA’d are willing to die for their men.” A flash of venomous malice crossed Rachel’s face: “What right does she have to live such a good life? Just because she was born lucky?” Ethan fell deep in thought, playing with Rachel’s hair. “I’ll give it a try.” A freezing chill ran down my spine. I had truly believed I was treating Ethan with my whole heart, and I had always looked out for Rachel at work. I never imagined that some people are born as parasitic, man-eating wolves, lurking in the gutters, waiting to tear the flesh off anyone who walks by. My fingernails dug deep into my palms. Shaking, I saved the video files and backed them up to my laptop. Ethan. Rachel. I am going to make absolutely sure every single drop of your malice blows up right in your own faces! 04 The next day, I packed my bags and went back to the apartment. The very first thing I did was take all my skincare products and bedding and throw them straight into the dumpster. Even though it hurt to lose the money, the thought of them being contaminated by Rachel was too disgusting. I physically couldn’t bring myself to use them anymore. After cleaning the apartment, I sat in the living room and waited for Ethan to get home. At 6 PM sharp, Ethan walked through the door. Seeing the apartment looking different, he looked surprised: “What put you in the mood to clean?” I brushed it off: “It felt a little dirty.” Ethan nodded, a bright smile plastered on his face as he walked over to hug me: “I missed you so much! Let me hold you!” I stiffened as he wrapped his arms around me. Ethan paused for a microsecond, then said casually: “Chloe, did you gain weight?” I sneered internally. Here we go. “Really?” Ethan, following Rachel’s script, started picking me apart: “Yeah, you definitely look a little thicker than before. You’re getting a muffin top.” I gripped the armrest tightly and looked up at him: “So, do you want to break up with me?” Ethan’s expression froze, but he quickly recovered: “How could I? I’m the only one who wouldn’t be disgusted by you. Why would I break up with my wife? “Speaking of which, wifey, do you have any more cash? Can you think of a way to help me cover this week? Ten grand is all I need!” He sat down next to me, wrapping his arm around my waist, coaxing me: “Once I make it big, I’ll buy my wife a massive mansion. How does that sound?” He rested his head on my shoulder, looking incredibly pitiful: “I started this company right out of college. I’m just short this little bit of cash… Wifey, I really don’t want to give up on years of hard work!” I looked conflicted. I hesitated for a long time before saying: “Baby, I really am completely broke. I gave you everything I saved.” Ethan looked noticeably impatient, but he suppressed his frustration: “What about your parents? Your family has money, just ask your parents for a loan.” If this were the past, Ethan would never be this aggressively impatient. He would constantly hint at me, but he would never explicitly ask. It seems Rachel’s family was putting severe pressure on them for the dowry. “My dad’s company just had a massive shipment delayed. He’s really tight on cash too…” I turned my head, looking at Ethan hesitantly: “But…” “But what?” Ethan sat up straight instantly. I bit my lip and said: “But I heard my dad say he has a connection to get two cheap luxury villas. “He said someone foreclosed on them or something. It’s guaranteed to be a massive profit, but my family just doesn’t have that kind of liquid cash right now. “If we could just buy them and flip them immediately, we could easily make a million or two in profit.” Hearing this, Ethan’s eyes instantly lit up with a greedy fire. But then he remembered I just said I didn’t have any money, and his expression deflated. “Is there no other way?” I shook my head: “My family really can’t pull the cash together. You know how I am with you. If I had it, of course I’d give it to you. “Sigh, this deal would make us two million overnight. It’s such a shame…” Two million. To Ethan, this was a life-changing amount of money. There was no way he was going to let this go. Sure enough, Ethan hesitated for a moment before asking: “How much are you short?” I controlled my tone carefully: “Those villas are worth at least six million on the market. My dad has about five million tied up in receivables he can pull together, so we’re just short about a million.” I looked down, my expression totally defeated: “I originally thought if I bought the house, I’d put your name on the deed. The timing for this is just terrible!” I used to be entirely open and honest with Ethan. When he needed money, I never hesitated to give it to him. Because I never really valued money that much. I always put love and relationships first. My friends called me a hopeless romantic and an idiot, but I didn’t care. Looking back, I truly was an absolute, naive idiot. Ethan didn’t suspect a thing. He looked down, calculating rapidly: “Baby, I still think this opportunity is too rare. Flipping it for two million in profit… “Two million! Think of how many designer bags that could buy you!” I leaned against him and sighed heavily. “I know. But what can we do?” Ethan thought for a moment before saying: “Let me figure something out! I’ll help you scrape together that million!” I kept my head down, the corners of my mouth curving into a sharp, cruel smile. “Okay, hubby. I’m counting on you.” 05 Ethan left the apartment immediately after dropping that promise. A guy like him shouldn’t have believed me so easily. But he knew my family was wealthy, and my uncle was the director of the City Planning Bureau. He truly believed my family had elite connections. Combined with the fact that I had never hesitated to hand him cash before, he had absolutely no reason to doubt I was lying. But where the hell was he going to get a million dollars? Even subtracting the twenty-odd thousand I had given him before, the remaining amount was not a small number. Would he ask Rachel? Or would he go back to his parents, who had broken their backs farming their whole lives? I sat on the sofa, filing my nails, meticulously planning my next move. Rachel and Ethan. I wasn’t going to let either of them off the hook. For greedy, money-obsessed parasites like them, money was the only thing they truly cared about. How could I force them to vomit up every single cent they had? … Ethan came back half an hour later. He looked at me, his expression much less frantic than before. “Chloe, that villa you mentioned… is it legit?” He quickly explained: “I don’t mean anything by it, I’m just afraid your dad might get scammed.” I knew exactly what had happened. He had definitely stepped outside to call Rachel. Rachel was suspicious of what I had said. Ethan continued: “Where is the villa anyway? Can we go take a look?” I nodded easily. “Sure. It’s right off Ocean Drive. Oakwood Estates. You know it, right?” Ethan’s expression froze for a microsecond, then the corners of his mouth uncontrollably curled upwards into a massive grin. “What?” I smiled at him. “You know the place?” Ethan quickly suppressed his smile, trying to act casual: “No, just heard people talk about it. They’re single-family homes, right? “Those are super expensive. Probably three hundred a square foot. A three-thousand-square-foot house would be pushing a million… “If we can snag it for six hundred thousand and flip it for a million…” He couldn’t help but ramble on, his eyes growing brighter and brighter. He was clearly already fantasizing about the luxurious life he and Rachel would live in that villa. It seems Ethan’s feelings for Rachel were genuine. Rachel said she loved Oakwood Estates, and Ethan had actually done the research. However, with their salaries, they could never afford a place like that in this lifetime. I looked at Ethan’s excited face and sneered internally. Be happy now. Your agony is coming. … I don’t know what Rachel said to Ethan, but despite his verbal promises, he never actually transferred the money to me. To completely eliminate their suspicions, I took him for a drive around Oakwood Estates the next afternoon. “That’s the one.” I pointed to a house and told him: “My dad said the owner’s cash flow dried up and he desperately needs money. This house was signed over to my dad’s contact as collateral. “Honestly, a normal sale would be fine, but there aren’t many buyers who can drop that kind of cash upfront. Plus, my dad had inventory tied up with that guy, so he asked my dad if he wanted it.” “Oh.” Ethan’s eyes were glued to the house. He walked around the perimeter, his hands behind his back, examining every detail with extreme focus. That night, Ethan came back very late. He claimed he was working overtime, but I had already listened to his entire conversation with Rachel on the dashcam. “…I asked around. The property management confirmed the owner is a businessman. Someone in retail furniture, I think.” Rachel’s voice could barely hide her excitement. “Did she really say that? Her dad can get Oakwood Estates for six hundred grand?” “Yeah. We’re just short a hundred grand now. I told her I’d get it together.” Rachel was silent for a moment before saying: “I still have fifteen thousand here…” “Fifteen thousand?” Ethan sounded confused: “Didn’t I give you twenty-five thousand?” Rachel’s voice faltered, suddenly lacking confidence: “…My brother wanted to buy a car a little while ago. My mom borrowed ten thousand from me.” “Rachel! That was the money I saved for the dowry! What are we going to do about the fifty thousand your parents are demanding?!” Ethan was panicking. Rachel quickly tried to soothe him: “My mom said she’ll pay it back. Don’t worry. Besides, once we get the house, are we really going to care about ten grand?” Ethan took a few heavy breaths, forcing himself to calm down: “We only have fifteen thousand left now. How are we supposed to buy the house?!” Rachel’s tone softened: “I’ll figure something out. I’ve saved a few thousand over the last two years. We’ll just have to go back and beg my parents for a little more.” “Are we asking your family, or mine?!” “My mom saved thirty thousand for my brother’s future wife’s dowry… Let me think. If we’re flipping this house in two months tops, we should be able to make it work!” Rachel pondered for a moment: “And there’s the money for the car they haven’t bought yet. That’s another twenty thousand… “What about your family, hubby? Can your family chip in a little more?” Ethan snapped irritably: “You know exactly how much my family has. I’ve drained them dry over the years. The most I can do is make my mom sell her land. That might get us another ten grand!” Rachel cooed gently: “If she sells it, she sells it. Once you get the house, Mom won’t ever have to farm again, right?” Ethan fell into a heavy silence. The atmosphere between them grew incredibly tense. When Ethan dropped Rachel off that day, neither of them said a single word. I rubbed my phone, calculating my next move. Sure enough, it didn’t take long for Ethan to transfer all the money to me. Exactly one hundred thousand dollars. Nothing more, nothing less. I have no idea how Rachel convinced his parents. A family that basically sold their daughter to pay for their son’s dowry actually coughed up the cash. But for a family like hers, that money was likely their entire life savings. When he sent me the transfer, Ethan looked exhausted. He had deep, dark bags under his eyes. I leaned in close, my voice soft: “What’s wrong?” Ethan shook his head, forcing a strained smile: “It’s nothing, baby. When is the house going to close?” I pretended to think for a moment: “Two months, max. Hubby, do you think we should flip the house or keep it for ourselves? “If we keep it, I’ll put the deed entirely in your name, okay?” Ethan froze. I watched as sheer, uncontainable ecstasy erupted across his face. He quickly turned his head, covering my hand: “…Whatever you want. I don’t care about the house. I’m just afraid that if I don’t have anything, your parents will look down on me when I go ask for your hand in marriage.” “How could they?” I hugged him tightly, whispering, “So, Hubby, since you gave me this hundred grand, should I write you an IOU? I feel like we should keep things clear.” Ethan was terrified I would keep things clear. He knew that if I wrote an IOU, there was no way I’d put his name on the deed. He quickly panicked: “No need! My money is my wife’s money. Why are you trying to draw lines between us?” I looked up at him and asked: “Hubby, you’re amazing. Where did you get a hundred thousand dollars? “Did you borrow it? Who do you know that’s close enough to just loan you that much cash? We should go visit them and say thank you.” Ethan looked completely flustered. “No, no one lent me the money. It’s… it’s from my parents selling their land… Look, just don’t worry about it, your husband’s got it handled!” “Oh,” I nodded, hugging him closer. “Hubby, you gave me all this money and don’t even want me to pay you back. You’re the best.” Ethan was riding a tiger and couldn’t get off. He forced a smile: “Of course. What’s mine is yours. It’s what I should do…” I hugged him tight. In a spot where he couldn’t see, I pulled out my phone and hit “Stop” on the voice recorder. Everything I needed, I now had.

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When I opened my eyes again, I was back in that kitchen, the air thick with the scent of woodsmoke and old grease. I was back on the morning that ruined everything. And once again, I chose to run. I ran straight to Granny Ruth’s room, my voice high and thin, a child’s treble spilling the secret of my mother’s planned escape. In my memories, Mom had spent years whispering the truth to me like a bedtime story. She told me she wasn’t from this place—that she was a “city girl” from a family with a real house and a lawn, stolen and sold into this godforsaken hollow. She promised that one day, she would take me far away. When I was six, she finally had everything ready. But I sold her out for a slice of thick white bread slathered in honey and the hollow promise of Granny’s affection. I remember sitting on the porch, stuffing my face with that sweet, sticky bread while my mother’s screams tore through the yard. They had her tied to the old, gnarled oak tree. My father was systematic with the belt. She had looked up then, her eyes gleaming with a pure, concentrated venom I had never seen before. She didn’t look like my mother; she looked like a wounded animal. She called me a heartless little monster. At the time, I felt only a confused sense of betrayal. I didn’t understand why she wanted to leave my father and me. I thought a “family” meant staying, no matter how much it hurt. Three days later, she took her own life in the tool shed. And not long after that, on a night when the moon was shielded by clouds, my father—blind drunk and raging at the world—killed me with a blow that was meant to “teach me a lesson.” In those final moments, as my breath rattled and faded, I finally understood. I understood her desperation. I understood her hate. And I understood that the “family” I had protected was really just a cage. 01 “You worthless bitch! I gave you a roof, I gave you food, and you try to run?” My father’s roar vibrated in my chest. Hank was a mountain of a man, his face twisted into something demonic as he swung the leather strap. My mother was suspended from the oak branch, her clothes tattered, blood blooming like dark roses on her skin. She didn’t even have the strength to scream anymore. Granny Ruth stood on the porch, her arms crossed over her chest, a look of profound disgust on her weathered face. “I told you she was a flighty thing, Hank. You should’ve kept her in the basement on a chain. You’re too soft.” She spat on the dirt. “If it wasn’t for this little girl speaking up, she’d be halfway to the interstate by now. We don’t have the cash to buy you another wife, son.” Mom managed to lift her head. The warmth that used to be in her eyes—the way she used to tuck my hair behind my ears—was gone. There was only a cold, jagged loathing. “You little demon,” she rasped, her voice a ghost of itself. “I should have smothered you in your sleep.” Hank reached for a heavy iron pry bar, swearing he’d break her legs so she’d never take another step toward the road. I paused, clutching my piece of honey-toast. I looked at her, my face smudged with dirt, and forced a smile that I hoped looked both innocent and chilling. “Daddy, if you break her legs, who’s going to hoe the garden?” Hank hesitated. The logic of the harvest won out over his rage. He cursed, dropped the bar, and grabbed a heavy rusted chain from the back of his truck. He looped it around her neck like a dog. “I’ll break ’em after the corn is in,” he growled. After he left to go play cards and drink with the neighbors, I crept out to the yard. I managed to get her down and brought her a bowl of cold scraps. “Mommy, eat,” I whispered. She jerked her head away, her lip curling. With a sudden burst of energy, she slapped the bowl out of my hand and spat in my face. “Get away from me! You’re not mine. You’re one of them.” I stood there, the cold grease from the scraps dripping down my cheek. My heart felt like it was being squeezed by a cold hand. Hank chose that moment to stumble back into the yard. Hearing her shout, he didn’t even hesitate. He kicked her off the porch steps and followed her down, his boots connecting with her ribs. “I’ve been too damn nice to you!” he screamed. He dragged her by the hair toward the side shed, the chain rattling against the stones. “You sleep on the dirt from now on,” he barked. He turned to me, his eyes bloodshot and impatient. “Hey, brat. If she tries to touch you again, you tell me or your Granny. You hear?” I nodded obediently. He grunted, stumbling toward the house. “You’re gonna be worth a few thousand in a couple of years,” he muttered to himself. “Better not let you die yet.” Late that night, after the house fell into a heavy, alcohol-soaked silence, I crept into the shed. She was shivering on the ground, her skin burning with fever. Granny kept all the medicine locked in a tin box; she said “strays and traitors” didn’t deserve it. I spent the night dipping a rag into a bucket of cold water, wiping her brow over and over. I sat there in the dark, hugging my knees. This was Day One of my second chance. In my first life, this was the beginning of the end. I had been brainwashed into thinking “family” was sacred, that her escape was a betrayal of me. So I told on her. And I watched her die. This time, I had turned her in again—but only to save her legs. I knew if she ran that day, Hank would have caught her at the trailhead and crippled her for life. I was smarter now. I knew she was a prisoner. I knew I was the child of a monster. This time, I wasn’t going to keep her here. I was going to be the one to open the gate. 02 “Get up, you lazy cow! It’s noon! Where’s my lunch?” Hank kicked the shed door open, his heavy boot prodding her limp body. When she didn’t move, he cursed and yelled back toward the house. “Ma! Give this bitch some aspirin or something. I don’t need her kicking the bucket yet.” “City girls,” Granny grumbled from the porch. “Fragile as glass.” I spent the day hovering over her. When she finally woke in the evening, her eyes struggled to focus on me. I held out a bowl of mashed potatoes, trying to look helpful. “Mommy, please eat.” She didn’t take the food. Instead, she used her last ounce of strength to grab my arm, her fingers digging in like claws. “Why? Why did you tell them?” The agony in her voice was a physical weight. I swallowed my tears and put on the mask of a brainwashed child. “Mommy, you and Daddy are supposed to be together. We’re a family. I’m just trying to keep us whole.” She stared at me like I was a stranger—a monster she had birthed. Then, she started to laugh, a dry, hacking sound. “My mistake. I thought you were my daughter. I forgot you have his blood in your veins. You were born rotten.” Her words cut deeper than any belt. In that moment, I knew I had lost her forever. She would never love me again. I remembered Granny once saying I was a “mistake” Mom had fought to keep. Mom had been skin and bones, yet she had nursed me and shared every scrap of her food with me. Before the bitterness took over, she used to hold me at night and whisper, “Daisy, hold on. Just a little longer. Mommy’s gonna get us out.” Everyone else called me “brat” or “worthless,” but she had named me Daisy. She told me I was her little bit of sunshine in the dark. But now, Daisy was dead to her. I was just another jailer. It didn’t matter. I still loved her. In my last life, I heard Hank bragging that he had let her try to escape that first time. He wanted to see if she was still “broken-in.” If she tried to run, he knew he had to beat the hope out of her once and for all. That’s why I told. I had to stop her from running into a trap. This time, I would ensure she ran when the path was clear. I would send her back to her real life, even if I couldn’t go with her. 03 As soon as she could stand, Hank had her back to work. She was a ghost in chains, hauling water, scrubbing floors, and working the garden. Hank spent his days at the local dive bar. When he lost at cards, he’d come home and take it out on her, calling her a “jinx.” I stayed in the shadows, forced to watch. After his rage was spent, he would drag her into the bedroom. I’d huddle in the hallway, listening to her muffled cries and his heavy, triumphant breathing. On the porch, Granny Ruth would listen too, a sickening smile stretching her wrinkles. “We’ll have a grandson soon,” she’d prune. She looked like a ghoul in the yellow porch light, a predator waiting for fresh meat. Under the cover of night, I started slipping away to the woods behind our shack. The briars tore at my skin, leaving me bloody, but I didn’t care. I knew the plants Mom used to talk about. I gathered what I needed and hid the herbs in a hollow log near the creek. The house sat on the hill like a squat, ugly beast, swallowing Mom’s life whole. At dawn, I’d be up to fix breakfast, trying to give her a few extra minutes of rest. “The brat’s actually useful for something,” Hank remarked one morning over his bacon. Granny Ruth tilted my chin up, inspecting me like a heifer at an auction. “She’s got her mother’s looks. She’ll fetch a high price when she’s of age. We’ll get our money back and then some.” I kept my eyes down, playing the part of the vacant, obedient doll. A month passed. Mom was getting weaker, the light in her eyes flickering out. She looked like she had finally given up. My heart ached, but I couldn’t comfort her. She looked at me with pure loathing every time I came near. Then came the news: she was pregnant again. Hank was ecstatic. “A son! Finally, an heir!” Granny actually gave her an egg for breakfast, a “reward” for her fertility. But that night, the silence was shattered by a scream that sounded like a dying animal. Mom had thrown herself against the corner of the heavy wooden dresser, over and over, until the life inside her was gone. Blood soaked the floorboards. Hank was incandescent with rage. He kicked her square in the chest. “You bitch! You killed my son!” Mom lay in the blood, her face pale as bone, but her eyes—for the first time in months—were blazing. “I will never,” she spat, “bear another monster for a rapist like you.” The word monster hit me like a physical blow. I knew she meant me. “You’re here to breed, and if you won’t do it willingly, I’ll beat it into you!” Hank screamed. He lashed her until she stopped moving, then tied her to the bedpost so she couldn’t even crawl away. From that night on, she wasn’t even allowed in the shed. He moved her to the pigpen. 04 She was treated like livestock now, chained in the muck of the pigpen with nothing but a thin layer of straw. Her clothes were rags, stained with old blood. When a neighbor stopped by and asked about the “city girl,” Hank just shrugged. “She’s a stubborn one. Lost the boy on purpose. Needs a firm hand.” The neighbor, an old man with yellow teeth, just chuckled. “They’re all like that. A woman ain’t a woman if she ain’t breeding. Hit her a few more times. Or, if she’s really a problem, just knock her upside the head until she’s simple. She’ll be easier to handle then.” Hank rubbed his chin. “But who’ll do the work if she’s simple?” The old man pointed at me. “The little one’s getting big. She looks handy.” Hank’s eyes lit up. “You’re right, Silas. You’re always right.” I stood by the pump, my blood running cold. My time was running out. I couldn’t wait any longer. “If you want her to be a good broodmare, you gotta feed her a bit,” Silas added. “Can’t have her dying before you get your money’s worth.” Hank nodded begrudgingly. Over the next month, he “fattened her up” like a hog for slaughter, forcing food down her throat when she refused to eat. Labor Day was three days away. In our town, that meant a big community BBQ and plenty of moonshine. I walked into the pigpen and knelt in the mud in front of her. She was a shell of the woman she had been. “Get out, you little parasite,” she hissed without opening her eyes. I looked at her, memorizing the curve of her jaw, the way her hair used to smell like lavender before it smelled like rot. “Mommy,” I whispered. “The holiday is coming. You’re going to see your real family soon. Aren’t you happy?” She let out a harsh, jagged laugh. “See them? In hell, maybe. I’ll see them when I finally kill your father and then myself.” I looked down, my heart breaking in silence. 05 The Labor Day BBQ was the biggest event of the year. The house was full of the town’s worst men and their weary wives. Granny had me up at 4:00 AM to start the prep. She actually let us have a big pot of pork stew and cornbread. While I stirred the pot, standing on a chair, I slipped in the powdered herbs I’d been collecting for weeks. It wasn’t enough to kill—just enough to induce a deep, heavy sleep that felt like a coma. Hank and Granny wouldn’t let Mom or me eat the “good” food. That was my saving grace. By 8:00 PM, the sun had dropped, and the hollow was pitch black. One by one, the men and women in the yard began to slump over. My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I whistled into the darkness, and a shadow moved near the treeline. It was Benny. Everyone called him “Simple Benny,” the local handyman who never said a word. But I knew better. I had seen him watching the house with eyes that were far too sharp for a fool. Benny moved with a soldier’s precision. He unlocked Mom’s chains and threw a heavy coat over her shoulders. Mom stared at him, bewildered. “Who are you?” “No time,” Benny whispered, his voice low and cultured—not the local drawl. “I’m an undercover agent. I’ve been trying to get enough evidence on this ring for months. Daisy told me tonight was the night. We have to move.” I handed Mom a small bundle. “Mommy, there’s some bread and water in here. For the road.” She pushed me away so hard I hit the muddy ground. “Stay away from me! Is this another trick? Are you calling them now?” I clutched my scraped elbow, unable to speak. Benny stepped between us. “She saved you, Stella. That first time you tried to run? It was a set-up. Hank was waiting in the brush with a shotgun. Daisy knew. She turned you in to keep you alive. She’s the reason I’m here.” Mom froze. She looked at me, her expression a chaotic map of shock and dawning realization. She reached out and pulled me into a fierce, trembling hug. For a second, I was back in the “before.” I breathed in the scent of her, even through the grime. Just a second longer, I prayed. Let me remember this. “Lights!” Benny hissed. I looked toward the village. Torches were flickering. The neighbors who hadn’t come to our house were mobilizing. Someone must have seen Benny. “Go!” I shouted. “They’re coming!” “Run!” Benny grabbed Mom’s arm. “This is the only shot!” They disappeared into the brush. I watched them go, then turned toward the approaching lights. A group of men, led by the town’s sheriff, were charging up the hill. “She’s heading for the ridge!” someone screamed. I took a deep breath and began to run—not toward Mom, but in the exact opposite direction. I wore an old shawl of hers, letting it flutter behind me like a signal. “There she is! Don’t let the bitch get away!” I scrambled through the thorns, my lungs burning, my legs screaming. A sharp pain exploded in my calf—a pitchfork or a stray bullet, I didn’t know. I kept moving until I reached the Devil’s Drop—a sheer cliff overlooking the river. I looked back. The torches were close. I could see Hank’s face, red with fury. I smiled. They’d never catch her now.

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When I opened my eyes again, I was right back on the day the wealthiest man in the city stood with red-rimmed eyes, begging my mother to come home. This time, I was not going to let history repeat itself. My mother was just about to deliver her signature line from my past life—something tragically poetic about how an apology this late is worth less than dirt—when I lunged forward and wrapped my arms around the billionaire’s leg like a vise. “Daddy! Take me back to the mansion! I want to sleep in a giant bed, and I want to eat Maine lobster!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. The billionaire froze, utterly stunned. My mother’s face instantly drained of color, turning a sickly shade of gray. In my previous life, she had played the role of the proud, wounded heroine to perfection. To “punish” the male lead, she refused every cent of his help, going so far as to force me to steal and scavenge for food, which ultimately led to my miserable death on a freezing street corner. And then, she used my ashes to bring the billionaire to his knees. She traded my dead body for a tearful public apology and the wedding of the century. The internet worshipped her as the fiercely independent single mother who had survived against all odds. But I was the only one who knew the truth: she was clinically unhinged. She had slapped a billionaire across the face on a live stream, dragged her “illegitimate” daughter away into the slums, and rocketed to viral fame. But here was the thing: she might not have wanted the life of a billionaire’s heiress, but I did. I smiled against the fabric of his tailored suit. In this life, I was going to hold onto everything that belonged to me with a death grip. 01 My name is Mia. I am five years old. And I have already died once. In my last life, I died on a sidewalk in the dead of winter. I had been starving for three days and burning with a fever for two. I took my last breath huddled next to a frozen dumpster. My mother, Caroline Frost, stood in front of my grave and wept until her voice gave out. Her makeup didn’t run at all. Because she had set it with setting spray right before the cameras arrived. That performance of grief shot straight to the number one trending topic online. “Heartbroken Single Mother Suffers Unimaginable Loss. Billionaire Father Leaves Five-Year-Old to Die on the Streets.” The comment sections were a bloodbath. Jonathan Garrison was harassed until he stepped down from his company’s board of directors. He was publicly shamed until he dropped to his knees right there on the pavement in front of my urn. The moment his knees hit the concrete, my mother smiled. Just a tiny twitch of her lips, hidden behind the crowd. But I saw it clearly. Because my soul hadn’t dissipated yet. I watched with my own ghost eyes as she traded my ashes for a thirty-million-dollar post-nuptial agreement, a fairy-tale wedding, and the internet’s collective blessing for the “tragic heroine who finally got her happy ending.” I died, and she won. That was my past life. So, when I opened my eyes again and found myself holding my mother’s hand, standing at the intersection of a high-end shopping district—I knew exactly what was happening. Across the street, Jonathan Garrison stood with bloodshot eyes in front of three black Maybachs, flanked by a dozen bodyguards in dark suits. The wind was howling, snapping the hem of his wool overcoat. He looked at me with eyes hollowed out by guilt. His voice was gravelly and low. “Caroline, come back with me. Mia needs a home.” My mother’s chin instantly tilted upward. I knew this angle by heart. A perfect forty-five-degree tilt, eyes glistening but not spilling over, bottom lip trembling just enough. Backlit by the streetlamp, she looked devastatingly beautiful. She took a deep breath—no, she elegantly curated her emotions—and opened her mouth: “Jonathan, your money can’t buy my forgiveness. An apology this late is worth—” She had practiced this line in the mirror no less than a hundred times in my past life. I remembered the follow-up line, too: “Keep your billions. Caroline Frost doesn’t need your charity.” Then, she would yank me by the arm, turn on her heel, and walk right into the pouring rain, giving the paparazzi hiding in the bushes the perfect, cinematic shot of her tragic departure. And then we would go back to that mold-infested, basement apartment in the worst part of town. No heat. No hot water. Dinner would be half a packet of expired instant noodles. In my last life, I was a good girl. I followed her into the rain. This life? She was only halfway through her monologue. I moved. I ripped my hand out of hers, pumped my tiny little legs, and sprinted straight across the pavement. With a heavy thud, I threw my entire body weight onto Jonathan Garrison’s leg. The fabric of his suit trousers was slick, and I almost slid off, so I scrambled up a few inches and clamped my arms and legs around his thigh like a koala. “Daddy!!” I pushed the volume of my vocal cords to the absolute maximum. The entire street heard it. Jonathan looked down, his entire body going rigid. He probably hadn’t expected a five-year-old to possess the lung capacity of a siren. “Daddy, I want to go home! Take me to the mansion! I want a big bed! The kind you can jump on! And I want Maine lobster! Ten of them!” I stood there and demanded every single thing I had been denied in my previous life in one breathless rush. Behind me, my mother’s voice stuttered. Her monologue had completely derailed. “Mia… what… what are you doing?” I twisted my neck to look back at her. Under the glow of the streetlamps, the meticulously crafted mask of the ‘beautiful, suffering martyr’ was cracking. Beneath it was a very specific shade of green. It was the look of an actress who had just gathered her tears for the climax of the play, only to have the stage crew accidentally drop a sandbag on the set. I smiled. A bright, gap-toothed, genuinely sweet smile. “Mommy, this is my daddy.” I turned my face back up toward Jonathan. He slowly knelt down on the damp pavement, his eyes still red. But I noticed something shift in his gaze. In my last life, his eyes had held nothing but guilt and desperation. This time, mixed into the guilt, was shock. And… a fragile, terrified kind of joy. His voice was hoarse. “Mia… you want to come home with Daddy?” “Yes! More than anything!” I reached out my two short arms and wrapped them around his neck. He smelled like expensive pine and cedarwood. I had never smelled that in my past life. I buried my face into the crook of his shoulder and whispered something so softly that only he could hear: “Daddy, can I stay with you forever?” His shoulders jerked, muscles locking tight. Then, a large, warm hand cupped the back of my head. The touch was incredibly gentle, but his fingers were trembling. “Yes.” Just one word. But the restraint in his voice was breaking. I rested my chin on his shoulder and looked past him. Five yards away, Caroline stood frozen. The wind whipped her skirt around her legs as her expression cycled through shock, fury, calculation, and finally settled into a tight, jaw-clenching mask of endurance. She forced a smile. She was smiling directly at a bystander diagonally behind her who was secretly filming on a phone. “The poor dear… she’s just missed her father so much…” Her voice was dripping with sickening sweetness. But I knew the truth. She was going to be staring at the ceiling all night tonight. Because I had just ripped the first page right out of her script. 02 Jonathan’s estate was located in The Palisades. It was an ultra-exclusive enclave with only twelve properties, each sitting on acres of private land. As the convoy of SUVs rolled through the gates, I pressed my face against the tinted glass. Perfectly manicured sycamore trees lined the driveway, and a massive stone fountain was lit up with a warm, golden glow in the dark. At the end of the drive, a sprawling, modern white estate came into view. Two lines of uniformed staff were waiting by the grand entrance. The car glided to a stop, and a butler opened the door. “Mr. Garrison. The house is prepared.” Jonathan stepped out first, then turned around and lifted me out of the seat. He was incredibly awkward at holding a child. One hand hovered tentatively under my bottom, while the other seemed to have no idea where to go. He finally settled for placing it flat against my back. I played along, keeping my arms looped around his neck while I took in the house. Italian marble steps. A sweeping spiral staircase. A chandelier that looked like frozen rain. In my last life, I gnawed on stale, moldy bread in a damp basement. In this life, I was the little princess of a multi-million-dollar estate. The disparity between human lives was wider than the gap between a human and a dog. “Are you hungry, Mia?” Jonathan set me down on an oversized velvet sofa and crouched down to my eye level. He really had no idea how to talk to kids. His face was as deadly serious as if he were negotiating a corporate merger. “Starving.” I was being brutally honest. In my last life, I was hungry every single day. When you get used to starving, you eventually stop feeling the hunger. And then you die. “What do you want to eat?” “Lobster.” I held up my little hand, fingers splayed. “Five of them.” I had downgraded from ten to five. I was learning to be a reasonable heiress. Ten minutes later, the private chef didn’t bring out five lobsters. He brought out a feast that covered the entire dining table. Whole Maine lobsters, Alaskan king crab legs, Wagyu beef sashimi, and truffle shavings over foie gras. I sat in a dining chair that swallowed me whole, staring at the mountain of food. The silverware was too heavy; my little hands couldn’t grip the fork properly. Jonathan sat across from me. He watched me struggle for exactly three seconds before he stood up and walked over. He picked up a small silver fork and began clumsily extracting the lobster meat from the shell, placing it piece by piece into my bowl. He moved slowly. His hands were elegant, with long, distinct knuckles—hands meant for signing billion-dollar contracts. And right now, they were meticulously dissecting a crustacean for a five-year-old. “Is it good?” he asked. My mouth was so full of butter-soaked lobster that my cheeks bulged out. I nodded violently. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes. It wasn’t me being dramatic. It was the phantom memory of how badly it hurt to starve to death. I swallowed hard and looked up at him. He was intensely focused on shelling the second lobster tail for me. This man. In my last life, my mother tortured him until he broke. He ended up on his knees in the freezing rain, clutching my ashes. It wasn’t that he hadn’t tried to save me. It was that my mother wouldn’t let him. Every time he sent people with money, food, or winter coats, my mother would shove it back into their hands while the cameras rolled. “I don’t need your pity, Jonathan Garrison!” Then she would slam the door in their faces, turn around, and hand me a cup of tap water and a piece of stale bread. It wasn’t pride. She was cultivating a tragedy. She needed me to suffer. She needed me to die to complete her masterpiece. “Mia.” Jonathan’s voice pulled me out of my dark thoughts. “Yeah?” “Eat slower. You’ll choke.” He slid a glass of warm milk toward me. I took it with both hands and took a sip. It was sweetened. “When you’re done, I’ll show you your room.” “Okay.” I shoved another piece of crab meat into my mouth. Right at that moment, his phone buzzed on the table. The screen lit up. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the caller ID: “Caroline”. Jonathan glanced at it. He didn’t answer. The phone kept vibrating against the wood. He reached over, switched it to silent, and flipped it face down. I paused my chewing for half a second, then went right back to my crab. She was starting. According to the script of my past life, this unanswered call would be followed by twenty-seven massive text messages, every word dripping with manufactured blood and tears. The core message would be: You stole my child. You are a monster. And tomorrow, screenshots of those texts would conveniently leak to the press. But it was fine. I was the one writing the script for this life. After dinner, Jonathan carried me up to the third floor. He pushed open a heavy white door. The room was absurdly large. Soft blush-pink walls, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city skyline, and a four-poster canopy bed that was larger than the entire apartment I had lived in last year. The walk-in closet was already lined with rows of expensive little dresses, the designer tags still dangling from the sleeves. A massive, pristine stuffed rabbit sat propped against the pillows. I stopped in my tracks. “When… when did you get all this?” Jonathan stood in the doorway, suddenly looking very unsure of himself. “I had it prepared a while ago.” “A while ago?” “It’s always been ready.” I knew what he meant. He meant he had been waiting for me to come home. This room hadn’t been thrown together this afternoon by an interior designer on a panic deadline. He had prepared it the day he found out I existed. A sharp ache hit the bridge of my nose. In my last life, this room sat empty for five years, waiting for a little girl who never came. In the end, all it held was a wooden box of ashes. I walked over to the bed, clambered up the mattress, and let myself sink into the absurdly soft duvet. It smelled like lavender and clean cotton. It was so warm. I rolled over, wrapping myself up like a burrito. “Daddy.” “Yes?” “Goodnight.” When he reached out to turn off the light, his movements were incredibly gentle. Just before the door clicked shut, I heard his phone buzz again out in the hallway. His voice was a low, dangerous rumble, but my ears were sharp. “She is staying here. This is not up for debate.” Then the line went dead. I squeezed the stuffed rabbit against my chest, lying in the center of the massive canopy bed, and fell asleep with a smile on my face. 03 When I woke up the next morning, sunlight was pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I laid in the cloud-like bedding for a full ten minutes, just letting myself exist. In my last life, the thing that woke me up every morning was the gnawing pain in my stomach. In this life, I was woken by a maid carrying in a silver breakfast tray. French toast, freshly squeezed orange juice, and a bowl of perfectly tempered oatmeal. Next to the plate was a heavy cardstock note with jagged, messy handwriting: “Good morning, Mia. Daddy had to go to the office. I will be back to have lunch with you.” The pen strokes were heavy, indenting the paper. Some letters had been crossed out and rewritten. It was hilarious that a billionaire CEO wrote like a third grader. No, it wasn’t that. He just wasn’t used to writing something so soft and emotional. I folded the card carefully and tucked it under my pillow. After breakfast, I started wandering around the mansion. There was a heated indoor pool on the first floor. A private home theater on the second. On the third floor, down the hall from my bedroom, was an art studio and an indoor playroom. The toys in the playroom were immaculate. A wooden slide, a sprawling block set, a rocking horse—none of the safety seals had even been broken. Mr. Carson, the butler, shadowed me silently, offering polite explanations when I paused. “Miss Mia, Mr. Garrison had his assistants purchase all of these last year. Please let me know which ones you prefer, and we can have anything you don’t like replaced.” Last year. Last year I was digging through the trash behind a convenience store. I bit my lower lip and didn’t say a word. Just then, a commotion echoed from the grand entrance downstairs. The crunch of tires on gravel, the heavy thud of car doors, and the frantic, hushed footsteps of the staff. “The Dowager Mrs. Garrison has arrived!” Mr. Carson’s face instantly paled. I knew exactly who this was. Evelyn Garrison. Jonathan’s mother, and the iron-fisted matriarch who still pulled the strings of the Garrison empire behind the scenes. In my last life, she was the loudest voice opposing Jonathan bringing me home. Her reasoning was brutally pragmatic: Caroline Frost was a manipulative social climber from the gutter, and there was no guarantee the child was even Garrison blood. Later, after I died and the internet tore the family apart, she had sat in front of the news cameras and squeezed out two tears. Whether those tears were for me or for the plunging stock prices, only God knew. From downstairs came the sharp, rapid clicking of high heels against marble. It was the rhythm of a woman marching in to declare war. I peeked over the mahogany banister. A woman in her late fifties swept into the foyer, wearing a structured, deep emerald dress. Her hair was pulled back into a severe, flawless chignon, and her diamond earrings caught the cold morning light. She radiated an aura of terrifying authority. Trailing half a step behind her was a younger woman. Early twenties, wearing a soft, pastel-colored day dress. Her hair fell in loose waves over her shoulders, and she had a perfectly practiced, demure smile. My eyes lingered on the younger woman. She hadn’t been in my previous life. But my gut told me she wasn’t here to play nice. “Where is she?” Evelyn’s voice carried up the stairs, sharp and commanding. “Where is the child? Bring her down here so I can look at her.” Mr. Carson glanced up at me, panic in his eyes. I didn’t wait for him to fetch me. I put my hand on the banister and started walking down the sweeping staircase. I didn’t walk fast. Short legs require careful balance. But every step I took was deliberate and heavy. When Evelyn Garrison saw me, her eyes narrowed to slits. She was assessing me. I was assessing her right back. We locked eyes for three full seconds in absolute silence. “So. You are Mia.” “I am Mia Garrison.” I made sure to emphasize the last name. One of her perfectly arched eyebrows twitched upward. “You certainly have his features.” Coming from her, it wasn’t a grandmotherly compliment. It was a forensic observation. “However,” she continued, moving to sit on the central sofa and accepting a teacup from a trembling maid, “looking like him proves nothing. We will be doing a DNA test.” “Okay.” I agreed instantly, without missing a beat. Evelyn clearly didn’t expect that. She probably anticipated a five-year-old to burst into tears, run away, or stare blankly, not knowing what DNA was. But I had already died once. Did she think I was scared of a needle? “I’ll cooperate. You can draw blood, or you can pull my hair.” My voice was deadpan. Calm. Evelyn’s hand paused halfway to her mouth. The teacup hovered in the air as she gave me a second, much harder look. Standing behind her, the younger woman was watching me, too. The smile on her face was magazine-cover perfect. The look in her eyes was ice-cold. “Mrs. Garrison, I can handle the arrangements for the clinic,” the younger woman offered, her voice light and musical. “Go ahead, Camilla.” Camilla Dupont. I filed that name away in the back of my mind. 04 The DNA results came back in three days. Probability of Paternity: 99.99%. There was zero suspense. I was Jonathan Garrison’s biological daughter. Evelyn Garrison stared at the medical report in absolute silence for a long time. She sat in the armchair by the window, her thumb slowly rubbing the edge of the thick paper. The butler, the maids, the security detail—the entire room was holding its breath. Jonathan stood nearby. His face was blank, but I caught the subtle, rapid tapping of his ring finger against his thigh. He was anxious. This piece of paper was the only thing that gave him the absolute, legal right to keep me in this house. “Mother. You have the results,” he finally said. Evelyn lifted her eyes. She looked at him, and then she looked over at me, curled up in the corner of the velvet sofa, quietly eating a bowl of green grapes. “That child cannot go back to that woman.” Her tone was still sharp and unyielding, but the sentence itself was a massive shift. It was a decree of protection. Half of the heavy weight in my chest finally dissipated. The other half, however, stayed right where it was. Because Camilla Dupont was currently walking toward me, holding a glass of juice. “Mia, are you thirsty? I had the chef squeeze some fresh oranges for you.” She knelt down in front of me, her smile dripping with maternal warmth. I took the glass. I sniffed it subtly. It smelled like regular orange juice. No poison. I took a sip. “Thank you, Miss Camilla.” “Call her Auntie,” Evelyn suddenly corrected from across the room. I looked at Camilla, then over at Evelyn. The older woman’s intentions were glaringly obvious. Camilla Dupont wasn’t just a friendly guest. She was the woman Evelyn had handpicked to be Jonathan’s wife. “Auntie Camilla is perfectly fine,” Camilla laughed, trying to smooth over the tension. She reached out and placed a hand on my back. It wasn’t a heavy touch, but her manicured fingers pressed just slightly into my spine. It felt like a territorial claim. Like she was establishing ownership. I didn’t say a word. I just quietly finished my juice. When Camilla stood up and walked back to Evelyn’s side, I tugged on the butler’s sleeve. “Mr. Carson,” I whispered. “Who is that lady?” Mr. Carson leaned down, lowering his voice. “She is the heiress to the Dupont family. They are old family friends of the Garrisons. The Dowager Mrs. Garrison has been trying to arrange a match between her and your father for some time.” Ah. It all made sense now. No wonder she wasn’t in my past life. In my past life, I died in the slums. I never crossed the threshold of the Garrison estate, so I never became a factor in Jonathan’s personal life. But her presence here now was a massive red flag. In the cutthroat world of the ultra-rich, she had all the right cards: family pedigree, the matriarch’s approval, the gentle, accommodating persona. Any of those individually was fine. Put them together, and she was a direct threat to my survival. I didn’t care if she married Jonathan. I cared if she tried to mess with my safety. Jonathan came home for lunch that afternoon. The table was set for four: Jonathan, me, Evelyn, and Camilla. Camilla naturally took the seat directly to Jonathan’s right. She seamlessly anticipated his needs, sliding the salt shaker toward him, offering him a linen napkin before he asked. It was practiced. Routine. Intimate. I sat across from them, eating my food in silence. “Mia.” Camilla smiled across the table at me. “How about Auntie takes you shopping at the mall this afternoon? We can buy you some pretty new dresses.” “I would love that.” I gave her my brightest, most innocent smile. That afternoon, Camilla took me to the most exclusive luxury department store in the city. She picked out six dresses, three pairs of shoes, and two designer backpacks. When we were standing at the register, I noticed something. She positioned herself at a very specific angle. Just beyond the perfume counter, a man in a baseball cap was holding a camera with a telephoto lens, firing off rapid shots. I saw him. And Camilla knew that I saw him. She just smiled down at me. “Which color do you like best, sweetie?” She wasn’t buying me clothes because she cared. She was managing her PR. She was feeding the press a narrative: The graceful socialite stepping in to lovingly care for the billionaire’s newly discovered, traumatized daughter. It was a brilliant chess move. If her engagement to Jonathan went through, she would already be branded as the perfect, angelic stepmother. The media, the public, and Evelyn Garrison would all be entirely on her side. I took the pastel pink dress from her hands and looked up with wide eyes. “Thank you so much, Auntie Camilla.” On the ride back to the estate, I slumped against the leather seats and pretended to fall asleep. Camilla’s phone buzzed. She answered it. She kept her voice low, but the interior of the Maybach was only so big. “…Don’t worry, the kid is easy to manage. She’s five. A few designer dresses and she thinks I’m her best friend. Once I have the ring on my finger, I’ll be the one deciding which wing of the house she sleeps in.” She let out a soft, mocking laugh. “Ignore Caroline Frost. That trashy woman from the gutter isn’t going to make a dent. Honestly, I hope she keeps making a scene. The crazier she acts, the more Jonathan will realize he needs a stable woman like me.” She hung up. I kept my eyes shut tight, but the corners of my mouth curled up into a cold little smirk in the dark. Well played, Camilla. You really think because I’m in a five-year-old’s body, I have a five-year-old’s brain? Don’t worry. I took your dresses. And I just took note of exactly how to destroy you.

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I sent a text to my online boyfriend: “Off work yet, hubby?” He replied instantly: “Not yet. Give me a minute, be good.” But can someone please tell me… Why is it that the exact message I sent to my online boyfriend… Is the exact same message the mega-star Silas Young just answered on his livestream? I stared at the #1 trending video, my hands shaking. I silently shared it with him, adding a single question mark: “?”. Silas replied quickly: “Sorry, forgot to turn off message notifications.” 1 “Let’s break up. We’re not right for each other.” I held the phone to my ear, looking at the keys to the brand-new Porsche I had just picked up, feeling like a bucket of ice water had been poured over my head. Today was my two-year anniversary with Julian. I had planned to come clean today and tell him the truth: I was actually a trust-fund kid. And as an anniversary gift, I was going to give him the Porsche he had always dreamed of. Who could have guessed he would dump me instead? “Why?” Julian sneered. “You spend every day obsessing over celebrities. Your Instagram and TikTok are full of Silas Young. And you’re asking me why? Are you my girlfriend, or Silas Young’s?” I tried to argue: “That’s just because Silas had a new movie coming out recently…” Julian cut me off: “I only started gaming in the first place because of you. Now, I’m a top-200 streamer on the whole platform. And you? How long has it been since you played a game with me?” A wave of guilt washed over me. “I’m sorry.” “Don’t bother.” Julian continued, “We’re seniors in college now. You’re an adult. Stop obsessing over celebrities all day and put some effort into your own future.” With that, he hung up. I stared at my phone, unable to articulate the bitterness in my mouth. Is it that I don’t want to put in effort? It’s that I literally don’t need to put in effort! 2 That night, I started doing some soul-searching. Have I really been neglecting Julian too much lately? But… he was the one who was always busy with streaming and his career. If he hadn’t been too busy to spend time with me, I wouldn’t have gotten bored enough to start obsessing over a celebrity. Last month, he even forgot my birthday. I waited at his apartment all night. The next day, he came back with his clothes all wrinkled, acting cute and saying he had a company dinner. He claimed there were a lot of big shots there, and to secure more resources, he drank too much and ended up sleeping in his boss’s office. I was originally angry, but seeing the dark circles under his eyes, I felt bad for him. In high school, because my family was so wealthy, I was used by my best friend. Since college, I’ve always kept a very low profile. After getting together with Julian, knowing he came from an ordinary background, I never told him about my true financial situation to protect his ego. But I couldn’t bear to see him working so hard anymore. Secretly tipping him in his livestream wasn’t enough. So, I ordered the Porsche he had always wanted, planning to come clean on our anniversary, beg for his forgiveness, and give him a huge surprise. When my best friend, Chloe, found out, she mocked me: “Even the most tragic heroines in history would call you pathetic. He makes a bunch of money and buys you a $300 bag, and you turn around and drop $150,000 on a car!” “He’s just being frugal!” I defended him. “He’s wearing a $1,500 Balenciaga jacket.” “He finally made some money, of course he wants to treat himself a little!” Chloe just sneered: “Heh.” I had never experienced much hardship growing up. My biggest setback was in high school, hearing the friend I had practically subsidized talking trash about me behind my back. This led to a situation where I was great at everything… except that I was hopelessly, tragically romantic. That night, I decided to make one last struggle to apologize and get back together with Julian. But before I could send the message, a push notification from the streaming app popped up. “J-God confesses his love live.” ? Who? The J-God I’m thinking of? Who is he confessing to? Me? With trembling hands, I opened Julian’s stream. I watched as the guy who had just dumped me that morning stared earnestly into the camera: “Serena, I like you. Will you be my girlfriend?” My brain buzzed. The live chat was scrolling at light speed, filled with two distinct voices. The first was cheering for this Serena to say yes. The second was exposing Serena’s identity. She was the owner of Julian’s streaming agency. The very same boss whose office he claimed to have slept in last month. Wow. I laughed out of sheer anger. Dumping me in the morning, confessing to someone else at night. This seamless transition speed was faster than a bullet train. 3 Chloe was absolutely furious. “We cannot let him get away with this!” “We definitely won’t.” I might be a hopeless romantic who tends to assume the best in people, but that didn’t mean I was a pushover. If he wanted to make me suffer, he needed to make sure I was actually the suffering type. Back then, Julian only started gaming to pursue me, to have a common interest. But the fact that he got a little famous was also, ironically, because of me. My gaming skills were maxed out. I was a god-tier Akali player in League of Legends, capable of diving into a team fight and getting a Pentakill. After I reached the Challenger tier with Akali on my main account, I used his account to climb the ranks, pushing it to Challenger as well. The game automatically saved the highlight reels. He edited those clips and posted them on TikTok, and unexpectedly, they went viral. From then on, he started streaming, but he never played Akali again. Was it because he didn’t want to? No, it was because he couldn’t. His Akali was thoroughly average, completely incomparable to my mechanics. There were loud doubts at first, but he excused it by saying he wouldn’t play champions he had already taken to Challenger again, and that his game sense and macro play were actually quite good. Plus, he had a handsome face. As time passed, those doubting voices faded away. I was a bit uncomfortable at the time, but Julian had said, “My grades aren’t great. If I wait until graduation, who knows how long it’ll take before I can give you a stable life? Right now, the streaming income is pretty good…” He then bought me a $300 bag. A bag our housekeeper wouldn’t even carry. But I, like a tragic romantic idiot, took that $300 bag and forgave the world. Chloe asked me, “What’s your plan?” “My plan?” I let out a short laugh. “To send him out to eat dirt.” That night, I recorded an Akali gameplay video. The zigzag movement pattern was identical to the viral video Julian had posted back then. Originally, this was an alt account with only a handful of followers; nobody paid attention to it. But I had way too much money. I bought some traffic, and “accidentally” bought my way to the #1 trending spot. The top comment was from Chloe. “This movement looks exactly like J-God’s famous highlight reel.” I replied, deliberately stirring the pot: “How do you know his famous highlight reel was actually played by him?” Julian called me that very night. “Audrey, what exactly are you trying to do?” 4 He actually had the nerve to call me? “Julian, don’t you think you owe me an explanation?” “I thought we had already made things very clear.” “Clear?” I scoffed. “You cheated, and then blamed the breakup on me to make me feel guilty. I’ve never been slapped in the face like this.” Julian’s laugh was even more obvious than mine: “Who do you think you are? Audrey, considering we used to be together, I didn’t want to make this ugly. Name your price.” Name a price? Julian was actually asking me to name a price? That sentence jolted me completely awake. Suddenly, everything I had done over the past few days felt absurd and meaningless. I had actually liked a piece of trash like him, and wasted so much time on him. I must have been truly blind. “If I name a price, I’m afraid you won’t be able to afford it!” “Take your filthy money to the grave with you, and never show your face in front of me again!” With that, I hung up directly. Online, I stopped paying for traffic. The topic was clearly suppressed, and the heat died down. The public outcry receded like the tide, gradually disappearing without a trace. After deleting a few posts trying to dox me, Chloe asked what my next move was. I just said I didn’t want to waste another minute on that scumbag. I thought the situation would blow over, but unexpectedly, in the middle of the night, the topic’s popularity suddenly surged again. The reason? The mega-star Silas Young had liked my post. He unliked it half an hour later and posted a half-hearted explanation: “Finger slipped.” To be acknowledged by your own idol in such a way… I was probably the first. The internet was filled with “Hahahaha,” calling Silas cute and happily eating popcorn. But Julian was instantly thrust back into the eye of the storm. The whole internet was saying Julian was a liar, making a huge fuss, demanding he play Akali live to prove his innocence. The next day, I went back to campus to meet with my advisor. As I was walking out, a white BMW blocked my path at the school gates. 5 A slender woman stepped out of the car, looking around thirty years old. She had a great figure, but her makeup was so thick you couldn’t tell what she actually looked like, and her perfume was strong enough to knock someone over. She stood in front of me, looked me up and down, and acted incredibly haughty. “Let me introduce myself. I am Serena Vance.” I hadn’t seen this kind of dramatic scene before, so I froze for a moment. My stunned silence translated as fear in her eyes. She grew even more confident, her tone dripping with contempt: “Julian is a top streamer heavily promoted by our agency, and now, he’s also Serena Vance’s boyfriend. Name a price. How much will it take for you to come forward and clear this up?” I snapped back to reality, feeling it was utterly unbelievable: “Clear what up? What I posted was the truth!” “The truth isn’t that important. Little girl, listen to some advice from an older sister: know when to quit while you’re ahead! You haven’t entered the real world yet; you don’t know how hard it is to make money. The price I can offer you right now is more than you’d make working for ten years without eating or drinking. How about it? Do we have a deal?” “Know when to quit?” I sneered. “Calling me ‘little girl’—you sure didn’t have a problem getting your hands on a ‘little boy.’ You want me to help you clear his name? Keep dreaming!” Serena’s face instantly turned ice cold. “Audrey, is it? You just wait! I’ll make sure you can’t survive in this city!” With that, she brushed past my shoulder, knocking me off balance, turned, got into her car, and sped away. My hand gripping my textbook trembled with anger. A circle of students had gathered to watch the drama, pointing and whispering at me. “What happened?” “Looks like a wife catching a mistress…” I roared: “Mistress my ass! Are you blind?!” The person who just spoke was startled by my sudden outburst, and they hurried away, whispering. I’ve been pampered my whole life. When have I ever suffered this kind of humiliation? Make me unable to survive? Let’s see who fails to survive first. I pulled out my phone and called my brother. “Connor, I want to acquire a streaming agency.” “Well, look who finally called me.” Connor chuckled. “Sure, not just one. You can acquire ten if you want.” 6 My brother moved fast. In less than a month, the contract was placed in black and white right in front of me. The streaming agency Julian was signed to wasn’t very large; he was their star gaming streamer. Looking at the few pages of the contract and their small company’s annual financial report, I truly didn’t understand where Serena got the confidence to challenge me. My brother tapped the contract with his finger: “What’s the plan next? Want your big brother to take you for a spin around your new company?” “It’s not time yet,” I said. “We’re not going to find them. I’m going to make them come begging to me.” Connor rubbed my head: “You really are pissed off.” Damn right I was. I almost died of anger. My brother had recently taken over the family business and was very busy. He didn’t stay long before leaving. I was going to implement the next step of my plan. First, I screenshotted my chat history with Julian, including the times I bought him gifts and my transfer receipts. Although I pretended to be poor, the amounts weren’t large, but they were consistent. And his replies… were few. The further down I scrolled, the more I realized that the signs of his infidelity had been there all along. For the past few months, I had been the one initiating conversations, and his replies weren’t just impatient, they were incredibly perfunctory. I had been so blinded by love that I didn’t even recognize his cold violence. After saving the chat logs, I prepared to open the game and record another Akali gameplay. Last time, some people doubted if I was really the one playing. This time, I was going to use three camera angles and record a full, unedited version. Before I could open the game, a message notification popped up. It was from someone I hadn’t contacted in years. S-Boy: “Quite the drama.” I replied: “Here to laugh at me?” “How could I? I told you long ago that guy was no good.” Seeing that sentence, my eyes inexplicably teared up. 7 I met S-Boy through gaming. Two years ago, I had a lot of free time in college. Aside from classes, I barely participated in any extracurriculars, using all my time to climb the ranks. After my main assassin reached the top tier, I couldn’t resist trying the support role, so I picked a healing champion. Although I usually played damage dealers, I had good game sense and knew champion skills well, so playing support wasn’t hard for me. But the ADC on my team was terribly incompetent. Their pacing and mechanics were a total mess. Before reaching level four, they had already been ganked and killed twice. I couldn’t save them before I hit level four either, and the gold gap widened instantly. Before I could say anything, the ADC spoke up first. ADC: “A girl?” “Only knows how to play support? Getting carried up the ranks, right?” “So annoying getting girls in my games.” He was incredibly toxic, and my anger flared up immediately. “With a 0/2/0 score right at the start, you have the nerve to talk trash?” “What’s wrong with being a girl? Sprinkle some birdseed on the screen and a chicken pecking at it would play better than you.” “Even the grim reaper can’t save a ghost rushing to die. Forgot what kind of trash you are, huh, you little punk?” ADC: “Heh.” Then followed a string of asterisk symbols, and he was finally muted by the system. The ADC eventually gave up and went AFK in the base. I was about to say something else when the Jungler spoke up: “Support, come follow me.” I was stunned: “But you’re playing a stealth assassin.” The assassin’s most crucial skill was invisibility. I wasn’t as good at support as I was at jungle, and I was worried a misstep would reveal his position. “It’s fine,” the assassin used voice chat this time. His voice was young and pleasant: “The enemy team comp can’t handle the late game.” I glanced at the enemy team, realized he was right, and followed right behind the assassin, helping him check vision in the jungle and shielding him during team fights. The assassin’s ID: S-Boy Invincible. Facts proved he really was somewhat invincible. When the game ended, the assassin dealt 50% of the team’s total damage, hard-carrying that toxic ADC to victory. I added him as a friend and thanked him. S-Boy Invincible: “You’re welcome. Just helping out against injustice.” I had a sudden idea: “Wanna climb the ranks together? I’m a Jungle god, my Akali is slick.” S-Boy waited a while before replying: “Challenger Jungler? Impressive.” Me: “Just love the feeling of carrying.” I said, inviting S-Boy into a lobby. Then, remembering something, I asked: “But do you main Jungle? Will I be stealing your role?” This time S-Boy used voice chat again. His tone had a hint of arrogant cockiness typical of young boys: “Nope. I play everything.” 8 After that day, I added S-Boy on WeChat. He never posted anything personal on his moments, just shared various indie songs. During that time, we played games together almost every day. 1v1s to practice new champions, sending each other skins; later, we occasionally shared life updates and sent each other gossip threads. S-Boy had a nice voice, was patient and sunny. He sounded very young, but whether it was in the game or talking, you could tell he was quite mature. Once, during my period, S-Boy invited me to play, but I wasn’t online. Knowing I wasn’t feeling well, he directly asked for my address and ordered me brown sugar ginger tea and some warm, nourishing soup. My roommate, Candy, saw me smiling dreamily and knocked me on the head: “You’re in love! Why are you smiling so creepily?” I argued: “How is it creepy!” Candy looked at the table full of food: “Who ordered it? Must be that guy you game with every day, right?” I didn’t deny it. Candy was incredulous: “Are you crazy! Giving out your address and contact info so easily? Across an internet cable, do you really know what kind of person he is? What if he’s a creep?” “He doesn’t seem like a creep…” “How doesn’t he? Because he’s good at games?” Her words left me speechless and suddenly brought me back to reality. Yeah, I didn’t even know S-Boy’s real name. What kind of person was he in real life? He sounded young—was he a college student too? Candy sighed: “Audrey, no matter what, he’s a person behind a screen. It’s hard to say what he’s really like. Look at all those stories online… Ugh, stop burying yourself in games all day! Return to the real world! Tomorrow, your big sister is taking you to watch a basketball game.” I hesitated for a moment, then nodded: “Okay.” It was at that basketball game that I saw Julian for the first time. Before the game, Candy took me over to say hi, and his eyes kept darting my way. Until the game ended, he sank the final three-pointer, the crowd erupted in cheers, and he instinctively looked toward my side of the court. 9 After that day, Julian launched a fierce pursuit of me. Every morning, he delivered breakfast to the girls’ dorm, saved seats for us in class. He practically bribed my entire dorm room. Candy dramatically lifted my bed curtain to investigate: “How are things with Julian?” I lay there and casually replied: “Nothing much.” Candy: “Comrade, you still need to work harder.” Candy added: “But I’ve noticed you haven’t been gaming much these past few days.” I sighed. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to play, it was that S-Boy hadn’t been around lately. I had gotten used to climbing the ranks with him during this period. When he wasn’t there, my designated gaming time felt empty. Playing alone felt surprisingly boring, and I was momentarily lost, not knowing what to do. I stared at my chat log with S-Boy. We used to chat every day, but this time, it stopped last night. I asked him if he wanted to play, and he said he was too busy with work lately and apologized. So he was already working… “Damn it!” My roommate, Fish, cursed from the bunk below. “Silas Young actually got hurt!” “Who?” Candy popped her head out. “That actor who’s really popular right now?” “Yeah,” Fish said. “Too many action scenes, he injured his leg. Waaaah, he was hospitalized yesterday, and fans have been hounding the studio all day until they released a statement. My poor baby, Mommy’s heart aches.” Candy rolled her eyes at Fish’s maternal fandom terminology. It went in one ear and out the other for me; I didn’t take it to heart. Right at that moment, Julian suddenly sent me a WeChat message: “Wanna play a game together?” I glanced at the inactive chat with S-Boy and replied: “Sure.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “436710”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

When the parent-teacher conference wrapped up, I didn’t head for the parking lot. Instead, I crouched down until I was eye-level with my son and asked him, in the softest voice I could muster, what the “other daddy” in his essay looked like. Jamie tilted his head, his eyes wide and innocent. He told me it was the man Mommy took him to see every week. Mommy told him he had to call the man “Daddy,” too. At the school gates, Rachel was leaning against the SUV, a practiced, effortless smile on her face. She asked me if the teacher liked Jamie’s creative writing piece. I rolled the notebook into a tight cylinder and tucked it deep into my messenger bag. I looked up at her, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. “I’ll let you read it yourself when we get home,” I said. The silence in that classroom when the teacher had read Jamie’s essay aloud was something I would never forget. It was a heavy, suffocating weight. “I have two daddies,” Jamie had written in his messy, seven-year-old scrawl. “One lives in my house. The other lives in Mommy’s other house.” A few parents had let out stifled, awkward chuckles. The teacher had frozen, her face turning a vivid shade of pink before she hurriedly flipped to the next page. I had been sitting in the very last row. The plastic water bottle in my hand let out a sharp, rhythmic crackle as I squeezed it, the sound echoing in my ears like a slow-motion car crash. 1. Rachel drove us home. She kept one hand on the steering wheel, casual and relaxed, while the other adjusted the stereo to play Jamie’s favorite Disney soundtrack. Jamie hummed along in the backseat. I felt her eyes dart toward me three times in the rearview mirror. I didn’t look back once. I just watched the suburban landscape blur into a smear of gray and green. Once we were home, Jamie went to wash his hands for dinner. I sat on the sofa and pulled the notebook out. The lead pencil marks were shaky, the letters uneven. “There is a man at Mommy’s other house. He is very nice. He makes me cupcakes. Mommy says he is my daddy, too, and I have to call him that. He is very, very thin. He plays the guitar.” Below the text, there was a drawing. A gaunt man sitting in a wheelchair. Beside him stood a woman, composed and elegant. The woman was holding the hand of a small boy. Above the boy’s head, Jamie had drawn a bright red heart. I snapped the notebook shut and set it on the coffee table. Rachel emerged from the kitchen, handing me a glass of water. “So, what did the teacher actually say?” “She said Jamie has a vivid imagination. A real gift for expression.” She smiled, sitting down beside me, her thigh brushing mine. “That’s good to hear.” I looked at her—really looked at her—and realized I didn’t recognize the woman sitting in my living room. We’d been married for seven years. We’d been together since our sophomore year of college. Nearly a decade. Her smile was the same as it had always been: the faint crinkle at the corners of her eyes, the way her lips curved upward in a way that looked entirely sincere. But as I watched her, I noticed her gaze flickering toward the notebook on the table. Her right thumb mindlessly rubbed her wedding band, back and forth. I knew that gesture. She did it every single time she was lying. “Rachel.” “Yeah?” “Who is the man Jamie wrote about in his essay?” The hand holding her water glass hitched for a fraction of a second. Then, she took a perfectly natural sip. “What man? You know how kids are, Dan. He’s probably making up stories based on a cartoon.” “He said you told him to call this man ‘Daddy’.” “Oh, that must have been one of my colleagues,” she said, her voice smooth, not a single tremor. “I took Jamie to a team-building retreat a few months ago. One of the guys was probably just teasing him. You know how work friends can be.” It was too easy. Too rehearsed. I nodded and didn’t push. That night, after she tucked Jamie into bed, I sat in the darkened living room and accessed the cloud backup for her car’s dashcam. The GPS history told a story of its own. Every Thursday afternoon, the car stopped at an old, gated apartment complex on the edge of the city. Arrival: 2:00 PM. Departure: 6:00 PM. Four hours. Every single week. I took a screenshot and saved it to a hidden folder on my phone. At 2:00 AM, thinking I was fast asleep, Rachel leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to my forehead. Then, she crept out to the balcony. Through the glass door, I heard her hushed, melodic voice. “Don’t be scared,” she whispered. “I’ll be there tomorrow morning to take you for your check-up.” The tone was tender, aching with a kind of devotion she used to reserve only for me. No. That wasn’t right. It was a tone I thought she only used for me. The next day, I took a half-day off work and went to the bank. I pulled the last six months of her personal account statements. There it was. A recurring transfer of twelve hundred dollars every month to an account owned by someone named Quinn Lawson. Six months. Not a single payment missed. I sat on the cold plastic chair in the bank lobby, my legs shaking uncontrollably. I pulled a black moleskine notebook from my bag, turned to a fresh page, and wrote down the name and the amount. My handwriting was so neat it frightened me. That afternoon, I drove to the address on the GPS. I stood on the sidewalk, looking up at the first-floor balcony. A woman’s white silk blouse was hanging there to dry. It was the one I had ironed for her last month—the one with the hidden snap-button I’d sewn back on myself. An elderly man walking his dog passed by and stopped when he saw me staring. “You must be Rachel’s brother,” he said, offering a friendly nod. “Yeah,” I lied. “Something like that.” “She’s a saint, that sister of yours. Her husband’s health is so poor—being in that wheelchair can’t be easy—but she’s here every day, cooking for him, taking care of the place. You come from a good family.” Her husband. I managed a tight, hollow smile. “Yeah. She’s always been the devoted type.” That evening, Rachel came home carrying a box from my favorite bakery—a salted caramel cake. I sat at the dining table, methodically slicing it. She kicked off her heels and asked why I was so quiet. I didn’t look up. “The cuffs on that white blouse of yours are starting to fray,” I said. “You should probably wear something else tomorrow.” 2. She glanced at her sleeves and laughed. “I must have snagged them on a filing cabinet at the office. I’ll be more careful.” She looked so innocent. So transparently honest that I almost wondered if I was the one losing my mind. That weekend, Jamie was drawing at the coffee table. He drew a thin man in a wheelchair. I walked over. “Who’s this, buddy?” “That’s Quinn,” Jamie said, not looking up from his crayons. “Mommy says he’s the loneliest person in the world. She says we have to take care of him like he’s family.” Family. I ruffled his hair and said nothing. After dinner, I was at the sink, the water running at full blast to drown out the noise of my own thoughts. My father-in-law, Walter, was standing by the back door, nursing a beer. I kept my voice casual. “Hey, Walter. Jamie keeps talking about some guy named Quinn. Do you know him?” The beer bottle slipped from Walter’s hand, thudding onto the rug. He was slow to pick it up, his eyes darting toward the hallway before they settled anywhere but on me. “Quinn… look, Dan, Rachel is a loyal girl. Her mother went through a lot back in the day, and Quinn’s family… they were there for us. We owe them. Rachel is just paying back a debt of honor. As her husband, you need to be big enough to understand that.” I turned off the faucet. I leaned my weight against the cold marble countertop. Everyone knew. From the beginning, I was the only one left in the dark. I was the only clown in this circus. On Monday, I took Jamie to the clinic for his allergy meds. As we passed the oncology wing, I saw her. Rachel was pushing a wheelchair. In it sat a skeletal man, wrapped in a thick wool blanket, leaning his head against her hip. Rachel stopped, took off her own cardigan, and draped it over his legs. She knelt down, meticulously tucking the edges around his feet. The movements were so practiced, so intimate. I stood behind a concrete pillar ten yards away, clutching Jamie’s prescription bag. My nails dug into the drywall until I expected to see blood, but I felt nothing. Just a cold, terminal numbness. A nurse pushed a cart between us, blocking my view. By the time she passed, Rachel seemed to sense something. She turned her head, searching the corridor. But I was already gone, disappearing into the stairwell. When I got back to the office, I called Patrick, an old friend from college who ran a forensic accounting firm. “Pat, I need to know how to track marital assets. Deep dive. Can you walk me through it?” There was a three-second silence on the other end. “Come over tonight,” Patrick said. “I’ll give it to you straight.” Rachel came home late that night. She wrapped her arms around me from behind while I stood in the kitchen. She pressed her face into my back, her voice muffled and weary. “Dan… only when I’m holding you do I feel like I can finally breathe.” I closed my eyes. I didn’t reach back to touch her. Her warmth radiated through my shirt, the same as it always had. But I knew that just hours ago, that same warmth had been draped over another man. 3. Rachel started “traveling for work” more frequently. Tuesdays, Thursdays, sometimes the whole weekend. I went to work, I made school lunches, and at night, when she was dead to the world, I photographed every single record on her phone. I found a real estate contract in her archived emails. Cash purchase. A two-bedroom condo, registered in Walter’s name. The address was in the same complex where I’d seen her. Same building. Same unit. I snapped the photo and saved it. On the third day of her “trip,” I received an anonymous text. “Some love is a burden, and some love is a gift. Rachel is exhausted. She needs a harbor that understands her.” I read it twice. I didn’t reply. Screenshot. Archive. Getting into a mud-slinging match with a coward wasn’t worth my time. That Thursday night, the world broke. Jamie woke up with a fever of 104. He was shaking, his lips turning a terrifying shade of blue. I called Rachel. First time: Voicemail. Second time: Voicemail. Third time: The cold, mechanical voice of the operator. I ran into the pouring rain, carrying Jamie wrapped in a blanket. He was delirious, sobbing against my neck, his tears and saliva soaking into my skin. The rain was a deluge; no Uber was coming, and cabs wouldn’t stop. I stripped off my jacket to shield him, standing on the curb in my shirtsleeves for eight agonizing minutes. Finally, an old van pulled over. The driver said he didn’t usually take passengers, but I looked desperate. At the ER, I was a whirlwind of motion—registering, paying, holding Jamie down for blood work. The nurse asked where the mother was. “It’s just me,” I said. By 4:00 AM, Jamie’s fever finally broke. He fell into a fitful sleep. I walked to the pharmacy window to pick up his meds, and that’s when I saw her. Rachel came sprinting through the ER lobby, soaked to the bone, her face a mask of panic. Her sweater was on inside out, the tag flapping at the neck. For a heartbeat, I thought she was looking for us. Then I heard her voice at the pharmacy counter. “Quinn Lawson. He’s having stomach pains. The ER doctor sent over a prescription.” She was standing less than fifteen feet away. She was in a state of total collapse because of another man’s stomach ache. While her own son had just spent the last four hours fighting for his life. Then Walter appeared, jogging down the hallway, grabbing Rachel’s arm. “Is Quinn okay? You need to get back in there with him. He’s depressed, Rachel. Don’t let him do anything stupid.” He didn’t see me. Or perhaps, in his world, I simply didn’t exist anymore. I stood there by the window, clutching Jamie’s fever reducers, watching a father and daughter worry themselves sick over another man. My hands weren’t shaking. My eyes were dry. But I felt something deep in my chest shatter. It was a clean break. There was nothing left to salvage. At 7:00 AM, Rachel finally saw my missed calls. She burst into the pediatric ward, her eyes bloodshot, her voice trembling. “Dan, I’m so sorry! My phone died, and the office had a massive emergency, and I—” I sat by the bed and slowly pushed her reaching hand away. I pulled a wet wipe from my bag and began to clean my fingers, one by one. “It’s fine,” I said, my voice so quiet I could barely hear it. “Just don’t turn your phone off next time.” She froze, her mouth opening and closing, but no sound came out. Jamie woke up and reached for me. Rachel moved to pick him up, her eyes filling with tears. As I watched her hold our son, all I could think about was whether she had used that same expression while holding Quinn Lawson. 4. For the next two weeks, I was a ghost. I went to work. I cooked dinner. I spoke to her in pleasant, even tones. But behind the scenes, I moved every cent of my personal savings into my mother’s account. I applied for a six-month editorial project overseas, and my boss approved it. I met with Patrick and finalized a list of every asset Rachel had hidden. She didn’t suspect a thing. She thought I had swallowed her lies. On our seventh anniversary, she booked a table at the most expensive French restaurant in the city. The booth was covered in roses and candlelight. She slid a velvet box across the table. A luxury watch. Not cheap. She looked at me with an intensity that would have moved me to tears if I didn’t know the truth. “Dan… once this busy season at work is over, I want to take you and Jamie to see the Northern Lights. We can start over. A fresh chapter. Okay?” Her voice was thick, her fingers trembling as they touched mine. I looked at her and felt a surge of pure, unadulterated absurdity. How could someone be so betrayed to their very bones and still act this sincere? I nodded. “Okay. I’ll wait for you.” The moment the words left my lips, her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen, and her face went ghostly white. Her breathing hitched. I continued cutting my steak, not looking up. “If it’s an emergency, you should go.” She didn’t move. I set my fork down and locked eyes with her. “But Rachel, if you walk out that door tonight, we’re done.” Her body went rigid. Her throat worked as she swallowed hard. Then, she closed her eyes, and a broken whisper escaped her lips. “Quinn… he slit his wrists. I owe him his life, Dan. I’m sorry. I promise, this is the last time.” She stood up, the chair screeching against the floor like a dying animal. She turned and ran. The door swung shut behind her, the candlelight flickering in the wake of her departure. I sat alone at the long, empty table. I cut the rare steak into small, precise pieces and forced them into my mouth. I chewed slowly, my throat aching as I swallowed. The sound of my silver clinking against the china was the only noise in the room. After I paid the bill, I drove to the apartment complex. It was 11:00 PM. The autumn wind bit at my face like a blade. I stood beneath the first-floor window, peering through a gap in the curtains. There was no blood. No slit wrists. Rachel was sitting on the sofa. Quinn was cradled in her arms, his head resting on her shoulder. Walter was coming out of the kitchen with a plate of sliced fruit, a warm smile on his face. And my son, Jamie, was curled up against Quinn’s legs. He looked up and said something that shattered the last of my resolve. “Daddy, don’t be mad at Mommy anymore. We’re a family forever.” Rachel looked down at them, a weary, indulgent smile on her face. It was a perfect family portrait. A family of four. My stomach churned, bile rising in my throat. I doubled over, clutching my knees, retching into the darkness, but nothing came up. I stood there in the shadows, looking down at the wedding band on my left hand. Seven years. The gold had worn a faint, permanent mark into my skin. I slid it off. I looked at it for two seconds. Then I leaned down and dropped it into the storm drain at my feet. The ring hit the iron grate with a sharp, final clink. Rachel, you owe him your life? Fine. Pay him back with your own. I’m officially out of the debt-collection business.

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